Within a week after the first letter came a second from Cagliari. It was but half a dozen lines from Tom himself.

“They are sending me off to a place called Maddalena, dearest Lucy, for change of air The priest has given me his house, and I am to be Robinson Crusoe there, with an old hag for Friday,—how I wish for you! Sir Brook can only come over to me occasionally. Look out for three rocks—they call them islands—off the N. E. of Sardinia; one of them is mine.—Ever your own,

“Tom L.”

Lucy hastened down with this letter in her hand to her grandfather's room, but met Mr. Haire on the stairs, who whispered in her ear, “Don't go in just yet, my dear; he is out of sorts this morning; Lady Lendrick has been here, and a number of unpleasant letters have arrived, and it is better not to disturb him further.”

“Will you take this note,” said she, “and give it to him at any fitting moment? I want to know what I shall reply,—I mean, I 'd like to hear if grandpapa has any kind message to send the poor fellow.”

“Leave it with me. I 'll take charge of it, and come up to tell you when you can see the Judge.” Thus saying, he passed on, and entered the room where the Chief Baron was sitting. The curtains were closely drawn, and in one of the windows the shutters were closed,—so sensitive to light was the old man in his periods of excitement. He lay back in a deep chair, his eyes closed, his face slightly flushed, breathing heavily, and the fingers of one hand twitching slightly at moments; the other was held by Beattie, as he counted the pulse. “Dip that handkerchief in the cold lotion, and lay it over his forehead,” whispered Beattie to Haire.

“Speak out, sir; that muttering jars on my nerves, and irritates me,” said the Judge, in a slow firm tone.

“Come,” said Beattie, cheerfully, “you are better now; the weakness has passed off.”

“There is no weakness in the case, sir,” said the old man, sitting bolt upright in the chair, as he grasped and supported himself by the arms. “It is the ignoble feature of your art to be materialist. You can see nothing in humanity but a nervous cord and a circulation.”

“The doctor's ministry goes no further,” said Beattie, gently.

“Your art is then but left-handed, sir. Where 's Haire?”

“Here, at your side,” replied Haire.

“I must finish my story, Haire. Where was it that I left off? Yes; to be sure,—I remember now. This boy of Sewell's—Reginald Victor Sewell—was, with my permission, to take the name of Lendrick, and be called Reginald Victor Sewell Lendrick.”

“And become the head of your house?”

“The head of my house, and my heir. She did not say so, but she could not mean anything short of it.”

“What has your son done to deserve this?” asked Haire, bluntly.

“My son's rights, sir, extend but to the modest fortune I inherited from my father. Whatever other property I possess has been acquired by my own ability and labor, and is mine to dispose of.”

“I suppose there are other rights as well as those of the statute-book?”

“Listen to this, Beattie,” cried the old Judge, with a sparkle of the eye,—“listen to this dialectician, who discourses to me on the import of a word. It is not generous I must say, to come down with all the vigor of his bright, unburdened faculties upon a poor, weak, and suffering object like myself. You might have waited, Haire, till I had at least the semblance of power to resist you.”

“What answer did you give her?” asked Haire, bluntly.

“I said,—what it is always safe to say,—'Le roi s'avisera.' Eh, Beattie? this is the grand principle of your own craft. Medicine is very little else than 'the wisdom of waiting.' I told her,” continued he, “I would think of it,—that I would see the child. 'He is here,' said she, rising and leaving the room, and in a few moments returned, leading a little boy by the hand,—a very noble-looking child, I will say, with a lofty head and a bold brow. He met me as might a prince, and gave his hand as though it were an honor he bestowed. What a conscious power there is in youth! Ay, sirs, that is the real source of all the much-boasted vigor and high-heartedness. Beattie will tell us some story of arterial action or nervous expansion; but the mystery lies deeper. The conscious force of a future development imparts a vigor that all the triumphs of after life pale before.”

“'Fiat justitia, ruÂt coelum,'” said Haire,—“I'd not provide for people out of my own family.”

“It is a very neat though literal translation, sir, and, like all that comes from you, pointed and forcible.”

“I'd rather be fair and honest than either,” said Haire, bluntly.

“I appeal to you, Beattie, and I ask if I have deserved this;” and the old Judge spoke with an air of such apparent sincerity as actually to impose upon the doctor. “The sarcasms of this man push my regard for him to the last intrenchment.”

“Haire never meant it; he never intended to reflect upon you,” said Beattie, in a low tone.

“He knows well enough that I did not,” said Haire, half sulky; for he thought the Chief was pushing his raillery too far.

“I 'm satisfied,” said the Judge, with a sigh. “I suppose he can't help it. There are fencers who never believe they have touched you till they see the blood. Be it so; and now to go back. She went away and left the child with me, promising to take him up after paying a visit she had to make in the neighborhood. I was not sorry to have the little fellow's company. He was most agreeable, and, unlike Haire, he never made me his butt. Well, I have done; I will say no more on that head. I was actually sorry when she came to fetch him, and I believe I said so. What does that grunt mean, Haire?”

“I did not speak.”

“No, sir; but you uttered what implied an ironical assent,—a nisi prius trick,—like the leer I have seen you bestow upon the jury-box. How hard it is for the cunning man to divest himself of the subtlety of his calling!”

“I want to hear how it all ended,” muttered Haire.

“You shall hear, sir, if you will vouchsafe me a little patience. When men are in the full vigor of their faculties, they should be tolerant to those footsore and weary travellers who, like myself, halt behind and delay the march. But bear in mind, Haire, I was not always thus. There was a time when I walked in the van. Ay, sir, and bore myself bravely too. I was talking with that child when they announced Mr. Balfour, the private secretary, a man most distasteful to me; but I told them to show him in, curious, indeed, to hear what new form of compromise they were about to propose to me. He had come with a secret and confidential message from the Viceroy, and really seemed distressed at having to speak before a child of six years old, so mysterious and reserved was he. He made a very long story of it,—full an hour; but the substance was this: The Crown had been advised to dispute my right of appointment to the registrarship, and to make a case for a jury; but—mark the 'but'—in consideration for my high name and great services, and in deference to what I might be supposed to feel from an open collision with the Government, they were still willing for an accommodation, and would consent to ratify any appointment I should make, other than that of the gentleman I had already named,—Colonel Sewell.

“Self-control is not exactly the quality for which my friends give me most credit. Haire, there, will tell you I am a man of ungovernable temper, and who never even tried to curb his passion; but I would hope there is some injustice in this award. I became a perfect dove in gentleness, as I asked Balfour for the reasons which compelled his Excellency to make my stepson's exclusion from office a condition. 'I am not at liberty to state them,' was the cool reply. 'They are personal, and, of course, delicate?' asked I, in a tone of submission, and he gave a half assent in silence. I concurred,—that is, I yielded the point. I went even further. I hinted, vaguely of course, at the courteous reserve by which his Excellency was willing to spare me such pain as an unpleasant disclosure—if there were such—might occasion me. I added, that old men are not good subjects for shocks; and I will say, sirs, that he looked at me as I spoke with a compassionate pity which won all my gratitude! Ay, Beattie, and though my veins swelled at the temples, and I felt a strange rushing sound in my ears, I had no fit, and in a moment or two was as calm as I am this instant.

“'Let me be clear upon this point,' said I to him. 'I am to nominate to the office any one except Sewell, and you will confirm such nomination?' 'Precisely,' replied he. 'Such act on my part in no way to prejudice whatever claim I lay to the appointment in perpetuity, or jeopardize any rights I now assert?' 'Certainly not,' said he. 'Write it,' said I, pushing towards him a pen and paper; and so overjoyed was he with his victorious negotiation that he wrote word for word as I dictated. When I came to the name Sewell, I added, 'To whose nomination his Excellency demurs, on grounds of character and conduct sufficient in his Excellency's estimation to warrant such exclusion; but which, out of deference to the Chief Baron's feelings, are not set forth in this negotiation.' 'Is this necessary?' asked he, as he finished writing. 'It is,' was my reply; 'put your name at foot, and the date;' and he did so.

“I now read over the whole aloud; he winced at the concluding lines, and said, 'I had rather, with your permission, erase these last words; for though I know the whole story, and believe it too, there 's no occasion for entering upon it here.'

“As he spoke, I folded the paper and placed it in my pocket. 'Now, sir,' said I, 'let me hear the story you speak of.' 'I cannot. I told you before I was not at liberty to repeat it.' I insisted, and he refused. There was a positive altercation between us and he raised his voice in anger, and demanded back from me the paper which he said I had tricked him into writing. I will not say that he meant to use force, but he sprang from his chair and came towards me with such an air of menace that the boy, who was playing in the corner, rushed at him and struck him with his drumstick, saying, 'You sha'n't beat grandpapa!' I believe I rang the bell; yes, I rang the bell sharply. The child was crying when they came. I was confused and flurried. Balfour was gone.”

“And the paper?” asked Haire.

“The paper is here, sir,” said he, touching his breastpocket. “The country shall ring with it, or such submission shall I exact as will bring that Viceroy and his minions to my feet in abject contrition. Were you to ask me now, I know not what terms I would accept of.”

“I would rather you said no more at present,” said Beattie. “You need rest and quietness.”

“I need reparation and satisfaction, sir; that is what I need.”

“Of course—of course; but you must be strong and well to enforce it,” said Beattie.

“I told Lady Lendrick to leave the child with me. She said she would bring him back to-morrow. I like the boy. What does my pulse say, Beattie?”

“It says that all this talking and agitation are injurious to you,—that you must be left alone.”

The old man sighed faintly, but did not speak.

“Haire and I will take a turn in the garden, and be within call if you want us,” said Beattie.

“Wait a moment,—what was it I had to say? You are too abrupt, Beattie; you snap the cords of thought by such rough handling, and we old men lose our dexterous knack of catching the loose ends, as we once did. There, there—leave me now; the skein is all tangled in hopeless confusion.” He waved his hand in farewell, and they left him.