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Fellow Townsmen
By
Thomas Hardy
Contents
The shepherd on the east hill could shout out
lambing intelligence to the shepherd on the west hill, over the intervening
town chimneys, without great inconvenience to his voice, so nearly did the
steep pastures encroach upon the burghers' backyards. And at night it was
possible to stand in the very midst of the town and hear from their native
paddocks on the lower levels of greensward the mild lowing of the farmer's
heifers, and the profound, warm blowings of breath in which those creatures
indulge. But the community which had jammed itself in the valley thus flank=
ed
formed a veritable town, with a real mayor and corporation, and a staple
manufacture.
During a certain damp evening five-and-thirty
years ago, before the twilight was far advanced, a pedestrian of profession=
al
appearance, carrying a small bag in his hand and an elevated umbrella, was
descending one of these hills by the turnpike road when he was overtaken by=
a
phaeton.
'Hullo, Downe--is that you?' said the driver of
the vehicle, a young man of pale and refined appearance. 'Jump up here with=
me,
and ride down to your door.'
The other turned a plump, cheery, rather
self-indulgent face over his shoulder towards the hailer.
'O, good evening, Mr. Barnet--thanks,' he said,
and mounted beside his acquaintance.
They were fellow-burgesses of the town which l=
ay
beneath them, but though old and very good friends, they were differently
circumstanced. Barnet was a richer man than the struggling young lawyer Dow=
ne,
a fact which was to some extent perceptible in Downe's manner towards his
companion, though nothing of it ever showed in Barnet's manner towards the
solicitor. Barnet's position in the town was none of his own making; his fa=
ther
had been a very successful flax-merchant in the same place, where the trade=
was
still carried on as briskly as the small capacities of its quarters would
allow. Having acquired a fair fortune, old Mr. Barnet had retired from
business, bringing up his son as a gentleman-burgher, and, it must be added=
, as
a well-educated, liberal-minded young man.
'How is Mrs. Barnet?' asked Downe.
'Mrs. Barnet was very well when I left home,' =
the
other answered constrainedly, exchanging his meditative regard of the horse=
for
one of self-consciousness.
Mr. Downe seemed to regret his inquiry, and
immediately took up another thread of conversation. He congratulated his fr=
iend
on his election as a council-man; he thought he had not seen him since that
event took place; Mrs. Downe had meant to call and congratulate Mrs. Barnet,
but he feared that she had failed to do so as yet.
Barnet seemed hampered in his replies. 'We sho=
uld
have been glad to see you. I--my wife would welcome Mrs. Downe at any time,=
as
you know . . . Yes, I am a member of the corporation--rather an inexperienc=
ed
member, some of them say. It is quite true; and I should have declined the
honour as premature--having other things on my hands just now, too--if it h=
ad
not been pressed upon me so very heartily.'
'There is one thing you have on your hands whi=
ch I
can never quite see the necessity for,' said Downe, with good-humoured free=
dom.
'What the deuce do you want to build that new mansion for, when you have
already got such an excellent house as the one you live in?'
Barnet's face acquired a warmer shade of colou=
r;
but as the question had been idly asked by the solicitor while regarding the
surrounding flocks and fields, he answered after a moment with no apparent
embarrassment -
'Well, we wanted to get out of the town, you k=
now:
the house I am living in is rather old and inconvenient.' Mr. Downe declared
that he had chosen a pretty site for the new building. They would be able to
see for miles and miles from the windows. Was he going to give it a name? He
supposed so.
Barnet thought not. There was no other house n=
ear
that was likely to be mistaken for it. And he did not care for a name.
'But I think it has a name!' Downe observed: 'I
went past--when was it?--this morning; and I saw something,--"Chateau
Ringdale," I think it was, stuck up on a board!'
'It was an idea she--we had for a short time,'
said Barnet hastily. 'But we have decided finally to do without a name--at =
any
rate such a name as that. It must have been a week ago that you saw it. It =
was
taken down last Saturday . . . Upon that matter I am firm!' he added grimly=
.
Downe murmured in an unconvinced tone that he
thought he had seen it yesterday.
Talking thus they drove into the town. The str=
eet
was unusually still for the hour of seven in the evening; an increasing dri=
zzle
had prevailed since the afternoon, and now formed a gauze across the yellow
lamps, and trickled with a gentle rattle down the heavy roofs of stone tile,
that bent the house-ridges hollow-backed with its weight, and in some insta=
nces
caused the walls to bulge outwards in the upper story. Their route took them
past the little town-hall, the Black-Bull Hotel, and onward to the junction=
of
a small street on the right, consisting of a row of those two-and-two windo=
wed
brick residences of no particular age, which are exactly alike wherever fou=
nd,
except in the people they contain.
'Wait--I'll drive you up to your door,' said
Barnet, when Downe prepared to alight at the corner. He thereupon turned in=
to
the narrow street, when the faces of three little girls could be discerned
close to the panes of a lighted window a few yards ahead, surmounted by tha=
t of
a young matron, the gaze of all four being directed eagerly up the empty
street. 'You are a fortunate fellow, Downe,' Barnet continued, as mother and
children disappeared from the window to run to the door. 'You must be happy=
if
any man is. I would give a hundred such houses as my new one to have a home
like yours.'
'Well--yes, we get along pretty comfortably,'
replied Downe complacently.
'That house, Downe, is none of my ordering,'
Barnet broke out, revealing a bitterness hitherto suppressed, and checking =
the
horse a moment to finish his speech before delivering up his passenger. 'The
house I have already is good enough for me, as you supposed. It is my own
freehold; it was built by my grandfather, and is stout enough for a castle.=
My
father was born there, lived there, and died there. I was born there, and h=
ave
always lived there; yet I must needs build a new one.'
'Why do you?' said Downe.
'Why do I? To preserve peace in the household.=
I
do anything for that; but I don't succeed. I was firm in resisting
"Chateau Ringdale," however; not that I would not have put up with
the absurdity of the name, but it was too much to have your house christened
after Lord Ringdale, because your wife once had a fancy for him. If you only
knew everything, you would think all attempt at reconciliation hopeless. In
your happy home you have had no such experiences; and God forbid that you e=
ver
should. See, here they are all ready to receive you!'
'Of course! And so will your wife be waiting to
receive you,' said Downe. 'Take my word for it she will! And with a dinner
prepared for you far better than mine.'
'I hope so,' Barnet replied dubiously.
He moved on to Downe's door, which the solicit=
or's
family had already opened. Downe descended, but being encumbered with his b=
ag
and umbrella, his foot slipped, and he fell upon his knees in the gutter.
'O, my dear Charles!' said his wife, running d=
own
the steps; and, quite ignoring the presence of Barnet, she seized hold of h=
er
husband, pulled him to his feet, and kissed him, exclaiming, 'I hope you are
not hurt, darling!' The children crowded round, chiming in piteously, 'Poor
papa!'
'He's all right,' said Barnet, perceiving that
Downe was only a little muddy, and looking more at the wife than at the
husband. Almost at any other time--certainly during his fastidious bachelor
years--he would have thought her a too demonstrative woman; but those recent
circumstances of his own life to which he had just alluded made Mrs. Downe's
solicitude so affecting that his eye grew damp as he witnessed it. Bidding =
the
lawyer and his family good-night he left them, and drove slowly into the ma=
in
street towards his own house.
The heart of Barnet was sufficiently
impressionable to be influenced by Downe's parting prophecy that he might n=
ot
be so unwelcome home as he imagined: the dreary night might, at least on th=
is
one occasion, make Downe's forecast true. Hence it was in a suspense that he
could hardly have believed possible that he halted at his door. On entering=
his
wife was nowhere to be seen, and he inquired for her. The servant informed =
him
that her mistress had the dressmaker with her, and would be engaged for some
time.
'Dressmaker at this time of day!'
'She dined early, sir, and hopes you will excu=
se
her joining you this evening.'
'But she knew I was coming to-night?'
'O yes, sir.'
'Go up and tell her I am come.'
The servant did so; but the mistress of the ho=
use
merely transmitted her former words.
Barnet said nothing more, and presently sat do=
wn
to his lonely meal, which was eaten abstractedly, the domestic scene he had
lately witnessed still impressing him by its contrast with the situation he=
re.
His mind fell back into past years upon a certain pleasing and gentle being
whose face would loom out of their shades at such times as these. Barnet tu=
rned
in his chair, and looked with unfocused eyes in a direction southward from
where he sat, as if he saw not the room but a long way beyond. 'I wonder if=
she
lives there still!' he said.
He rose with a sudden rebelliousness, put on h=
is
hat and coat, and went out of the house, pursuing his way along the glisten=
ing
pavement while eight o'clock was striking from St. Mary's tower, and the
apprentices and shopmen were slamming up the shutters from end to end of the
town. In two minutes only those shops which could boast of no attendant save
the master or the mistress remained with open eyes. These were ever somewhat
less prompt to exclude customers than the others: for their owners' ears the
closing hour had scarcely the cheerfulness that it possessed for the hired
servants of the rest. Yet the night being dreary the delay was not for long,
and their windows, too, blinked together one by one.
During this time Barnet had proceeded with dec=
ided
step in a direction at right angles to the broad main thoroughfare of the t=
own,
by a long street leading due southward. Here, though his family had no more=
to
do with the flax manufacture, his own name occasionally greeted him on gates
and warehouses, being used allusively by small rising tradesmen as a
recommendation, in such words as 'Smith, from Barnet & Co.'--'Robinson,
late manager at Barnet's.' The sight led him to reflect upon his father's b=
usy
life, and he questioned if it had not been far happier than his own.
The houses along the road became fewer, and
presently open ground appeared between them on either side, the track on the
right hand rising to a higher level till it merged in a knoll. On the summi=
t a
row of builders' scaffold-poles probed the indistinct sky like spears, and =
at
their bases could be discerned the lower courses of a building lately begun.
Barnet slackened his pace and stood for a few moments without leaving the
centre of the road, apparently not much interested in the sight, till sudde=
nly
his eye was caught by a post in the fore part of the ground bearing a white
board at the top. He went to the rails, vaulted over, and walked in far eno=
ugh
to discern painted upon the board 'Chateau Ringdale.'
A dismal irony seemed to lie in the words, and=
its
effect was to irritate him. Downe, then, had spoken truly. He stuck his
umbrella into the sod, and seized the post with both hands, as if intending=
to
loosen and throw it down. Then, like one bewildered by an opposition which
would exist none the less though its manifestations were removed, he allowed
his arms to sink to his side.
'Let it be,' he said to himself. 'I have decla=
red
there shall be peace--if possible.'
Taking up his umbrella he quietly left the
enclosure, and went on his way, still keeping his back to the town. He had
advanced with more decision since passing the new building, and soon a hoar=
se
murmur rose upon the gloom; it was the sound of the sea. The road led to the
harbour, at a distance of a mile from the town, from which the trade of the
district was fed. After seeing the obnoxious name-board Barnet had forgotte=
n to
open his umbrella, and the rain tapped smartly on his hat, and occasionally
stroked his face as he went on.
Though the lamps were still continued at the
roadside, they stood at wider intervals than before, and the pavement had g=
iven
place to common road. Every time he came to a lamp an increasing shine made
itself visible upon his shoulders, till at last they quite glistened with w=
et.
The murmur from the shore grew stronger, but it was still some distance off
when he paused before one of the smallest of the detached houses by the
wayside, standing in its own garden, the latter being divided from the road=
by
a row of wooden palings. Scrutinizing the spot to ensure that he was not
mistaken, he opened the gate and gently knocked at the cottage door.
When he had patiently waited minutes enough to
lead any man in ordinary cases to knock again, the door was heard to open,
though it was impossible to see by whose hand, there being no light in the
passage. Barnet said at random, 'Does Miss Savile live here?'
A youthful voice assured him that she did live
there, and by a sudden afterthought asked him to come in. It would soon get=
a
light, it said: but the night being wet, mother had not thought it worth wh=
ile
to trim the passage lamp.
'Don't trouble yourself to get a light for me,'
said Barnet hastily; 'it is not necessary at all. Which is Miss Savile's
sitting-room?'
The young person, whose white pinafore could j=
ust
be discerned, signified a door in the side of the passage, and Barnet went
forward at the same moment, so that no light should fall upon his face. On
entering the room he closed the door behind him, pausing till he heard the
retreating footsteps of the child.
He found himself in an apartment which was sim=
ply
and neatly, though not poorly furnished; everything, from the miniature
chiffonnier to the shining little daguerreotype which formed the central
ornament of the mantelpiece, being in scrupulous order. The picture was
enclosed by a frame of embroidered card-board--evidently the work of femini=
ne
hands--and it was the portrait of a thin faced, elderly lieutenant in the n=
avy.
From behind the lamp on the table a female form now rose into view, that of=
a
young girl, and a resemblance between her and the portrait was early
discoverable. She had been so absorbed in some occupation on the other side=
of
the lamp as to have barely found time to realize her visitor's presence.
They both remained standing for a few seconds
without speaking. The face that confronted Barnet had a beautiful outline; =
the
Raffaelesque oval of its contour was remarkable for an English countenance,=
and
that countenance housed in a remote country-road to an unheard-of harbour. =
But
her features did not do justice to this splendid beginning: Nature had
recollected that she was not in Italy; and the young lady's lineaments, tho=
ugh
not so inconsistent as to make her plain, would have been accepted rather as
pleasing than as correct. The preoccupied expression which, like images on =
the
retina, remained with her for a moment after the state that caused it had
ceased, now changed into a reserved, half-proud, and slightly indignant loo=
k,
in which the blood diffused itself quickly across her cheek, and additional
brightness broke the shade of her rather heavy eyes.
'I know I have no business here,' he said,
answering the look. 'But I had a great wish to see you, and inquire how you
were. You can give your hand to me, seeing how often I have held it in past
days?'
'I would rather forget than remember all that,=
Mr.
Barnet,' she answered, as she coldly complied with the request. 'When I thi=
nk
of the circumstances of our last meeting, I can hardly consider it kind of =
you
to allude to such a thing as our past--or, indeed, to come here at all.'
'There was no harm in it surely? I don't troub=
le
you often, Lucy.'
'I have not had the honour of a visit from you=
for
a very long time, certainly, and I did not expect it now,' she said, with t=
he
same stiffness in her air. 'I hope Mrs. Barnet is very well?'
'Yes, yes!' he impatiently returned. 'At least=
I
suppose so--though I only speak from inference!'
'But she is your wife, sir,' said the young gi=
rl
tremulously.
The unwonted tones of a man's voice in that
feminine chamber had startled a canary that was roosting in its cage by the
window; the bird awoke hastily, and fluttered against the bars. She went and
stilled it by laying her face against the cage and murmuring a coaxing soun=
d.
It might partly have been done to still herself.
'I didn't come to talk of Mrs. Barnet,' he
pursued; 'I came to talk of you, of yourself alone; to inquire how you are
getting on since your great loss.' And he turned towards the portrait of her
father.
'I am getting on fairly well, thank you.'
The force of her utterance was scarcely borne =
out
by her look; but Barnet courteously reproached himself for not having guess=
ed a
thing so natural; and to dissipate all embarrassment, added, as he bent over
the table, 'What were you doing when I came?--painting flowers, and by
candlelight?'
'O no,' she said, 'not painting them--only
sketching the outlines. I do that at night to save time--I have to get three
dozen done by the end of the month.'
Barnet looked as if he regretted it deeply. 'Y=
ou
will wear your poor eyes out,' he said, with more sentiment than he had
hitherto shown. 'You ought not to do it. There was a time when I should have
said you must not. Well--I almost wish I had never seen light with my own e=
yes
when I think of that!'
'Is this a time or place for recalling such
matters?' she asked, with dignity. 'You used to have a gentlemanly respect =
for
me, and for yourself. Don't speak any more as you have spoken, and don't co=
me
again. I cannot think that this visit is serious, or was closely considered=
by
you.'
'Considered: well, I came to see you as an old=
and
good friend--not to mince matters, to visit a woman I loved. Don't be angry=
! I
could not help doing it, so many things brought you into my mind . . . This
evening I fell in with an acquaintance, and when I saw how happy he was with
his wife and family welcoming him home, though with only one-tenth of my in=
come
and chances, and thought what might have been in my case, it fairly broke d=
own
my discretion, and off I came here. Now I am here I feel that I am wrong to
some extent. But the feeling that I should like to see you, and talk of tho=
se
we used to know in common, was very strong.'
'Before that can be the case a little more time
must pass,' said Miss Savile quietly; 'a time long enough for me to regard =
with
some calmness what at present I remember far too impatiently--though it may=
be
you almost forget it. Indeed you must have forgotten it long before you act=
ed
as you did.' Her voice grew stronger and more vivacious as she added: 'But =
I am
doing my best to forget it too, and I know I shall succeed from the progres=
s I
have made already!'
She had remained standing till now, when she
turned and sat down, facing half away from him.
Barnet watched her moodily. 'Yes, it is only w=
hat
I deserve,' he said. 'Ambition pricked me on--no, it was not ambition, it w=
as
wrongheadedness! Had I but reflected . . . ' He broke out vehemently: 'But =
always
remember this, Lucy: if you had written to me only one little line after th=
at
misunderstanding, I declare I should have come back to you. That ruined me!=
' he
slowly walked as far as the little room would allow him to go, and remained
with his eyes on the skirting.
'But, Mr. Barnet, how could I write to you? Th=
ere
was no opening for my doing so.'
'Then there ought to have been,' said Barnet,
turning. 'That was my fault!'
'Well, I don't know anything about that; but as
there had been nothing said by me which required any explanation by letter,=
I
did not send one. Everything was so indefinite, and feeling your position t=
o be
so much wealthier than mine, I fancied I might have mistaken your meaning. =
And
when I heard of the other lady--a woman of whose family even you might be
proud--I thought how foolish I had been, and said nothing.'
'Then I suppose it was destiny--accident--I do=
n't
know what, that separated us, dear Lucy. Anyhow you were the woman I ought =
to
have made my wife--and I let you slip, like the foolish man that I was!'
'O, Mr. Barnet,' she said, almost in tears, 'd=
on't
revive the subject to me; I am the wrong one to console you--think, sir,--y=
ou
should not be here--it would be so bad for me if it were known!'
'It would--it would, indeed,' he said hastily.=
'I
am not right in doing this, and I won't do it again.'
'It is a very common folly of human nature, you
know, to think the course you did not adopt must have been the best,' she
continued, with gentle solicitude, as she followed him to the door of the r=
oom.
'And you don't know that I should have accepted you, even if you had asked =
me
to be your wife.' At this his eye met hers, and she dropped her gaze. She k=
new
that her voice belied her. There was a silence till she looked up to add, i=
n a
voice of soothing playfulness, 'My family was so much poorer than yours, ev=
en
before I lost my dear father, that--perhaps your companions would have made=
it
unpleasant for us on account of my deficiencies.'
'Your disposition would soon have won them rou=
nd,'
said Barnet.
She archly expostulated: 'Now, never mind my
disposition; try to make it up with your wife! Those are my commands to you.
And now you are to leave me at once.'
'I will. I must make the best of it all, I
suppose,' he replied, more cheerfully than he had as yet spoken. 'But I sha=
ll
never again meet with such a dear girl as you!' And he suddenly opened the
door, and left her alone. When his glance again fell on the lamps that were
sparsely ranged along the dreary level road, his eyes were in a state which
showed straw- like motes of light radiating from each flame into the
surrounding air.
On the other side of the way Barnet observed a=
man
under an umbrella, walking parallel with himself. Presently this man left t=
he
footway, and gradually converged on Barnet's course. The latter then saw th=
at
it was Charlson, a surgeon of the town, who owed him money. Charlson was a =
man
not without ability; yet he did not prosper. Sundry circumstances stood in =
his
way as a medical practitioner: he was needy; he was not a coddle; he gossip=
ed
with men instead of with women; he had married a stranger instead of one of=
the
town young ladies; and he was given to conversational buffoonery. Moreover,=
his
look was quite erroneous. Those only proper features in the family doctor, =
the
quiet eye, and the thin straight passionless lips which never curl in public
either for laughter or for scorn, were not his; he had a full-curved mouth,=
and
a bold black eye that made timid people nervous. His companions were what in
old times would have been called boon companions--an expression which, thou=
gh
of irreproachable root, suggests fraternization carried to the point of
unscrupulousness. All this was against him in the little town of his adopti=
on.
Charlson had been in difficulties, and to obli=
ge
him Barnet had put his name to a bill; and, as he had expected, was called =
upon
to meet it when it fell due. It had been only a matter of fifty pounds, whi=
ch
Barnet could well afford to lose, and he bore no ill-will to the thriftless=
surgeon
on account of it. But Charlson had a little too much brazen indifferentism =
in
his composition to be altogether a desirable acquaintance.
'I hope to be able to make that little
bill-business right with you in the course of three weeks, Mr. Barnet,' said
Charlson with hail-fellow friendliness.
Barnet replied good-naturedly that there was no
hurry.
This particular three weeks had moved on in
advance of Charlson's present with the precision of a shadow for some
considerable time.
'I've had a dream,' Charlson continued. Barnet
knew from his tone that the surgeon was going to begin his characteristic
nonsense, and did not encourage him. 'I've had a dream,' repeated Charlson,=
who
required no encouragement. 'I dreamed that a gentleman, who has been very k=
ind to
me, married a haughty lady in haste, before he had quite forgotten a nice
little girl he knew before, and that one wet evening, like the present, as I
was walking up the harbour-road, I saw him come out of that dear little gir=
l's
present abode.'
Barnet glanced towards the speaker. The rays f=
rom
a neighbouring lamp struck through the drizzle under Charlson's umbrella, s=
o as
just to illumine his face against the shade behind, and show that his eye w=
as
turned up under the outer corner of its lid, whence it leered with impish
jocoseness as he thrust his tongue into his cheek.
'Come,' said Barnet gravely, 'we'll have no mo=
re
of that.'
'No, no--of course not,' Charlson hastily
answered, seeing that his humour had carried him too far, as it had done ma=
ny
times before. He was profuse in his apologies, but Barnet did not reply. Of=
one
thing he was certain--that scandal was a plant of quick root, and that he w=
as
bound to obey Lucy's injunction for Lucy's own sake.
He did so, to the letter; and though, as the
crocus followed the snowdrop and the daffodil the crocus in Lucy's garden, =
the
harbour-road was a not unpleasant place to walk in, Barnet's feet never trod
its stones, much less approached her door. He avoided a saunter that way as=
he
would have avoided a dangerous dram, and took his airings a long distance
northward, among severely square and brown ploughed fields, where no other
townsman came. Sometimes he went round by the lower lanes of the borough, w=
here
the rope-walks stretched in which his family formerly had share, and looked=
at
the rope-makers walking backwards, overhung by apple-trees and bushes, and
intruded on by cows and calves, as if trade had established itself there at
considerable inconvenience to Nature.
One morning, when the sun was so warm as to ra=
ise
a steam from the south- eastern slopes of those flanking hills that looked =
so
lovely above the old roofs, but made every low-chimneyed house in the town =
as
smoky as Tophet, Barnet glanced from the windows of the town-council room f=
or
lack of interest in what was proceeding within. Several members of the
corporation were present, but there was not much business doing, and in a f=
ew
minutes Downe came leisurely across to him, saying that he seldom saw Barnet
now.
Barnet owned that he was not often present.
Downe looked at the crimson curtain which hung
down beside the panes, reflecting its hot hues into their faces, and then o=
ut
of the window. At that moment there passed along the street a tall commandi=
ng
lady, in whom the solicitor recognized Barnet's wife. Barnet had done the s=
ame
thing, and turned away.
'It will be all right some day,' said Downe, w=
ith
cheering sympathy.
'You have heard, then, of her last outbreak?'<= o:p>
Downe depressed his cheerfulness to its very
reverse in a moment. 'No, I have not heard of anything serious,' he said, w=
ith
as long a face as one naturally round could be turned into at short notice.=
'I
only hear vague reports of such things.'
'You may think it will be all right,' said Bar=
net
drily. 'But I have a different opinion . . . No, Downe, we must look the th=
ing
in the face. Not poppy nor mandragora--however, how are your wife and
children?'
Downe said that they were all well, thanks; th=
ey
were out that morning somewhere; he was just looking to see if they were
walking that way. Ah, there they were, just coming down the street; and Dow=
ne
pointed to the figures of two children with a nursemaid, and a lady walking
behind them.
'You will come out and speak to her?' he asked=
.
'Not this morning. The fact is I don't care to
speak to anybody just now.'
'You are too sensitive, Mr. Barnet. At school I
remember you used to get as red as a rose if anybody uttered a word that hu=
rt
your feelings.'
Barnet mused. 'Yes,' he admitted, 'there is a
grain of truth in that. It is because of that I often try to make peace at
home. Life would be tolerable then at any rate, even if not particularly
bright.'
'I have thought more than once of proposing a
little plan to you,' said Downe with some hesitation. 'I don't know whether=
it
will meet your views, but take it or leave it, as you choose. In fact, it w=
as
my wife who suggested it: that she would be very glad to call on Mrs. Barnet
and get into her confidence. She seems to think that Mrs. Barnet is rather
alone in the town, and without advisers. Her impression is that your wife w=
ill
listen to reason. Emily has a wonderful way of winning the hearts of people=
of
her own sex.'
'And of the other sex too, I think. She is a
charming woman, and you were a lucky fellow to find her.'
'Well, perhaps I was,' simpered Downe, trying =
to
wear an aspect of being the last man in the world to feel pride. 'However, =
she
will be likely to find out what ruffles Mrs. Barnet. Perhaps it is some
misunderstanding, you know--something that she is too proud to ask you to
explain, or some little thing in your conduct that irritates her because she
does not fully comprehend you. The truth is, Emily would have been more rea=
dy
to make advances if she had been quite sure of her fitness for Mrs. Barnet's
society, who has of course been accustomed to London people of good positio=
n,
which made Emily fearful of intruding.'
Barnet expressed his warmest thanks for the
well-intentioned proposition. There was reason in Mrs. Downe's fear--that he
owned. 'But do let her call,' he said. 'There is no woman in England I woul=
d so
soon trust on such an errand. I am afraid there will not be any brilliant
result; still I shall take it as the kindest and nicest thing if she will t=
ry
it, and not be frightened at a repulse.'
When Barnet and Downe had parted, the former w=
ent
to the Town Savings- Bank, of which he was a trustee, and endeavoured to fo=
rget
his troubles in the contemplation of low sums of money, and figures in a
network of red and blue lines. He sat and watched the working-people making
their deposits, to which at intervals he signed his name. Before he left in=
the
afternoon Downe put his head inside the door.
'Emily has seen Mrs. Barnet,' he said, in a low
voice. 'She has got Mrs. Barnet's promise to take her for a drive down to t=
he
shore to-morrow, if it is fine. Good afternoon!'
Barnet shook Downe by the hand without speakin=
g,
and Downe went away.
The next day was as fine as the arrangement co=
uld
possibly require. As the sun passed the meridian and declined westward, the
tall shadows from the scaffold-poles of Barnet's rising residence streaked =
the
ground as far as to the middle of the highway. Barnet himself was there
inspecting the progress of the works for the first time during several week=
s. A
building in an old-fashioned town five-and-thirty years ago did not, as in =
the
modern fashion, rise from the sod like a booth at a fair. The foundations a=
nd
lower courses were put in and allowed to settle for many weeks before the
superstructure was built up, and a whole summer of drying was hardly suffic=
ient
to do justice to the important issues involved. Barnet stood within a
window-niche which had as yet received no frame, and thence looked down a s=
lope
into the road. The wheels of a chaise were heard, and then his handsome
Xantippe, in the company of Mrs. Downe, drove past on their way to the shor=
e.
They were driving slowly; there was a pleasing light in Mrs. Downe's face,
which seemed faintly to reflect itself upon the countenance of her
companion--that politesse du coeur which was so natural to her having possi=
bly
begun already to work results. But whatever the situation, Barnet resolved =
not
to interfere, or do anything to hazard the promise of the day. He might well
afford to trust the issue to another when he could never direct it but to i=
ll
himself. His wife's clenched rein-hand in its lemon-coloured glove, her sti=
ff
erect figure, clad in velvet and lace, and her boldly-outlined face, passed=
on,
exhibiting their owner as one fixed for ever above the level of her
companion--socially by her early breeding, and materially by her higher
cushion.
Barnet decided to allow them a proper time to
themselves, and then stroll down to the shore and drive them home. After
lingering on at the house for another hour he started with this intention. A
few hundred yards below 'Chateau Ringdale' stood the cottage in which the l=
ate
lieutenant's daughter had her lodging. Barnet had not been so far that way =
for
a long time, and as he approached the forbidden ground a curious warmth pas=
sed
into him, which led him to perceive that, unless he were careful, he might =
have
to fight the battle with himself about Lucy over again. A tenth of his pres=
ent
excuse would, however, have justified him in travelling by that road to-day=
.
He came opposite the dwelling, and turned his =
eyes
for a momentary glance into the little garden that stretched from the palin=
gs
to the door. Lucy was in the enclosure; she was walking and stooping to gat=
her
some flowers, possibly for the purpose of painting them, for she moved about
quickly, as if anxious to save time. She did not see him; he might have pas=
sed
unnoticed; but a sensation which was not in strict unison with his previous
sentiments that day led him to pause in his walk and watch her. She went ni=
mbly
round and round the beds of anemones, tulips, jonquils, polyanthuses, and o=
ther
old-fashioned flowers, looking a very charming figure in her half-mourning
bonnet, and with an incomplete nosegay in her left hand. Raising herself to
pull down a lilac blossom she observed him.
'Mr. Barnet!' she said, innocently smiling. 'W=
hy,
I have been thinking of you many times since Mrs. Barnet went by in the
pony-carriage, and now here you are!'
'Yes, Lucy,' he said.
Then she seemed to recall particulars of their
last meeting, and he believed that she flushed, though it might have been o=
nly
the fancy of his own supersensitivenesss.
'I am going to the harbour,' he added.
'Are you?' Lucy remarked simply. 'A great many
people begin to go there now the summer is drawing on.'
Her face had come more into his view as she sp=
oke,
and he noticed how much thinner and paler it was than when he had seen it l=
ast.
'Lucy, how weary you look! tell me, can I help you?' he was going to cry
out.--'If I do,' he thought, 'it will be the ruin of us both!' He merely sa=
id
that the afternoon was fine, and went on his way.
As he went a sudden blast of air came over the
hill as if in contradiction to his words, and spoilt the previous quiet of =
the
scene. The wind had already shifted violently, and now smelt of the sea.
The harbour-road soon began to justify its nam=
e. A
gap appeared in the rampart of hills which shut out the sea, and on the lef=
t of
the opening rose a vertical cliff, coloured a burning orange by the sunligh=
t,
the companion cliff on the right being livid in shade. Between these cliffs,
like the Libyan bay which sheltered the shipwrecked Trojans, was a little
haven, seemingly a beginning made by Nature herself of a perfect harbour, w=
hich
appealed to the passer-by as only requiring a little human industry to fini=
sh
it and make it famous, the ground on each side as far back as the daisied
slopes that bounded the interior valley being a mere layer of blown sand. B=
ut
the Port-Bredy burgesses a mile inland had, in the course of ten centuries,=
responded
many times to that mute appeal, with the result that the tides had invariab=
ly
choked up their works with sand and shingle as soon as completed. There were
but few houses here: a rough pier, a few boats, some stores, an inn, a
residence or two, a ketch unloading in the harbour, were the chief features=
of
the settlement. On the open ground by the shore stood his wife's pony-carri=
age,
empty, the boy in attendance holding the horse.
When Barnet drew nearer, he saw an indigo-colo=
ured
spot moving swiftly along beneath the radiant base of the eastern cliff, wh=
ich
proved to be a man in a jersey, running with all his might. He held up his =
hand
to Barnet, as it seemed, and they approached each other. The man was local,=
but
a stranger to him.
'What is it, my man?' said Barnet.
'A terrible calamity!' the boatman hastily
explained. Two ladies had been capsized in a boat--they were Mrs. Downe and
Mrs. Barnet of the old town; they had driven down there that afternoon--they
had alighted, and it was so fine, that, after walking about a little while,
they had been tempted to go out for a short sail round the cliff. Just as t=
hey
were putting in to the shore, the wind shifted with a sudden gust, the boat
listed over, and it was thought they were both drowned. How it could have
happened was beyond his mind to fathom, for John Green knew how to sail a b=
oat
as well as any man there.
'Which is the way to the place?' said Barnet.<= o:p>
It was just round the cliff.
'Run to the carriage and tell the boy to bring=
it
to the place as soon as you can. Then go to the Harbour Inn and tell them to
ride to town for a doctor. Have they been got out of the water?'
'One lady has.'
'Which?'
'Mrs. Barnet. Mrs. Downe, it is feared, has
fleeted out to sea.'
Barnet ran on to that part of the shore which =
the
cliff had hitherto obscured from his view, and there discerned, a long way
ahead, a group of fishermen standing. As soon as he came up one or two
recognized him, and, not liking to meet his eye, turned aside with misgivin=
g.
He went amidst them and saw a small sailing-boat lying draggled at the wate=
r's
edge; and, on the sloping shingle beside it, a soaked and sandy woman's for=
m in
the velvet dress and yellow gloves of his wife.
All had been done that could be done. Mrs. Bar=
net
was in her own house under medical hands, but the result was still uncertai=
n.
Barnet had acted as if devotion to his wife were the dominant passion of his
existence. There had been much to decide--whether to attempt restoration of=
the
apparently lifeless body as it lay on the shore--whether to carry her to the
Harbour Inn--whether to drive with her at once to his own house. The first
course, with no skilled help or appliances near at hand, had seemed hopeles=
s.
The second course would have occupied nearly as much time as a drive to the
town, owing to the intervening ridges of shingle, and the necessity of cros=
sing
the harbour by boat to get to the house, added to which much time must have
elapsed before a doctor could have arrived down there. By bringing her home=
in
the carriage some precious moments had slipped by; but she had been laid in=
her
own bed in seven minutes, a doctor called to her side, and every possible
restorative brought to bear upon her.
At what a tearing pace he had driven up that r=
oad,
through the yellow evening sunlight, the shadows flapping irksomely into his
eyes as each wayside object rushed past between him and the west! Tired wor=
kmen
with their baskets at their backs had turned on their homeward journey to
wonder at his speed. Halfway between the shore and Port-Bredy town he had m=
et
Charlson, who had been the first surgeon to hear of the accident. He was
accompanied by his assistant in a gig. Barnet had sent on the latter to the
coast in case that Downe's poor wife should by that time have been reclaimed
from the waves, and had brought Charlson back with him to the house.
Barnet's presence was not needed here, and he =
felt
it to be his next duty to set off at once and find Downe, that no other than
himself might break the news to him.
He was quite sure that no chance had been lost=
for
Mrs. Downe by his leaving the shore. By the time that Mrs. Barnet had been =
laid
in the carriage, a much larger group had assembled to lend assistance in
finding her friend, rendering his own help superfluous. But the duty of
breaking the news was made doubly painful by the circumstance that the
catastrophe which had befallen Mrs. Downe was solely the result of her own =
and
her husband's loving-kindness towards himself.
He found Downe in his office. When the solicit=
or
comprehended the intelligence he turned pale, stood up, and remained for a
moment perfectly still, as if bereft of his faculties; then his shoulders
heaved, he pulled out his handkerchief and began to cry like a child. His s=
obs
might have been heard in the next room. He seemed to have no idea of going =
to
the shore, or of doing anything; but when Barnet took him gently by the hand
and proposed to start at once, he quietly acquiesced, neither uttering any
further word nor making any effort to repress his tears.
Barnet accompanied him to the shore, where,
finding that no trace had as yet been seen of Mrs. Downe, and that his stay
would be of no avail, he left Downe with his friends and the young doctor, =
and
once more hastened back to his own house.
At the door he met Charlson. 'Well!' Barnet sa=
id.
'I have just come down,' said the doctor; 'we =
have
done everything, but without result. I sympathize with you in your
bereavement.'
Barnet did not much appreciate Charlson's
sympathy, which sounded to his ears as something of a mockery from the lips=
of
a man who knew what Charlson knew about their domestic relations. Indeed th=
ere
seemed an odd spark in Charlson's full black eye as he said the words; but =
that
might have been imaginary.
'And, Mr. Barnet,' Charlson resumed, 'that lit=
tle
matter between us--I hope to settle it finally in three weeks at least.'
'Never mind that now,' said Barnet abruptly. He
directed the surgeon to go to the harbour in case his services might even n=
ow
be necessary there: and himself entered the house.
The servants were coming from his wife's chamb=
er,
looking helplessly at each other and at him. He passed them by and entered =
the
room, where he stood mutely regarding the bed for a few minutes, after whic=
h he
walked into his own dressing-room adjoining, and there paced up and down. I=
n a
minute or two he noticed what a strange and total silence had come over the
upper part of the house; his own movements, muffled as they were by the car=
pet,
seemed noisy, and his thoughts to disturb the air like articulate utterance=
s.
His eye glanced through the window. Far down the road to the harbour a roof
detained his gaze: out of it rose a red chimney, and out of the red chimney=
a
curl of smoke, as from a fire newly kindled. He had often seen such a sight
before. In that house lived Lucy Savile; and the smoke was from the fire wh=
ich
was regularly lighted at this time to make her tea.
After that he went back to the bedroom, and st=
ood
there some time regarding his wife's silent form. She was a woman some years
older than himself, but had not by any means overpassed the maturity of good
looks and vigour. Her passionate features, well-defined, firm, and statuesq=
ue
in life, were doubly so now: her mouth and brow, beneath her purplish black
hair, showed only too clearly that the turbulency of character which had ma=
de a
bear-garden of his house had been no temporary phase of her existence. Whil=
e he
reflected, he suddenly said to himself, I wonder if all has been done?
The thought was led up to by his having fancied
that his wife's features lacked in its complete form the expression which he
had been accustomed to associate with the faces of those whose spirits have
fled for ever. The effacement of life was not so marked but that, entering
uninformed, he might have supposed her sleeping. Her complexion was that se=
en
in the numerous faded portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds; it was pallid in
comparison with life, but there was visible on a close inspection the remna=
nt
of what had once been a flush; the keeping between the cheeks and the hollo=
ws
of the face being thus preserved, although positive colour was gone. Long
orange rays of evening sun stole in through chinks in the blind, striking on
the large mirror, and being thence reflected upon the crimson hangings and
woodwork of the heavy bedstead, so that the general tone of light was
remarkably warm; and it was probable that something might be due to this
circumstance. Still the fact impressed him as strange. Charlson had been go=
ne
more than a quarter of an hour: could it be possible that he had left too s=
oon,
and that his attempts to restore her had operated so sluggishly as only now=
to
have made themselves felt? Barnet laid his hand upon her chest, and fancied
that ever and anon a faint flutter of palpitation, gentle as that of a
butterfly's wing, disturbed the stillness there--ceasing for a time, then
struggling to go on, then breaking down in weakness and ceasing again.
Barnet's mother had been an active practitione=
r of
the healing art among her poorer neighbours, and her inspirations had all b=
een
derived from an octavo volume of Domestic Medicine, which at this moment was
lying, as it had lain for many years, on a shelf in Barnet's dressing-room.=
He
hastily fetched it, and there read under the head 'Drowning:'-
'Exertions for the recovery of any person who has not been immersed<= o:p>
for a longer period than half-an-hour should be continued for at lea=
st
four hours, as there have been many cases in which returning life ha=
s
made itself visible even after a longer interval. 'Should, however, a weak act=
ion of
any of the organs show itself when
the case seems almost hopeless, our efforts must be redoubled; the
feeble spark in this case requires to be solicited; it will certainl=
y
disappear under a relaxation of labour.'
Barnet looked at his watch; it was now barely =
two
hours and a half from the time when he had first heard of the accident. He
threw aside the book and turned quickly to reach a stimulant which had
previously been used. Pulling up the blind for more light, his eye glanced =
out
of the window. There he saw that red chimney still smoking cheerily, and th=
at
roof, and through the roof that somebody. His mechanical movements stopped,=
his
hand remained on the blind-cord, and he seemed to become breathless, as if =
he
had suddenly found himself treading a high rope.
While he stood a sparrow lighted on the
windowsill, saw him, and flew away. Next a man and a dog walked over one of=
the
green hills which bulged above the roofs of the town. But Barnet took no
notice.
We may wonder what were the exact images that
passed through his mind during those minutes of gazing upon Lucy Savile's
house, the sparrow, the man and the dog, and Lucy Savile's house again. The=
re
are honest men who will not admit to their thoughts, even as idle hypothese=
s,
views of the future that assume as done a deed which they would recoil from
doing; and there are other honest men for whom morality ends at the surface=
of
their own heads, who will deliberate what the first will not so much as
suppose. Barnet had a wife whose pretence distracted his home; she now lay =
as
in death; by merely doing nothing--by letting the intelligence which had go=
ne
forth to the world lie undisturbed--he would effect such a deliverance for
himself as he had never hoped for, and open up an opportunity of which till=
now
he had never dreamed. Whether the conjuncture had arisen through any
unscrupulous, ill-considered impulse of Charlson to help out of a strait the
friend who was so kind as never to press him for what was due could not be
told; there was nothing to prove it; and it was a question which could neve=
r be
asked. The triangular situation--himself--his wife--Lucy Savile--was the one
clear thing.
From Barnet's actions we may infer that he
supposed such and such a result, for a moment, but did not deliberate. He
withdrew his hazel eyes from the scene without, calmly turned, rang the bell
for assistance, and vigorously exerted himself to learn if life still linge=
red
in that motionless frame. In a short time another surgeon was in attendance;
and then Barnet's surmise proved to be true. The slow life timidly heaved
again; but much care and patience were needed to catch and retain it, and a
considerable period elapsed before it could be said with certainty that Mrs.
Barnet lived. When this was the case, and there was no further room for dou=
bt,
Barnet left the chamber. The blue evening smoke from Lucy's chimney had died
down to an imperceptible stream, and as he walked about downstairs he murmu=
red
to himself, 'My wife was dead, and she is alive again.'
It was not so with Downe. After three hours'
immersion his wife's body had been recovered, life, of course, being quite
extinct. Barnet on descending, went straight to his friend's house, and the=
re
learned the result. Downe was helpless in his wild grief, occasionally even
hysterical. Barnet said little, but finding that some guiding hand was
necessary in the sorrow-stricken household, took upon him to supervise and
manage till Downe should be in a state of mind to do so for himself.
One September evening, four months later, when
Mrs. Barnet was in perfect health, and Mrs. Downe but a weakening memory, an
errand-boy paused to rest himself in front of Mr. Barnet's old house,
depositing his basket on one of the window-sills. The street was not yet
lighted, but there were lights in the house, and at intervals a flitting sh=
adow
fell upon the blind at his elbow. Words also were audible from the same
apartment, and they seemed to be those of persons in violent altercation. B=
ut
the boy could not gather their purport, and he went on his way.
Ten minutes afterwards the door of Barnet's ho=
use
opened, and a tall closely-veiled lady in a travelling-dress came out and
descended the freestone steps. The servant stood in the doorway watching he=
r as
she went with a measured tread down the street. When she had been out of si=
ght
for some minutes Barnet appeared at the door from within.
'Did your mistress leave word where she was
going?' he asked.
'No, sir.'
'Is the carriage ordered to meet her anywhere?=
'
'No, sir.'
'Did she take a latch-key?'
'No, sir.'
Barnet went in again, sat down in his chair, a=
nd
leaned back. Then in solitude and silence he brooded over the bitter emotio=
ns
that filled his heart. It was for this that he had gratuitously restored he=
r to
life, and made his union with another impossible! The evening drew on, and
nobody came to disturb him. At bedtime he told the servants to retire, that=
he
would sit up for Mrs. Barnet himself; and when they were gone he leaned his
head upon his hand and mused for hours.
The clock struck one, two; still his wife came
not, and, with impatience added to depression, he went from room to room ti=
ll
another weary hour had passed. This was not altogether a new experience for
Barnet; but she had never before so prolonged her absence. At last he sat d=
own
again and fell asleep.
He awoke at six o'clock to find that she had n= ot returned. In searching about the rooms he discovered that she had taken a c= ase of jewels which had been hers before her marriage. At eight a note was brou= ght him; it was from his wife, in which she stated that she had gone by the coa= ch to the house of a distant relative near London, and expressed a wish that certain boxes, articles of clothing, and so on, might be sent to her forthw= ith. The note was brought to him by a waiter at the Black-Bull Hotel, and had be= en written by Mrs. Barnet immediately before she took her place in the stage.<= o:p>
By the evening this order was carried out, and
Barnet, with a sense of relief, walked out into the town. A fair had been h=
eld
during the day, and the large clear moon which rose over the most prominent
hill flung its light upon the booths and standings that still remained in t=
he
street, mixing its rays curiously with those from the flaring naphtha lamps.
The town was full of country-people who had come in to enjoy themselves, an=
d on
this account Barnet strolled through the streets unobserved. With a certain
recklessness he made for the harbour-road, and presently found himself by t=
he
shore, where he walked on till he came to the spot near which his friend the
kindly Mrs. Downe had lost her life, and his own wife's life had been
preserved. A tremulous pathway of bright moonshine now stretched over the w=
ater
which had engulfed them, and not a living soul was near.
Here he ruminated on their characters, and nex=
t on
the young girl in whom he now took a more sensitive interest than at the ti=
me
when he had been free to marry her. Nothing, so far as he was aware, had ev=
er
appeared in his own conduct to show that such an interest existed. He had m=
ade
it a point of the utmost strictness to hinder that feeling from influencing=
in
the faintest degree his attitude towards his wife; and this was made all the
more easy for him by the small demand Mrs. Barnet made upon his attentions,=
for
which she ever evinced the greatest contempt; thus unwittingly giving him t=
he
satisfaction of knowing that their severance owed nothing to jealousy, or,
indeed, to any personal behaviour of his at all. Her concern was not with h=
im
or his feelings, as she frequently told him; but that she had, in a moment =
of
weakness, thrown herself away upon a common burgher when she might have aim=
ed
at, and possibly brought down, a peer of the realm. Her frequent depreciati=
on
of Barnet in these terms had at times been so intense that he was sorely
tempted to retaliate on her egotism by owning that he loved at the same low
level on which he lived; but prudence had prevailed, for which he was now
thankful.
Something seemed to sound upon the shingle beh=
ind
him over and above the raking of the wave. He looked round, and a slight
girlish shape appeared quite close to him, He could not see her face becaus=
e it
was in the direction of the moon.
'Mr. Barnet?' the rambler said, in timid surpr=
ise.
The voice was the voice of Lucy Savile.
'Yes,' said Barnet. 'How can I repay you for t=
his
pleasure?'
'I only came because the night was so clear. I=
am
now on my way home.'
'I am glad we have met. I want to know if you =
will
let me do something for you, to give me an occupation, as an idle man? I am
sure I ought to help you, for I know you are almost without friends.'
She hesitated. 'Why should you tell me that?' =
she
said.
'In the hope that you will be frank with me.'<= o:p>
'I am not altogether without friends here. But=
I
am going to make a little change in my life--to go out as a teacher of free=
hand
drawing and practical perspective, of course I mean on a comparatively humb=
le
scale, because I have not been specially educated for that profession. But =
I am
sure I shall like it much.'
'You have an opening?'
'I have not exactly got it, but I have adverti=
sed
for one.'
'Lucy, you must let me help you!'
'Not at all.'
'You need not think it would compromise you, or
that I am indifferent to delicacy. I bear in mind how we stand. It is very
unlikely that you will succeed as teacher of the class you mention, so let =
me
do something of a different kind for you. Say what you would like, and it s=
hall
be done.'
'No; if I can't be a drawing-mistress or gover=
ness,
or something of that sort, I shall go to India and join my brother.'
'I wish I could go abroad, anywhere, everywhere
with you, Lucy, and leave this place and its associations for ever!'
She played with the end of her bonnet-string, = and hastily turned aside. 'Don't ever touch upon that kind of topic again,' she said, with a quick severity not free from anger. 'It simply makes it imposs= ible for me to see you, much less receive any guidance from you. No, thank you, = Mr. Barnet; you can do nothing for me at present; and as I suppose my uncertain= ty will end in my leaving for India, I fear you never will. If ever I think you can do anything, I will take the trouble to ask you. Till then, good-bye.'<= o:p>
The tone of her latter words was equivocal, and
while he remained in doubt whether a gentle irony was or was not inwrought =
with
their sound, she swept lightly round and left him alone. He saw her form get
smaller and smaller along the damp belt of sea-sand between ebb and flood; =
and
when she had vanished round the cliff into the harbour-road, he himself
followed in the same direction.
That her hopes from an advertisement should be=
the
single thread which held Lucy Savile in England was too much for Barnet. On
reaching the town he went straight to the residence of Downe, now a widower
with four children. The young motherless brood had been sent to bed about a
quarter of an hour earlier, and when Barnet entered he found Downe sitting
alone. It was the same room as that from which the family had been looking =
out for
Downe at the beginning of the year, when Downe had slipped into the gutter =
and
his wife had been so enviably tender towards him. The old neatness had gone
from the house; articles lay in places which could show no reason for their
presence, as if momentarily deposited there some months ago, and forgotten =
ever
since; there were no flowers; things were jumbled together on the furniture
which should have been in cupboards; and the place in general had that
stagnant, unrenovated air which usually pervades the maimed home of the
widower.
Downe soon renewed his customary full-worded
lament over his wife, and even when he had worked himself up to tears, went=
on
volubly, as if a listener were a luxury to be enjoyed whenever he could be
caught.
'She was a treasure beyond compare, Mr. Barnet=
! I
shall never see such another. Nobody now to nurse me--nobody to console me =
in
those daily troubles, you know, Barnet, which make consolation so necessary=
to
a nature like mine. It would be unbecoming to repine, for her spirit's home=
was
elsewhere--the tender light in her eyes always showed it; but it is a long
dreary time that I have before me, and nobody else can ever fill the void l=
eft
in my heart by her loss--nobody--nobody!' And Downe wiped his eyes again.
'She was a good woman in the highest sense,'
gravely answered Barnet, who, though Downe's words drew genuine compassion =
from
his heart, could not help feeling that a tender reticence would have been a
finer tribute to Mrs. Downe's really sterling virtues than such a second-cl=
ass
lament as this.
'I have something to show you,' Downe resumed,
producing from a drawer a sheet of paper on which was an elaborate design f=
or a
canopied tomb. 'This has been sent me by the architect, but it is not exact=
ly
what I want.'
'You have got Jones to do it, I see, the man w=
ho
is carrying out my house,' said Barnet, as he glanced at the signature to t=
he
drawing.
'Yes, but it is not quite what I want. I want
something more striking--more like a tomb I have seen in St. Paul's Cathedr=
al.
Nothing less will do justice to my feelings, and how far short of them that
will fall!'
Barnet privately thought the design a sufficie=
ntly
imposing one as it stood, even extravagantly ornate; but, feeling that he h=
ad
no right to criticize, he said gently, 'Downe, should you not live more in =
your
children's lives at the present time, and soften the sharpness of regret for
your own past by thinking of their future?'
'Yes, yes; but what can I do more?' asked Down=
e,
wrinkling his forehead hopelessly.
It was with anxious slowness that Barnet produ=
ced
his reply--the secret object of his visit to-night. 'Did you not say one day
that you ought by rights to get a governess for the children?'
Downe admitted that he had said so, but that he
could not see his way to it. 'The kind of woman I should like to have,' he
said, 'would be rather beyond my means. No; I think I shall send them to sc=
hool
in the town when they are old enough to go out alone.'
'Now, I know of something better than that. The
late Lieutenant Savile's daughter, Lucy, wants to do something for herself =
in
the way of teaching. She would be inexpensive, and would answer your purpos=
e as
well as anybody for six or twelve months. She would probably come daily if =
you
were to ask her, and so your housekeeping arrangements would not be much
affected.'
'I thought she had gone away,' said the solici=
tor,
musing. 'Where does she live?'
Barnet told him, and added that, if Downe shou=
ld
think of her as suitable, he would do well to call as soon as possible, or =
she
might be on the wing. 'If you do see her,' he said, 'it would be advisable =
not
to mention my name. She is rather stiff in her ideas of me, and it might
prejudice her against a course if she knew that I recommended it.'
Downe promised to give the subject his conside=
ration,
and nothing more was said about it just then. But when Barnet rose to go, w=
hich
was not till nearly bedtime, he reminded Downe of the suggestion and went up
the street to his own solitary home with a sense of satisfaction at his
promising diplomacy in a charitable cause.
The walls of his new house were carried up nea=
rly
to their full height. By a curious though not infrequent reaction, Barnet's
feelings about that unnecessary structure had undergone a change; he took
considerable interest in its progress as a long-neglected thing, his wife
before her departure having grown quite weary of it as a hobby. Moreover, it
was an excellent distraction for a man in the unhappy position of having to
live in a provincial town with nothing to do. He was probably the first of =
his
line who had ever passed a day without toil, and perhaps something like an
inherited instinct disqualifies such men for a life of pleasant inaction, s=
uch
as lies in the power of those whose leisure is not a personal accident, but=
a
vast historical accretion which has become part of their natures.
Thus Barnet got into a way of spending many of=
his
leisure hours on the site of the new building, and he might have been seen =
on
most days at this time trying the temper of the mortar by punching the join=
ts
with his stick, looking at the grain of a floor-board, and meditating where=
it
grew, or picturing under what circumstances the last fire would be kindled =
in
the at present sootless chimneys. One day when thus occupied he saw three
children pass by in the company of a fair young woman, whose sudden appeara=
nce
caused him to flush perceptibly.
'Ah, she is there,' he thought. 'That's a bles=
sed
thing.'
Casting an interested glance over the rising
building and the busy workmen, Lucy Savile and the little Downes passed by;=
and
after that time it became a regular though almost unconscious custom of Bar=
net
to stand in the half-completed house and look from the ungarnished windows =
at
the governess as she tripped towards the sea-shore with her young charges,
which she was in the habit of doing on most fine afternoons. It was on one =
of
these occasions, when he had been loitering on the first-floor landing, near
the hole left for the staircase, not yet erected, that there appeared above=
the
edge of the floor a little hat, followed by a little head.
Barnet withdrew through a doorway, and the chi=
ld
came to the top of the ladder, stepping on to the floor and crying to her
sisters and Miss Savile to follow. Another head rose above the floor, and
another, and then Lucy herself came into view. The troop ran hither and thi=
ther
through the empty, shaving-strewn rooms, and Barnet came forward.
Lucy uttered a small exclamation: she was very
sorry that she had intruded; she had not the least idea that Mr. Barnet was
there: the children had come up, and she had followed.
Barnet replied that he was only too glad to see
them there. 'And now, let me show you the rooms,' he said.
She passively assented, and he took her round.
There was not much to show in such a bare skeleton of a house, but he made =
the
most of it, and explained the different ornamental fittings that were soon =
to
be fixed here and there. Lucy made but few remarks in reply, though she see=
med
pleased with her visit, and stole away down the ladder, followed by her
companions.
After this the new residence became yet more o=
f a
hobby for Barnet. Downe's children did not forget their first visit, and wh=
en
the windows were glazed, and the handsome staircase spread its broad low st=
eps
into the hall, they came again, prancing in unwearied succession through ev=
ery
room from ground-floor to attics, while Lucy stood waiting for them at the
door. Barnet, who rarely missed a day in coming to inspect progress, stepped
out from the drawing-room.
'I could not keep them out,' she said, with an
apologetic blush. 'I tried to do so very much: but they are rather wilful, =
and
we are directed to walk this way for the sea air.'
'Do let them make the house their regular
playground, and you yours,' said Barnet. 'There is no better place for chil=
dren
to romp and take their exercise in than an empty house, particularly in mud=
dy
or damp weather such as we shall get a good deal of now; and this place will
not be furnished for a long long time--perhaps never. I am not at all decid=
ed
about it.'
'O, but it must!' replied Lucy, looking round =
at
the hall. 'The rooms are excellent, twice as high as ours; and the views fr=
om
the windows are so lovely.'
'I daresay, I daresay,' he said absently.
'Will all the furniture be new?' she asked.
'All the furniture be new--that's a thing I ha=
ve
not thought of. In fact I only come here and look on. My father's house wou=
ld
have been large enough for me, but another person had a voice in the matter,
and it was settled that we should build. However, the place grows upon me; =
its
recent associations are cheerful, and I am getting to like it fast.'
A certain uneasiness in Lucy's manner showed t=
hat
the conversation was taking too personal a turn for her. 'Still, as modern
tastes develop, people require more room to gratify them in,' she said,
withdrawing to call the children; and serenely bidding him good afternoon s=
he
went on her way.
Barnet's life at this period was singularly
lonely, and yet he was happier than he could have expected. His wife's
estrangement and absence, which promised to be permanent, left him free as a
boy in his movements, and the solitary walks that he took gave him ample
opportunity for chastened reflection on what might have been his lot if he =
had
only shown wisdom enough to claim Lucy Savile when there was no bar between
their lives, and she was to be had for the asking. He would occasionally ca=
ll
at the house of his friend Downe; but there was scarcely enough in common
between their two natures to make them more than friends of that excellent =
sort
whose personal knowledge of each other's history and character is always in
excess of intimacy, whereby they are not so likely to be severed by a clash=
of
sentiment as in cases where intimacy springs up in excess of knowledge. Lucy
was never visible at these times, being either engaged in the school-room, =
or
in taking an airing out of doors; but, knowing that she was now comfortable,
and had given up the, to him, depressing idea of going off to the other sid=
e of
the globe, he was quite content.
The new house had so far progressed that the
gardeners were beginning to grass down the front. During an afternoon which=
he
was passing in marking the curve for the carriage-drive, he beheld her comi=
ng
in boldly towards him from the road. Hitherto Barnet had only caught her on=
the
premises by stealth; and this advance seemed to show that at last her reser=
ve
had broken down.
A smile gained strength upon her face as she
approached, and it was quite radiant when she came up, and said, without a
trace of embarrassment, 'I find I owe you a hundred thanks--and it comes to=
me
quite as a surprise! It was through your kindness that I was engaged by Mr.
Downe. Believe me, Mr. Barnet, I did not know it until yesterday, or I shou=
ld
have thanked you long and long ago!'
'I had offended you--just a trifle--at the tim=
e, I
think?' said Barnet, smiling, 'and it was best that you should not know.'
'Yes, yes,' she returned hastily. 'Don't allud=
e to
that; it is past and over, and we will let it be. The house is finished alm=
ost,
is it not? How beautiful it will look when the evergreens are grown! Do you
call the style Palladian, Mr. Barnet?'
'I--really don't quite know what it is. Yes, it
must be Palladian, certainly. But I'll ask Jones, the architect; for, to te=
ll
the truth, I had not thought much about the style: I had nothing to do with
choosing it, I am sorry to say.'
She would not let him harp on this gloomy refr=
ain,
and talked on bright matters till she said, producing a small roll of paper
which he had noticed in her hand all the while, 'Mr. Downe wished me to bri=
ng
you this revised drawing of the late Mrs. Downe's tomb, which the architect=
has
just sent him. He would like you to look it over.'
The children came up with their hoops, and she
went off with them down the harbour-road as usual. Barnet had been glad to =
get
those words of thanks; he had been thinking for many months that he would l=
ike
her to know of his share in finding her a home such as it was; and what he
could not do for himself, Downe had now kindly done for him. He returned to=
his
desolate house with a lighter tread; though in reason he hardly knew why his
tread should be light.
On examining the drawing, Barnet found that,
instead of the vast altar- tomb and canopy Downe had determined on at their
last meeting, it was to be a more modest memorial even than had been sugges=
ted
by the architect; a coped tomb of good solid construction, with no useless
elaboration at all. Barnet was truly glad to see that Downe had come to rea=
son
of his own accord; and he returned the drawing with a note of approval.
He followed up the house-work as before, and a=
s he
walked up and down the rooms, occasionally gazing from the windows over the
bulging green hills and the quiet harbour that lay between them, he murmured
words and fragments of words, which, if listened to, would have revealed all
the secrets of his existence. Whatever his reason in going there, Lucy did =
not
call again: the walk to the shore seemed to be abandoned: he must have thou=
ght
it as well for both that it should be so, for he did not go anywhere out of=
his
accustomed ways to endeavour to discover her.
The winter and the spring had passed, and the
house was complete. It was a fine morning in the early part of June, and Ba=
rnet,
though not in the habit of rising early, had taken a long walk before
breakfast; returning by way of the new building. A sufficiently exciting ca=
use
of his restlessness to-day might have been the intelligence which had reach=
ed
him the night before, that Lucy Savile was going to India after all, and
notwithstanding the representations of her friends that such a journey was
unadvisable in many ways for an unpractised girl, unless some more definite
advantage lay at the end of it than she could show to be the case. Barnet's
walk up the slope to the building betrayed that he was in a dissatisfied mo=
od.
He hardly saw that the dewy time of day lent an unusual freshness to the bu=
shes
and trees which had so recently put on their summer habit of heavy leafage,=
and
made his newly-laid lawn look as well established as an old manorial meadow.
The house had been so adroitly placed between six tall elms which were grow=
ing
on the site beforehand, that they seemed like real ancestral trees; and the
rooks, young and old, cawed melodiously to their visitor.
The door was not locked, and he entered. No
workmen appeared to be present, and he walked from sunny window to sunny wi=
ndow
of the empty rooms, with a sense of seclusion which might have been very
pleasant but for the antecedent knowledge that his almost paternal care of =
Lucy
Savile was to be thrown away by her wilfulness. Footsteps echoed through an
adjoining room; and bending his eyes in that direction, he perceived Mr. Jo=
nes,
the architect. He had come to look over the building before giving the
contractor his final certificate. They walked over the house together.
Everything was finished except the papering: there were the latest improvem=
ents
of the period in bell-hanging, ventilating, smoke- jacks, fire-grates, and
French windows. The business was soon ended, and Jones, having directed
Barnet's attention to a roll of wall-paper patterns which lay on a bench for
his choice, was leaving to keep another engagement, when Barnet said, 'Is t=
he
tomb finished yet for Mrs. Downe?'
'Well--yes: it is at last,' said the architect,
coming back and speaking as if he were in a mood to make a confidence. 'I h=
ave
had no end of trouble in the matter, and, to tell the truth, I am heartily =
glad
it is over.'
Barnet expressed his surprise. 'I thought poor
Downe had given up those extravagant notions of his? then he has gone back =
to
the altar and canopy after all? Well, he is to be excused, poor fellow!'
'O no--he has not at all gone back to them--qu=
ite
the reverse,' Jones hastened to say. 'He has so reduced design after design,
that the whole thing has been nothing but waste labour for me; till in the =
end
it has become a common headstone, which a mason put up in half a day.'
'A common headstone?' said Barnet.
'Yes. I held out for some time for the additio=
n of
a footstone at least. But he said, "O no--he couldn't afford it."=
'
'Ah, well--his family is growing up, poor fell=
ow,
and his expenses are getting serious.'
'Yes, exactly,' said Jones, as if the subject =
were
none of his. And again directing Barnet's attention to the wall-papers, the
bustling architect left him to keep some other engagement.
'A common headstone,' murmured Barnet, left ag= ain to himself. He mused a minute or two, and next began looking over and selec= ting from the patterns; but had not long been engaged in the work when he heard another footstep on the gravel without, and somebody enter the open porch.<= o:p>
Barnet went to the door--it was his manservant=
in
search of him.
'I have been trying for some time to find you,=
sir,'
he said. 'This letter has come by the post, and it is marked immediate. And
there's this one from Mr. Downe, who called just now wanting to see you.' He
searched his pocket for the second.
Barnet took the first letter--it had a black
border, and bore the London postmark. It was not in his wife's handwriting,=
or
in that of any person he knew; but conjecture soon ceased as he read the pa=
ge,
wherein he was briefly informed that Mrs. Barnet had died suddenly on the
previous day, at the furnished villa she had occupied near London.
Barnet looked vaguely round the empty hall, at=
the
blank walls, out of the doorway. Drawing a long palpitating breath, and with
eyes downcast, he turned and climbed the stairs slowly, like a man who doub=
ted
their stability. The fact of his wife having, as it were, died once already,
and lived on again, had entirely dislodged the possibility of her actual de=
ath
from his conjecture. He went to the landing, leant over the balusters, and
after a reverie, of whose duration he had but the faintest notion, turned to
the window and stretched his gaze to the cottage further down the road, whi=
ch
was visible from his landing, and from which Lucy still walked to the
solicitor's house by a cross path. The faint words that came from his movin=
g lips
were simply, 'At last!'
Then, almost involuntarily, Barnet fell down on
his knees and murmured some incoherent words of thanksgiving. Surely his vi=
rtue
in restoring his wife to life had been rewarded! But, as if the impulse str=
uck
uneasily on his conscience, he quickly rose, brushed the dust from his trou=
sers
and set himself to think of his next movements. He could not start for Lond=
on
for some hours; and as he had no preparations to make that could not be mad=
e in
half-an-hour, he mechanically descended and resumed his occupation of turni=
ng
over the wall-papers. They had all got brighter for him, those papers. It w=
as
all changed--who would sit in the rooms that they were to line? He went on =
to
muse upon Lucy's conduct in so frequently coming to the house with the
children; her occasional blush in speaking to him; her evident interest in =
him.
What woman can in the long run avoid being interested in a man whom she kno=
ws
to be devoted to her? If human solicitation could ever effect anything, the=
re
should be no going to India for Lucy now. All the papers previously chosen
seemed wrong in their shades, and he began from the beginning to choose aga=
in.
While entering on the task he heard a forced
'Ahem!' from without the porch, evidently uttered to attract his attention,=
and
footsteps again advancing to the door. His man, whom he had quite forgotten=
in
his mental turmoil, was still waiting there.
'I beg your pardon, sir,' the man said from ro=
und
the doorway; 'but here's the note from Mr. Downe that you didn't take. He
called just after you went out, and as he couldn't wait, he wrote this on y=
our
study- table.'
He handed in the letter--no black-bordered one
now, but a practical-looking note in the well-known writing of the solicito=
r.
'DEAR BARNET'--it ran--'Perhaps you will be prepared for the
information I am about to give--that Lucy Savile and myself are goin=
g
to be married this morning.
I have hitherto said nothing as to my
intention to any of my friends, for reasons which I am sure you will=
fully appreciate. The =
crisis
has been brought about by her expressing
her intention to join her brother in India. I then discovered that I
could not do without her. &nbs=
p;
'It is to be quite a private wedding; but it is my particular wish
that you come down here quietly at ten, and go to church with us; it=
will add greatly to the pleasure I shall experience in the ceremony,=
and, I believe, to Lucy's also.&nbs=
p;
I have called on you very early to
make the request, in the belief that I should find you at home; but<= o:p>
you are beforehand with me in your early rising.--Yours sincerely, C=
.
Downe.'
'Need I wait, sir?' said the servant after a d=
ead
silence.
'That will do, William. No answer,' said Barnet
calmly.
When the man had gone Barnet re-read the lette=
r.
Turning eventually to the wall-papers, which he had been at such pains to
select, he deliberately tore them into halves and quarters, and threw them =
into
the empty fireplace. Then he went out of the house; locked the door, and st=
ood
in the front awhile. Instead of returning into the town, he went down the
harbour-road and thoughtfully lingered about by the sea, near the spot where
the body of Downe's late wife had been found and brought ashore.
Barnet was a man with a rich capacity for mise=
ry,
and there is no doubt that he exercised it to its fullest extent now. The
events that had, as it were, dashed themselves together into one half-hour =
of
this day showed that curious refinement of cruelty in their arrangement whi=
ch
often proceeds from the bosom of the whimsical god at other times known as
blind Circumstance. That his few minutes of hope, between the reading of the
first and second letters, had carried him to extraordinary heights of raptu=
re
was proved by the immensity of his suffering now. The sun blazing into his =
face
would have shown a close watcher that a horizontal line, which he had never
noticed before, but which was never to be gone thereafter, was somehow
gradually forming itself in the smooth of his forehead. His eyes, of a light
hazel, had a curious look which can only be described by the word bruised; =
the
sorrow that looked from them being largely mixed with the surprise of a man
taken unawares.
The secondary particulars of his present posit=
ion,
too, were odd enough, though for some time they appeared to engage little of
his attention. Not a soul in the town knew, as yet, of his wife's death; an=
d he
almost owed Downe the kindness of not publishing it till the day was over: =
the
conjuncture, taken with that which had accompanied the death of Mrs. Downe,
being so singular as to be quite sufficient to darken the pleasure of the
impressionable solicitor to a cruel extent, if made known to him. But as Ba=
rnet
could not set out on his journey to London, where his wife lay, for some ho=
urs
(there being at this date no railway within a distance of many miles), no g=
reat
reason existed why he should leave the town.
Impulse in all its forms characterized Barnet,=
and
when he heard the distant clock strike the hour of ten his feet began to ca=
rry
him up the harbour-road with the manner of a man who must do something to b=
ring
himself to life. He passed Lucy Savile's old house, his own new one, and ca=
me
in view of the church. Now he gave a perceptible start, and his mechanical
condition went away. Before the church-gate were a couple of carriages, and
Barnet then could perceive that the marriage between Downe and Lucy was at =
that
moment being solemnized within. A feeling of sudden, proud self-confidence,=
an
indocile wish to walk unmoved in spite of grim environments, plainly posses=
sed
him, and when he reached the wicket-gate he turned in without apparent effo=
rt.
Pacing up the paved footway he entered the church and stood for a while in =
the
nave passage. A group of people was standing round the vestry door; Barnet
advanced through these and stepped into the vestry.
There they were, busily signing their names.
Seeing Downe about to look round, Barnet averted his somewhat disturbed face
for a second or two; when he turned again front to front he was calm and qu=
ite
smiling; it was a creditable triumph over himself, and deserved to be
remembered in his native town. He greeted Downe heartily, offering his
congratulations.
It seemed as if Barnet expected a half-guilty =
look
upon Lucy's face; but no, save the natural flush and flurry engendered by t=
he
service just performed, there was nothing whatever in her bearing which sho=
wed
a disturbed mind: her gray-brown eyes carried in them now as at other times=
the
well-known expression of common-sensed rectitude which never went so far as=
to
touch on hardness. She shook hands with him, and Downe said warmly, 'I wish=
you
could have come sooner: I called on purpose to ask you. You'll drive back w=
ith
us now?'
'No, no,' said Barnet; 'I am not at all prepar=
ed;
but I thought I would look in upon you for a moment, even though I had not =
time
to go home and dress. I'll stand back and see you pass out, and observe the
effect of the spectacle upon myself as one of the public.'
Then Lucy and her husband laughed, and Barnet
laughed and retired; and the quiet little party went gliding down the nave =
and
towards the porch, Lucy's new silk dress sweeping with a smart rustle round=
the
base-mouldings of the ancient font, and Downe's little daughters following =
in a
state of round-eyed interest in their position, and that of Lucy, their tea=
cher
and friend.
So Downe was comforted after his Emily's death,
which had taken place twelve months, two weeks, and three days before that
time.
When the two flys had driven off and the
spectators had vanished, Barnet followed to the door, and went out into the
sun. He took no more trouble to preserve a spruce exterior; his step was
unequal, hesitating, almost convulsive; and the slight changes of colour wh=
ich
went on in his face seemed refracted from some inward flame. In the churchy=
ard
he became pale as a summer cloud, and finding it not easy to proceed he sat
down on one of the tombstones and supported his head with his hand.
Hard by was a sexton filling up a grave which =
he
had not found time to finish on the previous evening. Observing Barnet, he =
went
up to him, and recognizing him, said, 'Shall I help you home, sir?'
'O no, thank you,' said Barnet, rousing himself
and standing up. The sexton returned to his grave, followed by Barnet, who,
after watching him awhile, stepped into the grave, now nearly filled, and
helped to tread in the earth.
The sexton apparently thought his conduct a li=
ttle
singular, but he made no observation, and when the grave was full, Barnet
suddenly stopped, looked far away, and with a decided step proceeded to the
gate and vanished. The sexton rested on his shovel and looked after him for=
a
few moments, and then began banking up the mound.
In those short minutes of treading in the dead=
man
Barnet had formed a design, but what it was the inhabitants of that town did
not for some long time imagine. He went home, wrote several letters of
business, called on his lawyer, an old man of the same place who had been t=
he
legal adviser of Barnet's father before him, and during the evening overhau=
led
a large quantity of letters and other documents in his possession. By eleven
o'clock the heap of papers in and before Barnet's grate had reached formida=
ble
dimensions, and he began to burn them. This, owing to their quantity, it was
not so easy to do as he had expected, and he sat long into the night to
complete the task.
The next morning Barnet departed for London,
leaving a note for Downe to inform him of Mrs. Barnet's sudden death, and t=
hat
he was gone to bury her; but when a thrice-sufficient time for that purpose=
had
elapsed, he was not seen again in his accustomed walks, or in his new house=
, or
in his old one. He was gone for good, nobody knew whither. It was soon
discovered that he had empowered his lawyer to dispose of all his property,
real and personal, in the borough, and pay in the proceeds to the account o=
f an
unknown person at one of the large London banks. The person was by some
supposed to be himself under an assumed name; but few, if any, had certain
knowledge of that fact.
The elegant new residence was sold with the re=
st
of his possessions; and its purchaser was no other than Downe, now a thrivi=
ng
man in the borough, and one whose growing family and new wife required more
roomy accommodation than was afforded by the little house up the narrow side
street. Barnet's old habitation was bought by the trustees of the
Congregational Baptist body in that town, who pulled down the time-honoured
dwelling and built a new chapel on its site. By the time the last hour of t=
hat,
to Barnet, eventful year had chimed, every vestige of him had disappeared f=
rom
the precincts of his native place, and the name became extinct in the borou=
gh
of Port-Bredy, after having been a living force therein for more than two
hundred years.
Twenty-one years and six months do not pass
without setting a mark even upon durable stone and triple brass; upon human=
ity
such a period works nothing less than transformation. In Barnet's old
birthplace vivacious young children with bones like india-rubber had grown =
up to
be stable men and women, men and women had dried in the skin, stiffened,
withered, and sunk into decrepitude; while selections from every class had =
been
consigned to the outlying cemetery. Of inorganic differences the greatest w=
as
that a railway had invaded the town, tying it on to a main line at a juncti=
on a
dozen miles off. Barnet's house on the harbour-road, once so insistently ne=
w,
had acquired a respectable mellowness, with ivy, Virginia creepers, lichens,
damp patches, and even constitutional infirmities of its own like its elder
fellows. Its architecture, once so very improved and modern, had already be=
come
stale in style, without having reached the dignity of being old-fashioned.
Trees about the harbour-road had increased in circumference or disappeared
under the saw; while the church had had such a tremendous practical joke pl=
ayed
upon it by some facetious restorer or other as to be scarce recognizable by=
its
dearest old friends.
During this long interval George Barnet had ne=
ver
once been seen or heard of in the town of his fathers.
It was the evening of a market-day, and some
half-dozen middle-aged farmers and dairymen were lounging round the bar of =
the
Black-Bull Hotel, occasionally dropping a remark to each other, and less
frequently to the two barmaids who stood within the pewter-topped counter i=
n a
perfunctory attitude of attention, these latter sighing and making a private
observation to one another at odd intervals, on more interesting experiences
than the present.
'Days get shorter,' said one of the dairymen, =
as
he looked towards the street, and noticed that the lamp-lighter was passing=
by.
The farmers merely acknowledged by their
countenances the propriety of this remark, and finding that nobody else spo=
ke,
one of the barmaids said 'yes,' in a tone of painful duty.
'Come fair-day we shall have to light up befor=
e we
start for home-along.'
'That's true,' his neighbour conceded, with a =
gaze
of blankness.
'And after that we shan't see much further
difference all's winter.'
The rest were not unwilling to go even so far =
as
this.
The barmaid sighed again, and raised one of her
hands from the counter on which they rested to scratch the smallest surface=
of
her face with the smallest of her fingers. She looked towards the door, and
presently remarked, 'I think I hear the 'bus coming in from station.'
The eyes of the dairymen and farmers turned to=
the
glass door dividing the hall from the porch, and in a minute or two the omn=
ibus
drew up outside. Then there was a lumbering down of luggage, and then a man
came into the hall, followed by a porter with a portmanteau on his poll, wh=
ich
he deposited on a bench.
The stranger was an elderly person, with curly
ashen white hair, a deeply- creviced outer corner to each eyelid, and a
countenance baked by innumerable suns to the colour of terra-cotta, its hue=
and
that of his hair contrasting like heat and cold respectively. He walked
meditatively and gently, like one who was fearful of disturbing his own men=
tal
equilibrium. But whatever lay at the bottom of his breast had evidently made
him so accustomed to its situation there that it caused him little practical
inconvenience.
He paused in silence while, with his dubious e=
yes
fixed on the barmaids, he seemed to consider himself. In a moment or two he
addressed them, and asked to be accommodated for the night. As he waited he
looked curiously round the hall, but said nothing. As soon as invited he
disappeared up the staircase, preceded by a chambermaid and candle, and
followed by a lad with his trunk. Not a soul had recognized him.
A quarter of an hour later, when the farmers a=
nd
dairymen had driven off to their homesteads in the country, he came downsta=
irs,
took a biscuit and one glass of wine, and walked out into the town, where t=
he
radiance from the shop-windows had grown so in volume of late years as to f=
lood
with cheerfulness every standing cart, barrow, stall, and idler that occupi=
ed
the wayside, whether shabby or genteel. His chief interest at present seeme=
d to
lie in the names painted over the shop-fronts and on door-ways, as far as t=
hey
were visible; these now differed to an ominous extent from what they had be=
en
one-and-twenty years before.
The traveller passed on till he came to the
bookseller's, where he looked in through the glass door. A fresh-faced young
man was standing behind the counter, otherwise the shop was empty. The
gray-haired observer entered, asked for some periodical by way of paying for
admission, and with his elbow on the counter began to turn over the pages he
had bought, though that he read nothing was obvious.
At length he said, 'Is old Mr. Watkins still
alive?' in a voice which had a curious youthful cadence in it even now.
'My father is dead, sir,' said the young man.<= o:p>
'Ah, I am sorry to hear it,' said the stranger.
'But it is so many years since I last visited this town that I could hardly
expect it should be otherwise.' After a short silence he continued--'And is=
the
firm of Barnet, Browse, and Company still in existence?--they used to be la=
rge
flax-merchants and twine-spinners here?'
'The firm is still going on, sir, but they have
dropped the name of Barnet. I believe that was a sort of fancy name--at lea=
st,
I never knew of any living Barnet. 'Tis now Browse and Co.'
'And does Andrew Jones still keep on as
architect?'
'He's dead, sir.'
'And the Vicar of St. Mary's--Mr. Melrose?'
'He's been dead a great many years.'
'Dear me!' He paused yet longer, and cleared h=
is
voice. 'Is Mr. Downe, the solicitor, still in practice?'
'No, sir, he's dead. He died about seven years
ago.'
Here it was a longer silence still; and an
attentive observer would have noticed that the paper in the stranger's hand
increased its imperceptible tremor to a visible shake. That gray-haired
gentleman noticed it himself, and rested the paper on the counter. 'Is Mrs.
Downe still alive?' he asked, closing his lips firmly as soon as the words =
were
out of his mouth, and dropping his eyes.
'Yes, sir, she's alive and well. She's living =
at
the old place.'
'In East Street?'
'O no; at Chateau Ringdale. I believe it has b=
een
in the family for some generations.'
'She lives with her children, perhaps?'
'No; she has no children of her own. There were
some Miss Downes; I think they were Mr. Downe's daughters by a former wife;=
but
they are married and living in other parts of the town. Mrs. Downe lives
alone.'
'Quite alone?'
'Yes, sir; quite alone.'
The newly-arrived gentleman went back to the h=
otel
and dined; after which he made some change in his dress, shaved back his be=
ard
to the fashion that had prevailed twenty years earlier, when he was young a=
nd
interesting, and once more emerging, bent his steps in the direction of the
harbour-road. Just before getting to the point where the pavement ceased and
the houses isolated themselves, he overtook a shambling, stooping, unshaven
man, who at first sight appeared like a professional tramp, his shoulders
having a perceptible greasiness as they passed under the gaslight. Each
pedestrian momentarily turned and regarded the other, and the tramp-like
gentleman started back.
'Good--why--is that Mr. Barnet? 'Tis Mr. Barne=
t,
surely!'
'Yes; and you are Charlson?'
'Yes--ah--you notice my appearance. The Fates =
have
rather ill-used me. By-the-bye, that fifty pounds. I never paid it, did I? =
. .
. But I was not ungrateful!' Here the stooping man laid one hand emphatical=
ly
on the palm of the other. 'I gave you a chance, Mr. George Barnet, which ma=
ny
men would have thought full value received--the chance to marry your Lucy. =
As
far as the world was concerned, your wife was a drowned woman, hey?'
'Heaven forbid all that, Charlson!'
'Well, well, 'twas a wrong way of showing
gratitude, I suppose. And now a drop of something to drink for old
acquaintance' sake! And Mr. Barnet, she's again free--there's a chance now =
if
you care for it--ha, ha!' And the speaker pushed his tongue into his hollow
cheek and slanted his eye in the old fashion.
'I know all,' said Barnet quickly; and slippin=
g a
small present into the hands of the needy, saddening man, he stepped ahead =
and
was soon in the outskirts of the town.
He reached the harbour-road, and paused before=
the
entrance to a well- known house. It was so highly bosomed in trees and shru=
bs
planted since the erection of the building that one would scarcely have
recognized the spot as that which had been a mere neglected slope till chos=
en
as a site for a dwelling. He opened the swing-gate, closed it noiselessly, =
and
gently moved into the semicircular drive, which remained exactly as it had =
been
marked out by Barnet on the morning when Lucy Savile ran in to thank him for
procuring her the post of governess to Downe's children. But the growth of
trees and bushes which revealed itself at every step was beyond all
expectation; sun-proof and moon-proof bowers vaulted the walks, and the wal=
ls
of the house were uniformly bearded with creeping plants as high as the
first-floor windows.
After lingering for a few minutes in the dusk =
of
the bending boughs, the visitor rang the door-bell, and on the servant
appearing, he announced himself as 'an old friend of Mrs. Downe's.'
The hall was lighted, but not brightly, the gas
being turned low, as if visitors were rare. There was a stagnation in the
dwelling; it seemed to be waiting. Could it really be waiting for him? The
partitions which had been probed by Barnet's walking-stick when the mortar =
was
green, were now quite brown with the antiquity of their varnish, and the
ornamental woodwork of the staircase, which had glistened with a pale yellow
newness when first erected, was now of a rich wine-colour. During the serva=
nt's
absence the following colloquy could be dimly heard through the nearly clos=
ed
door of the drawing-room.
'He didn't give his name?'
'He only said "an old friend," ma'am=
.'
'What kind of gentleman is he?'
'A staidish gentleman, with gray hair.'
The voice of the second speaker seemed to affe=
ct
the listener greatly. After a pause, the lady said, 'Very well, I will see
him.'
And the stranger was shown in face to face with
the Lucy who had once been Lucy Savile. The round cheek of that formerly yo=
ung
lady had, of course, alarmingly flattened its curve in her modern
representative; a pervasive grayness overspread her once dark brown hair, l=
ike
morning rime on heather. The parting down the middle was wide and jagged; o=
nce
it had been a thin white line, a narrow crevice between two high banks of
shade. But there was still enough left to form a handsome knob behind, and =
some
curls beneath inwrought with a few hairs like silver wires were very becomi=
ng.
In her eyes the only modification was that their originally mild rectitude =
of
expression had become a little more stringent than heretofore. Yet she was
still girlish--a girl who had been gratuitously weighted by destiny with a
burden of five-and-forty years instead of her proper twenty.
'Lucy, don't you know me?' he said, when the
servant had closed the door.
'I knew you the instant I saw you!' she return=
ed
cheerfully. 'I don't know why, but I always thought you would come back to =
your
old town again.'
She gave him her hand, and then they sat down.
'They said you were dead,' continued Lucy, 'but I never thought so. We shou=
ld
have heard of it for certain if you had been.'
'It is a very long time since we met.'
'Yes; what you must have seen, Mr. Barnet, in =
all
these roving years, in comparison with what I have seen in this quiet place=
!'
Her face grew more serious. 'You know my husband has been dead a long time?=
I
am a lonely old woman now, considering what I have been; though Mr. Downe's
daughters--all married--manage to keep me pretty cheerful.'
'And I am a lonely old man, and have been any =
time
these twenty years.'
'But where have you kept yourself? And why did=
you
go off so mysteriously?'
'Well, Lucy, I have kept myself a little in
America, and a little in Australia, a little in India, a little at the Cape,
and so on; I have not stayed in any place for a long time, as it seems to m=
e,
and yet more than twenty years have flown. But when people get to my age two
years go like one!--Your second question, why did I go away so mysteriously=
, is
surely not necessary. You guessed why, didn't you?'
'No, I never once guessed,' she said simply; '=
nor
did Charles, nor did anybody as far as I know.'
'Well, indeed! Now think it over again, and th=
en
look at me, and say if you can't guess?'
She looked him in the face with an inquiring
smile. 'Surely not because of me?' she said, pausing at the commencement of
surprise.
Barnet nodded, and smiled again; but his smile=
was
sadder than hers.
'Because I married Charles?' she asked.
'Yes; solely because you married him on the da=
y I
was free to ask you to marry me. My wife died four-and-twenty hours before =
you
went to church with Downe. The fixing of my journey at that particular mome=
nt
was because of her funeral; but once away I knew I should have no inducemen=
t to
come back, and took my steps accordingly.'
Her face assumed an aspect of gentle reflectio=
n,
and she looked up and down his form with great interest in her eyes. 'I nev=
er
thought of it!' she said. 'I knew, of course, that you had once implied some
warmth of feeling towards me, but I concluded that it passed off. And I have
always been under the impression that your wife was alive at the time of my
marriage. Was it not stupid of me!--But you will have some tea or something=
? I
have never dined late, you know, since my husband's death. I have got into =
the
way of making a regular meal of tea. You will have some tea with me, will y=
ou
not?'
The travelled man assented quite readily, and =
tea
was brought in. They sat and chatted over the meal, regardless of the flying
hour. 'Well, well!' said Barnet presently, as for the first time he leisure=
ly
surveyed the room; 'how like it all is, and yet how different! Just where y=
our
piano stands was a board on a couple of trestles, bearing the patterns of
wall-papers, when I was last here. I was choosing them--standing in this wa=
y,
as it might be. Then my servant came in at the door, and handed me a note, =
so.
It was from Downe, and announced that you were just going to be married to =
him.
I chose no more wall-papers--tore up all those I had selected, and left the
house. I never entered it again till now.'
'Ah, at last I understand it all,' she murmure=
d.
They had both risen and gone to the fireplace.=
The
mantel came almost on a level with her shoulder, which gently rested against
it, and Barnet laid his hand upon the shelf close beside her shoulder. 'Luc=
y,'
he said, 'better late than never. Will you marry me now?'
She started back, and the surprise which was so
obvious in her wrought even greater surprise in him that it should be so. It
was difficult to believe that she had been quite blind to the situation, and
yet all reason and common sense went to prove that she was not acting.
'You take me quite unawares by such a question=
!'
she said, with a forced laugh of uneasiness. It was the first time she had
shown any embarrassment at all. 'Why,' she added, 'I couldn't marry you for=
the
world.'
'Not after all this! Why not?'
'It is--I would--I really think I may say it--I
would upon the whole rather marry you, Mr. Barnet, than any other man I have
ever met, if I ever dreamed of marriage again. But I don't dream of it--it =
is
quite out of my thoughts; I have not the least intention of marrying again.=
'
'But--on my account--couldn't you alter your p=
lans
a little? Come!'
'Dear Mr. Barnet,' she said with a little flut=
ter,
'I would on your account if on anybody's in existence. But you don't know in
the least what it is you are asking--such an impracticable thing--I won't s=
ay
ridiculous, of course, because I see that you are really in earnest, and ea=
rnestness
is never ridiculous to my mind.'
'Well, yes,' said Barnet more slowly, dropping=
her
hand, which he had taken at the moment of pleading, 'I am in earnest. The
resolve, two months ago, at the Cape, to come back once more was, it is tru=
e,
rather sudden, and as I see now, not well considered. But I am in earnest in
asking.'
'And I in declining. With all good feeling and=
all
kindness, let me say that I am quite opposed to the idea of marrying a seco=
nd
time.'
'Well, no harm has been done,' he answered, wi=
th
the same subdued and tender humorousness that he had shown on such occasion=
s in
early life. 'If you really won't accept me, I must put up with it, I suppos=
e.'
His eye fell on the clock as he spoke. 'Had you any notion that it was so
late?' he asked. 'How absorbed I have been!'
She accompanied him to the hall, helped him to=
put
on his overcoat, and let him out of the house herself.
'Good-night,' said Barnet, on the doorstep, as=
the
lamp shone in his face. 'You are not offended with me?'
'Certainly not. Nor you with me?'
'I'll consider whether I am or not,' he pleasa=
ntly
replied. 'Good-night.'
She watched him safely through the gate; and w=
hen
his footsteps had died away upon the road, closed the door softly and retur=
ned
to the room. Here the modest widow long pondered his speeches, with eyes
dropped to an unusually low level. Barnet's urbanity under the blow of her
refusal greatly impressed her. After having his long period of probation
rendered useless by her decision, he had shown no anger, and had philosophi=
cally
taken her words as if he deserved no better ones. It was very gentlemanly of
him, certainly; it was more than gentlemanly; it was heroic and grand. The =
more
she meditated, the more she questioned the virtue of her conduct in checking
him so peremptorily; and went to her bedroom in a mood of dissatisfaction. =
On
looking in the glass she was reminded that there was not so much remaining =
of
her former beauty as to make his frank declaration an impulsive natural hom=
age
to her cheeks and eyes; it must undoubtedly have arisen from an old staunch
feeling of his, deserving tenderest consideration. She recalled to her mind
with much pleasure that he had told her he was staying at the Black-Bull Ho=
tel;
so that if, after waiting a day or two, he should not, in his modesty, call
again, she might then send him a nice little note. To alter her views for t=
he
present was far from her intention; but she would allow herself to be induc=
ed
to reconsider the case, as any generous woman ought to do.
The morrow came and passed, and Mr. Barnet did=
not
drop in. At every knock, light youthful hues flew across her cheek; and she=
was
abstracted in the presence of her other visitors. In the evening she walked
about the house, not knowing what to do with herself; the conditions of
existence seemed totally different from those which ruled only four-and- tw=
enty
short hours ago. What had been at first a tantalizing elusive sentiment was
getting acclimatized within her as a definite hope, and her person was so
informed by that emotion that she might almost have stood as its emblematic=
al
representative by the time the clock struck ten. In short, an interest in
Barnet precisely resembling that of her early youth led her present heart to
belie her yesterday's words to him, and she longed to see him again.
The next day she walked out early, thinking she
might meet him in the street. The growing beauty of her romance absorbed he=
r,
and she went from the street to the fields, and from the fields to the shor=
e,
without any consciousness of distance, till reminded by her weariness that =
she
could go no further. He had nowhere appeared. In the evening she took a step
which under the circumstances seemed justifiable; she wrote a note to him at
the hotel, inviting him to tea with her at six precisely, and signing her n=
ote
'Lucy.'
In a quarter of an hour the messenger came bac=
k.
Mr. Barnet had left the hotel early in the morning of the day before, but he
had stated that he would probably return in the course of the week.
The note was sent back, to be given to him
immediately on his arrival.
There was no sign from the inn that this desir=
ed
event had occurred, either on the next day or the day following. On both ni=
ghts
she had been restless, and had scarcely slept half-an-hour.
On the Saturday, putting off all diffidence, L=
ucy
went herself to the Black-Bull, and questioned the staff closely.
Mr. Barnet had cursorily remarked when leaving
that he might return on the Thursday or Friday, but they were directed not =
to
reserve a room for him unless he should write.
He had left no address.
Lucy sorrowfully took back her note went home,=
and
resolved to wait.
She did wait--years and years--but Barnet never
reappeared.
The End