Barrington. Volume 2

“Truly kind of him. They relate, I have no doubt, to my Indian appointment. They told me I should have news by to-day or to-morrow.”

“He received a letter also for himself, sir, which he desired to show you.”

“About his lawsuit, of course? It is alike a pleasure and a duty to me to serve him in that affair.”

“It more nearly concerns yourself, sir,” said she, in the same cold, stern tone; “though it has certainly its bearing on the case you speak of.”

“More nearly concerns myself!” said he, repeating her words slowly. “I am about the worst guesser of a riddle in the world, Miss Barrington. Would you kindly relieve my curiosity? Is this letter a continuation of those cowardly attacks which, in the want of a worthier theme, the Press have amused themselves by making upon me? Is it possible that some enemy has had the malice to attack me through my friends?”

“The writer of the letter in question is a sufficient guarantee for its honor, Mr. Withering.”

“Mr. Withering!” repeated he, with a start, and then, as suddenly assuming an easy smile, added: “I am perfectly tranquil to find myself in such hands as Mr. Withering’s. And what, pray, does he say of me?”

“Will you excuse me, Major Stapylton, if I do not enter upon a subject on which I am not merely very imperfectly informed, but on which so humble a judgment as mine would be valueless? My brother showed me the letter very hurriedly; I had but time to see to what it referred, and to be aware that it was his duty to let you see it at once, – if possible, indeed, before you were again under his roof.”

“What a grave significance your words have, Miss Barrington!” said he, with a cold smile. “They actually set me to think over all my faults and failings, and wonder for which of them I am now arraigned.”

“We do not profess to judge you, sir.”

By this time they had sauntered up to the little garden in front of the cottage, within the paling of which Josephine was busily engaged in training a japonica. She arose as she heard the voices, and in her accustomed tone wished Stapylton good-evening. “She, at least, has heard nothing of all this,” muttered he to himself, as he saluted her. He then opened the little wicket; and Miss Barrington passed in, acknowledging his attention by a short nod, as she walked hastily forward and entered the cottage. Instead of following her, Stapylton closed the wicket again, remaining on the outside, and leaning his arm on the upper rail.

“Why do you perform sentry? Are you not free to enter the fortress?” said Fifine.

“I half suspect not,” said he, in a low tone, and to hear which she was obliged to draw nigher to where he stood.

“What do you mean? I don’t understand you!”

“No great wonder, for I don’t understand myself. Your aunt has, however, in her own most mysterious way, given me to believe that somebody has written something about me to somebody else, and until I clear up what in all probability I shall never hear, that I had better keep to what the Scotch call the ‘back o’ the gate.’”

“This is quite unintelligible.”

“I hope it is, for it is almost unendurable. I am sorely afraid,” added he, after a minute, “that I am not so patient as I ought to be under Miss Barrington’s strictures. I am so much more in the habit of command than of obedience, that I may forget myself now and then. To you, however, I am ready to submit all my past life and conduct. By you I am willing to be judged. If these cruel calumnies which are going the round of the papers on me have lowered me in your estimation, my case is a lost one; but if, as I love to think, your woman’s heart resents an injustice, – if, taking counsel of your courage and your generosity, you feel it is not the time to withdraw esteem when the dark hour of adversity looms over a man, – then, I care no more for these slanders than for the veriest trifles which cross one’s every-day life. In one word, – your verdict is life or death to me.”

“In that case,” said she, with an effort to dispel the seriousness of his manner, “I must have time to consider my sentence.”

“But that is exactly what you cannot have, Josephine,” said he; and there was a certain earnestness in his voice and look, which made her hear him call her by her name without any sense of being off ended. “First relieve the suffering; there will be ample leisure to question the sufferer afterwards. The Good Samaritan wasted few words, and asked for no time. The noblest services are those of which the cost is never calculated. Your own heart can tell you: can you befriend me, and will you?”

“I do not know what it is you ask of me,” said she, with a frank boldness which actually disconcerted him. “Tell me distinctly, what is it?”

“I will tell you,” said he, taking her hand, but so gently, so respectfully withal, that she did not at first withdraw it, – “I will tell you. It is that you will share that fate on which fortune is now frowning; that you will add your own high-couraged heart to that of one who never knew a fear till now; that you will accept my lot in this the day of my reverse, and enable me to turn upon my pursuers and scatter them. To-morrow or next day will be too late. It is now, at this hour, that friends hold back, that one more than friend is needed. Can you be that, Josephine?”

“No!” said she, firmly. “If I read your meaning aright, I cannot.”

“You cannot love me, Josephine,” said he, in a voice of intense emotion; and though he waited some time for her to speak, she was silent. “It is true, then,” said he, passionately, “the slanderers have done their work!”

“I know nothing of these calumnies. When my grandfather told me that they accused you falsely, and condemned you unfairly, I believed him. I am as ready as ever to say so. I do not understand your cause; but I believe you to be a true and gallant gentleman!”

“But yet, not one to love!” whispered he, faintly.

Again she was silent, and for some time he did not speak.

“A true and gallant gentleman!” said he, slowly repeating her own words; “and if so, is it an unsafe keeping to which to intrust your happiness? It is no graceful task to have oneself for a theme; but I cannot help it. I have no witnesses to call to character; a few brief lines in an army list, and some scars – old reminders of French sabres – are poor certificates, and yet I have no others.”

There was something which touched her in the sadness of his tone as he said these words, and if she knew how, she would have spoken to him in kindliness. He mistook the struggle for a change of purpose, and with greater eagerness continued: “After all I am scarcely more alone in the world than you are! The dear friends who now surround you cannot be long spared, and what isolation will be your fate then! Think of this, and think, too, how, in assuring your own future, you rescue mine.”

Very differently from his former speech did the present affect her; and her cheeks glowed and her eyes flashed as she said, “I have never intrusted my fate to your keeping, sir; and you may spare yourself all anxiety about it.”

“You mistake me. You wrong me, Josephine – ”

“You wrong yourself when you call me by my Christian name; and you arm me with distrust of one who would presume upon an interest he has not created.”

“You refuse me, then?” said he, slowly and calmly.

“Once, and forever!”

“It may be that you are mistaken, Miss Barrington. It may be that this other affection, which you prefer to mine, is but the sickly sentiment of a foolish boy, whose life up to this has not given one single guarantee, nor shown one single trait of those which make ‘true and gallant gentlemen.’ But you have made your choice.”

“I have,” said she, with a low but firm voice.

“You acknowledge, then, that I was right,” cried he, suddenly; “there is a prior attachment? Your heart is not your own to give?”

“And by what right do you presume to question me? Who are you, that dares to do this?”

“Who am I?” cried he, and for once his voice rose to the discordant ring of passion.

“Yes, that was my question,” repeated she, firmly.

“So, then, you have had your lesson, young lady,” said he; and the words came from him with a hissing sound, that indicated intense anger. “Who am I? You want my birth, my parentage, my bringing up! Had you no friend who could have asked this in your stead? Or were all those around you so bereft of courage that they deputed to a young girl what should have been the office of a man?”

Though the savage earnestness of his manner startled, it did not affright her; and it was with a cold quietness she said, “If you had known my father, Major Stapylton, I suspect you would not have accused his daughter of cowardice!”

“Was he so very terrible?” said he, with a smile that was half a sneer.

“He would have been, to a man like you.”

“To a man like me, – a man like me! Do you know, young lady, that either your words are very idle words or very offensive ones?”

“And yet I have no wish to recall them, sir.”

“It would be better you could find some one to sustain them. Unfortunately, however, you cannot ask that gallant gentleman we were just talking of; for it is only the other day, and after passing over to Calais to meet me, his friends pretend that there is some obstacle to our meeting. I owe my tailor or my bootmaker something; or I have not paid my subscription to a club; or I have left an unsettled bill ar Baden. I really forget the precise pretext; but it was one which to them seemed quite sufficient to balk me of a redress, and at the same time to shelter their friend.”

“I will not believe one word of it, sir!”

“Well, we have at least arrived at a perfect frankness in our intercourse. May I ask you, young lady, which of your relatives has suggested your present course! Is it to your aunt or to your grandfather I must go for an explanation?”

“I suspect it is to me, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, as he came from behind Josephine. “It is to me you must address yourself. Fifine, my dear, your aunt is looking for you; go and tell her, too, that I am quite ready for tea, and you will find me here when it is ready. Major Stapylton and I will take a stroll along the river-side.” Now this last was less an invitation than a sort of significant hint to Stapylton that his host had no intention to ask him to cross his threshold, at least for the present; and, indeed, as Barrington passed out and closed the wicket after him, he seemed as though closing the entrance forever.

With a manner far more assured thau his wont, Barrington said: “I have been in pursuit of you, Major Stapylton, since four o’clock. I missed you by having taken the road instead of the river; and am much grieved that the communication I have to make you should not take place anywhere rather than near my roof or within my own gates.”