“Out of perversity,” said her husband; but he did not smile even at the cleverness of his own remark.
Nora regarded her father with a sort of tender rage. “It is all very well for you,” she said; “one place is the same as another to you. But I was such a little thing when we came here. To you it is one place among many; to me it is home.”
“If you take it so seriously, Nora, we shall have you making up to young Erskine for the love of his house.”
“Edward,” cried Mrs. Barrington in a tone of reproof, “I feel disposed to cry too. We have had a great many happy days in it. But don’t let old Rolls see you crying, Nora. Here he is coming to say goodbye. When do you expect Mr. Erskine, Rolls? You must tell him we were sorry not to see him; but he will prefer to find his house free when he returns. I hope he will be as happy at Dalrulzian as we have been since we came here.”
“Wherefore would he no’ be happy, mem? He is young and weel off: and you’ll no’ forget it’s his own house.”
Rolls had stepped out from one of the windows to take farewell of the family, whom he was sorry to lose, yet anxious to get rid of. There was in him the satisfied air of the man who remains in possession, and whose habits are unaffected by the coming and going of ephemeral beings such as tenants. The Barringtons had been at Dalrulzian for more than a dozen years; but what was that to the old servant who had seen them arrive and saw them go away with the same imperturbable aspect? He stood relieved against the wall in his well-brushed black coat, concealing a little emotion under a watchful air of expectancy just touched with impatience. Rolls had condescended more or less to the English family all the time they had been there, and he was keeping up his role to the last, anxious that they should perceive how much he wanted to see them off the premises. Mrs. Barrington, who liked everybody to like her, was vexed by this little demonstration of indifference; but the Colonel laughed. “I hope Mr. Erskine will give you satisfaction,” he said. “Come, Nora, you must not take root in the Walk. Don’t you see that Rolls wishes us away?”
“Dear old Walk!” cried Nora; “dear Dalrulzian!” She rolled the r in the name, and turned the z into a y (which is the right way of pronouncing it), as if she had been to the manner born; and though an English young lady, had as pretty a fragrance of northern Scotland in her voice as could be desired. Rolls did not trust himself to look at this pretty figure lingering, drying wet eyes, until she turned round upon him suddenly, holding out her hands: “The moment we are off, before we are down the avenue, you will be wishing us back,” she cried with vehemence; “you can’t deceive me. You would like to cry too, if you were not ashamed,” said the girl, with a smile and a sob, shaking the two half-unwilling hands she had seized.
“Me cry! I’ve never done that since I came to man’s estate,” cried Rolls indignantly, but after a suspicious pause. “As for wishing you back, Miss Nora, wishing you were never to go—wishing you would grow to the Walk, as the Cornel says—” This was so much from such a speaker, that he turned, and added in a changed tone, “You’ll have grand weather for your journey, Cornel. But you must mind the twa ferries, and no’ be late starting,”—a sudden reminder which broke up the little group, and made an end of the scene of leave-taking. It was the farewell volley of friendly animosity with which Rolls put a stop to his own perverse inclination to be softhearted over the departure of the English tenants. “He could not let us go without that parting shot,” the “Cornel” said, as he put his wife into the jingling “coach” from the station, which, every better vehicle having been sent off beforehand, was all that remained to carry them away.
The Barringtons during their residence at Dalrulzian had been received into the very heart of the rural society, in which at first there had sprung up a half-grudge against the almost unknown master of the place, whose coming was to deprive them of a family group so pleasant and so bright. The tenants themselves, though their turn was over, felt instinctively as if they were expelled for the benefit of our intruder, and entertained this grudge warmly. “Mr. Erskine might just as well have stayed away,” Nora said. “He can’t care about it as we do.” Her mother laughed and chid, and shared the sentiment. “But then it’s ‘his ain place,’ as old Rolls says.” “And I daresay he thinks there is twice as much shooting,” said the Colonel, complacently: “I did, when we came. He’ll be disappointed, you’ll see.” This gave him a faint sort of satisfaction. In Nora’s mind there was a different consolation, which yet was not a consolation, but a mixture of expectancy and curiosity, and that attraction which surrounds an unconscious enemy. She was going to make acquaintance with this supplanter, this innocent foe, who was turning them out of their home because it was his home—the most legitimate reason. She was about to pay a series of visits in the country, to the various neighbours, who were all fond
