“Yes, my Lord; we sail on the 12th.”
“Well, sir, Valetta has no view to rival that. See what a noble sweep the bay takes here, and mark how well the bold headlands define the limits! Look at that stretch of yellow beach, like a golden fillet round the sea; and then mark the rich woods waving in leafy luxuriance to the shore! Those massive shadows are to landscape what times of silent thought are to our moral natures. Do you like your service, sir?”
“Yes, my Lord; there is much in it that I like. I would like it all if it were in 'activity.'”
“I have much of the soldier in myself, and the qualities by which I have gained any distinction I have won are such as make generals,—quick decision, rapid intelligence, prompt action.”
Traflford bowed to this pretentions summary, but did not speak.
The old Judge went on to describe what he called the military mind, reviewing in turn the generals of note from Hannibal down to Marlborough. “What have they left us by way of legacy, sir? The game, lost or won, teaches us as much! Is not a letter of Cicero, is not an ode of Horace worth it all? And as for battle-fields, it is the painter, not the warrior, has made them celebrated. Wouvermans has done more for war than Turenne!”
“But, my Lord, there must be a large number of men like myself who make very tolerable soldiers, but who would turn out sorry poets or poor advocates.”
“Give me your arm now, and I will take you round by the fish-pond and show you where the 'Monks of the Screw' held their first meeting. You have heard of that convivial club?” Trafiford bowed; and the Judge went on to tell of the strange doings of those grave and thoughtful men, who-deemed no absurdity too great in their hours of distraction and levity. When they reached the house, the old man was so fatigued that he had to sit down in the porch to rest. “You have seen all, sir; all I have of memorable. You say you 'd like to see the garden, but there is not a memory connected with it. See it, however, by all means; saunter about till I have rallied a little, and then join me at my early dinner. I 'll send to tell you when it is ready. I am sorry it will be such a lonely meal; but she who could have thrown sunshine over it is gone—gone!” And he held his hands over his face, and said no more. Trafiford moved silently away, and went in search of the garden. He soon found the little wicket, and ere many minutes was deep in the leafy solitude of the neglected spot. At last he came upon the small gate in the laurel hedge, passing through which he entered the little flower-garden. Yes, yes; there was no doubting it! This was hers! Here were the flowers she tended; here the heavy bells from which she emptied the rain-drops; here the tendrils her own hands had trained! Oh, force of love, that makes the very ground holy, and gives to every leaf and bud an abiding value! He threw himself upon the sward and kissed it. There was a little seat under a large ilex—how often had she sat there thinking!—could it be thinking over the days beside the Shannon,—that delicious night they came back from Holy Island, the happiest of all his life? Oh, if he could but believe that she loved him! if he could only know that she did not think of him with anger and resentment!—for she might! Who could tell what might have been said of his life at the Sewells'? He had made a confidante of one who assumed to misunderstand him, and who overwhelmed him with a confession of her own misery, and declared she loved him; and this while he lay in a burning fever, his head racked with pain, and his mind on the verge of wandering. Was there-ever a harder fate than his? That he had forfeited the affection of his family, that he had wrecked his worldly fortunes, seemed little in his eyes to the danger of being thought ill of by her he loved.
His father's last letter to him had been a command to leave the army and return home, to live there as became the expectant head of the house. “I will have your word of honor to abandon this ignoble passion”—so he called his love; “and in addition, your solemn pledge never to marry an Irishwoman.” These words were, he well knew, supplied by his mother. It had been the incessant burden of her harangues to him during the tedious days of his recovery; and even when, on the morning of this very day, she had been suddenly recalled to England by a severe attack of illness of her husband, her last act before departure was to write a brief note to Lionel, declaring that if he should not follow her within a week, she would no longer conceive herself bound to maintain his interests against those of his more obedient and more affectionate brother.
“Won't that help my recovery, doctor?” said he, showing the kind and generous epistle to Beattie. “Are not these the sort of tonic stimulants your art envies?”