Barrington. Volume 1

“I ‘ll be hanged if I ‘d do it, Tom,” cried the loud voice of Conyers. “It’s all very fine talking about paternal authority and all that, and so long as one is a boy there’s no help for it; but you and I are men. We have a right to be treated like men, have n’t we?”

“I suppose so,” muttered the other, half sulkily, and not exactly seeing what was gained by the admission.

“Well, that being so,” resumed Conyers, “I’d say to the governor, ‘What allowance are you going to make me?’”

“Did you do that with your father?” asked Tom, earnestly.

“No, not exactly,” stammered out the other. “There was not, in fact, any need for it, for my governor is a rare jolly fellow, – such a trump! What he said to me was, ‘There’s a check-book, George; don’t spare it.’”

“Which was as much as to say, ‘Draw what you like.’”

“Yes, of course. He knew, in leaving it to my honor, there was no risk of my committing any excess; so you see there was no necessity to make my governor ‘book up.’ But if I was in your place I ‘d do it. I pledge you my word I would.”

Tom only shook his head very mournfully, and made no answer. He felt, and felt truly, that there is a worldly wisdom learned only in poverty and in the struggles of narrow fortune, of which the well-to-do know absolutely nothing. Of what avail to talk to him of an unlimited credit, or a credit to be bounded only by a sense of honor? It presupposed so much that was impossible, that he would have laughed if his heart had been but light enough.

“Well, then,” said Conyers, “if you have n’t courage for this, let me do it; let me speak to your father.”

“What could you say to him?” asked Tom, doggedly.

“Say to him? – what could I say to him?” repeated he, as he lighted a fresh cigar, and affected to be eagerly interested in the process. “It’s clear enough what I ‘d say to him.”

“Let us hear it, then,” growled out Tom, for he had a sort of coarse enjoyment at the other’s embarrassment. “I ‘ll be the doctor now, and listen to you.” And with this he squared his chair full in front of Conyers, and crossed his arms imposingly on his chest “You said you wanted to speak to me about my son Tom, Mr. Conyers; what is it you have to say?”

“Well, I suppose I’d open the matter delicately, and, perhaps, adroitly. I ‘d say, ‘I have remarked, doctor, that your son is a young fellow of very considerable abilities – ‘”

“For what?” broke in Tom, huskily.

“Come, you ‘re not to interrupt in this fashion, or I can’t continue. I ‘d say something about your natural cleverness; and what a pity it would be if, with very promising talents, you should not have those fair advantages which lead a man to success in life.”

“And do you know what he ‘d say to all that?”

“No.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. He’d say ‘Bother!’ Just ‘bother.’”

“What do you mean by ‘bother’?”

“That what you were saying was all nonsense. That you did n’t know, nor you never could know, the struggles of a man like himself, just to make the two ends meet; not to be rich, mind you, or lay by money, or have shares in this, or stocks in that, but just to live, and no more.”

“Well, I’d say, ‘Give him a few hundred pounds, and start him.’”

“Why don’t you say a few thousands? It would sound grander, and be just as likely. Can’t you see that everybody hasn’t a Lieutenant-General for a father? and that what you ‘d give for a horse – that would, maybe, be staked to-morrow – would perhaps be a fortune for a fellow like me? What’s that I hear coming up the river? That’s the doctor, I ‘m sure. I ‘ll be off till he’s gone.” And without waiting to hear a word, he sprang from his chair and disappeared in the wood.

Dr. Dill only waited a few seconds to compose his features, somewhat excited by what he had overheard; and then coughing loudly, to announce his approach, moved gravely along the gravel path.

“And how is my respected patient?” asked he, blandly. “Is the inflammation subsiding, and are our pains diminished?”

“My ankle is easier, if you mean that,” said Conyers, bluntly.

“Yes, much easier, – much easier,” said the doctor, examining the limb; “and our cellular tissue has less effusion, the sheaths of the tendons freer, and we are generally better. I perceive you have had the leeches applied. Did Tom – my son – give you satisfaction? Was he as attentive and as careful as you wished?”

“Yes, I liked him. I wish he ‘d come up every day while I remain. Is there any objection to that arrangement?”

“None, dear sir, – none. His time is fully at your service; he ought to be working hard. It is true he should be reading eight or ten hours a day, for his examination; but it is hard to persuade him to it. Young men will be young men!”

“I hope so, with all my heart. At least, I, for one, don’t want to be an old one. Will you do me a favor, doctor? and will you forgive me if I don’t know how to ask it with all becoming delicacy? I’d like to give Tom a helping hand. He’s a good fellow, – I ‘m certain he is. Will you let me send him out to India, to my father? He has lots of places to give away, and he ‘d be sure to find something to suit him. You have heard of General Conyers, perhaps, the political resident at Delhi? That’s my governor.” In the hurry and rapidity with which he spoke, it was easy to see how he struggled with a sense of shame and confusion.

Dr. Dill was profuse of acknowledgments; he was even moved as he expressed his gratitude. “It was true,” he remarked, “that his life had been signalled by these sort of graceful services, or rather offers of services; for we are proud if we are poor, sir. ‘Dill aut nil’ is the legend of our crest, which means that we are ourselves or nothing.”

“I conclude everybody else is in the same predicament,” broke in Conyers, bluntly.

“Not exactly, young gentleman, – not exactly. I think I could, perhaps, explain – ”

“No, no; never mind it. I ‘m the stupidest fellow in the world at a nice distinction; besides, I’ll take your word for the fact. You have heard of my father, have n’t you?”

“I heard of him so late as last night, from a brother officer of yours, Captain Stapylton.”

“Where did you meet Stapylton?” asked Conyers, quickly.

“At Sir Charles Cobham’s. I was presented to him by my daughter, and he made the most kindly inquiries after you, and said that, if possible, he’d come over here to-day to see you.”

“I hope he won’t; that’s all,” muttered Conyers. Then, correcting himself suddenly, he said: “I mean, I scarcely know him; he has only joined us a few months back, and is a stranger to every one in the regiment. I hope you did n’t tell him where I was.”

“I’m afraid that I did, for I remember his adding, ‘Oh! I must carry him off. I must get him back to headquarters.’”

“Indeed! Let us see if he will. That’s the style of these ‘Company’s’ officers, – he was in some Native corps or other, – they always fancy they can bully a subaltern; but Black Stapylton will find himself mistaken this time.”

“He was afraid that you had not fallen into skilful hands; and, of course, it would not have come well from me to assure him of the opposite.”

“Well, but what of Tom, doctor? You have given me no answer.”

“It is a case for reflection, my dear young friend, if I may be emboldened to call you so. It is not a matter I can say yes or no to on the instant. I have only two grown-up children: my daughter, the most affectionate, the most thoughtful of girls, educated, too, in a way to grace any sphere – ”

“You need n’t tell me that Tom is a wild fellow,” broke in Conyers, – for he well understood the antithesis that was coming; “he owned it all to me, himself. I have no doubt, too, that he made the worst of it; for, after all, what signifies a dash of extravagance, or a mad freak or two? You can’t expect that we should all be as wise and as prudent and as cool-headed as Black Stapylton.”

“You plead very ably, young gentleman,” said Dill, with his smoothest accent, “but you must give me a little time.”

“Well, I’ll give you till to-morrow, – to-morrow, at this hour; for it wouldn’t be fair to the poor fellow to keep him in a state of uncertainty. His heart is set on the plan; he told me so.”

“I ‘ll do my best to meet your wishes, my dear young gentleman; but please to bear in mind that it is the whole future fate of my son I am about to decide. Your father may not, possibly, prove so deeply interested as you are; he may – not unreasonably, either – take a colder view of this project; he may chance to form a lower estimate of my poor boy than it is your good nature to have done.”

“Look here, doctor; I know my governor something better than you do, and if I wrote to him, and said, ‘I want this fellow to come home with a lac of rupees,’ he ‘d start him to-morrow with half the money. If I were to say, ‘You are to give him the best thing in your gift,’ there’s nothing he ‘d stop at; he ‘d make him a judge, or a receiver, or some one of those fat things that send a man back to England with a fortune. What’s that fellow whispering to you about? It’s something that concerns me.”

This sudden interruption was caused by the approach of Darby, who had come to whisper something in the doctor’s ear.

“It is a message he has brought me; a matter of little consequence. I ‘ll look to it, Darby. Tell your mistress it shall be attended to.” Darby lingered for a moment, but the doctor motioned him away, and did not speak again till he had quitted the spot. “How these fellows will wait to pick up what passes between their betters,” said Dill, while he continued to follow him with his eyes. “I think I mentioned to you once, already, that the persons who keep this house here are reduced gentry, and it is now my task to add that, either from some change of fortune or from caprice, they are thinking of abandoning the inn, and resuming – so far as may be possible for them – their former standing. This project dates before your arrival here; and now, it would seem, they are growing impatient to effect it; at least, a very fussy old lady – Miss Barrington – has sent me word by Darby to say her brother will be back here tomorrow or next day, with some friends from Kilkenny, and she asks at what time your convalescence is likely to permit removal.”

“Turned out, in fact, doctor, – ordered to decamp! You must say, I ‘m ready, of course; that is to say, that I ‘ll go at once. I don’t exactly see how I ‘m to be moved in this helpless state, as no carriage can come here; but you ‘ll look to all that for me. At all events, go immediately, and say I shall be off within an hour or so.”

“Leave it all to me, – leave it in my hands. I think I see what is to be done,” said the doctor, with one of his confident little smiles, and moved away.

There was a spice of irritation in Conyers’s manner as he spoke. He was very little accustomed to be thwarted in anything, and scarcely knew the sensation of having a wish opposed, or an obstacle set against him, but simply because there was a reason for his quitting the place, grew all the stronger his desire to remain there. He looked around him, and never before had the foliage seemed so graceful; never had the tints of the copper-beech blended so harmoniously with the stone-pine and the larch; never had the eddies of the river laughed more joyously, nor the blackbirds sung with a more impetuous richness of melody. “And to say that I must leave all this, just when I feel myself actually clinging to it. I could spend my whole life here. I glory in this quiet, unbroken ease; this life, that slips along as waveless as the stream there! Why should n’t I buy it; have it all my own, to come down to whenever I was sick and weary of the world and its dissipations? The spot is small; it couldn’t be very costly; it would take a mere nothing to maintain. And to have it all one’s own!” There was an actual ecstasy in the thought; for in that same sense of possession there is a something that resembles the sense of identity. The little child with his toy, the aged man with his proud demesne, are tasters of the same pleasure.

“You are to use your own discretion, my dear young gentleman, and go when it suits you, and not before,” said the doctor, returning triumphantly, for he felt like a successful envoy. “And now I will leave you. To-morrow you shall have my answer about Tom.”

Conyers nodded vaguely; for, alas! Tom, and all about him, had completely lapsed from his memory.

CHAPTER X. BEING “BORED”

It is a high testimony to that order of architecture which we call castle-building, that no man ever lived in a house so fine he could not build one more stately still out of his imagination. Nor is it only to grandeur and splendor this superiority extends, but it can invest lowly situations and homely places with a charm which, alas! no reality can rival.

Conyers was a fortunate fellow in a number of ways; he was young, good-looking, healthy, and rich. Fate had made place for him on the very sunniest side of the causeway, and, with all that, he was happier on that day, through the mere play of his fancy, than all his wealth could have made him. He had fashioned out a life for himself in that cottage, very charming, and very enjoyable in its way. He would make it such a spot that it would have resources for him on every hand, and he hugged himself in the thought of coming down here with a friend, or, perhaps, two friends, to pass days of that luxurious indolence so fascinating to those who are, or fancy they are, wearied of life’s pomps and vanities.

Now there are no such scoffers at the frivolity and emptiness of human wishes as the well-to-do young fellows of two or three-and-twenty. They know the “whole thing,” and its utter rottenness. They smile compassionately at the eagerness of all around them; they look with bland pity at the race, and contemptuously ask, of what value the prize when it is won? They do their very best to be gloomy moralists, but they cannot. They might as well try to shiver when they sit in the sunshine. The vigorous beat of young hearts, and the full tide of young pulses, will tell against all the mock misanthropy that ever was fabricated! It would not be exactly fair to rank Conyers in this school, and yet he was not totally exempt from some of its teachings. Who knows if these little imaginary glooms, these brain-created miseries, are not a kind of moral “alterative” which, though depressing at the instant, render the constitution only more vigorous after?

At all events, he had resolved to have the cottage, and, going practically to work, he called Darby to his counsels to tell him the extent of the place, its boundaries, and whatever information he could afford as to the tenure and its rent.

“You ‘d be for buying it, your honor!” said Darby, with the keen quick-sightedness of his order.

“Perhaps I had some thoughts of the kind; and, if so, I should keep you on.”

Darby bowed his gratitude very respectfully. It was too long a vista for him to strain his eyes at, and so he made no profuse display of thankfulness. With all their imaginative tendencies, the lower Irish are a very bird-in-the-hand sort of people.

“Not more than seventeen acres!” cried Conyers, in astonishment. “Why, I should have guessed about forty, at least. Isn’t that wood there part of it?”

“Yes, but it’s only a strip, and the trees that you see yonder is in Carriclough; and them two meadows below the salmon weir is n’t ours at all; and the island itself we have only a lease of it.”

“It’s all in capital repair, well kept, well looked after?”

“Well, it is, and isn’t!” said he, with a look of disagreement. “He’d have one thing, and she’d have another; he ‘d spend every shilling he could get on the place, and she ‘d grudge a brush of paint, or a coat of whitewash, just to keep things together.”

“I see nothing amiss here,” said Conyers, looking around him. “Nobody could ask or wish a cottage to be neater, better furnished, or more comfortable. I confess I do not perceive anything wanting.”

“Oh, to be sure, it’s very nate, as your honor says; but then – ” And he scratched his head, and looked confused.

“But then, what – out with it?”

“The earwigs is dreadful; wherever there ‘s roses and sweetbrier there’s no livin’ with them. Open the window and the place is full of them.”

Mistaking the surprise he saw depicted in his hearer’s face for terror, Darby launched forth into a description of insect and reptile tortures that might have suited the tropics; to hear him, all the stories of the white ant of India, or the gallinipper of Demerara, were nothing to the destructive powers of the Irish earwig. The place was known for them all over the country, and it was years and years lying empty, “by rayson of thim plagues.”

Now, if Conyers was not intimidated to the full extent Darby intended by this account, he was just as far from guessing the secret cause of this representation, which was simply a long-settled plan of succeeding himself to the ownership of the “Fisherman’s Home,” when, either from the course of nature or an accident, a vacancy would occur. It was the grand dream of Darby’s life, the island of his Government, his seat in the Cabinet, his Judgeship, his Garter, his everything, in short, that makes human ambition like a cup brimful and overflowing; and what a terrible reverse would it be if all these hopes were to be dashed just to gratify the passing caprice of a mere traveller!

“I don’t suppose your honor cares for money, and, maybe, you ‘d as soon pay twice over the worth of anything; but here, between our two selves, I can tell you, you ‘d buy an estate in the county cheaper than this little place. They think, because they planted most of the trees and made the fences themselves, that it’s like the King’s Park. It’s a fancy spot, and a fancy price, they’ll ask for it But I know of another worth ten of it, – a real, elegant place; to be sure, it’s a trifle out of repair, for the ould naygur that has it won’t lay out a sixpence, but there ‘s every con-vaniency in life about it. There’s the finest cup potatoes, the biggest turnips ever I see on it, and fish jumpin’ into the parlor-window, and hares runnin’ about like rats.”

“I don’t care for all that; this cottage and these grounds here have taken my fancy.”

“And why would n’t the other, when you seen it? The ould Major that lives there wants to sell it, and you ‘d get it a raal bargain. Let me row your honor up there this evening. It’s not two miles off, and the river beautiful all the way.”

Conyers rejected the proposal abruptly, haughtily. Darby had dared to throw down a very imposing card-edifice, and for the moment the fellow was odious to him. All the golden visions of his early morning, that poetized life he was to lead, that elegant pastoralism, which was to blend the splendor of Lucullus with the simplicity of a Tityrus, all rent, torn, and scattered by a vile hind, who had not even a conception of the ruin he had caused.

And yet Darby had a misty consciousness of some success. He did not, indeed, know that his shell had exploded in a magazine; but he saw, from the confusion in the garrison, that his shot had told severely somewhere.

“Maybe your honor would rather go to-morrow? or maybe you ‘d like the Major to come up here himself, and speak to you?”

“Once for all, I tell you, No! Is that plain? No! And I may add, my good fellow, that if you knew me a little better, you ‘d not tender me any advice I did not ask for.”

“And why would I? Would n’t I be a baste if I did?”

“I think so,” said Conyers, dryly, and turned away. He was out of temper with everything and everybody, – the doctor, and his abject manner; Tom, and his roughness; Darby, and his roguish air of self-satisfied craftiness; all, for the moment, displeased and offended him. “I ‘ll leave the place to-morrow; I ‘m not sure I shall not go to-night D’ye hear?”

Darby bowed respectfully.

“I suppose I can reach some spot, by boat, where a carriage can be had?”

“By coorse, your honor. At Hunt’s Mills, or Shibna-brack, you ‘ll get a car easy enough. I won’t say it will be an elegant convaniency, but a good horse will rowl you along into Thomastown, where you can change for a shay.”

Strange enough, this very facility of escape annoyed him. Had Darby only told him that there were all manner of difficulties to getting away, – that there were shallows in the river, or a landslip across the road, – he would have addressed himself to overcome the obstacles like a man; but to hear that the course was open, that any one might take it, was intolerable.

“I suppose, your honor, I ‘d better get the boat ready, at all events?”

“Yes, certainly, – that is, not till I give further orders. I ‘m the only stranger here, and I can’t imagine there can be much difficulty in having a boat at any hour. Leave me, my good fellow; you only worry me. Go!”

And Darby moved away, revolving within himself the curious problem, that if, having plenty of money enlarged a man’s means of enjoyment, it was strange how little effect it produced upon his manners. As for Conyers, he stood moodily gazing on the river, over whose placid surface a few heavy raindrops were just falling; great clouds, too, rolled heavily over the hillsides, and gathered into ominous-looking masses over the stream, while a low moaning sound of very far-off thunder foretold a storm.

Here, at least, was a good tangible grievance, and he hugged it to his heart. He was weather-bound! The tree-tops were already shaking wildly, and dark scuds flying fast over the mottled sky. It was clear that a severe storm was near. “No help for it now,” muttered he, “if I must remain here till to-morrow.” And hobbling as well as he could into the house, he seated himself at the window to watch the hurricane. Too closely pent up between the steep sides of the river for anything like destructive power, the wind only shook the trees violently, or swept along the stream with tiny waves, which warred against the current; but even these were soon beaten down by the rain, – that heavy, swooping, splashing rain, that seems to come from the overflowing of a lake in the clouds. Darker and darker grew the atmosphere as it fell, till the banks of the opposite side were gradually lost to view, while the river itself became a yellow flood, surging up amongst the willows that lined the banks. It was not one of those storms whose grand effects of lightning, aided by pealing thunder, create a sense of sublime terror, that has its own ecstasy; but it was one of those dreary evenings when the dull sky shows no streak of light, and when the moist earth gives up no perfume, when foliage and hillside and rock and stream are leaden-colored and sad, and one wishes for winter, to close the shutter and draw the curtain, and creep close to the chimney-corner as to a refuge.

Oh, what comfortless things are these summer storms! They come upon us like some dire disaster in a time of festivity. They swoop down upon our days of sunshine like a pestilence, and turn our joy into gloom, and all our gladness to despondency, bringing back to our minds memories of comfortless journeys, weariful ploddings, long nights of suffering.

I am but telling what Conyers felt at this sudden change of weather. You and I, my good reader, know better. We feel how gladly the parched earth drinks up the refreshing draught, how the seared grass bends gratefully to the skimming rain, and the fresh buds open with joy to catch the pearly drops. We know, too, how the atmosphere, long imprisoned, bursts forth into a joyous freedom, and comes back to us fresh from the sea and the mountain rich in odor and redolent of health, making the very air breathe an exquisite luxury. We know all this, and much more that he did not care for.

Now Conyers was only “bored,” as if anything could be much worse; that is to say, he was in that state of mind in which resources yield no distraction, and nothing is invested with an interest sufficient to make it even passingly amusing. He wanted to do something, though the precise something did not occur to him. Had he been well, and in full enjoyment of his strength, he ‘d have sallied out into the storm and walked off his ennui by a wetting. Even a cold would be a good exchange for the dreary blue-devilism of his depression; but this escape was denied him, and he was left to fret, and chafe, and fever himself, moving from window to chimney-corner, and from chimney-corner to sofa, till at last, baited by self-tormentings, he opened his door and sallied forth to wander through the rooms, taking his chance where his steps might lead him.