Barrington Volume Ii Part 22

Scarcely had Stapylton gained the road when he was joined by McCormick.

"Faith, you didn't get the best of that brush, anyhow," said he, with a grin.

"What do you mean, sir?" replied Stapylton, savagely.

"I mean that I heard every word that pa.s.sed between you, and I would n't have been standing in your shoes for a fifty-pound note."

"How is your rheumatism this morning?" asked Stapylton, blandly.

"Pretty much as it always is," croaked out the other.

"Be thankful to it, then; for if you were not a cripple, I 'd throw you into that river as sure as I stand here to say it."

Major McCormick did not wait for a less merciful moment, but hobbled away from the spot with all the speed he could muster.

CHAPTER XIV. STORMS

When Stapylton stepped out of his boat and landed at "The Home," the first person he saw was certainly the last in his wishes. It was Miss Dinah who stood at the jetty, as though awaiting him. Scarcely deigning to notice, beyond a faint smile of acquiescence, the somewhat bungling explanation he gave of his absence, she asked if he had met her brother.

"No," said he. "I left the village a couple of hours ago; rather loitering, as I came along, to enjoy the river scenery."

"He took the road, and in this way missed you," said she, dryly.

"How unfortunate!--for me, I mean, of course. I own to you, Miss Barrington, wide as the difference between our ages, I never yet met any one so thoroughly companionable to me as your brother. To meet a man so consummately acquainted with the world, and yet not soured by his knowledge; to see the ripe wisdom of age blended with the generous warmth of youth; to find one whose experiences only make him more patient, more forgiving, more trustful--"

"Too trustful, Major Stapylton, far too trustful." And her bold gray eyes were turned upon him as she spoke, with a significance that could not be mistaken.

"It is a n.o.ble feeling, madam," said he, haughtily.

"It is a great misfortune to its possessor, sir."

"Can we deem that misfortune, Miss Barrington, which enlarges the charity of our natures, and teaches us to be slow to think ill?"

Not paying the slightest attention to his question, she said,--

"My brother went in search of you, sir, to place in your hands some very urgent letters from the Horse Guards, and which a special messenger brought here this morning."

"Truly kind of him. They relate, I have no doubt, to my Indian appointment. They told me I should have news by to-day or to-morrow."

"He received a letter also for himself, sir, which he desired to show you."

"About his lawsuit, of course? It is alike a pleasure and a duty to me to serve him in that affair."

"It more nearly concerns yourself, sir," said she, in the same cold, stern tone; "though it has certainly its bearing on the case you speak of."

"More nearly concerns myself!" said he, repeating her words slowly. "I am about the worst guesser of a riddle in the world, Miss Barrington.

Would you kindly relieve my curiosity? Is this letter a continuation of those cowardly attacks which, in the want of a worthier theme, the Press have amused themselves by making upon me? Is it possible that some enemy has had the malice to attack me through my friends?"

"The writer of the letter in question is a sufficient guarantee for its honor, Mr. Withering."

"Mr. Withering!" repeated he, with a start, and then, as suddenly a.s.suming an easy smile, added: "I am perfectly tranquil to find myself in such hands as Mr. Withering's. And what, pray, does _he_ say of me?"

"Will you excuse me, Major Stapylton, if I do not enter upon a subject on which I am not merely very imperfectly informed, but on which so humble a judgment as mine would be valueless? My brother showed me the letter very hurriedly; I had but time to see to what it referred, and to be aware that it was his duty to let you see it at once,--if possible, indeed, before you were again under his roof."

"What a grave significance your words have, Miss Barrington!" said he, with a cold smile. "They actually set me to think over all my faults and failings, and wonder for which of them I am now arraigned."

"We do not profess to judge you, sir."

By this time they had sauntered up to the little garden in front of the cottage, within the paling of which Josephine was busily engaged in training a j.a.ponica. She arose as she heard the voices, and in her accustomed tone wished Stapylton good-evening. "_She_, at least, has heard nothing of all this," muttered he to himself, as he saluted her. He then opened the little wicket; and Miss Barrington pa.s.sed in, acknowledging his attention by a short nod, as she walked hastily forward and entered the cottage. Instead of following her, Stapylton closed the wicket again, remaining on the outside, and leaning his arm on the upper rail.

"Why do you perform sentry? Are you not free to enter the fortress?"

said Fifine.

"I half suspect not," said he, in a low tone, and to hear which she was obliged to draw nigher to where he stood.

"What do you mean? I don't understand you!"

"No great wonder, for I don't understand myself. Your aunt has, however, in her own most mysterious way, given me to believe that somebody has written something about me to somebody else, and until I clear up what in all probability I shall never hear, that I had better keep to what the Scotch call the 'back o' the gate.'"

"This is quite unintelligible."

"I hope it is, for it is almost unendurable. I am sorely afraid," added he, after a minute, "that I am not so patient as I ought to be under Miss Barrington's strictures. I am so much more in the habit of command than of obedience, that I may forget myself now and then. To _you_, however, I am ready to submit all my past life and conduct. By you I am willing to be judged. If these cruel calumnies which are going the round of the papers on me have lowered me in your estimation, my case is a lost one; but if, as I love to think, your woman's heart resents an injustice,--if, taking counsel of your courage and your generosity, you feel it is not the time to withdraw esteem when the dark hour of adversity looms over a man,--then, I care no more for these slanders than for the veriest trifles which cross one's every-day life. In one word,--your verdict is life or death to me."

"In that case," said she, with an effort to dispel the seriousness of his manner, "I must have time to consider my sentence."

"But that is exactly what you cannot have, Josephine," said he; and there was a certain earnestness in his voice and look, which made her hear him call her by her name without any sense of being off ended.

"First relieve the suffering; there will be ample leisure to question the sufferer afterwards. The Good Samaritan wasted few words, and asked for no time. The n.o.blest services are those of which the cost is never calculated. Your own heart can tell you: can you befriend me, and will you?"

"I do not know what it is you ask of me," said she, with a frank boldness which actually disconcerted him. "Tell me distinctly, what is it?"

"I will tell you," said he, taking her hand, but so gently, so respectfully withal, that she did not at first withdraw it,--"I will tell you. It is that you will share that fate on which fortune is now frowning; that you will add your own high-couraged heart to that of one who never knew a fear till now; that you will accept my lot in this the day of my reverse, and enable me to turn upon my pursuers and scatter them. To-morrow or next day will be too late. It is now, at this hour, that friends hold back, that one more than friend is needed. Can you be that, Josephine?"

"No!" said she, firmly. "If I read your meaning aright, I cannot."

"You cannot love me, Josephine," said he, in a voice of intense emotion; and though he waited some time for her to speak, she was silent. "It is true, then," said he, pa.s.sionately, "the slanderers have done their work!"

"I know nothing of these calumnies. When my grandfather told me that they accused you falsely, and condemned you unfairly, I believed him.

I am as ready as ever to say so. I do not understand your cause; but I believe you to be a true and gallant gentleman!"

"But yet, not one to love!" whispered he, faintly.

Again she was silent, and for some time he did not speak.

"A true and gallant gentleman!" said he, slowly repeating her own words; "and if so, is it an unsafe keeping to which to intrust your happiness?

It is no graceful task to have oneself for a theme; but I cannot help it. I have no witnesses to call to character; a few brief lines in an army list, and some scars--old reminders of French sabres--are poor certificates, and yet I have no others."

There was something which touched her in the sadness of his tone as he said these words, and if she knew how, she would have spoken to him in kindliness. He mistook the struggle for a change of purpose, and with greater eagerness continued: "After all I am scarcely more alone in the world than you are! The dear friends who now surround you cannot be long spared, and what isolation will be your fate then! Think of this, and think, too, how, in a.s.suring your own future, you rescue mine."