Within a week after this incident, while Fossbrooke and young Lendrick were ploughing the salt sea towards their destination, Lucy sat in her room one morning engaged in drawing. She was making a chalk copy from a small photograph her brother had sent her, a likeness of Sir Brook, taken surreptitiously as he sat smoking at a window, little heeding or knowing of the advantage thus taken of him.

The head was considerably advanced, the brow and the eyes were nearly finished, and she was trying for the third time to get an expression into the mouth which the photograph had failed to convey, but which she so often observed in the original. Eagerly intent on her work, she never heard the door open behind her, and was slightly startled as a very gentle hand was laid on her shoulder.

“Is this a very presumptuous step of mine, dear Lucy?” said Mrs. Sewell, with one of her most bewitching smiles: “have I your leave for coming in upon you in this fashion?”

“Of course you have, my dear Mrs. Sewell; it is a great pleasure to me to see you here.”

“And I may take off my bonnet and my shawl and my gloves and my company manner, as my husband calls it?”

“Oh! you have no company manner,” broke in Lucy.

“I used to think not; but men are stern critics, darling, and especially when they are husbands. You will find out, one of these days, how neatly your liege lord will detect every little objectionable trait in your nature, and with what admirable frankness he will caution you against—yourself.”

“I almost think I 'd rather he would not.”

“I 'm very certain of it, Lucy,” said the other, with greater firmness than before. “The thing we call love in married life has an existence only a little beyond that of the bouquet you carried to the wedding-breakfast; and it would be unreasonable in a woman to expect it, but she might fairly ask for courtesy and respect, and you would be amazed how churlish even gentlemen can become about expending these graces in their own families.”

Lucy was both shocked and astonished at what she heard, and the grave tone in which the words were uttered surprised her most of all.

Mrs. Sewell had by this time taken off her bonnet and shawl, and, pushing back her luxuriant hair from her forehead, looked as though suffering from headache, for her brows were contracted, and the orbits around her eyes dark and purple-looking.

“You are not quite well to-day,” said Lucy, as she sat down on the sofa beside her, and took her hand.

“About as well as I ever am,” said she, sighing; and then, as if suddenly recollecting herself, added, “India makes such an inroad on health and strength! No buoyancy of temperament ever resisted that fatal climate. You would n't believe it, Lucy, but I was once famed for high spirits.”

“I can well believe it.”

“It was, however, very long ago. I was little more than a child at the time—that is, I was about fourteen or fifteen—when I left England, to which I returned in my twentieth year. I went back very soon afterwards to nurse my poor father, and be married.”

The depth of sadness in which she spoke the last words made the silence that followed intensely sad and gloomy.

“Yes,” said she, with a deep melancholy smile, “papa called me madcap. Oh dear, if our fathers and mothers could look back from that eternity they have gone to, and see how the traits they traced in our childhood have saddened and sobered down into sternest features, would they recognize us as their own? I don't look like a madcap now, Lucy, do I?” As she said this, her eyes swam in tears, and her lip trembled convulsively. Then standing hastily up, she drew nigh the table, and leaned over to look at the drawing at which Lucy had been engaged.

“What!” cried she, with almost a shriek,—“what is this? Whose portrait is this? Tell me at once; who is it?”

“A very dear friend of mine and of Tom's. One you could not have ever met, I'm sure.”

“And how do you know whom I have met?” cried she, fiercely. “What can you know of my life and my associates?”

“I said so, because he is one who has lived long estranged from the world,” said Lucy, gently; for in the sudden burst of the other's passion she only saw matter for deep compassion. It was but another part of a nature torn and distracted by unceasing anxieties.

“But his name,—his name?” said Mrs. Sewell, wildly.

“His name is Sir Brook Fossbrooke.”

“I knew it, I knew it!” cried she, wildly,—“I knew it!” and said it over and over again. “Go where we will we shall find him. He haunts; us like a curse,—like a curse!” And it was in almost a shriek the last word came forth.

“You cannot know the man if you say this of him,” said Lucy, firmly.

“Not know him!—not know him! You will tell me next that I do not know myself,—not know my own name,—not know the life of bitterness I have lived,—the shame of it,—the ineffable shame of it!” and she threw herself on her face on the sofa, and sobbed convulsively. Long and anxiously did Lucy try all in her power to comfort and console her. She poured out her whole heart in pledges of sisterly love and affection. She assured her of a sympathy that would never desert her; and, last of all, she told her that her judgment of Sir Brook was a mistaken one,—that in the world there lived not one more true-hearted, more generous, or more noble.

“And where did you learn all this, young woman?” said the other, passionately. “In what temptations and trials of your life have these experiences been gained? Oh, don't be angry with me, dearest Lucy; forgive this rude speech of mine; my head is turning, and I know not what I say. Tell me, child, did this man speak to you of my husband?”

“No.”

“Nor of myself?”

“Not a word. I don't believe he was aware that we were related to each other.”

“He not aware? Why, it's his boast that he knows every one and every one's connections. You never heard him speak without this parade of universal acquaintanceship. But why did he come here? How did you happen to meet him?”

“By the merest accident. Tom found him one day fishing the river close to our house, and they got to talk together; and it ended by his coming to us to tea. Intimacy followed very quickly, and then a close friendship.”

“And do you mean to tell me that all this while he never alluded to us?”

“Never.”

“This is so unlike him,—so unlike him,” muttered she, half to herself. “And the last place you saw him,—where was it?”

“Here in this house.”

“Here! Do you mean that he came here to see you?”

“No; he had some business with grandpapa, and called one morning, but he was not received. Grandpapa was not well, and sent Colonel Sewell to meet him.”

“He sent my husband! And did he go?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“I know it.”

“I never heard of this,” said she, holding her hands to her temples. “About what time was it?”

“It was on Friday last. I remember the day, because it was the last time I saw poor Tom.”

“On Friday last,” said she, pondering. “Yes, you are right. I do remember that Friday;” and she drew up the sleeve of her dress, and looked at a dark-blue mark upon the fair white skin of her arm; but so hastily was the action done that Lucy did not remark it.

“It was on Friday morning. It was on the forenoon of Friday, was it not?”

“Yes. The clock struck one, I remember, as I got back to the house.”

“Tell me, Lucy,” said she in a caressing tone, as she drew her arm round the girl's waist,—“tell me, darling, how did Colonel Sewell look after that interview? Did he seem angry or irritated? I'll tell you why I ask this some other time,—but I want to know if he seemed vexed or chagrined by meeting this man.”

“I did not see him after; he went away almost immediately after Sir Brook. I heard his voice talking with grandpapa in the garden, but I went to my room, and we did not meet.”

“As they spoke in the garden, were their voices raised? Did they talk like men excited or in warmth?”

“Yes. Their tone and manner were what you say,—so much so that I went away, not to overhear them. Grandpapa, I know, was angry at something; and when we met at luncheon, he barely spoke to me.”

“And what conclusion did you draw from all this?”

“None! There was nothing to induce me to dwell on the circumstance; besides,” added she, with some irritation, “I am not given to reason upon the traits of people's manner, or their tone in speaking.”

“Nor perhaps accustomed to inquire, when your grandfather is vexed, what it is that has irritated him.”

“Certainly not. It is a liberty I should not dare to take.”

“Well, darling,” said she, with a saucy laugh, “he is more fortunate in having you for a granddaughter than me. I 'm afraid I should have less discretion,—at all events, less dread.”

“Don't be so sure of that,” said Lucy, quietly. “Grandpapa is no common person. It is not his temper but his talent that one is loath to encounter.”

“I do not suspect that either would terrify me greatly. As the soldiers say, Lucy, I have been under fire pretty often, and I don't mind it now. Do you know, child, that we have got into a most irritable tone with each other? Each of us is saying something that provokes a sharp reply, and we are actually sparring without knowing it.”

“I certainly did not know it,” said Lucy, taking her hand within both her own, “and I ask pardon if I have said anything to hurt you.”

Leaving her hand to Lucy unconsciously, and not heeding one word of what she had said, Mrs. Sewell sat with her eyes fixed on the floor deep in thought. “I 'm sure, Lucy,” said she at last, “I don't know why I asked you all those questions awhile ago. That man—Sir Brook, I mean—is nothing to me; he ought to be, but he is not. My father and he were friends; that is, my father thought he was his friend, and left him the guardianship of me on his deathbed.”

“Your guardian,—Sir Brook your guardian?” cried Lucy, with intense eagerness.

“Yes; with more power than the law, I believe, would accord to any guardian.” She paused and seemed lost in thought for some seconds, and then went on: “Colonel Sewell and he never liked each other. Sir Brook took little trouble to be liked by him; perhaps Dudley was as careless on his side. What a tiresome vein I have got in! How should you care for all this?”

“But I do care—I care for all that concerns you.”

“I take it, if you were to hear Sir Brook's account, we should not make a more brilliant figure than himself. He 'd tell you about our mode of life, and high play, and the rest of it; but, child, every one plays high in India, every one does scores of things there they would n't do at home, partly because the ennui of life tempts to anything,—anything that would relieve it; and then all are tolerant because all are equally—I was going to say wicked; but I don't mean wickedness,—I mean bored to that degree that there is no stimulant left without a breach of the decalogue.”

“I think that might be called wickedness,” said Lucy, dryly.

“Call it what you like, only take my word for it you 'd do the selfsame things if you lived there. I was pretty much what you are now when I left England; and if any naughty creature like myself were to talk, as I am doing to you now, and make confession of all her misdeeds and misfortunes, I'm certain I'd have known how to bridle up and draw away my hand, and retire to a far end of the sofa, and look unutterable pruderies, just as you do this moment.”

“Without ever suspecting it, certainly,” said Lucy laughing.

“Tear up that odious drawing, dear Lucy,” said she, rising and walking the room with impatience. “Tear it up; or, if you won't do that, let me write a line under it—one line, I ask for no more—so that people may know at whom they are looking.”

“I will do neither; nor will I sit here to listen to one word against him.”

“Which means, child, that your knowledge of life is so-much greater than mine, you can trust implicitly to your own judgment. I can admire your courage, certainly, though I am not captivated by your prudence.”

“It is because I have so little faith in my own judgment that I am unwilling to lose the friend who can guide me.”

“Perhaps it would be unsafe if I were to ask you to choose between him and me,” said Mrs. Sewell, very slowly, and with her eyes fully bent on Lucy.

“I hope you will not.”

“With such a warning I certainly shall not do so. Who-could have believed it was so late?” said she, hastily looking at her watch; “What a seductive creature you must be, child, to slip over one's whole morning without knowing it,—two o'clock already. You lunch about this time?”

“Yes, punctually at two.”

“Are you sufficiently lady of the house to invite me, Lucy?”

“I am sure you need no invitation here; you are one of us.”

“What a little Jesuit it is!” said Mrs. Sewell, patting her cheek. “Come, child, I 'll be equal with you. I 'll enter the room on your arm, and say, 'Sir William, your granddaughter insisted on my remaining; I thought it an awkwardness, but she tells me she is the mistress here, and I obey.'”

“And you will find he will be too well-bred to contradict you,” said Lucy, while a deep blush covered her face and throat.

“Oh, I think him positively charming!” said Mrs. Sewell, as she arranged her hair before the glass; “I think him charming. My mother-in-law and I have a dozen pitched battles every day on the score of his temper and his character. My theory is, the only intolerable thing on earth is a fool; and whether it be that Lady Lendrick suspects me of any secret intention to designate one still nearer to her by this reservation, I do not know, but the declaration drives her half crazy. Come, Lucy, we shall be keeping grandpapa waiting for us.”

They moved down the stairs arm-in-arm, without a word; but as they gained the door of the dining-room, Mrs. Sewell turned fully round and said, in a low deep voice, “Marry anything,—rake, gambler, villain,—anything, the basest and the blackest; but never take a fool, for a fool means them all combined.”