Barrington. Volume 2

“Which means a flattery at the outset,” said she, smiling.

“Only as much as your friend Mr. Withering would throw out to dispose the court in his favor; and now, which way shall we walk? Are you to be the guide, or I?”

“You, by all means, since you know nothing of the locality.”

“Agreed. Well, here is my plan. We cross the river in this boat, and take that path yonder that leads up by the waterfall. I know, from the dark shadow of the mountain, that there is a deep glen, very wild, very romantic, and very solemn, through which I mean to conduct you.”

“All this means a very long excursion, does it not?”

“You have just told me that you were free from all engagement.”

“Yes; but not from all control. I must ask Aunt Dinah’s leave before I set out on this notable expedition.”

“Do nothing of the kind. It would be to make a caprice seem a plan. Let us go where you will, – here, along the river’s side; anywhere, so that we may affect to think that we are free agents, and not merely good children sent out for a walk.”

“What a rebel against authority you are for one so despotic yourself!”

“I despotic! Who ever called me so?”

“Your officers say as much.”

“I know from what quarter that came,” said he; and his bronzed face grew a shade deeper. “That dilettante soldier, young Conyers, has given me this character; but I ‘d rather talk of you than myself. Tell me all about your life. Is it as delightful as everything around would bespeak it? Are these trees and flowers, this sunny bank, this perfumed sward, true emblems of the existence they embellish, or is Paradise only a cheat?”

“I don’t think so. I think Paradise is very like what it looks, not but I own that the garden is pleasanter with guests in it than when only Adam and Eve were there. Mr. Withering is charming, and you can be very agreeable.”

“I would I knew how to be so,” said he, seriously, “just at this moment; for I am going away from Ireland, and I am very desirous of leaving a good impression behind me.”

“What could it signify to you how you were thought of in this lonely spot?”

“More than you suspect, – more than you would, perhaps, credit,” said he, feelingly.

There was a little pause, during which they walked along side by side.

“What are you thinking of?” said she, at last

“I was thinking of a strange thing, – it was this: About a week ago there was no effort I was not making to obtain the command of my regiment. I wanted to be Lieutenant-Colonel; and so bent was I on gaining my object, that if giving away three or four years of that life that I may hope for would have done it, I ‘d have closed the bargain; and now the ambition is gone, and I am speculating whether I ‘ll not take the cottage of your friend Major M’Cormick, – he offered it to me last night, – and become your neighbor. What say you to the project?”

“For us the exchange will be all a gain.”

“I want your opinion, – your own,” said he, with a voice reduced to a mere whisper.

“I’d like it of all things; although, if I were your sister or your daughter, I’d not counsel it.”

“And why not, if you were my sister?” said he, with a certain constraint in his manner.

“I’d say it was inglorious to change from the noble activity of a soldier’s life to come and dream away existence here.”

“But what if I have done enough for this same thing men call fame? I have had my share of campaigning, and as the world looks there is wondrous little prospect of any renewal of it. These peace achievements suit your friend Conyers better than me.”

“I think you are not just to him. If I read him aright, he is burning for an occasion to distinguish himself.”

A cold shrug of the shoulders was his only acknowledgment of this speech, and again a silence fell between them.

“I would rather talk of you, if you would let me,” said he, with much significance of voice and manner. “Say would you like to have me for your neighbor?”

“It would be a pleasant exchange for Major M’Cormick,” said she, laughing.

“I want you to be serious now. What I am asking you interests me too deeply to jest over.”

“First of all, is the project a serious one?”

“It is.”

“Next, why ask advice from one as inexperienced as I am?”

“Because it is not counsel I ask, – it is something more. Don’t look surprised, and, above all, don’t look angry, but listen to me. What I have said now, and what more I would say, might more properly have been uttered when we had known each other longer; but there are emergencies in life which give no time for slow approaches, and there are men, too, that they suit not. Imagine such now before you, – I mean, both the moment and the man. Imagine one who has gone through a great deal in life, seen, heard, and felt much, and yet never till now, never till this very morning, understood what it was to know one whose least word or passing look was more to him than ambition, higher than all the rewards of glory.”

“We never met till yesterday,” said she, calmly.

“True; and if we part to-morrow, it will be forever. I feel too painfully,” added he, with more eagerness, “how I compromise all that I value by an avowal abrupt and rash as this is; but I have had no choice. I have been offered the command of a native force in India, and must give my answer at once. With hope – the very faintest, so that it be hope – I will refuse. Remember I want no pledge, no promise; all I entreat is that you will regard me as one who seeks to win your favor. Let time do the rest.”

“I do not think I ought to do this – I do not know if you should ask it.”

“May I speak to your grandfather – may I tell him what I have told you – may I say, ‘It is with Josephine’s permission – ‘”

“I am called Miss Barrington, sir, by all but those of my own family.”

“Forgive me, I entreat you,” said he, with a deep humility in his tone. “I had never so far forgotten myself if calm reason had not deserted me. I will not transgress again.”

“This is the shortest way back to the cottage,” said she, turning into a narrow path in the wood.

“It does not lead to my hope,” said he, despondingly; and no more was uttered between them for some paces.

“Do not walk so very fast, Miss Barrington,” said he, in a tone which trembled slightly. “In the few minutes – the seconds you could accord me – I might build the whole fortune of my life. I have already endangered my hopes by rashness; let me own that it is the fault I have struggled against in vain. This scar” – and he showed the deep mark of a sabre-wound on the temple – “was the price of one of my offendings; but it was light in suffering to what I am now enduring.”

“Can we not talk of what will exact no such sacrifice?” said she, calmly.

“Not now, not now!” said he, with emotion; “if you pass that porch without giving me an answer, life has no longer a tie for me. You know that I ask for no pledge, no promise, merely time, – no more than time, – a few more of those moments of which you now would seem eager to deny me. Linger an instant here, I beseech you, and remember that what to you may be a caprice may to me be a destiny.”

“I will not hear more of this,” said she, half angrily. “If it were not for my own foolish trustfulness, you never would have dared to address such words to one whom you met yesterday for the first time.”

“It is true your generous frankness, the nature they told me you inherited, gives me boldness, but it might teach you to have some pity for a disposition akin to it. One word, – only one word more.”

“Not one, sir! The lesson my frankness has taught me is, never to incur this peril again.”

“Do you part from me in anger?”

“Not with you; but I will not answer for myself if you press me further.”

“Even this much is better than despair,” said he, mournfully; and she passed into the cottage, while he stood in the porch and bowed respectfully as she went by. “Better than I looked for, better than I could have hoped,” muttered he to himself, as he strolled away and disappeared in the wood.

CHAPTER V. A CABINET COUNCIL

“What do you think of it, Dinah?” said Barrington, as they sat in conclave the next morning in her own sitting-room.

She laid down a letter she had just finished reading on the table, carefully folding it, like one trying to gain time before she spoke: “He’s a clever man, and writes well, Peter; there can be no second opinion upon that.”

“But his proposal, Dinah, – his proposal?”

“Pleases me less the more I think of it. There is great disparity of age, – a wide discrepancy in character. A certain gravity of demeanor would not be undesirable, perhaps, in a husband for Josephine, who has her moments of capricious fancy; but if I mistake not, this man’s nature is stern and unbending.”

“There will be time enough to consider all that, Dinah. It is, in fact, to weigh well the chances of his fitness to secure her happiness that he pleads; he asks permission to make himself known to her, rather than to make his court.”

“I used to fancy that they meant the same thing, – I know that they did in my day, Peter,” said she, bridling; “but come to the plain question before us. So far as I understand him, his position is this: ‘If I satisfy you that my rank and fortune are satisfactory to you, have I your permission to come back here as your granddaughter’s suitor?’”

“Not precisely, Dinah, – not exactly this. Here are his words: ‘I am well aware that I am much older than Miss Barrington, and it is simply to ascertain from herself if, in that disparity of years, there exists that disparity of tastes and temper which would indispose her to regard me as one to whom she would intrust her happiness. I hope to do this without any offence to her delicacy, though not without peril to my own self-love. Have I your leave for this experiment?’”

“Who is he? Who are his friends, connections, belongings? What is his station independently of his military rank, and what are his means? Can you answer these questions?”

“Not one of them. I never found myself till to-day in a position to inquire after them.”

“Let us begin, then, by that investigation, Peter. There is no such test of a man as to make him talk of himself. With you alone the matter, perhaps, would not present much difficulty to him, but I intend that Mr. Withering’s name and my own shall be on the committee; and, take my word for it, we shall sift the evidence carefully.”

“Bear in mind, sister Dinah, that this gentleman is, first of all, our guest.”

“The first of all that I mean to bear in mind is, that he desires to be your grandson.”

“Of course, – of course. I would only observe on the reserve that should be maintained towards one who honors us with his presence.”

“Peter Barrington, the Arabs, from whom you seem to borrow your notions on hospitality, seldom scruple about cutting a guest’s head off when he passes the threshold; therefore I would advise you to adopt habits that may be more suited to the land we live in.”

“All I know is,” said Barrington, rising and pacing the room, “that I could no more put a gentleman under my roof to the question as to his father and mother and his fortune, than I could rifle his writing-desk and read his letters.”

“Brother Peter, the weakness of your disposition has cost you one of the finest estates in your country, and if it could be restored to you to-morrow, the same imbecility would forfeit it again. I will, however, take the matter into my own hands.”

“With Withering, I suppose, to assist you?”

“Certainly not. I am perfectly competent to make any inquiry I deem requisite without a legal adviser. Perhaps, were I to be so accompanied, Major Stapylton would suppose that he, too, should appear with his lawyer.”

Barrington smiled faintly at the dry jest, but said nothing.

“I see,” resumed she, “that you are very much afraid about my want of tact and delicacy in this investigation. It is a somewhat common belief amongst men that in all matters of business women err on the score of hardness and persistence. I have listened to some edifying homilies from your friend Withering on female incredulity and so forth, – reproaches which will cease to apply when men shall condescend to treat us as creatures accessible to reason, and not as mere dupes. See who is knocking at the door, Peter,” added she, sharply. “I declare it recalls the old days of our innkeeping, and Darby asking for the bill of the lame gentleman in No. 4.”

“Upon my life, they were pleasant days, too,” said Barrington, but in a tone so low as to be unheard by his sister.

“May I come in?” said Withering, as he opened the door a few inches, and peeped inside. “I want to show you a note I have just had from Kinshela, in Kilkenny.”

“Yes, yes; come in,” said Miss Barrington. “I only wish you had arrived a little earlier. What is your note about?”

“It’s very short and very purpose-like. The first of it is all about Brazier’s costs, which it seems the taxing-officer thinks fair and reasonable, – all excepting that charge for the additional affidavits. But here is what I want to show you. ‘Major M’Cormick, of M’Cormick’s Grove, has just been here; and although I am not entitled to say as much officially on his part, I entertain no doubt whatever but that he is ready to advance the money we require. I spoke of fifteen hundred, but said twelve might possibly be taken, and twelve would be, I imagine, his limit, since he held to this amount in all our conversation afterwards. He appears to be a man of strange and eccentric habits, and these will probably be deemed a sufficient excuse for the singular turn our interview took towards its conclusion. I was speaking of Mr. Barrington’s wish for the insertion in the deed of a definite period for redemption, and he stopped me hastily with, “What if we could strike out another arrangement? What if he was to make a settlement of the place on his granddaughter? I am not too old to marry, and I ‘d give him the money at five per cent.” I have been careful to give you the very expressions he employed, and of which I made a note when he left the office; for although fully aware how improper it would be in me to submit this proposal to Mr. Barrington, I have felt it my duty to put you in possession of all that has passed between us.’”

“How can you laugh, Peter Barrington? – how is it possible you can laugh at such an insult, – such an outrage as this? Go on, sir,” said she, turning to Withering; “let us hear it to the end, for nothing worse can remain behind.”

“There is no more; at least, there is not anything worth hearing. Kinshela winds up with many apologies, and hopes that I will only use his communication for my own guidance, and not permit it in any case to prejudice him in your estimation.” As he spoke, he crumpled up the note in his hand in some confusion.

“Who thinks of Mr. Kinshela, or wants to think of him, in the matter?” said she, angrily. “I wish, however, I were a man for a couple of hours, to show Major M’Cormick the estimate I take of the honor he intends us.”

“After all, Dinah, it is not that he holds us more cheaply, but rates himself higher.”

“Just so,” broke in Withering; “and I know, for my own part, I have never been able to shake off the flattery of being chosen by the most nefarious rascal to defend him on his trial. Every man is a great creature in his own eyes.”

“Well, sir, be proud of your client,” said she, trembling with anger.

“No, no, – he ‘s no client of mine, nor is this a case I would plead for him. I read you Kinshela’s note because I thought you were building too confidently on M’Cormick’s readiness to advance this money.”

“I understood what that readiness meant, though my brother did not. M’Cormick looked forward to the day – and not a very distant day did he deem it – when he should step into possession of this place, and settle down here as its owner.”

Barrington’s face grew pale, and a glassy film spread over his eyes, as his sister’s words sunk into his heart. “I declare, Dinah,” said he, falteringly, “that never did strike me before.”

“‘It never rains but it pours,’ says the Irish adage,” resumed she. “My brother and I were just discussing another proposal of the same kind when you knocked. Read that letter. It is from a more adroit courtier than the other, and, at least, he does n’t preface his intentions with a bargain.” And she handed Stapylton’s letter to Withering.

“Ah!” said the lawyer, “this is another guess sort of man, and a very different sort of proposal.”

“I suspected that he was a favorite of yours,” said Miss Dinah, significantly.

“Well, I own to it. He is one of those men who have a great attraction for me, – men who come out of the conflict of life and its interests without any exaggerated notions of human perfectibility or the opposite, who recognize plenty of good and no small share of bad in the world, but, on the whole, are satisfied that, saving ill health, very few of our calamities are not of our own providing.”

“All of which is perfectly compatible with an odious egotism, sir,” said she, warmly; “but I feel proud to say such characters find few admirers amongst women.”

“From which I opine that he is not fortunate enough to number Miss Dinah Barrington amongst his supporters?”

“You are right there, sir. The prejudice I had against him before we met has been strengthened since I have seen him.”

“It is candid of you, however, to call it a prejudice,” said he, with a smile.

“Be it so, Mr. Withering; but prejudice is only another word for an instinct.”

“I ‘m afraid if we get into ethics we ‘ll forget all about the proposal,” said Barrington.

“What a sarcasm!” cried Withering, “that if we talk of morals we shall ignore matrimony.”

“I like the man, and I like his letter,” said Barrington.

“I distrust both one and the other,” said Miss Dinah.

“I almost fancy I could hold a brief on either side,” interposed Withering.

“Of course you could, sir; and if the choice were open to you, it would be the defence of the guilty.”

“My dear Miss Barrington,” said Withering, calmly, “when a great legal authority once said that he only needed three lines of any man’s writing ‘to hang him,’ it ought to make us very lenient in our construction of a letter. Now, so far as I can see in this one before us, he neither asks nor protests too much. He begs simply for time, he entreats leave to draw a bill on your affections, and he promises to meet it.”

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