Sir Brook Fossbrooke, Volume II.

“I ‘m not sure it would be better,” said Cave. “The race of idle, cringing, do-nothing fellows is large enough already. I suspect men like Fossbrooke – at least what he was in his days of prosperity – give a large influence to the spread of dependants.”

“The fault I find with him,” said Tom, “is his credulity. He believes everything, and, what’s worse, every one. There are fellows here who persuade him this mine is to make his fortune; and if he had thousands to-morrow, he would embark them all in this speculation, the only result of which is to enrich these people, and ruin ourselves.”

“Is that your view of it?” asked Cave, in some alarm.

“Of course it is; and if you doubt it, come down with me into the gallery, as they call it, and judge for yourself.”

“But I have already joined the enterprise.”

“What! invested money in it?”

“Ay. Two thousand pounds, – a large sum for me, I promise you. It was with immense persuasion, too, I got Fossbrooke to let me have these shares. He offered me scores of other things as a free gift in preference, – salmon-fisheries in St. John’s; a saw-mill on Lake Huron; a large tract of land at the Cape; I don’t know what else: but I was firm to the copper, and would have nothing but this.”

“I went in for lead,” said Trafford, laughingly.

“You; and are you involved in this also?” asked Tom.

“Yes; so far as I have promised to sell out, and devote whatever remains after paying my debts to the mine.”

“Why, this beats all the infatuation I ever heard of! You have not the excuse of men at a distance, who have only read or listened to plausible reports; but you have come here, – you have been on the spot, – you have seen with your own eyes the poverty-stricken air of the whole concern, the broken machinery, the ruined scaffoldings, the mounds of worthless dross that hide the very approach to the shaft; and you have seen us, too, and where and how we live!”

“Very true,” broke in Cave; “but I have heard him talk, and I could no more resist the force of his words than I could stand in a current and not be carried down by it.”

“Exactly so,” chimed in Trafford; “he was all the more irresistible that he did not seek to persuade. Nay, he tried his utmost to put me off the project, and, as with the Colonel, he offered me dozens of other ways to push my fortune, without costing me a farthing.”

“Might not we,” said Cave, “ask how it comes that you, taking this dispiriting view of all here, still continue to embark your fortunes in its success?”

“It is just because they are my fortunes; had it been my fortune, I had been more careful. There is all the difference in life between a man’s hopes and his bank-stock. But if you ask me why I hang on here, after I have long ceased to think anything can come of it, my answer is, I do so just as I would refuse to quit the wreck, when he declared he would not leave it. It might be I should save my life by deserting him; but it would be little worth having afterwards; and I ‘d rather live with him in daily companionship, watching his manly courageous temper and his high-hearted way of dealing with difficulties, than I would go down the stream prosperously with many another; and over and over have I said to myself, If that fine nature of his can make defeat so endurable, what splendor of triumph would it not throw over a real success!”

“And this is exactly what we want to share,” said Traf-ford, smiling.

“But what do either of you know of the man, beyond the eccentricity, or the general kindliness with which he meets you? You have not seen him as I have, rising to his daily toil with a racking head and a fevered frame, without a word of complaint, or anything beyond a passing syllable of discomfort; never flinching, never yielding; as full of kind thought for others, as full of hopeful counsel, as in his best days; lightening labor with proverb and adage, and stimulating zeal with many a story. You can’t picture to yourselves this man, once at the head of a princely fortune, which he dispensed with more than princely liberality, sharing a poor miner’s meal of beans and oil with pleasant humor, and drinking a toast, in wine that would set the teeth on edge, to that good time when they would have more generous fare, and as happy hearts to enjoy it.

“Nor have you seen him, as I have, the nurse beside the sick-bed, so gentle, so thoughtful, – a very woman in tenderness; and all that after a day of labor that would have borne down the strongest and the stoutest. And who is he that takes the world in such good part, and thinks so hopefully of his fellow-men? The man of all his time who has been most betrayed, most cheated, whose trust has been most often abused, whose benefits have been oftenest paid back in ingratitude. It is possible enough he may not be the man to guide one to wealth and fortune; but to whatever condition of life he leads, of one thing I am certain, there will be no better teacher of the spirit and temper to enjoy it; there will be none who will grace any rank – the highest or the humblest – with a more manly dignity.”

“It was knowing all this of him,” said Cave, “that impelled me to associate myself with any enterprise he belonged to. I felt that if success were to be won by persistent industry and determination, his would do it, and that his noble character gave a guarantee for fair dealing better than all the parchments lawyers could engross.”

“From what I have seen of life, I ‘d not say that success attends such men as he is,” said Tom. “The world would be, perhaps, too good if it were so.”

Silence now fell upon the party, and the three men smoked on for some time without a word. At last Tom, rising from the bench where he had been seated, said, “Take my advice; keep to your soldiering, and have nothing to do with this concern here. You sail on Saturday next, and by Sunday evening, if you can forget that there is such an island as Sardinia, and such poor devils on it as ourselves, it will be all the better for you.”

“I am sorry to see you so depressed, Lendrick,” said Cave.

“I ‘m not so low as you suspect; but I’d be far lower if I thought that others were going to share our ill-fortunes.”

Though the speech had no direct reference to Trafford, it chanced that their eyes met as he spoke, and Trafford’s face flushed to a deep crimson as he felt the application of the words.

“Come here, Tom,” said he, passing his arm within Len-drick’s, and leading him off the terrace into a little copse of wild hollies at the foot of it. “Let me have one word with you.” They walked on some seconds without a word, and when Trafford spoke his voice trembled with agitation. “I don’t know,” muttered he, “if Sir Brook has told you of the change in my fortunes, – that I am passed over in the entail by my father, and am, so to say, a beggar.”

Lendrick nodded, but said nothing.

“I have got debts, too, which, if not paid by my family, will compel me to sell out, – has he told you this?”

“Yes; I think he said so.”

“Like the kind, good fellow he is,” continued Trafford, “he thinks he can do something with my people, – talk my father over, and induce my mother to take my side. I ‘m afraid I know them better, and that they ‘re not sorry to be rid of me at last. It is, however, just possible – I will not say more, but just possible – that he may succeed in making some sort of terms for me before they cut me off altogether. I have no claim whatever, for I have spent already the portion that should have come to me as a younger son. I must be frank with you, Tom. There ‘s no use in trying to make my case seem better than it is.” He paused, and appeared to expect that the other would say something; but Tom smoked on and made no sign whatever.

“And it comes to this,” said Trafford, drawing a long breath and making a mighty effort, “I shall either have some small pittance or other, – and small it must be, – or be regularly cleaned out without a shilling.”

A slight, very slight, motion of Tom’s shoulders showed that he had heard him.

“If the worst is to befall me,” said Traflford, with more energy than he had shown before, “I ‘ll no more be a burden to you than to any other of my friends. You shall hear little more of me; but if fortune is going to give me her last chance, will you give me one also?”

“What do you mean?” said Tom, curtly.

“I mean,” stammered out Trafford, whose color came and went with agitation as he spoke, – “I mean, shall I have your leave – that is, may I go over to Maddalena? – may I – O Tom,” burst he out at last, “you know well what hope my heart clings to.”

“If there was nothing but a question of money in the way,” broke in Tom, boldly, “I don’t see how beggars like ourselves could start very strong objections. That a man’s poverty should separate him from us would be a little too absurd; but there ‘s more than that in it. You have got into some scrape or other. I don’t want to force a confidence – I don’t want to hear about it. It’s enough for me that you are not a free man.”

“If I can satisfy you that this is not the case – ”

“It won’t do to satisfy me,” said Tom, with a strong emphasis on the last word.

“I mean, if I can show that nothing unworthy, nothing dishonorable, attaches to me.”

“I don’t suspect all that would suffice. It’s not a question of your integrity or your honor. It’s the simple matter whether when professing to care for one woman you made love to another?”

“If I can disprove that. It ‘s a long story – ”

“Then, for Heaven’s sake, don’t tell it to me.”

“Let me, at least, show that it is not fair to shun me.”

There was such a tone of sorrow in his voice as he spoke that Tom turned at once towards him, and said: “If you can make all this affair straight – I mean, if it be clear that there was no more in it than such a passing levity that better men than either of us have now and then fallen into – I don’t see why you may not come back with me.”

“Oh, Tom, if you really will let me!”

“Remember, however, you come at your own peril. I tell you frankly, if your explanation should fail to satisfy the one who has to hear it, it fails with me too, – do you understand me?”

“I think I do,” said Trafford, with dignity.

“It’s as well that we should make no mistake; and now you are free to accept my invitation or to refuse it. What do you say?”

“I say, yes. I go back with you.”

“I’ll go and see, then, if Cave will join us,” said Tom, turning hastily away, and very eager to conceal the agitation he was suffering, and of which he was heartily ashamed.

Cave accepted the project with delight, – he wanted to see the island, – but, more still, he wanted to see that Lucy Lendrick of whom Sir Brook had spoken so rapturously. “I suppose,” whispered he in Tom’s ear, “you know all about Trafford. You ‘ve heard that he has been cut out of the estate, and been left with nothing but his pay?”

Tom nodded assent.

“He’s not a fellow to sail under false colors, but he might still have some delicacy in telling about it – ”

“He has told me all,” said Tom, dryly.

“There was a scrape, too, – not very serious, I hope, – in Ireland.”

“He has told me of that also,” said Tom. “When shall you be ready? Will four o’clock suit you?”

“Perfectly.”

And they parted.

CHAPTER V. ON THE ISLAND

When, shortly after daybreak, the felucca rounded the point of the island, and stood in for the little bay of Maddalena, Lucy was roused from sleep by her maid with the tidings, “Give me the glass, quickly,” cried she, as she rushed to the window, and after one rapid glance, which showed her the little craft gayly decked with the flag of England, she threw herself upon her bed, and sobbed in very happiness. In truth, there was in the long previous day’s expectancy – in the conflict of her hope and fear – a tension that could only be relieved by tears.

How delightful it was to rally from that momentary gush of emotion, and feel so happy! To think so well of the world as to believe that all goes for the best in it, is a pleasant frame of mind to begin one’s day with; to feel that though we have suffered anxiety, and all the tortures of deferred hope, it was good for us to know that everything was happening better for us than we could have planned it for ourselves, and that positively it was not so much by events we had been persecuted as by our own impatient reading of them. Something of all these sensations passed through Lucy’s mind as she hurried here and there to prepare for her guests, stopping at intervals to look out towards the sea, and wonder how little way the felucca made, and how persistently she seemed to cling to the selfsame spot.

Nor was she altogether unjust in this. The breeze had died away at sunrise; and in the interval before the land-wind should spring up there was almost a dead calm.

“Is she moving at all?” cried Lucy, to one of the sailors who lounged on the rocks beneath the window.

The man thought not. They had kept their course too far from shore, and were becalmed in consequence.

How could they have done so? – surely sailors ought to have known better! and Tom, who was always boasting how he knew every current, and every eddy of wind, what was he about? It was a rude shock to that sweet optimism of a few moments back to have to own that here at least was something that might have been better.

“And what ought they to do, what can they do?” asked she, impatiently, of the sailor.

“Wait till towards noon, when the land-breeze freshens up, and beat.”

“Beat means, go back and forward, scarcely gaining a mile an hour?”

The sailor smiled, and owned she was not far wrong.

“Which means that they may pass the day there,” cried she, fretfully.

“They’re not going to do it, anyhow,” said the man; “they are lowering a boat, and going to row ashore.”

“Oh, how much better! and how long will it take them?”

“Two hours, if they ‘re good rowers; three, or even four, if they ‘re not.”

“Come in and have a glass of wine,” said she; “and you shall look through the telescope, and tell me how they row, and who are in the boat, – I mean how many are in it.”

“What a fine glass! I can see them as if they were only a cable’s length off. There’s the Signorino Maso, your brother, at the bow oar; and then there’s a sailor, and another sailor; and there’s a signore, a large man, —per Bacco, he’s the size of three, – at the stroke; and an old man, with white hair, and a cap with gold lace round it, steering; he has bright buttons down his coat.”

“Never mind him. What of the large man, – is he young?”

“He pulls like a young fellow! There now, he has thrown off his coat, and is going at it in earnest! Ah, he’s no signore after all.”

“How no signore?” asked she, hastily.

“None but a sailor could row as he does! A man must be bred to it to handle an oar in that fashion.”

She took the glass impatiently from him, and tried to see the boat; but whether it was the unsteadiness of her hand, or that some dimness clouded her eyes, she could not catch the object, and turned away and left the room.

The land-wind freshened, and sent a strong sea against the boat, and it was not until late in the afternoon that the party landed, and, led by Tom, ascended the path to the cottage. At his loud shout of “Lucy,” she came to the door looking very happy indeed, but more agitated than she well liked. “My sister, Colonel Cave,” said Tom, as they came up; “and here’s an old acquaintance, Lucy; but he’s a major now. Sir Brook is away to England, and sent you all manner of loving messages.”

“I have been watching your progress since early morning,” said Lucy, “and, in truth, I scarcely thought you seemed to come nearer. It was a hard pull.”

“All Trafford’s fault,” said Tom, laughing; “he would do more than his share, and kept the boat always dead against her rudder.”

“That’s not the judgment one of our boatmen here passed on him,” said Lucy; “he said it must be a sailor, and no signore, who was at the stroke oar.”

“See what it is to have been educated at Eton,” said Cave, slyly; “and yet there are people assail our public schools!”

Thus chatting and laughing, they entered the cottage, and were soon seated at table at a most comfortable little dinner.

“I will say,” said Tom, in return for some compliment from the Colonel, “she is a capital housekeeper. I never had anything but limpets and sea-urchins to eat till she came, and now I feel like an alderman.”

“When men assign us the humble office of providing for them, I remark they are never chary of their compliments,” said Lucy, laughingly. “Master Tom is willing to praise my cookery, though he says nothing of my companionship.”

“It was such a brotherly speech,” chimed in Cave.

“Well, it’s jolly, certainly,” said Tom, as he leaned back in his chair, “to sit here with that noble sea-view at our feet, and those grand old cliffs over us.”

While Cave concurred, and strained his eyes to catch some object out seaward, Trafford, for almost the first time, found courage to address Lucy. He had asked something about whether she liked the island as well as that sweet cottage where first he saw her, and by this they were led to talk of that meeting, and of the long happy day they had passed at Holy Island.

“How I ‘d like to go back to it!” said Lucy, earnestly.

“To the time, or to the place? To which would you wish to go back?”

“To the Nest,” said Lucy, blushing slightly; “they were about the happiest days I ever knew, and dear papa was with us then.”

“And is it not possible that you may all meet together there one of these days? He’ll not remain at the Cape, will he?”

“I was forgetting that you knew him,” said she, warmly; “you met papa since I saw you last: he wrote about you, and told how kindly and tenderly you had nursed him on his voyage.”

“Oh, did he? Did he indeed speak of me?” cried Trafford, with intense emotion.

“He not only spoke warmly about his affection for you, but he showed pain and jealousy when he thought that some newer friends had robbed him of you – but perhaps you forget the Cape and all about it.”

Trafford’s face became crimson, and what answer he might have made to this speech there is no knowing, when Tom cried out, “We are going to have our coffee and cigar on the rocks, Lucy, but you will come with us.”

“Of course; I have had three long days of my own company, and am quite wearied of it.”

In the little cleft to which they repaired, a small stream divided the space, leaving only room for two people on the rocks at either side; and after some little jesting as to who was to have the coffee-pot, and who the brandy-flask, Tom and Cave nestled in one corner, while Lucy and Trafford, with more caution as to proximity, seated themselves on the rock opposite.

“We were talking about the Cape, Major Trafford, I think,” said Lucy, determined to bring him back to the dreaded theme.

“Were we? I think not; I think we were remembering all the pleasant days beside the Shannon.”

“If you please, more sugar and no brandy; and now for the Cape.”

“I ‘ll just hand them the coffee,” said he, rising and crossing over to the others.

“Won’t she let you smoke, Trafford?” said Tom, seeing the unlighted cigar in the other’s fingers; “come over here, then, and escape the tyranny.”

“I was just saying,” cried Cave, “I wish our Government would establish a protectorate, as they call it, over these islands, and send us out here to garrison them; I call this downright paradise.”

“You may smoke, Major Trafford,” said Lucy, as he returned; “I am very tolerant about tobacco.”

“I don’t care for it – at least not now.”

“You’d rather tell me about the Cape,” said she, with a sly laugh. “Well, I ‘m all attention.”

“There’s really nothing to tell,” said he, in confusion. “Your father will have told you already what a routine sort of thing life is, – always meeting the same people, – made ever more uniform by their official stations. It’s always the Governor, and the Chief-Justice, and the Bishop, and the Attorney-General.”

“But they have wives and daughters?”

“Yes; but official people’s wives and daughters are always of the same pattern. They are only females of the species.”

“So that you were terribly bored?”

“Just so, – terribly bored.”

“What a boon from heaven it must have been then to have met the Sewells!” said she, with a well-put-on carelessness.

“Oh, your father mentioned the Sewells, did he?” asked Trafford, eagerly.

“I should think he did mention them! Why, they were the people he was so jealous of. He said that you were constantly with him till they came, – his companion, in fact, – and that he grieved heavily over your desertion of him.”

“There was nothing like desertion; besides,” added he, after a moment, “I never suspected he attached any value to my society.”

“Very modest, certainly; and probably, as the Sewells did attach this value, you gave it where it was fully appreciated.”

“I wish I had never met them,” muttered Trafford; and though the words were mumbled beneath his breath, she heard them.

“That sounds very ungratefully,” said she, with a smile, “if but one half of what we hear be true.”

“What is it you have heard?”

“I ‘m keeping Major Trafford from his cigar, Tom; he’s too punctilious to smoke in my company, and so I shall leave him to you;” and so saying, she arose, and turned towards the cottage.

Trafford followed her on the instant, and overtook her at the porch.

“One word, – only one,” cried he, eagerly. “I see how I have been misrepresented to you. I see what you must think of me; but will you only hear me?”

“I have no right to hear you,” said she, coldly.

“Oh, do not say so, Lucy,” cried he, trying to take her hand, but which she quickly withdrew from him. “Do not say that you withdraw from me the only interest that attaches me to life. If you knew how friendless I am, you would not leave me.”

“He upon whom fortune smiles so pleasantly very seldom wants for any blandishments the world has to give; at least, I have always heard that people are invariably courteous to the prosperous.”

“And do you talk of me as prosperous?”

“Why, you are my brother’s type of all that is luckiest in life. Only hear Tom on the subject! Hear him talk of his friend Trafford, and you will hear of one on whom all the good fairies showered their fairest gifts.”

“The fairies have grown capricious, then. Has Tom told you nothing – I mean since he came back?”

“No; nothing.”

“Then let me tell it.”

In very few words, and with wonderfully little emotion, Trafford told the tale of his altered fortunes. Of course he did not reveal the reasons for which he had been disinherited, but loosely implied that his conduct had displeased his father, and with his mother he had never been a favorite. “Mine,” said he, “is the vulgar story that almost every family has its instance of, – the younger son, who goes into the world with the pretensions of a good house, and forgets that he himself is as poor as the neediest man in the regiment. They grew weary of my extravagance, and, indeed, they began to get weary of myself, and I am not surprised at it! and the end has come at last. They have cast me off, and, except my commission, I have now nothing in the world. I told Tom all this, and his generous reply was, ‘Your poverty only draws you nearer to us.’ Yes, Lucy, these were his words. Do you think that his sister could have spoken them?”

“‘Before she could do so, she certainly should be satisfied on other grounds than those that touch your fortune,” said Lucy, gravely.

“And it was to give her that same satisfaction I came here,” cried he, eagerly. “I accepted Tom’s invitation on the sole pledge that I could vindicate myself to you. I know what is laid to my charge, and I know too how hard it will be to clear myself without appearing like a coxcomb.” He grew crimson as he said this, and the shame that overwhelmed him was a better advocate than all his words. “But,” added he, “you shall think me vain, conceited, – a puppy, if you will, – but you shall not believe me false. Will you listen to me?”

“On one condition I will,” said she, calmly.

“Name your condition. What is it?”

“My condition is this: that when I have heard you out, – heard all that you care to tell me – if it should turn out that I am not satisfied – I mean, if it appear to me a case in which I ought not to be satisfied – you will pledge your word that this conversation will be our last together.”