"'Isosceles' triangle, Jack Tibbets, not 'isolated."'
"'Isosceles' or 'isolated,' it is all one," said Uncle Jack, as he rapidly performed three evolutions, by no means consistent with his favorite theory of "the greatest happiness of the greatest number,"-- first, he emptied into the cup which he took from my mother's hands half the thrifty contents of a London cream-jug; secondly, he reduced the circle of a muffin, by the abstraction of three triangles, to as nearly an isosceles as possible; and thirdly, striding towards the fire, lighted in consideration of Captain de Caxton, and hooking his coat- tails under his arms while he sipped his tea, he permitted another circle peculiar to humanity wholly to eclipse the luminary it approached.
"'Isolated' or 'isosceles,' it is all the same thing. Alan is made for his fellow-creatures. I had long been disgusted with the interference of those selfish Squirearchs. Your departure decided me. I have concluded negotiations with a London firm of spirit and capital and extended views of philanthropy. On Saturday last I retired from the service of the oligarchy.
"I am now in my true capacity of protector of the million. My prospectus is printed,--here it is in my pocket. Another cup of tea, sister; a little more cream, and another muffin. Shall I ring?" Having disembarrassed himself of his cup and saucer, Uncle Jack then drew forth from his pocket a damp sheet of printed paper. In large capitals stood out "The Anti-Monopoly Gazette; or Popular Champion." He waved it triumphantly before my father's eyes.
"Pisistratus," said my father, "look here. This is the way your Uncle Jack now prints his pats of butter,--a cap of liberty growing out of an open book! Good, Jack! good! good!"
"It is Jacobinical!" exclaimed the Captain.
"Very likely," said my father; "but knowledge and freedom are the best devices in the world to print upon pats of butter intended for the market."
"Pats of butter! I don't understand," said Uncle Jack. "The less you understand, the better will the butter sell, Jack," said my father, settling back to his notes.
CHAPTER III.
Uncle Jack had made up his mind to lodge with us, and my mother found some difficulty in inducing him to comprehend that there was no bed to spare.
"That's unlucky," said he. "I had no sooner arrived in town than I was pestered with invitations; but I refused them all, and kept myself for you."
"So kind in you, so like you!" said my mother; "but you see--"
"Well, then, I must be off and find a room. Don't fret; you know I can breakfast and dine with you all the same,--that is, when my other friends will let me. I shall be dreadfully persecuted." So saying, Uncle Jack repocketed his prospectus and wished us good-night.
The clock had struck eleven, my mother had retired, when my father looked up from his books and returned his spectacles to their case. I had finished my work, and was seated over the fire, thinking now of Fanny Trevanion's hazel eyes, now, with a heart that beat as high at the thought, of campaigns, battle-fields, laurels, and glory; while, with his arms folded on his breast and his head drooping, Uncle Roland gazed into the low clear embers. My father cast his eyes round the room, and after surveying his brother for some moments he said, almost in a whisper,--
"My son has seen the Trevanions. They remember us, Roland."
The Captain sprang to his feet and began whistling,--a habit with him when he was much disturbed.
"And Trevanion wishes to see us. Pisistratus promised to give him our address: shall he do so, Roland?"
"If you like it," answered the Captain, in a military attitude, and drawing himself up till he looked seven feet high.
"I should like it," said my father, mildly. "Twenty years since we met."
"More than twenty," said my uncle, with a stern smile; "and the season was--the fall of the leaf!"
"Man renews the fibre and material of his body every seven years," said my father; "in three times seven years he has time to renew the inner man. Can two passengers in yonder street be more unlike each other than the soul is to the soul after an interval of twenty years? Brother, the plough does not pass over the soil in vain, nor care over the human heart. New crops change the character of the land; and the plough must go deep indeed before it stirs up the mother stone."
"Let us see Trevanion," cried my uncle; then, turning to me, he said abruptly, "What family has he?"
"One daughter."
"No son?"
"No."
"That must vex the poor, foolish, ambitious man. Oho! you admire this Mr. Trevanion much, eh? Yes, that fire of manner, his fine words, and bold thoughts, were made to dazzle youth."
"Fine words, my dear uncle,--fire! I should have said, in hearing Mr. Trevanion, that his style of conversation was so homely you would wonder how he could have won such fame as a public speaker."
"Indeed!"
"The plough has passed there," said my father.
"But not the plough of care: rich, famous, Ellinor his wife, and no son!"
"It is because his heart is sometimes sad that he would see us."
Roland stared first at my father, next at me.