Barrington. Volume 2

“Two of our squadrons have sailed already; the others will, of course, follow to-morrow.”

“And young Conyers,” broke in Miss Dinah, – “he will, I suppose, accompany this – what shall I call it? – this raid?”

“Yes, madam. Am I to convey to him your compliments upon the first opportunity to flesh his maiden sword?”

“You are to do nothing of the kind, sir; but tell him from me not to forget that the angry passions of a starving multitude are not to be confounded with the vindictive hate of our natural enemies.”

“Natural enemies, my dear Miss Barrington! I hope you cannot mean that there exists anything so monstrous in humanity as a natural enemy?”

“I do, sir; and I mean all those whose jealousy of us ripens into hatred, and who would spill their heart’s blood to see us humbled. When there exists a people like this, and who at every fresh outbreak of a war with us have carried into the new contest all the bitter animosities of long past struggles as debts to be liquidated, I call these natural enemies; and, if you prefer a shorter word for it, I call them Frenchmen.”

“Dinah, Dinah!”

“Peter, Peter! don’t interrupt me. Major Stapylton has thought to tax me with a blunder, but I accept it as a boast!”

“Madam, I am proud to be vanquished by you,” said Stapylton, bowing low.

“And I trust, sir,” said she, continuing her speech, and as if heedless of his interruption, “that no similarity of name will make you behave at Peterloo – if that be the name – as though you were at Waterloo.”

“Upon my life!” cried he, with a saucy laugh, “I don’t know how I am to win your good opinion, except it be by tearing off my epaulettes, and putting myself at the head of the mob.”

“You know very little of my sister, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, “or you would scarcely have selected that mode of cultivating her favor.”

“There is a popular belief that ladies always side with the winning cause,” said Stapylton, affecting a light and easy manner; “so I must do my best to be successful. May I hope I carry your good wishes away with me?” said he, in a lower tone to Josephine.

“I hope that nobody will hurt you, and you hurt nobody,” said she, laughingly.

“And this, I take it, is about as much sympathy as ever attends a man on such a campaign. Mr. Barrington, will you grant me two minutes of conversation in your own room?” And, with a bow of acquiescence, Barrington led the way to his study.

“I ought to have anticipated your request, Major Stapyl-ton,” said Barrington, when they found themselves alone. “I owe you a reply to your letter, but the simple fact is, I do not know what answer to give it; for while most sensible of the honor you intend us, I feel still there is much to be explained on both sides. We know scarcely anything of each other, and though I am conscious of the generosity which prompts a man with your prospects and in your position to ally himself with persons in ours, yet I owe it to myself to say, it hangs upon a contingency to restore us to wealth and station. Even a portion of what I claim from the East India Company would make my granddaughter one of the richest heiresses in England.”

Stapylton gave a cold, a very cold smile, in reply to this speech. It might mean that he was incredulous or indifferent, or it might imply that the issue was one which need not have been introduced into the case at all. Whatever its signification, Barrington felt hurt by it, and hastily said, —

“Not that I have any need to trouble you with these details: it is rather my province to ask for information regarding your circumstances than to enter upon a discussion of ours.”

“I am quite ready to give you the very fullest and clearest, – I mean to yourself personally, or to your sister; for, except where the lawyer intervenes of necessity and de droit, I own that I resent his presence as an insult. I suppose few of us are devoid of certain family circumstances which it would be more agreeable to deal with in confidence; and though, perhaps, I am as fortunate as most men in this respect, there are one or two small matters on which I would ask your attention. These, however, are neither important nor pressing. My first care is to know, – and I hope I am not peremptory in asking it, – have I your consent to the proposition contained in my letter; am I at liberty to address Miss Barrington?”

Barrington flushed deeply and fidgeted; he arose and sat down again, – all his excitement only aggravated by the well-bred composure of the other, who seemed utterly unconscious of the uneasiness he was causing.

“Don’t you think, Major, that this is a case for a little time to reflect, – that in a matter so momentous as this, a few days at least are requisite for consideration? We ought to ascertain something at least of my granddaughter’s own sentiments, – I mean, of course, in a general way. It might be, too, that a day or two might give us some better insight into her future prospects.”

“Pardon my interrupting you; but, on the last point, I am perfectly indifferent. Miss Barrington with half a province for her dower, would be no more in my eyes than Miss Barrington as she sat at breakfast this morning. Nor is there anything of high-flown sentiment in this declaration, as my means are sufficiently ample for all that I want or care.”

“There, at least, is one difficulty disposed of. You are an eldest son?” said he; and he blushed at his own boldness in making the inquiry.

“I am an only son.”

“Easier again,” said Barrington, trying to laugh off the awkward moment. “No cutting down one’s old timber to pay off the provisions for younger brothers.”

“In my case there is no need of this.”

“And your father. Is he still living, Major Stapylton?”

“My father has been dead some years.”

Barrington fidgeted again, fumbled with his watch-chain and his eye-glass, and would have given more than he could afford for any casualty that should cut short the interview. He wanted to say, “What is the amount of your fortune? What is it? Where is it? Are you Wiltshire or Staffordshire? Who are your uncles and aunts, and your good friends that you pray for, and where do you pray for them?” A thousand questions of this sort arose in his mind, one only more prying and impertinent than another. He knew he ought to ask them; he knew Dinah would have asked them. Ay, and would have the answers to them as plain and palpable as the replies to a life assurance circular; but he could n’t do it. No; not if his life depended on it.

He had already gone further in his transgression of good manners than it ever occurred to him before to do, and he felt something between a holy inquisitor and a spy of the police.

Stapylton looked at his watch, and gave a slight start.

“Later than you thought, eh?” cried Peter, overjoyed at the diversion.

Stapylton smiled a cold assent, and put up his watch without a word. He saw all the confusion and embarrassment of the other, and made no effort to relieve him. At last, but not until after a considerable pause, he said, – “I believe, Mr. Barrington, – I hope, at least, – I have satisfactorily answered the questions which, with every right on your part, you have deemed proper to put to me. I cannot but feel how painful the task has been to you, and I regret it the more, since probably it has set a limit to inquiries which you are perfectly justified in making, but which closer relations between us may make a matter far less formidable one of these days.”

“Yes, yes, – just so; of course,” said Barrington, hurriedly assenting to he knew not what.

“And I trust I take my leave of you with the understanding that when we meet again, it shall be as in the commencement of these pleasanter relations. I own to you I am the more eager on this point, that I perceive your sister, Miss Barrington, scarcely regards me very favorably, and I stand the more in need of your alliance.”

“I don’t think it possible, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, boldly, “that my sister and I could have two opinions upon anything or anybody.”

“Then I only ask that she may partake of yours on this occasion,” said Stapylton, bowing. “But I must start; as it is, I shall be very late in Dublin. Will you present my most respectful adieux to the ladies, and say also a goodbye for me to Mr. Withering?”

“You’ll come in for a moment to the drawing-room, won’t you?” cried Barrington.

“I think not. I opine it would be better not. There would be a certain awkwardness about it, – that is, until you have informed Miss Dinah Barrington of the extent to which you have accorded me your confidence, and how completely I have opened every detail of my circumstances. I believe it would be in better taste not to present myself. Tell Withering that if he writes, Manchester will find me. I don’t suspect he need give himself any more trouble about establishing the proofs of marriage. They will scarcely contest that point. The great question will and must be, to ascertain if the Company will cease to oppose the claim on being fully convinced that the letter to the Meer Busherat was a forgery, and that no menace ever came from Colonel Barrington’s hand as to the consequences of opposing his rule. Get them to admit this, – let the issue rest upon this, – and it will narrow the whole suit within manageable limits.”

“Would you not say this much to him before you go? It would come with so much more force and clearness from yourself.”

“I have done so till I was wearied. Like a true lawyer, he insists upon proving each step as he goes, and will not condescend to a hypothetical conclusion, though I have told him over and over again we want a settlement, not a victory. Good-bye, good-bye! If I once launch out into the cause, I cannot tear myself away again.”

“Has your guest gone, Peter?” said Miss Dinah, as her brother re-entered the drawing-room.

“Yes; it was a hurried departure, and he had no great heart for it, either. By the way, Withering, while it is fresh in my head, let me tell you the message he has sent you.”

“Was there none for me, Peter?” said she, scofflngly.

“Ay, but there was, Dinah! He left with me I know not how many polite and charming things to say for him.”

“And am I alone forgotten in this wide dispensation of favors?” asked Josephine, smiling.

“Of course not, dear,” chimed in Miss Dinah. “Your grandpapa has been charged with them all. You could not expect a gentleman so naturally timid and bashful as our late guest to utter them by his own lips.”

“I see,” said Withering, laughing, “that you have not forgiven the haughty aristocrat for his insolent estimate of the people!”

“He an aristocrat! Such bitter words as his never fell from any man who had a grandfather!”

“Wrong for once, Dinah,” broke in Barrington. “I can answer for it that you are unjust to him.”

“We shall see,” said she. “Come, Josephine, I have a whole morning’s work before me in the flower-garden, and I want your help. Don’t forget, Peter, that Major M’Cormick’s butler, or boatman, or bailiff, whichever he be, has been up here with a present of seakale this morning. Give him something as you pass the kitchen; and you, Mr. Withering, whose trade it is to read and unravel mysteries, explain if you can the meaning of this unwonted generosity.”

“I suppose we can all guess it,” said he, laughing. “It’s a custom that begins in the East and goes round the whole world till it reaches the vast prairie in the Far West.”

“And what can that custom be, Aunt Dinah?” asked Josephine, innocently.

“It’s an ancient rite Mr. Withering speaks, of, child, pertaining to the days when men offered sacrifices. Come along; I ‘m going!”

CHAPTER VII. CROSS-EXAMININGS

While Barrington and his lawyer sat in conclave over the details of the great suit, Stapylton hurried along his road with all the speed he could summon. The way, which for some miles led along the river-side, brought into view M’Cormick’s cottage, and the Major himself, as he stood listlessly at his door.’

Halting his carriage for a moment, Stapylton jumped out and drew nigh the little quickset hedge which flanked the road.

“What can I do for you in the neighborhood of Manchester, Major? We are just ordered off there to ride down the Radicals.”

“I wish it was nearer home you were going to do it,” said he, crankily. “Look here,” – and he pointed to some fresh-turned earth, – “they were stealing my turnips last night.”

“It would appear that these fellows in the North are growing dangerous,” said Stapylton.

“‘T is little matter to us,” said M’Cormick, sulkily. “I’d care more about a blight in the potatoes than for all the politics in Europe.”

“A genuine philosopher! How snug you are here, to be sure! A man in a pleasant nook like this can well afford to smile at the busy ambitions of the outer world. I take it you are about the very happiest fellow I know?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” said he, peevishly.

“This spot only wants what I hinted to you t’other evening, to be perfection.”

“Ay!” said the other, dryly.

“And you agree with me heartily, if you had the candor to say it. Come, out with it, man, at once. I saw your gardener this morning with a great basketful of greenery, and a large bouquet on the top of it, – are not these significant signs of a projected campaign? You are wrong, Major, upon my life you are wrong, not to be frank with me. I could, by a strange hazard, as the newspapers say, ‘tell you something to your advantage.’”

“About what?”

“About the very matter you were thinking of as I drove up. Come, I will be more generous than you deserve.” And, laying his arm on M’Cormick’s shoulder, he halt whispered in his ear; “It is a good thing, – a deuced good thing! and I promise you, if I were a marrying man, you ‘d have a competitor. I won’t say she ‘ll have one of the great fortunes people rave about, but it will be considerable, – very considerable.”

“How do you know, or what do you know?”

“I ‘ll tell you in three words. How I know is, because I have been the channel for certain inquiries they made in India. What I know is, the Directors are sick of the case, they are sorely ashamed of it, and not a little uneasy lest it should come before the public, perhaps before the Parliament. Old Barrington has made all negotiation difficult by the extravagant pretensions he puts forward about his son’s honor, and so forth. If, however, the girl were married, her husband would be the person to treat with, and I am assured with him they would deal handsomely, even generously.”

“And why would n’t all this make a marrying man of you, though you were n’t before?”

“There’s a slight canonical objection, if you must know,” said Stapylton, with a smile.

“Oh, I perceive, – a wife already! In India, perhaps?”

“I have no time just now for a long story, M’Cormick,” said he, familiarly, “nor am I quite certain I ‘d tell it if I had. However, you know enough for all practical purposes, and I repeat to you this is a stake I can’t enter for, – you understand me?”

“There’s another thing, now,” said M’Cormick; “and as we are talking so freely together, there’s no harm in mentioning it. It ‘s only the other day, as I may call it, that we met for the first time?”

“Very true: when I was down here at Cobham.”

“And never heard of each other before?”

“Not to my knowledge, certainly.”

“That being the case, I ‘m curious to hear how you took this wonderful interest in me. It wasn’t anything in my appearance, I ‘m sure, nor my manner; and as to what you ‘d hear about me among those blackguards down here, there’s nothing too bad to say of me.”

“I’ll be as frank as yourself,” said Stapylton, boldly; “you ask for candor, and you shall have it. I had n’t talked ten minutes with you till I saw that you were a thorough man of the world; the true old soldier, who had seen enough of life to know that whatever one gets for nothing in this world is just worth nothing, and so I said to myself, ‘If it ever occurs to me to chance upon a good opportunity of which I cannot from circumstances avail myself, there’s my man. I’ll go to him and say, “M’Cormick, that’s open to you, there’s a safe thing!” And when in return he ‘d say, “Stapylton, what can I do for you?” my answer would be, “Wait till you are satisfied that I have done you a good turn; be perfectly assured that I have really served you.” And then, if I wanted a loan of a thousand or fifteen hundred to lodge for the Lieutenant-Colonelcy, I ‘d not be ashamed to say, “M’Cormick, let me have so much.”’”

“That’s it, is it?” said M’Cormick, with a leer of intense cunning. “Not a bad bargain for you, anyhow. It is not every day that a man can sell what is n’t his own.”

“I might say, it’s not every day that a man regards a possible loan as a gift, but I ‘m quite ready to reassure all your fears on that score; I’ll even pledge myself never to borrow a shilling from you.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that; you took me up so quick,” said the old fellow, reddening with a sense of shame he had not felt for many a year. “I may be as stingy as they call me, but for all that I ‘d stand to a man who stands to me.”

“Between gentlemen and men of the world these things are better left to a sense of an honorable understanding than made matters of compact. There is no need of another word on the matter. I shall be curious, however, to know how your project speeds. Write to me, – you have plenty of time, – and write often. I ‘m not unlikely to learn something about the Indian claim, and if I do, you shall hear of it.”

“I’m not over good at pen and ink work; indeed, I haven’t much practice, but I’ll do my best.”

“Do, by all means. Tell me how you get on with Aunt Dinah, who, I suspect, has no strong affection for either of us. Don’t be precipitate; hazard nothing by a rash step; secure your way by intimacy, mere intimacy: avoid particular attentions strictly; be always there, and on some pretext or other – But why do I say all this to an old soldier, who has made such sieges scores of times?”

“Well, I think I see my way clear enough,” said the old fellow, with a grin. “I wish I was as sure I knew why you take such an interest in me.”

“I believe I have told you already; I hope there is nothing so strange in the assurance as to require corroboration. Come, I must say good-bye; I meant to have said five words to you, and I have stayed here five-and-twenty minutes.”

“Would n’t you take something? – could n’t I offer you anything?” said M’Cormick, hesitatingly.

“Nothing, thanks. I lunched before I started; and although old Dinah made several assaults upon me while I ate, I managed to secure two cutlets and part of a grouse-pie, and a rare glass of Madeira to wash them down.”

“That old woman is dreadful, and I’ll take her down a peg yet, as sure as my name is Dan.”

“No, don’t, Major; don’t do anything of the kind. The people who tame tigers are sure to get scratched at last, and nobody thanks them for their pains. Regard her as the sailors do a fire-ship; give her a wide berth, and steer away from her.”

“Ay, but she sometimes gives chase.”

“Strike your flag, then, if it must be; for, trust me, you ‘ll not conquer her.”

“We ‘ll see, we ‘ll see,” muttered the old fellow, as he waved his adieux, and then turned back into the house again.

As Stapylton lay back in his carriage, he could not help muttering a malediction on the “dear friend” he had just parted with. When the bourgeois gentilhomme objected to his adversary pushing him en tierce while he attacked him en quarte, he was expressing a great social want, applicable to those people who in conversation will persist in saying many things which ought not to be uttered, and expressing doubts and distrusts which, however it be reasonable to feel, are an outrage to avow.

“The old fox,” said Stapylton, aloud, “taunted me with selling what did not belong to me; but he never suspects that I have bought something without paying for it, and that something himself! Yes, the mock siege he will lay to the fortress will occupy the garrison till it suits me to open the real attack, and I will make use of him, besides, to learn whatever goes on in my absence. How the old fellow swallowed the bait! What self-esteem there must be in such a rugged nature, to make him imagine he could be successful in a cause like this! He is, after all, a clumsy agent to trust one’s interest to. If the choice had been given me, I’d far rather have had a woman to watch over them. Polly Dill, for instance, the very girl to understand such a mission well. How adroitly would she have played the game, and how clearly would her letters have shown me the exact state of events!”

Such were the texts of his musings as he drove along, and deep as were his thoughts, they never withdrew him, when the emergency called, from attention to every detail of the journey, and he scrutinized the post-horses as they were led out, and apportioned the rewards to the postilions as though no heavier care lay on his heart than the road and its belongings. While he rolled thus smoothly along, Peter Barrington had been summoned to his sister’s presence, to narrate in full all that he had asked, and all that he had learned of Stapylton and his fortunes.

Miss Dinah was seated in a deep armchair, behind a formidable embroidery-frame, – a thing so complex and mysterious in form as to suggest an implement of torture. At a short distance off sat Withering, with pen, ink, and paper before him, as if to set down any details of unusual importance; and into this imposing presence poor Barrington entered with a woful sense of misgiving and humiliation.

“We have got a quiet moment at last, Peter,” said Miss Barrington. “I have sent the girls over to Brown’s Barn for the tulip-roots, and I have told Darby that if any visitors came they were to be informed we were particularly occupied by business, and could see no one.”

“Just so,” added Withering; “it is a case before the Judge in Chamber.”

“But what have we got to hear?” asked Barrington, with an air of innocence.

“We have got to hear your report, brother Peter; the narrative of your late conversation with Major Stapylton; given, as nearly as your memory will serve, in the exact words and in the precise order everything occurred.”

“October the twenty-third,” said Withering, writing as he spoke; “minute of interview between P. B. and Major S. Taken on the same morning it occurred, with remarks and observations explanatory.”

“Begin,” said Dinah, imperiously, while she worked away without lifting her head. “And avoid, so far as possible, anything beyond the precise expression employed.”

“But you don’t suppose I took notes in shorthand of what we said to each other, do you?”

“I certainly suppose you can have retained in your memory a conversation that took place two hours ago,” said Miss Dinah, sternly.

“And can relate it circumstantially and clearly,” added Withering.

“Then I ‘m very sorry to disappoint you, but I can do nothing of the kind.”

“Do you mean to say that you had no interview with Major Stapylton, Peter?”

“Or that you have forgotten all about it?” said Withering.

“Or is it that you have taken a pledge of secrecy, brother Peter?”

“No, no, no! It is simply this, that though I retain a pretty fair general impression of what I said myself, and what he said afterwards, I could no more pretend to recount it accurately than I could say off by heart a scene in ‘Romeo and Juliet.’”

“Why don’t you take the ‘Comedy of Errors’ for your illustration, Peter Barrington? I ask you, Mr. Withering, have you in all your experience met anything like this?”

“It would go hard with a man in the witness-box to make such a declaration, I must say.”

“What would a jury think of, what would a judge say to him?” said she, using the most formidable of all penalties to her brother’s imagination. “Wouldn’t the court tell him that he would be compelled to speak out?”

“They’d have it out on the cross-examination, at all events, if not on the direct.”

“In the name of confusion, what do you want with me?” exclaimed Peter, in despair.

“We want everything, – everything that you heard about this man. Who he is, what he is; what by the father’s side, what by the mother’s; what are his means, and where; who knows him, who are his associates. Bear in mind that to us, here, he has dropped out of the clouds.”