Barrington. Volume 2. Lever Charles James
like it of all things; although, if I were your sister or your daughter, I’d not counsel it.”
“And why not, if you were my sister?” said he, with a certain constraint in his manner.
“I’d say it was inglorious to change from the noble activity of a soldier’s life to come and dream away existence here.”
“But what if I have done enough for this same thing men call fame? I have had my share of campaigning, and as the world looks there is wondrous little prospect of any renewal of it. These peace achievements suit your friend Conyers better than me.”
“I think you are not just to him. If I read him aright, he is burning for an occasion to distinguish himself.”
A cold shrug of the shoulders was his only acknowledgment of this speech, and again a silence fell between them.
“I would rather talk of you, if you would let me,” said he, with much significance of voice and manner. “Say would you like to have me for your neighbor?”
“It would be a pleasant exchange for Major M’Cormick,” said she, laughing.
“I want you to be serious now. What I am asking you interests me too deeply to jest over.”
“First of all, is the project a serious one?”
“It is.”
“Next, why ask advice from one as inexperienced as I am?”
“Because it is not counsel I ask, – it is something more. Don’t look surprised, and, above all, don’t look angry, but listen to me. What I have said now, and what more I would say, might more properly have been uttered when we had known each other longer; but there are emergencies in life which give no time for slow approaches, and there are men, too, that they suit not. Imagine such now before you, – I mean, both the moment and the man. Imagine one who has gone through a great deal in life, seen, heard, and felt much, and yet never till now, never till this very morning, understood what it was to know one whose least word or passing look was more to him than ambition, higher than all the rewards of glory.”
“We never met till yesterday,” said she, calmly.
“True; and if we part to-morrow, it will be forever. I feel too painfully,” added he, with more eagerness, “how I compromise all that I value by an avowal abrupt and rash as this is; but I have had no choice. I have been offered the command of a native force in India, and must give my answer at once. With hope – the very faintest, so that it be hope – I will refuse. Remember I want no pledge, no promise; all I entreat is that you will regard me as one who seeks to win your favor. Let time do the rest.”
“I do not think I ought to do this – I do not know if you should ask it.”
“May I speak to your grandfather – may I tell him what I have told you – may I say, ‘It is with Josephine’s permission – ‘”
“I am called Miss Barrington, sir, by all but those of my own family.”
“Forgive me, I entreat you,” said he, with a deep humility in his tone. “I had never so far forgotten myself if calm reason had not deserted me. I will not transgress again.”
“This is the shortest way back to the cottage,” said she, turning into a narrow path in the wood.
“It does not lead to my hope,” said he, despondingly; and no more was uttered between them for some paces.
“Do not walk so very fast, Miss Barrington,” said he, in a tone which trembled slightly. “In the few minutes – the seconds you could accord me – I might build the whole fortune of my life. I have already endangered my hopes by rashness; let me own that it is the fault I have struggled against in vain. This scar” – and he showed the deep mark of a sabre-wound on the temple – “was the price of one of my offendings; but it was light in suffering to what I am now enduring.”
“Can we not talk of what will exact no such sacrifice?” said she, calmly.
“Not now, not now!” said he, with emotion; “if you pass that porch without giving me an answer, life has no longer a tie for me. You know that I ask for no pledge, no promise, merely time, – no more than time, – a few more of those moments of which you now would seem eager to deny me. Linger an instant here, I beseech you, and remember that what to you may be a caprice may to me be a destiny.”
“I will not hear more of this,” said she, half angrily. “If it were not for my own foolish trustfulness, you never would have dared to address such words to one whom you met yesterday for the first time.”
“It is true your generous frankness, the nature they told me you inherited, gives me boldness, but it might teach you to have some pity for a disposition akin to it. One word, – only one word more.”
“Not one, sir! The lesson my frankness has taught me is, never to incur this peril again.”
“Do you part from me in anger?”
“Not with you; but I will not answer for myself if you press me further.”
“Even this much is better than despair,” said he, mournfully; and she passed into the cottage, while he stood in the porch and bowed respectfully as she went by. “Better than I looked for, better than I could have hoped,” muttered he to himself, as he strolled away and disappeared in the wood.
CHAPTER V. A CABINET COUNCIL
“What do you think of it, Dinah?” said Barrington, as they sat in conclave the next morning in her own sitting-room.
She laid down a letter she had just finished reading on the table, carefully folding it, like one trying to gain time before she spoke: “He’s a clever man, and writes well, Peter; there can be no second opinion upon that.”
“But his proposal, Dinah, – his proposal?”
“Pleases me less the more I think of it. There is great disparity of age, – a wide discrepancy in character. A certain gravity of demeanor would not be undesirable, perhaps, in a husband for Josephine, who has her moments of capricious fancy; but if I mistake not, this man’s nature is stern and unbending.”
“There will be time enough to consider all that, Dinah. It is, in fact, to weigh well the chances of his fitness to secure her happiness that he pleads; he asks permission to make himself known to her, rather than to make his court.”
“I used to fancy that they meant the same thing, – I know that they did in my day, Peter,” said she, bridling; “but come to the plain question before us. So far as I understand him, his position is this: ‘If I satisfy you that my rank and fortune are satisfactory to you, have I your permission to come back here as your granddaughter’s suitor?’”
“Not precisely, Dinah, – not exactly this. Here are his words: ‘I am well aware that I am much older than Miss Barrington, and it is simply to ascertain from herself if, in that disparity of years, there exists that disparity of tastes and temper which would indispose her to regard me as one to whom she would intrust her happiness. I hope to do this without any offence to her delicacy, though not without peril to my own self-love. Have I your leave for this experiment?’”
“Who is he? Who are his friends, connections, belongings? What is his station independently of his military rank, and what are his means? Can you answer these questions?”
“Not one of them. I never found myself till to-day in a position to inquire after them.”
“Let us begin, then, by that investigation, Peter. There is no such test of a man as to make him talk of himself. With you alone the matter, perhaps, would not present much difficulty to him, but I intend that Mr. Withering’s name and my own shall be on the committee; and, take my word for it, we shall sift the evidence carefully.”
“Bear in mind, sister Dinah, that this gentleman is, first of all, our guest.”
“The first of all that I mean to bear in mind is, that he desires to be your grandson.”
“Of