Volume Ii Part 30 (2/2)
”I 'll try and acquit myself with credit,” said she, as she sat down to the writing-desk.
”And what is all this about,--a letter from Miss Dorothea to Polly,”
said Tom, as they drove along the road back to town. ”Surely they never met?”
”Never; but my aunt intends that they shall. She writes to ask your sister to come on a visit here.”
”But why not have told her the thing was impossible? You know us. You have seen the humble way we live,--how many a care it costs to keep up that little show of respectability that gets us sufferance in the world, and how one little attempt beyond this is quite out of our reach. Why not have told her frankly, sir, 'These people are not in our station'?”
”Just because I acknowledge no such distinction as you want to draw, my good fellow. If my aunt has asked your sister to come three hundred miles to see her, she has thought over her request with more foresight than you or I could have given it, take my word for it. When she means kindly, she plans thoughtfully. And now I will tell you what I never meant to have spoken of, that it was only last night she asked me how could she be of use to you?”
”To _me!_” said he, blus.h.i.+ng, ”and why to _me?_”
”Can you never be brought to see that you are a hero, Tom,--that all the world is talking of you just now, and people feel a pride in being even pa.s.singly mixed up with your name?”
”If they only knew how much I have to be ashamed of before I can begin to feel vain, they 'd not be so ready with their praise or their flattery.”
”I 'll talk over all that with your sister Polly,” said Hunter, gayly; for he saw the serious spirit that was gaining over the poor fellow.
”Do so, sir; and you'll soon see, if there's anything good or hopeful about me, where it comes from and who gave it.”
CHAPTER XIX. FROM GENERAL CONYERS TO HIS SON
Beddwys, N. Wales.
My dear Fred,--How happy I am that you are enjoying yourself; short of being with you, nothing could have given me greater pleasure than your letter. I like your portrait of the old lady, whose eccentricities are never inconsistent with some charming traits of disposition, and a nature eminently high-minded and honorable; but why not more about Josephine? She is surely oftener in your thoughts than your one brief paragraph would bespeak, and has her due share in making the cottage the delightful home you describe it to be. I entreat you to be more open and more explicit on this theme, for it may yet be many days before I can explore the matter for myself; since, instead of the brief absence I calculated on, we may, for aught I know, be detained here for some weeks.
It is clear to me, from your last, a note of mine from Liverpool to you must have miscarried. You ask me where you are to address me next, and what is the nature of the business which has called me away so suddenly?
I gave you in that letter all the information that I was myself possessed of, and which, in three words, amounted to this: Old Barrington, having involved himself in a serious personal quarrel with Stapylton, felt, or believed, that he ought to give him a meeting.
Seeing how useless all attempt at dissuasion proved, and greatly fearing what hands he might fall into, I agreed to be his friend on the occasion; trusting, besides, that by a little exercise of tact and temper, extreme measures might be avoided, and the affair arranged. You may well believe, without my insisting further upon it, that I felt very painfully how we should both figure before the world,--a man of eighty-three or four, accompanied to the ground by another of sixty-odd!
I know well how, in the changed temper of the age, such acts are criticised, and acquiesce, besides, in the wiser spirit that now prevails. However, as I said before, if Barrington must go on, it were better he should do so under the guidance of a sincere friend than of one casually elevated to act as such, in a moment of emergency.
We left Dublin, by the mail-packet, on Wednesday; and after a rough pa.s.sage of twenty-three hours, reached Liverpool too late to catch the evening coach. Thus detained, we only arrived here on Sunday night late.
At my club I found a note from Stapylton, stating that he had daily called there to learn if we had come, but the boisterous state of the weather sufficiently explained our delay, and giving an address where he might be found, as well as that of ”his friend.” Now, it so chanced that this friend was a very notorious person well known to me in India, where he had been tried for an unfair duel, and narrowly escaped--I should say unjustly escaped--being hanged. Though I had fully made up my mind not to be placed in any relations with such a man, I thought it would be as well that Barrington should know the character of his antagonist's friend from other sources, and so I invited an old Bengal companion of mine to dine with us the day after we arrived. Stamer was a judge of the criminal court, and tried Duff Brown, the man I speak of. As we sat over our wine together, we got upon this case, and Stamer declared that it was the only criminal cause in his whole life wherein he regretted the escape of the guilty party. ”The fellow,” said he, ”defended himself in a three hours' speech, ably and powerfully; but enunciated at times--as it were unconsciously--sentiments so abominable and so atrocious as to destroy the sympathy a part of his discourse excited. But somehow boldness has its fascination, and he was acquitted.”
Barrington's old-fas.h.i.+oned notions were not, however, to be shocked even by this narrative, and he whispered to me, ”Unpleasant for _you_, Conyers. Wish it might have been otherwise, but it can't be helped.” We next turned to discuss Duff Brown's friend, and Stamer exclaimed, ”Why, that's the man they have been making all this fuss about in India. He was, or he said he was, the adopted son of Howard Stapylton; but the family never believed the adoption, nor consented to receive him, and at this moment a Moonshee, who acted as Persian secretary to old Stapylton, has turned up with some curious disclosures, which, if true, would show that this young fellow held a very humble position in Stapylton's household, and never was in his confidence. This Moonshee was at Malta a few weeks ago, and may be, for aught I know, in England now.”
I asked and obtained Barrington's permission to tell how we were ourselves involved with this Major Stapylton, and he quickly declared that, while the man stood thus accused, there could be no thought of according him a satisfaction. The opinion was not the less stringent that Stamer was himself an Irishman and of a fighting family.
I am not very sure that we made Barrington a convert to our opinions, but we at least, as we separated for the night, left him doubtful and hesitating. I had not been in bed above an hour, when Mr. Withering awoke me. He had followed us from Dublin as soon as he learned our departure, and, going straight to a magistrate, swore informations against both Barrington and Stapylton. ”My old friend will never forgive me, I know,” said he; ”but if I had not done this, I should never have forgiven myself.” It was arranged between us that I was to mention the fact of such informations having been sworn, without stating by whom, to Barrington, and then persuade him to get privately away from town before a warrant could be served. I leave you to imagine that my task was not without its difficulties, but, before the day broke, I succeeded in inducing him to leave, and travelling by post without halt, we arrived at this quiet spot yesterday evening. Barrington, with all his good temper, is marvellously put out and irritable, saying, ”This is not the way such things were done once;” and peevishly muttered, ”I wonder what poor Harry Beamish or Guy Hutchinson would say to it all?” One thing is quite clear, we had got into a wasps' nest; Stapylton and his friend were both fellows that no honorable man would like to deal with, and we must wait with a little patience to find some safe road out of this troublesome affair.
A letter came to B. from the India House the evening before we left town, but he handed it to me before he finished reading it, merely remarking, ”The old story, 'Yours of the ninth or nineteenth has duly been received,' &c.” But I found that it contained a distinct admission that his claim was not ill-founded, and that some arrangement ought to be come to.
I now close my very lengthy epistle, promising, however, that as soon as I hear from town, either from Withering or Stamer, you shall have my news. We are, of course, close prisoners here for the present, for though the warrant would not extend to Ireland, Barrington's apprehensions of being ”served” with such a writ at all would induce him to hide for six months to come.
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