Charles Lever - Barrington. Volume 2

“Which means a flattery at the outset,” said she, smiling.

“Only as much as your friend Mr. Withering would throw out to dispose the court in his favor; and now, which way shall we walk? Are you to be the guide, or I?”

“You, by all means, since you know nothing of the locality.”

“Agreed. Well, here is my plan. We cross the river in this boat, and take that path yonder that leads up by the waterfall. I know, from the dark shadow of the mountain, that there is a deep glen, very wild, very romantic, and very solemn, through which I mean to conduct you.”

“All this means a very long excursion, does it not?”

“You have just told me that you were free from all engagement.”

“Yes; but not from all control. I must ask Aunt Dinah’s leave before I set out on this notable expedition.”

“Do nothing of the kind. It would be to make a caprice seem a plan. Let us go where you will, – here, along the river’s side; anywhere, so that we may affect to think that we are free agents, and not merely good children sent out for a walk.”

“What a rebel against authority you are for one so despotic yourself!”

“I despotic! Who ever called me so?”

“Your officers say as much.”

“I know from what quarter that came,” said he; and his bronzed face grew a shade deeper. “That dilettante soldier, young Conyers, has given me this character; but I ‘d rather talk of you than myself. Tell me all about your life. Is it as delightful as everything around would bespeak it? Are these trees and flowers, this sunny bank, this perfumed sward, true emblems of the existence they embellish, or is Paradise only a cheat?”

“I don’t think so. I think Paradise is very like what it looks, not but I own that the garden is pleasanter with guests in it than when only Adam and Eve were there. Mr. Withering is charming, and you can be very agreeable.”

“I would I knew how to be so,” said he, seriously, “just at this moment; for I am going away from Ireland, and I am very desirous of leaving a good impression behind me.”

“What could it signify to you how you were thought of in this lonely spot?”

“More than you suspect, – more than you would, perhaps, credit,” said he, feelingly.

There was a little pause, during which they walked along side by side.

“What are you thinking of?” said she, at last

“I was thinking of a strange thing, – it was this: About a week ago there was no effort I was not making to obtain the command of my regiment. I wanted to be Lieutenant-Colonel; and so bent was I on gaining my object, that if giving away three or four years of that life that I may hope for would have done it, I ‘d have closed the bargain; and now the ambition is gone, and I am speculating whether I ‘ll not take the cottage of your friend Major M’Cormick, – he offered it to me last night, – and become your neighbor. What say you to the project?”

“For us the exchange will be all a gain.”

“I want your opinion, – your own,” said he, with a voice reduced to a mere whisper.

“I’d like it of all things; although, if I were your sister or your daughter, I’d not counsel it.”

“And why not, if you were my sister?” said he, with a certain constraint in his manner.

“I’d say it was inglorious to change from the noble activity of a soldier’s life to come and dream away existence here.”

“But what if I have done enough for this same thing men call fame? I have had my share of campaigning, and as the world looks there is wondrous little prospect of any renewal of it. These peace achievements suit your friend Conyers better than me.”

“I think you are not just to him. If I read him aright, he is burning for an occasion to distinguish himself.”

A cold shrug of the shoulders was his only acknowledgment of this speech, and again a silence fell between them.

“I would rather talk of you , if you would let me,” said he, with much significance of voice and manner. “Say would you like to have me for your neighbor?”

“It would be a pleasant exchange for Major M’Cormick,” said she, laughing.

“I want you to be serious now. What I am asking you interests me too deeply to jest over.”

“First of all, is the project a serious one?”

“It is.”

“Next, why ask advice from one as inexperienced as I am?”

“Because it is not counsel I ask, – it is something more. Don’t look surprised, and, above all, don’t look angry, but listen to me. What I have said now, and what more I would say, might more properly have been uttered when we had known each other longer; but there are emergencies in life which give no time for slow approaches, and there are men, too, that they suit not. Imagine such now before you, – I mean, both the moment and the man. Imagine one who has gone through a great deal in life, seen, heard, and felt much, and yet never till now, never till this very morning, understood what it was to know one whose least word or passing look was more to him than ambition, higher than all the rewards of glory.”

“We never met till yesterday,” said she, calmly.

“True; and if we part to-morrow, it will be forever. I feel too painfully,” added he, with more eagerness, “how I compromise all that I value by an avowal abrupt and rash as this is; but I have had no choice. I have been offered the command of a native force in India, and must give my answer at once. With hope – the very faintest, so that it be hope – I will refuse. Remember I want no pledge, no promise; all I entreat is that you will regard me as one who seeks to win your favor. Let time do the rest.”

“I do not think I ought to do this – I do not know if you should ask it.”

“May I speak to your grandfather – may I tell him what I have told you – may I say, ‘It is with Josephine’s permission – ‘”

“I am called Miss Barrington, sir, by all but those of my own family.”

“Forgive me, I entreat you,” said he, with a deep humility in his tone. “I had never so far forgotten myself if calm reason had not deserted me. I will not transgress again.”

“This is the shortest way back to the cottage,” said she, turning into a narrow path in the wood.

“It does not lead to my hope,” said he, despondingly; and no more was uttered between them for some paces.

“Do not walk so very fast, Miss Barrington,” said he, in a tone which trembled slightly. “In the few minutes – the seconds you could accord me – I might build the whole fortune of my life. I have already endangered my hopes by rashness; let me own that it is the fault I have struggled against in vain. This scar” – and he showed the deep mark of a sabre-wound on the temple – “was the price of one of my offendings; but it was light in suffering to what I am now enduring.”

“Can we not talk of what will exact no such sacrifice?” said she, calmly.

“Not now, not now!” said he, with emotion; “if you pass that porch without giving me an answer, life has no longer a tie for me. You know that I ask for no pledge, no promise, merely time, – no more than time, – a few more of those moments of which you now would seem eager to deny me. Linger an instant here, I beseech you, and remember that what to you may be a caprice may to me be a destiny.”

“I will not hear more of this,” said she, half angrily. “If it were not for my own foolish trustfulness, you never would have dared to address such words to one whom you met yesterday for the first time.”

“It is true your generous frankness, the nature they told me you inherited, gives me boldness, but it might teach you to have some pity for a disposition akin to it. One word, – only one word more.”