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!
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.
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.
“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.
“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.”
“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.
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.
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!”
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.
“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.”
“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.'”
“'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.”
“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.”
“Yousurprise 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.
“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.
As Miss Barrington, boiling with passion, passed her brother's door, she stopped to knock.
“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—”
There was no time to finish, and she had barely an instant to gain her own room, when Stapylton reached the corridor.
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.
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.
“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.”
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!”
“I 've nothing to say against it,” grumbled out M'Cormick, whose assent was given, as attorneys say, without prejudice to any other claim.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“Who may he be?” asked M'Cormick.
“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.”
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.
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?
“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?”
“Don't you think you can depend upon me?” cackled out the Major.
“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.
“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.
“This is intolerable, Peter,” whispered Miss Barrington, while the lawyer and the Major were talking together. “You are certain you have not asked him?”
“On my honor, Dinah! on my honor!”
“I hope I am not late?” cried Stapylton, entering; then turning hastily to Barrington, said, “Pray present me to your niece.”
“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.
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.
“You know my neighbor, then?” said Barrington, in some surprise.
“I am charmed to say I do; he owes me thedenouementof a most amusing story, which was suddenly broken off when we last parted, but which I shall certainly claim after dinner.”
“He has been kind enough to engage himself to us for Saturday,” began Dinah. But M'Cormick, who saw the moment critical, stepped in,—
“You shall hear every word of it before you sleep. It's all about Walcheren, though they think Waterloo more the fashion now.”
“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?”
“Are we, Dinah?” asked Barrington, with a look of sheepishness.
“Not that I am aware of, Peter. There is no one tocome;” and she laid such an emphasis on the word as made the significance palpable.
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!”
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.”
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.
“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?”
“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.”
“No, no, M'Cormick, you wrong them there; they had no such intentions, believe me.”
“I know thatyoudid 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.”
“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.
“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.
“Is it possible?”
“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?”
“It was all admirable.”
“There was only one thing forgotten,—not that it signifies to me.”
“And what might that be?”
“It was n't paid for! No, nor will it ever be!”
“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.”
“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 uponthem. “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.'
“I said, 'I 'd think of it: I 'd turn it over in my mind;' for there's various ways of looking at it.”
“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!'”
“Not a bit of it; nothing of the kind,” said M'Cormick, awkwardly. “I 'm too 'cute to be caught that way.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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?”
“I need not tell an old soldier likeyouthat 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.”
“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.”
“No,” said Stapylton; “my old brother-officer and myself got into pipeclay and barrack talk, and strolled away down here unconsciously.”
“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.
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.
“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. 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.”
“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.
“What is your brother's regiment, Miss Dill?” said Stapylton, who had just caught a stray word or two of what passed.
“The Forty-ninth.”
“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.”
“My brother is in the ranks, Major Stapylton,” said she, flushing a deep scarlet; and Barrington quickly interposed,—
“It was the wild frolic of a young man to escape a profession he had no mind for.”
“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 ofcamaraderiewhich it engenders.”
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.”
“Might we not occasionally borrow from our neighbors with advantage?” asked Stapylton, blandly.
“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.”
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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!”
“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.
“How long have you been there?” asked he, hurriedly.
“A few seconds.''
“And what have you heard me say?”
“That you wanted a colleague, or a companion of some sort; and as I was the only useless person here, I offered myself.”
“In good faith?”
“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.”
“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.”
“Which means a flattery at the outset,” said she, smiling.
“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?”
“You, by all means, since you know nothing of the locality.”
“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.”
“All this means a very long excursion, does it not?”
“You have just told me that you were free from all engagement.”
“Yes; but not from all control. I must ask Aunt Dinah's leave before I set out on this notable expedition.”
“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.”
“What a rebel against authority you are for one so despotic yourself!”
“I despotic! Who ever called me so?”
“Your officers say as much.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“What could it signify to you how you were thought of in this lonely spot?”
“More than you suspect,—more than you would, perhaps, credit,” said he, feelingly.
There was a little pause, during which they walked along side by side.
“What are you thinking of?” said she, at last
“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 sayyouto the project?”
“For us the exchange will be all a gain.”
“I want your opinion,—your own,” said he, with a voice reduced to a mere whisper.
“I'd like it of all things; although, if I were your sister or your daughter, I'd not counsel it.”
“And why not, if you were my sister?” said he, with a certain constraint in his manner.
“I'd say it was inglorious to change from the noble activity of a soldier's life to come and dream away existence here.”
“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.”
“I think you are not just to him. If I read him aright, he is burning for an occasion to distinguish himself.”
A cold shrug of the shoulders was his only acknowledgment of this speech, and again a silence fell between them.
“I would rather talk ofyou, if you would let me,” said he, with much significance of voice and manner. “Say would you like to have me for your neighbor?”
“It would be a pleasant exchange for Major M'Cormick,” said she, laughing.
“I want you to be serious now. What I am asking you interests me too deeply to jest over.”
“First of all, is the project a serious one?”
“It is.”
“Next, why ask advice from one as inexperienced as I am?”
“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.”
“We never met till yesterday,” said she, calmly.
“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.”
“I do not think I ought to do this—I do not know if you should ask it.”
“May I speak to your grandfather—may I tell him what I have told you—may I say, 'It is with Josephine's permission—'”
“I am called Miss Barrington, sir, by all but those of my own family.”
“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.”
“This is the shortest way back to the cottage,” said she, turning into a narrow path in the wood.
“It does not lead to my hope,” said he, despondingly; and no more was uttered between them for some paces.
“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.”
“Can we not talk of what will exact no such sacrifice?” said she, calmly.
“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 toyoumay be a caprice may tomebe a destiny.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Not one, sir! The lesson my frankness has taught me is, never to incur this peril again.”
“Do you part from me in anger?”
“Not withyou; but I will not answer for myself if you press me further.”
“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.
“What do you think of it, Dinah?” said Barrington, as they sat in conclave the next morning in her own sitting-room.
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.”
“But his proposal, Dinah,—his proposal?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?'”
“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?'”
“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?”
“Not one of them. I never found myself till to-day in a position to inquire after them.”
“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, takemyword for it, we shall sift the evidence carefully.”
“Bear in mind, sister Dinah, that this gentleman is, first of all, our guest.”
“The first of all that I mean to bear in mind is, that he desires to be your grandson.”
“Of course,—of course. I would only observe on the reserve that should be maintained towards one who honors us with his presence.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“With Withering, I suppose, to assist you?”
“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.”
Barrington smiled faintly at the dry jest, but said nothing.
“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.”
“Upon my life, they were pleasant days, too,” said Barrington, but in a tone so low as to be unheard by his sister.
“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.”
“Yes, yes; come in,” said Miss Barrington. “I only wish you had arrived a little earlier. What is your note about?”
“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.'”
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“After all, Dinah, it is not that he holds us more cheaply, but rates himself higher.”
“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.”
“Well, sir, be proud of your client,” said she, trembling with anger.
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
“'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.
“Ah!” said the lawyer, “this is another guess sort of man, and a very different sort of proposal.”
“I suspected that he was a favorite of yours,” said Miss Dinah, significantly.
“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.”
“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.”
“From which I opine that he is not fortunate enough to number Miss Dinah Barrington amongst his supporters?”
“You are right there, sir. The prejudice I had against him before we met has been strengthened since I have seen him.”
“It is candid of you, however, to call it a prejudice,” said he, with a smile.
“Be it so, Mr. Withering; but prejudice is only another word for an instinct.”
“I 'm afraid if we get into ethics we 'll forget all about the proposal,” said Barrington.
“What a sarcasm!” cried Withering, “that if we talk of morals we shall ignore matrimony.”
“I like the man, and I like his letter,” said Barrington.
“I distrust both one and the other,” said Miss Dinah.
“I almost fancy I could hold a brief on either side,” interposed Withering.
“Of course you could, sir; and if the choice were open to you, it would be the defence of the guilty.”
“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.”
“No, sir, he wishes to draw at sight, though he has never shown us the letter of credit.”
“I vow to Heaven it is hopeless to expect anything practical when you two stand up together for a sparring-match,” cried Barrington.
“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.”
“Yes,” chimed in Withering, “all that is very businesslike and reasonable.”
“And it pledges us to nothing,” added she. “We take soundings, but we don't promise to anchor.”
“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?”
“With the exercise of a little tact, Barrington,—a little management—”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“I 'll do it in a manner that shall satisfymyconscience andhispresumption.”
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.
“Will that do?” said she, showing the lines to Withering.
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.”
“May I see it, Dinah?” asked Peter.
“You shall hear it, brother,” said she, taking the paper and reading,—
“'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.'”
“Oh, sister, you will not send this?”
“As sure as my name is Dinah Barrington.”