Kitabı oku: «Barrington. Volume 1», sayfa 9

CHAPTER XII. THE ANSWER

“Will this do?” said Conyers, shortly after, entering the room with a very brief note, but which, let it be owned, cost him fully as much labor as more practised hands occasionally bestow on a more lengthy despatch. “I suppose it’s all that’s civil and proper, and I don’t care to make any needless professions. Pray read it, and give me your opinion.” It was so brief that I may quote it: —

“Dear Captain Stapylton, – Don’t feel any apprehensions about me. I am in better quarters than I ever fell into in my life, and my accident is not worth speaking of. I wish you had told me more of our Colonel, of whose movements I am entirely ignorant. I am sincerely grateful to your friends for thinking of me, and hope, ere I leave the neighborhood, to express to Sir Charles and Lady Cobham how sensible I am of their kind intentions towards me.

“I am, most faithfully yours,

“F. CONYERS.”

“It is very well, and tolerably legible,” said Miss Barrington, dryly; “at least I can make out everything but the name at the end.”

“I own I do not shine in penmanship; the strange characters at the foot were meant to represent ‘Conyers.’”

“Conyers! Conyers! How long is it since I heard that name last, and how familiar I was with it once! My nephew’s dearest friend was a Conyers.”

“He must have been a relative of mine in some degree; at least, we are in the habit of saying that all of the name are of one family.”

Not heeding what he said, the old lady had fallen back in her meditations to a very remote “long ago,” and was thinking of a time when every letter from India bore the high-wrought interest of a romance, of which her nephew was the hero, – times of intense anxiety, indeed, but full of hope withal, and glowing with all the coloring with which love and an exalted imagination can invest the incidents of an adventurous life.

“It was a great heart he had, a splendidly generous nature, far too high-souled and too exacting for common friendships, and so it was that he had few friends. I am talking of my nephew,” said she, correcting herself suddenly. “What a boon for a young man to have met him, and formed an attachment to him. I wish you could have known him. George would have been a noble example for you!” She paused for some minutes, and then suddenly, as it were remembering herself, said, “Did you tell me just now, or was I only dreaming, that you knew Ormsby Conyers?”

“Ormsby Conyers is my father’s name,” said he, quickly.

“Captain in the 25th Dragoons?” asked she, eagerly.

“He was so, some eighteen or twenty years ago.”

“Oh, then, my heart did not deceive me,” cried she, taking his hand with both her own, “when I felt towards you like an old friend. After we parted last night, I asked myself, again and again, how was it that I already felt an interest in you? What subtle instinct was it that whispered this is the son of poor George’s dearest friend, – this is the son of that dear Ormsby Conyers of whom every letter is full? Oh, the happiness of seeing you under this roof! And what a surprise for my poor brother, who clings only the closer, with every year, to all that reminds him of his boy!”

“And you knew my father, then?” asked Conyers, proudly.

“Never met him; but I believe I knew him better than many who were his daily intimates: for years my nephew’s letters were journals of their joint lives – they seemed never separate. But you shall read them yourself. They go back to the time when they both landed at Calcutta, young and ardent spirits, eager for adventure, and urged by a bold ambition to win distinction. From that day they were inseparable. They hunted, travelled, lived together; and so attached had they become to each other, that George writes in one letter: ‘They have offered me an appointment on the staff, but as this would separate me from Ormsby, it is not to be thought of.’ It was to me George always wrote, for my brother never liked letter-writing, and thus I was my nephew’s confidante, and intrusted with all his secrets. Nor was there one in which your father’s name did not figure. It was, how Ormsby got him out of this scrape, or took his duty for him, or made this explanation, or raised that sum of money, that filled all these. At last – I never knew why or how – George ceased to write to me, and addressed all his letters to his father, marked ‘Strictly private’ too, so that I never saw what they contained. My brother, I believe, suffered deeply from the concealment, and there must have been what to him seemed a sufficient reason for it, or he would never have excluded me from that share in his confidence I had always possessed. At all events, it led to a sort of estrangement between us, – the only one of our lives. He would tell me at intervals that George was on leave; George was at the Hills; he was expecting his troop; he had been sent here or there; but nothing more, till one morning, as if unable to bear the burden longer, he said, ‘George has made up his mind to leave his regiment and take service with one of the native princes. It is an arrangement sanctioned by the Government, but it is one I grieve over and regret greatly.’ I asked eagerly to hear further about this step, but he said he knew nothing beyond the bare fact. I then said, ‘What does his friend Conyers think of it?’ and my brother dryly replied, ‘I am not aware that he has been consulted.’ Our own misfortunes were fast closing around us, so that really we had little time to think of anything but the difficulties that each day brought forth. George’s letters grew rarer and rarer; rumors of him reached us; stories of his gorgeous mode of living, his princely state and splendid retinue, of the high favor he enjoyed with the Rajah, and the influence he wielded over neighboring chiefs; and then we heard, still only by rumor, that he had married a native princess, who had some time before been converted to Christianity. The first intimation of the fact from himself came, when, announcing that he had sent his daughter, a child of about five years old, to Europe to be educated – ” She paused here, and seemed to have fallen into a revery over the past; when Conyers suddenly asked, —

“And what of my father all this time? Was the old intercourse kept up between them?”

“I cannot tell you. I do not remember that his name occurred till the memorable case came on before the House of Commons – the inquiry, as it was called, into Colonel Barrington’s conduct in the case of Edwardes, a British-born subject of his Majesty, serving in the army of the Rajah of Luckerabad. You have, perhaps, heard of it?”

“Was that the celebrated charge of torturing a British subject?”

“The same; the vilest conspiracy that ever was hatched, and the cruellest persecution that ever broke a noble heart. And yet there were men of honor, men of purest fame and most unblemished character, who harkened in to that infamous cry, and actually sent out emissaries to India to collect evidence against my poor nephew. For a while the whole country rang with the case. The low papers, which assailed the Government, made it matter of attack on the nature of the British rule in India, and the ministry only sought to make George the victim to screen themselves from public indignation. It was Admiral Byng’s case once more. But I have no temper to speak of it, even after this lapse of years; my blood boils now at the bare memory of that foul and perjured association. If you would follow the story, I will send you the little published narrative to your room, but, I beseech you, do not again revert to it. How I have betrayed myself to speak of it I know not. For many a long year I have prayed to be able to forgive one man, who has been the bitterest enemy of our name and race. I have asked for strength to bear the burden of our calamity, but more earnestly a hundred-fold I have entreated that forgiveness might enter my heart, and that if vengeance for this cruel wrong was at hand, I could be able to say, ‘No, the time for such feeling is gone by.’ Let me not, then, be tempted by any revival of this theme to recall all the sorrow and all the indignation it once caused me. This infamous book contains the whole story as the world then believed it. You will read it with interest, for it concerned one whom your father dearly loved. But, again. I say, when we meet again let us not return to it. These letters, too, will amuse you; they are the diaries of your father’s early life in India as much as George’s, but of them we can talk freely.”

It was so evident that she was speaking with a forced calm, and that all her self-restraint might at any moment prove unequal to the effort she was making, that Conyers, affecting to have a few words to say to Stapylton’s messenger, stole away, and hastened to his room to look over the letters and the volume she had given him.

He had scarcely addressed himself to his task when a knock came to the door, and at the same instant it was opened in a slow, half-hesitating way, and Tom Dill stood before him. Though evidently dressed for the occasion, and intending to present himself in a most favorable guise, Tom looked far more vulgar and unprepossessing than in the worn costume of his every-day life, his bright-buttoned blue coat and yellow waistcoat being only aggravations of the low-bred air that unhappily beset him. Worse even than this, however, was the fact that, being somewhat nervous about the interview before him, Tom had taken what his father would have called a diffusible stimulant, in the shape of “a dandy of punch,” and bore the evidences of it in a heightened color and a very lustrous but wandering eye.

“Here I am,” said he, entering with a sort of easy swagger, but far more affected than real, notwithstanding the “dandy.”

“Well, and what then?” asked Conyers, haughtily, for the vulgar presumption of his manner was but a sorry advocate in his favor. “I don’t remember, that I sent for you.”

“No; but my father told me what you said to him, and I was to come up and thank you, and say, ‘Done!’ to it all.”

Conyers turned a look – not a very pleased or very flattering look – at the loutish figure before him, and in his changing color might be seen the conflict it cost him to keep down his rising temper. He was, indeed, sorely tried, and his hand shook as he tossed over the books on his table, and endeavored to seem occupied in other matters.

“Maybe you forget all about it,” began Tom. “Perhaps you don’t remember that you offered to fit me out for India, and send me over with a letter to your father – ”

“No, no, I forget nothing of it; I remember it all.” He had almost said “only too well,” but he coughed down the cruel speech, and went on hurriedly: “You have come, however, when I am engaged, – when I have other things to attend to. These letters here – In fact, this is not a moment when I can attend to you. Do you understand me?”

“I believe I do,” said Tom, growing very pale.

“To-morrow, then, or the day after, or next week, will be time enough for all this. I must think over the matter again.”

“I see,” said Tom, moodily, as he changed from one foot to the other, and cracked the joints of his fingers, till they seemed dislocated. “I see it all.”

“What do you mean by that? – what do you see?” asked Conyers, angrily.

“I see that Polly, my sister, was right; that she knew you better than any of us,” said Tom, boldly, for a sudden rush of courage had now filled his heart. “She said, ‘Don’t let him turn your head, Tom, with his fine promises. He was in good humor and good spirits when he made them, and perhaps meant to keep them too; but he little knows what misery disappointment brings, and he’ll never fret himself over the heavy heart he’s giving you, when he wakes in the morning with a change of mind.’ And then, she said another thing,” added he, after a pause.

“And what was the other thing?”

“She said, ‘If you go up there, Tom,’ says she, ‘dressed out like a shopboy in his Sunday suit, he’ll be actually shocked at his having taken an interest in you. He ‘ll forget all about your hard lot and your struggling fortune, and only see your vulgarity.’ ‘Your vulgarity,’ – that was the word.” As he said this, his lip trembled, and the chair he leaned on shook under his grasp.

“Go back, and tell her, then, that she was mistaken,” said Conyers, whose own voice now quavered. “Tell her that when I give my word I keep it; that I will maintain everything I said to you or to your father; and that when she imputed to me an indifference as to the feelings of others, she might have remembered whether she was not unjust to mine. Tell her that also.”

“I will,” said Tom, gravely. “Is there anything more?” “No, nothing more,” said Conyers, who with difficulty suppressed a smile at the words and the manner of his questioner. “Good-bye, then. You ‘ll send for me when you want me,” said Tom; and he was out of the room, and half-way across the lawn, ere Conyers could recover himself to reply.

Conyers, however, flung open the window, and cried to him to come back.

“I was nigh forgetting a most important part of the matter, Tom,” said he, as the other entered, somewhat pale and anxious-looking. “You told me, t’ other day, that there was some payment to be made, – some sum to be lodged before you could present yourself for examination. What about this? When must it be done?”

“A month before I go in,” said Tom, to whom the very thought of the ordeal seemed full of terror and heart-sinking.

“And how soon do you reckon that may be?”

“Polly says not before eight weeks at the earliest. She says we ‘ll have to go over Bell on the Bones all again, and brush up the Ligaments, besides. If it was the Navy, they ‘d not mind the nerves; but they tell me the Army fellows often take a man on the fifth pair, and I know if they do me, it’s mighty little of India I ‘ll see.”

“Plucked, eh?”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘plucked,’ but I ‘d be turned back, which is, perhaps, the same. And no great disgrace, either,” added he, with more of courage in his voice; “Polly herself says there’s days she could n’t remember all the branches of the fifth, and the third is almost as bad.”

“I suppose if your sister could go up in your place, Tom, you ‘d be quite sure of your diploma?”

“It’s many and many a day I wished that same,” sighed he, heavily. “If you heard her going over the ‘Subclavian,’ you ‘d swear she had the book in her hand.”

Conyers could not repress a smile at this strange piece of feminine accomplishment, but he was careful not to let Tom perceive it. Not, indeed, that the poor fellow was in a very observant mood; Polly’s perfections, her memory, and her quickness were the themes that filled up his mind.

“What a rare piece of luck for you to have had such a sister, Tom!”

“Don’t I say it to myself? – don’t I repeat the very same words every morning when I awake? Maybe I ‘ll never come to any good; maybe my father is right, and that I ‘ll only be a disgrace as long as I live; but I hope one thing, at least, I ‘ll never be so bad that I ‘ll forget Polly, and all she done for me. And I’ll tell you more,” said he, with a choking fulness in his throat; “if they turn me back at my examination, my heart will be heavier for her than for myself.”

“Come, cheer up, Tom; don’t look on the gloomy side. You ‘ll pass, I ‘m certain, and with credit too. Here ‘s the thirty pounds you ‘ll have to lodge – ”

“It is only twenty they require. And, besides, I could n’t take it; it’s my father must pay.” He stammered, and hesitated, and grew pale and then crimson, while his lips trembled and his chest heaved and fell almost convulsively.

“Nothing of the kind, Tom,” said Conyers, who had to subdue his own emotion by an assumed sternness. “The plan is all my own, and I will stand no interference with it. I mean that you should pass your examination without your father knowing one word about it. You shall come back to him with your diploma, or whatever it is, in your hand, and say, ‘There, sir, the men who have signed their names to that do not think so meanly of me as you do.’”

“And he’d say, the more fools they!” said Tom, with a grim smile.

“At all events,” resumed Conyers, “I ‘ll have my own way. Put that note in your pocket, and whenever you are gazetted Surgeon-Major to the Guards, or Inspector-General of all the Hospitals in Great Britain, you can repay me, and with interest, besides, if you like it.”

“You ‘ve given me a good long day to be in your debt,” said Tom; and he hurried out of the room before his overfull heart should betray his emotion.

It is marvellous how quickly a kind action done to another reconciles a man to himself. Doubtless conscience at such times condescends to play the courtier, and whispers, “What a good fellow you are! and how unjust the world is when it calls you cold and haughty and ungenial!” Not that I would assert higher and better thoughts than these do not reward him who, Samaritan-like, binds up the wounds of misery; but I fear me much that few of us resist self-flattery, or those little delicate adulations one can offer to his own heart when nobody overhears him.

At all events, Conyers was not averse to this pleasure, and grew actually to feel a strong interest for Tom Dill, all because that poor fellow had been the recipient of his bounty; for so is it the waters of our nature must be stirred by some act of charity or kindness, else their healing virtues have small efficacy, and cure not.

And then he wondered and questioned himself whether Polly might not possibly be right, and that his “governor” would maryel where and how he had picked up so strange a specimen as Tom. That poor fellow, too, like many an humble flower, seen not disadvantageously in its native wilds, would look strangely out of place when transplanted and treated as an exotic. Still he could trust to the wide and generous nature of his father to overlook small defects of manner and breeding, and take the humble fellow kindly.

Must I own that a considerable share of his hopefulness was derived from thinking that the odious blue coat and brass buttons could scarcely make part of Tom’s kit for India, and that in no other costume known to civilized man could his protégé look so unprepossessingly?

CHAPTER XIII. A FEW LEAVES FROM A BLUE-BOOK

The journal which Miss Barrington had placed in Conyers’s hands was little else than the record of the sporting adventures of two young and very dashing fellows. There were lion and tiger hunts, so little varied in detail that one might serve for all, though doubtless to the narrator each was marked with its own especial interest. There were travelling incidents and accidents, and straits for money, and mishaps and arrests, and stories of steeple-chases and balls all mixed up together, and recounted so very much in the same spirit as to show how very little shadow mere misadventure could throw across the sunshine of their every-day life. But every now and then Conyers came upon some entry which closely touched his heart. It was how nobly Ormsby behaved. What a splendid fellow he was! so frank, so generous, such a horseman! “I wish you saw the astonishment of the Mahratta fellows as Ormsby lifted the tent-pegs in full career; he never missed one. Ormsby won the rifle-match; we all knew he would. Sir Peregrine invited Ormsby to go with him to the Hills, but he refused, mainly because I was not asked.” Ormsby has been offered this, that, or t’other; in fact, that one name recurred in every second sentence, and always with the same marks of affection. How proud, too, did Barrington seem of his friend. “They have found out that no country-house is perfect without Ormsby, and he is positively persecuted with invitations. I hear the ‘G. – G.’ is provoked at Ormsby’s refusal of a staff appointment. I’m in rare luck; the old Rajah of Tannanoohr has asked Ormsby to a grand elephant-hunt next week, and I ‘m to go with him. I ‘m to have a leave in October. Ormsby managed it somehow; he never fails, whatever he takes in hand. Such a fright as I got yesterday! There was a report in the camp Ormsby was going to England with despatches; it’s all a mistake, however, he says. He believes he might have had the opportunity, had he cared for it.”

If there was not much in these passing notices of his father, there was quite enough to impart to them an intense degree of interest. There is a wondrous charm, besides, in reading of the young days of those we have only known in maturer life, in hearing of them when they were fresh, ardent, and impetuous; in knowing, besides, how they were regarded by contemporaries, how loved and valued. It was not merely that Ormsby recurred in almost every page of this journal, but the record bore testimony to his superiority and the undisputed sway he exercised over his companions. This same power of dominating and directing had been the distinguishing feature of his after-life, and many an unruly and turbulent spirit had been reclaimed under Ormsby Conyers’s hands.

As he read on, he grew also to feel a strong interest for the writer himself; the very heartiness of the affection he bestowed on his father, and the noble generosity with which he welcomed every success of that “dear fellow Ormsby,” were more than enough to secure his interest for him. There was a bold, almost reckless dash, too, about Barrington which has a great charm occasionally for very young men. He adventured upon life pretty much as he would try to cross a river; he never looked for a shallow nor inquired for a ford, but plunged boldly in, and trusted to his brave heart and his strong arms for the rest. No one, indeed, reading even these rough notes, could hesitate to pronounce which of the two would “make the spoon,” and which “spoil the horn.” Young Conyers was eager to find some mention of the incident to which Miss Barrington had vaguely alluded. He wanted to read George Barrington’s own account before he opened the little pamphlet she gave him, but the journal closed years before this event; and although some of the letters came down to a later date, none approached the period he wanted.

It was not till after some time that he remarked how much more unfrequently his father’s name occurred in the latter portion of the correspondence. Entire pages would contain no reference to him, and in the last letter of all there was this towards the end: “After all, I am almost sorry that I am first for purchase, for I believe Ormsby is most anxious for his troop. I say ‘I believe,’ for he has not told me so, and when I offered to give way to him, he seemed half offended with me. You know what a bungler I am where a matter of any delicacy is to be treated, and you may easily fancy either that I mismanage the affair grossly, or that I am as grossly mistaken. One thing is certain, I ‘d see promotion far enough, rather than let it make a coldness beween us, which could never occur if he were as frank as he used to be. My dear aunt, I wish I had your wise head to counsel me, for I have a scheme in my mind which I have scarcely courage for without some advice, and for many reasons I cannot ask O.‘s opinion. Between this and the next mail I ‘ll think it over carefully, and tell you what I intend.

“I told you that Ormsby was going to marry one of the Gpvernor-General’s daughters. It is all off, – at least, I hear so, – and O. has asked for leave to go home. I suspect he is sorely cut up about this, but he is too proud a fellow to let the world see it. Report says that Sir Peregrine heard that he played. So he does, because he does everything, and everything well. If he does go to England, he will certainly pay you a visit. Make much of him for my sake; you could not make too much for his own.”

This was the last mention of his father, and he pondered long and thoughtfully over it. He saw, or fancied he saw, the first faint glimmerings of a coldness between them, and he hastily turned to the printed report of the House of Commons inquiry, to see what part his father had taken. His name occurred but once; it was appended to an extract of a letter, addressed to him by the Governor-General. It was a confidential report, and much of it omitted in publication. It was throughout, however, a warm and generous testimony to Barrington’s character. “I never knew a man,” said he, “less capable of anything mean or unworthy; nor am I able to imagine any temptation strong enough to warp him from what he believed to be right. That on a question of policy his judgment might be wrong, I am quite ready to admit, but I will maintain that, on a point of honor, he would, and must, be infallible.” Underneath this passage there was written, in Miss Barrington’s hand, “Poor George never saw this; it was not published till after his death.” So interested did young Conyers feel as to the friendship between these two men, and what it could have been that made a breach between them, – if breach there were, – that he sat a long time without opening the little volume that related to the charge against Colonel Barrington. He had but to open it, however, to guess the spirit in which it was written. Its title was, “The Story of Samuel Ed-wardes, with an Account of the Persecutions and Tortures inflicted on him by Colonel George Barrington, when serving in command of the Forces of the Meer Nagheer Assahr, Rajah of Luckerabad, based on the documents produced before the Committee of the House, and private authentic information.” Opposite to this lengthy title was an ill-executed wood-cut of a young fellow tied up to a tree, and being flogged by two native Indians, with the inscription at foot: “Mode of celebrating His Majesty’s Birthday, 4th of June, 18 – , at the Residence of Luckerabad.”

In the writhing figure of the youth, and the ferocious glee of his executioners, the artist had displayed all his skill in expression, and very unmistakably shown, besides, the spirit of the publication. I have no intention to inflict this upon my reader. I will simply give him – and as briefly as I am able – its substance.

The Rajah of Luckerabad, an independent sovereign, living on the best of terms with the Government of the Company, had obtained permission to employ an English officer in the chief command of his army, a force of some twenty-odd thousand, of all arms. It was essential that he should be one not only well acquainted with the details of command, but fully equal to the charge of organization of a force; a man of energy and decision, well versed in Hindostanee, and not altogether ignorant of Persian, in which, occasionally, correspondence was carried on. Amongst the many candidates for an employment so certain to insure the fortune of its possessor, Major Barrington, then a brevet Lieutenant-Colonel, was chosen.

It is not improbable that, in mere technical details of his art, he might have had many equal and some superior to him; it was well known that his personal requisites were above all rivalry. He was a man of great size and strength, of a most commanding presence, an accomplished linguist in the various dialects of Central India and a great master of all manly exercises. To these qualities he added an Oriental taste for splendor and pomp. It had always been his habit to live in a style of costly extravagance, with the retinue of a petty prince, and when he travelled it was with the following of a native chief.

Though, naturally enough, such a station as a separate command gave might be regarded as a great object of ambition by many, there was a good deal of surprise felt at the time that Barrington, reputedly a man of large fortune, should have accepted it; the more so since, by his contract, he bound himself for ten years to the Rajah, and thus forever extinguished all prospect of advancement in his own service. There were all manner of guesses afloat as to his reasons. Some said that he was already so embarrassed by his extravagance that it was his only exit out of difficulty; others pretended that he was captivated by the gorgeous splendor of that Eastern life he loved so well; that pomp, display, and magnificence were bribes he could not resist; and a few, who affected to see more nearly, whispered that he was unhappy of late, had grown peevish and uncompanionable, and sought any change, so that it took him out of his regiment. Whatever the cause, he bade his brother-officers farewell without revealing it, and set out for his new destination. He had never anticipated a life of ease or inaction, but he was equally far from imagining anything like what now awaited him. Corruption, falsehood, robbery, on every hand! The army was little else than a brigand establishment, living on the peasants, and exacting, at the sword point, whatever they wanted. There was no obedience to discipline. The Rajah troubled himself about nothing but his pleasures, and, indeed, passed his days so drugged with opium as to be almost insensible to all around him. In the tribunals there was nothing but bribery, and the object of every one seemed to be to amass fortunes as rapidly as possible, and then hasten away from a country so insecure and dangerous.

For some days after his arrival, Barrington hesitated whether he would accept a charge so apparently hopeless; his bold heart, however, decided the doubt, and he resolved to remain. His first care was to look about him for one or two more trustworthy than the masses, if such there should be, to assist him, and the Rajah referred him to his secretary for that purpose. It was with sincere pleasure Barring-ton discovered that this man was English, – that is, his father had been an Englishman, and his mother was a Malabar slave in the Rajah’s household: his name was Edwardes, but called by the natives Ali Edwardes. He looked about sixty, but his real age was about forty-six when Barrington came to the Residence. He was a man of considerable ability, uniting all the craft and subtlety of the Oriental with the dogged perseverance of the Briton. He had enjoyed the full favor of the Rajah for nigh twenty years, and was strongly averse to the appointment of an English officer to the command of the army, knowing full well the influence it would have over his own fortunes. He represented to the Rajah that the Company was only intriguing to absorb his dominions with their own; that the new Commander-in-chief would be their servant and not his; that it was by such machinery as this they secretly possessed themselves of all knowledge of the native sovereigns, learned their weakness and their strength, and through such agencies hatched those plots and schemes by which many a chief had been despoiled of his state.