In a small dinner-room of the Viceregal Lodge, in the Phoenix Park, the Viceroy sat at dinner with Sir Brook Fossbrooke. He had arrived in great haste, and incognito, from England, to make preparations for his final departure from Ireland; for his party had been beaten in the House, and expected that, in the last debate on the measure before them, they would be driven to resign office. Lord Wilmington had no personal regrets on the subject. With high station and a large fortune, Ireland, to him, meant little else than estrangement from the habits and places that he liked, with the exposure to that species of comment and remark which the Press so unsparingly bestows on all public men in England. He had accepted office to please his party; and though naturally sorry for their defeat, there was a secret selfish satisfaction at being able to go back to a life more congenial to him that more than consoled him for the ministerial reverse.

It is difficult for the small world of place-hunters and office-seekers to understand this indifference; but I have little doubt that it exists largely amongst men of high position and great fortune, and imparts to their manner that seeming dignity in adversity which we humble folk are so prone to believe the especial gift of the “order.”

Cholmondely Balfour did not take matters so coolly; he had been summoned over by telegram to take his part in the “third reading,” and went away with the depressing feeling that his official sun was about to set, and all the delightful insolences of a “department” were about to be withdrawn from him.

Balfour had a brief interview with the Viceroy before he started, and hurriedly informed him how events stood in Ireland. Nor was it without a sense of indignation that he saw how little his Excellency cared for the defeat of his party, and how much more eager he seemed to see his old friend Fossbrooke, and thank him for his conduct, than listen to the details of the critical questions of the hour.

“And this is his address, you say?” said Lord Wilmington, as he held a card in his hand. “I must send off to him at once.”

“It's all Bentley's fault,” said Balfour, full of the House and the debate. “If that fellow were drowning, and had only breath for it, he 'd move an amendment! And it's so provoking, now we had got so splendidly through our prosecutions, and were winning the Catholics round to us besides; not to say that I have at last managed to induce Lendrick to resign, and we have a Judgeship to bestow.” In a few hurried words he recounted his negotiation with Sewell, placing in the Viceroy's hand the document of the resignation.

Lord Wilmington's thoughts were fully as much on his old friend Fossbrooke all this time as on questions of office, and not a little disconcerted the Secretary by muttering, “I hope the dear old fellow bears me no ill-will. I would not for worlds that he should think me unmindful of him.”

And now they sat over their wine together, talking pleasantly of bygone times and old friends,—many lost to them by death, and some by distance.

“I take it,” said Fossbrooke, after a pause, “that you are not sorry to get back to England.”

Lord Wilmington smiled, but said nothing.

“You never could have cared much for the pomp and state of this office, and I suppose beyond these there is little in it.”

“You have hit it exactly. There is nothing to be done here,—nothing. The shortness of the period that is given to any man to rule this country, and the insecurity of his tenure, even for that time, compel him to govern by a party; and the result is, we go on alternately pitting one faction against the other, till we end by marshalling the nation into two camps instead of massing them into one people. Then there is another difficulty. In Ireland the question is not so much what you do as by whom you do it. It is the men, not the measures, that are thought of. There is not an infringement on personal freedom I could not carry out, if you only let me employ for its enactment some popular demagogue. Give me a good patriot in Ireland, and I 'll engage to crush every liberty in the island.”

“I don't envy you your office, then,” said Fossbrooke, gravely.

“Of course you don't; and between ourselves, Fossbrooke, I 'm not heartbroken by the thought of laying it down. I suspect, too, that after a spell of Irish official life every statesman ought to lie fallow for a while: he grows so shifty and so unscrupulous here, he is not fit for home work.”

“And how soon do you leave?”

“Let me see,” said he, pondering. “We shall be beaten to-night or to-morrow night at farthest. They 'll take a day to talk it over, and another to see the Queen; and allowing three days more for the negotiations back and forward, I think I may say we shall be out by this day week. A week of worry and annoyance it will be!”

“How so?”

“All the hungry come to be fed at the last hour. They know well that an outgoing administration is always bent on filling up everything in their gift. You make a clean sweep of the larder before you give up the key to the new housekeeper; and one is scarcely so inquisitive as to the capacity of the new office-holder as he would be if, remaining in power, he had to avail himself of his services. For instance, Pemberton may not be the best man for Chief Baron, but we mean to bequeath him in that condition to our successors.”

“And what becomes of Sir William Lendrick?”

“He resigns.”

“With his peerage?”

“Nothing of the kind; he gets nothing. I 'm not quite clear how the matter was brought about. I heard a very garbled, confused story from Balfour. As well as I could gather, the old man intrusted his step-son, Sewell, with the resignation, probably to enable him to make some terms for himself; and Sewell—a shifty sort of fellow, it would seem—held it back—the Judge being ill, and unable to act—till he found that things looked ticklish. We might go out,—the Chief Baron might die,—Heaven knows what might occur. At all events he closed the negotiation, and placed the document in Balfour's hands, only pledging him not to act upon it for eight-and-forty hours.”

“This interests me deeply. I know the man Sewell well, and I know that no transaction in which he is mixed up can be clean-handed.”

“I have heard of him as a man of doubtful character.”

“Quite the reverse; he is the most indubitable scoundrel alive. I need not tell you that I have seen a great deal of life, and not always of its best or most reputable side. Well, this fellow has more bad in him, and less good, than any one I have ever met. The world has scores, thousands, of unprincipled dogs, who, when their own interests are served, are tolerably indifferent about the rest of humanity. They have even, at times, their little moods of generosity, in which they will help a fellow blackguard, and actually do things that seem good-natured. Not so Sewell. Swimming for his life, he 'd like to drown the fellow that swam alongside of him.”

“It is hard to believe in such a character,” said the other.

“So it is! I stood out long—ay, for years—against the conviction; but he has brought me round to it at last, and I don't think I can forgive the fellow for destroying in me a long-treasured belief that no heart was so depraved as to be without its relieving trait.”

“I never heard you speak so hardly before of any one, Fossbrooke.”

“Nor shall you ever again, for I will never mention this man more. These fellows jar upon one's nature, and set it out of tune towards all humanity.”

“It is strange how a shrewd old lawyer like the Chief Baron could have taken such a man into his confidence.”

“Not so strange as it seems at first blush. Your men of the world—and Sewell is eminently one of these—wield an immense influence over others immeasurably their superiors in intellect, just by force of that practical skill which intercourse with life confers. Think for a moment how often Sewell might refer some judgment or opinion of the old Chief to that tribunal they call 'Society,' of whose ways of thought, or whose prejudices, Lendrick knows as much as he knows of the domestic habits of the Tonga Islanders. Now Sewell was made to acquire this influence, and to employ it.”

“That would account for his being intrusted with this,” said the Viceroy, drawing from his breast-pocket the packet Balfour had given him. “This is Sir William's long-waited-for resignation.”

“The address is in Sewell's writing. I know the hand well.”

“Balfour assured me that he was well acquainted with the Chief Baron's writing, and could vouch for the authenticity of the document. Here it is.” As he said this, he opened the envelope, and drew forth a half-sheet of post paper, and handed it to Fossbrooke.

“Ay, this is veritable. I know the hand, too, and the style confirms it.” He pondered for some seconds over the paper, turned it, looked at the back of it, examining it all closely and carefully, and then, holding it out at arm's length, he said, “You know these things far better than I do, and you can say if this be the sort of document a man would send on such an occasion.”

“You don't mean that it is a forgery”

“No, not that; nor is it because a forgery would be an act Sewell would hold back from, I merely ask if this looks like what it purports to be? Would Sir William Lendrick, in performing so solemn an act, take a half sheet of paper,—the first that offered, it would seem,—for see, here are some words scribbled on the back,—and send in his resignation blurred, blotted, and corrected like this?”

“I read it very hurriedly. Balfour gave it to me as I landed, and I only ran my eyes over it; let me see it again. Yes, yes,” muttered he, “there is much in what you say; all these smudges and alterations are suspicious. It looks like a draft of a despatch.”

“And so it is. I 'll wager my head on it,—just a draft.”

“I see what you mean. It was a draft abstracted by Sewell, and forwarded under this envelope.”

“Precisely. The Chief Baron, I am told, is a hot, hasty, passionate man, with moments of rash, impetuous action; in one of these he sat down and wrote this, as Italians say, 'per sfogarsi.' Warm-tempered men blow off their extra steam in this wise, and then go on their way like the rest of us. He wrote this, and, having written it, felt he had acquitted a debt he owed his own indignation.”

“It looks amazingly like it; and now I remember in a confused sort of way something about a bet Balfour lost; a hundred—I am not sure it was not two hundred—”

“There, there,” said Fossbrooke, laughing, “I recognize my honorable friend at once. I see the whole, as if it were revealed to me. He grows bolder as he goes on. Formerly his rascalities were what brokers call 'time bargains,' and not to be settled for till the end of the month, but now he only asks a day's immunity.”

“A man must be a consummate scoundrel who would do this.”

“And so he is,—a fellow who stops at nothing. Oh, if the world only knew how many brigands wore diamond shirt-buttons, there would be as much terror in going into a drawing-room as people now feel about a tour in Greece. You will let me have this document for a few hours?”

“To be sure, Fossbrooke. I know well I may rely on your discretion; but what do you mean to do with it?”

“Let the Chief Baron see it, if he's well enough; if not, I 'll show it to Beattie, his doctor, and ask his opinion of it. Dr. Lendrick, Sir William's son, is also here, and he will probably be able to say if my suspicions are well founded.”

“It seems odd enough to me, Fossy, to hear you talk of your suspicions! How hardly the world must have gone with you since we met to inflict you with suspicions! You never had one long ago.”

“And shall I tell you how I came by them, Wilmington?” said he, laughing. “I have grown rich again,—there 's the whole secret. There's no such corrupter as affluence. My mine has turned out a perfect Potosi, and here am I ready to think every man a knave and a rascal, and the whole world in a conspiracy to cheat me!”

“And is this fact about the mine?—tell me all about it.”

And Fossbrooke now related the story of his good fortune, dwelling passingly on the days of hardship that preceded it; but frankly avowing that it was a consummation of which he never for a moment doubted. “I knew it,” said he; “and I was not impatient. The world is always an amusing drama, and though one may not be 'cast' for a high part, he can still 'come on' occasionally, and at all events he can enjoy the performance.”

“And is this fortune to go like the others, Fossy?” said the Viceroy, laughing.

“Have I not told you how much wiser I have grown, that I trust no one? I 'm not sure that I 'll not set up as a moneylender.”

“So you were forty years ago, Fossy, to my own knowledge; but I don't suspect you found it very profitable.”

“Have I not had my fifty—ay, my five hundred—per cent in my racy enjoyment of life? One cannot be paid in meal and malt too; and I have 'commuted,' as they call it, and 'taken out' in cordiality what others prefer in cash. I do not believe there is a corner of the globe where I could not find some one to give me a cordial welcome.”

“And what are your plans?”

“I have fully a thousand; my first, however, is to purchase that place on the Shannon, where, if you remember, we met once,—the Swan's Nest. I want to settle my friends the Lendricks in their old home. I shall have to build myself a crib near them. But before I turn squatter I 'll have a run over to Canada. I have a large tract there near Huron, and they have built a village on me, and now are asking me for a church and a schoolhouse and an hospital. It was but a week ago they might as well have asked me for the moon! I must see Ceylon too, and my coffee-fields. I am dying to be 'bon Prince' again and lower my rents. 'There's arrant snobbery,' some one told me t' other day, 'in that same love of popularity;' but they 'll have to give it even a worse name before they disgust me with it. I shall have to visit Cagliari also, and relieve Tom Lendrick, who would like, I have no doubt, to take that 'three months in Paris' which young fellows call 'going over to see their friends.'”

“You are a happy fellow, Brook; perhaps the happiest I ever knew.”

“I'll sell my secret for it cheap,” said Fossbrooke, laughing. “It is, never to go grubbing for mean motives in this life; never tormenting yourself what this might mean or that other might portend, but take the world for what it seems, or what it wishes you to believe it. Take it with its company face on, and never ask to see any one in dÉshabille but old and dear friends. Life has two sides, and some men spin the coin so as always to make the wrong face of the medal come uppermost. I learned the opposite plan when I was very young, and I have not forgotten it. Good-night now; I promised Beattie to look in on him before midnight, and it's not far off, I see.”

“We shall have a day or two of you, I hope, at Crew before you leave England.”

“When I have purchased my estate and married off my young people, I 'll certainly make you a visit.”