“A letter for you by the post, sir, and his Lordship's compliments to
say he is waiting breakfast,” were the first words which Sewell heard
the next morning.
“Waiting breakfast! Tell him not to wait,--I mean, make my respects to
his Lordship, and say I feel very poorly to-day,--that I think I 'll not
get up just yet.”
“Would you like to see Dr. Beattie, sir? He's in the drawing-room.”
“Nothing of the kind. It's a complaint I caught in India; I manage it
myself. Bring me up some coffee and rum in about an hour, and mind,
don't disturb me on any account till then. What an infernal house!”
muttered he, as the man withdrew. “A subaltern called up for morning
parade has a better life than this. Nine o'clock only! What can this old
ass mean by this pretended activity? Upon whom can it impose? Who will
believe that it signifies a rush whether he lay abed till noon or rose
by daybreak?” A gentle tap came to the door, but as he made no reply
there came after a pause another, a little louder. Sewell still
preserved silence, and at last the sound of retiring footsteps along the
corridor. “Not if I know it,” muttered he to himself, as he turned round
and fell off asleep again.
“The coffee, sir, and a despatch; shall I sign the receipt for you?”
said the servant, as he reappeared about noon.
“Yes; open the window a little, and leave me.”
Leaning on his arm, he tore open the envelope and glanced at the
signature,--“Lucy.” He then read, “Send down Eccles or Beattie by next
train; he is worse.” He read and re-read this at least half-a-dozen
times over before he bethought him of the letter that lay still unopened
on the bed.
He now broke the seal; it was also from his wife, dated the preceding
evening, and very brief:--
“Dear Dudley,--Captain Trafford has had a severe fall. Crescy balked
at the brook and fell afterwards. Trafford was struck on the head as he
rose by Mr. Creagh's horse. It is feared the skull is fractured. You
are much blamed for having asked him to ride a horse so much under his
weight. All have refused to accept their bets but Kinshela the grocer.
I have written to Sir H. Trafford, and I telegraphed to him Dr. Tobin's
opinion, which is not favorable. I suppose you will come back at once;
if not, telegraph what you advise to be done. Mr. Balfour is here still,
but I do not find he is of much use. The veterinary decided Crescy
should be shot, as the plate-bone, I think he called it, was
fractured; and as he was in great pain, I consented. I hope I have done
right.--Yours truly,
“Lucy Sewell.”
“Here's a go! a horse I refused four hundred and fifty for on Tuesday
last! I _am_ a lucky dog, there 's no denying it. I did n't know there
was a man in Europe could have made that horse balk his fence. What
a rumpus to make about a fellow getting a 'cropper'! My share of the
disaster is a deuced deal the worst. I 'll never chance on such a horse
again. How am I to find either of these men?” muttered he, as he took up
the telegram. He rang the bell violently, and scarcely ceased to pull at
it till the servant entered.
“Where does Dr. Eccles live?”
“Sir Gilbert, sir?”
“Ay, if he be Sir Gilbert.”
“Merrion Square, sir,” said the man reproachfully, for he thought it
rather hard to ignore one of the great celebrities of the land.
“Take this note to him, that I 'll write now, and if he be from home go
to the other man,--what's his name?--Beattie.”
“Dr. Beattie is coming to dinner to-day, sir,” said the servant,
thinking to facilitate matters.
“Just do as I tell you, my good fellow, and don't interrupt. If I am to
take up my quarters here, you'll all of you have to change some of
your present habits.” As he spoke, he dashed off a few hasty lines,
addressing them to Sir Gilbert Eccles or Dr. Beattie. “Ask if it's 'all
right;' that will be sufficient reply; and now send me my bath.” As he
proceeded with his dressing,--a very lengthy affair it always was,--he
canvassed with himself whether or not he ought to take the train and
go down to the country with the doctor. Possibly few men in such
circumstances would have given the matter a doubt. The poor fellow who
had incurred the mishap had been, at his insistence, acting for him. Had
it not been for Se well's pressing this task upon him, Trafford would
at that moment have been hale and hearty. Sewell knew all this well; he
read the event just as nineteen out of every twenty would have read
it, but having done so, he proceeded to satisfy himself why all these
reasonings should give way to weightier considerations.
First of all, it would not be quite convenient to let the old Judge know
anything of these doings in the country. His strait-laced notions might
revolt at races and betting-rings. It might not be perhaps decorous that
a registrar of a high court should be the patron of such sports. These
were prudential reasons, which he dilated on for some time. Then came
some, others more sentimental. It was to a house of doctors and nurses
and gloom and sorrow he should go back. All these were to him peculiarly
distasteful. He should be tremendously “bored” by it all, and being
“bored” was to him whatever was least tolerable in life. It was strange
that there was one other reason stronger than all these,--a reason that
really touched him in what was the nearest thing in his nature to heart.
He couldn't go back and look at the empty loose-box where his favorite
horse once stood, and where he was never to stand more. Crescy the
animal he was so proud of,--the horse he counted on for who knows what
future triumphs,--the first steeplechase horse, he felt convinced, in
Ireland, if not in the kingdom,--such strength, such power in the loins,
such square joints, such courage, should he ever see united again? If
there was anything in that man's nature that represented affection, he
had it for this horse. He knew well to what advantage he looked when on
his back,--he knew what admiration and envy it drew upon him to see
him thus mounted. He had won him at billiards from a man who was half
broken-hearted at parting with him, and who offered immense terms rather
than lose him.
“He said I'd have no luck with him,” muttered Sewell, now in his
misery,--“and, confound the fellow! he was right. No, I can't go back to
look at his empty stall. It would half kill me.”
It was very real grief, all this; he was as thoroughly heart-sore as it
was possible for him to be. He sorrowed for what nothing in his future
life could replace to him; and this is a very deep sorrow.
Trafford's misfortune was so much the origin and cause of his own
disaster that he actually thought of him with bitterness. The man who
could make Crescy balk! What fate could be too hard for him?
Nor was he quite easy in his mind about that passage in his wife's
letter stating that men would not take their bets. Was this meant as
reflecting upon him? Was it a censure on him for making Trafford ride
a horse beneath his weight? “They get up some stupid cry of that sort,”
muttered he, “as if I am not the heaviest loser of all. I lost a horse
that was worth a score of Traffords.”
When dressed, Sewell went down to the garden and lit his cigar. His
sorrow had grown calmer, and he began to think that in the new life
before him he should have had to give up horses and sport of every kind.
“I must make my book now on this old fellow, and get him to make me his
heir. He cares little for his son, and he can be made to care just as
little for his granddaughter. That's the only game open to me,--a dreary
life it promises to be, but it's better than a jail.”
The great large wilderness of a garden, stretching away into an orchard
at the end, was in itself a place to suggest sombre thoughts,--so
silent and forsaken did it all appear. The fruit lay thick on the ground
uncared for; the artichokes, grown to the height of shrubs, looked
monsters of uncouthness; and even in the alleys flower-seeds had fallen
and given birth to flowers, which struggled up through the gravel and
hung their bright petals over the footway. There was in the neglect, the
silence, the un-cared-for luxuriance of the place, all that could make
a moody man moodier; and as he knocked off the great heads of the tall
hollyhocks, he thought, and even said aloud, “This is about as much
amusement as such a spot offers.”
“Oh no, not so bad as that,” said a laughing voice; and Lucy peeped over
a laurel-hedge with a rake in her hand, and seemed immensely amused at
his discomfiture.
[Illustration: 302]
“Where are you?--I mean, how is one to come near you?” said he, trying
to laugh, but not successfully.
“Go round yonder by the fish-pond, and you 'll find a wicket. This is
_my_ garden, and I till it myself.”
“So!” said he, entering a neat little enclosure, with beds of flowers
and flowering shrubs, “this is your garden?”
“Yes,--what do you think of it?”
“It's very pretty,--it 's very nice. I should like it larger, perhaps.”
“So would I; but, being my own gardener, I find it quite big enough.”
“Why doesn't the Chief give you a gardener?--he's rich enough, surely.”
“He never cared for gardening himself. Indeed, I think it is the wild
confusion of foliage here that he likes. He said to me one day, 'In _my_
old garden a man loses himself in thought. In this trimly kept place one
is ever occupied by the melon-frame or the forcing-house.'”
“That's the dreadful thing about old people; they are ever for making
the whims and crotchets of age the rules of life to others. I wonder you
bear this so well.”
“I didn't know that I bore anything,” said she, with a smile.
“That's true slave doctrine, I must say; and when one does not feel
bondage, there's no more to be said.”
“I suspect I have a great deal more freedom than most girls; my time is
almost all my own, to dispose of as I will. I read, or play, or walk,
or work, as I feel inclined. If I wish to occupy myself with household
matters, I am the mistress here.”
“In other words, you are free to do everything that is not worth
doing,--you lead the life of a nun in a convent, only that you have not
even a sister nun to talk to.”
“And which are the things you say are worth doing?”
“Would you not care to go out into the world, to mix in society, to go
to balls, theatres, fêtes, and such-like? Would you not like to ride? I
don't mean it for flattery, but would you not, like the admiration you
would be sure to meet,--the sort of homage people render to beauty,
the ouly tribute the world ever paid freely,--are all these not worth
something?”
“I am sure they are: they are worth a great deal to those who can enjoy
them with a happy heart; but remember, Colonel Se well, I have a father
living in exile, simply to earn a livelihood, and I have a brother
toiling for his bread in a strange land: is it likely I could forget
these, or is it likely that I could carry such cares about with me, and
enjoy the pleasures you tell of?”
“Oh! as for that, I never met the man, nor woman either, that could
bring into the world a mind unburdened by care. You must take life as it
is. If I was to wait for a heart at ease before I went into society, I
'd have to decline a few dinner-parties. Your only chance of a little
respite, besides, is at your age. The misfortunes of life begin as a
little drizzle, but become a regular downpour when one gets to _my_ time
of life. Let me just tell you what this morning brought forth. A letter
and then a telegram from my wife, to tell me that my favorite horse--an
animal worth five hundred pounds if he was worth five shillings--the
truest, bravest, best horse I ever backed--has just been killed by a
stupid fellow I got to ride for me. What he did to make the horse refuse
his leap, what magic he used, what conjuring trick he performed, I can't
tell. With _me_ it was enough to show him his fence, and if I wanted it
I could n't have held him back. But this fellow--a dragoon, too, and the
crack rider of his regiment--contrives to discourage my poor beast, then
rushes him at the jump at half speed. I know it was a widish brook, and
they tumbled in, and my horse smashed his blade bone,--of course there
was nothing for it but to shoot him.”
“How sad! I am really sorry for you.”
“And all this came of the old Judge's message, the stupidity of sending
me five words in a telegram, instead of writing a proper note, and
saying what he wanted. But for that I 'd have stayed at home, ridden my
horse, won my match, and spared myself the whole disaster.”
“Grandpapa is often very hasty in his decisions, but I believe he seldom
sees cause to revoke them.”
“The old theory, 'The King can do no wrong,'” said Sewell, with a saucy
laugh; “but remember he can often do a deal of mischief incidentally, as
it were,--as on the present occasion.”
“And the rider, what of him? Did he escape unhurt?” said she, eager to
avoid unpleasant discussion.
“The rider! my dear young lady,” said he, with affected slowness,--“the
rider came to grief. What he did, or how he did it, to throw my poor
horse down, is his own secret, and, from what I hear, he is likely to
keep it. No, no, don't look so horrified,--he's not killed, but I don't
suspect he's a long way off it. He got a smashing fall at a fence I 'd
have backed myself to ride with my hands tied. Ay, and to have my good
horse back again, I 'd ride in that fashion to-morrow.”
“And the poor fellow, where is he now?”
“The poor fellow is receiving the very sweetest of Mrs. Sewell's
attentions. He is at my house,--in all likelihood in my room,--not that
he is very conscious of all the favors bestowed upon him.”
“Oh, don't talk with that pretended indifference! You must be, you
cannot help being, deeply sorry for what has happened.”
“There can be very little doubt on that score. I've lost such a horse as
I never shall own again.”
“Pray think of something beside your horse. Who was he? What's his
name?”
“A stranger,--an Englishman; you never heard of him; and I wish I had
never heard of him!”
“What are you smiling at?” said she, after a pause, for he stood as
though reflecting, and a very strange half-smile moved his mouth.
“I was just thinking,” said he, gravely, “what his younger brother ought
to give me; for this fellow was an elder son, and heir to a fine estate
too.”
She turned an indignant glance towards him, and moved away. He was
quickly after her, however, and, laying his hand on her arm, said
good-humoredly: “Come, don't be angry with me. I 'm sorry, if you
like,--I 'm very sorry for this poor fellow. I won't say that my own
loss does not dash my sorrow with a little anger,--he was such a horse!
and the whole thing was such a blunder! as fair a brook,--with a high
bank, it's true,--but as fair a fence as ever & man rode at, and ground
like this we 're walking over to take off from.”
“Is he in danger?”
“I believe so; here's what my wife says. Oh, I haven't got the letter
about me, but it comes to this, I was to send down one of the best
doctors by the first train, telling him it was a case of compression
or concussion, which is it? And so I have despatched Beattie, your
grandfather's man. I suppose there 's no better?”
“But why have you not gone back yourself? He was a friend, was he not?”
“Yes, he was what people would call a friend. I 'm like the hare in the
fable, I have many friends; but if I must be confidential, I 'll tell
you why I did _not_ go. I had a notion, just as likely to be wrong
as right, that the Chief would take offence at his Registrar being a
sporting character, and that if I were to absent myself just now, he'd
find out the reason, whereas by staying here I could keep all quiet, and
when Beattie came back I could square _him_.”
“You could what?”
“A thousand pardons for my bit of slang; but the fact is, just as one
talks French when he wants to say nothings, one takes to slang when one
requires to be shifty. I meant to say, I could manage to make the doctor
hold his tongue.”
“Not if grandpapa were to question him.”
Sewell smiled, and shook his head in dissent.
“No, no. You're quite mistaken in Dr. Beattie; and what's more, you 're
quite mistaken in grandpapa too, if you imagine that he 'll think the
better of you for forgetting the claims of friendship.”
“There was none.”
“Well, of humanity, then! It was in _your_ cause this man suffered, and
it is in _your_ house he lies ill. I think you ought to be there also.”
“Do you think so?”
“I 'm sure of it. You know the world a great deal better than I do,
and you can tell what people will say of your absence; but I think it
requires no knowledge of more than one's own nature to feel what is
right and proper here.”
“Indeed!” said he, reflectingly.
“Don't you agree with me?”
“Perhaps,--that is, in part. I suppose what you mean about the world is,
that there will be some scandal afloat, the 'young wife' story, and all
that sort of balderdash?”
“I really do not understand you.”
“You don't?”
“No. Certainly not. What do you mean?”
“Possibly you did not understand me. Well, if I am to go, there 's no
time to be lost. It's four o'clock already, and the last train leaves at
five-forty. I will go.”
“You are quite right.”
“You 'll make my excuses to the Chief. You 'll tell him that my wife's
message was so alarming that I could not delay my departure. Beattie
will probably be back tomorrow, and bring you news of us.”
“Won't you write a few lines?”
“I 'm not sure,--I 'll not promise. I'm a bad penman, but my wife will
write, I 've no doubt. Say all sorts of affectionate and dutiful things
to the Chief for me; tell him I went away in despair at not being able
to say good-bye; he likes that style of thing, does n't he?”
“I don't think he cares much for 'that style of thing,'” said she, with
a saucy smile.
“What a capital mimic you are! Do you know I am just beginning to
suspect that you are, for all your quiet simplicity of manner, a deuced
deep one. Am I right?”
She shook her head, but made no reply.
“Not that I 'd like you the less for it,” said he, eagerly; “on the
contrary, we 'd understand each other all the better; there's nothing
like people talking the same language, eh?”
“I hope you'll not lose your train,” said she, looking at her watch; “I
am half-past four.”
“A broad hint,” said he, laughing; “bye-bye,--_à bientôt_.”