Mr. Carrington is on the ground in a moment, and comes round to my side to help me down. I hold out my hands and prepare for a good spring (a clear jump at any time is delightful to me); but he disappoints my hopes by taking me in his arms and placing me gently on the gravel; after which he goes instantly to Dora.
When we are all safely landed, papa, to our unmitigated astonishment, comes forward, and not only asks but presses Mr. Carrington to stay and dine. Perhaps, considering he has four horses and two grooms in his train, our father guesses he will refuse the invitation. At all events he does so very graciously, and, raising his hat, drives off, leaving us free to surround and relate to mother all the glories of the day.
CHAPTER VIII
The following Monday, as I sit reading in the small parlor we dare to call our own, I am startled by Dora's abrupt entrance. Her outdoor garments are on her; her whole appearance is full of woe; suspicious circles surround her eyes. I rise fearfully and hasten towards her. Surely if anything worthy of condemnation has occurred it is impossible but I must have a prominent part in it. Has the irreproachable Dora committed a crime? Is she in disgrace with our domestic tyrant.
"Dora, what has happened?" I ask, breathlessly.
"Oh, nothing," returns Dora, reckless misery in her tone; "nothing to signify; only—Billy was right—I am quite positive he never cared for me—has not the slightest intention of proposing to me."
"What? who?" I demand, in my charming definite way.
"Who?" with impatient reproach. "Who is there in this miserable forgotten spot to propose to any one, except—Mr. Carrington?"
"What have you heard, Dora?" I ask, light breaking in upon my obscurity.
"Heard? Nothing. I would not have believed it, if I had heard it. I saw it with my own eyes. An hour ago I put on my things and went out for a walk, intending to go down by the river; but just as I came to the shrubberies, and while I was yet hidden from view, I saw Mr. Carrington and that horrid dog of his standing on the bank just below me. I hesitated for a moment about going forward. I didn't quite like," says Dora, modestly, "to force myself upon him for what would look so like a tete-a-tete; and while I waited, unable to make up my mind, he"—a sob—"took out of his waistcoat a large gold locket and opened it, and"—a second heavy sob—"and after gazing at it for a long time, as though he were going to eat it"—a final sob, and an inclination towards choking—"he stooped and kissed it. And, oh! of course it was some odious woman's hair or picture or something," cries Dora, breaking down altogether, and sinking with rather less than her usual grace into the withered arm-chair that adorns that corner of our room.