As Sir Brook sat in the library waiting for the arrival of the Chief Baron, Lucy Lendrick came in to look for a book she had been reading. “Only think, sir,” said she, flushing deeply with joy and astonishment together,—“to find you here! What a delightful surprise!”

“I have come, my dear child,” said he, gravely, “to speak with Sir William on a matter of some importance; and evidently he is not aware that my moments are precious, for I have been here above half an hour alone.”

“But now that I am with you,” said she, coquettishly, “you 'll surely not be so churlish of your time, will you?”

“There is no churlishness, my darling Lucy, in honest thrift. I have nothing to give away.” The deep sadness of his voice showed how intensely his words were charged with a stronger significance. “We are off to-night.”

“To-night!” cried she, eagerly.

“Yes, Lucy. It's no great banishment,—only to an island in the Mediterranean, and Tom came up here with me in the vague, very vague hope he might see you. I left him in the shrubbery near the gate, for he would not consent to come farther.”

“I 'll go to him at once. We shall meet again,” said she, as she opened the sash-door and hastened down the lawn at speed.

After another wait of full a quarter of an hour, Foss-brooke's patience became exhausted, and he drew nigh the bell to summon a servant; his hand was on the rope, when the door opened, and Sewell entered. Whatever astonishment Fossbrooke might have felt at this unexpected appearance, nothing in his manner or look betrayed it. As for Sewell, all his accustomed ease had deserted him, and he came forward with an air of assumed swagger, but his color came and went, and his hands twitched almost convulsively.

He bowed, and, smiling courteously, invited Fossbrooke to be seated. Haughtily drawing himself up to his full height, Sir Brook said, in his own deep sonorous voice, “There can be nothing between us, sir, that cannot be dismissed in a moment—and as we stand.”

“As you please, sir,” rejoined Sewell, with an attempt at the same haughty tone. “I have been deputed by my stepfather, the Chief Baron, to make his excuses for not receiving you,—his health forbids the excitement. It is his-wish that you may make to me whatever communication you had destined for him.”

“Which I refuse, sir, at once,” interrupted Sir Brook. “I opine, then, there is no more to be said,” said Sewell, with a faint smile.

“Nothing more, sir,—not a word; unless perhaps you will be gracious enough to explain to the Chief Baron the reasons—they cannot be unknown to you—why I refuse all and any communication with Colonel Sewell.”

“I have no presumption to read your mind and know your thoughts,” said Sewell, with quiet politeness.

“You would discover nothing in either to your advantage, sir,” said Fossbrooke, defiantly.

“Might I add, sir,” said Sewell, with an easy smile, “that all your malevolence cannot exceed my indifference to it?”

Fossbrooke waived his hand haughtily, as though to dismiss the subject and all discussion of it, and after a few seconds' pause said: “We have a score that must be settled one day. I have deferred the reckoning out of reverence to the memory of one whose name must not be uttered between us, but the day for it shall come. Meanwhile, sir, you shall pay me interest on your debt.”

“What do you assume me to owe you?” asked Sewell, whose agitation could no longer be masked.

“You would laugh if I said, your character before the world and the repute through which men keep your company; but you will not laugh—no, sir, not even smile—when I say that you owe me the liberty by which you are at large, instead of being, as I could prove you, a forger and a felon.”

Sewell threw a hurried and terrified look around the room, as though there might possibly be some to overhear the words; he grasped the back of a chair to steady himself, and in the convulsive effort seemed as if he was about to commit some act of violence.

“None of that, sir,” said Fossbrooke, folding his arms.

“I meant nothing; I intended nothing; I was faint, and wanted support,” stammered out Sewell, in a broken voice. “What do you mean by interest? How am I to pay interest on an indefinite sum?”

“It may relieve you of some anxiety to learn that I am not speaking of money in the interest I require of you. What I want—what I shall exact—is this: that you and yours—” He stopped and grew scarlet; the fear lest something coarse or offensive might fall from him in a moment of heat and anger arrested his words, and he was silent.

Sewell saw all the difficulty. A less adroit man would have deemed the moment favorable to assert a triumph; Sewell was too acute for this, and waited without speaking a word.

“My meaning is this,” said Fossbrooke, in a voice of emotion. “There is a young lady here for whom I have the deepest interest. I desire that, so long as she lives estranged from her father's roof, she should not be exposed to other influences than such as she has met there. She is new to life and the world, and I would not that she should make acquaintance with them through any guidance save of her own nearest and dearest friends.”

“I hear, sir; but, I am free to own, I greatly mistrust myself to appreciate your meaning.”

“I am sorry for it,” said Fossbrooke, sighing. “I wanted to convey my hope that in your intercourse here Miss Lendrick might be spared the perils of—of—”

“My wife's friendship, you would say, sir,” said Sewell, with a perfect composure of voice and look.

Fossbrooke hung his head. Shame and sorrow alike crushed him down. Oh that the day should come when he could speak thus of Frank Dillon's daughter!

“I will not say with what pain I hear you, Sir Brook,” said Sewell, in a low gentle voice. “I am certain that you never uttered such a speech without much suffering. It will alleviate your fears when I tell you that we only remain a few days in town. I have taken a country house, some sixty or seventy miles from the capital, and we mean to live there entirely.”

“I am satisfied,” said Sir Brook, whose eagerness to make reparation was now extreme.

“Of course I shall mention nothing of this to my wife,” said Sewell.

“Of course not, sir; save with such an explanation as I could give of my meaning, it would be an outrage.”

“I was not aware that there was—that there could be—an explanation,” said Sewell, quietly; and then seeing the sudden flash that shot from the old man's eyes, he added hastily, “This is far too painful to dwell on; let it suffice, sir, that I fully understand you, and that you shall be obeyed.”

“I ask no more,” said Fossbrooke, bowing slightly.

“You will comprehend, Sir Brook,” resumed Sewell, “that as I am precluded from making this conversation known to my wife, I shall not be able to limit any intimacy between her and Miss Lendrick farther than by such intimations and hints as I may offer without exciting suspicion. It might happen, for instance, that in coming up to town we should be Sir William's guests. Am I to suppose that you interdict this?”

“I hope I am not capable of such a condition,” said Sir Brook, flushing, for at every step and stage of the negotiation he felt that his zeal had outrun his judgment, and that he was attempting not only more than he could, but more than he ought to do.

“In fairness, Sir Brook,” said Sewell, with an assumed candor that sat very well on him, “I ought to tell you that your conditions are very easy ones My wife has come to this country to recruit her health and look after her children. I myself shall probably be on my way back to India soon after Christmas. Our small means totally preclude living in the gay world; and,” added he, with a laugh, “if we really had any blandishments or captivations at our disposal, they would be best bestowed on the Horse Guards, to extend my leave, or assist me to an exchange.”

There was high art in the way in which Sewell had so contrived to get the old man involved in the conflict of his own feelings that he was actually grateful for the easy and even familiar tone employed towards him.

“I have wounded this man deeply,” said Fossbrooke to himself. “I have said to him things alike unfeeling and ungenerous, and yet he has temper enough to treat me amicably, even courteously.”

It was almost on his lips to say that he had still some influence with the Horse Guards, that a great man there had been one of his most intimate friends in life, and that he was ready to do anything in his power with him, when a sudden glance at Sewell's face recalled him at once to himself, and he stammered out, “I will detain you no longer, sir. Be kind enough to explain to the Lord Chief Baron that my communication was of a character that could not be made indirectly. His Excellency's name on my card probably suggested as much. It might be proper to add that the subject was one solely attaching to his Lordship and to his Lordship's interest. He will himself understand what I mean.”

Sewell bowed acquiescence. As he stood at the half-open door, he was disposed to offer his hand. It was a bold step, but he knew if it should succeed it would be a great victory. The opportunity was too good to be lost, and just as Sir Brook turned to say good-morning, Sewell, like one carried away by a sudden impulse, held out his hand, and said, “You may trust me, Sir Brook.”

“If you wish me to do so, sir, let me not touch your hand,” said the old man, with a look of stern and haughty defiance, and he strode out without a farewell.

Sewell staggered back into the room and sat down. A clammy cold perspiration covered his face and forehead, for the rancor that filled his heart sickened him like a malady. “You shall pay for this, by heaven! you shall,” muttered he, as he wiped the great drops from his brow. “The old fool himself has taught me where he was vulnerable, and as I live he shall feel it.”

“His Lordship wants to see you, sir; he is in the garden,” said a servant; and Sewell rose and followed him. He stopped twice as he went to compose his features and regain his calm. On the last time he even rehearsed the few words and the smile by which he meant to accost the Judge. The little artifice was, however, forestalled, as Sir William met him abruptly with the words, “What a time you have been, sir,—forty-eight minutes by my watch!”

“I assure you, my Lord, I'd have made it shorter if I could,” said Sewell, with a smile of some significance.

“I am unable to see why you could not have done so. The charge I gave you was to report to me, not to negotiate on your own part.”

“Nor did I, my Lord. Sir Brook Fossbrooke distinctly declared that he would only communicate with yourself personally,—that what he desired to say referred to yourself, and should be answered by yourself.”

“On hearing which, sir, you withdrew?”

“So far as your Lordship was concerned, no more was said between us. What passed after this I may be permitted to call private.”

“What, sir! You see a person in my house, at my instance, and with my instructions,—who comes to see and confer with me; and you have the hardihood to tell me that you took that opportunity to discuss questions which you call private!”

“I trust, my Lord, you will not press me in this matter; my position is a most painful one.”

“It is worse than painful, sir; it is humiliating. But,” added he, after a short pause, “I have reason to be grateful to you. You have rescued me from, perhaps, a very grave indiscretion. Your position—your wife's health—your children's welfare had all interested me. I might have—No matter what, sir. I have recovered the balance of my mind. I am myself again.”

“My Lord, I will be open with you.”

“I will accept of no forced confidences, sir,” said the Judge, waving his hand haughtily.

“They are not forced, my Lord, farther than my dislike to give you pain renders them so. The man to whom you sent me this morning is no stranger to me—would that he had been!—would that I had never known nor heard of him! Very few words will explain why, my Lord. I only entreat that, before I say them, they may be in strictest confidence between us.”

“If they require secrecy, sir, they shall have it.”

“Quite enough, my Lord,—amply sufficient for me is this assurance. This person, then, my Lord, was the old friend and brother officer of Sir Frank Dillon, my father-in-law. They lived as young men in closest friendship together; shared perils, amusements, and purse together. For many years nothing occurred to interrupt the relations between them, though frequent remonstrances from Dillon's family against the intimacy might possibly have caused a coolness; for the world had begun to talk of Fossbrooke with a certain distrust, comparing his mode of living with the amount of his fortune, and half hinting that his successes at play were more than accidental.

“Still Dillon held to him; and to break the tie at last, his family procured an Indian appointment for him, and sent him to Calcutta. Fossbrooke no sooner heard of it than he sold off his town house and horses, and actually sailed in the same packet with him.”

“Let us sit down, Colonel Sewell; I am wearied with walking, and I should like to hear the remainder of this story.”

“I will make it very brief, my Lord. Here is a nice bench to rest on. Arrived in India, they commenced a style of living the most costly and extravagant imaginable. Their receptions, their dinners, their equipages, their retinues, completely eclipsed the splendors of the native princes. For a while these were met promptly by ready money; later on came bills, at first duly met, and at last dishonored. On investigation, however, it was found that the greater number—far the greater number—of the acceptances were issued by Dillon alone,—a circumstance which puzzled none so much as Dillon himself, who never remembered the emergencies that had called for them.”

“They were forgeries by Fossbrooke,” said the Judge.

“You are right, my Lord, they were, but so adroitly done that Dillon was the first to declare the signatures his own; nor was the fraud ever discovered. To rescue his friend, as it were, Dillon sold off everything, and paid, I know not what amount, and they both left for Ceylon, where Dillon was named Commander of the Forces.

“Here Dillon married, and, on the birth of his first child, Fossbrooke was the godfather, their affection being stronger than ever. Once more the life of extravagance burst forth, and now, besides the costly household and reckless expenditure, the stories of play became rife and frequent, several young fellows being obliged to leave the service and sell their commissions to meet their debts. The scandal reached England, and Dillon was given his choice to resign or resume active service at his old rank. He accepted the last, and went back to India. For a while they were separated. My father-in-law made a brilliant campaign, concluding with the victory of Atteyghur. He was named Political Resident at the seat of government, and found himself in the receipt of a large revenue, and might in a few years have become wealthy and honored. His evil genius, however, was soon at his side. Fossbrooke arrived, as he said, to see him before leaving for Europe; he never left him till his death. From that day dated my father-in-law's inevitable ruin. Maladministration, corruption, forced loans on every side. Black-mail was imposed on all the chiefs, and a system of iniquity instituted that rendered the laws a farce, and the office of judge a degradation.

“Driven almost to desperation by his approaching ruin, and yet blind to the cause of it, Sir Frank took service against the Affghans, and fell, severely wounded, at Walhalla. Fossbrooke followed him to the Hills, where he went to die. The infatuation of that fatal man was unbroken, and on his deathbed he not only confided to him all the deeds and documents that concerned his fortune, but gave him the guardianship and control of his daughter. In the very last letter he ever penned are these words: 'Scandal may some day or other dare to asperse him (Sir Brook),—the best have no immunity on that score,—but I charge you, however fortune may deal with you, share it with him if he need it; your father never had so true, so noble, so generous a friend. Have full courage in any course he approves of, and never distrust yourself so completely as when he differs from you; above all, believe no ill of him.'

“I have seen this letter,—I have read it more than once; and with my full knowledge of the man, with my memory stored with stories about him, it was very hard to see him exercise an influence in my house, and a power over my wife. For a while I tried to respect what had been the faith of her childhood; I could not bear to destroy what formed one of the links that bound her to her father's memory; but the man's conduct obliged me to abandon this clemency. He insisted on living upon us, and living in a style not merely costly, but openly, flagrantly disreputable. Of his manner to myself I will not speak; he treated me not alone as a dependant, but as one whose character and fortune were in his hands. To what comments this exposed me in my own house I leave you to imagine: I remonstrated at first, but my endurance became exhausted, and I turned him from my house.

“Then began his persecution of me,—not alone of myself, but my wife, and all belonging to me. I must not dwell on this, or I should forget myself.

“We left India, hoping never to hear more of him. There was a story that he had gone on a visit to a Rajah in Oude, and would in all likelihood live there till he died. Imagine what I felt, my Lord, when I read his name on that visiting-card. I knew, of course, what his presence meant, a pretended matter of business with you,—the real object being to traduce and vilify me. He had ascertained the connection between us, and determined to turn it to profit. So long as I followed my career in India,—a poor soldier of fortune,—I was not worth persecution; but here at home, with friends, possibly with friends able and willing to aid me, I at once assumed importance in his eyes. He well knows how dear to us is the memory of my wife's father, what sacrifices we have made, what sacrifices we would make again, that his name should not be harshly dealt with by the world. He feels, too, all the power and weight he can yield by that letter of poor Dillon's, given so frankly, so trustfully, and so unfortunately on his deathbed. In one word, my Lord, this man has come back to Europe to exert over me the pressure which he once on a time used over my father-in-law. For reasons I cannot fathom, the great people who knew him once, and who ought to know whom and what he has become, are still willing to acknowledge him. It is true he no longer frequents their houses and mixes in their society,—but they recognize him. The very card he sent in this morning bore the Viceroy's name,—and from this cause alone, even if there were not others, he would be dangerous. I weary you, my Lord, and I will conclude. By an accidental admission he let drop that he would soon leave Ireland for a while; let it seem, my Lord, so long as he remains here, that I am less intimate here, less frequent as a visitor, than he has imagined. Let him have grounds to imagine that my presence here was a mere accident, and that I am not at all likely to enjoy any share of your Lordship's favor,—in fact, let him believe me as friendless here as he saw me in India, and he will cease to speculate on persecuting me.”

“There would be indignity in such a course, sir,” cried the Judge, fiercely; “the man has no terrors for me.”

“Certainly not, my Lord, nor for me personally. I speak on my wife's behalf; it is for her sake and for her peace of mind I am alone thinking here.”

“I will speak to her myself on this head.”

“I entreat you not, my Lord. I implore you never to approach the subject. She has for years been torn between the terrible alternative of obeying the last injunctions of her father or yielding to the wishes of her husband. Her life has been a continual struggle, and her shattered health has been the consequence. No, my Lord; let us go down for a few weeks or months—as it may be—to this country place they have taken for us; a little quietness will do us both good. My leave will not expire till March; there is still time to look about me.”

“Something shall be done for you, sir,” said the Judge, pompously. Sewell bowed low: he knew how to make his bow a very deep acknowledgment of gratitude; he knew the exact measure of deference and trustfulness and thankfulness to throw into his expression as he bent his head, while he seemed too much overpowered to speak.

“Yes, sir, you shall be cared for,” said the old man. “And if this person, this Sir Brook Fossbrooke, return here, it is with me he will have to deal,—not you.”

“My Lord, I entreat you never to admit him; neither see nor correspond with him. The man is a desperado, and holds his own life too cheap to care for another's.”

“Sir, you only pique my curiosity to meet with him. I have heard of such fellows, but never saw one.”

“From all I have heard, my Lord, your courage requires no proofs.”

“You have heard the truth, sir. It has been tested in every way, and found without alloy. This man came here a few days ago to ask me to nominate my grandson to an office in my gift; but, save a lesson for his temerity, he 'took nothing by his motion.'” The old Judge walked up and down with short impatient steps, his eyebrows moving fiercely, And his mouth twitching angrily. “The Viceroy must be taught that it is not through such negotiators he can treat with men like myself. We hear much about the dignity of the Bench. I would that his Excellency should know that the respect for it is a homage to be rendered by the highest as well as the lowest, and that I for one will accept of nothing less than all the honors that befit my station.”

Relieved, as it were, by this outburst of vanity, his heart unburdened of a load of self-conceit, the old man felt freer And better; and in the sigh he heaved there seemed a something that indicated a sense of alleviation. Then, turning to Sewell, with a softened voice, he said, “How grieved I am that you should have passed such a morning! It was certainly not what I had intended for you.”

“You are too good to me, my Lord,—far too good, and too thoughtful of me,” said Sewell, with emotion.

“I am one of those men who must go to the grave misconstrued and misrepresented. He who would be firm in an age of cowardice, he who would be just in an age of jobbery, cannot fail to be calumniated. But, sir, there is a moral stature, as there is a material stature, that requires distance for its proportions; and it is possible posterity will be more just to me than my contemporaries.”

“I would only hope, my Lord, that the time for such a judgment may be long deferred.”

“You are a courtier, sir,” said the Judge, smiling. “It was amongst courtiers I passed my early youth, and I like them. When I was a young man, Colonel Sewell, it was the fashion to make the tour of Europe as a matter of education and good breeding. The French Court was deemed, and justly deemed, the first school of manners, and I firmly believe France herself has suffered in her forms of politeness from having ceased to be the centre of supply to the world. She adulterated the liquor as the consumers decreased in taste and increased in number.”

“How neatly, how admirably expressed!” said Sewell, bowing.

“I had some of that gift once,” said the old man, with a sigh; “but it is a weapon out of use nowadays. Epigram has its place in a museum now as rightfully as an Andrea Ferrara.”

“I declare, my Lord, it is two o'clock. Here is your servant coming to announce luncheon. I am ashamed to-think what a share of your day I have monopolized.”

“You will stay and take some mutton broth, I hope?”

“No, my Lord. I never eat luncheon, and I am, besides, horrified at inflicting you so long already.”

“Sir, if I suffer many of the miseries of old age, I avail myself of some of its few privileges. One of the best of these is, never to be bored. I am old and feeble enough to be able to say to him who wearies me, Leave me—leave-me to myself and my own dreariness. Had you 'inflicted' me, as you call it, I 'd have said as much two hours ago. Your company was, however, most agreeable. You know how to talk, and, what is rarer, you know how to listen.”

Sewell bowed respectfully and in silence.

“I wish the school that trains aides-de-camp could be open to junior barristers and curates,” muttered he, half to himself; then added aloud, “Come and see me soon again. Come to breakfast, or, if you prefer it, to dinner. We dine at seven;” and without further adieu than a slight wave of his hand, he turned away and entered the house.