Barrington. Volume 1

“It would seem we are to hold a levee to-day,” said Polly, giving a very fleeting glance at herself in the glass. And now a knock came to the door, and the man who acted gardener and car-driver and valet to the doctor announced that Miss Barrington and Colonel Hunter were below.

“Show them up,” said Dill, with the peremptory voice of one ordering a very usual event, and intentionally loud enough to be heard below stairs.

If Polly’s last parting with Miss Barrington gave little promise of pleasure to their next meeting, the first look she caught of the old lady on entering the room dispelled all uneasiness on that score. Miss Dinah entered with a pleasing smile, and presented her friend, Colonel Hunter, as one come to thank the doctor for much kindness to his young subaltern. “Whom, by the way,” added he, “we thought to find here. It is only since we landed that we learned he had left the inn for Kilkenny.”

While the Colonel continued to talk to the doctor, Miss Dinah had seated herself On the sofa, with Polly at her side.

“My visit this morning is to you,” said she. “I have come to ask your forgiveness. Don’t interrupt me, child; your forgiveness was the very word I used. I was very rude to you t’ other morning, and being all in the wrong, – like most people in such circumstances, – I was very angry with the person who placed me so.”

“But, my dear madam,” said Polly, “you had such good reason to suppose you were in the right that this amende on your part is far too generous.”

“It is not at all generous, – it is simply just. I was sorely vexed with you about that stupid wager, which you were very wrong to have had any share in; vexed with your father, vexed with your brother, – not that I believed his counsel would have been absolute wisdom, – and I was even vexed with my young friend Conyers, because he had not the bad taste to be as angry with you as I was. When I was a young lady,” said she, bridling up, and looking at once haughty and defiant, “no man would have dared to approach me with such a proposal as complicity in a wager. But I am told that my ideas are antiquated, and the world has grown much wiser since that day.”

“Nay, madam,” said Polly, “but there is another difference that your politeness has prevented you from appreciating. I mean the difference in station between Miss Barrington and Polly Dill.”

It was a well-directed shot, and told powerfully, for Miss Barrington’s eyes became clouded, and she turned her head away, while she pressed Polly’s hand within her own with a cordial warmth. “Ah!” said she, feelingly, “I hope there are many points of resemblance between us. I have always tried to be a good sister. I know well what you have been to your brother.”

A very jolly burst of laughter from the inner room, where Hunter had already penetrated, broke in upon them, and the merry tones of his voice were heard saying, “Take my word for it, madam, nobody could spare time nowadays to make love in nine volumes. Life ‘s too short for it. Ask my old brother-officer here if he could endure such a thirty years’ war; or rather let me turn here for an opinion. What does your daughter say on the subject?”

“Ay, ay,” croaked out M’Cormick. “Marry in haste – ”

“Or repent that you did n’t. That ‘s the true reading of the adage.”

“The Major would rather apply leisure to the marriage, and make the repentance come – ”

“As soon as possible afterwards,” said Miss Dinah, tartly.

“Faix, I ‘ll do better still; I won’t provoke the repentance at all.”

“Oh, Major, is it thus you treat me?” said Polly, affecting to wipe her eyes. “Are my hopes to be dashed thus cruelly?”

But the doctor, who knew how savagely M’Cormick could resent even the most harmless jesting, quickly interposed, with a question whether Polly had thought of ordering luncheon.

It is but fair to Dr. Dill to record the bland but careless way he ordered some entertainment for his visitors. He did it like the lord of a well-appointed household, who, when he said “serve,” they served. It was in the easy confidence of one whose knowledge told him that the train was laid, and only waited for the match to explode it.

“May I have the honor, dear lady?” said he, offering his arm to Miss Barrington.

Now, Miss Dinah had just observed that she had various small matters to transact in the village, and was about to issue forth for their performance; but such is the force of a speciality, that she could not tear herself away without a peep into the dining-room, and a glance, at least, at arrangements that appeared so magically conjured up. Nor was Dill insensible to the astonishment expressed in her face as her eyes ranged over the table.

“If your daughter be your housekeeper, Dr. Dill,” said she, in a whisper, “I must give her my very heartiest approbation. These are matters I can speak of with authority, and I pronounce her worthy of high commendation.”

“What admirable salmon cutlets!” cried the Colonel. “Why, doctor, these tell of a French cook.”

“There she is beside you, the French cook!” said the Major, with a malicious twinkle.

“Yes,” said Polly, smiling, though with a slight flush on her face, “if Major M’Cormick will be indiscreet enough to tell tales, let us hope they will never be more damaging in their import.”

“And do you say – do you mean to tell me that this curry is your handiwork? Why, this is high art.”

“Oh, she ‘s artful enough, if it ‘s that ye ‘re wanting,” muttered the Major.

Miss Barrington, having apparently satisfied the curiosity she felt about the details of the doctor’s housekeeping, now took her leave, not, however, without Dr. Dill offering his arm on one side, while Polly, with polite observance, walked on the other.

“Look at that now,” whispered the Major. “They ‘re as much afraid of that old woman as if she were the Queen of Sheba! And all because she was once a fine lady living at Barrington Hall.”

“Here’s their health for it,” said the Colonel, filling his glass, – “and in a bumper too! By the way,” added he, looking around, “does not Mrs. Dill lunch with us?”

“Oh, she seldom comes to her meals! She’s a little touched here.” And he laid his finger on the centre of his forehead. “And, indeed, no wonder if she is.” The benevolent Major was about to give some details of secret family history, when the doctor and his daughter returned to the room.

The Colonel ate and talked untiringly. He was delighted with everything, and charmed with himself for his good luck in chancing upon such agreeable people. He liked the scenery, the village, the beetroot salad, the bridge, the pickled oysters, the evergreen oaks before the door. He was not astonished Conyers should linger on such a spot; and then it suddenly occurred to him to ask when he had left the village, and how.

The doctor could give no information on the point, and while he was surmising one thing and guessing another, M’Cormick whispered in the Colonel’s ear, “Maybe it’s a delicate point. How do you know what went on with – ” And a significant nod towards Polly finished the remark.

“I wish I heard what Major M’Cormick has just said,” said Polly.

“And it is exactly what I cannot repeat to you.”

“I suspected as much. So that my only request will be that you never remember it.”

“Isn’t she sharp! – sharp as a needle!” chimed in the Major.

Checking, and not without some effort, a smart reprimand on the last speaker, the Colonel looked hastily at his watch, and arose from table.

“Past three o’clock, and to be in Kilkenny by six.”

“Do you want a car? There’s one of Rice’s men now in the village; shall I get him for you?”

“Would you really do me the kindness?” While the Major bustled off on his errand, the Colonel withdrew the doctor inside the recess of a window. “I had a word I wished to say to you in private, Dr. Dill; but it must really be in private, – you understand me?”

“Strictly confidential, Colonel Hunter,” said Dill, bowing.

“It is this: a young officer of mine, Lieutenant Conyers, has written to me a letter mentioning a plan he had conceived for the future advancement of your son, a young gentleman for whom, it would appear, he had formed a sudden but strong attachment. His project was, as I understand it, to accredit him to his father with such a letter as must secure the General’s powerful influence in his behalf. Just the sort of thing a warm-hearted young fellow would think of doing for a friend he determined to serve, but exactly the kind of proceeding that might have a very unfortunate ending. I can very well imagine, from my own short experience here, that your son’s claims to notice and distinction may be the very highest; I can believe readily what very little extraneous aid he would require to secure his success; but you and I are old men of the world, and are bound to look at things cautiously, and to ask, ‘Is this scheme a very safe one?’ ‘Will General Conyers enter as heartily into it as his son?’ ‘Will the young surgeon be as sure to captivate the old soldier as the young one?’ In a word, would it be quite wise to set a man’s whole venture in life on such a cast, and is it the sort of risk that, with your experience of the world, you would sanction?”

It was evident, from the pause the Colonel left after these words, that he expected Dill to say something; but, with the sage reserve of his order, the doctor stood still, and never uttered a syllable. Let us be just to his acuteness, he never did take to the project from the first; he thought ill of it, in every way, but yet he did not relinquish the idea of making the surrender of it “conditional;” and so he slowly shook his head with an air of doubt, and smoothly rolled his hands one over the other, as though to imply a moment of hesitation and indecision.

“Yes, yes,” muttered he, talking only to himself, – “disappointment, to be sure! – very great disappointment too! And his heart so set upon it, that’s the hardship.”

“Naturally enough,” broke in Hunter, hastily. “Who would n’t be disappointed under such circumstances? Better even that, however, than utter failure later on.” The doctor sighed, but over what precise calamity was not so clear; and Hunter continued, —

“Now, as I have made this communication to you in strictest confidence, and not in any concert with Conyers, I only ask you to accept the view as a mere matter of opinion. I think you would be wrong to suffer your son to engage in such a venture. That’s all I mean by my interference, and I have done.”

Dill was, perhaps, scarcely prepared for the sudden summing up of the Colonel, and looked strangely puzzled and embarrassed.

“Might I talk the matter over with my daughter Polly? She has a good head for one so little versed in the world.”

“By all means. It is exactly what I would have proposed. Or, better still, shall I repeat what I have just told you?”

“Do so,” said the doctor, “for I just remember Miss Barrington will call here in a few moments for that medicine I have ordered for her brother, and which is not yet made up.”

“Give me five minutes of your time and attention, Miss Dill,” said Hunter, “on a point for which your father has referred me to your counsel.”

“To mine?”

“Yes,” said he, smiling at her astonishment. “We want your quick faculties to come to the aid of our slow ones. And here’s the case.” And in a few sentences he put the matter before her, as he had done to her father. While he thus talked, they had strolled out into the garden, and walked slowly side by side down one of the alleys.

“Poor Tom! – poor fellow!” was all that Polly said, as she listened; but once or twice her handkerchief was raised to her eyes, and her chest heaved heavily.

“I am heartily sorry for him – that is, if his heart be bent on it – if he really should have built upon the scheme already.”

“Of course he has, sir. You don’t suppose that in such lives as ours these are common incidents? If we chance upon a treasure, or fancy that we have, once in a whole existence, it is great fortune.”

“It was a brief, a very brief acquaintance, – a few hours, I believe. The – What was that? Did you hear any one cough there?”

“No, sir; we are quite alone. There is no one in the garden but ourselves.”

“So that, as I was saying, the project could scarcely have taken a very deep root, and – and – in fact, better the first annoyance than a mistake that should give its color to a whole lifetime. I’m certain I heard a step in that walk yonder.”

“No, sir; we are all alone.”

“I half wish I had never come on this same errand. I have done an ungracious thing, evidently very ill, and with the usual fate of those who say disagreeable things, I am involved in the disgrace I came to avert.”

“But I accept your view.”

“There! I knew there was some one there!” said Hunter, springing across a bed and coming suddenly to the side of M’Cormick, who was affecting to be making a nosegay.

“The car is ready at the door, Colonel,” said he, in some confusion. “Maybe you ‘d oblige me with a seat as far as Lyrath?”

“Yes, yes; of course. And how late it is!” cried he, looking at his watch. “Time does fly fast in these regions, no doubt of it.”

“You see, Miss Polly, you have made the Colonel forget himself,” said M’Cormick, maliciously.

“Don’t be severe on an error so often your own, Major M’Cormick,” said she, fiercely, and turned away into the house.

The Colonel, however, was speedily at her side, and in an earnest voice said: “I could hate myself for the impression I am leaving behind me here. I came with those excellent intentions which so often make a man odious, and I am going away with those regrets which follow all failures; but I mean to come back again one of these days, and erase, if I can, the ill impression.”

“One who has come out of his way to befriend those who had no claim upon his kindness can have no fear for the estimation he will be held in; for my part, I thank you heartily, even though I do not exactly see the direct road out of this difficulty.”

“Let me write to you. One letter – only one,” said Hunter.

But M’Cormick had heard the request, and she flushed up with anger at the malicious glee his face exhibited.

“You ‘ll have to say my good-byes for me to your father, for I am sorely pressed for time; and, even as it is, shall be late for my appointment in Kilkenny.” And before Polly could do more than exchange his cordial shake hands, he was gone.

CHAPTER XXI. DARK TIDINGS

If I am not wholly without self-reproach when I bring my reader into uncongenial company, and make him pass time with Major M’Cormick he had far rather bestow upon a pleasanter companion, I am sustained by the fact – unpalatable fact though it be – that the highway of life is not always smooth, nor its banks flowery, and that, as an old Derry woman once remarked to me, “It takes a’ kind o’ folk to mak’ a world.”

Now, although Colonel Hunter did drive twelve weary miles of road with the Major for a fellow-traveller, – thanks to that unsocial conveniency called an Irish jaunting-car, – they rode back to back, and conversed but little. One might actually believe that unpopular men grow to feel a sort of liking for their unpopularity, and become at length delighted with the snubbings they meet with, as though an evidence of the amount of that discomfort they can scatter over the world at large; just, in fact, as a wasp or a scorpion might have a sort of triumphant joy in the consciousness of its power for mischief, and exult in the terror caused by its vicinity.

“Splendid road – one of the best I ever travelled on,” said the Colonel, after about ten miles, during which he smoked on without a word.

“Why wouldn’t it be, when they can assess the county for it? They’re on the Grand Jury, and high up, all about here,” croaked out the Major.

“It is a fine country, and abounds in handsome places.” “And well mortgaged, too, the most of them.” “You ‘d not see better farming than that in Norfolk, cleaner wheat or neater drills; in fact, one might imagine himself in England.”

“So he might, for the matter of taxes. I don’t see much difference.”

“Why don’t you smoke? Things look pleasanter through the blue haze of a good Havannah,” said Hunter, smiling.

“I don’t want them to look pleasanter than they are,” was the dry rejoinder.

Whether Hunter did or did not, he scarcely liked his counsellor, and, re-lighting a cigar, he turned his back once more on him.

“I’m one of those old-fashioned fellows,” continued the Major, leaning over towards his companion, “who would rather see things as they are, not as they might be; and when I remarked you awhile ago so pleased with the elegant luncheon and Miss Polly’s talents for housekeeping, I was laughing to myself over it all.”

“How do you mean? What did you laugh at?” said Hunter, half fiercely.

“Just at the way you were taken in, that’s all.”

“Taken in? – taken in? A very strange expression for an hospitable reception and a most agreeable visit.”

“Well, it’s the very word for it, after all; for as to the hospitable reception, it was n’t meant for us, but for that tall Captain, – the dark-complexioned fellow, – Staples, I think they call him.”

“Captain Stapylton?”

“Yes, that’s the man. He ordered Healey’s car to take him over here; and I knew when the Dills sent over to Mrs. Brierley for a loan of the two cut decanters and the silver cruet-stand, something was up; and so I strolled down, by way of – to reconnoitre the premises, and see what old Dill was after.”

“Well, and then?”

“Just that I saw it all, – the elegant luncheon, and the two bottles of wine, and the ginger cordials, all laid out for the man that never came; for it would seem he changed his mind about it, and went back to head-quarters.”

“You puzzle me more and more at every word. What change of mind do you allude to? What purpose do you infer he had in coming over here to-day?”

The only answer M’Cormick vouchsafed to this was by closing one eye and putting his finger significantly to the tip of his nose, while he said, “Catch a weasel asleep!”

“I more than suspect,” said Hunter, sternly, “that this half-pay life works badly for a man’s habits, and throws him upon very petty and contemptible modes of getting through his time. What possible business could it be of yours to inquire why Stapylton came, or did not come here to-day, no more than for the reason of my visit?”

“Maybe I could guess that, too, if I was hard pushed,” said M’Cormick, whose tone showed no unusual irritation from the late rebuke. “I was in the garden all the time, and heard everything.”

“Listened to what I was saying to Miss Dill!” cried Hunter, whose voice of indignation could not now be mistaken.

“Every word of it,” replied the unabashed Major. “I heard all you said about a short acquaintance – a few hours you called it – but that your heart was bent upon it, all the same. And then you went on about India; what an elegant place it was, and the fine pay and the great allowances. And ready enough she was to believe it all, for I suppose she was sworn at Highgate, and would n’t take the Captain if she could get the Colonel.”

By this time, and not an instant earlier, it flashed upon Hunter’s mind that M’Cormick imagined he had overheard a proposal of marriage; and so amused was he by the blunder, that he totally drowned his anger in a hearty burst of laughter.

“I hope that, as an old brother-officer, you ‘ll be discreet, at all events,” said he, at last. “You have not come by the secret quite legitimately, and I trust you will preserve it.”

“My hearing is good, and my eyesight too, and I mean to use them both as long as they ‘re spared to me.”

“It was your tongue that I referred to,” said Hunter, more gravely.

“Ay, I know it was,” said the Major, crankily. “My tongue will take care of itself also.”

“In order to make its task the easier, then,” said Hunter, speaking in a slow and serious voice, “let me tell you that your eaves-dropping has, for once at least, misled you. I made no proposal, such as you suspected, to Miss Dill. Nor did she give me the slightest encouragement to do so. The conversation you so unwarrantably and imperfectly overheard had a totally different object, and I am not at all sorry you should not have guessed it. So much for the past. Now one word for the future. Omit my name, and all that concerns me, from the narrative with which you amuse your friends, or, take my word for it, you ‘ll have to record more than you have any fancy for. This is strictly between ourselves; but if you have a desire to impart it, bear in mind that I shall be at my quarters in Kilkenny till Tuesday next.”

“You may spend your life there, for anything I care,” said the Major. “Stop, Billy; pull up. I’ll get down here.” And shuffling off the car, he muttered a “Good-day” without turning his head, and bent his steps towards a narrow lane that led from the high-road.

“Is this the place they call Lyrath?” asked the Colonel of the driver.

“No, your honor. We’re a good four miles from it yet.”

The answer showed Hunter that his fellow-traveller had departed in anger; and such was the generosity of his nature, he found it hard not to overtake him and make his peace with him.

“After all,” thought he, “he ‘s a crusty old fellow, and has hugged his ill-temper so long, it may be more congenial to him now than a pleasanter humor.” And he turned his mind to other interests that more closely touched him. Nor was he without cares, – heavier ones, too, than his happy nature had ever yet been called to deal with. There are few more painful situations in life than to find our advancement – the long-wished and strived-for promotion – achieved at the cost of some dearly loved friend; to know that our road to fortune had led us across the fallen figure of an old comrade, and that he who would have been the first to hail our success is already bewailing his own defeat. This was Hunter’s lot at the present moment. He had been sent for to hear of a marvellous piece of good-fortune. His name and character, well known in India, had recommended him for an office of high trust, – the Political Resident of a great native court; a position not alone of power and influence, but as certain to secure, and within a very few years, a considerable fortune. It was the Governor-General who had made choice of him; and the Prince of Wales, in the brief interview he accorded him, was delighted with his frank and soldierlike manner, his natural cheerfulness, and high spirit. “We ‘re not going to unfrock you, Hunter,” said he, gayly, in dismissing him. “You shall have your military rank, and all the steps of your promotion. We only make you a civilian till you have saved some lacs of rupees, which is what I hear your predecessor has forgotten to do.”

It was some time before Hunter, overjoyed as he was, even bethought him of asking who that predecessor was. What was his misery when he heard the name of Ormsby Conyers, his oldest, best friend; the man at whose table he had sat for years, whose confidence he had shared, whose heart was open to him to its last secret! “No,” said he, “this is impossible. Advancement at such a price has no temptation for me. I will not accept it” He wrote his refusal at once, not assigning any definite reasons, but declaring that, after much thought and consideration, he had decided the post was one he could not accept of. The Secretary, in whose province the affairs of India lay, sent for him, and, after much pressing and some ingenious cross-questioning, got at his reasons. “These may be all reasonable scruples on your part,” said he, “but they will avail your friend nothing. Conyers must go; for his own interest and character’s sake, he must come home and meet the charges made against him, and which, from their very contradictions, we all hope to see him treat triumphantly: some alleging that he has amassed untold wealth; others that it is, as a ruined man, he has involved himself in the intrigues of the native rulers. All who know him say that at the first whisper of a charge against him he will throw up his post and come to England to meet his accusers. And now let me own to you that it is the friendship in which he held you lay one of the suggestions for your choice. We all felt that if a man ill-disposed or ungenerously minded to Conyers should go out to Agra, numerous petty and vexatious accusations might be forthcoming; the little local injuries and pressure, so sure to beget grudges, would all rise up as charges, and enemies to the fallen man spring up in every quarter. It is as a successor, then, you can best serve your friend.” I need not dwell on the force and ingenuity with which this view was presented; enough that I say it was successful, and Hunter returned to Ireland to take leave of his regiment, and prepare for a speedy departure to India.