It was decided on that evening that Sir Brook and Tom should set out for Dublin the next morning. Lucy knew not why this sudden determination had been come to, and Tom, who never yet had kept a secret from her, was now reserved and uncommunicative. Nor was it merely that he held aloof his confidence, but he was short and snappish in his manner, as though she had someway vexed him, and vexed him in some shape that he could not openly speak of or resent.

This was very new to her from him, and yet how was it? She had not courage to ask for an explanation. Tom was not exactly one of those people of whom it was pleasant to ask explanations., Where the matter to be explained might be one of delicacy, he had a way of abruptly blurting out the very thing one would have desired might be kept back. Just as an awkward surgeon will tear off the dressing, and set a wound a-bleeding, would he rudely destroy the work of time in healing by a moment of rash impatience. It was knowing this—knowing it well—that deterred Lucy from asking what might lead to something not over-agreeable to hear.

“Shall I pack your portmanteau, Tom?” asked she. It was a task that always fell to her lot.

“No; Nicholas can do it,—any one can do it,” said he, as he mumbled with an unlit cigar between his teeth.

“You used to say I always did it best, Tom,—that I never forgot anything,” said she, caressingly.

“Perhaps I did,—perhaps I thought so. Look here, Lucy,” said he, as though by an immense effort he had got strength to say what he wanted, “I am half vexed with you, if not more than half.”

“Vexed with me, Tom,—vexed with me! and for what?”

“I don't think that you need ask. I am inclined to believe that you know perfectly well what I mean, and what I would much rather not say, if you will only let me.”

“I do not,” said she, slowly and deliberately.

“Do you mean to say, Lucy,” said he, and his manner was almost stern as he spoke, “that you have no secrets from me, that you are as frank and outspoken with me today as you were three months ago?”

“I do say so.”

“Then what's the meaning of this letter?” cried he, as, carried away by a burst of passion, he overstepped all the prudential reserve he had sworn to himself to regard. “What does this mean?”

“I know nothing of that letter, nor what it contains,” said she, blushing till her very brow became crimson.

“I don't suppose you do, for though it is addressed to you, the seal is unbroken; but you know whose handwriting it's in, and you know that you have had others from the same quarter.”

“I believe the writing is Mr. Trafford's,” said she, as a deathlike paleness spread over her face, “because he himself once asked me to read a letter from him in the same handwriting.”

“Which you did?”

“No; I refused. I handed the letter back to him unopened, and said that, as I certainly should not write to him without my father's knowledge and permission, I would not read a letter from him without the same.”

“And what was the epistle, then, that the vicar's housekeeper handed him from you?”

“That same letter I have spoken of. He left it on my table, insisting and believing that on second thoughts I would read it. He thought so because it was not to me, though addressed to me, but the copy of a letter he had written to his mother, about me certainly.” Here she blushed deeply again. “As I continued, however, of the same mind, determined not to see what the letter contained, I re-enclosed it and gave it to Mrs. Brennan to hand to him.”

“And all this you kept a secret from me?”

“It was not my secret. It was his. It was his till such time as he could speak of it to my father, and this he told me had not yet come.”

“Why not?”

“I never asked him that. I do not think, Tom,” said she, with much emotion, “it was such a question as you would have had me ask.”

“Do you love—Come, darling Lucy, don't be angry with me. I never meant to wound your feelings. Don't sob that way, my dear, dear Lucy. You know what a rough coarse fellow I am; but I'd rather die than offend you. Why did you not tell me of all this? I never liked any one so well as Trafford, and why leave me to the chance of misconstruing him? Would n't it have been the best way to have trusted me as you always have?”

“I don't see what there was to have confided to you. Mr. Trafford might, if he wished. I mean, that if there was a secret at all. I don't know what I mean,” cried she, covering her face with her handkerchief, while a convulsive motion of her shoulders showed how she was moved.

“I am as glad as if I had got a thousand pounds, to know you have been so right, so thoroughly right, in all this, Lucy; and I am glad, too, that Trafford has done nothing to make me think less well of him. Let's be friends; give me your hand, like a dear, good girl, and forgive me if I have said what pained you.”

“I am not angry, Tom,” said she, giving her hand, but with her head still averted.

“God knows it's not the time for us to fall out,” said he, with a shaking voice. “Going to separate as we are, and when to be together again not so easy to imagine.”

“You are surely going out with papa?” asked she, eagerly.

“No; they say not.”

“Who says not?”

“The governor himself—Sir Brook—old Mills—everybody, in fact. They have held a committee of the whole house on it. I think Nicholas was present too; and it has been decided that as I am very much given to idleness, bitter beer, and cigars, I ought not to be anywhere where these ingredients compose the chief part of existence. Now the Cape is precisely one of these places; and if you abstract the idleness, the bitter beer, and the tobacco, there is nothing left but a little Hottentotism, which is neither pleasant nor profitable. Voted, therefore, I am not to go to the Cape. It is much easier, however, to open the geography books, and show all the places I am unfit for, than to hit upon the one that will suit me. And so I am going up to Dublin to-morrow with Sir Brook to consult—I don't well know whom, perhaps a fortune-teller—what 's to be done with me. All I do know is, I am to see my grandfather, and to wait on the Viceroy, and I don't anticipate that any of us will derive much pleasure from either event.”

“Oh, Tom! what happiness it would be to me if grandpapa—” She stopped, blushed, and tried in vain to go on.

“Which is about the least likely thing in the world, Lucy,” said he, answering her unspoken sentence. “I am just the sort of creature he could n't abide,—not to add that, from all I have heard of him, I 'd rather take three years with hard labor at the hulks than live with him. It will do very well with you. You have patience, and a soft forgiving disposition. You 'll fancy yourself, besides, Heaven knows what of a heroine, for submitting to his atrocious temper, and imagine slavery to be martyrdom. Now, I could n't. I 'd let him understand that I was one of the family, and had a born right to be as ill-tempered, as selfish, and as unmannerly as any other Lendrick.”

“But if he should like you, Tom? If you made a favorable impression upon him when you met?”

“If I should, I think I 'd go over to South Carolina, and ask some one to buy me as a negro, for I 'd know in my heart it was all I could be fit for.”

“Oh, my dear, dear Tom, I wish you would meet him in a different spirit, if only for poor papa's sake. You know what store he lays by grandpapa's affection.”

“I see it, and it puzzles me. If any one should continue to ill-treat me for five-and-twenty years, I 'd not think of beginning to forgive him till after fifty more, and I 'm not quite sure I 'd succeed then.”

“But you are to meet him, Tom,” said she, hopefully. “I trust much to your meeting.”

“That 's more than I do, Lucy. Indeed, I 'd not go at all, except on the condition which I have made with myself, to accept nothing from him. I had not meant to tell you this; but it has escaped me, and can't be helped. Don't hang your head and pout your lip over that bad boy, brother Tom. I intend to be as submissive and as humble in our interview as if I was going to owe my life to him, just because I want him to be very kind and gracious to you; and I 'd not wish to give him any reason for saying harsh things of me, which would hurt you to listen to. If I only knew how—and I protest I do not—I'd even try and make a favorable impression upon him, for I 'd like to be able to come and see you, Lucy, now and then, and it would be a sore blow to me if he forbade me.”

“You don't think I'd remain under his roof if he should do so?” asked she, indignantly.

“Not if you saw him turn me away,—shutting the door in my face; but what scores of civil ways there are of intimating that one is not welcome! But why imagine all these?—none of them may happen; and, as Sir Brook says, the worst misfortunes of life are those that never come to us; and I, for one, am determined to deal only with real, actual, present enemies. Is n't he a rare old fellow?—don't you like him, Lucy?”

“I like him greatly.”

“He loves you, Lucy,—he told me so; he said you were so like a girl whose godfather he was, and that he had loved her as if she were his own. Whether she had died, or whether something had happened that estranged them, I could n't make out; but he said you had raised up some old half-dead embers in his heart, and kindled a flame where he had thought all was to be cold forever; and the tears came into his eyes, and that great deep voice of his grew fainter and fainter, and something that sounded like a sob stopped him. I always knew he was a brave, stout-hearted, gallant fellow; but that he could feel like this I never imagined. I almost think it was some girl he was going to be married to once that you must be so like. Don't you think so?” “I don't know; I cannot even guess,” said she, slowly. “It's not exactly the sort of nature where one would expect to find much sentiment; but, as he said one day, some old hearts are like old chateaux, with strange old chambers in them that none have traversed for years and years, and with all the old furniture moth-eaten and crumbling, but standing just where it used to be. I 'd not wonder if it was of himself he was speaking.”

She remained silent and thoughtful, and he went on,—“There's a deal of romance under that quaint stern exterior. What do you think he said this morning?—'Your father's heart is wrapped up in this place, Tom; let us set to work to make money and buy it for him. 'I did not believe he was serious, and I said some stupid nonsense about a diamond necklace and ear-rings for you on the day of presentation; and he turned upon me with a fierce look, and in a voice trembling with anger, said, 'Well, sir, and whom would they become better? Is it her birth or her beauty would disparage them, if they were the jewels of a crown?' I know I 'll not cross another whim of his in the same fashion again; though he came to my room afterwards to make an apology for the tone in which he had spoken, and assured me it should never be repeated.” “I hope you told him you had not felt offended.” “I did more,—I did, at least, what pleased him more,—I said I was delighted with that plan of his about buying up the Nest, and that the very thought gave a zest to any pursuit I might engage in; and so, Lucy, it is settled between us that if his Excellency won't make me something with a fine salary and large perquisites, Sir Brook and I are to set out I'm not very sure where, and we are to do I'm not quite certain what; but two such clever fellows, uniting experience with energy, can't fail, and the double event—I mean the estate and the diamonds—are just as good as won already. Well, what do you want, Nicholas?” cried Tom, as the grim old man put his head inside the door and retired again, mumbling something as he went. “Oh, I remember it now; he has been tormenting the governor all day about getting him some place,—some situation or other; and the old rascal thinks we are the most ungrateful wretches under the sun, to be so full of our own affairs and so forgetful of his: we are certainly not likely to leave him unprovided for; he can't imagine that. Here he comes again. My father is gone into Killaloe, Nicholas; but don't be uneasy, he 'll not forget you.”

“Forgettin's one thing, Master Tom, and rememberin's the right way is another,” said Nicholas, sternly. “I told him yesterday, and I repeated it to-day, I won't go among them Hottentots.”

“Has he asked you?”

“Did he ask me?” repeated the old man, leaning forward and eying him fiercely,—“did he ask me?”

“My brother means, Nicholas, that papa could n't expect you to go so far away from your home and your friends.”

“And where's my home and my friends?” cried the irascible old fellow; “and I forty-eight years in the family? Is that the way to have a home or friends either?”

“No, Tom, no,—I entreat—I beg of you,” said Lucy, standing between her brother and the old man, and placing her hand on Tom's lips; “you know well that he can't help it.”

“That's just it,” cried Nicholas, catching the words; “I can't help it. I 'm too old to help it. It is n't after eight-and-forty years one ought to be looking out for new sarvice.”

“Papa hopes that grandpapa will have no objection to taking you, Nicholas; he means to write about it to-day; but if there should be a difficulty, he has another place.”

“Maybe I'm to 'list and be a sodger; faix, it wouldn't be much worse than going back to your grandfather.”

“Why, you discontented old fool,” burst in Tom, “have n't you been teasing our souls out these ten years back by your stories of the fine life you led in the Chief Baron's house?”

“The eatin' was better, and the drinkin' was better,” said Nicholas, resolutely. “Wherever the devil it comes from, the small beer here bangs Banagher; but for the matter of temper he was one of yourselves! and by my sowl, it's a family not easily matched!”

“I agree with you; any other man than my father would have pitched you neck and crop into the Shannon years ago,—I 'll be shot if I would n't.”

“Mind them words. What you said there is a threat; it's what the law makes a constructive threat, and we 'll see what the Coorts say to it.”

“I declare, Nicholas, you would provoke any one; you will let no one be your friend,” said Lucy; and taking her brother's arm she led him away, while the old man, watching them till they entered the shrubbery, seated himself leisurely in a deep arm-chair, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “By my conscience,” muttered he, “it takes two years off my life every day I have to keep yez in order.”