Sir Brook Fossbrooke, Volume II.

“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 if he could 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 was his mother 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 of you! 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 answered my question, 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.

CHAPTER XXIII. TO REPORT

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; and you,’ 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 upon you?”

“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 nor your reformation, – 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? Is that what 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?”

“Is what enough?”

“I ask, is it enough to make him look like a confounded fool? Will that soothe 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.”