Barrington. Volume 2

Though Hunter assisted the ladies to land with becoming gallantry, he did not offer his arm to Josephine, but dropped behind, where Tom Dill brought up the rear with his sister.

“We have no confidences that you may not listen to,” said Polly, as she saw that he hesitated as to joining them. “Tom, indeed, has been telling of yourself, and you may not care to hear your own praises.”

“If they come from you, I ‘m all ears for them.”

“Isn’t that pretty, Tom? Did you ever hear any one ask more candidly for – no, not flattery – what is it to be called?”

Tom, however, could not answer, for he had stopped to shake hands with Darby, whose “May I never!” had just arrested him.

“What an honest, fine-hearted fellow it is!” said Hunter, as they moved on, leaving Tom behind.

“But if you had n’t found it out, who would have known, or who acknowledged it? I know – for he has told me – all you have been to him.”

“Pooh, pooh! nothing; less than nothing. He owes all that he is to himself. He is one of those fellows who, once they get into the right groove in life, are sure to go ahead. Not even you could make a doctor of him. Nature made him a soldier.”

Polly blushed slightly at the compliment to those teachings she believed a secret, and he went on, —

“What has the world been doing here since I left?”

“Pretty much what it did while you were here. It looked after its turnips and asparagus, took care of its young calves, fattened its chickens, grumbled at the dear-ness of everything, and wondered when Dr. Buck would preach a new sermon.”

“No deaths, – no marriages?”

“None. There was only one candidate for both, and he has done neither, – Major M’Cormick.”

“Confound that old fellow! I had forgotten him. Do you remember the last day I saw you here? We were in the garden, talking, as we believed, without witnesses. Well, he overheard us. He heard every word we said, and a good deal more that we did not say.”

“Yes; so he informed me, a few days after.”

“You don’t mean to say that he had the impertinence – ”

“The frankness, General, – the charming candor, – to tell me that I was a very clever girl, and not to be discouraged by one failure or two; that with time and perseverance – I think he said perseverance – some one was sure to take a fancy to me: he might not, perhaps, be handsome, possibly not very young; his temper, too, might chance to be more tart than was pleasant; in a word, he drew such a picture that I had to stop him short, and ask was he making me a proposal? He has never spoken to me since!”

“I feel as if I could break his neck,” muttered Hunter, below his breath; then added, “Do you remember that I asked leave to write to you once, – only once?”

“Yes, I remember it.”

“And you would not answer me. You shook your head, as though to say the permission would be of no service to me; that I might write, but, you understand, that it would only be to indulge in a delusion – ”

“What an expressive shake of the head that meant all that!”

“Ah! there it is again; never serious, never grave! And now I want you to be both. Since I landed in England, I ran down for a day to Devonshire. I saw an old aunt of mine, who, besides being very rich, has retained no small share of the romance of her life. She always had a dash of hero-worship about her, and so I took down Tom with me to show her the gallant fellow whose name was in all the newspapers, and of whom all the world was talking. She was charmed with him, – with his honest, manly simplicity, his utter want of all affectation. She asked me ten times a day, ‘Can I not be of service to him? Is there no step he wishes to purchase? Is there nothing we can do for him?’ ‘Nothing,‘ said I; ‘he is quite equal to his own fortune.’ ‘He may have brothers,’ said she. ‘He has a sister,’ said I, – ‘a sister who has made him all that he is, and it was to repay her love and affection that he has shown himself to be the gallant fellow we have seen him.’ ‘Tell her to come and see me. – that is,’ said she, correcting herself, ‘give her a letter I shall write, and persuade her, if you can, to oblige me by doing what I ask.’ Here is the letter; don’t say no till you have read it. Nay, don’t shake your head so deploringly; things may be hard without being impossible. At all events, read her note carefully. It’s a droll old hand, but clear as print.”

“I’ll read it,” said she, looking at the letter; but the sorrowful tone revealed how hopelessly she regarded the task.

“Ask Tom about her; and make Tom tell you what she is like. By Jove! he has such an admiration for the old damsel, I was half afraid he meant to be my uncle.”

They reached the cottage laughing pleasantly over this conceit, and Polly hurried up to her room to read the letter. To her surprise, Josephine was there already, her eyes very red with crying, and her cheeks flushed and feverish-looking.

“My dearest Fifine, what is all this for, on the happiest day of your life?” said she, drawing her arm around her.

“It’s all your fault, – all your doing,” said the other, averting her head, as she tried to disengage herself from the embrace.

“My fault, – my doing? What do you mean, dearest, what can I have done to deserve this?”

“You know very well what you have done. You knew all the time how it would turn out.”

Polly protested firmly that she could not imagine what was attributed to her, and only after a considerable time obtained the explanation of the charge. Indeed it was not at first easy to comprehend it, given, as it was, in the midst of tears, and broken at every word by sobs. The substance was this: that Fifine, in an attempted imitation of Polly’s manner, – an effort to copy the coquetting which she fancied to be so captivating, – had ventured to trifle so far with young Conyers, that, after submitting to every alternative of hope and fear for weeks long, he at last gave way, and determined to leave the house, quit the country, and never meet her more. “It was to be like you I did it,” cried she, sobbing bitterly, “and see what it has led me to.”

“Well, dearest, be really like me for half an hour; that is, be very patient and very quiet. Sit down here, and don’t leave this till I come back to you.”

Polly kissed her hot cheek as she spoke; and the other sat down where she was bade, with the half-obedient sulkiness of a naughty child.

“Tell young Mr. Conyers to come and speak to me. I shall be in the garden,” said she to his servant; and before she had gone many paces he was beside her.

“Oh, Polly dearest! have you any hope for me?” cried he, in agony. “If you knew the misery I am enduring.”

“Come and take a walk with me,” said she, passing her arm within his. “I think you will like to hear what I have to tell you.”

The revelation was not a very long one; and as they passed beneath the room where Josephine sat, Polly called out, “Come down here, Fifine, we are making a bouquet; try if you can find ‘heart’s-ease.’”

What a happy party met that day at dinner! All were in their best spirits, each contented with the other. “Have you read my aunt’s note?” whispered Hunter to Polly, as they passed into the drawing-room.

“Yes. I showed it also to Miss Dinah. I asked her advice.”

“And what did she say, – what did she advise?”

“She said she ‘d think over it and tell me to-morrow.”

“To-morrow! Why not now, – why not at once?” cried he, impatiently. “I ‘ll speak to her myself;” and he hurried to the little room where Miss Dinah was making tea.

It was not a very long interview; and Hunter returned, fond, radiant, and triumphant. “She’s the cleverest old woman I ever met in my life,” said he; “and the best, besides, after my Aunt Dorothy. She said that such an invitation as that was too cordial to be coldly declined; that it meant more – far more – than a politeness; that you ought to go, yes, by all means; and if there was any difficulty about the journey, or any awkwardness in travelling so far, why, there was an easy remedy for it, as well as for meeting my aunt a perfect stranger.”

“And what was that?”

“To go as her niece, dearest Polly, – to be the wife of a man who loves you.”

“Is it possible that you have so much to say to each other that you won’t take tea?” cried Aunt Dinah; while she whispered to Withering, “I declare we shall never have a sociable moment till they’re all married off, and learn to conduct themselves like reasonable creatures.”

Is it not the best testimony we can give to happiness, that it is a thing to feel and not describe, – to be enjoyed, but not pictured? It is like a debt that I owe to my reader, to show him “The Home” as it was when blissful hearts were gathered under its roof; and yet, for the life of me, I cannot acquit myself of it. To say that there were old people with their memories of the past, and young ones with their hopes of the future; that there were bygones to sigh over, and vistas to gaze at, conveys but little of the kindliness by which heart opened to heart, and sorrow grew lighter by mutual endurance, and joys became brighter as they were imparted to another.

“So I find,” said Barrington, as they sat at breakfast together, “that Josephine insists on going back to the convent, and Fred is resolved on an exchange into the Infantry, and is off for Canada immediately.”

“Not a bit of it!” broke in Hunter, who remarked nothing of the roguish drollery of old Peter’s eye, nor even suspected that the speech was made in mockery. “Master Fred is coming with me into Kilkenny this morning, for a visit to the Dean, or whatever he is, who dispenses those social handcuffs they call licenses.”

“Why, they were quarrelling all the morning,” repeated Harrington.

“So we were, sir, and so we mean to do for many a year,” said Josephine; “and to keep us in countenance, I hear that General Hunter and Polly have determined to follow our example.”

“What do I hear, Miss Dill?” said Miss Barrington, with an affected severity.

“I’m afraid, madam, it is true; there has been what my father calls ‘a contagious endemic’ here lately, and we have both caught it; but ours are mild cases, and we hope soon to recover.”

“What’s this I see here?” cried Fred, who, to conceal his shame, had taken up the newspaper. “Listen to this: ‘The notorious Stapylton, alias Edwardes, whose case up to yesterday was reported all but hopeless, made his escape from the hospital, and has not since been heard of. It would appear that some of the officials had been bribed to assist his evasion, and a strict inquiry will be immediately set on foot into the affair.’”

“Do you think he has got over to France?” whispered Peter to Withering.

“Of course he has; the way was all open, and everything ready for him!”

“Then I am thoroughly happy!” cried Barrington, “and there’s not even the shadow of a cloud over our present sunshine.”

THE END.