Barrington. Volume 2

No sooner had she learned that her nephew was to be accompanied by the gallant young soldier whose name was in every newspaper than she made what she deemed the most suitable preparations for his reception. Her bedroom was hung round with portraits of naval heroes, or pictures of sea-fights. Grim old admirals, telescope in hand, or with streaming hair, shouting out orders to board the enemy, were on every side; while, in the place of honor, over the fireplace, hung a vacant frame, destined one day to contain the hero of the hour, Tom Dill himself.

Never was a poor fellow in this world less suited to adulation of this sort. He was either overwhelmed with the flattery, or oppressed by a terror of what some sensible spectator – if such there were – would think of the absurd position in which he was forced to stand. And when he found himself obliged to inscribe his name in a long column of illustrious autographs, the sight of his own scarce legible characters filled up the measure of his shame.

“He writes like the great Turenne,” said Miss Dorothy; “he always wrote from above downwards, so that no other name than his own could figure on the page.”

“I got many a thrashing for it at school, ma’am,” said Tom, apologizing, “and so I gave up writing altogether.”

“Ah, yes! the men of action soon learn to despise the pen; they prefer to make history rather than record it.”

It was not easy for Hunter to steer his bashful friend through all the shoals and quicksands of such flattery; but, on the plea of his broken health and strength, he hurried him early to his bed, and returned to the fireside, where his aunt awaited him.

“He’s charming, if he were only not so diffident. Why will he not be more confiding, more at his ease with me, – like Mungo Park, or Sir Sidney Smith?”

“After a while, so he will, aunt. You ‘ll see what a change there will be in him at our next visit All these flatteries he meets with are too much for him; but when we come down again, you ‘ll see him without these distracting influences. Then bear in mind his anxieties, – he has not yet seen his family; he is eager to be at home again. I carried him off here positively in spite of himself, and on the strict pledge of only for one day.”

“One day! And do you mean that you are to go tomorrow?”

“No help for it, aunt. Tom is to be at Windsor on Saturday. But for that, he would already have been on his way to Ireland.”

“Then there’s no time to be lost. What can we do for him? He’snot rich?”

“Hasn’t a shilling; but would reject the very shadow of such assistance.”

“Not if a step were purchased for him; without his knowledge, I mean.”

“It would be impossible that he should not know it.”

“But surely there is some way of doing it A handsome sum to commemorate his achievement might be subscribed. I would begin it with a thousand pounds.”

“He’d not accept it. I know him thoroughly. There’s only one road to him through which he would not deem a favor a burden.”

“And what of that?”

“A kindness to his sister. I wish you saw her, aunt!”

“Is she like him?”

“Like him? Yes; but very much better-looking. She’s singularly handsome, and such a girl! so straightforward and so downright It is a positive luxury to meet her after all the tiresome conventionalities of the every-day young lady.”

“Shall I ask her here?”

“Oh, if you would, aunt! – if you only would!”

“That you may fall in love with her, I suppose?”

“No, aunt, that is done already.”

“I think, sir, I might have been apprised of this attachment!” said she, bridling.

“I didn’t know it myself, aunt, till I was close to the Cape. I thought it a mere fancy as we dropped down Channel; grew more thoughtful over it in the Bay of Biscay; began to believe it as we discovered St. Helena; and came back to England resolved to tell you the whole truth, and ask you, at least, to see her and know her.”

“So I will, then. I ‘ll write and invite her here.”

“You ‘re the best and kindest aunt in Christendom!” said he, rushing over and kissing her.

“I’m not going to let you read it, sir,” said she, with a smile. “If she show it to you, she may. Otherwise it is a matter between ourselves.”

“Be it entirely as you wish, aunt.”

“And if all this goes hopefully on,” said she, after a pause, “is Aunt Dorothea to be utterly forgotten? No more visits here, – no happy summer evenings, – no more merry Christmases?”

“Nay, aunt, I mean to be your neighbor. That cottage you have often offered me, near the rocks, I ‘ll not refuse it again, – that is, if you tempt me once more.”

“It is yours, and the farm along with it. Go to bed now, and leave me to write my note, which will require-some thought and reflection.”

“I know you ‘ll do it well. I know none who could equal you in such a task.”

“I ‘ll try and acquit myself with credit,” said she, as she sat down to the writing-desk.

“And what is all this about, – a letter from Miss Dorothea to Polly,” said Tom, as they drove along the road back to town. “Surely they never met?”

“Never; but my aunt intends that they shall. She writes to ask your sister to come on a visit here.”

“But why not have told her the thing was impossible? You know us. You have seen the humble way we live, – how many a care it costs to keep up that little show of respectability that gets us sufferance in the world, and how one little attempt beyond this is quite out of our reach. Why not have told her frankly, sir, ‘These people are not in our station’?”

“Just because I acknowledge no such distinction as you want to draw, my good fellow. If my aunt has asked your sister to come three hundred miles to see her, she has thought over her request with more foresight than you or I could have given it, take my word for it. When she means kindly, she plans thoughtfully. And now I will tell you what I never meant to have spoken of, that it was only last night she asked me how could she be of use to you?”

“To me!” said he, blushing, “and why to me?”

“Can you never be brought to see that you are a hero, Tom, – that all the world is talking of you just now, and people feel a pride in being even passingly mixed up with your name?”

“If they only knew how much I have to be ashamed of before I can begin to feel vain, they ‘d not be so ready with their praise or their flattery.”

“I ‘ll talk over all that with your sister Polly,” said Hunter, gayly; for he saw the serious spirit that was gaining over the poor fellow.

“Do so, sir; and you’ll soon see, if there’s anything good or hopeful about me, where it comes from and who gave it.”

CHAPTER XIX. FROM GENERAL CONYERS TO HIS SON

Beddwys, N. Wales

My dear Fred, – How happy I am that you are enjoying yourself; short of being with you, nothing could have given me greater pleasure than your letter. I like your portrait of the old lady, whose eccentricities are never inconsistent with some charming traits of disposition, and a nature eminently high-minded and honorable; but why not more about Josephine? She is surely oftener in your thoughts than your one brief paragraph would bespeak, and has her due share in making the cottage the delightful home you describe it to be. I entreat you to be more open and more explicit on this theme, for it may yet be many days before I can explore the matter for myself; since, instead of the brief absence I calculated on, we may, for aught I know, be detained here for some weeks.

It is clear to me, from your last, a note of mine from Liverpool to you must have miscarried. You ask me where you are to address me next, and what is the nature of the business which has called me away so suddenly? I gave you in that letter all the information that I was myself possessed of, and which, in three words, amounted to this: Old Barrington, having involved himself in a serious personal quarrel with Stapylton, felt, or believed, that he ought to give him a meeting. Seeing how useless all attempt at dissuasion proved, and greatly fearing what hands he might fall into, I agreed to be his friend on the occasion; trusting, besides, that by a little exercise of tact and temper, extreme measures might be avoided, and the affair arranged. You may well believe, without my insisting further upon it, that I felt very painfully how we should both figure before the world, – a man of eighty-three or four, accompanied to the ground by another of sixty-odd! I know well how, in the changed temper of the age, such acts are criticised, and acquiesce, besides, in the wiser spirit that now prevails. However, as I said before, if Barrington must go on, it were better he should do so under the guidance of a sincere friend than of one casually elevated to act as such, in a moment of emergency.

We left Dublin, by the mail-packet, on Wednesday; and after a rough passage of twenty-three hours, reached Liverpool too late to catch the evening coach. Thus detained, we only arrived here on Sunday night late. At my club I found a note from Stapylton, stating that he had daily called there to learn if we had come, but the boisterous state of the weather sufficiently explained our delay, and giving an address where he might be found, as well as that of “his friend.” Now, it so chanced that this friend was a very notorious person well known to me in India, where he had been tried for an unfair duel, and narrowly escaped – I should say unjustly escaped – being hanged. Though I had fully made up my mind not to be placed in any relations with such a man, I thought it would be as well that Barrington should know the character of his antagonist’s friend from other sources, and so I invited an old Bengal companion of mine to dine with us the day after we arrived. Stamer was a judge of the criminal court, and tried Duff Brown, the man I speak of. As we sat over our wine together, we got upon this case, and Stamer declared that it was the only criminal cause in his whole life wherein he regretted the escape of the guilty party. “The fellow,” said he, “defended himself in a three hours’ speech, ably and powerfully; but enunciated at times – as it were unconsciously – sentiments so abominable and so atrocious as to destroy the sympathy a part of his discourse excited. But somehow boldness has its fascination, and he was acquitted.”

Barrington’s old-fashioned notions were not, however, to be shocked even by this narrative, and he whispered to me, “Unpleasant for you, Conyers. Wish it might have been otherwise, but it can’t be helped.” We next turned to discuss Duff Brown’s friend, and Stamer exclaimed, “Why, that’s the man they have been making all this fuss about in India. He was, or he said he was, the adopted son of Howard Stapylton; but the family never believed the adoption, nor consented to receive him, and at this moment a Moonshee, who acted as Persian secretary to old Stapylton, has turned up with some curious disclosures, which, if true, would show that this young fellow held a very humble position in Stapylton’s household, and never was in his confidence. This Moonshee was at Malta a few weeks ago, and may be, for aught I know, in England now.”