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Barrington would have laughed, and laughed heartily, if he dared. As it was, the effort to restrain himself sent the blood to his head, and made his eyes run over.

“You may well blush, Peter Barrington,” said she, shaking her finger at him. “It’s all your own doing.”

“And when you undeceived her, Dinah, what did she say?”

“I have not done so yet; but my impression is that so susceptible a young lady should find no great difficulty in transferring her affections. For the present I mean to limit myself to declaring that this offer is not from Conyers; if she has curiosity to know the writer, she shall learn it. I always had my doubts about these convents Bread and water diet makes more epicures than abstinents!”

CHAPTER X. INTERCHANGED CONFESSIONS

Miss Barrington, with Josephine at one side and Polly Dill on the other, sat at work in her little room that opened on the garden. Each was engaged in some peculiar task, and each seemed bent upon her labor in that preoccupied way which would imply that the cares of needlework make no mean call upon human faculties. A close observer would, however, have remarked that though Miss Barrington stitched vigorously away at the background for a fierce tiger with measly spots over him, Polly seemed oftener to contemplate than continue her handiwork; while Josephine’s looks strayed constantly from the delicate tracery she was following, to the garden, where the roses blended with the jasmine, and the drooping honeysuckles hung listlessly over the boughs of the apple-tree.

“If your work wearies you, Fifine,” said Miss Dinah, “you had better read for us.”

“Oh no, not at all, aunt; I like it immensely. I was only wondering why one should devise such impossible foliage, when we have the real thing before us, in all its grace and beauty.”

“Humph!” said the old lady; “the sight of a real tiger would not put me out of countenance with my own.”

“It certainly ought not, ma’am,” said Polly; while she added, in a faint whisper, “for there is assuredly no rivalry in the case.”

“Perhaps Miss Dill is not too absorbed in her study of nature, as applied to needlework, to read out the newspaper.”

“I will do it with pleasure, ma’am. Where shall I begin?”

“Deaths and marriages first, of course, child. Then fashion and varieties; take the accidents afterwards, and close with anything remarkable in politics, or any disastrous occurrence in high life.”

Polly obeyed to the letter; once only straying into an animated account of a run with the Springfield fox-hounds, where three riders out of a large field came in at the death; when Miss Dinah stopped her abruptly, saying, “I don’t care for the obituary of a fox, young lady. Go on with something else.”

“Will you have the recent tragedy at Ring’s End, ma’am?”

“I know it by heart Is there nothing new in the fashions, – how are bonnets worn? What’s the latest sleeve? What’s the color in vogue?”

“A delicate blue, ma’am; a little off the sky, and on the hyacinth.”

“Very becoming to fair people,” said Miss Dinah, with a shake of her blond ringlets.

“‘The Prince’s Hussars!’ Would you like to hear about them, ma’am?”

“By all means.”

“It’s a very short paragraph. ‘The internal troubles of this unhappy regiment would seem to be never ending. We last week informed our readers that a young subaltern of the corps, the son of one of our most distinguished generals, had thrown up his commission and repaired to the Continent, to enable him to demand a personal satisfaction from his commanding officer, and we now learn that the Major in question is precluded from accepting the gage of battle by something stronger than military etiquette.’”

“Read it again, child; that vile newspaper slang always puzzles me.”

Polly recited the passage in a clear and distinct voice.

“What do you understand by it, Polly?”

“I take it to mean nothing, madam. One of those stirring pieces of intelligence which excites curiosity, and are no more expected to be explained than a bad riddle.”

“It cannot surely be that he shelters himself under his position towards us? That I conclude is hardly possible!”

Though Miss Barrington said this as a reflection, she addressed herself almost directly to Josephine.

“As far as I am concerned, aunt,” answered Josephine, promptly, “the Major may fight the monster of the Drachenfels to-morrow, if he wishes it.”

“Oh, here is another mystery apparently on the same subject. ‘The Lascar, Lal-Adeen, whom our readers will remember as having figured in a police-court a few days back, and was remanded till the condition of his wound – a severe sabre-cut on the scalp – should permit his further examination, and on the same night made his escape from the hospital, has once again, and very unexpectedly, turned up at Boulogne-sur-Mer. His arrival in this country – some say voluntarily, others under a warrant issued for his apprehension – will probably take place to-day or to-morrow, and, if report speak truly, be followed by some of the most singular confessions which the public has heard for a long time back.’ ‘The Post’ contradicts the statement, and declares ‘no such person has ever been examined before the magistrate, if he even have any existence at all.’”

“And what interest has all this for us?” asked Miss Dinah, sharply.

“You do not forget, ma’am, that this is the same man Major Stapylton was said to have wounded; and whose escape scandal hinted he had connived at, and who now ‘does not exist.’”

“I declare Miss Dill, I remember no such thing; but it appears to me that Major Stapylton occupies a very considerable space in your own thoughts.”

“I fancy Polly likes him, aunt,” said Josephine, with a slight smile.

“Well, I will own he interests me; there is about him a mysterious something that says, ‘I have more in my head and on my heart than you think of, and more, perhaps, than you could carry if the burden were yours.’”

“A galley-slave might say the same, Miss Dill.”

“No doubt of it, ma’am; and if there be men who mix in the great world, and dine at grand houses, with something of the galley-slave on their conscience, they assuredly impress us with an amount of fear that is half a homage. One dreads them as he does a tiger, but the terror is mingled with admiration.”

“This is nonsense, young lady, and baneful nonsense, too, begotten of French novels and a sickly sentimentality. I hope Fifine despises it as heartily as I do.” The passionate wrath which she displayed extended to the materials of her work-basket, and while rolls of worsted were upset here, needles were thrown there; and at last, pushing her embroidery-frame rudely away, she arose and left the room.

“Dearest Polly, how could you be so indiscreet! You know, far better than I do, how little patience she has with a paradox.”

“My sweet Fifine,” said the other, in a low whisper, “I was dying to get rid of her, and I knew there was only one way of effecting it. You may remark that whenever she gets into a rage, she rushes out into the flower-garden, and walks round and round till she’s ready to drop. There she is already; you may gauge her anger by the number of her revolutions in a minute.”

“But why did you wish her away, Polly?”

“I’ll tell you why; that is, there is a charming French word for what I mean, the verb ‘agacer,’ all untranslatable as it is. Now there are moments when a person working in the same room – reading, writing, looking out of the window – becomes an insupportable infliction. You reason, and say, ‘How absurd, how childish, how ungenerous,’ and so forth. It won’t do; for as you look round he is there still, and by his mere presence keeps up the ferment in your thoughts. You fancy, at last, that he stands between you and your inner self, a witness that won’t let your own conscience whisper to you, and you come in the end to hate him. Your dear aunt was on the high-road to this goal, when I bethought me of my expedient! And now we are all alone, dearest, make me a confession.”

“What is it?”

“You do not like Major Stapylton?”

“No.”

“And you do like somebody else?”

“Perhaps,” said she, slowly, and dividing the syllables as she spoke them.

“That being the case, and seeing, as you do, that your aunt is entirely of your own mind, at least as to the man you do not care for, why don’t you declare as much frankly to your grandfather, and break off the negotiation at once?”

“Just because that dear old grandpapa asked me not to be precipitate, not to be rash. He did not tell me that I must love Major Stapylton, or must marry him; but he said, ‘If you only knew, Fifine, what a change in our fortune would come of a change in your feelings; if you could but imagine, child, how the whole journey of life might be rendered easier, all because you took the right-hand road instead of the left; if you could guess these things, and what might follow them – ‘” She stopped.

“Well, go on.”

“No. I have said all that he said; he kissed my cheek as he got thus far, and hurried away from the room.”

“And you, like a sweet, obedient child, hastened away to yours; wrote a farewell, a heart-broken farewell, to Fred Conyers; and solemnly swore to your own conscience you ‘d marry a man you disliked. These are the sort of sacrifices the world has a high admiration for; but do you know, Fifine, the world limps a little in its morality sometimes, and is not one-half the fine creature it thinks itself. For instance, in the midst of all its enthusiasm for you, it has forgotten that in accepting for your husband a man you do not love, you are doing a dishonesty; and that, besides this, you really love another. It is what the French call the aggravating circumstance.”

“I mean to do nothing of the kind!” broke in Fifine, boldly. “Your lecture does not address itself to me.”

“Do not be angry, Fifine,” said the other, calmly.

“It is rather too hard to be rebuked for the faults one might have, but has not committed. It’s like saying how wet you ‘d have been had you fallen into that pool!”

“Well, it also means, don’t fall into the pool!”

“Do you know, Polly,” said Josephine, archly, “I have a sort of suspicion that you don’t dislike this Major yourself! Am I right?”

“I’m not say you were altogether wrong; that is, he interests me, or, rather, he puzzles me, and it piques my ingenuity to read him, just as it would to make out a cipher to which I had only one-half the key.”

“Such a feeling as that would never inspire a tender interest, at least, with me.”

“Nor did I say it was, Fifine. I have read in some book of my father’s how certain physicians inoculated themselves with plague, the better to note the phenomena, and trace the course; and I own I can understand their zeal, and I ‘d risk something to decipher this man.”

“This may be very nice in medicine, Polly, but very bad in morals! At all events, don’t catch the plague for the sake of saving me?”

“Oh! I assure you any step I take shall be done in the interests of science solely; not but that I have a small debt to acquit towards the gallant Major.”

“You have! What can it possibly be?”

“Well, it was this wise,” said she, with a half-sigh. “We met at a country-house here, and he paid me certain attentions, made me compliments on my riding, which I knew to be good, and my singing, which was just tolerable; said the usual things which mean nothing, and a few of those more serious ones which are supposed to be more significant; and then he asked my father’s leave to come and visit him, and actually fixed a day and an hour. And we, poor people, all delighted with the flattery of such high notice, and thinking of the effect upon our neighbors so splendid a visitor would produce, made the most magnificent preparations to receive him, – papa in a black satin waistcoat, mamma in her lilac ribbons. I myself, – having put the roof on a pigeon-pie, and given the last finishing touch to a pagoda of ruby jelly, – I, in a charming figured muslin and a blush rose in my hair, awaited the hour of attack! And, after all, he never came. No, Fifine, never came! He forgot us, or he changed his mind, or something else turned up that he liked better; or – which is just as likely as any of the three – he thought it would be a charming piece of impertinence to pass off on such small folk, who presumed to fancy themselves company for him. At all events, Fifine, we saw him no more. He went his way somewhere, and we were left lamenting.”

“And you really liked him, Polly?”

“No, of the two, I disliked him; but I wished very much that he might like me! I saw him very overbearing and very insolent to those who were certainly his equals, assuming a most offensive superiority everywhere and to any one, and I thought what an awful humiliation it would be if so great a personage were to be snubbed by the doctor’s daughter. I wanted to give a lesson which could only be severe if it came from one humble as myself; but he defeated me, Fifine, and I am still his debtor! If I did not like him before, you may believe that I hate him now; and I came off here this morning, in hot haste, for no other purpose than to set you against him, and induce you to regard him as I do.”

“There was little need,” said Fifine, calmly; “but here comes my aunt back again. Make your submission quickly, Polly, or it will be too late to expect mercy.”

“I ‘ll do better,” said Polly, rising. “I ‘ll let my trial go on in my absence;” and with this she stepped out of the window as Miss Barrington entered by the door.

CHAPTER XI. STAPYLTON’S VISIT AT “THE HOME”

So secretly had Barrington managed, that he negotiated the loan of five hundred pounds on a mortgage of the cottage without ever letting his sister hear of it; and when she heard on a particular day that her brother expected Mr. Kinshela, the attorney, from Kilkenny, on business, she made the occasion the pretext of a visit to Dr. Dill, taking Josephine with her, to pass the day there.

Barrington was therefore free to receive his lawyer at his ease, and confer with him alone. Not that he cared much for his company; he felt towards the attorney pretty much as an ardent soldier feels to a non-combatant, the commissary, or the paymaster. Had he been a barrister, indeed, old Peter would have welcomed him with the zest of true companionship; he would have ransacked his memory for anecdotes, and prepared for the meeting as for an encounter of sharp wits. Now it is no part of my task to present Mr. Kinshela more than passingly to my reader, and I will merely say that he was a shrewd, commonplace man, whose practice rarely introduced him to the higher classes of his county, and who recognized Barrington, even in his decline, as a person of some consideration.

They had dined well, and sat over their wine in the little dining-room over the river, a favorite spot of Barrington’s when he wished to be confidential, for it was apart from the rest of the cottage, and removed from all intrusion.

“So, you won’t tell me, Kinshela, who lent us this money?” said the old man, as he passed the decanter across the table.

“It is not that I won’t, sir, but I can’t. It was in answer to an advertisement I inserted in the ‘Times,’ that I got an application from Granger and Wood to supply particulars; and I must say there was no unnecessary security on their part. It was as speedily settled a transaction as I ever conducted, and I believe in my heart we might have had a thousand pounds on it just as easily as five hundred.”

“As well as it is, Kinshela. When the day of repayment comes round, I’ll perhaps find it heavy enough;” and he sighed deeply as he spoke.

“Who knows, sir? There never was a time that capital expended on land was more remunerative than the present.”

Now, Mr. Kinshela well knew that the destination of the money they spoke of was not in this direction, and that it had as little to say to subsoil drainage or top dressing as to the conversion of the heathen; but he was angling for a confidence, and he did not see how to attain it.

Barrington smiled before he answered, – one of those sad, melancholy smiles which reveal a sorrow a man is not able to suppress, – and then he said, “I ‘m afraid, Kinshela, I ‘ll not test the problem this time.”

“It will be better employed, perhaps, sir. You mean, probably, to take your granddaughter up to the drawing-room at the Castle?”

“I never so much as thought of it, Joe Kinshela; the fact is, that money is going where I have sent many a hundred before it, – in law! I have had a long, wearisome, costly suit, that has well-nigh beggared me; and of that sum you raised for me I don’t expect to have a shilling by this day week.”

“I heard something about that, sir,” said the other, cautiously.

“And what was it you heard?”

“Nothing, of course, worth repeating; nothing from any one that knew the matter himself; just the gossip that goes about, and no more.”

“Well, let us hear the gossip that goes about, and I’ll promise to tell you if it’s true.”

“Well, indeed,” said Kinshela, drawing a long breath, “they say that your claim is against the India Board.”

Barring ton nodded.

“And that it is a matter little short of a million is in dispute.”

He nodded again twice.

“And they say, too, – of course, on very insufficient knowledge, – that if you would have abated your demands once on a time, you might readily have got a hundred thousand pounds, or even more.”

“That’s not impossible,” muttered Barrington.

“But that, now – ” he stammered for an instant, and then stopped.

“But now? Go on.”

“Sure, sir, they can know nothing about it; it’s just idle talk, and no more.”

“Go on, and tell me what they say now,” said Barrington, with a strong force on the last word.

“They say you ‘ll be beaten, sir,” said he, with an effort.

“And do they say why, Kinshela?”

“Yes, sir; they say you won’t take advice; and no matter what Mr. Withering counsels, or is settled in consultation, you go your own way and won’t mind them; and that you have been heard to declare you ‘ll have all, or nothing.”

“They give me more credit than I deserve, Kinshela. It is, perhaps, what I ought to have said, for I have often thought it. But in return for all the kind interest my neighbors take about me, let them know that matters look better for us than they once did. Perhaps,” added he, with a laugh, – “perhaps I have overcome my obstinacy, or perhaps my opponents have yielded to it. At all events, Joe, I believe I see land at last, and it was a long ‘lookout’ and many a fog-bank I mistook for it.”

“And what makes you think now you’ll win?” said the other, growing bolder by the confidence reposed in him.

Barrington half started at the presumption of the question; but he suddenly remembered how it was he himself who had invited the discussion, so he said calmly, —

“My hope is not without a foundation. I expect by the mail to-night a friend who may be able to tell me that I have won, or as good as won.”

Kinshela was dying to ask who the friend was, but even his curiosity had its prudential limits; so he merely took out his watch, and, looking at it, remarked that the mail would pass in about twenty minutes or so.

“By the way, I must n’t forget to send a servant to wait on the roadside;” and he rang the bell and said, “Let Darby go up to the road and take Major Stapylton’s luggage when he arrives.”

“Is that the Major Stapylton is going to be broke for the doings at Manchester, sir?” asked Kinshela.

“He is the same Major Stapylton that a rascally press is now libelling and calumniating,” said Barrington, hotly. “As to being broke, I don’t believe that we have come yet to that pass in England that the discipline of our army is administered by every scribbler in a newspaper.”

“I humbly crave your pardon, sir, if I have said the slightest thing to offend; but I only meant to ask, was he the officer they were making such a fuss about?” “He is an officer of the highest distinction, and a wellborn gentleman to boot, – two admirable reasons for the assaults of a contemptible party. Look you, Kinshela; you and I are neither of us very young or inexperienced men, but I would ask you, have we learned any wiser lesson from our intercourse with life than to withhold our judgment on the case of one who rejects the sentence of a mob, and appeals to the verdict of his equals?”

“But if he cut the people down in cold blood, – if it be true that he laid open that poor black fellow’s cheek from the temple to the chin – ”

“If he did no such thing,” broke in Barrington; “that is to say, if there is no evidence whatever that he did so, what will your legal mind say then, Joe Kinshela?”

“Just this, sir. I’d say – what all the newspapers are saying – that he got the man out of the way, – bribed and sent him off.”

“Why not hint that he murdered him, and buried him within the precincts of the jail? I declare I wonder at your moderation.”

“I am sure, sir, that if I suspected he was an old friend of yours – ”

“Nothing of the kind, – a friend of very short standing; but what has that to say to it? Is he less entitled to fair play whether he knew me or not?”

“All I know of the case is from the newspapers; and as I scarcely see one word in his favor, I take it there is not much to be said in his defence.”

“Well, if my ears don’t deceive me, that was the guard’s horn I heard then. The man himself will be here in five minutes or so. You shall conduct the prosecution, Kinshela, and I ‘ll be judge between you.”

“Heaven forbid, sir; on no account whatever!” said Kinshela, trembling all over. “I’m sure, Mr. Barrington, you couldn’t think of repeating what I said to you in confidence – ”

“No, no, Kinshela. You shall do it yourself; and it’s only fair to tell you that he is a right clever fellow, and fully equal to the task of defending himself.” Peter arose as he spoke, and walked out upon the lawn, affectedly to meet his coming guest, but in reality to cover a laugh that was half smothering him, so comical was the misery expressed in the attorney’s face, and so ludicrous was his look of terror.

Of course I need not say that it never occurred to Barrington to realize his threat, which he merely uttered in the spirit of that quizzing habit that was familiar to him. “Yes, Kinshela,” cried he, “here he comes. I recognize his voice already;” and Barrington now walked forward to welcome his friend.

It was not till after some minutes of conversation, and when the light fell strongly on Stapylton’s features, that Barrington saw how changed a few weeks of care had made him. He looked at the least ten years older than before. His eyes had lost their bold and daring expression, too, and were deep sunk, and almost furtive in their glance.

“You are tired, I fear,” said Barrington, as the other moved his hand across his forehead, and, with a slight sigh, sank down upon a sofa.

“Less tired than worried, – harassed,” said he, faintly. “Just as at a gaming-table a man may lose more in half an hour’s high play than years of hard labor could acquire, there are times of life when we dissipate more strength and vigor than we ever regain. I have had rough usage since I saw you last,” said he, with a very sickly smile. “How are the ladies, – well, I hope?”

“Perfectly well. They have gone to pass the day with a neighbor, and will be home presently. By the way, I left a friend here a few moments ago. What can have become of him?” and he rang the bell hastily. “Where’s Mr. Kinshela, Darby?”

“Gone to bed, sir. He said he ‘d a murthering headache, and hoped your honor would excuse him.”

Though Barrington laughed heartily at this message, Stapylton never asked the reason, but sat immersed in thought and unmindful of all around him.

“I half suspect you ought to follow his good example, Major,” said Peter. “A mug of mulled claret for a nightcap, and a good sleep, will set you all right.”

“It will take more than that to do it,” said the Major, sadly. Then suddenly rising, and pacing the room with quick, impatient steps, he said, “What could have induced you to let them bring your claim before the House? They are going to do so, ain’t they?”

“Yes. Tom Withering says that nothing will be so effectual, and I thought you agreed with him.”

“Never. Nothing of the kind. I said, threaten it; insist that if they continue the opposition, that you will, – that you must do so; but I never was the fool to imagine that it could really be a wise step. What ‘s the fate of all such motions? I ask you. There’s a speech – sometimes an able one – setting forth a long catalogue of unmerited injuries and long suffering. There’s a claim made out that none can find a flaw in, and a story that, if Parliament was given to softness, might move men almost to tears, and at the end of it up rises a Minister to say how deeply he sympathizes with the calamity of the case, but that this house is, after all, not the fitting locality for a discussion which is essentially a question of law, and that, even if it were, and if all the allegations were established, – a point to which he by no means gave adhesion, – there was really no available fund at the disposal of the Crown to make reparation for such losses. Have you not seen this, or something like this, scores of times? Can you tell me of one that succeeded?”

“A case of such wrong as this cannot go without reparation,” said Peter, with emotion. “The whole country will demand it.”

“The country will do no such thing. If it were a question of penalty or punishment, – yes! the country would demand it. Fine, imprison, transport, hang him! are easy words to utter, and cheap ones; but pay him, reinstate him, reward him! have a very different sound and significance. They figure in the budget, and are formidable on the hustings. Depend on it, Mr. Barrington, the step will be a false one.”

“It has been my fate never to have got the same advice for two weeks together since the day I entered on this weary suit,” said Barrington, with a peevishness not natural to him.

“I may as well tell you the whole truth at once,” said Stapylton. “The Board have gone back of all their good intentions towards us; some recent arrivals from India, it is said, have kindled again the old fire of opposition, and we are to be met by a resistance bold and uncompromising. They are prepared to deny everything we assert; in fact, they have resolved to sweep all the pieces off the board and begin the whole game again, and all because you have taken this unfortunate course of appeal to Parliament.”

“Have you told Withering this?”

“Yes; I have talked the matter over for nearly four hours with him. Like a lawyer, he was most eager to know from what source came the new evidence so damaging to us. I could only guess at this.”

“And your guess was – ”

“I scarcely like to own to you that I take a less favorable view of mankind than you do, who know it better; but in this case my suspicion attaches to a man who was once your son’s dearest friend, but grew to be afterwards his deadliest enemy.”

“I will not have this said, Major Stapylton. I know whom you mean, and I don’t believe a word of it.”

Stapylton simply shrugged his shoulders, and continued to pace the room without speaking, while Barrington went on muttering, half aloud: “No, no, impossible; quite impossible. These things are not in nature. I don’t credit them.”

“You like to think very well of the world, sir!” said the Major, with a faint scorn, so faint as scarcely to color his words.

“Think very badly of it, and you ‘ll soon come down to the level you assign it,” said Peter, boldly.

“I ‘m afraid I ‘m not in the humor just now to give it my best suffrages. You ‘ve seen, I doubt not, something of the treatment I have met with from the Press for the last few weeks; not very generous usage, – not very just. Well! what will you say when I tell you that I have been refused an inquiry into my conduct at Manchester; that the Government is of opinion that such an investigation might at the moment be prejudicial to the public peace, without any counterbalancing advantage on the score of a personal vindication; that they do not deem the time favorable for the calm and unbiassed judgment of the country; in one short word, sir, they ‘d rather ruin a Major of Hussars than risk a Cabinet. I am to exchange into any corps or any service I can; and they are to tide over these troubles on the assumption of having degraded me.”

“I hope you wrong them, – I do hope you wrong them!” cried Barrington, passionately.

“You shall see if I do,” said he, taking several letters from his pocket, and searching for one in particular. “Yes, here it is. This is from Aldridge, the private secretary of the Commander-in-chief. It is very brief, and strictly secret: —

“‘Dear S., – The “Chief” does not like your scrape at all. You did rather too much, or too little, – a fatal mistake dealing with a mob. You must consent – there’s no help for it – to be badly used, and an injured man. If you don’t like the half-pay list, – which would, in my mind, be the best step, – there ‘s the Seventeenth ordered to Baroda, and Maidstone refuses to go. This, or the Second West India, are the only things open. Above all, don’t show fight; don’t rally a party round you, for there is not a man in England whose influence is sufficiently great to stand between you and the public. A conple of years’ patience and a hot climate will set all right, and reinstate you everywhere. Come over here at once and I ‘ll do my best for you.

“‘Yours ever,

“‘St. George Aldridge.’

“This is a friend’s letter,” said Stapylton, with a sneer; “and he has no better counsel to give me than to plead guilty, and ask for a mitigated punishment.”

Harrington was silenced; he would not by any expression of indignation add to the great anger of the other, and he said nothing. At last he said, “I wish from my heart – I wish I could be of any service to you.”

“You are the only man living who can,” was the prompt answer.

“How so – in what way? Let me hear.”

“When I addressed a certain letter to you some time back, I was in a position both of fortune and prospect to take at least something from the presumption of my offer. Now, though my fortune remains, my future is more than clouded, and if I ask you to look favorably on my cause now, it is to your generosity I must appeal; I am, in fact, asking you to stand by a fallen man.”