Barrington Volume Ii Part 13

Would you like to take this letter to your room and ponder over it alone?" No answer came but a low, half-subdued sigh.

"If you do not wish to make a confidante of me, Josephine, I am sorry for it, but not offended."

"No, no, aunt, it is not that," burst she in; "it is to _you_ and you alone, I wish to speak, and I will be as candid as yourself. I am not surprised at the contents of this letter. I mean, I was in a measure prepared for them."

"That is to say, child, that he paid you certain attentions?"

She nodded a.s.sent.

"And how did you receive them? Did you let him understand that you were not indifferent to him,--that his addresses were agreeable to you?"

Another, but shorter, nod replied to this question.

"I must confess," said the old lady, bridling up, "all this amazes me greatly. Why, child, it is but the other day you met each other for the first time. How, when, and where you found time for such relations as you speak of, I cannot imagine. Do you mean to tell me, Josephine, that you ever talked alone together?"

"Constantly, aunt!"

"Constantly!"

"Yes, aunt. We talked a great deal together."

"But how, child,--where?"

"Here, aunt, as we used to stroll together every morning through the wood or in the garden; then as we went on the river or to the waterfall."

"I can comprehend nothing of all this, Josephine. I know you mean to deal openly with me; so say at once, how did this intimacy begin?"

"I can scarcely say how, aunt, because I believe we drifted into it. We used to talk a great deal of ourselves, and at length we grew to talk of each other,--of our likings and dislikings, our tastes and our tempers.

And these did not always agree!"

"Indeed!"

"No, aunt," said she, with a heavy sigh. "We quarrelled very often; and once,--I shall not easily forget it,--once seriously."

"What was it about?"

"It was about India, aunt; and he was in the wrong, and had to own it afterwards and ask pardon."

"He must know much more of that country than you, child. How came it that you presumed to set up your opinion against his?"

"The presumption was his," said she, haughtily. "He spoke of _his_ father's position as something the same as _my_ father's. He talked of him as a Rajah!"

"I did not know that he spoke of his father," said Miss Dinah, thoughtfully.

"Oh, he spoke much of him. He told me, amongst other things, how he had been a dear friend of papa's; that as young men they lived together like brothers, and never were separate till the fortune of life divided them."

"What is all this I am listening to? Of whom are you telling me, Josephine?"

"Of Fred, Aunt Dinah; of Fred, of course."

"Do you mean young Conyers, child?"

"Yes. How could I mean any other?"

"Ta, ta, ta!" said the old lady, drumming with her heel on the floor and her fingers on the table. "It has all turned out as I said it would!

Peter, Peter, will you never be taught wisdom? Listen to me, child!"

said she, turning almost sternly towards Josephine. "We have been at cross-purposes with each other all this time. This letter which I have just read for you--" She stopped suddenly as she reached thus far, and after a second's pause, said, "Wait for me here; I will be back presently. I have a word to say to your grandfather."

Leaving poor Josephine in a state of trepidation and bewilderment,--ashamed at the confession she had just made, and trembling with a vague sense of some danger that impended over her,--Miss Dinah hurried away to the garden.

"Here's a new sort of worm got into the celery, Dinah," said he, as she came up, "and a most destructive fellow he is. He looks like a mere ruffling of the leaf, and you 'd never suspect him."

"It is your peculiarity never to suspect anything, brother Peter, even after you have had warning of peril. Do you remember my telling you, when we were up the Rhine, what would come of that intimacy between Conyers and Josephine?"

"I think I do," said he, making what seemed an effort of memory.

"And can you recall the indolent slipshod answer you made me about it?

But of course you cannot. It was an old-maid's apprehensions, and you forgot the whole thing. Well, Peter, I was right and you were wrong."

"Not the first time that the double event has come off so!" said he, smiling.

"You are too fond of that cloak of humility, Peter Barrington. The plea of Guilty never saved any one from transportation!" Waiting a moment to recover her breath after this burst of pa.s.sion, she went on: "After I had read that letter you gave me, I spoke to Josephine; I told her in a few words how it referred to her, and frankly asked her what she thought of it. She was very candid and very open, and, I must say, also very collected and composed. Young ladies of the present day possess that inestimable advantage over their predecessors. Their emotions do not overpower them." This was the second time of "blowing off the steam,"

and she had to wait a moment to rally. "She told me, frankly, that she was not unprepared for such an offer; that tender pa.s.sages had already been exchanged between them. The usual tomfoolery, I conclude,--that supreme effort of selfishness people call love,--in a word, Peter, she was in no wise disinclined to the proposal; the only misfortune was, she believed it came from young Conyers."

Barrington would have laughed, and laughed heartily, if he dared. As it was, the effort to restrain himself sent the blood to his head, and made his eyes run over.

"You may well blush, Peter Barrington," said she, shaking her finger at him. "It's all your own doing."

"And when you undeceived her, Dinah, what did she say?"

"I have not done so yet; but my impression is that so susceptible a young lady should find no great difficulty in transferring her affections. For the present I mean to limit myself to declaring that this offer is not from Conyers; if she has curiosity to know the writer, she shall learn it. I always had my doubts about these convents Bread and water diet makes more epicures than abstinents!"

CHAPTER X. INTERCHANGED CONFESSIONS

Miss Barrington, with Josephine at one side and Polly Dill on the other, sat at work in her little room that opened on the garden. Each was engaged in some peculiar task, and each seemed bent upon her labor in that preoccupied way which would imply that the cares of needlework make no mean call upon human faculties. A close observer would, however, have remarked that though Miss Barrington st.i.tched vigorously away at the background for a fierce tiger with measly spots over him, Polly seemed oftener to contemplate than continue her handiwork; while Josephine's looks strayed constantly from the delicate tracery she was following, to the garden, where the roses blended with the jasmine, and the drooping honeysuckles hung listlessly over the boughs of the apple-tree.

"If your work wearies you, Fifine," said Miss Dinah, "you had better read for us."

"Oh no, not at all, aunt; I like it immensely. I was only wondering why one should devise such impossible foliage, when we have the real thing before us, in all its grace and beauty."

"Humph!" said the old lady; "the sight of a real tiger would not put me out of countenance with my own."

"It certainly ought not, ma'am," said Polly; while she added, in a faint whisper, "for there is a.s.suredly no rivalry in the case."

"Perhaps Miss Dill is not too absorbed in her study of nature, as applied to needlework, to read out the newspaper."

"I will do it with pleasure, ma'am. Where shall I begin?"