Volume Ii Part 24 (2/2)
”You will leave by the evening mail, I suppose?” said Miss Barrington.
”No, Dinah, night travelling wearies me. I will take the coach as it pa.s.ses the gate to-morrow at five; this will bring me in time to catch Withering at his late dinner, and a pleasanter way to finish a day's travel no man need ask for.”
Nothing could be more easily spoken than these words, and Miss Dinah felt rea.s.sured by them, and left the room to give some orders about his journey.
”Fifine, darling,” said Barrington, after a pause, ”do you like your life here?”
”Of course I do, grandpapa. How could I wish for one more happy?”
”But it is somewhat dull for one so young,--somewhat solitary for a fair, bright creature, who might reasonably enough care for pleasure and the world.”
”To me it is a round of gayety, grandpapa; so that I almost felt inclined yesterday to wish for some quiet davs with aunt and yourself,--some of those dreamy days like what we had in Germany.”
”I fear me much, darling, that I contribute but little to the pleasure.
My head is so full of one care or another, I am but sorry company, Fifine.”
”If you only knew how dull we are without you! How heavily the day drags on even with the occupations you take no share in; how we miss your steps on the stairs and your voice in the garden, and that merry laugh that sets ourselves a-laughing just by its own ring.”
”And you would miss me, then?” said he, as he pushed the hair from her temples, and stared steadfastly at her face,--”you would miss me?”
”It would only be half life without you,” cried she, pa.s.sionately.
”So much the worse,--so much the worse!” muttered he; and he turned away, and drew his hand across his eyes. ”This life of ours, Fifine, is a huge battle-field; and though the comrades fall fast around him, the brave soldier will fight on to the last.”
”You don't want a dress-coat, brother Peter, to dine with Withering, so I have just put up what will serve you for three days, or four, at furthest,” said Dinah, entering. ”What will be the extent of your stay?”
”Let me have a black coat, Dinah; there 's no saying what great man may not ask for my company; and it might be a week before I get back again.”
”There's no necessity it should be anything of the kind, Peter; and with your habits an hotel life is scarcely an economy. Come, Fifine, get to bed, child. You'll have to be up at daybreak. Your grandpapa won't think his coffee drinkable, if it is not made by your hands.”
And with this remark, beautifully balanced between a reproof and a flattery, she proceeded to blow out the candles, which was her accustomed mode of sending her company to their rooms.
CHAPTER XV. THE OLD LEAVEN
Withering arrived at his own door just as Barrington drove up to it. ”I knew my letter would bring you up to town, Barrington,” said he; ”and I was so sure of it that I ordered a saddle of mutton for your dinner, and refused an invitation to the Chancellor's.”
”And quite right too. Iam far better company, Tom. Are we to be all alone?”
”All alone.”
”That was exactly what I wanted. Now, as I need a long evening with you, the sooner they serve the soup the better; and be sure you give your orders that n.o.body be admitted.”
If Mr. Withering's venerable butler, an official long versed in the mysteries of his office, were to have been questioned on the subject, it is not improbable he would have declared that he never a.s.sisted at a pleasanter tete-a tete than that day's dinner. They enjoyed their good dinner and their good wine like men who bring to the enjoyment a ripe experience of such pleasures, and they talked with the rare zest of good talkers and old friends.
”We are in favor with Nicholas,” said Withering, as the butler withdrew, and left them alone, ”or he would never have given us that bottle of port. Do you mark, Barrington, it's the green seal that John Bushe begged so hard for one night, and all unsuccessfully.”
”It is rare stuff!” said Barrington, looking at it between him and the light.
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