When Conyers, to the astonishment and wonder of an admiring village
public, drove his seventeen-hand-high roan into the market square of
Inistioge, he learned that all of the doctor's family were from home
except Mrs. Dill. Indeed, he saw the respectable lady at the window
with a book in her hand, from which not all the noise and clatter of his
arrival for one moment diverted her. Though not especially anxious to
attract her attention, he was half piqued at her show of indifference.
A dog-cart by Adams and a thoroughbred like Boanerges were, after all,
worth a glance at. Little did he know what a competitor be had in that
much-thumbed old volume, whose quaintly told miseries were to her as
her own sorrows. Could he have assembled underneath that window all the
glories of a Derby Day, Mr. Richardson's “Clarissa” would have beaten
the field. While he occupied himself in dexterously tapping the
flies from his horse with the fine extremity of his whip, and thus
necessitating that amount of impatience which made the spirited animal
stamp and champ his bit, the old lady read on undisturbed.
“Ask at what hour the doctor will be at home, Holt,” cried he,
peevishly.
“Not till to-morrow, sir; he has gone to Castle Durrow.”
“And Miss Dill, is she not in the house?”
“No, sir; she has gone down to the 'Fisherman's Home' to look after the
garden,--the family having left that place this morning.”
After a few minutes' reflection, Conyers ordered his servant to put up
the horse at the inn, and wait for him there; and then engaging a “cot,”
he set out for the “Fisherman's Home.” “After having come so far, it
would be absurd to go back without doing something in this business,”
thought he. “Polly, besides, is the brains carrier of these people. The
matter would be referred to her; and why should I not go at once, and
directly address her myself? With her womanly tact, too, she will see
that for any reserve in my manner there must be a corresponding reason,
and she'll not press me with awkward questions or painful inquiries, as
the underbred brother might do. It will be enough when I intimate to
her that my plan is not so practicable as when I first projected it.” He
reassured himself with a variety of reasonings of this stamp, which had
the double effect of convincing his own mind and elevating Miss Polly in
his estimation. There is a very subtle self-flattery in believing that
the true order of person to deal with us--to understand and appreciate
us--is one possessed of considerable ability united with the very finest
sensibility. Thus dreaming and “mooning,” he reached the “Fisherman's
Home.” The air of desertion struck him even as he landed; and is there
not some secret magic in the vicinity of life, of living people, which
gives the soul to the dwelling-place? Have we to more than cross the
threshold of the forsaken house to feel its desertion,--to know that our
echoing step will track us along stair and corridor, and that through
the thin streaks of light between the shutters phantoms of the absent
will flit or hover, while the dimly descried objects of the room will
bring memories of bright mornings and of happy eves? It is strange
to measure the sadness of this effect upon us when caused even by the
aspect of houses which we frequented not as friends but mere visitors;
just as the sight of death thrills us, even though we had not loved the
departed in his lifetime. But so it is: there is unutterable bitterness
attached to the past, and there is no such sorrow as over the bygone!
All about the little cottage was silent and desolate; even the shrill
peacock, so wont to announce the coming stranger with his cry, sat
voiceless and brooding on a branch; and except the dull flow of the
river, not a sound was heard. After tapping lightly at the door and
peering through the partially closed shutters, Conyers turned towards
the garden at the back, passing as he went his favorite seat under the
great sycamore-tree. It was not a widely separated “long ago” since
he had sat there, and yet how different had life become to him in the
interval! With what a protective air he had talked to poor Tom on
that spot,--how princely were the promises of his patronage, yet not
exaggerated beyond his conscious power of performance! He hurried on,
and came to the little wicket of the garden; it was open, and he
passed in. A spade in some fresh-turned earth showed where some one had
recently been at work, but still, as he went, he could find none. Alley
after alley did he traverse, but to no purpose; and at last, in his
ramblings, he came to a little copse which separated the main garden
from a small flower-plat, known as Miss Dinah's, and on which the
windows of her own little sitting-room opened. He had but seen this spot
from the windows, and never entered it; indeed, it was a sort of sacred
enclosure, within which the profane step of man was not often permitted
to intrude. Nor was Conyers without a sting of self-reproach as he now
passed in. He had not gone many steps when the reason of the seclusion
seemed revealed to him. It was a small obelisk of white marble under a
large willow-tree, bearing for inscription on its side, “To the Memory
of George Barrington, the Truehearted, the Truthful, and the Brave,
killed on the 19th February, 18--, at Agra, in the East Indies.”
How strange that he should be standing there beside the tomb of his
father's dearest friend, his more than brother! That George who shared
his joys and perils, the comrade of his heart! No two men had ever lived
in closer bonds of affection, and yet somehow of all that love he had
never heard his father speak, nor of the terrible fate that befell his
friend had one syllable escaped him. “Who knows if friendships ever
survive early manhood?” said Fred, bitterly, as he sat himself down
at the base of the monument: “and yet might not this same George
Barrington, had he lived, been of priceless value to my father now? Is
it not some such manly affection, such generous devotion as his, that he
may stand in need of?” Thus thinking, his imagination led him over the
wide sea to that far-distant land of his childhood, and scenes of vast
arid plains and far-away mountains, and wild ghauts, and barren-looking
nullahs, intersected with yellow, sluggish streams, on whose muddy shore
the alligator basked, rose before him, contrasted with the gorgeous
splendors of retinue and the glittering host of gold-adorned followers.
It was in a vision of grand but dreary despotism, power almost
limitless, but without one ray of enjoyment, that he lost himself and
let the hours glide by. At length, as though dreamily, he thought he
was listening to some faint but delicious music; sounds seemed to come
floating towards him through the leaves, as if meant to steep him in a
continued languor, and imparted a strange half-fear that he was under a
spell. With an effort he aroused himself and sprang to his legs; and now
he could plainly perceive that the sounds came through an open window,
where a low but exquisitely sweet voice was singing to the accompaniment
of a piano. The melody was sad and plaintive; the very words came
dropping slowly, like the drops of a distilled grief; and they sank into
his heart with a feeling of actual poignancy, for they were as though
steeped in sorrow. When of a sudden the singer ceased, the hands ran
boldly, almost wildly, over the keys; one, two, three great massive
chords were struck, and then, in a strain joyous as the skylark, the
clear voice carolled forth with,--
“But why should we mourn for the grief of the morrow?
Who knows in what frame it may find us?
Meeker, perhaps, to bend under our sorrow,
Or more boldly to fling it behind us.”
And then, with a loud bang, the piano was closed, and Polly Dill,
swinging her garden hat by its ribbon, bounded forth into the walk,
calling for her terrier, Scratch, to follow.
“Mr. Conyers here!” cried she, in astonishment. “What miracle could have
led you to this spot?”
“To meet you.”
“To meet me!”
“With no other object. I came from Kilkenny this morning expressly
to see you, and learning at your house that you had come on here, I
followed. You still look astonished,--incredulous--”
“Oh, no; not incredulous, but very much astonished. I am, it is true,
sufficiently accustomed to find myself in request in my own narrow home
circle, but that any one out of it should come three yards--not to say
three miles--to speak to me, is, I own, very new and very strange.”
“Is not this profession of humility a little--a very little--bit of
exaggeration, Miss Dill?”
“Is not the remark you have made on it a little--a very little--bit of a
liberty, Mr. Conyers?”
So little was he prepared for this retort that he flushed up to his
forehead, and for an instant was unable to recover himself: meanwhile,
she was busy in rescuing Scratch from a long bramble that had most
uncomfortably associated itself with his tail, in gratitude for which
service the beast jumped up on her with all the uncouth activity of his
race.
“He at least, Miss Dill, can take liberties unrebuked,” said Conyers,
with irritation.
“We are very old friends, sir, and understand each other's humors,
not to say that Scratch knows well he 'd be tied up if he were to
transgress.”
Conyers smiled; an almost irresistible desire to utter a smartness
crossed his mind, and he found it all but impossible to resist saying
something about accepting the bonds if he could but accomplish the
transgression; but he bethought in time how unequal the war of banter
would be between them, and it was with a quiet gravity he began: “I came
to speak to you about Tom--”
“Why, is that not all off? Colonel Hunter represented the matter so
forcibly to my father, put all the difficulties so clearly before him,
that I actually wrote to my brother, who had started for Dublin, begging
him on no account to hasten the day of his examination, but to come home
and devote himself carefully to the task of preparation.”
“It is true, the Colonel never regarded the project as I did, and saw
obstacles to its success which never occurred to me; with all that,
however, he never convinced me I was wrong.”
“Perhaps not always an easy thing to do,” said she, dryly.
“Indeed! You seem to have formed a strong opinion on the score of my
firmness.”
“I was expecting you to say obstinacy,” said she, laughing, “and was
half prepared with a most abject retractation. At all events, I was
aware that you did not give way.”
“And is the quality such a bad one?”
“Just as a wind may be said to be a good or a bad one; due west, for
instance, would be very unfavorable if you were bound to New York.”
It was the second time he had angled for a compliment, and failed;
and he walked along at her side, fretful and discontented. “I begin to
suspect,” said he, at last, “that the Colonel was far more eager to make
himself agreeable here than to give fair play to my reasons.”
“He was delightful, if you mean that; he possesses the inestimable boon
of good spirits, which is the next thing to a good heart.”
“You don't like depressed people, then?”
“I won't say I dislike, but I dread them. The dear friends who go about
with such histories of misfortune and gloomy reflections on every one's
conduct always give me the idea of a person who should carry with him
a watering-pot to sprinkle his friends in this Irish climate, where it
rains ten months out of the twelve. There is a deal to like in life,--a
deal to enjoy, as well as a deal to see and to do; and the spirit which
we bring to it is even of more moment than the incidents that befall
us.”
“That was the burden of your song awhile ago,” said he, smiling; “could
I persuade you to sing it again?”
“What are you dreaming of, Mr. Conyers? Is not this meeting here--this
strolling about a garden with a young gentleman, a Hussar!--compromising
enough, not to ask me to sit down at a piano and sing for him? Indeed,
the only relief my conscience gives me for the imprudence of this
interview is the seeing how miserable it makes _you_.”
“Miserable!--makes _me_ miserable!”
“Well, embarrassed,--uncomfortable,--ill at ease; I don't care for the
word. You came here to say a variety of things, and you don't like to
say them. You are balked in certain very kind intentions towards us, and
you don't know how very little of even intended good nature has befallen
us in life to make us deeply your debtor for the mere project. Why, your
very notice of poor Tom has done more to raise him in his own esteem and
disgust him with low associates than all the wise arguments of all his
family. There, now, if you have not done us all the good you meant, be
satisfied with what you really have done.”
“This is very far short of what I intended.”
“Of course it is; but do not dwell upon that. I have a great stock of
very fine intentions, too, but I shall not be in the least discouraged
if I find them take wing and leave me.”
“What would you do then?”
“Raise another brood. They tell us that if one seed of every million
of acorns should grow to be a tree, all Europe would be a dense forest
within a century. Take heart, therefore, about scattered projects; fully
their share of them come to maturity. Oh dear! what a dreary sigh you
gave! Don't you imagine yourself very unhappy?”
“If I did, I'd scarcely come to you for sympathy, certainly,” said he,
with a half-bitter smile.
“You are quite right there; not but that I could really condole with
some of what I opine are your great afflictions: for instance, I could
bestow very honest grief on that splint that your charger has just
thrown out on his back tendon; I could even cry over the threatened
blindness of that splendid steeple-chaser; but I 'd not fret about the
way your pelisse was braided, nor because your new phaeton made so much
noise with the axles.”
“By the way,” said Conyers, “I have such a horse to show you! He is in
the village. Might I drive him up here? Would you allow me to take you
back?”
“Not on any account, sir! I have grave misgivings about talking to you
so long here, and I am mainly reconciled by remembering how disagreeable
I have proved myself.”
“How I wish I had your good spirits!”
“Why don't you rather wish for my fortunate lot in life,--so secure from
casualties, so surrounded with life's comforts, so certain to attach to
it consideration and respect? Take my word for it, Mr. Conyers, your
own position is not utterly wretched; it is rather a nice thing to be
a Lieutenant of Hussars, with good health, a good fortune, and a fair
promise of mustachios. There, now, enough of impertinence for one day.
I have a deal to do, and you 'll not help me to do it. I have a whole
tulip-bed to transplant, and several trees to remove, and a new walk to
plan through the beech shrubbery, not to speak of a change of domicile
for the pigs,--if such creatures can be spoken of in your presence. Only
think, three o'clock, and that weary Darby not got back from his dinner!
has it ever occurred to you to wonder at the interminable time people
can devote to a meal of potatoes?”
“I cannot say that I have thought upon the matter.”
“Pray do so, then; divide the matter, as a German would, into all
its 'Bearbeitungen,' and consider it ethnologically, esculently,
and aesthetically, and you'll be surprised how puzzled you 'll be!
Meanwhile, would you do me a favor?--I mean a great favor.”
“Of course I will; only say what it is.”
“Well; but I 'm about to ask more than you suspect.”
“I do not retract. I am ready.”
“What I want, then, is that you should wheel that barrow-ful of mould
as far as the melon-bed. I 'd have done it myself if you had not been
here.”
With a seriousness which cost him no small effort to maintain, Conyers
addressed himself at once to the task; and she walked along at his side,
with a rake over her shoulder, talking with the same cool unconcern she
would have bestowed on Darby.
“I have often told Miss Barrington,” said she, “that our rock melons
were finer than hers, because we used a peculiar composite earth, into
which ash bark and soot entered,--what you are wheeling now, in fact,
however hurtful it may be to your feelings. There! upset it exactly on
that spot; and now let me see if you are equally handy with a spade.”
[Illustration: 276]
“I should like to know what my wages are to be after all this,” said he,
as he spread the mould over the bed.
“We give boys about eightpence a day.”
“Boys! what do you mean by boys?”
“Everything that is not married is boy in Ireland; so don't be angry, or
I 'll send you off. Pick up those stones, and throw these dock-weeds to
one side.”
“You 'll send me a melon, at least, of my own raising, won't you?”
“I won't promise; Heaven knows where you'll be--where I 'll be, by that
time! Would _you_ like to pledge yourself to anything on the day the
ripe fruit shall glow between those pale leaves?”
“Perhaps I might,” said he, stealing a half-tender glance towards her.
“Well, I would not,” said she, looking him full and steadfastly in the
face.
“Then that means you never cared very much for any one?”
“If I remember aright, you were engaged as a gardener, not as father
confessor. Now, you are really not very expert at the former; but you
'll make sad work of the latter.”
“You have not a very exalted notion of my tact, Miss Dill.”
“I don't know,--I'm not sure; I suspect you have at least what the
French call 'good dispositions.' You took to your wheelbarrow very
nicely, and you tried to dig--as little like a gentleman as need be.”
“Well, if this does not bate Banagher, my name is n't Darby!” exclaimed
a rough voice, and a hearty laugh followed his words. “By my conscience,
Miss Polly, it's only yerself could do it; and it's truth they say of
you, you 'd get fun out of an archdaycon!”
Conyers flung away his spade, and shook the mould from his boots in
irritation.
“Come, don't be cross,” said she, slipping her arm within his, and
leading him away; “don't spoil a very pleasant little adventure by ill
humor. If these melons come to good, they shall be called after you.
You know that a Duke of Montmartre gave his name to a gooseberry; so be
good, and, like him, you shall be immortal.”
“I should like very much to know one thing,” said he, thoughtfully.
“And what may that be?”
“I 'd like to know,--are you ever serious?”
“Not what you would call serious, perhaps; but I 'm very much in
earnest, if that will do. That delightful Saxon habit of treating all
trifles with solemnity I have no taste for. I'm aware it constitutes
that great idol of English veneration, Respectability; but we have not
got that sort of thing here. Perhaps the climate is too moist for it.”
[Illustration: 276]
“I 'm not a bit surprised that the Colonel fell in love with you,”
blurted he out, with a frank abruptness.
“And did he,--oh, really did he?”
“Is the news so very agreeable, then?”
“Of course it is. I 'd give anything for such a conquest. There 's no
glory in capturing one of those calf elephants who walk into the snare
out of pure stupidity; but to catch an old experienced creature who has
been hunted scores of times, and knows every scheme and artifice, every
bait and every pitfall, there is a real triumph in that.”
“Do I represent one of the calf elephants, then?”
“I cannot think so. I have seen no evidence of your capture--not to add,
nor any presumption of my own--to engage in such a pursuit. My dear Mr.
Conyers,” said she, seriously, “you have shown so much real kindness to
the brother, you would not, I am certain, detract from it by one word
which could offend the sister. We have been the best of friends up to
this; let us part so.”
The sudden assumption of gravity in this speech seemed to disconcert
him so much that he made no answer, but strolled along at her side,
thoughtful and silent.
“What are you thinking of?” said she, at last.
“I was just thinking,” said he, “that by the time I have reached my
quarters, and begin to con over what I have accomplished by this same
visit of mine, I 'll be not a little puzzled to say what it is.”
“Perhaps I can help you. First of all, tell me what was your object in
coming.”
“Chiefly to talk about Tom.”
“Well, we have done so. We have discussed the matter, and are fully
agreed it is better he should not go to India, but stay at home here and
follow his profession, like his father.”
“But have I said nothing about Hunter's offer?”
“Not a word; what is it?”
“How stupid of me; what could I have been thinking of all this time?”
“Heaven knows; but what was the offer you allude to?”
“It was this: that if Tom would make haste and get his diploma or
his license, or whatever it is, at once, and collect all sorts of
testimonials as to his abilities and what not, that he'd take him out
with him and get him an assistant-surgeoncy in a regiment, and in time,
perhaps, a staff-appointment.”
“I 'm not very certain that Tom could obtain his diploma at once.
I 'm quite sure he could n't get any of those certificates you speak
of. First of all, because he does not possess these same abilities you
mention, nor, if he did, is there any to vouch for them. We are very
humble people, Mr. Conyers, with a village for our world; and we
contemplate a far-away country--India, for instance--pretty much as we
should do Mars or the Pole-star.”
“As to that, Bengal is more come-at-able than the Great Bear,” said he,
laughing.
“For you, perhaps, not for us. There is nothing more common in people's
mouths than go to New Zealand or Swan River, or some far-away island in
the Pacific, and make your fortune!--just as if every new and barbarous
land was a sort of Aladdin's cave, where each might fill his pockets
with gems and come out rich for life. But reflect a little. First,
there is an outfit; next, there is a voyage; thirdly, there is need of
a certain subsistence in the new country before plans can be matured to
render it profitable. After all these come a host of requirements,--of
courage, and energy, and patience, and ingenuity, and personal strength,
and endurance, not to speak of the constitution of a horse, and some
have said, the heartlessness of an ogre. _My_ counsel to Tom would
be, get the 'Arabian Nights' out of your head, forget the great Caliph
Conyers and all his promises, stay where you are, and be a village
apothecary.”
These words were uttered in a very quiet and matter-of-fact way, but
they wounded Conyers more than the accents of passion. He was angry
at the cold realistic turn of a mind so devoid of all heroism; he was
annoyed at the half-implied superiority a keener view of life than
his own seemed to assert; and he was vexed at being treated as a
well-meaning but very inconsiderate and inexperienced young gentleman.
“Am I to take this as a refusal,” said he, stiffly; “am I to tell
Colonel Hunter that your brother does not accept his offer?”
“If it depended on me,--yes; but it does not. I 'll write to-night
and tell Tom the generous project that awaits him; he shall decide for
himself.”
“I know Hunter will be annoyed; he'll think it was through some bungling
mismanagement of mine his plan has failed; he 'll be certain to say, If
it was I myself bad spoken toner--”
“Well, there's no harm in letting him think so,” said she, laughing.
“Tell him I think him charming, that I hope he 'll have a delightful
voyage and a most prosperous career after it, that I intend to read
the Indian columns in the newspaper from this day out, and will always
picture him to my mind as seated in the grandest of howdabs on the very
tallest of elephants, humming 'Rule Britannia' up the slopes of the
Himalaya, and as the penny-a-liners say, extending the blessings of
the English rule in India.” She gave her hand to him, made a little
salutation,--half bow, half courtesy,--and, saying “Good-bye,” turned
back into the shrubbery and left him.
He hesitated,--almost turned to follow her; waited a second or two more,
and then, with an impatient toss of his head, walked briskly to the
river-side and jumped into his boat. It was a sulky face that he
wore, and a sulky spirit was at work within him. There is no greater
discontent than that of him who cannot define the chagrin that consumes
him. In reality, he was angry with himself, but he turned the whole
force of his displeasure upon her.
“I suppose she is clever. I 'm no judge of that sort of thing; but, for
my own part, I'd rather see her more womanly, more delicate. She has not
a bit of heart, that's quite clear; nor, with all her affectations, does
she pretend it.” These were his first meditations, and after them he
lit a cigar and smoked it. The weed was a good one; the evening was
beautifully calm and soft, and the river scenery looked its very best.
He tried to think of a dozen things: he imagined, for instance, what a
picturesque thing a boat-race would be in such a spot; he fancied he
saw a swift gig sweep round the point and head up the stream; he caught
sight of a little open in the trees with a background of dark rock, and
he thought what a place for a cottage. But whether it was the “match” or
the “chalet” that occupied him, Polly Dill was a figure in the picture;
and he muttered unconsciously, “How pretty she is, what a deal of
expression those gray-blue eyes possess! She's as active as a fawn, and
to the full as graceful. Fancy her an Earl's daughter; give her station
and all the advantages station will bring with it,--what a girl it would
be! Not that she'd ever have a heart; I'm certain of that. She's as
worldly--as worldly as--” The exact similitude did not occur; but he
flung the end of his cigar into the river instead, and sat brooding
mournfully for the rest of the way.