"And he is so good-natured!" I break in, eagerly. "The very moment I mentioned the subject, he gave us permission to go to Brinsley Wood as often as ever we choose, and seemed quite pleased at my asking him if we might; didn't he, mother?"
"Yes, dear."
"Could you find no more interesting topic to discuss with him than that?" asked papa with contemptuous displeasure. "Was his first visit a fitting opportunity to demand a favor of him? It is a pity, Phyllis, you cannot put yourself and your own amusements out of sight, even on an occasion. There is no vice so detestable as selfishness."
I think of the two hunters, and of how long mother's last black silk has been her best gown, and feel rebellious; but, long and early training having taught me to subdue my emotions, I accept the snub dutifully and relapse into taciturnity.
"It was not he turned out poor old Mother Haggard after all, papa," puts in Billy; "It was Simmons; and he is to be dismissed immediately."
"I am glad of that," says papa, viciously. "A more thorough going rascal never disgraced a neighborhood. He will be doing a really sensible thing if he sends that fellow adrift. I am gratified to find Carrington capable of acting with such sound common sense. None of the absurd worn-out prejudices in favor of old servants about him. I have no doubt he will prove an acquisition to the county."
Altogether, it is plainly to be seen, we every one of us intend approving of our new neighbor.
"Yes, indeed," says mother, "it is quite delightful to think of a young man being anywhere near. We are sadly in want of cheerful society. What a pity he did not come home directly his uncle died and left him the property, instead of wasting these last five years abroad!"
"I think he was right," returns papa, gracefully "there is nothing like seeing life. When hampered with a wife and children, he will regret he did not enjoy more of it before tying himself down irretrievably."
An uncomfortable silence follows this speech. We all feel guiltily conscious that we are hampering our father—that but for our unwelcome existence he might at the present hour be enjoying all the goods and gayeties of life: all that is, except Billy, who is insensible to innuendoes, and never sees or feels anything that is not put before him in the plainest terms. He cheerfully puts an end now to the awkward silence.
"I can tell you, if you marry Mr. Carrington, you will be on the pig's back," he says, knowingly addressing Dora. Billy is not choice in his expressions. "He has no end of tin, and the gamest lot of horses in his stables to be seen anywhere. Brewster was telling me about it."
Nobody says anything.
"You will be on the pig's back, I can tell you," repeats Billy, with emphasis. Now, this is more than rashness, it is madness on Billy's part; he is ignorantly offering himself to the knife. The fact that his vulgarity has been passed by unnoticed once is no reason why leniency should be shown towards him a second time. Papa looks up blandly.
"May I ask what you mean by being 'on the pig's back'?" he asks, with a suspicious thirst for information.
"Oh, it means being in luck, I suppose," returns Billy, only slightly taken aback.
"I do not think I should consider it a lucky thing if I found myself on a pig's back," says papa, still apparently abroad, still desirous of having his ignorance enlightened.
"I don't suppose you would," responds Billy, gruffly; and, being an English boy, abhorrent of irony, he makes a most unnecessary clatter with his fork and spoon.
"I know what papa means," says Dora, sweetly, coming prettily to the rescue. One of Dora's favorite roles is to act as peacemaker on such public occasions as the present, when the innate goodness of her disposition can be successfully paraded. "It is that he wishes you to see how unmeaning are your words, and how vulgar are all hackneyed expressions. Besides"—running back to Billy's former speech—"you should not believe all Brewster tells you; he is only a groom, and probably says a good deal more than—than he ought."
"There!" cries Billy, with wrathful triumph, "you were just going to say 'more than his prayers,' and if that isn't a 'hackneyed expression,' I don't know what's what. You ought to correct yourself, Miss Dora, before you begin correcting other people."
"I was not going to say that," declares Dora, in a rather sharper tone.
"Yes, you were, though. It was on the very tip of your tongue."
"I was not," reiterates Dora, her pretty oval cheeks growing pink as the heart of a rose, while her liquid blue eyes changed to steel gray.
"That's a—"
"William, be silent," interrupts papa, with authority, and so for a time puts a stop to the family feud.
CHAPTER III.
THE next day Mr. Carrington calls again—this time ostensibly on business matters—and papa and he discuss turnips and other farm produce in the study, until the interview becomes so extended that it occurs to the rest of us they must be faint. Mamma sends in sherry as a restorative, which tranquillizes our fears and enables us to look with more cheerfulness towards the end.
Before leaving, however, Mr. Carrington finds his way to the drawing-room, where Dora and I are seated alone, and, having greeted us, drags a chair lazily after him, until he gets within a few feet of Dora. Here he seats himself.
Dora is tatting. Dora is always tatting; she never does anything else; and surely there is no work so pretty, so becoming to white fingers, as that in which the swift little shuttle is brought to bear. Nevertheless, though he is beside my sister, I never raise my head without encountering his blue eyes fixed upon me.
His eyes are very handsome, large and dark, and wonderfully kind, eyes that let one see into the true heart beyond, indeed, his whole face is full of beauty. He makes no unwise attempt to hide it, beyond the cultivation of a fair brown mustache that does not altogether conceal the delicately-formed mouth beneath, the lips of which are fine and almost sensitive enough to be womanish, but for a certain touch of quiet determination about them and the lower jaw. He is tall and rather slightly molded, and has a very clean-shaped head. His hands are white and thin, but large, his feet very passable.
"Do you know," he is saying to sympathetic Dora, while I take the above inventory of his charms, "I have quite an affection for this house? I was born here, and lived in it until my father died."
"Yes, I knew that," said Dora softly, with a liquid glance. "And all yesterday, after you had left, I kept wondering whether you felt it very strange and sad, seeing new faces in your old home."
"Did you really bestow a thought upon me when I was out of sight?" with mild surprise. "Are you in earnest? Do you know, Miss Vernon, I begin to believe it is a foolish thing to stay too long away from one's native land—away from the society of one's own countrymen; a man feels so dangerously pleased with any little stray kind word that may be said to him on his return. I have been living a rather up-and-down sort of life, not quite so civilized as might have been, I fear, and it now seems absolutely strange that anyone should take the trouble to think about me." He says all this in a slow, rather effective tone, looking pensively at Dora the while.
Here is an opportunity not to be wasted, and Dora instantly blushes her very best blush; then becoming charmingly confused, lets her glance once more fall on her tatting.
"That is awfully pretty work you are doing," says Mr. Carrington, taking up the extreme edge of it and examining it with grave interest. "I like to see women working, when their hands are soft and white. But this looks a difficult task: it must have taken you a long time to master the intricacies."
"Oh, no. It is quite simple—just in and out, you see like this. Any one could