Volume I Part 16 (2/2)
She flushed slightly for a moment, but, speedily recovering herself, said: ”Yes, we knew them once. They had just come to the country, and purchased that estate, when our misfortunes overtook us. They showed us much attention, and such kindness as strangers could show, and they evinced a disposition to continue it; but, of course, our relative positions made intercourse impossible. I am afraid,” said she, hastily, ”I am talking in riddles all this time. I ought to have told you that my brother once owned a good estate here. We Barringtons thought a deal of ourselves in those days.” She tried to say these words with a playful levity, but her voice shook, and her lip trembled in spite of her.
Conyers muttered something unintelligible about ”his having heard before,” and his sorrow to have awakened a painful theme; but she stopped him hastily, saying, ”These are all such old stories now, one should be able to talk them over unconcernedly; indeed, it is easier to do so than to avoid the subject altogether, for there is no such egotist as your reduced gentleman.” She made a pretext of giving him his tea, and helping him to something, to cover the awkward pause that followed, and then asked if he intended to accept the invitation to Cobham.
”Not if you will allow me to remain here. The doctor says three days more will see me able to go back to my quarters.”
”I hope you will stay for a week, at least, for I scarcely expect my brother before Sat.u.r.day. Meanwhile, if you have any fancy to visit Cobham, and make your acquaintance with the family there, remember you have all the privileges of an inn here, to come and go, and stay at your pleasure.”
”I do not want to leave this. I wish I was never to leave it,” muttered he below his breath.
”Perhaps I guess what it is that attaches you to this place,” said she, gently. ”Shall I say it? There is something quiet, something domestic here, that recalls 'Home.'”
”But I never knew a home,” said Conyers, falteringly. ”My mother died when I was a mere infant, and I knew none of that watchful love that first gives the sense of home. You may be right, however, in supposing that I cling to this spot as what should seem to me like a home, for I own to you I feel very happy here.”
”Stay then, and be happy,” said she, holding out her hand, which he clasped warmly, and then pressed to his lips.
”Tell your friend to come over and dine with you any day that he can tear himself from gay company and a great house, and I will do my best to entertain him suitably.”
”No. I don't care to do that; he is a mere acquaintance; there is no friends.h.i.+p between us, and, as he is several years older than me, and far wiser, and more man of the world, I am more chilled than cheered by his company. But you shall read his letter, and I 'm certain you 'll make a better guess at his nature than if I were to give you my own version of him at any length.” So saying, he handed Stapyl-ton's note across the table; and Miss Dinah, having deliberately put on her spectacles, began to read it.
”It's a fine manly hand,--very bold and very legible, and says something for the writer's frankness. Eh? 'a miserable wayside inn!' This is less than just to the poor 'Fisherman's Home.' Positively, you must make him come to dinner, if it be only for the sake of our character. This man is not amiable, sir,” said she, as she read on, ”though I could swear he is pleasant company, and sometimes witty. But there is little of genial in his pleasantry, and less of good nature in his wit.”
”Go on,” cried Conyers; ”I 'm quite with you.”
”Is he a person of family?” asked she, as she read on some few lines further.
”We know nothing about him; he joined us from a native corps, in India; but he has a good name and, apparently, ample means. His appearance and manner are equal to any station.”
”For all that, I don't like him, nor do I desire that you should like him. There is no wiser caution than that of the Psalmist against 'sitting in the seat of the scornful.' This man is a scoffer.”
”And yet it is not his usual tone. He is cold, retiring, almost shy.
This letter is not a bit like anything I ever saw in his character.”
”Another reason to distrust him. Set my mind at ease by saying 'No' to his invitation, and let me try if I cannot recompense you by homeliness in lieu of splendor. The young lady,” added she, as she folded the letter, ”whose horsemans.h.i.+p is commemorated at the expense of her breeding, must be our doctor's daughter. She is a very pretty girl, and rides admirably. Her good looks and her courage might have saved her the sarcasm. I have my doubts if the man that uttered it be thorough-bred.”
”Well, I 'll go and write my answer,” said Conyers, rising. ”I have been keeping his messenger waiting all this time. I will show it to you before I send it off.”
CHAPTER XII. THE ANSWER
”Will this do?” said Conyers, shortly after, entering the room with a very brief note, but which, let it be owned, cost him fully as much labor as more practised hands occasionally bestow on a more lengthy despatch. ”I suppose it's all that's civil and proper, and I don't care to make any needless professions. Pray read it, and give me your opinion.” It was so brief that I may quote it:--
”Dear Captain Stapylton,--Don't feel any apprehensions about me. I am in better quarters than I ever fell into in my life, and my accident is not worth speaking of. I wish you had told me more of our Colonel, of whose movements I am entirely ignorant. I am sincerely grateful to your friends for thinking of me, and hope, ere I leave the neighborhood, to express to Sir Charles and Lady Cobham how sensible I am of their kind intentions towards me.
”I am, most faithfully yours,
”F. CONYERS.”
”It is very well, and tolerably legible,” said Miss Barrington, dryly; ”at least I can make out everything but the name at the end.”
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