Barrington. Volume 1

“You are right. It was only this morning my brother said it was so like our own cottage.”

“And he is here also?” said the young man, with a half-constraint.

“Yes, and very eager to see you, and ask your forgive ness for his ungracious manner to you; not that I saw it, or understand what it could mean, but he says that he has a pardon to crave at your hands.”

So confused was Conyers for an instant that he made no answer, and when he did speak it was falteringly and with embarrassment, “I never could have anticipated meeting you here. It is more good fortune than I ever looked for.”

“We came over to the Continent to fetch away my grand-niece, the daughter of that Colonel Barrington you have heard so much of.”

“And is she – ” He stopped, and grew scarlet with confusion; but she broke in, laughingly, —

“No, not black, only dark-complexioned; in fact, a brunette, and no more.”

“Oh, I don’t mean, – I surely could not have said – ”

“No matter what you meant or said. Your unuttered question was one that kept occurring to my brother and myself every morning as we journeyed here, though neither of us had the courage to speak it. But our wonders are over; she is a dear good, girl, and we love her better every day we see her. But now a little about yourself. Why do I find you so low and depressed?”

“I have had much to fret me, Miss Barrington. Some were things that could give but passing unhappiness; others were of graver import.”

“Tell me so much as you may of them, and I will try to help you to bear up against them.”

“I will tell you all, – everything!” cried he. “It is the very moment I have been longing for, when I could pour out all my cares before you and ask, What shall I do?”

Miss Barrington silently drew her arm within his, and they strolled along the shady alley without a word.

“I must begin with my great grief, – it absorbs all the rest,” said he, suddenly. “My father is coming home; he has lost, or thrown up, I can’t tell which, his high employment. I have heard both versions of the story; and his own few words, in the only letter he has written me, do not confirm either. His tone is indignant; but far more it is sad and depressed, – he who never wrote a line but in the joyousness of his high-hearted nature; who met each accident of life with an undaunted spirit, and spurned the very thought of being cast down by fortune. See what he says here.” And he took a much crumpled letter from his pocket, and folded down a part of it “Read that. ‘The time for men of my stamp is gone by in India. We are as much bygones as the old flint musket or the matchlock. Soldiers of a different temperament are the fashion now; and the sooner we are pensioned or die off the better. For my own part, I am sick of it. I have lost my liver and have not made my fortune, and like men who have missed their opportunities, I come away too discontented with myself to think well of any one. They fancied that by coldness and neglect they might get rid of me, as they did once before of a far worthier and better fellow; but though I never had the courage that he had, they shall not break my heart.’ Does it strike you to whom he alludes there?” asked Conyers, suddenly; “for each time that I read the words I am more disposed to believe that they refer to Colonel Barrington.”

“I am sure of it!” cried she. “It is the testimony of a sorrow-stricken heart to an old friend’s memory; but I hear my brother’s voice; let me go and tell him you are here.” But Barrington was already coming towards them.

“Ah, Mr. Conyers!” cried he. “If you knew how I have longed for this moment! I believe you are the only man in the world I ever ill treated on my own threshold; but the very thought of it gave me a fit of illness, and now the best thing I know on my recovery is, that I am here to ask your pardon.”

“I have really nothing to forgive. I met under your roof with a kindness that never befell me before; nor do I know the spot on earth where I could look for the like to-morrow.”

“Come back to it, then, and see if the charm should not be there still.”

“Where ‘s Josephine, brother?” asked Miss Barrington, who, seeing the young man’s agitation, wished to change the theme.

“She’s gone to put some ferns in water; but here she comes now.”

Bounding wildly along, like a child in joyous freedom, Josephine came towards them, and, suddenly halting at sight of a stranger, she stopped and courtesied deeply, while Conyers, half ashamed at his own unhappy blunder about her, blushed deeply as he saluted her. Indeed, their meeting was more like that of two awkward timid children than of two young persons of their age; and they eyed each other with the distrust school boys and girls exchange on a first acquaintance.

“Brother, I have something to tell you,” said Miss Barrington, who was eager to communicate the news she had just heard of General Conyers; and while she drew him to one side, the young people still stood there, each seeming to expect the other would make some advance towards acquaintanceship. Conyers tried to say some commonplace, – some one of the fifty things that would have occurred so naturally in presence of a young lady to whom he had been just presented; but he could think of none, or else those that he thought of seemed inappropriate. How talk, for instance, of the world and its pleasures to one who had been estranged from it! While he thus struggled and contended with himself, she suddenly started as if with a flash of memory, and said, “How forgetful!”

“Forgetful! – and of what?” asked he.

“I have left the book I was reading to grandpapa on the rock where we were sitting. I must go and fetch it.”

“May I go with you?” asked he, half timidly.

“Yes, if you like.”

“And your book, – what was it?”

“Oh, a charming book, – such a delightful story! So many people one would have loved to know! – such scenes one would have loved to visit! – incidents, too, that keep the heart in intense anxiety, that you wonder how he who imagined them could have sustained the thrilling interest, and held his own heart so long in terrible suspense!”

“And the name of this wonderful book is – ”

“‘Waverley.’”

“I have read it,” said he, coldly.

“And have you not longed to be a soldier? Has not your heart bounded with eagerness for a life of adventure and peril?”

“I am a soldier,” said he, quietly.

“Indeed!” replied she, slowly, while her steadfast glance scanned him calmly and deliberately.

“You find it hard to recognize as a soldier one dressed as I am, and probably wonder how such a life as this consorts with enterprise and danger. Is not that what is passing in your mind?”

“Mayhap,” said she, in a low voice.

“It is all because the world has changed a good deal since Waverley’s time.”

“How sorry I am to hear it!”

“Nay, for your sake it is all the better. Young ladies have a pleasanter existence now than they had sixty years since. They lived then lives of household drudgery or utter weariness.”

“And what have they now?” asked she, eagerly.

“What have they not! All that can embellish life is around them; they are taught in a hundred ways to employ the faculties which give to existence its highest charm. They draw, sing, dance, ride, dress becomingly, read what may give to their conversation an added elegance and make their presence felt as an added lustre.”

“How unlike all this was our convent life!” said she, slowly. “The beads in my rosary were not more alike than the days that followed each other, and but for the change of season I should have thought life a dreary sleep. Oh, if you but knew what a charm there is in the changeful year to one who lives in any bondage!”

“And yet I remember to have heard how you hoped you might not be taken away from that convent life, and be compelled to enter the world,” said he, with a malicious twinkle of the eye.

“True; and had I lived there still I had not asked for other. But how came it that you should have heard of me? I never heard of you!”

“That is easily told. I was your aunt’s guest at the time she resolved to come abroad to see you and fetch you home. I used to hear all her plans about you, so that at last – I blush to own – I talked of Josephine as though she were my sister.”

“How strangely cold you were, then, when we met!” said she, quietly. “Was it that you found me so unlike what you expected?”

“Unlike, indeed!”

“Tell me how – tell me, I pray you, what you had pictured me.”

“It was not mere fancy I drew from. There was a miniature of you as a child at the cottage, and I have looked at it till I could recall every line of it.”

“Go on!” cried she, as he hesitated.

“The child’s face was very serious, – actually grave for childhood, – and had something almost stern in its expression; and yet I see nothing of this in yours.”

“So that, like grandpapa,” said she, laughing, “you were disappointed in not finding me a young tiger from Bengal; but be patient, and remember how long it is since I left the jungle.”

Sportively as the words were uttered, her eyes flashed and her cheek colored, and Conyers saw for the first time how she resembled her portrait in infancy.

“Yes,” added she, as though answering what was passing in his mind, “you are thinking just like the sisters, ‘What years and years it would take to discipline one of such a race!’ I have heard that given as a reason for numberless inflictions. And now, all of a sudden, comes grandpapa to say, ‘We love you so because you are one of us.’ Can you understand this?”

“I think I can, – that is, I think I can understand why – ” he was going to add, “why they should love you;” but he stopped, ashamed of his own eagerness.

She waited a moment for him to continue, and then, herself blushing, as though she had guessed his embarrassment, she turned away.

“And this book that we have been forgetting, – let us go and search for it,” said she, walking on rapidly in front of him; but he was speedily at her side again.

“Look there, brother Peter, – look there!” said Miss Dinah, as she pointed after them, “and see how well fitted we are to be guardians to a young lady!”

“I see no harm in it, Dinah, – I protest, I see no harm in it.”

“Possibly not, brother Peter, and it may only be a part of your system for making her – as you phrase it – feel a holy horror of the convent.”

“Well,” said he, meditatively, “he seems a fine, frank-hearted young fellow, and in this world she is about to enter, her first experiences might easily be worse.”

“I vow and declare,” cried she, warmly, “I believe it is your slipshod philosophy that makes me as severe as a holy inquisitor!”

“Every evil calls forth its own correction, Dinah,” said he, laughing. “If there were no fools to skate on the Serpentine, there had been no Humane Society.”

“One might grow tired of the task of resuscitating, Peter Barrington,” said she, hardly.

“Not you, not you, Dinah, – at least, if I was the drowned man,” said he, drawing her affectionately to his side; “and as for those young creatures yonder, it’s like gathering dog-roses, and they ‘ll stop when they have pricked their fingers.”

“I’ll go and look after the nosegay myself,” said she, turning hastily away, and following them.

A real liking for Conyers, and a sincere interest in him were the great correctives to the part of Dragon which Miss Dinah declared she foresaw to be her future lot in life. For years and years had she believed that the cares of a household and the rule of servants were the last trials of human patience. The larder, the dairy, and the garden were each of them departments with special opportunities for deception and embezzlement, and it seemed to her that new discoveries in roguery kept pace with the inventions of science; but she was energetic and active, and kept herself at what the French would call “the level of the situation;” and neither the cook nor the dairymaid nor Darby could be vainglorious over their battles with her. And now, all of a sudden, a new part was assigned her, with new duties, functions, and requirements; and she was called on to exercise qualities which had lain long dormant and in disuse, and renew a knowledge she had not employed for many a year. And what a strange blending of pleasure and pain must have come of that memory of long ago! Old conquests revived, old rivalries and jealousies and triumphs; glorious little glimpses of brilliant delight, and some dark hours, too, of disappointment, – almost despair!

“Once a bishop, always a bishop,” says the canon; but might we not with almost as much truth say, “Once a beauty, always a beauty”? – not in lineament and feature, in downy cheek or silky tresses, but in the heartfelt consciousness of a once sovereign power, in that sense of having been able to exact a homage and enforce a tribute. And as we see in the deposed monarch how the dignity of kingcraft clings to him, how through all he does and says there runs a vein of royal graciousness as from one the fount of honor, so it is with beauty. There lives through all its wreck the splendid memory of a despotism the most absolute, the most fascinating of all!

“I am so glad that young Conyers has no plans, Dinah,” said Barrington; “he says he will join us if we permit him.”

“Humph!” said Miss Barrington, as she went on with her knitting.

“I see nothing against it, sister.”

“Of course not, Peter,” said she, snappishly; “it would surprise me much if you did.”

“Do you, Dinah?” asked he, with a true simplicity of voice and look.

“I see great danger in it, if that be what you mean. And what answer did you make him, Peter?”

“The same answer that I make to every one, – I would consult my sister Dinah. ‘Le Roi s’avisera’ meant, I take it, that he ‘d be led by a wiser head than his own.”

“He was wise when he knew it,” said she, sententiously, and continued her work.

And from that day forth they all journeyed together, and one of them was very happy, and some were far more than happy; and Aunt Dinah was anxious even beyond her wont.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE RAMBLE

Day after day, week after week rolled on, and they still rambled about among the picturesque old villages on the Moselle, almost losing themselves in quaint unvisited spots, whose very names were new to them. To Barrington and his sister this picture of a primitive peasant life, with its own types of costume and custom, had an indescribable charm. Though debarred, from his ignorance of their dialect, of anything like intercourse with the people, he followed them in their ways with intense interest, and he would pass hours in the market-place, or stroll through the fields watching the strange culture, and wondering at the very implements of their labor. And the young people all this while? They were never separate. They read, and walked, and sat together from dawn to dark. They called each other Fifine and Freddy. Sometimes she sang, and he was there to listen; sometimes he drew, and she was as sure to be leaning over him in silent wonder at his skill; but with all this there was no love-making between them, – that is, no vows were uttered, no pledges asked for. Confidences, indeed, they interchanged, and without end. She told the story of her friendless infancy, and the long dreary years of convent life passed in a dull routine that had almost barred the heart against a wish for change; and he gave her the story of his more splendid existence, charming her imagination with a picture of that glorious Eastern life, which seemed to possess an instinctive captivation for her. And at last he told her, but as a great secret never to be revealed, how his father and her own had been the dearest, closest friends; that for years and years they had lived together like brothers, till separated by the accidents of life. Her father went away to a long distant station, and his remained to hold a high military charge, from which he was now relieved and on his way back to Europe. “What happiness for you, Freddy,” cried she, as her eyes ran over, “to see him come home in honor! What had I given that such a fate were mine!”

For an instant he accepted her words in all their flattery, but the hypocrisy was brief; her over-full heart was bursting for sympathy, and he was eager to declare that his sorrows were scarcely less than her own. “No, Fifine,” said he, “my father is coming back to demand satisfaction of a Government that has wronged him, and treated him with the worst ingratitude. In that Indian life men of station wield an almost boundless power; but if they are irresponsible as to the means, they are tested by the results, and whenever an adverse issue succeeds they fall irrevocably. What my father may have done, or have left undone, I know not. I have not the vaguest clew to his present difficulty, but, with his high spirit and his proud heart, that he would resent the very shadow of a reproof I can answer for, and so I believe, what many tell me, that it is a mere question of personal feeling, – some small matter in which the Council have not shown him the deference he felt his due, but which his haughty nature would not forego.”

Now these confidences were not love-making, nor anything approaching to it, and yet Josephine felt a strange half-pride in thinking that she had been told a secret which Conyers had never revealed to any other; that to her he had poured forth the darkest sorrow of his heart, and actually confided to her the terrors that beset him, for he owned that his father was rash and headstrong, and if he deemed himself wronged would be reckless in his attempt at justification.

“You do not come of a very patient stock, then,” said she, smiling.

“Not very, Fifine.”

“Nor I,” said she, as her eyes flashed brightly. “My poor Ayah, who died when I was but five years old, used to tell me such tales of my father’s proud spirit and the lofty way he bore himself, so that I often fancy I have seen him and heard him speak. You have heard he was a Rajah?” asked she, with a touch of pride.

The youth colored deeply as he muttered an assent, for he knew that she was ignorant of the details of her father’s fate, and he dreaded any discussion of her story.

“And these Rajahs,” resumed she, “are really great princes, with power of life and death, vast retinues, and splendid armies. To my mind, they present a more gorgeous picture than a small European sovereignty with some vast Protectorate looming over it. And now it is my uncle,” said she, suddenly, “who rules there.”

“I have heard that your own claims, Fifine, are in litigation,” said he, with a faint smile.

“Not as to the sovereignty,” said she, with a grave look, half rebukeful of his levity. “The suit grandpapa prosecutes in my behalf is for my mother’s jewels and her fortune; a woman cannot reign in the Tannanoohr.”

There was a haughty defiance in her voice as she spoke, that seemed to say, “This is a theme I will not suffer to be treated lightly, – beware how you transgress here.”

“And yet it is a dignity would become you well,” said he, seriously.

“It is one I would glory to possess,” said she, as proudly.

“Would you give me a high post, Fifine, if you were on the throne? – would you make me Commander-in-Chief of your army?”

“More likely that I would banish you from the realm,” said she, with a haughty laugh; “at least, until you learned to treat the head of the state more respectfully.”

“Have I ever been wanting in a proper deference?” said he, bowing, with a mock humility.

“If you had been, sir, it is not now that you had first heard of it,” said she, with a proud look, and for a few seconds it seemed as though their jesting was to have a serious ending. She was, however, the earliest to make terms, and in a tone of hearty kindliness said: “Don’t be angry, Freddy, and I ‘ll tell you a secret. If that theme be touched on, I lose my head: whether it be in the blood that circles in my veins, or in some early teachings that imbued my childhood, or long dreaming over what can never be, I cannot tell, but it is enough to speak of these things, and at once my imagination becomes exalted and my reason is routed.”

“I have no doubt your Ayah was to blame for this; she must have filled your head with ambitions, and hopes of a grand hereafter. Even I myself have some experiences of this sort; for as my father held a high post and was surrounded with great state and pomp, I grew at a very early age to believe myself a very mighty personage, and gave my orders with despotic insolence, and suffered none to gainsay me.”

“How silly!” said she, with a supercilious toss of her head that made Conyers flush up; and once again was peace endangered between them.

“You mean that what was only a fair and reasonable assumption in you was an absurd pretension in me, Miss Barrington; is it not so?” asked he, in a voice tremulous with passion.

“I mean that we must both have been very naughty children, and the less we remember of that childhood the better for us. Are we friends, Freddy?” and she held out her hand.

“Yes, if you wish it,” said he, taking her hand half coldly in his own.

“Not that way, sir. It is I who have condescended; not you.”

“As you please, Fifine, – will this do?” and kneeling with well-assumed reverence, he lifted her hand to his lips.

“If my opinion were to be asked, Mr. Conyers, I would say it would not do at all,” said Miss Dinah, coming suddenly up, her cheeks crimson, and her eyes flashing.

“It was a little comedy we were acting, Aunt Dinah,” said the girl, calmly.

“I beg, then, that the piece may not be repeated,” said she, stiffly.

“Considering how ill Freddy played his part, aunt, he will scarcely regret its withdrawal.”

Conyers, however, could not get over his confusion, and looked perfectly miserable for very shame.

“My brother has just had a letter which will call us homeward, Mr. Conyers,” said Miss Dinah, turning to him, and now using a tone devoid of all irritation. “Mr. Withering has obtained some information which may turn out of great consequence in our suit, and he wishes to consult with my brother upon it.”

“I hope – I sincerely hope – you do not think – ” he began, in a low voice.

“I do not think anything to your disadvantage, and I hope I never may,” replied she, in a whisper low as his own; “but bear in mind, Josephine is no finished coquette like Polly Dill, nor must she be the mark of little gallantries, however harmless. Josephine, grandpapa has some news for you; go to him.”

“Poor Freddy,” whispered the girl in the youth’s ear as she passed, “what a lecture you are in for!” “You mustn’t be angry with me if I play Duenna a little harshly, Mr. Conyers,” said Miss Dinah; “and I am far more angry with myself than you can be. I never concurred with my brother that romance reading and a young dragoon for a companion were the most suitable educational means for a young lady fresh from a convent, and I have only myself to blame for permitting it.”

Poor Conyers was so overwhelmed that he could say nothing; for though he might, and with a safe conscience, have answered a direct charge, yet against a general allegation he was powerless. He could not say that he was the best possible companion for a young lady, though he felt, honestly felt, that he was not a bad one. He had never trifled with her feelings, nor sought to influence her in his favor. Of all flirtation, such as he would have adventured with Polly Dill, for instance, he was guiltless. He respected her youth and ignorance of life too deeply to take advantage of either. He thought, perhaps, how ungenerous it would have been for a man of the world like himself to entrap the affections of a young, artless creature, almost a child in her innocence. He was rather fond of imagining himself “a man of the world,” old soldier, and what not, – a delusion which somehow very rarely befalls any but very young men, and of which the experience of life from thirty to forty is the sovereign remedy. And so overwhelmed and confused and addled was he with a variety of sensations, he heard very little of what Miss Dinah said to him, though that worthy lady talked very fluently and very well, concluding at last with words which awoke Conyers from his half-trance with a sort of shock. “It is for these reasons, my dear Mr. Conyers, – reasons whose force and nature you will not dispute, – that I am forced to do what, were the occasion less important, would be a most ungenerous task. I mean, I am forced to relinquish all the pleasure that I had promised ourselves from seeing you our guest at the cottage. If you but knew the pain I feel to speak these words – ”