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
passage 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-fashioned 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.
I scarcely ask you to write to me here, not knowing our probable stay;
but to-morrow may, perhaps, tell us something on this head. Till when,
believe me,
Yours affectionately,
Ormsby Conters.
My most cordial greeting to Miss Barrington, and my love to her niece.
FROM PETER BARRINGTON TO HIS SISTER MISS DINAH BARRINGTON.
Long's Hotel, Bond Street.
My dear Dinah,--I hardly know how to tell you what has happened, or what
is happening around me. I came over here to meet Major Stapylton, but
find that there is no such person,--the man who calls himself so being a
mere adventurer, who had taken the name, and, I believe, no small share
of the goods, of its owner, got into the Bengal army, thence into our
own service, and though not undistinguished for gallantry, seems to have
led a life of ceaseless roguery and intrigue. He knew all about poor
George's business, and was in correspondence with those we believe to be
our friends in India, but who now turn out to be our inveterate enemies.
This we have got at by the confession of one of those Oriental fellows
they call Moonshees, who has revealed all their intercourse for years
back, and even shown a document setting forth the number of rupees
he was to receive when Stapylton had been married to Josephine. The
Moonshee is very ill, and his examination can only be conducted at
intervals; but he insists on a point of much importance to us, which is,
that Stapylton induced him to tear out of the Rajah's Koran the page
on which the adoption of George was written, and signed by the Meer
himself. He received a large sum for this service, which, however, he
evaded by a fraud, sending over to England not the real document itself,
but a copy made by himself, and admirably counterfeited. It was the
possession of this by Stapylton which enabled him to exercise a great
control over our suit,--now averring that it was lost; now, under
pledge of secrecy, submitting it to the inspection of some of the
Indian authorities. Stapylton, in a word, saw himself in a position to
establish our claim, whenever the time came that by making Josephine his
wife, he could secure the fortune. This is all that we know up to
this, but it is a great deal, and shows in what a maze of duplicity and
treachery we have been involved for more than twenty years. The chief
point, however, is that the real deed, written in the Meer's Koran, and
torn out of it by the Moonshee, in his first impulse to forward it to
Stapylton, is now extant, and the Koran itself is there to show the
jagged margin of the torn-out leaf, and the corresponding page on the
opposite side of the volume. Stapylton refuses to utter one word since
the accusation against him has been made; and as the charges stand to
falsifying documents, abstraction of funds, and other derelictions in
India, he is now under a heavy bail to appear when called on.
The whole business has made me so nervous and excitable that I cannot
close my eyes at night, and I feel feverish and restless all day. It is
very shocking to think of a man one has never injured, never heard of,
animated with a spirit so inimical as to pass years of life in working
ill to us. He would appear to have devoted himself to the task of
blackening poor George's character and defaming him. It would seem that
Mr. Howard Stapylton was one of those who took an active part against
George. Whether this young fellow caught the contagion of this
antipathy, or helped to feed it, I cannot tell; but it is certain that
all the stories of cruelty and oppression the India Board used to trump
up to us came from this one source; and at the end of all he seeks to be
one of a family he has striven for years to ruin and to crush! I am lost
in my efforts to understand this, though Stamer and Withering assure
me they can read the man like print. Indeed, they see inferences and
motives in fifty things which convey nothing to me; and whenever I feel
myself stopped by some impassable barrier, to _them_ it is only a bridge
that conducts to a fresh discovery.
The Stapyltons are all in arms now that another sportsman has winged the
bird for them; and each day increases the number of accusations against
this unfortunate fellow. It is true, dear Dinah, that our own prospects
brighten through all this. I am constantly receiving civil messages
and hopeful assurances; and even some of the directors have called to
express sympathy and good wishes. But how chilled is the happiness that
comes dashed with the misfortune of another! What a terrible deal it
detracts from our joy to know that every throb of pleasure to ourselves
has cost a pang of misery elsewhere! I wish this fellow could have gone
his way, never minding us; or, if that could n't be, that he 'd have
grown tired of persecuting those who had never harmed him, and given us
up!
They are now assailing him on all sides. One has found that he forged a
will; another that he falsified a signature; and a miserable creature--a
native Indian, who happened to be in that Manchester riot the other
day--has now been ferreted out to swear that Stapylton followed him
through a suburb, down a lane, and into a brick-field, where he cut
him down and left him for dead. There seems a great deal of venom
and acrimony in all this; and though the man is unquestionably not my
friend, and I see that this persecution continues, I find it very hard
not to stand by him.
As for Withering, it has made the veteran ten years younger. He is up
every morning at five, and I hear that he never goes to his room till
long past midnight. These are the pastimes that to such men replace
the sports of the field and the accidents of the chase. They have
their vacillations of hope and fear, their moments of depression and of
triumph in them; and they run a fellow-creature to earth with all the
zest of a hard rider after a fox.
Tell my darling Fifine that I am longing to be at home again,--longing
for the quiet roof, and the roses at the window, and the murmur of the
river, and her own sweet voice better than them all. And what a deal of
happiness is in our power if we would only consent to enjoy it, without
running after some imaginary good, some fancied blessing, which is
to crown our wishes! If I could but only have guessed at the life of
anxiety, doubt, and vacillation the pursuit of this claim would have
cost me,--the twenty years of fever,--
I give you my word, Dinah, I 'd rather have earned my daily bread with a
spade, or, when too old for that, taken to fishing for a livelihood.
But why do I complain of anything at this moment? When have I been so
truly happy for many a long year? Conyers never leaves me,--he talks of
George from morning to night. And I now see that with all my affection
for that dear boy, I only half knew his noble nature, his fine and
generous character. If you only heard of the benevolent things he has
done; the poor fellows he has sent home to their families at his own
cost; the sums he has transmitted to wives and widows of soldiers in
England; the children whose care and support he has provided for! These
were the real drains on that fortune that the world thought wasted and
squandered in extravagance. And do you know, Dinah, there is a vein of
intense egotism in my heart that I never so much as suspected! I found
it out by chance,--it was in marking how far less I was touched by the
highest and best traits of my poor boy than by the signs of love to
myself! and when Conyers said, “He was always talking about you; he
never did anything important without the question, 'How would “Dad” like
this, I wonder? would “Dad” say “God speed” in this case?' And his first
glass of wine every day was to the health of that dear old father over
the seas.”
To you who loved him only a little less than myself, I have no shame
in the confession of this weakness. I suppose Conyers, however, has hit
upon it, for he harps on this theme continually, and, in sheer pride of
heart, I feel ten years younger for it.
Here comes Withering to say, “Some more wonderful news;” but I have
begged him to keep it till I have sealed this letter, which if it grows
any longer, I 'll never have courage to send to you. A dozen kisses to
Fifine I can, however, transmit without any increase to the postage.
Give my love to young Conyers; tell him I am charmed with his father,--I
never met any one so companionable to me, and I only long for the day
when the same roof shall cover all of us.
Yours, my dearest sister, ever affectionately,
Peter Barrington.
FROM T. WITHERING, ESQ., TO MISS DINAH BARRINGTON, “THE HOME.”
Long's Hotel, Bond Street.
My dear Miss Barrington,--If your brother has deputed me to write to
you, it is not that he is ill, but simply that the excitement caused by
some late events here has so completely mastered him that he can neither
sit quiet a moment, nor address him steadily to any task. Nor am I
surprised it should be so. Old, weather-beaten sailor on the ocean of
life as I am, I feel an amount of feverishness and anxiety I am half
ashamed of. Truth is, my dear Miss Dinah, we lawyers get so much
habituated to certain routine rogueries that we are almost shocked when
we hear of a wickedness not designated by a statute. But I must not
occupy your time with such speculations, the more since I have only a
brief space to give to that report of proceedings to which I want your
attention. And, first of all, I will entreat you to forgive me for all
want of sequence or connection in what I may say, since events have
grown so jumbled together in my mind, that it is perfectly impossible
for me to be certain whether what I relate should come before or after
some other recorded fact In a word, I mean to give you an outline of our
discoveries, without showing the track of our voyage on the map, or even
saying how we came by our knowledge.
You are aware, Barrington tells me, how Stapylton came by the name he
bears. Aware that he was for some of his earlier years domesticated
with old Howard Stapylton at Ghurtnapore, in some capacity between
confidential valet and secretary,--a position that was at once one of
subordination and trust,--it would now appear that a Moonshee, who
had long served Colonel Barrington as Persian correspondent, came into
Howard Stapylton's service in the same capacity: how introduced, or
by whom, we know not. With this Moonshee, the young fellow I speak of
became an intimate and close friend, and it is supposed obtained from
him all that knowledge of your nephew's affairs which enabled him to see
to what his claim pretended, and what were its prospects of success. It
is now clear enough that he only regarded this knowledge at first as a
means of obtaining favor from the Indian Government. It was, in fact,
by ceding to them in detail certain documents, that he got his first
commission in the Madras Fusiliers, and afterwards his promotion in the
same regiment; and when, grown more ambitious, he determined to enter
the King's service, the money for purchase came from the same source.
Being, however, a fellow of extravagant habits, his demands grew at last
to be deemed excessive and importunate; and though his debts had been
paid three several times, he was again found involving himself as
before, and again requiring assistance. This application was, however,
resisted; and it was apparently on the strength of that refusal that
he suddenly changed his tactics, turned his attention towards us, and
bethought him that by forwarding your grandniece's claim,--if he could
but win her affections in the mean while,--he would secure as a wife one
of the richest heiresses in Europe. An examination of dates proves this,
by showing that his last application to the Indian Board was only a few
weeks before he exchanged into the regiment of Hussars he lately served
with, and just then ordered to occupy Kilkenny. In one word, when it
was no longer profitable to oppose Josephine's claim, he determined to
support it and make it his own. The “Company,” however, fully assured
that by the papers in their possession they could prove their own cause
against Colonel Barrington, resisted all his menaces,--when, what does
he do? It was what only a very daring and reckless fellow would ever
have thought of,--one of those insolent feats of boldness that succeed
by the very shock they create. He goes to the Secret Committee at the
India House and says: “Of the eighteen documents I have given you,
seven are false. I will not tell you which they are, but if you do not
speedily compromise this claim and make a satisfactory settlement on
Colonel Barrington's daughter, I'll denounce you, at all the peril it
may be to myself.” At first they agree, then they hesitate, then they
treat again, and so does the affair proceed, till suddenly--no one can
guess why--they assume a tone of open defiance, and flatly declare
they will hold no further intercourse with him, and even threaten with
exposure any demand on his part.
This rejection of him came at a critical moment. It was just when the
press had begun to comment on the cruelty of his conduct at Peterloo,
and when a sort of cry was got up through the country to have him
dismissed from the service. We all saw, but never suspected, why he was
so terribly cut up at this time. It was hard to believe that he could
have taken mere newspaper censure so much to heart. We never guessed
the real cause, never saw that he was driven to his last expedient,
and obliged to prejudice all his hope of success by precipitancy. If he
could not make Josephine his wife at once, on the very moment, all was
lost. He made a bold effort at this. Who knows if he might not have
succeeded but for you, as Josephine was very young, my old friend
himself utterly unfit to cope with anything but open hostility? I say
again, I 'd not have answered for the result if you had not been in
command of the fortress. At all events, he failed; and in the failure
lost his temper so far as to force a quarrel upon your brother. He
failed, however; and no sooner was he down, than the world was atop
of him: creditors, Jews, bill-discounters, and, last of all, the
Stapyltons, who, so long as he bore their family name thousands of miles
off, or associated it with deeds of gallantry, said nothing; now, that
they saw it held up to attack and insult, came forward to declare that
he never belonged to them, and at length appealed formally to the Horse
Guards, to learn under what designation he had entered the service, and
at what period taken the name he went by.
Stapylton's application for leave to sell out had just been sent in;
and once more the newspapers set up the cry that this man should not be
permitted to carry away to Aix and Baden the proceeds of a sale which
belonged to his “creditors.” You know the world, and I need not tell you
all the pleasant things it told this fellow, for men are pretty nigh
as pitiless as crows to their wounded. I thought the complication had
reached its limit, when I learned yesterday evening that Stapylton had
been summoned before a police magistrate for a case of assault committed
by him when in command of his regiment at Manchester. The case had
evidently been got up by a political party, who, seeing the casual
unpopularity of the man, determined to profit by it. The celebrated
radical barrister, Hesketh, was engaged for the plaintiff.
When I arrived at the court, it was so full that it was with difficulty
I got a passage to a seat behind the bench. There were crowds of
fashionables present, the well-known men about town, and the idlers of
the clubs, and a large sprinkling of military men, for the news of the
case had got wind already.
Stapylton, dressed in black, and looking pale and worn, but still
dignified and like a gentleman, had not a single friend with him. I own
to you, I felt ashamed to be there, and was right glad when he did not
recognize me.
Though the case opened by a declaration that this was no common assault
case, wherein in a moment of passion a man had been betrayed into an
excess, I knew the cant of my craft too well to lay any stress on such
assertion, and received it as the ordinary exordium. As I listened,
however, I was struck by hearing that the injured man was asserted to
be one well known to Stapylton, with whom he had been for years in
intimacy, and that the assault was in reality a deliberate attempt to
kill, and not, as had been represented, a mere passing act of savage
severity committed in hot blood. “My client,” said he, “will be brought
before you; he is a Hindoo, but so long a resident of this country that
he speaks our language fluently. You shall hear his story yourselves,
and yourselves decide on its truthfulness. His wounds are, however, of
so serious a nature that it will be advisable his statement should be
a brief one.” As he said this, a dark-complexioned fellow, with a look
half-frightened, half defiant, was carried forwards in a chair, and
deposited, as he sat, on the table. He gave his name as Lai Adeen, his
age as forty-eight, his birthplace Majamarha, near Agra. He came to this
country twelve years ago, as servant to an officer who had died on the
passage, and after many hardships in his endeavor to earn a livelihood,
obtained employment at Manchester in the mill of Brandling and Bennett,
where he was employed to sweep the corridors and the stairs; his wages
were nine shillings a week. All this, and much more of the same kind,
he told simply and collectedly. I tried to see Stapylton while this
was going on, but a pillar of the gallery, against which he leaned,
concealed him from my view.
I omit a great deal, not without its interest, but reserving it for
another time, and come to his account of the night on which he was
wounded. He said that as the cavalry marched on that morning into
Manchester, he was struck by seeing at the head of the regiment one he
had never set his eyes on for years, but whose features he knew too well
to be deceived in.
“I tried to get near him, that he might recognize me,” said he; “but the
crowd kept me back, and I could not. I thought, indeed, at one moment he
had seen me, and knew me; but as he turned his head away, I supposed I
was mistaken.
“It was on the following evening, when the riot broke out in Mill
Street, that I saw him next. I was standing at the door of a chemist's
shop when the cavalry rode by at a walk. There was a small body of them
in front, at about forty or fifty paces, and who, finding a sort of
barricade across the street, returned to the main body, where they
seemed to be reporting this. A cry arose that the troops had been
blocked up at the rear, and at the same instant a shower of stones came
from the side-streets and the house-tops. Thinking to do him a service,
I made my way towards him I knew, in order to tell him by what way he
could make his escape; and jostled and pushed, and half ridden down, I
laid my hand on his horse's shoulder to keep myself from falling. 'Stand
back, you scoundrel!' said he, striking me with the hilt of his sword in
the face. 'Don't you know me, master?' cried I, in terror. He bent down
in his saddle till his face was almost close to mine, and then, reining
his horse back to give him room for a blow, he aimed a desperate cut at
me. I saw it coming, and threw myself down; but I rose the next instant
and ran. The street was already so clear by this time, I got into
Cleever's Alley, down Grange Street, up the lane that leads to the
brick-fields, and at last into the fields themselves. I was just
thinking I was safe, when I saw a horseman behind me. He saw me, and
dashed at me. I fell upon my knees to ask mercy, and he gave me this;”
and he pointed to the bandages which covered his forehead, stained as
they were with clotted blood. “I fell on my face, and he tried to make
his horse trample on me; but the beast would not, and he only touched
me with his hoof as he sprang across me. He at last dismounted to see,
perhaps, if I were dead; but a shout from some of the rioters warned him
to mount again; and he rode away, and I lay there till morning. It is
not true that I was in prison and escaped,--that I was taken to the
hospital, and ran away from it. I was sheltered in one of the clay-huts
of the brickmakers for several weeks, afraid to come abroad, for I knew
that the Sahib was a great man and could take my life. It was only by
the persuasions of others that I left my hiding-place and have come here
to tell my story.”
On being questioned why this officer could possibly desire to injure
him, what grudge one in such a station could bear him, he owned he could
not say; they had never been enemies, and, indeed, it was in the hope
of a friendly recognition and assistance that he approached him in Mill
Street.
Stapylton's defence was very brief, given in an off-hand, frank manner,
which disposed many in his favor. He believed the fellow meant to attack
him; he certainly caught hold of his bridle. It was not his intention
to give him more than a passing blow; but the utterance of a Hindoo
curse--an expression of gross outrage in the East--recalled prejudices
long dormant, and he gave the rascal chase, and cut him over the
head,--not a severe cut, and totally unaccompanied by the other details
narrated.
“As for our former acquaintance I deny it altogether. I have seen
thousands of his countrymen, and may have seen him; but, I repeat, I
never knew him, nor can he presume to say he knew me!”
The Hindoo smiled a faint, sickly smile, made a gesture of deep
humility, and asked if he might put a few questions to the “Sahib.”
“Were you in Naghapoor in the year of the floods?”
“Yes,” said Stapylton, firmly, but evidently with an effort to appear
calm.
“In the service of the great Sahib, Howard Stapylton?”
“In his service? Certainly not. I lived with him as his friend, and
became his adopted heir.''
“What office did you fill when you first came to the 'Residence'?”
“I assisted my friend in the duties of his government; I was a good
Oriental scholar, and could write and speak a dialect he knew nothing
of. But I submit to the court that this examination, prompted and
suborned by others, has no other object than to insult me, by leading to
disclosures of matters essentially private in their nature.”
“Let me ask but one question,” said the barrister. “What name did you
bear before you took that of Stapylton?”
“I refuse to submit to this insolence,” said Stapylton, rising, angrily.
“If the laws of the country only can lend themselves to assist the
persecutions of a rascally Press, the sooner a man of honor seeks
another land the better. Adjudicate on this case, sirs; I will not stoop
to bandy words with these men.”
“I now, sir,” said Hesketh, opening his bag and taking out a roll of
papers, “am here to demand a committal for forgery against the person
before you, passing under the name of Horace Stapylton, but whose real
designation is Samuel Scott Edwardes, son of Samuel Edwardes, a name
notorious enough once.”
I cannot go on, my dear friend; the emotions that overpowered me at the
time, and compelled me to leave the court, are again threatening me,
and my brain reels at the recollection of a scene which, even to my
fast-fading senses, was the most trying of my life.
To General Conyers I must refer you for what ensued after I left. I
cannot even say who came home with me to the hotel, though I am aware
I owed that kindness to some one. The face of that unhappy man is yet
before me, and all the calm in which I have written up to this leaves
me, as I think over one of the most terrible incidents of my life.
Your brother, shocked of course, bears up bravely, and hopes to write to
you to-morrow.
One word of good cheer before I close this miserable record. The Indian
directors have written to offer excellent terms--splendidly liberal
terms, Conyers calls them, and I agree with him. We have had a very
busy week of it here, but it will be well requited if all that I now
anticipate be confirmed to us. Barrington begs you will tell your
neighbors, the Dills, that Tom--I think that is the name--has just
arrived at Southampton with General Hunter, and will be here to-morrow
evening.
I have cut out a short passage from the newspaper to finish my
narrative. I will send the full report, as published, to-morrow.
Your attached friend,
T. Withering.
“The chief police-office in Marlborough Street was yesterday the scene
of a very shocking incident. The officer whose conduct at the head of
his regiment in Manchester has of late called for the almost unanimous
reprobation of the Press, was, while answering to a charge of aggravated
assault, directly charged with forgery. Scarcely was the allegation
made, than he drew a pistol from his pocket, and, placing the muzzle to
his mouth, pulled the trigger. The direction of the weapon, however, was
accidentally turned, and the ball, instead of proceeding upwards, passed
through the lower jaw, fracturing the bone, and created a terrible
wound. It is supposed that the large vessels are not injured, and that
he may yet recover. All who witnessed the scene describe it as one of
intense horror.
“The unhappy man was at once removed to the Middlesex Hospital. He has
not uttered a word since the event; and when asked if there were any
relatives or friends whom he wished might be sent for, merely shook his
head negatively. It is said that when the result of the consultation
held on him was announced to him as favorable, he seemed rather grieved
than otherwise at the tidings.”
FROM PETER BARRINGTON TO DINAH, HIS SISTER.
My dear Dinah,--How glad am I to tell you that we leave this to-morrow,
and a large party of us, too, all for “The Home.” Put young Conyers in
my dressing-room, so that the large green bedroom can be free for the
General, at least for one of the generals--for we have another here,
Hunter, who will also be our guest. Then there will be Withering. As for
myself, I can be stowed away anywhere. What happiness would there be to
us all at such a meeting, if it were not for that poor wretch who lies
in all his agony a few streets off, and who is never out of my thoughts.
I went twice to the hospital to see him. The first time I lost courage,
and came away. The second, I sent up my name, and asked if he would wish
to see me. The only answer I got was my visiting-card torn in two! How
hard it is for an injurer to forgive him he has injured! I have arranged
with the Stapyltons, however, who instigated the charge of forgery,
not to press it; at least, they are to take bail, and the bail will
be forfeited, so I understand it; but Withering will explain all more
clearly.
Our own affairs are all as bright and prosperous as our best wishes
could desire. The Council have had all the evidence before them, and the
Moonshee has produced his copy of the Koran, with the torn leaf fitting
into the jagged margin, and George is vindicated at last in everything.
His loyalty, his disinterestedness, his honesty, all established. The
ceremony of his marriage has been fully recognized; and General Conyers
tells me that the lowest estimate of our claim is a little short of a
quarter of a million sterling. He counsels me not to be exigent in
my terms; if he knew me better, perhaps, he would not have deemed the
advice so necessary.
What will Fifine say to all this wealth? Will she want to go back to
India, and be a princess, and ride about on an elephant; or will she
reconcile herself to such humble ways as ours? I am most eager to hear
how she will take the tidings. Withering says it will not spoil her;
that knowing nothing of life in its moneyed relations, she runs no
risk of being carried away by any vulgar notions of her own importance
through riches.
Conyers has never once hinted at his son's pretensions since Fifine has
become an heiress; and I fancy--it may be only fancy--is a shade or so
cool towards me, so that I have not referred to them. But what can I do?
I cannot offer him my granddaughter, nor--if what you tell me be true,
that they are always quarrelling--would the proposal be a great kindness
to either.
Here is Tom Dill, too, and what a change! He is the image of Polly; and
a fine, well-grown, straight-figured fellow, that looks you manfully in
the face,--not the slouching, loutish, shamefaced creature you remember
him. Hunter has had him gazetted to an Ensigncy in the 10th Foot, and
he will, or I much mistake him, do honest credit to the recommendation.
Hunter takes him about with him wherever he goes, telling all about
the shipwreck and Tom's gallantry,--enough to turn the lad's head with
vanity, but that he is a fine, simple-hearted creature, who thinks very
little of himself or his achievement. He seems to have no other thought
than what Polly, his sister, will say and think of him.
He also will be one of our party; that is if I can persuade him to make
“The Home” his headquarters while our friends are with us. What a strong
muster we shall be; and how we 'll astonish that old bin of Madeira,
Dinah! By the way, I have been rather boastful about it to Conyers, and
let some bottles have the sun on them for a couple of hours every day.
I should like to try my chance once more of seeing that poor fellow
at the hospital, but Withering will not hear of it; he got positively
ill-tempered at the bare mention of such a wish. Even Conyers says,
“Better not,” with an air that may mean for the sick man's sake as much
as my own.
A little more of this life of noise, confusion, and excitement would
finish me. This city existence, with its incessant events and its never
ending anxieties, is like walking in a high wind with the chimney-pots
falling and crashing on every side of one,--while I am pitying the
fellow whose skull is just cracked, I am forced to remember that my own
is in danger. And yet there are people who like it; who tell you
that out of London there is no living; that the country is a grave,
aggravated by the consciousness that one is dead and buried there!
On Tuesday,--Wednesday, at farthest,--Dinah, look out for us. I do not
believe there is that prize in the wheel that would tempt me again away
from home! and till I reach it, believe, my dear Dinah,
Your loving brother,
Peter Barrington.
I have just seen Conyers. He met Sir Harvey Hethrington, the Home
Secretary, this morning, and they got into a talk over our business,
and H. said how cruelly I had been treated all this time back, and how
unfairly poor George's memory was dealt with. “We want,” said he, “to
show your friend our respect and our sympathy, and we have thought of
submitting his name to the King for a Baronetcy. How do you think Mr.
Barrington himself would take our project?” “I 'll find out,” said
Conyers, as he told me of the conversation. “If they don't let me
off, Conyers,” said I, “ask them to commute it to Knighthood, for the
heralds' fees will be smaller; but I'll try, meanwhile, if I can't
escape either.” So that now, Dinah, you may expect me on Saturday. I
told you what a place this was; you are never sure what may befall you
from one moment to another!