“Were not these people all strangers to you t' other day, Fossbrooke?” said Cave, in something like a tone of reprehension.
“So they were. I had never so much as heard of them; but she, this girl, has a claim upon my interest, founded on a resemblance so strong that when I see her, I live back again in the long past, and find myself in converse with the dearest friends I ever had. I vow to Heaven I never knew the bitterness of want of fortune till now! I never felt how powerless and insignificant poverty can make a man till I desired to contribute to this girl's happiness; and if I were not an old worthless wreck,—shattered and unseaworthy,—I 'd set to work to-morrow to refit and try to make a fortune to bestow on her.”
If Cave was half disposed to banter the old man on what seemed little short of a devoted attachment, the agitation of Fossbrooke's manner—his trembling lip, his shaking voice, his changing color—all warned him to forbear, and abstain from what might well have proved a perilous freedom.
“You will dine with us at mess, Fossbrooke, won't you?”
“No; I shall return at once to Killaloe. I made Dr. Lendrick's acquaintance just as I started by the train. I want to see more of him. Besides, now that I know what was the emergency that called young Trafford up here, I have nothing to detain me.”
“Shall you see him before you go?”
“Of course. I am going over to his quarters now.”
“You will not mention our conversation?”
“Certainly not.”
“I 'd like to show you my letter before I send it off. I 'd be glad to think it was what you recommended.”