Mr. Goldsmith looked on the whole affair as an insult to every Goldsmith of past ages! A mere street row! He ordered Mr. More to his lodgings, and said he should hear from him to-morrow. Ulick came down to Willow Lawn in the dark, almost considering himself as dismissed, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry; and wanting to consult Mr. Kendal whether it would be possible to work his way at college as Mr. Hope had done, or even wondering whether he might venture to beg for a recommendation to "Kendal and Kendal."
Mr. Kendal was so strongly affected, that he took up his hat and went straight to Mr. Goldsmith, "to put the matter before him in a true light."
True light or false, it was intolerable in the banker"s eyes, and it took a great deal of eloquence to persuade him that his nephew was worth a second trial. Fighting in Tibb"s Alley over a gipsy"s dog, and coming back looking like a ruffian! Mr. Goldsmith wished him no harm, but it would be a disgrace to the concern to keep him on, and Miss Goldsmith, whom Mr. Kendal heartily wished to gag, chimed in with her old predictions of the consequences of her poor sister"s foolish marriage.
The final argument, was Mr. Kendal"s declaration of the testimonials with which he would at once send him out to Calcutta, to take the situation once offered to his own son. No sooner did Mr. Goldsmith hear that his nephew had an alternative, than he promised to be lenient, and finally dispatched a letter to U. More, Esquire, with a very serious rebuke, but a promise that his conduct should be overlooked, provided the scandal were not repeated, and he should not present himself at the bank till his face should be fit to be seen.
Mr. Kendal mounted him the next morning on Gilbert"s horse, and sent him to Fairmead. The dog was left in charge of Bridget, who treated it with abundant kindness, but failed to obtain the exclusive affection which the poor thing lavished upon its rescuer. By the time Ulick came home, it had arrived at limping upon three legs, and was bent on following him wherever he went. Disreputable and heinously ugly it was, of tawny currish yellow (whence it was known as the Orange-man), with a bull-dog countenance; and the legs that did not limp were bandy. Albinia called it the Tripod, but somehow it settled into the t.i.tle of Hyder Ali, to which it was said to "answer" the most readily, though it would in fact answer anything from Ulick, and nothing from any one else..
Ever at his heels, the "brazen Tripod" contrived to establish an entrance at Willow Lawn; scratched till Mr. Kendal would interrupt a "Prometheus talk" to let him in at the library door; and gradually made it a matter of course to come into the drawing-room, and repose upon Sophy"s flounces.
This was by way of compensation for his misadventures elsewhere. He was always bringing Ulick into trouble; shut or tie him up as he might, he was sure to reappear when least wanted. He had been at church, he had been in Miss Goldsmith"s drawing-room, he had been found times without number curled up under Ulick"s desk. Mr. Goldsmith growled hints about hanging him, and old Mr. Johns, who really was fond of his bright young fellow clerk, gave grave counsel; but Ulick only loved his protege the better, and after having exhausted an Irish vocabulary of expostulation, succeeded in prevailing on him to come no farther than the street; except on very wet days, when he would sometimes be found on the mat in the entry, looking deplorably beseeching, and bringing on his master an irate, "Here"s that dog again!"
"Would that no one fell into worse sc.r.a.pes," sighed Mr. Dusautoy, when he heard of Ulick"s disasters with Hyder Ali, and it was a sigh that the house of Kendal re-echoed.
n.o.body could be surprised when, towards the long vacation, tidings came to Bayford, that after long forbearance on the part of the authorities, the insubordination and riotous conduct of the two young men could be endured no longer. It appeared that young Dusautoy, with his weak head and obstinate will, had never attempted to bend to rules, but had taken every reproof as an insult and defiance. Young men had not been wanting who were ready to take advantage of his lavish expenditure, and to excite his disdain for authorities. They had promoted the only wit he did understand, broad practical jokes and mischief; and had led him into the riot and gambling to which he was not naturally p.r.o.ne. Gilbert Kendal, with more sense and principle, had been led on by the contagion around him, and at last an outrageous wine party had brought matters to a crisis. The most guilty were the most cunning, and the only two to whom the affair could actually be brought home, were Dusautoy and Kendal. The sentence was rustication, and the tutor wrote to Mr.
Dusautoy, as the least immediately affected, to ask him to convey the intelligence to Mr. Kendal.
The vicar was not a man to shrink from any task, however painful, but he felt it the more deeply, as, in spite of his partiality, he was forced to look on his own favourite Algernon as the misleader of Gilbert; and when he overtook the sisters on his melancholy way down the hill, he consulted them how their father would bear it.
"Oh! I don"t know," said Lucy; "he"ll be terribly angry. I should not wonder if he sent Gilbert straight off to India; should you, Sophy?"
"I hope he will do nothing in haste," exclaimed Mr. Dusautoy. "I do believe if those two lads were but separated, or even out of such company, they would both do very well."
"Yes," exclaimed Lucy; "and, after all, they are such absurd regulations, treating men like schoolboys, wanting them to keep such regular troublesome hours. Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy told me that there was no enduring the having everything enforced."
"If things had been enforced on poor Algernon earlier, this might never have been," sighed his uncle.
"I"m sure I don"t see why papa should mind it so much," continued Lucy.
"Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy told me his friend Lord Reginald Raymond had been rusticated twice, and expelled at last."
"What do you think of it, Sophy?" asked the vicar, anxiously.
"I don"t feel as if any of us could ever look up again," she answered very low.
"Why, no; not that exactly. It is not quite the right way to take these things, Sophy," said Mr. Dusautoy. "Boys may be very foolish and wrong-headed, without disgracing their family."
Sophy did not answer--it was all too fresh and sore, and she did not find much consolation in the number of youths whom Lucy reckoned up as having incurred the like penalty. When they entered the house, and Mr.
Dusautoy knocked at the library door, she followed Lucy into the garden, without knowing where she was going, and threw herself down upon the gra.s.s, miserable at the pain which was being inflicted upon her father, and with a hardened resentful feeling, between contempt and anger, against the brother, who, for very weakness, could so dishonour and grieve him. She clenched her hand in the intensity of her pa.s.sionate thoughts and impulses, and sat like a statue, while Lucy, from time to time, between the tying up of flowers and watering of annuals, came up with inconsistent exhortations not to be so unhappy--for it was not expulsion--it was sure to be unjust--n.o.body would think the worse of them because young men were foolish--all men of spirit did get into sc.r.a.pes--
It was lucky for Lucy that all this pa.s.sed by Sophy"s ear as unheeded as the babbling of the brook. She did not move, till roused by Ulick O"More, coming up from the bridge, telling that he had met some Irish haymakers in the meadows, and saying he wanted to beg a frock for one of their children.
"I think I can find you one," said Lucy, "if you will wait a minute; but don"t go in, Mr. Dusautoy is there."
"Is anything the matter?" he exclaimed.
"Every one must soon know," said Lucy; "it is of no use to keep it back, Sophy. Only my brother and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy have got into a sc.r.a.pe about a wine party, and are going to be rusticated. But wait, I"ll fetch the frock."
Sophy had almost run away while her sister spoke, but the kind look of consternation and pity on Ulick"s face deterred her, he in soliloquy repeated, as if confounded by the greatness of the misfortune, "Poor Gilbert!"
"Poor Gilbert!" burst from Sophy in irritation at misplaced sympathy; "I thought it would be papa and mamma you cared for!"
"With reason," returned Ulick, "but I was thinking how it must break his heart to have pained such as they."
"I wish he would feel it thus," exclaimed Sophy; "but he never will!"
"Oh! banish that notion, Sophy," cried Ulick, recoiling at the indignation in her dark eyes, "next to grieving my mother, I declare nothing could crush me like meeting a look such as that from a sister of mine."
"How can I help it?" she said, reserve breaking down in her vehemence, "when I think how much papa has suffered--how much Gilbert has to make up to him--how mamma took him for her own--how they have borne with him, and set their happiness on him, and yielded to his fancies, only for him to disappoint them so cruelly, and just because he can"t say No! I hope he wont come home; I shall never know how to speak to him!"
"But all that makes it so much the worse for him," said Ulick, in a tone of amazement.
"Yes, you can"t understand," she answered; "if he had had one spark of feeling like you, he would rather have died than have gone on as he has done."
"Surely many a man may be overtaken in a fault, and never be wrong at heart," said Ulick. "There"s many a worse sin than what the world sets a blot upon, and I believe that is just why homes were made."
Lucy came back with the frock, and Ulick, thanking her, sped away; while Sophy slowly went upstairs and hid herself on her couch. For a woman to find a man thinking her over-hard and severe, is sure either to harden or to soften her very decidedly, and it was a hard struggle which would be the effect. There was an inclination at first to attribute his surprise to the lax notions and foolish fondness of his home, where no doubt far worse disorders than Gilbert"s were treated as mere matters of course. But such strong pity for the offender did not seem to accord with this; and the more she thought, the more sure she became that it was the fresh charity and sweetness of an innocent spirit, "believing all things," and separating the fault from the offender. His words had fallen on her ear in a sense beyond what he meant. Pride and uncharitable resentment might be worse sins than mere weakness and excess. She thought of the elder son in the parable, who, unknowing of his brother"s temptation and sorrow, closed his heart against his return; and if her tears would have come, she would have wept that she could not bring herself to look on Gilbert otherwise than as the troubler of her father"s peace.
When her mother at last came upstairs, she only ventured to ask gently, "How does papa bear it?"
"It did not come without preparation," was the answer; "and at first we were occupied with comforting Mr. Dusautoy, who takes to himself all the shame his nephew will not feel, for having drawn poor Gilbert into such a set."
"And papa?" still asked Sophy.
"He is very quiet, and it is not easy to tell. I believe it was a great mistake, though not of his making, to send Gilbert to Oxford at all, and I doubt whether he will ever go back again.
"Oh, mamma, not conquer this, and live it down!" cried Sophy; but then changing, she sighed and said, "If he would--"
"Yes, a great deal depends upon how he may take this, and what becomes of Algernon Dusautoy; though I suppose there is no lack of other tempters. Your papa has even spoken of India again; he still thinks he would be more guarded there, but all depends on the spirit in which we find him. One thing I hope, that I shall leave it all to his father"s judgment, and not say one word."
The next post brought a penitent letter from Gilbert, submitting completely to his father; only begging that he might not see any one at home until he should have redeemed his character, and promising to work very hard and deny himself all relaxation if he might only go to a tutor at a distance.
This did not at all accord with Mr. Kendal"s views. He had an unavowed distrust of Gilbert"s letters, he did not fancy a tutor thus selected, and believed the boy to be physically incapable of the proposed amount of study. So he wrote a very grave but merciful summons to Willow Lawn.
Albinia went to meet the delinquent at Hadminster, and was struck by the different deportment of the two youths. Algernon Dusautoy, whose servant had met him, sauntered up to her as if nothing had happened, carelessly hoped all were well at Bayford, and, in spite of her exceeding coldness, talked on with perfect ease upon the chances of a war with Russia, and had given her three or four maxims, before Gilbert came up with the luggage van, with a bag in his hand, and a hurried bewildered manner, unable to meet her eye. He handed her into the carriage, seated himself beside her, and drove off without one unnecessary word, while Algernon, mounting his horse, waved them a disengaged farewell, and cantered on. Albinia heard a heavy sigh, and saw her companion very wan and sorrowful, dejection in every feature, in the whole stoop of his figure, and in the nervous twitch of his hands. The contrast gave an additional impulse to her love and pity, and the first words she said were, "Your father is quite ready to forgive."
"I knew he would be so," he answered, hardly able to command his voice; "I knew you would all be a great deal too kind to me, and that is the worst of all."
"No, Gilbert, not if it gives you resolution to resist the next time."
He groaned; and it was not long before she drew from him a sincere avowal of his follies and repentance. He had been led on by a.s.surances that "every one" did the like, by fear of betraying his own timidity, by absurd dread of being disdained as slow; all this working on his natural indolence and love of excitement, had combined to involve him in habits which had brought on him this disgrace. It was a hopeful sign that he admitted its justice, and accused no one of partiality; the reprimand had told upon him, and he was too completely struck down even to attempt to justify himself; exceedingly afraid of his father, and only longing to hide himself. Such was his utter despair, that Albinia had no scruples in encouraging him, and a.s.suring him with all her heart, that if taken rightly, the shock that brought him to his senses, might be the blessing of his life. He did not take comfort readily, though soothed by her kindness; he could not get over his excessive dread of his father, and each attempt at rea.s.surance fell short. At last it came out that the very core of his misery was this, that he had found himself for part of the journey, in the same train with Miss Durant and two or three children. He could not tell her where he was going nor why, and he had leant back in the carriage, and watched her on the platform by stealth, as she moved about, "lovelier and more graceful than ever!" but how could he present himself to her in his disgrace and misery? "Oh, Mrs.
Kendal, I forgive my father, but my life was blighted when I was cut off from her!"
"No, Gilbert, you are wrong. There is no blighting in a worthy, disinterested attachment. To be able to love and respect such a woman is a good substantial quality in you, and ought to make you a higher and better man."
Gilbert turned round a face of extreme amazement. "I thought," he said, "I thought you--" and went no farther.
"I respect your feeling for her more than when it was two years younger," she said; "I should respect it doubly if instead of making you ashamed, it had saved you from the need of shame."