Barrington. Volume 2

“It was n’t paid for! No, nor will it ever be!”

“You amaze me, Major. My impression was that our friend here was, without being rich, in very comfortable circumstances; able to live handsomely, while he carried on a somewhat costly suit.”

“That ‘s the greatest folly of all,” broke out M’Cormick; “and it’s to get money for that now that he’s going to mortgage this place here, – ay, the very ground under our feet!” And this he said with a sort of tremulous indignation, as though the atrocity bore especially hard upon them. “Kinshela, the attorney from Kilkenny, was up with me about it yesterday. ‘It’s an elegant investment, Major,’ says he, ‘and you ‘re very likely to get the place into your hands for all the chance old Peter has of paying off the charge. His heart is in that suit, and he ‘ll not stop as long as he has a guinea to go on with it.’

“I said, ‘I ‘d think of it: I ‘d turn it over in my mind;’ for there’s various ways of looking at it.”

“I fancy I apprehend one of them,” said Stapylton, with a half-jocular glance at his companion. “You have been reflecting over another investment, eh? Am I not right? I remarked you at dinner. I saw how the young brunette had struck you, and I said to myself, ‘She has made a conquest already!’”

“Not a bit of it; nothing of the kind,” said M’Cormick, awkwardly. “I ‘m too ‘cute to be caught that way.”

“Yes, but remember it might be a very good catch. I don’t speak of the suit, because I agree with you, the chances in that direction are very small, indeed, and I cannot understand the hopeful feeling with which he prosecutes it; but she is a fine, handsome girl, very attractive in manner, and equal to any station.”

“And what’s the good of all that to me? Wouldn’t it be better if she could make a pease-pudding, like Polly Dill, or know how to fatten a turkey, or salt down a side of bacon?”

“I don’t think so; I declare, I don’t think so,” said Stapylton, as he lighted a fresh cigar. “These are household cares, and to be bought with money, and not expensively, either. What a man like you or I wants is one who should give a sort of tone, – impart a degree of elegance to his daily life. We old bachelors grow into self-indulgence, which is only another name for barbarism. With a mistaken idea of comfort we neglect scores of little observances which constitute the small currency of civilization, and without which all intercourse is unpleasing and ungraceful.”

“I’m not quite sure that I understand you aright, but there’s one thing I know, I ‘d think twice of it before I ‘d ask that young woman to be Mrs. M’Cormick. And, besides,” added he, with a sly side-look, “if it’s so good a thing, why don’t you think of it for yourself?”

“I need not tell an old soldier like you that full pay and a wife are incompatible. Every wise man’s experience shows it; and when a fellow goes to the bishop for a license, he should send in his papers to the Horse Guards. Now, I ‘m too poor to give up my career. I have not, like you, a charming cottage on a river’s bank, and a swelling lawn dotted over with my own sheep before my door. I cannot put off the harness.”

“Who talks of putting off the harness?” cried Withering, gayly, as he joined them. “Who ever dreamed of doing anything so ill-judging and so mistaken? Why, if it were only to hide the spots where the collar has galled you, you ought to wear the trappings to the last. No man ever knew how to idle, who had n’t passed all his life at it! Some go so far as to say that for real success a man’s father and grandfather should have been idlers before him. But have you seen Barrington? He has been looking for you all over the grounds.”

“No,” said Stapylton; “my old brother-officer and myself got into pipeclay and barrack talk, and strolled away down here unconsciously.”

“Well, we ‘d better not be late for tea,” broke in the Major, “or we ‘ll hear of it from Miss Dinah!” And there was something so comic in the seriousness of his tone, that they laughed heartily as they turned towards the house.

CHAPTER IV. A MOVE IN ADVANCE

How pleasantly did the next day break on the “Home”! Polly Dill arrived in the best of possible spirits. A few lines from Tom had just reached them. They were written at sea; but the poor fellow’s notions of latitude and longitude were so confused that it was not easy to say from whence. They were cheery, however, he was in good health, his comrades were kind-hearted creatures, and evidently recognized in him one of a station above their own. He said that he could have been appointed hospital sergeant-if he liked, but that whatever reminded him of his old calling was so distasteful that he preferred remaining as he was, the rather as he was given to believe he should soon be a corporal.

“Not that I mean to stop there, Polly; and now that I have n’t got to study for it, I feel a courage as to the future I never knew before. Give my love to Mr. Conyers, and say that I ‘m never tired of thinking over the last night I saw him, and of all his good nature to me, and that I hope I ‘ll see his father some day or other to thank him. I suppose father does n’t miss me? I ‘m sure mother does n’t; and it ‘s only yourself, Polly, will ever feel a heavy heart for the poor castaway! But cheer up! for as sure as my name is Tom, I ‘ll not bring discredit on you, and you ‘ll not be ashamed to take my arm down the main street when we meet. I must close now, for the boat is going.

“P. S. I dreamed last night you rode Sid Davis’s brown mare over the Millrace at Graigue. Would n’t it be strange if it came true? I wish I could know it.”

“May I show this to my friend here, Polly?” said Barrington, pointing to Withering. “It’s a letter he ‘d like to read; and as she nodded assent, he handed it across the breakfast-table.

“What is your brother’s regiment, Miss Dill?” said Stapylton, who had just caught a stray word or two of what passed.

“The Forty-ninth.”

“The Forty-ninth,” said he, repeating the words once or twice. “Let me see, – don’t I know some Forty-ninth men? To be sure I do. There’s Rep ton and Hare. Your brother will be delighted with Hare.”

“My brother is in the ranks, Major Stapylton,” said she, flushing a deep scarlet; and Barrington quickly interposed, —

“It was the wild frolic of a young man to escape a profession he had no mind for.”

“But in foreign armies every one does it,” broke in Stapylton, hurriedly. “No matter what a man’s rank may be, he must carry the musket; and I own I like the practice, – if for nothing else for that fine spirit of camaraderie which it engenders.”

Fifine’s eyes sparkled with pleasure at what she deemed the well-bred readiness of this speech, while Polly became deadly pale, and seemed with difficulty to repress the repartee that rose to her mind. Not so Miss Dinah, who promptly said, “No foreign customs can palliate a breach of our habits. We are English, and we don’t desire to be Frenchmen or Germans.”

“Might we not occasionally borrow from our neighbors with advantage?” asked Stapylton, blandly.

“I agree with Miss Barrington,” said Withering, – “I agree with Miss Barrington, whose very prejudices are always right. An army formed by a conscription which exempts no man is on a totally different footing from one derived from voluntary enlistment.”

“A practice that some say should be reserved for marriage,” said Barrington, whose happy tact it was to relieve a discussion by a ready joke.

They arose from table soon after, – Polly to accompany Miss Barrington over the garden and the shrubberies, and show all that had been done in their absence, and all that she yet intended to do, if approved of; Withering adjourned to Barrington’s study to pore over parchments; and Stapylton, after vainly seeking to find Josephine in the drawing-room, the flower-garden, or the lawn, betook himself with a book, the first he could find on the table, to the river’s side, and lay down, less to read than to meditate and reflect.

A breezy morning of a fine day in early autumn, with slow sailing clouds above and a flickering sunlight on the grass below, besides a rippling river, whose banks are glowing with blue and purple heath-bells, – all these and a Waverley novel were not enough to distract Stapylton from the cares that pressed upon his mind; for so it is, look where we may on those whom Fortune would seem to have made her especial favorites, and we shall find some unsatisfied ambition, some craving wish doomed to disappointment, some hope deferred till the heart that held it has ceased to care for its accomplishment. To the world’s eyes, here was a man eminently fortunate: already high up in the service, with health, vigor, and good looks, a reputation established for personal gallantry in the field, and an amount of capacity that had already won for him more than one distinction, and yet all these, great and solid advantages as they are, were not sufficient to give the ease of mind we call happiness.

He had debts, some of them heavy debts, but these sat lightly on him. He was one of those men creditors never crush, some secret consciousness seeming to whisper that, however ill the world may go with them for a while, in the long run they must triumph; and thus Mr. Hirman Davis, to whom he owed thousands, would have cashed him another bill to-morrow, all on the faith of that future which Stapylton talked about with the careless confidence of a mind assured.

He had enemies, too, – powerful and determined enemies, – who opposed his advancement for many a year, and were still adverse to him; but, like the creditors, they felt he was not a man to be crushed, and so he and his ill-wishers smiled blandly when they met, exchanged the most cordial greetings, and even imparted little confidences of their several fortunes with all that well-bred duplicity which so simulates friendship.

He had been crossed, – no, not in love, but in his ambition to marry one greatly above him in station; but her subsequent marriage had been so unfortunate that he felt in part recompensed for the slight she passed upon him; so that, taking it all and all, fate had never been cruel to him without a compensation.

There are men who feel their whole existence to be a hand-to-hand struggle with the world, who regard the world as an adversary to be worsted, and all whose efforts are devoted to reach that point upon which they can turn round and say, “You see that I have won the game. I was unknown, and I am famous; I was poor, and I am rich; I was passed over and ignored, and now the very highest are proud to recognize me!” Stapylton was one of these. All the egotism of his nature took this form, and it was far more in a spirit against his fellows than in any indulgence of himself he fought and struggled with Fortune. Intrusted by Withering with much of the secret history of Barring-ton’s claim against the India Company, he had learned considerably more through inquiries instituted by himself, and at length arrived at the conclusion that if old Barring-ton could be persuaded to limit his demands within moderate bounds, and not insist upon the details of that personal reparation which he assumed so essential to his son’s honor, a very ample recompense would not be refused him. It was to induce Barrington to take this course Stapylton had consented to come down with Withering, – so, at least, he said, and so Withering believed. Old lawyer that he was, with a hundred instincts of distrust about him, he had conceived a real liking for Stapylton, and a great confidence in his judgment. “We shall have to divide our labors here, Major,” said he, as they travelled along together; “I will leave the ladies to your care. Barrington shall be mine.” A very brief acquaintance with Miss Dinah satisfied Stapylton that she was one to require nice treatment, and what he called “a very light hand.” The two or three little baits he had thrown out took nothing; the stray bits of sentimentality, or chance scraps of high-toned principle he had addressed to her, had failed. It was only when he had with some sharpness hit off some small meanness in M’Cormick’s nature that she had even vouchsafed him so much as a half-smile of approval, and he saw that even then she watched him closely.

“No,” said he, half aloud to himself, “that old woman is not one easily to be dealt with; and the younger one, too, would have a will of her own if she had but the way to use it. If Polly had been in her place, – the clever, quickwitted Polly, – she would have gone with me in my plans, associated herself in all my projects, and assured their success. Oh for a good colleague just to keep the boat’s head straight when one is weary of rowing!”

“Would I do?” said a low voice near. And, on looking up, he saw Josephine standing over him, with an arch smile on her face as though she had surprised him in a confession.

“How long have you been there?” asked he, hurriedly.

“A few seconds.‘’

“And what have you heard me say?”

“That you wanted a colleague, or a companion of some sort; and as I was the only useless person here, I offered myself.”

“In good faith?”

“In good faith! – why not? I am more likely to gain by the association than you are; at least, if you can only be as pleasant of a morning as you were yesterday at dinner.”

“I ‘ll try,” said he, springing to his feet; “and as a success in these efforts is mainly owing to the amount of zeal that animates them, I am hopeful.”

“Which means a flattery at the outset,” said she, smiling.

“Only as much as your friend Mr. Withering would throw out to dispose the court in his favor; and now, which way shall we walk? Are you to be the guide, or I?”

“You, by all means, since you know nothing of the locality.”

“Agreed. Well, here is my plan. We cross the river in this boat, and take that path yonder that leads up by the waterfall. I know, from the dark shadow of the mountain, that there is a deep glen, very wild, very romantic, and very solemn, through which I mean to conduct you.”

“All this means a very long excursion, does it not?”

“You have just told me that you were free from all engagement.”