“You talk of injustice, Cobham, injustice to old Peter Barrington,” said an old man from the end of the table; “but I would ask, are we quite just to poor George? I knew him well. My son served in the same regiment with him before he went out to India, and no finer nor nobler-hearted fellow than George Barrington ever lived. Talk of him ruining his father by his extravagance! Why, he'd have cut off his right hand rather than caused him one pang, one moment of displeasure. Barrington ruined himself; that insane passion for law has cost him far more than half what he was worth in the world. Ask Withering; he 'll tell you something about it. Why, Withering's own fees in that case before 'the Lords' amount to upwards of two thousand guineas.”
“I won't dispute the question with you, Fowndes,” said the Admiral. “Scandal says you have a taste for a trial at bar yourself.”
The hit told, and called for a hearty laugh, in which Fowndes himself joined freely.
“I 'm a burned child, however, and keep away from the fire,” said he, good-humoredly; “but old Peter seems rather to like being singed. There he is again with his Privy Council case for next term, and with, I suppose, as much chance of success as I should have in a suit to recover a Greek estate of some of my Phoenician ancestors.”
It was not a company to sympathize deeply with such a litigious spirit. The hearty and vigorous tone of squiredom, young and old, could not understand it as a passion or a pursuit, and they mainly agreed that nothing but some strange perversion could have made the generous nature of old Barrington so fond of law. Gradually the younger members of the party slipped away to the drawing-room, till, in the changes that ensued, Stapylton found himself next to Mr. Fowndes.
“I'm glad to see, Captain,” said the old squire, “that modern fashion of deserting the claret-jug has not invaded your mess. I own I like a man who lingers over his wine.”
“We have no pretext for leaving it, remember that,” said Stapylton, smiling.
“Very true. The placeus uxor is sadly out of place in a soldier's life. Your married officer is but a sorry comrade; besides, how is a fellow to be a hero to the enemy who is daily bullied by his wife?”
“I think you said that you had served?” interposed Stapylton.
“No. My son was in the army; he is so still, but holds a Governorship in the West Indies. He it was who knew this Barrington we were speaking of.”