My reader is already aware that I am telling of some forty years ago, and therefore I have no apologies to make for habits and ways which our more polished age has pronounced barbarous. Now, at Cobham, the men sat after dinner over their wine when the ladies had withdrawn, and, I grieve to say, fulfilled this usage with a zest and enjoyment that unequivocally declared it to be the best hour of the whole twenty-four.

Friends could now get together, conversation could range over personalities, egotisms have their day, and bygones be disinterred without need of an explanation. Few, indeed, who did not unbend at such a moment, and relax in that genial atmosphere begotten of closed curtains, and comfort, and good claret. I am not so certain that we are wise in our utter abandonment of what must have often conciliated a difference or reconciled a grudge. How many a lurking discontent, too subtle for intervention, must have been dissipated in the general burst of a common laugh, or the racy enjoyment of a good story! Decidedly the decanter has often played peacemaker, though popular prejudice inclines to give it a different mission.

On the occasion to which I would now invite my reader, the party were seated—by means of that genial discovery, a horseshoe-table—around the fire at Cobham. It was a true country-house society of neighbors who knew each other well, sprinkled with guests,—strangers to every one. There were all ages and all temperaments, from the hardy old squire, whose mellow cheer was known at the fox-cover, to the young heir fresh from Oxford and loud about Leicestershire; gentlemen-farmers and sportsmen, and parsons and soldiers, blended together with just enough disparity of pursuit to season talk and freshen experiences.

The conversation, which for a while was partly on sporting matters, varied with little episodes of personal achievement, and those little boastings which end in a bet, was suddenly interrupted by a hasty call for Dr. Dill, who was wanted at the “Fisherman's Home.”

“Can't you stay to finish this bottle, Dill?” said the Admiral, who had not heard for whom he had been sent.

“I fear not, sir. It is a long row down to the cottage.”

“So it 's poor Barrington again! I 'm sincerely sorry for it! And now I 'll not ask you to delay. By the way, take my boat. Elwes,” said he to the servant, “tell the men to get the boat ready at once for Dr. Dill, and come and say when it is so.”

The doctor's gratitude was profuse, though probably a dim vista of the “tip” that might be expected from him detracted from the fulness of the enjoyment.

“Find out if I could be of any use, Dill,” whispered the Admiral, as the doctor arose. “Your own tact will show if there be anything I could do. You understand me; I have the deepest regard for old Barrington, and his sister too.”

Dill promised to give his most delicate attention to the point, and departed.

While this little incident was occurring, Stapylton, who sat at an angle of the fireplace, was amusing two or three listeners by an account of his intended dinner at the “Home,” and the haughty refusal of Miss Barrington to receive him.

“You must tell Sir Charles the story!” cried out Mr. Bushe. “He'll soon recognize the old Major from your imitation of him.”

“Hang the old villain! he shot a dog-fox the other morning, and he knows well how scarce they are getting in the country,” said another.

“I 'll never forgive myself for letting him have a lease of that place,” said a third; “he's a disgrace to the neighborhood.”

“You're not talking of Barrington, surely,” called out Sir Charles.

“Of course not. I was speaking of M'Cormick. Harrington is another stamp of man, and here's his good health!”

“He'll need all your best wishes, Jack,” said the host, “for Dr. Dill has just been called away to see him.”

“To see old Peter! Why, I never knew him to have a day's illness!”

“He's dangerously ill now,” said the Admiral, gravely. “Dill tells me that he came home from the Assizes hale and hearty, in high spirits at some verdict in his favor, and brought back the Attorney-General to spend a day or two with him; but that, on arriving, he found a young fellow whose father or grandfather—for I have n't it correctly—had been concerned in some way against George Barrington, and that high words passed between old Peter and this youth, who was turned out on the spot, while poor Barrington, overcome by emotion, was struck down with a sort of paralysis. As I have said, I don't know the story accurately, for even Dill himself only picked it up from the servants at the cottage, neither Miss Barrington nor Withering having told him one word on the subject.”

“That is the very same story I heard at the village where we dined,” broke in Stapylton, “and M'Cormick added that he remembered the name. Conyers—the young man is called Conyers—did occur in a certain famous accusation against Colonel Barrington.”

“Well, but,” interposed Bushe, “isn't all that an old story now? Is n't the whole thing a matter of twenty years ago?”

“Not so much as that,” said Sir Charles. “I remember reading it all when I was in command of the 'Madagascar,'—I forget the exact year, but I was at Corfu.”

“At all events,” said Bushe, “it's long enough past to be forgotten or forgiven; and old Peter was the very last man I could ever have supposed likely to carry on an ancient grudge against any one.”

“Not where his son was concerned. Wherever George's name entered, forgiveness of the man that wronged him was impossible,” said another.

“You are scarcely just to my old friend,” interposed the Admiral. “First of all, we have not the facts before us. Many of us here have never seen, some have never heard of the great Barrington Inquiry, and of such as have, if their memories be not better than mine, they can't discuss the matter with much profit.”

“I followed the case when it occurred,” chimed in the former speaker, “but I own, with Sir Charles, that it has gone clean out of my head since that time.”

“You talk of injustice, Cobham, injustice to old Peter Barrington,” said an old man from the end of the table; “but I would ask, are we quite just to poor George? I knew him well. My son served in the same regiment with him before he went out to India, and no finer nor nobler-hearted fellow than George Barrington ever lived. Talk of him ruining his father by his extravagance! Why, he'd have cut off his right hand rather than caused him one pang, one moment of displeasure. Barrington ruined himself; that insane passion for law has cost him far more than half what he was worth in the world. Ask Withering; he 'll tell you something about it. Why, Withering's own fees in that case before 'the Lords' amount to upwards of two thousand guineas.”

“I won't dispute the question with you, Fowndes,” said the Admiral. “Scandal says you have a taste for a trial at bar yourself.”

The hit told, and called for a hearty laugh, in which Fowndes himself joined freely.

“I 'm a burned child, however, and keep away from the fire,” said he, good-humoredly; “but old Peter seems rather to like being singed. There he is again with his Privy Council case for next term, and with, I suppose, as much chance of success as I should have in a suit to recover a Greek estate of some of my Phoenician ancestors.”

It was not a company to sympathize deeply with such a litigious spirit. The hearty and vigorous tone of squiredom, young and old, could not understand it as a passion or a pursuit, and they mainly agreed that nothing but some strange perversion could have made the generous nature of old Barrington so fond of law. Gradually the younger members of the party slipped away to the drawing-room, till, in the changes that ensued, Stapylton found himself next to Mr. Fowndes.

“I'm glad to see, Captain,” said the old squire, “that modern fashion of deserting the claret-jug has not invaded your mess. I own I like a man who lingers over his wine.”

“We have no pretext for leaving it, remember that,” said Stapylton, smiling.

“Very true. The placeus uxor is sadly out of place in a soldier's life. Your married officer is but a sorry comrade; besides, how is a fellow to be a hero to the enemy who is daily bullied by his wife?”

“I think you said that you had served?” interposed Stapylton.

“No. My son was in the army; he is so still, but holds a Governorship in the West Indies. He it was who knew this Barrington we were speaking of.”

“Just so,” said Stapylton, drawing his chair closer, so as to converse more confidentially.

“You may imagine what very uneventful lives we country gentlemen live,” said the old squire, “when we can continue to talk over one memorable case for something like twenty years, just because one of the parties to it was our neighbor.”

“You appear to have taken a lively interest in it,” said Stapylton, who rightly conjectured it was a favorite theme with the old squire.

“Yes. Barrington and my son were friends; they came down to my house together to shoot; and with all his eccentricities—and they were many—I liked Mad George, as they called him.”

“He was a good fellow, then?”

“A thoroughly good fellow, but the shyest that ever lived; to all outward seeming rough and careless, but sensitive as a woman all the while. He would have walked up to a cannon's mouth with a calm step, but an affecting story would bring tears to his eyes; and then, to cover this weakness, which he was well ashamed of, he 'd rush into fifty follies and extravagances. As he said himself to me one day, alluding to some feat of rash absurdity, 'I have been taking another inch off the dog's tail,'—he referred to the story of Alcibiades, who docked his dog to take off public attention from his heavier transgressions.”

“There was no truth in these accusations against him?”

“Who knows? George was a passionate fellow, and he 'd have made short work of the man that angered him. I myself never so entirely acquitted him as many who loved him less. At all events, he was hardly treated; he was regularly hunted down. I imagine he must have made many enemies, for witnesses sprung up against him on all sides, and he was too proud a fellow to ask for one single testimony in his favor! If ever a man met death broken-hearted, he did!”

A pause of several minutes occurred, after which the old squire resumed,—

“My son told me that after Barrington's death there was a strong revulsion in his favor, and a great feeling that he had been hardly dealt by. Some of the Supreme Council, it is said, too, were disposed to behave generously towards his child, but old Peter, in an evil hour, would hear of nothing short of restitution of all the territory, and a regular rehabilitation of George's memory, besides; in fact, he made the most extravagant demands, and disgusted the two or three who were kindly and well disposed towards his cause. Had they, indeed,—as he said,—driven his son to desperation, he could scarcely ask them to declare it to the world; and yet nothing short of this would satisfy him! 'Come forth,' wrote he,—I read the letter myself,—'come forth and confess that your evidence was forged and your witnesses suborned; that you wanted to annex the territory, and the only road to your object was to impute treason to the most loyal heart that ever served the King!' Imagine what chance of favorable consideration remained to the man who penned such words as these.”

“And he prosecutes the case still?”

“Ay, and will do to the day of his death. Withering—who was an old schoolfellow of mine—has got me to try what I could do to persuade him to come to some terms; and, indeed, to do old Peter justice, it is not the money part of the matter he is so obstinate about; it is the question of what he calls George's fair fame and honor; and one cannot exactly say to him, 'Who on earth cares a brass button whether George Barrington was a rebel or a true man? Whether he deserved to die an independent Rajah of some place with a hard name, or the loyal subject of his Majesty George the Third?' I own I, one day, did go so close to the wind, on that subject, that the old man started up and said, 'I hope I misapprehend you, Harry Fowndes. I hope sincerely that I do so, for if not, I 'll have a shot at you, as sure as my name is Peter Barrington.' Of course I 'tried back' at once, and assured him it was a pure misconception of my meaning, and that until the East India folk fairly acknowledged that they had wronged his son, he could not, with honor, approach the question of a compromise in the money matter.”

“That day, it may be presumed, is very far off,” said Stapylton, half languidly.

“Well, Withering opines not. He says that they are weary of the whole case. They have had, perhaps, some misgivings as to the entire justice of what they did. Perhaps they have learned something during the course of the proceedings which may have influenced their judgment; and not impossible is it that they pity the old man fighting out his life; and perhaps, too, Barrington himself may have softened a little, since he has begun to feel that his granddaughter—for George left a child—had interests which his own indignation could not rightfully sacrifice; so that amongst all these perhapses, who knows but some happy issue may come at last?”

“That Barrington race is not a very pliant one,” said Stapylton, half dreamily; and then, in some haste, added, “at least, such is the character they give them here.”

“Some truth there may be in that. Men of a strong temperament and with a large share of self-dependence generally get credit from the world for obstinacy, just because the road they see out of difficulties is not the popular one. But even with all this, I 'd not call old Peter self-willed; at least, Withering tells me that from time to time, as he has conveyed to him the opinions and experiences of old Indian officers, some of whom had either met with or heard of George, he has listened with much and even respectful attention. And as all their counsels have gone against his own convictions, it is something to give them a patient hearing.”

“He has thus permitted strangers to come and speak with him on these topics?” asked Stapylton, eagerly.

“No, no,—not he. These men had called on Withering,—met him, perhaps, in society,—heard of his interest in George Barrington's case, and came good-naturedly to volunteer a word of counsel in favor of an old comrade. Nothing more natural, I think.”

“Nothing. I quite agree with you; so much so, indeed, that having served some years in India, and in close proximity, too, to one of the native courts, I was going to ask you to present me to your friend Mr. Withering, as one not altogether incapable of affording him some information.”

“With a heart and a half. I 'll do it.”

“I say, Harry,” cried out the host, “if you and Captain Stapylton will neither fill your glasses nor pass the wine, I think we had better join the ladies.”

And now there was a general move to the drawing-room, where several evening guests had already assembled, making a somewhat numerous company. Polly Dill was there, too,—not the wearied-looking, careworn figure we last saw her, when her talk was of “dead anatomies,” but the lively, sparkling, bright-eyed Polly, who sang the Melodies to the accompaniment of him who could make every note thrill with the sentiment his own genius had linked to it. I half wish I had not a story to tell,—that is, that I had not a certain road to take,—that I might wander at will through by-path and lane, and linger on the memories thus by a chance awakened! Ah, it was no small triumph to lift out of obscure companionship and vulgar associations the music of our land, and wed it to words immortal, to show us that the pebble at our feet was a gem to be worn on the neck of beauty, and to prove to us, besides, that our language could be as lyrical as Anacreon's own!

“I am enchanted with your singing,” whispered Stapylton, in Polly's ear; “but I 'd forego all the enjoyment not to see you so pleased with your companion. I begin to detest the little Poet.”

“I 'll tell him so,” said she, half gravely; “and he 'll know well that it is the coarse hate of the Saxon.”

“I'm no Saxon!” said he, flushing and darkening at the same time. And then, recovering his calm, he added, “There are no Saxons left amongst us, nor any Celts for us to honor with our contempt; but come away from the piano, and don't let him fancy he has bound you by a spell.”

“But he has,” said she, eagerly,—“he has, and I don't care to break it.”

But the little Poet, running his fingers lightly over the keys, warbled out, in a half-plaintive whisper,—

“An unpublished melody, I fancy,” said Stapylton, with a malicious twinkle of his eye.

“Not even corrected as yet,” said the Poet, with a glance at Polly.

What a triumph it was for a mere village beauty to be thus tilted for by such gallant knights; but Polly was practical as well as vain, and a certain unmistakable something in Lady Cobham's eye told her that two of the most valued guests of the house were not to be thus withdrawn from circulation; and with this wise impression on her mind, she slipped hastily away, on the pretext of something to say to her father. And although it was a mere pretence on her part, there was that in her look as they talked together that betokened their conversation to be serious.

“I tell you again,” said he, in a sharp but low whisper, “she will not suffer it. You used not to make mistakes of this kind formerly, and I cannot conceive why you should do so now.”

“But, dear papa,” said she, with a strange half-smile, “don't you remember your own story of the gentleman who got tipsy because he foresaw he would never be invited again?”

But the doctor was in no jesting mood, and would not accept of the illustration. He spoke now even more angrily than before.

“You have only to see how much they make of him to know well that he is out of our reach,” said he, bitterly.

“A long shot, Sir Lucius; there is such honor in a long shot,” said she, with infinite drollery; and then with a sudden gravity, added, “I have never forgotten the man you cured, just because your hand shook and you gave him a double dose of laudanum.”

This was too much for his patience, and he turned away in disgust at her frivolity. In doing so, however, he came in front of Lady Cobham, who had come up to request Miss Dill to play a certain Spanish dance for two young ladies of the company.

“Of course, your Ladyship,—too much honor for her,—she will be charmed; my little girl is overjoyed when she can contribute even thus humbly to the pleasure of your delightful house.”

Never did a misdemeanist take his “six weeks” with a more complete consciousness of penalty than did Polly sit down to that piano. She well understood it as a sentence, and, let me own, submitted well and gracefully to her fate. Nor was it, after all, such a slight trial, for the fandango was her own speciality; she had herself brought the dance and the music to Cobham. They who were about to dance it were her own pupils, and not very proficient ones, either. And with all this she did her part well and loyally. Never had she played with more spirit; never marked the time with a firmer precision; never threw more tenderness into the graceful parts, nor more of triumphant daring into the proud ones. Amid the shower of “Bravos!” that closed the performance,—for none thought of the dancers,—the little Poet drew nigh and whispered, “How naughty!”

“Why so?” asked she, innocently.

“What a blaze of light to throw over a sorry picture!” said he, dangling his eyeglass, and playing that part of middle-aged Cupid he was so fond of assuming.

“Do you know, sir,” said Lady Cobham, coming hastily towards him, “that I will not permit you to turn the heads of my young ladies? Dr. Dill is already so afraid of your fascinations that he has ordered his carriage,—is it not so?” she went on appealing to the doctor, with increased rapidity. “But you will certainly keep your promise to us. We shall expect you on Thursday at dinner.”

Overwhelmed with confusion, Dill answered—he knew not what—about pleasure, punctuality, and so forth; and then turned away to ring for that carriage he had not ordered before.

“And so you tell me Barrington is better?” said the Admiral, taking him by the arm and leading him away. “The danger is over, then?”

“I believe so; his mind is calm, and he is only suffering now from debility. What with the Assizes, and a week's dissipation at Kilkenny, and this shock,—for it was a shock,—the whole thing was far more of a mental than a bodily ailment.”

“You gave him my message? You said how anxious I felt to know if I could be of any use to him?”

“Yes; and he charged Mr. Withering to come and thank you, for he is passing by Cobham to-morrow on his way to Kilkenny.”

“Indeed! Georgiana, don't forget that. Withering will call here to-morrow; try and keep him to dine, at least, if we cannot secure him for longer. He's one of those fellows I am always delighted to meet Where are you going, Dill? Not taking your daughter away at this hour, are you?”

The doctor sighed, and muttered something about dissipations that were only too fascinating, too engrossing. He did not exactly like to say that his passports had been sent him, and the authorities duly instructed to give him “every aid and assistance possible.” For a moment, indeed, Polly looked as though she would make some explanation of the matter; but it was only for a moment, and the slight flush on her cheek gave way quickly, and she looked somewhat paler than her wont. Meanwhile, the little Poet had fetched her shawl, and led her away, humming, “Buona notte,—buona sera!” as he went, in that half-caressing, half-quizzing way he could assume so jauntily. Stapylton walked behind with the doctor, and whispered as he went, “If not inconvenient, might I ask the favor of a few minutes with you to-morrow?”

Dill assured him he was devotedly his servant; and having fixed the interview for two o'clock, away they drove. The night was calm and starlight, and they had long passed beyond the grounds of Cobham, and were full two miles on their road before a word was uttered by either.

“What was it her Ladyship said about Thursday next, at dinner?” asked the doctor, half pettishly.

“Nothing to me, papa.”

“If I remember, it was that we had accepted the invitation already, and begging me not to forget it.”

“Perhaps so,” said she, dryly.

“You are usually more mindful about these matters,” said he, tartly, “and not so likely to forget promised festivities.”

“They certainly were not promised to me,” said she, “nor, if they had been, should I accept of them.”

“What do you mean?” said he, angrily.

“Simply, papa, that it is a house I will not re-enter, that's all.”

“Why, your head is turned, your brains are destroyed by flattery, girl. You seem totally to forget that we go to these places merely by courtesy,—we are received only on sufferance; we are not their equals.”

“The more reason to treat us with deference, and not render our position more painful than it need be.”

“Folly and nonsense! Deference, indeed! How much deference is due from eight thousand a year to a dispensary doctor, or his daughter? I 'll have none of these absurd notions. If they made any mistake towards you, it was by over-attention,—too much notice.”

“That is very possible, papa; and it was not always very flattering for that reason.”

“Why, what is your head full of? Do you fancy you are one of Lord Carricklough's daughters, eh?”

“No, papa; for they are shockingly freckled, and very plain.”

“Do you know your real station?” cried he, more angrily, “and that if, by the courtesy of society, my position secures acceptance anywhere, it entails nothing—positively nothing—to those belonging to me?”

“Such being the case, is it not wise of us not to want anything,—not to look for it,—not to pine after it? You shall see, papa, whether I fret over my exclusion from Cobham.”

The doctor was not in a mood to approve of such philosophy, and he drove on, only showing—by an extra cut of his whip—the tone and temper that beset him.

“You are to have a visit from Captain Stapylton tomorrow, papa?” said she, in the manner of a half question.

“Who told you so?” said he, with a touch of eagerness in his voice; for suddenly it occurred to him if Polly knew of this appointment, she herself might be interested in its object.

“He asked me what was the most likely time to find you at home, and also if he might venture to hope he should be presented to mamma.”

That was, as the doctor thought, a very significant speech; it might mean a great deal,—a very great deal, indeed; and so he turned it over and over in his mind for some time before he spoke again. At last he said,—

“I haven't a notion what he's coming about, Polly,—have you?”

“No, sir; except, perhaps, it be to consult you. He told me he had sprained his arm, or his shoulder, the other day, when his horse swerved.”

“Oh no, it can't be that, Polly; it can't be that.”

“Why not the pleasure of a morning call, then? He is an idle man, and finds time heavy on his hands.”

A short “humph” showed that this explanation was not more successful than the former, and the doctor, rather irritated with this game of fence, for so he deemed it, said bluntly,—

“Has he been showing you any marked attentions of late? Have you noticed anything peculiar in his manner towards you?”

“Nothing whatever, sir,” said she, with a frank boldness. “He has chatted and flirted with me, just as every one else presumes he has a right to do with a girl in a station below their own; but he has never been more impertinent in this way than any other young man of fashion.”

“But there have been”—he was sorely puzzled for the word he wanted, and it was only as a resource, not out of choice, he said—“attentions?”

“Of course, papa, what many would call in the cognate phrase, marked attentions; but girls who go into the world as I do no more mistake what these mean than would you yourself, papa, if passingly asked what was good for a sore-throat fancy that the inquirer intended to fee you.”

“I see, Polly, I see,” muttered he, as the illustration came home to him. Still, after ruminating for some time, a change seemed to come over his thoughts, for he said,—

“But you might be wrong this time, Polly: it is by no means impossible that you might be wrong.”

“My dear papa,” said she, gravely, “when a man of his rank is disposed to think seriously of a girl in mine, he does not begin by flattery; he rather takes the line of correction and warning, telling her fifty little platitudes about trifles in manner, and so forth, by her docile acceptance of which he conceives a high notion of himself, and a half liking for her. But I have no need to go into these things; enough if I assure you Captain Stapylton's visit has no concern for me; he either comes out of pure idleness, or he wants to make use of you.”

The last words opened a new channel to Dill's thoughts, and he drove on in silent meditation over them.