Carrie gave a little crow—and began to talk, sitting there on the grass, with her hands round her knees. The interloper, it appeared, had every virtue and every prospect. What was to be done? Presently Carrie crept up to him again.
'Father!—he wants to come to Europe. When you've found a plan—if we let him come and hitch up alongside of us somewhere—why, he wouldn't be any trouble!—I'd see to that! And you don't know whether—whether a son—mightn't suit you! Why!—you've never tried!'
He made an effort, and held her at arm's length.
'I tell you, I can say nothing about it—nothing—till George has written to me!'
'But he has—this mail!' And in triumph she hastily dragged a letter out of the little bag at her waist, and gave it him. 'It came this afternoon, only I didn't know if you might have it.'
He laughed excitedly, and took it.
An hour later Fenwick rose. The day had grown cool. A fresh breeze was blowing from the north down the fell-side. He put his arm round Carrie as she stood beside him, kissed her, and in a gruff, unintelligible voice, murmured something that brought the tears again to her eyes. Then he announced that he was going for a short walk. Neither Phoebe nor Miss Anna were to be seen. Carrie protested on the score of his health.
'Nonsense! The doctor said I might do what I felt I could do.'
'Then you must say good-bye to me. For Miss Anna and I are going directly.'
Fenwick looked scared, but was soon reminded that Miss Anna was to drive the child that evening to Bowness, where Carrie was to be introduced to some old friends of Miss Anna's and stay with them a couple of days. He evidently did not like the prospect, but he made no audible protest against it, as he would perhaps have done a week before.