Late at night of the same day on which the conversation of last chapter occurred, Sewell was returning to the Priory: he was on foot, having failed to find a carriage at that late hour, and was depressed and wretched in mind, for he had lost a large sum at the Club, which he had no means whatever to meet on the coming morning.
It was a rare event with him to take a retrospect of his life; and his theory was that he owed any success he had ever won to the fact that he brought to the present—to the actual casualty before him—an amount of concentration which men who look back or look forward never can command. Now, however, the past would force itself upon him, and his whole career, with all its faults and its failures, was before him.
It was a bitter memory, the very bitterest one can imagine, not in its self-accusation or reproach, but in the thought of all the grand opportunities he had thrown away, the reckless way in which he had treated Fortune, believing that she never would fail him. All his regrets were for the occasions he had suffered to slip by him unprofitably. He did not waste a thought on those he had ruined, many of them young fellows starting hopefully, joyously in life. His mind only dwelt on such as had escaped his snares. Ay, the very fellows to whom he had lost largely that night, had once been in his power! He remembered them when they “joined;” he had met them when they landed at Calcutta, in all their raw inexperience of life, pressing their petty wagers upon him, and eagerly, almost ignominiously courting acquaintance with the favored aide-de-camp of the Governor-General.
And there they were now, bronzed, hard-featured, shrewd men of the world, who had paid for their experience, and knew its worth.
Nothing to be done withthem!Indeed, there was little now “to be done” anywhere. The whole machinery of life was changed. Formerly, when fellows started in life, they were trustful, uncalculating, and careless. Now, on the contrary, they were wary, cautious, and suspectful. Instead of attaching themselves to older men as safe guides and counsellors, they hung back from them as too skilful and too crafty to be dealt with. Except Trafford he had not seen one—not one, for many a day—who could be “chaffed” into a bet, or laughed into play against his inclination. And what had he made of Trafford? A few hundred pounds in hand, and those letters which now Fossbrooke had insisted on his giving up. How invariably it was that same man who came up at every crisis of his life to thwart and defeat him. And it was a hard, a cruelly hard, thing to remember that this very man who had been the dupe of hundreds, who had been rogued and swindled out of all he had, should still have brought all his faculties to the task of persecutinghim!
“One might have thought,” said he, with a bitter laugh, “that he had troubles enough of his own not to have spare time to bestow upon me and my affairs. He was once, I own indeed, a rich man, with station and influence, and now he is a beggar. There was a time no society refused himentrée; now it is thought a very gracious thing to know him. Why will these things occupy him? And this stupid rebellion! I wonder how far he is compromised, or how far one could manage to have him compromised, by it? It is doubtless some personal consideration, some liking for this or that man, that has entangled him in it. If Pemberton were not so close, he could tell this; but these lawyers are so reserved, so crafty, they will not even tell what a few hours later the whole world will read in the public papers.
“If I were to have my choice, it would puzzle me sorely to determine whether I'd rather be left a fine estate,—four or five thousand a year,—or be able to send old Fossbrooke to a penal settlement. I am afraid, sorely afraid, my disinterestedness would gain the day, and that I 'd sacrifice my enjoyment to my vengeance! He has done me such a long list of wrongs, I 'd like to square the account. It would be a moment worth living for,—that instant when the word Guilty would drop from the jury-box, and that I could lean over the dock and exchange a look with him. I 'm not so sure he 'd quail, though; but the shame,—the shame might unman him!”
He had reached the gate of the avenue as he thus mused, and was about to insert the key in the lock, when a man arose from a little bench beside the lodge, and said,—“A fine night, sir; I 'm glad you 're come.”
“Who are you? Stand off!” cried Se well, drawing his revolver, as he spoke, from his breast-pocket.
“O'Reardon, your honor,—only O'Reardon,” said the fellow, in his well-known whine.
“And where the devil have you been this fortnight? What rascally treachery have you been hatching since I saw you? No long stories, my friend, and no lies. What have you been at?”
“I was never on any other errand than your honor's service, so help me—”
“Don't swear, old fellow, if you want me to believe you. Perjury has a sort of bird-lime attraction for scoundrels like you; so just keep away from an oath.”
O'Reardon laughed. “His honor was droll,—he was always droll,—and though not an Irishman himself, sorrow man living knew them better;” and with this double compliment to his patron and his country, the fellow went on to show that he had been on “the tracks of the ould man” since the day they parted. He had got a “case against him,”—the finest and fullest ever was seen. Mr. Spencer declared that “better informations never was sworn;” and on this they arrested him, together with his diary, his traps, his drawings, his arms, and his bullet-mould. There were grave reasons for secrecy in the case, and great secrecy was observed. The examination was in private, and the prisoner was sent to the Richmond Jail, with a blank for his name.
To the very circumstantial and prolix detail which O'Reardon gave with all the “onction” of a genuine informer, Sewell listened with a forced patience. Perhaps the thought of all the indignities that were heaped upon his enemy compensated him for the wearisomeness of the narrative. At last he stopped him in his story, and said, “And how much of this accusation do you believe?”
“All of it,—every word.”
“You mean to say that he is engaged in this rebellion, and a sworn member of the Celt association?”
“I do. There 's more than thirty already off to transportation not so deep in it as him.”
“And if it should turn out that he is a man of station, and who once had a great fortune, and that in his whole life he never meddled with politics,—that he has friends amongst the first families of England, and has only to ask to have men of rank and position his sureties,—what then?”
“He 'll have to show what he was 'at' a year ago when he lodged in my house at Cullen's Wood, and would n't give his name, nor the name of the young man that was with him, nor ever went out till it was dark night, and stole away at last with all sorts of tools and combustibles. He 'll have to show that I did n't give his description up at the Castle, and get Mr. Balfour's orders to watch him close; and what's more, that he did n't get a private visit one night from the Lord-Lieutenant himself, warning him to be off as quick as he could. I heard their words as I listened at the door.”
“So that, according to your veracious story, Mr. O'Rear-don, the Viceroy himself is a Celt and a rebel, eh?”
“It's none of my business to put the things together, and say what shows this, and what disproves that; that's for Mr. Hacket and the people up at the Castle. I 'm to get the facts,—nothing but the facts,—and them's facts that I tell you.”
“You 're on a wrong scent this time, O'Reardon; he is no rebel. I wish he was. I 'd be better pleased than yourself if we could keep him fast where he is, and never let him leave it.”
“Well, he's out now, and it'll not be so easy to get him 'in' again.”
“How do you mean?—out!”
“I mean he's free. Mr. Balfour came himself with two other gentlemen, and they took him away in a coach.”
“Where to?”
“That's more than I know.”
“And why was I not kept informed on these matters? My last orders to you were to write to me daily.”
“I was shut up myself the morning your honor left town. When I swore the informations they took me off, and never liberated me till this evening at eight o'clock.”
“You 'll soon find out where he is, won't you?”
“That I will. I 'll know before your honor's up in the morning.”
“And you 'll be able to tell what he's after,—why he is here at all; for, mind me, O'Reardon, I tell you again, it's not rebellion he's thinking of.”
“I 'll do that too, sir.”
“If we could only get him out of the country,—persuade him that his best course was to be off. If we could manage to get rid of him, O'Reardon,—to get rid of him!” and he gave a fierce energy to the last words.
“Thatwould be easier than the other,” said the fellow, slyly.
“Whatwould be easier?” cried Sewell, hurriedly.
“What your honor said last,” said the fellow, with a knowing leer, as though the words were better not repeated.
“I don't think I understand you,—speak out. What is it you mean?”
“Just this, then, that if it was that he was a trouble to any one, or that he 'd be better out of the way, it would be the easiest thing in life to make some of the boys believe he was an informer and they 'd soon do for him.”
“Murder him, eh?”
“I would n't call it murdering if a man was a traitor; nobody could call that murder.”
“We'll not discuss that point now;” and as he spoke, they came out from the shade of the avenue into the open space before the door, at which, late as it was, a carriage was now standing. “Who can be here at this hour?” muttered Sewell.
“That's a doctor's coach, but I forget his name.”
“Oh! to be sure. It is Dr. Beattie's carriage. You may leave me now, O'Reardon; but come up here early to-morrow,—come to my room, and be sure to bring me some news of what we were talking about.” As the man moved away, Sewell stood for a moment or two to listen,—he thought he heard voices in the hall, which, being large and vaulted, had a peculiar echo. Yes, he heard them now plainly enough, and had barely time to conceal himself in the copse when Dr. Beattie and Mrs. Sewell descended the steps, and walked out upon the gravel. They passed so close to where Sewell stood that he could hear the very rustle of her silk dress as she walked. It was Beattie spoke, and his voice sounded stern and severe. “I knew he could not stand it. I said so over and over again. It is not at his age that men can assume new modes of life, new associates, and new hours. Instead of augmenting, the wise course would have been to have diminished the sources of excitement to him. In the society of his granddaughter, and with the few old friends whose companionship pleased him, and for whom he exerted himself to make those little harmless displays of his personal vanity, he might have gone on for years in comparative health.”
“It was not I that devised these changes, doctor,” broke she in. “I never asked for these gayeties that you are condemning.”
“These new-fangled fopperies, too!” went on Beattie, as though not heeding her apology. “I declare to you that they gave me more pain, more true pain, to witness than any of his wild outbursts of passion. In the one, the man was real; and in the other, a mere mockery. And what 's the consequence?” added he, fiercely; “he himself feels the unworthy part he has been playing; instead of being overjoyed at the prospect of seeing his son again, the thought of it overwhelms him with confusion. He knows well how he would appear to the honest eyes of poor simple-hearted Tom Lendrick, whose one only pride in life was his father's greatness.”
“And he is certainly coming?”
“He has made an exchange for Malta, and will pass through here to see the Chief,—so he says in his short letter. He expects, too, to find Lucy here, and to take her out with him. I believe you don't know Tom Lendrick?”
“I met him at the Cape. He dined with us twice, if I remember aright; but he was shy and awkward, and we thought at the time that he had not taken to us.”
“First acquaintance always chilled him, and his deep humility ever prevented him making those efforts in conversation which would have established his true value. Poor fellow, how little he was always understood! Well, well! I am keeping you out in the night air all this time—”
“Oh, it is perfectly delicious, doctor. It is like a night in the tropics, so balmy and so bright.”
“I don't like to offer rude counsels, but my art sometimes gives a man scant choice,” said he, after a brief pause. “I'd say, take your husband away, get him down to that place on the Shannon,—you have it still? Well, get him down there; he can always amuse himself; he's fond of field-sports, and people are sure to be attentive to him in the neighborhood; and leave the old Judge to fall back into the well-worn groove of his former life. He'll soon send for Tom and his daughter, and they 'll fall into his ways, or, what 's better,hewill fall intotheirs,—without either ruining his health or his fortune; plain speaking all this, Mrs. Sewell, but you asked for frankness, and told me it would not be ill taken.”
“I don't think Colonel Sewell would consent to this plan.”
“Wouldyou?” asked he, bluntly.
“My consent would not be asked; there's no need to discuss it.”
“I meant, do you sufficiently concur in it to advise it?”
“I can advise nothing. I advance nothing. I oppose nothing. I had thought, Dr. Beattie, that your visits to this house might have taught you the place I occupy, and the consideration I am held in.”
This was ground the doctor would not enter upon, and he adroitly said: “I think it will be the saving of Colonel Sewell himself. Club gossip says that he loses heavily every night; and though his means may be considerable—”
“But they are not,—he has nothing,—not a shilling, except what this place brings in.”
“All the more reason not to play; but I must not keep you out here all night. I 'll come early in the morning, and hope to find him better. Remember how essential quiet is to him; let him not be disturbed; no talking by way of amusing him; pure rest—mind that.”
“If he wishes to see my husband, or asks for him—” “I'd make some excuse; say he is out. Colonel Se well excites him; he never fully understood Sir William; and I fear, besides, that he now and then took a humoristic pleasure in those bursts of temper which it is always only too easy to provoke.”
“He is very fond of my little boy,—might he go in?” “I think not. I'd say downright repose and isolation. You yourself can step in noiselessly from time to time, and only speak if you see that he wishes it; but on no account mention anything that could awaken interest,—nothing to arouse or to excite. You saw the fearful state that letter threw him into to-night, and the paroxysm of rage with which he called for his will to erase Tom Lendrick's name. Now in all probability he will have totally forgotten the whole incident by to-morrow. Good-night.”
After he drove off, she still lingered about the spot where they had been talking. Whatever interest the subject might have had for her, it was not through her affections that interest worked, for she hummed an opera air, “Bianca Luna,” and tried to recall some lines of Alfred de Musset's to the “timid planet,” and then sat down upon the steps and gazed at the stars.
Sewell moved out into the avenue, and, whistling carelessly to announce his approach, walked up to where she was sitting. “Romantic, certainly!” said he. “Whose carriage was that I met driving out?”
“Dr. Beattie's. He has been here to see Sir William.” “Will he die this time, or is it only another false start?” “He is seriously ill. Some news he received from his son gave him a severe shock, and brought on one of his worst attacks. He has been raving since six o'clock.”
“I should like to know when he has done anything else. I should like to see the man who ever heard from his lips other than the wildest, crudest nonsense. The question is, is he going to die?”
“Beattie's opinion is very unfavorable.”
“Unfavorable! To whom? Tohimor tous?”
“His death could scarcely be favorable to us.”
“That 's as it might be. We stand to win on one or two of these twenty wills he has made; and if he should recover and live on, I don't think—indeed I 'm full sure—I couldn't bear it much longer; so that, take it either way, I'd rather he'd die.”
“Beattie wishes his granddaughter were here.”
“Well, send for her. Though, if he is as ill as you say, it won't be of much use.”
“He has come through so many of these attacks, and has such great power of constitution, the doctor still thinks he might rally.”
“And so he will, I'll be sworn. There's a vitality in those people who plague and torment others that ought to get insurance offices to take them at half premium. Has he asked forme?”
“Only in his ravings. He rang his bell violently, and inquired if you had been at the prison, and asked what tidings you had brought him; and then he went off to say that all this Celt affair was no rebellion at all, and that he would prove it. Then he talked of quitting the Bench and putting on his stuff gown to defend these men against the Government.”
“Sick or well, sane or insane, it's always the same story. His only theme is himself.”
“Beattie was struck with the profound things and the witty things he said throughout all his rambling. He said that the intellect was never actually overthrown, that it only tottered.”
“What rot! as if he knew anything about it! These fellows talk of a man's brain as if it was the ankle-joint. Was there any question of a will?”
“Yes. He made Beattie take a will out of his writing-desk; and he erased the name of Lendrick in every part of it. Beattie and he had some angry words together, but that was before he was raving; and I heard Sir William tell him, 'Sir, you are neither my priest nor my lawyer; and if your skill as a doctor be only on a par with your tact as a friend, my recovery is all but hopeless.'”
“That probably was one of the profound or witty things the doctor was so delighted with.”
“Dr. Beattie took nothing addressed to himself in ill part.”
“No; that's part of medical education. These fellows begin life as such 'cads,' they never attain to the feeling of being gentlemen.”
There was not light enough for Sewell to see the scornful curl of his wife's lip at this speech; but in the little short cough by which she suppressed her temptation to reply, he noted her indignation.
“I know he's one of your especial favorites, Madam,” said he, harshly; “but eventhatgives him no immunity with me.”
“I 'm sure I could never think it would.”
“No; not even from being aware that one of his chief claims upon the wife was the unhandsome way he spoke of the husband.”
“He seldom mentions you,” said she, superciliously.
“I am not so scrupulous about him, then; I have not forgotten his conduct when that fellow got his skull cracked at the Nest. I saw it all, Madam; but I have a trick of seeing and saying nothing that might have suggested some alarm to you ere this.”
“You have many tricks, but not one that alarms me,” said she, coldly; “the wholesome fear of consequences will always be enough to keep you harmless.”
He almost sprang at her at these words; indeed, he came so close that his hot breath brushed her face. “It is a favorite taunt of yours to sneer at my courage,” said he, fiercely; “you may do it once too often.”
She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously, and slowly arose from where she sat.
“Where are you going?” asked he, roughly.
“Going in.”
“I have many things to say yet; I want to hear more, too, about the old man's illness.”
“I have told you all I know. Good-night.”
He turned away without acknowledging her salutation, and strolled into the grass. What a web of troubles he was involved in, and how hopelessly he turned from this or that expedient to extricate himself! It was but a short time before that, as a member of the committee of his Club, he had succeeded in passing a law by which all play debts should be discharged within twenty-four hours, on penalty of the defaulter being declared excluded from the Club. He was a winner at the time; but now luck had changed: he had lost heavily, and had not the slightest prospect of being able to meet his losses. “How like my fate!” muttered he, in intense passion,—“how like my fate! my whole life has been a game I have played against myself. And that woman, too,”—it was of his wife he spoke,—“who once helped me through many a strait, assumes now to be too pure and too virtuous to be my associate, and stands quietly aloof to see me ruined.”
A long thin streak of light crossed his path as he went; he looked up, and saw it came from between the shutters of the Chief's room. “I wonder how it fares with him!” muttered he. He pondered for some time over the old man's case, his chances of recovery, and the spirit in which convalescence would find him; and then entering the house, he slowly mounted the stairs, one by one, his heart feeling like a load almost too heavy to carry. The unbroken stillness of the house seemed to whisper caution, and he moved along the corridor with noiseless tread till he came to the door of the Judge's room. There he stooped and listened. There were the long-drawn breathings of a heavy sleeper plainly to be heard, but they sounded stronger and fuller than the respirations of a sick man. Sewell gently turned the handle of the door and entered. The suspicion was right. The breathings were those of the hospital nurse, who, seated in a deep arm-chair, slept profoundly. Sewell stood several minutes at the door before he ventured further; at last he crept stealthily forward to the foot of the bed, and, separating the curtains cautiously, he peeped in. The old man lay with his eyes closed, and his long shrivelled arms outside the clothes. He continued to talk rapidly, and by degrees his voice grew stronger and dearer, and had all that resonance of one speaking in a large assembly. “I have now,” said he, “shown the inexpediency of this course. I have pointed out where you have been impolitic; I will next explain where you are illegal. This Act was made in the 23d year of Henry VI., and although intended only to apply to cases of action personal, or indictment of trespass—What is the meaning of this interruption? Let there be silence in the Court. I will have the tribunal in which I preside respected. The public shall learn—the representatives of the press—and if there be, as I am told there are—” His voice grew weaker and weaker, and the last audible words that escaped him were “judgment for the plaintiff.”
Though his lips still moved rapidly, no sound came forth, but his hands were continually in motion, and his lean arms twitched with short convulsive jerks. Sewell now crept quietly round towards the side of the bed, on which several sheets of paper and writing-materials lay. One of the sheets alone was written on; it was in the large bold hand of the old Judge, who even at his advanced age wrote in a vigorous and legible character. It was headed, “Directions for my funeral,” and began thus: “As Irishmen may desire to testify their respect for one who, while he lived, maintained with equal energy the supremacy of the law and the inviolability of the man, and as my obsequies may in some sort become an act of national homage, I write these lines to convey my last wishes, legacies of which my country will be the true executors.
“First, I desire that I may be buried within the nave of St. Patrick's Cathedral. The spot I have selected is to the right of Swift's monument, under the fifth window, and for this purpose that hideous monument to Sir Hugh Brabazon may be removed, and my interment will, in this way, confer a double benefit upon my country. Secondly, as by my will, dated this twenty-eighth day of October, 18—, I have bequeathed, with exception of certain small legacies, all my estate, real and personal, to Dudley Sewell, Esq., late Colonel in her Majesty's service, it is my wish that he alone should—” Here the writing finished.
Three several times Sewell read over the lines, and what a thrill of delight ran through him! It was like a reprieve to a man on the very steps of the scaffold! The Judge was not rich, probably, but a considerable sum of money he still might have, and it was money,—cash. It was not invested in lands or houses or ships; it was all available for that life that Sewell led, and which alone he liked.
If he could but see this will,—it must be close at hand somewhere,—what a satisfaction it would be to read over the details by which at last—at last!—he was to be lifted above the casualties of a life of struggle! He tried three or four drawers of the large ebony cabinet in which the Chief used to throw his papers, with the negligence of a man who could generally rewrite as easily as he could search for a missing document. There were bills and receipts, notes of trials, and letters in abundance—but no will. The cumbrous old writing-desk, which Sir William rarely used, was not in its accustomed place, but stood on the table in the centre of the room, and the keys beside it. The will might possibly be there. He drew nigh the bed to assure himself that the old man was still sleeping, and then he turned towards the nurse, whose breathings were honest vouchers for insensibility; and thus fortified, he selected the key—he knew it well—and opened the desk. The very first paper he chanced upon was the will. It was a large sheet of strong post-paper, labelled “My last Will and Testament.—W. L.” While Sewell stood examining the writing, the door creaked gently, and his wife moved softly and noiselessly into the room. If the sentiment that overcame him was not shame, it was something in which shame blended with anger. It was true she knew him well: she knew all the tortuous windings of his plotting, scheming nature; she knew that no sense of honor, no scruple of any kind, could ever stand between him and his object. He had done those things which, worse than deep crimes, lower a man in the eyes of a woman, and that woman his wife, and that she thus knew and read him he was well aware; but, strangely enough, there is a world of space between being discovered through the results of a long inquiry, and being detectedflagrante delicto,—taken in the very act, red-handed in iniquity; and so did this cold-hearted, callous man now feel it.
“What are you doing here?” said she, calmly and slowly, as she came forward.
“I wanted to see this. I was curious to know how he treated us,” said he, trembling as he spoke.
She took the paper from his hand, replaced it in the desk, and locked it up, with the calm determination of one who could not be gainsaid.
“But I have not read it,” whispered he, in a hissing voice.
“Nor need you,” said she, placing the keys under the old man's pillow. “I heard you coming here,—I heard you enter the room. I am thankful it is no worse.”
“What do you mean by no worse?” cried he, seizing her by the wrist, and staring savagely at her,—“say what you mean, woman!” She made no reply; but the scornful curl of her lip, and the steady unflinching stare of her eyes showed that neither his words nor his gesture had terrified her.
“You shall hear more of this to-morrow,” said he, bending on her a look of intense hate; and he stole slowly away, while she seated herself at the bedside, and hid her face in the curtain.
When Dr. Beattie came at seven o'clock in the morning, he found his patient better. The nurse gave her account, as nurses know well how to do, of a most favorable night,—told how calmly he slept, how sensibly he talked, and with what enjoyment he ate the jelly which he had never tasted.
At all events, he was better; not stronger, perhaps,—there was no time for that,—but calmer and more composed.
“You must not talk, nor be talked to yet awhile,” said Beattie; “and I will station Haire here as a sentinel to enforce my orders.”
“Yes, I would like Haire,” whispered the old man, softly. “Let him come and sit by me.”
“Can I see Mrs. Sewell? or is it too early to ask for her?” inquired the doctor of a maid.
“She has been up all night, sir, and only just lain down.”
“Don't disturb her, then. I will write a line to her, and you can give it when she awakes.”
He went into the library, and wrote: “Sir William is better, but not out of danger. It is even more important now than before that he have perfect quiet. I will change the nurse, and meanwhile I desire that you alone should enter the room till I return.”
“What letter was that the doctor gave you as he went away?” said Sewell, who during Beattie's visit had been secretly on the watch over all that occurred.
“For my mistress, sir,” said the girl, showing the note.
Sewell snatched it impatiently, threw his eyes over it, and gave it back. “Tell your mistress I want to see her when she is dressed. It's nothing to hurry for, but to come down to my room at her own convenience.”
“Better, but not out of danger! I should think not,” muttered he, as he strolled out into the garden.
“What is the meaning of stationing old Haire at the bedside? Does Beattie suspect? But what could he suspect? It would be a very, convenient thing for me, no doubt, if he would die; but I 'd scarcely risk my neck to help him on the way. These things are invariably discovered; and it would make no difference with the law whether it was the strong cord of a vigorous life were snapped, or the frail thread of a wasted existence unravelled. Just so; mere unravelling would do it here. No need of bold measures. A good vigorous contradiction,—a rude denial of something he said,—with a sneer at his shattered intellect, and I 'd stake my life on it his passion would do the rest. The blood mounts to his head at the slightest insinuation. I 'd like to see him tried with a good round insult. Give me ten minutes alone with him, and I 'll let Beattie come after me with all his bottles; and certainly no law could make this murder. Bad-tempered men are not to be more carefully guarded by the State than better-natured ones. It would be a strange statute that made it penal to anger an irascible fellow. I wonder if some suspicion of this kind has crossed Beattie's mind? Is it for that Haire has been called to keep the watch on deck,—and if so, who is to replace him? He'll tire at last,—he must sleep some time; and what are they to do then? My wife, perhaps. Yes; she would play their game willingly enough. If she has heard of this will, it will alarm her. She has always tried to have the children provided for. She dreads—she 's not so wrong there—she dreads leaving everything in my power. And of late she has dared to oppose me openly. My threat of suing for a divorce, that used to keep her so submissive once, is failing now. Some one has told her that I could not succeed. I can see in her manner that her mind is reassured on this score. She could have no difficulty in filching an opinion,—this house is always full of lawyers; and certainly nothing in the habits of the place would have imposed any restraint in discussing it.” And he laughed—actually laughed—at the conceit thus evoked. “If I had but a little time before me now, I should work through all my difficulties. Only to think of it! One fortnight, less perhaps, to arrange my plans, and I might defy the world. This is Tuesday. By Thursday I shall have to meet those two acceptances for three hundred and two hundred and fifty. The last, at all events, I must pay, since Walcott's name was not in his own handwriting. How conscientiously a man meets a bill when he has forged the endorsement!” And again he laughed at the droll thought. “These troubles swarm around me,” muttered he, impatiently. “There is Fossbrooke, too. Malevolent old fool, that will not see how needless it is to ruin me. Can't he wait,—can't he wait? It's his own prediction that I'm a fellow who needs no enemy; my own nature will always be Nemesis enough. Who's that?—who is there?” cried he, as he heard a rustling in the copse at his side.
“It's me, your honor. I came out to get sight of your honor before I went away,” said O'Reardon, in a sort of slavish cringing tone.
“Away! and where to?”
“They 're sending me out of the way, your honor, for a week or two, to prevent that ould man I arrested charging me with parjury. That's what they purtend, sir,” said he, in a lower voice. “But the truth is, that I know more than they like, ay, and more than they think; for it was in my house at Cullen's Wood that the Lord-Liftenant himself came down, one evening, and sat two hours with this ould man.”
“Keep these sort of tales for other people, Master O'Reardon; they have no success with me. You are a capital terrier for rat-hunting, but you cut a sorry figure when you come out as a boar-hound. Do you understand me?”
“I do, sir, right well. Your honor means that I ought to keep to informations against common people, and not try my hand against the gentlemen.”
“You 've hit it perfectly. It's strange enough how sharp you can be in some things, and what a cursed fool in others.”
“You never was more right in your life, sir. That's my character in one sentence;” and he gave a little plaintive sigh, as though the thought were a painful one.
“And how do you mean to employ your leisure, Mr. O'Reardon? Men of your stamp are never thoroughly idle. Will you write your memoirs?”
“Indeed, no, your honor; it might hurt people's feelings the names I 'd have to bring in; and I 'm just going over to France for the present.”
“To France?”
“Yes, sir; Mr. Harman's tuk heart o' grace, and is going to sue for a divorce, and he 's sending me over to a place called Boulogne to get up evidence against the Captain.”
“You like that sort of thing?”
“I neither like it nor dislike it,” said O'Reardon, while his eye kindled angrily, for he thought that he who scoffed at him should stand on higher moral ground than Sewell's.
“You once lived with Captain Peters, I think?”
“Yes, sir; I was his valet for four years. I was with him at Malta and Corfu when he was in the Rifles.”
“And he treated you well?”
“No man better, that I 'll say for him if he was in the dock to-morrow. He gave me a trunk of his clothes—mufti he called them—and ten pounds the day I left him.”
“It's somewhat hard, isn't it, to go against a man after that? Doesn't your fine nature rather revolt at the ingratitude?”
“Well, then, to tell your honor the truth, my 'fine nature' never was rich enough to afford itself that thing your honor calls gratitude. It's a sort of thing for my betters.”
“I 'm sorry to hear you say so, O'Reardon. You almost shock me with such principles.”
“Well, that's the way it is, sir. When a man 's poor, he has no more right to fine feelin's than to fine feeding.”
“Why, you go from bad to worse, O'Reardon. I declare you are positively corrupting this morning.”
“Am I, sir?” said the fellow, who now eyed him with a calm and steady defiance, as though he had submitted to all he meant to bear. Sewell felt this, and though he returned the stare, it was with a far less courageous spirit. “Well?” cried he at last, as though, no longer able to endure the situation, he desired to end it at any cost,—“well?”
“I suppose your honor wouldn't have time to settle with me now?”
“To settle with you! What do you call settle, my good fellow? Our reckonings are very short ones, or I'm much mistaken. What 's this settlement you talk of?”
“It's down here in black and white,” said the other, producing a folded sheet of paper as he spoke. “I put down the payments as I made them, and the car-hire and a trifle for refreshment; and if your honor objects to anything, it's easy to take it off; though, considering I was often on the watch till daybreak, and had to come in from Howth on foot before the train started of a morning, a bit to eat and to drink was only reasonable.”
“Make an end of this long story. What do you call the amount?”
“It's nothing to be afeard of, your honor, for the whole business,—the tracking him out, the false keys I had made for his trunk and writing-case, eight journeys back and forwards, two men to swear that he asked them to take the Celts' oath, and the other expenses as set down in the account. It's only twenty-seven pound four and eightpence.”
“What?”
“Twenty-seven, four and eight; neither more nor less.”
A very prolonged whistle was Sewell's sole reply.
“Do you know, O'Reardon,” said he at last, “it gives me a painfully low opinion of myself to see that, after so many months of close acquaintance, I should still appear to you to be little short of an idiot? It is very distressing—I give you my word, it is—very distressing.”
“Make your mind easy, sir; it is notthatI think you at all;” and the fellow lent an emphasis to the “that” which gave it a most insulting significance.
“I 'd like to know,” cried Sewell, as his face crimsoned with anger, “if you could have dared to offer such a document as this to any man you didn't believe to be a fool.”
“The devil a drop of fool's blood is in either of us,” said O'Reardon, with an easy air and a low laugh of quiet assurance.
“I am flattered by the companionship, certainly. It almost restores me to self-esteem to hear your words. I'd like to pay you a compliment in turn if I only knew how.”
“Just pay me my little bill, your honor, and it will be all mask.”
“I'm not over-much in a joking mood this morning, and I 'd advise you to talk of something else. There 's a five-pound note for you;” and he flung the money contemptuously towards him. “Take it, and think yourself devilish lucky that I don't have you up for perjury in this business.”
O'Reardon never moved, nor made any sign to show that he noticed the money at his feet; but, crossing his arms on his chest, he drew himself haughtily up, and said: “So, then, it's defying me you 'd try now? You 'd have me up for perjury! Well, then, I begin to believe youarea fool, after all. No, sir, you need n't put your hand in your waistcoat. If you have a pistol there, I have another; and, what's more, I have a witness in that clump of trees, that only needs the word to stand beside me. There, now, Colonel, you see you 're beat, and beat at your own game too.”
“D—n you!” cried Sewell, savagely. “Can't you see that I 've got no money?”
“If I have n't money, I 'll have money's worth. Short of twenty pounds I 'll not leave this.”
“I tell you again, you might as well ask me for two hundred or two thousand. I 'll be in cash, I hope, by the end of the week—”
“Ay, but I'll be in France,” broke in O'Reardon.
“I wish you were in———,” mumbled Sewell, as he believed, to himself; but the other heard him, and dryly said, “No, sir, not yet; it's manners to letyougo first.”
“I lost heavily two nights ago at the Club,—that's why I 'm so hard up; but I know I must have money by Saturday. By Saturday's post I 'll send you an order for twenty pounds. Will that content you?”
“No, sir, it will not. I had a bad bout of it last night myself, and lost every ha'penny Mr. Harman gave me for the journey,—that's the reason I 'm here.”
“But if I have not got it? There, so help me! is every farthing I can call my own this minute,”—and he drew from his pocket some silver, in which a single gold coin or two mingled,—“take it, if you like.”
“No, sir; it's no good to me. Short of twenty pounds, I could n't start on the journey.”
“And if I haven't got it! Am I to go out and rob for you?” cried Sewell, as his eyes flashed indignantly at him.
“I don't want you to rob; but it isn't a house like this hasn't twenty pounds in it.”
“You mean,” said Sewell, with a sneering laugh, “that if there 's not cash, there must be plate, jewels, and such-like, and so I 'm to lay an embargo on the spoons; but you forget there is a butler who looks after these things.”
“There might be many a loose thing on your Lady's table that would do as well,—a ring or two, or a bracelet that she's tired of.”
Sewell started,—a sudden thought flashed across him; if he were to kill the fellow as he stood there, how should he conceal the murder and hide the corpse? It was quick as a lightning flash, this thought, but the horror of the consequences so overcame him that a cold sweat broke out over his body, and he staggered back to a seat, and sank into it exhausted and almost fainting.
“Don't take it to heart that way, sir,” said the fellow, gazing at him. “Will I get you a glass of water?”
“Yes. No—no; I'll do without it. It's passing off. Wait here for a moment; I 'll be back presently.” He arose as he spoke, and moved slowly away. Entering the house, he ascended the stairs and made for his wife's room. As he reached the door, he stopped to listen. There was not a sound to be heard. He turned the handle gently, and looked in. One shutter was partly open, and a gleam of the breaking daylight crossed the floor and fell upon the bed on which she lay, dressed, and fast asleep,—so soundly, indeed, that though the door creaked loudly as he pushed it wider, she never heard the noise. She had evidently been sitting up with a sick man, and was now overcome by fatigue. His intention had been to consult with her,—at least to ask her to assist him with whatever money she had by her,—and he had entered thus stealthily not to startle her; for somehow, in the revulsion of his mind from the late scene of outrage and insult, a sense of respect, if not of regard, moved him towards her, who, in his cruelest moments, had never ceased to have a certain influence over him. He looked at her as she slept; her fine features, at rest, were still beautiful, though deep traces of sorrow were seen in the darkened orbits and the lines about that mouth, while three or four glistening white hairs showed themselves in the brown braid over her temple. Sewell sat down beside the bed, and, as he looked at her, a whole life passed in review before him, from the first hour he met her to that sad moment of the present. How badly they had played their game! how recklessly misused every opportunity that might have secured their fortune! What hadhemade of all his shrewdness and ready wit? And what hadshedone with all her beauty, and a fascination as great as even her beauty? It was an evil day that had brought them together. Each, alone, without the other, might have achieved any success. There had been no trust, no accord between them. They wanted the same things, it is true, but they never agreed upon the road that led to them. As to principles, she had no more of them than he had; but she had scruples—scruples of delicacy, scruples of womanhood—which often thwarted and worried him, and ended by making them enemies; and here was now the end of it!Herbeauty was wasted, andhisluck played out, and only ruin before them.
And yet it calmed him to sit there; her softly drawn breathing soothed his ruffled spirit. He felt it as the fevered man feels the ice-cold water on his brow,—a transient sense of what it would be to be well again. Is there that in the contemplation of sleep—image as it is of the great sleep of all—that subdues all rancor of heart,—all that spirit of conflict and jar by which men make their lives a very hell of undying hates, undying regrets?
His heart, that a few moments ago had almost burst with passion, now felt almost at ease; and in the half-darkened room, the stillness, and the calm, there stole over him a feeling of repose that was almost peacefulness. As he bent over her to look at her, her lips moved. She was dreaming; very softly, indeed, came the sounds, but they seemed as if entreating. “Yes,” she said,—“yes—all—everything—I consent. I agree to all, only—Cary—let me have Cary, and I will go.”
Sewell started. His face became crimson in a moment. How was it that these words scattered all his late musings, as the hurricane tears and severs the cloud-masses, and sends them riven and shattered through the sky? He arose and walked over to the table; a gold comb and two jewelled hair-pins lay on the glass; he clutched them coarsely in his hand, and moved away. Cautiously and noiselessly he crept down the stairs, and out into the garden. “Take these, and make your money of them; they are worth more than your claim; and mind, my good fellow,—mind it well, I say, or it will be worse for you,—our dealings end here. This is our last transaction, and our last meeting. I 'll never harm you, if you keep only out of my way. But take care that you never claim me, nor assume to know me; for I warn you I'll disown you, if it should bring you to the gallows. That's plain speaking, and you understand it.”
“I do, every word of it,” said the fellow, as he buttoned up his coat and drew his hat over his eyes. “I 'm taking the 'fiver,' too, as it's to be our last meetin'. I suppose your honor will shake hands with me and wish me luck. Well, if you won't, there's no harm done. It's a quare world, where the people that's doin' the same things can't be friends, just because one wears fine cloth and the other can only afford corduroy. Good-bye, sir,—good-bye, any-how;” and there was a strange cadence in the last words no description can well convey.
Sewell stood and looked after him for a moment, then turned into the house, and threw himself on a sofa, exhausted and worn out.