“It is neatly worded, Lucy,” said the old man, taking up the paper on which the address was written; “and the passage that compares me with Mansfield is able as well as true. Both Mansfield and myself understood how there stands above all written law that higher, greater, grander law, that is based in the heart of all humanity, in the hope of an eternal justice, and soars above every technicality, by the intense desire of truth. It would have been, however, no more than fair to have added that, to an intellect the equal of Mansfield, I brought a temper which Mansfield had not, and a manner which if found in the courts of royalty, is seldom met with on the Bench. I do not quite like that phrase, 'the rapid and unerring glance of Erskine.' Erskine was brilliant for a Scotchman, but a brilliant Scotchman is but a third-rate Irishman. They who penned this might have known as much. I am better pleased with the words, 'the noble dignity of Lord Eldon.' There, my child, there, they indeed have hit upon a characteristic. In Eldon nature seemed to have created the judicial element in a high degree. It would be the vulgarity of modesty to pretend not to recognize in my own temperament a like organization.
“May I read you, Lucy, the few words in which I mean to reply to this courteous address? Will it bore you, my dear?”
“On the contrary, sir, I shall feel myself honored as well as interested.”
“Sit where you are, then, and I will retire to the far corner of the room. You shall judge if my voice and delivery be equal to the effort; for I mean to return my thanks in person, Lucy. I mean to add the force of my presence to the vigor of my sentiments. I have bethought me of inviting those who have signed this document to luncheon here; and it may probably be in the large drawing-room that I shall deliver this reply. If not, it may possibly be in my court before rising,—I have not fully determined.” So saying, he arose, and with feeble steps—assisting himself, as he went, by the table, and then grasping a chair—he moved slowly across the room. She knew him too well to dare to offer her arm, or appear in any way to perceive his debility. That he felt, and felt bitterly, “the curse of old age,” as he once profanely called it, might be marked in the firm compression of his lips and the stern frown that settled on him, while, as he sank into a seat, a sad weary sigh declared the utter exhaustion that overcame him.
It was not till after some minutes that he rallied sufficiently to unroll his manuscript and adjust his spectacles. The stillness in the room was now perfect; not a sound was heard save the faint hum of a bee which had strayed into the room, and was vaguely floating about to find an exit. Lucy sat in an attitude of patient attention,—her hands crossed before her, and her eyes slightly downcast.
A faint low cough, and he began, but in a voice tremulous and faint, “'Mr. Chief Sergeant, and Gentlemen of the Bar'—do you hear me, Lucy?”
“Yes, sir, I hear you.”
“I will try to be more audible; I will rest for a moment.” fie laid his paper on his knees, closed his eyes, and sat immovable for some seconds.
It was at this moment, when to the intense stillness was added a sense of expectancy, the honeysuckle that grew across the window moved, the frail branches gave way, and a merry voice called out, “Scene the first: a young lady discovered at luncheon!” and with a spring Tom Lendrick bounced into the room, and, ere her cry of alarm had ended, was clasping his sister in his arms.
“Oh, Tom, dearest Tom, why to-day? Grandpapa—grandpapa is here,” sighed she, rather than whispered, in his ear.