Tom Lendrick had just parted with his sister as Fossbrooke came up, and, taking his arm in silence, moved slowly down the road.
Seeing his deep preoccupation, Tom did not speak for some time, but walked along without a word. “I hope you found my grandfather in better temper, sir?” asked Tom, at last.
“He refused to receive me; he pleaded illness, or rather he called it by its true name, indisposition. He deputed another gentleman to meet me,—a Colonel Sewell, his stepson.”
“That 's the man my father saw at the Cape; a clever sort of person he called him, but, I suspect, not one to his liking; too much man of the world,—too much man of fashion for poor Dad.”
“I hope so,” muttered Fossbrooke, unconsciously.
“Indeed, sir; and why?” asked Tom, eagerly.
“What of Lucy?” said Sir Brook, abruptly; “how did you think she was looking?”
“Well, sir, on the whole, well. I've seen her jollier; but, to be sure, it was a leave-taking to-day, and that's not the occasion to put one in high spirits. Poor girl, she said, 'Is it not hard, Tom? There are only three of us, and we must all live apart.'”
“So it is,—hard, very hard. I 'd have tried once more to influence the old Judge if he 'd have given me a meeting. He may do worse with that office than bestow it on you, Tom. I believe I'd have told him as much.”
“It's perhaps as well, sir, that you did not see him,” said Tom, with a faint smile.
“Yes,” said Fossbrooke, following along the train of his own thoughts, and not noticing the other's remark. “He may do worse; he may give it to him, and thus draw closer the ties between them; and if that man once gets admission there, he'll get influence.”
“Of whom are you talking, sir?”
“I was not speaking, Tom. I was turning over some things in my mind. By the way, we have much to do before evening. Go over to Hodgen's about those tools; he has not sent them yet: and the blasting-powder, too, has not come down. I ought, if I could manage the time, to test it; but it 's too late. I must go to the Castle for five minutes,—five minutes will do it; and I 'll pass by Grainger's on my way back, and buy the flannel—miners' flannel they call it in the advertisement. We must look our métier, Tom, eh? You told Lucy where to write, and how to address us, I hope?”
“Yes, sir, she wrote it down. By the way, that reminds me of a letter she gave me for you. It was addressed to her care, and came yesterday.”
The old man thrust it in his pocket without so much as a look at it.
“I think the post-mark was Madeira,” said Tom, to try and excite some curiosity.
“Possibly. I have correspondents everywhere.”
“It looked like Trafford's writing, I thought.”
“Indeed! let us see;” and he drew forth the letter, and broke the envelope. “Right enough, Tom,—it is Trafford.”
He ran his eyes rapidly over the first lines, turned to the next side, and then to the end of the letter, and then once more began at the beginning.
“This is his third attempt, he says, to reach me, having written twice without any acknowledgment; hence he has taken the liberty—and a very great liberty too—to address the present to the care of your sister. His brother died in March last, and the younger brother has now shown symptoms of the same malady, and has been sent out to Madeira. 'I could not,' he writes,—'I could not refuse to come out here with him, however eager I was to go to Ireland. You can well believe,'”—here the old man slurred over the words, and murmured inaudibly for some seconds. “I see,” added he at last, “he has gone back to his old regiment, with good hopes of the majority. 'Hinks is sick of the service, and quite willing to leave. Harvey, however, stands above me, and deems it a cruel thing to be passed over. I must have your advice about this, as well as about—'” Here again he dropped his voice and mumbled unintelligibly. At length he read on: “'What is Tom doing? What a shame it would be if a fellow with such abilities should not make his way!'”
“A crying shame,” burst in Tom, “but I neither see the abilities nor the way; would he kindly indicate how to find either or both?”
“'My mother suggested,'” read on Sir Brook, “'two or three things which my father could readily obtain, but you know the price of the promotion; you know what I would have to—'” Here, once more, the old man stopped abruptly.
“Pray go on, sir,” cried Tom, eagerly; “this interests me much, and as it touches myself I have half a claim to hear it.”
Sir Brook gave no heed to the request, but read on in silence and to himself. Turning to the last page, he said: “'I may then hope to be in England by the end of the month. I shall not go down to Holt, but straight to Dublin. My leave will expire on the 28th, and this will give me a good excuse for not going home. I am sure you will agree with me that I am doing the right thing.
“'If I am fortunate enough to meet you in Dublin, I can ask your advice on many things which press for solution; but if you should have left Ireland and gone heaven knows where, what is to become of me?'”
“Got into debt again, evidently,” said Tom, as he puffed his cigar.
“Nothing of the kind. I know thoroughly what he alludes to, though I am not at liberty to speak of it. He wishes me to leave our address with Colonel Cave at the barracks, and that if we should have left Ireland already, he 'll try and manage a month's leave, and pay us a visit.”
“I declare I guessed that!” burst out Tom. “I had a dread of it, from the very day we first planned our project. I said to myself, So sure as we settle down to work,—to work like men who have no thought but how to earn their bread,—some lavender-gloved fellow, with a dressing-case and three hat-boxes, will drop down to disgust us alike with our own hardships and his foppery.”
“He'll not come,” said Sir Brook, calmly; “and if he should, he will be welcome.”
“Oh! as to that,” stammered out Tom, somewhat ashamed of his late warmth, “Trafford is perhaps the one exception to the sort of thing I am afraid of. He is a fine, manly, candid fellow, with no affectations nor any pretensions.”
“A gentleman, sir,—just a gentleman, and of a very good type.”
The last few lines of the letter were small and finely written, and cost the old man some time to decipher. At last he read them aloud. “'Am I asking what you would see any objection to accord me, if I entreat you to give me some letter of introduction or presentation to the Chief t Baron? I presume that you know him; and I presume that he might not refuse to know me. It is possible I may be wrong in either or both of these assumptions. I am sure you will be frank in your reply to this request of mine, and say No, if you dislike to say Yes. I made the acquaintance of Colonel Sewell, the Judge's step-son, at the Cape; but I suspect—I may be wrong—but I suspect that to be presented by the Colonel might not be the smoothest road to his Lordship's acquaintance,—I was going to write “favor,” but I have no pretension, as yet at least, to aspire that far.'
“'The Colonel himself told me that his mother and Sir William never met without a quarrel. His affectionate remark was that the Chief Baron was the only creature in Europe whose temper was worse than Lady Lendrick's, and it would be a blessing to humanity if they could be induced to live together.
“'I saw a good deal of the Se wells at the Cape. She is charming! She was a Dillon, and her mother a Lascelles, some forty-fifth cousin of my mother's,—quite enough of relationship, however, to excuse a very rapid intimacy, so that I dined there when I liked, and uninvited. I did not like him so well; but then he beat me at billiards, and always won my money at écarté, and of course these are detracting ingredients which ought not to be thrown into the scale.
“'How she sings! I don't know how you, with your rapturous love of music, would escape falling in love with her: all the more that she seems to me one who expects that sort of homage, and thinks herself defrauded if denied it. If the Lord Chief Baron is fond of ballads, he has been her captive this many a day.
“'My love to Tom, if with you or within reach of you; and believe me, ever yours affectionately,—Lionel Trafford.'”
“It was the eldest son who died,” said Tom, carelessly.
“Yes, the heir. Lionel now succeeds to a splendid fortune and the baronetcy.”
“He told me once that his father had made some sort of compact with his eldest son about cutting off the entail, in case he should desire to do it. In fact, he gave me to understand that he was n't a favorite with his father, and that, if by any course of events he were likely to succeed to the estate, it was more than probable his father would use this power, and merely leave him what he could not alienate,—a very small property that pertained to the baronetage.”
“With reference to what did he make this revelation to you? What had you been talking of?”
“I scarcely remember. I think it was about younger sons,—how hardly they were treated, and how unfairly.”
“Great hardship truly that a man must labor! not to say that there is not a single career in life he can approach without bringing to it greater advantages than befall humbler men,—a better and more liberal education, superior habits as regards society, powerful friends, and what in a country like ours is inconceivably effective,—the prestige of family. I cannot endure this compassionate tone about younger sons. To my thinking they have the very best opening that life can offer, if they be men to profit by it; and if they are not, I care very little what becomes of them.”
“I do think it hard that my elder brother should have fortune and wealth to over-abundance, while my pittance will scarcely keep me in cigars.”
“You have no right, sir, to think of his affluence. It is not in the record; the necessities of your position have no-relation to his superfluities. Bethink you of yourself, and if cigars are too expensive for you, smoke cavendish. Trafford was full of this cant about the cruelty of primogeniture, but I would have none of it. Whenever a man tells me that he deems it a hardship that he should do anything for his livelihood, I leave him, and hope never to see more of him.”
“Trafford surely did not say so.”
“No,—certainly not; there would have been no correspondence between us if he had. But I want to see these young fellows showing the world that they shrink from no competitorship with any. They have long proved that to confront danger and meet death they are second to none. Let me show that in other qualities they admit of no inferiority,—that they are as ready for enterprise, as well able to stand cold and hunger and thirst, to battle with climate and disease. I know well they can do it, but I want the world to know it.”
“As to intellectual distinctions,” said Tom, “I think they are the equals of any. The best man in Trinity in my day was a fellow-commoner.”
This speech seemed to restore the old man to his best humor. He slapped young Lendrick familiarly on the shoulder and said: “It would be a grand thing, Tom, if we could extend the application of that old French adage, 'noblesse oblige,' and make it apply to every career in life and every success. Come along down this street; I want to buy some nails,—we can take them home with us.”
They soon made their purchases; and each, armed with a considerably sized brown-paper parcel, issued from the shop,—the old man eagerly following up the late theme, and insisting on all the advantages good birth and blood conferred, and what a grand resource was the gentleman element in moments of pressure and temptation.
“His Excellency wishes to speak to you, sir,” said a footman, respectfully standing hat in hand before him “The carriage is over the way.”
Sir Brook nodded an assent, and then, turning to Torn, said, “Have the kindness to hold this for me for a moment; I will not detain you longer;” and placing in young Lendrick's hands a good-sized parcel, he stepped across the street, totally forgetting that over his left arm, the hand of which was in his pocket, a considerable coil of strong rope depended, being one of his late purchases. As he drew nigh the carriage, he made a sign that implied defeat; and mortified as the Viceroy was at the announcement, he could not help smiling at the strange guise in which the old man presented himself.
“And how so, Fossbrooke?” asked he, in answer to the other's signal.
“Simply, he would not see me, my Lord. Our first meeting had apparently left no very agreeable memories of me, and he scarcely cared to cultivate an acquaintance that opened so inauspiciously.”
“But you sent him your card with my name?”
“Yes; and his reply was to depute another gentleman to receive me and take my communication.”
“Which you refused, of course, to make?”
“Which I refused.”
“Do you incline to suppose that the Chief Baron guessed the object of your visit?”
“I have no means of arriving at that surmise, my Lord. His refusal of me was so peremptory that it left me no clew to any guess.”
“Was the person deputed to receive you one with whom it was at all possible to indicate such an intimation of your business as might convey to the Chief Baron the necessity of seeing you?”
“Quite the reverse, my Lord; he was one with whom, from previous knowledge, I could hold little converse.”
“Then there is, I fear, nothing to be done.”
“Nothing.”
“Except to thank you heartily, my dear Fossbrooke, and ask you once more, why are you going away?”
“I told you last night I was going to make a fortune. I have—to my own astonishment I own it—begun to feel that narrow means are occasionally most inconvenient; that they limit a man's action in so many ways that he comes at last to experience a sort of slavery; and instead of chafing against this, I am resolved to overcome it, and become rich.”
“I hope, with all my heart, you may. There is no man whom wealth will more become, or who will know how to dispense it more reputably.”
“Why, we have gathered a crowd around us, my Lord,” said Fossbrooke, looking to right and left, where now a number of people had gathered, attracted by the Viceroy's presence, but still more amused by the strange-looking figure with the hank of rope over his arm, who discoursed so freely with his Excellency. “This is one of the penalties of greatness, I take it,” continued he. “It's your Excellency's Collar of St. Patrick costs you these attentions—”
“I rather suspect it's your 'grand cordon,' Fossbrooke,” said the Viceroy, laughing, while he pointed to the rope.
“Bless my stars!” exclaimed Sir Brook, blushing deeply, “how forgetful I am growing! I hope you forgive me. I am sure you could not suppose—”
“I could never think anything but good of you, Fossbrooke. Get in, and come out to 'the Lodge' to dinner.”
“No, no; impossible. I am heartily ashamed of myself. I grow worse and worse every day; people will lose patience at last, and cut me; good-bye.”
“Wait one moment. I want to ask you something about young Lendrick. Would he take an appointment in a colonial regiment? Would he—” But Fossbrooke had elbowed his way through the dense crowd by this time, and was far out of hearing,—shocked with himself, and overwhelmed with the thought that in his absurd forgetfulness he might have involved another in ridicule.
“Think of me standing talking to his Excellency with this on my arm, Tom!” said he, flushing with shame and annoyance: “how these absent fits keep advancing on me! When a man begins to forget himself in this fashion, the time is not very distant when his friends will be glad to forget him. I said so this moment to Lord Wilmington, and I am afraid that he agreed with me. Where are the screws, Tom,—have I been forgetting them also?”
“No, sir, I have them here; the holdfasts were not finished, but they will be sent over to us this evening, along with the cramps you ordered.”
“So, then, my head was clear so far,” cried he, with a smile. “In my prosperous days, Tom, these freaks of mine were taken as good jokes, and my friends laughed at them over my Burgundy; but when a man has no longer Burgundy to wash down his blunders with, it is strange how different becomes the criticism, and how much more candid the critic.”
“So that, in point of enlightenment, sir, it is better to be poor.”
“It is what I was just going to observe to you,” said he, calmly. “Can you give me a cigar?”
Within a week after this incident, while Fossbrooke and young Lendrick were ploughing the salt sea towards their destination, Lucy sat in her room one morning engaged in drawing. She was making a chalk copy from a small photograph her brother had sent her, a likeness of Sir Brook, taken surreptitiously as he sat smoking at a window, little heeding or knowing of the advantage thus taken of him.
The head was considerably advanced, the brow and the eyes were nearly finished, and she was trying for the third time to get an expression into the mouth which the photograph had failed to convey, but which she so often observed in the original. Eagerly intent on her work, she never heard the door open behind her, and was slightly startled as a very gentle hand was laid on her shoulder.
“Is this a very presumptuous step of mine, dear Lucy?” said Mrs. Sewell, with one of her most bewitching smiles: “have I your leave for coming in upon you in this fashion?”
“Of course you have, my dear Mrs. Sewell; it is a great pleasure to me to see you here.”
“And I may take off my bonnet and my shawl and my gloves and my company manner, as my husband calls it?”
“Oh! you have no company manner,” broke in Lucy.
“I used to think not; but men are stern critics, darling, and especially when they are husbands. You will find out, one of these days, how neatly your liege lord will detect every little objectionable trait in your nature, and with what admirable frankness he will caution you against—yourself.”
“I almost think I 'd rather he would not.”
“I 'm very certain of it, Lucy,” said the other, with greater firmness than before. “The thing we call love in married life has an existence only a little beyond that of the bouquet you carried to the wedding-breakfast; and it would be unreasonable in a woman to expect it, but she might fairly ask for courtesy and respect, and you would be amazed how churlish even gentlemen can become about expending these graces in their own families.”
Lucy was both shocked and astonished at what she heard, and the grave tone in which the words were uttered surprised her most of all.
Mrs. Sewell had by this time taken off her bonnet and shawl, and, pushing back her luxuriant hair from her forehead, looked as though suffering from headache, for her brows were contracted, and the orbits around her eyes dark and purple-looking.
“You are not quite well to-day,” said Lucy, as she sat down on the sofa beside her, and took her hand.
“About as well as I ever am,” said she, sighing; and then, as if suddenly recollecting herself, added, “India makes such an inroad on health and strength! No buoyancy of temperament ever resisted that fatal climate. You would n't believe it, Lucy, but I was once famed for high spirits.”
“I can well believe it.”
“It was, however, very long ago. I was little more than a child at the time—that is, I was about fourteen or fifteen—when I left England, to which I returned in my twentieth year. I went back very soon afterwards to nurse my poor father, and be married.”
The depth of sadness in which she spoke the last words made the silence that followed intensely sad and gloomy.
“Yes,” said she, with a deep melancholy smile, “papa called me madcap. Oh dear, if our fathers and mothers could look back from that eternity they have gone to, and see how the traits they traced in our childhood have saddened and sobered down into sternest features, would they recognize us as their own? I don't look like a madcap now, Lucy, do I?” As she said this, her eyes swam in tears, and her lip trembled convulsively. Then standing hastily up, she drew nigh the table, and leaned over to look at the drawing at which Lucy had been engaged.
“What!” cried she, with almost a shriek,—“what is this? Whose portrait is this? Tell me at once; who is it?”
“A very dear friend of mine and of Tom's. One you could not have ever met, I'm sure.”
“And how do you know whom I have met?” cried she, fiercely. “What can you know of my life and my associates?”
“I said so, because he is one who has lived long estranged from the world,” said Lucy, gently; for in the sudden burst of the other's passion she only saw matter for deep compassion. It was but another part of a nature torn and distracted by unceasing anxieties.
“But his name,—his name?” said Mrs. Sewell, wildly.
“His name is Sir Brook Fossbrooke.”
“I knew it, I knew it!” cried she, wildly,—“I knew it!” and said it over and over again. “Go where we will we shall find him. He haunts; us like a curse,—like a curse!” And it was in almost a shriek the last word came forth.
“You cannot know the man if you say this of him,” said Lucy, firmly.
“Not know him!—not know him! You will tell me next that I do not know myself,—not know my own name,—not know the life of bitterness I have lived,—the shame of it,—the ineffable shame of it!” and she threw herself on her face on the sofa, and sobbed convulsively. Long and anxiously did Lucy try all in her power to comfort and console her. She poured out her whole heart in pledges of sisterly love and affection. She assured her of a sympathy that would never desert her; and, last of all, she told her that her judgment of Sir Brook was a mistaken one,—that in the world there lived not one more true-hearted, more generous, or more noble.
“And where did you learn all this, young woman?” said the other, passionately. “In what temptations and trials of your life have these experiences been gained? Oh, don't be angry with me, dearest Lucy; forgive this rude speech of mine; my head is turning, and I know not what I say. Tell me, child, did this man speak to you of my husband?”
“No.”
“Nor of myself?”
“Not a word. I don't believe he was aware that we were related to each other.”
“He not aware? Why, it's his boast that he knows every one and every one's connections. You never heard him speak without this parade of universal acquaintanceship. But why did he come here? How did you happen to meet him?”
“By the merest accident. Tom found him one day fishing the river close to our house, and they got to talk together; and it ended by his coming to us to tea. Intimacy followed very quickly, and then a close friendship.”
“And do you mean to tell me that all this while he never alluded to us?”
“Never.”
“This is so unlike him,—so unlike him,” muttered she, half to herself. “And the last place you saw him,—where was it?”
“Here in this house.”
“Here! Do you mean that he came here to see you?”
“No; he had some business with grandpapa, and called one morning, but he was not received. Grandpapa was not well, and sent Colonel Sewell to meet him.”
“He sent my husband! And did he go?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“I know it.”
“I never heard of this,” said she, holding her hands to her temples. “About what time was it?”
“It was on Friday last. I remember the day, because it was the last time I saw poor Tom.”
“On Friday last,” said she, pondering. “Yes, you are right. I do remember that Friday;” and she drew up the sleeve of her dress, and looked at a dark-blue mark upon the fair white skin of her arm; but so hastily was the action done that Lucy did not remark it.
“It was on Friday morning. It was on the forenoon of Friday, was it not?”
“Yes. The clock struck one, I remember, as I got back to the house.”
“Tell me, Lucy,” said she in a caressing tone, as she drew her arm round the girl's waist,—“tell me, darling, how did Colonel Sewell look after that interview? Did he seem angry or irritated? I'll tell you why I ask this some other time,—but I want to know if he seemed vexed or chagrined by meeting this man.”
“I did not see him after; he went away almost immediately after Sir Brook. I heard his voice talking with grandpapa in the garden, but I went to my room, and we did not meet.”
“As they spoke in the garden, were their voices raised? Did they talk like men excited or in warmth?”
“Yes. Their tone and manner were what you say,—so much so that I went away, not to overhear them. Grandpapa, I know, was angry at something; and when we met at luncheon, he barely spoke to me.”
“And what conclusion did you draw from all this?”
“None! There was nothing to induce me to dwell on the circumstance; besides,” added she, with some irritation, “I am not given to reason upon the traits of people's manner, or their tone in speaking.”
“Nor perhaps accustomed to inquire, when your grandfather is vexed, what it is that has irritated him.”
“Certainly not. It is a liberty I should not dare to take.”
“Well, darling,” said she, with a saucy laugh, “he is more fortunate in having you for a granddaughter than me. I 'm afraid I should have less discretion,—at all events, less dread.”
“Don't be so sure of that,” said Lucy, quietly. “Grandpapa is no common person. It is not his temper but his talent that one is loath to encounter.”
“I do not suspect that either would terrify me greatly. As the soldiers say, Lucy, I have been under fire pretty often, and I don't mind it now. Do you know, child, that we have got into a most irritable tone with each other? Each of us is saying something that provokes a sharp reply, and we are actually sparring without knowing it.”
“I certainly did not know it,” said Lucy, taking her hand within both her own, “and I ask pardon if I have said anything to hurt you.”
Leaving her hand to Lucy unconsciously, and not heeding one word of what she had said, Mrs. Sewell sat with her eyes fixed on the floor deep in thought. “I 'm sure, Lucy,” said she at last, “I don't know why I asked you all those questions awhile ago. That man—Sir Brook, I mean—is nothing to me; he ought to be, but he is not. My father and he were friends; that is, my father thought he was his friend, and left him the guardianship of me on his deathbed.”
“Your guardian,—Sir Brook your guardian?” cried Lucy, with intense eagerness.
“Yes; with more power than the law, I believe, would accord to any guardian.” She paused and seemed lost in thought for some seconds, and then went on: “Colonel Sewell and he never liked each other. Sir Brook took little trouble to be liked by him; perhaps Dudley was as careless on his side. What a tiresome vein I have got in! How should you care for all this?”
“But I do care—I care for all that concerns you.”
“I take it, if you were to hear Sir Brook's account, we should not make a more brilliant figure than himself. He 'd tell you about our mode of life, and high play, and the rest of it; but, child, every one plays high in India, every one does scores of things there they would n't do at home, partly because the ennui of life tempts to anything,—anything that would relieve it; and then all are tolerant because all are equally—I was going to say wicked; but I don't mean wickedness,—I mean bored to that degree that there is no stimulant left without a breach of the decalogue.”
“I think that might be called wickedness,” said Lucy, dryly.
“Call it what you like, only take my word for it you 'd do the selfsame things if you lived there. I was pretty much what you are now when I left England; and if any naughty creature like myself were to talk, as I am doing to you now, and make confession of all her misdeeds and misfortunes, I'm certain I'd have known how to bridle up and draw away my hand, and retire to a far end of the sofa, and look unutterable pruderies, just as you do this moment.”
“Without ever suspecting it, certainly,” said Lucy laughing.
“Tear up that odious drawing, dear Lucy,” said she, rising and walking the room with impatience. “Tear it up; or, if you won't do that, let me write a line under it—one line, I ask for no more—so that people may know at whom they are looking.”
“I will do neither; nor will I sit here to listen to one word against him.”
“Which means, child, that your knowledge of life is so-much greater than mine, you can trust implicitly to your own judgment. I can admire your courage, certainly, though I am not captivated by your prudence.”
“It is because I have so little faith in my own judgment that I am unwilling to lose the friend who can guide me.”
“Perhaps it would be unsafe if I were to ask you to choose between him and me,” said Mrs. Sewell, very slowly, and with her eyes fully bent on Lucy.
“I hope you will not.”
“With such a warning I certainly shall not do so. Who-could have believed it was so late?” said she, hastily looking at her watch; “What a seductive creature you must be, child, to slip over one's whole morning without knowing it,—two o'clock already. You lunch about this time?”
“Yes, punctually at two.”
“Are you sufficiently lady of the house to invite me, Lucy?”
“I am sure you need no invitation here; you are one of us.”
“What a little Jesuit it is!” said Mrs. Sewell, patting her cheek. “Come, child, I 'll be equal with you. I 'll enter the room on your arm, and say, 'Sir William, your granddaughter insisted on my remaining; I thought it an awkwardness, but she tells me she is the mistress here, and I obey.'”
“And you will find he will be too well-bred to contradict you,” said Lucy, while a deep blush covered her face and throat.
“Oh, I think him positively charming!” said Mrs. Sewell, as she arranged her hair before the glass; “I think him charming. My mother-in-law and I have a dozen pitched battles every day on the score of his temper and his character. My theory is, the only intolerable thing on earth is a fool; and whether it be that Lady Lendrick suspects me of any secret intention to designate one still nearer to her by this reservation, I do not know, but the declaration drives her half crazy. Come, Lucy, we shall be keeping grandpapa waiting for us.”
They moved down the stairs arm-in-arm, without a word; but as they gained the door of the dining-room, Mrs. Sewell turned fully round and said, in a low deep voice, “Marry anything,—rake, gambler, villain,—anything, the basest and the blackest; but never take a fool, for a fool means them all combined.”
To the Swan's Nest, very differently tenanted from what we saw it at the opening of our story, we have now to conduct our reader. Its present occupant—“the acquisition to any neighborhood,” as the house-agent styled him—was Colonel Sewell.
Lady Lendrick had taken the place for her son on finding that Sir William would not extend his hospitality to him. She had taken the precaution not merely to pay a year's rent in advance, but to make a number of changes in the house and its dependencies, which she hoped might render the residence more palatable to him, and reconcile him in some degree to its isolation and retirement.
The Colonel was, however, one of those men—they are numerous enough in this world—who canvass the mouth of the gift-horse, and have few scruples in detecting the signs of his age. He criticised the whole place with a most commendable frankness. It was a “pokey little hole.” It was dark; it was low-ceilinged. It was full of inconveniences. The furniture was old-fashioned. You had to mount two steps into the drawing-room and go down three into the dining-room. He had to cross a corridor to his bath-room, and there was a great Tudor window in the small breakfast-parlor, that made one feel as if sitting in a lantern.
As for the stables, “he would n't put a donkey into them.” No light, no ventilation,—no anything, in short. To live surrounded with so many inconveniences was the most complete assertion of his fallen condition, and, as he said, “he had never realized his fall in the world till he settled down in that miserable Nest.”
There are men whose especial delight it is to call your attention to their impaired condition, their threadbare coat, their patched shoes, their shabby equipage, or their sorry dwelling, as though they were framing a sort of indictment against Fate, and setting forth the hardships of persons of merit like them being subjected to this unjustifiable treatment by Fortune.
“I suppose you never thought to see me reduced to this,” is the burden of their song; and it is very strange how, by mere repetition and insistence, these people establish for themselves a sort of position, and oblige the world to yield them a black-mail of respect and condolence.
“This was not the sort of tipple I used to set before you once on a time, old fellow,” will be uttered by one of whose hospitalities you have never partaken. “It was another guess sort of beast I gave you for a mount when we met last,” will be said by a man who never rose above a cob pony; and one is obliged to yield a kind of polite assent to such balderdash, or stand forward as a public prosecutor and arraign the rascal for a humbug.
In this self-commiseration Sewell was a master, and there was not a corner of the house he did not make the butt of his ridicule,—to contrast its littleness and vulgarity with the former ways and belongings of his own once splendor.
“You're capital fellows,” said he to a party of officers from the neighboring garrison, “to come and see me in this dog-hole. Try and find a chair you can sit on, and I 'll ask my wife if we can give you some dinner. You remember me up at Rangoon, Hobbes? Another guess sort of place, wasn't it? I had the Rajah's palace and four elephants at my orders. At Guzerat, too, I was the Resident, and, by Jove, I never dreamed of coming down to this!”
Too indolent or too indifferent to care where or how she was lodged, his wife gave no heed to his complaints, beyond a little half-supercilious smile as he uttered them. “If a fellow will marry, however, he deserves it all,” was his usual wind-up to all his lamentations; and in this he seemed to console himself by the double opportunity of pitying himself and insulting his wife.
All that Colonel Cave and his officers could say in praise of the spot, its beauty, its neatness, and its comfort, were only fresh aliment to his depreciation, and he more than half implied that possibly the place was quite good enough for them, but that was not exactly the question at issue.
Some men go through life permitted to say scores of things for which their neighbor would be irrevocably cut and excluded from society. Either that the world is amused at their bitterness, or that it is regarded as a malady, far worse to him who bears than to him who witnesses it,—whatever the reason,—people endure these men, and make even a sort of vicious pets of them. Sewell was of this order, and a fine specimen too.
All the men around him were his equals in every respect, and yet there was not one of them who did not accept a position of quiet, unresisting inferiority to him for the sake of his bad temper and his bad tongue. It was “his way,” they said, and they bore it.
He was a consummate adept in all the details of a household; and his dinners were perfection, his wine good, and his servants drilled to the very acme of discipline. These were not mean accessories to any pretension; and as they sat over their claret, a pleasanter and more social tone succeeded than the complaining spirit of their host had at first promised.
The talk was chiefly professional. Pipeclay will ever assert its pre-eminence, and with reason, for it is a grand leveller; and Digges, who joined three months ago, may have the Army List as well by heart as the oldest major in the service: and so they discussed, Where was Hobson? what made Jobson sell out? how did Bobson get out of that scrape with the paymaster? and how long will Dobson be able to live at his present rate in that light-cavalry corps? Everything that fell from them showed the most thorough intimacy with the condition, the fortune, and the prospects of the men they discussed,—familiarity there was enough of, but no friendship. No one seemed to trouble himself whether the sick-leave or the sell-out meant hopeless calamity,—all were dashed with a species of well-bred fatalism that was astonished with nothing, rejoiced at nothing, repined at nothing.
“I wish Trafford would make up his mind!” cried one. “Three weeks ago he told me positively he would leave, and now I hear he offered Craycroft three thousand pounds to retire from the majority.”
“That 's true; Craycroft told me so himself; but old Joe is a wily bird, and he 'll not be taken so easily.”
“He's an eldest son now!” broke in another. “What does he care whether he be called major or captain?”
“An eldest son!” cried Sewell, suddenly; “how is that? When I met him at the Cape, he spoke of an elder brother.”
“So he had, then, but he's 'off the hooks.'”
“I don't think it matters much,” said the Colonel. “The bulk of the property is disentailed, and Sir Hugh can leave it how he likes.”
“That's what I call downright shameful,” said one; but he was the minority, for a number of voices exclaimed,—“And perfectly right; that law of primogeniture is a positive barbarism.”
While the dispute waxed warm and noisy, Sewell questioned the Colonel closely about Trafford,—how it happened that the entail was removed, and why there was reason to suppose that Sir Hugh and his son were not on terms of friendship.
Cave was frank enough when he spoke of the amount of the fortune and the extent of the estate, but used a careful caution in speaking of family matters, merely hinting that Trafford had gone very fast, spent a deal of money, had his debts twice paid by his father, and was now rather in the position of a reformed spendthrift, making a good character for prudence and economy.
“And where is he?—not in Ireland?” asked Se well, eagerly.
“No; he is to join on Monday. I got a hurried note from him this morning, dated Holyhead. You said you had met him?”
“Yes, at the Cape; he used to come and dine with us there occasionally.”
“Did you like him?”
“In a way. Yes, I think he was a nice fellow,—that is, he might be made a nice fellow, but it was always a question into what hands he fell; he was at the same time pliant and obstinate. He would always imitate,—he would never lead. So he seemed to me; but, to tell you the truth, I left him a good deal to the women; he was too young and too fresh for a man like myself.”
“You are rather hard on him,” said Cave, laughing; “but you are partly right. He has, however, fine qualities,—he is generous and trustful to any extent.”
“Indeed!” said Sewell, carelessly, as he bit off the end of a cigar.
“Nothing would make him swerve from his word; and if placed in a difficulty where a friend was involved, his own interests would be the last he 'd think of.”
“Very fine, all that. Are you drinking claret?—if so, finish that decanter, and let's have a fresh bottle.”
Cave declined to take more wine, and he arose, with the rest, to repair to the drawing-room for coffee.
It was not very usual for Sewell to approach his wife or notice her in society; now, however, he drew a chair near her as she sat at the fire, and in a low whisper said, “I have some pleasant news for you.”
“Indeed!” she said coldly,—“what a strange incident!”
“You mean it is a strange channel for pleasant news to come through, perhaps,” said he, with a curl of his lip.
“Possibly that is what I meant,” said she, as quietly as before.
“None of these fine-lady airs with me, Madam,” said he, reddening with anger; “there are no two people in Europe ought to understand each other better than we do.”
“In that I quite agree with you.”
“And as such is the case, affectations are clean thrown away, Madam; we can have no disguises for each other.”
A very slight inclination of her head seemed to assent to this remark, but she did not speak.
“We came to plain speaking many a day ago,” said he, with increased bitterness in his tone. “I don't see why we are to forego the advantage of it now,—do you?”
“By no means. Speak as plainly as you wish; I am quite ready to hear you.”
“You have managed, however, to make people observe us,” muttered he, between his teeth,—“it's an old trick of yours, Madam. You can play martyr at the shortest notice.” He rose hastily and moved to another part of the room, where a very noisy group were arranging a party for pool at billiards.
“Won't you have me?” cried Sewell, in his ordinary tone. “I'm a perfect boon at pool; for I am the most unlucky dog in everything.”
“I scarcely think you'll expect us to believe that,” said Cave, with a glance of unmistakable admiration towards Mrs. Sewell.
“Ay,” cried Sewell, fiercely, and answering the unspoken sentiment,—“ay, sir, and that,”—he laid a stern emphasis on the word,—“and that the worst luck of all.”
“I 've been asking Mrs. Sewell to play a game with us, and she says she has no objections,” said a young subaltern, “if Colonel Sewell does not dislike it.”
“I'll play whist, then,” said Sewell. “Who 'll make a rubber?—Cave, will you? Here's Houghton and Mowbray,—eh?”
“No, no,” said Mowbray,—“you are all too good for me.”
“How I hate that,—too good for me,” said Sewell. “Why, man, what better investment could you ask for your money than the benefit of good teaching? Always ride with the best hounds, play with the best players, talk with the best talkers.”
“And make love to the prettiest women,” added Cave, in a whisper, as Mowbray followed Mrs. Sewell into the billiard-room.
“I heard you, Cave,” whispered Sewell, in a still lower whisper; “there's devilish little escapes my ears, I promise you.” The bustle and preparation of the card-table served in part to cover Cave's confusion, but his cheek tingled and his hand shook with mingled shame and annoyance.
Sewell saw it all, and knew how to profit by it. He liked high play, to which Cave generally objected; but he well knew that on the present occasion Cave would concur in anything to cover his momentary sense of shame.
“Pounds and fives, I suppose,” said Sewell; and the others bowed, and the game began.
As little did Cave like three-handed whist, but he was in no mood to oppose anything; for, like many men who have made an awkward speech, he exaggerated the meaning through his fears, and made it appear absolutely monstrous to himself.
“Whatever you like,” was therefore his remark; and he sat down to the game.
Sewell was a skilled player; but the race is no more to the swift in cards than in anything else,—he lost, and lost heavily. He undervalued his adversaries too, and, in consequence, he followed up his bad luck by increased wagers. Cave tried to moderate the ardor he displayed, and even remonstrated with him on the sums they were staking, which, he good-humoredly remarked, were far above his own pretensions; but Sewell resented the advice, and replied with a coarse insinuation about winners' counsels. The ill-luck continued, and Sewell's peevishness and ill-temper increased with every game. “What have I lost to you?” cried he, abruptly, to Cave; “it jars on my nerves every time you take out that cursed memorandum, so that all I can do is not to fling it into the fire.”
“I'm sure I wish you would, or that you would let me do it,” said Cave, quietly.
“How much is it?—not short of three hundred, I'll be bound.”
“It is upwards of five hundred,” said Cave, handing the book across the table.
“You'll have to wait for it, I promise you. You must give me time, for I am in all sorts of messes just now.” While Cave assured him that there was no question of pressing for payment,—to take his own perfect convenience,—Sewell, not heeding him, went on: “This confounded place has cost me a pot of money. My wife, too, knows how to scatter her five-pound notes; in short, we are a wasteful lot. Shall we have one rubber more, eh?”
“As you like. I am at your orders.”
“Let us say double or quits, then, for the whole sum.”
Cave made no reply, and seemed not to know how to answer.
“Of course, if you object,” said Sewell, pushing back his chair from the table, as though about to rise, “there's no more to be said.”
“What do you say, Houghton?” asked Cave.
“Houghton has nothing to say to it; he hasn't won twenty pounds from me,” said Sewell, fiercely.
“Whatever you like, then,” said Cave, in a tone in which it was easy to see irritation was with difficulty kept under, and the game began.
The game began in deep silence. The restrained temper of the players and the heavy sum together impressed them, and not a word was dropped. The cards fell upon the table with a clear, sharp sound, and the clink of the counters resounded through the room, the only noises there.
As they played, the company from the billiard-room poured in and drew around the whist-table, at first noisily enough; but seeing the deep preoccupation of the players, their steadfast looks, their intense eagerness, made more striking by their silence, they gradually lowered their voices, and at last only spoke in whispers and rarely.
The first game of the rubber had been contested trick by trick, but ended by Cave winning it. The second game was won by Sewell, and the third opened with his deal.
As he dealt the cards, a murmur ran through the bystanders that the stake was something considerable, and the interest increased in consequence. A few trifling bets were laid on the issue, and one of the group, in a voice slightly raised above the rest, said, “I'll back Sewell for a pony.”
“I beg you will not, sir,” said Sewell, turning fiercely round. “I'm in bad luck already, and I don't want to be swamped altogether. There, sir, your interference has made me misdeal,” cried he, passionately, as he flung the cards on the table.
Not a word was said as Cave began his deal. It was too plain to every one that Sewell's temper was becoming beyond control, and that a word or a look might bring the gravest consequences.
“What cards!” said Cave, as he spread his hand on the table: “four honors and nine trumps.” Sewell stared at them, moved his fingers through them to separate and examine them, and then, turning his head round, he looked behind. It was his wife was standing at the back of his chair, calm, pale, and collected. “By Heaven!” cried he, savagely, “I knew who was there as well as if I saw her. The moment Cave spread out his cards, I 'd have taken my oath that she was standing over me.”
She moved hastily away at the ruffianly speech, and a low murmur of indignant anger filled the room. Cave and Houghton quitted the table, and mingled with the others; but Sewell sat still, tearing up the cards one by one, with a quiet, methodical persistence that betrayed no passion. “There!” said he, as he threw the last fragment from him, “you shall never bring good or bad luck to any one more.” With the ease of one to whom such paroxysms were not un-frequent, he joined in the conversation of a group of young men, and with a familiar jocularity soon set them at their ease towards him; and then, drawing his arm within Cave's, he led him apart, and said: “I 'll go over to the Barrack to-morrow and breakfast with you. I have just thought of how I can settle this little debt.”
“Oh, don't distress yourself about that,” said Cave. “I beg you will not let it give you a moment's uneasiness.”
“Good fellow!” said Sewell, clapping him on the shoulder; “but I have the means of doing it without inconvenience, as I 'll show you to-morrow. Don't go yet; don't let your fellows go. We are going to have a broil, or a devilled biscuit, or something.” He walked over and rang the bell, and then hastily passed on into a smaller room, where his wife was sitting on a sofa, an old doctor of the regiment seated at her side.
“I won't interrupt the consultation,” said Sewell, “but I have just one word to say.” He leaned over the back of the sofa, and whispered in her ear, “Your friend Trafford is become an eldest son. He is at the Bilton Hotel, Dublin; write and ask him here. Say I have some cock-shooting,—there are harriers in the neighborhood. Are you listening to me, Madam?” said he, in a harsh hissing voice, for she had half turned away her head, and her face had assumed an expression of sickened disgust. She nodded, but did not speak. “Tell him that I've spoken to Cave—he'll make his leave all right—that I 'll do my best to make the place pleasant to him, and that—in fact, I needn't toy to teach you to write a sweet note. You understand me, eh?”
“Oh, perfectly,” said she, rising; and a livid paleness now spread over her face, and even her lips were bloodless.
“I was too abrupt with my news. I ought to have been more considerate; I ought to have known it might overcome you,” said he, with a sneering bitterness. “Doctor, you 'll have to give Mrs. Se well some cordial, some restorative,—that's the name for it. She was overcome by some tidings I brought her. Even pleasant news will startle us occasionally. As the French comedy has it, La joie fait peur;” and with a listless, easy air, he sauntered away into another room.