Sir Brook Fossbrooke, Volume II.

Sir Brook Fossbrooke, Volume II.
Charles Lever

Charles James Lever

Sir Brook Fossbrooke, Volume II

CHAPTER I. A LEVANTER

The storm raged fearfully during the night, and the sea rose to a height that made many believe some earthquake had occurred in one of the islands near. Old trees that resisted the gales of former hurricanes were uprooted, and the swollen streams tore down amongst the fallen timber, adding to the clamor of the elements and increasing the signs of desolation and ruin that abounded.

It was, as Tom called it, a “regular Levanter,” one of those storms which in a brief twenty-four hours can do the work of years in destruction and change.

Amongst the group of fishermen who crouched under a rock on the shore, sad predictions were uttered as to the fate of such as were at sea that night, and the disasters of bygone years were recalled, and the story of a Russian liner that was lost off Spartivento, and the Spanish admiral who was wrecked on the rocks off Melissa, were told with all the details eyewitnesses could impart to them.

“Those fellows have driven me half distracted, Lucy,” said Tom, as he came in wet and dripping, “with their tales of shipwreck; and one of them declares that he saw a large paddle-wheel steamer under English colors drifting to the southward this morning, perfectly helpless and unmanageable. I wish I could get over to Cagliari, and hear tidings of her.”

“Of course that is impossible,” said she, with a shudder.

“So they tell me. They say there’s not a boat in the island would live five minutes in that sea.”

“And the gale seems increasing too.”

“So it does. They say, just before the storm ends it blows its very hardest at the finish, and then stops as suddenly as it burst forth.”

By noon the gale began to decline, the sun burst out, and the sea gradually subsided, and in a few hours the swollen torrents changed to tiny rivulets, clear as crystal. The birds were singing in the trees, and the whole landscape, like a newly washed picture, came out in fresher and brighter color than ever. Nor was it easy to believe that the late hurricane had ever existed, so little trace of it could be seen on that rocky island.

A little before sunset a small “latiner” rounded the point, and stood in towards the little bay. She had barely wind enough to carry her along, and was fully an hour in sight before she anchored. As it was evident she was a Cagliari boat, Tom was all impatient for her news, and went on board of her at once. The skipper handed him a letter from Sir Brook, saying, “I was to give you this, sir, and say I was at your orders.” Tom broke the seal, but before he had read half-a-dozen lines, he cried out: “All right! shove me on shore, and come in to me in an hour. By that time I ‘ll tell you what I decide on.”

“Here’s great news, Lucy,” cried he. “The ‘Cadmus’ troop-ship has put into Cagliari disabled, foremast lost, one paddle-wheel carried away, all the boats smashed, but her Majesty’s – th safe and sound. Colonel Cave very jolly, and Major Trafford, if you have heard of such a person, wild with joy at the disaster of being shipwrecked.”

“Oh, Tom, do be serious. What is it at all?” said she, as, pale with anxiety, she caught his arm to steady herself.

“Here’s the despatch, – read it yourself if you won’t believe me. This part here is all about the storm and the other wrecks; but here, this is the important part, in your eyes at least.

“‘Cave is now with me up here, and Trafford is to join us to-night. The ship cannot possibly be fit for sea before ten days to come; and the question is, Shall we go over and visit you, or will you and Lucy come here? One or other of these courses it must be, and it is for you to decide which suits you best. You know as well as myself what a sorry place this is to ask dear Lucy to come to, but, on the other hand, I know nothing as to the accommodation your cottage offers. For my own part it does not signify; I can sleep on board any craft that takes me over; but have you room for the soldiers? – I mean Cave and Trafford. I have no doubt they will be easily put up; and if they could be consulted, would rather bivouac under the olives than not come. At all events, let the boat bring yourselves or the invitation for us, – and at once, for the impatience of one here (I am too discreet to particularize) is pushing my own endurance to its limits.’

“Now, Lucy, what’s it to be? Decide quickly, for the skipper will be here soon for his answer.”

“I declare I don’t know, Tom,” said she, faltering at every word. “The cottage is very small, the way we live here very simple: I scarcely think it possible we can ask any one to be a guest – ”

“So that you opine we ought to go over to Cagliari?” burst he in.

“I think you ought, Tom, certainly,” said she, still more faintly.

“I see,” said he, dryly, “you ‘ll not be afraid of being left alone here?”

“No, not in the least,” said she; and her voice was now a mere whisper, and she swayed slightly back and forward like one about to faint.

“Such being the case,” resumed Tom, “what you advise strikes me as admirable. I can make your apologies to old Sir Brook. I can tell him, besides, that you had scruples on the propriety, – there may be Mrs. Grundys at Cagliari, who would be shocked, you know; and then, if you should get on here comfortably, and not feel it too lonely, why, perhaps, I might be able to stay with them till they sail.”

She tried to mutter a Yes, but her lips moved without a sound.

“So that is settled, eh?” cried he, looking full at her.

She nodded, and then turned away her head.

“What an arrant little hypocrite it is!” said he, drawing his arm around her waist; “and with all the will in the world to deceive, what a poor actress! My child, I know your heart is breaking this very moment at my cruelty, my utter barbarity, and if you had only the courage, you ‘d tell me I was a beast!”

“Oh! Tom, – oh! dear Tom,” said she, hiding her face on his shoulder.

“Dear Tom, of course, when there ‘s no help for it. And this is a specimen of the candor and frankness you promised me!”

“But, Tom,” said she, faltering at every word, “it is not – as you think; it is not as you believe.”

“What is not as I believe?” said he, quickly.

“I mean,” added she, trembling with shame and confusion, “there is no more – that it ‘s over – all over!” And unable to endure longer, she burst into tears, and buried her face between her hands.

“My own dear, dear sister,” said he, pressing her to his side, “why have you not told me of this before?”

“I could not, I could not,” sobbed she.

“One word more, Lu, and only one. Who was in fault? I mean, darling, was this your doing or his?”

“Neither, Tom; at least, I think so. I believe that some deceit was practised, – some treachery; but I don’t know what, nor how. In fact, it is all a mystery to me; and my misery makes it none the clearer.”

“Tell me, at least, whatever you know.”

“I will bring you the letter,” said she, disengaging herself from him.

“And did he write to you?” asked he, fiercely.

“No; he did not write, – from him I have heard nothing.”

She rushed out of the room as she spoke, leaving Tom in a state of wild bewilderment. Few as were the minutes of her absence, the interval to him seemed like an age of torture and doubt. Weak, and broken by illness, his fierce spirit was nothing the less bold and defiant; and over and over as he waited there, he swore to himself to bring Trafford to a severe reckoning if he found that he had wronged his sister.

“How noble of her to hide all this sorrow from me, because she saw my suffering! What a fine nature! And it is with hearts like these fellows trifle and temper, till they end by breaking them! Poor thing! might it not be better to leave her in the delusion of thinking him not a scoundrel, than to denounce and brand him?”

As he thus doubted and debated with himself, she entered the room. Her look was now calm and composed, but her face was lividly pale, and her very lips bloodless. “Tom,” said she, gravely, “I don’t think I would let you see this letter but for one reason, which is, that it will convince you that you have no cause of quarrel whatever with him.”

“Give it to me, – let me read it,” burst he in, impatiently; “I have neither taste nor temper for any more riddles, – leave me to find my own road through this labyrinth.”

“Shall I leave you alone, Tom?” said she, timidly, as she handed him the letter.

“Yes, do so. I think all the quicker when there’s none by me.” He turned his back to the light, as he sat down, and began the letter.

“I believe I ought to tell you first,” said she, as she stood with her hand on the lock of the door, “the circumstances under which that was written.”

“Tell me nothing whatever, – let me grope out my own road;” and now she moved away and left him.