Withering arrived at his own door just as Barrington drove up to it. “I knew my letter would bring you up to town, Barrington,” said he; “and I was so sure of it that I ordered a saddle of mutton for your dinner, and refused an invitation to the Chancellor's.”

“And quite right too. Iam far better company, Tom. Are we to be all alone?”

“All alone.”

“That was exactly what I wanted. Now, as I need a long evening with you, the sooner they serve the soup the better; and be sure you give your orders that nobody be admitted.”

If Mr. Withering's venerable butler, an official long versed in the mysteries of his office, were to have been questioned on the subject, it is not improbable he would have declared that he never assisted at a pleasanter tÊte-Â tÊte than that day's dinner. They enjoyed their good dinner and their good wine like men who bring to the enjoyment a ripe experience of such pleasures, and they talked with the rare zest of good talkers and old friends.

“We are in favor with Nicholas,” said Withering, as the butler withdrew, and left them alone, “or he would never have given us that bottle of port. Do you mark, Barrington, it's the green seal that John Bushe begged so hard for one night, and all unsuccessfully.”

“It is rare stuff!” said Barrington, looking at it between him and the light.

“And it was that story of yours of the Kerry election that won it. The old fellow had to rush out of the room to have his laugh out.”

“Do you know, Tom,” said Barrington, as he sipped his wine, “I believe, in another generation, nobody will laugh at all. Since you and I were boys, the world has taken a very serious turn. Not that it is much wiser, or better, or more moral, or more cultivated, but it is graver. The old jollity would be now set down simply for vulgarity, and with many people a joke is only short of an insult.”

“Shall I tell you why, Peter? We got our reputation for wit, just as we made our name for manufacture, and there sprung up a mass of impostors in consequence,—fellows who made poor jokes and rotten calicoes, that so disgusted the world that people have gone to France for their fun, and to Germany for their furniture. That is, to my taking, the reason of all this social reaction.”

“Perhaps you are right, Tom. Old Joe Millers are not unlike cloth made out of devil's dust. One can't expect much wear out of either.”

“We must secure another bottle from that bin before Nicholas changes his mind,” said Withering, rising to ring the bell.

“No, Tom, not for me. I want all the calm and all the judgment I can muster, and don't ask me to take more wine. I have much to say to you.”

“Of course you have. I knew well that packet of letters would bring you up to town; but you have had scarcely time to read them.”

“Very hurriedly, I confess. They reached me yesterday afternoon; and when I had run my eyes hastily over them, I said, 'Stapylton must see this at once.' The man was my guest,—he was under my roof,—there could not be a question about how to deal with him. He was out, however, when the packet reached my hands; and while the pony was being harnessed, I took another look over that letter from Colonel Hunter. It shocked me, Tom, I confess; because there flashed upon me quite suddenly the recollection of the promptitude with which the India Board at home here were provided with an answer to each demand we made. It was not merely that when we advanced a step they met us; but we could scarcely meditate a move that they were not in activity to repel it.”

“I saw that, too, and was struck by it,” said Withering.

“True enough, Tom. I remember a remark of yours one day. 'These people,' said you, 'have our range so accurately, one would suspect they had stepped the ground.'” The lawyer smiled at the compliment to his acuteness, and the other went on: “As I read further, I thought Stapylton had been betrayed,—his correspondent in India had shown his letters. 'Our enemies,' said I, 'have seen our despatches, and are playing with our cards on the table.' No thought of distrust,—not a suspicion against his loyalty had ever crossed me till I met him. I came unexpectedly upon him, however, before the door, and there was a ring and resonance in his voice as I came up that startled me! Passion forgets to shut the door sometimes, and one can see in an angry mind what you never suspected in the calm one. I took him up at once, without suffering him to recover his composure, and read him a part of Hunter's letter. He was ready enough with his reply; he knew the Moonshee by reputation as a man of the worst character, but had suffered him to address certain letters under cover to him, as a convenience to the person they were meant for, and who was no other than the son of the notorious Sam Edwardes. 'Whom you have known all this while,' said I, 'without ever acknowledging to us?'

“'Whom I did know some years back,' replied he, 'but never thought of connecting with the name of Colonel Barrington's enemy.' All this was possible enough, Tom; besides, his manner was frank and open in the extreme. It was only at last, as I dwelt, what he deemed too pertinaciously, on this point, that he suddenly lost control of himself, and said, 'I will have no more of this'—or, 'This must go no further'—or some words to that effect.”

“Ha! the probe had touched the sore spot, eh?” cried Withering. “Go on!”

“'And if you desire further explanations from me, you must ask for them at the price men pay for inflicting unmerited insult.'”

“Cleverly turned, cleverly done,” said Withering; “but you were not to be deceived and drawn off by that feint, eh?”

“Feint or not, it succeeded, Tom. He made me feel that I had injured him; and as he would not accept of my excuses,—as, in fact, he did not give me time to make them—”

“He got you into a quarrel, is n't that the truth?” asked Withering, hotly.

“Come, come, Tom, be reasonable; he had perfect right on his side. There was what he felt as a very grave imputation upon him; that is, I had made a charge, and his explanation had not satisfied me,—or, at all events, I had not said I was satisfied,—and we each of us, I take it, were somewhat warmer than we need have been.”

“And you are going to meet him,—going to fight a duel?”

“Well, if I am, it will not be the first time.”

“And can you tell for what? Will you be able to make any man of common intelligence understand for what you are going out?”

“I hope so. I have the man in my eye. No, no, don't make a wry face, Tom. It's another old friend I was thinking of to help me through this affair, and I sincerely trust he will not be so hard to instruct as you imagine.”

“How old are you, Barrington?”

“Dinah says eighty-one; but I suspect she cheats me. I think I am eighty-three.”

“And is it at eighty-three that men fight duels?”

“' Not if they can help it, Tom, certainly. I have never been out since I shot Tom Connelly in the knee, which was a matter of forty years ago, and I had good hopes it was to be my last exploit of this kind. But what is to be done if a man tells you that your age is your protection; that if it had not been for your white hairs and your shaking ankles, that he 'd have resented your conduct or your words to him? Faith, I think it puts a fellow on his mettle to show that his heart is all right, though his hand may tremble.”

“I 'll not take any share in such a folly. I tell you, Barrington, the world for whom you are doing this will be the very first to scout its absurdity. Just remember for a moment we are not living in the old days before the Union, and we have not the right, if we had the power, to throw our age back into the barbarism it has escaped from.”

“Barbarism! The days of poor Yelverton, and Ponsonby, and Harry Grattan, and Parsons, and Ned Lysaght, barbarism! Ah! my dear Tom, I wish we had a few of such barbarians here now, and I 'd ask for another bottle or two of that port.”

“I'll not give it a milder word; and what's more, I'll not suffer you to tarnish a time-honored name by a folly which even a boy would be blamed for. My dear old friend, just grant me a little patience.”

“This is cool, certainly,” said Barrington, laughing. “You have said all manner of outrageous things to me for half an hour unopposed, and now you cry have patience.”

“Give me your honor now that this shall not go further.”

“I cannot, Tom,—I assure you, I cannot.”

“What do you mean by 'you cannot'?” cried Withering, angrily.

“I mean just what I said. If you had accepted a man's brief, Tom Withering, there is a professional etiquette which would prevent your giving it up and abandoning him; and so there are situations between men of the world which claim exactly as rigid an observance. I told Stapylton I would be at his orders, and I mean to keep my word.”

“Not if you had no right to pledge it; not if I can prove to you that this quarrel was a mere got-up altercation to turn you from an inquiry which this man dare not face.”

“This is too subtle for me, Withering,—far too subtle.”

“No such thing, Barrington; but I will make it plainer. How if the man you are going to meet had no right to the name he bears?”

“What do I care for his name?”

“Don't you care for the falsehood by which he has assumed one that is not his own?”

“I may be sorry that he is not more clean-handed; but I tell you again, Tom, they never indulged such punctilios in our young days, and I 'm too old to go to school again!”

“I declare, Barrington, you provoke me,” said the lawyer, rising, and pacing the room with hasty strides. “After years and years of weary toil, almost disheartened by defeat and failure, we at last see the outline of land; a few more days—or it may be hours—of perseverance may accomplish our task. Since I arose this morning I have learned more of our case, seen my way more clearly through matters which have long puzzled me, than the cost of years has taught me. I have passed four hours with one who would give his life to serve you, but whose name I was not at liberty to divulge, save in the last necessity, and the reasons for which reserve I heartily concur in; and now, by a rash and foolish altercation, you would jeopardy everything. Do you wonder if I lose temper?”

“You have got me into such a state of bewilderment, Tom, that I don't know what I am asked to agree to. But who is your friend,—is n't it a woman?”

“It is not a woman.”

“I'd have bet five pounds it was! When as sharp a fellow as you takes the wrong line of country, it's generally a woman is leading the way over the fences.”

“This time your clever theory is at fault.”

“Well, who is it? Out with him, Tom. I have not so many stanch friends in the world that I can afford to ignore them.”

“I will tell you his name on one condition.”

“I agree. What is the condition?”

“It is this: that when you hear it you will dismiss from your mind—though it be only for a brief space—all the prejudices that years may have heaped against him, and suffer me to show you that you, with all your belief in your own fairness, are not just; and with a firm conviction in your own generosity, might be more generous. There 's my condition!”

“Well, it must be owned I am going to pay pretty smartly for my information,” said Barrington, laughing. “And if you are about to preach to me, it will not be a 'charity' sermon; but, as I said before, I agree to everything.”

Withering stopped his walk and resumed it again. It was evident he had not satisfied himself how he should proceed, and he looked agitated and undecided. “Barrington,” said he, at last, “you have had about as many reverses in life as most men, and must have met with fully your share of ingratitude and its treatment. Do you feel, now, in looking back, that there are certain fellows you cannot forgive?”

“One or two, perhaps, push me harder than the rest; but if I have no gout flying about me, I don't think I bear them any malice.”

“Well, you have no gouty symptoms now, I take it?”

“Never felt better for the last twenty years.”

“That is as it should be; for I want to talk to you of a man who, in all our friendship, you have never mentioned to me, but whose name I know will open an old wound,—Ormsby Conyers.”

Barrington laid down the glass he was lifting to his lips, and covered his face with both his hands, nor for some moments did he speak a word. “Withering,” said he, and his voice trembled as he spoke, “even your friendship has scarcely the right to go this far. The injury the man you speak of did me meets me every morning as I open my eyes, and my first prayer each day is that I may forgive him, for every now and then, as my lone lot in life comes strongly before me, I have need to pray for this; but I have succeeded at last,—I have forgiven him from my heart; but, dear friend, let us not talk of what tears open wounds that bleed afresh at a touch. I beseech you, let all that be a bygone.”

“That is more than I can do, Barrington; for it is not to me you must acknowledge you have forgiven this man,—you must tell it to himself.”

“That is not needed, Tom. Thousands of long miles separate us, and will in all likelihood separate us to the last. What does he want with my forgiveness, which is less a question between him and me than between me and my own heart?”

“And yet it is what he most desires on earth; he told me so within an hour!”

“Told you so,—and within an hour?”

“Yes, Barrington, he is here. Not in the house,” added he, hastily, for the suddenness of the announcement had startled the old man, and agitated him greatly. “Be calm, my dear friend,” said Withering, laying a hand on the other's shoulder. “He who is now come to claim your forgiveness has never injured you to the extent you believe. He asks it as the last tribute to one he loved only less than you loved him. He has told me everything; never sparing himself, nor seeking by any subtlety to excuse a particle of his conduct. Let me tell you that story as I heard it. It will be some solace to you to know that your noble-hearted son inspired a friendship which, after the long lapse of years, extracts such an atonement as one act of disloyalty to it could demand. This was Ormsby Conyers's one and only treason to the love that bound them. Listen to it!”

Barrington tried to speak, but could not; so he nodded an assent, and Withering continued. His story was that which the reader has already heard from the lips of Conyers himself, and the old lawyer told it well. If he did not attempt to extenuate the offence and wrong of Conyers, he showed the power and strength of an affection which could make one of the haughtiest of men come forward to accuse himself, and at every cost of humiliation vindicate the noble nature of his friend.

“And why not have avowed all this before?—why not have spared himself years of self-accusing, and me years of aggravated misery?” cried Barrington.

“He did make the attempt. He came to England about eighteen years ago, and his first care was to write to you. He asked to be allowed to see you, and sent you at the same time an admission that he had injured you, and was come to seek your forgiveness.”

“That's true, Tom; all strictly true. I remember all about it. His letter was such a one as an enemy might have used to crush him. My own temper at the time was not to be trusted too far; sorrow was making me cruel, and might make me vindictive; so I sent it back to him, and hinted it was safer in his hands than mine.”

“And he has never forgotten your generosity. He said, 'It was what well became the father of George Barrington. '”

“If he is here in this city, now, let me see him. Remember, Withering, when a man comes to my age his time is short. Cannot we go to him at once?”

“Not feeling certain of your coming up to town to-day, I had arranged with Conyers to start for 'The Home' tomorrow; we were to await the post hour, and, if no letter came from you, to leave at ten o'clock. I was to take him up at Elvidge's Hotel. What say you if I drive him down to Reynolds's? You stop there, I know.”

“With all my heart, Tom. I am fully as impatient as he can be to sign and seal our reconciliation. Indeed, I feel myself already less sinned against than sinning; and an act of forgiveness is only an exchange of prisoners between us. If you knew how young I feel again at all this, Withering,” said he, grasping his friend's hand. “What a happiness to know that poor George's memory is so revered that one who has failed towards him in fidelity should come to expiate the wrong thus openly! My fine noble-hearted boy deserved this tribute! And he told you how they loved each other; in what a brotherhood they lived; and what a glorious fellow George was? Did he tell you of his gentleness?—womanly softness it was, Tom. A careless observer might have said there was no stuff in him to make a soldier, and yet where was there his equal? You heard what he did at Naghapoor and Meerutan, where he held a mountain-pass with three squadrons against a whole army corps, and never owned to being wounded till he fell fainting from his horse on the retreat. Oh, let me not speak of these things, or my heart will burst I must leave you, old friend; this agitation will unfit me for much that is before me; let me go, I beseech you, and when you see me to-morrow, you 'll find I am all myself again.”

It was in silence they grasped each other's hand, and parted.