Conyers had scarcely finished his reading when he was startled by the galloping of horses under his window; so close, indeed, did they come that they seemed to shake the little cottage with their tramp. He looked out, but they had already swept past, and were hidden from his view by the copse that shut out the river. At the same instant he heard the confused sound of many voices, and what sounded to him like the plash of horses in the stream.
Urged by a strong curiosity, he hurried downstairs and made straight for the river by a path that led through the trees; but before he could emerge from the cover he heard cries of “Not there! not there! Lower down!” “No, no! up higher! up higher! Head up the stream, or you 'll be caught in the gash!” “Don't hurry; you've time enough!”
When he gained the bank, it was to see three horsemen, who seemed to be cheering, or, as it might be, warning a young girl who, mounted on a powerful black horse, was deep in the stream, and evidently endeavoring to cross it. Her hat hung on the back of her neck by its ribbon, and her hair had also fallen down; but one glance was enough to show that she was a consummate horsewoman, and whose courage was equal to her skill; for while steadily keeping her horse's head to the swift current, she was careful not to control him overmuch, or impede the free action of his powers. Heeding, as it seemed, very little the counsels or warnings showered on her by the bystanders, not one of whom, to Conyers's intense amazement, had ventured to accompany her, she urged her horse steadily forward.
“Don't hurry,—take it easy!” called out one of the horsemen, as he looked at his watch. “You have fifty-three minutes left, and it's all turf.”
“She 'll do it,—I know she will!” “She 'll lose,—she must lose!” “It's ten miles to Foynes Gap!” “It's more!” “It's less!” “There!—see!—she's in, by Jove! she's in!” These varying comments were now arrested by the intense interest of the moment, the horse having impatiently plunged into a deep pool, and struck out to swim with all the violent exertion of an affrighted animal. “Keep his head up!” “Let him free, quite free!” “Get your foot clear of the stirrup!” cried out the bystanders, while in lower tones they muttered, “She would cross here!” “It's all her own fault!” Just at this instant she turned in her saddle, and called out something which, drowned in the rush of the river, did not reach them.
“Don't you see,” cried Conyers, passionately, for his temper could no longer endure the impassive attitude of this on-looking, “one of the reins is broken, her bridle is smashed?”
And, without another word, he sprang into the river, partly wading, partly swimming, and soon reached the place where the horse, restrained by one rein alone, swam in a small circle, fretted by restraint and maddened by inability to resist.
“Leave him to me,—let go your rein,” said Conyers, as he grasped the bridle close to the bit; and the animal, accepting the guidance, suffered himself to be led quietly till he reached the shallow. Once there, he bounded wildly forward, and, splashing through the current, leaped up the bank, where he was immediately caught by the others.
By the time Conyers had gained the land, the girl had quitted her saddle and entered the cottage, never so much as once turning a look on him who had rescued her. If he could not help feeling mortified at this show of indifference, he was not less puzzled by the manner of the others, who, perfectly careless of his dripping condition, discussed amongst themselves how the bridle broke, and what might have happened if the leather had proved tougher.
“It's always the way with her,” muttered one, sulkily.
“I told her to ride the match in a ring-snaffle, but she's a mule in obstinacy! She 'd have won easily—ay, with five minutes to spare—if she'd have crossed at Nunsford. I passed there last week without wetting a girth.”
“She 'll not thankyouyoung gentleman, whoever you are,” said the oldest of the party, turning to Conyers, “for your gallantry. She 'll only remember you as having helped her to lose a wager!”
“That's true!” cried another. “I never got as much as thank you for catching her horse one day at Lyrath, though it threw me out of the whole run afterwards.”
“And this was a wager, then?” said Conyers.
“Yes. An English officer that is stopping at Sir Charles's said yesterday that nobody could ride from Lowe's Folly to Foynes as the crow flies; and four of us took him up—twenty-five pounds apiece—that Polly Dill would do it,—and against time, too,—an hour and forty.”
“On a horse of mine,” chimed in another,—“Bayther-shini”
“I must say it does not tell very well for your chivalry in these parts,” said Conyers, angrily. “Could no one be found to do the match without risking a young girl's life on it?”
A very hearty burst of merriment met this speech, and the elder of the party rejoined,—
“You must be very new to this country, or you'd not have said that, sir. There's not a man in the hunt could get as much out of a horse as that girl.”
“Not to say,” added another, with a sly laugh, “that the Englishman gave five to one against her when he heard she was going to ride.”
Disgusted by what he could not but regard as a most disgraceful wager, Conyers turned away, and walked into the house.
“Go and change your clothes as fast as you can,” said Miss Barrington, as she met him in the porch. “I am quite provoked you should have wetted your feet in such a cause.”
It was no time to ask for explanations; and Conyers hurried away to his room, marvelling much at what he had heard, but even more astonished by the attitude of cool and easy indifference as to what might have imperilled a human life. He had often heard of the reckless habits and absurd extravagances of Irish life, but he fancied that they appertained to a time long past, and that society had gradually assumed the tone and the temper of the English. Then he began to wonder to what class in life these persons belonged. The girl, so well as he could see, was certainly handsome, and appeared ladylike; and yet, why had she not even by a word acknowledged the service he rendered her? And lastly, what could old Miss Barrington mean by that scornful speech? These were all great puzzles to him, and like many great puzzles only the more embarrassing the more they were thought over.
The sound of voices drew him now to the window, and he saw one of the riding-party in converse with Darby at the door. They talked in a low tone together, and laughed; and then the horseman, chucking a half-crown towards Darby, said aloud,—
“And tell her that we 'll send the boat down for her as soon as we get back.”
Darby touched his hat gratefully, and was about to retire within the house when he caught sight of Conyers at the window. He waited till the rider had turned the angle of the road, and then said,—
“That's Mr. St. George. They used to call him the Slasher, he killed so many in duels long ago; but he 's like a lamb now.”
“And the young lady?”
“The young lady is it!” said Darby, with the air of one not exactly concurring in the designation. “She's old Dill's daughter, the doctor that attends you.”
“What was it all about?”
“It was a bet they made with an English captain this morning that she 'd ride from Lowe's Folly to the Gap in an hour and a half. The Captain took a hundred on it, because he thought she 'd have to go round by the bridge; and they pretinded the same, for they gave all kinds of directions about clearing the carts out of the road, for it's market-day at Thomastown; and away went the Captain as hard as he could, to be at the bridge first, to 'time her,' as she passed. But he has won the money!” sighed he, for the thought of so much Irish coin going into a Saxon pocket completely overcame him; “and what's more,” added he, “the gentleman says it was all your fault!”
“All my fault!” cried Conyers, indignantly. “All my fault! Do they imagine that I either knew or cared for their trumpery wager! I saw a girl struggling in a danger from which not one of them had the manliness to rescue her!”
“Oh, take my word for it,” burst in Darby, “it's not courage they want!”
“Then it is something far better than even courage, and I'd like to tell them so.”
And he turned away as much disgusted with Darby as with the rest of his countrymen. Now, all the anger that filled his breast was not in reality provoked by the want of gallantry that he condemned; a portion, at least, was owing to the marvellous indifference the young lady had manifested to her preserver. Was peril such an every-day incident of Irish life that no one cared for it, or was gratitude a quality not cultivated in this strange land? Such were the puzzles that tormented him as he descended to the drawing-room.
As he opened the door, he heard Miss Barrington's voice, in a tone which he rightly guessed to be reproof, and caught the words, “Just as unwise as it is unbecoming,” when he entered.
“Mr. Conyers, Miss Dill,” said the old lady, stiffly; “the young gentleman who saved you, the heroine you rescued!” The two allocutions were delivered with a gesture towards each. To cover a moment of extreme awkwardness, Conyers blundered out something about being too happy, and a slight service, and a hope of no ill consequences to herself.
“Have no fears on that score, sir,” broke in Miss Dinah. “Manly young ladies are the hardiest things in nature. They are as insensible to danger as they are to—” She stopped, and grew crimson, partly from anger and partly from the unspoken word that had almost escaped her.
“Nay, madam,” said Polly, quietly, “I am really very much 'ashamed.'” And, simple as the words were, Miss Barrington felt the poignancy of their application to herself, and her hand trembled over the embroidery she was working.
She tried to appear calm, but in vain; her color came and went, and the stitches, in spite of her, grew irregular; so that, after a moment's struggle, she pushed the frame away, and left the room. While this very brief and painful incident was passing, Conyers was wondering to himself how the dashing horsewoman, with flushed cheek, flashing eye, and dishevelled hair, could possibly be the quiet, demure girl, with a downcast look, and almost Quaker-like simplicity of demeanor. It is but fair to add, though he himself did not discover it, that the contributions of Miss Dinah's wardrobe, to which poor Polly was reduced for dress, were not exactly of a nature to heighten her personal attractions; nor did a sort of short jacket, and a very much beflounced petticoat, set off the girl's figure to advantage. Polly never raised her eyes from the work she was sewing as Miss Barrington withdrew, but, in a low, gentle voice, said, “It was very good of you, sir, to come to my rescue, but you mustn't think ill of my countrymen for not having done so; they had given their word of honor not to lead a fence, nor open a gate, nor, in fact, aid me in any way.”
“So that, if they could win their wager, your peril was of little matter,” broke he in.
She gave a little low, quiet laugh, perhaps as much at the energy as at the words of his speech. “After all,” said she, “a wetting is no great misfortune; the worst punishment of my offence was one that I never contemplated.”
“What do you mean?” asked he.
“Doing penance for it in this costume,” said she, drawing out the stiff folds of an old brocaded silk, and displaying a splendor of flowers that might have graced a peacock's tail; “I never so much as dreamed of this!”
There was something so comic in the way she conveyed her distress that he laughed outright. She joined him; and they were at once at their ease together.
“I think Miss Barrington called you Mr. Conyers,” said she; “and if so, I have the happiness of feeling that my gratitude is bestowed where already there has been a large instalment of the sentiment. It is you who have been so generous and so kind to my poor brother.”
“Has he told you, then, what we have been planning together?”
“He has told me all thatyouhad planned out for him,” said she, with a very gracious smile, which very slightly colored her cheek, and gave great softness to her expression. “My only fear was that the poor boy should have lost his head completely, and perhaps exaggerated to himself your intentions towards him; for, after all, I can scarcely think—”
“What is it that you can scarcely think?” asked he, after a long pause.
“Not to say,” resumed she, unheeding his question, “that I cannot imagine how this came about. What could have led him to tellyou—a perfect stranger to him—his hopes and fears, his struggles and his sorrows? How could you—by what magic did you inspire him with that trustful confidence which made him open his whole heart before you? Poor Tom, who never before had any confessor than myself!”
“Shall I tell you how it came about? It was talking ofyou!”
“Of me! talking of me!” and her cheek now flushed more deeply.
“Yes, we had rambled on over fifty themes, not one of which seemed to attach him strongly, till, in some passing allusion to his own cares and difficulties, he mentioned one who has never ceased to guide and comfort him; who shared not alone his sorrows, but his hard hours of labor, and turned away from her own pleasant paths to tread the dreary road of toil beside him.”
“I think he might have kept all this to himself,” said she, with a tone of almost severity.
“How could he? How was it possible to tell me his story, and not touch upon what imparted the few tints of better fortune that lighted it? I'm certain, besides, that there is a sort of pride in revealing how much of sympathy and affection we have derived from those better than ourselves, and I could see that he was actually vain of what you had done for him.”
“I repeat, he might have kept this to himself. But let us leave this matter; and now tell me,—for I own I can hardly trust my poor brother's triumphant tale,—tell me seriously what the plan is?”
Conyers hesitated for a few seconds, embarrassed how to avoid mention of himself, or to allude but passingly to his own share in the project. At last, as though deciding to dash boldly into the question, he said, “I told him, if he 'd go out to India, I 'd give him such a letter to my father that his fortune would be secure. My governor is something of a swell out there,”—and he reddened, partly in shame, partly in pride, as he tried to disguise his feeling by an affectation of ease,—“and that withhimfor a friend, Tom would be certain of success. You smile at my confidence, but you don't know India, and what scores of fine things are—so to say—to be had for asking; and although doctoring is all very well, there are fifty other ways to make a fortune faster. Tom could be a Receiver of Revenue; he might be a Political Resident. You don't know what they get. There's a fellow at Baroda has four thousand rupees a month, and I don't know how much more for dâk-money.”
“I can't help smiling,” said she, “at the notion of poor Tom in a palanquin. But, seriously, sir, is all this possible? or might it not be feared that your father, when he came to see my brother—who, with many a worthy quality, has not much to prepossess in his favor,—when, I say, he came to see yourprotégéis it not likely that he might—might—hold him more cheaply than you do?”
“Not when he presents a letter from me; not when it's I that have taken him up. You 'll believe me, perhaps, when I tell you what happened when I was but ten years old. We were up at Rangoon, in the Hills, when a dreadful hurricane swept over the country, destroying everything before it; rice, paddy, the indigo-crop, all were carried away, and the poor people left totally destitute. A subscription-list was handed about amongst the British residents, to afford some aid in the calamity, and it was my tutor, a native Moonshee, who went about to collect the sums. One morning he came back somewhat disconsolate at his want of success. A payment of eight thousand rupees had to be made for grain on that day, and he had not, as he hoped and expected, the money ready. He talked freely to me of his disappointment, so that, at last, my feelings being worked upon, I took up my pen and wrote down my name on the list, with the sum of eight thousand rupees to it Shocked at what he regarded as an act of levity, he carried the paper to my father, who at once said, 'Fred wrote it; his name shall not be dishonored;' and the money was paid. I ask you, now, am I reckoning too much on one who could do that, and for a mere child too?”
“That was nobly done,” said she, with enthusiasm; and though Conyers went on, with warmth, to tell more of his father's generous nature, she seemed less to listen than to follow out some thread of her own reflections. Was it some speculation as to the temperament the son of such a father might possess? or was it some pleasurable revery regarding one who might do any extravagance and yet be forgiven? My reader may guess this, perhaps,—I cannot. Whatever her speculation, it lent a very charming expression to her features,—that air of gentle, tranquil happiness we like to believe the lot of guileless, simple natures.
Conyers, like many young men of his order, was very fond of talking of himself, of his ways, his habits, and his temper, and she listened to him very prettily,—so prettily, indeed, that when Darby, slyly peeping in at the half-opened door, announced that the boat had come, he felt well inclined to pitch the messenger into the stream.
“I must go and say good-bye to Miss Barrington,” said Polly, rising. “I hope that this rustling finery will impart some dignity to my demeanor.” And drawing wide the massive folds, she made a very deep courtesy, throwing back her head haughtily as she resumed her height in admirable imitation of a bygone school of manners.
166
“Very well,—very well, indeed! Quite as like what it is meant for as is Miss Polly Dill for the station she counterfeits!” said Miss Dinah, as, throwing wide the door, she stood before them.
“I am overwhelmed by your flattery, madam,” said Polly, who, though very red, lost none of her self-possession; “but I feel that, like the traveller who tried on Charlemagne's armor, I am far more equal to combat in my every-day clothes.”
“Do not enter the lists with me in either,” said Miss Dinah, with a look of the haughtiest insolence. “Mr. Conyers, will you let me show you my flower-garden?”
“Delighted! But I will first see Miss Dill to her boat.” “As you please, sir,” said the old lady; and she withdrew with a proud toss of her head that was very unmistakable in its import.
“What a severe correction that was!” said Polly, half gayly, as she went along, leaning on his arm. “Andyouknow that, whatever my offending, there was no mimicry in it. I was simply thinking of some great-grandmother who had, perhaps, captivated the heroes of Dettingen; and, talking of heroes, how courageous of you to come to my rescue!”
Was it that her arm only trembled slightly, or did it really press gently on his own as she said this? Certainly Conyers inclined to the latter hypothesis, for he drew her more closely to his side, and said, “Of course I stood by you. She was all in the wrong, and I mean to tell her so.”
“Not if you would serve me,” said she, eagerly. “I have paid the penalty, and I strongly object to be sentenced again. Oh, here's the boat!”
“Why it's a mere skiff. Are you safe to trust yourself in such a thing?” asked he, for the canoe-shaped “cot” was new to him.
“Of course!” said she, lightly stepping in. “There is even room for another.” Then, hastily changing her theme, she asked, “May I tell poor Tom what you have said to me, or is it just possible that you will come up one of these days and see us?”
“If I might be permitted—”
“Too much honor for us!” said she, with such a capital imitation of his voice and manner that he burst into a laugh in spite of himself.
“Mayhap Miss Bamngton was not so far wrong: after all, youarea terrible mimic.”
“Is it a promise, then? Am I to say to my brother you will come?” said she, seriously.
“Faithfully!” said he, waving his hand, for the boatmen had already got the skiff under weigh, and were sending her along like an arrow from a bow.
Polly turned and kissed her hand to him, and Conyers muttered something over his own stupidity for not being beside her, and then turned sulkily back towards the cottage. A few hours ago and he had thought he could have passed his life here; there was a charm in the unbroken tranquillity that seemed to satisfy the longings of his heart, and now, all of a sudden, the place appeared desolate. Have you never, dear reader, felt, in gazing on some fair landscape, with mountain and stream and forest before you, that the scene was perfect, wanting nothing in form or tone or color, till suddenly a flash of strong sunlight from behind a cloud lit up some spot with a glorious lustre, to fade away as quickly into the cold tint it had worn before? Have you not felt then, I say, that the picture had lost its marvellous attraction, and that the very soul of its beauty had departed? In vain you try to recall the past impression; your memory will mourn over the lost, and refuse to be comforted. And so it is often in life: the momentary charm that came unexpectedly can become all in all to our imaginations, and its departure leave a blank, like a death, behind it.
Nor was he altogether satisfied with Miss Barrington. The “old woman”—alas! for his gallantry, it was so that he called her to himself—was needlessly severe. Why should a mere piece of harmless levity be so visited? At all events, he felt certain that he himself would have shown a more generous spirit. Indeed, when Polly had quizzed him, he took it all good-naturedly, and by thus turning his thoughts to his natural goodness and the merits of his character, he at length grew somewhat more well-disposed to the world at large. He knew he was naturally forgiving, and he felt he was very generous. Scores of fellows, bred up as he was, would have been perfectly unendurable; they would have presumed on their position, and done this, that, and t' other. Not one of them would have dreamed of taking up a poor ungainly bumpkin, a country doctor's cub, and making a man of him; not one of them would have had the heart to conceive or the energy to carry out such a project. And yet this he would do. Polly herself, sceptical as she was, should be brought to admit that he had kept his word. Selfish fellows would limit their plans to their own engagements, and weak fellows could be laughed out of their intentions; butheflattered himself that he was neither of these, and it was really fortunate that the world should see how little spoiled a fine nature could be, though surrounded with all the temptations that are supposed to be dangerous.
In this happy frame—for he was now happy—he reentered the cottage. “What a coxcomb!” will say my reader. Be it so. But it was a coxcomb who wanted to be something better.
Miss Barrington met him in the porch, not a trace of her late displeasure on her face, but with a pleasant smile she said, “I have just got a few lines from my brother. He writes in excellent spirits, for he has gained a lawsuit; not a very important case, but it puts us in a position to carry out a little project we are full of. He will be here by Saturday, and hopes to bring with him an old and valued friend, the Attorney-General, to spend a few days with us. I am, therefore, able to promise you an ample recompense for all the loneliness of your present life. I have cautiously abstained from telling my brother who you are; I keep the delightful surprise for the moment of your meeting. Your name, though associated with some sad memories, will bring him back to the happiest period of his life.”
Conyers made some not very intelligible reply about his reluctance to impose himself on them at such a time, but she stopped him with a good-humored smile, and said,—
“Your father's son should know that where a Barrington lived he had a home,—not to say you have already paid some of the tribute of this homeliness, and seen me very cross and ill-tempered. Well, let us not speak of that now. I have your word to remain here.” And she left him to attend to her household cares, while he strolled into the garden, half amused, half embarrassed by all the strange and new interests that had grown up so suddenly around him.
Whether from simple caprice, or that Lady Cobham desired to mark her disapprobation of Polly Dill's share in the late wager, is not open to me to say, but the festivities at Cob-ham were not, on that day, graced or enlivened by her presence. If the comments on her absence were brief, they were pungent, and some wise reflections, too, were uttered as to the dangers that must inevitably attend all attempts to lift people into a sphere above their own. Poor human nature! that unlucky culprit who is flogged for everything and for everybody, bore the brunt of these severities, and it was declared that Polly had done what any other girl “in her rank of life” might have done; and this being settled, the company went to luncheon, their appetites none the worse for the smallauto-da-féthey had just celebrated.
“You'd have lost your money, Captain,” whispered Ambrose Bushe to Stapylton, as they stood talking together in a window recess, “if that girl had only taken the river three hundred yards higher up. Even as it was, she 'd have breasted her horse at the bank if the bridle had not given way. I suppose you have seen the place?”
“I regret to say I have not. They tell me it's one of the strongest rapids in the river.”
“Let me describe it to you,” replied he; and at once set about a picture in which certainly no elements of peril were forgotten, and all the dangers of rocks and rapids were given with due emphasis. Stapylton seemed to listen with fitting attention, throwing out the suitable “Indeed! is it possible!” and such-like interjections, his mind, however, by no means absorbed by the narrative, but dwelling solely on a chance name that had dropped from the narrator.
“You called the place 'Barrington's Ford,'” said he, at last. “Who is Barrington?”
“As good a gentleman by blood and descent as any in this room, but now reduced to keep a little wayside inn,—the 'Fisherman's Home,' it is called. All come of a spendthrift son, who went out to India, and ran through every acre of the property before he died.”
“What a strange vicissitude! And is the old man much broken by it?”
“Some would say he was; my opinion is, that he bears up wonderfully. Of course, to me, he never makes any mention of the past; but while my father lived, he would frequently talk to him over bygones, and liked nothing better than to speak of his son, Mad George as they called him, and tell all his wildest exploits and most harebrained achievements. But you have served yourself in India. Have you never heard of George Barrington?”
Stapylton shook his head, and dryly added that India was very large, and that even in one Presidency a man might never hear what went on in another.
“Well, this fellow made noise enough to be heard even over here. He married a native woman, and he either shook off his English allegiance, or was suspected of doing so. At all events, he got himself into trouble that finished him. It's a long complicated story, that I have never heard correctly. The upshot was, however, old Barrington was sold out stick and stone, and if it was n't for the ale-house he might starve.”
“And his former friends and associates, do they rally round him and cheer him?”
“Not a great deal. Perhaps, however, that's as much his fault as theirs. He is very proud, and very quick to resent anything like consideration for his changed condition. Sir Charles would have him up here,—he has tried it scores of times, but all in vain; and now he is left to two or three of his neighbors, the doctor and an old half-pay major, who lives on the river, and I believe really he never sees any one else. Old M'Cormick knew George Barrington well; not that they were friends,—two men less alike never lived; but that's enough to make poor Peter fond of talking to him, and telling all about some lawsuits George left him for a legacy.”
“This Major that you speak of, does he visit here? I don't remember to have seen him.”
“M'Cormick!” said the other, laughing. “No, he 's a miserly old fellow that has n't a coat fit to go out in, and he's no loss to any one. It's as much as old Peter Barrington can do to bear his shabby ways, and his cranky temper, but he puts up with everything because he knew his son George. That's quite enough for old Peter; and if you were to go over to the cottage, and say, 'I met your son up in Bombay or Madras; we were quartered together at Ram-something-or-other,' he 'd tell you the place was your own, to stop at as long as you liked, and your home for life.”
“Indeed!” said Stapylton, affecting to feel interested, while he followed out the course of his own thoughts.
“Not that the Major could do even that much!” continued Bushe, who now believed that he had found an eager listener. “There was only one thing in this world he'd like to talk about,—Walcheren. Go how or when you liked, or where or for what,—no matter, it was Walcheren you 'd get, and nothing else.”
“Somewhat tiresome this, I take it!”
“Tiresome is no name for it! And I don't know a stronger proof of old Peter's love for his son's memory, than that, for the sake of hearing about him, he can sit and listen to the 'expedition.'”
There was a half-unconscious mimicry in the way he gave the last word that showed how the Major's accents had eaten their way into his sensibilities.
“Your portrait of this Major is not tempting,” said Stapylton, smiling.
“Why would it? He's eighteen or twenty years in the neighborhood, and I never heard that he said a kind word or did a generous act by any one. But I get cross if I talk of him. Where are you going this morning? Will you come up to the Long Callows and look at the yearlings? The Admiral is very proud of his young stock, and he thinks he has some of the best bone and blood in Ireland there at this moment.”
“Thanks, no; I have some notion of a long walk this morning. I take shame to myself for having seen so little of the country here since I came that I mean to repair my fault and go off on a sort of voyage of discovery.”
“Follow the river from Brown's Barn down to Inistioge, and if you ever saw anything prettier I'm a Scotchman.” And with this appalling alternative, Mr. Bushe walked away, and left the other to his own guidance.
Perhaps Stapylton is not the companion my reader would care to stroll with, even along the grassy path beside that laughing river, with spray-like larches bending overhead, and tender water-lilies streaming, like pennants, in the fast-running current. It may be that he or she would prefer some one more impressionable to the woodland beauty of the spot, and more disposed to enjoy the tranquil loveliness around him; for it is true the swarthy soldier strode on, little heeding the picturesque effects which made every succeeding reach of the river a subject for a painter. He was bent on finding out where M'Cormick lived, and on making the acquaintance of that bland individual.
“That's the Major's, and there's himself,” said a countryman, as he pointed to a very shabbily dressed old man hoeing his cabbages in a dilapidated bit of garden-ground, but who was so absorbed in his occupation as not to notice the approach of a stranger.
“Am I taking too great a liberty,” said Stapylton, as he raised his hat, “if I ask leave to follow the river path through this lovely spot?”
“Eh—what?—how did you come? You didn't pass round by the young wheat, eh?” asked M'Cormick, in his most querulous voice.
“I came along by the margin of the river.”
“That's just it!” broke in the other. “There's no keeping them out that way. But I 'll have a dog as sure as my name is Dan. I'll have a bull-terrier that'll tackle the first of you that's trespassing there.”
“I fancy I'm addressing Major M'Cormick,” said Stapylton, never noticing this rude speech; “and if so, I will ask him to accord me the privilege of a brother-soldier, and let me make myself known to him,—Captain Stapylton, of the Prince's Hussars.”
“By the wars!” muttered old Dan; the exclamation being a favorite one with him to express astonishment at any startling event. Then recovering himself, he added, “I think I heard there were three or four of ye stopping up there at Cobham; but I never go out myself anywhere. I live very retired down here.”
“I am not surprised at that. When an old soldier can nestle down in a lovely nook like this, he has very little to regret of what the world is busy about outside it.”
“And they are all ruining themselves, besides,” said M'Cormick, with one of his malicious grins. “There's not a man in this county is n't mortgaged over head and ears. I can count them all on my fingers for you, and tell what they have to live on.”
“You amaze me,” said Stapylton, with a show of interest
“And the women are as bad as the men: nothing fine enough for them to wear; no jewels rich enough to put on! Did you ever hear them mentionme?” asked he, suddenly, as though the thought flashed upon him that he had himself been exposed to comment of a very different kind.
“They told me of an old retired officer, who owned a most picturesque cottage, and said, if I remember aright, that the view from one of the windows was accounted one of the most perfect bits of river landscape in the kingdom.”
“Just the same as where you 're standing,—no difference in life,” said M'Cormick, who was not to be seduced by the flattery into any demonstration of hospitality.
“I cannot imagine anything finer,” said Stapylton, as he threw himself at the foot of a tree, and seemed really to revel in enjoyment of the scene. “One might, perhaps, if disposed to be critical, ask for a little opening in that copse yonder. I suspect we should get a peep at the bold cliff whose summit peers above the tree-tops.”
“You'd see the quarry, to be sure,” croaked out the Major, “if that's what you mean.”
“May I offer you a cigar?” said Stapylton, whose self-possession was pushed somewhat hard by the other. “An old campaigner is sure to be a smoker.”
“I am not. I never had a pipe in my mouth since Walcheren.”
“Since Walcheren! You don't say that you are an old Walcheren man?”
“I am, indeed. I was in the second battalion of the 103d,—the Duke's Fusiliers, if ever you heard of them.”
“Heard of them! The whole world has heard of them; but I did n't know there was a man of that splendid corps surviving. Why, they lost—let me see—they lost every officer but—” Here a vigorous effort to keep his cigar alight interposed, and kept him occupied for a few seconds. “How many did you bring out of action,—four was it, or five? I'm certain you had n't six!”
“We were the same as the Buffs, man for man,” said M'Cormick.
“The poor Buffs!—very gallant fellows too!” sighed Stapylton. “I have always maintained, and I always will maintain, that the Walcheren expedition, though not a success, was the proudest achievement of the British arms.”
“The shakes always began after sunrise, and in less than ten minutes you 'd see your nails growing blue.”
“How dreadful!”
“And if you felt your nose, you would n't know it was your nose; you 'd think it was a bit of a cold carrot.”
“Why was that?”
“Because there was no circulation; the blood would stop going round; and you 'd be that way for four hours,—till the sweating took you,—just the same as dead.”
“There, don't go on,—I can't stand it,—my nerves are all ajar already.”
“And then the cramps came on,” continued M'Cormick, in an ecstasy over a listener whose feelings he could harrow; “first in the calves of the legs, and then all along the spine, so that you 'd be bent like a fish.”
“For Heaven's sake, spare me! I've seen some rough work, but that description of yours is perfectly horrifying! And when one thinks it was the glorious old 105th—”
“No, the 103d; the 105th was at Barbadoes,” broke in the Major, testily.
“So they were, and got their share of the yellow fever at that very time too,” said Stapylton, hazarding a not very rash conjecture.
“Maybe they did, and maybe they didn't,” was the dry rejoinder.
It required all Stapylton's nice tact to get the Major once more full swing at the expedition, but he at last accomplished the feat, and with such success that M'Cormick suggested an adjournment within doors, and faintly hinted at a possible something to drink. The wily guest, however, declined this. “He liked,” he said, “that nice breezy spot under those fine old trees, and with that glorious reach of the river before them. Could a man but join to these enjoyments,” he continued, “just a neighbor or two,—an old friend or so that he really liked,—one not alone agreeable from his tastes, but to whom the link of early companionship also attached us, with this addition I could call this a paradise.”
“Well, I have the village doctor,” croaked out M'Cor-mick, “and there's Barrington—old Peter—up at the 'Fisherman's Home.' I havethemby way of society. I might have better, and I might have worse.”
“They told me at Cobham that there was no getting you to 'go out;' that, like a regular old soldier, you liked your own chimney-corner, and could not be tempted away from it.”
“They didn't try very hard, anyhow,” said he, harshly. “I'll be nineteen years here if I live till November, and I think I got two invitations, and one of them to a 'dancing tea,' whatever that is; so that you may observe they did n't push the temptation as far as St. Anthony's!”
Stapylton joined in the laugh with which M'Cormick welcomed his own drollery.
“Your doctor,” resumed he, “is, I presume, the father of the pretty girl who rides so cleverly?”
“So they tell me. I never saw her mounted but once, and she smashed a melon-frame for me, and not so much as 'I ask your pardon!' afterwards.”
“And Barrington,” resumed Stapylton, “is the ruined gentleman I have heard of, who has turned innkeeper. An extravagant son, I believe, finished him?”
“His own taste for law cost him just as much,” muttered M'Cormick. “He had a trunk full of old title-deeds and bonds and settlements, and he was always poring over them, discovering, by the way, flaws in this and omissions in that, and then he 'd draw up a case for counsel, and get consultations on it, and before you could turn round, there he was, trying to break a will or get out of a covenant, with a special jury and the strongest Bar in Ireland. That's what ruined him.”
“I gather from what you tell me that he is a bold, determined, and perhaps a vindictive man. Am I right?”
“You are not; he's an easy-tempered fellow, and careless, like every one of his name and race. If you said he hadn't a wise head on his shoulders, you 'd be nearer the mark. Look what he 's going to do now!” cried he, warming with his theme: “he 's going to give up the inn—”
“Give it up! And why?”
“Ay, that's the question would puzzle him to answer; but it's the haughty old sister persuades him that he ought to take this black girl—George Barrington's daughter—home to live with him, and that a shebeen is n't the place to bring her to, and she a negress. That's more of the family wisdom!”
“There may be affection in it.”
“Affection! For what,—for a black! Ay, and a black that they never set eyes on! If it was old Withering had the affection for her, I wouldn't be surprised.”
“What do you mean? Who is he?”
“The Attorney-General, who has been fighting the East India Company for her these sixteen years, and making more money out of the case than she 'll ever get back again. Did you ever hear of Barrington and Lot Rammadahn Mohr against the India Company? That's the case. Twelve millions of rupees and the interest on them! And I believe in my heart and soul old Peter would be well out of it for a thousand pounds.”
“That is, you suspect he must be beaten in the end?”
“I mean that I am sure of it! We have a saying in Ireland, 'It's not fair for one man to fall on twenty,' and it's just the same thing to go to law with a great rich Company. You 're sure to have the worst of it.”
“Did it never occur to them to make some sort of compromise?”
“Not a bit of it. Old Peter always thinks he has the game in his hand, and nothing would make him throw up the cards. No; I believe if you offered to pay the stakes, he 'd say, 'Play the game out, and let the winner take the money!'”
“His lawyer may, possibly, have something to say to this spirit.”
“Of course he has; they are always bolstering each other up. It is, 'Barrington, my boy, you 'll turn the corner yet. You 'll drive up that old avenue to the house you were born in, Barrington, of Barrington Hall;' or, 'Withering, I never heard you greater than on that point before the twelve Judges;' or, 'Your last speech at Bar was finer than Curran.' They'd pass the evening that way, and call me a cantankerous old hound when my back was turned, just because I did n't hark in to the cry. Maybe I have the laugh at them, after all.” And he broke out into one of his most discordant cackles to corroborate his boast.
“The sound sense and experience of an old Walcheren man might have its weight with them. I know it would with me.”
“Ay,” muttered the Major, half aloud, for he was thinking to himself whether this piece of flattery was a bait for a little whiskey-and-water.
“I 'd rather have the unbought judgment of a shrewd man of the world than a score of opinions based upon the quips and cranks of an attorney's instructions.”
“Ay!” responded the other, as he mumbled to himself, “he's mighty thirsty.”
“And what's more,” said Stapylton, starting to his legs, “I 'd follow the one as implicitly as I'd reject the other. I 'd say, 'M'Cormick is an old friend; we have known each other since boyhood.'”
“No, we haven't I never saw Peter Barrington till I came to live here.”
“Well, after a close friendship of years with his son—”
“Nor that, either,” broke in the implacable Major. “He was always cutting his jokes on me, and I never could abide him, so that the close friendship you speak of is a mistake.”
“At all events,” said Stapylton, sharply, “it could be no interest of yours to see an old—an old acquaintance lavishing his money on lawyers and in the pursuit of the most improbable of all results.Youhave no design upon him.Youdon't want to marry his sister!”
“No, by Gemini! “—a favorite expletive of the Major's in urgent moments.
“Nor the Meer's daughter, either, I suppose?”
“The black! I think not. Not if she won the lawsuit, and was as rich as—she never will be.”
“I agree with you there, Major, though I know nothing of the case or its merits; but it is enough to hear that a beggared squire is on one side, and Leadenhall Street on the other, to predict the upshot, and, for my own part, I wonder they go on with it.”
“I'll tell you how it is,” said M'Cormick, closing one eye so as to impart a look of intense cunning to his face. “It's the same with law as at a fox-hunt: when you 're tired out beating a cover, and ready to go off home, one dog—very often the worst in the whole pack—will yelp out. You know well enough he's a bad hound, and never found in his life. What does that signify? When you 're wishing a thing, whatever flatters your hopes is all right,—is n't that true?—and away you dash after the yelper as if he was a good hound.”
“You have put the matter most convincingly before me.”
“How thirsty he is now!” thought the Major; and grinned maliciously at his reflection.
“And the upshot of all,” said Stapylton, like one summing up a case,—“the upshot of all is, that this old man is not satisfied with his ruin if it be not complete; he must see the last timbers of the wreck carried away ere he leaves the scene of his disaster. Strange, sad infatuation!”
“Ay,” muttered the Major, who really had but few sympathies with merely moral abstractions.
“Not what I should have done in a like case; noryoueither, Major, eh?”
“Very likely not”
“But so it is. There are men who cannot be practical, do what they will. This is above them.”
A sort of grunt gave assent to this proposition; and Stapylton, who began to feel it was a drawn game, arose to take his leave.
“I owe you a very delightful morning, Major,” said he. “I wish I could think it was not to be the last time I was to have this pleasure. Do you ever come up to Kilkenny? Does it ever occur to you to refresh your old mess recollections?”
Had M'Cormick been asked whether he did not occasionally drop in at Holland House, and brush up his faculties by intercourse with the bright spirits who resorted there, he could scarcely have been more astounded. That he, old Dan M'Cormick, should figure at a mess-table,—he, whose wardrobe, a mere skeleton battalion thirty years ago, had never since been recruited,—he should mingle with the gay and splendid young fellows of a “crack” regiment!
“I'd just as soon think of—of—” he hesitated how to measure an unlikelihood— “of marrying a young wife, and taking her off to Paris!”
“And I don't see any absurdity in the project There is certainly a great deal of brilliancy about it!”
“And something bitter too!” croaked out M'Cormick, with a fearful grin.
“Well, if you'll not come to see me, the chances are I'll come over and makeyouanother visit before I leave the neighborhood.” He waited a second or two, not more, for some recognition of this offer; but none came, and he con-tinned: “I'll get you to stroll down with me, and show me this 'Fisherman's Home,' and its strange proprietor.”
“Oh, I 'll dothat!” said the Major, who had no objection to a plan which by no possibility could involve himself in any cost.
“As it is an inn, perhaps they 'd let us have a bit of dinner. What would you say to being my guest there tomorrow? Would that suit you?”
“It would suitmewell enough!” was the strongly marked reply.
“Well, we 'll do it this wise. You 'll send one of your people over to order dinner for two at—shall we say five o'clock?—yes, five—to-morrow. That will give us a longer evening, and I 'll call here for you about four. Is that agreed?”
“Yes, that might do,” was M'Cormick's half-reluctant assent, for, in reality, there were details in the matter that he scarcely fancied. First of all, he had never hitherto crossed that threshold except as an invited guest, and he had his misgivings about the prudence of appearing in any other character, and secondly, there was a responsibility in ordering the dinner, which he liked just as little, and, as he muttered to himself, “Maybe I 'll have to order the bill too!”
Some unlucky experiences of casualties of this sort had, perhaps, shadowed his early life; for so it was, that long after Stapylton had taken his leave and gone off, the Major stood there ruminating over this unpleasant contingency, and ingeniously imagining all the pleas he could put in, should his apprehension prove correct, against his own indebtedness.
“Tell Miss Dinah,” said he to his messenger,—“tell her 't is an officer by the name of Captain Staples, or something like that, that 's up at Cobham, that wants a dinner for two to-morrow at five o'clock; and mind that you don't say who the other is, for it's nothing to her. And if she asks you what sort of a dinner, say the best in the house, for the Captain—mind you say the Captain—is to pay for it, and the other man only dines with him. There, now, you have your orders, and take care that you follow them!”
There was a shrewd twinkle in the messenger's eye as he listened, which, if not exactly complimentary, guaranteed how thoroughly he comprehended the instructions that were given to him; and the Major saw him set forth on his mission, well assured that he could trust his envoy.
In that nothing-for-nothing world Major M'Cormick had so long lived in, and to whose practice and ways he had adapted all his thoughts, there was something puzzling in the fact of a dashing Captain of Hussars of “the Prince's Own,” seeking him out, to form his acquaintance and invite him to dinner. Now, though the selfishness of an unimaginative man is the most complete of all, it yet exposes him to fewer delusions than the same quality when found allied with a hopeful or fanciful temperament. M'Cormick had no “distractions” from such sources. He thought very ill of the world at large; he expected extremely little from its generosity, and he resolved to be “quits” with it. To his often put question, “What brought him here?—what did he come for?” he could find no satisfactory reply. He scouted the notion of “love of scenery, solitude, and so forth,” and as fully he ridiculed to himself the idea of a stranger caring to hear the gossip and small-talk of a mere country neighborhood. “I have it!” cried he at last, as a bright thought darted through his brain,—“I have it at last! He wants to pump me about the 'expedition.' It's for that he's come. He affected surprise, to be sure, when I said I was a Walcheren man, and pretended to be amazed, besides; but that was all make-believe. He knew well enough who and what I was before he came. And he was so cunning, leading the conversation away in another direction, getting me to talk of old Peter and his son George. Wasn't it deep?—was n't it sly? Well, maybe we are not so innocent as we look, ourselves; maybe we have a trick in our sleeves too! 'With a good dinner and a bottle of port wine,' says he, 'I 'll have the whole story, and be able to write it with the signature “One who was there.”' But you 're mistaken this time, Captain; the sorrow bit of Walcheren you 'll hear out of my mouth to-morrow, be as pleasant and congenial as you like. I 'll give you the Barringtons, father and son,—ay, and old Dinah, too, if you fancy her,—but not a syllable about the expedition. It's the Scheldt you want, but you 'll have to 'take it out' in the Ganges.” And his uncouth joke so tickled him that he laughed till his eyes ran over; and in the thought that he was going to obtain a dinner under false pretences, he felt something as nearly like happiness as he had tasted for many a long day before.