Kitabı oku: «Barrington. Volume 1», sayfa 15

CHAPTER XIX. THE HOUR OF LUNCHEON

If there be a special agreeability about all the meal-times of a pleasant country-house, there is not one of them which, in the charm of an easy, unconstrained gayety, can rival the hour of luncheon. At breakfast, one is too fresh; at dinner, too formal; but luncheon, like an opening manhood, is full of its own bright projects. The plans of the day have already reached a certain maturity, and fixtures have been made for riding-parties, or phaeton drives, or flirtations in the garden. The very strangers who looked coldly at each other over their morning papers have shaken into a semi-intimacy, and little traits of character and temperament, which would have been studiously shrouded in the more solemn festivals of the day, are now displayed with a frank and fearless confidence. The half-toilette and the tweed coat, mutton broth and “Balmorals,” seem infinitely more congenial to acquaintanceship than the full-blown splendor of evening dress and the grander discipline of dinner.

Irish social life permits of a practice of which I do not, while recording, constitute myself the advocate or the apologist, – a sort of good-tempered banter called quizzing, – a habit I scarcely believe practicable in other lands; that is, I know of no country where it could be carried on as harmlessly and as gracefully, where as much wit could be expended innocuously, as little good feeling jeopardized in the display. The happiest hour of the day for such passages as these was that of luncheon, and it was in the very clash and clatter of the combat that a servant announced the Attorney-General!

What a damper did the name prove! Short of a bishop himself, no announcement could have spread more terror over the younger members of the company, embodying as it seemed to do all that could be inquisitorial, intolerant, and overbearing. Great, however, was the astonishment to see, instead of the stern incarnation of Crown prosecutions and arbitrary commitments, a tall, thin, slightly stooped man, dressed in a gray shooting-jacket, and with a hat plentifully garnished with fishing-flies. He came lightly into the room, and kissed the hand of his hostess with a mixture of cordiality and old-fashioned gallantry that became him well.

“My old luck, Cobham!” said he, as he seated himself at table. “I have fished the stream all the way from the Red House to this, and never so much as a rise to reward me.

“They knew you, – they knew you, Withering,” chirped out the Poet, “and they took good care not to put in an appearance, with the certainty of a ‘detainer.’”

“Ah! you here! That decanter of sherry screened you completely from my view,” said Withering, whose sarcasm on his size touched the very sorest of the other’s susceptibilities. “And talking of recognizances, how comes it you are here, and a large party at Lord Dunraney’s all assembled to meet you?”

The Poet, as not infrequent with him, had forgotten everything of this prior engagement, and was now overwhelmed with his forgetfulness. The ladies, however, pressed eagerly around him with consolation so like caresses, that he was speedily himself again.

“How natural a mistake, after all!” said the lawyer. “The old song says, —

 
‘Tell me where beauty and wit and wine
Are met, and I ‘ll say where I ‘m asked to dine.’
 

Ah! Tommy, yours is the profession, after all; always sure of your retainer, and never but one brief to sustain – ‘T. M. versus the Heart of Woman.’”

“One is occasionally nonsuited, however,” said the other, half pettishly. “By the way, how was it you got that verdict for old Barrington t’other day? Was it true that Plowden got hold of your bag by mistake?”

“Not only that, but he made a point for us none of us had discovered.”

“How historical the blunder: —

 
‘The case is classical, as I and you know;
He came from Venus, but made love to Juno.’”
 

“If Peter Barrington gained his cause by it I ‘m heartily rejoiced, and I wish him health and years to enjoy it.” The Admiral said this with a cordial good will as he drank off his glass.

“He’s all right again,” said Withering. “I left him working away with a hoe and a rake this morning, looking as hale and hearty as he did a dozen years ago.”

“A man must have really high deserts in whose good fortune so many are well-wishers,” said Stapylton; and by the courteous tone of the remark Withering’s attention was attracted, and he speedily begged the Admiral to present him to his guest. They continued to converse together as they arose from table, and with such common pleasure that when Withering expressed a hope the acquaintance might not end there, Stapylton replied by a request that he would allow him to be his fellow-traveller to Kilkenny, whither he was about to go on a regimental affair. The arrangement was quickly made, to the satisfaction of each; and as they drove away, while many bewailed the departure of such pleasant members of the party, the little Poet simperingly said, —

 
“Shall I own that my heart is relieved of a care? —
Though you ‘ll think the confession is petty —
I cannot but feel, as I look on the pair,
It is ‘Peebles’ gone off with ‘Dalgetty.’”
 

As for the fellow-travellers, they jogged along very pleasantly on their way, as two consummate men of the world are sure to do when they meet. For what Freemasonry equals that of two shrewd students of life? How flippantly do they discuss each theme! how easily read each character, and unravel each motive that presents itself! What the lawyer gained by the technical subtlety of his profession, the soldier made up for by his wider experience of mankind. There were, besides, a variety of experiences to exchange. Toga could tell of much that interested the “man of war,” and he, in turn, made himself extremely agreeable by his Eastern information, not to say, that he was able to give a correct version of many Hindostanee phrases and words which the old lawyer eagerly desired to acquire.

“All you have been telling me has a strong interest for me, Captain Stapylton,” said he, as they drove into Kilkenny. “I have a case which has engaged my attention for years, and is likely to occupy what remains to me of life, – a suit of which India is the scene, and Orientals figure as some of the chief actors, – so that I can scarcely say how fortunate I feel this chance meeting with you.”

“I shall deem myself greatly honored if the acquaintance does not end here.”

“It shall not, if it depend upon me,” said Withering, cordially. “You said something of a visit you were about to make to Dublin. Will you do me a great – a very great – favor, and make my house your home while you stay? This is my address: ‘18 Merrion Square.’ It is a bachelor’s hall; and you can come and go without ceremony.”

“The plan is too tempting to hesitate about. I accept your invitation with all the frankness you have given it. Meanwhile you will be my guest here.” “‘That is impossible. I must start for Cork this evening.” And now they parted, – not like men who had been strangers a few hours back, but like old acquaintances, only needing the occasion to feel as old friends.

CHAPTER XX. AN INTERIOR AT THE DOCTOR’S

When Captain Stapylton made his appointment to wait on Dr. Dill, he was not aware that the Attorney-General was expected at Cobham. No sooner, however, had he learned that fact than he changed his purpose, and intimated his intention of running up for a day to Kilkenny, to hear what was going on in the regiment. No regret for any disappointment he might be giving to the village doctor, no self-reproach for the breach of an engagement – all of his own making – crossed his mind. It is, indeed, a theme for a moralist to explore, the ease with which a certain superiority in station can divest its possessor of all care for the sensibilities of those below him; and yet in the little household of the doctor that promised visit was the source of no small discomfort and trouble. The doctor’s study – the sanctum in which the interview should be held – had to be dusted and smartened up. Old boots, and overcoats, and smashed driving-whips, and odd stirrup-leathers, and stable-lanterns, and garden implements had all to be banished. The great table in front of the doctor’s chair had also to be professionally littered with notes and cards and periodicals, not forgetting an ingenious admixture of strange instruments of torture, quaint screws, and inscrutable-looking scissors, destined, doubtless, to make many a faint heart the fainter in their dread presence. All these details had to be carried out in various ways through the rest of the establishment, – in the drawing-room, wherein the great man was to be ushered; in the dining-room, where he was to lunch. Upon Polly did the greater part of these cares devolve; not alone attending to the due disposal of chairs and sofas and tables, but to the preparation of certain culinary delicacies, which were to make the Captain forget the dainty luxuries of Cobham. And, in truth, there is a marvellous esprit du corps in the way a woman will fag and slave herself to make the humble household she belongs to look its best, even to the very guest she has least at heart; for Polly did not like Stapylton. Flattered at first by his notice, she was offended afterwards at the sort of conscious condescension of his manner, – a something which seemed to say, I can be charming, positively fascinating, but don’t imagine for a moment that there is anything especial in it. I captivate – just as I fish, hunt, sketch, or shoot – to amuse myself. And with all this, how was it he was really not a coxcomb? Was it the grave dignity of his address, or the quiet state-liness of his person, or was it a certain uniformity, a keeping, that pervaded all he said or did? I am not quite sure whether all three did not contribute to this end, and make him what the world confessed, – a most well-bred gentleman.

Polly was, in her way, a shrewd observer, and she felt that Stapylton’s manner towards her was that species of urbane condescension with which a great master of a game deigns to play with a very humble proficient. He moved about the board with an assumption that said, I can checkmate you when I will! Now this is hard enough to bear when the pieces at stake are stained ivory, but it is less endurable: still when they are our emotions and our wishes. And yet with all this before her, Polly ordered and arranged and superintended and directed with an energy that never tired, and an activity that never relaxed.

As for Mrs. Dill, no similar incident in the life of Clarissa had prepared her for the bustle and preparation she saw on every side, and she was fairly perplexed between the thought of a seizure for rent and a fire, – casualties which, grave as they were, she felt she could meet with Mr. Richardson beside her. The doctor himself was unusually fidgety and anxious. Perhaps he ascribed considerable importance to this visit; perhaps he thought Polly had not been candid with him, and that, in reality, she knew more of its object than she had avowed; and so he walked hurriedly from room to room, and out into the garden, and across the road to the river’s side, and once as far as the bridge, consulting his watch, and calculating that as it now only wanted eight minutes of two o’clock, the arrival could scarcely be long delayed.

It was on his return he entered the drawing-room and found Polly, now plainly but becomingly dressed, seated at her work, with a seeming quietude and repose about her, strangely at variance with her late display of activity. “I ‘ve had a look down the Graigue Road,” said he, “but can see nothing. You are certain he said two o’clock?”

“Quite certain, sir.”

“To be sure he might come by the river; there’s water enough now for the Cobham barge.”

She made no answer, though she half suspected some reply was expected.

“And of course,” continued the doctor, “they’d have offered him the use of it. They seem to make a great deal of him up there.”

“A great deal, indeed, sir,” said she; but in a voice that was a mere echo of his own.

“And I suspect they know why. I ‘m sure they know why. People in their condition make no mistakes about each other; and if he receives much attention, it is because it’s his due.”

No answer followed this speech, and he walked feverishly up and down the room, holding his watch in his closed hand. “I have a notion you must have mistaken him. It was not two he said.”

“I ‘m positive it was two, sir. But it can scarcely be much past that hour now.”

“It is seventeen minutes past two,” said he, solemnly. And then, as if some fresh thought had just occurred to him, asked, “Where ‘s Tom? I never saw him this morning.”

“He ‘s gone out to take a walk, sir. The poor fellow is dead beat by work, and had such a headache that I told him to go as far as the Red House or Snow’s Mill.”

“And I ‘ll wager he did not want to be told twice. Anything for idleness with him!”

“Well, papa, he is really doing his very best now. He is not naturally quick, and he has a bad memory, so that labor is no common toil; but his heart is in it, and I never saw him really anxious for success before.”

“To go out to India, I suppose,” said Dill, sneeringly, “that notable project of the other good-for-nothing; for, except in the matter of fortune, there’s not much to choose between them. There ‘s the half-hour striking now!”

“The project has done this for him, at least,” said she, firmly, – “it has given him hope!”

“How I like to hear about hope!” said he, with a peculiarly sarcastic bitterness. “I never knew a fellow worth sixpence that had that cant of ‘hope’ in his mouth! How much hope had I when I began the world! How much have I now?”

“Don’t you hope Captain Stapylton may not have forgotten his appointment, papa?” said she, with a quick drollery, which sparkled in her eye, but brought no smile to her lips.

“Well, here he is at last,” said Dill, as he heard the sharp click made by the wicket of the little garden; and he started up, and rushed to the window. “May I never!” cried he, in horror, “if it isn’t M’Cormick! Say we’re out, – that I’m at Graigue, – that I won’t be home till evening!”

But while he was multiplying these excuses, the old Major had caught sight of him, and was waving his hand in salutation from below. “It’s too late, – it’s too late!” sighed Dill, bitterly; “he sees me now, – there’s no help for it!”

What benevolent and benedictory expressions were muttered below his breath, it is not for this history to record; but so vexed and irritated was he, that the Major had already entered the room ere he could compose his features into even a faint show of welcome.

“I was down at the Dispensary,” croaked out M’Cormick, “and they told me you were not expected there to-day, and so I said, maybe he’s ill, or maybe,” – and here he looked shrewdly around him, – “maybe there ‘s something going on up at the house.”

“What should there be going on, as you call it?” responded Dill, angrily, for he was now at home, in presence of the family, and could not compound for that tone of servile acquiescence he employed on foreign service.

“And, faix, I believe I was right; Miss Polly isn’t so smart this morning for nothing, no more than the saving cover is off the sofa, and the piece of gauze taken down from before the looking-glass, and the ‘Times’ newspaper away from the rug!”

“Are there any other domestic changes you ‘d like to remark upon, Major M’Cormick?” said Dill, pale with rage.

“Indeed, yes,” rejoined the other; “there ‘s yourself, in the elegant black coat that I never saw since Lord Kilraney’s funeral, and looking pretty much as lively and pleasant as you did at the ceremony.”

“A gentleman has made an appointment with papa,” broke in Polly, “and may be here at any moment.”

“I know who it is,” said M’Cormick, with a finger on the side of his nose to imply intense cunning. “I know all about it.”

“What do you know? – what do you mean by all about it?” said Dill, with an eagerness he could not repress.

“Just as much as yourselves, – there now! Just as much as yourselves!” said he, sententiously.

“But apparently, Major, you know far more,” said Polly.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t; but I ‘ll tell you one thing, Dill, for your edification, and mind me if I ‘m not right: you ‘re all mistaken about him, every one of ye!”

“Whom are you talking of?” asked the doctor, sternly.

“Just the very man you mean yourself, and no other! Oh, you need n’t fuss and fume, I don’t want to pry into your family secrets. Not that they ‘ll be such secrets tomorrow or next day, – the whole town will be talking of them, – but as an old friend that could, maybe, give a word of advice – ”

“Advice about what? Will you just tell me about what?” cried Dill, now bursting with anger.

“I ‘ve done now. Not another word passes my lips about it from this minute. Follow your own road, and see where it will lead ye?”

“Cannot you understand, Major M’Cormick, that we are totally unable to guess what you allude to? Neither papa nor I have the very faintest clew to your meaning, and if you really desire to serve us, you will speak out plainly.”

“Not another syllable, if I sat here for two years!”

The possibility of such an infliction seemed so terrible to poor Polly that she actually shuddered as she heard it.

“Is n’t that your mother I see sitting up there, with all the fine ribbons in her cap?” whispered M’Cormick, as he pointed to a small room which opened off an angle of the larger one. “That ‘s ‘the boodoo,’ is n’t it?” said he, with a grin. This, I must inform my reader, was the M’Cormick for “boudoir.” “Well, I’ll go and pay my respects to her.”

So little interest did Mrs. Dill take in the stir and movement around her that the Major utterly failed in his endeavors to torture her by all his covert allusions and ingeniously drawn inferences. No matter what hints he dropped or doubts he suggested, she knew “Clarissa” would come well out of her trials; and beyond a little unmeaning simper, and a muttered “To be sure,” “No doubt of it,” and, “Why not?” M’Cormick could obtain nothing from her.

Meanwhile, in the outer room the doctor continued to stride up and down with impatience, while Polly sat quietly working on, not the less anxious, perhaps, though her peaceful air betokened a mind at rest.

“That must be a boat, papa,” said she, without lifting her head, “that has just come up to the landing-place. I heard the plash of the oars, and now all is still again.”

“You ‘re right; so it is!” cried he, as he stopped before the window. “But how is this! That ‘s a lady I see yonder, and a gentleman along with her. That’s not Stapylton, surely!”

“He is scarcely so tall,” said she, rising to look out, “but not very unlike him. But the lady, papa, – the lady is Miss Barrington.”

Bad as M’Cormick’s visit was, it was nothing to the possibility of such an advent as this, and Dill’s expressions of anger were now neither measured nor muttered.

“This is to be a day of disasters. I see it well, and no help for it,” exclaimed he, passionately. “If there was one human being I ‘d hate to come here this morning, it’s that old woman! She’s never civil. She’s not commonly decent in her manner towards me in her own house, and what she ‘ll be in mine, is clean beyond me to guess. That’s herself! There she goes! Look at her remarking, – I see, she’s remarking on the weeds over the beds, and the smashed paling. She’s laughing too! Oh, to be sure, it’s fine laughing at people that’s poor; and she might know something of that same herself. I know who the man is now. That ‘s the Colonel, who came to the ‘Fisherman’s Home’ on the night of the accident.”

“It would seem we are to hold a levee to-day,” said Polly, giving a very fleeting glance at herself in the glass. And now a knock came to the door, and the man who acted gardener and car-driver and valet to the doctor announced that Miss Barrington and Colonel Hunter were below.

“Show them up,” said Dill, with the peremptory voice of one ordering a very usual event, and intentionally loud enough to be heard below stairs.

If Polly’s last parting with Miss Barrington gave little promise of pleasure to their next meeting, the first look she caught of the old lady on entering the room dispelled all uneasiness on that score. Miss Dinah entered with a pleasing smile, and presented her friend, Colonel Hunter, as one come to thank the doctor for much kindness to his young subaltern. “Whom, by the way,” added he, “we thought to find here. It is only since we landed that we learned he had left the inn for Kilkenny.”

While the Colonel continued to talk to the doctor, Miss Dinah had seated herself On the sofa, with Polly at her side.

“My visit this morning is to you,” said she. “I have come to ask your forgiveness. Don’t interrupt me, child; your forgiveness was the very word I used. I was very rude to you t’ other morning, and being all in the wrong, – like most people in such circumstances, – I was very angry with the person who placed me so.”

“But, my dear madam,” said Polly, “you had such good reason to suppose you were in the right that this amende on your part is far too generous.”

“It is not at all generous, – it is simply just. I was sorely vexed with you about that stupid wager, which you were very wrong to have had any share in; vexed with your father, vexed with your brother, – not that I believed his counsel would have been absolute wisdom, – and I was even vexed with my young friend Conyers, because he had not the bad taste to be as angry with you as I was. When I was a young lady,” said she, bridling up, and looking at once haughty and defiant, “no man would have dared to approach me with such a proposal as complicity in a wager. But I am told that my ideas are antiquated, and the world has grown much wiser since that day.”

“Nay, madam,” said Polly, “but there is another difference that your politeness has prevented you from appreciating. I mean the difference in station between Miss Barrington and Polly Dill.”

It was a well-directed shot, and told powerfully, for Miss Barrington’s eyes became clouded, and she turned her head away, while she pressed Polly’s hand within her own with a cordial warmth. “Ah!” said she, feelingly, “I hope there are many points of resemblance between us. I have always tried to be a good sister. I know well what you have been to your brother.”

A very jolly burst of laughter from the inner room, where Hunter had already penetrated, broke in upon them, and the merry tones of his voice were heard saying, “Take my word for it, madam, nobody could spare time nowadays to make love in nine volumes. Life ‘s too short for it. Ask my old brother-officer here if he could endure such a thirty years’ war; or rather let me turn here for an opinion. What does your daughter say on the subject?”

“Ay, ay,” croaked out M’Cormick. “Marry in haste – ”

“Or repent that you did n’t. That ‘s the true reading of the adage.”

“The Major would rather apply leisure to the marriage, and make the repentance come – ”

“As soon as possible afterwards,” said Miss Dinah, tartly.

“Faix, I ‘ll do better still; I won’t provoke the repentance at all.”

“Oh, Major, is it thus you treat me?” said Polly, affecting to wipe her eyes. “Are my hopes to be dashed thus cruelly?”

But the doctor, who knew how savagely M’Cormick could resent even the most harmless jesting, quickly interposed, with a question whether Polly had thought of ordering luncheon.

It is but fair to Dr. Dill to record the bland but careless way he ordered some entertainment for his visitors. He did it like the lord of a well-appointed household, who, when he said “serve,” they served. It was in the easy confidence of one whose knowledge told him that the train was laid, and only waited for the match to explode it.

“May I have the honor, dear lady?” said he, offering his arm to Miss Barrington.

Now, Miss Dinah had just observed that she had various small matters to transact in the village, and was about to issue forth for their performance; but such is the force of a speciality, that she could not tear herself away without a peep into the dining-room, and a glance, at least, at arrangements that appeared so magically conjured up. Nor was Dill insensible to the astonishment expressed in her face as her eyes ranged over the table.

“If your daughter be your housekeeper, Dr. Dill,” said she, in a whisper, “I must give her my very heartiest approbation. These are matters I can speak of with authority, and I pronounce her worthy of high commendation.”

“What admirable salmon cutlets!” cried the Colonel. “Why, doctor, these tell of a French cook.”

“There she is beside you, the French cook!” said the Major, with a malicious twinkle.

“Yes,” said Polly, smiling, though with a slight flush on her face, “if Major M’Cormick will be indiscreet enough to tell tales, let us hope they will never be more damaging in their import.”

“And do you say – do you mean to tell me that this curry is your handiwork? Why, this is high art.”

“Oh, she ‘s artful enough, if it ‘s that ye ‘re wanting,” muttered the Major.

Miss Barrington, having apparently satisfied the curiosity she felt about the details of the doctor’s housekeeping, now took her leave, not, however, without Dr. Dill offering his arm on one side, while Polly, with polite observance, walked on the other.

“Look at that now,” whispered the Major. “They ‘re as much afraid of that old woman as if she were the Queen of Sheba! And all because she was once a fine lady living at Barrington Hall.”

“Here’s their health for it,” said the Colonel, filling his glass, – “and in a bumper too! By the way,” added he, looking around, “does not Mrs. Dill lunch with us?”

“Oh, she seldom comes to her meals! She’s a little touched here.” And he laid his finger on the centre of his forehead. “And, indeed, no wonder if she is.” The benevolent Major was about to give some details of secret family history, when the doctor and his daughter returned to the room.

The Colonel ate and talked untiringly. He was delighted with everything, and charmed with himself for his good luck in chancing upon such agreeable people. He liked the scenery, the village, the beetroot salad, the bridge, the pickled oysters, the evergreen oaks before the door. He was not astonished Conyers should linger on such a spot; and then it suddenly occurred to him to ask when he had left the village, and how.

The doctor could give no information on the point, and while he was surmising one thing and guessing another, M’Cormick whispered in the Colonel’s ear, “Maybe it’s a delicate point. How do you know what went on with – ” And a significant nod towards Polly finished the remark.

“I wish I heard what Major M’Cormick has just said,” said Polly.

“And it is exactly what I cannot repeat to you.”

“I suspected as much. So that my only request will be that you never remember it.”

“Isn’t she sharp! – sharp as a needle!” chimed in the Major.

Checking, and not without some effort, a smart reprimand on the last speaker, the Colonel looked hastily at his watch, and arose from table.

“Past three o’clock, and to be in Kilkenny by six.”

“Do you want a car? There’s one of Rice’s men now in the village; shall I get him for you?”

“Would you really do me the kindness?” While the Major bustled off on his errand, the Colonel withdrew the doctor inside the recess of a window. “I had a word I wished to say to you in private, Dr. Dill; but it must really be in private, – you understand me?”

“Strictly confidential, Colonel Hunter,” said Dill, bowing.

“It is this: a young officer of mine, Lieutenant Conyers, has written to me a letter mentioning a plan he had conceived for the future advancement of your son, a young gentleman for whom, it would appear, he had formed a sudden but strong attachment. His project was, as I understand it, to accredit him to his father with such a letter as must secure the General’s powerful influence in his behalf. Just the sort of thing a warm-hearted young fellow would think of doing for a friend he determined to serve, but exactly the kind of proceeding that might have a very unfortunate ending. I can very well imagine, from my own short experience here, that your son’s claims to notice and distinction may be the very highest; I can believe readily what very little extraneous aid he would require to secure his success; but you and I are old men of the world, and are bound to look at things cautiously, and to ask, ‘Is this scheme a very safe one?’ ‘Will General Conyers enter as heartily into it as his son?’ ‘Will the young surgeon be as sure to captivate the old soldier as the young one?’ In a word, would it be quite wise to set a man’s whole venture in life on such a cast, and is it the sort of risk that, with your experience of the world, you would sanction?”

It was evident, from the pause the Colonel left after these words, that he expected Dill to say something; but, with the sage reserve of his order, the doctor stood still, and never uttered a syllable. Let us be just to his acuteness, he never did take to the project from the first; he thought ill of it, in every way, but yet he did not relinquish the idea of making the surrender of it “conditional;” and so he slowly shook his head with an air of doubt, and smoothly rolled his hands one over the other, as though to imply a moment of hesitation and indecision.

“Yes, yes,” muttered he, talking only to himself, – “disappointment, to be sure! – very great disappointment too! And his heart so set upon it, that’s the hardship.”

“Naturally enough,” broke in Hunter, hastily. “Who would n’t be disappointed under such circumstances? Better even that, however, than utter failure later on.” The doctor sighed, but over what precise calamity was not so clear; and Hunter continued, —

“Now, as I have made this communication to you in strictest confidence, and not in any concert with Conyers, I only ask you to accept the view as a mere matter of opinion. I think you would be wrong to suffer your son to engage in such a venture. That’s all I mean by my interference, and I have done.”