Barrington. Volume 2. Lever Charles James
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 passed 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.
Josephine, without knowing why, without even a reason, wished herself back in the convent. There, if there was a life of sombre monotony and quietude, there was at least companionship; she had associates of her own age. They had pursuits in common, shared the same hopes and wishes and fears; but here – but here – Just as her thoughts had carried her so far, a tap – a very gentle tap – came to the door. Josephine heard it, but made no answer. It was repeated a little louder, and then a low pleasing voice she had never heard before said, “May I come in?”
“No,” said Josephine, – “yes – that is – who are you?”
“Polly Dill,” was the answer; and Josephine arose and unlocked the door.
“Miss Barrington told me I might take this liberty,” said Polly, with a faint smile. “She said, ‘Go and make acquaintance for yourself; I never play master of the ceremonies.’”
“And you are Polly, – the Polly Dill I have heard so much of?” said Josephine, regarding her steadily and fixedly.
“How stranded your friends must have been for a topic when they talked of me!” said Polly, laughing.
“It is quite true you have beautiful teeth, – I never saw such beautiful teeth,” said Josephine to herself, while she still gazed earnestly at her.
“And you,” said Polly, “are so like what I had pictured you, – what I hoped you would be. I find it hard to believe I see you for the first time.”
“So, then, you did not think the Rajah’s daughter should be a Moor?” said Josephine, half haughtily. “It is very sad to see what disappointments I had caused.” Neither the saucy toss of the head, nor the tone that accompanied these words, were lost upon Polly, who began to feel at once that she understood the speaker.
“And your brother,” continued Josephine, “is the famous Tom Dill I have heard such stories about?”
“Poor Tom! he is anything rather than famous.”
“Well, he is remarkable; he is odd, original, or whatever you would call it. Fred told me he never met any one like him.”
“Tom might say as much of Mr. Conyers, for, in truth, no one ever showed him such kindness.”
“Fred told me nothing of that; but perhaps,” added she, with a flashing eye, “you were more in his confidence than I was.”
“I knew very little of Mr. Conyers; I believe I could count on the fingers of one hand every time I met him.”
“How strange that you should have made so deep an impression, Miss Dill!”
“I am flattered to hear it, but more surprised than flattered.”
“But I don’t wonder at it in the least,” said Josephine, boldly. “You are very handsome, you are very graceful, and then – ” She hesitated and grew confused, and stammered, and at last said, “and then there is that about you which seems to say, ‘I have only to wish, and I can do it.’”
“I have no such gift, I assure you,” said Polly, with a half-sad smile.
“Oh, I know you are very clever; I have heard how accomplished you were, how beautifully you rode, how charmingly you sang. I wish he had not told me of it all – for if – for if – ”
“If what? Say on!”
“If you were not so superior to me, I feel that I could love you;” and then with a bound she threw her arms around Polly’s neck, and clasped her affectionately to her bosom.
Sympathy, like a fashionable physician, is wonderfully successful where there is little the matter. In the great ills of life, when the real afflictions come down to crush, to wound, or to stun us, we are comparatively removed from even the kindest of our comforters. Great sorrows are very selfish things. In the lighter maladies, however, in the smaller casualties of fortune, sympathy is a great remedy, and we are certain to find that, however various our temperaments, it has a sort of specific for each. Now Josephine Barrington had not any great cares upon her heart; if the balance were to be struck between them, Polly Dill could have numbered ten, ay, twenty, for her one, but she thought hers was a case for much commiseration, and she liked commiseration, for there are moral hypochondrias as well as physical ones. And so she told Polly how she had neither father nor mother, nor any other belongings than “dear old grandpapa and austere Aunt Dinah;” that she had been brought up in a convent, never knowing one of the pleasures of youth, or her mind being permitted to stray beyond the dreary routine of prayer and penance. Of music she knew nothing but the solemn chants of the organ, and even flowers were to her eyes but the festal decorations of the high altar; and, lastly, she vaguely balanced between going back to the dismal existence of the cloister, or entering upon the troubled sea of life, so full of perils to one unpractised and unskilled as she was. Now Polly was a very pretty comforter through these afflictions; her own home experiences were not all rose-colored, but the physician who whispers honeyed consolations to the patient has often the painful consciousness of a deeper malady within than that for which he ministers. Polly knew something of a life of struggle and small fortune, with its daily incident of debt and dun. She knew what it was to see money mix itself with every phase of existence, throwing its damper over joy, arresting the hand of benevolence, even denying to the sick-bed the little comforts that help to cheat misery. She knew how penury can eat its canker into the heart till all things take the color of thrift, and life becomes at last the terrible struggle of a swimmer storm-tossed and weary; and yet, with all this experience in her heart, she could whisper cheerful counsels to Josephine, and tell her that the world had a great many pleasant paths through it, though one was occasionally footsore before reaching them; and in this way they talked till they grew very fond of each other, and Josephine was ready to confess that the sorrow nearest to her heart was parting with her. “But must you go, dearest Polly, –