In the times before telegraphs,—and it is of such I am writing,—a hurried express was a far more stirring event than in these our days of incessant oracles. While, therefore, Barrington and his sister and Withering sat in deep consultation on Josephine's fate and future, a hasty summons arrived from Dublin, requiring the instantaneous departure of Stapylton, whose regiment was urgently needed in the north of England, at that time agitated by those disturbances called the Bread Riots. They were very formidable troubles, and when we look back upon them now, with the light which the great events of later years on the Continent afford us, seem more terrible still. It was the fashion, however, then, to treat them lightly, and talk of them contemptuously; and as Stapylton was eating a hasty luncheon before departure, he sneered at the rabble, and scoffed at the insolent pretension of their demands. Neither Barrington nor Withering sympathized with the spirit of the revolt, and yet each felt shocked at the tone of haughty contempt Stapylton assumed towards the people. “You'll see,” cried he, rising, “how a couple of brisk charges from our fellows will do more to bring these rascals to reason than all the fine pledges of your Parliament folk; and I promise you, for my own part, if I chance upon one of their leaders, I mean to lay my mark on him.”
“I fear, sir, it is your instinctive dislike to the plebeian that moves you here,” said Miss Dinah. “You will not entertain the question whether these people may not have some wrongs to complain of.”
“Perhaps so, madam,” said he; and his swarthy face grew darker as he spoke. “I suppose this is the case where the blood of a gentleman boils indignantly at the challenge of thecanaille.”
“I will not have a French word applied to our own people, sir,” said she, angrily.
“Well said,” chimed in Withering. “It is wonderful how a phrase can seem to carry an argument along with it.”
And old Peter smiled, and nodded his concurrence with this speech.
“What a sad minority do I stand in!” said Stapylton, with an effort to smile very far from successful. “Will not Miss Josephine Barrington have generosity enough to aid the weaker side?”
“Not if it be the worst cause,” interposed Dinah. “My niece needs not to be told she must be just before she is generous.”
“Then it is to your own generosity I will appeal,” said Stapylton, turning to her; “and I will ask you to ascribe some, at least, of my bitterness to the sorrow I feel at being thus summoned away. Believe me it is no light matter to leave this place and its company.”
“But only for a season, and a very brief season too, I trust,” said Barrington. “You are going away in our debt, remember.”
“It is a loser's privilege, all the world over, to withdraw when he has lost enough,” said Stapylton, with a sad smile towards Miss Dinah; and though the speech was made in the hope it might elicit a contradiction, none came, and a very awkward silence ensued.
“You will reach Dublin to-night, I suppose?” said Withering, to relieve the painful pause in the conversation.
“It will be late,—after midnight, perhaps.”
“And embark the next morning?”
“Two of our squadrons have sailed already; the others will, of course, follow to-morrow.”
“And young Conyers,” broke in Miss Dinah,—“he will, I suppose, accompany this—what shall I call it?—this raid?”
“Yes, madam. Am I to convey to him your compliments upon the first opportunity to flesh his maiden sword?”
“You are to do nothing of the kind, sir; but tell him from me not to forget that the angry passions of a starving multitude are not to be confounded with the vindictive hate of our natural enemies.”
“Natural enemies, my dear Miss Barrington! I hope you cannot mean that there exists anything so monstrous in humanity as a natural enemy?”
“I do, sir; and I mean all those whose jealousy of us ripens into hatred, and who would spill their heart's blood to see us humbled. When there exists a people like this, and who at every fresh outbreak of a war with us have carried into the new contest all the bitter animosities of long past struggles as debts to be liquidated, I call these natural enemies; and, if you prefer a shorter word for it, I call them Frenchmen.”
“Dinah, Dinah!”
“Peter, Peter! don't interrupt me. Major Stapylton has thought to tax me with a blunder, but I accept it as a boast!”
“Madam, I am proud to be vanquished by you,” said Stapylton, bowing low.
“And I trust, sir,” said she, continuing her speech, and as if heedless of his interruption, “that no similarity of name will make you behave at Peterloo—if that be the name—as though you were at Waterloo.”
“Upon my life!” cried he, with a saucy laugh, “I don't know how I am to win your good opinion, except it be by tearing off my epaulettes, and putting myself at the head of the mob.”
“You know very little of my sister, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, “or you would scarcely have selected that mode of cultivating her favor.”
“There is a popular belief that ladies always side with the winning cause,” said Stapylton, affecting a light and easy manner; “so I must do my best to be successful. May I hope I carry yourgoodwishes away with me?” said he, in a lower tone to Josephine.
“I hope that nobody will hurt you, and you hurt nobody,” said she, laughingly.
“And this, I take it, is about as much sympathy as ever attends a man on such a campaign. Mr. Barrington, will you grant me two minutes of conversation in your own room?” And, with a bow of acquiescence, Barrington led the way to his study.
“I ought to have anticipated your request, Major Stapyl-ton,” said Barrington, when they found themselves alone. “I owe you a reply to your letter, but the simple fact is, I do not know what answer to give it; for while most sensible of the honor you intend us, I feel still there is much to be explained on both sides. We know scarcely anything of each other, and though I am conscious of the generosity which prompts a man withyourprospects and inyourposition to ally himself with persons inours, yet I owe it to myself to say, it hangs upon a contingency to restore us to wealth and station. Even a portion of what I claim from the East India Company would make my granddaughter one of the richest heiresses in England.”
Stapylton gave a cold, a very cold smile, in reply to this speech. It might mean that he was incredulous or indifferent, or it might imply that the issue was one which need not have been introduced into the case at all. Whatever its signification, Barrington felt hurt by it, and hastily said,—
“Not that I have any need to trouble you with these details: it is rather my province to ask for information regardingyourcircumstances than to enter upon a discussion ofours.”
“I am quite ready to give you the very fullest and clearest,—I mean to yourself personally, or to your sister; for, except where the lawyer intervenes of necessity andde droit, I own that I resent his presence as an insult. I suppose few of us are devoid of certain family circumstances which it would be more agreeable to deal with in confidence; and though, perhaps, I am as fortunate as most men in this respect, there are one or two small matters on which I would ask your attention. These, however, are neither important nor pressing. My first care is to know,—and I hope I am not peremptory in asking it,—have I your consent to the proposition contained in my letter; am I at liberty to address Miss Barrington?”
Barrington flushed deeply and fidgeted; he arose and sat down again,—all his excitement only aggravated by the well-bred composure of the other, who seemed utterly unconscious of the uneasiness he was causing.
“Don't you think, Major, that this is a case for a little time to reflect,—that in a matter so momentous as this, a few days at least are requisite for consideration? We ought to ascertain something at least of my granddaughter's own sentiments,—I mean, of course, in a general way. It might be, too, that a day or two might give us some better insight into her future prospects.”
“Pardon my interrupting you; but, on the last point, I am perfectly indifferent. Miss Barrington with half a province for her dower, would be no more in my eyes than Miss Barrington as she sat at breakfast this morning. Nor is there anything of high-flown sentiment in this declaration, as my means are sufficiently ample for all that I want or care.”
“There, at least, is one difficulty disposed of. You are an eldest son?” said he; and he blushed at his own boldness in making the inquiry.
“I am an only son.”
“Easier again,” said Barrington, trying to laugh off the awkward moment. “No cutting down one's old timber to pay off the provisions for younger brothers.”
“In my case there is no need of this.”
“And your father. Is he still living, Major Stapylton?”
“My father has been dead some years.”
Barrington fidgeted again, fumbled with his watch-chain and his eye-glass, and would have given more than he could afford for any casualty that should cut short the interview. He wanted to say, “What is the amount of your fortune? What is it? Where is it? Are you Wiltshire or Staffordshire? Who are your uncles and aunts, and your good friends that you pray for, and where do you pray for them?” A thousand questions of this sort arose in his mind, one only more prying and impertinent than another. He knew he ought to ask them; he knew Dinah would have asked them. Ay, and would have the answers to them as plain and palpable as the replies to a life assurance circular; but he could n't do it. No; not if his life depended on it.
He had already gone further in his transgression of good manners than it ever occurred to him before to do, and he felt something between a holy inquisitor and a spy of the police.
Stapylton looked at his watch, and gave a slight start.
“Later than you thought, eh?” cried Peter, overjoyed at the diversion.
Stapylton smiled a cold assent, and put up his watch without a word. He saw all the confusion and embarrassment of the other, and made no effort to relieve him. At last, but not until after a considerable pause, he said,—“I believe, Mr. Barrington,—I hope, at least,—I have satisfactorily answered the questions which, with every right on your part, you have deemed proper to put to me. I cannot but feel how painful the task has been to you, and I regret it the more, since probably it has set a limit to inquiries which you are perfectly justified in making, but which closer relations between us may make a matter far less formidable one of these days.”
“Yes, yes,—just so; of course,” said Barrington, hurriedly assenting to he knew not what.
“And I trust I take my leave of you with the understanding that when we meet again, it shall be as in the commencement of these pleasanter relations. I own to you I am the more eager on this point, that I perceive your sister, Miss Barrington, scarcely regards me very favorably, and I stand the more in need of your alliance.”
“I don't think it possible, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, boldly, “that my sister and I could have two opinions upon anything or anybody.”
“Then I only ask that she may partake of yours on this occasion,” said Stapylton, bowing. “But I must start; as it is, I shall be very late in Dublin. Will you present my most respectful adieux to the ladies, and say also a goodbye for me to Mr. Withering?”
“You'll come in for a moment to the drawing-room, won't you?” cried Barrington.
“I think not. I opine it would be better not. There would be a certain awkwardness about it,—that is, until you have informed Miss Dinah Barrington of the extent to which you have accorded me your confidence, and how completely I have opened every detail of my circumstances. I believe it would be in better taste not to present myself. Tell Withering that if he writes, Manchester will find me. I don't suspect he need give himself any more trouble about establishing the proofs of marriage. They will scarcely contest that point. The great question will and must be, to ascertain if the Company will cease to oppose the claim on being fully convinced that the letter to the Meer Busherat was a forgery, and that no menace ever came from Colonel Barrington's hand as to the consequences of opposing his rule. Get them to admit this,—let the issue rest upon this,—and it will narrow the whole suit within manageable limits.”
“Would you not say this much to him before you go? It would come with so much more force and clearness from yourself.”
“I have done so till I was wearied. Like a true lawyer, he insists upon proving each step as he goes, and will not condescend to a hypothetical conclusion, though I have told him over and over again we want a settlement, not a victory. Good-bye, good-bye! If I once launch out into the cause, I cannot tear myself away again.”
“Has your guest gone, Peter?” said Miss Dinah, as her brother re-entered the drawing-room.
“Yes; it was a hurried departure, and he had no great heart for it, either. By the way, Withering, while it is fresh in my head, let me tell you the message he has sent you.”
“Was there none forme, Peter?” said she, scofflngly.
“Ay, but there was, Dinah! He left with me I know not how many polite and charming things to say for him.”
“And am I alone forgotten in this wide dispensation of favors?” asked Josephine, smiling.
“Of course not, dear,” chimed in Miss Dinah. “Your grandpapa has been charged with them all. You could not expect a gentleman so naturally timid and bashful as our late guest to utter them by his own lips.”
“I see,” said Withering, laughing, “that you have not forgiven the haughty aristocrat for his insolent estimate of the people!”
“He an aristocrat! Such bitter words as his never fell from any man who had a grandfather!”
“Wrong for once, Dinah,” broke in Barrington. “I can answer for it that you are unjust to him.”
“We shall see,” said she. “Come, Josephine, I have a whole morning's work before me in the flower-garden, and I want your help. Don't forget, Peter, that Major M'Cormick's butler, or boatman, or bailiff, whichever he be, has been up here with a present of seakale this morning. Give him something as you pass the kitchen; and you, Mr. Withering, whose trade it is to read and unravel mysteries, explain if you can the meaning of this unwonted generosity.”
“I suppose we can all guess it,” said he, laughing. “It's a custom that begins in the East and goes round the whole world till it reaches the vast prairie in the Far West.”
“And what can that custom be, Aunt Dinah?” asked Josephine, innocently.
“It's an ancient rite Mr. Withering speaks, of, child, pertaining to the days when men offered sacrifices. Come along; I 'm going!”
While Barrington and his lawyer sat in conclave over the details of the great suit, Stapylton hurried along his road with all the speed he could summon. The way, which for some miles led along the river-side, brought into view M'Cormick's cottage, and the Major himself, as he stood listlessly at his door.'
Halting his carriage for a moment, Stapylton jumped out and drew nigh the little quickset hedge which flanked the road.
“What can I do for you in the neighborhood of Manchester, Major? We are just ordered off there to ride down the Radicals.”
“I wish it was nearer home you were going to do it,” said he, crankily. “Look here,”—and he pointed to some fresh-turned earth,—“they were stealing my turnips last night.”
“It would appear that these fellows in the North are growing dangerous,” said Stapylton.
“'T is little matter to us,” said M'Cormick, sulkily. “I'd care more about a blight in the potatoes than for all the politics in Europe.”
“A genuine philosopher! How snug you are here, to be sure! A man in a pleasant nook like this can well afford to smile at the busy ambitions of the outer world. I take it you are about the very happiest fellow I know?”
“Maybe I am, maybe I'm not,” said he, peevishly.
“This spot only wants what I hinted to you t'other evening, to be perfection.”
“Ay!” said the other, dryly.
“And you agree with me heartily, if you had the candor to say it. Come, out with it, man, at once. I saw your gardener this morning with a great basketful of greenery, and a large bouquet on the top of it,—are not these significant signs of a projected campaign? You are wrong, Major, upon my life you are wrong, not to be frank with me. I could, by a strange hazard, as the newspapers say, 'tell you something to your advantage.'”
“About what?”
“About the very matter you were thinking of as I drove up. Come, I will be more generous than you deserve.” And, laying his arm on M'Cormick's shoulder, he halt whispered in his ear; “It is a good thing,—a deuced good thing! and I promise you, if I were a marrying man, you 'd have a competitor. I won't say she 'll have one of the great fortunes people rave about, but it will be considerable,—very considerable.”
“How do you know, or what do you know?”
“I 'll tell you in three words. How I know is, because I have been the channel for certain inquiries they made in India. What I know is, the Directors are sick of the case, they are sorely ashamed of it, and not a little uneasy lest it should come before the public, perhaps before the Parliament. Old Barrington has made all negotiation difficult by the extravagant pretensions he puts forward about his son's honor, and so forth. If, however, the girl were married, her husband would be the person to treat with, and I am assured with him they would deal handsomely, even generously.”
“And why would n't all this make a marrying man of you, though you were n't before?”
“There's a slight canonical objection, if you must know,” said Stapylton, with a smile.
“Oh, I perceive,—a wife already! In India, perhaps?”
“I have no time just now for a long story, M'Cormick,” said he, familiarly, “nor am I quite certain I 'd tell it if I had. However, you know enough for all practical purposes, and I repeat to you this is a stake I can't enter for,—you understand me?”
“There's another thing, now,” said M'Cormick; “and as we are talking so freely together, there's no harm in mentioning it. It 's only the other day, as I may call it, that we met for the first time?”
“Very true: when I was down here at Cobham.”
“And never heard of each other before?”
“Not to my knowledge, certainly.”
“That being the case, I 'm curious to hear how you took this wonderful interest in me. It wasn't anything in my appearance, I 'm sure, nor my manner; and as to what you 'd hear about me among those blackguards down here, there's nothing too bad to say of me.”
“I'll be as frank as yourself,” said Stapylton, boldly; “you ask for candor, and you shall have it. I had n't talked ten minutes with you till I saw that you were a thorough man of the world; the true old soldier, who had seen enough of life to know that whatever one gets for nothing in this world is just worth nothing, and so I said to myself, 'If it ever occurs to me to chance upon a good opportunity of which I cannot from circumstances avail myself, there's my man. I'll go to him and say, “M'Cormick, that's open to you, there's a safe thing!” And when in return he 'd say, “Stapylton, what can I do for you?” my answer would be, “Wait till you are satisfied that I have done you a good turn; be perfectly assured that I have really served you.” And then, if I wanted a loan of a thousand or fifteen hundred to lodge for the Lieutenant-Colonelcy, I 'd not be ashamed to say, “M'Cormick, let me have so much.”'”
“That'sit, is it?” said M'Cormick, with a leer of intense cunning. “Not a bad bargain foryou, anyhow. It is not every day that a man can sell what is n't his own.”
“I might say, it's not every day that a man regards a possible loan as a gift, but I 'm quite ready to reassure all your fears on that score; I'll even pledge myself never to borrow a shilling from you.”
“Oh, I don't mean that; you took me up so quick,” said the old fellow, reddening with a sense of shame he had not felt for many a year. “I may be as stingy as they call me, but for all that I 'd stand to a man who stands tome.”
“Between gentlemen and men of the world these things are better left to a sense of an honorable understanding than made matters of compact. There is no need of another word on the matter. I shall be curious, however, to know how your project speeds. Write to me,—you have plenty of time,—and write often. I 'm not unlikely to learn something about the Indian claim, and if I do, you shall hear of it.”
“I'm not over good at pen and ink work; indeed, I haven't much practice, but I'll do my best.”
“Do, by all means. Tell me how you get on with Aunt Dinah, who, I suspect, has no strong affection for either of us. Don't be precipitate; hazard nothing by a rash step; secure your way by intimacy, mere intimacy: avoid particular attentions strictly; be always there, and on some pretext or other—But why do I say all this to an old soldier, who has made such sieges scores of times?”
“Well, I think I see my way clear enough,” said the old fellow, with a grin. “I wish I was as sure I knew why you take such an interest in me.”
“I believe I have told you already; I hope there is nothing so strange in the assurance as to require corroboration. Come, I must say good-bye; I meant to have said five words to you, and I have stayed here five-and-twenty minutes.”
“Would n't you take something?—could n't I offer you anything?” said M'Cormick, hesitatingly.
“Nothing, thanks. I lunched before I started; and although old Dinah made several assaults upon me while I ate, I managed to secure two cutlets and part of a grouse-pie, and a rare glass of Madeira to wash them down.”
“That old woman is dreadful, and I'll take her down a peg yet, as sure as my name is Dan.”
“No, don't, Major; don't do anything of the kind. The people who tame tigers are sure to get scratched at last, and nobody thanks them for their pains. Regard her as the sailors do a fire-ship; give her a wide berth, and steer away from her.”
“Ay, but she sometimes gives chase.”
“Strike your flag, then, if it must be; for, trust me, you 'll not conquerher.”
“We 'll see, we 'll see,” muttered the old fellow, as he waved his adieux, and then turned back into the house again.
As Stapylton lay back in his carriage, he could not help muttering a malediction on the “dear friend” he had just parted with. When thebourgeois gentilhommeobjected to his adversary pushing himen tiercewhile he attacked himen quarte, he was expressing a great social want, applicable to those people who in conversation will persist in saying many things which ought not to be uttered, and expressing doubts and distrusts which, however it be reasonable to feel, are an outrage to avow.
“The old fox,” said Stapylton, aloud, “taunted me with selling what did not belong to me; but he never suspects that I have bought something without paying for it, and that something himself! Yes, the mock siege he will lay to the fortress will occupy the garrison till it suits me to open the real attack, and I will make use of him, besides, to learn whatever goes on in my absence. How the old fellow swallowed the bait! What self-esteem there must be in such a rugged nature, to make him imagine he could be successful in a cause like this! He is, after all, a clumsy agent to trust one's interest to. If the choice had been given me, I'd far rather have had a woman to watch over them. Polly Dill, for instance, the very girl to understand such a mission well. How adroitly would she have played the game, and how clearly would her letters have shown me the exact state of events!”
Such were the texts of his musings as he drove along, and deep as were his thoughts, they never withdrew him, when the emergency called, from attention to every detail of the journey, and he scrutinized the post-horses as they were led out, and apportioned the rewards to the postilions as though no heavier care lay on his heart than the road and its belongings. While he rolled thus smoothly along, Peter Barrington had been summoned to his sister's presence, to narrate in full all that he had asked, and all that he had learned of Stapylton and his fortunes.
Miss Dinah was seated in a deep armchair, behind a formidable embroidery-frame,—a thing so complex and mysterious in form as to suggest an implement of torture. At a short distance off sat Withering, with pen, ink, and paper before him, as if to set down any details of unusual importance; and into this imposing presence poor Barrington entered with a woful sense of misgiving and humiliation.
“We have got a quiet moment at last, Peter,” said Miss Barrington. “I have sent the girls over to Brown's Barn for the tulip-roots, and I have told Darby that if any visitors came they were to be informed we were particularly occupied by business, and could see no one.”
“Just so,” added Withering; “it is a case before the Judge in Chamber.”
“But what have we got to hear?” asked Barrington, with an air of innocence.
“We have got to hear your report, brother Peter; the narrative of your late conversation with Major Stapylton; given, as nearly as your memory will serve, in the exact words and in the precise order everything occurred.”
“October the twenty-third,” said Withering, writing as he spoke; “minute of interview between P. B. and Major S. Taken on the same morning it occurred, with remarks and observations explanatory.”
“Begin,” said Dinah, imperiously, while she worked away without lifting her head. “And avoid, so far as possible, anything beyond the precise expression employed.”
“But you don't suppose I took notes in shorthand of what we said to each other, do you?”
“I certainly suppose you can have retained in your memory a conversation that took place two hours ago,” said Miss Dinah, sternly.
“And can relate it circumstantially and clearly,” added Withering.
“Then I 'm very sorry to disappoint you, but I can do nothing of the kind.”
“Do you mean to say that you had no interview with Major Stapylton, Peter?”
“Or that you have forgotten all about it?” said Withering.
“Or is it that you have taken a pledge of secrecy, brother Peter?”
“No, no, no! It is simply this, that though I retain a pretty fair general impression of what I said myself, and what he said afterwards, I could no more pretend to recount it accurately than I could say off by heart a scene in 'Romeo and Juliet.'”
“Why don't you take the 'Comedy of Errors' for your illustration, Peter Barrington? I ask you, Mr. Withering, have you in all your experience met anything like this?”
“It would go hard with a man in the witness-box to make such a declaration, I must say.”
“What would a jury think of, what would a judge say to him?” said she, using the most formidable of all penalties to her brother's imagination. “Wouldn't the court tell him that he would be compelled to speak out?”
“They'd have it out on the cross-examination, at all events, if not on the direct.”
“In the name of confusion, what do you want with me?” exclaimed Peter, in despair.
“We want everything,—everything that you heard about this man. Who he is, what he is; what by the father's side, what by the mother's; what are his means, and where; who knows him, who are his associates. Bear in mind that to us, here, he has dropped out of the clouds.”
“And gone back there too,” added Withering.
“I wish to Heaven he had taken me with him!” sighed Peter, drearily.
“I think in this case, Miss Barrington,” said Withering, with a well-affected gravity, “we had better withdraw a juror, and accept a nonsuit.”
“I have done with it altogether,” said she, gathering up her worsted and her needles, and preparing to leave the room.
“My dear Dinah,” said Barrington, entreatingly, “imagine a man as wanting in tact as I am,—and as timid, too, about giving casual offence,—conducting such an inquiry as you committed to my hands. Fancy how, at every attempt to obtain information, his own boldness, I might call it rudeness, stared him in the face, till at last, rather than push his investigations, he grew puzzled how to apologize for his prying curiosity.”
“Brother, brother, this is too bad! It had been better to have thought more of your granddaughter's fate and less of your own feelings.” And with this she flounced out of the room, upsetting a spider-table, and a case of stuffed birds that stood on it, as she passed.
410
“I don't doubt but she 's right, Tom,” said Peter, when the door closed.
“Did he not tell you who he was, and what his fortune? Did you really learn nothing from him?”
“He told me everything; and if I had not been so cruelly badgered, I could have repeated every word of it; but you never made a hound true to the scent by flogging him, Tom,—is n't that a fact, eh?” And consoled by an illustration that seemed so pat to his case, he took his hat and strolled out into the garden.
In a snug little room of the Old Ship Hotel, at Dover, a large, heavy man, with snow-white hair, and moustaches,—the latter less common in those days than the present,—sat at table with a younger one, so like him that no doubt could have existed as to their being father and son. They had dined, and were sitting over their wine, talking occasionally, but oftener looking fondly and affectionately at each other; and once, by an instinct of sudden love, grasping each other's hand, and sitting thus several minutes without a word on either side.
“You did not expect me before to-morrow, Fred,” said the old man, at last.
“No, father,” replied young Conyers. “I saw by the newspapers that you were to dine at the Tuileries on Tuesday, and I thought you would not quit Paris the same evening.”
“Yes; I started the moment I took off my uniform. I wanted to be with you, my boy; and the royal politeness that detained me was anything but a favor. How you have grown, Fred,—almost my own height, I believe.”
“The more like you the better,” said the youth, as his eyes ran over, and the old man turned away to hide his emotion.
After a moment he said: “How strange you should not have got my letters, Fred; but, after all, it is just as well as it is. I wrote in a very angry spirit, and was less just than a little cool reflection might have made me. They made no charges against me, though I thought they had. There were grumblings and discontents, and such-like. They called me a Rajah, and raked up all the old stories they used to circulate once on a time about a far better fellow—”
“You mean Colonel Barrington, don't you?” said Fred.
“Where or how did you hear of that name?” said the old man, almost sternly.
“An accident made me the guest of his family, at a little cottage they live in on an hish river. I passed weeks there, and, through the favor of the name I bore, I received more kindness than I ever before met in life.”
“And they knew you to be a Conyers, and to be my son?”
“It was Colonel Barrington's aunt was my hostess, and she it was who, on hearing my name, admitted me at once to all the privileges of old friendship. She told me of the close companionship which once subsisted between you and her nephew, and gave me rolls of his letters to read wherein every line spoke of you.”
“And Mr. Barrington, the father of George, how did he receive you?”
“At first with such coolness that I could n't bring myself to recross his threshold. He had been away from home when I arrived, and the day of his return I was unexpectedly presented to him by his sister, who evidently was as unprepared as myself for the reception I met with.”
“And what was that reception,—how was it? Tell me all as it happened.”
“It was the affair of a moment. Miss Barrington introduced me, saying, 'This is the son of poor George's dearest friend,—this is a Conyers;' and the old man faltered, and seemed like to faint, and after a moment stammered out something about an honor he had never counted upon,—a visit he scarcely could have hoped for; and, indeed, so overcome was he that he staggered into the house only to take to his bed, where he lay seriously ill for several days after.”
“Poor fellow! It was hard to forgive,—very hard.”
“Ay, but he has forgiven it—whatever it was—heartily, and wholly forgiven it. We met afterwards by a chance in Germany, and while I was hesitating how to avoid a repetition of the painful scene which marked our first meeting, he came manfully towards me with his hand out, and said, 'I have a forgiveness to beg of you; and if you only know how I long to obtain it, you would scarce say me no.'”
“The worthy father of poor George! I think I hear him speak the very words himself. Go on, Fred,—go on, and tell me further.”
“There is no more to tell, sir, unless I speak of all the affectionate kindness he has shown,—the trustfulness and honor with which he has treated me. I have been in his house like his own son.”
“Ah! if you had known that son! If you had seen what a type of a soldier he was! The most intrepid, the boldest fellow that ever breathed; but with a heart of childlike simplicity and gentleness. I could tell you traits of him, of his forbearance, his forgiveness, his generous devotion to friendship, that would seem to bespeak a nature that had no room for other than soft and tender emotion; and yet, if ever there was a lion's heart within a man's bosom it was his.” For a moment or two the old man seemed overcome by his recollections, and then, as if by an effort, rallying himself, he went on: “You have often heard the adage, Fred, that enjoins watching one's pennies and leaving the pounds to take care of themselves; and yet, trust me, the maxim is truer as applied to our morals than our money. It is by the smaller, finer, and least important traits of a man that his fate in life is fashioned. The caprices we take no pains to curb, the tempers we leave unchecked, the petty indulgences we extend to our vanity and self-love,—these are the great sands that wreck us far oftener than the more stern and formidable features of our character. I ought to know this truth; I myself lost the best and truest and the noblest friend that ever man had, just from the exercise of a spirit of bantering and ridicule which amused those about me, and gave me that pre-eminence which a sarcastic and witty spirit is sure to assert. You know already how George Barrington and I lived together like brothers. I do not believe two men ever existed more thoroughly and sincerely attached to each other. All the contrarieties of our dispositions served but to heighten the interest that linked us together. As for myself, I was never wearied in exploring the strange recesses of that great nature that seemed to unite all that could be daring and dashing in man with the tenderness of a woman. I believe I knew him far better than he knew himself. But to come to what I wanted to tell you, and which is an agony to me to dwell on. Though for a long while our close friendship was known in the regiment, and spoken of as a thing incapable of change, a sort of rumor—no, not even a rumor, but an impression—seemed to gain, that the ties between us were looser on my side than his; that George looked up tome, and that I, with the pride of a certain superiority, rather lorded it overhim. This feeling became painfully strengthened when it got about that Barrington had lent me the greater part of the purchase-money for my troop,—a promotion, by the way, which barred his own advancement,—and it was whispered, so at least I heard, that Barrington was a mere child in my hands, whom I rebuked or rewarded at pleasure. If I could have traced these rumors to any direct source, I could have known how to deal with them. As it was, they were vague, shadowy, and unreal; and their very unsubstantiality maddened me the more. To have told George of them would have been rasher still. The thought of a wrong done tomewould have driven him beyond all reason, and he would infallibly have compromised himself beyond recall. It was the very first time in my life I had a secret from him, and it eat into my heart like a virulent disease. The consciousness that I was watched, the feeling that eyes were upon me marking all I did, and tongues were commenting on all I said, exasperated me, and at one moment I would parade my friendship for Barrington in a sort of spirit of defiance, and at another, as though to give the lie to my slanderers, treat him with indifference and carelessness, as it were, to show that I was not bound to him by the weight of a direct obligation, and that our relations involved nothing of dependence. It was when, by some cruel mischance, I had been pursuing this spirit to its extreme, that the conversation one night at mess turned upon sport and tiger-hunting. Many stories were told, of course, and we had the usual narratives of hairbreadth escapes and perils of the most appalling kind; till, at length, some one—I forget exactly who it was—narrated a single-handed encounter with a jaguar, which in horror exceeded anything we had heard before. The details were alone not so terrible, but the circumstances so marvellous, that one and all who listened cried out, 'Who did it?'
“'The man who told me the tale,' replied the narrator, 'and who will probably be back to relate it here to you in a few days,—Colonel Barrington.'
“I have told you the devilish spirit which had me in possession. I have already said that I was in one of those moods of insolent mockery in which nothing was sacred to me. No sooner, then, did I hear Barrington's name than I burst into a hearty laugh, and said, 'Oh! if it was one of George Barrington's tigers, you ought to have mentioned that fact at the outset. You have been exciting our feelings unfairly.'
“'I assume that his statement was true,' said the other, gravely.
“'Doubtless; just as battle-pieces are true, that is, pic-torially true. The tiger did nothing that a tiger ought not to do, nor did George transgress any of those “unities” which such combats require. At the same time, Barring-ton's stories have always a something about them that stamps the authorship, and you recognize this trait just as you do a white horse in a picture by Wouvermans.'
“In this strain I went on, heated by my own warmed imagination, and the approving laughter of those around me. I recounted more than one feat of Barrington's,—things which I knew he had done, some of them almost incredible in boldness. These I told with many a humorous addition and many an absurd commentary, convulsing the listeners with laughter, and rendering my friend ridiculous.
“He came back from the hills within the week, and before he was two hours in his quarters he had heard the whole story. We were at luncheon in the mess-room when he entered, flushed and excited, but far more moved by emotion than resentment.
“'Ormsby,' said he, 'you may laugh at me to your heart's content and I'll never grumble at it; but there are some young officers here who, not knowing the ties that attach us, may fancy that these quizzings pass the limits of mere drollery, and even jeopardize something of my truthfulness.You, I know, never meant this any more than I have felt it, but others might, and might, besides, on leaving this and sitting at other tables, repeat what they had heard here. Tell them that you spoke of me as you have a free right to do, in jest, and that your ridicule was the good-humored banter of a friend,—of a friend who never did, never could, impugn my honor.'
“His eyes were swimming over, and his lips trembling, as he uttered the last words. I see him now, as he stood there, his very cheek shaking in agitation. That brave, bold fellow, who would have marched up to a battery without quailing, shook like a sickly girl.
“'Am I to say that you never draw the long-bow, George?' asked I, half insolently.
“'You are to say, sir, that I never told a lie,' cried he, dark with passion.
“'Oh, this discussion will be better carried on elsewhere,' said I, as I arose and left the room.
“As I was in the wrong, totally in the wrong, I was passionate and headstrong. I sat down and wrote a most insolent letter to Barrington. I turned all the self-hate that was consumingmeagainst my friend, and said I know not what of outrage and insult. I did worse; I took a copy of my letter, and declared that I would read it to the officers in the mess-room. He sent a friend to me to beg I would not take this course of open insult. My answer was, 'Colonel Barrington knows his remedy.' When I sent this message, I prepared for what I felt certain would follow. I knew Barrington so well that I thought even the delay of an hour, then two hours, strange. At length evening drew nigh, and, though I sat waiting in my quarters, no one came from him,—not a letter nor a line apprised me what course he meant to take.
“Not caring to meet the mess at such a moment, I ordered my horses and drove up to a small station about twenty miles off, leaving word where I was to be found. I passed three days there in a state of fevered expectancy. Barrington made no sign, and, at length, racked and distressed by the conflict with myself,—now summoning up an insolent spirit of defiance to the whole world, now humbling myself in a consciousness of the evil line I had adopted,—I returned one night to my quarters. The first news that greeted me was that Barrington had left us. He had accepted the offer of a Native command which had been made to him some months before, and of which we had often canvassed together all the advantages and disadvantages. I heard that he had written two letters to me before he started, and torn them up after they were sealed. I never heard from him, never saw him more, till I saw his dead body carried into camp the morning he fell.
“I must get to the end of this quickly, Fred, and I will tell you all at once, for it is a theme I will never go back on. I came to England with despatches about two years after Barrington's death. It was a hurried visit, for I was ordered to hold myself in readiness to return almost as soon as I arrived. I was greatly occupied, going about from place to place, and person to person, so many great people desired to have a verbal account of what was doing in India, and to hear confidentially what I thought of matters there. In the midst of the mass of letters which the post brought me every morning, and through which, without the aid of an officer on the staff, I could never have got through, there came one whose singular address struck me. It was to 'Captain Ormsby Conyers, 22d Light Dragoons,' a rank I had held fourteen years before that time in that same regiment. I opined at once that my correspondent must have been one who had known me at that time and not followed me in the interval. I was right. It was from old Mr. Barrington,—George Barrington's father. What version of my quarrel with his son could have reached him, I cannot even guess, nor by what light he read my conduct in the affair; but such a letter I never read in my life. It was a challenge to meet him anywhere, and with any weapon, but couched in language so insulting as to impugn my courage, and hint that I would probably shelter myself behind the pretext of his advanced age. 'But remember,' said he, 'if God has permitted me to be an old man, it isyouwho have made me a childless one!'”
For a few seconds he paused, overcome by emotion, and then went on: “I sat down and wrote him a letter of contrition, almost abject in its terms. I entreated him to believe that for every wrong I had done his noble-hearted son, my own conscience had repaid me in misery ten times told; that if he deemed my self-condemnation insufficient, it was open to him to add to it whatever he wished of obloquy or shame; that if he proclaimed me a coward before the world, and degraded me in the eyes of men, I would not offer one word in my defence. I cannot repeat all that I said in my deep humiliation. His answer came at last, one single line, re-enclosing my own letter to me: 'Lest I should be tempted to make use of this letter, I send it back to you; there is no need of more between us.'
“With this our intercourse ceased. When a correspondence was published in the 'Barrington Inquiry,' as it was called, I half hoped he would have noticed some letters of mine about George; but he never did, and in his silence I thought I read his continued unforgiveness.”
“I hope, father, that you never believed the charges that were made against Captain Barrington?”
“Not one of them; disloyalty was no more his than cowardice. I never knew the Englishman with such a pride of country as he had, nor could you have held out a greater bribe to him, for any achievement of peril, than to say, 'What a gain it would be for England!'”
“How was it that such a man should have had a host of enemies?”
“Nothing so natural. Barrington was the most diffident of men; his bashfulness amounted to actual pain. With strangers, this made him cold to very sternness, or, as is often seen in the effort to conquer a natural defect, gave him a manner of over-easy confidence that looked like impertinence. And thus the man who would not have wounded the self-love of the meanest beggar, got the reputation of being haughty, insolent, and oppressive. Besides this, when he was in the right, and felt himself so, he took no pains to convince others of the fact. His maxim was,—have I not heard it from his lips scores of times,—'The end will show.'”
“And yet the end will not show, father; his fame has not been vindicated, nor his character cleared.”
“In some measure the fault of those who took up his cause. They seemed less to insist on reparation than punishment. They did not say, 'Do justice to this man's memory;' but, 'Come forward and own you wronged him, and broke his heart.' Now, the accusation brought against George Barrington of assuming sovereign power was not settled by his death; his relatives forgot this, or merged it in their own charge against the Company. They mismanaged everything.”
“Is it too late to put them on the right track, father; or could you do it?” asked the youth, eagerly.
“It is not too late, boy! There is time for it yet. There is, however, one condition necessary, and I do not see how that is to be secured.”
“And what is that?”
“I should see Mr. Barrington and confer with him alone; he must admit me to his confidence, and I own to you, I scarcely deem that possible.”
“May I try—may I attempt this?”
“I do not like to refuse you, Fred: but if I say Yes, it will be to include you in my own defeated hopes. For many a year Mr. Barrington has refused to give one sign of his forgiveness; for in his treatment of you I only recognize the honorable feeling of exempting the son from the penalty due to the father. But perhaps defeat is better than self-reproach, and as I have a strong conviction I could serve him, I am ready to risk a failure.”
“I may make the attempt, then?” said Fred, eagerly. “I will write to Miss Barrington to-day.”
“And now of yourself. What of your career? How do you like soldiering, boy?”
“Less than ever, sir; it is only within the last week or two that we have seen anything beyond barrack or parade duty. Now, however, we have been called to repress what are called risings in the northern shires; and our task has been to ride at large unarmed mobs and charge down masses, whose grape-shot are brickbats. Not a very glorious campaign!”
The old man smiled, but said nothing for a moment.
“Your colonel is on leave, is he not?” asked he.
“Yes. We are commanded by that Major Stapylton I told you of.”
“A smart officer, but no friend of yours, Fred,” said the General, smiling.
“No, sir; certainly no friend of mine,” said the young man, resolutely. “To refuse me a week's leave to go and meet my father, whom I have not seen for years, and, when pressed, to accord me four days, is to disgust me with himself and the service together.”
“Well, as you cannot be my guest, Fred, I will be yours. I 'll go back with you to headquarters. Stapylton is a name I used to be familiar with long ago. It may turn out that I know his family; but let us talk of Barrington. I have been thinking it would be better not to link any question of his own interests with my desire to meet him, but simply to say I 'm in England, and wish to know if he would receive me.”
“It shall be as you wish, sir. I will write to his sister by this post.”
“And after one day in town, Fred, I am ready to accompany you anywhere.”