Barrington scarcely closed his eyes that night after he had parted with Withering, so full was he of thinking over all he had heard. “It was,” as he repeated to himself over and over again, “'such glorious news' to hear that it was no long-laid plot, no dark treachery, had brought poor George to his grave, and that the trusted friend had not turned out a secret enemy. How prone we are,” thought he, “to suffer our suspicions to grow into convictions, just by the mere force of time. Conyers was neither better nor worse than scores of young fellows entering on life, undisciplined in self-restraint, and untutored by converse with the world; and in his sorrow and repentance he is far and away above most men. It was fine of him to come thus, and become his own accuser, rather than suffer a shade of reproach to rest upon the fame of his friend. And this reparation he would have made years ago, but for my impatience. It was I that would not listen,—would not admit it.

“I believe in my heart, then, this confession has a higher value for me than would the gain of our great suit. It is such a testimony to my brave boy as but one man living could offer. It is a declaration to the world that says, 'Here am I, high in station, covered with dignities and rich in rewards; yet there was a man whose fate has never interested you, over whose fall you never sorrowed; hundreds of times my superior.' What a reward is this for all my life of toil and struggle,—what a glorious victory, when the battle looked so doubtful! People will see at last it is not an old man's phantasy; it is not the headlong affection of a father for his son has made me pursue this reparation for him here. There is a witness 'come to judgment,' who will tell them what George Barrington was; how noble as a man, how glorious as a soldier.”

While the old man revelled in the happiness of these thoughts, so absorbed was he by them that he utterly forgot the immediate object which had occasioned his journey,—forgot Stapylton and the meeting, and all that had led to it. Thus passed the hours of the night; and as the day broke, he arose, impatient to actual feverishness for the coming interview. He tried by some occupation to fill up the time. He sat down to write to his sister an account of all Withering had told him, leaving the rest to be added after the meeting; but he found, as he read it over, that after the mention of George's name, nothing dropped from his pen but praises of him. It was all about his generosity, his open-heartedness, and his bravery. “This would seem downright extravagant,” said he, as he crushed the paper in his hand, “till she hears it from the lips of Conyers himself.” He began another letter, but somehow again he glided into the self-same channel.

“This will never do,” said he; “there's nothing for it but a brisk walk.” So saying he sallied out into the deserted streets, for few were about at that early hour. Barrington turned his steps towards the country, and soon gained one of those shady alleys which lead towards Finglas. It was a neighborhood he had once known well, and a favorite resort of those pleasant fellows who thought they compensated for a hard night at Daly's by sipping syllabub of a morning on a dewy meadow. He once had rented a little cottage there; a fancy of poor George's it was, that there were some trout in the stream beside it; and Barrington strolled along till he came to a little mound, from which he could see the place, sadly changed and dilapidated since he knew it. Instead of the rustic bridge that crossed the river, a single plank now spanned the stream, and in the disorder and neglect of all around, it was easy to see it had fallen to the lot of a peasant to live in it. As Barrington was about to turn away, he saw an old man—unmistakably a gentleman—ascending the hill, with a short telescope in his hand. As the path was a narrow one, he waited, therefore, for the other's arrival, before he began to descend himself. With a politeness which in his younger days Irish gentlemen derived from intercourse with France, Barring-ton touched his hat as he passed the stranger, and the other, as if encouraged by the show of courtesy, smiled as he returned the salute, and said,—

“Might I take the liberty to ask you if you are acquainted with this locality?”

“Few know it better, or, at least, knew it once,” said Barrington.

“It was the classic ground of Ireland in days past,” said the stranger. “I have heard that Swift lived here.”

“Yes; but you cannot see his house from this. It was nearer to Santry, where you see that wood yonder. There was, however, a celebrity once inhabited that small cottage before us. It was the home of Parnell.”

“Is that Parnell's cottage?” asked the stranger, with eagerness; “that ruined spot, yonder?”

“Yes. It was there he wrote some of his best poems. I knew the room well he lived in.”

“How I would like to see it!” cried the other.

“You are an admirer of Parnell, then?” said Barrington, with a smile of courteous meaning.

“I will own to you, sir, it was less of Parnell I was thinking than of a dear friend who once talked to me of that cottage. He had lived there, and cherished the memory of that life when far away from it; and so well had he described every walk and path around it, each winding of the river, and every shady nook, that I had hoped to recognize it without a guide.”

“Ah, it is sadly changed of late. Your friend had not probably seen it for some years?”

“Let me see. It was in a memorable year he told me he lived there,—when some great demonstration was made by the Irish volunteers, with the Bishop of Down at their head. The Bishop dined there on that day.”

“The Earl of Bristol dined that day with me, there,” said Barrington, pointing to the cottage.

“May I ask with whom I have the honor to speak, sir?” said the stranger, bowing.

“Was it George Barrington told you this?” said the old man, trembling with eagerness: “was it he who lived here? I may ask, sir, for I am his father!”

“And I am Ormsby Conyers,” said the other; and his face became pale, and his knees trembled as he said it.

“Give me your hand, Conyers,” cried Barrington,—“the hand that my dear boy has so often pressed in friendship. I know all that you were to each other, all that you would be to his memory.”

“Can you forgive me?” said Conyers.

“I have, for many a year. I forgave you when I thought you had been his enemy. I now know you had only been your own to sacrifice such love, such affection as he bore you.”

“I never loved him more than I have hated myself for my conduct towards him.”

“Let us talk of George,—he loved us both,” said Barrington, who still held Conyers by the hand. “It is a theme none but yourself can rival me in interest for.”

It was not easy for Conyers to attain that calm which could enable him to answer the other's questions; but by degrees he grew to talk freely, assisted a good deal by the likeness of the old man to his son,—a resemblance in manner even as much as look,—and thus, before they reached town again, they had become like familiar friends.

Barrington could never hear enough of George; even of the incidents he had heard of by letter, he liked to listen to the details again, and to mark how all the traits of that dear boy had been appreciated by others.

“I must keep you my prisoner,” said Barrington, as they gained the door of his hotel. “The thirst I have is not easily slaked; remember that for more than thirty years I have had none to talk to me of my boy! I know all about your appointment with Withering; he was to have brought you here this morning to see me, and my old friend will rejoice when he comes and finds us here together.”

“He was certain you would come up to town,” said Conyers, “when you got his letters. You would see at once that there were matters which should be promptly dealt with; and he said, 'Barrington will be my guest at dinner to-morrow.'”

“Eh?—how?—what was it all about? George has driven all else out of my head, and I declare to you that I have not the very vaguest recollection of what Wither-ing's letters contained. Wait a moment; a light is breaking on me. I do remember something of it all now. To be sure! What a head I have! It was all about Stapylton. By the way, General, how you would have laughed had you heard the dressing Withering gave me last night, when I told him I was going to give Stapylton a meeting.”

“A hostile meeting?”

“Well, if you like to give it that new-fangled name, General, which I assure you was not in vogue when I was a young man. Withering rated me soundly for the notion, reminded me of my white hairs and such other disqualifications, and asked me indignantly, 'What the world would say when they came to hear of it?' 'What would the world say if they heard I declined it, Tom?' was my answer. Would they not exclaim, 'Here is one of that fire-eating school who are always rebuking us for our laxity in matters of honor; look at him and say, are these the principles of his sect?'”

Conyers shook his head dissentingly, and smiled.

“No, no!” said Barrington, replying to the other's look, “you are just of my own mind! A man who believes you to have injured him claims reparation as a matter of right. I could not say to Stapylton, 'I will not meet you!'”

“I did say so, and that within a fortnight.”

“You said so, and under what provocation?”

“He grossly insulted my son, who was his subaltern; he outraged him by offensive language, and he dared even to impugn his personal courage. It was in one of those late riots where the military were called out; and my boy, intrusted with the duty of dispersing an assemblage, stopped to remonstrate where he might have charged, and actually relieved the misery he had his orders to have trampled under the feet of his squadron. Major Stapylton could have reprimanded, he might have court-martialled him; he had no right to attempt to dishonor him. My son left the service,—I made him leave on the spot,—and we went over to France to meet this man. I sent for Proctor to be my boy's friend, and my letter found him at Sir Gilbert Stapylton's, at Hollowcliffe. To explain his hurried departure, Proctor told what called him away. 'And will you suffer your friend to meet that adventurer,' said Sir Gilbert, 'who stole my nephew's name if he did not steal more?' To be brief, he told that this fellow had lived with Colonel Howard Stapylton, British Resident at Ghurtnapore, as a sort of humble private secretary. 'In the cholera that swept the district Howard died, and although his will, deposited at Calcutta, contained several legacies, the effects to redeem them were not to be discovered. Meanwhile this young fellow assumed the name of Stapylton, gave himself out for his heir, and even threatened to litigate some landed property in England with Howard's brother. An intimation that if he dared to put his menace in action a full inquiry into his conduct should be made, stopped him, and we heard no more of him,—at least, for a great many years. When an old Madras friend of Howard's who came down to spend his Christmas, said, “Who do you think I saw in town last week, but that young scamp Howard used to call his Kitmagar, and who goes by the name of Stapylton?” we were so indignant at first that we resolved on all manner of exposures; but learning that he had the reputation of a good officer, and had actually distinguished himself at Waterloo, we relented. Since that, other things have come to our knowledge to make us repent our lenity. In fact, he is an adventurer in its very worst sense, and has traded upon a certain amount of personal courage to cover a character of downright ignominy.' Proctor, on hearing all this, recalled me to England; and declared that he had traced enough to this man's charge to show he was one whom no gentleman could meet. It would appear that some recent discoveries had been made about him at the Horse Guards also; for when Proctor asked for a certain piece of information from one of his friends in office there, he heard, for answer, 'We hope to know that, and more, in a day or two.'”

“Do you know that I 'm sorry for it,—heartily sorry?” said Barrington. “The fellow had that stamp of manliness about him that would seem the pledge of a bold, straightforward nature.”

“I have a high value for courage, but it won't do everything.”

“More 's the pity, for it renders all that it aids of tenfold more worth.”

“And on the back of all this discovery comes Hunter's letter, which Withering has sent you, to show that this Stapylton has for years back been supplying the Indian Directors with materials to oppose your claims.”

“Nothing ever puzzled us so much as the way every weak point of our case was at once seized upon, and every doubt we ourselves entertained exaggerated into an impassable barrier. Withering long suspected that some secret enemy was at work within our own lines, and repeatedly said that we were sold. The difficulty is, why this man should once have been our enemy, and now should strive so eagerly to be not alone our friend, but one of us. You have heard he proposed for my granddaughter?”

“Fred suspected his intentions in that quarter, but we were not certain of them.”

“And it is time I should ask after your noble-hearted boy. How is he, and where?”

“He is here, at my hotel, impatiently waiting your permission to go down to 'The Home.' He has a question to ask there, whose answer will be his destiny.”

“Has Josephine turned another head then?” said Barring-ton, laughing.

“She has won a very honest heart; as true and as honorable a nature as ever lived,” said Conyers, with emotion. “Your granddaughter does not know, nor needs ever to know, the wrong I have done her father; and if you have forgiven me, you will not remember it against my boy.”

“But what do you yourself say to all this? You have never seen the girl?”

“Fred has.”

“You know nothing about her tastes, her temper, her bringing up.”

“Fred does.”

“Nor are you aware that the claim we have so long relied on is almost certain to be disallowed. I have scarcely a hope now remaining with regard to it.”

“I have more than I need; and if Fred will let me have a bungalow in his garden, I'll make it all over to him tomorrow.”

“It is then with your entire consent he would make this offer?”

“With my whole heart in it! I shall never feel I have repaired the injury I have done George Barrington till I have called his daughter my own.”

Old Barrington arose, and walked up and down with slow and measured steps. At last he halted directly in front of General Conyers, and said,—

“If you will do me one kindness, I will agree to everything. What am I saying? I agree already; and I would not make a bargain of my consent; but you will not refuse me a favor?”

“Ask me anything, and I promise it on the faith of a gentleman.”

“It is this, then; that you will stand by me in this affair of Stapylton's. I have gone too far for subtleties or niceties. It is no question of who was his father, or what was his own bringing up. I have told him I should be at his orders, and don't let me break my word.”

“If you choose me for your friend, Barrington, you must not dictate how I am to act for you.”

“That is quite true; you are perfectly correct there,” said the other, in some confusion.

“On that condition, then, that I am free to do for you what I would agree to in my own case, I accept the charge.”

“And there is to be no humbug of consideration for my age and my white hairs; none of that nonsense about a fellow with one leg in the grave. Mark you, Conyers, I will stand none of these; I have never taken a writ of ease not to serve on a jury, nor will I hear of one that exempts me from the rights of a gentleman.”

“I have got your full powers to treat, and you must trust me. Where are we to find Stapylton's friend?”

“He gave me an address which I never looked at. Here it is!” and he drew a card from his pocket.

“Captain Duff Brown, late Fifth Fusiliers, Holt's Hotel, Charing Cross.”

“Do you know him?” asked Barrington, as the other stood silently re-reading the address.

“Yes, thoroughly,” said he, with a dry significance. “The man who selects Duff Brown to act for him in an affair of honor must be in a sore strait. It is a sorry indorsement to character. He had to leave the service from the imputation of foul play in a duel himself; and I took an active part against him.”

“Will this make your position unpleasant to you,—would you rather not act for me?”

“Quite the reverse. It is more than ever necessary you should have some one who not only knows the men he is to deal with, but is known himself to them. It is a preliminary will save a world of trouble.”

“When can we set out?”

“To-night by the eight-o'clock packet, we can sail for Liverpool; but let us first of all despatch Fred to 'The Home.' The poor boy will be half dead with anxiety till he knows I have your permission.”

“I 'll accredit him with a letter to my sister; not that he needs it, for he is one of her prime favorites. And now for another point. Withering must be made believe that we are all off together for the country this evening. He is so opposed to this affair with Stapylton, that he is in a mood to do anything to prevent it.”

“Well thought of; and here comes the man himself in search of us.”

“I have been half over the town after you this morning, General,” said Withering, as he entered; “and your son, too, could make nothing of your absence. He is in the carriage at the door now, not knowing whether he ought to come up.”

“I 'll soon reassure him on that score,” said Barrington, as he left the room, and hastened downstairs with the step of one that defied the march of time.