CHAPTER XVII. AN UNGRACIOUS ADIEU
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.
CHAPTER XVIII. A PLEASANT MEETING
No sooner did Sir Brook find himself once more at liberty than he went to the post-office for his letters, of which a goodly stock had accumulated during his absence. A telegram, too, was amongst the number, despatched by Tom in great haste eight days before. It ran thus: —
“Great news! We have struck silver in the new shaft. Do not sell, do not even treat till you hear from me. I write by this post.
“Lendrick.”
Had Tom but seen the unmoved calm with which Foss-brooke read this astounding tidings, – had he only seen the easy indifference with which the old man threw down the slip of paper after once reading it, and passed on to a letter of Lord Wilmington from Crew Keep, – his patience would certainly have been sorely tried. Nor was it from any indifference to good fortune, still as little from any distrust of the tidings. It was simply because he had never doubted that the day was coming that was to see him once more rich., It might be a little later or a little earlier. It might be that wealth should shower itself upon him in a gradually increasing measure, or come down in a very deluge of prosperity. These were things he did not, could not know; but of the fact – the great Fact itself – he had as firm a belief as he had of his own existence; and had he died before realizing it, he would have bequeathed his vast fortune, with blanks for the amount, as conscientiously as though it were bank stock for which he held the vouchers.
When most men build castles in the air, they know on what foundations their edifices are based, and through all their imaginative ardor there pierces the sharp pang of unreality. Not so with Fossbrooke. It was simply a question of time with him when the costly palace might become fit for habitation, and this great faith in himself rescued him from all that vacillation so common to those who keep a debtor and creditor account between their hopes and fears. Neither was he at all impatient because Destiny did not bestir herself and work quicker. The world was always pleasant, always interesting; and when to-morrow or next day Fortune might call him to a higher station and other modes of life, he almost felt he should regret the loss of that amusing existence he now enjoyed, amongst people all new and all strange to him.
At last he came to Tom Lendrick’s letter, – four closely written pages, all glowing with triumph. On the day week after Sir B.‘s departure, he wrote: —
“They had come upon a vein of lead so charged with silver as to seem as though the whole mass were of the more precious metal. All Cagliari came down to see a block of ore upwards of two hundred-weight, entirely crusted with silver, and containing in the mass forty per cent. We had to get a guard from the Podesta, merely to keep off the curious, for there was no outrage nor any threat of outrage. Indeed, your kind treatment of our workpeople now begins to bear its fruit, and there was nothing but good-will and kind feeling for our lucky fortune. The two Jews, Heenwitz and Voss, of the Contrada Keale, were amongst the first visitors, and had actually gone down into the shaft before I knew of it. They at once offered me a large sum for a share in the mine; and when I told them it was with you they must treat, they proposed to open a credit of three hundred thousand francs with their house in my favor, to go on with the working till I heard from you and learned your intentions. This offer, too, I have declined, till I get your letter.
“This was on Tuesday, but on Thursday we struck pure silver without a trace of lead, the only alloy being a thin vein of cobalt, like a ribbon, running through the ore; and which Chiusani says – for he has worked in Mexico and the Brazils – is proof of a strong vein. The news spread like wildfire at Cagliari; and I have had such levees of the money folk! all offering me millions at any, or indeed at no interest, and actually entreating me to put my hand in their pockets, while they look away or close their eyes. As for the presents that pour in, we have no room for them; and you know how dangerous it would be to refuse these people. It is only a short step with them from a sworn friendship to the stiletto. The only disturbing element in all this joy is a sort of official protest from the Delegate of the province against our working what the Crown may claim as a royalty; but I am instructed that Sardinia once acquired all royal rights by a fixed payment, and Lucy thinks she read somewhere the details of the cession. At any rate, she and Contini, the lawyer, are hard at work making out the reply; and the English version, which Lucy does, will be forwarded to our Minister at Turin to-morrow. You ‘d laugh if you saw how she has familiarized herself with not only all the legal terms, but with all our mining phraseology, and how acutely she marks the difference between intact royalties and the claims of the Crown to certain percentages on exempted mines. Contini is a bachelor, and I am fully persuaded intends to make her an offer of his legal hand and heart, – that is, if he finds that we are likely to beat the Crown lawyers. I cannot help thinking he’s a lucky fellow that you are not here, nor like to be, on the day he makes his proposal.
“As much for peace’s sake as for convenience, I have accepted twenty thousand francs on loan. I have taken it from the four principal bankers in Cagliari, in equal sums from each, to prevent jealousy. I hope this was not wrong. I send you herewith bills for fifteen thousand, remembering, if I be right, that you borrowed some hundred pounds on the security of the mine, which you might like now to pay off.” [After some business details, given at length, and with a degree of amplification that somewhat wearied Sir Brook to read, he summed up thus: ] “Write to me therefore at once, and say what course we ought to take regarding our rights. Could our home lawyers afford you no information of value? Shall we oppose or shall we compromise? I suspect they wish the latter.
“Are you satisfied that I accepted this loan? I have my own misgivings, not about the fact, for we wanted money to go on, but as to your concurrence.
“And when are you coming back? I cannot say how impatient I am for your return, all the more that you have only written that hurried note from Dover since you left us. Lucy is in great spirits, takes immense interest in all we are doing, and does all the Italian correspondence for me. She wears a little silver hammer, the miner’s hammer, in her hat; and her popularity with the people is unbounded. You will be amused, on your return, to find that your sketch on the wall of the splendid palace that was to crown our successes has acquired two wings and a great tower; and a third figure, a lady, has been added to the riding-party that are cantering up the avenue. Lucy says that nothing but humility (!) could have devised such a house for people so rich as we are. It certainly was not the sentiment with which hitherto I have regarded this edifice. I have come to the end of my paper, but I will not close this till I see if the post should not bring us news of you.
“Your letter has just come. The latter part of it has given us great uneasiness. It is precisely such a time as a private enemy – if you have one – would choose to work out a personal grudge. No matter how totally you feel yourself free from implication in these Irish troubles, do nothing – positively nothing – without legal advice. It will save you a world of trouble; not to speak of the comfort you will feel in knowing that your interests are matter of care and thought to another. Above all, keep us informed daily by telegraph how and where you are, and what doing.
“Lucy wants to go off to you to-night, but I have had a slight return of my fever, a very slight one, and she half fears to leave me. If your next gives us good news, we shall soon forget this unpleasantness; but, I repeat, let no day pass without tidings of you.
“The evening report has just come in from the mine, – one hundred and seventy-eight pounds of pure silver in the last twenty-four hours! I have taken on forty additional men, and the new smelting-house will be in full work within a week. If you only were here, I ‘d have nothing more to wish for.
“I suppose Trafford has written to you. In the short note I got from him yesterday there is nothing but gratitude to you. He says he owes everything to your friendship. He means to be in England in a few days, and of course will go over to you; but write, or rather telegraph.
“Yours ever, T. L.
“I wrote to Colonel Cave this morning to tell him his small venture with us would not turn out so badly. Our first dividend will be at least cent, per cent., so that he cannot lose by us. It’s downright jolly to be able to send off such a despatch.”
The last letter of the heap was from Lady Trafford, and served in a measure to explain that paragraph in Tom’s epistle which spoke of young Trafford’s gratitude. It appeared that Lady Trafford’s youngest son, on whom Sir Hugh had fixed to make the head of the family, had gone to winter at Madeira, and while there had fallen in love with and married a Portuguese girl, the daughter of his landlady. The news of this mésalliance had nearly killed his father, who was only recovering from a bad attack of gout when the tidings reached him. By good luck, however, on the very same day came a letter from Fossbrooke, declaring that no matter what treatment young Trafford might meet with from his own family, he, Sir Brook, would stand firmly by him, so long as his honorable and manly conduct and his fidelity to his word to the girl he loved entitled him to regard and affection.
“In a worldly point of view,” wrote he, “such friendship as mine is a poor thing. I am a man of nothing, it is true; but I have lived long enough to know that there are other successes besides wealth and station. There are such things as self-respect, contentment, and the love of friends; and I do think my experiences will help him to secure some share of these.
“There is, however, one entreaty I would prefer, and if there be in your memory any kind thought of me, you will not refuse my prayer. Your boy is eager to see you, and shake your hand. Let him come. If you cannot or will not approve, do not at least condemn what he is about to do. In his anxiety to obtain your sanction, he has shown all deference to your authority. This shows he is worthy of your esteem; and if he were to palter between the hope of all your fortune and the love of this girl, he would only deserve your contempt. Be proud of him, then, even if you disinherit him to-morrow. If these be the sentiments of a man who has nothing, remember, Trafford, that I was not always a beggar; and if I thought that being rich would alter these opinions, I can only say I hope I may die as poor as now I write myself.
“There’s a strong prejudice, I know, against being guided by men who have made such a sorry hand of their own fortunes as I have; but many a fellow who has been shipwrecked has proved a good sailor; at all events, he knows what it is to be buffeted by the waves and torn on the rocks. Now, I have told your son not to be afraid of these, and I think he trusts me.
“Once more, then, I ask, let me tell Lionel you will receive him; and believe me faithfully your old friend,
“Bk. Fossbrooke.”
Lady Trafford’s note was short: —
“My dear Sir Brook, – I suppose there is nothing for it but what you say, and Lionel may come here. We have had nothing but disasters with our sons. I wish I could dare to hope that this was to be the end of the calamities. Sir Hugh desires much that you could be here when L. arrives. Could you conveniently arrange this? His brother’s shocking marriage, the terrible disappointment to our hopes, and other worries have almost proved too much for me.
“Is there any truth in the story that Miss L.‘s grandfather was negotiating for a peerage as the condition of his retirement from the Bench? If so, and that the object could be compassed, it would go far towards removing some of our objections to the connection. Sir Hugh’s influence with ‘the Party’ would unquestionably be of use; and though a law lord does not mean much, it is something. Inform me fully on this head. It is very strange that Lionel should never have mentioned the matter, and, indeed, strongly indicates how little trouble he took, or cared to take, to obviate our natural objections to the match. I suppose her father is not a practising physician. At all events, he need not be styled doctor. Oh dear I when I think of it all, and think what an end my ambitions have come to, I could cry my eyes out. It often strikes me that people who make most sacrifices for their children are ever repaid in this fashion. The Dean says these are mysterious dispensations, and that we must submit to them. I suppose we must, but it certainly is not without reluctance.