As it was not often that Major M'Cormick performed the part of a
letter-writer, perhaps my reader will pardon me if I place him before
him on one of these rare occasions. If success would always respond to
labor, his would have been a real triumph; for the effort cost him many
days, two sleepless nights, a headache, and half a quire of paper.
Had not Stapylton retained him by an admirably selected hamper of good
things from a celebrated Italian warehouse in the Strand, I am
afraid that M'Cormick's zeal might have cooled down to the zero of
forgetfulness; but the reindeer hams and the Yarmouth bloaters, the
potted shrimps and the preserved guavas, were an appeal that addressed
themselves to that organ which with him paid the double debt of
digestion and emotion. He felt that such a correspondent was worth a
sacrifice, and he made it That my reader may appreciate the cost of the
achievement, I would have him imagine how a mason about to build a wall
should be obliged to examine each stone before he laid it, test its
constituent qualities, its shape and its size,--for it was thus that
almost every word occasioned the Major a reference to the dictionary,
spelling not having been cultivated in his youth, nor much practised in
his riper years. Graces of style, however, troubled him little; and,
to recur to my figure of the stone-mason, if he was embarrassed in
his search for the materials, he cared wonderfully little for the
architecture. His letter ran thus, and the reader will perceive that it
must have been written some weeks after the events recorded in the last
chapter:--
“Mac's Nest, October, Thursday.
“Dear S.,--A touch of my old Walcheren complaint has laid me up since
Tuesday, and if the shakes make me illegible now, that's the reason
why. Besides this the weather is dreadful; cold east winds and rains,
sometimes sleet, every day; and the turf so wet, it 's only smoke, not
fire. I believe it is the worst climate in Europe, and it gets wetter
every year.
“The hamper came to hand, but though it was marked 'Carriage paid, this
side up,' they upset it and broke two bottles, and charged seven and
fourpence-halfpenny for the bringing it, which is, I think, enormous; at
least, Tim Hacket got over a thrashing-machine from Scotland last spring
for twelve and four, and there 's no comparison between the two. Thanks
to you, however, all the same; but if you can get any of this charge
reduced, so much the better, not to speak of the bottles,--both mixed
pickles--which they ought to make good.
“I am glad to see you are touching up the Radicals in the North;
powder and ball will do more to bring them to reason than spouting
in Parliament. The papers say there was nine killed and twenty-three
wounded; and one fellow, the 'Stockport Bee,' says, that 'if the Butcher
that led the dragoons is n't turned out of the service with disgrace no
gentleman will degrade himself by entering the army.' Isn't the Butcher
yourself? Miss Barrington, always your friend, says it is; and that if
the account of another paper, called the 'Ægis,' be true, you 'll have
to go to a court-martial. I stood stoutly to you through it all, and
declared that when the niggers was up at Jamaica, we had n't time to
take the names of the prisoners, and we always cut one of their ears off
to know them again. Old Peter laughed till the tears ran down his face,
but Dinah said, 'If I did not suppose, sir, that you were inventing a
very graceless joke, I'd insist on your leaving this room and this house
on the instant.' It was ten o'clock at night, and raining hard; so you
may guess I gave in. Bad as she is, the young one is her equal, and
I gave up all thoughts of what you call 'prosecuting my suit' in that
quarter. She isn't even commonly civil to me, and when I ask her for,
maybe, the mustard at dinner, she turns away her head, and says, 'Darby,
give Major M'Cormick the salt.' That's French politeness, perhaps; but
I'll pay them all off yet, for they can't get sixpence on the mortgage,
and I 'm only drinking out that bin of old Madeira before I tell them
that I won't advance the money. Why should I? The women treat me worse
than a dog, and old B. is neither more nor less than a fool. Dill, the
doctor, however he got it, says it's all up about the suit with the
India Company; that there's no proof of the Colonel's marriage at all,
that the charges against him were never cleared up, and that nothing can
come out of it but more disgrace and more exposure.
“I wish you 'd send me the correct account of what took place between
you and one of your subalterns, for old Dinah keeps harping on it in a
sort of mysterious and mischievous way of her own, that provokes me. Was
it that he refused to obey orders, or that _you_, as _she_ says, used
such language towards him that he wrote to report you? Give it to me
in black and white, and maybe I won't try her temper with it. At
all events, make out some sort of a case, for the old woman is now
intolerable. She said yesterday, 'Major Stapylton, to whom I write
by this post, will see that his visit here must be preceded by an
explanation.' There's her words for you, and I hope you like them!
“I think you are right to be in no hurry about purchasing, for many
say the whole system will be changed soon, and the money would be clean
thrown away. Besides this, I have been looking over my bauk-book, and
I find I could n't help you just now. Two bad harvests, and the smut in
the wheat last year, are running me mighty close. I won't finish this
till to-morrow, for I 'm going to dine at 'The Home' to-day. It is the
granddaughter's birthday, and there was a regular shindy about who was
going to be asked. Old Peter was for a grand celebration, and inviting
the Admiral, and the Gores, and God knows who besides; and Dinah was for
what she called a family party, consisting, I suppose, of herself and
Darby. I 'll be able, before I close this, to tell you how it was ended;
for I only know now that Dill and his daughter are to be there.
“Wednesday.--I sit down with a murdering headache to finish this letter.
Maybe it was the pickled lobster, or the ice punch, or the other drink
they called champagne-cup that did it. But I never passed such a night
since I was in the trenches, and I am shaking still, so that I can
scarce hold the pen. It was a grand dinner, to be sure, for ruined
people to give. Venison from Carrick Woods, and game of every kind, with
all kinds of wine; and my Lord Car-rickmore talking to Miss Dinah, and
the Admiral following up with the niece, and Tom Brabazon, and Dean of
Deanspark, and the devil knows who besides, bringing up the rear, with
Dill and your obedient servant. Every dish that came in, and every
bottle that was uncorked, I said to myself, 'There goes another strap on
the property;' and I felt as if we were eating the trees and the timber
and the meadows all the time at table.
“It 's little of the same sympathy troubled the others. My Lord was as
jolly as if he was dining with the King; and old Cobham called for more
of the Madeira, as if it was an inn; and Peter himself--the heartless
old fool--when he got up to thank the company for drinking his
granddaughter's health, said, 'May I trust that even at my advanced age
this may not be the last time I may have to speak my gratitude to you
all for the generous warmth with which you have pledged this toast; but
even should it be so, I shall carry away with me from this evening's
happiness a glow of pleasure that will animate me to the last. It
was only this morning I learned what I know you will all hear with
satisfaction, that there is every probability of a speedy arrangement of
my long-pending suit with the Company, and that my child here will
soon have her own again.' Grand applause and huzzas, with a noise that
drowned 'Bother!' from myself, and in the middle of the row up jumps the
Admiral, and cries out, 'Three cheers more for the Rajah's daughter!' I
thought the old roof would come down; and the blackguards in the kitchen
took up the cry and shouted like mad, and then we yelled again, and this
went on for maybe five minutes. 'What does it all mean,' says I, 'but
a cheer for the Court of Bankruptcy, and Hip, hip, hurray! for
the Marshalsea Prison!' After that, he had half an hour or more of
flatteries and compliments. My Lord was so happy, and Peter Barrington
so proud, and the Admiral so delighted, and the rest of us so much
honored, that I could n't stand it any longer, but stole away, and got
into the garden, to taste a little fresh air and quietness. I had n't
gone ten paces, when I came plump upon Miss Dinah, taking her coffee
under a tree. 'You are a deserter, I fear, sir,' said she, in her own
snappish way; so I thought I 'd pay her off, and I said, 'To tell you
the truth, Miss Barrington, at our time of life these sort of things are
more full of sadness than pleasure. We know how hollow they are, and how
little heart there is in the cheers of the people that are so jolly
over your wine, but would n't stop to talk to you when you came down to
water!'
“'The worse we think of the world, Major M'Cormick,' says she, 'the more
risk we run of making ourselves mean enough to suit it.'
“'I don't suspect, ma'am,' says I, 'that when people have known it so
long as you and I, that they are greatly in love with it.'
“'They may, however, be mannerly in their dealings with it, sir,' said
she, fiercely; and so we drew the game, and settled the men for another
battle.
“'Is there anything new, ma'am?' says I, after a while.
“'I believe not, sir. The bread riots still continue in the North, where
what would seem the needless severity of some of the military commanders
has only exasperated the people. You have heard, I suppose, of Major
Stapylton's business?'
“'Not a word, ma'am,' says I; 'for I never see a paper.'
“'I know very little of the matter myself,' says she. 'It was, it would
appear, at some night assemblage at a place called Lund's Common. A
young officer sent forward by Major Stapylton to disperse the people,
was so struck by the destitution and misery he witnessed, and the
respectful attitude they exhibited, that he hesitated about employing
force, and restricted himself to counsels of quietness and submission.
He did more,--not perhaps very prudently, as some would say,--he
actually emptied his pockets of all the money he had, giving even his
watch to aid the starving horde before him. What precise version of
his conduct reached his superior, I cannot say; but certainly Major
Stapylton commented on it in terms of the harshest severity, and he even
hinted at a reason for the forbearance too offensive for any soldier to
endure.'
“She did not seem exactly to know what followed after this, but some
sort of inquiry appeared to take place, and witnesses were examined as
to what really occurred at Lund's Common; and amongst others, a Lascar,
who was one of the factory hands,--having come to England a great many
years before with an officer from India. This fellow's evidence was
greatly in favor of young Conyers, and was subjected to a very severe
cross-examination from yourself, in the middle of which he said
something in Hindostanee that nobody in the court understood but you;
and after this he was soon dismissed and the case closed for that day.
“'What do you think, Major M'Cormick,' said she, 'but when the court of
inquiry opened the next morning, Lal-Adeen, the Lascar, was not to be
found high or low. The court have suspended their sittings to search for
him; but only one opinion prevails,--that Major Stapylton knows more of
this man's escape than he is likely to tell.' I have taken great pains
to give you her own very words in all this business, and I wrote them
down the moment I got home, for I thought to myself you 'd maybe write
about the matter to old Peter, and you ought to be prepared for the
way they look at it; the more because Miss Dinah has a liking for young
Conyers,--what she calls a motherly affection; but I don't believe in
the motherly part of it! But of course you care very little what the
people here say about you at all. At least, I know it would n't trouble
_me_ much, if I was in your place. At all events, whatever you do,
do with a high hand, and the Horse Guards is sure to stand to you.
Moderation may be an elegant thing in civil life, but I never knew it
succeed in the army. There's the rain coming on again, and I just sent
out six cars to the bog for turf; so I must conclude, and remain, yours
sincerely,
“Daniel T. M'Cormick.
“I 'm thinking of foreclosing the small mortgage I hold on 'The Home,'
but as they pay the interest regularly, five per cent, I would n't do it
if I knew things were going on reasonably well with them; send me a line
about what is doing regarding the 'claim,' and it will guide me.”
While Major M'Cormick awaited the answer to his postscript, which to
him--as to a lady--was the important part of his letter, a short note
arrived at 'The Home' from Mr. Withering, enclosing a letter he had just
received from Major Stapylton. Withering's communication was in answer
to one from Barrington, and ran thus:--
“Dear B.,--All things considered, I believe you are right in not
receiving General Conyers at this moment. It would probably, as you
suspect, enable calumnious people to say that you could make your
resentments play second when they came in the way of your interests.
If matters go on well, as I have every hope they will, you can make
the _amende_ to him more satisfactorily and more gracefully hereafter.
Buxton has at length consented to bring the case before the House;
of course it will not go to a division, nor, if it did, could it be
carried; but the discussion will excite interest, the Press will take
it up, and after a few regretful and half-civil expressions from the
Ministry, the India Board will see the necessity of an arrangement.
“It is somewhat unfortunate and _mal à propos_ that Stapylton should at
this moment have got into an angry collision with young Conyers. I have
not followed the case closely, but, as usual in such things, they seem
each of them in the wrong,--the young sub wanting to make his generous
sympathy supply the place of military obedience, and the old officer
enforcing discipline at the cost of very harsh language. I learn this
morning that Conyers has sold out, intending to demand a personal
satisfaction. You will see by S.'s letter that he scarcely alludes to
this part of the transaction at all. S. feels very painfully the attacks
of the Press, and sees, perhaps, more forcibly than I should in his
place, the necessity of an exchange. Read attentively the portion I have
underlined.”
It is to this alone I have to direct my readers' attention, the first
two sides of the letter being entirely filled with details about the
“claim”:--
“'The newspapers have kept me before you for some days back, much more,
I doubt not, to their readers' amusement than to my own gratification. I
could, if I pleased, have told these slanderers that I did not charge a
crowd of women and children,--that I did not cut down an elderly man
at his own door-sill,--that I did not use language “offensive and
unbecoming” to one of my officers, for his having remonstrated in the
name of humanity against the cruelty of my orders. In a word, I might
have shown the contemptible scribblers that I knew how to temper duty
with discretion, as I shall know how, when the occasion offers, to make
the punishment of a calumniator a terror to his colleagues. However,
there is a very absurd story going about of a fellow whose insolence I
certainly _did_ reply to with the flat of my sabre, and whom I should
be but too happy to punish legally, if he could be apprehended. That he
made his escape after being captured, and that I connived at or assisted
in it,--I forget which,--you have probably heard. In fact, there is
nothing too incredible to say of me for the moment; and what is worse,
I begin to suspect that the Home Secretary, having rather burned his
fingers in the business, will not be very sorry to make an Admiral
Byng of a Major of Hussars. For each and all these reasons I mean to
exchange, and, if possible, into a regiment in India. This will, of
course, take some time; meanwhile, I have asked for and obtained some
months' leave. You will be surprised at my troubling you with so much
of purely personal matters, but they are the necessary preface to what
I now come. You are aware of the letter I wrote some time back to Mr.
Barrington, and the request it preferred. If the reply I received was
not discouraging, neither was it conclusive. The ordinary commonplaces
as to the shortness of our acquaintance, the want of sufficient
knowledge of each other's tastes, characters, &c, were duly dwelt upon;
but I could not at the end say, was I an accepted or a rejected suitor.
Now that the critical moment of my life draws nigh,--for such I feel
the present emergency,--an act of confidence in me would have more than
double value. Can you tell me that this is the sentiment felt towards
me, or am I to learn that the yells of a rabble have drowned the voices
of my friends? In plain words, will Miss Josephine Barrington accept
my offer? Will she intrust her happiness to my keeping, and change
the darkest shadow that ever lowered over my life into a gleam of
unspeakable brightness? You have given me too many proofs of a friendly
disposition towards me, not to make me feel that you are the best fitted
to bring this negotiation to a good issue. If I do not mistake you much,
you look with favor on my suit and wish it success. I am ashamed to say
how deeply my hopes have jeopardized my future happiness, but I tell you
frankly life has no such prize to my ambition, nor, in fact, any such
alternative of despair before me.'
“Now, my dear Barrington,” continued Withering's letter, “there is a
great deal in this that I like, and something with which I am not so
much pleased. If, however, I am not the Major's advocate to the extent
he asks, or expects me, it is because I feel that to be unjustly dealt
with is a stronger claim on _your_ heart than that of any other man I
ever met with, and the real danger here would be that you should
suffer that feeling to predominate over all others. Consult your
granddaughter's interests, if you can, independently of this; reflect
well if the plan be one likely to promise her happiness. Take your
sensible, clear-headed sister into your counsels; but, above all,
ascertain Josephine's own sentiments, and do nothing in direct
opposition to them.”
“There, Dinah,” said Barrington, placing the letter in her hands, “this
is as much to your address as to mine. Read it over carefully, and
you'll find me in the garden when you have done.”
Miss Barrington laid down her great roll of worsted work, and began
her task without a word. She had not proceeded very far, however, when
Josephine entered in search of a book. “I beg pardon, aunt, if I derange
you.”
“We say disturb, or inconvenience, in English, Miss Barrington. What is
it you are looking for?”
“The 'Legend of Montrose,' aunt. I am so much amused by that Major
Dalgetty that I can think of nothing but him.”
“Umph!” muttered the old lady. “It was of a character not altogether
dissimilar I was thinking myself at that moment. Sit down here, child,
and let me talk to you. This letter that I hold here, Josephine,
concerns you.”
“Me, aunt--concerns _me?_ And who on earth could have written a letter
in which I am interested?”
“You shall hear it.” She coughed only once or twice, and then went on:
“It's a proposal of marriage,--no less. That gallant soldier who left
us so lately has fallen in love with you,--so he says, and of course he
knows best. He seems fully aware that, being older than you, and graver
in temperament, his offer must come heralded with certain expressions
almost apologetic; but he deals with the matter skillfully, and tells
us that being well off as regards fortune, of good blood, and with fair
prospects before him, he does not wish to regard his suit as hopeless.
Your grandfather was minded to learn how you might feel disposed to
accept his addresses by observing your demeanor, by watching what
emotion mention of him might occasion, by seeing how far you felt
interested in his good or ill repute. I did not agree with him. I am
never for the long road when there is a short one, and therefore I mean
to let you hear his letter. This is what he writes.” While Miss Dinah
read the extract which the reader has just seen, she never noticed, or,
if noticed, never attended to, the agitation in her niece's manner, or
seemed to remark that from a deep-crimson at first her cheeks grew pale
as death, and her lips-tremulous. “There, child,” said Miss Dinah, as
she finished--“there are his own words; very ardent words, but withal
respectful. What do you think of them,--of them and of him?”
Josephine hung down her head, and with her hands firmly clasped
together, she sat for a few moments so motionless that she seemed
scarcely to breathe.
“Would you like to think over this before you speak of it, Josephine?
Would you like to take this letter to your room and ponder over it
alone?” No answer came but a low, half-subdued sigh.
“If you do not wish to make a confidante of me, Josephine, I am sorry
for it, but not offended.”
“No, no, aunt, it is not that,” burst she in; “it is to _you_ and you
alone, I wish to speak, and I will be as candid as yourself. I am not
surprised at the contents of this letter. I mean, I was in a measure
prepared for them.”
“That is to say, child, that he paid you certain attentions?”
She nodded assent.
“And how did you receive them? Did you let him understand that you were
not indifferent to him,--that his addresses were agreeable to you?”
Another, but shorter, nod replied to this question.
“I must confess,” said the old lady, bridling up, “all this amazes me
greatly. Why, child, it is but the other day you met each other for the
first time. How, when, and where you found time for such relations as
you speak of, I cannot imagine. Do you mean to tell me, Josephine, that
you ever talked alone together?”
“Constantly, aunt!”
“Constantly!”
“Yes, aunt. We talked a great deal together.”
“But how, child,--where?”
“Here, aunt, as we used to stroll together every morning through
the wood or in the garden; then as we went on the river or to the
waterfall.”
“I can comprehend nothing of all this, Josephine. I know you mean to
deal openly with me; so say at once, how did this intimacy begin?”
“I can scarcely say how, aunt, because I believe we drifted into it. We
used to talk a great deal of ourselves, and at length we grew to talk of
each other,--of our likings and dislikings, our tastes and our tempers.
And these did not always agree!”
“Indeed!”
“No, aunt,” said she, with a heavy sigh. “We quarrelled very often; and
once,--I shall not easily forget it,--once seriously.”
“What was it about?”
“It was about India, aunt; and he was in the wrong, and had to own it
afterwards and ask pardon.”
“He must know much more of that country than you, child. How came it
that you presumed to set up your opinion against his?”
“The presumption was his,” said she, haughtily. “He spoke of _his_
father's position as something the same as _my_ father's. He talked of
him as a Rajah!”
“I did not know that he spoke of his father,” said Miss Dinah,
thoughtfully.
“Oh, he spoke much of him. He told me, amongst other things, how he had
been a dear friend of papa's; that as young men they lived together
like brothers, and never were separate till the fortune of life divided
them.”
“What is all this I am listening to? Of whom are you telling me,
Josephine?”
“Of Fred, Aunt Dinah; of Fred, of course.”
“Do you mean young Conyers, child?”
“Yes. How could I mean any other?”
“Ta, ta, ta!” said the old lady, drumming with her heel on the floor
and her fingers on the table. “It has all turned out as I said it would!
Peter, Peter, will you never be taught wisdom? Listen to me, child!”
said she, turning almost sternly towards Josephine. “We have been at
cross-purposes with each other all this time. This letter which I have
just read for you--” She stopped suddenly as she reached thus far,
and after a second's pause, said, “Wait for me here; I will be back
presently. I have a word to say to your grandfather.”
Leaving poor Josephine in a state of trepidation and
bewilderment,--ashamed at the confession she had just made, and
trembling with a vague sense of some danger that impended over
her,--Miss Dinah hurried away to the garden.
“Here's a new sort of worm got into the celery, Dinah,” said he, as
she came up, “and a most destructive fellow he is. He looks like a mere
ruffling of the leaf, and you 'd never suspect him.”
“It is your peculiarity never to suspect anything, brother Peter, even
after you have had warning of peril. Do you remember my telling you,
when we were up the Rhine, what would come of that intimacy between
Conyers and Josephine?”
“I think I do,” said he, making what seemed an effort of memory.
“And can you recall the indolent slipshod answer you made me about it?
But of course you cannot. It was an old-maid's apprehensions, and you
forgot the whole thing. Well, Peter, I was right and you were wrong.”
“Not the first time that the double event has come off so!” said he,
smiling.
“You are too fond of that cloak of humility, Peter Barrington. The plea
of Guilty never saved any one from transportation!” Waiting a moment to
recover her breath after this burst of passion, she went on: “After I
had read that letter you gave me, I spoke to Josephine; I told her in a
few words how it referred to her, and frankly asked her what she thought
of it. She was very candid and very open, and, I must say, also very
collected and composed. Young ladies of the present day possess that
inestimable advantage over their predecessors. Their emotions do not
overpower them.” This was the second time of “blowing off the steam,”
and she had to wait a moment to rally. “She told me, frankly, that she
was not unprepared for such an offer; that tender passages had already
been exchanged between them. The usual tomfoolery, I conclude,--that
supreme effort of selfishness people call love,--in a word, Peter, she
was in no wise disinclined to the proposal; the only misfortune was, she
believed it came from young Conyers.”
Barrington would have laughed, and laughed heartily, if he dared. As it
was, the effort to restrain himself sent the blood to his head, and made
his eyes run over.
“You may well blush, Peter Barrington,” said she, shaking her finger at
him. “It's all your own doing.”
“And when you undeceived her, Dinah, what did she say?”
“I have not done so yet; but my impression is that so susceptible
a young lady should find no great difficulty in transferring her
affections. For the present I mean to limit myself to declaring that
this offer is not from Conyers; if she has curiosity to know the writer,
she shall learn it. I always had my doubts about these convents Bread
and water diet makes more epicures than abstinents!”