Many a time in the course of country-house life—at breakfast, as the post came in, and during the day, as a messenger would deliver a telegram—some great man would say, “There is a vacancy there—such a one has died—so-and-so has retired. There's a thing to suit you, Fossbrooke,”—and Sir Brook would smile, say a word or two that implied nothing, and so would end the matter. If “my Lord” ever retained any memory of the circumstance some time after, it would be that he had offered something to Fossbrooke, who would n't take it, did n't care for it. For so is it throughout life; the event which to one is the veriest trifle of the hour, is to another a fate and a fortune; and then, great folk who lead lives of ease and security are very prone to forget that humble men have often a pride very disproportioned to their condition, and are timidly averse to stretch out the hand for what it is just possible it may not be intended they should touch.
At all events, Fossbrooke went his way through the world a mystery to many and a puzzle,—some averring that it was a shame to his friends in power that he had “got nothing,” others as stoutly declaring that he was one whom no office would tempt, nor would any place requite him for the loss of liberty and independence.
He himself was well aware of each of these theories, but too proud to say a word to those who professed either of them. If, however, he was too haughty to ask for himself, he was by no means above being a suitor for his friends; and many a one owed to his active solicitude the advancement which none stood more in need of than himself.
“We shall make the Viceroy do something for us, Tom,” he would say. “Think over what it shall be,—for that's the invariable question, What is it you want? And it's better far to say, Make me an archbishop, than have to own that you want anything, and are, maybe, fit for nothing.”
Though Lendrick was well disposed towards Fossbrooke, and fully sensible of his manly honesty and frankness, he could not help seeing that he was one of those impulsive sanguine natures that gain nothing from experience beyond the gift of companionship. They acquire all that can make them delightful in society,—boons they are,—and especially to those whose more prudent temperament inclines them to employ their gifts more profitably. Scores of these self-made men, rich to overflowing with all that wealth could buy around them, would say, What a happy fellow was Fossbrooke! what a blessing it was to have his nature, his spirits, buoyancy, and such-like,—to be able to enjoy life as he did! Perhaps they believed all that they said too,—who knows? When they made such speeches to himself, as they would at times, he heard them with the haughty humility of one who hears himself praised for that which the flatterer deems a thing too low for envy. He well understood how cheaply others estimated his wares, for they were a scrip that figured in no share-list, and never were quoted at a premium.
Lendrick read him very correctly, and naturally thought that a more practical and a more worldly guide would have been better for Tom,—some one to hold him back, not to urge him forward; some one to whisper prudence, restraint, denial,—not daring, and dash, and indulgence. But somehow these flighty, imaginative, speculative men have very often a wonderful persuasiveness about them, and can give to the wildest dreams a marvellous air of substance and reality. A life so full of strange vicissitudes as Fossbrooke's seemed a guarantee for any—no matter what—turn of fortune. Hear him tell of where he had been, what he had done, and with whom, and you at once felt you were in presence of one to whom no ordinary laws of worldly caution or prudence applied.
That his life had compassed many failures and few successes was plain enough. He never sought to hide the fact.
Indeed, he was candor itself in his confessions, only that he accompanied them by little explanations, showing the exact spot and moment in which he had lost the game. It was wonderful what credit he seemed to derive from these disclosures. It was like an honest trader showing his balance-sheet to prove that, but for the occurrence of such ills as no prudence could ward off, his condition must have been one of prosperity.
Never did he say anything more truthful than that “he had never cared for money.” So long as he had it he used it lavishly, thoughtlessly, very often generously. When he ceased to have it, the want scarcely appeared to touch him personally. Indeed, it was only when some necessity presented itself to aid this one or extricate that, he would suddenly remember his impotence to be of use, and then the sting of his poverty would sorely pain him.
Like all men who have suffered reverses, he had to experience the different acceptance he met with in his days of humble fortune from what greeted him in his era of prosperity. If he felt this, none could detect it. His bearing and manner betrayed nothing of such consciousness. A very slight increase of stateliness might possibly have marked him in his poverty, and an air of more reserved dignity, which showed itself in his manner to strangers. In all other respects he was the same.