Barrington. Volume 1. Lever Charles James
you know, Dill,” said the Major, disengaging himself from the arm which his lameness compelled him to lean on, and standing still in the pathway, – “do you know that I never reach thus far without having a sort of struggle with myself whether I won’t turn back and go home again. Can you explain that, now?”
“It is the wound, perhaps, pains you, coming up the hill.”
“It is not the wound. It’s that woman!”
“Miss Barrington?”
“Just so. I have her before me now, sitting up behind the urn there, and saying, ‘Have you had tea, Major M’Cormick?’ when she knows well she did n’t give it to me. Don’t you feel that going up to the table for your cup is for all the world like doing homage?”
“Her manners are cold, – certainly cold.”
“I wish they were. It’s the fire that’s in her I ‘m afraid of! She has as wicked an eye in her head as ever I saw.”
“She was greatly admired once, I ‘m told; and she has many remains of beauty.”
“Oh! for the matter of looks, there’s worse. It’s her nature, her temper, – herself, in fact, I can’t endure.”
“What is it you can’t endure, M’Cormick?” cried Barrington, emerging from a side walk where he had just caught the last words. “If it be anything in this poor place of mine, let me hear, that I may have it amended.”
“How are ye, – how are ye?” said the Major, with a very confused manner. “I was talking politics with Dill. I was telling him how I hated them Tories.”
“I believe they are all pretty much alike,” said Barring-ton; “at least, I knew they were in my day. And though we used to abuse him, and drink all kind of misfortunes to him every day of our lives, there was n’t a truer gentleman nor a finer fellow in Ireland than Lord Castlereagh.”
“I’m sure of it. I’ve often heard the same remark,” chimed in Dill.
“It’s a pity you didn’t think so at the time of the Union,” said M’Cormick, with a sneer.
“Many of us did; but it would not make us sell our country. But what need is there of going back to those times, and things that can’t be helped now? Come in and have a cup of tea. I see my sister is waiting for us.”
Why was it that Miss Barrington, on that evening, was grander and statelier than ever? Was it some anticipation of the meditated change in their station had impressed her manner with more of pride? I know not; but true it is she received her visitors with a reserve that was actually chilling. To no end did Barrington exert himself to conceal or counteract this frigidity. In all our moral chemistry we have never yet hit upon an antidote to a chilling reception.
The doctor was used to this freezing process, and did not suffer like his companion. To him, life was a huge ice-pail; but he defied frost-bite, and bore it. The Major, however chafed and fidgeted under the treatment, and muttered to himself very vengeful sentiments about that peg he had determined to take her down from.
“I was hoping to be able to offer you a nosegay, dear lady,” said Dill, – this was his customary mode of address to her, an ingenious blending of affection with deference, but in which the stronger accent on the last word showed the deference to predominate, – “but the rain has come so late, there’s not a stock in the garden fit to present to you.”
“It is just as well, sir. I detest gillyflowers.”
The Major’s eyes sparkled with a spiteful delight, for he was sorely jealous of the doctor’s ease under difficulties.
“We have, indeed, a few moss-roses.”
“None to be compared to our own, sir. Do not think of it.”
The Major felt that his was not a giving disposition, and consequently it exempted him from rubs and rebuffs of this sort. Meanwhile, unabashed by failure, the doctor essayed once more: “Mrs. Dill is only waiting to have the car mended, to come over and pay her dutiful respects to you, Miss Dinah.”
“Pray tell her not to mind it, Dr. Dill,” replied she, sharply, “or to wait till the fourth of next month, which will make it exactly a year since her last visit; and her call can be then an annual one, like the tax-gatherer’s.”
“Bother them for taxes altogether,” chimed in Barrington, whose ear only caught the last word. “You haven’t done with the county cess when there’s a fellow at you for tithes; and they’re talking of a poor-rate.”
“You may perceive, Dr. Dill, that your medicines have not achieved a great success against my brother’s deafness.”
“We were all so at Walcheren,” broke in M’Cormick; “when we ‘d come out of the trenches, we could n’t hear for hours.”
“My voice may be a shrill one, Major M’Cormick, but I’ll have you to believe that it has not destroyed my brother’s tympanum.”
“It’s not the tympanum is engaged, dear lady; it’s the Eustachian tube is the cause here. There’s a passage leads down from the internal ear – ”
“I declare, sir, I have just as little taste for anatomy as for fortification; and though I sincerely wish you could cure my brother, as I also wish these gentlemen could have taken Walcheren, I have not the slightest desire to know how.”
“I ‘ll beg a little more tea in this, ma’am,” said the Major, holding out his cup.
“Do you mean water, sir? Did you say it was too strong?”
“With your leave, I ‘ll take it a trifle stronger,” said he, with a malicious twinkle in his eye, for he knew all the offence his speech implied.
“I’m glad to hear you say so, Major M’Cormick. I’m happy to know that your nerves are stronger than at the time of that expedition you quote with such pleasure. Is yours to your liking, sir?”
“I ‘ll ask for some water, dear lady,” broke in Dill, who began to think that the fire was hotter than usual. “As I said to Mrs. Dill, ‘Molly,’ says I, ‘how is it that I never drink such tea anywhere as at the – ‘” He stopped, for he was going to say, the Harringtons’, and he trembled at the liberty; and he dared not say the Fisherman’s Home, lest it should be thought he was recalling their occupation; and so, after a pause and a cough, he stammered out – “‘at the sweet cottage.’” Nor was his confusion the less at perceiving how she had appreciated his difficulty, and was smiling at it.
“Very few strangers in these parts lately, I believe,” said M’Cormick, who knew that his remark was a dangerous one.
“I fancy none, sir,” said she, calmly. “We, at least, have no customers, if that be the name for them.”
“It’s natural, indeed, dear lady, you shouldn’t know how they are called,” began the doctor, in a fawning tone, “reared and brought up as you were.”
The cold, steady stare of Miss Barrington arrested his speech; and though he made immense efforts to recover himself, there was that in her look which totally overcame him. “Sit down to your rubber, sir,” said she, in a whisper that seemed to thrill through his veins. “You will find yourself far more at home at the odd trick there, than attempting to console me about my lost honors.” And with this fierce admonition, she gave a little nod, half in adieu, half in admonition, and swept haughtily out of the room.
M’Cormick heaved a sigh as the door closed after her, which very plainly bespoke how much he felt the relief.
“My poor sister is a bit out of spirits this evening,” said Barrington, who merely saw a certain show of constraint over his company, and never guessed the cause. “We’ve had some unpleasant letters, and one thing or another to annoy us, and if she does n’t join us at supper, you ‘ll excuse her, I know, M’Cormick.”
“That we will, with – ” He was going to add, “with a heart and a half,” for he felt, what to him was a rare sentiment, “gratitude;”