Barrington Volume Ii Part 26

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 ingrat.i.tude 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 gla.s.s 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 n.o.ble-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 a.s.sent, 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble-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-pa.s.s 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.

CHAPTER XVI. A HAPPY MEETING

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 p.r.o.ne 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 cla.s.sic 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."