“I am sorry to see you so depressed, Lendrick,” said Cave.
“I 'm not so low as you suspect; but I'd be far lower if I thought that others were going to share our ill-fortunes.”
Though the speech had no direct reference to Trafford, it chanced that their eyes met as he spoke, and Trafford's face flushed to a deep crimson as he felt the application of the words.
“Come here, Tom,” said he, passing his arm within Len-drick's, and leading him off the terrace into a little copse of wild hollies at the foot of it. “Let me have one word with you.” They walked on some seconds without a word, and when Trafford spoke his voice trembled with agitation. “I don't know,” muttered he, “if Sir Brook has told you of the change in my fortunes,—that I am passed over in the entail by my father, and am, so to say, a beggar.”
Lendrick nodded, but said nothing.
“I have got debts, too, which, if not paid by my family, will compel me to sell out,—has he told you this?”
“Yes; I think he said so.”
“Like the kind, good fellow he is,” continued Trafford, “he thinks he can do something with my people,—talk my father over, and induce my mother to take my side. I 'm afraid I know them better, and that they 're not sorry to be rid of me at last. It is, however, just possible—I will not say more, but just possible—that he may succeed in making some sort of terms for me before they cut me off altogether. I have no claim whatever, for I have spent already the portion that should have come to me as a younger son. I must be frank with you, Tom. There 's no use in trying to make my case seem better than it is.” He paused, and appeared to expect that the other would say something; but Tom smoked on and made no sign whatever.
“And it comes to this,” said Trafford, drawing a long breath and making a mighty effort, “I shall either have some small pittance or other,—and small it must be,—or be regularly cleaned out without a shilling.”
A slight, very slight, motion of Tom's shoulders showed that he had heard him.