Barrington. Volume 2

“I am to suppose from your words, sir, that what you are about to say can scarcely be said to a friend; and if so, cannot you hit upon a more convenient mode of making your communication?”

“I think not. I believe that I shall be dealing more fairly with you by saying what I have to say in person.”

“Go on,” said Stapylton, calmly, as the other paused.

“You are aware,” continued Barrington, “that the chief obstacle to a settlement of the claims I have long preferred against the India Company has been a certain document which they possess, declaring that a large portion of the territory held by the Rajah of Luckerabad was not amenable to the laws that regulate succession, being what is called ‘Lurkar-teea,’ – conquered country, – over which, under no circumstances, could the Rajah exercise prospective rights. To this deed, for their better protection, the Company obtained the signature and seal of the Rajah himself, by means which, of course, we could never discover; but they held it, and always declared that no portion of my son’s claim could extend to these lands. Now, as they denied that he could succeed to what are called the ‘Turban lands,’ meaning the right of sovereignty – being a British subject – on the one hand, and rejected his claim to these conquered countries on the other, – they excluded him altogether.”

“My dear sir,” said Stapylton, mildly, “I’m shocked to interrupt you, but I am forced to ask, what is the intimate bearing of all this upon me, or on your position towards me?”

“Have a little patience, sir, and suffer me to proceed. If it should turn out that this document – I mean that which bears the signature and seal of the Rajah – should be a forgery; if, I say, it could be shown that what the India Board have long relied on to sustain their case and corroborate their own view could be proved false, a great point would be gained towards the establishment of our claim.”

“Doubtless,” said Stapylton, with the half-peevish indifference of one listening against his will.

“Well, there is a good prospect of this,” said Barring-ton, boldly. “Nay, more, it is a certainty.”

“Mr. Barrington,” said Stapylton, drawing himself haughtily up, “a few hours ago this history would have had a very great interest for me. My hopes pointed to a very close relationship with your family; the last hour has sufficed to dispel those hopes. Your granddaughter has rejected me so decidedly that I cannot presume to suppose a change in her opinion possible. Let me not then, obtain any share in your confidence to which I have no right whatever.”

“What I am about to say will have more interest for you, sir,” continued Barrington. “I am about to mention a name that you will recognize, – the Moonshee, Ali Gohur.”

Stapylton started, and dropped the cigar he was smoking. To take out another and light it, however, sufficed to employ him, as he murmured between his teeth, “Go on.”

“This man says – ” continued Barrington.

“Said, perhaps, if you like,” broke in Stapylton, “for he died some months ago.”

“No; he is alive at this hour. He was on board the Indiaman that was run down by the transport. He was saved and carried on board the ‘Regulus’ by the intrepidity of young Dill. He is now recovering rapidly from the injuries he received, and at the date of the letter which I hold here, was able to be in daily communication with Colonel Hunter, who is the writer of this.”

“I wish the gallant Colonel honester company. Are you aware, Mr. Barrington, that you are speaking of one of the greatest rascals of a country not famed for its integrity?”

“He lays no claim to such for the past; but he would seem desirous to make some reparation for a long course of iniquity.”

“Charmed for his sake, and that of his well-wishers, if he have any. But, once again, sir, and at all the risk of appearing very impatient, what concern has all this for me?”

“A great deal, sir. The Moonshee declares that he has been for years back in close correspondence with a man we long since believed dead, and that this man was known to have communicated constantly with the law advisers of the India Board in a manner adverse to us, he being none other than the son of the notorious Sam Edwardes, whom he always addressed under cover to Captain Horace Stapylton, Prince’s Hussars.”

“This is – strange enough, when one thinks of the quarter it comes from – perfectly true. I came to know Edwardes when on my voyage home, invalided. He took immense trouble about me, nursed and tended me, and, in return, asked as a favor to have some letters he was expecting addressed to my care. I neither knew who he was, nor cared. He got his letters, and I suppose read them; but of their contents, I, it is needless to say, know nothing. I am speaking of a dozen years ago, or, at least, eight or ten, for since that time I have never heard of either Edwardes or his friend.”

“He tells a different story. He asserts that to his letters, forwarded to the same address up to the period of last March, he regularly received replies; but at last finding that the writer was disposed to get rid of him, he obtained means to circulate a report of his death, and sailed for Europe to prefer his claims, whatever they be, in person.”

“And if every word of this were true, Mr. Barrington, which I don’t suspect it is, how, in the name of common sense, does it concern me? I don’t suppose I ever took my own letters at a post-office twice in my life. My servant, who has lived with me fourteen years, may, for aught I know, have been bribed to abstract these letters on their arrival; they would be easily recognized by the very superscription. This is one way the thing might have been done. There may have been fifty more, for aught I know or care.”

“But you don’t deny that you knew Edwardes, and had a close intimacy with him? – a circumstance which you never revealed to Withering or myself.”

“It is not at all improbable I may have known half a dozen of that name. It is by no means an uncommon one, not to say that I have a singularly infelicitous memory for people’s names. But for the last time, sir, I must protest against this conversation going any further. You have taken upon you, I would hope without intending it, the tone of a French Juge d’Instruction in the interrogation of a prisoner. You have questioned and cross-questioned me, asking how I can account for this, or explain that. Now, I am ready to concede a great deal to your position as my host, and to your years, but really I must entreat of you not to push my deference for these beyond the limits of the respect I owe myself. You very properly warned me at the opening of this conversation that it ought not to have the sanction of your roof-tree. I have only to beg that if it is to go any further, that it be conducted in such a shape as is usual between gentlemen who have an explanation to ask, or a satisfaction to demand.”

There was consummate craft in giving the discussion this turn. Stapylton well knew the nature of the man he was addressing, and that after the passing allusion to his character as a host, he only needed to hint at the possibility of a meeting to recall him to a degree of respect only short of deference for his opponent.

“I defer to you at once, Major Stapylton,” said the old man, with a bland courtesy, as he uncovered and bowed. “There was a time when I should scarcely have required the admonition you have given me.”

“I am glad to perceive that you understand me so readily,” said Stapylton, who could scarcely repress the joy he felt at the success of his diversion; “and that nothing may mar our future understanding, this is my address in London, where I shall wait your orders for a week.”

Though the stroke was shrewdly intended, and meant to throw upon Barrington all the onus of the provocation, the Major little suspected that it was the one solitary subject of which his opponent was a master. On the “duello” Barrington was an authority beyond appeal, and no subtlety, however well contrived, could embarrass or involve him.

“I have no satisfaction to claim at your hands, Major Stapylton,” said he, calmly. “My friend, Mr. Withering, when he sent me these letters, knew you were my guest, and he said, ‘Read them to Major Stapylton. Let him know what is said of him, and who says it.’”

“And, perhaps, you ought to add, sir, who gives it the sanction of his belief,” broke in Stapylton, angrily. “You never took the trouble to recite these charges till they obtained your credence.”

“You have said nothing to disprove them,” said the old man, quickly.

“That is enough, – quite enough, sir; we understand each other perfectly. You allege certain things against me as injuries done you, and you wait for me to resent the imputation. I ‘ll not balk you, be assured of it. The address I have given you in London will enable you to communicate with me when you arrive there; for I presume this matter had better be settled in France or Holland.”

“I think so,” said Barrington, with the air of a man thoroughly at his ease.

“I need not say, Mr. Barrington, the regret it gives me that it was not one of my detractors himself, and not their dupe, that should occupy this place.”

“The dupe, sir, is very much at your service.”

“Till we meet again,” said Stapylton, raising his hat as he turned away. In his haste and the confusion of the moment, he took the path that led towards the cottage; nor did he discover his mistake till he heard Barrington’s voice calling out to Darby, —

“Get the boat ready to take Major Stapylton to Inistioge.”

“You forget none of the precepts of hospitality,” said Stapylton, wheeling hastily around, and directing his steps towards the river.

Barrington looked after him as he went, and probably in his long and varied life, crossed with many a care and many troubles, he had never felt the pain of such severe self-reproach as in that moment. To see his guest, the man who had sat at his board and eaten his salt, going out into the dreary night without one hospitable effort to detain him, without a pledge to his health, without a warm shake of his hand, or one hearty wish for his return.

“Dear, dear!” muttered he, to himself, “what is the world come to! I thought I had no more experiences to learn of suffering; but here is a new one. Who would have thought to see the day that Peter Barrington would treat his guest this fashion?”

“Are you coming in to tea, grandpapa?” cried Josephine, from the garden.

“Here I am, my dear!”

“And your guest, Peter, what has become of him?” said Dinah.

“He had some very urgent business at Kilkenny; something that could not admit of delay, I opine.”

“But you have not let him go without his letters, surely. Here are all these formidable-looking despatches, on his Majesty’s service, on the chimney-piece.”

“How forgetful of me!” cried he, as, snatching them up, he hastened down to the river-side. The boat, however, had just gone; and although he shouted and called at the top of his voice, no answer came, and he turned back at last, vexed and disappointed.

“I shall have to start for Dublin to-morrow, Dinah,” said he, as he walked thoughtfully up and down the room. “I must have Withering’s advice on these letters. There are very pressing matters to be thought of here, and I can take Major Stapylton’s despatches with me. I am certain to hear of him somewhere.”

Miss Barrington turned her eyes full upon him, and watched him narrowly. She was a keen detector of motives, and she scanned her brother’s face with no common keenness, and yet she could see nothing beyond the preoccupation she had often seen. There was no impatience, no anxiety. A shade more thoughtful, perhaps, and even that passed off, as he sat down to his tea, and asked Fifine what commissions she had for the capital.

“You will leave by the evening mail, I suppose?” said Miss Barrington.

“No, Dinah, night travelling wearies me. I will take the coach as it passes the gate to-morrow at five; this will bring me in time to catch Withering at his late dinner, and a pleasanter way to finish a day’s travel no man need ask for.”

Nothing could be more easily spoken than these words, and Miss Dinah felt reassured by them, and left the room to give some orders about his journey.