Barrington. Volume 1

Both Barrington and Hunter were inveterate sportsmen, and they ranged over hunting-fields and grouse mountains and partridge stubble and trout streams with all the zest of men who feel a sort of mesmeric brotherhood in the interchange of their experiences. Long after the Major and the doctor had taken their leave, they sat there recounting stories of their several adventures, and recalling incidents of flood and field.

In return for a cordial invitation to Hunter to stay and fish the river for some days, Barrington pledged himself to visit the Colonel the first time he should go up to Kilkenny.

“And I ‘ll mount you. You shall have a horse I never lent in my life. I ‘ll put you on Trumpeter, – sire Sir Hercules, – no mistake there; would carry sixteen stone with the fastest hounds in England.”

Barrington shook his head, and smiled, as he said, “It’s two-and-twenty years since I sat a fence. I ‘m afraid I ‘ll not revive the fame of my horsemanship by appearing again in the saddle.”

“Why, what age do you call yourself?”

“Eighty-three, if I live to August next.”

“I ‘d not have guessed you within ten years of it. I ‘ve just passed fifty, and already I begin to look for a horse with more bone beneath the knee, and more substance across the loins.”

“These are only premonitory symptoms, after all,” said Barrington, laughing. “You’ve many a day before you come to a fourteen-hand cob and a kitchen chair to mount him.”

Hunter laughed at the picture, and dashed away, in his own half-reckless way, to other topics. He talked of his regiment proudly, and told Barrington what a splendid set of young fellows were his officers. “I ‘ll show you such a mess,” said he, “as no corps in the service can match.” While he talked of their high-hearted and generous natures, and with enthusiasm of the life of a soldier, Barrington could scarcely refrain from speaking of his own “boy,” the son from whom he had hoped so much, and whose loss had been the death-blow to all his ambitions. There were, however, circumstances in that story which sealed his lips; and though the father never believed one syllable of the allegations against his son, though he had paid the penalty of a King’s Bench mandamus and imprisonment for horsewhipping the editor who had aspersed his “boy,” the world and the world’s verdict were against him, and he did not dare to revive the memory of a name against which all the severities of the press had been directed, and public opinion had condemned with all its weight and power.

“I see that I am wearying you,” said Hunter, as he remarked the grave and saddened expression that now stole over Barrington’s face. “I ought to have remembered what an hour it was, – more than half-past two.” And without waiting to hear a reply, he shook his host’s hand cordially and hurried off to his room.

While Barrington busied himself in locking up the wine, and putting away half-finished decanters, – cares that his sister’s watchfulness very imperatively exacted, – he heard, or fancied he heard, a voice from the room where the sick man lay. He opened the door very gently and looked in.

“All right,” said the youth. “I ‘m not asleep, nor did I want to sleep, for I have been listening to you and the Colonel these two hours, and with rare pleasure, I can tell you. The Colonel would have gone a hundred miles to meet a man like yourself, so fond of the field and such a thorough sportsman.”

“Yes, I was so once,” sighed Barrington, for already had come a sort of reaction to the late excitement.

“Isn’t the Colonel a fine fellow?” said the young man, as eager to relieve the awkwardness of a sad theme as to praise one he loved. “Don’t you like him?”

“That I do!” said Barrington, heartily. “His fine genial spirit has put me in better temper with myself than I fancied was in my nature to be. We are to have some trout-fishing together, and I promise you it sha’n’t be my fault if he doesn’t like me.”

“And may I be of the party? – may I go with you?”

“Only get well of your accident, and you shall do whatever you like. By the way, did not Colonel Hunter serve in India?”

“For fifteen years. He has only left Bengal within a few months.”

“Then he can probably help me to some information. He may be able to tell me – Good-night, good-night,” said he, hurriedly; “to-morrow will be time enough to think of this.”

CHAPTER IV. FRED CONYERS

Very soon after daybreak the Colonel was up and at the bedside of his young friend.

“Sorry to wake you, Fred,” said he, gently; “but I have just got an urgent despatch, requiring me to set out at once for Dublin, and I did n’t like to go without asking how you get on.”

“Oh, much better, sir. I can move the foot a little, and I feel assured it ‘s only a severe sprain.”

“That’s all right. Take your own time, and don’t attempt to move about too early. You are in capital quarters here, and will be well looked after. There is only one difficulty, and I don’t exactly see how to deal with it. Our host is a reduced gentleman, brought down to keep an inn for support, but what benefit he can derive from it is not so very clear; for when I asked the man who fetched me hot water this morning for my bill, he replied that his master told him I was to be his guest here for a week, and not on any account to accept money from me. Ireland is a very strange place, and we are learning something new in it every day; but this is the strangest thing I have met yet.”

“In my case this would be impossible. I must of necessity give a deal of trouble, – not to say that it would add unspeakably to my annoyance to feel that I could not ask freely for what I wanted.”

“I have no reason to suppose, mind you, that you are to be dealt with as I have been, but it would be well to bear in mind who and what these people are.”

“And get away from them as soon as possible,” added the young fellow, half peevishly.

“Nay, nay, Fred; don’t be impatient. You’ll be delighted with the old fellow, who is a heart-and-soul sportsman. What station he once occupied I can’t guess; but in the remarks he makes about horses and hounds, all his knowing hints on stable management and the treatment of young cattle, one would say that he must have had a large fortune and kept a large establishment.”

In the half self-sufficient toss of the head which received this speech, it was plain that the young man thought his Colonel was easily imposed on, and that such pretensions as these would have very little success with him.

“I have no doubt some of your brother officers will take a run down to see how you get on, and, if so, I ‘ll send over a hamper of wine, or something of the kind, that you can manage to make him accept.”

“It will not be very difficult, I opine,” said the young man, laughingly.

“No, no,” rejoined the other, misconstruing the drift of his words. “You have plenty of tact, Fred. You ‘ll do the thing with all due delicacy. And now, good-bye. Let me hear how you fare here.” And with a hearty farewell they parted.

There was none astir in the cottage but Darby as the Colonel set out to gain the high-road, where the post-horses awaited him. From Darby, however, as he went along, he gathered much of his host’s former history. It was with astonishment he learned that the splendid house of Barring-ton Hall, where he had been dining with an earl a few days ago, was the old family seat of that poor innkeeper; that the noble deer-park had once acknowledged him for master. “And will again, plase God!” burst in Darby, who thirsted for an opportunity to launch out into law, and all its bright hopes and prospects.

“We have a record on trial in Trinity Term, and an argument before the twelve Judges, and the case is as plain as the nose on your honor’s face; for it was ruled by Chief Baron Medge, in the great cause of ‘Peter against Todd, a widow,’ that a settlement couldn’t be broke by an estreat.”

“You are quite a lawyer, I see,” said the Colonel.

“I wish I was. I ‘d rather be a judge on the bench than a king on his throne.”

“And yet I am beginning to suspect law may have cost your master dearly.”

“It is not ten, or twenty – no, nor thirty – thousand pounds would see him through it!” said Darby, with a triumph in his tone that seemed to proclaim a very proud declaration. “There ‘s families would be comfortable for life with just what we spent upon special juries.”

“Well, as you tell me he has no family, the injury has been all his own.”

“That’s true. We’re the last of the ould stock,” said he, sorrowfully; and little more passed between them, till the Colonel, on parting, put a couple of guineas in his hand, and enjoined him to look after the young friend he had left behind him.

It is now my task to introduce this young gentleman to my readers. Frederick Conyers, a cornet in his Majesty’s Hussars, was the only son of a very distinguished officer, Lieutenant-General Conyers, a man who had not alone served with great reputation in the field, but held offices of high political trust in India, the country where all his life had been passed. Holding a high station as a political resident at a native court, wielding great power, and surrounded by an undeviating homage, General Conyers saw his son growing up to manhood with everything that could foster pride and minister to self-exaltation around him. It was not alone the languor and indolence of an Eastern life that he had to dread for him, but the haughty temper and overbearing spirit so sure to come out of habits of domination in very early life.

Though he had done all that he could to educate his son, by masters brought at immense cost from Europe, the really important element of education, – the self-control and respect for other’s rights, – only to be acquired by daily life and intercourse with equals, this he could not supply; and he saw, at last, that the project he had so long indulged, of keeping his son with him, must be abandoned. Perhaps the rough speech of an old comrade helped to dispel the illusion, as he asked, “Are you bringing up that boy to be a Rajah?” His first thought was to send him to one of the Universities, his great desire being that the young man should feel some ambition for public life and its distinctions. He bethought him, however, that while the youth of Oxford and Cambridge enter upon a college career, trained by all the discipline of our public schools, Fred would approach the ordeal without any such preparation whatever. Without one to exert authority over him, little accustomed to the exercise of self-restraint, the experiment was too perilous.

To place him, therefore, where, from the very nature of his position, some guidance and control would be exercised, and where by the working of that model democracy – a mess – he would be taught to repress self-sufficiency and presumption, he determined on the army, and obtained a cornetcy in a regiment commanded by one who had long served on his own staff. To most young fellows such an opening in life would have seemed all that was delightful and enjoyable. To be just twenty, gazetted to a splendid cavalry corps, with a father rich enough and generous enough to say, “Live like the men about you, and don’t be afraid that your checks will come back to you,” these are great aids to a very pleasant existence. Whether the enervation of that life of Oriental indulgence had now become a nature to him, or whether he had no liking for the service itself, or whether the change from a condition of almost princely state to a position of mere equality with others, chafed and irritated him, but so is it, he did not “take to” the regiment, nor the regiment to him.

Now it is a fact, and not a very agreeable fact either, that a man with a mass of noble qualities may fail to attract the kindliness and good feeling towards him which a far less worthy individual, merely by certain traits, or by the semblance of them, of a yielding, passive nature is almost sure to acquire.

Conyers was generous, courageous, and loyal, in the most chivalrous sense of that word, to every obligation of friendship. He was eminently truthful and honorable; but he had two qualities whose baneful influence would disparage the very best of gifts. He was “imperious,” and, in the phrase of his brother officers, “he never gave in.” Some absurd impression had been made on him, as a child, that obstinacy and persistency were the noblest of attributes, and that, having said a thing, no event or circumstance could ever occur to induce a change of opinion.

Such a quality is singularly unfitted to youth, and marvellously out of place in a regiment; hence was it that the “Rajah,” as he was generally called by his comrades, had few intimates, and not one friend amongst them.

If I have dwelt somewhat lengthily on these traits, it is because their possessor is one destined to be much before us in this history. I will but chronicle one other feature. I am sorry it should be a disqualifying one. Owing in great measure, perhaps altogether, to his having been brought up in the East, where Hindoo craft and subtlety were familiarized to his mind from infancy, he was given to suspect that few things were ever done from the motives ascribed to them, and that under the open game of life was another concealed game, which was the real one. As yet, this dark and pernicious distrust had only gone the length of impressing him with a sense of his own consummate acuteness, an amount of self-satisfaction, which my reader may have seen tingeing the few words he exchanged with his Colonel before separating.

Let us see him now as he sits in a great easy-chair, his sprained ankle resting on another, in a little honeysuckle-covered arbor of the garden, a table covered with books and fresh flowers beside him, while Darby stands ready to serve him from the breakfast-table, where a very tempting meal is already spread out.

“So, then, I can’t see your master, it seems,” said Con-yers, half peevishly.

“Faix you can’t; he’s ten miles off by this. He got a letter by the post, and set out half an hour after for Kilkenny. He went to your honor’s door, but seeing you was asleep he would n’t wake you; ‘but, Darby,’ says he, ‘take care of that young gentleman, and mind,’ says he, ‘that he wants for nothing.’”

“Very thoughtful of him, – very considerate indeed,” said the youth; but in what precise spirit it is not easy to say.

“Who lives about here? What gentlemen’s places are there, I mean?”

“There’s Lord Carrackmore, and Sir Arthur Godfrey, and Moore of Ballyduff, and Mrs. Powerscroft of the Grove – ”

“Do any of these great folks come down here?”

Darby would like to have given a ready assent, – he would have been charmed to say that they came daily, that they made the place a continual rendezvous; but as he saw no prospect of being able to give his fiction even twenty-four hours’ currency, he merely changed from one leg to the other, and, in a tone of apology, said, “Betimes they does, when the sayson is fine.”

“Who are the persons who are most frequently here?”

“Those two that you saw last night, – the Major and Dr. Dill. They ‘re up here every second day, fishing, and eating their dinner with the master.”

“Is the fishing good?”

“The best in Ireland.”

“And what shooting is there, – any partridges?”

“Partridges, be gorra! You could n’t see the turnips for them.”

“And woodcocks?”

“Is it woodcocks! The sky is black with the sight of them.”

“Any lions?”

“Well, maybe an odd one now and then,” said Darby, half apologizing for the scarcity.

There was an ineffable expression of self-satisfaction in Conyers’s face at the subtlety with which he had drawn Darby into this admission; and the delight in his own acuteness led him to offer the poor fellow a cigar, which he took with very grateful thanks.

“From what you tell me, then, I shall find this place stupid enough till I am able to be up and about, eh? Is there any one who can play chess hereabout?”

“Sure there’s Miss Dinah; she’s a great hand at it, they tell me.”

“And who is Miss Dinah? Is she young, – is she pretty?”

Darby gave a very cautious look all around him, and then closing one eye, so as to give his face a look of intense cunning, he nodded very significantly twice.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mane that she’ll never see sixty; and for the matter of beauty – ”

“Oh, you have said quite enough; I ‘m not curious about her looks. Now for another point. If I should want to get away from this, what other inn or hotel is there in the neighborhood?”

“There’s Joe M’Cabe’s, at Inistioge; but you are better where you are. Where will you see fresh butter like that? and look at the cream, the spoon will stand in it. Far and near it’s given up to her that nobody can make coffee like Miss Dinah; and when you taste them trout, you ‘ll tell me if they are not fit for the king.”

“Everything is excellent, – could not be better; but there’s a difficulty. There’s a matter which to me at least makes a stay here most unpleasant. My friend tells me that he could not get his bill, – that he was accepted as a guest. Now I can’t permit this – ”

“There it is, now,” said Darby, approaching the table, and dropping his voice to a confidential whisper. “That’s the master’s way. If he gets a stranger to sit down with him to dinner or supper, he may eat and drink as long as he plases, and sorra sixpence he’ll pay; and it’s that same ruins us, nothing else, for it’s then he ‘ll call for the best sherry, and that ould Maderia that’s worth a guinea a bottle. What’s the use, after all, of me inflaming the bill of the next traveller, and putting down everything maybe double? And worse than all,” continued he, in a tone of horror, “let him only hear any one complain about his bill or saying, ‘What’s this?’ or ‘I didn’t get that,’ out he’ll come, as mighty and as grand as the Lord-Liftinint, and say, ‘I ‘m sorry, sir, that we failed to make this place agreeable to you. Will you do me the favor not to mind the bill at all?’ and with that he’d tear it up in little bits and walk away.”

“To me that would only be additional offence. I ‘d not endure it.”

“What could you do? You’d maybe slip a five-pound note into my hand, and say, ‘Darby my man, settle this little matter for me; you know the ways of the place.’”

“I ‘ll not risk such an annoyance, at all events; that I ‘m determined on.”

Darby began now to perceive that he had misconceived his brief, and must alter his pleadings as quickly as possible; in fact, he saw he was “stopping an earth” he had meant merely to mask. “Just leave it all to me, your honor, – leave it all to me, and I ‘ll have your bill for you every morning on the breakfast-table. And why would n’t you? Why would a gentleman like your honor be behouldin’ to any one for his meat and drink?” burst he in, with an eager rapidity. “Why would n’t you say, ‘Darby, bring me this, get me that, fetch me the other; expinse is no object in life tome’?”

There was a faint twinkle of humor in the eye of Conyers, and Darby stopped short, and with that half-lisping simplicity which a few Irishmen understand to perfection, and can exercise whenever the occasion requires, he said: “But sure is n’t your honor laughing at me, is n’t it just making fun of me you are? All because I’m a poor ignorant crayture that knows no better!”

“Nothing of that kind,” said Conyers, frankly. “I was only smiling at thoughts that went through my head at the moment.”

“Well, faix! there’s one coming up the path now won’t make you laugh,” said Darby, as he whispered, “It’s Dr. Dill.”

The doctor was early with his patient; if the case was not one of urgency, the sufferer was in a more elevated rank than usually fell to the chances of Dispensary practice. Then, it promised to be one of the nice chronic cases, in which tact and personal agreeability – the two great strongholds of Dr. Dill in his own estimation – were of far more importance than the materia medica. Now, if Dill’s world was not a very big one, he knew it thoroughly. He was a chronicle of all the family incidents of the county, and could recount every disaster of every house for thirty miles round.

When the sprain had, therefore, been duly examined, and all the pangs of the patient sufficiently condoled with to establish the physician as a man of feeling, Dill proceeded to his task as a man of the world. Conyers, however, abruptly stopped him, by saying, “Tell me how I’m to get out of this place; some other inn, I mean.”

“You are not comfortable here, then?” asked Dill.

“In one sense, perfectly so. I like the quietness, the delightful tranquillity, the scenery, – everything, in short, but one circumstance. I ‘m afraid these worthy people – whoever they are – want to regard me as a guest. Now I don’t know them, – never saw them, – don’t care to see them. My Colonel has a liking for all this sort of thing. It has to his mind a character of adventure that amuses him. It would n’t in the least amuse me, and so I want to get away.”

“Yes,” repeated Dill, blandly, after him, “wants to get away; desires to change the air.”

“Not at all,” broke in Conyers, peevishly; “no question of air whatever. I don’t want to be on a visit. I want an inn. What is this place they tell me of up the river, – Inis – something?”

“Inistioge. M’Cabe’s house; the ‘Spotted Duck;’ very small, very poor, far from clean, besides.”

“Is there nothing else? Can’t you think of some other place? For I can’t have my servant here, circumstanced as I am now.”

The doctor paused to reply. The medical mind is eminently ready-witted, and Dill at a glance took in all the dangers of removing his patient. Should he transfer him to his own village, the visit which now had to be requited as a journey of three miles and upwards, would then be an affair of next door. Should he send him to Thomastown, it would be worse again, for then he would be within the precincts of a greater than Dill himself, – a practitioner who had a one-horse phaeton, and whose name was written on brass. “Would you dislike a comfortable lodging in a private family, – one of the first respectability, I may make bold to call it?”

“Abhor it! – couldn’t endure it! I’m not essentially troublesome or exacting, but I like to be able to be either, whenever the humor takes me.”

“I was thinking of a house where you might freely take these liberties – ”

“Liberties! I call them rights, doctor, not liberties! Can’t you imagine a man, not very wilful, not very capricious, but who, if the whim took him, would n’t stand being thwarted by any habits of a so-called respectable family? There, don’t throw up your eyes, and misunderstand me. All I mean is, that my hours of eating and sleeping have no rule. I smoke everywhere; I make as much noise as I please; and I never brook any impertinent curiosity about what I do, or what I leave undone.”

“Under all the circumstances, you had, perhaps, better remain where you are,” said Dill, thoughtfully.

“Of course, if these people will permit me to pay for my board and lodging. If they ‘ll condescend to let me be a stranger, I ask for nothing better than this place.”

“Might I offer myself as a negotiator?” said Dill, insinuatingly; “for I opine that the case is not of the difficulty you suppose. Will you confide it to my hands?”

“With all my heart. I don’t exactly see why there should be a negotiation at all; but if there must, pray be the special envoy.”

When Dill arose and set out on his mission, the young fellow looked after him with an expression that seemed to say, “How you all imagine you are humbugging me, while I read every one of you like a book!”

Let us follow the doctor, and see how he acquitted himself in his diplomacy.

CHAPTER V. DILL AS A DIPLOMATIST

Dr. Dill had knocked twice at the door of Miss Barrington’s little sitting-room, and no answer was returned to his summons.

“Is the dear lady at home?” asked he, blandly. But, though he waited for some seconds, no reply came.

“Might Dr. Dill be permitted to make his compliments?”

“Yes, come in,” said a sharp voice, very much with the expression of one wearied out by importunity. Miss Barrington gave a brief nod in return for the profound obeisance of her visitor, and then turned again to a large map which covered the table before her.

“I took the opportunity of my professional call here this morning – ”

“How is that young man, – is anything broken?”