No sooner did Sir Brook find himself once more at liberty than he went to the post-office for his letters, of which a goodly stock had accumulated during his absence. A telegram, too, was amongst the number, despatched by Tom in great haste eight days before. It ran thus:—
“Great news! We have struck silver in the new shaft. Do not sell, do not even treat till you hear from me. I write by this post.
“Lendrick.”
Had Tom but seen the unmoved calm with which Foss-brooke read this astounding tidings,—had he only seen the easy indifference with which the old man threw down the slip of paper after once reading it, and passed on to a letter of Lord Wilmington from Crew Keep,—his patience would certainly have been sorely tried. Nor was it from any indifference to good fortune, still as little from any distrust of the tidings. It was simply because he had never doubted that the day was coming that was to see him once more rich., It might be a little later or a little earlier. It might be that wealth should shower itself upon him in a gradually increasing measure, or come down in a very deluge of prosperity. These were things he did not, could not know; but of the fact—the great Fact itself—he had as firm a belief as he had of his own existence; and had he died before realizing it, he would have bequeathed his vast fortune, with blanks for the amount, as conscientiously as though it were bank stock for which he held the vouchers.
When most men build castles in the air, they know on what foundations their edifices are based, and through all their imaginative ardor there pierces the sharp pang of unreality. Not so with Fossbrooke. It was simply a question of time with him when the costly palace might become fit for habitation, and this great faith in himself rescued him from all that vacillation so common to those who keep a debtor and creditor account between their hopes and fears. Neither was he at all impatient because Destiny did not bestir herself and work quicker. The world was always pleasant, always interesting; and when to-morrow or next day Fortune might call him to a higher station and other modes of life, he almost felt he should regret the loss of that amusing existence he now enjoyed, amongst people all new and all strange to him.
At last he came to Tom Lendrick's letter,—four closely written pages, all glowing with triumph. On the day week after Sir B.'s departure, he wrote:—
“They had come upon a vein of lead so charged with silver as to seem as though the whole mass were of the more precious metal. All Cagliari came down to see a block of ore upwards of two hundred-weight, entirely crusted with silver, and containing in the mass forty per cent. We had to get a guard from the Podesta, merely to keep off the curious, for there was no outrage nor any threat of outrage. Indeed, your kind treatment of our workpeople now begins to bear its fruit, and there was nothing but good-will and kind feeling for our lucky fortune. The two Jews, Heenwitz and Voss, of the Contrada Keale, were amongst the first visitors, and had actually gone down into the shaft before I knew of it. They at once offered me a large sum for a share in the mine; and when I told them it was with you they must treat, they proposed to open a credit of three hundred thousand francs with their house in my favor, to go on with the working till I heard from you and learned your intentions. This offer, too, I have declined, till I get your letter.
“This was on Tuesday, but on Thursday we struck pure silver without a trace of lead, the only alloy being a thin vein of cobalt, like a ribbon, running through the ore; and which Chiusani says—for he has worked in Mexico and the Brazils—is proof of a strong vein. The news spread like wildfire at Cagliari; and I have had such levees of the money folk! all offering me millions at any, or indeed at no interest, and actually entreating me to put my hand in their pockets, while they look away or close their eyes. As for the presents that pour in, we have no room for them; and you know how dangerous it would be to refuse these people. It is only a short step with them from a sworn friendship to the stiletto. The only disturbing element in all this joy is a sort of official protest from the Delegate of the province against our working what the Crown may claim as a royalty; but I am instructed that Sardinia once acquired all royal rights by a fixed payment, and Lucy thinks she read somewhere the details of the cession. At any rate, she and Contini, the lawyer, are hard at work making out the reply; and the English version, which Lucy does, will be forwarded to our Minister at Turin to-morrow. You 'd laugh if you saw how she has familiarized herself with not only all the legal terms, but with all our mining phraseology, and how acutely she marks the difference between intact royalties and the claims of the Crown to certain percentages on exempted mines. Contini is a bachelor, and I am fully persuaded intends to make her an offer of his legal hand and heart,—that is, if he finds that we are likely to beat the Crown lawyers. I cannot help thinking he's a lucky fellow that you are not here, nor like to be, on the day he makes his proposal.
“As much for peace's sake as for convenience, I have accepted twenty thousand francs on loan. I have taken it from the four principal bankers in Cagliari, in equal sums from each, to prevent jealousy. I hope this was not wrong. I send you herewith bills for fifteen thousand, remembering, if I be right, that you borrowed some hundred pounds on the security of the mine, which you might like now to pay off.” [After some business details, given at length, and with a degree of amplification that somewhat wearied Sir Brook to read, he summed up thus: ] “Write to me therefore at once, and say what course we ought to take regarding our rights. Could our home lawyers afford you no information of value? Shall we oppose or shall we compromise? I suspect they wish the latter.
“Are you satisfied that I accepted this loan? I have my own misgivings, not about the fact, for we wanted money to go on, but as to your concurrence.
“And when are you coming back? I cannot say how impatient I am for your return, all the more that you have only written that hurried note from Dover since you left us. Lucy is in great spirits, takes immense interest in all we are doing, and does all the Italian correspondence for me. She wears a little silver hammer, the miner's hammer, in her hat; and her popularity with the people is unbounded. You will be amused, on your return, to find that your sketch on the wall of the splendid palace that was to crown our successes has acquired two wings and a great tower; and a third figure, a lady, has been added to the riding-party that are cantering up the avenue. Lucy says that nothing but humility (!) could have devised such a house for people so rich as we are. It certainly was not the sentiment with which hitherto I have regarded this edifice. I have come to the end of my paper, but I will not close this till I see if the post should not bring us news of you.
“Your letter has just come. The latter part of it has given us great uneasiness. It is precisely such a time as a private enemy—if you have one—would choose to work out a personal grudge. No matter how totally you feel yourself free from implication in these Irish troubles, do nothing—positively nothing—without legal advice. It will save you a world of trouble; not to speak of the comfort you will feel in knowing that your interests are matter of care and thought to another. Above all, keep us informed daily by telegraph how and where you are, and what doing.
“Lucy wants to go off to you to-night, but I have had a slight return of my fever, a very slight one, and she half fears to leave me. If your next gives us good news, we shall soon forget this unpleasantness; but, I repeat, let no day pass without tidings of you.
“The evening report has just come in from the mine,—one hundred and seventy-eight pounds of pure silver in the last twenty-four hours! I have taken on forty additional men, and the new smelting-house will be in full work within a week. If you only were here, I 'd have nothing more to wish for.
“I suppose Trafford has written to you. In the short note I got from him yesterday there is nothing but gratitude to you. He says he owes everything to your friendship. He means to be in England in a few days, and of course will go over to you; but write, or rather telegraph.
“Yours ever, T. L.
“I wrote to Colonel Cave this morning to tell him his small venture with us would not turn out so badly. Our first dividend will be at least cent, per cent., so that he cannot lose by us. It's downright jolly to be able to send off such a despatch.”
The last letter of the heap was from Lady Trafford, and served in a measure to explain that paragraph in Tom's epistle which spoke of young Trafford's gratitude. It appeared that Lady Trafford's youngest son, on whom Sir Hugh had fixed to make the head of the family, had gone to winter at Madeira, and while there had fallen in love with and married a Portuguese girl, the daughter of his landlady. The news of thismésalliancehad nearly killed his father, who was only recovering from a bad attack of gout when the tidings reached him. By good luck, however, on the very same day came a letter from Fossbrooke, declaring that no matter what treatment young Trafford might meet with from his own family, he, Sir Brook, would stand firmly by him, so long as his honorable and manly conduct and his fidelity to his word to the girl he loved entitled him to regard and affection.
“In a worldly point of view,” wrote he, “such friendship as mine is a poor thing. I am a man of nothing, it is true; but I have lived long enough to know that there are other successes besides wealth and station. There are such things as self-respect, contentment, and the love of friends; and I do think my experiences will help him to secure some share of these.
“There is, however, one entreaty I would prefer, and if there be in your memory any kind thought of me, you will not refuse my prayer. Your boy is eager to see you, and shake your hand. Let him come. If you cannot or will not approve, do not at least condemn what he is about to do. In his anxiety to obtain your sanction, he has shown all deference to your authority. This shows he is worthy of your esteem; and if he were to palter between the hope of all your fortune and the love of this girl, he would only deserve your contempt. Be proud of him, then, even if you disinherit him to-morrow. If these be the sentiments of a man who has nothing, remember, Trafford, that I was not always a beggar; and if I thought that being rich would alter these opinions, I can only say I hope I may die as poor as now I write myself.
“There's a strong prejudice, I know, against being guided by men who have made such a sorry hand of their own fortunes as I have; but many a fellow who has been shipwrecked has proved a good sailor; at all events, he knows what it is to be buffeted by the waves and torn on the rocks. Now, I have told your son not to be afraid of these, and I think he trusts me.
“Once more, then, I ask, let me tell Lionel you will receive him; and believe me faithfully your old friend,
“Bk. Fossbrooke.”
Lady Trafford's note was short:—
“My dear Sir Brook,—I suppose there is nothing for it but what you say, and Lionel may come here. We have had nothing but disasters with our sons. I wish I could dare to hope that this was to be the end of the calamities. Sir Hugh desires much that you could be here when L. arrives. Could you conveniently arrange this? His brother's shocking marriage, the terrible disappointment to our hopes, and other worries have almost proved too much for me.
“Is there any truth in the story that Miss L.'s grandfather was negotiating for a peerage as the condition of his retirement from the Bench? If so, and that the object could be compassed, it would go far towards removing some of our objections to the connection. Sir Hugh's influence with 'the Party' would unquestionably be of use; and though a law lord does not mean much, it is something. Inform me fully on this head. It is very strange that Lionel should never have mentioned the matter, and, indeed, strongly indicates how little trouble he took, or cared to take, to obviate our natural objections to the match. I suppose her father is not a practising physician. At all events, he need not be styled doctor. Oh dear I when I think of it all, and think what an end my ambitions have come to, I could cry my eyes out. It often strikes me that people who make most sacrifices for their children are ever repaid in this fashion. The Dean says these are mysterious dispensations, and that we must submit to them. I suppose we must, but it certainly is not without reluctance.
“I thought of asking you to write to Lionel, but I will do so myself, painful as it is. I feel I am very forgiving to write you in this strain, seeing how great was the share you took in involving us all in this unhappy business. At one moment I positively detested—I don't suspect yet that I entirely pardon—you, though I may when you come here, especially if you bring me any good news of this peerage business, which I look to as our last refuge. Lendrick is a very odd name,—are there many of them? Of course, it will be well understood that we only know the immediate relations,—father and brother, I mean. We stand no cousins, still less uncles or aunts.
“Sir Hugh thinks I ought to write to the old Judge. I opine he would be flattered by the attention, but I have not yet made up my mind upon it. Give me some advice on this, and believe me sincerely yours.”
After despatching a telegram to Cagliari, to say he was well and at large, and would soon be on his way back again, Fossbrooke wrote a few lines to Lord Wilmington of regret that he could not afford time to go over and see him, and assuring him that the late incident that had befallen him was not worth a thought. “He must be a more irritable fellow than I am,” he wrote, “who would make a personal grievance of a mere accident, against which, in a time of trouble, it would be hard to provide. While I say this, I must add that I think the spy system is a mistake,—that there is an over-eagerness in your officials to procure committals; and I declare to you I have often had more difficulty to get out of a crowded evening party than I should have felt in making my escape from your jail or bridewell, whichever be its name. I don't suspect your law-officers are marvels of wisdom, and your Chief Secretary is an ass.”
To Lady Trafford he wrote a very brief reply. He scarcely thought his engagements would enable him to make a visit to Holt. “I will, however, come if I can, chiefly to obtain your full and free pardon, though for what, beyond rendering you an invaluable service, I am puzzled to understand; and I repeat, if your son obtain this young lady in marriage, he will be, after Sir Hugh, the luckiest man of his name and family.
“As to the peerage, I can tell you nothing. I believe there is rather a prejudice against sending Irishmen up to the Lords; and it is scarcely ever done with lawyers. In regard to writing to Baron Lendrick, I hardly know what to say. He is a man of great ability, but of even greater vanity, and it should be a cleverly worded epistle that would not ruffle some one of his thousand sensibilities. If you feel, however, adroit enough to open the negotiation, do so by 'all means;' but don't make me responsible for what may come of it if the rejoinder be not to your taste. For myself, I 'd rather poke up a grizzly bear with my umbrella than I 'd provoke such a man to an exchange of letters.”
To get back to Cagliari as soon as possible, and relieve Tom of that responsibility which seemed to weigh so heavily upon him, was Fossbrooke's first resolve. He must see Sewell at once, and finish the business; and however unpleasant the step might be, he must seek him at the Priory, if he could not meet him elsewhere. He wished also to see Beattie,—he wanted to repay the loan he had made him. The doctor, too, could tell him how he could obtain an interview with Sewell without any intrusion upon the Chief Baron.
It was evening before Fossbrooke could make his visit to Beattie, and the doctor had just sat down to dinner with a gentleman who had arrived by the mail-packet from England, giving orders that he was not to be disturbed on any score.
“Will you merely take in my name,” said Sir Brook, “and beg, with my respects, to learn at what hour to-morrow Dr. Beattie would accord me a few minutes.” The butler's hesitation was mildly overcome by the persuasive touch of a sovereign, and he retired with the message.
Before a minute elapsed, Dr. Beattie came out, napkin in hand, and his face beaming with delight. “If there was a man in Europe I was wishing for this moment, it was yourself, Sir Brook,” said he. “Do you know who is dining with me? Come in and see.—No, no, I 'll not be denied.”
A sudden terror crossed Fossbrooke's mind that his guest might be Colonel Sewell, and he hung back, muttering some words of apology.
“I tell you,” repeated the doctor, “I'll take no refusal. It's the rarest piece of luck ever befell, to have chanced upon you. Poor Lendrick is dying for some news of his son and daughter.”
“Lendrick! Dr. Lendrick?”
“To be sure,—who else? When your knock came to the door, I was telling him that I heard you were in Dublin, and only doubted it because you had never called on me; but come along, we can say all these things over our soup. Look whom I have brought you, Tom,” cried Beattie, as he led Sir Brook into the room,—“here's Sir Brook Fossbrooke come to join us.” And the two men grasped hands in heartiest embrace, while Fossbrooke, not waiting for a word of question, said, “Both well and hearty. I had a telegram from Tom this morning.”
“How much I owe you!—how much, how much!” was all that Lendrick could say, and his eyes swam as he said it.
“It is I am the debtor, and well I know what it is worth to be so! Their loving kindness and affection have rescued me from the one terror of my life,—the fear of becoming a discontented, incredulous old bachelor. Heaven bless them for it; their goodness has kept me out of that danger.”
“And how are they looking? Is Lucy—” He stopped and looked half ashamed.
“More beautiful than ever,” broke in Fossbrooke. “I think she is taller than when you last saw her, and perhaps a shade more thoughtful looking; and Tom is a splendid fellow. I scarcely know what career he could not follow, nor where he would not seem too good for whatever he was doing.”
“Ah, if I could but tell you how happy you have made me!” muttered Lendrick. “I ought never to have left them,—never broken up my home. I did it unwillingly, it is true; but I ought never to have done it.”
“Who knows if it may not turn out for the best, after all? You need never be separated henceforth. Tom's last letter to me—I 'll bring it over to you to-morrow—tells me what I well knew must befall us sooner or later,—that we are rolling in wealth, have silver enough to pave the streets, and more money than we shall be able to spend—though I once had rather a knack that way.”
“That's glorious news!” said Beattie. “It'sourmine, I suppose?” added he, laughing.
“To be sure it is; and I have come prepared to buy you out, doctor, or pay you your first dividend, cent. per cent., whichever you prefer.”
“Let us hear about this mine,” said Beattie.
“I 'd rather talk to you about the miners, Tom and Lucy,” said Fossbrooke.
“Yes, yes, tell us ofthem. Do they ever talk of the Nest? Do they ever think of the happy days we passed there?” cried Lendrick.
“Ay, and more. We have had a project this many a day—we can realize it now—to buy it out and out. And I 'm to build a cabin for myself by the river-side, where the swan's hut stood, and I 'm to be asked to dinner every Sunday.”
“By Jove, I think I'll run down by the rail for one of those dinners,” said Beattie; “but I certainly hope the company will have better appetites than my guests of to-day.”
“I am too happy to feel hungry,” said Lendrick. “If I only knew that my poor dear father could live to see us all united,—all together again, I 'd ask for no more in life.”
“And so he may, Tom; he was better this afternoon, and though weak and low, perfectly collected and sensible. Mrs. Sewell has been his nurse to-day, and she seems to manage him cleverly.”
“I saw her at the Cape. She was nicely mannered, and, if I remember aright, handsome,” said Lendrick, in his half-abstracted way.
“She was beautiful—perfectly beautiful—as a girl: except your own Lucy, I never saw any one so lovely,” said Fossbrooke, whose voice shook with emotion as he spoke.
“I wish she had better luck in a husband,” said Beattie. “For all his graceful address and insinuating ways, I 'm full sure he's a bad fellow.”
Fossbrooke checked himself with a great effort, and merely nodded an assent to the other's words.
“How came it, Sir Brook,” asked Beattie, suddenly, “that you should have been in Dublin so long without once coming to see me?”
“Are you very discreet?—may I be sure that neither of you will ever accidentally let drop a word of what I shall tell you?”
“You may rely upon my secrecy, and upon Tom Lendrick's ignorance, for there he is now in one of his reveries, thinking of his children in all probability; and I 'll guarantee you to any amount, that he 'll not hear one word you say for the next half-hour.”
“The fact is, they took me up for a rebel,—some one with more zeal than discrimination fancied I looked like a 'Celt,' as these fellows call themselves; and my mode of life, and my packet of lead ore, and some other things of little value, completed the case against me, and they sent me to jail.”
“To jail!”
“Yes; to a place called Richmond Bridewell, where I passed some seven or eight days, by no means unpleasantly. It was very quiet, very secure against intrusion. I had a capital room, and very fair food. Indeed I 'm not sure that I did not leave it with a certain regret; but as I had written to my old friend Lord Wilmington, to apprise him of the mistake, and to warn him against the consequences such a blunder might occasion if it befell one less well disposed towards him than myself, I had nothing for it but to take a friendly farewell of my jailer and go.”
“I declare few men would have treated the incident so temperately.”
“Wilmington's father was my fag at Eton, let me see—no, I 'll not see—how long ago; and Wilmington himself used to come and spend his summer vacations with me when I had that Wiltshire place; and I was very fond of the boy, and as he liked my partridge-shooting, we grew to be fast friends; but why are we talking of these old histories when it is the present that should engage us? I would only caution you once again against letting the story get abroad: there are fellows would like to make a House of Commons row out of it, and I 'd not stand it. Is the doctor sleeping?” added he, in a whisper, as Lendrick sat with closed eyes and clasped hands, mute and motionless.
“No,” said Beattie; “it is his way when he is very happy. He is going over to himself all you have been telling him of his children, and he neither sees nor hears aught around him.”
“I was going to tell him another piece of news that would probably please him,” said Sir Brook, in the same low tone. “I have nearly completed arrangements for the purchase of the Nest; by this day week I hope it will be Lucy's.”
“Oh! do tell him that. I know of nothing that would delight him as much. Lendrick,” said he, touching his arm, “here is something you would like to hear.”
“No, no!” muttered he, softly. “Life is too short for these things. No more separations,—no more; we must live together, come what may;” and he stretched out his hands on either side of him, as though to grasp his children.
“It is a pity to awaken him from such a dream,” said Fossbrooke, cautiously; “let us steal over to the window and not disturb him.”
They crept cautiously away to a window-bench, and talked till late into the night.
As Sewell awoke, it was already evening. Fatigue and anxiety together had so overcome him that he slept like one drugged by a narcotic; nor did he very quickly recall on awakening how and wherefore he had not been to bed. His servant had left two letters on his table while he slept, and these served to remind him of some at least of the troubles that last oppressed him. One was from his law-agent, regretting that he could not obtain for him the loan he solicited on any terms whatever, and mildly suggesting that he trusted the Colonel would be prepared to meet certain acceptances which would fall due in the coming week. The other was from a friend whom he had often assisted in moments of difficulty, and ran:—
“Dear S.,—I lost two hundred last night at pool, and, what's worse, can't pay it. That infernal rule of yours about prompt payment will smash us both,—but it's so like you! You never had a run of luck yet that you didn't do something that turned against you afterwards. Your clever rule about the selling-stakes cost me the best mare I ever had; and now this blessed stroke of your genius leaves me in doubt whether to blow my brains out or start for Boulogne. As Tom Beecher said, you are a 'deuced deal too 'cute to prosper.' If I have to cross the water, I suspect you might as well come with me.—Yours,
“Dick Vaughan.”
Sewell tore the note up into the smallest fragments, muttering savagely to himself the while. “I'll be bound,” said he, “the cur is half consoled for his mishap by seeing how much worse ruin has befallenme,—What is it, Watkin? What do you want?” cried he to his servant, who came hastily into the room.
“His Lordship has taken a bad turn, sir, and Mrs. Sewell wants to see you immediately.”
“All right! Say I'm coming. Who knows,” muttered he, “but there's a chance for me yet?” He turned into his dressing-room and bathed his temples and his head with cold water, and, refreshed at once, he ascended the stairs.
“Another attack has come on. He was sleeping calmly,” said Mrs. Sewell as she met him, “when he awoke with a start, and broke out into wild raving. I have sent for Beattie; but what is to be done meanwhile?”
“I 'm no doctor; I can't tell you.”
“Haire thinks the ice ought to be applied; the nurse says-a blister or mustard to the back of the neck.”
“Is he really in danger?—that's the question.”
“I believe so. I never saw him so ill.”
“You think he's dying?” said he, fiercely, as though he would not brook any sort of equivocation; but the coarseness of his manner revolted her, and she turned away without reply. “There's no time to be lost,” muttered Sewell, as he hastened downstairs. “Tell George I want the carriage to the door immediately,” said he; and then, entering his own room, he opened his writing-desk, and, after some search, came upon a packet, which he sealed and addressed.
“Are you going for Beattie?” asked Mrs. Sewell, as she appeared at the door; “for Haire says it would be better to fetch some one—any one—at once.”
“I have ordered the carriage. I 'll get Lysaght or Adams-if I should not find Beattie; and mind, if Beattie come while I am away, detain him, and don't let him leave this till I return. Do you mind me?”
“Yes; I 'll tell him what you say.”
“Ay, but you must insist upon his doing it. There will be all sorts of stories if he should die—”
“Stories? what do you mean by stories?” cried she, in alarm.
“Rumors of neglect, of want of proper care of him, and such-like, which would be most insulting. At all events, I am resolved Beattie should be here at the last; and take care that he does not leave. I 'll call at my mother's too; she ought to come back with me. We have to deal with a scandal-loving world, and let us leave them as little to fall foul of as may be.” All this was said hurriedly, as he bustled about the room, fussy and impatient, and with an eagerness to be off which certainly surprised her.
“You know where to find these doctors,—you have their addresses?” asked she.
“George knows all about them.”
“And William does, at all events.”
“I'm not taking William. I don't want a footman with a brougham. It is a light carriage and speedy cattle that are needed at this moment; and here they come. Now, mind that you keep Beattie till I come back; and if there be any inquiries, simply say the Chief Baron is the same as yesterday.”
“Had I not better consult Dr. Beattie?”
“You will do as I tell you, Madam,” said he, sternly. “You have heard my directions; take care that you follow them. To Mr. Lysaght's, George—no, first to Dr. Beattie's, Merrion Square,” cried he, as he stepped into the carriage, “and drive fast.”
“Yes, sir,” said the coachman, and started at once. He had not proceeded more than half-way down the avenue, however, when Sewell, leaning out of the window, said, “Don't go into town, George; make for the Park by the shortest cut you can, the Secretary's Lodge.”
“All right, sir; the beasts are fresh. We 'll be there in thirty minutes.” True to his word, within the half-hour the horses, white with sweat and flanking like racero, stood at the door of the Secretary's Lodge. Four or five private carriages and some cabs were also at the door, signs of a dinner-party which had not yet broken up.
“Take this card in to Mr. Balfour, Mr. Wells,” said he to the butler, who was an old acquaintance, “and say I want one minute in private with him,—strictly private, mind. I 'll step into the library here and wait.”
“What's up, Sewell? Are you in a new scrape, eh?” said Balfour, entering, slightly flushed with wine and conversation, and half put out by the interruption.
“Not much of a scrape,—can you give me five minutes?”
“Wells said one minute, and that's why I came. The Castledowns and Eyres and the Ashes are here, and the Langrish girls, and Dick Upton.”
“A very choice company, for robbing you of which even for a moment I owe every apology, but still my excuse is a good one. Are you as anxious to promote your Solicitor-General as you were a week or two ago?”
“If you mean Pemberton, I wish he was—on the Bench, or in Abraham's bosom—I don't much care which, for he is the most confounded bore in Christendom. Do you come to tell me that you'll poison him?”
“No; but I can promote him.”
“Why—how—in what way?”
“I told you a few days ago that I could manage to make the old man give in his resignation; that it required some tact and address, and especially the absence of everything like menace or compulsion.”
“Well, well, well—have you done it—is it a fact?”
“It is.”
“I mean, an indisputable, irrevocable fact,—something not to be denied or escaped from?”
“Just so; a fact not to be denied or escaped from.”
“It must come through me, Sewell, mind that. I took charge of the negotiation two years ago, and no one shall step in and rob me of my credit. I have had all the worry and fatigue of the transaction, and I insist, if there be any glory in success, it shall be mine.”
“You shall have all the glory, as you call it. What I aspire to is infinitely less brilliant.”
“You want a place—hard enough to find one—at least to find something worth having. You 'll want something as good as the Registrarship, eh?”
“No; I'll not pester you with my claims. I'm not in love with official life. I doubt if I am well fitted for it.”
“You want a seat in the House,—is that it?”
“Not exactly,” said Sewell, laughing; “though there is a good stroke of business to be done in private bills and railway grants. My want is the simplest of all wants,—money.”
“Money! But how am I to give you money? Out of what fund is it to come? You don't imagine we live in the old days of secret-service funds, with unlimited corruption to back us, do you?”
“I suspect that the source from which it is to come is a matter of perfect indifference to me. You can easily squeeze me into the estimates as a special envoy, or a Crown Prosecution, or a present to the Emperor of Morocco.”
“Nothing of the kind. You are totally in error. All these fine days are past and gone. They go over us now like a schedule in bankruptcy; and it would be easier to make you a colonial bishop than give you fifty pounds out of the Consolidated Fund.”
“Well, I 'd not object to the Episcopate if there was some good shooting in the diocese.”
“I 've no time for chaff,” said Balfour, impatiently. “I am leaving my company too long, besides. Just come over here to-morrow to breakfast, and we 'll talk the whole thing over.”
“No, I 'll not come to breakfast; I breakfast in bed: and if we are to come to any settlement of this matter, it shall be here and now.”
“Very peremptory all this, considering that the question is not ofyourretirement.”
“Quite true. It is notmyretirement we have to discuss, but it is, whether I shall choose to hand you the Chief Baron's, which I hold here,”—and he produced the packet as he spoke,—“or go back and induce him to reconsider and withdraw it. Is not that a very intelligible way to put the case, Balfour? Did you expect such a business-like tone from an idle dog likeme?”
“And I am to believe that the document in your hand contains the Chief Baron's resignation?”
“You are to believe it or not,—that's at your option. It is the fact, at all events.”
“And what power have you to withhold it, when he has determined to tender it?”
“About the same power I have to do this,” said Sewell, as, taking up a sheet of note-paper from the table, he tore it into fragments, and threw them into the fire. “I think you might see that the same influence by which I induced him to write this would serve to make him withhold it. The Judge condescends to think me a rather shrewd man of the world, and takes my advice occasionally.”
“Well, but—another point,” broke in Balfour, hurriedly. “What if he should recall this to-morrow or the day after? What if he were to say that on reconsideration he felt unwilling to retire? It is clear we could not well coerce him.”
“You know very little of the man when you suggest such a possibility. He 'd as soon think of suicide as doubt any decision he had once formally announced to the world. The last thing that would ever occur to him would be to disparage his infallibility.”
“I declare I am quite ashamed of being away so long; could n't you come down to the office to-morrow, at your own hour, and talk the whole thing over quietly?”
“Impossible. I 'll be very frank with you. I lost a pot of money last night to Langton, and have n't got it to pay him. I tried twenty places during the day, and failed. I tossed over a score of so-called securities, not worth sixpence in a time of pressure, and I came upon this, which has been in my hands since Monday last, and I thought, Now Balfour would n't exactly give me five hundred pounds for it, but there's no reason in life that he might not obtain that sum for me in some quarter. Do you see?”
“I see,—that is, I see everything but the five hundred.”
“If you don't, then you'll never see this,” said Sewell, replacing it in his pocket.
“You won't comprehend that I've no fund to go to; that there 's no bank to back me through such a transaction. Just be a little reasonable, and you 'll see that I can't do this out of my own pocket. It is true I could press your claim on the party. I could say, what I am quite ready to say, that we owe the whole arrangement toyou, and that, especially as it will cost you the loss of your Registrarship, you must not be forgotten.”
“There's the mistake, my dear fellow. I don't want that. I don't want to be made supervisor of mad-houses, or overlooker of light-ships. Until office hours are comprised between five and six o'clock of the afternoon, and some of the cost of sealing-wax taken out in sandwiches, I don't mean to re-enter public life. I stand out for cash payment. I hope that's intelligible.”
“Oh, perfectly so; but as impossible as intelligible.”
“Then, in that case, there 's no more to be said. All apologies for having taken you so long from your friends. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” said Balfour. “I 'm sorry we can't come to some arrangement. Good-night.”
“As this document will now never see the light, and as all action in the matter will be arrested,” said Sewell, gravely, “I rely upon your never mentioning our present interview.”
“I declare I don't see why I am precluded from speaking of it to my friends,—confidentially, of course.”
“You had better not.”
“Better not! better in what sense? As regards the public interests, or my personal ones?”
“I simply repeat, you had better not.” He put on his hat as he spoke, and without a word of leave-taking moved towards the door.
“Stop one moment,—a thought has just struck me. You like a sporting offer. I 'll bet you twenty pounds even, you 'll not let me read the contents of that paper; and I 'll lay you long odds—two hundred to one, in pounds—that you don't give it to me.”
“You certainlydolike a good thing, Balfour. In plain words, you offer me two hundred and twenty. I 'll be shot if I see why they should have higgled so long about letting the Jews into Parliament when fellows likeyouhave seats there.”
“Be good enough to remember,” said Balfour, with an easy smile, “that I 'm the only bidder, and if the article be not knocked down to me there's no auction.”
“I was certain I'd hear that from you! I never yet knew a fellow do a stingy thing, that he had n't a shabbier reason to sustain it.”
“Come, come, there's no need of this. You can say no to my offer without a rudeness to myself.”
“Ay, that's all true, if one only had temper for it, but I have n't; and I have my doubts that evenyouwould if you were to be tried as sorely as I am.”
“I never do get angry; a man shows his hand when he loses his temper, and the fellow who keeps cool can always look at the other's cards.”
“Wise precepts, and worth coming out here to listen to,” said Sewell, whose thoughts were evidently directed elsewhere. “I take your offer; I only make one condition,—you keep the negotiation a secret, or only impart it where it will be kept secret.”
“I think that's all fair. I agree to that. Now for the document”
“There it is,” said Sewell, as he threw the packet on the table, while he seated himself in a deep chair, and crossed his arms on his chest.
Balfour opened the paper and began to read, but soon burst forth with—“How like him—how like him!—'Less oppressed, indeed, by years than sustained by the conscious sense of long services to the State.' I think I hear him declaiming it.
“This is not bad: 'While at times afflicted by the thought, that to the great principles of the law, of which I had made this Court the temple and the sanctuary, there will now succeed the vague decisions and imperfect judgments of less learned expositors of justice, I am comforted by remembering that I leave behind me some records worthy of memory,—traditions that will not easily die.'”
“That's the modest note; hear him when he sounds the indignant chord,” said Sewell.
“Ay, here we have it: 'If I have delayed, my Lord, in tendering to you this my resignation, it is that I have waited till, the scurrilous tongues of slander silenced, and the smaller, but not less malevolent, whisperings of jealousy subdued, I might descend from the Bench amidst the affectionate regrets of those who regard me as the last survivor of that race which made Ireland a nation.' The liquor is genuine,” cried Balfour, laughing. “There's no disputing it, you have won your money.”
“I should think so,” was Sewell's cool reply. “He has the same knack in that sort of thing that the girl in the well-known shop in Seville has in twisting a cigarette.”
Balfour took out his keys to open his writing-desk, and, pondering for a moment or two, at last said, “I wish any man would tell me why I am going to give you this money,—do you know, Sewell?”
“Because you promised it, I suppose.”
“Yes; but why should I have promised it? What can it possibly signify to me which of our lawyers presides in Her Majesty's Irish Exchequer? I 'm sure you 'd not give ten pounds to insure this man or that, in or out of the Cabinet.”
“Not ten shillings. They 're all dark horses to me, and if you offered me the choice of the lot, I 'd not know which to take; but I always heard that you political fellows cared so much for your party, and took your successes and failures so much to heart, that there was no sacrifice you were not ready to make to insure your winning.”
“We now and then do run a dead-heat, and one would really give something to come in first; but what's that?—I declare there 's a carriage driving off—some one has gone. I 'll have to swear that some alarming news has come from the South. Good-night—I must be off.”
“Don't forget the cash before you go.”
“Oh, to be sure, here you are—crisp and clean, ain't they? I got them this morning, and certainly never intended to part with them on such an errand.”
Sewell folded up the notes with a grim smile, and said, “I only wish I had a few more big-wigs to dispose of,—you should have them cheap; as Stag and Mantle say, 'articles no longer in great vogue.'”
“There's another departure!” cried Balfour. “I shall be in great disgrace!” and hurried away without a “goodbye.”
It was late at night when Sewell arrived at the Priory. He had had another disastrous night of play, and had scattered his “acknowledgments” for various sums on every side. Indeed, he had not the vaguest idea of how much he had lost. Disputes and hot discussions, too, almost verging on personal quarrels, dashed with all their irritating influences the gloom of his bad luck; and he felt, as he arose to go home, that he had not even that sorry consolation of the unfortunate gambler,—the pitying sympathy of the looker-on.
Over and over, as he went, he asked himself what Fate could possibly intend by this persistent persecution of him? Other fellows had their “innings” now and then. Their fortune came checkered with its bright and dark days. He never emerged, not even passingly, from his ill-luck. “I suppose,” muttered he, “the whole is meant to tempt me—but to what? I need very little temptation if the bait be only money. Let me but see gold enough, and my resistance will not be very formidable. I 'll not risk my neck; short of that I 'm ready for anything.” Thus thinking, he plodded onward through the dark night, vaguely wishing at times that no morning was ever to break, and that existence might prolong itself out to one long dark autumn night, silent and starless.
As he reached the hall-door, he found his wife seated on the steps as on a former night. It had become a favorite spot with her to taste the cool refreshing night-air, and rally her from the feverish closeness of the sick-room.
“How is he? Is it over yet?” cried he, as he came up.
“He is better; he slept calmly for some hours, and woke much refreshed.”
“I could have sworn it!” burst he in, vehemently. “It is the one way Fate could have rescued me, and it is denied me. I believe there is a curse on me! Eh—what?”
“I did n't speak,” said she, meekly.
“You muttered, though. I heard you mumble something below your breath, as if you agreed with what I said. Say it out, Madam, if you think it.”
She heaved a weary sigh, but said nothing.
“Has Beattie been here?” asked he, hastily.
“Yes; he stayed for above an hour, but was obliged to go at last to visit another patient. He brought Dr. Lendrick out with him; he arrived this evening.”
“Lendrick! Do you mean the man from the Cape?”
“Yes.”
“That completes it!” burst he, as he flung his arms wildly up. “I was just wondering what other malignant piece of spite Fortune could play me, and there it is! Had you any talk with this man?”
“Yes; he remained with me all the time Dr. Beattie was upstairs.”
“And what was his tone? Has he come back to turn us out?—that of course he has—but does he avow it?”
“He shows no such intentions. He asked whether you held much to the Nest, if it was a place that you liked, or if you could relinquish it without any regret?”
“Why so?”
“Because Sir Brook Fossbrooke has just purchased it.”
“What nonsense! you know as well as I do that he could n't purchase a dog-kennel. That property was valued at sixteen thousand pounds four years ago,—it is worth twenty now; and you talk to me of this beggar buying it!”
“I tell you what he told me, and it was this: Some mine that Sir Brook owned in Sardinia has turned out to be all silver, and in consequence he has suddenly become immensely rich,—so rich, indeed, that he has already determined to settle this estate on Lucy Lendrick; and intends, if he can induce Lord Drumcarran to part with 'The Forest,' to add it to the grounds.”
Sewell grasped his hair with both hands, and ground his teeth together with passion as he listened.
“You believe this story, I suppose?” said he at last.
“Yes; why should I not believe it?”
“I don't believe a word of it. I see the drift—I saw the drift of it before you had told me ten words. This tale is got up to lull us into security, and to quiet our suspicions. Lendrick knows well the alarm his unexpected return is likely to give us, and to allay our anxieties they have coined this narrative, as though to imply they will be rich enough not to care to molest us, nor stand between us and this old man's money. Don't you see that?”
“I do not. It did not occur to me before, and I do not admit it now.”
“I ought not to have asked you. I ought to have remembered what old Fossbrooke once called 'the beautiful trustfulness of your nature.'”
“If had it once, it has left me many a long day ago!”
“But I deny that you ever had it. You had the woman's trick of affecting to believe, and thus making out what you assumed to think, to be a pledge given by another,—a bit of female craft that you all trade on so long as you are young and good-looking?”
“And what supplies the place of this ingenious device when we are neither young nor good-looking?”
“I don't know, for the simple reason that I never much interested myself in the sex after that period.”
“That's a very sad thing for us. I declare I never had an idea how much we 're to be pitied before.”
“You would be to be pitied if you knew how we all think of you;” and he spoke with a spiteful malignity almost demoniac.
“It's better, then, for each of us that we should not know this. The trustfulness that you sneer at does us good service, after all.”
“And it was this story of the mine that induced Lendrick to come home from the Cape, wasn't it?”
“No; he only heard of the mine since he arrived here.”
“I thought,” rejoined he, with a sneer, “that he ought to have resigned his appointment on account of this sudden wealth, all the more because I have known that he intended to come back this many a day. And what is Fossbrooke going to do for you? Is there a diamond necklace ordered? or is it one of the brats he is going to adopt?”
“By the way, I have been robbed; some one has carried off my gold comb and some pins; they were on my dressing-table last night. Jane saw them when I went into my room.”
“Now 's your time to replace the loss! It's the sort of tale old Fossbrooke always responded to.”
She made no answer; and for several minutes each sat in silence. “One thing is pretty evident,” said he at last, as he made figures with his cane on the ground,—“we 'll have to troop off, whether the Lendricks come here or not. The place will not be tenable once they are in the vicinity.”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know! Do you mean that the doctor and his daughter will stand the French cook here, and the dinners, and let the old man make a blessed fool of himself, as he has been doing for the last eight or ten months past? or do you pretend that if we were to go back to the leg-of-mutton days, and old Haire for company, that it would be worth holding on to?Idon't; and I tell you frankly that I intend to demand my passports, as the Ministers say, and be off.”
“ButIcan't 'be off.' I have no such alternative!”
“The worse luck yours, or rather the worse skill; for if you had played your hand better, it would not have been thus with you. By the way, what about Trafford? I take it he 'll marry this girl now.”
“I have not heard,” said she, pinching her lips, and speaking with a forced composure.
“If I were you, I 'd make myself Lucy's confidante, get up the match, and go and live with them. These are the really happyménages. If there be such a thing as bliss, perfect bliss, in this world, it is where a wife has a dear friend in the house with her, who listens to all her sorrows, and helps her to manage the tyrant that inflicts them. It was a great mistake of ours not to have known this in early life. Marriage was meant to be a triangle.”
“If you go, as you speak of going, have you any objection to my addressing myself to Sir Brook for some assistance?”
“None whatever. I think it the most natural thing in life; he was your guardian, and you have a right to ask what has become of your fortune.”
“He might refer me toyoufor the information.”
“Very unmannerly if he should, and very ungallant, too, for an old admirer. I 'm certain if I were to be—what is the phrase?—removed, yes, removed—he 'd marry you. Talk of three-volume novels and virtue rewarded, after that.”
“You have been playing to-night,” said she, gravely.
“Yes.”
“And lost?”
“Lost heavily.”
“I thought so. Your courtesies to me have been the measure of your bad luck for many a day. I have often felt that 'four by honors' has saved me from a bad headache.”
“Then there has been more sympathy between us than I ever suspected,” said he, rising, and stretching himself; and after a moment or two added, “Must I call on this Dr. Lendrick?—will he expect me to visit him?”
“Perhaps so,” said she, carelessly; “he asked after you.”
“Indeed!—did he ask after Trafford too? Do you remember the day at the Governor's dinner he mistook you for Trafford's wife, and explained his mistake by the familiarity of his manner to you in the garden? It was the best bit of awkwardness I ever witnessed.”
“I suppose you felt it so?”
“I—Ifelt it so! I suspect not! I don't believe there was a man at table enjoyed the blunder as heartily.”
“I wish—how I wish!” said she, clasping her hands together.
“Well—what?”
“I wish I could be a man for one brief half-hour!” cried she; and her voice rang with a mild but clear resonance, that made it seem louder than it really was.
“And then?” said he, mockingly.
“Oh, do not ask me more!” cried she, as she bent down and hid her face in her hands.
“I think Iwillcall on Lendrick,” said he, after a moment. “It may not be exactly the sort of task a man would best like; but I opine, if he is about to give his daughter in marriage to this fellow, he ought to know more about him. NowIcan tell him something, and my wife can tell him more. There's no indiscretion in saying so much, is there?”
She made no reply; and after a pause he went on: “If Trafford had n't been a shabby dog, he 'd not have higgled about buying up those letters. Cane & Kincaid offered them to him for a thousand pounds. I suspect he 'd like to have the offer repeated now, but he shall not. He believes, or affects to believe, that, for my own sake, I 'll not make a public scandal; he doesn't know his man when he thinks this.You, Madam, might have taught him better, eh?” Still no reply, and he continued: “There 's not a man living despises public opinion as I do. If you are rich you trample on it, if poor it tramples onyou; but so long as a fellow braves the world, and declares that he shrinks from nothing,—evades nothing,—neither turns right nor left to avoid its judgments,—the coward world gives away and lets him pass.I 'lllet them see that I don't care a straw for my own life, when at the price of it I can blow up a magazine.”
“No, no, no!” muttered she, in a low but clear tone.
“What do you mean by No, no?” cried he, in a voice of passion.
“I mean that you care a great deal for your own life, and a great deal for your own personal safety; and that if your tyranny to a poor, crushed, weak woman has any bounds, it is from your fear, your abject fear, that in her desperation she might seek a protector, and find him.”
“I told you once before, Madam, men don't like this sort of protectorate. The old bullying days are gone by. Modern decorum 'takes it out' in damages.” She sat still and silent; and after waiting some time, he said, in a calm, unmoved voice, “These little interchanges of courtesy do no good to either of us; they haven't even the poor attraction of novelty; so, as my friend Mr. O'Reardon says, let us 'be practical.' I had hoped that the old gentleman upstairs was going to do the polite thing, and die; but it appears now he has changed his mind about it. This, to say the least of it, is very inconvenient to me. My embarrassments are such that I shall be obliged to leave the country; my only difficulty is, I have no money. Are you attending? Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, I hear you,” said she, in a faint whisper.
“You, I know, cannot help me; neither can my mother. Of course the old Judge is out of the question. As for the fellows at the Club, I am deeply in debt to many of them; and Kincaid only reminds me of his unsettled bill of costs when I ask for a loan. A blank look-out, on the whole; isn't it?”
She muttered something like assent, and he went on. “I have gone through a good many such storms before, but none fully as bad as this; because there are certain things which in a few days must come out—ugly little disclosures—one or two there will be. I inadvertently sold that beech timber to two different fellows, and took the money too.”
She lifted up her face, and stared at him without speaking.
“Fact, I assure you! I have a confoundedly bad memory; it has got me into scores of scrapes all through life. Then, this very evening, thinking that the Chief could n't rub through, I made a stupid wager with Balfour that the seat on the Bench would be vacant within a week; and finished my bad run of luck by losing—I can't say how much, but very heavily, indeed—at the Club.”
A low faint sigh escaped her, but not a word.
“As to bills renewed, protested, and to be protested,” said he, in the same easy tone, “they are legion. These take their course, and are no worse than any other man's bills; I don't fret myself aboutthem. As in the old days of chivalry one never cared how scurvily he treated the 'villeins,' so he behaved like a knight to his equals; so nowadays a man must book up at Tattersall's though he cheat his tailor. I like the theory too; it keeps 'the ball rolling,' if it does nothing else.”
All this he rattled out as though his own fluency gave him a sort of Dutch courage; and who knows, too,—for there is a fund of vanity in these men,—if he was not vain of showing with what levity he could treat dangers that might have made the stoutest heart afraid?
“Taking the 'tottle of the whole' of these,—as old Joe Hume used to say,—it's an ugly balance!”
“What do you mean to do?” said she, quietly.
“Bolt, I suppose. I see nothing else for it.”
“And will that meet the difficulty?”
“No, but it will secureme; secure me from arrest, and the other unpleasant consequences that might follow arrest. To do this, however, I need money, and I have not five pounds—no, nor, I verily believe, five shillings—in the world.”
“There are a few trinkets of mine upstairs. I never wear them—”
“Not worth fifty pounds, the whole lot; nor would one get half fifty for them in a moment of pressure.”
“We have some plate—”
“We had, but I sold it three weeks ago; and that reminds me there was a rum old tea-urn got somehow mixed up with our things, and I sold it too, though it has Lendrick's crest upon it. You 'll have to get it back some of these days,—I told the fellow not to break it up till he heard from you.”
“Then what is to be done?” said she, eagerly.
“That's the question; travelling is the one thing that can't be done on tick.”
“If you were to go down to the Nest—”
“But our tenure expires on the seventeenth, just one fortnight hence,—not to say that I couldn't call myself safe there one hour. No, no; I must manage to get abroad, and instantly, that I may escape from my present troubles; but I must strike out some way of life,—something that will keep me.”
She sat still and almost stupefied, trying to see an escape from these difficulties, but actually overwhelmed by the number and the nature of them.
“I told you awhile ago that I did not believe one word of this story of the mine, and the untold wealth that has fallen to old Fossbrooke:you, however, do believe it; you affirm the tale as if you had seen and touched the ingots; so that you need have no reluctance to ask him to help you.”
“You do not object to this course, then?” asked she, eagerly.
“How can I object? If I clutch at a plank when I'm drowning, I don't let go because it may have nails in it. Tell him that you want to buy me off, to get rid of me; that by a couple of hundred pounds,—I wish he 'd make it five,—you can insure my leaving the country, and that my debts here will prevent my coming back again. It's the sort of compact he 'll fully concur in; and you can throw in, as if accidentally, how useless it is for him to go on persecuting me, that his confounded memory for old scores has kept my head under water all my life; and hint that those letters of Trafford's he insists on having—”
“Heinsists on having!”
“To be sure he does; I thought I had told you what brought him over here! The old meddling humbug, in his grand benevolence vein, wants to smooth down the difficulties between Lucy Lendrick and Trafford, one of which was thought to be the fellow's attachment toyou. Don't blush; take it as coolly as I do. I 'm not sure whether reading the correspondence aloud isn't the best way to dispel this illusion. You can say that better than I can.”
“Trafford never wrote one line to me of which I should be afraid or ashamed to see in print.”
“These are matters of taste. There are scores of women like publicity, and would rather be notorieties for scandal than models of unnoticed virtue, so we 'll not discuss that. There, there; don't look so supremely indignant and contemptuous. That expression became you well enough at three-and-twenty; but ten years, ten long years of not the very smoothest existence, leave their marks!”
She shook her head mournfully, but in silence.
“At all events,” resumed he, “declare that you object to the letters being in other hands than your own; and as to a certain paper of mine,—a perfectly worthless document, as he well knows,—let him give it to you or burn it in your presence.”
She pushed her hair back from her temples, and pressed her hands to either side of her head, as though endeavoring to collect her thoughts, and rally herself to an effort of calm determination'.
“How much of this is true?” said she, at last.
“What do you mean?” said he, sternly.
“I mean this,” said she, resolutely,—“that I want to know, if you should get this money, is it really your intention to go abroad?”
“You want a pledge from me on this?” said he, with a jeering laugh. “You are not willing to stoop to all this humiliation without having the price of it afterwards? Is not that your meaning?”
Her lips moved, but no sound was audible.
“All fair and reasonable,” said he, calmly. “It's not every woman in the world would have the pluck to tell her husband how much meanness she would submit to simply to get rid of him; but you were always courageous, that I will say,—you have courage enough.”
“I had need of it.”
“Go on, Madam, finish your speech. I know what you would say. 'You had need of courage for two;' that was the courteous speech that trembled on your lip. The only thing that beats your courage is your candor! Well, I must content myself with humbler qualities. I cannot accompany you into these high flights of excellence, but I can go away; and that, after all, is something. Get me this money, and I will go,—I promise you faithfully,—go, and not come back.”
“The children,” said she, and stopped.
“Madam!” said he, with a mock-heroic air, “I am not a brute! I respect your maternal feelings, and would no more think of robbing you of your children—”
“There,—there, that will do. Where is Sir Brook to be found,—where does he live?”
“I have his address written down,—here it is,” said he,—“the last cottage on the southern side of Howth. There is a porch to the door, which, it would seem, is distinctive, as well as three chimneys; my informant was as descriptive as Figaro. You had better keep this piece of paper as a reminder; and the trains deposit you at less than half a mile from the place.”
“I will go early to-morrow morning. Shall I find you here on my return?”
“Of that you may be certain. I can't venture to leave the house all day; I 'm not sure there will not be a writ out against me.”
She arose and seemed about to say something,—hesitated for a moment or two, and then slowly entered the house, and disappeared.