I will ask my reader now to turn for a brief space to the “Fisherman's
Home,” which is a scene of somewhat unusual bustle. The Barringtons are
preparing for a journey, and old Peter's wardrobe has been displayed for
inspection along a hedge of sweet-brier in the garden,--an arrangement
devised by the genius of Darby, who passes up and down, with an
expression of admiration on his face, the sincerity of which could not
be questioned. A more reflective mind than his might have been carried
away, at the sight to thoughts of the strange passages in the late
history of Ireland, so curiously typified in that motley display.
There, was the bright green dress-coat of Daly's club, recalling days of
political excitement, and all the plottings and cabals of a once famous
opposition. There was, in somewhat faded splendor it must be owned, a
court suit of the Duke of Portland's day, when Irish gentlemen were as
gorgeous as the courtiers of Versailles. Here came a grand colonel's
uniform, when Barrington commanded a regiment of Volunteers; and yonder
lay a friar's frock and cowl, relics of those “attic nights” with the
Monks of the Screw, and recalling memories of Avonmore and Curran,
and Day and Parsons; and with them were mixed hunting-coats, and
shooting-jackets, and masonic robes, and “friendly brother” emblems,
and long-waisted garments, and swallow-tailed affectations of all shades
and tints,--reminders of a time when Buck Whalley was the eccentric, and
Lord Llandaff the beau of Irish society. I am not certain that Monmouth
Street would have endorsed Darby's sentiment as he said, “There was
clothes there for a king on his throne!” but it was an honestly uttered
speech, and came out of the fulness of an admiring heart, and although
in truth he was nothing less than an historian, he was forcibly struck
by the thought that Ireland must have been a grand country to live in,
in those old days when men went about their ordinary avocations in such
splendor as he saw there.
[Illustration: 252]
Nor was Peter Barrington himself an unmoved spectator of these old
remnants of the past Old garments, like old letters, bring oftentimes
very forcible memories of a long ago; and as he turned over the
purple-stained flap of a waistcoat, he bethought him of a night at
Daly's, when, in returning thanks for his health, his shaking hand had
spilled that identical glass of Burgundy; and in the dun-colored tinge
of a hunting-coat he remembered the day he had plunged into the Nore
at Corrig O'Neal, himself and the huntsman, alone of all the field, to
follow the dogs!
“Take them away, Darby, take them away; they only set me a-thinking
about the pleasant companions of my early life. It was in that suit
there I moved the amendment in '82, when Henry Grattan crossed over and
said, 'Barrington will lead us here, as he does in the hunting-field.'
Do you see that peach-colored waistcoat? It was Lady Caher embroidered
every stitch of it with her own hands, for me.”
“Them 's elegant black satin breeches,” said Darby, whose eyes of
covetousness were actually rooted on the object of his desire.
“I never wore them,” said Barrington, with a sigh. “I got them for a
duel with Mat Fortescue, but Sir Toby Blake shot him that morning. Poor
Mat!”
“And I suppose you'll never wear them now. You couldn't bear the sight
then,” said Darby, insinuatingly.
“Most likely not,” said Barrington, as he turned away with a heavy sigh.
Darby sighed also, but not precisely in the same spirit.
Let me passingly remark that the total unsuitability to his condition
of any object seems rather to enhance its virtue in the eyes of a lower
Irishman, and a hat or a coat which he could not, by any possibility,
wear in public, might still be to him things to covet and desire.
“What is the meaning of all this rag fair?” cried Miss Barrington, as
she suddenly came in front of the exposed wardrobe. “You are not surely
making any selections from these tawdry absurdities, brother, for your
journey?”
[Illustration: 252]
“Well, indeed,” said Barrington, with a droll twinkle of his eye, “it
was a point that Darby and I were discussing as you came up. Darby
opines that to make a suitable impression upon the Continent, I must not
despise the assistance of dress, and he inclines much to that Corbeau
coat with the cherry-colored lining.”
“If Darby 's an ass, brother, I don't imagine it is a good reason to
consult him,” said she, angrily. “Put all that trash where you found it.
Lay out your master's black clothes and the gray shooting-coat, see that
his strong boots are in good repair, and get a serviceable lock on that
valise.”
It was little short of magic the spell these few and distinctly uttered
words seemed to work on Darby, who at once descended from a realm of
speculation and scheming to the commonplace world of duty and obedience.
“I really wonder how you let yourself be imposed on, brother, by the
assumed simplicity of that shrewd fellow.”
“I like it, Dinah, I positively like it,” said he, with a smile. “I
watch him playing the game with a pleasure almost as great as his
own; and as I know that the stakes are small, I 'm never vexed at his
winning.”
“But you seem to forget the encouragement this impunity suggests.”
“Perhaps it does, Dinah; and very likely his little rogueries are
as much triumphs to him as are all the great political intrigues the
glories of some grand statesman.”
“Which means that you rather like to be cheated,” said she, scoffingly.
“When the loss is a mere trifle, I don't always think it ill laid out.”
“And I,” said she, resolutely, “so far from participating in your
sentiment, feel it to be an insult and an outrage. There is a sense of
inferiority attached to the position of a dupe that would drive me to
any reprisals.”
“I always said it; I always said it,” cried he, laughing. “The women of
our family monopolized all the com-bativeness.”
Miss Barrington's eyes sparkled, and her cheek glowed, and she looked
like one stung to the point of a very angry rejoinder, when by an effort
she controlled her passion, and, taking a letter from her pocket, she
opened it, and said, “This is from Withering. He has managed to obtain
all the information we need for our journey. We are to sail for Ostend
by the regular packet, two of which go every week from Dover. From
thence there are stages or canal-boats to Bruges and Brussels, cheap
and commodious, he says. He gives us the names of two hotels, one of
which--the 'Lamb,' at Brussels--he recommends highly; and the Pension of
a certain Madame Ochteroogen, at Namur, will, he opines, suit us better
than an inn. In fact, this letter is a little road book, with the
expenses marked down, and we can quietly count the cost of our venture
before we make it.”
“I 'd rather not, Dinah. The very thought of a limit is torture to me.
Give me bread and water every day, if you like, but don't rob me of the
notion that some fine day I am to be regaled with beef and pudding.”
“I don't wonder that we have come to beggary,” said she, passionately.
“I don't know what fortune and what wealth could compensate for a
temperament like yours.”
“You may be right, Dinah. It may go far to make a man squander his
substance, but take my word for it, it will help him to bear up under
the loss.”
If Barrington could have seen the gleam of affection that filled his
sister's eyes, he would have felt what love her heart bore him; but he
had stooped down to take a caterpillar off a flower, and did not mark
it.
“Withering has seen young Conyers,” she continued, as her eyes ran over
the letter “He called upon him.” Barrington made no rejoinder, though
she waited for one. “The poor lad was in great affliction; some
distressing news from India--of what kind Withering could not guess--had
just reached him, and he appeared overwhelmed by it.”
“He is very young for sorrow,” said Barrington, feelingly.
“Just what Withering said;” and she read out, “'When I told him that
I had come to make an _amende_ for the reception he had met with at the
cottage, he stopped me at once, and said, “Great grief s are the cure
of small ones, and you find me under a very heavy affliction. Tell Miss
Barrington that I have no other memories of the 'Fisherman's Home' than
of all her kindness towards me.”'”
“Poor boy!” said Barrington, with emotion. “And how did Withering leave
him?”
“Still sad and suffering. Struggling too, Withering thought, between
a proud attempt to conceal his grief and an ardent impulse to tell all
about it 'Had _you_ been there,' he writes, 'you'd have had the whole
story; but I saw that he could n't stoop to open his heart to a man.'”
“Write to him, Dinah. Write and ask him down here for a couple of days.”
“You forget that we are to leave this the day after tomorrow, brother.”
“So I did. I forgot it completely. Well, what if he were to come for one
day? What if you were to say come over and wish us good-bye?”
“It is so like a man and a man's selfishness never to consider a
domestic difficulty,” said she, tartly. “So long as a house has a roof
over it, you fancy it may be available for hospitalities. You never take
into account the carpets to be taken up, and the beds that are taken
down, the plate-chest that is packed, and the cellar that is walled up.
You forget, in a word, that to make that life you find so very easy,
some one else must pass an existence full of cares and duties.”
“There 's not a doubt of it, Dinah. There 's truth and reason in every
word you 've said.”
“I will write to him if you like, and say that we mean to be at home by
an early day in October, and that if he is disposed to see how our woods
look in autumn, we will be well pleased to have him for our guest.”
“Nothing could be better. Do so, Dinah. I owe the young fellow a
reparation, and I shall not have an easy conscience till I make it.”
“Ah, brother Peter, if your moneyed debts had only given you one-half
the torment of your moral ones, what a rich man you might have been
to-day!”
Long after his sister had gone away and left him, Peter Barrington
continued to muse over this speech. He felt it, felt it keenly too, but
in no bitterness of spirit.
Like most men of a lax and easy temper, he could mete out to himself the
same merciful measure he accorded to others, and be as forgiving to his
own faults as to theirs. “I suppose Dinah is right, though,” said he to
himself. “I never did know that sensitive irritability under debt which
insures solvency. And whenever a man can laugh at a dun, he is pretty
sure to be on the high-road to bankruptcy! Well, well, it is somewhat
late to try and reform, but I'll do my best!” And thus comforted, he set
about tying up fallen rose-trees and removing noxious insects with all
his usual zeal.
“I half wish the place did not look in such beauty, just as I must leave
it for a while. I don't think that japonica ever had as many flowers
before; and what a season for tulips! Not to speak of the fruit There
are peaches enough to stock a market. I wonder what Dinah means to do
with them? She 'll be sorely grieved to make them over as perquisites to
Darby, and I know she 'll never consent to have them sold. No, that is
the one concession she cannot stoop to. Oh, here she comes! What a grand
year for the wall fruit, Dinah!” cried he, aloud.
“The apricots have all failed, and fully one-half of the peaches are
worm-eaten,” said she, dryly.
Peter sighed as he thought, how she does dispel an illusion, what a
terrible realist is this same sister! “Still, my dear Dinah, one-half of
such a crop is a goodly yield.”
“Out with it, Peter Barrington. Out with the question that is burning
for utterance. What's to be done with them? I have thought of that
already. I have told Polly Dill to preserve a quantity for us, and to
take as much more as she pleases for her own use, and make presents to
her friends of the remainder. She is to be mistress here while we are
away, and has promised to come up two or three times a week, and see
after everything, for I neither desire to have the flower-roots sold,
nor the pigeons eaten before our return.”
“That is an admirable arrangement, sister. I don't know a better girl
than Polly!”
“She is better than I gave her credit for,” said Miss Barrington, who
was not fully pleased at any praise not bestowed by herself. A man's
estimate of a young woman's goodness is not so certain of finding
acceptance from her own sex! “And as for that girl, the wonder is that
with a fool for a mother, and a crafty old knave for a father, she
really should possess one good trait or one amiable quality.” Barrington
muttered what sounded like concurrence, and she went on: “And it is for
this reason I have taken an interest in her, and hope, by occupying her
mind with useful cares and filling her hours with commendable duties,
she will estrange herself from that going about to fine houses, and
frequenting society where she is exposed to innumerable humiliations,
and worse.”
“Worse, Dinah!--what could be worse?”
“Temptations are worse, Peter Barrington, even when not yielded to; for
like a noxious climate, which, though it fails to kill, it is certain to
injure the constitution during a lifetime. Take my word for it, she
'll not be the better wife to the Curate for the memory of all the fine
speeches she once heard from the Captain. Very old and ascetic notions
I am quite aware, Peter; but please to bear in mind all the trouble we
take that the roots of a favorite tree should not strike into a sour
soil, and bethink you how very indifferent we are as to the daily
associates of our children!”
“There you are right, Dinah, there you are right,--at least, as regards
girls.”
“And the rule applies fully as much to boys. All those manly
accomplishments and out-of-door habits you lay such store by, could
be acquired without the intimacy of the groom or the friendship of the
gamekeeper. What are you muttering there about old-maids' children? Say
it out, sir, and defend it, if you have the courage!”
But either that he had not said it, or failed in the requisite boldness
to maintain it, he blundered out a very confused assurance of agreement
on every point.
A woman is seldom merciful in argument; the consciousness that she owes
victory to her violence far more than to her logic, prompts persistence
in the course she has followed so successfully, and so was it that Miss
Dinah contrived to gallop over the battlefield long after the enemy was
routed! But Barrington was not in a mood to be vexed; the thought of the
journey filled him with so many pleasant anticipations, the brightest
of all being the sight of poor George's child! Not that this thought had
not its dark side, in contrition for the long, long years he had left
her unnoticed and neglected. Of course he had his own excuses
and apologies for all this: he could refer to his overwhelming
embarrassments, and the heavy cares that surrounded him; but then
she--that poor friendless girl, that orphan--could have known nothing
of these things; and what opinion might she not have formed of those
relatives who had so coldly and heartlessly abandoned her! Barrington
took down her miniature, painted when she was a mere infant, and scanned
it well, as though to divine what nature might possess her! There was
little for speculation there,--perhaps even less for hope! The eyes were
large and lustrous, it is true, but the brow was heavy, and the
mouth, even in infancy, had something that seemed like firmness and
decision,--strangely at variance with the lips of childhood.
Now, old Barrington's heart was deeply set on that lawsuit--that great
cause against the Indian Government--that had formed the grand campaign
of his life. It was his first waking thought of a morning, his last at
night. All his faculties were engaged in revolving the various points
of evidence, and imagining how this and that missing link might be
supplied; and yet, with all these objects of desire before him, he would
have given them up, each and all, to be sure of one thing,--that his
granddaughter might be handsome! It was not that he did not value far
above the graces of person a number of other gifts; he would not, for an
instant, have hesitated, had he to choose between mere beauty and a
good disposition. If he knew anything of himself, it was his thorough
appreciation of a kindly nature, a temper to bear well, and a spirit
to soar nobly; but somehow he imagined these were gifts she was likely
enough to possess. George's child would resemble him; she would have his
light-heartedness and his happy nature, but would she be handsome? It
is, trust me, no superficial view of life that attaches a great price
to personal atractions, and Barrington was one to give these their full
value. Had she been brought up from childhood under his roof, he had
probably long since ceased to think of such a point; he would have
attached himself to her by the ties of that daily domesticity which
grow into a nature. The hundred little cares and offices that would
have fallen to her lot to meet, would have served as links to bind their
hearts; but she was coming to them a perfect stranger, and he wished
ardently that his first impression should be all in her favor.
Now, while such were Barrington's reveries, his sister took a different
turn. She had already pictured to herself the dark-orbed, heavy-browed
child, expanded into a sallow-complexioned, heavy-featured girl,
ungainly and ungraceful, her figure neglected, her very feet spoiled by
the uncouth shoes of the convent, her great red hands untrained to all
occupation save the coarse cares of that half-menial existence. “As my
brother would say,” muttered she, “a most unpromising filly, if it were
not for the breeding.”
Both brother and sister, however, kept their impressions to themselves,
and of all the subjects discussed between them not one word betrayed
what each forecast about Josephine. I am half sorry it is no part of my
task to follow them on the road, and yet I feel I could not impart to my
reader the almost boylike enjoyment old Peter felt at every stage of the
journey. He had made the grand tour of Europe more than half a century
before, and he was in ecstasy to find so much that was unchanged around
him. There were the long-eared caps, and the monstrous earrings, and
the sabots, and the heavily tasselled team horses, and the chiming
church-bells, and the old-world equipages, and the strangely undersized
soldiers,--all just as he saw them last! And every one was so polite
and ceremonious, and so idle and so unoccupied, and the theatres were so
large and the newspapers so small, and the current coin so defaced, and
the order of the meats at dinner so inscrutable, and every one seemed
contented just because he had nothing to do.
“Isn't it all I have told you, Dinah dear? Don't you perceive
how accurate my picture has been? And is it not very charming and
enjoyable?”
“They are the greatest cheats I ever met in my life, brother Peter; and
when I think that every grin that greets us is a matter of five francs,
it mars considerably the pleasure I derive from the hilarity.”
It was in this spirit they journeyed till they arrived at Brussels.