Sir Brook Fossbrooke Volume Ii Part 29

"Come, come, there's no need of this. You can say no to my offer without a rudeness to myself."

"Ay, that's all true, if one only had temper for it, but I have n't; and I have my doubts that even _you_ would if you were to be tried as sorely as I am."

"I never do get angry; a man shows his hand when he loses his temper, and the fellow who keeps cool can always look at the other's cards."

"Wise precepts, and worth coming out here to listen to," said Sewell, whose thoughts were evidently directed elsewhere. "I take your offer; I only make one condition,--you keep the negotiation a secret, or only impart it where it will be kept secret."

"I think that's all fair. I agree to that. Now for the doc.u.ment"

"There it is," said Sewell, as he threw the packet on the table, while he seated himself in a deep chair, and crossed his arms on his chest.

Balfour opened the paper and began to read, but soon burst forth with--"How like him--how like him!--'Less oppressed, indeed, by years than sustained by the conscious sense of long services to the State.' I think I hear him declaiming it.

"This is not bad: 'While at times afflicted by the thought, that to the great principles of the law, of which I had made this Court the temple and the sanctuary, there will now succeed the vague decisions and imperfect judgments of less learned expositors of justice, I am comforted by remembering that I leave behind me some records worthy of memory,--traditions that will not easily die.'"

"That's the modest note; hear him when he sounds the indignant chord,"

said Sewell.

"Ay, here we have it: 'If I have delayed, my Lord, in tendering to you this my resignation, it is that I have waited till, the scurrilous tongues of slander silenced, and the smaller, but not less malevolent, whisperings of jealousy subdued, I might descend from the Bench amidst the affectionate regrets of those who regard me as the last survivor of that race which made Ireland a nation.' The liquor is genuine," cried Balfour, laughing. "There's no disputing it, you have won your money."

"I should think so," was Sewell's cool reply. "He has the same knack in that sort of thing that the girl in the well-known shop in Seville has in twisting a cigarette."

Balfour took out his keys to open his writing-desk, and, pondering for a moment or two, at last said, "I wish any man would tell me why I am going to give you this money,--do you know, Sewell?"

"Because you promised it, I suppose."

"Yes; but why should I have promised it? What can it possibly signify to me which of our lawyers presides in Her Majesty's Irish Exchequer? I 'm sure you 'd not give ten pounds to insure this man or that, in or out of the Cabinet."

"Not ten s.h.i.+llings. They 're all dark horses to me, and if you offered me the choice of the lot, I 'd not know which to take; but I always heard that you political fellows cared so much for your party, and took your successes and failures so much to heart, that there was no sacrifice you were not ready to make to insure your winning."

"We now and then do run a dead-heat, and one would really give something to come in first; but what's that?--I declare there 's a carriage driving off--some one has gone. I 'll have to swear that some alarming news has come from the South. Good-night--I must be off."

"Don't forget the cash before you go."

"Oh, to be sure, here you are--crisp and clean, ain't they? I got them this morning, and certainly never intended to part with them on such an errand."

Sewell folded up the notes with a grim smile, and said, "I only wish I had a few more big-wigs to dispose of,--you should have them cheap; as Stag and Mantle say, 'articles no longer in great vogue.'"

"There's another departure!" cried Balfour. "I shall be in great disgrace!" and hurried away without a "goodbye."

CHAPTER XX. ON THE DOOR-STEPS AT NIGHT

It was late at night when Sewell arrived at the Priory. He had had another disastrous night of play, and had scattered his "acknowledgments" for various sums on every side. Indeed, he had not the vaguest idea of how much he had lost. Disputes and hot discussions, too, almost verging on personal quarrels, dashed with all their irritating influences the gloom of his bad luck; and he felt, as he arose to go home, that he had not even that sorry consolation of the unfortunate gambler,--the pitying sympathy of the looker-on.

Over and over, as he went, he asked himself what Fate could possibly intend by this persistent persecution of him? Other fellows had their "innings" now and then. Their fortune came checkered with its bright and dark days. He never emerged, not even pa.s.singly, from his ill-luck. "I suppose," muttered he, "the whole is meant to tempt me--but to what? I need very little temptation if the bait be only money. Let me but see gold enough, and my resistance will not be very formidable. I 'll not risk my neck; short of that I 'm ready for anything." Thus thinking, he plodded onward through the dark night, vaguely wis.h.i.+ng at times that no morning was ever to break, and that existence might prolong itself out to one long dark autumn night, silent and starless.

As he reached the hall-door, he found his wife seated on the steps as on a former night. It had become a favorite spot with her to taste the cool refres.h.i.+ng night-air, and rally her from the feverish closeness of the sick-room.

"How is he? Is it over yet?" cried he, as he came up.

"He is better; he slept calmly for some hours, and woke much refreshed."

"I could have sworn it!" burst he in, vehemently. "It is the one way Fate could have rescued me, and it is denied me. I believe there is a curse on me! Eh--what?"

"I did n't speak," said she, meekly.

"You muttered, though. I heard you mumble something below your breath, as if you agreed with what I said. Say it out, Madam, if you think it."

She heaved a weary sigh, but said nothing.

"Has Beattie been here?" asked he, hastily.

"Yes; he stayed for above an hour, but was obliged to go at last to visit another patient. He brought Dr. Lendrick out with him; he arrived this evening."

"Lendrick! Do you mean the man from the Cape?"

"Yes."

"That completes it!" burst he, as he flung his arms wildly up. "I was just wondering what other malignant piece of spite Fortune could play me, and there it is! Had you any talk with this man?"

"Yes; he remained with me all the time Dr. Beattie was upstairs."

"And what was his tone? Has he come back to turn us out?--that of course he has--but does he avow it?"

"He shows no such intentions. He asked whether you held much to the Nest, if it was a place that you liked, or if you could relinquish it without any regret?"

"Why so?"

"Because Sir Brook Fossbrooke has just purchased it."

"What nonsense! you know as well as I do that he could n't purchase a dog-kennel. That property was valued at sixteen thousand pounds four years ago,--it is worth twenty now; and you talk to me of this beggar buying it!"

"I tell you what he told me, and it was this: Some mine that Sir Brook owned in Sardinia has turned out to be all silver, and in consequence he has suddenly become immensely rich,--so rich, indeed, that he has already determined to settle this estate on Lucy Lendrick; and intends, if he can induce Lord Drumcarran to part with 'The Forest,' to add it to the grounds."

Sewell grasped his hair with both hands, and ground his teeth together with pa.s.sion as he listened.

"You believe this story, I suppose?" said he at last.

"Yes; why should I not believe it?"

"I don't believe a word of it. I see the drift--I saw the drift of it before you had told me ten words. This tale is got up to lull us into security, and to quiet our suspicions. Lendrick knows well the alarm his unexpected return is likely to give us, and to allay our anxieties they have coined this narrative, as though to imply they will be rich enough not to care to molest us, nor stand between us and this old man's money.

Don't you see that?"

"I do not. It did not occur to me before, and I do not admit it now."

"I ought not to have asked you. I ought to have remembered what old Fossbrooke once called 'the beautiful trustfulness of your nature.'"