CHAPTER IX. MAJOR M'CORMICK'S LETTER
As it was not often that Major M'Cormick performed the part of a letter-writer, perhaps my reader will pardon me if I place him before him on one of these rare occasions. If success would always respond to labor, his would have been a real triumph; for the effort cost him many days, two sleepless nights, a headache, and half a quire of paper.
Had not Stapylton retained him by an admirably selected hamper of good things from a celebrated Italian warehouse in the Strand, I am afraid that M'Cormick's zeal might have cooled down to the zero of forgetfulness; but the reindeer hams and the Yarmouth bloaters, the potted shrimps and the preserved guavas, were an appeal that addressed themselves to that organ which with him paid the double debt of digestion and emotion. He felt that such a correspondent was worth a sacrifice, and he made it That my reader may appreciate the cost of the achievement, I would have him imagine how a mason about to build a wall should be obliged to examine each stone before he laid it, test its constituent qualities, its shape and its size,—for it was thus that almost every word occasioned the Major a reference to the dictionary, spelling not having been cultivated in his youth, nor much practised in his riper years. Graces of style, however, troubled him little; and, to recur to my figure of the stone-mason, if he was embarrassed in his search for the materials, he cared wonderfully little for the architecture. His letter ran thus, and the reader will perceive that it must have been written some weeks after the events recorded in the last chapter:—
“Mac's Nest, October, Thursday.
“Dear S.,—A touch of my old Walcheren complaint has laid me up since Tuesday, and if the shakes make me illegible now, that's the reason why. Besides this the weather is dreadful; cold east winds and rains, sometimes sleet, every day; and the turf so wet, it 's only smoke, not fire. I believe it is the worst climate in Europe, and it gets wetter every year.
“The hamper came to hand, but though it was marked 'Carriage paid, this side up,' they upset it and broke two bottles, and charged seven and fourpence-halfpenny for the bringing it, which is, I think, enormous; at least, Tim Hacket got over a thrashing-machine from Scotland last spring for twelve and four, and there 's no comparison between the two. Thanks to you, however, all the same; but if you can get any of this charge reduced, so much the better, not to speak of the bottles,—both mixed pickles—which they ought to make good.
“I am glad to see you are touching up the Radicals in the North; powder and ball will do more to bring them to reason than spouting in Parliament. The papers say there was nine killed and twenty-three wounded; and one fellow, the 'Stockport Bee,' says, that 'if the Butcher that led the dragoons is n't turned out of the service with disgrace no gentleman will degrade himself by entering the army.' Isn't the Butcher yourself? Miss Barrington, always your friend, says it is; and that if the account of another paper, called the 'Ægis,' be true, you 'll have to go to a court-martial. I stood stoutly to you through it all, and declared that when the niggers was up at Jamaica, we had n't time to take the names of the prisoners, and we always cut one of their ears off to know them again. Old Peter laughed till the tears ran down his face, but Dinah said, 'If I did not suppose, sir, that you were inventing a very graceless joke, I'd insist on your leaving this room and this house on the instant.' It was ten o'clock at night, and raining hard; so you may guess I gave in. Bad as she is, the young one is her equal, and I gave up all thoughts of what you call 'prosecuting my suit' in that quarter. She isn't even commonly civil to me, and when I ask her for, maybe, the mustard at dinner, she turns away her head, and says, 'Darby, give Major M'Cormick the salt.' That's French politeness, perhaps; but I'll pay them all off yet, for they can't get sixpence on the mortgage, and I 'm only drinking out that bin of old Madeira before I tell them that I won't advance the money. Why should I? The women treat me worse than a dog, and old B. is neither more nor less than a fool. Dill, the doctor, however he got it, says it's all up about the suit with the India Company; that there's no proof of the Colonel's marriage at all, that the charges against him were never cleared up, and that nothing can come out of it but more disgrace and more exposure.
“I wish you 'd send me the correct account of what took place between you and one of your subalterns, for old Dinah keeps harping on it in a sort of mysterious and mischievous way of her own, that provokes me. Was it that he refused to obey orders, or that you, as she says, used such language towards him that he wrote to report you? Give it to me in black and white, and maybe I won't try her temper with it. At all events, make out some sort of a case, for the old woman is now intolerable. She said yesterday, 'Major Stapylton, to whom I write by this post, will see that his visit here must be preceded by an explanation.' There's her words for you, and I hope you like them!
“I think you are right to be in no hurry about purchasing, for many say the whole system will be changed soon, and the money would be clean thrown away. Besides this, I have been looking over my bauk-book, and I find I could n't help you just now. Two bad harvests, and the smut in the wheat last year, are running me mighty close. I won't finish this till to-morrow, for I 'm going to dine at 'The Home' to-day. It is the granddaughter's birthday, and there was a regular shindy about who was going to be asked. Old Peter was for a grand celebration, and inviting the Admiral, and the Gores, and God knows who besides; and Dinah was for what she called a family party, consisting, I suppose, of herself and Darby. I 'll be able, before I close this, to tell you how it was ended; for I only know now that Dill and his daughter are to be there.
“Wednesday.—I sit down with a murdering headache to finish this letter. Maybe it was the pickled lobster, or the ice punch, or the other drink they called champagne-cup that did it. But I never passed such a night since I was in the trenches, and I am shaking still, so that I can scarce hold the pen. It was a grand dinner, to be sure, for ruined people to give. Venison from Carrick Woods, and game of every kind, with all kinds of wine; and my Lord Car-rickmore talking to Miss Dinah, and the Admiral following up with the niece, and Tom Brabazon, and Dean of Deanspark, and the devil knows who besides, bringing up the rear, with Dill and your obedient servant. Every dish that came in, and every bottle that was uncorked, I said to myself, 'There goes another strap on the property;' and I felt as if we were eating the trees and the timber and the meadows all the time at table.
“It 's little of the same sympathy troubled the others. My Lord was as jolly as if he was dining with the King; and old Cobham called for more of the Madeira, as if it was an inn; and Peter himself—the heartless old fool—when he got up to thank the company for drinking his granddaughter's health, said, 'May I trust that even at my advanced age this may not be the last time I may have to speak my gratitude to you all for the generous warmth with which you have pledged this toast; but even should it be so, I shall carry away with me from this evening's happiness a glow of pleasure that will animate me to the last. It was only this morning I learned what I know you will all hear with satisfaction, that there is every probability of a speedy arrangement of my long-pending suit with the Company, and that my child here will soon have her own again.' Grand applause and huzzas, with a noise that drowned 'Bother!' from myself, and in the middle of the row up jumps the Admiral, and cries out, 'Three cheers more for the Rajah's daughter!' I thought the old roof would come down; and the blackguards in the kitchen took up the cry and shouted like mad, and then we yelled again, and this went on for maybe five minutes. 'What does it all mean,' says I, 'but a cheer for the Court of Bankruptcy, and Hip, hip, hurray! for the Marshalsea Prison!' After that, he had half an hour or more of flatteries and compliments. My Lord was so happy, and Peter Barrington so proud, and the Admiral so delighted, and the rest of us so much honored, that I could n't stand it any longer, but stole away, and got into the garden, to taste a little fresh air and quietness. I had n't gone ten paces, when I came plump upon Miss Dinah, taking her coffee under a tree. 'You are a deserter, I fear, sir,' said she, in her own snappish way; so I thought I 'd pay her off, and I said, 'To tell you the truth, Miss Barrington, at our time of life these sort of things are more full of sadness than pleasure. We know how hollow they are, and how little heart there is in the cheers of the people that are so jolly over your wine, but would n't stop to talk to you when you came down to water!'
“'The worse we think of the world, Major M'Cormick,' says she, 'the more risk we run of making ourselves mean enough to suit it.'
“'I don't suspect, ma'am,' says I, 'that when people have known it so long as you and I, that they are greatly in love with it.'
“'They may, however, be mannerly in their dealings with it, sir,' said she, fiercely; and so we drew the game, and settled the men for another battle.
“'Is there anything new, ma'am?' says I, after a while.
“'I believe not, sir. The bread riots still continue in the North, where what would seem the needless severity of some of the military commanders has only exasperated the people. You have heard, I suppose, of Major Stapylton's business?'
“'Not a word, ma'am,' says I; 'for I never see a paper.'
“'I know very little of the matter myself,' says she. 'It was, it would appear, at some night assemblage at a place called Lund's Common. A young officer sent forward by Major Stapylton to disperse the people, was so struck by the destitution and misery he witnessed, and the respectful attitude they exhibited, that he hesitated about employing force, and restricted himself to counsels of quietness and submission. He did more,—not perhaps very prudently, as some would say,—he actually emptied his pockets of all the money he had, giving even his watch to aid the starving horde before him. What precise version of his conduct reached his superior, I cannot say; but certainly Major Stapylton commented on it in terms of the harshest severity, and he even hinted at a reason for the forbearance too offensive for any soldier to endure.'
“She did not seem exactly to know what followed after this, but some sort of inquiry appeared to take place, and witnesses were examined as to what really occurred at Lund's Common; and amongst others, a Lascar, who was one of the factory hands,—having come to England a great many years before with an officer from India. This fellow's evidence was greatly in favor of young Conyers, and was subjected to a very severe cross-examination from yourself, in the middle of which he said something in Hindostanee that nobody in the court understood but you; and after this he was soon dismissed and the case closed for that day.
“'What do you think, Major M'Cormick,' said she, 'but when the court of inquiry opened the next morning, Lal-Adeen, the Lascar, was not to be found high or low. The court have suspended their sittings to search for him; but only one opinion prevails,—that Major Stapylton knows more of this man's escape than he is likely to tell.' I have taken great pains to give you her own very words in all this business, and I wrote them down the moment I got home, for I thought to myself you 'd maybe write about the matter to old Peter, and you ought to be prepared for the way they look at it; the more because Miss Dinah has a liking for young Conyers,—what she calls a motherly affection; but I don't believe in the motherly part of it! But of course you care very little what the people here say about you at all. At least, I know it would n't trouble me much, if I was in your place. At all events, whatever you do, do with a high hand, and the Horse Guards is sure to stand to you. Moderation may be an elegant thing in civil life, but I never knew it succeed in the army. There's the rain coming on again, and I just sent out six cars to the bog for turf; so I must conclude, and remain, yours sincerely,
“Daniel T. M'Cormick.
“I 'm thinking of foreclosing the small mortgage I hold on 'The Home,' but as they pay the interest regularly, five per cent, I would n't do it if I knew things were going on reasonably well with them; send me a line about what is doing regarding the 'claim,' and it will guide me.”
While Major M'Cormick awaited the answer to his postscript, which to him—as to a lady—was the important part of his letter, a short note arrived at 'The Home' from Mr. Withering, enclosing a letter he had just received from Major Stapylton. Withering's communication was in answer to one from Barrington, and ran thus:—
“Dear B.,—All things considered, I believe you are right in not receiving General Conyers at this moment. It would probably, as you suspect, enable calumnious people to say that you could make your resentments play second when they came in the way of your interests. If matters go on well, as I have every hope they will, you can make the amende to him more satisfactorily and more gracefully hereafter. Buxton has at length consented to bring the case before the House; of course it will not go to a division, nor, if it did, could it be carried; but the discussion will excite interest, the Press will take it up, and after a few regretful and half-civil expressions from the Ministry, the India Board will see the necessity of an arrangement.
“It is somewhat unfortunate and mal à propos that Stapylton should at this moment have got into an angry collision with young Conyers. I have not followed the case closely, but, as usual in such things, they seem each of them in the wrong,—the young sub wanting to make his generous sympathy supply the place of military obedience, and the old officer enforcing discipline at the cost of very harsh language. I learn this morning that Conyers has sold out, intending to demand a personal satisfaction. You will see by S.'s letter that he scarcely alludes to this part of the transaction at all. S. feels very painfully the attacks of the Press, and sees, perhaps, more forcibly than I should in his place, the necessity of an exchange. Read attentively the portion I have underlined.”
It is to this alone I have to direct my readers' attention, the first two sides of the letter being entirely filled with details about the “claim”:—
“'The newspapers have kept me before you for some days back, much more, I doubt not, to their readers' amusement than to my own gratification. I could, if I pleased, have told these slanderers that I did not charge a crowd of women and children,—that I did not cut down an elderly man at his own door-sill,—that I did not use language “offensive and unbecoming” to one of my officers, for his having remonstrated in the name of humanity against the cruelty of my orders. In a word, I might have shown the contemptible scribblers that I knew how to temper duty with discretion, as I shall know how, when the occasion offers, to make the punishment of a calumniator a terror to his colleagues. However, there is a very absurd story going about of a fellow whose insolence I certainly did reply to with the flat of my sabre, and whom I should be but too happy to punish legally, if he could be apprehended. That he made his escape after being captured, and that I connived at or assisted in it,—I forget which,—you have probably heard. In fact, there is nothing too incredible to say of me for the moment; and what is worse, I begin to suspect that the Home Secretary, having rather burned his fingers in the business, will not be very sorry to make an Admiral Byng of a Major of Hussars. For each and all these reasons I mean to exchange, and, if possible, into a regiment in India. This will, of course, take some time; meanwhile, I have asked for and obtained some months' leave. You will be surprised at my troubling you with so much of purely personal matters, but they are the necessary preface to what I now come. You are aware of the letter I wrote some time back to Mr. Barrington, and the request it preferred. If the reply I received was not discouraging, neither was it conclusive. The ordinary commonplaces as to the shortness of our acquaintance, the want of sufficient knowledge of each other's tastes, characters, &c, were duly dwelt upon; but I could not at the end say, was I an accepted or a rejected suitor. Now that the critical moment of my life draws nigh,—for such I feel the present emergency,—an act of confidence in me would have more than double value. Can you tell me that this is the sentiment felt towards me, or am I to learn that the yells of a rabble have drowned the voices of my friends? In plain words, will Miss Josephine Barrington accept my offer? Will she intrust her happiness to my keeping, and change the darkest shadow that ever lowered over my life into a gleam of unspeakable brightness? You have given me too many proofs of a friendly disposition towards me, not to make me feel that you are the best fitted to bring this negotiation to a good issue. If I do not mistake you much, you look with favor on my suit and wish it success. I am ashamed to say how deeply my hopes have jeopardized my future happiness, but I tell you frankly life has no such prize to my ambition, nor, in fact, any such alternative of despair before me.'
“Now, my dear Barrington,” continued Withering's letter, “there is a great deal in this that I like, and something with which I am not so much pleased. If, however, I am not the Major's advocate to the extent he asks, or expects me, it is because I feel that to be unjustly dealt with is a stronger claim on your heart than that of any other man I ever met with, and the real danger here would be that you should suffer that feeling to predominate over all others. Consult your granddaughter's interests, if you can, independently of this; reflect well if the plan be one likely to promise her happiness. Take your sensible, clear-headed sister into your counsels; but, above all, ascertain Josephine's own sentiments, and do nothing in direct opposition to them.”
“There, Dinah,” said Barrington, placing the letter in her hands, “this is as much to your address as to mine. Read it over carefully, and you'll find me in the garden when you have done.”
Miss Barrington laid down her great roll of worsted work, and began her task without a word. She had not proceeded very far, however, when Josephine entered in search of a book. “I beg pardon, aunt, if I derange you.”
“We say disturb, or inconvenience, in English, Miss Barrington. What is it you are looking for?”
“The 'Legend of Montrose,' aunt. I am so much amused by that Major Dalgetty that I can think of nothing but him.”
“Umph!” muttered the old lady. “It was of a character not altogether dissimilar I was thinking myself at that moment. Sit down here, child, and let me talk to you. This letter that I hold here, Josephine, concerns you.”
“Me, aunt—concerns me? And who on earth could have written a letter in which I am interested?”
“You shall hear it.” She coughed only once or twice, and then went on: “It's a proposal of marriage,—no less. That gallant soldier who left us so lately has fallen in love with you,—so he says, and of course he knows best. He seems fully aware that, being older than you, and graver in temperament, his offer must come heralded with certain expressions almost apologetic; but he deals with the matter skillfully, and tells us that being well off as regards fortune, of good blood, and with fair prospects before him, he does not wish to regard his suit as hopeless. Your grandfather was minded to learn how you might feel disposed to accept his addresses by observing your demeanor, by watching what emotion mention of him might occasion, by seeing how far you felt interested in his good or ill repute. I did not agree with him. I am never for the long road when there is a short one, and therefore I mean to let you hear his letter. This is what he writes.” While Miss Dinah read the extract which the reader has just seen, she never noticed, or, if noticed, never attended to, the agitation in her niece's manner, or seemed to remark that from a deep-crimson at first her cheeks grew pale as death, and her lips-tremulous. “There, child,” said Miss Dinah, as she finished—“there are his own words; very ardent words, but withal respectful. What do you think of them,—of them and of him?”
Josephine hung down her head, and with her hands firmly clasped together, she sat for a few moments so motionless that she seemed scarcely to breathe.
“Would you like to think over this before you speak of it, Josephine? Would you like to take this letter to your room and ponder over it alone?” No answer came but a low, half-subdued sigh.
“If you do not wish to make a confidante of me, Josephine, I am sorry for it, but not offended.”
“No, no, aunt, it is not that,” burst she in; “it is to you and you alone, I wish to speak, and I will be as candid as yourself. I am not surprised at the contents of this letter. I mean, I was in a measure prepared for them.”
“That is to say, child, that he paid you certain attentions?”
She nodded assent.
“And how did you receive them? Did you let him understand that you were not indifferent to him,—that his addresses were agreeable to you?”
Another, but shorter, nod replied to this question.
“I must confess,” said the old lady, bridling up, “all this amazes me greatly. Why, child, it is but the other day you met each other for the first time. How, when, and where you found time for such relations as you speak of, I cannot imagine. Do you mean to tell me, Josephine, that you ever talked alone together?”
“Constantly, aunt!”
“Constantly!”
“Yes, aunt. We talked a great deal together.”
“But how, child,—where?”
“Here, aunt, as we used to stroll together every morning through the wood or in the garden; then as we went on the river or to the waterfall.”
“I can comprehend nothing of all this, Josephine. I know you mean to deal openly with me; so say at once, how did this intimacy begin?”
“I can scarcely say how, aunt, because I believe we drifted into it. We used to talk a great deal of ourselves, and at length we grew to talk of each other,—of our likings and dislikings, our tastes and our tempers. And these did not always agree!”
“Indeed!”
“No, aunt,” said she, with a heavy sigh. “We quarrelled very often; and once,—I shall not easily forget it,—once seriously.”
“What was it about?”
“It was about India, aunt; and he was in the wrong, and had to own it afterwards and ask pardon.”
“He must know much more of that country than you, child. How came it that you presumed to set up your opinion against his?”
“The presumption was his,” said she, haughtily. “He spoke of his father's position as something the same as my father's. He talked of him as a Rajah!”
“I did not know that he spoke of his father,” said Miss Dinah, thoughtfully.
“Oh, he spoke much of him. He told me, amongst other things, how he had been a dear friend of papa's; that as young men they lived together like brothers, and never were separate till the fortune of life divided them.”
“What is all this I am listening to? Of whom are you telling me, Josephine?”
“Of Fred, Aunt Dinah; of Fred, of course.”
“Do you mean young Conyers, child?”
“Yes. How could I mean any other?”
“Ta, ta, ta!” said the old lady, drumming with her heel on the floor and her fingers on the table. “It has all turned out as I said it would! Peter, Peter, will you never be taught wisdom? Listen to me, child!” said she, turning almost sternly towards Josephine. “We have been at cross-purposes with each other all this time. This letter which I have just read for you—” She stopped suddenly as she reached thus far, and after a second's pause, said, “Wait for me here; I will be back presently. I have a word to say to your grandfather.”
Leaving poor Josephine in a state of trepidation and bewilderment,—ashamed at the confession she had just made, and trembling with a vague sense of some danger that impended over her,—Miss Dinah hurried away to the garden.
“Here's a new sort of worm got into the celery, Dinah,” said he, as she came up, “and a most destructive fellow he is. He looks like a mere ruffling of the leaf, and you 'd never suspect him.”
“It is your peculiarity never to suspect anything, brother Peter, even after you have had warning of peril. Do you remember my telling you, when we were up the Rhine, what would come of that intimacy between Conyers and Josephine?”
“I think I do,” said he, making what seemed an effort of memory.
“And can you recall the indolent slipshod answer you made me about it? But of course you cannot. It was an old-maid's apprehensions, and you forgot the whole thing. Well, Peter, I was right and you were wrong.”
“Not the first time that the double event has come off so!” said he, smiling.
“You are too fond of that cloak of humility, Peter Barrington. The plea of Guilty never saved any one from transportation!” Waiting a moment to recover her breath after this burst of passion, she went on: “After I had read that letter you gave me, I spoke to Josephine; I told her in a few words how it referred to her, and frankly asked her what she thought of it. She was very candid and very open, and, I must say, also very collected and composed. Young ladies of the present day possess that inestimable advantage over their predecessors. Their emotions do not overpower them.” This was the second time of “blowing off the steam,” and she had to wait a moment to rally. “She told me, frankly, that she was not unprepared for such an offer; that tender passages had already been exchanged between them. The usual tomfoolery, I conclude,—that supreme effort of selfishness people call love,—in a word, Peter, she was in no wise disinclined to the proposal; the only misfortune was, she believed it came from young Conyers.”
Barrington would have laughed, and laughed heartily, if he dared. As it was, the effort to restrain himself sent the blood to his head, and made his eyes run over.
“You may well blush, Peter Barrington,” said she, shaking her finger at him. “It's all your own doing.”
“And when you undeceived her, Dinah, what did she say?”
“I have not done so yet; but my impression is that so susceptible a young lady should find no great difficulty in transferring her affections. For the present I mean to limit myself to declaring that this offer is not from Conyers; if she has curiosity to know the writer, she shall learn it. I always had my doubts about these convents Bread and water diet makes more epicures than abstinents!”
CHAPTER X. INTERCHANGED CONFESSIONS
Miss Barrington, with Josephine at one side and Polly Dill on the other, sat at work in her little room that opened on the garden. Each was engaged in some peculiar task, and each seemed bent upon her labor in that preoccupied way which would imply that the cares of needlework make no mean call upon human faculties. A close observer would, however, have remarked that though Miss Barrington stitched vigorously away at the background for a fierce tiger with measly spots over him, Polly seemed oftener to contemplate than continue her handiwork; while Josephine's looks strayed constantly from the delicate tracery she was following, to the garden, where the roses blended with the jasmine, and the drooping honeysuckles hung listlessly over the boughs of the apple-tree.
“If your work wearies you, Fifine,” said Miss Dinah, “you had better read for us.”
“Oh no, not at all, aunt; I like it immensely. I was only wondering why one should devise such impossible foliage, when we have the real thing before us, in all its grace and beauty.”
“Humph!” said the old lady; “the sight of a real tiger would not put me out of countenance with my own.”
“It certainly ought not, ma'am,” said Polly; while she added, in a faint whisper, “for there is assuredly no rivalry in the case.”
“Perhaps Miss Dill is not too absorbed in her study of nature, as applied to needlework, to read out the newspaper.”
“I will do it with pleasure, ma'am. Where shall I begin?”
“Deaths and marriages first, of course, child. Then fashion and varieties; take the accidents afterwards, and close with anything remarkable in politics, or any disastrous occurrence in high life.”
Polly obeyed to the letter; once only straying into an animated account of a run with the Springfield fox-hounds, where three riders out of a large field came in at the death; when Miss Dinah stopped her abruptly, saying, “I don't care for the obituary of a fox, young lady. Go on with something else.”
“Will you have the recent tragedy at Ring's End, ma'am?”
“I know it by heart Is there nothing new in the fashions,—how are bonnets worn? What's the latest sleeve? What's the color in vogue?”
“A delicate blue, ma'am; a little off the sky, and on the hyacinth.”
“Very becoming to fair people,” said Miss Dinah, with a shake of her blond ringlets.
“'The Prince's Hussars!' Would you like to hear about them, ma'am?”
“By all means.”
“It's a very short paragraph. 'The internal troubles of this unhappy regiment would seem to be never ending. We last week informed our readers that a young subaltern of the corps, the son of one of our most distinguished generals, had thrown up his commission and repaired to the Continent, to enable him to demand a personal satisfaction from his commanding officer, and we now learn that the Major in question is precluded from accepting the gage of battle by something stronger than military etiquette.'”
“Read it again, child; that vile newspaper slang always puzzles me.”
Polly recited the passage in a clear and distinct voice.
“What do you understand by it, Polly?”
“I take it to mean nothing, madam. One of those stirring pieces of intelligence which excites curiosity, and are no more expected to be explained than a bad riddle.”
“It cannot surely be that he shelters himself under his position towards us? That I conclude is hardly possible!”
Though Miss Barrington said this as a reflection, she addressed herself almost directly to Josephine.
“As far as I am concerned, aunt,” answered Josephine, promptly, “the Major may fight the monster of the Drachenfels to-morrow, if he wishes it.”
“Oh, here is another mystery apparently on the same subject. 'The Lascar, Lal-Adeen, whom our readers will remember as having figured in a police-court a few days back, and was remanded till the condition of his wound—a severe sabre-cut on the scalp—should permit his further examination, and on the same night made his escape from the hospital, has once again, and very unexpectedly, turned up at Boulogne-sur-Mer. His arrival in this country—some say voluntarily, others under a warrant issued for his apprehension—will probably take place to-day or to-morrow, and, if report speak truly, be followed by some of the most singular confessions which the public has heard for a long time back.' 'The Post' contradicts the statement, and declares 'no such person has ever been examined before the magistrate, if he even have any existence at all.'”
“And what interest has all this for us?” asked Miss Dinah, sharply.
“You do not forget, ma'am, that this is the same man Major Stapylton was said to have wounded; and whose escape scandal hinted he had connived at, and who now 'does not exist.'”
“I declare Miss Dill, I remember no such thing; but it appears to me that Major Stapylton occupies a very considerable space in your own thoughts.”
“I fancy Polly likes him, aunt,” said Josephine, with a slight smile.
“Well, I will own he interests me; there is about him a mysterious something that says, 'I have more in my head and on my heart than you think of, and more, perhaps, than you could carry if the burden were yours.'”
“A galley-slave might say the same, Miss Dill.”
“No doubt of it, ma'am; and if there be men who mix in the great world, and dine at grand houses, with something of the galley-slave on their conscience, they assuredly impress us with an amount of fear that is half a homage. One dreads them as he does a tiger, but the terror is mingled with admiration.”
“This is nonsense, young lady, and baneful nonsense, too, begotten of French novels and a sickly sentimentality. I hope Fifine despises it as heartily as I do.” The passionate wrath which she displayed extended to the materials of her work-basket, and while rolls of worsted were upset here, needles were thrown there; and at last, pushing her embroidery-frame rudely away, she arose and left the room.
“Dearest Polly, how could you be so indiscreet! You know, far better than I do, how little patience she has with a paradox.”
“My sweet Fifine,” said the other, in a low whisper, “I was dying to get rid of her, and I knew there was only one way of effecting it. You may remark that whenever she gets into a rage, she rushes out into the flower-garden, and walks round and round till she's ready to drop. There she is already; you may gauge her anger by the number of her revolutions in a minute.”
“But why did you wish her away, Polly?”
“I'll tell you why; that is, there is a charming French word for what I mean, the verb 'agacer,' all untranslatable as it is. Now there are moments when a person working in the same room—reading, writing, looking out of the window—becomes an insupportable infliction. You reason, and say, 'How absurd, how childish, how ungenerous,' and so forth. It won't do; for as you look round he is there still, and by his mere presence keeps up the ferment in your thoughts. You fancy, at last, that he stands between you and your inner self, a witness that won't let your own conscience whisper to you, and you come in the end to hate him. Your dear aunt was on the high-road to this goal, when I bethought me of my expedient! And now we are all alone, dearest, make me a confession.”
“What is it?”
“You do not like Major Stapylton?”
“No.”
“And you do like somebody else?”
“Perhaps,” said she, slowly, and dividing the syllables as she spoke them.
“That being the case, and seeing, as you do, that your aunt is entirely of your own mind, at least as to the man you do not care for, why don't you declare as much frankly to your grandfather, and break off the negotiation at once?”
“Just because that dear old grandpapa asked me not to be precipitate, not to be rash. He did not tell me that I must love Major Stapylton, or must marry him; but he said, 'If you only knew, Fifine, what a change in our fortune would come of a change in your feelings; if you could but imagine, child, how the whole journey of life might be rendered easier, all because you took the right-hand road instead of the left; if you could guess these things, and what might follow them—'” She stopped.
“Well, go on.”
“No. I have said all that he said; he kissed my cheek as he got thus far, and hurried away from the room.”
“And you, like a sweet, obedient child, hastened away to yours; wrote a farewell, a heart-broken farewell, to Fred Conyers; and solemnly swore to your own conscience you 'd marry a man you disliked. These are the sort of sacrifices the world has a high admiration for; but do you know, Fifine, the world limps a little in its morality sometimes, and is not one-half the fine creature it thinks itself. For instance, in the midst of all its enthusiasm for you, it has forgotten that in accepting for your husband a man you do not love, you are doing a dishonesty; and that, besides this, you really love another. It is what the French call the aggravating circumstance.”
“I mean to do nothing of the kind!” broke in Fifine, boldly. “Your lecture does not address itself to me.”
“Do not be angry, Fifine,” said the other, calmly.
“It is rather too hard to be rebuked for the faults one might have, but has not committed. It's like saying how wet you 'd have been had you fallen into that pool!”
“Well, it also means, don't fall into the pool!”
“Do you know, Polly,” said Josephine, archly, “I have a sort of suspicion that you don't dislike this Major yourself! Am I right?”
“I'm not say you were altogether wrong; that is, he interests me, or, rather, he puzzles me, and it piques my ingenuity to read him, just as it would to make out a cipher to which I had only one-half the key.”
“Such a feeling as that would never inspire a tender interest, at least, with me.”
“Nor did I say it was, Fifine. I have read in some book of my father's how certain physicians inoculated themselves with plague, the better to note the phenomena, and trace the course; and I own I can understand their zeal, and I 'd risk something to decipher this man.”
“This may be very nice in medicine, Polly, but very bad in morals! At all events, don't catch the plague for the sake of saving me?”
“Oh! I assure you any step I take shall be done in the interests of science solely; not but that I have a small debt to acquit towards the gallant Major.”
“You have! What can it possibly be?”
“Well, it was this wise,” said she, with a half-sigh. “We met at a country-house here, and he paid me certain attentions, made me compliments on my riding, which I knew to be good, and my singing, which was just tolerable; said the usual things which mean nothing, and a few of those more serious ones which are supposed to be more significant; and then he asked my father's leave to come and visit him, and actually fixed a day and an hour. And we, poor people, all delighted with the flattery of such high notice, and thinking of the effect upon our neighbors so splendid a visitor would produce, made the most magnificent preparations to receive him,—papa in a black satin waistcoat, mamma in her lilac ribbons. I myself,—having put the roof on a pigeon-pie, and given the last finishing touch to a pagoda of ruby jelly,—I, in a charming figured muslin and a blush rose in my hair, awaited the hour of attack! And, after all, he never came. No, Fifine, never came! He forgot us, or he changed his mind, or something else turned up that he liked better; or—which is just as likely as any of the three—he thought it would be a charming piece of impertinence to pass off on such small folk, who presumed to fancy themselves company for him. At all events, Fifine, we saw him no more. He went his way somewhere, and we were left lamenting.”
“And you really liked him, Polly?”
“No, of the two, I disliked him; but I wished very much that he might like me! I saw him very overbearing and very insolent to those who were certainly his equals, assuming a most offensive superiority everywhere and to any one, and I thought what an awful humiliation it would be if so great a personage were to be snubbed by the doctor's daughter. I wanted to give a lesson which could only be severe if it came from one humble as myself; but he defeated me, Fifine, and I am still his debtor! If I did not like him before, you may believe that I hate him now; and I came off here this morning, in hot haste, for no other purpose than to set you against him, and induce you to regard him as I do.”
“There was little need,” said Fifine, calmly; “but here comes my aunt back again. Make your submission quickly, Polly, or it will be too late to expect mercy.”
“I 'll do better,” said Polly, rising. “I 'll let my trial go on in my absence;” and with this she stepped out of the window as Miss Barrington entered by the door.
CHAPTER XI. STAPYLTON'S VISIT AT “THE HOME”
So secretly had Barrington managed, that he negotiated the loan of five hundred pounds on a mortgage of the cottage without ever letting his sister hear of it; and when she heard on a particular day that her brother expected Mr. Kinshela, the attorney, from Kilkenny, on business, she made the occasion the pretext of a visit to Dr. Dill, taking Josephine with her, to pass the day there.
Barrington was therefore free to receive his lawyer at his ease, and confer with him alone. Not that he cared much for his company; he felt towards the attorney pretty much as an ardent soldier feels to a non-combatant, the commissary, or the paymaster. Had he been a barrister, indeed, old Peter would have welcomed him with the zest of true companionship; he would have ransacked his memory for anecdotes, and prepared for the meeting as for an encounter of sharp wits. Now it is no part of my task to present Mr. Kinshela more than passingly to my reader, and I will merely say that he was a shrewd, commonplace man, whose practice rarely introduced him to the higher classes of his county, and who recognized Barrington, even in his decline, as a person of some consideration.
They had dined well, and sat over their wine in the little dining-room over the river, a favorite spot of Barrington's when he wished to be confidential, for it was apart from the rest of the cottage, and removed from all intrusion.
“So, you won't tell me, Kinshela, who lent us this money?” said the old man, as he passed the decanter across the table.
“It is not that I won't, sir, but I can't. It was in answer to an advertisement I inserted in the 'Times,' that I got an application from Granger and Wood to supply particulars; and I must say there was no unnecessary security on their part. It was as speedily settled a transaction as I ever conducted, and I believe in my heart we might have had a thousand pounds on it just as easily as five hundred.”
“As well as it is, Kinshela. When the day of repayment comes round, I'll perhaps find it heavy enough;” and he sighed deeply as he spoke.
“Who knows, sir? There never was a time that capital expended on land was more remunerative than the present.”
Now, Mr. Kinshela well knew that the destination of the money they spoke of was not in this direction, and that it had as little to say to subsoil drainage or top dressing as to the conversion of the heathen; but he was angling for a confidence, and he did not see how to attain it.
Barrington smiled before he answered,—one of those sad, melancholy smiles which reveal a sorrow a man is not able to suppress,—and then he said, “I 'm afraid, Kinshela, I 'll not test the problem this time.”
“It will be better employed, perhaps, sir. You mean, probably, to take your granddaughter up to the drawing-room at the Castle?”
“I never so much as thought of it, Joe Kinshela; the fact is, that money is going where I have sent many a hundred before it,—in law! I have had a long, wearisome, costly suit, that has well-nigh beggared me; and of that sum you raised for me I don't expect to have a shilling by this day week.”
“I heard something about that, sir,” said the other, cautiously.
“And what was it you heard?”
“Nothing, of course, worth repeating; nothing from any one that knew the matter himself; just the gossip that goes about, and no more.”
“Well, let us hear the gossip that goes about, and I'll promise to tell you if it's true.”
“Well, indeed,” said Kinshela, drawing a long breath, “they say that your claim is against the India Board.”
Barring ton nodded.
“And that it is a matter little short of a million is in dispute.”
He nodded again twice.
“And they say, too,—of course, on very insufficient knowledge,—that if you would have abated your demands once on a time, you might readily have got a hundred thousand pounds, or even more.”
“That's not impossible,” muttered Barrington.
“But that, now—” he stammered for an instant, and then stopped.
“But now? Go on.”
“Sure, sir, they can know nothing about it; it's just idle talk, and no more.”
“Go on, and tell me what they say now,” said Barrington, with a strong force on the last word.
“They say you 'll be beaten, sir,” said he, with an effort.
“And do they say why, Kinshela?”
“Yes, sir; they say you won't take advice; and no matter what Mr. Withering counsels, or is settled in consultation, you go your own way and won't mind them; and that you have been heard to declare you 'll have all, or nothing.”
“They give me more credit than I deserve, Kinshela. It is, perhaps, what I ought to have said, for I have often thought it. But in return for all the kind interest my neighbors take about me, let them know that matters look better for us than they once did. Perhaps,” added he, with a laugh,—“perhaps I have overcome my obstinacy, or perhaps my opponents have yielded to it. At all events, Joe, I believe I see land at last, and it was a long 'lookout' and many a fog-bank I mistook for it.”
“And what makes you think now you'll win?” said the other, growing bolder by the confidence reposed in him.
Barrington half started at the presumption of the question; but he suddenly remembered how it was he himself who had invited the discussion, so he said calmly,—
“My hope is not without a foundation. I expect by the mail to-night a friend who may be able to tell me that I have won, or as good as won.”
Kinshela was dying to ask who the friend was, but even his curiosity had its prudential limits; so he merely took out his watch, and, looking at it, remarked that the mail would pass in about twenty minutes or so.
“By the way, I must n't forget to send a servant to wait on the roadside;” and he rang the bell and said, “Let Darby go up to the road and take Major Stapylton's luggage when he arrives.”
“Is that the Major Stapylton is going to be broke for the doings at Manchester, sir?” asked Kinshela.
“He is the same Major Stapylton that a rascally press is now libelling and calumniating,” said Barrington, hotly. “As to being broke, I don't believe that we have come yet to that pass in England that the discipline of our army is administered by every scribbler in a newspaper.”
“I humbly crave your pardon, sir, if I have said the slightest thing to offend; but I only meant to ask, was he the officer they were making such a fuss about?” “He is an officer of the highest distinction, and a wellborn gentleman to boot,—two admirable reasons for the assaults of a contemptible party. Look you, Kinshela; you and I are neither of us very young or inexperienced men, but I would ask you, have we learned any wiser lesson from our intercourse with life than to withhold our judgment on the case of one who rejects the sentence of a mob, and appeals to the verdict of his equals?”
“But if he cut the people down in cold blood,—if it be true that he laid open that poor black fellow's cheek from the temple to the chin—”
“If he did no such thing,” broke in Barrington; “that is to say, if there is no evidence whatever that he did so, what will your legal mind say then, Joe Kinshela?”
“Just this, sir. I'd say—what all the newspapers are saying—that he got the man out of the way,—bribed and sent him off.”
“Why not hint that he murdered him, and buried him within the precincts of the jail? I declare I wonder at your moderation.”
“I am sure, sir, that if I suspected he was an old friend of yours—”
“Nothing of the kind,—a friend of very short standing; but what has that to say to it? Is he less entitled to fair play whether he knew me or not?”
“All I know of the case is from the newspapers; and as I scarcely see one word in his favor, I take it there is not much to be said in his defence.”
“Well, if my ears don't deceive me, that was the guard's horn I heard then. The man himself will be here in five minutes or so. You shall conduct the prosecution, Kinshela, and I 'll be judge between you.”
“Heaven forbid, sir; on no account whatever!” said Kinshela, trembling all over. “I'm sure, Mr. Barrington, you couldn't think of repeating what I said to you in confidence—”
“No, no, Kinshela. You shall do it yourself; and it's only fair to tell you that he is a right clever fellow, and fully equal to the task of defending himself.” Peter arose as he spoke, and walked out upon the lawn, affectedly to meet his coming guest, but in reality to cover a laugh that was half smothering him, so comical was the misery expressed in the attorney's face, and so ludicrous was his look of terror.
Of course I need not say that it never occurred to Barrington to realize his threat, which he merely uttered in the spirit of that quizzing habit that was familiar to him. “Yes, Kinshela,” cried he, “here he comes. I recognize his voice already;” and Barrington now walked forward to welcome his friend.
It was not till after some minutes of conversation, and when the light fell strongly on Stapylton's features, that Barrington saw how changed a few weeks of care had made him. He looked at the least ten years older than before. His eyes had lost their bold and daring expression, too, and were deep sunk, and almost furtive in their glance.
“You are tired, I fear,” said Barrington, as the other moved his hand across his forehead, and, with a slight sigh, sank down upon a sofa.
“Less tired than worried,—harassed,” said he, faintly. “Just as at a gaming-table a man may lose more in half an hour's high play than years of hard labor could acquire, there are times of life when we dissipate more strength and vigor than we ever regain. I have had rough usage since I saw you last,” said he, with a very sickly smile. “How are the ladies,—well, I hope?”
“Perfectly well. They have gone to pass the day with a neighbor, and will be home presently. By the way, I left a friend here a few moments ago. What can have become of him?” and he rang the bell hastily. “Where's Mr. Kinshela, Darby?”
“Gone to bed, sir. He said he 'd a murthering headache, and hoped your honor would excuse him.”
Though Barrington laughed heartily at this message, Stapylton never asked the reason, but sat immersed in thought and unmindful of all around him.
“I half suspect you ought to follow his good example, Major,” said Peter. “A mug of mulled claret for a nightcap, and a good sleep, will set you all right.”
“It will take more than that to do it,” said the Major, sadly. Then suddenly rising, and pacing the room with quick, impatient steps, he said, “What could have induced you to let them bring your claim before the House? They are going to do so, ain't they?”
“Yes. Tom Withering says that nothing will be so effectual, and I thought you agreed with him.”
“Never. Nothing of the kind. I said, threaten it; insist that if they continue the opposition, that you will,—that you must do so; but I never was the fool to imagine that it could really be a wise step. What 's the fate of all such motions? I ask you. There's a speech—sometimes an able one—setting forth a long catalogue of unmerited injuries and long suffering. There's a claim made out that none can find a flaw in, and a story that, if Parliament was given to softness, might move men almost to tears, and at the end of it up rises a Minister to say how deeply he sympathizes with the calamity of the case, but that this house is, after all, not the fitting locality for a discussion which is essentially a question of law, and that, even if it were, and if all the allegations were established,—a point to which he by no means gave adhesion,—there was really no available fund at the disposal of the Crown to make reparation for such losses. Have you not seen this, or something like this, scores of times? Can you tell me of one that succeeded?”
“A case of such wrong as this cannot go without reparation,” said Peter, with emotion. “The whole country will demand it.”
“The country will do no such thing. If it were a question of penalty or punishment,—yes! the country would demand it. Fine, imprison, transport, hang him! are easy words to utter, and cheap ones; but pay him, reinstate him, reward him! have a very different sound and significance. They figure in the budget, and are formidable on the hustings. Depend on it, Mr. Barrington, the step will be a false one.”
“It has been my fate never to have got the same advice for two weeks together since the day I entered on this weary suit,” said Barrington, with a peevishness not natural to him.
“I may as well tell you the whole truth at once,” said Stapylton. “The Board have gone back of all their good intentions towards us; some recent arrivals from India, it is said, have kindled again the old fire of opposition, and we are to be met by a resistance bold and uncompromising. They are prepared to deny everything we assert; in fact, they have resolved to sweep all the pieces off the board and begin the whole game again, and all because you have taken this unfortunate course of appeal to Parliament.”
“Have you told Withering this?”
“Yes; I have talked the matter over for nearly four hours with him. Like a lawyer, he was most eager to know from what source came the new evidence so damaging to us. I could only guess at this.”
“And your guess was—”
“I scarcely like to own to you that I take a less favorable view of mankind than you do, who know it better; but in this case my suspicion attaches to a man who was once your son's dearest friend, but grew to be afterwards his deadliest enemy.”
“I will not have this said, Major Stapylton. I know whom you mean, and I don't believe a word of it.”
Stapylton simply shrugged his shoulders, and continued to pace the room without speaking, while Barrington went on muttering, half aloud: “No, no, impossible; quite impossible. These things are not in nature. I don't credit them.”
“You like to think very well of the world, sir!” said the Major, with a faint scorn, so faint as scarcely to color his words.
“Think very badly of it, and you 'll soon come down to the level you assign it,” said Peter, boldly.
“I 'm afraid I 'm not in the humor just now to give it my best suffrages. You 've seen, I doubt not, something of the treatment I have met with from the Press for the last few weeks; not very generous usage,—not very just. Well! what will you say when I tell you that I have been refused an inquiry into my conduct at Manchester; that the Government is of opinion that such an investigation might at the moment be prejudicial to the public peace, without any counterbalancing advantage on the score of a personal vindication; that they do not deem the time favorable for the calm and unbiassed judgment of the country; in one short word, sir, they 'd rather ruin a Major of Hussars than risk a Cabinet. I am to exchange into any corps or any service I can; and they are to tide over these troubles on the assumption of having degraded me.”
“I hope you wrong them,—I do hope you wrong them!” cried Barrington, passionately.
“You shall see if I do,” said he, taking several letters from his pocket, and searching for one in particular. “Yes, here it is. This is from Aldridge, the private secretary of the Commander-in-chief. It is very brief, and strictly secret:—
“'Dear S.,—The “Chief” does not like your scrape at all. You did rather too much, or too little,—a fatal mistake dealing with a mob. You must consent—there's no help for it—to be badly used, and an injured man. If you don't like the half-pay list,—which would, in my mind, be the best step,—there 's the Seventeenth ordered to Baroda, and Maidstone refuses to go. This, or the Second West India, are the only things open. Above all, don't show fight; don't rally a party round you, for there is not a man in England whose influence is sufficiently great to stand between you and the public. A conple of years' patience and a hot climate will set all right, and reinstate you everywhere. Come over here at once and I 'll do my best for you.
“'Yours ever,
“'St. George Aldridge.'
“This is a friend's letter,” said Stapylton, with a sneer; “and he has no better counsel to give me than to plead guilty, and ask for a mitigated punishment.”
Harrington was silenced; he would not by any expression of indignation add to the great anger of the other, and he said nothing. At last he said, “I wish from my heart—I wish I could be of any service to you.”
“You are the only man living who can,” was the prompt answer.
“How so—in what way? Let me hear.”
“When I addressed a certain letter to you some time back, I was in a position both of fortune and prospect to take at least something from the presumption of my offer. Now, though my fortune remains, my future is more than clouded, and if I ask you to look favorably on my cause now, it is to your generosity I must appeal; I am, in fact, asking you to stand by a fallen man.”
This speech, uttered in a voice slightly shaken by agitation, went to Barrington's heart. There was not a sentiment in his nature so certain to respond to a call upon it as this one of sympathy with the beaten man; the weaker side was always certain of his adherence. With a nice tact Stapylton said no more, but, pushing open the window, walked out upon the smooth sward, on which a faint moonlight flickered. He had shot his bolt, and saw it as it quivered in his victim's flesh. Barrington was after him in an instant, and, drawing an arm within his he said in a low voice, “You may count upon me.”
Stapylton wrung his hand warmly, without speaking. After walking for a few moments, side by side, he said: “I must be frank with you, Mr. Barrington. I have little time and no taste for circumlocution; I cannot conceal from myself that I am no favorite with your sister. I was not as eager as I ought to have been to cultivate her good opinion; I was a little piqued at what I thought mere injustices on her part,—small ones, to be sure, but they wounded me, and with a temper that always revolted against a wrong, I resented them, and I fear me, in doing so, I jeopardized her esteem. If she is as generous as her brother, she will not remember these to me in my day of defeat. Women, however, have their own ideas of mercy, as they have of everything, and she may not choose to regard me as you have done.”
“I suspect you are wrong about this,” said Harrington, breaking in.
“Well, I wish I may be; at all events, I must put the feeling to the test at once, for I have formed my plan, and mean to begin it immediately.”
“And what is it?”
“Very few words will tell it. I intend to go on half-pay, or sell out if that be refused me; set out for India by the next mail, and, with what energy remains to me, vindicate your son's claim. I have qualifications that will make me better than a better man. I am well versed in Hindostanee, and a fair Persian scholar; I have a wide acquaintance with natives of every rank, and I know how and where to look for information. It is not my disposition to feel over-sanguine, but I would stake all I possess on my success, for I see exactly the flaws in the chain, and I know where to go to repair them. You have witnessed with what ardor I adopted the suit before; but you cannot estimate the zeal with which I throw myself into it now—now that, like George Barring-ton himself, I am a man wronged, outraged, and insulted.” For a few seconds be seemed overcome by passion and unable to continue; then he went on: “If your granddaughter will accept me, it is my intention to settle on her all I possess. Our marriage can be private, and she shall be free to accompany me or to remain here, as she likes.”
“But how can all this be done so hurriedly? You talk of starting at once.”
“I must, if I would save your son's cause. The India Board are sending out their emissaries to Calcutta, and I must anticipate them—if I cannot do more, by gaining them over to us on the voyage out. It is a case for energy and activity, and I want to employ both.”
“The time is very short for all this,” said Barrington, again.
“So it is, sir, and so are the few seconds which may rescue a man from drowning! It is in the crisis of my fate that I ask you to stand by me.”
“But have you any reason to believe that my granddaughter will hear you favorably? You are almost strangers to each other?”
“If she will not give me the legal right to make her my heir, I mean to usurp the privilege. I have already been with a lawyer for that purpose. My dear sir,” added he, passionately, “I want to break with the past forever! When the world sets up its howl against a man, the odds are too great! To stand and defy it he must succumb or retreat. Now, I mean to retire, but with the honors of war, mark you.”
“My sister will never consent to it,” muttered Barrington.
“Will you? Have I the assurance of your support?”
“I can scarcely venture to say 'yes,' and yet I can't bear to say 'no' to you!”
“This is less than I looked for from you,” said Stapylton, mournfully.
“I know Dinah so well. I know how hopeless it would be to ask her concurrence to this plan.”
“She may not take the generous view of it; but there is a worldly one worth considering,” said Stapylton, bitterly.
“Then, sir, if you count on that, I would not give a copper half-penny for your chance of success!” cried Barrington, passionately.
“You have quite misconceived me; you have wronged me altogether,” broke in Stapylton, in a tone of apology; for he saw the mistake he had made, and hastened to repair it. “My meaning was this—”
“So much the better. I'm glad I misunderstood you. But here come the ladies. Let us go and meet them.”
“One word,—only one word. Will you befriend me?”
“I will do all that I can,—that is, all that I ought,” said Barrington, as he led him away, and re-entered the cottage.
“I will not meet them to-night,” said Stapylton, hurriedly. “I am nervous and agitated. I will say good-night now.”
This was the second time within a few days that Stapylton had shown an unwillingness to confront Miss Barrington, and Peter thought over it long and anxiously. “What can he mean by it?” said he, to himself. “Why should he be so frank and outspoken with me, and so reserved with her? What can Dinah know of him? What can she suspect, that is not known to me? It is true they never did like each other,—never 'hit it off' together; but that is scarcely his fault. My excellent sister throws away little love on strangers, and opens every fresh acquaintance with a very fortifying prejudice against the newly presented. However it happens,” muttered he, with a sigh, “she is not often wrong, and I am very seldom right;” and, with this reflection, he turned once again to resume his walk in the garden.