When Dr. Beattie came at seven o'clock in the morning, he found his patient better. The nurse gave her account, as nurses know well how to do, of a most favorable night,—told how calmly he slept, how sensibly he talked, and with what enjoyment he ate the jelly which he had never tasted.

At all events, he was better; not stronger, perhaps,—there was no time for that,—but calmer and more composed.

“You must not talk, nor be talked to yet awhile,” said Beattie; “and I will station Haire here as a sentinel to enforce my orders.”

“Yes, I would like Haire,” whispered the old man, softly. “Let him come and sit by me.”

“Can I see Mrs. Sewell? or is it too early to ask for her?” inquired the doctor of a maid.

“She has been up all night, sir, and only just lain down.”

“Don't disturb her, then. I will write a line to her, and you can give it when she awakes.”

He went into the library, and wrote: “Sir William is better, but not out of danger. It is even more important now than before that he have perfect quiet. I will change the nurse, and meanwhile I desire that you alone should enter the room till I return.”

“What letter was that the doctor gave you as he went away?” said Sewell, who during Beattie's visit had been secretly on the watch over all that occurred.

“For my mistress, sir,” said the girl, showing the note.

Sewell snatched it impatiently, threw his eyes over it, and gave it back. “Tell your mistress I want to see her when she is dressed. It's nothing to hurry for, but to come down to my room at her own convenience.”

“Better, but not out of danger! I should think not,” muttered he, as he strolled out into the garden.

“What is the meaning of stationing old Haire at the bedside? Does Beattie suspect? But what could he suspect? It would be a very, convenient thing for me, no doubt, if he would die; but I 'd scarcely risk my neck to help him on the way. These things are invariably discovered; and it would make no difference with the law whether it was the strong cord of a vigorous life were snapped, or the frail thread of a wasted existence unravelled. Just so; mere unravelling would do it here. No need of bold measures. A good vigorous contradiction,—a rude denial of something he said,—with a sneer at his shattered intellect, and I 'd stake my life on it his passion would do the rest. The blood mounts to his head at the slightest insinuation. I 'd like to see him tried with a good round insult. Give me ten minutes alone with him, and I 'll let Beattie come after me with all his bottles; and certainly no law could make this murder. Bad-tempered men are not to be more carefully guarded by the State than better-natured ones. It would be a strange statute that made it penal to anger an irascible fellow. I wonder if some suspicion of this kind has crossed Beattie's mind? Is it for that Haire has been called to keep the watch on deck,—and if so, who is to replace him? He'll tire at last,—he must sleep some time; and what are they to do then? My wife, perhaps. Yes; she would play their game willingly enough. If she has heard of this will, it will alarm her. She has always tried to have the children provided for. She dreads—she 's not so wrong there—she dreads leaving everything in my power. And of late she has dared to oppose me openly. My threat of suing for a divorce, that used to keep her so submissive once, is failing now. Some one has told her that I could not succeed. I can see in her manner that her mind is reassured on this score. She could have no difficulty in filching an opinion,—this house is always full of lawyers; and certainly nothing in the habits of the place would have imposed any restraint in discussing it.” And he laughed—actually laughed—at the conceit thus evoked. “If I had but a little time before me now, I should work through all my difficulties. Only to think of it! One fortnight, less perhaps, to arrange my plans, and I might defy the world. This is Tuesday. By Thursday I shall have to meet those two acceptances for three hundred and two hundred and fifty. The last, at all events, I must pay, since Walcott's name was not in his own handwriting. How conscientiously a man meets a bill when he has forged the endorsement!” And again he laughed at the droll thought. “These troubles swarm around me,” muttered he, impatiently. “There is Fossbrooke, too. Malevolent old fool, that will not see how needless it is to ruin me. Can't he wait,—can't he wait? It's his own prediction that I'm a fellow who needs no enemy; my own nature will always be Nemesis enough. Who's that?—who is there?” cried he, as he heard a rustling in the copse at his side.

“It's me, your honor. I came out to get sight of your honor before I went away,” said O'Reardon, in a sort of slavish cringing tone.

“Away! and where to?”

“They 're sending me out of the way, your honor, for a week or two, to prevent that ould man I arrested charging me with parjury. That's what they purtend, sir,” said he, in a lower voice. “But the truth is, that I know more than they like, ay, and more than they think; for it was in my house at Cullen's Wood that the Lord-Liftenant himself came down, one evening, and sat two hours with this ould man.”

“Keep these sort of tales for other people, Master O'Reardon; they have no success with me. You are a capital terrier for rat-hunting, but you cut a sorry figure when you come out as a boar-hound. Do you understand me?”

“I do, sir, right well. Your honor means that I ought to keep to informations against common people, and not try my hand against the gentlemen.”

“You 've hit it perfectly. It's strange enough how sharp you can be in some things, and what a cursed fool in others.”

“You never was more right in your life, sir. That's my character in one sentence;” and he gave a little plaintive sigh, as though the thought were a painful one.

“And how do you mean to employ your leisure, Mr. O'Reardon? Men of your stamp are never thoroughly idle. Will you write your memoirs?”

“Indeed, no, your honor; it might hurt people's feelings the names I 'd have to bring in; and I 'm just going over to France for the present.”

“To France?”

“Yes, sir; Mr. Harman's tuk heart o' grace, and is going to sue for a divorce, and he 's sending me over to a place called Boulogne to get up evidence against the Captain.”

“You like that sort of thing?”

“I neither like it nor dislike it,” said O'Reardon, while his eye kindled angrily, for he thought that he who scoffed at him should stand on higher moral ground than Sewell's.

“You once lived with Captain Peters, I think?”

“Yes, sir; I was his valet for four years. I was with him at Malta and Corfu when he was in the Rifles.”

“And he treated you well?”

“No man better, that I 'll say for him if he was in the dock to-morrow. He gave me a trunk of his clothes—mufti he called them—and ten pounds the day I left him.”

“It's somewhat hard, isn't it, to go against a man after that? Doesn't your fine nature rather revolt at the ingratitude?”

“Well, then, to tell your honor the truth, my 'fine nature' never was rich enough to afford itself that thing your honor calls gratitude. It's a sort of thing for my betters.”

“I 'm sorry to hear you say so, O'Reardon. You almost shock me with such principles.”

“Well, that's the way it is, sir. When a man 's poor, he has no more right to fine feelin's than to fine feeding.”

“Why, you go from bad to worse, O'Reardon. I declare you are positively corrupting this morning.”

“Am I, sir?” said the fellow, who now eyed him with a calm and steady defiance, as though he had submitted to all he meant to bear. Sewell felt this, and though he returned the stare, it was with a far less courageous spirit. “Well?” cried he at last, as though, no longer able to endure the situation, he desired to end it at any cost,—“well?”

“I suppose your honor wouldn't have time to settle with me now?”

“To settle with you! What do you call settle, my good fellow? Our reckonings are very short ones, or I'm much mistaken. What 's this settlement you talk of?”

“It's down here in black and white,” said the other, producing a folded sheet of paper as he spoke. “I put down the payments as I made them, and the car-hire and a trifle for refreshment; and if your honor objects to anything, it's easy to take it off; though, considering I was often on the watch till daybreak, and had to come in from Howth on foot before the train started of a morning, a bit to eat and to drink was only reasonable.”

“Make an end of this long story. What do you call the amount?”

“It's nothing to be afeard of, your honor, for the whole business,—the tracking him out, the false keys I had made for his trunk and writing-case, eight journeys back and forwards, two men to swear that he asked them to take the Celts' oath, and the other expenses as set down in the account. It's only twenty-seven pound four and eightpence.”

“What?”

“Twenty-seven, four and eight; neither more nor less.”

A very prolonged whistle was Sewell's sole reply.

“Do you know, O'Reardon,” said he at last, “it gives me a painfully low opinion of myself to see that, after so many months of close acquaintance, I should still appear to you to be little short of an idiot? It is very distressing—I give you my word, it is—very distressing.”

“Make your mind easy, sir; it is not that I think you at all;” and the fellow lent an emphasis to the “that” which gave it a most insulting significance.

“I 'd like to know,” cried Sewell, as his face crimsoned with anger, “if you could have dared to offer such a document as this to any man you didn't believe to be a fool.”

“The devil a drop of fool's blood is in either of us,” said O'Reardon, with an easy air and a low laugh of quiet assurance.

“I am flattered by the companionship, certainly. It almost restores me to self-esteem to hear your words. I'd like to pay you a compliment in turn if I only knew how.”

“Just pay me my little bill, your honor, and it will be all mask.”

“I'm not over-much in a joking mood this morning, and I 'd advise you to talk of something else. There 's a five-pound note for you;” and he flung the money contemptuously towards him. “Take it, and think yourself devilish lucky that I don't have you up for perjury in this business.”

O'Reardon never moved, nor made any sign to show that he noticed the money at his feet; but, crossing his arms on his chest, he drew himself haughtily up, and said: “So, then, it's defying me you 'd try now? You 'd have me up for perjury! Well, then, I begin to believe you are a fool, after all. No, sir, you need n't put your hand in your waistcoat. If you have a pistol there, I have another; and, what's more, I have a witness in that clump of trees, that only needs the word to stand beside me. There, now, Colonel, you see you 're beat, and beat at your own game too.”

“D—n you!” cried Sewell, savagely. “Can't you see that I 've got no money?”

“If I have n't money, I 'll have money's worth. Short of twenty pounds I 'll not leave this.”

“I tell you again, you might as well ask me for two hundred or two thousand. I 'll be in cash, I hope, by the end of the week—”

“Ay, but I'll be in France,” broke in O'Reardon.

“I wish you were in———,” mumbled Sewell, as he believed, to himself; but the other heard him, and dryly said, “No, sir, not yet; it's manners to let you go first.”

“I lost heavily two nights ago at the Club,—that's why I 'm so hard up; but I know I must have money by Saturday. By Saturday's post I 'll send you an order for twenty pounds. Will that content you?”

“No, sir, it will not. I had a bad bout of it last night myself, and lost every ha'penny Mr. Harman gave me for the journey,—that's the reason I 'm here.”

“But if I have not got it? There, so help me! is every farthing I can call my own this minute,”—and he drew from his pocket some silver, in which a single gold coin or two mingled,—“take it, if you like.”

“No, sir; it's no good to me. Short of twenty pounds, I could n't start on the journey.”

“And if I haven't got it! Am I to go out and rob for you?” cried Sewell, as his eyes flashed indignantly at him.

“I don't want you to rob; but it isn't a house like this hasn't twenty pounds in it.”

“You mean,” said Sewell, with a sneering laugh, “that if there 's not cash, there must be plate, jewels, and such-like, and so I 'm to lay an embargo on the spoons; but you forget there is a butler who looks after these things.”

“There might be many a loose thing on your Lady's table that would do as well,—a ring or two, or a bracelet that she's tired of.”

Sewell started,—a sudden thought flashed across him; if he were to kill the fellow as he stood there, how should he conceal the murder and hide the corpse? It was quick as a lightning flash, this thought, but the horror of the consequences so overcame him that a cold sweat broke out over his body, and he staggered back to a seat, and sank into it exhausted and almost fainting.

“Don't take it to heart that way, sir,” said the fellow, gazing at him. “Will I get you a glass of water?”

“Yes. No—no; I'll do without it. It's passing off. Wait here for a moment; I 'll be back presently.” He arose as he spoke, and moved slowly away. Entering the house, he ascended the stairs and made for his wife's room. As he reached the door, he stopped to listen. There was not a sound to be heard. He turned the handle gently, and looked in. One shutter was partly open, and a gleam of the breaking daylight crossed the floor and fell upon the bed on which she lay, dressed, and fast asleep,—so soundly, indeed, that though the door creaked loudly as he pushed it wider, she never heard the noise. She had evidently been sitting up with a sick man, and was now overcome by fatigue. His intention had been to consult with her,—at least to ask her to assist him with whatever money she had by her,—and he had entered thus stealthily not to startle her; for somehow, in the revulsion of his mind from the late scene of outrage and insult, a sense of respect, if not of regard, moved him towards her, who, in his cruelest moments, had never ceased to have a certain influence over him. He looked at her as she slept; her fine features, at rest, were still beautiful, though deep traces of sorrow were seen in the darkened orbits and the lines about that mouth, while three or four glistening white hairs showed themselves in the brown braid over her temple. Sewell sat down beside the bed, and, as he looked at her, a whole life passed in review before him, from the first hour he met her to that sad moment of the present. How badly they had played their game! how recklessly misused every opportunity that might have secured their fortune! What had he made of all his shrewdness and ready wit? And what had she done with all her beauty, and a fascination as great as even her beauty? It was an evil day that had brought them together. Each, alone, without the other, might have achieved any success. There had been no trust, no accord between them. They wanted the same things, it is true, but they never agreed upon the road that led to them. As to principles, she had no more of them than he had; but she had scruples—scruples of delicacy, scruples of womanhood—which often thwarted and worried him, and ended by making them enemies; and here was now the end of it! Her beauty was wasted, and his luck played out, and only ruin before them.

And yet it calmed him to sit there; her softly drawn breathing soothed his ruffled spirit. He felt it as the fevered man feels the ice-cold water on his brow,—a transient sense of what it would be to be well again. Is there that in the contemplation of sleep—image as it is of the great sleep of all—that subdues all rancor of heart,—all that spirit of conflict and jar by which men make their lives a very hell of undying hates, undying regrets?

His heart, that a few moments ago had almost burst with passion, now felt almost at ease; and in the half-darkened room, the stillness, and the calm, there stole over him a feeling of repose that was almost peacefulness. As he bent over her to look at her, her lips moved. She was dreaming; very softly, indeed, came the sounds, but they seemed as if entreating. “Yes,” she said,—“yes—all—everything—I consent. I agree to all, only—Cary—let me have Cary, and I will go.”

Sewell started. His face became crimson in a moment. How was it that these words scattered all his late musings, as the hurricane tears and severs the cloud-masses, and sends them riven and shattered through the sky? He arose and walked over to the table; a gold comb and two jewelled hair-pins lay on the glass; he clutched them coarsely in his hand, and moved away. Cautiously and noiselessly he crept down the stairs, and out into the garden. “Take these, and make your money of them; they are worth more than your claim; and mind, my good fellow,—mind it well, I say, or it will be worse for you,—our dealings end here. This is our last transaction, and our last meeting. I 'll never harm you, if you keep only out of my way. But take care that you never claim me, nor assume to know me; for I warn you I'll disown you, if it should bring you to the gallows. That's plain speaking, and you understand it.”

“I do, every word of it,” said the fellow, as he buttoned up his coat and drew his hat over his eyes. “I 'm taking the 'fiver,' too, as it's to be our last meetin'. I suppose your honor will shake hands with me and wish me luck. Well, if you won't, there's no harm done. It's a quare world, where the people that's doin' the same things can't be friends, just because one wears fine cloth and the other can only afford corduroy. Good-bye, sir,—good-bye, any-how;” and there was a strange cadence in the last words no description can well convey.

Sewell stood and looked after him for a moment, then turned into the house, and threw himself on a sofa, exhausted and worn out.