On the same evening that Fossbrooke was dining with the Viceroy,
Trafford arrived in Dublin, and set out at once for the little cottage
at Howth to surprise his old friend by his sudden appearance. Tom
Lendrick had given him so accurate a description of the spot that he
had no difficulty in finding it. If somewhat disappointed at first on
learning that Sir Brook had dined in town, and might not return till a
late hour, his mind was so full of all he had to say and to do that he
was not sorry to have some few hours to himself for quiet and tranquil
thought. He had come direct from Malta without going to Holt, and
therefore was still mainly ignorant of the sentiments of his family
towards him, knowing nothing beyond the fact that Sir Brook had induced
his father to see him. Even that was something. He did not look to be
restored to his place as the future head of the house, but he wanted
recognition and forgiveness,--the first for Lucy's sake more than his
own. The thought was too painful that his wife--and he was determined
she should be his wife--should not be kindly received and welcomed by
his family. “I ask nothing beyond this,” would he say over and over to
himself. “Let us be as poor as we may, but let them treat us as kindred,
and not regard us as outcasts. I bargain for no more.” He believed
himself thoroughly and implicitly when he said this. He was not
conscious with what force two other and very different influences
swayed him. He wished his father, and still more his mother, should see
Lucy,--not alone see her beauty and gracefulness, but should see the
charm of her manner, the fascination which her bright temperament threw
around her. “Why, her very voice is a spell!” cried he, aloud, as he
pictured her before him. And then, too, he nourished a sense of pride in
thinking how Lucy would be struck by the sight of Holt,--one of the most
perfect specimens of old Saxon architecture in the kingdom; for though
a long line of descendants had added largely, and incongruously too, to
the building, the stern and squat old towers, the low broad battlements
and square casements, were there, better blazons of birth and blood than
all the gilded decorations of a herald's college.
He honestly believed he would have liked to show her Holt as a true
type of an ancient keep, bold, bluff, and stern-looking, but with an
unmistakable look of power, recalling a time when there were lords and
serfs, and when a Trafford was as much a despot as the Czar himself. He
positively was not aware how far personal pride and vanity influenced
this desire on his part, nor how far he was moved by the secret pleasure
his heart would feel at Lucy's wondering admiration.
“If I cannot say, This is your home, this is your own, I can at least
say, It is from the race who have lived here for centuries he who loves
you is descended. We are no 'new rich,' who have to fall back upon our
wealth for the consideration we count upon. We were men of mark before
the Normans were even heard of.” All these, I say, he felt, but knew
not. That Lucy was one to care for such things he was well aware. She
was intensely Irish in her reverence for birth and descent, and had that
love of the traditionary which is at once the charm and the weakness of
the Celtic nature. Trafford sat thinking over these things, and thinking
over what might be his future. It was clear enough he could not remain
in the army; his pay, barely sufficient for his support at present,
would never suffice when he had a wife. He had some debts too; not very
heavy, indeed, but onerous enough when their payment must be made out of
the sale of his commission. How often had he done over that weary sum
of subtraction! Not that repetition made matters better to him; for
somehow, though he never could manage to make more of the sale of his
majority, he could still, unhappily for him, continually go on recalling
some debt or other that he had omitted to jot down,--an unlucky “fifty”
to Jones which had escaped him till now; and then there was Sewell! The
power of the unknown is incommensurable; and so it is, there is that in
a vague threat that terrifies the stoutest heart. Just before he left
Malta he had received a letter from a man whose name was not known to
him in these terms:--
“Sir,--It has come to my knowledge professionally, that proceedings will
shortly be instituted against you in the Divorce Court at the suit of
Colonel Sewell, on the ground of certain letters written by you.
These letters, now in the hands of Messrs. Cane & Kincaid, solicitors,
Dominick Street, Dublin, may be obtained by you on payment of one
thousand pounds, and the costs incurred up to this date. If it be your
desire to escape the scandal and publicity of this action, and the much
heavier damages that will inevitably result, you may do so by addressing
yourself to
“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.