Miss Barrtngton waited with impatience for Conyers's appearance at
the breakfast-table,--she had received such a pleasant note from her
brother, and she was so eager to read it. That notion of imparting some
conception of a dear friend by reading his own words to a stranger is
a very natural one. It serves so readily to corroborate all we have
already said, to fill up that picture of which wo have but given the
mere outline, not to speak of the inexplicable charm there is in being
able to say, “Here is the man without reserve or disguise; here he is in
all the freshness and warmth of genuine feeling; no tricks of style, no
turning of phrases to mar the honest expression of his nature. You see
him as we see him.”
“My brother is coming home, Mr. Conyers; he will be here to-day. Here
is his note,” said Miss Dinah, as she shook hands with her guest “I must
read it for you:--
“'At last, my dear Dinah--at last I am free, and, with all my love of
law and lawyers, right glad to turn my steps homeward. Not but I
have had a most brilliant week of it; dined with my old schoolfellow
Longmore, now Chief Baron, and was the honored guest of the “Home
Circuit,” not to speak of one glorious evening with a club called the
“Unbriefed,” the pleasantest dogs that ever made good speeches for
nothing!--an amount of dissipation upon which I can well retire and live
for the next twelve months. How strange it seems to me to be once more
in the “world,” and listening to scores of things in which I have no
personal interest; how small it makes my own daily life appear, but how
secure and how homelike, Dinah! You have often heard me grumbling over
the decline of social agreeability, and the dearth of those pleasant
speeches that could set the table in a roar. You shall never hear the
same complaint from me again. These fellows are just as good as their
fathers. If I missed anything, it was that glitter of scholarship, that
classical turn which in the olden day elevated table-talk, and made it
racy with the smart aphorisms and happy conceits of those who, even over
their wine, were poets and orators. But perhaps I am not quite fair
even in this. At all events, I am not going to disparage those who have
brought back to my old age some of the pleasant memories of my youth,
and satisfied me that even yet I have a heart for those social joys I
once loved so dearly!
“'And we have won our suit, Dinah,--at least, a juror was withdrawn by
consent,--and Brazier agrees to an arbitration as to the Moyalty lands,
the whole of Clanebrach and Barrymaquilty property being released from
the sequestration.'
“This is all personal matter, and technical besides,” said Miss
Barrington; “so I skip it.”
“'Withering was finer than ever I heard him in the speech to evidence.
We have been taunted with our defensive attitude so suddenly converted
into an attack, and he compared our position to Wellington's at Torres
Vedras. The Chief Justice said Curran, at his best, never excelled it,
and they have called me nothing but Lord Wellington ever since. And now,
Dinah, to answer the question your impatience has been putting these ten
minutes: “What of the money part of all this triumph?” I fear much,
my dear sister, we are to take little by our motion. The costs of the
campaign cut up all but the glory! Hogan's bill extends to thirty-eight
folio pages, and there's a codicil to it of eleven more, headed
“Confidential between Client and Attorney,” and though I have not in
a rapid survey seen anything above five pounds, the gross total is two
thousand seven hundred and forty-three pounds three and fourpence. I
must and will say, however, it was a great suit, and admirably prepared.
There was not an instruction Withering did not find substantiated,
and Hogan is equally delighted with _him_, With all my taste for field
sports and manly games, Dinah, I am firmly convinced that a good trial
at bar is a far finer spectacle than the grandest tournament that
ever was tilted. There was a skirmish yesterday that I 'd rather
have witnessed than I 'd have seen Brian de Bois himself at
Ashby-de-la-Zouch. And, considering that my own share for this passage
at arms will come to a trifle above two thousand pounds, the confession
may be taken as an honest one.
“'And who is your young guest whom I shall be so delighted to see? This
gives no clew to him, Dinah, for you know well how I would welcome any
one who has impressed you so favorably. Entreat of him to prolong his
stay for a week at least, and if I can persuade Withering to come down
with me, we 'll try and make his sojourn more agreeable. Look out for
me--at least, about five o'clock--and have the green-room ready for W.,
and let Darby be at Holt's stile to take the trunks, for Withering likes
that walk through the woods, and says that he leaves his wig and gown on
the holly-bushes there till he goes back.'”
The next paragraph she skimmed over to herself. It was one about an
advance that Hogan had let him have of two hundred pounds. “Quite
ample,” W. says, “for our excursion to fetch over Josephine.” Some
details as to the route followed, and some wise hints about travelling
on the Continent, and a hearty concurrence on the old lawyer's part with
the whole scheme.
“These are little home details,” said she, hurriedly, “but you have
heard enough to guess what my brother is like. Here is the conclusion:--
“'I hope your young friend is a fisherman, which will give me more
chance of his company than walking up the partridges, for which I am
getting too old. Let him however understand that we mean him to enjoy
himself in his own way, to have the most perfect liberty, and that the
only despotism we insist upon is, not to be late for dinner.
“'Your loving brother,
“'Peter Barrington.
“'There is no fatted calf to feast our return, Dinah, but Withering
has an old weakness for a roast sucking-pig. Don't you think we could
satisfy it?'”
Conyers readily caught the contagion of the joy Miss Barrington felt
at the thought of her brother's return. Short as the distance was that
separated him from home, his absences were so rare, it seemed as
though he had gone miles and miles away, for few people ever lived more
dependent on each other, with interests more concentrated, and all of
whose hopes and fears took exactly the same direction, than this brother
and sister, and this, too, with some strong differences on the score of
temperament, of which the reader already has an inkling.
What a pleasant bustle that is of a household that prepares for the
return of a well-loved master! What feeling pervades twenty little
offices of every-day routine! And how dignified by affection are the
smallest cares and the very humblest attentions! “He likes this!” “He
is so fond of that!” are heard at every moment It is then that one marks
how the observant eye of love has followed the most ordinary tricks of
habit, and treasured them as things to be remembered. It is not the key
of the street door in your pocket, nor the lease of the premises in your
drawer, that make a home. Let us be grateful when we remember that, in
this attribute, the humblest shealing on the hillside is not inferior to
the palace of the king!
Conyers, I have said, partook heartily of Miss Barring-ton's delight,
and gave a willing help to the preparations that went forward. All were
soon busy within doors and without. Some were raking the gravel before
the door; while others were disposing the flower-pots in little pyramids
through the grass plats; and then there were trees to be nailed up, and
windows cleaned, and furniture changed in various ways. What superhuman
efforts did not Conyers make to get an old jet d'eau to play which
had not spouted for nigh twenty years; and how reluctantly he resigned
himself to failure and assisted Betty to shake a carpet!
And when all was completed, and the soft and balmy air sent the odor of
the rose and the jessamine through the open windows, within which every
appearance of ease and comfort prevailed, Miss Barrington sat down
at the piano and began to refresh her memory of some Irish airs, old
favorites of Withering's, which he was sure to ask for. There was that
in their plaintive wildness which strongly interested Conyers; while,
at the same time, he was astonished at the skill of one at whose touch,
once on a time, tears had trembled in the eyes of those who listened,
and whose fingers had not yet forgot their cunning.
“Who is that standing without there?” said Miss Barrington, suddenly, as
she saw a very poor-looking countryman who had drawn close to the
window to listen. “Who are you? and what do you want here?” asked she,
approaching him.
“I 'm Terry, ma'am,--Terry Delany, the Major's man,” said he, taking off
his hat.
“Never heard of you; and what 's your business?”
“'T is how I was sent, your honor's reverence,” began he, faltering at
every word, and evidently terrified by her imperious style of address.
“'Tis how I came here with the master's compliments,--not indeed his own
but the other man's,--to say, that if it was plazing to you, or, indeed,
anyhow at all, they 'd be here at five o'clock to dinner; and though
it was yesterday I got it, I stopped with my sister's husband at Foynes
Gap, and misremembered it all till this morning, and I hope your honor's
reverence won't tell it on me, but have the best in the house all the
same, for he's rich enough and can well afford it.”
“What can the creature mean?” cried Miss Barrington. “Who sent you
here?”
“The Major himself; but not for him, but for the other that's up at
Cobham.”
“And who is this other? What is he called?”
“'Twas something like Hooks, or Nails; but I can't remember,” said he,
scratching his head in sign of utter and complete bewilderment.
“Did any one ever hear the like! Is the fellow an idiot?” exclaimed she,
angrily.
“No, my lady; but many a one might be that lived with ould M'Cormick!”
burst out the man, in a rush of unguardedness.
“Try and collect yourself, my good fellow,” said Miss Barrington,
smiling, in spite of herself, at his confession, “and say, if you can,
what brought you here?”
“It's just, then, what I said before,” said he, gaining a little more
courage. “It's dinner for two ye're to have; and it's to be ready at
five o'clock; but ye 're not to look to ould Dan for the money, for he
as good as said he would never pay sixpence of it, but 't is all to come
out of the other chap's pocket, and well affordin' it. There it is
now, and I defy the Pope o' Rome to say that I did n't give the message
right!”
“Mr. Conyers,” began Miss Barrington, in a voice shaking with agitation,
“it is nigh twenty years since a series of misfortunes brought us so low
in the world that--” She stopped, partly overcome by indignation, partly
by shame; and then, suddenly turning towards the man, she continued,
in a firm and resolute tone, “Go back to your master and say, 'Miss
Barrington hopes he has sent a fool on his errand, otherwise his message
is so insolent it will be far safer he should never present himself here
again!' Do you hear me? Do you understand me?”
“If you mane you'd make them throw him in the river, the divil a straw I
'd care, and I would n't wet my feet to pick him out of it!”
“Take the message as I have given it you, and do not dare to mix up
anything of your own with it.”
“Faix, I won't. It's trouble enough I have without that! I 'll tell him
there's no dinner for him here to-day, and that, if he 's wise, he won't
come over to look for it.”
“There, go--be off,” cried Conyers, impatiently, for he saw that Miss
Barrington's temper was being too sorely tried.
She conquered, however, the indignation that at one moment had
threatened to master her, and in a voice of tolerable calm said,--
“May I ask you to see if Darby or any other of the workmen are in the
garden? It is high time to take down these insignia of our traffic, and
tell our friends how we would be regarded in future.”
“Will you let me do it? I ask as a favor that I may be permitted to do
it,” cried Conyers, eagerly; and without waiting for her answer, hurried
away to fetch a ladder. He was soon back again and at work.
“Take care how you remove that board, Mr. Conyers,” said she. “If there
be the tiniest sprig of jessamine broken, my brother will miss it. He
has been watching anxiously for the time when the white bells would shut
out every letter of his name, and I like him not to notice the change
immediately. There, you are doing it very handily indeed. There is
another holdfast at this corner. Ah, be careful; that is a branch of
the passion-tree, and though it looks dead, you will see it covered with
flowers in spring. Nothing could be better. Now for the last emblem of
our craft,--can you reach it?”
“Oh, easily,” said Conyers, as he raised his eyes to where the little
tin fish hung glittering above him. The ladder, however, was too short,
and, standing on one of the highest rungs, still he could not reach the
little iron stanchion. “I must have it, though,” cried he; “I mean to
claim that as my prize. It will be the only fish I ever took with my
own hands.” He now cautiously crept up another step of the ladder,
supporting himself by the frail creepers which covered the walls. “Help
me now with a crooked stick, and I shall catch it.”
[Illustration: 190]
“I'll fetch you one,” said she, disappearing within the porch.
Still wistfully looking at the object of his pursuit, Conyers never
turned his eyes downwards as the sound of steps apprised him some one
was near, and, concluding it to be Miss Barrington, he said, “I'm half
afraid that I have torn some of this jessamine-tree from the wall; but
see here's the prize!” A slight air of wind had wafted it towards
him, and he suatched the fish from its slender chain and held it up in
triumph.
“A poacher caught in the fact, Barrington!” said a deep voice from
below; and Conyers, looking down, saw two men, both advanced in life,
very gravely watching his proceedings.
Not a little ashamed of a situation to which he never expected an
audience, he hastily descended the ladder; but before he reached the
ground Miss Barrington was in her brother's arms, and welcoming him home
with all the warmth of true affection. This over, she next shook hands
cordially with his companion, whom she called Mr. Withering.
“And now, Peter,” said she, “to present one I have been longing to make
known to you. You, who never forget a well-known face, will recognize
him.”
“My eyes are not what they used to be,” said Barrington, holding out his
hand to Conyers, “but they are good enough to see the young gentleman I
left here when I went away.”
“Yes, Peter,” said she, hastily; “but does the sight of him bring back
to you no memory of poor George?”
“George was dark as a Spaniard, and this gentleman--But pray, sir,
forgive this rudeness of ours, and let us make ourselves better
acquainted within doors. You mean to stay some time here, I hope.”
“I only wish I could; but I have already overstayed my leave, and waited
here only to shake your hand before I left.”
[Illustration: 190]
“Peter, Peter,” said Miss Dinah, impatiently, “must I then tell whom you
are speaking to?”
Barrington seemed pazzled. He looked from the stranger to his sister,
and back again.
She drew near and whispered in his ear: “The son of poor George's
dearest friend on earth,--the son of Ormsby Conyers.”
“Of whom?” said Barrington, in a startled and half-angry voice.
“Of Ormsby Conyers.”
Barrington trembled from head to foot; his face, for an instant crimson,
became suddenly of an ashy paleness, and his voice shook as he said,--
“I was not--I am not--prepared for this honor. I mean, I could not have
expected that Mr. Conyers would have desired--Say this--do this for me,
Withering, for I am not equal to it,” said the old man, as, with his
hands pressed over his face, he hurried within the house, followed by
his sister.
“I cannot make a guess at the explanation my friend has left me to
make,” cried Withering, courteously; “but it is plain to see that your
name has revived some sorrow connected with the great calamity of his
life. You have heard of his son, Colonel Barrington?”
“Yes, and it was because my father had been his dearest friend that Miss
Barrington insisted on my remaining here. She told me, over and over
again, of the joy her brother would feel on meeting me--”
“Where are you going,--what's the matter?” asked Withering, as a man
hurriedly passed out of the house and made for the river.
“The master is taken bad, sir, and I 'm going to Inistioge for the
doctor.”
“Let me go with you,” said Conyers; and, only returning by a nod the
good-bye of Withering, he moved past and stepped into the boat.
“What an afternoon to such a morning!” muttered he to himself, as the
tears started from his eyes and stole heavily along his cheeks.