Barrington. Volume 2

“Yes. It was there he wrote some of his best poems. I knew the room well he lived in.”

“How I would like to see it!” cried the other.

“You are an admirer of Parnell, then?” said Barrington, with a smile of courteous meaning.

“I will own to you, sir, it was less of Parnell I was thinking than of a dear friend who once talked to me of that cottage. He had lived there, and cherished the memory of that life when far away from it; and so well had he described every walk and path around it, each winding of the river, and every shady nook, that I had hoped to recognize it without a guide.”

“Ah, it is sadly changed of late. Your friend had not probably seen it for some years?”

“Let me see. It was in a memorable year he told me he lived there, – when some great demonstration was made by the Irish volunteers, with the Bishop of Down at their head. The Bishop dined there on that day.”

“The Earl of Bristol dined that day with me, there,” said Barrington, pointing to the cottage.

“May I ask with whom I have the honor to speak, sir?” said the stranger, bowing.

“Was it George Barrington told you this?” said the old man, trembling with eagerness: “was it he who lived here? I may ask, sir, for I am his father!”

“And I am Ormsby Conyers,” said the other; and his face became pale, and his knees trembled as he said it.

“Give me your hand, Conyers,” cried Barrington, – “the hand that my dear boy has so often pressed in friendship. I know all that you were to each other, all that you would be to his memory.”

“Can you forgive me?” said Conyers.

“I have, for many a year. I forgave you when I thought you had been his enemy. I now know you had only been your own to sacrifice such love, such affection as he bore you.”

“I never loved him more than I have hated myself for my conduct towards him.”

“Let us talk of George, – he loved us both,” said Barrington, who still held Conyers by the hand. “It is a theme none but yourself can rival me in interest for.”

It was not easy for Conyers to attain that calm which could enable him to answer the other’s questions; but by degrees he grew to talk freely, assisted a good deal by the likeness of the old man to his son, – a resemblance in manner even as much as look, – and thus, before they reached town again, they had become like familiar friends.

Barrington could never hear enough of George; even of the incidents he had heard of by letter, he liked to listen to the details again, and to mark how all the traits of that dear boy had been appreciated by others.

“I must keep you my prisoner,” said Barrington, as they gained the door of his hotel. “The thirst I have is not easily slaked; remember that for more than thirty years I have had none to talk to me of my boy! I know all about your appointment with Withering; he was to have brought you here this morning to see me, and my old friend will rejoice when he comes and finds us here together.”

“He was certain you would come up to town,” said Conyers, “when you got his letters. You would see at once that there were matters which should be promptly dealt with; and he said, ‘Barrington will be my guest at dinner to-morrow.’”

“Eh? – how? – what was it all about? George has driven all else out of my head, and I declare to you that I have not the very vaguest recollection of what Wither-ing’s letters contained. Wait a moment; a light is breaking on me. I do remember something of it all now. To be sure! What a head I have! It was all about Stapylton. By the way, General, how you would have laughed had you heard the dressing Withering gave me last night, when I told him I was going to give Stapylton a meeting.”

“A hostile meeting?”

“Well, if you like to give it that new-fangled name, General, which I assure you was not in vogue when I was a young man. Withering rated me soundly for the notion, reminded me of my white hairs and such other disqualifications, and asked me indignantly, ‘What the world would say when they came to hear of it?’ ‘What would the world say if they heard I declined it, Tom?’ was my answer. Would they not exclaim, ‘Here is one of that fire-eating school who are always rebuking us for our laxity in matters of honor; look at him and say, are these the principles of his sect?’”

Conyers shook his head dissentingly, and smiled.

“No, no!” said Barrington, replying to the other’s look, “you are just of my own mind! A man who believes you to have injured him claims reparation as a matter of right. I could not say to Stapylton, ‘I will not meet you!’”

“I did say so, and that within a fortnight.”

“You said so, and under what provocation?”

“He grossly insulted my son, who was his subaltern; he outraged him by offensive language, and he dared even to impugn his personal courage. It was in one of those late riots where the military were called out; and my boy, intrusted with the duty of dispersing an assemblage, stopped to remonstrate where he might have charged, and actually relieved the misery he had his orders to have trampled under the feet of his squadron. Major Stapylton could have reprimanded, he might have court-martialled him; he had no right to attempt to dishonor him. My son left the service, – I made him leave on the spot, – and we went over to France to meet this man. I sent for Proctor to be my boy’s friend, and my letter found him at Sir Gilbert Stapylton’s, at Hollowcliffe. To explain his hurried departure, Proctor told what called him away. ‘And will you suffer your friend to meet that adventurer,’ said Sir Gilbert, ‘who stole my nephew’s name if he did not steal more?’ To be brief, he told that this fellow had lived with Colonel Howard Stapylton, British Resident at Ghurtnapore, as a sort of humble private secretary. ‘In the cholera that swept the district Howard died, and although his will, deposited at Calcutta, contained several legacies, the effects to redeem them were not to be discovered. Meanwhile this young fellow assumed the name of Stapylton, gave himself out for his heir, and even threatened to litigate some landed property in England with Howard’s brother. An intimation that if he dared to put his menace in action a full inquiry into his conduct should be made, stopped him, and we heard no more of him, – at least, for a great many years. When an old Madras friend of Howard’s who came down to spend his Christmas, said, “Who do you think I saw in town last week, but that young scamp Howard used to call his Kitmagar, and who goes by the name of Stapylton?” we were so indignant at first that we resolved on all manner of exposures; but learning that he had the reputation of a good officer, and had actually distinguished himself at Waterloo, we relented. Since that, other things have come to our knowledge to make us repent our lenity. In fact, he is an adventurer in its very worst sense, and has traded upon a certain amount of personal courage to cover a character of downright ignominy.’ Proctor, on hearing all this, recalled me to England; and declared that he had traced enough to this man’s charge to show he was one whom no gentleman could meet. It would appear that some recent discoveries had been made about him at the Horse Guards also; for when Proctor asked for a certain piece of information from one of his friends in office there, he heard, for answer, ‘We hope to know that, and more, in a day or two.’”

“Do you know that I ‘m sorry for it, – heartily sorry?” said Barrington. “The fellow had that stamp of manliness about him that would seem the pledge of a bold, straightforward nature.”

“I have a high value for courage, but it won’t do everything.”

“More ‘s the pity, for it renders all that it aids of tenfold more worth.”

“And on the back of all this discovery comes Hunter’s letter, which Withering has sent you, to show that this Stapylton has for years back been supplying the Indian Directors with materials to oppose your claims.”

“Nothing ever puzzled us so much as the way every weak point of our case was at once seized upon, and every doubt we ourselves entertained exaggerated into an impassable barrier. Withering long suspected that some secret enemy was at work within our own lines, and repeatedly said that we were sold. The difficulty is, why this man should once have been our enemy, and now should strive so eagerly to be not alone our friend, but one of us. You have heard he proposed for my granddaughter?”

“Fred suspected his intentions in that quarter, but we were not certain of them.”

“And it is time I should ask after your noble-hearted boy. How is he, and where?”

“He is here, at my hotel, impatiently waiting your permission to go down to ‘The Home.’ He has a question to ask there, whose answer will be his destiny.”

“Has Josephine turned another head then?” said Barring-ton, laughing.

“She has won a very honest heart; as true and as honorable a nature as ever lived,” said Conyers, with emotion. “Your granddaughter does not know, nor needs ever to know, the wrong I have done her father; and if you have forgiven me, you will not remember it against my boy.”

“But what do you yourself say to all this? You have never seen the girl?”

“Fred has.”

“You know nothing about her tastes, her temper, her bringing up.”

“Fred does.”

“Nor are you aware that the claim we have so long relied on is almost certain to be disallowed. I have scarcely a hope now remaining with regard to it.”

“I have more than I need; and if Fred will let me have a bungalow in his garden, I’ll make it all over to him tomorrow.”

“It is then with your entire consent he would make this offer?”

“With my whole heart in it! I shall never feel I have repaired the injury I have done George Barrington till I have called his daughter my own.”

Old Barrington arose, and walked up and down with slow and measured steps. At last he halted directly in front of General Conyers, and said, —

“If you will do me one kindness, I will agree to everything. What am I saying? I agree already; and I would not make a bargain of my consent; but you will not refuse me a favor?”

“Ask me anything, and I promise it on the faith of a gentleman.”

“It is this, then; that you will stand by me in this affair of Stapylton’s. I have gone too far for subtleties or niceties. It is no question of who was his father, or what was his own bringing up. I have told him I should be at his orders, and don’t let me break my word.”

“If you choose me for your friend, Barrington, you must not dictate how I am to act for you.”