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Barrington. Volume 2
Barrington. Volume 2 (of 2)
CHAPTER I. FIFINE AND POLLY
There are a few days in our autumnal season – very few and rare! – when we draw the curtain against the glare of the sun at breakfast, and yet in the evening are glad to gather around the cheerful glow of the fire. These are days of varied skies, with fleecy clouds lying low beneath a broad expanse of blue, with massive shadows on the mountains, and here and there over the landscape tips of sunlight that make the meanest objects pictures; and, with all these, a breezy wind that scatters the yellow leaves and shakes the tree-tops, while it curls the current of the bright river into mimic waves. The sportsman will tell you that on such days the birds are somewhat wild, and the angler will vow that no fish will rise to the fly, nor is it a scent-lying day for the harriers; and yet, with all this, there is a spring and elasticity in the air that impart themselves to the temperament, so that the active grow energetic, and even the indolent feel no touch of lassitude.
It was on the morning of such a day that Barrington, with his sister and granddaughter, drew nigh the Home. Conyers had parted with them at Dublin, where his regiment was now stationed, but was to follow in a day or two. All the descriptions – descriptions which had taken the shape of warnings – which they had given Josephine of the cottage could not prevent her asking at each turn of the road if that large house yonder, if that sombre tower over the trees, if that massive gate-lodge were not theirs. “I know this is it, grandpapa,” said she, clapping her hands with delight as they came opposite a low wall within which lay the spacious lawn of Cobham Park, a portion of the house itself being just visible through the trees; “don’t tell me, aunt,” cried she, “but let me guess it.”
“It is the seat of Sir Charles Cobham, child, one of the richest baronets in the kingdom.”
“There it is at last, – there it is!” cried she, straining oat of the carriage to see the handsome portico of a very large building, to which a straight avenue of oaks led up from the high-road. “My heart tells me, aunt, that this is ours!”
“It was once on a time, Fifiue,” said the old man, with a quivering voice, and a glassy film over his eyes; “it was once, but it is so no longer.”
“Barrington Hall has long ceased to belong to us,” said Miss Dinah; “and after all the pains I have taken in description, I cannot see how you could possibly confound it with our little cottage.”
The young girl sat back without a word, and, whether from disappointment or the rebuke, looked forth no more.
“We are drawing very near now, Fifine,” said the old man, after a long silence, which lasted fully two miles of the way. “Where you see the tall larches yonder – not there – lower down, at the bend of the stream; those are the trees. I declare, Dinah, I fancy they have grown since we saw them last.”
“I have no doubt you do, Peter; not that you will find the cottage far more commodious and comfortable than you remembered it.”
“Ah, they’ve repaired that stile, I see,” cried he; “and very well they’ve done it, without cutting away the ivy. Here we are, darling; here we are!” and he grasped the young girl’s hand in one of his, while he drew the other across his eyes.