If there was anything that possessed more than common terror for
Barrington, it was a wet day at the cottage! It was on these dreary
visitations that his sister took the opportunity of going into
“committee of supply,”--an occasion not merely for the discussion
of fiscal matters, but for asking the most vexatious questions and
demanding the most unpleasant explanations.
We can all, more or less, appreciate the happiness of that right
honorable gentleman on the Treasury bench who has to reply to the crude
and unmeaning inquiries of some aspiring Oppositionist, and who wishes
to know if her Majesty's Government have demanded an indemnity from the
King of Dahomey for the consul's family eaten by him at the last court
ceremonial? What compensation is to be given to Captain Balrothery for
his week's imprisonment at Leghorn, in consequence of his having thrown
the customs officer and a landing waiter into the sea? Or what mark of
her Majesty's favor will the noble lord recommend should be conferred
upon Ensign Digges for the admirable imitation he gave of the dancing
dervishes at Benares, and the just ridicule he thus threw upon these
degrading and heathenish rites?
It was to a torture of this order, far more reasonable and pertinent,
however, that Barrington usually saw himself reduced whenever the
weather was so decidedly unfavorable that egress was impossible. Poor
fellow, what shallow pretexts would he stammer out for absenting himself
from home, what despicable subterfuges to put off an audience! He had
forgotten to put down the frame on that melon-bed.
There was that awning over the boat not taken in. He 'd step out to
the stable and give Billy, the pony, a touch of the white oils on that
swelled hock. He 'd see if they had got the young lambs under cover. In
fact, from his perturbed and agitated manner, you would have imagined
that rain was one of the rarest incidents of an Irish climate, and only
the very promptest measures could mitigate the calamity.
“May I ask where you are off to in such haste, Peter?” asked Miss Dinah
one morning, just as Barrington had completed all his arrangements for
a retreat; far readier to brave the elements than the more pitiless
pelting that awaited him within doors.
“I just remembered,” said he, mildly, “that I had left two night-lines
out at the point, and with this fresh in the river it would be as well
if I 'd step down and see--”
“And see if the river was where it was yesterday,” broke she in,
sneeringly.
“No, Dinah. But you see that there 's this to be remarked about
night-lines--”
“That they never catch any fish!” said she, sternly. “It's no weather
for you to go tramping about in the wet grass. You made fuss enough
about your lumbago last week, and I suppose you don't want it back
again. Besides,”--and here her tongue grew authoritative,--“I have got
up the books.” And with these words she threw on the table a number of
little greasy-looking volumes, over which poor Barrington's sad glances
wandered, pretty much as might a victim's over the thumb-screws and the
flesh-nippers of the Holy Inquisition.
“I've a slight touch of a headache this morning, Dinah.”
“It won't be cured by going out in the rain. Sit down there,” said she,
peremptorily, “and see with your own eyes how much longer your means
will enable you to continue these habits of waste and extravagance.”
“These what?” said he, perfectly astounded.
“These habits of waste and extravagance, Peter Barring-ton. I repeat my
words.”
Had a venerable divine, being asked on the conclusion of an edifying
discourse, for how much longer it might be his intention to persist in
such ribaldries, his astonishment could scarce have been greater than
Barrington's.
“Why, sister Dinah, are we not keeping an inn? Is not this the
'Fisherman's Home'?”
“I should think it is, Peter,” said she, with scorn. “I suspect he finds
it so. A very excellent name for it it is!”
“Must I own that I don't understand you, Dinah?”
“Of course you don't. You never did all your life. You never knew you
were wet till you were half drowned, and that's what the world calls
having such an amiable disposition! Ain't your friends nice friends?
They are always telling you how generous you are,--how free-handed,--how
benevolent. What a heart he has! Ay, but thank Providence there's very
little of that charming docility about _me_, is there?”
“None, Dinah,--none,” said he, not in the least suspecting to what he
was bearing testimony.
She became crimson in a minute, and in a tone of some emotion said, “And
if there had been, where should you and where should I be to-day? On the
parish, Peter Barrington,--on the parish; for it 's neither _your_ head
nor _your_ hands would have saved us from it.”
“You're right, Dinah; you're right there. You never spoke a truer word.”
And his voice trembled as he said it.
“I did n't mean _that_, Peter,” said she, eagerly; “but you are too
confiding, too trustful. Perhaps it takes a woman to detect all the
little wiles and snares that entangle us in our daily life?”
“Perhaps it does,” said he, with a deep sigh.
“At all events, you needn't sigh over it, Peter Barring-ton. It's not
one of those blemishes in human nature that have to be deplored so
feelingly. I hope women are as good as men.”
“Fifty thousand times better, in every quality of kindliness and
generosity.”
“Humph!” said she, tossing her head impatiently. “We 're not here for a
question in ethics; it is to the very lowly task of examining the house
accounts I would invite your attention. Matters cannot go on as they do
now, if we mean to keep a roof over us.”
“But I have always supposed we were doing pretty well, Dinah. You know
we never promised ourselves to gain a fortune by this venture; the very
utmost we ever hoped for was to help us along,--to aid us to make both
ends meet at the end of the year And as Darby tells me--”
“Oh, Darby tells you! What a reliable authority to quote from! Oh, don't
groan so heavily! I forgot myself. I would n't for the world impeach
such fidelity or honesty as his.”
“Be reasonable, sister Dinah,--do be reasonable; and if there is
anything to lay to his charge--”
“You 'll hear the case, I suppose,” cried she, in a voice high-pitched
in passion. “You 'll sit up there, like one of your favorite judges, and
call on Dinah Barrington against Cassan; and perhaps when the cause is
concluded we shall reverse our places, and _I_ become the defendant! But
if this is your intention, brother Barrington, give me a little time. I
beg I may have a little time.”
Now, this was a very favorite request of Miss Barring-ton's, and she
usually made it in the tone of a martyr; but truth obliges us to own
that never was a demand less justifiable. Not a three-decker of the
Channel fleet was readier for a broadside than herself. She was always
at quarters and with a port-fire burning.
Barrington did not answer this appeal; he never moved,--he scarcely
appeared to breathe, so guarded was he lest his most unintentional
gesture should be the subject of comment.
“When you have recovered from your stupefaction,” said she, calmly,
“will you look over that line of figures, and then give a glance at this
total? After that I will ask you what fortune could stand it.”
“This looks formidable, indeed,” said he, poring over the page through
his spectacles.
“It is worse, Peter. It _is_ formidable.”
“After all, Dinah, this is expenditure. Now for the incomings!”
“I suspect you 'll have to ask your prime minister for _them_. Perhaps
he may vouchsafe to tell you how many twenty-pound notes have gone to
America, who it was that consigned a cargo of new potatoes to Liverpool,
and what amount he invested in yarn at the last fair of Graigue? and
when you have learned these facts, you will know all you are ever likely
to know of your _profits!_” I have no means of conveying the intense
scorn with which she uttered the last word of this speech.
“And he told me--not a week back--that we were going on famously!”
“Why wouldn't he? I 'd like to hear what else he could say. Famously,
indeed, for _him_ with a strong balance in the savings-bank, and a gold
watch--yes, Peter, a gold watch--in his pocket. This is no delusion,
nor illusion, or whatever you call it, of mine, but a fact,--a downright
fact.”
“He has been toiling hard many a year for it, Dinah, don't forget that.”
“I believe you want to drive me mad, Peter. You know these are things
that I can't bear, and that's the reason you say them. Toil, indeed! _I_
never saw him do anything except sit on a gate at the Lock Meadows, with
a pipe in his mouth; and if you asked him what he was there for, it was
a 'track' he was watching, a 'dog-fox that went by every afternoon to
the turnip field.' Very great toil that was!”
“There was n't an earth-stopper like him in the three next counties; and
if I was to have a pack of foxhounds tomorrow--”
“You 'd just be as great a foot as ever you were, and the more sorry I
am to hear it; but you 're not going to be tempted, Peter Barrington.
It's not foxes we have to think of, but where we 're to find shelter for
ourselves.”
“Do you know of anything we could turn to, more profitable, Dinah?”
asked he, mildly.
“There 's nothing could be much less so, I know _that!_ You are not
very observant, Peter, but even to you it must have become apparent that
great changes have come over the world in a few years. The persons who
formerly indulged their leisure were all men of rank and fortune. Who
are the people who come over here now to amuse themselves? Staleybridge
and Manchester creatures, with factory morals and bagman manners;
treating our house like a commercial inn, and actually disputing the
bill and asking for items. Yes, Peter, I overheard a fellow telling
Darby last week that the ''ouse was dearer than the Halbion!'”
“Travellers will do these things, Dinah.”
“And if they do, they shall be shown the door for it, as sure as my name
is Dinah Barrington.”
“Let us give up the inn altogether, then,” said he, with a sudden
impatience.
“The very thing I was going to propose, Peter,” said she, solemnly.
“What!--how?” cried he, for the acceptance of what only escaped him in
a moment of anger overwhelmed and stunned him. “How are we to live,
Dinah?”
“Better without than with it,--there's my answer to that. Let us
look the matter fairly in the face, Peter,” said she, with a calm and
measured utterance. “This dealing with the world 'on honor' must ever
be a losing game. To screen ourselves from the vulgar necessities of our
condition, we must submit to any terms. So long as our intercourse
with life gave us none but gentlemen to deal with, we escaped well and
safely. That race would seem to have thinned off of late, however; or,
what comes to the same, there is such a deluge of spurious coin one
never knows what is real gold.”
“You may be right, Dinah; you may be right.”
“I know I am right; the experience has been the growth of years too. All
our efforts to escape the odious contact of these people have multiplied
our expenses. Where one man used to suffice, we keep three. You
yourself, who felt it no indignity to go out a-fishing formerly with a
chance traveller, have to own with what reserve and caution you would
accept such companionship now.”
“Nay, nay, Dinah, not exactly so far as that--”
“And why not? Was it not less than a fortnight ago three Birmingham men
crossed the threshold, calling out for old Peter,--was old Peter to the
good yet?”
“They were a little elevated with wine, sister, remember that; and,
besides, they never knew, never had heard of me in my once condition.”
“And are we so changed that they cannot recognize the class we pertain
to?”
“Not _you_, Dinah, certainly not you; but I frankly own I can put up
with rudeness and incivility better than a certain showy courtesy some
vulgar people practise towards me. In the one case I feel I am not
known, and my secret is safe. In the other, I have to stand out as
the ruined gentleman, and I am not always sure that I play the part as
gracefully as I ought.”
“Let us leave emotions, Peter, and descend to the lowland of arithmetic,
by giving up two boatmen, John and Terry--”
“Poor Terry!” sighed he, with a faint, low accent
“Oh! if it be 'poor Terry!' I 've done,” said she, closing the book, and
throwing it down with a slap that made him start.
“Nay, dear Dinah; but if we could manage to let him have something,--say
five shillings a week,--he 'd not need it long; and the port wine that
was doing his rheumatism such good is nearly finished; he'll miss it
sorely.”
“Were you giving him Henderson's wine,--the '11 vintage?” cried she,
pale with indignation.
“Just a bottle or two, Dinah; only as medicine.”
“As a fiddlestick, sir! I declare I have no patience with you; there
's no excuse for such folly, not to say the ignorance of giving these
creatures what they never were used to. Did not Dr. Dill tell you that
tonics, to be effective, must always have some relation to the daily
habits of the patient?”
“Very true, Dinah; but the discourse was pronounced when I saw him
putting a bottle of old Madeira in his gig that I had left for Anne
M'Cafferty, adding, he 'd send her something far more strengthening.”
“Right or wrong, I don't care; but this I know, Terry Dogherty is n't
going to finish off Henderson's port. It is rather too much to stand,
that we are to be treating beggars to luxuries, when we can't say
to-morrow where we shall find salt for our potatoes.” This was a
somewhat favorite illustration of Miss Barrington,--either implying that
the commodity was an essential to human life, or the use of it an emblem
of extreme destitution.
“I conclude we may dispense with Tom Divett's services,” resumed she.
“We can assuredly get on without a professional rat-catcher.”
“If we should, Dinah, we'll feel the loss; the rats make sad havoc of
the spawn, and destroy quantities of the young fish, besides.”
“His two ugly terriers eat just as many chickens, and never leave us an
egg in the place. And now for Mr. Darby--”
“You surely don't think of parting with Darby, sister Dinah?”
“He shall lead the way,” replied she, in a firm and peremptory voice;
“the very first of the batch! And it will, doubtless, be a great comfort
to you to know that you need not distress yourself about any provision
for his declining years. It is a care that he has attended to on his own
part. He 'll go back to a very well-feathered nest, I promise you.”
Barrington sighed heavily, for he had a secret sorrow on that score.
He knew, though his sister did not, that he had from year to year been
borrowing every pound of Darby's savings to pay the cost of law charges,
always hoping and looking for the time when a verdict in his favor would
enable him to restore the money twice told. With a very dreary sigh,
then, did he here allude “to the well-feathered nest” of one he had left
bare and destitute. He cleared his throat, and made an effort to avow
the whole matter; but his courage failed him, and he sat mournfully
shaking his head, partly in sorrow, partly in shame. His sister noticed
none of these signs; she was rapidly enumerating all the reductions
that could be made,--all the dependencies cut off; there were the
boats, which constantly required repairs; the nets, eternally being
renewed,--all to be discarded; the island, a very pretty little object
in the middle of the river, need no longer be rented. “Indeed,” said
she, “I don't know why we took it, except it was to give those memorable
picnics you used to have there.”
“How pleasant they were, Dinah; how delightful!” said he, totally
overlooking the spirit of her remark.
“Oh! they were charming, and your own popularity was boundless; but I
'd have you to bear in mind, brother Peter, that popularity is no more
a poor man's luxury than champagne. It is a very costly indulgence, and
can rarely be had on 'credit.'”
Miss Barrington had pared down retrenchment to the very quick. She
had shown that they could live not only without boatmen, rat-catchers,
gardener, and manservant, but that, as they were to give up their daily
newspaper, they could dispense with a full ration of candle-light;
and yet, with all these reductions, she declared that there was still
another encumbrance to be pruned away, and she proudly asked her brother
if he could guess what it was?
Now Barrington felt that he could not live without a certain allowance
of food, nor would it be convenient, or even decent, to dispense with
raiment; so he began, as a last resource, to conjecture that his sister
was darkly hinting at something which might be a substitute for a home,
and save house-rent; and he half testily exclaimed, “I suppose we 're to
have a roof over us, Dinah!”
“Yes,” said she, dryly, “I never proposed we should go and live in the
woods. What I meant had a reference, to Josephine--”
Barrington's cheek flushed deeply in an instant, and, with a voice
trembling with emotion, he said,--
“If you mean, Dinah, that I'm to cut off that miserable pittance--that
forty pounds a year--I give to poor George's girl--” He stopped, for he
saw that in his sister's face which might have appalled a bolder heart
than his own; for while her eyes flashed fire, her thin lips trembled
with passion; and so, in a very faltering humility, he added: “But you
never meant _that_ sister Dinah. You would be the very last in the world
to do it.”
“Then why impute it to me; answer me that?” said she, crossing her hands
behind her back, and staring haughtily at him.
“Just because I 'm clean at my wits' end,--just because I neither
understand one word I hear, or what I say in reply. If you 'll just tell
me what it is you propose, I 'll do my best, with God's blessing,
to follow you; but don't ask me for advice, Dinah, and don't fly out
because I 'm not as quick-witted and as clever as yourself.”
There was something almost so abject in his misery that she seemed
touched by it, and, in a voice of a very calm and kindly meaning, she
said,--
“I have been thinking a good deal over that letter of Josephine's; she
says she wants our consent to take the veil as a nun; that, by the rules
of the order, when her novitiate is concluded, she must go into the
world for at least some months,--a time meant to test her faithfulness
to her vows, and the tranquillity with which she can renounce forever
all the joys and attractions of life. We, it is true, have no means of
surrounding her with such temptations; but we might try and supply their
place by some less brilliant but not less attractive ones. We might
offer her, what we ought to have offered her years ago,--a home! What do
you say to this, Peter?”
“That I love you for it, sister Dinah, with all my heart,” said he,
kissing her on each cheek; “that it makes me happier than I knew I ever
was to be again.”
“Of course, to bring Josephine here, this must not be an inn, Peter.”
“Certainly not, Dinah,--certainly not. But I can think of nothing but
the joy of seeing her,--poor George's child I How I have yearned to know
if she was like him,--if she had any of his ways, any traits of that
quaint, dry humor he had, and, above all, of that disposition that made
him so loved by every one.”
“And cheated by every one too, brother Peter; don't forget that!”
“Who wants to think of it now?” said he, sorrowfully.
“I never reject a thought because it has unpleasant associations. It
would be but a sorry asylum which only admitted the well-to-do and the
happy.”
“How are we to get the dear child here, Dinah? Let us consider the
matter. It is a long journey off.”
“I have thought of that too,” said she, sententiously, “but not made up
my mind.”
“Let us ask M'Cormick about it, Dinah; he's coming up this evening
to play his Saturday night's rubber with Dill. He knows the Continent
well.”
“There will be another saving that I did n't remember, Peter. The weekly
bottle of whiskey, and the candles, not to speak of the four or five
shillings your pleasant companions invariably carry away with them,--all
may be very advantageously dispensed with.”
“When Josephine 's here, I 'll not miss it,” said he, good-humoredly.
Then suddenly remembering that his sister might not deem the speech
a gracious one to herself, he was about to add something; but she was
gone.