“To Sardinia! Coming to Sardinia, do you mean, Tom?” said the old man, in astonishment.
“Yes, sir, that is what I meant.”
“Have I not told you the sort of life that lies before us in the island,—the hardships, the dangers, the bitter privations we shall have to endure? Is it to these we can invite a young girl, trained and accustomed to every elegance and every comfort?”
“She 'd not shrink from her share,—that much I 'll warrant you; and the worst roughing of that rugged life would be easier to bear than this old man's humor.”
“No, no; it must not be thought of,” said Fossbrooke, sternly. “What meaning has our enterprise if it be not to secure her future fortune? She cannot—she shall not—pay any part of the price. Let me think over this, Tom. It may be that we ought not to leave her; it may be that we should hit upon something nearer home. I will go up to the Castle and see the Viceroy.”
He made a light grimace as he said this. Such a visit was by no means to his taste. If there was anything totally repugnant to his nature, it was to approach men whom he had known as friends or intimates with anything like the request for a favor. It seemed to him to invert all the relations which ought to subsist between men in society. The moment you had stooped to such a step, in his estimation you had forfeited all right to that condition of equality which renders intercourse agreeable.
“I must have something for this young fellow,—something that may enable him to offer his sister a home if she should need it. I will accept nothing for myself,—on that I am determined. It is a sorry part, that of suppliant, but so long as it is for another it is endurable. Not that I like it, though,—not that it sits easy on me,—and I am too old to acquire a new manner.” Thus muttering to himself, he went along till he found himself at the chief entrance of the Castle.
“You will have to wait on Mr. Balfour, sir, his Excellency's private secretary, the second door from the corner,” said the porter, scarcely deigning a glance at one so evidently unversed in viceregal observances. Sir Brook nodded and withdrew. From a groom who was holding a neat-looking cob pony Fossbrooke learned that Mr. Balfour was about to take his morning's ride. “He'll not see you now,” said the man. “You 'll have to come back about four or half-past.”
“I have only a question to ask,” said Sir Brook, half to himself as he ascended the stairs. As he gained the landing and rang, the door opened and Mr. Balfour appeared. “I regret to detain you, sir,” began Sir Brook, as he courteously raised his hat. “Mr. Balfour, I believe.”
“You are right as to my name, but quite as wrong if you fancy that you will detain me,” said that plump and very self-satisfied gentleman, as he moved forward.