Dr. Lendrick and his son still lingered at the Swan's Nest after Lucy's departure for the Priory. Lendrick, with many things to arrange and prepare for his coming voyage, was still so overcome by the thought of breaking up his home and parting from his children, that he could not address his mind to anything like business. He would wander about for hours through the garden and the shrubberies, taking leave, as he called it, of his dear plants and flowers, and come back to the house distressed and miserable. Often and often would he declare to Sir Brook, who was his guest, that the struggle was too much for him. “I never was a man of ardor or energy, and it is not now, when I have passed the middle term of life, that I am to hope for that spring and elasticity which were denied to my youth. Better for me send for Lucy, and stay where I am; nowhere shall I be so happy again.” Then would come the sudden thought that all this was mere selfishness, that in this life of inaction and indolence he was making no provision for that dear girl be loved so well. Whatever hopes the reconciliation with his father might lead to, would of course be utterly scattered to the winds by an act so full of disobedience as this. “It is true,” thought he, “I may fail abroad as I have failed at home. Success and I are scarcely on speaking terms,—but the grandfather cannot leave the granddaughter whom he has taken from her home, totally uncared and unprovided for.”

As for young Tom, Sir Brook had pledged himself to-take care of him. It was a vague expression enough; it might mean anything, everything, or nothing. Sir Brook Fossbrooke had certainly, in worldly parlance, not taken very good care of himself,—far from it; he had squandered and made away with two large estates and an immense sum in ready money. It was true he had friends everywhere,—some of them very great people with abundant influence, and well able to help those they cared for; but Fossbrooke was not one of those who ask; and the world has not yet come to the millennial beatitude in which one's friends importune them with inquiries how they are to be helped, what and where they wish for.

Many a time in the course of country-house life—at breakfast, as the post came in, and during the day, as a messenger would deliver a telegram—some great man would say, “There is a vacancy there—such a one has died—so-and-so has retired. There's a thing to suit you, Fossbrooke,”—and Sir Brook would smile, say a word or two that implied nothing, and so would end the matter. If “my Lord” ever retained any memory of the circumstance some time after, it would be that he had offered something to Fossbrooke, who would n't take it, did n't care for it. For so is it throughout life; the event which to one is the veriest trifle of the hour, is to another a fate and a fortune; and then, great folk who lead lives of ease and security are very prone to forget that humble men have often a pride very disproportioned to their condition, and are timidly averse to stretch out the hand for what it is just possible it may not be intended they should touch.

At all events, Fossbrooke went his way through the world a mystery to many and a puzzle,—some averring that it was a shame to his friends in power that he had “got nothing,” others as stoutly declaring that he was one whom no office would tempt, nor would any place requite him for the loss of liberty and independence.

He himself was well aware of each of these theories, but too proud to say a word to those who professed either of them. If, however, he was too haughty to ask for himself, he was by no means above being a suitor for his friends; and many a one owed to his active solicitude the advancement which none stood more in need of than himself.

“We shall make the Viceroy do something for us, Tom,” he would say. “Think over what it shall be,—for that's the invariable question, What is it you want? And it's better far to say, Make me an archbishop, than have to own that you want anything, and are, maybe, fit for nothing.”

Though Lendrick was well disposed towards Fossbrooke, and fully sensible of his manly honesty and frankness, he could not help seeing that he was one of those impulsive sanguine natures that gain nothing from experience beyond the gift of companionship. They acquire all that can make them delightful in society,—boons they are,—and especially to those whose more prudent temperament inclines them to employ their gifts more profitably. Scores of these self-made men, rich to overflowing with all that wealth could buy around them, would say, What a happy fellow was Fossbrooke! what a blessing it was to have his nature, his spirits, buoyancy, and such-like,—to be able to enjoy life as he did! Perhaps they believed all that they said too,—who knows? When they made such speeches to himself, as they would at times, he heard them with the haughty humility of one who hears himself praised for that which the flatterer deems a thing too low for envy. He well understood how cheaply others estimated his wares, for they were a scrip that figured in no share-list, and never were quoted at a premium.

Lendrick read him very correctly, and naturally thought that a more practical and a more worldly guide would have been better for Tom,—some one to hold him back, not to urge him forward; some one to whisper prudence, restraint, denial,—not daring, and dash, and indulgence. But somehow these flighty, imaginative, speculative men have very often a wonderful persuasiveness about them, and can give to the wildest dreams a marvellous air of substance and reality. A life so full of strange vicissitudes as Fossbrooke's seemed a guarantee for any—no matter what—turn of fortune. Hear him tell of where he had been, what he had done, and with whom, and you at once felt you were in presence of one to whom no ordinary laws of worldly caution or prudence applied.

That his life had compassed many failures and few successes was plain enough. He never sought to hide the fact.

Indeed, he was candor itself in his confessions, only that he accompanied them by little explanations, showing the exact spot and moment in which he had lost the game. It was wonderful what credit he seemed to derive from these disclosures. It was like an honest trader showing his balance-sheet to prove that, but for the occurrence of such ills as no prudence could ward off, his condition must have been one of prosperity.

Never did he say anything more truthful than that “he had never cared for money.” So long as he had it he used it lavishly, thoughtlessly, very often generously. When he ceased to have it, the want scarcely appeared to touch him personally. Indeed, it was only when some necessity presented itself to aid this one or extricate that, he would suddenly remember his impotence to be of use, and then the sting of his poverty would sorely pain him.

Like all men who have suffered reverses, he had to experience the different acceptance he met with in his days of humble fortune from what greeted him in his era of prosperity. If he felt this, none could detect it. His bearing and manner betrayed nothing of such consciousness. A very slight increase of stateliness might possibly have marked him in his poverty, and an air of more reserved dignity, which showed itself in his manner to strangers. In all other respects he was the same.

That such a character should have exercised a great influence over a young man like Tom Lendrick—ardent, impetuous, and desirous of adventure—was not strange.

“We must make a fortune for Lucy, Tom,” said Sir Brook. “Your father's nature is too fine strung to be a money-maker, and she must be cared for.” This was a desire which he continued to utter day after day; and though Fossbrooke usually smoked on after he had said it without any intimation as to where and when and how this same fortune was to be amassed, Tom Lendrick placed the most implicit faith in the assurance that it would be done “somehow.”

One morning as Lendrick was walking with his son in the garden, making, as he called it, his farewell visit to his tulips and moss-roses, he asked Tom if any fixed plan had been decided on as to his future.

“We have got several, sir. The difficulty is the choice. Sir Brook was at one time very full of buying a great tract in Donegal, and stocking it with all sorts of wild animals. We began with deer, antelopes, and chamois; and last night we got to wolves, bears, and a tiger. We were to have a most commodious shooting-box, and invite parties to come and sport, who, instead of going to Bohemia, the Rocky Mountains, and to Africa, would find all their savagery near home, and pay us splendidly for the privilege.

“There are some difficulties in the plan, it is true; our beasts might not be easy to keep within bounds. The jaguar might make an excursion into the market-town; the bear might eat a butcher. Sir Brook, besides, doubts if fero could be preserved under the game laws. He has sent a case to Brewster for his opinion.”

“Don't tell me of such absurdities,” said Lendrick, trying to repress his quiet laugh. “I want you to speak seriously and reasonably.”

“I assure you, sir, we have the whole details of this on paper, even to the cost of the beasts, and the pensions to the widows of the keepers that may be devoured. Another plan that we had, and it looked plausible enough too, was to take out a patent for a wonderful medical antidote. As Sir Brook says, there is nothing like a patent medicine to make a man rich; and by good luck he is possessed of the materials for one. He has the secret for curing the bite of the rattlesnake. He got it from a Tuscarora Indian, who, I believe, was a sort of father-in-law to him. Three applications of this to the wound have never been known to fail.”

“But we are not infested with rattlesnakes, Tom.”

“That's true, sir. We thought of that, and decided that we should alter the prospectus of our company, and we have called it 'The antidote to an evil of stupendous magnitude and daily recurrence.

“A new method of flotation in water, by inflating the cellular membrane to produce buoyancy; a translation of the historical plays of Shakspeare into Tonga, for the interesting inhabitants of those islands; artificial rainfall by means of the voltaic battery: these are a few of his jottings down in a little book in manuscript he has entitled 'Things to be Done.'

“His favorite project, however, is one he has revolved for years in his mind, and he is fully satisfied that it contains the germ of boundless wealth. It has been shown, he says, that in the smoke issuing from the chimneys of great smelt-ing-furnaces, particles of subtilized metal are carried away to the amount of thousands of pounds sterling: not merely is the quantity great, but the quality, as might be inferred, is of the most valuable and precious kind. To arrest and precipitate this waste is his project, and he has been for years making experiments to this end. He has at length, he believes, arrived at the long-sought-for problem; and as he possesses a lead-mine in the island of Sardinia, he means that we should set out there, and at once begin operations.”

Dr. Lendrick shook his head gravely as he listeued; indeed, Tom's manner in detailing Sir Brook's projects was little calculated to inspire serious confidence.

“I know, father,” cried he, “what you mean. I know well how wild and flighty these things appear; but if you had only heard them from him,—had you but listened to his voice, and heard him speak of his own doubts and fears,—how he canvasses, not merely the value of his project, but what the world will say of it and of him,—how modestly he rates himself,—how free of all the cant of the discoverer he is,—how simply he enters into explanations,—how free to own the difficulties that bar success,—I say, if you had experienced these, I feel sure you would not escape from him without catching some of that malady of speculation which has so long beset him. Nor is one less disposed to trust him that he makes no parade of these things. Indeed, they are his deepest, most inviolable secrets. In his intercourse with the world no one has ever heard him allude to one of these projects, and I have given him my solemn pledge not to speak of them, save to you.”

“It is a reason to think better of the man, Tom, but not to put more faith in the discoveries.”

“I believe I take the man and his work together; at all events, when I am along with him, and listening to him, he carries me away captive, and I am ready to embark in any enterprise he suggests. Here he comes, with two letters, I see, in his hand. Did you ever see a man less like a visionary, father? Is not every trait of his marked with thought and struggle?” This was not the way Tom's father read Fossbrooke, but there was no time to discuss the point further.

“A letter for each of you,” said Sir Brook, handing them; and then taking out a cigar, he strolled down an alley, while they were engaged in reading.

“We have got a tenant at last,” said Lendrick. “The Dublin house-agent has found some one who will take the place as it stands; and now, to think of my voyage.”