In a small dinner-room of the Viceregal Lodge, in the Phoenix Park, the Viceroy sat at dinner with Sir Brook Fossbrooke. He had arrived in great haste, and incognito, from England, to make preparations for his final departure from Ireland; for his party had been beaten in the House, and expected that, in the last debate on the measure before them, they would be driven to resign office. Lord Wilmington had no personal regrets on the subject. With high station and a large fortune, Ireland, to him, meant little else than estrangement from the habits and places that he liked, with the exposure to that species of comment and remark which the Press so unsparingly bestows on all public men in England. He had accepted office to please his party; and though naturally sorry for their defeat, there was a secret selfish satisfaction at being able to go back to a life more congenial to him that more than consoled him for the ministerial reverse.
It is difficult for the small world of place-hunters and office-seekers to understand this indifference; but I have little doubt that it exists largely amongst men of high position and great fortune, and imparts to their manner that seeming dignity in adversity which we humble folk are so prone to believe the especial gift of the “order.”
Cholmondely Balfour did not take matters so coolly; he had been summoned over by telegram to take his part in the “third reading,” and went away with the depressing feeling that his official sun was about to set, and all the delightful insolences of a “department” were about to be withdrawn from him.
Balfour had a brief interview with the Viceroy before he started, and hurriedly informed him how events stood in Ireland. Nor was it without a sense of indignation that he saw how little his Excellency cared for the defeat of his party, and how much more eager he seemed to see his old friend Fossbrooke, and thank him for his conduct, than listen to the details of the critical questions of the hour.
“And this is his address, you say?” said Lord Wilmington, as he held a card in his hand. “I must send off to him at once.”
“It's all Bentley's fault,” said Balfour, full of the House and the debate. “If that fellow were drowning, and had only breath for it, he 'd move an amendment! And it's so provoking, now we had got so splendidly through our prosecutions, and were winning the Catholics round to us besides; not to say that I have at last managed to induce Lendrick to resign, and we have a Judgeship to bestow.” In a few hurried words he recounted his negotiation with Sewell, placing in the Viceroy's hand the document of the resignation.
Lord Wilmington's thoughts were fully as much on his old friend Fossbrooke all this time as on questions of office, and not a little disconcerted the Secretary by muttering, “I hope the dear old fellow bears me no ill-will. I would not for worlds that he should think me unmindful of him.”
And now they sat over their wine together, talking pleasantly of bygone times and old friends,—many lost to them by death, and some by distance.
“I take it,” said Fossbrooke, after a pause, “that you are not sorry to get back to England.”
Lord Wilmington smiled, but said nothing.
“You never could have cared much for the pomp and state of this office, and I suppose beyond these there is little in it.”
“You have hit it exactly. There is nothing to be done here,—nothing. The shortness of the period that is given to any man to rule this country, and the insecurity of his tenure, even for that time, compel him to govern by a party; and the result is, we go on alternately pitting one faction against the other, till we end by marshalling the nation into two camps instead of massing them into one people. Then there is another difficulty. In Ireland the question is not so much what you do as by whom you do it. It is the men, not the measures, that are thought of. There is not an infringement on personal freedom I could not carry out, if you only let me employ for its enactment some popular demagogue. Give me a good patriot in Ireland, and I 'll engage to crush every liberty in the island.”
“I don't envy you your office, then,” said Fossbrooke, gravely.
“Of course you don't; and between ourselves, Fossbrooke, I 'm not heartbroken by the thought of laying it down. I suspect, too, that after a spell of Irish official life every statesman ought to lie fallow for a while: he grows so shifty and so unscrupulous here, he is not fit for home work.”
“And how soon do you leave?”
“Let me see,” said he, pondering. “We shall be beaten to-night or to-morrow night at farthest. They 'll take a day to talk it over, and another to see the Queen; and allowing three days more for the negotiations back and forward, I think I may say we shall be out by this day week. A week of worry and annoyance it will be!”
“How so?”
“All the hungry come to be fed at the last hour. They know well that an outgoing administration is always bent on filling up everything in their gift. You make a clean sweep of the larder before you give up the key to the new housekeeper; and one is scarcely so inquisitive as to the capacity of the new office-holder as he would be if, remaining in power, he had to avail himself of his services. For instance, Pemberton may not be the best man for Chief Baron, but we mean to bequeath him in that condition to our successors.”
“And what becomes of Sir William Lendrick?”
“He resigns.”
“With his peerage?”
“Nothing of the kind; he gets nothing. I 'm not quite clear how the matter was brought about. I heard a very garbled, confused story from Balfour. As well as I could gather, the old man intrusted his step-son, Sewell, with the resignation, probably to enable him to make some terms for himself; and Sewell—a shifty sort of fellow, it would seem—held it back—the Judge being ill, and unable to act—till he found that things looked ticklish. We might go out,—the Chief Baron might die,—Heaven knows what might occur. At all events he closed the negotiation, and placed the document in Balfour's hands, only pledging him not to act upon it for eight-and-forty hours.”
“This interests me deeply. I know the man Sewell well, and I know that no transaction in which he is mixed up can be clean-handed.”
“I have heard of him as a man of doubtful character.”
“Quite the reverse; he is the most indubitable scoundrel alive. I need not tell you that I have seen a great deal of life, and not always of its best or most reputable side. Well, this fellow has more bad in him, and less good, than any one I have ever met. The world has scores, thousands, of unprincipled dogs, who, when their own interests are served, are tolerably indifferent about the rest of humanity. They have even, at times, their little moods of generosity, in which they will help a fellow blackguard, and actually do things that seem good-natured. Not so Sewell. Swimming for his life, he 'd like to drown the fellow that swam alongside of him.”
“It is hard to believe in such a character,” said the other.
“So it is! I stood out long—ay, for years—against the conviction; but he has brought me round to it at last, and I don't think I can forgive the fellow for destroying in me a long-treasured belief that no heart was so depraved as to be without its relieving trait.”
“I never heard you speak so hardly before of any one, Fossbrooke.”
“Nor shall you ever again, for I will never mention this man more. These fellows jar upon one's nature, and set it out of tune towards all humanity.”
“It is strange how a shrewd old lawyer like the Chief Baron could have taken such a man into his confidence.”
“Not so strange as it seems at first blush. Your men of the world—and Sewell is eminently one of these—wield an immense influence over others immeasurably their superiors in intellect, just by force of that practical skill which intercourse with life confers. Think for a moment how often Sewell might refer some judgment or opinion of the old Chief to that tribunal they call 'Society,' of whose ways of thought, or whose prejudices, Lendrick knows as much as he knows of the domestic habits of the Tonga Islanders. Now Sewell was made to acquire this influence, and to employ it.”
“That would account for his being intrusted with this,” said the Viceroy, drawing from his breast-pocket the packet Balfour had given him. “This is Sir William's long-waited-for resignation.”
“The address is in Sewell's writing. I know the hand well.”
“Balfour assured me that he was well acquainted with the Chief Baron's writing, and could vouch for the authenticity of the document. Here it is.” As he said this, he opened the envelope, and drew forth a half-sheet of post paper, and handed it to Fossbrooke.
“Ay, this is veritable. I know the hand, too, and the style confirms it.” He pondered for some seconds over the paper, turned it, looked at the back of it, examining it all closely and carefully, and then, holding it out at arm's length, he said, “You know these things far better than I do, and you can say if this be the sort of document a man would send on such an occasion.”
“You don't mean that it is a forgery”
“No, not that; nor is it because a forgery would be an act Sewell would hold back from, I merely ask if this looks like what it purports to be? Would Sir William Lendrick, in performing so solemn an act, take a half sheet of paper,—the first that offered, it would seem,—for see, here are some words scribbled on the back,—and send in his resignation blurred, blotted, and corrected like this?”
“I read it very hurriedly. Balfour gave it to me as I landed, and I only ran my eyes over it; let me see it again. Yes, yes,” muttered he, “there is much in what you say; all these smudges and alterations are suspicious. It looks like a draft of a despatch.”
“And so it is. I 'll wager my head on it,—just a draft.”
“I see what you mean. It was a draft abstracted by Sewell, and forwarded under this envelope.”
“Precisely. The Chief Baron, I am told, is a hot, hasty, passionate man, with moments of rash, impetuous action; in one of these he sat down and wrote this, as Italians say, 'per sfogarsi.' Warm-tempered men blow off their extra steam in this wise, and then go on their way like the rest of us. He wrote this, and, having written it, felt he had acquitted a debt he owed his own indignation.”
“It looks amazingly like it; and now I remember in a confused sort of way something about a bet Balfour lost; a hundred—I am not sure it was not two hundred—”
“There, there,” said Fossbrooke, laughing, “I recognize my honorable friend at once. I see the whole, as if it were revealed to me. He grows bolder as he goes on. Formerly his rascalities were what brokers call 'time bargains,' and not to be settled for till the end of the month, but now he only asks a day's immunity.”
“A man must be a consummate scoundrel who would do this.”
“And so he is,—a fellow who stops at nothing. Oh, if the world only knew how many brigands wore diamond shirt-buttons, there would be as much terror in going into a drawing-room as people now feel about a tour in Greece. You will let me have this document for a few hours?”
“To be sure, Fossbrooke. I know well I may rely on your discretion; but what do you mean to do with it?”
“Let the Chief Baron see it, if he's well enough; if not, I 'll show it to Beattie, his doctor, and ask his opinion of it. Dr. Lendrick, Sir William's son, is also here, and he will probably be able to say if my suspicions are well founded.”
“It seems odd enough to me, Fossy, to hearyoutalk of your suspicions! How hardly the world must have gone with you since we met to inflict you with suspicions! You never had one long ago.”
“And shall I tell you how I came by them, Wilmington?” said he, laughing. “I have grown rich again,—there 's the whole secret. There's no such corrupter as affluence. My mine has turned out a perfect Potosi, and here am I ready to think every man a knave and a rascal, and the whole world in a conspiracy to cheat me!”
“And is this fact about the mine?—tell me all about it.”
And Fossbrooke now related the story of his good fortune, dwelling passingly on the days of hardship that preceded it; but frankly avowing that it was a consummation of which he never for a moment doubted. “I knew it,” said he; “and I was not impatient. The world is always an amusing drama, and though one may not be 'cast' for a high part, he can still 'come on' occasionally, and at all events he can enjoy the performance.”
“And is this fortune to go like the others, Fossy?” said the Viceroy, laughing.
“Have I not told you how much wiser I have grown, that I trust no one? I 'm not sure that I 'll not set up as a moneylender.”
“So you were forty years ago, Fossy, to my own knowledge; but I don't suspect you found it very profitable.”
“Have I not had my fifty—ay, my five hundred—per cent in my racy enjoyment of life? One cannot be paid in meal and malt too; andIhave 'commuted,' as they call it, and 'taken out' in cordiality what others prefer in cash. I do not believe there is a corner of the globe where I could not find some one to give me a cordial welcome.”
“And what are your plans?”
“I have fully a thousand; my first, however, is to purchase that place on the Shannon, where, if you remember, we met once,—the Swan's Nest. I want to settle my friends the Lendricks in their old home. I shall have to build myself a crib near them. But before I turn squatter I 'll have a run over to Canada. I have a large tract there near Huron, and they have built a village on me, and now are asking me for a church and a schoolhouse and an hospital. It was but a week ago they might as well have asked me for the moon! I must see Ceylon too, and my coffee-fields. I am dying to be 'bon Prince' again and lower my rents. 'There's arrant snobbery,' some one told me t' other day, 'in that same love of popularity;' but they 'll have to give it even a worse name before they disgust me with it. I shall have to visit Cagliari also, and relieve Tom Lendrick, who would like, I have no doubt, to take that 'three months in Paris' which young fellows call 'going over to see their friends.'”
“You are a happy fellow, Brook; perhaps the happiest I ever knew.”
“I'll sell my secret for it cheap,” said Fossbrooke, laughing. “It is, never to go grubbing for mean motives in this life; never tormenting yourself what this might mean or that other might portend, but take the world for what it seems, or what it wishes you to believe it. Take it with its company face on, and never ask to see any one indéshabillebut old and dear friends. Life has two sides, and some men spin the coin so as always to make the wrong face of the medal come uppermost. I learned the opposite plan when I was very young, and I have not forgotten it. Good-night now; I promised Beattie to look in on him before midnight, and it's not far off, I see.”
“We shall have a day or two of you, I hope, at Crew before you leave England.”
“When I have purchased my estate and married off my young people, I 'll certainly make you a visit.”
On the same evening that Fossbrooke was dining with the Viceroy, Trafford arrived in Dublin, and set out at once for the little cottage at Howth to surprise his old friend by his sudden appearance. Tom Lendrick had given him so accurate a description of the spot that he had no difficulty in finding it. If somewhat disappointed at first on learning that Sir Brook had dined in town, and might not return till a late hour, his mind was so full of all he had to say and to do that he was not sorry to have some few hours to himself for quiet and tranquil thought. He had come direct from Malta without going to Holt, and therefore was still mainly ignorant of the sentiments of his family towards him, knowing nothing beyond the fact that Sir Brook had induced his father to see him. Even that was something. He did not look to be restored to his place as the future head of the house, but he wanted recognition and forgiveness,—the first for Lucy's sake more than his own. The thought was too painful that his wife—and he was determined she should be his wife—should not be kindly received and welcomed by his family. “I ask nothing beyond this,” would he say over and over to himself. “Let us be as poor as we may, but let them treat us as kindred, and not regard us as outcasts. I bargain for no more.” He believed himself thoroughly and implicitly when he said this. He was not conscious with what force two other and very different influences swayed him. He wished his father, and still more his mother, should see Lucy,—not alone see her beauty and gracefulness, but should see the charm of her manner, the fascination which her bright temperament threw around her. “Why, her very voice is a spell!” cried he, aloud, as he pictured her before him. And then, too, he nourished a sense of pride in thinking how Lucy would be struck by the sight of Holt,—one of the most perfect specimens of old Saxon architecture in the kingdom; for though a long line of descendants had added largely, and incongruously too, to the building, the stern and squat old towers, the low broad battlements and square casements, were there, better blazons of birth and blood than all the gilded decorations of a herald's college.
He honestly believed he would have liked to show her Holt as a true type of an ancient keep, bold, bluff, and stern-looking, but with an unmistakable look of power, recalling a time when there were lords and serfs, and when a Trafford was as much a despot as the Czar himself. He positively was not aware how far personal pride and vanity influenced this desire on his part, nor how far he was moved by the secret pleasure his heart would feel at Lucy's wondering admiration.
“If I cannot say, This is your home, this is your own, I can at least say, It is from the race who have lived here for centuries he who loves you is descended. We are no 'new rich,' who have to fall back upon our wealth for the consideration we count upon. We were men of mark before the Normans were even heard of.” All these, I say, he felt, but knew not. That Lucy was one to care for such things he was well aware. She was intensely Irish in her reverence for birth and descent, and had that love of the traditionary which is at once the charm and the weakness of the Celtic nature. Trafford sat thinking over these things, and thinking over what might be his future. It was clear enough he could not remain in the army; his pay, barely sufficient for his support at present, would never suffice when he had a wife. He had some debts too; not very heavy, indeed, but onerous enough when their payment must be made out of the sale of his commission. How often had he done over that weary sum of subtraction! Not that repetition made matters better to him; for somehow, though he never could manage to make more of the sale of his majority, he could still, unhappily for him, continually go on recalling some debt or other that he had omitted to jot down,—an unlucky “fifty” to Jones which had escaped him till now; and then there was Sewell! The power of the unknown is incommensurable; and so it is, there is that in a vague threat that terrifies the stoutest heart. Just before he left Malta he had received a letter from a man whose name was not known to him in these terms:—
“Sir,—It has come to my knowledge professionally, that proceedings will shortly be instituted against you in the Divorce Court at the suit of Colonel Sewell, on the ground of certain letters written by you. These letters, now in the hands of Messrs. Cane & Kincaid, solicitors, Dominick Street, Dublin, may be obtained by you on payment of one thousand pounds, and the costs incurred up to this date. If it be your desire to escape the scandal and publicity of this action, and the much heavier damages that will inevitably result, you may do so by addressing yourself to
“Your very obedient and faithful servant,
“James Maher,
“Attorney-at-Law, Kildare Place.”
He had had no time to reply to this unpleasant epistle before he started, even had he known what reply to make, all that he resolved on being to do nothing till he saw Sir Brook. He had opened his writing-desk to find Lucy's last letter to him, and by ill luck it was this ill-omened document first came to his hand. Fortune will play us these pranks. She will change the glass we meant to drink out of, and give us a bitter draught at the moment that we dreamed of nectar! “If I 'm to give this thousand pounds,” muttered he, moodily, “I may find myself with about eight hundred in the world! for I take it these costs he speaks of will be no trifle! I shall need some boldness to go and tell this to Sir William Lendrick when I ask him for his granddaughter.” Here again he bethought him of Sir Brook, and reassured himself that with his aid even this difficulty might be conquered. He arose to ask if it were certain that Sir Brook would return home that night, and discovered that he was alone in the cottage, the fisherman and his wife who lived there having gone down to the shore to gather the seaweed left by the retreating tide. Trafford knew nothing of Fossbrooke's recent good fortune. The letters which conveyed that news reached Malta after he had left, and his journey to England was prompted by impatience to decide his fate at once, either by some arrangement with his family which might enable him to remain in the army, or, failing all hope of that, by the sale of his commission. “If Tom Lendrick can face the hard life of a miner, why should not I?” would he say. “I am as well able to rough it as any man. Fellows as tenderly nurtured as myself go out to the gold-diggings and smash quartz, and what is there in me that I should shrink from this labor?” There was a grim sort of humor in the way he repeated to himself the imaginary calls of his comrades. “Where 's Sir Lionel Traf-ford? Will some one send the distinguished baronet down here with his shovel?” “Lucy, too, has seen the life of hard work and stern privation. She showed no faintheartedness at its hardships; far from it. I never saw her look happier nor cheerier. To look at her, one would say that she liked its wild adventure, its very uncommonness. I 'll be sworn if we 'll not be as happy—happier, perhaps, than if we had rank and riches. As Sir Brook says, it all depends upon himself in what spirit a man meets his fortune. Whether you confront life or death, there are but two ways,—that of the brave man or the coward.
“How I wish he were come! How impatient I am to know what success he has had with my father! My own mind is made up. The question is, Shall I be able to persuade others to regard the future as I do? Will Lucy's friends let her accept a beggar? No, not that! He who is able and willing to work need not be a beggar. Was that a tap at the door? Come in.” As he spoke, the door slowly opened, and a lady entered; her veil, closely drawn and folded, completely concealed her face, and a large shawl wrapped her figure from shoulders to feet.
As she stood for an instant silent, Trafford arose and said, “I suppose you wished to see Sir Brook Fossbrooke; but he is from home, and will not return till a late hour.”
“Don't you remember me, Lionel?” said she, drawing back her veil, while she leaned against the wall for support.
“Good heavens! Mrs. Sewell!” and he sprang forward and led her to a seat. “I never thought to see you here,” said he, merely uttering words at random in his astonishment.
“When did you come?” asked she, faintly.
“About an hour ago.”
“True? Is this true?”
“On my honor. Why do you ask? Why should you doubt it?”
“Simply to know how long you could have been here without coming to me.” These words were uttered in a voice slightly tremulous, and full of a tender significance. Trafford's cheeks grew scarlet, and for a moment he seemed unable to reply. At last he said, in a confused way: “I came by the mail-packet, and at once drove out here. I was anxious to see Sir Brook. And you?”
“I came here also to see him.”
“He has been in some trouble lately,” said Trafford, trying to lead the conversation into an indifferent channel. “By some absurd mistake they arrested him as a Celt.”
“How long do you remain here, Lionel?” asked she, totally unmindful of his speech.
“My leave is for a month, but the journey takes off half of it.”
“Am I much changed, Lionel, since you saw me last? You can scarcely know. Come over and sit beside me.”
Trafford drew his chair close to hers. “Well,” said she, pushing back her bonnet, and by the action letting her rich and glossy hair fall in great masses over her back, “you have not answered me? How am I looking?”
“You were always beautiful, and fully as much so now as ever.”
“But I am thinner, Lionel. See my poor hands, how they are wasted. These are not the plump fingers you used to hold for hours in your own,—all that dreary time you were so ill;” and as she spoke, she laid her hand, as if unconsciously, over his.
“You were so good to me,” muttered he,—“so good and so kind.”
“And you have wellnigh forgotten it all,” said she, sighing heavily.
“Forgotten it! far from it. I never think of you but with gratitude.”
She drew her hand hastily away, and averted her head at the same time with a quick movement.
“Were it not for your tender care and watchfulness, I know well I could never have recovered from that severe illness. I cannot forget, I do not want to forget, the thousand little ways in which you assuaged my suffering, nor the still more touching kindness with which you bore my impatience. I often live it all over again, believe me, Mrs. Sewell.”
“You used to call me Lucy,” said she, in a faint whisper.
“Did I—did I dare?”
“Yes, you dared. You dared even more than that, Lionel. You dared to speak to me, to write to me, as only he can write or speak who offers a woman his whole heart. I know the manly code on these matters is that when a married woman listens even once to such addresses, she admits the plea on which her love is sought; but I believed—yes, Lionel, I believed—that yours was a different nature. I knew—my heart told me—that you pitied me.”
“That I did,” said he, with a quivering lip.
“You pitied me because you saw the whole sad story of my life. You saw the cruel outrages, the insults I was exposed to! Poor Lionel'!” and she caught his hand as she spoke, “how severely did it often try your temper to endure what you witnessed!”
Trafford bit his lip in silence, and she went on more eagerly: “I needed not defenders. I could have had scores of them. There was not a man who came to the house would not have been proud to be my champion. You know if this be a boast. You know how I was surrounded. For the very least of those caresess I bestowed upon you on your sick-bed, there was not one who would not have risked his life. Is this true?”
“I believe it,” muttered he.
“And why did I bear all this,” cried she, wildly,—“why did I endure, not alone and in the secrecy of my own home, but before the world,—in the crowd of a drawing-room,—outrage that wounds a woman's pride worse than a brought-home crime? Why did I live under it all? Just for this, that the one man who should have avenged me was sick, if not dying; and that ifhecould not defend me, I would have no other. You said you pitied me,” said she, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Do you pity me still?”
“With all my heart I pity you.”
“I knew it,—I was sure of it!” said she, with a voice vibrating with a sort of triumph. “I always said you would come back,—that you had not, could not, forget me,—that you would no more desert me than a man deserts the comrade that has been shipwrecked with him. You see that I did not wrong you, Lionel.”
Trafford covered his face with both his hands, but never uttered a word, while she went on: “Your friends, indeed, if that be the name for them, insisted that I was mistaken in you! How often have I had to hear such speeches as 'Trafford always looks to himself.' 'Trafford will never entangle himself deeply for any one;' and then they would recount some little story of a heartless desertion here, or some betrayal there, as though your life—your whole life—was made up of these treacheries; and I had to listen to these as to the idle gossip one hears in the world and takes no account of! Would you believe it, Lionel, it was only last week I was making a morning call at my mother-in-law's, and I heard that you were coming home to England to be married! Perhaps I was ill that day—I had enough to have made me ill—perhaps more wretched than usual—perhaps, who knows, the startling suddenness of the news—I cannot say how, but so overcome was I by indignation that I cried out, 'It is untrue,—every syllable of it untrue.' I meant to have stopped there, but somehow I went on to say—Heaven knows what—that I would not sit by and hear you slandered—that you were a man of unblemished honor—in a word, Lionel, I silenced your detractors; but in doing so, I sacrificed myself; and as one by one each visitor rose to withdraw,—they were all women,—they made me some little apology for whatever pain they had given me, and in such a tone of mock sorrow and real sarcasm that as the last left the room, I fell into a fit of hysterics that lasted for hours. 'Oh, Lucy, what have you done!' were the first words I heard, and it washismother who spoke them. Ay, Lionel, they were bitter words to hear! Not but that she pitied me. Yes, women have pity on each other in such miseries. She was very kind to me, and came back with me to the Priory, and stayed all the evening with me, and we talked ofyou!Yes, Lionel, she forgave me. She said she had long foreseen what it must come to—that no woman had ever borne what I had—that over and over again she had warned him, conjuring him, if not for his own sake, for the children's—Oh, Lionel, I cannot go on!” burst she out, sobbing bitterly, as she fell at his feet, and rested her head on his knees. He carried her tenderly in his arms and placed her on a sofa, and she lay there to all seeming insensible and unconscious. He was bending anxiously over her as she lifted her eyelids and gazed at him,—a long steadfast look it was, as though it would read his very heart within him. “Well,” asked she,—“well?”
“Are you better?” asked he, in a kind voice.
“When you have answeredmyquestion, I will answer yours,” said she, in a tone almost stern.
“You have not asked me anything, Lucy,” said he, tremulously.
“And do you want me to say I doubt you?” cried she, with almost a scream. “Do you want me to humble myself to ask, Am I to be forsaken?—in plain words, Is there one word of truth in this story of the marriage? Why don't you answer me? Speak out, sir, and deny it, as you would deny the charge that called you a swindler or a coward. What! are you silent? Is it the fear of what is to come after that appalls you? But I absolve you from the charge, Trafford. You shall not be burdened by me. My mother-in-law will take me. She has offered me a home, and I have accepted it. There, now, you are released of that terror. Say that this tale of the marriage is a lie,—a foul lie,—a lie invented to outrage and insult me; say that, Lionel—just bow your head, my own—What! It is not a lie, then?” said she, in a low, distinct voice,—“and it is I that have been deceived, and you are—all that they called you.”
“Listen to me, Lucy.”
“How dare you, sir?—by what right do you presume to call me Lucy? Are you such a coward as to take this freedom because my husband is not here to resent it? Do not touch me, sir. That old man, in whose house I am, would strike you to the ground if you insulted me. It was to see him I came here,—to see him, and not you. I came here with a message from my husband to Sir Brook Fossbrooke—and not to listen to the insulting addresses of Major Trafford. Let me go, sir; and at your peril touch me with a finger. Look at yourself in that glass yonder,—look at yourself, and you will see why I despise you.” And with this she arose and passed out, while with a warning gesture of her hand she motioned that he should not follow her.
It was long after midnight when Mrs. Sewell reached the Priory. She dismissed her cab at the gate lodge, and was slowly walking up the avenue when Sewell met her.
“I was beginning to think you did n't mean to come back at all,” cried he, in a voice of mingled taunt and irritation,—“it is close on one o'clock.”
“He had dined in town, and I had to wait till he returned,” said she, in a low, faint tone.
“You saw him, however?”
“Yes, we met at the station.”
“Well, what success?”
“He gave me some money,—he promised me more.”
“How much has he given you?” cried he, eagerly.
“Two hundred, I think; at least I thought he said there was two hundred,—he gave me his pocket-book. Let me reach the house, and have a glass of water before you question me more. I am tired,—very tired.”
“You seem weak, too; have you eaten nothing?”
“No, nothing.”
“There is some supper on the table. We have had guests here. Old Lendrick and his daughter came up with Beattie. They are not above half an hour gone. They thought to see the old man, but Beattie found him so excited and irritable he advised them to defer the visit.”
“Did you see them?”
“Yes; I passed the evening with them most amicably. The girl is wonderfully good-looking; and she has got rid of that shy, half-furtive way she had formerly, and looks at one steadfastly, and with such a pair of eyes too! I had no notion she was so beautiful.”
“Were they cordial in manner,—friendly?”
“I suppose they were. Dr. Lendrick was embarrassed and timid, and with that fidgety uneasiness as if he wanted to be anywhere else than where he was; but she was affable enough,—asked affectionately about you and the children, and hoped to see you to-morrow.”
She made no reply, but, hastening her steps, walked on till she entered the house, when, passing into a small room off the hall, she threw off her bonnet, and, with a deep-drawn sigh, said, “I am dead tired; get me some water.”
“You had better have wine.”
“No, water. I am feverish. My head is throbbing painfully.”
“You want food and support. Come into the dining-room and eat something. I 'll keep you company, too, for I could n't eat while those people were here. I felt, all the time, that they had come to turn us out; and, indeed, Beat-tie, with a delicate tact quite his own, half avowed it, as he said, 'It is a pity there is not light enough for you to see your old flower-garden, Lucy, for I know you are impatient to be back in it again.'”
“I 'll try and eat something,” said Mrs. Sewell, rising, and with weary steps moving into the dining-room.
Sewell placed a chair for her at the table, helped her, and filled her glass, and, telling the servant that he need not wait, sat down opposite her. “From what Beattie said I gather,” said he, “that the Chief is out of danger, the crisis of the attack is over, and he has only to be cautious to come through. Is n't it like our luck?”
“Hush!—take care.”
“No fear. They can't hear even when they try; these double doors puzzle them. You are not eating.”
“I cannot eat; give me another glass of wine.”
“Yes, that will do you good; it's the old thirty-four. I took it out in honor of Lendrick, but he is a water-drinker. I 'm sure I wish Beattie were. I grudged the rascal every glass of that glorious claret which he threw down with such gusto, telling me the while that it was infinitely finer than when he last tasted it.”
“I feel better now, but I want rest and sleep. You can wait for all I have to tell you till to-morrow,—can't you?”
“If I must, there 's no help for it; but considering that my whole future in a measure hangs upon it, I 'd rather hear it now.”
“I am well nigh worn out,” said she, plaintively; and she held out her glass to be filled once more; “but I 'll try and tell you.”
Supporting her head on both her hands, and with her eyes half closed, she went on in a low monotonous tone, like that of one reading from a book: “We met at the station, and had but a few minutes to confer together. I told him I had been at his house; that I came to see him, and ask his assistance; that you had got into trouble, and would have to leave the country, and were without means to go. He seemed, I thought, to be aware of all this, and asked me, 'Was it only now that I had learned or knew of this necessity?' He also asked if it were at your instance, and by your wish, that I had come to him? I said, Yes; you had sent me.” Sewell started as if something sharp had pierced him, and she went on: “There was nothing for it but the truth; and, besides, I know him well, and if he had once detected me in an attempt to deceive him, he would not have forgiven it. He then said, 'It is not to the wife I will speak harshly of the husband, but what assurance have I that he will go out of the country?' I said, 'You had no choice between that and jail. 'He nodded assent, and muttered, 'A jail—and worse; andyou,' said he, 'what is to become of you?' I told him 'I did not know; that perhaps Lady Lendrick would take me and the children.'”
“He did not offer you a home with himself?” said Sewell, with a diabolical grin.
“No,” said she, calmly; “but he objected to our being separated. He said that it was to sacrifice our children, and we had no right to do this; and that, come what might, we ought to live together. He spoke much on this, and asked me more than once if our hard-bought experiences had not taught us to be more patient, more forgiving towards each other.”
“I hope you told him that I was a miracle of tolerance, and that I bore with a saintly submission what more irritable mortals were wont to go half mad about,—did you tell him this?”
“Yes; I said you had a very practical way of dealing with life, and never resented an unprofitable insult.”
“How safe a man's honor always is in a good wife's keeping!” said he, with a savage laugh. “I hope your candor encouraged him to more frankness; he must have felt at ease after that?”
“Still he persisted in saying there must be no separation.”
“That was hard upon you; did you not tell him that was hard uponyou?”
“No; I avoided mixing myself up in the discussion. I had come to treat for you, and you alone.”
“But you might have said that he had no right to impose upon you a life of—what shall I call it?—incompatibility or cruelty.”
“I did not; I told him I would repeat to you whatever he told me as nearly as I could. He then said: 'Go abroad and live together in some cheap place, where you can find means to educate the children. I,' said he, 'will take the cost of that, and allow you five hundred a year for your own expenses. If I am satisfied with your husband's conduct, and well assured of his reformation, I will increase this allowance. '”
“He said nothing about you noryourreformation,—did he?”
“Not a word.”
“How much will he make it if we separate?”
“He did not say. Indeed, he seemed to make our living together the condition of aiding us.”
“And if he knew of anything harder or harsher he 'd have added it. Why, he has gone about the world these dozen years back telling every one what a brute and blackguard you had for a husband; that, short of murder, I had gone through every crime towards you. Where was it I beat you with a hunting-whip?”
“At Rangoon,” said she, calmly.
“And where did I turn you into the streets at midnight?”
“At Winchester.”
“Exactly; these were the very lies—the infernal lies—he has been circulating for years; and now he says, 'If you have not yet found out how suited you are to each other, how admirably your tastes and dispositions agree, it's quite time you should do so. Go back and live together, and if one of you does not poison the other, I 'll give you a small annuity.'”
“Five hundred a year is very liberal,” said she, coldly.
“I could manage on it for myself alone, but it 's meant to support a family. It 's beggary, neither more nor less.”
“We have no claim upon him.”
“No claim! What! no claim on your godfather, your guardian, not to say the impassioned and devoted admirer who followed you over India just to look at you, and spent a little fortune in getting portraits of you! Why, the man must be a downright impostor if he does not put half his fortune at your feet!”
“I ought to tell you that he annexed certain conditions to any help he tendered us. 'They were matters,' he said, 'could best be treated between you and himself; that I did not, nor need not, know any of them.'”
“I know what he alluded to.”
“Last of all, he said you must give him your answer promptly, for he would not be long in this country.”
“As to that, time is fully as pressing to me as to him. The only question is, Can we make no better terms with him?”
“You mean more money?”.
“Of course I mean more money. Could you make him say one thousand, or at least eight hundred, instead of five?”
“It would not be a pleasant mission,” said she, with a bitter smile.
“I suppose not; a ruined man's wife need not look for many 'pleasant missions,' as you call them. This same one of to-day was not over-gratifying.”
“Less even than you are aware,” said she, slowly.
“Oh, I can very well imagine the tone and manner of the old fellow; how much of rebuke and severity he could throw into his voice; and how minutely and painstakingly he would dwell upon all that could humiliate you.”
“No; you are quite wrong. There was not a word of reproach, not a syllable of blame; his manner was full of gentle and pitying kindness, and when he tried to comfort and cheer me, it was like the affection of a father.”
“Where, then, was this great trial and suffering of which you have just said I could take no full measure?”
“I was thinking of what occurred before I met Sir Brook,” said she, looking up, and with her eyes now widely opened, and a nostril distended as she spoke. “I was thinking of an incident of the morning. I have told you that when I reached the cottage where Sir Brook lived, I found that he was absent, and would not return till a late hour. Tired with my long walk from the station, I wished to sit down and rest before I had determined what to do, whether to await his arrival or go back to town. I saw the door open, I entered the little sitting-room, and found myself face to face with Major Trafford.”
“Lionel Trafford?”
“Yes; he had come by that morning's packet from England, and gone straight out to see his friend.”
“He was alone, was he?”
“Alone! there was no one in the house but ourselves.”
Sewell shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Go on.”
The insult of his gesture sent the blood to her face and forehead, and for an instant she seemed too much overcome by anger to speak.
“Am I to tell you what this man said to me? Isthatwhat you mean?” said she, in a voice that almost hissed with passion.
“Better not, perhaps,” replied he, calmly, “if the very recollection overcame you so completely.”
“That is to say, it is better I should bear the insult how I may than reveal it to one who will not resent it.”
“When you say resent, do you intend I should call him out?—fight him?”
“If I were the husband instead of the wife, it is what I should do,—ay,” cried she, wildly, “and thank Fortune that gave me the chance.”
“I don't think I'm going to show any such gratitude,” said he, with a cold grin. “If he made love to you, I take it he fancied you had given him some encouragement When you showed him that he was mistaken, he met his punishment. A woman always knows how to make a man look like a confounded fool at such a moment.”
“And is that enough?”
“Iswhatenough?”
“I ask, is it enough to make him look like a confounded fool? Willthatsoothe a wife's insulted pride, or avenge a husband's injured honor?”
“I don't know much of the wife's part; but as to the husband's share in the matter, if I had to fight every fellow who made up to you, my wedding garment ought to have been a suit of chain-armor.”
“A husband need not fight for his wife's flirtations; be-. sides, he can make her give these up if he likes. There are insults, however, that a man”—; and she said the word with a fierce emphasis—“resents with the same instinct that makes him defend his life.”
“I know well enough what he 'd say; he 'd say that there was nothing serious in it, that he was merely indulging in that sort of larking talk one offers to a pretty woman who does not seem to dislike it. The chances are he 'd turn the tables a bit, and say that you rather led him on than repressed him.”
“And would these pleas diminish your desire to have his heart's blood?” cried she, wild with passion and indignation together.
“Having his heart's blood is very fine, if I was sure—quite sure—he might not have mine. The fellow is a splendid shot.”
“I thought so. I could have sworn it,” cried she, with a taunting laugh.
“I admit no man my superior with a pistol,” said Sewell, stung far more by her laughter than her words; “but what have I to gain if I shoot him? His family would prosecute me to a certainty; and it went devilish close with that last fellow who was tried at Newgate.”
“If you care so little for my honor, sir, I 'll show you how cheaply I can regard yours. I will go back to Sir Brook to-morrow, and return him his money. I will tell him, besides, that I am married to one so hopelessly lost to every sentiment and feeling, not merely of the gentleman, but of the man, that it is needless to try to help him; and that I will accept nothing for him,—not a shilling; that he may deal with you on those other matters he spoke of as he pleases; that it will be no favor shown me when he spares you. There, sir, I leave you now to compute whether a little courage would not have served you better than all your cunning.”
“You do not leave this room till you give me that pocket-book,” said he, rising, and placing his back to the door.
“I foresaw this, sir,” said she, laughing quietly, “and took care to deposit the money in a safe place before I came here. You are welcome to every farthing I have about me.”
“Your scheme is too glaring, too palpable by half. There is a vulgar shamelessness in the way you 'make your book,' standing to win whichever of us should kill the other. I read it at a glance,” said he, as he threw himself into a chair; “but I 'll not help to make you an interesting widow. Are you going? Good-night.”
She moved towards the door? and just as she reached it he arose and said, “On what pretext could I ask this man to meet me? What do I charge him with? How could I word my note to him?”
“Letmewrite it,” said she, with a bitter laugh. “You will only have to copy it.”
“And if I consent will you do all the rest? Will you go to Fossbrooke and ask him for the increased allowance?”
“I will.”
“Will you do your best—your very best—to obtain it? Will you use all the power and influence you have over him to dissuade him from any act that might injureme?Will you get his pledge that he will not molest me in any way?”
“I will promise to do all that I can with him.” “And when must this come off,—this meeting, I mean?”
“At once, of course. You ought to leave this by the early packet for Bangor. Harding or Vaughan—any one—will go with you. Trafford can follow you by the midday mail, as your note will have reached him early.”
“You seem to have a capital head for these sort of things; you arrange all to perfection,” said he, with a sneer.
“I had need of it, as I have to think for two;” and the sarcasm stung him to the quick. “I will go to your room and write the note. I shall find paper and ink there?”
“Yes; everything. I'll carry these candles for you;” and he arose and preceded her to his study. “I wish he would not mix old Fossbrooke in the affair. I hope he'll not name him as his friend.”
“I have already thought of that,” said she, as she sat down at the table and began to write. After a few seconds she said, “This will do, I think:—
“'Sir,—I have just learned from my wife how grossly insulting was your conduct towards her yesterday, on the occasion of her calling at Sir Brook Fossbrooke's house. The shame and distress in which she returned here would fully warrant any chastisement I might inflict upon you; but for the sake of the cloth you wear, I offer you the alternative which I would extend to a man of honor, and desire you will meet me at once with a friend. I shall leave by the morning packet for Holyhead, and be found at the chief hotel, Bangor, where, waiting your pleasure, I am your obedient servant.
“'I hope it is needless to say that my wife's former guardian, Sir B. F., should not be chosen to act for you on this occasion.'”
“I don't think I'd say that about personal chastisement. People don't horsewhip nowadays.”
“So much the worse. I would leave it there, however. It will insult him like a blow.”
“Oh, he's ready enough,—he'll not need poking to rouse his pluck. I'll say that for him.”
“And yet I half suspect he 'll write some blundering sort of apology; some attempt to show that I was mistaken. I know—I know it as well as if I saw it—he 'll not fire at you.”
“What makes you think that?” “He could n't. It would be impossible for him.” “I 'm not so sure of that. There's something very provocative in the sight of a pistol muzzle staring at one a few paces off.I'dfire at my father if I saw him going to shoot at me.”
“I thinkyouwould,” said she, dryly. “Sit down and copy that note. We must send it by a messenger at once.”
“I don't think you put it strongly enough about old Foss-brooke. I 'd have said distinctly,—I object to his acting on account of his close and intimate connection with my wife's family.”
“No, no; leave it all as it stands. If we begin to change, we shall never have an end of the alterations.”
“If I believed he would not fire at me, I'd not shoot him,” said Sewell, biting the end of his pen.
“He 'll not fire the first time; but if you go on to a second shot, I'm certain he will aim at you.”
“I'll try and not give him this chance, then,” said he, laughing. “Remember,” added he, “I'm promising to cross the Channel, and I have not a pound in my pocket.”
“Write that, and I 'll go fetch you the money,” said she, leaving the room; and, passing out through the hall and the front door, she put her arm and hand into a large marble vase, several of which stood on the terrace, and drew forth the pocket-book which Sir Brook had given her, and which she had secretly deposited there as she entered the house.
“There, that's done,” said he, handing her his note as she came in.
“Put it in an envelope and address it. And now, where are you to find Harding, or whoever you mean to take with you?”
“That's easy enough; they 'll be at supper at the Club by this time. I'll go in at once. But the money?”
“Here it is. I have not counted it; he gave me the pocket-book as you see.”
“There's more than he said. There are two hundred and eighty-five pounds. He must be in funds.”
“Don't lose time. It is very late already,—nigh two o'clock; these men will have left the Club, possibly?”
“No, no; they play on till daybreak. I suppose I'd better put my traps in a portmanteau at once, and not require to come back here.”
“I 'll do all that for you.”
“How amiable a wife can be at the mere prospect of getting rid of her husband!”
“You will send me a telegram?”
“Very likely. Good-bye. Adieu.”
“Adieu et bonne chance,” said she, gayly.
“That means a good aim, I suppose,” said he, laughing.
She nodded pleasantly, kissed her hand to him, and he was gone.