Kitabı oku: «Barrington. Volume 1», sayfa 10
The Rajah, however, saw that if he had a grasping Government on one side, he had an insolent and rebellious army on the other. There was not much to choose between them, but he took the side that he thought the least bad, and left the rest to Fate.
Having failed with the Rajah, Edwardes tried what he could do with Barrington; and certainly, if but a tithe of what he told him were true, the most natural thing in the world would have been that he should give up his appointment, and quit forever a land so hopelessly sunk in vice and corruption. Cunning and crafty as he was, however, he made one mistake, and that an irreparable one. When dilating on the insubordination of the army, its lawless ways and libertine habits, he declared that nothing short of a superior force in the field could have any chance of enforcing discipline. “As to a command,” said he, “it is simply ludicrous. Let any man try it and they will cut him down in the very midst of his staff.”
That unlucky speech decided the question; and Barring-ton simply said, —
“I have heard plenty of this sort of thing in India; I never saw it, – I ‘ll stay.”
Stay he did; and he did more: he reformed that rabble, and made of them a splendid force, able, disciplined, and obedient. With the influence of his success, added to that derived from the confidence reposed in him by the Rajah, he introduced many and beneficial changes into the administration; he punished peculators by military law, and brought knavish sutlers to the drum-head. In fact, by the exercise of a salutary despotism, he rescued the state from an impending bankruptcy and ruin, placed its finances in a healthy condition, and rendered the country a model of prosperity and contentment. The Rajah had, like most of his rank and class, been in litigation, occasionally in armed contention, with some of his neighbors, – one especially, an uncle, whom he accused of having robbed him, when his guardian, of a large share of his heritage. This suit had gone on for years, varied at times by little raids into each other’s territories, to burn villages and carry away cattle. Though with a force more than sufficient to have carried the question with a strong hand, Barrington preferred the more civilized mode of leaving the matter in dispute to others, and suggested the Company as arbitrator. The negotiations led to a lengthy correspondence, in which Edwardes and his son, a youth of seventeen or eighteen, were actively occupied; and although Barrington was not without certain misgivings as to their trustworthiness and honesty, he knew their capacity, and had not, besides, any one at all capable of replacing them. While these affairs were yet pending, Barrington married the daughter of the Meer, a young girl whose mother had been a convert to Christianity, and who had herself been educated by a Catholic missionary. She died in the second year of her marriage, giving birth to a daughter; but Barrington had now become so completely the centre of all action in the state, that the Rajah interfered in nothing, leaving in his hands the undisputed control of the Government; nay, more, he made him his son by adoption, leaving to him not alone all his immense personal property, but the inheritance to his throne. Though Barrington was advised by all the great legal authorities he consulted in England that such a bequest could not be good in law, nor a British subject be permitted to succeed to the rights of an Eastern sovereignty, he obstinately declared that the point was yet untried; that, however theoretically the opinion might be correct, practically the question had not been determined, nor had any case yet occurred to rule as a precedent on it. If he was not much of a lawyer, he was of a temperament that could not brook opposition. In fact, to make him take any particular road in life, you had only to erect a barricade on it. When, therefore, he was told the matter could not be, his answer was, “It shall!” Calcutta lawyers, men deep in knowledge of Oriental law and custom, learned Moonshees and Pundits, were despatched by him at enormous cost, to England, to confer with the great authorities at home. Agents were sent over to procure the influence of great Parliamentary speakers and the leaders in the press to the cause. For a matter which, in the beginning, he cared scarcely anything, if at all, he had now grown to feel the most intense and absorbing interest. Half persuading himself that the personal question was less to him than the great privilege and right of an Englishman, he declared that he would rather die a beggar in the defence of the cause than abandon it. So possessed was he, indeed, of his rights, and so resolved to maintain them, supported by a firm belief that they would and must be ultimately conceded to him, that in the correspondence with the other chiefs every reference which spoke of the future sovereignty of Luckerabad included his own name and title, and this with an ostentation quite Oriental.
Whether Edwardes had been less warm and energetic in the cause than Barrington expected, or whether his counsels were less palatable, certain it is he grew daily more and more distrustful of him; but an event soon occurred to make this suspicion a certainty.
The negotiations between the Meer and his uncle had been so successfully conducted by Barrington, that the latter agreed to give up three “Pegunnahs,” or villages he had unrightfully seized upon, and to pay a heavy mulct, besides, for the unjust occupation of them. This settlement had been, as may be imagined, a work of much time and labor, and requiring not only immense forbearance and patience, but intense watchfulness and unceasing skill and craft. Edwardes, of course, was constantly engaged in the affair, with the details of which he had been for years familiar. Now, although Barrington was satisfied with the zeal he displayed, he was less so with his counsels, Edwardes always insisting that in every dealing with an Oriental you must inevitably be beaten if you would not make use of all the stratagem and deceit he is sure to employ against you. There was not a day on which the wily secretary did not suggest some cunning expedient, some clever trick; and Barrington’s abrupt rejection of them only impressed him with a notion of his weakness and deficiency.
One morning – it was after many defeats – Edwardes appeared with the draft of a document he had been ordered to draw out, and in which, of his own accord, he had made a large use of threats to the neighboring chief, should he continue to protract these proceedings. These threats very unmistakably pointed to the dire consequences of opposing the great Government of the Company; for, as the writer argued, the succession to the Ameer being already vested in an Englishman, it is perfectly clear the powerful nation he belongs to will take a very summary mode of dealing with this question, if not settled before he comes to the throne. He pressed, therefore, for an immediate settlement, as the best possible escape from difficulty.
Barrington scouted the suggestion indignantly; he would not hear of it.
“What,” said he, “is it while these very rights are in litigation that I am to employ them as a menace? Who is to secure me being one day Rajah of Luckerabad? Not you, certainly, who have never ceased to speak coldly of my claims. Throw that draft into the fire, and never propose a like one to me again!”
The rebuke was not forgotten. Another draft was, however, prepared, and in due time the long-pending negotiations were concluded, the Meer’s uncle having himself come to Luckerabad to ratify the contract, which, being engrossed on a leaf of the Rajah’s Koran, was duly signed and sealed by both.
It was during the festivities incidental to this visit that Edwardes, who had of late made a display of wealth and splendor quite unaccountable, made a proposal to the Rajah for the hand of his only unmarried daughter, sister to Barrington’s wife. The Rajah, long enervated by excess and opium, probably cared little about the matter; there were, indeed, but a few moments in each day when he could be fairly pronounced awake. He referred the question to Barrington. Not satisfied with an insulting rejection of the proposal, Barrington, whose passionate moments were almost madness, tauntingly asked by what means Edwardes had so suddenly acquired the wealth which had prompted this demand. He hinted that the sources of his fortune were more than suspected, and at last, carried away by anger, for the discussion grew violent, he drew from his desk a slip of paper, and held it up. “When your father was drummed out of the 4th Bengal Fusiliers for theft, of which this is the record, the family was scarcely so ambitious.” For an instant Edwardes seemed overcome almost to fainting; but he rallied, and, with a menace of his clenched hand, but without one word, he hurried away before Barrington could resent the insult. It was said that he did not return to his house, but, taking the horse of an orderly that he found at the door, rode away from the palace, and on the same night crossed the frontier into a neighboring state.
It was on the following morning, as Barrington was passing a cavalry regiment in review, that young Edwardes, forcing his way through the staff, insolently asked, “What had become of his father?” and at the same instant levelling a pistol, he fired. The ball passed through Barrington’s shako, and so close to the head that it grazed it. It was only with a loud shout to abstain that Barrington arrested the gleaming sabres that now flourished over his head. “Your father has fled, youngster!” cried he. “When you show him that,” – and he struck him across the face with his horsewhip, – “tell him how near you were to have been an assassin!” With this savage taunt, he gave orders that the young fellow should be conducted to the nearest frontier, and turned adrift. Neither father nor son ever were seen there again.
Little did George Barrington suspect what was to come of that morning’s work. Through what channel Edwardes worked at first was not known, but that he succeeded in raising up for himself friends in England is certain; by their means the very gravest charges were made against Barrington. One allegation was that by a forged document, claiming to be the assent of the English Government to his succession, he had obtained the submission of several native chiefs to his rule and a cession of territory to the Rajah of Luckerabad; and another charged him with having cruelly tortured a British subject named Samuel Edwardes, – an investigation entered into by a Committee of the House, and becoming, while it lasted, one of the most exciting subjects of public interest. Nor was the anxiety lessened by the death of the elder Edwardes, which occurred during the inquiry, and which Barrington’s enemies declared to be caused by a broken heart; and the martyred or murdered Edwardes was no uncommon heading to a paragraph of the time.
Conyers turned to the massive Blue-book that contained the proceedings “in Committee,” but only to glance at the examination of witnesses, whose very names were unfamiliar to him. He could perceive, however, that the inquiry was a long one, and, from the tone of the member at whose motion it was instituted, angry and vindictive.
Edwardes appeared to have preferred charges of long continued persecution and oppression, and there was native testimony in abundance to sustain the allegation; while the British Commissioner sent to Luckerabad came back so prejudiced against Barrington, from his proud and haughty bearing, that his report was unfavorable to him in all respects. There was, it is true, letters from various high quarters, all speaking of Barrington’s early career as both honorable and distinguished; and, lastly, there was one signed Ormsby Conyers, a warm-hearted testimony “to the most straightforward gentleman and truest friend I have ever known.” These were words the young man read and re-read a dozen times.
Conyers turned eagerly to read what decision had been come to by the Committee, but the proceedings had come abruptly to an end by George Barrington’s death. A few lines at the close of the pamphlet mentioned that, being summoned to appear before the Governor-General in Council at Calcutta, Barrington refused. An armed force was despatched to occupy Luckerabad, on the approach of which Barrington rode forth to meet them, attended by a brilliant staff, – with what precise object none knew; but the sight of a considerable force, drawn up at a distance in what seemed order of battle, implied at least an intention to resist. Coming on towards the advanced pickets at a fast gallop, and not slackening speed when challenged, the men, who were Bengal infantry, fired, and Barrington fell, pierced by four bullets. He never uttered a word after, though he lingered on till evening. The force was commanded by Lieutenant-General Conyers.
There was little more to tell. The Rajah, implicated in the charges brought against Barrington, and totally unable to defend himself, despatched a confidential minister, Meer Mozarjah, to Europe to do what he might by bribery. This unhappy blunder filled the measure of his ruin, and after a very brief inquiry the Rajah was declared to have forfeited his throne and all his rights of succession. The Company took possession of Luckerabad, as a portion of British India, but from a generous compassion towards the deposed chief, graciously accorded him a pension of ten thousand rupees a month during his life.
My reader will bear in mind that I have given him this recital, not as it came before Conyers, distorted by falsehood and disfigured by misstatements, but have presented the facts as nearly as they might be derived from a candid examination of all the testimony adduced. Ere I return to my own tale, I ought to add that Edwardes, discredited and despised by some, upheld and maintained by others, left Calcutta with the proceeds of a handsome subscription raised in his behalf. Whether he went to reside in Europe, or retired to some other part of India, is not known. He was heard of no more.
As for the Rajah, his efforts still continued to obtain a revision of the sentence pronounced upon him, and his case was one of those which newspapers slur over and privy councils try to escape from, leaving to Time to solve what Justice has no taste for.
But every now and then a Blue-book would appear, headed “East India (the deposed Rajah of Luckerabad),” while a line in an evening paper would intimate that the Envoy of Meer Nagheer Assahr had arrived at a certain West-end hotel to prosecute the suit of his Highness before the Judicial Committee of the Lords. How pleasantly does a paragraph dispose of a whole life-load of sorrows and of wrongs that, perhaps, are breaking the hearts that carry them!
While I once more apologize to my reader for the length to which this narrative has run, I owe it to myself to state that, had I presented it in the garbled and incorrect version which came before Conyers, and had I interpolated all the misconceptions he incurred, the mistakes he first fell into and then corrected, I should have been far more tedious and intolerable still; and now I am again under weigh, with easy canvas, but over a calm sea, and under a sky but slightly clouded.
CHAPTER XIV. BARRINGTON’S FORD
Conyers had scarcely finished his reading when he was startled by the galloping of horses under his window; so close, indeed, did they come that they seemed to shake the little cottage with their tramp. He looked out, but they had already swept past, and were hidden from his view by the copse that shut out the river. At the same instant he heard the confused sound of many voices, and what sounded to him like the plash of horses in the stream.
Urged by a strong curiosity, he hurried downstairs and made straight for the river by a path that led through the trees; but before he could emerge from the cover he heard cries of “Not there! not there! Lower down!” “No, no! up higher! up higher! Head up the stream, or you ‘ll be caught in the gash!” “Don’t hurry; you’ve time enough!”
When he gained the bank, it was to see three horsemen, who seemed to be cheering, or, as it might be, warning a young girl who, mounted on a powerful black horse, was deep in the stream, and evidently endeavoring to cross it. Her hat hung on the back of her neck by its ribbon, and her hair had also fallen down; but one glance was enough to show that she was a consummate horsewoman, and whose courage was equal to her skill; for while steadily keeping her horse’s head to the swift current, she was careful not to control him overmuch, or impede the free action of his powers. Heeding, as it seemed, very little the counsels or warnings showered on her by the bystanders, not one of whom, to Conyers’s intense amazement, had ventured to accompany her, she urged her horse steadily forward.
“Don’t hurry, – take it easy!” called out one of the horsemen, as he looked at his watch. “You have fifty-three minutes left, and it’s all turf.”
“She ‘ll do it, – I know she will!” “She ‘ll lose, – she must lose!” “It’s ten miles to Foynes Gap!” “It’s more!” “It’s less!” “There! – see! – she’s in, by Jove! she’s in!” These varying comments were now arrested by the intense interest of the moment, the horse having impatiently plunged into a deep pool, and struck out to swim with all the violent exertion of an affrighted animal. “Keep his head up!” “Let him free, quite free!” “Get your foot clear of the stirrup!” cried out the bystanders, while in lower tones they muttered, “She would cross here!” “It’s all her own fault!” Just at this instant she turned in her saddle, and called out something which, drowned in the rush of the river, did not reach them.
“Don’t you see,” cried Conyers, passionately, for his temper could no longer endure the impassive attitude of this on-looking, “one of the reins is broken, her bridle is smashed?”
And, without another word, he sprang into the river, partly wading, partly swimming, and soon reached the place where the horse, restrained by one rein alone, swam in a small circle, fretted by restraint and maddened by inability to resist.
“Leave him to me, – let go your rein,” said Conyers, as he grasped the bridle close to the bit; and the animal, accepting the guidance, suffered himself to be led quietly till he reached the shallow. Once there, he bounded wildly forward, and, splashing through the current, leaped up the bank, where he was immediately caught by the others.
By the time Conyers had gained the land, the girl had quitted her saddle and entered the cottage, never so much as once turning a look on him who had rescued her. If he could not help feeling mortified at this show of indifference, he was not less puzzled by the manner of the others, who, perfectly careless of his dripping condition, discussed amongst themselves how the bridle broke, and what might have happened if the leather had proved tougher.
“It’s always the way with her,” muttered one, sulkily.
“I told her to ride the match in a ring-snaffle, but she’s a mule in obstinacy! She ‘d have won easily – ay, with five minutes to spare – if she’d have crossed at Nunsford. I passed there last week without wetting a girth.”
“She ‘ll not thank you young gentleman, whoever you are,” said the oldest of the party, turning to Conyers, “for your gallantry. She ‘ll only remember you as having helped her to lose a wager!”
“That’s true!” cried another. “I never got as much as thank you for catching her horse one day at Lyrath, though it threw me out of the whole run afterwards.”
“And this was a wager, then?” said Conyers.
“Yes. An English officer that is stopping at Sir Charles’s said yesterday that nobody could ride from Lowe’s Folly to Foynes as the crow flies; and four of us took him up – twenty-five pounds apiece – that Polly Dill would do it, – and against time, too, – an hour and forty.”
“On a horse of mine,” chimed in another, – “Bayther-shini”
“I must say it does not tell very well for your chivalry in these parts,” said Conyers, angrily. “Could no one be found to do the match without risking a young girl’s life on it?”
A very hearty burst of merriment met this speech, and the elder of the party rejoined, —
“You must be very new to this country, or you’d not have said that, sir. There’s not a man in the hunt could get as much out of a horse as that girl.”
“Not to say,” added another, with a sly laugh, “that the Englishman gave five to one against her when he heard she was going to ride.”
Disgusted by what he could not but regard as a most disgraceful wager, Conyers turned away, and walked into the house.
“Go and change your clothes as fast as you can,” said Miss Barrington, as she met him in the porch. “I am quite provoked you should have wetted your feet in such a cause.”
It was no time to ask for explanations; and Conyers hurried away to his room, marvelling much at what he had heard, but even more astonished by the attitude of cool and easy indifference as to what might have imperilled a human life. He had often heard of the reckless habits and absurd extravagances of Irish life, but he fancied that they appertained to a time long past, and that society had gradually assumed the tone and the temper of the English. Then he began to wonder to what class in life these persons belonged. The girl, so well as he could see, was certainly handsome, and appeared ladylike; and yet, why had she not even by a word acknowledged the service he rendered her? And lastly, what could old Miss Barrington mean by that scornful speech? These were all great puzzles to him, and like many great puzzles only the more embarrassing the more they were thought over.
The sound of voices drew him now to the window, and he saw one of the riding-party in converse with Darby at the door. They talked in a low tone together, and laughed; and then the horseman, chucking a half-crown towards Darby, said aloud, —
“And tell her that we ‘ll send the boat down for her as soon as we get back.”
Darby touched his hat gratefully, and was about to retire within the house when he caught sight of Conyers at the window. He waited till the rider had turned the angle of the road, and then said, —
“That’s Mr. St. George. They used to call him the Slasher, he killed so many in duels long ago; but he ‘s like a lamb now.”
“And the young lady?”
“The young lady is it!” said Darby, with the air of one not exactly concurring in the designation. “She’s old Dill’s daughter, the doctor that attends you.”
“What was it all about?”
“It was a bet they made with an English captain this morning that she ‘d ride from Lowe’s Folly to the Gap in an hour and a half. The Captain took a hundred on it, because he thought she ‘d have to go round by the bridge; and they pretinded the same, for they gave all kinds of directions about clearing the carts out of the road, for it’s market-day at Thomastown; and away went the Captain as hard as he could, to be at the bridge first, to ‘time her,’ as she passed. But he has won the money!” sighed he, for the thought of so much Irish coin going into a Saxon pocket completely overcame him; “and what’s more,” added he, “the gentleman says it was all your fault!”
“All my fault!” cried Conyers, indignantly. “All my fault! Do they imagine that I either knew or cared for their trumpery wager! I saw a girl struggling in a danger from which not one of them had the manliness to rescue her!”
“Oh, take my word for it,” burst in Darby, “it’s not courage they want!”
“Then it is something far better than even courage, and I’d like to tell them so.”
And he turned away as much disgusted with Darby as with the rest of his countrymen. Now, all the anger that filled his breast was not in reality provoked by the want of gallantry that he condemned; a portion, at least, was owing to the marvellous indifference the young lady had manifested to her preserver. Was peril such an every-day incident of Irish life that no one cared for it, or was gratitude a quality not cultivated in this strange land? Such were the puzzles that tormented him as he descended to the drawing-room.
As he opened the door, he heard Miss Barrington’s voice, in a tone which he rightly guessed to be reproof, and caught the words, “Just as unwise as it is unbecoming,” when he entered.
“Mr. Conyers, Miss Dill,” said the old lady, stiffly; “the young gentleman who saved you, the heroine you rescued!” The two allocutions were delivered with a gesture towards each. To cover a moment of extreme awkwardness, Conyers blundered out something about being too happy, and a slight service, and a hope of no ill consequences to herself.
“Have no fears on that score, sir,” broke in Miss Dinah. “Manly young ladies are the hardiest things in nature. They are as insensible to danger as they are to – ” She stopped, and grew crimson, partly from anger and partly from the unspoken word that had almost escaped her.
“Nay, madam,” said Polly, quietly, “I am really very much ‘ashamed.’” And, simple as the words were, Miss Barrington felt the poignancy of their application to herself, and her hand trembled over the embroidery she was working.
She tried to appear calm, but in vain; her color came and went, and the stitches, in spite of her, grew irregular; so that, after a moment’s struggle, she pushed the frame away, and left the room. While this very brief and painful incident was passing, Conyers was wondering to himself how the dashing horsewoman, with flushed cheek, flashing eye, and dishevelled hair, could possibly be the quiet, demure girl, with a downcast look, and almost Quaker-like simplicity of demeanor. It is but fair to add, though he himself did not discover it, that the contributions of Miss Dinah’s wardrobe, to which poor Polly was reduced for dress, were not exactly of a nature to heighten her personal attractions; nor did a sort of short jacket, and a very much beflounced petticoat, set off the girl’s figure to advantage. Polly never raised her eyes from the work she was sewing as Miss Barrington withdrew, but, in a low, gentle voice, said, “It was very good of you, sir, to come to my rescue, but you mustn’t think ill of my countrymen for not having done so; they had given their word of honor not to lead a fence, nor open a gate, nor, in fact, aid me in any way.”
“So that, if they could win their wager, your peril was of little matter,” broke he in.
She gave a little low, quiet laugh, perhaps as much at the energy as at the words of his speech. “After all,” said she, “a wetting is no great misfortune; the worst punishment of my offence was one that I never contemplated.”
“What do you mean?” asked he.
“Doing penance for it in this costume,” said she, drawing out the stiff folds of an old brocaded silk, and displaying a splendor of flowers that might have graced a peacock’s tail; “I never so much as dreamed of this!”
There was something so comic in the way she conveyed her distress that he laughed outright. She joined him; and they were at once at their ease together.
“I think Miss Barrington called you Mr. Conyers,” said she; “and if so, I have the happiness of feeling that my gratitude is bestowed where already there has been a large instalment of the sentiment. It is you who have been so generous and so kind to my poor brother.”
“Has he told you, then, what we have been planning together?”
“He has told me all that you had planned out for him,” said she, with a very gracious smile, which very slightly colored her cheek, and gave great softness to her expression. “My only fear was that the poor boy should have lost his head completely, and perhaps exaggerated to himself your intentions towards him; for, after all, I can scarcely think – ”
“What is it that you can scarcely think?” asked he, after a long pause.
“Not to say,” resumed she, unheeding his question, “that I cannot imagine how this came about. What could have led him to tell you– a perfect stranger to him – his hopes and fears, his struggles and his sorrows? How could you – by what magic did you inspire him with that trustful confidence which made him open his whole heart before you? Poor Tom, who never before had any confessor than myself!”
“Shall I tell you how it came about? It was talking of you!”
“Of me! talking of me!” and her cheek now flushed more deeply.
“Yes, we had rambled on over fifty themes, not one of which seemed to attach him strongly, till, in some passing allusion to his own cares and difficulties, he mentioned one who has never ceased to guide and comfort him; who shared not alone his sorrows, but his hard hours of labor, and turned away from her own pleasant paths to tread the dreary road of toil beside him.”
“I think he might have kept all this to himself,” said she, with a tone of almost severity.
“How could he? How was it possible to tell me his story, and not touch upon what imparted the few tints of better fortune that lighted it? I’m certain, besides, that there is a sort of pride in revealing how much of sympathy and affection we have derived from those better than ourselves, and I could see that he was actually vain of what you had done for him.”
“I repeat, he might have kept this to himself. But let us leave this matter; and now tell me, – for I own I can hardly trust my poor brother’s triumphant tale, – tell me seriously what the plan is?”
Conyers hesitated for a few seconds, embarrassed how to avoid mention of himself, or to allude but passingly to his own share in the project. At last, as though deciding to dash boldly into the question, he said, “I told him, if he ‘d go out to India, I ‘d give him such a letter to my father that his fortune would be secure. My governor is something of a swell out there,” – and he reddened, partly in shame, partly in pride, as he tried to disguise his feeling by an affectation of ease, – “and that with him for a friend, Tom would be certain of success. You smile at my confidence, but you don’t know India, and what scores of fine things are – so to say – to be had for asking; and although doctoring is all very well, there are fifty other ways to make a fortune faster. Tom could be a Receiver of Revenue; he might be a Political Resident. You don’t know what they get. There’s a fellow at Baroda has four thousand rupees a month, and I don’t know how much more for dâk-money.”
