Volume Ii Part 1 (2/2)
As the carriage rolled briskly along, Darby, who trotted alongside, kept up a current narrative of the changes effected during their absence.
”The ould pigeon-house is tuck down, and an iligant new one put up in the island; and the calves' paddock is thrown into the flower-garden, and there's a beautiful flight of steps down to the river, paved with white stones,--sorrow one is n't white as snow.”
”It is a mercy we had not a sign over the door, brother Peter,”
whispered Miss Dinah, ”or this young lady's zeal would have had it emblazoned like a s.h.i.+eld in heraldry.”
”Oh, how lovely, how beautiful, how exquisite!” cried Josephine, as they came suddenly round the angle of a copse and directly in front of the cottage.
Nor was the praise exaggerated. It was all that she had said. Over a light trellis-work, carried along under the thatch, the roses and jessamine blended with the clematis and the pa.s.sion-flower, forming a deep eave of flowers, drooping in heavy festoons across the s.p.a.ces between the windows, and meeting the geraniums which grew below. Through the open sashes the rooms might be seen, looking more like beautifnl bowers than the chambers of a dwelling-house. And over all, in sombre grandeur, bent the great ilex-trees, throwing their grand and tranquil shade over the cottage and the little gra.s.s-plot and even the river itself, as it swept smoothly by. There was in the stillness of that perfumed air, loaded with the sweet-brier and the rose, a something of calm and tranquillity; while in the isolation of the spot there was a sense of security that seemed to fill op the measure of the young girl's hopes, and made her exclaim with rapture, ”Oh, this, indeed, is beautiful!”
”Yes, my darling Fifine!” said the old man, as he pressed her to his heart; ”your home, your own home! I told you, my dear child, it was not a great castle, no fine chateau, like those on the Meuse and the Sambre, but a lowly cottage with a thatched roof and a rustic porch.”
”In all this ardor for decoration and smartness,” broke in Miss Dinah, ”it would not surprise me to find that the peac.o.c.k's tail had been picked out in fresh colors and varnished.”
”Faix! your honor is not far wrong,” interposed Darby, who had an Irish tendency to side with the majority. ”She made us curry and wash ould Sheela, the a.s.s, as if she was a race-horse.”
”I hope poor Wowsky escaped,” said Barrington, laughing.
”That's what he didn't! He has to be scrubbed with soap and water every morning, and his hair divided all the way down his back, like a Christian's, and his tail looks like a bunch of switch gra.s.s.”
”That 's the reason he has n't come out to meet me; the poor fellow is like his betters,--he's not quite sure that his altered condition improves him.”
”You have at least one satisfaction, brother Peter,” said Miss Dinah, sharply; ”you find Darby just as dirty and uncared for as you left him.”
”By my conscience, there 's another of us is n't much changed since we met last,” muttered Darby, but in a voice only audible to himself.
”Oh, what a sweet cottage! What a pretty summer-house!” cried Josephine, as the carriage swept round the copse, and drew short up at the door.
”This summer-house is your home, Fifine,” said Miss Barrington, tartly.
”Home! home! Do you mean that we live here,--live here always, aunt?”
”Most distinctly I do,” said she, descending and addressing herself to other cares. ”Where's Jane? Take these trunks round by the back door.
Carry this box to the green-room,--to Miss Josephine's room,” said she, with a stronger stress on the words.
”Well, darling, it is a very humble, it is a very lowly,” said Barrington, ”but let us see if we cannot make it a very happy home;” but as he turned to embrace her, she was gone.
”I told you so, brother Peter,--I told you so, more than once; but, of course, you have your usual answer, 'We must do the best we can!' which simply means, doing worse than we need do.”
Barrington was in no mood for a discussion; he was too happy to be once more at home to be ruffled by any provocation his sister could give him.
Wherever he turned, some old familiar object met his eye and seemed to greet him, and he bustled in and out from his little study to the garden, and then to the stable, where he patted old Roger; and across to the cow-house, where Maggie knew him, and bent her great lazy eyes softly on him; and then down to the liver-side, where, in gilt letters, ”Josephine” shone on the trim row-boat he had last seen half rotten on the bank; for Polly had been there too, and her thoughtful good-nature, forgetting nothing which might glad them on their coming.
Meanwhile, Josephine had reached her chamber, and, locking the door, sat down and leaned her head on the table. Though no tears fell from her eyes, her bosom heaved and fell heavily, and more than one deep sigh escaped her. Was it disappointment that had so overcome her? Had she fancied something grander and more pretentious than this lonely cottage? Was it that Aunt Dinah's welcome was wanting in affection? What revulsion could it be that so suddenly overwhelmed her? Who can tell these things, who can explain how it is that, without any definite picture of an unexpected joy, imagination will so work upon us that reality will bring nothing but a blank? It is not that the object is less attractive than is hoped for, it is simply that a dark shadow has pa.s.sed over our own hearts; the sense of enjoyment has been dulled, and we are sad without a reason. If we underrate sorrows of our youth,--and this is essentially one of them,--it is because our mature age leaves us nothing of that temperament on which such afflictions preyed.
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