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“There is nothing of disfavor in the matter. I think you charming. You are a hero, – very clever, very fascinating, very accomplished; but I believe it would be a great mistake for Fifine to marry you. Your tempers have that sort of resemblance that leave no reliefs in their mutual play. You are each of you hot and hasty, and a little imperious; and if she were not very much in love, and consequently disposed to think a great deal of you and very little of herself, these traits that I speak of would work ill. But if every one of them were otherwise, there would still be one obstacle worse than all!”

“And that is – ”

“Can you not guess what I mean, Major Stapylton? You do not, surely, want confidences from me that are more than candor!”

“Do I understand you aright?” said he, growing red and pale by turns, as passion worked within him; “do I apprehend you correctly? These people here are credulous enough to be influenced by the shadowy slanders of the newspapers, and they listen to the half-muttered accusations of a hireling press?”

“They do say very awkward things in the daily press, certainly,” said she, dryly; “and your friends marvel at the silence with which you treat them.”

“Then I have divined your meaning,” said he. “It is by these cowardly assailants I am supposed to be vanquished. I suspect, however, that Colonel Barrington himself was, once on a time, indulged with the same sort of flattery. They said that he had usurped a sovereignty, falsified documents, purloined jewels of immense value. I don’t know what they did not charge him with. And what do they say of me? That I exhibited great severity – cruelty, if you will – towards a mob in a state of rebellion; that I reprimanded a very silly subaltern for a misplaced act of humanity. That I have been cashiered, too, they assert, in face of the ‘Gazette,’ which announces my appointment to an unattached majority. In a word, the enormity of the falsehood has never stayed their hand, and they write of me whatever their unthinking malevolence can suggest to them. You have, perhaps, seen some of these paragraphs?”

“Like every one else, I have read them occasionally; not very attentively, indeed. But, in truth, I’m not a reader of newspapers. Here, for instance, is this morning’s as it came from Dublin, still unopened;” and she handed it as she spoke.

“Let us see if I be still honored with their notice,” said he, unfolding the paper, and running his eyes hastily over it. “Debate on the Sugar Bill – Prison Reforms – China – Reinforcements for Canada – Mail Service to the Colonies – Bankruptcy Court. Oh, here we have it – here it is!” and he crushed the paper while he folded down one part of it. “Shall I read it for you? The heading is very tempting: ‘Late Military Scandal. – A very curious report is now going through our West-end Clubs, and especially such as are the resort of military officers. It is to the purport that a certain Field-officer of Cavalry – whose conduct has been the subject of severe strictures from the Press – will speedily be called to answer for a much graver offence than the transgression of regimental discipline. The story which has reached us is a very strange one, and we should call it incredible, if we were not informed, on author-ity, that one of our most distinguished Indian generals has declared himself fully satisfied of its truth in every particular.’ Can you fancy anything worse than that, Miss Dill? An unknown somebody is alleged to be convinced of an unknown something that attaches to me; for, of course, I am designated as the ‘Field-officer of Cavalry,’ and the public is graciously pleased to hold me in abhorrence till I have found out my calumniator and refuted him!”

“It seems very hard. Who do you suspect is the Indian General alluded to?”

“Tell me, first of all, – does he exist?” “And this, too, you will not reply to, nor notice?” “Not, certainly, through such a channel as it reaches me. If the slanderer will stand forth and avow himself, I may know how to deal with him. But what has led us into this digression? I am sure it is as little to your taste as to mine. I have failed in my mission, and if I were able to justify every act of my life, what would it avail me? You have pronounced against me; at least, you will not take my brief.”

“What if I were retained by the other side?” said she, smiling.

“I never suspected that there was another side,” said he, with an air of extreme indifference. “Who is my formidable rival?”

“I might have told you if I saw you were really anxious on the subject.”

“It would be but hypocrisy in me to pretend it. If, for example, Major McCormick – ”

“Oh, that is too bad!” cried Polly, interrupting. “This would mean an impertinence to Miss Barrington.”

“How pleasant we must have been! Almost five o’clock, and I scarcely thought it could be three!” said he, with an affected languor.

“‘Time’s foot is not heard when he treads upon flowers,’” said she, smiling.

“Where shall I find your father, Miss Dill? I want to tell him what a charming creature his daughter is, and how wretched I feel at not being able to win her favor.”

“Pray don’t; or he might fall into my own mistake, and imagine that you wanted a lease of it for life.”

“Still cruel, still inexorable!” said he, with a mockery of affliction in his tone. “Will you say all the proper things – the regrets, and such like – I feel at not meeting him again; and if he has asked me to dinner – which I really forget – will you make the fitting apology?”

“And what is it, in the present case?”

“I ‘m not exactly sure whether I am engaged to dine elsewhere, or too ill to dine at all.”

“Why not say it is the despair at being rejected renders you unequal to the effort? I mean, of course, by myself, Major Stapylton.”

“I have no objection; say so, if you like,” said he, with an insulting indifference. “Good-day, Miss Dill. This is the way to the road, I believe;” and, with a low bow, very deferential but very distant, he turned away to leave the garden. He had not, however, gone many paces, when he stopped and seemed to ponder. He looked up at the sky, singularly clear and cloudless as it was, without a breath of wind in the air; he gazed around him on every side, as if in search of an object he wanted; and then, taking out his purse, he drew forth a shilling and examined it. “Yes,” muttered he, “Chance has been my only counsellor for many a year, and the only one that never takes a bribe! And yet, is it not taking to the raft before the ship has foundered? True; but shall I be sure of the raft if I wait for the shipwreck? She is intensely crafty. She has that sort of head that loves a hard knot to unravel! Here goes! Let Destiny take all the consequences!” and as he flung up the piece of money in the air, he cried, “Head!” It was some minutes ere he could discover where it had fallen, amongst the close leaves of a border of strawberries. He bent down to look, and exclaimed, “Head! she has won!” Just as he arose from his stooping attitude he perceived that Polly was engaged in the adjoining walk, making a bouquet of roses. He sprang across the space, and stood beside her.

“I thought you had been a mile off by this time, at least,” said she, calmly.

“So I meant, and so I intended; but just as I parted from you, a thought struck me – one of those thoughts which come from no process of reasoning or reflection, but seem impelled by a force out of our own natures – that I would come back and tell you something that was passing in my mind. Can you guess it?”

“No; except it be that you are sorry for having trifled so unfeelingly with my hopes, and have come back to make the best reparation in your power, asking me to forgive and accept you.”

“You have guessed aright; it was for that I returned.”

“What a clever guess I made! Confess I am very ready-witted!”

“You are; and it is to engage those ready wits in my behalf that I am now before you.”

“‘At my feet,’ sir, is the appropriate expression. I wonder how a gentleman so suited to be the hero of a story could forget the language of the novel.”

“I want you to be serious,” said he, almost sternly.

“And why should that provoke seriousness from me which only costs you levity?”

“Levity! – where is the levity?”

“Is it not this instant that you flung a shilling in the air, and cried out, as you looked on it, ‘She has won’? Is it not that you asked Chance to decide for you what most men are led to by their affections, or at least their interests; and if so, is levity not the name for this?”

“True in part, but not in whole; for I felt it was I who had won when ‘head’ came uppermost.”

“And yet you have lost.”

“How so! You refuse me?”

“I forgive your astonishment. It is really strange, but I do refuse you.”

“But why? Are you piqued with me for anything that occurred this morning? Have I offended you by anything that dropped from me in that conversation? Tell me frankly, that I may, if in my power, rectify it.”

“No; I rather felt flattered at the notion of being consulted. I thought it a great tribute to my clear-headedness and my tact.”

“Then tell me what it was.”

“You really wish it?”

“I do.”

“Insist upon it?”

“I insist upon it.”

“Well, it was this. Seeing that you were intrusting your future fortune to chance, I thought that I would do the same, and so I tossed up whether, opportunity serving, I should accept you or a certain other, and the other won!”

“May I ask for the name of my fortunate rival?”

“I don’t think it is very fair, perhaps not altogether delicate of you; and the more since he has not proposed, nor possibly ever may. But no matter, you shall hear his name. It was Major McCormick.”

“McCormick! You mean this for an insult to me, Miss Dill?”

“Well, it certainly is open to that objection,” said she, with a very slight closure of her eyes, and a look of steady, resolute defiance.

“And in this way,” continued he, “to throw ridicule over the offer I have made you?”

“Scarcely that; the proposition was in itself too ridiculous to require any such aid from me.”

For a moment Stapylton lost his self-possession, and he turned on her with a look of savage malignity.

“An insult, and an intentional insult!” said he; “a bold thing to avow.”

“I don’t think so, Major Stapylton. We have been playing a very rough game with each other, and it is not very wonderful if each of us should have to complain of hard treatment.”

“Could not so very clever a person as Miss Dill perceive that I was only jesting?” said he, with a cutting insolence in his tone.

“I assure you that I did not,” said she, calmly; “had I known or even suspected it was a jest, I never should have been angry. That the distinguished Major Stapylton should mock and quiz – or whatever be the name for it – the doctor’s daughter, however questionable the good taste, was, after all, only a passing slight. The thought of asking her to marry him was different, – that was an outrage!”

“You shall pay for this one day, perhaps,” said he, biting his lip.

“No, Major Stapylton,” said she, laughing; “this is not a debt of honor; you can afford to ignore it.”

“I tell you again, you shall pay for it.”

“Till then, sir!” said she, with a courtesy; and without giving him time for another word, she turned and re-entered the house.

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 passed 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 noble 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 assuming 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 japonica. 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 passed 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 noblest 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, passionately, “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 assuring your own future, you rescue mine.”

Very differently from his former speech did the present affect her; and her cheeks glowed and her eyes flashed as she said, “I have never intrusted my fate to your keeping, sir; and you may spare yourself all anxiety about it.”

“You mistake me. You wrong me, Josephine – ”

“You wrong yourself when you call me by my Christian name; and you arm me with distrust of one who would presume upon an interest he has not created.”

“You refuse me, then?” said he, slowly and calmly.

“Once, and forever!”

“It may be that you are mistaken, Miss Barrington. It may be that this other affection, which you prefer to mine, is but the sickly sentiment of a foolish boy, whose life up to this has not given one single guarantee, nor shown one single trait of those which make ‘true and gallant gentlemen.’ But you have made your choice.”

“I have,” said she, with a low but firm voice.

“You acknowledge, then, that I was right,” cried he, suddenly; “there is a prior attachment? Your heart is not your own to give?”

“And by what right do you presume to question me? Who are you, that dares to do this?”

“Who am I?” cried he, and for once his voice rose to the discordant ring of passion.

“Yes, that was my question,” repeated she, firmly.

“So, then, you have had your lesson, young lady,” said he; and the words came from him with a hissing sound, that indicated intense anger. “Who am I? You want my birth, my parentage, my bringing up! Had you no friend who could have asked this in your stead? Or were all those around you so bereft of courage that they deputed to a young girl what should have been the office of a man?”

Though the savage earnestness of his manner startled, it did not affright her; and it was with a cold quietness she said, “If you had known my father, Major Stapylton, I suspect you would not have accused his daughter of cowardice!”

“Was he so very terrible?” said he, with a smile that was half a sneer.

“He would have been, to a man like you.”

“To a man like me, – a man like me! Do you know, young lady, that either your words are very idle words or very offensive ones?”

“And yet I have no wish to recall them, sir.”

“It would be better you could find some one to sustain them. Unfortunately, however, you cannot ask that gallant gentleman we were just talking of; for it is only the other day, and after passing over to Calais to meet me, his friends pretend that there is some obstacle to our meeting. I owe my tailor or my bootmaker something; or I have not paid my subscription to a club; or I have left an unsettled bill ar Baden. I really forget the precise pretext; but it was one which to them seemed quite sufficient to balk me of a redress, and at the same time to shelter their friend.”

“I will not believe one word of it, sir!”

“Well, we have at least arrived at a perfect frankness in our intercourse. May I ask you, young lady, which of your relatives has suggested your present course! Is it to your aunt or to your grandfather I must go for an explanation?”

“I suspect it is to me, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, as he came from behind Josephine. “It is to me you must address yourself. Fifine, my dear, your aunt is looking for you; go and tell her, too, that I am quite ready for tea, and you will find me here when it is ready. Major Stapylton and I will take a stroll along the river-side.” Now this last was less an invitation than a sort of significant hint to Stapylton that his host had no intention to ask him to cross his threshold, at least for the present; and, indeed, as Barrington passed out and closed the wicket after him, he seemed as though closing the entrance forever.

With a manner far more assured thau his wont, Barrington said: “I have been in pursuit of you, Major Stapylton, since four o’clock. I missed you by having taken the road instead of the river; and am much grieved that the communication I have to make you should not take place anywhere rather than near my roof or within my own gates.”

“I am to suppose from your words, sir, that what you are about to say can scarcely be said to a friend; and if so, cannot you hit upon a more convenient mode of making your communication?”

“I think not. I believe that I shall be dealing more fairly with you by saying what I have to say in person.”

“Go on,” said Stapylton, calmly, as the other paused.

“You are aware,” continued Barrington, “that the chief obstacle to a settlement of the claims I have long preferred against the India Company has been a certain document which they possess, declaring that a large portion of the territory held by the Rajah of Luckerabad was not amenable to the laws that regulate succession, being what is called ‘Lurkar-teea,’ – conquered country, – over which, under no circumstances, could the Rajah exercise prospective rights. To this deed, for their better protection, the Company obtained the signature and seal of the Rajah himself, by means which, of course, we could never discover; but they held it, and always declared that no portion of my son’s claim could extend to these lands. Now, as they denied that he could succeed to what are called the ‘Turban lands,’ meaning the right of sovereignty – being a British subject – on the one hand, and rejected his claim to these conquered countries on the other, – they excluded him altogether.”

“My dear sir,” said Stapylton, mildly, “I’m shocked to interrupt you, but I am forced to ask, what is the intimate bearing of all this upon me, or on your position towards me?”

“Have a little patience, sir, and suffer me to proceed. If it should turn out that this document – I mean that which bears the signature and seal of the Rajah – should be a forgery; if, I say, it could be shown that what the India Board have long relied on to sustain their case and corroborate their own view could be proved false, a great point would be gained towards the establishment of our claim.”

“Doubtless,” said Stapylton, with the half-peevish indifference of one listening against his will.

“Well, there is a good prospect of this,” said Barring-ton, boldly. “Nay, more, it is a certainty.”

“Mr. Barrington,” said Stapylton, drawing himself haughtily up, “a few hours ago this history would have had a very great interest for me. My hopes pointed to a very close relationship with your family; the last hour has sufficed to dispel those hopes. Your granddaughter has rejected me so decidedly that I cannot presume to suppose a change in her opinion possible. Let me not then, obtain any share in your confidence to which I have no right whatever.”

“What I am about to say will have more interest for you, sir,” continued Barrington. “I am about to mention a name that you will recognize, – the Moonshee, Ali Gohur.”

Stapylton started, and dropped the cigar he was smoking. To take out another and light it, however, sufficed to employ him, as he murmured between his teeth, “Go on.”

“This man says – ” continued Barrington.

“Said, perhaps, if you like,” broke in Stapylton, “for he died some months ago.”

“No; he is alive at this hour. He was on board the Indiaman that was run down by the transport. He was saved and carried on board the ‘Regulus’ by the intrepidity of young Dill. He is now recovering rapidly from the injuries he received, and at the date of the letter which I hold here, was able to be in daily communication with Colonel Hunter, who is the writer of this.”

“I wish the gallant Colonel honester company. Are you aware, Mr. Barrington, that you are speaking of one of the greatest rascals of a country not famed for its integrity?”

“He lays no claim to such for the past; but he would seem desirous to make some reparation for a long course of iniquity.”

“Charmed for his sake, and that of his well-wishers, if he have any. But, once again, sir, and at all the risk of appearing very impatient, what concern has all this for me?”

“A great deal, sir. The Moonshee declares that he has been for years back in close correspondence with a man we long since believed dead, and that this man was known to have communicated constantly with the law advisers of the India Board in a manner adverse to us, he being none other than the son of the notorious Sam Edwardes, whom he always addressed under cover to Captain Horace Stapylton, Prince’s Hussars.”

“This is – strange enough, when one thinks of the quarter it comes from – perfectly true. I came to know Edwardes when on my voyage home, invalided. He took immense trouble about me, nursed and tended me, and, in return, asked as a favor to have some letters he was expecting addressed to my care. I neither knew who he was, nor cared. He got his letters, and I suppose read them; but of their contents, I, it is needless to say, know nothing. I am speaking of a dozen years ago, or, at least, eight or ten, for since that time I have never heard of either Edwardes or his friend.”

“He tells a different story. He asserts that to his letters, forwarded to the same address up to the period of last March, he regularly received replies; but at last finding that the writer was disposed to get rid of him, he obtained means to circulate a report of his death, and sailed for Europe to prefer his claims, whatever they be, in person.”

“And if every word of this were true, Mr. Barrington, which I don’t suspect it is, how, in the name of common sense, does it concern me? I don’t suppose I ever took my own letters at a post-office twice in my life. My servant, who has lived with me fourteen years, may, for aught I know, have been bribed to abstract these letters on their arrival; they would be easily recognized by the very superscription. This is one way the thing might have been done. There may have been fifty more, for aught I know or care.”