Volume Ii Part 2 (1/2)
continued Barrington.
”Pray enlighten us as to the name that calls forth such enthusiasm.”
”Stapylton, my dear Dinah,--Major Stapylton. In all my life I do not remember one instance to parallel with this generous and disinterested conduct. Listen to what Withering says,--not a man given to take up rash impressions in favor of a stranger. Listen to this: 'Stapylton has been very active,--written to friends, both at Calcutta and Agra, and shown, besides, an amount of acuteness in pursuit of what is really important, that satisfies me a right good common lawyer has been lost by his being a soldier.' And here, again he recurs to him: it is with reference to certain doc.u.ments: 'S. persists in believing that with proper diligence these may be recovered; he says that it is a common practice with the Moonshees to retain papers, in the hope of their being one day deemed of value; and he is fully persuaded that they have not been destroyed.
There is that about the man's manner of examining a question,--his patience, his instinctive seizure of what is of moment, and his invariable rejection of whatever is immaterial; and, lastly, his thorough appreciation of the character of that evidence which would have most weight with the Indian Board, which dispose me to regard him as an invaluable ally to our cause.'”
”Do me the favor to regard this picture of your friend now,” said Miss Barrington, as she handed the letter from Conyers across the table.
Barrington read it over attentively. ”And what does this prove, my dear sister?” said he. ”This is the sort of stereotyped complaint of every young fellow who has been refused a leave. I have no doubt Hunter was too easy-tempered to have been strict in discipline, and the chances are these young dogs had everything their own way till Stapylton came amongst them. I find it hard to believe that any man likes unpopularity.”
”Perhaps not, Peter Barrington; but he may like tyranny more than he hates unpopularity; and, for my own part, this man is odious to me.”
”Don't say so, Dinah,--don't say so, I entreat of you, for he will be our guest here this very day.”
”Our guest!--why, is not the regiment under orders to leave?”
”So it is; but Withering says it would be a great matter if we could have a sort of consultation together before the Major leaves Ireland.
There are innumerable little details which he sees ought to be discussed between us; and so he has persuaded him to give us a day,--perhaps two days,--no small boon, Dinah, from one so fully occupied as he is.”
”I wish he would not make the sacrifice, Peter.”
”My dear sister, are we so befriended by Fortune that we can afford to reject the kindness of our fellows?”
”I'm no believer in chance friends.h.i.+ps, Peter Barrington; neither you nor I are such interesting orphans as to inspire sympathy at first sight.”
Josephine could not help a laugh at Miss Dinah's ill.u.s.tration, and old Barriqgton himself heartily joined in the merriment, not sorry the while to draw the discussion into a less stern field. ”Come, come, Dinah,”
said he, gayly, ”let us put out a few bottles of that old Madeira in the sun; and if Darby can find us a salmon-trout, we 'll do our best to entertain our visitors.”
”It never occurred to me to doubt the probability of their enjoying themselves, Peter; my anxieties were quite on another score.”
”Now, Fifine,” continued Barrington, ”we shall see if Polly Dill has really made you the perfect housekeeper she boasted. The next day or two will put your talents to the test.”
”Oh, if we could only have Polly herself here!”
”What for?--on what pretext, Miss Barrington?” said Dinah, haughtily.
”I have not, so far as I am aware, been accounted very ignorant of household cares.”
”Withering declares that your equal is not in Europe, Dinah.”
”Mr. Withering's suffrage can always be bought by a mock-turtle soup, and a gla.s.s of Roman punch after it.”
”How he likes it,--how he relishes it! He says that he comes back to the rest of the dinner with the freshness of a man at an a.s.size case.”
”So like him!” said Dinah, scornfully; ”he has never an ill.u.s.tration that is not taken from the Four Courts. I remember one day, when asking for the bill of fare, he said, 'Will you kindly let me look at the cause list.' Prepare yourself, Josephine, for an avalanche of law anecdotes and Old Bailey stories, for I a.s.sure you you will hear nothing for the next three days but drolleries that have been engrossed on parchment and paid stamp duty to the Crown.”
Barrington gave a smile, as though in protest against the speech, and left the room. In truth, he was very anxious to be alone, and to think over, at his leisure, a short pa.s.sage in his letter which he had not summoned courage to read aloud. It was Withering's opinion that to inst.i.tute the inquiries in India a considerable sum of money would be required, and he had left it for Barrington's consideration whether it were wiser to risk the great peril of this further involvement, or once more to try what chance there might be of a compromise. Who knows what success might have attended the suggestion if the old lawyer had but employed any other word! Compromise, however, sounded to his ears like an unworthy concession,--a surrender of George's honor. Compromise might mean money for his granddaughter, and shame to her father's memory. Not, indeed, that Withering was, as a man, one to counsel such a course, but Withering was a lawyer, and in the same spirit that he would have taken a verdict for half his claim if he saw an adverse feeling in the jury-box, so he would bow to circ.u.mstances that were stronger than him, and accept the best he could, if he might not have all that he ought But could Barrington take this view? He thought not. His conviction was that the main question to establish was the fair fame and honor of his son; his guide was, how George himself would have acted--would have felt--in the same contingency; and he muttered, ”He'd have been a hardy fellow who would have hinted at compromise to _him_.”
The next point was how the means for the coming campaign were to be provided. He had already raised a small sum by way of mortgage on the ”Home,” and nothing remained but to see what further advance could be made on the same security. When Barrington was a great estated gentleman with a vast fortune at his command, it cost him wonderfully little thought to contract a loan, or even to sell a farm. A costly election, a few weeks of unusual splendor, an unfortunate night at play, had made such sacrifices nothing very unusual, and he would give his orders on this score as unconcernedly as he would bid his servant replenish his gla.s.s at table. Indeed, he had no more fear of exhausting his fortune than he felt as to out-drinking his cellar. There was enough there, as he often said, for those who should come after him. And now, what a change! He stood actually appalled at the thought of a mortgage for less than a thousand pounds. But so it is; the c.o.c.kboat may be more to a man than was once the three-decker. The cottage was his all now; that lost, and they were houseless. Was it not a bold thing to risk everything on one more throw? There was the point over which he now pondered as he walked slowly along in the little shady alley between the laurel hedges.
He had no friend nearer his heart than Withering, no one to whom he could unbosom himself so frankly and so freely, and yet this was a case on which he could not ask his counsel. All his life long he had strenuously avoided suffering a question of the kind to intervene between them. Of his means, his resources, his straits, or his demands, Withering knew positively nothing. It was with Barrington a point of delicacy to maintain this reserve towards one who was always his lawyer, and often his guest. The very circ.u.mstance of his turning innkeeper was regarded by Withering as savoring far more of caprice than necessity, and Barrington took care to strengthen this impression.