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.”

This speech, uttered in a voice slightly shaken by agitation, went to Barrington's heart. There was not a sentiment in his nature so certain to respond to a call upon it as this one of sympathy with the beaten man; the weaker side was always certain of his adherence. With a nice tact Stapylton said no more, but, pushing open the window, walked out upon the smooth sward, on which a faint moonlight flickered. He had shot his bolt, and saw it as it quivered in his victim's flesh. Barrington was after him in an instant, and, drawing an arm within his he said in a low voice, “You may count upon me.”

Stapylton wrung his hand warmly, without speaking. After walking for a few moments, side by side, he said: “I must be frank with you, Mr. Barrington. I have little time and no taste for circumlocution; I cannot conceal from myself that I am no favorite with your sister. I was not as eager as I ought to have been to cultivate her good opinion; I was a little piqued at what I thought mere injustices on her part,—small ones, to be sure, but they wounded me, and with a temper that always revolted against a wrong, I resented them, and I fear me, in doing so, I jeopardized her esteem. If she is as generous as her brother, she will not remember these to me in my day of defeat. Women, however, have their own ideas of mercy, as they have of everything, and she may not choose to regard me as you have done.”

“I suspect you are wrong about this,” said Harrington, breaking in.

“Well, I wish I may be; at all events, I must put the feeling to the test at once, for I have formed my plan, and mean to begin it immediately.”

“And what is it?”

“Very few words will tell it. I intend to go on half-pay, or sell out if that be refused me; set out for India by the next mail, and, with what energy remains to me, vindicate your son's claim. I have qualifications that will make me better than a better man. I am well versed in Hindostanee, and a fair Persian scholar; I have a wide acquaintance with natives of every rank, and I know how and where to look for information. It is not my disposition to feel over-sanguine, but I would stake all I possess on my success, for I see exactly the flaws in the chain, and I know where to go to repair them. You have witnessed with what ardor I adopted the suit before; but you cannot estimate the zeal with which I throw myself into it now—now that, like George Barring-ton himself, I am a man wronged, outraged, and insulted.” For a few seconds be seemed overcome by passion and unable to continue; then he went on: “If your granddaughter will accept me, it is my intention to settle on her all I possess. Our marriage can be private, and she shall be free to accompany me or to remain here, as she likes.”

“But how can all this be done so hurriedly? You talk of starting at once.”

“I must, if I would save your son's cause. The India Board are sending out their emissaries to Calcutta, and I must anticipate them—if I cannot do more, by gaining them over to us on the voyage out. It is a case for energy and activity, and I want to employ both.”

“The time is very short for all this,” said Barrington, again.

“So it is, sir, and so are the few seconds which may rescue a man from drowning! It is in the crisis of my fate that I ask you to stand by me.”

“But have you any reason to believe that my granddaughter will hear you favorably? You are almost strangers to each other?”

“If she will not give me the legal right to make her my heir, I mean to usurp the privilege. I have already been with a lawyer for that purpose. My dear sir,” added he, passionately, “I want to break with the past forever! When the world sets up its howl against a man, the odds are too great! To stand and defy it he must succumb or retreat. Now, I mean to retire, but with the honors of war, mark you.”

“My sister will never consent to it,” muttered Barrington.

“Will you? Have I the assurance of your support?”

“I can scarcely venture to say 'yes,' and yet I can't bear to say 'no' to you!”

“This is less than I looked for from you,” said Stapylton, mournfully.

“I know Dinah so well. I know how hopeless it would be to ask her concurrence to this plan.”

“She may not take the generous view of it; but there is a worldly one worth considering,” said Stapylton, bitterly.

“Then, sir, if you count on that, I would not give a copper half-penny for your chance of success!” cried Barrington, passionately.

“You have quite misconceived me; you have wronged me altogether,” broke in Stapylton, in a tone of apology; for he saw the mistake he had made, and hastened to repair it. “My meaning was this—”

“So much the better. I'm glad I misunderstood you. But here come the ladies. Let us go and meet them.”

“One word,—only one word. Will you befriend me?”

“I will do all that I can,—that is, all that I ought,” said Barrington, as he led him away, and re-entered the cottage.

“I will not meet them to-night,” said Stapylton, hurriedly. “I am nervous and agitated. I will say good-night now.”

This was the second time within a few days that Stapylton had shown an unwillingness to confront Miss Barrington, and Peter thought over it long and anxiously. “What can he mean by it?” said he, to himself. “Why should he be so frank and outspoken with me, and so reserved with her? What can Dinah know of him? What can she suspect, that is not known to me? It is true they never did like each other,—never 'hit it off' together; but that is scarcely his fault. My excellent sister throws away little love on strangers, and opens every fresh acquaintance with a very fortifying prejudice against the newly presented. However it happens,” muttered he, with a sigh, “she is not often wrong, and I am very seldom right;” and, with this reflection, he turned once again to resume his walk in the garden.