The first stage of the Barringtons' journey was Dublin. They alighted
at Reynolds's Hotel, in Old Dominick Street, the once favorite resort of
country celebrities. The house, it is true, was there, but Reynolds had
long left for a land where there is but one summons and one reckoning;
even the old waiter, Foster, whom people believed immortal, was gone;
and save some cumbrous old pieces of furniture,--barbarous relics of bad
taste in mahogany,--nothing recalled the past. The bar, where once on a
time the “Beaux” and “Bloods” had gathered to exchange the smart things
of the House or the hunting-field, was now a dingy little receptacle
for umbrellas and overcoats, with a rickety case crammed full of
unacknowledged and unclaimed letters, announcements of cattle fairs, and
bills of houses to let. Decay and neglect were on everything, and the
grim little waiter who ushered them upstairs seemed as much astonished
at their coming as were they themselves with all they saw. It was not
for some time, nor without searching inquiry, that Miss Dinah discovered
that the tide of popular favor had long since retired from this quarter,
and left it a mere barren strand, wreck-strewn and deserted. The house
where formerly the great squire held his revels had now fallen to be
the resort of the traveller by canal-boat, the cattle salesman, or the
priest. While she by an ingenious cross-examination was eliciting these
details, Barrington had taken a walk through the city to revisit old
scenes and revive old memories. One needs not to be as old as Peter
Barrington to have gone through this process and experienced all its
pain. Unquestionably, every city of Europe has made within such a period
as five-and-thirty or forty years immense strides of improvement.
Wider and finer streets, more commodious thoroughfares, better bridges,
lighter areas, more brilliant shops, strike one on every hand; while the
more permanent monuments of architecture are more cleanly, more orderly,
and more cared for than of old. We see these things with astonishment
and admiration at first, and then there comes a pang of painful
regret,--not for the old dark alley and the crooked street, or the
tumbling arch of long ago,--but for the time when they were there, for
the time when they entered into our daily life, when with them were
associated friends long lost sight of, and scenes dimly fading away from
memory. It is for our youth, for the glorious spring and elasticity of
our once high-hearted spirit, of our lives so free of care, of our days
undarkened by a serious sorrow,--it is for these we mourn, and to
our eyes at such moments the spacious street is but a desert, and the
splendid monument but a whitened sepulchre!
“I don't think I ever had a sadder walk in my life, Dinah,” said Peter
Barrington, with a weary sigh. “'Till I got into the courts of the
College, I never chanced upon a spot that looked as I had left it.
There, indeed, was the quaint old square as of old, and the great
bell--bless it for its kind voice!--was ringing out a solemn call
to something, that shook the window-frames, and made the very air
tremulous; and a pale-faced student or two hurried past, and those
centurions in the helmets,--ancient porters or Senior Fellows,--I forget
which,--stood in a little knot to stare at me. That, indeed, was like
old times, Dinah, and my heart grew very full with the memory. After
that I strolled down to the Four Courts. I knew you 'd laugh, Dinah. I
knew well you 'd say, 'Was there nothing going on in the King's Bench or
the Common Pleas?' Well, there was only a Revenue case, my dear, but
it was interesting, very interesting; and there was my old friend Harry
Bushe sitting as the Judge. He saw me, and sent round the tipstaff
to have me come up and sit on the bench with him, and we had many
a pleasant remembrance of old times--as the cross-examination went
on--between us, and I promised to dine with him on Saturday.”
“And on Saturday we will dine at Antwerp, brother, if I know anything of
myself.”
“Sure enough, sister, I forgot all about it Well, well, where could my
head have been?”
“Pretty much where you have worn it of late years, Peter Barrington. And
what of Withering? Did you see him?”
“No, Dinah, he was attending a Privy Council; but I got his address, and
I mean to go over to see him after dinner.”
“Please to bear in mind that you are not to form any engagements,
Peter,--we leave this to-morrow evening by the packet,--if it was the
Viceroy himself that wanted your company.”
“Of course, dear, I never thought of such a thing. It was only when
Harry said, 'You 'll be glad to meet Casey and Burrowes, and a few
others of the old set,' I clean forgot everything of the present, and
only lived in the long-past time, when life really was a very jolly
thing.”
“How did you find your friend looking?”
“Old, Dinah, very old! That vile wig has, perhaps, something to say to
it; and being a judge, too, gives a sternness to the mouth and a haughty
imperiousness to the brow. It spoils Harry; utterly spoils that laughing
blue eye, and that fine rich humor that used to play about his lips.”
“Which _did_, you ought to say,--which did some forty years ago. What
are you laughing at, Peter? What is it amuses you so highly?”
“It was a charge of O'Grady's, that Harry told me,--a charge to one of
those petty juries that, he says, never will go right, do what you may.
The case was a young student of Trinity, tried for a theft, and whose
defence was only by witnesses to character, and O'Grady said, 'Gentlemen
of the jury, the issue before you is easy enough. This is a young
gentleman of pleasing manners and the very best connections, who stole
a pair of silk stockings, and you will find accordingly.' And what d'ye
think, Dinah? They acquitted him, just out of compliment to the Bench.”
“I declare, brother Peter, such a story inspires any other sentiment
than mirth to me.”
“I laughed at it till my sides ached,” said he, wiping his eyes. “I
took a peep into the Chancery Court and saw O'Connell, who has plenty of
business, they tell me. He was in some altercation with the Court. Lord
Manners was scowling at him, as if he hated him. I hear that no day
passes without some angry passage between them.”
“And is it of these jangling, quarrelsome, irritable, and insolent men
your ideal of agreeable society is made up, brother Peter?”
“Not a doubt of it, Dinah. All these displays are briefed to them.
They cannot help investing in their client's cause the fervor of their
natures, simply because they are human; but they know how to leave all
the acrimony of the contest in the wig-box, when they undress and come
back to their homes,--the most genial, hearty, and frank fellows in all
the world. If human nature were all bad, sister, he who saw it closest
would be, I own, most like to catch its corruption, but it is not so,
far from it. Every day and every hour reveals something to make a man
right proud of his fellow-men.”
Miss Barrington curtly recalled her brother from these speculations to
the practical details of their journey, reminding him of much that he
had to consult Withering upon, and many questions of importance to put
to him. Thoroughly impressed with the perils of a journey abroad, she
conjured up a vast array of imaginary difficulties, and demanded special
instructions how each of them was to be met. Had poor Peter been--what
he certainly was not--a most accomplished casuist, he might have been
puzzled by the ingenious complexity of some of those embarrassments.
As it was, like a man in the labyrinth, too much bewildered to attempt
escape, he sat down in a dogged insensibility, and actually heard
nothing.
“Are you minding me, Peter?” asked she, fretfully, at last; “are you
paying attention to what I am saying?”
“Of course I am, Dinah dear; I'm listening with all ears.”
“What was it, then, that I last remarked? What was the subject to which
I asked your attention?”
Thus suddenly called on, poor Peter started and rubbed his forehead.
Vague shadows of passport people, and custom-house folk, and waiters,
and money-changers, and brigands; insolent postilions, importunate
beggars, cheating innkeepers, and insinuating swindlers were passing
through his head, with innumerable incidents of the road; and, trying to
catch a clew at random, he said, “It was to ask the Envoy, her Majesty's
Minister at Brussels, about a washerwoman who would not tear off my
shirt buttons--eh, Dinah? wasn't that it?”
“You are insupportable, Peter Barrington,” said she, rising in anger. “I
believe that insensibility like this is not to be paralleled!” and she
left the room in wrath.
Peter looked at his watch, and was glad to see it was past eight
o'clock, and about the hour he meant for his visit to Withering. He set
out accordingly, not, indeed, quite satisfied with the way he had lately
acquitted himself, but consoled by thinking that Dinah rarely went back
of a morning on the dereliction of the evening before, so that they
should meet good friends as ever at the breakfast-table. Withering was
at home, but a most discreet-looking butler intimated that he had dined
that day _tête-à-tête_ with a gentleman, and had left orders not to be
disturbed on any pretext “Could you not at least, send in my name?”
said Barrington; “I am a very old friend of your master's, whom he would
regret not having seen.” A little persuasion aided by an argument that
butlers usually succumb to succeeded, and before Peter believed that his
card could have reached its destination, his friend was warmly shaking
him by both hands, as he hurried him into the dinner-room.
“You don't know what an opportune visit you have made me, Barrington,”
said he; “but first, to present you to my friend, Captain Stapylton--or
Major--which is it?”
“Captain. This day week, the 'Gazette,' perhaps, may call me Major.”
“Always a pleasure to me to meet a soldier, sir,” said Barrington; “and
I own to the weakness of saying, all the greater when a Dragoon. My own
boy was a cavalryman.”
“It was exactly of him we were talking,” said Withering; “my friend here
has had a long experience of India, and has frankly told me much I was
totally ignorant of. From one thing to another we rambled on till we
came to discuss our great suit with the Company, and Captain Stapylton
assures me that we have never taken the right road in the case.”
“Nay, I could hardly have had such presumption; I merely remarked, that
without knowing India and its habits, you could scarcely be prepared
to encounter the sort of testimony that would be opposed to you, or to
benefit by what might tend greatly in your favor.”
“Just so--continue,” said Withering, who looked as though he had got an
admirable witness on the table.
“I'm astonished to hear from the Attorney-General,” resumed Stapylton,
“that in a case of such magnitude as this you have never thought of
sending out an efficient agent to India to collect evidence, sift
testimony, and make personal inquiry as to the degree of credit to be
accorded to many of the witnesses. This inquisitorial process is the
very first step in every Oriental suit; you start at once, in fact, by
sapping all the enemy's works,--countermining him everywhere.”
“Listen, Barrington,--listen to this; it is all new to us.”
“Everything being done by documentary evidence, there is a wide field
for all the subtlety of the linguist; and Hindostanee has complexities
enough to gratify the most inordinate appetite for quibble. A learned
scholar--a Moonshee of erudition--is, therefore, the very first
requisite, great care being taken to ascertain that he is not in the pay
of the enemy.”
“What rascals!” muttered Barrington.
“Very deep--very astute dogs, certainly, but perhaps not much more
unprincipled than some fellows nearer home,” continued the Captain,
sipping his wine; “the great peculiarity of this class is, that while
employing them in the most palpably knavish manner, and obtaining from
them services bought at every sacrifice of honor, they expect all the
deference due to the most umblemished integrity.”
“I'd see them--I won't say where--first,” broke out Barrington; “and I
'd see my lawsuit after them, if only to be won by their intervention.”
“Remember, sir,” said Stapylton, calmly, “that such are the weapons
employed against you. That great Company does not, nor can it afford to,
despise such auxiliaries. The East has its customs, and the natures of
men are not light things to be smoothed down by conventionalities. Were
you, for instance, to measure a testimony at Calcutta by the standard of
Westminster Hall, you would probably do a great and grievous injustice.”
“Just so,” said Withering; “you are quite right there, and I have
frequently found myself posed by evidence that I felt must be
assailable. Go on, and tell my friend what you were mentioning to me
before he came in.”
“I am reluctant, sir,” said Stapylton, modestly, “to obtrude upon you,
in a matter of such grand importance as this, the mere gossip of
a mess-table, but, as allusion has been made to it, I can scarcely
refrain. It was when serving in another Presidency an officer of ours,
who had been long in Bengal, one night entered upon the question of
Colonel Barrington's claims. He quoted the words of an uncle--I think
he said his uncle--who was a member of the Supreme Council, and said,
'Barrington ought to have known we never could have conceded this right
of sovereignty, but he ought also to have known that we would rather
have given ten lacs of rupees than have it litigated.'”
“Have you that gentleman's name?” asked Barrington, eagerly.
“I have; but the poor fellow is no more,--he was of that fatal
expedition to Beloochistan eight years ago.”
“You know our case, then, and what we claim?” asked Barrington.
“Just as every man who has served in India knows it,--popularly,
vaguely. I know that Colonel Barrington was, as the adopted son of a
Rajah, invested with supreme power, and only needed the ratification
of Great Britain to establish a sovereignty; and I have heard”--he laid
stress on the word “heard”--“that if it had not been for some allegation
of plotting against the Company's government, he really might ultimately
have obtained that sanction.”
“Just what I have said over and over again?” burst in Barrington. “It
was the worst of treachery that mined my poor boy.”
“I have heard that also,” said Stapylton, and with a degree of feeling
and sympathy that made the old man's heart yearn towards him.
“How I wish you had known him!” said he, as he drew his hand over his
eyes. “And do you know, sir,” said he, warming, “that if I still follow
up this suit, devoting to it the little that is left to me of life or
fortune, that I do so less for any hope of gain than to place my poor
boy before the world with his honor and fame unstained.”
“My old friend does himself no more than justice there!” cried
Withering.
“A noble object,--may you have all success in it!” said Stapylton. He
paused, and then, in a tone of deeper feeling, added: “It will, perhaps,
seem a great liberty, the favor I'm about to ask; but remember that,
as a brother soldier with your son I have some slight claim to approach
you. Will you allow me to offer you such knowledge as I possess of
India, to aid your suit? Will you associate me, in fact, with your
cause? No higher one could there be than the vindication of a brave
man's honor.”
“I thank you with all my heart and soul!” cried the old man, grasping
his hand. “In my own name, and in that of my poor dear granddaughter, I
thank you.”
“Oh, then, Colonel Barrington has left a daughter? I was not aware of
that,” said Stapylton, with a certain coldness.
“And a daughter who knows no more of this suit than of our present
discussion of it,” said Withering.
In the frankness of a nature never happier than when indulging its own
candor, Barrington told how it was to see and fetch back with him the
same granddaughter he had left a spot he had not quitted for years. “She
's coming back to a very humble home, it is true; but if you, sir,” said
he, addressing Stapylton, “will not despise such lowly fare as a cottage
can afford you, and would condescend to come and see us, you shall have
the welcome that is due to one who wishes well to my boy's memory.”
“And if you do,” broke in Withering, “you'll see the prettiest cottage
and the first hostess in Europe; and here 's to her health,--Miss Dinah
Barrington!”
“I 'm not going to refuse that toast, though I have just passed the
decanter,” said Peter. “Here 's to the best of sisters!”
“Miss Barrington!” said Stapylton, with a courteous bow; and he drained
his glass to the bottom.
“And that reminds me I promised to be back to tea with her,” said
Barrington; and renewing with all warmth his invitation to Stapylton,
and cordially taking leave of his old friend, he left the house and
hastened to his hotel.
“What a delightful evening I have passed, Dinah!” said he, cheerfully,
as he entered.
“Which means that the Attorney-General gave you a grand review and
sham fight of all the legal achievements of the term; but bear in mind,
brother, there is no professional slang so odious to me as the lawyer's,
and I positively hate a joke which cost six-and-eightpence, or even
three-and-fourpence.” <
“Nothing of this kind was there at all, Dinah! Withering had a friend
with him, a very distinguished soldier, who had seen much Indian
service, and entered with a most cordial warmth into poor George's case.
He knew it,--as all India knows it, by report,--and frankly told us
where our chief difficulties lay, and the important things we were
neglecting.”
“How generous! of a perfect stranger too!” said she, with a scarcely
detectable tone of scorn.
“Not--so to say--an utter stranger, for George was known to him by
reputation and character.”
“And who is, I suppose I am to say, your friend, Peter?”
“Captain or Major Stapylton, of the Regent's Hussars?”
“Oh! I know him,--or, rather, I know of him.”
“What and how, Dinah? I am very curious to hear this.”
“Simply, that while young Conyers was at the cottage he showed me a
letter from that gentleman, asking him in the Admiral's name, to Cobham,
and containing, at the same time, a running criticism on the house and
his guests far more flippant than creditable.”
“Men do these things every day, Dinah, and there is no harm in it.”
“That all depends upon whom the man is. The volatile gayety of a
high-spirited nature, eager for effect and fond of a sensation, will
lead to many an indiscretion; but very different from this is the
well-weighed sarcasm of a more serious mind, who not only shots his
gun home, but takes time to sight ere he fires it. I hear that Captain
Stapylton is a grand, cold, thoughtful man, of five or six-and-thirty.
Is that so?”
“Perhaps he may be. He 's a splendid fellow to look at, and all the
soldier. But you shall see for yourself, and I 'll warrant you 'll not
harbor a prejudice against him.”
“Which means, you have asked him on a visit, brother Peter?”
“Scarcely fair to call it on a visit, Dinah,” blundered he out, in
confusion; “but I have said with what pleasure we should see him under
our roof when we returned.”
“I solemnly declare my belief, that if you went to a cattle-show you 'd
invite every one you met there, from the squire to the pig-jobber,
never thinking the while that nothing is so valueless as indiscriminate
hospitality, even if it were not costly. Nobody thanks you,--no one is
grateful for it.”
“And who wants them to be grateful, Dinah? The pleasure is in the
giving, not in receiving. You see your friends with their holiday faces
on, when they sit round the table. The slowest and dreariest of them
tries to look cheery; and the stupid dog who has never a jest in him has
at least a ready laugh for the wit of his neighbor.”
“Does it not spoil some of your zest for this pleasantry to think how it
is paid for, brother?”
“It might, perhaps, if I were to think of it; but, thank Heaven! it's
about one of the last things would come into my head. My dear sister,
there's no use in always treating human nature as if it was sick, for if
you do, it will end by being hypochondriac!”
“I protest, brother Peter, I don't know where you meet all the good and
excellent people you rave about, and I feel it very churlish of you that
you never present any of them to _me!_” And so saying, she gathered her
knitting materials hastily together, and reminding him that it was past
eleven o'clock, she uttered a hurried good-night, and departed.