Barrington. Volume 2

“If you go off again with your figures of speech, Dinah, there is an end of me, for I have one of those unhappy memories that retain the illustration and forget what it typified. Besides this, here is a man who, out of pure good nature and respect for poor George’s memory, has been doing us most important services, written letters innumerable, and taken the most active measures for our benefit. What sort of a figure shall I present if I bring him to book about his rental and the state of his bank account?”

“With the exercise of a little tact, Barrington, – a little management – ”

“Ask a man with a club-foot to walk gingerly! I have no more notion of getting at anything by address than I have of tying the femoral artery.”

“The more blunt the better, Peter Barrington. You may tumble into the truth, though you’d never pick your way into it. Meanwhile, leave me to deal with Major M’Cor-mick.”

“You’ll do it courteously, Dinah; you’ll bear in mind that he is a neighbor of some twenty years’ standing?” said Barrington, in a voice of anxiety.

“I ‘ll do it in a manner that shall satisfy my conscience and his presumption.”

She seated herself at the table as she said this, and dashed off a few hasty lines. Indeed, so hurried was the action, that it looked far more like one of those instances of correspondence we see on the stage than an event of real life.

“Will that do?” said she, showing the lines to Withering.

The old lawyer read them over to himself, a faint twitching of the mouth being the only sign his face presented of any emotion. “I should say admirably, – nothing better.”

“May I see it, Dinah?” asked Peter.

“You shall hear it, brother,” said she, taking the paper and reading, —

“‘Miss Barrington informs Mr. Kinshela that if he does not at once retract his epistle of this morning’s date, she will place it in the hands of her legal adviser, and proceed against it as a threatening letter.’”

“Oh, sister, you will not send this?”

“As sure as my name is Dinah Barrington.”

CHAPTER VI. AN EXPRESS

In the times before telegraphs, – and it is of such I am writing, – a hurried express was a far more stirring event than in these our days of incessant oracles. While, therefore, Barrington and his sister and Withering sat in deep consultation on Josephine’s fate and future, a hasty summons arrived from Dublin, requiring the instantaneous departure of Stapylton, whose regiment was urgently needed in the north of England, at that time agitated by those disturbances called the Bread Riots. They were very formidable troubles, and when we look back upon them now, with the light which the great events of later years on the Continent afford us, seem more terrible still. It was the fashion, however, then, to treat them lightly, and talk of them contemptuously; and as Stapylton was eating a hasty luncheon before departure, he sneered at the rabble, and scoffed at the insolent pretension of their demands. Neither Barrington nor Withering sympathized with the spirit of the revolt, and yet each felt shocked at the tone of haughty contempt Stapylton assumed towards the people. “You’ll see,” cried he, rising, “how a couple of brisk charges from our fellows will do more to bring these rascals to reason than all the fine pledges of your Parliament folk; and I promise you, for my own part, if I chance upon one of their leaders, I mean to lay my mark on him.”

“I fear, sir, it is your instinctive dislike to the plebeian that moves you here,” said Miss Dinah. “You will not entertain the question whether these people may not have some wrongs to complain of.”

“Perhaps so, madam,” said he; and his swarthy face grew darker as he spoke. “I suppose this is the case where the blood of a gentleman boils indignantly at the challenge of the canaille.”

“I will not have a French word applied to our own people, sir,” said she, angrily.

“Well said,” chimed in Withering. “It is wonderful how a phrase can seem to carry an argument along with it.”

And old Peter smiled, and nodded his concurrence with this speech.

“What a sad minority do I stand in!” said Stapylton, with an effort to smile very far from successful. “Will not Miss Josephine Barrington have generosity enough to aid the weaker side?”

“Not if it be the worst cause,” interposed Dinah. “My niece needs not to be told she must be just before she is generous.”

“Then it is to your own generosity I will appeal,” said Stapylton, turning to her; “and I will ask you to ascribe some, at least, of my bitterness to the sorrow I feel at being thus summoned away. Believe me it is no light matter to leave this place and its company.”

“But only for a season, and a very brief season too, I trust,” said Barrington. “You are going away in our debt, remember.”

“It is a loser’s privilege, all the world over, to withdraw when he has lost enough,” said Stapylton, with a sad smile towards Miss Dinah; and though the speech was made in the hope it might elicit a contradiction, none came, and a very awkward silence ensued.

“You will reach Dublin to-night, I suppose?” said Withering, to relieve the painful pause in the conversation.

“It will be late, – after midnight, perhaps.”

“And embark the next morning?”

“Two of our squadrons have sailed already; the others will, of course, follow to-morrow.”

“And young Conyers,” broke in Miss Dinah, – “he will, I suppose, accompany this – what shall I call it? – this raid?”

“Yes, madam. Am I to convey to him your compliments upon the first opportunity to flesh his maiden sword?”

“You are to do nothing of the kind, sir; but tell him from me not to forget that the angry passions of a starving multitude are not to be confounded with the vindictive hate of our natural enemies.”

“Natural enemies, my dear Miss Barrington! I hope you cannot mean that there exists anything so monstrous in humanity as a natural enemy?”

“I do, sir; and I mean all those whose jealousy of us ripens into hatred, and who would spill their heart’s blood to see us humbled. When there exists a people like this, and who at every fresh outbreak of a war with us have carried into the new contest all the bitter animosities of long past struggles as debts to be liquidated, I call these natural enemies; and, if you prefer a shorter word for it, I call them Frenchmen.”

“Dinah, Dinah!”

“Peter, Peter! don’t interrupt me. Major Stapylton has thought to tax me with a blunder, but I accept it as a boast!”

“Madam, I am proud to be vanquished by you,” said Stapylton, bowing low.

“And I trust, sir,” said she, continuing her speech, and as if heedless of his interruption, “that no similarity of name will make you behave at Peterloo – if that be the name – as though you were at Waterloo.”

“Upon my life!” cried he, with a saucy laugh, “I don’t know how I am to win your good opinion, except it be by tearing off my epaulettes, and putting myself at the head of the mob.”

“You know very little of my sister, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, “or you would scarcely have selected that mode of cultivating her favor.”

“There is a popular belief that ladies always side with the winning cause,” said Stapylton, affecting a light and easy manner; “so I must do my best to be successful. May I hope I carry your good wishes away with me?” said he, in a lower tone to Josephine.

“I hope that nobody will hurt you, and you hurt nobody,” said she, laughingly.

“And this, I take it, is about as much sympathy as ever attends a man on such a campaign. Mr. Barrington, will you grant me two minutes of conversation in your own room?” And, with a bow of acquiescence, Barrington led the way to his study.

“I ought to have anticipated your request, Major Stapyl-ton,” said Barrington, when they found themselves alone. “I owe you a reply to your letter, but the simple fact is, I do not know what answer to give it; for while most sensible of the honor you intend us, I feel still there is much to be explained on both sides. We know scarcely anything of each other, and though I am conscious of the generosity which prompts a man with your prospects and in your position to ally himself with persons in ours, yet I owe it to myself to say, it hangs upon a contingency to restore us to wealth and station. Even a portion of what I claim from the East India Company would make my granddaughter one of the richest heiresses in England.”

Stapylton gave a cold, a very cold smile, in reply to this speech. It might mean that he was incredulous or indifferent, or it might imply that the issue was one which need not have been introduced into the case at all. Whatever its signification, Barrington felt hurt by it, and hastily said, —

“Not that I have any need to trouble you with these details: it is rather my province to ask for information regarding your circumstances than to enter upon a discussion of ours.”

“I am quite ready to give you the very fullest and clearest, – I mean to yourself personally, or to your sister; for, except where the lawyer intervenes of necessity and de droit, I own that I resent his presence as an insult. I suppose few of us are devoid of certain family circumstances which it would be more agreeable to deal with in confidence; and though, perhaps, I am as fortunate as most men in this respect, there are one or two small matters on which I would ask your attention. These, however, are neither important nor pressing. My first care is to know, – and I hope I am not peremptory in asking it, – have I your consent to the proposition contained in my letter; am I at liberty to address Miss Barrington?”

Barrington flushed deeply and fidgeted; he arose and sat down again, – all his excitement only aggravated by the well-bred composure of the other, who seemed utterly unconscious of the uneasiness he was causing.

“Don’t you think, Major, that this is a case for a little time to reflect, – that in a matter so momentous as this, a few days at least are requisite for consideration? We ought to ascertain something at least of my granddaughter’s own sentiments, – I mean, of course, in a general way. It might be, too, that a day or two might give us some better insight into her future prospects.”