CHAPTER XII. A DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENT
Stapylton did not make his appearance at breakfast; he sent down a message that he had passed a feverish night, and begged that Dr. Dill might be sent for. Though Barrington made two attempts to see his guest, the quietness of the room on each occasion implied that he was asleep, and, fearing to disturb him, he went downstairs again on tiptoe.
“This is what the persecution has done, Dinah,” said he. “They have brought that stout-hearted fellow so low that he may be the victim of a fever to-morrow.”
“Nonsense, Peter. Men of courage don't fall sick because the newspapers calumniate them. They have other things on their minds than such puny attacks.”
“So he may, likely enough, too. He is bent heart and soul on what I told you last night, and I 'm not surprised if he never closed his eyes thinking of it.”
“Neither did I!” said she, curtly, and left the room.
The doctor was not long in arriving, and, after a word or two with Barrington, hastened to the patient's room.
“Are we alone?” asked Stapylton, cutting short the bland speech with which Dill was making his approaches. “Draw that curtain a bit, and take a good look at me. Are my eyes bloodshot? Are the pupils dilated? I had a bad sunstroke once; see if there be any signs of congestion about me.”
“No, I see none. A little flushed; your pulse, too, is accelerated, and the heart's action is labored—”
“Never mind the heart; if the head be well, it will take care of it. Reach me that pocket-book; I want to acquit one debt to you before I incur another. No humbug between us;” and he pressed some notes into the other's palm as he spoke. “Let us understand each other fully, and at once. I 'm not very ill; but I want you.”
“And I am at your orders.”
“Faithfully,—loyally?”
“Faithfully,—loyally!” repeated the other after him.
“You've read the papers lately,—you've seen these attacks on me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what do they say and think here—I mean in this house—about them? How do they discuss them? Remember, I want candor and frankness; no humbug. I'll not stand humbug.”
“The women are against you.”
“Both of them?”
“Both.”
“How comes that?—on what grounds?”
“The papers accused you of cruelty; they affirmed that there was no cause for the measures of severity you adopted; and they argued—”
“Don't bore me with all that balderdash. I asked you how was it that these women assumed I was in the wrong?”
“And I was about to tell you, if you had not interrupted me.”
“That is, they believed what they read in the newspapers?”
“Yes.”
“And, of course, swallowed that fine story about the Hindoo fellow that I first cut down, and afterwards bribed to make his escape from the hospital?”
“I suspect they half believed it.”
“Or rather, believed half of it, the cutting down part! Can you tell me physiologically,—for I think it comes into that category,—why it is that women not otherwise ill-natured, in nine cases out of ten take the worst alternative as the credible one? But never mind that. They condemn me. Is n't it so?”
“Yes; and while old Barrington insists—”
“Who cares what he insists? Such advocacy as his only provokes attack, and invites persecution. I 'd rather have no such allies!”
“I believe you are right.”
“I want fellows like yourself, doctor,—sly, cautious, subtle fellows,—accustomed to stealing strong medicines into the system in small doses; putting the patient, as you call it in your slang, 'under the influence' of this, that, and t'other,—eh?”
Dill smiled blandly at the compliment to his art, and Stapylton went on:—
“Not that I have time just now for this sort of chronic treatment. I need a heroic remedy, doctor. I 'm in love.”
“Indeed!” said Dill, with an accent nicely balanced between interest and incredulity.
“Yes, and I want to marry!
“Miss Barrington?”
“The granddaughter. There is no need, I hope, to make the distinction, for I don't wish to be thought insane. Now you have the case. What 's your prescription?”
“Propose for her!”
“So I have, but they hesitate. The old man is not unfavorable; he is, perhaps, more: he is, in a measure, friendly; but what avails such advocacy? I want another guess sort of aid,—a clever man; or, what is better still, a clever woman, to befriend me.”
He waited some seconds for a reply, but Dill did not speak; so he went on: “A clever woman, to take a woman's view of the case, balancing this against that, never ignoring an obstacle, but inquiring what there may be to compensate for it Do you know such a one, doctor?”
“Perhaps I may; but I have my doubts about securing her services.”
“Even with a retainer?”
“Even with a retainer. You see, Major,”—here Dill dropped his voice to a most confidential whisper,—“my daughter Polly,—for I know we both have her in mind,—Polly is a strange sort of girl, and very hard to understand; for while, if the case were her own, she 'd no more think of romance than she would of giving ten guineas for a dress, if she was advising another whose position and prospects were higher than hers, it's the romantic part of it she'd lay all the stress on.”
“From which I gather that my suit will not stand this test!” said Stapylton, with a peculiar smile. “Eh, is n't that your meaning?”
“You are certainly some years older than the lady,” said Dill, blandly.
“Not old enough to be, as the world would surely say, 'her father,' but fully old enough to give license for sarcasm.”
“Then, as she will be a great fortune—”
“Not a sixpence,—she'll not have sixpence, doctor. That bubble has burst at last, and can never be blown again. The whole claim has been rejected, refused, thrown out, and there 's an end of it. It amuses the old man to sit on the wreck and fancy he can repair the shattered timbers and make them seaworthy; and, for the time he is likely to last, it is only kindness to leave him to his delusion; but he is ruined,—ruined beyond recall, and as I have told you, the girl will have nothing.”
“Do they know this,—has Barrington heard it?”
“Yes, I broke it to him last night, but I don't think he fully realized the tidings; he has certain reserves—certain little conceits of his own—which are to supply him with a sort of hope; but let us talk of something more practical. How can we secure Miss Dill's services?”
“A few days ago, the easiest way would have been to offer to befriend her brother, but this morning brings us news that this is not needed,—he is coming home.”
“How so?”
“It is a great event in its way; at least, it may be for Tom. It seems there was a collision at sea, somewhere near the Cape, between the ship 'St. Helen's,' that carried out General Hunter and his staff, and the 'Regulus,' with the Forty-ninth on board. It was at night, and a terrible sea on at the time. In the shock the 'St. Helen's' took fire; and as the two ships were inextricably locked together, the danger was common to each. While the boats were being lowered and manned,—for it was soon seen the vessel could not be saved,—a cry was raised that the fire was gaining on the fore-hold, and would soon reach the magazine. The woful news spread at once, and many jumped overboard in their terror. Just then Tom heard that there was a means of drowning the powder by opening a certain sluice, and, without waiting for more, he clambered across into the sinking vessel, made his way through smoke and fire, gained the spot, and succeeded, just as the very ladder itself had caught the flames. How he got back he cannot tell, for the vessel foundered in a few minutes, and he was so burned—face, cheek, and one shoulder—that he was unconscious of everything; and even when the account came, was still in bed, and not able to see.”
“He was a wild sort of lad, was he not,—a scamp, in short?”
“No, not exactly that; idle—careless—kept bad company at times.”
“These are the fellows who do this kind of thing once in their lives,—mark you, never twice. They never have more than one shot in their locker, but it will suffice in this case.”
Though the worthy doctor was very far from enthusiastic about his son's gallantry, there was a degree of coolness in the Major's estimate of it that almost shocked him; and he sat staring steadily at the stern bronzed face, and the hard lineaments of the man, and wondering of what strange stuff such natures were fashioned.
“It's quite clear, then, that for Master Tom we can do nothing half so good as chance has done for him,” said Stapylton, after a short interval.
“Chance and himself too,” added the doctor.
Stapylton made no answer, but, covering his eyes with his hand, lay deep in thought.
“If you only had the Attorney-General, Mr. Withering, on your side,” said Dill. “There is no man has the same influence over this family.”
“It is not what you call influence I want, my good sir. It is a far more subtle and more delicate agent. I require the sort of aid, in fact, which your daughter could supply, if she would. An appointment awaits me in India, but I must occupy it at once. I have no time for a long courtship. I 'm just as hurried as that boy of yours was when he swamped the powder-magazine. It's a skirmish where I can't wait for the heavy artillery, but must do my best with the light field-guns,—do you understand me?”
Dill nodded, and Stapylton resumed: “The thing can be done just by the very road that you have pronounced impossible,—that is, by the romantic side of it,—making it a case of violent love at first sight, the passion of a man past the heyday of youth, but yet young enough to feel a most ardent affection. I am, besides,” said he, laughing with a strange blending of levity and sarcasm, “a sort of Brummagem hero; have been wounded, led assaults, and that kind of thing, to a degree that puffery can take the benefit of. And, last of all, doctor, I am rich enough to satisfy greater ambitions than ought to live under such a roof as this. Do you see the part your daughter can take in this drama?”
“Perhaps I do.”
“And could you induce her to accept it?”
“I'm not very certain,—I'd be slow to pledge myself to it.”
“Certainly,” said Stapylton, mockingly; “the passing glimpses we bachelors obtain of the working of that vaunted institution, The Family, fail to impress us with all its imputed excellence; you are, it seems to me, just as powerless within your own doors as I am regarding what goes on in a neighbor's house. I take it, however, that it can't be helped. Children, like colonies, are only governable when helpless.”
“I suspect you are wrong, sir; at least, I fancy I have as much of the sort of influence you speak of as others; but still, I think, here, in this particular case, you would yourself be your best ambassador, if you were strong enough to come down with me in the boat to-day.”
“Of course I am!” cried Stapylton, starting up to a sitting posture; “and what then?”
“You would be better in my house than this,” said Dill, mysteriously.
“Speak out, and speak clearly, doctor; I have very little the matter with me, and am in no want of change of air. What I need is the assistance of one dexterous enough to advocate my plans with persons and in places to which I have no access. Your daughter is just such a one,—will she do it?”
“We can ask her.”
“Well, how will you explain my absence to these people here? What will you say for my not appearing at breakfast, and yet being able to take an airing with you?”
“I will put it on hygienic grounds,” said Dill, smiling acutely. “My profession has a number of sanctuaries the profane vulgar can never enter. I 'll just step down now and ask Barrington to lend me his boat, and I 'll throw out a dark hint that I 'd like to manage a consultation on your case without alarming you, for which purpose I 'd ask Dr. Tobin to be at my house, when we arrive there, by mere accident, so that a conference would follow as a matter of course.”
“Very wily,—very subtle all this, doctor. Do you know, I 'm half frightened at the thought of trusting myself to such a master of intrigue and mystification.”
“Have no fears; I reserve all my craft for my clients.” And with this he left the room, but only for a few minutes; for he met Barrington on the stairs, and speedily obtained permission to take his boat to Inistioge, having first pledged himself to come back with Stapylton to dinner.
“We shall see, we shall see,” muttered Stapylton to himself. “Your daughter must decide where I am to dine today.”
By the way—that is, as they glided along the bright river—Dill tried to prepare Stapylton for the task before him, by sundry hints as to Polly's temper and disposition, with warnings against this, and cautions about that. “Above all,” said he, “don't try to overreach her.”
“Perfect frankness—candor itself—is my device. Won't that do?”
“You must first see will she believe it,” said the doctor, slyly; and for the remainder of the way there was a silence between them.
CHAPTER XIII. CROSS-PURPOSES
“Where 's Miss Polly?” said Dill, hastily, as he passed his threshold.
“She's making the confusion of roses in the kitchen, sir,” said the maid, whose chemistry had been a neglected study.
“Tell her that I have come back, and that there is a gentleman along with me,” said he, imperiously, as he led the way into his study. “I have brought you into this den of mine, Major, because I would just say one word more by way of caution before you see Polly. You may imagine, from the small range of her intercourse with the world, and her village life, that her acuteness will not go very far; don't be too sure of that,—don't reckon too much on her want of experience.”
“I suppose I have encountered as sharp wits as hers before this time o' day,” replied he, half peevishly; and then, with an air of better temper, added, “I have no secrets to hide, no mystery to cloak. If I want her alliance, she shall herself dictate the terms that shall requite it.”
The doctor shook his head dubiously, but was silent.
“I half suspect, my good doctor,” said Stapylton, laughing, “that your charming daughter is a little, a very little, of a domestic despot; you are all afraid of her; never very sure of what she will say or do or think on any given circumstances, and nervously alive to the risk of her displeasure.”
“There is something in what you say,” remarked Dill, with a sigh; “but it was always my mistake to bring up my children with too much liberty of action. From the time they were so high”—and he held his hand out about a yard above the floor—“they were their own masters.”
Just as the words had fallen from him, a little chubby, shock-headed fellow, about five years old, burst into the room, which he believed unoccupied, and then, suddenly seeing his papa, set up a howl of terror that made the house ring.
“What is it, Jimmy,—what is it, my poor man?” said Polly, rushing with tucked-up sleeves to the spot; and, catching him up in her arms, she kissed him affectionately.
“Will you take him away?—will you take him out of that?” hissed out Dill between his teeth. “Don't you see Major Stapylton here?”
“Oh, Major Stapylton will excuse a toilette that was never intended for his presence.”
“I will certainly say there could not be a more becoming one, nor a more charming tableau to display it in!”
“There, Jimmy,” said she, laughing; “you must have some bread and jam for getting me such a nice compliment.”
And she bore away the still sobbing urchin, who, burying his head in her bosom, could never summon courage to meet his father's eye.
“What a spacious garden you appear to have here!” said Stapylton, who saw all the importance of a diversion to the conversation.
“It is a very much neglected one,” said Dill, pathetically. “My poor dear boy Tom used to take care of it when he was here; he had a perfect passion for flowers.”
Whether that Tom was associated in the Major's mind with some other very different tastes or not, Stapylton smiled slightly, and after a moment said, “If you permit me, I 'll take a stroll through your garden, and think over what we have been talking of.”
“Make yourself at home in every respect,” said Dill. “I have a few professional calls to make in the village, but we 'll meet at luncheon.”
“He's in the garden, Polly,” said Dill, as he passed his daughter on the stairs; “he came over here this morning to have a talk with you.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes; he has got it into his head that you can be of service to him.”
“It is not impossible, sir; I think I might.”
“I'm glad to bear it, Polly; I'm delighted to see you take a good sensible view of things. I need not tell you he's a knowing one.”
“No, sir. But, as I have heard you card-players say, 'he shows his hand.'”
“So he does, Polly; but I have known fellows do that just to mislead the adversary.”
“Sorry adversaries that could be taken in so easily.” And with a saucy toss of her head she passed on, scarcely noticing the warning gesture of her father's finger as she went.
When she had found her work-basket and supplied herself with the means of occupying her fingers for an hour or so, she repaired to the garden and took her seat under a large elm, around whose massive trunk a mossy bench ran, divided by rustic-work into a series of separate places.
“What a churlish idea it was to erect these barricades, Miss Dill!” said Stapylton as he seated himself at her side; “how unpicturesque and how prudish!”
“It was a simple notion of my brother Tom's,” said she, smiling, “who thought people would not be less agreeable by being reminded that they had a place of their own, and ought not to invade that of their neighbor.”
“What an unsocial thought!”
“Poor Tom! A strange reproach to make against you,” said she, laughing out.
“By the way, has n't he turned out a hero,—saved a ship and all she carried from the flames,—and all at the hazard of his own life?”
“He has done a very gallant thing; and, what's more, I 'll venture to say there is not a man who saw it thinks so little of it as himself.”
“I suppose that every brave man has more or less of that feeling.”
“I'm glad to learn this fact from such good authority,” said she, with a slight bend of the head.
“A prettily turned compliment, Miss Dill. Are you habitually given to flattery?”
“No? I rather think not. I believe the world is pleased to call me more candid than courteous.”
“Will you let me take you at the world's estimate,—that is, will you do me the inestimable favor to bestow a little of this same candor upon me?”
“Willingly. What is to be the subject of it?”
“The subject is a very humble one,—myself!”
“How can I possibly adjudicate on such a theme?”
“Better than you think for, perhaps!” And for a moment he appeared awkward and ill at ease. “Miss Dill,” said he, after a pause, “fortune has been using me roughly of late; and, like all men who deem themselves hardly treated, I fly at once to any quarter where I fancy I have found a more kindly disposition towards me. Am I indulging a self-delusion in believing that such sentiments are yours?”
Polly Dill, with her own keen tact, had guessed what was the real object of Stapylton's visit. She had even read in her father's manner how he himself was a shareholder in the scheme, and she had made up her mind for a great frankness on each side; but now, seeing the diplomatic mys-teriousness with which the Major opened his attack, that love of mischievous drollery which entered into her nature suggested a very different line. She determined, in fact, to seem to accept the Major's speech as the preliminary to an offer of his hand. She therefore merely turned her head slightly, and in a low voice said, “Continue!”
“I have not deceived myself, then,” said he, with more warmth of manner. “I have secured one kind heart in my interest?”
“You must own,” said she, with a half-coquettish look of pique, “that you scarcely deserve it.”
“How,—in what way?” asked he, in astonishment.
“What a very short memory you are blessed with! Must I, then, remind you of a certain evening at Cobham? Must I recall what I thought at the time very particular, as they certainly were very pleasant, attentions on your part? Must I, also, bring to mind a certain promised visit from you, the day and hour all named by yourself,—a visit which never came off? And after all this, Major, are you not really a bold man to come down and take up your negotiation where you dropped it? Is there not in this a strong conviction of the greatness of Major Stapylton and the littleness of the doctor's daughter?”
Stapylton was struck dumb. When a general sees that what he meant as a feint has been converted into a real attack, the situation is often imminent; but what comparison in difficulty is there between that mistake and that of him who assails what he never desired to conquer? How he inwardly cursed the stupidity with which he had opened his negotiation!
“I perceive,” said she, triumphing over his confusion, “that your calmer judgment does not reassure you. You feel that there is a certain levity in this conduct not quite excusable! Own it frankly, and at once!”
“I will own, if you like, that I was never in a situation of greater embarrassment!”
“Shall I tell you why?”
“You couldn't; it would be totally impossible.”
“I will try, however, if you permit me. You do! Then here goes. You no more intended anything to come of your little flirtation at Cobham than you now do of a more serious blunder. You never came here this morning to make your court to me, You are much pained at the awkwardness of a situation so naturally wounding to me, and for the life of you, you cannot imagine what escape there is out of such a difficulty.”
“You are wonderfully clever, Miss Dill,” said he; and there was an honest admiration in his look that gave the words a full significance.
“No,” said she, “but I am wonderfully good-natured. I forgive you what is the hardest thing in the world to forgive!”
“Oh! if you would but be my friend,” cried he, warmly.
“What a want of tact there was in that speech, Major Stapylton!” said she, with a laugh; “but perhaps you wanted to reverse the line of our dear little poet, who tells of some one 'that came but for Friendship, and took away Love'!”
“How cruel you are in all this mockery of me!”
“Does not the charge of cruelty come rather ill from you?—you, who can afford to sport with the affections of poor village maidens. From the time of that 'Major bold of Halifax' the song tells of, I never heard your equal.”
“Could you prevail upon yourself to be serious for a few minutes?” said he, gravely.
“I think not,—at least not just now; but why should I make the attempt?”
“Because I would wish your aid in a serious contingency,—a matter in which I am deeply interested, and which involves probably my future happiness.”
“Ah, Major! is it possible that you are going to trifle with my feelings once more?”
“My dear Miss Dill, must I plead once more for a little mercy?”
“No, don't do any such thing; it would seem ungenerous to refuse, and yet I could not accord it.”
“Fairly beaten,” said he, with a sigh; “there is no help for it. You are the victor!”
“How did you leave our friends at 'The Home'?” said she, with an easy indifference in her tone.
“All well, perfectly well; that is to say, I believe so, for I only saw my host himself.”
“What a pleasant house; how well they understand receiving their friends!”
“It is so peaceful and so quiet!” said he, with an effort to seem at ease.
“And the garden is charming!”
“And all this is perfectly intolerable,” said he, rising, and speaking in a voice thick with suppressed anger. “I never came here to play a part in a vaudeville! Your father led me to believe, Miss Dill, that you might not be indisposed to lend me your favoring aid in a suit which I am interested in. He told me I should at least find you frank and outspoken; that if you felt inclined to assist me, you'd never enhance the service by a seeming doubt or hesitation—”
“And if I should not feel so inclined, what did he then give you to expect?”
“That you'd say so!”
“So I do, then, clearly and distinctly tell you, if my counsels offer a bar to your wishes, they are all enlisted against you.”
“This is the acme of candor. You can only equal it by saying how I could have incurred your disfavor.”
“There is nothing of disfavor in the matter. I think you charming. You are a hero,—very clever, very fascinating, very accomplished; but I believe it would be a great mistake for Fifine to marry you. Your tempers have that sort of resemblance that leave no reliefs in their mutual play. You are each of you hot and hasty, and a little imperious; and if she were not very much in love, and consequently disposed to think a great deal of you and very little of herself, these traits that I speak of would work ill. But if every one of them were otherwise, there would still be one obstacle worse than all!”
“And that is—”
“Can you not guess what I mean, Major Stapylton? You do not, surely, want confidences from me that are more than candor!”
“Do I understand you aright?” said he, growing red and pale by turns, as passion worked within him; “do I apprehend you correctly? These people here are credulous enough to be influenced by the shadowy slanders of the newspapers, and they listen to the half-muttered accusations of a hireling press?”
“They do say very awkward things in the daily press, certainly,” said she, dryly; “and your friends marvel at the silence with which you treat them.”
“Then I have divined your meaning,” said he. “It is by these cowardly assailants I am supposed to be vanquished. I suspect, however, that Colonel Barrington himself was, once on a time, indulged with the same sort of flattery. They said that he had usurped a sovereignty, falsified documents, purloined jewels of immense value. I don't know what they did not charge him with. And what do they say of me? That I exhibited great severity—cruelty, if you will—towards a mob in a state of rebellion; that I reprimanded a very silly subaltern for a misplaced act of humanity. That I have been cashiered, too, they assert, in face of the 'Gazette,' which announces my appointment to an unattached majority. In a word, the enormity of the falsehood has never stayed their hand, and they write of me whatever their unthinking malevolence can suggest to them. You have, perhaps, seen some of these paragraphs?”
“Like every one else, I have read them occasionally; not very attentively, indeed. But, in truth, I'm not a reader of newspapers. Here, for instance, is this morning's as it came from Dublin, still unopened;” and she handed it as she spoke.
“Let us see if I be still honored with their notice,” said he, unfolding the paper, and running his eyes hastily over it. “Debate on the Sugar Bill—Prison Reforms—China—Reinforcements for Canada—Mail Service to the Colonies—Bankruptcy Court. Oh, here we have it—here it is!” and he crushed the paper while he folded down one part of it. “Shall I read it for you? The heading is very tempting: 'Late Military Scandal.—A very curious report is now going through our West-end Clubs, and especially such as are the resort of military officers. It is to the purport that a certain Field-officer of Cavalry—whose conduct has been the subject of severe strictures from the Press—will speedily be called to answer for a much graver offence than the transgression of regimental discipline. The story which has reached us is a very strange one, and we should call it incredible, if we were not informed, on author-ity, that one of our most distinguished Indian generals has declared himself fully satisfied of its truth in every particular.' Can you fancy anything worse than that, Miss Dill? An unknown somebody is alleged to be convinced of an unknown something that attaches to me; for, of course, I am designated as the 'Field-officer of Cavalry,' and the public is graciously pleased to hold me in abhorrence till I have found out my calumniator and refuted him!”
“It seems very hard. Who do you suspect is the Indian General alluded to?”
“Tell me, first of all,—does he exist?” “And this, too, you will not reply to, nor notice?” “Not, certainly, through such a channel as it reaches me. If the slanderer will stand forth and avow himself, I may know how to deal with him. But what has led us into this digression? I am sure it is as little to your taste as to mine. I have failed in my mission, and if I were able to justify every act of my life, what would it avail me? You have pronounced against me; at least, you will not take my brief.”
“What if I were retained by the other side?” said she, smiling.
“I never suspected that there was another side,” said he, with an air of extreme indifference. “Who is my formidable rival?”
“I might have told you if I saw you were really anxious on the subject.”
“It would be but hypocrisy in me to pretend it. If, for example, Major McCormick—”
“Oh, that is too bad!” cried Polly, interrupting. “This would mean an impertinence to Miss Barrington.”
“How pleasant we must have been! Almost five o'clock, and I scarcely thought it could be three!” said he, with an affected languor.
“'Time's foot is not heard when he treads upon flowers,'” said she, smiling.
“Where shall I find your father, Miss Dill? I want to tell him what a charming creature his daughter is, and how wretched I feel at not being able to win her favor.”
“Pray don't; or he might fall into my own mistake, and imagine that you wanted a lease of it for life.”
“Still cruel, still inexorable!” said he, with a mockery of affliction in his tone. “Will you say all the proper things—the regrets, and such like—I feel at not meeting him again; and if he has asked me to dinner—which I really forget—will you make the fitting apology?”
“And what is it, in the present case?”
“I 'm not exactly sure whether I am engaged to dine elsewhere, or too ill to dine at all.”
“Why not say it is the despair at being rejected renders you unequal to the effort? I mean, of course, by myself, Major Stapylton.”
“I have no objection; say so, if you like,” said he, with an insulting indifference. “Good-day, Miss Dill. This is the way to the road, I believe;” and, with a low bow, very deferential but very distant, he turned away to leave the garden. He had not, however, gone many paces, when he stopped and seemed to ponder. He looked up at the sky, singularly clear and cloudless as it was, without a breath of wind in the air; he gazed around him on every side, as if in search of an object he wanted; and then, taking out his purse, he drew forth a shilling and examined it. “Yes,” muttered he, “Chance has been my only counsellor for many a year, and the only one that never takes a bribe! And yet, is it not taking to the raft before the ship has foundered? True; but shall I be sure of the raft if I wait for the shipwreck? She is intensely crafty. She has that sort of head that loves a hard knot to unravel! Here goes! Let Destiny take all the consequences!” and as he flung up the piece of money in the air, he cried, “Head!” It was some minutes ere he could discover where it had fallen, amongst the close leaves of a border of strawberries. He bent down to look, and exclaimed, “Head! she has won!” Just as he arose from his stooping attitude he perceived that Polly was engaged in the adjoining walk, making a bouquet of roses. He sprang across the space, and stood beside her.
“I thought you had been a mile off by this time, at least,” said she, calmly.
“So I meant, and so I intended; but just as I parted from you, a thought struck me—one of those thoughts which come from no process of reasoning or reflection, but seem impelled by a force out of our own natures—that I would come back and tell you something that was passing in my mind. Can you guess it?”
“No; except it be that you are sorry for having trifled so unfeelingly with my hopes, and have come back to make the best reparation in your power, asking me to forgive and accept you.”
“You have guessed aright; it was for that I returned.”
“What a clever guess I made! Confess I am very ready-witted!”
“You are; and it is to engage those ready wits in my behalf that I am now before you.”
“'At my feet,' sir, is the appropriate expression. I wonder how a gentleman so suited to be the hero of a story could forget the language of the novel.”
“I want you to be serious,” said he, almost sternly.
“And why should that provoke seriousness from me which only costs you levity?”
“Levity!—where is the levity?”
“Is it not this instant that you flung a shilling in the air, and cried out, as you looked on it, 'She has won'? Is it not that you asked Chance to decide for you what most men are led to by their affections, or at least their interests; and if so, is levity not the name for this?”
“True in part, but not in whole; for I felt it was I who had won when 'head' came uppermost.”
“And yet you have lost.”
“How so! You refuse me?”
“I forgive your astonishment. It is really strange, but I do refuse you.”
“But why? Are you piqued with me for anything that occurred this morning? Have I offended you by anything that dropped from me in that conversation? Tell me frankly, that I may, if in my power, rectify it.”
“No; I rather felt flattered at the notion of being consulted. I thought it a great tribute to my clear-headedness and my tact.”
“Then tell me what it was.”
“You really wish it?”
“I do.”
“Insist upon it?”
“I insist upon it.”
“Well, it was this. Seeing that you were intrusting your future fortune to chance, I thought that I would do the same, and so I tossed up whether, opportunity serving, I should accept you or a certain other, and the other won!”
“May I ask for the name of my fortunate rival?”
“I don't think it is very fair, perhaps not altogether delicate of you; and the more since he has not proposed, nor possibly ever may. But no matter, you shall hear his name. It was Major McCormick.”
“McCormick! You mean this for an insult to me, Miss Dill?”
“Well, it certainly is open to that objection,” said she, with a very slight closure of her eyes, and a look of steady, resolute defiance.
“And in this way,” continued he, “to throw ridicule over the offer I have made you?”
“Scarcely that; the proposition was in itself too ridiculous to require any such aid from me.”
For a moment Stapylton lost his self-possession, and he turned on her with a look of savage malignity.
“An insult, and an intentional insult!” said he; “a bold thing to avow.”
“I don't think so, Major Stapylton. We have been playing a very rough game with each other, and it is not very wonderful if each of us should have to complain of hard treatment.”
“Could not so very clever a person as Miss Dill perceive that I was only jesting?” said he, with a cutting insolence in his tone.
“I assure you that I did not,” said she, calmly; “had I known or even suspected it was a jest, I never should have been angry. That the distinguished Major Stapylton should mock and quiz—or whatever be the name for it—the doctor's daughter, however questionable the good taste, was, after all, only a passing slight. The thought of asking her to marry him was different,—that was an outrage!”
“You shall pay for this one day, perhaps,” said he, biting his lip.
“No, Major Stapylton,” said she, laughing; “this is not a debt of honor; you can afford to ignore it.”
“I tell you again, you shall pay for it.”
“Till then, sir!” said she, with a courtesy; and without giving him time for another word, she turned and re-entered the house.
Scarcely had Stapylton gained the road when he was joined by McCormick. “Faith, you didn't get the best of that brush, anyhow,” said he, with a grin.
“What do you mean, sir?” replied Stapylton, savagely.
“I mean that I heard every word that passed between you, and I would n't have been standing in your shoes for a fifty-pound note.”
“How is your rheumatism this morning?” asked Stapylton, blandly.
“Pretty much as it always is,” croaked out the other.
“Be thankful to it, then; for if you were not a cripple, I 'd throw you into that river as sure as I stand here to say it.”
Major McCormick did not wait for a less merciful moment, but hobbled away from the spot with all the speed he could muster.
CHAPTER XIV. STORMS
When Stapylton stepped out of his boat and landed at “The Home,” the first person he saw was certainly the last in his wishes. It was Miss Dinah who stood at the jetty, as though awaiting him. Scarcely deigning to notice, beyond a faint smile of acquiescence, the somewhat bungling explanation he gave of his absence, she asked if he had met her brother.
“No,” said he. “I left the village a couple of hours ago; rather loitering, as I came along, to enjoy the river scenery.”
“He took the road, and in this way missed you,” said she, dryly.
“How unfortunate!—for me, I mean, of course. I own to you, Miss Barrington, wide as the difference between our ages, I never yet met any one so thoroughly companionable to me as your brother. To meet a man so consummately acquainted with the world, and yet not soured by his knowledge; to see the ripe wisdom of age blended with the generous warmth of youth; to find one whose experiences only make him more patient, more forgiving, more trustful—”
“Too trustful, Major Stapylton, far too trustful.” And her bold gray eyes were turned upon him as she spoke, with a significance that could not be mistaken.
“It is a noble feeling, madam,” said he, haughtily.
“It is a great misfortune to its possessor, sir.”
“Can we deem that misfortune, Miss Barrington, which enlarges the charity of our natures, and teaches us to be slow to think ill?”
Not paying the slightest attention to his question, she said,—
“My brother went in search of you, sir, to place in your hands some very urgent letters from the Horse Guards, and which a special messenger brought here this morning.”
“Truly kind of him. They relate, I have no doubt, to my Indian appointment. They told me I should have news by to-day or to-morrow.”
“He received a letter also for himself, sir, which he desired to show you.”
“About his lawsuit, of course? It is alike a pleasure and a duty to me to serve him in that affair.”
“It more nearly concerns yourself, sir,” said she, in the same cold, stern tone; “though it has certainly its bearing on the case you speak of.”
“More nearly concerns myself!” said he, repeating her words slowly. “I am about the worst guesser of a riddle in the world, Miss Barrington. Would you kindly relieve my curiosity? Is this letter a continuation of those cowardly attacks which, in the want of a worthier theme, the Press have amused themselves by making upon me? Is it possible that some enemy has had the malice to attack me through my friends?”
“The writer of the letter in question is a sufficient guarantee for its honor, Mr. Withering.”
“Mr. Withering!” repeated he, with a start, and then, as suddenly assuming an easy smile, added: “I am perfectly tranquil to find myself in such hands as Mr. Withering's. And what, pray, does he say of me?”
“Will you excuse me, Major Stapylton, if I do not enter upon a subject on which I am not merely very imperfectly informed, but on which so humble a judgment as mine would be valueless? My brother showed me the letter very hurriedly; I had but time to see to what it referred, and to be aware that it was his duty to let you see it at once,—if possible, indeed, before you were again under his roof.”
“What a grave significance your words have, Miss Barrington!” said he, with a cold smile. “They actually set me to think over all my faults and failings, and wonder for which of them I am now arraigned.”
“We do not profess to judge you, sir.”
By this time they had sauntered up to the little garden in front of the cottage, within the paling of which Josephine was busily engaged in training a japonica. She arose as she heard the voices, and in her accustomed tone wished Stapylton good-evening. “She, at least, has heard nothing of all this,” muttered he to himself, as he saluted her. He then opened the little wicket; and Miss Barrington passed in, acknowledging his attention by a short nod, as she walked hastily forward and entered the cottage. Instead of following her, Stapylton closed the wicket again, remaining on the outside, and leaning his arm on the upper rail.
“Why do you perform sentry? Are you not free to enter the fortress?” said Fifine.
“I half suspect not,” said he, in a low tone, and to hear which she was obliged to draw nigher to where he stood.
“What do you mean? I don't understand you!”
“No great wonder, for I don't understand myself. Your aunt has, however, in her own most mysterious way, given me to believe that somebody has written something about me to somebody else, and until I clear up what in all probability I shall never hear, that I had better keep to what the Scotch call the 'back o' the gate.'”
“This is quite unintelligible.”
“I hope it is, for it is almost unendurable. I am sorely afraid,” added he, after a minute, “that I am not so patient as I ought to be under Miss Barrington's strictures. I am so much more in the habit of command than of obedience, that I may forget myself now and then. To you, however, I am ready to submit all my past life and conduct. By you I am willing to be judged. If these cruel calumnies which are going the round of the papers on me have lowered me in your estimation, my case is a lost one; but if, as I love to think, your woman's heart resents an injustice,—if, taking counsel of your courage and your generosity, you feel it is not the time to withdraw esteem when the dark hour of adversity looms over a man,—then, I care no more for these slanders than for the veriest trifles which cross one's every-day life. In one word,—your verdict is life or death to me.”
“In that case,” said she, with an effort to dispel the seriousness of his manner, “I must have time to consider my sentence.”
“But that is exactly what you cannot have, Josephine,” said he; and there was a certain earnestness in his voice and look, which made her hear him call her by her name without any sense of being off ended. “First relieve the suffering; there will be ample leisure to question the sufferer afterwards. The Good Samaritan wasted few words, and asked for no time. The noblest services are those of which the cost is never calculated. Your own heart can tell you: can you befriend me, and will you?”
“I do not know what it is you ask of me,” said she, with a frank boldness which actually disconcerted him. “Tell me distinctly, what is it?”
“I will tell you,” said he, taking her hand, but so gently, so respectfully withal, that she did not at first withdraw it,—“I will tell you. It is that you will share that fate on which fortune is now frowning; that you will add your own high-couraged heart to that of one who never knew a fear till now; that you will accept my lot in this the day of my reverse, and enable me to turn upon my pursuers and scatter them. To-morrow or next day will be too late. It is now, at this hour, that friends hold back, that one more than friend is needed. Can you be that, Josephine?”
“No!” said she, firmly. “If I read your meaning aright, I cannot.”
“You cannot love me, Josephine,” said he, in a voice of intense emotion; and though he waited some time for her to speak, she was silent. “It is true, then,” said he, passionately, “the slanderers have done their work!”
“I know nothing of these calumnies. When my grandfather told me that they accused you falsely, and condemned you unfairly, I believed him. I am as ready as ever to say so. I do not understand your cause; but I believe you to be a true and gallant gentleman!”
“But yet, not one to love!” whispered he, faintly.
Again she was silent, and for some time he did not speak.
“A true and gallant gentleman!” said he, slowly repeating her own words; “and if so, is it an unsafe keeping to which to intrust your happiness? It is no graceful task to have oneself for a theme; but I cannot help it. I have no witnesses to call to character; a few brief lines in an army list, and some scars—old reminders of French sabres—are poor certificates, and yet I have no others.”
There was something which touched her in the sadness of his tone as he said these words, and if she knew how, she would have spoken to him in kindliness. He mistook the struggle for a change of purpose, and with greater eagerness continued: “After all I am scarcely more alone in the world than you are! The dear friends who now surround you cannot be long spared, and what isolation will be your fate then! Think of this, and think, too, how, in assuring your own future, you rescue mine.”
Very differently from his former speech did the present affect her; and her cheeks glowed and her eyes flashed as she said, “I have never intrusted my fate to your keeping, sir; and you may spare yourself all anxiety about it.”
“You mistake me. You wrong me, Josephine—”
“You wrong yourself when you call me by my Christian name; and you arm me with distrust of one who would presume upon an interest he has not created.”
“You refuse me, then?” said he, slowly and calmly.
“Once, and forever!”
“It may be that you are mistaken, Miss Barrington. It may be that this other affection, which you prefer to mine, is but the sickly sentiment of a foolish boy, whose life up to this has not given one single guarantee, nor shown one single trait of those which make 'true and gallant gentlemen.' But you have made your choice.”
“I have,” said she, with a low but firm voice.
“You acknowledge, then, that I was right,” cried he, suddenly; “there is a prior attachment? Your heart is not your own to give?”
“And by what right do you presume to question me? Who are you, that dares to do this?”
“Who am I?” cried he, and for once his voice rose to the discordant ring of passion.
“Yes, that was my question,” repeated she, firmly.
“So, then, you have had your lesson, young lady,” said he; and the words came from him with a hissing sound, that indicated intense anger. “Who am I? You want my birth, my parentage, my bringing up! Had you no friend who could have asked this in your stead? Or were all those around you so bereft of courage that they deputed to a young girl what should have been the office of a man?”
Though the savage earnestness of his manner startled, it did not affright her; and it was with a cold quietness she said, “If you had known my father, Major Stapylton, I suspect you would not have accused his daughter of cowardice!”
“Was he so very terrible?” said he, with a smile that was half a sneer.
“He would have been, to a man like you.”
“To a man like me,—a man like me! Do you know, young lady, that either your words are very idle words or very offensive ones?”
“And yet I have no wish to recall them, sir.”
“It would be better you could find some one to sustain them. Unfortunately, however, you cannot ask that gallant gentleman we were just talking of; for it is only the other day, and after passing over to Calais to meet me, his friends pretend that there is some obstacle to our meeting. I owe my tailor or my bootmaker something; or I have not paid my subscription to a club; or I have left an unsettled bill ar Baden. I really forget the precise pretext; but it was one which to them seemed quite sufficient to balk me of a redress, and at the same time to shelter their friend.”
“I will not believe one word of it, sir!”
“Well, we have at least arrived at a perfect frankness in our intercourse. May I ask you, young lady, which of your relatives has suggested your present course! Is it to your aunt or to your grandfather I must go for an explanation?”
“I suspect it is to me, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, as he came from behind Josephine. “It is to me you must address yourself. Fifine, my dear, your aunt is looking for you; go and tell her, too, that I am quite ready for tea, and you will find me here when it is ready. Major Stapylton and I will take a stroll along the river-side.” Now this last was less an invitation than a sort of significant hint to Stapylton that his host had no intention to ask him to cross his threshold, at least for the present; and, indeed, as Barrington passed out and closed the wicket after him, he seemed as though closing the entrance forever.
With a manner far more assured thau his wont, Barrington said: “I have been in pursuit of you, Major Stapylton, since four o'clock. I missed you by having taken the road instead of the river; and am much grieved that the communication I have to make you should not take place anywhere rather than near my roof or within my own gates.”
“I am to suppose from your words, sir, that what you are about to say can scarcely be said to a friend; and if so, cannot you hit upon a more convenient mode of making your communication?”
“I think not. I believe that I shall be dealing more fairly with you by saying what I have to say in person.”
“Go on,” said Stapylton, calmly, as the other paused.
“You are aware,” continued Barrington, “that the chief obstacle to a settlement of the claims I have long preferred against the India Company has been a certain document which they possess, declaring that a large portion of the territory held by the Rajah of Luckerabad was not amenable to the laws that regulate succession, being what is called 'Lurkar-teea,'—conquered country,—over which, under no circumstances, could the Rajah exercise prospective rights. To this deed, for their better protection, the Company obtained the signature and seal of the Rajah himself, by means which, of course, we could never discover; but they held it, and always declared that no portion of my son's claim could extend to these lands. Now, as they denied that he could succeed to what are called the 'Turban lands,' meaning the right of sovereignty—being a British subject—on the one hand, and rejected his claim to these conquered countries on the other,—they excluded him altogether.”
“My dear sir,” said Stapylton, mildly, “I'm shocked to interrupt you, but I am forced to ask, what is the intimate bearing of all this upon me, or on your position towards me?”
“Have a little patience, sir, and suffer me to proceed. If it should turn out that this document—I mean that which bears the signature and seal of the Rajah—should be a forgery; if, I say, it could be shown that what the India Board have long relied on to sustain their case and corroborate their own view could be proved false, a great point would be gained towards the establishment of our claim.”
“Doubtless,” said Stapylton, with the half-peevish indifference of one listening against his will.
“Well, there is a good prospect of this,” said Barring-ton, boldly. “Nay, more, it is a certainty.”
“Mr. Barrington,” said Stapylton, drawing himself haughtily up, “a few hours ago this history would have had a very great interest for me. My hopes pointed to a very close relationship with your family; the last hour has sufficed to dispel those hopes. Your granddaughter has rejected me so decidedly that I cannot presume to suppose a change in her opinion possible. Let me not then, obtain any share in your confidence to which I have no right whatever.”
“What I am about to say will have more interest for you, sir,” continued Barrington. “I am about to mention a name that you will recognize,—the Moonshee, Ali Gohur.”
Stapylton started, and dropped the cigar he was smoking. To take out another and light it, however, sufficed to employ him, as he murmured between his teeth, “Go on.”
“This man says—” continued Barrington.
“Said, perhaps, if you like,” broke in Stapylton, “for he died some months ago.”
“No; he is alive at this hour. He was on board the Indiaman that was run down by the transport. He was saved and carried on board the 'Regulus' by the intrepidity of young Dill. He is now recovering rapidly from the injuries he received, and at the date of the letter which I hold here, was able to be in daily communication with Colonel Hunter, who is the writer of this.”
“I wish the gallant Colonel honester company. Are you aware, Mr. Barrington, that you are speaking of one of the greatest rascals of a country not famed for its integrity?”
“He lays no claim to such for the past; but he would seem desirous to make some reparation for a long course of iniquity.”
“Charmed for his sake, and that of his well-wishers, if he have any. But, once again, sir, and at all the risk of appearing very impatient, what concern has all this for me?”
“A great deal, sir. The Moonshee declares that he has been for years back in close correspondence with a man we long since believed dead, and that this man was known to have communicated constantly with the law advisers of the India Board in a manner adverse to us, he being none other than the son of the notorious Sam Edwardes, whom he always addressed under cover to Captain Horace Stapylton, Prince's Hussars.”
“This is—strange enough, when one thinks of the quarter it comes from—perfectly true. I came to know Edwardes when on my voyage home, invalided. He took immense trouble about me, nursed and tended me, and, in return, asked as a favor to have some letters he was expecting addressed to my care. I neither knew who he was, nor cared. He got his letters, and I suppose read them; but of their contents, I, it is needless to say, know nothing. I am speaking of a dozen years ago, or, at least, eight or ten, for since that time I have never heard of either Edwardes or his friend.”
“He tells a different story. He asserts that to his letters, forwarded to the same address up to the period of last March, he regularly received replies; but at last finding that the writer was disposed to get rid of him, he obtained means to circulate a report of his death, and sailed for Europe to prefer his claims, whatever they be, in person.”
“And if every word of this were true, Mr. Barrington, which I don't suspect it is, how, in the name of common sense, does it concern me? I don't suppose I ever took my own letters at a post-office twice in my life. My servant, who has lived with me fourteen years, may, for aught I know, have been bribed to abstract these letters on their arrival; they would be easily recognized by the very superscription. This is one way the thing might have been done. There may have been fifty more, for aught I know or care.”
“But you don't deny that you knew Edwardes, and had a close intimacy with him?—a circumstance which you never revealed to Withering or myself.”
“It is not at all improbable I may have known half a dozen of that name. It is by no means an uncommon one, not to say that I have a singularly infelicitous memory for people's names. But for the last time, sir, I must protest against this conversation going any further. You have taken upon you, I would hope without intending it, the tone of a French Juge d'Instruction in the interrogation of a prisoner. You have questioned and cross-questioned me, asking how I can account for this, or explain that. Now, I am ready to concede a great deal to your position as my host, and to your years, but really I must entreat of you not to push my deference for these beyond the limits of the respect I owe myself. You very properly warned me at the opening of this conversation that it ought not to have the sanction of your roof-tree. I have only to beg that if it is to go any further, that it be conducted in such a shape as is usual between gentlemen who have an explanation to ask, or a satisfaction to demand.”
There was consummate craft in giving the discussion this turn. Stapylton well knew the nature of the man he was addressing, and that after the passing allusion to his character as a host, he only needed to hint at the possibility of a meeting to recall him to a degree of respect only short of deference for his opponent.
“I defer to you at once, Major Stapylton,” said the old man, with a bland courtesy, as he uncovered and bowed. “There was a time when I should scarcely have required the admonition you have given me.”
“I am glad to perceive that you understand me so readily,” said Stapylton, who could scarcely repress the joy he felt at the success of his diversion; “and that nothing may mar our future understanding, this is my address in London, where I shall wait your orders for a week.”
Though the stroke was shrewdly intended, and meant to throw upon Barrington all the onus of the provocation, the Major little suspected that it was the one solitary subject of which his opponent was a master. On the “duello” Barrington was an authority beyond appeal, and no subtlety, however well contrived, could embarrass or involve him.
“I have no satisfaction to claim at your hands, Major Stapylton,” said he, calmly. “My friend, Mr. Withering, when he sent me these letters, knew you were my guest, and he said, 'Read them to Major Stapylton. Let him know what is said of him, and who says it.'”
“And, perhaps, you ought to add, sir, who gives it the sanction of his belief,” broke in Stapylton, angrily. “You never took the trouble to recite these charges till they obtained your credence.”
“You have said nothing to disprove them,” said the old man, quickly.
“That is enough,—quite enough, sir; we understand each other perfectly. You allege certain things against me as injuries done you, and you wait for me to resent the imputation. I 'll not balk you, be assured of it. The address I have given you in London will enable you to communicate with me when you arrive there; for I presume this matter had better be settled in France or Holland.”
“I think so,” said Barrington, with the air of a man thoroughly at his ease.
“I need not say, Mr. Barrington, the regret it gives me that it was not one of my detractors himself, and not their dupe, that should occupy this place.”
“The dupe, sir, is very much at your service.”
“Till we meet again,” said Stapylton, raising his hat as he turned away. In his haste and the confusion of the moment, he took the path that led towards the cottage; nor did he discover his mistake till he heard Barrington's voice calling out to Darby,—
“Get the boat ready to take Major Stapylton to Inistioge.”
“You forget none of the precepts of hospitality,” said Stapylton, wheeling hastily around, and directing his steps towards the river.
Barrington looked after him as he went, and probably in his long and varied life, crossed with many a care and many troubles, he had never felt the pain of such severe self-reproach as in that moment. To see his guest, the man who had sat at his board and eaten his salt, going out into the dreary night without one hospitable effort to detain him, without a pledge to his health, without a warm shake of his hand, or one hearty wish for his return.
“Dear, dear!” muttered he, to himself, “what is the world come to! I thought I had no more experiences to learn of suffering; but here is a new one. Who would have thought to see the day that Peter Barrington would treat his guest this fashion?”
“Are you coming in to tea, grandpapa?” cried Josephine, from the garden.
“Here I am, my dear!”
“And your guest, Peter, what has become of him?” said Dinah.
“He had some very urgent business at Kilkenny; something that could not admit of delay, I opine.”
“But you have not let him go without his letters, surely. Here are all these formidable-looking despatches, on his Majesty's service, on the chimney-piece.”
“How forgetful of me!” cried he, as, snatching them up, he hastened down to the river-side. The boat, however, had just gone; and although he shouted and called at the top of his voice, no answer came, and he turned back at last, vexed and disappointed.
“I shall have to start for Dublin to-morrow, Dinah,” said he, as he walked thoughtfully up and down the room. “I must have Withering's advice on these letters. There are very pressing matters to be thought of here, and I can take Major Stapylton's despatches with me. I am certain to hear of him somewhere.”
Miss Barrington turned her eyes full upon him, and watched him narrowly. She was a keen detector of motives, and she scanned her brother's face with no common keenness, and yet she could see nothing beyond the preoccupation she had often seen. There was no impatience, no anxiety. A shade more thoughtful, perhaps, and even that passed off, as he sat down to his tea, and asked Fifine what commissions she had for the capital.
“You will leave by the evening mail, I suppose?” said Miss Barrington.
“No, Dinah, night travelling wearies me. I will take the coach as it passes the gate to-morrow at five; this will bring me in time to catch Withering at his late dinner, and a pleasanter way to finish a day's travel no man need ask for.”
Nothing could be more easily spoken than these words, and Miss Dinah felt reassured by them, and left the room to give some orders about his journey.
“Fifine, darling,” said Barrington, after a pause, “do you like your life here?”
“Of course I do, grandpapa. How could I wish for one more happy?”
“But it is somewhat dull for one so young,—somewhat solitary for a fair, bright creature, who might reasonably enough care for pleasure and the world.”
“To me it is a round of gayety, grandpapa; so that I almost felt inclined yesterday to wish for some quiet davs with aunt and yourself,—some of those dreamy days like what we had in Germany.”
“I fear me much, darling, that I contribute but little to the pleasure. My head is so full of one care or another, I am but sorry company, Fifine.”
“If you only knew how dull we are without you! How heavily the day drags on even with the occupations you take no share in; how we miss your steps on the stairs and your voice in the garden, and that merry laugh that sets ourselves a-laughing just by its own ring.”
“And you would miss me, then?” said he, as he pushed the hair from her temples, and stared steadfastly at her face,—“you would miss me?”
“It would only be half life without you,” cried she, passionately.
“So much the worse,—so much the worse!” muttered he; and he turned away, and drew his hand across his eyes. “This life of ours, Fifine, is a huge battle-field; and though the comrades fall fast around him, the brave soldier will fight on to the last.”
“You don't want a dress-coat, brother Peter, to dine with Withering, so I have just put up what will serve you for three days, or four, at furthest,” said Dinah, entering. “What will be the extent of your stay?”
“Let me have a black coat, Dinah; there 's no saying what great man may not ask for my company; and it might be a week before I get back again.”
“There's no necessity it should be anything of the kind, Peter; and with your habits an hotel life is scarcely an economy. Come, Fifine, get to bed, child. You'll have to be up at daybreak. Your grandpapa won't think his coffee drinkable, if it is not made by your hands.”
And with this remark, beautifully balanced between a reproof and a flattery, she proceeded to blow out the candles, which was her accustomed mode of sending her company to their rooms.