Kitabı oku: «Barrington. Volume 2», sayfa 4

CHAPTER V. A CABINET COUNCIL

“What do you think of it, Dinah?” said Barrington, as they sat in conclave the next morning in her own sitting-room.

She laid down a letter she had just finished reading on the table, carefully folding it, like one trying to gain time before she spoke: “He’s a clever man, and writes well, Peter; there can be no second opinion upon that.”

“But his proposal, Dinah, – his proposal?”

“Pleases me less the more I think of it. There is great disparity of age, – a wide discrepancy in character. A certain gravity of demeanor would not be undesirable, perhaps, in a husband for Josephine, who has her moments of capricious fancy; but if I mistake not, this man’s nature is stern and unbending.”

“There will be time enough to consider all that, Dinah. It is, in fact, to weigh well the chances of his fitness to secure her happiness that he pleads; he asks permission to make himself known to her, rather than to make his court.”

“I used to fancy that they meant the same thing, – I know that they did in my day, Peter,” said she, bridling; “but come to the plain question before us. So far as I understand him, his position is this: ‘If I satisfy you that my rank and fortune are satisfactory to you, have I your permission to come back here as your granddaughter’s suitor?’”

“Not precisely, Dinah, – not exactly this. Here are his words: ‘I am well aware that I am much older than Miss Barrington, and it is simply to ascertain from herself if, in that disparity of years, there exists that disparity of tastes and temper which would indispose her to regard me as one to whom she would intrust her happiness. I hope to do this without any offence to her delicacy, though not without peril to my own self-love. Have I your leave for this experiment?’”

“Who is he? Who are his friends, connections, belongings? What is his station independently of his military rank, and what are his means? Can you answer these questions?”

“Not one of them. I never found myself till to-day in a position to inquire after them.”

“Let us begin, then, by that investigation, Peter. There is no such test of a man as to make him talk of himself. With you alone the matter, perhaps, would not present much difficulty to him, but I intend that Mr. Withering’s name and my own shall be on the committee; and, take my word for it, we shall sift the evidence carefully.”

“Bear in mind, sister Dinah, that this gentleman is, first of all, our guest.”

“The first of all that I mean to bear in mind is, that he desires to be your grandson.”

“Of course, – of course. I would only observe on the reserve that should be maintained towards one who honors us with his presence.”

“Peter Barrington, the Arabs, from whom you seem to borrow your notions on hospitality, seldom scruple about cutting a guest’s head off when he passes the threshold; therefore I would advise you to adopt habits that may be more suited to the land we live in.”

“All I know is,” said Barrington, rising and pacing the room, “that I could no more put a gentleman under my roof to the question as to his father and mother and his fortune, than I could rifle his writing-desk and read his letters.”

“Brother Peter, the weakness of your disposition has cost you one of the finest estates in your country, and if it could be restored to you to-morrow, the same imbecility would forfeit it again. I will, however, take the matter into my own hands.”

“With Withering, I suppose, to assist you?”

“Certainly not. I am perfectly competent to make any inquiry I deem requisite without a legal adviser. Perhaps, were I to be so accompanied, Major Stapylton would suppose that he, too, should appear with his lawyer.”

Barrington smiled faintly at the dry jest, but said nothing.

“I see,” resumed she, “that you are very much afraid about my want of tact and delicacy in this investigation. It is a somewhat common belief amongst men that in all matters of business women err on the score of hardness and persistence. I have listened to some edifying homilies from your friend Withering on female incredulity and so forth, – reproaches which will cease to apply when men shall condescend to treat us as creatures accessible to reason, and not as mere dupes. See who is knocking at the door, Peter,” added she, sharply. “I declare it recalls the old days of our innkeeping, and Darby asking for the bill of the lame gentleman in No. 4.”

“Upon my life, they were pleasant days, too,” said Barrington, but in a tone so low as to be unheard by his sister.

“May I come in?” said Withering, as he opened the door a few inches, and peeped inside. “I want to show you a note I have just had from Kinshela, in Kilkenny.”

“Yes, yes; come in,” said Miss Barrington. “I only wish you had arrived a little earlier. What is your note about?”

“It’s very short and very purpose-like. The first of it is all about Brazier’s costs, which it seems the taxing-officer thinks fair and reasonable, – all excepting that charge for the additional affidavits. But here is what I want to show you. ‘Major M’Cormick, of M’Cormick’s Grove, has just been here; and although I am not entitled to say as much officially on his part, I entertain no doubt whatever but that he is ready to advance the money we require. I spoke of fifteen hundred, but said twelve might possibly be taken, and twelve would be, I imagine, his limit, since he held to this amount in all our conversation afterwards. He appears to be a man of strange and eccentric habits, and these will probably be deemed a sufficient excuse for the singular turn our interview took towards its conclusion. I was speaking of Mr. Barrington’s wish for the insertion in the deed of a definite period for redemption, and he stopped me hastily with, “What if we could strike out another arrangement? What if he was to make a settlement of the place on his granddaughter? I am not too old to marry, and I ‘d give him the money at five per cent.” I have been careful to give you the very expressions he employed, and of which I made a note when he left the office; for although fully aware how improper it would be in me to submit this proposal to Mr. Barrington, I have felt it my duty to put you in possession of all that has passed between us.’”

“How can you laugh, Peter Barrington? – how is it possible you can laugh at such an insult, – such an outrage as this? Go on, sir,” said she, turning to Withering; “let us hear it to the end, for nothing worse can remain behind.”

“There is no more; at least, there is not anything worth hearing. Kinshela winds up with many apologies, and hopes that I will only use his communication for my own guidance, and not permit it in any case to prejudice him in your estimation.” As he spoke, he crumpled up the note in his hand in some confusion.

“Who thinks of Mr. Kinshela, or wants to think of him, in the matter?” said she, angrily. “I wish, however, I were a man for a couple of hours, to show Major M’Cormick the estimate I take of the honor he intends us.”

“After all, Dinah, it is not that he holds us more cheaply, but rates himself higher.”

“Just so,” broke in Withering; “and I know, for my own part, I have never been able to shake off the flattery of being chosen by the most nefarious rascal to defend him on his trial. Every man is a great creature in his own eyes.”

“Well, sir, be proud of your client,” said she, trembling with anger.

“No, no, – he ‘s no client of mine, nor is this a case I would plead for him. I read you Kinshela’s note because I thought you were building too confidently on M’Cormick’s readiness to advance this money.”

“I understood what that readiness meant, though my brother did not. M’Cormick looked forward to the day – and not a very distant day did he deem it – when he should step into possession of this place, and settle down here as its owner.”

Barrington’s face grew pale, and a glassy film spread over his eyes, as his sister’s words sunk into his heart. “I declare, Dinah,” said he, falteringly, “that never did strike me before.”

“‘It never rains but it pours,’ says the Irish adage,” resumed she. “My brother and I were just discussing another proposal of the same kind when you knocked. Read that letter. It is from a more adroit courtier than the other, and, at least, he does n’t preface his intentions with a bargain.” And she handed Stapylton’s letter to Withering.

“Ah!” said the lawyer, “this is another guess sort of man, and a very different sort of proposal.”

“I suspected that he was a favorite of yours,” said Miss Dinah, significantly.

“Well, I own to it. He is one of those men who have a great attraction for me, – men who come out of the conflict of life and its interests without any exaggerated notions of human perfectibility or the opposite, who recognize plenty of good and no small share of bad in the world, but, on the whole, are satisfied that, saving ill health, very few of our calamities are not of our own providing.”

“All of which is perfectly compatible with an odious egotism, sir,” said she, warmly; “but I feel proud to say such characters find few admirers amongst women.”

“From which I opine that he is not fortunate enough to number Miss Dinah Barrington amongst his supporters?”

“You are right there, sir. The prejudice I had against him before we met has been strengthened since I have seen him.”

“It is candid of you, however, to call it a prejudice,” said he, with a smile.

“Be it so, Mr. Withering; but prejudice is only another word for an instinct.”

“I ‘m afraid if we get into ethics we ‘ll forget all about the proposal,” said Barrington.

“What a sarcasm!” cried Withering, “that if we talk of morals we shall ignore matrimony.”

“I like the man, and I like his letter,” said Barrington.

“I distrust both one and the other,” said Miss Dinah.

“I almost fancy I could hold a brief on either side,” interposed Withering.

“Of course you could, sir; and if the choice were open to you, it would be the defence of the guilty.”

“My dear Miss Barrington,” said Withering, calmly, “when a great legal authority once said that he only needed three lines of any man’s writing ‘to hang him,’ it ought to make us very lenient in our construction of a letter. Now, so far as I can see in this one before us, he neither asks nor protests too much. He begs simply for time, he entreats leave to draw a bill on your affections, and he promises to meet it.”

“No, sir, he wishes to draw at sight, though he has never shown us the letter of credit.”

“I vow to Heaven it is hopeless to expect anything practical when you two stand up together for a sparring-match,” cried Barrington.

“Be practical, then, brother Peter, and ask this gentleman to give you a quarter of an hour in your study. Find out who he is; I don’t expect you to learn what he is, but what he has. With his fortune we shall get the clew to himself.”

“Yes,” chimed in Withering, “all that is very businesslike and reasonable.”

“And it pledges us to nothing,” added she. “We take soundings, but we don’t promise to anchor.”

“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.”

“Pardon my interrupting you; but, on the last point, I am perfectly indifferent. Miss Barrington with half a province for her dower, would be no more in my eyes than Miss Barrington as she sat at breakfast this morning. Nor is there anything of high-flown sentiment in this declaration, as my means are sufficiently ample for all that I want or care.”

“There, at least, is one difficulty disposed of. You are an eldest son?” said he; and he blushed at his own boldness in making the inquiry.

“I am an only son.”

“Easier again,” said Barrington, trying to laugh off the awkward moment. “No cutting down one’s old timber to pay off the provisions for younger brothers.”

“In my case there is no need of this.”

“And your father. Is he still living, Major Stapylton?”

“My father has been dead some years.”

Barrington fidgeted again, fumbled with his watch-chain and his eye-glass, and would have given more than he could afford for any casualty that should cut short the interview. He wanted to say, “What is the amount of your fortune? What is it? Where is it? Are you Wiltshire or Staffordshire? Who are your uncles and aunts, and your good friends that you pray for, and where do you pray for them?” A thousand questions of this sort arose in his mind, one only more prying and impertinent than another. He knew he ought to ask them; he knew Dinah would have asked them. Ay, and would have the answers to them as plain and palpable as the replies to a life assurance circular; but he could n’t do it. No; not if his life depended on it.

He had already gone further in his transgression of good manners than it ever occurred to him before to do, and he felt something between a holy inquisitor and a spy of the police.

Stapylton looked at his watch, and gave a slight start.

“Later than you thought, eh?” cried Peter, overjoyed at the diversion.

Stapylton smiled a cold assent, and put up his watch without a word. He saw all the confusion and embarrassment of the other, and made no effort to relieve him. At last, but not until after a considerable pause, he said, – “I believe, Mr. Barrington, – I hope, at least, – I have satisfactorily answered the questions which, with every right on your part, you have deemed proper to put to me. I cannot but feel how painful the task has been to you, and I regret it the more, since probably it has set a limit to inquiries which you are perfectly justified in making, but which closer relations between us may make a matter far less formidable one of these days.”

“Yes, yes, – just so; of course,” said Barrington, hurriedly assenting to he knew not what.

“And I trust I take my leave of you with the understanding that when we meet again, it shall be as in the commencement of these pleasanter relations. I own to you I am the more eager on this point, that I perceive your sister, Miss Barrington, scarcely regards me very favorably, and I stand the more in need of your alliance.”

“I don’t think it possible, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, boldly, “that my sister and I could have two opinions upon anything or anybody.”

“Then I only ask that she may partake of yours on this occasion,” said Stapylton, bowing. “But I must start; as it is, I shall be very late in Dublin. Will you present my most respectful adieux to the ladies, and say also a goodbye for me to Mr. Withering?”

“You’ll come in for a moment to the drawing-room, won’t you?” cried Barrington.

“I think not. I opine it would be better not. There would be a certain awkwardness about it, – that is, until you have informed Miss Dinah Barrington of the extent to which you have accorded me your confidence, and how completely I have opened every detail of my circumstances. I believe it would be in better taste not to present myself. Tell Withering that if he writes, Manchester will find me. I don’t suspect he need give himself any more trouble about establishing the proofs of marriage. They will scarcely contest that point. The great question will and must be, to ascertain if the Company will cease to oppose the claim on being fully convinced that the letter to the Meer Busherat was a forgery, and that no menace ever came from Colonel Barrington’s hand as to the consequences of opposing his rule. Get them to admit this, – let the issue rest upon this, – and it will narrow the whole suit within manageable limits.”

“Would you not say this much to him before you go? It would come with so much more force and clearness from yourself.”

“I have done so till I was wearied. Like a true lawyer, he insists upon proving each step as he goes, and will not condescend to a hypothetical conclusion, though I have told him over and over again we want a settlement, not a victory. Good-bye, good-bye! If I once launch out into the cause, I cannot tear myself away again.”

“Has your guest gone, Peter?” said Miss Dinah, as her brother re-entered the drawing-room.

“Yes; it was a hurried departure, and he had no great heart for it, either. By the way, Withering, while it is fresh in my head, let me tell you the message he has sent you.”

“Was there none for me, Peter?” said she, scofflngly.

“Ay, but there was, Dinah! He left with me I know not how many polite and charming things to say for him.”

“And am I alone forgotten in this wide dispensation of favors?” asked Josephine, smiling.

“Of course not, dear,” chimed in Miss Dinah. “Your grandpapa has been charged with them all. You could not expect a gentleman so naturally timid and bashful as our late guest to utter them by his own lips.”

“I see,” said Withering, laughing, “that you have not forgiven the haughty aristocrat for his insolent estimate of the people!”

“He an aristocrat! Such bitter words as his never fell from any man who had a grandfather!”

“Wrong for once, Dinah,” broke in Barrington. “I can answer for it that you are unjust to him.”

“We shall see,” said she. “Come, Josephine, I have a whole morning’s work before me in the flower-garden, and I want your help. Don’t forget, Peter, that Major M’Cormick’s butler, or boatman, or bailiff, whichever he be, has been up here with a present of seakale this morning. Give him something as you pass the kitchen; and you, Mr. Withering, whose trade it is to read and unravel mysteries, explain if you can the meaning of this unwonted generosity.”

“I suppose we can all guess it,” said he, laughing. “It’s a custom that begins in the East and goes round the whole world till it reaches the vast prairie in the Far West.”

“And what can that custom be, Aunt Dinah?” asked Josephine, innocently.

“It’s an ancient rite Mr. Withering speaks, of, child, pertaining to the days when men offered sacrifices. Come along; I ‘m going!”