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diff --git a/34882-h/34882-h.htm b/34882-h/34882-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ed81122 --- /dev/null +++ b/34882-h/34882-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14500 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Barrington, Vol I. by Charles James Lever + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Barrington, by Charles James Lever + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Barrington + Volume I (of II) + +Author: Charles James Lever + +Illustrator: Phiz. + +Release Date: January 8, 2011 [EBook #34882] +Last Updated: February 27, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARRINGTON *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + +<p> +<br /><br /> +</p> +<h1> +BARRINGTON +</h1> +<h3> +Volume I. +</h3> +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<h2> +By Charles James Lever +</h2> +<h3> +With Illustrations By Phiz. +</h3> +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<h3> +Boston: Little, Brown, And Company. +</h3> +<h4> +1907. +</h4> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="100%" alt="Frontispiece " /> +</div> +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img alt="titlepage (27K)" src="images/titlepage.jpg" width="100%" /> +</div> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<blockquote> +<p class="toc"> +<big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> +</p> +<p> +<br /> <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> THE +FISHERMAN'S HOME <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> A +WET MORNING AT HOME <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. +</a> OUR NEXT NEIGHBORS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> +CHAPTER IV. </a> FRED CONYERS <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> DILL AS A DIPLOMATIST +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> THE +DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> TOM +DILL'S FIRST PATIENT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. +</a> FINE ACQUAINTANCES <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> +CHAPTER IX. </a> A COUNTRY DOCTOR <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> BEING “BORED” <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> A NOTE TO BE +ANSWERED <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> THE +ANSWER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> A +FEW LEAVES FROM A BLUE-BOOK <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER +XIV. </a> BARRINGTON'S FORD <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> +CHAPTER XV. </a> AN EXPLORING EXPEDITION <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> COMING HOME <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> A SHOCK <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> COBHAM <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> THE HOUR OF +LUNCHEON <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> AN +INTERIOR AT THE DOCTOR'S <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER +XXI. </a> DARK TIDINGS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0022"> +CHAPTER XXII. </a> LEAVING HOME <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> THE COLONEL'S +COUNSELS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> CONYERS +MAKES A MORNING CALL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. +</a> DUBLIN REVISITED <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> +CHAPTER XXVI. </a> A VERY SAD GOOD-BYE <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a> THE CONVENT ON THE +MEUSE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a> GEORGE'S +DAUGHTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a> THE +RAMBLE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a> UNDER +THE LINDEN <br /><br /> +</p> +</blockquote> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<h1> +BARRINGTON. +</h1> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER I. THE FISHERMAN'S HOME +</h2> +<p> +If there should be, at this day we live in, any one bold enough to confess +that he fished the river Nore, in Ireland, some forty years ago, he might +assist me by calling to mind a small inn, about two miles from the +confluence of that river with the Barrow, a spot in great favor with those +who followed the “gentle craft.” + </p> +<p> +It was a very unpretending hostel, something wherein cottage and farmhouse +were blended, and only recognizable as a place of entertainment by a tin +trout suspended over the doorway, with the modest inscription underneath,—“Fisherman's +Home.” Very seldom is it, indeed, that hotel pledges are as honestly +fulfilled as they were in this simple announcement. The house was, in all +that quiet comfort and unostentatious excellence can make, a veritable +Home! Standing in a fine old orchard of pear and damson trees, it was only +approachable by a path which led from the highroad, about two miles off, +or by the river, which wound round the little grassy promontory beneath +the cottage. On the opposite side of the stream arose cliffs of +considerable height, their terraced sides covered with larch and ash, +around whose stems the holly, the laurel, and arbutus grew in a wild and +rich profusion. A high mountain, rugged with rock and precipice, shut in +the picture, and gave to the river all the semblance of a narrow lake. +</p> +<p> +The Home, as may be imagined, was only resorted to by fishermen, and of +these not many; for the chosen few who knew the spot, with the +churlishness of true anglers, were strenuously careful to keep the secret +to themselves. But another and stronger cause contributed to this +seclusion. The landlord was a reduced gentleman, who, only anxious to add +a little to his narrow fortune, would not have accepted a greater +prosperity at the cost of more publicity, and who probably only consented +to his occupation on finding how scrupulously his guests respected his +position. +</p> +<p> +Indeed, it was only on leave-taking, and then far from painfully, you were +reminded of being in an inn. There was no noise, no bustle; books, +magazines, flowers, lay about; cupboards lay open, with all their cordials +free to take. You might dine under the spreading sycamore beside the well, +and have your dessert for the plucking. No obsequious waiter shook his +napkin as you passed, no ringleted barmaid crossed your musing steps, no +jingling of bells, or discordant cries, or high-voiced remonstrances +disturbed you. The hum of the summer bee, or the flapping plash of a +trout, were about the only sounds in the stillness, and all was as +peaceful and as calm and as dreamy as the most world-weary could have +wished it. +</p> +<p> +Of those who frequented the spot, some merely knew that the host had seen +better days. Others, however, were aware that Peter Barrington had once +been a man of large fortune, and represented his county in the Irish +Parliament. Though not eminent as a politician, he was one of the great +convivial celebrities of a time that boasted of Curran, and Avanmore, and +Parsons, and a score of others, any one of whom, in our day, would have +made a society famous. Barrington, too, was the almoner of the monks of +the screw, and “Peter's pence” was immortalized in a song by Ned Lysaght, +of which I once possessed, but have lost a copy. +</p> +<p> +One might imagine there could be no difficulty in showing how in that wild +period of riotous living and costly rivalry an Irish gentleman ran through +all his property and left himself penniless. It was, indeed, a time of +utter recklessness, many seeming possessed of that devil-may-care spirit +that drives a drowning crew to break open the spirit-room and go down in +an orgie. But Barrington's fortune was so large, and his successes on the +turf so considerable, that it appeared incredible, when his estates came +to the hammer, and all his personal property was sold off; so complete his +ruin, that, as he said himself, the “only shelter he had was an umbrella, +and even that he borrowed from Dan Driscoll, the sheriff's officer.” + </p> +<p> +Of course there were theories in plenty to account for the disaster, and, +as usual, so many knew, many a long day ago, how hard pressed he had been +for money, and what ruinous interest he was obliged to pay, till at last +rumors filtered all down to one channel, and the world agreed that it was +all his son's doing, and that the scamp George had ruined his father. This +son, his only child, had gone out to India in a cavalry regiment, and was +celebrated all over the East for a costly splendor that rivalled the great +Government officials. From every retired or invalided officer who came +back from Bengal were heard stories of mad Barring-ton's extravagance: his +palace on the Hooghly, his racing stud, his elephants, his army of +retainers,—all narratives which, no matter in what spirit retailed, +seemed to delight old Peter, who, at every fresh story of his son's +spendthrift magnificence, would be sure to toast his health with a racy +enthusiasm whose sincerity was not to be doubted. +</p> +<p> +Little wonder need there be if in feeding such extravagance a vast estate +melted away, and acre followed acre, till all that remained of a property +that ranked next to the Ormonds' was the little cottage over whose door +the tin-trout dangled, and the few roods of land around it: sorry remnant +of a princely fortune! +</p> +<p> +But Barrington himself had a passion, which, inordinately indulged, has +brought many to their ruin. He was intensely fond of law. It was to him +all that gambling is to other men. All that gamesters feel of hope and +fear, all the intense excitement they derive from the vacillating fortunes +of play, Barrington enjoyed in a lawsuit. Every step of the proceeding had +for him an intense interest. The driest legal documents, musty +declarations, demurrers, pleadings, replies, affidavits, and +counter-affidavits were his choicest reading; and never did a young lady +hurry to her room with the last new novel with a stronger anticipation of +delight than did Barrington when carrying away to his little snuggery a +roll of parchments or rough drafts, whose very iterations and jargon would +have driven most men half crazy. This same snuggery of his was a +curiosity, too, the walls being all decorated with portraits of legal +celebrities, not selected with reference to their merit or distinction, +but solely from their connection with some suit in which he had been +engaged; and thus under the likeness of Chief Baron O'Grady might be read, +“Barring-ton versus Brazier, 1802; a juror withdrawn:” Justice Moore's +portrait was inscribed, “Argument in Chambers, 1808,” and so on; even to +the portraits of leading counsel, all were marked and dated only as they +figured in the great campaign,—the more than thirty years' war he +carried on against Fortune. +</p> +<p> +Let not my reader suppose for one moment that this litigious taste grew +out of a spirit of jarring discontent or distrust. Nothing of the kind. +Barrington was merely a gambler; and with whatever dissatisfaction the +declaration may be met, I am prepared to show that gambling, however +faulty in itself, is not the vice of cold, selfish, and sordid men, but of +warm, rash, sometimes over-generous temperaments. Be it well remembered +that the professional play-man is, of all others, the one who has least of +a gamester in his heart; his superiority lying in the simple fact that his +passions are never engaged, his interest never stirred. Oh! beware of +yourself in company with the polished antagonist, who only smiles when he +loses, whom nothing adverse ever disturbs, but is calmly serene under the +most pitiless pelting of luck. To come back: Barrington's passion for law +was an intense thirst for a certain species of excitement; a verdict was +to him the odd trick. Let him, however, but win the game, there never was +a man so indifferent about the stakes. +</p> +<p> +For many a year back he had ceased to follow the great events of the +world. For the stupendous changes in Europe he cared next to nothing. He +scarcely knew who reigned over this empire or that kingdom. Indifferent to +art, science, letters, and even society, his interest was intense about +all that went on in the law courts, and it was an interest so catholic +that it took in everything and everybody, from the great judge upon the +bench to the small taxing-officer who nibbled at the bill of costs. +</p> +<p> +Fortunately for him, his sister, a maiden lady of some eighteen or twenty +years his junior, had imbibed nothing of this passion, and, by her prudent +opposition to it, stemmed at least the force of that current which was +bearing him to ruin. Miss Dinah Barrington had been the great belle of the +Irish court,—I am ashamed to say how long ago,—and though at +the period my tale opens there was not much to revive the impression, her +high nose, and full blue eyes, and a mass of wonderfully unchanged brown +hair, proclaimed her to be—what she was very proud to call herself—a +thorough Barrington, a strong type of a frank nature, with a bold, +resolute will, and a very womanly heart beneath it. +</p> +<p> +When their reverses of fortune first befell them, Miss Barrington wished +to emigrate. She thought that in Canada, or some other far-away land, +their altered condition might be borne less painfully, and that they could +more easily bend themselves to humble offices where none but strangers +were to look on them; but Barrington clung to his country with the +tenacity of an old captain to a wreck. He declared he could not bring +himself to the thought of leaving his bones in a strange land, but he +never confessed what he felt to be the strongest tie of all, two +unfinished lawsuits, the old record of Barrington v. Brazier, and a Privy +Council case of Barrington and Lot Rammadahn Mohr against the India +Company. To have left his country with these still undecided seemed to him—like +the act of a commander taking flight on the morning of a general action—an +amount of cowardice he could not contemplate. Not that he confided this +opinion to his sister, though he did so in the very fullest manner to his +old follower and servant, Darby Cassan. Darby was the last remnant of a +once princely retinue, and in his master's choice of him to accompany his +fallen fortunes, there was something strangely indicative of the man. Had +Darby been an old butler or a body-servant, had he been a favorite groom, +or, in some other capacity, one whose daily duties had made his a familiar +face, and whose functions could still be available in an humble state, +there would have seemed good reason for the selection; but Darby was none +of these: he had never served in hall or pantry; he had never brushed the +cobweb from a bottle, or led a nag to the door. Of all human professions +his were about the last that could address themselves to the cares of a +little household; for Darby was reared, bred, and passed fifty-odd years +of his life as an earth-stopper! +</p> +<p> +A very ingenious German writer has attempted to show that the sympathies +of the humble classes with pursuits far above their own has always its +origin in something of their daily life and habits, just as the sacristan +of a cathedral comes to be occasionally a tolerable art critic from his +continual reference to Rubens and Vandyck. It is possible that Darby may +have illustrated the theory, and that his avocations as earth-stopper may +have suggested what he assuredly possessed, a perfect passion for law. If +a suit was a great game to Barrington, to Darby it was a hunt! and though +his personal experiences never soared beyond Quarter Sessions, he gloried +in all he saw there of violence and altercation, of vituperative language +and impassioned abuse. Had he been a rich man, free to enjoy his leisure, +he would have passed all his days listening to these hot discussions. They +were to him a sort of intellectual bull-fight, which never could be too +bloody or too cruel. Have I said enough, therefore, to show the secret +link which bound the master to the man? I hope so; and that my reader is +proud of a confidence with which Miss Barrington herself was never +intrusted. She believed that Darby had been taken into favor from some +marvellous ability he was supposed to possess, applicable to their new +venture as innkeepers. Phrenology would perhaps have pronounced Darby a +heaven-born host, for his organ of acquisitiveness was grandly developed. +Amidst that great household, where the thriftless habits of the master had +descended to the servants, and rendered all reckless and wasteful alike, +Darby had thriven and grown almost rich. Was it that the Irish climate +used its influence over him; for in his practice to “put by something for +a rainy day,” his savings had many promptings? As the reputation of having +money soon attached to him, he was often applied to in the hunting-field, +or at the kennel, for small loans, by the young bloods who frequented the +Hall, and, being always repaid three or four fold, he grew to have a very +high conception of what banking must be when done on a large scale. +Besides all this, he quickly learned that no character attracts more +sympathy, especially amongst the class of young squires and sporting-men, +than a certain quaint simplicity, so flattering in its contrast to their +own consummate acuteness. Now, he was simple to their hearts' content. He +usually spoke of himself as “Poor Darby, God help him!” and, in casting up +those wonderful accounts, which he kept by notches on a tally-stick, +nothing was more amusing than to witness his bewilderment and confusion, +the inconceivable blunders he would make, even to his own disadvantage, +all sure to end at last in the heart-spoken confession that it was “clean +beyand him,” and “he 'd leave it all to your honor; pay just what ye +plaze, and long life to ye!” + </p> +<p> +Is it that women have some shrewd perception of character denied to men? +Certainly Darby never imposed on Miss Barrington. She read him like a +book, and he felt it. The consequence was a very cordial dislike, which +strengthened with every year of their acquaintance. +</p> +<p> +Though Miss Barrington ever believed that the notion of keeping an inn +originated with her brother, it was Darby first conceived the project, +and, indeed, by his own skill and crafty intelligence was it carried on; +and while the words “Peter Barrington” figured in very small letters, it +is true, over the door to comply with a legal necessity, to most of the +visitors he was a mere myth. Now, if Peter Barrington was very happy to be +represented by deputy,—or, better still, not represented at all,—Miss +Dinah regarded the matter in a very different light. Her theory was that, +in accepting the humble station to which reverse of fortune brought them, +the world ought to see all the heroism and courage of the sacrifice. She +insisted on being a foreground figure, just to show them, as she said, +“that I take nothing upon me. I am the hostess of a little wayside inn,—no +more!” How little did she know of her own heart, and how far was she from +even suspecting that it was the <i>ci-devant</i> belle making one last +throw for the admiration and homage which once were offered her freely. +</p> +<p> +Such were the three chief personages who dwelt under that secluded roof, +half overgrown with honeysuckle and dog-roses,—specimens of that +wider world without, where jealousies, and distrusts, and petty rivalries +are warring: for as in one tiny globule of water are represented the +elements which make oceans and seas, so is it in the moral world; and “the +family” is only humanity, as the artists say, “reduced.” + </p> +<p> +For years back Miss Barrington had been plotting to depose Darby. With an +ingenuity quite feminine, she managed to connect him with every chagrin +that crossed and every annoyance that befell them. If the pig ploughed up +the new peas in the garden, it was Darby had left the gate open; it was <i>his</i> +hand overwound the clock; and a very significant hint showed that when the +thunder soured the beer, Mr. Darby knew more of the matter than he was +likely to tell. Against such charges as these, iterated and reiterated to +satiety, Barrington would reply by a smile, or a good-natured excuse, or a +mere gesture to suggest patience, till his sister, fairly worn out, +resolved on another line of action. “As she could not banish the rats,” to +use her own words, “she would scuttle the ship.” + </p> +<p> +To explain her project, I must go back in my story, and state that her +nephew, George Barrington, had sent over to England, some fifteen years +before, a little girl, whom he, called his daughter. She was consigned to +the care of his banker in London, with directions that he should +communicate with Mr. Peter Barrington, announce the child's safe arrival, +and consult with him as to her future destination. Now, when the event +took place, Barrington was in the very crisis of his disasters. +Overwhelmed with debts, pursued by creditors, regularly hunted down, he +was driven day by day to sign away most valuable securities for mere +passing considerations, and obliged to accept any conditions for daily +support He answered the banker's letter, briefly stating his great +embarrassment, and begging him to give the child his protection for a few +weeks or so, till some arrangement of his affairs might enable him to +offer her a home. +</p> +<p> +This time, however, glided over, and the hoped-for amendment never came,—far +from it. Writs were out against him, and he was driven to seek a refuge in +the Isle of Man, at that time the special sanctuary of insolvent sinners. +Mr. Leonard Gower wrote again, and proposed that, if no objection would be +made to the plan, the child should be sent to a certain convent near +Namur, in the Netherlands, where his own daughter was then placed for her +education. Aunt Dinah would have rejected,—ay, or would have +resented such a proposal as an insult, had the world but gone on better +with them. That her grand-niece should be brought up a Catholic was an +outrage on the whole Barring-ton blood. But calamity had brought her low,—very +low, indeed. The child, too, was a heathen,—a Hindoo or a Buddhist, +perhaps,—for the mother was a native woman, reputed, indeed, to be a +princess. But who could know this? Who could vouch that George was ever +married at all, or if such a ceremony were possible? All these were +“attenuating circumstances,” and as such she accepted them; and the +measure of her submission was filled up when she received a portrait of +the little girl, painted by a native artist. It represented a +dark-skinned, heavy-browed child, with wide, full eyes, thick lips, and an +expression at once florid and sullen,—not any of the traits one +likes to associate with infancy,—and it was with a half shudder Aunt +Dinah closed the miniature, and declared that “the sight of the little +savage actually frightened her.” + </p> +<p> +Not so poor Barrington. He professed to see a great resemblance to his +son. It was George all over. To be sure, his eyes were deep blue, and his +hair a rich brown; but there was something in the nose, or perhaps it was +in the mouth,—no, it was the chin,—ay, it was the chin was +George's. It was the Barrington chin, and no mistake about it. +</p> +<p> +At all events, no opposition was made to the banker's project, and the +little girl was sent off to the convent of the Holy Cross, on the banks of +the Meuse. She was inscribed on the roll as the Princess Doondiah, and +bore the name till her father's death, when Mr. Gower suggested that she +should be called by her family name. The letter with the proposal, by some +accident, was not acknowledged, and the writer, taking silence to mean +consent, desired the superior to address her, henceforth, as Miss +Barrington; the first startling intimation of the change being a +strangely, quaintly written note, addressed to her grand-aunt, and signed +“Josephine Barrington.” It was a cold, formal letter,—so very +formal, indeed, as to read like the copy of a document,—asking for +leave to enter upon a novitiate of two years' duration, at the expiration +of which she would be nineteen years of age, and in a position to decide +upon taking the veil for life. The permission, very urgently pressed for +by Mr. Gower in another letter, was accorded, and now we have arrived at +that period in which but three months only remained of the two years whose +closure was to decide her fate forever. +</p> +<p> +Barrington had long yearned to see her. It was with deep and bitter +self-reproach he thought over the cold neglect they had shown her. She was +all that remained of poor George, his boy,—for so he called him, and +so he thought of him,—long after the bronzed cheek and the +prematurely whitened hair had tempered his manhood. To be sure, all the +world said, and he knew himself, how it was chiefly through the “boy's” + extravagance he came to ruin. But it was over now. The event that sobers +down reproach to sorrow had come. He was dead! All that arose to memory of +him were the traits that suggested hopes of his childhood, or gave triumph +in his riper years; and oh, is it not better thus? for what hearts would +be left us if we were to carry in them the petty rancors and jealousies +which once filled them, but which, one day, we buried in the cold clay of +the churchyard. +</p> +<p> +Aunt Dinah, moved by reasons long canvassed over in her own mind, at last +began to think of recalling her grand-niece. It was so very bold a project +that, at first, she could scarcely entertain it. The Popery was very +dreadful! Her imagination conjured up the cottage converted into a little +Baal, with false gods and graven images, and holy-water fonts at every +turn; but the doubtful legitimacy was worse again. She had a theory that +it was by lapses of this kind the “blue blood” of old families grew +deteriorated, and that the downfall of many an ancient house was traceable +to these corruptions. Far better, she deemed it, that the Barringtons +should die out forever than their line be continued by this base and +ignoble grafting. +</p> +<p> +There is a <i>contre</i> for every <i>pour</i> in this world. It may be a +weak and an insufficient one, it is true; but it is a certainty that all +our projects must come to a debtor or creditor reckoning, and the very +best we can do is to strike an honest balance! +</p> +<p> +How Miss Dinah essayed to do this we shall learn in the next chapter and +what follows it. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER II. A WET MORNING AT HOME +</h2> +<p> +If there was anything that possessed more than common terror for +Barrington, it was a wet day at the cottage! It was on these dreary +visitations that his sister took the opportunity of going into “committee +of supply,”—an occasion not merely for the discussion of fiscal +matters, but for asking the most vexatious questions and demanding the +most unpleasant explanations. +</p> +<p> +We can all, more or less, appreciate the happiness of that right honorable +gentleman on the Treasury bench who has to reply to the crude and +unmeaning inquiries of some aspiring Oppositionist, and who wishes to know +if her Majesty's Government have demanded an indemnity from the King of +Dahomey for the consul's family eaten by him at the last court ceremonial? +What compensation is to be given to Captain Balrothery for his week's +imprisonment at Leghorn, in consequence of his having thrown the customs +officer and a landing waiter into the sea? Or what mark of her Majesty's +favor will the noble lord recommend should be conferred upon Ensign Digges +for the admirable imitation he gave of the dancing dervishes at Benares, +and the just ridicule he thus threw upon these degrading and heathenish +rites? +</p> +<p> +It was to a torture of this order, far more reasonable and pertinent, +however, that Barrington usually saw himself reduced whenever the weather +was so decidedly unfavorable that egress was impossible. Poor fellow, what +shallow pretexts would he stammer out for absenting himself from home, +what despicable subterfuges to put off an audience! He had forgotten to +put down the frame on that melon-bed. +</p> +<p> +There was that awning over the boat not taken in. He 'd step out to the +stable and give Billy, the pony, a touch of the white oils on that swelled +hock. He 'd see if they had got the young lambs under cover. In fact, from +his perturbed and agitated manner, you would have imagined that rain was +one of the rarest incidents of an Irish climate, and only the very +promptest measures could mitigate the calamity. +</p> +<p> +“May I ask where you are off to in such haste, Peter?” asked Miss Dinah +one morning, just as Barrington had completed all his arrangements for a +retreat; far readier to brave the elements than the more pitiless pelting +that awaited him within doors. +</p> +<p> +“I just remembered,” said he, mildly, “that I had left two night-lines out +at the point, and with this fresh in the river it would be as well if I 'd +step down and see—” + </p> +<p> +“And see if the river was where it was yesterday,” broke she in, +sneeringly. +</p> +<p> +“No, Dinah. But you see that there 's this to be remarked about +night-lines—” + </p> +<p> +“That they never catch any fish!” said she, sternly. “It's no weather for +you to go tramping about in the wet grass. You made fuss enough about your +lumbago last week, and I suppose you don't want it back again. Besides,”—and +here her tongue grew authoritative,—“I have got up the books.” And +with these words she threw on the table a number of little greasy-looking +volumes, over which poor Barrington's sad glances wandered, pretty much as +might a victim's over the thumb-screws and the flesh-nippers of the Holy +Inquisition. +</p> +<p> +“I've a slight touch of a headache this morning, Dinah.” + </p> +<p> +“It won't be cured by going out in the rain. Sit down there,” said she, +peremptorily, “and see with your own eyes how much longer your means will +enable you to continue these habits of waste and extravagance.” + </p> +<p> +“These what?” said he, perfectly astounded. +</p> +<p> +“These habits of waste and extravagance, Peter Barring-ton. I repeat my +words.” + </p> +<p> +Had a venerable divine, being asked on the conclusion of an edifying +discourse, for how much longer it might be his intention to persist in +such ribaldries, his astonishment could scarce have been greater than +Barrington's. +</p> +<p> +“Why, sister Dinah, are we not keeping an inn? Is not this the +'Fisherman's Home'?” + </p> +<p> +“I should think it is, Peter,” said she, with scorn. “I suspect he finds +it so. A very excellent name for it it is!” + </p> +<p> +“Must I own that I don't understand you, Dinah?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course you don't. You never did all your life. You never knew you were +wet till you were half drowned, and that's what the world calls having +such an amiable disposition! Ain't your friends nice friends? They are +always telling you how generous you are,—how free-handed,—how +benevolent. What a heart he has! Ay, but thank Providence there's very +little of that charming docility about <i>me</i>, is there?” + </p> +<p> +“None, Dinah,—none,” said he, not in the least suspecting to what he +was bearing testimony. +</p> +<p> +She became crimson in a minute, and in a tone of some emotion said, “And +if there had been, where should you and where should I be to-day? On the +parish, Peter Barrington,—on the parish; for it 's neither <i>your</i> +head nor <i>your</i> hands would have saved us from it.” + </p> +<p> +“You're right, Dinah; you're right there. You never spoke a truer word.” + And his voice trembled as he said it. +</p> +<p> +“I did n't mean <i>that</i>, Peter,” said she, eagerly; “but you are too +confiding, too trustful. Perhaps it takes a woman to detect all the little +wiles and snares that entangle us in our daily life?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps it does,” said he, with a deep sigh. +</p> +<p> +“At all events, you needn't sigh over it, Peter Barring-ton. It's not one +of those blemishes in human nature that have to be deplored so feelingly. +I hope women are as good as men.” + </p> +<p> +“Fifty thousand times better, in every quality of kindliness and +generosity.” + </p> +<p> +“Humph!” said she, tossing her head impatiently. “We 're not here for a +question in ethics; it is to the very lowly task of examining the house +accounts I would invite your attention. Matters cannot go on as they do +now, if we mean to keep a roof over us.” + </p> +<p> +“But I have always supposed we were doing pretty well, Dinah. You know we +never promised ourselves to gain a fortune by this venture; the very +utmost we ever hoped for was to help us along,—to aid us to make +both ends meet at the end of the year And as Darby tells me—” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Darby tells you! What a reliable authority to quote from! Oh, don't +groan so heavily! I forgot myself. I would n't for the world impeach such +fidelity or honesty as his.” + </p> +<p> +“Be reasonable, sister Dinah,—do be reasonable; and if there is +anything to lay to his charge—” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll hear the case, I suppose,” cried she, in a voice high-pitched in +passion. “You 'll sit up there, like one of your favorite judges, and call +on Dinah Barrington against Cassan; and perhaps when the cause is +concluded we shall reverse our places, and <i>I</i> become the defendant! +But if this is your intention, brother Barrington, give me a little time. +I beg I may have a little time.” + </p> +<p> +Now, this was a very favorite request of Miss Barring-ton's, and she +usually made it in the tone of a martyr; but truth obliges us to own that +never was a demand less justifiable. Not a three-decker of the Channel +fleet was readier for a broadside than herself. She was always at quarters +and with a port-fire burning. +</p> +<p> +Barrington did not answer this appeal; he never moved,—he scarcely +appeared to breathe, so guarded was he lest his most unintentional gesture +should be the subject of comment. +</p> +<p> +“When you have recovered from your stupefaction,” said she, calmly, “will +you look over that line of figures, and then give a glance at this total? +After that I will ask you what fortune could stand it.” + </p> +<p> +“This looks formidable, indeed,” said he, poring over the page through his +spectacles. +</p> +<p> +“It is worse, Peter. It <i>is</i> formidable.” + </p> +<p> +“After all, Dinah, this is expenditure. Now for the incomings!” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect you 'll have to ask your prime minister for <i>them</i>. +Perhaps he may vouchsafe to tell you how many twenty-pound notes have gone +to America, who it was that consigned a cargo of new potatoes to +Liverpool, and what amount he invested in yarn at the last fair of +Graigue? and when you have learned these facts, you will know all you are +ever likely to know of your <i>profits!</i>” I have no means of conveying +the intense scorn with which she uttered the last word of this speech. +</p> +<p> +“And he told me—not a week back—that we were going on +famously!” + </p> +<p> +“Why wouldn't he? I 'd like to hear what else he could say. Famously, +indeed, for <i>him</i> with a strong balance in the savings-bank, and a +gold watch—yes, Peter, a gold watch—in his pocket. This is no +delusion, nor illusion, or whatever you call it, of mine, but a fact,—a +downright fact.” + </p> +<p> +“He has been toiling hard many a year for it, Dinah, don't forget that.” + </p> +<p> +“I believe you want to drive me mad, Peter. You know these are things that +I can't bear, and that's the reason you say them. Toil, indeed! <i>I</i> +never saw him do anything except sit on a gate at the Lock Meadows, with a +pipe in his mouth; and if you asked him what he was there for, it was a +'track' he was watching, a 'dog-fox that went by every afternoon to the +turnip field.' Very great toil that was!” + </p> +<p> +“There was n't an earth-stopper like him in the three next counties; and +if I was to have a pack of foxhounds tomorrow—” + </p> +<p> +“You 'd just be as great a foot as ever you were, and the more sorry I am +to hear it; but you 're not going to be tempted, Peter Barrington. It's +not foxes we have to think of, but where we 're to find shelter for +ourselves.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you know of anything we could turn to, more profitable, Dinah?” asked +he, mildly. +</p> +<p> +“There 's nothing could be much less so, I know <i>that!</i> You are not +very observant, Peter, but even to you it must have become apparent that +great changes have come over the world in a few years. The persons who +formerly indulged their leisure were all men of rank and fortune. Who are +the people who come over here now to amuse themselves? Staleybridge and +Manchester creatures, with factory morals and bagman manners; treating our +house like a commercial inn, and actually disputing the bill and asking +for items. Yes, Peter, I overheard a fellow telling Darby last week that +the ''ouse was dearer than the Halbion!'” + </p> +<p> +“Travellers will do these things, Dinah.” + </p> +<p> +“And if they do, they shall be shown the door for it, as sure as my name +is Dinah Barrington.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us give up the inn altogether, then,” said he, with a sudden +impatience. +</p> +<p> +“The very thing I was going to propose, Peter,” said she, solemnly. +</p> +<p> +“What!—how?” cried he, for the acceptance of what only escaped him +in a moment of anger overwhelmed and stunned him. “How are we to live, +Dinah?” + </p> +<p> +“Better without than with it,—there's my answer to that. Let us look +the matter fairly in the face, Peter,” said she, with a calm and measured +utterance. “This dealing with the world 'on honor' must ever be a losing +game. To screen ourselves from the vulgar necessities of our condition, we +must submit to any terms. So long as our intercourse with life gave us +none but gentlemen to deal with, we escaped well and safely. That race +would seem to have thinned off of late, however; or, what comes to the +same, there is such a deluge of spurious coin one never knows what is real +gold.” + </p> +<p> +“You may be right, Dinah; you may be right.” + </p> +<p> +“I know I am right; the experience has been the growth of years too. All +our efforts to escape the odious contact of these people have multiplied +our expenses. Where one man used to suffice, we keep three. You yourself, +who felt it no indignity to go out a-fishing formerly with a chance +traveller, have to own with what reserve and caution you would accept such +companionship now.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, nay, Dinah, not exactly so far as that—” + </p> +<p> +“And why not? Was it not less than a fortnight ago three Birmingham men +crossed the threshold, calling out for old Peter,—was old Peter to +the good yet?” + </p> +<p> +“They were a little elevated with wine, sister, remember that; and, +besides, they never knew, never had heard of me in my once condition.” + </p> +<p> +“And are we so changed that they cannot recognize the class we pertain +to?” + </p> +<p> +“Not <i>you</i>, Dinah, certainly not you; but I frankly own I can put up +with rudeness and incivility better than a certain showy courtesy some +vulgar people practise towards me. In the one case I feel I am not known, +and my secret is safe. In the other, I have to stand out as the ruined +gentleman, and I am not always sure that I play the part as gracefully as +I ought.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us leave emotions, Peter, and descend to the lowland of arithmetic, +by giving up two boatmen, John and Terry—” + </p> +<p> +“Poor Terry!” sighed he, with a faint, low accent +</p> +<p> +“Oh! if it be 'poor Terry!' I 've done,” said she, closing the book, and +throwing it down with a slap that made him start. +</p> +<p> +“Nay, dear Dinah; but if we could manage to let him have something,—say +five shillings a week,—he 'd not need it long; and the port wine +that was doing his rheumatism such good is nearly finished; he'll miss it +sorely.” + </p> +<p> +“Were you giving him Henderson's wine,—the '11 vintage?” cried she, +pale with indignation. +</p> +<p> +“Just a bottle or two, Dinah; only as medicine.” + </p> +<p> +“As a fiddlestick, sir! I declare I have no patience with you; there 's no +excuse for such folly, not to say the ignorance of giving these creatures +what they never were used to. Did not Dr. Dill tell you that tonics, to be +effective, must always have some relation to the daily habits of the +patient?” + </p> +<p> +“Very true, Dinah; but the discourse was pronounced when I saw him putting +a bottle of old Madeira in his gig that I had left for Anne M'Cafferty, +adding, he 'd send her something far more strengthening.” + </p> +<p> +“Right or wrong, I don't care; but this I know, Terry Dogherty is n't +going to finish off Henderson's port. It is rather too much to stand, that +we are to be treating beggars to luxuries, when we can't say to-morrow +where we shall find salt for our potatoes.” This was a somewhat favorite +illustration of Miss Barrington,—either implying that the commodity +was an essential to human life, or the use of it an emblem of extreme +destitution. +</p> +<p> +“I conclude we may dispense with Tom Divett's services,” resumed she. “We +can assuredly get on without a professional rat-catcher.” + </p> +<p> +“If we should, Dinah, we'll feel the loss; the rats make sad havoc of the +spawn, and destroy quantities of the young fish, besides.” + </p> +<p> +“His two ugly terriers eat just as many chickens, and never leave us an +egg in the place. And now for Mr. Darby—” + </p> +<p> +“You surely don't think of parting with Darby, sister Dinah?” + </p> +<p> +“He shall lead the way,” replied she, in a firm and peremptory voice; “the +very first of the batch! And it will, doubtless, be a great comfort to you +to know that you need not distress yourself about any provision for his +declining years. It is a care that he has attended to on his own part. He +'ll go back to a very well-feathered nest, I promise you.” + </p> +<p> +Barrington sighed heavily, for he had a secret sorrow on that score. He +knew, though his sister did not, that he had from year to year been +borrowing every pound of Darby's savings to pay the cost of law charges, +always hoping and looking for the time when a verdict in his favor would +enable him to restore the money twice told. With a very dreary sigh, then, +did he here allude “to the well-feathered nest” of one he had left bare +and destitute. He cleared his throat, and made an effort to avow the whole +matter; but his courage failed him, and he sat mournfully shaking his +head, partly in sorrow, partly in shame. His sister noticed none of these +signs; she was rapidly enumerating all the reductions that could be made,—all +the dependencies cut off; there were the boats, which constantly required +repairs; the nets, eternally being renewed,—all to be discarded; the +island, a very pretty little object in the middle of the river, need no +longer be rented. “Indeed,” said she, “I don't know why we took it, except +it was to give those memorable picnics you used to have there.” + </p> +<p> +“How pleasant they were, Dinah; how delightful!” said he, totally +overlooking the spirit of her remark. +</p> +<p> +“Oh! they were charming, and your own popularity was boundless; but I 'd +have you to bear in mind, brother Peter, that popularity is no more a poor +man's luxury than champagne. It is a very costly indulgence, and can +rarely be had on 'credit.'” + </p> +<p> +Miss Barrington had pared down retrenchment to the very quick. She had +shown that they could live not only without boatmen, rat-catchers, +gardener, and manservant, but that, as they were to give up their daily +newspaper, they could dispense with a full ration of candle-light; and +yet, with all these reductions, she declared that there was still another +encumbrance to be pruned away, and she proudly asked her brother if he +could guess what it was? +</p> +<p> +Now Barrington felt that he could not live without a certain allowance of +food, nor would it be convenient, or even decent, to dispense with +raiment; so he began, as a last resource, to conjecture that his sister +was darkly hinting at something which might be a substitute for a home, +and save house-rent; and he half testily exclaimed, “I suppose we 're to +have a roof over us, Dinah!” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said she, dryly, “I never proposed we should go and live in the +woods. What I meant had a reference, to Josephine—” + </p> +<p> +Barrington's cheek flushed deeply in an instant, and, with a voice +trembling with emotion, he said,— +</p> +<p> +“If you mean, Dinah, that I'm to cut off that miserable pittance—that +forty pounds a year—I give to poor George's girl—” He stopped, +for he saw that in his sister's face which might have appalled a bolder +heart than his own; for while her eyes flashed fire, her thin lips +trembled with passion; and so, in a very faltering humility, he added: +“But you never meant <i>that</i> sister Dinah. You would be the very last +in the world to do it.” + </p> +<p> +“Then why impute it to me; answer me that?” said she, crossing her hands +behind her back, and staring haughtily at him. +</p> +<p> +“Just because I 'm clean at my wits' end,—just because I neither +understand one word I hear, or what I say in reply. If you 'll just tell +me what it is you propose, I 'll do my best, with God's blessing, to +follow you; but don't ask me for advice, Dinah, and don't fly out because +I 'm not as quick-witted and as clever as yourself.” + </p> +<p> +There was something almost so abject in his misery that she seemed touched +by it, and, in a voice of a very calm and kindly meaning, she said,— +</p> +<p> +“I have been thinking a good deal over that letter of Josephine's; she +says she wants our consent to take the veil as a nun; that, by the rules +of the order, when her novitiate is concluded, she must go into the world +for at least some months,—a time meant to test her faithfulness to +her vows, and the tranquillity with which she can renounce forever all the +joys and attractions of life. We, it is true, have no means of surrounding +her with such temptations; but we might try and supply their place by some +less brilliant but not less attractive ones. We might offer her, what we +ought to have offered her years ago,—a home! What do you say to +this, Peter?” + </p> +<p> +“That I love you for it, sister Dinah, with all my heart,” said he, +kissing her on each cheek; “that it makes me happier than I knew I ever +was to be again.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course, to bring Josephine here, this must not be an inn, Peter.” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly not, Dinah,—certainly not. But I can think of nothing but +the joy of seeing her,—poor George's child I How I have yearned to +know if she was like him,—if she had any of his ways, any traits of +that quaint, dry humor he had, and, above all, of that disposition that +made him so loved by every one.” + </p> +<p> +“And cheated by every one too, brother Peter; don't forget that!” + </p> +<p> +“Who wants to think of it now?” said he, sorrowfully. +</p> +<p> +“I never reject a thought because it has unpleasant associations. It would +be but a sorry asylum which only admitted the well-to-do and the happy.” + </p> +<p> +“How are we to get the dear child here, Dinah? Let us consider the matter. +It is a long journey off.” + </p> +<p> +“I have thought of that too,” said she, sententiously, “but not made up my +mind.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us ask M'Cormick about it, Dinah; he's coming up this evening to play +his Saturday night's rubber with Dill. He knows the Continent well.” + </p> +<p> +“There will be another saving that I did n't remember, Peter. The weekly +bottle of whiskey, and the candles, not to speak of the four or five +shillings your pleasant companions invariably carry away with them,—all +may be very advantageously dispensed with.” + </p> +<p> +“When Josephine 's here, I 'll not miss it,” said he, good-humoredly. Then +suddenly remembering that his sister might not deem the speech a gracious +one to herself, he was about to add something; but she was gone. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER III. OUR NEXT NEIGHBORS +</h2> +<p> +Should there be amongst my readers any one whose fortune it has been in +life only to associate with the amiable, the interesting, and the +agreeable, all whose experiences of mankind are rose-tinted, to him I +would say, Skip over two people I am now about to introduce, and take up +my story at some later stage, for I desire to be truthful, and, as is the +misfortune of people in my situation, I may be very disagreeable. +</p> +<p> +After all, I may have made more excuses than were needful. The persons I +would present are in that large category, the commonplace, and only as +uninviting and as tiresome as we may any day meet in a second-class on the +railroad. Flourish, therefore, penny trumpets, and announce Major +M'Cormick. The Major, so confidently referred to by Barrington in our last +chapter as a high authority on matters continental, was a very shattered +remnant of the unhappy Walcheren expedition. He was a small, mean-looking, +narrow-faced man, with a thin, bald head, and red whiskers. He walked very +lame from an injury to his hip; “his wound,” he called it, though his +candor did not explain that it was incurred by being thrown down a +hatchway by a brother officer in a drunken brawl. In character he was a +saving, penurious creature, without one single sympathy outside his own +immediate interests. When some sixteen or eighteen years before the +Barringtons had settled in the neighborhood, the Major began to entertain +thoughts of matrimony. Old soldiers are rather given to consider marriage +as an institution especially intended to solace age and console +rheumatism, and so M'Cormick debated with himself whether he had not +arrived at the suitable time for this indulgence, and also whether Miss +Dinah Barrington was not the individual destined to share his lot and +season his gruel. +</p> +<p> +But a few years back and his ambition would as soon have aspired to an +archduchess as to the sister of Barrington, of Barrington Hall, whose +realms of social distinction separated them; but now, fallen from their +high estate, forgotten by the world, and poor, they had come down—at +least, he thought so—to a level in which there would be no +presumption in his pretensions. Indeed, I half suspect that he thought +there was something very high-minded and generous in his intentions with +regard to them. At all events, there was a struggle of some sort in his +mind which went on from year to year undecided. Now, there are men—for +the most part old bachelors—to whom an unfinished project is a +positive luxury, who like to add, day by day, a few threads to the web of +fate, but no more. To the Major it was quite enough that “some fine day or +other”—so he phrased it—he 'd make his offer, just as he +thought how, in the same propitious weather, he 'd put a new roof on his +cottage, and fill up that quarry-hole near his gate, into which he had +narrowly escaped tumbling some half-dozen times. But thanks to his caution +and procrastination, the roof, and the project, and the quarry-hole were +exactly, or very nearly, in the same state they had been eighteen years +before. +</p> +<p> +Rumor said—as rumor will always say whatever has a tinge of +ill-nature in it—that Miss Barrington would have accepted him; +vulgar report declared that she would “jump at the offer.” Whether this +be, or not, the appropriate way of receiving a matrimonial proposal, the +lady was not called upon to display her activity. He never told his love. +</p> +<p> +It is very hard to forgive that secretary, home or foreign, who in the day +of his power and patronage could, but did not, make us easy for life with +this mission or that com-missionership. It is not easy to believe that our +uncle the bishop could not, without any undue strain upon his conscience, +have made us something, albeit a clerical error, in his diocese, but +infinitely more difficult is it to pardon him who, having suggested dreams +of wedded happiness, still stands hesitating, doubting, and canvassing,—a +timid bather, who shivers on the beach, and then puts on his clothes +again. +</p> +<p> +It took a long time—it always does in such cases—ere Miss +Barrington came to read this man aright. Indeed, the light of her own +hopes had dazzled her, and she never saw him clearly till they were +extinguished; but when the knowledge did come, it came trebled with +compound interest, and she saw him in all that displayed his miserable +selfishness; and although her brother, who found it hard to believe any +one bad who had not been tried for a capital felony, would explain away +many a meanness by saying, “It is just his way,—a way, and no more!” + she spoke out fearlessly, if not very discreetly, and declared she +detested him. Of course she averred it was his manners, his want of +breeding, and his familiarity that displeased her. He might be an +excellent creature,—perhaps he was; <i>that</i> was nothing to her. +All his moral qualities might have an interest for his friends; she was a +mere acquaintance, and was only concerned for what related to his bearing +in society. Then Walcheren was positively odious to her. Some little +solace she felt at the thought that the expedition was a failure and +inglorious; but when she listened to the fiftieth time-told tale of fever +and ague, she would sigh, not for those who suffered, but over the one +that escaped. It is a great blessing to men of uneventful lives and scant +imagination when there is any one incident to which memory can refer +unceasingly. Like some bold headland last seen at sea, it lives in the +mind throughout the voyage. Such was this ill-starred expedition to the +Major. It dignified his existence to himself, though his memory never +soared above the most ordinary details and vulgar incidents. Thus he would +maunder on for hours, telling how the ships sailed and parted company, and +joined again; how the old “Brennus” mistook a signal and put back to Hull, +and how the “Sarah Reeves,” his own transport, was sent after her. Then he +grew picturesque about Flushing, as first seen through the dull fogs of +the Scheldt, with village spires peeping through the heavy vapor, and the +strange Dutch language, with its queer names for the vegetables and fruit +brought by the boats alongside. +</p> +<p> +“You won't believe me, Miss Dinah, but, as I sit here, the peaches was +like little melons, and the cherries as big as walnuts.” + </p> +<p> +“They made cherry-bounce out of them, I hope, sir,” said she, with a +scornful smile. +</p> +<p> +“No, indeed, ma'am,” replied he, dull to the sarcasm; “they ate them in a +kind of sauce with roast-pig, and mighty good too!” + </p> +<p> +But enough of the Major; and now a word, and only a word, for his +companion, already alluded to by Barrington. +</p> +<p> +Dr. Dill had been a poor “Dispensary Doctor” for some thirty years, with a +small practice, and two or three grand patrons at some miles off, who +employed him for the servants, or for the children in “mild cases,” and +who even extended to him a sort of contemptuous courtesy that serves to +make a proud man a bear, and an humble man a sycophant. +</p> +<p> +Dill was the reverse of proud, and took to the other line with much +kindliness. To have watched him in his daily round you would have said +that he liked being trampled on, and actually enjoyed being crushed. He +smiled so blandly, and looked so sweetly under it all, as though it was a +kind of moral shampooing, from which he would come out all the fresher and +more vigorous. +</p> +<p> +The world is certainly generous in its dealings with these temperaments; +it indulges them to the top of their hearts, and gives them humiliations +to their heart's content. Rumor—the same wicked goddess who libelled +Miss Barrington—hinted that the doctor was not, within his own walls +and under his own roof, the suffering angel the world saw him, and that he +occasionally did a little trampling there on his own account. However, +Mrs. Dill never complained; and though the children wore a tremulous +terror and submissiveness in their looks, they were only suitable family +traits, which all redounded to their credit, and made them “so like the +doctor.” + </p> +<p> +Such were the two worthies who slowly floated along on the current of the +river of a calm summer's evening, to visit the Barringtons. As usual, the +talk was of their host. They discussed his character and his habits and +his debts, and the difficulty he had in raising that little loan; and in +close juxtaposition with this fact, as though pinned on the back of it, +his sister's overweening pride and pretension. It had been the Major's +threat for years that he 'd “take her down a peg one of these days.” But +either he was mercifully unwilling to perform the act, or that the +suitable hour for it had not come; but there she remained, and there he +left her, not taken down one inch, but loftier and haughtier than ever. As +the boat rounded the point from which the cottage was visible through the +trees and some of the outhouses could be descried, they reverted to the +ruinous state everything was falling into. “Straw is cheap enough, +anyhow,” said the Major. “He might put a new thatch on that cow-house, and +I 'm sure a brush of paint would n't ruin any one.” Oh, my dear reader! +have you not often heard—I know that I have—such comments as +these, such reflections on the indolence or indifference which only needed +so very little to reform, done, too, without trouble or difficulty, habits +that could be corrected, evil ways reformed, and ruinous tendencies +arrested, all as it were by a “rush of paint,” or something just as +uncostly? +</p> +<p> +“There does n't seem to be much doing here, Dill,” said M'Cormick, as they +landed. “All the boats are drawn up ashore. And faith! I don't wonder, +that old woman is enough to frighten the fish out of the river.” + </p> +<p> +“Strangers do not always like that sort of thing,” modestly remarked the +doctor,—the “always” being peculiarly marked for emphasis. “Some +will say, an inn should be an inn.” + </p> +<p> +“That's my view of it. What I say is this: I want my bit of fish, and my +beefsteak, and my pint of wine, and I don't want to know that the +landlord's grandfather entertained the king, or that his aunt was a +lady-in-waiting. 'Be' as high as you like,' says I, 'but don't make the +bill so,'—eh, Dill?” And he cackled the harsh ungenial laugh which +seems the birthright of all sorry jesters; and the doctor gave a little +laugh too, more from habit, however, than enjoyment. +</p> +<p> +“Do you know, Dill,” said the Major, disengaging himself from the arm +which his lameness compelled him to lean on, and standing still in the +pathway,—“do you know that I never reach thus far without having a +sort of struggle with myself whether I won't turn back and go home again. +Can you explain that, now?” + </p> +<p> +“It is the wound, perhaps, pains you, coming up the hill.” + </p> +<p> +“It is not the wound. It's that woman!” + </p> +<p> +“Miss Barrington?” + </p> +<p> +“Just so. I have her before me now, sitting up behind the urn there, and +saying, 'Have you had tea, Major M'Cormick?' when she knows well she did +n't give it to me. Don't you feel that going up to the table for your cup +is for all the world like doing homage?” + </p> +<p> +“Her manners are cold,—certainly cold.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish they were. It's the fire that's in her I 'm afraid of! She has as +wicked an eye in her head as ever I saw.” + </p> +<p> +“She was greatly admired once, I 'm told; and she has many remains of +beauty.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! for the matter of looks, there's worse. It's her nature, her temper,—herself, +in fact, I can't endure.” + </p> +<p> +“What is it you can't endure, M'Cormick?” cried Barrington, emerging from +a side walk where he had just caught the last words. “If it be anything in +this poor place of mine, let me hear, that I may have it amended.” + </p> +<p> +“How are ye,—how are ye?” said the Major, with a very confused +manner. “I was talking politics with Dill. I was telling him how I hated +<i>them</i> Tories.” + </p> +<p> +“I believe they are all pretty much alike,” said Barring-ton; “at least, I +knew they were in my day. And though we used to abuse him, and drink all +kind of misfortunes to him every day of our lives, there was n't a truer +gentleman nor a finer fellow in Ireland than Lord Castlereagh.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm sure of it. I've often heard the same remark,” chimed in Dill. +</p> +<p> +“It's a pity you didn't think so at the time of the Union,” said +M'Cormick, with a sneer. +</p> +<p> +“Many of us did; but it would not make us sell our country. But what need +is there of going back to those times, and things that can't be helped +now? Come in and have a cup of tea. I see my sister is waiting for us.” + </p> +<p> +Why was it that Miss Barrington, on that evening, was grander and +statelier than ever? Was it some anticipation of the meditated change in +their station had impressed her manner with more of pride? I know not; but +true it is she received her visitors with a reserve that was actually +chilling. To no end did Barrington exert himself to conceal or counteract +this frigidity. In all our moral chemistry we have never yet hit upon an +antidote to a chilling reception. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/046.jpg" width="100%" alt="046 " /> +</div> +<p> +The doctor was used to this freezing process, and did not suffer like his +companion. To him, life was a huge ice-pail; but he defied frost-bite, and +bore it. The Major, however chafed and fidgeted under the treatment, and +muttered to himself very vengeful sentiments about that peg he had +determined to take her down from. +</p> +<p> +“I was hoping to be able to offer you a nosegay, dear lady,” said Dill,—this +was his customary mode of address to her, an ingenious blending of +affection with deference, but in which the stronger accent on the last +word showed the deference to predominate,—“but the rain has come so +late, there's not a stock in the garden fit to present to you.” + </p> +<p> +“It is just as well, sir. I detest gillyflowers.” + </p> +<p> +The Major's eyes sparkled with a spiteful delight, for he was sorely +jealous of the doctor's ease under difficulties. +</p> +<p> +“We have, indeed, a few moss-roses.” + </p> +<p> +“None to be compared to our own, sir. Do not think of it.” + </p> +<p> +The Major felt that his was not a giving disposition, and consequently it +exempted him from rubs and rebuffs of this sort. Meanwhile, unabashed by +failure, the doctor essayed once more: “Mrs. Dill is only waiting to have +the car mended, to come over and pay her dutiful respects to you, Miss +Dinah.” + </p> +<p> +“Pray tell her not to mind it, Dr. Dill,” replied she, sharply, “or to +wait till the fourth of next month, which will make it exactly a year +since her last visit; and her call can be then an annual one, like the +tax-gatherer's.” + </p> +<p> +“Bother them for taxes altogether,” chimed in Barrington, whose ear only +caught the last word. “You haven't done with the county cess when there's +a fellow at you for tithes; and they're talking of a poor-rate.” + </p> +<p> +“You may perceive, Dr. Dill, that your medicines have not achieved a great +success against my brother's deafness.” + </p> +<p> +“We were all so at Walcheren,” broke in M'Cormick; “when we 'd come out of +the trenches, we could n't hear for hours.” + </p> +<p> +“My voice may be a shrill one, Major M'Cormick, but I'll have you to +believe that it has not destroyed my brother's tympanum.” + </p> +<p> +“It's not the tympanum is engaged, dear lady; it's the Eustachian tube is +the cause here. There's a passage leads down from the internal ear—” + </p> +<p> +“I declare, sir, I have just as little taste for anatomy as for +fortification; and though I sincerely wish you could cure my brother, as I +also wish these gentlemen could have taken Walcheren, I have not the +slightest desire to know how.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll beg a little more tea in this, ma'am,” said the Major, holding out +his cup. +</p> +<p> +“Do you mean water, sir? Did you say it was too strong?” + </p> +<p> +“With your leave, I 'll take it a trifle stronger,” said he, with a +malicious twinkle in his eye, for he knew all the offence his speech +implied. +</p> +<p> +“I'm glad to hear you say so, Major M'Cormick. I'm happy to know that your +nerves are stronger than at the time of that expedition you quote with +such pleasure. Is yours to your liking, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll ask for some water, dear lady,” broke in Dill, who began to think +that the fire was hotter than usual. “As I said to Mrs. Dill, 'Molly,' +says I, 'how is it that I never drink such tea anywhere as at the—'” + He stopped, for he was going to say, the Harringtons', and he trembled at +the liberty; and he dared not say the Fisherman's Home, lest it should be +thought he was recalling their occupation; and so, after a pause and a +cough, he stammered out—“'at the sweet cottage.'” Nor was his +confusion the less at perceiving how she had appreciated his difficulty, +and was smiling at it. +</p> +<p> +“Very few strangers in these parts lately, I believe,” said M'Cormick, who +knew that his remark was a dangerous one. +</p> +<p> +“I fancy none, sir,” said she, calmly. “We, at least, have no customers, +if that be the name for them.” + </p> +<p> +“It's natural, indeed, dear lady, you shouldn't know how they are called,” + began the doctor, in a fawning tone, “reared and brought up as you were.” + </p> +<p> +The cold, steady stare of Miss Barrington arrested his speech; and though +he made immense efforts to recover himself, there was that in her look +which totally overcame him. “Sit down to your rubber, sir,” said she, in a +whisper that seemed to thrill through his veins. “You will find yourself +far more at home at the odd trick there, than attempting to console me +about my lost honors.” And with this fierce admonition, she gave a little +nod, half in adieu, half in admonition, and swept haughtily out of the +room. +</p> +<p> +M'Cormick heaved a sigh as the door closed after her, which very plainly +bespoke how much he felt the relief. +</p> +<p> +“My poor sister is a bit out of spirits this evening,” said Barrington, +who merely saw a certain show of constraint over his company, and never +guessed the cause. “We've had some unpleasant letters, and one thing or +another to annoy us, and if she does n't join us at supper, you 'll excuse +her, I know, M'Cormick.” + </p> +<p> +“That we will, with—” He was going to add, “with a heart and a +half,” for he felt, what to him was a rare sentiment, “gratitude;” but +Dill chimed in,— +</p> +<p> +“Of course, we couldn't expect she'd appear. I remarked she was nervous +when we came in. I saw an expression in her eye—” + </p> +<p> +“So did I, faith,” muttered M'Cormick, “and I'm not a doctor.” + </p> +<p> +“And here's our whist-table,” said Barrington, bustling about; “and there +'s a bit of supper ready there for us in that room, and we 'll help +ourselves, for I 've sent Darby to bed. And now give me a hand with these +cards, for they 've all got mixed together.” + </p> +<p> +Barrington's task was the very wearisome one of trying to sort out an +available pack from some half-dozen of various sizes and colors. +</p> +<p> +“Is n't this for all the world like raising a regiment out of twenty +volunteer corps?” said M'Cormick. +</p> +<p> +“Dill would call it an hospital of incurables,” said Barrington. “Have you +got a knave of spades and a seven? Oh dear, dear! the knave, with the head +off him! I begin to suspect we must look up a new pack.” There was a tone +of misgiving in the way he said this; for it implied a reference to his +sister, and all its consequences. Affecting to search for new cards in his +own room, therefore, he arose and went out. +</p> +<p> +“I wouldn't live in a slavery like that,” muttered the Major, “to be King +of France.” + </p> +<p> +“Something has occurred here. There is some latent source of irritation,” + said Dill, cautiously. “Barrington's own manner is fidgety and uneasy. I +have my suspicion matters are going on but poorly with them.” + </p> +<p> +While this sage diagnosis was being uttered, M'Cormick had taken a short +excursion into the adjoining room, from which he returned, eating a +pickled onion. “It's the old story; the cold roast loin and the dish of +salad. Listen! Did you hear that shout?” + </p> +<p> +“I thought I heard one awhile back; but I fancied afterwards it was only +the noise of the river over the stones.” + </p> +<p> +“It is some fellows drawing the river; they poach under his very windows, +and he never sees them.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm afraid we 're not to have our rubber this evening,” said Dill, +mournfully. +</p> +<p> +“There's a thing, now, I don't understand!” said M'Cormick, in a low but +bitter voice. “No man is obliged to see company, but when he does do it, +he oughtn't to be running about for a tumbler here and a mustard-pot +there. There's the noise again; it's fellows robbing the salmon-weir!” + </p> +<p> +“No rubber to-night, I perceive that,” reiterated the doctor, still intent +upon the one theme. +</p> +<p> +“A thousand pardons I ask from each of you,” cried Barrington, coming +hurriedly in, with a somewhat flushed face; “but I 've had such a hunt for +these cards. When I put a thing away nowadays, it's as good as gone to me, +for I remember nothing. But here we are, now, all right.” + </p> +<p> +The party, like men eager to retrieve lost time, were soon deep in their +game, very little being uttered, save such remarks as the contest called +for. The Major was of that order of players who firmly believe fortune +will desert them if they don't whine and complain of their luck, and so +everything from him was a lamentation. The doctor, who regarded whist +pathologically, no more gave up a game than he would a patient. He had +witnessed marvellous recoveries in the most hopeless cases, and he had +been rescued by a “revoke” in the last hour. Unlike each, Barrington was +one who liked to chat over his game, as he would over his wine. Not that +he took little interest in it, but it had no power to absorb and engross +him. If a man derive very great pleasure from a pastime in which, after +years and years of practice, he can attain no eminence nor any mastery, +you may be almost certain he is one of an amiable temperament Nothing +short of real goodness of nature could go on deriving enjoyment from a +pursuit associated with continual defeats. Such a one must be hopeful, he +must be submissive, he must have no touch of ungenerous jealousy in his +nature, and, withal, a zealous wish to do better. Now he who can be all +these, in anything, is no bad fellow. +</p> +<p> +If Barrington, therefore, was beaten, he bore it well. Cards were often +enough against him, his play was always so; and though the doctor had +words of bland consolation for disaster, such as the habits of his craft +taught him, the Major was a pitiless adversary, who never omitted the +opportunity of disinterring all his opponents' blunders, and singing a +song of triumph over them. But so it is,—<i>tot genera hominum</i>,—so +many kinds of whist-players are there! +</p> +<p> +Hour after hour went over, and it was late in the night. None felt +disposed to sup; at least, none proposed it. The stakes were small, it is +true, but small things are great to little men, and Barrington's guests +were always the winners. +</p> +<p> +“I believe if I was to be a good player,—which I know in my heart I +never shall,” said Barrington,—“that my luck would swamp me, after +all. Look at that hand now, and say is there a trick in it?” As he said +this, he spread out the cards of his “dummy” on the table, with the +dis-consolation of one thoroughly beaten. +</p> +<p> +“Well, it might be worse,” said Dill, consolingly. “There's a queen of +diamonds; and I would n't say, if you could get an opportunity to trump +the club—” + </p> +<p> +“Let him try it,” broke in the merciless Major; “let him just try it! My +name isn't Dan M'Cormick if he'll win one card in that hand. There, now, I +lead the ace of clubs. Play!” + </p> +<p> +“Patience, Major, patience; let me look over my hand. I 'm bad enough at +the best, but I 'll be worse if you hurry me. Is that a king or a knave I +see there?” + </p> +<p> +“It's neither; it 's the queen!” barked out the Major. +</p> +<p> +“Doctor, you 'll have to look after my eyes as well as my ears. Indeed, I +scarcely know which is the worst. Was not that a voice outside?” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/052.jpg" width="100%" alt="052 " /> +</div> +<p> +“I should think it was; there have been fellows shouting there the whole +evening. I suspect they don't leave you many fish in this part of the +river.” + </p> +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” interposed Dill, blandly, “but you 've taken up my +card by mistake.” + </p> +<p> +While Barrington was excusing himself, and trying to recover his lost clew +to the game, there came a violent knocking at the door, and a loud voice +called out, “Holloa! Will some of ye open the door, or must I put my foot +through it?” + </p> +<p> +“There <i>is</i> somebody there,” said Barrington, quietly, for he had now +caught the words correctly; and taking a candle, he hastened out. +</p> +<p> +“At last,” cried a stranger, as the door opened,—“at last! Do you +know that we've been full twenty minutes here, listening to your animated +discussion over the odd trick?—I fainting with hunger, and my friend +with pain.” And so saying, he assisted another to limp forward, who leaned +on his arm and moved with the greatest difficulty. +</p> +<p> +The mere sight of one in suffering repressed any notion of a rejoinder to +his somewhat rude speech, and Barrington led the way into the room. +</p> +<p> +“Have you met with an accident?” asked he, as he placed the sufferer on a +sofa. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” interposed the first speaker; “he slipped down one of those rocks +into the river, and has sprained, if he has not broken, something.” + </p> +<p> +“It is our good fortune to have advice here; this gentleman is a doctor.” + </p> +<p> +“Of the Royal College, and an M.D. of Aberdeen, besides,” said Dill, with +a professional smile, while, turning back his cuffs, he proceeded to +remove the shoe and stocking of his patient. +</p> +<p> +“Don't be afraid of hurting, but just tell me at once what's the matter,” + said the young fellow, down whose cheeks great drops were rolling in his +agony. +</p> +<p> +“There is no pronouncing at once; there is great tumefaction here. It may +be a mere sprain, or it may be a fracture of the fibula simple, or a +fracture with luxation.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, if you can't tell the injury, tell us what's to be done for it. Get +him to bed, I suppose, first?” said the friend. +</p> +<p> +“By all means, to bed, and cold applications on the affected part.” + </p> +<p> +“Here's a room all ready, and at hand,” said Barrington, opening the door +into a little chamber replete with comfort and propriety. +</p> +<p> +“Come,” said the first speaker, “Fred, all this is very snug; one might +have fallen upon worse quarters.” And so saying, he assisted his friend +forward, and deposited him upon the bed. +</p> +<p> +While the doctor busied himself with the medical cares for his patient, +and arranged with due skill the appliances to relieve his present +suffering, the other stranger related how they had lost their way, having +first of all taken the wrong bank of the river, and been obliged to +retrace their steps upwards of three miles to retrieve their mistake. +</p> +<p> +“Where were you going to?” asked Barringtou. +</p> +<p> +“We were in search of a little inn they had told us of, called the +'Fisherman's Home.' I conclude we have reached it at last, and you are the +host, I take it?” + </p> +<p> +Barrington bowed assent. +</p> +<p> +“And these gentlemen are visitors here?” But without waiting for any +reply,—difficult at all times, for he spoke with great rapidity and +continual change of topic,—he now stooped down to whisper something +to the sick man. “My friend thinks he'll do capitally now, and, if we +leave him, that he'll soon drop asleep; so I vote we give him the chance.” + Thus saying, he made a gesture for the others to leave, following them up +as they went, almost like one enforcing an order. +</p> +<p> +“If I am correct in my reading, you are a soldier, sir,” said Barrington, +when they reached the outer room, “and this gentleman here is a brother +officer,—Major M'Cor-mick.” + </p> +<p> +“Full pay, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“No, I am an old Walcheren man.” + </p> +<p> +“Walcheren—Walcheren—why, that sounds like Malplaquet or +Blenheim! Where the deuce was Walcheren? Did n't believe that there was an +old tumbril of that affair to the fore still. You were all licked there, +or you died of the ague, or jaundice? Oh, dummy whist, as I live! Who's +the unlucky dog has got the dummy?—bad as Walcheren, by Jove! Is n't +that a supper I see laid out there? Don't I smell Stilton from that room?” + </p> +<p> +“If you 'll do us the honor to join us—” + </p> +<p> +“That I will, and astonish you with an appetite too! We breakfasted at a +beastly hole called Graigue, and tasted nothing since, except a few +peaches I stole out of an old fellow's garden on the riverside,—'Old +Dan the miser,' a country fellow called him.” + </p> +<p> +“I have the honor to have afforded you the entertainment you speak of,” + said M'Cormick, smarting with anger. +</p> +<p> +“All right! The peaches were excellent,—would have been better if +riper. I 'm afraid I smashed a window of yours; it was a stone I shied at +a confounded dog,—a sort of terrier. Pickled onions and walnuts, by +all that 's civilized! And so this is the 'Fisherman's Home,' and you the +fisherman, eh? Well, why not show a light or a lantern over the door? Who +the deuce is to know that this is a place of entertainment? We only +guessed it at last.” + </p> +<p> +“May I help you to some mutton?” said Barrington, more amused than put out +by his guest's discursiveness. +</p> +<p> +“By all means. But don't carve it that way; cut it lengthwise, as if it +were the saddle, which it ought to have been. You must tell me where you +got this sherry. I have tasted nothing like it for many a day,—real +brown sherry. I suppose you know how they brown it? It's not done by +sugar,—that's a vulgar error. It's done by boiling; they boil down +so many butts and reduce them to about a fourth or a fifth. You haven't +got any currant-jelly, have you? it is just as good with cold mutton as +hot. And then it is the wine thus reduced they use for coloring matter. I +got up all my sherry experiences on the spot.” + </p> +<p> +“The wine you approve of has been in my cellar about five-and-forty +years.” + </p> +<p> +“It would not if I 'd have been your neighbor, rely upon that. I'd have +secured every bottle of it for our mess; and mind, whatever remains of it +is mine.” + </p> +<p> +“Might I make bold to remark,” said Dill, interposing, “that we are the +guests of my friend here on this occasion?” + </p> +<p> +“Eh, what,—guests?” + </p> +<p> +“I am proud enough to believe that you will not refuse me the honor of +your company; for though an innkeeper, I write myself gentleman,” said +Barrington, blandly, though not without emotion. +</p> +<p> +“I should think you might,” broke in the stranger, heartily; “and I'd say +the man who had a doubt about your claims had very little of his own. And +now a word of apology for the mode of our entrance here, and to introduce +myself. I am Colonel Hunter, of the 21st Hussars; my friend is a young +subaltern of the regiment.” + </p> +<p> +A moment before, and all the awkwardness of his position was painful to +Barrington. He felt that the traveller was there by a right, free to +order, condemn, and criticise as he pleased. The few words of explanation, +given in all the frankness of a soldier, and with the tact of a gentleman, +relieved this embarrassment, and he was himself again. As for M'Cormick +and Dill, the mere announcement of the regiment he commanded seemed to +move and impress them. It was one of those corps especially known in the +service for the rank and fortune of its officers. The Prince himself was +their colonel, and they had acquired a wide notoriety for exclusiveness +and pride, which, when treated by unfriendly critics, assumed a shape less +favorable still. +</p> +<p> +Colonel Hunter, if he were to be taken as a type of his regiment, might +have rebutted a good deal of this floating criticism; he had a fine honest +countenance, a rich mellow voice, and a sort of easy jollity in manner, +that spoke well both for his spirits and his temper. He did, it is true, +occasionally chafe against some susceptible spot or other of those around +him, but there was no malice prepense in it, any more than there is +intentional offence in the passage of a strong man through a crowd; so he +elbowed his way, and pushed on in conversation, never so much as +suspecting that he jostled any one in his path. +</p> +<p> +Both Barrington and Hunter were inveterate sportsmen, and they ranged over +hunting-fields and grouse mountains and partridge stubble and trout +streams with all the zest of men who feel a sort of mesmeric brotherhood +in the interchange of their experiences. Long after the Major and the +doctor had taken their leave, they sat there recounting stories of their +several adventures, and recalling incidents of flood and field. +</p> +<p> +In return for a cordial invitation to Hunter to stay and fish the river +for some days, Barrington pledged himself to visit the Colonel the first +time he should go up to Kilkenny. +</p> +<p> +“And I 'll mount you. You shall have a horse I never lent in my life. I +'ll put you on Trumpeter,—sire Sir Hercules,—no mistake there; +would carry sixteen stone with the fastest hounds in England.” + </p> +<p> +Barrington shook his head, and smiled, as he said, “It's two-and-twenty +years since I sat a fence. I 'm afraid I 'll not revive the fame of my +horsemanship by appearing again in the saddle.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, what age do you call yourself?” + </p> +<p> +“Eighty-three, if I live to August next.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd not have guessed you within ten years of it. I 've just passed +fifty, and already I begin to look for a horse with more bone beneath the +knee, and more substance across the loins.” + </p> +<p> +“These are only premonitory symptoms, after all,” said Barrington, +laughing. “You've many a day before you come to a fourteen-hand cob and a +kitchen chair to mount him.” + </p> +<p> +Hunter laughed at the picture, and dashed away, in his own half-reckless +way, to other topics. He talked of his regiment proudly, and told +Barrington what a splendid set of young fellows were his officers. “I 'll +show you such a mess,” said he, “as no corps in the service can match.” + While he talked of their high-hearted and generous natures, and with +enthusiasm of the life of a soldier, Barrington could scarcely refrain +from speaking of his own “boy,” the son from whom he had hoped so much, +and whose loss had been the death-blow to all his ambitions. There were, +however, circumstances in that story which sealed his lips; and though the +father never believed one syllable of the allegations against his son, +though he had paid the penalty of a King's Bench mandamus and imprisonment +for horsewhipping the editor who had aspersed his “boy,” the world and the +world's verdict were against him, and he did not dare to revive the memory +of a name against which all the severities of the press had been directed, +and public opinion had condemned with all its weight and power. +</p> +<p> +“I see that I am wearying you,” said Hunter, as he remarked the grave and +saddened expression that now stole over Barrington's face. “I ought to +have remembered what an hour it was,—more than half-past two.” And +without waiting to hear a reply, he shook his host's hand cordially and +hurried off to his room. +</p> +<p> +While Barrington busied himself in locking up the wine, and putting away +half-finished decanters,—cares that his sister's watchfulness very +imperatively exacted,—he heard, or fancied he heard, a voice from +the room where the sick man lay. He opened the door very gently and looked +in. +</p> +<p> +“All right,” said the youth. “I 'm not asleep, nor did I want to sleep, +for I have been listening to you and the Colonel these two hours, and with +rare pleasure, I can tell you. The Colonel would have gone a hundred miles +to meet a man like yourself, so fond of the field and such a thorough +sportsman.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I was so once,” sighed Barrington, for already had come a sort of +reaction to the late excitement. +</p> +<p> +“Isn't the Colonel a fine fellow?” said the young man, as eager to relieve +the awkwardness of a sad theme as to praise one he loved. “Don't you like +him?” + </p> +<p> +“That I do!” said Barrington, heartily. “His fine genial spirit has put me +in better temper with myself than I fancied was in my nature to be. We are +to have some trout-fishing together, and I promise you it sha'n't be my +fault if <i>he</i> doesn't like <i>me</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“And may I be of the party?—may I go with you?” + </p> +<p> +“Only get well of your accident, and you shall do whatever you like. By +the way, did not Colonel Hunter serve in India?” + </p> +<p> +“For fifteen years. He has only left Bengal within a few months.” + </p> +<p> +“Then he can probably help me to some information. He may be able to tell +me—Good-night, good-night,” said he, hurriedly; “to-morrow will be +time enough to think of this.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER IV. FRED CONYERS +</h2> +<p> +Very soon after daybreak the Colonel was up and at the bedside of his +young friend. +</p> +<p> +“Sorry to wake you, Fred,” said he, gently; “but I have just got an urgent +despatch, requiring me to set out at once for Dublin, and I did n't like +to go without asking how you get on.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, much better, sir. I can move the foot a little, and I feel assured it +'s only a severe sprain.” + </p> +<p> +“That's all right. Take your own time, and don't attempt to move about too +early. You are in capital quarters here, and will be well looked after. +There is only one difficulty, and I don't exactly see how to deal with it. +Our host is a reduced gentleman, brought down to keep an inn for support, +but what benefit he can derive from it is not so very clear; for when I +asked the man who fetched me hot water this morning for my bill, he +replied that his master told him I was to be his guest here for a week, +and not on any account to accept money from me. Ireland is a very strange +place, and we are learning something new in it every day; but this is the +strangest thing I have met yet.” + </p> +<p> +“In <i>my</i> case this would be impossible. I must of necessity give a +deal of trouble,—not to say that it would add unspeakably to my +annoyance to feel that I could not ask freely for what I wanted.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no reason to suppose, mind you, that you are to be dealt with as I +have been, but it would be well to bear in mind who and what these people +are.” + </p> +<p> +“And get away from them as soon as possible,” added the young fellow, half +peevishly. +</p> +<p> +“Nay, nay, Fred; don't be impatient. You'll be delighted with the old +fellow, who is a heart-and-soul sportsman. What station he once occupied I +can't guess; but in the remarks he makes about horses and hounds, all his +knowing hints on stable management and the treatment of young cattle, one +would say that he must have had a large fortune and kept a large +establishment.” + </p> +<p> +In the half self-sufficient toss of the head which received this speech, +it was plain that the young man thought his Colonel was easily imposed on, +and that such pretensions as these would have very little success with <i>him</i>. +</p> +<p> +“I have no doubt some of your brother officers will take a run down to see +how you get on, and, if so, I 'll send over a hamper of wine, or something +of the kind, that you can manage to make him accept.” + </p> +<p> +“It will not be very difficult, I opine,” said the young man, laughingly. +</p> +<p> +“No, no,” rejoined the other, misconstruing the drift of his words. “You +have plenty of tact, Fred. You 'll do the thing with all due delicacy. And +now, good-bye. Let me hear how you fare here.” And with a hearty farewell +they parted. +</p> +<p> +There was none astir in the cottage but Darby as the Colonel set out to +gain the high-road, where the post-horses awaited him. From Darby, +however, as he went along, he gathered much of his host's former history. +It was with astonishment he learned that the splendid house of Barring-ton +Hall, where he had been dining with an earl a few days ago, was the old +family seat of that poor innkeeper; that the noble deer-park had once +acknowledged him for master. “And will again, plase God!” burst in Darby, +who thirsted for an opportunity to launch out into law, and all its bright +hopes and prospects. +</p> +<p> +“We have a record on trial in Trinity Term, and an argument before the +twelve Judges, and the case is as plain as the nose on your honor's face; +for it was ruled by Chief Baron Medge, in the great cause of 'Peter +against Todd, a widow,' that a settlement couldn't be broke by an +estreat.” + </p> +<p> +“You are quite a lawyer, I see,” said the Colonel. +</p> +<p> +“I wish I was. I 'd rather be a judge on the bench than a king on his +throne.” + </p> +<p> +“And yet I am beginning to suspect law may have cost your master dearly.” + </p> +<p> +“It is not ten, or twenty—no, nor thirty—thousand pounds would +see him through it!” said Darby, with a triumph in his tone that seemed to +proclaim a very proud declaration. “There 's families would be comfortable +for life with just what we spent upon special juries.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, as you tell me he has no family, the injury has been all his own.” + </p> +<p> +“That's true. We're the last of the ould stock,” said he, sorrowfully; and +little more passed between them, till the Colonel, on parting, put a +couple of guineas in his hand, and enjoined him to look after the young +friend he had left behind him. +</p> +<p> +It is now my task to introduce this young gentleman to my readers. +Frederick Conyers, a cornet in his Majesty's Hussars, was the only son of +a very distinguished officer, Lieutenant-General Conyers, a man who had +not alone served with great reputation in the field, but held offices of +high political trust in India, the country where all his life had been +passed. Holding a high station as a political resident at a native court, +wielding great power, and surrounded by an undeviating homage, General +Conyers saw his son growing up to manhood with everything that could +foster pride and minister to self-exaltation around him. It was not alone +the languor and indolence of an Eastern life that he had to dread for him, +but the haughty temper and overbearing spirit so sure to come out of +habits of domination in very early life. +</p> +<p> +Though he had done all that he could to educate his son, by masters +brought at immense cost from Europe, the really important element of +education,—the self-control and respect for other's rights,—only +to be acquired by daily life and intercourse with equals, this he could +not supply; and he saw, at last, that the project he had so long indulged, +of keeping his son with him, must be abandoned. Perhaps the rough speech +of an old comrade helped to dispel the illusion, as he asked, “Are you +bringing up that boy to be a Rajah?” His first thought was to send him to +one of the Universities, his great desire being that the young man should +feel some ambition for public life and its distinctions. He bethought him, +however, that while the youth of Oxford and Cambridge enter upon a college +career, trained by all the discipline of our public schools, Fred would +approach the ordeal without any such preparation whatever. Without one to +exert authority over him, little accustomed to the exercise of +self-restraint, the experiment was too perilous. +</p> +<p> +To place him, therefore, where, from the very nature of his position, some +guidance and control would be exercised, and where by the working of that +model democracy—a mess—he would be taught to repress +self-sufficiency and presumption, he determined on the army, and obtained +a cornetcy in a regiment commanded by one who had long served on his own +staff. To most young fellows such an opening in life would have seemed all +that was delightful and enjoyable. To be just twenty, gazetted to a +splendid cavalry corps, with a father rich enough and generous enough to +say, “Live like the men about you, and don't be afraid that your checks +will come back to you,” these are great aids to a very pleasant existence. +Whether the enervation of that life of Oriental indulgence had now become +a nature to him, or whether he had no liking for the service itself, or +whether the change from a condition of almost princely state to a position +of mere equality with others, chafed and irritated him, but so is it, he +did not “take to” the regiment, nor the regiment to him. +</p> +<p> +Now it is a fact, and not a very agreeable fact either, that a man with a +mass of noble qualities may fail to attract the kindliness and good +feeling towards him which a far less worthy individual, merely by certain +traits, or by the semblance of them, of a yielding, passive nature is +almost sure to acquire. +</p> +<p> +Conyers was generous, courageous, and loyal, in the most chivalrous sense +of that word, to every obligation of friendship. He was eminently truthful +and honorable; but he had two qualities whose baneful influence would +disparage the very best of gifts. He was “imperious,” and, in the phrase +of his brother officers, “he never gave in.” Some absurd impression had +been made on him, as a child, that obstinacy and persistency were the +noblest of attributes, and that, having said a thing, no event or +circumstance could ever occur to induce a change of opinion. +</p> +<p> +Such a quality is singularly unfitted to youth, and marvellously out of +place in a regiment; hence was it that the “Rajah,” as he was generally +called by his comrades, had few intimates, and not one friend amongst +them. +</p> +<p> +If I have dwelt somewhat lengthily on these traits, it is because their +possessor is one destined to be much before us in this history. I will but +chronicle one other feature. I am sorry it should be a disqualifying one. +Owing in great measure, perhaps altogether, to his having been brought up +in the East, where Hindoo craft and subtlety were familiarized to his mind +from infancy, he was given to suspect that few things were ever done from +the motives ascribed to them, and that under the open game of life was +another concealed game, which was the real one. As yet, this dark and +pernicious distrust had only gone the length of impressing him with a +sense of his own consummate acuteness, an amount of self-satisfaction, +which my reader may have seen tingeing the few words he exchanged with his +Colonel before separating. +</p> +<p> +Let us see him now as he sits in a great easy-chair, his sprained ankle +resting on another, in a little honeysuckle-covered arbor of the garden, a +table covered with books and fresh flowers beside him, while Darby stands +ready to serve him from the breakfast-table, where a very tempting meal is +already spread out. +</p> +<p> +“So, then, I can't see your master, it seems,” said Con-yers, half +peevishly. +</p> +<p> +“Faix you can't; he's ten miles off by this. He got a letter by the post, +and set out half an hour after for Kilkenny. He went to your honor's door, +but seeing you was asleep he would n't wake you; 'but, Darby,' says he, +'take care of that young gentleman, and mind,' says he, 'that he wants for +nothing.'” + </p> +<p> +“Very thoughtful of <i>him</i>,—very considerate indeed,” said the +youth; but in what precise spirit it is not easy to say. +</p> +<p> +“Who lives about here? What gentlemen's places are there, I mean?” + </p> +<p> +“There's Lord Carrackmore, and Sir Arthur Godfrey, and Moore of Ballyduff, +and Mrs. Powerscroft of the Grove—” + </p> +<p> +“Do any of these great folks come down here?” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/064.jpg" width="100%" alt="064 " /> +</div> +<p> +Darby would like to have given a ready assent,—he would have been +charmed to say that they came daily, that they made the place a continual +rendezvous; but as he saw no prospect of being able to give his fiction +even twenty-four hours' currency, he merely changed from one leg to the +other, and, in a tone of apology, said, “Betimes they does, when the +sayson is fine.” + </p> +<p> +“Who are the persons who are most frequently here?” + </p> +<p> +“Those two that you saw last night,—the Major and Dr. Dill. They 're +up here every second day, fishing, and eating their dinner with the +master.” + </p> +<p> +“Is the fishing good?” + </p> +<p> +“The best in Ireland.” + </p> +<p> +“And what shooting is there,—any partridges?” + </p> +<p> +“Partridges, be gorra! You could n't see the turnips for them.” + </p> +<p> +“And woodcocks?” + </p> +<p> +“Is it woodcocks! The sky is black with the sight of them.” + </p> +<p> +“Any lions?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, maybe an odd one now and then,” said Darby, half apologizing for +the scarcity. +</p> +<p> +There was an ineffable expression of self-satisfaction in Conyers's face +at the subtlety with which he had drawn Darby into this admission; and the +delight in his own acuteness led him to offer the poor fellow a cigar, +which he took with very grateful thanks. +</p> +<p> +“From what you tell me, then, I shall find this place stupid enough till I +am able to be up and about, eh? Is there any one who can play chess +hereabout?” + </p> +<p> +“Sure there's Miss Dinah; she's a great hand at it, they tell me.” + </p> +<p> +“And who is Miss Dinah? Is she young,—is she pretty?” + </p> +<p> +Darby gave a very cautious look all around him, and then closing one eye, +so as to give his face a look of intense cunning, he nodded very +significantly twice. +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean by that?” + </p> +<p> +“I mane that she'll never see sixty; and for the matter of beauty—” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, you have said quite enough; I 'm not curious about her looks. Now for +another point. If I should want to get away from this, what other inn or +hotel is there in the neighborhood?” + </p> +<p> +“There's Joe M'Cabe's, at Inistioge; but you are better where you are. +Where will you see fresh butter like that? and look at the cream, the +spoon will stand in it. Far and near it's given up to her that nobody can +make coffee like Miss Dinah; and when you taste them trout, you 'll tell +me if they are not fit for the king.” + </p> +<p> +“Everything is excellent,—could not be better; but there's a +difficulty. There's a matter which to me at least makes a stay here most +unpleasant. My friend tells me that he could not get his bill,—that +he was accepted as a guest. Now I can't permit this—” + </p> +<p> +“There it is, now,” said Darby, approaching the table, and dropping his +voice to a confidential whisper. “That's the master's way. If he gets a +stranger to sit down with him to dinner or supper, he may eat and drink as +long as he plases, and sorra sixpence he'll pay; and it's that same ruins +us, nothing else, for it's then he 'll call for the best sherry, and that +ould Maderia that's worth a guinea a bottle. What's the use, after all, of +me inflaming the bill of the next traveller, and putting down everything +maybe double? And worse than all,” continued he, in a tone of horror, “let +him only hear any one complain about his bill or saying, 'What's this?' or +'I didn't get that,' out he'll come, as mighty and as grand as the +Lord-Liftinint, and say, 'I 'm sorry, sir, that we failed to make this +place agreeable to you. Will you do me the favor not to mind the bill at +all?' and with that he'd tear it up in little bits and walk away.” + </p> +<p> +“To me that would only be additional offence. I 'd not endure it.” + </p> +<p> +“What could you do? You'd maybe slip a five-pound note into my hand, and +say, 'Darby my man, settle this little matter for me; you know the ways of +the place.'” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll not risk such an annoyance, at all events; that I 'm determined +on.” + </p> +<p> +Darby began now to perceive that he had misconceived his brief, and must +alter his pleadings as quickly as possible; in fact, he saw he was +“stopping an earth” he had meant merely to mask. “Just leave it all to me, +your honor,—leave it all to me, and I 'll have your bill for you +every morning on the breakfast-table. And why would n't you? Why would a +gentleman like your honor be behouldin' to any one for his meat and +drink?” burst he in, with an eager rapidity. “Why would n't you say, +'Darby, bring me this, get me that, fetch me the other; expinse is no +object in life tome'?” + </p> +<p> +There was a faint twinkle of humor in the eye of Conyers, and Darby +stopped short, and with that half-lisping simplicity which a few Irishmen +understand to perfection, and can exercise whenever the occasion requires, +he said: “But sure is n't your honor laughing at me, is n't it just making +fun of me you are? All because I'm a poor ignorant crayture that knows no +better!” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of that kind,” said Conyers, frankly. “I was only smiling at +thoughts that went through my head at the moment.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, faix! there's one coming up the path now won't make you laugh,” + said Darby, as he whispered, “It's Dr. Dill.” + </p> +<p> +The doctor was early with his patient; if the case was not one of urgency, +the sufferer was in a more elevated rank than usually fell to the chances +of Dispensary practice. Then, it promised to be one of the nice chronic +cases, in which tact and personal agreeability—the two great +strongholds of Dr. Dill in his own estimation—were of far more +importance than the materia medica. Now, if Dill's world was not a very +big one, he knew it thoroughly. He was a chronicle of all the family +incidents of the county, and could recount every disaster of every house +for thirty miles round. +</p> +<p> +When the sprain had, therefore, been duly examined, and all the pangs of +the patient sufficiently condoled with to establish the physician as a man +of feeling, Dill proceeded to his task as a man of the world. Conyers, +however, abruptly stopped him, by saying, “Tell me how I'm to get out of +this place; some other inn, I mean.” + </p> +<p> +“You are not comfortable here, then?” asked Dill. +</p> +<p> +“In one sense, perfectly so. I like the quietness, the delightful +tranquillity, the scenery,—everything, in short, but one +circumstance. I 'm afraid these worthy people—whoever they are—want +to regard me as a guest. Now I don't know them,—never saw them,—don't +care to see them. My Colonel has a liking for all this sort of thing. It +has to his mind a character of adventure that amuses him. It would n't in +the least amuse me, and so I want to get away.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” repeated Dill, blandly, after him, “wants to get away; desires to +change the air.” + </p> +<p> +“Not at all,” broke in Conyers, peevishly; “no question of air whatever. I +don't want to be on a visit. I want an inn. What is this place they tell +me of up the river,—Inis—something?” + </p> +<p> +“Inistioge. M'Cabe's house; the 'Spotted Duck;' very small, very poor, far +from clean, besides.” + </p> +<p> +“Is there nothing else? Can't you think of some other place? For I can't +have my servant here, circumstanced as I am now.” + </p> +<p> +The doctor paused to reply. The medical mind is eminently ready-witted, +and Dill at a glance took in all the dangers of removing his patient. +Should he transfer him to his own village, the visit which now had to be +requited as a journey of three miles and upwards, would then be an affair +of next door. Should he send him to Thomastown, it would be worse again, +for then he would be within the precincts of a greater than Dill himself,—a +practitioner who had a one-horse phaeton, and whose name was written on +brass. “Would you dislike a comfortable lodging in a private family,—one +of the first respectability, I may make bold to call it?” + </p> +<p> +“Abhor it!—couldn't endure it! I'm not essentially troublesome or +exacting, but I like to be able to be either, whenever the humor takes +me.” + </p> +<p> +“I was thinking of a house where you might freely take these liberties—” + </p> +<p> +“Liberties! I call them rights, doctor, not liberties! Can't you imagine a +man, not very wilful, not very capricious, but who, if the whim took him, +would n't stand being thwarted by any habits of a so-called respectable +family? There, don't throw up your eyes, and misunderstand me. All I mean +is, that my hours of eating and sleeping have no rule. I smoke everywhere; +I make as much noise as I please; and I never brook any impertinent +curiosity about what I do, or what I leave undone.” + </p> +<p> +“Under all the circumstances, you had, perhaps, better remain where you +are,” said Dill, thoughtfully. +</p> +<p> +“Of course, if these people will permit me to pay for my board and +lodging. If they 'll condescend to let me be a stranger, I ask for nothing +better than this place.” + </p> +<p> +“Might I offer myself as a negotiator?” said Dill, insinuatingly; “for I +opine that the case is not of the difficulty you suppose. Will you confide +it to my hands?” + </p> +<p> +“With all my heart. I don't exactly see why there should be a negotiation +at all; but if there must, pray be the special envoy.” + </p> +<p> +When Dill arose and set out on his mission, the young fellow looked after +him with an expression that seemed to say, “How you all imagine you are +humbugging me, while I read every one of you like a book!” + </p> +<p> +Let us follow the doctor, and see how he acquitted himself in his +diplomacy. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER V. DILL AS A DIPLOMATIST +</h2> +<p> +Dr. Dill had knocked twice at the door of Miss Barrington's little +sitting-room, and no answer was returned to his summons. +</p> +<p> +“Is the dear lady at home?” asked he, blandly. But, though he waited for +some seconds, no reply came. +</p> +<p> +“Might Dr. Dill be permitted to make his compliments?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, come in,” said a sharp voice, very much with the expression of one +wearied out by importunity. Miss Barrington gave a brief nod in return for +the profound obeisance of her visitor, and then turned again to a large +map which covered the table before her. +</p> +<p> +“I took the opportunity of my professional call here this morning—” + </p> +<p> +“How is that young man,—is anything broken?” + </p> +<p> +“I incline to say there is no fracture. The flexors, and perhaps, indeed, +the annular ligament, are the seat of all the mischief.” + </p> +<p> +“A common sprain, in fact; a thing to rest for one day, and hold under the +pump the day after.” + </p> +<p> +“The dear lady is always prompt, always energetic; but these sort of cases +are often complicated, and require nice management.” + </p> +<p> +“And frequent visits,” said she, with a dry gravity. +</p> +<p> +“All the world must live, dear lady,—all the world must live.” + </p> +<p> +“Your profession does not always sustain your theory, sir; at least, +popular scandal says you kill as many as you cure.” “I know the dear lady +has little faith in physic.” + </p> +<p> +“Say none, sir, and you will be nearer the mark; but, remember, I seek no +converts; I ask nobody to deny himself the luxuries of senna and gamboge +because I prefer beef and mutton. You wanted to see my brother, I +presume,” added she, sharply, “but he started early this morning for +Kilkenny. The Solicitor-General wanted to say a few words to him on his +way down to Cork.” + </p> +<p> +“That weary law! that weary law!” ejaculated Dill, fervently; for he well +knew with what little favor Miss Barrington regarded litigation. +</p> +<p> +“And why so, sir?” retorted she, sharply. “What greater absurdity is there +in being hypochondriac about your property than your person? My brother's +taste inclines to depletion by law; others prefer the lancet.” + </p> +<p> +“Always witty, always smart, the dear lady,” said Dill, with a sad attempt +at a smile. The flattery passed without acknowledgment of any kind, and he +resumed: “I dropped in this morning to you, dear lady, on a matter which, +perhaps, might not be altogether pleasing to you.” + </p> +<p> +“Then don't do it, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“If the dear lady would let me finish—” + </p> +<p> +“I was warning you, sir, not even to begin.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, madam,” said he, stung into something like resistance; “but I would +have added, had I been permitted, without any due reason for displeasure +on your part.” + </p> +<p> +“And are <i>you</i> the fitting judge of that, sir? If you know, as you +say you know, that you are about to give me pain, by what presumption do +you assert that it must be for my benefit? What's it all about?” + </p> +<p> +“I come on the part of this young gentleman, dear lady, who, having +learned—I cannot say where or how—that he is not to consider +himself here at an inn, but, as a guest, feels, with all the gratitude +that the occasion warrants, that he has no claim to the attention, and +that it is one which would render his position here too painful to persist +in.” + </p> +<p> +“How did he come by this impression, sir? Be frank and tell me.” + </p> +<p> +“I am really unable to say, Miss Dinah.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, sir, be honest, and own that the delusion arose from yourself,—yes, +from yourself. It was in perceiving the courteous delicacy with which you +declined a fee that he conceived this flattering notion of us; but go back +to him, doctor, and say it is a pure mistake; that his breakfast will cost +him one shilling, and his dinner two; the price of a boat to fetch him up +to Thomastown is half a crown, and that the earlier he orders one the +better. Listen to me, sir,” said she, and her lips trembled with passion,—“listen +to me, while I speak of this for the first and last time. Whenever my +brother, recurring to what he once was, has been emboldened to treat a +passing stranger as his guest, the choice has been so judiciously +exercised as to fall upon one who could respect the motive and not resent +the liberty; but never till this moment has it befallen us to be told that +the possibility—the bare possibility—of such a presumption +should be met by a declaration of refusal. Go back, then, to your patient, +sir; assure him that he is at an inn, and that he has the right to be all +that his purse and his want of manners can insure him.” + </p> +<p> +“Dear lady, I'm, maybe, a bad negotiator.” + </p> +<p> +“I trust sincerely, sir, you are a better doctor.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing on earth was further from my mind than offence—” + </p> +<p> +“Very possibly, sir; but, as you are aware, blisters will occasionally act +with all the violence of caustics, so an irritating theme may be pressed +at a very inauspicious moment. My cares as a hostess are not in very good +favor with me just now. Counsel your young charge to a change of air, and +I 'll think no more of the matter.” + </p> +<p> +Had it been a queen who had spoken, the doctor could not more palpably +have felt that his audience had terminated, and his only duty was to +withdraw. +</p> +<p> +And so he did retire, with much bowing and graciously smiling, and +indicating, by all imaginable contortions, gratitude for the past and +humility forever. +</p> +<p> +I rejoice that I am not obliged to record as history the low but fervent +mutterings that fell from his lips as he closed the door after him, and by +a gesture of menace showed his feelings towards her he had just quitted. +“Insolent old woman!” he burst out as he went along, “how can she presume +to forget a station that every incident of her daily life recalls? In the +rank she once held, and can never return to, such manners would be an +outrage; but I 'll not endure it again. It is your last triumph, Miss +Dinah; make much of it.” Thus sustained by a very Dutch courage,—for +this national gift can come of passion as well as drink,—he made his +way to his patient's presence, smoothing his brow, as he went, and +recalling the medico-chimrgical serenity of his features. +</p> +<p> +“I have not done much, but I have accomplished something,” said he, +blandly. “I am at a loss to understand what they mean by introducing all +these caprices into their means of life; but, assuredly, it will not +attract strangers to the house.” + </p> +<p> +“What are the caprices you allude to?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, it is not very easy to say; perhaps I have not expressed my meaning +quite correctly; but one thing is clear, a stranger likes to feel that his +only obligation in an inn is to discharge the bill.” + </p> +<p> +“I say, doctor,” broke in Conyers, “I have been thinking the matter over. +Why should I not go back to my quarters? There might surely be some means +contrived to convey me to the high-road; after that, there will be no +difficulty whatever.” + </p> +<p> +The doctor actually shuddered at the thought. The sportsman who sees the +bird he has just winged flutter away to his neighbor's preserve may +understand something, at least, of Dr. Dill's discomfiture as he saw his +wealthy patient threatening a departure. He quickly, therefore, summoned +to his aid all those terrors which had so often done good service on like +occasions. He gave a little graphic sketch of every evil consequence that +might come of an imprudent journey. The catalogue was a bulky one; it +ranged over tetanus, mortification, and disease of the bones. It included +every sort and description of pain as classified by science, into “dull, +weary, and incessant,” or “sharp lancinating agony.” Now Conyers was as +brave as a lion, but had, withal, one of those temperaments which are +miserably sensitive under suffering, and to which the mere description of +pain is itself an acute pang. When, therefore, the doctor drew the picture +of a case very like the present one, where amputation came too late, +Conyers burst in with, “For mercy's sake, will you stop! I can't sit here +to be cut up piece-meal; there's not a nerve in my body you haven't set +ajar.” The doctor blandly took out his massive watch, and laid his fingers +on the young man's pulse. “Ninety-eight, and slightly intermittent,” said +he, as though to himself. +</p> +<p> +“What does that mean?” asked Conyers, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“The irregular action of the heart implies abnormal condition of the +nervous system, and indicates, imperatively, rest, repose, and +tranquillity.” + </p> +<p> +“If lethargy itself be required, this is a capital place for it,” sighed +Conyers, drearily. +</p> +<p> +“You have n't turned your thoughts to what I said awhile ago, being +domesticated, as one might call it, in a nice quiet family, with all the +tender attentions of a home, and a little music in the evening.” + </p> +<p> +Simple as these words were, Dill gave to each of them an almost honeyed +utterance. +</p> +<p> +“No; it would bore me excessively. I detest to be looked after; I abhor +what are called attentions.” + </p> +<p> +“Unobtrusively offered,—tendered with a due delicacy and reserve?” + </p> +<p> +“Which means a sort of simpering civility that one has to smirk for in +return. No, no; I was bred up in quite a different school, where we +clapped our hands twice when we wanted a servant, and the fellow's head +paid for it if he was slow in coming. Don't tell me any more about your +pleasant family, for they 'd neither endure me, nor I them. Get me well as +fast as you can, and out of this confounded place, and I 'll give you +leave to make a vascular preparation of me if you catch me here again!” + </p> +<p> +The doctor smiled, as doctors know how to smile when patients think they +have said a smartness, and now each was somewhat on better terms with the +other. +</p> +<p> +“By the way, doctor,” said Conyers, suddenly, “you have n't told me what +the old woman said. What arrangement did you come to?” + </p> +<p> +“Your breakfast will cost one shilling, your dinner two. She made no +mention of your rooms, but only hinted that, whenever you took your +departure, the charge for the boat was half a crown.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, all this is very business-like, and to the purpose; but where, in +Heaven's name, did any man live in this fashion for so little? We have a +breakfast-mess, but it's not to be compared with this,—such a +variety of bread, such grilled trout, such a profusion of fruit. After +all, doctor, it is very like being a guest, the nominal charge being to +escape the sense of a favor. But perhaps one can do here as at one of +those 'hospices' in the Alps, and make a present at parting to requite the +hospitality.” + </p> +<p> +“It is a graceful way to record gratitude,” said the doctor, who liked to +think that the practice could be extended to other reminiscences. +</p> +<p> +“I must have my servant and my books, my pipes and my Spitz terrier. I 'll +get a target up, besides, on that cherry-tree, and practise +pistol-shooting as I sit here. Could you find out some idle fellow who +would play chess or <i>écarté</i> with me,—a curate or a priest,—I +'m not particular; and when my man Holt comes, I 'll make him string my +grass-mat hammock between those two elms, so that I can fish without the +bore of standing up for it. Holt is a rare clever fellow, and you 'll see +how he'll get things in order here before he's a day in the place.” + </p> +<p> +The doctor smiled again, for he saw that his patient desired to be deemed +a marvel of resources and a mine of original thought. The doctor's smile +was apportioned to his conversation, just as he added syrups in his +prescriptions. It was, as he himself called it, the “vehicle,” without +special efficacy in itself, but it aided to get down the “active +principle.” But he did more than smile. He promised all possible +assistance to carry out his patient's plans. He was almost certain that a +friend of his, an old soldier, too,—a Major M'Cormick,—could +play <i>écarté</i>, though, perhaps, it might be cribbage; and then Father +Cody, he could answer for it, was wonderful at skittles, though, for the +present, that game might not be practicable; and as for books, the library +at Woodstay was full of them, if the key could only be come at, for the +family was abroad; and, in fact, he displayed a most generous willingness +to oblige, although, when brought to the rude test of reality, his +pictures were only dissolving views of pleasures to come. +</p> +<p> +When he took his leave at last, he left Conyers in far better spirits than +he found him. The young fellow had begun to castle-build about how he +should pass his time, and in such architecture there is no room for ennui. +And what a rare organ must constructiveness be, when even in its mockery +it can yield such pleasure! We are very prone to envy the rich man, whose +wealth sets no limit to his caprices; but is not a rich fancy, that +wondrous imaginative power which unweariedly invents new incidents, new +personages, new situations, a very covetable possession? And can we not, +in the gratification of the very humblest exercise of this quality, rudely +approximate to the ecstasy of him who wields it in all its force? Not that +Fred Conyers was one of these; he was a mere tyro in the faculty, and +could only carry himself into a region where he saw his Spitz terrier jump +between the back rails of a chair, and himself sending bullet after bullet +through the very centre of the bull's eye. +</p> +<p> +Be it so. Perhaps you and I, too, my reader, have our Spitz terrier and +bull's-eye days, and, if so, let us be grateful for them. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VI. THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER +</h2> +<p> +Whether it was that Dr. Dill expended all the benevolence of his +disposition in the course of his practice, and came home utterly +exhausted, but so it was, that his family never saw him in those moods of +blandness which he invariably appeared in to his patients. In fact, +however loaded he went forth with these wares of a morning, he disposed of +every item of his stock before he got back at night; and when poor Mrs. +Dill heard, as she from time to time did hear, of the doctor's gentleness, +his kindness in suffering, his beautiful and touching sympathy with +sorrow, she listened with the same sort of semi-stupid astonishment she +would have felt on hearing some one eulogizing the climate of Ireland, and +going rapturous about the blue sky and the glorious sunshine. Unhappy +little woman, she only saw him in his dark days of cloud and rain, and she +never came into his presence except in a sort of moral mackintosh made for +the worst weather. +</p> +<p> +The doctor's family consisted of seven children, but our concern is only +with the two eldest,—a son and a daughter. Tom was two years younger +than his sister, who, at this period of our story, was verging on +nineteen. He was an awkward, ungainly youth, large-jointed, but weakly, +with a sandy red head and much-freckled face, just such a disparaging +counterpart of his sister as a coarse American piracy often presents of +one of our well-printed, richly papered English editions. “It was all +there,” but all unseemly, ungraceful, undignified; for Polly Dill was +pretty. Her hair was auburn, her eyes a deep hazel, and her skin a marvel +of transparent whiteness. You would never have hesitated to call her a +very pretty girl if you had not seen her brother, but, having seen him, +all the traits of her good looks suffered in the same way that Grisi's +“Norma” does from the horrid recollection of Paul Bedford's. +</p> +<p> +After all, the resemblance went very little further than this “travestie,” + for while he was a slow, heavy-witted, loutish creature, with low tastes +and low ambitions, she was a clever, intelligent girl, very eagerly intent +on making something of her advantages. Though the doctor was a general +practitioner, and had a shop, which he called “Surgery,” in the village, +he was received at the great houses in a sort of half-intimate, +half-patronizing fashion; as one, in short, with whom it was not necessary +to be formal, but it might become very inconvenient to have a coldness. +These were very sorry credentials for acceptance, but he made no objection +to them. +</p> +<p> +A few, however, of the “neighbors”—it would be ungenerous to inquire +the motive, for in this world of ours it is just as well to regard one's +five-pound note as convertible into five gold sovereigns, and not +speculate as to the kind of rags it is made of—were pleased to +notice Miss Dill, and occasionally invite her to their larger gatherings, +so that she not only gained opportunities of cultivating her social gifts, +but, what is often a greater spur to ambition, of comparing them with +those of others. +</p> +<p> +Now this same measuring process, if only conducted without any envy or +ungenerous rivalry, is not without its advantage. Polly Dill made it +really profitable. I will not presume to say that, in her heart of hearts, +she did not envy the social accidents that gave others precedence before +her, but into her heart of hearts neither you nor I have any claim to +enter. Enough that we know nothing in her outward conduct or bearing +revealed such a sentiment. As little did she maintain her position by +flattery, which many in her ambiguous station would have relied upon as a +stronghold. No; Polly followed a very simple policy, which was all the +more successful that it never seemed to be a policy at all. She never in +any way attracted towards her the attentions of those men who, in the +marriageable market, were looked on as the choice lots; squires in +possession, elder sons, and favorite nephews, she regarded as so much +forbidden fruit. It was a lottery in which she never took a ticket It is +incredible how much kindly notice and favorable recognition accrued to her +from this line. +</p> +<p> +We all know how pleasant it is to be next to the man at a promiscuous +dinner who never eats turtle nor cares for “Cliquot;” and in the world at +large there are people who represent the calabash and the champagne. +</p> +<p> +Then Polly played well, but was quite as ready to play as to dance. She +sang prettily, too, and had not the slightest objection that one of her +simple ballads should be the foil to a grand performance of some young +lady, whose artistic agonies rivalled Alboni's. So cleverly did Polly do +all this, that even her father could not discover the secret of her +success; and though he saw “his little girl” as he called her, more and +more sought after and invited, he continued to be persuaded that all this +favoritism was only the reflex of his own popularity. How, then, could +mere acquaintances ever suspect what to the eye of those nearer and closer +was so inscrutable? +</p> +<p> +Polly Dill rode very well and very fearlessly, and occasionally was +assisted to “a mount” by some country gentleman, who combined gallantry +with profit, and knew that the horse he lent could never be seen to +greater advantage. Yet, even in this, she avoided display, quite +satisfied, as it seemed, to enjoy herself thoroughly, and not attract any +notice that could be avoided. Indeed, she never tried for “a place,” but +rather attached herself to some of the older and heavier weights, who grew +to believe that they were especially in charge of her, and nothing was +more common, at the end of a hard run, than to hear such self-gratulations +as, “I think I took great care of you, Miss Dill?” “Eh, Miss Polly! you +see I'm not such a bad leader!” and so on. +</p> +<p> +Such was the doctor's “little girl,” whom I am about to present to my +readers under another aspect. She is at home, dressed in a neatly fitting +but very simple cotton dress, her hair in two plain bands, and she is +seated at a table, at the opposite of which lounges her brother Tom with +an air of dogged and sleepy indolence, which extends from his ill-trimmed +hair to his ill-buttoned waistcoat. +</p> +<p> +“Never mind it to-day, Polly,” said he, with a yawn. “I've been up all +night, and have no head for work. There's a good girl, let's have a chat +instead.” + </p> +<p> +“Impossible, Tom,” said she, calmly, but with decision. “To-day is the +third. You have only three weeks now and two days before your examination. +We have all the bones and ligaments to go over again, and the whole +vascular system. You 've forgotten every word of Harrison.” + </p> +<p> +“It does n't signify, Polly. They never take a fellow on anything but two +arteries for the navy. Grove told me so.” + </p> +<p> +“Grove is an ass, and got plucked twice. It is a perfect disgrace to quote +him.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I only wish I may do as well. He's assistant-surgeon to the +'Taurus' gun-brig on the African station; and if I was there, it's little +I 'd care for the whole lot of bones and balderdash.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, don't be silly. Let us go on with the scapula. Describe the glenoid +cavity.” + </p> +<p> +“If you were the girl you might be, I'd not be bored with all this stupid +trash, Polly.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean? I don't understand you.” + </p> +<p> +“It's easy enough to understand me. You are as thick as thieves, you and +that old Admiral,—that Sir Charles Cobham. I saw you talking to the +old fellow at the meet the other morning. You 've only to say, 'There's +Tom—my brother Tom—wants a navy appointment; he's not passed +yet, but if the fellows at the Board got a hint, just as much as, “Don't +be hard on him—“'” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd not do it to make you a post-captain, sir,” said she, severely. “You +very much overrate my influence, and very much underrate my integrity, +when you ask it.” + </p> +<p> +“Hoity-toity! ain't we dignified! So you'd rather see me plucked, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, if that should be the only alternative.” + </p> +<p> +“Thank you, Polly, that's all! thank you,” said he; and he drew his sleeve +across his eyes. +</p> +<p> +“My dear Tom,” said she, laying her white soft hand on his coarse brown +fingers, “can you not see that if I even stooped to anything so unworthy, +that it would compromise your whole prospects in life? You'd obtain an +assistant-surgeoncy, and never rise above it.” + </p> +<p> +“And do I ask to rise above it? Do I ask anything beyond getting out of +this house, and earning bread that is not grudged me?” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, nay; if you talk that way, I've done.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I do talk that way. He sent me off to Kilkenny last week—you +saw it yourself—to bring out that trash for the shop, and he would +n't pay the car hire, and made me carry two stone of carbonate of magnesia +and a jar of leeches fourteen miles. You were just taking that post and +rail out of Nixon's lawn as I came by. You saw me well enough.” + </p> +<p> +“I am glad to say I did not,” said she, sighing. +</p> +<p> +“I saw you, then, and how that gray carried you! You were waving a +handkerchief in your hand; what was that for?” + </p> +<p> +“It was to show Ambrose Bushe that the ground was good; he was afraid of +being staked!” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/084.jpg" width="100%" alt="084 " /> +</div> +<p> +“That's exactly what I am. I 'm afraid of being 'staked up' at the Hall, +and if <i>you</i> 'd take as much trouble about your brother as you did +for Ambrose Bushe—” + </p> +<p> +“Tom, Tom, I have taken it for eight weary months. I believe I know Bell +on the bones, and Harrison on the arteries, by heart!” + </p> +<p> +“Who thanks you?” said he, doggedly. “When you read a thing twice, you +never forget it; but it's not so with me.” + </p> +<p> +“Try what a little work will do, Tom; be assured there is not half as much +disparity between people's brains as there is between their industry.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd rather have luck than either, I know that. It's the only thing, after +all.” + </p> +<p> +She gave a very deep sigh, and leaned her head on her hand. +</p> +<p> +“Work and toil as hard as you may,” continued he, with all the fervor of +one on a favorite theme, “if you haven't luck you 'll be beaten. Can you +deny that, Polly?” + </p> +<p> +“If you allow me to call merit what you call luck, I'll agree with you. +But I 'd much rather go on with our work. What is the insertion of the +deltoid? I'm sure you know <i>that!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“The deltoid! the deltoid!” muttered he. “I forget all about the deltoid, +but, of course, it's like the rest of them. It's inserted into a ridge or +a process, or whatever you call it—” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Tom, this is very hopeless. How can you presume to face your +examiners with such ignorance as this?” + </p> +<p> +“I'll tell you what I'll do, Polly; Grove told me he did it,—if I +find my pluck failing me, I 'll have a go of brandy before I go in.” + </p> +<p> +She found it very hard not to laugh at the solemn gravity of this speech, +and just as hard not to cry as she looked at him who spoke it At the same +moment Dr. Dill opened the door, calling out sharply, “Where's that +fellow, Tom? Who has seen him this morning?” + </p> +<p> +“He's here, papa,” said Polly. “We are brushing up the anatomy for the +last time.” + </p> +<p> +“His head must be in capital order for it, after his night's exploit. I +heard of you, sir, and your reputable wager. Noonan was up here this +morning with the whole story!” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd have won if they 'd not put snuff in the punch—” + </p> +<p> +“You are a shameless hound—” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, papa! If you knew how he was working,—how eager he is to pass +his examination, and be a credit to us all, and owe his independence to +himself—” + </p> +<p> +“I know more of him than you do, miss,—far more, too, than he is +aware of,—and I know something of myself also; and I tell him now, +that if he's rejected at the examination, he need not come back here with +the news.” + </p> +<p> +“And where am I to go, then?” asked the young fellow, half insolently. +</p> +<p> +“You may go—” Where to, the doctor was not suffered to indicate, for +already Polly had thrown herself into his arms and arrested the speech. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I suppose I can 'list; a fellow need not know much about gallipots +for that.” As he said this, he snatched up his tattered old cap and made +for the door. +</p> +<p> +“Stay, sir! I have business for you to do,” cried Dill, sternly. “There's +a young gentleman at the 'Fisherman's Home' laid up with a bad sprain. I +have prescribed twenty leeches on the part. Go down and apply them.” + </p> +<p> +“That's what old Molly Day used to do,” said Tom, angrily.' +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, and knew more of the occasion that required it than you will +ever do. See that you apply them all to the outer ankle, and attend well +to the bleeding; the patient is a young man of rank, with whom you had +better take no liberties.” + </p> +<p> +“If I go at all—” + </p> +<p> +“Tom, Tom, none of this!” said Polly, who drew very close to him, and +looked up at him with eyes full of tears. +</p> +<p> +“Am I going as your son this time? or did you tell him—as you told +Mr. Nixon—that you 'd send your young man?” + </p> +<p> +“There! listen to that!” cried the doctor, turning to Polly. “I hope you +are proud of your pupil.” + </p> +<p> +She made no answer, but whispering some hurried words in her brother's +ear, and pressing at the same time something into his hand, she shuffled +him out of the room and closed the door. +</p> +<p> +The doctor now paced the room, so engrossed by passion that he forgot he +was not alone, and uttered threats and mumbled out dark predictions with a +fearful energy. Meanwhile Polly put by the books and drawings, and removed +everything which might recall the late misadventure. +</p> +<p> +“What's your letter about, papa?” said she, pointing to a square-shaped +envelope which he still held in his hand. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, by the way,” said he, quietly, “this is from Cob-ham. They ask us up +there to dinner to-day, and to stop the night.” The doctor tried very hard +to utter this speech with the unconcern of one alluding to some every-day +occurrence. Nay, he did more; he endeavored to throw into it a certain air +of fastidious weariness, as though to say, “See how these people will have +me; mark how they persecute me with their attentions!” + </p> +<p> +Polly understood the “situation” perfectly, and it was with actual +curiosity in her tone she asked, “Do you mean to go, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose we must, dear,” he said, with a deep sigh. “A professional man +is no more the arbiter of his social hours than of his business ones. +Cooper always said dining at home costs a thousand a year.” + </p> +<p> +“So much, papa?” asked she, with much semblance of innocence. +</p> +<p> +“I don't mean to myself,” said he, reddening, “nor to any physician in +country practice; but we all lose by it, more or less.” + </p> +<p> +Polly, meanwhile, had taken the letter, and was reading it over. It was +very brief. It had been originally begun, “Lady Cobham presents,” but a +pen was run through the words, and it ran,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Dear Dr. Dill,—If a short notice will not inconvenience +you, will you and your daughter dine here to-day at seven? +There is no moon, and we shall expect you to stay the night. + +“Truly yours, + +“Georgiana Cobham. +</pre> +<p> +“The Admiral hopes Miss D. will not forget to bring her music.” + </p> +<p> +“Then we go, sir?” asked she, with eagerness; for it was a house to which +she had never yet been invited, though she had long wished for the entrée. +</p> +<p> +“I shall go, certainly,” said he. “As to you, there will be the old +discussion with your mother as to clothes, and the usual declaration that +you have really nothing to put on.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! but I have, papa. My wonderful-worked muslin, that was to have +astonished the world at the race ball, but which arrived too late, is now +quite ready to captivate all beholders; and I have just learned that new +song, 'Where's the slave so lowly?' which I mean to give with a most +rebellious fervor; and, in fact, I am dying to assault this same fortress +of Cobham, and see what it is like inside the citadel.” + </p> +<p> +“Pretty much like Woodstay, and the Grove, and Mount Kelly, and the other +places we go to,” said Dill, pompously. +</p> +<p> +“The same sort of rooms, the same sort of dinner, the same company; +nothing different but the liveries.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true, papa; but there is always an interest in seeing how people +behave in their own house, whom you have never seen except in strangers'. +I have met Lady Cobham at the Beachers', where she scarcely noticed me. I +am curious to see what sort of reception she will vouchsafe me at home.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, go and look after your things, for we have eight miles to drive, +and Billy has already been at Dangan and over to Mooney's Mills, and he 's +not the fresher for it.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose I 'd better take my hat and habit, papa?” + </p> +<p> +“What for, child?” + </p> +<p> +“Just as you always carry your lancets, papa,—you don't know what +may turn up.” And she was off before he could answer her. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VII. TOM DILL'S FIRST PATIENT +</h2> +<p> +Before Tom Dill had set out on his errand he had learned all about his +father and sister's dinner engagement; nor did the contrast with the way +in which his own time was to be passed at all improve his temper. Indeed, +he took the opportunity of intimating to his mother how few favors fell to +her share or his own,—a piece of information she very +philosophically received, all her sympathies being far more interested for +the sorrows of “Clarissa Harlowe” than for any incident that occurred +around her. Poor old lady! she had read that story over and over again, +till it might seem that every word and every comma in it had become her +own; but she was blessed with a memory that retained nothing, and she +could cry over the sorrowful bits, and pant with eagerness at the critical +ones, just as passionately, just as fervently, as she had done for years +and years before. Dim, vague perceptions she might have retained of the +personages, but these only gave them a stronger truthfulness, and made +them more like the people of the real world, whom she had seen, passingly, +once, and was now to learn more about. I doubt if Mezzofanti ever derived +one tenth of the pleasure from all his marvellous memory that she did from +the want of one. +</p> +<p> +Blessed with that one book, she was proof against all the common accidents +of life. It was her sanctuary against duns, and difficulties, and the +doctor's temper. As the miser feels a sort of ecstasy in the secret of his +hoarded wealth, so had she an intense enjoyment in thinking that all dear +Clarissa's trials and sufferings were only known to her. Neither the +doctor, nor Polly, nor Tom, so much as suspected them. It was like a +confidence between Mr. Richardson and herself, and for nothing on earth +would she have betrayed it. +</p> +<p> +Tom had no such resources, and he set out on his mission with no very +remarkable good feeling towards the world at large. Still, Polly had +pressed into his hand a gold half-guinea,—some very long-treasured +keepsake, the birthday gift of a godmother in times remote, and now to be +converted into tobacco and beer, and some articles of fishing-gear which +he greatly needed. +</p> +<p> +Seated in one of those light canoe-shaped skiffs,—“cots,” as they +are called on these rivers,—he suffered himself to be carried lazily +along by the stream, while he tied his flies and adjusted his tackle. +There is, sometimes, a stronger sense of unhappiness attached to what is +called being “hardly used” by the world, than to a direct palpable +misfortune; for though the sufferer may not be able, even to his own +heart, to set out, with clearness, one single count in the indictment, yet +a general sense of hard treatment, unfairness, and so forth, brings with +it great depression, and a feeling of desolation. +</p> +<p> +Like all young fellows of his stamp, Tom only saw his inflictions, not one +of his transgressions. He knew that his father made a common drudge of +him, employed him in all that was wearisome and even menial in his craft, +admitted him to no confidences, gave him no counsels, and treated him in +every way like one who was never destined to rise above the meanest cares +and lowest duties. Even those little fleeting glances at a brighter future +which Polly would now and then open to his ambition, never came from his +father, who would actually ridicule the notion of his obtaining a degree, +and make the thought of a commission in the service a subject for mockery. +</p> +<p> +He was low in heart as he thought over these things. “If it were not for +Polly,” so he said to himself, “he 'd go and enlist;” or, as his boat +slowly floated into a dark angle of the stream where the water was still +and the shadow deep, he even felt he could do worse. “Poor Polly!” said +he, as he moved his hand to and fro in the cold clear water, “you 'd be +very, very sorry for me. You, at least, knew that I was not all bad, and +that I wanted to be better. It was no fault of mine to have a head that +could n't learn. I 'd be clever if I could, and do everything as well as +she does; but when they see that I have no talents, that if they put the +task before me I cannot master it, sure they ought to pity me, not blame +me.” And then he bent over the boat and looked down eagerly into the +water, till, by long dint of gazing, he saw, or he thought he saw, the +gravelly bed beneath; and again he swept his hand through it,—it was +cold, and caused a slight shudder. Then, suddenly, with some fresh +impulse, he threw off his cap, and kicked his shoes from him. His +trembling hands buttoned and unbuttoned his coat with some infirm, +uncertain purpose. He stopped and listened; he heard a sound; there was +some one near,—quite near. He bent down and peered under the +branches that hung over the stream, and there he saw a very old and infirm +man, so old and infirm that he could barely creep. He had been carrying a +little bundle of fagots for firewood, and the cord had given way, and his +burden fallen, scattered, to the ground. This was the noise Tom had heard. +For a few minutes the old man seemed overwhelmed with his disaster, and +stood motionless, contemplating it; then, as it were, taking courage, he +laid down his staff, and bending on his knees, set slowly to work to +gather up his fagots. +</p> +<p> +There are minutes in the lives of all of us when some simple incident will +speak to our hearts with a force that human words never carried,—when +the most trivial event will teach a lesson that all our wisdom never gave +us. “Poor old fellow,” said Tom, “he has a stout heart left to him still, +and he 'll not leave his load behind him!” And then his own craven spirit +flashed across him, and he hid his face in his hand and cried bitterly. +</p> +<p> +Suddenly rousing himself with a sort of convulsive shake, he sent the +skiff with a strong shove in shore, and gave the old fellow what remained +to him of Polly's present; and then, with a lighter spirit than he had +known for many a day, rowed manfully on his way. +</p> +<p> +The evening—a soft, mellow, summer evening—was just falling as +Tom reached the little boat quay at the “Fisherman's Home,”—a spot +it was seldom his fortune to visit, but one for whose woodland beauty and +trim comfort he had a deep admiration. He would have liked to have +lingered a little to inspect the boat-house, and the little aviary over +it, and the small cottage on the island, and the little terrace made to +fish from; but Darby had caught sight of him as he landed, and came +hurriedly down to say that the young gentleman was growing very impatient +for his coming, and was even hinting at sending for another doctor if he +should not soon appear. +</p> +<p> +If Conyers was as impatient as Darby represented, he had, at least, +surrounded himself with every appliance to allay the fervor of that spirit +He had dined under a spreading sycamore-tree, and now sat with a table +richly covered before him. Fruit, flowers, and wine abounded, with a +profusion that might have satisfied several guests; for, as he understood +that he was to consider himself at an inn, he resolved, by ordering the +most costly things, to give the house all the advantage of his presence. +The most delicious hothouse fruit had been procured from the gardener of +an absent proprietor in the neighborhood, and several kinds of wine +figured on the table, over which, and half shadowed by the leaves, a lamp +had been suspended, throwing a fitful light over all, that imparted a most +picturesque effect to the scene. +</p> +<p> +And yet, amidst all these luxuries and delights, Bal-shazzar was +discontented; his ankle pained him; he had been hobbling about on it all +day, and increased the inflammation considerably; and, besides this, he +was lonely; he had no one but Darby to talk to, and had grown to feel for +that sapient functionary a perfect abhorrence,—his everlasting +compliance, his eternal coincidence with everything, being a torment +infinitely worse than the most dogged and mulish opposition. When, +therefore, he heard at last the doctor's son had come with the leeches, he +hailed him as a welcome guest. +</p> +<p> +“What a time you have kept me waiting!” said he, as the loutish young man +came forward, so astounded by the scene before him that he lost all +presence of mind. “I have been looking out for you since three o'clock, +and pottering down the river and back so often, that I have made the leg +twice as thick again.” + </p> +<p> +“Why didn't you sit quiet?” said Tom, in a hoarse, husky tone. +</p> +<p> +“Sit quiet!” replied Conyers, staring half angrily at him; and then as +quickly perceiving that no impertinence had been intended, which the +other's changing color and evident confusion attested, he begged him to +take a chair and fill his glass. “That next you is some sort of Rhine +wine: this is sherry; and here is the very best claret I ever tasted.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I 'll take that,” said Tom, who, accepting the recommendation +amidst luxuries all new and strange to him, proceeded to fill his glass, +but so tremblingly that he spilled the wine all about the table, and then +hurriedly wiped it up with his handkerchief. +</p> +<p> +Conyers did his utmost to set his guest at his ease. He passed his +cigar-case across the table, and led him on, as well as he might, to talk. +But Tom was awestruck, not alone by the splendors around him, but by the +condescension of his host; and he could not divest himself of the notion +that he must have been mistaken for somebody else, to whom all these +blandishments might be rightfully due. +</p> +<p> +“Are you fond of shooting?” asked Conyers, trying to engage a +conversation. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” was the curt reply. +</p> +<p> +“There must be good sport hereabouts, I should say. Is the game well +preserved?” + </p> +<p> +“Too well for such as me. I never get a shot without the risk of a jail, +and it would be cheaper for me to kill a cow than a woodcock!” There was a +stern gravity in the way he said this that made it irresistibly comic, and +Conyers laughed out in spite of himself. +</p> +<p> +“Have n't you a game license?” asked he. +</p> +<p> +“Haven't I a coach-and-six? Where would I get four pounds seven and ten to +pay for it?” + </p> +<p> +The appeal was awkward, and for a moment Conyers was silent At last he +said, “You fish, I suppose?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; I kill a salmon whenever I get a quiet spot that nobody sees me, and +I draw the river now and then with a net at night.” + </p> +<p> +“That's poaching, I take it.” + </p> +<p> +“It 's not the worse for that!” said Tom, whose pluck was by this time +considerably assisted by the claret. +</p> +<p> +“Well, it's an unfair way, at all events, and destroys real sport” + </p> +<p> +“Real sport is filling your basket.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; there's no real sport in doing anything that's unfair,—anything +that's un——” He stopped short, and swallowed off a glass of +wine to cover his confusion. +</p> +<p> +“That's all mighty fine for you, who can not only pay for a license, but +you 're just as sure to be invited here, there, and everywhere there's +game to be killed. But think of me, that never snaps a cap, never throws a +line, but he knows it's worse than robbing a hen-roost, and often, maybe, +just as fond of it as yourself!” + </p> +<p> +Whether it was that, coming after Darby's mawkish and servile agreement +with everything, this rugged nature seemed more palatable, I cannot say; +but so it was, Con-yers felt pleasure in talking to this rough unpolished +creature, and hearing his opinions in turn. Had there been in Tom Dill's +manner the slightest shade of any pretence, was there any element of that +which, for want of a better word, we call “snobbery,” Conyers would not +have endured him for a moment, but Tom was perfectly devoid of this +vulgarity. He was often coarse in his remarks, his expressions were rarely +measured by any rule of good manners; but it was easy to see that he never +intended offence, nor did he so much as suspect that he could give that +weight to any opinion which he uttered to make it of moment. +</p> +<p> +Besides these points in Tom's favor, there was another, which also led +Conyers to converse with him. There is some very subtle self-flattery in +the condescension of one well to do in all the gifts of fortune +associating, in an assumed equality, with some poor fellow to whom fate +has assigned the shady side of the highway. Scarcely a subject can be +touched without suggesting something for self-gratulation; every +comparison, every contrast is in his favor, and Conyers, without being +more of a puppy than the majority of his order, constantly felt how +immeasurably above all his guest's views of his life and the world were +his own,—not alone that he was more moderate in language and less +prone to attribute evil, but with a finer sense of honor and a wider +feeling of liberality. +</p> +<p> +When Tom at last, with some shame, remembered that he had forgotten all +about the real object of his mission, and had never so much as alluded to +the leeches, Conyers only laughed and said, “Never mind them to-night. +Come back to-morrow and put them on; and mind,—come to breakfast at +ten or eleven o'clock.” + </p> +<p> +“What am I to say to my father?” + </p> +<p> +“Say it was a whim of mine, which it is. You are quite ready to do this +matter now. I see it; but I say no. Is n't that enough?” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose so!” muttered Tom, with a sort of dogged misgiving. +</p> +<p> +“It strikes me that you have a very respectable fear of your governor. Am +I right?” + </p> +<p> +“Ain't you afraid of yours?” bluntly asked the other. +</p> +<p> +“Afraid of mine!” cried Conyers, with a loud laugh; “I should think not. +Why, my father and myself are as thick as two thieves. I never was in a +scrape that I did n't tell him. I 'd sit down this minute and write to him +just as I would to any fellow in the regiment.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, there 's only one in all the world I 'd tell a secret to, and it is +n't My father!” + </p> +<p> +“Who is it, then?” + </p> +<p> +“My sister Polly!” It was impossible to have uttered these words with a +stronger sense of pride. He dwelt slowly upon each of them, and, when he +had finished, looked as though he had said something utterly undeniable. +</p> +<p> +“Here's her health,—in a bumper too!” cried Conyers. +</p> +<p> +“Hurray, hurray!” shouted out Tom, as he tossed off his full glass, and +set it on the table with a bang that smashed it. “Oh, I beg pardon! I +didn't mean to break the tumbler.” + </p> +<p> +“Never mind it, Dill; it's a trifle. I half hoped you had done it on +purpose, so that the glass should never be drained to a less honored +toast. Is she like <i>you?</i>” + </p> +<p> +“Like me,—like me?” asked he, coloring deeply. “Polly like me?” + </p> +<p> +“I mean is there a family resemblance? Could you be easily known as +brother and sister?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a bit of it. Polly is the prettiest girl in this county, and she 's +better than she 's handsome. There's nothing she can't do. I taught her to +tie flies, and she can put wings on a green-drake now that would take in +any salmon that ever swam. Martin Keene sent her a pound-note for a book +of 'brown hackles,' and, by the way, she gave it to <i>me</i>. And if you +saw her on the back of a horse!—Ambrose Bushe's gray mare, the +wickedest devil that ever was bridled, one buck jump after another the +length of a field, and the mare trying to get her head between her +fore-legs, and Polly handling her so quiet, never out of temper, never +hot, but always saying, 'Ain't you ashamed of yourself, Dido? Don't you +see them all laughing at us?'” + </p> +<p> +“I am quite curious to see her. Will you present me one of these days?” + </p> +<p> +Tom mumbled out something perfectly unintelligible. +</p> +<p> +“I hope that I may be permitted to make her acquaintance,” repeated he, +not feeling very certain that his former speech was quite understood. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe so,” grumbled he out at last, and sank back in his chair with a +look of sulky ill-humor; for so it was that poor Tom, in his ignorance of +life and its ways, deemed the proposal one of those free-and-easy +suggestions which might be made to persons of very inferior station, and +to whom the fact of acquaintanceship should be accounted as a great honor. +</p> +<p> +Conyers was provoked at the little willingness shown to meet his offer,—an +offer he felt to be a very courteous piece of condescension on his part,—and +now both sat in silence. At last Tom Dill, long struggling with some +secret impulse, gave way, and in a tone far more decided and firm than +heretofore, said, “Maybe you think, from seeing what sort of a fellow I +am, that my sister ought to be like me; and because <i>I</i> have neither +manners nor education, that she 's the same? But listen to me now; she 's +just as little like me as you are yourself. You 're not more of a +gentleman than she's a lady!” + </p> +<p> +“I never imagined anything else.” + </p> +<p> +“And what made you talk of bringing her up here to present her to you, as +you called it? Was she to be trotted out in a cavasin, like a filly?” + </p> +<p> +“My dear fellow,” said Conyers, good-humoredly, “you never made a greater +mistake. I begged that you would present <i>me</i> to your sister. I asked +the sort of favor which is very common in the world, and in the language +usually employed to convey such a request. I observed the recognized +etiquette—” + </p> +<p> +“What do I know about etiquette? If you'd have said, 'Tom Dill, I want to +be introduced to your sister,' I 'd have guessed what you were at, and I +'d have said, 'Come back in the boat with me to-morrow, and so you +shall.'” + </p> +<p> +“It's a bargain, then, Dill. I want two or three things in the village, +and I accept your offer gladly.” + </p> +<p> +Not only was peace now ratified between them, but a closer feeling of +intimacy established; for poor Tom, not much spoiled by any excess of the +world's sympathy, was so delighted by the kindly interest shown him, that +he launched out freely to tell all about himself and his fortunes, how +hardly treated he was at home, and how ill usage had made him despondent, +and despondency made him dissolute. “It's all very well to rate a fellow +about his taste for low pleasures and low companions; but what if he's not +rich enough for better? He takes them just as he smokes cheap tobacco, +because he can afford no other. And do you know,” continued he, “you are +the first real gentleman that ever said a kind word to me, or asked me to +sit down in his company. It's even so strange to me yet, that maybe when I +'m rowing home to-night I 'll think it's all a dream,—that it was +the wine got into my head.” + </p> +<p> +“Is not some of this your own fault?” broke in Conyers. “What if you had +held your head higher—” + </p> +<p> +“Hold my head higher!” interrupted Tom. “With this on it, eh?” And he took +up his ragged and worn cap from the ground, and showed it. “Pride is a +very fine thing when you can live up to it; but if you can't it's only +ridiculous. I don't say,” added he, after a few minutes of silence, “but +if I was far away from this, where nobody knew me, where I did n't owe +little debts on every side, and was n't obliged to be intimate with every +idle vagabond about—I don't say but I'd try to be something better. +If, for instance, I could get into the navy—” + </p> +<p> +“Why not the army? You 'd like it better.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay! but it 's far harder to get into. There's many a rough fellow like +myself aboard ship that they would n't take in a regiment. Besides, how +could I get in without interest?” + </p> +<p> +“My father is a Lieutenant-General. I don't know whether he could be of +service to you.” + </p> +<p> +“A Lieutenant-General!” repeated Tom, with the reverential awe of one +alluding to an actual potentate. +</p> +<p> +“Yes. He has a command out in India, where I feel full sure he could give +you something. Suppose you were to go out there? I 'd write a letter to my +father and ask him to befriend you.” + </p> +<p> +“It would take a fortune to pay the journey,” said Tom, despondingly. +</p> +<p> +“Not if you went out on service; the Government would send you free of +cost. And even if you were not, I think we might manage it. Speak to your +father about it.” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said he, slowly. “No; but I 'll talk it over with Polly. Not but I +know well she'll say, 'There you are, castle-building and romancing. It's +all moonshine! Nobody ever took notice of you,—nobody said he 'd +interest himself about you.'” + </p> +<p> +“That's easily remedied. If you like it, I 'll tell your sister all about +it myself. I 'll tell her it's my plan, and I 'll show her what I think +are good reasons to believe it will be successful.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! would you—would you!” cried he, with a choking sensation in the +throat; for his gratitude had made him almost hysterical. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” resumed Conyers. “When you come up here tomorrow, we 'll arrange it +all. I 'll turn the matter all over in my mind, too, and I have little +doubt of our being able to carry it through.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll not tell my father, though?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a word, if you forbid it. At the same time, you must see that he'll +have to hear it all later on.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose so,” muttered Tom, moodily, and leaned his head thoughtfully on +his hand. But one half-hour back and he would have told Conyers why he +desired this concealment; he would have declared that his father, caring +more for his services than his future good, would have thrown every +obstacle to his promotion, and would even, if need were, have so +represented him to Conyers that he would have appeared utterly unworthy of +his interest and kindness; but now not one word of all this escaped him. +He never hinted another reproach against his father, for already a purer +spring had opened in his nature, the rocky heart had been smitten by words +of gentleness, and he would have revolted against that which should +degrade him in his own esteem. +</p> +<p> +“Good night,” said Conyers, with a hearty shake of the hand, “and don't +forget your breakfast engagement tomorrow.” + </p> +<p> +“What 's this?” said Tom, blushing deeply, as he found a crumpled +bank-note in his palm. +</p> +<p> +“It's your fee, my good fellow, that's all,” said the other, laughingly. +</p> +<p> +“But I can't take a fee. I have never done so. I have no right to one. I +am not a doctor yet.” + </p> +<p> +“The very first lesson in your profession is not to anger your patient; +and if you would not provoke me, say no more on this matter.” There was a +half-semblance of haughtiness in these words that perhaps the speaker +never intended; at all events, he was quick enough to remedy the effect, +for he laid his hand good-naturedly on the other's shoulder and said, “For +my sake, Dill,—for my sake.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish I knew what I ought to do,” said Tom, whose pale cheek actually +trembled with agitation. “I mean,” said he, in a shaken voice, “I wish I +knew what would make <i>you</i> think best of me.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you attach so much value to my good opinion, then?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't you think I might? When did I ever meet any one that treated me +this way before?” + </p> +<p> +The agitation in which he uttered these few words imparted such a +semblance of weakness to him that Conyers pressed him down into a chair, +and filled up his glass with wine. +</p> +<p> +“Take that off, and you 'll be all right presently,” said he, in a kind +tone. +</p> +<p> +Tom tried to carry the glass to his lips, but his hand trembled so that he +had to set it down on the table. +</p> +<p> +“I don't know how to say it,” began he, “and I don't know whether I ought +to say it, but somehow I feel as if I could give my heart's blood if +everybody would behave to me the way you do. I don't mean, mind you, so +generously, but treating me as if—as if—as if—” gulped +he out at last, “as if I was a gentleman.” + </p> +<p> +“And why not? As there is nothing in your station that should deny that +claim, why should any presume to treat you otherwise?” + </p> +<p> +“Because I'm not one!” blurted he out; and covering his face with his +hands, he sobbed bitterly. +</p> +<p> +“Come, come, my poor fellow, don't be down-hearted. I 'm not much older +than yourself, but I 've seen a good deal of life; and, mark <i>my</i> +words, the price a man puts on himself is the very highest penny the world +will ever bid for him; he 'll not always get <i>that</i>, but he 'll never—no, +never, get a farthing beyond it!” + </p> +<p> +Tom stared vacantly at the speaker, not very sure whether he understood +the speech, or that it had any special application to him. +</p> +<p> +“When you come to know life as well as I do,” continued Conyers, who had +now launched into a very favorite theme, “you'll learn the truth of what I +say. Hold your head high; and if the world desires to see you, it must at +least look up!” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, but it might laugh too!” said Tom, with a bitter gravity, which +considerably disconcerted the moralist, who pitched away his cigar +impatiently, and set about selecting another. +</p> +<p> +“I suspect I understand <i>your</i> nature. For,” said he, after a moment +or two, “I have rather a knack in reading people. Just answer me frankly a +few questions.” + </p> +<p> +“Whatever you like,” said the other, in a half-sulky sort of manner. +</p> +<p> +“Mind,” said Conyers, eagerly, “as there can be no offence intended, +you'll not feel any by whatever I may say.” + </p> +<p> +“Go on,” said Tom, in the same dry tone. +</p> +<p> +“Ain't you obstinate?” + </p> +<p> +“I am.” + </p> +<p> +“I knew it. We had not talked half an hour together when I detected it, +and I said to myself, 'That fellow is one so rooted in his own +convictions, it is scarcely possible to shake him.'” + </p> +<p> +“What next?” asked Tom. +</p> +<p> +“You can't readily forgive an injury; you find it very hard to pardon the +man who has wronged you.” + </p> +<p> +“I do not; if he did n't go on persecuting me, I would n't think of him at +all.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, that's a mistake. Well, I know you better than you know yourself; you +<i>do</i> keep up the memory of an old grudge,—you can't help it.” + </p> +<p> +“Maybe so, but I never knew it.” + </p> +<p> +“You have, however, just as strong a sentiment of gratitude.” + </p> +<p> +“I never knew that, either,” muttered he; “perhaps because it has had so +little provocation!” + </p> +<p> +“Bear in mind,” said Conyers, who was rather disconcerted by the want of +concurrence he had met with, “that I am in a great measure referring to +latent qualities,—things which probably require time and +circumstances to develop.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, if that's it,” said Dili, “I can no more object than I could if you +talked to me about what is down a dozen fathoms in the earth under our +feet. It may be granite or it may be gold, for what I know; the only thing +that <i>I</i> see is the gravel before me.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll tell you a trait of your character you can't gainsay,” said +Conyers, who was growing more irritated by the opposition so unexpectedly +met with, “and it's one you need not dig a dozen fathoms down to discover,—you +are very reckless.” + </p> +<p> +“Reckless—reckless,—you call a fellow reckless that throws +away his chance, I suppose?” + </p> +<p> +“Just so.” + </p> +<p> +“But what if he never had one?” + </p> +<p> +“Every man has a destiny; every man has that in his fate which he may help +to make or to mar as he inclines to. I suppose you admit that?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know,” was the sullen reply. +</p> +<p> +“Not know? Surely you needn't be told such a fact to recognize it!” + </p> +<p> +“All I know is this,” said Tom, resolutely, “that I scarcely ever did +anything in my life that it was n't found out to be wrong, so that at last +I 've come to be pretty careless what I do; and if it was n't for Polly,—if +it was n't for Polly—” He stopped, drew his sleeve across his eyes, +and turned away, unable to finish. +</p> +<p> +“Come, then,” said Conyers, laying his hand affectionately on the other's +shoulder, “add my friendship to <i>her</i> love for you, and see if the +two will not give you encouragement; for I mean to be your friend, Dill.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you?” said Tom, with the tears in his eyes. +</p> +<p> +“There 's my hand on it.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VIII. FINE ACQUAINTANCES +</h2> +<p> +There is a law of compensation even for the small things of this life, and +by the wise enactments of that law, human happiness, on the whole, is +pretty equally distributed. The rich man, probably, never felt one tithe +of the enjoyment in his noble demesne that it yielded to some poor artisan +who strolled through it on a holiday, and tasted at once the charms of a +woodland scene with all the rapturous delight of a day of rest. +</p> +<p> +Arguing from these premises, I greatly doubt if Lady Cobham, at the head +of her great household, with her house crowded with distinguished +visitors, surrounded by every accessory of luxury and splendor, tasted +anything approaching to the delight felt by one, the very humblest of her +guests, and who for a brief twenty-four hours partook of her hospitality. +</p> +<p> +Polly Dill, with all her desire and ambition for notice amongst the great +people of the county, had gone to this dinner-party with considerable +misgivings. She only knew the Admiral in the hunting-field; of her +Ladyship she had no knowledge whatever, save in a few dry sentences +uttered to her from a carriage one day at “the meet,” when the Admiral, +with more sailor-like frankness than politeness, presented her by saying, +“This is the heroine of the day's run, Dr. Dill's daughter.” And to this +was responded a stare through a double eye-glass, and a cold smile and a +few still colder words, affecting to be compliment, but sounding far more +like a correction and a rebuke. +</p> +<p> +No wonder, then, if Polly's heart was somewhat faint about approaching as +a hostess one who could be so repelling as a mere acquaintance. Indeed, +one less resolutely bent on her object would not have encountered all the +mortification and misery her anticipation pictured; but Polly fortified +herself by the philosophy that said, “There is but one road to this goal; +I must either take that one, or abandon the journey.” And so she did take +it. +</p> +<p> +Either, however, that she had exaggerated the grievance to her own mind, +or that her Ladyship was more courteous at home than abroad; but Polly was +charmed with the kindness of her reception. Lady Cobham had shaken hands +with her, asked her had she been hunting lately, and was about to speak of +her horsemanship to a grim old lady beside her, when the arrival of other +guests cut short the compliment, and Polly passed on—her heart +lightened of a great load—to mix with the general company. +</p> +<p> +I have no doubt it was a pleasant country-house; it was called the +pleasantest in the county. On the present occasion it counted amongst its +guests not only the great families of the neighborhood, but several +distinguished visitors from a distance, of whom two, at least, are +noteworthy,—one, the great lyric poet; the other, the first tragic +actress of her age and country. The occasion which assembled them was a +project originally broached at the Admiral's table, and so frequently +discussed afterwards that it matured itself into a congress. The plan was +to get up theatricals for the winter season at Kilkenny, in which all the +native dramatic ability should be aided by the first professional talent. +Scarcely a country-house that could not boast of, at least, one promising +performer. Ruthven and Campion and Probart had in their several walks been +applauded by the great in art, and there were many others who in the +estimation of friends were just as certain of a high success. +</p> +<p> +Some passing remark on Polly's good looks, and the suitability of her face +and style for certain small characters in comedy,—the pink ribboned +damsels who are made love to by smart valets,—induced Lady Cobham to +include her in her list; and thus, on these meagre credentials, was she +present. She did not want notice or desire recognition; she was far too +happy to be there, to hear and see and mark and observe all around her, to +care for any especial attention. If the haughty Arabellas and Georgianas +who swept past her without so much as a glance, were not, in her own +estimation, superior in personal attractions, she knew well that they were +so in all the accidents of station and the advantages of dress; and +perhaps—who knows?—the reflection was not such a discouraging +one. +</p> +<p> +No memorable event, no incident worth recording, marked her visit. In the +world of such society the machinery moves with regularity and little +friction. The comedy of real life is admirably played out by the +well-bred, and Polly was charmed to see with what courtesy, what +consideration, what deference people behaved to each other; and all +without an effort,—perhaps without even a thought. +</p> +<p> +It was on the following day, when she got home and sat beside her mother's +chair, that she related all she had seen. Her heart was filled with joy; +for, just as she was taking her leave, Lady Cobham had said, “You have +been promised to us for Tuesday next, Miss Dill. Pray don't forget it!” + And now she was busily engaged in the cares of toilette; and though it was +a mere question of putting bows of a sky-blue ribbon on a muslin dress,—one +of those little travesties by which rustic beauty emulates ball-room +splendor,—to her eyes it assumed all the importance of a grand +preparation, and one which she could not help occasionally rising to +contemplate at a little distance. +</p> +<p> +“Won't it be lovely, mamma,” she said, “with a moss-rose—a mere bud—on +each of those bows? But I have n't told you of how he sang. He was the +smallest little creature in the world, and he tripped across the room with +his tiny feet like a bird, and he kissed Lady Cobham's hand with a sort of +old-world gallantry, and pressed a little sprig of jasmine she gave him to +his heart,—this way,—and then he sat down to the piano. I +thought it strange to see a man play!” + </p> +<p> +“Effeminate,—very,” muttered the old lady, as she wiped her +spectacles. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I don't know, mamma,—at least, after a moment, I lost all +thought of it, for I never heard anything like his singing before. He had +not much voice, nor, perhaps, great skill, but there was an expression in +the words, a rippling melody with which the verses ran from his lips, +while the accompaniment tinkled on beside them, perfectly rapturous. It +all seemed as if words and air were begotten of the moment, as if, +inspired on the instant, he poured forth the verses, on which he half +dwelt, while thinking over what was to follow, imparting an actual anxiety +as you listened, lest he should not be ready with his rhyme; and through +all there was a triumphant joy that lighted up his face and made his eyes +sparkle with a fearless lustre, as of one who felt the genius that was +within him, and could trust it.” And then he had been so complimentary to +herself, called her that charming little “rebel,” after she had sung +“Where 's the Slave,” and told her that until he had heard the words from +her lips he did not know they were half so treasonable. “But, mamma +dearest, I have made a conquest; and such a conquest,—the hero of +the whole society,—a Captain Stapylton, who did something or +captured somebody at Waterloo,—a bold dragoon, with a gorgeous +pelisse all slashed with gold, and such a mass of splendor that he was +quite dazzling to look upon.” She went on, still very rapturously, to +picture him. “Not very young; that is to say, he might be thirty-five, or +perhaps a little more,—tall, stately, even dignified in appearance, +with a beard and moustache almost white,—for he had served much in +India, and he was dark-skinned as a native.” And this fine soldier, so +sought after and so courted, had been markedly attentive to her, danced +with her twice, and promised she should have his Arab, “Mahmoud,” at her +next visit to Cobham. It was very evident that his notice of her had +called forth certain jealousies from young ladies of higher social +pretensions, nor was she at all indifferent to the peril of such +sentiments, though she did not speak of them to her mother, for, in good +truth, that worthy woman was not one to investigate a subtle problem, or +suggest a wise counsel; not to say that her interests were far more deeply +engaged for Miss Harlowe than for her daughter Polly, seeing that in the +one case every motive, and the spring to every motive, was familiar to +her, while in the other she possessed but some vague and very strange +notions of what was told her. Clarissa had made a full confidence to her: +she had wept out her sorrows on her bosom, and sat sobbing on her +shoulder. Polly came to her with the frivolous narrative of a ball-room +flirtation, which threatened no despair nor ruin to any one. Here were no +heart-consuming miseries, no agonizing terrors, no dreadful casualties +that might darken a whole existence; and so Mrs. Dill scarcely followed +Polly's story at all, and never with any interest. +</p> +<p> +Polly went in search of her brother, but he had left home early that +morning with the boat, no one knew whither, and the doctor was in a +towering rage at his absence. Tom, indeed, was so full of his success with +young Conyers that he never so much as condescended to explain his plans, +and simply left a message to say, “It was likely he 'd be back by +dinner-time.” Now Dr. Dill was not in one of his blandest humors. Amongst +the company at Cobham, he had found a great physician from Kilkenny, +plainly showing him that all his social sacrifices were not to his +professional benefit, and that if colds and catarrhs were going, his own +services would never be called in. Captain Stapylton, too, to whom Polly +had presented him, told him that he “feared a young brother officer of +his, Lieutenant Conyers, had fallen into the hands of some small village +practitioner, and that he would take immediate measures to get him back to +headquarters,” and then moved off, without giving him the time for a +correction of the mistake. +</p> +<p> +He took no note of his daughter's little triumphs, the admiration that she +excited, or the flatteries that greeted her. It is true he did not possess +the same means of measuring these that she had, and in all that dreary +leisure which besets an unhonored guest, he had ample time to mope and +fret and moralize, as gloomily as might be. If, then, he did not enjoy +himself on his visit, he came away from it soured and ill-humored. +</p> +<p> +He denounced “junketings”—by which unseemly title he designated the +late entertainment—as amusements too costly for persons of his +means. He made a rough calculation—a very rough one—of all +that the “precious tomfoolery” had cost: the turnpike which he had paid, +and the perquisites to servants—which he had not; the expense of +Polly's finery,—a hazarded guess she would have been charmed to have +had confirmed; and, ending the whole with a startling total, declared that +a reign of rigid domestic economy must commence from that hour. The edict +was something like what one reads from the French Government, when about +to protest against some license of the press, and which opens by +proclaiming that “the latitude hitherto conceded to public discussion has +not been attended with those gratifying results so eagerly anticipated by +the Imperial administration.” Poor Mrs. Dill—like a mere journalist—never +knew she had been enjoying blessings till she was told she had forfeited +them forever, and she heard with a confused astonishment that the +household charges would be still further reduced, and yet food and fuel +and light be not excluded from the supplies. He denounced Polly's +equestrianism as a most ruinous and extravagant pursuit. Poor Polly, whose +field achievements had always been on a borrowed mount! Tom was a +scapegrace, whose debts would have beggared half-a-dozen families,—wretched +dog, to whom a guinea was a gold-mine; and Mrs. Dill, unhappy Mrs. Dill, +who neither hunted, nor smoked, nor played skittles, after a moment's +pause, he told her that his hard-earned pence should not be wasted in +maintaining a “circulating library.” Was there ever injustice like this? +Talk to a man with one meal a day about gluttony, lecture the castaway at +sea about not giving way to his appetites, you might just as well do so as +to preach to Mrs. Dill—with her one book, and who never wanted +another—about the discursive costliness of her readings. +</p> +<p> +Could it be that, like the cruel jailer, who killed the spider the +prisoner had learned to love, he had resolved to rob her of Clarissa? The +thought was so overwhelming that it stunned her; and thus stupefied, she +saw the doctor issue forth on his daily round, without venturing one word +in answer. And he rode on his way,—on that strange mission of mercy, +meanness, of honest sympathy, or mock philanthropy, as men's hearts and +natures make of it,—and set out for the “Fisherman's Home.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER IX. A COUNTRY DOCTOR +</h2> +<p> +In a story, as in a voyage, one must occasionally travel with uncongenial +companions. Now I have no reason for hoping that any of my readers care to +keep Dr. Dill's company, and yet it is with Dr. Dill we must now for a +brief space foregather. He was on his way to visit his patient at the +“Fisherman's Home,” having started, intentionally very early, to be there +before Stapylton could have interposed with any counsels of removing him +to Kilkenny. +</p> +<p> +The world, in its blind confidence in medical skill, and its unbounded +belief in certain practitioners of medicine, is but scantily just to the +humbler members of the craft in regard to the sensitiveness with which +they feel the withdrawal of a patient from their care, and the +substitution of another physician. The doctor who has not only heard, but +felt Babington's adage, that the difference between a good physician and a +bad one is only “the difference between a pound and a guinea,” naturally +thinks it a hard thing that his interests are to be sacrificed for a mere +question of five per cent. He knows, besides, that they can each work on +the same materials with the same tools, and it can be only through some +defect in his self-confidence that he can bring himself to believe that +the patient's chances are not pretty much alike in <i>his</i> hands or his +rival's. Now Dr. Dill had no feelings of this sort; no undervaluing of +himself found a place in his nature. He regarded medical men as +tax-gatherers, and naturally thought it mattered but little which received +the impost; and, thus reflecting, he bore no good will towards that +gallant Captain, who, as we have seen, stood so well in his daughter's +favor. Even hardened men of the world—old footsore pilgrims of life—have +their prejudices, and one of these is to be pleased at thinking they had +augured unfavorably of any one they had afterwards learned to dislike. It +smacks so much of acuteness to be able to say, “I was scarcely presented +to him; we had not exchanged a dozen sentences when I saw this, that, and +t' other.” Dill knew this man was overbearing, insolent, and oppressive, +that he was meddlesome and interfering, giving advice unasked for, and +presuming to direct where no guidance was required. He suspected he was +not a man of much fortune; he doubted he was a man of good family. All his +airs of pretensions—very high and mighty they were—did not +satisfy the doctor. As he said himself, he was a very old bird, but he +forgot to add that he had always lived in an extremely small cage. +</p> +<p> +The doctor had to leave his horse on the high-road and take a small +footpath, which led through some meadows till it reached the little copse +of beech and ilex that sheltered the cottage and effectually hid it from +all view from the road. The doctor had just gained the last stile, when he +suddenly came upon a man repairing a fence, and whose labors were being +overlooked by Miss Barrington. He had scarcely uttered his most respectful +salutations, when she said, “It is, perhaps, the last time you will take +that path through the Lock Meadow, Dr. Dill. We mean to close it up after +this week.” + </p> +<p> +“Close it up, dear lady!—a right of way that has existed Heaven +knows how long. I remember it as a boy myself.” + </p> +<p> +“Very probably, sir, and what you say vouches for great antiquity; but +things may be old and yet not respectable. Besides, it never was what you +have called it,—a right of way. If it was, where did it go to?” + </p> +<p> +“It went to the cottage, dear lady. The 'Home' was a mill in those days.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir, it is no longer a mill, and it will soon cease to be an inn.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed, dear lady! And am I to hope that I may congratulate such kind +friends as you have ever been to me on a change of fortune?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; we have grown so poor that, to prevent utter destitution, we +have determined to keep a private station; and with reference to that, may +I ask you when this young gentleman could bear removal without injury?” + </p> +<p> +“I have not seen him to-day, dear lady; but judging from the inflammatory +symptoms I remarked yesterday, and the great nervous depression—” + </p> +<p> +“I know nothing about medicine, sir; but if the nervous depression be +indicated by a great appetite and a most noisy disposition, his case must +be critical.” + </p> +<p> +“Noise, dear lady!” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; assisted by your son, he sat over his wine till past midnight, +talking extremely loudly, and occasionally singing. They have now been at +breakfast since ten o'clock, and you will very soon be able to judge by +your own ears of the well-regulated pitch of the conversation.” + </p> +<p> +“My son, Miss Dinah! Tom Dill at breakfast here?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know whether his name be Tom or Harry, sir, nor is it to the +purpose; but he is a red-haired youth, with a stoop in the shoulders, and +a much-abused cap.” + </p> +<p> +Dill groaned over a portrait which to him was a photograph. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll see to this, dear lady. This shall be looked into,” muttered he, +with the purpose of a man who pledged himself to a course of action; and +with this he moved on. Nor had he gone many paces from the spot when he +heard the sound of voices, at first in some confusion, but afterwards +clearly and distinctly. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll be hanged if I 'd do it, Tom,” cried the loud voice of Conyers. +“It's all very fine talking about paternal authority and all that, and so +long as one is a boy there's no help for it; but you and I are men. We +have a right to be treated like men, have n't we?” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose so,” muttered the other, half sulkily, and not exactly seeing +what was gained by the admission. +</p> +<p> +“Well, that being so,” resumed Conyers, “I'd say to the governor, 'What +allowance are you going to make me?'” + </p> +<p> +“Did you do that with your father?” asked Tom, earnestly. +</p> +<p> +“No, not exactly,” stammered out the other. “There was not, in fact, any +need for it, for my governor is a rare jolly fellow,—such a trump! +What he said to me was, 'There's a check-book, George; don't spare it.'” + </p> +<p> +“Which was as much as to say, 'Draw what you like.'” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, of course. He knew, in leaving it to my honor, there was no risk of +my committing any excess; so you see there was no necessity to make my +governor 'book up.' But if I was in your place I 'd do it. I pledge you my +word I would.” + </p> +<p> +Tom only shook his head very mournfully, and made no answer. He felt, and +felt truly, that there is a worldly wisdom learned only in poverty and in +the struggles of narrow fortune, of which the well-to-do know absolutely +nothing. Of what avail to talk to him of an unlimited credit, or a credit +to be bounded only by a sense of honor? It presupposed so much that was +impossible, that he would have laughed if his heart had been but light +enough. +</p> +<p> +“Well, then,” said Conyers, “if you have n't courage for this, let me do +it; let me speak to your father.” + </p> +<p> +“What could you say to him?” asked Tom, doggedly. +</p> +<p> +“Say to him?—what could I say to him?” repeated he, as he lighted a +fresh cigar, and affected to be eagerly interested in the process. “It's +clear enough what I 'd say to him.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us hear it, then,” growled out Tom, for he had a sort of coarse +enjoyment at the other's embarrassment. “I 'll be the doctor now, and +listen to you.” And with this he squared his chair full in front of +Conyers, and crossed his arms imposingly on his chest “You said you wanted +to speak to me about my son Tom, Mr. Conyers; what is it you have to say?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I suppose I'd open the matter delicately, and, perhaps, adroitly. I +'d say, 'I have remarked, doctor, that your son is a young fellow of very +considerable abilities—'” + </p> +<p> +“For what?” broke in Tom, huskily. +</p> +<p> +“Come, you 're not to interrupt in this fashion, or I can't continue. I 'd +say something about your natural cleverness; and what a pity it would be +if, with very promising talents, you should not have those fair advantages +which lead a man to success in life.” + </p> +<p> +“And do you know what <i>he</i> 'd say to all that?” + </p> +<p> +“No.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I'll tell you. He'd say 'Bother!' Just 'bother.'” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean by 'bother'?” + </p> +<p> +“That what you were saying was all nonsense. That you did n't know, nor +you never could know, the struggles of a man like himself, just to make +the two ends meet; not to be rich, mind you, or lay by money, or have +shares in this, or stocks in that, but just to live, and no more.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I'd say, 'Give him a few hundred pounds, and start him.'” + </p> +<p> +“Why don't you say a few thousands? It would sound grander, and be just as +likely. Can't you see that everybody hasn't a Lieutenant-General for a +father? and that what you 'd give for a horse—that would, maybe, be +staked to-morrow—would perhaps be a fortune for a fellow like me? +What's that I hear coming up the river? That's the doctor, I 'm sure. I +'ll be off till he's gone.” And without waiting to hear a word, he sprang +from his chair and disappeared in the wood. +</p> +<p> +Dr. Dill only waited a few seconds to compose his features, somewhat +excited by what he had overheard; and then coughing loudly, to announce +his approach, moved gravely along the gravel path. +</p> +<p> +“And how is my respected patient?” asked he, blandly. “Is the inflammation +subsiding, and are our pains diminished?” + </p> +<p> +“My ankle is easier, if you mean that,” said Conyers, bluntly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, much easier,—much easier,” said the doctor, examining the +limb; “and our cellular tissue has less effusion, the sheaths of the +tendons freer, and we are generally better. I perceive you have had the +leeches applied. Did Tom—my son—give you satisfaction? Was he +as attentive and as careful as you wished?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I liked him. I wish he 'd come up every day while I remain. Is there +any objection to that arrangement?” + </p> +<p> +“None, dear sir,—none. His time is fully at your service; he ought +to be working hard. It is true he should be reading eight or ten hours a +day, for his examination; but it is hard to persuade him to it. Young men +will be young men!” + </p> +<p> +“I hope so, with all my heart. At least, I, for one, don't want to be an +old one. Will you do me a favor, doctor? and will you forgive me if I +don't know how to ask it with all becoming delicacy? I'd like to give Tom +a helping hand. He's a good fellow,—I 'm certain he is. Will you let +me send him out to India, to my father? He has lots of places to give +away, and he 'd be sure to find something to suit him. You have heard of +General Conyers, perhaps, the political resident at Delhi? That's my +governor.” In the hurry and rapidity with which he spoke, it was easy to +see how he struggled with a sense of shame and confusion. +</p> +<p> +Dr. Dill was profuse of acknowledgments; he was even moved as he expressed +his gratitude. “It was true,” he remarked, “that his life had been +signalled by these sort of graceful services, or rather offers of +services; for we are proud if we are poor, sir. 'Dill aut nil' is the +legend of our crest, which means that we are ourselves or nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“I conclude everybody else is in the same predicament,” broke in Conyers, +bluntly. +</p> +<p> +“Not exactly, young gentleman,—not exactly. I think I could, +perhaps, explain—” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; never mind it. I 'm the stupidest fellow in the world at a nice +distinction; besides, I'll take your word for the fact. You have heard of +my father, have n't you?” + </p> +<p> +“I heard of him so late as last night, from a brother officer of yours, +Captain Stapylton.” + </p> +<p> +“Where did you meet Stapylton?” asked Conyers, quickly. +</p> +<p> +“At Sir Charles Cobham's. I was presented to him by my daughter, and he +made the most kindly inquiries after you, and said that, if possible, he'd +come over here to-day to see you.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope he won't; that's all,” muttered Conyers. Then, correcting himself +suddenly, he said: “I mean, I scarcely know him; he has only joined us a +few months back, and is a stranger to every one in the regiment. I hope +you did n't tell him where I was.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm afraid that I did, for I remember his adding, 'Oh! I must carry him +off. I must get him back to headquarters.'” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed! Let us see if he will. That's the style of these 'Company's' +officers,—he was in some Native corps or other,—they always +fancy they can bully a subaltern; but Black Stapylton will find himself +mistaken this time.” + </p> +<p> +“He was afraid that you had not fallen into skilful hands; and, of course, +it would not have come well from me to assure him of the opposite.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, but what of Tom, doctor? You have given me no answer.” + </p> +<p> +“It is a case for reflection, my dear young friend, if I may be emboldened +to call you so. It is not a matter I can say yes or no to on the instant. +I have only two grown-up children: my daughter, the most affectionate, the +most thoughtful of girls, educated, too, in a way to grace any sphere—” + </p> +<p> +“You need n't tell me that Tom is a wild fellow,” broke in Conyers,—for +he well understood the antithesis that was coming; “he owned it all to me, +himself. I have no doubt, too, that he made the worst of it; for, after +all, what signifies a dash of extravagance, or a mad freak or two? You +can't expect that we should all be as wise and as prudent and as +cool-headed as Black Stapylton.” + </p> +<p> +“You plead very ably, young gentleman,” said Dill, with his smoothest +accent, “but you must give me a little time.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I'll give you till to-morrow,—to-morrow, at this hour; for it +wouldn't be fair to the poor fellow to keep him in a state of uncertainty. +His heart is set on the plan; he told me so.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll do my best to meet your wishes, my dear young gentleman; but please +to bear in mind that it is the whole future fate of my son I am about to +decide. Your father may not, possibly, prove so deeply interested as you +are; he may—not unreasonably, either—take a colder view of +this project; he may chance to form a lower estimate of my poor boy than +it is your good nature to have done.” + </p> +<p> +“Look here, doctor; I know my governor something better than you do, and +if I wrote to him, and said, 'I want this fellow to come home with a lac +of rupees,' he 'd start him to-morrow with half the money. If I were to +say, 'You are to give him the best thing in your gift,' there's nothing he +'d stop at; he 'd make him a judge, or a receiver, or some one of those +fat things that send a man back to England with a fortune. What's that +fellow whispering to you about? It's something that concerns me.” + </p> +<p> +This sudden interruption was caused by the approach of Darby, who had come +to whisper something in the doctor's ear. +</p> +<p> +“It is a message he has brought me; a matter of little consequence. I 'll +look to it, Darby. Tell your mistress it shall be attended to.” Darby +lingered for a moment, but the doctor motioned him away, and did not speak +again till he had quitted the spot. “How these fellows will wait to pick +up what passes between their betters,” said Dill, while he continued to +follow him with his eyes. “I think I mentioned to you once, already, that +the persons who keep this house here are reduced gentry, and it is now my +task to add that, either from some change of fortune or from caprice, they +are thinking of abandoning the inn, and resuming—so far as may be +possible for them—their former standing. This project dates before +your arrival here; and now, it would seem, they are growing impatient to +effect it; at least, a very fussy old lady—Miss Barrington—has +sent me word by Darby to say her brother will be back here tomorrow or +next day, with some friends from Kilkenny, and she asks at what time your +convalescence is likely to permit removal.” + </p> +<p> +“Turned out, in fact, doctor,—ordered to decamp! You must say, I 'm +ready, of course; that is to say, that I 'll go at once. I don't exactly +see how I 'm to be moved in this helpless state, as no carriage can come +here; but you 'll look to all that for me. At all events, go immediately, +and say I shall be off within an hour or so.” + </p> +<p> +“Leave it all to me,—leave it in my hands. I think I see what is to +be done,” said the doctor, with one of his confident little smiles, and +moved away. +</p> +<p> +There was a spice of irritation in Conyers's manner as he spoke. He was +very little accustomed to be thwarted in anything, and scarcely knew the +sensation of having a wish opposed, or an obstacle set against him, but +simply because there was a reason for his quitting the place, grew all the +stronger his desire to remain there. He looked around him, and never +before had the foliage seemed so graceful; never had the tints of the +copper-beech blended so harmoniously with the stone-pine and the larch; +never had the eddies of the river laughed more joyously, nor the +blackbirds sung with a more impetuous richness of melody. “And to say that +I must leave all this, just when I feel myself actually clinging to it. I +could spend my whole life here. I glory in this quiet, unbroken ease; this +life, that slips along as waveless as the stream there! Why should n't I +buy it; have it all my own, to come down to whenever I was sick and weary +of the world and its dissipations? The spot is small; it couldn't be very +costly; it would take a mere nothing to maintain. And to have it all one's +own!” There was an actual ecstasy in the thought; for in that same sense +of possession there is a something that resembles the sense of identity. +The little child with his toy, the aged man with his proud demesne, are +tasters of the same pleasure. +</p> +<p> +“You are to use your own discretion, my dear young gentleman, and go when +it suits you, and not before,” said the doctor, returning triumphantly, +for he felt like a successful envoy. “And now I will leave you. To-morrow +you shall have my answer about Tom.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers nodded vaguely; for, alas! Tom, and all about him, had completely +lapsed from his memory. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER X. BEING “BORED” + </h2> +<p> +It is a high testimony to that order of architecture which we call +castle-building, that no man ever lived in a house so fine he could not +build one more stately still out of his imagination. Nor is it only to +grandeur and splendor this superiority extends, but it can invest lowly +situations and homely places with a charm which, alas! no reality can +rival. +</p> +<p> +Conyers was a fortunate fellow in a number of ways; he was young, +good-looking, healthy, and rich. Fate had made place for him on the very +sunniest side of the causeway, and, with all that, he was happier on that +day, through the mere play of his fancy, than all his wealth could have +made him. He had fashioned out a life for himself in that cottage, very +charming, and very enjoyable in its way. He would make it such a spot that +it would have resources for him on every hand, and he hugged himself in +the thought of coming down here with a friend, or, perhaps, two friends, +to pass days of that luxurious indolence so fascinating to those who are, +or fancy they are, wearied of life's pomps and vanities. +</p> +<p> +Now there are no such scoffers at the frivolity and emptiness of human +wishes as the well-to-do young fellows of two or three-and-twenty. They +know the “whole thing,” and its utter rottenness. They smile +compassionately at the eagerness of all around them; they look with bland +pity at the race, and contemptuously ask, of what value the prize when it +is won? They do their very best to be gloomy moralists, but they cannot. +They might as well try to shiver when they sit in the sunshine. The +vigorous beat of young hearts, and the full tide of young pulses, will +tell against all the mock misanthropy that ever was fabricated! It would +not be exactly fair to rank Conyers in this school, and yet he was not +totally exempt from some of its teachings. Who knows if these little +imaginary glooms, these brain-created miseries, are not a kind of moral +“alterative” which, though depressing at the instant, render the +constitution only more vigorous after? +</p> +<p> +At all events, he had resolved to have the cottage, and, going practically +to work, he called Darby to his counsels to tell him the extent of the +place, its boundaries, and whatever information he could afford as to the +tenure and its rent. +</p> +<p> +“You 'd be for buying it, your honor!” said Darby, with the keen +quick-sightedness of his order. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps I had some thoughts of the kind; and, if so, I should keep you +on.” + </p> +<p> +Darby bowed his gratitude very respectfully. It was too long a vista for +him to strain his eyes at, and so he made no profuse display of +thankfulness. With all their imaginative tendencies, the lower Irish are a +very bird-in-the-hand sort of people. +</p> +<p> +“Not more than seventeen acres!” cried Conyers, in astonishment. “Why, I +should have guessed about forty, at least. Isn't that wood there part of +it?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, but it's only a strip, and the trees that you see yonder is in +Carriclough; and them two meadows below the salmon weir is n't ours at +all; and the island itself we have only a lease of it.” + </p> +<p> +“It's all in capital repair, well kept, well looked after?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, it is, and isn't!” said he, with a look of disagreement. “He'd have +one thing, and she'd have another; <i>he</i> 'd spend every shilling he +could get on the place, and <i>she</i> 'd grudge a brush of paint, or a +coat of whitewash, just to keep things together.” + </p> +<p> +“I see nothing amiss here,” said Conyers, looking around him. “Nobody +could ask or wish a cottage to be neater, better furnished, or more +comfortable. I confess I do not perceive anything wanting.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, to be sure, it's very nate, as your honor says; but then—” And +he scratched his head, and looked confused. +</p> +<p> +“But then, what—out with it?” + </p> +<p> +“The earwigs is dreadful; wherever there 's roses and sweetbrier there's +no livin' with them. Open the window and the place is full of them.” + </p> +<p> +Mistaking the surprise he saw depicted in his hearer's face for terror, +Darby launched forth into a description of insect and reptile tortures +that might have suited the tropics; to hear him, all the stories of the +white ant of India, or the gallinipper of Demerara, were nothing to the +destructive powers of the Irish earwig. The place was known for them all +over the country, and it was years and years lying empty, “by rayson of +thim plagues.” + </p> +<p> +Now, if Conyers was not intimidated to the full extent Darby intended by +this account, he was just as far from guessing the secret cause of this +representation, which was simply a long-settled plan of succeeding himself +to the ownership of the “Fisherman's Home,” when, either from the course +of nature or an accident, a vacancy would occur. It was the grand dream of +Darby's life, the island of his Government, his seat in the Cabinet, his +Judgeship, his Garter, his everything, in short, that makes human ambition +like a cup brimful and overflowing; and what a terrible reverse would it +be if all these hopes were to be dashed just to gratify the passing +caprice of a mere traveller! +</p> +<p> +“I don't suppose your honor cares for money, and, maybe, you 'd as soon +pay twice over the worth of anything; but here, between our two selves, I +can tell you, you 'd buy an estate in the county cheaper than this little +place. They think, because they planted most of the trees and made the +fences themselves, that it's like the King's Park. It's a fancy spot, and +a fancy price, they'll ask for it But I know of another worth ten of it,—a +real, elegant place; to be sure, it's a trifle out of repair, for the ould +naygur that has it won't lay out a sixpence, but there 's every +con-vaniency in life about it. There's the finest cup potatoes, the +biggest turnips ever I see on it, and fish jumpin' into the parlor-window, +and hares runnin' about like rats.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't care for all that; this cottage and these grounds here have taken +my fancy.” + </p> +<p> +“And why would n't the other, when you seen it? The ould Major that lives +there wants to sell it, and you 'd get it a raal bargain. Let me row your +honor up there this evening. It's not two miles off, and the river +beautiful all the way.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers rejected the proposal abruptly, haughtily. Darby had dared to +throw down a very imposing card-edifice, and for the moment the fellow was +odious to him. All the golden visions of his early morning, that poetized +life he was to lead, that elegant pastoralism, which was to blend the +splendor of Lucullus with the simplicity of a Tityrus, all rent, torn, and +scattered by a vile hind, who had not even a conception of the ruin he had +caused. +</p> +<p> +And yet Darby had a misty consciousness of some success. He did not, +indeed, know that his shell had exploded in a magazine; but he saw, from +the confusion in the garrison, that his shot had told severely somewhere. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe your honor would rather go to-morrow? or maybe you 'd like the +Major to come up here himself, and speak to you?” + </p> +<p> +“Once for all, I tell you, No! Is that plain? No! And I may add, my good +fellow, that if you knew me a little better, you 'd not tender me any +advice I did not ask for.” + </p> +<p> +“And why would I? Would n't I be a baste if I did?” + </p> +<p> +“I think so,” said Conyers, dryly, and turned away. He was out of temper +with everything and everybody,—the doctor, and his abject manner; +Tom, and his roughness; Darby, and his roguish air of self-satisfied +craftiness; all, for the moment, displeased and offended him. “I 'll leave +the place to-morrow; I 'm not sure I shall not go to-night D'ye hear?” + </p> +<p> +Darby bowed respectfully. +</p> +<p> +“I suppose I can reach some spot, by boat, where a carriage can be had?” + </p> +<p> +“By coorse, your honor. At Hunt's Mills, or Shibna-brack, you 'll get a +car easy enough. I won't say it will be an elegant convaniency, but a good +horse will rowl you along into Thomastown, where you can change for a +shay.” + </p> +<p> +Strange enough, this very facility of escape annoyed him. Had Darby only +told him that there were all manner of difficulties to getting away,—that +there were shallows in the river, or a landslip across the road,—he +would have addressed himself to overcome the obstacles like a man; but to +hear that the course was open, that any one might take it, was +intolerable. +</p> +<p> +“I suppose, your honor, I 'd better get the boat ready, at all events?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, certainly,—that is, not till I give further orders. I 'm the +only stranger here, and I can't imagine there can be much difficulty in +having a boat at any hour. Leave me, my good fellow; you only worry me. +Go!” + </p> +<p> +And Darby moved away, revolving within himself the curious problem, that +if, having plenty of money enlarged a man's means of enjoyment, it was +strange how little effect it produced upon his manners. As for Conyers, he +stood moodily gazing on the river, over whose placid surface a few heavy +raindrops were just falling; great clouds, too, rolled heavily over the +hillsides, and gathered into ominous-looking masses over the stream, while +a low moaning sound of very far-off thunder foretold a storm. +</p> +<p> +Here, at least, was a good tangible grievance, and he hugged it to his +heart. He was weather-bound! The tree-tops were already shaking wildly, +and dark scuds flying fast over the mottled sky. It was clear that a +severe storm was near. “No help for it now,” muttered he, “if I must +remain here till to-morrow.” And hobbling as well as he could into the +house, he seated himself at the window to watch the hurricane. Too closely +pent up between the steep sides of the river for anything like destructive +power, the wind only shook the trees violently, or swept along the stream +with tiny waves, which warred against the current; but even these were +soon beaten down by the rain,—that heavy, swooping, splashing rain, +that seems to come from the overflowing of a lake in the clouds. Darker +and darker grew the atmosphere as it fell, till the banks of the opposite +side were gradually lost to view, while the river itself became a yellow +flood, surging up amongst the willows that lined the banks. It was not one +of those storms whose grand effects of lightning, aided by pealing +thunder, create a sense of sublime terror, that has its own ecstasy; but +it was one of those dreary evenings when the dull sky shows no streak of +light, and when the moist earth gives up no perfume, when foliage and +hillside and rock and stream are leaden-colored and sad, and one wishes +for winter, to close the shutter and draw the curtain, and creep close to +the chimney-corner as to a refuge. +</p> +<p> +Oh, what comfortless things are these summer storms! They come upon us +like some dire disaster in a time of festivity. They swoop down upon our +days of sunshine like a pestilence, and turn our joy into gloom, and all +our gladness to despondency, bringing back to our minds memories of +comfortless journeys, weariful ploddings, long nights of suffering. +</p> +<p> +I am but telling what Conyers felt at this sudden change of weather. You +and I, my good reader, know better. We feel how gladly the parched earth +drinks up the refreshing draught, how the seared grass bends gratefully to +the skimming rain, and the fresh buds open with joy to catch the pearly +drops. We know, too, how the atmosphere, long imprisoned, bursts forth +into a joyous freedom, and comes back to us fresh from the sea and the +mountain rich in odor and redolent of health, making the very air breathe +an exquisite luxury. We know all this, and much more that he did not care +for. +</p> +<p> +Now Conyers was only “bored,” as if anything could be much worse; that is +to say, he was in that state of mind in which resources yield no +distraction, and nothing is invested with an interest sufficient to make +it even passingly amusing. He wanted to do something, though the precise +something did not occur to him. Had he been well, and in full enjoyment of +his strength, he 'd have sallied out into the storm and walked off his +ennui by a wetting. Even a cold would be a good exchange for the dreary +blue-devilism of his depression; but this escape was denied him, and he +was left to fret, and chafe, and fever himself, moving from window to +chimney-corner, and from chimney-corner to sofa, till at last, baited by +self-tormentings, he opened his door and sallied forth to wander through +the rooms, taking his chance where his steps might lead him. +</p> +<p> +Between the gloomy influences of the storm and the shadows of a declining +day he could mark but indistinctly the details of the rooms he was +exploring. They presented little that was remarkable; they were modestly +furnished, nothing costly nor expensive anywhere, but a degree of homely +comfort rare to find in an inn. They had, above all, that habitable look +which so seldom pertains to a house of entertainment, and, in the loosely +scattered books, prints, and maps showed a sort of flattering trustfulness +in the stranger who might sojourn there. His wanderings led him, at +length, into a somewhat more pretentious room, with a piano and a harp, at +one angle of which a little octangular tower opened, with windows in every +face, and the spaces between them completely covered by miniatures in oil, +or small cabinet pictures. A small table with a chess-board stood here, +and an unfinished game yet remained on the board. As Conyers bent over to +look, he perceived that a book, whose leaves were held open by a +smelling-bottle, lay on the chair next the table. He took this up, and saw +that it was a little volume treating of the game, and that the pieces on +the board represented a problem. With the eagerness of a man thirsting for +some occupation, he seated himself at the table, and set to work at the +question. “A Mate in Six Moves” it was headed, but the pieces had been +already disturbed by some one attempting the solution. He replaced them by +the directions of the volume, and devoted himself earnestly to the task. +He was not a good player, and the problem posed him. He tried it again and +again, but ever unsuccessfully. He fancied that up to a certain point he +had followed the right track, and repeated the same opening moves each +time. Meanwhile the evening was fast closing in, and it was only with +difficulty he could see the pieces on the board. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0008" id="linkimage-0008"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/126.jpg" width="100%" alt="126 " /> +</div> +<p> +Bending low over the table, he was straining his eyes at the game, when a +low, gentle voice from behind his chair said, “Would you not wish candles, +sir? It is too dark to see here.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers turned hastily, and as hastily recognized that the person who +addressed him was a gentlewoman. He arose at once, and made a sort of +apology for his intruding. +</p> +<p> +“Had I known you were a chess-player, sir,” said she, with the demure +gravity of a composed manner, “I believe I should have sent you a +challenge; for my brother, who is my usual adversary, is from home.” + </p> +<p> +“If I should prove a very unworthy enemy, madam, you will find me a very +grateful one, for I am sorely tired of my own company.” + </p> +<p> +“In that case, sir, I beg to offer you mine, and a cup of tea along with +it.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers accepted the invitation joyfully, and followed Miss Barrington to +a small but most comfortable little room, where a tea equipage of +exquisite old china was already prepared. +</p> +<p> +“I see you are in admiration of my teacups; they are the rare Canton blue, +for we tea-drinkers have as much epicurism in the form and color of a cup +as wine-bibbers profess to have in a hock or a claret glass. Pray take the +sofa; you will find it more comfortable than a chair. I am aware you have +had an accident.” + </p> +<p> +Very few and simple as were her words, she threw into her manner a degree +of courtesy that seemed actual kindness; and coming, as this did, after +his late solitude and gloom, no wonder was it that Conyers was charmed +with it. There was, besides, a quaint formality—a sort of old-world +politeness in her breeding—which relieved the interview of +awkwardness by taking it out of the common category of such events. +</p> +<p> +When tea was over, they sat down to chess, at which Conyers had merely +proficiency enough to be worth beating. Perhaps the quality stood him in +good stead; perhaps certain others, such as his good looks and his +pleasing manners, were even better aids to him; but certain it is, Miss +Barrington liked her guest, and when, on arising to say good-night, he +made a bungling attempt to apologize for having prolonged his stay at the +cottage beyond the period which suited their plans, she stopped him by +saying, with much courtesy, “It is true, sir, we are about to relinquish +the inn, but pray do not deprive us of the great pleasure we should feel +in associating its last day or two with a most agreeable guest. I hope you +will remain till my brother comes back and makes your acquaintance.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers very cordially accepted the proposal, and went off to his bed far +better pleased with himself and with all the world than he well believed +it possible he could be a couple of hours before. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XI. A NOTE TO BE ANSWERED +</h2> +<p> +While Conyers was yet in bed the following morning, a messenger arrived at +the house with a note for him, and waited for the answer. It was from +Stapylton, and ran thus:— +</p> +<p> +“Cobham Hall, Tuesday morning. +</p> +<p> +“Dear Con.,—The world here—and part of it is a very pretty +world, with silky tresses and trim ankles—has declared that you have +had some sort of slight accident, and are laid up at a miserable wayside +inn, to be blue-devilled and doctored <i>à discrétion</i>. I strained my +shoulder yesterday hunting,—my horse swerved against a tree,—or +I should ascertain all the particulars of your disaster in person; so +there is nothing left for it but a note. +</p> +<p> +“I am here domesticated at a charming country-house, the host an old +Admiral, the hostess a <i>ci-devant</i> belle of London,—in times +not very recent,—and more lately what is called in newspapers 'one +of the ornaments of the Irish Court.' We have abundance of guests,—county +dons and native celebrities, clerical, lyrical, and quizzical, several +pretty women, a first-rate cellar, and a very tolerable cook. I give you +the catalogue of our attractions, for I am commissioned by Sir Charles and +my Lady to ask you to partake of them. The invitation is given in all +cordiality, and I hope you will not decline it, for it is, amongst other +matters, a good opportunity of seeing an Irish 'interior,' a thing of +which I have always had my doubts and misgivings, some of which are now +solved; others I should like to investigate with your assistance. In a +word, the whole is worth seeing, and it is, besides, one of those +experiences which can be had on very pleasant terms. There is perfect +liberty; always something going on, and always a way to be out of it if +you like. The people are, perhaps, not more friendly than in England, but +they are far more familiar; and if not more disposed to be pleased, they +tell you they are, which amounts to the same. There is a good deal of +splendor, a wide hospitality, and, I need scarcely add, a considerable +share of bad taste. There is, too, a costly attention to the wishes of a +guest, which will remind you of India, though I must own the Irish Brahmin +has not the grand, high-bred air of the Bengalee. But again I say, come +and see. +</p> +<p> +“I have been told to explain to you why they don't send their boat. There +is something about draught of water, and something about a 'gash,' +whatever that is: I opine it to be a rapid. And then I am directed to say, +that if you will have yourself paddled up to Brown's Barn, the Cobham +barge will be there to meet you. +</p> +<p> +“I write this with some difficulty, lying on my back on a sofa, while a +very pretty girl is impatiently waiting to continue her reading to me of a +new novel called 'The Antiquary.' a capital story, but strangely +disfigured by whole scenes in a Scottish dialect. You must read it when +you come over. +</p> +<p> +“You have heard of Hunter, of course. I am sure you will be sorry at his +leaving us. For myself, I knew him very slightly, and shall not have to +regret him like older friends; not to say that I have been so long in the +service that I never believe in a Colonel. Would you go with him if he +gave you the offer? There is such a row and uproar all around me, that I +must leave off. Have I forgotten to say that if you stand upon the +'dignities,' the Admiral will go in person to invite you, though he has a +foot in the gout. I conclude you will not exact this, and I <i>know</i> +they will take your acceptance of this mode of invitation as a great +favor. Say the hour and the day, and believe me yours always, +</p> +<p> +“Horace Stapylton. +</p> +<p> +“Sir Charles is come to say that if your accident does not interfere with +riding, he hopes you will send for your horses. He has ample stabling, and +is vainglorious about his beans. That short-legged chestnut you brought +from Norris would cut a good figure here, as the fences lie very close, +and you must be always 'in hand.' If you saw how the women ride! There is +one here now—a 'half-bred 'un'—that pounded us all—a +whole field of us—last Saturday. You shall see her. I won't promise +you 'll follow her across her country.” + </p> +<p> +The first impression made on the mind of Conyers by this letter was +surprise that Stapylton, with whom he had so little acquaintance, should +write to him in this tone of intimacy; Stapylton, whose cold, almost stern +manner seemed to repel any approach, and now he assumed all the +free-and-easy air of a comrade of his own years and standing. Had he +mistaken the man, or had he been misled by inferring from his bearing in +the regiment what he must be at heart? +</p> +<p> +This, however, was but a passing thought; the passage which interested him +most of all was about Hunter. Where and for what could he have left, then? +It was a regiment he had served in since he entered the army. What could +have led him to exchange? and why, when he did so, had he not written him +one line—even one—to say as much? It was to serve under +Hunter, his father's old aide-de-camp in times back, that he had entered +that regiment; to be with him, to have his friendship, his counsels, his +guidance. Colonel Hunter had treated him like a son in every respect, and +Conyers felt in his heart that this same affection and interest it was +which formed his strongest tie to the service. The question, “Would you go +with him if he gave you the offer?” was like a reflection on him, while no +such option had been extended to him. What more natural, after all, than +such an offer? so Stapylton thought,—so all the world would think. +How he thought over the constantly recurring questions of his +brother-officers: “Why didn't you go with Hunter?” “How came it that +Hunter did not name you on his staff?” “Was it fair—was it generous +in one who owed all his advancement to his father—to treat him in +this fashion?” “Were the ties of old friendship so lax as all this?” “Was +distance such an enemy to every obligation of affection?” “Would his +father believe that such a slight had been passed upon him undeservedly? +Would not the ready inference be, 'Hunter knew you to be incapable,—unequal +to the duties he required. Hunter must have his reasons for passing you +over'?” and such like. These reflections, very bitter in their way, were +broken in upon by a request from Miss Barrington for his company at +breakfast. Strange enough, he had half forgotten that there was such a +person in the world, or that he had spent the preceding evening very +pleasantly in her society. +</p> +<p> +“I hope you have had a pleasant letter,” said she, as he entered, with +Stapylton's note still in his hand. +</p> +<p> +“I can scarcely call it so, for it brings me news that our Colonel—a +very dear and kind friend to me—is about to leave us.” + </p> +<p> +“Are these not the usual chances of a soldier's life? I used to be very +familiar once on a time with such topics.” + </p> +<p> +“I have learned the tidings so vaguely, too, that I can make nothing of +them. My correspondent is a mere acquaintance,—a brother officer, +who has lately joined us, and cannot feel how deeply his news has affected +me; in fact, the chief burden of his letter is to convey an invitation to +me, and he is full of country-house people and pleasures. He writes from a +place called Cobham.” + </p> +<p> +“Sir Charles Cobham's. One of the best houses in the county.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you know them?” asked Conyers, who did not, till the words were out, +remember how awkward they might prove. +</p> +<p> +She flushed slightly for a moment, but, speedily recovering herself, said: +“Yes, we knew them once. They had just come to the country, and purchased +that estate, when our misfortunes overtook us. They showed us much +attention, and such kindness as strangers could show, and they evinced a +disposition to continue it; but, of course, our relative positions made +intercourse impossible. I am afraid,” said she, hastily, “I am talking in +riddles all this time. I ought to have told you that my brother once owned +a good estate here. We Barringtons thought a deal of ourselves in those +days.” She tried to say these words with a playful levity, but her voice +shook, and her lip trembled in spite of her. +</p> +<p> +Conyers muttered something unintelligible about “his having heard before,” + and his sorrow to have awakened a painful theme; but she stopped him +hastily, saying, “These are all such old stories now, one should be able +to talk them over unconcernedly; indeed, it is easier to do so than to +avoid the subject altogether, for there is no such egotist as your reduced +gentleman.” She made a pretext of giving him his tea, and helping him to +something, to cover the awkward pause that followed, and then asked if he +intended to accept the invitation to Cobham. +</p> +<p> +“Not if you will allow me to remain here. The doctor says three days more +will see me able to go back to my quarters.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope you will stay for a week, at least, for I scarcely expect my +brother before Saturday. Meanwhile, if you have any fancy to visit Cobham, +and make your acquaintance with the family there, remember you have all +the privileges of an inn here, to come and go, and stay at your pleasure.” + </p> +<p> +“I do not want to leave this. I wish I was never to leave it,” muttered he +below his breath. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps I guess what it is that attaches you to this place,” said she, +gently. “Shall I say it? There is something quiet, something domestic +here, that recalls 'Home.'” + </p> +<p> +“But I never knew a home,” said Conyers, falteringly. “My mother died when +I was a mere infant, and I knew none of that watchful love that first +gives the sense of home. You may be right, however, in supposing that I +cling to this spot as what should seem to me like a home, for I own to you +I feel very happy here.” + </p> +<p> +“Stay then, and be happy,” said she, holding out her hand, which he +clasped warmly, and then pressed to his lips. +</p> +<p> +“Tell your friend to come over and dine with you any day that he can tear +himself from gay company and a great house, and I will do my best to +entertain him suitably.” + </p> +<p> +“No. I don't care to do that; he is a mere acquaintance; there is no +friendship between us, and, as he is several years older than me, and far +wiser, and more man of the world, I am more chilled than cheered by his +company. But you shall read his letter, and I 'm certain you 'll make a +better guess at his nature than if I were to give you my own version of +him at any length.” So saying, he handed Stapyl-ton's note across the +table; and Miss Dinah, having deliberately put on her spectacles, began to +read it. +</p> +<p> +“It's a fine manly hand,—very bold and very legible, and says +something for the writer's frankness. Eh? 'a miserable wayside inn!' This +is less than just to the poor 'Fisherman's Home.' Positively, you must +make him come to dinner, if it be only for the sake of our character. This +man is not amiable, sir,” said she, as she read on, “though I could swear +he is pleasant company, and sometimes witty. But there is little of genial +in his pleasantry, and less of good nature in his wit.” + </p> +<p> +“Go on,” cried Conyers; “I 'm quite with you.” + </p> +<p> +“Is he a person of family?” asked she, as she read on some few lines +further. +</p> +<p> +“We know nothing about him; he joined us from a native corps, in India; +but he has a good name and, apparently, ample means. His appearance and +manner are equal to any station.” + </p> +<p> +“For all that, I don't like him, nor do I desire that you should like him. +There is no wiser caution than that of the Psalmist against 'sitting in +the seat of the scornful.' This man is a scoffer.” + </p> +<p> +“And yet it is not his usual tone. He is cold, retiring, almost shy. This +letter is not a bit like anything I ever saw in his character.” + </p> +<p> +“Another reason to distrust him. Set my mind at ease by saying 'No' to his +invitation, and let me try if I cannot recompense you by homeliness in +lieu of splendor. The young lady,” added she, as she folded the letter, +“whose horsemanship is commemorated at the expense of her breeding, must +be our doctor's daughter. She is a very pretty girl, and rides admirably. +Her good looks and her courage might have saved her the sarcasm. I have my +doubts if the man that uttered it be thorough-bred.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I 'll go and write my answer,” said Conyers, rising. “I have been +keeping his messenger waiting all this time. I will show it to you before +I send it off.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XII. THE ANSWER +</h2> +<p> +“Will this do?” said Conyers, shortly after, entering the room with a very +brief note, but which, let it be owned, cost him fully as much labor as +more practised hands occasionally bestow on a more lengthy despatch. “I +suppose it's all that's civil and proper, and I don't care to make any +needless professions. Pray read it, and give me your opinion.” It was so +brief that I may quote it:— +</p> +<p> +“Dear Captain Stapylton,—Don't feel any apprehensions about me. I am +in better quarters than I ever fell into in my life, and my accident is +not worth speaking of. I wish you had told me more of our Colonel, of +whose movements I am entirely ignorant. I am sincerely grateful to your +friends for thinking of me, and hope, ere I leave the neighborhood, to +express to Sir Charles and Lady Cobham how sensible I am of their kind +intentions towards me. +</p> +<p> +“I am, most faithfully yours, +</p> +<p> +“F. CONYERS.” + </p> +<p> +“It is very well, and tolerably legible,” said Miss Barrington, dryly; “at +least I can make out everything but the name at the end.” + </p> +<p> +“I own I do not shine in penmanship; the strange characters at the foot +were meant to represent 'Conyers.'” + </p> +<p> +“Conyers! Conyers! How long is it since I heard that name last, and how +familiar I was with it once! My nephew's dearest friend was a Conyers.” + </p> +<p> +“He must have been a relative of mine in some degree; at least, we are in +the habit of saying that all of the name are of one family.” + </p> +<p> +Not heeding what he said, the old lady had fallen back in her meditations +to a very remote “long ago,” and was thinking of a time when every letter +from India bore the high-wrought interest of a romance, of which her +nephew was the hero,—times of intense anxiety, indeed, but full of +hope withal, and glowing with all the coloring with which love and an +exalted imagination can invest the incidents of an adventurous life. +</p> +<p> +“It was a great heart he had, a splendidly generous nature, far too +high-souled and too exacting for common friendships, and so it was that he +had few friends. I am talking of my nephew,” said she, correcting herself +suddenly. “What a boon for a young man to have met him, and formed an +attachment to him. I wish you could have known him. George would have been +a noble example for you!” She paused for some minutes, and then suddenly, +as it were remembering herself, said, “Did you tell me just now, or was I +only dreaming, that you knew Ormsby Conyers?” + </p> +<p> +“Ormsby Conyers is my father's name,” said he, quickly. +</p> +<p> +“Captain in the 25th Dragoons?” asked she, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“He was so, some eighteen or twenty years ago.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, then, my heart did not deceive me,” cried she, taking his hand with +both her own, “when I felt towards you like an old friend. After we parted +last night, I asked myself, again and again, how was it that I already +felt an interest in you? What subtle instinct was it that whispered this +is the son of poor George's dearest friend,—this is the son of that +dear Ormsby Conyers of whom every letter is full? Oh, the happiness of +seeing you under this roof! And what a surprise for my poor brother, who +clings only the closer, with every year, to all that reminds him of his +boy!” + </p> +<p> +“And you knew my father, then?” asked Conyers, proudly. +</p> +<p> +“Never met him; but I believe I knew him better than many who were his +daily intimates: for years my nephew's letters were journals of their +joint lives—they seemed never separate. But you shall read them +yourself. They go back to the time when they both landed at Calcutta, +young and ardent spirits, eager for adventure, and urged by a bold +ambition to win distinction. From that day they were inseparable. They +hunted, travelled, lived together; and so attached had they become to each +other, that George writes in one letter: 'They have offered me an +appointment on the staff, but as this would separate me from Ormsby, it is +not to be thought of.' It was to me George always wrote, for my brother +never liked letter-writing, and thus I was my nephew's confidante, and +intrusted with all his secrets. Nor was there one in which your father's +name did not figure. It was, how Ormsby got him out of this scrape, or +took his duty for him, or made this explanation, or raised that sum of +money, that filled all these. At last—I never knew why or how—George +ceased to write to me, and addressed all his letters to his father, marked +'Strictly private' too, so that I never saw what they contained. My +brother, I believe, suffered deeply from the concealment, and there must +have been what to him seemed a sufficient reason for it, or he would never +have excluded me from that share in his confidence I had always possessed. +At all events, it led to a sort of estrangement between us,—the only +one of our lives. He would tell me at intervals that George was on leave; +George was at the Hills; he was expecting his troop; he had been sent here +or there; but nothing more, till one morning, as if unable to bear the +burden longer, he said, 'George has made up his mind to leave his regiment +and take service with one of the native princes. It is an arrangement +sanctioned by the Government, but it is one I grieve over and regret +greatly.' I asked eagerly to hear further about this step, but he said he +knew nothing beyond the bare fact. I then said, 'What does his friend +Conyers think of it?' and my brother dryly replied, 'I am not aware that +he has been consulted.' Our own misfortunes were fast closing around us, +so that really we had little time to think of anything but the +difficulties that each day brought forth. George's letters grew rarer and +rarer; rumors of him reached us; stories of his gorgeous mode of living, +his princely state and splendid retinue, of the high favor he enjoyed with +the Rajah, and the influence he wielded over neighboring chiefs; and then +we heard, still only by rumor, that he had married a native princess, who +had some time before been converted to Christianity. The first intimation +of the fact from himself came, when, announcing that he had sent his +daughter, a child of about five years old, to Europe to be educated—” + She paused here, and seemed to have fallen into a revery over the past; +when Conyers suddenly asked,— +</p> +<p> +“And what of my father all this time? Was the old intercourse kept up +between them?” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot tell you. I do not remember that his name occurred till the +memorable case came on before the House of Commons—the inquiry, as +it was called, into Colonel Barrington's conduct in the case of Edwardes, +a British-born subject of his Majesty, serving in the army of the Rajah of +Luckerabad. You have, perhaps, heard of it?” + </p> +<p> +“Was that the celebrated charge of torturing a British subject?” + </p> +<p> +“The same; the vilest conspiracy that ever was hatched, and the cruellest +persecution that ever broke a noble heart. And yet there were men of +honor, men of purest fame and most unblemished character, who harkened in +to that infamous cry, and actually sent out emissaries to India to collect +evidence against my poor nephew. For a while the whole country rang with +the case. The low papers, which assailed the Government, made it matter of +attack on the nature of the British rule in India, and the ministry only +sought to make George the victim to screen themselves from public +indignation. It was Admiral Byng's case once more. But I have no temper to +speak of it, even after this lapse of years; my blood boils now at the +bare memory of that foul and perjured association. If you would follow the +story, I will send you the little published narrative to your room, but, I +beseech you, do not again revert to it. How I have betrayed myself to +speak of it I know not. For many a long year I have prayed to be able to +forgive one man, who has been the bitterest enemy of our name and race. I +have asked for strength to bear the burden of our calamity, but more +earnestly a hundred-fold I have entreated that forgiveness might enter my +heart, and that if vengeance for this cruel wrong was at hand, I could be +able to say, 'No, the time for such feeling is gone by.' Let me not, then, +be tempted by any revival of this theme to recall all the sorrow and all +the indignation it once caused me. This infamous book contains the whole +story as the world then believed it. You will read it with interest, for +it concerned one whom your father dearly loved. But, again. I say, when we +meet again let us not return to it. These letters, too, will amuse you; +they are the diaries of your father's early life in India as much as +George's, but of them we can talk freely.” + </p> +<p> +It was so evident that she was speaking with a forced calm, and that all +her self-restraint might at any moment prove unequal to the effort she was +making, that Conyers, affecting to have a few words to say to Stapylton's +messenger, stole away, and hastened to his room to look over the letters +and the volume she had given him. +</p> +<p> +He had scarcely addressed himself to his task when a knock came to the +door, and at the same instant it was opened in a slow, half-hesitating +way, and Tom Dill stood before him. Though evidently dressed for the +occasion, and intending to present himself in a most favorable guise, Tom +looked far more vulgar and unprepossessing than in the worn costume of his +every-day life, his bright-buttoned blue coat and yellow waistcoat being +only aggravations of the low-bred air that unhappily beset him. Worse even +than this, however, was the fact that, being somewhat nervous about the +interview before him, Tom had taken what his father would have called a +diffusible stimulant, in the shape of “a dandy of punch,” and bore the +evidences of it in a heightened color and a very lustrous but wandering +eye. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0010" id="linkimage-0010"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/140.jpg" width="100%" alt="140 " /> +</div> +<p> +“Here I am,” said he, entering with a sort of easy swagger, but far more +affected than real, notwithstanding the “dandy.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, and what then?” asked Conyers, haughtily, for the vulgar +presumption of his manner was but a sorry advocate in his favor. “I don't +remember, that I sent for you.” + </p> +<p> +“No; but my father told me what you said to him, and I was to come up and +thank you, and say, 'Done!' to it all.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers turned a look—not a very pleased or very flattering look—at +the loutish figure before him, and in his changing color might be seen the +conflict it cost him to keep down his rising temper. He was, indeed, +sorely tried, and his hand shook as he tossed over the books on his table, +and endeavored to seem occupied in other matters. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe you forget all about it,” began Tom. “Perhaps you don't remember +that you offered to fit me out for India, and send me over with a letter +to your father—” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, I forget nothing of it; I remember it all.” He had almost said +“only too well,” but he coughed down the cruel speech, and went on +hurriedly: “You have come, however, when I am engaged,—when I have +other things to attend to. These letters here—In fact, this is not a +moment when I can attend to you. Do you understand me?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe I do,” said Tom, growing very pale. +</p> +<p> +“To-morrow, then, or the day after, or next week, will be time enough for +all this. I must think over the matter again.” + </p> +<p> +“I see,” said Tom, moodily, as he changed from one foot to the other, and +cracked the joints of his fingers, till they seemed dislocated. “I see it +all.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean by that?—what do you see?” asked Conyers, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“I see that Polly, my sister, was right; that she knew you better than any +of us,” said Tom, boldly, for a sudden rush of courage had now filled his +heart. “She said, 'Don't let him turn your head, Tom, with his fine +promises. He was in good humor and good spirits when he made them, and +perhaps meant to keep them too; but he little knows what misery +disappointment brings, and he'll never fret himself over the heavy heart +he's giving you, when he wakes in the morning with a change of mind.' And +then, she said another thing,” added he, after a pause. +</p> +<p> +“And what was the other thing?” + </p> +<p> +“She said, 'If you go up there, Tom,' says she, 'dressed out like a +shopboy in his Sunday suit, he'll be actually shocked at his having taken +an interest in you. He 'll forget all about your hard lot and your +struggling fortune, and only see your vulgarity.' 'Your vulgarity,'—that +was the word.” As he said this, his lip trembled, and the chair he leaned +on shook under his grasp. +</p> +<p> +“Go back, and tell her, then, that she was mistaken,” said Conyers, whose +own voice now quavered. “Tell her that when I give my word I keep it; that +I will maintain everything I said to you or to your father; and that when +she imputed to me an indifference as to the feelings of others, she might +have remembered whether she was not unjust to mine. Tell her that also.” + </p> +<p> +“I will,” said Tom, gravely. “Is there anything more?” “No, nothing more,” + said Conyers, who with difficulty suppressed a smile at the words and the +manner of his questioner. “Good-bye, then. You 'll send for me when you +want me,” said Tom; and he was out of the room, and half-way across the +lawn, ere Conyers could recover himself to reply. +</p> +<p> +Conyers, however, flung open the window, and cried to him to come back. +</p> +<p> +“I was nigh forgetting a most important part of the matter, Tom,” said he, +as the other entered, somewhat pale and anxious-looking. “You told me, t' +other day, that there was some payment to be made,—some sum to be +lodged before you could present yourself for examination. What about this? +When must it be done?” + </p> +<p> +“A month before I go in,” said Tom, to whom the very thought of the ordeal +seemed full of terror and heart-sinking. +</p> +<p> +“And how soon do you reckon that may be?” + </p> +<p> +“Polly says not before eight weeks at the earliest. She says we 'll have +to go over Bell on the Bones all again, and brush up the Ligaments, +besides. If it was the Navy, they 'd not mind the nerves; but they tell me +the Army fellows often take a man on the fifth pair, and I know if they do +me, it's mighty little of India I 'll see.” + </p> +<p> +“Plucked, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know what you mean by 'plucked,' but I 'd be turned back, which +is, perhaps, the same. And no great disgrace, either,” added he, with more +of courage in his voice; “Polly herself says there's days she could n't +remember all the branches of the fifth, and the third is almost as bad.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose if your sister could go up in your place, Tom, you 'd be quite +sure of your diploma?” + </p> +<p> +“It's many and many a day I wished that same,” sighed he, heavily. “If you +heard her going over the 'Subclavian,' you 'd swear she had the book in +her hand.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers could not repress a smile at this strange piece of feminine +accomplishment, but he was careful not to let Tom perceive it. Not, +indeed, that the poor fellow was in a very observant mood; Polly's +perfections, her memory, and her quickness were the themes that filled up +his mind. +</p> +<p> +“What a rare piece of luck for you to have had such a sister, Tom!” + </p> +<p> +“Don't I say it to myself?—don't I repeat the very same words every +morning when I awake? Maybe I 'll never come to any good; maybe my father +is right, and that I 'll only be a disgrace as long as I live; but I hope +one thing, at least, I 'll never be so bad that I 'll forget Polly, and +all she done for me. And I'll tell you more,” said he, with a choking +fulness in his throat; “if they turn me back at my examination, my heart +will be heavier for <i>her</i> than for myself.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, cheer up, Tom; don't look on the gloomy side. You 'll pass, I 'm +certain, and with credit too. Here 's the thirty pounds you 'll have to +lodge—” + </p> +<p> +“It is only twenty they require. And, besides, I could n't take it; it's +my father must pay.” He stammered, and hesitated, and grew pale and then +crimson, while his lips trembled and his chest heaved and fell almost +convulsively. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind, Tom,” said Conyers, who had to subdue his own +emotion by an assumed sternness. “The plan is all my own, and I will stand +no interference with it. I mean that you should pass your examination +without your father knowing one word about it. You shall come back to him +with your diploma, or whatever it is, in your hand, and say, 'There, sir, +the men who have signed their names to that do not think so meanly of me +as you do.'” + </p> +<p> +“And he'd say, the more fools they!” said Tom, with a grim smile. +</p> +<p> +“At all events,” resumed Conyers, “I 'll have my own way. Put that note in +your pocket, and whenever you are gazetted Surgeon-Major to the Guards, or +Inspector-General of all the Hospitals in Great Britain, you can repay me, +and with interest, besides, if you like it.” + </p> +<p> +“You 've given me a good long day to be in your debt,” said Tom; and he +hurried out of the room before his overfull heart should betray his +emotion. +</p> +<p> +It is marvellous how quickly a kind action done to another reconciles a +man to himself. Doubtless conscience at such times condescends to play the +courtier, and whispers, “What a good fellow you are! and how unjust the +world is when it calls you cold and haughty and ungenial!” Not that I +would assert higher and better thoughts than these do not reward him who, +Samaritan-like, binds up the wounds of misery; but I fear me much that few +of us resist self-flattery, or those little delicate adulations one can +offer to his own heart when nobody overhears him. +</p> +<p> +At all events, Conyers was not averse to this pleasure, and grew actually +to feel a strong interest for Tom Dill, all because that poor fellow had +been the recipient of his bounty; for so is it the waters of our nature +must be stirred by some act of charity or kindness, else their healing +virtues have small efficacy, and cure not. +</p> +<p> +And then he wondered and questioned himself whether Polly might not +possibly be right, and that his “governor” would maryel where and how he +had picked up so strange a specimen as Tom. That poor fellow, too, like +many an humble flower, seen not disadvantageously in its native wilds, +would look strangely out of place when transplanted and treated as an +exotic. Still he could trust to the wide and generous nature of his father +to overlook small defects of manner and breeding, and take the humble +fellow kindly. +</p> +<p> +Must I own that a considerable share of his hopefulness was derived from +thinking that the odious blue coat and brass buttons could scarcely make +part of Tom's kit for India, and that in no other costume known to +civilized man could his <i>protégé</i> look so unprepossessingly? +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIII. A FEW LEAVES FROM A BLUE-BOOK +</h2> +<p> +The journal which Miss Barrington had placed in Conyers's hands was little +else than the record of the sporting adventures of two young and very +dashing fellows. There were lion and tiger hunts, so little varied in +detail that one might serve for all, though doubtless to the narrator each +was marked with its own especial interest. There were travelling incidents +and accidents, and straits for money, and mishaps and arrests, and stories +of steeple-chases and balls all mixed up together, and recounted so very +much in the same spirit as to show how very little shadow mere +misadventure could throw across the sunshine of their every-day life. But +every now and then Conyers came upon some entry which closely touched his +heart. It was how nobly Ormsby behaved. What a splendid fellow he was! so +frank, so generous, such a horseman! “I wish you saw the astonishment of +the Mahratta fellows as Ormsby lifted the tent-pegs in full career; he +never missed one. Ormsby won the rifle-match; we all knew he would. Sir +Peregrine invited Ormsby to go with him to the Hills, but he refused, +mainly because I was not asked.” Ormsby has been offered this, that, or +t'other; in fact, that one name recurred in every second sentence, and +always with the same marks of affection. How proud, too, did Barrington +seem of his friend. “They have found out that no country-house is perfect +without Ormsby, and he is positively persecuted with invitations. I hear +the 'G.-G.' is provoked at Ormsby's refusal of a staff appointment. I'm in +rare luck; the old Rajah of Tannanoohr has asked Ormsby to a grand +elephant-hunt next week, and I 'm to go with him. I 'm to have a leave in +October. Ormsby managed it somehow; he never fails, whatever he takes in +hand. Such a fright as I got yesterday! There was a report in the camp +Ormsby was going to England with despatches; it's all a mistake, however, +he says. He believes he might have had the opportunity, had he cared for +it.” + </p> +<p> +If there was not much in these passing notices of his father, there was +quite enough to impart to them an intense degree of interest. There is a +wondrous charm, besides, in reading of the young days of those we have +only known in maturer life, in hearing of them when they were fresh, +ardent, and impetuous; in knowing, besides, how they were regarded by +contemporaries, how loved and valued. It was not merely that Ormsby +recurred in almost every page of this journal, but the record bore +testimony to his superiority and the undisputed sway he exercised over his +companions. This same power of dominating and directing had been the +distinguishing feature of his after-life, and many an unruly and turbulent +spirit had been reclaimed under Ormsby Conyers's hands. +</p> +<p> +As he read on, he grew also to feel a strong interest for the writer +himself; the very heartiness of the affection he bestowed on his father, +and the noble generosity with which he welcomed every success of that +“dear fellow Ormsby,” were more than enough to secure his interest for +him. There was a bold, almost reckless dash, too, about Barrington which +has a great charm occasionally for very young men. He adventured upon life +pretty much as he would try to cross a river; he never looked for a +shallow nor inquired for a ford, but plunged boldly in, and trusted to his +brave heart and his strong arms for the rest. No one, indeed, reading even +these rough notes, could hesitate to pronounce which of the two would +“make the spoon,” and which “spoil the horn.” Young Conyers was eager to +find some mention of the incident to which Miss Barrington had vaguely +alluded. He wanted to read George Barrington's own account before he +opened the little pamphlet she gave him, but the journal closed years +before this event; and although some of the letters came down to a later +date, none approached the period he wanted. +</p> +<p> +It was not till after some time that he remarked how much more +unfrequently his father's name occurred in the latter portion of the +correspondence. Entire pages would contain no reference to him, and in the +last letter of all there was this towards the end: “After all, I am almost +sorry that I am first for purchase, for I believe Ormsby is most anxious +for his troop. I say 'I believe,' for he has not told me so, and when I +offered to give way to him, he seemed half offended with me. You know what +a bungler I am where a matter of any delicacy is to be treated, and you +may easily fancy either that <i>I</i> mismanage the affair grossly, or +that I am as grossly mistaken. One thing is certain, I 'd see promotion +far enough, rather than let it make a coldness beween us, which could +never occur if he were as frank as he used to be. My dear aunt, I wish I +had your wise head to counsel me, for I have a scheme in my mind which I +have scarcely courage for without some advice, and for many reasons I +cannot ask O.'s opinion. Between this and the next mail I 'll think it +over carefully, and tell you what I intend. +</p> +<p> +“I told you that Ormsby was going to marry one of the Gpvernor-General's +daughters. It is all off,—at least, I hear so,—and O. has +asked for leave to go home. I suspect he is sorely cut up about this, but +he is too proud a fellow to let the world see it. Report says that Sir +Peregrine heard that he played. So he does, because he does everything, +and everything well. If he does go to England, he will certainly pay you a +visit. Make much of him for my sake; you could not make too much for his +own.” + </p> +<p> +This was the last mention of his father, and he pondered long and +thoughtfully over it. He saw, or fancied he saw, the first faint +glimmerings of a coldness between them, and he hastily turned to the +printed report of the House of Commons inquiry, to see what part his +father had taken. His name occurred but once; it was appended to an +extract of a letter, addressed to him by the Governor-General. It was a +confidential report, and much of it omitted in publication. It was +throughout, however, a warm and generous testimony to Barrington's +character. “I never knew a man,” said he, “less capable of anything mean +or unworthy; nor am I able to imagine any temptation strong enough to warp +him from what he believed to be right. That on a question of policy his +judgment might be wrong, I am quite ready to admit, but I will maintain +that, on a point of honor, he would, and must, be infallible.” Underneath +this passage there was written, in Miss Barrington's hand, “Poor George +never saw this; it was not published till after his death.” So interested +did young Conyers feel as to the friendship between these two men, and +what it could have been that made a breach between them,—if breach +there were,—that he sat a long time without opening the little +volume that related to the charge against Colonel Barrington. He had but +to open it, however, to guess the spirit in which it was written. Its +title was, “The Story of Samuel Ed-wardes, with an Account of the +Persecutions and Tortures inflicted on him by Colonel George Barrington, +when serving in command of the Forces of the Meer Nagheer Assahr, Rajah of +Luckerabad, based on the documents produced before the Committee of the +House, and private authentic information.” Opposite to this lengthy title +was an ill-executed wood-cut of a young fellow tied up to a tree, and +being flogged by two native Indians, with the inscription at foot: “Mode +of celebrating His Majesty's Birthday, 4th of June, 18—, at the +Residence of Luckerabad.” + </p> +<p> +In the writhing figure of the youth, and the ferocious glee of his +executioners, the artist had displayed all his skill in expression, and +very unmistakably shown, besides, the spirit of the publication. I have no +intention to inflict this upon my reader. I will simply give him—and +as briefly as I am able—its substance. +</p> +<p> +The Rajah of Luckerabad, an independent sovereign, living on the best of +terms with the Government of the Company, had obtained permission to +employ an English officer in the chief command of his army, a force of +some twenty-odd thousand, of all arms. It was essential that he should be +one not only well acquainted with the details of command, but fully equal +to the charge of organization of a force; a man of energy and decision, +well versed in Hindostanee, and not altogether ignorant of Persian, in +which, occasionally, correspondence was carried on. Amongst the many +candidates for an employment so certain to insure the fortune of its +possessor, Major Barrington, then a brevet Lieutenant-Colonel, was chosen. +</p> +<p> +It is not improbable that, in mere technical details of his art, he might +have had many equal and some superior to him; it was well known that his +personal requisites were above all rivalry. He was a man of great size and +strength, of a most commanding presence, an accomplished linguist in the +various dialects of Central India and a great master of all manly +exercises. To these qualities he added an Oriental taste for splendor and +pomp. It had always been his habit to live in a style of costly +extravagance, with the retinue of a petty prince, and when he travelled it +was with the following of a native chief. +</p> +<p> +Though, naturally enough, such a station as a separate command gave might +be regarded as a great object of ambition by many, there was a good deal +of surprise felt at the time that Barrington, reputedly a man of large +fortune, should have accepted it; the more so since, by his contract, he +bound himself for ten years to the Rajah, and thus forever extinguished +all prospect of advancement in his own service. There were all manner of +guesses afloat as to his reasons. Some said that he was already so +embarrassed by his extravagance that it was his only exit out of +difficulty; others pretended that he was captivated by the gorgeous +splendor of that Eastern life he loved so well; that pomp, display, and +magnificence were bribes he could not resist; and a few, who affected to +see more nearly, whispered that he was unhappy of late, had grown peevish +and uncompanionable, and sought any change, so that it took him out of his +regiment. Whatever the cause, he bade his brother-officers farewell +without revealing it, and set out for his new destination. He had never +anticipated a life of ease or inaction, but he was equally far from +imagining anything like what now awaited him. Corruption, falsehood, +robbery, on every hand! The army was little else than a brigand +establishment, living on the peasants, and exacting, at the sword point, +whatever they wanted. There was no obedience to discipline. The Rajah +troubled himself about nothing but his pleasures, and, indeed, passed his +days so drugged with opium as to be almost insensible to all around him. +In the tribunals there was nothing but bribery, and the object of every +one seemed to be to amass fortunes as rapidly as possible, and then hasten +away from a country so insecure and dangerous. +</p> +<p> +For some days after his arrival, Barrington hesitated whether he would +accept a charge so apparently hopeless; his bold heart, however, decided +the doubt, and he resolved to remain. His first care was to look about him +for one or two more trustworthy than the masses, if such there should be, +to assist him, and the Rajah referred him to his secretary for that +purpose. It was with sincere pleasure Barring-ton discovered that this man +was English,—that is, his father had been an Englishman, and his +mother was a Malabar slave in the Rajah's household: his name was +Edwardes, but called by the natives Ali Edwardes. He looked about sixty, +but his real age was about forty-six when Barrington came to the +Residence. He was a man of considerable ability, uniting all the craft and +subtlety of the Oriental with the dogged perseverance of the Briton. He +had enjoyed the full favor of the Rajah for nigh twenty years, and was +strongly averse to the appointment of an English officer to the command of +the army, knowing full well the influence it would have over his own +fortunes. He represented to the Rajah that the Company was only intriguing +to absorb his dominions with their own; that the new Commander-in-chief +would be their servant and not his; that it was by such machinery as this +they secretly possessed themselves of all knowledge of the native +sovereigns, learned their weakness and their strength, and through such +agencies hatched those plots and schemes by which many a chief had been +despoiled of his state. +</p> +<p> +The Rajah, however, saw that if he had a grasping Government on one side, +he had an insolent and rebellious army on the other. There was not much to +choose between them, but he took the side that he thought the least bad, +and left the rest to Fate. +</p> +<p> +Having failed with the Rajah, Edwardes tried what he could do with +Barrington; and certainly, if but a tithe of what he told him were true, +the most natural thing in the world would have been that he should give up +his appointment, and quit forever a land so hopelessly sunk in vice and +corruption. Cunning and crafty as he was, however, he made one mistake, +and that an irreparable one. When dilating on the insubordination of the +army, its lawless ways and libertine habits, he declared that nothing +short of a superior force in the field could have any chance of enforcing +discipline. “As to a command,” said he, “it is simply ludicrous. Let any +man try it and they will cut him down in the very midst of his staff.” + </p> +<p> +That unlucky speech decided the question; and Barring-ton simply said,— +</p> +<p> +“I have heard plenty of this sort of thing in India; I never saw it,—I +'ll stay.” + </p> +<p> +Stay he did; and he did more: he reformed that rabble, and made of them a +splendid force, able, disciplined, and obedient. With the influence of his +success, added to that derived from the confidence reposed in him by the +Rajah, he introduced many and beneficial changes into the administration; +he punished peculators by military law, and brought knavish sutlers to the +drum-head. In fact, by the exercise of a salutary despotism, he rescued +the state from an impending bankruptcy and ruin, placed its finances in a +healthy condition, and rendered the country a model of prosperity and +contentment. The Rajah had, like most of his rank and class, been in +litigation, occasionally in armed contention, with some of his neighbors,—one +especially, an uncle, whom he accused of having robbed him, when his +guardian, of a large share of his heritage. This suit had gone on for +years, varied at times by little raids into each other's territories, to +burn villages and carry away cattle. Though with a force more than +sufficient to have carried the question with a strong hand, Barrington +preferred the more civilized mode of leaving the matter in dispute to +others, and suggested the Company as arbitrator. The negotiations led to a +lengthy correspondence, in which Edwardes and his son, a youth of +seventeen or eighteen, were actively occupied; and although Barrington was +not without certain misgivings as to their trustworthiness and honesty, he +knew their capacity, and had not, besides, any one at all capable of +replacing them. While these affairs were yet pending, Barrington married +the daughter of the Meer, a young girl whose mother had been a convert to +Christianity, and who had herself been educated by a Catholic missionary. +She died in the second year of her marriage, giving birth to a daughter; +but Barrington had now become so completely the centre of all action in +the state, that the Rajah interfered in nothing, leaving in his hands the +undisputed control of the Government; nay, more, he made him his son by +adoption, leaving to him not alone all his immense personal property, but +the inheritance to his throne. Though Barrington was advised by all the +great legal authorities he consulted in England that such a bequest could +not be good in law, nor a British subject be permitted to succeed to the +rights of an Eastern sovereignty, he obstinately declared that the point +was yet untried; that, however theoretically the opinion might be correct, +practically the question had not been determined, nor had any case yet +occurred to rule as a precedent on it. If he was not much of a lawyer, he +was of a temperament that could not brook opposition. In fact, to make him +take any particular road in life, you had only to erect a barricade on it. +When, therefore, he was told the matter could not be, his answer was, “It +shall!” Calcutta lawyers, men deep in knowledge of Oriental law and +custom, learned Moonshees and Pundits, were despatched by him at enormous +cost, to England, to confer with the great authorities at home. Agents +were sent over to procure the influence of great Parliamentary speakers +and the leaders in the press to the cause. For a matter which, in the +beginning, he cared scarcely anything, if at all, he had now grown to feel +the most intense and absorbing interest. Half persuading himself that the +personal question was less to him than the great privilege and right of an +Englishman, he declared that he would rather die a beggar in the defence +of the cause than abandon it. So possessed was he, indeed, of his rights, +and so resolved to maintain them, supported by a firm belief that they +would and must be ultimately conceded to him, that in the correspondence +with the other chiefs every reference which spoke of the future +sovereignty of Luckerabad included his own name and title, and this with +an ostentation quite Oriental. +</p> +<p> +Whether Edwardes had been less warm and energetic in the cause than +Barrington expected, or whether his counsels were less palatable, certain +it is he grew daily more and more distrustful of him; but an event soon +occurred to make this suspicion a certainty. +</p> +<p> +The negotiations between the Meer and his uncle had been so successfully +conducted by Barrington, that the latter agreed to give up three +“Pegunnahs,” or villages he had unrightfully seized upon, and to pay a +heavy mulct, besides, for the unjust occupation of them. This settlement +had been, as may be imagined, a work of much time and labor, and requiring +not only immense forbearance and patience, but intense watchfulness and +unceasing skill and craft. Edwardes, of course, was constantly engaged in +the affair, with the details of which he had been for years familiar. Now, +although Barrington was satisfied with the zeal he displayed, he was less +so with his counsels, Edwardes always insisting that in every dealing with +an Oriental you must inevitably be beaten if you would not make use of all +the stratagem and deceit he is sure to employ against you. There was not a +day on which the wily secretary did not suggest some cunning expedient, +some clever trick; and Barrington's abrupt rejection of them only +impressed him with a notion of his weakness and deficiency. +</p> +<p> +One morning—it was after many defeats—Edwardes appeared with +the draft of a document he had been ordered to draw out, and in which, of +his own accord, he had made a large use of threats to the neighboring +chief, should he continue to protract these proceedings. These threats +very unmistakably pointed to the dire consequences of opposing the great +Government of the Company; for, as the writer argued, the succession to +the Ameer being already vested in an Englishman, it is perfectly clear the +powerful nation he belongs to will take a very summary mode of dealing +with this question, if not settled before he comes to the throne. He +pressed, therefore, for an immediate settlement, as the best possible +escape from difficulty. +</p> +<p> +Barrington scouted the suggestion indignantly; he would not hear of it. +</p> +<p> +“What,” said he, “is it while these very rights are in litigation that I +am to employ them as a menace? Who is to secure me being one day Rajah of +Luckerabad? Not you, certainly, who have never ceased to speak coldly of +my claims. Throw that draft into the fire, and never propose a like one to +me again!” + </p> +<p> +The rebuke was not forgotten. Another draft was, however, prepared, and in +due time the long-pending negotiations were concluded, the Meer's uncle +having himself come to Luckerabad to ratify the contract, which, being +engrossed on a leaf of the Rajah's Koran, was duly signed and sealed by +both. +</p> +<p> +It was during the festivities incidental to this visit that Edwardes, who +had of late made a display of wealth and splendor quite unaccountable, +made a proposal to the Rajah for the hand of his only unmarried daughter, +sister to Barrington's wife. The Rajah, long enervated by excess and +opium, probably cared little about the matter; there were, indeed, but a +few moments in each day when he could be fairly pronounced awake. He +referred the question to Barrington. Not satisfied with an insulting +rejection of the proposal, Barrington, whose passionate moments were +almost madness, tauntingly asked by what means Edwardes had so suddenly +acquired the wealth which had prompted this demand. He hinted that the +sources of his fortune were more than suspected, and at last, carried away +by anger, for the discussion grew violent, he drew from his desk a slip of +paper, and held it up. “When your father was drummed out of the 4th Bengal +Fusiliers for theft, of which this is the record, the family was scarcely +so ambitious.” For an instant Edwardes seemed overcome almost to fainting; +but he rallied, and, with a menace of his clenched hand, but without one +word, he hurried away before Barrington could resent the insult. It was +said that he did not return to his house, but, taking the horse of an +orderly that he found at the door, rode away from the palace, and on the +same night crossed the frontier into a neighboring state. +</p> +<p> +It was on the following morning, as Barrington was passing a cavalry +regiment in review, that young Edwardes, forcing his way through the +staff, insolently asked, “What had become of his father?” and at the same +instant levelling a pistol, he fired. The ball passed through Barrington's +shako, and so close to the head that it grazed it. It was only with a loud +shout to abstain that Barrington arrested the gleaming sabres that now +flourished over his head. “Your father has fled, youngster!” cried he. +“When you show him <i>that</i>,”—and he struck him across the face +with his horsewhip,—“tell him how near you were to have been an +assassin!” With this savage taunt, he gave orders that the young fellow +should be conducted to the nearest frontier, and turned adrift. Neither +father nor son ever were seen there again. +</p> +<p> +Little did George Barrington suspect what was to come of that morning's +work. Through what channel Edwardes worked at first was not known, but +that he succeeded in raising up for himself friends in England is certain; +by their means the very gravest charges were made against Barrington. One +allegation was that by a forged document, claiming to be the assent of the +English Government to his succession, he had obtained the submission of +several native chiefs to his rule and a cession of territory to the Rajah +of Luckerabad; and another charged him with having cruelly tortured a +British subject named Samuel Edwardes,—an investigation entered into +by a Committee of the House, and becoming, while it lasted, one of the +most exciting subjects of public interest. Nor was the anxiety lessened by +the death of the elder Edwardes, which occurred during the inquiry, and +which Barrington's enemies declared to be caused by a broken heart; and +the martyred or murdered Edwardes was no uncommon heading to a paragraph +of the time. +</p> +<p> +Conyers turned to the massive Blue-book that contained the proceedings “in +Committee,” but only to glance at the examination of witnesses, whose very +names were unfamiliar to him. He could perceive, however, that the inquiry +was a long one, and, from the tone of the member at whose motion it was +instituted, angry and vindictive. +</p> +<p> +Edwardes appeared to have preferred charges of long continued persecution +and oppression, and there was native testimony in abundance to sustain the +allegation; while the British Commissioner sent to Luckerabad came back so +prejudiced against Barrington, from his proud and haughty bearing, that +his report was unfavorable to him in all respects. There was, it is true, +letters from various high quarters, all speaking of Barrington's early +career as both honorable and distinguished; and, lastly, there was one +signed Ormsby Conyers, a warm-hearted testimony “to the most +straightforward gentleman and truest friend I have ever known.” These were +words the young man read and re-read a dozen times. +</p> +<p> +Conyers turned eagerly to read what decision had been come to by the +Committee, but the proceedings had come abruptly to an end by George +Barrington's death. A few lines at the close of the pamphlet mentioned +that, being summoned to appear before the Governor-General in Council at +Calcutta, Barrington refused. An armed force was despatched to occupy +Luckerabad, on the approach of which Barrington rode forth to meet them, +attended by a brilliant staff,—with what precise object none knew; +but the sight of a considerable force, drawn up at a distance in what +seemed order of battle, implied at least an intention to resist. Coming on +towards the advanced pickets at a fast gallop, and not slackening speed +when challenged, the men, who were Bengal infantry, fired, and Barrington +fell, pierced by four bullets. He never uttered a word after, though he +lingered on till evening. The force was commanded by Lieutenant-General +Conyers. +</p> +<p> +There was little more to tell. The Rajah, implicated in the charges +brought against Barrington, and totally unable to defend himself, +despatched a confidential minister, Meer Mozarjah, to Europe to do what he +might by bribery. This unhappy blunder filled the measure of his ruin, and +after a very brief inquiry the Rajah was declared to have forfeited his +throne and all his rights of succession. The Company took possession of +Luckerabad, as a portion of British India, but from a generous compassion +towards the deposed chief, graciously accorded him a pension of ten +thousand rupees a month during his life. +</p> +<p> +My reader will bear in mind that I have given him this recital, not as it +came before Conyers, distorted by falsehood and disfigured by +misstatements, but have presented the facts as nearly as they might be +derived from a candid examination of all the testimony adduced. Ere I +return to my own tale, I ought to add that Edwardes, discredited and +despised by some, upheld and maintained by others, left Calcutta with the +proceeds of a handsome subscription raised in his behalf. Whether he went +to reside in Europe, or retired to some other part of India, is not known. +He was heard of no more. +</p> +<p> +As for the Rajah, his efforts still continued to obtain a revision of the +sentence pronounced upon him, and his case was one of those which +newspapers slur over and privy councils try to escape from, leaving to +Time to solve what Justice has no taste for. +</p> +<p> +But every now and then a Blue-book would appear, headed “East India (the +deposed Rajah of Luckerabad),” while a line in an evening paper would +intimate that the Envoy of Meer Nagheer Assahr had arrived at a certain +West-end hotel to prosecute the suit of his Highness before the Judicial +Committee of the Lords. How pleasantly does a paragraph dispose of a whole +life-load of sorrows and of wrongs that, perhaps, are breaking the hearts +that carry them! +</p> +<p> +While I once more apologize to my reader for the length to which this +narrative has run, I owe it to myself to state that, had I presented it in +the garbled and incorrect version which came before Conyers, and had I +interpolated all the misconceptions he incurred, the mistakes he first +fell into and then corrected, I should have been far more tedious and +intolerable still; and now I am again under weigh, with easy canvas, but +over a calm sea, and under a sky but slightly clouded. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIV. BARRINGTON'S FORD +</h2> +<p> +Conyers had scarcely finished his reading when he was startled by the +galloping of horses under his window; so close, indeed, did they come that +they seemed to shake the little cottage with their tramp. He looked out, +but they had already swept past, and were hidden from his view by the +copse that shut out the river. At the same instant he heard the confused +sound of many voices, and what sounded to him like the plash of horses in +the stream. +</p> +<p> +Urged by a strong curiosity, he hurried downstairs and made straight for +the river by a path that led through the trees; but before he could emerge +from the cover he heard cries of “Not there! not there! Lower down!” “No, +no! up higher! up higher! Head up the stream, or you 'll be caught in the +gash!” “Don't hurry; you've time enough!” + </p> +<p> +When he gained the bank, it was to see three horsemen, who seemed to be +cheering, or, as it might be, warning a young girl who, mounted on a +powerful black horse, was deep in the stream, and evidently endeavoring to +cross it. Her hat hung on the back of her neck by its ribbon, and her hair +had also fallen down; but one glance was enough to show that she was a +consummate horsewoman, and whose courage was equal to her skill; for while +steadily keeping her horse's head to the swift current, she was careful +not to control him overmuch, or impede the free action of his powers. +Heeding, as it seemed, very little the counsels or warnings showered on +her by the bystanders, not one of whom, to Conyers's intense amazement, +had ventured to accompany her, she urged her horse steadily forward. +</p> +<p> +“Don't hurry,—take it easy!” called out one of the horsemen, as he +looked at his watch. “You have fifty-three minutes left, and it's all +turf.” + </p> +<p> +“She 'll do it,—I know she will!” “She 'll lose,—she must +lose!” “It's ten miles to Foynes Gap!” “It's more!” “It's less!” “There!—see!—she's +in, by Jove! she's in!” These varying comments were now arrested by the +intense interest of the moment, the horse having impatiently plunged into +a deep pool, and struck out to swim with all the violent exertion of an +affrighted animal. “Keep his head up!” “Let him free, quite free!” “Get +your foot clear of the stirrup!” cried out the bystanders, while in lower +tones they muttered, “She would cross here!” “It's all her own fault!” + Just at this instant she turned in her saddle, and called out something +which, drowned in the rush of the river, did not reach them. +</p> +<p> +“Don't you see,” cried Conyers, passionately, for his temper could no +longer endure the impassive attitude of this on-looking, “one of the reins +is broken, her bridle is smashed?” + </p> +<p> +And, without another word, he sprang into the river, partly wading, partly +swimming, and soon reached the place where the horse, restrained by one +rein alone, swam in a small circle, fretted by restraint and maddened by +inability to resist. +</p> +<p> +“Leave him to me,—let go your rein,” said Conyers, as he grasped the +bridle close to the bit; and the animal, accepting the guidance, suffered +himself to be led quietly till he reached the shallow. Once there, he +bounded wildly forward, and, splashing through the current, leaped up the +bank, where he was immediately caught by the others. +</p> +<p> +By the time Conyers had gained the land, the girl had quitted her saddle +and entered the cottage, never so much as once turning a look on him who +had rescued her. If he could not help feeling mortified at this show of +indifference, he was not less puzzled by the manner of the others, who, +perfectly careless of his dripping condition, discussed amongst themselves +how the bridle broke, and what might have happened if the leather had +proved tougher. +</p> +<p> +“It's always the way with her,” muttered one, sulkily. +</p> +<p> +“I told her to ride the match in a ring-snaffle, but she's a mule in +obstinacy! She 'd have won easily—ay, with five minutes to spare—if +she'd have crossed at Nunsford. I passed there last week without wetting a +girth.” + </p> +<p> +“She 'll not thank <i>you</i> young gentleman, whoever you are,” said the +oldest of the party, turning to Conyers, “for your gallantry. She 'll only +remember you as having helped her to lose a wager!” + </p> +<p> +“That's true!” cried another. “I never got as much as thank you for +catching her horse one day at Lyrath, though it threw me out of the whole +run afterwards.” + </p> +<p> +“And this was a wager, then?” said Conyers. +</p> +<p> +“Yes. An English officer that is stopping at Sir Charles's said yesterday +that nobody could ride from Lowe's Folly to Foynes as the crow flies; and +four of us took him up—twenty-five pounds apiece—that Polly +Dill would do it,—and against time, too,—an hour and forty.” + </p> +<p> +“On a horse of mine,” chimed in another,—“Bayther-shini” + </p> +<p> +“I must say it does not tell very well for your chivalry in these parts,” + said Conyers, angrily. “Could no one be found to do the match without +risking a young girl's life on it?” + </p> +<p> +A very hearty burst of merriment met this speech, and the elder of the +party rejoined,— +</p> +<p> +“You must be very new to this country, or you'd not have said that, sir. +There's not a man in the hunt could get as much out of a horse as that +girl.” + </p> +<p> +“Not to say,” added another, with a sly laugh, “that the Englishman gave +five to one against her when he heard she was going to ride.” + </p> +<p> +Disgusted by what he could not but regard as a most disgraceful wager, +Conyers turned away, and walked into the house. +</p> +<p> +“Go and change your clothes as fast as you can,” said Miss Barrington, as +she met him in the porch. “I am quite provoked you should have wetted your +feet in such a cause.” + </p> +<p> +It was no time to ask for explanations; and Conyers hurried away to his +room, marvelling much at what he had heard, but even more astonished by +the attitude of cool and easy indifference as to what might have +imperilled a human life. He had often heard of the reckless habits and +absurd extravagances of Irish life, but he fancied that they appertained +to a time long past, and that society had gradually assumed the tone and +the temper of the English. Then he began to wonder to what class in life +these persons belonged. The girl, so well as he could see, was certainly +handsome, and appeared ladylike; and yet, why had she not even by a word +acknowledged the service he rendered her? And lastly, what could old Miss +Barrington mean by that scornful speech? These were all great puzzles to +him, and like many great puzzles only the more embarrassing the more they +were thought over. +</p> +<p> +The sound of voices drew him now to the window, and he saw one of the +riding-party in converse with Darby at the door. They talked in a low tone +together, and laughed; and then the horseman, chucking a half-crown +towards Darby, said aloud,— +</p> +<p> +“And tell her that we 'll send the boat down for her as soon as we get +back.” + </p> +<p> +Darby touched his hat gratefully, and was about to retire within the house +when he caught sight of Conyers at the window. He waited till the rider +had turned the angle of the road, and then said,— +</p> +<p> +“That's Mr. St. George. They used to call him the Slasher, he killed so +many in duels long ago; but he 's like a lamb now.” + </p> +<p> +“And the young lady?” + </p> +<p> +“The young lady is it!” said Darby, with the air of one not exactly +concurring in the designation. “She's old Dill's daughter, the doctor that +attends you.” + </p> +<p> +“What was it all about?” + </p> +<p> +“It was a bet they made with an English captain this morning that she 'd +ride from Lowe's Folly to the Gap in an hour and a half. The Captain took +a hundred on it, because he thought she 'd have to go round by the bridge; +and they pretinded the same, for they gave all kinds of directions about +clearing the carts out of the road, for it's market-day at Thomastown; and +away went the Captain as hard as he could, to be at the bridge first, to +'time her,' as she passed. But he has won the money!” sighed he, for the +thought of so much Irish coin going into a Saxon pocket completely +overcame him; “and what's more,” added he, “the gentleman says it was all +your fault!” + </p> +<p> +“All my fault!” cried Conyers, indignantly. “All my fault! Do they imagine +that I either knew or cared for their trumpery wager! I saw a girl +struggling in a danger from which not one of them had the manliness to +rescue her!” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, take my word for it,” burst in Darby, “it's not courage they want!” + </p> +<p> +“Then it is something far better than even courage, and I'd like to tell +them so.” + </p> +<p> +And he turned away as much disgusted with Darby as with the rest of his +countrymen. Now, all the anger that filled his breast was not in reality +provoked by the want of gallantry that he condemned; a portion, at least, +was owing to the marvellous indifference the young lady had manifested to +her preserver. Was peril such an every-day incident of Irish life that no +one cared for it, or was gratitude a quality not cultivated in this +strange land? Such were the puzzles that tormented him as he descended to +the drawing-room. +</p> +<p> +As he opened the door, he heard Miss Barrington's voice, in a tone which +he rightly guessed to be reproof, and caught the words, “Just as unwise as +it is unbecoming,” when he entered. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Conyers, Miss Dill,” said the old lady, stiffly; “the young gentleman +who saved you, the heroine you rescued!” The two allocutions were +delivered with a gesture towards each. To cover a moment of extreme +awkwardness, Conyers blundered out something about being too happy, and a +slight service, and a hope of no ill consequences to herself. +</p> +<p> +“Have no fears on that score, sir,” broke in Miss Dinah. “Manly young +ladies are the hardiest things in nature. They are as insensible to danger +as they are to—” She stopped, and grew crimson, partly from anger +and partly from the unspoken word that had almost escaped her. +</p> +<p> +“Nay, madam,” said Polly, quietly, “I am really very much 'ashamed.'” And, +simple as the words were, Miss Barrington felt the poignancy of their +application to herself, and her hand trembled over the embroidery she was +working. +</p> +<p> +She tried to appear calm, but in vain; her color came and went, and the +stitches, in spite of her, grew irregular; so that, after a moment's +struggle, she pushed the frame away, and left the room. While this very +brief and painful incident was passing, Conyers was wondering to himself +how the dashing horsewoman, with flushed cheek, flashing eye, and +dishevelled hair, could possibly be the quiet, demure girl, with a +downcast look, and almost Quaker-like simplicity of demeanor. It is but +fair to add, though he himself did not discover it, that the contributions +of Miss Dinah's wardrobe, to which poor Polly was reduced for dress, were +not exactly of a nature to heighten her personal attractions; nor did a +sort of short jacket, and a very much beflounced petticoat, set off the +girl's figure to advantage. Polly never raised her eyes from the work she +was sewing as Miss Barrington withdrew, but, in a low, gentle voice, said, +“It was very good of you, sir, to come to my rescue, but you mustn't think +ill of my countrymen for not having done so; they had given their word of +honor not to lead a fence, nor open a gate, nor, in fact, aid me in any +way.” + </p> +<p> +“So that, if they could win their wager, your peril was of little matter,” + broke he in. +</p> +<p> +She gave a little low, quiet laugh, perhaps as much at the energy as at +the words of his speech. “After all,” said she, “a wetting is no great +misfortune; the worst punishment of my offence was one that I never +contemplated.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean?” asked he. +</p> +<p> +“Doing penance for it in this costume,” said she, drawing out the stiff +folds of an old brocaded silk, and displaying a splendor of flowers that +might have graced a peacock's tail; “I never so much as dreamed of this!” + </p> +<p> +There was something so comic in the way she conveyed her distress that he +laughed outright. She joined him; and they were at once at their ease +together. +</p> +<p> +“I think Miss Barrington called you Mr. Conyers,” said she; “and if so, I +have the happiness of feeling that my gratitude is bestowed where already +there has been a large instalment of the sentiment. It is you who have +been so generous and so kind to my poor brother.” + </p> +<p> +“Has he told you, then, what we have been planning together?” + </p> +<p> +“He has told me all that <i>you</i> had planned out for him,” said she, +with a very gracious smile, which very slightly colored her cheek, and +gave great softness to her expression. “My only fear was that the poor boy +should have lost his head completely, and perhaps exaggerated to himself +your intentions towards him; for, after all, I can scarcely think—” + </p> +<p> +“What is it that you can scarcely think?” asked he, after a long pause. +</p> +<p> +“Not to say,” resumed she, unheeding his question, “that I cannot imagine +how this came about. What could have led him to tell <i>you</i>—a +perfect stranger to him—his hopes and fears, his struggles and his +sorrows? How could you—by what magic did you inspire him with that +trustful confidence which made him open his whole heart before you? Poor +Tom, who never before had any confessor than myself!” + </p> +<p> +“Shall I tell you how it came about? It was talking of <i>you!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“Of me! talking of me!” and her cheek now flushed more deeply. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, we had rambled on over fifty themes, not one of which seemed to +attach him strongly, till, in some passing allusion to his own cares and +difficulties, he mentioned one who has never ceased to guide and comfort +him; who shared not alone his sorrows, but his hard hours of labor, and +turned away from her own pleasant paths to tread the dreary road of toil +beside him.” + </p> +<p> +“I think he might have kept all this to himself,” said she, with a tone of +almost severity. +</p> +<p> +“How could he? How was it possible to tell me his story, and not touch +upon what imparted the few tints of better fortune that lighted it? I'm +certain, besides, that there is a sort of pride in revealing how much of +sympathy and affection we have derived from those better than ourselves, +and I could see that he was actually vain of what you had done for him.” + </p> +<p> +“I repeat, he might have kept this to himself. But let us leave this +matter; and now tell me,—for I own I can hardly trust my poor +brother's triumphant tale,—tell me seriously what the plan is?” + </p> +<p> +Conyers hesitated for a few seconds, embarrassed how to avoid mention of +himself, or to allude but passingly to his own share in the project. At +last, as though deciding to dash boldly into the question, he said, “I +told him, if he 'd go out to India, I 'd give him such a letter to my +father that his fortune would be secure. My governor is something of a +swell out there,”—and he reddened, partly in shame, partly in pride, +as he tried to disguise his feeling by an affectation of ease,—“and +that with <i>him</i> for a friend, Tom would be certain of success. You +smile at my confidence, but you don't know India, and what scores of fine +things are—so to say—to be had for asking; and although +doctoring is all very well, there are fifty other ways to make a fortune +faster. Tom could be a Receiver of Revenue; he might be a Political +Resident. You don't know what they get. There's a fellow at Baroda has +four thousand rupees a month, and I don't know how much more for +dâk-money.” + </p> +<p> +“I can't help smiling,” said she, “at the notion of poor Tom in a +palanquin. But, seriously, sir, is all this possible? or might it not be +feared that your father, when he came to see my brother—who, with +many a worthy quality, has not much to prepossess in his favor,—when, +I say, he came to see your <i>protégé</i> is it not likely that he might—might—hold +him more cheaply than you do?” + </p> +<p> +“Not when he presents a letter from me; not when it's I that have taken +him up. You 'll believe me, perhaps, when I tell you what happened when I +was but ten years old. We were up at Rangoon, in the Hills, when a +dreadful hurricane swept over the country, destroying everything before +it; rice, paddy, the indigo-crop, all were carried away, and the poor +people left totally destitute. A subscription-list was handed about +amongst the British residents, to afford some aid in the calamity, and it +was my tutor, a native Moonshee, who went about to collect the sums. One +morning he came back somewhat disconsolate at his want of success. A +payment of eight thousand rupees had to be made for grain on that day, and +he had not, as he hoped and expected, the money ready. He talked freely to +me of his disappointment, so that, at last, my feelings being worked upon, +I took up my pen and wrote down my name on the list, with the sum of eight +thousand rupees to it Shocked at what he regarded as an act of levity, he +carried the paper to my father, who at once said, 'Fred wrote it; his name +shall not be dishonored;' and the money was paid. I ask you, now, am I +reckoning too much on one who could do that, and for a mere child too?” + </p> +<p> +“That was nobly done,” said she, with enthusiasm; and though Conyers went +on, with warmth, to tell more of his father's generous nature, she seemed +less to listen than to follow out some thread of her own reflections. Was +it some speculation as to the temperament the son of such a father might +possess? or was it some pleasurable revery regarding one who might do any +extravagance and yet be forgiven? My reader may guess this, perhaps,—I +cannot. Whatever her speculation, it lent a very charming expression to +her features,—that air of gentle, tranquil happiness we like to +believe the lot of guileless, simple natures. +</p> +<p> +Conyers, like many young men of his order, was very fond of talking of +himself, of his ways, his habits, and his temper, and she listened to him +very prettily,—so prettily, indeed, that when Darby, slyly peeping +in at the half-opened door, announced that the boat had come, he felt well +inclined to pitch the messenger into the stream. +</p> +<p> +“I must go and say good-bye to Miss Barrington,” said Polly, rising. “I +hope that this rustling finery will impart some dignity to my demeanor.” + And drawing wide the massive folds, she made a very deep courtesy, +throwing back her head haughtily as she resumed her height in admirable +imitation of a bygone school of manners. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0012" id="linkimage-0012"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/166.jpg" width="100%" alt="166 " /> +</div> +<p> +“Very well,—very well, indeed! Quite as like what it is meant for as +is Miss Polly Dill for the station she counterfeits!” said Miss Dinah, as, +throwing wide the door, she stood before them. +</p> +<p> +“I am overwhelmed by your flattery, madam,” said Polly, who, though very +red, lost none of her self-possession; “but I feel that, like the +traveller who tried on Charlemagne's armor, I am far more equal to combat +in my every-day clothes.” + </p> +<p> +“Do not enter the lists with me in either,” said Miss Dinah, with a look +of the haughtiest insolence. “Mr. Conyers, will you let me show you my +flower-garden?” + </p> +<p> +“Delighted! But I will first see Miss Dill to her boat.” “As you please, +sir,” said the old lady; and she withdrew with a proud toss of her head +that was very unmistakable in its import. +</p> +<p> +“What a severe correction that was!” said Polly, half gayly, as she went +along, leaning on his arm. “And <i>you</i> know that, whatever my +offending, there was no mimicry in it. I was simply thinking of some +great-grandmother who had, perhaps, captivated the heroes of Dettingen; +and, talking of heroes, how courageous of you to come to my rescue!” + </p> +<p> +Was it that her arm only trembled slightly, or did it really press gently +on his own as she said this? Certainly Conyers inclined to the latter +hypothesis, for he drew her more closely to his side, and said, “Of course +I stood by you. She was all in the wrong, and I mean to tell her so.” + </p> +<p> +“Not if you would serve me,” said she, eagerly. “I have paid the penalty, +and I strongly object to be sentenced again. Oh, here's the boat!” + </p> +<p> +“Why it's a mere skiff. Are you safe to trust yourself in such a thing?” + asked he, for the canoe-shaped “cot” was new to him. +</p> +<p> +“Of course!” said she, lightly stepping in. “There is even room for +another.” Then, hastily changing her theme, she asked, “May I tell poor +Tom what you have said to me, or is it just possible that you will come up +one of these days and see us?” + </p> +<p> +“If I might be permitted—” + </p> +<p> +“Too much honor for us!” said she, with such a capital imitation of his +voice and manner that he burst into a laugh in spite of himself. +</p> +<p> +“Mayhap Miss Bamngton was not so far wrong: after all, you <i>are</i> a +terrible mimic.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it a promise, then? Am I to say to my brother you will come?” said +she, seriously. +</p> +<p> +“Faithfully!” said he, waving his hand, for the boatmen had already got +the skiff under weigh, and were sending her along like an arrow from a +bow. +</p> +<p> +Polly turned and kissed her hand to him, and Conyers muttered something +over his own stupidity for not being beside her, and then turned sulkily +back towards the cottage. A few hours ago and he had thought he could have +passed his life here; there was a charm in the unbroken tranquillity that +seemed to satisfy the longings of his heart, and now, all of a sudden, the +place appeared desolate. Have you never, dear reader, felt, in gazing on +some fair landscape, with mountain and stream and forest before you, that +the scene was perfect, wanting nothing in form or tone or color, till +suddenly a flash of strong sunlight from behind a cloud lit up some spot +with a glorious lustre, to fade away as quickly into the cold tint it had +worn before? Have you not felt then, I say, that the picture had lost its +marvellous attraction, and that the very soul of its beauty had departed? +In vain you try to recall the past impression; your memory will mourn over +the lost, and refuse to be comforted. And so it is often in life: the +momentary charm that came unexpectedly can become all in all to our +imaginations, and its departure leave a blank, like a death, behind it. +</p> +<p> +Nor was he altogether satisfied with Miss Barrington. The “old woman”—alas! +for his gallantry, it was so that he called her to himself—was +needlessly severe. Why should a mere piece of harmless levity be so +visited? At all events, he felt certain that he himself would have shown a +more generous spirit. Indeed, when Polly had quizzed him, he took it all +good-naturedly, and by thus turning his thoughts to his natural goodness +and the merits of his character, he at length grew somewhat more +well-disposed to the world at large. He knew he was naturally forgiving, +and he felt he was very generous. Scores of fellows, bred up as he was, +would have been perfectly unendurable; they would have presumed on their +position, and done this, that, and t' other. Not one of them would have +dreamed of taking up a poor ungainly bumpkin, a country doctor's cub, and +making a man of him; not one of them would have had the heart to conceive +or the energy to carry out such a project. And yet this he would do. Polly +herself, sceptical as she was, should be brought to admit that he had kept +his word. Selfish fellows would limit their plans to their own +engagements, and weak fellows could be laughed out of their intentions; +but <i>he</i> flattered himself that he was neither of these, and it was +really fortunate that the world should see how little spoiled a fine +nature could be, though surrounded with all the temptations that are +supposed to be dangerous. +</p> +<p> +In this happy frame—for he was now happy—he reentered the +cottage. “What a coxcomb!” will say my reader. Be it so. But it was a +coxcomb who wanted to be something better. +</p> +<p> +Miss Barrington met him in the porch, not a trace of her late displeasure +on her face, but with a pleasant smile she said, “I have just got a few +lines from my brother. He writes in excellent spirits, for he has gained a +lawsuit; not a very important case, but it puts us in a position to carry +out a little project we are full of. He will be here by Saturday, and +hopes to bring with him an old and valued friend, the Attorney-General, to +spend a few days with us. I am, therefore, able to promise you an ample +recompense for all the loneliness of your present life. I have cautiously +abstained from telling my brother who you are; I keep the delightful +surprise for the moment of your meeting. Your name, though associated with +some sad memories, will bring him back to the happiest period of his +life.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers made some not very intelligible reply about his reluctance to +impose himself on them at such a time, but she stopped him with a +good-humored smile, and said,— +</p> +<p> +“Your father's son should know that where a Barrington lived he had a +home,—not to say you have already paid some of the tribute of this +homeliness, and seen me very cross and ill-tempered. Well, let us not +speak of that now. I have your word to remain here.” And she left him to +attend to her household cares, while he strolled into the garden, half +amused, half embarrassed by all the strange and new interests that had +grown up so suddenly around him. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XV. AN EXPLORING EXPEDITION +</h2> +<p> +Whether from simple caprice, or that Lady Cobham desired to mark her +disapprobation of Polly Dill's share in the late wager, is not open to me +to say, but the festivities at Cob-ham were not, on that day, graced or +enlivened by her presence. If the comments on her absence were brief, they +were pungent, and some wise reflections, too, were uttered as to the +dangers that must inevitably attend all attempts to lift people into a +sphere above their own. Poor human nature! that unlucky culprit who is +flogged for everything and for everybody, bore the brunt of these +severities, and it was declared that Polly had done what any other girl +“in her rank of life” might have done; and this being settled, the company +went to luncheon, their appetites none the worse for the small <i>auto-da-fé</i> +they had just celebrated. +</p> +<p> +“You'd have lost your money, Captain,” whispered Ambrose Bushe to +Stapylton, as they stood talking together in a window recess, “if that +girl had only taken the river three hundred yards higher up. Even as it +was, she 'd have breasted her horse at the bank if the bridle had not +given way. I suppose you have seen the place?” + </p> +<p> +“I regret to say I have not. They tell me it's one of the strongest rapids +in the river.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me describe it to you,” replied he; and at once set about a picture +in which certainly no elements of peril were forgotten, and all the +dangers of rocks and rapids were given with due emphasis. Stapylton seemed +to listen with fitting attention, throwing out the suitable “Indeed! is it +possible!” and such-like interjections, his mind, however, by no means +absorbed by the narrative, but dwelling solely on a chance name that had +dropped from the narrator. +</p> +<p> +“You called the place 'Barrington's Ford,'” said he, at last. “Who is +Barrington?” + </p> +<p> +“As good a gentleman by blood and descent as any in this room, but now +reduced to keep a little wayside inn,—the 'Fisherman's Home,' it is +called. All come of a spendthrift son, who went out to India, and ran +through every acre of the property before he died.” + </p> +<p> +“What a strange vicissitude! And is the old man much broken by it?” + </p> +<p> +“Some would say he was; my opinion is, that he bears up wonderfully. Of +course, to me, he never makes any mention of the past; but while my father +lived, he would frequently talk to him over bygones, and liked nothing +better than to speak of his son, Mad George as they called him, and tell +all his wildest exploits and most harebrained achievements. But you have +served yourself in India. Have you never heard of George Barrington?” + </p> +<p> +Stapylton shook his head, and dryly added that India was very large, and +that even in one Presidency a man might never hear what went on in +another. +</p> +<p> +“Well, this fellow made noise enough to be heard even over here. He +married a native woman, and he either shook off his English allegiance, or +was suspected of doing so. At all events, he got himself into trouble that +finished him. It's a long complicated story, that I have never heard +correctly. The upshot was, however, old Barrington was sold out stick and +stone, and if it was n't for the ale-house he might starve.” + </p> +<p> +“And his former friends and associates, do they rally round him and cheer +him?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a great deal. Perhaps, however, that's as much his fault as theirs. +He is very proud, and very quick to resent anything like consideration for +his changed condition. Sir Charles would have him up here,—he has +tried it scores of times, but all in vain; and now he is left to two or +three of his neighbors, the doctor and an old half-pay major, who lives on +the river, and I believe really he never sees any one else. Old M'Cormick +knew George Barrington well; not that they were friends,—two men +less alike never lived; but that's enough to make poor Peter fond of +talking to him, and telling all about some lawsuits George left him for a +legacy.” + </p> +<p> +“This Major that you speak of, does he visit here? I don't remember to +have seen him.” + </p> +<p> +“M'Cormick!” said the other, laughing. “No, he 's a miserly old fellow +that has n't a coat fit to go out in, and he's no loss to any one. It's as +much as old Peter Barrington can do to bear his shabby ways, and his +cranky temper, but he puts up with everything because he knew his son +George. That's quite enough for old Peter; and if you were to go over to +the cottage, and say, 'I met your son up in Bombay or Madras; we were +quartered together at Ram-something-or-other,' he 'd tell you the place +was your own, to stop at as long as you liked, and your home for life.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” said Stapylton, affecting to feel interested, while he followed +out the course of his own thoughts. +</p> +<p> +“Not that the Major could do even that much!” continued Bushe, who now +believed that he had found an eager listener. “There was only one thing in +this world he'd like to talk about,—Walcheren. Go how or when you +liked, or where or for what,—no matter, it was Walcheren you 'd get, +and nothing else.” + </p> +<p> +“Somewhat tiresome this, I take it!” + </p> +<p> +“Tiresome is no name for it! And I don't know a stronger proof of old +Peter's love for his son's memory, than that, for the sake of hearing +about him, he can sit and listen to the 'expedition.'” + </p> +<p> +There was a half-unconscious mimicry in the way he gave the last word that +showed how the Major's accents had eaten their way into his sensibilities. +</p> +<p> +“Your portrait of this Major is not tempting,” said Stapylton, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Why would it? He's eighteen or twenty years in the neighborhood, and I +never heard that he said a kind word or did a generous act by any one. But +I get cross if I talk of him. Where are you going this morning? Will you +come up to the Long Callows and look at the yearlings? The Admiral is very +proud of his young stock, and he thinks he has some of the best bone and +blood in Ireland there at this moment.” + </p> +<p> +“Thanks, no; I have some notion of a long walk this morning. I take shame +to myself for having seen so little of the country here since I came that +I mean to repair my fault and go off on a sort of voyage of discovery.” + </p> +<p> +“Follow the river from Brown's Barn down to Inistioge, and if you ever saw +anything prettier I'm a Scotchman.” And with this appalling alternative, +Mr. Bushe walked away, and left the other to his own guidance. +</p> +<p> +Perhaps Stapylton is not the companion my reader would care to stroll +with, even along the grassy path beside that laughing river, with +spray-like larches bending overhead, and tender water-lilies streaming, +like pennants, in the fast-running current. It may be that he or she would +prefer some one more impressionable to the woodland beauty of the spot, +and more disposed to enjoy the tranquil loveliness around him; for it is +true the swarthy soldier strode on, little heeding the picturesque effects +which made every succeeding reach of the river a subject for a painter. He +was bent on finding out where M'Cormick lived, and on making the +acquaintance of that bland individual. +</p> +<p> +“That's the Major's, and there's himself,” said a countryman, as he +pointed to a very shabbily dressed old man hoeing his cabbages in a +dilapidated bit of garden-ground, but who was so absorbed in his +occupation as not to notice the approach of a stranger. +</p> +<p> +“Am I taking too great a liberty,” said Stapylton, as he raised his hat, +“if I ask leave to follow the river path through this lovely spot?” + </p> +<p> +“Eh—what?—how did you come? You didn't pass round by the young +wheat, eh?” asked M'Cormick, in his most querulous voice. +</p> +<p> +“I came along by the margin of the river.” + </p> +<p> +“That's just it!” broke in the other. “There's no keeping them out that +way. But I 'll have a dog as sure as my name is Dan. I'll have a +bull-terrier that'll tackle the first of you that's trespassing there.” + </p> +<p> +“I fancy I'm addressing Major M'Cormick,” said Stapylton, never noticing +this rude speech; “and if so, I will ask him to accord me the privilege of +a brother-soldier, and let me make myself known to him,—Captain +Stapylton, of the Prince's Hussars.” + </p> +<p> +“By the wars!” muttered old Dan; the exclamation being a favorite one with +him to express astonishment at any startling event. Then recovering +himself, he added, “I think I heard there were three or four of ye +stopping up there at Cobham; but I never go out myself anywhere. I live +very retired down here.” + </p> +<p> +“I am not surprised at that. When an old soldier can nestle down in a +lovely nook like this, he has very little to regret of what the world is +busy about outside it.” + </p> +<p> +“And they are all ruining themselves, besides,” said M'Cormick, with one +of his malicious grins. “There's not a man in this county is n't mortgaged +over head and ears. I can count them all on my fingers for you, and tell +what they have to live on.” + </p> +<p> +“You amaze me,” said Stapylton, with a show of interest +</p> +<p> +“And the women are as bad as the men: nothing fine enough for them to +wear; no jewels rich enough to put on! Did you ever hear them mention <i>me?</i>” + asked he, suddenly, as though the thought flashed upon him that he had +himself been exposed to comment of a very different kind. +</p> +<p> +“They told me of an old retired officer, who owned a most picturesque +cottage, and said, if I remember aright, that the view from one of the +windows was accounted one of the most perfect bits of river landscape in +the kingdom.” + </p> +<p> +“Just the same as where you 're standing,—no difference in life,” + said M'Cormick, who was not to be seduced by the flattery into any +demonstration of hospitality. +</p> +<p> +“I cannot imagine anything finer,” said Stapylton, as he threw himself at +the foot of a tree, and seemed really to revel in enjoyment of the scene. +“One might, perhaps, if disposed to be critical, ask for a little opening +in that copse yonder. I suspect we should get a peep at the bold cliff +whose summit peers above the tree-tops.” + </p> +<p> +“You'd see the quarry, to be sure,” croaked out the Major, “if that's what +you mean.” + </p> +<p> +“May I offer you a cigar?” said Stapylton, whose self-possession was +pushed somewhat hard by the other. “An old campaigner is sure to be a +smoker.” + </p> +<p> +“I am not. I never had a pipe in my mouth since Walcheren.” + </p> +<p> +“Since Walcheren! You don't say that you are an old Walcheren man?” + </p> +<p> +“I am, indeed. I was in the second battalion of the 103d,—the Duke's +Fusiliers, if ever you heard of them.” + </p> +<p> +“Heard of them! The whole world has heard of them; but I did n't know +there was a man of that splendid corps surviving. Why, they lost—let +me see—they lost every officer but—” Here a vigorous effort to +keep his cigar alight interposed, and kept him occupied for a few seconds. +“How many did you bring out of action,—four was it, or five? I'm +certain you had n't six!” + </p> +<p> +“We were the same as the Buffs, man for man,” said M'Cormick. +</p> +<p> +“The poor Buffs!—very gallant fellows too!” sighed Stapylton. “I +have always maintained, and I always will maintain, that the Walcheren +expedition, though not a success, was the proudest achievement of the +British arms.” + </p> +<p> +“The shakes always began after sunrise, and in less than ten minutes you +'d see your nails growing blue.” + </p> +<p> +“How dreadful!” + </p> +<p> +“And if you felt your nose, you would n't know it was your nose; you 'd +think it was a bit of a cold carrot.” + </p> +<p> +“Why was that?” + </p> +<p> +“Because there was no circulation; the blood would stop going round; and +you 'd be that way for four hours,—till the sweating took you,—just +the same as dead.” + </p> +<p> +“There, don't go on,—I can't stand it,—my nerves are all ajar +already.” + </p> +<p> +“And then the cramps came on,” continued M'Cormick, in an ecstasy over a +listener whose feelings he could harrow; “first in the calves of the legs, +and then all along the spine, so that you 'd be bent like a fish.” + </p> +<p> +“For Heaven's sake, spare me! I've seen some rough work, but that +description of yours is perfectly horrifying! And when one thinks it was +the glorious old 105th—” + </p> +<p> +“No, the 103d; the 105th was at Barbadoes,” broke in the Major, testily. +</p> +<p> +“So they were, and got their share of the yellow fever at that very time +too,” said Stapylton, hazarding a not very rash conjecture. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe they did, and maybe they didn't,” was the dry rejoinder. +</p> +<p> +It required all Stapylton's nice tact to get the Major once more full +swing at the expedition, but he at last accomplished the feat, and with +such success that M'Cormick suggested an adjournment within doors, and +faintly hinted at a possible something to drink. The wily guest, however, +declined this. “He liked,” he said, “that nice breezy spot under those +fine old trees, and with that glorious reach of the river before them. +Could a man but join to these enjoyments,” he continued, “just a neighbor +or two,—an old friend or so that he really liked,—one not +alone agreeable from his tastes, but to whom the link of early +companionship also attached us, with this addition I could call this a +paradise.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I have the village doctor,” croaked out M'Cor-mick, “and there's +Barrington—old Peter—up at the 'Fisherman's Home.' I have <i>them</i> +by way of society. I might have better, and I might have worse.” + </p> +<p> +“They told me at Cobham that there was no getting you to 'go out;' that, +like a regular old soldier, you liked your own chimney-corner, and could +not be tempted away from it.” + </p> +<p> +“They didn't try very hard, anyhow,” said he, harshly. “I'll be nineteen +years here if I live till November, and I think I got two invitations, and +one of them to a 'dancing tea,' whatever that is; so that you may observe +they did n't push the temptation as far as St. Anthony's!” + </p> +<p> +Stapylton joined in the laugh with which M'Cormick welcomed his own +drollery. +</p> +<p> +“Your doctor,” resumed he, “is, I presume, the father of the pretty girl +who rides so cleverly?” + </p> +<p> +“So they tell me. I never saw her mounted but once, and she smashed a +melon-frame for me, and not so much as 'I ask your pardon!' afterwards.” + </p> +<p> +“And Barrington,” resumed Stapylton, “is the ruined gentleman I have heard +of, who has turned innkeeper. An extravagant son, I believe, finished +him?” + </p> +<p> +“His own taste for law cost him just as much,” muttered M'Cormick. “He had +a trunk full of old title-deeds and bonds and settlements, and he was +always poring over them, discovering, by the way, flaws in this and +omissions in that, and then he 'd draw up a case for counsel, and get +consultations on it, and before you could turn round, there he was, trying +to break a will or get out of a covenant, with a special jury and the +strongest Bar in Ireland. That's what ruined him.” + </p> +<p> +“I gather from what you tell me that he is a bold, determined, and perhaps +a vindictive man. Am I right?” + </p> +<p> +“You are not; he's an easy-tempered fellow, and careless, like every one +of his name and race. If you said he hadn't a wise head on his shoulders, +you 'd be nearer the mark. Look what he 's going to do now!” cried he, +warming with his theme: “he 's going to give up the inn—” + </p> +<p> +“Give it up! And why?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, that's the question would puzzle him to answer; but it's the haughty +old sister persuades him that he ought to take this black girl—George +Barrington's daughter—home to live with him, and that a shebeen is +n't the place to bring her to, and she a negress. That's more of the +family wisdom!” + </p> +<p> +“There may be affection in it.” + </p> +<p> +“Affection! For what,—for a black! Ay, and a black that they never +set eyes on! If it was old Withering had the affection for her, I wouldn't +be surprised.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean? Who is he?” + </p> +<p> +“The Attorney-General, who has been fighting the East India Company for +her these sixteen years, and making more money out of the case than she +'ll ever get back again. Did you ever hear of Barrington and Lot Rammadahn +Mohr against the India Company? That's the case. Twelve millions of rupees +and the interest on them! And I believe in my heart and soul old Peter +would be well out of it for a thousand pounds.” + </p> +<p> +“That is, you suspect he must be beaten in the end?” + </p> +<p> +“I mean that I am sure of it! We have a saying in Ireland, 'It's not fair +for one man to fall on twenty,' and it's just the same thing to go to law +with a great rich Company. You 're sure to have the worst of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Did it never occur to them to make some sort of compromise?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a bit of it. Old Peter always thinks he has the game in his hand, and +nothing would make him throw up the cards. No; I believe if you offered to +pay the stakes, he 'd say, 'Play the game out, and let the winner take the +money!'” + </p> +<p> +“His lawyer may, possibly, have something to say to this spirit.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course he has; they are always bolstering each other up. It is, +'Barrington, my boy, you 'll turn the corner yet. You 'll drive up that +old avenue to the house you were born in, Barrington, of Barrington Hall;' +or, 'Withering, I never heard you greater than on that point before the +twelve Judges;' or, 'Your last speech at Bar was finer than Curran.' +They'd pass the evening that way, and call me a cantankerous old hound +when my back was turned, just because I did n't hark in to the cry. Maybe +I have the laugh at them, after all.” And he broke out into one of his +most discordant cackles to corroborate his boast. +</p> +<p> +“The sound sense and experience of an old Walcheren man might have its +weight with them. I know it would with me.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay,” muttered the Major, half aloud, for he was thinking to himself +whether this piece of flattery was a bait for a little whiskey-and-water. +</p> +<p> +“I 'd rather have the unbought judgment of a shrewd man of the world than +a score of opinions based upon the quips and cranks of an attorney's +instructions.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay!” responded the other, as he mumbled to himself, “he's mighty +thirsty.” + </p> +<p> +“And what's more,” said Stapylton, starting to his legs, “I 'd follow the +one as implicitly as I'd reject the other. I 'd say, 'M'Cormick is an old +friend; we have known each other since boyhood.'” + </p> +<p> +“No, we haven't I never saw Peter Barrington till I came to live here.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, after a close friendship of years with his son—” + </p> +<p> +“Nor that, either,” broke in the implacable Major. “He was always cutting +his jokes on me, and I never could abide him, so that the close friendship +you speak of is a mistake.” + </p> +<p> +“At all events,” said Stapylton, sharply, “it could be no interest of +yours to see an old—an old acquaintance lavishing his money on +lawyers and in the pursuit of the most improbable of all results. <i>You</i> +have no design upon him. <i>You</i> don't want to marry his sister!” + </p> +<p> +“No, by Gemini! “—a favorite expletive of the Major's in urgent +moments. +</p> +<p> +“Nor the Meer's daughter, either, I suppose?” + </p> +<p> +“The black! I think not. Not if she won the lawsuit, and was as rich as—she +never will be.” + </p> +<p> +“I agree with you there, Major, though I know nothing of the case or its +merits; but it is enough to hear that a beggared squire is on one side, +and Leadenhall Street on the other, to predict the upshot, and, for my own +part, I wonder they go on with it.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll tell you how it is,” said M'Cormick, closing one eye so as to impart +a look of intense cunning to his face. “It's the same with law as at a +fox-hunt: when you 're tired out beating a cover, and ready to go off +home, one dog—very often the worst in the whole pack—will yelp +out. You know well enough he's a bad hound, and never found in his life. +What does that signify? When you 're wishing a thing, whatever flatters +your hopes is all right,—is n't that true?—and away you dash +after the yelper as if he was a good hound.” + </p> +<p> +“You have put the matter most convincingly before me.” + </p> +<p> +“How thirsty he is now!” thought the Major; and grinned maliciously at his +reflection. +</p> +<p> +“And the upshot of all,” said Stapylton, like one summing up a case,—“the +upshot of all is, that this old man is not satisfied with his ruin if it +be not complete; he must see the last timbers of the wreck carried away +ere he leaves the scene of his disaster. Strange, sad infatuation!” + </p> +<p> +“Ay,” muttered the Major, who really had but few sympathies with merely +moral abstractions. +</p> +<p> +“Not what I should have done in a like case; nor <i>you</i> either, Major, +eh?” + </p> +<p> +“Very likely not” + </p> +<p> +“But so it is. There are men who cannot be practical, do what they will. +This is above them.” + </p> +<p> +A sort of grunt gave assent to this proposition; and Stapylton, who began +to feel it was a drawn game, arose to take his leave. +</p> +<p> +“I owe you a very delightful morning, Major,” said he. “I wish I could +think it was not to be the last time I was to have this pleasure. Do you +ever come up to Kilkenny? Does it ever occur to you to refresh your old +mess recollections?” + </p> +<p> +Had M'Cormick been asked whether he did not occasionally drop in at +Holland House, and brush up his faculties by intercourse with the bright +spirits who resorted there, he could scarcely have been more astounded. +That he, old Dan M'Cormick, should figure at a mess-table,—he, whose +wardrobe, a mere skeleton battalion thirty years ago, had never since been +recruited,—he should mingle with the gay and splendid young fellows +of a “crack” regiment! +</p> +<p> +“I'd just as soon think of—of—” he hesitated how to measure an +unlikelihood— “of marrying a young wife, and taking her off to +Paris!” + </p> +<p> +“And I don't see any absurdity in the project There is certainly a great +deal of brilliancy about it!” + </p> +<p> +“And something bitter too!” croaked out M'Cormick, with a fearful grin. +</p> +<p> +“Well, if you'll not come to see me, the chances are I'll come over and +make <i>you</i> another visit before I leave the neighborhood.” He waited +a second or two, not more, for some recognition of this offer; but none +came, and he con-tinned: “I'll get you to stroll down with me, and show me +this 'Fisherman's Home,' and its strange proprietor.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, I 'll do <i>that!</i>” said the Major, who had no objection to a plan +which by no possibility could involve himself in any cost. +</p> +<p> +“As it is an inn, perhaps they 'd let us have a bit of dinner. What would +you say to being my guest there tomorrow? Would that suit you?” + </p> +<p> +“It would suit <i>me</i> well enough!” was the strongly marked reply. +</p> +<p> +“Well, we 'll do it this wise. You 'll send one of your people over to +order dinner for two at—shall we say five o'clock?—yes, five—to-morrow. +That will give us a longer evening, and I 'll call here for you about +four. Is that agreed?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, that might do,” was M'Cormick's half-reluctant assent, for, in +reality, there were details in the matter that he scarcely fancied. First +of all, he had never hitherto crossed that threshold except as an invited +guest, and he had his misgivings about the prudence of appearing in any +other character, and secondly, there was a responsibility in ordering the +dinner, which he liked just as little, and, as he muttered to himself, +“Maybe I 'll have to order the bill too!” + </p> +<p> +Some unlucky experiences of casualties of this sort had, perhaps, shadowed +his early life; for so it was, that long after Stapylton had taken his +leave and gone off, the Major stood there ruminating over this unpleasant +contingency, and ingeniously imagining all the pleas he could put in, +should his apprehension prove correct, against his own indebtedness. +</p> +<p> +“Tell Miss Dinah,” said he to his messenger,—“tell her 't is an +officer by the name of Captain Staples, or something like that, that 's up +at Cobham, that wants a dinner for two to-morrow at five o'clock; and mind +that you don't say who the other is, for it's nothing to her. And if she +asks you what sort of a dinner, say the best in the house, for the Captain—mind +you say the Captain—is to pay for it, and the other man only dines +with him. There, now, you have your orders, and take care that you follow +them!” + </p> +<p> +There was a shrewd twinkle in the messenger's eye as he listened, which, +if not exactly complimentary, guaranteed how thoroughly he comprehended +the instructions that were given to him; and the Major saw him set forth +on his mission, well assured that he could trust his envoy. +</p> +<p> +In that nothing-for-nothing world Major M'Cormick had so long lived in, +and to whose practice and ways he had adapted all his thoughts, there was +something puzzling in the fact of a dashing Captain of Hussars of “the +Prince's Own,” seeking him out, to form his acquaintance and invite him to +dinner. Now, though the selfishness of an unimaginative man is the most +complete of all, it yet exposes him to fewer delusions than the same +quality when found allied with a hopeful or fanciful temperament. +M'Cormick had no “distractions” from such sources. He thought very ill of +the world at large; he expected extremely little from its generosity, and +he resolved to be “quits” with it. To his often put question, “What +brought him here?—what did he come for?” he could find no +satisfactory reply. He scouted the notion of “love of scenery, solitude, +and so forth,” and as fully he ridiculed to himself the idea of a stranger +caring to hear the gossip and small-talk of a mere country neighborhood. +“I have it!” cried he at last, as a bright thought darted through his +brain,—“I have it at last! He wants to pump me about the +'expedition.' It's for that he's come. He affected surprise, to be sure, +when I said I was a Walcheren man, and pretended to be amazed, besides; +but that was all make-believe. He knew well enough who and what I was +before he came. And he was so cunning, leading the conversation away in +another direction, getting me to talk of old Peter and his son George. +Wasn't it deep?—was n't it sly? Well, maybe we are not so innocent +as we look, ourselves; maybe we have a trick in our sleeves too! 'With a +good dinner and a bottle of port wine,' says he, 'I 'll have the whole +story, and be able to write it with the signature “One who was there.”' +But you 're mistaken this time, Captain; the sorrow bit of Walcheren you +'ll hear out of my mouth to-morrow, be as pleasant and congenial as you +like. I 'll give you the Barringtons, father and son,—ay, and old +Dinah, too, if you fancy her,—but not a syllable about the +expedition. It's the Scheldt you want, but you 'll have to 'take it out' +in the Ganges.” And his uncouth joke so tickled him that he laughed till +his eyes ran over; and in the thought that he was going to obtain a dinner +under false pretences, he felt something as nearly like happiness as he +had tasted for many a long day before. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVI. COMING HOME +</h2> +<p> +Miss Barrtngton waited with impatience for Conyers's appearance at the +breakfast-table,—she had received such a pleasant note from her +brother, and she was so eager to read it. That notion of imparting some +conception of a dear friend by reading his own words to a stranger is a +very natural one. It serves so readily to corroborate all we have already +said, to fill up that picture of which wo have but given the mere outline, +not to speak of the inexplicable charm there is in being able to say, +“Here is the man without reserve or disguise; here he is in all the +freshness and warmth of genuine feeling; no tricks of style, no turning of +phrases to mar the honest expression of his nature. You see him as we see +him.” + </p> +<p> +“My brother is coming home, Mr. Conyers; he will be here to-day. Here is +his note,” said Miss Dinah, as she shook hands with her guest “I must read +it for you:— +</p> +<p> +“'At last, my dear Dinah—at last I am free, and, with all my love of +law and lawyers, right glad to turn my steps homeward. Not but I have had +a most brilliant week of it; dined with my old schoolfellow Longmore, now +Chief Baron, and was the honored guest of the “Home Circuit,” not to speak +of one glorious evening with a club called the “Unbriefed,” the +pleasantest dogs that ever made good speeches for nothing!—an amount +of dissipation upon which I can well retire and live for the next twelve +months. How strange it seems to me to be once more in the “world,” and +listening to scores of things in which I have no personal interest; how +small it makes my own daily life appear, but how secure and how homelike, +Dinah! You have often heard me grumbling over the decline of social +agreeability, and the dearth of those pleasant speeches that could set the +table in a roar. You shall never hear the same complaint from me again. +These fellows are just as good as their fathers. If I missed anything, it +was that glitter of scholarship, that classical turn which in the olden +day elevated table-talk, and made it racy with the smart aphorisms and +happy conceits of those who, even over their wine, were poets and orators. +But perhaps I am not quite fair even in this. At all events, I am not +going to disparage those who have brought back to my old age some of the +pleasant memories of my youth, and satisfied me that even yet I have a +heart for those social joys I once loved so dearly! +</p> +<p> +“'And we have won our suit, Dinah,—at least, a juror was withdrawn +by consent,—and Brazier agrees to an arbitration as to the Moyalty +lands, the whole of Clanebrach and Barrymaquilty property being released +from the sequestration.' +</p> +<p> +“This is all personal matter, and technical besides,” said Miss +Barrington; “so I skip it.” + </p> +<p> +“'Withering was finer than ever I heard him in the speech to evidence. We +have been taunted with our defensive attitude so suddenly converted into +an attack, and he compared our position to Wellington's at Torres Vedras. +The Chief Justice said Curran, at his best, never excelled it, and they +have called me nothing but Lord Wellington ever since. And now, Dinah, to +answer the question your impatience has been putting these ten minutes: +“What of the money part of all this triumph?” I fear much, my dear sister, +we are to take little by our motion. The costs of the campaign cut up all +but the glory! Hogan's bill extends to thirty-eight folio pages, and +there's a codicil to it of eleven more, headed “Confidential between +Client and Attorney,” and though I have not in a rapid survey seen +anything above five pounds, the gross total is two thousand seven hundred +and forty-three pounds three and fourpence. I must and will say, however, +it was a great suit, and admirably prepared. There was not an instruction +Withering did not find substantiated, and Hogan is equally delighted with +<i>him</i>, With all my taste for field sports and manly games, Dinah, I +am firmly convinced that a good trial at bar is a far finer spectacle than +the grandest tournament that ever was tilted. There was a skirmish +yesterday that I 'd rather have witnessed than I 'd have seen Brian de +Bois himself at Ashby-de-la-Zouch. And, considering that my own share for +this passage at arms will come to a trifle above two thousand pounds, the +confession may be taken as an honest one. +</p> +<p> +“'And who is your young guest whom I shall be so delighted to see? This +gives no clew to him, Dinah, for you know well how I would welcome any one +who has impressed you so favorably. Entreat of him to prolong his stay for +a week at least, and if I can persuade Withering to come down with me, we +'ll try and make his sojourn more agreeable. Look out for me—at +least, about five o'clock—and have the green-room ready for W., and +let Darby be at Holt's stile to take the trunks, for Withering likes that +walk through the woods, and says that he leaves his wig and gown on the +holly-bushes there till he goes back.'” + </p> +<p> +The next paragraph she skimmed over to herself. It was one about an +advance that Hogan had let him have of two hundred pounds. “Quite ample,” + W. says, “for our excursion to fetch over Josephine.” Some details as to +the route followed, and some wise hints about travelling on the Continent, +and a hearty concurrence on the old lawyer's part with the whole scheme. +</p> +<p> +“These are little home details,” said she, hurriedly, “but you have heard +enough to guess what my brother is like. Here is the conclusion:— +</p> +<p> +“'I hope your young friend is a fisherman, which will give me more chance +of his company than walking up the partridges, for which I am getting too +old. Let him however understand that we mean him to enjoy himself in his +own way, to have the most perfect liberty, and that the only despotism we +insist upon is, not to be late for dinner. +</p> +<p> +“'Your loving brother, +</p> +<p> +“'Peter Barrington. +</p> +<p> +“'There is no fatted calf to feast our return, Dinah, but Withering has an +old weakness for a roast sucking-pig. Don't you think we could satisfy +it?'” + </p> +<p> +Conyers readily caught the contagion of the joy Miss Barrington felt at +the thought of her brother's return. Short as the distance was that +separated him from home, his absences were so rare, it seemed as though he +had gone miles and miles away, for few people ever lived more dependent on +each other, with interests more concentrated, and all of whose hopes and +fears took exactly the same direction, than this brother and sister, and +this, too, with some strong differences on the score of temperament, of +which the reader already has an inkling. +</p> +<p> +What a pleasant bustle that is of a household that prepares for the return +of a well-loved master! What feeling pervades twenty little offices of +every-day routine! And how dignified by affection are the smallest cares +and the very humblest attentions! “He likes this!” “He is so fond of +that!” are heard at every moment It is then that one marks how the +observant eye of love has followed the most ordinary tricks of habit, and +treasured them as things to be remembered. It is not the key of the street +door in your pocket, nor the lease of the premises in your drawer, that +make a home. Let us be grateful when we remember that, in this attribute, +the humblest shealing on the hillside is not inferior to the palace of the +king! +</p> +<p> +Conyers, I have said, partook heartily of Miss Barring-ton's delight, and +gave a willing help to the preparations that went forward. All were soon +busy within doors and without. Some were raking the gravel before the +door; while others were disposing the flower-pots in little pyramids +through the grass plats; and then there were trees to be nailed up, and +windows cleaned, and furniture changed in various ways. What superhuman +efforts did not Conyers make to get an old jet d'eau to play which had not +spouted for nigh twenty years; and how reluctantly he resigned himself to +failure and assisted Betty to shake a carpet! +</p> +<p> +And when all was completed, and the soft and balmy air sent the odor of +the rose and the jessamine through the open windows, within which every +appearance of ease and comfort prevailed, Miss Barrington sat down at the +piano and began to refresh her memory of some Irish airs, old favorites of +Withering's, which he was sure to ask for. There was that in their +plaintive wildness which strongly interested Conyers; while, at the same +time, he was astonished at the skill of one at whose touch, once on a +time, tears had trembled in the eyes of those who listened, and whose +fingers had not yet forgot their cunning. +</p> +<p> +“Who is that standing without there?” said Miss Barrington, suddenly, as +she saw a very poor-looking countryman who had drawn close to the window +to listen. “Who are you? and what do you want here?” asked she, +approaching him. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm Terry, ma'am,—Terry Delany, the Major's man,” said he, taking +off his hat. +</p> +<p> +“Never heard of you; and what 's your business?” + </p> +<p> +“'T is how I was sent, your honor's reverence,” began he, faltering at +every word, and evidently terrified by her imperious style of address. +“'Tis how I came here with the master's compliments,—not indeed his +own but the other man's,—to say, that if it was plazing to you, or, +indeed, anyhow at all, they 'd be here at five o'clock to dinner; and +though it was yesterday I got it, I stopped with my sister's husband at +Foynes Gap, and misremembered it all till this morning, and I hope your +honor's reverence won't tell it on me, but have the best in the house all +the same, for he's rich enough and can well afford it.” + </p> +<p> +“What can the creature mean?” cried Miss Barrington. “Who sent you here?” + </p> +<p> +“The Major himself; but not for him, but for the other that's up at +Cobham.” + </p> +<p> +“And who is this other? What is he called?” + </p> +<p> +“'Twas something like Hooks, or Nails; but I can't remember,” said he, +scratching his head in sign of utter and complete bewilderment. +</p> +<p> +“Did any one ever hear the like! Is the fellow an idiot?” exclaimed she, +angrily. +</p> +<p> +“No, my lady; but many a one might be that lived with ould M'Cormick!” + burst out the man, in a rush of unguardedness. +</p> +<p> +“Try and collect yourself, my good fellow,” said Miss Barrington, smiling, +in spite of herself, at his confession, “and say, if you can, what brought +you here?” + </p> +<p> +“It's just, then, what I said before,” said he, gaining a little more +courage. “It's dinner for two ye're to have; and it's to be ready at five +o'clock; but ye 're not to look to ould Dan for the money, for he as good +as said he would never pay sixpence of it, but 't is all to come out of +the other chap's pocket, and well affordin' it. There it is now, and I +defy the Pope o' Rome to say that I did n't give the message right!” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Conyers,” began Miss Barrington, in a voice shaking with agitation, +“it is nigh twenty years since a series of misfortunes brought us so low +in the world that—” She stopped, partly overcome by indignation, +partly by shame; and then, suddenly turning towards the man, she +continued, in a firm and resolute tone, “Go back to your master and say, +'Miss Barrington hopes he has sent a fool on his errand, otherwise his +message is so insolent it will be far safer he should never present +himself here again!' Do you hear me? Do you understand me?” + </p> +<p> +“If you mane you'd make them throw him in the river, the divil a straw I +'d care, and I would n't wet my feet to pick him out of it!” + </p> +<p> +“Take the message as I have given it you, and do not dare to mix up +anything of your own with it.” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, I won't. It's trouble enough I have without that! I 'll tell him +there's no dinner for him here to-day, and that, if he 's wise, he won't +come over to look for it.” + </p> +<p> +“There, go—be off,” cried Conyers, impatiently, for he saw that Miss +Barrington's temper was being too sorely tried. +</p> +<p> +She conquered, however, the indignation that at one moment had threatened +to master her, and in a voice of tolerable calm said,— +</p> +<p> +“May I ask you to see if Darby or any other of the workmen are in the +garden? It is high time to take down these insignia of our traffic, and +tell our friends how we would be regarded in future.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you let me do it? I ask as a favor that I may be permitted to do +it,” cried Conyers, eagerly; and without waiting for her answer, hurried +away to fetch a ladder. He was soon back again and at work. +</p> +<p> +“Take care how you remove that board, Mr. Conyers,” said she. “If there be +the tiniest sprig of jessamine broken, my brother will miss it. He has +been watching anxiously for the time when the white bells would shut out +every letter of his name, and I like him not to notice the change +immediately. There, you are doing it very handily indeed. There is another +holdfast at this corner. Ah, be careful; that is a branch of the +passion-tree, and though it looks dead, you will see it covered with +flowers in spring. Nothing could be better. Now for the last emblem of our +craft,—can you reach it?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, easily,” said Conyers, as he raised his eyes to where the little tin +fish hung glittering above him. The ladder, however, was too short, and, +standing on one of the highest rungs, still he could not reach the little +iron stanchion. “I must have it, though,” cried he; “I mean to claim that +as my prize. It will be the only fish I ever took with my own hands.” He +now cautiously crept up another step of the ladder, supporting himself by +the frail creepers which covered the walls. “Help me now with a crooked +stick, and I shall catch it.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0014" id="linkimage-0014"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/190.jpg" width="100%" alt="190 " /> +</div> +<p> +“I'll fetch you one,” said she, disappearing within the porch. +</p> +<p> +Still wistfully looking at the object of his pursuit, Conyers never turned +his eyes downwards as the sound of steps apprised him some one was near, +and, concluding it to be Miss Barrington, he said, “I'm half afraid that I +have torn some of this jessamine-tree from the wall; but see here's the +prize!” A slight air of wind had wafted it towards him, and he suatched +the fish from its slender chain and held it up in triumph. +</p> +<p> +“A poacher caught in the fact, Barrington!” said a deep voice from below; +and Conyers, looking down, saw two men, both advanced in life, very +gravely watching his proceedings. +</p> +<p> +Not a little ashamed of a situation to which he never expected an +audience, he hastily descended the ladder; but before he reached the +ground Miss Barrington was in her brother's arms, and welcoming him home +with all the warmth of true affection. This over, she next shook hands +cordially with his companion, whom she called Mr. Withering. +</p> +<p> +“And now, Peter,” said she, “to present one I have been longing to make +known to you. You, who never forget a well-known face, will recognize +him.” + </p> +<p> +“My eyes are not what they used to be,” said Barrington, holding out his +hand to Conyers, “but they are good enough to see the young gentleman I +left here when I went away.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Peter,” said she, hastily; “but does the sight of him bring back to +you no memory of poor George?” + </p> +<p> +“George was dark as a Spaniard, and this gentleman—But pray, sir, +forgive this rudeness of ours, and let us make ourselves better acquainted +within doors. You mean to stay some time here, I hope.” + </p> +<p> +“I only wish I could; but I have already overstayed my leave, and waited +here only to shake your hand before I left.” + </p> +<p> +“Peter, Peter,” said Miss Dinah, impatiently, “must I then tell whom you +are speaking to?” + </p> +<p> +Barrington seemed pazzled. He looked from the stranger to his sister, and +back again. +</p> +<p> +She drew near and whispered in his ear: “The son of poor George's dearest +friend on earth,—the son of Ormsby Conyers.” + </p> +<p> +“Of whom?” said Barrington, in a startled and half-angry voice. +</p> +<p> +“Of Ormsby Conyers.” + </p> +<p> +Barrington trembled from head to foot; his face, for an instant crimson, +became suddenly of an ashy paleness, and his voice shook as he said,— +</p> +<p> +“I was not—I am not—prepared for this honor. I mean, I could +not have expected that Mr. Conyers would have desired—Say this—do +this for me, Withering, for I am not equal to it,” said the old man, as, +with his hands pressed over his face, he hurried within the house, +followed by his sister. +</p> +<p> +“I cannot make a guess at the explanation my friend has left me to make,” + cried Withering, courteously; “but it is plain to see that your name has +revived some sorrow connected with the great calamity of his life. You +have heard of his son, Colonel Barrington?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, and it was because my father had been his dearest friend that Miss +Barrington insisted on my remaining here. She told me, over and over +again, of the joy her brother would feel on meeting me—” + </p> +<p> +“Where are you going,—what's the matter?” asked Withering, as a man +hurriedly passed out of the house and made for the river. +</p> +<p> +“The master is taken bad, sir, and I 'm going to Inistioge for the +doctor.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me go with you,” said Conyers; and, only returning by a nod the +good-bye of Withering, he moved past and stepped into the boat. +</p> +<p> +“What an afternoon to such a morning!” muttered he to himself, as the +tears started from his eyes and stole heavily along his cheeks. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVII. A SHOCK +</h2> +<p> +If Conyers had been in the frame of mind to notice it, the contrast +between the neat propriety of the “Fisherman's Home,” and the disorder and +slovenliness of the little inn at Inistioge could not have failed to +impress itself upon him. The “Spotted Duck” was certainly, in all its +details, the very reverse of that quiet and picturesque cottage he had +just quitted. But what did he care at that moment for the roof that +sheltered him, or the table that was spread before him? For days back he +had been indulging in thoughts of that welcome which Miss Barrington had +promised him. He fancied how, on the mere mention of his father's name, +the old man's affection would have poured forth in a flood of kindest +words; he had even prepared himself for a scene of such emotion as a +father might have felt on seeing one who brought back to mind his own +son's earlier years; and instead of all this, he found himself shunned, +avoided, repulsed. If there was a thing on earth in which his pride was +greatest, it was his name; and yet it was on the utterance of that word, +“Conyers,” old Barrington turned away and left him. +</p> +<p> +Over and over again had he found the spell of his father's name and title +opening to him society, securing him attentions, and obtaining for him +that recognition and acceptance which go so far to make life pleasurable; +and now that word, which would have had its magic at a palace, fell +powerless and cold at the porch of a humble cottage. +</p> +<p> +To say that it was part of his creed to believe his father could do no +wrong is weak. It was his whole belief,—his entire and complete +conviction. To his mind his father embodied all that was noble, +high-hearted, and chivalrous. It was not alone the testimony of those who +served under him could be appealed to. All India, the Government at home, +his own sovereign knew it. From his earliest infancy he had listened to +this theme, and to doubt it seemed like to dispute the fact of his +existence. How was it, then, that this old man refused to accept what the +whole world had stamped with its value? Was it that he impugned the +services which had made his father's name famous throughout the entire +East? +</p> +<p> +He endeavored to recall the exact words Barrington had used towards him, +but he could not succeed. There was something, he thought, about +intruding, unwarrantably intruding; or it might be a mistaken impression +of the welcome that awaited him. Which was it? or was it either of them? +At all events, he saw himself rejected and repulsed, and the indignity was +too great to be borne. +</p> +<p> +While he thus chafed and fretted, hours went by; and Mr. M'Cabe, the +landlord, had made more than one excursion into the room, under pretence +of looking after the fire, or seeing that the windows were duly closed, +but, in reality, very impatient to learn his guest's intentions regarding +dinner. +</p> +<p> +“Was it your honor said that you'd rather have the chickens roast than +biled?” said he at last, in a very submissive tone. +</p> +<p> +“I said nothing of the kind.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, it was No. 5 then, and I mistook; I crave your honor's pardon.” + Hoping that the chord he had thus touched might vibrate, he stooped down +to arrange the turf, and give time for the response, but none came. Mr. +M'Cabe gave a faint sigh, but returned to the charge. “When there's the +laste taste of south in the wind, there 's no making this chimney draw.” + </p> +<p> +Not a word of notice acknowledged this remark. +</p> +<p> +“But it will do finely yet; it's just the outside of the turf is a little +wet, and no wonder; seven weeks of rain—glory be to Him that sent it—has +nearly desthroyed us.” + </p> +<p> +Still Conyers vouchsafed no reply. +</p> +<p> +“And when it begins to rain here, it never laves off. It isn't like in +your honor's country. Your honor is English?” + </p> +<p> +A grunt,—it might be assent, it sounded like malediction. +</p> +<p> +“'T is azy seen. When your honor came out of the boat, I said, 'Shusy,' +says I, 'he's English; and there's a coat they could n't make in Ireland +for a king's ransom.'” + </p> +<p> +“What conveyances leave this for Kilkenny?” asked Conyers, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“Just none at all, not to mislead you,” said M'Cabe, in a voice quite +devoid of its late whining intonation. +</p> +<p> +“Is there not a chaise or a car to be had?” + </p> +<p> +“Sorrow one. Dr. Dill has a car, to be sure, but not for hire.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Dr. Dill lives here. I forgot that. Go and tell him I wish to see +him.” + </p> +<p> +The landlord withdrew in dogged silence, but returned in about ten +minutes, to say that the doctor had been sent for to the “Fisherman's +Home,” and Mr. Barrington was so ill it was not likely he would be back +that night. +</p> +<p> +“So ill, did you say?” cried Conyers. “What was the attack,—what did +they call it?” + </p> +<p> +“'T is some kind of a 'plexy, they said. He's a full man, and advanced in +years, besides.” + </p> +<p> +“Go and tell young Mr. Dill to come over here.” + </p> +<p> +“He's just gone off with the cuppin' instruments. I saw him steppin' into +the boat.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me have a messenger; I want a man to take a note up to Miss +Barrington, and fetch my writing-desk here.” + </p> +<p> +In his eager anxiety to learn how Mr. Barrington was, Conyers hastily +scratched off a few lines; but on reading them over, he tore them up: they +implied a degree of interest on his part which, considering the late +treatment extended to him, was scarcely dignified. He tried again; the +error was as marked on the other side. It was a cold and formal inquiry. +“And yet,” said he, as he tore this in fragments, “one thing is quite +clear,—this illness is owing to <i>me!</i> But for <i>my</i> +presence there, that old man had now been hale and hearty; the +impressions, rightfully or wrongfully, which the sight of <i>me</i> and +the announcement of <i>my</i> name produced are the cause of this malady. +I cannot deny it.” With this revulsion of feeling he wrote a short but +kindly worded note to Miss Barrington, in which, with the very faintest +allusion to himself, he begged for a few lines to say how her brother was. +He would have added something about the sorrow he experienced in requiting +all her kindness by this calamitous return, but he felt that if the case +should be a serious one, all reference to himself would be misplaced and +impertinent. +</p> +<p> +The messenger despatched, he sat down beside his fire, the only light now +in the room, which the shade of coming night had darkened. He was sad and +dispirited, and ill at ease with his own heart. Mr. M'Cabe, indeed, +appeared with a suggestion about candles, and a shadowy hint that if his +guest speculated of dining at all, it was full time to intimate it; but +Conyers dismissed him with a peremptory command not to dare to enter the +room again until he was summoned to it. So odious to him was the place, +the landlord, and all about him, that he would have set out on foot had +his ankle been only strong enough to bear him. “What if he were to write +to Stapylton to come and fetch him away? He never liked the man; he liked +him less since the remark Miss Barrrington had made upon him from mere +reading of his letter, but what was he to do?” While he was yet doubting +what course to take, he heard the voices of some new arrivals outside, +and, strange enough, one seemed to be Stapylton's. A minute or two after, +the travellers had entered the room adjoining his own, and from which a +very frail partition of lath and plaster alone separated him. +</p> +<p> +“Well, Barney,” said a harsh, grating voice, addressing the landlord, +“what have you got in the larder? We mean to dine with you.” + </p> +<p> +“To dine here, Major!” exclaimed M'Cabe. “Well, well, wondhers will never +cease.” And then hurriedly seeking to cover a speech not very flattering +to the Major's habits of hospitality, “Sure, I 've a loin of pork, and +there 's two chickens and a trout fresh out of the water, and there's a +cheese; it isn't mine, to be sure, but Father Cody's, but he 'll not miss +a slice out of it; and barrin' you dined at the 'Fisherman's Home,' you 'd +not get betther.” + </p> +<p> +“That 's where we were to have dined by right,” said the Major, crankily,—“myself +and my friend here,—but we're disappointed, and so we stepped in +here, to do the best we can.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, by all accounts, there won't be many dinners up there for some +time.” + </p> +<p> +“Why so?” + </p> +<p> +“Ould Barrington was took with a fit this afternoon, and they say he won't +get over it.” + </p> +<p> +“How was it?—what brought it on?” + </p> +<p> +“Here's the way I had it. Ould Peter was just come home from Kilkenny, and +had brought the Attorney-General with him to stay a few days at the +cottage, and what was the first thing he seen but a man that come all the +way from India with a writ out against him for some of mad George +Barrington's debts; and he was so overcome by the shock, that he fainted +away, and never came rightly to himself since.” + </p> +<p> +“This is simply impossible,” said a voice Conyers well knew to be +Stapylton's. +</p> +<p> +“Be that as it may, I had it from the man that came for the doctor, and +what's more, he was just outside the window, and could hear ould +Barrington cursin' and swearin' about the man that ruined his son, and +brought his poor boy to the grave; but I 'll go and look after your +honor's dinner, for I know more about that.” + </p> +<p> +“I have a strange half-curiosity to know the correct version of this +story,” said Stapylton, as the host left the room. “The doctor is a friend +of yours, I think. Would he step over here, and let us hear the matter +accurately?” + </p> +<p> +“He's up at the cottage now, but I 'll get him to come in here when he +returns.” + </p> +<p> +If Conyers was shocked to hear how even this loose version of what had +occurred served to heighten the anxiety his own fears created, he was also +angry with himself at having learned the matter as he did. It was not in +his nature to play the eavesdropper, and he had, in reality, heard what +fell between his neighbors, almost ere he was aware of it. To apprise +them, therefore, of the vicinity of a stranger, he coughed and sneezed, +poked the fire noisily, and moved the chairs about; but though the +disturbance served to prevent him from hearing, it did not tend to impress +any greater caution upon them, for they talked away as before, and more +than once above the din of his own tumult, he heard the name of +Barrington, and even his own, uttered. +</p> +<p> +Unable any longer to suffer the irritation of a position so painful, he +took his hat, and left the house. It was now night, and so dark that he +had to stand some minutes on the door-sill ere he could accustom his sight +to the obscurity. By degrees, however, he was enabled to guide his steps, +and, passing through the little square, he gained the bridge; and here he +resolved to walk backwards and forwards till such time as he hoped his +neighbors might have concluded their convivialities, and turned homeward. +</p> +<p> +A thin cold rain was falling, and the night was cheerless, and without a +star; but his heart was heavy, and the dreariness without best suited that +within him. For more than an hour he continued his lonely walk, tormented +by all the miseries his active ingenuity could muster. To have brought +sorrow and mourning beneath the roof where you have been sheltered with +kindness is sad enough, but far sadder is it to connect the calamity you +have caused with one dearer to you than yourself, and whose innocence, +while assured of, you cannot vindicate. “My father never wronged this man, +for the simple reason that he has never been unjust to any one. It is a +gross injustice to accuse him! If Colonel Barrington forfeited my father's +friendship, who could doubt where the fault lay? But I will not leave the +matter questionable. I will write to my father and ask him to send me such +a reply as may set the issue at rest forever; and then I will come down +here, and, with my father's letter in my hand, say, 'The mention of my +name was enough, once on a time, to make you turn away from me on the very +threshold of your own door—'” When he had got thus far in his +intended appeal, his ear was suddenly struck by the word “Conyers,” + uttered by one of two men who had passed him the moment before, and now +stood still in one of the projections of the bridge to talk. He as hastily +recognized Dr. Dill as the speaker. He went on thus: “Of course it was +mere raving, but one must bear in mind that memory very often is the +prompter of these wanderings; and it was strange how persistently he held +to the one theme, and continued to call out, 'It was not fair, sir! It was +not manly! You know it yourself, Conyers; you cannot deny it!'” + </p> +<p> +“But you attach no importance to such wanderings, doctor?” asked one whose +deep-toned voice betrayed him to be Stapylton. +</p> +<p> +“I do; that is, to the extent I have mentioned. They are incoherencies, +but they are not without some foundation. This Conyers may have had his +share in that famous accusation against Colonel Barrington,—that +well-known charge I told you of; and if so, it is easy to connect the name +with these ravings.” + </p> +<p> +“And the old man will die of this attack,” said Stapylton, half musingly. +</p> +<p> +“I hope not. He has great vigor of constitution; and old as he is, I think +he will rub through it.” + </p> +<p> +“Young Conyers left for Kilkenny, then, immediately?” asked he. +</p> +<p> +“No; he came down here, to the village. He is now at the inn.” + </p> +<p> +“At the inn, here? I never knew that. I am sorry I was not aware of it, +doctor; but since it is so, I will ask of you not to speak of having seen +me here. He would naturally take it ill, as his brother officer, that I +did not make him out, while, as you see, I was totally ignorant of his +vicinity.” + </p> +<p> +“I will say nothing on the subject, Captain,” said the doctor. “And now +one word of advice from you on a personal matter. This young gentleman has +offered to be of service to my son—” + </p> +<p> +Conyers, hitherto spellbound while the interest attached to his father, +now turned hastily from the spot and walked away, his mind not alone +charged with a heavy care, but full of an eager anxiety as to wherefore +Stapylton should have felt so deeply interested in Barrington's illness, +and the causes that led to it,—Stapylton, the most selfish of men, +and the very last in the world to busy himself in the sorrows or +misfortunes of a stranger. Again, too, why had he desired the doctor to +preserve his presence there as a secret? Conyers was exactly in the frame +of mind to exaggerate a suspicion, or make a mere doubt a grave question. +While be thus mused, Stapylton and the doctor passed him on their way +towards the village, deep in converse, and, to all seeming, in closest +confidence. +</p> +<p> +“Shall I follow him to the inn, and declare that I overheard a few words +on the bridge which give me a claim to explanation? Shall I say, 'Captain +Stapylton, you spoke of my father, just now, sufficiently aloud to be +overheard by me as I passed, and in your tone there was that which +entitles me to question you? Then if he should say, 'Go on; what is it you +ask for?' shall I not be sorely puzzled to continue? Perhaps, too, he +might remind me that the mode in which I obtained my information precludes +even a reference to it. He is one of those fellows not to throw away such +an advantage, and I must prepare myself for a quarrel. Oh, if I only had +Hunter by me! What would I not give for the brave Colonel's counsel at +such a moment as this?” + </p> +<p> +Of this sort were his thoughts as he strolled up and down for hours, +wearing away the long “night watches,” till a faint grayish tinge above +the horizon showed that morning was not very distant. The whole landscape +was wrapped in that cold mysterious tint in which tower and hill-top and +spire are scarcely distinguishable from each other, while out of the +low-lying meadows already arose the bluish vapor that proclaims the coming +day. The village itself, overshadowed by the mountain behind it, lay a +black, unbroken mass. +</p> +<p> +Not a light twinkled from a window, save close to the river's bank, where +a faint gleam stole forth and flickered on the water. +</p> +<p> +Who has not felt the strange interest that attaches to a solitary light +seen thus in the tranquil depth of a silent night? How readily do we +associate it with some incident of sorrow! The watcher beside the sick-bed +rises to the mind, or the patient sufferer himself trying to cheat the +dull hours by a book, or perhaps some poor son of toil arising to his +daily round of labor, and seated at that solitary meal which no kind word +enlivens, no companionship beguiles. And as I write, in what corner of +earth are not such scenes passing,—such dark shadows moving over the +battlefield of life? +</p> +<p> +In such a feeling did Conyers watch this light as, leaving the high-road, +he took a path that led along the river towards it. As he drew nigher, he +saw that the light came from the open window of a room which gave upon a +little garden,—a mere strip of ground fenced off from the path by a +low paling. With a curiosity he could not master, he stopped and looked +in. At a large table, covered with books and papers, and on which a skull +also stood, a young man was seated, his head leaning on his hand, +apparently in deep thought, while a girl was slowly pacing the little +chamber as she talked to him. +</p> +<p> +“It does not require,” said she, in a firm voice, “any great effort of +memory to bear in mind that a nerve, an artery, and a vein always go in +company.” + </p> +<p> +“Not for you, perhaps,—not for you, Polly.” + </p> +<p> +“Not for any one, I 'm sure. Your fine dragoon friend with the sprained +ankle might be brought to that amount of instruction by one telling of +it.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, he 's no fool, I promise you, Polly. Don't despise him because he has +plenty of money and can lead a life of idleness.” + </p> +<p> +“I neither despise nor esteem him, nor do I mean that he should divert our +minds from what we are at. Now for the popliteal space. Can you describe +it? Do you know where it is, or anything about it?” + </p> +<p> +“I do,” said he, doggedly, as he pushed his long hair back from his eyes, +and tried to think,—“I do, but I must have time. You must n't hurry +me.” + </p> +<p> +She made no reply, but continued her walk in silence. +</p> +<p> +“I know all about it, Polly, but I can't describe it. I can't describe +anything; but ask me a question about it.” + </p> +<p> +“Where is it,—where does it lie?” + </p> +<p> +“Isn't it at the lower third of the humerus, where the flexors divide?” + </p> +<p> +“You are too bad,—too stupid!” cried she, angrily. “I cannot believe +that anything short of a purpose, a determination to be ignorant, could +make a person so unteach-able. If we have gone over this once, we have +done so fifty times. It haunts me in my sleep, from very iteration.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish it would haunt me a little when I 'm awake,” said he, sulkily. +</p> +<p> +“And when may that be, I'd like to know? Do you fancy, sir, that your +present state of intelligence is a very vigilant one?” + </p> +<p> +“I know one thing. I hope there won't be the like of you on the Court of +Examiners, for I would n't bear the half of what <i>you've</i> said to me +from another.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0016" id="linkimage-0016"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/202.jpg" width="100%" alt="202 " /> +</div> +<p> +“Rejection will be harder to bear, Tom. To be sent back as ignorant and +incapable will be far heavier as a punishment than any words of mine. What +are you laughing at, sir? Is it a matter of mirth to you?” + </p> +<p> +“Look at the skull, Polly,—look at the skull.” And he pointed to +where he had stuck his short, black pipe, between the grinning teeth of +the skeleton. +</p> +<p> +She snatched it angrily away, and threw it out of the window, saying, “You +may be ignorant, and not be able to help it. I will take care you shall +not be irreverent, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“There's my short clay gone, anyhow,” said Tom, submissively, “and I think +I 'll go to bed.” And he yawned drearily as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“Not till you have done this, if we sit here till breakfast-time,” said +she, resolutely. “There's the plate, and there's the reference. Read it +till you know it!” + </p> +<p> +“What a slave-driver you 'd make, Polly!” said he, with a half-bitter +smile. +</p> +<p> +“What a slave I am!” said she, turning away her head. +</p> +<p> +“That's true,” cried he, in a voice thick with emotion; “and when I 'm +thousands of miles away, I 'll be longing to hear the bitterest words you +ever said to me, rather than never see you any more.” + </p> +<p> +“My poor brother,” said she, laying her hand softly on his rough head, “I +never doubted your heart, and I ought to be better tempered with you, and +I will. Come, now, Tom,”—and she seated herself at the table next +him,—“see, now, if I cannot make this easy to you.” And then the two +heads were bent together over the table, and the soft brown hair of the +girl half mingled with the rough wool of the graceless numskull beside +her. +</p> +<p> +“I will stand by him, if it were only for her sake,” said Conyers to +himself. And he stole slowly away, and gained the inn. +</p> +<p> +So intent upon his purpose was he that he at once set about its +fulfilment. He began a long letter to his father, and, touching slightly +on the accident by which he made Dr. Dill's acquaintance, professed to be +deeply his debtor for kindness and attention. With this prelude he +introduced Tom. Hitherto his pen had glided along flippantly enough. In +that easy mixture of fact and fancy by which he opened his case, no grave +difficulty presented itself; but Tom was now to be presented, and the task +was about as puzzling as it would have been to have conducted him bodily +into society. +</p> +<p> +“I was ungenerous enough to be prejudiced against this poor fellow when I +first met him,” wrote he. “Neither his figure nor his manners are in his +favor, and in his very diffidence there is an apparent rudeness and +forwardness which are not really in his nature. These, however, are not +mistakes you, my dear father, will fall into. With your own quickness you +will see what sterling qualities exist beneath this rugged outside, and +you will befriend him at first for my sake. Later on, I trust he will open +his own account in your heart. Bear in mind, too, that it was all my +scheme,—the whole plan mine. It was I persuaded him to try his luck +in India; it was through me he made the venture; and if the poor fellow +fail, all the fault will fall back upon <i>me</i>.” From this he went into +little details of Tom's circumstances, and the narrow means by which he +was surrounded, adding how humble he was, and how ready to be satisfied +with the most moderate livelihood. “In that great wide world of the East, +what scores of things there must be for such a fellow to do; and even +should he not turn out to be a Sydenham or a Harvey, he might administer +justice, or collect revenue, or assist in some other way the process of +that system which we call the British rule in India. In a word, get him +something he may live by, and be able, in due time, to help those he has +left behind here, in a land whose 'Paddy-fields' are to the full as +pauperized as those of Bengal.” + </p> +<p> +He had intended, having disposed of Tom Dill's case, to have addressed +some lines to his father about the Barring-tons, sufficiently vague to be +easily answered if the subject were one distasteful or unpleasing to him; +but just as he reached the place to open this, he was startled by the +arrival of a jaunting-car at the inn-door, whose driver stopped to take a +drink. It was a chance conveyance, returning to Kilkenny, and Conyers at +once engaged it; and, leaving an order to send on the reply when it +arrived from the cottage, he wrote a hasty note to Tom Dill and departed. +This note was simply to say that he had already fulfilled his promise of +interesting his father in his behalf, and that whenever Tom had passed his +examination, and was in readiness for his voyage, he should come or write +to him, and he would find him fully disposed to serve and befriend him. +“Meanwhile,” wrote he, “let me hear of you. I am really anxious to learn +how you acquit yourself at the ordeal, for which you have the cordial good +wishes of your friend, F. Conyers.” + </p> +<p> +Oh, if the great men of our acquaintance—and we all of us, no matter +how hermit-like we may live, have our “great men”—could only know +and feel what ineffable pleasure will sometimes be derived from the chance +expressions they employ towards us,—words which, little significant +in themselves, perhaps have some touch of good fellowship or good feeling, +now reviving a “bygone,” now far-seeing a future, tenderly thrilling +through us by some little allusion to a trick of our temperament, noted +and observed by one in whose interest we never till then knew we had a +share,—if, I say, they were but aware of this, how delightful they +might make themselves!—what charming friends!—and, it is but +fair to own, what dangerous patrons! +</p> +<p> +I leave my reader to apply the reflection to the case before him, and then +follow me to the pleasant quarters of a well-maintained country-house, +full of guests and abounding in gayety. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVIII. COBHAM +</h2> +<p> +My reader is already aware that I am telling of some forty years ago, and +therefore I have no apologies to make for habits and ways which our more +polished age has pronounced barbarous. Now, at Cobham, the men sat after +dinner over their wine when the ladies had withdrawn, and, I grieve to +say, fulfilled this usage with a zest and enjoyment that unequivocally +declared it to be the best hour of the whole twenty-four. +</p> +<p> +Friends could now get together, conversation could range over +personalities, egotisms have their day, and bygones be disinterred without +need of an explanation. Few, indeed, who did not unbend at such a moment, +and relax in that genial atmosphere begotten of closed curtains, and +comfort, and good claret. I am not so certain that we are wise in our +utter abandonment of what must have often conciliated a difference or +reconciled a grudge. How many a lurking discontent, too subtle for +intervention, must have been dissipated in the general burst of a common +laugh, or the racy enjoyment of a good story! Decidedly the decanter has +often played peacemaker, though popular prejudice inclines to give it a +different mission. +</p> +<p> +On the occasion to which I would now invite my reader, the party were +seated—by means of that genial discovery, a horseshoe-table—around +the fire at Cobham. It was a true country-house society of neighbors who +knew each other well, sprinkled with guests,—strangers to every one. +There were all ages and all temperaments, from the hardy old squire, whose +mellow cheer was known at the fox-cover, to the young heir fresh from +Oxford and loud about Leicestershire; gentlemen-farmers and sportsmen, and +parsons and soldiers, blended together with just enough disparity of +pursuit to season talk and freshen experiences. +</p> +<p> +The conversation, which for a while was partly on sporting matters, varied +with little episodes of personal achievement, and those little boastings +which end in a bet, was suddenly interrupted by a hasty call for Dr. Dill, +who was wanted at the “Fisherman's Home.” + </p> +<p> +“Can't you stay to finish this bottle, Dill?” said the Admiral, who had +not heard for whom he had been sent. +</p> +<p> +“I fear not, sir. It is a long row down to the cottage.” + </p> +<p> +“So it 's poor Barrington again! I 'm sincerely sorry for it! And now I +'ll not ask you to delay. By the way, take my boat. Elwes,” said he to the +servant, “tell the men to get the boat ready at once for Dr. Dill, and +come and say when it is so.” + </p> +<p> +The doctor's gratitude was profuse, though probably a dim vista of the +“tip” that might be expected from him detracted from the fulness of the +enjoyment. +</p> +<p> +“Find out if I could be of any use, Dill,” whispered the Admiral, as the +doctor arose. “Your own tact will show if there be anything I could do. +You understand me; I have the deepest regard for old Barrington, and his +sister too.” + </p> +<p> +Dill promised to give his most delicate attention to the point, and +departed. +</p> +<p> +While this little incident was occurring, Stapylton, who sat at an angle +of the fireplace, was amusing two or three listeners by an account of his +intended dinner at the “Home,” and the haughty refusal of Miss Barrington +to receive him. +</p> +<p> +“You must tell Sir Charles the story!” cried out Mr. Bushe. “He'll soon +recognize the old Major from your imitation of him.” + </p> +<p> +“Hang the old villain! he shot a dog-fox the other morning, and he knows +well how scarce they are getting in the country,” said another. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll never forgive myself for letting him have a lease of that place,” + said a third; “he's a disgrace to the neighborhood.” + </p> +<p> +“You're not talking of Barrington, surely,” called out Sir Charles. +</p> +<p> +“Of course not. I was speaking of M'Cormick. Harrington is another stamp +of man, and here's his good health!” + </p> +<p> +“He'll need all your best wishes, Jack,” said the host, “for Dr. Dill has +just been called away to see him.” + </p> +<p> +“To see old Peter! Why, I never knew him to have a day's illness!” + </p> +<p> +“He's dangerously ill now,” said the Admiral, gravely. “Dill tells me that +he came home from the Assizes hale and hearty, in high spirits at some +verdict in his favor, and brought back the Attorney-General to spend a day +or two with him; but that, on arriving, he found a young fellow whose +father or grandfather—for I have n't it correctly—had been +concerned in some way against George Barrington, and that high words +passed between old Peter and this youth, who was turned out on the spot, +while poor Barrington, overcome by emotion, was struck down with a sort of +paralysis. As I have said, I don't know the story accurately, for even +Dill himself only picked it up from the servants at the cottage, neither +Miss Barrington nor Withering having told him one word on the subject.” + </p> +<p> +“That is the very same story I heard at the village where we dined,” broke +in Stapylton, “and M'Cormick added that he remembered the name. Conyers—the +young man is called Conyers—did occur in a certain famous accusation +against Colonel Barrington.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, but,” interposed Bushe, “isn't all that an old story now? Is n't +the whole thing a matter of twenty years ago?” + </p> +<p> +“Not so much as that,” said Sir Charles. “I remember reading it all when I +was in command of the 'Madagascar,'—I forget the exact year, but I +was at Corfu.” + </p> +<p> +“At all events,” said Bushe, “it's long enough past to be forgotten or +forgiven; and old Peter was the very last man I could ever have supposed +likely to carry on an ancient grudge against any one.” + </p> +<p> +“Not where his son was concerned. Wherever George's name entered, +forgiveness of the man that wronged him was impossible,” said another. +</p> +<p> +“You are scarcely just to my old friend,” interposed the Admiral. “First +of all, we have not the facts before us. Many of us here have never seen, +some have never heard of the great Barrington Inquiry, and of such as +have, if their memories be not better than mine, they can't discuss the +matter with much profit.” + </p> +<p> +“I followed the case when it occurred,” chimed in the former speaker, “but +I own, with Sir Charles, that it has gone clean out of my head since that +time.” + </p> +<p> +“You talk of injustice, Cobham, injustice to old Peter Barrington,” said +an old man from the end of the table; “but I would ask, are we quite just +to poor George? I knew him well. My son served in the same regiment with +him before he went out to India, and no finer nor nobler-hearted fellow +than George Barrington ever lived. Talk of him ruining his father by his +extravagance! Why, he'd have cut off his right hand rather than caused him +one pang, one moment of displeasure. Barrington ruined himself; that +insane passion for law has cost him far more than half what he was worth +in the world. Ask Withering; he 'll tell you something about it. Why, +Withering's own fees in that case before 'the Lords' amount to upwards of +two thousand guineas.” + </p> +<p> +“I won't dispute the question with you, Fowndes,” said the Admiral. +“Scandal says you have a taste for a trial at bar yourself.” + </p> +<p> +The hit told, and called for a hearty laugh, in which Fowndes himself +joined freely. +</p> +<p> +“<i>I</i> 'm a burned child, however, and keep away from the fire,” said +he, good-humoredly; “but old Peter seems rather to like being singed. +There he is again with his Privy Council case for next term, and with, I +suppose, as much chance of success as I should have in a suit to recover a +Greek estate of some of my Phoenician ancestors.” + </p> +<p> +It was not a company to sympathize deeply with such a litigious spirit. +The hearty and vigorous tone of squiredom, young and old, could not +understand it as a passion or a pursuit, and they mainly agreed that +nothing but some strange perversion could have made the generous nature of +old Barrington so fond of law. Gradually the younger members of the party +slipped away to the drawing-room, till, in the changes that ensued, +Stapylton found himself next to Mr. Fowndes. +</p> +<p> +“I'm glad to see, Captain,” said the old squire, “that modern fashion of +deserting the claret-jug has not invaded your mess. I own I like a man who +lingers over his wine.” + </p> +<p> +“We have no pretext for leaving it, remember that,” said Stapylton, +smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Very true. The <i>placeus uxor</i> is sadly out of place in a soldier's +life. Your married officer is but a sorry comrade; besides, how is a +fellow to be a hero to the enemy who is daily bullied by his wife?” + </p> +<p> +“I think you said that you had served?” interposed Stapylton. +</p> +<p> +“No. My son was in the army; he is so still, but holds a Governorship in +the West Indies. He it was who knew this Barrington we were speaking of.” + </p> +<p> +“Just so,” said Stapylton, drawing his chair closer, so as to converse +more confidentially. +</p> +<p> +“You may imagine what very uneventful lives we country gentlemen live,” + said the old squire, “when we can continue to talk over one memorable case +for something like twenty years, just because one of the parties to it was +our neighbor.” + </p> +<p> +“You appear to have taken a lively interest in it,” said Stapylton, who +rightly conjectured it was a favorite theme with the old squire. +</p> +<p> +“Yes. Barrington and my son were friends; they came down to my house +together to shoot; and with all his eccentricities—and they were +many—I liked Mad George, as they called him.” + </p> +<p> +“He was a good fellow, then?” + </p> +<p> +“A thoroughly good fellow, but the shyest that ever lived; to all outward +seeming rough and careless, but sensitive as a woman all the while. He +would have walked up to a cannon's mouth with a calm step, but an +affecting story would bring tears to his eyes; and then, to cover this +weakness, which he was well ashamed of, he 'd rush into fifty follies and +extravagances. As he said himself to me one day, alluding to some feat of +rash absurdity, 'I have been taking another inch off the dog's tail,'—he +referred to the story of Alcibiades, who docked his dog to take off public +attention from his heavier transgressions.” + </p> +<p> +“There was no truth in these accusations against him?” + </p> +<p> +“Who knows? George was a passionate fellow, and he 'd have made short work +of the man that angered him. I myself never so entirely acquitted him as +many who loved him less. At all events, he was hardly treated; he was +regularly hunted down. I imagine he must have made many enemies, for +witnesses sprung up against him on all sides, and he was too proud a +fellow to ask for one single testimony in his favor! If ever a man met +death broken-hearted, he did!” + </p> +<p> +A pause of several minutes occurred, after which the old squire resumed,— +</p> +<p> +“My son told me that after Barrington's death there was a strong revulsion +in his favor, and a great feeling that he had been hardly dealt by. Some +of the Supreme Council, it is said, too, were disposed to behave +generously towards his child, but old Peter, in an evil hour, would hear +of nothing short of restitution of all the territory, and a regular +rehabilitation of George's memory, besides; in fact, he made the most +extravagant demands, and disgusted the two or three who were kindly and +well disposed towards his cause. Had they, indeed,—as he said,—driven +his son to desperation, he could scarcely ask them to declare it to the +world; and yet nothing short of this would satisfy him! 'Come forth,' +wrote he,—I read the letter myself,—'come forth and confess +that your evidence was forged and your witnesses suborned; that you wanted +to annex the territory, and the only road to your object was to impute +treason to the most loyal heart that ever served the King!' Imagine what +chance of favorable consideration remained to the man who penned such +words as these.” + </p> +<p> +“And he prosecutes the case still?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, and will do to the day of his death. Withering—who was an old +schoolfellow of mine—has got me to try what I could do to persuade +him to come to some terms; and, indeed, to do old Peter justice, it is not +the money part of the matter he is so obstinate about; it is the question +of what he calls George's fair fame and honor; and one cannot exactly say +to him, 'Who on earth cares a brass button whether George Barrington was a +rebel or a true man? Whether he deserved to die an independent Rajah of +some place with a hard name, or the loyal subject of his Majesty George +the Third?' I own I, one day, did go so close to the wind, on that +subject, that the old man started up and said, 'I hope I misapprehend you, +Harry Fowndes. I hope sincerely that I do so, for if not, I 'll have a +shot at you, as sure as my name is Peter Barrington.' Of course I 'tried +back' at once, and assured him it was a pure misconception of my meaning, +and that until the East India folk fairly acknowledged that they had +wronged his son, <i>he</i> could not, with honor, approach the question of +a compromise in the money matter.” + </p> +<p> +“That day, it may be presumed, is very far off,” said Stapylton, half +languidly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, Withering opines not. He says that they are weary of the whole +case. They have had, perhaps, some misgivings as to the entire justice of +what they did. Perhaps they have learned something during the course of +the proceedings which may have influenced their judgment; and not +impossible is it that they pity the old man fighting out his life; and +perhaps, too, Barrington himself may have softened a little, since he has +begun to feel that his granddaughter—for George left a child—had +interests which his own indignation could not rightfully sacrifice; so +that amongst all these perhapses, who knows but some happy issue may come +at last?” + </p> +<p> +“That Barrington race is not a very pliant one,” said Stapylton, half +dreamily; and then, in some haste, added, “at least, such is the character +they give them here.” + </p> +<p> +“Some truth there may be in that. Men of a strong temperament and with a +large share of self-dependence generally get credit from the world for +obstinacy, just because the road <i>they</i> see out of difficulties is +not the popular one. But even with all this, I 'd not call old Peter +self-willed; at least, Withering tells me that from time to time, as he +has conveyed to him the opinions and experiences of old Indian officers, +some of whom had either met with or heard of George, he has listened with +much and even respectful attention. And as all their counsels have gone +against his own convictions, it is something to give them a patient +hearing.” + </p> +<p> +“He has thus permitted strangers to come and speak with him on these +topics?” asked Stapylton, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“No, no,—not he. These men had called on Withering,—met him, +perhaps, in society,—heard of his interest in George Barrington's +case, and came good-naturedly to volunteer a word of counsel in favor of +an old comrade. Nothing more natural, I think.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing. I quite agree with you; so much so, indeed, that having served +some years in India, and in close proximity, too, to one of the native +courts, I was going to ask you to present me to your friend Mr. Withering, +as one not altogether incapable of affording him some information.” + </p> +<p> +“With a heart and a half. I 'll do it.” + </p> +<p> +“I say, Harry,” cried out the host, “if you and Captain Stapylton will +neither fill your glasses nor pass the wine, I think we had better join +the ladies.” + </p> +<p> +And now there was a general move to the drawing-room, where several +evening guests had already assembled, making a somewhat numerous company. +Polly Dill was there, too,—not the wearied-looking, careworn figure +we last saw her, when her talk was of “dead anatomies,” but the lively, +sparkling, bright-eyed Polly, who sang the Melodies to the accompaniment +of him who could make every note thrill with the sentiment his own genius +had linked to it. I half wish I had not a story to tell,—that is, +that I had not a certain road to take,—that I might wander at will +through by-path and lane, and linger on the memories thus by a chance +awakened! Ah, it was no small triumph to lift out of obscure companionship +and vulgar associations the music of our land, and wed it to words +immortal, to show us that the pebble at our feet was a gem to be worn on +the neck of beauty, and to prove to us, besides, that our language could +be as lyrical as Anacreon's own! +</p> +<p> +“I am enchanted with your singing,” whispered Stapylton, in Polly's ear; +“but I 'd forego all the enjoyment not to see you so pleased with your +companion. I begin to detest the little Poet.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll tell him so,” said she, half gravely; “and he 'll know well that it +is the coarse hate of the Saxon.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm no Saxon!” said he, flushing and darkening at the same time. And +then, recovering his calm, he added, “There are no Saxons left amongst us, +nor any Celts for us to honor with our contempt; but come away from the +piano, and don't let him fancy he has bound you by a spell.” + </p> +<p> +“But he has,” said she, eagerly,—“he has, and I don't care to break +it.” + </p> +<p> +But the little Poet, running his fingers lightly over the keys, warbled +out, in a half-plaintive whisper,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Oh, tell me, dear Polly, why is it thine eyes +Through their brightness have something of sorrow? +I cannot suppose that the glow of such skies +Should ever mean gloom for the morrow; + +“Or must I believe that your heart is afar, +And you only make semblance to hear me, +While your thoughts are away to that splendid hussar, +And 't is only your image is near me?” + </pre> +<p> +“An unpublished melody, I fancy,” said Stapylton, with a malicious twinkle +of his eye. +</p> +<p> +“Not even corrected as yet,” said the Poet, with a glance at Polly. +</p> +<p> +What a triumph it was for a mere village beauty to be thus tilted for by +such gallant knights; but Polly was practical as well as vain, and a +certain unmistakable something in Lady Cobham's eye told her that two of +the most valued guests of the house were not to be thus withdrawn from +circulation; and with this wise impression on her mind, she slipped +hastily away, on the pretext of something to say to her father. And +although it was a mere pretence on her part, there was that in her look as +they talked together that betokened their conversation to be serious. +</p> +<p> +“I tell you again,” said he, in a sharp but low whisper, “she will not +suffer it. You used not to make mistakes of this kind formerly, and I +cannot conceive why you should do so now.” + </p> +<p> +“But, dear papa,” said she, with a strange half-smile, “don't you remember +your own story of the gentleman who got tipsy because he foresaw he would +never be invited again?” + </p> +<p> +But the doctor was in no jesting mood, and would not accept of the +illustration. He spoke now even more angrily than before. +</p> +<p> +“You have only to see how much they make of him to know well that he is +out of our reach,” said he, bitterly. +</p> +<p> +“A long shot, Sir Lucius; there is such honor in a long shot,” said she, +with infinite drollery; and then with a sudden gravity, added, “I have +never forgotten the man you cured, just because your hand shook and you +gave him a double dose of laudanum.” + </p> +<p> +This was too much for his patience, and he turned away in disgust at her +frivolity. In doing so, however, he came in front of Lady Cobham, who had +come up to request Miss Dill to play a certain Spanish dance for two young +ladies of the company. +</p> +<p> +“Of course, your Ladyship,—too much honor for her,—she will be +charmed; my little girl is overjoyed when she can contribute even thus +humbly to the pleasure of your delightful house.” + </p> +<p> +Never did a misdemeanist take his “six weeks” with a more complete +consciousness of penalty than did Polly sit down to that piano. She well +understood it as a sentence, and, let me own, submitted well and +gracefully to her fate. Nor was it, after all, such a slight trial, for +the fandango was her own speciality; she had herself brought the dance and +the music to Cobham. They who were about to dance it were her own pupils, +and not very proficient ones, either. And with all this she did her part +well and loyally. Never had she played with more spirit; never marked the +time with a firmer precision; never threw more tenderness into the +graceful parts, nor more of triumphant daring into the proud ones. Amid +the shower of “Bravos!” that closed the performance,—for none +thought of the dancers,—the little Poet drew nigh and whispered, +“How naughty!” + </p> +<p> +“Why so?” asked she, innocently. +</p> +<p> +“What a blaze of light to throw over a sorry picture!” said he, dangling +his eyeglass, and playing that part of middle-aged Cupid he was so fond of +assuming. +</p> +<p> +“Do you know, sir,” said Lady Cobham, coming hastily towards him, “that I +will not permit you to turn the heads of my young ladies? Dr. Dill is +already so afraid of your fascinations that he has ordered his carriage,—is +it not so?” she went on appealing to the doctor, with increased rapidity. +“But you will certainly keep your promise to us. We shall expect you on +Thursday at dinner.” + </p> +<p> +Overwhelmed with confusion, Dill answered—he knew not what—about +pleasure, punctuality, and so forth; and then turned away to ring for that +carriage he had not ordered before. +</p> +<p> +“And so you tell me Barrington is better?” said the Admiral, taking him by +the arm and leading him away. “The danger is over, then?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe so; his mind is calm, and he is only suffering now from +debility. What with the Assizes, and a week's dissipation at Kilkenny, and +this shock,—for it was a shock,—the whole thing was far more +of a mental than a bodily ailment.” + </p> +<p> +“You gave him my message? You said how anxious I felt to know if I could +be of any use to him?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; and he charged Mr. Withering to come and thank you, for he is +passing by Cobham to-morrow on his way to Kilkenny.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed! Georgiana, don't forget that. Withering will call here to-morrow; +try and keep him to dine, at least, if we cannot secure him for longer. +He's one of those fellows I am always delighted to meet Where are you +going, Dill? Not taking your daughter away at this hour, are you?” + </p> +<p> +The doctor sighed, and muttered something about dissipations that were +only too fascinating, too engrossing. He did not exactly like to say that +his passports had been sent him, and the authorities duly instructed to +give him “every aid and assistance possible.” For a moment, indeed, Polly +looked as though she would make some explanation of the matter; but it was +only for a moment, and the slight flush on her cheek gave way quickly, and +she looked somewhat paler than her wont. Meanwhile, the little Poet had +fetched her shawl, and led her away, humming, “Buona notte,—buona +sera!” as he went, in that half-caressing, half-quizzing way he could +assume so jauntily. Stapylton walked behind with the doctor, and whispered +as he went, “If not inconvenient, might I ask the favor of a few minutes +with you to-morrow?” + </p> +<p> +Dill assured him he was devotedly his servant; and having fixed the +interview for two o'clock, away they drove. The night was calm and +starlight, and they had long passed beyond the grounds of Cobham, and were +full two miles on their road before a word was uttered by either. +</p> +<p> +“What was it her Ladyship said about Thursday next, at dinner?” asked the +doctor, half pettishly. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing to me, papa.” + </p> +<p> +“If I remember, it was that we had accepted the invitation already, and +begging me not to forget it.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps so,” said she, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“You are usually more mindful about these matters,” said he, tartly, “and +not so likely to forget promised festivities.” + </p> +<p> +“They certainly were not promised to me,” said she, “nor, if they had +been, should I accept of them.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean?” said he, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“Simply, papa, that it is a house I will not re-enter, that's all.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, your head is turned, your brains are destroyed by flattery, girl. +You seem totally to forget that we go to these places merely by courtesy,—we +are received only on sufferance; we are not <i>their</i> equals.” + </p> +<p> +“The more reason to treat us with deference, and not render our position +more painful than it need be.” + </p> +<p> +“Folly and nonsense! Deference, indeed! How much deference is due from +eight thousand a year to a dispensary doctor, or his daughter? I 'll have +none of these absurd notions. If they made any mistake towards you, it was +by over-attention,—too much notice.” + </p> +<p> +“That is very possible, papa; and it was not always very flattering for +that reason.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, what is your head full of? Do you fancy you are one of Lord +Carricklough's daughters, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“No, papa; for they are shockingly freckled, and very plain.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you know your real station?” cried he, more angrily, “and that if, by +the courtesy of society, my position secures acceptance anywhere, it +entails nothing—positively nothing—to those belonging to me?” + </p> +<p> +“Such being the case, is it not wise of us not to want anything,—not +to look for it,—not to pine after it? You shall see, papa, whether I +fret over my exclusion from Cobham.” + </p> +<p> +The doctor was not in a mood to approve of such philosophy, and he drove +on, only showing—by an extra cut of his whip—the tone and +temper that beset him. +</p> +<p> +“You are to have a visit from Captain Stapylton tomorrow, papa?” said she, +in the manner of a half question. +</p> +<p> +“Who told you so?” said he, with a touch of eagerness in his voice; for +suddenly it occurred to him if Polly knew of this appointment, she herself +might be interested in its object. +</p> +<p> +“He asked me what was the most likely time to find you at home, and also +if he might venture to hope he should be presented to mamma.” + </p> +<p> +That was, as the doctor thought, a very significant speech; it might mean +a great deal,—a very great deal, indeed; and so he turned it over +and over in his mind for some time before he spoke again. At last he said,— +</p> +<p> +“I haven't a notion what he's coming about, Polly,—have you?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir; except, perhaps, it be to consult you. He told me he had +sprained his arm, or his shoulder, the other day, when his horse swerved.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh no, it can't be that, Polly; it can't be that.” + </p> +<p> +“Why not the pleasure of a morning call, then? He is an idle man, and +finds time heavy on his hands.” + </p> +<p> +A short “humph” showed that this explanation was not more successful than +the former, and the doctor, rather irritated with this game of fence, for +so he deemed it, said bluntly,— +</p> +<p> +“Has he been showing you any marked attentions of late? Have you noticed +anything peculiar in his manner towards you?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing whatever, sir,” said she, with a frank boldness. “He has chatted +and flirted with me, just as every one else presumes he has a right to do +with a girl in a station below their own; but he has never been more +impertinent in this way than any other young man of fashion.” + </p> +<p> +“But there have been”—he was sorely puzzled for the word he wanted, +and it was only as a resource, not out of choice, he said—“attentions?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course, papa, what many would call in the cognate phrase, marked +attentions; but girls who go into the world as I do no more mistake what +these mean than would you yourself, papa, if passingly asked what was good +for a sore-throat fancy that the inquirer intended to fee you.” + </p> +<p> +“I see, Polly, I see,” muttered he, as the illustration came home to him. +Still, after ruminating for some time, a change seemed to come over his +thoughts, for he said,— +</p> +<p> +“But you might be wrong this time, Polly: it is by no means impossible +that you might be wrong.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear papa,” said she, gravely, “when a man of his rank is disposed to +think seriously of a girl in mine, he does not begin by flattery; he +rather takes the line of correction and warning, telling her fifty little +platitudes about trifles in manner, and so forth, by her docile acceptance +of which he conceives a high notion of <i>himself</i>, and a half liking +for <i>her</i>. But I have no need to go into these things; enough if I +assure you Captain Stapylton's visit has no concern for me; he either +comes out of pure idleness, or he wants to make use of <i>you</i>.” + </p> +<p> +The last words opened a new channel to Dill's thoughts, and he drove on in +silent meditation over them. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIX. THE HOUR OF LUNCHEON +</h2> +<p> +If there be a special agreeability about all the meal-times of a pleasant +country-house, there is not one of them which, in the charm of an easy, +unconstrained gayety, can rival the hour of luncheon. At breakfast, one is +too fresh; at dinner, too formal; but luncheon, like an opening manhood, +is full of its own bright projects. The plans of the day have already +reached a certain maturity, and fixtures have been made for +riding-parties, or phaeton drives, or flirtations in the garden. The very +strangers who looked coldly at each other over their morning papers have +shaken into a semi-intimacy, and little traits of character and +temperament, which would have been studiously shrouded in the more solemn +festivals of the day, are now displayed with a frank and fearless +confidence. The half-toilette and the tweed coat, mutton broth and +“Balmorals,” seem infinitely more congenial to acquaintanceship than the +full-blown splendor of evening dress and the grander discipline of dinner. +</p> +<p> +Irish social life permits of a practice of which I do not, while +recording, constitute myself the advocate or the apologist,—a sort +of good-tempered banter called quizzing,—a habit I scarcely believe +practicable in other lands; that is, I know of no country where it could +be carried on as harmlessly and as gracefully, where as much wit could be +expended innocuously, as little good feeling jeopardized in the display. +The happiest hour of the day for such passages as these was that of +luncheon, and it was in the very clash and clatter of the combat that a +servant announced the Attorney-General! +</p> +<p> +What a damper did the name prove! Short of a bishop himself, no +announcement could have spread more terror over the younger members of the +company, embodying as it seemed to do all that could be inquisitorial, +intolerant, and overbearing. Great, however, was the astonishment to see, +instead of the stern incarnation of Crown prosecutions and arbitrary +commitments, a tall, thin, slightly stooped man, dressed in a gray +shooting-jacket, and with a hat plentifully garnished with fishing-flies. +He came lightly into the room, and kissed the hand of his hostess with a +mixture of cordiality and old-fashioned gallantry that became him well. +</p> +<p> +“My old luck, Cobham!” said he, as he seated himself at table. “I have +fished the stream all the way from the Red House to this, and never so +much as a rise to reward me. +</p> +<p> +“They knew you,—they knew you, Withering,” chirped out the Poet, +“and they took good care not to put in an appearance, with the certainty +of a 'detainer.'” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! you here! That decanter of sherry screened you completely from my +view,” said Withering, whose sarcasm on his size touched the very sorest +of the other's susceptibilities. “And talking of recognizances, how comes +it you are here, and a large party at Lord Dunraney's all assembled to +meet you?” + </p> +<p> +The Poet, as not infrequent with him, had forgotten everything of this +prior engagement, and was now overwhelmed with his forgetfulness. The +ladies, however, pressed eagerly around him with consolation so like +caresses, that he was speedily himself again. +</p> +<p> +“How natural a mistake, after all!” said the lawyer. “The old song says,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +'Tell me where beauty and wit and wine +Are met, and I 'll say where I 'm asked to dine.' +</pre> +<p> +Ah! Tommy, yours <i>is</i> the profession, after all; always sure of your +retainer, and never but one brief to sustain—'T. M. <i>versus</i> +the Heart of Woman.'” + </p> +<p> +“One is occasionally nonsuited, however,” said the other, half pettishly. +“By the way, how was it you got that verdict for old Barrington t'other +day? Was it true that Plowden got hold of <i>your</i> bag by mistake?” + </p> +<p> +“Not only that, but he made a point for us none of us had discovered.” + </p> +<p> +“How historical the blunder:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +'The case is classical, as I and you know; +He came from Venus, but made love to Juno.'” + </pre> +<p> +“If Peter Barrington gained his cause by it I 'm heartily rejoiced, and I +wish him health and years to enjoy it.” The Admiral said this with a +cordial good will as he drank off his glass. +</p> +<p> +“He's all right again,” said Withering. “I left him working away with a +hoe and a rake this morning, looking as hale and hearty as he did a dozen +years ago.” + </p> +<p> +“A man must have really high deserts in whose good fortune so many are +well-wishers,” said Stapylton; and by the courteous tone of the remark +Withering's attention was attracted, and he speedily begged the Admiral to +present him to his guest. They continued to converse together as they +arose from table, and with such common pleasure that when Withering +expressed a hope the acquaintance might not end there, Stapylton replied +by a request that he would allow him to be his fellow-traveller to +Kilkenny, whither he was about to go on a regimental affair. The +arrangement was quickly made, to the satisfaction of each; and as they +drove away, while many bewailed the departure of such pleasant members of +the party, the little Poet simperingly said,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Shall I own that my heart is relieved of a care?— +Though you 'll think the confession is petty— +I cannot but feel, as I look on the pair, +It is 'Peebles' gone off with 'Dalgetty.'” + </pre> +<p> +As for the fellow-travellers, they jogged along very pleasantly on their +way, as two consummate men of the world are sure to do when they meet. For +what Freemasonry equals that of two shrewd students of life? How +flippantly do they discuss each theme! how easily read each character, and +unravel each motive that presents itself! What the lawyer gained by the +technical subtlety of his profession, the soldier made up for by his wider +experience of mankind. There were, besides, a variety of experiences to +exchange. Toga could tell of much that interested the “man of war,” and +he, in turn, made himself extremely agreeable by his Eastern information, +not to say, that he was able to give a correct version of many Hindostanee +phrases and words which the old lawyer eagerly desired to acquire. +</p> +<p> +“All you have been telling me has a strong interest for me, Captain +Stapylton,” said he, as they drove into Kilkenny. “I have a case which has +engaged my attention for years, and is likely to occupy what remains to me +of life,—a suit of which India is the scene, and Orientals figure as +some of the chief actors,—so that I can scarcely say how fortunate I +feel this chance meeting with you.” + </p> +<p> +“I shall deem myself greatly honored if the acquaintance does not end +here.” + </p> +<p> +“It shall not, if it depend upon me,” said Withering, cordially. “You said +something of a visit you were about to make to Dublin. Will you do me a +great—a very great—favor, and make my house your home while +you stay? This is my address: '18 Merrion Square.' It is a bachelor's +hall; and you can come and go without ceremony.” + </p> +<p> +“The plan is too tempting to hesitate about. I accept your invitation with +all the frankness you have given it. Meanwhile you will be my guest here.” + “'That is impossible. I must start for Cork this evening.” And now they +parted,—not like men who had been strangers a few hours back, but +like old acquaintances, only needing the occasion to feel as old friends. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XX. AN INTERIOR AT THE DOCTOR'S +</h2> +<p> +When Captain Stapylton made his appointment to wait on Dr. Dill, he was +not aware that the Attorney-General was expected at Cobham. No sooner, +however, had he learned that fact than he changed his purpose, and +intimated his intention of running up for a day to Kilkenny, to hear what +was going on in the regiment. No regret for any disappointment he might be +giving to the village doctor, no self-reproach for the breach of an +engagement—all of his own making—crossed his mind. It is, +indeed, a theme for a moralist to explore, the ease with which a certain +superiority in station can divest its possessor of all care for the +sensibilities of those below him; and yet in the little household of the +doctor that promised visit was the source of no small discomfort and +trouble. The doctor's study—the sanctum in which the interview +should be held—had to be dusted and smartened up. Old boots, and +overcoats, and smashed driving-whips, and odd stirrup-leathers, and +stable-lanterns, and garden implements had all to be banished. The great +table in front of the doctor's chair had also to be professionally +littered with notes and cards and periodicals, not forgetting an ingenious +admixture of strange instruments of torture, quaint screws, and +inscrutable-looking scissors, destined, doubtless, to make many a faint +heart the fainter in their dread presence. All these details had to be +carried out in various ways through the rest of the establishment,—in +the drawing-room, wherein the great man was to be ushered; in the +dining-room, where he was to lunch. Upon Polly did the greater part of +these cares devolve; not alone attending to the due disposal of chairs and +sofas and tables, but to the preparation of certain culinary delicacies, +which were to make the Captain forget the dainty luxuries of Cobham. And, +in truth, there is a marvellous <i>esprit du corps</i> in the way a woman +will fag and slave herself to make the humble household she belongs to +look its best, even to the very guest she has least at heart; for Polly +did not like Stapylton. Flattered at first by his notice, she was offended +afterwards at the sort of conscious condescension of his manner,—a +something which seemed to say, I can be charming, positively fascinating, +but don't imagine for a moment that there is anything especial in it. I +captivate—just as I fish, hunt, sketch, or shoot—to amuse +myself. And with all this, how was it he was really not a coxcomb? Was it +the grave dignity of his address, or the quiet state-liness of his person, +or was it a certain uniformity, a keeping, that pervaded all he said or +did? I am not quite sure whether all three did not contribute to this end, +and make him what the world confessed,—a most well-bred gentleman. +</p> +<p> +Polly was, in her way, a shrewd observer, and she felt that Stapylton's +manner towards her was that species of urbane condescension with which a +great master of a game deigns to play with a very humble proficient. He +moved about the board with an assumption that said, I can checkmate you +when I will! Now this is hard enough to bear when the pieces at stake are +stained ivory, but it is less endurable: still when they are our emotions +and our wishes. And yet with all this before her, Polly ordered and +arranged and superintended and directed with an energy that never tired, +and an activity that never relaxed. +</p> +<p> +As for Mrs. Dill, no similar incident in the life of Clarissa had prepared +her for the bustle and preparation she saw on every side, and she was +fairly perplexed between the thought of a seizure for rent and a fire,—casualties +which, grave as they were, she felt she could meet with Mr. Richardson +beside her. The doctor himself was unusually fidgety and anxious. Perhaps +he ascribed considerable importance to this visit; perhaps he thought +Polly had not been candid with him, and that, in reality, she knew more of +its object than she had avowed; and so he walked hurriedly from room to +room, and out into the garden, and across the road to the river's side, +and once as far as the bridge, consulting his watch, and calculating that +as it now only wanted eight minutes of two o'clock, the arrival could +scarcely be long delayed. +</p> +<p> +It was on his return he entered the drawing-room and found Polly, now +plainly but becomingly dressed, seated at her work, with a seeming +quietude and repose about her, strangely at variance with her late display +of activity. “I 've had a look down the Graigue Road,” said he, “but can +see nothing. You are certain he said two o'clock?” + </p> +<p> +“Quite certain, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure he might come by the river; there's water enough now for the +Cobham barge.” + </p> +<p> +She made no answer, though she half suspected some reply was expected. +</p> +<p> +“And of course,” continued the doctor, “they'd have offered him the use of +it. They seem to make a great deal of him up there.” + </p> +<p> +“A great deal, indeed, sir,” said she; but in a voice that was a mere echo +of his own. +</p> +<p> +“And I suspect they know why. I 'm sure they know why. People in their +condition make no mistakes about each other; and if he receives much +attention, it is because it's his due.” + </p> +<p> +No answer followed this speech, and he walked feverishly up and down the +room, holding his watch in his closed hand. “I have a notion you must have +mistaken him. It was not two he said.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm positive it was two, sir. But it can scarcely be much past that hour +now.” + </p> +<p> +“It is seventeen minutes past two,” said he, solemnly. And then, as if +some fresh thought had just occurred to him, asked, “Where 's Tom? I never +saw him this morning.” + </p> +<p> +“He 's gone out to take a walk, sir. The poor fellow is dead beat by work, +and had such a headache that I told him to go as far as the Red House or +Snow's Mill.” + </p> +<p> +“And I 'll wager he did not want to be told twice. Anything for idleness +with <i>him!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“Well, papa, he is really doing his very best now. He is not naturally +quick, and he has a bad memory, so that labor is no common toil; but his +heart is in it, and I never saw him really anxious for success before.” + </p> +<p> +“To go out to India, I suppose,” said Dill, sneeringly, “that notable +project of the other good-for-nothing; for, except in the matter of +fortune, there's not much to choose between them. There 's the half-hour +striking now!” + </p> +<p> +“The project has done this for him, at least,” said she, firmly,—“it +has given him hope!” + </p> +<p> +“How I like to hear about hope!” said he, with a peculiarly sarcastic +bitterness. “I never knew a fellow worth sixpence that had that cant of +'hope' in his mouth! How much hope had I when I began the world! How much +have I now?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't you hope Captain Stapylton may not have forgotten his appointment, +papa?” said she, with a quick drollery, which sparkled in her eye, but +brought no smile to her lips. +</p> +<p> +“Well, here he is at last,” said Dill, as he heard the sharp click made by +the wicket of the little garden; and he started up, and rushed to the +window. “May I never!” cried he, in horror, “if it isn't M'Cormick! Say +we're out,—that I'm at Graigue,—that I won't be home till +evening!” + </p> +<p> +But while he was multiplying these excuses, the old Major had caught sight +of him, and was waving his hand in salutation from below. “It's too late,—it's +too late!” sighed Dill, bitterly; “he sees me now,—there's no help +for it!” + </p> +<p> +What benevolent and benedictory expressions were muttered below his +breath, it is not for this history to record; but so vexed and irritated +was he, that the Major had already entered the room ere he could compose +his features into even a faint show of welcome. +</p> +<p> +“I was down at the Dispensary,” croaked out M'Cormick, “and they told me +you were not expected there to-day, and so I said, maybe he's ill, or +maybe,”—and here he looked shrewdly around him,—“maybe there +'s something going on up at the house.” + </p> +<p> +“What should there be going on, as you call it?” responded Dill, angrily, +for he was now at home, in presence of the family, and could not compound +for that tone of servile acquiescence he employed on foreign service. +</p> +<p> +“And, faix, I believe I was right; Miss Polly isn't so smart this morning +for nothing, no more than the saving cover is off the sofa, and the piece +of gauze taken down from before the looking-glass, and the 'Times' +newspaper away from the rug!” + </p> +<p> +“Are there any other domestic changes you 'd like to remark upon, Major +M'Cormick?” said Dill, pale with rage. +</p> +<p> +“Indeed, yes,” rejoined the other; “there 's yourself, in the elegant +black coat that I never saw since Lord Kilraney's funeral, and looking +pretty much as lively and pleasant as you did at the ceremony.” + </p> +<p> +“A gentleman has made an appointment with papa,” broke in Polly, “and may +be here at any moment.” + </p> +<p> +“I know who it is,” said M'Cormick, with a finger on the side of his nose +to imply intense cunning. “I know all about it.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you know?—what do you mean by all about it?” said Dill, +with an eagerness he could not repress. +</p> +<p> +“Just as much as yourselves,—there now! Just as much as yourselves!” + said he, sententiously. +</p> +<p> +“But apparently, Major, you know far more,” said Polly. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe I do, maybe I don't; but I 'll tell you one thing, Dill, for your +edification, and mind me if I 'm not right: you 're all mistaken about +him, every one of ye!” + </p> +<p> +“Whom are you talking of?” asked the doctor, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“Just the very man you mean yourself, and no other! Oh, you need n't fuss +and fume, I don't want to pry into your family secrets. Not that they 'll +be such secrets tomorrow or next day,—the whole town will be talking +of them,—but as an old friend that could, maybe, give a word of +advice—” + </p> +<p> +“Advice about what? Will you just tell me about what?” cried Dill, now +bursting with anger. +</p> +<p> +“I 've done now. Not another word passes my lips about it from this +minute. Follow your own road, and see where it will lead ye?” + </p> +<p> +“Cannot you understand, Major M'Cormick, that we are totally unable to +guess what you allude to? Neither papa nor I have the very faintest clew +to your meaning, and if you really desire to serve us, you will speak out +plainly.” + </p> +<p> +“Not another syllable, if I sat here for two years!” + </p> +<p> +The possibility of such an infliction seemed so terrible to poor Polly +that she actually shuddered as she heard it. +</p> +<p> +“Is n't that your mother I see sitting up there, with all the fine ribbons +in her cap?” whispered M'Cormick, as he pointed to a small room which +opened off an angle of the larger one. “That 's 'the boodoo,' is n't it?” + said he, with a grin. This, I must inform my reader, was the M'Cormick for +“boudoir.” “Well, I'll go and pay my respects to her.” + </p> +<p> +So little interest did Mrs. Dill take in the stir and movement around her +that the Major utterly failed in his endeavors to torture her by all his +covert allusions and ingeniously drawn inferences. No matter what hints he +dropped or doubts he suggested, <i>she</i> knew “Clarissa” would come well +out of her trials; and beyond a little unmeaning simper, and a muttered +“To be sure,” “No doubt of it,” and, “Why not?” M'Cormick could obtain +nothing from her. +</p> +<p> +Meanwhile, in the outer room the doctor continued to stride up and down +with impatience, while Polly sat quietly working on, not the less anxious, +perhaps, though her peaceful air betokened a mind at rest. +</p> +<p> +“That must be a boat, papa,” said she, without lifting her head, “that has +just come up to the landing-place. I heard the plash of the oars, and now +all is still again.” + </p> +<p> +“You 're right; so it is!” cried he, as he stopped before the window. “But +how is this! That 's a lady I see yonder, and a gentleman along with her. +That's not Stapylton, surely!” + </p> +<p> +“He is scarcely so tall,” said she, rising to look out, “but not very +unlike him. But the lady, papa,—the lady is Miss Barrington.” + </p> +<p> +Bad as M'Cormick's visit was, it was nothing to the possibility of such an +advent as this, and Dill's expressions of anger were now neither measured +nor muttered. +</p> +<p> +“This is to be a day of disasters. I see it well, and no help for it,” + exclaimed he, passionately. “If there was one human being I 'd hate to +come here this morning, it's that old woman! She's never civil. She's not +commonly decent in her manner towards me in her own house, and what she +'ll be in mine, is clean beyond me to guess. That's herself! There she +goes! Look at her remarking,—I see, she's remarking on the weeds +over the beds, and the smashed paling. She's laughing too! Oh, to be sure, +it's fine laughing at people that's poor; and she might know something of +that same herself. I know who the man is now. That 's the Colonel, who +came to the 'Fisherman's Home' on the night of the accident.” + </p> +<p> +“It would seem we are to hold a levee to-day,” said Polly, giving a very +fleeting glance at herself in the glass. And now a knock came to the door, +and the man who acted gardener and car-driver and valet to the doctor +announced that Miss Barrington and Colonel Hunter were below. +</p> +<p> +“Show them up,” said Dill, with the peremptory voice of one ordering a +very usual event, and intentionally loud enough to be heard below stairs. +</p> +<p> +If Polly's last parting with Miss Barrington gave little promise of +pleasure to their next meeting, the first look she caught of the old lady +on entering the room dispelled all uneasiness on that score. Miss Dinah +entered with a pleasing smile, and presented her friend, Colonel Hunter, +as one come to thank the doctor for much kindness to his young subaltern. +“Whom, by the way,” added he, “we thought to find here. It is only since +we landed that we learned he had left the inn for Kilkenny.” + </p> +<p> +While the Colonel continued to talk to the doctor, Miss Dinah had seated +herself On the sofa, with Polly at her side. +</p> +<p> +“My visit this morning is to you,” said she. “I have come to ask your +forgiveness. Don't interrupt me, child; your forgiveness was the very word +I used. I was very rude to you t' other morning, and being all in the +wrong,—like most people in such circumstances,—I was very +angry with the person who placed me so.” + </p> +<p> +“But, my dear madam,” said Polly, “you had such good reason to suppose you +were in the right that this <i>amende</i> on your part is far too +generous.” + </p> +<p> +“It is not at all generous,—it is simply just. I was sorely vexed +with you about that stupid wager, which you were very wrong to have had +any share in; vexed with your father, vexed with your brother,—not +that I believed his counsel would have been absolute wisdom,—and I +was even vexed with my young friend Conyers, because he had not the bad +taste to be as angry with you as I was. When I was a young lady,” said +she, bridling up, and looking at once haughty and defiant, “no man would +have dared to approach me with such a proposal as complicity in a wager. +But I am told that my ideas are antiquated, and the world has grown much +wiser since that day.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, madam,” said Polly, “but there is another difference that your +politeness has prevented you from appreciating. I mean the difference in +station between Miss Barrington and Polly Dill.” + </p> +<p> +It was a well-directed shot, and told powerfully, for Miss Barrington's +eyes became clouded, and she turned her head away, while she pressed +Polly's hand within her own with a cordial warmth. “Ah!” said she, +feelingly, “I hope there are many points of resemblance between us. I have +always tried to be a good sister. I know well what you have been to your +brother.” + </p> +<p> +A very jolly burst of laughter from the inner room, where Hunter had +already penetrated, broke in upon them, and the merry tones of his voice +were heard saying, “Take my word for it, madam, nobody could spare time +nowadays to make love in nine volumes. Life 's too short for it. Ask my +old brother-officer here if he could endure such a thirty years' war; or +rather let me turn here for an opinion. What does your daughter say on the +subject?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, ay,” croaked out M'Cormick. “Marry in haste—” + </p> +<p> +“Or repent that you did n't. That 's the true reading of the adage.” + </p> +<p> +“The Major would rather apply leisure to the marriage, and make the +repentance come—” + </p> +<p> +“As soon as possible afterwards,” said Miss Dinah, tartly. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, I 'll do better still; I won't provoke the repentance at all.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Major, is it thus you treat me?” said Polly, affecting to wipe her +eyes. “Are my hopes to be dashed thus cruelly?” + </p> +<p> +But the doctor, who knew how savagely M'Cormick could resent even the most +harmless jesting, quickly interposed, with a question whether Polly had +thought of ordering luncheon. +</p> +<p> +It is but fair to Dr. Dill to record the bland but careless way he ordered +some entertainment for his visitors. He did it like the lord of a +well-appointed household, who, when he said “serve,” they served. It was +in the easy confidence of one whose knowledge told him that the train was +laid, and only waited for the match to explode it. +</p> +<p> +“May I have the honor, dear lady?” said he, offering his arm to Miss +Barrington. +</p> +<p> +Now, Miss Dinah had just observed that she had various small matters to +transact in the village, and was about to issue forth for their +performance; but such is the force of a speciality, that she could not +tear herself away without a peep into the dining-room, and a glance, at +least, at arrangements that appeared so magically conjured up. Nor was +Dill insensible to the astonishment expressed in her face as her eyes +ranged over the table. +</p> +<p> +“If your daughter be your housekeeper, Dr. Dill,” said she, in a whisper, +“I must give her my very heartiest approbation. These are matters I can +speak of with authority, and I pronounce her worthy of high commendation.” + </p> +<p> +“What admirable salmon cutlets!” cried the Colonel. “Why, doctor, these +tell of a French cook.” + </p> +<p> +“There she is beside you, the French cook!” said the Major, with a +malicious twinkle. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said Polly, smiling, though with a slight flush on her face, “if +Major M'Cormick will be indiscreet enough to tell tales, let us hope they +will never be more damaging in their import.” + </p> +<p> +“And do you say—do you mean to tell me that this curry is your +handiwork? Why, this is high art.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, she 's artful enough, if it 's that ye 're wanting,” muttered the +Major. +</p> +<p> +Miss Barrington, having apparently satisfied the curiosity she felt about +the details of the doctor's housekeeping, now took her leave, not, +however, without Dr. Dill offering his arm on one side, while Polly, with +polite observance, walked on the other. +</p> +<p> +“Look at that now,” whispered the Major. “They 're as much afraid of that +old woman as if she were the Queen of Sheba! And all because she was once +a fine lady living at Barrington Hall.” + </p> +<p> +“Here's their health for it,” said the Colonel, filling his glass,—“and +in a bumper too! By the way,” added he, looking around, “does not Mrs. +Dill lunch with us?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, she seldom comes to her meals! She's a little touched here.” And he +laid his finger on the centre of his forehead. “And, indeed, no wonder if +she is.” The benevolent Major was about to give some details of secret +family history, when the doctor and his daughter returned to the room. +</p> +<p> +The Colonel ate and talked untiringly. He was delighted with everything, +and charmed with himself for his good luck in chancing upon such agreeable +people. He liked the scenery, the village, the beetroot salad, the bridge, +the pickled oysters, the evergreen oaks before the door. He was not +astonished Conyers should linger on such a spot; and then it suddenly +occurred to him to ask when he had left the village, and how. +</p> +<p> +The doctor could give no information on the point, and while he was +surmising one thing and guessing another, M'Cormick whispered in the +Colonel's ear, “Maybe it's a delicate point. How do you know what went on +with—” And a significant nod towards Polly finished the remark. +</p> +<p> +“I wish I heard what Major M'Cormick has just said,” said Polly. +</p> +<p> +“And it is exactly what I cannot repeat to you.” + </p> +<p> +“I suspected as much. So that my only request will be that you never +remember it.” + </p> +<p> +“Isn't she sharp!—sharp as a needle!” chimed in the Major. +</p> +<p> +Checking, and not without some effort, a smart reprimand on the last +speaker, the Colonel looked hastily at his watch, and arose from table. +</p> +<p> +“Past three o'clock, and to be in Kilkenny by six.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you want a car? There's one of Rice's men now in the village; shall I +get him for you?” + </p> +<p> +“Would you really do me the kindness?” While the Major bustled off on his +errand, the Colonel withdrew the doctor inside the recess of a window. “I +had a word I wished to say to you in private, Dr. Dill; but it must really +be in private,—you understand me?” + </p> +<p> +“Strictly confidential, Colonel Hunter,” said Dill, bowing. +</p> +<p> +“It is this: a young officer of mine, Lieutenant Conyers, has written to +me a letter mentioning a plan he had conceived for the future advancement +of your son, a young gentleman for whom, it would appear, he had formed a +sudden but strong attachment. His project was, as I understand it, to +accredit him to his father with such a letter as must secure the General's +powerful influence in his behalf. Just the sort of thing a warm-hearted +young fellow would think of doing for a friend he determined to serve, but +exactly the kind of proceeding that might have a very unfortunate ending. +I can very well imagine, from my own short experience here, that your +son's claims to notice and distinction may be the very highest; I can +believe readily what very little extraneous aid he would require to secure +his success; but you and I are old men of the world, and are bound to look +at things cautiously, and to ask, 'Is this scheme a very safe one?' 'Will +General Conyers enter as heartily into it as his son?' 'Will the young +surgeon be as sure to captivate the old soldier as the young one?' In a +word, would it be quite wise to set a man's whole venture in life on such +a cast, and is it the sort of risk that, with your experience of the +world, you would sanction?” + </p> +<p> +It was evident, from the pause the Colonel left after these words, that he +expected Dill to say something; but, with the sage reserve of his order, +the doctor stood still, and never uttered a syllable. Let us be just to +his acuteness, he never did take to the project from the first; he thought +ill of it, in every way, but yet he did not relinquish the idea of making +the surrender of it “conditional;” and so he slowly shook his head with an +air of doubt, and smoothly rolled his hands one over the other, as though +to imply a moment of hesitation and indecision. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, yes,” muttered he, talking only to himself,—“disappointment, +to be sure!—very great disappointment too! And his heart so set upon +it, that's the hardship.” + </p> +<p> +“Naturally enough,” broke in Hunter, hastily. “Who would n't be +disappointed under such circumstances? Better even that, however, than +utter failure later on.” The doctor sighed, but over what precise calamity +was not so clear; and Hunter continued,— +</p> +<p> +“Now, as I have made this communication to you in strictest confidence, +and not in any concert with Conyers, I only ask you to accept the view as +a mere matter of opinion. I think you would be wrong to suffer your son to +engage in such a venture. That's all I mean by my interference, and I have +done.” + </p> +<p> +Dill was, perhaps, scarcely prepared for the sudden summing up of the +Colonel, and looked strangely puzzled and embarrassed. +</p> +<p> +“Might I talk the matter over with my daughter Polly? She has a good head +for one so little versed in the world.” + </p> +<p> +“By all means. It is exactly what I would have proposed. Or, better still, +shall I repeat what I have just told you?” + </p> +<p> +“Do so,” said the doctor, “for I just remember Miss Barrington will call +here in a few moments for that medicine I have ordered for her brother, +and which is not yet made up.” + </p> +<p> +“Give me five minutes of your time and attention, Miss Dill,” said Hunter, +“on a point for which your father has referred me to your counsel.” + </p> +<p> +“To mine?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said he, smiling at her astonishment. “We want your quick faculties +to come to the aid of our slow ones. And here's the case.” And in a few +sentences he put the matter before her, as he had done to her father. +While he thus talked, they had strolled out into the garden, and walked +slowly side by side down one of the alleys. +</p> +<p> +“Poor Tom!—poor fellow!” was all that Polly said, as she listened; +but once or twice her handkerchief was raised to her eyes, and her chest +heaved heavily. +</p> +<p> +“I am heartily sorry for him—that is, if his heart be bent on it—if +he really should have built upon the scheme already.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course he has, sir. You don't suppose that in such lives as ours these +are common incidents? If we chance upon a treasure, or fancy that we have, +once in a whole existence, it is great fortune.” + </p> +<p> +“It was a brief, a very brief acquaintance,—a few hours, I believe. +The—What was that? Did you hear any one cough there?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir; we are quite alone. There is no one in the garden but +ourselves.” + </p> +<p> +“So that, as I was saying, the project could scarcely have taken a very +deep root, and—and—in fact, better the first annoyance than a +mistake that should give its color to a whole lifetime. I'm certain I +heard a step in that walk yonder.” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir; we are all alone.” + </p> +<p> +“I half wish I had never come on this same errand. I have done an +ungracious thing, evidently very ill, and with the usual fate of those who +say disagreeable things, I am involved in the disgrace I came to avert.” + </p> +<p> +“But I accept your view.” + </p> +<p> +“There! I knew there was some one there!” said Hunter, springing across a +bed and coming suddenly to the side of M'Cormick, who was affecting to be +making a nosegay. +</p> +<p> +“The car is ready at the door, Colonel,” said he, in some confusion. +“Maybe you 'd oblige me with a seat as far as Lyrath?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, yes; of course. And how late it is!” cried he, looking at his watch. +“Time does fly fast in these regions, no doubt of it.” + </p> +<p> +“You see, Miss Polly, you have made the Colonel forget himself,” said +M'Cormick, maliciously. +</p> +<p> +“Don't be severe on an error so often your own, Major M'Cormick,” said +she, fiercely, and turned away into the house. +</p> +<p> +The Colonel, however, was speedily at her side, and in an earnest voice +said: “I could hate myself for the impression I am leaving behind me here. +I came with those excellent intentions which so often make a man odious, +and I am going away with those regrets which follow all failures; but I +mean to come back again one of these days, and erase, if I can, the ill +impression.” + </p> +<p> +“One who has come out of his way to befriend those who had no claim upon +his kindness can have no fear for the estimation he will be held in; for +my part, I thank you heartily, even though I do not exactly see the direct +road out of this difficulty.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me write to you. One letter—only one,” said Hunter. +</p> +<p> +But M'Cormick had heard the request, and she flushed up with anger at the +malicious glee his face exhibited. +</p> +<p> +“You 'll have to say my good-byes for me to your father, for I am sorely +pressed for time; and, even as it is, shall be late for my appointment in +Kilkenny.” And before Polly could do more than exchange his cordial shake +hands, he was gone. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXI. DARK TIDINGS +</h2> +<p> +If I am not wholly without self-reproach when I bring my reader into +uncongenial company, and make him pass time with Major M'Cormick he had +far rather bestow upon a pleasanter companion, I am sustained by the fact—unpalatable +fact though it be—that the highway of life is not always smooth, nor +its banks flowery, and that, as an old Derry woman once remarked to me, +“It takes a' kind o' folk to mak' a world.” + </p> +<p> +Now, although Colonel Hunter did drive twelve weary miles of road with the +Major for a fellow-traveller,—thanks to that unsocial conveniency +called an Irish jaunting-car,—they rode back to back, and conversed +but little. One might actually believe that unpopular men grow to feel a +sort of liking for their unpopularity, and become at length delighted with +the snubbings they meet with, as though an evidence of the amount of that +discomfort they can scatter over the world at large; just, in fact, as a +wasp or a scorpion might have a sort of triumphant joy in the +consciousness of its power for mischief, and exult in the terror caused by +its vicinity. +</p> +<p> +“Splendid road—one of the best I ever travelled on,” said the +Colonel, after about ten miles, during which he smoked on without a word. +</p> +<p> +“Why wouldn't it be, when they can assess the county for it? They're on +the Grand Jury, and high up, all about here,” croaked out the Major. +</p> +<p> +“It is a fine country, and abounds in handsome places.” “And well +mortgaged, too, the most of them.” “You 'd not see better farming than +that in Norfolk, cleaner wheat or neater drills; in fact, one might +imagine himself in England.” + </p> +<p> +“So he might, for the matter of taxes. I don't see much difference.” + </p> +<p> +“Why don't you smoke? Things look pleasanter through the blue haze of a +good Havannah,” said Hunter, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“I don't want them to look pleasanter than they are,” was the dry +rejoinder. +</p> +<p> +Whether Hunter did or did not, he scarcely liked his counsellor, and, +re-lighting a cigar, he turned his back once more on him. +</p> +<p> +“I'm one of those old-fashioned fellows,” continued the Major, leaning +over towards his companion, “who would rather see things as they are, not +as they might be; and when I remarked you awhile ago so pleased with the +elegant luncheon and Miss Polly's talents for housekeeping, I was laughing +to myself over it all.” + </p> +<p> +“How do you mean? What did you laugh at?” said Hunter, half fiercely. +</p> +<p> +“Just at the way you were taken in, that's all.” + </p> +<p> +“Taken in?—taken in? A very strange expression for an hospitable +reception and a most agreeable visit.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, it's the very word for it, after all; for as to the hospitable +reception, it was n't meant for us, but for that tall Captain,—the +dark-complexioned fellow,—Staples, I think they call him.” + </p> +<p> +“Captain Stapylton?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, that's the man. He ordered Healey's car to take him over here; and I +knew when the Dills sent over to Mrs. Brierley for a loan of the two cut +decanters and the silver cruet-stand, something was up; and so I strolled +down, by way of—to reconnoitre the premises, and see what old Dill +was after.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, and then?” + </p> +<p> +“Just that I saw it all,—the elegant luncheon, and the two bottles +of wine, and the ginger cordials, all laid out for the man that never +came; for it would seem he changed his mind about it, and went back to +head-quarters.” + </p> +<p> +“You puzzle me more and more at every word. What change of mind do you +allude to? What purpose do you infer he had in coming over here to-day?” + </p> +<p> +The only answer M'Cormick vouchsafed to this was by closing one eye and +putting his finger significantly to the tip of his nose, while he said, +“Catch a weasel asleep!” + </p> +<p> +“I more than suspect,” said Hunter, sternly, “that this half-pay life +works badly for a man's habits, and throws him upon very petty and +contemptible modes of getting through his time. What possible business +could it be of yours to inquire why Stapylton came, or did not come here +to-day, no more than for the reason of <i>my</i> visit?” + </p> +<p> +“Maybe I could guess that, too, if I was hard pushed,” said M'Cormick, +whose tone showed no unusual irritation from the late rebuke. “I was in +the garden all the time, and heard everything.” + </p> +<p> +“Listened to what I was saying to Miss Dill!” cried Hunter, whose voice of +indignation could not now be mistaken. +</p> +<p> +“Every word of it,” replied the unabashed Major. “I heard all you said +about a short acquaintance—a few hours you called it—but that +your heart was bent upon it, all the same. And then you went on about +India; what an elegant place it was, and the fine pay and the great +allowances. And ready enough she was to believe it all, for I suppose she +was sworn at Highgate, and would n't take the Captain if she could get the +Colonel.” + </p> +<p> +By this time, and not an instant earlier, it flashed upon Hunter's mind +that M'Cormick imagined he had overheard a proposal of marriage; and so +amused was he by the blunder, that he totally drowned his anger in a +hearty burst of laughter. +</p> +<p> +“I hope that, as an old brother-officer, you 'll be discreet, at all +events,” said he, at last. “You have not come by the secret quite +legitimately, and I trust you will preserve it.” + </p> +<p> +“My hearing is good, and my eyesight too, and I mean to use them both as +long as they 're spared to me.” + </p> +<p> +“It was your tongue that I referred to,” said Hunter, more gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, I know it was,” said the Major, crankily. “My tongue will take care +of itself also.” + </p> +<p> +“In order to make its task the easier, then,” said Hunter, speaking in a +slow and serious voice, “let me tell you that your eaves-dropping has, for +once at least, misled you. I made no proposal, such as you suspected, to +Miss Dill. Nor did she give me the slightest encouragement to do so. The +conversation you so unwarrantably and imperfectly overheard had a totally +different object, and I am not at all sorry you should not have guessed +it. So much for the past. Now one word for the future. Omit my name, and +all that concerns me, from the narrative with which you amuse your +friends, or, take my word for it, you 'll have to record more than you +have any fancy for. This is strictly between ourselves; but if you have a +desire to impart it, bear in mind that I shall be at my quarters in +Kilkenny till Tuesday next.” + </p> +<p> +“You may spend your life there, for anything I care,” said the Major. +“Stop, Billy; pull up. I'll get down here.” And shuffling off the car, he +muttered a “Good-day” without turning his head, and bent his steps towards +a narrow lane that led from the high-road. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0018" id="linkimage-0018"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/242.jpg" width="100%" alt="242 " /> +</div> +<p> +“Is this the place they call Lyrath?” asked the Colonel of the driver. +</p> +<p> +“No, your honor. We're a good four miles from it yet.” + </p> +<p> +The answer showed Hunter that his fellow-traveller had departed in anger; +and such was the generosity of his nature, he found it hard not to +overtake him and make his peace with him. +</p> +<p> +“After all,” thought he, “he 's a crusty old fellow, and has hugged his +ill-temper so long, it may be more congenial to him now than a pleasanter +humor.” And he turned his mind to other interests that more closely +touched him. Nor was he without cares,—heavier ones, too, than his +happy nature had ever yet been called to deal with. There are few more +painful situations in life than to find our advancement—the +long-wished and strived-for promotion—achieved at the cost of some +dearly loved friend; to know that our road to fortune had led us across +the fallen figure of an old comrade, and that he who would have been the +first to hail our success is already bewailing his own defeat. This was +Hunter's lot at the present moment. He had been sent for to hear of a +marvellous piece of good-fortune. His name and character, well known in +India, had recommended him for an office of high trust,—the +Political Resident of a great native court; a position not alone of power +and influence, but as certain to secure, and within a very few years, a +considerable fortune. It was the Governor-General who had made choice of +him; and the Prince of Wales, in the brief interview he accorded him, was +delighted with his frank and soldierlike manner, his natural cheerfulness, +and high spirit. “We 're not going to unfrock you, Hunter,” said he, +gayly, in dismissing him. “You shall have your military rank, and all the +steps of your promotion. We only make you a civilian till you have saved +some lacs of rupees, which is what I hear your predecessor has forgotten +to do.” + </p> +<p> +It was some time before Hunter, overjoyed as he was, even bethought him of +asking who that predecessor was. What was his misery when he heard the +name of Ormsby Conyers, his oldest, best friend; the man at whose table he +had sat for years, whose confidence he had shared, whose heart was open to +him to its last secret! “No,” said he, “this is impossible. Advancement at +such a price has no temptation for me. I will not accept it” He wrote his +refusal at once, not assigning any definite reasons, but declaring that, +after much thought and consideration, he had decided the post was one he +could not accept of. The Secretary, in whose province the affairs of India +lay, sent for him, and, after much pressing and some ingenious +cross-questioning, got at his reasons. “These may be all reasonable +scruples on your part,” said he, “but they will avail your friend nothing. +Conyers must go; for his own interest and character's sake, he must come +home and meet the charges made against him, and which, from their very +contradictions, we all hope to see him treat triumphantly: some alleging +that he has amassed untold wealth; others that it is, as a ruined man, he +has involved himself in the intrigues of the native rulers. All who know +him say that at the first whisper of a charge against him he will throw up +his post and come to England to meet his accusers. And now let me own to +you that it is the friendship in which he held you lay one of the +suggestions for your choice. We all felt that if a man ill-disposed or +ungenerously minded to Conyers should go out to Agra, numerous petty and +vexatious accusations might be forthcoming; the little local injuries and +pressure, so sure to beget grudges, would all rise up as charges, and +enemies to the fallen man spring up in every quarter. It is as a +successor, then, you can best serve your friend.” I need not dwell on the +force and ingenuity with which this view was presented; enough that I say +it was successful, and Hunter returned to Ireland to take leave of his +regiment, and prepare for a speedy departure to India. +</p> +<p> +Having heard, in a brief note from young Conyers, his intentions +respecting Tom Dill, Hunter had hastened off to prevent the possibility of +such a scheme being carried out. Not wishing, however, to divulge the +circumstances of his friend's fortune, he had in his interview with the +doctor confined himself to arguments on the score of prudence. His next +charge was to break to Fred the tidings of his father's troubles, and it +was an office he shrunk from with a coward's fear. With every mile he went +his heart grew heavier. The more he thought over the matter the more +difficult it appeared. To treat the case lightly, might savor of +heartlessness and levity; to approach it more seriously, might seem a +needless severity. Perhaps, too, Conyers might have written to his son; he +almost hoped he had, and that the first news of disaster should not come +from him. +</p> +<p> +That combination of high-heartedness and bashfulness, a blended temerity +and timidity,—by no means an uncommon temperament,—renders a +man's position in the embarrassments of life one of downright suffering. +There are operators who feel the knife more sensitively than the patients. +Few know what torments such men conceal under a manner of seeming +slap-dash and carelessness. Hunter was of this order, and would, any day +of his life, far rather have confronted a real peril than met a +contingency that demanded such an address. It was, then, with a sense of +relief he learned, on arrival at the barracks, that Conyers had gone out +for a walk, so that there was a reprieve at least of a few hours of the +penalty that overhung him. +</p> +<p> +The trumpet-call for the mess had just sounded as Conyers gained the door +of the Colonel's quarters, and Hunter taking Fred's arm, they crossed the +barrack-square together. +</p> +<p> +“I have a great deal to say to you, Conyers,” said he, hurriedly; “part of +it unpleasant,—none of it, indeed, very gratifying—” + </p> +<p> +“I know you are going to leave us, sir,” said Fred, who perceived the more +than common emotion in the other's manner. “And for myself, I own I have +no longer any desire to remain in the regiment. I might go further, and +say no more zest for the service. It was through your friendship for me I +learned to curb many and many promptings to resistance, and when <i>you</i> +go—” + </p> +<p> +“I am very sorry,—very, very sorry to leave you all,” said Hunter, +with a broken voice. “It is not every man that proudly can point to +seven-and-twenty-years' service in a regiment without one incident to +break the hearty cordiality that bound us. We had no bickerings, no petty +jealousies amongst us. If a man joined us who wanted partisanship and a +set, he soon found it better to exchange. I never expect again to lead the +happy life I have here, and I 'd rather have led our bold squadrons in the +field than have been a General of Division.” Who could have believed that +he, whose eyes ran over, as he spoke these broken words, was, five minutes +after, the gay and rattling Colonel his officers always saw him, full of +life, spirit, and animation, jocularly alluding to his speedy departure, +and gayly speculating on the comparisons that would be formed between +himself and his successor? “I'm leaving him the horses in good condition,” + said he; “and when Hargrave learns to give the word of command above a +whisper, and Eyreton can ride without a backboard, he 'll scarcely report +you for inefficiency.” It is fair to add, that the first-mentioned officer +had a voice like a bassoon, and the second was the beau-ideal of dragoon +horsemanship. +</p> +<p> +It would not have consisted with military etiquette to have asked the +Colonel the nature of his promotion, nor as to what new sphere of service +he was called. Even the old Major, his contemporary, dared not have come +directly to the question; and while all were eager to hear it, the utmost +approach was by an insinuation or an innuendo. Hunter was known for no +quality more remarkably than for his outspoken frankness, and some +surprise was felt that in his returning thanks for his health being drank, +not a word should escape him on this point; but the anxiety was not +lessened by the last words he spoke. “It may be, it is more than likely, I +shall never see the regiment again; but the sight of a hussar jacket or a +scarlet busby will bring you all back to my memory, and you may rely on +it, that whether around the mess-table or the bivouac fire my heart will +be with you.” + </p> +<p> +Scarcely had the cheer that greeted the words subsided, when a deep voice +from the extreme end of the table said,— +</p> +<p> +“If only a new-comer in the regiment, Colonel Hunter, I am too proud of my +good fortune not to associate myself with the feelings of my comrades, +and, while partaking of their deep regrets, I feel it a duty to +contribute, if in my power, by whatever may lighten the grief of our loss. +Am I at liberty to do so? Have I your free permission, I mean?” + </p> +<p> +“I am fairly puzzled by your question, Captain Stapylton. I have not the +very vaguest clew to your meaning, but, of course, you have my permission +to mention whatever you deem proper.” + </p> +<p> +“It is a toast I would propose, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“By all means. The thing is not very regular, perhaps, but we are not +exactly remarkable for regularity this evening. Fill, gentlemen, for +Captain Stapylton's toast!” + </p> +<p> +“Few words will propose it,” said Stapylton. “We have just drank Colonel +Hunter's health with all the enthusiasm that befits the toast, but in +doing so our tribute has been paid to the past; of the present and the +future we have taken no note whatever, and it is to these I would now +recall you. I say, therefore, bumpers to the health, happiness, and +success of Major-General Hunter, Political Resident and Minister at the +Court of Agra!” + </p> +<p> +“No, no!” cried young Conyers, loudly, “this is a mistake. It is my father—it +is Lieutenant-General Conyers—who resides at Agra. Am I not right, +sir?” cried he, turning to the Colonel. +</p> +<p> +But Hunter's face, pale as death even to the lips, and the agitation with +which he grasped Fred's hand, so overcame the youth that with a sudden cry +he sprang from his seat, and rushed out of the room. Hunter as quickly +followed him; and now all were grouped around Stapylton, eagerly +questioning and inquiring what his tidings might mean. +</p> +<p> +“The old story, gentlemen,—the old story, with which we are all more +or less familiar in this best of all possible worlds: General Hunter goes +out in honor, and General Conyers comes home in—well, under a cloud,—of +course one that he is sure and certain to dispel. I conclude the Colonel +would rather have had his advancement under other circumstances; but in +this game of leap-frog that we call life, we must occasionally jump over +our friends as well as our enemies.” + </p> +<p> +“How and where did you get the news?” + </p> +<p> +“It came to me from town. I heard it this morning, and of course I +imagined that the Colonel had told it to Conyers, whom it so intimately +concerned. I hope I may not have been indiscreet in what I meant as a +compliment.” + </p> +<p> +None cared to offer their consolings to one so fully capable of supplying +the commodity to himself, and the party broke up in twos or threes, +moodily seeking their own quarters, and brooding gloomily over what they +had just witnessed. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXII. LEAVING HOME +</h2> +<p> +I will ask my reader now to turn for a brief space to the “Fisherman's +Home,” which is a scene of somewhat unusual bustle. The Barringtons are +preparing for a journey, and old Peter's wardrobe has been displayed for +inspection along a hedge of sweet-brier in the garden,—an +arrangement devised by the genius of Darby, who passes up and down, with +an expression of admiration on his face, the sincerity of which could not +be questioned. A more reflective mind than his might have been carried +away, at the sight to thoughts of the strange passages in the late history +of Ireland, so curiously typified in that motley display. There, was the +bright green dress-coat of Daly's club, recalling days of political +excitement, and all the plottings and cabals of a once famous opposition. +There was, in somewhat faded splendor it must be owned, a court suit of +the Duke of Portland's day, when Irish gentlemen were as gorgeous as the +courtiers of Versailles. Here came a grand colonel's uniform, when +Barrington commanded a regiment of Volunteers; and yonder lay a friar's +frock and cowl, relics of those “attic nights” with the Monks of the +Screw, and recalling memories of Avonmore and Curran, and Day and Parsons; +and with them were mixed hunting-coats, and shooting-jackets, and masonic +robes, and “friendly brother” emblems, and long-waisted garments, and +swallow-tailed affectations of all shades and tints,—reminders of a +time when Buck Whalley was the eccentric, and Lord Llandaff the beau of +Irish society. I am not certain that Monmouth Street would have endorsed +Darby's sentiment as he said, “There was clothes there for a king on his +throne!” but it was an honestly uttered speech, and came out of the +fulness of an admiring heart, and although in truth he was nothing less +than an historian, he was forcibly struck by the thought that Ireland must +have been a grand country to live in, in those old days when men went +about their ordinary avocations in such splendor as he saw there. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0019" id="linkimage-0019"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/252.jpg" width="100%" alt="252 " /> +</div> +<p> +Nor was Peter Barrington himself an unmoved spectator of these old +remnants of the past Old garments, like old letters, bring oftentimes very +forcible memories of a long ago; and as he turned over the purple-stained +flap of a waistcoat, he bethought him of a night at Daly's, when, in +returning thanks for his health, his shaking hand had spilled that +identical glass of Burgundy; and in the dun-colored tinge of a +hunting-coat he remembered the day he had plunged into the Nore at Corrig +O'Neal, himself and the huntsman, alone of all the field, to follow the +dogs! +</p> +<p> +“Take them away, Darby, take them away; they only set me a-thinking about +the pleasant companions of my early life. It was in that suit there I +moved the amendment in '82, when Henry Grattan crossed over and said, +'Barrington will lead us here, as he does in the hunting-field.' Do you +see that peach-colored waistcoat? It was Lady Caher embroidered every +stitch of it with her own hands, for me.” + </p> +<p> +“Them 's elegant black satin breeches,” said Darby, whose eyes of +covetousness were actually rooted on the object of his desire. +</p> +<p> +“I never wore them,” said Barrington, with a sigh. “I got them for a duel +with Mat Fortescue, but Sir Toby Blake shot him that morning. Poor Mat!” + </p> +<p> +“And I suppose you'll never wear them now. You couldn't bear the sight +then,” said Darby, insinuatingly. +</p> +<p> +“Most likely not,” said Barrington, as he turned away with a heavy sigh. +Darby sighed also, but not precisely in the same spirit. +</p> +<p> +Let me passingly remark that the total unsuitability to his condition of +any object seems rather to enhance its virtue in the eyes of a lower +Irishman, and a hat or a coat which he could not, by any possibility, wear +in public, might still be to him things to covet and desire. +</p> +<p> +“What is the meaning of all this rag fair?” cried Miss Barrington, as she +suddenly came in front of the exposed wardrobe. “You are not surely making +any selections from these tawdry absurdities, brother, for your journey?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, indeed,” said Barrington, with a droll twinkle of his eye, “it was +a point that Darby and I were discussing as you came up. Darby opines that +to make a suitable impression upon the Continent, I must not despise the +assistance of dress, and he inclines much to that Corbeau coat with the +cherry-colored lining.” + </p> +<p> +“If Darby 's an ass, brother, I don't imagine it is a good reason to +consult him,” said she, angrily. “Put all that trash where you found it. +Lay out your master's black clothes and the gray shooting-coat, see that +his strong boots are in good repair, and get a serviceable lock on that +valise.” + </p> +<p> +It was little short of magic the spell these few and distinctly uttered +words seemed to work on Darby, who at once descended from a realm of +speculation and scheming to the commonplace world of duty and obedience. +“I really wonder how you let yourself be imposed on, brother, by the +assumed simplicity of that shrewd fellow.” + </p> +<p> +“I like it, Dinah, I positively like it,” said he, with a smile. “I watch +him playing the game with a pleasure almost as great as his own; and as I +know that the stakes are small, I 'm never vexed at his winning.” + </p> +<p> +“But you seem to forget the encouragement this impunity suggests.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps it does, Dinah; and very likely his little rogueries are as much +triumphs to him as are all the great political intrigues the glories of +some grand statesman.” + </p> +<p> +“Which means that you rather like to be cheated,” said she, scoffingly. +</p> +<p> +“When the loss is a mere trifle, I don't always think it ill laid out.” + </p> +<p> +“And I,” said she, resolutely, “so far from participating in your +sentiment, feel it to be an insult and an outrage. There is a sense of +inferiority attached to the position of a dupe that would drive me to any +reprisals.” + </p> +<p> +“I always said it; I always said it,” cried he, laughing. “The women of +our family monopolized all the com-bativeness.” + </p> +<p> +Miss Barrington's eyes sparkled, and her cheek glowed, and she looked like +one stung to the point of a very angry rejoinder, when by an effort she +controlled her passion, and, taking a letter from her pocket, she opened +it, and said, “This is from Withering. He has managed to obtain all the +information we need for our journey. We are to sail for Ostend by the +regular packet, two of which go every week from Dover. From thence there +are stages or canal-boats to Bruges and Brussels, cheap and commodious, he +says. He gives us the names of two hotels, one of which—the 'Lamb,' +at Brussels—he recommends highly; and the Pension of a certain +Madame Ochteroogen, at Namur, will, he opines, suit us better than an inn. +In fact, this letter is a little road book, with the expenses marked down, +and we can quietly count the cost of our venture before we make it.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd rather not, Dinah. The very thought of a limit is torture to me. +Give me bread and water every day, if you like, but don't rob me of the +notion that some fine day I am to be regaled with beef and pudding.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't wonder that we have come to beggary,” said she, passionately. “I +don't know what fortune and what wealth could compensate for a temperament +like yours.” + </p> +<p> +“You may be right, Dinah. It may go far to make a man squander his +substance, but take my word for it, it will help him to bear up under the +loss.” + </p> +<p> +If Barrington could have seen the gleam of affection that filled his +sister's eyes, he would have felt what love her heart bore him; but he had +stooped down to take a caterpillar off a flower, and did not mark it. +</p> +<p> +“Withering has seen young Conyers,” she continued, as her eyes ran over +the letter “He called upon him.” Barrington made no rejoinder, though she +waited for one. “The poor lad was in great affliction; some distressing +news from India—of what kind Withering could not guess—had +just reached him, and he appeared overwhelmed by it.” + </p> +<p> +“He is very young for sorrow,” said Barrington, feelingly. +</p> +<p> +“Just what Withering said;” and she read out, “'When I told him that I had +come to make an <i>amende</i> for the reception he had met with at the +cottage, he stopped me at once, and said, “Great grief s are the cure of +small ones, and you find me under a very heavy affliction. Tell Miss +Barrington that I have no other memories of the 'Fisherman's Home' than of +all her kindness towards me.”'” + </p> +<p> +“Poor boy!” said Barrington, with emotion. “And how did Withering leave +him?” + </p> +<p> +“Still sad and suffering. Struggling too, Withering thought, between a +proud attempt to conceal his grief and an ardent impulse to tell all about +it 'Had <i>you</i> been there,' he writes, 'you'd have had the whole +story; but I saw that he could n't stoop to open his heart to a man.'” + </p> +<p> +“Write to him, Dinah. Write and ask him down here for a couple of days.” + </p> +<p> +“You forget that we are to leave this the day after tomorrow, brother.” + </p> +<p> +“So I did. I forgot it completely. Well, what if he were to come for one +day? What if you were to say come over and wish us good-bye?” + </p> +<p> +“It is so like a man and a man's selfishness never to consider a domestic +difficulty,” said she, tartly. “So long as a house has a roof over it, you +fancy it may be available for hospitalities. You never take into account +the carpets to be taken up, and the beds that are taken down, the +plate-chest that is packed, and the cellar that is walled up. You forget, +in a word, that to make that life you find so very easy, some one else +must pass an existence full of cares and duties.” + </p> +<p> +“There 's not a doubt of it, Dinah. There 's truth and reason in every +word you 've said.” + </p> +<p> +“I will write to him if you like, and say that we mean to be at home by an +early day in October, and that if he is disposed to see how our woods look +in autumn, we will be well pleased to have him for our guest.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing could be better. Do so, Dinah. I owe the young fellow a +reparation, and I shall not have an easy conscience till I make it.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, brother Peter, if your moneyed debts had only given you one-half the +torment of your moral ones, what a rich man you might have been to-day!” + </p> +<p> +Long after his sister had gone away and left him, Peter Barrington +continued to muse over this speech. He felt it, felt it keenly too, but in +no bitterness of spirit. +</p> +<p> +Like most men of a lax and easy temper, he could mete out to himself the +same merciful measure he accorded to others, and be as forgiving to his +own faults as to theirs. “I suppose Dinah is right, though,” said he to +himself. “I never did know that sensitive irritability under debt which +insures solvency. And whenever a man can laugh at a dun, he is pretty sure +to be on the high-road to bankruptcy! Well, well, it is somewhat late to +try and reform, but I'll do my best!” And thus comforted, he set about +tying up fallen rose-trees and removing noxious insects with all his usual +zeal. +</p> +<p> +“I half wish the place did not look in such beauty, just as I must leave +it for a while. I don't think that japonica ever had as many flowers +before; and what a season for tulips! Not to speak of the fruit There are +peaches enough to stock a market. I wonder what Dinah means to do with +them? She 'll be sorely grieved to make them over as perquisites to Darby, +and I know she 'll never consent to have them sold. No, that is the one +concession she cannot stoop to. Oh, here she comes! What a grand year for +the wall fruit, Dinah!” cried he, aloud. +</p> +<p> +“The apricots have all failed, and fully one-half of the peaches are +worm-eaten,” said she, dryly. +</p> +<p> +Peter sighed as he thought, how she does dispel an illusion, what a +terrible realist is this same sister! “Still, my dear Dinah, one-half of +such a crop is a goodly yield.” + </p> +<p> +“Out with it, Peter Barrington. Out with the question that is burning for +utterance. What's to be done with them? I have thought of that already. I +have told Polly Dill to preserve a quantity for us, and to take as much +more as she pleases for her own use, and make presents to her friends of +the remainder. She is to be mistress here while we are away, and has +promised to come up two or three times a week, and see after everything, +for I neither desire to have the flower-roots sold, nor the pigeons eaten +before our return.” + </p> +<p> +“That is an admirable arrangement, sister. I don't know a better girl than +Polly!” + </p> +<p> +“She is better than I gave her credit for,” said Miss Barrington, who was +not fully pleased at any praise not bestowed by herself. A man's estimate +of a young woman's goodness is not so certain of finding acceptance from +her own sex! “And as for that girl, the wonder is that with a fool for a +mother, and a crafty old knave for a father, she really should possess one +good trait or one amiable quality.” Barrington muttered what sounded like +concurrence, and she went on: “And it is for this reason I have taken an +interest in her, and hope, by occupying her mind with useful cares and +filling her hours with commendable duties, she will estrange herself from +that going about to fine houses, and frequenting society where she is +exposed to innumerable humiliations, and worse.” + </p> +<p> +“Worse, Dinah!—what could be worse?” + </p> +<p> +“Temptations are worse, Peter Barrington, even when not yielded to; for +like a noxious climate, which, though it fails to kill, it is certain to +injure the constitution during a lifetime. Take my word for it, she 'll +not be the better wife to the Curate for the memory of all the fine +speeches she once heard from the Captain. Very old and ascetic notions I +am quite aware, Peter; but please to bear in mind all the trouble we take +that the roots of a favorite tree should not strike into a sour soil, and +bethink you how very indifferent we are as to the daily associates of our +children!” + </p> +<p> +“There you are right, Dinah, there you are right,—at least, as +regards girls.” + </p> +<p> +“And the rule applies fully as much to boys. All those manly +accomplishments and out-of-door habits you lay such store by, could be +acquired without the intimacy of the groom or the friendship of the +gamekeeper. What are you muttering there about old-maids' children? Say it +out, sir, and defend it, if you have the courage!” + </p> +<p> +But either that he had not said it, or failed in the requisite boldness to +maintain it, he blundered out a very confused assurance of agreement on +every point. +</p> +<p> +A woman is seldom merciful in argument; the consciousness that she owes +victory to her violence far more than to her logic, prompts persistence in +the course she has followed so successfully, and so was it that Miss Dinah +contrived to gallop over the battlefield long after the enemy was routed! +But Barrington was not in a mood to be vexed; the thought of the journey +filled him with so many pleasant anticipations, the brightest of all being +the sight of poor George's child! Not that this thought had not its dark +side, in contrition for the long, long years he had left her unnoticed and +neglected. Of course he had his own excuses and apologies for all this: he +could refer to his overwhelming embarrassments, and the heavy cares that +surrounded him; but then she—that poor friendless girl, that orphan—could +have known nothing of these things; and what opinion might she not have +formed of those relatives who had so coldly and heartlessly abandoned her! +Barrington took down her miniature, painted when she was a mere infant, +and scanned it well, as though to divine what nature might possess her! +There was little for speculation there,—perhaps even less for hope! +The eyes were large and lustrous, it is true, but the brow was heavy, and +the mouth, even in infancy, had something that seemed like firmness and +decision,—strangely at variance with the lips of childhood. +</p> +<p> +Now, old Barrington's heart was deeply set on that lawsuit—that +great cause against the Indian Government—that had formed the grand +campaign of his life. It was his first waking thought of a morning, his +last at night. All his faculties were engaged in revolving the various +points of evidence, and imagining how this and that missing link might be +supplied; and yet, with all these objects of desire before him, he would +have given them up, each and all, to be sure of one thing,—that his +granddaughter might be handsome! It was not that he did not value far +above the graces of person a number of other gifts; he would not, for an +instant, have hesitated, had he to choose between mere beauty and a good +disposition. If he knew anything of himself, it was his thorough +appreciation of a kindly nature, a temper to bear well, and a spirit to +soar nobly; but somehow he imagined these were gifts she was likely enough +to possess. George's child would resemble him; she would have his +light-heartedness and his happy nature, but would she be handsome? It is, +trust me, no superficial view of life that attaches a great price to +personal atractions, and Barrington was one to give these their full +value. Had she been brought up from childhood under his roof, he had +probably long since ceased to think of such a point; he would have +attached himself to her by the ties of that daily domesticity which grow +into a nature. The hundred little cares and offices that would have fallen +to her lot to meet, would have served as links to bind their hearts; but +she was coming to them a perfect stranger, and he wished ardently that his +first impression should be all in her favor. +</p> +<p> +Now, while such were Barrington's reveries, his sister took a different +turn. She had already pictured to herself the dark-orbed, heavy-browed +child, expanded into a sallow-complexioned, heavy-featured girl, ungainly +and ungraceful, her figure neglected, her very feet spoiled by the uncouth +shoes of the convent, her great red hands untrained to all occupation save +the coarse cares of that half-menial existence. “As my brother would say,” + muttered she, “a most unpromising filly, if it were not for the breeding.” + </p> +<p> +Both brother and sister, however, kept their impressions to themselves, +and of all the subjects discussed between them not one word betrayed what +each forecast about Josephine. I am half sorry it is no part of my task to +follow them on the road, and yet I feel I could not impart to my reader +the almost boylike enjoyment old Peter felt at every stage of the journey. +He had made the grand tour of Europe more than half a century before, and +he was in ecstasy to find so much that was unchanged around him. There +were the long-eared caps, and the monstrous earrings, and the sabots, and +the heavily tasselled team horses, and the chiming church-bells, and the +old-world equipages, and the strangely undersized soldiers,—all just +as he saw them last! And every one was so polite and ceremonious, and so +idle and so unoccupied, and the theatres were so large and the newspapers +so small, and the current coin so defaced, and the order of the meats at +dinner so inscrutable, and every one seemed contented just because he had +nothing to do. +</p> +<p> +“Isn't it all I have told you, Dinah dear? Don't you perceive how accurate +my picture has been? And is it not very charming and enjoyable?” + </p> +<p> +“They are the greatest cheats I ever met in my life, brother Peter; and +when I think that every grin that greets us is a matter of five francs, it +mars considerably the pleasure I derive from the hilarity.” + </p> +<p> +It was in this spirit they journeyed till they arrived at Brussels. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIII. THE COLONEL'S COUNSELS +</h2> +<p> +When Conyers had learned from Colonel Hunter all that he knew of his +father's involvement, it went no further than this, that the +Lieutenant-General had either resigned or been deprived of his civil +appointments, and Hunter was called upon to replace him. With all his +habit of hasty and impetuous action, there was no injustice in Fred's +nature, and he frankly recognized that, however painful to him personally, +Hunter could not refuse to accede to what the Prince had distinctly +pressed him to accept. +</p> +<p> +Young Conyers had heard over and over again the astonishment expressed by +old Indian officials how his father's treatment of the Company's orders +had been so long endured. Some prescriptive immunity seemed to attach to +him, or some great patronage to protect him, for he appeared to do exactly +as he pleased, and the despotic sway of his rule was known far and near. +With the changes in the constitution of the Board, some members might have +succeeded less disposed to recognize the General's former services, or +endure so tolerantly his present encroachments, and Fred well could +estimate the resistance his father would oppose to the very mildest +remonstrance, and how indignantly he would reject whatever came in the +shape of a command. Great as was the blow to the young man, it was not +heavier in anything than the doubt and uncertainty about it, and he waited +with a restless impatience for his father's letter, which should explain +it all. Nor was his position less painful from the estrangement in which +he lived, and the little intercourse he maintained with his +brother-officers. When Hunter left, he knew that he had not one he could +call friend amongst them, and Hunter was to go in a very few days, and +even of these he could scarcely spare him more than a few chance moments! +</p> +<p> +It was in one of these flitting visits that Hunter bethought him of young +Dill, of whom, it is only truth to confess, young Conyers had forgotten +everything. “I took time by the forelock, Fred, about that affair,” said +he, “and I trust I have freed you from all embarrassment about it.” + </p> +<p> +“As how, sir?” asked Conyers, half in pique. +</p> +<p> +“When I missed you at the 'Fisherman's Home,' I set off to pay the doctor +a visit, and a very charming visit it turned out; a better pigeon-pie I +never ate, nor a prettier girl than the maker of it would I ask to meet +with. We became great friends, talked of everything, from love at first +sight to bone spavins, and found that we agreed to a miracle. I don't +think I ever saw a girl before who suited me so perfectly in all her +notions. She gave me a hint about what they call 'mouth lameness' our Vet +would give his eye for. Well, to come back to her brother,—a dull +dog, I take it, though I have not seen him,—I said, 'Don't let him +go to India, they 've lots of clever fellows out there; pack him off to +Australia; send him to New Zealand.' And when she interrupted me, 'But +young Mr. Conyers insisted,—he would have it so; his father is to +make Tom's fortune, and to send him back as rich as a Begum,' I said, 'He +has fallen in love with you, Miss Polly, that's the fact, and lost his +head altogether; and I don't wonder at it, for here am I, close upon +forty-eight,—I might have said forty-nine, but no matter,—close +upon forty-eight, and I 'm in the same book!' Yes, if it was the sister, +<i>vice</i> the brother, who wanted to make a fortune in India, I almost +think I could say, 'Come and share mine!'” + </p> +<p> +“But I don't exactly understand. Am I to believe that they wish Tom to be +off—to refuse my offer—and that the rejection comes from +them?” + </p> +<p> +“No, not exactly. I said it was a bad spec, that you had taken a far too +sanguine view of the whole thing, and that as I was an old soldier, and +knew more of the world,—that is to say, had met a great many more +hard rubs and disappointments,—my advice was, not to risk it. 'Young +Conyers,' said I, 'will do all that he has promised to the letter. You may +rely upon every word that he has ever uttered. But bear in mind that he's +only a mortal man; he's not one of those heathen gods who used to make +fellows invincible in a battle, or smuggle them off in a cloud, out of the +way of demons, or duns, or whatever difficulties beset them. He might die, +his father might die, any of us might die.' Yes, by Jove! there's nothing +so uncertain as life, except the Horse Guards.' And putting one thing with +another, Miss Polly,' said I, 'tell him to stay where he is,'—open a +shop at home, or go to one of the colonies,—Heligoland, for +instance, a charming spot for the bathing-season.” + </p> +<p> +“And she, what did she say?” + </p> +<p> +“May I be cashiered if I remember! I never do remember very clearly what +any one says. Where I am much interested on my own side, I have no time +for the other fellow's arguments. But I know if she was n't convinced she +ought to have been. I put the thing beyond a question, and I made her +cry.” + </p> +<p> +“Made her cry!” + </p> +<p> +“Not cry,—that is, she did not blubber; but she looked glassy about +the lids, and turned away her head. But to be sure we were parting,—a +rather soft bit of parting, too,—and I said something about my +coming back with a wooden leg, and she said, 'No! have it of cork, they +make them so cleverly now.' And I was going to say something more, when a +confounded old half-pay Major came up and interrupted us, and—and, +in fact, there it rests.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not at all easy in mind as to this affair. I mean, I don't like how +I stand in it.” + </p> +<p> +“But you stand out of it,—out of it altogether! Can't you imagine +that your father may have quite enough cares of his own to occupy him +without needing the embarrassment of looking after this bumpkin, who, for +aught you know, might repay very badly all the interest taken in him? If +it had been the girl,—if it had been Polly—” “I own frankly,” + said Conyers, tartly, “it did not occur to me to make such an offer to <i>her!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“Faith! then, Master Fred, I was deuced near doing it,—so near, that +when I came away I scarcely knew whether I had or had not done so.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, sir, there is only an hour's drive on a good road required to +repair the omission.” + </p> +<p> +“That's true, Fred,—that's true; but have you never, by an accident, +chanced to come up with a stunning fence,—a regular rasper that you +took in a fly a few days before with the dogs, and as you looked at the +place, have you not said, 'What on earth persuaded me to ride at <i>that?</i>'” + </p> +<p> +“Which means, sir, that your cold-blooded reflections are against the +project?” + </p> +<p> +“Not exactly that, either,” said he, in a sort of confusion; “but when a +man speculates on doing something for which the first step must be an +explanation to this fellow, a half apology to that,—with a +whimpering kind of entreaty not to be judged hastily, not to be condemned +unheard, not to be set down as an old fool who couldn't stand the fire of +a pair of bright eyes,—I say when it comes to this, he ought to feel +that his best safeguard is his own misgiving!” + </p> +<p> +“If I do not agree with you, sir, it is because I incline to follow my own +lead, and care very little for what the world says of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't believe a word of that, Fred; it's all brag,—all nonsense! +The very effrontery with which you fancy you are braving public opinion is +only Dutch courage. What each of us in his heart thinks of himself is only +the reflex of the world's estimate of him; at least, what he imagines it +to be. Now, for my own part, I 'd rather ride up to a battery in full fire +than I'd sit down and write to my old aunt Dorothy Hunter a formal letter +announcing my approaching marriage, telling her that the lady of my choice +was twenty or thereabouts, not to add that her family name was Dill. +Believe me, Fred, that if you want the concentrated essence of public +opinion, you have only to do something which shall irritate and astonish +the half-dozen people with whom you live in intimacy. Won't they remind +you about the mortgages on your lands and the gray in your whiskers, that +last loan you raised from Solomon Hymans, and that front tooth you got +replaced by Cartwright, though it was the week before they told you you +were a miracle of order and good management, and actually looking younger +than you did five years ago! You're not minding me, Fred,—not +following me; you 're thinking of your <i>protégé</i>, Tom Dill, and what +he 'll think and say of your desertion of him.” + </p> +<p> +“You have hit it, sir. It was exactly what I was asking myself.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, if nothing better offers, tell him to get himself in readiness, and +come out with me. I cannot make him a Rajah, nor even a Zemindar; but I +'ll stick him into a regimental surgeoncy, and leave him to fashion out +his own future. He must look sharp, however, and lose no time. The +'Ganges' is getting ready in all haste, and will be round at Portsmouth by +the 8th, and we expect to sail on the 12th or 13th at furthest.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll write to him to-day. I 'll write this moment.” + </p> +<p> +“Add a word of remembrance on my part to the sister, and tell bumpkin to +supply himself with no end of letters, recommendatory and laudatory, to +muzzle our Medical Board at Calcutta, and lots of light clothing, and all +the torturing instruments he 'll need, and a large stock of good humor, +for he'll be chaffed unmercifully all the voyage.” And, with these +comprehensive directions, the Colonel concluded his counsels, and bustled +away to look after his own personal interests. +</p> +<p> +Fred Conyers was not over-pleased with the task assigned him. The part he +liked to fill in life, and, indeed, that which he had usually performed, +was the Benefactor and the Patron, and it was but an ungracious office for +him to have to cut the wings and disfigure the plumage of his generosity. +He made two, three, four attempts at conveying his intentions, but with +none was he satisfied; so he ended by simply saying, “I have something of +importance to tell you, and which, not being altogether pleasant, it will +be better to say than to write; so I have to beg you will come up here at +once, and see me.” Scarcely was this letter sealed and addressed than he +bethought him of the awkwardness of presenting Tom to his +brother-officers, or the still greater indecorum of not presenting him. +“How shall I ask him to the mess, with the certainty of all the +impertinences he will be exposed to?—and what pretext have I for not +offering him the ordinary attention shown to every stranger?” He was, in +fact, wincing under that public opinion he had only a few moments before +declared he could afford to despise. “No,” said he, “I have no right to +expose poor Tom to this. I 'll drive over myself to the village, and if +any advice or counsel be needed, he will be amongst those who can aid +him.” + </p> +<p> +He ordered his servant to harness his handsome roan, a thoroughbred of +surpassing style and action, to the dog-cart,—not over-sorry to +astonish his friend Tom by the splendor of a turn-out that had won the +suffrages of Tattersall's,—and prepared for his mission to +Inistioge. +</p> +<p> +Was it with the same intention of “astonishing” Tom Dill that Conyers +bestowed such unusual attention upon his dress? At his first visit to the +“Fisherman's Home” he had worn the homely shooting-jacket and felt hat +which, however comfortable and conventional, do not always redound to the +advantage of the wearer, or, if they do, it is by something, perhaps, in +the contrast presented to his ordinary appearance, and the impression +ingeniously insinuated that he is one so unmistakably a gentleman, no +travesty of costume can efface the stamp. +</p> +<p> +It was in this garb Polly had seen him, and if Polly Dill had been a +duchess it was in some such garb she would have been accustomed to see her +brother or her cousin some six out of every seven mornings of the week; +but Polly was not a duchess: she was the daughter of a village doctor, and +might, not impossibly, have acquired a very erroneous estimate of his real +pretensions from having beheld him thus attired. It was, therefore, +entirely by a consideration for her ignorance of the world and its ways +that he determined to enlighten her. +</p> +<p> +At the time of which I am writing, the dress of the British army was a +favorite study with that Prince whose taste, however questionable, never +exposed him to censure on grounds of over-simplicity and plainness. As the +Colonel of the regiment Conyers belonged to, he had bestowed upon his own +especial corps an unusual degree of splendor in equipment, and amongst +other extravagances had given them an almost boundless liberty of +combining different details of dress. Availing himself of this privilege, +our young Lieutenant invented a costume which, however unmilitary and +irregular, was not deficient in becomingness. Under a plain blue jacket +very sparingly braided he wore the rich scarlet waistcoat, all slashed +with gold, they had introduced at their mess. A simple foraging-cap and +overalls, seamed with a thin gold line, made up a dress that might have +passed for the easy costume of the barrack-yard, while, in reality, it was +eminently suited to set off the wearer. +</p> +<p> +Am I to confess that he looked at himself in the glass with very +considerable satisfaction, and muttered, as he turned away, “Yes, Miss +Polly, this is in better style than that Quakerish drab livery you saw me +last in, and I have little doubt that you 'll think so!” + </p> +<p> +“Is this our best harness, Holt?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“All right!” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIV. CONYERS MAKES A MORNING CALL +</h2> +<p> +When Conyers, to the astonishment and wonder of an admiring village +public, drove his seventeen-hand-high roan into the market square of +Inistioge, he learned that all of the doctor's family were from home +except Mrs. Dill. Indeed, he saw the respectable lady at the window with a +book in her hand, from which not all the noise and clatter of his arrival +for one moment diverted her. Though not especially anxious to attract her +attention, he was half piqued at her show of indifference. A dog-cart by +Adams and a thoroughbred like Boanerges were, after all, worth a glance +at. Little did he know what a competitor be had in that much-thumbed old +volume, whose quaintly told miseries were to her as her own sorrows. Could +he have assembled underneath that window all the glories of a Derby Day, +Mr. Richardson's “Clarissa” would have beaten the field. While he occupied +himself in dexterously tapping the flies from his horse with the fine +extremity of his whip, and thus necessitating that amount of impatience +which made the spirited animal stamp and champ his bit, the old lady read +on undisturbed. +</p> +<p> +“Ask at what hour the doctor will be at home, Holt,” cried he, peevishly. +</p> +<p> +“Not till to-morrow, sir; he has gone to Castle Durrow.” + </p> +<p> +“And Miss Dill, is she not in the house?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir; she has gone down to the 'Fisherman's Home' to look after the +garden,—the family having left that place this morning.” + </p> +<p> +After a few minutes' reflection, Conyers ordered his servant to put up the +horse at the inn, and wait for him there; and then engaging a “cot,” he +set out for the “Fisherman's Home.” “After having come so far, it would be +absurd to go back without doing something in this business,” thought he. +“Polly, besides, is the brains carrier of these people. The matter would +be referred to her; and why should I not go at once, and directly address +her myself? With her womanly tact, too, she will see that for any reserve +in my manner there must be a corresponding reason, and she'll not press me +with awkward questions or painful inquiries, as the underbred brother +might do. It will be enough when I intimate to her that my plan is not so +practicable as when I first projected it.” He reassured himself with a +variety of reasonings of this stamp, which had the double effect of +convincing his own mind and elevating Miss Polly in his estimation. There +is a very subtle self-flattery in believing that the true order of person +to deal with us—to understand and appreciate us—is one +possessed of considerable ability united with the very finest sensibility. +Thus dreaming and “mooning,” he reached the “Fisherman's Home.” The air of +desertion struck him even as he landed; and is there not some secret magic +in the vicinity of life, of living people, which gives the soul to the +dwelling-place? Have we to more than cross the threshold of the forsaken +house to feel its desertion,—to know that our echoing step will +track us along stair and corridor, and that through the thin streaks of +light between the shutters phantoms of the absent will flit or hover, +while the dimly descried objects of the room will bring memories of bright +mornings and of happy eves? It is strange to measure the sadness of this +effect upon us when caused even by the aspect of houses which we +frequented not as friends but mere visitors; just as the sight of death +thrills us, even though we had not loved the departed in his lifetime. But +so it is: there is unutterable bitterness attached to the past, and there +is no such sorrow as over the bygone! +</p> +<p> +All about the little cottage was silent and desolate; even the shrill +peacock, so wont to announce the coming stranger with his cry, sat +voiceless and brooding on a branch; and except the dull flow of the river, +not a sound was heard. After tapping lightly at the door and peering +through the partially closed shutters, Conyers turned towards the garden +at the back, passing as he went his favorite seat under the great +sycamore-tree. It was not a widely separated “long ago” since he had sat +there, and yet how different had life become to him in the interval! With +what a protective air he had talked to poor Tom on that spot,—how +princely were the promises of his patronage, yet not exaggerated beyond +his conscious power of performance! He hurried on, and came to the little +wicket of the garden; it was open, and he passed in. A spade in some +fresh-turned earth showed where some one had recently been at work, but +still, as he went, he could find none. Alley after alley did he traverse, +but to no purpose; and at last, in his ramblings, he came to a little +copse which separated the main garden from a small flower-plat, known as +Miss Dinah's, and on which the windows of her own little sitting-room +opened. He had but seen this spot from the windows, and never entered it; +indeed, it was a sort of sacred enclosure, within which the profane step +of man was not often permitted to intrude. Nor was Conyers without a sting +of self-reproach as he now passed in. He had not gone many steps when the +reason of the seclusion seemed revealed to him. It was a small obelisk of +white marble under a large willow-tree, bearing for inscription on its +side, “To the Memory of George Barrington, the Truehearted, the Truthful, +and the Brave, killed on the 19th February, 18—, at Agra, in the +East Indies.” + </p> +<p> +How strange that he should be standing there beside the tomb of his +father's dearest friend, his more than brother! That George who shared his +joys and perils, the comrade of his heart! No two men had ever lived in +closer bonds of affection, and yet somehow of all that love he had never +heard his father speak, nor of the terrible fate that befell his friend +had one syllable escaped him. “Who knows if friendships ever survive early +manhood?” said Fred, bitterly, as he sat himself down at the base of the +monument: “and yet might not this same George Barrington, had he lived, +been of priceless value to my father now? Is it not some such manly +affection, such generous devotion as his, that he may stand in need of?” + Thus thinking, his imagination led him over the wide sea to that +far-distant land of his childhood, and scenes of vast arid plains and +far-away mountains, and wild ghauts, and barren-looking nullahs, +intersected with yellow, sluggish streams, on whose muddy shore the +alligator basked, rose before him, contrasted with the gorgeous splendors +of retinue and the glittering host of gold-adorned followers. It was in a +vision of grand but dreary despotism, power almost limitless, but without +one ray of enjoyment, that he lost himself and let the hours glide by. At +length, as though dreamily, he thought he was listening to some faint but +delicious music; sounds seemed to come floating towards him through the +leaves, as if meant to steep him in a continued languor, and imparted a +strange half-fear that he was under a spell. With an effort he aroused +himself and sprang to his legs; and now he could plainly perceive that the +sounds came through an open window, where a low but exquisitely sweet +voice was singing to the accompaniment of a piano. The melody was sad and +plaintive; the very words came dropping slowly, like the drops of a +distilled grief; and they sank into his heart with a feeling of actual +poignancy, for they were as though steeped in sorrow. When of a sudden the +singer ceased, the hands ran boldly, almost wildly, over the keys; one, +two, three great massive chords were struck, and then, in a strain joyous +as the skylark, the clear voice carolled forth with,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“But why should we mourn for the grief of the morrow? +Who knows in what frame it may find us? +Meeker, perhaps, to bend under our sorrow, +Or more boldly to fling it behind us.” + </pre> +<p> +And then, with a loud bang, the piano was closed, and Polly Dill, swinging +her garden hat by its ribbon, bounded forth into the walk, calling for her +terrier, Scratch, to follow. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Conyers here!” cried she, in astonishment. “What miracle could have +led you to this spot?” + </p> +<p> +“To meet you.” + </p> +<p> +“To meet me!” + </p> +<p> +“With no other object. I came from Kilkenny this morning expressly to see +you, and learning at your house that you had come on here, I followed. You +still look astonished,—incredulous—” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, no; not incredulous, but very much astonished. I am, it is true, +sufficiently accustomed to find myself in request in my own narrow home +circle, but that any one out of it should come three yards—not to +say three miles—to speak to me, is, I own, very new and very +strange.” + </p> +<p> +“Is not this profession of humility a little—a very little—bit +of exaggeration, Miss Dill?” + </p> +<p> +“Is not the remark you have made on it a little—a very little—bit +of a liberty, Mr. Conyers?” + </p> +<p> +So little was he prepared for this retort that he flushed up to his +forehead, and for an instant was unable to recover himself: meanwhile, she +was busy in rescuing Scratch from a long bramble that had most +uncomfortably associated itself with his tail, in gratitude for which +service the beast jumped up on her with all the uncouth activity of his +race. +</p> +<p> +“He at least, Miss Dill, can take liberties unrebuked,” said Conyers, with +irritation. +</p> +<p> +“We are very old friends, sir, and understand each other's humors, not to +say that Scratch knows well he 'd be tied up if he were to transgress.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers smiled; an almost irresistible desire to utter a smartness crossed +his mind, and he found it all but impossible to resist saying something +about accepting the bonds if he could but accomplish the transgression; +but he bethought in time how unequal the war of banter would be between +them, and it was with a quiet gravity he began: “I came to speak to you +about Tom—” + </p> +<p> +“Why, is that not all off? Colonel Hunter represented the matter so +forcibly to my father, put all the difficulties so clearly before him, +that I actually wrote to my brother, who had started for Dublin, begging +him on no account to hasten the day of his examination, but to come home +and devote himself carefully to the task of preparation.” + </p> +<p> +“It is true, the Colonel never regarded the project as I did, and saw +obstacles to its success which never occurred to me; with all that, +however, he never convinced me I was wrong.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps not always an easy thing to do,” said she, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“Indeed! You seem to have formed a strong opinion on the score of my +firmness.” + </p> +<p> +“I was expecting you to say obstinacy,” said she, laughing, “and was half +prepared with a most abject retractation. At all events, I was aware that +you did not give way.” + </p> +<p> +“And is the quality such a bad one?” + </p> +<p> +“Just as a wind may be said to be a good or a bad one; due west, for +instance, would be very unfavorable if you were bound to New York.” + </p> +<p> +It was the second time he had angled for a compliment, and failed; and he +walked along at her side, fretful and discontented. “I begin to suspect,” + said he, at last, “that the Colonel was far more eager to make himself +agreeable here than to give fair play to my reasons.” + </p> +<p> +“He was delightful, if you mean that; he possesses the inestimable boon of +good spirits, which is the next thing to a good heart.” + </p> +<p> +“You don't like depressed people, then?” + </p> +<p> +“I won't say I dislike, but I dread them. The dear friends who go about +with such histories of misfortune and gloomy reflections on every one's +conduct always give me the idea of a person who should carry with him a +watering-pot to sprinkle his friends in this Irish climate, where it rains +ten months out of the twelve. There is a deal to like in life,—a +deal to enjoy, as well as a deal to see and to do; and the spirit which we +bring to it is even of more moment than the incidents that befall us.” + </p> +<p> +“That was the burden of your song awhile ago,” said he, smiling; “could I +persuade you to sing it again?” + </p> +<p> +“What are you dreaming of, Mr. Conyers? Is not this meeting here—this +strolling about a garden with a young gentleman, a Hussar!—compromising +enough, not to ask me to sit down at a piano and sing for him? Indeed, the +only relief my conscience gives me for the imprudence of this interview is +the seeing how miserable it makes <i>you</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“Miserable!—makes <i>me</i> miserable!” + </p> +<p> +“Well, embarrassed,—uncomfortable,—ill at ease; I don't care +for the word. You came here to say a variety of things, and you don't like +to say them. You are balked in certain very kind intentions towards us, +and you don't know how very little of even intended good nature has +befallen us in life to make us deeply your debtor for the mere project. +Why, your very notice of poor Tom has done more to raise him in his own +esteem and disgust him with low associates than all the wise arguments of +all his family. There, now, if you have not done us all the good you +meant, be satisfied with what you really have done.” + </p> +<p> +“This is very far short of what I intended.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course it is; but do not dwell upon that. I have a great stock of very +fine intentions, too, but I shall not be in the least discouraged if I +find them take wing and leave me.” + </p> +<p> +“What would you do then?” + </p> +<p> +“Raise another brood. They tell us that if one seed of every million of +acorns should grow to be a tree, all Europe would be a dense forest within +a century. Take heart, therefore, about scattered projects; fully their +share of them come to maturity. Oh dear! what a dreary sigh you gave! +Don't you imagine yourself very unhappy?” + </p> +<p> +“If I did, I'd scarcely come to you for sympathy, certainly,” said he, +with a half-bitter smile. +</p> +<p> +“You are quite right there; not but that I could really condole with some +of what I opine are your great afflictions: for instance, I could bestow +very honest grief on that splint that your charger has just thrown out on +his back tendon; I could even cry over the threatened blindness of that +splendid steeple-chaser; but I 'd not fret about the way your pelisse was +braided, nor because your new phaeton made so much noise with the axles.” + </p> +<p> +“By the way,” said Conyers, “I have such a horse to show you! He is in the +village. Might I drive him up here? Would you allow me to take you back?” + </p> +<p> +“Not on any account, sir! I have grave misgivings about talking to you so +long here, and I am mainly reconciled by remembering how disagreeable I +have proved myself.” + </p> +<p> +“How I wish I had your good spirits!” + </p> +<p> +“Why don't you rather wish for my fortunate lot in life,—so secure +from casualties, so surrounded with life's comforts, so certain to attach +to it consideration and respect? Take my word for it, Mr. Conyers, your +own position is not utterly wretched; it is rather a nice thing to be a +Lieutenant of Hussars, with good health, a good fortune, and a fair +promise of mustachios. There, now, enough of impertinence for one day. I +have a deal to do, and you 'll not help me to do it. I have a whole +tulip-bed to transplant, and several trees to remove, and a new walk to +plan through the beech shrubbery, not to speak of a change of domicile for +the pigs,—if such creatures can be spoken of in your presence. Only +think, three o'clock, and that weary Darby not got back from his dinner! +has it ever occurred to you to wonder at the interminable time people can +devote to a meal of potatoes?” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot say that I have thought upon the matter.” + </p> +<p> +“Pray do so, then; divide the matter, as a German would, into all its +'Bearbeitungen,' and consider it ethnologically, esculently, and +aesthetically, and you'll be surprised how puzzled you 'll be! Meanwhile, +would you do me a favor?—I mean a great favor.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course I will; only say what it is.” + </p> +<p> +“Well; but I 'm about to ask more than you suspect.” + </p> +<p> +“I do not retract. I am ready.” + </p> +<p> +“What I want, then, is that you should wheel that barrow-ful of mould as +far as the melon-bed. I 'd have done it myself if you had not been here.” + </p> +<p> +With a seriousness which cost him no small effort to maintain, Conyers +addressed himself at once to the task; and she walked along at his side, +with a rake over her shoulder, talking with the same cool unconcern she +would have bestowed on Darby. +</p> +<p> +“I have often told Miss Barrington,” said she, “that our rock melons were +finer than hers, because we used a peculiar composite earth, into which +ash bark and soot entered,—what you are wheeling now, in fact, +however hurtful it may be to your feelings. There! upset it exactly on +that spot; and now let me see if you are equally handy with a spade.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0021" id="linkimage-0021"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/276.jpg" width="100%" alt="276 " /> +</div> +<p> +“I should like to know what my wages are to be after all this,” said he, +as he spread the mould over the bed. +</p> +<p> +“We give boys about eightpence a day.” + </p> +<p> +“Boys! what do you mean by boys?” + </p> +<p> +“Everything that is not married is boy in Ireland; so don't be angry, or I +'ll send you off. Pick up those stones, and throw these dock-weeds to one +side.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll send me a melon, at least, of my own raising, won't you?” + </p> +<p> +“I won't promise; Heaven knows where you'll be—where I 'll be, by +that time! Would <i>you</i> like to pledge yourself to anything on the day +the ripe fruit shall glow between those pale leaves?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps I might,” said he, stealing a half-tender glance towards her. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I would not,” said she, looking him full and steadfastly in the +face. +</p> +<p> +“Then that means you never cared very much for any one?” + </p> +<p> +“If I remember aright, you were engaged as a gardener, not as father +confessor. Now, you are really not very expert at the former; but you 'll +make sad work of the latter.” + </p> +<p> +“You have not a very exalted notion of my tact, Miss Dill.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know,—I'm not sure; I suspect you have at least what the +French call 'good dispositions.' You took to your wheelbarrow very nicely, +and you tried to dig—as little like a gentleman as need be.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, if this does not bate Banagher, my name is n't Darby!” exclaimed a +rough voice, and a hearty laugh followed his words. “By my conscience, +Miss Polly, it's only yerself could do it; and it's truth they say of you, +you 'd get fun out of an archdaycon!” + </p> +<p> +Conyers flung away his spade, and shook the mould from his boots in +irritation. +</p> +<p> +“Come, don't be cross,” said she, slipping her arm within his, and leading +him away; “don't spoil a very pleasant little adventure by ill humor. If +these melons come to good, they shall be called after you. You know that a +Duke of Montmartre gave his name to a gooseberry; so be good, and, like +him, you shall be immortal.” + </p> +<p> +“I should like very much to know one thing,” said he, thoughtfully. +</p> +<p> +“And what may that be?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd like to know,—are you ever serious?” + </p> +<p> +“Not what you would call serious, perhaps; but I 'm very much in earnest, +if that will do. That delightful Saxon habit of treating all trifles with +solemnity I have no taste for. I'm aware it constitutes that great idol of +English veneration, Respectability; but we have not got that sort of thing +here. Perhaps the climate is too moist for it.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not a bit surprised that the Colonel fell in love with you,” blurted +he out, with a frank abruptness. +</p> +<p> +“And did he,—oh, really did he?” + </p> +<p> +“Is the news so very agreeable, then?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course it is. I 'd give anything for such a conquest. There 's no +glory in capturing one of those calf elephants who walk into the snare out +of pure stupidity; but to catch an old experienced creature who has been +hunted scores of times, and knows every scheme and artifice, every bait +and every pitfall, there is a real triumph in that.” + </p> +<p> +“Do I represent one of the calf elephants, then?” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot think so. I have seen no evidence of your capture—not to +add, nor any presumption of my own—to engage in such a pursuit. My +dear Mr. Conyers,” said she, seriously, “you have shown so much real +kindness to the brother, you would not, I am certain, detract from it by +one word which could offend the sister. We have been the best of friends +up to this; let us part so.” + </p> +<p> +The sudden assumption of gravity in this speech seemed to disconcert him +so much that he made no answer, but strolled along at her side, thoughtful +and silent. +</p> +<p> +“What are you thinking of?” said she, at last. +</p> +<p> +“I was just thinking,” said he, “that by the time I have reached my +quarters, and begin to con over what I have accomplished by this same +visit of mine, I 'll be not a little puzzled to say what it is.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps I can help you. First of all, tell me what was your object in +coming.” + </p> +<p> +“Chiefly to talk about Tom.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, we have done so. We have discussed the matter, and are fully agreed +it is better he should not go to India, but stay at home here and follow +his profession, like his father.” + </p> +<p> +“But have I said nothing about Hunter's offer?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a word; what is it?” + </p> +<p> +“How stupid of me; what could I have been thinking of all this time?” + </p> +<p> +“Heaven knows; but what was the offer you allude to?” + </p> +<p> +“It was this: that if Tom would make haste and get his diploma or his +license, or whatever it is, at once, and collect all sorts of testimonials +as to his abilities and what not, that he'd take him out with him and get +him an assistant-surgeoncy in a regiment, and in time, perhaps, a +staff-appointment.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not very certain that Tom could obtain his diploma at once. I 'm +quite sure he could n't get any of those certificates you speak of. First +of all, because he does not possess these same abilities you mention, nor, +if he did, is there any to vouch for them. We are very humble people, Mr. +Conyers, with a village for our world; and we contemplate a far-away +country—India, for instance—pretty much as we should do Mars +or the Pole-star.” + </p> +<p> +“As to that, Bengal is more come-at-able than the Great Bear,” said he, +laughing. +</p> +<p> +“For you, perhaps, not for us. There is nothing more common in people's +mouths than go to New Zealand or Swan River, or some far-away island in +the Pacific, and make your fortune!—just as if every new and +barbarous land was a sort of Aladdin's cave, where each might fill his +pockets with gems and come out rich for life. But reflect a little. First, +there is an outfit; next, there is a voyage; thirdly, there is need of a +certain subsistence in the new country before plans can be matured to +render it profitable. After all these come a host of requirements,—of +courage, and energy, and patience, and ingenuity, and personal strength, +and endurance, not to speak of the constitution of a horse, and some have +said, the heartlessness of an ogre. <i>My</i> counsel to Tom would be, get +the 'Arabian Nights' out of your head, forget the great Caliph Conyers and +all his promises, stay where you are, and be a village apothecary.” + </p> +<p> +These words were uttered in a very quiet and matter-of-fact way, but they +wounded Conyers more than the accents of passion. He was angry at the cold +realistic turn of a mind so devoid of all heroism; he was annoyed at the +half-implied superiority a keener view of life than his own seemed to +assert; and he was vexed at being treated as a well-meaning but very +inconsiderate and inexperienced young gentleman. +</p> +<p> +“Am I to take this as a refusal,” said he, stiffly; “am I to tell Colonel +Hunter that your brother does not accept his offer?” + </p> +<p> +“If it depended on me,—yes; but it does not. I 'll write to-night +and tell Tom the generous project that awaits him; he shall decide for +himself.” + </p> +<p> +“I know Hunter will be annoyed; he'll think it was through some bungling +mismanagement of mine his plan has failed; he 'll be certain to say, If it +was I myself bad spoken toner—” + </p> +<p> +“Well, there's no harm in letting him think so,” said she, laughing. “Tell +him I think him charming, that I hope he 'll have a delightful voyage and +a most prosperous career after it, that I intend to read the Indian +columns in the newspaper from this day out, and will always picture him to +my mind as seated in the grandest of howdabs on the very tallest of +elephants, humming 'Rule Britannia' up the slopes of the Himalaya, and as +the penny-a-liners say, extending the blessings of the English rule in +India.” She gave her hand to him, made a little salutation,—half +bow, half courtesy,—and, saying “Good-bye,” turned back into the +shrubbery and left him. +</p> +<p> +He hesitated,—almost turned to follow her; waited a second or two +more, and then, with an impatient toss of his head, walked briskly to the +river-side and jumped into his boat. It was a sulky face that he wore, and +a sulky spirit was at work within him. There is no greater discontent than +that of him who cannot define the chagrin that consumes him. In reality, +he was angry with himself, but he turned the whole force of his +displeasure upon her. +</p> +<p> +“I suppose she is clever. I 'm no judge of that sort of thing; but, for my +own part, I'd rather see her more womanly, more delicate. She has not a +bit of heart, that's quite clear; nor, with all her affectations, does she +pretend it.” These were his first meditations, and after them he lit a +cigar and smoked it. The weed was a good one; the evening was beautifully +calm and soft, and the river scenery looked its very best. He tried to +think of a dozen things: he imagined, for instance, what a picturesque +thing a boat-race would be in such a spot; he fancied he saw a swift gig +sweep round the point and head up the stream; he caught sight of a little +open in the trees with a background of dark rock, and he thought what a +place for a cottage. But whether it was the “match” or the “chalet” that +occupied him, Polly Dill was a figure in the picture; and he muttered +unconsciously, “How pretty she is, what a deal of expression those +gray-blue eyes possess! She's as active as a fawn, and to the full as +graceful. Fancy her an Earl's daughter; give her station and all the +advantages station will bring with it,—what a girl it would be! Not +that she'd ever have a heart; I'm certain of that. She's as worldly—as +worldly as—” The exact similitude did not occur; but he flung the +end of his cigar into the river instead, and sat brooding mournfully for +the rest of the way. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXV. DUBLIN REVISITED +</h2> +<p> +The first stage of the Barringtons' journey was Dublin. They alighted at +Reynolds's Hotel, in Old Dominick Street, the once favorite resort of +country celebrities. The house, it is true, was there, but Reynolds had +long left for a land where there is but one summons and one reckoning; +even the old waiter, Foster, whom people believed immortal, was gone; and +save some cumbrous old pieces of furniture,—barbarous relics of bad +taste in mahogany,—nothing recalled the past. The bar, where once on +a time the “Beaux” and “Bloods” had gathered to exchange the smart things +of the House or the hunting-field, was now a dingy little receptacle for +umbrellas and overcoats, with a rickety case crammed full of +unacknowledged and unclaimed letters, announcements of cattle fairs, and +bills of houses to let. Decay and neglect were on everything, and the grim +little waiter who ushered them upstairs seemed as much astonished at their +coming as were they themselves with all they saw. It was not for some +time, nor without searching inquiry, that Miss Dinah discovered that the +tide of popular favor had long since retired from this quarter, and left +it a mere barren strand, wreck-strewn and deserted. The house where +formerly the great squire held his revels had now fallen to be the resort +of the traveller by canal-boat, the cattle salesman, or the priest. While +she by an ingenious cross-examination was eliciting these details, +Barrington had taken a walk through the city to revisit old scenes and +revive old memories. One needs not to be as old as Peter Barrington to +have gone through this process and experienced all its pain. +Unquestionably, every city of Europe has made within such a period as +five-and-thirty or forty years immense strides of improvement. Wider and +finer streets, more commodious thoroughfares, better bridges, lighter +areas, more brilliant shops, strike one on every hand; while the more +permanent monuments of architecture are more cleanly, more orderly, and +more cared for than of old. We see these things with astonishment and +admiration at first, and then there comes a pang of painful regret,—not +for the old dark alley and the crooked street, or the tumbling arch of +long ago,—but for the time when they were there, for the time when +they entered into our daily life, when with them were associated friends +long lost sight of, and scenes dimly fading away from memory. It is for +our youth, for the glorious spring and elasticity of our once high-hearted +spirit, of our lives so free of care, of our days undarkened by a serious +sorrow,—it is for these we mourn, and to our eyes at such moments +the spacious street is but a desert, and the splendid monument but a +whitened sepulchre! +</p> +<p> +“I don't think I ever had a sadder walk in my life, Dinah,” said Peter +Barrington, with a weary sigh. “'Till I got into the courts of the +College, I never chanced upon a spot that looked as I had left it. There, +indeed, was the quaint old square as of old, and the great bell—bless +it for its kind voice!—was ringing out a solemn call to something, +that shook the window-frames, and made the very air tremulous; and a +pale-faced student or two hurried past, and those centurions in the +helmets,—ancient porters or Senior Fellows,—I forget which,—stood +in a little knot to stare at me. That, indeed, was like old times, Dinah, +and my heart grew very full with the memory. After that I strolled down to +the Four Courts. I knew you 'd laugh, Dinah. I knew well you 'd say, 'Was +there nothing going on in the King's Bench or the Common Pleas?' Well, +there was only a Revenue case, my dear, but it was interesting, very +interesting; and there was my old friend Harry Bushe sitting as the Judge. +He saw me, and sent round the tipstaff to have me come up and sit on the +bench with him, and we had many a pleasant remembrance of old times—as +the cross-examination went on—between us, and I promised to dine +with him on Saturday.” + </p> +<p> +“And on Saturday we will dine at Antwerp, brother, if I know anything of +myself.” + </p> +<p> +“Sure enough, sister, I forgot all about it Well, well, where could my +head have been?” + </p> +<p> +“Pretty much where you have worn it of late years, Peter Barrington. And +what of Withering? Did you see him?” + </p> +<p> +“No, Dinah, he was attending a Privy Council; but I got his address, and I +mean to go over to see him after dinner.” + </p> +<p> +“Please to bear in mind that you are not to form any engagements, Peter,—we +leave this to-morrow evening by the packet,—if it was the Viceroy +himself that wanted your company.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course, dear, I never thought of such a thing. It was only when Harry +said, 'You 'll be glad to meet Casey and Burrowes, and a few others of the +old set,' I clean forgot everything of the present, and only lived in the +long-past time, when life really was a very jolly thing.” + </p> +<p> +“How did you find your friend looking?” + </p> +<p> +“Old, Dinah, very old! That vile wig has, perhaps, something to say to it; +and being a judge, too, gives a sternness to the mouth and a haughty +imperiousness to the brow. It spoils Harry; utterly spoils that laughing +blue eye, and that fine rich humor that used to play about his lips.” + </p> +<p> +“Which <i>did</i>, you ought to say,—which did some forty years ago. +What are you laughing at, Peter? What is it amuses you so highly?” + </p> +<p> +“It was a charge of O'Grady's, that Harry told me,—a charge to one +of those petty juries that, he says, never will go right, do what you may. +The case was a young student of Trinity, tried for a theft, and whose +defence was only by witnesses to character, and O'Grady said, 'Gentlemen +of the jury, the issue before you is easy enough. This is a young +gentleman of pleasing manners and the very best connections, who stole a +pair of silk stockings, and you will find accordingly.' And what d'ye +think, Dinah? They acquitted him, just out of compliment to the Bench.” + </p> +<p> +“I declare, brother Peter, such a story inspires any other sentiment than +mirth to me.” + </p> +<p> +“I laughed at it till my sides ached,” said he, wiping his eyes. “I took a +peep into the Chancery Court and saw O'Connell, who has plenty of +business, they tell me. He was in some altercation with the Court. Lord +Manners was scowling at him, as if he hated him. I hear that no day passes +without some angry passage between them.” + </p> +<p> +“And is it of these jangling, quarrelsome, irritable, and insolent men +your ideal of agreeable society is made up, brother Peter?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a doubt of it, Dinah. All these displays are briefed to them. They +cannot help investing in their client's cause the fervor of their natures, +simply because they are human; but they know how to leave all the acrimony +of the contest in the wig-box, when they undress and come back to their +homes,—the most genial, hearty, and frank fellows in all the world. +If human nature were all bad, sister, he who saw it closest would be, I +own, most like to catch its corruption, but it is not so, far from it. +Every day and every hour reveals something to make a man right proud of +his fellow-men.” + </p> +<p> +Miss Barrington curtly recalled her brother from these speculations to the +practical details of their journey, reminding him of much that he had to +consult Withering upon, and many questions of importance to put to him. +Thoroughly impressed with the perils of a journey abroad, she conjured up +a vast array of imaginary difficulties, and demanded special instructions +how each of them was to be met. Had poor Peter been—what he +certainly was not—a most accomplished casuist, he might have been +puzzled by the ingenious complexity of some of those embarrassments. As it +was, like a man in the labyrinth, too much bewildered to attempt escape, +he sat down in a dogged insensibility, and actually heard nothing. +</p> +<p> +“Are you minding me, Peter?” asked she, fretfully, at last; “are you +paying attention to what I am saying?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course I am, Dinah dear; I'm listening with all ears.” + </p> +<p> +“What was it, then, that I last remarked? What was the subject to which I +asked your attention?” + </p> +<p> +Thus suddenly called on, poor Peter started and rubbed his forehead. Vague +shadows of passport people, and custom-house folk, and waiters, and +money-changers, and brigands; insolent postilions, importunate beggars, +cheating innkeepers, and insinuating swindlers were passing through his +head, with innumerable incidents of the road; and, trying to catch a clew +at random, he said, “It was to ask the Envoy, her Majesty's Minister at +Brussels, about a washerwoman who would not tear off my shirt buttons—eh, +Dinah? wasn't that it?” + </p> +<p> +“You are insupportable, Peter Barrington,” said she, rising in anger. “I +believe that insensibility like this is not to be paralleled!” and she +left the room in wrath. +</p> +<p> +Peter looked at his watch, and was glad to see it was past eight o'clock, +and about the hour he meant for his visit to Withering. He set out +accordingly, not, indeed, quite satisfied with the way he had lately +acquitted himself, but consoled by thinking that Dinah rarely went back of +a morning on the dereliction of the evening before, so that they should +meet good friends as ever at the breakfast-table. Withering was at home, +but a most discreet-looking butler intimated that he had dined that day <i>tête-à -tête</i> +with a gentleman, and had left orders not to be disturbed on any pretext +“Could you not at least, send in my name?” said Barrington; “I am a very +old friend of your master's, whom he would regret not having seen.” A +little persuasion aided by an argument that butlers usually succumb to +succeeded, and before Peter believed that his card could have reached its +destination, his friend was warmly shaking him by both hands, as he +hurried him into the dinner-room. +</p> +<p> +“You don't know what an opportune visit you have made me, Barrington,” + said he; “but first, to present you to my friend, Captain Stapylton—or +Major—which is it?” + </p> +<p> +“Captain. This day week, the 'Gazette,' perhaps, may call me Major.” + </p> +<p> +“Always a pleasure to me to meet a soldier, sir,” said Barrington; “and I +own to the weakness of saying, all the greater when a Dragoon. My own boy +was a cavalryman.” + </p> +<p> +“It was exactly of him we were talking,” said Withering; “my friend here +has had a long experience of India, and has frankly told me much I was +totally ignorant of. From one thing to another we rambled on till we came +to discuss our great suit with the Company, and Captain Stapylton assures +me that we have never taken the right road in the case.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, I could hardly have had such presumption; I merely remarked, that +without knowing India and its habits, you could scarcely be prepared to +encounter the sort of testimony that would be opposed to you, or to +benefit by what might tend greatly in your favor.” + </p> +<p> +“Just so—continue,” said Withering, who looked as though he had got +an admirable witness on the table. +</p> +<p> +“I'm astonished to hear from the Attorney-General,” resumed Stapylton, +“that in a case of such magnitude as this you have never thought of +sending out an efficient agent to India to collect evidence, sift +testimony, and make personal inquiry as to the degree of credit to be +accorded to many of the witnesses. This inquisitorial process is the very +first step in every Oriental suit; you start at once, in fact, by sapping +all the enemy's works,—countermining him everywhere.” + </p> +<p> +“Listen, Barrington,—listen to this; it is all new to us.” + </p> +<p> +“Everything being done by documentary evidence, there is a wide field for +all the subtlety of the linguist; and Hindostanee has complexities enough +to gratify the most inordinate appetite for quibble. A learned scholar—a +Moonshee of erudition—is, therefore, the very first requisite, great +care being taken to ascertain that he is not in the pay of the enemy.” + </p> +<p> +“What rascals!” muttered Barrington. +</p> +<p> +“Very deep—very astute dogs, certainly, but perhaps not much more +unprincipled than some fellows nearer home,” continued the Captain, +sipping his wine; “the great peculiarity of this class is, that while +employing them in the most palpably knavish manner, and obtaining from +them services bought at every sacrifice of honor, they expect all the +deference due to the most umblemished integrity.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd see them—I won't say where—first,” broke out Barrington; +“and I 'd see my lawsuit after them, if only to be won by their +intervention.” + </p> +<p> +“Remember, sir,” said Stapylton, calmly, “that such are the weapons +employed against you. That great Company does not, nor can it afford to, +despise such auxiliaries. The East has its customs, and the natures of men +are not light things to be smoothed down by conventionalities. Were you, +for instance, to measure a testimony at Calcutta by the standard of +Westminster Hall, you would probably do a great and grievous injustice.” + </p> +<p> +“Just so,” said Withering; “you are quite right there, and I have +frequently found myself posed by evidence that I felt must be assailable. +Go on, and tell my friend what you were mentioning to me before he came +in.” + </p> +<p> +“I am reluctant, sir,” said Stapylton, modestly, “to obtrude upon you, in +a matter of such grand importance as this, the mere gossip of a +mess-table, but, as allusion has been made to it, I can scarcely refrain. +It was when serving in another Presidency an officer of ours, who had been +long in Bengal, one night entered upon the question of Colonel +Barrington's claims. He quoted the words of an uncle—I think he said +his uncle—who was a member of the Supreme Council, and said, +'Barrington ought to have known we never could have conceded this right of +sovereignty, but he ought also to have known that we would rather have +given ten lacs of rupees than have it litigated.'” + </p> +<p> +“Have you that gentleman's name?” asked Barrington, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“I have; but the poor fellow is no more,—he was of that fatal +expedition to Beloochistan eight years ago.” + </p> +<p> +“You know our case, then, and what we claim?” asked Barrington. +</p> +<p> +“Just as every man who has served in India knows it,—popularly, +vaguely. I know that Colonel Barrington was, as the adopted son of a +Rajah, invested with supreme power, and only needed the ratification of +Great Britain to establish a sovereignty; and I have heard”—he laid +stress on the word “heard”—“that if it had not been for some +allegation of plotting against the Company's government, he really might +ultimately have obtained that sanction.” + </p> +<p> +“Just what I have said over and over again?” burst in Barrington. “It was +the worst of treachery that mined my poor boy.” + </p> +<p> +“I have heard that also,” said Stapylton, and with a degree of feeling and +sympathy that made the old man's heart yearn towards him. +</p> +<p> +“How I wish you had known him!” said he, as he drew his hand over his +eyes. “And do you know, sir,” said he, warming, “that if I still follow up +this suit, devoting to it the little that is left to me of life or +fortune, that I do so less for any hope of gain than to place my poor boy +before the world with his honor and fame unstained.” + </p> +<p> +“My old friend does himself no more than justice there!” cried Withering. +</p> +<p> +“A noble object,—may you have all success in it!” said Stapylton. He +paused, and then, in a tone of deeper feeling, added: “It will, perhaps, +seem a great liberty, the favor I'm about to ask; but remember that, as a +brother soldier with your son I have some slight claim to approach you. +Will you allow me to offer you such knowledge as I possess of India, to +aid your suit? Will you associate me, in fact, with your cause? No higher +one could there be than the vindication of a brave man's honor.” + </p> +<p> +“I thank you with all my heart and soul!” cried the old man, grasping his +hand. “In my own name, and in that of my poor dear granddaughter, I thank +you.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, then, Colonel Barrington has left a daughter? I was not aware of +that,” said Stapylton, with a certain coldness. +</p> +<p> +“And a daughter who knows no more of this suit than of our present +discussion of it,” said Withering. +</p> +<p> +In the frankness of a nature never happier than when indulging its own +candor, Barrington told how it was to see and fetch back with him the same +granddaughter he had left a spot he had not quitted for years. “She 's +coming back to a very humble home, it is true; but if you, sir,” said he, +addressing Stapylton, “will not despise such lowly fare as a cottage can +afford you, and would condescend to come and see us, you shall have the +welcome that is due to one who wishes well to my boy's memory.” + </p> +<p> +“And if you do,” broke in Withering, “you'll see the prettiest cottage and +the first hostess in Europe; and here 's to her health,—Miss Dinah +Barrington!” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not going to refuse that toast, though I have just passed the +decanter,” said Peter. “Here 's to the best of sisters!” + </p> +<p> +“Miss Barrington!” said Stapylton, with a courteous bow; and he drained +his glass to the bottom. +</p> +<p> +“And that reminds me I promised to be back to tea with her,” said +Barrington; and renewing with all warmth his invitation to Stapylton, and +cordially taking leave of his old friend, he left the house and hastened +to his hotel. +</p> +<p> +“What a delightful evening I have passed, Dinah!” said he, cheerfully, as +he entered. +</p> +<p> +“Which means that the Attorney-General gave you a grand review and sham +fight of all the legal achievements of the term; but bear in mind, +brother, there is no professional slang so odious to me as the lawyer's, +and I positively hate a joke which cost six-and-eightpence, or even +three-and-fourpence.” < +</p> +<p> +“Nothing of this kind was there at all, Dinah! Withering had a friend with +him, a very distinguished soldier, who had seen much Indian service, and +entered with a most cordial warmth into poor George's case. He knew it,—as +all India knows it, by report,—and frankly told us where our chief +difficulties lay, and the important things we were neglecting.” + </p> +<p> +“How generous! of a perfect stranger too!” said she, with a scarcely +detectable tone of scorn. +</p> +<p> +“Not—so to say—an utter stranger, for George was known to him +by reputation and character.” + </p> +<p> +“And who is, I suppose I am to say, your friend, Peter?” + </p> +<p> +“Captain or Major Stapylton, of the Regent's Hussars?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! I know him,—or, rather, I know of him.” + </p> +<p> +“What and how, Dinah? I am very curious to hear this.” + </p> +<p> +“Simply, that while young Conyers was at the cottage he showed me a letter +from that gentleman, asking him in the Admiral's name, to Cobham, and +containing, at the same time, a running criticism on the house and his +guests far more flippant than creditable.” + </p> +<p> +“Men do these things every day, Dinah, and there is no harm in it.” + </p> +<p> +“That all depends upon whom the man is. The volatile gayety of a +high-spirited nature, eager for effect and fond of a sensation, will lead +to many an indiscretion; but very different from this is the well-weighed +sarcasm of a more serious mind, who not only shots his gun home, but takes +time to sight ere he fires it. I hear that Captain Stapylton is a grand, +cold, thoughtful man, of five or six-and-thirty. Is that so?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps he may be. He 's a splendid fellow to look at, and all the +soldier. But you shall see for yourself, and I 'll warrant you 'll not +harbor a prejudice against him.” + </p> +<p> +“Which means, you have asked him on a visit, brother Peter?” + </p> +<p> +“Scarcely fair to call it on a visit, Dinah,” blundered he out, in +confusion; “but I have said with what pleasure we should see him under our +roof when we returned.” + </p> +<p> +“I solemnly declare my belief, that if you went to a cattle-show you 'd +invite every one you met there, from the squire to the pig-jobber, never +thinking the while that nothing is so valueless as indiscriminate +hospitality, even if it were not costly. Nobody thanks you,—no one +is grateful for it.” + </p> +<p> +“And who wants them to be grateful, Dinah? The pleasure is in the giving, +not in receiving. You see your friends with their holiday faces on, when +they sit round the table. The slowest and dreariest of them tries to look +cheery; and the stupid dog who has never a jest in him has at least a +ready laugh for the wit of his neighbor.” + </p> +<p> +“Does it not spoil some of your zest for this pleasantry to think how it +is paid for, brother?” + </p> +<p> +“It might, perhaps, if I were to think of it; but, thank Heaven! it's +about one of the last things would come into my head. My dear sister, +there's no use in always treating human nature as if it was sick, for if +you do, it will end by being hypochondriac!” + </p> +<p> +“I protest, brother Peter, I don't know where you meet all the good and +excellent people you rave about, and I feel it very churlish of you that +you never present any of them to <i>me!</i>” And so saying, she gathered +her knitting materials hastily together, and reminding him that it was +past eleven o'clock, she uttered a hurried good-night, and departed. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVI. A VERY SAD GOOD-BYE +</h2> +<p> +Conyers sat alone in his barrack-room, very sad and dispirited. Hunter had +left that same morning, and the young soldier felt utterly friendless. He +had obtained some weeks' leave of absence, and already two days of the +leave had gone over, and he had not energy to set out if he had even a +thought as to the whither. A variety of plans passed vaguely through his +head. He would go down to Portsmouth and see Hunter off; or he would +nestle down in the little village of Inistioge and dream away the days in +quiet forgetfulness; or he would go over to Paris, which he had never +seen, and try whether the gay dissipations of that brilliant city might +not distract and amuse him. The mail from India had arrived and brought no +letter from his father, and this, too, rendered him irritable and unhappy. +Not that his father was a good correspondent; he wrote but rarely, and +always like one who snatched a hurried moment to catch a post. Still, if +this were a case of emergency, any great or critical event in his life, he +was sure his father would have informed him; and thus was it that he sat +balancing doubt against doubt, and setting probability against +probability, till his very head grew addled with the labor of speculation. +</p> +<p> +It was already late; all the usual sounds of barrack life had subsided, +and although on the opposite side of the square the brilliant lights of +the mess-room windows showed where the convivial spirits of the regiment +were assembled, all around was silent and still. Suddenly there came a +dull heavy knock to the door, quickly followed by two or three others. +</p> +<p> +Not caring to admit a visitor, whom, of course, he surmised would be some +young brother-officer full of the plans and projects of the mess, he made +no reply to the summons, nor gave any token of his presence. The sounds, +however, were redoubled, and with an energy that seemed to vouch for +perseverance; and Conyers, partly in anger, and partly in curiosity, went +to the door and opened it. It was not till after a minute or two that he +was able to recognize the figure before him. It was Tom Dill, but without +a hat or neckcloth, his hair dishevelled, his face colorless, and his +clothes torn, while from a recent wound in one hand the blood flowed fast, +and dropped on the floor. The whole air and appearance of the young fellow +so resembled drunkenness that Conyers turned a stern stare upon him as he +stood in the centre of the room, and in a voice of severity said, “By what +presumption, sir, do you dare to present yourself in this state before +me?” + </p> +<p> +“You think I'm drunk, sir, but I am not,” said he, with a faltering accent +and a look of almost imploring misery. +</p> +<p> +“What is the meaning of this state, then? What disgraceful row have you +been in?” + </p> +<p> +“None, sir. I have cut my hand with the glass on the barrack-wall, and +torn my trousers too; but it's no matter, I 'll not want them long.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean by all this? Explain yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“May I sit down, sir, for I feel very weak?” but before the permission +could be granted, his knees tottered, and he fell in a faint on the floor. +Conyers knelt down beside him, bathed his temples with water, and as soon +as signs of animation returned, took him up in his arms and laid him at +full length on a sofa. +</p> +<p> +In the vacant, meaningless glance of the poor fellow as he looked first +around him, Conyers could mark how he was struggling to find out where he +was. +</p> +<p> +“You are with me, Tom,—with your friend Conyers,” said he, holding +the cold clammy hand between his own. +</p> +<p> +“Thank you, sir. It is very good of you. I do not deserve it,” said he, in +a faint whisper. +</p> +<p> +“My poor boy, you mustn't say that; I am your friend. I told you already I +would be so.” + </p> +<p> +“But you 'll not be my friend when I tell you—when I tell you—all;” + and as the last word dropped, he covered his face with both his hands, and +burst into a heavy passion of tears. +</p> +<p> +“Come, come, Tom, this is not manly; bear up bravely, bear up with +courage, man. You used to say you had plenty of pluck if it were to be +tried.” + </p> +<p> +“So I thought I had, sir, but it has all left me;” and he sobbed as if his +heart was breaking. “But I believe I could bear anything but this,” said +he, in a voice shaken by convulsive throes. “It is the disgrace,—that +'s what unmans me.” + </p> +<p> +“Take a glass of wine, collect yourself, and tell me all about it.” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir. No wine, thank you; give me a glass of water. There, I am better +now; my brain is not so hot. You are very good to me, Mr. Conyers, but it +'s the last time I'll ever ask it,—the very last time, sir; but I +'ll remember it all my life.” + </p> +<p> +“If you give way in this fashion, Tom, I 'll not think you the +stout-hearted fellow I once did.” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir, nor am I. I 'll never be the same again. I feel it here. I feel +as if something gave, something broke.” And he laid his hand over his +heart and sighed heavily. +</p> +<p> +“Well, take your own time about it, Tom, and let me hear if I cannot be of +use to you.” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir, not now. Neither you nor any one else can help me now. It's all +over, Mr. Conyers,—it's all finished.” + </p> +<p> +“What is over,—what is finished?” + </p> +<p> +“And so, as I thought it would n't do for one like me to be seen speaking +to you before people, I stole away and climbed over the barrack-wall. I +cut my hand on the glass, too, but it's nothing. And here I am, and here's +the money you gave me; I've no need of it now.” And as he laid some +crumpled bank-notes on the table, his overcharged heart again betrayed +him, and he burst into tears. “Yes, sir, that's what you gave me for the +College, but I was rejected.” + </p> +<p> +“Rejected, Tom! How was that? Be calm, my poor fellow, and tell me all +about it quietly.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll try, sir, I will, indeed; and I'll tell you nothing but the truth, +that you may depend upon.” He took a great drink of water, and went on. +“If there was one man I was afraid of in the world, it was Surgeon Asken, +of Mercer's Hospital. I used to be a dresser there, and he was always +angry with me, exposing me before the other students, and ridiculing me, +so that if anything was done badly in the wards, he 'd say, 'This is some +of Master Dill's work, is n't it?' Well, sir, would you believe it, on the +morning I went up for my examination, Dr. Coles takes ill, and Surgeon +Asken is called on to replace him. I did n't know it till I was sent for +to go in, and my head went round, and I could n't see, and a cold sweat +came over me, and I was so confused that when I got into the room I went +and sat down beside the examiners, and never knew what they were laughing +at. +</p> +<p> +“'I have no doubt, Mr. Dill, you 'll occupy one of these places at some +future day,' says Dr. Willes, 'but for the present your seat is yonder.' I +don't remember much more after that, till Mr. Porter said, 'Don't be so +nervous, Mr. Dill; collect yourself; I am persuaded you know what I am +asking you, if you will not be flurried.' And all I could say was, 'God +bless you for that speech, no matter how it goes with me' and they all +laughed out. +</p> +<p> +“It was Asken's turn now, and he began. 'You are destined for the navy, I +understand, sir?' +</p> +<p> +“'No, sir; for the army,' said I. +</p> +<p> +“'From what we have seen to-day, you 'll prove an ornament to either +service. Meanwhile, sir, it will be satisfactory to the court to have your +opinion on gun-shot wounds. Describe to us the case of a man laboring +under the worst form of concussion of the brain, and by what indications +you would distinguish it from fracture of the base of the skull, and what +circumstances might occur to render the distinction more difficult, and +what impossible?' That was his question, and if I was to live a hundred +years I 'll never forget a word in it,—it's written on my heart, I +believe, for life. +</p> +<p> +“'Go on, sir,' said he, 'the court is waiting for you.' +</p> +<p> +“'Take the case of concussion first,' said Dr. Willes. +</p> +<p> +“'I hope I may be permitted to conduct my own examination in my own +manner,' said Asken. +</p> +<p> +“That finished me, and I gave a groan that set them all laughing again. +</p> +<p> +“'Well, sir, I 'm waiting,' said Asken. 'You can have no difficulty to +describe concussion, if you only give us your present sensations.' +</p> +<p> +“'That's as true as if you swore it,' said I. 'I 'm just as if I had a +fall on the crown of my head. There's a haze over my eyes, and a ringing +of bells in my ears, and a feeling as if my brain was too big.' +</p> +<p> +“'Take my word for it, Mr. Dill,' said he, sneeringly, 'the latter is a +purely deceptive sensation; the fault lies in the opposite direction. Let +us, however, take something more simple;' and with that he described a +splinter wound of the scalp, with the whole integuments torn in fragments, +and gunpowder and sticks and sand all mixed up with the flap that hung +down over the patient's face. 'Now,' said he, after ten minutes' detail of +this,—'now,' said he, 'when you found the man in this case, you 'd +take out your scalpel, perhaps, and neatly cut away all these bruised and +torn integuments?' +</p> +<p> +“'I would, sir,' cried I, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“'I knew it,' said he, with a cry of triumph,—'I knew it. I 've no +more to ask you. You may retire.' +</p> +<p> +“I got up to leave the room, but a sudden flash went through me, and I +said out boldly,— +</p> +<p> +“'Am I passed? Tell me at once. Put me out of pain, for I can't bear any +more!' +</p> +<p> +“'If you'll retire for a few minutes,' said the President— +</p> +<p> +“'My heart will break, sir,' said I, 'if I 'm to be in suspense any more. +Tell me the worst at once.' +</p> +<p> +“And I suppose they did tell me, for I knew no more till I found myself in +the housekeeper's room, with wet cloths on my head, and the money you see +there in the palm of my hand. <i>That</i> told everything. Many were very +kind to me, telling how it happened to this and to that man, the first +time; and that Asken was thought very unfair, and so on; but I just washed +my face with cold water, and put on my hat and went away home, that is, to +where I lodged, and I wrote to Polly just this one line: 'Rejected; I 'm +not coming back.' And then I shut the shutters and went to bed in my +clothes as I was, and I slept sixteen hours without ever waking. When I +awoke, I was all right. I could n't remember everything that happened for +some time, but I knew it all at last, and so I went off straight to the +Royal Barracks and 'listed.” + </p> +<p> +“Enlisted?—enlisted?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, in the Forty-ninth Regiment of Foot, now in India, and sending +off drafts from Cork to join them on Tuesday. It was out of the dépôt at +the bridge I made my escape to-night to come and see you once more, and to +give you this with my hearty blessing, for you were the only one ever +stood to me in the world,—the only one that let me think for a +moment I <i>could</i> be a gentleman!” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, this is all wrong and hasty and passionate, Tom. You have no +right to repay your family in this sort; this is not the way to treat that +fine-hearted girl who has done so much for you; this is but an outbreak of +angry selfishness.” + </p> +<p> +“These are hard words, sir, very hard words, and I wish you had not said +them.” + </p> +<p> +“Hard or not, you deserve them; and it is their justice that wounds you.” + </p> +<p> +“I won't say that it is <i>not</i>, sir. But it isn't justice I 'm asking +for, but forgiveness. Just one word out of your mouth to say, 'I 'm sorry +for you, Tom;' or, 'I wish you well.'” + </p> +<p> +“So I do, my poor fellow, with all my heart,” cried Con-yers, grasping his +hand and pressing it cordially, “and I 'll get you out of this scrape, +cost what it may.” + </p> +<p> +“If you mean, sir, that I am to get my discharge, it's better to tell the +truth at once. I would n't take it. No, sir, I 'll stand by what I 've +done. I see I never could be a doctor, and I have my doubts, too, if I +ever could be a gentleman; but there's something tells me I could be a +soldier, and I'll try.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers turned from him with an impatient gesture, and walked the room in +moody silence. +</p> +<p> +“I know well enough, sir,” continued Tom, “what every one will say; +perhaps you yourself are thinking it this very minute: 'It 's all out of +his love of low company he 's gone and done this; he's more at home with +those poor ignorant boys there than he would be with men of education and +good manners.' Perhaps it's true, perhaps it is 'n't! But there 's one +thing certain, which is, that I 'll never try again to be anything that I +feel is clean above me, and I 'll not ask the world to give me credit for +what I have not the least pretension to.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you reflected,” said Conyers, slowly, “that if you reject my +assistance now, it will be too late to ask for it a few weeks, or even a +few days hence?” + </p> +<p> +“I <i>have</i> thought of all that, sir. I 'll never trouble you about +myself again.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Tom,” said Conyers, as he laid his arm on the other's shoulder, +“just think for one moment of all the misery this step will cause your +sister,—that kind, true-hearted sister, who has behaved so nobly by +you.” + </p> +<p> +“I have thought of that, too, sir; and in my heart I believe, though she +'ll fret herself at first greatly, it will all turn out best in the end. +What could I ever be but a disgrace to her? Who 'd ever think the same of +Polly after seeing <i>me?</i> Don't I bring her down in spite of herself; +and is n't it a hard trial for her to be a lady when I am in the same room +with her? No, sir, I'll not go back; and though I haven't much hope in me, +I feel I'm doing right.” + </p> +<p> +“I know well,” said Conyers, pettishly, “that your sister will throw the +whole blame on me. She 'll say, naturally enough, <i>You</i> could have +obtained his discharge,—<i>you</i> should have insisted on his +leaving.” + </p> +<p> +“That's what you could not, sir,” said Tom, sturdily. “It's a poor heart +hasn't some pride in it; and I would not go back and meet my father, after +my disgrace, if it was to cost me my right hand,—so don't say +another word about it. Good-bye, sir, and my blessing go with you wherever +you are. I 'll never forget how you stood to me.” + </p> +<p> +“That money there is yours, Dill,” said Conyers, half haughtily. “You may +refuse my advice and reject my counsel, but I scarcely suppose you 'll ask +me to take back what I once have given.” + </p> +<p> +Tom tried to speak, but he faltered and moved from one foot to the other, +in an embarrassed and hesitating way. He wanted to say how the sum +originally intended for one object could not honestly be claimed for +another; he wanted to say, also, that he had no longer the need of so much +money, and that the only obligation he liked to submit to was gratitude +for the past; but a consciousness that in attempting to say these things +some unhappy word, some ill-advised or ungracious expression might escape +him, stopped him, and he was silent. +</p> +<p> +“You do not wish that we should part coldly, Tom?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir,—oh, no!” cried he, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Then let not that paltry gift stand in the way of our esteem. Now, +another thing. Will you write to me? Will you tell me how the world fares +with you, and honestly declare whether the step you have taken to-day +brings with it regret or satisfaction?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not over-much of a letter-writer,” said he, falter-ingly, “but I'll +try. I must be going, Mr. Conyers,” said he, after a moment's silence; “I +must get back before I'm missed.” + </p> +<p> +“Not as you came, Tom, however. I'll pass you out of the barrack-gate.” + </p> +<p> +As they walked along side by side, neither spoke till they came close to +the gate; then Conyers halted and said, “Can you think of nothing I can do +for you, or is there nothing you would leave to my charge after you have +gone?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir, nothing.” He paused, and then, as if with a struggle, said, +“Except you 'd write one line to my sister Polly, to tell her that I went +away in good heart, that I did n't give in one bit, and that if it was n't +for thinking that maybe I 'd never see her again—” He faltered, his +voice grew thick, he tried to cough down the rising emotion, but the +feeling overcame him, and he burst out into tears. Ashamed at the weakness +he was endeavoring to deny, he sprang through the gate and disappeared. +</p> +<p> +Conyers slowly returned to his quarters, very thoughtful and very sad. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVII. THE CONVENT ON THE MEUSE +</h2> +<p> +While poor Tom Dill, just entering upon life, went forth in gloom and +disappointment to his first venture, old Peter Barrington, broken by years +and many a sorrow, set out on his journey with a high heart and a spirit +well disposed to see everything in its best light and be pleased with all +around him. Much of this is, doubtless, matter of temperament; but I +suspect, too, that all of us have more in our power in this way than we +practise. Barrington had possibly less merit than his neighbors, for +nature had given him one of those happy dispositions upon which the +passing vexations of life produce scarcely any other effect than a +stimulus to humor, or a tendency to make them the matter of amusing +memory. +</p> +<p> +He had lived, besides, so long estranged from the world, that life had for +him all the interests of a drama, and he could no more have felt angry +with the obtrusive waiter or the roguish landlord than he would with their +fictitious representatives on the stage. They were, in his eyes, parts +admirably played, and no more; he watched them with a sense of humorous +curiosity, and laughed heartily at successes of which he was himself the +victim. Miss Barrington was no disciple of this school; rogues to her were +simply rogues, and no histrionic sympathies dulled the vexation they gave +her. The world, out of which she had lived so long, had, to her thinking, +far from improved in the mean while. People were less deferential, less +courteous than of old. There was an indecent haste and bustle about +everything, and a selfish disregard of one's neighbor was the marked +feature of all travel. While her brother repaid himself for many an +inconvenience by thinking over some strange caprice, or some curious +inconsistency in human nature,—texts for amusing afterthought,—she +only winced under the infliction, and chafed at every instance of cheating +or impertinence that befell them. +</p> +<p> +The wonderful things she saw, the splendid galleries rich in art, the +gorgeous palaces, the grand old cathedrals, were all marred to her by the +presence of the loquacious lackey whose glib tongue had to be retained at +the salary of the “vicar of our parish,” and who never descanted on a +saint's tibia without costing the price of a dinner; so that old Peter at +last said to himself, “I believe my sister Dinah would n't enjoy the +garden of Eden if Adam had to go about and show her its beauties.” + </p> +<p> +The first moment of real enjoyment of her tour was on that morning when +they left Namur to drive to the Convent of Bramaigne, about three miles +off, on the banks of the Meuse. A lovelier day never shone upon a lovelier +scene. The river, one side guarded by lofty cliffs, was on the other +bounded by a succession of rich meadows, dotted with picturesque +homesteads half hidden in trees. Little patches of cultivation, labored to +the perfection of a garden, varied the scene, and beautiful cattle lay +lazily under the giant trees, solemn voluptuaries of the peaceful +happiness of their lot. +</p> +<p> +Hitherto Miss Dinah had stoutly denied that anything they had seen could +compare with their own “vale and winding river,” but now she frankly owned +that the stream was wider, the cliffs higher, the trees taller and better +grown, while the variety of tint in the foliage far exceeded all she had +any notion of; but above all these were the evidences of abundance, the +irresistible charm that gives the poetry to peasant life; and the +picturesque cottage, the costume, the well-stored granary, bespeak the +condition with which we associate our ideas of rural happiness. The giant +oxen as they marched proudly to their toil, the gay-caparisoned pony who +jingled his bells as he trotted by, the peasant girls as they sat at their +lace cushions before the door, the rosy urchins who gambolled in the deep +grass, all told of plenty,—that blessing which to man is as the +sunlight to a landscape, making the fertile spots more beautiful, and +giving even to ruggedness an aspect of stern grandeur. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, brother Peter, that we could see something like this at home,” cried +she. “See that girl yonder watering the flowers in her little garden,—how +prettily that old vine is trained over the balcony,—mark the scarlet +tassels in the snow-white team,—are not these signs of an existence +not linked to daily drudgery? I wish our people could be like these.” + </p> +<p> +“Here we are, Dinah: there is the convent!” cried Barrington, as a tall +massive roof appeared over the tree-tops, and the little carriage now +turned from the high-road into a shady avenue of tall elms. “What a grand +old place it is! some great seigniorial château once on a time.” + </p> +<p> +As they drew nigh, nothing bespoke the cloister. The massive old building, +broken by many a projection and varied by many a gable, stood, like the +mansion of some rich proprietor, in a vast wooded lawn. The windows lay +open, the terrace was covered with orange and lemon trees and flowering +plants, amid which seats were scattered; and in the rooms within, the +furniture indicated habits of comfort and even of luxury. With all this, +no living thing was to be seen; and when Barrington got down and entered +the hall, he neither found a servant nor any means to summon one. +</p> +<p> +“You'll have to move that little slide you see in the door there,” said +the driver of the carriage, “and some one will come to you.” + </p> +<p> +He did so; and after waiting a few moments, a somewhat ruddy, cheerful +face, surmounted by a sort of widow's cap, appeared, and asked his +business. +</p> +<p> +“They are at dinner, but if you will enter the drawing-room she will come +to you presently.” + </p> +<p> +They waited for some time; to them it seemed very long, for they never +spoke, but sat there in still thoughtfulness, their hearts very full, for +there was much in that expectancy, and all the visions of many a wakeful +night or dreary day might now receive their shock or their support. Their +patience was to be further tested; for, when the door opened, there +entered a grim-looking little woman in a nun's costume, who, without +previous salutation, announced herself as Sister Lydia. Whether the +opportunity for expansiveness was rare, or that her especial gift was +fluency, never did a little old woman hold forth more volubly. As though +anticipating all the worldly objections to a conventual existence, or +rather seeming to suppose that every possible thing had been actually said +on that ground, she assumed the defence the very moment she sat down. +Nothing short of long practice with this argument could have stored her +mind with all her instances, her quotations, and her references. Nor could +anything short of a firm conviction have made her so courageously +indifferent to the feelings she was outraging, for she never scrupled to +arraign the two strangers before her for ignorance, apathy, worldliness, +sordid and poor ambitions, and, last of all, a levity unbecoming their +time of life. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0023" id="linkimage-0023"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/304.jpg" width="100%" alt="304 " /> +</div> +<p> +“I 'm not quite sure that I understand her aright,” whispered Peter, whose +familiarity with French was not what it had once been; “but if I do, +Dinah, she 's giving us a rare lesson.” + </p> +<p> +“She's the most insolent old woman I ever met in my life,” said his +sister, whose violent use of her fan seemed either likely to provoke or to +prevent a fit of apoplexy. +</p> +<p> +“It is usual,” resumed Sister Lydia, “to give persons who are about to +exercise the awful responsibility now devolving upon you the opportunity +of well weighing and reflecting over the arguments I have somewhat faintly +shadowed forth.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, not faintly!” groaned Barrington. +</p> +<p> +But she minded nothing the interruption, and went on,— +</p> +<p> +“And for this purpose a little tract has been composed, entitled 'A Word +to the Worldling.' This, with your permission, I will place in your hands. +You will there find at more length than I could bestow—But I fear I +impose upon this lady's patience?” + </p> +<p> +“It has left me long since, madam,” said Miss Dinah, as she actually +gasped for breath. +</p> +<p> +In the grim half-smile of the old nun might be seen the triumphant +consciousness that placed her above the “mundane;” but she did not resent +the speech, simply saying that, as it was the hour of recreation, perhaps +she would like to see her young ward in the garden with her companions. +</p> +<p> +“By all means. We thank you heartily for the offer,” cried Barrington, +rising hastily. +</p> +<p> +With another smile, still more meaningly a reproof, Sister Lydia reminded +him that the profane foot of a man had never transgressed the sacred +precincts of the convent garden, and that he must remain where he was. +</p> +<p> +“For Heaven's sake! Dinah, don't keep me a prisoner here a moment longer +than you can help it,” cried he, “or I'll not answer for my good +behavior.” + </p> +<p> +As Barrington paced up and down the room with impatient steps, he could +not escape the self-accusation that all his present anxiety was scarcely +compatible with the long, long years of neglect and oblivion he had +suffered to glide over. +</p> +<p> +The years in which he had never heard of Josephine—never asked for +her—was a charge there was no rebutting. Of course he could fall +back upon all that special pleading ingenuity and self-love will supply +about his own misfortunes, the crushing embarrassments that befell him, +and such like. But it was no use, it was desertion, call it how he would; +and poor as he was he had never been without a roof to shelter her, and if +it had not been for false pride he would have offered her that refuge long +ago. He was actually startled as he thought over all this. Your generous +people, who forgive injuries with little effort, who bear no malice nor +cherish any resentment, would be angels—downright angels—if we +did not find that they are just as indulgent, just as merciful to +themselves as to the world at large. They become perfect adepts in +apologies, and with one cast of the net draw in a whole shoal of +attenuating circumstances. To be sure, there will now and then break in +upon them a startling suspicion that all is not right, and that conscience +has been “cooking” the account; and when such a moment does come, it is a +very painful one. +</p> +<p> +“Egad!” muttered he to himself, “we have been very heartless all this +time, there's no denying it; and if poor George's girl be a disciple of +that grim old woman with the rosary and the wrinkles, it is nobody's fault +but our own.” He looked at his watch; Dinah had been gone more than half +an hour. What a time to keep him in suspense! Of course there were +formalities,—the Sister Lydia described innumerable ones,—jail +delivery was nothing to it, but surely five-and-thirty minutes would +suffice to sign a score of documents. The place was becoming hateful to +him. The grand old park, with its aged oaks, seemed sad as a graveyard, +and the great silent house, where not a footfall sounded, appeared a tomb. +“Poor child! what a dreary spot you have spent your brightest years in,—what +a shadow to throw over the whole of a lifetime!” + </p> +<p> +He had just arrived at that point wherein his granddaughter arose before +his mind a pale, careworn, sorrow-struck girl, crushed beneath the dreary +monotony of a joyless life, and seeming only to move in a sort of dreamy +melancholy, when the door opened, and Miss Barrington entered with her arm +around a young girl tall as herself, and from whose commanding figure even +the ungainly dress she wore could not take away the dignity. +</p> +<p> +“This is Josephine, Peter,” said Miss Dinah; and though Barrington rushed +forward to clasp her in his arms, she merely crossed hers demurely on her +breast and courtesied deeply. +</p> +<p> +“It is your grandpapa, Josephine,” said Miss Dinah, half tartly. +</p> +<p> +The young girl opened her large, full, lustrous eyes, and stared +steadfastly at him, and then, with infinite grace, she took his hand and +kissed it. +</p> +<p> +“My own dear child,” cried the old man, throwing his arms around her, “it +is not homage, it is your love we want.” + </p> +<p> +“Take care, Peter, take care,” whispered his sister; “she is very timid +and very strange.” + </p> +<p> +“You speak English, I hope, dear?” said the old man. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, I like it best,” said she. And there was the very faintest +possible foreign accent in the words. +</p> +<p> +“Is n't that George's own voice, Dinah? Don't you think you heard himself +there?” + </p> +<p> +“The voice is certainly like him,” said Miss Dinah, with a marked +emphasis. +</p> +<p> +“And so are—no, not her eyes, but her brow, Dinah. Yes, darling, you +have his own frank look, and I feel sure you have his own generous +nature.” + </p> +<p> +“They say I'm like my mother's picture,” said she, unfastening a locket +she wore from its chain and handing it. And both Peter and his sister +gazed eagerly at the miniature. It was of a very dark but handsome woman +in a rich turban, and who, though profusely ornamented with costly gems, +did, in reality, present a resemblance to the cloistered figure before +them. +</p> +<p> +“Am I like her?” asked the girl, with a shade more of earnestness in her +voice. +</p> +<p> +“You are, darling; but like your father, too, and every word you utter +brings back his memory; and see, Dinah, if that is n't George's old trick,—to +lay one hand in the palm of the other.” + </p> +<p> +As if corrected, the young girl dropped her arms to her sides and stood +like a statue. +</p> +<p> +“Be like him in everything, dearest child,” said the old man, “if you +would have my heart all your own.” + </p> +<p> +“I must be what I am,” said she, solemnly. +</p> +<p> +“Just so, Josephine; well said, my good girl. Be natural,” said Miss +Dinah, kissing her, “and our love will never fail you.” + </p> +<p> +There was the faintest little smile of acknowledgment to this speech; but +faint as it was, it dimpled her cheek, and seemed to have left a pleasant +expression on her face, for old Peter gazed on her with increased delight +as he said, “That was George's own smile; just the way he used to look, +half grave, half merry. Oh, how you bring him back tome!” + </p> +<p> +“You see, my dear child, that you are one of us; let us hope you will +share in the happiness this gives us.” + </p> +<p> +The girl listened attentively to Miss Dinah's words, and after a pause of +apparent thought over them, said, “I will hope so.” + </p> +<p> +“May we leave this, Dinah? Are we free to get away?” whispered Barrington +to his sister, for an unaccountable oppression seemed to weigh on him, +both from the place and its belongings. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; Josephine has only one good-bye to say; her trunks are already on +the carriage, and there is nothing more to detain us.” + </p> +<p> +“Go and say that farewell, dear child,” said he, affectionately; “and be +speedy, for there are longing hearts here to wish for your return.” + </p> +<p> +With a grave and quiet mien she walked away, and as she gained the door +turned round and made a deep, respectful courtesy,—a movement so +ceremonious that the old man involuntarily replied to it by a bow as deep +and reverential. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVIII. GEORGE'S DAUGHTER +</h2> +<p> +I suppose, nay, I am certain, that the memory of our happiest moments +ought ever to be of the very faintest and weakest, since, could we recall +them in all their fulness and freshness, the recollection would only serve +to deepen the gloom of age, and imbitter all its daily trials. Nor is it, +altogether, a question of memory! It is in the very essence of happiness +to be indescribable. Who could impart in words the simple pleasure he has +felt as he lay day-dreaming in the deep grass, lulled by the humming +insect, or the splash of falling water, with teeming fancy peopling the +space around, and blending the possible with the actual? The more +exquisite the sense of enjoyment, the more will it defy delineation. And +so, when we come to describe the happiness of others, do we find our words +weak, and our attempt mere failure. +</p> +<p> +It is in this difficulty that I now find myself. I would tell, if I could, +how enjoyably the Barringtons sauntered about through the old villages on +the Rhine and up the Moselle, less travelling than strolling along in +purposeless indolence, resting here, and halting there, always interested, +always pleased. It was strange into what perfect harmony these three +natures—unlike as they were—blended! +</p> +<p> +Old Peter's sympathies went with all things human, and he loved to watch +the village life and catch what he could of its ways and instincts. His +sister, to whom the love of scenery was a passion, never wearied of the +picturesque land they travelled; and as for Josephine, she was no longer +the demure pensionnaire of the convent,—thoughtful and reserved, +even to secrecy,—but a happy child, revelling in a thousand senses +of enjoyment, and actually exulting in the beauty of all she saw around +her. What depression must come of captivity, when even its faintest image, +the cloister, could have weighed down a heart like hers! Such was +Barrington's thought as he beheld her at play with the peasant children, +weaving garlands for a village <i>fête</i>, or joyously joining the chorus +of a peasant song. There was, besides, something singularly touching in +the half-consciousness of her freedom, when recalled for an instant to the +past by the tinkling bell of a church. She would seem to stop in her play, +and bethink her how and why she was there, and then, with a cry of joy, +bound away after her companions in wild delight. +</p> +<p> +“Dearest aunt,” said she, one day, as they sat on a rocky ledge over the +little river that traverses the Lahnech, “shall I always find the same +enjoyment in life that I feel now, for it seems to me this is a measure of +happiness that could not endure?” + </p> +<p> +“Some share of this is owing to contrast, Fifine. Your convent life had +not too many pleasures.” + </p> +<p> +“It was, or rather it seems to me now, as I look back, a long and weary +dream; but, at the same time, it appears more real than this; for do what +I may I cannot imagine this to be the world of misery and sorrow I have +heard so much of. Can any one fancy a scene more beautiful than this +before us? Where is the perfume more exquisite than these violets I now +crush in my hand? The peasants, as they salute us, look happy and +contented. Is it, then, only in great cities that men make each other +miserable?” + </p> +<p> +Dinah shook her head, but did not speak. +</p> +<p> +“I am so glad grandpapa does not live in a city. Aunt, I am never wearied +of hearing you talk of that dear cottage beside the river; and through all +my present delight I feel a sense of impatience to be there, to be at +'home.'” + </p> +<p> +“So that you will not hold us to our pledge to bring you back to +Bramaigne, Fifine,” said Miss Dinah, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Oh no, no! Not if you will let me live with you. Never!” + </p> +<p> +“But you have been happy up to this, Fifine? You have said over and over +again that your convent life was dear to you, and all its ways pleasant.” + </p> +<p> +“It is just the same change to me to live as I now do, as in my heart I +feel changed after reading out one of those delightful stories to +grandpapa,—Rob Roy, for instance. It all tells of a world so much +more bright and beautiful than I know of, that it seems as though new +senses were given to me. It is so strange and so captivating, too, to hear +of generous impulses, noble devotion,—of faith that never swerved, +and love that never faltered. +</p> +<p> +“In novels, child; these were in novels.” + </p> +<p> +“True, aunt; but they had found no place there had they been incredible; +at least, it is clear that he who tells the tale would have us believe it +to be true.” + </p> +<p> +Miss Dinah had not been a convert to her brother's notions as to Fifine's +readings; and she was now more disposed to doubt than ever. To overthrow +of a sudden, as though by a great shock, all the stem realism of a +cloister existence, and supply its place with fictitious incidents and +people, seemed rash and perilous; but old Peter only thought of giving a +full liberty to the imprisoned spirit,—striking off chain and +fetter, and setting the captive free,—free in all the glorious +liberty of a young imagination. +</p> +<p> +“Well, here comes grandpapa,” said Miss Dinah, “and, if I don't mistake, +with a book in his hand for one of your morning readings.” + </p> +<p> +Josephine ran eagerly to meet him, and, fondly drawing her arm within his +own, came back at his side. +</p> +<p> +“The third volume, Fifine, the third volume,” said he, holding the book +aloft. “Only think, child, what fates are enclosed within a third volume! +What a deal of happiness or long-living misery are here included!” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0025" id="linkimage-0025"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/312.jpg" width="100%" alt="312 " /> +</div> +<p> +She straggled to take the book from his hand, but he evaded her grasp, and +placed it in his pocket, saying,— +</p> +<p> +“Not till evening, Fifine. I am bent on a long ramble up the Glen this +morning, and you shall tell me all about the sisterhood, and sing me one +of those little Latin canticles I'm so fond of.” + </p> +<p> +“Meanwhile, I 'll go and finish my letter to Polly Dill. I told her, +Peter, that by Thursday next, or Friday, she might expect us.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope so, with all my heart; for, beautiful as all this is, it wants the +greatest charm,—it's not home! Then I want, besides, to see Fifine +full of household cares.” + </p> +<p> +“Feeding the chickens instead of chasing the butterflies, Fifine. Totting +up the house-bills, in lieu of sighing over 'Waverley.'” + </p> +<p> +“And, if I know Fifine, she will be able to do one without relinquishing +the other,” said Peter, gravely. “Our daily life is all the more beautiful +when it has its landscape reliefs of light and shadow.” + </p> +<p> +“I think I could, too,” cried Fifine, eagerly. “I feel as though I could +work in the fields and be happy, just in the conscious sense of doing what +it was good to do, and what others would praise me for.” + </p> +<p> +“There's a paymaster will never fail you in such hire,” said Miss Dinah, +pointing to her brother; and then, turning away, she walked back to the +little inn. As she drew nigh, the landlord came to tell her that a young +gentleman, on seeing her name in the list of strangers, had made many +inquiries after her, and begged he might be informed of her return. On +learning that he was in the garden, she went thither at once. +</p> +<p> +“I felt it was you. I knew who had been asking for me, Mr. Conyers,” said +she, advancing towards Fred with her hand out. “But what strange chance +could have led you here?” + </p> +<p> +“You have just said it, Miss Barrington; a chance,—a mere chance. I +had got a short leave fron| my regiment, and came abroad to wander about +with no very definite object; but, growing impatient of the wearisome +hordes of our countrymen on the Rhine, I turned aside yesterday from that +great high-road and reached this spot, whose greatest charm—shall I +own it?—was a fancied resemblance to a scene I loved far better.” + </p> +<p> +“You are right. It was only this morning my brother said it was so like +our own cottage.” + </p> +<p> +“And he is here also?” said the young man, with a half-constraint. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, and very eager to see you, and ask your forgive ness for his +ungracious manner to you; not that I saw it, or understand what it could +mean, but he says that he has a pardon to crave at your hands.” + </p> +<p> +So confused was Conyers for an instant that he made no answer, and when he +did speak it was falteringly and with embarrassment, “I never could have +anticipated meeting you here. It is more good fortune than I ever looked +for.” + </p> +<p> +“We came over to the Continent to fetch away my grand-niece, the daughter +of that Colonel Barrington you have heard so much of.” + </p> +<p> +“And is she—” He stopped, and grew scarlet with confusion; but she +broke in, laughingly,— +</p> +<p> +“No, not black, only dark-complexioned; in fact, a brunette, and no more.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, I don't mean,—I surely could not have said—” + </p> +<p> +“No matter what you meant or said. Your unuttered question was one that +kept occurring to my brother and myself every morning as we journeyed +here, though neither of us had the courage to speak it. But our wonders +are over; she is a dear good, girl, and we love her better every day we +see her. But now a little about yourself. Why do I find you so low and +depressed?” + </p> +<p> +“I have had much to fret me, Miss Barrington. Some were things that could +give but passing unhappiness; others were of graver import.” + </p> +<p> +“Tell me so much as you may of them, and I will try to help you to bear up +against them.” + </p> +<p> +“I will tell you all,—everything!” cried he. “It is the very moment +I have been longing for, when I could pour out all my cares before you and +ask, What shall I do?” + </p> +<p> +Miss Barrington silently drew her arm within his, and they strolled along +the shady alley without a word. +</p> +<p> +“I must begin with my great grief,—it absorbs all the rest,” said +he, suddenly. “My father is coming home; he has lost, or thrown up, I +can't tell which, his high employment. I have heard both versions of the +story; and his own few words, in the only letter he has written me, do not +confirm either. His tone is indignant; but far more it is sad and +depressed,—he who never wrote a line but in the joyousness of his +high-hearted nature; who met each accident of life with an undaunted +spirit, and spurned the very thought of being cast down by fortune. See +what he says here.” And he took a much crumpled letter from his pocket, +and folded down a part of it “Read that. 'The time for men of my stamp is +gone by in India. We are as much bygones as the old flint musket or the +matchlock. Soldiers of a different temperament are the fashion now; and +the sooner we are pensioned or die off the better. For my own part, I am +sick of it. I have lost my liver and have not made my fortune, and like +men who have missed their opportunities, I come away too discontented with +myself to think well of any one. They fancied that by coldness and neglect +they might get rid of me, as they did once before of a far worthier and +better fellow; but though I never had the courage that he had, they shall +not break <i>my</i> heart.' Does it strike you to whom he alludes there?” + asked Conyers, suddenly; “for each time that I read the words I am more +disposed to believe that they refer to Colonel Barrington.” + </p> +<p> +“I am sure of it!” cried she. “It is the testimony of a sorrow-stricken +heart to an old friend's memory; but I hear my brother's voice; let me go +and tell him you are here.” But Barrington was already coming towards +them. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, Mr. Conyers!” cried he. “If you knew how I have longed for this +moment! I believe you are the only man in the world I ever ill treated on +my own threshold; but the very thought of it gave me a fit of illness, and +now the best thing I know on my recovery is, that I am here to ask your +pardon.” + </p> +<p> +“I have really nothing to forgive. I met under your roof with a kindness +that never befell me before; nor do I know the spot on earth where I could +look for the like to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“Come back to it, then, and see if the charm should not be there still.” + </p> +<p> +“Where 's Josephine, brother?” asked Miss Barrington, who, seeing the +young man's agitation, wished to change the theme. +</p> +<p> +“She's gone to put some ferns in water; but here she comes now.” + </p> +<p> +Bounding wildly along, like a child in joyous freedom, Josephine came +towards them, and, suddenly halting at sight of a stranger, she stopped +and courtesied deeply, while Conyers, half ashamed at his own unhappy +blunder about her, blushed deeply as he saluted her. Indeed, their meeting +was more like that of two awkward timid children than of two young persons +of their age; and they eyed each other with the distrust school boys and +girls exchange on a first acquaintance. +</p> +<p> +“Brother, I have something to tell you,” said Miss Barrington, who was +eager to communicate the news she had just heard of General Conyers; and +while she drew him to one side, the young people still stood there, each +seeming to expect the other would make some advance towards +acquaintanceship. Conyers tried to say some commonplace,—some one of +the fifty things that would have occurred so naturally in presence of a +young lady to whom he had been just presented; but he could think of none, +or else those that <i>he</i> thought of seemed inappropriate. How talk, +for instance, of the world and its pleasures to one who had been estranged +from it! While he thus struggled and contended with himself, she suddenly +started as if with a flash of memory, and said, “How forgetful!” + </p> +<p> +“Forgetful!—and of what?” asked he. +</p> +<p> +“I have left the book I was reading to grandpapa on the rock where we were +sitting. I must go and fetch it.” + </p> +<p> +“May I go with you?” asked he, half timidly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, if you like.” + </p> +<p> +“And your book,—what was it?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, a charming book,—such a delightful story! So many people one +would have loved to know!—such scenes one would have loved to visit!—incidents, +too, that keep the heart in intense anxiety, that you wonder how he who +imagined them could have sustained the thrilling interest, and held his +own heart so long in terrible suspense!” + </p> +<p> +“And the name of this wonderful book is—” + </p> +<p> +“'Waverley.'” + </p> +<p> +“I have read it,” said he, coldly. +</p> +<p> +“And have you not longed to be a soldier? Has not your heart bounded with +eagerness for a life of adventure and peril?” + </p> +<p> +“I am a soldier,” said he, quietly. +</p> +<p> +“Indeed!” replied she, slowly, while her steadfast glance scanned him +calmly and deliberately. +</p> +<p> +“You find it hard to recognize as a soldier one dressed as I am, and +probably wonder how such a life as this consorts with enterprise and +danger. Is not that what is passing in your mind?” + </p> +<p> +“Mayhap,” said she, in a low voice. +</p> +<p> +“It is all because the world has changed a good deal since Waverley's +time.” + </p> +<p> +“How sorry I am to hear it!” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, for your sake it is all the better. Young ladies have a pleasanter +existence now than they had sixty years since. They lived then lives of +household drudgery or utter weariness.” + </p> +<p> +“And what have they now?” asked she, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“What have they not! All that can embellish life is around them; they are +taught in a hundred ways to employ the faculties which give to existence +its highest charm. They draw, sing, dance, ride, dress becomingly, read +what may give to their conversation an added elegance and make their +presence felt as an added lustre.” + </p> +<p> +“How unlike all this was our convent life!” said she, slowly. “The beads +in my rosary were not more alike than the days that followed each other, +and but for the change of season I should have thought life a dreary +sleep. Oh, if you but knew what a charm there is in the changeful year to +one who lives in any bondage!” + </p> +<p> +“And yet I remember to have heard how you hoped you might not be taken +away from that convent life, and be compelled to enter the world,” said +he, with a malicious twinkle of the eye. +</p> +<p> +“True; and had I lived there still I had not asked for other. But how came +it that you should have heard of me? I never heard of <i>you!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“That is easily told. I was your aunt's guest at the time she resolved to +come abroad to see you and fetch you home. I used to hear all her plans +about you, so that at last—I blush to own—I talked of +Josephine as though she were my sister.” + </p> +<p> +“How strangely cold you were, then, when we met!” said she, quietly. “Was +it that you found me so unlike what you expected?” + </p> +<p> +“Unlike, indeed!” + </p> +<p> +“Tell me how—tell me, I pray you, what you had pictured me.” + </p> +<p> +“It was not mere fancy I drew from. There was a miniature of you as a +child at the cottage, and I have looked at it till I could recall every +line of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Go on!” cried she, as he hesitated. +</p> +<p> +“The child's face was very serious,—actually grave for childhood,—and +had something almost stern in its expression; and yet I see nothing of +this in yours.” + </p> +<p> +“So that, like grandpapa,” said she, laughing, “you were disappointed in +not finding me a young tiger from Bengal; but be patient, and remember how +long it is since I left the jungle.” + </p> +<p> +Sportively as the words were uttered, her eyes flashed and her cheek +colored, and Conyers saw for the first time how she resembled her portrait +in infancy. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” added she, as though answering what was passing in his mind, “you +are thinking just like the sisters, 'What years and years it would take to +discipline one of such a race!' I have heard that given as a reason for +numberless inflictions. And now, all of a sudden, comes grandpapa to say, +'We love you so because you are one of us.' Can you understand this?” + </p> +<p> +“I think I can,—that is, I think I can understand why—” he was +going to add, “why they should love you;” but he stopped, ashamed of his +own eagerness. +</p> +<p> +She waited a moment for him to continue, and then, herself blushing, as +though she had guessed his embarrassment, she turned away. +</p> +<p> +“And this book that we have been forgetting,—let us go and search +for it,” said she, walking on rapidly in front of him; but he was speedily +at her side again. +</p> +<p> +“Look there, brother Peter,—look there!” said Miss Dinah, as she +pointed after them, “and see how well fitted we are to be guardians to a +young lady!” + </p> +<p> +“I see no harm in it, Dinah,—I protest, I see no harm in it.” + </p> +<p> +“Possibly not, brother Peter, and it may only be a part of your system for +making her—as you phrase it—feel a holy horror of the +convent.” + </p> +<p> +“Well,” said he, meditatively, “he seems a fine, frank-hearted young +fellow, and in this world she is about to enter, her first experiences +might easily be worse.” + </p> +<p> +“I vow and declare,” cried she, warmly, “I believe it is your slipshod +philosophy that makes me as severe as a holy inquisitor!” + </p> +<p> +“Every evil calls forth its own correction, Dinah,” said he, laughing. “If +there were no fools to skate on the Serpentine, there had been no Humane +Society.” + </p> +<p> +“One might grow tired of the task of resuscitating, Peter Barrington,” + said she, hardly. +</p> +<p> +“Not you, not you, Dinah,—at least, if I was the drowned man,” said +he, drawing her affectionately to his side; “and as for those young +creatures yonder, it's like gathering dog-roses, and they 'll stop when +they have pricked their fingers.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll go and look after the nosegay myself,” said she, turning hastily +away, and following them. +</p> +<p> +A real liking for Conyers, and a sincere interest in him were the great +correctives to the part of Dragon which Miss Dinah declared she foresaw to +be her future lot in life. For years and years had she believed that the +cares of a household and the rule of servants were the last trials of +human patience. The larder, the dairy, and the garden were each of them +departments with special opportunities for deception and embezzlement, and +it seemed to her that new discoveries in roguery kept pace with the +inventions of science; but she was energetic and active, and kept herself +at what the French would call “the level of the situation;” and neither +the cook nor the dairymaid nor Darby could be vainglorious over their +battles with her. And now, all of a sudden, a new part was assigned her, +with new duties, functions, and requirements; and she was called on to +exercise qualities which had lain long dormant and in disuse, and renew a +knowledge she had not employed for many a year. And what a strange +blending of pleasure and pain must have come of that memory of long ago! +Old conquests revived, old rivalries and jealousies and triumphs; glorious +little glimpses of brilliant delight, and some dark hours, too, of +disappointment,—almost despair! +</p> +<p> +“Once a bishop, always a bishop,” says the canon; but might we not with +almost as much truth say, “Once a beauty, always a beauty”?—not in +lineament and feature, in downy cheek or silky tresses, but in the +heartfelt consciousness of a once sovereign power, in that sense of having +been able to exact a homage and enforce a tribute. And as we see in the +deposed monarch how the dignity of kingcraft clings to him, how through +all he does and says there runs a vein of royal graciousness as from one +the fount of honor, so it is with beauty. There lives through all its +wreck the splendid memory of a despotism the most absolute, the most +fascinating of all! +</p> +<p> +“I am so glad that young Conyers has no plans, Dinah,” said Barrington; +“he says he will join us if we permit him.” + </p> +<p> +“Humph!” said Miss Barrington, as she went on with her knitting. +</p> +<p> +“I see nothing against it, sister.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course not, Peter,” said she, snappishly; “it would surprise me much +if you did.” + </p> +<p> +“Do <i>you</i>, Dinah?” asked he, with a true simplicity of voice and +look. +</p> +<p> +“I see great danger in it, if that be what you mean. And what answer did +you make him, Peter?” + </p> +<p> +“The same answer that I make to every one,—I would consult my sister +Dinah. 'Le Roi s'avisera' meant, I take it, that he 'd be led by a wiser +head than his own.” + </p> +<p> +“He was wise when he knew it,” said she, sententiously, and continued her +work. +</p> +<p> +And from that day forth they all journeyed together, and one of them was +very happy, and some were far more than happy; and Aunt Dinah was anxious +even beyond her wont. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIX. THE RAMBLE +</h2> +<p> +Day after day, week after week rolled on, and they still rambled about +among the picturesque old villages on the Moselle, almost losing +themselves in quaint unvisited spots, whose very names were new to them. +To Barrington and his sister this picture of a primitive peasant life, +with its own types of costume and custom, had an indescribable charm. +Though debarred, from his ignorance of their dialect, of anything like +intercourse with the people, he followed them in their ways with intense +interest, and he would pass hours in the market-place, or stroll through +the fields watching the strange culture, and wondering at the very +implements of their labor. And the young people all this while? They were +never separate. They read, and walked, and sat together from dawn to dark. +They called each other Fifine and Freddy. Sometimes she sang, and he was +there to listen; sometimes he drew, and she was as sure to be leaning over +him in silent wonder at his skill; but with all this there was no +love-making between them,—that is, no vows were uttered, no pledges +asked for. Confidences, indeed, they interchanged, and without end. She +told the story of her friendless infancy, and the long dreary years of +convent life passed in a dull routine that had almost barred the heart +against a wish for change; and he gave her the story of his more splendid +existence, charming her imagination with a picture of that glorious +Eastern life, which seemed to possess an instinctive captivation for her. +And at last he told her, but as a great secret never to be revealed, how +his father and her own had been the dearest, closest friends; that for +years and years they had lived together like brothers, till separated by +the accidents of life. <i>Her</i> father went away to a long distant +station, and <i>his</i> remained to hold a high military charge, from +which he was now relieved and on his way back to Europe. “What happiness +for you, Freddy,” cried she, as her eyes ran over, “to see him come home +in honor! What had I given that such a fate were mine!” + </p> +<p> +For an instant he accepted her words in all their flattery, but the +hypocrisy was brief; her over-full heart was bursting for sympathy, and he +was eager to declare that his sorrows were scarcely less than her own. +“No, Fifine,” said he, “my father is coming back to demand satisfaction of +a Government that has wronged him, and treated him with the worst +ingratitude. In that Indian life men of station wield an almost boundless +power; but if they are irresponsible as to the means, they are tested by +the results, and whenever an adverse issue succeeds they fall irrevocably. +What my father may have done, or have left undone, I know not. I have not +the vaguest clew to his present difficulty, but, with his high spirit and +his proud heart, that he would resent the very shadow of a reproof I can +answer for, and so I believe, what many tell me, that it is a mere +question of personal feeling,—some small matter in which the Council +have not shown him the deference he felt his due, but which his haughty +nature would not forego.” + </p> +<p> +Now these confidences were not love-making, nor anything approaching to +it, and yet Josephine felt a strange half-pride in thinking that she had +been told a secret which Conyers had never revealed to any other; that to +her he had poured forth the darkest sorrow of his heart, and actually +confided to her the terrors that beset him, for he owned that his father +was rash and headstrong, and if he deemed himself wronged would be +reckless in his attempt at justification. +</p> +<p> +“You do not come of a very patient stock, then,” said she, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Not very, Fifine.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor I,” said she, as her eyes flashed brightly. “My poor Ayah, who died +when I was but five years old, used to tell me such tales of my father's +proud spirit and the lofty way he bore himself, so that I often fancy I +have seen him and heard him speak. You have heard he was a Rajah?” asked +she, with a touch of pride. +</p> +<p> +The youth colored deeply as he muttered an assent, for he knew that she +was ignorant of the details of her father's fate, and he dreaded any +discussion of her story. +</p> +<p> +“And these Rajahs,” resumed she, “are really great princes, with power of +life and death, vast retinues, and splendid armies. To my mind, they +present a more gorgeous picture than a small European sovereignty with +some vast Protectorate looming over it. And now it is my uncle,” said she, +suddenly, “who rules there.” + </p> +<p> +“I have heard that your own claims, Fifine, are in litigation,” said he, +with a faint smile. +</p> +<p> +“Not as to the sovereignty,” said she, with a grave look, half rebukeful +of his levity. “The suit grandpapa prosecutes in my behalf is for my +mother's jewels and her fortune; a woman cannot reign in the Tannanoohr.” + </p> +<p> +There was a haughty defiance in her voice as she spoke, that seemed to +say, “This is a theme I will not suffer to be treated lightly,—beware +how you transgress here.” + </p> +<p> +“And yet it is a dignity would become you well,” said he, seriously. +</p> +<p> +“It is one I would glory to possess,” said she, as proudly. +</p> +<p> +“Would you give me a high post, Fifine, if you were on the throne?—would +you make me Commander-in-Chief of your army?” + </p> +<p> +“More likely that I would banish you from the realm,” said she, with a +haughty laugh; “at least, until you learned to treat the head of the state +more respectfully.” + </p> +<p> +“Have I ever been wanting in a proper deference?” said he, bowing, with a +mock humility. +</p> +<p> +“If you had been, sir, it is not now that you had first heard of it,” said +she, with a proud look, and for a few seconds it seemed as though their +jesting was to have a serious ending. She was, however, the earliest to +make terms, and in a tone of hearty kindliness said: “Don't be angry, +Freddy, and I 'll tell you a secret. If that theme be touched on, I lose +my head: whether it be in the blood that circles in my veins, or in some +early teachings that imbued my childhood, or long dreaming over what can +never be, I cannot tell, but it is enough to speak of these things, and at +once my imagination becomes exalted and my reason is routed.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no doubt your Ayah was to blame for this; she must have filled +your head with ambitions, and hopes of a grand hereafter. Even I myself +have some experiences of this sort; for as my father held a high post and +was surrounded with great state and pomp, I grew at a very early age to +believe myself a very mighty personage, and gave my orders with despotic +insolence, and suffered none to gainsay me.” + </p> +<p> +“How silly!” said she, with a supercilious toss of her head that made +Conyers flush up; and once again was peace endangered between them. +</p> +<p> +“You mean that what was only a fair and reasonable assumption in <i>you</i> +was an absurd pretension in me, Miss Barrington; is it not so?” asked he, +in a voice tremulous with passion. +</p> +<p> +“I mean that we must both have been very naughty children, and the less we +remember of that childhood the better for us. Are we friends, Freddy?” and +she held out her hand. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, if you wish it,” said he, taking her hand half coldly in his own. +</p> +<p> +“Not that way, sir. It is <i>I</i> who have condescended; not <i>you</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“As you please, Fifine,—will this do?” and kneeling with +well-assumed reverence, he lifted her hand to his lips. +</p> +<p> +“If my opinion were to be asked, Mr. Conyers, I would say it would <i>not</i> +do at all,” said Miss Dinah, coming suddenly up, her cheeks crimson, and +her eyes flashing. +</p> +<p> +“It was a little comedy we were acting, Aunt Dinah,” said the girl, +calmly. +</p> +<p> +“I beg, then, that the piece may not be repeated,” said she, stiffly. +</p> +<p> +“Considering how ill Freddy played his part, aunt, he will scarcely regret +its withdrawal.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers, however, could not get over his confusion, and looked perfectly +miserable for very shame. +</p> +<p> +“My brother has just had a letter which will call us homeward, Mr. +Conyers,” said Miss Dinah, turning to him, and now using a tone devoid of +all irritation. “Mr. Withering has obtained some information which may +turn out of great consequence in our suit, and he wishes to consult with +my brother upon it.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope—I sincerely hope—you do not think—” he began, in +a low voice. +</p> +<p> +“I do not think anything to your disadvantage, and I hope I never may,” + replied she, in a whisper low as his own; “but bear in mind, Josephine is +no finished coquette like Polly Dill, nor must she be the mark of little +gallantries, however harmless. Josephine, grandpapa has some news for you; +go to him.” + </p> +<p> +“Poor Freddy,” whispered the girl in the youth's ear as she passed, “what +a lecture you are in for!” “You mustn't be angry with me if I play Duenna +a little harshly, Mr. Conyers,” said Miss Dinah; “and I am far more angry +with myself than you can be. I never concurred with my brother that +romance reading and a young dragoon for a companion were the most suitable +educational means for a young lady fresh from a convent, and I have only +myself to blame for permitting it.” + </p> +<p> +Poor Conyers was so overwhelmed that he could say nothing; for though he +might, and with a safe conscience, have answered a direct charge, yet +against a general allegation he was powerless. He could not say that he +was the best possible companion for a young lady, though he felt, honestly +felt, that he was not a bad one. He had never trifled with her feelings, +nor sought to influence her in his favor. Of all flirtation, such as he +would have adventured with Polly Dill, for instance, he was guiltless. He +respected her youth and ignorance of life too deeply to take advantage of +either. He thought, perhaps, how ungenerous it would have been for a man +of the world like himself to entrap the affections of a young, artless +creature, almost a child in her innocence. He was rather fond of imagining +himself “a man of the world,” old soldier, and what not,—a delusion +which somehow very rarely befalls any but very young men, and of which the +experience of life from thirty to forty is the sovereign remedy. And so +overwhelmed and confused and addled was he with a variety of sensations, +he heard very little of what Miss Dinah said to him, though that worthy +lady talked very fluently and very well, concluding at last with words +which awoke Conyers from his half-trance with a sort of shock. “It is for +these reasons, my dear Mr. Conyers,—reasons whose force and nature +you will not dispute,—that I am forced to do what, were the occasion +less important, would be a most ungenerous task. I mean, I am forced to +relinquish all the pleasure that I had promised ourselves from seeing you +our guest at the cottage. If you but knew the pain I feel to speak these +words—” + </p> +<p> +“There is no occasion to say more, madam,” said he; for, unfortunately, so +unprepared was he for the announcement, its chief effect was to wound his +pride. “It is the second time within a few months destiny has stopped my +step on your threshold. It only remains for me to submit to my fate, and +not adventure upon an enterprise above my means.” + </p> +<p> +“You are offended with me, and yet you ought not,” said she, sorrowfully; +“you ought to feel that I am consulting <i>your</i> interests fully as +much as ours.” + </p> +<p> +“I own, madam,” said he, coldly, “I am unable to take the view you have +placed before me.” + </p> +<p> +“Must I speak out, then?—must I declare my meaning in all its +matter-of-fact harshness, and say that your family and your friends would +have little scruple in estimating the discretion which encouraged your +intimacy with my niece,—the son of the distinguished and highly +favored General Conyers with the daughter of the ruined George +Barring-ton? These are hard words to say, but I have said them.” + </p> +<p> +“It is to my father you are unjust now, Miss Harrington.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Mr. Conyers; there is no injustice in believing that a father loves +his son with a love so large that it cannot exclude even worldliness. +There is no injustice in believing that a proud and successful man would +desire to see his son successful too; and we all know what we call +success. I see you are very angry with me. You think me very worldly and +very small-minded; perhaps, too, you would like to say that all the perils +I talk of are of my own inventing; that Fifine and you could be the best +of friends, and never think of more than friendship; and that I might +spare my anxieties, and not fret for sorrows that have no existence;—and +to all this I would answer, I 'll not risk the chance. No, Mr. Conyers, I +'ll be no party to a game where the stakes are so unequal. What might give +<i>you</i> a month's sorrow might cost <i>her</i> the misery of a life +long.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no choice left me. I will go,—I will go to-night, Miss +Barrington.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps it would be better,” said she, gravely, and walked slowly away. +</p> +<p> +I will not tell the reader what harsh and cruel things Conyers said of +every one and everything, nor how severely he railed at the world and its +ways. Lord Byron had taught the youth of that age a very hearty and +wholesome contempt for all manner of conventionalities, into which +category a vast number of excellent customs were included, and Conyers +could spout “Manfred” by heart, and imagine himself, on very small +provocation, almost as great a man-hater; and so he set off on a long walk +into the forest, determined not to appear at dinner, and equally +determined to be the cause of much inquiry, and, if possible, of some +uneasiness. “I wonder what that old-maid,”—alas for his gallantry, +it was so he called her,—“what she would say if her harsh, +ungenerous words had driven me to—” what he did not precisely +define, though it was doubtless associated with snow peaks and avalanches, +eternal solitudes and demoniac possessions. It might, indeed, have been +some solace to him had he known how miserable and anxious old Peter became +at his absence, and how incessantly he questioned every one about him. +</p> +<p> +“I hope that no mishap has befallen that boy, Dinah; he was always +punctual. I never knew him stray away in this fashion before.” + </p> +<p> +“It would be rather a severe durance, brother Peter, if a young gentleman +could not prolong his evening walk without permission.” + </p> +<p> +“What says Fifine? I suspect she agrees with me.” + </p> +<p> +“If that means that he ought to be here, grandpapa, I do.” + </p> +<p> +“I must read over Withering's letter again, brother,” said Miss Dinah, by +way of changing the subject “He writes, you say, from the Home?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; he was obliged to go down there to search for some papers he wanted, +and he took Stapylton with him; and he says they had two capital days at +the partridges. They bagged,—egad! I think it was eight or ten brace +before two o'clock, the Captain or Major, I forget which, being a +first-rate shot.” + </p> +<p> +“What does he say of the place,—how is it looking?” + </p> +<p> +“In perfect beauty. Your deputy, Polly, would seem to have fulfilled her +part admirably. The garden in prime order; and that little spot next your +own sitting-room, he says, is positively a better flower-show than one he +paid a shilling to see in Dublin. Polly herself, too, comes in for a very +warm share of his admiration.” + </p> +<p> +“How did he see her, and where?” + </p> +<p> +“At the Home. She was there the evening they arrived, and Withering +insisted on her presiding at the tea-table for them.” + </p> +<p> +“It did not require very extraordinary entreaty, I will make bold to say, +Peter.” + </p> +<p> +“He does not mention that; he only speaks of her good looks, and what he +calls her very pretty manners. In a situation not devoid of a certain +awkwardness he says she displayed the most perfect tact; and although +doing the honors of the house, she, with some very nice ingenuity, +insinuated that she was herself but a visitor.” + </p> +<p> +“She could scarce have forgotten herself so far as to think anything else, +Peter,” said Miss Dinah, bridling up. “I suspect her very pretty manners +were successfully exercised. That old gentleman is exactly of the age to +be fascinated by her.” + </p> +<p> +“What! Withering, Dinah,—do you mean Withering?” cried he, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“I do, brother; and I say that he is quite capable of making her the offer +of his hand. You may laugh, Peter Barrington, but my observation of young +ladies has been closer and finer than yours.” And the glance she gave at +Josephine seemed to say that her gun had been double-shotted. +</p> +<p> +“But your remark, sister Dinah, rather addresses itself to old gentlemen +than to young ladies.” + </p> +<p> +“Who are much the more easily read of the two,” said she, tartly. “But +really, Peter, I will own that I am more deeply concerned to know what Mr. +Withering has to say of our lawsuit than about Polly Dill's attractions.” + </p> +<p> +“He speaks very hopefully,—very hopefully, indeed. In turning over +George's papers some Hindoo documents have come to light, which Stapylton +has translated, and it appears that there is a certain Moonshee, called +Jokeeram, who was, or is, in the service of Meer Rustum, whose testimony +would avail us much. Stapylton inclines to think he could trace this man +for us. His own relations are principally in Madras, but he says he could +manage to institute inquiries in Bengal.” + </p> +<p> +“What is our claim to this gentleman's interest for us, Peter?” + </p> +<p> +“Mere kindness on his part; he never knew George, except from hearsay. +Indeed, they could not have been contemporaries. Stapylton is not, I +should say, above five-and-thirty.” + </p> +<p> +“The search after this creature with the horrid name will be, of course, +costly, brother Peter. It means, I take it, sending some one out to India; +that is to say, sending one fool after another. Are you prepared for this +expense?” + </p> +<p> +“Withering opines it would be money well spent. What he says is this: The +Company will not willingly risk another inquiry before Parliament, and if +we show fight and a firm resolve to give the case publicity, they will +probably propose terms. This Moonshee had been in his service, but was +dismissed, and his appearance as a witness on our side would occasion +great uneasiness.” + </p> +<p> +“You are going to play a game of brag, then, brother Peter, well aware +that the stronger purse is with your antagonist?” + </p> +<p> +“Not exactly, Dinah; not exactly. We are strengthening our position so far +that we may say, 'You see our order of battle; would it not be as well to +make peace?' Listen to what Withering says.” And Peter opened a letter of +several sheets, and sought out the place he wanted. +</p> +<p> +“Here it is, Dinah. 'From one of these Hindoo papers we learn that Ram +Shamsoolah Sing was not at the Meer's residence during the feast of the +Rhamadan, and could not possibly have signed the document to which his +name and seal are appended. Jokeeram, who was himself the Moon-shee +interpreter in Luckerabad, writes to his friend Cossien Aga, and says—'” + </p> +<p> +“Brother Peter, this is like the Arabian Nights in all but the +entertainment to me, and the jumble of these abominable names only drives +me mad. If you flatter yourself that you can understand one particle of +the matter, it must be that age has sharpened your faculties, that's all.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not quite sure of that, Dinah,” said he, laughing. “I 'm half +disposed to believe that years are not more merciful to our brains than to +our ankles; but I'll go and take a stroll in the shady alleys under the +linden-trees, and who knows how bright it will make me!” + </p> +<p> +“Am I to go with you, grandpapa?” said the young girl, rising. +</p> +<p> +“No, Fifine; I have something to say to you here,” said Miss Dinah; and +there was a significance in the tone that was anything but reassuring. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXX. UNDER THE LINDEN +</h2> +<p> +That shady alley under the linden-trees was a very favorite walk with +Peter Barrington. It was a nice cool lane, with a brawling little rivulet +close beside it, with here and there a dark silent pool for the dragon-fly +to skim over and see his bronzed wings reflected in the still water; and +there was a rustic bench or two, where Peter used to sit and fancy he was +meditating, while, in reality, he was only watching a speckled lizard in +the grass, or listening to the mellow blackbird over his head. I have had +occasion once before to remark on the resources of the man of imagination, +but I really suspect that for the true luxury of idleness there is nothing +like the temperament devoid of fancy. There is a grand breadth about those +quiet, peaceful minds over which no shadows flit, and which can find +sufficient occupation through the senses, and never have to go “within” + for their resources. These men can sit the livelong day and watch the tide +break over a rock, or see the sparrow teach her young to fly, or gaze on +the bee as he dives into the deep cup of the foxglove, and actually need +no more to fill the hours. For them there is no memory with its dark +bygones, there is no looming future with its possible misfortunes; there +is simply a half-sleepy present, with soft sounds and sweet odors through +it,—a balmy kind of stupor, from which the awaking comes without a +shock. +</p> +<p> +When Barrington reached his favorite seat, and lighted his cigar,—it +is painting the lily for such men to smoke,—he intended to have +thought over the details of Withering's letter, which were both curious +and interesting; he intended to consider attentively certain points which, +as Withering said, “he must master before he could adopt a final resolve;” + but they were knotty points, made knottier, too, by hard Hindoo words for +things unknown, and names totally unpronounceable. He used to think that +he understood “George's claim” pretty well; he had fancied it was a clear +and very intelligible case, that half a dozen honest men might have come +to a decision on in an hour's time; but now he began to have a glimmering +perception that George must have been egregiously duped and basely +betrayed, and that the Company were not altogether unreasonable in +assuming their distrust of him. Now, all these considerations coming down +upon him at once were overwhelming, and they almost stunned him. Even his +late attempt to enlighten his sister Dinah on a matter he so imperfectly +understood now recoiled upon him, and added to his own mystification. +</p> +<p> +“Well, well,” muttered he, at last, “I hope Tom sees his way through it,”—Tom +was Withering,—“and if <i>he</i> does, there's no need of my +bothering <i>my</i> head about it. What use would there be in lawyers if +they hadn't got faculties sharper than other folk? and as to 'making up my +mind,' my mind is made up already, that I want to win the cause if he'll +only show me how.” From these musings he was drawn off by watching a large +pike,—the largest pike, he thought, he had ever seen,—which +would from time to time dart out from beneath a bank, and after lying +motionless in the middle of the pool for a minute or so, would, with one +whisk of its tail, skim back again to its hiding-place. “That fellow has +instincts of its own to warn him,” thought he; “he knows he was n't safe +out there. <i>He</i> sees some peril that <i>I</i> cannot see; and that +ought to be the way with Tom, for, after all, the lawyers are just pikes, +neither more nor less.” At this instant a man leaped across the stream, +and hurriedly passed into the copse. “What! Mr. Conyers—Conyers, is +that you?” cried Barrington; and the young man turned and came towards +him. “I am glad to see you all safe and sound again,” said Peter; “we +waited dinner half an hour for you, and have passed all the time since in +conjecturing what might have befallen you.” + </p> +<p> +“Did n't Miss Barrington say—did not Miss Barrington know—” He +stopped in deep confusion, and could not finish his speech. +</p> +<p> +“My sister knew nothing,—at least, she did not tell me any reason +for your absence.” + </p> +<p> +“No, not for my absence,” began he once more, in the same embarrassment; +“but as I had explained to her that I was obliged to leave this suddenly,—to +start this evening—” + </p> +<p> +“To start this evening! and whither?” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot tell; I don't know,—that is, I have no plans.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear boy,” said the old man, affectionately, as he laid his hand on +the other's arm, “if you don't know where you are going, take my word for +it there is no such great necessity to go.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, but there is,” replied he, quickly; “at least Miss Barrington thinks +so, and at the time we spoke together she made me believe she was in the +right.” + </p> +<p> +“And are you of the same opinion <i>now?</i>” asked Peter, with a humorous +drollery in his eye. +</p> +<p> +“I am,—that is, I was a few moments back. I mean, that whenever I +recall the words she spoke to me, I feel their full conviction.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, now, sit down here beside me! It can scarcely be anything I may not +be a party to. Just let me hear the case like a judge in chamber”—and +he smiled at an illustration that recalled his favorite passion, “I won't +pretend to say my sister has not a wiser head—as I well know she has +a far better heart—than myself, but now and then she lets a +prejudice or a caprice or even a mere apprehension run away with her, and +it's just possible it is some whim of this kind is now uppermost.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers only shook his head dissentingly, and said nothing. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe I guess it,—I suspect that I guess it,” said Peter, with a +sly drollery about his mouth. “My sister has a notion that a young man and +a young woman ought no more to be in propinquity than saltpetre and +charcoal. She has been giving me a lecture on my blindness, and asking if +I can't see this, that, and the other; but, besides being the least +observant of mankind, I'm one of the most hopeful as regards whatever I +wish to be. Now we have all of us gone on so pleasantly together, with +such a thorough good understanding—such loyalty, as the French would +call it—that I can't, for the life of me, detect any ground for +mistrust or dread. Have n't I hit the blot, Conyers—eh?” cried he, +as the young fellow grew redder and redder, till his face became crimson. +</p> +<p> +“I assured Miss Barrington,” began he, in a faltering, broken voice, “that +I set too much store on the generous confidence you extended to me to +abuse it; that, received as I was, like one of your own blood and kindred, +I never could forget the frank trustfulness with which you discussed +everything before me, and made me, so to say, 'One of you.' The moment, +however, that my intimacy suggested a sense of constraint, I felt the +whole charm of my privilege would have departed, and it is for this reason +I am going!” The last word was closed with a deep sigh, and he turned away +his head as he concluded. +</p> +<p> +“And for this reason you shall not go one step,” said Peter, slapping him +cordially on the shoulder. “I verily believe that women think the world +was made for nothing but love-making, just as the crack engineer believed +rivers were intended by Providence to feed navigable canals; but you and I +know a little better, not to say that a young fellow with the stamp +gentleman indelibly marked on his forehead would not think of making a +young girl fresh from a convent—a mere child in the ways of life—the +mark of his attentions. Am I not right?” + </p> +<p> +“I hope and believe you are!” + </p> +<p> +“Stay where you are, then; be happy, and help us to feel so; and the only +pledge I ask is, that whenever you suspect Dinah to be a shrewder observer +and a truer prophet than her brother—you understand me—you'll +just come and say, 'Peter Barrington, I'm off; good-bye!'” + </p> +<p> +“There's my hand on it,” said he, grasping the old man's with warmth. +“There's only one point—I have told Miss Barrington that I would +start this evening.” + </p> +<p> +“She'll scarcely hold you very closely to your pledge.” + </p> +<p> +“But, as I understand her, you are going back to Ireland?” + </p> +<p> +“And you are coming along with us. Isn't that a very simple arrangement?” + </p> +<p> +“I know it would be a very pleasant one.” + </p> +<p> +“It shall be, if it depend on me. I want to make you a fisherman too. When +I was a young man, it was my passion to make every one a good horseman. If +I liked a fellow, and found out that he couldn't ride to hounds, it gave +me a shock little short of hearing that there was a blot on his character, +so associated in my mind had become personal dash and prowess in the field +with every bold and manly characteristic. As I grew older, and the rod +usurped the place of the hunting-whip, I grew to fancy that your angler +would be the truest type of a companion; and if you but knew,” added he, +as a glassy fulness dulled his eyes, “what a flattery it is to an old +fellow when a young one will make a comrade of him,—what a smack of +bygone days it brings up, and what sunshine it lets in on the heart,—take +my word for it, you young fellows are never so vain of an old companion as +we are of a young one! What are you so thoughtful about?” + </p> +<p> +“I was thinking how I was to make this explanation to Miss Barrington.” + </p> +<p> +“You need not make it at all; leave the whole case in my hands. My sister +knows that I owe you an <i>amende</i> and a heavy one. Let this go towards +a part payment of it. But here she comes in search of me. Step away +quietly, and when we meet at the tea-table all will have been settled.” + </p> +<p> +Conyers had but time to make his escape, when Miss Barrington came up. +</p> +<p> +“I thought I should find you mooning down here, Peter,” said she, sharply. +“Whenever there is anything to be done or decided on, a Barrington is +always watching a fly on a fish-pond.” + </p> +<p> +“Not the women of the family, Dinah,—not the women. But what great +emergency is before us now?” + </p> +<p> +“No great emergency, as you phrase it, at all, but what to men like +yourself is frequently just as trying,—an occasion that requires a +little tact. I have discovered—what I long anticipated has come to +pass—Conyers and Fifine are on very close terms of intimacy, which +might soon become attachment. I have charged him with it, and he has not +altogether denied it. On the whole he has behaved well, and he goes away +to-night.” + </p> +<p> +“I have just seen him, Dinah. I got at his secret, not without a little +dexterity on my part, and learned what had passed between you. We talked +the thing over very calmly together, and the upshot is—he's not +going.” + </p> +<p> +“Not going! not going! after the solemn assurance he gave me!” + </p> +<p> +“But of which I absolved him, sister Dinah; or rather, which I made him +retract.” + </p> +<p> +“Peter Barrington, stop!” cried she, holding her hands to her temples. “I +want a little time to recover myself. I must have time, or I'll not answer +for my senses. Just reply to one question. I 'll ask you, have you taken +an oath—are you under a vow to be the ruin of your family?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think I have, Dinah. I 'm doing everything for the best.” + </p> +<p> +“If there's a phrase in the language condemns the person that uses it, +it's 'Doing everything for the best.' What does it mean but a blind, +uninquiring, inconsiderate act, the work of a poor brain and sickly +conscience? Don't talk to me, sir, of doing for the best, but do the best, +the very best, according to the lights that guide you. You know well, +perfectly well, that Fifine has no fortune, and that this young man +belongs to a very rich and a very ambitious family, and that to encourage +what might lead to attachment between them would be to store up a cruel +wrong and a great disappointment.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Dinah, you speak like a book, but I don't agree with you.” + </p> +<p> +“You don't. Will you please to state why?” + </p> +<p> +“In the first place, Dinah, forgive me for saying it, but we men do not +take <i>your</i> view of these cases. We neither think that love is as +catching or as dangerous as the smallpox. We imagine that two young people +can associate together every day and yet never contract a lien that might +break their hearts to dissolve.” + </p> +<p> +“Talking politics together, perhaps; or the state of the Three per Cents?” + </p> +<p> +“Not exactly that, but talking of fifty other things that interest their +time of life and tempers. Have they not songs, drawings, flowers, +landscapes, and books, with all their thousand incidents, to discuss? Just +remember what that writer who calls himself 'Author of Waverley'—what +he alone has given us of people to talk over just as if we knew them.” + </p> +<p> +“Brother Peter, I have no patience with you. You enumerate one by one all +the ingredients, and you disparage the total. You tell of the flour, and +the plums, and the suet, and the candied lemon, but you cry out against +the pudding! Don't you see that the very themes you leave for them all +conduce to what you ignore, and that your music and painting and +romance-reading only lead to love-making? Don't you see this, or are you +in reality—I didn't want to say it, but you have made me—are +you an old fool?” + </p> +<p> +“I hope not, Dinah; but I'm not so sure you don't think me one.” + </p> +<p> +“It's nothing to the purpose whether I do or not,” said she; “the question +is, have you asked this young man to come back with us to Ireland?” + </p> +<p> +“I have, and he is coming.” + </p> +<p> +“I could have sworn to it,” said she, with a sudden energy; “and if there +was anything more stupid, you 'd have done it also.” And with this speech, +more remarkable for its vigor than its politeness, she turned away and +left him. +</p> +<p> +Ere I close the chapter and the subject, let me glance, and only glance, +at the room where Conyers is now standing beside Josephine. She is +drawing, not very attentively or carefully, perhaps, and he is bending +over her and relating, as it seems, something that has occurred to him, +and has come to the end with the words, “And though I was to have gone +this evening, it turns out that now I am to stay and accompany you to +Ireland.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't sigh so painfully over it, however,” said she, gravely; “for when +you come to mention how distressing it is, I 'm sure they 'll let you +off.” + </p> +<p> +“Fifine,” said he, reproachfully, “is this fair, is this generous?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know whether it be unfair, I don't want it to be generous,” said +she, boldly. +</p> +<p> +“In point of fact, then, you only wish for me here to quarrel with, is +that the truth?” + </p> +<p> +“I think it better fun disagreeing with you than always saying how +accurate you are, and how wise, and how well-judging. That atmosphere of +eternal agreement chokes me; I feel as if I were suffocating.” + </p> +<p> +“It's not a very happy temperament; it's not a disposition to boast of.” + </p> +<p> +“You never did hear me boast of it; but I have heard <i>you</i> very +vainglorious about your easy temper and your facile nature, which were +simply indolence. Now, I have had more than enough of that in the convent, +and I long for a little activity.” + </p> +<p> +“Even if it were hazardous?” + </p> +<p> +“Even if it were hazardous,” echoed she. “But here comes Aunt Dinah, with +a face as stern as one of the sisters, and an eye that reminds me of +penance and bread and water; so help me to put up my drawings, and say +nothing of what we were talking.” + </p> +<p> +“My brother has just told me, Mr. Conyers,” said she, in a whisper, “a +piece of news which it only depends upon you to make a most agreeable +arrangement.” + </p> +<p> +“I trust you may count upon me, madam,” said he, in the same tone, and +bowed low as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“Then come with me and let us talk it over,” said she, as she took his arm +and led him away. +</p> +<p> +END OF VOL. I. <br /><br /> +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Barrington, by Charles James Lever + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARRINGTON *** + +***** This file should be named 34882-h.htm or 34882-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/8/8/34882/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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