My reader is already aware that I am telling of some forty years ago,
and therefore I have no apologies to make for habits and ways which our
more polished age has pronounced barbarous. Now, at Cobham, the men
sat after dinner over their wine when the ladies had withdrawn, and,
I grieve to say, fulfilled this usage with a zest and enjoyment that
unequivocally declared it to be the best hour of the whole twenty-four.
Friends could now get together, conversation could range over
personalities, egotisms have their day, and bygones be disinterred
without need of an explanation. Few, indeed, who did not unbend at
such a moment, and relax in that genial atmosphere begotten of closed
curtains, and comfort, and good claret. I am not so certain that we
are wise in our utter abandonment of what must have often conciliated
a difference or reconciled a grudge. How many a lurking discontent, too
subtle for intervention, must have been dissipated in the general burst
of a common laugh, or the racy enjoyment of a good story! Decidedly the
decanter has often played peacemaker, though popular prejudice inclines
to give it a different mission.
On the occasion to which I would now invite my reader, the party were
seated--by means of that genial discovery, a horseshoe-table--around
the fire at Cobham. It was a true country-house society of neighbors who
knew each other well, sprinkled with guests,--strangers to every one.
There were all ages and all temperaments, from the hardy old squire,
whose mellow cheer was known at the fox-cover, to the young heir
fresh from Oxford and loud about Leicestershire; gentlemen-farmers and
sportsmen, and parsons and soldiers, blended together with just enough
disparity of pursuit to season talk and freshen experiences.
The conversation, which for a while was partly on sporting matters,
varied with little episodes of personal achievement, and those little
boastings which end in a bet, was suddenly interrupted by a hasty call
for Dr. Dill, who was wanted at the “Fisherman's Home.”
“Can't you stay to finish this bottle, Dill?” said the Admiral, who had
not heard for whom he had been sent.
“I fear not, sir. It is a long row down to the cottage.”
“So it 's poor Barrington again! I 'm sincerely sorry for it! And now I
'll not ask you to delay. By the way, take my boat. Elwes,” said he to
the servant, “tell the men to get the boat ready at once for Dr. Dill,
and come and say when it is so.”
The doctor's gratitude was profuse, though probably a dim vista of the
“tip” that might be expected from him detracted from the fulness of the
enjoyment.
“Find out if I could be of any use, Dill,” whispered the Admiral, as the
doctor arose. “Your own tact will show if there be anything I could do.
You understand me; I have the deepest regard for old Barrington, and his
sister too.”
Dill promised to give his most delicate attention to the point, and
departed.
While this little incident was occurring, Stapylton, who sat at an angle
of the fireplace, was amusing two or three listeners by an account
of his intended dinner at the “Home,” and the haughty refusal of Miss
Barrington to receive him.
“You must tell Sir Charles the story!” cried out Mr. Bushe. “He'll soon
recognize the old Major from your imitation of him.”
“Hang the old villain! he shot a dog-fox the other morning, and he knows
well how scarce they are getting in the country,” said another.
“I 'll never forgive myself for letting him have a lease of that place,”
said a third; “he's a disgrace to the neighborhood.”
“You're not talking of Barrington, surely,” called out Sir Charles.
“Of course not. I was speaking of M'Cormick. Harrington is another stamp
of man, and here's his good health!”
“He'll need all your best wishes, Jack,” said the host, “for Dr. Dill
has just been called away to see him.”
“To see old Peter! Why, I never knew him to have a day's illness!”
“He's dangerously ill now,” said the Admiral, gravely. “Dill tells me
that he came home from the Assizes hale and hearty, in high spirits
at some verdict in his favor, and brought back the Attorney-General to
spend a day or two with him; but that, on arriving, he found a young
fellow whose father or grandfather--for I have n't it correctly--had
been concerned in some way against George Barrington, and that high
words passed between old Peter and this youth, who was turned out on the
spot, while poor Barrington, overcome by emotion, was struck down with
a sort of paralysis. As I have said, I don't know the story accurately,
for even Dill himself only picked it up from the servants at the
cottage, neither Miss Barrington nor Withering having told him one word
on the subject.”
“That is the very same story I heard at the village where we dined,”
broke in Stapylton, “and M'Cormick added that he remembered the name.
Conyers--the young man is called Conyers--did occur in a certain famous
accusation against Colonel Barrington.”
“Well, but,” interposed Bushe, “isn't all that an old story now? Is n't
the whole thing a matter of twenty years ago?”
“Not so much as that,” said Sir Charles. “I remember reading it all when
I was in command of the 'Madagascar,'--I forget the exact year, but I
was at Corfu.”
“At all events,” said Bushe, “it's long enough past to be forgotten or
forgiven; and old Peter was the very last man I could ever have supposed
likely to carry on an ancient grudge against any one.”
“Not where his son was concerned. Wherever George's name entered,
forgiveness of the man that wronged him was impossible,” said another.
“You are scarcely just to my old friend,” interposed the Admiral. “First
of all, we have not the facts before us. Many of us here have never
seen, some have never heard of the great Barrington Inquiry, and of such
as have, if their memories be not better than mine, they can't discuss
the matter with much profit.”
“I followed the case when it occurred,” chimed in the former speaker,
“but I own, with Sir Charles, that it has gone clean out of my head
since that time.”
“You talk of injustice, Cobham, injustice to old Peter Barrington,” said
an old man from the end of the table; “but I would ask, are we quite
just to poor George? I knew him well. My son served in the same regiment
with him before he went out to India, and no finer nor nobler-hearted
fellow than George Barrington ever lived. Talk of him ruining his father
by his extravagance! Why, he'd have cut off his right hand rather
than caused him one pang, one moment of displeasure. Barrington ruined
himself; that insane passion for law has cost him far more than half
what he was worth in the world. Ask Withering; he 'll tell you something
about it. Why, Withering's own fees in that case before 'the Lords'
amount to upwards of two thousand guineas.”
“I won't dispute the question with you, Fowndes,” said the Admiral.
“Scandal says you have a taste for a trial at bar yourself.”
The hit told, and called for a hearty laugh, in which Fowndes himself
joined freely.
“_I_ 'm a burned child, however, and keep away from the fire,” said he,
good-humoredly; “but old Peter seems rather to like being singed. There
he is again with his Privy Council case for next term, and with, I
suppose, as much chance of success as I should have in a suit to recover
a Greek estate of some of my Phoenician ancestors.”
It was not a company to sympathize deeply with such a litigious spirit.
The hearty and vigorous tone of squiredom, young and old, could not
understand it as a passion or a pursuit, and they mainly agreed that
nothing but some strange perversion could have made the generous nature
of old Barrington so fond of law. Gradually the younger members of
the party slipped away to the drawing-room, till, in the changes that
ensued, Stapylton found himself next to Mr. Fowndes.
“I'm glad to see, Captain,” said the old squire, “that modern fashion of
deserting the claret-jug has not invaded your mess. I own I like a man
who lingers over his wine.”
“We have no pretext for leaving it, remember that,” said Stapylton,
smiling.
“Very true. The _placeus uxor_ is sadly out of place in a soldier's
life. Your married officer is but a sorry comrade; besides, how is a
fellow to be a hero to the enemy who is daily bullied by his wife?”
“I think you said that you had served?” interposed Stapylton.
“No. My son was in the army; he is so still, but holds a Governorship
in the West Indies. He it was who knew this Barrington we were speaking
of.”
“Just so,” said Stapylton, drawing his chair closer, so as to converse
more confidentially.
“You may imagine what very uneventful lives we country gentlemen live,”
said the old squire, “when we can continue to talk over one memorable
case for something like twenty years, just because one of the parties to
it was our neighbor.”
“You appear to have taken a lively interest in it,” said Stapylton, who
rightly conjectured it was a favorite theme with the old squire.
“Yes. Barrington and my son were friends; they came down to my house
together to shoot; and with all his eccentricities--and they were
many--I liked Mad George, as they called him.”
“He was a good fellow, then?”
“A thoroughly good fellow, but the shyest that ever lived; to all
outward seeming rough and careless, but sensitive as a woman all the
while. He would have walked up to a cannon's mouth with a calm step,
but an affecting story would bring tears to his eyes; and then, to
cover this weakness, which he was well ashamed of, he 'd rush into fifty
follies and extravagances. As he said himself to me one day, alluding
to some feat of rash absurdity, 'I have been taking another inch off the
dog's tail,'--he referred to the story of Alcibiades, who docked his dog
to take off public attention from his heavier transgressions.”
“There was no truth in these accusations against him?”
“Who knows? George was a passionate fellow, and he 'd have made short
work of the man that angered him. I myself never so entirely acquitted
him as many who loved him less. At all events, he was hardly treated; he
was regularly hunted down. I imagine he must have made many enemies,
for witnesses sprung up against him on all sides, and he was too proud
a fellow to ask for one single testimony in his favor! If ever a man met
death broken-hearted, he did!”
A pause of several minutes occurred, after which the old squire
resumed,--
“My son told me that after Barrington's death there was a strong
revulsion in his favor, and a great feeling that he had been hardly
dealt by. Some of the Supreme Council, it is said, too, were disposed
to behave generously towards his child, but old Peter, in an evil hour,
would hear of nothing short of restitution of all the territory, and a
regular rehabilitation of George's memory, besides; in fact, he made the
most extravagant demands, and disgusted the two or three who were
kindly and well disposed towards his cause. Had they, indeed,--as he
said,--driven his son to desperation, he could scarcely ask them to
declare it to the world; and yet nothing short of this would satisfy
him! 'Come forth,' wrote he,--I read the letter myself,--'come forth and
confess that your evidence was forged and your witnesses suborned; that
you wanted to annex the territory, and the only road to your object was
to impute treason to the most loyal heart that ever served the King!'
Imagine what chance of favorable consideration remained to the man who
penned such words as these.”
“And he prosecutes the case still?”
“Ay, and will do to the day of his death. Withering--who was an old
schoolfellow of mine--has got me to try what I could do to persuade him
to come to some terms; and, indeed, to do old Peter justice, it is
not the money part of the matter he is so obstinate about; it is the
question of what he calls George's fair fame and honor; and one cannot
exactly say to him, 'Who on earth cares a brass button whether George
Barrington was a rebel or a true man? Whether he deserved to die an
independent Rajah of some place with a hard name, or the loyal subject
of his Majesty George the Third?' I own I, one day, did go so close to
the wind, on that subject, that the old man started up and said, 'I hope
I misapprehend you, Harry Fowndes. I hope sincerely that I do so, for if
not, I 'll have a shot at you, as sure as my name is Peter Barrington.'
Of course I 'tried back' at once, and assured him it was a pure
misconception of my meaning, and that until the East India folk fairly
acknowledged that they had wronged his son, _he_ could not, with honor,
approach the question of a compromise in the money matter.”
“That day, it may be presumed, is very far off,” said Stapylton, half
languidly.
“Well, Withering opines not. He says that they are weary of the whole
case. They have had, perhaps, some misgivings as to the entire justice
of what they did. Perhaps they have learned something during the course
of the proceedings which may have influenced their judgment; and not
impossible is it that they pity the old man fighting out his life; and
perhaps, too, Barrington himself may have softened a little, since he
has begun to feel that his granddaughter--for George left a child--had
interests which his own indignation could not rightfully sacrifice; so
that amongst all these perhapses, who knows but some happy issue may
come at last?”
“That Barrington race is not a very pliant one,” said Stapylton,
half dreamily; and then, in some haste, added, “at least, such is the
character they give them here.”
“Some truth there may be in that. Men of a strong temperament and with
a large share of self-dependence generally get credit from the world for
obstinacy, just because the road _they_ see out of difficulties is
not the popular one. But even with all this, I 'd not call old Peter
self-willed; at least, Withering tells me that from time to time, as he
has conveyed to him the opinions and experiences of old Indian officers,
some of whom had either met with or heard of George, he has listened
with much and even respectful attention. And as all their counsels have
gone against his own convictions, it is something to give them a patient
hearing.”
“He has thus permitted strangers to come and speak with him on these
topics?” asked Stapylton, eagerly.
“No, no,--not he. These men had called on Withering,--met him, perhaps,
in society,--heard of his interest in George Barrington's case, and
came good-naturedly to volunteer a word of counsel in favor of an old
comrade. Nothing more natural, I think.”
“Nothing. I quite agree with you; so much so, indeed, that having served
some years in India, and in close proximity, too, to one of the
native courts, I was going to ask you to present me to your friend
Mr. Withering, as one not altogether incapable of affording him some
information.”
“With a heart and a half. I 'll do it.”
“I say, Harry,” cried out the host, “if you and Captain Stapylton will
neither fill your glasses nor pass the wine, I think we had better join
the ladies.”
And now there was a general move to the drawing-room, where several
evening guests had already assembled, making a somewhat numerous
company. Polly Dill was there, too,--not the wearied-looking, careworn
figure we last saw her, when her talk was of “dead anatomies,” but
the lively, sparkling, bright-eyed Polly, who sang the Melodies to the
accompaniment of him who could make every note thrill with the sentiment
his own genius had linked to it. I half wish I had not a story to
tell,--that is, that I had not a certain road to take,--that I might
wander at will through by-path and lane, and linger on the memories thus
by a chance awakened! Ah, it was no small triumph to lift out of obscure
companionship and vulgar associations the music of our land, and wed it
to words immortal, to show us that the pebble at our feet was a gem to
be worn on the neck of beauty, and to prove to us, besides, that our
language could be as lyrical as Anacreon's own!
“I am enchanted with your singing,” whispered Stapylton, in Polly's ear;
“but I 'd forego all the enjoyment not to see you so pleased with your
companion. I begin to detest the little Poet.”
“I 'll tell him so,” said she, half gravely; “and he 'll know well that
it is the coarse hate of the Saxon.”
“I'm no Saxon!” said he, flushing and darkening at the same time. And
then, recovering his calm, he added, “There are no Saxons left amongst
us, nor any Celts for us to honor with our contempt; but come away from
the piano, and don't let him fancy he has bound you by a spell.”
“But he has,” said she, eagerly,--“he has, and I don't care to break
it.”
But the little Poet, running his fingers lightly over the keys, warbled
out, in a half-plaintive whisper,--
“Oh, tell me, dear Polly, why is it thine eyes
Through their brightness have something of sorrow?
I cannot suppose that the glow of such skies
Should ever mean gloom for the morrow;
“Or must I believe that your heart is afar,
And you only make semblance to hear me,
While your thoughts are away to that splendid hussar,
And 't is only your image is near me?”
“An unpublished melody, I fancy,” said Stapylton, with a malicious
twinkle of his eye.
“Not even corrected as yet,” said the Poet, with a glance at Polly.
What a triumph it was for a mere village beauty to be thus tilted for
by such gallant knights; but Polly was practical as well as vain, and a
certain unmistakable something in Lady Cobham's eye told her that two of
the most valued guests of the house were not to be thus withdrawn from
circulation; and with this wise impression on her mind, she slipped
hastily away, on the pretext of something to say to her father. And
although it was a mere pretence on her part, there was that in her look
as they talked together that betokened their conversation to be serious.
“I tell you again,” said he, in a sharp but low whisper, “she will not
suffer it. You used not to make mistakes of this kind formerly, and I
cannot conceive why you should do so now.”
“But, dear papa,” said she, with a strange half-smile, “don't you
remember your own story of the gentleman who got tipsy because he
foresaw he would never be invited again?”
But the doctor was in no jesting mood, and would not accept of the
illustration. He spoke now even more angrily than before.
“You have only to see how much they make of him to know well that he is
out of our reach,” said he, bitterly.
“A long shot, Sir Lucius; there is such honor in a long shot,” said she,
with infinite drollery; and then with a sudden gravity, added, “I have
never forgotten the man you cured, just because your hand shook and you
gave him a double dose of laudanum.”
This was too much for his patience, and he turned away in disgust at her
frivolity. In doing so, however, he came in front of Lady Cobham, who
had come up to request Miss Dill to play a certain Spanish dance for two
young ladies of the company.
“Of course, your Ladyship,--too much honor for her,--she will be
charmed; my little girl is overjoyed when she can contribute even thus
humbly to the pleasure of your delightful house.”
Never did a misdemeanist take his “six weeks” with a more complete
consciousness of penalty than did Polly sit down to that piano. She
well understood it as a sentence, and, let me own, submitted well and
gracefully to her fate. Nor was it, after all, such a slight trial, for
the fandango was her own speciality; she had herself brought the dance
and the music to Cobham. They who were about to dance it were her own
pupils, and not very proficient ones, either. And with all this she did
her part well and loyally. Never had she played with more spirit; never
marked the time with a firmer precision; never threw more tenderness
into the graceful parts, nor more of triumphant daring into the proud
ones. Amid the shower of “Bravos!” that closed the performance,--for
none thought of the dancers,--the little Poet drew nigh and whispered,
“How naughty!”
“Why so?” asked she, innocently.
“What a blaze of light to throw over a sorry picture!” said he, dangling
his eyeglass, and playing that part of middle-aged Cupid he was so fond
of assuming.
“Do you know, sir,” said Lady Cobham, coming hastily towards him, “that
I will not permit you to turn the heads of my young ladies? Dr. Dill
is already so afraid of your fascinations that he has ordered his
carriage,--is it not so?” she went on appealing to the doctor, with
increased rapidity. “But you will certainly keep your promise to us. We
shall expect you on Thursday at dinner.”
Overwhelmed with confusion, Dill answered--he knew not what--about
pleasure, punctuality, and so forth; and then turned away to ring for
that carriage he had not ordered before.
“And so you tell me Barrington is better?” said the Admiral, taking him
by the arm and leading him away. “The danger is over, then?”
“I believe so; his mind is calm, and he is only suffering now from
debility. What with the Assizes, and a week's dissipation at Kilkenny,
and this shock,--for it was a shock,--the whole thing was far more of a
mental than a bodily ailment.”
“You gave him my message? You said how anxious I felt to know if I could
be of any use to him?”
“Yes; and he charged Mr. Withering to come and thank you, for he is
passing by Cobham to-morrow on his way to Kilkenny.”
“Indeed! Georgiana, don't forget that. Withering will call here
to-morrow; try and keep him to dine, at least, if we cannot secure him
for longer. He's one of those fellows I am always delighted to meet
Where are you going, Dill? Not taking your daughter away at this hour,
are you?”
The doctor sighed, and muttered something about dissipations that were
only too fascinating, too engrossing. He did not exactly like to
say that his passports had been sent him, and the authorities duly
instructed to give him “every aid and assistance possible.” For a
moment, indeed, Polly looked as though she would make some explanation
of the matter; but it was only for a moment, and the slight flush on
her cheek gave way quickly, and she looked somewhat paler than her wont.
Meanwhile, the little Poet had fetched her shawl, and led her away,
humming, “Buona notte,--buona sera!” as he went, in that half-caressing,
half-quizzing way he could assume so jauntily. Stapylton walked behind
with the doctor, and whispered as he went, “If not inconvenient, might I
ask the favor of a few minutes with you to-morrow?”
Dill assured him he was devotedly his servant; and having fixed the
interview for two o'clock, away they drove. The night was calm and
starlight, and they had long passed beyond the grounds of Cobham, and
were full two miles on their road before a word was uttered by either.
“What was it her Ladyship said about Thursday next, at dinner?” asked
the doctor, half pettishly.
“Nothing to me, papa.”
“If I remember, it was that we had accepted the invitation already, and
begging me not to forget it.”
“Perhaps so,” said she, dryly.
“You are usually more mindful about these matters,” said he, tartly,
“and not so likely to forget promised festivities.”
“They certainly were not promised to me,” said she, “nor, if they had
been, should I accept of them.”
“What do you mean?” said he, angrily.
“Simply, papa, that it is a house I will not re-enter, that's all.”
“Why, your head is turned, your brains are destroyed by flattery,
girl. You seem totally to forget that we go to these places merely
by courtesy,--we are received only on sufferance; we are not _their_
equals.”
“The more reason to treat us with deference, and not render our position
more painful than it need be.”
“Folly and nonsense! Deference, indeed! How much deference is due from
eight thousand a year to a dispensary doctor, or his daughter? I 'll
have none of these absurd notions. If they made any mistake towards you,
it was by over-attention,--too much notice.”
“That is very possible, papa; and it was not always very flattering for
that reason.”
“Why, what is your head full of? Do you fancy you are one of Lord
Carricklough's daughters, eh?”
“No, papa; for they are shockingly freckled, and very plain.”
“Do you know your real station?” cried he, more angrily, “and that if,
by the courtesy of society, my position secures acceptance anywhere, it
entails nothing--positively nothing--to those belonging to me?”
“Such being the case, is it not wise of us not to want anything,--not to
look for it,--not to pine after it? You shall see, papa, whether I fret
over my exclusion from Cobham.”
The doctor was not in a mood to approve of such philosophy, and he drove
on, only showing--by an extra cut of his whip--the tone and temper that
beset him.
“You are to have a visit from Captain Stapylton tomorrow, papa?” said
she, in the manner of a half question.
“Who told you so?” said he, with a touch of eagerness in his voice;
for suddenly it occurred to him if Polly knew of this appointment, she
herself might be interested in its object.
“He asked me what was the most likely time to find you at home, and also
if he might venture to hope he should be presented to mamma.”
That was, as the doctor thought, a very significant speech; it might
mean a great deal,--a very great deal, indeed; and so he turned it over
and over in his mind for some time before he spoke again. At last he
said,--
“I haven't a notion what he's coming about, Polly,--have you?”
“No, sir; except, perhaps, it be to consult you. He told me he had
sprained his arm, or his shoulder, the other day, when his horse
swerved.”
“Oh no, it can't be that, Polly; it can't be that.”
“Why not the pleasure of a morning call, then? He is an idle man, and
finds time heavy on his hands.”
A short “humph” showed that this explanation was not more successful
than the former, and the doctor, rather irritated with this game of
fence, for so he deemed it, said bluntly,--
“Has he been showing you any marked attentions of late? Have you noticed
anything peculiar in his manner towards you?”
“Nothing whatever, sir,” said she, with a frank boldness. “He has
chatted and flirted with me, just as every one else presumes he has a
right to do with a girl in a station below their own; but he has never
been more impertinent in this way than any other young man of fashion.”
“But there have been”--he was sorely puzzled for the word he wanted, and
it was only as a resource, not out of choice, he said--“attentions?”
“Of course, papa, what many would call in the cognate phrase, marked
attentions; but girls who go into the world as I do no more mistake what
these mean than would you yourself, papa, if passingly asked what was
good for a sore-throat fancy that the inquirer intended to fee you.”
“I see, Polly, I see,” muttered he, as the illustration came home to
him. Still, after ruminating for some time, a change seemed to come over
his thoughts, for he said,--
“But you might be wrong this time, Polly: it is by no means impossible
that you might be wrong.”
“My dear papa,” said she, gravely, “when a man of his rank is disposed
to think seriously of a girl in mine, he does not begin by flattery;
he rather takes the line of correction and warning, telling her fifty
little platitudes about trifles in manner, and so forth, by her docile
acceptance of which he conceives a high notion of _himself_, and a half
liking for _her_. But I have no need to go into these things; enough if
I assure you Captain Stapylton's visit has no concern for me; he either
comes out of pure idleness, or he wants to make use of _you_.”
The last words opened a new channel to Dill's thoughts, and he drove on
in silent meditation over them.