l THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES COPYRIGHT WORKS UNIFORM AVITH THIS VOLUME. The Golden Hope Victoria's Golden Reign The Sylvestres All or Nothin,? The Queen's Token Lazarus in London Miss Parson's Adventure Pure Gold A Modern Delilah A Bird of Paradise Gehenna Annette A Princess of Jutedom Garvock A Maiden Fair Cradled in a Storra Queen Mab The Nick of Time Edelweiss My Lady Coquette After Long Grief and Pain A Sinless Secret Countess Daphne Tack Urquhart's Daughter Trust Me Her Brother's Keeper Innocent or Guilty Old Dacres' Darling Jenifer Eyre of Blendon Allerton Towers Friends and Lovers Barbara's Warning Sink or Swim Phyllida Under the Lilies and Roses Facinfif the Footlights How They Loved Him The Root of all Evil My Own Child Her World ajjainst a Lie ]\Iated with a Clown Guardian and Lover A Professional Beauty A Fatal Passion Not Easily Jealous Only a Love Story Love, PFonour, rind Obey The Actor's Wife The Dean's Wife The Home Dictionary Nell Fraser The Best of her Sex The Harlequin Opal Mademoiselle Josephine's Fridays A Romance of the Wire Forestalled Dr. Jacob Thealan with theWaxFinger In a French Parsonage A Broken Blossom Peeress and Player My Sister the Actress The Heir Presumptive A Fashionable Marriage Daughters of Belgravia The Match of the Season Some of our Girls How he Won Her Two ]\Ien and a Maid A Llarriage of Convenience The Priest's Blessing My Connaught Cousins Through the Stage Door MoUie Darling Only a Village Maiden Three Fair Daughters Dame Durden ViviL-nne Like Dian's Kiss Fragoletta Faustine Two Bad Blue E}'es Darby and Joan My Lord Conceit Corinna Worthy Viola Fanshav/e An Innocent Sinner A Mad Game Every Inch a Woman Done in the Dark Saved in Time Lost in the Crowd Caught in a Snare A Life's Remorse ^ An Innocent Maiden INIaude Luton Left to the World The Colonel's Daughter Worth Winning The Romance of a !Mummy A \Vicked Girl Galloping Days The Courting of Mary Smith Little Kate Kirby A House Party Hard Held A Wily Widow A Fair Crusader The Haunted Church Driven Before the Storm Andre Cornelius Blue Ribbon Little Miss Primrose The Shadow of Wrong Thro' Love and War Two Lilies Abel Drake's Wife Hirell The Two Dunmores Roland Oliver Under Fourteen Flags The Confessions of a Medium The Haunted Fountain The Queen's Scarf Only a Shadow Favour and Fortune The IVIysterj' of Mrs. Blen- carrow The Wife's Sacrifice The Cabman's Daughter Mad Love, or an Artist's Dream The Silent Shore Called to the Bar Virginia, the American In the Shadow of Death The Bulbul, and the Black Snake Tozer's and other Stories The Faithful Dorothy Our Parson Love's a Tyrant The Sloane Square Scandal That Other Woman On the Children The Love of a Lady That Affair The Honourable Jane Utterlv J»Iistaken A Girl's Folly No Hero, but a Man Four Women in tl:e Case TheFortuneg of Bam Wildfire ABEL DRAKE'S WIFE. ffi JOHN SAUNDERS, AUTHOR OF " HIEELL," " XUiS SHADOW IN THE HOUSE," BXO. LONDON : RICHARD EDWARD KING, io6, io8, no, Tabernacle Street, E.G. LONDON : PRINTED BV RICHARD EDWARD KING, TABERNACLE STREET, E.C Tf: 5 W / 6 43 J)K. MACLEOD. Oir UEK BUTDDINO; Y0BK8HIRC, Cfie foUotoiiig pages are inscrtbf^, IB GEATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF MANX KIND ATTENTIOlTfl, BOTH PROFESSIONAL AND PE2S0NA1, SHOWN TO THE AUTHOR WHILE IN QCESX Of HEALTH IN ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTirUL OF ENGLISH VAL1ET8. Marc/i 8, 1862. 2229106 PEEFiCE TO THE NEW EDITlOX. I CANNOT allow the issue of the present volume to take place without acknowledgment of the favour with which it has been received, and of the generous criticism that has so largely contributed to its success. "Abel Drake's Wife" has been reprinted in America and Germany, and is now under process of translation in France. I hope yet to show that I do not misconceive this friendly welcome. That is all I can or dare say in connection with the work on which I am engaged, and which I hope to produce in the Spring. London, September, i863. CONTENTS. chap tee tagh Inteodttctiok . , , ', . 1 I,— BAEBiJlA . . . , , , . 5 II.— Thb Dim Futubb . . . . . 26 III.— Out in the World . . . . .41 lY. — Coppeshaiij . • . . . . .48 V. — TiMON's Teeth clear tip a Fact in Piitsiologt . 69 VI. — The Surgeon's Fee . . . . . 77 ni. — A Garret Eomancb . • . . 87 VIII.— EiTAL Pilots ...... Ill IX.— Liberty , . . . 123 X.— Job bisturbed in the Poetry of Idleness . . 140 XI. — An Inventor's Dreams . . . 154 Xn. — The Higgling op the Market .... 165 Xin. — Behind the Settle . . . . . . 178 XIN'.— Straws in the Wind ..... 188 XV.— Job's New Start . . . .201 XVI.— Job pinds an Object ..... 207 XVII.— The Man with the Machine . . . 210 viii CONTENT!!. . CHiPTEB FA65 XVIIL— The One Feiend iept . . . , . 239 XIX. — GoiNa TO Gloet ..... 246 XX.— New Paths . . . . . 258 XXI.— AiLSiE's asAA-B .^ . , . 268 XXII.— Undee Cueeents . y « 283 XXIIL— A Last Lessox . . • l . • 294 XXIY.— Chxtech Music , • ^ * 304 XXV.— Me. "Wolcombe's Letteb . • , J12 ABEL DRAKE'S WIFE. inthoduction. We are so used to think of a mill or factory as necessarily forming part of a great ugly conglomerate of similar buildings, — as situated in towns where the sooty atmos- phere above is only in too complete a harmony with the muddy streets below, — as washed by foul " becks," (or streams,) and surrounded by a stricken vegetation, that it is not easy to make the reader, who may happen to have no personal knowledge of the district in question, under- hand how numerous are the exceptions to so depressing a view of our manufacturing industry. Yet one might un- dertake to show, within a very few miles of Manchester itself, scenes of picturesque, romantic, and almost sublime beauty, the qualities of which seem to have been first ap- preciated by that very mill-owner whose doings so often give us the impression that, through some strange cala- INTRODUCTIOSK niity, beauty is with liim but a lost sense. Between Man- chester and Sheffield; and again between Manchester and Leeds, including the future classic land of Ebenezer Elliott, — who lived to see a tunnel, some three miles long, driven through his beloved " Stannedge, tipped with fire," — many are the factories scattered about in individual dig- nity of isolation ; and each occupying a site that, at first glance, v/ould seem to have been chosen with a most poetic disregard of any other consideration than its ex- treme loveliness. But as they appear before you in rapid succession (supposing you to be a traveller by the rail), you cannot fail to note one common characteristic which explains all, — the little streams in front, which formed originally, and in many cases, we believe, still form, the moving power of the machinery, and which everywhere supply the indispensable element of purification. Hence the reservoirs, with their grassy, lawn-like margins, so carefully preserved round the base of the factory ; hence the selection of those solitary and picturesque valley bot- toms. Hence, too, occasionally occurs a felicitous mingling on the same spot of the two oldest and most necessary of in- dustrial arts, — those relating to the growth of our food and to the preparation of our clothing. The single fac- tory will not spoil the air for cultivation, but it will quicken the cultivator's industry by its demands, and dif- fuse new life into the rustic mind by its own vital energy. iNTRODl/Cr/O.V. i On the other hand, the artisan walks to his work through sweet, wild, or majestic scenei-^ ; and he labours in a place where he can never feel entirely shut out from that com- munion with nature for which man everywhere so instinct- ively yearns, — as for his first love, — and which, with men of his class, is often the passion of a lifetime. Let but a door open, or the wind penetrate through some crevice, and in an instant his thoughts may be borne away to the wild flowers, or the new-mown hay, or the bean -field, which are wooing him so seductively by their scents. In such a scene as this, though enjoying a more pro- found seclusion than the neighbourhood of a railway per- mits, occurred, a few years ago, the incidents now about to be narrated. bARBAkA. CHAPTER I. BARBARA. It was eai-ly ; an hour before the factory bell would ring for breakfast, and but few of the chimneys in the village had begun to smoke. A white mist clung about the steeple of the church, and floated over the distant Lanca- shire hills, making them look like great moving clouds on the horizon. It lay, too, across the bottom. of the valley, and converted the black stalk of the factory into a dim palace-like spire or airy column. The village on the hill side — not at all a modern one — looked so quiet and still that everything in it seemed in a dream. The birds kept sinking their voices to whispers, and the very cocks crowed weakly, as if they were dubious about the time. Toys left by children lying about the cottage gardens ; implements of labour dropped by aching hands only a few hours be- fore, looked as they lay low in the wet grass, or sank into the moist soil, to be taking an eternal rest. It was hard to believe that in a few minutes those toys would be found and rejoiced over, and another day's labour be demanded pf the tools. ABEL DRAKES WIFE. The sun had risen, and was projecting long bars of light through Barden Wood, which crowned the opposite hill. The tinkling of farm-horse be^^s was heard faintly in the distance, A low, busy hum now broke out in Barden Brow (for so was the village designated), as the first pails were brought to be filled at the draw-well on the green. The long lanky body of the bearer swayed lazily to and fro under a shoulder-yoke, which supported the empty pails. Empty as they were, he seemed to find the busi- ness of carrying them an oppressive one, for he stopped when within a few yards of the well, slowly lifted his arms and his broad shoulders, forgetting even the weights pendent from them, and gave way to a portentous yawn. Much relieved, he then went on to the well, unhooked the pails, and placed the shoulder yoke, with the clattering irons, athwart the edge of the low masonry. He did not seem to be in any hurry, for he stood now supporting himself on one leg, while languidly resting the other; and though after due pause and deliberation he moved as if to set to work, it was only to make the legs exchange positions and duties, and so give their owner a fresh spell of the luxury of rest. You could see what a favourite posture this was with him, if you looked at the knees of nis trousers, which swelled out and hung like two bags. The cuff of his coat-sleeves did not nearly reach to his great hands, which dropped down as if not properly fastened on to the wrists. As he walked, his feet shuffled about in huge un- laced boots, showing a raw-looking, naked ankle at every step. "When, at last, he did fill the pails, they were car- ried with a good deal of swaying, and balancing, and grnmbUng, and grunting, towards a little court, between BARSAHA. two rows of dirty, tumble- down looking cottages (built long ago for the mill hands), which appeared to be only kept from actual falling by the thick wooden beams that crossed the court from wall to wall. As the man approached the houses, he began to do an evidently unusual thing with him, — quicken his step, for he saw something that interested him. Outside one of the most wretched-looking of the cottages, a knot of gossips had collected in spite of the early hour and their own several home occupations. They must have run out in haste while preparing breakfast, or dressing their chil- dren, for one held a tea-pot, another a loaf with a knife half- buried in it, and a third a baby's frock. Men — agricultural labourers — stood at the neighbouring doors, smoking their pipes, and somewhat impatient for the "bite and sup'' that had been getting ready, and was now inter- rupted, but still looking on with a kind of apathetic inte- rest-. Job (for so w^as the water-carrier called) pushed a way right through the gossips, his wet and slopping pails securing him a respectful distance, and went to the door, where, having disencumbered himself of his burden, he knocked. There was no answer, so he called out, in the deep, lazy tone natural to him — "Here's th' wayter, widow. Is there 'nowt else as aw can do for yo ?" There was still no answer from the darkened room ; but as they all listened, there issued a succession of thin, sharp, agonizing screams, that sent a spasm across the faces of some of the women ; for it was a child's cry, and the more heart-rending because of its weakness. " God help the poor young mother 1 She'll na ha* 8 ABEL drake's WIFE. lung to watch now," whispered a woman with an infant in her arms, and with a bigger child cUnging to her dress. " If it hadna been for her pride, she might ha' saved it !" muttered an older woman, who stood a little apart with folded arms, listening apparently unmoved to the cries. " Aw'ra thinkin' it wasna reet pride," rejoined the first speaker, " to shut theirsels up, an wait till they're well- nigh clemmed, afore they'd ax a neighbour to help 'em. But aw wish aw'd knawed !" The wish was echoed all round, the older woman alone taking exception to it, as she said contemptuously — " An whore's th' good if you had knawed ? Both she and her mother'd liever starve i' their pride than tak' a scrap fro' ony on us. 0' course every body knaws, they're a deal better than us : leastways they think so ! I thowt this mony a day summat were wrung ; an when my lad telled me yesterday whatten he'd seen, I couldna rest ony longer, and I went to th' widow, to ax if they wanted a bit o' tea, or a loaf o' bread, or a shovel o' coal, or that'n, but I'd scarce getten th' first words out o' my mouth, when up goes a bond to the window-curtain, an pulls it to, as fierce as fierce, and as much as to say to me, ' Get along vvi' yo ! I want noan on yo, nor your help !' " "Well, well, mother, it's na good talkin' that way. When folks are i' trouble they donna care whatten they says or does. Lord save us ! Hear that now !"' It was indeed a cry ; so sharp and peculiar in its piercing and ringing sound, that the elder woman started and shut her eyes. Job changed legs, and shuffled his great feet uneasily, while the younger mothers in the crowd BARBARA. pressed their babies to their breasts, or huddled closer to their sides the hands of the little ones who gazed wonder- ingly on from the folds of the parental gowns. " Mrs. Wolcombe ovvt to be telled," now observed an- other speaker, in a low voice ; " sho's been the savin* o my little un. Aw've a good mind to send one o' th' lads, There'd be no harm i' that, surely." "Well, I'll just speak to the widow first." The woman placed her baby in her mother^s arms, went to the door, and tapped softly. She waited a moment in silence, then tapped again, but still very softly. Then the door opened, and a woman stood within the threshold. She had grey, almost white hair; a strangely patient- looking face, and a kind of cold wintry light in her eye. Notwithstanding the extreme poverty and disorder of her dress, there was a something about her appearance which betokened a kind of simple, humble dignity, which the neighbours might, on imperfect acquaintance, easily ascribe to pride. " 0, please, Mrs. Giffard, the neighbours ha' been thiukin' it might be as weel to send to the mistress at the big house, who might think o' summat to ease the suffer- ins o' th' poor bairn." " What do they say, mother ?" exclaimed a voice from within, in a high excited key. " They want to send for Mrs. Wolcombe," answered the widow, looking behind the rude screen that hid the interior from observation during the opening of the door. There was no answer for a long time; and the gossips began to wonder whether it was intended to send them away without another word of explanation or acknowledg-. ft 10 ABEL drake's WIFE. ment, when they heard the same voice, not sharp now, but broken and mournful, say — *' Yes ; ask her to come." The woman who had offered to send one of her lads, immediately summoned him from a game of marbles lower down the court. " Here, Jack, run up to th' big house to Mrs. Wol- combe." " Na, aw think aw'll go mysel." The woman turned and looked at the speaker. It was the man who had brought the water, and who, since the question of sending for the mill-owner's wife had been raised, had been giving his head a succession of languid jerks, in order to free his eyes from the over-hanging matted hair, and in the hope, apparently, that his brain might thus become clearer for thought. Having at last arrived at the conclusion he had so suddenly and unex- pectedly made known, he began to draw himself up, and apparently tell over his limbs, to see if they were all right before departure. " Thee go. Job \" exclaimed the woman, with a smile of derision ; " I wonder which ud be the first back, thee or Christmas ? Run, Jack, run, and PU gie thee a ha'penny." But, for once, Job was in earnest. He had already left the court, and disappeared from the view of the woman ; and by the time that Jack could again catch sight of him. Job's ankles were bobbing up and down half way across the green, so the boy gave up the pursuit, and returned to his marbles, to th^ great annoyance of his parent. BARBARA, 11 Meantime, Job, not daring to pause and reflect on the possible consequence to his hnibs of this sudden activity, had left the green, and turned into the plantation at the back of the manufacturer's house. It certainly was a long plantation, but Job thought it endless, as his breath grew shorter and shorter, and his pantings more and more noisy. Very glad he was when he escaped from the heavy chill air of the plantation, and began to shuffle along the drier path of the orchard, strewn with blossoms from the apple trees that met overhead. Still he trotted on, until he knew by the cackling of the hens that he had passed the poultry yard, and that the next break in the palings would bring him to the servants' quarters. Dim visions of rest, with coffee and hot rolis, began to interfere with, and a little confuse, the vivid philanthropy that had brought him so far : but on he went, till — yes, there was a kitchen door standing invitingly open, and a rousing fire blazing away inside. Job wouldn't spoil all by stop- ping now, now that he was so near. Once more he urged on his reluctant feet, which were growing heavier and clum- sier every minute, and by getting continually in each other's way, had more than once nearly thrown him down, but then, 'twas clear, they hadn't been used to this kind of treatment. The goal was reached at last. He saw a chair just within the kitchen, it was no time for ceremony — exhausted nature could no more — what harm if the ser- vants did sec how fast he had come ? Job flung himself over the threshold, and towards the chair, but overlooked a slight rise of the framework, and so went headlong across the floor, and thus presented himself to the genteel- booking man-servant, and the two housemaid who were '2 ABEL DRAKEfS H^IFE. there at breakfast, and who burst into a general roar ol laughter, as they saw who it was. " Bless me, why it's lazy Job !" cried one of the house- maids, when the first paroxysm of mirth was over; " whatever can make him in such a hurry V* " Why, havin' a heart wi' feelins in't, which is moor than some folk hae,'' grumbled Job, as he rose, and ten- derly began rubbing the knee, while gazing in dismay on the other, which appeared blushingly through a terrible rent in his trousers. '' Go up, one of you, an tell your missus as how Abel Drake's wife's babby's a dyin' : will you V* " Abel Drake's wife ! What, that poor young thing as became a wife while she were hersel but a child ?" ex- claimed the other housemaid. " Now, are ye a goin*, or mun aw tak^ the message mysel ?" "I'll go, I'll go, Job, though I dunna think Mrs. Wolcombe can be spared just yet," said the woman who had first spoken, as she jumped up, and hastily left the kitchen. " Abel Drake's wife V inquired the man-servant, in an ofF-hand, easy manner, as though the whole affair were one that in a business point of view concerned only the women, and, therefore, that he might placidly go on with his break- fast. '^ Abel Drake's wife? H'm ! h'm ! h'm ! Warn't that the young fellow that headed the strike, that cost master such lots of money V " Yes," grunted Job. " H'm ! So I thought. And what's become of Him now V BARBARA. \S " 'Listed, long ago.'' " Poor Barbara V' here chimed in the housemaid, " 1 guess she's had but a hard time on it, sin then. Here, Job, tak' a cup of coffee, and some bread and butter." Job took what was offered, and ate and drank faster than one might have expected, judging from his general habits, and from the abstracted air with which he handed his breakfast cup to and fro, and received fresh plates full ot oread and butter, evidently he was deeply engrossed with something. At last, as he pu' down the coffee cup, once more empty, he sighed, and said — " Well, sho had'n her choice atween a bad match and a good un," — but there Job stopped, looking at the man-servant, and the man-servant looking at him, with an odd twinkle in his eye, that ) h didn't understand, and that he did not like. " Yes, Job, go on ; I know of the bad match, but what about the good one ?" The man-servant had to guess for himself as to the nature of the reply Job might have made, for the house- maid now returned, saying — "Job, Mrs. Wolcombe is already gone. She put on her bonnet directly I gave her your message, and went out. You won't overtake her, so may as well rest a bit," " Na na, thankye," answered Job, with an important air, and rising for once to a full sense of the dignity of occupation. " Happen th widow '11 want me." And so he hurried off, after again exchanging glances with the man-servant, who smiled ai insufferably knowing smile, with eyes fixed on Job's face, while Job, sullen and savage, lifted and let fall his gaze, as though half inclined to abk 14 A^EL DRAKE^S IViFE. what was meant ; but, on the whole, coming to the con- clusion that to do so would be absurdly troublesome. As he recrossed the green he heard the factory bell call- ing the hands from breakfast, and he stopped a moment to look at tbs people flocking in through the great mill gates, across the ravine, where he used to go, and to ask himself whether he had done wisely to give up regular labour, and trust to precarious occupation. But, when Job asked himself a question, he seldom took the further trouble of exacting an answer; so now he hurried on to- wards the court, which he reached just in time to see the manufacturer's lady gliding through it in her quick un- affected way, not holding her delicately tinted silk dress, of silver grey, a hair's breadth nearer to her, or behaving in any way differently among those poor people, and dirty houses, than he had seen her when walking to her carriage, or with guests on her lawn. The door was opened by the widow in answer to Mrs. Wolcombe's knock. They spoke together a few words in whispers, as the visitor took off her bonnet and gloves, before going behind the screen. As she advanced into the close room, the smell of medicine made her feel faint after her rapid walk. But she waited while the widow went on stirring something in a saiicepan over the fire, and gradu- ally accustomed herself to the atmosphere. Then she began to look round. The screen before the door was merely a clothes-horse covered by an old patchwork quilt. In a corner stood an infirm tent-bedstead, which appeared to have given in its time so much rest to others that it began to feel the want of it for itself. These two articles, with a rocking-chair, an old settle, a deal table, and a few BAKBAKA. 1 5 of the very commonest ami mosl indispensable household utcnsilsj completed tl>e miserable furniture. There was not a single seat, except the roclcing- chair, even to offer to the visitor ; who understood at a glance the sort of life that must have been going on here, for many a week — what desperate struggles with poverty and want this chamber must have witnessed — and that even now it was not phy- sical distress alone that had made them succumb so far as to request her aid. A figure, unconscious as yet of her presence, knelt at the bed-side ; and Mrs. Wolcombe stood for some little time looking silently down upon it, for the words of comfort she had intended to speak seemed all too weak and useless for the occasion. ^Yhen it is said that Barbara Drake, the mill girl, with a dirty coloured skirt over her night dress, untidy hair, and pinched haggard face, was still beautiful, the word must be understood to mean, not a beauty made up of round- ness, and joyous eyes, and varying tints of white and red, Tading and deepening under every emotion, as this China rose at the window loses and gains colour with every frown and smile of the sun ; no, Barbara had no beauty of that kind; here was the cold colourless beauty of a statue, which vou could not but see and be startled by when it presented Itself under such an unlovely garb, and so in- jured in what might be called Its own secret law — perfec- tion of form — by the ravages of hunger, and of some still more terrible affliction of the soul. As she knelt there, holding a little passive hand, and gazing straight before her, with eyes that seemed almost unnaturally large and brilliant, and which made her face look even more pallid thaE it was, — as you noted the features, so bold in outline, 1 6 A SSL DkAkE's WIPE. and the expression so full of character and will, with the black hair, neither waved nor glossy, so impatiently thrown back from the broad white brow, you felt growing upon you every instant the idea of the intensity of the conflict that must have been raging here, and of which the signs were only too obvious in the thin and pinched cheek, the sinking of the bed of the eye, and the inexpressible rigid- ity of the mouth, naturally so sweet, but now long, straight, and harsh, with the tension of prolonged resist- ance to suffering. The gentle touch of Mrs. Wolcombe's soft hand moviiig the hair from her brow, made Barbara look up. She dropped her eyes quickly when they met the lady's kind gaze ; the blood rushed to her pale face, and then left it paler than before. After a pause she spoke, and there was a slight tinge of bitterness in the words. " I didna think to ha' come to this, to ask thee for help after what happened atweeu Mr. Wolcombe and my " Some strong emotion stopped her utterance, and Mrs. Wolcombe prevented her from finishing the sentence. " Whatever, Barbara, T may have thought of your hus- band's conduct in the strike, I should have been but too glad to have helped you, if I had known you needed help. But you have so shut yourself up, so kept your troubles to yourself, that I knew nothing until these last few minutes. But, tell me, how is baby now ?" The young mother tried to speak, but her lips moved ineffectually, and she gave up the attempt. She laid her hand on Mrs. Wolcombe's wrist, drew her close to the bed, and fixed on her face eyes that strained with wild eagerness to read the impression made by the first sight ^AR^AkA. iy of the child. Mrs. Wolcombe tried to bear the gaze un- moved, but it was hard to have to look upon that con- vulsed baby-face with those great searching mother's eyes watching the while, harder even than she would have liked to have owned to herself : for, independent of her sympathy with Barbara's position, there were certain past bereavements of her own which she did not wish to have too vividly brought again to mind. The hand that the mill girl held trembled, and then the dark eyes grew wilder, and the grasp round the wrist became so tight that the veins in those delicate fingers began to swell. Averting her face as far as she could from Barbara's observation, Mrs. Wolcombe bent down over the pillow. She saw a thin weird little face, that looked as if it had never yet worn a smile ; and the bright golden hair that lay around it in shining rings on the pillow, seemed too full of life and brightness to beiOng to rt. She looked into the blue eyes, and saw that they weie dull and fixed; she looked at the tiny clenched hands, and she listened to the wailing cry, till her heart began to fail her, and she dared not look back an answer to the mother's questioning. But she perceived that she was but too well understood. Her wrist was let go, the straining eyes closed, and the quiver- ing form sank down upon the sheet. Then, suddenly, the hands rose and clasped each other over the head, and great smothered sobs, more like a man's than a woman's, made the old tattered bed-hangings shake. " Barbara 1" and Mrs. Wolcombe tried gently to un- clench the fingers, where they were buried in the hair. " Barbara, you must be quiet, you must indeed, or we car do nothing." 1 8 A^EL DRAk'E''s U'lp-E. *' Quiet !" The face was uplifted, the eyes blazing, the voice hoarse and broken. " Quiet ! An whatten does tnat mean ? Gie it up, like thee an th' doctor, an sit by an see it goin' an goin', and be quiet ! 0, ye dunna knavv what it is to me, or ye wouldua talk so. But ye will help me, will ye not ? 0, dunna let it go ! Dunna let it be ta'en fro me. If it were your own yo'd save it, I knaw ye would." Hush^ Barbara ! Did I save my own three years ago V " 0, but ye couldna want it as I do this. Ye hae gotten other ehilder; I hae noan but this. Ye hae gotten a husband ; 0, would to God I could say, I hadna one too,'' " Hushj hush, my child," interposed the widow. " How can you speak so, at a time like this r" " Mother, I canna help it," was the fierce reply. " I feel I man hate him if my little baby's took fro me, as I began to hate him afore it coom, when he'd left me wi'out a penny, or a bed to lay me down in, wi' nowt but his bad name to help me thro th' warld. Ay, then I began to hate him, an all th' warld, an most of all mysel } an every neet I shut my eyes wishin' I migHt niver be able to open 'em again ; an every mornin I woke sick o' th' light an sunshine, an wanting nobbut to die. An then my little baby cum to stop me, an comfort me, an mak' me better. As I lay awake o' ncets, an felt it lying warm an soft an still in my arms, nestling to me, closer an closer, I couldna think o' hating ony longer." Barbara, who had been speaking in a low, passionate ■ undertone, with her eyes fixed on the child's face, suddenly stopped; for she noticed that the fitful breathing had BARBARA. ig ceased, and that life seemed to have altogether passed away from the httle frame. " Mother ! mother ! what is this ?" asked Barbara, in tones so low and soul-strieken, that Mrs. Wolcombe trem- bled as she heard. "No, whish't ! Dunua tell me it's dead. Baby, darling I baby, wake up, does ta hear ?' A little shiver convulsed the child, the breath came back, and with it the feeble moan. The mother's face lit uj with joy, and sinking down at the bedside, she clasped he. hands, and raising her eyes, now swimming in tears, ejaculated, " God, thae sent it to turn me fro my wicked hate ! 0, dunna tak it fro me now. Please dunna, or all th' good '11 go out of me agin. I dunna ask for owt but my baby. I'll earn its food wi' my own hands, an — an I'll forget and forgie him who is away, and never com- plain ony more ! Leave me my baby ! 0, leave it to me.'* Her head now dropped on her hands, and she staj^ed thus, for a few moments, in silent self-communion. When she rose, there was a strange calm on her face. The widow had been for some time holding a cup of tea, and a piece of dry bread, which she had vainly offered to Barbara, who had tasted nothing for many hours. To the surprise both of her mother and of Mrs. Wolcombe, Bar- bara now put out her hand f )r the cup, raised the spoon to her lips, and having broken a bit of the bread, began to eat, looking and moving as if she thought perfect faith, in appearance as well as in reality, might be necessary for the success of her appeal. Then, taking up the child, ,he seate(^ herself upon the rock'ng-chair, turned away from the two spectators (who sat down together upon the bed, glad to see the change, which they attributed as 50 ABEL drake's lytPk: much to resignation as to hope), and, in an instant, the poor child-mother forgot everything, but that precious little burden, lying there so unconscious of the dread issues that were pending. The chair began to sway to and fro, and as the moaning ceased, there was, for a long time, no other sound heard, but that of the girl's bare foot patting the floor, as it touched with every forward rock. She was weary and faint with her long days and nights of watching ; and by degrees her head drooped on her breast, but not to sleep. She began dreamily to bum a little song, that she had been accustomed in other davs to sing to the child : — Hark ! the night-winds whispering nigh ; "Hush," they murmur, " hush a bye !" Dobbin by the dyke doth drowse j Dreamy tine forget to browse j Winking stars are in the sky ; " Hush a bye ! Hush a bye !" See, the silver moon is high. How the great trees rock and sigh, " Hush a bye I Hush a bye !" Low the httle brooklet's cry ; " Hush," it Hspeth, " Hush a bye !" All the peeping lights are gone ; Baby, we are left alone ; " Hush a bye ! Hush a bye !" It was strange to see her sitting there, hushing the child to that last long sleep, from which a moment before she had been straining every nerve to snatch it. Her voice kept mostly to the same low, dreamy undertone, but sometimes it rose with a single clear note that never lived its full time, but would tremble and break off at its very sweetest, drawing sudden tears to the listener's eyes. After a while, something — it might have been the little BARBARA. 21 white empty sock on the table, so life-like in its form and suggestion — set her conjecturing, as she sang, why it was empty. Whatever it might be, it brought her rudely back face to face with the grim spectre who was gradually tightening his hold on her child. The wild distraught look again appeared in her large eyes,, as she glanced questioningly from one face to another. The widow turned away, unable to utter a word, but Mrs. Wolcombe, steady- ing her voice, and bending over the babe, said to her, — " Barbara, baby is going fast. We shall have her o^y a few minutes longer. Keep her quiet in your arms, so, and she may go without more pain, I think." " Go V There was a mingling of passionate tenderness and scornful deHance both in the broken voice and the dilating eyes. " Go ! 1 ha' gotten it safe i' my arms. What is it can tak' it fro me ? Dunna shake your head, mother ; I tell thee I dunna believe it. I wunna believe that onything as has looked to you for life all along can be took fro you, if your whole heart's set to keep it. An' it's mine ! I will keep it ! It's my own baby. I gotten nowt else in all the warld. My very own ; an nobody on earth or in heaven either has ony right to it but me." But even while she spoke thus recklessly, impiously, she trembled with an agitation so violent that she was obliged to sink down on her knees, and rest her arms on the bed, as they still supported their fond burden. And there she now watched tne gradual darkenings of that little face, as the advancing shadow touched it ; and she listened for the feeble breath that kept flickering, as though conscious of the contest between life and death, over the little body as a coveted prize ; a contest that; np^jr qeg;sed, as if DcalA. 22 ABEL DRAKE'S ly/FE. had couqueretl, and was now renewed as if the mother's fierce resistance had made him loosen his cold grasp. But at each retm'n the breath was fainter. A white ring appeared in the centre of the eye, gradually increasing in size, as though Death, again returning to the contest, held up before it the bridal ring as a bribe, and approached the while closer and closer. There came also a fresh sweet redness to the lips, that made the mother's heart thrill with hope, until the last frantic struggle convulsed the shuddering frame, and the terrible rattle in the throat showed but too plainly, it was Death's own triumphant bridal kiss that glowed upon thera. But no evidence could yet make Barbara believe the child really dead. She breathed upon the cold feet, and rubbed them tenderly. She rose from her knees, and again seating herself in the chair, began to rock to and fro, and seem to say unto herself she was only waiting patiently for its recovery. Once Mrs. Wolcombe tried to take the no longer living infant from her, but Barbara pushed her back, and pressed the dear burden convul- sively to her breast. A long time she sat thus, but with a something settling into her white, tearless face, that made Mrs. Wolcombe afraid to leave her ; and she sat still where she was on the edge of the bed, looking at that face — so girlish and yet so womanly — so haggard and yet so beautiful — and trying to understand the amount and manner of the great change that had come over it in the last two years. She remembered also the day, still fur- ther back, when she had met Barbara with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, heedless of the troop of wild, shouting mill-girls who followed her, witK a^ Ipt^ of chi.l.dren at their BARBARA, 2^ heels, as she carried off the prize from Isaac SleigVa school. She remembered how much she had been struck with Barbara's face on that occasion, and with the kind of prescience of some bright future for herself that she seemed to feel in her moment of triumph. It \^ as the widow who endeavoured, next time, to take the baby from her arms. Barbara no longer resisted, but followed it with her eyes, letting her hands drop wearily in her lap, as though their work in life were over, and uttering a low, helpless moan. When the widow, after placing the babe on the bed, held a spoonful of tea to Barbara's lips, she turned from it with a shudder, laid her cheek against the damp and dirty white-washed wall, shut her eyes, and remained as still as was now her babe. It was a strange and touching scene that the pale sunbeam looked in upon through a chink of the unopened shutter; and it flitted about, as if wonderingly, from one thing to another. Now it would peer curiously into the corner where the widow, with awkward tenderness — for her eyes were dim with tears — was arranging on the floor a little bed, hard, cold and white as snow frozen on the ground. Now it would linger for an instant ou Mrs. Wolcombe's pale, shining bands of brown hair, and the lace head-dress with floating lappets, and on her tenderly- compassionate face, which seemed to reflect all the sorrow it looked on, but made sweet by some chemistry of the soul, of which she was mistress. Then the sunbeam would steal along the discoloured wall, picking its way among the stains, until it rested on and lighted up, with unkind exposure, all the agony in those compressed lips, 24 ABEL drake's WIFE. knit brows, and straight- staring eyes, wild, hungry, auJ tearless. It was nearly an hour before they dared to rouse her j and then, when Mrs. VVolcombe, who seemed to divirie, by some unerring instinct, the true moment, uttered the single word, " Barbara !" she turned towards them with a long, shuddering sigh, and made an effort to rise ; but she was too weak. Wearily lifting her hands to do up her hair, she said, — "Uuuna let me keep thee ony longer, ma'am. Th' end's coom now, and I mun bear it. Ye are very good to stay so lung. What art doing, mother ? Na, na, let me see its face first. Dunna be afraid. 1 shall na tak' on now." She went and stood at the foot of the little bed, and while the widow held back the white cloth, she gazed upon the dead face. " Mother ! do ye see aught, or is it only my dazed e'en ?" The widow looked in her turn, and saw what Barbara referred to — a strange likeness to the absent father, that seemed now first to settle upon the child's face, in the wondrous peace that possessed it. "Yes, Barbara, I think I know what you mean. It is strange, but " and the widow paused, for she could scarcely repress a kind of superstitious feeling that the death was a token of the divine anger at the division be- tween the parents. " An this, then, is th' end on it all \" murmured Bar- bara ; " of all that he talked about and I believed. This is th' end ; our only child dead ! for want, perhaps — 0, God, help me, and keep me i' my reet wits ! — o' proper food and nourishment !'* Then, raising her voice, she BAKBAIiA. 25 cried, with fierce vehemence, " 0, how I wish he'd heard th' doctor say it, an had stood by, like me, an see it goin an goin- Mrs. ^YoIcombe's hand and voice arrested her, — " Barbara^ my poor girl, you must not look back now. You must think no more of him — no more of your past troubles. Pray, my child, for strength and comfort to Him of whom you have been strangely neglectful, and w ho alone can enable you to bear these great trials. Come, Barbara ! and then lie down and try to sleep. We won't talk now, but I shall come again to-morrow to see you." Her words fell on deaf ears. The face grew only more dark, the eyes more dry and wild. Presently she drew her hands from Mrs. Wolcombe's, and sank down on het knees. The two women looked in thankfulness on each other ; but when Barbara spoke, the sound of her voice sent a shock through their hearts. " Abel Drake ! if ever ye come back to me — come ye rich or come ye poor, sick or in health — I tell thee now, o'er th' dead body of our child, and in God's own pre- sence, I'll never own thee as my husband !^ Never !" Long after the terrible sound of her voice had done ringing through the chamber of death, she knelt there, with her clasped bauds extended over the body of her babe, and her strong, resolute face raised to Heaven. 26 ABEL drake's WIPE. CHAPTER II. THE DIM FUTURE, On Sunday, the day after the burial, before anyone else was astir in Abbott's Court, Barbara got up without dis- turbing her mother to perform a task, — bitter, indeed, but which she could not leave to other hands. Quietly she collected together on the table before her everything her darling had worn or played with. She dared not leave a single garment or toy to meet her gaze hereafter ; but felt it as necessary to bury them as the poor' little senseless, empty body itself. The stained red shoe, the sleeve bent to the shape, seemed even fuller of life just now than the foot or arm had ever been which the sexton had lowered into the dark earth. She worked on in the morning twilight, with hurried, trembling lingers, seldom daring to pause over any one of the things she touched. 0, the luxury to have given way to the hot tears that pressed so at her aching eyes ! that she might but sit there and cry over those things all the day long, as other mothers might — mothers who had no occasion to rouse themselves from their grief till they wearied of it, in nature's own time and way. But Barbara knew well there were no such grief-luxuries for her. She aiust break down every impulse of sorrow that had the THE DIM FUTURE. 2J least savour of indulgence in it. Monday morning must find Ler ready to go on as of old, taking her usual place and struggles in the ceaseless battle of life. When she had collected the things together iu a hand- kerchief, she tied the whole, knot upon knot, and then dropped the sacred little bundle into the seat of the old settle, and shut it up, to come no more into the light for many a year. Poor Barbara ! This was like a second burial to her ; and as she sat down, when all was over, she felt once more as though there could be nothing re- maining to live for, or to do. -Presently her thoughts reverted to her mother, who was sleeping peacefully ; and Barbara tried to draw some spirit and energy for labour from the study of that worn but invincibly patient face. As she looked, many thoughts — some apparently reproachful — began to rise, and a moist glitter appeared in her eye. That future, as it now pre- sented itself, was inexpressibly blank and drear. She had to work at the factory side by side with her former com- panions, who would be always reminding her, as they talked among themselves, of days, hopes, and feelings which she must forget, if she were ever again to be at peace. Recent events, too, seemed to have broken all ties of sympathy with them. What the change in herself might yet portend she knew not, but she was greatly changed ; and she shrank from the idea of again shai'ing their daily life, with an emotion of repugnance so strong, that she was angry with herself for its injustice. But there was no help. She must return to the mill, with no other earthly hope or aim but that of finding means to preserve what she most longed to part with — life. Hsr /i ABEL DRAKES WIFE. mother migbt still get along as of old by doing needlework for some neighbouring ladies, but Barbara had no such resource ; she must go to the mill. It was a dreary j)ros- pect, and one that chilled her soul to look upon. That morning, mother and daughter went to church. It was the first time for many Sundays, and it was against Barbara's wish they did fio now. But when they had left the close court, and were ascending the hill, she was not sorry she had consented. The soft, sunless, tender monung harmonised well with her feelings. The breeze, too, soothed and comforted her. As she reached the church, she could not but observe how kindly, and it seemed even respectfully, every one she knew spoke to her ; or, better still, passed her with a quiet, cordial, hand-grasp. Then the music of the organ seemed suddenly to take possession cf her, the instant she entered the church, and not to be willing to let her go, until her every thought and feeling became attuned to the day and place. The service began. Solenni words reverberated through the edifice, warning the sinner to repent. Every one of them sank deep into Barbara's soul. They seemed meant for her. She re- membered now, with deep and growing anguish, the wild and wicked expressions that had escaped her during her child's dying hours, her bitterness of feeling towards licr absent husband, and her vow — but there she stopped. That vow was still 'ight in her eyes, and should at any cost be maintained. But she began now^, as she knelt vvitb the rest of the congregation, and tried to keep back the hot tears that dropped on her prayer-book, to pray in true con- trition of heart. She could not follow the set forms of the book, nor had she the least idea of what she ought to have THE DIM FUTURE. Sg been doing at any particular moment ; but what she dit^ do was this : — with all the strcnjrth of her naturally stron" soul, she pleaded passionately for pardon ; she told unto the Divine Father all that there had been in that poor wrecked, desperate, but loving soul of hers when she sinned. She made yet a second vow that she would endeavour by her whole future life to atone ; and then, forgetting herself, she asked for forgiveness and all imaginable blessings on his head — her erring and absent husband's. Then she waited, and was, as she believed, answered ; for the organ, at the close of the service^ broke forth into a strain of mighty exultant thanksgiving. With a lightened heart and a chastened spirit, Barbara came forth. There was a buoy- ancy in her step, a kindling of her eye, and a faint flash of lovely colour just touching her cheek, that made her look at once so beautiful and so pecuhar, that her mother could not for some time dissociate her in idea from the angel in the painted window she had so often gazed upon duri:!g the service, wondering if anybody else saw the likeness there to Barbara. As the two were leaving the churchyard, Mrs. Wolcombe appeared among the crowd, speaking first to one, then to another, in her sweet, quiet, self possessed way, so that it attracted no attention when she went up to the widow and her daughter, and spoke to them. '^ Barbara, I shall come down to see you this afternoon." Then she added, in lower tones, " I havt something to say to you.'^ With a nod and half smile she passed on. Barbara said nothing; to her mother about Mrs, Wol- combe's words, but she thought of them a good deal. So did the widow, but she too kept her conjectures to herself. 30 AS EL drake's IVIFB. In the afternoon, when Abbott's Court seemed to be deserted by all but themselves, the widow noticed a little flutter in Barbara's manner, and she guessed from that how anxiously her daughter waited their promised visitor; but still neither of them would venture to speak. Pre- sently they both heard through the open window J\Irs. Wolcombe's voice, in remonstrance with Job, who had been caught taking a nap on an old horse-stone under the chestnut tree at the end of the court ; and when, in that lady's opinion, he ought to have been at church. As the two listened they could not help exchanging glances ; and the widow thought she saw a flickering smile hovering about Barbara's mouth, notwithstanding a certain im- patience at the delay Job was making for her. " Pooh, pooh, nonsense, Job ; no chance, indeed ! See how you have been idling through all this long drought. Every pump has been dry, and the water in the well too low for anybody but you to get it up. You ought to have made quite a little fortune. I expected to have found you dreadfully worldly-minded for Sunday. I expected to have seen you pretending to pull a long face of sympathy with the poor housewives, but bursting out all over with secret glee, as you counted the coppers in your pocket." " Aw bin seekin' more reg'lar wark, ma'am." " All a pretence. Job. I know you too well to believe anything of the ' jnd. Or, if you do go to seek it, I am sure you are praying to Heaven all the v/hile that you mayn't find it." Seeing Job rather enjoyed the joke than otherwise as he turned it over and over in his mind with unmistakable THE DIM FUTURE. 31 relish, saying, however, in his mildest tone and in a de- {^fecating manner — " Lor, ma'am," — she went on : — " I should be sorry to hurt your feelings. Job, but His /lo use mincing matters; you are giving way to idleness." " Idleness ! E — law, ma'am. Me, idle !" was the watei'-carrier's reply, given in a tone that showed he was quite aware of the popular opinion that he was a bit of a favourite with the manufacturer's lady. But Job was sly enough not to presume too far on the knowledge, and be- gan already to speculate on the end, and wonder whether it would be a shilling or a new gift from Mr. Wolcombe's wardrobe. " Why, Job," continued Mrs. Wolcombe, " can you speak to me, even now, without drawling, or move without creaking, as though every joint were rusty ? Try ! If you begin a sentence, it's a chance if you don't stop in alarm at the long way there is to go to get to the end of it ; and then, when you see people waiting for their answer, you stare sleepily about, wondering what has hap- pened, or where you are. Come, come. Job, r>ike a light, as my old nurse used to say, and look for yourself. Are you awake now ? Do you really hear me ?" " 0' coorse, ma'am !" And then Job began to chuckle, '' Haw ! haw ! haw !" " I doubt it. See how you walk. Why, your very legs can't make up their mind whether or no they ought to walk ; and if they do begin, are sure to stop again soon, and ask whether you really think it is worth while lor them to go on any longer." Again Job chuckled — '• Haw, haw, haw !" " And what's the matter with your head, Job, that you 34 ABEL DR A Fee's WIFE. let it hang- and roll about so from side to side, as if it were too niucli trouble for it to take care of itself?" "That's presentiments, ma'am." " Presentiments ?" *' Yes, ma'am ; aw've knawed a lung whol aw shall soom day find a lot o' money, and o' coorse aw looks for't." " Then, Job, you are so untidy." "Now, ma'am, aw jest appeal to you," and Barbara could see that Job was stretching out his coat tails for the ladv's better examination, perhaps with a secret hope things were now getting on to the right track. " Look, ma'am, at th' mendm,' if aw wur to begin." " But when you have decent clothing, you won't keep it in order. Really, Job, I am ashamed to see you so dirty." "Dirt, ma'am's, good !" broke in Job, with a positive tone of voice, as though now sure he was upon safe ground. " Artist once telled me so, when he took my pictur. He said dirt's a neutral tint, ma'am ; warm i' winter, cool i' summer, Ony you try it, ma'am." '•' 0, you are incorrigible, Job," cried Mrs. Wolcombe, laughing; and hers was a strangely low, sweet, silvery laugh, so full of enjoyment that its mere overflow made every one else enjoy too ; and without a touch of malice in it. " Well, here's a sihilling for you, — the last I think I shall ever give you, if you don't mend. Good-bye !" Ah, my dear Mrs, Wolcombe, that last " Good-bye " was enough to have undone any possible good your advice may have wrought in Job's mind. It will Hnger all day in his dull cars, haunting him with he knows not what recollections of his youth, his early dreams, his first love THE DIM FUTURE. 33 — for Job has loved — and still farther indisposing him for the harsh realities of life, while he can luxuriate in visions so pleasant as your voice and manner have raised all about hi;n. You can do much, my dear madam, by the sweet- ness of soul which seems always ready to be poured like a divine oil on the troubled waters* pf humanity ! but, take my word for it, you will never cure Job. Sly rascal ! I question whether he is net already yearning for another good talking to '' by th' lady." But he musn't use up all bis nice things at once; so he merely pockets the shilling, in rather a careless, dignified way, and wishes Mrs. Wol- combe a "Good niornin', ma'am," in a tone that implies an opinion, on Job's part, that on the whole he has got very satisfactorily through a difficult business. The next minute Barbara heard him shuffling away, in his great clumping boots ; and then followed a low tap at the door. The widow shut up the Bible that she had been read- ing until stopped by the talk with Job ; and Barbara, re- l)ressiug her first flurry, got up sedately and admitted the expected visitor, to whom she ofiered their only movable seat, the rocking-chair. '' Barbara," said Mrs. Wolcombc, after a brief pause, "I was glad to see you looking so much better at church this morning. I have said you will soon right yourself. You must not make me a false prophet." Then, after another pause, " Shall you be ready to begin work at the mill to-morrow ?" Mrs. Wolcombe looked inquisitively at Barbara as she spoke. The factory girl stood before her with her hands folded across her breast, looking down, so that the ex- 34 ABEL drake's WIFE. pressioii might not be too closely scanned. But it was impossible to disguise the deep shadow that had suddenly passed over it and rested there. The question about the mill had filled the heart of the listener with a sense of aching and disappointmentthat she did not quite understand and which made her feel very angry with herself. " What had she been expecting ?" she asked herself, trying to avert her face, as if by accident, from Mrs. Wolcombe's searching, though soft blue eye. " What had she been foolish enough to hope for V And then, with a kind of contemptuous bitterness, she dragged the hidden hope into the light, and held it up, and turned it about in her mind, laughing it to scorn. *' Was it possible she had been dreaming that Mrs. Wolcorabf was going to befriend her in some out-of-the-way manner, and prevent her from working at the mill V A bitter inward laugh ridiculed the thought, but the weight at her heart remained, and warned her of the price she must pay for such moments of delusion. Yet even then the thin, firm outline of her face, as it was seen sideways by Mrs. Wolcombe, appeared so unchanged in its expression, that she was again asked, " What do you say, Barbara ? — -are you ready to go to the old work to-morrow V This time the face turned quite round before the voice answered, coldly and sharply, *' I mun be ready, or starve. I hac no other choice." Notwithstanding the sharpness and coldness of the tone, Mrs. Wolcombe knew, by the help of that familiar of hers who seemed to be ever whispering into her ears tbc most carefully-guarded secrets of the humanity about bf;r, that before Barbara would again speak there must be THE DIM FUTURE. 3S a burst of tears. She turned away not to notice it, but determined she must come quickly to the point. " Well, Barbara, I am here to give you another choice. I can understand why you dislike going back to tne mill, and have been considering how it might be prevented. Would you like to live with me, and take charge of my children under the governess ? You know what I gave Martha : I offer you the same.^^ The depressed heart bounded upwards as it listened, the scorned hope gave a little laugh 'of triumph to see how truthfully it had anticipated, and there broke a vivid light and colour over the girlish face. Poor Barbara ! — even now she was not eighteen ; and she could not repress something of a child's shame-faced joy at the wondrous relief Mrs. Wolcombe's words afforded. But, as was her wont, she speedily recovered her outward equanimity of feature. Her voice, however, still trembled a little in spite of the obvious mastery that was being kept over it, as she said, " I canna speak what I feel. It's niver bin out c* mind sin ye telled me Martha wur goin' away." " I am very glad to hear this, Barbara. I wanted -: know your true thoughts, or I should have spoken more promptly. And so " " Please '' interrupted Barbara, but then stopping. " Well, Barbara, what is it V " Has th' measter heard ony thing about it ? Happen he mightn't like — — " " Oh yes, he is perfectly wilUug ! He does not mix you up with your husband's affairs." " But the name — he mun hate it !'^ "Well, Barbara, I must tell you candidly there has 3^ ABEL drake's wife. beeu a little discussion on that point. Mr. Wolcombe thinks we had best say nothing about Mrs. Drake, but call you simply Barbara— with the servants you would be the nurse, — so that difficulty's got over ! Anything else ?" Barbara looked down on the sanded floor, unconsciously crushing, with no pleasing sound, a lump of grit, and seeming to be wrapped in deep and gloomy thought. At last she said, without raising her head, and playing the while nervously with her apron-strings, ''Why canna I drop that name now for good an all ? I dunna see what I want wi' it novv.^-" " That is a very serious thing to do,^' answered Mrs. Wolcombe ; yet she did not appear either shocked or angry, but only troubled and thoughtful, as she weighed Barbara's proposal. " Yon see, ma'am," urged the latter, with a somewhat })urried accent, " that if I'm ever spoken of by my mar- ried name, questions will be asked which will he a trouble to you— and— and to other folk — to answer, and to me to hear on." " Yes, that is true ; nor do I see any use \xv your ex- posing yourself to such perplexity and possible pain. But what then would you do ?" " Tak' my own maiden name, the ony one I feel I've any reet to— Barbara Giffard !" There was a kind of pathetic dignity in the upraised head and in the expression of the rigid yet beautiful face of the mill-girl as she pronounced these words ; as thouo-h she were conscious of the humble recollections that alone as yet attached to them, but determined there should be a difference in the future. THE DIM FUTURE. 37 "Well, Earbaraj I am inclined tc tLink vou are right; and vet '' Barbara looked up inquiring-ly, and met Mrs. Wol- combe's gaze fixed ou her. She understood. She grew a little confusedj but neither turned away her head not allowed her answering glance to falter. So INIrs. Wol- combe went on — and there was, for her, something almost severe in the tone — "Barbara, I heard your vow at the bedside. I must tell you frankly I thought and think it a wicked and foolish vow, one that no Christian v,'ife should make or keep. I do not understand the precise amount of your provocation, though I can see it must have been very great. Perhaps you and your husband may never meet again. Even if he were to return, I am not at present prepared to say I should advise you to re- ceive him as your husband : 1 do not know enough of the case. But none of these considerations make me the less desirous that you should feel yourself a free agent to act as your own heart, your sense of duty, and your sub- mission to God's will, may dictate. Don't you feel the propriety of thift V " Yes !"' replied Barbara, afler a long pause, but not even then in so contrite and humble a spirit as Mrs. Wol- combe would have liked. Still she did not care to press her farther on so tender a point. " Oh, she will right ail that by.and-by !" thought she. But then, again, Mrs. Wolcombe had a rather uneasy feeling that Barbara's desire to recur to her maiden name was only a sort of convenient buttress that she was erecting for the support of her vow ; and that, in obtaining the sanction now sought for the former, she was making her — Mi*s. Wolcombe — u kind of 38 ABEL drake's WIFE. accomplice in the determined purpose to fulfil the latter — a position which that lady was by no means inclined to submit to. Barbara^ seeing the pause and the irresolution, could not help saying abruptly, '^ He's gone, an most like will niver wish to coom back. An if he did, I should say th' same to him wi'out th' vow as with. We're raon an wife na lunger. Oh, please, I want to forget him ! I hae for- given him. Yes, I want to forget him, an sometimes that isn't easy. I want to think o' my dead baby, an my mother, an the things I hae gotten to do. I'll wark honestly an hardly for you an for your childer. Dunna cast me off because I say ye mun tak' me as I am — a poor, ignorant, wilful factory-girl. Happen I'm na a Christian wife as yet : he as might hae made me one left me to my own evil thowts an ways. But I want to be a Christian woman, an to mak' mysel o' some use in the warld. I canna say ony more." " Very well, Barbara, I have confidence in you ; and so, once for all, I leave these matters between you and your own conscience. When you need my counsel, say so. Till then you will never again hear from me the name of Abel Drake. Good-bye, Barbara ! I shall expect you to- morrow. Take this — '^ and Mrs. Wolcombe put into her hands some money twisted up in a bit of paper. " You Viust have some clothes, which you can get ready-made for once ; and you must make your mother a little more lomfortable here before you go away." " The neighbours have been very good to mo snice ," i>egan the widow ; but Mrs. Wolcombe did not want to hear any more just then, so she added, '^ You 'can repay THE DIM FUTURE, 39 me, Barbara, by-and-by, you know/^ Then, with a nod and a smile to each, that seemed in an instant to light up and gladden the very darkest and most inaccessible cham- bers of their hearts, she went out, leaving Barbara standing at the threshold, her great eyes, moist with their own peculiar dew, fixed on the graceful retreating form, and having in them a sense of new and fervid life, that told better than the most grateful words what was stirring in the heart of the poor mill-girl. A long time after Mrs. Wolcombe had gone away, and when Barbara and her mother, still scarcely exchanging a woi'd, had sat down to tea, the former suddenly ex- claimed : "0, mother, I'll do more for her than she thinks on. I knaw I can, an I will." She rose for a moment as she repeated the words, "Eigh, I will !" then sat down quickly, as if ashamed of the gesture. "An yo, too, mother; dunna' think I had altogether forgotten ye, while I was so .took up wi' my baby. I couldna' say onything then, but I knew all the while Fd gotten a mother, and it coomforted me, e'en when I wouldna' hae liked to own it mysel*. Eigh ! I hae gotten a mother ; an I love her dearly, an I'll wark for her, an '^ but Barbara could go no further, for the poor widow, who had borne without a murmur not only her share of the common distress, but much of Barbara's impatience and unreasonableness while engrossed with her babe and her sorrow, now began to cry. She neither spoke, nor moved, but simply began to cry. At that sight all the pent-up tenderness of Bar- bara's heart broke forth in one great gush. Her life, which had been so unnaturally frozen or turned into waters 4-0 ABEL DRAKES WIFE. of bitterness, began to heave and swell in the old channels, and then to hurry along glad and sparkling. She seemed to recal in a moment all tliat the poor, fond^ patient, un- denronstrative mother had endured with such unfailing love, and to determine in as brief a space that she should yet be repaid. But Barbara did not attempt to talk. She got up from the rocking-chair, and went to the bed- side where the widow was sitting, in a kind of happy dream, not daring to put a question about those few earnest and most precious words ste had heard, lest they should slip from her, unproductive, as if spoken in a dream. But there was now thrown about her neck a pair of arms, that, though slender and attenuated, were still suEstautial enough in their fond yearning clasp ; and there were presently ringing in the mother's ears an odd and not altogether intelligible compound of happy laugliter and tearful sobs, through which finally stole a low, sweet, delicious child-voice, " 0, mother ! she^s done nic good, has yon woman ! But yo bnafi tiee„ iiidu a bi!;. i'o shall see!" OUT AV THE WORLD. ^\ CHAPTER III. OUT IN THE WORLD. The spiasu of many water-spouts in the court wated Barbara on Monday moi'ning, and told her how heavily it had I'ained through the night. It was not a pleasant awakening. This day was to be the turning point of her life. She set to work stitching, and she felt very sad at the thought that she had henceforward to struggle on alone. Her baby was dead ; she had divided the last weak tie that bound her to her husband, and now her mother and she must separate. But she worked on. There was a good deal of mending, and trimming, and altering to do, independent of the ready-made garments that had to be bought, before she could go to Coppeshall in decent guise. So Barbara and her mother stitched away in a silence that was only broken now and then by a necessary question and answer ; the heart of each was too full to talk unnecessarily. In the forenoon, when the clothes were collected to- gether as ready, they were so few that they looked almost absurd, Barbara thought, lying at the bottom of the hair- trunk, which a kind neighbour had brought in, and offered for Barbara's use. She began to demur as to the 42 ABEL £>J:AKE'S WIFE. propriety of a box at all under such circumstances, but the widow urged the advantage of a place of deposit under lock and key, and that consideration settled the matter in favour of the box. They did not need to ask who was to carry it, for Job had already presented himself in the court, evidently waiting to help Barbara off. What was the matter with Job, that he should thus keep slinking about there for above an hour in the pouring rain, and with the prospect of having that box to carry to Coppeshall at the end of the business ? he who had such an unerring instinct for always taking himself safely out of the way of contingent possibilities of work. What- ever the explanation. Job himself does not, strange to say, see anything extraordinary in his conduct ; and still more surprising, Barbara and her mother appear equally to take it as a matter of course. As the rain did not cease, Barbara determined to start a little before two o'clock. None of the neighbours saw her go. It was mill-time, and Abbott's Court was nearly empty. Mother and daughter took no formal farewell of each other. The last thing — and when Barbara had walked to the door as quietly as if she had forgotten there was any one behind her, and watching her departure with silent but quivering lip — she suddenly turned, threw her arras about the widow's neck, kissed her with a strength of emotion that only flurried the poor mother more than ever; then, as if ashamed of so much self- manifest at ion, Barbara drooped her head for an instant on the widow's shoulder, said something — neither of them knew very well what — and then Barbara rose, turned, and with eyes a little uncertain as to what they looked on, followed the . \ ^ ,7-^,,_ OUT IN THE WORLD. 43 one plain object they could see, Job's purply ankles, alternately proceeding before her down the court. Beside the little bandbox that Barbara carried, she held a flower-pot, wrapped in a newspaper, and showing a few long grassy kind of leaves. It was an awkward thing to take to Coppeshall ; she was well aware of that ', it must seem childish, and would doubtless provoke questions that she would be pained and unwilling to answer. But for all that, Barbara was not going to leave it behind. It contained some bulbs of the larger and later-floverir :; snowdrop, potted one day long ago, when Barbara, during her brief honeymoon, had visions of a glowing and lux- uriant window-garden that should bring all " Araby the blest" into Abbott's Court, and which was to spring up under her fostering care. One single flower had at last rewarded Barbara for all her patient faith. But it came not to be rejoiced over. It was plucked by the mother's trembling hands as a farewell gift to her dead babe, when the coffin lid Avas about to be closed for ever. As Barbara dropped the stainlessly beautiful blossom into the coffin, she took her parting gaze of the child : from that moment she could never dissociate these two. A casket of rubies or diamonds could not have been half so precious to Barbara's heart as was now this clumsy, weather-stained piece of earthenware and its contents. The plant, like herself, seemed to have given forth in on? fair tender blos- som all its own better nature — all that seemed worth living for — all, possibly, that in the end would prove that either of them had lived for : the snowdrop, like the child- mother, looked worn and fading. But these were only momentary fancies j and Barbara soon determined that she 44 and the snowdrop would both have a stoixt struggle for it yet, before either of them would succumb. Somehow these poor sickly leaves seemed to appeal to her for help in their weakness; and Barbara, as she thought of her mother and her plant, began to feel growing responsibili- ties : these were her dependents. Yes, she must get strong, that was very plain. So Barbara trudged along hugging the pot of snowdrops, and her mind already teeming with thick-coming fancies, out of which she sud- denly drew herself when she discovered what she was about, sometimes with a frown, sonetimes a laugh;, and sometimes a sigh. Thus the two walked on, Job with the hair-tvunk, and Barbara with her bandbox, and flower-pot. The rain had rendered it unadvisable for them to take the nearest way to Coppeshall, through the plantation, so they went round by the high road. Very pleasant it was — that old Cartney road, with open hilly country spreading on each side. The breeze blew strongly, and tasted of the fresh spring shower that had passed through it, and of the bruised and scattered hawthorn bloom which it had ruffled and rifled, and the mere spoils of which smelt so delicious. Barbara walked on, deeply engrossed with her thoughts. Job, to do him justice, made numerous attempts at getting up a conversation, but it lagged, do all he could. " Wonder if yo'll hae much to do yonder V he specu- lated on one occasion, making sure he must be rightly anticipating the nature of Barbara's thoughts. No answer. Job sniffed the freshly perfumed air, almost raised his beadj and looked across the country with a certain sense OUT IN THE WORLD. ^5 of enjoyment that made him forget for an mstant the imsociableness of his companion. There was, in fact, just a touch of the poetry of idleness in Job. Had fortune only made him a rich man, he would probably have been thought not only a good-natured gentleman, and a perfectly re- spectable member of society, but have died with the repu- tation of having falfilled all the duties of life in a most exemplary manner. But remaining the same man — in poverty — of course he was only '*' Lazy Job." " Purty landskip," continued he, making another at- tem})t upon Barbara's taciturnity ; " ony th' warkus down yonder spiles it. AVarkus ! The name's enow to set ye agin it. Dunna ye think so ?" " Yo'll be getting to a waur place nor that, if ye dunna gie up your idle ways, Job," answered Barbara shortly, and with very much the same effect upon him as if, when meditating some cosy bit of enjoy vnent in a secret corner, a shower-bath had suddenly opened above. " A strung, hearty mon like ^^ou, a'most a livin' on the parish I Ye've getten a deal o' pride to spare for railin' at wark- houses, ye hae !" " As to pride," observed Job, dejectedly, " aw dunna boast o' that. It got a knock o' th' head a whol ago, when j'^o " If Barbara heard this, she did not choose to notice it. And Job would have done \)ell to take a hint and be silent. But, somehow, he must go on, till he had effec- tually roused his companion. " Eigh, — Barbara ! Aw'd bin a different mon, if y->*d -"' Yes, liarbara was uov/ roused indeed. She stopped abruptly, just wheic she was in the road, turned 46 ABEL drake's ll'IfE. full face upon Job, and while her indignant gaze seemed to burn into poor Job's faltering and winking eyes, and while he shifted from one foot to another, and with a humble and deprecatory gesture strove to stay the im- pending storm, she exclaimed — " Down \vi' it ! Put down th' box \" Seeing he hesitated, hardly knowing what she meant, or how he had offended, for his ideas were too slow to keep due pace with Barbara's, she repeated her words in so stern a voice that Job shivered as he obeyed her, and set down the box in the middle of the road. " Now, then, ye knaw th' way back, dunna ye ? Or mun I go wi' you to show you ?" Job stared at Barbara, and at the box ; then, in bewildered succession, at the ground, the way back, the way forwards, the trees and the sky, without getting the least bit of enlightenment any- where. At last, as the tears gathered in his eyes, he gruffly murmured — " Aw ax your pardon, Barbara, aw'm sure, iv aw said owt to hurt thi feelins. Aw didn't mean ony harm/^ " Harm ! Mean ! How daur ye lay your laziness o' me ! I mak' you idle ! Taivc o' me (if that's whatten you mean) mak' you idle ! I wonder yo're not ashamed o' yoursel to say so. It's luve o' yoursel, an' hate o' everything that's manly, an' honest, an' independent. Now, Job, I tell thee once for all, if ye dunna promise me this minnit that yo'll never daur to say sich'n a thmg agen, never think sich'n a thing agen — dost mind me? — I'll carry th' box to Coppeshall o' my own shoulders, an' shame thee afore th' whole parish." OUT IN THE WORLD. 47 " Aw wunna say so, wunna think so, iver agin ! Aw wunna, indeed, Barbara 1'^ snivelled Job. " An' will you go to wark, and see if yd' canna let an old friend like me get up a bit o' respect for yo' V " Aw will, Barbara ! Aw will V " Very weel ! there, tak' my hond ou't. Now, Job, mon, dunna be all day shaking it !" cried Barbara, re- covering her good humour, and more touched than she cared to be conscious of, by Job's genuine emotion. " Now, then, which on us is to shoulder th' box ?" Job laughed, while slyly wiping away a tear from his eye with his dirty coat tails, which were freshly wet and muddy from contact with the moist bank against which he had leaned during this dialogue. And then Barbara laughed — the fii'st time for many a long week — to see the streak that ran playfully about Job's face, following the devious course of his hand. Their mirth now infected each other, and they went on in capital spirits towards CoppeshalL 4<5 ABEL DRAKlfS WIFE. CHAPTER IV. COPPESHALL. Job pulled the loug bell handle, after gazing meditatively at the word " Servants'^ over it, and then stood the box on end, and sat down on it ; while Barbara looked through the gate, feeling very small and insignificant beside it; such a great consequential-looking gate as it was, with two grey lions at the corner, which seemed to glaiice at one another in utter contempt of her and her poorly furnished box. But she saw, from within the iron barrier, the heavy plumed lilac, and the light-tressed laburnum nod- ding a kindly welcome ; and on the border that skirted the short pathway she saw the tall blue iris, and the many- headed yellow daffodils lift themselves from where they had been dashed by the I'ain, and they too nodded at her; while through them all — trees and flowers — glowed the jolly genial red face of the house itself: originally a plain brick mansion, but which had grown, as some men and women grow, more and more good-looking with age. Love, the universal beautifier, had been here, and left his mark in all sorts of graceful adjuncts. And, in consequence, if ever a place looked like home at first sight, Coppeshall did to those who were invited to enter. Those windows— the quaint little odd-shaped ones above, struggling to maintaii COPPESHALL. 49 an independent existence, as windows, against the ivy wreaths that were twining about them, and trying with every favouring breeze to clasp hands across them, and shut them up ; and the broad and high ones below, with their projecting striped blinds canopying dainty boxes of red stock and mignonette, — spoke of pleasant nooks where one migbt enjoy luxuriously the sense of in-door comfort with out-of-door freshness. Then that delicious bit of garden border, that stretched so lovingly and closely round the base of the house, seemed to Barbara a kind of im- prisoning flower band, saying to the inmates, — "Be con- tent. Within and without have ye not all that heart can desire ?" " Eigh," thought Barbara, in a kind of answer from herself, " let me on'y once be getten comfortably inside, and you needna fear Fll iver want to get out again. Eigh, but I hae knawn wdiat th^ outside life is !" The gate was opened by the man servant, who had looked, as Job thought, so disrepectfally at him the other morning in the kitchen. So the latter waited only to get a parting glance and nod from Barbara, and then went off, comforted not only with them, but with a smile that went straight to Job's tender bosom. While Barbara heard the heavy iron gates swung to, and close behind her. Job de- lightedly took his way homewards; and, as Coppeshall faded in the distance, he began to consider, between the pauses of his litful progression, whether, under the cir- cumstances, he might not venture to look for a comfortable cup of tea and a chat with the widow on all the adventures of the day ; a prospect that greatly inspirited him on. The servant who had scanned, with no friendly eye. 50 ABEL drake's WJFE. iiarbaia's box, iniajiining; it must be as heavy as it looked, was greatly amused by its lightness when he took it up. He led the way, holding it out by a couple of fingers, round the house to the kitchen door at the back, where he handed Barbara and her box — the latter after an additional flourish — to one of the housemaids. That young woman, after having eyed her from head to foot in a peculiarly leisurely way, as though it were a process that didn't at all incom- mode her, took hold of one handle of the box, as a signal to Barbara to take the other ; and then they began to as- cend the staircase leading upwards from the kitchen. Without much idea of the ground she had gone over, but ashamed at every step of the touch of her clumsy boot on the snowy strip that covered the centre of the rich carpet, Barbara found herself iu a room, small and pretty, fresh and clean, and with a good deal of white about it. What a sweet, pure little room it seemed to Barbara ! This the housemaid intimated was hers, as being next to the nursery. Her room ! There was a sort of sigh of happiness from Barbara, as she looked slowly round and round, examining its aspect, as one dwells on a face seen for the first time, but that one knows instinctively will never again be as an ordinary face to us. Gladly would Barbara have now been left alone. She wanted to sit down in this new cage, like a bird tired of its brief season of unaccustomed liberty, and familiarise her mind with — and master — the many new sensations that were flowing in upon her in so novel a position. But Mrs. Wolcombe, she was told, was waiting to sec her in the schoolroom. "^S©e, this IS the nursery," said the housemaid, pushing COPPESHALL, 51 back a door on the landing. Barbara put her head into it, looked, and then turned to follow her conductress down stairs. She had seen, in that brief glance, a large airy room covered with a soft bright carpet, a cheerful fire with a high green fender guarding it, a doll- on a rocking chair, and close beside it a crib with a tiny sleeping face that made her wish more than ever to stay up stairs. On reaching the school-room they found that Mrs. Wol- combe had just left it; so the housemaid pushed a chair under Barbara, as she stood near the door, and left her while she went to inform her mistress. Inch by inch only did Barbara's eye venture to make acquaintance with that room, and with the persons who were in it. Heavy cur- tains of a brownish crimson nearly met across the broad and flat window, which looked out upon thick and waving tree-tops. The paper on the wall was of the same brownish crimson hue, with imitative panels of dark brown. The four desks along one side of the wall, the piano opposite, the oblong table in the centre, the old-fashioned chairs with high carved backs, and their lower cross-rails half worn away by the action of restless feet ; the bookshelves at the end of the room, were all like the great geometrical figures of the carpet on the floor, only so many variations of brown. Yet, already thoughts were stirring in Bar- bara's mind that lent a charm, and an almost romantic colouring, to this otherwise unattractive place, this brown- visaged schoolroom. Barbara drew her chair away from the door, as she now nervously anticipated Mrs. Wolcombe's entrance. The noise she made brought numerous eyes upon her. When she fancied they had satisfied themselves and turned away, ABEL DRAKES WIFE. she looked up once more. Right before hcr^ at the table were the high backs of two chairs. One of them she ai first thought was empty ; but, looking down, she beheld a sturdy little log in a Scotch sock and polished boot, kicking energetically backwai'ds and forwards. In the other chair she saw, besides the feet, which I'ested quietly on the rail; a bit of pale blue sleeve, fluttering from time to time, as the incumbent of the chair turned over a fresh leaf. Across the table, in front of the glittering keys of the piano, was more of this blue, and over it a shower of brown hair. Barbara's eyes now endeavoured to steal a furtive glance at that other and larger figure which had attracted her attention the moment she entered the room, but which she had not ventured to examine, conscious that the figure was itself too busy in scrutinising hei", Was it the governess who sat there in such large magnifi- cence, arrayed in a morning dress of pink ! Doubtless. Barbara suddenly met her gaze. She saw a face no longer young, wearing glasses of a shadowy tint, and looking towards her with an expression of benevolent interest. The head was a little thrown back, apparently for the convenience of a more prolonged examination ; and Bar- bara even fancied she saw a big tear rolling down the cheek, but kept there, trembling, and unable to find its way, through the extatic smile of pity that barred its progress by the odd contortions of face it made. Bar- bara felt her colour rising. She was annoyed, and yet strongly tempted to laugh. Then she was frightened, as the governess rose in all the stateliness of her great height, and ample proportions of costume, swept like a ship m full sail towards her, but stopi>ed close before Barbara to COrPESHALL. pick up a pin, whicli she carefully placed in a little circular ivory cushion, restored the latter to her pocket, reseated herself, and again resuuied her kindly contemplation of Barbara. "Poor ihing !" she said, at last. '• Ho\v old was the baby V " Nearly two years, ma'am." " Dear me 1 Just when children get so engaging. Don't you think so ?" No answer. " And, let me see, how long has its father been away ?'* No answer again. " Oh, dear, how much trouble there is in the world ! Poor thing ! — poor thing ! — so young and so pretty ! But come, never mind, it may be all for the best. Perhaps he*Il come back and " Here Miss Featherstonehaugn stopped abruptly, raising her head higher and higher to accommodate the altering focus of her glasses, for Barbara had risen without another word, turned, and walked straight out of the room. When the astonished governess could no longer see the retreat- ing form, Barbara was still able to hear the ejaculation called forth by her departure : " Poor child ! even sym- pathy's too much for her 1" Barbara hurriedly remounted the stairs to the nursery. To repress the hysterical mirth that seemed ready to over- flow in some inconvenient demonstration, she went straight to the doll, took it up with the help of one arm, set it respectfully in another chair, and then seated herself in the vacated rocking-chair at the side of the crib where the child still lay, The chair and the child together — so like 54 ABEL drake's IVIFE. the chair and child of Abbott's Court, and yet ^o different — were only too successful in bringing back a feeling of home. With an impulse she could no longer restrain she snatched up the waking child, pressed it to her breast, and kissed it with passionate tenderness. The infant was startled. As Barbara, with brimming heart, looked at it, she saw the little mouth begin to pucker, the eyes to look scared and fill wdth tears ; and while she tried, by sooth- ing tones and gestures, to reassure the babe, it broke out with a vehement cry. Oh, how that cry wrung poor Bar- bara. It said so plainly to her, " You are a stranger. I don't know you. No one here knows you. I don't love you. No one loves you. Go away !" She laid it down again in the crib, quite unable to try any longer to soothe it, put her elbow on the head of the cradle, covered her face with her hand, and wept with the babe. There is hardly a more touching sight than this, perhaps — to sec a mother or nurse give up all attempts to hush a baby's cries, and break out weeping with it : it seems the very climax of all womanly wretchedness. It was the babe who first turned comforter. The cry gradually ceased as the child became accustomed to the pale, sad, and no longer encroaching face bending over it. Presently a little hand was put up, then a faint April smile broke through the tears, and with it — oh, what a rainbow of hope, and joy, and glory, spanned poor Bar- bara's soul ! But she had grown wiser through her for- mer mistake; so the little hand was very gently touched with a finger, and the little smile was answered by another smile of winning, yet cautious tenderness, until Barbara felt he/ finger was being clasped by the tiny fist, and saw the COPPESHALL. 55 «inile break out into a radiant laugh, and then — oh^ tri- umpli ! — both the arms were suddenly stretched forth, saying to Barbara so plainly, " Take me ! take me !'* And then Barbara, checking with a strong will her almost painful delight, once more essayed to get baby quietly up into her arms. But there should be no failure this time, that she was determined, and so she carefully avoided a premature snatching at success. that some white-haired diplomatist had been there to see how she managed the business. It is diflScult, no d )ubt, to teach gentlemen of his order any new mode of humbugging mankind ; but surely even Talleyrand himself might have learned something from Barbara's intuitive genius in the art of bamboozling babies, which are, as we all know, but mankind and womankind reduced to first principles. The ingenious eye-traps she laid for drawing away the victim's attention from the business in hand ; the fertility of her sudden resources when there was a momentary danger that things were going wrong ; and lastly, the cool, confi- dent — one might almost say impudent — gaze into the baby's face at the critical moment (as if no doubt of suc- cess had ever for a moment been entertained, and that it was quite too late for baby to begin to entertain any such doubts now), were all admirable ; and, what is more, they succeeded. Baby, it is true, got a thumb into its mouth, and seemed considerably confounded at the result ; but, nevertheless, there she was, in Barbara's lap, when Mrs. Wolcombe came into the room, sitting as quietly and famiharly as if she had been accustomed to sit there time out of baby's mind. The mother smiled to see her little one and the new nurse already on such good terms. She sat dovvu by B&i- bara's side ; and although the latter had no very distinct impression of what was said^ she drew from the words, tone, and manner, an unquestionable conviction that she was welcome. Her reception by the governess had sug- gested a painful idea to Barbara — namely, that Mrs. Wol- combe had been moved altogether by a charitable feeling in bringing her to Coppeshall. That lady's cordial greet- ing removed at once and for ever all such fancies, Bar- bara was secretly glad ; and she listened now all the more eai'nestly to the account of the duties that were expected from her. They were very smiple, and, as Barbara thought, very few, for she had known what hard work really meant. The chief things were the entire charge of Miss Poppy the baby, dressing the young ladies morning and evening, and fetching them from the drawing-room at nine o'clock for bed. All other matters fell to the care of the governess. ^' r>v the bye,^' said Mi's. Wolcombe, " I must take you down to see Miss Featherstonehaugh." " I hae seen her, ma'am, and I dunna think I want to see her ony more — T mean to-neet." Mrs. Wolcombe looked at Barbara, saw her darkening face, and guessed 'something had occurred : what it was she soon drew out. The incident amused and vexed her. " I told her your story, Barbara, in order to interest her, and that she might spare you accidental allusions that nnght give pain. But Miss Feathcrstonehaugh can never follow more than one train of thought at one time, and is apt to go at that " Mrs. Wolcombe stopped and bit her lip ; but Barbara saw the incipient smile, and COPPESHALL. aiiderstood, and would have smiled in return but for an instinctive good sense that made her recoil from any pre- mature assumption of position. " I asked her," continued Mrs. Wolcombe, " to be kind to you ; and she has taken what she thought to be the very straightest possible course to achieve that object. But never mind these trifles, Bar- bara ; she is a veiy worthy person and an excellent teacher. You will respect her as I do when you understand her, and cease to look for too much from her. I have found, Barbara, that one of the most precious rules we can esta- blish for ourselves in our dealings with the world is, to take every one at their best, and persistently keep them so if we can. The perception of Miss Featherstonehaugh may not, perhaps, be quite so keen in some things as yours and mine, but she is a thoroughly conscientious person, and does well whatever she undertakes in her own proper sphere. And now, Barbara, try to feel at home. Be a good girl. Be always frank and truthful with me and with my children, and it shall not be my fault if you do not find here a real and permanent home ; so long, at least, as you may need one." Barbara took Mrs. Wolcombe's hand, and pressed it silently to her heart ; then colouring, let it go. Mrs. Wolcombe again smiled, patted her cheek, and left the room. It was hard to settle down to any kind of steady occu- pation just then, unless indeed it were to kiss baby, and cry over it for an hour or two. But there was in Barbara a natural love of quiet and order — a settled habit of re- straint when not forced out of herself — that warned her a new life was beginning with new duties, and that she 58 ABEL drake's WIFE. must steadily check the irregular and exciting impulses which her recent life and suflferings had originated. She might not conquer them all at once, but she must begin. Accordingly, Miss Poppy presently found herself on the rug, amused with a new game invented for the occasion by Barbara, while the latter tidied the nursery, rubbing out a sorrow with every movement of her wrist, dispersing dust and rubbish alike from outer and inner chambers, and letting into both fresh breezes and a wholesome sense of renovation. It is surprising how much better and brighter both looked — the nursery and Barbara'^ face — after the process. But when she went to another occupation, that of laying out the children's dresses — the face grew a little downcast and puzzled. There were so many little things about them unfamiliar to her. How should she fit them to the right persons and places, and in the right manner, without making the children laugh ? What a long day it seemed ! When should she get to her pillow ? When rest body and soul ? The novelty of her position, and of everything about her, however often she tried to forget it, was oppressive. She longed to retire into herself, and collect her strength, and come fresh and renewed for the struggle in right-down earnest on the morrow. Five o'clock was struck by the great clock in the hall, which in its loud slowness seemed to Barbara infected by the general indisposition of things to bring the day to a close. She heard tea taken to the schoolroom, and pre- sently her own and Poppy's was brought up by the Ivuse- maid. Barbara dearly loved a cup of tea, if such a weak- COPPESHALL. 59 ness may be confessed of a heroine ; but somehow there was not the flavour in Mrs. Wolcombe's expensive hyson that Barbara recollected in the pennyworths she had often fetched from the little shop in Abbott's Court. Strange to say, the poor widow who was sitting at that precise moment with Job over a cup of that precise tea which Barbara coveted, found the same want of flavour in her decoction as she looked round from time to time, and missed something that she couldn't explain by the mere fact of Barbara's absence. Poor Barbara ! Poor widow ! Neither of them guessed how heart was dumbly straining to heart, through all those intervening walls, gates, and roads. Soon the children came tearing up- stairs to be dressed. This was an event Barbara had rather dreaded. She had almost hoped (as one does hope sometimes for a particu- larly nauseous medicine that happens to be of uncertain attainment) that Miss Featherstonehaugh would, on this particular occasion, come in to help. But she heard the great flounces sweep past on their way up-stairs, and she saw the three children standing before her, staring, as the manner of children is, at a fresh face. Barbara could not help one answering look of blank dismay. What was she to do ? How could she possibly improve the appearance of these elegant little ladies ? Their fine faces and tiny slender hands were white and clean enough surely. The hair might be smoother, but how could Barbara hope to imitate the arrangement of those beautiful curls, if she once put them out of order ? She could not help feelin», that Mrs. Wolcombe ought not to have left her alone thus to begm operations. Ijut something must be done. They 6o ABEL drake's WIFE. couldn't stand staring at each other all the evei:inaj. Gladly would Barbara have exchanged her job for the washing of a dozen of the dirtiest children in Abbott's Coui't, on whom soap and water should certainly be made to produce an eflfect. Yes, something must be done ; and it was plain from the mischievous glances of the young lady she had seen at the piano, that Barbara must keep her difficulties to herself. So, putting Poppy down, who wouldn't eren cry and make a diversion in her favour, she determined to go seriously through the whole process of washing, &c., just as if they all wanted it. She was rather ashamed of the make-believe, but what better could she do ? Which should bhe attend to first ? One of the girls had moved away, and was busying herself in taking some white dresses from a drawer. She had a grave, almost melancholy face, not pi'etty, but with something in it that showed she had a will of her own. She placed each dress on a chair, and then said to Barbara, with a kind of pa- tronizing, elderly manner, as though talking seriously to her doll : " This is my dress, nurse ; this is Maud's ; and there is Hugh's. Please dress me first. I am the eldest." So far so good, thought Barbara. And she was glad, for a time, of the running fire of remarks that the sad but consequential little lady kept up, as an accompaniment to all the nurse's doings: — ''You are not turning that curl the right way, nurse;" "Please, don't hook in my hair, nurse;" "I have my sash tied in front, Maud has hers tied behind," &c. Barbara knew, at all events, that things must be going right, when she received no warning to the contrary. But the preaching grew tiresome as COPPESHALL. 61 Barbara rapidly fathomed the whole mystery, and began to laugh at her own fears. Miss Helen, however, who tad a passion for dolls, and who had evidently found in Bar- bara a very large, superb, and altogether new doll, talked at her all tht (vhile that Maud, the second sister, was being dressed, till Barbara felt angry. But that feeling soon changed into amusement, as she stopped and looked at the little lady with so comical an expression, that Miss Helen, also stopping, began to think something must be wrong, without exactly knowing what ; and then, under the recollection of that look, preserved a decorous and cautious silence. Maud done with, Barbara turned to Hugh. "Oh, bother 1 I don't want any girls to touch me. I shall do," said the young gentleman, turning away dis- dainfully. To his astonishment and unutterable disgust, he was seized in a cowardly manner from behind, hoisted on to a chair, and his mouth stopped, with all its natural and bubbling indignation, by a wet towel well soaped, and from which, when his face re-appeared, it was evident he had received no ordinary benefit. Again he would have rebelled, but he was under the strong hand of law ; so he submitted to Barbara's pleasure, while making faces at his sisters, who were laughing at his ignominious defeat. This substantial bit of trouble and work came as a decided relief to Barbara, after handling the silky curls, the deli- cate muslins, and the pale soft ribbon which she feared might get frayed, like a flower-petal, under the touch of her rough and awkward fingers. She had just finished, when she heard a rustling of silk at the door, and iu came Miss Featherstonehaugh, with a 62 ABEL DRAKE'S tVlfE. grand sweep, ready to set everything to rights, no matter hov/ great the difficulty, and rattling, as she moved, the beads of her head-dress. " Oh, nurse, I am so sorry ! I quite forgot that I had promised Mrs. Wolcombe that I would show you how to dress the children. Dear me ! Well, it can^t be helped now. They must go as they are. But I am so sorry, nurse, for your sake. Pray excuse me." And then Miss Featherstonehaugh went off, never once noticing in her re- morse and forgetfulness that the children were, in fact, as well dressed as the fondest mother could desire. Grandly she swept down stairs, Maud on one side, and Helen on the other, both hidden in the majestic folds of her dress, while Hugh followed, lashing her train with his whip. Barbara was once more alone, and measuring the space that intervened betwixt her and the visit to the drawing- room, which she dreaded more than all the rest. When Poppy was gone off to sleep for the night, and not another occupation of any kind could be found or made, Barbara again found herself possessed by an irrit- able restlessness, coupled with a great desire to rest ; and if, for a moment, she escaped out of these regions by sink- ing deeper into herself, there came an overpowering heart- sickness and an inexpressible weariness of soul that kept demanding when should there be an end to the intermina- ble day ? and which refused even to own that it was be- ginning to fade. The rain had come on again. Barbara began to hear it beating on a little grave in the village churchyard ; and her heart throbbed, and a passionate yearning to go through all that rain and throw herself on that grave, COPPESitALL. seemed to be increasing minute by minute. She got up, determined to control the rising emotion before it might be too late. She went to the window, and saw there the little pot of snow-drops. It comforted her to find the leaves looking up more freshly than of late. Then she paced the chamber to and fro, evidently striving to thrust away from her some image which would force itself upon her attention. She stamped once impatiently, but was frightened by the sound of her thick awkward boots, from any repetition of that kmd of effort to crush under her feet the unwelcome visitor. But she walked to and fro for a long time with so stern an aspect, and with so unweary- ing a frame, as though she were convinced she was walk- ing her every weakness out of life. Once or twice she stopped ; and it seemed then but the turning point of a straw, this way or that, under a gust of wind, whether she should not break out mto passionate rebc41ion, or whether she would subside into a mute, passively-enduring machine, that might .appear to the bystander to have known nothing beyond the dullest routine of existence. Happily, there was a something beneath, in Barbara's soul, which, sooner or later, would always be heard, no matter how terrible the chaos, above ; and which, when heard, Barbara never failed to be guided by. " What mun I do ?" was a cry of anguish that in the darkest hours would be finally translated (sometimes by unconscious transitions) into, "What ought I to do?" and then the answer and the decision were soon forthcoming. Just now Barbara's question and answer crept out in the low-mur- mured words — " It was reet — and I hae sin' forgiven him — and 1 will 64 ABEL DRAKE^S WlFk. abide by my vow ! I will do as she said — look back no more. Living or dead, he mun be nothing now to me." She spoke in all the calmness and conviction that a sudden light thrown upon us when wandering m gloomy and dangerous ways, gives; and there standing, midway in the chamber, her head heavenwards, but her hand across her eyes, she addressed a few words of heartfelt prayer to God, to cheer, guide, and strengthen her. Barbara felt from that moment she would be a changed woman. She did not light her candle, but sat bending over the fire, resting her arms on the high green fender; now look- ing into the glowmg flame, now listening to the howling of the rising wind, and the incessant beating of the ivy- leaves, mocking her as by a call to she knew not what. Nine o'clock struck. She sprang up, lighted her candle, smoothed her hair, and prepared herself for her last great trial — the drawing-room. On reaching the first storey she saw in the distance, along the passage, a door standing partly open, with brilHant light streaming through ; and she heard the sound of a piano rising above a hum of voices. That then, she thought, must be the drawing-room. She went and knocked. " Come in !" cried Mrs. Wolcombe's soft voice, which Barbara never heard without a renewed sense of friendli- ness near. "O, it's nurse. Come, children," she continued, as Barbara moved forwards into the confusing light, splen- dour and publicity. While the children rose, unwillingly, to begin the round of good nights, the mill girl, who had never before put foot in such a place, beg"an to raise her eyes from the COPPESHALL. 6S Carpet, as she perceived that uo oue seemed to be noticing her, and to gaze on the novel scene. She felt strange things astir besides simple admiration. This moss-iike carpet at her iett', these rich curtains looped back by golden-tasselled cords, and revealing here a dazzlingly white statue, there baskets of exotic flowers, that realised in colour, form, and fragrance, under the soft, warm light, all that Barbara's imagination had ever suggested to her of Paradise ; those sumptuous damask coverings ; these airy, lace-like fabrics — whence came they ? They seemed at once foreign and familiar. The intricate design of the crimson damask, the leaf on the fairy muslin, the very rosebuds on the carpet, were hardly strangers to her. These, or such as these, which she now found bloomuig and growing in their beauty in the rich man's home, had she not often seen springing into life and loveliness under rough and weary hands,, to the rude music of the shuttle and the wheels ? Ah, how the sight of them carried her back to scenes from which the great iron gates appeared to have separated her for ever ! There were several strangers present ; and among two or three elderly gentlemen who had escaped as far as pos- sible from Miss Featherstonehaugh's performances on the piano, Barbara recognized Mr. Wolcombe. He looked, she thought, just the same man in his luxurious home as when he used to come down upon them at the mill like a dry east wind. Yes; his short, spare figure was every inch as upright, his iron-grey hair round his crown just as bristhng, his small, round, grey eyes as widely open at the least suggestion of business advancement or agreeable business associations at his evening game of ABEL drake's IVIFE. chess, as they could be during the greatest of his bargain^ makings. His son, Mr. Lancelot "Wolcombe, a young man of twenty, and of whom Barbara felt almost as much dread as of his father, having heard so much of his eccentric ways and restless love of mischief, was, as usual, busily engaged in doing nothing ; an art he had carried to a high point of perfection. His latest achievement — and upon which he was now quite engrossed — was that of making a kitten slide down the tongs. Yet, listless and unconcerned as he appeared to be in all serious mat- ters, not a word could be spoken, but you might see, if you watched hmi narrowly, he had caught it, and com- mented upon it in his own fashion, by a wry expression of his face, or a wandering glance of his eye, or an expansion of the nostrils, which almost twinkled at times with the lapidity of the movement, and sometimes even by a low laugh, which, though heard by others, was not easily con- nected with its true origin in Lancelot's mind, because he appeared all the while so inattentive and unconcerned. "Come, be off!" he suddenly growled, in a deep but irregular - sounding tone. " Don't you see Martha's waiting ?" " It isn't Martha," replied Hugh. Lancelot looked up. He was not an artist, and that face of Barbara's, untouched by colour, and made colder by its stern expression, and by the flash of the large eyes, and that figure so straight, and long, and so oddly garbed, did not strike him agreeably. " What a queer, waxy face ! She looks as if she had no blood in her !" was Mr. Lancelot's comment ; and which) LOl'PhSJ-lALL. Oy with his usual disregard of ceremony, and being unawart that Barbara had approached near to give a filHp to Mas* ter Hugh's faiUng resolutions for bed, he said so loudly that she heard every word. Before Barbara could manage to pilot that young gen- tleman safely through all the intricacies of the place, which he had a happy knack of making the most of, Barbara could not help noticing that Mrs. Wolcombe had drawn Lancelot to her side, and was whispering something which he appeared to listen to intently. Barbara's burning cheek, which had already hastened to repel the calumny that she had no blood in her, now raged still more fiercely as she guessed the subject of their discourse: her story! 0, how she sickened at the though: that she had a story, and one that strangers must and would again and again dabble with and speculate upon ! She was ooiiged to turn towards them, for Mrs. Wolcombe spoke to her. " Nurse, look carefully, please, to Hugh ; he is apt to grow wild, and to let his spirits run fway with him.'' Barbara bowed her head, and as she raised it met Lan- celot's glance a second time fixed upon her. Her colour, and a certain something hardly definite enough to be called resentment, that appeared in her countenance, told him he had been overheard. His face twitched, his nos- trils twinkled, and he was about to speak, when he turned away with a laugh. This was only a momentary trouble. The children were soon disposed of, and Barbara might rest at last. Ay, she felt at home now. Coppesiiall seemed in a measure hers, as she laid down in her pretty bed, and in that pretty white room, with Poppy's crib by her side — treasure of 68 ABEL DRAKE^S JViFE. unimaginable price placed under her guardianship. No moi-e harrowing thoughts kept rest from her pillow. The day and her past life were fading irrevocably together. Her eyelids began to droop under a gentle pressure. And while she was about to pour forth all the gratefulness of her soul to the Divine Listener, she went oflF, poor, inno- cent, weary, happy Barbara, with all her thanks and prayers unsaid, into a sleep sweet and unbroken, and such as she had long been a stranger to. TIMON CLEARS UP A FACT IN PHYSIOLOGY. 69 CHAPTER V. TIMON^S TEETH CLE4R UP A F4CT IN PHYSIOLOGY. "A frog-hunt!'' exclaimed Barbara, as one morning, about a month after she had been at Coppeshall, Master Hugh entered the nursery in a high state of excitement, with a cat in his arms, and something in his closed hands, which he kept peeping at through his fingers, while he ordered her to clear the nursery, as he was going to have a frog- hunt. " Yes, a grand frog-hunt ! Now, no humbug, nurse, but shut the door, and get out of the way." So saying, he set down the cat, and opened his hands, when out jumped two frogs, which began limping along the floor. The cat sprang after them ; and Hugh, shouting with a kind of Indian war-whoop to keep Barbara off, followed the chase, seizing the cat whenever she got too close to the frogs, and holding her till they w^re well in advance, then letting her go again. At last, watching her opportunity, Barbara seized the frogs, and threw them lightly out of the window upon the top of one of the thickly -branched trees, where the) went, dropping from point to point, till they fell on the sward below, very little the worse. ABEL drake's WIFE. " Barbara ! You horrid wretch \" cried Master Hugh, in a perfect yell. " You've spoiled the game." " Weel, an' I'm glad on't. It's a cruel, wicked game." "Audi say it's a jolly game !" roared Hugh, almost hysterically; "and I'll tell my brother you say he makes cruel, wicked games. See, if I don't ! But it's always the w^ay. 0, how I do hate girls !" And therew^ith the young gentleman bounced out of the room. Presently Barbara saw^ him in the garden, apparently relating his wrongs to Mr. Lancelot, who listened as though decidedly interested. Before long he stooped down, and said a few words to Hugh, that made the boy's face clear up in an in&tant ; and then the two went off together towards the orchard, Mr. Lancelot switching off the buds of the fruit-trees with his riding-whip, and Hugh, evidently once more in high spi- rits, casting a look of triumph towards the nursery-window. Barbara watched them with a puzzled, anxious face. Her life — which would have been otherwise almost mo- notonous in its quiet — had been, ever since her arrival at Coppeshall, a perpetual whirl of anxiety and irritation, through the behaviour of Master Hugh. Tiny arrows would whiz past her head as she sat at her work in the nursery ; a hideous black mask would grin at her when she went to see if Master Hugh was safely asleep in his bed ; miniature cannons, to which fusees had been pre. viously attached, would suddenly explode while she was dressing him. Then, again, he would invariably disappear directly she had got him ready for the drawing-room, and would come back in a few minutes with his clothes torn. or covered with dirt, and Barbara would be called and TIMON CLEARS UP A FACT IN PHYSIOLOGY. J\ publicly reproved by Mr. Wolcombe for her neglect. Once she found her snowdrop set up as a target. In fact, so cleverly was each trick managed to touch Barbara in her secret points of sensitiveness, that she began to fancy they were being hatched in some other brain than Master Hugh's. It was as if she had some enemy in the house, determined to baulk her success. At times — though she always dismissed the idea as too absurd — she fancied Mr. Lancelot was this enemy ; that it was he who incited Hugh to all the mischief, for the purpose of annoying her. While these thoughts were again passing through her mind. Miss Featherstonehaugh came to say that Master Hugh was, "as usual/' missing from breakfast, and that his papa was very angry. So Barbara left her work, and crossed the garden in the direction she had seen the pair take. She soon reached the old orchard. The light, spring foliage, which had been drenched by a morning shower, glittered brightly in the sun. The fruit-trees were in the fullest bloom, and green buds were everywhere pricking through the moist soil. Barbara walked quickly on, past the pinky-stalked rhubarb, with its wrinkled leaves, and past the long bed of young peas, rising with bent heads from the soil, as if looking back regretfully upon their cradle, and wondering how soon it would be their grave. Presently she came to the old apple-tree, that^ had such an extraordinary twist in its trunk, and which, she had heard Mr. Lancelot say, looked as if it had been seized with a sudden fit of stomach-ache through the sourness of its own apples. While she was looking at it, her face was drenched by a shower of water-drops and apple-blossoms, and when she opened her eyes and looked ABEL DhAkE'S WIFE. up, she beheld Master Hugh, perched on one of the highest parts of the tree, making faces at her, and shaking the wca branches over her head with riotous glee. Standing a little apart, and looking on, with a curious stumpy pipe in his mouth, his hands in the pockets of his loose jacket, and his great knee-boots covered with mud, was Mr. Lancelot; and at his heels were two of the ugliest dogs Barbara had ever seen, and both of which began to bark as soon as they saw her. "Hold your noise, Timon ! Isidore, you ugly brute, if you don't stop that yelping, Pll send this down your throat !" said Mr. Lancelot, holding his spurred heel close to the smaller dog's muzzle. This Isidore v/as a poor little scrubby- haired, snub- nosed, tailless brute, with large ears, and paws that were out of all proportion with the rest of his body. He had also a pair of miserable-looking eyes, that seemed to sym- pathise with everybody's disgust at his ugliness, and ask pardon for it. Barbara could not help laughing to see how, v/hen his master spoke to him, he approached with ears laid back, -eyes wincing as from imaginary blows, and with a kind of slide ; then sprawled over on his back, and lay with his huge, ugly paws dangling down, his bit of a tail stuck close and tight to his body, and his beseeching eyes turned up, deprecating the beating that he owned be deserved, an irresistible picture of servile humility, that one longed to kick, but could not. Timon — so named on account of his uncontrollable aversion to mankind generally, but with Toby most un- mistakcably graven on his broad features — was as savage- loukuig us Isidore was meek. One could wish, for his fikOM CLkARS UP A FACT IN PHYSIOLOGY, 73 uiaster's credit, to be able to say he was somewhat hand- somer than his companion ; but indeed, truthfully speaking, he was not. His coat was smooth and of a dirty-yellow colour; his head was too big, and his ears too short; and an accident having deprived him of the use of one eye, he had to suit his movements to his sight, so always ran side- ways ; which gait, with his long and bowed legs, had a very curious effect. They were both unquestionably low dogs, and in spite of Timon's bravado, and Isidore's gentle and obliging manners, were excluded by general consent from the canine society of the neighbourhood. No doubt they did think it very hard, that when they went down to the village behind their master, all the gentlemen's dogs they met should turn oflF into an adjoining field to avoid being seen in their company ; or that the butcher's dog, with still less breeding, should make a rush between them, sending Isidore sprawling in the mud ; and when Timon, with crisping tail and bared teeth, demanded satisfaction for such conduct, should add insult to injury by kicking the dirt at them with both his hind feet, in silent con- tempt, and pass on his way. And although some time or other, all such miscreants — the butcher's dog excepted — were sure to meet their due from Timon's white teeth, they always revenged themselves by waylaying the unlucky Isidore, when he chanced to be alone, and sending him home in such a plight as would raise Timon's ire for a week or two. " Well, which do you think the handsomest ?'' asked Mr. Lancelot, after Barbara had taken a long look at the dogs. **Nae, I canna say, sir,'' answered Barbara, repressmg 74 ABJSL DRAKE'S WlPM. a smile, as she turned and looked up into the tree. " Master Hugh, come down directly !" " Why, you don't suppose he'll mind what you say, do you r" observed Mr. Lancelot, smoking away quite at his ease. "It's no use. You had better give it up." " I hae come for him, an' I shall tak' him wi' me. Please don't try to keep him. Now, Master Hugh !" The boy began slowly and hesitatingly to descend, and Barbara could not help casting a half-triumphant look at the brother. " Here, Timon, boy ; seize him, seize him ! Isidore !" cried Mr. Lancelot, clapping his hands; and both the dogs began jumping round the tree; Isidore with a weak but noisy yelping, and Timon with a hoarse bark, that frightened Hugh, who instantly bejran to remount as high as he could get. Lancelot now glanced quietly at Barbara, and found her syes fastened on his, with a look of almost contemptuous surprise. He coloured slightly, but returned the look half-laughingly, half-haughtily. "Mr. Lancelot, please call th' dogs away !" she said, in a low, almost commanding tone of voice, that made him smile, as she pointed to the dogs. " And suppose I say I shan't do anything of the kind \" " Eigh,— but yo will !" " Shall I ? What if I don't V " Then I mun, sir." " You !" He looked at her, and laughed right out. " I dare you to touch them. No stranger ever touched Timon yet, but said stranger repented; so I warn you." *' Will you call them away, sir V ?» flMOS CLEARS UP A FACT IN PHYSIOLOGV. '^i. " Not if you stamp your foot at me like that. Couldn't do it \" " Will you, sir, please ?" again appealed Barbara, em- phasising the " please," like a naughty child who is made to say it. Curious, perhaps, to see what she would do, and just a little annoyed by her manner, so calm and confident, in spite of the heightening colour that began to overspread her usually coloui"less face, Mr. Lancelot slowly and en- joyingly drawled out, " No 1" He had scarcely said the word before- he repented of it. Barbara thrust Isidore aside with a contemptuous push, rather than a kick, against his muzzle, which brought him instantly on his back, praying for mercy with dangling, submissive paws ; and she at once seized Timon by the throat, forced his head to the ground, and held him there, with lolling red tongue and bloodshot eyes, in spite of all his dangerously quiet struggles to get itee. " Now, then. Master Hugh j quick, quick ! or I shall get a bite ! Mak' haste. I won't let him loose till you've gotten away." Hugh hastened down, seeing Barbara's danger, and beginning to think matters altogether were getting serious. The dog still struggled ; and there was a devilish kind of side-look at Barbara out of the corners of his eyes that told her the danger ; and it was evident by her silence, and the strained attitude into which she had thrown her- self, that he taxed her powers to the utmost. At the mo- ment Hugh touched the ground, the dog made a new and desperate effort to release himself, and so nearlv sue- Cteaed, that Barbara lost her grasp, and had to let go, and 75 Al^EL DKARKS U^/FE. (uake a second snatch in order to get a l)etter hold She succeeded in evading (as it seemed) a fierce snap Irom the foaming jaws, and thfui seeing Hugh sale beyond the orchard, and the door shut behind him, she resigned the dog to Lancelot, who had been vainly striving either to make the dog be quiet or to induce Barbara to let him interfere. A tremendous kick from Mr. Lancelot finished the business, so far as Timon was concerned ; and he and Isidore s»lunk off, without beat of drum, or other sign of triumph, to the kennel. " Barbara I" began Mr. Lancelot, in some agitation. " You are bleeding ! He has bitten you 1 The brute !" "Happen, Master Lancelot, there is blood in me, after all," said Barbara, with a quiet smile, that had just a little spice of malice in it, and she walked away, without another word. THE surgeon's FEE. 77 CHAPTER Y\. THK STTE«KON*S FEE. A FEW minutes later, Barbara walked into the school- room — a place she was fond of visiting during meal-times, when everybody else was sure to be away — and began to amuse herself by a strange kind of reading, that of the children's dog-eared school-books. Apparently, she had forgotten the scene in the garden, her wound, and every thing else, as she sat down to one of the books, looking strangely puzzled by its contents. Suddenly the door opened in a peculiarly gentle manner, and lo ! Mr. Lancelot ! Barbara had never once seen him in that place before. She looked at him coldly and inquiringly, and with such an air of " Pray, what do you want here?" that he smiled an answer, reclosed the door, and came and sat down by her side. Barbara rose. " Very well," said he, also rising ; " it's all the same to me ; which you like — standing or sitting." Presentiv he went on. " Barbara !" " Sir !" freezingly answered the latter. " I don't know what you think of me, nor do I know that I particularly care. I dare say you mix Timon and me up together into a flattering whole. But I want to kxu>w about the wound — what have you done to it V ' 78 ABEL DRAKES WIFE, *' Washed it, and put a bit o^ piaster on it." " That won^t do. Now if I had not had the evidence of my own senses that it takes a great deal to frighten you, I should be afraid of frightening you now. 1 don't sus- pect Tiraon of being mad — he has, I think, every evil quality under the sun but that — but I do think you should take precautions. But, perhaps, you can't stand pain. Many people can fight when their blood's up — and so can you ; but how about letting me touch that place with caustic to make all safe V '' What will it do, sir V " Burn — as though it were burning into your very soul ! — but then it will leave your mind a very picture of contentment afterwards." " Hae you gotten it wi' you, sir r* •' Well, yes ; in fact, I have been to fetch it." •' Happen I can't stand it V* " But you'll try ?" Barbara held out her wrist in answer ; and Lancelot, with a tenderness of touch that contrasted oddly with the roughness of his general behaviour, removed the plaster, and looked carefully at the wound. It was slight to appearance ; but unfortunately the dog's teeth had gone deep enough to draw blood. " You are sure you washed it carefully ?"' *' Yes, sir, because I tried by keeping on wi' th' v/ater to mak' th' bleeding stop." " Very well. Now mind what I say. I don't think one woman out of a hundred could stand quietly to let me do this. Ah ! yes — you feel it ? I thought you'd wiuce THE surgeon's FEE. 79 soon. If you'd like a good cry or a scream, have it out, don't mind me." But Barbara, after the first cruel touch, bore all un- flinchingly, only taking care not to trust herself too soon with the question, " Had he done t" The high colour had now faded, and she began to look increasingly pale, as Lancelot, tearing off a narrow strip from his white cambric handkerchief, wetted one end in a jug of drinking water that he found on the table, ob- icrving the while, "It will cool the place;" and then wrapping the bandage about the wrist, he fastened the end ingeniously by tucking it under. "Here/' said Lancelot, fetching the water-jug, "drink; it will do you good." Barbara did drink, and soon felt restored to all her courage and equanimity. " Thank you, Mr. Lancelot," presently broke forth from those still pale lips, and accompanied by so sweet a smile that Lancelot, for the first tiffie, began to feel a little confused; and altuough the effects did not last long, they were decided enoxtgh to make Barbara almost repent of her natural emotion of gratefulness, and more than enough to make ner wish he would go away from the school- room before any one else should come in. " Barbara !" "Yes, sir?" " I dare say you think me a very brutal sort of person?" " No, sir; but I might hae done awhile ago." " Come, then, I've disappointed my best friends, who are always predicting that I shan't redeem my character ABEL DH^4KF*S WTFF. »n time. I wish, Barbara, you'd do one Oi two things tor me/' a " What are they, sir ?' " One is to tell me what you think of me.' Barbara shook her head, laughed, and remained silent. " Well then, the other : — will you give me a word of friendlv advice V Barbara looked doubtfully even as to that request also ; but Mr. Lancelot gave her uo more opportunity for re- fusing, for he continued to speak; — " Well, now, I'll tell you, for it strikes me you are the only sensible and brave woman I ever met with — except my mother — and — but never mind her now. You wonder, perhaps, why I idle away a deal of time ?" " All on it, sir, I should say." " Oh ! — would vou l* Very well : — All on it 1" There vv'as such a tone ot unmistakeable enjoyment in Mr. Lancelot's voice as he repeated Barbara's words, and such a delicate imitation of her accent, as made her aware what he was about ; yet that hardly justified the flush of resentment that instantly burned in the womanly cheek — and burned more fiercely even than the caustic had lately done. Barbara was sensitive as to her dialect ; she was striving perpetually to master it, but in a way that no one should know what she was doing. And now here was Mr. Lancelot throwing down her screen and exposing her to the world's derision ! " Barbara, I hke your dialect, mind that ;" he suddenly broke in, forgetting the story he was going to tell. " Hae you done, sir ?" asked Barbara, with increasing resentment THE SVRGEON^S FEE. 8 1 " Now, Barbara, you must give a fellow time. He can't turn angel all at once. Now, can he ?" What with the tone in which this was said, and the wry look with which it was accompanied, and the rapid, involuntary twitching of the nostrils, Barbara could not help laughing as she repeated his phrase " angel 1" and said she thought " he need not be afraid." " Well, to tell you the truth, I'm at a loss to know what the d is the matter with me; what it is that makes me have such odd fancies and such idle habits. Somehow I think I could do something, if only that some- thing would be good enough to show itself to me and say, ' Come, I want you.' " " Yo donna like tV mill, sir ?" " No, I donna — that is, I don't like the mill." " And whatten" — Barbara was about to change the word and say " what ;" but after her pause she repeated the former phrase emphatically : — " And whatten do you like ?" « The army !" " Not surgery, or medicine, or aught of that sort ?" " Lord no I What made you ask ?" *' Because I can see you're clever that way, sir." " Ah, don't be deceived by the universality of my talents ! Why, Barbara, I could preach you a capital ser- mon at a quarter of an hour's notice, if you'd let me, and shouldn't at all dislike the business. Only if you would be so good as to confess a little to nic first, by way of get- ting me into the right spirit, and of giving me some ma- terials for my discourse, my sermon would be better — would come closer home. What! — you are not going 82 ABRL DRAKES WIFE. away ? Come — come ! I won't stop you much longer ; and when I do go, I shan't come again in a hurry, I pro- mise you." " Well, then, sir ?" " Well, then, my father hates the army, and feels a good deal about my want of feeling for the mill. My mother I can manage : but, somehow, she holds me here in spite of myself. Barbara, do you like my mother ? Ah, yes ! — you needn't say any more. Your face speaks for you, as it does with all honest people before they get spoiled. Now, what would you do if you were me ?" " Settle it before neet — I mean night — and either go to th' mill or th' army to-morrow, sir." " Eh ! — what ? The deuce you would ? On my life I believe you though. Hang me if I ever expected to find myself shamed by a woman. But I'm not going yet, if it be only for your sake." " My sake, sir ?" " Yes, I'll stay a bit longer to plague you. Who taught you, I should like to know, to go at things in this straightforward fashion ? I shouldn't wonder if you don't turn out a revolutionist of the first water — a Robespierre in petticoats, or a red republican fresh from the nursery. I want to know more about you; it's my duty to know more about you. You are hatching schemes of some sort. What means that light I have seen burning late in the night from your chamber window ? Take care, Miss Bar- bara, my eye is upon you! Hullo! — what's the matter now^" Mr. Lancelot turned to see what it was that arrested Barbara's gaze and raised the tiut of her cheek, ilis THE surgeon's fee. 6% mother stood there. She was pale and placid as usual; but she did not attempt to conceal her surprise, or to deny the questionings of her look. Precisely for that reason, perhaps, neither of the two spoke. *' Do I interrupt conversation ? *' Nonsense, mother ! Barbara was bitten by the dog through my fault; and I fetched some caustic, and made her let me cauterise the wound." " 0, that was all. And is there no danger now V* " None," said Mr. Lancelot ; and he turned in his usual careless style to go away, but was arrested by Barbara's voice. " Not all, ma'am !" she quickly said ; and Mrs. Wol- combe's interest and anxiety revived. " Mr. Lancelot has been asking my opinion about what he should do with himself." " 0, indeed ! lias he ?" Mother and son here ex- changed looks. "Yes, ma'am. I donna think I was th' proper person to be asked,'^ " Neither do I, Barbara !" "But as he did ask, I told him my opinion." " Yes— and that was ?" " That he should think it weel over to-day, and go to th' mill or to th' army to-morrow." Mrs. Wolcombe looked with more than her usual pene- tration of glance into Barbara's clear frank eyes, and at last seemed so thoroughly satisfied with what she saw there, that she exclaimed, in all her old gladness and sweet geniality of manner, — " Barbara, I thank you • both for my own sake and hjs 84 You are right. He ought to have done this long ago. He is running to waste. We will see to it at once. Per- haps I have been a little to blame — a little selfisb. But that shall be remedied." There was a slight quiver in the fond mother's voice as she said this. Perhaps Barbara noticed it j or perhaps she had felt more than she cared to own (for she was truly proud in her secret nature) the coldness of Mrs. Wolcombe's looks, and the double meanings of her words ; but, whatever it was, a veiy big tear now forced its unwelcome way into her eye, and began to roll down her cheek. Mrs. Wolcombe saw, and either understood or guessed what was passing, and her heart smote her, but she said nothing, and one minute afterwards no one would have guessed, from Barbara's manner, that she was other than the children's mere nurse, in feeling as well as in position, as she went quickly away to her ordinary occupations. Two or three hours later, as she was crossing the corridor, she again met Mr. Lancelot full face, and he stood still, evidently determined to speak to her. "Well, ma'am, be content. You have settled me. Paid me ojQP in style. Yes. You've hurried matters with a vengeance. Pm sorry I can't oblige you by going away to the army to-morrow, as I think you suggested. One must have a few traps with one. But, be easy — in a week — his place will know him no more !" "Very glad — I mean, sir — " "No, no, be honest, go on. Yes, you are very glad — " "That you mean to mak' a man o' yoursel, sir.*' " Mak' ! — I mean make, though you didn't say so — r— Make a man of mt I Pray what then am I, before the ThE SUFCEON'S FES. 85 making begins ? 0, well, my mother will be coming upon us again. Barbara, I'm going to give you a proof there IS some good and some sense in me ; God knows how little for all that ! I want you to look after my mother. She is not strong. She likes you." "I owe everything i' th' world to her!" said Barbara, with a direct expression of her honest feelings that she had not before vouchsafed to Mr. Lancelot. " Very good ; then I may rely when I am gone, that you won't forget all that, should any little tiff occur j my father may try you a bit sometimes ; or that little rascal, Hugh, to whom — Heaven forgive me! — I think I have taught every bit of devilry I ever discovered m the way of mischief-making. But we understand — don't we? — I shall be sure to find you when I come back — taking fare of my mother ?" " 0, I hope so," said Barbara. "Good bye, then !" and he held out his band, "Good bye?" asked Barbara, in astonishment. ** Yes, I don't mean to have any more of it, I shall flit in the night, perhaps, like a bat; or disappear in the day hke a shallow pool in an exhalation." " 0, very well. Good-bye, Mr. Lancelot." " Good bye !" But Mr. Lancelot seemed unwilling to quit Barbara's hand, though also unwilling to vex Barbara herself, and he saw she was getting vexed. " You wonna come back, I hope, sir, anything less than a general ?" " Won't I though ? Look for me next Christmas two years, if I don't appear before. If I am not at the Isablt when the roast beef jomes up, I forbid you to touch S6 ABkL DkAkE^S IVJFE. it — till I come. Good bye — once more — 0, I forgot — the dogs ! I say, Barbara ! what about that blessed pair ? Isidore may move- somebody's bowels of compassion, if they can stand the first appeal; but Timon — poor Tim on ! Ah, Barbara, that dog hasn't a friend in the world but me. You couldn't look in upon them now and then, could you ?" " Yes, sir." "And see that they are regularly fed?" " Yes, sir." *' And that they're not taken a mean advantage of in my absence, and poisoned off out of the way, on the pretence of taking something that disagreed with them ?" Barbara laughed, as she said — " I'll do my best, sir, to keep 'era in health, sperrits, a^d beauty till you come back." " Thank you, Barbara, that was what I really wanted all this time. Good bye !" And with a loud laugh, Mr. Lancelot passed along the corridor, and left Barbara free to go in the other dnectioo* A GARRET R0MANC&. CHAPTER VII. A GARRET ROMANCE. When Mr. Lancelot had gone away, a kind of sadness spread over the whole household. Mr. Wolconibe was irritable and reserved, for a dream of his life had dis- appeared for ever, and he had not so many di'eams that he could easily spare this one — of his son being his partner in the mill, helping him while he was able to work, and taking the management of the property when old age should begin to drive him more frequently to his quiet fireside. Mrs. Wolcombe's thoughts and feelings lay nearer to her heart. Lancelot was her earthly idol — so far as she permitted herself to have any such human object of worship. She had faith in him ; she believed she alone understood him, as possessing all the rich but tumultuous elements that form eventually the stronger men of the world — its soldiers, statesmen, heroes. Often has she said to her husband, when he was not unreasonably exasperated by some of Lancelot's escapades, " All this is but the scum thrown to the surface, during the seething of the youthful blood. Wait, be patient, be kind to him, and all will go well." But she had hoped to see that point of assured safety reached while he was yet before her eyes; and she could not, in her secret soul, repress vague S8 ABEL DRAKE'S W^irk. feelings of alarm now that he was gone, and that his and their future happiness rested upon the accuracy of her appreciation. She became, in truth, very sad ; and though her sweetness of smile and voice, and her invincibly pa- tient gentleness of manner, remained the same, every one about her felt she was changed, and asked uneasily ky>w far the change might go. Perhaps, if Mrs. Wolcombe had been at all selfish— if she had but allowed herself to indulge her sorrow to the shutting out of her duties, she would, like selfish people generally, have found the error carry its own punishment. But it happened differently. Trying to look around her with the same thoughtful glance as of old upon those who were in any way her dependents, she noticed that Barbara looked pale and troubled. Mrs. Wolcombe then remem- bered the thoughts that had passed through her mind when she found Lancelot and Barbara together in the school, room ; and she also remembered that Barbara's face had shown very plainly how well those thoughts had been read. Of course, after a moment's reflection she dismissed the idea that Barbara's discomfort was connected with what had then passed. But when she tried to find a more reasonable solution of the problem she was baffled ; and from the sheer desire to rest somewhere, the mother could not help again reverting to that scene in the school-room. But she waited and watched in her quiet way; and became more and more convinced that something was wrong; that Barbara was unhappy or dissatisfied. Mrs. Wolcombe was not exactly pleased with the discovery ; but certainly it had the effect of diverting her thoughts from the sub- ject that so depressed them. Barbara's character had in- A GARRET ROMANCE. 89 terested her from the first hour of their acquaintance ; it had been a constant study to her; and now she felt sure there was something going on which she had a desire to be acquainted with, even while she could not repress a certain uneasy fear that her confidence was about to be shaken. One sultry July evening Barbara sat at the open window of the nursery. It had grown too dark to work ; and her bands lay idle in her lap, for she could not light her can- dle, and shut out the soft twilight. Poppy was sleeping peacefully in the crib. The other children, subdued and wearied by the heat, were walking quietly in the garden with Mrs. Wolcombe and some neighbouring ladies. An inexpressibly tender gloom lay over the rich summer land- scape. On one side of the sky, where the sun had lately set, ran streaks of red fiery light ; on the other, a ghost- like crescent moon rose from cold pale-blue clouds. Bar- bara gazed : now upwards ; now on that beautiful garden, with its jvinding light-coloured paths; its graceful trees; its exquisite perfumes — now dying, now coming stronger, as if the tea-roses, from whence they issued, panted for notice in the growing darkness ; its white lilies rising tall, and statelily waving with a gentle pride, as if they knew they were the only flowers whose beauty was not hidden by the night, but were rather brought out from all the rest in their glistening purity ; its graceful human forms glid- ing in and out among the trees ; while other and darker forms, more dimly defined, made themselves suddenly known by the tiny red glow of a cigar. Altogether, it was like a fairy scene to Barbara ; and might surely have made her value the privilege of being so near. go A6EL DRAKES WIFE. But there was a hungry look in her deep-set eyes; and the lines about the mouth which had begun to lose, were now regaining, their former harshness. The fairest things seemed to jar upon her. 'No wonder; the instrument was out of tune. And so, when in addition to the visions of the dreamy beauty of the garden, there brake upon her ear distant shouts and laughter, and exhilarating music from the village, she rose, left the nursery, and began to wander about through the empty rooms and corridor, till she found herself once more in the old brown-visaged school-room. There, at all events, she seemed to find consolation, as she gazed upon the book-shelves with a kind of reverence almost approaching to awe. Whatever her secret thoughts might be, here at least they found either a solace or a diversion. Mrs. Wolcombe had noticed her sitting at the window, and her withdrawal. Presently, she said to Miss Feather- stonehaugh, who was standing on the lawn, with head thrown back, eyes half-closed, beating time to the distant music with a large fan, "Will you take a turn with me?" Then slipping her hand into the governess's arm, she con- tinued : " I cannot think what is the matter with Bar- bara. I don't like to ask her ; for on such points she is reserved. I fear, too, she might get the idea I am dis- satisfied ; and it is much easier to rouse than to allay such thoughts. I wonder whether she wants to get home oftener ?'* " dear, no !" said Miss Featherstonehaugh, without a moment's pause. " I know what it is ! 1 knew it would be so." " indeed 1 pray instruct me/* A GARRET ROMANCE. 91 " It's her shocking ignorance that presses upon her. Till she came here, she did not know her true state : now she does. That's all." " But, my dear Miss Featherstonehaugh, don't you think that, even if this be so, we had better try the easier remedy first ? Could we not spare Barbara a little oftener ? I know it might a little inconvenience you." " Leave it to me," was the prompt answer. " Let her go out as often as you like. Of course the poor thing must have some relaxation. I will see to Poppy and everything else. Let her go every evening, by all means." Mrs. Wolcombe shook her head with a smile, as she said : *' You have too kind a heart. Miss Featherstonehaugh, to get on in this world. Every evening ! Why, she would rouse the jealousy and dislike of all the people in the house towards her. no, that will never do. But I will speak to her at once, and tell her of your offer." She found Barbara in the nursery, and she saw her hastily draw her hand across her eyes, as she became aware of her presence. " Barbara !" said Mrs. Wolcombe, going up to her, and laying her hand on her shoulder, while she gazed anxiously into the half-averted face, — "Barbara, you are not happy. If there is anything I can do to make you more comfort- able, tell me." " no, no ! You have been only too kind to me already, ma'am," answered Barbara, turning away her head. " But listen ; I have something to propose to you. You ttre out of spirits; people will get out of spirits sometimes, 92 ABEL DRAKE'S WIFE. even when they can see no particular occasion. I know I do. You must not think I am going to confer any par- ticular favour, for there is nothing of the kind intended. It is a mere matter of justice, I tell you. You do so much more for me than Martha did, that something is due to you in return. It is early yet to talk of an increase of wages; but there is one thing we can do — we can spare you oftener to go home, if you would like it. Miss Fea- therstonehaugh offered most generously to help, and she and I have arranged to take your work, say for a couple of evenings v.'eekly.-" The old bright flush of youthful pleasure that instantly overspread Barbara's face, told Mrs. Wolcombe how accu- rately she had (so far) hit the mark. "You vi'ould like it, then V she continued. " 0, ma^am, ye are too good to me," said Barbara, in a trembling voice. " I wanted to ask you this, but I didna like ; for — " Mrs. Wolcombe waited, but Barbara had stopped ab- ruptly, as if conscious her thoughts were escaping too far from her own control. Mrs. Wolcombe was now more puzzled than ever. There was evidently more in that glad surprise — that grateful flush — that tremulous tone — and that sudden pause, than could be explained by a desire for home society, or by the anticipation of meeting a mother somewhat more frequently. However, she fell back upon her usual recourse to wait and watch ; so with a smile and nod she went away, saying, as she turned for a moment at the door ; " It is not very late yet. Go at once, if you like, and tell your mother what we have settled." A Garret romance 93 As soon as INIrs. Wolcoinbe had gone away, Barbara walked rapidly to and fro ; then stopped, with eyes bent on the floor, in deep thought. Her brow grew contracted, her lips compressed. Presently she looked up with a smile of strong resolution playing about, her lips ; then her hands, whiter than of old, but still rough enough to do, without flinching, much hard work, if it should be re- quired of them, clasped each other firmly, while she said : " Eigh, — but I can, an' 1 will \" She said no more, but just took a parting look of the sleeping Poppy, kissed the tiny hands that lay crossed outside the coverlid, ran upstairs to her own room, put on her bonnet and shawl, and, after taking somethinj^ from her box, which she hid under the shawl, a':;ain descended the stairs. As she passed out through the plantation, the village clock sounded nine, so she quickened her pace across the green. The sleepy sheep, who were beginning to gather in little groups, hardly troubled themselves to move out of her way, as if they saw how wrapt she was m her own thoughts. On coming to a low thicket, she laid her little parcel on the grass, and began to gather some of the white and pink wild roses which climbed through and overhung the bushes. This she did in a quick, business-like way, as though she had an object in so doing, quite apart from any enjoyment they might aflford hersei.', She added a few pale blackberry blossoms, a spray of honey-suckle, which she reached with difficulty, but found so sweet when it was got that slie was glad of the trouble and delay it had cost her ; and then a circling border of daisies, in which, however, each flower kept its petals tightly closed up, as though feeling it had no business to be meddled with at such untimely hours. 94 ABEL drake's IVfFE. Lastly, she insinuated into the centre the stems of some bearded grass, letting a few of the tips drop over in soft, feathery plumes, while others stood straightly up, tall and spire-like. Then she tied her little nosegay with a piece of the tough-stalked convolvulus-like flowers she found bordering the path, took up her parcel, and began to run to make up for lost time. She soon passed the pond and the drawwell where Job was sitting, letting a child feed him out of its tin mug, and teach him how to eat its slice of bread and butter, the sly fellow pretending to be uncommonly amused by the whole proceeding. "What, Job!" exclaimed Barbara, "hasth' prophecy come true at last, that soom day ye'd getten too lazy to eat V Job didn't seem to like the joke at first, or per- haps it took him time to understand it; but presently he burst out with a loud " Haw ! haw ! haw !" Barbara now reached the row of cottages where her mother lived ; but instead of going in, she struck off in quite another direction, to a spot where stood an old manor-house, that had sunk by degrees from one social rank to another, till at last it had become the habitation of two washerwomen, who occupied the lower rooms, and let out all the upper ones to farmers' labourei's, mill hands, and to one or two families, which, though equally poor, enjoyed more social consideration among the villagers. Barbara opened the door that led to the apartment she sought, and immediately closed it after her, as though desiring to escape observation. The ray of dim light which found its way through the round hole over the door, just enabled her to see the stairs, where she heard a sound of scrubbing ; and Vthere, as she ascended, shesuon A GARRET ROMANCE. 95 fame to a pail, with a pair of feet directed towards her. Barbara smiled as she found herself stopped for a moment, and saw the red, stockingle«s heels stuck out a good way from the slippers into which the toes were thrust, leaving them flapping back at every energetic movement of their owner's arm. "Evelina!" said Barbara, trying not to frighten the girl, who had a particular horror of " ghostesses" in dark places; but the sound of her voice was lost in the hissing noise which the girl kept up, and which seemed to be a kind of imitation of that made by grooms when cleaning their horses. So Barbara placed her hand gently ou the girl's shoulder, saying quickly : « Evelina, is No. 9 at home ?" Evelina, a dirty, red-faced beauty, looked out of tem- per, and gave Barbara no other answer than might be afforded by her removing herself and pail to one side, so that Barbara might pass. Barbara stepped on quickly, and ascended to the very top of the house, where the stairs grew more narrow and steep at every flight. Yet, notwithstanding the height, the place had a damp, un- wholesome, well- like odour, that chilled Barbara, though she did not remember to have ever noticed it before. Was Coppeshall spoiling her for the life of the poor ? she could not help asking herself, as she knocked at No, 9. " Is that you, Evelina ? Come in," uttered a rather feeble, high-pitched man's voice from within. Barbara gently lifted the latch of the door and entered the room. It was so full of smoke that, at first, she could discern nothing but the ruddy glow of the fire. Gradually, however, as some of the snokf* passed out at the op(» q6 ABEL drake's l"IF£. door, and as bei- eyes became used to the pungent atmos- phere, the whole place became faintly visible. It was a large, low-roofed attic, with one corner partitioned off from the rest by an old paper screen. The floor was bare, except just at the fireplace, where a square piece of dingy carpet did duty for a rug. On this stood a table, covered by an old red cloth, which did not fall low enough to con- ceal its thin, dirty-white legs, half scratched away in parts by the old tabby cat, which was now curled up beneath it asleep. Just under the single window, which commanded a delicious prospect of the neighbouring country, and brought vividly home to Barbara the contrast between the world without and the world within, stood an old couch, and upon it, propped up by pillows, lay the figure of a woman. Her head was thrown back upon the pillow ; and though the face, which was a little raised, bore marks of great age and long suffering, there was an expression of almost childish sweetness upon it just now, which would, Barbara knew, when she woke, change to one of mental vacancy. " Her wits wur a'most gone" was the common expression, and it summed up for the poor old lady the last stage of her long career, A man's great coat, drawn up to her chin, lay across her, and seemed, with its help- less-looking arms, to testify at once the affection and the impotence of him who was now her sole support. Barbara's eyes were seeking for that other figure which she had always been accustomed to see here, and it emerged through the smoke at last. It was that of a very small and prematurely aged man, who might not have reached his fortieth year, but who looked sixty. He was sitting on the edge of a broken-backed wooden chair, wif.b A GARRET ROMANCE. 97 his elbows on his knees, and his face resting in h;s bands. He seemed to be merely watching the smoke as it issued from the grate, and wreathed upwards in strange and fan- tastic forms. He was dressed in neat but rusty black, and wore a very white neckcloth, tied in a precise little bow. The firelight, every now and then, illuminated powerfully his face. It was long, thin, and_ pale, and his blue eyes were filled with a kind of melancholy intelligence, as they rested upon those luxuriant smoke-wreaths. Barbara had not seen him for a long time, and she was deeply touched by his aspect. She knew a little of his history, and could guess at the kind of thoughts that made his lips quiver every now and then as with an awkward attempt at a smile, and which was sure to end in a heavy, long-drawn sigh. Perhaps he was thinking of his childhood, or of his youth. His childhood ! Alas, the picture of that boy, — feeble in body, and feeble in mind, kept by a harsh father and an ;,mbitious mother, poring over his books from morning to I ight, could scarcely raise even the ghost of a smile. His youth ! Are you looking at that, Isaac Sleigh? Are you thinking of your college days ? Do you see yourself again winning that one " honour," — small enough, and hardly struggled for, but still creditably won at last ? Or is it the companions you look after who then so cheered you by expectations of a future that all alike afterwards forgot they had promised to aid in attaining for you ? Or do you remember that day — that white day — that great day — when you were introduced to the Bishop, and actually had the honour of giving him your arm, — for he was somewhat corpulent to go alone, — and of walking down the High Street with him, — and of answering his conde- o8 ABEL DRAKES WIFE. scending questions about your future prospects i Ah, Isaac, thou wert giddy, thou must own, after that walk with the Bishop ; and forgot strangely thy parent's humble condition, thy own powers, and the nature of the world thou wast living in. Well, well, thou hast paid a heavy penalty for all mistakes. No wonder thou askest thyself some- times with a strange spirit of incredulity, was that young scholar, that supported the tottering steps of episcopacy in the face of the world, the same man as Isaac Sleigh, schoolmaster and parish clerk of Barden Brow, with a salary of fifteen shillings a week ! The cat purrs under the table ; the sleeper breathes softly ; the smoke still rolls up, and still the man's eyes follow it. Again the pallid smile essays to escape free, and again it is entombed in the dreary sigh. Perhaps Isaac now reviews his last outbreak of ambition, when — having arrived by degrees at theidea that he had originally aimed too high, and had therefore fallen so low, — he de- termined he would, by a new beginning, and more mode- rate expectations, work his way a few steps upwards. That part of his story Barbara knew only too well. He had, after much effort, and much writing of letters for help and introduction, and much and protracted negotiation, suc- ded in obtaining a similar position at Bexfield, seventy miles off, where he was to have no less than a guinea a week! How elated he had been ' It was all he could do to avoid writing letters of some kind to his old college tutor, to his chief companions, nay, even to the Bishop himself, ^'ho still lived, though in a kind of second childhood ; but, as it was, he contented himself with a few glowing words to one who would, he thought, tell the others that he was again about A GARRET ROMANCE. QCJ to emerge and mount firmly from step to step of the ladder. One or two were glad, and waited to hear more. But they never did hear more. Isaac returned after the first month to Barden Brow. He had failed ; and had then to humiliate himself before the clergyman to beg him to receive him back, erring and contrite, and even to ask the loan of a few shillings to fetch his mother. No one ever knew what passed between the two men, but Isaac was successful in his request, and almost broken-hearted by the humiliations to which he had been subjected in the process. " Why was all this V Barbara asked herself now, as she had often asked before. He was industrious, indefatigably patient, and knew enough, she was sure, to make every child in the village a grand scholar. Alas ! he had no spirit. What little energy Nature had given him had been crushed out of him by his misfortunes and by his unsuit- able life. Occasionally, when he got a new and hopeful pupil, he would seem to start up from a kind of torpor, and do a wonderful deal of good in a short time, but sud- denly the youth or maiden would be drawn off to the mill, or to the field, and Isaac would relapse into his ordinary state. So again he would at times look round his school- room, and see his idle or riotous scholars caught for ' a moment by a sense of what learning and study would do for them, and lo ! poor Isaac, with a flush of enthusiasm, would waken up and talk to them, with tears in his eyes, striving with all the force of his weak but anxious soul to deepen the passing moed by conjuring them to listen to bim, and to work hard. But on one occasion of this kind the clergyraan hapi)ened to be an unobserved listener ; too ABEL DRAKES UTFE. and he reproved Isaac, almost in public, for hiy want of firmness and dignity, and said something that tingled hotly in Isaac's ears about his " high-pitched, quavering voice." Barbara had not been sorry to stand for some time by the door, for she was puzzling herself about what she had to say. At last she spoke : " May I come in, master ?" " Eh ? Who is that ?" asked Isaac, trying to peer through the smoke. Barbara closed the door, and crossed the room towards him. ** It's me, master ; Barbara Giffard. I have come for my lesson ; and here's the nosegay." *' Lesson ! Nosegay !" The schoolmaster took the flowers doubtfully in his hand, and turned his blue eyes inquiringly upon her. It always took those orbs a long time to fathom the meaning of any fresh thing they looked upon ; — no wonder, when life's problem had become so increasingly difficult to their owner; — but they never moved, if they could help it, till they had done so. Harm- less as they were, ie^ could, or would, stand their mild, 1 ongcontinued gaze. But Barbara returned the gaze steadily, with a look half pleased, half pitying ; and through all there appeared a mournful pride, which seemed to say — "Read me, master; thei-e is nothing I would con- ceal." " Barbara Giffard !" repeated the schoolmaster twice — " Barbara Giffard \" Yes, he remembered such a name, but surely he had not heard it for a long while. He re- membered such a pair of earnest brilliant eyes, but some- how he fancied they had used to look up at him, whereas A GARRET ROMANCE. lOI he was now looking up at them. Besides, it was a little awkward overgrown girl who used to stand there, with a copy-book, and dirty red spelling-book, presenting her wild flowers, with a jerking jurtsey, and looking at him saucily from behind their defenct, to see if he was going to scold her for being late. 0, he remembered her well, and all her beauty, awkwardness, and wilfulness — how could he help ? seeing he had cared more for her than for any other scholar (one alone excepted, whom he had also lost). "A child, sir," as he had once said to his employer, the Rev. James Bartholomew, " that seems to take know- ledge into her head faster than I can get it out of mine." Isaac poked the fire, rubbed his eyes before taking a second look at his visitor, then, as the wan smile of recog- nition lit up his face, he took her hand, — " Barbara Giffard ! My child, is it you !" " Yes, master, it's me." Isaac smiled again, looked at the flowers in his hand, smelt at the honeysuckle, turned the nosegay about, and shook the quivering grass. " Eigh, master, it's been a dree' time 'tween then and now !" Barbara continued, in a low tone — " Bat we munna talk o' that. Tell me how ye bae fared wi* the children all these years." The master sighed deeply, and shook his head, as he said — f- " It seems to me, Barbara Gifiard, that children are no longer as they were. They come to m.e with the empty minds of babes, but with hearts old in worldliness and conceit. It is the child now who commands j the teacher who muat obey. My heart ia heavy, Barbara GifFard, when I think how I must answer for these little ones." I02 ABEL drake's WIFE. ife paused, and then added a moment after, as if speak- ing to himself — " There are but two of all those who have passed under me of whom I had any hope, and they — they were by no means what I would have made of them — they were full of faults, but I could see through his indolent temper, and her wilful impatience. I saw they came to me with simple hearts, and I felt they were indeed children." " An' who are they, master ?" asked Barbara, gently taking the flowers from his hand, which trembled with emotion, and made the rose petals — so briefly lived — flutter down upon the hearth. " Who are they ! Ask me rather who were they; for Abel Drake has belied all that his childhood promised; and Barbara GifFard — " The school-master paused, for the two names coming so closely together from his own mouth, and the expression of Barbara's face, brought back to his memory many things which had quite passed from it. He remembered all now ; and he withdrew his ey§s from her face, fearing he had given her pain, and shook his head sadly, that he might cease speaking. " Well, master, and what has Barbara Giffard done ?" inquired Barbara, sitting down on a large bundle of fire- wood, placed by the fender to dry, and clasping her hands over her knee. " Barbara Giffard — excuse me, I meant Barbara Dr— " " Barbara GifFard, master \" she interrupted, sternly. ** Dunna forget — alius, while I live — Barbara Giffard 1" " Well, then, Barbara Giffard has forsaken her people, nd gone to live among the gentry, and got much too A GARRET ROMANCE. I03 grand to think of learning, or of its poor professors. I suppose she has not found the words true, that the higher we strive to get. the heavier weighs ignorance on the heart." *' Master, I hae found it true, though I canna say I remembered the words. An' I come now to ask you if you'll hae me back agen. I think I'll learn better now than I used." Very steady, and very full of wonder became the school- master's gaze, as Barbara pulled forth from her pockets the old mottled-covered copy-book, and the very spelling- book that he so well knew, with its dirty red back. He looked at them, and then again at Barbara, who could not refrain from a slight smile at his serious, yet puzzled face. " Ah, you mock me, Barbara Giffard !" he said sadly, at last. " But I knew well enough that girls grown up so tall and so handsome as you, never troubled themselves about learning." " But, master," cried Barbara, rising with a sudden impatience which Isaac well remembered, and which began to carry conviction to his mind faster than her words could — " But, master, I tell you I hae come to ask you to begin agen wi' me ; and Fll promise, if you do, to stick to it wi' all my heart an' soul." The schoolmaster now rose, too, in a sudden excite- ment that he instantly tried to calm down by rubbing his hands. " This is well ! ah, this is well 1" he cried. " My dear child, this is the first bit pf pleasure that has crossed my life for a long while. But is it true ? Do you, Barbara GifFard, really couie back to me, Isaac Sleigh, your poor old master?" 104 ABEL drake's WIFE. " It is Gospel truth that I, Barbara GifFard, do come back to you, Isaac Sleigh, my dear old master, who I luve dearly, if he will let me say so, as all his scho]?-s ought to luve him." Poor Isaac turned away for a minute to dispatch an ab- surd tear that troubled him ; but he soon turned back again, with a cheerful, bustling air, that Barbara saw was assumed to cover the strange flutter of his spirit. " Come, come," said he, " we have lost a deal of time^ and shall have much to do to make it all up. Of course, you will want to read well, and to write, and perhaps" — Dut he spoke hesitatingly — " you wouldn't mind going on to simple accounts ?" " Well," said Barbara, " happen just those to begin wi\" " Begin with !" repeated the schoolmaster ; " come, I like that amazingly." Again he rubbed his hands, but it was involuntarily, and with a decided air of enjoyment. " To begin with, eh !" he echoed, as he opened a cup- board at the side of the fire-place and took out a book^ which he dusted with his handkerchief. " Perhaps you thought of attacking grammar, and doing a bit of composition ? Eh ?" " Yes, master, if you please," said Barbara, steadily, though conscious a little blush was rising to her cheek. " What 1 — and geography — and the use of the globes?" " Yes, master." " Good lord 1" thought Isaac to himself. " How much 'arlLer is the silly lass going ?" But he grew himself more and more excited into a kind of strange sympathy •vitL this ignorant but ambitious pupil. As he spoke tt A GARRET ROMANCE. lOj •— ' ' ' ■ ■ ■ ■ • -■■■ - ■■- .—-Mi ■ Barbara an odd smile of delight, that was yet half ashamed to display itself, illuminated his eager face, " And history ?" ** Yes, master." " And botany ? — You know what that means ?** *' Yes, master." " And the French language ?" " Yes, master." « And the Latin ?" " Yes, master." Isaac turned to the cupboard and laughed into it a low joyous laugh, while he took out of it a whole armful of t)ooks, which he presently threw on the table. " There they are. Come, Barbara GifFard, these shall try your metal. Aha ! We'll see. We'll see ! But stop, we shan't want this, I think — not yet, at least." He looked dubiously towards Barbara, as if he were considering. Barbara did not know what it was, but in her passionate hunger for knowledge could not help saying,— " master, teach me everything — that is, I mean," said she, with a deep blush, " everything that you think I am able to learn, and that is at all likely to be good for me. That is what I want. Donna mak' me say it ony more." " Everything !" Was Isaac in a dream ? Was it a very young woman who said this — a woman who had tasted of the bitterness of life, and must have dispersed some, at least, of its natural illusions ? He pushed his hands through his hair, and gazed out upon the landscape, and felt ashamed of his own feebleness of character, but Io6 ABEL DRAKE? S WIFE. at the same time cheered and quickeued, and in a measure restored to his own self-respect, by the appeal to him. " And how many hours a day can you give me, Barbara Giffard?" " Two hours 1 wice a week, master." « What ?" '' That's all, master," said Barbara, half laughing, half sighing. " That's all, for the reading, and the writing, and the sums, and the geography, and the globes, and the history, and the botany, and the everything." " Two hours twice a week," repeated the schoolmaster, aghast ; and his elated face began rapidly to sober down. " Come, master, I'll do my best. You know I ought to learn fast at my age." " Pooh, child, it's all nonsense. You can't do it. No- body does." " Eigh, but I will, master. Do you happen to remem- ber what you once told us at th' opening of th' evening school for th' mill folk ?" *' No, child ; what was it ?" '* You said that the brain would often work better when the hands were at work ; that you could teach, but it was we who must learn. Now cannot you put enough in my way in th' two hours to keep me agate while I am away all th' rest o' th' week ?" " Of course I can. That's it ! That's it ! And you remembered my words all these years, did you ? Well, God bless you, you shall lack nothing I can do for you. I'll be better prepared by the time you come again. Ah, yes, I see, lassie, you're the same Barbara GifFard still. 1 used to think that let tbera put you to housework or the A GARRET ROMANCE. I07 factory, or to the field, they could not prevent you learning. I think I know now how it is. You have, my child, the foundation of all learning — the humility that teaches you your need, and the faith that enables you to v/ork for it, and endure for it." "And now, master," said Barbara, "I'm afraid I ought to hae tellcd you at th' first, before you showed me all these grand things, that my wage is only ten pounds a year ; and that I canna offer you more than two shillings a week out of it.*' Isaac turned his blue eyes upon her, and kept them there till the very tears began to fall. " Barbara Giffard, I didn't expect this ! I know Fm very poor. Everybody knows it. But I didn't think you would have taken ad- vantage of my poverty. I will not touch a penny of it. Not a penny ! If it's to be a matter of buying and selling, I wash my hands of it." " Weel," said Barbara, pretending to go, " I suppose, then, I mun gie up the globes, and all the other." " Stop, Barbara Giffard ! Stop ! Headstrong as ever, I see. She always used to be teaching me how to teach her. Why, child, I was only thinking just now how I might help yyu to get another hour or two, by bribing Evelina to go up to the hall, and but I suppose that wouldn't do V "0, certainly not, master," said Barbara, smiling. " Weel, then, I mun go home, and see if th' governess '11 be ony kinder." " Let it be as you will," said Isaac, but so very sadly that Barbara saw he was hurt. " You are not angry wi' me, master ?" she inquired, softly. lo8 ABEL drake's WIFJS. Angry ! Isaac Sleigh angry ! He could scarcely un- derstand the question. The world may tremble under some new danger, should ever spirits like his, after bearing so meekly all the bitterness heaped upon them, turn round upon that world in anger. " No, child," said he ; " not angry : only a little pained. I wanted to share with you your own spirit of unselfish love for knowledge, but you won't let me. Very well.'* " But — but — master, how do you know this is unselfish ? I do love learning" — and Barbara's looks and tones told how dearly; "but I want to get on i' the world, and be independent." "Ah ! and that's a noble aspiration, too. Well, well, well !" Barbara saw what he was thinking of, but soon stopped him by gaily exclaiming, "And now, master, this mun be a secret atween us. I shall run in and tell my mother on my way home : but only we three mun know." A secret, too ! What, a bit of romance come to the schoolmaster's very fireside ! Really ! He began to look about him with an uneasy, indefinable idea that there was a deal to do; that life was changing somehow into a very diff'erent thing from the dull, joyless existence he had lately known ; that he must brush up himself and his faculties, and put his place in order. " Good bye, master," said Barbara, as she saw by his eyes he had come to the end of the problem of the moment. " Good bye ! Tuesday evening ! You wonna forget !" Forget ! Isaac took and held her outstretched hand, as he said, slowly, " My child, I have sometimes despaired of turning to any account the knowledge that God has giveil A GARRET ROMANCE. I09 > me, and have feared it would all perish with this poor frame. I have prayed earnestly that it might be otherwise, and now He has sent you to me, Barbara GifFard — I know He has! — that through you it may live, and grow, and make the world richer. God bless you, my child, and keep up your earnestness and enthusiasm. It may do more for me even than you can guess." -^ "Good bye, master," now whispered Barbara; for she saw his mother was waking. And then she gave her old childish saucy curtsey at the door, laughing low the while ; but the sight and sound filled the remotest nooks and cran- nies of Isaac's heart, with music and sunshine, and then — she was gone ! Isaac sat down, with his elbows on the table, and his chin in his hand, again asking himself, "Why had this bit of happiness come to him ?" But long before he had suc- ceeded in logically answering the query, his thoughts began to run in a more useful direction. He set to work at his books, to make them look a little more worthy of their sud- den resurrection. He mended covers, pasted in or stitched loose leaves, smoothed out creases, put them under heavy weights, and so on ; breaking out, from time to time, into delighted remembrances of Barbara's sayings — " *To begin wi'.' Ha! ha! ha! 'Everything.' dear ! the ambition of the poor ignoramus ! Well, well, she shall see I can teach her. She made no mistake in coming to her old master; to the poor 'worn out,' * high-pitched,' ' quavering- voiced' Isaac Sleigh." From the books he turned to the furniture ; and did all sorts of little things that might tend to make his room look a little pleasanter in Barbara's eyes — for he began to see everything now with Barbara's eyes no ABEL drake's Pr/FE. before she should come again. Lastly, he hunted up a small volume of tales to give to Evelina in the morning, in the hope of persuading her to wash his room, and clean his '.\indows, on one, at least, of the days of Barbara's visits. He was thoroughly fatigued when he lay down in his bed, but strangely placid and contented. The flowers were by his side, in a broken jug, and they seemed to assure him, as he looked at them, " yes ; it is quite right. She has been here, and is coming again." And then Hope, that' subtlest of genii, saw — what it had long vainly wanted — a new opening into the poor, perplexed, unhappy, and despairing brain ; and it entered, and began to play, as of old, all its kindly but fantastic tricks, to console, amuse, and stimulate ; and when Isaac awoke in the morning, his first recollection was of a scene in the Bishop's drawing-room, where a wonderful number of people were collected to meet him ; and where he was introduced to the Bishop's lady in terms of such commendation that he was overpowered and could not speak ; and lo ! all melted away, except the Bishop's lady ; and presently she too changed into — Bar- bara GifFard. And Isaac laughed at his dream, and was quite content to know that it had left him one reality — his old pupilj with whom he felt he was going to begin a new life, RIVAL PILOTS. Ill CHAPTER VIII. RIVAL PILOTS. " You progress, my child, you progress/* said Isaac one day to Barbara, after some weeks had passed ; but she herself Vv'as anything but satisfied. Perpetual difficulties embarrassed her^ which she had no ready means to clear up. She often wished she could go down to Miss Feather- stonehaugh with the children to learn with them, and be treated just like them. The responsibility of guiding and controlling her own movements during the days that in- tervened between her visit to her mother, seemed too much for her brain. Sometimes she would venture a question to Helen or Maud, but was soon warned by the fixed stare of curiosity that they were wondering what she was about. Vainly she strove by redoubled application to get over all obstacles. Her head became hot, her eyes heavy, her soul oppressed — now with feverish excitement, now with listless despondency — as the vista lengthened before her eyes, and the goal seemed only the more hopelessly distant at evcr"y fresh step she achieved in advance. Isaac could see little of this, and was entirely uncon- scious of what he might have seen. She was at her best and cheeriest when with him ; and she never failed to 'aiaster whatever he bad given her to do, provided only she 112 AB£L DRAKES WIFE, could by any effort get to understand what lie had meant. But Mrs. Wolcombe, who had hoped to have seen a noticeable change for the better in Barbara's looks, spirits, and temper — for it must be owned the children now and then discovered Barbara could be out of temper (and they took good care to give their mamma the benefit of their discovery^ — Mrs. Wolcombe, I say, had hoped this, and for the first few weeks had not been altogether disap- pointed; but then she found that Barbara was fast re- lapsing into her self-communion with some secret trouble that she did not or could not control. " What could it be ?" Mrs. Wolcombe asked herself. It so happened that a letter had recently been received from Lancelot, now ensign in her Majesty's Regiment of Foot, to the effect that he could not get to see them as he had intended before going abroad, inasmuch as that his regiment, which had been for some time preparing for the Colonies, had just received orders to embark instantly for British Caffraria, where some local disturbances had broken out. When the poor mother had got over the first paroxysm of her grief, and turned with a smile that grew less and less mirthful every day to the cares of her household, she was again struck by Barbara's manner, and could not help connecting it with the letter. Vexed at her own injustice and folly, she tried to persuade herself that she had dwelt upon one idea till she could not get rid of it; and she determined that Barbara should remain ignorant of these unwelcome and probably injurious speculations. Still she could not help wishing that Lancelot had said nothing about Barbara in his letter ; whereas, in fact, he had in- troduced her name no less than three times ; once being in RIVAL PILOTS. I 13 a postscript: and though the subjects of remark wore in- nocent aucl amusing' enough — the dogs, and things of that kind — yet it was very evident to the thoughtful mother that Lancelot was thinking of Barbara more than she could see the least necessity for, to say nothing of ita propriety. ]\Ir. Wolcombe helped to make her uncom- fortable. He rather liked Barbara on the whole, but being of a naturally suspicious, worldly temper, could not resist an occasional outbreak of doubt that she was too good. When pressed by his wife to give some grounds for his belief, he would acknowledge he had none, but would add, " Be cautious ; don't give your confidence till you know by experience it is deserved." Only a few days after the receipt of the letter^ JMr. Wolcombe came home to dinner, looking as though some- thing had happened which he did not like, and which yet did not altogether seem unsatisfactory to him. Watching his opportunity, he whispered into his wife's ear, so that the children should not understand what he said, " I fear Barbara is deceiving you. I am told she does not go to her mother's on the evenings you spare her ; or, if she does, that it is but for a minute or so on her way home !" Mrs. Wolcombe heard, but merely replied, "I will see to it," then passed to other subjects, and appeared to forget the circumstance. All that evening she was more than usually kind in her tone and words to Barbara, when she had occasion to speak to her; and she made occasions, when they would not otherwise have existed, for putting herself in Barbara's way, when no one else was by, aa though inviting a confidence that she thought ou^ht to 114 ABEL DRAKES IVIFE. be shown unasked ; and unwilling tx) lose the pleasure which such a confidence would give. But nothing cat le of it. Barbara did her duty as usual ; but her heart did not seem to be engaged. The children were cross and tiresome ; and she did not, as of old, win them out of their moods by her stories, or fun, or practical surprises, such as she sometimes invented when she could not other- wise properly control them. When all the household were in bed, Mrs. Wolcombe determined she would seek a direct explanation. But Mr. Wolcombe was busy with certain projects which he must talk over with her ; and hour after hour passed, until it was doubtless much too late to disturb Barbara. The mother usually went up to kiss Poppy after the nurse had gone to bed, and had always found the room (as she wished) in darkness. To-night she had omitted her usual custom through Mr. Wolcombe's keeping her so Ion"- engaged in the drawing-room ; and she was about to go to bed, satisfied there was no need, this once, to see to Poppy's welfare. But the mother's heart and the mother's habit were together all-powerful, and she found herself presently stealing along the corridor without a light, thinking she would just open the door and look in for a moment without disturbing Barbara. To her surprise she saw, as she approached, light under the door ; and while wondering what that could mean, for it was now past midnight, she found, on gently turning the handle of the door, that it was locked. A quick, nervous tap (unlike her usual one) escaped her before she reminded herself there could be nothing to fear for the child. Mrs. Wol- combe heard a hurried movement within, and then there RIVAL PILOTS. lis oas dead silence. Again she knocked, and a little imi)a- tiently. Barbara now came to the door, and said in a lovv voice, from within : " Is it you, Mary ? What do you want ?" " It is me, Barbara. May I come in ?" There was seemingly just a pause for reflection, and the door opened. Barbara stood there, fully dressed ; and she appeared to wait inquiringly for Mrs. Wolcombe to speak, while rather repressing than inviting any further advance. Her cheeks were flushed, and there was in her manner a curious compound of embarrassment and dignity. " Mus'n't I come in, Barbara ?" asked Mrs. Wolcombe, with a soft voice and smile that would have sufficed to re- move a thousand times greater obstacles than Barbara was capable of putting in her path. Barbara seemed to find it equally impossible to invite Mrs. Wolcombe forward or to keep her where she was so she compromised the matter by going to the table, taking the light from it, and leading the way to the bed- side. It was a capital stroke of policy, and ought to have succeeded, but it did not. One glance at the table showed Mrs. Wolcombe a whole history. It was overspread with school-books, some of them her own children's, borrowed for the night — spelling-books, reading-books, and a thick dictionary — while, wide open, and not a little blotted, lay the pages of a copy-book, in which Barbara had evidently been writing, when so unexpectedly interrupted. This, then, was the secret of the pale looks, the sunken eyes, and the pre-occupied mind. Mrs. Wolcombe was inex- pressibly touched. She knew now by the very secrecy Il6 ABEL drake's WIFE. that had been observed liow near to Barbara's heart thia matter must lie. " So, Barbara, you want to be a scholar, I see V* "Yes, ma'am,'* said Barbara, from her place at the other side of the bed. " And have vou anv instructor ?" " Yes, ma'am." "May I asi< whom?" " Mr. Isaac Sleigh, my old master." "Isaac Sleigh!" thought Mrs. Wolcombe; "so this ia Mr. Wolcombe's grand secret.'* "And how does he think you get on ?" " He's good enough to cheer me, ma'am, bymakin' the best o' me." " But what do you think yourself?" " I dunna know. I wish sometimes I hadna begun." " ]\Iay I look at your writing and exercises ?" "If you please, ma'am," said Barbara, but with very much the air of acquiescence of a criminal when asked by his polite gaoler if they hadn't better proceed on to execution. Mrs. Wolcombe looked, and looked again. Presently she said : " I suppose your difficulty is not so much the actual learning, as that you are often puzzled to know what to learn, and where to seek for information ?" " 0, yes, ma'am, that's it. I'm always comin' to stop- ping places, where I want somebody to help me over." " And I suppose you did not care to ask me, Barbara V* No answer. kJVAL PILOTS. 117 " Have I in auy way offended you, Barbara V " O, no, ma'am !" But somehow Mrs. Wolcombe could discover a slight hesitation that her own truth-loving nature made her quite understand. " Well, Barbara, we won't discuss words ; but be fiank with me as to the thing." Barbara was still silent. "Well, Barbara, my home is not a Spanish inquisition. So if you won't tell me either in confidence, or respect, or affection " " Affection !" The word fairly trembled on Barbara'z lips, as they quiveringly repeated it. " Yes, Barbara, I had begun to fancy you had some affection for me." " 0, ma'am !" and the tears appeared in those large, dry eyes, where they had so long been wanted. " Well, then, what is all this about ? — this secrecy, this want of confidence in me ? Have I deserved it ? Have I wronged you — misjudged you even in thought ?" "I think, ma'am, you have," at last said Barbara, very slowly, and meeting Mrs. Wolcombe's surprised gaze with a tremulous dignity of reproach. " I canna tell you how; but ever since that meeting wi' Mr. Lancelot — " It was now Mrs. Wolcombe's turn to change colour, and to stand on her defence ; and as she did so, she ex- hibited for the first time to Barbara an air of anger and resentment. She had accustomed herself so successfully to study others without attracting attention, that it came Lome to her in a new and unpleasant experience — the pos- sibility of her own sanctuaries being siaiiiarly invaded iu (iX AUhL DKAKES HJl'H. return. She assumed a coldness which Burbara had be- lieved her incapable of before, as she said : " I will uot pretend to misunderstand you, though you have very much surprised me. But you must excuse mc if I remember that I am a mother ; that Lancelot is young, rash, and reckless; and I dare say you need not ba told that he thinks well of you." Mrs. Wolcombc paused after saying this, as if to note the effect ; but seeing no- thing in Barbara's manner that implied more than the feeling that any young woman might naturally be supposed to feel at an unexpected compliment; she continued, still keeping her eyes painfully steady on Barbara's face : "And in his last letter home, I told you, I think, that he mentioned you three times to once for anybody else. So, Barbara, I can scarcely wonder if " " If what, ma'am ?" asked Barbara, impatiently, and her features darkening. " If he should, for the moment, think more of you than he ought, or than you would like in any way to be respon- sible for." Barbara sighed deeply, and was silent for a few moments. When she spoke, it was with an air of inex- pressible sadness, over which, however, she kept a stci-n, unfailing control. "Yes, ma'am, I knew these thoughts were in your mind. But I hoped they'd go away, and you'd be as you'd always been. And they did seem to go ; but not for long ; and so I thought what I had best do. Of course I couldna bide here. I soon settled that wi myscl. But if, ma'am, you see no reason agen my staying a bit longer, I think I can manage to pick up enough learning to open a school for children in a town where my RiyAL PILOTS. I 19 mother has some relations. 1 mean only for very little children, ma'am, that won^t know how ignorant I am." " Is this, then, what you have been planning and work* ing so hard for V " Yes, ma'am." " And you really intend to leave me t" " I do indeed, ma'am." The voice was low, but firm, and the face resolute. For some time both were silent. Presently Mrs. Wolcombe said — " And you mean this ?" " Yes, ma'am." " Even if I tell you, Barbara, that I can never havt such doubts again ?" Barbara did not answer, but her fingers worked ner- vously, and great tears rolled down her cheeks, which she dashed hastily ofi" with an impatient gesture. Mrs. Wol- combe went round the bed to her, and placed a hand on each shoulder, as she continued — "Even if I tell you, Barbara, that I can, and shall^ now trust and respect you more than any woman I know." Mrs. Wolcombe was stooping, almost kneeling, that she- might look into Barbara's averted face, as she added, " Even if I tell you that I want you — cannot do without you, Barbara ?" Barbara gazed for one instant on her mistress, and then forgetting or despising all social distinctions, she threw her arms round Mrs. Wolcombe's neck and wept bitterly, till she felt all the bad spirit was gone out of her. And when, after a brief period of delicious indulgence, she sought. MO giBEL DKAKE'S WIFE. half ashamedj to withdraw her arms, she found herself still tenderly held a prisoner by those warm, soft fingers. And then, when they did trust themselves once more to talk, and Barbara poured out all her inner life, Mrs. Wol- combe saw that in that sphere it would have been scarcely ever remembered that there was such a person in the world as Ensign Lancelot, but for the over-wise, over-cautious mother's own fears, which Barbara had seen and deeply resented, and which alone had compelled her to think of him. From that night Barbara's position at Coppeshall un- derwent a gradual but rapid change. ]\Ir. Wolcombe be- gan to treat her with more respect. It was not long before he asked her opinion on some matter that puzzled him and his wife ; and he was so struck with the judgment and decision of her answers that she began to be often called into their secret council. As for Mrs. Wolcombe, though she did not say a single formal word on the sub- ject to any of the household, it was very soon known that Barbara was no longer to be looked on as a mere nurse, but as one in whom the mistress took a personal and friendly interest. With her usual tact, Mrs. Wolcombe secured success by the simplest of means. Barbara's re- commendation of any one, or of any project, became a sure passport to her or ]\Iv. Wolcombe's favour. And though Barbara shunned the exercise of her power as much as she could, and at times seemed to weary of the determination exhibited on both sides to make her express opinions on, or feel interest in, matters that were indiffe- rent to her, yet she could not but perceive and appreciate the amelioration of her state that was the consequence. RIVAL PILOTS. 121 But Mrs. Wolcombe knew what she was about : a kitchen conclave is about the most unmanageable of democracies — the most jealous of any " pretender" rising from among its own "order." But this was of far less moment to Barbara than another consequence of the full understanding between her and Mrs. Wolcombe. Before many days elapsed, that lady, with her husband's full consent, introduced to the gover- ness a new pupil, saying, as she did so, " You were quite right, my dear Miss Featherstonehaugh, about Barbara, and I was quite wrong. Here has this poor silly child been sitting up late at night, and for aught I know rising absurdly early in the morning, to plod her weary way through the briery paths of knowledg-e. But we will have no more of this, will we ? So I have brought her to you, to see if, out of the largeness of your charity, and the boundlessness of your zeal, you will take pity on her, and turn her lawless habits of study into regular ones ; and, but there ! — I shall say no more. I leave you together to talk it over. 0, by the bye, one word first : — It strikes me that under your eye Barbara might soon take some of the humbler and more mechanical parts of your duty off your hands, and so give you more time for the rest. Make her pay you honestly for all she demands from you, if you can. It will do her good, and satisfy her love of inde- pendence." '^he governess was evidently pleased, but not at all sur- prised, '^trangely accurate in her perceptions where her one faculty was concerned, she had early divined what was passing in Barbara^s thoughts ; but had said little, because Barbara showed almost oateutatiously (and, perhaps, IJ2 ABEL DRAKE'S WIFk. Otherwise she would not have beea understood) that she did not court her society. But thus appealed to, she gave what was asked (as she always did give anything she could bestow) with all her heart. And then Barbara discovered that her first feelings of repulsion and scorn, however na- tural or excusable under the circumstances, were quite unwarranted by the governess's true character. Nothing could be more sensible in itself, or better adapted to Bar- bara's position and duties than the plan Miss Featherstone- haugh now sketched out ; nothing more genial than her sympathy with Barbara's difficulties, sensitiveness, and de- termination. And so the young scholar found herself at last setting off in full sail, with a flowing tide and un- clouded skies, upon the great ocean of knowledge. One only perplexity remained : there were two pilots on board, knowing nothing of each other's relation w^ith the adven- turous mariner ; both peculiarly jealous of their position, rights, and privileges; and while Barbara could by no means throw one of them overboard, she was equally puzzled as to how she was to steer her way right forwards, if they should happen to take it into their heads to give her contradictory directions. But she determmed to keep her own counsel ; and Mrs. Wolcombe laughingly agreed that, on the whole, perhaps, it was best that she should do so. LlbERTY. 123 CHAPTER IX. LIBERTY. Nearly two years and a half have passed. Evening draws on. Miss Featherstonehaugh stands at the window of the drawing room, looking through her large gold eye-glass at something outside. She is in full ball costume. Her scarlet and white dress is looped up with bunches of green holly, which, as Hugh complains to his mamma, scratch his bare legs every time she comes near. And now the holly rustles noisily as she turns with a sudden exclama- tion, — *' Barbara !" Barbara is leaning over Mrs. Wolcombe's arm-chair at the far end of the room, arranging the pillows with a ten- derness of touch that makes the kind soft eyes look their thankfulness, as the weary head falls back upon the coveted place of repose. " I'm so glad you came down," whispered Barbara. "Yes, mamma, this grand night, it would never do for you not to be here," said Maud. " What would Lancelot and everybody say ?" It was indeed a grand night for Coppeshall. First, there was Lancelot coming home quite unexpectedly. Then, 124 ABEL drake! S WIFE. Miss Eeatherstoneliaugb, wlio. iu jspite of her pecu- liarities, was liked, and enjoyed general respect, was going to leave the next day, in order to live with a rich widowed sister, and educate her children. Lastly, Barbara was to take Miss Featherstonchaugh's place with certain special auxiliary aid ; and as her former position in the family was well known, Mrs. Wolcombe had thought it well to intro- duce her formally to her friends as her children's future governess. "Barbara!" again called Miss Featherstonehaugh, "come and look at this quaint old man at the gate.'' Barbara went to the window, and her face flushed with pleasure, not unmixed with a certain uneasiness, as she said — "That is my old schoolmaster, Mr. Isaac Sleigh. Didn't you know Mrs. Wolcombe was kind enough to invite him ?" " Dear me, no ! Ah, I know him now, the poor little man that is so troubled with the boys in the church. How kind of her ! He has something inside that brow. I must talk to him." " He doesn't talk much," said Barbara. " Ah, but see if I don't bring him out, my dear." " I'm afraid you will," thought Barbara. But at this iroment the folding doors were thrown wide open, and the man-servant announced, with a sort of ironical impressive- ness of manner, — " Mr. Isaac Sleigh !" Barbara saw Miss Featherstonehaugh advancing m all that amplitude of her garments which so expressed the ex- pansion of her benevolent mind, to drop dovrn upon ani LIBERTY. \2\ take undisputed possession of the poor schoolmaster; and she vainly tried to think of some word or deed that might prevent for a time the meeting she so dreaded. As she hesitated, she saw Hugh and Maud, who had understood the servant's tone, exchange a mischievous smde as they looked at the small, neat, and yet shabby figure that shivered dubiously at the threshold ; and Barbara, who knew well what brushing and renovating those rusty black clothes must have undergone, to become what they now appeared — what time that snowy white neckcloth must have taken to tie into so spruce a bow, in order that its mended portions might be kept out of sight — Barbara, knowing this, saw she must hesitate no longer ; for if Isaac noticed the smile, he would understand it but too well, and feel it but too keenly : the tiniest arrow may make sad havoc in the heart of an incurable wound. So while Miss Featherstonehaugh stopped to extricate her dress from the fringe of a table-cover, to which the holly had caught in passing, Barbara got before her, and wel- comed Mr. Sleigh, and took him to Mrs. Wolcombe, who had promised to aid her in warding off the threatened ex- planations. Barbara was glad to see that Isaac, though nervous and hesitating, was more self-possessed, on the whole, than she had expected. The people did trouble him a little at first, certainly ; but as to the magnificence of the place, he seemed quite unconscious of it, and, on the whole, appeared more at home in it than in his own squalid chamber. Though Isaac led what might be called a lonely life, he never was really alone anywhere. His learning, if not profound in itself, was still to him a separate, ideal, 126 ABEL drake's WIFE. and inexhaustible world, in which he could shut himself up, and forget the hard and actual world where the rest of his life was passed : a world peopled by things of sucli refinement, beauty, and grandeur, that, coming from it to this more common-place everyday sphere, how could he be very deeply impressed with any of the things, or the people, it might have to show ? This, at all events, was Isaac's own secretly-treasured theory ; and he was the best judge of its practical value in the wear and tear of life. As Barbara led him to the arm-chair, and his eyes turned slowly from her face to Mrs. Wolcombe's, the latter said to him, " I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Sleigh ; I hardly dared hope you would break through your rules, and come to us to-night.'' The politeness of the words, and the sweetness of the tone, puzzled Isaac much, by raising so many fragments of ideas of what he might, and, perhaps, ought to say in return, that there is no telling how long he would have remained with his eyes on that lady's face, shaking the thin, white, damp hand, if a sudden voice at the door had not made them both turn and listen. Job was standing there, having just deposited on the floor an armful of ivy, mistletoe, holly, and Portugal laurel ; Barbara, it seemed, was ordering him to go away, while the children were trying, by alternate threatenings and coaxings, to drag l»im farther into the room, to help them to fasten a great wreath of evergreens they had just prepared for the chan- delier. " What's the matter, Barbara ?" asked Mrs. Wolcombe, raising her voice with an effort. " Mus'n't Job come in?" LIBERTY. 1-7 " 0, he is so dreadfully dirty, mamma!" observed the sage and sad Miss Helen, who, as elder sister, thought she ought always to take Baibaia's part. At this moment Job was fairly dragged in by Hugh, who had got hold of his.eoat-tails ; and as Job knew that they at least couldn't afford to resist, he yielded, and fol- lowed the young gentleman across the superb carpet. But when he met the grave, slow eye of his former school- master, and the quiet smile of Mrs. Wol combe, he stood still, and looked, for once in his life, ashamed. •' You are indeed dirty, Job/^ said IMrs. Wolcombe, trying not to laugh ; but her tone seemed so sad to Job, who had not seen her for a long time, that he was strangely -touched ; and not knowing how else to please her, he said, giving his head a jerk, and throwing back his hair, " Beg pardon, aw'm sure ! Happen my feace is very mucky. But shall aw go and wash it for you, ma'am ? Aw will — in a minnit l"" " Yes, pray do ; and for me, Job, if you can't do it for yourself;'' and Job shambled out of the room amidst the laughter of the children, and made for the kitchen, bully- , ing the cook famously when ho got there, in a sense of his authority and position. Meanwhile Miss Featherstonehaugh had taken advan- tage of^the fact, that Mrs. Wolcombe's attention was dis- tracted from the schoolmaster to introduce herself to him, and to take a seat by his side. Barbaia thought she would remain near them, and so possibly prevent their talk turning on herself. They now all gathered in a large semicircle round the blazing fire, with its hissing and spitting logs, except Hugh and Poppy, who would not 128 leave the windows, where they might get the first glimpsie of Lancelot, and Mr. Wolcombe, who had gone to mee( him. Mrs. Wolcombe looked at her watch. " He will be here in five minutes," she said ; and leant back with a happy smile on her face. Barbara got up, and whispered something in her ear — • to which she replied, " Yes, by all means ;" and Barbara left the room. In a minute or two she returned with Timon and Isidore, for whom room was made on the hearth-rug : a trying position for such dogs before such a company. Timon, however, with a single glance out of his one eye at Barbara, that said, as plainly as it could speak, " You are the only person I care for among them all," and which reminded her of the very different glance she had once seen there, laid himself down, without the least ceremony, just as if he had never known any other resting-place. But poor Isidore was in a dreadful state of discomfort. He fawned, and winced, and rolled over on his back, and dangled his paws every time he was 'iven looked at ; and literally whined with sympathetic »pain when Mrs. Wolcombe stooped to stroke him, in the hope of easing his mind. " Here they are ! Here they are V cried Hugh, and he bounded across the room, and rushed out through the door; while Poppy — little, toddling, fat Poppy — tried, as usual, to follow his example, but rolled on the carpet in- stead. Maud and Helen clapped their hands, and ran after Hugh. Miss Featherstonehaugh rose, and shook out her dress, and stood prepared ; while Barbara moved her chair into the shade beside her old master. Mrs. Wolcombe closed her eyes and sighed — she alone could LIBER TV. TCg not go to meet him ; she could only listen with straining ears for the old footstep on the stairs. Timon, perceiving that something was up, pricked his ears and growled ; which made Isidore glance askance at him, and then — wagging his stump of a tail — wait for clearer orders. The old voice was now heard on the stairs ; not quite so gruff perhaps, but fuller and deeper than it used to be. Then there was a quick footstep in advance of the others, and presently a figure knelt before the arm-chair ; and its head was clasped, and kissed, and its forehead bedewed with the holiest of holy water, a mother's tears. Then there was a long, deep, and agitated silence. But when the fond mother could raise her eyes, and look upon Lancelot's face, so brown, manly, and calm, so full of quiet strength, O how happy it made her. She read all she wanted to know in a very few glances. And he too perfectly understood her. " yes, mother," he said, with a meaning smile, and in a deep tone, " still the same, only with all the non- sense knocked out of me. 0, by the bye, I'm to be gazetted as lieutenant next week. What, Timon, you here ?" he exclaimed, as, finding a cold nose thrusting itself into his hand, he turned to see what it meant. " Isidore, too ; charming as ever ! Mr. Sleigh !" Lance- lot rose, and shook hands cordially with the school- master. " And how does the school get on ?" Mr. Isaac did not answer very promptly. Lancelot wondered if he were remembering what the question used to be when thry met : " Any pretty girls growing up in Uie school, Mr Sleigh ?" but Isaac was simply brinf^pg '3° ABEL drake's WIFE. his eyes into a position to understand the change he saw from the rude, mischievous youth to the dignified, geutlemaniy man ; so Lancelot, without waiting, turned away to speatc to other guests who had just arrived ; and Barbara began to hope he had seen her, and that no formal explanations about her were to follow. Presently Mrs. Wolcon.be called her to come and stand by her side, so that she could introduce her to the guests as they came up. And to begin with, she looked round and asked for Lancfflot. He bad left the room, somebody said. " 0, gone to dress !" observed Mrs. Wolcombe ; but in her thoughts she followed Lancelot's steps to the school- room and nursery. Li a iew minutes he returned, and she fancied his face looked puzzled and clouded. " Lancelot," she said, taking Barbara's hand, and drawing her forward into the light, " I must introduce you to our new governess, Barbara Giffard.'' He took her hand in silent surprise, yet seeming as if half inclined to laugh. What ! This quiet young lady, with her easy grace, the abrupt and plain-spoken Barbara ? It seemed too absurd ! And yet when she smiled and spoke, whose smile could so instantaneously convert strength into sweetness of expression ? whose voice but Barbara's could have that round, even, richness of tone, where the fulness of the music seemed but the natural vehicle for the completeness of the thought ? and then the old accent still chnging just a little to the words, perhaps because she was somewhat nervous under his searchir."- gaze. He laughed once, his old low laugh, when he iieara that, and seemed to think it was all right. Then he- looked round to his mother ; and Barbara knew ^uite weil LIBER TV. . 131 what flattering things he was saying to her about her in- fluence, &c., and that the wonder was fast clearing off, as he remembered who had been Barbara's protectress and friend. What else there might be of recognition of the thoughts of each other in the mutual glance it might be difficult to explain ; but it was odd enough that both turned away into a kind of sudden silence. And Lancelot presently found his eyes following Bar- bara about whithersoever she went, with an interest that he hardly seemed to care to conceal, not at least from his own mind. " Yes/' thought he, " there is the old self still, in spite of the bloom upon the rounded cheeks, and the soft- ness of the genial mouth and eyes which used to be so stern and cold. My mother is nothing less than an en- chantress. Everything rough or unlovely begins to modify its nature when it gets under her eye ; or to recover its nature if it had only been spoiled for the time. Yet, much as I did expect, I did not expect this." Lieutenant Wolcombe (as folks now persisted in calling him, in anticipation of the Gazette) was not the only per- son who watched Barbara with unusual interest. Miss Featherstonehaugh stood at a little distance, touching her eyes with her handkerchief to wipe away a genuine tear or two, as she heard Mrs. Wolcombe receive the congratu- lations of the guests on her interesting protegee. Yes, " interesting ;" that was the word ; society always likes to get hold of some nicely-balanced phrase that won't compro- mise it to express the mood or opinion of the hour ; so everybody agreed Barbara was an "interesting" young person. Isaac deard all this, and felt as though he could have ABEL DKAt^E'S WIFE, gladly sat there for ever ro nsten to such praises of his pupil, and be able the while to look on her, and say, " It is less than she deserves." Presently, Miss Featherstonehaugh caught sight of him sitting alone, and she swept grandly through all obstacles until she found herself a second time on a chair by his side, ready at last for a cosy bit of chat. " What a change, Mr. Sleigh !" she began. " What a wonderful change .' You remember her, I suppose, as she was r " Remember ! Yes, yes." Isaac remembered her. " I assure you, Mr. Sleigh, I can hardly reahse it myself at times. Look at her. Is it possible that that is the same poor, miserable, ignorant, wishy-washy thin"- that came here less than three years ago ? Well, sir, that's what learning can do ! There's a lesson for the world, Mr. Sleigh ! Is it not ? Learning has done it all !" " Yes ; all, all V Isaac answered. And the tender joy that lit up his blue eyes, as he gazed at Barbara, showed how fully he believed what he said. Not for a moment did he doubt but that it was learning which lent the pe- culiar charm to Barbara's manner, gave the richness to her tone — the earnest, fearless glance to her eye — even the grace and the chaste whiteness to her dress. And his heart thrilled with a delight too great to bear in silence, m he thought — " And I have been the instrument of this, under God's blessing !" He wanted now to speak. He wanted to throw this almost perilous overcharge of the sou( s electricity that seemed ready to push him on into any conceivable outburst of foolish conceit ! Poor Isaac ! He did now covet a bit of worldly praise, now that he Liberty. 133 thought every one must be ready to ackuovvledge his righ: to it. Here was something he had succeeded in. But hfl would not forget his promise to Barbara to be quiet till he received her permission to spt-ak. So he began to think of what he would say after supper, if Barbara's health should be drunk^ and he be called on to respond. But while his soul was growing eloquent in advance, and the moisture was dimming his eye at the pathetic sentiments he was going to express, he was interrupted by something said near him, and a faint flush of excitement overspread his face. It was comhig ! He had heard a question put by one of the guests, and he saw that Barbara heard it too, as she stood by Mrs. Wolcombe's chair, for she looked his way, and then her eyes dropped. Yes, Isaac was right. Barbara did hear the gentleman ask who had been her instructor — and she also heard the loud answer, "0, Miss Featherstonehaugh !" And then she saw that lady bow- ing in a vei'y stately' manner to all points of the compass, while one guest after another made comments. And when that was over, the governess, feeling her tongue loosened at last, began to expatiate on the blessings of education generally, and of the particular modes that she found it best to adopt, with a zeal and abandon that seemed to show she was conscious this was her last night at Coppeshall ; and that she felt it her duty to leave, as a parting gift, the full knowledge of not only how Barbara had been got to the existing point of success, but how any given num- ber of Barbaras might be similarly produced at pleasure. At another time Barbara herself might have scarcely known whether to laugh at or to resent all this r.bsurdity, but 110?/ she could only wonder what Isaac Sleigh was 134 Abel d rakers wiFk. thinking about. Just then a slip of paper was put mtc Mr. "V^'olcombe's hands. " Dear me !" he said, looking round after r^admr it. " Mr. Sleigh gone home, unwell ! Very sorry ;" and then he pursued a rather interesting conversation he was en- gaged in. " Gone !" thought Barbara, and she felt now deeply to re})roach herself for the consequences of her innocent secrecy. Yes, Isaac had gone. He had seen and heard enoiigh. He restrained himself sufficiently to think of some excuse — were it only that he might veil over his feelings ; so he stopped under the hall lamp, and wrote with his pencil a hasty line to Mr. Wolcombe, gave it to the servant, and hurried out into the brilliant starlit night. He trembled and shivered with the cold, but he thought not of it, but simply hurried blindly on. His thin, half-clad figure was the only form that darkened the snow-covered road. For the first time in his life he seemed to turn against the feet that trod upon him, and to listen to the wild voices that shrieked in his ear — " Do something to repel this out- rage !" But the utmost that they could get out of Isaac was the moaning cry — " I cannot bear it ! I cannot bear it V But the words had no sooner passed his thin lips than he stood still in the middle of the road, and leaning with both hands on the handle of his stick, murmured, '' What did I say ? God help me, if I have not yet learned how to bear all things — how to endure all things ! I must bear. I can do nothing else. 0, God help me nothing else !" Isaac took ofi^ his hat, and looked up- wards, bareheadedj into the heavens, and his lips moved, LIBiRTV. 13* but no more words were audible. Then, as he pursued his way, he began to persuade hiinself that everything was as he might naturally have expected it to be. It was a truth, he supposed ; Barbara had been trusting to the- governess, but why did she deceive him — why did she let him so deceive himself? He shook his head, and went on faster. And then again he stopped, for his heart was throbbing violently, and compelled him to pause ; and again he looked up, with t,^rs in his eyes, at the frosty stars, ask- ing humbly once more as he had asked when the dream began — "Why was this happiness sent to me?" And then he answered himself with his old mingling of faith and self-reproach — " Learn ! learn ! learn !" At last he was at home ! returning to it as after an- other great contest with the waves of life, during whicli everything precious had been thrown overboard ; and the poor, black, dismantled hull of a soul came heavily, yet with a kind of gladness, into the harbour. He tended his childish mother with more than usual gentleness that night, and sat so long gazing yearningly into her vacant face that she grew troubled, and pushed him away from her, saying, " To your books, Isaac — to your books . 'twill be school-time soon, when the Master will hear us all \" And Isaac sighed, and went and knelt down by his bed behind the screen, and prayed that he might not be per- mitted to fall into any more such dreams, and that God would send him strength ere the morning to meet so joy- less a dawn. Let us return to the drawing-room. Late at night, v.hen most of the guests had gone away. 136 ABEL drake's WIFE. Lancelot, who had seemed to grow more and more restless every nour, s;iia suddenly to his mother, " There's a fire in the little room ; let me wheel your chair there. 1 want to tell you something." Mrs. Wolcombe consented, though looking as though she did not particularly covet any kind of revelation then; she was weary with the long physical eflforts she had made to sit up. However, Lancelot was allowed to do as he pleased, and his mother's weakness rendered all apologies unnecessary for her withdrawal from the few remaining guests. Lancelot waited not a moment to begin. " Mother, I bring home news that will startle a friend of yours, and that you alone can make known to her.'' Lancelot's voice shook a little as he spoke, and there needed no more to warn the listener of what was coming. " Abel Drake " " Yes — is dead. He died many months ago in Canada through an accident on the river." " How did you happen to learn this ?" " Because I made it my business to discover. I judged long ago he was dead, or he must have come back. I have seen one of his own officers, who told me so. Don't be surprised, mother, at what I have done. I could rest no longer without knowing the truth." '' Indeed ! Is it so, Lancelot ?" "It is. And now, mother " " Well, Lancelot ?" ** You know how all is with me, and has been. Little as your letters told of her progress, you could not be quite tiient, and I made much of what you did say= Ecr months LIBERTY. 137 past slie has never been out of my thoughts. Well, 1 learned this, and then I wanted to see her once more j and now I have seen her. That's all.'' The mother paused a long time, and Lancelot grew un- easy and impatient. '' You are grieved, mother?" '' No, I should have been, perhaps, a year ago; but I have grown to love Barbara almost like one of my own children, so how can I complain of your feeling towards her ?" " But she — what will she say V* " I cannot tell." Lancelot seemed for the moment unpleasantly affected by this answer; evidently he had not anticipated it, per- haps had rather calculated on something very different. After looking down for a brief space, with his hands on his knees, he rose, saying, " Well, mother, let her know about him as soon as possible; to-night, if you can." '^ And if, as 1 fear, this rather sends her heart away from you, or, in other words, back to him, what then?" " You do not fear she woidd refuse me?" " You would not ask her yet ?" " Of course not. I would not even talk to you now, but that I must go away before long, perhaps to stay away for years. Remember, he has been dead nearly a twelve- month, and I am not bound to feel any special tenderness towards the memory of such a man ; but I should not like to be refused. Do you fear that ?" " And if she did refuse, Lancelot, you are a man, and would get over the disappointment." " Mother, 1 dare say it's all very absurd, but, in truth, 1 33 ABEL drake's WIFE. 1 have so long allowed uiyselt' to tliink of her as destined to be my future wife — that— that " Again the young soldier's voice became unsteady, and the mother's heart hastened to try to relieve and re-assure him by friendly counsel. " Your father '■' " Would yield; I am sure of that. At the worst, I could but bribe him by a promise to stay at home." " What!" and the mother gave an imperceptible sigh over some secret thought ; '' would you resign the army and your prospects ?" *' Not if it can be helped.'* "But if it can't?" '' Well, then, yes. I have weighed all that, and de- cided to-night with a firmness and rapidity that even Barbara would respect ; and she's about the suddenest person in settling things of any woman I ever knew. You remember how she helped to march me off ; it was a mercy she allowed me time for a clean shirt ! But, mother, I don't want to be rejected, mind that !" " So you wish to deprive poor Barbara of one privilege of her sex ?" " That one, certainly. And now, mother, speak ! How is it all to be ? I'm not fond of talking, and particularly about such subjects, where one can't, you know, when perplexed by an enemy's feints or diplomacies, put an end to the nonsense by a straightforward bayonet- charge." " Well, I will tell Barbara the news you bring. After a few days I will draw her into conversation, and perhaps I may learn something that may guide you." L.'BERTV. 139 " That's it ! Just saj', ' Lancelot, ^o\x needn't hurry awiiy, I think/ or something of that kind, and I shan't." " And if " " hang the ifs ! I shall understand but too well, if it comes to that.'^ What Barbara thought or felt on receiving Lancelot's news a few minutes later by Mrs. Wolcombe's bedside, no one ever knew. She asked — but it was as quietly as usual — if she could be spared to go to her mother's for the night, received the sympathetic answer with apparent coldness, and went away ; to return not for three entire days. At the end of that time she came back, placid- looking and self-possessed, and resumed her duties with- out a word of explanation. And then Lancelot, who had grown irritable and absent-minded during the second day, and strangely depressed, moody, and solitary on the third, revived at once, and watched and waited from night to night for the promised signal. Not till nearly a fortnight had elapsed did his mother look at him in the way he knew she would look when ready to speak, and then, the moment they were alone, he needed only one glance at her face to guess what was coming. " God bless you, my boy ! I think you had better go." And he went, with a smile upon his face. Some days after, when he was tossing on the stormy waves of the Atlantic, and amusing himself with a kind of ironical comparison between their tumult and the kindred agitation that reigned in his own breast, his poor mother was sending to him her last dying breath, in one pas- sionate cry — " Lancelot ! my boy, Lancelot !''* And he knew it not for months afterwards. '40 ABEL DRAKE'S WlFk. «CHi\PTKrt y. JOB DISTURBED IN THE POETRY OF IDLENESS. Again our story takes a leap forwards. Job lay oasKiiig m the afternoou sun. He was not asleep. His dull, neavy eyes, shaded by the rim of his hat, kept a httle open, fixed upon the fields of ripe corn. He was just conscious of the bird- boy's musical cry and rattle, now breaking faintingly and soothingly on his ear from afar off, and now shrill and near enough to make him wince by the sudden and unwelcome clamour. In this uncertain state he believed himself to be only enjoying the singular beauty of the ripe summer afternoon in a kind of poetic trance, broken only from time to time by an incipient yawn. Far as he could see before him lay the swelling uplands rising higher and higher as they extended further and fur. ther off; and covered with green fields of corn, so ripe that if the least breeze touched it it gave out a low seeth- ing sound; hardly a rustle, as the ears pressed shelter- ingly together. Between Job and the nearest of the corn- fields was a pond of stagnant water, from which a mist was rising. It looked hardly any cooler than the hot tongues of the cows standing in it, knee deep, and gaziui? dreamily straight before them, as though enjoying the heat JOB DISTURBED IN THE POETRY OF IDLENESS. I41 and beauty of the hour very much in the manner a-nd spirit of Job himself. As we have already intimated, that luxurious personage was not asleep. In proof, for instance, he would occa- sionally turn his back to the village, and let his eyes travel slowly along the green or common to where it sunk suddenly, and left only visible the black chimney-top Oi the factory. This rose from the unseen depths beyond, and stood out against the sky, like a low altar; giving forth, however, no fragrant incense. But as the sight of the fact suggested unpleasing reflectioi>s, Job's eyes never rested tlrere long, but would gradually climb up the neigh- bouring hill (the only way it would ever be climbed by Job) and rest on Barden Wood, which the red sunlight was painting in such gorgeous colours that it would be hard to say whether it were more beautiful now, or when we saw the sun rise behind its delicate spring foliage some six years ago, at the period of the opening of our story. When tired of that prospect, Job would turn heavily round again towards the village, and condescend to interest himself in the condition and affairs of his neigh- bours. Only a few yards away stood the row of collages that had been recently built by Mr. Wolcombe ; and, as every one t-aid, at the suggestion of his deceased wife whose Christian name they bore. Their red-tile roofs were shining hotly in the sun. The plants in the little front gardens drooped low to the hard white soil. One or two doors stood open, showing a comfortable tea prepared with- in, while the old grandfather, or the ailing girl left at home in charge, stood on the threshold, or leant over the garden- gate, shading the eyes with the hands, and looking im- 142 ABEL drake's WIFE. patiently towards the factory. Younger children who had been left in the care of neighbours, and who were tired of playing on the green, and wanted their tea, had crouched down on their outside closed doors, and while waiting for their mothers to come home with the keys, had fallen asleep there. The last house but one had a porch or archway framed of willows, and covered with everlasting peas, now in the richest bloom. Its two windows had plants outside — originally gifts to Barbara from Mrs. Wolcombe, and in- tended for the companionship of the snowdrops, on the sill of the nursery window, but transferred by Barbara to her mother's new home, one by one, on her visits to her. In- side the windows appeared white muslin curtains. All the cottages looked pretty, but decidedly this one stood out from the rest, by the profusion of its flowers, and by a certain air of refinement in all those little matters which tell to the passer- by something of the life within. At the door, with her knitting in her hands, and an old tabby cat curled up at her feet, sat the widow Giffard; looking, one could almost fancy, many years younger than she had looked when we first saw her in Abbott's-court. Still she was not without her troubles, even now. As ill-luck would have •'t, the little card, " Lodgings," remained where it had for some time been, in the window. Job noticed it, and could scarcely repress a kind of enthusiastic idea which would occasionally come over him, of relieving the widow's n.ind by taking them himself. But Job's eyes— and certainly it were a calumny to call them idle — did not even rest there, after their long passage to and fro. Either the glazed red tiles^ throwing bacK tne JOB DISTURBED IN THE FOE TRY OF IDLENESS. I4J fierce red rays of the sun with equal fierceness, dazed theui, 01 the pictures of neatness and industry they suggested troubled them j so they went off again, travelling slowly on to where the rosy-cheeked apples nodded and laughed^ mockingly, over the high garden wall of the parsonage, aa though they thought Job was too lazy even to steal them , thence to the little grey church, and the steep bit of hil) behind, dotted over with white tombstones, some of which were overhung by low trees, until they reached the top of the hill, which stretched across in a straight line against the sky. It was behind this line the sun would presently smk, as Job well knew by past experience, and the sly -ogue was quite aware he was keeping that spectacle as the vast morsel of his feast, before making up his mind to be prudent, shun nignt-dews, and go home. Already the grand red ball was fit awing down to^'ard the edge, and throwing out into wonderful relief a haystack and a leafless old hawthorn, which at other times was u-nnoticeable, when Job's eyes, beginning to weary of blinking at the sun, and getting the worst of it at every encounter, turned away. Just then a great bluebottle fastened upon a naked part of his knee that was exposed through a hole in the trousers. Job winced, and shook his knee, and the fly dropped lazily off an inch or two, then dropped back, and settled in exactly :he same place, and tickled Job till he could really bide no longer. So he suddenly hit his knee a tremendous blow, but left the bluebottle buzzing about, as if asking if any- Dody could tell what was the matter. Would he do it yet a third time ? Job seemed to ask, in a savage glance ; and, tr his disgust, the fly did come to the same spot, and drove some his weapon right into Job's marrows That done, he 144 Abel drake's wife. buzzed so suddenly and unpleasantly in Job's face, that thd latter struck out in an agony of alarm, with a strong eT- ciamatfon. And then Job really was vexed to see and hear tne great big bullying fellow go off, booming away, in triumph, to places whither Job dared not even io imagina- tion think of the labour of following him. Job now rose slowly up, feeling very naturally a little tired and somewhat sleepy after such exertions, gave a tremendous yawn that even the far-off bluebottle might have heard with dismay, and determined to do a "bit o' vvark," by drawing up from the well all the arrears of water due to the neighbouring housewives. But when he had reached the low stone wall surrounding the spring, it struck him for the first time what a fine view that low wall afforded of the Cartney-road ; so he sat down, stuck his elbows on his knees, his chin on his dirty hands, pulled his hat a little more over his eyes — no doubt to concentrate their vision — and — and — presently found himself going off into a cozy sleep. Pshaw ! Job wouldn't do anything of the kind. That water he would draw — soon ! though it was, as he reflected pensively, " uncommon low" in the well. How- ever, he gave himself a sort of shake — that is, he fancied he did so. A breeze now began to stir, but it was hot and nnrefreshing, and its unsatisfactory qualities seemed only made the more perceptible by the faint seething of the corn, the low rustling of the great tree over the pond, the fall of a brown horse-chestnut from it, the flutter of a dead leaf in the grass, and the rising of a cloud of white dust in the Cartney-road. As Job sat there dimly conscious of these things going on about him, he became aware of •notlier and quite a different sound mingling with them. *fOB DISTURBED IN THE POErRV OF IDLENESS. I4) ft was like a heavy distant tramp in the dust. He raised his head, and looked along the straggling road. He saw a figure : a gipsy woman it appeared to be, with/ a child strapped to her back. A very strange figure it seemed, and Job stared till his eyes ached, in the endeavour to raaKe it out more clearly ; and then he shut them to give them a bit of relief; and then — why then he was gone! Yes, be was fast asleep, and dreaming of having his fortune told by a great bluebottle. A grand fortune it was too, though the particulars were so lazily droned out. He was promised handfuls of gold. He saw himself in bed at noon, with servants hanging about him splendidly dressed, who had long golden things hanging from their shoulder-knots, and who were all holding pipes of 'bacca ready filled, and jugs of creamy mild ale in a long succession ; or handing him garments that seemed made to drop on to him, and fit into their proper place without an effort. But somehow the six pence was missing wherewith to purchase all these good things; and the bluebottle wouldn't give credit. Job regretted now he had offended him, and so he went on hopelessly fumbling in his pocket with one hand, while he rubbed his knee with the other, which the bluebottle still tickled, as though afraid he would fall asleep, until at last Job told the bluebottle-gipsy woman it was no use, he hadn't got a farthing; when the old woman, in a rage, stretched out her hand, and pushed him maliciously— right backwards into the well ! And that part of the dream was not merely a dream Job woke in an agony, finding himself actually being pushed back over the deep water ; so he gave one tre- tiendous yell that brought the people in the cottages to 146 ABEt DRAKE'S, •//IFE, the doors to see what was the matter, and tried to spring up ; but he found his efforts unnecessary, the arm whicli had pushed was also holding him, and it now allowed him to jump to his feet, very wide awake indeed, and to turn fiercely on the intruder. He saw the same figure he had noticed coming along the road; bat which, instead of being an old gipsy woman with a baby, was a broad-shouldered man, with a large package, covered with oil-skin, slung on his back. His ?ye twinkled with a mirthful expression as it met Job's, who stood shaking with rage and fright. ""Why, old fellow, you were ned,rly gone ! Lucky for you I came jusc in time !'^ "Aw say !" replied Job, " dunna do that agin ! Think aw wur asleep ? This time o' day !'* The children now began to gather round them; and one girl, with a baby nearly as big as herself, and another clinging to her frock, walked right between them, looking up and staring agape from one to another. " Come, come,'' said the man, " I've saved your pre- cious life, now do something for mine. Give me a drink. Fm parched with thirst." " Get it yoursel' !" growled Job, pointing sulkily to the well. The man unsluug the package from his back, and set it carefully down on the edge of the well. Then by the aid of the draw-rope he lowered the pail which was fixed to it. " Draw it full whol y'are about it 1" now called out Job. "Why?" " Yo can drink easier out o' th' top, cannot yo ?" " True 1" said the man, with a laugh, as he obeyed yOB DISTURBED IN THE POETRY OF IDLENESS. I4? Job's instructions. He drew up the pail with some diffi- culty, for he was evidently fatigued, set it on the low cir- cling wall, knelt down, tilted its edge, and drank a long, deep, satisfying draught. As he raised his face, and turned away. Job, with considerable alacrity, seized the pail as though it were quite done with, and poured off its contents into one of his buckets. "Coom," thought Job to himself, as he surveyed the result, " I getteu a pail out o* him ! Wake enow for that \" And then Job gave vent to the low chuckle, which always expressed his feelings when he was parti- cularly amused. The man seemed much refreshed by his draught. He sat down on the edge of the well and gazed about him on the scene we have described. The children, emboldened by his nods and smiles, came gradually nearer. He tried now and then to chat with them, but it seemed impossible for him to keep his eyes quiet for an instant. They darted from one object to another incessantly. Very peculiar eyes they were. When they closed, as they often did, after gazing long in one direction, the face had a dark and Spanish air, with black bushy eyebrows, small sensitive mouth, black moustaches, and luxuriant black beard. But when the eyelids were raised, there looked forth from under those dark brows a pair of honest, genial, blue eyes, which with their friendly glance seemed to apologize for the stern dignity of the rest of the face, and give it almost a childlike simplicity of expression. At times, too, the eyes were moist, and the whole countenance suffused with tenderness, perhaps while reflecting on those dear to hira, whom he might have left behind in the far-distant 148 ^,BEL D RAKERS IVIFE. country from which he appeared to have come. The poor, sleepy children thought it a very winning face as it smiled down at them. Fatigued as he was, he seemed quite . struck with the beauty of the scene around him ; and in- terested himself eagerly in every passing sight or sound, with something of the poet's clear, sensitive eye and enjoy- ing soul. Thus, when the bird-boy, as he came idly saun- tering along the corn-field, suddenly shook his rattle, and then strolled along close to the hedge singing an old bird- song that had been passed down from one bird-scarer to another, from time immemorial, the man stood up, look- ing after the boy with those moist blue eyes, and listening with intense pleasure to his every word. The sun now appeared cut in two by the line of hill; the corn began to fold its ears against the coming dew, while the long sha- dows flickered over it in every part, seeking vainly a stable resting-place, and while birds wrangled for their proper places in the chestnut-tree over the pond. The man looked and listened, unwilling to disturb the enjoyment he felt, until the bird-boy ceased, the sun disappeared, and a deep silence everywhere prevailed. In a voice bro- ken with emotion, the man then said, while a sigh pre- ceded the words, — " Aye, 'tis a bonny, bonny place !** " Happen y'are a stranger in these parts V inquired Job, who had never once taken his eyes away from the man. " Aye, we have come a long way, I and my comrade here," answered the man, laying his hand upon the package. " Comrade ?" said Job, rather alarmed. The stranger smiled. •JOB DISTURBED /.V THE POETRY OF IDLENESS, I49 "Aye, comrade, brother, father, wife, child, everything to me;" and he sat down again to rest himself, and gently kept back the children, who were busy about the wrapper of the package, trying to get a peep at the stranger's family, which were confined there, they supposed. The fac- tory-bcU now rang ; the gates opened, and the mill-hands came forth, chatting, shouting, and laughing across the green, some on their way to the cottages, while others turned off at the corner towards Abbott's-court and the back of the village. Job was now assailed from door and window by the women, as they bustled about in the pre- paration for tea. " Job, whea dosta mean to bring th' wayter ? Job ! Job ! you lazy loppetts, I wish I wur at th' back o' thee — Job ! Job ! Job ! I say !" " Yo ma call," grunted Job, leisurely beginning the operations which could be no longer put off, " Why canna they draw for theirsels ? E —law ! How idle people grows." With another yawn, he now got up a bucket of water, filled his other pail, slowly adjusted the shoulder-yoke, hooked on the pails, and rose like a man to his hard fate, when the stranger stopped him. " Where can I get a decent lodging for the night ? I have some business at the mill to-morrow morning." *' Lodgia' ?" answered Job, a little maliciously, and re- peating himself on the well, without removmg his burden, but so that the pails rested on the ground, and be appeared in a kind of impromptu pillory. " Lodgin' ?" he re- peated, with a jerk of his head towards the open country. " Very nice fields an' hedgerows, an' warm ditch-bottoms !" The man shook his head with a smile. " Well, there's a 150 ABEL DRAKE^S IVIFE. comfortable barn yonder, ony the rats is troublesome, and sometimes I 'spects fleas." " Come, come," observed the man ; "a poor tired follow like me needs better accommodation than warm ditch- bottoins or barns with rats and fleas." " Whattcn, that won't do, neither \" chuckled Job. "Folks talk o' th' mischiefs o' idleness, but aw say look at th' corruptions o' industry ! Aw dunna want father- beds, an' washhond basins — an' " " Well, if you can't, or won^t help me, I suppose I must go back to the old lesson, and help myself." But Job had begun to reflect a little more seriously, and so he said, " Lodgin' ! There's widow Giffard's, second house yonder, wi' th' flowers and mooslins ! Awm going there wi' th' wayter. She doesn't tak' in onybody. She's getten too grand for that sin' her daughter " Job was interrupted by a yawn, which he, in vain, tried to repress. " She ma tak' you if she likes yo " " Aw'll see," he was going to say, but the words could not get out, for another prolonged yawn stopped the way. Again he tried to speak, "Aw'll ," and again the jaws began their involuntary expansion — till Job, with a great effort, suddenly exclaimed, " Con found I" and rolled heavily away with the swinging buckets. " Aw say, widow," observed Job, as he reached the place where she sat, " there's a man wants a lodgin'. Aw hae na opinion o' him. Dunna ye tak' him in." " Have the goodness, Job, to mind your own business," was the answer, " and then you won't spill the water all over the floor." She immediately went towards the group of children that surrounded the stranger. He rose, with JOB DISTURBED IN THE POETRY OF IDLENESS. 15I a slight flush, as if ashamed to have giv^n her the trouble to come to him — or as if suddenly conscious of the shab- biness of his clothes, which he glanced down at. '• The water-carrier, yonder/' said he, '■ suggested you might give me a bed. I shall be glud, if you can." The widow hesitated, not thinking so much of Job's officious advice, but feeling reluctant to harbour one who in garb differed little from the ordinary class of tramps that visited Barden Brow about havvest-time ; a class that the widow did not feel herself inclined at any time to accommodate. But she could not help liking the man's face, so she said, " I have a spai-e room, certainly. May I ask your business ?" He began at once — and to the children's great delight — to uncover the mysterious package. Some of them squeezed in between the Vi'idow and the strang'^r ; others climbed on to the low masonry encircling the well, and looked over his shoulders, or under his arms, with mouth and eyes wide open; some half-dozen blackberry-stained hands even ventured to assist in drawing ofl" the covering. But when they saw what it was, they stared in blank dis- appointment. It was simply a machine-model, occupying the inside of an oblong box, and which was exposed to view by dropping a small portion of one side, that was fastened to it by leather hinges, and used as a lid. " See," said the man, " this is my invention. It is the model of an improvement in the weaving process. It deals merely with a certain bit of detail in the ordinary machine, but that bit involves a saving of many hundreds a year in such a factory as yours. Imagine then its value, if you reckon up all the factories of England — to say no- 152 ABEL DRAKES IVIFE. thing of other countries/* The eyes of the speakei" sparkled, and had a peculiar look with them as though they were gazing through some long-drawn vista. Then, with a sort of good-humoured laugh at his own absence of mind — and demonstrative enthusiasm — he seemed to check himself, and to speak more quietly : even with a sigh. " Yes," said he, after a long look at the machine, '' I have been at it many years while knocking about in foreign parts. It was no easy thing to do." Seeing now the disappointment of the children at the exhibition of the stranger's family, he said, with mock gravity — " There's a boggart inside ! he'll move soon !'* They stared at him, drew a little off, and again stared. Meantime the widow stooped, and looked in. Presently she observed — "What a maze of little wheels and odd.crinkum- crankum-shaped thmgs !" " Doesn't it look mysterious?" " Very." " And quiet V* continued the Inventor. " Quiet ! Why, isn't it always so ?" " Put your finger there ;" and the man indicated a cer- tain round brass button. " Here?" said the widow, putting it rather timidity, ana naif-inclined to play the child herself, and let it alone. " Yes," said the man; ''' now press it down.* She did so, and the moment after could not repress an exclamation, as she saw what a multitudinous and noisy kind of life she h&d unexpectedly called into being. The whole machine seemed to become instinct with a wonder- ful kind of activity ; innumerable wheels-of every possible shape and variety went whirling round and round on a ^OB DISTURBED AV THE POETRY OF IDLENESS. I53 business tliat was to her perfectly inexplicable, and with a rushing speed that made her almost dizzy to look at. " Dear me ! Why, it's alive !" she exclaimed, after a little recovering her self-possession. The children who at the first noise and movement had huddled together in readiness for immediate flight, now came jumping about it, shouting in the wildest excite- ment — " It's alive ! it's alive ! it's alive !" As to the Inventor, he scarcely cared to conceal his de- light. He rubbed his hands together, and smiled and nodded at the children, who, for their parts, took no notice of him, so engrossed were they with the strange antics of the machine. *^ Come in — come in," said the widow, now leading the way towards her cottage, followed by the man ; who wished the children " good- night," in a manner that sufficiently intimated he was not desirous of their com- pany any longer. They eyed him wistfully till he disap- peared — then ran uome to carry tlie news of the boggai't and ins keei>nr« I »54 CHAPTER XT. V AN inventor's dreams. The train of thought that had been started in the^ ln~ venter's mmd could not let him be still. He had scarcely entered the widow's cottage, and set his burden on the table, and re-opened it for the widow to take yet another look, before he began to iterate her word — " Alive ! Aye, but you don't know how much that means to me. Dost think these bits of rubbish, these odds and ends of old wood and iron mostly picked up in the street, — dost think they could do all this by mere hand-cunning ? No ! no ! When I have sweated over it night by night in some wretched garret, after doing mayhap a hard day's work beforehand of regular labour, when I have sawed and punched, and filed till I was ready to drop down with fatigue, I have often felt as though there was some real and living thing in the chamber beside me, imprisoned in the dead wood and metal, but crying out to me to let it loose, that it might set to work for the benefit of the world, and for me. And at times I have almost fancied I heard an actual voice whisper to me — ' Courage ! your strength and youth are not wasted. They are here. All that you gave to me I will return you a thousandfold. Faint not .' Fear not ! Spare not ! Mine AN INVENTOR^S DREAMS. I55 shall be the voice that will tell how thou hast spent all these weary years/ And then I have risen with new energy and hope, feeling that I was infusing my own soul into that ungainly body, and creating an actual living thing." The widow found herself listening with an interest that grew every moment stronger. And as her eyes and ears lingered on the man's face and voice, her thoughts un- consciously wandered back, years back, into her troubled life. For there seemed a something in them that revived the past ; but dimly, and afar off; as a passage in a tune heard for the first time will sometimes bring back the feelings with which some other and famihar tune was once heard. Old thoughts and feelings seemed to revive ; some sad, some happy. The widow seemed disturbed by both. And the patient, almost cold expression natural to her, softened strangely ; and tears came into her wintry grey eyes, as she stood at the window listening to the stranger's voice — " — looking on tlie happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more." As to him, he by no means reciprocated the widow's state of feeling. He evidently thought of nothing just now but his machine and the opportunity of disburdening himself to one who was a good listener. After a pause the widow said to him, " But had you no one to talk over your schemes with — no friend, brother, or wife ?" " No !" answered the Inventor, hurriedly ; " no one but the garret mice that used to come out at night and watch me at my work with their little glittering eyes, and 156 ABEL DRAKE'S WIFE. steal my bit of candle before my face; thinking, 1 sup- pose, like the world at large, ' Oh, poor fellow ! — he's so very poor, he won't mind it !' And so, for want of better companions, I used to wink a little at their conduct in that respect ; and talk to them as though I didn't believe them capable of doing anything of the kind ; and I even fancy I went so far sometimes — for I had comical moods now and then — as to explain my plan to them, with a grave, imposing face, having, mind you, a shrewd eye all the while at a larger audience elsewhere that I knew I should one day want to listen to me. But, of course, I didn't tell the mice that ; and if they suspected it, they said nothing, but always seemed to listen with great natural politeness to any explanations I desired to give. And it was laughable enough to perceive, after awhile, that two or three of them made it a rule to appear at a crack in the wall (a stray tail not unfrequently hanging out as a token of the beginning of the meeting) whenever they heard the sound of my tools, as if to inquire, in a friendly way, how I was getting on. " What skill and patience it must have required," said the widow, " to make so many little things move all at once, with so many different kinds of motion, and all vo so orderly a manner." " Oh, it's quite an education to become ever so small an inventor. I had to teach myself before I could teach them. It was a long while before I could make them fit for a place in the machine. Each had to know its sepa- rate duty, and convince me how well it would do it. I used to range them in a row before me like children at school ; aiitl L.\:imine, and compare them, and rub tkem AN INVEyrOR'S DJ^EAMS. I57 ngainst one another to make them take kindly to the fel- lowship, and to see if I could discover any bad faults. When I had got them well grounded, as an old master of mine used to say, then came the polish. ' Remember,' I would in fancy say to them — ' remember, I want no dis- orderly mob of vagabonds, neither do I want a set of idle ladies and gentlemen, but decent, sensible operatives, who know how to combine together for the common good, and go to work without nonsense/ But I tire you — I am sure I do— with all this talk." " Oh dear, no ! I am very much interested." " Well, and I don't often get such a chat ; so when the flood-gates are opened, you know *' " Pray go on." " When I did at last bring them all together, of course, as usual, they wouldn't go a bit ; they were uncommonly perfect in theory, but they stack fast at the practice. That was all. Lord, how they let out their true character at last when asked to do a bit of work and be of some use in the world ! Lord, how they quarrelled and upset one another in all directions ! I wiped the sweat from my brow, and kept as quiet as I could. Then I marked a few of the worst, and had a sort of auto daft in my chamber. I was delighted to find I had discovered the true criminals — the black sheep that had infected all the rest with a sort of top-heavy dizziness and a kind of falling staggers; amusing enough, I dare say, to a bystander, but dreary work for the poor inventor. However, I got them all together once more, and found they fitted perfectly. And now how would they go ? Well, they settled that by re- fusing to go at all. A sulkiei set of little wretches I never 158 ABEL DKAK£^S IVlPS. saw ; they wouldn't — no, tbey would not go ! And the more I tned to urge them, the harder they stuck fast, looking for all the world as though they thought that that was just what I had made them for. Oh, but I grew angry, while I pretended I wasn't, and tried to coax them along ! No, it was no use; they would not go, they said as plainly as they conld speak. ' Hang me, but you shall !' said I, and I gave an extra squeeze. Whew ! — crash ! — split ! — crash ! They all let fly at me in one tremendous volley. The machine had gone back toils elements, the pieces were at my feet. My work was undone for many a long day.*' *' Dear me ! Did it take so long to remedy ?" inquired the sympathising widow. " Why, you see, I had very little time of my own, and was obliged to work extra hours in order to earn the odd shillings and sixpences that my machine was always cla- mouring for. That was the worst of it, it v/ould live upon shillings and sixpences ; uncommonly inconvenient food for a poor man." " I can very well imagine that,*' said the widow, smiling. *' And did you never seriously lose heart under your dis- couragements ?" " Oh, often, for a matter of five or ten minutes ; seldom much more. The idea was vividly in my mind from the first, and every shortcoming seemed only, by the very contrast, to deepen and bring out the sense of its reality. Yes; I knew the truth was there, and if I could not rea- lise it, all the worse for me ; it was still truth. But I rmst own I bad one terrible overthrow. Let me tell it you, and ] promise you that I'll then shut up the machine Ah' hVi-/i.\'rojrs DkeaMs, iS9 and my mouth together." But he laughed as he said this, fv!i he saw by the widow's look that he might go on till Doomsday, if he pleased, without tiring her. " Again and Ro-ain did I bring the model to the same point, fitting per- fecily, so far as I could see, in every part, yet still with the same result — it would not act. Theory and practice remained equally positive of their own individual opinions, and equally at issue in their relation to each other. I cannot tell you how wearyingly I retraced the ground, over and over. But on one particular occasion there was a something in the preliminaries that whispered to me suc- cess was dawning at last. Imagine my feelings to find another clear, absolute, unmistakeable failure \'' The In- •^entor paused, and wiped the dew from his face, as though the very remembrance brought back the physical emotion he had then felt. Presently he went on : — " I sat and looked at the model, hour after hour, without one effort to think, touching nothing, questioning nothing, only gazing in a kind of blank despair. No meals; no work; I couldn't go to work. I felt it was all over with me. So many years* labour— so many years' dreams and hopes — gone in an instant, leaving only behind a something to cling to me like a poisoned garment all through my life. Yes ; there I sat in my grim silence, confessedly beaten down to the last extremity. I hadn't a hope left. Couldn't see one bit of light in all creation. There the thing stood before me, dumb, moveless, meaningless. Once I felt a great wish to dash my fist into it, and cry — ' Curse thee, why doesn't speak and tell me what's the matter ?' Morn- ing, noon, evening passed, and I sat or paced to and fro, like a mere ghost of myself, heedless of the gro'.ving da \ l6o AB£L DK A ice's WIFE. ness; all strength and manliness crushed out of me by the weight of my despair. But something whispered — ' Dost thin'' such works as thou longest to do are ever accomplished by poor fellows like thee without such fail- ures ? For shame ! TJp^ man ! At it again V I suppose/* continued the Inventor, with his favoiirite self-satirising smile again gleaming over his face | " I suppose nobody did say anything to me. The mice, you know, couldn't talk. But I declare to you it was as if a new door had been opened into my soul, and a new spirit bad there en- tered in. I sprang up, pulled the whole machine to pieces, leaving no two together untouched, and began to build again, as if I were then doing it for the first time. Big thoughts, you see, are like big waggons ; if once they get into the ruts, they can't get out again without a strong effort. But I got out ; and all at once saw with a new sense of sight. I burst into a great laugh of scorn of my own blindness. Brighter and brighter grew the way. My heart danced along faster and merrier than my fingers, till I gave it a sudden pull up, and reminded it how it had played the fool before. And then I worked on in deep, intense, almost unearthly quiet, until all was once more ready for the grand trial. It was then Sunday morning. I trembled as I touched the spring, but it moved. The machine moved ! I pressed the spring down, and off went the whole, bounding away like a dog from the leash. Aye, and just at the instant that I saw and heard for the first time what you have now seen and heard, and while the tears were rolling down my cheeks, and my limbs were quaking with an excitement that 1 could not control, there broke out from a neighbouring chapel, ^N inventor's vreams. i6i sucb a glorious strain of psalmody and thanksgiving, that I cried aloud in transport, — I couldn't help it — ' It is done ! It is done ! He blesses my work !' " " You felt repaid then for all V observed the widov\r, wiping away a tear from her cheek. " I did ! I did ! And you wouldn't think it ; but once set going, how that machine did talk," " Indeed ! and what did it say V " Well, I confess at first it was very personal ; kept on hinting what a clever fellow I was, how rich I should be, and how my name should be spread through the world ; and, above all, it kept slyly whispering, — I know what you are thinking about. Already you are planning how to cut me out by some much more imposing affair ; art saying loftily to thyself, as you look down upon me^ ' What's this to the things I can do, with opportunity and appreciation !' I won't deny it, such thoughts were lull- ing me into a delicious day-dream. 0, 'twas amazing the eggs that were being hatched and sold, and the castles that were being bought with the money. Well, well," continued the Inventor, after a pause, and as he began to cover up his model, " everybody, you know, has his follies, so even a poor Inventor must be excused his dreams." " But are they, then, only dreams after all V asked the widow, somewhat earnestly. "That's the very question I come here to solve," replied the man. " You know now my business, and all about me. There's a manufacturer " " Mr. Wolcombe ?" " Yes ; they say that he buys inventions, and that it is peculiarly in his way." 1 62 JbeL DA\-ik£'S U'li-L ** Would you like to speak to him now ?" continued the widow. "This is always the best time to catch him, if you want a quiet talk : just after mill hours, 1 don't think he has yet gone home." "Then I'll go at once." " And I'll get you a cuj5 of tea and something to eat by the time you return. See," said the widow, as she led the way into the open air, and, stop ping, pointed to the pretty upper window of her cottage, " there's your bedroom with a nice outlook over the valley, and to the opposite hill. 'Tis my daughter's room, when she gets home for a night or two. She's governess to Mr. Wolcombe's family." "Governess !" echoed the Inventor, as though surprised *t the discrepancy betwixt the positions of daughter and mother. The widow noticed the tone, but answered quietly, and without the least appearance of pain or offence, " Yes, I understand your surprise — my poverty." "No — yes — that is — I mean — " exclaimed the man; but in his desire to avoid offending, made the matter worse by making so much of it. The widow, however, went on to say — " I moved once in a different sphere. But the death of my husband left me without money or friends, and with this, my only child, then an infant. Ah ! it has been a hard struggle since then, I assure you; or else Barbara — that's my daughter — should never h^ve gone to the mill." " What ! v^orked in the mill — and now a governess ! I own you do, indeed, astonish me 1 How might that be ?" " \\'hy, she was taken under very sad circumstances— AN' INI^ENTOR'S DREAMS. 1 63 but I need not make a mystery of that which every one about her knows so well. She married one Abel Drake, but they quarrelled and parted, and he's dead now." " Indeed ! But — governess !" " Mrs. Wolcombe took her home as nursemaid ; there she got on so well by devoting evei-y spare half-hour to learning, that she began to be noticed, and helped — and raised — until at lasl ih? 'ucation of the children was entrusted to her." "A touching story !" " Yes," continued tbe widow ; " and since the death of Mrs. Wolcombe, who was a sweet, good lady — God ever bless her for what she did to mine and me I — everything at the hall falls to her to see to.** " Then you think Mr. Wolcombe won't have gone home ?" hurriedly interrupted the man, as if impatient now to get to his own business. " No, but 1 would make haste," observed the widow. " It was thougntless ot me to detam you so long, out you so much mterested me with your story, that somehow I couldn't help letting you know a bit of mine. You will laugh at me, perhaps, for saying so, but I am not gene- rally very talkative." " Ah, then I'm afraid you won't like me, for I am — that is, when I care to open my mouth at all." " I shall be quite anxious to hear the result of your mterview," said the widow. "Well," replied the man, "it must be an absolute hit or miss, for 1 can wait no longer. Come, old fellow, another hoist on to the s'noulders that have borne thee so long and so far that 1 don't know how I should get ou 1 54 ABEL DRAKE^S WIFE. without thee. Yet^ who knows ? perhaps it may be for the last time. Come, then, work of braiu and hand, child of many years of toil, I must now present thee to the world, and hear what it thirV ^ of thee. Thou hast pro- mised much. What wilt thou now realize ? All ? Ah, the blood dances in my veins but to think of it_ Good- bye, widow, for the present. Wish me luck. I shouldn't like to tell you how much depends upon it. Good-bye !" " Good-bye, and good luck !" exclaimed the widow, moved out of her usual passionless exterior; so much so indeed that she could not help watching him cross the beaten path of the green, to reach the mill gates, where she saw him knock, and then pass through the little wicket- door that was opened to him, and closed after him. " Poor fellow !" said the widow to herself, as she turned away to prepare the tea ; " I am greatly deceived if he has not left dear ones behind him, for whose welfare in Uus ventuie he cares even more tnan tor )u& own.'*' W THE HIGGLING OF THE MARKET. 165 CHAPTER XII. THF HIGGLING OP THE MARKET. All the loud noises of the factory — the whirring, beaming, booming, confusing noises — were still ; the endless bands were at rest, the looms silent, the place deserted. So profound was the solitude, that the occasional jingle of keys, or the chink of money in the cash-box from Mr. "V^'olcombe's counting-house, or the watchman's heavy footstep, broke upon it harshly, and vibrated through the building. Mr. Wolcombe slammed his desk, locked it> put the keys in his pocket, restored the ledger (which he had been carefully examining) to its place on the shelf, and began to put on his great coat, looking the while through a glass door upon the glow of the watchman's lantern as it appeared and disappeared continually among the weaving machines of the great room. He waited till it approached the counting-house, and the watchman came in and hung up some keys. "By-the-bye, Jansen," said the manufacturer, as he buttoned up his coat, " I'm told there are suspicious characters in the village : harvest tramps, I suppose. Make your rounds carefciiy. Stay, who's that ? See what that shabby- looking man wants.'* " Yes, sir," said the Inventor, as he came in, and set down his machine model on a chair just inside the door, 1 66 taking off his hat as he continued to speak ; '*' yes, sir, f am very shabby, I know; but " " 0, you overheard me, did you?" remarked Mr. Wolcombe, as he examined the man closely from head to foot. "I'm sorry if " *'No harm, sir. I am a poor man, and have learned, as poor men must, not to take offence lightly." *' Poor man, eh ? Case for the Union *"' asked the manufacturer. "Why no, sir; not just yet, I think," was the reply. "Your business, then ?" said Mr. Wolcombe, shortly. " Please to look at this," said the inventor, uncovering his model. " What is it ?" "A new weaving machine; or, at least, new in an im portant part." " No, no !" exclaimed Mr. Wolcombe, taking his hat. " I don't want to see it. I've burnt my fingers too often with pretended improvements and sbowy novelties that never came to anything — except, indeed, in my book of costs." " But please, sir, to look," said the Inventor, earnestly. "You will understand at a glance what I have attempted, and I am told no one can better judge than you whether or no I have succeeded." "If I look," objected Mr. Wolcombe, buttoning up his pockets, " I certainly sha'n't buy." But he went to- wards the Inventor, who at once set the model in motion. "You see, sir," he said, after a pause of some duration on both sides, during which the manufacturer's eyes were very busy, " there is a piece of cloth, that shows the pre- THE mcr.i.isc of the market. 167 cise j3art of the manufaotuie where my machine cornea into play." Again he was silent. Mr. Wo' combe's first indiflFerence was evidently passing away. lie gazed with increasing interest every instant, until at last he seemed perfectly absorbed ; so much so as to be unaware of the eager eyes that were fastened upon him. "Bring it a little nearer the light/' said the manu- facturer ; and then he asked, as the man moved it to the window, " this is your own invention — absolutely your own ?" "My own flesh and blood doesn't more thoroughly belong to me,^^ replied the Inventor. " Certainly," remarked Mr. Wolcombe, " if this could be accomplished, it would be " " Would it not, sir ?" exclaimed the Inventor, antici- pating the manufacturer's thoughts ; " would it not be a splendid thing for our manufacturing industry ?" Mr. Wolcombe coughed drily as he remarked, " I was going to observe, if you hadn't stopped me, that such a thing under certain circumstances might be of some little use." The Inventor changed colour, and was silent. " Very odd," continued Mr. Wolcombe, as he tried to pull up the blind a little higher; "there was a hand once in my employ who used to say something of this kind might be done. He came to me once about it, but of course I sent him back to his work with a flea in his ear. A raw factory lad wasn't very likely to achieve what I myself, with all the skill and appliances of my establish- ment, tiad vainly tried again and again to accomplish. If 1 68 ABEL DRAKEfS WIFE. it were lo be done at all, I was quite sure an idle fellow like Abel Drake wouldn't be the man to do it." " Not perhaps, sir, without more experience, knowledge, and " " I tell you, sir," said the manufacturer, in a sharp tone, "he couldn^t have done it under any circumstances. I know something of men's minds and capabilities. I should think I ought. But it ii odd so worthless a fellow should have thought of this so long ago." " Very," remarked the Inventor. " He seems to have behaved badly to you, sir. May I ask how ?" " 0, he was the ringleader of a strike." "0, indeed." "Truly, a precocious rascal; only eighteen, I think, when he misled the hands, and cost me thousands of pounds." Something he had not noticed before now caused him to stay these unpleasant reminiscences, and to call out loudly, " Look here, Mr. — ! 0, what's your name ?" " Hope, sir. George Hope." "Well, Mr. Hope, what's this comphcated bit of mechanism in the corner for ? It doesn't seem to be doing anything." " Sir," said the Inventor, smiling, and pointing with his finger successively to two pieces of metal, " I call that my ' feeler,' and that my ' corrector.' " " Feeler — corrector ?" repeated Mr. Wolcombe. " Yes," answered the Inventor ; " the one feels for the slightest defect or extra thickness or foreign obstacle in the thread, which would be unmanageable in this kind of machine, and the other corrects it the instant the feeler gives warning. Try it^ sr . See, there is now a kink about THE HIGGLING OF THE MARKET. l6t) to pass • it is arrested, stretchedj straightened, and all goes on as before." *' Very well done, indeed !" exclaimed Mr. Wolcombe, forgetting for one instant his caution in his admiration. "But what if it could not straighten it?" " It would cut it right out, re-unite the ends, and again move forward," modestly observed the Inventor. ** I should like to see that," was the manufacturer's brief comment. "There, sir," said the Inventor, still very quietly; and to Mr. Wolcombe's astonishment it was instantly done, as the man had said, all the other parts of the machine going on meanwhile undisturbedly. Mr. Wolcombe now walked away, and observed as he looked up at the window, " It grows late." The indifferent manner and tone chilled the Inventor, who had been antici- pating that now at last he was on the eve of something like business success. Poor fellow ! He did not know that now when he imagined, and not without reason, that his proper work was done, his actual and vital work had in a sense yet to begin. But Mr. Wolcombe, as he walked away, was saying to himself, with an animation not usual to him — " The fellow astounds me ! He has done it ! Yes, this shabby rascal has done it. But stay ! No more wild-goose chases for me. How will it work on a large scale ? Ay, there's often a hitch there with the most promising schemes. Think of your last patent, and keep on the safe side !" As he returned towards the Inventor, he said to him^ — " Well, my man, you're a clever fellow, that I will say, and this is a clever machine. But will it be of any use com- mercially ? — there I have my doubts " i;o AB£L drake's U-'tPE. "Would you, sir, allow me to Lear them t" " Come, come, that's my business." There was au awkward silence. It was broken by Mtt Wolcombe's saying — "No, I don't feel inclined to speculate." " Sorry to hear that, sir. I thought — " " Why you see it will cost a deal of money to ^.ry ; and take up a deal of time and thought, and may fail after all. Or soni'^body else may get the start of me with a similar possibly a better invention." "True, sir; but these remarks apply to all inventions! And I am quite prepared to admit they ought to have a cer- tain weight in determining the price, and mode of payment." "No — no. I shan't speculate — not just now." " I cannot, sir," said the Inventor, with just a touch oi earnest appeal in his manner that he might be listened to — " I cannot give you a better proof of my own faith than to say I wish only to receive a moderate sum in hand, and to depend mainly for my remuneration on actual and proved success." " My good fellow !" exclaimed the manufacturer, almost with a smile of pity, " if I have heard one inventor say that in this room, I have heard at least a dozen." The Inventor heaved a deep sigh, as much as to say, " Ah, poor fellows ! where are they all now ? Am I about to follow them, I wonder?" But immediately he returned with increased earnestness to the charge : " Sir, I will be very trank with you I know that in contests like these, be- twixt inventor and capitalist, the weakest must go to the rail. Look, sir, I have just two pence in the world, and ■By machine, that's all." THE HIGGLING OF THE MARKET. 1^1 " Ilern I hem !" coughed the manufacturer, who was by no ineans without feeling. " AVell, really you deserve en- couragement, though I don't see how I can help you. No, I'm afraid not.^' Again he walked away, to hold a little debate with himself, running something like this : — " Poor devil ! He'd be glad to take anything, I suppose. But if I do buy I must do it handsomely ; both for my own credit's sake, and because*the poor devil is so helpless ! Poor fel- low !" Then suddenly facing the Inventor with the air of a man who knows he is about to do a good action, " Well, come, I'll give you fifty pounds, and try my chance." " Fifty pounds !" cried the Inventor, eagerly, and almost with a laugh. " Yes, sir j and then about the share — ?" " Share ! share !" echoed Mr. Wolcombe, with darken- ing brows. " What d'ye mean by that ? D'ye want to be my partner V^ " I didn't look upon it in that light,'^ faltered the In- ventor. But the manufacturer went on : — " Messrs. Wolcombe and — what name did you say I might add to complete the new firm ? Eh ? A good joke, truly. Was that your thought ?" The Inventor turned suddenly round upon him with flashing eyes, and said in a deep concentrated voice of anger — " I thought, and think, sir, the inventor might have equal rights with the capitalist ; and that the man of busi- ness, however exalted, would best consult the dignity and welfare of his order by taking care of the interest of the man of genius." " Genius, eh ?" repeated Mr. Wolcombe, looking hard at the Inventor. You do right to look at me, sir," commented the man « 172 ABEL DRAKE'S WIFE. , bitterly, as lie caught the glance. " I often look at myself in the same v/ay. It was a foolish phrase, but it slipped from me.'* " And if I had been ever so much inclined to yield a share," thought the manufacturer, " that speech would have settled me." Then he said, coldly, as he passed the man, and put his hand on the door handle, " Good even- ing !" He opened the door and was going. The Inventor stared vacantly at him for a moment with- out speaking, then he called out hastily, but in a voice husky with emotion — " Sta}'^, sir, I implore you, one mon',ent longer." Mr. Wolcombe shut the door a /ittle impatiently, and waited in a significant silence. " Excuse me, sir, if I cannot in a moment make up my mind to sacrifice my machine. It is my all !" "Ah, well, don't then ! Don't. I didn't ask you, did I ?" briefly rejoined the manufacturer. " Yet, what can I do ? My means are quite exhausted. Though I come now from a foreign country, I am of English blood, and I have lived but in the hope to see this at work for the good of my country. I have offered it to no one but you, for I heard some time ago you bought such things, and could appreciate it — so I have toiled on, with this on my back, all the way from Liver- pool since yesterday morning, when I landed. 1 have literally tasted nothing- since breakfast." " Then why the devil didn't you take the fifty pounds, and have done with it ?" " Look, sir, I have been at it more than six years. Six years, %\x^ before I could succeed ! But there it is at last. THE HIGGLING OF THE MARKET. 1 73 Now, sir, will you listen to me patiently but for one minute, while I make you a proposal ?" " 0, certainly !" " Well then, sir, instead of the fifty give me ten pounds just to get along with for a i^\i weeks, and to buy decent clothing, while I find work, and I will ask no more from you, till you can try the machine, and see what it really is worth. Then, if you are satisfied with it, give me a mo- derate share of the profits. Let it be what share you please. If half be too much, give me a third, only let me have something to repay me for the past, and to rest on for the future. 0, sir, you know not, nor can I tell you how much depends on my success in this negociation." " Really, you are a strange fellow," said Mr. Wolcombe, a little moved by the earnestness of the speaker, whose low, deep, tremulous tones spoke but too plainly of the agitation that he sought vainly to control. " Well, on the whole, perhaps you are right to look for some small share." " And you consent, sir ?" cried the Inventor. *' You will give it to me ?" " Hem ! no," resumed Mr. Wolcombe, in embarrass- ment ; " but you're welcome to my advice. It don't suit me to take it on your terms. I never do buy that way. But others may not be of my mind. I advise you to try. And that you may see I give you this advice sincerely — there — there's half a sovereign for you to enable you to carry it out." The Inventor looked at the coin as it lay on the desk before him, and at Mr. Wolcombe, then, iu a transport of indignation, he swept it off on to the floor, with his hand. 174 ABEL DRAKES WIFE. Mr.Wolcombe returned iiis look, with a wondering and con- temptuous elevation of his eyebrows, but also with a little tinge of red in the centre of his cheek, that spoke of an undercurrent of feeling, more akin to the Inventor's own mood. But as they gazed upon each other, the Inventor's face underwent a complete change ; he stooped to pick up the piece of gold, and restored it to the place, almost with a courtly grace of deference and apology, as he spoke : " I beg your pardon, sir. My blood used to be a little hot. I thought time, trouble, and years, had cooled it down to a safe point. I was mistaken. I will be more guarded. Sir, though I cannot accept your kindness, I thank you for it, gratefully. And now, sir, I will no longer occupy your time. Will you allow me to consider this offer still open — say for a week only V^ " no; pray excuse me; you are unreasonable." " Then I must accept absolutely, or reject at once ?" " You must." " I reject it, then. And 30, sir, good night." " Good night. Mind, I don't say I won't buy if you do come back, but I do say I won't enter into any engage- ment whatever on the subject." *' I understand, sir. Good night." « Good night." And so ended the Inventor's first experiment upon the capitalist. Three days later (and the Inventor has been heard to say, that were he to live to the age of Methuselah, he could never forget the bitterness of the experience those three days gave), he returned to Mr. Wolcombe, — failure Htamped upon his every feature, word, and movement ;— . THE HIGGLING OF THE MARKET. , 1/5 aod he seemed almost grateful when he found that tha manufacturei" not only received him courteously, but mado no attempt to lessen his former offer. An agreement was drawn up and signed, and the money placed in the In- ventoi-'s hand ; " five sovereigns/' as Mr. Wolcombe ob- served, " for present use, and the remainder in notes." The Inventor spoke scarcely a word while the necessary business was going on. He answered any questions that were asked, and did mechanically whatever he was told to do. But when Mr. ^Volcombe, at the- close, shook hands, and said " good-bye," and, with a feeling of delicacy not common with him, left him alone with the machine, to take his last look of it, the agitation that had been kept down in the presence of others began to break forth, in his gestures and low quivering tones. " Fifty pounds ! There must be ingratitude in my very blood to be so little thankful. Why, I was never master of fifty shillings before. Fifty pounds ! Surely, for me, it is unfathomable wealth ! Stay, there are de- ductions. I mustn't be puffed up too soon. My little debts to the good Samaritans, by the wayside, who helped me across the seas, and enabled me to reach this goal, — surely I shall be honest enough to pay them. Then there are clothes to buy : the lord of so much wealth mustn't disgrace himself. Suppose I have thirty pounds remain- ing — thirty golden sovereigns ! Am I afraid to go home with that? Why, like the Jupiter that I used to read about in my book of fables, I shall be able to drop inti any woman's lap a perfect shower of gold. Who could resist me? 0, fool! fool! fool', And I have built for SIX years on this basis 1" t76 ABEL DRAKES WIFE, He walked about to quiet himself, as he disposed of the money in his pockets; and then he seemed to linger and hesitate over some secret thoughts. But, presently, he stopped right before the machine. It has been already intimated that, in his long solitary labours, he had so accustomed himself to speak aloud, that the desire came spontaneously to him whenever he was more than ordinarily moved. Just now he could not resist talking once more to his old " comrade." " Come, come ; what must be, must be. Time's come, old fellow, to part ; and if the feeling's all on one side, never mind. We won't have many words„ I didn't think, after all that has passed, our way in life would be so very different. Never mind ! Thou art going to be made much of — to be honoured — to be great ; while I — ha ! ha ! ha ! — as though a poor inventor ha'^^a't himself to blame for expecting anything else! , Come, we won't darken the farewell hour. I am very glad I made thee. Don't forget that. And if the poor pauper w^orld can't afford to pay honestly for the things it needs and covets, and if it likes to please its fancy by thinking — * No doubt things are all arranged for the best; why should we trouble V — let it have its own way : I sha'n't contest the matter. Besides, who knows, old fellow, but that you, who won't be able to get me bread while I live, shall secure me a glorious monumental stone when I am dead — ay, in yonder churchyard ? The glory of it ! Among one's native grave-stones ! The vision wins so, I could half make up my mind to go at once, select my own grave, slip quietly into it, and there wait iu luxurious? c^se «ind expectancy. Ha ! ha I ha [ THE HIGGLING OF THE MARKET. \T7 '* Come, one last touch ! One last sound ot the old voice'/' The Inventor's own voice had now chansied from the tone of bitter mirth to one of acute pain, and of the deepest tenderness. As he touched the spring and lis- tened to the sounds, so harsh and grating to other ears, but so inexpressibly sweet to him, he knelt doAvn by the machine, his head bowed upon his breast, and remained for a long time silent. It was as if he desired to assure himself that all within there was well, before he left it for ever ; and as though, physician like, he listened to the most secret beatings of the heart, with a skill that could detect in the slightest faltering or peculiarity of sound any weak- ness or danger. He rose as if satisfied; and again gazed long and yearningly, before he muttered, "Ay, whirl and whiz and bustle along ! the sweet music for humanity, that may be drawn out of one sad heart and brain ; and O, the world's payment V When Mr. Wolcombe returned to take another look at the machine^ the Inventor baa ^ne. '7S ABEL drake's WIFE. CHAPTER Xlir. BEHIND THE SETTLE. The grey twilight was slowly closing round Barden Brow, dimming the gold of its ripe corn fields, and throwing into shadowy indistinctness its encircling hills. Widow GifFard turned from her gate, where she had been looking anxiously across the green, till the white footpath faded from her sight. "Poor fellow! I wonder how he gets on to-day!" she said to herself, as she gave one more touch to the grace- ful folds of the newly- washed white muslin curtains, that fell on either side a little table placed in the window, and which, for the last two hours, had been spread with the lodger's tea-things. Through the gathering dusk one could just see the sheen of the best gilt-fcdged china ; the common but elegantly formed tray, with its bright border of blue and yellow pansies j and the round pat of butter with the cow reposing on the top within the diamonded edge. On the other «ide of the high settle, which the widow had drawn out so as to completely screen off a corner from the rest of the room, a cheerful fire threw its light upon the dresser of plates, and made the silver sand on the floor sparkle, iud revealed through the open door Qf the oven a tray of rich brown cakes, — getting too browo BEHIND THE SETTLE. 17^ the widow feared, — which mingled their fragrance with that which issued from the bright teapot on the fender. The widow was now getting really anxious, and could not keep still a minute. She passed from one side of the settle to the other, now to look through the window, and then back again to the fire, to stir it or do something to it, or think what she might do to it — though all the while no fire could be going on more satisfactorily in every respect. Really the widow gets quite cross ; there, she is now whifiling o^ a poor fly from the sugar basin, when it was doing nothing worse than taking a walk round the ''dge, and benefiting by so favourable and airy a position for sending up its hind legs, and giving tljem a quivering bath of air. " When will he come V she asked herself wearily, almost pettishly. People will get pettish as they begin to grow uncomfortable, no matter how angelic may have been their previous patience. She looked at the still deepening brown of the cakes, and at the cream that was beginning to settle thick and yellow on the jug of milk. The butter cow seemed to answer her by looking wonder- fully easy as to its fate, as though quite assured it was not going to be disturbed yet awhile. The cat at the door, instead of giving any sign of intelligence as to foot- steps coming, paddenly opened its jaws, gave a sleepy yawn, and turned back into the room. The widow had just determined to give over watching and sit down to her work, when the little garden gate was thrown violently open, and a voice at the door cried exultiugly — " All right, widow ! Here I am, you see, alone ! My comrade gone V* l8o . ABEL drake's WIFE. "That is good news indeed/' said the widow, going to meet him. Then stopping, she exclaimed, " But you are ill ! Ah, you have had another dreadful day's walking in the sun. Come, sit down. I won't hear a word till you have had some tea." " Hang tea V cried the Inventor, his eyes flashing, and his swarthy cheeks glowing with excitement, "I mean, not your tea, widow, which I am sure will be delicious, but tea in general. One wants wine when one's in such glorious spirits !" " What, have you exceeded your expectation, then?" The Inventor leaned back in his chair, and laughed. " Exceeded ! 0, immensely ! Why, I only expected the thing would bring me a fortune by driblets for the next twenty years or so, and here have I got it all in a lump. Look! Look!" He put his hand in his pocket, and took out the five sovereigns, and threw them rattling on to a plate. " That's a foretaste only !" he continued, feeling for the notes. **Birt look here^ widow ; all five- pound notes! See, one— two — three — four— five — six — seven — eight — nine ! Let's paste them together, end to end, and see how much they'll measure. Nay, we'll send a paragraph to the local paper, and 'twill fly all over England. ' All that paid to a poor working man for only a few years' labour !' " Again he laughed, and so strangely and mockin2;ly, that it made the widow heart-sick to hear him. She {)oured out his tea silently, and set the cakes before him. " Cakes ! Ah, that's right !" he cried, pulling his chair tu the table, and breaking one of them open, steaming hot, and spicily flavoured. " Widow, you may fancy you have BEHIND THE SEffLE. tSl Been a hungry man befove, but you haven't — not till now. What cakes ! Delicious !" " You like them V " Like them ! I wish I'd inv^ented them !" The widow smiledj and, opening the door, said — " I am going to hurry Job with a pail of water. You'll find more cakes in the oven, and plenty of water boiling if you want any for the teapot. I shan't be long." " Mind !" called the Inventor after her, as she was going, ** I shall eat all the cakes ! so don't expect to find any when you come back." But no sooner had the door closed after her than the cake he had seized and broken dropped, almost untasted, from his hand, and he muttered, with a sigh of relief, " I should have choked soon." Slanting his elbows on the table, and resting his chin in Lis hands, he sat gazing straight before him out of the window, with his face full of gloom and despondency. Minute after minute went by; the darkness gradually in- creased ; still he sat there motionless. At last a voice at the gate made him start, and withdraw his eyes from vacancy. It was the widow come back ; and he tried to rouse himself, and begin to eat his neglected meal before she entered the cottage, and discovered his kindly hypocrisy. Why was the hand that reached towards the cup drawn back so suddenly ? Why did the other hand meet and clench it, as if to keep it quiet, and the whole strong frame quiver as it rose slowly up, and drew back into the deeper shade, while the face was agitated by emotion violent and changeful? Amazement, doubt, tenderness, and passionate yearning;, swept rapidly over it. As the door opened, he l82 ABEL DRAKES mpE. made an involuntary movement forward, but shrank back again instantly. The widow entered, not as she had gone out, alone, but accompanied by Barbara, who said : "All in darkness ! Is your lodger out, mother?" "I suppose so," replied the widow, glancing at the vacant chair at the table; "unless he's in his room." She listened a moment at the foot of the stairs, then said, " No, he's not there. He must have gone out." And she seemed to understand why, when she saw he had neither eaten nor drunk of what she had prepared. " Stay where you are, Barbara, and I will get a light.'* "What do we want with a light, mother?" asked Barbara : and she put her hand on her mother's wrist, as if to stay her. The widow fancied it shook a little, and wondered to herself what was coming. " Let us sit here at the door," and she placed a chair for her mother on one side of the doorway, and remained standing on the other, leaning against the lintel. She had taken oif her little white bonnet, and hung it by the strings on her arm. Her head was towards the green, and her profile stood faintly yet distinctly revealed in all its bold yet delicate lining against the sky. " Hark ! Why, what is that ?" exclaimed her mother, as the church bells broke out loudly and joyously. Barbara smiled as she answered, "Mr. Lancelot has come home." " Captain Wolcombe come home !" cried the widow in amazement. " And you, Barbara, away at such a time. Surely Mr. Wolcombe and all of them will think it very stiange of you." BEHIND THE: SETTLE. 183 " Mr. Wolcombe knows I have come here." " But the Captain ?" " I expect him here, directly." " What do you mean, Barbara ?" cried the widow, rising hastil}'^, and looking about her as if everything ought in- stantly to undergo a new process of tidying. But Barbara gently pushed her back into the chair, and for a moment held her in it, and laughed ; and then, moved by some inexplicable impulse, kissed her; then, growing sedate once more, she took a low stool, and sat down by her side. " Mother I" she began in a low voice, and then a hand went groping upwards in search of another hand, and found it before the lips could proceed : " You remember what Mrs. Wolcombe told me, when she was dying, about Mr. Lancelot, and why he went away after that Christmas V* "Yes." ** I had a letter from him this morning, in which he tells me so himself; and he says it rests with me whether he is now to stay or go for ever." " But Mr. Wolcombe ?" " I gave the letter to him. He read and returned it without a word. He has been kinder to me than usual all day, but has said nothing till this evening. He came up to me where I v^as standing looking at Mrs. Wolcombe's portrait, and he asked me, I thought rather abruptly, * What are you going to say to Lancelot, Barbara ?' Much as I am used to him, I could not help being pained by his short sharp manner, and I did not answer him directly. So he went on. 'Perhaps you want to know my feelings about it ? Well, to tell you the truth, I shouldn't have liked it once ; but it's different now, quite different. The <84 ABEL t>kAK-£:-s mpk. house couldn't very well get on without you. Pve got used to you, which I never could to any woman before, except her. And I suppose you know what she thought about you ? Besides, I want Lancelot here, sooner or later. I'm not getting younger, and I need help. There, now 5'ou know what my mind is. And unless you positively dislike Lancelot, I don't think you ought to let any non- sensical ideas stand in the way. 'Tisn't every woman gets such a chance — or so deserves it,' he added presently." Barbara ceased speaking. Both remained for a little time in silent thought. Presently the widow said inquiringly : "Well, Barbara?" " Well, mother, folks would think it very grand, wouldn't they, for one who went to Coppeshall such a miserable, broken-down creature, to become its mistress? And yet do you know, though I respect and honour Mr. Lancelot more than any other man I have ever known, I can't help wishing this had not been/* " A nd why is that, Barbara ?" " Hush, mother, listen ! Yes, here he is.** She rose hastily from the stool, just as a quick step came down the garden, and a tall form bent to pass under the arch of pendent blossoms. The widow met him first. He seized her hands, and shook them heartily, as he cried : " Well, Mrs. GifFard, are they dinning you to death with those bells ? Ah, I little thought when I got into such a scrape that day for going up with Job into the steeple to smoke a cigar, that they would ever prattle about me in this absurd fashion. Perhaps if some one would re- mind the sexton, he'd see the impropriety of encouraging me even now." BEHIND THE SETTLE. 185 He passed od, and paused by Barbara, whose white dress gleamed in the twilight, and who had not advanced. Holding out his hand, he said: "Barbara!" There was more than simple greeting in the deep, earn- est, suppressed tone in which that word was uttered. She felt it was a question, trembling under the weight of all that for him hung upon the answer. " I am very glad to see you back again, Mr. Lancelot," said Barbara ; and she gave him her hand. He grasped it fast, and drew her forward to the light, and then looked in her face, as he repeated, hfllf impatiently, half suppli- catingly, " Barbara !" It was strange she should be so long in replying, fes, it was as if she felt, however unconsciously, there were other ears besides his straining through the intense still- ness to catch the first word that fell from her lips. " Mr. Lancelot," she said at last, in a voice so low that but for a certain distinct slowness which had become habitual to Barbara, while getting rid of her dialect, it would have been inaudible, " you forget I have had no certain and formal proof of Abel Drake's death." A slight shiver passed through her as she uttered the name that had not passed her lips for years. " That," answered Lancelot, " I hoped to have been able to place in your hands now, but I could not wait for it in London, so it will be forwarded to me by post in a day or two. But, Barbara, when you have it — what then ? Speak plainly. Am I to go or stay ? Mrs. Giffavd,'* he said, turning to the widow, and laying his hand on her shoulder with a faint smile, " I am but an ill hand at M 1 86 ABEL drake's WIFE. this kind of work. Tell me. You know, and may spare her— if '* " God bless you, sir !" said the widow, in a quivering voice, " I think I may say — yes !" Then Barbara made a step towards him, and held out her hand with that inexpressibly sweet smile which seemed to light up the very obscurity of the eve, and which he had only once in his life before seen to shed its radiance upon him — the time when he had bound up the wound made by Timon's teeth, and she had thanked him — but which had since haunted him with its strange tender beauty wherever he went, and had often made him feel that, like a knight of the olden time, he could face any danger to earn such another smile. No wonder that his heart was now too full for talk, even if he had felt the least temptation that way. He could only, in his soldierly, almost reverential, manner, stoop and kiss her hand ; a hand none the less honoured that it had, as he well re- membered, been a worker at his father's looms. " Come, Mrs. Giffard," cried the captain, in a tone that implied that a great deal of very important business had been very satisfactorily got through, " my father gives me strict orders to bring you. It is one of the rules of the army, you know — orders must be obeyed. Any band> boxes, or things of that kind, I can carry for you ? Come, no one is there ; we shall be quite to ourselves." "Yes, mother, come,'^ said Barbara, beseechingly. So drawing on her shawl with a somewhat nervous gesture, but still preserving a sedate preparedness that neither good nor bad fortune could entirely destroy, the widow followed them to the porch. She paused there a moment, looking BEHIND THE SETTLE. 187 after their retreating forms and Barbara's white dress. And she listened to those joyous peals, which seemed not only to tell her of the soldier's glory abroad, but of the battles and conquests of the domestic hearth at home; of the victory of the humbly-born but nobly-destined nature over all obstacles. And then she had one little, but very comforting, cry to herself before she moved to follow them. All three were gone. The last rustle of the widow's black silk dress against the lavender bush had died away, and for a moment all within the room was still. But the darkness had something terribly oppressive in it. The short, hard breathing from behind the settle seemed every instant as if it would break into a cry of anguish. At last there was a vague, groping step towards the door ; a pair of hands, with fingers knotted in a clasp of agony, were thrust out into the faint starhght; and through the dark- ness and the happy ringing of the bells rose a hoarse cry of passionate but smothered emotion — *' Barbara I Wife I Wife I" l88 ABEL drake's wife. CHAPTER XIV. STRAWS IN THE WIND. The next morning, when the widow opened her door for the first time to look out, she was surprised to see her lodger crossing the green towards her. She had no idea he had gone out so early. As he came in, he smiled, and said he was afraid his coat was wet, could she dry it for him ? But she hardly knew how to answer, she was so struck by his appearance. His face was black and hag- gard, and his whole appearance so full of disorder, that she could not help thinking he must have been out manv hourSj perhaps the greater part of the night. Again he smiled, as he said, " I am sorry to give you so much trouble, but would you mind letting me use my bedroom as a sitting room while I stay, which will not be long ? I have a good deal of writing and thinking to do — and — " The widow hastened to assure him it was no trouble ; and while he took off his coat, and hung it before the recently lighted fire, and cowered down himself near to it, for warmth, she bustled about, and in half an hour had turned the pretty bedroom into one of the prettiest of sit- ting rooms also. Then remembering how chilly the poor man looked, and that the room itself might be the better for a fire^ she lighted one. STRAWS /iV THE WIXD. 1 89 When the Inventor came up-stairs at her invitation, he thanked her — though he did not seem to dwell on the comfort she had made. So she went down to see about his breakfast. He could not eat it when it was ready ; but jested about the surfeit of his last night's tea, then smiled a little confused, as he met her sad searching eye, and remembered that she must have found it almost un- touched. While the widow was considering all these things, she took up the coat, saying to herself, " Dear me, how wet it is ! Where can he have been ? There has been no rain. It must have been the night dews that have soaked it so thoroughly. I suppose he is greatly troubled at the sacrifice of his machine, and won't openly acknowledge it to me." Just then there was a tap at the door ; and the tap was followed by the lifting of the latch, and the entrance or Job. " 0, y. u are come !" observed the widow. "Yes, — yo tell'd me, didn't yo, ma'am?'* However satisfactory this explanation might be to the widow, who had sent a message to him that he was to call, it would do wrong to Job's intuitive skill in shunning work and scolding, to suppose he would have answered the invitation so promptly, if he had not had certain secret temptations of his own. The fact is, Job had taken a dis- like to the Inventor from the moment the latter had so rudely broken his sleep at the well ; and from dislike he found the way easily to distrust; and of course a man who comes to be distrusted ought to be watched. Now that kind of work suited Job exactly. He dearly loved l9d ABEL DRAKES WIFE. gossip ; and many a provoking bit of slander that ran the round of Barden Brovr, and raised the ire or the mirth of its inhabitants, would often have died prematurely but for Job's loving and helping hand. He had, then, watched the Inventor's movements pretty closely during these last few days ; and putting together certain vague personal recollections of his own, and certain peculiarities in the conduct of the stranger, he had arrived at the conclusion that he was on the heels of a brilliant discovery. It was wonderful how the mere idea changed him, giving a sort of glow to his ordinarily lack-lustre eye, straightening his body, and making buoyant his dragging step. " Well, Job," said the widow, pursuing her avocations, " I am glad you are come, for I want to give you a last warning." " E — law ! Ma'am ! Yo donna say so !" And Job, not at all frightened, began to look inquisitively around, as if speculating on the whereabouts of the lodger. " Well, Job, this is how the matter stands. Since the death of Mrs. Wolcombe" — the widow paused ; a.id it was touching to see a kind of shade pass over both the faces for an instant, as though an actual form had passed between them and the light, "you have had but one friend — my daughter — who was at all inclined to interfere with Mr. Wolcombe's determination to make you find some- thing to do, or go at once into the workhouse, and be pro- perly dealt with there. He says you set a bad example to the younger people. So now. Job, — what's to be done ?" " Aw shan't go into th' warkus, ma'am !" " Workhouse ! — I should think not indeed. Well then, how will you live ?" STRAWS IN THE WIND. I9I