The little lodging occupied by Sir Brook and young Lendrick was in a not very distinguished suburb near Cullen's Wood. It was in a small one-storied cottage, whose rickety gate bore the inscription “Avoca Villa” on a black board, under which, in the form of permanence that indicated frequent changes of domicile, were the words, “Furnished Apartments, and Board if required.” A small enclosure, with three hollyhocks in a raised mound in the centre, and a luxurious crop of nettles around, served as garden: a narrow path of very rough shingle conducted to the door.

The rooms within were very small, low, and meanly furnished; they bespoke both poverty and neglect; and while the broken windows, the cobwebbed ceiling, and the unwashed floor all indicated that no attention was bestowed on comfort or even decency, over the fireplace, in a large black frame, was a painting representing the genealogical tree of the house of the proprietor, Daniel O'Reardon, Esquire, the lineal descendant of Frenok-Dhubh-na-Bochlish O'Reardon, who was King of West Carbarry, a.d. 703, and who, though at present only a doorkeeper in H. M. Court of Exchequer, had royal blood in his veins, and very kingly thoughts in his head.

If a cruel destiny compelled Mr. O'Reardon to serve the Saxon, he “took it out” in a most hearty hatred of his patron. He denounced him when he talked, and he reviled him when he sang. He treasured up paragraphs of all the atrocities of the English press, and he revelled in the severe strictures which the Irish papers bestowed on them. So far as hating went, he was a true patriot.

If some people opined that Mr. O'Reardon's political opinions rather partook of what was in vogue some sixty-odd years ago than what characterized a time nearer our own day, there were others, less generous critics, who scrupled not to say that he was a paid spy of the Government, and that all the secret organization of treason—all the mysterious plotting of rebellion that seems never to die completely out in Ireland—were known to and reported by this man to the Castle. Certain it was that he lived in a way his humble salary at the Four Courts could not have met, and indulged in convivial excesses far beyond the reach of his small income.

When Sir Brook and Tom Lendrick became his lodgers, he speedily saw that they belonged to a class far above what usually resorted to his humble house. However studiously simple they might be in all their demands, they were unmistakably gentlemen; and this fact, coupled with their evident want of all employment or occupation, considerably puzzled Mr. O'Reardon, and set him a-thinking what they could be, who they were, and, as he phrased it, “what they were at.” No letters came for them, nor, as they themselves gave no names, was there any means of tracing their address; and to his oft-insinuated request, “If any one asks for you, sir, by what name will I be able to answer?” came the same invariable “No one will call;” and thus was Mr. O'Reardon reduced to designate them to his wife as the “old chap” and the “young one,”—titles which Sir Brook and Tom more than once overheard through the frail partitions of the ill-built house.

It is not impossible that O'Reardon's peculiar habits and line of life disposed him to attach a greater significance to the seeming mystery that surrounded his lodgers than others might have ascribed; it is probable that custom had led him to suspect everything that was in any way suspicious. These men draw many a cover where there is no fox, but they rarely pass a gorse thicket and leave one undetected. His lodgers thus became to him a study. Had he been a man of leisure, he would have devoted the whole of it to their service; he would have dogged their steps, learned their haunts, and watched their acquaintances,—if they had any. Sunday was, however, his one free day, and by some inconceivable perversity they usually spent the entire of it at home.

The few books they possessed bore no names, some of them were in foreign languages, and increased thereby Mr. O'Reardon's suspicious distrust; but none gave any clew to their owners. There was another reason for his eagerness and anxiety; for a long time back Ireland had been generally in a condition of comparative quiet and prosperity; there was less of distress, and, consequently, less of outrage. The people seemed at length to rely more upon themselves and their own industry than on the specious promises of trading politicians, and Mr. O'Reardon, whose functions, I fear, were not above reproach in the matter of secret information, began to fear lest some fine morning he might be told his occupation was gone, and that his employers no longer needed the fine intelligence that could smell treason, even by a sniff; he must, he said, do something to revive the memory of his order, or the chance was it would be extinguished forever.

He had to choose between denouncing them as French emissaries or American sympathizers. A novel of Balzac's that lay on the table decided for the former, for he knew enough to be aware it was in French; and fortified with this fact, he proceeded to draw up his indictment for the Castle.

It was, it must be confessed, a very meagre document; it contained little beyond the writer's own suspicions. Two men who were poor enough to live in Avoca Villa, and yet rich enough to do nothing for their livelihood, who gave no names, went out at unseasonable hours, and understood French, ought to be dangerous, and required to be watched, and therefore he gave an accurate description of their general appearance, age, and dress, at the office of the Private Secretary, and asked for his “instructions” in consequence.

Mr. O'Reardon was not a bad portrait-painter with his pen, and in the case of Sir Brook there were peculiarities enough to make even a caricature a resemblance; his tall narrow head, his long drooping moustache, his massive gray eyebrows, his look of stern dignity, would have marked him, even without the singularities of dress which recalled the fashions of fifty years before.

Little, indeed, did the old man suspect that his high-collared coat and bell-shaped hat were subjecting him to grave doubts upon his loyalty. Little did he think, as he sauntered at evening along the green lanes in this retired neighborhood, that his thoughts ought to have been on treason and bloodshed.

He had come to the little lodging, it is true, for privacy. After his failure in that memorable interview with Sir William Lendrick, he had determined that he would not either importune the Viceroy for place, or would he be in any way the means of complicating the question between the Government and the Chief Baron by exciting the Lord-Lieutenant's interest in his behalf.

“We must change our lodging, Tom,” said he, when he came home on that night. “I am desirous that, for the few days we remain here, none should trace nor discover us. I will not accept what are called compensations, nor will I live on here to be either a burden or a reproach to men who were once only my equals.”

“You found my worthy grandfather somewhat less tractable than you thought for, sir?” asked Tom.

“He was very fiery and very haughty; but on the whole, there was much that I liked in him. Such vitality in a man of his years is in itself a grand quality, and even in its aggressiveness suggests much to regard. He refused to hear of me for the vacant office, and he would not accept you.”

“How did he take your proposal to aid us by a loan?”

“I never made it. The terms we found ourselves on after half an hour's discussion of other matters rendered such a project impossible.”

“And Lucy, how did she behave through it all?”

“She was not there; I did not see her.”

“So that it turned out as I predicted,—a mere meeting to exchange amenities.”

“The amenities were not many, Tom; and I doubt much if your grandfather will treasure up any very delightful recollections of my acquaintance.”

“I'd like to see the man, woman, or child,” burst out Tom, “who ever got out of his cage without a scratch. I don't believe that Europe contains his equal for irascibility.”

“Don't dwell on these views of life,” said Sir Brook, almost sternly. “You, nor I, know very little what are the sources of those intemperate outbreaks we so often complain of,—what sore trials are ulcerating the nature, what agonizing maladies, what secret terrors, what visions of impending misery; least of all do we know or take count of the fact that it is out of these high-strung temperaments we obtain those thrilling notes of human passion and tenderness coarser natures never attain to. Let us bear with a passing discord in the instrument whose cadences can move us to very ecstasy.”

Tom hung his head in silence, but he certainly did not seem convinced. Sir Brook quietly resumed: “How often have I told you that the world has more good than bad in it,—yes, and what's more, that as we go on in life this conviction strengthens in us, and that our best experiences are based on getting rid of our disbeliefs. Hear what happened me this morning. You know that for some days back I have been negotiating to raise a small loan of four hundred pounds to take us to Sardinia and start our mine. Mr. Waring, who was to have lent me this sum on the security of the mine itself, took it into his head to hesitate at the last hour, and inserted an additional clause that I should insure my life in his behalf.

“I was disconcerted, of course, by this,—so much so, that had I not bought a variety of tools and implements on trust, I believe I would have relinquished the bargain and tried elsewhere. It was, however, too late for this; I was driven to accept his terms, and, accredited with a printed formula from an insurance office, I waited on the doctor who was to examine me.

“A very brief investigation satisfied him that I was not seaworthy; he discovered I know not what about the valves of my heart, that implied mischief, and after 'percussing' me, as he called it, and placing his ear to my chest, he said, 'I regret to say, sir, that I cannot pronounce you insurable.'

“I could have told him that I came of a long-lived race on either side; that during my life I had scarcely known an illness, that I had borne the worst climates without injury, and such-like,—but I forbore; I had too much deference for his station and his acquirements to set my judgment against them, and I arose to take my leave. It is just possible, though I cannot say I felt it, that his announcement might have affected me; at all events, the disappointment did so, and I was terrified about the difficulties in which I saw myself involved. I became suddenly sick, and I asked for a glass of water; before it came I had fainted, a thing that never in my whole life had befallen me. When, I rallied, he led me to talk of my usual habits and pursuits, and gradually brought me to the subject which had led me-to his house. 'What!' said he, 'ask for any security beyond the property itself! It is absurd; Waring is always-doing these things. Let me advance this money. I know a great deal more about you, Sir Brook, than you think; my friend Dr. Lendrick has spoken much of you, and of all your kindness to his son; and though you may not have heard of my name,—Beattie,—I am very familiar with yours.'

“In a word, Tom, he advanced the money. It is now in that writing-desk; and I have—I feel it—a friend the-more in the world. As I left his door, I could not help saying to myself, What signify a few days more or less of life, so long as such generous traits as this follow one to the last? He made me a happier man by his noble trust in me than if he had declared me a miracle of strength and vigor. Who is that looking in at the window, Tom? It's the second time I have seen a face there.”

Tom started to his feet and hurried to the door. There was, however, no one there; and the little lane was silent and deserted. He stopped a few minutes to listen, but not a footfall could be heard, and he returned to the room believing it must have been a mere illusion.

“Let us light candles, Tom, and have out our maps. I want to see whether Marseilles will not be our best and cheapest route to the island.”

They were soon poring eagerly over the opened map, Sir Brook carefully studying all the available modes of travel; while Tom, be it owned, let his eyes wander from land to land, till following out the Danube to the Black Sea, he crossed over and stretched away into the mountain gorges of Circassia, where Schamyl and his brave followers were then fighting for liberty. For maps, like the lands they picture, never offer to two minds kindred thoughts; each follows out in space the hopes and ambitions that his heart is charged with; and where one reads wars and battle-fields, another but sees pastoral pleasures and a tranquil existence,—home and home-happiness.

“Yes, Tom; here I have it. These coasting-craft, whose sailing-lines are marked here, will take us and our traps to Cagliari for a mere trifle,—here is the route.”

As the young man bent over the map, the door behind opened, and a stranger entered. “So I have found you, Fossbrooke!” cried he, “though they insisted you had left Ireland ten days ago.”

“Mercy on me! Lord Wilmington!” said Sir Brook, as he shaded his eyes to stare at him. “What could have brought you here?”

“I 'll tell you,” said he, dropping his voice. “I read a description so very like you in the secret report this morning, that I sent my servant Curtis, who knows you well, to see if it was not yourself; when he came back to me—for I waited for him at the end of the lane—with the assurance that I was right, I came on here. I must tell you that I took the precaution to have your landlord detained, as if for examination, at the Under-Secretary's office; and he is the only one here who knows me. Mr. Lendrick, I hope you have not forgotten me? We met some months ago on the Shannon.”

“What can I offer you?” said Sir Brook. “Shall it be tea? We were just going to have it.”

“I 'll take whatever you like to give me; but let us profit by the few moments I can stay. Tell me how was it you failed with the Chief Baron?”

“He wouldn't have me; that's all. He maintains his right to an undivided patronage, and will accept of no dictation.”

“Will he accept of your friend here? He has strong claims on him.”

“As little as myself, my Lord; he grew eloquent on his public virtue, and of course became hopeless.”

“Will he retire and let us compensate him?”

“I believe not. He thinks the country has a vested interest in his capacity, and as he cannot be replaced, he has no right to retire.''

“He may make almost his own terms with us, Fossbrooke,” said the Viceroy. “We want to get rid of himself and an intractable Solicitor-General together. Will you try what can be done?”

“Not I, my Lord. I have made my first and last advances in that quarter.”

“And yet I believe you are our last chance. He told Pemberton yesterday you were the one man of ability that ever called on him with a message from a Viceroy.”

“Let us leave him undisturbed in his illusion, my Lord.”

“I 'd say, let us profit by it, Fossbrooke. I have been in search of you these eight days, to beg you would take the negotiation in hand. Come, Mr. Lendrick, you are interested in this; assist me in persuading Sir Brook to accept this charge. If he will undertake the mission, I am ready to give him ample powers to treat.”

“I suspect, my Lord,” said Tom, “you do not know my grandfather. He is not a very manageable person to deal with.”

“It is for that reason I want to place him in the hands of my old friend here.”

“No, no, my Lord; it is quite hopeless. Had we never met, I might have come before him with some chance of success; but I have already prejudiced myself in his eyes, and our one interview was not very gratifying to either of us.”

“I'll not give in, Fossbrooke, even though I am well aware I can do nothing to requite the service I ask of you.”

“We leave Ireland to-morrow evening. We have a project which requires our presence in the island of Sardinia. We are about to make our fortunes, my Lord, and I 'm sure you 're not the man to throw any obstacle in the way.”

“Give me half an hour of your morning, Fossbrooke; half an hour will suffice. Drive out to the Priory; see the Chief Baron; tell him I intrusted the negotiation to you, as at once more delicate to each of us. You are disconnected with all party ties here. Say it is not a question of advancing this man or that,—that we well know how inferior must any successor be to himself, but that certain changes are all-essential to us. We have not—I may tell you in confidence—the right man as our law adviser in the House; and add, 'It is a moment to make your own terms; write them down and you shall have your reply within an hour,—a favorable one I may almost pledge myself it will be. At all events, every detail of the meeting is strictly between us, and on honor.' Come, now, Fossbrooke; do this for me as the greatest service I could entreat of you.”

“I cannot refuse you any longer. I will go. I only premise that I am to limit myself strictly to the statement you shall desire me to repeat. I know nothing of the case; and I cannot be its advocate.”

“Just so. Give me your card. I will merely write these words,—'See Sir Brook for me.—Wilmington.' Our object is his resignation, and we are prepared to pay handsomely for it. Now, a word with you, Mr. Lendrick. I heard most honorable mention of you yesterday from the vice-provost; he tells me that your college career was a triumph so long as you liked it, and that you have abilities for any walk in life. Why not continue, then, on so successful a path? Why not remain, take out your degree, and emulate that distinguished relative who has thrown such lustre on your family?”

“First of all, my Lord, you have heard me much overrated. I am not at all the man these gentlemen deem me; secondly, if I were, I 'd rather bring my abilities to any pursuit my friend here could suggest. I 'd rather be his companion than be my grandfather's rival. You have heard what he said awhile ago,—we are going to seek our fortune.”

“He said to make it,” said Lord Wilmington, with a smile.

“Be it so, my Lord. I 'll seek, and he 'll find; at all events, I shall be his companion; and I'm a duller dog than I think myself if I do not manage to be the better of it.”

“You are not the only one he has fascinated,” said the Viceroy, in a whisper. “I 'm not sure I 'd disenchant you if I had the power.”

“Must I positively undertake this negotiation?” asked Fossbrooke, with a look of entreaty.

“You must”

“I know I shall fail.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Well, as Lady Macbeth says, if we fail we fail; and though murdering a king be an easier thing than muzzling a Chief Baron,—here goes.”

As he said this, the door was gently moved, and a head protruded into the room.

“Who is that?” cried Tom, springing rapidly towards the door; but all was noiseless and quiet, and no one to be seen. “I believe we are watched here,” said he, coming back into the room.

“Good-night, then. Let me have your report as early as may be, Fossbrooke. Good-night.”