Barrington. Volume 2

“I wish you ‘d send me the correct account of what took place between you and one of your subalterns, for old Dinah keeps harping on it in a sort of mysterious and mischievous way of her own, that provokes me. Was it that he refused to obey orders, or that you, as she says, used such language towards him that he wrote to report you? Give it to me in black and white, and maybe I won’t try her temper with it. At all events, make out some sort of a case, for the old woman is now intolerable. She said yesterday, ‘Major Stapylton, to whom I write by this post, will see that his visit here must be preceded by an explanation.’ There’s her words for you, and I hope you like them!

“I think you are right to be in no hurry about purchasing, for many say the whole system will be changed soon, and the money would be clean thrown away. Besides this, I have been looking over my bauk-book, and I find I could n’t help you just now. Two bad harvests, and the smut in the wheat last year, are running me mighty close. I won’t finish this till to-morrow, for I ‘m going to dine at ‘The Home’ to-day. It is the granddaughter’s birthday, and there was a regular shindy about who was going to be asked. Old Peter was for a grand celebration, and inviting the Admiral, and the Gores, and God knows who besides; and Dinah was for what she called a family party, consisting, I suppose, of herself and Darby. I ‘ll be able, before I close this, to tell you how it was ended; for I only know now that Dill and his daughter are to be there.

“Wednesday. – I sit down with a murdering headache to finish this letter. Maybe it was the pickled lobster, or the ice punch, or the other drink they called champagne-cup that did it. But I never passed such a night since I was in the trenches, and I am shaking still, so that I can scarce hold the pen. It was a grand dinner, to be sure, for ruined people to give. Venison from Carrick Woods, and game of every kind, with all kinds of wine; and my Lord Car-rickmore talking to Miss Dinah, and the Admiral following up with the niece, and Tom Brabazon, and Dean of Deanspark, and the devil knows who besides, bringing up the rear, with Dill and your obedient servant. Every dish that came in, and every bottle that was uncorked, I said to myself, ‘There goes another strap on the property;’ and I felt as if we were eating the trees and the timber and the meadows all the time at table.

“It ‘s little of the same sympathy troubled the others. My Lord was as jolly as if he was dining with the King; and old Cobham called for more of the Madeira, as if it was an inn; and Peter himself – the heartless old fool – when he got up to thank the company for drinking his granddaughter’s health, said, ‘May I trust that even at my advanced age this may not be the last time I may have to speak my gratitude to you all for the generous warmth with which you have pledged this toast; but even should it be so, I shall carry away with me from this evening’s happiness a glow of pleasure that will animate me to the last. It was only this morning I learned what I know you will all hear with satisfaction, that there is every probability of a speedy arrangement of my long-pending suit with the Company, and that my child here will soon have her own again.’ Grand applause and huzzas, with a noise that drowned ‘Bother!’ from myself, and in the middle of the row up jumps the Admiral, and cries out, ‘Three cheers more for the Rajah’s daughter!’ I thought the old roof would come down; and the blackguards in the kitchen took up the cry and shouted like mad, and then we yelled again, and this went on for maybe five minutes. ‘What does it all mean,’ says I, ‘but a cheer for the Court of Bankruptcy, and Hip, hip, hurray! for the Marshalsea Prison!’ After that, he had half an hour or more of flatteries and compliments. My Lord was so happy, and Peter Barrington so proud, and the Admiral so delighted, and the rest of us so much honored, that I could n’t stand it any longer, but stole away, and got into the garden, to taste a little fresh air and quietness. I had n’t gone ten paces, when I came plump upon Miss Dinah, taking her coffee under a tree. ‘You are a deserter, I fear, sir,’ said she, in her own snappish way; so I thought I ‘d pay her off, and I said, ‘To tell you the truth, Miss Barrington, at our time of life these sort of things are more full of sadness than pleasure. We know how hollow they are, and how little heart there is in the cheers of the people that are so jolly over your wine, but would n’t stop to talk to you when you came down to water!’

“‘The worse we think of the world, Major M’Cormick,’ says she, ‘the more risk we run of making ourselves mean enough to suit it.’

“‘I don’t suspect, ma’am,’ says I, ‘that when people have known it so long as you and I, that they are greatly in love with it.’

“‘They may, however, be mannerly in their dealings with it, sir,’ said she, fiercely; and so we drew the game, and settled the men for another battle.

“‘Is there anything new, ma’am?’ says I, after a while.

“‘I believe not, sir. The bread riots still continue in the North, where what would seem the needless severity of some of the military commanders has only exasperated the people. You have heard, I suppose, of Major Stapylton’s business?’

“‘Not a word, ma’am,’ says I; ‘for I never see a paper.’

“‘I know very little of the matter myself,’ says she. ‘It was, it would appear, at some night assemblage at a place called Lund’s Common. A young officer sent forward by Major Stapylton to disperse the people, was so struck by the destitution and misery he witnessed, and the respectful attitude they exhibited, that he hesitated about employing force, and restricted himself to counsels of quietness and submission. He did more, – not perhaps very prudently, as some would say, – he actually emptied his pockets of all the money he had, giving even his watch to aid the starving horde before him. What precise version of his conduct reached his superior, I cannot say; but certainly Major Stapylton commented on it in terms of the harshest severity, and he even hinted at a reason for the forbearance too offensive for any soldier to endure.’

“She did not seem exactly to know what followed after this, but some sort of inquiry appeared to take place, and witnesses were examined as to what really occurred at Lund’s Common; and amongst others, a Lascar, who was one of the factory hands, – having come to England a great many years before with an officer from India. This fellow’s evidence was greatly in favor of young Conyers, and was subjected to a very severe cross-examination from yourself, in the middle of which he said something in Hindostanee that nobody in the court understood but you; and after this he was soon dismissed and the case closed for that day.

“‘What do you think, Major M’Cormick,’ said she, ‘but when the court of inquiry opened the next morning, Lal-Adeen, the Lascar, was not to be found high or low. The court have suspended their sittings to search for him; but only one opinion prevails, – that Major Stapylton knows more of this man’s escape than he is likely to tell.’ I have taken great pains to give you her own very words in all this business, and I wrote them down the moment I got home, for I thought to myself you ‘d maybe write about the matter to old Peter, and you ought to be prepared for the way they look at it; the more because Miss Dinah has a liking for young Conyers, – what she calls a motherly affection; but I don’t believe in the motherly part of it! But of course you care very little what the people here say about you at all. At least, I know it would n’t trouble me much, if I was in your place. At all events, whatever you do, do with a high hand, and the Horse Guards is sure to stand to you. Moderation may be an elegant thing in civil life, but I never knew it succeed in the army. There’s the rain coming on again, and I just sent out six cars to the bog for turf; so I must conclude, and remain, yours sincerely,

“Daniel T. M’Cormick.

“I ‘m thinking of foreclosing the small mortgage I hold on ‘The Home,’ but as they pay the interest regularly, five per cent, I would n’t do it if I knew things were going on reasonably well with them; send me a line about what is doing regarding the ‘claim,’ and it will guide me.”

While Major M’Cormick awaited the answer to his postscript, which to him – as to a lady – was the important part of his letter, a short note arrived at ‘The Home’ from Mr. Withering, enclosing a letter he had just received from Major Stapylton. Withering’s communication was in answer to one from Barrington, and ran thus: —

“Dear B., – All things considered, I believe you are right in not receiving General Conyers at this moment. It would probably, as you suspect, enable calumnious people to say that you could make your resentments play second when they came in the way of your interests. If matters go on well, as I have every hope they will, you can make the amende to him more satisfactorily and more gracefully hereafter. Buxton has at length consented to bring the case before the House; of course it will not go to a division, nor, if it did, could it be carried; but the discussion will excite interest, the Press will take it up, and after a few regretful and half-civil expressions from the Ministry, the India Board will see the necessity of an arrangement.

“It is somewhat unfortunate and mal à propos that Stapylton should at this moment have got into an angry collision with young Conyers. I have not followed the case closely, but, as usual in such things, they seem each of them in the wrong, – the young sub wanting to make his generous sympathy supply the place of military obedience, and the old officer enforcing discipline at the cost of very harsh language. I learn this morning that Conyers has sold out, intending to demand a personal satisfaction. You will see by S.‘s letter that he scarcely alludes to this part of the transaction at all. S. feels very painfully the attacks of the Press, and sees, perhaps, more forcibly than I should in his place, the necessity of an exchange. Read attentively the portion I have underlined.”

It is to this alone I have to direct my readers’ attention, the first two sides of the letter being entirely filled with details about the “claim”: —

“‘The newspapers have kept me before you for some days back, much more, I doubt not, to their readers’ amusement than to my own gratification. I could, if I pleased, have told these slanderers that I did not charge a crowd of women and children, – that I did not cut down an elderly man at his own door-sill, – that I did not use language “offensive and unbecoming” to one of my officers, for his having remonstrated in the name of humanity against the cruelty of my orders. In a word, I might have shown the contemptible scribblers that I knew how to temper duty with discretion, as I shall know how, when the occasion offers, to make the punishment of a calumniator a terror to his colleagues. However, there is a very absurd story going about of a fellow whose insolence I certainly did reply to with the flat of my sabre, and whom I should be but too happy to punish legally, if he could be apprehended. That he made his escape after being captured, and that I connived at or assisted in it, – I forget which, – you have probably heard. In fact, there is nothing too incredible to say of me for the moment; and what is worse, I begin to suspect that the Home Secretary, having rather burned his fingers in the business, will not be very sorry to make an Admiral Byng of a Major of Hussars. For each and all these reasons I mean to exchange, and, if possible, into a regiment in India. This will, of course, take some time; meanwhile, I have asked for and obtained some months’ leave. You will be surprised at my troubling you with so much of purely personal matters, but they are the necessary preface to what I now come. You are aware of the letter I wrote some time back to Mr. Barrington, and the request it preferred. If the reply I received was not discouraging, neither was it conclusive. The ordinary commonplaces as to the shortness of our acquaintance, the want of sufficient knowledge of each other’s tastes, characters, &c, were duly dwelt upon; but I could not at the end say, was I an accepted or a rejected suitor. Now that the critical moment of my life draws nigh, – for such I feel the present emergency, – an act of confidence in me would have more than double value. Can you tell me that this is the sentiment felt towards me, or am I to learn that the yells of a rabble have drowned the voices of my friends? In plain words, will Miss Josephine Barrington accept my offer? Will she intrust her happiness to my keeping, and change the darkest shadow that ever lowered over my life into a gleam of unspeakable brightness? You have given me too many proofs of a friendly disposition towards me, not to make me feel that you are the best fitted to bring this negotiation to a good issue. If I do not mistake you much, you look with favor on my suit and wish it success. I am ashamed to say how deeply my hopes have jeopardized my future happiness, but I tell you frankly life has no such prize to my ambition, nor, in fact, any such alternative of despair before me.’

“Now, my dear Barrington,” continued Withering’s letter, “there is a great deal in this that I like, and something with which I am not so much pleased. If, however, I am not the Major’s advocate to the extent he asks, or expects me, it is because I feel that to be unjustly dealt with is a stronger claim on your heart than that of any other man I ever met with, and the real danger here would be that you should suffer that feeling to predominate over all others. Consult your granddaughter’s interests, if you can, independently of this; reflect well if the plan be one likely to promise her happiness. Take your sensible, clear-headed sister into your counsels; but, above all, ascertain Josephine’s own sentiments, and do nothing in direct opposition to them.”

“There, Dinah,” said Barrington, placing the letter in her hands, “this is as much to your address as to mine. Read it over carefully, and you’ll find me in the garden when you have done.”

Miss Barrington laid down her great roll of worsted work, and began her task without a word. She had not proceeded very far, however, when Josephine entered in search of a book. “I beg pardon, aunt, if I derange you.”

“We say disturb, or inconvenience, in English, Miss Barrington. What is it you are looking for?”

“The ‘Legend of Montrose,’ aunt. I am so much amused by that Major Dalgetty that I can think of nothing but him.”

“Umph!” muttered the old lady. “It was of a character not altogether dissimilar I was thinking myself at that moment. Sit down here, child, and let me talk to you. This letter that I hold here, Josephine, concerns you.”

“Me, aunt – concerns me? And who on earth could have written a letter in which I am interested?”

“You shall hear it.” She coughed only once or twice, and then went on: “It’s a proposal of marriage, – no less. That gallant soldier who left us so lately has fallen in love with you, – so he says, and of course he knows best. He seems fully aware that, being older than you, and graver in temperament, his offer must come heralded with certain expressions almost apologetic; but he deals with the matter skillfully, and tells us that being well off as regards fortune, of good blood, and with fair prospects before him, he does not wish to regard his suit as hopeless. Your grandfather was minded to learn how you might feel disposed to accept his addresses by observing your demeanor, by watching what emotion mention of him might occasion, by seeing how far you felt interested in his good or ill repute. I did not agree with him. I am never for the long road when there is a short one, and therefore I mean to let you hear his letter. This is what he writes.” While Miss Dinah read the extract which the reader has just seen, she never noticed, or, if noticed, never attended to, the agitation in her niece’s manner, or seemed to remark that from a deep-crimson at first her cheeks grew pale as death, and her lips-tremulous. “There, child,” said Miss Dinah, as she finished – “there are his own words; very ardent words, but withal respectful. What do you think of them, – of them and of him?”

Josephine hung down her head, and with her hands firmly clasped together, she sat for a few moments so motionless that she seemed scarcely to breathe.

“Would you like to think over this before you speak of it, Josephine? Would you like to take this letter to your room and ponder over it alone?” No answer came but a low, half-subdued sigh.

“If you do not wish to make a confidante of me, Josephine, I am sorry for it, but not offended.”

“No, no, aunt, it is not that,” burst she in; “it is to you and you alone, I wish to speak, and I will be as candid as yourself. I am not surprised at the contents of this letter. I mean, I was in a measure prepared for them.”

“That is to say, child, that he paid you certain attentions?”

She nodded assent.

“And how did you receive them? Did you let him understand that you were not indifferent to him, – that his addresses were agreeable to you?”

Another, but shorter, nod replied to this question.

“I must confess,” said the old lady, bridling up, “all this amazes me greatly. Why, child, it is but the other day you met each other for the first time. How, when, and where you found time for such relations as you speak of, I cannot imagine. Do you mean to tell me, Josephine, that you ever talked alone together?”

“Constantly, aunt!”

“Constantly!”

“Yes, aunt. We talked a great deal together.”

“But how, child, – where?”

“Here, aunt, as we used to stroll together every morning through the wood or in the garden; then as we went on the river or to the waterfall.”

“I can comprehend nothing of all this, Josephine. I know you mean to deal openly with me; so say at once, how did this intimacy begin?”

“I can scarcely say how, aunt, because I believe we drifted into it. We used to talk a great deal of ourselves, and at length we grew to talk of each other, – of our likings and dislikings, our tastes and our tempers. And these did not always agree!”

“Indeed!”

“No, aunt,” said she, with a heavy sigh. “We quarrelled very often; and once, – I shall not easily forget it, – once seriously.”

“What was it about?”

“It was about India, aunt; and he was in the wrong, and had to own it afterwards and ask pardon.”

“He must know much more of that country than you, child. How came it that you presumed to set up your opinion against his?”

“The presumption was his,” said she, haughtily. “He spoke of his father’s position as something the same as my father’s. He talked of him as a Rajah!”

“I did not know that he spoke of his father,” said Miss Dinah, thoughtfully.

“Oh, he spoke much of him. He told me, amongst other things, how he had been a dear friend of papa’s; that as young men they lived together like brothers, and never were separate till the fortune of life divided them.”

“What is all this I am listening to? Of whom are you telling me, Josephine?”

“Of Fred, Aunt Dinah; of Fred, of course.”

“Do you mean young Conyers, child?”

“Yes. How could I mean any other?”

“Ta, ta, ta!” said the old lady, drumming with her heel on the floor and her fingers on the table. “It has all turned out as I said it would! Peter, Peter, will you never be taught wisdom? Listen to me, child!” said she, turning almost sternly towards Josephine. “We have been at cross-purposes with each other all this time. This letter which I have just read for you – ” She stopped suddenly as she reached thus far, and after a second’s pause, said, “Wait for me here; I will be back presently. I have a word to say to your grandfather.”

Leaving poor Josephine in a state of trepidation and bewilderment, – ashamed at the confession she had just made, and trembling with a vague sense of some danger that impended over her, – Miss Dinah hurried away to the garden.

“Here’s a new sort of worm got into the celery, Dinah,” said he, as she came up, “and a most destructive fellow he is. He looks like a mere ruffling of the leaf, and you ‘d never suspect him.”

“It is your peculiarity never to suspect anything, brother Peter, even after you have had warning of peril. Do you remember my telling you, when we were up the Rhine, what would come of that intimacy between Conyers and Josephine?”

“I think I do,” said he, making what seemed an effort of memory.

“And can you recall the indolent slipshod answer you made me about it? But of course you cannot. It was an old-maid’s apprehensions, and you forgot the whole thing. Well, Peter, I was right and you were wrong.”

“Not the first time that the double event has come off so!” said he, smiling.

“You are too fond of that cloak of humility, Peter Barrington. The plea of Guilty never saved any one from transportation!” Waiting a moment to recover her breath after this burst of passion, she went on: “After I had read that letter you gave me, I spoke to Josephine; I told her in a few words how it referred to her, and frankly asked her what she thought of it. She was very candid and very open, and, I must say, also very collected and composed. Young ladies of the present day possess that inestimable advantage over their predecessors. Their emotions do not overpower them.” This was the second time of “blowing off the steam,” and she had to wait a moment to rally. “She told me, frankly, that she was not unprepared for such an offer; that tender passages had already been exchanged between them. The usual tomfoolery, I conclude, – that supreme effort of selfishness people call love, – in a word, Peter, she was in no wise disinclined to the proposal; the only misfortune was, she believed it came from young Conyers.”

Barrington would have laughed, and laughed heartily, if he dared. As it was, the effort to restrain himself sent the blood to his head, and made his eyes run over.

“You may well blush, Peter Barrington,” said she, shaking her finger at him. “It’s all your own doing.”

“And when you undeceived her, Dinah, what did she say?”

“I have not done so yet; but my impression is that so susceptible a young lady should find no great difficulty in transferring her affections. For the present I mean to limit myself to declaring that this offer is not from Conyers; if she has curiosity to know the writer, she shall learn it. I always had my doubts about these convents Bread and water diet makes more epicures than abstinents!”

CHAPTER X. INTERCHANGED CONFESSIONS

Miss Barrington, with Josephine at one side and Polly Dill on the other, sat at work in her little room that opened on the garden. Each was engaged in some peculiar task, and each seemed bent upon her labor in that preoccupied way which would imply that the cares of needlework make no mean call upon human faculties. A close observer would, however, have remarked that though Miss Barrington stitched vigorously away at the background for a fierce tiger with measly spots over him, Polly seemed oftener to contemplate than continue her handiwork; while Josephine’s looks strayed constantly from the delicate tracery she was following, to the garden, where the roses blended with the jasmine, and the drooping honeysuckles hung listlessly over the boughs of the apple-tree.

“If your work wearies you, Fifine,” said Miss Dinah, “you had better read for us.”

“Oh no, not at all, aunt; I like it immensely. I was only wondering why one should devise such impossible foliage, when we have the real thing before us, in all its grace and beauty.”

“Humph!” said the old lady; “the sight of a real tiger would not put me out of countenance with my own.”

“It certainly ought not, ma’am,” said Polly; while she added, in a faint whisper, “for there is assuredly no rivalry in the case.”

“Perhaps Miss Dill is not too absorbed in her study of nature, as applied to needlework, to read out the newspaper.”

“I will do it with pleasure, ma’am. Where shall I begin?”

“Deaths and marriages first, of course, child. Then fashion and varieties; take the accidents afterwards, and close with anything remarkable in politics, or any disastrous occurrence in high life.”

Polly obeyed to the letter; once only straying into an animated account of a run with the Springfield fox-hounds, where three riders out of a large field came in at the death; when Miss Dinah stopped her abruptly, saying, “I don’t care for the obituary of a fox, young lady. Go on with something else.”