Some days had gone over since the scene just recorded in our last chapter, and the house at Castello presented a very different aspect from its late show of movement and pleasure.

Lord Culduff, on the pretence of his presence being required at the mines, had left on the same night that Cutbill took his departure for England. On the morning after, Jack also went away. He had passed the night writing and burning letters to Julia; for no sooner had he finished an epistle, than he found it too cruel, too unforgiving, too unfeeling, by half; and when he endeavored to moderate his just anger, he discovered signs of tenderness in his reproaches that savored of submission. It would not be quite fair to be severe on Jack's failures, trying as he was to do what has puzzled much wiser and craftier heads than his. To convey all the misery he felt at parting from her, with a just measure of reproach for her levity towards him, to mete out his love and his anger in due doses, to say enough, but never too much, and finally to let her know that, though he went off in a huff, it was to carry her image in his heart through all his wanderings, never forgetting her for a moment, whether he was carrying despatches to Cadiz or coaling at Corfu,—to do all these, I say, becomingly and well, was not an easy task, and especially for one who would rather have been sent to cut out a frigate under the guns of a fortress than indite a despatch to “my Lords of the Admiralty.”

From the short sleep which followed all his abortive attempts at a letter he was awakened by his servant telling him it was time to dress and be off. Drearier moments there are not in life than those which herald in a departure of a dark morning in winter, with the rain swooping in vast sheets against the window-panes, and the cold blast whistling through the leafless trees. Never do the candles seem to throw so little light as these do now through the dreary room, all littered and disordered by the preparations for the road. What fears and misgivings beset one at such a moment! What reluctance to go, and what a positive sense of fear one feels, as though the journey were a veritable leap in the dark, and that the whole fortunes of a life were dependent on that instant of resolution!

Poor Jack tried to battle with such thoughts as these by reminding himself of his duty, and the calls of the service; he asked himself again and again if it were out of such vacillating, wavering materials, a sailor's heart should be fashioned? was this the stuff that made Nelsons or Collingwoods? And though there was but little immediate prospect of a career of distinction, his sense of duty taught him to feel that the routine life of peace was a greater trial to a man's patience than all the turmoil and bustle of active service.

“The more I cling to remain here,” muttered he, as he descended the stairs, “the more certain am I that it's pure weakness and folly.”

“What's that you are muttering about weakness and folly, Jack?” said Nelly, who had got up to see him off, and give him the last kiss before he departed.

“How came it you are here, Nelly? Get back to your bed, girl, or you 'll catch a terrible cold.”

“No, no, Jack; I 'm well shawled and muffled. I wanted to say good-bye once more. Tell me what it was you were saying about weakness and folly.”

“I was assuring myself that my reluctance to go away was nothing less than folly. I was trying to persuade myself that the best thing I could do was to be off; but I won't say I have succeeded.”

“But it is, Jack; rely on it, it is. You are doing the right thing; and if I say so, it is with a heavy heart, for I shall be very lonely after you.”

Passing his arm round her waist, he walked with her up and down the great spacious hall, their slow footsteps echoing in the silent house.

“If my last meeting with her had not been such as it was, Nelly,” said he, falteringly; “if we had not parted in anger, I think I could go with a lighter heart.”

“But don't you know Julia well enough to know that these little storms of temper pass away so rapidly that they never leave a trace behind them? She was angry, not because you found fault with her, but because she thought you had suffered yourself to be persuaded she was in the wrong.”

“What do I care for these subtleties? She ought to have known that when a man loves a girl as I love her, he has a right to tell her frankly if there's anything in her manner he is dissatisfied with.”

“He has no such right; and if he had, he ought to be very careful how he exercised it.”

“And why so?”

“Just because fault-finding is not love-making.”

“So that, no matter what he saw that he disliked or disapproved of, he ought to bear it all rather than risk the chance of his remonstrance being ill taken?”

“Not that, Jack; but he ought to take time and opportunity to make the same remonstrance. You don't go down to the girl you are in love with, and call her to account as you would summon a dockyardman or a rigger for something that was wrong with your frigate.”

“Take an illustration from something you know better, Nelly, for I 'd do nothing of the kind; but if I saw what, in the conduct or even in the manner of the girl I was in love with, I would n't stand if she were my wife, it will be hard to convince me that I oughtn't to tell her of it.”

“As I said before, Jack, the telling is a matter of time and opportunity. Of all the jealousies in the world there is none as inconsiderate as that of lovers towards the outer world. Whatever change either may wish for in the other must never come suggested from without.”

“And did n't I tell her she was wrong in supposing that it was Marion made me see her coquetry?”

“That you thought Marion had no influence over your Judgment she might believe readily enough, but girls have a keener insight into each other than you are aware of, and she was annoyed—and she was right to be annoyed—that in your estimate of her there should enter anything, the very smallest, that could bespeak the sort of impression a woman might have conveyed.”

“Nelly, all this is too deep for me. If Julia cared for me as I believe she had, she 'd have taken what I said in good part. Did n't I give up smoking of a morning, except one solitary cheroot after breakfast, when she asked me? Who ever saw me take a nip of brandy of a forenoon since that day she cried out, 'Shame, Jack, don't do that'? And do you think I was n't as fond of my weed and my glass of schnapps as ever she was of all those little airs and graces she puts on to make fools of men?”

“Carriage waiting, sir,” said a servant, entering with a mass of cloaks and rugs on his arm.

“Confound the carriage and the journey too,” muttered he, below his breath. “Look here, Nelly; if you are right, and I hope with all my heart you are, I 'll not go.”

“That would be ruin, Jack; you must go.”

“What do I care for the service? A good seaman—a fellow that knows how to handle a ship—need never want for employment. I 'd just as soon be a skipper as wear a pair of swabs on my shoulders and be sworn at by some crusty old rear-admiral for a stain on my quarter-deck. I'll not go, Nelly; tell Ned to take off the trunks; I'll stay where I am.”

“Oh, Jack, I implore you not to wreck your whole fortune in life. It is just because Julia loves you that you are bound to show yourself worthy of her. You know how lucky you were to get this chance. You said only yesterday it was the finest station in the whole world. Don't lose it, like a dear fellow—don't do what will be the imbitterment of your entire life, the loss of your rank, and—the———” She stopped as she was about to add something still stronger.

“I 'll go, then, Nelly; don't cry about it; if you sob that way I 'll make a fool of myself. Pretty sight for the flunkies, to see a sailor crying, would n't it? all because he had to join his ship. I'll go, then, at once. I suppose you'll see her to-day, or to-morrow at farthest?”

“I'm not sure, Jack. Marion said something about hunting parsons, I believe, which gave George such deep pain that he wouldn't come here on Wednesday. Julia appears to be more annoyed than George, and, in fact, for the moment, we have quarantined each other.”

“Isn't this too bad?” cried he, passionately.

“Of course it is too bad; but it's only a passing cloud; and by the time I shall write to you it will have passed away.”

Jack clasped her affectionately in his arms, kissed her twice, and sprang into the carriage, and drove away with a full heart indeed; but also with the fast assurance that his dear sister would watch over his interests and not forget him.

That dark drive went over like a hideous dream. He heard the wind and the rain, the tramp of the horses' feet and the splash of the wheels along the miry road, but he never fully realized where he was or how he came there. The first bell was ringing as he drove into the station, and there was but little time to get down his luggage and secure his ticket. He asked for a coupÉ, that he might be alone; and being known as one of the great family at Castello, the obsequious station-master hastened to install him at once. On opening the door, however, it was discovered that another traveller had already deposited a great-coat and a rug in one corner.

“Give yourself no trouble, Captain Bramleigh,” said the official, in a low voice. “I 'll just say the coupÉ is reserved, and we 'll put him into another compartment. Take these traps, Bob,” cried he to a porter, “and put them into a first-class.”

Scarcely was the order given when two figures, moving out of the dark, approached, and one, with a slightly foreign accent, but in admirable English, said, “What are you doing there? I have taken that place.”

“Yes,” cried his friend, “this gentleman secured the coupÉ on the moment of his arrival.”

“Very sorry, sir—extremely sorry; but the coupÉ was reserved—specially reserved.”

“My friend has paid for that place;” said the last, speaker; “and I can only say, if I were he, I'd not relinquish it.”

“Don't bother yourself about it,” whispered Jack. “Let him have his place. I 'll take the other corner; and there's an end of it.”

“If you 'll allow me, Captain Bramleigh,” said the official, who was now touched to the quick on that sore point, a question of his department—“if you'll allow me, I think I can soon settle this matter.”

“But I will not allow you, sir,” said Jack, his sense of fairness already outraged by the whole procedure. “He has as good a right to his place as I have to mine. Many thanks for your trouble. Good-bye.” And so saying he stepped in.

The foreigner still lingered in earnest converse with his friend, and only mounted the steps as the train began to move. “A bientÔt, cher Philippe,” he cried, as the door was slammed, and the next instant they were gone.

The little incident which had preceded their departure had certainly not conduced to any amicable disposition between them, and each, after a sidelong glance at the other, ensconced himself more completely within his wrappings, and gave himself up to either silence or sleep.

Some thirty miles of the journey had rolled over, and it was now day,—dark and dreary indeed,—when Jack awoke and found the carriage pretty thick with smoke. There is a sort of freemasonry in the men of tobacco which never fails them, and they have a kind of instinctive guess of a stranger from the mere character of his weed. On the present occasion Jack recognized a most exquisite Havanna odor, and turned furtively to see the smoker.

“I ought to have asked,” said the stranger, “if this was disagreeable to you; but you were asleep, and I did not like to disturb you.”

“Not in the least; I am a smoker too,” said Jack, as he drew forth his case and proceeded to strike a light.

“Might I offer you one of mine?—they are not bad,” said the other, proffering his case.

“Thanks,” said Jack; “my tastes are too vulgar for Cubans. Birdseye, dashed with strong Cavendish, is what I like.”

“I have tried that too, as I have tried everything English, but the same sort of half success follows me through all.”

“If your knowledge of the language be the measure, I 'd say you've not much to complain of. I almost doubt whether you are a foreigner.”

“I was born in Italy,” said the other, cautiously, “and never in England till a few weeks ago.”

“I'm afraid,” said Jack, with a smile, “I did not impress you very favorably as regards British politeness, when we met this morning; but I was a little out of spirits. I was leaving home, not very likely to see it again for some time, and I wanted to be alone.”

“I am greatly grieved not to have known this. I should never have thought of intruding.”

“But there was no question of intruding. It was your right that you asserted, and no more.”

“Half the harsh things that we see in life are done merely by asserting a right,” said the other, in a deep and serious voice.

Jack had little taste for what took the form of a reflection; to his apprehension, it was own brother of a sermon; and warned by this sample of his companion's humor, he muttered a broken sort of assent and was silent. Little passed between them till they met at the dinner-table, and then they only interchanged a few commonplace remarks. On their reaching their destination, they took leave of each other courteously, but half formally, and drove off their several ways.

Almost the first man, however, that Jack met, as he stepped on board the mail-packet for Holyhead, was his fellow-traveller of the rail. This time they met cordially, and after a few words of greeting they proceeded to walk the deck together like old acquaintances.

Though the night was fresh and sharp there was a bright moon, and they both felt reluctant to go below, where a vast crowd of passengers was assembled. The brisk exercise, the invigorating air, and a certain congeniality that each discovered in the other, soon established between them one of those confidences which are only possible in early life.

Nor do I know anything better in youth than the frank readiness with which such friendships are made. It is with no spirit of calculation—it is with no counting of the cost, that we sign these contracts. We feel drawn into companionship, half by some void within ourselves, half by some quality that seems to supply that void. The tones of our own voice in our own ears assure us that we have found sympathy; for we feel that we are speaking in a way we could not speak to cold or uncongenial listeners.

When Jack Bramleigh had told that he was going to take command of a small gunboat in the Mediterranean, he could not help going further, and telling with what a heavy heart he was going to assume his command. “We sailors have a hard lot of it,” said he; “we come home after a cruise—all is new, brilliant, and attractive to us. Our hearts are not steeled, as are landsmen's, by daily habit. We are intoxicated by what calmer heads scarcely feel excited. We fall in love, and then, some fine day, comes an Admiralty despatch ordering us to hunt slavers off Lagos, or fish for a lost cable in Behring's Straits.”

“Never mind,” said the other; “so long as there 's a goal to reach, so long as there's a prize to win, all can be borne. It's only when life is a shoreless ocean—when, seek where you will, no land will come in sight—when, in fact, existence offers nothing to speculate on—then, indeed, the world is a dreary blank.”

“I don't suppose any fellow's lot is as bad as that.”

“Not perhaps completely, thoroughly so; but that a man's fate can approach such a condition—that a man can cling to so small a hope that he is obliged to own to himself that it is next to no hope at all,—that there could be, and is, such a lot in existence, I who speak to you now am able unfortunately to vouch for.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Jack, feelingly; “and I am sorry, besides, to have obtruded my own small griefs before one who has such a heavy affliction.”

“Remember,” said the Frenchman, “I never said it was all up with me. I have a plank still to cling to, though it be only a plank. My case is simply this: I have come over to this country to prefer a claim to a large property, and I have nothing to sustain it but my right. I know well you Englishmen have a theory that your laws are so admirably and so purely administered that if a man asks for justice,—be he poor, or unknown, or a foreigner, it matters not,—he is sure to obtain it. I like the theory, and I respect the man who believes in it, but I don't trust it myself. I remember reading in your debates, how the House of Lords sat for days over a claim of a French nobleman who had been ruined by the great Revolution in France, and for whose aid, with others, a large sum had once been voted, of which, through a series of misadventures, not a shilling had reached him. That man's claim, upheld and maintained by one of the first men in England, and with an eloquence that thrilled through every heart around, was rejected, ay, rejected, and he was sent out of court a beggar. They could n't call him an impostor, but they left him to starve!” He paused for a secondhand in a slower voice continued, “Now, it may be that my case shall one of these days be heard before that tribunal, and I ask you, does it not call for great courage and great trustfulness to have a hope on the issue?”

“I'll stake my head on it, they'll deal fairly by you,” said Jack, stoutly.

“The poor baron I spoke of had powerful friends: men who liked him well, and fairly believed in his claim. Now I am utterly unknown, and as devoid of friends as of money. I think nineteen out of twenty Englishmen would call me an adventurer to-morrow; and there are few titles that convey less respect in this grand country of yours.”

“There you are right; every one here must have a place in society, and be in it.”

“My landlady where I lodged thought me an adventurer; the tailor who measured me whispered adventurer as he went downstairs; and when a cabman, in gratitude for an extra sixpence, called me 'count,' it was to proclaim me an adventurer to all who heard him.”

“You are scarcely fair to us,” said Jack, laughing. “You have been singularly unlucky in your English acquaintance.”

“No. I have met a great deal of kindness, but always after a certain interval of doubt—almost of mistrust. I tell you frankly, you are the very first Englishman with whom I have ventured to talk freely on so slight an acquaintance, and it has been to me an unspeakable relief to do it.”

“I am proud to think you had that confidence in me.”

“You yourself suggested it. You began to tell me of your plans and hopes, and I could not resist the temptation to follow you. A French hussar is about as outspoken an animal as an English sailor, so that we were well met.”

“Are you still in the service?”

“No; I am in what we call disponibilitÉ, I am free till called on—and free then if I feel unwilling to go back.”

The Frenchman now passed on to speak of his life as a soldier,—a career so full of strange adventures and curious incidents that Jack was actually grieved when they glided into the harbor of Holyhead, and the steamer's bell broke up the narrative.