“Lucy asked me to show him this note from her brother,” said Haire, as he strolled with Beattie down the lawn. “It was no time to do so. Look over it and say what you advise.”

“The boy wants a nurse, not a doctor,” said Beattie. “A little care and generous diet would soon bring him round; but they are a strange race, these Lendricks. They have all the stern qualities that brave danger, and they are terribly sensitive to some small wound to their self-love. Let that young fellow, for instance, only begin to feel that he is forgotten or an outcast, and he 'll droop at once. A few kind words, and a voice he loved, now, will do more than all my art could replace a little later.”

“You mean that we ought to have him back here?” asked Haire, bluntly.

“I mean that he ought to be where he can be carefully and kindly treated.”

“I 'll tell the Chief you think so. I 'll say that you dropped the remark to myself, of course,—never meaning to dictate anything to him.”

Beattie shook his head in sign of doubt.

“I know him well, better perhaps than any one, and I know there's no more generous man breathing; but he must not be coerced,—he must not be even influenced, where the question be one for a decision. As he said to me one day, 'I want the evidence, sir, I don't want your speech to it.'”

“There 's the evidence, then,” said Beattie,—“that note with its wavering letters, weak and uncertain as the fingers that traced them,—show him that. Say, if you like, that I read it and thought the lad's case critical. If, after that, he wishes to talk to me on the subject, I 'm ready to state my opinion. If the boy be like his father, a few tender words and a little show of interest for him will be worth all the tonics that ever were brewed.”

“It's the grandfather's nature too; but the world has never known it,—probably never will know it,” said Haire.

“In that I agree with you,” said Beattie, dryly.

“He regards it as a sort of weakness when people discover any act of generosity or any trait of kindliness about him; and do you know,” added he, confidentially, “I have often thought that what the world regarded as irritability and sharpness was nothing more nor less than shyness,—just shyness.”

“I certainly never suspected that he was the victim of that quality.”

“No, I imagine not. A man must know him as I do to-understand it. I remember one day, long, long ago, I went so far as to throw out a half hint that I thought he labored under this defect; he only smiled and said, 'You suspect me of diffidence. I am diffident,—no man more so, sir; but it is of the good or great qualities in other men.' Was n't that a strange reply? I never very clearly understood it,—do you?”

“I suspect I do; but here comes a message to us.”

Haire spoke a word with the servant, and then, turning: to Beattie, said: “He wants to see me. I 'll just step in, and be back in a moment.”

Beattie promised not to leave till he returned, and strolled along by the side of a little brook which meandered tastefully through the greensward. He had fallen into a revery,—a curious inquiry within himself whether it were a boon or an evil for a man to have acquired that sort of influence over another mind which makes his every act and word seem praiseworthy and excellent. “I wonder is the Chief the better or the worse for this indiscriminating attachment? Does it suggest a standard to attain to, or does it merely minister to self-love and conceit? Which is it? which is it?” cried he, aloud, as he stood and gazed on the rippling rivulet beside him.

“Shall I tell you?” said a low, sweet voice; and Lucy Lendrick slipped her arm within his as she spoke,—“shall I tell you, doctor?”

“Do, by all means.”

“A little of both, I opine. Mind,” said she, laughing, “I have not the vaguest notion of what you were balancing in your mind, but somehow I suspect unmixed good or evil is very rare, and I take my stand on a compromise. Am I right?”

“I scarcely know, but I can't submit the case to you. I have an old-fashioned prejudice against letting young people judge their seniors. Let us talk of something else. What shall it be?”

“I want to talk to you of Tom.”

“I have just been speaking to Haire about him. We must get him back here, Lucy,—we really must.”

“Do you mean here, in this house, doctor?”

“Here, in this house. Come, don't shake your head, Lucy. I see the necessity for it on grounds you know nothing of. Lady Lendrick is surrounding your grandfather with her family, and I want Tom back here just that the Chief should see what a thorough Lendrick he is. If your grandfather only knew the stuff that's in him, he 'd be prouder of him than of all his own successes.”

“No, no, no,—a thousand times no, doctor! It would never do,—believe me, it would never do. There are things which a girl may submit to in quiet obedience, which in a man would require subserviency. The Sewells, too, are to be here on Saturday, and who is to say what that may bring forth?”

“She wrote to you,” said the doctor, with a peculiar significance in his voice.

“Yes, a strange sort of note too; I almost wish I could show it to you,—I 'd so like to hear what you 'd say of the spirit of the writer.”

“She told me she would write,” said he again, with a more marked meaning in his manner.

“You shall see it,” said she, resolutely; “here it is;” and she drew forth the letter and handed it to him. For an instant she seemed as if about to speak, but suddenly, as if changing her mind, she merely murmured, “Read it, and tell me what you think of it.” The note ran thus:—

“My dearest Lucy,—We are to meet to-morrow, and I hope and trust to meet like sisters who love each other. Let me make one brief explanation before that moment arrives. I cannot tell what rumors may have reached you of all that has happened here. I know nothing of what people say, nor have I the faintest idea how our life may have been represented. If you knew me longer and better, you would know that I neither make this ignorance matter of complaint nor regret. I have lived about long enough to take the world at its just value, and not to make its judgments of such importance as can impair my self-esteem and my comfort. It would, however, have been agreeable to me to have known what you may have heard of me—of us—as it is not impossible I might have felt the necessity to add something,—to correct something,—perhaps to deny something. I am now in the dark, and pray forgive me if I stumble rudely against you, where I only meant to salute you courteously.

“You at least know the great disaster which befell here. Dr. Beattie has told you the story,—what more he may have said I cannot guess. If I were to wait for our meeting, I should not have to ask you. I should read it in your face, and hear it in every accent of your voice; but I write these few lines that you may know me at once in all frankness and openness, and know that if you be innocent of my secret, I at least have yours in my keeping. Yes, Lucy, I know all; and when I say all, I mean far more than you yourself know.

“If I were treacherous, I would not make this avowal to you. I should be satisfied with the advantage I possessed, and employ it to my benefit. Perhaps with any other woman than yourself I should play this part,—with you I neither can nor will. I will declare to you frankly and at once, you have lost the game and I have won it. That I say this thus briefly, is because in amplifying I should seem to be attempting to explain what there is no explaining. That I say it in no triumph, my own conscious inferiority to you is the best guarantee. I never would have dreamed of a rivalry had I been a girl. It is because I cannot claim the prize I have won it. It is because my victory is my misery I have gained it. I think I know your nature well enough to know that you will bear me no ill-will. I even go so far as to believe I shall have your compassion and your sympathy. I need them more, far more, than you know of. I could tell you that had matters fallen out differently it would not have been to your advantage, for there were obstacles—family obstacles—perfectly insurmountable. This is no pretence: on my honor I pledge to the truth of what I say. So long as I believed they might be overcome, I was in your interest, Lucy. You will not believe me, will you, if I swear it? Will you if I declare it on my knees before you?

“If I have not waited till we met to say these things, it is that we may meet with open hearts, in sorrow, but in sincerity. When I have told you everything, you will see that I have not been to blame. There may be much to grieve over, but there is nothing to reprehend—anywhere. And now, how is our future to be? It is for you to decide. I have not wronged you, and yet I am asking for forgiveness. Can you give me your love, and what I need as much, your pity? Can you forget your smaller affliction for the sake of my heavier one, for it is heavier?

“I plead guilty to one only treachery; and this I stooped to, to avoid the shame and disgrace of an open scandal. I told his mother that, though Lucy was my name, it was yours also; and that you were the Lucy of all his feverish wanderings. Your woman's heart will pardon me this one perfidy.

“She is a very dangerous woman in one sense. She has a certain position in the world, from which she could and would open a fire of slander on any one. She desires to injure me. She has already threatened, and she is capable of more than threatening. She says she will see Sir William. This she may not be able to do; but she can write to him. You know better than I do what might ensue from two such tempers meeting; for myself I cannot think of it.

“I have written you a long letter, dear Lucy, when I only meant to have written five or six lines. I have not courage to read it over; were I to do so, I am sure I would never send it. Perhaps you will not thank me for my candor. Perhaps you will laugh at all my scrupulous honesty. Perhaps you will—no, that you never will—I mean, employ my trustfulness against myself.

“Who knows if I have not given to this incident an importance which you will only smile at? There are people so rich that they never are aware if they be robbed. Are you one of these, Lucy? and, if so, will you forgive the thief who signs herself your ever-loving sister,

“Lucy Skwell.

“I have told Dr. Beattie I would write to you; he looked as if he knew that I might, or that I ought,—which is it? Doctors see a great deal more than they ought to see. The great security against them is, that they acquire an indifference to the sight of suffering, which, in rendering them callous, destroys curiosity, and then all ills that can neither be bled nor blistered they treat as trifles, and end by ignoring altogether. Were it otherwise,—that is, had they any touch of humanity in their nature,—they would be charming confidants, for they know everything and can go everywhere. If Beattie should be one of your pets, I ask pardon for this impertinence; but don't forget it altogether, as, one day or other, you will be certain to acknowledge its truth.

“We arrive by the 4.40 train on Saturday afternoon. If I see you at the door when we drive up, I shall take it as a sign I am forgiven.”

Beattie folded the letter slowly, and handed it to Lucy without a word. “Tell me,” said he, after they had walked on several seconds in silence,—“tell me, do you mean to-be at the door as she arrives?”

“I think not,” said she, in a very low voice.

“She has a humble estimate of doctors; but there is one touch of nature she must not deny them,—they are very sensitive about contagion. Now, Lucy, I wish with all my heart that you were not to be the intimate associate of this woman.”

“So do I, doctor; but how is it to be helped?”

He walked along silent and in deep thought.

“Shall I tell you, doctor, how it can be managed, but only by your help and assistance? I must leave this.”

“Leave the Priory! but for where?”

“I shall go and nurse Tom: he needs me, doctor, and I believe I need him; that is, I yearn after that old companionship which made all my life till I came here—Come now, don't oppose this plan; it is only by your hearty aid it can ever be carried out. When you have told grandpapa that the thought is a good one, the battle will be more than half won. You see yourself I ought not to be here.”

“Certainly not here with Mrs. Sewell; but there comes the grave difficulty of how you are to be lodged and cared for in that wild country where your brother lives?”

“My dear doctor, I have never known pampering till I came here. Our life at home—and was it not happy!—was of the very simplest. To go back again to the same humble ways will be like a renewal of the happy past; and then Tom and I suit each other so well,—our very caprices are kindred. Do say you like this notion, and tell me you will forward it.”

“The very journey is an immense difficulty.”

“Not a bit, doctor; I have planned it all. From this to Marseilles is easy enough,—only forty hours; once there, I either go direct to Cagliari, or catch the Sardinian steamer at Genoa—”

“You talk of these places as if they were all old acquaintances; but, my dear child, only fancy yourself alone in a foreign city. I don't speak of the difficulties of a new language.”

“You might, though, my dear doctor. My French and Italian, which carry me on pleasantly enough with Racine and Ariosto, will expose me sadly with my 'commissionnaire.'”

“But quite alone you cannot go,—that's certain.”

“I must not take a maid, that's as certain; Tom would only send us both back again. If you insist, and if grandpapa insists upon it, I will take old Nicholas. He thinks it a great hardship that he has not been carried away over seas to see the great world; and all his whims and tempers that tortured us as children will only amuse us now; his very tyranny will be good fun.”

“I declare frankly,” said the doctor, laughing, “I do not see how the difficulties of foreign travel are to be lessened by the presence of old Nicholas; but are you serious in all this?”

“Perfectly serious, and fully determined on it, if I be permitted.”

“When would you go?”

“At once! I mean as soon as possible. The Sewells are to be here on Saturday. I would leave on Friday evening by the mail-train from London. I would telegraph to Tom to say on what day he might expect me.”

“To-day is Tuesday; is it possible you could be ready?”

“I would start to-night, doctor, if you only obtain my leave.”

“It is all a matter of the merest chance how your grandfather will take it,” said Beattie, musing.

“But you approve? tell me you approve of it.”

“There is certainly much in the project that I like. I cannot bear to think of your living here with the Sewells; my experience of them is very brief, but it has taught me to know there could be no worse companionship for you; but as these are things that cannot be spoken of to the Chief, let us see by what arguments we should approach him. I will go at once. Haire is with him, and he is sure to see that what I suggest has come from you. If it should be the difficulty of the journey your grandfather objects to, Lucy, I will go as far as Marseilles with you myself, and see you safely embarked before I leave you.”

She took his hand and kissed it twice, but was not able to utter a word.

“There, now, my dear child, don't agitate yourself; you need all your calm and all your courage. Loiter about here till I come to you, and it shall not be long.”

“What a true, kind friend you are!” said she, as her eyes grew dim with tears. “I am more anxious about this than I like to own, perhaps. Will you, if you bring me good tidings, make me a signal with your handkerchief?”

He promised this, and left her.

Lucy sat down under a large elm-tree, resolving to wait there patiently for his return; but her fevered anxiety was such that she could not rest in one place, and was forced to rise and walk rapidly up and down. She imagined to herself the interview, and fancied she heard her grandfather's stern question,—whether she were not satisfied with her home? What could he do more for her comfort or happiness than he had done? Oh, if he were to accuse her of ingratitude, how should she bear it? Whatever irritability he might display towards others, to herself he had always been kind and thoughtful and courteous.

She really loved him, and liked his companionship, and she felt that if in leaving him she should consign him to solitude and loneliness, she could scarcely bring herself to go; but he was now to be surrounded with others, and if they were not altogether suited to him by taste or habit, they would, even for their own sakes, try to conform to his ways and likings.

Once more she bethought her of the discussion, and how it was faring. Had her grandfather suffered Beattie to state the case fully, and say all that he might in its favor? or had he, as was sometimes his wont, stopped him short with a peremptory command to desist? And then what part had Haire taken? Haire, for whose intelligence the old Judge entertained the lowest possible estimate, had somehow an immense influence over him, just as instincts are seen too strong for reason. Some traces of boyish intercourse yet survived and swayed his mind with his consciousness of its power.

“How long it seems!” murmured she. “Does this delay augur ill for success, or is it that they are talking over the details of the plan? Oh, if I could be sure of that! My poor dear Tom, how I long to be near you—to care for you—and watch you!” and as she said this, a cold sickness came over her, and she muttered aloud: “What perfidy it all is! As if I was not thinking of myself, and my own sorrows, while I try to believe I am but thinking of my brother.” And now her tears streamed fast down her cheeks, and her heart felt as if it would burst. “It must be an hour since he left this,” said she, looking towards the house, where all was still and motionless. “It is not possible that they are yet deliberating. Grandpapa is never long in coming to a decision. Surely all has been determined on before this, and why does he not come and relieve me from my miserable uncertainty?”

At last the hall door opened, and Haire appeared; he beckoned to her with his hand to come, and then re-entered the house. Lucy knew not what to think of this, and she could scarcely drag her steps along as she tried to hasten back. As she entered the hall, Haire met her, and, taking her hand cordially, said, “It is all right; only be calm, and don't agitate him. Come in now;” and with this she found herself in the room where the old Judge was sitting, his eyes closed and his whole attitude betokening sleep. Beattie sat at his side, and held one hand in his own. Lucy knelt down and pressed her lips to the other hand, which hung over the arm of the chair. Gently drawing away the hand, the old man laid it on her head, and in a low faint voice said: “I must not look at you, Lucy, or I shall recall my pledge. You are going away!”

The young girl turned her tearful eyes towards him, and held her lips firmly closed to repress a sob, while her cheeks trembled with emotion.

“Beattie tells me you are right,” continued he, with a sigh; and then, with a sort of aroused energy, he added; “But old age, amongst its other infirmities, fancies that right should yield to years. 'Ce sont les droits de la decrepitude,' as La Rochefoucauld calls them. I will not insist upon my 'royalties,' Lucy, this time. You shall go to your brother.” His hand trembled as it lay on her head, and then fell heavily to his side. Lucy clasped it eagerly, and pressed it to her cheek, and all was silent for some seconds in the room.

At last the old man spoke, and it was now in a clear distinct voice, though weak. “Beattie will tell you everything, Lucy; he has all my instructions. Let him now have yours. To-morrow we shall, both of us, be calmer, and can talk over all together. To-morrow will be Thursday?”

“Wednesday, grandpapa.”

“Wednesday,—all the better, my dear child; another day gained. I say, Beattie,” cried he in a louder tone, “I cannot have fallen into the pitiable condition the newspapers describe, or I could never have gained this victory over my selfishness. Come, sir, be frank enough to own that where a man combats himself, he asserts his identity. Haire will go out and give that as his own,” muttered he; and as he smiled, he lay back, his breathing grew heavier and longer, and he sank into a quiet sleep.