“I 've nothing to say against it,” grumbled out M'Cormick, whose assent was given, as attorneys say, without prejudice to any other claim.
“You shall hear from me in the morning, then,” said Peter. “I 'll send you a line to say what success I have had with my friends.”
“Any time in the day will do,” said the Major, unconcernedly; for, in truth, the future never had in his estimation the same interest as the present. As for the birds in the bush, he simply did not believe in them at all.
“No, no,” said Barrington, hurriedly. “You shall hear from me early, for I am anxious you should meet Withering and his companion, too,—a brother-soldier.”
“Who may he be?” asked M'Cormick.
“That's my secret, Major,—that's my secret,” said Peter, with a forced laugh, for it now wanted but ten minutes to six; “but you shall know all on Saturday.”
Had he said on the day of judgment, the assurance would have been as palatable to M'Cormick. Talking to him of Saturday on a Monday was asking him to speculate on the infinite. Meanwhile he sat on, as only they sit who understand the deep and high mystery of that process. Oh, if you who have your fortunes to make in life, without any assignable mode for so doing, without a craft, a calling, or a trade, knew what success there was to be achieved merely by sitting—by simply being “there,” eternally “there”—a warning, an example, an illustration, a what you will, of boredom or infliction; but still “there.” The butt of this man, the terror of that,—hated, feared, trembled at,—but yet recognized as a thing that must be, an institution that was, and is, and shall be, when we are all dead and buried.
Long and dreary may be the days of the sitter, but the hour of his reward will come at last. There will come the time when some one—any one—will be wanted to pair off with some other bore, to listen to his stories and make up his whist-table; and then he will be “there.” I knew a man who, merely by sitting on patiently for years, was at last chosen to be sent as a Minister and special Envoy to a foreign Court just to get rid of him. And for the women sitters,—the well-dressed and prettily got-up simperers, who have sat their husbands into Commissionerships, Colonial Secretaryships, and such like,—are they not written of in the Book of Beauty?
“Here 's M'Cormick, Dinah,” said Barrington, with a voice shaking with agitation and anxiety, “whom I want to pledge himself to us for Saturday next. Will you add your persuasions to mine, and see what can be done?”
“Don't you think you can depend upon me?” cackled out the Major.