If Josephine's first impulse was to feel angry, her next was to laugh out, which she did heartily; and passing her arm fondly round Polly's waist, she said, “I 'll get used to your raillery, Polly, and not feel sore at it; but remember, too, it's a spirit I never knew before.”
“How good and generous, then, to bear it so well!” said Polly, affectionately; “your friend Mr. Conyers did not show the same patience.”
“You tried him, then?” said Josephine, with a half-eager glance.
“Of course; I talked to him as I do to every one. But there goes your dinner-bell.” Checking herself on a reflection over the pretension of this summons of three people to a family meal in a cottage, Polly tied on her bonnet and said “Good-bye.”
CHAPTER II. AT HOME AGAIN
The Barringtons had not been quite a fortnight settled in their home, when a note came from Conyers, lamenting, in most feeling terms, that he could not pay them his promised visit. If the epistle was not very long, it was a grumble from beginning to end. “Nobody would know,” wrote he, “it was the same regiment poor Colonel Hunter commanded. Our Major is now in command,—the same Stapylton you have heard me speak of; and if we never looked on him too favorably, we now especially detest him. His first step was to tell us we were disorderly, ill-dressed, and ill-disciplined; but we were even less prepared to hear that we could not ride. The result of all this is, we have gone to school again,—even old captains, who have served with distinction in the field, have been consigned to the riding-house; and we poor subs are treated as if we were the last refuse of all the regiments of the army, sent here to be reformed and corrected. We have incessant drills, parades, and inspections, and, worse again, all leave is stopped. If I was not in the best of temper with the service before, you may judge how I feel towards it now. In fact, if it were not that I expect my father back in England by the middle of May, I 'd send in my papers and leave at once. How I fall back now in memory to the happy days of my ramble with you, and wonder if I shall ever see the like again. And how I hate myself for not having felt at the time how immeasurably delightful they were! Trust me never to repeat the mistake if I have the opportunity given me. I asked this morning for three days—only three—to run down and see you once more before we leave,—for we are ordered to Honnslow,—and I was refused. But this was not all: not content with rejecting my request, he added what he called an expression of astonishment that an officer so deficient in his duties should care to absent himself from regimental discipline.”
“Poor boy!—this is, indeed, too bad,” said Miss Dinah, as she had read thus far; “only think, Peter, how this young fellow, spoiled and petted as he was as a child,—denied nothing, pampered as though he were a prince,—should find himself the mark of so insulting a tyranny. Are you listening to me, Peter Barrington?”
“Eh,—what? No, thank you, Dinah; I have made an excellent breakfast,” said Barrington, hurriedly, and again addressed himself to the letter he was reading. “That's what I call a Trump, Dinah,—a regular Trump.”
“Who is the especial favorite that has called for the very choice eulogy?” said she, bridling up.