Volume Ii Part 22 (2/2)
”Will you excuse me, Major Stapylton, if I do not enter upon a subject on which I am not merely very imperfectly informed, but on which so humble a judgment as mine would be valueless? My brother showed me the letter very hurriedly; I had but time to see to what it referred, and to be aware that it was his duty to let you see it at once,--if possible, indeed, before you were again under his roof.”
”What a grave significance your words have, Miss Barrington!” said he, with a cold smile. ”They actually set me to think over all my faults and failings, and wonder for which of them I am now arraigned.”
”We do not profess to judge you, sir.”
By this time they had sauntered up to the little garden in front of the cottage, within the paling of which Josephine was busily engaged in training a j.a.ponica. She arose as she heard the voices, and in her accustomed tone wished Stapylton good-evening. ”_She_, at least, has heard nothing of all this,” muttered he to himself, as he saluted her. He then opened the little wicket; and Miss Barrington pa.s.sed in, acknowledging his attention by a short nod, as she walked hastily forward and entered the cottage. Instead of following her, Stapylton closed the wicket again, remaining on the outside, and leaning his arm on the upper rail.
”Why do you perform sentry? Are you not free to enter the fortress?”
said Fifine.
”I half suspect not,” said he, in a low tone, and to hear which she was obliged to draw nigher to where he stood.
”What do you mean? I don't understand you!”
”No great wonder, for I don't understand myself. Your aunt has, however, in her own most mysterious way, given me to believe that somebody has written something about me to somebody else, and until I clear up what in all probability I shall never hear, that I had better keep to what the Scotch call the 'back o' the gate.'”
”This is quite unintelligible.”
”I hope it is, for it is almost unendurable. I am sorely afraid,” added he, after a minute, ”that I am not so patient as I ought to be under Miss Barrington's strictures. I am so much more in the habit of command than of obedience, that I may forget myself now and then. To _you_, however, I am ready to submit all my past life and conduct. By you I am willing to be judged. If these cruel calumnies which are going the round of the papers on me have lowered me in your estimation, my case is a lost one; but if, as I love to think, your woman's heart resents an injustice,--if, taking counsel of your courage and your generosity, you feel it is not the time to withdraw esteem when the dark hour of adversity looms over a man,--then, I care no more for these slanders than for the veriest trifles which cross one's every-day life. In one word,--your verdict is life or death to me.”
”In that case,” said she, with an effort to dispel the seriousness of his manner, ”I must have time to consider my sentence.”
”But that is exactly what you cannot have, Josephine,” said he; and there was a certain earnestness in his voice and look, which made her hear him call her by her name without any sense of being off ended.
”First relieve the suffering; there will be ample leisure to question the sufferer afterwards. The Good Samaritan wasted few words, and asked for no time. The n.o.blest services are those of which the cost is never calculated. Your own heart can tell you: can you befriend me, and will you?”
”I do not know what it is you ask of me,” said she, with a frank boldness which actually disconcerted him. ”Tell me distinctly, what is it?”
”I will tell you,” said he, taking her hand, but so gently, so respectfully withal, that she did not at first withdraw it,--”I will tell you. It is that you will share that fate on which fortune is now frowning; that you will add your own high-couraged heart to that of one who never knew a fear till now; that you will accept my lot in this the day of my reverse, and enable me to turn upon my pursuers and scatter them. To-morrow or next day will be too late. It is now, at this hour, that friends hold back, that one more than friend is needed. Can you be that, Josephine?”
”No!” said she, firmly. ”If I read your meaning aright, I cannot.”
”You cannot love me, Josephine,” said he, in a voice of intense emotion; and though he waited some time for her to speak, she was silent. ”It is true, then,” said he, pa.s.sionately, ”the slanderers have done their work!”
”I know nothing of these calumnies. When my grandfather told me that they accused you falsely, and condemned you unfairly, I believed him.
I am as ready as ever to say so. I do not understand your cause; but I believe you to be a true and gallant gentleman!”
”But yet, not one to love!” whispered he, faintly.
Again she was silent, and for some time he did not speak.
”A true and gallant gentleman!” said he, slowly repeating her own words; ”and if so, is it an unsafe keeping to which to intrust your happiness?
It is no graceful task to have oneself for a theme; but I cannot help it. I have no witnesses to call to character; a few brief lines in an army list, and some scars--old reminders of French sabres--are poor certificates, and yet I have no others.”
There was something which touched her in the sadness of his tone as he said these words, and if she knew how, she would have spoken to him in kindliness. He mistook the struggle for a change of purpose, and with greater eagerness continued: ”After all I am scarcely more alone in the world than you are! The dear friends who now surround you cannot be long spared, and what isolation will be your fate then! Think of this, and think, too, how, in a.s.suring your own future, you rescue mine.”
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