While Conyers was yet in bed the following morning, a messenger arrived at the house with a note for him, and waited for the answer. It was from Stapylton, and ran thus:—

“Cobham Hall, Tuesday morning.

“Dear Con.,—The world here—and part of it is a very pretty world, with silky tresses and trim ankles—has declared that you have had some sort of slight accident, and are laid up at a miserable wayside inn, to be blue-devilled and doctored À discrÉtion. I strained my shoulder yesterday hunting,—my horse swerved against a tree,—or I should ascertain all the particulars of your disaster in person; so there is nothing left for it but a note.

“I am here domesticated at a charming country-house, the host an old Admiral, the hostess a ci-devant belle of London,—in times not very recent,—and more lately what is called in newspapers 'one of the ornaments of the Irish Court.' We have abundance of guests,—county dons and native celebrities, clerical, lyrical, and quizzical, several pretty women, a first-rate cellar, and a very tolerable cook. I give you the catalogue of our attractions, for I am commissioned by Sir Charles and my Lady to ask you to partake of them. The invitation is given in all cordiality, and I hope you will not decline it, for it is, amongst other matters, a good opportunity of seeing an Irish 'interior,' a thing of which I have always had my doubts and misgivings, some of which are now solved; others I should like to investigate with your assistance. In a word, the whole is worth seeing, and it is, besides, one of those experiences which can be had on very pleasant terms. There is perfect liberty; always something going on, and always a way to be out of it if you like. The people are, perhaps, not more friendly than in England, but they are far more familiar; and if not more disposed to be pleased, they tell you they are, which amounts to the same. There is a good deal of splendor, a wide hospitality, and, I need scarcely add, a considerable share of bad taste. There is, too, a costly attention to the wishes of a guest, which will remind you of India, though I must own the Irish Brahmin has not the grand, high-bred air of the Bengalee. But again I say, come and see.

“I have been told to explain to you why they don't send their boat. There is something about draught of water, and something about a 'gash,' whatever that is: I opine it to be a rapid. And then I am directed to say, that if you will have yourself paddled up to Brown's Barn, the Cobham barge will be there to meet you.

“I write this with some difficulty, lying on my back on a sofa, while a very pretty girl is impatiently waiting to continue her reading to me of a new novel called 'The Antiquary.' a capital story, but strangely disfigured by whole scenes in a Scottish dialect. You must read it when you come over.

“You have heard of Hunter, of course. I am sure you will be sorry at his leaving us. For myself, I knew him very slightly, and shall not have to regret him like older friends; not to say that I have been so long in the service that I never believe in a Colonel. Would you go with him if he gave you the offer? There is such a row and uproar all around me, that I must leave off. Have I forgotten to say that if you stand upon the 'dignities,' the Admiral will go in person to invite you, though he has a foot in the gout. I conclude you will not exact this, and I know they will take your acceptance of this mode of invitation as a great favor. Say the hour and the day, and believe me yours always,

“Horace Stapylton.

“Sir Charles is come to say that if your accident does not interfere with riding, he hopes you will send for your horses. He has ample stabling, and is vainglorious about his beans. That short-legged chestnut you brought from Norris would cut a good figure here, as the fences lie very close, and you must be always 'in hand.' If you saw how the women ride! There is one here now—a 'half-bred 'un'—that pounded us all—a whole field of us—last Saturday. You shall see her. I won't promise you 'll follow her across her country.”

The first impression made on the mind of Conyers by this letter was surprise that Stapylton, with whom he had so little acquaintance, should write to him in this tone of intimacy; Stapylton, whose cold, almost stern manner seemed to repel any approach, and now he assumed all the free-and-easy air of a comrade of his own years and standing. Had he mistaken the man, or had he been misled by inferring from his bearing in the regiment what he must be at heart?

This, however, was but a passing thought; the passage which interested him most of all was about Hunter. Where and for what could he have left, then? It was a regiment he had served in since he entered the army. What could have led him to exchange? and why, when he did so, had he not written him one line—even one—to say as much? It was to serve under Hunter, his father's old aide-de-camp in times back, that he had entered that regiment; to be with him, to have his friendship, his counsels, his guidance. Colonel Hunter had treated him like a son in every respect, and Conyers felt in his heart that this same affection and interest it was which formed his strongest tie to the service. The question, “Would you go with him if he gave you the offer?” was like a reflection on him, while no such option had been extended to him. What more natural, after all, than such an offer? so Stapylton thought,—so all the world would think. How he thought over the constantly recurring questions of his brother-officers: “Why didn't you go with Hunter?” “How came it that Hunter did not name you on his staff?” “Was it fair—was it generous in one who owed all his advancement to his father—to treat him in this fashion?” “Were the ties of old friendship so lax as all this?” “Was distance such an enemy to every obligation of affection?” “Would his father believe that such a slight had been passed upon him undeservedly? Would not the ready inference be, 'Hunter knew you to be incapable,—unequal to the duties he required. Hunter must have his reasons for passing you over'?” and such like. These reflections, very bitter in their way, were broken in upon by a request from Miss Barrington for his company at breakfast. Strange enough, he had half forgotten that there was such a person in the world, or that he had spent the preceding evening very pleasantly in her society.

“I hope you have had a pleasant letter,” said she, as he entered, with Stapylton's note still in his hand.

“I can scarcely call it so, for it brings me news that our Colonel—a very dear and kind friend to me—is about to leave us.”

“Are these not the usual chances of a soldier's life? I used to be very familiar once on a time with such topics.”

“I have learned the tidings so vaguely, too, that I can make nothing of them. My correspondent is a mere acquaintance,—a brother officer, who has lately joined us, and cannot feel how deeply his news has affected me; in fact, the chief burden of his letter is to convey an invitation to me, and he is full of country-house people and pleasures. He writes from a place called Cobham.”

“Sir Charles Cobham's. One of the best houses in the county.”

“Do you know them?” asked Conyers, who did not, till the words were out, remember how awkward they might prove.

She flushed slightly for a moment, but, speedily recovering herself, said: “Yes, we knew them once. They had just come to the country, and purchased that estate, when our misfortunes overtook us. They showed us much attention, and such kindness as strangers could show, and they evinced a disposition to continue it; but, of course, our relative positions made intercourse impossible. I am afraid,” said she, hastily, “I am talking in riddles all this time. I ought to have told you that my brother once owned a good estate here. We Barringtons thought a deal of ourselves in those days.” She tried to say these words with a playful levity, but her voice shook, and her lip trembled in spite of her.

Conyers muttered something unintelligible about “his having heard before,” and his sorrow to have awakened a painful theme; but she stopped him hastily, saying, “These are all such old stories now, one should be able to talk them over unconcernedly; indeed, it is easier to do so than to avoid the subject altogether, for there is no such egotist as your reduced gentleman.” She made a pretext of giving him his tea, and helping him to something, to cover the awkward pause that followed, and then asked if he intended to accept the invitation to Cobham.

“Not if you will allow me to remain here. The doctor says three days more will see me able to go back to my quarters.”

“I hope you will stay for a week, at least, for I scarcely expect my brother before Saturday. Meanwhile, if you have any fancy to visit Cobham, and make your acquaintance with the family there, remember you have all the privileges of an inn here, to come and go, and stay at your pleasure.”

“I do not want to leave this. I wish I was never to leave it,” muttered he below his breath.

“Perhaps I guess what it is that attaches you to this place,” said she, gently. “Shall I say it? There is something quiet, something domestic here, that recalls 'Home.'”

“But I never knew a home,” said Conyers, falteringly. “My mother died when I was a mere infant, and I knew none of that watchful love that first gives the sense of home. You may be right, however, in supposing that I cling to this spot as what should seem to me like a home, for I own to you I feel very happy here.”

“Stay then, and be happy,” said she, holding out her hand, which he clasped warmly, and then pressed to his lips.

“Tell your friend to come over and dine with you any day that he can tear himself from gay company and a great house, and I will do my best to entertain him suitably.”

“No. I don't care to do that; he is a mere acquaintance; there is no friendship between us, and, as he is several years older than me, and far wiser, and more man of the world, I am more chilled than cheered by his company. But you shall read his letter, and I 'm certain you 'll make a better guess at his nature than if I were to give you my own version of him at any length.” So saying, he handed Stapyl-ton's note across the table; and Miss Dinah, having deliberately put on her spectacles, began to read it.

“It's a fine manly hand,—very bold and very legible, and says something for the writer's frankness. Eh? 'a miserable wayside inn!' This is less than just to the poor 'Fisherman's Home.' Positively, you must make him come to dinner, if it be only for the sake of our character. This man is not amiable, sir,” said she, as she read on, “though I could swear he is pleasant company, and sometimes witty. But there is little of genial in his pleasantry, and less of good nature in his wit.”

“Go on,” cried Conyers; “I 'm quite with you.”

“Is he a person of family?” asked she, as she read on some few lines further.

“We know nothing about him; he joined us from a native corps, in India; but he has a good name and, apparently, ample means. His appearance and manner are equal to any station.”

“For all that, I don't like him, nor do I desire that you should like him. There is no wiser caution than that of the Psalmist against 'sitting in the seat of the scornful.' This man is a scoffer.”

“And yet it is not his usual tone. He is cold, retiring, almost shy. This letter is not a bit like anything I ever saw in his character.”

“Another reason to distrust him. Set my mind at ease by saying 'No' to his invitation, and let me try if I cannot recompense you by homeliness in lieu of splendor. The young lady,” added she, as she folded the letter, “whose horsemanship is commemorated at the expense of her breeding, must be our doctor's daughter. She is a very pretty girl, and rides admirably. Her good looks and her courage might have saved her the sarcasm. I have my doubts if the man that uttered it be thorough-bred.”

“Well, I 'll go and write my answer,” said Conyers, rising. “I have been keeping his messenger waiting all this time. I will show it to you before I send it off.”