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Barrington, Vol II. by Charles James Lever
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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 II (of II)
Author: Charles James Lever
Illustrator: Phiz.
Release Date: January 8, 2011 [EBook #34883]
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 II.
</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> FIFINE AND
POLLY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> AT
HOME AGAIN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> A
SMALL DINNER-PARTY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> A
MOVE IN ADVANCE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> A
CABINET COUNCIL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> AN
EXPRESS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> CROSS-EXAMININGS
<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> GENERAL
CONYERS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> MAJOR
M'CORMICK'S LETTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> INTERCHANGED
CONFESSIONS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> STAPYLTON'S
VISIT AT “THE HOME” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII.
</a> A DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENT <br /><br /> <a
href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> CROSS-PURPOSES <br /><br />
<a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> STORMS <br /><br />
<a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> THE OLD LEAVEN
<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> A HAPPY
MEETING <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> MEET
COMPANIONSHIP <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> AUNT
DOROTHEA <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> FROM
GENERAL CONYERS TO HIS SON <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER
XX. </a> THE END <br /><br />
</p>
</blockquote>
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
<br /> <br />
</p>
<h1>
VOLUME II.
</h1>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER I. FIFINE AND POLLY
</h2>
<p>
There are a few days in our autumnal season—very few and rare!—when
we draw the curtain against the glare of the sun at breakfast, and yet in
the evening are glad to gather around the cheerful glow of the fire. These
are days of varied skies, with fleecy clouds lying low beneath a broad
expanse of blue, with massive shadows on the mountains, and here and there
over the landscape tips of sunlight that make the meanest objects
pictures; and, with all these, a breezy wind that scatters the yellow
leaves and shakes the tree-tops, while it curls the current of the bright
river into mimic waves. The sportsman will tell you that on such days the
birds are somewhat wild, and the angler will vow that no fish will rise to
the fly, nor is it a scent-lying day for the harriers; and yet, with all
this, there is a spring and elasticity in the air that impart themselves
to the temperament, so that the active grow energetic, and even the
indolent feel no touch of lassitude.
</p>
<p>
It was on the morning of such a day that Barrington, with his sister and
granddaughter, drew nigh the Home. Conyers had parted with them at Dublin,
where his regiment was now stationed, but was to follow in a day or two.
All the descriptions—descriptions which had taken the shape of
warnings—which they had given Josephine of the cottage could not
prevent her asking at each turn of the road if that large house yonder, if
that sombre tower over the trees, if that massive gate-lodge were not
theirs. “I know this is it, grandpapa,” said she, clapping her hands with
delight as they came opposite a low wall within which lay the spacious
lawn of Cobham Park, a portion of the house itself being just visible
through the trees; “don't tell me, aunt,” cried she, “but let me guess
it.”
</p>
<p>
“It is the seat of Sir Charles Cobham, child, one of the richest baronets
in the kingdom.”
</p>
<p>
“There it is at last,—there it is!” cried she, straining oat of the
carriage to see the handsome portico of a very large building, to which a
straight avenue of oaks led up from the high-road. “My heart tells me,
aunt, that this is ours!”
</p>
<p>
“It was once on a time, Fifiue,” said the old man, with a quivering voice,
and a glassy film over his eyes; “it was once, but it is so no longer.”
</p>
<p>
“Barrington Hall has long ceased to belong to us,” said Miss Dinah; “and
after all the pains I have taken in description, I cannot see how you
could possibly confound it with our little cottage.”
</p>
<p>
The young girl sat back without a word, and, whether from disappointment
or the rebuke, looked forth no more.
</p>
<p>
“We are drawing very near now, Fifine,” said the old man, after a long
silence, which lasted fully two miles of the way. “Where you see the tall
larches yonder—not there—lower down, at the bend of the
stream; those are the trees. I declare, Dinah, I fancy they have grown
since we saw them last.”
</p>
<p>
“I have no doubt you do, Peter; not that you will find the cottage far
more commodious and comfortable than you remembered it.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, they've repaired that stile, I see,” cried he; “and very well they've
done it, without cutting away the ivy. Here we are, darling; here we are!”
and he grasped the young girl's hand in one of his, while he drew the
other across his eyes.
</p>
<p>
“They 're not very attentive, I must say, brother Peter, or they would not
leave us standing, with our own gate locked against us.”
</p>
<p>
“I see Darby running as fast as he can. Here he comes!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, by the powers, ye're welcome home, your honor's reverence, and the
mistresses!” cried Darby, as he fumbled at the lock, and then failing in
all his efforts,—not very wonderful, seeing that he had taken a
wrong key,—he seized a huge stone, and, smashing the padlock at a
blow, threw wide the gate to admit them.
</p>
<p>
“You are initiated at once into our Irish ways, Fifine,” said Miss
Barrington. “All that you will see here is in the same style. Let that be
repaired this evening, sir, and at your own cost,” whispered she to Darby,
into whose hand at the same moment Peter was pressing a crown piece.
</p>
<p>
“'T is the light of my eyes to see your honors home again! 'Tis like rain
to the new potatoes what I feel in my heart, and looking so fresh and well
too! And the young lady, she isn't—”
</p>
<p>
From what dread anticipation Darby's sudden halt saved him the expression
is not for me to say, but that Peter Barrington guessed it is probable,
for he lay back in the carriage and shook with laughter.
</p>
<p>
“Drive on, sir,” said Miss Dinah to the postilion, “and pull up at the
stone cross.”
</p>
<p>
“You can drive to the door now, ma'am,” said Darby, “the whole way; Miss
Polly had the road made while you were away.”
</p>
<p>
“What a clever girl! Who could have thought it?” said Barrington.
</p>
<p>
“I opine that we might have been consulted as to the change. On a matter
as important as this, Peter, I think our voices might have been asked.”
</p>
<p>
“And how well she has done it too!” muttered he, half aloud; “never
touched one of those copper beeches, and given us a peep of the bright
river through the meadows.”
</p>
<p>
As the carriage rolled briskly along, Darby, who trotted alongside, kept
up a current narrative of the changes effected during their absence.
</p>
<p>
“The ould pigeon-house is tuck down, and an iligant new one put up in the
island; and the calves' paddock is thrown into the flower-garden, and
there's a beautiful flight of steps down to the river, paved with white
stones,—sorrow one is n't white as snow.”
</p>
<p>
“It is a mercy we had not a sign over the door, brother Peter,” whispered
Miss Dinah, “or this young lady's zeal would have had it emblazoned like a
shield in heraldry.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, how lovely, how beautiful, how exquisite!” cried Josephine, as they
came suddenly round the angle of a copse and directly in front of the
cottage.
</p>
<p>
Nor was the praise exaggerated. It was all that she had said. Over a light
trellis-work, carried along under the thatch, the roses and jessamine
blended with the clematis and the passion-flower, forming a deep eave of
flowers, drooping in heavy festoons across the spaces between the windows,
and meeting the geraniums which grew below. Through the open sashes the
rooms might be seen, looking more like beautifnl bowers than the chambers
of a dwelling-house. And over all, in sombre grandeur, bent the great
ilex-trees, throwing their grand and tranquil shade over the cottage and
the little grass-plot and even the river itself, as it swept smoothly by.
There was in the stillness of that perfumed air, loaded with the
sweet-brier and the rose, a something of calm and tranquillity; while in
the isolation of the spot there was a sense of security that seemed to
fill op the measure of the young girl's hopes, and made her exclaim with
rapture, “Oh, this, indeed, is beautiful!”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, my darling Fifine!” said the old man, as he pressed her to his
heart; “your home, your own home! I told you, my dear child, it was not a
great castle, no fine château, like those on the Meuse and the Sambre, but
a lowly cottage with a thatched roof and a rustic porch.”
</p>
<p>
“In all this ardor for decoration and smartness,” broke in Miss Dinah, “it
would not surprise me to find that the peacock's tail had been picked out
in fresh colors and varnished.”
</p>
<p>
“Faix! your honor is not far wrong,” interposed Darby, who had an Irish
tendency to side with the majority. “She made us curry and wash ould
Sheela, the ass, as if she was a race-horse.”
</p>
<p>
“I hope poor Wowsky escaped,” said Barrington, laughing.
</p>
<p>
“That's what he didn't! He has to be scrubbed with soap and water every
morning, and his hair divided all the way down his back, like a
Christian's, and his tail looks like a bunch of switch grass.”
</p>
<p>
“That 's the reason he has n't come out to meet me; the poor fellow is
like his betters,—he's not quite sure that his altered condition
improves him.”
</p>
<p>
“You have at least one satisfaction, brother Peter,” said Miss Dinah,
sharply; “you find Darby just as dirty and uncared for as you left him.”
</p>
<p>
“By my conscience, there 's another of us is n't much changed since we met
last,” muttered Darby, but in a voice only audible to himself.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, what a sweet cottage! What a pretty summer-house!” cried Josephine,
as the carriage swept round the copse, and drew short up at the door.
</p>
<p>
“This summer-house is your home, Fifine,” said Miss Barrington, tartly.
</p>
<p>
“Home! home! Do you mean that we live here,—live here always, aunt?”
</p>
<p>
“Most distinctly I do,” said she, descending and addressing herself to
other cares. “Where's Jane? Take these trunks round by the back door.
Carry this box to the green-room,—to Miss Josephine's room,” said
she, with a stronger stress on the words.
</p>
<p>
“Well, darling, it is a very humble, it is a very lowly,” said Barrington,
“but let us see if we cannot make it a very happy home;” but as he turned
to embrace her, she was gone.
</p>
<p>
“I told you so, brother Peter,—I told you so, more than once; but,
of course, you have your usual answer, 'We must do the best we can!' which
simply means, doing worse than we need do.”
</p>
<p>
Barrington was in no mood for a discussion; he was too happy to be once
more at home to be ruffled by any provocation his sister could give him.
Wherever he turned, some old familiar object met his eye and seemed to
greet him, and he bustled in and out from his little study to the garden,
and then to the stable, where he patted old Roger; and across to the
cow-house, where Maggie knew him, and bent her great lazy eyes softly on
him; and then down to the liver-side, where, in gilt letters, “Josephine”
shone on the trim row-boat he had last seen half rotten on the bank; for
Polly had been there too, and her thoughtful good-nature, forgetting
nothing which might glad them on their coming.
</p>
<p>
Meanwhile, Josephine had reached her chamber, and, locking the door, sat
down and leaned her head on the table. Though no tears fell from her eyes,
her bosom heaved and fell heavily, and more than one deep sigh escaped
her. Was it disappointment that had so overcome her? Had she fancied
something grander and more pretentious than this lonely cottage? Was it
that Aunt Dinah's welcome was wanting in affection? What revulsion could
it be that so suddenly overwhelmed her? Who can tell these things, who can
explain how it is that, without any definite picture of an unexpected joy,
imagination will so work upon us that reality will bring nothing but a
blank? It is not that the object is less attractive than is hoped for, it
is simply that a dark shadow has passed over our own hearts; the sense of
enjoyment has been dulled, and we are sad without a reason. If we
underrate sorrows of our youth,—and this is essentially one of them,—it
is because our mature age leaves us nothing of that temperament on which
such afflictions preyed.
</p>
<p>
Josephine, without knowing why, without even a reason, wished herself back
in the convent. There, if there was a life of sombre monotony and
quietude, there was at least companionship; she had associates of her own
age. They had pursuits in common, shared the same hopes and wishes and
fears; but here—but here—Just as her thoughts had carried her
so far, a tap—a very gentle tap—came to the door. Josephine
heard it, but made no answer. It was repeated a little louder, and then a
low pleasing voice she had never heard before said, “May I come in?”
</p>
<p>
“No,” said Josephine,—“yes—that is—who are you?”
</p>
<p>
“Polly Dill,” was the answer; and Josephine arose and unlocked the door.
</p>
<p>
“Miss Barrington told me I might take this liberty,” said Polly, with a
faint smile. “She said, 'Go and make acquaintance for yourself; I never
play master of the ceremonies.'”
</p>
<p>
“And you are Polly,—the Polly Dill I have heard so much of?” said
Josephine, regarding her steadily and fixedly.
</p>
<p>
“How stranded your friends must have been for a topic when they talked of
<i>me!</i>” said Polly, laughing.
</p>
<p>
“It is quite true you have beautiful teeth,—I never saw such
beautiful teeth,” said Josephine to herself, while she still gazed
earnestly at her.
</p>
<p>
“And you,” said Polly, “are so like what I had pictured you,—what I
hoped you would be. I find it hard to believe I see you for the first
time.”
</p>
<p>
“So, then, <i>you</i> did not think the Rajah's daughter should be a
Moor?” said Josephine, half haughtily. “It is very sad to see what
disappointments I had caused.” Neither the saucy toss of the head, nor the
tone that accompanied these words, were lost upon Polly, who began to feel
at once that she understood the speaker.
</p>
<p>
“And your brother,” continued Josephine, “is the famous Tom Dill I have
heard such stories about?”
</p>
<p>
“Poor Tom! he is anything rather than famous.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, he is remarkable; he is odd, original, or whatever you would call
it. Fred told me he never met any one like him.”
</p>
<p>
“Tom might say as much of Mr. Conyers, for, in truth, no one ever showed
him such kindness.”
</p>
<p>
“Fred told me nothing of that; but perhaps,” added she, with a flashing
eye, “you were more in his confidence than I was.”
</p>
<p>
“I knew very little of Mr. Conyers; I believe I could count on the fingers
of one hand every time I met him.”
</p>
<p>
“How strange that you should have made so deep an impression, Miss Dill!”
</p>
<p>
“I am flattered to hear it, but more surprised than flattered.”
</p>
<p>
“But I don't wonder at it in the least,” said Josephine, boldly. “You are
very handsome, you are very graceful, and then—” She hesitated and
grew confused, and stammered, and at last said, “and then there is that
about you which seems to say, 'I have only to wish, and I can do it.'”
</p>
<p>
“I have no such gift, I assure you,” said Polly, with a half-sad smile.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I know you are very clever; I have heard how accomplished you were,
how beautifully you rode, how charmingly you sang. I wish he had not told
me of it all—for if—for if—”
</p>
<p>
“If what? Say on!”
</p>
<p>
“If you were not so superior to me, I feel that I could love you;” and
then with a bound she threw her arms around Polly's neck, and clasped her
affectionately to her bosom.
</p>
<p>
Sympathy, like a fashionable physician, is wonderfully successful where
there is little the matter. In the great ills of life, when the real
afflictions come down to crush, to wound, or to stun us, we are
comparatively removed from even the kindest of our comforters. Great
sorrows are very selfish things. In the lighter maladies, however, in the
smaller casualties of fortune, sympathy is a great remedy, and we are
certain to find that, however various our temperaments, it has a sort of
specific for each. Now Josephine Barrington had not any great cares upon
her heart; if the balance were to be struck between them, Polly Dill could
have numbered ten, ay, twenty, for her one, but she thought hers was a
case for much commiseration, and she liked commiseration, for there are
moral hypochondrias as well as physical ones. And so she told Polly how
she had neither father nor mother, nor any other belongings than “dear old
grandpapa and austere Aunt Dinah;” that she had been brought up in a
convent, never knowing one of the pleasures of youth, or her mind being
permitted to stray beyond the dreary routine of prayer and penance. Of
music she knew nothing but the solemn chants of the organ, and even
flowers were to her eyes but the festal decorations of the high altar;
and, lastly, she vaguely balanced between going back to the dismal
existence of the cloister, or entering upon the troubled sea of life, so
full of perils to one unpractised and unskilled as she was. Now Polly was
a very pretty comforter through these afflictions; her own home
experiences were not all rose-colored, but the physician who whispers
honeyed consolations to the patient has often the painful consciousness of
a deeper malady within than that for which he ministers. Polly knew
something of a life of struggle and small fortune, with its daily incident
of debt and dun. She knew what it was to see money mix itself with every
phase of existence, throwing its damper over joy, arresting the hand of
benevolence, even denying to the sick-bed the little comforts that help to
cheat misery. She knew how penury can eat its canker into the heart till
all things take the color of thrift, and life becomes at last the terrible
struggle of a swimmer storm-tossed and weary; and yet, with all this
experience in her heart, she could whisper cheerful counsels to Josephine,
and tell her that the world had a great many pleasant paths through it,
though one was occasionally footsore before reaching them; and in this way
they talked till they grew very fond of each other, and Josephine was
ready to confess that the sorrow nearest to her heart was parting with
her. “But must you go, dearest Polly,—must you really go?”
</p>
<p>
“I must, indeed,” said she, laughing; “for if I did not, two little
sisters of mine would go supperless to bed, not to speak of a small boy
who is waiting for me with a Latin grammar before him; and the cook must
get her orders for to-morrow; and papa must have his tea; and this short,
stumpy little key that you see here unlocks the oat-bin, without which an
honest old pony would share in the family fast: so that, all things
considered, my absence would be far from advisable.”
</p>
<p>
“And when shall we meet again, Polly?”
</p>
<p>
“Not to-morrow, dear; for to-morrow is our fair at Inistioge, and I have
yarn to buy, and some lambs to sell.”
</p>
<p>
“And could you sell lambs, Polly?” said Josephine, with an expression of
blank disappointment in her face.
</p>
<p>
Polly smiled, but not without a certain sadness, as she said, “There are
some sentimentalities which, to one in my condition, would just be as
unsuitable as Brussels lace or diamonds. They are born of luxury and
indolence, and pertain to those whose existence is assured to them; and my
own opinion is, they are a poor privilege. At all events,” added she,
rapidly, “they are not for me, and I do not wish for them.”
</p>
<p>
“The day after to-morrow, then, you will come here,—promise me
that.”
</p>
<p>
“It will be late, then, towards evening, for I have made an engagement to
put a young horse in harness,—a three-year-old, and a sprightly one,
they tell me,—so that I may look on the morning as filled. I see, my
dear child, how shocked you are with all these unladylike cares and
duties; but poor Tom and I used to weld our lives together, and while I
took my share of boat-building one day, he helped me in the dairy the day
after; but now that he is gone, our double functions devolve upon me.”
</p>
<p>
“How happy you must be!”
</p>
<p>
“I think I am; at least, I have no time to spare for unhappiness.”
</p>
<p>
“If I could but change with you, Polly!”
</p>
<p>
“Change what, my dear child?”
</p>
<p>
“Condition, fortune, belongings,—everything.”
</p>
<p>
“Take my word for it, you are just as well as you are; but I suppose it's
very natural for one to fancy he could carry another's burden easier than
his own, for it was only a few moments back I thought how I should like to
be you.”
</p>
<p>
“To be me,—to be me!”
</p>
<p>
“Of course I was wrong, dearest. It was only a passing, fleeting thought,
and I now see how absurd I was to wish to be very beautiful, dearly loved,
and affectionately cared for, with a beautiful home to live in, and every
hour free to be happy. Oh, what a sigh, dearest, what a sigh! but I assure
you I have my calamities too; the mice have got at the seeds in my
onion-bed, and I don't expect to see one come up.”
</p>
<p>
If Josephine's first impulse was to feel angry, her next was to laugh out,
which she did heartily; and passing her arm fondly round Polly's waist,
she said, “I 'll get used to your raillery, Polly, and not feel sore at
it; but remember, too, it's a spirit I never knew before.”
</p>
<p>
“How good and generous, then, to bear it so well!” said Polly,
affectionately; “your friend Mr. Conyers did not show the same patience.”
</p>
<p>
“You tried him, then?” said Josephine, with a half-eager glance.
</p>
<p>
“Of course; I talked to him as I do to every one. But there goes your
dinner-bell.” Checking herself on a reflection over the pretension of this
summons of three people to a family meal in a cottage, Polly tied on her
bonnet and said “Good-bye.”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER II. AT HOME AGAIN
</h2>
<p>
The Barringtons had not been quite a fortnight settled in their home, when
a note came from Conyers, lamenting, in most feeling terms, that he could
not pay them his promised visit. If the epistle was not very long, it was
a grumble from beginning to end. “Nobody would know,” wrote he, “it was
the same regiment poor Colonel Hunter commanded. Our Major is now in
command,—the same Stapylton you have heard me speak of; and if we
never looked on him too favorably, we now especially detest him. His first
step was to tell us we were disorderly, ill-dressed, and ill-disciplined;
but we were even less prepared to hear that we could not ride. The result
of all this is, we have gone to school again,—even old captains, who
have served with distinction in the field, have been consigned to the
riding-house; and we poor subs are treated as if we were the last refuse
of all the regiments of the army, sent here to be reformed and corrected.
We have incessant drills, parades, and inspections, and, worse again, all
leave is stopped. If I was not in the best of temper with the service
before, you may judge how I feel towards it now. In fact, if it were not
that I expect my father back in England by the middle of May, I 'd send in
my papers and leave at once. How I fall back now in memory to the happy
days of my ramble with you, and wonder if I shall ever see the like again.
And how I hate myself for not having felt at the time how immeasurably
delightful they were! Trust me never to repeat the mistake if I have the
opportunity given me. I asked this morning for three days—only three—to
run down and see you once more before we leave,—for we are ordered
to Honnslow,—and I was refused. But this was not all: not content
with rejecting my request, he added what he called an expression of
astonishment that an officer so deficient in his duties should care to
absent himself from regimental discipline.”
</p>
<p>
“Poor boy!—this is, indeed, too bad,” said Miss Dinah, as she had
read thus far; “only think, Peter, how this young fellow, spoiled and
petted as he was as a child,—denied nothing, pampered as though he
were a prince,—should find himself the mark of so insulting a
tyranny. Are you listening to me, Peter Barrington?”
</p>
<p>
“Eh,—what? No, thank you, Dinah; I have made an excellent
breakfast,” said Barrington, hurriedly, and again addressed himself to the
letter he was reading. “That's what I call a Trump, Dinah,—a regular
Trump.”
</p>
<p>
“Who is the especial favorite that has called for the very choice eulogy?”
said she, bridling up.
</p>
<p>
“Gone into the thing, too, with heart and soul,—a noble fellow!”
continued Barrington.
</p>
<p>
“Pray enlighten us as to the name that calls forth such enthusiasm.”
</p>
<p>
“Stapylton, my dear Dinah,—Major Stapylton. In all my life I do not
remember one instance to parallel with this generous and disinterested
conduct. Listen to what Withering says,—not a man given to take up
rash impressions in favor of a stranger. Listen to this: 'Stapylton has
been very active,—written to friends, both at Calcutta and Agra, and
shown, besides, an amount of acuteness in pursuit of what is really
important, that satisfies me a right good common lawyer has been lost by
his being a soldier.' And here, again he recurs to him: it is with
reference to certain documents: 'S. persists in believing that with proper
diligence these may be recovered; he says that it is a common practice
with the Moonshees to retain papers, in the hope of their being one day
deemed of value; and he is fully persuaded that they have not been
destroyed. There is that about the man's manner of examining a question,—his
patience, his instinctive seizure of what is of moment, and his invariable
rejection of whatever is immaterial; and, lastly, his thorough
appreciation of the character of that evidence which would have most
weight with the Indian Board, which dispose me to regard him as an
invaluable ally to our cause.'”
</p>
<p>
“Do me the favor to regard this picture of your friend now,” said Miss
Barrington, as she handed the letter from Conyers across the table.
</p>
<p>
Barrington read it over attentively. “And what does this prove, my dear
sister?” said he. “This is the sort of stereotyped complaint of every
young fellow who has been refused a leave. I have no doubt Hunter was too
easy-tempered to have been strict in discipline, and the chances are these
young dogs had everything their own way till Stapylton came amongst them.
I find it hard to believe that any man likes unpopularity.”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps not, Peter Barrington; but he may like tyranny more than he hates
unpopularity; and, for my own part, this man is odious to me.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't say so, Dinah,—don't say so, I entreat of you, for he will be
our guest here this very day.”
</p>
<p>
“Our guest!—why, is not the regiment under orders to leave?”
</p>
<p>
“So it is; but Withering says it would be a great matter if we could have
a sort of consultation together before the Major leaves Ireland. There are
innumerable little details which he sees ought to be discussed between us;
and so he has persuaded him to give us a day,—perhaps two days,—no
small boon, Dinah, from one so fully occupied as he is.”
</p>
<p>
“I wish he would not make the sacrifice, Peter.”
</p>
<p>
“My dear sister, are we so befriended by Fortune that we can afford to
reject the kindness of our fellows?”
</p>
<p>
“I'm no believer in chance friendships, Peter Barrington; neither you nor
I are such interesting orphans as to inspire sympathy at first sight.”
</p>
<p>
Josephine could not help a laugh at Miss Dinah's illustration, and old
Barriqgton himself heartily joined in the merriment, not sorry the while
to draw the discussion into a less stern field. “Come, come, Dinah,” said
he, gayly, “let us put out a few bottles of that old Madeira in the sun;
and if Darby can find us a salmon-trout, we 'll do our best to entertain
our visitors.”
</p>
<p>
“It never occurred to me to doubt the probability of their enjoying
themselves, Peter; my anxieties were quite on another score.”
</p>
<p>
“Now, Fifine,” continued Barrington, “we shall see if Polly Dill has
really made you the perfect housekeeper she boasted. The next day or two
will put your talents to the test.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, if we could only have Polly herself here!”
</p>
<p>
“What for?—on what pretext, Miss Barrington?” said Dinah, haughtily.
“I have not, so far as I am aware, been accounted very ignorant of
household cares.”
</p>
<p>
“Withering declares that your equal is not in Europe, Dinah.”
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Withering's suffrage can always be bought by a mock-turtle soup, and
a glass of Roman punch after it.”
</p>
<p>
“How he likes it,—how he relishes it! He says that he comes back to
the rest of the dinner with the freshness of a man at an assize case.”
</p>
<p>
“So like him!” said Dinah, scornfully; “he has never an illustration that
is not taken from the Four Courts. I remember one day, when asking for the
bill of fare, he said, 'Will you kindly let me look at the cause list.'
Prepare yourself, Josephine, for an avalanche of law anecdotes and Old
Bailey stories, for I assure you you will hear nothing for the next three
days but drolleries that have been engrossed on parchment and paid stamp
duty to the Crown.”
</p>
<p>
Barrington gave a smile, as though in protest against the speech, and left
the room. In truth, he was very anxious to be alone, and to think over, at
his leisure, a short passage in his letter which he had not summoned
courage to read aloud. It was Withering's opinion that to institute the
inquiries in India a considerable sum of money would be required, and he
had left it for Barrington's consideration whether it were wiser to risk
the great peril of this further involvement, or once more to try what
chance there might be of a compromise. Who knows what success might have
attended the suggestion if the old lawyer had but employed any other word!
Compromise, however, sounded to his ears like an unworthy concession,—a
surrender of George's honor. Compromise might mean money for his
granddaughter, and shame to her father's memory. Not, indeed, that
Withering was, as a man, one to counsel such a course, but Withering was a
lawyer, and in the same spirit that he would have taken a verdict for half
his claim if he saw an adverse feeling in the jury-box, so he would bow to
circumstances that were stronger than him, and accept the best he could,
if he might not have all that he ought But could Barrington take this
view? He thought not. His conviction was that the main question to
establish was the fair fame and honor of his son; his guide was, how
George himself would have acted—would have felt—in the same
contingency; and he muttered, “He'd have been a hardy fellow who would
have hinted at compromise to <i>him</i>.”
</p>
<p>
The next point was how the means for the coming campaign were to be
provided. He had already raised a small sum by way of mortgage on the
“Home,” and nothing remained but to see what further advance could be made
on the same security. When Barrington was a great estated gentleman with a
vast fortune at his command, it cost him wonderfully little thought to
contract a loan, or even to sell a farm. A costly election, a few weeks of
unusual splendor, an unfortunate night at play, had made such sacrifices
nothing very unusual, and he would give his orders on this score as
unconcernedly as he would bid his servant replenish his glass at table.
Indeed, he had no more fear of exhausting his fortune than he felt as to
out-drinking his cellar. There was enough there, as he often said, for
those who should come after him. And now, what a change! He stood actually
appalled at the thought of a mortgage for less than a thousand pounds. But
so it is; the cockboat may be more to a man than was once the
three-decker. The cottage was his all now; that lost, and they were
houseless. Was it not a bold thing to risk everything on one more throw?
There was the point over which he now pondered as he walked slowly along
in the little shady alley between the laurel hedges. He had no friend
nearer his heart than Withering, no one to whom he could unbosom himself
so frankly and so freely, and yet this was a case on which he could not
ask his counsel. All his life long he had strenuously avoided suffering a
question of the kind to intervene between them. Of his means, his
resources, his straits, or his demands, Withering knew positively nothing.
It was with Barrington a point of delicacy to maintain this reserve
towards one who was always his lawyer, and often his guest. The very
circumstance of his turning innkeeper was regarded by Withering as
savoring far more of caprice than necessity, and Barrington took care to
strengthen this impression.
</p>
<p>
If, then, Withering's good sense and worldly knowledge would have been
invaluable aids to him in this conjunction, he saw he could not have them.
The same delicacy which debarred him heretofore, would still interpose
against his appeal to that authority. And then he thought how he had once
troops of friends to whom he could address himself for counsel. There is
nothing more true, indeed, than the oft-uttered scoff on the hollowness of
those friendships which attach to the days of prosperous fortune, and the
world is very prone to point to the utter loneliness of him who has been
shipwrecked by Fate; but let us be just in our severity, and let us own
that a man's belongings, his associates, his—what common parlance
calls—friends, are the mere accidents of his station, and they no
more accompany him in his fall than do the luxuries he has forfeited. From
the level from which he has lapsed they have not descended. They are
there, living to-day as they lived yesterday. If their sympathy is not
with him, it is because neither are they themselves; they cross each other
no more. Such friendships are like the contracts made with a crew for a
particular voyage,—they end with the cruise. No man ever understood
this better than Barrington; no man ever bore the world less of ill will
for its part towards himself. If now and then a sense of sadness would
cloud him at some mark of passing forgetfulness, he would not own to the
gloomy feeling; while to any show of recognition, to any sign of a
grateful remembrance of the past, he would grow boastful to very vanity.
“Look there, Dinah,” he would say, “what a noble-hearted fellow that is! I
scarcely was more than commonly civil to him formerly, and you saw how
courteous he was in making a place for us, how heartily he hoped I was in
good health.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll send over to Dill and have a talk with him,” was Barrington's last
resolve, as he turned the subject over and over in his mind. “Dill 's a
shrewd fellow, and I 'm not sure that he has not laid by a little money;
he might feel no objection to a good investment for it, with such
security.” And he looked around as he spoke on the trees, some of which he
planted, every one of which he knew, and sighed heavily. “He 'll scarce
love the spot more than I did,” muttered he, and walked along with his
head down. After a while he took out Withering's letter from his pocket
and re-read it. Somehow, it was hard to say why, it did not read so
promisingly as at first. The difficulties to be encountered were very
stubborn ones, so much so that he very palpably hinted how much better
some amicable settlement would be than an open contest wherein legal
subtlety and craft should be evoked. There was so much of that matter
always taken for granted, to be proved, to be demonstrated true on
evidence, that it actually looked appalling. “Of the searches and
inquiries instituted in India,” wrote Withering, “I can speak but vaguely;
but I own the very distance magnifies them immensely to my eyes.” “Tom is
growing old, not a doubt of it,” muttered Barrington; “these were not the
sort of obstacles that could have terrified him once on a time. He 'd have
said, 'If there 's evidence, we 'll have it; if there's a document, we 'll
find it.' It's India, that far-away land, that has frightened him. These
lawyers, like certain sportsmen, lose their nerve if you take them out of
their own country. It 's the new style of fences they can't face. Well,
thanks to him who gave it, I have my stout heart still, and I 'll go on.”
</p>
<p>
“Going on” was, however, not the easy task it first seemed, nor was the
pleasantest part of it the necessity of keeping the secret from his
sister. Miss Dinah had from the first discouraged the whole suit. The
adversary was too powerful, the odds against them were too great; the
India Board had only to protract and prolong the case and <i>they</i> must
be beaten from sheer exhaustion. How, then, should he reconcile her to
mortgaging the last remnant of all their fortune for “one more throw on
the table”? “No chance of persuading a woman that this would be wise,”
said he. And he thought, when he had laid the prejudice of sex as the
ground of error, he had completed his argument.
</p>
<p>
“Going on” had its fine generous side about it, also, that cheered and
elevated him. It was for George he was doing it, and that dear girl, whose
every trait recalled her father; for let those explain it who can, she,
who had never seen nor even heard of her father since her infancy,
inherited all his peculiar ways and habits, and every trick of his manner.
Let me own that these, even more than any qualities of sterling worth,
endeared her to her grandfather; and just as he had often declared no rank
or position that could befall George would have been above his deserts, so
he averred that if Josephine were to be the greatest heiress in England
to-morrow, she would be a grace and an ornament to the station. If Aunt
Dinah would occasionally attempt to curb this spirit, or even limit its
extravagance, his invariable answer was, “It may be all as you say,
sister, but for the life of me I cannot think my swans to be geese.”
</p>
<p>
As he thus mused and meditated, he heard the wicket of the garden open and
shut, and shortly afterwards a half-shambling shuffling step on the
gravel. Before he had time to speculate on whose it should be, he saw
Major M'Cormick limping laboriously towards him.
</p>
<p>
“How is this, Major?” cried he; “has the change of weather disagreed with
your rheumatism?”
</p>
<p>
“It's the wound; it's always worse in the fall of the year,” croaked the
other. “I'd have been up to see you before but for the pains, and that old
fool Dill—a greater fool myself for trusting him—made me put
on a blister down what he calls the course of the nerve, and I never knew
torture till I tried it.”
</p>
<p>
“My sister Dinah has, I verily believe, the most sovereign remedy for
these pains.”
</p>
<p>
“Is it the green draught? Oh, don't I know it,” burst out the Major. “You
might hear my shouts the day I took it down at Inistioge. There was n't a
bit of skin left on my lips, and when I wiped the perspiration off my head
my hair came off too. Aquafortis is like egg-flip compared to that blessed
draught; and I remember well how I crawled to my writing-desk and wrote,
'Have me opened,' for I knew I was poisoned.”
</p>
<p>
“Did you tell my sister of your sufferings?”
</p>
<p>
“To be sure I did, and she only smiled and said that I took it when I was
fasting, or when I was full, I forget which; and that I ought to have
taken a brisk walk, and I only able to creep; and only one spoonful at a
time, and it was the whole bottle I swallowed. In fact, she owned
afterwards that nothing but the strength of a horse could have saved me.”
</p>
<p>
Peter found it very hard to maintain a decent gravity at the play of the
Major's features, which during the narrative recalled every dire
experience of his medicine.
</p>
<p>
“Well, come into the house and we'll give you something better,” said
Barrington, at last.
</p>
<p>
“I think I saw your granddaughter at the window as I came by,—a
good-looking young woman, and not so dark as I suspected she 'd be.”
</p>
<p>
“There's not a handsomer girl in Ireland; and as to skin, she 's not as
brown as her father.”
</p>
<p>
“It wouldn't be easy to be that; he was about three shades deeper than a
Portuguese.”
</p>
<p>
“George Barrington was confessedly the finest-looking fellow in the King's
army, and as English-looking a gentleman as any man in it.”
</p>
<p>
The tone of this speech was so palpably that of one who would not stand
the very shadow of a rejoinder, that the Major held his peace, and
shuffled along without a word. The thought, however, of administering a
rebuke to any one within the precincts of his home was so repugnant to
Barrington's nature, that he had scarcely uttered the words than he was
eager to repair them, and with a most embarrassed humility he stammered
out something about their recent tour abroad and all the enjoyment it had
given them.
</p>
<p>
“Maybe so,” rejoined the other, dryly; “but I never saw any pleasure in
spending money you could keep.”
</p>
<p>
“My dear Major, that is precisely the very money that does procure
pleasure.”
</p>
<p>
“Wasn't that a post-chaise I saw through the trees? There it is again;
it's making straight for the 'Home,'” said M'Cormick, pointing with his
stick.
</p>
<p>
“Yes,” said Peter; “I was expecting a couple of friends to pass a day or
so with me here. Will you excuse me if I hurry forward to welcome them?”
</p>
<p>
“Don't make a stranger of me; I'll saunter along at my leisure,” said the
Major, as Barrington walked briskly on towards the cottage.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER III. A SMALL DINNER-PARTY
</h2>
<p>
Withering and Stapylton had arrived fully two hoars earlier than they were
expected, and Miss Dinah was too deeply engaged in the household cares
that were to do them honor to receive them. Josephine, too, was not less
busily occupied, for her conventual education had made her wonderfully
skilful in all sorts of confectionery, and she was mistress of devices in
spun sugar and preserved fruits, which rose in Aunt Dinah's eyes to the
dignity of high art. Barrington, however, was there to meet them, and with
a cordial welcome which no man could express more gracefully. The luncheon
hour passed pleasantly over, for all were in good humor and good spirits.
Withering's holiday always found him ready to enjoy it, and when could old
Peter feel so happy as when he had a guest beneath his roof who thoroughly
appreciated the cottage, and entered into the full charm of its lovely
scenery! Such was Stapylton; he blended a fair liking for the picturesque
with a natural instinct for comfort and homeliness, and he saw in this
spot what precisely embraced both elements. It was very beautiful; but,
better still, it was very lovable. “It was so rare”—so, at least, he
told Barrington—“to find a cottage wherein internal comfort had not
been sacrificed to some requirement of outward show. There was only one
way of doing this,” said he, as Barrington led him through the little
flower-garden, giving glimpses of the rooms within as they passed,—“only
one way, Mr. Barrington; a man must have consummate taste, and strong
credit at his banker's.” Barrington's cheek grew a thought redder, and he
smiled that faint sad smile which now and then will break from one who
feels that he could rebut what he has just heard, if it were but right or
fitting he should do so. Of course, amongst really distressing sensations
this has no place; but yet there is a peculiar pain in being complimented
by your friend on the well-to-do condition of your fortune when your
conscience is full of the long watching hours of the night, or, worse
still, the first awaking thought of difficulties to which you open your
eyes of a morning. It is not often, nor are there many to whom you can
say, “I cannot tell the day or the hour when all this shall pass away from
me; my head is racked with care, and my heart heavy with anxiety.” How
jarring to be told of all the things you ought to do! You who could so
well afford it! And how trying to have to take shelter from your necessity
under the shadow of a seeming stinginess, and to bear every reflection on
your supposed thrift rather than own to your poverty!
</p>
<p>
If Withering had been with them as they strolled, this, perhaps, might
have been avoided; he had all a lawyer's technical skill to change a
topic; but Withering had gone to take his accustomed midday nap, the
greatest of all the luxuries his time of idleness bestowed upon him.
</p>
<p>
Now, although Stapylton's alludings—and they were no more—to
Barrington's gifts of fortune were such as perfectly consisted with good
taste and good breeding, Barring-ton felt them all painfully, and probably
nothing restrained him from an open disclaimer of their fitness save the
thought that from a host such an avowal would sound ungracefully. “It is
my duty now,” reasoned he, “to make my guest feel that all the attentions
he receives exact no sacrifice, and that the pleasure his presence affords
is unalloyed by a single embarrassment. If he must hear of my
difficulties, let it be when he is not beneath my roof.” And so he let
Stapylton talk away about the blessings of tranquil affluence, and the
happiness of him whose only care was to find time for the enjoyments that
were secured to him. He let him quote Pope and Wharton and Edmund Burke,
and smiled the blandest concurrence with what was irritating him almost to
fever.
</p>
<p>
“This is Withering's favorite spot,” said Peter, as they gained the shade
of a huge ilex-tree, from which two distinct reaches of the river were
visible.
</p>
<p>
“And it shall be mine, too,” said Stapylton, throwing himself down in the
deep grass; “and as I know you have scores of things which claim your
attention, let me release you, while I add a cigar—the only possible
enhancement—to the delight of this glorious nook.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it shall be as you wish. We dine at six. I 'll go and look after a
fish for our entertainment;” and Barrington turned away into the copse,
not sorry to release his heart by a heavy sigh, and to feel he was alone
with his cares.
</p>
<p>
Let us turn for a moment to M'Cormick, who continued to saunter slowly
about the garden, in the expectation of Barrington's return. Wearied at
length with waiting, and resolved that his patience should not go entirely
unrequited, he turned into a little shady walk on which the windows of the
kitchen opened. Stationing himself there, in a position to see without
being seen, he took what he called an observation of all within. The sight
was interesting, even if he did not bring to it the appreciation of a
painter. There, upon a spacious kitchen table, lay a lordly sirloin,
richly and variously colored, flanked by a pair of plump guinea-hens and a
fresh salmon of fully twenty pounds' weight. Luscious fruit and vegetables
were heaped and mingled in a wild profusion, and the speckled plumage of
game was half hidden under the massive bunches of great hot-house grapes.
It is doubtful if Sneyders himself could have looked upon the display with
a higher sense of enjoyment It is, indeed, a question between the relative
merits of two senses, and the issue lies between the eye and the palate.
</p>
<p>
Wisely reasoning that such preparations were not made for common guests,
M'Cormick ran over in his mind all the possible and impossible names he
could think of, ending at last with the conviction it was some “Nob” he
must have met abroad, and whom in a moment of his expansive hospitality he
had invited to visit him. “Isn't it like them!” muttered he. “It would be
long before they'd think of such an entertainment to an old neighbor like
myself; but here they are spending—who knows how much?—for
somebody that to-morrow or next day won't remember their names, or maybe,
perhaps, laugh when they think of the funny old woman they saw,—the
'Fright' with the yellow shawl and the orange bonnet. Oh, the world, the
world!”
</p>
<p>
It is not for me to speculate on what sort of thing the world had been, if
the Major himself had been intrusted with the control and fashion of it;
but I have my doubts that we are just as well off as we are. “Well, though
they haven't the manners to say 'M'Cormick; will you stop and dine?' they
haven't done with me yet; not a bit!” And with this resolve he entered the
cottage, and found his way to the drawing-room. It was unoccupied; so he
sat himself down in a comfortable armchair, to await events and their
issue. There were books and journals and newspapers about; but the Major
was not a reader, and so he sat musing and meditating, while the time went
by. Just as the clock struck five, Miss Dinah, whose various cares of
housewifery had given her a very busy day, was about to have a look at the
drawing-room before she went to dress, and being fully aware that one of
her guests was asleep, and the other full stretched beside the river, she
felt she could go her “rounds” without fear of being observed. Now,
whatever had been the peculiar functions she was lately engaged in, they
had exacted from her certain changes in costume more picturesque than
flattering. In the first place, the sleeves of her dress were rolled up
above the elbows, displaying arms more remarkable for bone than beauty. A
similar curtailment of her petticoats exhibited feet and ankles which—not
to be ungallant—might be called massive rather than elegant; and
lastly, her two long curls of auburn hair—curls which, in the
splendor of her full toilette, were supposed to be no mean aids to her
captivating powers—were now tastefully festooned and fastened to the
back of her head, pretty much as a pair of hawsers are occasionally
disposed on the bow of a merchantman! Thus costumed, she had advanced into
the middle of the room before she saw the Major.
</p>
<p>
“A pleasure quite unexpected, sir, is this,” said she, with a vigorous
effort to shake out what sailors would call her “lower courses.” “I was
not aware that you were here.”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed, then, I came in myself, just like old times. I said this morning,
if it 's fine to-day, I 'll just go over to the 'Fisherman's Home.'”
</p>
<p>
“'The Home,' sir, if you please. We retain so much of the former name.”
But just as she uttered the correction, a chance look at the glass
conveyed the condition of her head-gear,—a startling fact which made
her cheeks perfectly crimson. “I lay stress upon the change of name, sir,”
continued she, “as intimating that we are no longer innkeepers, and expect
something, at least, of the deference rendered to those who call their
house their own.”
</p>
<p>
“To be sure, and why not?” croaked out the Major, with a malicious grin.
“And I forgot all about it, little thinking, indeed, to surprise you in
'dishabille,' as they call it.”
</p>
<p>
“<i>You</i> surprise me, sir, every time we meet,” said she, with flashing
eyes. “And you make me feel surprised with myself for my endurance!” And
so saying, she retired towards the door, covering her retreat as she went
by every object of furniture that presented itself, and, like a skilful
general, defending her rear by every artifice of the ground. Thus did she
exit, and with a bang of the door—as eloquent as any speech—close
the colloquy.
</p>
<p>
“Faix! and the Swiss costume doesn't become you at all!” said the Major,
as he sat back in his chair, and cackled over the scene.
</p>
<p>
As Miss Barrington, boiling with passion, passed her brother's door, she
stopped to knock.
</p>
<p>
“Peter!” cried she. “Peter Barrington, I say!” The words were, however,
not well out, when she heard a step ascending the stair. She could not
risk another discovery like the last; so, opening the door, she said,
“That hateful M'Cormick is below. Peter, take care that on no account—”
</p>
<p>
There was no time to finish, and she had barely an instant to gain her own
room, when Stapylton reached the corridor.
</p>
<p>
Peter Barrington had, however, heard enough to inform him of his sister's
high behest. Indeed, he was as quick at interpreting brief messages as
people have grown in these latter days of telegraphic communication.
Oracular utterings had been more than once in his life his only
instructors, and he now knew that he had been peremptorily ordered not to
ask the Major to dinner.
</p>
<p>
There are, doubtless, people in this world—I almost fancy I have met
one or two such myself—who would not have felt peculiar difficulty
in obeying this command; who would have gone down to the drawing-room and
talked coolly to the visitor, discussing commonplaces, easily and
carelessly, noting the while how at every pause of the conversation each
was dwelling on the self-same point, and yet, with a quiet abstinence,
never touching it, till with a sigh, that was half a malediction, the
uninvited would rise to take leave. Barrington was not of this number. The
man who sat under his roof was sacred. He could have no faults; and to
such a pitch had this punctilio carried him, that had an actual enemy
gained the inside of his threshold, he would have spared nothing to treat
him with honor and respect.
</p>
<p>
“Well, well,” muttered he, as he slowly descended the stairs, “it will be
the first time in my life I ever did it, and I don't know how to go about
it now.”
</p>
<p>
When a frank and generous man is about to do something he is ashamed of,
how readily will a crafty and less scrupulous observer detect it!
M'Cormick read Barrington's secret before he was a minute in the room. It
was in vain Peter affected an off-hand easy manner, incidentally dropping
a hint that the Attorney-General and another friend had just arrived,—a
visit, a mere business visit it was, to be passed with law papers and
parchments. “Poor fun when the partridges were in the stubble, but there
was no help for it. Who knew, however, if he could not induce them to give
him an extra day, and if I can, Major, you must promise to come over and
meet them. You 'll be charmed with Withering, he has such a fund of
agreeability. One of the old school, but not the less delightful to you
and me. Come, now, give me your word—for—shall we say
Saturday?—Yes, Saturday!”
</p>
<p>
“I 've nothing to say against it,” grumbled out M'Cormick, whose assent
was given, as attorneys say, without prejudice to any other claim.
</p>
<p>
“You shall hear from me in the morning, then,” said Peter. “I 'll send you
a line to say what success I have had with my friends.”
</p>
<p>
“Any time in the day will do,” said the Major, unconcernedly; for, in
truth, the future never had in his estimation the same interest as the
present. As for the birds in the bush, he simply did not believe in them
at all.
</p>
<p>
“No, no,” said Barrington, hurriedly. “You shall hear from me early, for I
am anxious you should meet Withering and his companion, too,—a
brother-soldier.”
</p>
<p>
“Who may he be?” asked M'Cormick.
</p>
<p>
“That's my secret, Major,—that's my secret,” said Peter, with a
forced laugh, for it now wanted but ten minutes to six; “but you shall
know all on Saturday.”
</p>
<p>
Had he said on the day of judgment, the assurance would have been as
palatable to M'Cormick. Talking to him of Saturday on a Monday was asking
him to speculate on the infinite. Meanwhile he sat on, as only they sit
who understand the deep and high mystery of that process. Oh, if you who
have your fortunes to make in life, without any assignable mode for so
doing, without a craft, a calling, or a trade, knew what success there was
to be achieved merely by sitting—by simply being “there,” eternally
“there”—a warning, an example, an illustration, a what you will, of
boredom or infliction; but still “there.” The butt of this man, the terror
of that,—hated, feared, trembled at,—but yet recognized as a
thing that must be, an institution that was, and is, and shall be, when we
are all dead and buried.
</p>
<p>
Long and dreary may be the days of the sitter, but the hour of his reward
will come at last. There will come the time when some one—any one—will
be wanted to pair off with some other bore, to listen to his stories and
make up his whist-table; and then he will be “there.” I knew a man who,
merely by sitting on patiently for years, was at last chosen to be sent as
a Minister and special Envoy to a foreign Court just to get rid of him.
And for the women sitters,—the well-dressed and prettily got-up
simperers, who have sat their husbands into Commissionerships, Colonial
Secretaryships, and such like,—are they not written of in the Book
of Beauty?
</p>
<p>
“Here 's M'Cormick, Dinah,” said Barrington, with a voice shaking with
agitation and anxiety, “whom I want to pledge himself to us for Saturday
next. Will you add your persuasions to mine, and see what can be done?”
</p>
<p>
“Don't you think you can depend upon me?” cackled out the Major.
</p>
<p>
“I am certain of it, sir; I feel your word like your bond on such a
matter,” said Miss Dinah. “My grandniece, Miss Josephine Barrington,” said
she, presenting that young lady, who courtesied formally to the
unprepossessing stranger.
</p>
<p>
“I'm proud of the honor, ma'am,” said M'Cormick, with a deep bow, and
resumed his seat; to rise again, however, as Withering entered the room
and was introduced to him.
</p>
<p>
“This is intolerable, Peter,” whispered Miss Barrington, while the lawyer
and the Major were talking together. “You are certain you have not asked
him?”
</p>
<p>
“On my honor, Dinah! on my honor!”
</p>
<p>
“I hope I am not late?” cried Stapylton, entering; then turning hastily to
Barrington, said, “Pray present me to your niece.”
</p>
<p>
“This is my sister, Major Stapylton; this is my granddaughter;” and the
ladies courtesied, each with a degree of satisfaction which the reader
shall be left to assign them.
</p>
<p>
After a few words of commonplace civility, uttered, however, with a
courtesy and tact which won their way for the speaker, Stapylton
recognized and shook hands with M'Cormick.
</p>
<p>
“You know my neighbor, then?” said Barrington, in some surprise.
</p>
<p>
“I am charmed to say I do; he owes me the <i>denouement</i> of a most
amusing story, which was suddenly broken off when we last parted, but
which I shall certainly claim after dinner.”
</p>
<p>
“He has been kind enough to engage himself to us for Saturday,” began
Dinah. But M'Cormick, who saw the moment critical, stepped in,—
</p>
<p>
“You shall hear every word of it before you sleep. It's all about
Walcheren, though they think Waterloo more the fashion now.”
</p>
<p>
“Just as this young lady might fancy Major Stapylton a more interesting
event than one of us,” said Withering, laughing. “But what 's become of
your boasted punctuality, Barrington? A quarter past,—are you
waiting for any one?”
</p>
<p>
“Are we, Dinah?” asked Barrington, with a look of sheepishness.
</p>
<p>
“Not that I am aware of, Peter. There is no one to <i>come</i>;” and she
laid such an emphasis on the word as made the significance palpable.
</p>
<p>
To Barrington it was painful as well as palpable; so painful, indeed, that
he hurriedly rang the bell, saying, in a sharp voice, “Of course, we are
all here,—there are six of us. Dinner, Darby!”
</p>
<p>
The Major had won, but he was too crafty to show any triumph at his
victory, and he did not dare even to look towards where Miss Barrington
stood, lest he should chance to catch her eye. Dinner was at length
announced. Withering gave his arm to Miss Barrington, Stapylton took
charge of Josephine, and old Peter, pleasantly drawing his arm within
M'Cormick's, said, “I hope you 've got a good appetite, Major, for I have
a rare fish for you to-day, and your favorite sauce, too,—smelt, not
lobster.”
</p>
<p>
Poor Barrington! it was a trying moment for him, that short walk into the
dinner-room, and he felt very grateful to M'Cormick that he said nothing
peevish or sarcastic to him on the way. Many a dinner begins in
awkwardness, but warms as it proceeds into a pleasant geniality. Such was
the case here. Amongst those, besides, who have not the ties of old
friendship between them, or have not as yet warmed into that genial
good-fellowship which is, so to say, its foster-brother, a character of
the M'Cormick class is not so damaging an element as might be imagined,
and at times there is a positive advantage in having one of whose merits,
by a tacit understanding, all are quite agreed. Withering and Stapylton
both read the man at once, and drew out his salient points—his
parsimony, his malice, and his prying curiosity—in various ways, but
so neatly and so advisedly as to make him fancy he was the attacking
party, and very successful, too, in his assaults upon the enemy. Even
Barrington, in the honest simplicity of his nature, was taken in, and more
than once thought that the old Major was too severe upon the others, and
sat in wondering admiration of their self-command and good temper. No
deception of this sort prevailed with Miss Barrington, who enjoyed to the
fullest extent the subtle raillery with which they induced him to betray
every meanness of his nature, and yet never suffered the disclosure to
soar above the region of the ludicrous.
</p>
<p>
“You have been rather hard upon them, Major,” said Barrington, as they
strolled about on the greensward after dinner to enjoy their coffee and a
cigar. “Don't you think you have been a shade too severe?”
</p>
<p>
“It will do them good. They wanted to turn me out like a bagged fox, and
show the ladies some sport; but I taught them a thing or two.”
</p>
<p>
“No, no, M'Cormick, you wrong them there; they had no such intentions,
believe me.”
</p>
<p>
“I know that <i>you</i> did n't see it,” said he, with emphasis, “but your
sister did, and liked it well, besides; ay, and the young one joined in
the fun. And, after all, I don't see that they got much by the victory,
for Withering was not pleased at my little hit about the days when he used
to be a Whig and spout liberal politics; and the other liked just as
little my remark about the fellows in the Company's service, and how
nobody knew who they were or where they came from. He was in the Madras
army himself, but I pretended not to know it; but I found his name written
on the leaf of an old book he gave me, and the regiment he was in: and did
you see how he looked when I touched on it? But here he comes now.”
</p>
<p>
“Make your peace with him, M'Cormick, make your peace!” said Barrington,
as he moved away, not sorry, as he went, to mark the easy familiarity with
which Stapylton drew his arm within the other's, and walked along at his
side.
</p>
<p>
“Wasn't that a wonderful dinner we had to-day, from a man that hasn't a
cross in his pocket?” croaked out M'Cormick to Stapylton.
</p>
<p>
“Is it possible?”
</p>
<p>
“Sherry and Madeira after your soup, then Sauterne,—a thing I don't
care for any more than the oyster patties it came with; champagne next,
and in tumblers too! Do you ever see it better done at your mess? Or where
did you ever taste a finer glass of claret?”
</p>
<p>
“It was all admirable.”
</p>
<p>
“There was only one thing forgotten,—not that it signifies to me.”
</p>
<p>
“And what might that be?”
</p>
<p>
“It was n't paid for! No, nor will it ever be!”
</p>
<p>
“You amaze me, Major. My impression was that our friend here was, without
being rich, in very comfortable circumstances; able to live handsomely,
while he carried on a somewhat costly suit.”
</p>
<p>
“That 's the greatest folly of all,” broke out M'Cormick; “and it's to get
money for that now that he's going to mortgage this place here,—ay,
the very ground under our feet!” And this he said with a sort of tremulous
indignation, as though the atrocity bore especially hard upon <i>them</i>.
“Kinshela, the attorney from Kilkenny, was up with me about it yesterday.
'It's an elegant investment, Major,' says he, 'and you 're very likely to
get the place into your hands for all the chance old Peter has of paying
off the charge. His heart is in that suit, and he 'll not stop as long as
he has a guinea to go on with it.'
</p>
<p>
“I said, 'I 'd think of it: I 'd turn it over in my mind;' for there's
various ways of looking at it.”
</p>
<p>
“I fancy I apprehend one of them,” said Stapylton, with a half-jocular
glance at his companion. “You have been reflecting over another
investment, eh? Am I not right? I remarked you at dinner. I saw how the
young brunette had struck you, and I said to myself, 'She has made a
conquest already!'”
</p>
<p>
“Not a bit of it; nothing of the kind,” said M'Cormick, awkwardly. “I 'm
too 'cute to be caught that way.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, but remember it might be a very good catch. I don't speak of the
suit, because I agree with you, the chances in that direction are very
small, indeed, and I cannot understand the hopeful feeling with which he
prosecutes it; but she is a fine, handsome girl, very attractive in
manner, and equal to any station.”
</p>
<p>
“And what's the good of all that to me? Wouldn't it be better if she could
make a pease-pudding, like Polly Dill, or know how to fatten a turkey, or
salt down a side of bacon?”
</p>
<p>
“I don't think so; I declare, I don't think so,” said Stapylton, as he
lighted a fresh cigar. “These are household cares, and to be bought with
money, and not expensively, either. What a man like you or I wants is one
who should give a sort of tone,—impart a degree of elegance to his
daily life. We old bachelors grow into self-indulgence, which is only
another name for barbarism. With a mistaken idea of comfort we neglect
scores of little observances which constitute the small currency of
civilization, and without which all intercourse is unpleasing and
ungraceful.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm not quite sure that I understand you aright, but there's one thing I
know, I 'd think twice of it before I 'd ask that young woman to be Mrs.
M'Cormick. And, besides,” added he, with a sly side-look, “if it's so good
a thing, why don't you think of it for yourself?”
</p>
<p>
“I need not tell an old soldier like <i>you</i> that full pay and a wife
are incompatible. Every wise man's experience shows it; and when a fellow
goes to the bishop for a license, he should send in his papers to the
Horse Guards. Now, I 'm too poor to give up my career. I have not, like
you, a charming cottage on a river's bank, and a swelling lawn dotted over
with my own sheep before my door. I cannot put off the harness.”
</p>
<p>
“Who talks of putting off the harness?” cried Withering, gayly, as he
joined them. “Who ever dreamed of doing anything so ill-judging and so
mistaken? Why, if it were only to hide the spots where the collar has
galled you, you ought to wear the trappings to the last. No man ever knew
how to idle, who had n't passed all his life at it! Some go so far as to
say that for real success a man's father and grandfather should have been
idlers before him. But have you seen Barrington? He has been looking for
you all over the grounds.”
</p>
<p>
“No,” said Stapylton; “my old brother-officer and myself got into pipeclay
and barrack talk, and strolled away down here unconsciously.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, we 'd better not be late for tea,” broke in the Major, “or we 'll
hear of it from Miss Dinah!” And there was something so comic in the
seriousness of his tone, that they laughed heartily as they turned towards
the house.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER IV. A MOVE IN ADVANCE
</h2>
<p>
How pleasantly did the next day break on the “Home”! Polly Dill arrived in
the best of possible spirits. A few lines from Tom had just reached them.
They were written at sea; but the poor fellow's notions of latitude and
longitude were so confused that it was not easy to say from whence. They
were cheery, however, he was in good health, his comrades were
kind-hearted creatures, and evidently recognized in him one of a station
above their own. He said that he could have been appointed hospital
sergeant-if he liked, but that whatever reminded him of his old calling
was so distasteful that he preferred remaining as he was, the rather as he
was given to believe he should soon be a corporal.
</p>
<p>
“Not that I mean to stop there, Polly; and now that I have n't got to
study for it, I feel a courage as to the future I never knew before. Give
my love to Mr. Conyers, and say that I 'm never tired of thinking over the
last night I saw him, and of all his good nature to me, and that I hope I
'll see his father some day or other to thank him. I suppose father does
n't miss me? I 'm sure mother does n't; and it 's only yourself, Polly,
will ever feel a heavy heart for the poor castaway! But cheer up! for as
sure as my name is Tom, I 'll not bring discredit on you, and you 'll not
be ashamed to take my arm down the main street when we meet. I must close
now, for the boat is going.
</p>
<p>
“P. S. I dreamed last night you rode Sid Davis's brown mare over the
Millrace at Graigue. Would n't it be strange if it came true? I wish I
could know it.”
</p>
<p>
“May I show this to my friend here, Polly?” said Barrington, pointing to
Withering. “It's a letter he 'd like to read; and as she nodded assent, he
handed it across the breakfast-table.
</p>
<p>
“What is your brother's regiment, Miss Dill?” said Stapylton, who had just
caught a stray word or two of what passed.
</p>
<p>
“The Forty-ninth.”
</p>
<p>
“The Forty-ninth,” said he, repeating the words once or twice. “Let me
see,—don't I know some Forty-ninth men? To be sure I do. There's Rep
ton and Hare. Your brother will be delighted with Hare.”
</p>
<p>
“My brother is in the ranks, Major Stapylton,” said she, flushing a deep
scarlet; and Barrington quickly interposed,—
</p>
<p>
“It was the wild frolic of a young man to escape a profession he had no
mind for.”
</p>
<p>
“But in foreign armies every one does it,” broke in Stapylton, hurriedly.
“No matter what a man's rank may be, he must carry the musket; and I own I
like the practice,—if for nothing else for that fine spirit of <i>camaraderie</i>
which it engenders.”
</p>
<p>
Fifine's eyes sparkled with pleasure at what she deemed the well-bred
readiness of this speech, while Polly became deadly pale, and seemed with
difficulty to repress the repartee that rose to her mind. Not so Miss
Dinah, who promptly said, “No foreign customs can palliate a breach of our
habits. We are English, and we don't desire to be Frenchmen or Germans.”
</p>
<p>
“Might we not occasionally borrow from our neighbors with advantage?”
asked Stapylton, blandly.
</p>
<p>
“I agree with Miss Barrington,” said Withering,—“I agree with Miss
Barrington, whose very prejudices are always right. An army formed by a
conscription which exempts no man is on a totally different footing from
one derived from voluntary enlistment.”
</p>
<p>
“A practice that some say should be reserved for marriage,” said
Barrington, whose happy tact it was to relieve a discussion by a ready
joke.
</p>
<p>
They arose from table soon after,—Polly to accompany Miss Barrington
over the garden and the shrubberies, and show all that had been done in
their absence, and all that she yet intended to do, if approved of;
Withering adjourned to Barrington's study to pore over parchments; and
Stapylton, after vainly seeking to find Josephine in the drawing-room, the
flower-garden, or the lawn, betook himself with a book, the first he could
find on the table, to the river's side, and lay down, less to read than to
meditate and reflect.
</p>
<p>
A breezy morning of a fine day in early autumn, with slow sailing clouds
above and a flickering sunlight on the grass below, besides a rippling
river, whose banks are glowing with blue and purple heath-bells,—all
these and a Waverley novel were not enough to distract Stapylton from the
cares that pressed upon his mind; for so it is, look where we may on those
whom Fortune would seem to have made her especial favorites, and we shall
find some unsatisfied ambition, some craving wish doomed to
disappointment, some hope deferred till the heart that held it has ceased
to care for its accomplishment. To the world's eyes, here was a man
eminently fortunate: already high up in the service, with health, vigor,
and good looks, a reputation established for personal gallantry in the
field, and an amount of capacity that had already won for him more than
one distinction, and yet all these, great and solid advantages as they
are, were not sufficient to give the ease of mind we call happiness.
</p>
<p>
He had debts, some of them heavy debts, but these sat lightly on him. He
was one of those men creditors never crush, some secret consciousness
seeming to whisper that, however ill the world may go with them for a
while, in the long run they must triumph; and thus Mr. Hirman Davis, to
whom he owed thousands, would have cashed him another bill to-morrow, all
on the faith of that future which Stapylton talked about with the careless
confidence of a mind assured.
</p>
<p>
He had enemies, too,—powerful and determined enemies,—who
opposed his advancement for many a year, and were still adverse to him;
but, like the creditors, they felt he was not a man to be crushed, and so
he and his ill-wishers smiled blandly when they met, exchanged the most
cordial greetings, and even imparted little confidences of their several
fortunes with all that well-bred duplicity which so simulates friendship.
</p>
<p>
He had been crossed,—no, not in love, but in his ambition to marry
one greatly above him in station; but her subsequent marriage had been so
unfortunate that he felt in part recompensed for the slight she passed
upon him; so that, taking it all and all, fate had never been cruel to him
without a compensation.
</p>
<p>
There are men who feel their whole existence to be a hand-to-hand struggle
with the world, who regard the world as an adversary to be worsted, and
all whose efforts are devoted to reach that point upon which they can turn
round and say, “You see that I have won the game. I was unknown, and I am
famous; I was poor, and I am rich; I was passed over and ignored, and now
the very highest are proud to recognize me!” Stapylton was one of these.
All the egotism of his nature took this form, and it was far more in a
spirit against his fellows than in any indulgence of himself he fought and
struggled with Fortune. Intrusted by Withering with much of the secret
history of Barring-ton's claim against the India Company, he had learned
considerably more through inquiries instituted by himself, and at length
arrived at the conclusion that if old Barring-ton could be persuaded to
limit his demands within moderate bounds, and not insist upon the details
of that personal reparation which he assumed so essential to his son's
honor, a very ample recompense would not be refused him. It was to induce
Barrington to take this course Stapylton had consented to come down with
Withering,—so, at least, he said, and so Withering believed. Old
lawyer that he was, with a hundred instincts of distrust about him, he had
conceived a real liking for Stapylton, and a great confidence in his
judgment. “We shall have to divide our labors here, Major,” said he, as
they travelled along together; “I will leave the ladies to your care.
Barrington shall be mine.” A very brief acquaintance with Miss Dinah
satisfied Stapylton that she was one to require nice treatment, and what
he called “a very light hand.” The two or three little baits he had thrown
out took nothing; the stray bits of sentimentality, or chance scraps of
high-toned principle he had addressed to her, had failed. It was only when
he had with some sharpness hit off some small meanness in M'Cormick's
nature that she had even vouchsafed him so much as a half-smile of
approval, and he saw that even then she watched him closely.
</p>
<p>
“No,” said he, half aloud to himself, “that old woman is not one easily to
be dealt with; and the younger one, too, would have a will of her own if
she had but the way to use it. If Polly had been in her place,—the
clever, quickwitted Polly,—she would have gone with me in my plans,
associated herself in all my projects, and assured their success. Oh for a
good colleague just to keep the boat's head straight when one is weary of
rowing!”
</p>
<p>
“Would I do?” said a low voice near. And, on looking up, he saw Josephine
standing over him, with an arch smile on her face as though she had
surprised him in a confession.
</p>
<p>
“How long have you been there?” asked he, hurriedly.
</p>
<p>
“A few seconds.''
</p>
<p>
“And what have you heard me say?”
</p>
<p>
“That you wanted a colleague, or a companion of some sort; and as I was
the only useless person here, I offered myself.”
</p>
<p>
“In good faith?”
</p>
<p>
“In good faith!—why not? I am more likely to gain by the association
than you are; at least, if you can only be as pleasant of a morning as you
were yesterday at dinner.”
</p>
<p>
“I 'll try,” said he, springing to his feet; “and as a success in these
efforts is mainly owing to the amount of zeal that animates them, I am
hopeful.”
</p>
<p>
“Which means a flattery at the outset,” said she, smiling.
</p>
<p>
“Only as much as your friend Mr. Withering would throw out to dispose the
court in his favor; and now, which way shall we walk? Are you to be the
guide, or I?”
</p>
<p>
“You, by all means, since you know nothing of the locality.”
</p>
<p>
“Agreed. Well, here is my plan. We cross the river in this boat, and take
that path yonder that leads up by the waterfall. I know, from the dark
shadow of the mountain, that there is a deep glen, very wild, very
romantic, and very solemn, through which I mean to conduct you.”
</p>
<p>
“All this means a very long excursion, does it not?”
</p>
<p>
“You have just told me that you were free from all engagement.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes; but not from all control. I must ask Aunt Dinah's leave before I set
out on this notable expedition.”
</p>
<p>
“Do nothing of the kind. It would be to make a caprice seem a plan. Let us
go where you will,—here, along the river's side; anywhere, so that
we may affect to think that we are free agents, and not merely good
children sent out for a walk.”
</p>
<p>
“What a rebel against authority you are for one so despotic yourself!”
</p>
<p>
“I despotic! Who ever called me so?”
</p>
<p>
“Your officers say as much.”
</p>
<p>
“I know from what quarter that came,” said he; and his bronzed face grew a
shade deeper. “That dilettante soldier, young Conyers, has given me this
character; but I 'd rather talk of you than myself. Tell me all about your
life. Is it as delightful as everything around would bespeak it? Are these
trees and flowers, this sunny bank, this perfumed sward, true emblems of
the existence they embellish, or is Paradise only a cheat?”
</p>
<p>
“I don't think so. I think Paradise is very like what it looks, not but I
own that the garden is pleasanter with guests in it than when only Adam
and Eve were there. Mr. Withering is charming, and you can be very
agreeable.”
</p>
<p>
“I would I knew how to be so,” said he, seriously, “just at this moment;
for I am going away from Ireland, and I am very desirous of leaving a good
impression behind me.”
</p>
<p>
“What could it signify to you how you were thought of in this lonely
spot?”
</p>
<p>
“More than you suspect,—more than you would, perhaps, credit,” said
he, feelingly.
</p>
<p>
There was a little pause, during which they walked along side by side.
</p>
<p>
“What are you thinking of?” said she, at last
</p>
<p>
“I was thinking of a strange thing,—it was this: About a week ago
there was no effort I was not making to obtain the command of my regiment.
I wanted to be Lieutenant-Colonel; and so bent was I on gaining my object,
that if giving away three or four years of that life that I may hope for
would have done it, I 'd have closed the bargain; and now the ambition is
gone, and I am speculating whether I 'll not take the cottage of your
friend Major M'Cormick,—he offered it to me last night,—and
become your neighbor. What say <i>you</i> to the project?”
</p>
<p>
“For us the exchange will be all a gain.”
</p>
<p>
“I want your opinion,—your own,” said he, with a voice reduced to a
mere whisper.
</p>
<p>
“I'd like it of all things; although, if I were your sister or your
daughter, I'd not counsel it.”
</p>
<p>
“And why not, if you were my sister?” said he, with a certain constraint
in his manner.
</p>
<p>
“I'd say it was inglorious to change from the noble activity of a
soldier's life to come and dream away existence here.”
</p>
<p>
“But what if I have done enough for this same thing men call fame? I have
had my share of campaigning, and as the world looks there is wondrous
little prospect of any renewal of it. These peace achievements suit your
friend Conyers better than me.”
</p>
<p>
“I think you are not just to him. If I read him aright, he is burning for
an occasion to distinguish himself.”
</p>
<p>
A cold shrug of the shoulders was his only acknowledgment of this speech,
and again a silence fell between them.
</p>
<p>
“I would rather talk of <i>you</i>, if you would let me,” said he, with
much significance of voice and manner. “Say would you like to have me for
your neighbor?”
</p>
<p>
“It would be a pleasant exchange for Major M'Cormick,” said she, laughing.
</p>
<p>
“I want you to be serious now. What I am asking you interests me too
deeply to jest over.”
</p>
<p>
“First of all, is the project a serious one?”
</p>
<p>
“It is.”
</p>
<p>
“Next, why ask advice from one as inexperienced as I am?”
</p>
<p>
“Because it is not counsel I ask,—it is something more. Don't look
surprised, and, above all, don't look angry, but listen to me. What I have
said now, and what more I would say, might more properly have been uttered
when we had known each other longer; but there are emergencies in life
which give no time for slow approaches, and there are men, too, that they
suit not. Imagine such now before you,—I mean, both the moment and
the man. Imagine one who has gone through a great deal in life, seen,
heard, and felt much, and yet never till now, never till this very
morning, understood what it was to know one whose least word or passing
look was more to him than ambition, higher than all the rewards of glory.”
</p>
<p>
“We never met till yesterday,” said she, calmly.
</p>
<p>
“True; and if we part to-morrow, it will be forever. I feel too
painfully,” added he, with more eagerness, “how I compromise all that I
value by an avowal abrupt and rash as this is; but I have had no choice. I
have been offered the command of a native force in India, and must give my
answer at once. With hope—the very faintest, so that it be hope—I
will refuse. Remember I want no pledge, no promise; all I entreat is that
you will regard me as one who seeks to win your favor. Let time do the
rest.”
</p>
<p>
“I do not think I ought to do this—I do not know if you should ask
it.”
</p>
<p>
“May I speak to your grandfather—may I tell him what I have told you—may
I say, 'It is with Josephine's permission—'”
</p>
<p>
“I am called Miss Barrington, sir, by all but those of my own family.”
</p>
<p>
“Forgive me, I entreat you,” said he, with a deep humility in his tone. “I
had never so far forgotten myself if calm reason had not deserted me. I
will not transgress again.”
</p>
<p>
“This is the shortest way back to the cottage,” said she, turning into a
narrow path in the wood.
</p>
<p>
“It does not lead to my hope,” said he, despondingly; and no more was
uttered between them for some paces.
</p>
<p>
“Do not walk so very fast, Miss Barrington,” said he, in a tone which
trembled slightly. “In the few minutes—the seconds you could accord
me—I might build the whole fortune of my life. I have already
endangered my hopes by rashness; let me own that it is the fault I have
struggled against in vain. This scar”—and he showed the deep mark of
a sabre-wound on the temple—“was the price of one of my offendings;
but it was light in suffering to what I am now enduring.”
</p>
<p>
“Can we not talk of what will exact no such sacrifice?” said she, calmly.
</p>
<p>
“Not now, not now!” said he, with emotion; “if you pass that porch without
giving me an answer, life has no longer a tie for me. You know that I ask
for no pledge, no promise, merely time,—no more than time,—a
few more of those moments of which you now would seem eager to deny me.
Linger an instant here, I beseech you, and remember that what to <i>you</i>
may be a caprice may to <i>me</i> be a destiny.”
</p>
<p>
“I will not hear more of this,” said she, half angrily. “If it were not
for my own foolish trustfulness, you never would have dared to address
such words to one whom you met yesterday for the first time.”
</p>
<p>
“It is true your generous frankness, the nature they told me you
inherited, gives me boldness, but it might teach you to have some pity for
a disposition akin to it. One word,—only one word more.”
</p>
<p>
“Not one, sir! The lesson my frankness has taught me is, never to incur
this peril again.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you part from me in anger?”
</p>
<p>
“Not with <i>you</i>; but I will not answer for myself if you press me
further.”
</p>
<p>
“Even this much is better than despair,” said he, mournfully; and she
passed into the cottage, while he stood in the porch and bowed
respectfully as she went by. “Better than I looked for, better than I
could have hoped,” muttered he to himself, as he strolled away and
disappeared in the wood.
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER V. A CABINET COUNCIL
</h2>
<p>
“What do you think of it, Dinah?” said Barrington, as they sat in conclave
the next morning in her own sitting-room.
</p>
<p>
She laid down a letter she had just finished reading on the table,
carefully folding it, like one trying to gain time before she spoke: “He's
a clever man, and writes well, Peter; there can be no second opinion upon
that.”
</p>
<p>
“But his proposal, Dinah,—his proposal?”
</p>
<p>
“Pleases me less the more I think of it. There is great disparity of age,—a
wide discrepancy in character. A certain gravity of demeanor would not be
undesirable, perhaps, in a husband for Josephine, who has her moments of
capricious fancy; but if I mistake not, this man's nature is stern and
unbending.”
</p>
<p>
“There will be time enough to consider all that, Dinah. It is, in fact, to
weigh well the chances of his fitness to secure her happiness that he
pleads; he asks permission to make himself known to her, rather than to
make his court.”
</p>
<p>
“I used to fancy that they meant the same thing,—I know that they
did in my day, Peter,” said she, bridling; “but come to the plain question
before us. So far as I understand him, his position is this: 'If I satisfy
you that my rank and fortune are satisfactory to you, have I your
permission to come back here as your granddaughter's suitor?'”
</p>
<p>
“Not precisely, Dinah,—not exactly this. Here are his words: 'I am
well aware that I am much older than Miss Barrington, and it is simply to
ascertain from herself if, in that disparity of years, there exists that
disparity of tastes and temper which would indispose her to regard me as
one to whom she would intrust her happiness. I hope to do this without any
offence to her delicacy, though not without peril to my own self-love.
Have I your leave for this experiment?'”
</p>
<p>
“Who is he? Who are his friends, connections, belongings? What is his
station independently of his military rank, and what are his means? Can
you answer these questions?”
</p>
<p>
“Not one of them. I never found myself till to-day in a position to
inquire after them.”
</p>
<p>
“Let us begin, then, by that investigation, Peter. There is no such test
of a man as to make him talk of himself. With you alone the matter,
perhaps, would not present much difficulty to him, but I intend that Mr.
Withering's name and my own shall be on the committee; and, take <i>my</i>
word for it, we shall sift the evidence carefully.”
</p>
<p>
“Bear in mind, sister Dinah, that this gentleman is, first of all, our
guest.”
</p>
<p>
“The first of all that I mean to bear in mind is, that he desires to be
your grandson.”
</p>
<p>
“Of course,—of course. I would only observe on the reserve that
should be maintained towards one who honors us with his presence.”
</p>
<p>
“Peter Barrington, the Arabs, from whom you seem to borrow your notions on
hospitality, seldom scruple about cutting a guest's head off when he
passes the threshold; therefore I would advise you to adopt habits that
may be more suited to the land we live in.”
</p>
<p>
“All I know is,” said Barrington, rising and pacing the room, “that I
could no more put a gentleman under my roof to the question as to his
father and mother and his fortune, than I could rifle his writing-desk and
read his letters.”
</p>
<p>
“Brother Peter, the weakness of your disposition has cost you one of the
finest estates in your country, and if it could be restored to you
to-morrow, the same imbecility would forfeit it again. I will, however,
take the matter into my own hands.”
</p>
<p>
“With Withering, I suppose, to assist you?”
</p>
<p>
“Certainly not. I am perfectly competent to make any inquiry I deem
requisite without a legal adviser. Perhaps, were I to be so accompanied,
Major Stapylton would suppose that he, too, should appear with his
lawyer.”
</p>
<p>
Barrington smiled faintly at the dry jest, but said nothing.
</p>
<p>
“I see,” resumed she, “that you are very much afraid about my want of tact
and delicacy in this investigation. It is a somewhat common belief amongst
men that in all matters of business women err on the score of hardness and
persistence. I have listened to some edifying homilies from your friend
Withering on female incredulity and so forth,—reproaches which will
cease to apply when men shall condescend to treat us as creatures
accessible to reason, and not as mere dupes. See who is knocking at the
door, Peter,” added she, sharply. “I declare it recalls the old days of
our innkeeping, and Darby asking for the bill of the lame gentleman in No.
4.”
</p>
<p>
“Upon my life, they were pleasant days, too,” said Barrington, but in a
tone so low as to be unheard by his sister.
</p>
<p>
“May I come in?” said Withering, as he opened the door a few inches, and
peeped inside. “I want to show you a note I have just had from Kinshela,
in Kilkenny.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, yes; come in,” said Miss Barrington. “I only wish you had arrived a
little earlier. What is your note about?”
</p>
<p>
“It's very short and very purpose-like. The first of it is all about
Brazier's costs, which it seems the taxing-officer thinks fair and
reasonable,—all excepting that charge for the additional affidavits.
But here is what I want to show you. 'Major M'Cormick, of M'Cormick's
Grove, has just been here; and although I am not entitled to say as much
officially on his part, I entertain no doubt whatever but that he is ready
to advance the money we require. I spoke of fifteen hundred, but said
twelve might possibly be taken, and twelve would be, I imagine, his limit,
since he held to this amount in all our conversation afterwards. He
appears to be a man of strange and eccentric habits, and these will
probably be deemed a sufficient excuse for the singular turn our interview
took towards its conclusion. I was speaking of Mr. Barrington's wish for
the insertion in the deed of a definite period for redemption, and he
stopped me hastily with, “What if we could strike out another arrangement?
What if he was to make a settlement of the place on his granddaughter? I
am not too old to marry, and I 'd give him the money at five per cent.” I
have been careful to give you the very expressions he employed, and of
which I made a note when he left the office; for although fully aware how
improper it would be in me to submit this proposal to Mr. Barrington, I
have felt it my duty to put you in possession of all that has passed
between us.'”
</p>
<p>
“How can you laugh, Peter Barrington?—how is it possible you can
laugh at such an insult,—such an outrage as this? Go on, sir,” said
she, turning to Withering; “let us hear it to the end, for nothing worse
can remain behind.”
</p>
<p>
“There is no more; at least, there is not anything worth hearing. Kinshela
winds up with many apologies, and hopes that I will only use his
communication for my own guidance, and not permit it in any case to
prejudice him in your estimation.” As he spoke, he crumpled up the note in
his hand in some confusion.
</p>
<p>
“Who thinks of Mr. Kinshela, or wants to think of him, in the matter?”
said she, angrily. “I wish, however, I were a man for a couple of hours,
to show Major M'Cormick the estimate I take of the honor he intends us.”
</p>
<p>
“After all, Dinah, it is not that he holds us more cheaply, but rates
himself higher.”
</p>
<p>
“Just so,” broke in Withering; “and I know, for my own part, I have never
been able to shake off the flattery of being chosen by the most nefarious
rascal to defend him on his trial. Every man is a great creature in his
own eyes.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, sir, be proud of your client,” said she, trembling with anger.
</p>
<p>
“No, no,—he 's no client of mine, nor is this a case I would plead
for him. I read you Kinshela's note because I thought you were building
too confidently on M'Cormick's readiness to advance this money.”
</p>
<p>
“I understood what that readiness meant, though my brother did not.
M'Cormick looked forward to the day—and not a very distant day did
he deem it—when he should step into possession of this place, and
settle down here as its owner.”
</p>
<p>
Barrington's face grew pale, and a glassy film spread over his eyes, as
his sister's words sunk into his heart. “I declare, Dinah,” said he,
falteringly, “that never did strike me before.”
</p>
<p>
“'It never rains but it pours,' says the Irish adage,” resumed she. “My
brother and I were just discussing another proposal of the same kind when
you knocked. Read that letter. It is from a more adroit courtier than the
other, and, at least, he does n't preface his intentions with a bargain.”
And she handed Stapylton's letter to Withering.
</p>
<p>
“Ah!” said the lawyer, “this is another guess sort of man, and a very
different sort of proposal.”
</p>
<p>
“I suspected that he was a favorite of yours,” said Miss Dinah,
significantly.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I own to it. He is one of those men who have a great attraction for
me,—men who come out of the conflict of life and its interests
without any exaggerated notions of human perfectibility or the opposite,
who recognize plenty of good and no small share of bad in the world, but,
on the whole, are satisfied that, saving ill health, very few of our
calamities are not of our own providing.”
</p>
<p>
“All of which is perfectly compatible with an odious egotism, sir,” said
she, warmly; “but I feel proud to say such characters find few admirers
amongst women.”
</p>
<p>
“From which I opine that he is not fortunate enough to number Miss Dinah
Barrington amongst his supporters?”
</p>
<p>
“You are right there, sir. The prejudice I had against him before we met
has been strengthened since I have seen him.”
</p>
<p>
“It is candid of you, however, to call it a prejudice,” said he, with a
smile.
</p>
<p>
“Be it so, Mr. Withering; but prejudice is only another word for an
instinct.”
</p>
<p>
“I 'm afraid if we get into ethics we 'll forget all about the proposal,”
said Barrington.
</p>
<p>
“What a sarcasm!” cried Withering, “that if we talk of morals we shall
ignore matrimony.”
</p>
<p>
“I like the man, and I like his letter,” said Barrington.
</p>
<p>
“I distrust both one and the other,” said Miss Dinah.
</p>
<p>
“I almost fancy I could hold a brief on either side,” interposed
Withering.
</p>
<p>
“Of course you could, sir; and if the choice were open to you, it would be
the defence of the guilty.”
</p>
<p>
“My dear Miss Barrington,” said Withering, calmly, “when a great legal
authority once said that he only needed three lines of any man's writing
'to hang him,' it ought to make us very lenient in our construction of a
letter. Now, so far as I can see in this one before us, he neither asks
nor protests too much. He begs simply for time, he entreats leave to draw
a bill on your affections, and he promises to meet it.”
</p>
<p>
“No, sir, he wishes to draw at sight, though he has never shown us the
letter of credit.”
</p>
<p>
“I vow to Heaven it is hopeless to expect anything practical when you two
stand up together for a sparring-match,” cried Barrington.
</p>
<p>
“Be practical, then, brother Peter, and ask this gentleman to give you a
quarter of an hour in your study. Find out who he is; I don't expect you
to learn what he is, but what he has. With his fortune we shall get the
clew to himself.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes,” chimed in Withering, “all that is very businesslike and
reasonable.”
</p>
<p>
“And it pledges us to nothing,” added she. “We take soundings, but we
don't promise to anchor.”
</p>
<p>
“If you go off again with your figures of speech, Dinah, there is an end
of me, for I have one of those unhappy memories that retain the
illustration and forget what it typified. Besides this, here is a man who,
out of pure good nature and respect for poor George's memory, has been
doing us most important services, written letters innumerable, and taken
the most active measures for our benefit. What sort of a figure shall I
present if I bring him to book about his rental and the state of his bank
account?”
</p>
<p>
“With the exercise of a little tact, Barrington,—a little management—”
</p>
<p>
“Ask a man with a club-foot to walk gingerly! I have no more notion of
getting at anything by address than I have of tying the femoral artery.”
</p>
<p>
“The more blunt the better, Peter Barrington. You may tumble into the
truth, though you'd never pick your way into it. Meanwhile, leave me to
deal with Major M'Cor-mick.”
</p>
<p>
“You'll do it courteously, Dinah; you'll bear in mind that he is a
neighbor of some twenty years' standing?” said Barrington, in a voice of
anxiety.
</p>
<p>
“I 'll do it in a manner that shall satisfy <i>my</i> conscience and <i>his</i>
presumption.”
</p>
<p>
She seated herself at the table as she said this, and dashed off a few
hasty lines. Indeed, so hurried was the action, that it looked far more
like one of those instances of correspondence we see on the stage than an
event of real life.
</p>
<p>
“Will that do?” said she, showing the lines to Withering.
</p>
<p>
The old lawyer read them over to himself, a faint twitching of the mouth
being the only sign his face presented of any emotion. “I should say
admirably,—nothing better.”
</p>
<p>
“May I see it, Dinah?” asked Peter.
</p>
<p>
“You shall hear it, brother,” said she, taking the paper and reading,—
</p>
<p>
“'Miss Barrington informs Mr. Kinshela that if he does not at once retract
his epistle of this morning's date, she will place it in the hands of her
legal adviser, and proceed against it as a threatening letter.'”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, sister, you will not send this?”
</p>
<p>
“As sure as my name is Dinah Barrington.”
</p>
<p>
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<h2>
CHAPTER VI. AN EXPRESS
</h2>
<p>
In the times before telegraphs,—and it is of such I am writing,—a
hurried express was a far more stirring event than in these our days of
incessant oracles. While, therefore, Barrington and his sister and
Withering sat in deep consultation on Josephine's fate and future, a hasty
summons arrived from Dublin, requiring the instantaneous departure of
Stapylton, whose regiment was urgently needed in the north of England, at
that time agitated by those disturbances called the Bread Riots. They were
very formidable troubles, and when we look back upon them now, with the
light which the great events of later years on the Continent afford us,
seem more terrible still. It was the fashion, however, then, to treat them
lightly, and talk of them contemptuously; and as Stapylton was eating a
hasty luncheon before departure, he sneered at the rabble, and scoffed at
the insolent pretension of their demands. Neither Barrington nor Withering
sympathized with the spirit of the revolt, and yet each felt shocked at
the tone of haughty contempt Stapylton assumed towards the people. “You'll
see,” cried he, rising, “how a couple of brisk charges from our fellows
will do more to bring these rascals to reason than all the fine pledges of
your Parliament folk; and I promise you, for my own part, if I chance upon
one of their leaders, I mean to lay my mark on him.”
</p>
<p>
“I fear, sir, it is your instinctive dislike to the plebeian that moves
you here,” said Miss Dinah. “You will not entertain the question whether
these people may not have some wrongs to complain of.”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps so, madam,” said he; and his swarthy face grew darker as he
spoke. “I suppose this is the case where the blood of a gentleman boils
indignantly at the challenge of the <i>canaille</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“I will not have a French word applied to our own people, sir,” said she,
angrily.
</p>
<p>
“Well said,” chimed in Withering. “It is wonderful how a phrase can seem
to carry an argument along with it.”
</p>
<p>
And old Peter smiled, and nodded his concurrence with this speech.
</p>
<p>
“What a sad minority do I stand in!” said Stapylton, with an effort to
smile very far from successful. “Will not Miss Josephine Barrington have
generosity enough to aid the weaker side?”
</p>
<p>
“Not if it be the worst cause,” interposed Dinah. “My niece needs not to
be told she must be just before she is generous.”
</p>
<p>
“Then it is to your own generosity I will appeal,” said Stapylton, turning
to her; “and I will ask you to ascribe some, at least, of my bitterness to
the sorrow I feel at being thus summoned away. Believe me it is no light
matter to leave this place and its company.”
</p>
<p>
“But only for a season, and a very brief season too, I trust,” said
Barrington. “You are going away in our debt, remember.”
</p>
<p>
“It is a loser's privilege, all the world over, to withdraw when he has
lost enough,” said Stapylton, with a sad smile towards Miss Dinah; and
though the speech was made in the hope it might elicit a contradiction,
none came, and a very awkward silence ensued.
</p>
<p>
“You will reach Dublin to-night, I suppose?” said Withering, to relieve
the painful pause in the conversation.
</p>
<p>
“It will be late,—after midnight, perhaps.”
</p>
<p>
“And embark the next morning?”
</p>
<p>
“Two of our squadrons have sailed already; the others will, of course,
follow to-morrow.”
</p>
<p>
“And young Conyers,” broke in Miss Dinah,—“he will, I suppose,
accompany this—what shall I call it?—this raid?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, madam. Am I to convey to him your compliments upon the first
opportunity to flesh his maiden sword?”
</p>
<p>
“You are to do nothing of the kind, sir; but tell him from me not to
forget that the angry passions of a starving multitude are not to be
confounded with the vindictive hate of our natural enemies.”
</p>
<p>
“Natural enemies, my dear Miss Barrington! I hope you cannot mean that
there exists anything so monstrous in humanity as a natural enemy?”
</p>
<p>
“I do, sir; and I mean all those whose jealousy of us ripens into hatred,
and who would spill their heart's blood to see us humbled. When there
exists a people like this, and who at every fresh outbreak of a war with
us have carried into the new contest all the bitter animosities of long
past struggles as debts to be liquidated, I call these natural enemies;
and, if you prefer a shorter word for it, I call them Frenchmen.”
</p>
<p>
“Dinah, Dinah!”
</p>
<p>
“Peter, Peter! don't interrupt me. Major Stapylton has thought to tax me
with a blunder, but I accept it as a boast!”
</p>
<p>
“Madam, I am proud to be vanquished by you,” said Stapylton, bowing low.
</p>
<p>
“And I trust, sir,” said she, continuing her speech, and as if heedless of
his interruption, “that no similarity of name will make you behave at
Peterloo—if that be the name—as though you were at Waterloo.”
</p>
<p>
“Upon my life!” cried he, with a saucy laugh, “I don't know how I am to
win your good opinion, except it be by tearing off my epaulettes, and
putting myself at the head of the mob.”
</p>
<p>
“You know very little of my sister, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, “or
you would scarcely have selected that mode of cultivating her favor.”
</p>
<p>
“There is a popular belief that ladies always side with the winning
cause,” said Stapylton, affecting a light and easy manner; “so I must do
my best to be successful. May I hope I carry your <i>good</i> wishes away
with me?” said he, in a lower tone to Josephine.
</p>
<p>
“I hope that nobody will hurt you, and you hurt nobody,” said she,
laughingly.
</p>
<p>
“And this, I take it, is about as much sympathy as ever attends a man on
such a campaign. Mr. Barrington, will you grant me two minutes of
conversation in your own room?” And, with a bow of acquiescence,
Barrington led the way to his study.
</p>
<p>
“I ought to have anticipated your request, Major Stapyl-ton,” said
Barrington, when they found themselves alone. “I owe you a reply to your
letter, but the simple fact is, I do not know what answer to give it; for
while most sensible of the honor you intend us, I feel still there is much
to be explained on both sides. We know scarcely anything of each other,
and though I am conscious of the generosity which prompts a man with <i>your</i>
prospects and in <i>your</i> position to ally himself with persons in <i>ours</i>,
yet I owe it to myself to say, it hangs upon a contingency to restore us
to wealth and station. Even a portion of what I claim from the East India
Company would make my granddaughter one of the richest heiresses in
England.”
</p>
<p>
Stapylton gave a cold, a very cold smile, in reply to this speech. It
might mean that he was incredulous or indifferent, or it might imply that
the issue was one which need not have been introduced into the case at
all. Whatever its signification, Barrington felt hurt by it, and hastily
said,—
</p>
<p>
“Not that I have any need to trouble you with these details: it is rather
my province to ask for information regarding <i>your</i> circumstances
than to enter upon a discussion of <i>ours</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“I am quite ready to give you the very fullest and clearest,—I mean
to yourself personally, or to your sister; for, except where the lawyer
intervenes of necessity and <i>de droit</i>, I own that I resent his
presence as an insult. I suppose few of us are devoid of certain family
circumstances which it would be more agreeable to deal with in confidence;
and though, perhaps, I am as fortunate as most men in this respect, there
are one or two small matters on which I would ask your attention. These,
however, are neither important nor pressing. My first care is to know,—and
I hope I am not peremptory in asking it,—have I your consent to the
proposition contained in my letter; am I at liberty to address Miss
Barrington?”
</p>
<p>
Barrington flushed deeply and fidgeted; he arose and sat down again,—all
his excitement only aggravated by the well-bred composure of the other,
who seemed utterly unconscious of the uneasiness he was causing.
</p>
<p>
“Don't you think, Major, that this is a case for a little time to reflect,—that
in a matter so momentous as this, a few days at least are requisite for
consideration? We ought to ascertain something at least of my
granddaughter's own sentiments,—I mean, of course, in a general way.
It might be, too, that a day or two might give us some better insight into
her future prospects.”
</p>
<p>
“Pardon my interrupting you; but, on the last point, I am perfectly
indifferent. Miss Barrington with half a province for her dower, would be
no more in my eyes than Miss Barrington as she sat at breakfast this
morning. Nor is there anything of high-flown sentiment in this
declaration, as my means are sufficiently ample for all that I want or
care.”
</p>
<p>
“There, at least, is one difficulty disposed of. You are an eldest son?”
said he; and he blushed at his own boldness in making the inquiry.
</p>
<p>
“I am an only son.”
</p>
<p>
“Easier again,” said Barrington, trying to laugh off the awkward moment.
“No cutting down one's old timber to pay off the provisions for younger
brothers.”
</p>
<p>
“In my case there is no need of this.”
</p>
<p>
“And your father. Is he still living, Major Stapylton?”
</p>
<p>
“My father has been dead some years.”
</p>
<p>
Barrington fidgeted again, fumbled with his watch-chain and his eye-glass,
and would have given more than he could afford for any casualty that
should cut short the interview. He wanted to say, “What is the amount of
your fortune? What is it? Where is it? Are you Wiltshire or Staffordshire?
Who are your uncles and aunts, and your good friends that you pray for,
and where do you pray for them?” A thousand questions of this sort arose
in his mind, one only more prying and impertinent than another. He knew he
ought to ask them; he knew Dinah would have asked them. Ay, and would have
the answers to them as plain and palpable as the replies to a life
assurance circular; but he could n't do it. No; not if his life depended
on it.
</p>
<p>
He had already gone further in his transgression of good manners than it
ever occurred to him before to do, and he felt something between a holy
inquisitor and a spy of the police.
</p>
<p>
Stapylton looked at his watch, and gave a slight start.
</p>
<p>
“Later than you thought, eh?” cried Peter, overjoyed at the diversion.
</p>
<p>
Stapylton smiled a cold assent, and put up his watch without a word. He
saw all the confusion and embarrassment of the other, and made no effort
to relieve him. At last, but not until after a considerable pause, he
said,—“I believe, Mr. Barrington,—I hope, at least,—I
have satisfactorily answered the questions which, with every right on your
part, you have deemed proper to put to me. I cannot but feel how painful
the task has been to you, and I regret it the more, since probably it has
set a limit to inquiries which you are perfectly justified in making, but
which closer relations between us may make a matter far less formidable
one of these days.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, yes,—just so; of course,” said Barrington, hurriedly assenting
to he knew not what.
</p>
<p>
“And I trust I take my leave of you with the understanding that when we
meet again, it shall be as in the commencement of these pleasanter
relations. I own to you I am the more eager on this point, that I perceive
your sister, Miss Barrington, scarcely regards me very favorably, and I
stand the more in need of your alliance.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't think it possible, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, boldly,
“that my sister and I could have two opinions upon anything or anybody.”
</p>
<p>
“Then I only ask that she may partake of yours on this occasion,” said
Stapylton, bowing. “But I must start; as it is, I shall be very late in
Dublin. Will you present my most respectful adieux to the ladies, and say
also a goodbye for me to Mr. Withering?”
</p>
<p>
“You'll come in for a moment to the drawing-room, won't you?” cried
Barrington.
</p>
<p>
“I think not. I opine it would be better not. There would be a certain
awkwardness about it,—that is, until you have informed Miss Dinah
Barrington of the extent to which you have accorded me your confidence,
and how completely I have opened every detail of my circumstances. I
believe it would be in better taste not to present myself. Tell Withering
that if he writes, Manchester will find me. I don't suspect he need give
himself any more trouble about establishing the proofs of marriage. They
will scarcely contest that point. The great question will and must be, to
ascertain if the Company will cease to oppose the claim on being fully
convinced that the letter to the Meer Busherat was a forgery, and that no
menace ever came from Colonel Barrington's hand as to the consequences of
opposing his rule. Get them to admit this,—let the issue rest upon
this,—and it will narrow the whole suit within manageable limits.”
</p>
<p>
“Would you not say this much to him before you go? It would come with so
much more force and clearness from yourself.”
</p>
<p>
“I have done so till I was wearied. Like a true lawyer, he insists upon
proving each step as he goes, and will not condescend to a hypothetical
conclusion, though I have told him over and over again we want a
settlement, not a victory. Good-bye, good-bye! If I once launch out into
the cause, I cannot tear myself away again.”
</p>
<p>
“Has your guest gone, Peter?” said Miss Dinah, as her brother re-entered
the drawing-room.
</p>
<p>
“Yes; it was a hurried departure, and he had no great heart for it,
either. By the way, Withering, while it is fresh in my head, let me tell
you the message he has sent you.”
</p>
<p>
“Was there none for <i>me</i>, Peter?” said she, scofflngly.
</p>
<p>
“Ay, but there was, Dinah! He left with me I know not how many polite and
charming things to say for him.”
</p>
<p>
“And am I alone forgotten in this wide dispensation of favors?” asked
Josephine, smiling.
</p>
<p>
“Of course not, dear,” chimed in Miss Dinah. “Your grandpapa has been
charged with them all. You could not expect a gentleman so naturally timid
and bashful as our late guest to utter them by his own lips.”
</p>
<p>
“I see,” said Withering, laughing, “that you have not forgiven the haughty
aristocrat for his insolent estimate of the people!”
</p>
<p>
“He an aristocrat! Such bitter words as his never fell from any man who
had a grandfather!”
</p>
<p>
“Wrong for once, Dinah,” broke in Barrington. “I can answer for it that
you are unjust to him.”
</p>
<p>
“We shall see,” said she. “Come, Josephine, I have a whole morning's work
before me in the flower-garden, and I want your help. Don't forget, Peter,
that Major M'Cormick's butler, or boatman, or bailiff, whichever he be,
has been up here with a present of seakale this morning. Give him
something as you pass the kitchen; and you, Mr. Withering, whose trade it
is to read and unravel mysteries, explain if you can the meaning of this
unwonted generosity.”
</p>
<p>
“I suppose we can all guess it,” said he, laughing. “It's a custom that
begins in the East and goes round the whole world till it reaches the vast
prairie in the Far West.”
</p>
<p>
“And what can that custom be, Aunt Dinah?” asked Josephine, innocently.
</p>
<p>
“It's an ancient rite Mr. Withering speaks, of, child, pertaining to the
days when men offered sacrifices. Come along; I 'm going!”
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER VII. CROSS-EXAMININGS.
</h2>
<p>
While Barrington and his lawyer sat in conclave over the details of the
great suit, Stapylton hurried along his road with all the speed he could
summon. The way, which for some miles led along the river-side, brought
into view M'Cormick's cottage, and the Major himself, as he stood
listlessly at his door.'
</p>
<p>
Halting his carriage for a moment, Stapylton jumped out and drew nigh the
little quickset hedge which flanked the road.
</p>
<p>
“What can I do for you in the neighborhood of Manchester, Major? We are
just ordered off there to ride down the Radicals.”
</p>
<p>
“I wish it was nearer home you were going to do it,” said he, crankily.
“Look here,”—and he pointed to some fresh-turned earth,—“they
were stealing my turnips last night.”
</p>
<p>
“It would appear that these fellows in the North are growing dangerous,”
said Stapylton.
</p>
<p>
“'T is little matter to us,” said M'Cormick, sulkily. “I'd care more about
a blight in the potatoes than for all the politics in Europe.”
</p>
<p>
“A genuine philosopher! How snug you are here, to be sure! A man in a
pleasant nook like this can well afford to smile at the busy ambitions of
the outer world. I take it you are about the very happiest fellow I know?”
</p>
<p>
“Maybe I am, maybe I'm not,” said he, peevishly.
</p>
<p>
“This spot only wants what I hinted to you t'other evening, to be
perfection.”
</p>
<p>
“Ay!” said the other, dryly.
</p>
<p>
“And you agree with me heartily, if you had the candor to say it. Come,
out with it, man, at once. I saw your gardener this morning with a great
basketful of greenery, and a large bouquet on the top of it,—are not
these significant signs of a projected campaign? You are wrong, Major,
upon my life you are wrong, not to be frank with me. I could, by a strange
hazard, as the newspapers say, 'tell you something to your advantage.'”
</p>
<p>
“About what?”
</p>
<p>
“About the very matter you were thinking of as I drove up. Come, I will be
more generous than you deserve.” And, laying his arm on M'Cormick's
shoulder, he halt whispered in his ear; “It is a good thing,—a
deuced good thing! and I promise you, if I were a marrying man, you 'd
have a competitor. I won't say she 'll have one of the great fortunes
people rave about, but it will be considerable,—very considerable.”
</p>
<p>
“How do you know, or what do you know?”
</p>
<p>
“I 'll tell you in three words. How I know is, because I have been the
channel for certain inquiries they made in India. What I know is, the
Directors are sick of the case, they are sorely ashamed of it, and not a
little uneasy lest it should come before the public, perhaps before the
Parliament. Old Barrington has made all negotiation difficult by the
extravagant pretensions he puts forward about his son's honor, and so
forth. If, however, the girl were married, her husband would be the person
to treat with, and I am assured with him they would deal handsomely, even
generously.”
</p>
<p>
“And why would n't all this make a marrying man of you, though you were
n't before?”
</p>
<p>
“There's a slight canonical objection, if you must know,” said Stapylton,
with a smile.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I perceive,—a wife already! In India, perhaps?”
</p>
<p>
“I have no time just now for a long story, M'Cormick,” said he,
familiarly, “nor am I quite certain I 'd tell it if I had. However, you
know enough for all practical purposes, and I repeat to you this is a
stake I can't enter for,—you understand me?”
</p>
<p>
“There's another thing, now,” said M'Cormick; “and as we are talking so
freely together, there's no harm in mentioning it. It 's only the other
day, as I may call it, that we met for the first time?”
</p>
<p>
“Very true: when I was down here at Cobham.”
</p>
<p>
“And never heard of each other before?”
</p>
<p>
“Not to my knowledge, certainly.”
</p>
<p>
“That being the case, I 'm curious to hear how you took this wonderful
interest in me. It wasn't anything in my appearance, I 'm sure, nor my
manner; and as to what you 'd hear about me among those blackguards down
here, there's nothing too bad to say of me.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll be as frank as yourself,” said Stapylton, boldly; “you ask for
candor, and you shall have it. I had n't talked ten minutes with you till
I saw that you were a thorough man of the world; the true old soldier, who
had seen enough of life to know that whatever one gets for nothing in this
world is just worth nothing, and so I said to myself, 'If it ever occurs
to me to chance upon a good opportunity of which I cannot from
circumstances avail myself, there's my man. I'll go to him and say,
“M'Cormick, that's open to you, there's a safe thing!” And when in return
he 'd say, “Stapylton, what can I do for you?” my answer would be, “Wait
till you are satisfied that I have done you a good turn; be perfectly
assured that I have really served you.” And then, if I wanted a loan of a
thousand or fifteen hundred to lodge for the Lieutenant-Colonelcy, I 'd
not be ashamed to say, “M'Cormick, let me have so much.”'”
</p>
<p>
“That's <i>it</i>, is it?” said M'Cormick, with a leer of intense cunning.
“Not a bad bargain for <i>you</i>, anyhow. It is not every day that a man
can sell what is n't his own.”
</p>
<p>
“I might say, it's not every day that a man regards a possible loan as a
gift, but I 'm quite ready to reassure all your fears on that score; I'll
even pledge myself never to borrow a shilling from you.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, I don't mean that; you took me up so quick,” said the old fellow,
reddening with a sense of shame he had not felt for many a year. “I may be
as stingy as they call me, but for all that I 'd stand to a man who stands
to <i>me</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“Between gentlemen and men of the world these things are better left to a
sense of an honorable understanding than made matters of compact. There is
no need of another word on the matter. I shall be curious, however, to
know how your project speeds. Write to me,—you have plenty of time,—and
write often. I 'm not unlikely to learn something about the Indian claim,
and if I do, you shall hear of it.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm not over good at pen and ink work; indeed, I haven't much practice,
but I'll do my best.”
</p>
<p>
“Do, by all means. Tell me how you get on with Aunt Dinah, who, I suspect,
has no strong affection for either of us. Don't be precipitate; hazard
nothing by a rash step; secure your way by intimacy, mere intimacy: avoid
particular attentions strictly; be always there, and on some pretext or
other—But why do I say all this to an old soldier, who has made such
sieges scores of times?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I think I see my way clear enough,” said the old fellow, with a
grin. “I wish I was as sure I knew why you take such an interest in me.”
</p>
<p>
“I believe I have told you already; I hope there is nothing so strange in
the assurance as to require corroboration. Come, I must say good-bye; I
meant to have said five words to you, and I have stayed here
five-and-twenty minutes.”
</p>
<p>
“Would n't you take something?—could n't I offer you anything?” said
M'Cormick, hesitatingly.
</p>
<p>
“Nothing, thanks. I lunched before I started; and although old Dinah made
several assaults upon me while I ate, I managed to secure two cutlets and
part of a grouse-pie, and a rare glass of Madeira to wash them down.”
</p>
<p>
“That old woman is dreadful, and I'll take her down a peg yet, as sure as
my name is Dan.”
</p>
<p>
“No, don't, Major; don't do anything of the kind. The people who tame
tigers are sure to get scratched at last, and nobody thanks them for their
pains. Regard her as the sailors do a fire-ship; give her a wide berth,
and steer away from her.”
</p>
<p>
“Ay, but she sometimes gives chase.”
</p>
<p>
“Strike your flag, then, if it must be; for, trust me, you 'll not conquer
<i>her</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“We 'll see, we 'll see,” muttered the old fellow, as he waved his adieux,
and then turned back into the house again.
</p>
<p>
As Stapylton lay back in his carriage, he could not help muttering a
malediction on the “dear friend” he had just parted with. When the <i>bourgeois
gentilhomme</i> objected to his adversary pushing him <i>en tierce</i>
while he attacked him <i>en quarte</i>, he was expressing a great social
want, applicable to those people who in conversation will persist in
saying many things which ought not to be uttered, and expressing doubts
and distrusts which, however it be reasonable to feel, are an outrage to
avow.
</p>
<p>
“The old fox,” said Stapylton, aloud, “taunted me with selling what did
not belong to me; but he never suspects that I have bought something
without paying for it, and that something himself! Yes, the mock siege he
will lay to the fortress will occupy the garrison till it suits me to open
the real attack, and I will make use of him, besides, to learn whatever
goes on in my absence. How the old fellow swallowed the bait! What
self-esteem there must be in such a rugged nature, to make him imagine he
could be successful in a cause like this! He is, after all, a clumsy agent
to trust one's interest to. If the choice had been given me, I'd far
rather have had a woman to watch over them. Polly Dill, for instance, the
very girl to understand such a mission well. How adroitly would she have
played the game, and how clearly would her letters have shown me the exact
state of events!”
</p>
<p>
Such were the texts of his musings as he drove along, and deep as were his
thoughts, they never withdrew him, when the emergency called, from
attention to every detail of the journey, and he scrutinized the
post-horses as they were led out, and apportioned the rewards to the
postilions as though no heavier care lay on his heart than the road and
its belongings. While he rolled thus smoothly along, Peter Barrington had
been summoned to his sister's presence, to narrate in full all that he had
asked, and all that he had learned of Stapylton and his fortunes.
</p>
<p>
Miss Dinah was seated in a deep armchair, behind a formidable
embroidery-frame,—a thing so complex and mysterious in form as to
suggest an implement of torture. At a short distance off sat Withering,
with pen, ink, and paper before him, as if to set down any details of
unusual importance; and into this imposing presence poor Barrington
entered with a woful sense of misgiving and humiliation.
</p>
<p>
“We have got a quiet moment at last, Peter,” said Miss Barrington. “I have
sent the girls over to Brown's Barn for the tulip-roots, and I have told
Darby that if any visitors came they were to be informed we were
particularly occupied by business, and could see no one.”
</p>
<p>
“Just so,” added Withering; “it is a case before the Judge in Chamber.”
</p>
<p>
“But what have we got to hear?” asked Barrington, with an air of
innocence.
</p>
<p>
“We have got to hear your report, brother Peter; the narrative of your
late conversation with Major Stapylton; given, as nearly as your memory
will serve, in the exact words and in the precise order everything
occurred.”
</p>
<p>
“October the twenty-third,” said Withering, writing as he spoke; “minute
of interview between P. B. and Major S. Taken on the same morning it
occurred, with remarks and observations explanatory.”
</p>
<p>
“Begin,” said Dinah, imperiously, while she worked away without lifting
her head. “And avoid, so far as possible, anything beyond the precise
expression employed.”
</p>
<p>
“But you don't suppose I took notes in shorthand of what we said to each
other, do you?”
</p>
<p>
“I certainly suppose you can have retained in your memory a conversation
that took place two hours ago,” said Miss Dinah, sternly.
</p>
<p>
“And can relate it circumstantially and clearly,” added Withering.
</p>
<p>
“Then I 'm very sorry to disappoint you, but I can do nothing of the
kind.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you mean to say that you had no interview with Major Stapylton,
Peter?”
</p>
<p>
“Or that you have forgotten all about it?” said Withering.
</p>
<p>
“Or is it that you have taken a pledge of secrecy, brother Peter?”
</p>
<p>
“No, no, no! It is simply this, that though I retain a pretty fair general
impression of what I said myself, and what he said afterwards, I could no
more pretend to recount it accurately than I could say off by heart a
scene in 'Romeo and Juliet.'”
</p>
<p>
“Why don't you take the 'Comedy of Errors' for your illustration, Peter
Barrington? I ask you, Mr. Withering, have you in all your experience met
anything like this?”
</p>
<p>
“It would go hard with a man in the witness-box to make such a
declaration, I must say.”
</p>
<p>
“What would a jury think of, what would a judge say to him?” said she,
using the most formidable of all penalties to her brother's imagination.
“Wouldn't the court tell him that he would be compelled to speak out?”
</p>
<p>
“They'd have it out on the cross-examination, at all events, if not on the
direct.”
</p>
<p>
“In the name of confusion, what do you want with me?” exclaimed Peter, in
despair.
</p>
<p>
“We want everything,—everything that you heard about this man. Who
he is, what he is; what by the father's side, what by the mother's; what
are his means, and where; who knows him, who are his associates. Bear in
mind that to us, here, he has dropped out of the clouds.”
</p>
<p>
“And gone back there too,” added Withering.
</p>
<p>
“I wish to Heaven he had taken me with him!” sighed Peter, drearily.
</p>
<p>
“I think in this case, Miss Barrington,” said Withering, with a
well-affected gravity, “we had better withdraw a juror, and accept a
nonsuit.”
</p>
<p>
“I have done with it altogether,” said she, gathering up her worsted and
her needles, and preparing to leave the room.
</p>
<p>
“My dear Dinah,” said Barrington, entreatingly, “imagine a man as wanting
in tact as I am,—and as timid, too, about giving casual offence,—conducting
such an inquiry as you committed to my hands. Fancy how, at every attempt
to obtain information, his own boldness, I might call it rudeness, stared
him in the face, till at last, rather than push his investigations, he
grew puzzled how to apologize for his prying curiosity.”
</p>
<p>
“Brother, brother, this is too bad! It had been better to have thought
more of your granddaughter's fate and less of your own feelings.” And with
this she flounced out of the room, upsetting a spider-table, and a case of
stuffed birds that stood on it, as she passed.
</p>
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002">
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</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img src="images/410.jpg" width="100%" alt="410 " />
</div>
<p>
“I don't doubt but she 's right, Tom,” said Peter, when the door closed.
</p>
<p>
“Did he not tell you who he was, and what his fortune? Did you really
learn nothing from him?”
</p>
<p>
“He told me everything; and if I had not been so cruelly badgered, I could
have repeated every word of it; but you never made a hound true to the
scent by flogging him, Tom,—is n't that a fact, eh?” And consoled by
an illustration that seemed so pat to his case, he took his hat and
strolled out into the garden.
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
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</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER VIII. GENERAL CONYERS
</h2>
<p>
In a snug little room of the Old Ship Hotel, at Dover, a large, heavy man,
with snow-white hair, and moustaches,—the latter less common in
those days than the present,—sat at table with a younger one, so
like him that no doubt could have existed as to their being father and
son. They had dined, and were sitting over their wine, talking
occasionally, but oftener looking fondly and affectionately at each other;
and once, by an instinct of sudden love, grasping each other's hand, and
sitting thus several minutes without a word on either side.
</p>
<p>
“You did not expect me before to-morrow, Fred,” said the old man, at last.
</p>
<p>
“No, father,” replied young Conyers. “I saw by the newspapers that you
were to dine at the Tuileries on Tuesday, and I thought you would not quit
Paris the same evening.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes; I started the moment I took off my uniform. I wanted to be with you,
my boy; and the royal politeness that detained me was anything but a
favor. How you have grown, Fred,—almost my own height, I believe.”
</p>
<p>
“The more like you the better,” said the youth, as his eyes ran over, and
the old man turned away to hide his emotion.
</p>
<p>
After a moment he said: “How strange you should not have got my letters,
Fred; but, after all, it is just as well as it is. I wrote in a very angry
spirit, and was less just than a little cool reflection might have made
me. They made no charges against me, though I thought they had. There were
grumblings and discontents, and such-like. They called me a Rajah, and
raked up all the old stories they used to circulate once on a time about a
far better fellow—”
</p>
<p>
“You mean Colonel Barrington, don't you?” said Fred.
</p>
<p>
“Where or how did you hear of that name?” said the old man, almost
sternly.
</p>
<p>
“An accident made me the guest of his family, at a little cottage they
live in on an hish river. I passed weeks there, and, through the favor of
the name I bore, I received more kindness than I ever before met in life.”
</p>
<p>
“And they knew you to be a Conyers, and to be my son?”
</p>
<p>
“It was Colonel Barrington's aunt was my hostess, and she it was who, on
hearing my name, admitted me at once to all the privileges of old
friendship. She told me of the close companionship which once subsisted
between you and her nephew, and gave me rolls of his letters to read
wherein every line spoke of you.”
</p>
<p>
“And Mr. Barrington, the father of George, how did he receive you?”
</p>
<p>
“At first with such coolness that I could n't bring myself to recross his
threshold. He had been away from home when I arrived, and the day of his
return I was unexpectedly presented to him by his sister, who evidently
was as unprepared as myself for the reception I met with.”
</p>
<p>
“And what was that reception,—how was it? Tell me all as it
happened.”
</p>
<p>
“It was the affair of a moment. Miss Barrington introduced me, saying,
'This is the son of poor George's dearest friend,—this is a
Conyers;' and the old man faltered, and seemed like to faint, and after a
moment stammered out something about an honor he had never counted upon,—a
visit he scarcely could have hoped for; and, indeed, so overcome was he
that he staggered into the house only to take to his bed, where he lay
seriously ill for several days after.”
</p>
<p>
“Poor fellow! It was hard to forgive,—very hard.”
</p>
<p>
“Ay, but he has forgiven it—whatever it was—heartily, and
wholly forgiven it. We met afterwards by a chance in Germany, and while I
was hesitating how to avoid a repetition of the painful scene which marked
our first meeting, he came manfully towards me with his hand out, and
said, 'I have a forgiveness to beg of you; and if you only know how I long
to obtain it, you would scarce say me no.'”
</p>
<p>
“The worthy father of poor George! I think I hear him speak the very words
himself. Go on, Fred,—go on, and tell me further.”
</p>
<p>
“There is no more to tell, sir, unless I speak of all the affectionate
kindness he has shown,—the trustfulness and honor with which he has
treated me. I have been in his house like his own son.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah! if you had known that son! If you had seen what a type of a soldier
he was! The most intrepid, the boldest fellow that ever breathed; but with
a heart of childlike simplicity and gentleness. I could tell you traits of
him, of his forbearance, his forgiveness, his generous devotion to
friendship, that would seem to bespeak a nature that had no room for other
than soft and tender emotion; and yet, if ever there was a lion's heart
within a man's bosom it was his.” For a moment or two the old man seemed
overcome by his recollections, and then, as if by an effort, rallying
himself, he went on: “You have often heard the adage, Fred, that enjoins
watching one's pennies and leaving the pounds to take care of themselves;
and yet, trust me, the maxim is truer as applied to our morals than our
money. It is by the smaller, finer, and least important traits of a man
that his fate in life is fashioned. The caprices we take no pains to curb,
the tempers we leave unchecked, the petty indulgences we extend to our
vanity and self-love,—these are the great sands that wreck us far
oftener than the more stern and formidable features of our character. I
ought to know this truth; I myself lost the best and truest and the
noblest friend that ever man had, just from the exercise of a spirit of
bantering and ridicule which amused those about me, and gave me that
pre-eminence which a sarcastic and witty spirit is sure to assert. You
know already how George Barrington and I lived together like brothers. I
do not believe two men ever existed more thoroughly and sincerely attached
to each other. All the contrarieties of our dispositions served but to
heighten the interest that linked us together. As for myself, I was never
wearied in exploring the strange recesses of that great nature that seemed
to unite all that could be daring and dashing in man with the tenderness
of a woman. I believe I knew him far better than he knew himself. But to
come to what I wanted to tell you, and which is an agony to me to dwell
on. Though for a long while our close friendship was known in the
regiment, and spoken of as a thing incapable of change, a sort of rumor—no,
not even a rumor, but an impression—seemed to gain, that the ties
between us were looser on my side than his; that George looked up to <i>me</i>,
and that I, with the pride of a certain superiority, rather lorded it over
<i>him</i>. This feeling became painfully strengthened when it got about
that Barrington had lent me the greater part of the purchase-money for my
troop,—a promotion, by the way, which barred his own advancement,—and
it was whispered, so at least I heard, that Barrington was a mere child in
my hands, whom I rebuked or rewarded at pleasure. If I could have traced
these rumors to any direct source, I could have known how to deal with
them. As it was, they were vague, shadowy, and unreal; and their very
unsubstantiality maddened me the more. To have told George of them would
have been rasher still. The thought of a wrong done to <i>me</i> would
have driven him beyond all reason, and he would infallibly have
compromised himself beyond recall. It was the very first time in my life I
had a secret from him, and it eat into my heart like a virulent disease.
The consciousness that I was watched, the feeling that eyes were upon me
marking all I did, and tongues were commenting on all I said, exasperated
me, and at one moment I would parade my friendship for Barrington in a
sort of spirit of defiance, and at another, as though to give the lie to
my slanderers, treat him with indifference and carelessness, as it were,
to show that I was not bound to him by the weight of a direct obligation,
and that our relations involved nothing of dependence. It was when, by
some cruel mischance, I had been pursuing this spirit to its extreme, that
the conversation one night at mess turned upon sport and tiger-hunting.
Many stories were told, of course, and we had the usual narratives of
hairbreadth escapes and perils of the most appalling kind; till, at
length, some one—I forget exactly who it was—narrated a
single-handed encounter with a jaguar, which in horror exceeded anything
we had heard before. The details were alone not so terrible, but the
circumstances so marvellous, that one and all who listened cried out, 'Who
did it?'
</p>
<p>
“'The man who told me the tale,' replied the narrator, 'and who will
probably be back to relate it here to you in a few days,—Colonel
Barrington.'
</p>
<p>
“I have told you the devilish spirit which had me in possession. I have
already said that I was in one of those moods of insolent mockery in which
nothing was sacred to me. No sooner, then, did I hear Barrington's name
than I burst into a hearty laugh, and said, 'Oh! if it was one of George
Barrington's tigers, you ought to have mentioned that fact at the outset.
You have been exciting our feelings unfairly.'
</p>
<p>
“'I assume that his statement was true,' said the other, gravely.
</p>
<p>
“'Doubtless; just as battle-pieces are true, that is, pic-torially true.
The tiger did nothing that a tiger ought not to do, nor did George
transgress any of those “unities” which such combats require. At the same
time, Barring-ton's stories have always a something about them that stamps
the authorship, and you recognize this trait just as you do a white horse
in a picture by Wouvermans.'
</p>
<p>
“In this strain I went on, heated by my own warmed imagination, and the
approving laughter of those around me. I recounted more than one feat of
Barrington's,—things which I knew he had done, some of them almost
incredible in boldness. These I told with many a humorous addition and
many an absurd commentary, convulsing the listeners with laughter, and
rendering my friend ridiculous.
</p>
<p>
“He came back from the hills within the week, and before he was two hours
in his quarters he had heard the whole story. We were at luncheon in the
mess-room when he entered, flushed and excited, but far more moved by
emotion than resentment.
</p>
<p>
“'Ormsby,' said he, 'you may laugh at me to your heart's content and I'll
never grumble at it; but there are some young officers here who, not
knowing the ties that attach us, may fancy that these quizzings pass the
limits of mere drollery, and even jeopardize something of my truthfulness.
<i>You</i>, I know, never meant this any more than I have felt it, but
others might, and might, besides, on leaving this and sitting at other
tables, repeat what they had heard here. Tell them that you spoke of me as
you have a free right to do, in jest, and that your ridicule was the
good-humored banter of a friend,—of a friend who never did, never
could, impugn my honor.'
</p>
<p>
“His eyes were swimming over, and his lips trembling, as he uttered the
last words. I see him now, as he stood there, his very cheek shaking in
agitation. That brave, bold fellow, who would have marched up to a battery
without quailing, shook like a sickly girl.
</p>
<p>
“'Am I to say that you never draw the long-bow, George?' asked I, half
insolently.
</p>
<p>
“'You are to say, sir, that I never told a lie,' cried he, dark with
passion.
</p>
<p>
“'Oh, this discussion will be better carried on elsewhere,' said I, as I
arose and left the room.
</p>
<p>
“As I was in the wrong, totally in the wrong, I was passionate and
headstrong. I sat down and wrote a most insolent letter to Barrington. I
turned all the self-hate that was consuming <i>me</i> against my friend,
and said I know not what of outrage and insult. I did worse; I took a copy
of my letter, and declared that I would read it to the officers in the
mess-room. He sent a friend to me to beg I would not take this course of
open insult. My answer was, 'Colonel Barrington knows his remedy.' When I
sent this message, I prepared for what I felt certain would follow. I knew
Barrington so well that I thought even the delay of an hour, then two
hours, strange. At length evening drew nigh, and, though I sat waiting in
my quarters, no one came from him,—not a letter nor a line apprised
me what course he meant to take.
</p>
<p>
“Not caring to meet the mess at such a moment, I ordered my horses and
drove up to a small station about twenty miles off, leaving word where I
was to be found. I passed three days there in a state of fevered
expectancy. Barrington made no sign, and, at length, racked and distressed
by the conflict with myself,—now summoning up an insolent spirit of
defiance to the whole world, now humbling myself in a consciousness of the
evil line I had adopted,—I returned one night to my quarters. The
first news that greeted me was that Barrington had left us. He had
accepted the offer of a Native command which had been made to him some
months before, and of which we had often canvassed together all the
advantages and disadvantages. I heard that he had written two letters to
me before he started, and torn them up after they were sealed. I never
heard from him, never saw him more, till I saw his dead body carried into
camp the morning he fell.
</p>
<p>
“I must get to the end of this quickly, Fred, and I will tell you all at
once, for it is a theme I will never go back on. I came to England with
despatches about two years after Barrington's death. It was a hurried
visit, for I was ordered to hold myself in readiness to return almost as
soon as I arrived. I was greatly occupied, going about from place to
place, and person to person, so many great people desired to have a verbal
account of what was doing in India, and to hear confidentially what I
thought of matters there. In the midst of the mass of letters which the
post brought me every morning, and through which, without the aid of an
officer on the staff, I could never have got through, there came one whose
singular address struck me. It was to 'Captain Ormsby Conyers, 22d Light
Dragoons,' a rank I had held fourteen years before that time in that same
regiment. I opined at once that my correspondent must have been one who
had known me at that time and not followed me in the interval. I was
right. It was from old Mr. Barrington,—George Barrington's father.
What version of my quarrel with his son could have reached him, I cannot
even guess, nor by what light he read my conduct in the affair; but such a
letter I never read in my life. It was a challenge to meet him anywhere,
and with any weapon, but couched in language so insulting as to impugn my
courage, and hint that I would probably shelter myself behind the pretext
of his advanced age. 'But remember,' said he, 'if God has permitted me to
be an old man, it is <i>you</i> who have made me a childless one!'”
</p>
<p>
For a few seconds he paused, overcome by emotion, and then went on: “I sat
down and wrote him a letter of contrition, almost abject in its terms. I
entreated him to believe that for every wrong I had done his noble-hearted
son, my own conscience had repaid me in misery ten times told; that if he
deemed my self-condemnation insufficient, it was open to him to add to it
whatever he wished of obloquy or shame; that if he proclaimed me a coward
before the world, and degraded me in the eyes of men, I would not offer
one word in my defence. I cannot repeat all that I said in my deep
humiliation. His answer came at last, one single line, re-enclosing my own
letter to me: 'Lest I should be tempted to make use of this letter, I send
it back to you; there is no need of more between us.'
</p>
<p>
“With this our intercourse ceased. When a correspondence was published in
the 'Barrington Inquiry,' as it was called, I half hoped he would have
noticed some letters of mine about George; but he never did, and in his
silence I thought I read his continued unforgiveness.”
</p>
<p>
“I hope, father, that you never believed the charges that were made
against Captain Barrington?”
</p>
<p>
“Not one of them; disloyalty was no more his than cowardice. I never knew
the Englishman with such a pride of country as he had, nor could you have
held out a greater bribe to him, for any achievement of peril, than to
say, 'What a gain it would be for England!'”
</p>
<p>
“How was it that such a man should have had a host of enemies?”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing so natural. Barrington was the most diffident of men; his
bashfulness amounted to actual pain. With strangers, this made him cold to
very sternness, or, as is often seen in the effort to conquer a natural
defect, gave him a manner of over-easy confidence that looked like
impertinence. And thus the man who would not have wounded the self-love of
the meanest beggar, got the reputation of being haughty, insolent, and
oppressive. Besides this, when he was in the right, and felt himself so,
he took no pains to convince others of the fact. His maxim was,—have
I not heard it from his lips scores of times,—'The end will show.'”
</p>
<p>
“And yet the end will not show, father; his fame has not been vindicated,
nor his character cleared.”
</p>
<p>
“In some measure the fault of those who took up his cause. They seemed
less to insist on reparation than punishment. They did not say, 'Do
justice to this man's memory;' but, 'Come forward and own you wronged him,
and broke his heart.' Now, the accusation brought against George
Barrington of assuming sovereign power was not settled by his death; his
relatives forgot this, or merged it in their own charge against the
Company. They mismanaged everything.”
</p>
<p>
“Is it too late to put them on the right track, father; or could you do
it?” asked the youth, eagerly.
</p>
<p>
“It is not too late, boy! There is time for it yet. There is, however, one
condition necessary, and I do not see how that is to be secured.”
</p>
<p>
“And what is that?”
</p>
<p>
“I should see Mr. Barrington and confer with him alone; he must admit me
to his confidence, and I own to you, I scarcely deem that possible.”
</p>
<p>
“May I try—may I attempt this?”
</p>
<p>
“I do not like to refuse you, Fred: but if I say Yes, it will be to
include you in my own defeated hopes. For many a year Mr. Barrington has
refused to give one sign of his forgiveness; for in his treatment of you I
only recognize the honorable feeling of exempting the son from the penalty
due to the father. But perhaps defeat is better than self-reproach, and as
I have a strong conviction I could serve him, I am ready to risk a
failure.”
</p>
<p>
“I may make the attempt, then?” said Fred, eagerly. “I will write to Miss
Barrington to-day.”
</p>
<p>
“And now of yourself. What of your career? How do you like soldiering,
boy?”
</p>
<p>
“Less than ever, sir; it is only within the last week or two that we have
seen anything beyond barrack or parade duty. Now, however, we have been
called to repress what are called risings in the northern shires; and our
task has been to ride at large unarmed mobs and charge down masses, whose
grape-shot are brickbats. Not a very glorious campaign!”
</p>
<p>
The old man smiled, but said nothing for a moment.
</p>
<p>
“Your colonel is on leave, is he not?” asked he.
</p>
<p>
“Yes. We are commanded by that Major Stapylton I told you of.”
</p>
<p>
“A smart officer, but no friend of yours, Fred,” said the General,
smiling.
</p>
<p>
“No, sir; certainly no friend of mine,” said the young man, resolutely.
“To refuse me a week's leave to go and meet my father, whom I have not
seen for years, and, when pressed, to accord me four days, is to disgust
me with himself and the service together.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, as you cannot be my guest, Fred, I will be yours. I 'll go back
with you to headquarters. Stapylton is a name I used to be familiar with
long ago. It may turn out that I know his family; but let us talk of
Barrington. I have been thinking it would be better not to link any
question of his own interests with my desire to meet him, but simply to
say I 'm in England, and wish to know if he would receive me.”
</p>
<p>
“It shall be as you wish, sir. I will write to his sister by this post.”
</p>
<p>
“And after one day in town, Fred, I am ready to accompany you anywhere.”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER IX. MAJOR M'CORMICK'S LETTER
</h2>
<p>
As it was not often that Major M'Cormick performed the part of a
letter-writer, perhaps my reader will pardon me if I place him before him
on one of these rare occasions. If success would always respond to labor,
his would have been a real triumph; for the effort cost him many days, two
sleepless nights, a headache, and half a quire of paper.
</p>
<p>
Had not Stapylton retained him by an admirably selected hamper of good
things from a celebrated Italian warehouse in the Strand, I am afraid that
M'Cormick's zeal might have cooled down to the zero of forgetfulness; but
the reindeer hams and the Yarmouth bloaters, the potted shrimps and the
preserved guavas, were an appeal that addressed themselves to that organ
which with him paid the double debt of digestion and emotion. He felt that
such a correspondent was worth a sacrifice, and he made it That my reader
may appreciate the cost of the achievement, I would have him imagine how a
mason about to build a wall should be obliged to examine each stone before
he laid it, test its constituent qualities, its shape and its size,—for
it was thus that almost every word occasioned the Major a reference to the
dictionary, spelling not having been cultivated in his youth, nor much
practised in his riper years. Graces of style, however, troubled him
little; and, to recur to my figure of the stone-mason, if he was
embarrassed in his search for the materials, he cared wonderfully little
for the architecture. His letter ran thus, and the reader will perceive
that it must have been written some weeks after the events recorded in the
last chapter:—
</p>
<p>
“Mac's Nest, October, Thursday.
</p>
<p>
“Dear S.,—A touch of my old Walcheren complaint has laid me up since
Tuesday, and if the shakes make me illegible now, that's the reason why.
Besides this the weather is dreadful; cold east winds and rains, sometimes
sleet, every day; and the turf so wet, it 's only smoke, not fire. I
believe it is the worst climate in Europe, and it gets wetter every year.
</p>
<p>
“The hamper came to hand, but though it was marked 'Carriage paid, this
side up,' they upset it and broke two bottles, and charged seven and
fourpence-halfpenny for the bringing it, which is, I think, enormous; at
least, Tim Hacket got over a thrashing-machine from Scotland last spring
for twelve and four, and there 's no comparison between the two. Thanks to
you, however, all the same; but if you can get any of this charge reduced,
so much the better, not to speak of the bottles,—both mixed pickles—which
they ought to make good.
</p>
<p>
“I am glad to see you are touching up the Radicals in the North; powder
and ball will do more to bring them to reason than spouting in Parliament.
The papers say there was nine killed and twenty-three wounded; and one
fellow, the 'Stockport Bee,' says, that 'if the Butcher that led the
dragoons is n't turned out of the service with disgrace no gentleman will
degrade himself by entering the army.' Isn't the Butcher yourself? Miss
Barrington, always your friend, says it is; and that if the account of
another paper, called the 'Ægis,' be true, you 'll have to go to a
court-martial. I stood stoutly to you through it all, and declared that
when the niggers was up at Jamaica, we had n't time to take the names of
the prisoners, and we always cut one of their ears off to know them again.
Old Peter laughed till the tears ran down his face, but Dinah said, 'If I
did not suppose, sir, that you were inventing a very graceless joke, I'd
insist on your leaving this room and this house on the instant.' It was
ten o'clock at night, and raining hard; so you may guess I gave in. Bad as
she is, the young one is her equal, and I gave up all thoughts of what you
call 'prosecuting my suit' in that quarter. She isn't even commonly civil
to me, and when I ask her for, maybe, the mustard at dinner, she turns
away her head, and says, 'Darby, give Major M'Cormick the salt.' That's
French politeness, perhaps; but I'll pay them all off yet, for they can't
get sixpence on the mortgage, and I 'm only drinking out that bin of old
Madeira before I tell them that I won't advance the money. Why should I?
The women treat me worse than a dog, and old B. is neither more nor less
than a fool. Dill, the doctor, however he got it, says it's all up about
the suit with the India Company; that there's no proof of the Colonel's
marriage at all, that the charges against him were never cleared up, and
that nothing can come out of it but more disgrace and more exposure.
</p>
<p>
“I wish you 'd send me the correct account of what took place between you
and one of your subalterns, for old Dinah keeps harping on it in a sort of
mysterious and mischievous way of her own, that provokes me. Was it that
he refused to obey orders, or that <i>you</i>, as <i>she</i> says, used
such language towards him that he wrote to report you? Give it to me in
black and white, and maybe I won't try her temper with it. At all events,
make out some sort of a case, for the old woman is now intolerable. She
said yesterday, 'Major Stapylton, to whom I write by this post, will see
that his visit here must be preceded by an explanation.' There's her words
for you, and I hope you like them!
</p>
<p>
“I think you are right to be in no hurry about purchasing, for many say
the whole system will be changed soon, and the money would be clean thrown
away. Besides this, I have been looking over my bauk-book, and I find I
could n't help you just now. Two bad harvests, and the smut in the wheat
last year, are running me mighty close. I won't finish this till
to-morrow, for I 'm going to dine at 'The Home' to-day. It is the
granddaughter's birthday, and there was a regular shindy about who was
going to be asked. Old Peter was for a grand celebration, and inviting the
Admiral, and the Gores, and God knows who besides; and Dinah was for what
she called a family party, consisting, I suppose, of herself and Darby. I
'll be able, before I close this, to tell you how it was ended; for I only
know now that Dill and his daughter are to be there.
</p>
<p>
“Wednesday.—I sit down with a murdering headache to finish this
letter. Maybe it was the pickled lobster, or the ice punch, or the other
drink they called champagne-cup that did it. But I never passed such a
night since I was in the trenches, and I am shaking still, so that I can
scarce hold the pen. It was a grand dinner, to be sure, for ruined people
to give. Venison from Carrick Woods, and game of every kind, with all
kinds of wine; and my Lord Car-rickmore talking to Miss Dinah, and the
Admiral following up with the niece, and Tom Brabazon, and Dean of
Deanspark, and the devil knows who besides, bringing up the rear, with
Dill and your obedient servant. Every dish that came in, and every bottle
that was uncorked, I said to myself, 'There goes another strap on the
property;' and I felt as if we were eating the trees and the timber and
the meadows all the time at table.
</p>
<p>
“It 's little of the same sympathy troubled the others. My Lord was as
jolly as if he was dining with the King; and old Cobham called for more of
the Madeira, as if it was an inn; and Peter himself—the heartless
old fool—when he got up to thank the company for drinking his
granddaughter's health, said, 'May I trust that even at my advanced age
this may not be the last time I may have to speak my gratitude to you all
for the generous warmth with which you have pledged this toast; but even
should it be so, I shall carry away with me from this evening's happiness
a glow of pleasure that will animate me to the last. It was only this
morning I learned what I know you will all hear with satisfaction, that
there is every probability of a speedy arrangement of my long-pending suit
with the Company, and that my child here will soon have her own again.'
Grand applause and huzzas, with a noise that drowned 'Bother!' from
myself, and in the middle of the row up jumps the Admiral, and cries out,
'Three cheers more for the Rajah's daughter!' I thought the old roof would
come down; and the blackguards in the kitchen took up the cry and shouted
like mad, and then we yelled again, and this went on for maybe five
minutes. 'What does it all mean,' says I, 'but a cheer for the Court of
Bankruptcy, and Hip, hip, hurray! for the Marshalsea Prison!' After that,
he had half an hour or more of flatteries and compliments. My Lord was so
happy, and Peter Barrington so proud, and the Admiral so delighted, and
the rest of us so much honored, that I could n't stand it any longer, but
stole away, and got into the garden, to taste a little fresh air and
quietness. I had n't gone ten paces, when I came plump upon Miss Dinah,
taking her coffee under a tree. 'You are a deserter, I fear, sir,' said
she, in her own snappish way; so I thought I 'd pay her off, and I said,
'To tell you the truth, Miss Barrington, at our time of life these sort of
things are more full of sadness than pleasure. We know how hollow they
are, and how little heart there is in the cheers of the people that are so
jolly over your wine, but would n't stop to talk to you when you came down
to water!'
</p>
<p>
“'The worse we think of the world, Major M'Cormick,' says she, 'the more
risk we run of making ourselves mean enough to suit it.'
</p>
<p>
“'I don't suspect, ma'am,' says I, 'that when people have known it so long
as you and I, that they are greatly in love with it.'
</p>
<p>
“'They may, however, be mannerly in their dealings with it, sir,' said
she, fiercely; and so we drew the game, and settled the men for another
battle.
</p>
<p>
“'Is there anything new, ma'am?' says I, after a while.
</p>
<p>
“'I believe not, sir. The bread riots still continue in the North, where
what would seem the needless severity of some of the military commanders
has only exasperated the people. You have heard, I suppose, of Major
Stapylton's business?'
</p>
<p>
“'Not a word, ma'am,' says I; 'for I never see a paper.'
</p>
<p>
“'I know very little of the matter myself,' says she. 'It was, it would
appear, at some night assemblage at a place called Lund's Common. A young
officer sent forward by Major Stapylton to disperse the people, was so
struck by the destitution and misery he witnessed, and the respectful
attitude they exhibited, that he hesitated about employing force, and
restricted himself to counsels of quietness and submission. He did more,—not
perhaps very prudently, as some would say,—he actually emptied his
pockets of all the money he had, giving even his watch to aid the starving
horde before him. What precise version of his conduct reached his
superior, I cannot say; but certainly Major Stapylton commented on it in
terms of the harshest severity, and he even hinted at a reason for the
forbearance too offensive for any soldier to endure.'
</p>
<p>
“She did not seem exactly to know what followed after this, but some sort
of inquiry appeared to take place, and witnesses were examined as to what
really occurred at Lund's Common; and amongst others, a Lascar, who was
one of the factory hands,—having come to England a great many years
before with an officer from India. This fellow's evidence was greatly in
favor of young Conyers, and was subjected to a very severe
cross-examination from yourself, in the middle of which he said something
in Hindostanee that nobody in the court understood but you; and after this
he was soon dismissed and the case closed for that day.
</p>
<p>
“'What do you think, Major M'Cormick,' said she, 'but when the court of
inquiry opened the next morning, Lal-Adeen, the Lascar, was not to be
found high or low. The court have suspended their sittings to search for
him; but only one opinion prevails,—that Major Stapylton knows more
of this man's escape than he is likely to tell.' I have taken great pains
to give you her own very words in all this business, and I wrote them down
the moment I got home, for I thought to myself you 'd maybe write about
the matter to old Peter, and you ought to be prepared for the way they
look at it; the more because Miss Dinah has a liking for young Conyers,—what
she calls a motherly affection; but I don't believe in the motherly part
of it! But of course you care very little what the people here say about
you at all. At least, I know it would n't trouble <i>me</i> much, if I was
in your place. At all events, whatever you do, do with a high hand, and
the Horse Guards is sure to stand to you. Moderation may be an elegant
thing in civil life, but I never knew it succeed in the army. There's the
rain coming on again, and I just sent out six cars to the bog for turf; so
I must conclude, and remain, yours sincerely,
</p>
<p>
“Daniel T. M'Cormick.
</p>
<p>
“I 'm thinking of foreclosing the small mortgage I hold on 'The Home,' but
as they pay the interest regularly, five per cent, I would n't do it if I
knew things were going on reasonably well with them; send me a line about
what is doing regarding the 'claim,' and it will guide me.”
</p>
<p>
While Major M'Cormick awaited the answer to his postscript, which to him—as
to a lady—was the important part of his letter, a short note arrived
at 'The Home' from Mr. Withering, enclosing a letter he had just received
from Major Stapylton. Withering's communication was in answer to one from
Barrington, and ran thus:—
</p>
<p>
“Dear B.,—All things considered, I believe you are right in not
receiving General Conyers at this moment. It would probably, as you
suspect, enable calumnious people to say that you could make your
resentments play second when they came in the way of your interests. If
matters go on well, as I have every hope they will, you can make the <i>amende</i>
to him more satisfactorily and more gracefully hereafter. Buxton has at
length consented to bring the case before the House; of course it will not
go to a division, nor, if it did, could it be carried; but the discussion
will excite interest, the Press will take it up, and after a few regretful
and half-civil expressions from the Ministry, the India Board will see the
necessity of an arrangement.
</p>
<p>
“It is somewhat unfortunate and <i>mal à propos</i> that Stapylton should
at this moment have got into an angry collision with young Conyers. I have
not followed the case closely, but, as usual in such things, they seem
each of them in the wrong,—the young sub wanting to make his
generous sympathy supply the place of military obedience, and the old
officer enforcing discipline at the cost of very harsh language. I learn
this morning that Conyers has sold out, intending to demand a personal
satisfaction. You will see by S.'s letter that he scarcely alludes to this
part of the transaction at all. S. feels very painfully the attacks of the
Press, and sees, perhaps, more forcibly than I should in his place, the
necessity of an exchange. Read attentively the portion I have underlined.”
</p>
<p>
It is to this alone I have to direct my readers' attention, the first two
sides of the letter being entirely filled with details about the “claim”:—
</p>
<p>
“'The newspapers have kept me before you for some days back, much more, I
doubt not, to their readers' amusement than to my own gratification. I
could, if I pleased, have told these slanderers that I did not charge a
crowd of women and children,—that I did not cut down an elderly man
at his own door-sill,—that I did not use language “offensive and
unbecoming” to one of my officers, for his having remonstrated in the name
of humanity against the cruelty of my orders. In a word, I might have
shown the contemptible scribblers that I knew how to temper duty with
discretion, as I shall know how, when the occasion offers, to make the
punishment of a calumniator a terror to his colleagues. However, there is
a very absurd story going about of a fellow whose insolence I certainly <i>did</i>
reply to with the flat of my sabre, and whom I should be but too happy to
punish legally, if he could be apprehended. That he made his escape after
being captured, and that I connived at or assisted in it,—I forget
which,—you have probably heard. In fact, there is nothing too
incredible to say of me for the moment; and what is worse, I begin to
suspect that the Home Secretary, having rather burned his fingers in the
business, will not be very sorry to make an Admiral Byng of a Major of
Hussars. For each and all these reasons I mean to exchange, and, if
possible, into a regiment in India. This will, of course, take some time;
meanwhile, I have asked for and obtained some months' leave. You will be
surprised at my troubling you with so much of purely personal matters, but
they are the necessary preface to what I now come. You are aware of the
letter I wrote some time back to Mr. Barrington, and the request it
preferred. If the reply I received was not discouraging, neither was it
conclusive. The ordinary commonplaces as to the shortness of our
acquaintance, the want of sufficient knowledge of each other's tastes,
characters, &c, were duly dwelt upon; but I could not at the end say,
was I an accepted or a rejected suitor. Now that the critical moment of my
life draws nigh,—for such I feel the present emergency,—an act
of confidence in me would have more than double value. Can you tell me
that this is the sentiment felt towards me, or am I to learn that the
yells of a rabble have drowned the voices of my friends? In plain words,
will Miss Josephine Barrington accept my offer? Will she intrust her
happiness to my keeping, and change the darkest shadow that ever lowered
over my life into a gleam of unspeakable brightness? You have given me too
many proofs of a friendly disposition towards me, not to make me feel that
you are the best fitted to bring this negotiation to a good issue. If I do
not mistake you much, you look with favor on my suit and wish it success.
I am ashamed to say how deeply my hopes have jeopardized my future
happiness, but I tell you frankly life has no such prize to my ambition,
nor, in fact, any such alternative of despair before me.'
</p>
<p>
“Now, my dear Barrington,” continued Withering's letter, “there is a great
deal in this that I like, and something with which I am not so much
pleased. If, however, I am not the Major's advocate to the extent he asks,
or expects me, it is because I feel that to be unjustly dealt with is a
stronger claim on <i>your</i> heart than that of any other man I ever met
with, and the real danger here would be that you should suffer that
feeling to predominate over all others. Consult your granddaughter's
interests, if you can, independently of this; reflect well if the plan be
one likely to promise her happiness. Take your sensible, clear-headed
sister into your counsels; but, above all, ascertain Josephine's own
sentiments, and do nothing in direct opposition to them.”
</p>
<p>
“There, Dinah,” said Barrington, placing the letter in her hands, “this is
as much to your address as to mine. Read it over carefully, and you'll
find me in the garden when you have done.”
</p>
<p>
Miss Barrington laid down her great roll of worsted work, and began her
task without a word. She had not proceeded very far, however, when
Josephine entered in search of a book. “I beg pardon, aunt, if I derange
you.”
</p>
<p>
“We say disturb, or inconvenience, in English, Miss Barrington. What is it
you are looking for?”
</p>
<p>
“The 'Legend of Montrose,' aunt. I am so much amused by that Major
Dalgetty that I can think of nothing but him.”
</p>
<p>
“Umph!” muttered the old lady. “It was of a character not altogether
dissimilar I was thinking myself at that moment. Sit down here, child, and
let me talk to you. This letter that I hold here, Josephine, concerns
you.”
</p>
<p>
“Me, aunt—concerns <i>me?</i> And who on earth could have written a
letter in which I am interested?”
</p>
<p>
“You shall hear it.” She coughed only once or twice, and then went on:
“It's a proposal of marriage,—no less. That gallant soldier who left
us so lately has fallen in love with you,—so he says, and of course
he knows best. He seems fully aware that, being older than you, and graver
in temperament, his offer must come heralded with certain expressions
almost apologetic; but he deals with the matter skillfully, and tells us
that being well off as regards fortune, of good blood, and with fair
prospects before him, he does not wish to regard his suit as hopeless.
Your grandfather was minded to learn how you might feel disposed to accept
his addresses by observing your demeanor, by watching what emotion mention
of him might occasion, by seeing how far you felt interested in his good
or ill repute. I did not agree with him. I am never for the long road when
there is a short one, and therefore I mean to let you hear his letter.
This is what he writes.” While Miss Dinah read the extract which the
reader has just seen, she never noticed, or, if noticed, never attended
to, the agitation in her niece's manner, or seemed to remark that from a
deep-crimson at first her cheeks grew pale as death, and her
lips-tremulous. “There, child,” said Miss Dinah, as she finished—“there
are his own words; very ardent words, but withal respectful. What do you
think of them,—of them and of him?”
</p>
<p>
Josephine hung down her head, and with her hands firmly clasped together,
she sat for a few moments so motionless that she seemed scarcely to
breathe.
</p>
<p>
“Would you like to think over this before you speak of it, Josephine?
Would you like to take this letter to your room and ponder over it alone?”
No answer came but a low, half-subdued sigh.
</p>
<p>
“If you do not wish to make a confidante of me, Josephine, I am sorry for
it, but not offended.”
</p>
<p>
“No, no, aunt, it is not that,” burst she in; “it is to <i>you</i> and you
alone, I wish to speak, and I will be as candid as yourself. I am not
surprised at the contents of this letter. I mean, I was in a measure
prepared for them.”
</p>
<p>
“That is to say, child, that he paid you certain attentions?”
</p>
<p>
She nodded assent.
</p>
<p>
“And how did you receive them? Did you let him understand that you were
not indifferent to him,—that his addresses were agreeable to you?”
</p>
<p>
Another, but shorter, nod replied to this question.
</p>
<p>
“I must confess,” said the old lady, bridling up, “all this amazes me
greatly. Why, child, it is but the other day you met each other for the
first time. How, when, and where you found time for such relations as you
speak of, I cannot imagine. Do you mean to tell me, Josephine, that you
ever talked alone together?”
</p>
<p>
“Constantly, aunt!”
</p>
<p>
“Constantly!”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, aunt. We talked a great deal together.”
</p>
<p>
“But how, child,—where?”
</p>
<p>
“Here, aunt, as we used to stroll together every morning through the wood
or in the garden; then as we went on the river or to the waterfall.”
</p>
<p>
“I can comprehend nothing of all this, Josephine. I know you mean to deal
openly with me; so say at once, how did this intimacy begin?”
</p>
<p>
“I can scarcely say how, aunt, because I believe we drifted into it. We
used to talk a great deal of ourselves, and at length we grew to talk of
each other,—of our likings and dislikings, our tastes and our
tempers. And these did not always agree!”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed!”
</p>
<p>
“No, aunt,” said she, with a heavy sigh. “We quarrelled very often; and
once,—I shall not easily forget it,—once seriously.”
</p>
<p>
“What was it about?”
</p>
<p>
“It was about India, aunt; and he was in the wrong, and had to own it
afterwards and ask pardon.”
</p>
<p>
“He must know much more of that country than you, child. How came it that
you presumed to set up your opinion against his?”
</p>
<p>
“The presumption was his,” said she, haughtily. “He spoke of <i>his</i>
father's position as something the same as <i>my</i> father's. He talked
of him as a Rajah!”
</p>
<p>
“I did not know that he spoke of his father,” said Miss Dinah,
thoughtfully.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, he spoke much of him. He told me, amongst other things, how he had
been a dear friend of papa's; that as young men they lived together like
brothers, and never were separate till the fortune of life divided them.”
</p>
<p>
“What is all this I am listening to? Of whom are you telling me,
Josephine?”
</p>
<p>
“Of Fred, Aunt Dinah; of Fred, of course.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you mean young Conyers, child?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. How could I mean any other?”
</p>
<p>
“Ta, ta, ta!” said the old lady, drumming with her heel on the floor and
her fingers on the table. “It has all turned out as I said it would!
Peter, Peter, will you never be taught wisdom? Listen to me, child!” said
she, turning almost sternly towards Josephine. “We have been at
cross-purposes with each other all this time. This letter which I have
just read for you—” She stopped suddenly as she reached thus far,
and after a second's pause, said, “Wait for me here; I will be back
presently. I have a word to say to your grandfather.”
</p>
<p>
Leaving poor Josephine in a state of trepidation and bewilderment,—ashamed
at the confession she had just made, and trembling with a vague sense of
some danger that impended over her,—Miss Dinah hurried away to the
garden.
</p>
<p>
“Here's a new sort of worm got into the celery, Dinah,” said he, as she
came up, “and a most destructive fellow he is. He looks like a mere
ruffling of the leaf, and you 'd never suspect him.”
</p>
<p>
“It is your peculiarity never to suspect anything, brother Peter, even
after you have had warning of peril. Do you remember my telling you, when
we were up the Rhine, what would come of that intimacy between Conyers and
Josephine?”
</p>
<p>
“I think I do,” said he, making what seemed an effort of memory.
</p>
<p>
“And can you recall the indolent slipshod answer you made me about it? But
of course you cannot. It was an old-maid's apprehensions, and you forgot
the whole thing. Well, Peter, I was right and you were wrong.”
</p>
<p>
“Not the first time that the double event has come off so!” said he,
smiling.
</p>
<p>
“You are too fond of that cloak of humility, Peter Barrington. The plea of
Guilty never saved any one from transportation!” Waiting a moment to
recover her breath after this burst of passion, she went on: “After I had
read that letter you gave me, I spoke to Josephine; I told her in a few
words how it referred to her, and frankly asked her what she thought of
it. She was very candid and very open, and, I must say, also very
collected and composed. Young ladies of the present day possess that
inestimable advantage over their predecessors. Their emotions do not
overpower them.” This was the second time of “blowing off the steam,” and
she had to wait a moment to rally. “She told me, frankly, that she was not
unprepared for such an offer; that tender passages had already been
exchanged between them. The usual tomfoolery, I conclude,—that
supreme effort of selfishness people call love,—in a word, Peter,
she was in no wise disinclined to the proposal; the only misfortune was,
she believed it came from young Conyers.”
</p>
<p>
Barrington would have laughed, and laughed heartily, if he dared. As it
was, the effort to restrain himself sent the blood to his head, and made
his eyes run over.
</p>
<p>
“You may well blush, Peter Barrington,” said she, shaking her finger at
him. “It's all your own doing.”
</p>
<p>
“And when you undeceived her, Dinah, what did she say?”
</p>
<p>
“I have not done so yet; but my impression is that so susceptible a young
lady should find no great difficulty in transferring her affections. For
the present I mean to limit myself to declaring that this offer is not
from Conyers; if she has curiosity to know the writer, she shall learn it.
I always had my doubts about these convents Bread and water diet makes
more epicures than abstinents!”
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER X. INTERCHANGED CONFESSIONS
</h2>
<p>
Miss Barrington, with Josephine at one side and Polly Dill on the other,
sat at work in her little room that opened on the garden. Each was engaged
in some peculiar task, and each seemed bent upon her labor in that
preoccupied way which would imply that the cares of needlework make no
mean call upon human faculties. A close observer would, however, have
remarked that though Miss Barrington stitched vigorously away at the
background for a fierce tiger with measly spots over him, Polly seemed
oftener to contemplate than continue her handiwork; while Josephine's
looks strayed constantly from the delicate tracery she was following, to
the garden, where the roses blended with the jasmine, and the drooping
honeysuckles hung listlessly over the boughs of the apple-tree.
</p>
<p>
“If your work wearies you, Fifine,” said Miss Dinah, “you had better read
for us.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh no, not at all, aunt; I like it immensely. I was only wondering why
one should devise such impossible foliage, when we have the real thing
before us, in all its grace and beauty.”
</p>
<p>
“Humph!” said the old lady; “the sight of a real tiger would not put me
out of countenance with my own.”
</p>
<p>
“It certainly ought not, ma'am,” said Polly; while she added, in a faint
whisper, “for there is assuredly no rivalry in the case.”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps Miss Dill is not too absorbed in her study of nature, as applied
to needlework, to read out the newspaper.”
</p>
<p>
“I will do it with pleasure, ma'am. Where shall I begin?”
</p>
<p>
“Deaths and marriages first, of course, child. Then fashion and varieties;
take the accidents afterwards, and close with anything remarkable in
politics, or any disastrous occurrence in high life.”
</p>
<p>
Polly obeyed to the letter; once only straying into an animated account of
a run with the Springfield fox-hounds, where three riders out of a large
field came in at the death; when Miss Dinah stopped her abruptly, saying,
“I don't care for the obituary of a fox, young lady. Go on with something
else.”
</p>
<p>
“Will you have the recent tragedy at Ring's End, ma'am?”
</p>
<p>
“I know it by heart Is there nothing new in the fashions,—how are
bonnets worn? What's the latest sleeve? What's the color in vogue?”
</p>
<p>
“A delicate blue, ma'am; a little off the sky, and on the hyacinth.”
</p>
<p>
“Very becoming to fair people,” said Miss Dinah, with a shake of her blond
ringlets.
</p>
<p>
“'The Prince's Hussars!' Would you like to hear about <i>them</i>, ma'am?”
</p>
<p>
“By all means.”
</p>
<p>
“It's a very short paragraph. 'The internal troubles of this unhappy
regiment would seem to be never ending. We last week informed our readers
that a young subaltern of the corps, the son of one of our most
distinguished generals, had thrown up his commission and repaired to the
Continent, to enable him to demand a personal satisfaction from his
commanding officer, and we now learn that the Major in question is
precluded from accepting the gage of battle by something stronger than
military etiquette.'”
</p>
<p>
“Read it again, child; that vile newspaper slang always puzzles me.”
</p>
<p>
Polly recited the passage in a clear and distinct voice.
</p>
<p>
“What do you understand by it, Polly?”
</p>
<p>
“I take it to mean nothing, madam. One of those stirring pieces of
intelligence which excites curiosity, and are no more expected to be
explained than a bad riddle.”
</p>
<p>
“It cannot surely be that he shelters himself under his position towards
us? That I conclude is hardly possible!”
</p>
<p>
Though Miss Barrington said this as a reflection, she addressed herself
almost directly to Josephine.
</p>
<p>
“As far as I am concerned, aunt,” answered Josephine, promptly, “the Major
may fight the monster of the Drachenfels to-morrow, if he wishes it.”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, here is another mystery apparently on the same subject. 'The Lascar,
Lal-Adeen, whom our readers will remember as having figured in a
police-court a few days back, and was remanded till the condition of his
wound—a severe sabre-cut on the scalp—should permit his
further examination, and on the same night made his escape from the
hospital, has once again, and very unexpectedly, turned up at
Boulogne-sur-Mer. His arrival in this country—some say voluntarily,
others under a warrant issued for his apprehension—will probably
take place to-day or to-morrow, and, if report speak truly, be followed by
some of the most singular confessions which the public has heard for a
long time back.' 'The Post' contradicts the statement, and declares 'no
such person has ever been examined before the magistrate, if he even have
any existence at all.'”
</p>
<p>
“And what interest has all this for us?” asked Miss Dinah, sharply.
</p>
<p>
“You do not forget, ma'am, that this is the same man Major Stapylton was
said to have wounded; and whose escape scandal hinted he had connived at,
and who now 'does not exist.'”
</p>
<p>
“I declare Miss Dill, I remember no such thing; but it appears to me that
Major Stapylton occupies a very considerable space in your own thoughts.”
</p>
<p>
“I fancy Polly likes him, aunt,” said Josephine, with a slight smile.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I will own he interests me; there is about him a mysterious
something that says, 'I have more in my head and on my heart than you
think of, and more, perhaps, than you could carry if the burden were
yours.'”
</p>
<p>
“A galley-slave might say the same, Miss Dill.”
</p>
<p>
“No doubt of it, ma'am; and if there be men who mix in the great world,
and dine at grand houses, with something of the galley-slave on their
conscience, they assuredly impress us with an amount of fear that is half
a homage. One dreads them as he does a tiger, but the terror is mingled
with admiration.”
</p>
<p>
“This is nonsense, young lady, and baneful nonsense, too, begotten of
French novels and a sickly sentimentality. I hope Fifine despises it as
heartily as I do.” The passionate wrath which she displayed extended to
the materials of her work-basket, and while rolls of worsted were upset
here, needles were thrown there; and at last, pushing her embroidery-frame
rudely away, she arose and left the room.
</p>
<p>
“Dearest Polly, how could you be so indiscreet! You know, far better than
I do, how little patience she has with a paradox.”
</p>
<p>
“My sweet Fifine,” said the other, in a low whisper, “I was dying to get
rid of her, and I knew there was only one way of effecting it. You may
remark that whenever she gets into a rage, she rushes out into the
flower-garden, and walks round and round till she's ready to drop. There
she is already; you may gauge her anger by the number of her revolutions
in a minute.”
</p>
<p>
“But why did you wish her away, Polly?”
</p>
<p>
“I'll tell you why; that is, there is a charming French word for what I
mean, the verb 'agacer,' all untranslatable as it is. Now there are
moments when a person working in the same room—reading, writing,
looking out of the window—becomes an insupportable infliction. You
reason, and say, 'How absurd, how childish, how ungenerous,' and so forth.
It won't do; for as you look round he is there still, and by his mere
presence keeps up the ferment in your thoughts. You fancy, at last, that
he stands between you and your inner self, a witness that won't let your
own conscience whisper to you, and you come in the end to hate him. Your
dear aunt was on the high-road to this goal, when I bethought me of my
expedient! And now we are all alone, dearest, make me a confession.”
</p>
<p>
“What is it?”
</p>
<p>
“You do not like Major Stapylton?”
</p>
<p>
“No.”
</p>
<p>
“And you do like somebody else?”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps,” said she, slowly, and dividing the syllables as she spoke them.
</p>
<p>
“That being the case, and seeing, as you do, that your aunt is entirely of
your own mind, at least as to the man you do not care for, why don't you
declare as much frankly to your grandfather, and break off the negotiation
at once?”
</p>
<p>
“Just because that dear old grandpapa asked me not to be precipitate, not
to be rash. He did not tell me that I must love Major Stapylton, or must
marry him; but he said, 'If you only knew, Fifine, what a change in our
fortune would come of a change in <i>your</i> feelings; if you could but
imagine, child, how the whole journey of life might be rendered easier,
all because you took the right-hand road instead of the left; if you could
guess these things, and what might follow them—'” She stopped.
</p>
<p>
“Well, go on.”
</p>
<p>
“No. I have said all that he said; he kissed my cheek as he got thus far,
and hurried away from the room.”
</p>
<p>
“And you, like a sweet, obedient child, hastened away to yours; wrote a
farewell, a heart-broken farewell, to Fred Conyers; and solemnly swore to
your own conscience you 'd marry a man you disliked. These are the sort of
sacrifices the world has a high admiration for; but do you know, Fifine,
the world limps a little in its morality sometimes, and is not one-half
the fine creature it thinks itself. For instance, in the midst of all its
enthusiasm for you, it has forgotten that in accepting for your husband a
man you do not love, you are doing a dishonesty; and that, besides this,
you really love another. It is what the French call the aggravating
circumstance.”
</p>
<p>
“I mean to do nothing of the kind!” broke in Fifine, boldly. “Your lecture
does not address itself to <i>me</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“Do not be angry, Fifine,” said the other, calmly.
</p>
<p>
“It is rather too hard to be rebuked for the faults one might have, but
has not committed. It's like saying how wet you 'd have been had you
fallen into that pool!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it also means, don't fall into the pool!”
</p>
<p>
“Do you know, Polly,” said Josephine, archly, “I have a sort of suspicion
that you don't dislike this Major yourself! Am I right?”
</p>
<p>
“I'm not say you were altogether wrong; that is, he interests me, or,
rather, he puzzles me, and it piques my ingenuity to read him, just as it
would to make out a cipher to which I had only one-half the key.”
</p>
<p>
“Such a feeling as that would never inspire a tender interest, at least,
with <i>me</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“Nor did I say it was, Fifine. I have read in some book of my father's how
certain physicians inoculated themselves with plague, the better to note
the phenomena, and trace the course; and I own I can understand their
zeal, and I 'd risk something to decipher this man.”
</p>
<p>
“This may be very nice in medicine, Polly, but very bad in morals! At all
events, don't catch the plague for the sake of saving <i>me?</i>”
</p>
<p>
“Oh! I assure you any step I take shall be done in the interests of
science solely; not but that I have a small debt to acquit towards the
gallant Major.”
</p>
<p>
“You have! What can it possibly be?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it was this wise,” said she, with a half-sigh. “We met at a
country-house here, and he paid me certain attentions, made me compliments
on my riding, which I knew to be good, and my singing, which was just
tolerable; said the usual things which mean nothing, and a few of those
more serious ones which are supposed to be more significant; and then he
asked my father's leave to come and visit him, and actually fixed a day
and an hour. And we, poor people, all delighted with the flattery of such
high notice, and thinking of the effect upon our neighbors so splendid a
visitor would produce, made the most magnificent preparations to receive
him,—papa in a black satin waistcoat, mamma in her lilac ribbons. I
myself,—having put the roof on a pigeon-pie, and given the last
finishing touch to a pagoda of ruby jelly,—I, in a charming figured
muslin and a blush rose in my hair, awaited the hour of attack! And, after
all, he never came. No, Fifine, never came! He forgot us, or he changed
his mind, or something else turned up that he liked better; or—which
is just as likely as any of the three—he thought it would be a
charming piece of impertinence to pass off on such small folk, who
presumed to fancy themselves company for him. At all events, Fifine, we
saw him no more. He went his way somewhere, and we were left lamenting.”
</p>
<p>
“And you really liked him, Polly?”
</p>
<p>
“No, of the two, I disliked him; but I wished very much that he might like
<i>me!</i> I saw him very overbearing and very insolent to those who were
certainly his equals, assuming a most offensive superiority everywhere and
to any one, and I thought what an awful humiliation it would be if so
great a personage were to be snubbed by the doctor's daughter. I wanted to
give a lesson which could only be severe if it came from one humble as
myself; but he defeated me, Fifine, and I am still his debtor! If I did
not like him before, you may believe that I hate him now; and I came off
here this morning, in hot haste, for no other purpose than to set you
against him, and induce you to regard him as I do.”
</p>
<p>
“There was little need,” said Fifine, calmly; “but here comes my aunt back
again. Make your submission quickly, Polly, or it will be too late to
expect mercy.”
</p>
<p>
“I 'll do better,” said Polly, rising. “I 'll let my trial go on in my
absence;” and with this she stepped out of the window as Miss Barrington
entered by the door.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
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<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XI. STAPYLTON'S VISIT AT “THE HOME”
</h2>
<p>
So secretly had Barrington managed, that he negotiated the loan of five
hundred pounds on a mortgage of the cottage without ever letting his
sister hear of it; and when she heard on a particular day that her brother
expected Mr. Kinshela, the attorney, from Kilkenny, on business, she made
the occasion the pretext of a visit to Dr. Dill, taking Josephine with
her, to pass the day there.
</p>
<p>
Barrington was therefore free to receive his lawyer at his ease, and
confer with him alone. Not that he cared much for his company; he felt
towards the attorney pretty much as an ardent soldier feels to a
non-combatant, the commissary, or the paymaster. Had he been a barrister,
indeed, old Peter would have welcomed him with the zest of true
companionship; he would have ransacked his memory for anecdotes, and
prepared for the meeting as for an encounter of sharp wits. Now it is no
part of my task to present Mr. Kinshela more than passingly to my reader,
and I will merely say that he was a shrewd, commonplace man, whose
practice rarely introduced him to the higher classes of his county, and
who recognized Barrington, even in his decline, as a person of some
consideration.
</p>
<p>
They had dined well, and sat over their wine in the little dining-room
over the river, a favorite spot of Barrington's when he wished to be
confidential, for it was apart from the rest of the cottage, and removed
from all intrusion.
</p>
<p>
“So, you won't tell me, Kinshela, who lent us this money?” said the old
man, as he passed the decanter across the table.
</p>
<p>
“It is not that I won't, sir, but I can't. It was in answer to an
advertisement I inserted in the 'Times,' that I got an application from
Granger and Wood to supply particulars; and I must say there was no
unnecessary security on their part. It was as speedily settled a
transaction as I ever conducted, and I believe in my heart we might have
had a thousand pounds on it just as easily as five hundred.”
</p>
<p>
“As well as it is, Kinshela. When the day of repayment comes round, I'll
perhaps find it heavy enough;” and he sighed deeply as he spoke.
</p>
<p>
“Who knows, sir? There never was a time that capital expended on land was
more remunerative than the present.”
</p>
<p>
Now, Mr. Kinshela well knew that the destination of the money they spoke
of was not in this direction, and that it had as little to say to subsoil
drainage or top dressing as to the conversion of the heathen; but he was
angling for a confidence, and he did not see how to attain it.
</p>
<p>
Barrington smiled before he answered,—one of those sad, melancholy
smiles which reveal a sorrow a man is not able to suppress,—and then
he said, “I 'm afraid, Kinshela, I 'll not test the problem this time.”
</p>
<p>
“It will be better employed, perhaps, sir. You mean, probably, to take
your granddaughter up to the drawing-room at the Castle?”
</p>
<p>
“I never so much as thought of it, Joe Kinshela; the fact is, that money
is going where I have sent many a hundred before it,—in law! I have
had a long, wearisome, costly suit, that has well-nigh beggared me; and of
that sum you raised for me I don't expect to have a shilling by this day
week.”
</p>
<p>
“I heard something about that, sir,” said the other, cautiously.
</p>
<p>
“And what was it you heard?”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing, of course, worth repeating; nothing from any one that knew the
matter himself; just the gossip that goes about, and no more.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, let us hear the gossip that goes about, and I'll promise to tell
you if it's true.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, indeed,” said Kinshela, drawing a long breath, “they say that your
claim is against the India Board.”
</p>
<p>
Barring ton nodded.
</p>
<p>
“And that it is a matter little short of a million is in dispute.”
</p>
<p>
He nodded again twice.
</p>
<p>
“And they say, too,—of course, on very insufficient knowledge,—that
if you would have abated your demands once on a time, you might readily
have got a hundred thousand pounds, or even more.”
</p>
<p>
“That's not impossible,” muttered Barrington.
</p>
<p>
“But that, now—” he stammered for an instant, and then stopped.
</p>
<p>
“But now? Go on.”
</p>
<p>
“Sure, sir, they can know nothing about it; it's just idle talk, and no
more.”
</p>
<p>
“Go on, and tell me what they say <i>now</i>,” said Barrington, with a
strong force on the last word.
</p>
<p>
“They say you 'll be beaten, sir,” said he, with an effort.
</p>
<p>
“And do they say why, Kinshela?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, sir; they say you won't take advice; and no matter what Mr.
Withering counsels, or is settled in consultation, you go your own way and
won't mind them; and that you have been heard to declare you 'll have all,
or nothing.”
</p>
<p>
“They give me more credit than I deserve, Kinshela. It is, perhaps, what I
ought to have said, for I have often <i>thought it</i>. But in return for
all the kind interest my neighbors take about me, let them know that
matters look better for us than they once did. Perhaps,” added he, with a
laugh,—“perhaps I have overcome my obstinacy, or perhaps my
opponents have yielded to it. At all events, Joe, I believe I see land at
last, and it was a long 'lookout' and many a fog-bank I mistook for it.”
</p>
<p>
“And what makes you think now you'll win?” said the other, growing bolder
by the confidence reposed in him.
</p>
<p>
Barrington half started at the presumption of the question; but he
suddenly remembered how it was he himself who had invited the discussion,
so he said calmly,—
</p>
<p>
“My hope is not without a foundation. I expect by the mail to-night a
friend who may be able to tell me that I have won, or as good as won.”
</p>
<p>
Kinshela was dying to ask who the friend was, but even his curiosity had
its prudential limits; so he merely took out his watch, and, looking at
it, remarked that the mail would pass in about twenty minutes or so.
</p>
<p>
“By the way, I must n't forget to send a servant to wait on the roadside;”
and he rang the bell and said, “Let Darby go up to the road and take Major
Stapylton's luggage when he arrives.”
</p>
<p>
“Is that the Major Stapylton is going to be broke for the doings at
Manchester, sir?” asked Kinshela.
</p>
<p>
“He is the same Major Stapylton that a rascally press is now libelling and
calumniating,” said Barrington, hotly. “As to being broke, I don't believe
that we have come yet to that pass in England that the discipline of our
army is administered by every scribbler in a newspaper.”
</p>
<p>
“I humbly crave your pardon, sir, if I have said the slightest thing to
offend; but I only meant to ask, was he the officer they were making such
a fuss about?” “He is an officer of the highest distinction, and a
wellborn gentleman to boot,—two admirable reasons for the assaults
of a contemptible party. Look you, Kinshela; you and I are neither of us
very young or inexperienced men, but I would ask you, have we learned any
wiser lesson from our intercourse with life than to withhold our judgment
on the case of one who rejects the sentence of a mob, and appeals to the
verdict of his equals?”
</p>
<p>
“But if he cut the people down in cold blood,—if it be true that he
laid open that poor black fellow's cheek from the temple to the chin—”
</p>
<p>
“If he did no such thing,” broke in Barrington; “that is to say, if there
is no evidence whatever that he did so, what will your legal mind say
then, Joe Kinshela?”
</p>
<p>
“Just this, sir. I'd say—what all the newspapers are saying—that
he got the man out of the way,—bribed and sent him off.”
</p>
<p>
“Why not hint that he murdered him, and buried him within the precincts of
the jail? I declare I wonder at your moderation.”
</p>
<p>
“I am sure, sir, that if I suspected he was an old friend of yours—”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing of the kind,—a friend of very short standing; but what has
that to say to it? Is he less entitled to fair play whether he knew me or
not?”
</p>
<p>
“All I know of the case is from the newspapers; and as I scarcely see one
word in his favor, I take it there is not much to be said in his defence.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, if my ears don't deceive me, that was the guard's horn I heard
then. The man himself will be here in five minutes or so. You shall
conduct the prosecution, Kinshela, and I 'll be judge between you.”
</p>
<p>
“Heaven forbid, sir; on no account whatever!” said Kinshela, trembling all
over. “I'm sure, Mr. Barrington, you couldn't think of repeating what I
said to you in confidence—”
</p>
<p>
“No, no, Kinshela. You shall do it yourself; and it's only fair to tell
you that he is a right clever fellow, and fully equal to the task of
defending himself.” Peter arose as he spoke, and walked out upon the lawn,
affectedly to meet his coming guest, but in reality to cover a laugh that
was half smothering him, so comical was the misery expressed in the
attorney's face, and so ludicrous was his look of terror.
</p>
<p>
Of course I need not say that it never occurred to Barrington to realize
his threat, which he merely uttered in the spirit of that quizzing habit
that was familiar to him. “Yes, Kinshela,” cried he, “here he comes. I
recognize his voice already;” and Barrington now walked forward to welcome
his friend.
</p>
<p>
It was not till after some minutes of conversation, and when the light
fell strongly on Stapylton's features, that Barrington saw how changed a
few weeks of care had made him. He looked at the least ten years older
than before. His eyes had lost their bold and daring expression, too, and
were deep sunk, and almost furtive in their glance.
</p>
<p>
“You are tired, I fear,” said Barrington, as the other moved his hand
across his forehead, and, with a slight sigh, sank down upon a sofa.
</p>
<p>
“Less tired than worried,—harassed,” said he, faintly. “Just as at a
gaming-table a man may lose more in half an hour's high play than years of
hard labor could acquire, there are times of life when we dissipate more
strength and vigor than we ever regain. I have had rough usage since I saw
you last,” said he, with a very sickly smile. “How are the ladies,—well,
I hope?”
</p>
<p>
“Perfectly well. They have gone to pass the day with a neighbor, and will
be home presently. By the way, I left a friend here a few moments ago.
What can have become of him?” and he rang the bell hastily. “Where's Mr.
Kinshela, Darby?”
</p>
<p>
“Gone to bed, sir. He said he 'd a murthering headache, and hoped your
honor would excuse him.”
</p>
<p>
Though Barrington laughed heartily at this message, Stapylton never asked
the reason, but sat immersed in thought and unmindful of all around him.
</p>
<p>
“I half suspect you ought to follow his good example, Major,” said Peter.
“A mug of mulled claret for a nightcap, and a good sleep, will set you all
right.”
</p>
<p>
“It will take more than that to do it,” said the Major, sadly. Then
suddenly rising, and pacing the room with quick, impatient steps, he said,
“What could have induced you to let them bring your claim before the
House? They are going to do so, ain't they?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. Tom Withering says that nothing will be so effectual, and I thought
you agreed with him.”
</p>
<p>
“Never. Nothing of the kind. I said, threaten it; insist that if they
continue the opposition, that you will,—that you must do so; but I
never was the fool to imagine that it could really be a wise step. What 's
the fate of all such motions? I ask you. There's a speech—sometimes
an able one—setting forth a long catalogue of unmerited injuries and
long suffering. There's a claim made out that none can find a flaw in, and
a story that, if Parliament was given to softness, might move men almost
to tears, and at the end of it up rises a Minister to say how deeply he
sympathizes with the calamity of the case, but that this house is, after
all, not the fitting locality for a discussion which is essentially a
question of law, and that, even if it were, and if all the allegations
were established,—a point to which he by no means gave adhesion,—there
was really no available fund at the disposal of the Crown to make
reparation for such losses. Have you not seen this, or something like
this, scores of times? Can you tell me of one that succeeded?”
</p>
<p>
“A case of such wrong as this cannot go without reparation,” said Peter,
with emotion. “The whole country will demand it.”
</p>
<p>
“The country will do no such thing. If it were a question of penalty or
punishment,—yes! the country would demand it. Fine, imprison,
transport, hang him! are easy words to utter, and cheap ones; but pay him,
reinstate him, reward him! have a very different sound and significance.
They figure in the budget, and are formidable on the hustings. Depend on
it, Mr. Barrington, the step will be a false one.”
</p>
<p>
“It has been my fate never to have got the same advice for two weeks
together since the day I entered on this weary suit,” said Barrington,
with a peevishness not natural to him.
</p>
<p>
“I may as well tell you the whole truth at once,” said Stapylton. “The
Board have gone back of all their good intentions towards us; some recent
arrivals from India, it is said, have kindled again the old fire of
opposition, and we are to be met by a resistance bold and uncompromising.
They are prepared to deny everything we assert; in fact, they have
resolved to sweep all the pieces off the board and begin the whole game
again, and all because you have taken this unfortunate course of appeal to
Parliament.”
</p>
<p>
“Have you told Withering this?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes; I have talked the matter over for nearly four hours with him. Like a
lawyer, he was most eager to know from what source came the new evidence
so damaging to us. I could only guess at this.”
</p>
<p>
“And your guess was—”
</p>
<p>
“I scarcely like to own to you that I take a less favorable view of
mankind than you do, who know it better; but in this case my suspicion
attaches to a man who was once your son's dearest friend, but grew to be
afterwards his deadliest enemy.”
</p>
<p>
“I will not have this said, Major Stapylton. I know whom you mean, and I
don't believe a word of it.”
</p>
<p>
Stapylton simply shrugged his shoulders, and continued to pace the room
without speaking, while Barrington went on muttering, half aloud: “No, no,
impossible; quite impossible. These things are not in nature. I don't
credit them.”
</p>
<p>
“You like to think very well of the world, sir!” said the Major, with a
faint scorn, so faint as scarcely to color his words.
</p>
<p>
“Think very badly of it, and you 'll soon come down to the level you
assign it,” said Peter, boldly.
</p>
<p>
“I 'm afraid I 'm not in the humor just now to give it my best suffrages.
You 've seen, I doubt not, something of the treatment I have met with from
the Press for the last few weeks; not very generous usage,—not very
just. Well! what will you say when I tell you that I have been refused an
inquiry into my conduct at Manchester; that the Government is of opinion
that such an investigation might at the moment be prejudicial to the
public peace, without any counterbalancing advantage on the score of a
personal vindication; that they do not deem the time favorable for the
calm and unbiassed judgment of the country; in one short word, sir, they
'd rather ruin a Major of Hussars than risk a Cabinet. I am to exchange
into any corps or any service I can; and they are to tide over these
troubles on the assumption of having degraded me.”
</p>
<p>
“I hope you wrong them,—I do hope you wrong them!” cried Barrington,
passionately.
</p>
<p>
“You shall see if I do,” said he, taking several letters from his pocket,
and searching for one in particular. “Yes, here it is. This is from
Aldridge, the private secretary of the Commander-in-chief. It is very
brief, and strictly secret:—
</p>
<p>
“'Dear S.,—The “Chief” does not like your scrape at all. You did
rather too much, or too little,—a fatal mistake dealing with a mob.
You must consent—there's no help for it—to be badly used, and
an injured man. If you don't like the half-pay list,—which would, in
my mind, be the best step,—there 's the Seventeenth ordered to
Baroda, and Maidstone refuses to go. This, or the Second West India, are
the only things open. Above all, don't show fight; don't rally a party
round you, for there is not a man in England whose influence is
sufficiently great to stand between you and the public. A conple of years'
patience and a hot climate will set all right, and reinstate you
everywhere. Come over here at once and I 'll do my best for you.
</p>
<p>
“'Yours ever,
</p>
<p>
“'St. George Aldridge.'
</p>
<p>
“This is a friend's letter,” said Stapylton, with a sneer; “and he has no
better counsel to give me than to plead guilty, and ask for a mitigated
punishment.”
</p>
<p>
Harrington was silenced; he would not by any expression of indignation add
to the great anger of the other, and he said nothing. At last he said, “I
wish from my heart—I wish I could be of any service to you.”
</p>
<p>
“You are the only man living who can,” was the prompt answer.
</p>
<p>
“How so—in what way? Let me hear.”
</p>
<p>
“When I addressed a certain letter to you some time back, I was in a
position both of fortune and prospect to take at least something from the
presumption of my offer. Now, though my fortune remains, my future is more
than clouded, and if I ask you to look favorably on my cause now, it is to
your generosity I must appeal; I am, in fact, asking you to stand by a
fallen man.”
</p>
<p>
This speech, uttered in a voice slightly shaken by agitation, went to
Barrington's heart. There was not a sentiment in his nature so certain to
respond to a call upon it as this one of sympathy with the beaten man; the
weaker side was always certain of his adherence. With a nice tact
Stapylton said no more, but, pushing open the window, walked out upon the
smooth sward, on which a faint moonlight flickered. He had shot his bolt,
and saw it as it quivered in his victim's flesh. Barrington was after him
in an instant, and, drawing an arm within his he said in a low voice, “You
may count upon me.”
</p>
<p>
Stapylton wrung his hand warmly, without speaking. After walking for a few
moments, side by side, he said: “I must be frank with you, Mr. Barrington.
I have little time and no taste for circumlocution; I cannot conceal from
myself that I am no favorite with your sister. I was not as eager as I
ought to have been to cultivate her good opinion; I was a little piqued at
what I thought mere injustices on her part,—small ones, to be sure,
but they wounded me, and with a temper that always revolted against a
wrong, I resented them, and I fear me, in doing so, I jeopardized her
esteem. If she is as generous as her brother, she will not remember these
to me in my day of defeat. Women, however, have their own ideas of mercy,
as they have of everything, and she may not choose to regard me as you
have done.”
</p>
<p>
“I suspect you are wrong about this,” said Harrington, breaking in.
</p>
<p>
“Well, I wish I may be; at all events, I must put the feeling to the test
at once, for I have formed my plan, and mean to begin it immediately.”
</p>
<p>
“And what is it?”
</p>
<p>
“Very few words will tell it. I intend to go on half-pay, or sell out if
that be refused me; set out for India by the next mail, and, with what
energy remains to me, vindicate your son's claim. I have qualifications
that will make me better than a better man. I am well versed in
Hindostanee, and a fair Persian scholar; I have a wide acquaintance with
natives of every rank, and I know how and where to look for information.
It is not my disposition to feel over-sanguine, but I would stake all I
possess on my success, for I see exactly the flaws in the chain, and I
know where to go to repair them. You have witnessed with what ardor I
adopted the suit before; but you cannot estimate the zeal with which I
throw myself into it now—<i>now</i> that, like George Barring-ton
himself, I am a man wronged, outraged, and insulted.” For a few seconds be
seemed overcome by passion and unable to continue; then he went on: “If
your granddaughter will accept me, it is my intention to settle on her all
I possess. Our marriage can be private, and she shall be free to accompany
me or to remain here, as she likes.”
</p>
<p>
“But how can all this be done so hurriedly? You talk of starting at once.”
</p>
<p>
“I must, if I would save your son's cause. The India Board are sending out
their emissaries to Calcutta, and I must anticipate them—if I cannot
do more, by gaining them over to us on the voyage out. It is a case for
energy and activity, and I want to employ both.”
</p>
<p>
“The time is very short for all this,” said Barrington, again.
</p>
<p>
“So it is, sir, and so are the few seconds which may rescue a man from
drowning! It is in the crisis of my fate that I ask you to stand by me.”
</p>
<p>
“But have you any reason to believe that my granddaughter will hear you
favorably? You are almost strangers to each other?”
</p>
<p>
“If she will not give me the legal right to make her my heir, I mean to
usurp the privilege. I have already been with a lawyer for that purpose.
My dear sir,” added he, passionately, “I want to break with the past
forever! When the world sets up its howl against a man, the odds are too
great! To stand and defy it he must succumb or retreat. Now, I mean to
retire, but with the honors of war, mark you.”
</p>
<p>
“My sister will never consent to it,” muttered Barrington.
</p>
<p>
“Will you? Have I the assurance of <i>your</i> support?”
</p>
<p>
“I can scarcely venture to say 'yes,' and yet I can't bear to say 'no' to
you!”
</p>
<p>
“This is less than I looked for from you,” said Stapylton, mournfully.
</p>
<p>
“I know Dinah so well. I know how hopeless it would be to ask her
concurrence to this plan.”
</p>
<p>
“She may not take the generous view of it; but there is a worldly one
worth considering,” said Stapylton, bitterly.
</p>
<p>
“Then, sir, if you count on <i>that</i>, I would not give a copper
half-penny for your chance of success!” cried Barrington, passionately.
</p>
<p>
“You have quite misconceived me; you have wronged me altogether,” broke in
Stapylton, in a tone of apology; for he saw the mistake he had made, and
hastened to repair it. “My meaning was this—”
</p>
<p>
“So much the better. I'm glad I misunderstood you. But here come the
ladies. Let us go and meet them.”
</p>
<p>
“One word,—only one word. Will you befriend me?”
</p>
<p>
“I will do all that I can,—that is, all that I ought,” said
Barrington, as he led him away, and re-entered the cottage.
</p>
<p>
“I will not meet them to-night,” said Stapylton, hurriedly. “I am nervous
and agitated. I will say good-night now.”
</p>
<p>
This was the second time within a few days that Stapylton had shown an
unwillingness to confront Miss Barrington, and Peter thought over it long
and anxiously. “What can he mean by it?” said he, to himself. “Why should
he be so frank and outspoken with me, and so reserved with her? What can
Dinah know of him? What can she suspect, that is not known to me? It is
true they never did like each other,—never 'hit it off' together;
but that is scarcely <i>his</i> fault. My excellent sister throws away
little love on strangers, and opens every fresh acquaintance with a very
fortifying prejudice against the newly presented. However it happens,”
muttered he, with a sigh, “<i>she</i> is not often wrong, and <i>I</i> am
very seldom right;” and, with this reflection, he turned once again to
resume his walk in the garden.
</p>
<p>
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<br /><br /><br /><br />
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<h2>
CHAPTER XII. A DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENT
</h2>
<p>
Stapylton did not make his appearance at breakfast; he sent down a message
that he had passed a feverish night, and begged that Dr. Dill might be
sent for. Though Barrington made two attempts to see his guest, the
quietness of the room on each occasion implied that he was asleep, and,
fearing to disturb him, he went downstairs again on tiptoe.
</p>
<p>
“This is what the persecution has done, Dinah,” said he. “They have
brought that stout-hearted fellow so low that he may be the victim of a
fever to-morrow.”
</p>
<p>
“Nonsense, Peter. Men of courage don't fall sick because the newspapers
calumniate them. They have other things on their minds than such puny
attacks.”
</p>
<p>
“So he may, likely enough, too. He is bent heart and soul on what I told
you last night, and I 'm not surprised if he never closed his eyes
thinking of it.”
</p>
<p>
“Neither did I!” said she, curtly, and left the room.
</p>
<p>
The doctor was not long in arriving, and, after a word or two with
Barrington, hastened to the patient's room.
</p>
<p>
“Are we alone?” asked Stapylton, cutting short the bland speech with which
Dill was making his approaches. “Draw that curtain a bit, and take a good
look at me. Are my eyes bloodshot? Are the pupils dilated? I had a bad
sunstroke once; see if there be any signs of congestion about me.”
</p>
<p>
“No, I see none. A little flushed; your pulse, too, is accelerated, and
the heart's action is labored—”
</p>
<p>
“Never mind the heart; if the head be well, it will take care of it. Reach
me that pocket-book; I want to acquit one debt to you before I incur
another. No humbug between us;” and he pressed some notes into the other's
palm as he spoke. “Let us understand each other fully, and at once. I 'm
not very ill; but I want <i>you</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“And I am at your orders.”
</p>
<p>
“Faithfully,—loyally?”
</p>
<p>
“Faithfully,—loyally!” repeated the other after him.
</p>
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004">
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</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img src="images/454.jpg" width="100%" alt="454 " />
</div>
<p>
“You've read the papers lately,—you've seen these attacks on me?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, what do they say and think here—I mean in this house—about
them? How do they discuss them? Remember, I want candor and frankness; no
humbug. I'll not stand humbug.”
</p>
<p>
“The women are against you.”
</p>
<p>
“Both of them?”
</p>
<p>
“Both.”
</p>
<p>
“How comes that?—on what grounds?”
</p>
<p>
“The papers accused you of cruelty; they affirmed that there was no cause
for the measures of severity you adopted; and they argued—”
</p>
<p>
“Don't bore me with all that balderdash. I asked you how was it that these
women assumed I was in the wrong?”
</p>
<p>
“And I was about to tell you, if you had not interrupted me.”
</p>
<p>
“That is, they believed what they read in the newspapers?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
“And, of course, swallowed that fine story about the Hindoo fellow that I
first cut down, and afterwards bribed to make his escape from the
hospital?”
</p>
<p>
“I suspect they half believed it.”
</p>
<p>
“Or rather, believed half of it, the cutting down part! Can you tell me
physiologically,—for I think it comes into that category,—why
it is that women not otherwise ill-natured, in nine cases out of ten take
the worst alternative as the credible one? But never mind that. They
condemn me. Is n't it so?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes; and while old Barrington insists—”
</p>
<p>
“Who cares what he insists? Such advocacy as his only provokes attack, and
invites persecution. I 'd rather have no such allies!”
</p>
<p>
“I believe you are right.”
</p>
<p>
“I want fellows like yourself, doctor,—sly, cautious, subtle
fellows,—accustomed to stealing strong medicines into the system in
small doses; putting the patient, as you call it in your slang, 'under the
influence' of this, that, and t'other,—eh?”
</p>
<p>
Dill smiled blandly at the compliment to his art, and Stapylton went on:—
</p>
<p>
“Not that I have time just now for this sort of chronic treatment. I need
a heroic remedy, doctor. I 'm in love.”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed!” said Dill, with an accent nicely balanced between interest and
incredulity.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, and I want to marry!
</p>
<p>
“Miss Barrington?”
</p>
<p>
“The granddaughter. There is no need, I hope, to make the distinction, for
I don't wish to be thought insane. Now you have the case. What 's your
prescription?”
</p>
<p>
“Propose for her!”
</p>
<p>
“So I have, but they hesitate. The old man is not unfavorable; he is,
perhaps, more: he is, in a measure, friendly; but what avails such
advocacy? I want another guess sort of aid,—a clever man; or, what
is better still, a clever woman, to befriend me.”
</p>
<p>
He waited some seconds for a reply, but Dill did not speak; so he went on:
“A clever woman, to take a woman's view of the case, balancing this
against that, never ignoring an obstacle, but inquiring what there may be
to compensate for it Do you know such a one, doctor?”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps I may; but I have my doubts about securing her services.”
</p>
<p>
“Even with a retainer?”
</p>
<p>
“Even with a retainer. You see, Major,”—here Dill dropped his voice
to a most confidential whisper,—“my daughter Polly,—for I know
we both have her in mind,—Polly is a strange sort of girl, and very
hard to understand; for while, if the case were her own, she 'd no more
think of romance than she would of giving ten guineas for a dress, if she
was advising another whose position and prospects were higher than hers,
it's the romantic part of it she'd lay all the stress on.”
</p>
<p>
“From which I gather that my suit will not stand this test!” said
Stapylton, with a peculiar smile. “Eh, is n't that your meaning?”
</p>
<p>
“You are certainly some years older than the lady,” said Dill, blandly.
</p>
<p>
“Not old enough to be, as the world would surely say, 'her father,' but
fully old enough to give license for sarcasm.”
</p>
<p>
“Then, as she will be a great fortune—”
</p>
<p>
“Not a sixpence,—she'll not have sixpence, doctor. That bubble has
burst at last, and can never be blown again. The whole claim has been
rejected, refused, thrown out, and there 's an end of it. It amuses the
old man to sit on the wreck and fancy he can repair the shattered timbers
and make them seaworthy; and, for the time he is likely to last, it is
only kindness to leave him to his delusion; but he is ruined,—ruined
beyond recall, and as I have told you, the girl will have nothing.”
</p>
<p>
“Do they know this,—has Barrington heard it?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I broke it to him last night, but I don't think he fully realized
the tidings; he has certain reserves—certain little conceits of his
own—which are to supply him with a sort of hope; but let us talk of
something more practical. How can we secure Miss Dill's services?”
</p>
<p>
“A few days ago, the easiest way would have been to offer to befriend her
brother, but this morning brings us news that this is not needed,—he
is coming home.”
</p>
<p>
“How so?”
</p>
<p>
“It is a great event in its way; at least, it may be for Tom. It seems
there was a collision at sea, somewhere near the Cape, between the ship
'St. Helen's,' that carried out General Hunter and his staff, and the
'Regulus,' with the Forty-ninth on board. It was at night, and a terrible
sea on at the time. In the shock the 'St. Helen's' took fire; and as the
two ships were inextricably locked together, the danger was common to
each. While the boats were being lowered and manned,—for it was soon
seen the vessel could not be saved,—a cry was raised that the fire
was gaining on the fore-hold, and would soon reach the magazine. The woful
news spread at once, and many jumped overboard in their terror. Just then
Tom heard that there was a means of drowning the powder by opening a
certain sluice, and, without waiting for more, he clambered across into
the sinking vessel, made his way through smoke and fire, gained the spot,
and succeeded, just as the very ladder itself had caught the flames. How
he got back he cannot tell, for the vessel foundered in a few minutes, and
he was so burned—face, cheek, and one shoulder—that he was
unconscious of everything; and even when the account came, was still in
bed, and not able to see.”
</p>
<p>
“He was a wild sort of lad, was he not,—a scamp, in short?”
</p>
<p>
“No, not exactly that; idle—careless—kept bad company at
times.”
</p>
<p>
“These are the fellows who do this kind of thing once in their lives,—mark
you, never twice. They never have more than one shot in their locker, but
it will suffice in this case.”
</p>
<p>
Though the worthy doctor was very far from enthusiastic about his son's
gallantry, there was a degree of coolness in the Major's estimate of it
that almost shocked him; and he sat staring steadily at the stern bronzed
face, and the hard lineaments of the man, and wondering of what strange
stuff such natures were fashioned.
</p>
<p>
“It's quite clear, then, that for Master Tom we can do nothing half so
good as chance has done for him,” said Stapylton, after a short interval.
</p>
<p>
“Chance and himself too,” added the doctor.
</p>
<p>
Stapylton made no answer, but, covering his eyes with his hand, lay deep
in thought.
</p>
<p>
“If you only had the Attorney-General, Mr. Withering, on your side,” said
Dill. “There is no man has the same influence over this family.”
</p>
<p>
“It is not what <i>you</i> call influence I want, my good sir. It is a far
more subtle and more delicate agent. I require the sort of aid, in fact,
which your daughter could supply, if she would. An appointment awaits me
in India, but I must occupy it at once. I have no time for a long
courtship. I 'm just as hurried as that boy of yours was when he swamped
the powder-magazine. It's a skirmish where I can't wait for the heavy
artillery, but must do my best with the light field-guns,—do you
understand me?”
</p>
<p>
Dill nodded, and Stapylton resumed: “The thing can be done just by the
very road that you have pronounced impossible,—that is, by the
romantic side of it,—making it a case of violent love at first
sight, the passion of a man past the heyday of youth, but yet young enough
to feel a most ardent affection. I am, besides,” said he, laughing with a
strange blending of levity and sarcasm, “a sort of Brummagem hero; have
been wounded, led assaults, and that kind of thing, to a degree that
puffery can take the benefit of. And, last of all, doctor, I am rich
enough to satisfy greater ambitions than ought to live under such a roof
as this. Do you see the part your daughter can take in this drama?”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps I do.”
</p>
<p>
“And could you induce her to accept it?”
</p>
<p>
“I'm not very certain,—I'd be slow to pledge myself to it.”
</p>
<p>
“Certainly,” said Stapylton, mockingly; “the passing glimpses we bachelors
obtain of the working of that vaunted institution, The Family, fail to
impress us with all its imputed excellence; you are, it seems to me, just
as powerless within your own doors as I am regarding what goes on in a
neighbor's house. I take it, however, that it can't be helped. Children,
like colonies, are only governable when helpless.”
</p>
<p>
“I suspect you are wrong, sir; at least, I fancy I have as much of the
sort of influence you speak of as others; but still, I think, here, in
this particular case, you would yourself be your best ambassador, if you
were strong enough to come down with me in the boat to-day.”
</p>
<p>
“Of course I am!” cried Stapylton, starting up to a sitting posture; “and
what then?”
</p>
<p>
“You would be better in my house than this,” said Dill, mysteriously.
</p>
<p>
“Speak out, and speak clearly, doctor; I have very little the matter with
me, and am in no want of change of air. What I need is the assistance of
one dexterous enough to advocate my plans with persons and in places to
which I have no access. Your daughter is just such a one,—will she
do it?”
</p>
<p>
“We can ask her.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, how will you explain my absence to these people here? What will you
say for my not appearing at breakfast, and yet being able to take an
airing with you?”
</p>
<p>
“I will put it on hygienic grounds,” said Dill, smiling acutely. “My
profession has a number of sanctuaries the profane vulgar can never enter.
I 'll just step down now and ask Barrington to lend me his boat, and I 'll
throw out a dark hint that I 'd like to manage a consultation on your case
without alarming you, for which purpose I 'd ask Dr. Tobin to be at my
house, when we arrive there, by mere accident, so that a conference would
follow as a matter of course.”
</p>
<p>
“Very wily,—very subtle all this, doctor. Do you know, I 'm half
frightened at the thought of trusting myself to such a master of intrigue
and mystification.”
</p>
<p>
“Have no fears; I reserve all my craft for my clients.” And with this he
left the room, but only for a few minutes; for he met Barrington on the
stairs, and speedily obtained permission to take his boat to Inistioge,
having first pledged himself to come back with Stapylton to dinner.
</p>
<p>
“We shall see, we shall see,” muttered Stapylton to himself. “Your
daughter must decide where I am to dine today.”
</p>
<p>
By the way—that is, as they glided along the bright river—Dill
tried to prepare Stapylton for the task before him, by sundry hints as to
Polly's temper and disposition, with warnings against this, and cautions
about that. “Above all,” said he, “don't try to overreach her.”
</p>
<p>
“Perfect frankness—candor itself—is my device. Won't that do?”
</p>
<p>
“You must first see will she believe it,” said the doctor, slyly; and for
the remainder of the way there was a silence between them.
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
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</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIII. CROSS-PURPOSES
</h2>
<h3>
“Where 's Miss Polly?” said Dill, hastily, as he passed his threshold.
</h3>
<p>
“She's making the confusion of roses in the kitchen, sir,” said the maid,
whose chemistry had been a neglected study.
</p>
<p>
“Tell her that I have come back, and that there is a gentleman along with
me,” said he, imperiously, as he led the way into his study. “I have
brought you into this den of mine, Major, because I would just say one
word more by way of caution before you see Polly. You may imagine, from
the small range of her intercourse with the world, and her village life,
that her acuteness will not go very far; don't be too sure of that,—don't
reckon too much on her want of experience.”
</p>
<p>
“I suppose I have encountered as sharp wits as hers before this time o'
day,” replied he, half peevishly; and then, with an air of better temper,
added, “I have no secrets to hide, no mystery to cloak. If I want her
alliance, she shall herself dictate the terms that shall requite it.”
</p>
<p>
The doctor shook his head dubiously, but was silent.
</p>
<p>
“I half suspect, my good doctor,” said Stapylton, laughing, “that your
charming daughter is a little, a very little, of a domestic despot; you
are all afraid of her; never very sure of what she will say or do or think
on any given circumstances, and nervously alive to the risk of her
displeasure.”
</p>
<p>
“There is something in what you say,” remarked Dill, with a sigh; “but it
was always my mistake to bring up my children with too much liberty of
action. From the time they were so high”—and he held his hand out
about a yard above the floor—“they were their own masters.”
</p>
<p>
Just as the words had fallen from him, a little chubby, shock-headed
fellow, about five years old, burst into the room, which he believed
unoccupied, and then, suddenly seeing his papa, set up a howl of terror
that made the house ring.
</p>
<p>
“What is it, Jimmy,—what is it, my poor man?” said Polly, rushing
with tucked-up sleeves to the spot; and, catching him up in her arms, she
kissed him affectionately.
</p>
<p>
“Will you take him away?—will you take him out of that?” hissed out
Dill between his teeth. “Don't you see Major Stapylton here?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Major Stapylton will excuse a toilette that was never intended for
his presence.”
</p>
<p>
“I will certainly say there could not be a more becoming one, nor a more
charming tableau to display it in!”
</p>
<p>
“There, Jimmy,” said she, laughing; “you must have some bread and jam for
getting me such a nice compliment.”
</p>
<p>
And she bore away the still sobbing urchin, who, burying his head in her
bosom, could never summon courage to meet his father's eye.
</p>
<p>
“What a spacious garden you appear to have here!” said Stapylton, who saw
all the importance of a diversion to the conversation.
</p>
<p>
“It is a very much neglected one,” said Dill, pathetically. “My poor dear
boy Tom used to take care of it when he was here; he had a perfect passion
for flowers.”
</p>
<p>
Whether that Tom was associated in the Major's mind with some other very
different tastes or not, Stapylton smiled slightly, and after a moment
said, “If you permit me, I 'll take a stroll through your garden, and
think over what we have been talking of.”
</p>
<p>
“Make yourself at home in every respect,” said Dill. “I have a few
professional calls to make in the village, but we 'll meet at luncheon.”
</p>
<p>
“He's in the garden, Polly,” said Dill, as he passed his daughter on the
stairs; “he came over here this morning to have a talk with you.”
</p>
<p>
“Indeed, sir!”
</p>
<p>
“Yes; he has got it into his head that you can be of service to him.”
</p>
<p>
“It is not impossible, sir; I think I might.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm glad to bear it, Polly; I'm delighted to see you take a good sensible
view of things. I need not tell you he's a knowing one.”
</p>
<p>
“No, sir. But, as I have heard you card-players say, 'he shows his hand.'”
</p>
<p>
“So he does, Polly; but I have known fellows do that just to mislead the
adversary.”
</p>
<p>
“Sorry adversaries that could be taken in so easily.” And with a saucy
toss of her head she passed on, scarcely noticing the warning gesture of
her father's finger as she went.
</p>
<p>
When she had found her work-basket and supplied herself with the means of
occupying her fingers for an hour or so, she repaired to the garden and
took her seat under a large elm, around whose massive trunk a mossy bench
ran, divided by rustic-work into a series of separate places.
</p>
<p>
“What a churlish idea it was to erect these barricades, Miss Dill!” said
Stapylton as he seated himself at her side; “how unpicturesque and how
prudish!”
</p>
<p>
“It was a simple notion of my brother Tom's,” said she, smiling, “who
thought people would not be less agreeable by being reminded that they had
a place of their own, and ought not to invade that of their neighbor.”
</p>
<p>
“What an unsocial thought!”
</p>
<p>
“Poor Tom! A strange reproach to make against <i>you</i>,” said she,
laughing out.
</p>
<p>
“By the way, has n't he turned out a hero,—saved a ship and all she
carried from the flames,—and all at the hazard of his own life?”
</p>
<p>
“He has done a very gallant thing; and, what's more, I 'll venture to say
there is not a man who saw it thinks so little of it as himself.”
</p>
<p>
“I suppose that every brave man has more or less of that feeling.”
</p>
<p>
“I'm glad to learn this fact from such good authority,” said she, with a
slight bend of the head.
</p>
<p>
“A prettily turned compliment, Miss Dill. Are you habitually given to
flattery?”
</p>
<p>
“No? I rather think not. I believe the world is pleased to call me more
candid than courteous.”
</p>
<p>
“Will you let me take you at the world's estimate,—that is, will you
do me the inestimable favor to bestow a little of this same candor upon <i>me?</i>”
</p>
<p>
“Willingly. What is to be the subject of it?”
</p>
<p>
“The subject is a very humble one,—myself!”
</p>
<p>
“How can I possibly adjudicate on such a theme?”
</p>
<p>
“Better than you think for, perhaps!” And for a moment he appeared awkward
and ill at ease. “Miss Dill,” said he, after a pause, “fortune has been
using me roughly of late; and, like all men who deem themselves hardly
treated, I fly at once to any quarter where I fancy I have found a more
kindly disposition towards me. Am I indulging a self-delusion in believing
that such sentiments are yours?”
</p>
<p>
Polly Dill, with her own keen tact, had guessed what was the real object
of Stapylton's visit. She had even read in her father's manner how he
himself was a shareholder in the scheme, and she had made up her mind for
a great frankness on each side; but now, seeing the diplomatic
mys-teriousness with which the Major opened his attack, that love of
mischievous drollery which entered into her nature suggested a very
different line. She determined, in fact, to seem to accept the Major's
speech as the preliminary to an offer of his hand. She therefore merely
turned her head slightly, and in a low voice said, “Continue!”
</p>
<p>
“I have not deceived myself, then,” said he, with more warmth of manner.
“I have secured one kind heart in my interest?”
</p>
<p>
“You must own,” said she, with a half-coquettish look of pique, “that you
scarcely deserve it.”
</p>
<p>
“How,—in what way?” asked he, in astonishment.
</p>
<p>
“What a very short memory you are blessed with! Must I, then, remind you
of a certain evening at Cobham? Must I recall what I thought at the time
very particular, as they certainly were very pleasant, attentions on your
part? Must I, also, bring to mind a certain promised visit from you, the
day and hour all named by yourself,—a visit which never came off?
And after all this, Major, are you not really a bold man to come down and
take up your negotiation where you dropped it? Is there not in this a
strong conviction of the greatness of Major Stapylton and the littleness
of the doctor's daughter?”
</p>
<p>
Stapylton was struck dumb. When a general sees that what he meant as a
feint has been converted into a real attack, the situation is often
imminent; but what comparison in difficulty is there between that mistake
and that of him who assails what he never desired to conquer? How he
inwardly cursed the stupidity with which he had opened his negotiation!
</p>
<p>
“I perceive,” said she, triumphing over his confusion, “that your calmer
judgment does not reassure you. You feel that there is a certain levity in
this conduct not quite excusable! Own it frankly, and at once!”
</p>
<p>
“I will own, if you like, that I was never in a situation of greater
embarrassment!”
</p>
<p>
“Shall I tell you why?”
</p>
<p>
“You couldn't; it would be totally impossible.”
</p>
<p>
“I will try, however, if you permit me. You do! Then here goes. You no
more intended anything to come of your little flirtation at Cobham than
you now do of a more serious blunder. You never came here this morning to
make your court to <i>me</i>, You are much pained at the awkwardness of a
situation so naturally wounding to me, and for the life of you, you cannot
imagine what escape there is out of such a difficulty.”
</p>
<p>
“You are wonderfully clever, Miss Dill,” said he; and there was an honest
admiration in his look that gave the words a full significance.
</p>
<p>
“No,” said she, “but I am wonderfully good-natured. I forgive you what is
the hardest thing in the world to forgive!”
</p>
<p>
“Oh! if you would but be my friend,” cried he, warmly.
</p>
<p>
“What a want of tact there was in that speech, Major Stapylton!” said she,
with a laugh; “but perhaps you wanted to reverse the line of our dear
little poet, who tells of some one 'that came but for Friendship, and took
away Love'!”
</p>
<p>
“How cruel you are in all this mockery of me!”
</p>
<p>
“Does not the charge of cruelty come rather ill from <i>you?—you</i>,
who can afford to sport with the affections of poor village maidens. From
the time of that 'Major bold of Halifax' the song tells of, I never heard
your equal.”
</p>
<p>
“Could you prevail upon yourself to be serious for a few minutes?” said
he, gravely.
</p>
<p>
“I think not,—at least not just now; but why should I make the
attempt?”
</p>
<p>
“Because I would wish your aid in a serious contingency,—a matter in
which I am deeply interested, and which involves probably my future
happiness.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, Major! is it possible that you are going to trifle with my feelings
once more?”
</p>
<p>
“My dear Miss Dill, must I plead once more for a little mercy?”
</p>
<p>
“No, don't do any such thing; it would seem ungenerous to refuse, and yet
I could not accord it.”
</p>
<p>
“Fairly beaten,” said he, with a sigh; “there is no help for it. You are
the victor!”
</p>
<p>
“How did you leave our friends at 'The Home'?” said she, with an easy
indifference in her tone.
</p>
<p>
“All well, perfectly well; that is to say, I believe so, for I only saw my
host himself.”
</p>
<p>
“What a pleasant house; how well they understand receiving their friends!”
</p>
<p>
“It is so peaceful and so quiet!” said he, with an effort to seem at ease.
</p>
<p>
“And the garden is charming!”
</p>
<p>
“And all this is perfectly intolerable,” said he, rising, and speaking in
a voice thick with suppressed anger. “I never came here to play a part in
a vaudeville! Your father led me to believe, Miss Dill, that you might not
be indisposed to lend me your favoring aid in a suit which I am interested
in. He told me I should at least find you frank and outspoken; that if you
felt inclined to assist me, you'd never enhance the service by a seeming
doubt or hesitation—”
</p>
<p>
“And if I should not feel so inclined, what did he then give you to
expect?”
</p>
<p>
“That you'd say so!”
</p>
<p>
“So I do, then, clearly and distinctly tell you, if my counsels offer a
bar to your wishes, they are all enlisted against you.”
</p>
<p>
“This is the acme of candor. You can only equal it by saying how I could
have incurred your disfavor.”
</p>
<p>
“There is nothing of disfavor in the matter. I think you charming. You are
a hero,—very clever, very fascinating, very accomplished; but I
believe it would be a great mistake for Fifine to marry you. Your tempers
have that sort of resemblance that leave no reliefs in their mutual play.
You are each of you hot and hasty, and a little imperious; and if she were
not very much in love, and consequently disposed to think a great deal of
you and very little of herself, these traits that I speak of would work
ill. But if every one of them were otherwise, there would still be one
obstacle worse than all!”
</p>
<p>
“And that is—”
</p>
<p>
“Can you not guess what I mean, Major Stapylton? You do not, surely, want
confidences from me that are more than candor!”
</p>
<p>
“Do I understand you aright?” said he, growing red and pale by turns, as
passion worked within him; “do I apprehend you correctly? These people
here are credulous enough to be influenced by the shadowy slanders of the
newspapers, and they listen to the half-muttered accusations of a hireling
press?”
</p>
<p>
“They do say very awkward things in the daily press, certainly,” said she,
dryly; “and your friends marvel at the silence with which you treat them.”
</p>
<p>
“Then I <i>have</i> divined your meaning,” said he. “It is by these
cowardly assailants I am supposed to be vanquished. I suspect, however,
that Colonel Barrington himself was, once on a time, indulged with the
same sort of flattery. They said that he had usurped a sovereignty,
falsified documents, purloined jewels of immense value. I don't know what
they did not charge him with. And what do they say of me? That I exhibited
great severity—cruelty, if you will—towards a mob in a state
of rebellion; that I reprimanded a very silly subaltern for a misplaced
act of humanity. That I have been cashiered, too, they assert, in face of
the 'Gazette,' which announces my appointment to an unattached majority.
In a word, the enormity of the falsehood has never stayed their hand, and
they write of me whatever their unthinking malevolence can suggest to
them. You have, perhaps, seen some of these paragraphs?”
</p>
<p>
“Like every one else, I have read them occasionally; not very attentively,
indeed. But, in truth, I'm not a reader of newspapers. Here, for instance,
is this morning's as it came from Dublin, still unopened;” and she handed
it as she spoke.
</p>
<p>
“Let us see if I be still honored with their notice,” said he, unfolding
the paper, and running his eyes hastily over it. “Debate on the Sugar Bill—Prison
Reforms—China—Reinforcements for Canada—Mail Service to
the Colonies—Bankruptcy Court. Oh, here we have it—here it
is!” and he crushed the paper while he folded down one part of it. “Shall
I read it for you? The heading is very tempting: 'Late Military Scandal.—A
very curious report is now going through our West-end Clubs, and
especially such as are the resort of military officers. It is to the
purport that a certain Field-officer of Cavalry—whose conduct has
been the subject of severe strictures from the Press—will speedily
be called to answer for a much graver offence than the transgression of
regimental discipline. The story which has reached us is a very strange
one, and we should call it incredible, if we were not informed, on
author-ity, that one of our most distinguished Indian generals has
declared himself fully satisfied of its truth in every particular.' Can
you fancy anything worse than that, Miss Dill? An unknown somebody is
alleged to be convinced of an unknown something that attaches to me; for,
of course, I am designated as the 'Field-officer of Cavalry,' and the
public is graciously pleased to hold me in abhorrence till I have found
out my calumniator and refuted him!”
</p>
<p>
“It seems very hard. Who do you suspect is the Indian General alluded to?”
</p>
<p>
“Tell me, first of all,—does he exist?” “And this, too, you will not
reply to, nor notice?” “Not, certainly, through such a channel as it
reaches me. If the slanderer will stand forth and avow himself, I may know
how to deal with him. But what has led us into this digression? I am sure
it is as little to your taste as to mine. I have failed in my mission, and
if I were able to justify every act of my life, what would it avail me?
You have pronounced against me; at least, you will not take my brief.”
</p>
<p>
“What if I were retained by the other side?” said she, smiling.
</p>
<p>
“I never suspected that there was another side,” said he, with an air of
extreme indifference. “Who is my formidable rival?”
</p>
<p>
“I might have told you if I saw you were really anxious on the subject.”
</p>
<p>
“It would be but hypocrisy in me to pretend it. If, for example, Major
McCormick—”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, that is too bad!” cried Polly, interrupting. “This would mean an
impertinence to Miss Barrington.”
</p>
<p>
“How pleasant we must have been! Almost five o'clock, and I scarcely
thought it could be three!” said he, with an affected languor.
</p>
<p>
“'Time's foot is not heard when he treads upon flowers,'” said she,
smiling.
</p>
<p>
“Where shall I find your father, Miss Dill? I want to tell him what a
charming creature his daughter is, and how wretched I feel at not being
able to win her favor.”
</p>
<p>
“Pray don't; or he might fall into my own mistake, and imagine that you
wanted a lease of it for life.”
</p>
<p>
“Still cruel, still inexorable!” said he, with a mockery of affliction in
his tone. “Will you say all the proper things—the regrets, and such
like—I feel at not meeting him again; and if he has asked me to
dinner—which I really forget—will you make the fitting
apology?”
</p>
<p>
“And what is it, in the present case?”
</p>
<p>
“I 'm not exactly sure whether I am engaged to dine elsewhere, or too ill
to dine at all.”
</p>
<p>
“Why not say it is the despair at being rejected renders you unequal to
the effort? I mean, of course, by myself, Major Stapylton.”
</p>
<p>
“I have no objection; say so, if you like,” said he, with an insulting
indifference. “Good-day, Miss Dill. This is the way to the road, I
believe;” and, with a low bow, very deferential but very distant, he
turned away to leave the garden. He had not, however, gone many paces,
when he stopped and seemed to ponder. He looked up at the sky, singularly
clear and cloudless as it was, without a breath of wind in the air; he
gazed around him on every side, as if in search of an object he wanted;
and then, taking out his purse, he drew forth a shilling and examined it.
“Yes,” muttered he, “Chance has been my only counsellor for many a year,
and the only one that never takes a bribe! And yet, is it not taking to
the raft before the ship has foundered? True; but shall I be sure of the
raft if I wait for the shipwreck? She is intensely crafty. She has that
sort of head that loves a hard knot to unravel! Here goes! Let Destiny
take all the consequences!” and as he flung up the piece of money in the
air, he cried, “Head!” It was some minutes ere he could discover where it
had fallen, amongst the close leaves of a border of strawberries. He bent
down to look, and exclaimed, “Head! she has won!” Just as he arose from
his stooping attitude he perceived that Polly was engaged in the adjoining
walk, making a bouquet of roses. He sprang across the space, and stood
beside her.
</p>
<p>
“I thought you had been a mile off by this time, at least,” said she,
calmly.
</p>
<p>
“So I meant, and so I intended; but just as I parted from you, a thought
struck me—one of those thoughts which come from no process of
reasoning or reflection, but seem impelled by a force out of our own
natures—that I would come back and tell you something that was
passing in my mind. Can you guess it?”
</p>
<p>
“No; except it be that you are sorry for having trifled so unfeelingly
with my hopes, and have come back to make the best reparation in your
power, asking me to forgive and accept you.”
</p>
<p>
“You have guessed aright; it was for that I returned.”
</p>
<p>
“What a clever guess I made! Confess I am very ready-witted!”
</p>
<p>
“You are; and it is to engage those ready wits in my behalf that I am now
before you.”
</p>
<p>
“'At my feet,' sir, is the appropriate expression. I wonder how a
gentleman so suited to be the hero of a story could forget the language of
the novel.”
</p>
<p>
“I want you to be serious,” said he, almost sternly.
</p>
<p>
“And why should that provoke seriousness from <i>me</i> which only costs
<i>you</i> levity?”
</p>
<p>
“Levity!—where is the levity?”
</p>
<p>
“Is it not this instant that you flung a shilling in the air, and cried
out, as you looked on it, 'She has won'? Is it not that you asked Chance
to decide for you what most men are led to by their affections, or at
least their interests; and if so, is levity not the name for this?”
</p>
<p>
“True in part, but not in whole; for I felt it was <i>I</i> who had won
when 'head' came uppermost.”
</p>
<p>
“And yet you have lost.”
</p>
<p>
“How so! You refuse me?”
</p>
<p>
“I forgive your astonishment. It is really strange, but I do refuse you.”
</p>
<p>
“But why? Are you piqued with me for anything that occurred this morning?
Have I offended you by anything that dropped from me in that conversation?
Tell me frankly, that I may, if in my power, rectify it.”
</p>
<p>
“No; I rather felt flattered at the notion of being consulted. I thought
it a great tribute to my clear-headedness and my tact.”
</p>
<p>
“Then tell me what it was.”
</p>
<p>
“You really wish it?”
</p>
<p>
“I do.”
</p>
<p>
“Insist upon it?”
</p>
<p>
“I insist upon it.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it was this. Seeing that you were intrusting your future fortune to
chance, I thought that I would do the same, and so I tossed up whether,
opportunity serving, I should accept you or a certain other, and the other
won!”
</p>
<p>
“May I ask for the name of my fortunate rival?”
</p>
<p>
“I don't think it is very fair, perhaps not altogether delicate of you;
and the more since he has not proposed, nor possibly ever may. But no
matter, you shall hear his name. It was Major McCormick.”
</p>
<p>
“McCormick! You mean this for an insult to me, Miss Dill?”
</p>
<p>
<a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005">
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</p>
<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
<img src="images/472.jpg" width="100%" alt="472 " />
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<p>
“Well, it certainly is open to that objection,” said she, with a very
slight closure of her eyes, and a look of steady, resolute defiance.
</p>
<p>
“And in this way,” continued he, “to throw ridicule over the offer I have
made you?”
</p>
<p>
“Scarcely that; the proposition was in itself too ridiculous to require
any such aid from me.”
</p>
<p>
For a moment Stapylton lost his self-possession, and he turned on her with
a look of savage malignity.
</p>
<p>
“An insult, and an intentional insult!” said he; “a bold thing to avow.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't think so, Major Stapylton. We have been playing a very rough game
with each other, and it is not very wonderful if each of us should have to
complain of hard treatment.”
</p>
<p>
“Could not so very clever a person as Miss Dill perceive that I was only
jesting?” said he, with a cutting insolence in his tone.
</p>
<p>
“I assure you that I did not,” said she, calmly; “had I known or even
suspected it was a jest, I never should have been angry. That the
distinguished Major Stapylton should mock and quiz—or whatever be
the name for it—the doctor's daughter, however questionable the good
taste, was, after all, only a passing slight. The thought of asking her to
marry him was different,—that was an outrage!”
</p>
<p>
“You shall pay for this one day, perhaps,” said he, biting his lip.
</p>
<p>
“No, Major Stapylton,” said she, laughing; “this is not a debt of honor;
you can afford to ignore it.”
</p>
<p>
“I tell you again, you shall pay for it.”
</p>
<p>
“Till then, sir!” said she, with a courtesy; and without giving him time
for another word, she turned and re-entered the house.
</p>
<p>
Scarcely had Stapylton gained the road when he was joined by McCormick.
“Faith, you didn't get the best of that brush, anyhow,” said he, with a
grin.
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean, sir?” replied Stapylton, savagely.
</p>
<p>
“I mean that I heard every word that passed between you, and I would n't
have been standing in your shoes for a fifty-pound note.”
</p>
<p>
“How is your rheumatism this morning?” asked Stapylton, blandly.
</p>
<p>
“Pretty much as it always is,” croaked out the other.
</p>
<p>
“Be thankful to it, then; for if you were not a cripple, I 'd throw you
into that river as sure as I stand here to say it.”
</p>
<p>
Major McCormick did not wait for a less merciful moment, but hobbled away
from the spot with all the speed he could muster.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIV. STORMS
</h2>
<p>
When Stapylton stepped out of his boat and landed at “The Home,” the first
person he saw was certainly the last in his wishes. It was Miss Dinah who
stood at the jetty, as though awaiting him. Scarcely deigning to notice,
beyond a faint smile of acquiescence, the somewhat bungling explanation he
gave of his absence, she asked if he had met her brother.
</p>
<p>
“No,” said he. “I left the village a couple of hours ago; rather
loitering, as I came along, to enjoy the river scenery.”
</p>
<p>
“He took the road, and in this way missed you,” said she, dryly.
</p>
<p>
“How unfortunate!—for me, I mean, of course. I own to you, Miss
Barrington, wide as the difference between our ages, I never yet met any
one so thoroughly companionable to me as your brother. To meet a man so
consummately acquainted with the world, and yet not soured by his
knowledge; to see the ripe wisdom of age blended with the generous warmth
of youth; to find one whose experiences only make him more patient, more
forgiving, more trustful—”
</p>
<p>
“Too trustful, Major Stapylton, far too trustful.” And her bold gray eyes
were turned upon him as she spoke, with a significance that could not be
mistaken.
</p>
<p>
“It is a noble feeling, madam,” said he, haughtily.
</p>
<p>
“It is a great misfortune to its possessor, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“Can we deem that misfortune, Miss Barrington, which enlarges the charity
of our natures, and teaches us to be slow to think ill?”
</p>
<p>
Not paying the slightest attention to his question, she said,—
</p>
<p>
“My brother went in search of you, sir, to place in your hands some very
urgent letters from the Horse Guards, and which a special messenger
brought here this morning.”
</p>
<p>
“Truly kind of him. They relate, I have no doubt, to my Indian
appointment. They told me I should have news by to-day or to-morrow.”
</p>
<p>
“He received a letter also for himself, sir, which he desired to show
you.”
</p>
<p>
“About his lawsuit, of course? It is alike a pleasure and a duty to me to
serve him in that affair.”
</p>
<p>
“It more nearly concerns yourself, sir,” said she, in the same cold, stern
tone; “though it has certainly its bearing on the case you speak of.”
</p>
<p>
“More nearly concerns myself!” said he, repeating her words slowly. “I am
about the worst guesser of a riddle in the world, Miss Barrington. Would
you kindly relieve my curiosity? Is this letter a continuation of those
cowardly attacks which, in the want of a worthier theme, the Press have
amused themselves by making upon me? Is it possible that some enemy has
had the malice to attack me through my friends?”
</p>
<p>
“The writer of the letter in question is a sufficient guarantee for its
honor, Mr. Withering.”
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Withering!” repeated he, with a start, and then, as suddenly assuming
an easy smile, added: “I am perfectly tranquil to find myself in such
hands as Mr. Withering's. And what, pray, does <i>he</i> say of me?”
</p>
<p>
“Will you excuse me, Major Stapylton, if I do not enter upon a subject on
which I am not merely very imperfectly informed, but on which so humble a
judgment as mine would be valueless? My brother showed me the letter very
hurriedly; I had but time to see to what it referred, and to be aware that
it was his duty to let you see it at once,—if possible, indeed,
before you were again under his roof.”
</p>
<p>
“What a grave significance your words have, Miss Barrington!” said he,
with a cold smile. “They actually set me to think over all my faults and
failings, and wonder for which of them I am now arraigned.”
</p>
<p>
“We do not profess to judge you, sir.”
</p>
<p>
By this time they had sauntered up to the little garden in front of the
cottage, within the paling of which Josephine was busily engaged in
training a japonica. She arose as she heard the voices, and in her
accustomed tone wished Stapylton good-evening. “<i>She</i>, at least, has
heard nothing of all this,” muttered he to himself, as he saluted her. He
then opened the little wicket; and Miss Barrington passed in,
acknowledging his attention by a short nod, as she walked hastily forward
and entered the cottage. Instead of following her, Stapylton closed the
wicket again, remaining on the outside, and leaning his arm on the upper
rail.
</p>
<p>
“Why do you perform sentry? Are you not free to enter the fortress?” said
Fifine.
</p>
<p>
“I half suspect not,” said he, in a low tone, and to hear which she was
obliged to draw nigher to where he stood.
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean? I don't understand you!”
</p>
<p>
“No great wonder, for I don't understand myself. Your aunt has, however,
in her own most mysterious way, given me to believe that somebody has
written something about me to somebody else, and until I clear up what in
all probability I shall never hear, that I had better keep to what the
Scotch call the 'back o' the gate.'”
</p>
<p>
“This is quite unintelligible.”
</p>
<p>
“I hope it is, for it is almost unendurable. I am sorely afraid,” added
he, after a minute, “that I am not so patient as I ought to be under Miss
Barrington's strictures. I am so much more in the habit of command than of
obedience, that I may forget myself now and then. To <i>you</i>, however,
I am ready to submit all my past life and conduct. By you I am willing to
be judged. If these cruel calumnies which are going the round of the
papers on me have lowered me in your estimation, my case is a lost one;
but if, as I love to think, your woman's heart resents an injustice,—if,
taking counsel of your courage and your generosity, you feel it is not the
time to withdraw esteem when the dark hour of adversity looms over a man,—then,
I care no more for these slanders than for the veriest trifles which cross
one's every-day life. In one word,—your verdict is life or death to
me.”
</p>
<p>
“In that case,” said she, with an effort to dispel the seriousness of his
manner, “I must have time to consider my sentence.”
</p>
<p>
“But that is exactly what you cannot have, Josephine,” said he; and there
was a certain earnestness in his voice and look, which made her hear him
call her by her name without any sense of being off ended. “First relieve
the suffering; there will be ample leisure to question the sufferer
afterwards. The Good Samaritan wasted few words, and asked for no time.
The noblest services are those of which the cost is never calculated. Your
own heart can tell you: can you befriend me, and will you?”
</p>
<p>
“I do not know what it is you ask of me,” said she, with a frank boldness
which actually disconcerted him. “Tell me distinctly, what is it?”
</p>
<p>
“I will tell you,” said he, taking her hand, but so gently, so
respectfully withal, that she did not at first withdraw it,—“I will
tell you. It is that you will share that fate on which fortune is now
frowning; that you will add your own high-couraged heart to that of one
who never knew a fear till now; that you will accept my lot in this the
day of my reverse, and enable me to turn upon my pursuers and scatter
them. To-morrow or next day will be too late. It is now, at this hour,
that friends hold back, that one more than friend is needed. Can you be
that, Josephine?”
</p>
<p>
“No!” said she, firmly. “If I read your meaning aright, I cannot.”
</p>
<p>
“You cannot love me, Josephine,” said he, in a voice of intense emotion;
and though he waited some time for her to speak, she was silent. “It is
true, then,” said he, passionately, “the slanderers have done their work!”
</p>
<p>
“I know nothing of these calumnies. When my grandfather told me that they
accused you falsely, and condemned you unfairly, I believed him. I am as
ready as ever to say so. I do not understand your cause; but I believe you
to be a true and gallant gentleman!”
</p>
<p>
“But yet, not one to love!” whispered he, faintly.
</p>
<p>
Again she was silent, and for some time he did not speak.
</p>
<p>
“A true and gallant gentleman!” said he, slowly repeating her own words;
“and if so, is it an unsafe keeping to which to intrust your happiness? It
is no graceful task to have oneself for a theme; but I cannot help it. I
have no witnesses to call to character; a few brief lines in an army list,
and some scars—old reminders of French sabres—are poor
certificates, and yet I have no others.”
</p>
<p>
There was something which touched her in the sadness of his tone as he
said these words, and if she knew how, she would have spoken to him in
kindliness. He mistook the struggle for a change of purpose, and with
greater eagerness continued: “After all I am scarcely more alone in the
world than you are! The dear friends who now surround you cannot be long
spared, and what isolation will be your fate then! Think of this, and
think, too, how, in assuring your own future, you rescue mine.”
</p>
<p>
Very differently from his former speech did the present affect her; and
her cheeks glowed and her eyes flashed as she said, “I have never
intrusted my fate to your keeping, sir; and you may spare yourself all
anxiety about it.”
</p>
<p>
“You mistake me. You wrong me, Josephine—”
</p>
<p>
“You wrong yourself when you call me by my Christian name; and you arm me
with distrust of one who would presume upon an interest he has not
created.”
</p>
<p>
“You refuse me, then?” said he, slowly and calmly.
</p>
<p>
“Once, and forever!”
</p>
<p>
“It may be that you are mistaken, Miss Barrington. It may be that this
other affection, which you prefer to mine, is but the sickly sentiment of
a foolish boy, whose life up to this has not given one single guarantee,
nor shown one single trait of those which make 'true and gallant
gentlemen.' But you have made your choice.”
</p>
<p>
“I have,” said she, with a low but firm voice.
</p>
<p>
“You acknowledge, then, that I was right,” cried he, suddenly; “there is a
prior attachment? Your heart is not your own to give?”
</p>
<p>
“And by what right do you presume to question me? Who are you, that dares
to do this?”
</p>
<p>
“Who am I?” cried he, and for once his voice rose to the discordant ring
of passion.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, that was my question,” repeated she, firmly.
</p>
<p>
“So, then, you have had your lesson, young lady,” said he; and the words
came from him with a hissing sound, that indicated intense anger. “Who am
I? You want my birth, my parentage, my bringing up! Had you no friend who
could have asked this in your stead? Or were all those around you so
bereft of courage that they deputed to a young girl what should have been
the office of a man?”
</p>
<p>
Though the savage earnestness of his manner startled, it did not affright
her; and it was with a cold quietness she said, “If you had known my
father, Major Stapylton, I suspect you would not have accused his daughter
of cowardice!”
</p>
<p>
“Was he so very terrible?” said he, with a smile that was half a sneer.
</p>
<p>
“He would have been, to a man like you.”
</p>
<p>
“To a man like me,—a man like me! Do you know, young lady, that
either your words are very idle words or very offensive ones?”
</p>
<p>
“And yet I have no wish to recall them, sir.”
</p>
<p>
“It would be better you could find some one to sustain them.
Unfortunately, however, you cannot ask that gallant gentleman we were just
talking of; for it is only the other day, and after passing over to Calais
to meet me, his friends pretend that there is some obstacle to our
meeting. I owe my tailor or my bootmaker something; or I have not paid my
subscription to a club; or I have left an unsettled bill ar Baden. I
really forget the precise pretext; but it was one which to them seemed
quite sufficient to balk me of a redress, and at the same time to shelter
their friend.”
</p>
<p>
“I will not believe one word of it, sir!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, we have at least arrived at a perfect frankness in our intercourse.
May I ask you, young lady, which of your relatives has suggested your
present course! Is it to your aunt or to your grandfather I must go for an
explanation?”
</p>
<p>
“I suspect it is to me, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, as he came from
behind Josephine. “It is to me you must address yourself. Fifine, my dear,
your aunt is looking for you; go and tell her, too, that I am quite ready
for tea, and you will find me here when it is ready. Major Stapylton and I
will take a stroll along the river-side.” Now this last was less an
invitation than a sort of significant hint to Stapylton that his host had
no intention to ask him to cross his threshold, at least for the present;
and, indeed, as Barrington passed out and closed the wicket after him, he
seemed as though closing the entrance forever.
</p>
<p>
With a manner far more assured thau his wont, Barrington said: “I have
been in pursuit of you, Major Stapylton, since four o'clock. I missed you
by having taken the road instead of the river; and am much grieved that
the communication I have to make you should not take place anywhere rather
than near my roof or within my own gates.”
</p>
<p>
“I am to suppose from your words, sir, that what you are about to say can
scarcely be said to a friend; and if so, cannot you hit upon a more
convenient mode of making your communication?”
</p>
<p>
“I think not. I believe that I shall be dealing more fairly with you by
saying what I have to say in person.”
</p>
<p>
“Go on,” said Stapylton, calmly, as the other paused.
</p>
<p>
“You are aware,” continued Barrington, “that the chief obstacle to a
settlement of the claims I have long preferred against the India Company
has been a certain document which they possess, declaring that a large
portion of the territory held by the Rajah of Luckerabad was not amenable
to the laws that regulate succession, being what is called 'Lurkar-teea,'—conquered
country,—over which, under no circumstances, could the Rajah
exercise prospective rights. To this deed, for their better protection,
the Company obtained the signature and seal of the Rajah himself, by means
which, of course, we could never discover; but they held it, and always
declared that no portion of my son's claim could extend to these lands.
Now, as they denied that he could succeed to what are called the 'Turban
lands,' meaning the right of sovereignty—being a British subject—on
the one hand, and rejected his claim to these conquered countries on the
other,—they excluded him altogether.”
</p>
<p>
“My dear sir,” said Stapylton, mildly, “I'm shocked to interrupt you, but
I am forced to ask, what is the intimate bearing of all this upon me, or
on your position towards me?”
</p>
<p>
“Have a little patience, sir, and suffer me to proceed. If it should turn
out that this document—I mean that which bears the signature and
seal of the Rajah—should be a forgery; if, I say, it could be shown
that what the India Board have long relied on to sustain their case and
corroborate their own view could be proved false, a great point would be
gained towards the establishment of our claim.”
</p>
<p>
“Doubtless,” said Stapylton, with the half-peevish indifference of one
listening against his will.
</p>
<p>
“Well, there is a good prospect of this,” said Barring-ton, boldly. “Nay,
more, it is a certainty.”
</p>
<p>
“Mr. Barrington,” said Stapylton, drawing himself haughtily up, “a few
hours ago this history would have had a very great interest for me. My
hopes pointed to a very close relationship with your family; the last hour
has sufficed to dispel those hopes. Your granddaughter has rejected me so
decidedly that I cannot presume to suppose a change in her opinion
possible. Let me not then, obtain any share in your confidence to which I
have no right whatever.”
</p>
<p>
“What I am about to say will have more interest for you, sir,” continued
Barrington. “I am about to mention a name that you will recognize,—the
Moonshee, Ali Gohur.”
</p>
<p>
Stapylton started, and dropped the cigar he was smoking. To take out
another and light it, however, sufficed to employ him, as he murmured
between his teeth, “Go on.”
</p>
<p>
“This man says—” continued Barrington.
</p>
<p>
“Said, perhaps, if you like,” broke in Stapylton, “for he died some months
ago.”
</p>
<p>
“No; he is alive at this hour. He was on board the Indiaman that was run
down by the transport. He was saved and carried on board the 'Regulus' by
the intrepidity of young Dill. He is now recovering rapidly from the
injuries he received, and at the date of the letter which I hold here, was
able to be in daily communication with Colonel Hunter, who is the writer
of this.”
</p>
<p>
“I wish the gallant Colonel honester company. Are you aware, Mr.
Barrington, that you are speaking of one of the greatest rascals of a
country not famed for its integrity?”
</p>
<p>
“He lays no claim to such for the past; but he would seem desirous to make
some reparation for a long course of iniquity.”
</p>
<p>
“Charmed for his sake, and that of his well-wishers, if he have any. But,
once again, sir, and at all the risk of appearing very impatient, what
concern has all this for me?”
</p>
<p>
“A great deal, sir. The Moonshee declares that he has been for years back
in close correspondence with a man we long since believed dead, and that
this man was known to have communicated constantly with the law advisers
of the India Board in a manner adverse to us, he being none other than the
son of the notorious Sam Edwardes, whom he always addressed under cover to
Captain Horace Stapylton, Prince's Hussars.”
</p>
<p>
“This is—strange enough, when one thinks of the quarter it comes
from—perfectly true. I came to know Edwardes when on my voyage home,
invalided. He took immense trouble about me, nursed and tended me, and, in
return, asked as a favor to have some letters he was expecting addressed
to my care. I neither knew who he was, nor cared. He got his letters, and
I suppose read them; but of their contents, I, it is needless to say, know
nothing. I am speaking of a dozen years ago, or, at least, eight or ten,
for since that time I have never heard of either Edwardes or his friend.”
</p>
<p>
“He tells a different story. He asserts that to his letters, forwarded to
the same address up to the period of last March, he regularly received
replies; but at last finding that the writer was disposed to get rid of
him, he obtained means to circulate a report of his death, and sailed for
Europe to prefer his claims, whatever they be, in person.”
</p>
<p>
“And if every word of this were true, Mr. Barrington, which I don't
suspect it is, how, in the name of common sense, does it concern me? I
don't suppose I ever took my own letters at a post-office twice in my
life. My servant, who has lived with me fourteen years, may, for aught I
know, have been bribed to abstract these letters on their arrival; they
would be easily recognized by the very superscription. This is one way the
thing might have been done. There may have been fifty more, for aught I
know or care.”
</p>
<p>
“But you don't deny that you knew Edwardes, and had a close intimacy with
him?—a circumstance which you never revealed to Withering or
myself.”
</p>
<p>
“It is not at all improbable I may have known half a dozen of that name.
It is by no means an uncommon one, not to say that I have a singularly
infelicitous memory for people's names. But for the last time, sir, I must
protest against this conversation going any further. You have taken upon
you, I would hope without intending it, the tone of a French <i>Juge
d'Instruction</i> in the interrogation of a prisoner. You have questioned
and cross-questioned me, asking how I can account for this, or explain
that. Now, I am ready to concede a great deal to your position as my host,
and to your years, but really I must entreat of you not to push my
deference for these beyond the limits of the respect I owe myself. You
very properly warned me at the opening of this conversation that it ought
not to have the sanction of your roof-tree. I have only to beg that if it
is to go any further, that it be conducted in such a shape as is usual
between gentlemen who have an explanation to ask, or a satisfaction to
demand.”
</p>
<p>
There was consummate craft in giving the discussion this turn. Stapylton
well knew the nature of the man he was addressing, and that after the
passing allusion to his character as a host, he only needed to hint at the
possibility of a meeting to recall him to a degree of respect only short
of deference for his opponent.
</p>
<p>
“I defer to you at once, Major Stapylton,” said the old man, with a bland
courtesy, as he uncovered and bowed. “There was a time when I should
scarcely have required the admonition you have given me.”
</p>
<p>
“I am glad to perceive that you understand me so readily,” said Stapylton,
who could scarcely repress the joy he felt at the success of his
diversion; “and that nothing may mar our future understanding, this is my
address in London, where I shall wait your orders for a week.”
</p>
<p>
Though the stroke was shrewdly intended, and meant to throw upon
Barrington all the onus of the provocation, the Major little suspected
that it was the one solitary subject of which his opponent was a master.
On the “duello” Barrington was an authority beyond appeal, and no
subtlety, however well contrived, could embarrass or involve him.
</p>
<p>
“I have no satisfaction to claim at your hands, Major Stapylton,” said he,
calmly. “My friend, Mr. Withering, when he sent me these letters, knew you
were my guest, and he said, 'Read them to Major Stapylton. Let him know
what is said of him, and who says it.'”
</p>
<p>
“And, perhaps, you ought to add, sir, who gives it the sanction of his
belief,” broke in Stapylton, angrily. “You never took the trouble to
recite these charges till they obtained your credence.”
</p>
<p>
“You have said nothing to disprove them,” said the old man, quickly.
</p>
<p>
“That is enough,—quite enough, sir; we understand each other
perfectly. You allege certain things against me as injuries done you, and
you wait for <i>me</i> to resent the imputation. I 'll not balk you, be
assured of it. The address I have given you in London will enable you to
communicate with me when you arrive there; for I presume this matter had
better be settled in France or Holland.”
</p>
<p>
“I think so,” said Barrington, with the air of a man thoroughly at his
ease.
</p>
<p>
“I need not say, Mr. Barrington, the regret it gives me that it was not
one of my detractors himself, and not their dupe, that should occupy this
place.”
</p>
<p>
“The dupe, sir, is very much at your service.”
</p>
<p>
“Till we meet again,” said Stapylton, raising his hat as he turned away.
In his haste and the confusion of the moment, he took the path that led
towards the cottage; nor did he discover his mistake till he heard
Barrington's voice calling out to Darby,—
</p>
<p>
“Get the boat ready to take Major Stapylton to Inistioge.”
</p>
<p>
“You forget none of the precepts of hospitality,” said Stapylton, wheeling
hastily around, and directing his steps towards the river.
</p>
<p>
Barrington looked after him as he went, and probably in his long and
varied life, crossed with many a care and many troubles, he had never felt
the pain of such severe self-reproach as in that moment. To see his guest,
the man who had sat at his board and eaten his salt, going out into the
dreary night without one hospitable effort to detain him, without a pledge
to his health, without a warm shake of his hand, or one hearty wish for
his return.
</p>
<p>
“Dear, dear!” muttered he, to himself, “what is the world come to! I
thought I had no more experiences to learn of suffering; but here is a new
one. Who would have thought to see the day that Peter Barrington would
treat his guest this fashion?”
</p>
<p>
“Are you coming in to tea, grandpapa?” cried Josephine, from the garden.
</p>
<p>
“Here I am, my dear!”
</p>
<p>
“And your guest, Peter, what has become of him?” said Dinah.
</p>
<p>
“He had some very urgent business at Kilkenny; something that could not
admit of delay, I opine.”
</p>
<p>
“But you have not let him go without his letters, surely. Here are all
these formidable-looking despatches, on his Majesty's service, on the
chimney-piece.”
</p>
<p>
“How forgetful of me!” cried he, as, snatching them up, he hastened down
to the river-side. The boat, however, had just gone; and although he
shouted and called at the top of his voice, no answer came, and he turned
back at last, vexed and disappointed.
</p>
<p>
“I shall have to start for Dublin to-morrow, Dinah,” said he, as he walked
thoughtfully up and down the room. “I must have Withering's advice on
these letters. There are very pressing matters to be thought of here, and
I can take Major Stapylton's despatches with me. I am certain to hear of
him somewhere.”
</p>
<p>
Miss Barrington turned her eyes full upon him, and watched him narrowly.
She was a keen detector of motives, and she scanned her brother's face
with no common keenness, and yet she could see nothing beyond the
preoccupation she had often seen. There was no impatience, no anxiety. A
shade more thoughtful, perhaps, and even that passed off, as he sat down
to his tea, and asked Fifine what commissions she had for the capital.
</p>
<p>
“You will leave by the evening mail, I suppose?” said Miss Barrington.
</p>
<p>
“No, Dinah, night travelling wearies me. I will take the coach as it
passes the gate to-morrow at five; this will bring me in time to catch
Withering at his late dinner, and a pleasanter way to finish a day's
travel no man need ask for.”
</p>
<p>
Nothing could be more easily spoken than these words, and Miss Dinah felt
reassured by them, and left the room to give some orders about his
journey.
</p>
<p>
“Fifine, darling,” said Barrington, after a pause, “do you like your life
here?”
</p>
<p>
“Of course I do, grandpapa. How could I wish for one more happy?”
</p>
<p>
“But it is somewhat dull for one so young,—somewhat solitary for a
fair, bright creature, who might reasonably enough care for pleasure and
the world.”
</p>
<p>
“To me it is a round of gayety, grandpapa; so that I almost felt inclined
yesterday to wish for some quiet davs with aunt and yourself,—some
of those dreamy days like what we had in Germany.”
</p>
<p>
“I fear me much, darling, that I contribute but little to the pleasure. My
head is so full of one care or another, I am but sorry company, Fifine.”
</p>
<p>
“If you only knew how dull we are without you! How heavily the day drags
on even with the occupations you take no share in; how we miss your steps
on the stairs and your voice in the garden, and that merry laugh that sets
ourselves a-laughing just by its own ring.”
</p>
<p>
“And you would miss me, then?” said he, as he pushed the hair from her
temples, and stared steadfastly at her face,—“you would miss me?”
</p>
<p>
“It would only be half life without you,” cried she, passionately.
</p>
<p>
“So much the worse,—so much the worse!” muttered he; and he turned
away, and drew his hand across his eyes. “This life of ours, Fifine, is a
huge battle-field; and though the comrades fall fast around him, the brave
soldier will fight on to the last.”
</p>
<p>
“You don't want a dress-coat, brother Peter, to dine with Withering, so I
have just put up what will serve you for three days, or four, at
furthest,” said Dinah, entering. “What will be the extent of your stay?”
</p>
<p>
“Let me have a black coat, Dinah; there 's no saying what great man may
not ask for my company; and it might be a week before I get back again.”
</p>
<p>
“There's no necessity it should be anything of the kind, Peter; and with
your habits an hotel life is scarcely an economy. Come, Fifine, get to
bed, child. You'll have to be up at daybreak. Your grandpapa won't think
his coffee drinkable, if it is not made by your hands.”
</p>
<p>
And with this remark, beautifully balanced between a reproof and a
flattery, she proceeded to blow out the candles, which was her accustomed
mode of sending her company to their rooms.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XV. THE OLD LEAVEN
</h2>
<p>
Withering arrived at his own door just as Barrington drove up to it. “I
knew my letter would bring you up to town, Barrington,” said he; “and I
was so sure of it that I ordered a saddle of mutton for your dinner, and
refused an invitation to the Chancellor's.”
</p>
<p>
“And quite right too. Iam far better company, Tom. Are we to be all
alone?”
</p>
<p>
“All alone.”
</p>
<p>
“That was exactly what I wanted. Now, as I need a long evening with you,
the sooner they serve the soup the better; and be sure you give your
orders that nobody be admitted.”
</p>
<p>
If Mr. Withering's venerable butler, an official long versed in the
mysteries of his office, were to have been questioned on the subject, it
is not improbable he would have declared that he never assisted at a
pleasanter tête-â tête than that day's dinner. They enjoyed their good
dinner and their good wine like men who bring to the enjoyment a ripe
experience of such pleasures, and they talked with the rare zest of good
talkers and old friends.
</p>
<p>
“We are in favor with Nicholas,” said Withering, as the butler withdrew,
and left them alone, “or he would never have given us that bottle of port.
Do you mark, Barrington, it's the green seal that John Bushe begged so
hard for one night, and all unsuccessfully.”
</p>
<p>
“It is rare stuff!” said Barrington, looking at it between him and the
light.
</p>
<p>
“And it was that story of yours of the Kerry election that won it. The old
fellow had to rush out of the room to have his laugh out.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you know, Tom,” said Barrington, as he sipped his wine, “I believe, in
another generation, nobody will laugh at all. Since you and I were boys,
the world has taken a very serious turn. Not that it is much wiser, or
better, or more moral, or more cultivated, but it is graver. The old
jollity would be now set down simply for vulgarity, and with many people a
joke is only short of an insult.”
</p>
<p>
“Shall I tell you why, Peter? We got our reputation for wit, just as we
made our name for manufacture, and there sprung up a mass of impostors in
consequence,—fellows who made poor jokes and rotten calicoes, that
so disgusted the world that people have gone to France for their fun, and
to Germany for their furniture. That is, to my taking, the reason of all
this social reaction.”
</p>
<p>
“Perhaps you are right, Tom. Old Joe Millers are not unlike cloth made out
of devil's dust. One can't expect much wear out of either.”
</p>
<p>
“We must secure another bottle from that bin before Nicholas changes his
mind,” said Withering, rising to ring the bell.
</p>
<p>
“No, Tom, not for me. I want all the calm and all the judgment I can
muster, and don't ask me to take more wine. I have much to say to you.”
</p>
<p>
“Of course you have. I knew well that packet of letters would bring you up
to town; but you have had scarcely time to read them.”
</p>
<p>
“Very hurriedly, I confess. They reached me yesterday afternoon; and when
I had run my eyes hastily over them, I said, 'Stapylton must see this at
once.' The man was my guest,—he was under my roof,—there could
not be a question about how to deal with him. He was out, however, when
the packet reached my hands; and while the pony was being harnessed, I
took another look over that letter from Colonel Hunter. It shocked me,
Tom, I confess; because there flashed upon me quite suddenly the
recollection of the promptitude with which the India Board at home here
were provided with an answer to each demand we made. It was not merely
that when we advanced a step they met us; but we could scarcely meditate a
move that they were not in activity to repel it.”
</p>
<p>
“I saw that, too, and was struck by it,” said Withering.
</p>
<p>
“True enough, Tom. I remember a remark of yours one day. 'These people,'
said you, 'have our range so accurately, one would suspect they had
stepped the ground.'” The lawyer smiled at the compliment to his
acuteness, and the other went on: “As I read further, I thought Stapylton
had been betrayed,—his correspondent in India had shown his letters.
'Our enemies,' said I, 'have seen our despatches, and are playing with our
cards on the table.' No thought of distrust,—not a suspicion against
his loyalty had ever crossed me till I met him. I came unexpectedly upon
him, however, before the door, and there was a ring and resonance in his
voice as I came up that startled me! Passion forgets to shut the door
sometimes, and one can see in an angry mind what you never suspected in
the calm one. I took him up at once, without suffering him to recover his
composure, and read him a part of Hunter's letter. He was ready enough
with his reply; he knew the Moonshee by reputation as a man of the worst
character, but had suffered him to address certain letters under cover to
him, as a convenience to the person they were meant for, and who was no
other than the son of the notorious Sam Edwardes. 'Whom you have known all
this while,' said I, 'without ever acknowledging to us?'
</p>
<p>
“'Whom I did know some years back,' replied he, 'but never thought of
connecting with the name of Colonel Barrington's enemy.' All this was
possible enough, Tom; besides, his manner was frank and open in the
extreme. It was only at last, as I dwelt, what he deemed too
pertinaciously, on this point, that he suddenly lost control of himself,
and said, 'I will have no more of this'—or, 'This must go no
further'—or some words to that effect.”
</p>
<p>
“Ha! the probe had touched the sore spot, eh?” cried Withering. “Go on!”
</p>
<p>
“'And if you desire further explanations from me, you must ask for them at
the price men pay for inflicting unmerited insult.'”
</p>
<p>
“Cleverly turned, cleverly done,” said Withering; “but you were not to be
deceived and drawn off by that feint, eh?”
</p>
<p>
“Feint or not, it succeeded, Tom. He made me feel that I had injured him;
and as he would not accept of my excuses,—as, in fact, he did not
give me time to make them—”
</p>
<p>
“He got you into a quarrel, is n't that the truth?” asked Withering,
hotly.
</p>
<p>
“Come, come, Tom, be reasonable; he had perfect right on his side. There
was what he felt as a very grave imputation upon him; that is, I had made
a charge, and his explanation had not satisfied me,—or, at all
events, I had not said I was satisfied,—and we each of us, I take
it, were somewhat warmer than we need have been.”
</p>
<p>
“And you are going to meet him,—going to fight a duel?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, if I am, it will not be the first time.”
</p>
<p>
“And can you tell for what? Will you be able to make any man of common
intelligence understand for what you are going out?”
</p>
<p>
“I hope so. I have the man in my eye. No, no, don't make a wry face, Tom.
It's another old friend I was thinking of to help me through this affair,
and I sincerely trust he will not be so hard to instruct as you imagine.”
</p>
<p>
“How old are you, Barrington?”
</p>
<p>
“Dinah says eighty-one; but I suspect she cheats me. I think I am
eighty-three.”
</p>
<p>
“And is it at eighty-three that men fight duels?”
</p>
<p>
“' Not if they can help it, Tom, certainly. I have never been out since I
shot Tom Connelly in the knee, which was a matter of forty years ago, and
I had good hopes it was to be my last exploit of this kind. But what is to
be done if a man tells you that your age is your protection; that if it
had not been for your white hairs and your shaking ankles, that he 'd have
resented your conduct or your words to him? Faith, I think it puts a
fellow on his mettle to show that his heart is all right, though his hand
may tremble.”
</p>
<p>
“I 'll not take any share in such a folly. I tell you, Barrington, the
world for whom you are doing this will be the very first to scout its
absurdity. Just remember for a moment we are not living in the old days
before the Union, and we have not the right, if we had the power, to throw
our age back into the barbarism it has escaped from.”
</p>
<p>
“Barbarism! The days of poor Yelverton, and Ponsonby, and Harry Grattan,
and Parsons, and Ned Lysaght, barbarism! Ah! my dear Tom, I wish we had a
few of such barbarians here now, and I 'd ask for another bottle or two of
that port.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll not give it a milder word; and what's more, I'll not suffer you to
tarnish a time-honored name by a folly which even a boy would be blamed
for. My dear old friend, just grant me a little patience.”
</p>
<p>
“This is cool, certainly,” said Barrington, laughing. “You have said all
manner of outrageous things to me for half an hour unopposed, and now you
cry have patience.”
</p>
<p>
“Give me your honor now that this shall not go further.”
</p>
<p>
“I cannot, Tom,—I assure you, I cannot.”
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean by 'you cannot'?” cried Withering, angrily.
</p>
<p>
“I mean just what I said. If you had accepted a man's brief, Tom
Withering, there is a professional etiquette which would prevent your
giving it up and abandoning him; and so there are situations between men
of the world which claim exactly as rigid an observance. I told Stapylton
I would be at his orders, and I mean to keep my word.”
</p>
<p>
“Not if you had no right to pledge it; not if I can prove to you that this
quarrel was a mere got-up altercation to turn you from an inquiry which
this man dare not face.”
</p>
<p>
“This is too subtle for me, Withering,—far too subtle.”
</p>
<p>
“No such thing, Barrington; but I will make it plainer. How if the man you
are going to meet had no right to the name he bears?”
</p>
<p>
“What do I care for his name?”
</p>
<p>
“Don't you care for the falsehood by which he has assumed one that is not
his own?”
</p>
<p>
“I may be sorry that he is not more clean-handed; but I tell you again,
Tom, they never indulged such punctilios in our young days, and I 'm too
old to go to school again!”
</p>
<p>
“I declare, Barrington, you provoke me,” said the lawyer, rising, and
pacing the room with hasty strides. “After years and years of weary toil,
almost disheartened by defeat and failure, we at last see the outline of
land; a few more days—or it may be hours—of perseverance may
accomplish our task. Since I arose this morning I have learned more of our
case, seen my way more clearly through matters which have long puzzled me,
than the cost of years has taught me. I have passed four hours with one
who would give his life to serve you, but whose name I was not at liberty
to divulge, save in the last necessity, and the reasons for which reserve
I heartily concur in; and now, by a rash and foolish altercation, you
would jeopardy everything. Do you wonder if I lose temper?”
</p>
<p>
“You have got me into such a state of bewilderment, Tom, that I don't know
what I am asked to agree to. But who is your friend,—is n't it a
woman?”
</p>
<p>
“It is not a woman.”
</p>
<p>
“I'd have bet five pounds it was! When as sharp a fellow as you takes the
wrong line of country, it's generally a woman is leading the way over the
fences.”
</p>
<p>
“This time your clever theory is at fault.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, who is it? Out with him, Tom. I have not so many stanch friends in
the world that I can afford to ignore them.”
</p>
<p>
“I will tell you his name on one condition.”
</p>
<p>
“I agree. What is the condition?”
</p>
<p>
“It is this: that when you hear it you will dismiss from your mind—though
it be only for a brief space—all the prejudices that years may have
heaped against him, and suffer me to show you that <i>you</i>, with all
your belief in your own fairness, are not just; and with a firm conviction
in your own generosity, might be more generous. There 's my condition!”
</p>
<p>
“Well, it must be owned I am going to pay pretty smartly for my
information,” said Barrington, laughing. “And if you are about to preach
to me, it will not be a 'charity' sermon; but, as I said before, I agree
to everything.”
</p>
<p>
Withering stopped his walk and resumed it again. It was evident he had not
satisfied himself how he should proceed, and he looked agitated and
undecided. “Barrington,” said he, at last, “you have had about as many
reverses in life as most men, and must have met with fully your share of
ingratitude and its treatment. Do you feel, now, in looking back, that
there are certain fellows you cannot forgive?”
</p>
<p>
“One or two, perhaps, push me harder than the rest; but if I have no gout
flying about me, I don't think I bear them any malice.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, you have no gouty symptoms now, I take it?”
</p>
<p>
“Never felt better for the last twenty years.”
</p>
<p>
“That is as it should be; for I want to talk to you of a man who, in all
our friendship, you have never mentioned to me, but whose name I know will
open an old wound,—Ormsby Conyers.”
</p>
<p>
Barrington laid down the glass he was lifting to his lips, and covered his
face with both his hands, nor for some moments did he speak a word.
“Withering,” said he, and his voice trembled as he spoke, “even your
friendship has scarcely the right to go this far. The injury the man you
speak of did me meets me every morning as I open my eyes, and my first
prayer each day is that I may forgive him, for every now and then, as my
lone lot in life comes strongly before me, I have need to pray for this;
but I have succeeded at last,—I have forgiven him from my heart;
but, dear friend, let us not talk of what tears open wounds that bleed
afresh at a touch. I beseech you, let all that be a bygone.”
</p>
<p>
“That is more than I can do, Barrington; for it is not to me you must
acknowledge you have forgiven this man,—you must tell it to
himself.”
</p>
<p>
“That is not needed, Tom. Thousands of long miles separate us, and will in
all likelihood separate us to the last. What does he want with my
forgiveness, which is less a question between him and me than between me
and my own heart?”
</p>
<p>
“And yet it is what he most desires on earth; he told me so within an
hour!”
</p>
<p>
“Told you so,—and within an hour?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, Barrington, he is here. Not in the house,” added he, hastily, for
the suddenness of the announcement had startled the old man, and agitated
him greatly. “Be calm, my dear friend,” said Withering, laying a hand on
the other's shoulder. “He who is now come to claim your forgiveness has
never injured you to the extent you believe. He asks it as the last
tribute to one he loved only less than you loved him. He has told me
everything; never sparing himself, nor seeking by any subtlety to excuse a
particle of his conduct. Let me tell you that story as I heard it. It will
be some solace to you to know that your noble-hearted son inspired a
friendship which, after the long lapse of years, extracts such an
atonement as one act of disloyalty to it could demand. This was Ormsby
Conyers's one and only treason to the love that bound them. Listen to it!”
</p>
<p>
Barrington tried to speak, but could not; so he nodded an assent, and
Withering continued. His story was that which the reader has already heard
from the lips of Conyers himself, and the old lawyer told it well. If he
did not attempt to extenuate the offence and wrong of Conyers, he showed
the power and strength of an affection which could make one of the
haughtiest of men come forward to accuse himself, and at every cost of
humiliation vindicate the noble nature of his friend.
</p>
<p>
“And why not have avowed all this before?—why not have spared
himself years of self-accusing, and me years of aggravated misery?” cried
Barrington.
</p>
<p>
“He did make the attempt. He came to England about eighteen years ago, and
his first care was to write to you. He asked to be allowed to see you, and
sent you at the same time an admission that he had injured you, and was
come to seek your forgiveness.”
</p>
<p>
“That's true, Tom; all strictly true. I remember all about it. His letter
was such a one as an enemy might have used to crush him. My own temper at
the time was not to be trusted too far; sorrow was making me cruel, and
might make me vindictive; so I sent it back to him, and hinted it was
safer in <i>his</i> hands than <i>mine</i>.”
</p>
<p>
“And he has never forgotten your generosity. He said, 'It was what well
became the father of George Barrington. '”
</p>
<p>
“If he is here in this city, now, let me see him. Remember, Withering,
when a man comes to my age his time is short. Cannot we go to him at
once?”
</p>
<p>
“Not feeling certain of your coming up to town to-day, I had arranged with
Conyers to start for 'The Home' tomorrow; we were to await the post hour,
and, if no letter came from you, to leave at ten o'clock. I was to take
him up at Elvidge's Hotel. What say you if I drive him down to Reynolds's?
You stop there, I know.”
</p>
<p>
“With all my heart, Tom. I am fully as impatient as he can be to sign and
seal our reconciliation. Indeed, I feel myself already less sinned against
than sinning; and an act of forgiveness is only an exchange of prisoners
between us. If you knew how young I feel again at all this, Withering,”
said he, grasping his friend's hand. “What a happiness to know that poor
George's memory is so revered that one who has failed towards him in
fidelity should come to expiate the wrong thus openly! My fine
noble-hearted boy deserved this tribute! And he told you how they loved
each other; in what a brotherhood they lived; and what a glorious fellow
George was? Did he tell you of his gentleness?—womanly softness it
was, Tom. A careless observer might have said there was no stuff in him to
make a soldier, and yet where was there his equal? You heard what he did
at Naghapoor and Meerutan, where he held a mountain-pass with three
squadrons against a whole army corps, and never owned to being wounded
till he fell fainting from his horse on the retreat. Oh, let me not speak
of these things, or my heart will burst I must leave you, old friend; this
agitation will unfit me for much that is before me; let me go, I beseech
you, and when you see me to-morrow, you 'll find I am all myself again.”
</p>
<p>
It was in silence they grasped each other's hand, and parted.
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVI. A HAPPY MEETING
</h2>
<p>
Barrington scarcely closed his eyes that night after he had parted with
Withering, so full was he of thinking over all he had heard. “It was,” as
he repeated to himself over and over again, “'such glorious news' to hear
that it was no long-laid plot, no dark treachery, had brought poor George
to his grave, and that the trusted friend had not turned out a secret
enemy. How prone we are,” thought he, “to suffer our suspicions to grow
into convictions, just by the mere force of time. Conyers was neither
better nor worse than scores of young fellows entering on life,
undisciplined in self-restraint, and untutored by converse with the world;
and in his sorrow and repentance he is far and away above most men. It was
fine of him to come thus, and become his own accuser, rather than suffer a
shade of reproach to rest upon the fame of his friend. And this reparation
he would have made years ago, but for my impatience. It was I that would
not listen,—would not admit it.
</p>
<p>
“I believe in my heart, then, this confession has a higher value for me
than would the gain of our great suit. It is such a testimony to my brave
boy as but one man living could offer. It is a declaration to the world
that says, 'Here am I, high in station, covered with dignities and rich in
rewards; yet there was a man whose fate has never interested you, over
whose fall you never sorrowed; hundreds of times my superior.' What a
reward is this for all my life of toil and struggle,—what a glorious
victory, when the battle looked so doubtful! People will see at last it is
not an old man's phantasy; it is not the headlong affection of a father
for his son has made me pursue this reparation for him here. There is a
witness 'come to judgment,' who will tell them what George Barrington was;
how noble as a man, how glorious as a soldier.”
</p>
<p>
While the old man revelled in the happiness of these thoughts, so absorbed
was he by them that he utterly forgot the immediate object which had
occasioned his journey,—forgot Stapylton and the meeting, and all
that had led to it. Thus passed the hours of the night; and as the day
broke, he arose, impatient to actual feverishness for the coming
interview. He tried by some occupation to fill up the time. He sat down to
write to his sister an account of all Withering had told him, leaving the
rest to be added after the meeting; but he found, as he read it over, that
after the mention of George's name, nothing dropped from his pen but
praises of him. It was all about his generosity, his open-heartedness, and
his bravery. “This would seem downright extravagant,” said he, as he
crushed the paper in his hand, “till she hears it from the lips of Conyers
himself.” He began another letter, but somehow again he glided into the
self-same channel.
</p>
<p>
“This will never do,” said he; “there's nothing for it but a brisk walk.”
So saying he sallied out into the deserted streets, for few were about at
that early hour. Barrington turned his steps towards the country, and soon
gained one of those shady alleys which lead towards Finglas. It was a
neighborhood he had once known well, and a favorite resort of those
pleasant fellows who thought they compensated for a hard night at Daly's
by sipping syllabub of a morning on a dewy meadow. He once had rented a
little cottage there; a fancy of poor George's it was, that there were
some trout in the stream beside it; and Barrington strolled along till he
came to a little mound, from which he could see the place, sadly changed
and dilapidated since he knew it. Instead of the rustic bridge that
crossed the river, a single plank now spanned the stream, and in the
disorder and neglect of all around, it was easy to see it had fallen to
the lot of a peasant to live in it. As Barrington was about to turn away,
he saw an old man—unmistakably a gentleman—ascending the hill,
with a short telescope in his hand. As the path was a narrow one, he
waited, therefore, for the other's arrival, before he began to descend
himself. With a politeness which in his younger days Irish gentlemen
derived from intercourse with France, Barring-ton touched his hat as he
passed the stranger, and the other, as if encouraged by the show of
courtesy, smiled as he returned the salute, and said,—
</p>
<p>
“Might I take the liberty to ask you if you are acquainted with this
locality?”
</p>
<p>
“Few know it better, or, at least, knew it once,” said Barrington.
</p>
<p>
“It was the classic ground of Ireland in days past,” said the stranger. “I
have heard that Swift lived here.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes; but you cannot see his house from this. It was nearer to Santry,
where you see that wood yonder. There was, however, a celebrity once
inhabited that small cottage before us. It was the home of Parnell.”
</p>
<p>
“Is that Parnell's cottage?” asked the stranger, with eagerness; “that
ruined spot, yonder?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes. It was there he wrote some of his best poems. I knew the room well
he lived in.”
</p>
<p>
“How I would like to see it!” cried the other.
</p>
<p>
“You are an admirer of Parnell, then?” said Barrington, with a smile of
courteous meaning.
</p>
<p>
“I will own to you, sir, it was less of Parnell I was thinking than of a
dear friend who once talked to me of that cottage. He had lived there, and
cherished the memory of that life when far away from it; and so well had
he described every walk and path around it, each winding of the river, and
every shady nook, that I had hoped to recognize it without a guide.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, it is sadly changed of late. Your friend had not probably seen it for
some years?”
</p>
<p>
“Let me see. It was in a memorable year he told me he lived there,—when
some great demonstration was made by the Irish volunteers, with the Bishop
of Down at their head. The Bishop dined there on that day.”
</p>
<p>
“The Earl of Bristol dined that day with me, there,” said Barrington,
pointing to the cottage.
</p>
<p>
“May I ask with whom I have the honor to speak, sir?” said the stranger,
bowing.
</p>
<p>
“Was it George Barrington told you this?” said the old man, trembling with
eagerness: “was it he who lived here? I may ask, sir, for I am his
father!”
</p>
<p>
“And I am Ormsby Conyers,” said the other; and his face became pale, and
his knees trembled as he said it.
</p>
<p>
“Give me your hand, Conyers,” cried Barrington,—“the hand that my
dear boy has so often pressed in friendship. I know all that you were to
each other, all that you would be to his memory.”
</p>
<p>
“Can you forgive me?” said Conyers.
</p>
<p>
“I have, for many a year. I forgave you when I thought you had been his
enemy. I now know you had only been your own to sacrifice such love, such
affection as he bore you.”
</p>
<p>
“I never loved him more than I have hated myself for my conduct towards
him.”
</p>
<p>
“Let us talk of George,—he loved us both,” said Barrington, who
still held Conyers by the hand. “It is a theme none but yourself can rival
me in interest for.”
</p>
<p>
It was not easy for Conyers to attain that calm which could enable him to
answer the other's questions; but by degrees he grew to talk freely,
assisted a good deal by the likeness of the old man to his son,—a
resemblance in manner even as much as look,—and thus, before they
reached town again, they had become like familiar friends.
</p>
<p>
Barrington could never hear enough of George; even of the incidents he had
heard of by letter, he liked to listen to the details again, and to mark
how all the traits of that dear boy had been appreciated by others.
</p>
<p>
“I must keep you my prisoner,” said Barrington, as they gained the door of
his hotel. “The thirst I have is not easily slaked; remember that for more
than thirty years I have had none to talk to me of my boy! I know all
about your appointment with Withering; he was to have brought you here
this morning to see me, and my old friend will rejoice when he comes and
finds us here together.”
</p>
<p>
“He was certain you would come up to town,” said Conyers, “when you got
his letters. You would see at once that there were matters which should be
promptly dealt with; and he said, 'Barrington will be my guest at dinner
to-morrow.'”
</p>
<p>
“Eh?—how?—what was it all about? George has driven all else
out of my head, and I declare to you that I have not the very vaguest
recollection of what Wither-ing's letters contained. Wait a moment; a
light is breaking on me. I do remember something of it all now. To be
sure! What a head I have! It was all about Stapylton. By the way, General,
how you would have laughed had you heard the dressing Withering gave me
last night, when I told him I was going to give Stapylton a meeting.”
</p>
<p>
“A hostile meeting?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, if you like to give it that new-fangled name, General, which I
assure you was not in vogue when I was a young man. Withering rated me
soundly for the notion, reminded me of my white hairs and such other
disqualifications, and asked me indignantly, 'What the world would say
when they came to hear of it?' 'What would the world say if they heard I
declined it, Tom?' was my answer. Would they not exclaim, 'Here is one of
that fire-eating school who are always rebuking us for our laxity in
matters of honor; look at him and say, are these the principles of his
sect?'”
</p>
<p>
Conyers shook his head dissentingly, and smiled.
</p>
<p>
“No, no!” said Barrington, replying to the other's look, “you are just of
my own mind! A man who believes you to have injured him claims reparation
as a matter of right. I could not say to Stapylton, 'I will not meet
you!'”
</p>
<p>
“I <i>did</i> say so, and that within a fortnight.”
</p>
<p>
“You said so, and under what provocation?”
</p>
<p>
“He grossly insulted my son, who was his subaltern; he outraged him by
offensive language, and he dared even to impugn his personal courage. It
was in one of those late riots where the military were called out; and my
boy, intrusted with the duty of dispersing an assemblage, stopped to
remonstrate where he might have charged, and actually relieved the misery
he had his orders to have trampled under the feet of his squadron. Major
Stapylton could have reprimanded, he might have court-martialled him; he
had no right to attempt to dishonor him. My son left the service,—I
made him leave on the spot,—and we went over to France to meet this
man. I sent for Proctor to be my boy's friend, and my letter found him at
Sir Gilbert Stapylton's, at Hollowcliffe. To explain his hurried
departure, Proctor told what called him away. 'And will you suffer your
friend to meet that adventurer,' said Sir Gilbert, 'who stole my nephew's
name if he did not steal more?' To be brief, he told that this fellow had
lived with Colonel Howard Stapylton, British Resident at Ghurtnapore, as a
sort of humble private secretary. 'In the cholera that swept the district
Howard died, and although his will, deposited at Calcutta, contained
several legacies, the effects to redeem them were not to be discovered.
Meanwhile this young fellow assumed the name of Stapylton, gave himself
out for his heir, and even threatened to litigate some landed property in
England with Howard's brother. An intimation that if he dared to put his
menace in action a full inquiry into his conduct should be made, stopped
him, and we heard no more of him,—at least, for a great many years.
When an old Madras friend of Howard's who came down to spend his
Christmas, said, “Who do you think I saw in town last week, but that young
scamp Howard used to call his Kitmagar, and who goes by the name of
Stapylton?” we were so indignant at first that we resolved on all manner
of exposures; but learning that he had the reputation of a good officer,
and had actually distinguished himself at Waterloo, we relented. Since
that, other things have come to our knowledge to make us repent our
lenity. In fact, he is an adventurer in its very worst sense, and has
traded upon a certain amount of personal courage to cover a character of
downright ignominy.' Proctor, on hearing all this, recalled me to England;
and declared that he had traced enough to this man's charge to show he was
one whom no gentleman could meet. It would appear that some recent
discoveries had been made about him at the Horse Guards also; for when
Proctor asked for a certain piece of information from one of his friends
in office there, he heard, for answer, 'We hope to know that, and more, in
a day or two.'”
</p>
<p>
“Do you know that I 'm sorry for it,—heartily sorry?” said
Barrington. “The fellow had that stamp of manliness about him that would
seem the pledge of a bold, straightforward nature.”
</p>
<p>
“I have a high value for courage, but it won't do everything.”
</p>
<p>
“More 's the pity, for it renders all that it aids of tenfold more worth.”
</p>
<p>
“And on the back of all this discovery comes Hunter's letter, which
Withering has sent you, to show that this Stapylton has for years back
been supplying the Indian Directors with materials to oppose your claims.”
</p>
<p>
“Nothing ever puzzled us so much as the way every weak point of our case
was at once seized upon, and every doubt we ourselves entertained
exaggerated into an impassable barrier. Withering long suspected that some
secret enemy was at work within our own lines, and repeatedly said that we
were sold. The difficulty is, why this man should once have been our
enemy, and now should strive so eagerly to be not alone our friend, but
one of us. You have heard he proposed for my granddaughter?”
</p>
<p>
“Fred suspected his intentions in that quarter, but we were not certain of
them.”
</p>
<p>
“And it is time I should ask after your noble-hearted boy. How is he, and
where?”
</p>
<p>
“He is here, at my hotel, impatiently waiting your permission to go down
to 'The Home.' He has a question to ask there, whose answer will be his
destiny.”
</p>
<p>
“Has Josephine turned another head then?” said Barring-ton, laughing.
</p>
<p>
“She has won a very honest heart; as true and as honorable a nature as
ever lived,” said Conyers, with emotion. “Your granddaughter does not
know, nor needs ever to know, the wrong I have done her father; and if you
have forgiven me, you will not remember it against my boy.”
</p>
<p>
“But what do you yourself say to all this? You have never seen the girl?”
</p>
<p>
“Fred has.”
</p>
<p>
“You know nothing about her tastes, her temper, her bringing up.”
</p>
<p>
“Fred does.”
</p>
<p>
“Nor are you aware that the claim we have so long relied on is almost
certain to be disallowed. I have scarcely a hope now remaining with regard
to it.”
</p>
<p>
“I have more than I need; and if Fred will let me have a bungalow in his
garden, I'll make it all over to him tomorrow.”
</p>
<p>
“It is then with your entire consent he would make this offer?”
</p>
<p>
“With my whole heart in it! I shall never feel I have repaired the injury
I have done George Barrington till I have called his daughter my own.”
</p>
<p>
Old Barrington arose, and walked up and down with slow and measured steps.
At last he halted directly in front of General Conyers, and said,—
</p>
<p>
“If you will do me one kindness, I will agree to everything. What am I
saying? I agree already; and I would not make a bargain of my consent; but
you will not refuse me a favor?”
</p>
<p>
“Ask me anything, and I promise it on the faith of a gentleman.”
</p>
<p>
“It is this, then; that you will stand by me in this affair of
Stapylton's. I have gone too far for subtleties or niceties. It is no
question of who was his father, or what was his own bringing up. I have
told him I should be at his orders, and don't let me break my word.”
</p>
<p>
“If you choose me for your friend, Barrington, you must not dictate how I
am to act for you.”
</p>
<p>
“That is quite true; you are perfectly correct there,” said the other, in
some confusion.
</p>
<p>
“On that condition, then, that I am free to do for you what I would agree
to in my own case, I accept the charge.”
</p>
<p>
“And there is to be no humbug of consideration for my age and my white
hairs; none of that nonsense about a fellow with one leg in the grave.
Mark you, Conyers, I will stand none of these; I have never taken a writ
of ease not to serve on a jury, nor will I hear of one that exempts me
from the rights of a gentleman.”
</p>
<p>
“I have got your full powers to treat, and you must trust me. Where are we
to find Stapylton's friend?”
</p>
<p>
“He gave me an address which I never looked at. Here it is!” and he drew a
card from his pocket.
</p>
<p>
“Captain Duff Brown, late Fifth Fusiliers, Holt's Hotel, Charing Cross.”
</p>
<p>
“Do you know him?” asked Barrington, as the other stood silently
re-reading the address.
</p>
<p>
“Yes, thoroughly,” said he, with a dry significance. “The man who selects
Duff Brown to act for him in an affair of honor must be in a sore strait.
It is a sorry indorsement to character. He had to leave the service from
the imputation of foul play in a duel himself; and I took an active part
against him.”
</p>
<p>
“Will this make your position unpleasant to you,—would you rather
not act for me?”
</p>
<p>
“Quite the reverse. It is more than ever necessary you should have some
one who not only knows the men he is to deal with, but is known himself to
them. It is a preliminary will save a world of trouble.”
</p>
<p>
“When can we set out?”
</p>
<p>
“To-night by the eight-o'clock packet, we can sail for Liverpool; but let
us first of all despatch Fred to 'The Home.' The poor boy will be half
dead with anxiety till he knows I have your permission.”
</p>
<p>
“I 'll accredit him with a letter to my sister; not that he needs it, for
he is one of her prime favorites. And now for another point. Withering
must be made believe that we are all off together for the country this
evening. He is so opposed to this affair with Stapylton, that he is in a
mood to do anything to prevent it.”
</p>
<p>
“Well thought of; and here comes the man himself in search of us.”
</p>
<p>
“I have been half over the town after you this morning, General,” said
Withering, as he entered; “and your son, too, could make nothing of your
absence. He is in the carriage at the door now, not knowing whether he
ought to come up.”
</p>
<p>
“I 'll soon reassure him on that score,” said Barrington, as he left the
room, and hastened downstairs with the step of one that defied the march
of time.
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
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</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVII. MEET COMPANIONSHIP
</h2>
<p>
In a very modest chamber of a house in one of the streets which lead from
the Strand to the Thames, two persons sat at supper. It is no time for
lengthened introductions, and I must present Captain Duff Brown very
hurriedly to my reader, as he confronted his friend Stapylton at table.
The Captain was a jovial-looking, full-whiskered, somewhat corpulent man,
with a ready reply, a ready laugh, and a hand readier than either, whether
the weapon wielded was a billiard-cue or a pistol.
</p>
<p>
The board before them was covered with oysters and oyster-shells, porter
in its pewter, a square-shaped decanter of gin, and a bundle of cigars.
The cloth was dirty, the knives unclean, and the candles ill-matched and
of tallow; but the guests did not seem to have bestowed much attention to
these demerits, but ate and drank like men who enjoyed their fare.
</p>
<p>
“The best country in Europe,—the best in the world,—I call
England for a fellow who knows life,” cried the Captain. “There is nothing
you cannot do; nothing you cannot have in it.”
</p>
<p>
“With eight thousand a year, perhaps,” said Stapylton, sarcastically.
</p>
<p>
“No need of anything like it. Does any man want a better supper than we
have had to-night? What better could he have? And the whole cost not over
five, or at most six shillings for the pair of us.”
</p>
<p>
“You may talk till you are hoarse, Duff, but I'll not stay in it When once
I have settled these two or three matters I have told you of, I'll start
for—I don't much care whither. I'll go to Persia, or perhaps to the
Yankees.”
</p>
<p>
“<i>I</i> always keep America for the finish!” said the other. “It is to
the rest of the world what the copper hell is to Crockford's,—the
last refuge when one walks in broken boots and in low company. But tell
me, what have you done to-day; where did you go after we parted?”
</p>
<p>
“I went to the Horse Guards, and saw Blanchard,—pompous old humbug
that he is. I told him that I had made up my mind to sell out; that I
intended to take service in a foreign army,—he hates foreigners,—and
begged he would expedite my affairs with his Royal Highness, as my
arrangements could not admit of delay.”
</p>
<p>
“And he told you that there was an official routine, out of which no
officer need presume to expect his business could travel?”
</p>
<p>
“He told me no such thing. He flatly said, 'Your case is already before
the Commander-in-Chief, Major Stapylton, and you may rely on it there will
be no needless delay in dealing with it.”
</p>
<p>
“That was a threat, I take it.”
</p>
<p>
“Of course it was a threat; and I only said, 'It will be the first
instance of the kind, then, in the department,' and left him.”
</p>
<p>
“Where to, after that?”
</p>
<p>
“I next went to Gregory's, the magistrate of police. I wanted to see the
informations the black fellow swore to; and as I knew a son of Gregory's
in the Carbiniers, I thought I could manage it; but bad luck would have it
that the old fellow should have in his hands some unsettled bills with my
indorsements on them,—fact; Gregory and I used to do a little that
way once,—and he almost got a fit when he heard my name.”
</p>
<p>
“Tried back after that, eh?”
</p>
<p>
“Went on to Renshaw's and won fifty pounds at hazard, took Blake's odds on
Diadem, and booked myself for a berth in the Boulogne steamer, which
leaves at two this morning.”
</p>
<p>
“You secured a passport for me, did n't you?”
</p>
<p>
“No. You'll have to come as my servant. The Embassy fellows were all
strangers to me, and said they would not give a separate passport without
seeing the bearer.”
</p>
<p>
“All right. I don't dislike the second cabin, nor the ladies'-maids. What
about the pistols?”
</p>
<p>
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</p>
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<p>
“They are yonder under the great-coat. Renshaw lent them. They are not
very good, he says, and one of them hangs a little in the fire.”
</p>
<p>
“They 'll be better than the old Irishman's, that's certain. You may swear
that his tools were in use early in the last century.”
</p>
<p>
“And himself, too; that's the worst of it all. I wish it was not a fellow
that might be my grandfather.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't know. I rather suspect, if I was given to compunctions, I'd have
less of them for shaking down the rotten ripe fruit than the blossom.”
</p>
<p>
“And he 's a fine old fellow, too,” said Stapylton, half sadly.
</p>
<p>
“Why didn't you tell him to drop in this evening and have a little <i>écarté?</i>”
</p>
<p>
For a while Stapylton leaned his head on his hand moodily, and said
nothing.
</p>
<p>
“Cheer up, man! Taste that Hollands. I never mixed better,” said Brown.
</p>
<p>
“I begin to regret now, Duff, that I did n't take your advice.”
</p>
<p>
“And run away with her?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, it would have been the right course, after all!”
</p>
<p>
“I knew it. I always said it. I told you over and over again what would
happen if you went to work in orderly fashion. They 'd at once say, 'Who
are your people,—where are they,—what have they?' Now, let a
man be as inventive as Daniel Defoe himself, there will always slip out
some flaw or other about a name, or a date,—dates are the very
devil! But when you have once carried her off, what can they do but
compromise?”
</p>
<p>
“She would never have consented.”
</p>
<p>
“I 'd not have asked her. I 'd have given her the benefit of the customs
of the land she lived in, and made it a regular abduction. Paddy somebody
and Terence something else are always ready to risk their necks for a pint
of whiskey and a breach of the laws.”
</p>
<p>
“I don't think I could have brought myself to it.”
</p>
<p>
“<i>I</i> could, I promise you.”
</p>
<p>
“And there 's an end of a man after such a thing.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, if he fails. If he's overtaken and thrashed, I grant you he not only
loses the game, but gets the cards in his face, besides. But why fail?
Nobody fails when he wants to win,—when he determines to win. When I
shot De Courcy at Asterabad—”
</p>
<p>
“Don't bring up that affair, at least, as one of precedent, Duff. I
neither desire to be tried for a capital felony, nor to have committed
one.”
</p>
<p>
“Capital fiddlesticks! As if men did not fight duels every day of the
week; the difference between guilt and innocence being that one fellow's
hand shook, and the other's was steady. De Courcy would have 'dropped' me,
if I'd have Jet him.”
</p>
<p>
“And so <i>you</i> would have carried her off, Master Duff?” said
Stapylton, slowly.
</p>
<p>
“Yes; if she had the pot of money you speak of, and no Lord Chancellor for
a guardian. I 'd have made the thing sure at once.”
</p>
<p>
“The money she will and must have; so much is certain.”
</p>
<p>
“Then I 'd have made the remainder just as certain.”
</p>
<p>
“It is a vulgar crime, Duff; it would be very hard to stoop to it.”
</p>
<p>
“Fifty things are harder,—no cash, no credit are harder. The Fleet
is harder. But what is that noise? Don't you hear a knock at the door?
Yes, there's some one without who hasn't much patience.” So saying, he
arose and walked to the door. As he opened it, he started back a little
with surprise, for it was a police constable stood before him.
</p>
<p>
“Not you, Captain, not <i>you</i>, sir! it's another gentleman I want. I
see him at the table there,—Major Stapylton.” By this time the man
had entered the room and stood in front of the fire. “I have a warrant
against you, Major,” said he, quietly. “Informations have been sworn
before Mr. Colt that you intend to fight a duel, and you must appear at
the office to-morrow, to enter into your bond, and to give securities to
keep the peace.”
</p>
<p>
“Who swore the informations?” cried Brown.
</p>
<p>
“What have we to do with that?” said Stapylton, impatiently. “Isn't the
world full of meddling old women? Who wants to know the names?”
</p>
<p>
“I 'll lay the odds it was old Conyers; the greatest humbug in that land
of humbugs,—Bengal. It was he that insisted on my leaving the Fifth.
Come, Sergeant, out with it. This was General Conyers's doing?”
</p>
<p>
“I'm sorry to be obliged to declare you in custody, Major,” said the
policeman; “but if you like to come over to Mr. Colt's private residence,
I 'm sure he 'd settle the matter this evening.”
</p>
<p>
“He'll do no such thing, by George!” cried Brown. “The sneaking dogs who
have taken this shabby course shall be exposed in open court. We 'll have
the names in full, and in every newspaper in England. Don't compromise the
case, Stapylton; make them eat the mess they have cooked, to the last
mouthful. We 'll show the world what the fighting Irishman and his gallant
friend are made of. Major Stapylton is your prisoner, Sergeant?”
</p>
<p>
The man smiled slightly at the passionate energy of the speaker, and
turned to Stapylton. “There 's no objection to your going to your
lodgings, Major. You 'll be at the chief office by ten to-morrow.”
</p>
<p>
Stapylton nodded assent, and the other retired and closed the door.
</p>
<p>
“What do you say now?” cried Brown, triumphantly. “Did n't I tell you
this? Did n't I say that when old Con-yers heard my name, he 'd say, 'Oh,
there 'll be no squaring this business'?”
</p>
<p>
“It's just as likely that he said, 'I 'll not confer with that man; he had
to leave the service.'”
</p>
<p>
“More fool you, then, not to have had a more respectable friend. Had you
there, Stapylton,—eh?”
</p>
<p>
“I acknowledge that. All I can say in extenuation is, that I hoped old
Barrington, living so long out of the world, would have selected another
old mummy like himself, who had never heard of Captain Duff Brown, nor his
famous trial at Calcutta.”
</p>
<p>
“There's not a man in the kingdom has not heard of me. I 'm as well known
as the first Duke in the land.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't boast of it, Duff; even notoriety is not always a cheap luxury.”
</p>
<p>
“Who knows but you may divide it with me to-morrow or next day?”
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean, sir?—what do you mean?” cried Stapylton, slapping
the table with his clenched hand.
</p>
<p>
“Only what I said,—that Major Stapylton may furnish the town with a
nine-days wonder, <i>vice</i> Captain Duff Brown, forgotten.”
</p>
<p>
Evidently ashamed of his wrath, Stapylton tried to laugh off the occasion
of it, and said, “I suppose neither of us would take the matter much to
heart.”
</p>
<p>
“I 'll not go to the office with you to-morrow, Stapylton,” added he,
after a pause; “that old Sepoy General would certainly seize the
opportunity to open some old scores that I'd as soon leave undisturbed.”
</p>
<p>
“All right, I think you are prudent there.”
</p>
<p>
“But I 'll be of use in another way. I 'll lay in wait for that fellow who
reports for the 'Chronicle,' the only paper that cares for these things,
and I 'll have him deep in the discussion of some devilled kidneys when
your case is called on.”
</p>
<p>
“I fancy it does not matter what publicity it obtains.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, I don't know that. Old Braddell, our major, used to say, 'Reputation,
after forty, is like an old wall. If you begin to break a hole in it, you
never know how much will come away.'”
</p>
<p>
“I tell you again, Duff, I'm past scandalizing; but have your way, if you
will 'muzzle the ox,' and let us get away from this as soon as may be. I
want a little rest after this excitement.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, I 'm pretty much in the same boot myself, though I don't exactly
know where to go. France is dangerous. In Prussia there are two sentences
recorded against me. I 'm condemned to eight years' hard labor in
Wurtemberg, and pronounced dead in Austria for my share in that Venetian
disturbance.”
</p>
<p>
“Don't tell me of these rascalities. Bad enough when a man is driven to
them, but downright infamy to be proud of.”
</p>
<p>
“Have you never thought of going into the Church? I 've a notion you 'd be
a stunning preacher.”
</p>
<p>
“Give up this bantering, Duff, and tell me how I shall get hold of young
Conyers. I 'd rather put a ball in that fellow than be a
Lieutenant-General. He has ever been my rock ahead. That silly coxcomb has
done more to mar my destiny than scores of real enemies. To shoot him
would be to throw a shell in the very midst of them.”
</p>
<p>
“I 'd rather loot him, if I had the choice; the old General has lots of
money. Stapylton, scuttle the ship, if you like, but first let <i>me</i>
land the cargo. Of all the vengeances a man can wreak on another the
weakest is to kill him. For my part, I 'd cherish the fellow that injured
me. I 'd set myself to study his tastes and learn his ambitions. I 'd
watch over him and follow him, being, as it were, his dearest of all
friends,—read backwards!”
</p>
<p>
“This is tiresome scoundrelism. I'll to bed,” said Stapylton, taking a
candle from the table.
</p>
<p>
“Well, if you must shoot this fellow, wait till he's married; wait for the
honeymoon.”
</p>
<p>
“There's some sense in that. I 'll go and sleep over it.”
</p>
<p>
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</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XVIII. AUNT DOROTHEA.
</h2>
<p>
“You must come down with me for one day, Tom, to see an old aunt of mine
at Bournemouth,” said Hunter to young Dill. “I never omitted going to see
her the first thing whenever I landed in England, and she 'll not forgive
me if I were to do so now.”
</p>
<p>
“But why should I go, sir? My presence would only trouble the comfort of a
family meeting.”
</p>
<p>
“Quite the reverse. She 'll be delighted to see you. It will be such a
triumph to her, amongst all her neighbors, to have had a visit from the
hero of the day,—the fellow that all the print-shops are full of.
Why, man, you are worth five hundred pounds to me. I 'm not sure I might
not say double as much.”
</p>
<p>
“In that case, sir, I 'm perfectly at your orders.”
</p>
<p>
And down they went, and arrived late on the day after this conversation at
an old-fashioned manor-house, where Miss Dorothy Hunter had passed some
sixty-odd years of her life. Though to Tom she seemed to bear a great
resemblance to old Miss Barrington, there was really little likeness
between them, beyond an inordinate pride of birth, and an intense
estimation for the claims of family. Miss Hunter's essential
characteristic was a passion for celebrities; a taste somewhat difficult
to cultivate in a very remote and little visited locality. The result was
that she consoled herself by portraits, or private letters, or autographs
of her heroes, who ranged over every imaginable career in life, and of
whom, by mere dint of iteration, she had grown to believe herself the
intimate friend or correspondent.
</p>
<p>
No sooner had she learned that her nephew was to be accompanied by the
gallant young soldier whose name was in every newspaper than she made what
she deemed the most suitable preparations for his reception. Her bedroom
was hung round with portraits of naval heroes, or pictures of sea-fights.
Grim old admirals, telescope in hand, or with streaming hair, shouting out
orders to board the enemy, were on every side; while, in the place of
honor, over the fireplace, hung a vacant frame, destined one day to
contain the hero of the hour, Tom Dill himself.
</p>
<p>
Never was a poor fellow in this world less suited to adulation of this
sort. He was either overwhelmed with the flattery, or oppressed by a
terror of what some sensible spectator—if such there were—would
think of the absurd position in which he was forced to stand. And when he
found himself obliged to inscribe his name in a long column of illustrious
autographs, the sight of his own scarce legible characters filled up the
measure of his shame.
</p>
<p>
“He writes like the great Turenne,” said Miss Dorothy; “he always wrote
from above downwards, so that no other name than his own could figure on
the page.”
</p>
<p>
“I got many a thrashing for it at school, ma'am,” said Tom, apologizing,
“and so I gave up writing altogether.”
</p>
<p>
“Ah, yes! the men of action soon learn to despise the pen; they prefer to
make history rather than record it.”
</p>
<p>
It was not easy for Hunter to steer his bashful friend through all the
shoals and quicksands of such flattery; but, on the plea of his broken
health and strength, he hurried him early to his bed, and returned to the
fireside, where his aunt awaited him.
</p>
<p>
“He's charming, if he were only not so diffident. Why will he not be more
confiding, more at his ease with me,—like Mungo Park, or Sir Sidney
Smith?”
</p>
<p>
“After a while, so he will, aunt. You 'll see what a change there will be
in him at our next visit All these flatteries he meets with are too much
for him; but when we come down again, you 'll see him without these
distracting influences. Then bear in mind his anxieties,—he has not
yet seen his family; he is eager to be at home again. I carried him off
here positively in spite of himself, and on the strict pledge of only for
one day.”
</p>
<p>
“One day! And do you mean that you are to go tomorrow?”
</p>
<p>
“No help for it, aunt. Tom is to be at Windsor on Saturday. But for that,
he would already have been on his way to Ireland.”
</p>
<p>
“Then there's no time to be lost. What can we do for him? He'snot rich?”
</p>
<p>
“Hasn't a shilling; but would reject the very shadow of such assistance.”
</p>
<p>
“Not if a step were purchased for him; without his knowledge, I mean.”
</p>
<p>
“It would be impossible that he should not know it.”
</p>
<p>
“But surely there is some way of doing it A handsome sum to commemorate
his achievement might be subscribed. I would begin it with a thousand
pounds.”
</p>
<p>
“He'd not accept it. I know him thoroughly. There's only one road to him
through which he would not deem a favor a burden.”
</p>
<p>
“And what of that?”
</p>
<p>
“A kindness to his sister. I wish you saw her, aunt!”
</p>
<p>
“Is she like him?”
</p>
<p>
“Like him? Yes; but very much better-looking. She's singularly handsome,
and such a girl! so straightforward and so downright It is a positive
luxury to meet her after all the tiresome conventionalities of the
every-day young lady.”
</p>
<p>
“Shall I ask her here?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh, if you would, aunt!—if you only would!”
</p>
<p>
“That you may fall in love with her, I suppose?”
</p>
<p>
“No, aunt, that is done already.”
</p>
<p>
“I think, sir, I might have been apprised of this attachment!” said she,
bridling.
</p>
<p>
“I didn't know it myself, aunt, till I was close to the Cape. I thought it
a mere fancy as we dropped down Channel; grew more thoughtful over it in
the Bay of Biscay; began to believe it as we discovered St. Helena; and
came back to England resolved to tell you the whole truth, and ask you, at
least, to see her and know her.”
</p>
<p>
“So I will, then. I 'll write and invite her here.”
</p>
<p>
“You 're the best and kindest aunt in Christendom!” said he, rushing over
and kissing her.
</p>
<p>
“I'm not going to let you read it, sir,” said she, with a smile. “If she
show it to you, she may. Otherwise it is a matter between ourselves.”
</p>
<p>
“Be it entirely as you wish, aunt.”
</p>
<p>
“And if all this goes hopefully on,” said she, after a pause, “is Aunt
Dorothea to be utterly forgotten? No more visits here,—no happy
summer evenings,—no more merry Christmases?”
</p>
<p>
“Nay, aunt, I mean to be your neighbor. That cottage you have often
offered me, near the rocks, I 'll not refuse it again,—that is, if
you tempt me once more.”
</p>
<p>
“It is yours, and the farm along with it. Go to bed now, and leave me to
write my note, which will require-some thought and reflection.”
</p>
<p>
“I know you 'll do it well. I know none who could equal you in such a
task.”
</p>
<p>
“I 'll try and acquit myself with credit,” said she, as she sat down to
the writing-desk.
</p>
<p>
“And what is all this about,—a letter from Miss Dorothea to Polly,”
said Tom, as they drove along the road back to town. “Surely they never
met?”
</p>
<p>
“Never; but my aunt intends that they shall. She writes to ask your sister
to come on a visit here.”
</p>
<p>
“But why not have told her the thing was impossible? You know us. You have
seen the humble way we live,—how many a care it costs to keep up
that little show of respectability that gets us sufferance in the world,
and how one little attempt beyond this is quite out of our reach. Why not
have told her frankly, sir, 'These people are not in our station'?”
</p>
<p>
“Just because I acknowledge no such distinction as you want to draw, my
good fellow. If my aunt has asked your sister to come three hundred miles
to see her, she has thought over her request with more foresight than you
or I could have given it, take my word for it. When she means kindly, she
plans thoughtfully. And now I will tell you what I never meant to have
spoken of, that it was only last night she asked me how could she be of
use to you?”
</p>
<p>
“To <i>me!</i>” said he, blushing, “and why to <i>me?</i>”
</p>
<p>
“Can you never be brought to see that you are a hero, Tom,—that all
the world is talking of you just now, and people feel a pride in being
even passingly mixed up with your name?”
</p>
<p>
“If they only knew how much I have to be ashamed of before I can begin to
feel vain, they 'd not be so ready with their praise or their flattery.”
</p>
<p>
“I 'll talk over all that with your sister Polly,” said Hunter, gayly; for
he saw the serious spirit that was gaining over the poor fellow.
</p>
<p>
“Do so, sir; and you'll soon see, if there's anything good or hopeful
about me, where it comes from and who gave it.”
</p>
<p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
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</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XIX. FROM GENERAL CONYERS TO HIS SON
</h2>
<h3>
Beddwys, N. Wales.
</h3>
<p>
My dear Fred,—How happy I am that you are enjoying yourself; short
of being with you, nothing could have given me greater pleasure than your
letter. I like your portrait of the old lady, whose eccentricities are
never inconsistent with some charming traits of disposition, and a nature
eminently high-minded and honorable; but why not more about Josephine? She
is surely oftener in your thoughts than your one brief paragraph would
bespeak, and has her due share in making the cottage the delightful home
you describe it to be. I entreat you to be more open and more explicit on
this theme, for it may yet be many days before I can explore the matter
for myself; since, instead of the brief absence I calculated on, we may,
for aught I know, be detained here for some weeks.
</p>
<p>
It is clear to me, from your last, a note of mine from Liverpool to you
must have miscarried. You ask me where you are to address me next, and
what is the nature of the business which has called me away so suddenly? I
gave you in that letter all the information that I was myself possessed
of, and which, in three words, amounted to this: Old Barrington, having
involved himself in a serious personal quarrel with Stapylton, felt, or
believed, that he ought to give him a meeting. Seeing how useless all
attempt at dissuasion proved, and greatly fearing what hands he might fall
into, I agreed to be his friend on the occasion; trusting, besides, that
by a little exercise of tact and temper, extreme measures might be
avoided, and the affair arranged. You may well believe, without my
insisting further upon it, that I felt very painfully how we should both
figure before the world,—a man of eighty-three or four, accompanied
to the ground by another of sixty-odd! I know well how, in the changed
temper of the age, such acts are criticised, and acquiesce, besides, in
the wiser spirit that now prevails. However, as I said before, if
Barrington must go on, it were better he should do so under the guidance
of a sincere friend than of one casually elevated to act as such, in a
moment of emergency.
</p>
<p>
We left Dublin, by the mail-packet, on Wednesday; and after a rough
passage of twenty-three hours, reached Liverpool too late to catch the
evening coach. Thus detained, we only arrived here on Sunday night late.
At my club I found a note from Stapylton, stating that he had daily called
there to learn if we had come, but the boisterous state of the weather
sufficiently explained our delay, and giving an address where he might be
found, as well as that of “his friend.” Now, it so chanced that this
friend was a very notorious person well known to me in India, where he had
been tried for an unfair duel, and narrowly escaped—I should say
unjustly escaped—being hanged. Though I had fully made up my mind
not to be placed in any relations with such a man, I thought it would be
as well that Barrington should know the character of his antagonist's
friend from other sources, and so I invited an old Bengal companion of
mine to dine with us the day after we arrived. Stamer was a judge of the
criminal court, and tried Duff Brown, the man I speak of. As we sat over
our wine together, we got upon this case, and Stamer declared that it was
the only criminal cause in his whole life wherein he regretted the escape
of the guilty party. “The fellow,” said he, “defended himself in a three
hours' speech, ably and powerfully; but enunciated at times—as it
were unconsciously—sentiments so abominable and so atrocious as to
destroy the sympathy a part of his discourse excited. But somehow boldness
has its fascination, and he was acquitted.”
</p>
<p>
Barrington's old-fashioned notions were not, however, to be shocked even
by this narrative, and he whispered to me, “Unpleasant for <i>you</i>,
Conyers. Wish it might have been otherwise, but it can't be helped.” We
next turned to discuss Duff Brown's friend, and Stamer exclaimed, “Why,
that's the man they have been making all this fuss about in India. He was,
or he said he was, the adopted son of Howard Stapylton; but the family
never believed the adoption, nor consented to receive him, and at this
moment a Moonshee, who acted as Persian secretary to old Stapylton, has
turned up with some curious disclosures, which, if true, would show that
this young fellow held a very humble position in Stapylton's household,
and never was in his confidence. This Moonshee was at Malta a few weeks
ago, and may be, for aught I know, in England now.”
</p>
<p>
I asked and obtained Barrington's permission to tell how we were ourselves
involved with this Major Stapylton, and he quickly declared that, while
the man stood thus accused, there could be no thought of according him a
satisfaction. The opinion was not the less stringent that Stamer was
himself an Irishman and of a fighting family.
</p>
<p>
I am not very sure that we made Barrington a convert to our opinions, but
we at least, as we separated for the night, left him doubtful and
hesitating. I had not been in bed above an hour, when Mr. Withering awoke
me. He had followed us from Dublin as soon as he learned our departure,
and, going straight to a magistrate, swore informations against both
Barrington and Stapylton. “My old friend will never forgive me, I know,”
said he; “but if I had not done this, I should never have forgiven
myself.” It was arranged between us that I was to mention the fact of such
informations having been sworn, without stating by whom, to Barrington,
and then persuade him to get privately away from town before a warrant
could be served. I leave you to imagine that my task was not without its
difficulties, but, before the day broke, I succeeded in inducing him to
leave, and travelling by post without halt, we arrived at this quiet spot
yesterday evening. Barrington, with all his good temper, is marvellously
put out and irritable, saying, “This is not the way such things were done
once;” and peevishly muttered, “I wonder what poor Harry Beamish or Guy
Hutchinson would say to it all?” One thing is quite clear, we had got into
a wasps' nest; Stapylton and his friend were both fellows that no
honorable man would like to deal with, and we must wait with a little
patience to find some safe road out of this troublesome affair.
</p>
<p>
A letter came to B. from the India House the evening before we left town,
but he handed it to me before he finished reading it, merely remarking,
“The old story, 'Yours of the ninth or nineteenth has duly been received,'
&c.” But I found that it contained a distinct admission that his claim
was not ill-founded, and that some arrangement ought to be come to.
</p>
<p>
I now close my very lengthy epistle, promising, however, that as soon as I
hear from town, either from Withering or Stamer, you shall have my news.
We are, of course, close prisoners here for the present, for though the
warrant would not extend to Ireland, Barrington's apprehensions of being
“served” with such a writ at all would induce him to hide for six months
to come.
</p>
<p>
I scarcely ask you to write to me here, not knowing our probable stay; but
to-morrow may, perhaps, tell us something on this head. Till when, believe
me,
</p>
<p>
Yours affectionately,
</p>
<p>
Ormsby Conters.
</p>
<p>
My most cordial greeting to Miss Barrington, and my love to her niece.
</p>
<p>
FROM PETER BARRINGTON TO HIS SISTER MISS DINAH BARRINGTON.
</p>
<p>
Long's Hotel, Bond Street.
</p>
<p>
My dear Dinah,—I hardly know how to tell you what has happened, or
what is happening around me. I came over here to meet Major Stapylton, but
find that there is no such person,—the man who calls himself so
being a mere adventurer, who had taken the name, and, I believe, no small
share of the goods, of its owner, got into the Bengal army, thence into
our own service, and though not undistinguished for gallantry, seems to
have led a life of ceaseless roguery and intrigue. He knew all about poor
George's business, and was in correspondence with those we believe to be
our friends in India, but who now turn out to be our inveterate enemies.
This we have got at by the confession of one of those Oriental fellows
they call Moonshees, who has revealed all their intercourse for years
back, and even shown a document setting forth the number of rupees he was
to receive when Stapylton had been married to Josephine. The Moonshee is
very ill, and his examination can only be conducted at intervals; but he
insists on a point of much importance to us, which is, that Stapylton
induced him to tear out of the Rajah's Koran the page on which the
adoption of George was written, and signed by the Meer himself. He
received a large sum for this service, which, however, he evaded by a
fraud, sending over to England not the real document itself, but a copy
made by himself, and admirably counterfeited. It was the possession of
this by Stapylton which enabled him to exercise a great control over our
suit,—now averring that it was lost; now, under pledge of secrecy,
submitting it to the inspection of some of the Indian authorities.
Stapylton, in a word, saw himself in a position to establish our claim,
whenever the time came that by making Josephine his wife, he could secure
the fortune. This is all that we know up to this, but it is a great deal,
and shows in what a maze of duplicity and treachery we have been involved
for more than twenty years. The chief point, however, is that the real
deed, written in the Meer's Koran, and torn out of it by the Moonshee, in
his first impulse to forward it to Stapylton, is now extant, and the Koran
itself is there to show the jagged margin of the torn-out leaf, and the
corresponding page on the opposite side of the volume. Stapylton refuses
to utter one word since the accusation against him has been made; and as
the charges stand to falsifying documents, abstraction of funds, and other
derelictions in India, he is now under a heavy bail to appear when called
on.
</p>
<p>
The whole business has made me so nervous and excitable that I cannot
close my eyes at night, and I feel feverish and restless all day. It is
very shocking to think of a man one has never injured, never heard of,
animated with a spirit so inimical as to pass years of life in working ill
to us. He would appear to have devoted himself to the task of blackening
poor George's character and defaming him. It would seem that Mr. Howard
Stapylton was one of those who took an active part against George. Whether
this young fellow caught the contagion of this antipathy, or helped to
feed it, I cannot tell; but it is certain that all the stories of cruelty
and oppression the India Board used to trump up to us came from this one
source; and at the end of all he seeks to be one of a family he has
striven for years to ruin and to crush! I am lost in my efforts to
understand this, though Stamer and Withering assure me they can read the
man like print. Indeed, they see inferences and motives in fifty things
which convey nothing to me; and whenever I feel myself stopped by some
impassable barrier, to <i>them</i> it is only a bridge that conducts to a
fresh discovery.
</p>
<p>
The Stapyltons are all in arms now that another sportsman has winged the
bird for them; and each day increases the number of accusations against
this unfortunate fellow. It is true, dear Dinah, that our own prospects
brighten through all this. I am constantly receiving civil messages and
hopeful assurances; and even some of the directors have called to express
sympathy and good wishes. But how chilled is the happiness that comes
dashed with the misfortune of another! What a terrible deal it detracts
from our joy to know that every throb of pleasure to ourselves has cost a
pang of misery elsewhere! I wish this fellow could have gone his way,
never minding us; or, if that could n't be, that he 'd have grown tired of
persecuting those who had never harmed him, and given us up!
</p>
<p>
They are now assailing him on all sides. One has found that he forged a
will; another that he falsified a signature; and a miserable creature—a
native Indian, who happened to be in that Manchester riot the other day—has
now been ferreted out to swear that Stapylton followed him through a
suburb, down a lane, and into a brick-field, where he cut him down and
left him for dead. There seems a great deal of venom and acrimony in all
this; and though the man is unquestionably not my friend, and I see that
this persecution continues, I find it very hard not to stand by him.
</p>
<p>
As for Withering, it has made the veteran ten years younger. He is up
every morning at five, and I hear that he never goes to his room till long
past midnight. These are the pastimes that to such men replace the sports
of the field and the accidents of the chase. They have their vacillations
of hope and fear, their moments of depression and of triumph in them; and
they run a fellow-creature to earth with all the zest of a hard rider
after a fox.
</p>
<p>
Tell my darling Fifine that I am longing to be at home again,—longing
for the quiet roof, and the roses at the window, and the murmur of the
river, and her own sweet voice better than them all. And what a deal of
happiness is in our power if we would only consent to enjoy it, without
running after some imaginary good, some fancied blessing, which is to
crown our wishes! If I could but only have guessed at the life of anxiety,
doubt, and vacillation the pursuit of this claim would have cost me,—the
twenty years of fever,—
</p>
<p>
I give you my word, Dinah, I 'd rather have earned my daily bread with a
spade, or, when too old for that, taken to fishing for a livelihood.
</p>
<p>
But why do I complain of anything at this moment? When have I been so
truly happy for many a long year? Conyers never leaves me,—he talks
of George from morning to night. And I now see that with all my affection
for that dear boy, I only half knew his noble nature, his fine and
generous character. If you only heard of the benevolent things he has
done; the poor fellows he has sent home to their families at his own cost;
the sums he has transmitted to wives and widows of soldiers in England;
the children whose care and support he has provided for! These were the
real drains on that fortune that the world thought wasted and squandered
in extravagance. And do you know, Dinah, there is a vein of intense
egotism in my heart that I never so much as suspected! I found it out by
chance,—it was in marking how far less I was touched by the highest
and best traits of my poor boy than by the signs of love to myself! and
when Conyers said, “He was always talking about you; he never did anything
important without the question, 'How would “Dad” like this, I wonder?
would “Dad” say “God speed” in this case?' And his first glass of wine
every day was to the health of that dear old father over the seas.”
</p>
<p>
To you who loved him only a little less than myself, I have no shame in
the confession of this weakness. I suppose Conyers, however, has hit upon
it, for he harps on this theme continually, and, in sheer pride of heart,
I feel ten years younger for it.
</p>
<p>
Here comes Withering to say, “Some more wonderful news;” but I have begged
him to keep it till I have sealed this letter, which if it grows any
longer, I 'll never have courage to send to you. A dozen kisses to Fifine
I can, however, transmit without any increase to the postage. Give my love
to young Conyers; tell him I am charmed with his father,—I never met
any one so companionable to me, and I only long for the day when the same
roof shall cover all of us.
</p>
<p>
Yours, my dearest sister, ever affectionately,
</p>
<p>
Peter Barrington.
</p>
<p>
FROM T. WITHERING, ESQ., TO MISS DINAH BARRINGTON, “THE HOME.”
</p>
<p>
Long's Hotel, Bond Street.
</p>
<p>
My dear Miss Barrington,—If your brother has deputed me to write to
you, it is not that he is ill, but simply that the excitement caused by
some late events here has so completely mastered him that he can neither
sit quiet a moment, nor address him steadily to any task. Nor am I
surprised it should be so. Old, weather-beaten sailor on the ocean of life
as I am, I feel an amount of feverishness and anxiety I am half ashamed
of. Truth is, my dear Miss Dinah, we lawyers get so much habituated to
certain routine rogueries that we are almost shocked when we hear of a
wickedness not designated by a statute. But I must not occupy your time
with such speculations, the more since I have only a brief space to give
to that report of proceedings to which I want your attention. And, first
of all, I will entreat you to forgive me for all want of sequence or
connection in what I may say, since events have grown so jumbled together
in my mind, that it is perfectly impossible for me to be certain whether
what I relate should come before or after some other recorded fact In a
word, I mean to give you an outline of our discoveries, without showing
the track of our voyage on the map, or even saying how we came by our
knowledge.
</p>
<p>
You are aware, Barrington tells me, how Stapylton came by the name he
bears. Aware that he was for some of his earlier years domesticated with
old Howard Stapylton at Ghurtnapore, in some capacity between confidential
valet and secretary,—a position that was at once one of
subordination and trust,—it would now appear that a Moonshee, who
had long served Colonel Barrington as Persian correspondent, came into
Howard Stapylton's service in the same capacity: how introduced, or by
whom, we know not. With this Moonshee, the young fellow I speak of became
an intimate and close friend, and it is supposed obtained from him all
that knowledge of your nephew's affairs which enabled him to see to what
his claim pretended, and what were its prospects of success. It is now
clear enough that he only regarded this knowledge at first as a means of
obtaining favor from the Indian Government. It was, in fact, by ceding to
them in detail certain documents, that he got his first commission in the
Madras Fusiliers, and afterwards his promotion in the same regiment; and
when, grown more ambitious, he determined to enter the King's service, the
money for purchase came from the same source. Being, however, a fellow of
extravagant habits, his demands grew at last to be deemed excessive and
importunate; and though his debts had been paid three several times, he
was again found involving himself as before, and again requiring
assistance. This application was, however, resisted; and it was apparently
on the strength of that refusal that he suddenly changed his tactics,
turned his attention towards us, and bethought him that by forwarding your
grandniece's claim,—if he could but win her affections in the mean
while,—he would secure as a wife one of the richest heiresses in
Europe. An examination of dates proves this, by showing that his last
application to the Indian Board was only a few weeks before he exchanged
into the regiment of Hussars he lately served with, and just then ordered
to occupy Kilkenny. In one word, when it was no longer profitable to
oppose Josephine's claim, he determined to support it and make it his own.
The “Company,” however, fully assured that by the papers in their
possession they could prove their own cause against Colonel Barrington,
resisted all his menaces,—when, what does he do? It was what only a
very daring and reckless fellow would ever have thought of,—one of
those insolent feats of boldness that succeed by the very shock they
create. He goes to the Secret Committee at the India House and says: “Of
the eighteen documents I have given you, seven are false. I will not tell
you which they are, but if you do not speedily compromise this claim and
make a satisfactory settlement on Colonel Barrington's daughter, I'll
denounce you, at all the peril it may be to myself.” At first they agree,
then they hesitate, then they treat again, and so does the affair proceed,
till suddenly—no one can guess why—they assume a tone of open
defiance, and flatly declare they will hold no further intercourse with
him, and even threaten with exposure any demand on his part.
</p>
<p>
This rejection of him came at a critical moment. It was just when the
press had begun to comment on the cruelty of his conduct at Peterloo, and
when a sort of cry was got up through the country to have him dismissed
from the service. We all saw, but never suspected, why he was so terribly
cut up at this time. It was hard to believe that he could have taken mere
newspaper censure so much to heart. We never guessed the real cause, never
saw that he was driven to his last expedient, and obliged to prejudice all
his hope of success by precipitancy. If he could not make Josephine his
wife at once, on the very moment, all was lost. He made a bold effort at
this. Who knows if he might not have succeeded but for you, as Josephine
was very young, my old friend himself utterly unfit to cope with anything
but open hostility? I say again, I 'd not have answered for the result if
you had not been in command of the fortress. At all events, he failed; and
in the failure lost his temper so far as to force a quarrel upon your
brother. He failed, however; and no sooner was he down, than the world was
atop of him: creditors, Jews, bill-discounters, and, last of all, the
Stapyltons, who, so long as he bore their family name thousands of miles
off, or associated it with deeds of gallantry, said nothing; now, that
they saw it held up to attack and insult, came forward to declare that he
never belonged to them, and at length appealed formally to the Horse
Guards, to learn under what designation he had entered the service, and at
what period taken the name he went by.
</p>
<p>
Stapylton's application for leave to sell out had just been sent in; and
once more the newspapers set up the cry that this man should not be
permitted to carry away to Aix and Baden the proceeds of a sale which
belonged to his “creditors.” You know the world, and I need not tell you
all the pleasant things it told this fellow, for men are pretty nigh as
pitiless as crows to their wounded. I thought the complication had reached
its limit, when I learned yesterday evening that Stapylton had been
summoned before a police magistrate for a case of assault committed by him
when in command of his regiment at Manchester. The case had evidently been
got up by a political party, who, seeing the casual unpopularity of the
man, determined to profit by it. The celebrated radical barrister,
Hesketh, was engaged for the plaintiff.
</p>
<p>
When I arrived at the court, it was so full that it was with difficulty I
got a passage to a seat behind the bench. There were crowds of
fashionables present, the well-known men about town, and the idlers of the
clubs, and a large sprinkling of military men, for the news of the case
had got wind already.
</p>
<p>
Stapylton, dressed in black, and looking pale and worn, but still
dignified and like a gentleman, had not a single friend with him. I own to
you, I felt ashamed to be there, and was right glad when he did not
recognize me.
</p>
<p>
Though the case opened by a declaration that this was no common assault
case, wherein in a moment of passion a man had been betrayed into an
excess, I knew the cant of my craft too well to lay any stress on such
assertion, and received it as the ordinary exordium. As I listened,
however, I was struck by hearing that the injured man was asserted to be
one well known to Stapylton, with whom he had been for years in intimacy,
and that the assault was in reality a deliberate attempt to kill, and not,
as had been represented, a mere passing act of savage severity committed
in hot blood. “My client,” said he, “will be brought before you; he is a
Hindoo, but so long a resident of this country that he speaks our language
fluently. You shall hear his story yourselves, and yourselves decide on
its truthfulness. His wounds are, however, of so serious a nature that it
will be advisable his statement should be a brief one.” As he said this, a
dark-complexioned fellow, with a look half-frightened, half defiant, was
carried forwards in a chair, and deposited, as he sat, on the table. He
gave his name as Lai Adeen, his age as forty-eight, his birthplace
Majamarha, near Agra. He came to this country twelve years ago, as servant
to an officer who had died on the passage, and after many hardships in his
endeavor to earn a livelihood, obtained employment at Manchester in the
mill of Brandling and Bennett, where he was employed to sweep the
corridors and the stairs; his wages were nine shillings a week. All this,
and much more of the same kind, he told simply and collectedly. I tried to
see Stapylton while this was going on, but a pillar of the gallery,
against which he leaned, concealed him from my view.
</p>
<p>
I omit a great deal, not without its interest, but reserving it for
another time, and come to his account of the night on which he was
wounded. He said that as the cavalry marched on that morning into
Manchester, he was struck by seeing at the head of the regiment one he had
never set his eyes on for years, but whose features he knew too well to be
deceived in.
</p>
<p>
“I tried to get near him, that he might recognize me,” said he; “but the
crowd kept me back, and I could not. I thought, indeed, at one moment he
had seen me, and knew me; but as he turned his head away, I supposed I was
mistaken.
</p>
<p>
“It was on the following evening, when the riot broke out in Mill Street,
that I saw him next. I was standing at the door of a chemist's shop when
the cavalry rode by at a walk. There was a small body of them in front, at
about forty or fifty paces, and who, finding a sort of barricade across
the street, returned to the main body, where they seemed to be reporting
this. A cry arose that the troops had been blocked up at the rear, and at
the same instant a shower of stones came from the side-streets and the
house-tops. Thinking to do him a service, I made my way towards him I
knew, in order to tell him by what way he could make his escape; and
jostled and pushed, and half ridden down, I laid my hand on his horse's
shoulder to keep myself from falling. 'Stand back, you scoundrel!' said
he, striking me with the hilt of his sword in the face. 'Don't you know
me, master?' cried I, in terror. He bent down in his saddle till his face
was almost close to mine, and then, reining his horse back to give him
room for a blow, he aimed a desperate cut at me. I saw it coming, and
threw myself down; but I rose the next instant and ran. The street was
already so clear by this time, I got into Cleever's Alley, down Grange
Street, up the lane that leads to the brick-fields, and at last into the
fields themselves. I was just thinking I was safe, when I saw a horseman
behind me. He saw me, and dashed at me. I fell upon my knees to ask mercy,
and he gave me this;” and he pointed to the bandages which covered his
forehead, stained as they were with clotted blood. “I fell on my face, and
he tried to make his horse trample on me; but the beast would not, and he
only touched me with his hoof as he sprang across me. He at last
dismounted to see, perhaps, if I were dead; but a shout from some of the
rioters warned him to mount again; and he rode away, and I lay there till
morning. It is not true that I was in prison and escaped,—that I was
taken to the hospital, and ran away from it. I was sheltered in one of the
clay-huts of the brickmakers for several weeks, afraid to come abroad, for
I knew that the Sahib was a great man and could take my life. It was only
by the persuasions of others that I left my hiding-place and have come
here to tell my story.”
</p>
<p>
On being questioned why this officer could possibly desire to injure him,
what grudge one in such a station could bear him, he owned he could not
say; they had never been enemies, and, indeed, it was in the hope of a
friendly recognition and assistance that he approached him in Mill Street.
</p>
<p>
Stapylton's defence was very brief, given in an off-hand, frank manner,
which disposed many in his favor. He believed the fellow meant to attack
him; he certainly caught hold of his bridle. It was not his intention to
give him more than a passing blow; but the utterance of a Hindoo curse—an
expression of gross outrage in the East—recalled prejudices long
dormant, and he gave the rascal chase, and cut him over the head,—not
a severe cut, and totally unaccompanied by the other details narrated.
</p>
<p>
“As for our former acquaintance I deny it altogether. I have seen
thousands of his countrymen, and may have seen him; but, I repeat, I never
knew him, nor can he presume to say he knew me!”
</p>
<p>
The Hindoo smiled a faint, sickly smile, made a gesture of deep humility,
and asked if he might put a few questions to the “Sahib.”
</p>
<p>
“Were you in Naghapoor in the year of the floods?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes,” said Stapylton, firmly, but evidently with an effort to appear
calm.
</p>
<p>
“In the service of the great Sahib, Howard Stapylton?”
</p>
<p>
“In his service? Certainly not. I lived with him as his friend, and became
his adopted heir.''
</p>
<p>
“What office did you fill when you first came to the 'Residence'?”
</p>
<p>
“I assisted my friend in the duties of his government; I was a good
Oriental scholar, and could write and speak a dialect he knew nothing of.
But I submit to the court that this examination, prompted and suborned by
others, has no other object than to insult me, by leading to disclosures
of matters essentially private in their nature.”
</p>
<p>
“Let me ask but one question,” said the barrister. “What name did you bear
before you took that of Stapylton?”
</p>
<p>
“I refuse to submit to this insolence,” said Stapylton, rising, angrily.
“If the laws of the country only can lend themselves to assist the
persecutions of a rascally Press, the sooner a man of honor seeks another
land the better. Adjudicate on this case, sirs; I will not stoop to bandy
words with these men.”
</p>
<p>
“I now, sir,” said Hesketh, opening his bag and taking out a roll of
papers, “am here to demand a committal for forgery against the person
before you, passing under the name of Horace Stapylton, but whose real
designation is Samuel Scott Edwardes, son of Samuel Edwardes, a name
notorious enough once.”
</p>
<p>
I cannot go on, my dear friend; the emotions that overpowered me at the
time, and compelled me to leave the court, are again threatening me, and
my brain reels at the recollection of a scene which, even to my
fast-fading senses, was the most trying of my life.
</p>
<p>
To General Conyers I must refer you for what ensued after I left. I cannot
even say who came home with me to the hotel, though I am aware I owed that
kindness to some one. The face of that unhappy man is yet before me, and
all the calm in which I have written up to this leaves me, as I think over
one of the most terrible incidents of my life.
</p>
<p>
Your brother, shocked of course, bears up bravely, and hopes to write to
you to-morrow.
</p>
<p>
One word of good cheer before I close this miserable record. The Indian
directors have written to offer excellent terms—splendidly liberal
terms, Conyers calls them, and I agree with him. We have had a very busy
week of it here, but it will be well requited if all that I now anticipate
be confirmed to us. Barrington begs you will tell your neighbors, the
Dills, that Tom—I think that is the name—has just arrived at
Southampton with General Hunter, and will be here to-morrow evening.
</p>
<p>
I have cut out a short passage from the newspaper to finish my narrative.
I will send the full report, as published, to-morrow.
</p>
<p>
Your attached friend,
</p>
<p>
T. Withering.
</p>
<p>
“The chief police-office in Marlborough Street was yesterday the scene of
a very shocking incident. The officer whose conduct at the head of his
regiment in Manchester has of late called for the almost unanimous
reprobation of the Press, was, while answering to a charge of aggravated
assault, directly charged with forgery. Scarcely was the allegation made,
than he drew a pistol from his pocket, and, placing the muzzle to his
mouth, pulled the trigger. The direction of the weapon, however, was
accidentally turned, and the ball, instead of proceeding upwards, passed
through the lower jaw, fracturing the bone, and created a terrible wound.
It is supposed that the large vessels are not injured, and that he may yet
recover. All who witnessed the scene describe it as one of intense horror.
</p>
<p>
“The unhappy man was at once removed to the Middlesex Hospital. He has not
uttered a word since the event; and when asked if there were any relatives
or friends whom he wished might be sent for, merely shook his head
negatively. It is said that when the result of the consultation held on
him was announced to him as favorable, he seemed rather grieved than
otherwise at the tidings.”
</p>
<p>
FROM PETER BARRINGTON TO DINAH, HIS SISTER.
</p>
<p>
My dear Dinah,—How glad am I to tell you that we leave this
to-morrow, and a large party of us, too, all for “The Home.” Put young
Conyers in my dressing-room, so that the large green bedroom can be free
for the General, at least for one of the generals—for we have
another here, Hunter, who will also be our guest. Then there will be
Withering. As for myself, I can be stowed away anywhere. What happiness
would there be to us all at such a meeting, if it were not for that poor
wretch who lies in all his agony a few streets off, and who is never out
of my thoughts. I went twice to the hospital to see him. The first time I
lost courage, and came away. The second, I sent up my name, and asked if
he would wish to see me. The only answer I got was my visiting-card torn
in two! How hard it is for an injurer to forgive him he has injured! I
have arranged with the Stapyltons, however, who instigated the charge of
forgery, not to press it; at least, they are to take bail, and the bail
will be forfeited, so I understand it; but Withering will explain all more
clearly.
</p>
<p>
Our own affairs are all as bright and prosperous as our best wishes could
desire. The Council have had all the evidence before them, and the
Moonshee has produced his copy of the Koran, with the torn leaf fitting
into the jagged margin, and George is vindicated at last in everything.
His loyalty, his disinterestedness, his honesty, all established. The
ceremony of his marriage has been fully recognized; and General Conyers
tells me that the lowest estimate of our claim is a little short of a
quarter of a million sterling. He counsels me not to be exigent in my
terms; if he knew me better, perhaps, he would not have deemed the advice
so necessary.
</p>
<p>
What will Fifine say to all this wealth? Will she want to go back to
India, and be a princess, and ride about on an elephant; or will she
reconcile herself to such humble ways as ours? I am most eager to hear how
she will take the tidings. Withering says it will not spoil her; that
knowing nothing of life in its moneyed relations, she runs no risk of
being carried away by any vulgar notions of her own importance through
riches.
</p>
<p>
Conyers has never once hinted at his son's pretensions since Fifine has
become an heiress; and I fancy—it may be only fancy—is a shade
or so cool towards me, so that I have not referred to them. But what can I
do? I cannot offer him my granddaughter, nor—if what you tell me be
true, that they are always quarrelling—would the proposal be a great
kindness to either.
</p>
<p>
Here is Tom Dill, too, and what a change! He is the image of Polly; and a
fine, well-grown, straight-figured fellow, that looks you manfully in the
face,—not the slouching, loutish, shamefaced creature you remember
him. Hunter has had him gazetted to an Ensigncy in the 10th Foot, and he
will, or I much mistake him, do honest credit to the recommendation.
Hunter takes him about with him wherever he goes, telling all about the
shipwreck and Tom's gallantry,—enough to turn the lad's head with
vanity, but that he is a fine, simple-hearted creature, who thinks very
little of himself or his achievement. He seems to have no other thought
than what Polly, his sister, will say and think of him.
</p>
<p>
He also will be one of our party; that is if I can persuade him to make
“The Home” his headquarters while our friends are with us. What a strong
muster we shall be; and how we 'll astonish that old bin of Madeira,
Dinah! By the way, I have been rather boastful about it to Conyers, and
let some bottles have the sun on them for a couple of hours every day.
</p>
<p>
I should like to try my chance once more of seeing that poor fellow at the
hospital, but Withering will not hear of it; he got positively
ill-tempered at the bare mention of such a wish. Even Conyers says,
“Better not,” with an air that may mean for the sick man's sake as much as
my own.
</p>
<p>
A little more of this life of noise, confusion, and excitement would
finish me. This city existence, with its incessant events and its never
ending anxieties, is like walking in a high wind with the chimney-pots
falling and crashing on every side of one,—while I am pitying the
fellow whose skull is just cracked, I am forced to remember that my own is
in danger. And yet there are people who like it; who tell you that out of
London there is no living; that the country is a grave, aggravated by the
consciousness that one is dead and buried there!
</p>
<p>
On Tuesday,—Wednesday, at farthest,—Dinah, look out for us. I
do not believe there is that prize in the wheel that would tempt me again
away from home! and till I reach it, believe, my dear Dinah,
</p>
<p>
Your loving brother,
</p>
<p>
Peter Barrington.
</p>
<p>
I have just seen Conyers. He met Sir Harvey Hethrington, the Home
Secretary, this morning, and they got into a talk over our business, and
H. said how cruelly I had been treated all this time back, and how
unfairly poor George's memory was dealt with. “We want,” said he, “to show
your friend our respect and our sympathy, and we have thought of
submitting his name to the King for a Baronetcy. How do you think Mr.
Barrington himself would take our project?” “I 'll find out,” said
Conyers, as he told me of the conversation. “If they don't let me off,
Conyers,” said I, “ask them to commute it to Knighthood, for the heralds'
fees will be smaller; but I'll try, meanwhile, if I can't escape either.”
So that now, Dinah, you may expect me on Saturday. I told you what a place
this was; you are never sure what may befall you from one moment to
another!
</p>
<p>
<a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
<!-- H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
CHAPTER XX. THE END
</h2>
<h3>
Fortune had apparently ceased to persecute Peter Barrington.
</h3>
<p>
The Minister did not press honors upon him, and he was free to wait for
his companions, and in their company he returned to Ireland.
</p>
<p>
The news of his success—great as it was, magnified still more—had
preceded him to his own country; and he was met, as all lucky men are met,
and will be met to the end of time, by those who know the world and
feelingly estimate that the truly profitable are the fortunate!
</p>
<p>
Not that he remarked how many had suddenly grown so cordial; what troops
of passing acquaintances had become in a moment warm friends, well-wishing
and affectionate. He never so much as suspected that “Luck” is a deity
worshipped by thousands, who even in the remotest way are not to be
benefited by it. He had always regarded the world as a far better thing
than many moralists would allow it to be,—unsteady, wilful,
capricious, if you like—but a well-intentioned, kindly minded world,
that would at all times, where passion or prejudice stood aloof,
infinitely rather do the generous thing than the cruel one.
</p>
<p>
Little wonder, then, if he journeyed in a sort of ovation! At every change
of horses in each village they passed, there was sure to be some one who
wanted to shake his hand. People hobbled out on crutches and quitted
sick-beds to say how “glad they were;” mere acquaintances most of them,
who felt a strange mysterious sort of self-consequence in fancying
themselves for the moment the friends of Peter Barrington, the
millionnaire! This is all very curious, but it is a fact,—a fact
which I make no pretence to explain, however.
</p>
<p>
“And here comes the heartiest well-wisher of them all!” cried Barrington,
as he saw his sister standing on the roadside, near the gate. With
thoughtful delicacy, his companions lingered behind, while he went to meet
and embraced her. “Was I not a true prophet, Dinah dear? Did I not often
foretell this day to you?” said he, as he drew her arm, and led her along,
forgetting all about his friends and companions.
</p>
<p>
“Have they paid the money, Peter?” said she, sharply.
</p>
<p>
“Of course they have not; such things are not settled like the fare of a
hackney-coach. But our claim is acknowledged, and, fifty thousand times
better, George Barrington's name absolved from every shadow of an
imputation.”
</p>
<p>
“What is the amount they agree to give?”
</p>
<p>
“Upon my life, I don't know,—that is, I don't recollect, there were
so many interviews and such discussions; but Withering can tell you
everything. Withering knows it all. Without <i>him</i> and Conyers I don't
know how I could have got on. If you had heard how he spoke of George at
the Council! 'You talk of <i>my</i> services,' said he; 'they are no more
fit to be compared with those of Colonel Barrington, than are <i>my</i>
petty grievances with the gross wrongs that lie on <i>his</i> memory.'
Withering was there; he heard the words, and described the effect of them
as actually overwhelming.”
</p>
<p>
“And Withering believes the whole thing to be settled?”
</p>
<p>
“To be sure, he does! Why should he oppose his belief to that of the whole
world? Why, my dear Dinah, it is not one, nor two, but some hundreds of
people have come to wish me joy. They had a triumphal arch at Naas, with
'Welcome to Barrington' over it. At Carlow, Fishbourne came out with the
corporation to offer me congratulations.”
</p>
<p>
She gave a hasty, impatient shake of the head, but repressed the sharp
reply that almost trembled on her lips.
</p>
<p>
“By George!” cried he, “it does one's heart good to witness such a burst
of generous sentiment. You 'd have thought some great national benefit had
befallen, or that some one—his country's idol—had just reaped
the recompense of his great services. They came flocking out of the towns
as we whirled past, cheering lustily, and shouting, 'Barrington forever!'”
</p>
<p>
“I detest a mob!” said she, pursing up her lips.
</p>
<p>
“These were no mobs, Dinah; these were groups of honest fellows, with kind
hearts and generous wishes.”
</p>
<p>
Another, but more decisive, toss of the head warned Peter that the
discussion had gone far enough; indeed she almost said so, by asking
abruptly, “What is to be done about the boy Conyers? He is madly in love
with Josephine.”
</p>
<p>
“Marry her, I should say!”
</p>
<p>
“As a cure for the complaint, I suppose. But what if she will not have
him? What if she declares that she 'd like to go back to the convent
again,—that she hates the world, and is sorry she ever came out into
it,—that she was happier with the sisters—”
</p>
<p>
“Has she said all this to you, sister?”
</p>
<p>
“Certainly not, Peter,” said Dinah, bridling up. “These were confidences
imparted to the young man himself. It was he told me of them: he came to
me last night in a state bordering on distraction. He was hesitating
whether he would not throw himself into the river or go into a marching
regiment.”
</p>
<p>
“This is only a laughing matter, then, Dinah?” said Peter, smiling.
</p>
<p>
“Nothing of the kind, brother! He did not put the alternatives so much in
juxtaposition as I have; but they lay certainly in that manner on his
thoughts. But when do your friends arrive? I thought they were to have
come with you?”
</p>
<p>
“What a head I have, Dinah! They are all here; two carriages of them. I
left them on the road when I rushed on to meet you. Oh, here they come!
here they are!”
</p>
<p>
“My brother's good fortune, gentlemen, has made him seem to forget what
adversity never did; but I believe you all know how welcome you are here?
Your son, General Conyers, thought to meet you earlier, by taking boat
down to the village, and the girls went with him. Your friend, Polly Dill,
is one of them, General Hunter.”
</p>
<p>
Having thus, with one sweep of the scythe, cut down a little of all around
her, she led the way towards the cottage, accepting the arm of General
Conyers with an antiquated grace that sorely tried Hunter's good manners
not to smile at.
</p>
<p>
“I know what you are looking at, what you are thinking of, Barrington,”
said Withering, as he saw the other stand a moment gazing at the landscape
on the opposite side of the river.
</p>
<p>
“I don't think you do, Tom,” said he, smiling.
</p>
<p>
“You were thinking of buying that mountain yonder. You were saying to
yourself, 'I 'll be the owner of that beech wood before I'm a month
older!'”
</p>
<p>
“Upon my life, you 're right! though I have n't the remotest notion of how
you guessed it. The old fellow that owns it shall name his own terms
to-morrow morning. Here come the girls, and they 've got Tom Dill with
them. How the fellow rows! and Fifine is laughing away at Conyers's
attempt to keep the boat straight. Look at Hunter, too; he 's off to meet
them. Is he 'going in' for the great heiress prize, eh, Tom?” said he,
with a knowing smile.
</p>
<p>
Though Hunter assisted the ladies to land with becoming gallantry, he did
not offer his arm to Josephine, but dropped behind, where Tom Dill brought
up the rear with his sister.
</p>
<p>
“We have no confidences that you may not listen to,” said Polly, as she
saw that he hesitated as to joining them. “Tom, indeed, has been telling
of yourself, and you may not care to hear your own praises.”
</p>
<p>
“If they come from <i>you</i>, I 'm all ears for them.”
</p>
<p>
“Isn't that pretty, Tom? Did you ever hear any one ask more candidly for—no,
not flattery—what is it to be called?”
</p>
<p>
Tom, however, could not answer, for he had stopped to shake hands with
Darby, whose “May I never!” had just arrested him.
</p>
<p>
“What an honest, fine-hearted fellow it is!” said Hunter, as they moved
on, leaving Tom behind.
</p>
<p>
“But if <i>you</i> had n't found it out, who would have known, or who
acknowledged it? <i>I</i> know—for he has told me—all you have
been to him.”
</p>
<p>
“Pooh, pooh! nothing; less than nothing. He owes all that he is to
himself. He is one of those fellows who, once they get into the right
groove in life, are sure to go ahead. Not even <i>you</i> could make a
doctor of him. Nature made him a soldier.”
</p>
<p>
Polly blushed slightly at the compliment to those teachings she believed a
secret, and he went on,—
</p>
<p>
“What has the world been doing here since I left?”
</p>
<p>
“Pretty much what it did while you were here. It looked after its turnips
and asparagus, took care of its young calves, fattened its chickens,
grumbled at the dear-ness of everything, and wondered when Dr. Buck would
preach a new sermon.”
</p>
<p>
“No deaths,—no marriages?”
</p>
<p>
“None. There was only one candidate for both, and he has done neither,—Major
M'Cormick.”
</p>
<p>
“Confound that old fellow! I had forgotten him. Do you remember the last
day I saw you here? We were in the garden, talking, as we believed,
without witnesses. Well, <i>he</i> overheard us. He heard every word we
said, and a good deal more that we did not say.”
</p>
<p>
“Yes; so he informed me, a few days after.”
</p>
<p>
“You don't mean to say that he had the impertinence—”
</p>
<p>
“The frankness, General,—the charming candor,—to tell me that
I was a very clever girl, and not to be discouraged by one failure or two;
that with time and perseverance—I think he said perseverance—some
one was sure to take a fancy to me: he might not, perhaps, be handsome,
possibly not very young; his temper, too, might chance to be more tart
than was pleasant; in a word, he drew such a picture that I had to stop
him short, and ask was he making me a proposal? He has never spoken to me
since!”
</p>
<p>
“I feel as if I could break his neck,” muttered Hunter, below his breath;
then added, “Do you remember that I asked leave to write to you once,—only
once?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes, I remember it.”
</p>
<p>
“And you would not answer me. You shook your head, as though to say the
permission would be of no service to me; that I might write, but, you
understand, that it would only be to indulge in a delusion—”
</p>
<p>
“What an expressive shake of the head that meant all that!”
</p>
<p>
“Ah! there it is again; never serious, never grave! And now I want you to
be both. Since I landed in England, I ran down for a day to Devonshire. I
saw an old aunt of mine, who, besides being very rich, has retained no
small share of the romance of her life. She always had a dash of
hero-worship about her, and so I took down Tom with me to show her the
gallant fellow whose name was in all the newspapers, and of whom all the
world was talking. She was charmed with him,—with his honest, manly
simplicity, his utter want of all affectation. She asked me ten times a
day, 'Can I not be of service to him? Is there no step he wishes to
purchase? Is there nothing we can do for him?' 'Nothing,' said I; 'he is
quite equal to his own fortune.' 'He may have brothers,' said she. 'He has
a sister,' said I,—'a sister who has made him all that he is, and it
was to repay her love and affection that he has shown himself to be the
gallant fellow we have seen him.' 'Tell her to come and see me.—that
is,' said she, correcting herself, 'give her a letter I shall write, and
persuade her, if you can, to oblige me by doing what I ask.' Here is the
letter; don't say no till you have read it. Nay, don't shake your head so
deploringly; things may be hard without being impossible. At all events,
read her note carefully. It's a droll old hand, but clear as print.”
</p>
<p>
“I'll read it,” said she, looking at the letter; but the sorrowful tone
revealed how hopelessly she regarded the task.
</p>
<p>
“Ask Tom about her; and make Tom tell you what she is like. By Jove! he
has such an admiration for the old damsel, I was half afraid he meant to
be my uncle.”
</p>
<p>
They reached the cottage laughing pleasantly over this conceit, and Polly
hurried up to her room to read the letter. To her surprise, Josephine was
there already, her eyes very red with crying, and her cheeks flushed and
feverish-looking.
</p>
<p>
“My dearest Fifine, what is all this for, on the happiest day of your
life?” said she, drawing her arm around her.
</p>
<p>
“It's all <i>your</i> fault,—all <i>your</i> doing,” said the other,
averting her head, as she tried to disengage herself from the embrace.
</p>
<p>
“My fault,—my doing? What do you mean, dearest, what can I have done
to deserve this?”
</p>
<p>
“You know very well what you have done. You knew all the time how it would
turn out.”
</p>
<p>
Polly protested firmly that she could not imagine what was attributed to
her, and only after a considerable time obtained the explanation of the
charge. Indeed it was not at first easy to comprehend it, given, as it
was, in the midst of tears, and broken at every word by sobs. The
substance was this: that Fifine, in an attempted imitation of Polly's
manner,—an effort to copy the coquetting which she fancied to be so
captivating,—had ventured to trifle so far with young Conyers, that,
after submitting to every alternative of hope and fear for weeks long, he
at last gave way, and determined to leave the house, quit the country, and
never meet her more. “It was to be like you I did it,” cried she, sobbing
bitterly, “and see what it has led me to.”
</p>
<p>
“Well, dearest, be really like me for half an hour; that is, be very
patient and very quiet. Sit down here, and don't leave this till I come
back to you.”
</p>
<p>
Polly kissed her hot cheek as she spoke; and the other sat down where she
was bade, with the half-obedient sulkiness of a naughty child.
</p>
<p>
“Tell young Mr. Conyers to come and speak to me. I shall be in the
garden,” said she to his servant; and before she had gone many paces he
was beside her.
</p>
<p>
“Oh, Polly dearest! have you any hope for me?” cried he, in agony. “If you
knew the misery I am enduring.”
</p>
<p>
“Come and take a walk with me,” said she, passing her arm within his. “I
think you will like to hear what I have to tell you.”
</p>
<p>
The revelation was not a very long one; and as they passed beneath the
room where Josephine sat, Polly called out, “Come down here, Fifine, we
are making a bouquet; try if you can find 'heart's-ease.'”
</p>
<p>
What a happy party met that day at dinner! All were in their best spirits,
each contented with the other. “Have you read my aunt's note?” whispered
Hunter to Polly, as they passed into the drawing-room.
</p>
<p>
“Yes. I showed it also to Miss Dinah. I asked her advice.”
</p>
<p>
“And what did she say,—what did she advise?”
</p>
<p>
“She said she 'd think over it and tell me to-morrow.”
</p>
<p>
“To-morrow! Why not now,—why not at once?” cried he, impatiently. “I
'll speak to her myself;” and he hurried to the little room where Miss
Dinah was making tea.
</p>
<p>
It was not a very long interview; and Hunter returned, fond, radiant, and
triumphant. “She's the cleverest old woman I ever met in my life,” said
he; “and the best, besides, after my Aunt Dorothy. She said that such an
invitation as that was too cordial to be coldly declined; that it meant
more—far more—than a politeness; that you ought to go, yes, by
all means; and if there was any difficulty about the journey, or any
awkwardness in travelling so far, why, there was an easy remedy for it, as
well as for meeting my aunt a perfect stranger.”
</p>
<p>
“And what was that?”
</p>
<p>
“To go as her niece, dearest Polly,—to be the wife of a man who
loves you.”
</p>
<p>
“Is it possible that you have so much to say to each other that you won't
take tea?” cried Aunt Dinah; while she whispered to Withering, “I declare
we shall never have a sociable moment till they're all married off, and
learn to conduct themselves like reasonable creatures.”
</p>
<p>
Is it not the best testimony we can give to happiness, that it is a thing
to feel and not describe,—to be enjoyed, but not pictured? It is
like a debt that I owe to my reader, to show him “The Home” as it was when
blissful hearts were gathered under its roof; and yet, for the life of me,
I cannot acquit myself of it. To say that there were old people with their
memories of the past, and young ones with their hopes of the future; that
there were bygones to sigh over, and vistas to gaze at, conveys but little
of the kindliness by which heart opened to heart, and sorrow grew lighter
by mutual endurance, and joys became brighter as they were imparted to
another.
</p>
<p>
“So I find,” said Barrington, as they sat at breakfast together, “that
Josephine insists on going back to the convent, and Fred is resolved on an
exchange into the Infantry, and is off for Canada immediately.”
</p>
<p>
“Not a bit of it!” broke in Hunter, who remarked nothing of the roguish
drollery of old Peter's eye, nor even suspected that the speech was made
in mockery. “Master Fred is coming with me into Kilkenny this morning, for
a visit to the Dean, or whatever he is, who dispenses those social
handcuffs they call licenses.”
</p>
<p>
“Why, they were quarrelling all the morning,” repeated Harrington.
</p>
<p>
“So we were, sir, and so we mean to do for many a year,” said Josephine;
“and to keep us in countenance, I hear that General Hunter and Polly have
determined to follow our example.”
</p>
<p>
“What do I hear, Miss Dill?” said Miss Barrington, with an affected
severity.
</p>
<p>
“I'm afraid, madam, it is true; there has been what my father calls 'a
contagious endemic' here lately, and we have both caught it; but ours are
mild cases, and we hope soon to recover.”
</p>
<p>
“What's this I see here?” cried Fred, who, to conceal his shame, had taken
up the newspaper. “Listen to this: 'The notorious Stapylton, <i>alias</i>
Edwardes, whose case up to yesterday was reported all but hopeless, made
his escape from the hospital, and has not since been heard of. It would
appear that some of the officials had been bribed to assist his evasion,
and a strict inquiry will be immediately set on foot into the affair.'”
</p>
<p>
“Do you think he has got over to France?” whispered Peter to Withering.
</p>
<p>
“Of course he has; the way was all open, and everything ready for him!”
</p>
<p>
“Then I am thoroughly happy!” cried Barrington, “and there's not even the
shadow of a cloud over our present sunshine.”
</p>
<p>
THE END. <br /><br />
</p>
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