Barrington. Volume 1

Between the gloomy influences of the storm and the shadows of a declining day he could mark but indistinctly the details of the rooms he was exploring. They presented little that was remarkable; they were modestly furnished, nothing costly nor expensive anywhere, but a degree of homely comfort rare to find in an inn. They had, above all, that habitable look which so seldom pertains to a house of entertainment, and, in the loosely scattered books, prints, and maps showed a sort of flattering trustfulness in the stranger who might sojourn there. His wanderings led him, at length, into a somewhat more pretentious room, with a piano and a harp, at one angle of which a little octangular tower opened, with windows in every face, and the spaces between them completely covered by miniatures in oil, or small cabinet pictures. A small table with a chess-board stood here, and an unfinished game yet remained on the board. As Conyers bent over to look, he perceived that a book, whose leaves were held open by a smelling-bottle, lay on the chair next the table. He took this up, and saw that it was a little volume treating of the game, and that the pieces on the board represented a problem. With the eagerness of a man thirsting for some occupation, he seated himself at the table, and set to work at the question. “A Mate in Six Moves” it was headed, but the pieces had been already disturbed by some one attempting the solution. He replaced them by the directions of the volume, and devoted himself earnestly to the task. He was not a good player, and the problem posed him. He tried it again and again, but ever unsuccessfully. He fancied that up to a certain point he had followed the right track, and repeated the same opening moves each time. Meanwhile the evening was fast closing in, and it was only with difficulty he could see the pieces on the board.

Bending low over the table, he was straining his eyes at the game, when a low, gentle voice from behind his chair said, “Would you not wish candles, sir? It is too dark to see here.”

Conyers turned hastily, and as hastily recognized that the person who addressed him was a gentlewoman. He arose at once, and made a sort of apology for his intruding.

“Had I known you were a chess-player, sir,” said she, with the demure gravity of a composed manner, “I believe I should have sent you a challenge; for my brother, who is my usual adversary, is from home.”

“If I should prove a very unworthy enemy, madam, you will find me a very grateful one, for I am sorely tired of my own company.”

“In that case, sir, I beg to offer you mine, and a cup of tea along with it.”

Conyers accepted the invitation joyfully, and followed Miss Barrington to a small but most comfortable little room, where a tea equipage of exquisite old china was already prepared.

“I see you are in admiration of my teacups; they are the rare Canton blue, for we tea-drinkers have as much epicurism in the form and color of a cup as wine-bibbers profess to have in a hock or a claret glass. Pray take the sofa; you will find it more comfortable than a chair. I am aware you have had an accident.”

Very few and simple as were her words, she threw into her manner a degree of courtesy that seemed actual kindness; and coming, as this did, after his late solitude and gloom, no wonder was it that Conyers was charmed with it. There was, besides, a quaint formality – a sort of old-world politeness in her breeding – which relieved the interview of awkwardness by taking it out of the common category of such events.

When tea was over, they sat down to chess, at which Conyers had merely proficiency enough to be worth beating. Perhaps the quality stood him in good stead; perhaps certain others, such as his good looks and his pleasing manners, were even better aids to him; but certain it is, Miss Barrington liked her guest, and when, on arising to say good-night, he made a bungling attempt to apologize for having prolonged his stay at the cottage beyond the period which suited their plans, she stopped him by saying, with much courtesy, “It is true, sir, we are about to relinquish the inn, but pray do not deprive us of the great pleasure we should feel in associating its last day or two with a most agreeable guest. I hope you will remain till my brother comes back and makes your acquaintance.”

Conyers very cordially accepted the proposal, and went off to his bed far better pleased with himself and with all the world than he well believed it possible he could be a couple of hours before.

CHAPTER XI. A NOTE TO BE ANSWERED

While Conyers was yet in bed the following morning, a messenger arrived at the house with a note for him, and waited for the answer. It was from Stapylton, and ran thus: —

“Cobham Hall, Tuesday morning.

“Dear Con., – The world here – and part of it is a very pretty world, with silky tresses and trim ankles – has declared that you have had some sort of slight accident, and are laid up at a miserable wayside inn, to be blue-devilled and doctored à discrétion. I strained my shoulder yesterday hunting, – my horse swerved against a tree, – or I should ascertain all the particulars of your disaster in person; so there is nothing left for it but a note.

“I am here domesticated at a charming country-house, the host an old Admiral, the hostess a ci-devant belle of London, – in times not very recent, – and more lately what is called in newspapers ‘one of the ornaments of the Irish Court.’ We have abundance of guests, – county dons and native celebrities, clerical, lyrical, and quizzical, several pretty women, a first-rate cellar, and a very tolerable cook. I give you the catalogue of our attractions, for I am commissioned by Sir Charles and my Lady to ask you to partake of them. The invitation is given in all cordiality, and I hope you will not decline it, for it is, amongst other matters, a good opportunity of seeing an Irish ‘interior,’ a thing of which I have always had my doubts and misgivings, some of which are now solved; others I should like to investigate with your assistance. In a word, the whole is worth seeing, and it is, besides, one of those experiences which can be had on very pleasant terms. There is perfect liberty; always something going on, and always a way to be out of it if you like. The people are, perhaps, not more friendly than in England, but they are far more familiar; and if not more disposed to be pleased, they tell you they are, which amounts to the same. There is a good deal of splendor, a wide hospitality, and, I need scarcely add, a considerable share of bad taste. There is, too, a costly attention to the wishes of a guest, which will remind you of India, though I must own the Irish Brahmin has not the grand, high-bred air of the Bengalee. But again I say, come and see.

“I have been told to explain to you why they don’t send their boat. There is something about draught of water, and something about a ‘gash,’ whatever that is: I opine it to be a rapid. And then I am directed to say, that if you will have yourself paddled up to Brown’s Barn, the Cobham barge will be there to meet you.

“I write this with some difficulty, lying on my back on a sofa, while a very pretty girl is impatiently waiting to continue her reading to me of a new novel called ‘The Antiquary.’ a capital story, but strangely disfigured by whole scenes in a Scottish dialect. You must read it when you come over.

“You have heard of Hunter, of course. I am sure you will be sorry at his leaving us. For myself, I knew him very slightly, and shall not have to regret him like older friends; not to say that I have been so long in the service that I never believe in a Colonel. Would you go with him if he gave you the offer? There is such a row and uproar all around me, that I must leave off. Have I forgotten to say that if you stand upon the ‘dignities,’ the Admiral will go in person to invite you, though he has a foot in the gout. I conclude you will not exact this, and I know they will take your acceptance of this mode of invitation as a great favor. Say the hour and the day, and believe me yours always,

“Horace Stapylton.

“Sir Charles is come to say that if your accident does not interfere with riding, he hopes you will send for your horses. He has ample stabling, and is vainglorious about his beans. That short-legged chestnut you brought from Norris would cut a good figure here, as the fences lie very close, and you must be always ‘in hand.’ If you saw how the women ride! There is one here now – a ‘half-bred ‘un’ – that pounded us all – a whole field of us – last Saturday. You shall see her. I won’t promise you ‘ll follow her across her country.”

The first impression made on the mind of Conyers by this letter was surprise that Stapylton, with whom he had so little acquaintance, should write to him in this tone of intimacy; Stapylton, whose cold, almost stern manner seemed to repel any approach, and now he assumed all the free-and-easy air of a comrade of his own years and standing. Had he mistaken the man, or had he been misled by inferring from his bearing in the regiment what he must be at heart?

This, however, was but a passing thought; the passage which interested him most of all was about Hunter. Where and for what could he have left, then? It was a regiment he had served in since he entered the army. What could have led him to exchange? and why, when he did so, had he not written him one line – even one – to say as much? It was to serve under Hunter, his father’s old aide-de-camp in times back, that he had entered that regiment; to be with him, to have his friendship, his counsels, his guidance. Colonel Hunter had treated him like a son in every respect, and Conyers felt in his heart that this same affection and interest it was which formed his strongest tie to the service. The question, “Would you go with him if he gave you the offer?” was like a reflection on him, while no such option had been extended to him. What more natural, after all, than such an offer? so Stapylton thought, – so all the world would think. How he thought over the constantly recurring questions of his brother-officers: “Why didn’t you go with Hunter?” “How came it that Hunter did not name you on his staff?” “Was it fair – was it generous in one who owed all his advancement to his father – to treat him in this fashion?” “Were the ties of old friendship so lax as all this?” “Was distance such an enemy to every obligation of affection?” “Would his father believe that such a slight had been passed upon him undeservedly? Would not the ready inference be, ‘Hunter knew you to be incapable, – unequal to the duties he required. Hunter must have his reasons for passing you over’?” and such like. These reflections, very bitter in their way, were broken in upon by a request from Miss Barrington for his company at breakfast. Strange enough, he had half forgotten that there was such a person in the world, or that he had spent the preceding evening very pleasantly in her society.

“I hope you have had a pleasant letter,” said she, as he entered, with Stapylton’s note still in his hand.

“I can scarcely call it so, for it brings me news that our Colonel – a very dear and kind friend to me – is about to leave us.”

“Are these not the usual chances of a soldier’s life? I used to be very familiar once on a time with such topics.”

“I have learned the tidings so vaguely, too, that I can make nothing of them. My correspondent is a mere acquaintance, – a brother officer, who has lately joined us, and cannot feel how deeply his news has affected me; in fact, the chief burden of his letter is to convey an invitation to me, and he is full of country-house people and pleasures. He writes from a place called Cobham.”

“Sir Charles Cobham’s. One of the best houses in the county.”

“Do you know them?” asked Conyers, who did not, till the words were out, remember how awkward they might prove.

She flushed slightly for a moment, but, speedily recovering herself, said: “Yes, we knew them once. They had just come to the country, and purchased that estate, when our misfortunes overtook us. They showed us much attention, and such kindness as strangers could show, and they evinced a disposition to continue it; but, of course, our relative positions made intercourse impossible. I am afraid,” said she, hastily, “I am talking in riddles all this time. I ought to have told you that my brother once owned a good estate here. We Barringtons thought a deal of ourselves in those days.” She tried to say these words with a playful levity, but her voice shook, and her lip trembled in spite of her.

Conyers muttered something unintelligible about “his having heard before,” and his sorrow to have awakened a painful theme; but she stopped him hastily, saying, “These are all such old stories now, one should be able to talk them over unconcernedly; indeed, it is easier to do so than to avoid the subject altogether, for there is no such egotist as your reduced gentleman.” She made a pretext of giving him his tea, and helping him to something, to cover the awkward pause that followed, and then asked if he intended to accept the invitation to Cobham.

“Not if you will allow me to remain here. The doctor says three days more will see me able to go back to my quarters.”

“I hope you will stay for a week, at least, for I scarcely expect my brother before Saturday. Meanwhile, if you have any fancy to visit Cobham, and make your acquaintance with the family there, remember you have all the privileges of an inn here, to come and go, and stay at your pleasure.”

“I do not want to leave this. I wish I was never to leave it,” muttered he below his breath.

“Perhaps I guess what it is that attaches you to this place,” said she, gently. “Shall I say it? There is something quiet, something domestic here, that recalls ‘Home.’”

“But I never knew a home,” said Conyers, falteringly. “My mother died when I was a mere infant, and I knew none of that watchful love that first gives the sense of home. You may be right, however, in supposing that I cling to this spot as what should seem to me like a home, for I own to you I feel very happy here.”

“Stay then, and be happy,” said she, holding out her hand, which he clasped warmly, and then pressed to his lips.

“Tell your friend to come over and dine with you any day that he can tear himself from gay company and a great house, and I will do my best to entertain him suitably.”

“No. I don’t care to do that; he is a mere acquaintance; there is no friendship between us, and, as he is several years older than me, and far wiser, and more man of the world, I am more chilled than cheered by his company. But you shall read his letter, and I ‘m certain you ‘ll make a better guess at his nature than if I were to give you my own version of him at any length.” So saying, he handed Stapyl-ton’s note across the table; and Miss Dinah, having deliberately put on her spectacles, began to read it.

“It’s a fine manly hand, – very bold and very legible, and says something for the writer’s frankness. Eh? ‘a miserable wayside inn!’ This is less than just to the poor ‘Fisherman’s Home.’ Positively, you must make him come to dinner, if it be only for the sake of our character. This man is not amiable, sir,” said she, as she read on, “though I could swear he is pleasant company, and sometimes witty. But there is little of genial in his pleasantry, and less of good nature in his wit.”

“Go on,” cried Conyers; “I ‘m quite with you.”

“Is he a person of family?” asked she, as she read on some few lines further.

“We know nothing about him; he joined us from a native corps, in India; but he has a good name and, apparently, ample means. His appearance and manner are equal to any station.”

“For all that, I don’t like him, nor do I desire that you should like him. There is no wiser caution than that of the Psalmist against ‘sitting in the seat of the scornful.’ This man is a scoffer.”

“And yet it is not his usual tone. He is cold, retiring, almost shy. This letter is not a bit like anything I ever saw in his character.”

“Another reason to distrust him. Set my mind at ease by saying ‘No’ to his invitation, and let me try if I cannot recompense you by homeliness in lieu of splendor. The young lady,” added she, as she folded the letter, “whose horsemanship is commemorated at the expense of her breeding, must be our doctor’s daughter. She is a very pretty girl, and rides admirably. Her good looks and her courage might have saved her the sarcasm. I have my doubts if the man that uttered it be thorough-bred.”

“Well, I ‘ll go and write my answer,” said Conyers, rising. “I have been keeping his messenger waiting all this time. I will show it to you before I send it off.”

CHAPTER XII. THE ANSWER

“Will this do?” said Conyers, shortly after, entering the room with a very brief note, but which, let it be owned, cost him fully as much labor as more practised hands occasionally bestow on a more lengthy despatch. “I suppose it’s all that’s civil and proper, and I don’t care to make any needless professions. Pray read it, and give me your opinion.” It was so brief that I may quote it: —

“Dear Captain Stapylton, – Don’t feel any apprehensions about me. I am in better quarters than I ever fell into in my life, and my accident is not worth speaking of. I wish you had told me more of our Colonel, of whose movements I am entirely ignorant. I am sincerely grateful to your friends for thinking of me, and hope, ere I leave the neighborhood, to express to Sir Charles and Lady Cobham how sensible I am of their kind intentions towards me.

“I am, most faithfully yours,

“F. CONYERS.”

“It is very well, and tolerably legible,” said Miss Barrington, dryly; “at least I can make out everything but the name at the end.”

“I own I do not shine in penmanship; the strange characters at the foot were meant to represent ‘Conyers.’”

“Conyers! Conyers! How long is it since I heard that name last, and how familiar I was with it once! My nephew’s dearest friend was a Conyers.”

“He must have been a relative of mine in some degree; at least, we are in the habit of saying that all of the name are of one family.”

Not heeding what he said, the old lady had fallen back in her meditations to a very remote “long ago,” and was thinking of a time when every letter from India bore the high-wrought interest of a romance, of which her nephew was the hero, – times of intense anxiety, indeed, but full of hope withal, and glowing with all the coloring with which love and an exalted imagination can invest the incidents of an adventurous life.

“It was a great heart he had, a splendidly generous nature, far too high-souled and too exacting for common friendships, and so it was that he had few friends. I am talking of my nephew,” said she, correcting herself suddenly. “What a boon for a young man to have met him, and formed an attachment to him. I wish you could have known him. George would have been a noble example for you!” She paused for some minutes, and then suddenly, as it were remembering herself, said, “Did you tell me just now, or was I only dreaming, that you knew Ormsby Conyers?”

“Ormsby Conyers is my father’s name,” said he, quickly.

“Captain in the 25th Dragoons?” asked she, eagerly.

“He was so, some eighteen or twenty years ago.”

“Oh, then, my heart did not deceive me,” cried she, taking his hand with both her own, “when I felt towards you like an old friend. After we parted last night, I asked myself, again and again, how was it that I already felt an interest in you? What subtle instinct was it that whispered this is the son of poor George’s dearest friend, – this is the son of that dear Ormsby Conyers of whom every letter is full? Oh, the happiness of seeing you under this roof! And what a surprise for my poor brother, who clings only the closer, with every year, to all that reminds him of his boy!”

“And you knew my father, then?” asked Conyers, proudly.

“Never met him; but I believe I knew him better than many who were his daily intimates: for years my nephew’s letters were journals of their joint lives – they seemed never separate. But you shall read them yourself. They go back to the time when they both landed at Calcutta, young and ardent spirits, eager for adventure, and urged by a bold ambition to win distinction. From that day they were inseparable. They hunted, travelled, lived together; and so attached had they become to each other, that George writes in one letter: ‘They have offered me an appointment on the staff, but as this would separate me from Ormsby, it is not to be thought of.’ It was to me George always wrote, for my brother never liked letter-writing, and thus I was my nephew’s confidante, and intrusted with all his secrets. Nor was there one in which your father’s name did not figure. It was, how Ormsby got him out of this scrape, or took his duty for him, or made this explanation, or raised that sum of money, that filled all these. At last – I never knew why or how – George ceased to write to me, and addressed all his letters to his father, marked ‘Strictly private’ too, so that I never saw what they contained. My brother, I believe, suffered deeply from the concealment, and there must have been what to him seemed a sufficient reason for it, or he would never have excluded me from that share in his confidence I had always possessed. At all events, it led to a sort of estrangement between us, – the only one of our lives. He would tell me at intervals that George was on leave; George was at the Hills; he was expecting his troop; he had been sent here or there; but nothing more, till one morning, as if unable to bear the burden longer, he said, ‘George has made up his mind to leave his regiment and take service with one of the native princes. It is an arrangement sanctioned by the Government, but it is one I grieve over and regret greatly.’ I asked eagerly to hear further about this step, but he said he knew nothing beyond the bare fact. I then said, ‘What does his friend Conyers think of it?’ and my brother dryly replied, ‘I am not aware that he has been consulted.’ Our own misfortunes were fast closing around us, so that really we had little time to think of anything but the difficulties that each day brought forth. George’s letters grew rarer and rarer; rumors of him reached us; stories of his gorgeous mode of living, his princely state and splendid retinue, of the high favor he enjoyed with the Rajah, and the influence he wielded over neighboring chiefs; and then we heard, still only by rumor, that he had married a native princess, who had some time before been converted to Christianity. The first intimation of the fact from himself came, when, announcing that he had sent his daughter, a child of about five years old, to Europe to be educated – ” She paused here, and seemed to have fallen into a revery over the past; when Conyers suddenly asked, —

“And what of my father all this time? Was the old intercourse kept up between them?”

“I cannot tell you. I do not remember that his name occurred till the memorable case came on before the House of Commons – the inquiry, as it was called, into Colonel Barrington’s conduct in the case of Edwardes, a British-born subject of his Majesty, serving in the army of the Rajah of Luckerabad. You have, perhaps, heard of it?”

“Was that the celebrated charge of torturing a British subject?”

“The same; the vilest conspiracy that ever was hatched, and the cruellest persecution that ever broke a noble heart. And yet there were men of honor, men of purest fame and most unblemished character, who harkened in to that infamous cry, and actually sent out emissaries to India to collect evidence against my poor nephew. For a while the whole country rang with the case. The low papers, which assailed the Government, made it matter of attack on the nature of the British rule in India, and the ministry only sought to make George the victim to screen themselves from public indignation. It was Admiral Byng’s case once more. But I have no temper to speak of it, even after this lapse of years; my blood boils now at the bare memory of that foul and perjured association. If you would follow the story, I will send you the little published narrative to your room, but, I beseech you, do not again revert to it. How I have betrayed myself to speak of it I know not. For many a long year I have prayed to be able to forgive one man, who has been the bitterest enemy of our name and race. I have asked for strength to bear the burden of our calamity, but more earnestly a hundred-fold I have entreated that forgiveness might enter my heart, and that if vengeance for this cruel wrong was at hand, I could be able to say, ‘No, the time for such feeling is gone by.’ Let me not, then, be tempted by any revival of this theme to recall all the sorrow and all the indignation it once caused me. This infamous book contains the whole story as the world then believed it. You will read it with interest, for it concerned one whom your father dearly loved. But, again. I say, when we meet again let us not return to it. These letters, too, will amuse you; they are the diaries of your father’s early life in India as much as George’s, but of them we can talk freely.”