Volume I Part 27 (1/2)
”Well, but,” interposed Bushe, ”isn't all that an old story now? Is n't the whole thing a matter of twenty years ago?”
”Not so much as that,” said Sir Charles. ”I remember reading it all when I was in command of the 'Madagascar,'--I forget the exact year, but I was at Corfu.”
”At all events,” said Bushe, ”it's long enough past to be forgotten or forgiven; and old Peter was the very last man I could ever have supposed likely to carry on an ancient grudge against any one.”
”Not where his son was concerned. Wherever George's name entered, forgiveness of the man that wronged him was impossible,” said another.
”You are scarcely just to my old friend,” interposed the Admiral. ”First of all, we have not the facts before us. Many of us here have never seen, some have never heard of the great Barrington Inquiry, and of such as have, if their memories be not better than mine, they can't discuss the matter with much profit.”
”I followed the case when it occurred,” chimed in the former speaker, ”but I own, with Sir Charles, that it has gone clean out of my head since that time.”
”You talk of injustice, Cobham, injustice to old Peter Barrington,” said an old man from the end of the table; ”but I would ask, are we quite just to poor George? I knew him well. My son served in the same regiment with him before he went out to India, and no finer nor n.o.bler-hearted fellow than George Barrington ever lived. Talk of him ruining his father by his extravagance! Why, he'd have cut off his right hand rather than caused him one pang, one moment of displeasure. Barrington ruined himself; that insane pa.s.sion for law has cost him far more than half what he was worth in the world. Ask Withering; he 'll tell you something about it. Why, Withering's own fees in that case before 'the Lords'
amount to upwards of two thousand guineas.”
”I won't dispute the question with you, Fowndes,” said the Admiral.
”Scandal says you have a taste for a trial at bar yourself.”
The hit told, and called for a hearty laugh, in which Fowndes himself joined freely.
”_I_'m a burned child, however, and keep away from the fire,” said he, good-humoredly; ”but old Peter seems rather to like being singed. There he is again with his Privy Council case for next term, and with, I suppose, as much chance of success as I should have in a suit to recover a Greek estate of some of my Phoenician ancestors.”
It was not a company to sympathize deeply with such a litigious spirit.
The hearty and vigorous tone of squiredom, young and old, could not understand it as a pa.s.sion or a pursuit, and they mainly agreed that nothing but some strange perversion could have made the generous nature of old Barrington so fond of law. Gradually the younger members of the party slipped away to the drawing-room, till, in the changes that ensued, Stapylton found himself next to Mr. Fowndes.
”I'm glad to see, Captain,” said the old squire, ”that modern fas.h.i.+on of deserting the claret-jug has not invaded your mess. I own I like a man who lingers over his wine.”
”We have no pretext for leaving it, remember that,” said Stapylton, smiling.
”Very true. The _placeus uxor_ is sadly out of place in a soldier's life. Your married officer is but a sorry comrade; besides, how is a fellow to be a hero to the enemy who is daily bullied by his wife?”
”I think you said that you had served?” interposed Stapylton.
”No. My son was in the army; he is so still, but holds a Governors.h.i.+p in the West Indies. He it was who knew this Barrington we were speaking of.”
”Just so,” said Stapylton, drawing his chair closer, so as to converse more confidentially.
”You may imagine what very uneventful lives we country gentlemen live,”
said the old squire, ”when we can continue to talk over one memorable case for something like twenty years, just because one of the parties to it was our neighbor.”
”You appear to have taken a lively interest in it,” said Stapylton, who rightly conjectured it was a favorite theme with the old squire.
”Yes. Barrington and my son were friends; they came down to my house together to shoot; and with all his eccentricities--and they were many--I liked Mad George, as they called him.”
”He was a good fellow, then?”
”A thoroughly good fellow, but the shyest that ever lived; to all outward seeming rough and careless, but sensitive as a woman all the while. He would have walked up to a cannon's mouth with a calm step, but an affecting story would bring tears to his eyes; and then, to cover this weakness, which he was well ashamed of, he 'd rush into fifty follies and extravagances. As he said himself to me one day, alluding to some feat of rash absurdity, 'I have been taking another inch off the dog's tail,'--he referred to the story of Alcibiades, who docked his dog to take off public attention from his heavier transgressions.”
”There was no truth in these accusations against him?”