Volume I Part 45 (1/2)
”It is to my father you are unjust now, Miss Harrington.”
”No, Mr. Conyers; there is no injustice in believing that a father loves his son with a love so large that it cannot exclude even worldliness.
There is no injustice in believing that a proud and successful man would desire to see his son successful too; and we all know what we call success. I see you are very angry with me. You think me very worldly and very small-minded; perhaps, too, you would like to say that all the perils I talk of are of my own inventing; that Fifine and you could be the best of friends, and never think of more than friends.h.i.+p; and that I might spare my anxieties, and not fret for sorrows that have no existence;--and to all this I would answer, I 'll not risk the chance.
No, Mr. Conyers, I 'll be no party to a game where the stakes are so unequal. What might give _you_ a month's sorrow might cost _her_ the misery of a life long.”
”I have no choice left me. I will go,--I will go to-night, Miss Barrington.”
”Perhaps it would be better,” said she, gravely, and walked slowly away.
I will not tell the reader what harsh and cruel things Conyers said of every one and everything, nor how severely he railed at the world and its ways. Lord Byron had taught the youth of that age a very hearty and wholesome contempt for all manner of conventionalities, into which category a vast number of excellent customs were included, and Conyers could spout ”Manfred” by heart, and imagine himself, on very small provocation, almost as great a man-hater; and so he set off on a long walk into the forest, determined not to appear at dinner, and equally determined to be the cause of much inquiry, and, if possible, of some uneasiness. ”I wonder what that old-maid,”--alas for his gallantry, it was so he called her,--”what she would say if her harsh, ungenerous words had driven me to--” what he did not precisely define, though it was doubtless a.s.sociated with snow peaks and avalanches, eternal solitudes and demoniac possessions. It might, indeed, have been some solace to him had he known how miserable and anxious old Peter became at his absence, and how incessantly he questioned every one about him.
”I hope that no mishap has befallen that boy, Dinah; he was always punctual. I never knew him stray away in this fas.h.i.+on before.”
”It would be rather a severe durance, brother Peter, if a young gentleman could not prolong his evening walk without permission.”
”What says Fifine? I suspect she agrees with me.”
”If that means that he ought to be here, grandpapa, I do.”
”I must read over Withering's letter again, brother,” said Miss Dinah, by way of changing the subject ”He writes, you say, from the Home?”
”Yes; he was obliged to go down there to search for some papers he wanted, and he took Stapylton with him; and he says they had two capital days at the partridges. They bagged,--egad! I think it was eight or ten brace before two o'clock, the Captain or Major, I forget which, being a first-rate shot.”
”What does he say of the place,--how is it looking?”
”In perfect beauty. Your deputy, Polly, would seem to have fulfilled her part admirably. The garden in prime order; and that little spot next your own sitting-room, he says, is positively a better flower-show than one he paid a s.h.i.+lling to see in Dublin. Polly herself, too, comes in for a very warm share of his admiration.”
”How did he see her, and where?”
”At the Home. She was there the evening they arrived, and Withering insisted on her presiding at the tea-table for them.”
”It did not require very extraordinary entreaty, I will make bold to say, Peter.”
”He does not mention that; he only speaks of her good looks, and what he calls her very pretty manners. In a situation not devoid of a certain awkwardness he says she displayed the most perfect tact; and although doing the honors of the house, she, with some very nice ingenuity, insinuated that she was herself but a visitor.”
”She could scarce have forgotten herself so far as to think anything else, Peter,” said Miss Dinah, bridling up. ”I suspect her very pretty manners were successfully exercised. That old gentleman is exactly of the age to be fascinated by her.”
”What! Withering, Dinah,--do you mean Withering?” cried he, laughing.
”I do, brother; and I say that he is quite capable of making her the offer of his hand. You may laugh, Peter Barrington, but my observation of young ladies has been closer and finer than yours.” And the glance she gave at Josephine seemed to say that her gun had been double-shotted.
”But your remark, sister Dinah, rather addresses itself to old gentlemen than to young ladies.”
”Who are much the more easily read of the two,” said she, tartly. ”But really, Peter, I will own that I am more deeply concerned to know what Mr. Withering has to say of our lawsuit than about Polly Dill's attractions.”
”He speaks very hopefully,--very hopefully, indeed. In turning over George's papers some Hindoo doc.u.ments have come to light, which Stapylton has translated, and it appears that there is a certain Moonshee, called Jokeeram, who was, or is, in the service of Meer Rustum, whose testimony would avail us much. Stapylton inclines to think he could trace this man for us. His own relations are princ.i.p.ally in Madras, but he says he could manage to inst.i.tute inquiries in Bengal.”
”What is our claim to this gentleman's interest for us, Peter?”