“To Mr. Shea,” replied the Earl, “my agent in Waterford, to whom you have written before;” and there the conversation dropped.

The Earl took the letter to sign it; but now that it was done, he seemed indifferent about its going, and put it into a portfolio, where it remained several days before it was sent.

As soon as he could escape, Wilton Brown retired to his own dwelling, and there gave himself up to thought; but the facts, which seemed floating about in the dark gulf of the past, still eluded the grasp of memory, as she strove to catch them.  There was something, indeed, which he recollected of a boat, and a storm at sea, and a fisherman’s cabin, and still the name of Sherbrooke rang in his ears, as something known in other days.  But it came not upon him with the same freshness which it had done when first he heard the title of the Earl of Byerdale’s soil; and he could recall no more than the particulars we have mentioned, though the name of Lennard seemed familiar to him also.

While he was in this meditative mood, pondering thoughtfully over the past, and extracting little to satisfy him from a record which time, unfortunately, had effaced, he was interrupted by the coming of the young Lord Sherbrooke, who now was accustomed to enter familiarly without any announcement.  On the present occasion his step was more rapid than usual, his manner more than commonly excited, and the moment he had cast himself into a chair he burst into a long loud peal of laughter.  “In the name of Heaven,” he exclaimed, “what piece of foolery do you think my worthy father has concocted now?  On my honour, I believe that he is mad, and only fear that he has transmitted a part of his madness to me.  Think of everything that is ridiculous, Wilton, that you can conceive; let your mind run free over every absurd combination that it is possible to fancy; think of all that is stupid or mad-like in times present or past, and then tell me what it is that my father intends to do.”

“I really do not know, Sherbrooke,” replied his friend “but nothing, I dare say, half so bad as you would have me believe.  Your father is much too prudent and careful a man to do anything that is absurd.”

“You don’t know him—­Wilton, you don’t know him,” replied Lord Sherbrooke; “for the sake of power or of wealth he has the courage to do anything on earth that is absurd, and for revenge he has the courage to do a great deal more.  In regard to revenge, indeed, I don’t mind:  he is quite right there; for surely if we are bound to be grateful to a man that does good to us, we are bound to revenge ourselves upon him who does us wrong.  Besides, revenge is a gentlemanlike passion; but avarice and ambition are certainly the two most ungentlemanlike propensities in human nature.”

“Not ambition, surely,” exclaimed Wilton.

“The worst of all!” cried his friend—­“the worst of all!  Avarice is a gentleman to ambition!  Avarice is merely a tinker, a dealer in old metal; but ambition is a chimney-sweep of a passion:  a mere climbing-boy, who will go through any dirty hole in all Christendom only to get out at the top of the chimney.  But you have not guessed, Wilton—­you have not guessed.  To it; and tell me, what is the absurd thing my father proposes to do?”