It was a rare event with him to take a retrospect of his life; and his theory was that he owed any success he had ever won to the fact that he brought to the present--to the actual casualty before him--an amount of concentration which men who look back or look forward never can command.
Now, however, the past would force itself upon him, and his whole career, with all its faults and its failures, was before him.
It was a bitter memory, the very bitterest one can imagine, not in its self-accusation or reproach, but in the thought of all the grand opportunities he had thrown away, the reckless way in which he had treated Fortune, believing that she never would fail him. All his regrets were for the occasions he had suffered to slip by him unprofitably. He did not waste a thought on those he had ruined, many of them young fellows starting hopefully, joyously in life. His mind only dwelt on such as had escaped his snares. Ay, the very fellows to whom he had lost largely that night, had once been in his power! He remembered them when they "joined;" he had met them when they landed at Calcutta, in all their raw inexperience of life, pressing their petty wagers upon him, and eagerly, almost ignominiously courting acquaintance with the favored aide-de-camp of the Governor-General.
And there they were now, bronzed, hard-featured, shrewd men of the world, who had paid for their experience, and knew its worth.
Nothing to be done with _them!_ Indeed, there was little now "to be done" anywhere. The whole machinery of life was changed. Formerly, when fellows started in life, they were trustful, uncalculating, and careless. Now, on the contrary, they were wary, cautious, and suspectful. Instead of attaching themselves to older men as safe guides and counsellors, they hung back from them as too skilful and too crafty to be dealt with. Except Trafford he had not seen one--not one, for many a day--who could be "chaffed" into a bet, or laughed into play against his inclination. And what had he made of Trafford? A few hundred pounds in hand, and those letters which now Fossbrooke had insisted on his giving up. How invariably it was that same man who came up at every crisis of his life to thwart and defeat him. And it was a hard, a cruelly hard, thing to remember that this very man who had been the dupe of hundreds, who had been rogued and swindled out of all he had, should still have brought all his faculties to the task of persecuting _him!_
"One might have thought," said he, with a bitter laugh, "that he had troubles enough of his own not to have spare time to bestow upon me and my affairs. He was once, I own indeed, a rich man, with station and influence, and now he is a beggar. There was a time no society refused him _entree_; now it is thought a very gracious thing to know him. Why will these things occupy him? And this stupid rebellion! I wonder how far he is compromised, or how far one could manage to have him compromised, by it? It is doubtless some personal consideration, some liking for this or that man, that has entangled him in it. If Pemberton were not so close, he could tell this; but these lawyers are so reserved, so crafty, they will not even tell what a few hours later the whole world will read in the public papers.
"If I were to have my choice, it would puzzle me sorely to determine whether I"d rather be left a fine estate,--four or five thousand a year,--or be able to send old Fossbrooke to a penal settlement. I am afraid, sorely afraid, my disinterestedness would gain the day, and that I "d sacrifice my enjoyment to my vengeance! He has done me such a long list of wrongs, I "d like to square the account. It would be a moment worth living for,--that instant when the word Guilty would drop from the jury-box, and that I could lean over the dock and exchange a look with him. I "m not so sure he "d quail, though; but the shame,--the shame might unman him!"
He had reached the gate of the avenue as he thus mused, and was about to insert the key in the lock, when a man arose from a little bench beside the lodge, and said,--"A fine night, sir; I "m glad you "re come."
"Who are you? Stand off!" cried Se well, drawing his revolver, as he spoke, from his breast-pocket.
"O"Reardon, your honor,--only O"Reardon," said the fellow, in his well-known whine.
"And where the devil have you been this fortnight? What rascally treachery have you been hatching since I saw you? No long stories, my friend, and no lies. What have you been at?"
"I was never on any other errand than your honor"s service, so help me--"
"Don"t swear, old fellow, if you want me to believe you. Perjury has a sort of bird-lime attraction for scoundrels like you; so just keep away from an oath."
O"Reardon laughed. "His honor was droll,--he was always droll,--and though not an Irishman himself, sorrow man living knew them better;" and with this double compliment to his patron and his country, the fellow went on to show that he had been on "the tracks of the ould man" since the day they parted. He had got a "case against him,"--the finest and fullest ever was seen. Mr. Spencer declared that "better informations never was sworn;" and on this they arrested him, together with his diary, his traps, his drawings, his arms, and his bullet-mould. There were grave reasons for secrecy in the case, and great secrecy was observed. The examination was in private, and the prisoner was sent to the Richmond Jail, with a blank for his name.
To the very circ.u.mstantial and prolix detail which O"Reardon gave with all the "onction" of a genuine informer, Sewell listened with a forced patience. Perhaps the thought of all the indignities that were heaped upon his enemy compensated him for the wearisomeness of the narrative.
At last he stopped him in his story, and said, "And how much of this accusation do you believe?"
"All of it,--every word."
"You mean to say that he is engaged in this rebellion, and a sworn member of the Celt a.s.sociation?"
"I do. There "s more than thirty already off to transportation not so deep in it as him."
"And if it should turn out that he is a man of station, and who once had a great fortune, and that in his whole life he never meddled with politics,--that he has friends amongst the first families of England, and has only to ask to have men of rank and position his sureties,--what then?"
"He "ll have to show what he was "at" a year ago when he lodged in my house at Cullen"s Wood, and would n"t give his name, nor the name of the young man that was with him, nor ever went out till it was dark night, and stole away at last with all sorts of tools and combustibles. He "ll have to show that I did n"t give his description up at the Castle, and get Mr. Balfour"s orders to watch him close; and what"s more, that he did n"t get a private visit one night from the Lord-Lieutenant himself, warning him to be off as quick as he could. I heard their words as I listened at the door."
"So that, according to your veracious story, Mr. O"Rear-don, the Viceroy himself is a Celt and a rebel, eh?"
"It"s none of my business to put the things together, and say what shows this, and what disproves that; that"s for Mr. Hacket and the people up at the Castle. I "m to get the facts,--nothing but the facts,--and them"s facts that I tell you."
"You "re on a wrong scent this time, O"Reardon; he is no rebel. I wish he was. I "d be better pleased than yourself if we could keep him fast where he is, and never let him leave it."
"Well, he"s out now, and it"ll not be so easy to get him "in" again."
"How do you mean?--out!"
"I mean he"s free. Mr. Balfour came himself with two other gentlemen, and they took him away in a coach."
"Where to?"
"That"s more than I know."
"And why was I not kept informed on these matters? My last orders to you were to write to me daily."
"I was shut up myself the morning your honor left town. When I swore the informations they took me off, and never liberated me till this evening at eight o"clock."
"You "ll soon find out where he is, won"t you?"
"That I will. I "ll know before your honor"s up in the morning."
"And you "ll be able to tell what he"s after,--why he is here at all; for, mind me, O"Reardon, I tell you again, it"s not rebellion he"s thinking of."
"I "ll do that too, sir."
"If we could only get him out of the country,--persuade him that his best course was to be off. If we could manage to get rid of him, O"Reardon,--to get rid of him!" and he gave a fierce energy to the last words.
"_That_ would be easier than the other," said the fellow, slyly.
"_What_ would be easier?" cried Sewell, hurriedly.
"What your honor said last," said the fellow, with a knowing leer, as though the words were better not repeated.
"I don"t think I understand you,--speak out. What is it you mean?"
"Just this, then, that if it was that he was a trouble to any one, or that he "d be better out of the way, it would be the easiest thing in life to make some of the boys believe he was an informer and they "d soon do for him."
"Murder him, eh?"
"I would n"t call it murdering if a man was a traitor; n.o.body could call that murder."
"We"ll not discuss that point now;" and as he spoke, they came out from the shade of the avenue into the open s.p.a.ce before the door, at which, late as it was, a carriage was now standing. "Who can be here at this hour?" muttered Sewell.
"That"s a doctor"s coach, but I forget his name."
"Oh! to be sure. It is Dr. Beattie"s carriage. You may leave me now, O"Reardon; but come up here early to-morrow,--come to my room, and be sure to bring me some news of what we were talking about." As the man moved away, Sewell stood for a moment or two to listen,--he thought he heard voices in the hall, which, being large and vaulted, had a peculiar echo. Yes, he heard them now plainly enough, and had barely time to conceal himself in the copse when Dr. Beattie and Mrs. Sewell descended the steps, and walked out upon the gravel. They pa.s.sed so close to where Sewell stood that he could hear the very rustle of her silk dress as she walked. It was Beattie spoke, and his voice sounded stern and severe. "I knew he could not stand it. I said so over and over again. It is not at his age that men can a.s.sume new modes of life, new a.s.sociates, and new hours. Instead of augmenting, the wise course would have been to have diminished the sources of excitement to him. In the society of his granddaughter, and with the few old friends whose companionship pleased him, and for whom he exerted himself to make those little harmless displays of his personal vanity, he might have gone on for years in comparative health."
"It was not I that devised these changes, doctor," broke she in. "I never asked for these gayeties that you are condemning."
"These new-fangled fopperies, too!" went on Beattie, as though not heeding her apology. "I declare to you that they gave me more pain, more true pain, to witness than any of his wild outbursts of pa.s.sion. In the one, the man was real; and in the other, a mere mockery. And what "s the consequence?" added he, fiercely; "he himself feels the unworthy part he has been playing; instead of being overjoyed at the prospect of seeing his son again, the thought of it overwhelms him with confusion. He knows well how he would appear to the honest eyes of poor simple-hearted Tom Lendrick, whose one only pride in life was his father"s greatness."
"And he is certainly coming?"
"He has made an exchange for Malta, and will pa.s.s through here to see the Chief,--so he says in his short letter. He expects, too, to find Lucy here, and to take her out with him. I believe you don"t know Tom Lendrick?"
"I met him at the Cape. He dined with us twice, if I remember aright; but he was shy and awkward, and we thought at the time that he had not taken to us."