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      The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mitchelhurst Place, by Margaret Veley
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52002 ***</div>

<h1>MITCHELHURST PLACE<br />
<small>VOL. II</small></h1>

<div class="chapter"></div>
<hr class="tb" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 140px;">
<img src="images/colophon.jpg" width="140" height="53" alt="Colophon" />
</div>

<div class="chapter"></div>
<hr class="tb" />
<p class="center p200">MITCHELHURST PLACE</p>

<p class="subhead">A Novel</p>

<p class="byline">BY</p>

<p class="author">MARGARET VELEY</p>

<p class="other-book">AUTHOR OF "FOR PERCIVAL"</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">
<div class="line outdent">"Que voulez-vous? Hélas! notre mère Nature,</div>
<div class="line">Comme toute autre mère, a ses enfants gâtés,</div>
<div class="line">Et pour les malvenus elle est avare et dure!"</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="center">IN TWO VOLUMES<br />
VOL. II.</p>

<p class="center">London<br />
<span class="publisher">MACMILLAN AND CO.</span><br />
1884</p>

<p class="center"><small><i>The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved.</i></small></p>


<div class="chapter">
<p class="center">Bungay:</p>

<p class="center">CLAY AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.</p>
</div>


<div class="chapter">
<hr class="tb" />
<h2>CONTENTS OF VOL. II.</h2>
</div>

<hr class="short" />
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="0">
<tr>
<td align="right">CHAPTER</td>
<td align="left"> &nbsp; </td>
<td align="right" colspan="2">PAGE</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right">I.</td>
<td align="left">NO LETTER</td>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">1</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right">II.</td>
<td align="left">ONE MORE HOLIDAY</td>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">27</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right">III.</td>
<td align="left">MOONSHINE</td>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">44</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right">IV.</td>
<td align="left">REYNOLD'S REGRET</td>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">69</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right">V.</td>
<td align="left">LOVE'S MESSENGER</td>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">85</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right">VI.</td>
<td align="left">A PERPLEXING REFLECTION</td>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">112</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right">VII.</td>
<td align="left">TWO GLANCES</td>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">144</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right">VIII.</td>
<td align="left">IN NUTFIELD LANE</td>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">157</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right">IX.</td>
<td align="left">A VERSE OF AN OLD SONG</td>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">185</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="right">X.</td>
<td align="left">JANUARY, 1883</td>
<td align="right"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">232</a></td>
</tr>
</table>



<div class="chapter">
<hr class="tb" />
<p class="center p200">MITCHELHURST PLACE</p>
</div>

<hr class="tb" />

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.<br />

<span class="subhead">NO LETTER.</span></h2>

<p>The Mitchelhurst postman, coming up
to the Place in his daily round, found a
young man loitering to and fro within
view of the gate. The morning was a
pleasant one. The roadside grass was grey
with dew, and glistening pearls and diamonds
were strung on the threads of gossamer,
tangled over bush and blade. The hollies
in the hedgerows were brave and bright,
and there were many-tinted leaves yet
clinging to the bramble-sprays. Sun and
wet together had turned the common road <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span>
to a shining, splendid way, up which the
old postman crept, a dull, little, toiling
figure, with a bag over his shoulder, and
something white in his hand. The young
man timed his indolent stroll so that they
met each other on the weedy slope, which
led to the iron gate, with its solid pillars,
and white stone balls. There, with the
briefest possible nod by way of salutation,
he demanded his letters.</p>

<p>The old fellow knew him as the gentleman
who was staying with Mr. Hayes, and
touched his cap obsequiously. He had
carried his bag for more than thirty years,
and remembered old Squire Rothwell, and
Mr. John, and he fumbled with the letters
in his hand, half expecting a curse at his
slowness, and hardly knowing what name
he was to look for. The other stood with
his head high, showing a sharply-cut profile <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span>
as he turned a little, looking intently in
the direction of the Place. Through the
black bars shone a pale bright picture of
blue sky, and level turf, and the gnarled
and fantastic branches of the sunlit avenue.
There were yellow leaves on the straight
roadway, and shadows softly interlaced,
and at the end the white, silent house.</p>

<p>The postman finished his investigation,
and announced in a hesitating tone, "No,
sir, no letter, sir. No letter at all, name of
Rothwell."</p>

<p>The young man turned upon him.
"Harding, I said."</p>

<p>"Yes, sir. No, sir, no letter name of
Harding."</p>

<p>"Are you sure? Give them to me."</p>

<p>He looked them over. There were letters
and papers for Mr. Hayes, one or two for
the servants, and one that had come from <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>
Devonshire for Barbara. He gave them
back with a meditative frown, and turned
on his heel without a word. The postman
pushed the gate just sufficiently to permit
of a crab-like entrance to the grounds, and
plodded along the avenue, while the young
fellow walked definitely away towards the
village.</p>

<p>"The old boy doesn't write business
letters on Sunday, I dare say," he said
to himself. "No, I don't suppose he would.
Well, I shall hear to-morrow. As well to-morrow
as to-day, perhaps&mdash;better, perhaps.
And yet&mdash;and yet&mdash;Oh God! to get to
work! I have banished myself from her
presence, I have shut that gate against me&mdash;that
old fool goes crawling up there with
his letters&mdash;any one in Mitchelhurst may
knock at that door, and I may not!
There's nothing left for me but to do the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span>
task she set me, and by Heaven, I will!
I shall have the right to speak to her
then, at any rate!"</p>

<p>Barbara had intended to see Reynold
before he left that morning. She did not
know what she wanted to say, she was
uneasy at the thought of the interview,
but she could not endure that he should
be dismissed from the old house without
a parting word. While Harding was
moodily doubting whether he had not
alienated her for ever, she was wondering
what she could say or do to atone for the
wrong done to him by her timidity. She
did not fully understand the meaning of
the wrathful anguish of his last speech, but
she knew that she had pained him. She
planned a score of dialogues, she wearied
herself in vain endeavours to guess what
he would say, and then, tired out, she <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>
solved the question by sleeping till the
sunlight fell upon her face, and the banished
man was already beyond the gate.</p>

<p>She knew the truth the moment she
awoke. It was only to confirm her certainty
that she dressed hurriedly and went
out into the passage, to see the door
standing wide, and the vacant room. It
seemed but yesterday, and yet so long
ago, since she made it ready for the coming
guest, who had left it in anger. Barbara
sighed, and turned away. At the head of
the stairs she recalled the slim, dark figure
that had stood there so few hours before,
fixing his angry eyes upon her, and grasping
the balustrade with long fingers as he
spoke. The very ticking of the old clock
reminded her of their talk together the
morning after he came, and seemed to
say "gone! gone! gone! gone!" as she <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>
went by.</p>

<p>Her uncle came down a few minutes
later, greeted her shortly, and glanced at
the table. It was laid for two. "I suppose
there is nothing to wait for?" he said.</p>

<p>"Nothing," said Barbara, and she rang
the bell.</p>

<p>He unfolded a newspaper and spoke from
behind it. "You know that young fellow
is gone?"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"Time he did go! I wish he had never
come! Did you say good-bye to him?"</p>

<p>"No. He went before I was down."</p>

<p>Mr. Hayes uttered a little sound expressive
of satisfaction, and the girl perceived
that she had accidentally led him to suppose
that she had had no talk with Harding
since the quarrel. She did not speak.
The maid came into the room with the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>
urn, and Mr. Hayes turned to her. "What
man was that I saw in the hall just
now?"</p>

<p>"He came for the gentleman's portmanteau,
sir. He was to take it to Mrs.
Simmonds."</p>

<p>He started, but controlled himself. "Mrs.
Simmonds?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir, Mrs. Simmonds at the shop."</p>

<p>Mr. Hayes was silent only till the door
was closed behind her. Then, "He has
done that to spite me!" he said furiously.
"Serves me right for trying to be civil to
one of these confounded Rothwells! They
have the devil's own temper, every one of
them, and if they can do you a bad turn,
they will!"</p>

<p>Barbara said nothing, but made tea rather
drearily.</p>

<p>"Confound him!" Mr. Hayes began <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>
afresh. "Now I suppose the whole place
will be cackling about this! He deserves
to be kicked out of the parish, and I
should like to do it! I wish to heaven,
Barbara, you wouldn't pick young men
out of the ditches in this fashion! You
see what comes of it!"</p>

<p>Barbara, appealed to in this direct and
reasonable manner, plucked up her spirit,
and replied, rather loftily, that she would
certainly remember in future. She further
remarked that the fish was getting cold.</p>

<p>Mr. Hayes threw down the paper, and
took his place. There was silence for a
minute or two, and then he began again.</p>

<p>"There isn't a soul in Mitchelhurst that
doesn't know he was staying here. What
do you suppose they will say when they
find him starting off at a moment's notice,
and taking a lodging in the village, not a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>
stone's throw from my gate?"</p>

<p>Barbara privately thought that, as Mr.
Harding had betaken himself to the further
end of Mitchelhurst, her uncle's talent for
throwing stones must be remarkable. She
did not suggest this, however, and when
he repeated his question, "What do you
suppose they will say?" she only replied
that she did not know, she was sure.</p>

<p>"Don't you?" said he, with withering
scorn. "Well, I do." It was true enough.
He could guess pretty well what the gossips
would say, and the sting of it was that their
version would not differ very much from the
actual fact.</p>

<p>Barbara looked down, and finished her
breakfast without a word. She knew that
silence was the safest course she could
adopt, since it gave him no chance of
turning his anger on her, but she also <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>
knew that it irritated him dreadfully.
That, however, she did not mind. Barbara
herself was rather cross that morning. She
had meant to be up early, and she had slept
later than usual; she was vexed and disappointed,
and she had been worried by the
jarring tempers of the last two days. She
kept her head bent, and her lips closed,
while Mr. Hayes drank his second cup
of tea with a muttered accompaniment of
abuse.</p>

<p>"Look here," he said suddenly, getting
up, and going to the fire, "I don't know
how long that fellow means to stay in
Mitchelhurst, but, till he leaves, you don't
go beyond the gate. I don't suppose you
would wish to do so"&mdash;he paused, but she
was apparently absorbed in the consideration
of a little ring on her finger&mdash;"I
should hope you have proper feeling enough <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>
not to wish to do so"&mdash;this appeal was also
received in a strictly neutral manner&mdash;"but
in any case you have my express command
to the contrary."</p>

<p>"Very well," said Barbara, with a little
affectation of being rather weary of the
whole subject.</p>

<p>"I do not choose that you should be
exposed to insult," Mr. Hayes continued.</p>

<p>"Very well," said Barbara again. "I
can stay in if you like, though I don't
think Mr. Harding would insult me."</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon, my dear, but you
are not qualified to judge in this matter.
If you had heard Mr. Harding's conversation
last night you might not be quite so sure
what he would or would not do. It is my
duty to protect you from an unpleasant
possibility, and you will oblige me by not
going beyond&mdash;or rather by not going near <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>
the gate."</p>

<p>Barbara, tired of saying "Very well,"
said "All right."</p>

<p>"Wednesday is the night of Pryor's
entertainment at the schools. I shall be
sorry to disappoint him, but I certainly
shall not go unless Mr. Harding has left
the place. He has shown such a deplorable
want of taste and proper feeling that he
would probably take that opportunity of
thrusting himself upon us."</p>

<p>Mr. Hayes paused once more, but the
girl did not seem inclined either to defend
or to denounce their late guest. She
changed her position listlessly, and gazed
out of the window.</p>

<p>"A gentleman would not, but that proves
nothing with regard to Mr. Harding. You
are very silent this morning, Barbara."</p>

<p>"I have a headache," she said, "I'm <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>
tired," and to her great relief, Mr. Hayes,
after walking two or three times up and
down the room, went off to his study.</p>

<p>The poor little man was not happy. He
sincerely regretted the quarrel of the evening
before, which had come upon him, as
upon Reynold, unawares. He was accustomed
to the society of a few neighbours,
who understood him, and said behind his
back, "Oh, you must not mind what Hayes
says!" or "I met Hayes yesterday&mdash;a little
bit more cracked than usual!" and took all
his sallies good-humouredly, with argument,
perhaps, or loud-voiced denial at the time,
but nothing in the way of consequences.
Thunder might roll, but no bolt fell, and
the sky was as clear as usual at the next
meeting. Mr. Hayes had unconsciously
fallen into the habit of talking without any
sense of responsibility. On this occasion <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>
a variety of circumstances had combined
to irritate him, and his personal dislike of
Reynold Harding had given a touch of acrid
malice to his attack, but he meant no more
than to have the pleasure of contradicting,
and, if possible, silencing his companion.
The game was played more roughly than
usual, but Mr. Hayes never realised that
his adversary was angrily in earnest till it
was too late. Excitement had mastered
him, there was an interchange of speeches,
swift and fierce as blows, and then he saw
Kate Rothwell's son, standing before him,
trembling with fury, and hoarsely declaring
that he would leave the house at once. He
had only to close his eyes to see him again,
the tall young figure leaning forward into
the light, with his clenched hands resting
on the polished table, amid the disarray of
silver and glasses, his dark brows drawn <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>
down, and his angry eyes aglow. Conciliation
was impossible on either side,
though the shock of definite rupture so far
sobered them that Harding's departure was
deferred to the morning. But, "I will never
break bread under <i>your</i> roof again!" the
young man had said, with a glance round
the room, and a curious significance of tone.
Then he turned away to encounter Barbara
upon the stairs.</p>

<p>To Harding, matters had seemed at their
worst during the black hours of silence, and
the morning brought something of comfort.
If there is but a possibility that work may
help us in our troubles, the dullest day is
better than the night. But to Mr. Hayes
the daylight came drearily, showing the
folly of a business which nothing could
mend. For more than a quarter of a
century he had plumed himself on his <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>
gratitude to Kate Rothwell for her kindness
to his dead love, and had imagined
that he only lacked an opportunity to serve
her. And this graceful sentiment, being
put to the test, had not prevented him
from quarrelling with her son, and turning
the young fellow out of doors. Yes, he,
Herbert Hayes, had actually driven Kate's
boy from Mitchelhurst Place! and what
made it worse, if anything could make it
worse, was the revelation of the utter
impotence of that cherished gratitude. He
regretted what he had done, but he must
abide by it. Apologise to Harding?&mdash;he
would die first! Own to one of the
Rothwells that he had been in the wrong?&mdash;the
mere thought, crossing his mind, as
he tied his cravat that morning, very nearly
choked him. Never&mdash;never! Not if it were
Kate herself! But he reddened to the roots <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>
of his white hair at the thought of the
gossip and laughter which would follow the
unseemly squabble.</p>

<p>He would be unfairly judged. He said
so over and over again, and in a certain
sense it was true, for he had never intended
to quarrel with his guest. But he could not
prove even the innocence he felt. He remembered
two or three bitter fragments of
their wrangling which would condemn him
if repeated. Yet he knew he had not meant
them as his judges would take them. "Well,
but," some practical neighbour would say, "if
you say such things, what do you expect?"
That was just it&mdash;he had expected nothing,
though nobody would believe it, and all at
once this catastrophe had come upon him.</p>

<p>So he went down to breakfast, sincerely
troubled and repentant, and consequently
in a very unpleasant mood. Repentance <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>
seldom makes a man an agreeable companion,
and when it seizes the head of the
house the subordinate members naturally
share his discomfort. The moment he set
foot in the breakfast-room he was met by
the news of Harding's stay in the village,
and his anger blazed up again, though,
through it all, he had an uncomfortable
consciousness that the young man had a
right to stay in Mitchelhurst if he pleased.
If he could only have convinced himself
that Reynold was utterly in the wrong, he
would have forgiven him and been happy.
But it is almost impossible to forgive a
man who is somewhat in the wrong, yet
less so than oneself.</p>

<p>Harding had been guided by Barbara in
his search for a lodging. When they were
standing together at the edge of the ditch,
she had reminded her uncle that Mrs. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>
Simmonds had let her rooms to a man
who came surveying. The fact was so
unprecedented that the good woman might
be pardoned for imagining herself an
authority on what gentlemen liked, and
what gentlemen expected, on the strength
of that one experience. Harding confirmed
her in her innocent belief by agreeing to
everything she proposed. Within half an
hour of his arrival he was sitting down to
what the surveyor always took for breakfast,
and the surveyor's favourite dinner
was cooking for him as he walked fast and
far on the first road that presented itself.
He almost reached Littlemere before he
turned, and had to scramble over a hedge,
to avoid what might have been an awkward
meeting with Mr. Masters. The little squire
went by unsuspectingly, though Reynold,
finding himself face to face with a bull in <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>
the meadow, nearly jumped back upon
him. Happily however the bull took time
to consider, and before he had made up his
mind whether he liked his visitor or not,
the coast was clear, and the young man
sprang down into the road, and set off on
his way back to Mitchelhurst, where he
arrived just as Mrs. Simmonds was beginning
to look out for him. The surveyor
had ordered rather an early dinner.</p>

<p>Harding had done his best to check any
gossip about his affairs, but his landlady
was burning with curiosity. She made a
remark about Mr. Hayes as she set the dish
on the table, and her lodger replied that it
certainly was a queer fancy for a lonely man
to live in that great house, and might he
trouble Mrs. Simmonds for a fork? She
supplied the omission with many apologies,
and said that Mr. Hayes was not very <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>
popular in the neighbourhood, she believed.</p>

<p>"Isn't he?" said Reynold, slicing away.
"Well, all I can say is that I found him a
very hospitable old gentleman. He had
never seen me before, and he invited me
to stay there for three days. Wouldn't
take any denial."</p>

<p>"Well, to be sure, sir, we can but speak
as we find," said Mrs. Simmonds, handing
the potatoes. "Only, you see, there are
some of us who remember the old family&mdash;you'll
excuse me, sir, but it's wonderful
how you favour Mr. John&mdash;and it's not the
same, sir, having a stranger there. It's <i>not</i>
like old times."</p>

<p>"No," said Reynold with a jarring little
laugh. "I should think it was a good
deal better. Thank you, Mrs. Simmonds,
I have all I want."</p>

<p>And with a nod, which was exactly Mr. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>
John's, he dismissed the old lady.</p>

<p>She was disconcerted; she did not know
what to make of this young man with the
Rothwell features, who was not gratified by
a respectful allusion to the family. "A
good deal better!" Well, of course, the
Rothwells held themselves very high, and
thought other people were just the dirt
under their feet. There was no pleasing
them with anything you sent in, nothing
was good enough, and they expected you
to stand curtseying and curtseying for their
custom, and to wait for your money till all
the profit was gone. Mr. Hayes paid as soon
as the bill was sent in, and Miss Strange
was a pleasant-spoken young lady. "A
good deal better"&mdash;well, no doubt it was.</p>

<p>And yet the good woman had not been
insincere when she spoke of the old times
with a regretful accent in her voice. She <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>
remembered John Rothwell's father as a
middle-aged gentleman, alert and strong.
Those old times were the times when she
was a rosy-cheeked girl, whom Simmonds
came courting at her father the wheel-wright's,
and not Simmonds only, for she
might have done better if she had chosen.
It was in the good old times that they set
up their little shop, and that their little girl
was born who had been in the churchyard
three-and-twenty years come Christmas.
There were no times now like those before
Mitchelhurst Place was sold, when she
didn't know what rheumatism was, and
there were none of your new-fangled Board
Schools, to teach children to think little of
their elders. It was not to be supposed
that Mrs. Simmonds thought that her stiff
old joints would become flexible again if
the Rothwells came back to the manor-house, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>
but she certainly felt that in their
reign the world went its way with fewer
obstructions and less weariness, and was
more brightly visible without the aid of
spectacles. She had an impression, too,
that the weather was better.</p>

<p>She straightened herself laboriously after
taking the apple-pie from the oven, and
was horrified to find the crust a little
caught on one side. Having to explain
how this had occurred when she carried it
in, she had no opportunity of continuing
the previous conversation, and the moment
dinner was over Reynold was out again.
The fact was that Mrs. Simmonds's parlour,
which was small and low, and had been
carefully shut up for many months, was
not very attractive to the young man, who
was fresh from the faded stateliness of the
old Place. Besides, he was anxious to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>
keep down importunate thoughts by sheer
weariness, if in no other way.</p>

<p>He went that afternoon to the Hall,
the dreary old farmhouse which Barbara
had pointed out as the Rothwells' earlier
home, and walked in the sodden pastures
where she picked her cowslips in the spring.
He looked more kindly at the old house, in
spite of the ignoble disorder of its surroundings,
but he lingered longest at the gate
where she had shown him Mitchelhurst,
spread out before him like the Promised
Land. He studied it all in the fading
light, and then, with a farewell glance at
the white far-off front of the Place, he
went down into the village, tired enough
to drop asleep over the fire after tea.</p>

<p>"To-morrow, the  letter," was his last
thought as he lay down.</p>



<div class="chapter"></div>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.<br />

<span class="subhead">ONE MORE HOLIDAY.</span></h2>


<p>The inevitable morning came, but the
letter did not.</p>

<p>Harding was first incredulous, then when
a light flashed upon him, he was at once
amused and indignant.</p>

<p>"So! I kept you waiting till the latest
day, and you are returning the compliment.
I am given to understand that you can take
your time as well as I? That's fair enough,
no doubt, only it seems rather a small sort
of revenge, and, as things have turned out,
it's a nuisance. What is to be done now?
Shall I wait another day for my instructions,
or shall I go up to town at once? I told <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>
him to write here, but, after all, what is
there to say, except, 'Be at the office on
such a day?' Shall I go, or stay?"</p>

<p>He tossed up, not ill-pleased to decide
his uncle's affairs so airily. The coin
decreed that he should stay.</p>

<p>"It's just as well," he said to himself.
"I don't want to seem impatient if he isn't."</p>

<p>But the additional day of idleness proved
very burdensome. He fancied that the
Mitchelhurst gossips watched his every
movement; he felt himself in a false
position; he shut himself up in his little
sitting-room and asked for books. Mrs.
Simmonds brought him all she had, but
she looked upon reading as a penitential
occupation for Sundays, and periods of
affliction, and the volumes were well suited
for the purpose. Harding thrust them
aside. The local paper was nearly a week <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>
old, but he read every word of it.</p>

<p>"There'll be a new one to-morrow, sir,"
said his landlady, delighted to see that he
enjoyed it so much.</p>

<p>"Thank you, Mrs. Simmonds, but I shall
be far enough away by this time to-morrow,"
the young man replied.</p>

<p>He spent a considerable part of the afternoon
lying on the horse-hair couch, and
staring at the ceiling. A ceiling is not, as
a rule, very interesting to study, and the
only thing that could be said for this one
was that it was conveniently near. Reynold
could examine every smoke-stain at his ease,
and every fly that chanced to stroll across
his range of vision. The first he noticed
made him think of Barbara and Joppa, but
the later comers were simply wearisome.
There is a distressing want of individuality
about flies. Even when one buzzed about <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>
his head, with a fixed determination to
wander awhile upon his forehead, he had
not an idea which fly it was. It seemed to
him, as he lay there, with his arm thrown
up for a pillow, that flies in general were
just one instrument of torture of, say, a
billion-fly power. The afternoon sunshine
and the smouldering fire had wakened more
than he could reckon in the little parlour.</p>

<p>He would not have cared to confess how
much he was troubled by his uncle's silence.
He had expected to be met rather more
than half-way, instead of which it seemed
that he was to be taught to know his place.
The idea was intolerable, and it haunted
him.</p>

<p>When Mrs. Simmonds came in with a
tray (the surveyor always took his tea
between five and six), she made a remark
or two about things in general, which <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span>
Reynold, turning his lustreless eyes upon
her, endeavoured to receive with a decent
show of interest. When she brought the
tea-pot, she told him that Mr. Hayes had
sent to the Rothwell Arms for a carriage
early that afternoon. "Indeed!" said
Reynold, this time endeavouring to conceal
the interest he felt.</p>

<p>"What were they going to do?" he
wondered, as he propped his head on his
hand and sipped his tea. Was the old man
taking Barbara away? What did it mean?</p>

<p>It meant simply that Mr. Hayes had
wearied of his self-imposed seclusion, and
had announced to his niece that he should
drive over to Littlemere and see Masters.
He added that he might not return to
dinner, and that she was not to wait for
him. While Reynold lay on the sofa the
carriage had gone by, with the little man <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>
sitting in it, his head rather more bowed
than usual, planning how he would explain
the quarrel to his friend. "Masters will
understand&mdash;he knows how the fellow
behaved the night before," said Mr. Hayes
to himself a score of times. But every time
he said it he felt a little less certain that
Masters would understand exactly as he
wished.</p>

<p>Mrs. Simmonds, returning after a considerable
interval, told her lodger that the wind
was getting up, and she thought there
was going to be a change in the weather.
She mostly knew, as she informed him,
on account of her rheumatism. Reynold
opened the door for her and her tray, and
then went to the window.</p>

<p>The moon had risen, the low roofs and
gaunt poplars of Mitchelhurst were black
in its light, and wild wreaths of cloud were <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>
tossed across the sky. It was a sky that
seemed to mean something, to have a mood
and expression of its own. Reynold watched
it for a few minutes, till its vastness made
the little box of a room, where even the
flies had fallen asleep again, insupportably
small. He took his hat and went out.</p>

<p>He did not care which way he went, if
only it were not in the direction of the
Place. Mr. Hayes, when he charged
Barbara not to go near the gate, had a
sort of fancy that the young fellow might
walk defiantly on the very edge of the
forbidden ground, and peer through the
bars with a white, spiteful face. The girl
acquiesced indifferently. She might not
altogether understand Reynold Harding,
but she knew most certainly that he
would never approach them.</p>

<p>It chanced that evening that he took a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>
narrow lane which led out of the Littlemere
road. It proved to be a rugged but very
gradual ascent. Presently it led him
through a gate, and, still gently rising,
became a mere cart track across open
fields, where the wind came in sudden,
hurrying gusts over the grey slopes, and
brought undefinable suggestions of hopelessness
and solitude. Reaching the highest
point the wayfarer passed through another
gate, and pursued a level road, bordered
by spaces of unenclosed grass, sometimes
widening almost to a common, sometimes
shrinking to a mere strip between
the white way and the low hedgerows.
Reynold pushed forward, gazing at the
sky. The clouds, torn and driven by the
wind, fled wildly overhead, like shattered
squadrons, and yet rolled up in new unconquered
masses, as if from a gloomy host <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>
encamped on the horizon. The moon, slowly
climbing the heavens, fought her way as a
swimmer fights the waves. Now she would
show a pale face through the blanched
ripples of a misty sea, then would be over-powered
by a black deluge of cloud, which
darkened earth and sky, and swept over
her sunken and scarcely suspected presence.
And then suddenly she would emerge, pearl-white
and pure, from the midst of the fierce
confusion, rising unopposed over a gulf of
shadowy blue. Or yet again she would
glance mockingly from behind a rent veil
of gossamer at the lonely little traveller who
toiled so far below, under the vast arch of
the heavens, and who raised his pre-occupied
eyes to her, from the world of dream and
mystery which he carried with him under
the little arch of his skull. To Harding just
then that inner world seemed more real, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>
stranger, and less trodden, than did the
world without. The billows of cloud, vast
and formless and dark, rolling on high,
were no more than symbols of the undefined
forebodings which gathered blackly in his
soul and changed with every thought. The
wild and restless melancholy of the evening
harmonised so marvellously with his temper,
that he could almost have forgotten its outward
reality, had it not been for the wind
which blew freshly in his face. It did not
seem possible that, when hereafter he came
back to Mitchelhurst, he could walk this
way whenever he pleased.</p>

<p>Yet he noted landmarks now and then.
Here was a thin row of firs, slim and black,
then a bare stretch of road where he stepped
quickly, his shadow at his side for company,
and then a sturdy oak, with all its brown
leaves astir in a gust, which whispered <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span>
hurriedly as he went by. Somewhat further
yet the way grew narrow, dipping down
into a little hollow, where a runnel of clear
water crossed it, glancing over the pebbly
earth. There was a plank at one side, and
Reynold, stepping on it, smelt the water-mint
which clustered at its edge. It seemed,
somehow, as if the night, which uttered his
desolate thoughts in the wind and the flying
clouds, breathed them in that perfume.</p>

<p>Reynold was one of those who take little
interest, even as children, in stories of
goblins and witches, yet who sympathise
with the mood which gave such legends
birth, something which in its unshapen
darkness and mystery is more impressive
than the strangest vision. Why this inexplicable
mood, with its world-wide suggestiveness,
should have come upon him
that evening, transforming the bit of upland <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>
country through which he walked to a grey
and ghostly region, he could not tell. He
tried to reason with his shadowy presentiments.
He was going to his work the next
day; that very evening he was going back
to the little parlour over the shop; Mrs.
Simmonds would have his supper ready, old
Simmonds would be smoking bad tobacco in
the back room; his walk would lead to
nothing else. Yet he could not convince
himself. He could call up his uncle and
Mrs. Simmonds before his eyes, but they
were grotesque apparitions in his cloudland.
What was it that he was awaiting? Why
did he feel as if the crisis of his fate were
come, as if it would be upon him before
the night were over? "Are we to see it
out together?" he said, looking up at the
moon.</p>

<p>He hardly knew whether he had uttered <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>
the question aloud or not, and he stopped
short. There was a pool close by, roughly
fenced from the road, and fringed with
ragged bushes on the further side. He sat
down on the rail. "To-morrow," he said
to himself, "nothing can happen before to-morrow."
He took old Mr. Harding's letter
from his pocket, and tried to read it in
the moonlight, but a sudden gust caught
it, and almost tore it out of his hand. He
crushed the flapping paper together, put it
back, and sat gazing at the black pool at
his side, idly wondering whether it were
deep enough to drown a man. It looked
deep, he thought&mdash;as deep as the heavens,
and a troubled gleam of moonlight rested
on it every now and then. Harding knew
well that he should never touch his life, yet
he played that night with the fancy that
in one of the darkened moments when the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>
moon was hidden, it would not be difficult
to drop below that shadowy surface, and
effectually end the business, so that when
the bright glance rested there again it
should read nothing. He fancied the moon-beams
travelling swiftly along the road, and
not finding him, while he lay hidden under
the water, with a clump of osiers bending
and quivering above him in the windy
night. "Why couldn't I do it?" he asked
himself. "Why do I go on to meet my
ill-luck? It is coming, I know, to play me
some devil's trick&mdash;I feel it in the air, just
as Mrs. Simmonds feels a change of the
weather in her poor bones."</p>

<p>So, idly jesting, he stooped and tossed a
pebble into the brimming blackness, and as
he did so he pictured to himself the groping
hands, and the ugly strangling fight with
death which the moon might chance to see, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>
if it tore its veil aside too quickly. And,
besides, there was the grim uncertainty of
it. <i>What</i> was under that dusky surface?
"That's as you please to put it, I suppose,"
said Reynold, getting to his feet. "Eternity,
or just a little black mud. And, by Jove,
that railing's rather shaky!" He turned
his face towards Mitchelhurst, laughing at
his own folly. "Well, I'll take to-morrow
and its chance of fortune&mdash;presentiments
and all?"</p>

<p>The wind, which had fought against him
as he came, seemed now so impatient to
get him safely back to Mrs. Simmonds, that
it fairly took him by the shoulders and
hurried him along, as if it knew that it
was between nine and ten, and that the
good lady was addicted to early hours.
And perhaps Reynold himself was slightly
ashamed of his moonlit vagary, and not <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>
altogether unwilling to seek the shelter of
that little roof. He ran and walked down
the field path, and saw the glimmering lights
of the village below, small sparks of friendly
welcome in the great night. When, finally,
he turned into the Littlemere road, and was
somewhat sheltered from the wind, he met
a couple of youths, fresh from the "Rothwell
Arms," harmonious in their desire to
sing together, but not in the result of their
efforts. About a hundred yards further he
encountered the Mitchelhurst policeman.
The road was quite populous and homely.</p>

<p>He had outstripped his forebodings in his
hurried race, and the question whether his
landlady would think that he was very late
for supper was uppermost in his mind. He
opened the door, which was never fastened
till Simmonds bolted it at night, and drew
a breath which gave him a comprehensive <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>
idea of the variety of goods they kept in
stock. With the chilly sweetness of the
night air still upon him, the young man
strode into his room, and confronted Barbara
Strange, who rose from the sofa to meet
him.</p>

<p>All his misgivings overtook him in a
moment.</p>



<div class="chapter"></div>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br />

<span class="subhead">MOONSHINE.</span></h2>


<p>"Miss Strange!" he exclaimed, amazed.</p>

<p>"Oh!" cried Barbara, "I thought you
would <i>never</i> come!"</p>

<p>"You wanted me! You have been waiting
for me! If I had known&mdash;&mdash;" And
while he spoke the strangest thoughts and
possibilities shaped themselves in his brain,
and died away again. If her presence called
them up it also killed them. He saw that
she was frightened. Her lip quivered, and
her eyes looked larger and a little vague.
She was gazing at him through a bright
film of unshed tears.</p>

<p>"If I had known," he repeated confusedly, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>
as he stepped forward. "What is it?"</p>

<p>They had not shaken hands in his first
astonishment, and now she still looked up
at him, and his hand dropped unheeded.</p>

<p>"I don't know what you will say to me,"
she began. "I am so very, very sorry&mdash;I
felt I must come myself and ask you to
forgive me."</p>

<p>"<i>I</i> forgive <i>you</i>! Why," said Reynold,
his eyes shining, "it is you who should
forgive!"</p>

<p>Barbara started, and the hot tears dropped,
and slid over her burning blushes. She
turned away, but too late to hide them.
"What do you mean?" she said. "You
don't know. I haven't told you yet. What
do you suppose I have come for like this?
What do you mean?"</p>

<p>He drew back as if he were stung.</p>

<p>"Well, what is it then?"</p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p>

<p>She threw two letters on the table.</p>

<p>"Letters? You came with those? Upon
my word Miss Strange, it's very kind&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>He stopped short, looking from the letters
to her and back again. Barbara shrank
away, drawing herself together, but she
resolutely fixed her eyes upon his face.</p>

<p>"Why&mdash;why&mdash;" stammered Harding,
turning as pale as death, and then he
dropped into a chair and began to
laugh.</p>

<p>The letter that lay nearest to him was
directed "R. Harding, Esq." in his own
handwriting.</p>

<p>"It is my fault!" cried Barbara. "Tell
me what I have done! It is something
that matters very much! I knew it&mdash;I felt
it was, the moment I found them. I came
with them directly&mdash;I was so afraid you
might have gone away. Don't laugh! Oh <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>
I know it matters dreadfully!"</p>

<p>Harding had had time to master himself.</p>

<p>"On the contrary," he said, "it doesn't
matter at all."</p>

<p>He threw himself back in his chair,
tilting it carelessly, and looking at Barbara.</p>

<p>"Doesn't it?" said the girl incredulously.
"Doesn't it really?"</p>

<p>"Not a bit; why should it? How did it
happen?"</p>

<p>Since everything was lost, he might as
well hear her talk.</p>

<p>"It was my fault," Barbara repeated, still
doubtfully. "I told you to put them on
the hall table&mdash;it was the day we had those
people to dinner."</p>

<p>Reynold nodded.</p>

<p>"I had my apron on, I was busy. I
went out to speak to the gardener, and I
thought I would give them to the boy, so <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>
I put them in my apron pocket, yours and
one of mine, and I never thought of them
again."</p>

<p>He had balanced his chair very dexterously,
and was still looking at her.</p>

<p>"And they have been in that little apron
pocket of yours ever since! Dear me, Miss
Strange, I hope yours wasn't an important
letter. I'm sorry for your correspondent."</p>

<p>"No, mine didn't matter. Mr. Harding,
tell me about yours&mdash;tell me the truth!
All the time I have been waiting here&mdash;and
I thought you never <i>would</i> come!&mdash;I
have felt more and more sure that yours
<i>did</i> matter. I can't tell why, but I am
certain. Let me know the worst, please.
Tell me what I have done!"</p>

<p>"I don't know why you are so determined
that you must have done something
dreadful. I assure you I'm not in the habit <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>
of writing such terribly important letters
as you seem to suppose."</p>

<p>Reynold, as he spoke, had been thinking
how strange it was that people should
excite themselves about their plans for the
future. What child's play and chance it
all was! You dreamed, and schemed, and
worked it all out, you made allowance for
everything except what was really going to
happen, and suddenly it was all over, and
there was nothing more to be said or done.
Here, for instance, was Mitchelhurst Place
blown away like a bubble! Possibly, somewhere,
there might be found something in
the shape of a house, a certain quantity
of stone and timber, set on the face of the
earth and called by that name, but had
Reynold been opposite the gate at that
moment he would have looked at it with
indifference. <i>His</i> Mitchelhurst Place, the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>
one he had thought about so much, the
one he meant to give the best years of
his life to win, was, it now appeared, a
house of cards. Barbara and he had been
mightily interested in setting it up, and
really it had been a very lofty and presentable
edifice, till Barbara forgot to put
a letter in the post, and so it all tumbled
down in a minute. It was a pity, certainly.</p>

<p>"Tell me the truth," said the girl's voice
again, with its soft accent of entreaty.</p>

<p>"But you won't believe me! I tell
you again, Miss Strange, it doesn't matter
a bit. And again, if you like! And
again!"</p>

<p>She looked fixedly at him, and stretched
out her hand towards the letters.</p>

<p>"Very well," she said. "Shall I post
these for you as I go back?"</p>

<p>He brought down his tilted chair with <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>
sudden emphasis, and sprang up.</p>

<p>"No!"</p>

<p>He had lost all, but at least his pride was
safe. His mother and old Mr. Harding
need never learn how nearly they had had
their way. He knew what deadly offence
he had given by the silence which would
be taken for a calculated insult, but he
would a thousand times rather face their
anger than appeal to their pity with a
lame story of a letter delayed. Besides,
it was too late. Old Harding was a man
of his word, the place was filled up, the
chance was gone.</p>

<p>"No!" cried Reynold.</p>

<p>"There!" the girl exclaimed. "I knew
it! I saw your face when you looked at the
letters first&mdash;and now again! You do not
choose to tell me what I have done. Very
well, why don't you say so at once? You <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>
treat me as if I were a baby!"</p>

<p>Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth
quivered, she looked childishly ready to
cry.</p>

<p>"You do not choose to tell me what I
have done." No, why should he? The one
thing he saw clearly was that the mischief
was irreparable; the less said about it,
therefore, the better. There was but one
avenue to fortune and love for him, and it
was closed before his eyes by this night's
revelation. Some men would have set to
work at once to make another, but not
Reynold Harding. He simply accepted the
decree of Fate, and felt that he had half
expected it all the time. And after all,
what <i>had</i> Barbara done? Most likely he
would have failed, even if his letter had
been duly sent. His ill-luck would have
dogged him on his way to wealth. Perhaps <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>
it was more merciful, when, with one sharp
stroke, it spared him the long struggle.
What right had he to find fault with
Barbara, the timid messenger of misfortune?
Was he to answer her brutally&mdash;"You have
ruined me!"&mdash;and throw the weight of his
failure on the little throbbing heart which
had never been so burdened before? The
very idea was absurd. It was absurd to
look back, absurd to murmur; the dream
of Mitchelhurst was over and done with,
it was not worth a withered leaf. Let it
lie where it had fallen.</p>

<p>"Miss Strange," he said, "I assure you
you are making too much of this accident.
Regrets are wasted on it. Mine was a business
letter, it is true, but the chances are
that it would have come to nothing. I
hesitated a long while before I wrote it, and
I am not sure it was not a mistake. Think <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>
no more about it."</p>

<p>"Will you write again?" she persisted.</p>

<p>"Oh, we shall see. I'm going up to
town to-morrow&mdash;I can settle everything
then. I don't think there will be any
occasion to write."</p>

<p>He realised his utter severance from all
his hopes when he heard himself say that
he was going back to town. The girl who
stood questioning him had kindled a strange
brightness in his life, a light which revealed
her own ripe-lipped, radiant face, and then
with capricious breath had blown it out
again, and left him in darkness and alone.
He had lost her, and yet, by a fantastic
contradiction, she had never been half so
near to him as at that moment. "You
are deceiving me!" she said, sorrowfully.
"Don't think I don't know it! Oh, if
there were anything I could do to make <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>
amends!" And in her pain and pity, and
her certainty that in some unspoken way
she had wronged him more than she could
understand, she unconsciously swayed towards
Reynold with her eyes and lips
uplifted. She wanted to quiet the aching
of her regret. She wanted a channel
through which her over-wrought feelings,
might pour in atoning self-sacrifice.</p>

<p>He knew that she did not love him,
though she herself was ignorant of her own
heart, but he also knew that he might have
her in his arms if he chose, acquiescent,
remorseful, submissive, with her head upon
his breast. That one moment was his.
Through the fierce throbbing of his pulses
he was oddly conscious of all his surroundings&mdash;the
little room which smelt of paraffin
and of unused furniture, the letters lying
on the magenta table-cloth, the slippery <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>
little horse-hair sofa from which Barbara
had risen to meet him; everything was
mean, dreary, and hideous. But he had
only to make one step across the patchwork
rug of red and black, only to ask her to
share that hopeless future of his, and he
might take her to himself in her pliant
grace, and his lips would meet hers!</p>

<p>He was her master, yet he stood still
drawing his breath deeply, and eyeing the
parti-coloured rug as if it were a yawning
gulf between them. He would not cross it,
he would say no word of love or of reproach
to spoil her after-life, but his soul was bitter
as gall. At that moment he felt himself
strong enough to give up everything, but
he could not be tender. Was she in later
days to remember him vaguely as a poor
sullen fellow whose schemes and talk came
to nothing, who was too helpless to make <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>
his way in the world? Was she, perhaps,
to try to do something for him&mdash;to recommend
him, for instance, to some friend who
wanted a tutor for a dull boy? Was she to
give him her little dole of pity and friendship?
No, by Heaven! he would not have
that, when he might have taken herself.
Why should he suffer in silence, and not
inflict one answering touch of pain, if only
that he might feel his power to wound?
She was trying him too cruelly with that
innocent offer of atonement, which meant
so much more than she understood.</p>

<p>Because he would not speak the "Marry
me, Barbara!" which was at his very
lips, he controlled his voice and asked with
an air of polite inquiry, "What is it that
you so kindly wish to do for me?"</p>

<p>"What? Oh, I don't know!" she faltered
in confusion. "What <i>can</i> I do? I don't <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>
know. Only if there were anything&mdash;if
there ever could be&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>He looked at her, gravely at first, then
with a smile that deepened slowly. She
met his glance with her appealing eyes, but
she could not meet his smile. Its derision
reached her like a stinging lash, and she
shrank away. "I <i>wish</i> I had never come!"
she said in a low tone. All her sweet
compassionate longing was driven back upon
her heart by his mocking smile, and turned
to something that choked her. "I wish I
hadn't!" she repeated in a stifled voice,
and went towards the door, eager to escape.</p>

<p>Reynold perceived that he had succeeded
admirably. It seemed unlikely that Barbara
would ever come to him again.</p>

<p>A sudden roar of wind in the chimney
startled them both, and recalled him to some
consciousness of the outer world. He took <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>
his hat from the table, and held the door for
her to pass.</p>

<p>"Good-bye," she panted, still with her
eyes averted.</p>

<p>"I'm coming with you."</p>

<p>"No, you are not!"</p>

<p>"Pardon me, but I think I am."</p>

<p>"No!" Barbara repeated. He smiled,
but followed her. She turned on the stairs
in angry helplessness and faced him. "But
I would rather you didn't!" she exclaimed.</p>

<p>"Did you come alone?"</p>

<p>"Yes, and I can go back alone."</p>

<p>"But Mr. Hayes&mdash;what did he say?"</p>

<p>"He is out, he didn't know. Oh!" with
a terrified glance, "if he should be back
first!"</p>

<p>Harding unlatched the outer door, and
she flew out into the rushing wind. He
was at her side in a moment. "Take <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>
my arm," he said.</p>

<p>"I won't!" cried the girl, angrily. "Why
don't you leave me when I ask you?"</p>

<p>"Because you can't go all through Mitchelhurst
alone this stormy night&mdash;and so late,"
said Reynold, raising his voice to dominate
an especially furious gust.</p>

<p>Barbara caught at Mrs. Simmonds's
railings to steady herself. "Thank you!"
she shouted, "it's very kind of you to
remind me that I ought not to be here
at this time of night!" She felt as if her
words were torn out of her mouth and
whirled away. She ended with something
that sounded like a sob, but she herself
hardly knew what it was, or what became
of it.</p>

<p>"Nonsense!" said Reynold, as if he were
hailing her from an almost hopeless distance.
"You <i>must</i> let me see you safely to the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>
gate." The gust subsided a little. "You
must indeed," he added in a more natural
tone.</p>

<p>"Will you leave me?" she persisted.
"It's all I ask you!"</p>

<p>"Very well," he answered, angrily.
"But I suppose Mitchelhurst Street is as
free to me as to you, and I don't see that
you can want more than half of it. Take
whichever side you please, and I'll go the
other."</p>

<p>"Good night," she said, ignoring this
declaration. He waited only to ascertain
her intention, and then strode across the
way to the further path.</p>

<p>They walked through the village in this
fashion, two dusky shapes, grotesquely
blown and hustled by the strong wind. A
capricious blast, catching Barbara's dress,
would send her scudding helplessly for a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>
few yards before she could regain her self-control.
The tall figure on the other side
of the road, clutching at his hat, would
quicken his long steps to keep up with her
involuntary increase of speed. When she
contrived to pull herself up he slackened his
pace, timing his movements with shadow-like
accuracy and persistence.</p>

<p>The clouds were flying in such quick
succession that for some time there was
no decided break through which the moon
might show her face. The heavens were
a vast moving canopy, glimmering with
diffused light, that grew to spectral whiteness
now and again, when the veil was thin
over the hidden orb. Harding blessed the
obscurity which might save Miss Strange
from the wondering comments of Mitchelhurst.
They only met three or four men,
fighting their homeward way against the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>
wind, and, country fashion, keeping the
centre of the road. One of these caught
sight of Reynold, and, staring at him,
shouted a jovial "Good night," to which
the young man, glad to monopolise his
attention, made a courteous reply, while
the slim little figure, on the other side of
the way, stole along in the shadow of the
houses unobserved. Presently they passed
beyond the village street and turned into
the road which led up to the Place, where
the high banks sheltered them a little, and
they did not meet the wind so directly.
Barbara kept to the hedgerow on the left,
Reynold skirted that on the right, and
though the narrower way enforced a rather
closer companionship, they walked with an
air of indifference as serene as the stormy
night permitted.</p>

<p>When they reached the little slope at the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>
gate, Harding halted. Barbara had to cross
the road, and while she did so he stood
perfectly still, not attempting to lessen the
distance between them by one step. The
wild noise of the blast in the tree tops made
a kind of rushing accompaniment to the
silence. All at once the ragged clouds
parted, and the moon sailed suddenly into
a blue rift. Everything became coldly and
brilliantly distinct, even to the lock of the
wrought-iron gate, towards which Barbara
stretched an ungloved hand. As she touched
it she hesitated.</p>

<p>"Mr. Harding," she said.</p>

<p>There was a lull between two gusts, and
the fury which had preceded it made it
seem like an absolute and charmed tranquillity.
Reynold advanced at her summons
with a slightly exaggerated obedience. The
moon was at his back and his black shadow <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>
seemed to hurry before him, to throw itself
at the girl's feet, and then to slip past her
through the iron bars, as if it would creep
into Mitchelhurst Place, and take possession
by stealth.</p>

<p>"Why did you make me angry?" said
Barbara in a tremulous voice. "Why did
we come through the village in this idiotic
way?"</p>

<p>"I was under the impression that you
declined my escort," he replied, with conscious
meekness.</p>

<p>"You make me behave rudely&mdash;<i>why</i> do
you? I went to your lodgings to tell you
how sorry I was, and to ask your pardon
for my carelessness, and it seems as if I
went for nothing but to quarrel. Any
one would think so. Perhaps you think
so?"</p>

<p>"No," said Reynold, smiling, "I don't. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>
And it isn't a very serious quarrel, is it?"</p>

<p>"Don't sneer at me any more, or you
will make me hateful!" cried Barbara. "I
can't bear it! I will never ask you again
if there is anything I can do&mdash;never! You
needn't have shown me how you despised
me: you might have been a little kinder
when I went to you like that!"</p>

<p>She swallowed down a sob.</p>

<p>"Really I'm very sorry if anything I
said&mdash;" he began.</p>

<p>"Oh never mind now what you said or
did! I know it, and that's enough. I
won't give you another chance, but I won't
quarrel. It hurts me, it's horrid, it's worse
than Uncle Hayes. Do let us part friends&mdash;or&mdash;or&mdash;something
like friends&mdash;not in this miserable way!"</p>

<p>"With all my heart."</p>

<p>She took her hand from the gate and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>
turned towards him.</p>

<p>"Say you forgive me then! For everything!"</p>

<p>"Ah! that I can't do," Reynold replied,
finding a kind of distorted pleasure in
playing with her earnestness. "I'm not
sure, yet, that there is anything to forgive."</p>

<p>"Forgive me on the chance!"</p>

<p>"Oh no, I couldn't presume to do that!
It would be a chance whether <i>you</i> forgave
<i>me</i> afterwards for my impertinence."</p>

<p>A sudden blast nearly sent her tottering
into his arms. She recovered herself, looked
at him in speechless indignation as if he
had ordered it, pushed open the gate, and
the black tracery of bars swung back into
its place, dividing them.</p>

<p>Reynold stood where she had left him,
gazing after her. She went a little way up
the drive, and then lingered, half turning <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>
as if she thought some one had called. The
ground on which she stood was dry and
white in the moonshine, and dappled with
fantastic, moving shadows. The little old
trees fought against the wind, swaying their
bare, misshapen arms above her head. The
stone balls on either side of the entrance
gleamed like skulls in the pale light, guarding
the avenue to the sepulchral house, with
its glassy rows of windows. For a moment
the picture was as clear as day, with Barbara
standing in the middle of the road;
then a great wave of stormy cloud rolled
up and overtopped the moon, and in the
dusky confusion she vanished.</p>



<div class="chapter"></div>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br />

<span class="subhead">REYNOLD'S REGRET.</span></h2>


<p>With the passing of that gleam of moonlight
it seemed to Reynold Harding that
Mitchelhurst Place disappeared finally into
the abyss that waits for all created things.
Where the house, in its curious ghastly
whiteness, had stood a moment earlier, was
now nothing but baffling gloom, and the
very gate vanished into the shadows, as if
there were no need of any substantial
barrier between him and the lost vision.
The scene had closed with dramatic suddenness,
and he felt that the play was
played out, but how long he stood staring
at the dusky curtain he did not know.</p>

<p>At last he turned, and made his way <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>
down the dim road. The bewildering
obscurity seemed to press upon his sight,
and he quickened his pace to gain the
corner where his glance might rest on the
scattered lamps of Mitchelhurst Street&mdash;little
flames shuddering and struggling in
the gale. He had gone about half the
distance to his lodgings, when he saw two
advancing eyes of fire at the end of the
street. Nearer and nearer they came, but,
owing to the clamour of the wind, the noise
of wheels was inaudible till the carriage was
close upon him where he paused on the
sidewalk. Then for a moment there was
a gleam of light upon the road, and in it
appeared, as in a kind of magic-lantern
picture, a sorry-looking grey horse, travelling
reluctantly beyond his stable at the
inn, a shabby driver, buttoned closely
against the wind, with his hat pulled low <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>
on his brows, a flashing of revolving wheels,
and the black silhouette of the Mitchelhurst
fly. Harding looked after it till he saw
the lamp shine for a moment, with sudden
brightness, as the carriage turned, and then
go out. After this fashion was Mr. Hayes,
too, lost in the darkness which had swallowed
everything else, and Reynold's gaze
conveyed a not unkindly farewell.</p>

<p>The night gathered and deepened in the
village, and the great starless dome bent
its vaulted gloom over the half-dozen lights
which glimmered on cottages and cabbage
plots. Now and again a dog would bark,
or the wind would pass with a wilder wail,
and the sign of the <i>Rothwell Arms</i> would
creak discordantly. The people to whom
that little hollow was the world, lay close
and safe in their houses, wakened, perhaps,
by the gale to hope that no tiles would <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>
fall, and no damage be done in the
gardens, listening drowsily for awhile,
and then turning in their beds to sleep
again.</p>

<p>It was not till the moon was low in the
west that it broke once more through the
clouds, and, peering in at a small uncurtained
window, revealed the white face
of a man who sat by it, with drooping head
and listless hands. He was not asleep, but
he did not move. With that same glance
the moon espied St. Michael in the lancet
window, sedulously trampling on his little
dragon, while the old clock above his head
recorded the passing of the hours with a
labour of slow strokes. Those two, and
those two only, did the moon see in all
Mitchelhurst, and then vanished again and
left them, till the wind went down, and the
day came slowly over the grey fields, with <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>
a deluge of autumnal rain.</p>

<p>Mrs. Simmonds was sorry to lose her
lodger, and sorry that the weather should
be so bad, and that he should look so pale.
She busied herself about his breakfast, and
brought him the local paper with the air of
a successful prophet.</p>

<p>"I told you there'd be another to-day,
sir," she said as she laid it down, "and
here it is!" Reynold briefly acknowledged
the attention, but he never touched it.
"So set as he was upon that other one!"
said Mrs. Simmonds later to her husband.</p>

<p>Simmonds suggested that he might have
found something that specially interested
him in the other paper, somebody dead
and leaving money, may be, or somebody
mysteriously disappeared, or something&mdash;he
looked as if he'd had a shock of some
sort. But Mrs. Simmonds was inclined to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>
think that he was most likely upset by the
thought of his railway journey. She knew
it was all <i>she</i> could do to swallow a bit, if
she were going anywhere, with all her
packing on her mind, and very likely the
gentleman was of the same way of feeling.
As to a shock, he hadn't got any shock out
of the paper, she knew. He might have
had some bad news in the letters Miss
Strange brought him, for he told her with
his own lips that they were very important,
and that was why she came with them
herself.</p>

<p>"You see, the old gentleman was out,"
said Mrs. Simmonds, "so I suppose she
didn't know what to do."</p>

<p>"I shouldn't think the old gentleman
would be best pleased," said Simmonds.</p>

<p>The good woman considered for a moment.</p>

<p>"Well, I sha'n't tell him," she announced <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>
finally.</p>

<p>Harding drove to the nearest station in
a gig. The rain was not so heavy then, the
downpour had become a persistent drizzle.
Nevertheless the village looked drenched
and dismal enough as he bade it good-bye,
and swung round the corner of the churchyard
wall, where the yellow weeds stood
up in the crevices behind the slant grey
veil, and the great black-plumaged yews
let fall their heavy tears upon the graves.
In another minute a clump of trees hid
the square tower and the leaden roof, and
Mitchelhurst was left behind. But the
young man looked right and left at the
wet hedgerows till they reached a spot
where a ploughed field rose above the bank
on one side, while on the other a deep
bramble-grown ditch divided the road from
the sodden meadows. He fixed his eyes on <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>
that. It was exactly a week that Wednesday
since he first met Barbara Strange.</p>

<p>Late that afternoon he walked into a dull
room in a dull suburb of London, and a
woman who stood in the window, snipping
the dead fronds from a homesick-looking
fern, turned to meet him. There was no
mistaking the relationship. Allowing for
the differences of sex and age, they were
as like as they could possibly be, except
that in every glance and gesture the woman
showed a fuller and richer life than did the
man. There was something of imperious
grace in her movements which made him
seem awkward, hesitating, and constrained.
She suffered him to touch her cheek with his
lips, but showed no inclination to speak first.</p>

<p>"Back again, you see," he said, drawing
a chair to the hearth-rug.</p>

<p>"Yes. I should think you must be wet."</p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p>

<p>"Damp, I suppose."</p>

<p>He glanced round the room. The flock
paper, the red curtains, the grimy windows,
the smoky fire, had the strange novelty
which the most familiar things will sometimes
put on. The atmosphere was loaded
with acrid fog, and the blackness of the
great city. He raised his foot and warmed
a muddy boot, while his thoughts went
back to the stateliness and airy purity of
the old manor house, where the great logs
cracked and glowed upon the hearths.</p>

<p>Mrs. Harding came and rested her
elbow on the chimney-piece, looking down
at her son.</p>

<p>"I left Mitchelhurst this morning," said
he, after a pause.</p>

<p>"Yes? Well, I suppose you had seen
enough of it."</p>

<p>"It was time to come home, anyhow," he <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>
said.</p>

<p>"You had business in town?"</p>

<p>The tone and words would have served
as well for any chance visitor.</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;naturally."</p>

<p>He put the other foot to the fire by way
of a change.</p>

<p>"I did not know," said Mrs. Harding. "I
have nothing to do with your business. It
certainly isn't mine. You are always welcome
to be here as much as you please, but of
course you will attend to your own affairs."</p>

<p>Reynold made no answer.</p>

<p>"You are your own master," she continued,
after a short silence. "I have
recognised that for some years. I have
not expected you to go my way."</p>

<p>"One must go one's own way, I
suppose," said the young man.</p>

<p>"And if I expected you to show some <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>
slight consideration for me, in taking
the way you have chosen&mdash;I was mistaken!"</p>

<p>He stirred the fire, and replaced the
poker, but did not look at her or speak.</p>

<p>"You know what I mean?" she
demanded.</p>

<p>"Perfectly."</p>

<p>"Reynold, you might have written!
Your uncle's offer deserved a word. I do
not say you might have accepted it, but
you might have refused it courteously.
Was that so much to ask? You have
insulted him wantonly, and he will never
pardon it. After all, he is your father's
brother, and an old man. Reynold, you
should have written!"</p>

<p>He did not raise his eyes from the
burning coals.</p>

<p>"Well," he said, "I did propose to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>
write before I went away."</p>

<p>She winced at the thrust.</p>

<p>"I was wrong!" she owned, with bitter
passion in her voice. "It would have been
better."</p>

<p>"As things have turned out," said
Reynold, "I think it would."</p>

<p>Poor little Barbara! If that angry,
dark-eyed woman had known how near
the fulfilment of her hopes had been, and
lost by how pitiful a chance? But the
secret was safe.</p>

<p>Kate Harding drew a long breath.</p>

<p>"Well, I have no more to say about
it. Perhaps it is best that we should
understand each other. You knew how
your silence would wound me; it was
deliberate&mdash;it was calculated. Well, it <i>has</i>
wounded me, I don't deny it. But it is
all over now, and you will never wound <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>
me again. Do what you please, now and
always&mdash;as you have done."</p>

<p>He signified his attention sullenly, with
a slight movement of his head.</p>

<p>"It is all over," she continued. "The
situation is filled up, and nothing would
ever induce Robert Harding to suffer you
to enter his office&mdash;not if you offered to
sweep it! He will not trouble you any
more, and, since the matter is ended, let
it never be mentioned between us again."</p>

<p>It was easy to see that she was, as she
had said, deeply wounded, and there was
a tragical intensity in her speech. Her
son made answer with the same mute
gesture of assent.</p>

<p>Presently she moved away, and for a
few minutes she busied herself about the
room. She gathered up the leaves she had
cut off, put away two or three things that <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>
were lying about, and then came back to
him.</p>

<p>"Dinner will be ready at the usual time,"
she said, in a cold, everyday voice. "And
then we can talk&mdash;&mdash;of other things."</p>

<p>"Yes," Reynold answered, with a start,
looking up from his reverie. He had been
thinking of the evening before. When he
went into the little sitting-room after his
walk, and Barbara rose up from the sofa
to meet him, he had been startled, she was
confused and frightened, and they had
forgotten the ordinary greetings. And
then they had talked, he had sat looking
at her, he had stood up and held himself
aloof&mdash;<i>how</i> had he done it? Well, it had
been for Barbara's sake. Afterwards they
had gone through Mitchelhurst together.
Together? No, absurdly apart, with the
breadth of the street between them. And <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>
at last they had talked at the gate, and
he had vexed her, and she had hurried
away without a word of farewell. It
seemed to him now that he had never
meant that. It was impossible he could
have meant it. Why, they had never
shaken hands, he had never touched her,
and he remembered that she had no glove
on, he had seen her hand in the moonlight
on the latch of the gate. She had said,
"Let us part friends," he had only to
consent.</p>

<p>It is well that we cannot recall our
moments of temptation. Reynold had been
able to pain her then with a jest, he had
been strong enough in his bitterness of
heart to let her go without a word, but
now as he sat staring at the fire, idly
clasping his knee, he regretted his strength.
If he could have taken Barbara's hand he <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>
would, and the long fingers, loosely knit
together, suddenly tightened at the thought.
A woman's small hand would not have had
much chance of escape from such a clasp
as that.</p>

<p>But at that moment his mother aroused
him from his musings.</p>



<div class="chapter"></div>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br />

<span class="subhead">LOVE'S MESSENGER.</span></h2>


<p>The first week of December had not gone
by, and already the winter had set in. Mr.
Pryor, as he walked from the vicarage up
the lonely road to Mitchelhurst Place, said
to himself that it was a most unpleasant
afternoon. Of his own free will he would
not have left his fireside, but Destiny had
turned him out, and he went feebly and
heavily along the iron road, feeling as if
Nature were in a mood of freezing malice
and took pleasure in his sufferings. The
air was still, yet it came very keenly to
his pallid face, his feet were cold, the hand
that held his umbrella was remarkably cold, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>
a red-edged manual of prayers and devotional
readings, tucked under his left
arm, showed a tendency to slip, and
altogether Mr. Pryor had a half-numbed
sense that it was not fair that any one
should want him in such weather.</p>

<p>The sky was grey, a chilly fog narrowed
the horizon, and all the hedges and boughs
in the little frozen landscape were covered
with hoarfrost. It was like a dream of
a dead spring. Every little clump of trees
was an orchard, white with sterile blossoming,
spectral flowers which would vanish
as suddenly as they had come. Every
sound was deadened, till it was almost
startling to come upon a man at work by
the wayside, lopping hoary branches from
the hedge, and flinging them down, with
all their delicate tangle of white sprays,
upon the frosted grass. It was a grim task <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>
to be the only sign of energy in that ghostlike
world; such a task as in an old picture
Death himself might have undertaken.
Happily, however, for good Mr. Pryor's
nerves, it was the face of an ordinary flesh
and blood labourer, with the breath steaming
from his gaping mouth, that was lifted
as he went by.</p>

<p>The vicar crept, shivering, up the avenue
to the house, which was more than ever
like a great white tomb. He asked the
servant who admitted him how Mr. Hayes
was that afternoon.</p>

<p>"Much the same, thank you, sir," said
the woman, showing him into the yellow
drawing-room, and putting a piece of wood
on the fire, "I'll tell Miss Strange you are
here."</p>

<p>He stood miserably on the rug, looking
down into the fender, and squeezing his <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>
red-edged book under his arm, till at the
sound of the opening door he turned and
saw Barbara. The girl came forward
quickly, and touched the fumbling fingers
which he held out, as she uttered a word of
greeting.</p>

<p>"Mr. Hayes is much the same, they tell
me," said the clergyman in a melancholy
voice.</p>

<p>"Yes," said Barbara, "I suppose there
isn't any difference. But I think anyhow
he isn't any worse. Mamma is with him,
and he was taking some beef-tea just now"&mdash;Mr.
Pryor nodded grave approval of the
beef-tea&mdash;"but he'll be very glad to see you
in a few minutes. Won't you sit down?"</p>

<p>He sat down, nursing the book, which
had a narrow ribbon hanging out of it.</p>

<p>"I hope Mrs. Strange is pretty well&mdash;as
well as can be expected?" he said, after <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>
a pause. "Not over-fatigued, I trust?"</p>

<p>"Oh, no; I don't think so," the girl
replied. "Mamma seems very well."</p>

<p>"Ah, quite so. She bears up, she bears
up. Well, that is what we must all try to
do&mdash;to bear up. It is the only thing."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Barbara. She was not quite
sure that she ought to have said that her
mother seemed very well. "Of course it
is a trying time," she added, by way of
softening the possibly indiscreet admission.</p>

<p>"Certainly, certainly&mdash;very trying for
you both," Mr. Pryor agreed. Yet even to
his dull eyes it was apparent that this very
trying time had not dimmed the bright face
opposite. There was a peculiar radiance
and warmth of youth about Barbara that
afternoon, a glow of life which forced itself
on his perception. She did not smile, she <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>
was very quiet, and yet it seemed as if
some new delight, some unspoken hope,
had awakened within her, quickening and
kindling her to the very finger-tips. She
sat demurely in her low chair, with her face
turned towards the window, but there was
a soft flame of colour on her cheek, and a
light in her eyes when she lifted her drooping
lashes. In that great, cold house,
through which the shadow of death was
creeping, she was the incarnation of life and
promise, a curious contrast to her surroundings.
It would hardly have seemed stranger
if suddenly, in the desolate world without,
one had come on a burning bush of pomegranate
flowers among the cold frost-blossoms
of the Mitchelhurst hedges.</p>

<p>Mr. Pryor felt something of all this. He
did not quite like it. Of course he did not
want to see the girl haggard and weary,
but he was so chilly, as he sat there by the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>
fireside with his book on his knee, that it
seemed to him as if the swift, light pulsations
of youth were hardly proper. He
would have been more at his ease with
Barbara if she had had a slight toothache,
or a cold in her head. He felt it his duty
to depress her a little, quietly, as she sat
there.</p>

<p>"The hour of Death's approach is a
very solemn one, even for the bystanders,"
Mr. Pryor began, after a moment's consideration.</p>

<p>Barbara said, "Yes it was," with an
almost disconcerting readiness.</p>

<p>"Yes, yes, and we should endeavour to
profit by it. We should spend it, not only
in regrets for those who are about to be
taken from us, but in thoughts of the
future."</p>

<p>Barbara's red lips parted in another <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>
"Yes." The future&mdash;she was thinking of
it. It was easier to think of it than of the
old man who was dying.</p>

<p>"Of the future," Mr. Pryor continued,
caressing the smooth leather of his book
with his ungloved hand, and softly pulling
the pendent ribbon, "of the time when we
shall be lying&mdash;yes, yes, each one of us&mdash;as
our friend is now." He glanced up at the
ceiling, to indicate that he meant Mr.
Hayes, taking his beef-tea in the bed-room
on the first floor.</p>

<p>The girl said nothing, but looked meditatively
at the folds of her dress, as if she
were in church. It would have been
pleasanter if Mr. Pryor had brought a
funeral sermon out of his table drawer, and
could have gone on without these embarrassing
pauses.</p>

<p>"When our hour is at hand," he said at <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>
last, "as&mdash;as it must be one of these days.
How shall we feel then, Miss Strange?"</p>

<p>Barbara didn't know.</p>

<p>"No," said the vicar, "we don't know.
But we must think&mdash;we must think. Try
to picture yourself in your uncle's position&mdash;what
would your life look to you if you
were lying there now?"</p>

<p>She looked up with a sudden startled
flash. "I haven't had my life&mdash;it would
only look like a beginning," she said with a
vision as of a rose-garlanded doorway to a
vault. "If I were going to die directly I
couldn't feel like Uncle Hayes."</p>

<p>The passionate speech awoke the clergyman's
instinct of assent. "No, no," he
said, "certainly not. Certainly not." At
that moment a message came: "Would
Mr. Pryor kindly step up-stairs?" and
he went, not altogether sorry to bring his <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>
little discourse to a close.</p>

<p>Barbara, left to herself, sat gazing at the
window, till at last the hinted smile, which
had troubled her companion, betrayed itself
in a tender, changeful curve. "Adrian!"
she said softly, under her breath. "Oh,
how could I? How could I? Adrian!
and I thought you didn't care!"</p>

<p>She was restless with happiness. She
sprang up, and walked to and fro, too glad
at heart to complain of the walls that held
her, and yet feeling that she needed air and
freedom for her joy. She leaned against
the window, and looked out at the wintry
world, murmuring Adrian's name against
the chilly pane. There was no voice to
give her back her tender speech, yet she
hardly missed it. No praise is so sweet to
a woman as the reproaches she heaps upon
herself for an unjust suspicion of her lover.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>
To defend him to others is a mixture of joy
and pain, but to feel that she has wronged
him, and that to trust him is safer than to
trust her doubts, is a passionate delight.</p>

<p>This joy had come to Barbara that very
morning. She had been sitting in her
uncle's room, reading a novel by the fireside,
while the old man slept, as she
thought. She softly turned page after page
till a feeble voice broke the silence.
"Where's your mamma?" said Mr. Hayes.</p>

<p>"Down-stairs, writing letters. Do you
want her?" And Barbara stood ready
to go.</p>

<p>"No, I don't want her. Writing her
daily bulletins, eh? Well, well. What's
the time? You haven't given me my
medicine."</p>

<p>"It's very nearly time," said Barbara,
with a glance at the clock. There was a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>
little clinking of bottle and glass, and then
she came to the bedside, and stood looking
down at the wrinkled, fallen face among the
pillows. "Can I help you?" she asked.</p>

<p>"Wait a bit, can't you?" said the old man.</p>

<p>She waited, looking aside, yet watching
for the slightest movement on his part.
Her soft young fingers closed round the
half-filled glass, and his dim eyes rested on
them. Presently he raised himself with an
effort, and the girl put another pillow
behind him. He stretched out a trembling,
dingy-white hand, carried the glass to his
lips a little uncertainly, and emptied it.</p>

<p>She set it down. "Shall I take away
that pillow?" she asked.</p>

<p>"No&mdash;wait."</p>

<p>Barbara, after a minute, shifted her
position, and stood by the carved post at
the foot of the bed, while her thoughts <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span>
went back to her novel. She was not
heartless, she was only young. Her uncle
had never been very much to her, and she
found it as difficult to concentrate her mind
on this melancholy business of sickness and
dissolution as if it were a sermon. And yet
she did sincerely desire to behave properly,
and to feel properly, too, if it could be
managed.</p>

<p>The little old man rested awhile, sitting
up in his bed. He perceived that the girl's
thoughts were far away. He could keep
her standing there as long as he pleased, a
motionless figure against the faded green
curtains, but he could not narrow her world
to his sick-room. Perhaps for that very
reason he felt a desire to awaken her from
her reverie.</p>

<p>"How old are you?" he asked.</p>

<p>"Nineteen."</p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p>

<p>The answer was given with a lifting of
her long lashes. She had not expected any
question about herself.</p>

<p>"Nineteen?"</p>

<p>"Yes. At least I shall be nineteen next
month."</p>

<p>A month more or less made little
difference to Barbara.</p>

<p>"As much as that?" he said. "Barbara,
perhaps I ought to say something before I
go."</p>

<p>Her attention was effectually aroused,
and her brilliant gaze rested on the dull,
waxen mask before her. But after a
moment his eyes fell away from hers.</p>

<p>"I thought I did right," he said.</p>

<p>"Yes?" Barbara questioned.</p>

<p>"That young man who came here&mdash;what
was his name?"</p>

<p>"Mr. Harding."</p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p>

<p>"No, no, no!" he cried irritably. "No!
What made you think of him? The first
one?"</p>

<p>"Mr. Scarlett?"</p>

<p>He nodded.</p>

<p>"But it doesn't matter," he said. "If
you were thinking of the other one it
doesn't matter about Scarlett."</p>

<p>"What about him?"</p>

<p>"He wanted to speak to you before he
went away, and I told him to wait. Better
to wait&mdash;you were so young, you know."</p>

<p>"He <i>did</i> want to speak to me!" the girl
exclaimed under her breath.</p>

<p>"Plenty of time," said Mr. Hayes.
"He's young too. I told him he could
come again to Mitchelhurst if he felt the
same. I thought it was best&mdash;I thought it
was best," he repeated, trying to drown a
faint consciousness that to have parted <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>
with Barbara would have upset all his
arrangements.</p>

<p>"I'm sure you did," she answered soothingly.</p>

<p>"I know your mother would say it was
best&mdash;wouldn't she? Besides, I didn't do
any harm, since you were thinking of the
other one."</p>

<p>"He was here last," said Barbara.</p>

<p>"So he was," the sick man answered,
with a flash of his old briskness. "And
girls soon forget."</p>

<p>Barbara said nothing. What was the
good of protestations? She would never
utter a word against Reynold Harding&mdash;never.
And what could she say about
Adrian Scarlett? She had not owned to
herself that she cared for him. If she did&mdash;and
she was conscious of strong pulsations,
which flushed her face, and filled her veins <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>
with tingling warmth&mdash;the more reason for
silence. She laid a hand on the carved
foliage of the post, and faced the dim figure
propped in the bed. There was something
grotesquely feeble about the little man's
attitude. His face, discoloured and pale,
drooped in the greenish shadow of the
hangings, his unshaven chin rested on his
breast, his parchment hands lay in a little
nerveless heap on the counterpane before
him. One would have said that he was set
up in sport, as children set up dolls and
nine-pins, on purpose to be knocked over.</p>

<p>"Hadn't you better lie down?" said Barbara,
after considering him for a while. She
wanted to speak tenderly, for the sake of
the strange new gladness which was throbbing
at her heart; yet the facts of sickness
and hopeless decay had never seemed so <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>
distasteful. When he assented, she put her
arm about him with the utmost care, but
she could hardly help shrinking from the
clutch of his chilly fingers on her wrist.</p>

<p>"Rothwells are a bad lot," he said, "bad
and poor. Scarlett would be a better match.
Some of his people have money."</p>

<p>The habit of deference to her Uncle
Hayes prevented her from resenting this
speech.</p>

<p>"Never mind about that, please, uncle,"
she said gently.</p>

<p>"Good family, too," said Mr. Hayes,
indistinctly to himself. "I did it for the
best, as your mamma would see."</p>

<p>"Never mind about mamma, Uncle
Hayes," said the girl again. "I'm sure you
had better rest a little."</p>

<p>And when he acquiesced she went back
to her novel, which was all about Adrian <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>
Scarlett. After all, he had not gone off
without a thought of her&mdash;he had <i>not</i>
slighted her. Perhaps she was too young,
and at any rate she could not be angry
with her uncle since he had told her of
Adrian's love. She had a right to think
of him as Adrian, surely, if he loved her.
So he had been sent away&mdash;where? Perhaps
he would see somebody else, somebody
better and more beautiful, and she would
be forgotten. Well!&mdash;Barbara's eyes were
fixed intently on the page&mdash;even if he did
forget her, it might break her heart, but she
need not be ashamed that she had thought
of him, since she held the happy certainty
that he had thought of her. Happen what
might in his after life, he had loved her
once&mdash;he had!&mdash;he had! And she had
feared that he had only laughed at her, she
had thought that he might be heartless&mdash;Oh
how was it possible that she could have <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>
been so wickedly unjust! She deserved
that he should never come back to her.</p>

<p>It was an incongruous business altogether.
It was as if a breath from a burial vault
had quickened the faint flame in Barbara's
heart to sudden splendour, for if old Hayes
had actually been the mummy he very much
resembled, he could not have been more
remote from any comprehension of the
message which he had delivered. His lips
had relaxed in utter feebleness, and the
secret had escaped. He did not see the
look which flashed into the girl's eyes, and
when Mrs. Strange, who might have been
more observant, came to take her place by
the bedside, Barbara stole softly away,
hanging her head in the consciousness of
those flushed cheeks, which seemed too like
holiday wear for such a melancholy time.
Her mother might have been surprised, for <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span>
she had been a little uneasy, fancying
that the girl looked sad. Barbara was but
a young thing, and had been left too long
shut up with but dismal company.</p>

<p>And, if Mrs. Strange had only known it,
the poor little girl had been her own most
dismal company. From the time that Reynold
Harding went away she had been
restless, frightened, and miserable. When
the exaltation of that evening had passed,
a sudden terror at the thought of her own
daring overtook her. She was not only
afraid of her uncle's anger, but doubtful
whether she had not really committed an
unpardonable sin against the social law.
When she hurried to Harding with the
letters, she had somehow vaguely believed
that he would shelter her, that he would
stand by her if she were blamed. And
when he had played with her, refused to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>
trust her, and vanished into the night
with a mocking smile, leaving her utterly
alone, she had felt absurdly desolate. At
first she had waited, in sickening apprehension,
for her uncle to hear of her visit to
Mr. Harding. Fate, however, seemed whimsically
inclined to protect her. First there
was the storm of rain which prevented a
meeting with all the gossips of Mitchelhurst
at the Penny Reading. Then, a day or
two later, came Mr. Hayes' accident&mdash;a
mere slip on the stairs, it was supposed,
till the doctor hinted at something in the
nature of a fit. Barbara saw that detection
was postponed, but still she felt that the
sword hung over her head, and night after
night she tossed in an agony of doubt.
Had she really done anything very dreadful?
She recalled Mr. Harding's ambiguous words
and glances&mdash;did they mean that he thought <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>
lightly of a girl who would go to him as she
had done? Over and over again she asked
the useless questions&mdash;Did they mean that?&mdash;Did
they not?&mdash;-What <i>did</i> they mean?
And leaving his meaning out of the matter,
what would other people say? Suppose she
went and told them&mdash;ah! but how and what
would she tell them? She might say, "I
found I hadn't posted Mr. Harding's letters,
so I took them to him at once: wasn't
that the best thing to do?" How right and
reasonable it sounded! But if she said,
"I went secretly to  a  man's  lodgings  at
night&mdash;&mdash;"  at  the  mere thought a blush
passed over her like a scorching wave of fire.
What would her mother say?</p>

<p>Even in her misery she was childish
enough to wince at the thought of her
sisters at home. She had been proud to be
mistress of a house while they were still in <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span>
the school-room, and the idea that she had
been wanting in dignity, perhaps even in
modesty, and that she might be ostentatiously
controlled and watched, by way of
punishment, was intolerable to her. To be
humiliated before Louisa and Hetty&mdash;how
could she endure it? They were not ill-natured,
but they had a little resented her
advancement, and Barbara, as she lay in
her great over-shadowing bed, could fancy
all the out-spoken comments and questionings
in the roomy attic where the three
used to sleep. She did not want to go back
to the Devonshire vicarage, and yet Mitchelhurst
was fast becoming hateful to her.
The pictures on the walls gazed at her
with Reynold's eyes, his presence haunted
the house from which he had been banished.
What was the wrong that she had done
him? She did not know, and the uncertainty <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>
seemed to mock her as he had mocked
her that night. The poor child said to
herself quite seriously that he had taken
away all her youth and happiness. She
fancied that she felt old and weary as the
days went by, fretting her simple heart with
unacknowledged fear.</p>

<p>And now suddenly came the message
of Adrian's love, and lifted her above all her
dreary little troubles. What did it matter
that it was uttered by those dry, bloodless
lips, which stumbled over the blissful words?
What did anything matter since Adrian
cared for her, and life was all to come?
Why had she tormented herself about
Reynold Harding! <i>Reynold Harding!</i> He
was utterly insignificant, he was nobody!
She could tell Adrian about that expedition
of hers, it was so unimportant, so trivial,
that he could not be jealous; he could not <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>
mind. Adrian's jealousy! There was something
delightful, even in that terrible possibility.
But he would not be jealous,
everything was warm, and glad, and full
of sunshine when Adrian was there.</p>

<p>She resented Mr. Pryor's professional allusions
to the uncertainty of life. There are
moments so perfect that they ought not to
be degraded by thoughts of disease and
death, ought not to be measured or weighed
in any way whatever. Barbara felt this,
and she thrust aside the clergyman's lecture
as soon as he left the room. Let him talk
of such things to Uncle Hayes. As for her,
she lingered at the window, thinking of her
newly-found happiness, while she gazed at
the hoary fields, with their black boundaries
of railing or leafless hedge, till a faint pink
flush crept over the pale sky, as if it were
softly suffused with her overflowing joy. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>
Mitchelhurst Place, of which Harding had
dreamed so tenderly a few months earlier, as
a home for himself and his love, was to the
eager girl at that moment only a charnel-house,
full of death and clinging memories,
from which she panted to escape. It was
true that she had first met Adrian Scarlett
there, but she had the whole world in which
to meet him again. "And he will always
know where to find me," she said to herself
with a touch of practical common sense in
the midst of her rapture. "He can look out
papa's name in the Clergy List, any day."</p>



<div class="chapter"></div>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br />

<span class="subhead">A  PERPLEXING  REFLECTION.</span></h2>


<p>The April sun was shining into two
pleasant sitting-rooms, only divided by a
partially drawn curtain. Their long windows
opened on a wide gravel walk. Beyond
this lay a garden, bright with the airy,
leafless charm of spring. The grass was
grey-green as yet, the borders brown earth,
but there were lines and patches of gay
spring flowers, and a blithe activity of birds,
while the white clouds floated far away in
the breezy sky.</p>

<p>Adrian Scarlett, who was a guest in the
house, came slowly sauntering along one of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>
the sunshiny paths, between the yellow
daffodils, with eyes intent on a handful of
printed leaves. Now and again he stopped
short, trying a different reading of a line,
or twisting his little pointed beard with
white fingers, while he questioned some
doubtful harmony of syllables. Once he
took a pencil from his pocket, and with
indignant amusement marked a misprint.
After each of these pauses he resumed his
dreamy progress, unconscious of any wider
horizon than the margin of his page.</p>

<p>Presently his loitering walk brought him
to one of the tall, shining windows, and
thrusting the little bundle of proofs into
his pocket, he unfastened it and stepped in.
He found the room untenanted, except by two
or three flies, which buzzed in the
sunny panes as if summer time had come.
A piano stood open, with some music lying <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span>
on it, and the young man sat down with his
back to the curtained opening, began to
play, and amused himself for a while in
an agreeably discursive fashion. But after
a time he felt that he was not alone. The
conviction stole upon him gradually, though,
as far as he knew, there had been no sound
in the further room, and he had previously
believed that everybody was out. He
glanced over his shoulder more than once,
but saw nothing.</p>

<p>"Shall I go and look?" he asked himself.
"But it may be somebody I don't know,
and don't want to know. Suppose it should
be a housemaid come to be hired, and
waiting till Mrs. Wilton comes in. What
should I say to the housemaid? Or, by
the way, the parson said something about
Easter offerings yesterday, perhaps this is
the clerk or somebody come for them. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>
Perhaps if I go in he'll ask me for an
Easter offering. I think I won't risk it.
Shall I go into the garden again?"</p>

<p>While he debated the question, he went
on playing, feeling that the music justified
an apparent unconsciousness of the invisible
companionship. The sunshine lighted up
the reddish golden tint of his hair and
moustache, and the warm flesh colours of
his face. Presently his wandering fingers
slackened on the keys, and then after a
momentary pause of recollection he struck
the first notes of a simple air, and played
it, with his head thrown back and a smile
on his lips.</p>

<p>Near him an old-fashioned mirror hung,
a little slanted, on the wall, and as his
roving eyes fell on it, a beardless, sharply-cut
face appeared in its shadows, motionless
and pale, gazing out of the heavy frame <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>
with a singular look of eagerness.</p>

<p>Adrian started, but his surprise was so
quickly mastered that it was hardly perceptible,
and he continued as if nothing had
happened, apparently suffering his glances
to wander as before, though in reality he
watched the dark eyes and sullen brows
bent on him from the wall. The face
appearing so picturesquely, interested him,
and after a moment the interest deepened.
As he had before become gradually conscious
of the man's presence, so now did
a certainty steal over him that he was
somehow familiar with the features in the
mirror.</p>

<p>The stranger was evidently standing where
he might see and not be seen, and he leant
on a high-backed chair so that he was
partially hidden.</p>

<p>"Who the deuce is he? and where have <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>
I seen him? and what does he want here?"
said Scarlett to himself, continuing to play
the tune which had evoked the apparition.
"He doesn't look as if he went round for
Easter offerings. Can't want to tune the
piano, or why didn't he begin before I came
in? Hope he isn't an escaped lunatic&mdash;there's
something queer and fixed about his
eyes; perhaps I had better soothe him with
a softer strain. By Jove! I <i>have</i> seen him
somewhere, and uncommonly good-looking
he is, too! How can I have forgotten
him? He isn't the sort of man to forget.
He doesn't look quite modern, somehow,
with his full, dark hair, and his beardless
face; or, rather, I <i>feel</i> as if he were not
quite modern&mdash;but why?"</p>

<p>Adrian glided into the accompaniment to
an old song, and sang a quaint verse or
two softly to himself. The face in the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>
mirror relaxed a little. After a moment
the man straightened himself, drew back,
and vanished. Adrian finished his song,
and then, in the silence that ensued, a
slight movement was audible, enough to
warrant his entering the further room, as
if he had just suspected the presence of a
visitor.</p>

<p>The man of the mirror was sitting in an
arm-chair, with a book in his hand. He
looked up a little hesitatingly and awkwardly,
as if he were doubtful whether to
rise or not. Adrian hastened to apologise
for his musical performance.</p>

<p>"I had no idea there was any one
here," he said. "I hope I didn't disturb
you?"</p>

<p>"Not at all," said the stranger, glancing
at the book he held, and furtively reversing
it. "An enviable talent," he added, with <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>
an evident effort.</p>

<p>"For oneself, perhaps," answered Scarlett.
"But I'm not sure it is desirable in a next-door
neighbour."</p>

<p>He was still trying to identify his companion.
The voice, unmusical and almost
harsh, did not help him in the least, and,
oddly enough, now that they were actually
face to face, he was less absolutely certain
that he ought to recognise the man. "It
may be only a likeness to somebody I
know," he reflected. "But to whom, then?
And why does he look at me like that?
<i>He</i> seems to think he knows <i>me</i>!"</p>

<p>"I hope you'll go on if you feel inclined,"
said the stranger.</p>

<p>Adrian shook his head.</p>

<p>"Thank you, but I think I've made about
noise enough for one morning."</p>

<p>He took up the paper and skimmed a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>
column or two. Presently he looked from
behind it, and their eyes met.</p>

<p>"I can't help thinking," he said, "that
we have met before somewhere, haven't
we? I don't know where, but I have an
idea that your memory is better than
mine."</p>

<p>The other was obviously taken by surprise.</p>

<p>"No," he said, drawing back and frowning.
"No&mdash;in fact I'm sure we haven't
met&mdash;at least not to my knowledge. My
name is Harding."</p>

<p>Scarlett owned that the name conveyed
nothing to his mind, but when in return he
mentioned his own, he was certain that he
caught a flash of recognition in the other's
eyes. "He expected that," he soliloquised,
as he picked up his paper again. "Here is
a mystery! Deuce take the fellow&mdash;why
did he stare at me so? He isn't as handsome <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>
as I thought he was in the glass&mdash;he's
ill-tempered and awkward; it isn't a
pleasant face, though of course the features
are good. He might make a good picture&mdash;and,
by Jove! that's what he was&mdash;a
picture! and I didn't know him out of his
frame! I wonder whether it's a chance
resemblance, or whether&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Were you ever at a place called Mitchelhurst?"
he asked, abruptly.</p>

<p>The blood mounted to Harding's face.</p>

<p>"Yes," he said.</p>

<p>"Then," said Adrian, "you must surely
be some connection of the family at the
old Place&mdash;the <i>old</i> family at the old Place,
I mean. I have made out the likeness
that puzzled me. There is a picture
there&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I am connected with the family," said
Harding, "on my mother's side. It isn't <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>
much to boast of&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"If you come to that," Scarlett answered
lightly, "what is? But I'll confess&mdash;I dare
say I ought to be ashamed of myself&mdash;but
I'll confess that I <i>do</i> care about such things.
I don't want to boast, but I would rather
my ancestors were gentlemen, than that
they were butchers and bakers and&mdash;well,
the candlestick-makers might be decorative
artists in their way, and so a trifle
better."</p>

<p>Harding scowled, but did not speak.</p>

<p>"You don't agree with me," Adrian went
on, with his pleasant smile. "Well, you
can afford to scorn the pride of long descent
if you choose. And, mind you, though I
prefer the gentleman, I dare say the trades-man
might be more valuable to the community
at large!"</p>

<p>"I hope so," said Harding with a sneer. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>
"My grandfather was a pork-butcher."</p>

<p>"Oh!" exclaimed Adrian, blankly. "You
combine both, certainly!" He was decidedly
taken aback by the announcement, as the
other had intended, but he recovered himself
first. It was Harding who looked
sullen and ill at ease after the revelation
into which he had been betrayed, as if
his grandfather had somehow recoiled upon
him, and knocked him down.</p>

<p>Young Scarlett felt that he could not
get up and go away the moment the pork-butcher
was introduced, though he half
regretted that he had come from the piano
to talk to his sulky descendant. "Well,
you get your looks from your ancestors at
Mitchelhurst," he said; "it's quite wonderful.
I studied those portraits a good deal,
and there's one on the right-hand side of
the fire-place in the yellow drawing-room, as <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>
they call it&mdash;do you know the house well?"</p>

<p>"Yes, well enough. Yes, I know Anthony
Rothwell's picture."</p>

<p>"It might be yours," said Adrian.</p>

<p>Reynold's only answer was a doubtful
"Hm!"</p>

<p>"A fine old house!" Scarlett remarked,
as he rose from his chair. If his companion
intended to treat him to such curt, half-hostile
speeches, he would leave him alone,
and ask Mrs. Wilton, or one of the girls,
about him, later. He might satisfy his
curiosity so, more pleasantly.</p>

<p>But, "A fine old house!" Harding repeated.
"Yes, a fine, dreary, chilly, decaying,
melancholy old house." He leant back
in his chair and looked up at Scarlett, "Did
you ever see a more hopeless place in all
your life?"</p>

<p>"Come! Not so bad as that!"</p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p>

<p>"Well, it seems to me that there is no
hope about it," Reynold persisted; "no
hope at all. A ghastly nightmare of a
house. Why doesn't somebody pull it
down!"</p>

<p>"You must have seen it under unfavourable
circumstances."</p>

<p>"Very likely. I was there last October.
It might be better in the summer-time."</p>

<p>"You stayed there?"</p>

<p>"Yes, a few days."</p>

<p>"Did they tell you I had been?" Scarlett
asked, impulsively. "Did they speak of
me&mdash;Mr. Hayes, and&mdash;Miss Strange?"</p>

<p>The men looked at each other as the
name was spoken, Reynold's dark gaze
crossing the bright grey-blue gleam of
Adrian's glance. "They said something of
a Mr. Scarlett who had been there&mdash;yes."</p>

<p>"And they were well, I hope?"</p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p>

<p>"Well enough&mdash;then."</p>

<p>"Then?" cried Adrian. "Then! Why,
what has happened since?"</p>

<p>"Didn't you know old Hayes was dead?"</p>

<p>The young man drew a long breath.
"No, I didn't!"</p>

<p>"Died just a week before Christmas.
The old house is shut up."</p>

<p>Adrian was silent for a moment. "Poor
old fellow!" he said at last. "I'm very
sorry to hear it. And the house shut up&mdash;of
course Miss Strange would go back to
her people in Devonshire." Reynold looked
at him silently. "I wonder who will take
the old Place!" said Adrian. "If I were
rich&mdash;" Their glances met once more, and
he stopped short, and strolled towards the
window.</p>

<p>"A castle in the air," he said, presently.
"I don't suppose I shall ever see Mitchelhurst <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>
again, since the poor old gentleman
is gone. But I shall always remember the
place. Not for its beauty, precisely. I
know when I went there first I was surprised
that he should care to live in a
corner of that great white pile. Something
rather sepulchral about it. Did you ever
notice it by moonlight?"</p>

<p>Reynold Harding said, Yes, he had.</p>

<p>"I recollect an almost startling effect
one night," Scarlett continued. "And the
avenue too&mdash;that queer avenue&mdash;gnarled
boughs, with thin foliage quivering in the
wind, and glimpses of summer sky shining
through. I think if I were a painter I
would make a picture of those trees."</p>

<p>There <i>was</i> a picture of them, stripped of
their leaves, and wrestling with an October
gale, before the eyes of the man to whom
he spoke. "They might be worth painting," <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>
he said. "I suppose they weren't
worth cutting down. If they had been, I
fancy there wouldn't be any avenue left."</p>

<p>"I suppose not. Well, anyhow I'm glad
it was spared. There's an individuality
about the place&mdash;melancholy it may be,
perhaps dreary, as you say, but it isn't
commonplace, so it misses the worst dreariness
of all." He recurred to his first idea.
"I wonder who will live there now poor
old Hayes is dead."</p>

<p>"Rats," said Reynold. "And perhaps
an old man and his wife, to take care of it."</p>

<p>Scarlett stood, with a shadow on his
pleasant face. He had meant to go back to
Mitchelhurst quite early in the summer, and
he slipped a hand into his pocket, and
fingered the little bundle of printed leaves
which had played a part in his day-dream.
He had counted on a welcome from the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>
white-haired old gentleman, whose whims
and oddities he understood and did not
dislike, and he had waited contentedly
enough till the time should come. In fact,
he had found plenty to do that winter,
what with Christmas visits, and the preparation
of his poems for the press. As
Adrian looked back, he realised that it had
been a very agreeable winter, and that it
had slipped away very quickly. The
thought of Mitchelhurst had been there
through it all, but, to tell the truth, it had
not been very prominent. He would have
spoken to Barbara in the autumn, if he had
been left to himself, yet he had recognised
the wisdom of the old man's prohibition,
he had enjoyed the pathos of that unspoken
farewell, and the sonnet which he touched
and  retouched   with   dainty   grieving, and
he had looked forward, very happily, to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>
the end of his probation. Barbara, who
was certainly very young, was growing a
little older while he waltzed, and sang, and
polished his rhymes, and made new friends
wherever he went. Adrian had too much
honesty to pretend to himself that he had
been broken-hearted in consequence of their
separation. He had not even felt uneasy,
for, without being boastful, he had been
very frankly and simply sure of the end
of his love-story. He knew Barbara liked
him.</p>

<p>And now it seemed that his testy little
white-haired friend had gone out of the
great old house into a smaller dwelling-place,
and he had been reckoning on a dead
man's welcome. A welcome&mdash;to what? To
the cold clay of Mitchelhurst churchyard?
The week before Christmas&mdash;Scarlett remembered
that he had been very busy the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>
week before Christmas, helping in some
theatricals at a country house. He had
been called, and called again at the end
of the performance. And just then, at
Mitchelhurst, the curtain had fallen for
ever on the little part which Mr. Hayes
had played, and Barbara had looked on
its black mystery.</p>

<p>He bit his lip impatiently. There had
been no harm in the theatricals, just the
usual joking and intimacy among the actors
behind the scenes, and the usual love-making
and embraces on the stage. Adrian's conscience
was clear enough, and yet the
recollection of the girl who played the
heroine (painted and powdered a little more
than was absolutely necessary, for the mere
pleasure of painting and powdering, as is
the way with amateurs), came back to him
with unpleasant distinctness. He could see <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>
her face, close to his own, as he remembered
it on the hot little gaslit stage, in their
great reconciliation scene, the scene that
was always followed by a burst of applause.
Everybody had admired his very becoming
dress, and Scarlett himself had been rather
proud of it. But now in a freak of his
vivid imagination, he pictured the masquerading
figure that he was, all showy
pretence, with a head full of cues and inflated
speeches, set down suddenly in the
wintry loneliness of Mitchelhurst Place, and
passing along the corridors to the threshold
of the dead man's room, to see Barbara
turn with startled eyes in the midst of
the shadows. God! how pitiful and incongruous
was that frippery, as he saw it in
his fancy, brought thus into the presence of
the last reality!</p>

<p>And Barbara, had she wondered at his <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>
silence during all these months? Never
one word of regret for the old man who
had been kind to him! "I wouldn't
have had it happen for anything!" he said
to himself. "What has she thought of
me?"</p>

<p>Harding, with eyelids slightly drooping,
was watching him, and Scarlett suddenly
became aware of the fact.</p>

<p>"No, I suppose nobody is likely to take
the old house," he said hurriedly. "I used
to think it must be dull for Miss Strange,
shut up there with nobody but her uncle."</p>

<p>"I should say it was."</p>

<p>"Well, Devonshire's a nice county, not
that I know much of it. What part of
Devonshire do the Stranges live in&mdash;do you
know?"</p>

<p>"North  Devon,"  Reynold  Harding  answered,
and then added, half reluctantly, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>
"Sandmoor, near Ilfracombe."</p>

<p>"Ah, it isn't a part I know at all,"
said Adrian aloud, and to himself he
repeated "Sandmoor, near Ilfracombe."</p>

<p>At that moment the door opened, and
one of the daughters of the house came
in. "Oh, Mr. Harding!" she exclaimed,
advancing, and shaking hands in a quick,
careless fashion, "I'm afraid you've been
kept waiting a long while."</p>

<p>"It doesn't matter," said Harding, standing
very stiffly. "Is Guy ready now, Miss
Wilton?"</p>

<p>"Yes, he's waiting in the hall. Bob got
him away to the stables, and I didn't know
he was there till just now: you know what
those boys are when they get together. I
thought Guy had <i>better</i> wait in the hall, for
I'm afraid he's not as clean as he might be."</p>

<p>"It doesn't matter," Harding replied <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>
again. "He very seldom is."</p>

<p>"I did try to brush him," said the girl
good-humouredly, "but I didn't do much
good."</p>

<p>"Wanted something a good deal more
thorough, no doubt," Adrian suggested.</p>

<p>"I hope he delivered his message?"
Harding inquired. "It is his birthday
to-morrow, and his father is going to take
him for the day to the seaside. He was to
ask if your brother would go with him."</p>

<p>"Oh, Bob will be delighted, I'm sure,"
said Miss Wilton. "I should think <i>you</i>
would enjoy the holiday, Mr. Harding, you
must be thankful to get rid of your charge
now and then."</p>

<p>Scarlett, sitting on the end of the sofa,
saw Harding's face darken with displeasure.
"It makes very little difference, thank you,"
said the tutor coldly. "I think I'll go and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span>
find Guy now." And he bowed himself
out of the room in his sullen fashion. The
girl looked after him, and then turned to
Adrian and laughed.</p>

<p>"Aren't we dignified?" she said. "What
did I say to make him so cross? I didn't
mean any harm."</p>

<p>"Oh, I don't know&mdash;I don't think you
said anything very dreadful. Who is
Guy?"</p>

<p>"Guy Robinson. His father has no end
of money, Jones and Robinson the builders,
you know, who are always getting big
contracts for things in the newspapers&mdash;you
see their names for ever. Old Robinson
has bought the Priory, so they are neighbours
of ours. Guy is twelve or thirteen,
the only boy, and they won't send him to
school."</p>

<p>"Mr. Harding is his tutor?"</p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p>

<p>Miss Wilton nodded.</p>

<p>"I shouldn't much fancy him for mine,"
said Scarlett reflectively. "I'm rather
inclined to pity Master Guy."</p>

<p>"You needn't," the girl made answer,
glancing shrewdly. "I think Mr. Harding
is there under false pretences."</p>

<p>"False pretences?"</p>

<p>"Yes. I believe they think he is stern,
and will keep Guy in order, and my private
conviction is that he does nothing of the
kind. Nobody <i>could</i> keep Guy in order,
without perpetual battles, and Mr. Robinson
always ends the battles, by dismissing the
tutor. I never hear of any battles with Mr.
Harding."</p>

<p>"I see. You think he spoils the boy."</p>

<p>"Spoils him? Well, I think that in
his supreme contempt for Guy and all the
Robinsons, he just takes care that he doesn't <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>
drown himself, or blow himself up with
gunpowder, or break his neck, and I don't
believe he troubles himself any further. I
wonder what made the boy want to go to
the seaside."</p>

<p>"How far is it?"</p>

<p>"Well, about thirty miles if they go
to Salthaven. There's a railway&mdash;I should
think old Robinson will have a special.
Bob will have a great deal too much to eat
and drink, and he'll be ill the day after.
And if he and Guy can think of any
senseless mischief, they are sure to be up
to it, and the old man will swagger and
pay for the damage. Boys will be boys,"
said Miss Wilton, with pompous intonation.</p>

<p>Adrian laughed. "Perhaps Mr. Harding
will go too."</p>

<p>"Oh no! I know he won't."</p>

<p>"How do you know?" </p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p>

<p>"Mr. Robinson won't take him. My
belief is that he's rather afraid of Mr.
Harding. Oh! there he goes with Guy,
out by the garden way."</p>

<p>Scarlett looked over her shoulder. "What
a handsome fellow he is!"</p>

<p>"Handsome?" Miss Wilton turned her
head, and looked doubtfully at her companion.</p>

<p>"Yes. Don't you think so?"</p>

<p>"N-no. It never occurred to me. Do
you mean it really, or are you laughing?"</p>

<p>"Of course I mean it. Didn't you ever
look at him?"</p>

<p>"Why yes, often."</p>

<p>"Well, then?"</p>

<p>"I suppose his features are good, when
one comes to think about them," said the
girl, with a dubious expression in her eyes.
"Yes, I suppose they are."</p>

<p>"I wish mine were anything like as <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>
good," said Scarlett, with dispassionate
candour.</p>

<p>"You wish yours&mdash;&mdash;" Miss Wilton
began, and ended with an amazed and
incredulous laugh which was exceedingly
flattering. It was so evidently genuine.</p>

<p>"I don't think you half believe me now,"
he said. "But I assure you, if you were
to ask an artist he would tell you&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"An artist? Oh, I dare say an artist
might say so. But I don't believe a <i>woman</i>
would say that Mr. Harding was good-looking."</p>

<p>"How if <i>she</i> were an artist?"</p>

<p>"Oh, then she wouldn't count."</p>

<p>"But why wouldn't a woman think so?"</p>

<p>She paused to consider. "I don't know,"
she said, "and yet I do mean it, somehow.
He may be handsome, but he doesn't seem
like it. I think a woman would want him <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>
to seem as well as to be."</p>

<p>"Do you mean that she wouldn't admire
him unless he gave himself airs? That's
not very complimentary to the woman, you
know."</p>

<p>Miss Wilton shook her head. "I don't
mean that. He might not think about
himself at all&mdash;I should like him all the
better." She stood for a minute with her
eyes raised to Adrian's, yet was plainly
looking back at the image of Reynold
Harding which she had called up for the
purpose of analysis. At last, "He isn't a bit
unconscious!" she exclaimed. "He is the
<i>most</i> self-conscious man I know. I believe
he is <i>always</i> thinking about himself!"</p>

<p>"If he is," said Scarlett, "as far as I
could judge I should say he didn't enjoy it
much."
"That's it!" she said. "He doesn't find <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>
himself attractive, and so&mdash;no more do we.
<i>Isn't</i> that it?"</p>

<p>He smiled. "There's something in the
idea as far as it goes. But it doesn't alter
his features, you know."</p>

<p>"Of course not. But we don't look at
them."</p>

<p>Adrian stood, pulling his moustache, and
still smiling. He was not afraid, yet he
found it rather pleasant to be told that this
picturesque tutor, who had been shut up in
Mitchelhurst Place with Barbara, was not
the kind of man to take a woman's fancy.
It was pleasant, but of course it did not
mean much. Molly Wilton might be perfectly
right, and yet it would not mean
much. It is easy to lay down general
rules about women, and very clever rules
they often are. The mistake is, in applying
these admirable theories to any one <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>
particular woman&mdash;she is certain to be an
exception. Scarlett, while he listened to
his companion, did not forget that there
are always women enough to supply a
formidable minority.</p>

<p>"I say," Miss Wilton exclaimed, with a
real kindling of interest in her face, "I'll
just go and take off my hat, and then we
might try over that duet, you know."</p>

<p>To this he readily assented, but when she
left the room he lingered by the window,
and presently ejaculated "Poor devil!"
It is hardly necessary to say that he was
not thinking of Molly Wilton, who assuredly
was neither angel nor devil, but a bright,
wholesome, rather substantial young woman.</p>



<div class="chapter"></div>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br />

<span class="subhead">TWO GLANCES.</span></h2>


<p>After all it was not Molly Wilton who
first came into the room where Adrian
waited for the duet, but her elder sister,
Amy. Each sister had her recognised province,
in which she reigned supreme. Amy
was the beauty of the family, and had a
taste for poetry; Molly was musical and
lively. This arrangement worked perfectly,
and Molly admired her sister's charms, and
her poetical sympathies, without a trace
of jealousy, feeling quite sure that justice
would be done to her if there were any
question of music or repartee.</p>

<p>Adrian was not looking at his proofs <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>
when Miss Wilton came in. He was sitting
on the sofa, with his legs stretched out
before him, gazing into space, and thinking
of Sandmoor, near Ilfracombe. It was absolutely
necessary that he should put himself
into communication with that place, but
how was it to be done? Should he write
that day, or should he go the next?</p>

<p>"Oh, I have interrupted you!" Miss
Wilton ejaculated, and stopped just inside
the door.</p>

<p>"Interrupted me! Not a bit of it! I
was only&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You were thinking of that sonnet&mdash;I
know you were!"</p>

<p>"No, really," said Adrian, almost wishing
he <i>had</i> been thinking of that sonnet. "No,
I wasn't. In fact I think the sonnet is
pretty well finished."</p>

<p>"Is it? You must read it to me, won't <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>
you?" and she came forward eagerly, took
a chair, and dropped into a graceful attitude
of attention. She had a real taste for
poetry, and the poet was also to her liking.
This was not the first time that she had
listened, with shining eyes and quickened
breath, and had brought the colour to the
young man's cheek by saying with soft
earnestness, "I like that&mdash;O, I like that!"
Adrian found it very pleasant to read his
poems to Miss Wilton.</p>

<p>"If you like," he said. "If you are sure
it won't bore you."</p>

<p>"Of course I like," she answered.</p>

<p>"It's the first sonnet of all, you know,"
he explained, "a sort of dedication. I
didn't like the one I had, so I shall make
them put this in instead." He pulled his
papers out of his pocket, and took a leaf of
manuscript from among the printed pages. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span>
"You must tell me what you think of it,"
he said, and cleared his throat.</p>

<p>At that moment Molly opened the door.
She saw the state of affairs at a glance, and
slipped into her place, as quietly as if she
had come into church late, and spied a
convenient free seat.</p>

<p>Adrian read&mdash;</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">
<div class="line outdent">"<i>Have not all songs been sung, all loves been told?</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>What shall I say when nought is left unsaid?</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>The world is full of memories of the dead,</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>Echoes, and relics. Here's no virgin gold,</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>But all assayed, none left for me to mould</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>Into new coin, and at your feet to shed,</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>Each piece is mint-marked with some poet's head,</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>Tested and rung in tributes manifold.</i></div>
<br />
<div class="line outdent">"<i>O for a single word should be mine own</i>&mdash;</div>
<div class="line"><i>And not the homage of long-studied art,</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>Common to all, for you who stand apart!</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>O weariness of measures tried and known!</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>Yet in their rhythm, you</i>&mdash;<i>if you alone</i>&mdash;</div>
<div class="line"><i>Should hear the passionate pulses of my heart!</i>"</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>As he finished he lifted his eyes and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span>
looked at Amy. Where else should a
young man look, to emphasise the meaning
of his love-poem, except into a woman's
sympathising eyes? But the look, mere
matter of course as it was, startled and
silenced her. "You&mdash;if you alone!" The
words, spoken with the soft fulness of
Adrian's pleasant voice, rang in her ears.
A young woman whose attractions were
recognised by all the family might very
well be pardoned for not at once perceiving
that the emphasis was purely artistic.</p>

<p>But the silence which would have been full
of meaning for the lover, frightened the poet.</p>

<p>"You don't like it!" he exclaimed,
anxiously.</p>

<p>"Oh yes, I do&mdash;I like it very much."</p>

<p>"But there is something wrong," Adrian
persisted. "I am sure you don't like it."</p>

<p>"Indeed&mdash;indeed I do," the girl declared <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>
fervently, and Molly chimed in with an
enthusiastic&mdash;</p>

<p>"Oh, Mr. Scarlett, it's charming!"</p>

<p>"It's very kind of you to say so," he
replied, pocketing his sonnet and going
towards the piano, still with a slightly
troubled expression. "Shall we try that
duet now?"</p>

<p>Molly's thoughts were very easily diverted
from poetry. She set up the music; but
just as she was about to strike the first
note, an idea occurred to her, and spinning
half round on the stool&mdash;</p>

<p>"Amy," she said, "do <i>you</i> call that Mr.
Harding so very good-looking?"</p>

<p>Amy was taken by surprise.</p>

<p>"I? oh no!" she answered.</p>

<p>"There!" Molly exclaimed, looking up
at Scarlett.</p>

<p>"Why, what do you mean?" Miss Wilton <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span>
asked. "Somehow I can't fancy he'll live.
Whenever I look at that man's face I think
of death."</p>

<p>"What a queer idea!" said the younger
sister reflectively. "Well, he certainly
doesn't look strong, and I should think
that Robinson boy would be enough to
worry anybody into an early grave."</p>

<p>Adrian, standing by the piano, raised his
eyes to the old mirror, as if he half expected
to see the pale face with its watchful eyes
below the gleaming surface of the glass.
But it reflected only a vague confusion of
curtain and wall-paper, and the feathery
foliage of a palm.</p>

<p>"I say," said Molly, "had you met him
before this morning, or did you introduce
yourselves?"</p>

<p>"We introduced ourselves. I found he
knew a place where I stayed last summer. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>
Don't you remember," he said, looking across
at Amy, "the old house I told you about?"</p>

<p>"I remember. Where you wrote that
bit,'<i>Waiting by the Sundial</i>'?"</p>

<p>Scarlett nodded.</p>

<p>"Yes. Well, I found he knew it well&mdash;in
fact it turned out that he was a
connection&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What, of your friends there?"</p>

<p>"No, not of my friends, of the old family
who used to have the place."</p>

<p>"Oh, your friends aren't the old family
then?" said Molly.</p>

<p>"No, they are not. I ought to say they
<i>were</i> not&mdash;there were only two of them," he
added in an explanatory fashion, "old Mr.
Hayes, and his niece Miss Strange, and Mr.
Harding told me to-day that the old man
was dead. I didn't know it."</p>

<p>Molly looked up sympathetically, but, as <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
he did not seem to be over-powered with
grief, she went on, after a moment&mdash;</p>

<p>"Isn't it funny how, when one has never
heard a name, and then one <i>does</i> hear it,
one is sure to hear it again in three or four
different ways directly? Did you ever
notice that?"</p>

<p>Mr. Scarlett wasn't sure that he had, but
he agreed that it was a very remarkable
law.</p>

<p>"Well it always <i>is</i> so&mdash;you notice," she
said. "Now I don't remember that I ever
knew of anybody of the name of Strange
in all my life, and now the Ashfords have
got a Miss Strange staying with them, and
here your friend is a Miss Strange."</p>

<p>His glance quickened a little at this illustration
of the rule in question.</p>

<p>"Curious!" he said. "And who is this
Miss Strange who is staying with the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>
Ashfords?"</p>

<p>"Oh, she is a clergyman's daughter from
Devonshire. She is very pretty. Amy,
don't you think that Miss Strange is
pretty?"</p>

<p>"Very pretty," said Amy, taking a book
from the table.</p>

<p>"Yes, very pretty, for that style," Molly
repeated.</p>

<p>"And what is her particular style?"
Adrian asked, keeping his eyes, which were
growing eager, fixed upon the keyboard.</p>

<p>"Oh, I don't know&mdash;she's rather small,"
said Molly lamely (Barbara was not as tall
as Amy Wilton), "and she is dark&mdash;too
dark, I think." (Amy was decidedly fair.)
"She has a quantity of black hair. Do
you like black hair?" (Amy's was wound
in shining golden coils,) "and rather a
colour, and fine eyes. Oh, dear, how <i>difficult</i> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>
it is to describe people!"</p>

<p>It might be so, and yet young Scarlett,
as he listened, could actually see a pair of
soft eyes shining under darkly pencilled
brows, a cloud of shadowy hair, and lips of
deep carnation. It would rather have
seemed that Miss Molly Wilton excelled
in the art of description.</p>

<p>"Do you know what her name is?" he
asked in an indifferent voice, stooping a
little to look at a speck on one of the keys,
and touching it with a neat finger-nail.</p>

<p>"What, do you think it may be your
Miss Strange?"</p>

<p>"It's possible," he said. "Her people were
somewhere in that part of the world."</p>

<p>"I did hear her name&mdash;no, don't say
it! Amy, do you remember Miss Strange's
name?"</p>

<p>Amy looked up absently.</p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p>

<p>"Something old-fashioned&mdash;wasn't it Barbara?"</p>

<p>Adrian had lifted his head, and their eyes
met. In that moment the girl saw what a
glance could mean. It was just a flash of
light, and then his ordinary look.</p>

<p>"Yes," he said, "that's the name; it
must be the Miss Strange I know."</p>

<p>"Dear me!" said Molly, "I hope I didn't
say any harm of her just now! You'd better
go and call. You remember the Ashfords, you
went with us to a garden party at their place
when you were staying here two years ago."</p>

<p>Adrian smiled, and moved towards the
window, forgetting his engagement at the
piano.</p>

<p>"Oh!" said the disappointed musician,
"aren't we to have the duet then?"</p>

<p>"I beg your pardon," he answered, coming
back with bright promptitude, "I'm quite <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>
ready."</p>

<p>But Amy, as their voices rose and filled
the room, sat gazing at the page which she
did not read. She had seen how Adrian
Scarlett could look, when he heard the name
of Barbara. And she had thought, because
he turned towards her when he read a
sonnet&mdash;she had thought&mdash;what? A pink
flush dyed her delicate skin. Our pardonable
mistakes are precisely what we ourselves
can never pardon.</p>

<p>The song being ended young Scarlett
made his escape. He was half amused,
half indignant.</p>

<p>"Sandmoor near Ilfracombe! Confound
the fellow, he knew where she was all the
time, and I thought he was rather unwilling
to give me her Devonshire address! Sandmoor
near Ilfracombe indeed!"</p>



<div class="chapter"></div>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br />

<span class="subhead">IN NUTFIELD LANE.</span></h2>


<p>When Reynold Harding assured Miss
Wilton that it made very little difference to
him whether he got rid of his pupil for a
day or not, he told a lie. From the moment
when he heard of Guy's holiday, he had
resolved in his own mind that on that
day of freedom, he would see Barbara
Strange.</p>

<p>He knew that she was staying with the
Ashfords, and he had heard the Robinson
girls talking about her one day after
luncheon.</p>

<p>"That pretty little Devonshire girl finds <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>
it dull, I think," said Violet.</p>

<p>"Who wouldn't?" her sister exclaimed.
"She has had time to hear all old Ashford's
stories a dozen times before this, and they
are stupid enough the first time. But how
do you know she finds it dull?"</p>

<p>"They say she is always running about
the fields looking for primroses and cowslips.
I saw her when I was out riding this morning,
leaning on the gate into Nutfield Lane,
with her hands full of them."</p>

<p>"How very picturesque! Looking into
the lane for some more?"</p>

<p>"Or for some one to help her carry what
she'd got. I don't know what I mightn't be
driven to, myself, if I had to listen to old
Ashford's prosing, and then go crawling out
for a couple of hours boxed up in Mother
Ashford's stuffy old brougham, two or three
times a week. And Willy Ashford hardly <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>
ever comes, now he's engaged to that girl in
Kensington."</p>

<p>"No," said Muriel, "and I don't know
that he would mend matters much if he did.
Well, perhaps somebody with a taste for
cowslips and innocence, will happen to walk
along Nutfield Lane next time Miss Strange
is looking over the gate. What did you
think of doing this afternoon?"</p>

<p>They were standing in the window, and
speaking low. But their voices were metallic
and penetrating, and the tutor, who was
watching Guy's progress through a meal,
which had worn out his sisters' patience,
heard every word. He had his back to
the light, and the boy did not see the black
full veins on his forehead.</p>

<p>"But I want some more tart," said
Guy.</p>

<p>The request was granted with careless <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span>
liberality.</p>

<p>"Is that enough?" Harding asked.</p>

<p>The boy eyed it. He did not think he
could possibly manage any more, but he
said&mdash;</p>

<p>"I don't know," just as a measure of
precaution.</p>

<p>"Well, eat that first," said the other, and
sat, resting his head on his hand.</p>

<p>He knew Nutfield Lane. It was three or
four miles from the Priory; Guy and he
went that way sometimes. He remembered
a gate there, with posts set close to a couple
of towering elms, that arched it with their
budding boughs, and thrust their roots
above the trodden pathway. There was a
meadow beyond, the prettiest possible background
for a pretty little Devonshire girl
with her hands full of cowslips. As to her
looking out for any one&mdash;he would like to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span>
walk straight up to those vulgar, chattering,
expensive young women, and knock their
heads together. It seemed to Harding that
there would be something very soothing
and satisfying about such an expression of
his opinion, if only it were possible! But
it could not be, and he relinquished the
thought with a sigh, as he had relinquished
the pursuit of other unattainable joys.</p>

<p>"N&mdash;no, I don't want any more," said
Guy, regretfully. "Only some more beer."</p>

<p>Harding nodded, with that absent-minded
acquiescence which had endeared him to his
pupil. Guy was only to him like a buzzing
fly, or any other tiresome little presence,
to be endured in silence, and, as far as
possible, ignored. But when that afternoon
the boy came to him with the announcement
that he should be twelve on Tuesday,
and his father was going to take him somewhere <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>
for the whole day, Reynold raised his
head from the exercise he was correcting,
and looked at him fixedly.</p>

<p>"That's all right," he said, after a moment.</p>

<p>In that moment he had made up his mind.
He wanted to see Barbara. And then? He
did not know what then, but he wanted to
see her.</p>

<p>The white spring sunshine lighted the
page which Guy had scrawled and blotted,
and Reynold sat with the pen between his
fingers, dreaming. He would see Barbara,
but he would not even attempt to think
what he would do or say when they met.
He had planned and schemed before, and
chance had swept all his schemes away. Now
he would leave it all to chance; it was
enough for him to think that he would
certainly see her again.</p>

<p>He would see her, not standing as he had <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>
seen her first, in sad autumnal scenery, not
coming towards him in the pale firelit room,
not walking beside him to the village, while
the wind drove flights of dead leaves across
the grey curtain of the sky, not as she
faced him, frightened and breathless, in the
quivering circle of lamplight on the stairs,
not as he remembered her last of all, when
she stood beyond the boundary which he
might not cross, and Mitchelhurst Place rose
behind her in the light of the moon, white
and dead as dry bones. It seemed to him
that it must always be autumn at Mitchelhurst,
with dim, short days, and gusty
nights, and the chilly atmosphere laden
with odours of decay. But all this was
past and over, and he was going to meet
Barbara in the spring. Barbara in April&mdash;all
happy songs of love, all the young
gladness of the year, all tender possibilities <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>
were summed up in those three words. He
was startled at the sudden eagerness which
escaped from his control, and throbbed and
bounded within him when he resolved to
see her once again. But he did not betray
it outwardly, unless, perhaps, by an attempt
to write his next correction with a dry
pen.</p>

<p>He listened to Guy's excited chatter
as the day drew near, and set out with
him to carry the invitation to Bob Wilton,
in a mood which, on the surface, was
one of apathetic patience. Nothing he
could do would hasten the arrival of
Tuesday, but nevertheless it was coming.
When the two boys went off to the stables
together, he waited. He might as well
wait in the Wiltons' sunny drawing-room
as anywhere else. And when some one
entered by the further door and began to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>
play, he listened, not ill pleased. He had
no ear for music, but the defect was purely
physical, and except for that hindrance
he might have loved it. As it was he
could not appreciate the meaning of what
was played beyond the curtain, nor could
he recognise the skill and delicacy with
which it was rendered. To him it was
only a bright, formless ripple of sound,
gliding vaguely by, till suddenly Barbara's
tune, rounded and clear and silver sweet,
awoke him from his reverie.</p>

<p>For a moment he sat breathless with
wonder. Only a dull memory of her music
had stayed with him, a kind of tuneless
beating of its measure, and the living
notes, melodiously full, pursued that poor
ghost through his heart and brain. His
pulses throbbed as if the girl herself were
close at hand. Then he rose, and softly <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>
stepped across the room. Who was it who
was playing Barbara's tune? Who but the
man who had played it to Barbara?</p>

<p>Considered as a piece of reasoning this
was weak. Anybody would have told him
the name of the composer, and could have
assured him that dozens and scores of men
might play the thing. Barbara might have
heard it on a barrel organ! But Harding's
thoughts went straight to the one man
who had left music lying about at Mitchelhurst
with his name, "Adrian Scarlett,"
written on it. Barbara's tune jangled
wildly in his ears; she had learnt it from
this man, or she had taught it to him.</p>

<p>Thus it happened that Adrian looked up
from his playing, and saw the picture in
the mirror, the face that followed him with
its intent and hostile gaze. And Reynold,
standing apart and motionless, watched the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span>
musician, and noted his air of careless ease
and mastery, the smile which lingered on
his lips, and the way in which he threw
back his head and let his glances rove,
though of course he did not know that all
these things were a little accentuated by
Adrian's self-consciousness under his scrutiny.
He was sure, even before a word had been
uttered, that this was the man whose name
had haunted him at Mitchelhurst, and who
won Mr. Pryor's heart by singing at his
penny reading. To Reynold, standing in
the shadow, Scarlett was the type of the
conquering young hero, swaggering a little
in the consciousness of his popularity and
his facile triumphs.</p>

<p>To some extent he wronged Adrian, and
on one point Adrian wronged him. He
believed that Harding had exulted in the
idea of putting him on the wrong scent <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>
with his "Sandmoor near Ilfracombe."
But in point of fact Harding had given the
address with real reluctance. He had been
asked where the Stranges lived, and had
told the truth. To have supplemented it
with information as to Barbara's whereabouts
would have been to assume a knowledge
of Scarlett's meaning in asking the
question, a thing intolerable and impossible.
Yet Harding's morbid pride was galled by
his unwilling deceit, and he wished that
the subject had never been mentioned. He
had no doubt that his rival would go to
Sandmoor, but he did not exult in the
thought of the disappointment that awaited
him there.</p>

<p>Still, when Tuesday came it undoubtedly
was a satisfaction to feel that the express
was carrying Mr. Scarlett further and
further from the gate which led into <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>
Nutfield Lane. Otherwise the day was of
but doubtful promise, its blue blotted
with rain-clouds, which Guy Robinson regarded
as a personal injury. It brightened,
however, after the birthday party had
started, and Reynold set out on his rather
vague errand, under skies which shone and
threatened in the most orthodox April
fashion. The heavens might have laid a
wager that they would show a dozen different
faces in the hour, from watery
sadness to glittering joy. It was hardly
a day on which Mrs. Ashford would care
to creep out in her brougham, but a little
Devonshire girl, tired of a dull house,
might very well face it with an umbrella
and her second-best hat.</p>

<p>Harding made sure that she would. If
she failed to do so he had no scheme
ready. He did not know the Ashfords, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>
and to go up to their house and ask for
Miss Strange, could lead, at the best, to
nothing but a formal interview under the
eyes of an old lady who would consider
his visit an impertinence. But Barbara
would come! It was surely time that his
luck should turn. When the hazard of
the die has been against us a dozen times
we are apt to have an irrational conviction
that our chance must come with the next
throw, and Harding strolled round the
Ashfords' place, questioning only how, and
how soon, she would appear. To see her
once&mdash;it was so little that he asked!&mdash;to
see her, and to hold her hand for a
moment in his own, and to make her look
up at him, straight into his eyes. And
if she had the fancy still, as he somehow
thought she had, to hear him say that he
forgave her, why, he would say it. As if <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>
he had ever blamed her for the little forgetfulness
which had ended all his hopes
of fortune! And yet, if Barbara could
have known how near that fortune had
been! The old man's health had failed
suddenly during the winter, the great inheritance
was about to fall in, and Reynold
would have been a partner and his own
master within a few months from his
decision. "Well," he said to himself as he
leant on the gate in Nutfield Lane, "and
even so, what harm has she done? Was I
not going to say No before I saw her? And
if she persuaded me to write the Yes which
turned to No at the bottom of her apron
pocket, am I to complain of her for that?"</p>

<p>He thought, that he would ask her for a
flower, a leaf, or a budding twig from the
hedge, just by way of remembrance. At
present he had none, except the unopened <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>
letter which she had given back to him
in his lodgings at Mitchelhurst.</p>

<p>The day grew fairer as it passed. Though
a couple of sparkling showers, which filled
the sunlit air with the quick flashing of
falling drops, drove him once and again for
shelter to a hay-stack in a neighbouring
meadow, the blue field overhead widened
little by little, and shone through the
tracery of leafless boughs. He felt his
spirits rising almost in spite of himself.
He came back, after the second shower, by
the field path to the lane, and was in the
act of getting over the gate when he heard
steps coming quickly towards him. Not
Barbara's, they were from the opposite
direction. He sprang hastily down, and
found himself face to face with Mr. Adrian
Scarlett, who was humming a tune.</p>

<p>Reynold drew a long breath, and stood <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>
as if he were turned to stone. Adrian
was only mortal, he lifted his hat, and
smiled his greeting, with a look in his grey-blue
eyes which said as plainly as possible,
"<i>Didn't you think I was at Sandmoor?</i>"
and then walked on towards the Ashfords'
house, where he had been to the tennis
party two years before. He would be
very welcome there. And if he should
chance to meet Barbara by the way, <i>he</i>
knew very well what he was going to
say to her. But a moment later he felt
a touch of pity for the luckless fellow
who had not outwitted him after all.
"Poor devil!" he said, as he had said
the day before.</p>

<p>The epithet, which, like many another,
is flung about inappropriately enough, hit
the mark for once. Reynold stood pale
and dumb, choked with bitter hate, but <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span>
helpless and hopeless enough for pity. He
would do no more with hate than he had
done with love. He knew it, and presently
he turned and walked drearily away.
He did not want to see Barbara when she
had met Adrian Scarlett. He had meant
to see her <i>first</i>, to end his unlucky little
love-story with a few gentle words, to
hold her hand for a moment, and then to
step aside and leave her free to go her
way. What harm would there have been?
But this man, who was to have everything,
had baulked him even in this. She would
not care for his pardon now, and perhaps
it would hardly have been worth taking.
If one is compelled to own one's forgiveness
superfluous it is difficult to keep it sweet.</p>

<p>So he did not see Barbara when, a little
later, she came up Nutfield Lane by Scarlett's
side. They stopped by the gate, and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>
leant on it. Barbara had no flowers in
her hands, but it seemed to her that all
the country-side was blossoming.</p>

<p>She looked a little older than when
Adrian had bidden her his mute farewell
at Mitchelhurst. The expression of her
face was at once quickened and deepened,
her horizon was enlarged, though the gaze
which questioned it was as innocent as ever.
But her dark eyes kept a memory of the
proud patience with which she had waited
through the winter. There had been times
when her faith in the <i>Clergy List</i> had been
shaken, and she had doubted whether
Adrian would ever consult its pages, and
find out where her father lived. She did
not blame him; he was free as air; yet
those had been moments of almost unbearable
loneliness. She never spoke of him
to anybody; to have been joked and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>
pitied by Louisa and Hetty would have
been hateful to her. She thought of him
continually, and dreamed of him sometimes.
But there was only a limited satisfaction
in dreaming of Adrian Scarlett; he was apt
to be placed in absurdly topsy-turvy circumstances,
and to behave unaccountably.
Barbara felt, regretfully, that a girl who
was parted from such a lover should have
dreamed in a loftier manner. She was
ashamed of herself, although she knew she
could not help it. Now, however, there
was no need to trouble herself about dreams
or clergy lists; Adrian was leaning on the
gate by her side.</p>

<p>"What you must have thought of me!"
he was saying. "Never to take the least
notice of your uncle's death! I can't
think how I missed hearing of it."</p>

<p>"It was in the <i>Times</i> and some of the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>
other papers," said Barbara.</p>

<p>The melancholy little announcement had
seemed to her a sort of appeal to her
absent lover.</p>

<p>"I never saw it. I was&mdash;busy just
then," he explained with a little hesitation.
"I suppose I didn't look at the papers. I
have been fancying you at Mitchelhurst all
the time, and promising myself that I would
go back there, and find you where I found
you first."</p>

<p>Barbara did not speak; she leaned back
and looked up at him with a smile. Adrian's
answering gaze held hers as if it enfolded it.</p>

<p>"I <i>might</i> have written," he said, "or
inquired&mdash;I might have done <i>something</i>,
at any rate! I can't think how it was I
didn't! But I'd got it into my head
that I wanted to get those poems of
mine out&mdash;wanted to go back to you with <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
my volume in my hand, and show you the
dedication. I was waiting for that&mdash;I
never thought&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Yes," said the girl with breathless
admiration and approval. "And are they
finished now?"</p>

<p>"Confound the poems!" cried Adrian with
an amazed, remorseful laugh. A stronger
word had been on his lips. "Don't talk
of them, Barbara! To think that I neglected
you while I was polishing those
idiotic rhymes, and that you think it was
all right and proper! Oh, my dear, if you
tried for a week you couldn't make me feel
smaller! If&mdash;if anything had happened
to you, and I had been left with my
trumpery verses&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You shall not call them that! Don't
talk so!"</p>

<p>"Well, suppose you had got tired of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>
waiting, and had come across some better
fellow. There was time enough, and it
would have served me right."</p>

<p>"I don't know about serving you right,
but there wouldn't have been time for me
to get tired of waiting," said Barbara, and
added more softly, "not if it had been all
my life."</p>

<p>"Listen to that!" Adrian answered, leaning
backward, with his elbows on the gate.
"All her life&mdash;for <i>me</i>!"</p>

<p>His quick fancy sketched that life: first
the passionate eagerness, throbbing, hoping,
trusting, despairing; then submission to
the inevitable, the gradual extinction of
expectation as time went on; and finally
the dimness and placidity of old age, satisfied
to worship a pathetic memory. Hardly
love, rather love's ghost, that shadowy
sentiment, cut off from the strong actual <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>
existence of men and women, and thinly
nourished on recollections, and fragments
of mild verse. Scarlett turned away, as
from a book of dried flowers, to Barbara.</p>

<p>"What did you think of me?" he said,
still dwelling on the same thought. "Never
one word!"</p>

<p>"Well, I felt as if there were a word&mdash;at
least, a kind of a word&mdash;once," she
said. "I went with Louisa to the dentist
last February&mdash;it was Valentine's Day&mdash;she
wanted a tooth taken out. There
were some books and papers lying about
in the waiting-room. One of them was an
old Christmas number, with something of
yours in it. Do you remember?"</p>

<p>"N&mdash;no," said Scarlett doubtfully.</p>

<p>"Oh, don't say it wasn't yours! A
little poem&mdash;it had your name at the end.
There can't be <i>another</i>, surely," said Barbara, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
with a touch of resentment at the
idea. "There were two illustrations, but
I didn't care much for them; I didn't
think they were good enough. I read the
poem over and over. I did so hope I
should recollect it all; but he was ready
for Louisa before I had time to learn it
properly, and our name was called. It
was a very bad tooth, and Louisa had gas,
you know. I was obliged to go. I am
so slow at learning by heart. Louisa would
have known it all in half the time; but I
did wish I could have had just one minute
more."</p>

<p>"Tell me what it was," Adrian said.</p>

<p>"<i>My love loves me</i>," Barbara began in a
timid voice.</p>

<p>"Oh&mdash;that! Yes, I remember now. The
man who edits that magazine is a friend
of mine, and he asked me for some little <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span>
thing for his Christmas number. If I had
thought you would have cared I could have
sent it to you."</p>

<p>Her eyes shone with grateful happiness.</p>

<p>"But I didn't," said Adrian. "I didn't
do anything. Well, go on, Barbara, tell
me how much you remembered."</p>

<p>Barbara paused a moment, looking back
to the open page on the dentist's green
table-cloth. As she spoke she could see
poor Louisa, awaiting her summons with a
resigned and swollen face, an old gentleman
examining a picture in the <i>Illustrated London
News</i> through his eyeglass, and a
lady apprehensively turning the pages of
the dentist's pamphlet, <i>On Diseases of the
Teeth and Gums</i>. Outside, the rain was
streaming down the window panes. Barbara
recalled all this with Adrian's verses.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">
<div class="line outdent">"<i>My love loves me. Then wherefore care</i></div> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>
<div class="line"><i>For rain or shine, for foul or fair?</i></div>
<div class="line indent"><i>My love loves me.</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>My daylight hours are golden wine,</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>And all the happy stars are mine,</i></div>
<div class="line indent"><i>My love loves me!</i>"</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>"<i>Love flies away</i>," she began more doubtfully,
and looked at Adrian, who took it up.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">
<div class="line outdent">"<i>Love flies away, and summer mirth</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>Lies cold and grey upon the earth,</i></div>
<div class="line indent"><i>Love flies away,</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>The sun has set, no more to rise,</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>And far, beneath the shrouded sides,</i></div>
<div class="line indent"><i>Love flies away.</i>"</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>"Yes!" cried Barbara, "that's it! I had
forgotten those last lines&mdash;how stupid of
me!"</p>

<p>"Not at all," said Adrian. "You remembered
all that concerned you, the
rest was quite superfluous."</p>

<p>"Oh, but how I did try to remember
the end!" she continued pensively. "It
haunted me. If I had only had a minute <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>
more! But all the same I felt as if I had
had something of a message from you that
day. It was my valentine, wasn't it?"</p>

<p>Scarlett's eyes, with a look half whimsical,
half touched with tender melancholy,
met hers.</p>

<p>"I <i>wish</i> we were worth a little more&mdash;my
poems and I!" said he. "I wish I
were a hero, and had written an epic.
Yes, by Jove! an epic in twelve books."</p>

<p>"Oh, not for me!" cried Barbara.</p>

<div class="chapter"></div>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br />

<span class="subhead">A VERSE OF AN OLD SONG.</span></h2>

<p>"Adrian!"</p>

<p>The name was uttered with just a hint
of hesitating appeal.</p>

<p>"At your service," Scarlett answered
promptly. He had a bit of paper before
him, and was pencilling an initial letter to
be embroidered on Barbara's handkerchiefs.</p>

<p>"Adrian, did you hear that Mr. Harding&mdash;you
know whom I mean&mdash;was ill?"</p>

<p>"Yes, I did hear something about it."
He put his head on one side and looked
critically at his work. "Is it anything
serious?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said Barbara. "I'm afraid it <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span>
is."</p>

<p>"Poor fellow! I'm very sorry. How
the days do shorten, don't they?"</p>

<p>"Yes," said Barbara again. "They spoke
as if he were going to&mdash;die."</p>

<p>"Really? I'm sorry for that. It is
strange," Adrian continued, putting in a
stroke very delicately, "but one of the
Wilton girls used always to say he looked
like it. I think it was Molly."</p>

<p>Barbara sighed but did not speak.</p>

<p>"Let's see," said Adrian, "he left the
Robinsons&mdash;what happened? Didn't the
boy get drowned?"</p>

<p>"No!" scornfully, "he fell into the
water, but somebody fished him out."</p>

<p>"Not Harding?"</p>

<p>"No, somebody else. Mr. Harding went
in, but he couldn't swim, and he didn't
reach Guy. But he got a chill&mdash;it seems <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>
that was the beginning of it all."</p>

<p>Scarlett leant back in his chair, twirling
the pencil between his fingers and looking
at Barbara, whose eyes were fixed upon the
rug. They were alone in the drawing-room
of a house in Kensington. Their wedding
was to be in about six weeks' time, and
Barbara was staying for a fortnight with
an aunt who had undertaken to help her
in her shopping&mdash;a delightful aunt who
paid bills, and who liked a quiet nap in
the afternoon. Adrian sometimes went out
with them, and always showed great respect
for the good lady's slumbers.</p>

<p>"Well," he said, after a pause, "and
where is Mr. Harding now?"</p>

<p>"At his mother's. She lives at Westbourne
Park."</p>

<p>"Westbourne Park," Scarlett repeated.
"By Jove, that's a change from Mitchelhurst! <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>
A nice healthy neighbourhood, and
convenient for Whiteley's, I suppose; but
<i>what</i> a change! I say, Barbara, how do
you happen to know so much about the
Hardings?"</p>

<p>"Adrian!"</p>

<p>And again she seemed to appeal and
hesitate in the mere utterance of his name.
She crossed the room, and touched his
shoulder with her left hand, which had a
ring shining on it&mdash;a single emerald, a
point of lucid colour on her slim finger.</p>

<p>"Adrian, I wanted to ask you, would
there be any harm if&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No," said Adrian gravely, "no harm
at all. Not the slightest. Certainly not."</p>

<p>He took her other hand in his.</p>

<p>She looked doubtfully at him.</p>

<p>"What do you mean?"</p>

<p>"What do <i>you</i> mean, Barbara?"</p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p>

<p>"I wanted to go to the door and ask
how he is&mdash;that's all. I feel as if I
shouldn't like to go away without a word.
We didn't part quite good friends, you
know. And last year he was making his
plans, and now we are making ours, and
he&mdash;&mdash;Oh, Adrian, why is life so sad?
And yet I never thought I <i>could</i> be as
happy as I am now."</p>

<p>"It's rather mixed, isn't it?" he said,
smiling up at her, and he drew her hand
to his lips. Barbara's eyes were full of
tears. To hide them, she stooped quickly
and touched his hair with a fleeting kiss.</p>

<p>"By all means go and ask after your
friend before you leave town," said Adrian.
"Let us hope he isn't as bad as they
think."</p>

<p>"He is," said the girl.
Long before this she had told Adrian <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span>
about her night adventure at Mitchelhurst.
She had been perfectly frank about it, and
yet she sometimes doubted her own confession.
It seemed so little when she spoke
of it to him, so unimportant, so empty of
all meaning. Could it be that, and only
that, which had troubled her so strangely?
He had smiled as he listened, and had
put it aside. "I don't suppose you did
very much harm," he said, "but any one
with half an eye could see that he wasn't
the kind of fellow to take things easily.
Poor Barbara!" She stood now with something
of the same perplexity on her brow;
the thought of Reynold Harding always
perplexed her.</p>

<p>There was a brief silence, during which
she abandoned her hands to Adrian's clasp,
and felt his touch run through her, from
sensitive finger tips to her very heart. Then <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>
she spoke quickly, yet half unwillingly,
"Very well then, I shall go."</p>

<p>"You wish it?" Adrian exclaimed, swift
to detect every shade of meaning in her
voice. "Because, if not, there is no reason
why you should. If you hadn't said just
now you wanted to go&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>She drew one hand away and turned a
little aside. "I know," she said, "I did
say it. Really and truly I don't want to
go; it makes me uncomfortable to think
about him, but I want to have been."</p>

<p>"Get it over then. Ask, and come
away as quickly as you can."</p>

<p>"To-morrow?" said Barbara. "I thought,
perhaps, as aunt was not going with us
about those photograph frames, that to-morrow
might do. I couldn't go with
aunt."</p>

<p>"You have thought of everything. Go <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span>
on."</p>

<p>"You might put me into a cab after we
leave the shop," she continued. "I think
that would be best. I would go and just
inquire, and then come straight on here. I
don't want to explain to anybody, and if
you say it is all right&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Why, it is all right, of course. That's
settled then," said Adrian.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>The next day was dreary even for
late November. Adrian and Barbara passed
through the frame-maker's door into an
outer gloom, chilly and acrid with a touch
of fog, and variegated with slowly-descending
blacks. Everything was dirty and damp.
There were gas-lights in the shop windows
of a dim tawny yellow.</p>

<p>Scarlett looked right and left at the
sodden street and then upward in the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span>
direction of the sky. "This isn't very
nice," he said; "hadn't we better go
straight home?"</p>

<p>"No&mdash;please!" Barbara entreated. "We
have filled up to-morrow and the next
day, and aunt has asked some people to
afternoon tea on Saturday."</p>

<p>"All right; it may be better when we
get to Westbourne Park. I'll go a bit of
the way with you."</p>

<p>He looked for a cab. Barbara waited
passively by his side, gazing straight before
her. She had never looked prettier than
she did at that moment, standing on the
muddy step in the midst of the universal
dinginess. Excitement had given tension
and brilliancy to her face, she was flushed
and warm in her wrappings of dark fur,
and above the rose-red of her cheeks her
eyes were shining like stars. "Here we <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>
are!" said Scarlett, as he hailed a loitering
hansom.</p>

<p>They drove northward, passing rows of
shops, all blurred and glistening in the
foggy air, and wide, muddy crossings, where
people started back at the driver's hoarse
shout. Scarlett, with Barbara's hand in his,
watched the long procession of figures on
the pavement&mdash;dusky figures which looked
like marionnettes, going mechanically and
ceaselessly on their way. To the young
man, driving by at his ease, their measured
movements had an air of ineffectual toil;
they were on the treadmill, they hurried
for ever, and were always left behind.
Looking at them he thought of the myriads
in the rear, stepping onward, stepping continually.
If they had really been marionnettes!
But the droll thing was that each
figure had a history; there was a world-picture <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span>
in every one of those little, jogging
heads.</p>

<p>Presently the shops became scarce, the
procession on the pavement grew scattered
and thin. They were driving up long, dim
streets of stuccoed houses. They passed a
square or two where trees, black and bare,
rose above shadowy masses of evergreens
all pent together within iron railings. One
might have fancied that the poor things
had strayed into the smoky wilderness, and
been impounded in that melancholy place.</p>

<p>"We must be almost there," said Adrian
at last, when they had turned into a cross
street where the plastered fronts were lower
and shabbier. He put the question to the
cabman.</p>

<p>"Next turning but one, sir," was the
answer.</p>

<p>"Then I'll get out here," said Scarlett.</p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span></p>

<p>Barbara murmured a word of farewell,
but she felt that it was best. She always
thought of Reynold Harding as the unhappiest
man she knew, and she could not have
driven up to his door to flaunt her great
happiness before his eyes. She leant forward
quickly, and caught a glimpse of that
clear happiness of hers on the side walk,
smiling and waving a farewell, the one
bright and pleasant thing to look upon in
the grey foulness of the afternoon.</p>

<p>A turning&mdash;then it was very near indeed!
Another dull row of houses, each with its
portico and little flight of steps. Here
and there was a glimmer of gas-light in the
basement windows. Then another corner
and they were in the very street, and
going more slowly as the driver tried to
make out the numbers on the doors. At
that moment it suddenly occurred to Miss <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span>
Strange that her errand was altogether
absurd and impossible. She was seized
with an overpowering paroxysm of shyness.
Her heart stood still, and then began to
throb with labouring strokes. Why had
she ever come?</p>

<p>Had it depended on herself alone she
would certainly have turned round and
gone home, but the cab stopped with a
jerk opposite one of the stuccoed houses,
and there was an evident expectation that
she would get out and knock at the door.
What would the cabman think of her if
she refused, and what could she say to
Adrian after all the fuss she had made?
Well, perhaps she could face Adrian, who
always understood. But the cabman! She
alighted and went miserably up the steps.</p>

<p>A servant answered her knock, and stood
waiting. Between the maid and the man <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span>
Barbara plucked up a desperate courage,
and asked if Mrs. Harding was at home.
She was.</p>

<p>"How is Mr. Harding to-day?" inquired
Barbara, hesitating on the threshold.</p>

<p>"Much as usual, thank you, miss," the
girl replied. "Won't you step in?"</p>

<p>She obeyed. After all, as she reflected,
she need only stay a few minutes, and to
go away with merely the formal inquiry,
made and answered at the door, would
be unsatisfactory. Mr. Harding might
never hear that she had called. She followed
the maid into a vacant sitting-room,
and gave her a card to take to her mistress.
The colour rushed to her very forehead
as she opened the case. Her Uncle Hayes
had had her cards printed with <i>Mitchelhurst
Place</i> in the corner, and though, on
coming to Kensington, she had drawn her <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span>
pen through it, and written her aunt's
address instead, it was plain enough to
see. How would a Rothwell like to read
<i>Mitchelhurst Place</i> on a stranger's card?
She felt that she was a miserable little
upstart.</p>

<p>Mrs. Harding did not come immediately,
and Barbara as she waited was reminded
of the dentist's room at Ilfracombe. "It's
just like it," she said to herself, "and I
can't have gas, so it's worse, really. And
she hasn't got as many books either."
This brought back a memory, and her
lips and eyes began to smile&mdash;</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">
<div class="line outdent">"<i>My love loves me. Then wherefore care</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>For rain or shine, for foul or fair?</i></div>
<div class="line indent"><i>My love loves me.</i>"</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>But the smile was soon followed by a sigh.</p>

<p>The door opened and Mrs. Harding
came in. To Barbara, still in her teens, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>
Reynold's mother was necessarily an old
woman, but she recognised her beauty
almost in spite of herself, and stood amazed.
Mrs. Harding wore black, and it was rather
shabby black, but she had the air of a
great lady, and her visitor, in her presence,
was a shy blushing child. She apologised
for her delay, and the apology was a condescension.</p>

<p>"You don't know me," said the girl in
timid haste, "but I know Mr. Harding a
little, and I thought I would call."</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," said Kate, "I know you by
name, Miss Strange. My son was indebted
to Mr. Hayes for an invitation to Mitchelhurst
Place last autumn."</p>

<p>"I'm sure we were very glad," Barbara
began, and then stopped confusedly, remembering
that they had turned Mr. Reynold
Harding out of the house before his <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span>
visit was over. The situation was embarrassing.
"I wish we could have made
it pleasanter for him," she said, and blushed
more furiously than ever.</p>

<p>"Have made Mitchelhurst Place pleasanter?"
Mrs. Harding repeated. "Thank
you, you are very kind. I believe he had
a great wish to see the Place."</p>

<p>"It's a fine old house," said Barbara,
conversationally. "I have left it now."</p>

<p>"So I supposed. I was sorry to see in
the paper that Mr. Hayes was dead. I
remember him very well, five-and-twenty
or thirty years ago."</p>

<p>"I am going abroad," the girl continued.
"I&mdash;I don't exactly know how long we
shall be away. I am going to be married.
But they told me Mr. Harding was ill&mdash;I
hope it is not serious? I thought, as I
was near, that I should like to ask before I <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>
went."</p>

<p>Mrs. Harding considered her with suddenly
awakened attention. "He is very
ill," she said, briefly. "You know what is
the matter with him?"</p>

<p>"Yes, I suppose so."</p>

<p>"He was not very strong as a boy. At
one time he seemed better, but it was only
for a time."</p>

<p>"I'm very sorry," said Barbara, standing
up. "Please tell him I came to ask how
he was before I went."</p>

<p>Mrs. Harding rose too, and looked
straight into her visitor's eyes. "Would
you like to see him?"</p>

<p>"I don't know," the girl faltered. "I'm not
sure he would care to see me. If he would&mdash;"</p>

<p>Mrs. Harding interrupted her, "Excuse
me a moment," and vanished.</p>

<p>Barbara, left alone, stood confounded. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span>
She was taken by surprise, and yet she
was conscious that to see Reynold Harding
was what she had really been hoping and
dreading from the first. Some one moved
overhead. Perhaps he would say "No,"
in that harsh, sudden voice of his. Well,
then, she would escape from this house,
which was like a prison to her, and go
back to Adrian, knowing that she had done
all she could. Perhaps he would laugh,
and say "Yes."</p>

<p>She listened with strained attention. A
chair was moved, a fire was stirred, a door
was closed. Then her hostess reappeared.
"Will you come this way?" she said.</p>

<p>Barbara obeyed without a word. The
matter was taken out of her hands, and
nothing but submission was possible. The
grey dusk was gathering on the stairs, and
through a tall window, rimmed with squares <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span>
of red and blue, rose a view of roofs and
chimneys half drowned in fog. Barbara
passed onward and upward, went mutely
through a door which was opened for her,
and saw Reynold Harding sitting by the
fire. He lifted his face and looked at her.
In an instant there flashed into her memory
a verse of the old song of <i>Barbara Allen</i>,
sung to her as a child for her name's sake:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">
<div class="line outdent">"<i>Slowly, slowly, she came up,</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>And slowly she came nigh him;</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>And all she said when there she came,</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>'Young man, I think you're dying.'</i>"</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>The words, which she had sung to herself
many a time, taking pleasure in their grotesque
simplicity, presented themselves now
with such sudden and ghastly directness,
that a cold damp broke out on her forehead.
She set her teeth fast, fearing that Barbara's
speech would force its way through her <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span>
lips with an outburst of hysterical laughter.
What <i>could</i> she say, what could anybody
say, but, "Young man, I think you're
dying?" The words were clamouring so
loudly in her ears that she glanced apprehensively
at Mrs. Harding to make sure
that they had not been spoken.</p>

<p>Reynold's smile recalled her to herself,
and told her that he was reading too much
on her startled face. "Won't you sit
down?" he said, pointing to a chair.
Before she took it she instinctively put
out her hand, and greeted him with a
murmur of speech. What she said she did
not exactly know, but <i>not</i> those hideous
words, thank God!</p>

<p>Mrs. Harding paused for a moment by
the fire, gazing curiously at her son, as
if she were studying a problem. Then
silently, in obedience to some sign of his, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>
or to some divination of her own, she
turned away and left the two together.</p>

<p>Barbara looked over her shoulder at the
closing door, and her eyes in travelling
back to Harding's face took in the general
aspect of the room. It was fairly large and
lofty. Folding doors, painted a dull drab,
divided it from what she conjectured was
the sick man's bed-room. It was dull, it
was negative, not particularly shabby, not
uncomfortable, not vulgar, but hopelessly
dreary and commonplace. There was in it
no single touch of beauty or individuality
on which the eye could rest. Some years
earlier an upholsterer had supplied the
ordinary furniture, a paper-hanger had put
up an ordinary paper, and, except that
time had a little dulled and faded everything,
it remained as they had left it.
The drab was rather more drab, that was <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>
all.</p>

<p>"Well," said Reynold from his arm-chair,
"so you have come to see me."</p>

<p>"I wanted to ask you how you were&mdash;I
heard you were ill," Barbara explained, and
it struck her that she was exactly like a
little parrot, saying the same thing over
and over again.</p>

<p>"Very kind of you," he replied. "Do
you want me to answer?"</p>

<p>"If&mdash;if you could say you were getting
a little better."</p>

<p>He smiled. "It looks like it, doesn't
it?" he said, languidly.</p>

<p>Barbara's eyes met his for a moment,
and then she hung her head.</p>

<p>No, it did not look like it. Two candles
were burning on the chimney-piece, but the
curtains had not been drawn. Between the
two dim lights, yellow and grey, he sat, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span>
leaning a little sideways, with a face like
the face of the dead, except for the great
sombre eyes which looked out of it, and
the smile which showed a glimpse of his
teeth. His hand hung over the arm of
his chair, the hot nerveless hand which
Barbara had taken in her own a moment
before.</p>

<p>"I am so sorry," she said. "I hoped I
might have had some better news of you
before I went away. Did you know I was
going away&mdash;going to be married?"</p>

<p>She looked up, putting the question in a
timid voice, and he answered "Yes," with
a slight movement of his head and eyelids.
"I wish you all happiness."</p>

<p>"Thank you," said Barbara gratefully.</p>

<p>"And where are you going?"</p>

<p>"To Paris for a time, and then we shall
see. He"&mdash;this with a little hesitation&mdash;"he <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span>
is very busy."</p>

<p>"Busy&mdash;what, more poems?" said the
man who had done with being busy.</p>

<p>"Yes. Did you see his volume?"</p>

<p>Harding shook his head. "I'm afraid
I'm a little past Mr. Scarlett's poetry."</p>

<p>"Oh!" said Barbara, "of course one
can't read when one is ill. You ought to
rest."</p>

<p>"Yes," he assented, "I don't seem able
to manage that either, just at present, but
I dare say I shall soon. Meanwhile I sit
here and look at the fire."</p>

<p>"Yes," said the girl. "Some people see
all sorts of things in the fire."</p>

<p>"So they say," he answered listlessly.
"<i>I</i> see it eating its heart out slowly. And
so you are going to Paris? That was your
dream when you were at Mitchelhurst."</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;you told me to wait, and it would <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span>
come, and it is coming. Oh, but you had
dreams at Mitchelhurst, too, Mr. Harding!
I wanted them to come true as well as
mine."</p>

<p>"Did you? That was very kind of you.
Mitchelhurst was a great place for dreams,
wasn't it? But I left mine there. Better
there."</p>

<p>"I felt ashamed just now," said Barbara,
"when your mother spoke about your staying
with us at Mitchelhurst. She doesn't
know, then? Oh, Mr. Harding, I hate to
think how we treated you in your old home,
and I know my poor uncle was sorry too!"</p>

<p>"What for? People who can't agree are
better apart, and Mrs. Simmonds' lodgings
were comfortable enough," said Reynold.</p>

<p>"Oh, but it wasn't right! If you and
uncle had only met&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well, if all they tell us is true, I <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>
suppose we shall before long. Let's hope
we may both be better tempered."</p>

<p>"Don't!" cried Barbara, with a glance
at the pale face opposite, and a remembrance
of her Uncle Hayes propped up
in the great bed at Mitchelhurst. Would
those two spectres meet and bow, in some
dim underworld of graves and skeletons?
She could not picture them glorified in any
way, could not fancy them otherwise than
as she had known them. "Pray don't,"
she said again.</p>

<p>"Very well," said Reynold, "but why
not? It makes no difference. Still, talk of
what you please."</p>

<p>"Does it hurt you to talk?"</p>

<p>"Yes, I believe it does. Everything
hurts me, and therefore nothing does. So
if you like it any better, it doesn't."</p>

<p>"I won't keep you long," said Barbara. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span>
"Perhaps I ought not to have come, but
I felt as if I could not leave England
without a word. You see, there is no
knowing how long I may be away&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You were wise," said Reynold. "A
pleasant journey to you! But don't come
here to look for me when you come back.
The fire will be out, and the room will be
swept and garnished. This is a very chilly
room when it is swept and garnished."</p>

<p>To Barbara it was a dim and suffocating
room at that moment. She hardly felt as
if it were really she who sat there, face to
face with that pale Rothwell shadow, and
she put up her hand and loosened the fur at
her throat.</p>

<p>"You do not mind my coming now?"
she said, ignoring the latter half of his
speech. "You remember that evening?
You did not make me very welcome then." <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span>
A tremulous little laugh ended the sentence.</p>

<p>He shifted his position in the big chair
with a weary effort, and let his head fall
back. "It's different," he said. "Everything
is different. I was alive then&mdash;five-and-twenty&mdash;and
I was afraid you might
get yourself into some trouble on my
account&mdash;you had told me how the Mitchelhurst
people gossipped. <i>I</i> understood, but
they wouldn't have. Did the old man hear
of it?"</p>

<p>"No," said Barbara; "he was ill so soon."</p>

<p>Harding made a slight sign of comprehension.
"Well, it wouldn't be my business
to say anything now," he went on in
his hoarse low voice. "Besides, there is
nothing to say. If the Devil had a daughter,
she couldn't make any scandal out of an
afternoon call in my mother's house. She
couldn't suspect you of a flirtation with a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>
death's head. Visiting the sick&mdash;it is the
very pink of propriety."</p>

<p>Barbara felt herself continually baffled.
And yet she could not accept her repulse.
There was something she wanted to say to
Mr. Harding, or rather, there was a word
she wanted him to say to her. If he would
but say it she would go, very gladly, for
the walls of the room, the heavy atmosphere,
and Reynold's eyes, weighed upon
her like a nightmare. He had likened her
once in his thoughts to a little brown-plumaged
bird, and she felt like a bird
that afternoon, a bird which had flown
into a gloomy cage, and sat, oppressed and
fascinated, with a palpitating heart. It
seemed to her that his eyes had been
upon her ever since she came in, and she
wanted a moment's respite.</p>

<p>It came almost as soon as the thought <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>
had crossed her mind. Reynold coughed
painfully. She started to her feet, not
knowing what she ought to do, but a thin
hand, lifted in the air, signed to her to be
still. Presently the paroxysm subsided.</p>

<p>"Don't you want anything?" she ventured
to ask.</p>

<p>He shook his head. After a moment he
opened a little box on the table at his
elbow, and took out a lozenge. Barbara
dared not speak again. She looked at the
dull, smouldering fire. "Young man," she
said to herself with great distinctness,
"Young man, <i>I think</i> you're dying."</p>

<p>She had the saddest heartache as she
thought of it. That for her there should
be life, London, Paris, the South&mdash;who
could tell what far-off cities and shores?&mdash;who
could tell how many years with
Adrian? Who could tell what beauty and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span>
sweetness and music, what laughter and
tears, what dreams and wonders, what joys
and sorrows in days to come? While for
him, this man with whom she had built
castles in the air at Mitchelhurst, there
were only four drab walls, a slowly burning
fire, and a square grey picture of roofs and
chimneys, dim in the foggy air. That was
his share of the wide earth! No ease, no
love, no joy, no hope,&mdash;the mother-world
which was to her so bountifully kind, kept
nothing for him but a few dull wintry days.
Why must this be? And he was so young!
And there was so much life everywhere,
the earth was full of it, full to overflowing,
this busy London was a surging, tumultuous
sea of life about them, where they sat in
that dim hushed room. She raised her
head and looked timidly at the figure
opposite, pale as a spectre, half lying, half <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>
lolling in his leathern chair, while he sucked
his lozenge, and gazed before him with
downcast eyes. From him, at least, life
had ebbed hopelessly.</p>

<p>"Young man, I think you're dying."
Oh, it was cruel, cruel! Barbara's thoughts
flashed from the sick room to her own
happiness&mdash;flashed home. She saw the
lawn at Sandmoor, and a certain tennis-player
standing in the shade of the big
tulip tree, as she had seen him often that
summer. He was in his white flannels,
he was flushed, smiling, his grey-blue eyes
were shining, he swung his racquet in his
hand as he talked. He was so handsome
and glad and young&mdash;&mdash;ah! but no younger
than Reynold Harding! Suppose it had
been Adrian, and not Reynold, in the chair
yonder, and her happy dreams, instead of
being carried forward on the full flood <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span>
of prosperity, had been left stranded and
wrecked, on the low, desolate shore of
death. It might have been Adrian passing
thus beyond recall, the sun might have
been dying out of her heaven, and at the
thought she turned away her head, to hide
the hot tears which welled into her eyes.</p>

<p>"You are sorry for me," said Reynold.</p>

<p>It was true, though the tears had not been
for him. "I'm sorry you are ill," she said.
She got up as she spoke, and stood by the fire.</p>

<p>"Very kind, but very useless," he answered
with a smile.</p>

<p>"Useless!" cried little Barbara. "I know
it is useless! I know I can't do anything!
But, Mr. Harding, we were friends once,
weren't we?"</p>

<p>He was silent. "I thought we were?"
she faltered.</p>

<p>"Friends&mdash;yes, if you like. We will <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span>
say that we were&mdash;friends."</p>

<p>"I thought we were," she repeated
humbly. "I don't mean to make too
much of it, but I thought we were very
good friends, as people say, till that unlucky
evening&mdash;that evening when you and
Uncle Hayes&mdash;you were angry with me
then!"</p>

<p>"That's a long while ago."</p>

<p>"It was my fault," she continued. "I
didn't mean any harm, but you had a right
to be vexed. And afterwards, that other
evening when I went to you&mdash;I don't know
what harm I did by forgetting your letter&mdash;you
would not tell me, but I know you
were angry. Afterwards, when I thought
of it, I could see that you had been keeping
it down all the time, you wouldn't reproach
me then and there," said Barbara, with
cheeks of flame, "but I understood when <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span>
I looked back. It was only natural that
you should be angry. It was very good of
you not to say more."</p>

<p>"I think it was," said Reynold, but so
indistinctly that Barbara, though she looked
questioningly at him, doubted whether she
heard the words.</p>

<p>"It would be only natural if you hated
me," she went on, panting and eager, now
that she had once began to speak. "But
you mustn't, please, I can't bear it! I
have never quarrelled with any one, never
in all my life. I don't like to go away and
feel that I am leaving some one behind me
with whom I am not friends. So, Mr.
Harding, I want you just to say that you
don't hate me."</p>

<p>"Oh, but you are making too much of
all that," he replied, and then, with an
invalid's abruptness, he asked, "Where's <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span>
your talisman?"</p>

<p>She looked down at her watch chain.
"I gave it to Mr. Scarlett, he liked it,"
she said, with a guilty remembrance of
Reynold among the brambles. "But you
haven't answered me, Mr. Harding."</p>

<p>Her pleading was persistent, like a child's.
She was childishly intent on the very word
she wanted. She remembered how her uncle
had laughed as she walked home after that
first encounter with young Harding. "And
you saw him roll into the ditch&mdash;Barbara,
the poor fellow must hate you like poison!"
No, he must not! It was the <i>word</i> she
could not bear, it was only the <i>word</i> she
knew.</p>

<p>"Nonsense!" he said, moving his head
uneasily, "Let bygones be bygones. We
can't alter the past. We are going different
ways&mdash;go yours, and let me go mine in <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>
peace."</p>

<p>It was a harsh answer, but the frown
which accompanied it betrayed irresolution
as well as anger.</p>

<p>"I can't go so," Barbara pleaded, emboldened
by this sign of possible yielding.
"I never meant to do any harm. Say you
are not angry&mdash;only one word&mdash;and then
I'll go."</p>

<p>"I know you will." He laid his lean
hands on the arms of his chair, and drew
himself up. "Well," he said, "have it
your own way&mdash;why not? What is it that
I am to say?"</p>

<p>"Say," she began eagerly, and then
checked herself. She would not ask too
much. "Say only that you don't hate me,"
she entreated, fixing her eyes intently on
his face.</p>

<p>"I love you, Barbara."</p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span></p>

<p>The girl recoiled, scared at the sudden
intensity of meaning in his eyes, and in
every line of his wasted figure as he leaned
towards her. His hoarse whisper sent a
shock through the deadened air of the
drab room. Those three words had broken
through the frozen silence of a life of
repression and self-restraint, in them was
distilled all its hoarded fierceness of love
and revenge. In uttering them Reynold
had uttered himself at last.</p>

<p>To Barbara it was as if a flash of fire
showed her his passion, such a passion as
her gentle soul had never imagined, against
the outer darkness of death and his despair.
Something choked and frightened her, and
seemed to encircle her heart in its coils.
It was a revelation which came from within
as well as without. She threw out her
hands as if he approached her. "<i>Adrian!</i>" <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span>
she cried.</p>

<p>Reynold, leaning feebly on the arms of
his chair, laughed.</p>

<p>"Well," he said, "are you content? I
have said it."</p>

<p>"Oh," said Barbara, still gazing at him,
"I know now&mdash;I understand&mdash;you <i>do</i> hate
me!"</p>

<p>"Love you," he repeated. "I think I
loved you from the day I saw you first. I
dreamed of you at Mitchelhurst&mdash;only of
you! Mitchelhurst for you, if you would
have it so&mdash;but you&mdash;<i>you</i>!"</p>

<p>"No!" she cried.</p>

<p>"And afterwards you were afraid of me!
If it had been any one else! But you
shrank from me&mdash;you were afraid of me&mdash;the
only creature in the world I loved!
And then that last night when you came
to me&mdash;how clever of you to discover that <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>
I was fighting with something I wanted
to keep down! So I was, Barbara!"</p>

<p>He paused, but she only looked helplessly
into his eyes.</p>

<p>"You don't know how hard it was,"
he continued meaningly. "For if I had
chosen&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No!" she cried again.</p>

<p>"Yes! Do you think I did not know?
<i>Yes!</i> I might have had your promise
then! I might have had&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>He checked himself, but she did not
attempt a second denial.</p>

<p>"Well, enough of this," said Reynold,
after a moment. "It need not trouble you
long. Look in the <i>Times</i> and you will
soon see the end of it. But you can
remember, if you like, that one man loved
you, at any rate."</p>

<p>"One man does," said Barbara, in a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>
voice which she tried to keep steady.</p>

<p>"Ah, the other fellow. Well, you know
about that."</p>

<p>"Yes, I know."</p>

<p>"And you know that in spite of all I
<i>don't</i> hate you. No, I don't, though I dare
say you hate me for what I have said.
But I can't help that&mdash;you asked for it."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Barbara. "I wish I hadn't."</p>

<p>"Forget it, then," he replied, with a
gleam of triumph in his glance.</p>

<p>"You know I can't do that," she said.</p>

<p>She was too young to know how much
may be forgotten with the help of time,
and it seemed to her that Reynold's eyes
would follow her to her dying day, that
wherever there were shadows and silence,
she would meet that reproachful, unsatisfied
gaze, and hear his voice.</p>

<p>"You are very cruel!" she exclaimed.</p>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span></p>

<p>"Am I?" he said more gently. "Poor
child! I never meant to speak of this. I
never could have spoken if you had not
come this afternoon. I could not have
told it to anybody but you, and you were
out of my reach. Why did you come?
You were quite safe if you had stayed
away. You should have left me to sting
myself to death in a ring of fire, as the
scorpions do&mdash;or don't! What made you
come inside the ring? It's narrow enough,
God knows&mdash;!" he looked round as he
spoke. "And you had all the world to
choose from. As far as I was concerned
you might have been in another planet.
I couldn't have reached you. What possessed
you to come here, to me? Well,
you <i>did</i>, and you are stung. Is it my
fault?"</p>

<p>"No, mine!" said the girl, passionately. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span>
"I never meant to hurt you, and you know
I didn't, but it has all gone wrong from
first to last. Anyhow, you have revenged
yourself now. I wish&mdash;I <i>wish</i> that you
were well, and strong, and rich&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"That you might have the luxury of
hating me? No, no, Barbara. I'm dying,
and no one in all the world will miss
me. I leave my memory to you."</p>

<p>He smiled as he spoke, but his utterance
almost failed him, and Barbara's answer
was a sob.</p>

<p>"I take it, then," she said in a choked
voice. "Perhaps I should have been too
happy if I had not known&mdash;I might never
have thought about other people. But I
sha'n't forget."</p>

<p>Then she saw that he had sunk back
into his chair, and his face, which had
fallen on the dull red leather, was a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span>
picture of death. The marble bust in
Mitchelhurst Church did not look more
bloodless.</p>

<p>"Oh!" said Barbara, "you are tired!"</p>

<p>"Mortally," he replied, faintly unclosing
his lips. "Good-bye."</p>

<p>She paused for an instant, looking at
the dropped lids which hid those eyes
that she had feared. She could do nothing
for him but leave him. "Good-bye," she
said, very softly, as if she feared to disturb
his rest, and then she went away.</p>

<p>The window on the stairs was a dim
grey shape. Barbara groped her way down,
and stood hesitating in the passage. It
was really only half a minute before the
maid came up from the basement with
matches to light the gas, but it was like
an age of dreary perplexity.</p>

<p>"I've just left Mr. Harding," she said <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span>
hurriedly to the girl, whose matter-of-fact
face was suddenly illuminated by the jet
of flame. "I'm afraid he's tired. I think
somebody ought to go to him."</p>

<p>"Mind the step, miss," was the reply.
"I'll tell missis. I dare say he'll have
his cocoa, I think it's past the time."</p>

<p>"Oh, <i>don't</i> wait for me!" cried Barbara.
"I'm all right."</p>

<p>She felt as if Reynold Harding might
die by his fireside while she was being
ceremoniously shown out. She reached the
door first and shut it quickly after her, to
cut all attentions short. She had hurried
out at the gate, under the foggy outline
of a little laburnum, when a shout from
the pursuing cabman aroused her to the
consciousness that she had started off to
walk.</p>

<p>Thus arrested, she got into the hansom, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>
covered with confusion, and not daring to
look at the man as she gave her address.
He must certainly think that she meant to
cheat him, or that she was mad. She
shrank back into the seat, feeling sure
that he would look through the little hole
in the roof, from time to time, to see
what his eccentric fare might be doing,
and she folded her hands and sat very
still, to impress him with the idea that she
had become quite sane and well-behaved.
As if it mattered what the cabman thought!
And yet she blushed over her blunder
while Reynold Harding's "I love you,"
was still sounding in her ears, and while
the hansom rolled southward through the
lamp-lit, glimmering streets, to the tune
of <i>Barbara Allen</i>.</p>

<div class="chapter"></div>

<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.<br />

<span class="subhead">JANUARY, 1883.</span></h2>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="verse">
<div class="line outdent">"<i>A train of human memories,</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>Crying: The past must never pass away.</i>"</div>
</div>
<div class="verse">
<div class="line outdent">"<i>They depart and come no more,</i></div>
<div class="line"><i>Or come as phantoms and as ghosts.</i>"</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>"When we are married," Adrian had
said on that blissful day in Nutfield Lane,
"before we go abroad, before we go <i>anywhere</i>,
we will run down to Mitchelhurst
for a day, won't we?"</p>

<p>Barbara had agreed to this, as she would
have agreed to anything he had suggested,
and the plan had been discussed during
the summer months, till it seemed to
have acquired a kind of separate existence, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span>
as if Adrian's light whim had been transformed
into Destiny. The bleak little
English village stood in the foreground of
their radiant honeymoon picture of Paris
and the south. The straggling rows of
cottages, the cabbage plots, the churchyard
where the damp earth, heavy with its
burden of death, rose high against the
buttressed wall, the blacksmith's forge with
its fierce rush of sparks, the <i>Rothwell Arms</i>
with the sign that swung above the door&mdash;were
all strangely distinct against a
bright confusion of far-off stir and gaiety,
white foreign streets, and skies and waters
of deepest blue. All their lives, if they
pleased, for that world beyond, but the
one day, first, for Mitchelhurst.</p>

<p>Thus it happened that the careless fancy
of April was fulfilled in January. January
is a month which exhibits most English <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span>
scenery to small advantage; and Mitchelhurst
wore its dreariest aspect when a fly
from the county town drew up beneath the
swaying sign. The little holiday couple,
stepping out of it into the midst of the
universal melancholy, looked somewhat out
of place. Adrian and Barbara had that
radiant consciousness of having done something
very remarkable indeed which characterises
newly-married pairs. They had
the usual conviction that an exceptional
perfection in their union made it the very
flower of all love in all time. They had
plucked this supremely delicate felicity, and
here they were, alighting with it from the
shabby conveyance, and standing in the
prosaic dirt of Mitchelhurst Street. The
sign gave a long, discordant creak by way
of greeting, and they started and looked up.</p>

<p>"It wouldn't be worse for a little grease," <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span>
the landlord allowed, in a voice which was
not much more melodious than the creaking
sign.</p>

<p>Scarlett laughed, but he realised the
whole scene with an amusement which
had a slight flavour of dismay. Was
this the place which was to give his
honeymoon an added touch of poetry?
How poor and ignoble the houses were!
How bare and bleak the outlines of the
landscape! How low the dull, grey roof
of sky! How raw the January wind upon
his cheek! There was only a momentary
pause. Barbara was looking down the well-known
road, the bullet-headed landlord
scratched his unshaven chin, and the disconsolate
chickens came nearer and nearer,
pecking aimlessly among the puddles.</p>

<p>"I suppose you can give us some
luncheon?" said the young man, and in <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span>
the interest of that important question it
hardly seemed as if there had been a pause
at all.</p>

<p>The landlady arrived in a flurry, asking
what they would please to order, and
Adrian and she kept up a brisk dialogue
for the next five minutes. Finally, it was
decided that they should have chops. Perhaps
the discussion satisfied some traditional
sense of what was the right thing to do on
arriving at an inn. There was nothing to
have <i>but</i> the chops which Adrian had
chosen, and he murmured something of
"fixed fate, free-will" under his moustache,
as he crossed the road in the direction
of the church.</p>

<p>"In an hour," he said. "That will give
us time to see the church and the village.
Then, after  luncheon, we  will  go  to  the
old Place, and the fly shall call for us there, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>
and take us back the short way. Will that
do, Barbara?"</p>

<p>Of course it would do; and when they
reached the churchyard she bade him wait
a moment and she would get the key.
The stony path to Mrs. Spearman's cottage
was curiously familiar&mdash;the broken palings,
the pump, the leafless alder-bush. The
only difference was that it was Barbara
Scarlett&mdash;a different person&mdash;who was
stepping over the rough pebbles.</p>

<p>She returned to Adrian, who was leaning
against the gate-post.</p>

<p>"Mitchelhurst isn't very beautiful," he
said, with an air of conviction. "I thought
I remembered it, but it has come upon
me rather as a shock. Somehow, I fancied&mdash;Barbara,
is it possible that I have taken
all the beauty out of it&mdash;that it belongs
to <i>me</i> now, instead of to Mitchelhurst? <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span>
Can that be?"</p>

<p>She smiled her answer to the question,
and then&mdash;</p>

<p>"I think it looks very much as usual,"
she said, gazing dispassionately round. "Of
course, it is prettier in the spring&mdash;or in
the summer. It was summer when you
came, you know."</p>

<p>She had a vague recollection of having
pleaded the cause of Mitchelhurst at some
other time in the same way, which troubled
her a little.</p>

<p>"Yes, I know it was summer," said
Adrian. "But still&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You mustn't say anything against
Mitchelhurst," cried Barbara, swinging her
great key. "It isn't beautiful, but I feel
as if I belonged to it, somehow. It
changed me, I can't tell why or how, but
it did. After I had been six months <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span>
with Uncle Hayes, I went home for a
fortnight in the spring, and everything
seemed so different. It was all so bright
and busy there, everybody talked so fast
about little everyday things, and the rooms
were so small and crowded. I suppose it
was because I had been living with echoes
and old pictures in that great house.
Louisa and Hetty were always having
little secrets and jokes, there wasn't any
harm in them, you know, but I felt as if I
could not care about them or laugh at
them, and yet some of them had been my
jokes, before I went to Mitchelhurst. And
I could not make them understand why I
cared about the Rothwells and their pictures,
when I had never known any of them."</p>

<p>"Louisa is a very nice girl," said
Scarlett; "but if Mitchelhurst is all the
difference between you two, I am bound <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span>
to say that I have a high opinion of the
place."</p>

<p>"Well, I don't know any other difference."</p>

<p>"Don't you?" and he smiled as he followed
her along the churchyard path. "No
other difference? None?" He smiled, and
yet he knew that the old house had given
a charm to Barbara when he saw her first.
She had been like a little damask rose,
breathing and glowing against its grim
walls. He took the key from her hand,
and turned it in the grating lock.</p>

<p>It seemed as if the very air were unchanged
within, so heavy and still it was.
Barbara went forward, and her little footfalls
were hardly audible on the matting.
Adrian, with his head high, sniffed in search
of a certain remembered perfume, as of
mildewed hymn-books, found it, and was
content. It brought back to him, as only <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span>
an odour could, his first afternoon in the
church, when he stood with one of those
books in his hand, and watched the Rothwell
pew which held Barbara.</p>

<p>Having enjoyed his memory he faced
round and inspected St. Michael, who was
as new, and neat, and radiant as ever.
Adrian speculated how long it would take
to make him look a little less of a parvenu.
"Would a couple of centuries do him any
good, I wonder?" he mused, half-aloud.
"Not much, I fear." The archangel returned
his gaze with a permanent serenity
which seemed to imply that a century more
or less was a matter of indifference to his
dragon and him.</p>

<p>Barbara had gone straight to the Rothwell
monuments, where Scarlett presently
joined her. She did not take her eyes from
the tombs, but she stole a warm little hand <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span>
under his arm. "I wish he could have
been buried here," she said in a low voice.</p>

<p>Reynold had said that he bequeathed her
his memory, but now, in her happiness, it
seemed to be receding, fading, melting away.
She gazed helplessly in remorseful pain; he
was only a chilly phantom; the very fierceness
of his passion was but a dying spark
of fire. She could recall his words, but
they were dull and faint, like echoes nearly
spent. She could not recall their meaning&mdash;that
was gone. The declaration of love
which had burst upon her like a great wave,
filling her with pity and wonder and fear,
had ebbed to some unapproachable distance,
leaving her perplexed and half incredulous.
Adrian, in flesh and blood, was at her side,
and she thrilled and glowed at his touch;
but when she thought of Reynold Harding
she met only a vague emptiness. He was <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span>
not with the Rothwells in this quiet corner;
he was not where she had left him, lying
back in his leathern chair. That room was
swept and garnished and cold, as he had
said. No doubt they had put him in some
suburban cemetery, some wilderness of
graves which to her was only a name of
dreariness. Standing where he had once
stood in Mitchelhurst Church, she only felt
his absence, and she thought that she could
have recalled him better if he had been at
rest beneath the dimly-lettered pavement
on which her eyes were fixed.</p>

<p>She was wrong. Memories cannot bear
the outer air, or be laid away in the cold
earth; they can only live when they are
hidden in our hearts, and quickened by our
pulses. Barbara could not keep the remembrance
of Reynold's love alive, with no
love of her own to warm it. But in her <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span>
ignorance she said, wistfully&mdash;</p>

<p>"I wish he could have been buried here!"
and then added in a quicker tone, "I suppose
you'll say it makes no difference where
he lies."</p>

<p>"Indeed I sha'n't," said Adrian. "There
may be beauty or ugliness, fitness or unfitness,
in one's last home as well as any
other. Yes, I wish he were here. But he
was an unlucky fellow; it seemed as if he
were never to have anything he wanted,
didn't it?"</p>

<p>"How do you mean&mdash;not anything?"</p>

<p>"Well, I think he would have liked
Mitchelhurst Place."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Barbara, "he would, I
know."</p>

<p>"And I am sure he would have liked
the name of Rothwell. He was ashamed
of his father's people. That pork-butcher <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span>
rankled."</p>

<p>"Oh!" said Barbara, still looking at
the tombs, "did you know about that?
Did everybody know?" She spoke very
softly, as if she thought the dusty Rothwell,
peering out of his marble curls, might
overhear. "No, I suppose he didn't like
him."</p>

<p>"I know he didn't. Well, he hadn't the
name he liked: he was saddled with the
pork-butcher's name. And then, worst of
all, he couldn't have you, Barbara!"</p>

<p>She turned upon him with parted lips
and a startled face.</p>

<p>"Well," said Scarlett, "he couldn't, you
know."</p>

<p>"Adrian! how did you know he cared
for me? He did, but how did you know it?
I thought I ought not to tell anybody."</p>

<p>"I saw him once," said Scarlett, "and I <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span>
found it out. I saw him again&mdash;just passed
him in the road, and we did not say a word.
But I was doubly sure, if that were possible.
Poor devil! If he could have had his way
we should not have met in the lane that
day, Barbara."</p>

<p>"I never dreamed of it," she said. "I
thought he hated me."</p>

<p>"If a girl thinks a man hates her," said
Adrian, "I suppose the chances are he does
one thing or the other."</p>

<p>"I never dreamed of it," she repeated,
"never, till he told me at the end. It
could not be my fault, could it, as I did
not know? But it seemed so cruel&mdash;so
hard! He had cared for me all the time, he
said, and nobody had ever cared for him."</p>

<p>"You mustn't be unhappy about that,"
said Scarlett, gently.</p>

<p>"But that's just it!" Barbara exclaimed, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span>
plaintively. "I ought to be unhappy, and
I can't be. Adrian! I've got all the happiness&mdash;a
whole world full of it&mdash;and he
had none. I must be a heartless wretch
to stand here, and think of him, and be
so glad because&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>Because her hand was on Adrian's arm.</p>

<p>"My darling," he said, in a tone half
tenderly jesting, half earnest, "you mustn't
blame yourself for this. What had you to
do with it? Do you think you could have
made that poor fellow happy?"</p>

<p>She looked at him perplexed.</p>

<p>"He loved me," she said.</p>

<p>"I know he did. You might have given
him a momentary rapture if you had loved
him. But make him happy&mdash;not you!
Not anybody, Barbara! How could you
look at his face, and not see that he
carried his unhappiness about with him? <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span>
I verily believe that there was no place
on the earth's surface where he could have
been at peace. Underneath it&mdash;perhaps!"</p>

<p>Barbara sighed, looking down at the
stones.</p>

<p>"You people with consciences blame
yourselves for things foredoomed," said
Scarlett. "Harding's destiny was written
before you were born, my dear child.
Besides," he added, in a lighter tone,
"what would you do with the pair of us?"</p>

<p>"That's true," she said, thoughtfully.</p>

<p>"Take my word for it," he went on, "if
you want to do any good you should give
happiness to the people who are fit for it.
You can brighten my life&mdash;oh, my darling,
you don't know how much! But his&mdash;never!
If you were an artist you might
as well spend your best work in painting
angels and roses on the walls of the family <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>
vault down here as try it."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Barbara. Then, after a
pause, she spoke with a kind of sob in her
voice, "But if one had thrown in just a
flower before the door was shut! I
couldn't, you know, I hadn't anything to
give him!"</p>

<p>Scarlett, by way of answer, laid his hand
on hers. When you come face to face with
such an undoubted fact as the attraction a
man's lonely suffering has for a woman,
argument is useless. It is an ache for
which self-devotion is the only relief. He
perfectly understood the remorseful workings
of Barbara's tender heart.</p>

<p>"I couldn't do without you, my dear,"
he said.</p>

<p>"Oh, Adrian!&mdash;no!" she exclaimed.
"That day when I said good-bye to him,
he fancied I was crying for him once, and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span>
even that was for you. I was just thinking,
if it had been you sitting there!"</p>

<p>"Foolish child! I'm not to be got rid
of so easily."</p>

<p>"Don't talk of it!" said Barbara.</p>

<p>Her hand tightened on his arm, and she
looked up at him, with a glance that said
plainly that the sun would drop out of her
sky if any mischance befell him.</p>

<p>"Well," she said, after a minute, more in
her ordinary voice, as if she were dismissing
Reynold Harding from the conversation,
"I'm glad you know. I wanted you to
know, but of course I could not tell you."</p>

<p>"It's wonderful with women," said Adrian,
gliding easily into generalities, "the things
they <i>don't</i> think it necessary to tell us,
taking it for granted that we know them,
and we <i>can't</i> know them and <i>don't</i> know
them to our dying day&mdash;and the things <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>
they <i>do</i> think it necessary to tell us, with
elaborate precautions and explanations&mdash;which
we knew perfectly well from the
first."</p>

<p>"Oh, is that it?" Barbara replied, smartly.
"Then I shall tell you everything, and you
can be surprised or not as you please."</p>

<p>"I sha'n't be much surprised," said
Adrian, "unless, perhaps, you tell me
something when you think you are not
telling anything at all."</p>

<p>And with this they went off together to
look at the seat in which he sat when
Barbara saw him first, and then she stood
in her old place in the Rothwells' red-lined
pew, and looked across at him, recalling
that summer Sunday. It would have been
a delightful amusement if the church had
been a few degrees warmer, but Barbara
could not help shivering a little, and Adrian <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span>
frankly avowed that he found it impossible
to maintain his feelings at the proper pitch.</p>

<p>"I'm blue," he said, "and I'm iced, and
I can't be sentimental. And you wore a
thin cream-coloured dress that day, which
is terrible to think of. Might write something
afterwards, perhaps," he continued,
musingly. "Not while my feet are like
two stones, but I feel as if I might thaw
into a sonnet, or something of the kind."</p>

<p>Barbara looked up at him reverentially,
and Adrian began to laugh.</p>

<p>"Let's go and eat those chops," he said.</p>

<p>Later, as they walked along the street
towards Mitchelhurst Place, Scarlett was
silent for a time, glancing right and left
at the dull cottages. Here and there one
might catch a glimpse of firelight through
the panes, but most of them were drearily
blank, with grey windows and closed doors. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span>
It was too cold for the straw-plaiters to
stand on their thresholds and gossip while
they worked. There was a foreshadowing
of snow in the low-hanging clouds.</p>

<p>"What are you thinking of?" Barbara
asked him.</p>

<p>"Don't let us ever come here again!"
he answered. "It's all very well for this
once; we are young enough, we have our
happiness before us. But never again!
Suppose we were old and sad when we
came back, or suppose&mdash;&mdash;"    He stopped
short. "Suppose one came back alone,"
should have been the ending of that
sentence.</p>

<p>"Very well," she agreed hastily, as if
to thrust aside the unspoken words.</p>

<p>"We say our good-bye to Mitchelhurst
to-day, then?" Adrian insisted.</p>

<p>"Yes. There won't be any temptation <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span>
to come again, if what they told us is
true&mdash;will there?"</p>

<p>She referred to a rumour which they
had heard at the <i>Rothwell Arms</i>, that as
Mr. Croft could not find a tenant for the
Place he meant to pull it down.</p>

<p>"No," said Scarlett. "It seems a shame,
though," he added.</p>

<p>Presently they came in sight of the
entrance&mdash;black bars, and beyond them a
stirring of black boughs in the January
wind, over the straight, bleak roadway to
the house. The young man pushed the
gate. "Some one has been here to-day,"
he said, noting a curve already traced on
the damp earth.</p>

<p>"Some one to take the house, perhaps,"
Barbara suggested. "Look, there's a carriage
waiting out to the right of the door.
I wish they hadn't happened to choose <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span>
this very day. I would rather have had
the old Place to ourselves, wouldn't you?"</p>

<p>"Much," said Adrian.</p>

<p>These young people were still in that
ecstatic mood in which, could they have
had the whole planet to themselves, it
would never have occurred to them that
it was lonely. Their eyes met as they
answered, and if at that moment the
wind-swept avenue had been transformed
into sunlit boughs of blossoming orange,
they might not have remarked any accession
of warmth and sweetness.</p>

<p>The old woman who was in charge recognised
Barbara, and made no difficulty about
allowing them to wander through the rooms
at their leisure. In fact, she was only too
glad not to leave her handful of fire on
such a chilly errand.</p>

<p>"Is it true," Mrs. Scarlett asked eagerly, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span>
"that Mr. Croft is going to pull the
house down?"</p>

<p>"So they tell me, ma'am. There's to
be a sale here, come Midsummer, and after
that they say the old Place comes down.
There's nobody to take it now poor Mr.
Hayes is gone."</p>

<p>Adrian's glance quickened at the mention
of a sale, and then he recalled his expressed
intention never to come to Mitchelhurst
again. "Perhaps he'll find a tenant before
then," he said. "You've got somebody
here to-day, haven't you?"</p>

<p>The woman started in sudden remembrance.
"Oh, there's a lady," she said, "I
most forgot her. She said she was one
of the old family, and used to live here.
My orders are to go round with 'em when
they come to look at the house, but the
lady didn't want nobody, she said, she <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span>
knew her way, and  she walked  right off.</p>

<p>"I hope it ain't nothing wrong, but
she's been gone some time."</p>

<p>"I should think it was quite right,"
said Scarlett.  "Come, Barbara."</p>

<p>They went from room to room. All
were silent, empty, and cold, with shutters
partly unclosed, letting in slanting gleams
of grey light. The painted eyes of the
portraits on the wall looked askance at
them as they stood gazing about. All the
little modern additions which Mr. Hayes
had made to the furniture for comfort's
sake had been taken away, and the Rothwells
had come into possession of their own
again.</p>

<p>Scarlett opened the old piano as he
passed. "Do you remember?" he said,
glancing brightly, and with a smile curving
his red lips, as he began, with one hand, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span>
to touch a familiar tune. But Barbara
cried "Hush!" and the tinkling, jangling
notes died suddenly into the stillness.
"Suppose she were to hear!"</p>

<p>"I wonder where she is," he rejoined,
with a glance round. "She must have
come to say good-bye to her old home,
too."</p>

<p>There was no sign of her as they crossed
the hall (where Barbara's great clock had
long ago run down) and went up the wide,
white stairs. But it was curious how they
felt her unseen presence, and how the
knowledge that at any moment they might
turn a corner and encounter that living
woman, made the place more truly haunted
than if it had held a legion of ghosts.
They walked in silence, like a couple of
half-frightened children, along the passages,
and the remembrance that the old house <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>
was doomed was with them all the time.
It was strange to lay their warm light
hands on those strong walls, which had
outlasted so many lives, so much hope,
and so much hopelessness, and to think
that they, in their fragile, happy existence
might well remain when Mitchelhurst Place
was forgotten. It seemed hardly more than
a phantom house already.</p>

<p>"I almost think she must have gone,"
Barbara whispered, as they came down-stairs
again.</p>

<p>"No," said Adrian, with an oblique
glance which her eyes followed.</p>

<p>Kate Harding was standing by one of
the windows in the entrance hall, a stately
figure in heavy draperies of black. Hearing
the steps of the intruders she turned
slightly, and partially confronted them, and
the light fell on her face, pale and proud, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span>
close-lipped, full of mute and dreary
defiance. Only she herself knew the
passionate eagerness with which, as a girl,
she had renounced her old home&mdash;only
she knew the strange power with which
Mitchelhurst had drawn her back once
more. Fate had been too strong for her,
and she had returned to her own place,
perhaps to the thought of the son who
had belonged more to it than to her.
Her presence there that day was a
confession of defeat too bitter to be
spoken, a last homage of farewell to the
old house which she was not rich enough
to save.</p>

<p>Her eyes, resting indifferently on the
girl's face, widened in sudden recognition,
and she looked from Barbara to Adrian.
Her glance  enveloped the young couple
in its swift intensity, and then fell coldly <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span>
to the pavement as she bent her head.
Barbara blushed and drooped, Scarlett
bowed, as they passed the motionless
woman, drawn back a little against the
wall, with the faded map of the great
Mitchelhurst estate hanging just behind
her.</p>

<p>Their fly was waiting at the door, and
in less than a minute they were rolling
quickly down the avenue. Adrian, stooping
to tuck a rug about his wife's feet, only
raised himself in time to catch a last
glimpse of the white house front, and to
cry, "Good-bye, Mitchelhurst!" Barbara
echoed his good-bye. Mitchelhurst was
only an episode in her life; she cared for
the place, yet she was not sorry to escape
from its shadows of loves and hates, too
deep and dark for her, and its unconquerable
melancholy. She left it, but a touch of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span>
its sadness would cling to her in after
years, giving her the tenderness which
comes from a sense&mdash;dim, perhaps, but all-pervading&mdash;of
the underlying suffering of
the world. She looked back and saw her
happiness tossed lightly and miraculously
from crest to crest of the black waves
which might have engulfed it in a moment;
and even as she leaned in the warm
shelter of Adrian's arm, she was sorry
for the lives that were wrecked, and broken,
and forgotten.</p>

<p>"Look!" he said quickly, as the road
wound along the hill-side, and a steep
bank, crowned with leafless thorns and
brown stunted oaks, rose on the right,
"this is where I said good-bye to you,
Barbara, and you never knew it!"</p>

<p>"Never!" she  cried. "No, I thought
you had gone away, and hadn't cared to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span>
say good-bye."</p>

<p>"Well, you were kinder to me than you
knew. You left me a bunch of red berries
lying in the road."</p>

<p>"Ah, but if I had known you were
there!"</p>

<p>"Why," said Adrian, "you wouldn't
have left me anything at all. You would
have died first! You know you would!
It was better as it was."</p>

<p>"Perhaps," she allowed.</p>

<p>"Anyhow, it is best as it is," said he
conclusively, and to that she agreed; but
her smile was followed by a quick little
sigh.</p>

<p>"What does that mean?" he demanded,
tenderly.</p>

<p>"Nothing," she said, "nothing, <i>really</i>."</p>

<p>It was nothing. Only, absorbed in
picturing Adrian's mute farewell, she had <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span>
passed the place where she first saw Reynold
Harding, and had not spared him
one thought as she went by. And she
was never coming to Mitchelhurst again.</p>


<p class="center">THE END.</p>


<p class="center">
<i>Clay and Taylor, Printers, Bungay, Suffolk.</i><br />
</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<div class="chapter">
<p class="center">Transcriber's Notes</p>

<p class="center">Spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been standardised.</p>
</div>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52002 ***</div>
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