Barrington. Volume 2

“Fifine, darling,” said Barrington, after a pause, “do you like your life here?”

“Of course I do, grandpapa. How could I wish for one more happy?”

“But it is somewhat dull for one so young, – somewhat solitary for a fair, bright creature, who might reasonably enough care for pleasure and the world.”

“To me it is a round of gayety, grandpapa; so that I almost felt inclined yesterday to wish for some quiet davs with aunt and yourself, – some of those dreamy days like what we had in Germany.”

“I fear me much, darling, that I contribute but little to the pleasure. My head is so full of one care or another, I am but sorry company, Fifine.”

“If you only knew how dull we are without you! How heavily the day drags on even with the occupations you take no share in; how we miss your steps on the stairs and your voice in the garden, and that merry laugh that sets ourselves a-laughing just by its own ring.”

“And you would miss me, then?” said he, as he pushed the hair from her temples, and stared steadfastly at her face, – “you would miss me?”

“It would only be half life without you,” cried she, passionately.

“So much the worse, – so much the worse!” muttered he; and he turned away, and drew his hand across his eyes. “This life of ours, Fifine, is a huge battle-field; and though the comrades fall fast around him, the brave soldier will fight on to the last.”

“You don’t want a dress-coat, brother Peter, to dine with Withering, so I have just put up what will serve you for three days, or four, at furthest,” said Dinah, entering. “What will be the extent of your stay?”

“Let me have a black coat, Dinah; there ‘s no saying what great man may not ask for my company; and it might be a week before I get back again.”

“There’s no necessity it should be anything of the kind, Peter; and with your habits an hotel life is scarcely an economy. Come, Fifine, get to bed, child. You’ll have to be up at daybreak. Your grandpapa won’t think his coffee drinkable, if it is not made by your hands.”

And with this remark, beautifully balanced between a reproof and a flattery, she proceeded to blow out the candles, which was her accustomed mode of sending her company to their rooms.

CHAPTER XV. THE OLD LEAVEN

Withering arrived at his own door just as Barrington drove up to it. “I knew my letter would bring you up to town, Barrington,” said he; “and I was so sure of it that I ordered a saddle of mutton for your dinner, and refused an invitation to the Chancellor’s.”

“And quite right too. Iam far better company, Tom. Are we to be all alone?”

“All alone.”

“That was exactly what I wanted. Now, as I need a long evening with you, the sooner they serve the soup the better; and be sure you give your orders that nobody be admitted.”

If Mr. Withering’s venerable butler, an official long versed in the mysteries of his office, were to have been questioned on the subject, it is not improbable he would have declared that he never assisted at a pleasanter tête-â tête than that day’s dinner. They enjoyed their good dinner and their good wine like men who bring to the enjoyment a ripe experience of such pleasures, and they talked with the rare zest of good talkers and old friends.

“We are in favor with Nicholas,” said Withering, as the butler withdrew, and left them alone, “or he would never have given us that bottle of port. Do you mark, Barrington, it’s the green seal that John Bushe begged so hard for one night, and all unsuccessfully.”

“It is rare stuff!” said Barrington, looking at it between him and the light.

“And it was that story of yours of the Kerry election that won it. The old fellow had to rush out of the room to have his laugh out.”

“Do you know, Tom,” said Barrington, as he sipped his wine, “I believe, in another generation, nobody will laugh at all. Since you and I were boys, the world has taken a very serious turn. Not that it is much wiser, or better, or more moral, or more cultivated, but it is graver. The old jollity would be now set down simply for vulgarity, and with many people a joke is only short of an insult.”

“Shall I tell you why, Peter? We got our reputation for wit, just as we made our name for manufacture, and there sprung up a mass of impostors in consequence, – fellows who made poor jokes and rotten calicoes, that so disgusted the world that people have gone to France for their fun, and to Germany for their furniture. That is, to my taking, the reason of all this social reaction.”

“Perhaps you are right, Tom. Old Joe Millers are not unlike cloth made out of devil’s dust. One can’t expect much wear out of either.”

“We must secure another bottle from that bin before Nicholas changes his mind,” said Withering, rising to ring the bell.

“No, Tom, not for me. I want all the calm and all the judgment I can muster, and don’t ask me to take more wine. I have much to say to you.”

“Of course you have. I knew well that packet of letters would bring you up to town; but you have had scarcely time to read them.”

“Very hurriedly, I confess. They reached me yesterday afternoon; and when I had run my eyes hastily over them, I said, ‘Stapylton must see this at once.’ The man was my guest, – he was under my roof, – there could not be a question about how to deal with him. He was out, however, when the packet reached my hands; and while the pony was being harnessed, I took another look over that letter from Colonel Hunter. It shocked me, Tom, I confess; because there flashed upon me quite suddenly the recollection of the promptitude with which the India Board at home here were provided with an answer to each demand we made. It was not merely that when we advanced a step they met us; but we could scarcely meditate a move that they were not in activity to repel it.”

“I saw that, too, and was struck by it,” said Withering.

“True enough, Tom. I remember a remark of yours one day. ‘These people,’ said you, ‘have our range so accurately, one would suspect they had stepped the ground.’” The lawyer smiled at the compliment to his acuteness, and the other went on: “As I read further, I thought Stapylton had been betrayed, – his correspondent in India had shown his letters. ‘Our enemies,’ said I, ‘have seen our despatches, and are playing with our cards on the table.’ No thought of distrust, – not a suspicion against his loyalty had ever crossed me till I met him. I came unexpectedly upon him, however, before the door, and there was a ring and resonance in his voice as I came up that startled me! Passion forgets to shut the door sometimes, and one can see in an angry mind what you never suspected in the calm one. I took him up at once, without suffering him to recover his composure, and read him a part of Hunter’s letter. He was ready enough with his reply; he knew the Moonshee by reputation as a man of the worst character, but had suffered him to address certain letters under cover to him, as a convenience to the person they were meant for, and who was no other than the son of the notorious Sam Edwardes. ‘Whom you have known all this while,’ said I, ‘without ever acknowledging to us?’

“‘Whom I did know some years back,’ replied he, ‘but never thought of connecting with the name of Colonel Barrington’s enemy.’ All this was possible enough, Tom; besides, his manner was frank and open in the extreme. It was only at last, as I dwelt, what he deemed too pertinaciously, on this point, that he suddenly lost control of himself, and said, ‘I will have no more of this’ – or, ‘This must go no further’ – or some words to that effect.”

“Ha! the probe had touched the sore spot, eh?” cried Withering. “Go on!”

“‘And if you desire further explanations from me, you must ask for them at the price men pay for inflicting unmerited insult.’”

“Cleverly turned, cleverly done,” said Withering; “but you were not to be deceived and drawn off by that feint, eh?”

“Feint or not, it succeeded, Tom. He made me feel that I had injured him; and as he would not accept of my excuses, – as, in fact, he did not give me time to make them – ”

“He got you into a quarrel, is n’t that the truth?” asked Withering, hotly.

“Come, come, Tom, be reasonable; he had perfect right on his side. There was what he felt as a very grave imputation upon him; that is, I had made a charge, and his explanation had not satisfied me, – or, at all events, I had not said I was satisfied, – and we each of us, I take it, were somewhat warmer than we need have been.”

“And you are going to meet him, – going to fight a duel?”

“Well, if I am, it will not be the first time.”

“And can you tell for what? Will you be able to make any man of common intelligence understand for what you are going out?”

“I hope so. I have the man in my eye. No, no, don’t make a wry face, Tom. It’s another old friend I was thinking of to help me through this affair, and I sincerely trust he will not be so hard to instruct as you imagine.”

“How old are you, Barrington?”

“Dinah says eighty-one; but I suspect she cheats me. I think I am eighty-three.”

“And is it at eighty-three that men fight duels?”

“’ Not if they can help it, Tom, certainly. I have never been out since I shot Tom Connelly in the knee, which was a matter of forty years ago, and I had good hopes it was to be my last exploit of this kind. But what is to be done if a man tells you that your age is your protection; that if it had not been for your white hairs and your shaking ankles, that he ‘d have resented your conduct or your words to him? Faith, I think it puts a fellow on his mettle to show that his heart is all right, though his hand may tremble.”

“I ‘ll not take any share in such a folly. I tell you, Barrington, the world for whom you are doing this will be the very first to scout its absurdity. Just remember for a moment we are not living in the old days before the Union, and we have not the right, if we had the power, to throw our age back into the barbarism it has escaped from.”

“Barbarism! The days of poor Yelverton, and Ponsonby, and Harry Grattan, and Parsons, and Ned Lysaght, barbarism! Ah! my dear Tom, I wish we had a few of such barbarians here now, and I ‘d ask for another bottle or two of that port.”

“I’ll not give it a milder word; and what’s more, I’ll not suffer you to tarnish a time-honored name by a folly which even a boy would be blamed for. My dear old friend, just grant me a little patience.”

“This is cool, certainly,” said Barrington, laughing. “You have said all manner of outrageous things to me for half an hour unopposed, and now you cry have patience.”