Fortune had apparently ceased to persecute Peter Barrington.
The Minister did not press honors upon him, and he was free to wait for
his companions, and in their company he returned to Ireland.
The news of his success--great as it was, magnified still more--had
preceded him to his own country; and he was met, as all lucky men are
met, and will be met to the end of time, by those who know the world and
feelingly estimate that the truly profitable are the fortunate!
Not that he remarked how many had suddenly grown so cordial; what
troops of passing acquaintances had become in a moment warm friends,
well-wishing and affectionate. He never so much as suspected that “Luck”
is a deity worshipped by thousands, who even in the remotest way are not
to be benefited by it. He had always regarded the world as a far better
thing than many moralists would allow it to be,--unsteady, wilful,
capricious, if you like--but a well-intentioned, kindly minded world,
that would at all times, where passion or prejudice stood aloof,
infinitely rather do the generous thing than the cruel one.
Little wonder, then, if he journeyed in a sort of ovation! At every
change of horses in each village they passed, there was sure to be some
one who wanted to shake his hand. People hobbled out on crutches and
quitted sick-beds to say how “glad they were;” mere acquaintances most
of them, who felt a strange mysterious sort of self-consequence in
fancying themselves for the moment the friends of Peter Barrington, the
millionnaire! This is all very curious, but it is a fact,--a fact which
I make no pretence to explain, however.
“And here comes the heartiest well-wisher of them all!” cried
Barrington, as he saw his sister standing on the roadside, near the
gate. With thoughtful delicacy, his companions lingered behind, while
he went to meet and embraced her. “Was I not a true prophet, Dinah dear?
Did I not often foretell this day to you?” said he, as he drew her arm,
and led her along, forgetting all about his friends and companions.
“Have they paid the money, Peter?” said she, sharply.
“Of course they have not; such things are not settled like the fare of a
hackney-coach. But our claim is acknowledged, and, fifty thousand
times better, George Barrington's name absolved from every shadow of an
imputation.”
“What is the amount they agree to give?”
“Upon my life, I don't know,--that is, I don't recollect, there were
so many interviews and such discussions; but Withering can tell you
everything. Withering knows it all. Without _him_ and Conyers I don't
know how I could have got on. If you had heard how he spoke of George at
the Council! 'You talk of _my_ services,' said he; 'they are no more
fit to be compared with those of Colonel Barrington, than are _my_ petty
grievances with the gross wrongs that lie on _his_ memory.' Withering
was there; he heard the words, and described the effect of them as
actually overwhelming.”
“And Withering believes the whole thing to be settled?”
“To be sure, he does! Why should he oppose his belief to that of the
whole world? Why, my dear Dinah, it is not one, nor two, but some
hundreds of people have come to wish me joy. They had a triumphal arch
at Naas, with 'Welcome to Barrington' over it. At Carlow, Fishbourne
came out with the corporation to offer me congratulations.”
She gave a hasty, impatient shake of the head, but repressed the sharp
reply that almost trembled on her lips.
“By George!” cried he, “it does one's heart good to witness such a burst
of generous sentiment. You 'd have thought some great national benefit
had befallen, or that some one--his country's idol--had just reaped the
recompense of his great services. They came flocking out of the towns as
we whirled past, cheering lustily, and shouting, 'Barrington forever!'”
“I detest a mob!” said she, pursing up her lips.
“These were no mobs, Dinah; these were groups of honest fellows, with
kind hearts and generous wishes.”
Another, but more decisive, toss of the head warned Peter that the
discussion had gone far enough; indeed she almost said so, by asking
abruptly, “What is to be done about the boy Conyers? He is madly in love
with Josephine.”
“Marry her, I should say!”
“As a cure for the complaint, I suppose. But what if she will not have
him? What if she declares that she 'd like to go back to the convent
again,--that she hates the world, and is sorry she ever came out into
it,--that she was happier with the sisters--”
“Has she said all this to you, sister?”
“Certainly not, Peter,” said Dinah, bridling up. “These were confidences
imparted to the young man himself. It was he told me of them: he came
to me last night in a state bordering on distraction. He was hesitating
whether he would not throw himself into the river or go into a marching
regiment.”
“This is only a laughing matter, then, Dinah?” said Peter, smiling.
“Nothing of the kind, brother! He did not put the alternatives so much
in juxtaposition as I have; but they lay certainly in that manner on his
thoughts. But when do your friends arrive? I thought they were to have
come with you?”
“What a head I have, Dinah! They are all here; two carriages of them. I
left them on the road when I rushed on to meet you. Oh, here they come!
here they are!”
“My brother's good fortune, gentlemen, has made him seem to forget what
adversity never did; but I believe you all know how welcome you are
here? Your son, General Conyers, thought to meet you earlier, by taking
boat down to the village, and the girls went with him. Your friend,
Polly Dill, is one of them, General Hunter.”
Having thus, with one sweep of the scythe, cut down a little of all
around her, she led the way towards the cottage, accepting the arm of
General Conyers with an antiquated grace that sorely tried Hunter's good
manners not to smile at.
“I know what you are looking at, what you are thinking of, Barrington,”
said Withering, as he saw the other stand a moment gazing at the
landscape on the opposite side of the river.
“I don't think you do, Tom,” said he, smiling.
“You were thinking of buying that mountain yonder. You were saying to
yourself, 'I 'll be the owner of that beech wood before I'm a month
older!'”
“Upon my life, you 're right! though I have n't the remotest notion of
how you guessed it. The old fellow that owns it shall name his own terms
to-morrow morning. Here come the girls, and they 've got Tom Dill with
them. How the fellow rows! and Fifine is laughing away at Conyers's
attempt to keep the boat straight. Look at Hunter, too; he 's off to
meet them. Is he 'going in' for the great heiress prize, eh, Tom?” said
he, with a knowing smile.
Though Hunter assisted the ladies to land with becoming gallantry, he
did not offer his arm to Josephine, but dropped behind, where Tom Dill
brought up the rear with his sister.
“We have no confidences that you may not listen to,” said Polly, as she
saw that he hesitated as to joining them. “Tom, indeed, has been telling
of yourself, and you may not care to hear your own praises.”
“If they come from _you_, I 'm all ears for them.”
“Isn't that pretty, Tom? Did you ever hear any one ask more candidly
for--no, not flattery--what is it to be called?”
Tom, however, could not answer, for he had stopped to shake hands with
Darby, whose “May I never!” had just arrested him.
“What an honest, fine-hearted fellow it is!” said Hunter, as they moved
on, leaving Tom behind.
“But if _you_ had n't found it out, who would have known, or who
acknowledged it? _I_ know--for he has told me--all you have been to
him.”
“Pooh, pooh! nothing; less than nothing. He owes all that he is to
himself. He is one of those fellows who, once they get into the right
groove in life, are sure to go ahead. Not even _you_ could make a doctor
of him. Nature made him a soldier.”
Polly blushed slightly at the compliment to those teachings she believed
a secret, and he went on,--
“What has the world been doing here since I left?”
“Pretty much what it did while you were here. It looked after its
turnips and asparagus, took care of its young calves, fattened its
chickens, grumbled at the dear-ness of everything, and wondered when Dr.
Buck would preach a new sermon.”
“No deaths,--no marriages?”
“None. There was only one candidate for both, and he has done
neither,--Major M'Cormick.”
“Confound that old fellow! I had forgotten him. Do you remember the
last day I saw you here? We were in the garden, talking, as we believed,
without witnesses. Well, _he_ overheard us. He heard every word we said,
and a good deal more that we did not say.”
“Yes; so he informed me, a few days after.”
“You don't mean to say that he had the impertinence--”
“The frankness, General,--the charming candor,--to tell me that I was a
very clever girl, and not to be discouraged by one failure or two; that
with time and perseverance--I think he said perseverance--some one was
sure to take a fancy to me: he might not, perhaps, be handsome, possibly
not very young; his temper, too, might chance to be more tart than
was pleasant; in a word, he drew such a picture that I had to stop him
short, and ask was he making me a proposal? He has never spoken to me
since!”
“I feel as if I could break his neck,” muttered Hunter, below his
breath; then added, “Do you remember that I asked leave to write to you
once,--only once?”
“Yes, I remember it.”
“And you would not answer me. You shook your head, as though to say the
permission would be of no service to me; that I might write, but, you
understand, that it would only be to indulge in a delusion--”
“What an expressive shake of the head that meant all that!”
“Ah! there it is again; never serious, never grave! And now I want
you to be both. Since I landed in England, I ran down for a day to
Devonshire. I saw an old aunt of mine, who, besides being very rich,
has retained no small share of the romance of her life. She always had
a dash of hero-worship about her, and so I took down Tom with me to show
her the gallant fellow whose name was in all the newspapers, and of whom
all the world was talking. She was charmed with him,--with his honest,
manly simplicity, his utter want of all affectation. She asked me ten
times a day, 'Can I not be of service to him? Is there no step he wishes
to purchase? Is there nothing we can do for him?' 'Nothing,' said I; 'he
is quite equal to his own fortune.' 'He may have brothers,' said she.
'He has a sister,' said I,--'a sister who has made him all that he is,
and it was to repay her love and affection that he has shown himself
to be the gallant fellow we have seen him.' 'Tell her to come and see
me.--that is,' said she, correcting herself, 'give her a letter I shall
write, and persuade her, if you can, to oblige me by doing what I ask.'
Here is the letter; don't say no till you have read it. Nay, don't shake
your head so deploringly; things may be hard without being impossible.
At all events, read her note carefully. It's a droll old hand, but clear
as print.”
“I'll read it,” said she, looking at the letter; but the sorrowful tone
revealed how hopelessly she regarded the task.
“Ask Tom about her; and make Tom tell you what she is like. By Jove! he
has such an admiration for the old damsel, I was half afraid he meant to
be my uncle.”
They reached the cottage laughing pleasantly over this conceit, and
Polly hurried up to her room to read the letter. To her surprise,
Josephine was there already, her eyes very red with crying, and her
cheeks flushed and feverish-looking.
“My dearest Fifine, what is all this for, on the happiest day of your
life?” said she, drawing her arm around her.
“It's all _your_ fault,--all _your_ doing,” said the other, averting her
head, as she tried to disengage herself from the embrace.
“My fault,--my doing? What do you mean, dearest, what can I have done to
deserve this?”
“You know very well what you have done. You knew all the time how it
would turn out.”
Polly protested firmly that she could not imagine what was attributed to
her, and only after a considerable time obtained the explanation of the
charge. Indeed it was not at first easy to comprehend it, given, as
it was, in the midst of tears, and broken at every word by sobs. The
substance was this: that Fifine, in an attempted imitation of Polly's
manner,--an effort to copy the coquetting which she fancied to be so
captivating,--had ventured to trifle so far with young Conyers, that,
after submitting to every alternative of hope and fear for weeks
long, he at last gave way, and determined to leave the house, quit the
country, and never meet her more. “It was to be like you I did it,”
cried she, sobbing bitterly, “and see what it has led me to.”
“Well, dearest, be really like me for half an hour; that is, be very
patient and very quiet. Sit down here, and don't leave this till I come
back to you.”
Polly kissed her hot cheek as she spoke; and the other sat down where
she was bade, with the half-obedient sulkiness of a naughty child.
“Tell young Mr. Conyers to come and speak to me. I shall be in the
garden,” said she to his servant; and before she had gone many paces he
was beside her.
“Oh, Polly dearest! have you any hope for me?” cried he, in agony. “If
you knew the misery I am enduring.”
“Come and take a walk with me,” said she, passing her arm within his. “I
think you will like to hear what I have to tell you.”
The revelation was not a very long one; and as they passed beneath the
room where Josephine sat, Polly called out, “Come down here, Fifine, we
are making a bouquet; try if you can find 'heart's-ease.'”
What a happy party met that day at dinner! All were in their best
spirits, each contented with the other. “Have you read my aunt's note?”
whispered Hunter to Polly, as they passed into the drawing-room.
“Yes. I showed it also to Miss Dinah. I asked her advice.”
“And what did she say,--what did she advise?”
“She said she 'd think over it and tell me to-morrow.”
“To-morrow! Why not now,--why not at once?” cried he, impatiently. “I
'll speak to her myself;” and he hurried to the little room where Miss
Dinah was making tea.
It was not a very long interview; and Hunter returned, fond, radiant,
and triumphant. “She's the cleverest old woman I ever met in my life,”
said he; “and the best, besides, after my Aunt Dorothy. She said that
such an invitation as that was too cordial to be coldly declined; that
it meant more--far more--than a politeness; that you ought to go, yes,
by all means; and if there was any difficulty about the journey, or any
awkwardness in travelling so far, why, there was an easy remedy for it,
as well as for meeting my aunt a perfect stranger.”
“And what was that?”
“To go as her niece, dearest Polly,--to be the wife of a man who loves
you.”
“Is it possible that you have so much to say to each other that you
won't take tea?” cried Aunt Dinah; while she whispered to Withering, “I
declare we shall never have a sociable moment till they're all married
off, and learn to conduct themselves like reasonable creatures.”
Is it not the best testimony we can give to happiness, that it is a
thing to feel and not describe,--to be enjoyed, but not pictured? It is
like a debt that I owe to my reader, to show him “The Home” as it was
when blissful hearts were gathered under its roof; and yet, for the life
of me, I cannot acquit myself of it. To say that there were old people
with their memories of the past, and young ones with their hopes of the
future; that there were bygones to sigh over, and vistas to gaze at,
conveys but little of the kindliness by which heart opened to heart,
and sorrow grew lighter by mutual endurance, and joys became brighter as
they were imparted to another.
“So I find,” said Barrington, as they sat at breakfast together, “that
Josephine insists on going back to the convent, and Fred is resolved on
an exchange into the Infantry, and is off for Canada immediately.”
“Not a bit of it!” broke in Hunter, who remarked nothing of the roguish
drollery of old Peter's eye, nor even suspected that the speech was made
in mockery. “Master Fred is coming with me into Kilkenny this morning,
for a visit to the Dean, or whatever he is, who dispenses those social
handcuffs they call licenses.”
“Why, they were quarrelling all the morning,” repeated Harrington.
“So we were, sir, and so we mean to do for many a year,” said Josephine;
“and to keep us in countenance, I hear that General Hunter and Polly
have determined to follow our example.”
“What do I hear, Miss Dill?” said Miss Barrington, with an affected
severity.
“I'm afraid, madam, it is true; there has been what my father calls 'a
contagious endemic' here lately, and we have both caught it; but ours
are mild cases, and we hope soon to recover.”
“What's this I see here?” cried Fred, who, to conceal his shame, had
taken up the newspaper. “Listen to this: 'The notorious Stapylton,
_alias_ Edwardes, whose case up to yesterday was reported all but
hopeless, made his escape from the hospital, and has not since been
heard of. It would appear that some of the officials had been bribed to
assist his evasion, and a strict inquiry will be immediately set on foot
into the affair.'”
“Do you think he has got over to France?” whispered Peter to Withering.
“Of course he has; the way was all open, and everything ready for him!”
“Then I am thoroughly happy!” cried Barrington, “and there's not even
the shadow of a cloud over our present sunshine.”
THE END.