"Didn't I tell you I was interested in both of them?" he said, laughing. And he rose now, and stood half leaning against the door of the little room, looking down at Mrs. Barclay; and she reviewed him. He looked exactly like what he was; a refined and cultivated man of the world, with a lively intelligence in full play, and every instinct and habit of a gentleman. Mrs. Barclay looked at him with a very grave face.

"Philip, this is a very crazy scheme!" she said, after a minute or two of mutual consideration.

"I cannot prove it anything else," he said lightly. "Time must do that."

"I do not think Time will do anything of the kind. What Time does ordinarily, is to draw the veil off the follies our pa.s.sions and fancies have covered up."

"True; and there is another work Time some times does. He sometimes draws forth a treasure from under the enc.u.mbering rubbish that hid it, and lets it appear for the gold it is."

"Philip, you have never lost your heart to one of these girls?" said Mrs. Barclay, with an expression of real and grave anxiety.

"Not exactly."

"But your words mean that."

"They are not intended to convey any such meaning. Why should they?"

"Because if they do not mean that, your plan is utterly wild and extravagant. And if they do--"

"What then?"

"_Then_ it would be far more wild and extravagant. And deplorable."

"See there the inconsistency of you good people!" said Mr. Dillwyn, still speaking lightly. "A little while ago you were urging me to make myself useful. I propose a way, in which I want your co-operation, calculated to be highly beneficial in a variety of ways,--and I hit upon hindrances directly."

"Philip, it isn't that. I cannot bear to think of your marrying a woman unworthy of you."

"I still less!" he a.s.sured her, with mock gravity.

"And that is what you are thinking of. A woman without education, without breeding, without knowledge of the world, without _anything_, that could make her a fit companion for you. Philip, give this up!"

"Not my plan," said he cheerfully. "The rest is all in your imagination. What you have to do, if you will grant my prayer, is to make this little country girl the exact opposite of all that. You will do it, won't you?"

"Where will you be?"

"Not near, to trouble you. Probably in Europe. I think of going with the Caruthers in the spring."

"What makes you think this girl wants--I mean, desires--education?"

"If she does not, then the fat's in the fire, that's all."

"I did not know you were so romantic, before."

"Romantic! Could anything be more practical? And I think it will be so good for you, in that sea air."

"I would rather never smell the sea air, if this is going to be for your damage. Does the girl know you are an admirer of hers?"

"She hardly knows I am in the world! O yes, she has seen me, and I have talked with her; by which means I come to know that labour spent on her will not be spent in vain. But of me _she_ knows nothing."

"After talking with you!" said Mrs. Barclay. "What else is she?

Handsome?"

"Perhaps I had better let you judge of that. I could never marry a mere pretty face, I think. But there is a wonderful charm about this creature, which I do not yet understand. I have never been able to find out what is the secret of it."

"A pretty face and a pink cheek!" said Mrs. Barclay, with half a groan.

"You are all alike, you men! Now we women--Philip, is the thing mutual already? Does she think of you as you think of her?"

"She does not think of me at all," said he, sitting down again, and facing Mrs. Barclay with an earnest face. "She hardly knows me. Her attention has been taken up, I fancy, with another suitor."

"Another suitor! You are not going to be Quixote enough to educate a wife for another man?"

"No," said he, half laughing. "The other man is out of the way, and makes no more pretension."

"Rejected? And how do you know all this so accurately?"

"Because he told me. Now have you done with objections?"

"Philip, this is a very blind business! You may send me to this place, and I may do my best, and you may spend your money,--and at the end of all, she may marry somebody else; or, which is quite on the cards, you may get another fancy."

"Well," said he, "suppose it. No harm will be done. As I never had any fancy whatever before, perhaps your second alternative is hardly likely. The other I must risk, and you must watch against."

Mrs. Barclay shook her head, but the end was, she yielded.

CHAPTER XIX.

NEWS.

November had come. It was early in the month still; yet, as often happens, the season was thoroughly defined already. Later, perhaps, some sweet relics or reminders of October would come in, or days of the soberer charm which October's successor often brings; but just now, a grey sky and a brown earth and a wind with no tenderness in it banished all thought of such pleasant times. The day was dark and gloomy. So the fire which burned bright in the kitchen of Mrs. Armadale's house showed particularly bright, and its warm reflections were exceedingly welcome both to the eye and to the mind. It was a wood fire, in an open chimney, for Mrs. Armadale would sit by no other; and I call the place the kitchen, for really a large portion of the work of the kitchen was done there; however, there was a stove in an adjoining room, which accommodated most of the boilers and kettles in use, while the room itself was used for all the "mussy" work. Nevertheless, it was only upon occasion that fire was kindled in that outer room, economy in fuel forbidding that two fires should be all the while kept going.

In the sitting-room kitchen, then, this November afternoon, the whole family were a.s.sembled. The place was as nice as a pin, and as neat as if no work were ever done there. All the work of the day, indeed, was over; and even Miss Charity had come to sit down with the rest, knitting in hand. They had all changed their dresses and put off their big ap.r.o.ns, and looked unexceptionably nice and proper; only, it is needless to say, with no attempt at a fashionable appearance. Their gowns were calico; collars and cuffs of plain linen; and the white ap.r.o.ns they all wore were not fine nor ornamented. Only the old lady, who did no housework any longer, was dressed in a stuff gown, and wore an ap.r.o.n of black silk. Charity, as I said, was knitting; so was her grandmother. Madge was making more linen collars. Lois sat by her grandmother's chair, for the minute doing nothing.

"What do you expect to do for a bonnet, Lois?" Charity broke the silence.

"Or I either?" put in Madge. "Or you yourself, Charity? We are all in the same box."

"I wish our hats were!" said the elder sister.

"I have not thought much about it," Lois answered. "I suppose, if necessary, I shall wear my straw."

"Then you'll have nothing to wear in the summer! It's robbing Peter to pay Paul."

"Well," said Lois, smiling,--"if Paul's turn comes first. I cannot look so long ahead as next summer."