“We came over to the Continent to fetch away my grand-niece, the daughter of that Colonel Barrington you have heard so much of.”
“And is she—” He stopped, and grew scarlet with confusion; but she broke in, laughingly,—
“No, not black, only dark-complexioned; in fact, a brunette, and no more.”
“Oh, I don't mean,—I surely could not have said—”
“No matter what you meant or said. Your unuttered question was one that kept occurring to my brother and myself every morning as we journeyed here, though neither of us had the courage to speak it. But our wonders are over; she is a dear good, girl, and we love her better every day we see her. But now a little about yourself. Why do I find you so low and depressed?”
“I have had much to fret me, Miss Barrington. Some were things that could give but passing unhappiness; others were of graver import.”
“Tell me so much as you may of them, and I will try to help you to bear up against them.”
“I will tell you all,—everything!” cried he. “It is the very moment I have been longing for, when I could pour out all my cares before you and ask, What shall I do?”
Miss Barrington silently drew her arm within his, and they strolled along the shady alley without a word.
“I must begin with my great grief,—it absorbs all the rest,” said he, suddenly. “My father is coming home; he has lost, or thrown up, I can't tell which, his high employment. I have heard both versions of the story; and his own few words, in the only letter he has written me, do not confirm either. His tone is indignant; but far more it is sad and depressed,—he who never wrote a line but in the joyousness of his high-hearted nature; who met each accident of life with an undaunted spirit, and spurned the very thought of being cast down by fortune. See what he says here.” And he took a much crumpled letter from his pocket, and folded down a part of it “Read that. 'The time for men of my stamp is gone by in India. We are as much bygones as the old flint musket or the matchlock. Soldiers of a different temperament are the fashion now; and the sooner we are pensioned or die off the better. For my own part, I am sick of it. I have lost my liver and have not made my fortune, and like men who have missed their opportunities, I come away too discontented with myself to think well of any one. They fancied that by coldness and neglect they might get rid of me, as they did once before of a far worthier and better fellow; but though I never had the courage that he had, they shall not break my heart.' Does it strike you to whom he alludes there?” asked Conyers, suddenly; “for each time that I read the words I am more disposed to believe that they refer to Colonel Barrington.”