When Barrington reached his favorite seat, and lighted his cigar,—it is painting the lily for such men to smoke,—he intended to have thought over the details of Withering's letter, which were both curious and interesting; he intended to consider attentively certain points which, as Withering said, “he must master before he could adopt a final resolve;” but they were knotty points, made knottier, too, by hard Hindoo words for things unknown, and names totally unpronounceable. He used to think that he understood “George's claim” pretty well; he had fancied it was a clear and very intelligible case, that half a dozen honest men might have come to a decision on in an hour's time; but now he began to have a glimmering perception that George must have been egregiously duped and basely betrayed, and that the Company were not altogether unreasonable in assuming their distrust of him. Now, all these considerations coming down upon him at once were overwhelming, and they almost stunned him. Even his late attempt to enlighten his sister Dinah on a matter he so imperfectly understood now recoiled upon him, and added to his own mystification.
“Well, well,” muttered he, at last, “I hope Tom sees his way through it,”—Tom was Withering,—“and if he does, there's no need of my bothering my head about it. What use would there be in lawyers if they hadn't got faculties sharper than other folk? and as to 'making up my mind,' my mind is made up already, that I want to win the cause if he'll only show me how.” From these musings he was drawn off by watching a large pike,—the largest pike, he thought, he had ever seen,—which would from time to time dart out from beneath a bank, and after lying motionless in the middle of the pool for a minute or so, would, with one whisk of its tail, skim back again to its hiding-place. “That fellow has instincts of its own to warn him,” thought he; “he knows he was n't safe out there. He sees some peril that I cannot see; and that ought to be the way with Tom, for, after all, the lawyers are just pikes, neither more nor less.” At this instant a man leaped across the stream, and hurriedly passed into the copse. “What! Mr. Conyers—Conyers, is that you?” cried Barrington; and the young man turned and came towards him. “I am glad to see you all safe and sound again,” said Peter; “we waited dinner half an hour for you, and have passed all the time since in conjecturing what might have befallen you.”
“Did n't Miss Barrington say—did not Miss Barrington know—” He stopped in deep confusion, and could not finish his speech.
“My sister knew nothing,—at least, she did not tell me any reason for your absence.”
“No, not for my absence,” began he once more, in the same embarrassment; “but as I had explained to her that I was obliged to leave this suddenly,—to start this evening—”
“To start this evening! and whither?”
“I cannot tell; I don't know,—that is, I have no plans.”
“My dear boy,” said the old man, affectionately, as he laid his hand on the other's arm, “if you don't know where you are going, take my word for it there is no such great necessity to go.”
“Yes, but there is,” replied he, quickly; “at least Miss Barrington thinks so, and at the time we spoke together she made me believe she was in the right.”
“And are you of the same opinion now?” asked Peter, with a humorous drollery in his eye.