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BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 % NotJtl 
 
 BY 
 
 AMELIA B. EDWARDS. 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 MY BROTHER'S WIFE," ''HAND AND GLOVE," "THE STORY OF 
 CERVANTES," &c., &c. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 I FRANKLIN SQUARE. 
 
 1864, 
 
m^ 
 
 hi 
 

 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 I AM about to tell the storj of my life — that is, the story of my child- 
 hood and my youth ; for the romance of life is mostly lived out before we 
 reach middle age, and beyond that point the tale grows monotonous either 
 in its grief, or its gladness. Mine began and ended when I was young. 
 
 When I was young ! They are but four words ; and yet, at the very 
 commencement of what must prove a labour of many months, they have 
 power to arrest my pen, and blind my eyes with unaccustomed tears. 
 Tears partaking both of joy and sorrow ; such tears as those through which 
 we all look back to childhood and its half-forgotten story. Oh, happy 
 time! so islanded in the still waters of memory; so remote, and yet so 
 near; so strange, yet so familiar! Come back once more — come back, 
 though never so briefly, and light these my pages with the pale sunshine 
 of a faded spring. 
 
 I am answered. A pleasant calm steals upon me; and, as one might 
 step aside from the troubled streets, to linger awhile in the quiet sanctuary 
 of a wayside church, so I now turn from the eager present, tread the dim 
 aisles of the past, sigh over the inscriptions graven on one or two dusty 
 'tablets, and begin with the recollections of infancy this narrative of my life. 
 
 635 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EARLY RECORDS. 
 
 " On rajeunit aux souvenirs d'enfance 
 Comme on renait au souffle du printemps." 
 
 Beranger. 
 
 Sometimes, in the suburban districts of Lon- 
 don, we chance upon a quaint old house that 
 was, evidently, a country-house some hundred 
 years ago ; but which has been overtaken by 
 the town, and stands perplexed amid a neigh- 
 borhood of new streets, like a rustic at Charing 
 Cross. There are plenty such. We have seen 
 them in our walks, many a time and oft. They 
 look sad and strange. The shadows gather 
 round them more darkly than On their neigh- 
 bors. The sunlight seems to pass them by ; 
 and we fancy their very walls might speak, and 
 tell us tales. In just»such a house, and such a 
 suburb, I was born. 
 
 Overgrown for the most part with a mantle 
 of dark ivy, inclosed in a narrow garden that 
 sloped down to a canal at the back, and shut 
 sullenly away from the road by some three or 
 four dusky elm-trees and a low wall, our home 
 looked dreary and Solitary enough — all the more 
 dreary and solitary for the prim terraces and 
 squares by which it was on all sides surrounded. 
 Within, however, it was more cheerful ; or cus- 
 toni made it seem so. From the upper windows 
 we saw the Hampstead hills. In the summer our 
 garden was covered with grass, and the lilac 
 bushes blossomed where they leaned toward 
 the canal. Even the shapeless coal-barges that 
 labored slowly past all the day long had some- 
 thing picturesque and pleasant about them. 
 Besides, no place can be wholly dull where 
 children's feet patter incessantly up and down 
 the stairs, and children's voices ring merrily 
 along the upper floors. 
 
 It was a large old house — thrice too large for 
 any use of ours — and we had it all to ourselves. 
 Most of the top rooms were bare ; and I well 
 remember what famous play-grounds they made 
 by day, and how we dreaded to pass near them 
 after dark. Up there, even when my father 
 was at home, we might be as noisy as we 
 pleased. It was our especial territory ; and, 
 excepting once a year, when the great cleaning 
 campaign was in progress, no one disputed our 
 prerogative. We were left, indeed, only too 
 much to our own wayward impulses, and grew 
 wildly, like weeds by the wayside. 
 
 We were three — Hilda, Jessie, and Barbara. 
 I am Barbara ; and the day that gave me life 
 left us all motherless. Our father had not mar- 
 
 ried again. His wife was the one love of his 
 existence, and it seemed, when she was gone, 
 as if the very power of loving were taken from 
 him. Thus it happened that from our first in- 
 fancy we were left to the sole care of one faith- ■ 
 ful woman-servant, who spoiled us to her heart's 
 content, and believed that we, like the king, 
 could do no wrong. We call her Goody ; but 
 her name M^as Sarah Beever. We tyrannized 
 over her, of course ; and she loved us the more 
 for our tyranny. After all, hers was the only 
 affection we had, and, judicious or injudicious, 
 we should have been poor indeed without it. 
 
 Our father's name was Edmund Churchill. 
 He came of a good family ; had received a col- 
 legiate education ; and, it was said, had squan- 
 dered a considerable fortune in his youth. When 
 nearly arrived at middle life, he married. My 
 mother was not rich — I never even heard that 
 she was beautiful ; but he loved her, and, while 
 she lived, endeavored, after his own fashion, to 
 make her happy. Too far advanced in years to 
 apply himself to a profession, had even the in- 
 clination for work not been \vanting, he found 
 himself a hopeless and aimless man. He could 
 not even console himself, like some fathers, in 
 the society and education of his children, for he 
 was not naturally fond of children ; and now all 
 the domestic virtues were gone out of him. 
 Wrecked, stupefied, careless alike of the pres- 
 ent and the future, he moped away a few dull 
 months, and then, as was natural, returned to 
 the world. He fell in with some of his former 
 friends, now, like himself, grown staid with 
 years ; entered a club ; took to dinner-parties, 
 politics, and whist ; became somewhat of a bon- 
 vivant ; and, at forty-four, adopted all the 
 small and selfish vices of age. At the time 
 of which I write, he was still handsome, though 
 somewhat stout and florid for his years. He 
 dressed with scrupulous neatness ; was particu- 
 larly careful of his health ; and prided himself 
 upon the symmetry of his hands and feet. 
 
 His manners, in general, were courteous and 
 cold ; yet, in society, he was popular. He pos- 
 sessed, in an eminent degree, the art of pleas- 
 ing ; and I do not remember the day on which 
 he dined at home. Yet, for all this, he was a 
 proud man at heart, and dearly cherished every 
 circumstance that bore upon his name and line- 
 age. An observer might have detected this by 
 only glancing round the walls of our dusky din- 
 ing-room, and inspecting the contents of the 
 great old carved bookcase between the windows. 
 Here might be seen a " History of ye Noble and 
 Ancient Houses of Devon," with that page 
 
8 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 turned down wherein it treated of the Church- 
 ills of Ash. Here a copy of that scarce and 
 dreary folio entitled " Divi Britannici," written 
 and published by Sir Winston Churchill in 1675. 
 Several works on the wars of Queen Anne ; five 
 or six different lives of John Churchill, Duke of 
 Marlborough ; the Duchess of Marlborough's 
 " Private Correspondence ;" Chesterfield's Let- 
 ters ; Mrs. Manley's " Atalantis ;" the " Me- 
 moirs of the Count de Grammont;" various 
 old editions of PhiUps's " Blenheim," and Ad- 
 dison's " Campaign ;" the poetical works of 
 Charles Churchill of Westminster ; and twenty 
 volumes of the " London Gazette," (said to be of 
 considerable value, and dating from the year 
 1*700 to 1715,) filled all the upper shelves, and 
 furnished my father with the only reading in 
 which he ever indulged at home. Nor was this 
 all. A portrait of the brilliant hero, when Lord 
 Churchill, and some fine old engravings of the 
 battles of Ramillies, Oudenarde, and Malplaquet, 
 were suspended over the chimney-piece and 
 side-board. A large colored print of Blenheim 
 House hung outside in the hall. 
 
 But far more impressive than any of these — 
 far more dignified and awful in our childish 
 eyes, was a painting which occupied the place 
 of honor in our best parlor. This work of art 
 purported to be the portrait of a second cousin 
 of my father's, one Agamemnon Churchill by 
 name, a high authority upon all matters con- 
 nected with the noble science of heraldry, a 
 Knight of the Bath, and one of his Majesty's 
 most honorable heralds. Depicted here in all 
 the glory of his official costume, and looking 
 as like the knave of clubs as if he had just been 
 shuffled out of a gigantic pack of cards, Sir 
 Agamemnon Churchill beamed upon us from 
 the environmentr of his gilded frame, and filled 
 our little hearts with wonder and admiration. 
 We humbly looked forward to the possibility of 
 some day beholding our illustrious kinsman. 
 We fancied that his rank could be only second 
 to that of King William himself We even 
 encouraged a secret belief that he might succeed 
 to the throne at some remote time or other ; 
 and agreed among ourselves that his first ex- 
 ercise of the royal prerogative would be to 
 create our father Duke of Marlborough ; or, at 
 the least. Commander in Chief and Lord Mayor 
 of London. 
 
 It was but seldom, however, that we were 
 allowed to contemplate the splendor of Sir 
 Agamemnon and his glittering tabard ; for the 
 best parlor had been a closed room ever since 
 my mother's death, and was only thrown open 
 now and then for cleaning purposes. But this 
 very restriction ; this air of mourning and 
 solitude ; the darkened windows ; the sheeted 
 furniture ; the thick white dust that crept in 
 month by month ; and, above all, the sense of 
 a mysterious loss which we were all too young 
 to comprehend, only served to invest the room 
 and the picture with a still deeper interest. I 
 well remember how often we interrupted our 
 garden-games to peep, with suspended breath, 
 through the chinks of the closed shutters, and 
 how our voices sunk to a whisper when we 
 passed the door. 
 
 I have said that we were three ; but I have 
 not yet explained how nearly we were of one 
 age, or how, being the youngest, I was only re- 
 
 moved by three years from my eldest sister, 
 Hilda, and by fourteen months from my second 
 sister, Jessie. My father's httle girls had, in- 
 deed, sprung up quickly around him, and our 
 mother was taken from us at the very time when 
 we most needed her. 
 
 Jessie vras fair, and somewhat pretty; but 
 Hilda was the beauty of the family, and our 
 father's favorite. She was like him, but darker 
 of complexion, and more delicately featured. 
 She inherited the same pride ; was willful and 
 imperious ; and exercised, withal, after her 
 precocious fashion, the same power of ready 
 fascination. Besides, she was very clever — 
 much cleverer than Jessie or I — and learned 
 with surprising facility. My sister Jessie was 
 in many respects less forward than myself. She 
 had neither Hilda's talent nor my steadiness, and 
 was altogether deficient in ambition. To our 
 eldest sister she was entirely devoted, submitting 
 to all her caprices, and accepting all her opinions 
 with a blind faith worthy of a better cause. 
 This alliance was not favorable to my happiness. 
 Hilda and Jessie were all in all to each other, 
 and I found myself excluded from the confi- 
 dence of both. Forgetting, or seeming to for- 
 get, how little our ages differed, they ti-eated 
 me as a mere baby ; called me " little Barbara," 
 and affected to undervalue whatever I said or 
 did. When I tacitly rejected this mortifying 
 patronage, and with it, a companionship which 
 was only offered to me during a game of blind- 
 man's-buff, or puss-in-the corner, I was reproach- 
 ed for my indifference, or set aside as simply 
 dull and tiresome. 
 
 To be just, I do not believe that my sisters 
 had any idea of how they made me suffer. I 
 was too proud to let them see it, and my grief 
 may at times have worn a sullen aspect. Often 
 and often have I stolen away to one of the great 
 upper rooms, sobbing and lamenting,and wishing 
 that my heart might break and put an end to my 
 sorrows — and yet I kept my secret so bravely 
 that it was not even suspected by the dear old 
 servant whom I loved and trusted above all the 
 world. 
 
 The grievances of inf^ancy lie mostly on the 
 surface. Time heals them, and they jeave no 
 scar. But this was not my case. I was more 
 sensitive than the generality of children, and, 
 I believe, more affectionate. I could have 
 loved my sisters with my whole heart ; but they 
 rejected me, and so the estrangement, which at 
 first might have been healed by a word, Avidened 
 with years and became at last almost irreparable. 
 By the time that I had reached the age of nine or 
 ten, I was no longer a child. My freshness of 
 feeling was gone — my heart was chilled — my 
 first impulses were checked and driven back. 
 The solitude which was once my refuge became 
 my habit; and, grown indifferent to opinion, I 
 heard myself called " strange and unsociable" 
 without emotion. I appropriated one of the 
 garrets to my special use, and, being left in un- 
 disturbed possession, lived there among occu- 
 pations and amusements of my own creation. 
 Thus it happened that, unless during the hours 
 of meals or tuition, I lived almost entirely 
 alone. My father knew nothing of this ; for 
 he was always out, and troubled himself very 
 little about our domestic managements. Goody 
 knew and wondered, but loved me too well to 
 
BARBARA'S ' HISTORY. 
 
 interfere with any thing I chose to do ; and my 
 sisters, after teasing and laughing at me to their 
 hearts' content, at last grew weary, and aban- 
 doned me to my own solitary ways. 
 
 It was a sad life for a child, and might have 
 led to many evils, but for a circumstance which 
 I must ever regard as something more than 
 mere good fortune. 
 
 Having wandered up-stairs one day with noth- 
 ing to read and nothing to think of, and being, 
 moreover, very listless and weary, I bethought 
 myself of a pile of old boxes which lay stored 
 together in a certain dark closet close at hand, 
 and so set to work to turn out their contents. 
 Most of them were empty, or contained only 
 coils of rotten rope, pieces of faded stuffs and 
 damasks, and bundles of accounts. But in one, 
 the smallest and least promising of all, I found 
 a dusty treasure. This treasure counted of 
 • some three or four dozen worm-eaten, faded vol- 
 umes, tied up in lots of four or six, and over- 
 laid with blotches of white mold. A motley 
 company ! Fox's " Martyrs ;" the Works of 
 Dr. Donne ; Sir Thomas Browne on " Urn Buri- 
 al ;" a Translation of Pliny, with Blustrations ; 
 Defoe's "History of the Plague;" Riccoboni 
 on the Theaters of Europe; "Hudibras ;" Wal- 
 ler's Poems ; Bolingbroke's " Letters on English 
 History ;" the Tatler, Guardian, and Specta- 
 tor ; Drelincourt on Death, with the History of 
 Mrs. Veal ; an odd volume or two of the Gen- 
 tleman's Magazine, and some few others, chiefly 
 farming books and sermons. It was a quaint 
 library for so young a reader, but a most wel- 
 come one. I necessarily met with much that I 
 could not understand, and yet contrived to reap 
 pleasure and profit from ail. I had boundless 
 faith to begin with, and believed, like the 
 Arabs, that every thing printed must be true. I 
 was puzzled by Sir Hudibras, but never doubted 
 either his courage or identity. I was interested 
 by the letters in the Tatler, and only wondered 
 that so many ladies and gentlemen should have 
 ventured to trouble that nice good-natured Mr. 
 Bickerstaff with their unimportant private affairs. 
 As for Edmund Waller, Esquire, I was quite sor- 
 ry for his distresses ; and could not conceive how 
 the beautiful Sacharissa could bear to be told 
 that she had " a wild and cruel soul" with- 
 out relenting immediately. To me, happy in 
 my credulity, the Phoenix and Mrs. Veal were 
 alike genuine phenomena; and had Sir Aga- 
 memnon Churchill himself attempted to con- 
 vince me that the History of the Plague was 
 written by any other than " a citizen who lived 
 the whole time in London," I should have made 
 bold to reserve my own opinion on the subject. 
 
 Other books I had as well — books better 
 suited to my age and capacity ; but these, being 
 common property, were kept in the school-room, 
 and consisted for the most part in moral tales 
 and travels, which, read more than once, grow 
 stale and wearisome. 
 
 Fortunate was it that I found this second 
 life in my books ; for I was a very lonely little 
 girl, with a heart full of unbostowed affection, 
 and a nature quickly swayed to smiles or tears. 
 The personages of my fictitious world became 
 as real to me as those by whom I was surround- 
 ed in my daily life. They linked me with hu- 
 manity. They were my friends, my instructors, 
 my companions. I loved some, and hated 
 
 others, as cordially as if they could love or hate 
 me in return ; and, in the intensity of my sym- 
 pathy with their airy sorrows and perplexities, 
 learned to forget my own. 
 
 But I had still another happiness — a half-de- 
 veloped taste, which, fed by such scant nutri- 
 ment as fell now and then in my way, ripened, 
 year after year, to a deep and earnest passion, 
 and influenced beyond all calculation the des- 
 tinies of my later life. Art — art called the 
 Divine, but known to me under its meanest and 
 most barren form — fed the dreams of my 
 childhood, and invested with an undeserved in- 
 terest the few wretched prints scattered here 
 and there through the pages of Fox's Martyrs. 
 Goldsmith's Geography, and other works of the 
 same " mark and likelihood." Sometimes, af- 
 ter my own imperfect fashion, I strove to repro- 
 duce them in pencil or charcoal. Sometimes, 
 even, I attempted to illustrate the adventures of 
 my favorite heroes, or the landscapes described 
 in books of travel. The whitewashed walls of 
 my garret, the covers and margins of my copy- 
 books, and all the spare scraps of paper that I 
 could find, were scrawled over with designs in 
 which the love of beauty might, perhaps, have 
 been discernible ; but- in which every rule of 
 anatomy, perspective, and probability was hope- 
 lessly set at naught. But of this, more here- 
 after. 
 
 Happy art thou, little child, to whom is 
 granted the guidance of loving parents ! Happy, 
 thrice happy, in the fond encouragements, the 
 gentle reproofs, the tender confidences and con- 
 solations lavished on thy first uncertain years ! 
 I lost one of mine before my lips had ever been 
 hallowed by her kisses ; and by the other I was, 
 if not wholly unloved, at least too much ne- 
 glected. How I yearned and wearied for those 
 affections that I now could never have ; how I 
 used to steal to dear old Goody's knees in the 
 dim twilight, and beseech her to tell me some- 
 thing of my mother ; how I listened with tears 
 that I was ashamed to show, and stole away 
 to hide them ; how, thinking over all these 
 things, I sometimes gave way to fits of bitterness 
 and anger, and sometimes sobbed myself to 
 sleep, with my head resting on a book, matters 
 little now, and except as it may throw a light on 
 certain passages of my inner life, is scarcely de- 
 serving of mention. Alas ! I have yet much 
 more to tell. The long story of my workings and 
 wanderings lies all before me like a summer land- 
 scape, with its lights and shadows, its toilsome 
 plains, and its places of green rest, mapped out, 
 and fading away together in the blue distance. 
 
 Here, at all events, let me end my first day's 
 record ; for I am weary, and these pictures of 
 the past lie heavily at my heart. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DEPORTMENT AND DISCIPLINE. 
 
 My father's bell rang sharply. 
 
 It was about eleven o'clock on a brilliant May 
 morning. Miss Whymper, who attcnded'to our 
 education between the hours of nine and twelve 
 daily, presided at the head of the table, correct- 
 ing French exercises. We, respectfully with- 
 drawn to the foot of the same, bent busily over 
 our books and slates, and preserved a decorous 
 
10 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 silence. We all heard our father close his bed- 
 room door and go down-stairs ; but it was his 
 habit to rise and breakfast late, and we took no 
 notice of it. We also heard him ring ; but we 
 took no notice of that either. Scarcely, however, 
 had the echo of the first bell died away, when it 
 was succeeded by a second, and the second was 
 still pealing when he opened the parlor door, 
 and called aloud. 
 
 " Beever 1" said he, impatiently. " Beever ! 
 am I to ring for an hour ?" 
 
 The reply was inaudible ; but he spoke again, 
 almost without waiting to hear it. 
 
 " When did this letter arrive ? Was it here 
 last night when I came home, or was it deliver- 
 ed only this morning ? Why didn't you bring 
 ' it up to me with the shaving water ? Where is 
 Barbara?" " 
 
 Startled at the sound of my own name, I rose 
 in my place, and waited with suspended breath. 
 My sisters, with their heads still bent low, 
 glanced first at me and then at each other. 
 
 " Be so good, Miss Barbara, as to concentrate 
 your attention upon your studies," said Miss 
 Whymper, without even raising her eyes from 
 the exercises. 
 
 "I — I — that is, papa — I heard " 
 
 " Be so good as to hear nothing duinng the 
 hours of education," interposed Miss Whymper, 
 still frostily intent upon the page before her. 
 
 " But papa calls me, and " 
 
 " In that case you will be sent for. We will 
 proceed, if you please, young ladies, to the 
 analyzation of the Idiom." 
 
 We pushed our slates away, took each our 
 French grammar, and prepared to listen. 
 
 "The Idiom," said Miss Whymper, sitting 
 stiffly upright, and, as was her wont, cadencing 
 her voice to one low monotonous level, " is a 
 familiar and arbitrary turn of words, which, 
 without being in strict accordance with the re- 
 ceived laws of " 
 
 " Barbara ! Barbara, come here. Tell Miss 
 Whymper I want you !" 
 
 I started up again, and Miss Whymper, inter- 
 rupted in her discourse, frowned, inclined her 
 head the very least in the world, and said : 
 
 " You have my permission, Miss Barbara, to 
 retire," 
 
 I was always nervous in my father's presence ; 
 but the suddenness and strangeness of the sum- 
 mons made me this morning more than usually 
 timid. I ran down, however, and presented 
 myself, tremblingly, at the door of the breakfast- 
 parlor. He was pacing to and fro, between the 
 table and the window. His coffee stood untasted 
 in the cup. In his hand he crushed an open 
 letter. Seeing me at the door, he stopped, flung 
 himself into his easy chair, and beckoned me to 
 co*e nearer. 
 
 " Stand there, Barbara," said he, pointing to 
 a particular square in the pattern of the car- 
 pet. 
 
 Shaking from head to foot, I came forward 
 and stood there, waiting, like a criminal for his 
 sentence. 
 
 " Humph ! Can't you look up ?" 
 
 I looked up ; looked down again ; turned red 
 and white alternately ; and felt as if the ground 
 were slipping from under my feet. 
 
 My father uttered an exclamation of impa- 
 tience. 
 
 " Good heavens !" said he, pettishly. " What 
 gaucherie I Are you taught to hold yourself no 
 better than that ? Are your arms pump-handles ? 
 What stranger would imagine — well, well, it 
 can't be helped now 1 Tell me — did you ever . 
 hear of your great-aunt, who lives in Suffolk?" 
 
 " Heard of Mrs. Sandyshaft !" exclaimed 
 Goody, who had been standing by the door, 
 twirling her apron with both hands all the time. 
 " I should think so indeed ! Often and often ; 
 and of Stoneycroft Hall, too — haven't vou, mv 
 lamb?" ^ ' ^ 
 
 Too confused to speak, I nodded; and my 
 father went on, 
 
 " I have had a letter from your great-aunt this 
 morning,' Barbara, Here it is. She asks me to 
 send you down to Suffolk ; and, as it may be 
 greatly for your good, I shall allow you to go. 
 Though at a great inconvenience to myself, 
 remember. At a great inconvenience to myself." ' 
 
 Uncertain what to reply, I looked down, and 
 stammered : 
 
 " Yes, papa." 
 
 " I have not seen Mrs. Sandyshaft for many 
 years," continued my father. " In fact, we — we 
 have not been friends. But she may take a 
 liking for you, Barbara— and she is rich. You 
 must try to please her. You will go this day 
 week, if -Beever can get you ready in tlie time. 
 What do you say, Beever ?" 
 
 " Less than a week will do for me, sir," said 
 Goody, promptly. 
 
 " No, no ; a week is soon enough. And, Bee- 
 ver, you are not to spare for a pound or two. 
 I must have her look like a gentleman's child, 
 anyhow. Not but that it is excessively incon- 
 venient to me, just now. Excessively incon- 
 venient !" 
 
 He paused, musingly, and then, leaning his 
 chin upon his hand, looked at me again, and 
 sighed. The sight, I suppose, was unsatisfactory 
 enough ; for the longer he looked, the more his 
 countenance darkened. Suddenly he rose, pushed 
 his chair away, and planted himself in the middle 
 of the heartR-rug with his back to the fire. 
 
 " My compliments to Miss Whymper, Beever, 
 and I request the favor of a moment's conver- 
 sation." 
 
 Beever departed on her errand. After a few 
 seconds of uneasy silence, during which I never 
 ventured to stir from that particular square upon 
 the carpet. Miss Whymper caftie. 
 
 My father bowed profoundly. Miss Whymper 
 courtesied to the ground. I always noticed that ^ 
 they wei'e amazingly polite to each other. 
 
 " Madam," said my father with his grandest 
 air, and in his blandest accents, " unwilling as I 
 am to trespass on your valuable time, I have 
 ventured to interrupt you this morning in order 
 
 to consult you upon Barbara, place a chair 
 
 for Miss Whymper." 
 
 Miss Whymper courtesied again, laid her head a 
 little on one side, like a raven, and folded her 
 hands together, as if she were expressing the 
 letter M in the manual alphabet. 
 
 " I propose, madam," pursued my father, "to 
 send Barbara on a visit to a relation — a rich and 
 somewhat eccentric relation — who resides in the 
 country, and with whom we have not held 
 communication for many years. It is important, 
 for several reasons, Miss Whymper, that the 
 child should make a favorable impression ; and 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 11 
 
 I feel sure that I shall not vainly entreat your 
 cooperation during the few days that intervene 
 between the present time and the period of her 
 departure." 
 
 "With regard to any thing that /can do," 
 murmured Miss Whymper, patting her hands 
 softly together, as if she were applauding, " Mr. 
 Churchill may at all times command me." 
 
 My father glanced at Miss Whymper's hands, 
 which were somewhat red and bony, and at his 
 own, which were particularly white and well 
 shaped ; and so, trifling carelessly with his watch- 
 chain, continued. 
 
 " I am aware, of course," said he, " that 
 much can not be done in so short a time ; but 
 that something may, I am induced to hope, 
 knowing — ahem ! — the talent and judgment to 
 which I confide the task." 
 
 Miss Whymper smiled the iciest of smiles, 
 and acknoNvledged the tribute by another bow, 
 which my father returned immediately. 
 
 " You observe, no doubt, Miss Whymper," 
 he continued, " that Barbara's carriage is es- 
 sentially ungraceful. She never knows what to 
 do with her feet. Her hands do not seem to 
 belong to her. She enters a room badly. She 
 has no self-possession, no style, no address — in 
 short, there is nothing in her appearance which 
 indicates either good blood or good breeding." 
 
 Whereupon my father glanced over his shoul- 
 der at th^ chimney-glass, and paused for a 
 reply. Miss Whymper, perceiving that I had 
 withdrawn behind her chair, as much out of sight 
 as possible, shifted her position, and considered 
 me attentively. 
 
 " It is quite true, sir," she sighed, after a few 
 minutes of silence. " She is lamentably awk- 
 ward ! And yet her sister Hilda " 
 
 " Ah ! if it had been Hilda !" exclaimed my 
 father, regretfullv. " Why could she not have 
 invited Hilda ?" * 
 
 " So quick, so naturally graceful, such rapid 
 perception I" murmured Miss Whymper, still 
 noiselessly applauding. 
 
 " The only one of the three who is like me !" 
 added my father, with another glance at the 
 glass. 
 
 " A truly aristocratic cast of features," re- 
 turned Miss Whymper, " and the very child to 
 please a stranger ! Well, well — we may do 
 something with Miss Barbara, after all ; and, 
 perhaps, by confining our attention for the 
 present to that one object " 
 
 " Precisely so, Madam. That is what I wilh." 
 
 " And, if Mr. Churchill entertains no objec- 
 tion, by employing the aid of a few calisthenic 
 exercises " 
 
 '' Just so, Miss Whymper. Just so." 
 
 " I do not doubt being enabled to effect some 
 slight improvement." 
 
 " In which case, Madam, you will confer a 
 favor upon me." 
 
 " And should any trifling outlay be requir- 
 ed " 
 
 "You will charge whatever is necessary to 
 my account." 
 
 *' A back-board, for instance, and a pair of 
 dumb-bells?" 
 
 " I leave everything, Miss Whymper, to your 
 experience and discretion." 
 
 The tone in which my father uttered these last 
 words, and the bow by which they were accom- 
 
 panied, concluded the interview. Miss Whym- 
 per rose; he held the door open while she 
 passed through ; more bows and courtesies were 
 exchanged, and, when she was gone, he shrug- 
 ged his shoulders contemptuously, and flung 
 himself once more into the easy chair. 
 
 " Pshaw !" he muttered, " governesses and 
 children — necessary evils ! Barbara, you may 
 go back to your lessons, and tell Beever to bring 
 fresh coffee." 
 
 The result of this conversation was to make 
 my life unbearably wretched for the next seven 
 days. I was taught to walk, to stand, to shake 
 hands. I stood in the stocks, and wore the 
 back-board, till I was ready to faint. I was 
 placed before a looking-glass, and made to 
 courtesy to my own reflection for the half hour 
 together. I went through the first interview 
 with my great-aunt twenty times a day ; my 
 great-aunt being represented by a chair, and 
 Miss Whymper standing by to conduct the 
 performance. All this was very painful and 
 perplexing, and, at the same time, very ludi- 
 crous. As for Hilda and Jessie, they allowed me 
 no peace from morning till night; but, when 
 our governess was out of the way, mimicked me 
 with elaborate salutations, inquired perpetually 
 after my health and that of my great-aunt, and 
 humbly hoped that when I had inherited 
 Stoneycroft Hall, and become a grand lady, I 
 should not be too proud to take notice of my 
 poor relations ! 
 
 Thus the weary week went by, and but for 
 dear old Goody, who comforted and consoled me 
 under all my trials, I hardly know how I could 
 have gone through it. Go through it I did, 
 however ; and, drilled and dislocated to the 
 uttermost verge of endurance, hailed with a 
 blessed sense of coming liberty the morning of 
 my departure. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ON THE ROAD. 
 
 Seated in a corner of the Suffolk Stage, with 
 Goody clinging in an agony of tears to the 
 door, and the guard insisting that she must get 
 down, as the coach is going immediately, I feel 
 that I am, indeed, a very lonely Httle traveler. 
 I have left so early that no one in the house was 
 awake to bid me good-by; I have scarcely 
 slept at all throughout the night; and I have 
 eaten no breakfast. Worse than all, my firm- 
 ness is fast oozing away, and there is a lump in 
 my throat that will surely break into sobs with 
 the next word I utter. 
 
 " Now, ma'am, for the last time if you please," 
 says the guard, impatiently. 
 
 "Eighty mile and more!" sobs Goody, cling- 
 ing all the faster. " Oh ! my dear lamb, eig|b^ 
 mile and more!" ' ▼ 
 
 "Well, it's your own choice," growls the 
 guard, with an oath and a scowl, as he clambers 
 to his seat. " You'll be thrown off the step, as 
 sure as you're a Christian woman !" 
 
 Whereupon she smothers me in one last 
 frantic embrace, and, being wrenched away by 
 a humane bystander, disappears suddenly — only 
 to reappear, however, as suddenly ; and, as the 
 coach starts, to cry : 
 
 " Good-by ! good-by ! my darling ! Eat your 
 money, and take care of your sandwiches !" 
 
12 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 Having no voice to answer, I can only hang 
 from the window and wave my hand. We 
 plunge out of the inn-yard and into the busy 
 street beyond — the guard blows his horn — the 
 loungers give a shout — and, looking after her to 
 the last, I catch one parting glimpse of Goody 
 in insane pursuit. Then a crowd of vehicles in- 
 tervenes ; we whirl sharply round a corner j 
 and there is nothing left for me but to shrink 
 back in my place and weep silently. 
 
 A long time goes by thus. My fellow-travel- 
 ers, who are four in number and seem all to be- 
 long to one family, talk loudly among them- 
 selves, and take no notice of me. Looking up, 
 by and by, when my first anguish has some- 
 what abated, I observe that they consist of a 
 father, mother, and two daughters, all very 
 cheerful and good-tempered-looking, and all 
 busily engaged in the consumption of stout sau- 
 sage rolls. Being pressed to accept one of 
 these, and, to my shame, bursting into another 
 flood of tears with the effort of declining it, I 
 turn my face to the window, and they consider- 
 ately speak to me no more. 
 
 The morning is cold and gray, and a melan- 
 choly damp, which is half rain, half fog, clings 
 to the panes, and makes the prospect ghostly. 
 We are not yet out of the great suburbs ; but 
 the houses, which run mostly in terraces, have 
 an out-of-town look, and are presently succeeded 
 by groups of twin-villas with gaps of market 
 gardens between. Then come brick-fields, villas 
 half built up, patches of waste ground, and lines 
 of dreary pasture, which, seen through the driz- 
 zling mist, look more dismal than the streets. 
 
 Struck with the silence that has succeeded to 
 the brisk conversation with which they began 
 the journey, I venture once again to glance at 
 my companions, and find that they have all four 
 fallen asleep, with their heads tied up in pocket 
 handkerchiefs — a proceeding so sensible and 
 contagious, that I presently find myself also 
 getting drowsy, and, before many minutes are 
 past, have forgotten my troubles in a deep and 
 dreamless slumber. Not having rested all the 
 night before, I now sleep heavily — so heavily 
 that nothing less than the opening of the door 
 and the entrance of the sixth passenger (whose 
 place has all this time been vacant) awakens me. 
 It is now close upon midday. The mist has 
 cleared off; the sun shines out gloriously ; the 
 sky is islanded with great solitary clouds ; there 
 are trees and trim hedges on either side of the 
 road; and the country all about is green and 
 pleasant. We are running on briskly, at the 
 rate of ten miles an hour — so, at least, our last 
 traveler observes — and the village at which we 
 took him up is already left far behind. 
 
 "Ten mile an hour, a fine day, and five 
 a^eeable companions (four of 'em ladies,)" says 
 um new comer, with a sniff at every comma, 
 " what can the 'art of man desire more ?" 
 
 He is a plump, smooth-shaven individual, with 
 an unhealthy complexion, a black suit, a white 
 neck-cloth, and a brown cotton umbrella. De- 
 spite the complacent smile with which he looks 
 round upon the company, he is not by any 
 means attractive, and nobody seems disposed to 
 improve his acquaintance. 
 
 " Except conversation," he adds, after a long 
 pause. "Yea — except godly conversation." 
 
 A dead silence follows, during which he smiles 
 and looks round, as before. 
 
 "And godly conversation," says he, at the 
 end of another interval, "is the refreshment of 
 the sperrit." 
 
 Still no one answers, and this time the omis- 
 sion can hardly be misconstrued. By the fad- 
 ing of his ugly smile, and the gloom that gath- 
 ers gradually about his heavy brow, it is plain 
 that he sees the unpleasant truth at last. Find- 
 ing presently that the father and daughters have 
 resumed their chat in whispers, and that the 
 mother has turned directly away from him, he 
 pulls a greasy book from his pocket, lolls back 
 in his place, and reads sullenly. 
 
 Thoroughly amused by the incidents of the 
 road, and delighted with the country, I watch 
 every thing that passes, and soon forget all about 
 my traveling companions. The green fields 
 rippling over with young wheat — the snug 
 farm-houses, set round with yellow stacks and 
 mossy barns — the wayside pond with its fleet of 
 callow ducklings — the gray church tower that 
 peeps above the willows — the wedry peddler 
 resting by the cross roads, with his bundle at 
 his feet — the solitary inn, with its swinging 
 sign, its old worn trough, and its sunburnt ost- 
 ler lounging at the door — the traveling cara- 
 van that labors on with smoking chimney and 
 close-shut windows, and is so soon left out of 
 sight — .the stretch of furzy common — the 
 bridge where boys are angling — the drove of 
 frantic pigs that rush under our very wheels, 
 and seem bent on suicide — the plantations, 
 mansions, toll-gates, wagons ; in short, all these 
 sights and sounds of country life fill my mind 
 with pleasant pictures, and my heart with glad- 
 ness. 
 
 Rattling at hot noon into a clean, bright, busy 
 town, where it is market-day and the streets are 
 thronged with farmers, we dash up to a large 
 inn called the "Rose and Crown," and halt to 
 dine. Having my basket of sandwiches at my 
 feet, and being, besides, somewhat shy of the 
 inn and the strange people, I remain in the 
 coach alone; but the cheerful family hurry 
 away as briskly as if the stout sausage-rolls had 
 appealed only to their imaginations, and the 
 sleek stranger saunters blandly up and down 
 the yard under the shadow of his cotton um- 
 brella. Seeing me engaged, shortly after, on 
 the contents of my basket, he ht)vers about 
 the door, smiles, lingers, and looks interested. 
 
 " What are your sandwiches made of, my 
 dear?" he asks at length. "Ham or beef?". 
 
 ••Beef, sir," I reply, coloring painfully. 
 
 The stranger smacks his lips. 
 
 " Dear me !" says he meditatively. " Only to 
 think that they are beef ! Why, I guessed they 
 were beef from the beginning ! They look very 
 nice." 
 
 Scarcely knowing whether it be polite to do 
 so, and fearful at the same time of offending 
 this gentleman's delicacy, I hold out the basket 
 with a timid hand, and try to falter forth some 
 words of invitation. To my surprise, he ac- 
 cepts immediately; and not only accepts, but 
 steps straightway into the coach, takes my 
 basket on his knees, and, to show how little 
 pride he has, helps himself as liberally to my 
 sandwiches as though they had been his own. 
 Thus powerfully aided, I soon arrive at the 
 end of my dinner, and, somehow or another, 
 leave off almost as hungry as when I began. 
 
 A sudden running to and fro, clattering of 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 13 
 
 hoofs, and crowding up of passengers, now in- 
 dicates the renewal of our journey. The cheer- 
 ful family hurries back, looking very warm and 
 contented. The coachman clambers to the box, 
 and has his last glass of ale handed up to him. 
 The guard sounds a farewell blast ; and away 
 we go again, across the market-hill, and out 
 past the bank and the prison, and on once more 
 along the dusty high road, with the fields on 
 either side. 
 
 What, with the pleasant monotony of the 
 landscape, and the heat of the sunny summer's 
 day, and the general drowsiness of these and 
 other influences, we are a very sleepy company 
 this afternoon, and, unconsciously polite, nod to 
 each other incessantly. At about four o'clock 
 we come to a large town, where my cheerful 
 neighbors are met by a roomy double-bodied 
 chaise, and all shake hand with me at parting. 
 Not so the sleek traveler, who, unminSful of 
 the sandwiches, jumps out, as the coach stops, 
 and goes his way without a word. 
 
 Handsome shops, wide streets, picturesque 
 old houses, with projecting stories richly carved, 
 solid public buildings, and glimpses of a noble 
 river fringed with trees and villas, impress me 
 with admiration as we pass, and make up a 
 total that is more than commonly attractive. 
 Having delayed here full half an hour, we start 
 away again; and, just as we begin to move, I 
 hear it said that the name of this town is Ipswich. 
 
 Being, by this time, very tired and hungry, 
 and quite alone in the coach, I fall asleep once 
 more, and, waking bewildered at every change 
 of horses, forget where I am, and whither I am 
 going. Sometimes, possessed with a vague no- 
 tion that I must have slept for hours and passed 
 the place long since, I start up in terror, and 
 cry to be let out ; but that is when we are going 
 at full speed, and no one hears me. Thus two 
 more weary hours lag by, seeming as long as all 
 the other hours of the day together ; and then, 
 just as dusk is coming on, we pass through a 
 straggling village, where the blacksmith's forge 
 burns redly, and the children in the ivied school- 
 house are chanting an evening hymn. Dashing 
 on between the straggling cottages, and up a 
 hill so closely shaded by thick trees, that the 
 dusk seems to thicken suddenly to night, we 
 draw up all at once before a great open gate, 
 leading to a house of which I can only see the 
 gabled outUne and the lighted windows. 
 
 The guard jumps -down ; the door is thrown 
 opeia ; and two persons, a man and woman, come 
 hurrying down the path. 
 
 " One little girl, and one box, as per book," 
 says the guard, lifting me out, and setting me 
 down in the road, as if I were but another box, 
 to be delivered as directed. 
 
 " From London ?" asks the woman, sharply. 
 
 " From London," replies the guard, already 
 scrambling to his seat. " All right, an't it ?" 
 
 " All right." 
 
 Whereupon the coach plunges on again into 
 the dusk ; the man shoulders my box as though 
 it were a feather; and the woman, who looks 
 strangely gaunt and gray by this uncertain light, 
 seizes me by the wrist, and strides away toward 
 the house at a pace that my cramped and weary 
 limbs can scarcely accomplish. 
 
 Sick and bewildered, I am hurried into a cheer- 
 ful room where the table is spread as if for tea 
 
 and supper, and a delicious perfume of coffee 
 and fresh flowers fills the air ; and — and, all at 
 once, even in the moment when I am first ob- 
 serving them, these sights and scents grow all 
 confused and sink away together, and I remem- 
 ber nothing. 
 
 How long my unconsciousness may have last- 
 ed I know not ; but when I recover, I find my- 
 self laid upon a sofa, with my cloak and bon- 
 net off", my eyes and mouth full of Eau de Co- 
 logne, and my hands smarting under a volley of 
 slaps, administered by a ruddy young woman on 
 one side, and the same gaunt person who brought 
 me from the coach, on the other. Seeing me look 
 up, they both desist; and the latter, drawing 
 back a step or two, as if to observe me to greater 
 advantage, puts on an immense pair of heavy 
 gold spectacles, stares steadily for some seconds, 
 and at length says : 
 
 " What did you mean by that, now ?" 
 
 Unprepared for so abrupt a question, I lie as 
 if fascinated by her bright gray eyes, and can 
 not utter a syllable. 
 
 " Are you better ?" 
 
 Still silent, I bow my head feebly^ and keep 
 looking at her. 
 
 " Hey, now ! Am I a basilisk ? Are you 
 dumb, child?" 
 
 Wondering why she speaks to me thus, and 
 being, moreover, so very weak and tired, what 
 can I do but to try in vain to answer, and, fail- 
 ing in the effort, burst into tears again ? Here- 
 upon she frowns, pulls off her glasses, shakes 
 her head angrily, and, saying — " That's done to 
 aggravate me — I know it is!" — stalks away to 
 the window, and stands there grimly, looking 
 out upon the night. The younger woman, how- 
 ever, with a world of kindness in her rosy face, 
 touches my wet cheeks tenderly with her rough 
 hands, dries my tears upon her apron, and bend- 
 ing low with her finger to her lips, whispers me 
 " not to cry." 
 
 " That child's hungry," says the other, coming 
 suddenly back. " That's what's the matter with 
 her. She's hungry. I know she is, and I won't 
 be contradicted. Do you hear me, Jane? — 
 I won't be contradicted." 
 
 " Indeed, ma'am, I think she is hungry," re- 
 plies Jane. " And tired, too, poor little thing !" 
 
 " Tired and hungry — Mercy alive ! then 
 why don't she eat? Here's food enough for a 
 dozen people ! Child, what will you have ? 
 Ham — cold chicken-pie — bread — butter—cheese 
 — tea — coffee — ale ?" 
 
 Too faint to speak aloud even now, I rather 
 express the word " Coffee " by the motion of my 
 lips than whisper it ; and having done this, lie 
 back wearily and close my eyes. 
 
 The first step is the great effort ; but, being 
 fed and waited upon by the younger womangi 
 soon get better and braver, and am able to m. 
 up and be helped to a slice of chicken-pie. 
 From pie to ham, from ham to a second cup of 
 coffee, and from the second cup of coffee to 
 more pie, are transitions easily understood, and 
 pleasantly accomplished. Every thing tastes de- 
 licious; and not even the sight of the gaunt 
 housekeeper, who sits all the time at the op- 
 posite side of the table with her chin resting in 
 the palms of her hands, and her eyes fixed im- 
 movably upon me, has power to spoil my enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
14 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 For she is the housekeeper beyond a doubt. 
 Those heavy gold spectacles, that sad-colored 
 gown, that cap with it^ plain, close bordering, 
 can belong to no one but a housekeeper. Won- 
 dering within myself why she should be so dis- 
 agreeable ; and why, being so disagreeable, my 
 aunt should keep her in her service ; then won- 
 dering where my aunt herself can be ; why she 
 has not yet come to welcome me ; how she will 
 receive me when she does cbme ; and whether I 
 shall have presence of mind enough to remem- 
 ber all the courtesies I have been drilled to make, 
 and all the speeches I have been taught to say, 
 I find myself eating as if nothing at all had been 
 tKe matter with me, and even staring now and 
 then quite confidently at my opposite neighbor. 
 
 My meal over, and the funereal silence, in 
 which it has been conducted, remaining still 
 unbroken, Jane clears the table, closes out the 
 dark night, trims the lamp, wheels my sofa over 
 to the fireside and is seen no more. Left alone 
 now with the sleeping dogs and the house- 
 keeper — who looks as if she never slept in her 
 life — I find the evening wearisome. Observing, 
 too, that she continues to look at me in the 
 same grim, imperturbable way, and seeing no 
 books anywhere about, it occurs to me that a 
 little conversation would, perhaps, be accept- 
 able ; and that, as I am her mistress's niece, it 
 is my place to speak first. 
 
 " If you please, ma'am," I begin, after a long 
 hesitation. 
 
 "Hey!" 
 
 Somewhat disconcerted by the sharpness and 
 suddenness of this interruption, I pause, and 
 take some moments to recover myself. 
 
 " If you please, ma'am, when am I to see my 
 aunt?" 
 
 "Hey? What? Who?" 
 
 " My aunt, if you please, ma'am." 
 
 " Mercy alive ! And pray who do you suppose 
 I am ?" 
 
 " You, ma'am," I faltered, with a vague un- 
 easiness impossible to describe. "Are you — 
 are you not the housekeeper ?" 
 
 To say that she glares vacantly at me from be- 
 hind her spectacles, loses her very power of 
 speech, and grows, all at once, quite stiff and 
 rigid in her chair, is to convey but a faint picture 
 of the amazement with which she receives this 
 observation. 
 
 " I !" she gasps at length. "I! Gracious me, 
 child ! — /am your aunt." 
 
 I feel my countenance become an utter blank. 
 I am conscious of turning red and white, hot and 
 cold, all in one moment. My ears tingle ; my 
 heart sinks within me ; I can neither speak nor 
 think. A dreadful silence follows, and in the 
 midst of this silence, my aunt, without any kind 
 ofcwarning, bursts into a grim laugh, and says : — 
 ▼' Barbara, come and kiss me." 
 
 I could have kissed a kangaroo just then, in 
 the intensity of my relief; and so, getting up 
 quite readily, touch her gaunt cheek with my 
 childish lips, and look the gratitude I dare not 
 speak. To my surprise, she draws me closer 
 to her knee, passes one thin hand idly through 
 my hair, looks, not unkindly, into my wonder- 
 ing eyes, and murmurs, more to herself than me, 
 the name of " Barbara ! " 
 
 This gentle mood, however, is soon dismissed ; 
 and, as if ashamed of having indulged it, she 
 
 pushes me away, frowns, shakes her head, and 
 says, quite angrily: 
 
 " Nonsense, child. Nonsense ! It's time you 
 went to bed." 
 
 And so, with Jane's good help, to bed I go, 
 and thankfully, too ; for I never was so weary 
 in my life. 
 
 It is a . large room, and a large bed stands in 
 the center of it — a bed so soft and so extensive 
 that I disappear altogether in its mighty depths, 
 and am lost till morning. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MY AUNT AND I BECOME BETTER ACQUAINTED. 
 
 Jours nliifs, plaisirs purs, emportes par le temps !" 
 
 J. Reboul. 
 
 " Your name," said my aunt, with a little off- 
 hand nod, " is Bab. Remember that. " 
 
 She looked grimmer than ever, sitting up so 
 stifily behind the tea-urn ; and this was all the 
 morning salutation she vouchsafed me. A vacant 
 chair awaited me at the foot of the table — such 
 a chair 1 It had a high, straight, carved back, 
 and huge elbows, to which my chin just reached, 
 and legs like bed-posts, which, as they were very 
 long, and mine very short, left my feet dan- 
 gling half a yard from the ground. Unpleasant- 
 ly conscious of my own diminutiveness, and still 
 more unpleasantly conscious of my aunt's keen 
 eyes, I endeavored to fill this piece of furniture 
 as best I could, and to l6ok as tall as possible. 
 
 " Bab," said my aunt, " what made you take 
 me for the housekeeper ?" 
 
 I had begun breakfast with a tolerable appre- 
 ciation of the good things before me ; but this 
 question took away my appetite at a blow. 
 
 " I — I — I don't know, ma'am," I repUed, fal- 
 teringly. 
 
 "Nonsense, Bab. You know well enough. 
 I see it in your face — and I won't be contra- 
 dicted !" 
 
 " If — if you please, ma'am " 
 
 " No, I don't please. What made you take 
 me for the housekeeper ? Was it my dress ?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, I think so." 
 
 " Too shabby— hey ?" 
 
 "N-no, ma'am — ^not shabby ; but " 
 
 " But what ? You must learn to speak out, 
 Bab. I hate people who hesitate." 
 
 " But papa said you were so rich, and " 
 
 " Ah ! He said I was wch, did he ? Rich ! 
 Oho ! And what more, Bab ? What more ? l^ich 
 indeed ! Come, you must tell me ! What else 
 did he say when he told you I was rich ?" 
 
 " N-n-nothing more, ma'am," I replied, startled 
 and confused by her sudden vehemence. " In- 
 deed, nothing more." 
 
 " Bab," said my aunt, bringing her hand down 
 upon the table so heavily that the cups and sau- 
 cers rang again, "Bab, that's false. If he told 
 you I was rich, he told you how to get my money 
 by and by. He told you to cringe, and fawn, 
 and pay court to me — to worm yourself into my 
 favor — to profit by my death — to be a liar, a 
 flatterer, and a beggar ! And why ? Because I 
 am rich ! Oh, yes ! because I am rich !" 
 
 I sat as if stricken into stone ; but half com- 
 prehending what she meant, and unable to an- 
 swer a syllable. 
 
 " Rich, indeed!" she went on, excited more 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 15 
 
 and more by her own words, and stalking to and 
 fro between the window and the table, like one 
 possessed. " Aha ! we shall see ! We shall see ! 
 Listen to me, child. I shall leave you nothing 
 — not a farthing! Never expect it — never 
 hope for it ! If you are good, and true, and I 
 like you, I shall be a friend to you while I live ; 
 but if you are mean, and false, and tell me lies, 
 I shall despise you — do you hear ? I shall de- 
 spise you — send you home — never speak to you, 
 or look at you again ! Either way, you will get 
 nothing by my death ! Nothing — nothing — 
 nothing !" 
 
 My heart swelled within me — I shook from 
 head to foot— I tried to speak, and the words 
 seemed to choke me. 
 
 " I don't want it !" I cried, passionately. " I — 
 I am not mean ! I have told no lies — not one !" 
 
 My aunt stopped short, and looked sternly 
 down upon me, as if she would read fiiy very 
 soul. 
 
 " Bab," said she, " do you mean to tell me 
 that your father said nothing to you about why 
 I may have asked you here, or what might come 
 of it ? Nothing ? Not a word ?" 
 
 " He said it might be for my good — he told 
 Miss Whymper to make me courtesy and walk 
 better, and come into a room properly — he said 
 he wished me to please you. That was all ! He 
 never spoke of money, or of dying, or of telling 
 lies — never !" ^ 
 
 " Well, then, he meant it !" retorted my aunt, 
 sharply. " He meant it !" 
 
 Flushed and trembling in my childish anger, 
 I sprang from my chair and stood before her, 
 face to face. 
 
 " He did not mean it !" I cried. " How dare 
 you speak so of Papa ? How dare " 
 
 I could say no more, but, terrified at my own 
 impetuosity, faltered, covered my face with both 
 hands, and burst into an agony of sobs. 
 
 " Bab," said my aunt, in an altered voice, 
 *' little Bab !" and took me all at once in her 
 two arms, and kissed me on the forehead. 
 
 My anger was gone in a moment. Something 
 in her tone, in her kiss, in my own heart, called 
 up a quick response ; and, nestling close in her 
 embrace, I wept passionately. Then she sat 
 down, drew me on her knee, smoothed my hair 
 with her hand, and comforted me as if I had 
 been a little baby. 
 
 " So brave," said she, " so proud, so honest ! 
 Come, little Bab, you and I must be friends." 
 
 And we were friends, from that minute ; for, 
 from that minute, a mutual confidence and love 
 sprang up between us. Too deeply moved to 
 answer her in words, I only clung the closer, 
 and tried to still my sobs. She understood 
 me. 
 
 " Come," said she, after a few seconds of 
 silence. " Let's go and see the pigs." 
 
 ■ And with this she disengaged my arms from 
 about her neck, set me down abruptly, and rang 
 the bell. 
 
 *' My pigs, Bab," said she, " are my hobby. 
 I've a hundred of them out yonder, waiting to 
 be fed. I always keep a "hundred, and I see 
 them fed myself, twice a day. Won't you like 
 to go with me ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, ma'am, very much." 
 
 " Don't call me ma/ am. I don't like it. Call 
 me aunt. Jane, bring my boots and whip." 
 
 The whip was a short strong whip, with a 
 leather thong, and the boots were the most 
 amazing boots I ever saw. Jane brought them, 
 quite as a matter of course, and my aunt put 
 them on. They had iron heels, and soles half- 
 an-inch thick, and reached, moreover, a long 
 way above her ankles. They looked as though 
 they might Ijave been Wellingtons, originally, 
 cut a trifle shorter, and opened down .the fronts 
 to admit of being buttoned. These on, my aunt 
 proceeded to tie up the skirt of her dress all 
 round, and completed her toilet by the addi- 
 tion of a huge green silk bonnet and vail, which 
 hung on a peg in the hall. 
 
 " You see, Bab," said she, " I am a farmer. 
 My property lies in farms. I cultivate this one, 
 and I let the rest. I attend to my business my- 
 self ; and as I never do any thing by halves, I 
 buy, sell, go to market, keep my own books, 
 and trust to nobody's eyes but my own. Some 
 folks laugh about it ; but I let them laugh, and 
 wish them better amusement. This is my 
 orchard, and yonder is the stack-yard ; but we 
 are not' going there just now. The pigs are 
 waiting." 
 
 Saying which, my aunt led the way across a 
 broad grassy space, where the turkeys were 
 ^rutting along with their heads in the air, and 
 the hens were cackling about with broods of 
 little yellow chickens at their heels, and the 
 fruit trees made a green shade overhead. I 
 could have staid in this delightful place for 
 hours ; but my aunt took me through a little 
 gate to the left, and across a yard where a boy 
 was chopping wood, and then through another 
 gate into another yard which was littered all 
 over with straw, and built round with neat 
 brick sties, and as full of pigs as ever it could 
 hold. 
 
 " There they are I" said she, with grim satis- 
 faction. " There they are !" 
 
 There they were, indeed — pigs of all sizes, 
 ages, and tempers. Black pigs, white pigs, 
 spotted pigs, little pigs, big pigs, fat pigs, lean 
 pigs, pigs with curly tails, and pigs with no 
 tails at all. Quiet enough till we came into the 
 yard, they no sooner beheld my aunt's green 
 bonnet than they broke into the most appalling 
 chorus imaginable, and came rushing up to us 
 with an alacrity that soon brought the whip into 
 service, and sent some of them shrieking away. 
 But to see them fed was the great sight — to 
 watch the perpetual replenishment of the great 
 round troughs ; the circles of tails, uplifted and 
 quivering with excitement ; the playful disturb- 
 ances that broke out now and then among the 
 younger members of the company, and the 
 friendly bites, flights and scuffles that diversified 
 the graver interests of the performance. 
 
 Meanwhile, my aunt stalked about with 1^ 
 whip in her hand ; inspected the condition OT 
 the sties, and the quality of the food ; rated the 
 farm servants ; discussed the question of bean- 
 meal and pea-meal ; gave orders that one youth- 
 ful family should have their noses ringed ; con- 
 demned two hapless porkers of middle growth to 
 solitary confinement ; and ended by taking me 
 round to visit a very fierce dowager in an ad- 
 joining yard, who had the evening before pre- 
 sented society with no less than fifteen little 
 ones, as black as jet, and not much bigger than 
 kittens. 
 
16 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 Having dismissed the pigs, we went into the 
 Btables and then round to the bullock yard ; 
 and, after that, went a long way off to a clover- 
 field lying on the slope of a hill, where we saw 
 the sheep and the little white lambs all feeding 
 and gamboling about, to the number of three 
 hundred and more. And throughout all this 
 ramble, my aunt's vigilant eyes were on every 
 thing and every body. Nothing escaped her ; 
 and not a servant on all the land but started 
 into activity at her approach, and seemed to re- 
 gard her not only with respect, but with some 
 degree of terror. 
 
 At twelve o'clock we came home to lunch ; at 
 four we dined ; and after dinner, my aunt put 
 the Times into my hands, and desired me to 
 read the debates while she sat and knitted in 
 her easy chair. It was not amusing, but I 
 acquitted myself creditably, and was praised for 
 my enunciation. Having had tea at seven, we 
 strolled about the gardens and orchard till near- 
 ly nine ; and then I was sent to bed. Such was 
 my first day at Stoneycroft Hall ; and such was 
 every day for weeks and months after.' Some- 
 times we spent an evening at the parsonage — 
 sometimes the vicar or the doctor dropped in to 
 tea; but, with these slight variations, the pro- 
 , gramme remained imaltered. After a few 
 weeks, my aunt taught me the leading rules of 
 whist, and we played at double-dummy regularly 
 for an hour after tea. It was a quiet life, but a 
 very happy one — all the happier for its mono- 
 tony, and all the pleasanter for its seclusion. 
 The calm, the good air, the early hours, and all 
 the circumstances of the change, seemed to 
 strengthen and improve me. Every sight and 
 sound of farm-yard or field delighted me. 
 Every hour was a holiday — every breath enjoy- 
 ment. Cured of my solitary habits, I grew 
 daily more fresh and childlike, and more ac- 
 cessible to pleasant influences. To be released 
 from Miss Whymper's government and my 
 sisters' petty tyranny was much ; but to live 
 amongst green trees and kindly faces was even 
 more. Day by day, my aunt and I became 
 better acquainted — day by day I loved her and 
 the old house, and all the surroundings of the 
 place, more and more dearly. And this reminds 
 me that I have not yet described Stoneycroft Hall. 
 
 Why it should ever have been called Stoney- 
 croft Hall was altogether a mystery. A more 
 inappropriate name could scarcely have been 
 found for it, since it was justified by no trace of 
 barrenness, by no poverty of soil, by no frag- 
 ment of rock or boulder anywhere about. On 
 the contrary, it would have been difficult to find 
 in all the county a district more productive, or 
 more highly cultivated. The great heaths, it is 
 true, were in the neighborhood — vast sweeps of 
 uj^dulating moorland many miles in length, 
 which traversed twelve or fourteen parishes, 
 and ended at last upon that wave-worn coast 
 where the tides of the German ocean ebb and 
 flow between England and the shores of Holland. 
 But these heaths lay at a considerable distance, 
 and were not within sight from even our upper- 
 most windows. They might have been a hun- 
 dred miles away, for any show of waste land 
 thereabout, and could scarcely have influenced 
 the naming of Stoneycroft Hall. 
 
 It was a fine old Elizabethan homestead, and, 
 in spite of its hard name, the very type of an 
 
 ample, hospitable English dwelling. A little 
 formal pencil sketch which I made of the place 
 a few days after my first arrival, lies before me 
 as I write. Meagre and childlike though it be, 
 it yet brings back every quaint carving, every 
 curved gable, twisted chimney, and fantastic 
 weather-cock, as vividly as though they were the 
 impressions of yesterday. There is the dear 
 old porch with its environment of red and 
 amber roses — there the window of my great 
 formal bed-chamber — there the garret whither I 
 so often stole away with my pencil and my 
 books, and, from its narrow casement, watched 
 the harmless lightnings of the summer dusk. 
 Far and away, all round about the house, stud- 
 ded by farm-buildings, varied by slopes and 
 hollows, relieved by patches of brown fallow 
 and tracts of radiant green, lay the pleasant 
 Suffolk landscape. Our garden-gate opened on 
 the highway — the church-spire peeped above the 
 pollard-oaks close by — the pond stood in a 
 grassy. angle a few yards down the road. To 
 the left (sheltered by a group of picturesque 
 old trees, with knotted roots, and weird, wild- 
 looking branches), lay the great pond, where 
 the cattle were driven in to the water every 
 evening, and many a traveler staid his horse 
 to drink. To the right, we were inclosed by 
 the stacks and out-houses. To the westward, 
 skirting a ridge of rising-ground and filling the 
 valley beyond with rich masses of rounded 
 foliage, extended the park and preserves of 
 Broomhill ; while, farther away, in the midst of 
 a stretch of open country, a bare gaunt poplar, 
 with its lower branches lopped and only a few 
 stray leaves left fluttering at the top, started up 
 to an unusual hight, and served as one of the 
 landmarks of the place. Concealed amid the 
 plantations behind it, nestled a small white 
 building, known as the Poplar Farm. 
 
 Such was the house, and such the neighbor- 
 hood in which my aunt resided. It was no un- 
 usual scene. It would have interested the 
 painter less than the agriculturist, and by many, 
 perhaps, have been deemed but a tame specimen 
 of even so tame a county as Suffolk. But I 
 loved it. It possessed for me, at that impression- 
 able age, a novelty and a charm beyond the 
 power of words to utter. I studied it with a 
 painter's instinct under every aspect of the year 
 and all the moods of nature. Every thatched 
 roof, every column of blue smoke, every lane, 
 and drift, and hedgerow, contributed its own 
 share of interest to the landscape. To watch 
 the sunset burning through the boughs of the 
 park trees, or the moonlight setting them in 
 bronzed relief against the placid sky ; to linger 
 in the meadows till the very bursting of the 
 purple storm-cloud ; to lie at the foot of some 
 far-spreading oak, and gaze up through the 
 shifting leaves at the blue sky above ; or on a 
 summer's morning, to watch the waving wheat 
 and rippling barley — these were among my 
 keenest enjoyments. The good which they 
 worked, and the tastes which they assisted to 
 develop, have remained with me ever since. 
 Familiar with every school of beauty, with 
 scenes consecrated in song and associated with 
 history, I can yet turn to the contemplation of 
 this homely English pastoral with a freshness of 
 admiration that never fades, and a love that 
 knows no change. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 ir 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BROOMHILL AND ITS OWNERS. 
 
 •' Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees." 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 About a mile to the east of Stoneycroft Hall, 
 ky the park, mansion, and domains known col- 
 lectively as Broomhill. The estate took its 
 name from a picturesque sand-crag which rose 
 to a considerable hight at the back of the house 
 and was all overgrown with furze and wavy 
 ferns. The park, without being extensive, was 
 finely situated ; possessed some natural advan- 
 tages ; was broken up into dells and slopes, re- 
 lieved by occasional gleams of water, and in- 
 terspersed with oaks and cedars that were said 
 to have been saplings in the reign of Elizabeth. 
 Beyond the park lay a long line of plantations, 
 and a tract of undulating common that^eached 
 away for more than three miles in the direction 
 of Normanbridge. Normanbridge, be it ob- 
 served, was the nearest market-town. 
 
 Antique, irregular, moated, and surmounted 
 by a forest of quaint chimneys, the Hall at 
 Broomhill was altogether a composite piece of 
 architecture. It lay low in a warm hollow, sur- 
 rounded by foliage and sheltered from all the 
 winds of heaven. Begun about the year 1496, 
 and carried on from century to century with 
 such deviations from the original design as each 
 successive owner was pleased to make, it could 
 not be said to belong to any special order of 
 architecture, but was a mixture of many. The 
 octagonal tower, the bell-turret, and the whole 
 of the east front, dated from the time of the 
 early Tudors. The north wing, with its un- 
 sightly pediment and awkward Corinthian 
 pilasters, was erected during the reign of James 
 I., and designed by Inigo Jones. The courtyard, 
 stone gateway, and offices were specimens of the 
 worst Renaissance school ; and the lodges were 
 rustic Italian. If there ever was a plan, it had 
 been abandoned and forgotten since the com- 
 pletion of the earliest part of the building. 
 Indeed, it almost seemed as if the masters of 
 Broomhill had striven, each in the fashion of 
 his day, to encumber the old place with just 
 whatever novelty was least in harmony with all 
 that had gone before. Still it was as interest- 
 ing a specimen of domestic architecture as one 
 would wish to find ; picturesque by reason of 
 its very incongruity; and, in the fullest sense 
 of the word, historic. 
 
 Conferred in fief upon some remote ancestor 
 of the time of the Norman Kings, this estate 
 had remained in the hands of his descendants 
 for long centuries before a stone of the present 
 edifice was laid. Given to a Farquhar, a Far- 
 quhar had held it ever since. There had never 
 been a title in the family, and they prided 
 themselves upon it. Independent Esquires, 
 they had uniformly declined the lesser honors 
 of nobility, and would not exchange the name 
 and style of Farquhar of Broomhill for any rank 
 below the peerage. They were not rich ; but 
 their descent was pure, and their honor un- 
 blemished. A Farquhar, followed by his fifty 
 lances, fought with distinction in the third 
 crusade under Richard Coeur de Lion, and was 
 present at the siege of Acre. A Farquhar of 
 the sixteenth century held a command under 
 Sir Francis Drake, and was not only one 
 B 
 
 of the few among that gallant crew who return- 
 ed to tell of a voyage round the world, but 
 even bore a share in the pursuit of the Spanish 
 Armada, The second Charles, in his long exile, 
 had few adherents more faithful than one James 
 Farquhar of Broomhill, who mortgaged his lands 
 and melted his plate for the king's service, and 
 was afterward rewarded with a captaincy in 
 his majesty's new regiment of Coldstream Guards. 
 True to the line of the Stuarts, a Farquhar was 
 one of the first to follow the fortunes of the 
 Pretender, and one of the last to abandon them. 
 Later still, two of the house, father and son, 
 fought for Charles Edward on the fatal field of 
 Culloden, and fell side by side, just as his officers 
 forced the prince away. Having by these means 
 narrowly escaped the forfeiture of their estates, 
 the Farquhar family lived henceforth in strict 
 retirement, mingling but little in political or 
 military questions, and, for the most part, de- 
 voting their attention to agricultural pursuits. 
 To improve, to build, to cultivate, to purchase, 
 had now been for^ more than three quarters of 
 a century the pridi and pleasure of the masters 
 of Broomhill. Profiting by the economy of 
 seclusion, they had added more than one "farm 
 to the heritage of their Norman predecessors, 
 enlarged their preserves, and extended ' the 
 boundaries of their park whenever the sale of 
 adjacent lands enabled them to do so. How 
 they had contended with my great grandfather 
 for the purchase of Stoneycroft Hall ; and how 
 being defeated, they had ever since looked with 
 a jealous eye upon those rich six hundred acres 
 which would have added so materially to the 
 value and importance of their own estates, 
 was a story which my aunt delighted to re- 
 late. Somehow or another she disliked the 
 Farquhar family. Not a deed that they had 
 done, riot an honor that they had achieved, 
 found fa'^or in her sight. To all that concerned 
 them she was rootedly antagonistic ; and there 
 was not one of the name, from its earliest to its 
 latest representative, of whom she could speak 
 without prejudice. In all parish or county 
 matters, she opposed their views on principle ; 
 and at election times it needed but the interest 
 of a Farquhar in one scale to throw all the 
 weight of her influence into the other. Thus, 
 because they were Tories and advocated Church 
 and State principles, my aunt inclined to Liberal 
 views,and was hard upon Parliamentary Bishops ; 
 while, for no other reason than the devotion 
 of their ancestors to the cause of the Stuarts, 
 her hero of heroes was of course the Prince of 
 Orange. 
 
 " The Farquhars, indeed !" she used testily to 
 exclaim. "Don't speak to me of the Farquhars ! 
 I'm tired of hearing about their musty ancestors, 
 and their Jacobite nonsense, and their trumpery 
 pride. There hasn't been an ounce of brains 
 in the family these two hundred years, Bab, and 
 that's all about it. The old man was a fool — 
 the last man was a fool — and the present man 
 is a fool, or mad. Mad, I think. Mad as a 
 March hare, Bab ; and you may take my word 
 for it !" 
 
 I did not take her word for it, however, but, 
 having heard various opinions on the subject, 
 entertained quite other views with respect to 
 the sanity and capacity of the present master of 
 Broomhill. 
 
18 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 Hugh Farquhar happened to be abroad, 
 making what was then called the "grand tour," 
 when his father's sudden death left him without 
 any close tie or near relation in the world. The 
 news reached him at Genoa, and, to the amaze- 
 ment of all the parish, failed to bring him home. 
 Instead of posting back to England, he took 
 ship for the East, and had remained absent ever 
 since. The house was shut up ; the park gates 
 were closed ; the servants paid off or pensioned, 
 according to their age and services. A house- 
 keeper and one or two maids were left in charge 
 of the mansion. A single gardener kept the 
 walks and pastures from desolation. Year after 
 year thus went by. Grass grew in the spacious 
 avenues, and stonecrop along the coping of the 
 garden walls. Birds built in the clustered chim- 
 neys whence no smoke issued. Rust gathered on 
 the hinges of gates which were never opened 
 except to the lawyer or the steward. Still the 
 lord of Broomhill showed no care to revisit the 
 home of his fathers ; and, at the time when I 
 first became an inmate of Stoneycroft Hall, his 
 voluntary exile had lasted for nearly five years. 
 
 Tales of recklessness and profusion, of wild 
 adventure, and of travels extended far beyond 
 the beaten routes, were told of him throughout 
 the county. That he had been heard of in 
 Grand Cairo, and seen in Jerusalem — that he 
 had boated up the Nile, and cut his name on the 
 summit of the great Pyramid — that he had turn- 
 ed Mohammedan — that he had married a Per- 
 sian princess with her own weight in gold and 
 jewels for her dower — that he had fraternized 
 with some savage Tartar tribe, and was living, 
 a chieftain among chieftains, somewhere in 
 Thibet — that, like Lord Byron, he had taken 
 arms in the Greek cause ; and that, like Lady 
 Hester Stanhope, he had become a dweller in 
 Arabian tents, were among the leaet injprobable 
 of these reports. How eagerly I listened to 
 rumors which possessed for me more than the 
 fascination of romance; how, in my childish 
 way, I associated his name with those of my fa- 
 vorite heroes ; how I compared him with Sinbad 
 and Don Quixote, Tom Jones, Prince Camaral- 
 zaman and Robinson Crusoe, needs scarcely to 
 be told here. Enough that Farquhar of Broom- 
 hill became my ideal of a preux chevalier^ and 
 that none of my aunt's sarcasms weighed with 
 me for a moment. Indeed, I believe that the 
 more he was maligned, the more I admired him; 
 which added to the romance and made it nicer 
 than ever. Nothing at this time gave me more 
 delight than to scrawl imaginary portraits of him 
 in the fly-leaves of my story books ; or, more 
 ambitious still, to cover whole sheets of fools- 
 cap with cartoons which represented him in the 
 most bewitching fancy dresses, and the most 
 stupendous situations, struggling with tigers, 
 overcoming crocodiles, rescuing distressed prin- 
 cesses, putting whole tribes of Indians to flight, 
 and otherwise conducting himself in a gallant 
 and satisfactory manner. 
 
 Of all this, however, I was careful to let my 
 aunt suspect nothing. She would surely have 
 laughed at me, and I was keenly sensitive to ridi- 
 cule. So I cherished my romance in secret ; 
 feeding my eager fancy with invention, and, 
 from day to day, weaving fresh incidents upon 
 the glowing tapestry of my dreams. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DOCTOR TOPHA.M AND PAUL VERONESE. 
 
 "Morning, Mrs. Sandyshaft," said Doctor 
 Topham. drawing rein at our garden-gate and 
 nodding to my aunt, who was pacing up and 
 down the middle path with her hands behind 
 her back, and the green bonnet inverted over 
 her eyes like a flower-pot. " Famous weather 
 for the crops — bad for the markets. Glass go- 
 ing up — prices going down. Always two sides 
 to a ^question. Nobody ever satisfied — farmers 
 especially. Eh, Mrs. S. ?" 
 
 Now Doctor Topham was my aunt's near 
 friend and neighbor. He never agreed with 
 her upon any subject whatever, and they sel- 
 dom met but they quarreled; wherefore, appar- 
 ently, they only liked each other the better. 
 Incompatibility of taste and temper formed, in- 
 deed, the bond of their regard, and aggravation 
 was the salt of their intercourse. Doctor Top- 
 ham was sallow and saturnine, had long legs 
 and a short pony, and rode with an umbrella. 
 
 " Humph ! You'd better let farmers and 
 farming alone," replied my aunt, testily. " Talk 
 of something vou understand, if only for vari- 
 ety." 
 
 "Can't make you my topic, then, Mrs. S.," 
 retorted the doctor. 
 
 " I take it," said my aunt, " as no honor to be 
 beyond ^/ot^r comprehension." 
 
 Whereupon the doctor scratched his ear, and, 
 having no repartee at hand, changed the subject. 
 
 "Have you heard that story about Hugh Far- 
 quhar and the Paul Veronese ?" asked he. 
 
 " Yes. Is it tpue ?" 
 
 " I fear so." 
 
 " Hah — and a genuine picture ?" 
 
 "So they say; but old masters are dangerous 
 folks to meddle with. No article going in the 
 choice of which a man may be so cheated as a 
 picture — or a wife." 
 
 " And worth six thousand .pounds, too !" 
 ejaculated my aunt, unmindful of this satire on 
 her sex. 
 
 " Value is one thing and price another, Mrs. 
 S.," said the doctor, drily. " Six thousand were 
 paid for it. Randall told me so." 
 
 " Extravagant fool ! Picked it up somewhere 
 in Venice, did he not ?" 
 
 "I believe so," 
 
 " Six thousand pounds for a picture ! Tut, 
 tut ! We shall have Broomhill come to the 
 hammer some day, at this rate ! The man's 
 mad. I always said he was mad. Six thousand 
 pounds for a picture ! Why, bless my soul, 
 doctor, he could have bought the Bosmere pro- 
 perty for that price !" 
 
 "And not have done so well, perhaps, after 
 all," said Doctor Topham, differing for the mere 
 sake of contradiction. " Travelers see strange 
 tilings, and sometimes do wise ones by mistake. 
 It's just possible that Farquhar may have given 
 six thousand for an article worth twelve." 
 
 " Doctor," said my aunt, emphatically, " you're 
 a greater idiot than I supposed." 
 
 " Much obliged, Mrs. S. Happy to return the 
 compliment." 
 
 "-And ought, at your time of life, to know 
 better." 
 
 "My dear Madam, I'm a boy — seven years 
 younger than yourself." 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 19 
 
 My aunt laughed a short dry laugh like a dou- 
 ble knock. 
 
 "You'd give your head," said she, "to have 
 the last word. Well — to return to the Paul 
 Veronese. Will he send it to Broomhill, think 
 you ?" 
 
 "Send 'it! Why, it arrived yesterday! I 
 met the procession myself, wagon, packing- 
 case, Randall and all. That's how I come to 
 know so much about it." 
 "And the subject?" 
 
 "Deal boards, Mrs. S.," said the doctor, with 
 a grin, " are not generally transparent ; and my 
 eyes, however piercing, are not gimlets. Still, 
 as far as size goes, I can relieve your mind. 
 Our friend seems to have got plenty for his 
 money." 
 
 " So ! a large picture ?" 
 " A quarter of an acre of it, I should" say — 
 high art, at so much per cubic foot." 
 
 My aunt shrugged her shoulders. The doctor 
 looked at his watch. 
 
 "Mrs. Sandyshaft," said he, "I have a con- 
 sultation at eleven, and yoa have made me lose 
 ten minutes. By the way, you know the sad fate 
 of poor Saunders ?" 
 
 " Saunders ? No — what of him ?" 
 " It's all over with him." 
 " Over with him — mercy alive ! is the man 
 dead ?" 
 
 " Worse, Mrs. S. Married !" 
 And with this Dr. Topham drew up his 
 knees, put spurs to the pony, and trotted away 
 at a round pace, with his umbrella over his 
 head, and his feet dangling about eight inches 
 from the ground. My aunt looked after him, 
 indulged in another double knock laugh, and 
 presently resumed her walk. I could contain 
 my curiosity no l®nger. 
 
 " Aunt," said I eagerly — " aunt, what is a 
 Paul Veronese?" 
 
 Pacing to and fro, with her hands behind her 
 back and her eyes fixed on the ground, Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft neither heard nor replied. I plucked 
 her by the sleeve, and repeated the question. 
 
 " Aunt, if you please — what is a Paul Vero- 
 nese ?" 
 
 " Bab, don't bother. I'm counting." 
 Used to these rebuffs, I drew back and waited 
 quietly. Presently she looked up, met my ask- 
 ing eyes, and halted abruptly. 
 
 " Well, child," said she, " what is it ?" 
 I repeated my inquiry for the third time. My 
 aunt frowned and shook her head. 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is, Bab," said she, test- 
 ily, " you ask too many questions. My life's a 
 perpetual catechism : and for every breath you 
 draw, one might write a note of interrogation. 
 I won't stand it any longeu. There's an Ency- 
 clopedia in the house — twenty-two volumes of it 
 — and heftceforth, when you want to know any 
 thing, read it for yourself. Paul Veronese, in- 
 deed ! Look for him under V, and there you'll 
 find him." 
 
 Delighted to be made free of the lodced-up 
 book-case, I ran off, key in hand, and spent the 
 rest of that morning poring over dusty quartos. 
 I looked under V without success ; but at length, 
 after some trouble, found, under the head of 
 Cagliari, all that I desired to know. Found that 
 while this great artist was yet a youth, his com- 
 petitors had themselves decreed him a prize foj 
 
 which they were all contending — that in his ma- 
 turity he created a school of art, and was the 
 associate of ambassadors and kings — that whole 
 churches and palaces had been enriched by his 
 brush — that in life he achieved honors, and in 
 death immortality. Brief and meager aa it was, 
 this biography made a profound impression upon 
 me. It came to me like a revelation, and daz- 
 zled me with vague dreams of art-life and the 
 splendor of the medieval painters. Allusions 
 and references in the one article led me to the 
 discovery of others, and the lives of Leonardo 
 da Vinci, Titian, Rubens, and Vandyke were in 
 turn eagerly devoured. Never having seen a 
 really fine painting, my notions were perforce 
 childish and confused, and the vocabulary of 
 criticism puzzled me like Greek. I could not 
 conceive the meaning of such words as " tone," 
 " breadth," " chiaroscuro," and the like ; and 
 my aunt was unable to help me. 
 
 "Don't ask me, Bab," she used to say. "I 
 know more of pigs than pictures ; and as for that 
 art-jargon, I believe it's humbug — every word of 
 it!" 
 
 For all this, however, I read, believed, and 
 dreamed on. To be a painter became the single 
 ambition of my soul ; and a restless desire to be- 
 hold Mr. Farquhar's Paul Veronese pursued me 
 night and day. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MY GREAT ADVENTURE. 
 
 "Who ever loved that loved not at first sight ?'» 
 
 Marlowe. 
 
 Bolt upright, my aunt sat at her desk, writ- 
 ing ; whilst I, waiting for the note, played with 
 the dogs, and looked out the window. 
 
 " You'll see Dr. Topham, if he is at home, 
 Bab," said my aunt, without looking up. 
 
 " Yes, aunt." 
 
 "And bring back an answer." 
 
 " Yes, aunt." 
 
 " And take the path over the fields. It's much 
 the nearest." 
 
 " Nearer than the park, aunt ?" 
 
 yes. Half a mile at least." 
 
 I sighed and was silent, while my aunt signed, 
 sealed, and addressed her letter. Having done 
 this, she beckoned me to her side, looked straight 
 into my eyes, and said — 
 
 " Bab, if I were you I'd build myself a hut in 
 Broomhill nark, and live there, like Robinson 
 Crusoe." 
 
 I felt myself blush up to the roots of my hair ; 
 but made no reply. 
 
 " Wherever I send you, you contrive to make 
 your way lie through the park. When you take 
 a walk, it is always through the park. You 
 haunt the park. To my knowledge you've been 
 there every day for the last fortnight or three 
 weeks.* What's the meaning of it ?" 
 
 I looked down; stammered ; had not a word 
 to say. It was true that I had hovered about 
 the place of late ; but I had no courage for confes- 
 sion. How could I confide to her the wayward 
 fancies of my idle hours ? How acknowledge 
 the " restless unsatisfied longing" that drew me 
 daily to look from afar upon the walls which en- 
 compassed a Paul Veronese ? Whether she 
 guessed something of the truth, or thought me 
 
20 
 
 BABBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 merely odd and unaccountable, I can not deter- 
 mine ; but she took pity, at all events, on my 
 confusion, and forebore to question me further. 
 She looked at her watch, and gave me the letter. 
 •^' It's now nearly five o'clock," said she," and, 
 by the fields, you have a mile to walk. I give 
 you half an hour to go, half an hour to return, 
 and half an hour for delays. It is quite far 
 enough for you, and quite time enough ; and if 
 you are not punctual, I shall conclude that you 
 have disobeyed me, and gone round by the park. 
 Now go." 
 
 Thankful to be dismissed, I bounded across 
 the hall and the garden, and was out of sight in 
 a moment. 
 
 It was now August, and the sultry sun blazed 
 fiercely, bending westward. There were reapers 
 reaping wearily in the hot fields as I went by, 
 and gleaners, footsore and dusty, resting under 
 trees. Not a breath stirred. Not a cloud sailed. 
 The hardened clods and languid grass looked 
 parched and thirsty, and the very birds sang fitful- 
 ly, as if pining for a shower. As for me, I delight- 
 ed in the heat and bared my head to the sun, 
 like a little Salamander ; and danced on, rejoic- 
 ing. 
 
 When I arrived at his house, Dr. Topham was 
 out, and not likely to be back before dark. The 
 servant would have had me rest awhile ; but I 
 looked up -v^istfully at the old clock in the hall, 
 found that only twenty-five minutes of my al- 
 lotted time were gone, and so left the note, and 
 took my way slowly homeward. Only twenty- 
 five minutes out of an hour and a half ! To the 
 right lay the fields — to the left, the stile and 
 footpath leading to Broomhill. Supposing that I 
 took the latter, it would be but half a mile added 
 to my walk ; and, after all, it was not the dis- 
 tance to which my aunt objected, but the delay. 
 Granted that I reached home even now before 
 the time, how could she be angry with me? 
 Still hesitating, I lingered where the roads divid- 
 ed, and argued thus with my conscience. To 
 convince ourselves according to our inclinations 
 is not difficult. The debate was soon carried in 
 my own favor ; the stile soon crossed ; the park 
 soon gained. 
 
 And what a park it was ! Putting Paul Vero- 
 nese out of the question, it was the pleasantest 
 spot in all our neighborhood. I loved nothing 
 better than to lie under the shade of the gnarled 
 oaks, and watch the deer browsing in herds 
 along the grassy vistas round about. This after- 
 noon the place seemed more sylvan than ever. 
 The atmosphere, which aU day had been dense 
 with heat, was now traversed by currents of 
 cool air, and fragrant with sweet scents. The 
 hush that precedes the sunset had fallen upon 
 every leaf, wild-flower, and blade of grass. Far 
 away, distinct though dulled by distance, echoed 
 the steady strokes of the woodman's axe ; and, 
 nearer, a party of disputatious rooks stalked 
 gravely to and fro, and then rose, eawing, into 
 the air. 
 
 Strolling idly on, and pausing every now and 
 then to listen to the silence, I came to a point 
 where the paths again divided. One led over 
 the slopes where the horned oxen were feeding 
 by scores, and opened out on the high road — 
 the other was a right of way passing straight 
 through the yards, and skirting the private 
 gardens of the mansion. My horror of the cat- 
 
 tle decided me in favor of the latter, and I went 
 on. On through the " checkered shade " that 
 fell between the trees — on, past the two great 
 cedars, and under the archway with ha sculp- 
 tured shield and motto overhead — on, past the 
 coach-houses and stable-doors, and under the 
 very windows of the Tudor gallery at the back 
 of the house. Naturally a shy child, I hurried 
 along as fast as my feet would carry me ; dread- 
 ing lest I should meet any of the servants, or 
 see a face looking at me from some upper case- 
 ment. Once past the iron gate, once clear of 
 the yards and offices, I paused to take breath. 
 
 Before me stretched a fresh expanse of trees 
 and slopes, bounded by a line of park -palings. 
 To^ my right, inclosed by a high wall above 
 which I could just see the tops of the pear- 
 trees, lay the fruit and vegetable-gardens. To 
 my left, half in light and half in shadow, stood 
 the grand old house, with the red sunset burn- 
 ing on its panes, like " patines of bright gold." 
 Brightest and nearest of all, blazed the great 
 stained glass windows at the end of the Tudor 
 wing ; and strangely cool and calm, looked, by 
 comparison, the narrow space of formal lawn in 
 front. It was a little strip railed off from the 
 park by a wire fence, and entered by a smaU 
 gate that had been left partly open. An air of 
 great quiet pervaded the place. A tiny fountain 
 bubbled from a grassy mound in the midst, and 
 a sun-dial on a time-stained pedestal stood be- 
 fore the window. Not a door banged — not a 
 voice echoed — ^not a footstep crossed either 
 courtyard or garden. It might have Jifeen an 
 enchanted palace, with a spell-bound princess 
 dreaming out her hundred years of sleep some- 
 where in the silence of those upper rooms, for 
 any sign of life that one could see ! Awed by 
 the solitude and the hour, I held my breath, and 
 wondered if the servants ever ventured among 
 those suites and corridors above, and how they 
 felt at night when it grew dusk. 
 
 And then I noticed for the first time that the 
 shutters of the great bay window were unfast- 
 ened, and stood some inches apart. Perhaps 
 that very room held the Paul Veronese ! 
 
 Struck, as it were, by a conviction, I hesi- 
 tated ; cast a hasty glance all around ; and 
 darted through the little open gate ! To climb 
 up by the aid of a honey-suckle, perch myself 
 on the broad stone ledge, and press my face 
 close against the glass, was the work of a mo- 
 ment. I had been out so long in the broad 
 sunlight that for many minutes I could distin- 
 guish nothing. Then one object after another 
 became visible through the gloom, and I found, 
 to my disappointment, that I was peering into 
 the library. Books, books, books — everywhere 
 books! Books by hundreds, lining the walls, 
 littering the tables, and piled in great heaps on 
 the floor. The room, apparently, was being 
 cleaned, or regulated. I gazed for a long time 
 very earnestly, turned away presently with a 
 sigh, and exclaiming — " Then it is not there, 
 after all !" — swung myself down upon the lawn. 
 
 *' What is not there ?" said a voice close be- 
 side me. 
 
 Blinded by the change from dark to light, I 
 could only see a tall figure standing between me 
 and the setting sun. 
 
 ' " What is not there ? What are you looking 
 for ? Who are you ?" asked the stranger, lay- 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 21 
 
 ing his hand upon my shoulder. " Why, what 
 a frightened little trespasser it is !" 
 
 Frightened indeed ! frightened almost out of 
 my senses. Daring neither to look up nor 
 speak, and feeling as though that touch had 
 power to weigh me to the ground ! He pitied 
 my distress ; for when he spoke again his voice 
 was grave and sweet, like the deep notes of an 
 organ. 
 
 " Fear nothing, my child," he said. " I am 
 not angry with you. Come, speak — tell me 
 why you were looking through that window ?" 
 
 And still he kept his hand upon my shoulder 
 — somewhat firmly, too, as if he thought I 
 should presently dart away and escape him. 
 
 " So ! still dumb ? Nay, you will at least tell 
 me your name ?" 
 
 I faintly stammered — " Barbara." 
 "Barbara!" repeated the stranger n>wsingly. 
 * A quaint old name ! * My mother had a maid 
 called — Barbara P Let me see — who says that ? 
 Desdemona ?" 
 
 " I — I don't know, sir," said I, gaining confi- 
 dence ; but wondering at the question. 
 
 He smiled, put his hand under my chin, and 
 turned my face to the light. 
 
 " I should think not, indeed !" replied he. 
 " What should a little girl like you know about 
 Shakspeare ?" 
 
 " I have read of him," said I, stoutly. " He 
 was a poet, and wrote plays." 
 
 " Per Bacco ! A learned Barbara ! A Bar- 
 bara, versed in the poets ! Come, petite, you 
 have a Surname, surely — what is it ?" 
 
 Uncomfortably conscious of something like 
 irony in the stranger's manner, I hesitated and 
 looked down. 
 
 " My other name is Churchill," I replied, after 
 a minute. 
 
 " Churchill — Barbara Churchill ! Good names 
 both ! They go ' tripplingly on the tongue,' 
 and are pleasant to pronounce. There's some- 
 thing in a name, after all. Churchill is histori- 
 cal, too !" 
 
 And my new acquaintance, whose observa- 
 tion seemed like spoken' thoughts and were 
 scarcely addressed to me at all, began humming 
 the old tune of — 
 
 " MarlbrooTc e'en vaH en guerre /" 
 
 " The Duke of Marlborough was an ancestor 
 of Papa's," said I, with great dignity. "We 
 have ever so many lives of him at home." 
 
 " By Jove, now, this is wonderful !" exclaimed 
 the stranger, laughing, and looking at me more 
 attentively. " She's positively a genealogical 
 Barbara !" 
 
 " Oh, we have the genealogy, Noo," said I 
 eagerly. "It hangs in Papa's room. I have 
 often looked at it — there's a great tree coming 
 out of a man's body, and the apples all have 
 names on them." 
 
 He looked at me again, and put his hand to 
 his forehead. 
 
 " 'Tis strange," he murmured, " but I — I 
 don't remember any Churchills hereabout. 
 Where does your father live, Barbara? In 
 Ipswich ?" 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ! In London." 
 
 "So — so. Not a Suffolk family at all! I 
 thought I could scarcely have forgotten that 
 name. Who are you staying with, little one ? 
 The Grants of Bosmere ?" 
 
 " I am staying with my great-aunt, " said I, 
 " at Stoneycroft Hall." 
 
 Having an immense idea of her social posi- 
 tion, I announced this fact with quite a grand 
 air, and expected to see it produce a wonderful 
 effect. But the stranger only burst into a 
 hearty laugh, and repeated my aunt's name 
 over and over again, as if the very sound of it 
 amused him. 
 
 "What, Mrs. Sandyshaft!" he cried. "Is 
 she your great-aunt ? Mrs. Sandyshaft of the 
 hall ! Mrs. Sandyshaft of the hundred pigs ! 
 Does she still keep a hundred pigs, Barbara ?" 
 " Of course she does," replied I, half-affronted. 
 He laughed again — then became suddenly 
 grave, and walked to and fro between the sun- 
 dial and the gate for some minutes ; lost, appar- 
 ently, in thought. 
 
 " You have not yet told me what you were 
 doing at the library-window," he said, stop- 
 ping abruptly, and taking me again by the 
 shoulder. 
 
 I felt the color rush to my face ; but replied 
 with tolerable self-possession that I was only 
 "looking in." 
 
 " Yes ; but what were you looking in for ?" 
 "N — n — nothing at all," said I reluctantly. 
 " JSFon e vero, Barbara ! You were looking 
 for something. I heard you say ' it is not there, 
 after all !' Come — I must know all about it, 
 or I will take you home to your aunt and tell 
 her you were trespassing !" 
 
 I knew he did not mean that ; and I felt sure, 
 somehow, that it would be best to confess at 
 once. Besides, I was no longer afraifl of him. 
 
 "I thought the picture might be there," I 
 said hesitatingly. "I — I so wanted to see it ?" 
 " Picture ?" repeated the stranger, hastily. 
 " What picture ?" 
 
 " Oh, a beautiful, wonderful picture by Paul 
 Veronese !" 
 
 "Paul Veronese !" 
 
 "Yes — did you never hear of him? He 
 was a painter — a great painter, and he died a 
 long, long time ago, somewhere in Italy," said 
 I, with childish volubility. "I have read all 
 about him in a book at home, and there's a pic- 
 ture of his somewhere in this house — a pic- 
 ture worth thousands of pounds !" 
 "And this picture you wish to see ?" 
 " I have wished for nothing else, ever since 
 Dr. Tophara talked about it!" 
 
 " Humph ! And pray what had Dr. Topham 
 ,to say on the subject?" 
 
 "Nothing — except that Mr. Farquhar had 
 bought it, and it was here." 
 
 "And Mrs. Sandyshaft — what did she say?" 
 " Oh, she said that Mr, Farquhar was an ex- 
 travagant fool, and as mad as a March hare !" 
 
 The stranger laughed again ; but with a dark 
 flush on his cheek, as if the source of his amuse- 
 ment were scarcely a pleasant one. 
 
 "Not a very flattering verdict, upon my 
 word ?" said he. " Instructive, however, if 
 taken as the measure of public opinion. 'A 
 plague upon opinion ! a man may wear it on 
 both sides, like a leather jerkin.' 'Tis well for 
 Hugh Farquhar that his hearing is duller than 
 that of Signor Heimdale, of celestial memory!" 
 " Heimdale !" I exclaimed. " Who was he ?" 
 " Heimdale, my dear little Barbara," said the 
 stranger, "was a very respectable personage. 
 He acted as watchman and light porter to the 
 
22 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 Scandinavian Gods ; and his ears were so incon- 
 veniently acute that he could hear the grass 
 grow in the meadows, and the wool on the 
 backs of the sheep." 
 
 It was now my turn to laugh. 
 
 "That's a fairy tale?" cried I. "What 
 comes next?" 
 
 " More than I can tell you now," replied he, 
 looking at his watch. " Vediamo — it is but 
 seven minutes past six, and we shall have good 
 daylight for more than an hour. Time enough, 
 petite, for you to see the picture." 
 
 "The — the picture?" I faltered, incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 He nodded, took me by the hand, and led me 
 round to a low gothic door at the foot of an ivy- 
 grown octagonal turret, facing the moat. 
 
 A tiny key, produced from his waistcoat pock- 
 et, admitted us into a small passage, which, so 
 soon as the door was closed, became profoundly 
 dark. He then took my hand again ; warned 
 me of some three or four stone steps, up which 
 we felt our way cautiously ; pushed aside a 
 heavy curtain that seemed all at once to bar our 
 farther progress; and led me into a bright 
 eight-sided room, lined with books, fragrant 
 with fresh flowers, and flooded with the glory 
 of the descending sun. One large window with 
 a rich heraldic bordering of stained glass, over- 
 looked a broad sweep of park and open coun- 
 try ; an elaborate bronzg lamp swung by a triple 
 chain from the middle of the ceiling ; some 
 three or four curious busts of Roman emperors 
 and poets, done in colored marbles, occupied 
 brackets over the chimney-piece and book- 
 shelves. Something scholastic, something ele- 
 gant and indolent, was expressed in every trifle 
 about the chamber, from that luxurious piece 
 of furniture which comprised reading-desk, read- 
 ing-lamp, and easy-chair in one, down to the 
 antique chased ink-stand on the table, and the 
 delicate curiosities in porcelain and terra-cotta 
 which crowded the mantle-piece. 
 
 " Oh, what a beautiful room !" I exclaimed, 
 when my first surprise had somewhat abated. 
 
 " 'Tis my study, Barbara," replied my new 
 friend. 
 
 A strange suspicion for the first time flashed 
 across my mind. 
 
 " Yours .^" I echoed. 
 
 " Yes, I am Hugh Farquhar," said he ; and 
 rang the bell, 
 
 Hugh Farquhar ! My hero, my Sindbad, my 
 Prince Camaralzaman ! Hugh Farquhar of^ 
 whom I had heard so much and dreamed so 
 much ; whose rumored travels I had so often 
 tracked upon old maps, and whose adventures I 
 had illustrated upon foolscap without end ! All the 
 stories that had ever been told of him, and all 
 the censure that idle tongues had passed upon 
 him, came back in an instant to my memory — 
 and then I recollected the speech that I had 
 myself repeated, and, covered with confusion, 
 knew not where to look, 
 
 " Well, petite,^'' said he, after a brief pause, 
 " now that you know who I am, have you noth- 
 ing to say to me ? Or, because I am as mad as 
 a March hare, are you afraid of me?" 
 
 Afraid of him ! Why I felt as if I had known 
 him for years already. I did not dare, however, 
 to say so ; but, looking up, saw such a world 
 of kindly merriment spai'kling in his eyes, that 
 
 I smiled, and shook my head, and said quite 
 confidently : — 
 
 "Not a bit." 
 
 " So much the better ; for I have a mind, 
 Barbara, that you and I should be good friends. 
 Tippoo, desire the servants to unclose the shut- 
 ters in the long gallery, and let the gardener be 
 sent for, I am going to have that packing-case 
 opened." 
 
 "Yes, Sahib," said alow voice close behind me. 
 
 I turned somewhat nervously, and found a 
 slender oUve-colored man in a plain black suit 
 and white neckcloth, with gold rings in his ears, 
 standing at my elbow. 
 
 "And bring chisels and hammers, Tippoo; 
 and be as quick as possible, for the daylight is 
 going." 
 
 Tippoo bent his head ; glided like a shadow 
 to the door ; and left the room as noiselessly as 
 he had entered it. He had shown no surprise 
 at my presence — he had not even seemed to 
 see me. His glittering blacks eyes had rested 
 only on his master's face, and he moved like an 
 automaton, obedient only to his master's will. 
 
 "Tippoo is my Hindoo servant," said Mr, 
 Farquhar, explanatorily. " I brought him from 
 Benares. He ^saved my life once, at the risk 
 of his own, and \Ye have never parted since." 
 
 " Saved your life ?" I • exclaimed eagerly, 
 " How ? From a lion, or a tiger ?" 
 
 " No, from the bite of a snake. But I will 
 tell you all about that some other time, Barbara 
 — let us now see after the Paul Veronese. I 
 have not looked upon it myself since the day I 
 bought it !" 
 
 And with this he took me away from the 
 study in the turret, through some dreary rooms 
 filled with sheeted furniture and out upon a 
 spacious staircase hung with gloomy old paint- 
 ings and broad enough for ten persons marching 
 abreast. At the foot of this staircase we came 
 upon a man with a basket of tools, who pulled 
 off his cap respectfully, and stood aside to let us 
 pass. Then Mr. Farquhar opened one half Oi 
 an oaken door, and I found myself in' a long 
 gallery lighted on one side by a row of windows, 
 and closely hung with pictures on the other. 
 The floor was laid down with matting ; a large 
 table covered with a dusty sheet was the only 
 article of furniture in sight ; and a huge deal 
 packing-case, propped up at the back by wooden 
 supports, stood in the very center of the room. 
 Two women-servants who were busy opening 
 the shutters when we came in, looked at me 
 with unconcealed amazement. 
 
 " This, Barbara," said Mr. Farquhar, " is the 
 picture-gallen^. The pictures are mostly por- 
 traits, as yo\r see. I could tell you lots of stories 
 about these grim old ladies and gentlemen ; but 
 those will keep for some other occasion. Now, 
 gardener— now Tippoo, we want this lid off. 
 Here, give me a chisel, andMet's see how quick 
 we can be !" 
 
 And with this he snatched a tool from the 
 basket, and set to work as actively as either of his 
 servants. I stood by breathlessly and watched 
 the process, counting nail after nail as it fell to 
 the ground, and watching plank after plank as 
 it was removed and laid aside. When the last 
 was withdrawn, and only a covering of green 
 baize intervened between me and the object of 
 my desires, I turned cold and trembled. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 " Now stand aside, all of you," said the master 
 of the house, himself somewhat flushed and ex- 
 cited. '■'•Petite^ come forward to the angle of 
 that window, and you will get the best light on 
 it. So — there it is, safe and uninjured — my Paul 
 Veronese !" 
 
 He had plucked the baize away, and now 
 came and stood beside me, contemplating his 
 purchase. He was, at first, so absorbed in the 
 pleasure of looking upon it, that he forgot to 
 observe me. He advanced ; he retreated ; he 
 shaded his eyes with his hands; he moved 
 from right to left, from left to right, and ex- 
 claimed impatiently against the fading day- 
 light. 
 
 As for me — how shall I confess it ? — my first 
 impression was — disappointment. 
 
 I had expected too much. I had expected, I 
 know not what; but something, at all events, 
 surpassing all the glow and glory of nature her- 
 self. The Paul Veronese of my dreams was an 
 immortal vision — a resplendent mystery — a 
 pageant of heroic forms more than half divine, 
 and adorned in colors transcending the gold 
 and purple of the eastern sky. The Paul 
 Veronese of my awaking was, on the contrary, 
 darkened and deepened by time ; majestic, but 
 somber ; and flawed all over with those minute 
 cracks, which are like wrinkles on the brow of 
 ancient art. An aged man, robed and crowned, 
 stood nearly in the centre of the picture sur- 
 rounded by senators and nobles in dresses of 
 ceremony, four of whom held a canopy above 
 his head. At his feet knelt ambassadors with 
 gifts, and in the distance lay the towers and 
 cupolas of a great city, and a sea thronged with 
 galleys. It was grand, but cold. It appealed 
 neither to my imagination nor my sympathies, 
 and even in point of color fell woefully short of 
 my ideal. 
 
 Struck by ray silence, Mr. Farquhar turned at 
 length, and looked at me. 
 
 " Well, little one," said he. " What of the 
 picture ?" 
 
 I knew not ho"W to reply. 
 
 " Does it equal your expectations?" 
 
 It needed some courage to confess the truth ; 
 but I contrived to stammer out a reluctant 
 negative. He looked surprised, annoyed, dis- 
 appointed. He frowned ; glanced from me to 
 the picture, and from the picture back to me ; 
 sighed impatiently, and said aloud : — 
 
 " Of course not — I was a fool to expect it ! 
 What should the poor child know about the 
 matter? There, Tippoo, hang the baize over 
 it again. The show's a failure." 
 
 Fain would I have begged to look longer ; 
 to have the subject explained to me ; to learn 
 why it was so good, and why I could not ap- 
 preciate it — but I dare/i not. He was vexed 
 with me — had over-estimated me — was dis- 
 appointed in me. A choking sense of humilia- 
 tion rose in my throat, I could not have uttered 
 a syllable to save my life. 
 
 Fortunately for me, my vexation passed un- 
 noticed. The covering of the picture and the 
 reclosing of the shutters occupied all Mr, Far- 
 quhar's attention — then he made' the servants 
 go out before him, locked the door, and put the 
 key in his pocket. 
 
 " Come along, Barbara," said he, '* let us go 
 back to the study." 
 
 And so we went back by the way we had come. 
 
 The place had been transformed in our absence. 
 The fading daylight had been curtained out by 
 a heavy crimson drapery — the table was laid for 
 dinner — the lamp overhead cast a subdued light 
 all around — and, despite the season and the heat, 
 a pile of logs and pine-cones crackled on the 
 hearth. My companion flung himself into his 
 easy chair ; bent shiveringly before the fire ; 
 and seemed lost in thought. I sat on a stool at 
 the other side of the hearth, and looked at 
 him. 
 
 Many and many a year has gone by since that 
 evening, and I have long learned to distrust my 
 preconceived ideas of men and things ; but it 
 puzzled me then to find myself so far mistaken. 
 How unlike the Hugh Farquhar of my dreams ! 
 How unlike that brilliant hero with the Byronic 
 collar whom I had been picturing to myself 
 these four or five months past ! I imagined him 
 so handsome, so gallant, so fascinating — "a 
 man rare as phoenix." I fourld him none of 
 these ; and yet, strange though it ma^ seem, I 
 was not disappointed. I had already a true 
 instinct for character; and I am pleased to re- 
 member that, even then, I preferred originality 
 and power to mere physical advantages. But I 
 must describe him ; and the task is one of no 
 common difficulty. To go back to the first im- 
 pression of a long- familiar face — to obliterate 
 from cheek and brow the subtle finger-marks of 
 time — to recall tones and gestures which seem- 
 ed then to indicate so much, but which custom 
 hath made no longer noticeable — all these 
 and more, concur to baffle me. 
 
 I have never been a good judge of age ; bu 
 at the time of which I write, my notions respect- 
 ing it were of the vaguest possible description. 
 So bronzed, so tall, so serious as he looked, sit- 
 ting thus by the red fire-light, I believed Hugh 
 Farquhar already to have arrived at middle-life 
 — I now know that he was just twenty-seven 
 years of age. It is possible, however, that he 
 looked older — that varieties of climate, customs 
 and food ; adventures by land and sea ; fatigue ; 
 exposure to weather ; and all other contingen- 
 cies of a wild and wandering life, had wrought 
 some such effect upon him. Be this as it may, 
 the year that followed worked, at all events, 
 but little perceptible difference. 
 
 I have said that he was not handsome — nay, 
 were I closely to analyze his features, I should 
 perhaps be forced to confess that he was plain ; 
 and yet I never knew any one who thought him 
 so. There was a certain grandeur in the poise 
 of his head, a rugged power stamped upon his 
 brow, a careless strength and dignity in his 
 every gesture, that marked him for no ordinary 
 man. Were I bidden to single out any well- 
 known head, not as a likeness but a type, I 
 should name Beethoven's. Yet it would then 
 be necessary to efface those furrows of scorn 
 and suffering, rage and bitterness, which plow 
 the features of the deaf musician. The same 
 loose, thick locks, however, were there — the 
 same characteristic prominences over the eyes 
 — the same broad brow and massive jaw. 
 Swarthy of complexion, dark-haired, dark-eyed, 
 tanned by the wind and sun, and wearing such 
 an amount of waving beard and moustache as 
 was seldom seen in those days on this side of the 
 Channel, Hugh Farquhar looked masculine and 
 
24 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 individual enough; but could scarcely have 
 been more thoroughly the reverse of all that I 
 had previously imagined. Men, as a rule, ad- 
 mired him more generally than women. Wo- 
 men, rarely indifferent, beheld in his counte- 
 nance something more attractive than beauty. 
 What was that something ? How shall I define, 
 how analyze it? Was it the impress of emo- 
 tional, or the light of intellectual power ? Or 
 was it not, rather, that every glance and every 
 tone conveyed some subtle record of an adven- 
 turous and reckless life, passion-worn, unsatis- 
 fied, and self-consuming ? 
 
 I had intended to give my first childish im- 
 pression of Hugh Farquhar, and I find that I 
 have described him from my later experience. 
 It is prematurely done ; but let it be. Imperfect 
 as it is, I can make it no better. 
 
 The fire blazed and crackled merrily all this 
 time. My companion sat and looked at it with 
 thoughts far distant. I crouched down in the 
 shade, and watched him till I knew his face by 
 heart. A quarter of an hour, or twenty min- 
 utes, went by thus, in silence. Then the door 
 fell noiselessly back, and Tippoo came in with a 
 small tray of silver-covered dishes. Mr. Farqu- 
 har sighed, and looked up for the first time. 
 
 " What," said he wearily, " is it already half- 
 past seven ?" 
 
 "It wants twenty-five minutes to eight. 
 Sahib," replied the Hindoo, waiting his mas- 
 ter's signal to remove the covers. 
 
 Mr. Farquhar rolled his easy chair round to 
 the table, and glanced with a sort of abstracted 
 wonder at the seat which had been placed for me. 
 
 "Do we expect any one, Tippoo?" said he. 
 
 Tippoo lifted his black eyes to his master's 
 face, and then glanced meaningly toward the 
 corner in which I was sitting. Mr. Farquhar 
 turned half-round, started, laughed with some- 
 thing like confusion in his face, and said : 
 
 " Come, little one, the dinner is ready, and I 
 should hope we are both hungry by this time !" 
 
 I came over without a word, and sat down 
 where he bade me ; but I was not hungry now. 
 He had forgotten all about me ! 
 
 How kind he was all dinner-time, and how he 
 strove to compensate for his forgetfulness ! He 
 shook off his thoughtful mood, and I could see 
 that it cost him an effort. He chatted with me ; 
 he exerted himself to make me laugh ; he 
 helped me to the choicest morsels, and insisted 
 that I should taste every one of the dishes. 
 They were all strange to me, and had a hot, 
 spiced flavor which I did not like. Besides 
 this, they were called the oddest names imagin- 
 able — mulligatawny, pilaff, caviare, curry, ma- 
 caroni, and so forth — enjoying thereby the 
 double advantage of being unpalatable and un- 
 pronounceable. By and by, the meats were 
 removed, and strong black coffee, dried fruits, 
 liquors and sweetmeats were brought to table. 
 Mr. Farquhar then heaped my plate with dates, 
 bonbons, and raisins ; turned his chair once 
 more to the fire ; bade me do the same ; and 
 lighted a long Turkish pipe which had a coily 
 tube like a green and golden snake, and a bowl 
 of bell-shaped glass that rested on the ground. 
 
 " I am afraid, petite,''^ said he, when Tippoo 
 had left the room and we were once more left 
 alone, " that you will not have much to say in 
 praise of my cookery when you get home ?" 
 
 Home! The word struck me like a blow. 
 Like Hazlitt's " rustic at a fair," I had been all 
 this time " full of amazement and rapture, and 
 had no thought of going home, or that it would 
 soon be night." Now it all rushed upon me in 
 a moment. 
 
 " Oh, what o'clock is it, please ?" I faltered. 
 
 "Nearly nine by my watch, petite.'''' 
 
 I had risen ; but, hearing this, laid aside the 
 untasted fruits, and sat down again in blank 
 dismay. Nine o'clock, and I was to have been 
 home, at the latest, by half-past six ! What 
 was to become of me ? What would my aunt 
 say to me ? How should I dare to face her ? 
 What excuse could I offer for my disobedience ? 
 
 Something of this I contrived brokenly to ex- 
 press, and Mr. Farquhar seeing my distress, 
 rang the bell at once, and tried to reassure me. 
 
 " Fear nothing, my little friend," said he kind- 
 ly. "I will take you home myself, presently, 
 and bear all the blame as well. Tippoo, let 
 Satan be saddled and brought round directly." 
 
 Tippoo bent his head, and disappeared. Mr. 
 Farquhar glanced again at his watch, and 
 smoked on with the utmost composure. 
 
 " In fifteen minutes," said he, " I promise to 
 land you in your aunt's sitting-room. That 
 allows me five minutes more to enjoy my pipe 
 and coffee, and ten to ride from here to Stoney- 
 croft Hall. Come, banish that melancholy look 
 and trust to me for Mrs. Sandyshaft's forgive- 
 ness." 
 
 I would gladly have so trusted, if I could ; 
 but I too well knew what were my aunt's pre- 
 judices, and what her opinion of Hugh Farquhar 
 and his family. However, I made an effort to 
 be cheerful, and the five minutes went slowly 
 by. As the last expired, my companion laid his 
 pipe aside, and passed in an instant from the 
 purest oriental languor to a state of genuine 
 European activity. 
 
 To ring again for Tippoo, who immediately 
 made his appearance laden with wraps — to en- 
 velop me in a cape lined with furs, and himself 
 in a huge bearskin coat, fitter for the Arctic 
 regions than for an autumn night in England — 
 to pour out a glass of some delicious liquor, 
 and compel me to drink it — to be booted, spur- 
 red and equipped, all in the twinkling of an eye 
 - — to take me up in his arms, and, preceded by 
 Tippoo, carry me down-stairs and across the 
 courtyard, as if I had been a feather — all this 
 was the work of only a few seconds, and was 
 done in less time than it takes to teU. 
 
 A groom holding a superb black horse, waited 
 for us at the outer door. 
 
 " Soho, Satan — soho, boy !" said Farquhar, 
 pausing an instant to lay his hand upon the 
 glossy neck and mane, and then springing 
 lightly into the saddle. The horse whinnied, 
 and scraped the gravel impatiently with his 
 fore-foot — Tippoo lifted me up, and placed me 
 before his master on the saddle — Mr. Farquhar 
 encircled me with his right arm, bade me hold 
 tightly, gave a low whistle, and away we went 
 at a gallop, dashing under the great archway, 
 and making right across the park ! 
 
 The rapid motion at first took away my 
 breath, and I felt as if I must fall off and be 
 dashed to pieces. This, however, soon passed 
 away, and, feeling the clasp of his strong arm, 
 I presently gained confidence, and enjoyed the 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 25 
 
 speed with which we went. It was a glorious 
 night. The moon shone with that yellow light 
 which only belongs to her in the golden harvest- 
 time ; the dew sparkled, diamond-like, upon the 
 grass ; there were nightingales singing in the 
 tall elms ; and the deer, clustered in sleeping 
 herds about the great oaks here and there, 
 started at our approach and fled away by scores 
 in the moonlight. 
 
 " Ha, Uttle one !" said my companion, " see 
 how they run ! They believe we are hunting 
 them to-night. Doesn't this remind you of 
 Johnny Gilpin ? It reminds me of one mistress 
 Lenora who once rode a hundred miles some- 
 where in Germany at an unbecoming hour of 
 the night, and lived to repent of it. 
 
 " GroAit Liebchen auch t—Der Mond acheint hell ! 
 Hurrah ! die Todten reiten schnell ! 
 Oraut Liebchen auch ooor Todten ?" ^ 
 
 By Jove ! I shall begin to fancy presently that 
 I am Wilhelm, and you Lenora. So — here the 
 park ends, and there's a five-foot paling 'twixt 
 us and the road. Hold on, little one, and hey 
 for a leap ! Soho, Satan — soho !" 
 
 Horribly alarmed, I clung to him as a drown- 
 ing man clings to a plank ; but Satan took the 
 fence like a grayhound, and we were over before 
 I knew where I was. 
 
 " Why do you call him Satan ?" I asked, as 
 soon as I had recovered my breath. 
 
 "Because he is black and wicked," replied 
 Mr. Farquhar laughingly. "He is amiable to 
 no one but me. He bites all the grooms, kills 
 all the little dogs, and hate^ the sight of a 
 woman. He tolerates Tippoo (but that's a pre- 
 judice of color), and he loves me — don't you, 
 Satan, boy ? He eats from my hand, kneels 
 when I mount him, and follows me like a dog, 
 I bought him from an Arab. He was a colt 
 then, desert-born and bred. He will never 
 tread the Arabian sands again — ^nor I either, 
 perhaps. Bah ! who knows ? I may turn Be- 
 douin, and make the pilgrimage to Mecca ' in 
 most profound earnest,' as Claudio says, before 
 I die !" 
 
 And with this he hummed more German lines, 
 and urged his horse on faster and faster. The 
 trees and hedges flew past — Satan seemed as if 
 he would tear the road up with his hoofs — the 
 sparks flashed from a flint every now and then ; 
 and our shadows sped beside us, like ghosts in 
 the moonlight. Now we came upon a group of 
 cottages, only hidden from Stoneycroft Hall by 
 a bend in the road — now upon the pound, and 
 the pond, and the old house, where lights were 
 moving to and fro in the windows. We found 
 the gate open — (I was glad of it, for we should 
 certainly have taken the leap, had it been 
 closed) — and dashed up to the door at full 
 gallop. A touch of the rein, a word, and Satan, 
 foaming and quivering as he was, stood stone- 
 still, like a horse carved in black marble. 
 
 Mr. Farquhar dismounted with me in his 
 arms, and raised his whip to knock upon the 
 door ; but it opened before the blow fell, and my 
 aunt, candle in hand, narrowly escaped the 
 whip-handle. She looked pale and stern; 
 opened her lips as if to question ; then, seeing 
 my frightened face peep out from the furs, 
 uttered a sharp cry, and dropped the candle. 
 "Found! found! Jane, come her! Oh! 
 
 Bab — naughty, naughty Bab, what an evening 
 this has been !" 
 
 And with this, half-crying, half-laughing, she 
 snatched me up, kissed, cuffed, and shook me 
 all together, and knew not whether to be glad or 
 angry. Then Jane came running up with lights, 
 and there was more kissing and scolding ; and 
 then we all stood still, and paused for breath. 
 My aunt turned from me to Mr. Farquhar, 
 
 " And it is to this gentleman that I am indebt- 
 ed for the return of my truant ?" said she, fixing 
 her keen eyes inquiringly upon him, " How can 
 I ever thank him enough-?" 
 
 " Simply by not thanking me at all," said he, 
 standing by the porch with the bridle over his 
 arm, and speaking for the first time, " Indeed, 
 before we talk of obligations, I should beg your 
 pardon ; for, upon my soul, madam, I was near 
 making your acquaintance by knocking you 
 down !" 
 
 " Sir," replied my aunt with a stately rever- 
 ence, for she could be immensely formal upon 
 occasion, " I rejoice to make yours upon any 
 terms," 
 
 " Then let me name them. Forgive this little 
 girl for the alarm she has caused you. The 
 fault was mine. I met her near my house, fell 
 into chat with her, and thoughtlessly took her 
 indoors to see a picture. How the time slipped 
 by, I scarcely know ; but we were amused with 
 one another, and I believe that neither , of us 
 thought of the consequences till after dinner. 
 It is now just twenty minutes since the word 
 ' home' was first uttered, and I flatter myself 
 that no time has been lost on the way. I pro- 
 mised to plead for her — nay, more, I promised 
 her your pardon." 
 
 My aunt looked grave, or tried to do so, I 
 believe she was almost glad to be obliged to 
 forgive me, 
 
 " I redeem your promise, sir," said she, " in 
 acknowledgment of the trouble you have taken 
 in bringing her home ; though, but for your in- 
 tercession" (shaking her head at me), " I must, 
 have punished her. I exact obedience, and I 
 will have it. Bab — thank the gentleman for his 
 kindness. Sir, please to walk in." 
 
 " Not to-night, I thank you," said he courte- 
 ously. " It is already late, and my little friend 
 looks weary. If, however, I may call at some 
 
 more reasonable hour " 
 
 " You will be welcome," interrupted my aunt 
 with one of her abrupt nods. "You will be 
 very welcome. May I ask your name before 
 you go ? Your face is strange to me, and yet 
 I seem to have some knowledge of it." 
 
 Mr. Farquhar smiled ; drew a card from his 
 pocket-book ; gave it to me with a kiss ; bade 
 me hand it to my aunt ; sprang into the saddle ; 
 took his hat quite ofiP, and bowed profoundly ; 
 cried out "good night, joe^i^e," and dashed away 
 at full speed down the garden. 
 
 " Humph !" said my aunt, shading her eyes 
 from the candle and watching him to the turn 
 of the road, " a fine horse, and a reckless rider. 
 Let's see who he is. Mercy alive ! Farquhab 
 OF Broomhill !" 
 
26 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 *' Thou knowest I hunger after wisdom, as the Red 
 Sea after ghosts: therefore I travel." 
 
 Death's Jest-Book. 
 
 Some days went by, and Hugh Farquhar's pro- 
 mised visit remained unpaid. I rose every 
 morning with the hope tliat he would come be- 
 fore night, and I went to bed every night dis- 
 consolate. I waited for him — I wearied for him 
 — I was as much in love with him as any little 
 girl of ten years old could be ! I brooded over 
 every word that he had uttered ; strove to draw 
 his portrait, and tore up each abortive outline as 
 soon as it was made ; recalled the last tones of 
 his voice, the last echo of his horse's hoofs, and 
 the parting kiss that he had given me in the 
 porch. He was still my hero, and a more 
 heroic hero than ever — Prince Camaralzaman, 
 with a^dash of Robin Hood now, and a spice of 
 the Wild Huntsman ! I believe, on looking 
 back to this childish passion, that it was most 
 of all the power of the man that attracted me. 
 He was altogether older and plainer than I had 
 pictured him ; and yet that sense of power 
 pleased me better than youth or beauty. It was 
 power of every kind — of health, and courage, 
 and daring — of the mind and the will — of free- 
 dom and fortune. His wealth I believed bound- 
 less; and Broomhill, with its portrait-gallery, 
 its corridors, and stately suites, reminded me of 
 Aladdin's palace. His mode of life, too, had 
 something strange and solitary in it. There 
 was a mystery and a charm in the gloom that 
 sometimes fell upon him. There was an oriental 
 romance in the very food he ate, in the pipe he 
 smoked, in Tippoo the noiseless, and in Satan 
 the swift ! I could do nothing, in short, but 
 talk and dream of Farquhar of Broomhill. 
 
 My aunt said very little about him, and 
 listened with assumed indifference to all I had 
 to tell. That she was interested, however, and 
 that she not only listened but remembered, 
 I knew to a certainty ; for I heard her repeat- 
 ing it next morning, word for word, as she and 
 Dr. Topham paced up and down the garden- 
 walk together. From this moment the train 
 was fired, and the news spread. Carried from 
 parish to parish, and from house to house, it 
 was known, as if by telegraph, throughout the 
 county. Alas for Hugh Farquhar ! — his incog- 
 nito was soon over. 
 
 At length there came a day when my aunt 
 and I were sitting together after dinner, beside 
 the open window. There had been rain, and 
 the atmosphere was damp and close, like that 
 of a hot-house. Not a breath stirred ; not a 
 bird sang ; not a leaf rustled. A voluptuous 
 languor pervaded all the drowsy air — a subtle 
 perfume uprose from the reeking earth — a faint 
 mist obscured the landscape. Yielding to the 
 influences of the hour, my aunt had fallen 
 asleep with the newspaper in her hand, whilst 
 I, perched on the broad window-seat with my 
 silks and sampler, suffered the work to lie un- 
 heeded in my lap, rested my chin upon my two 
 palms in an odd, old-fashioned way, and counted 
 the drops as they fell one by one from the broad 
 leaves of the heavy-headed sun-flower outside 
 in the garden. A long time went by thus, and 
 was meted out by the ticking of the old watch 
 
 over the fireplace— a long, long time, during 
 which only one solitary pedestrian trudged past, 
 with an umbrella over his shoulder. All at once, 
 remote but growing rapidly nearer, I heard 
 the quick echo of a well-remembered gallop ! 
 Louder, closer, faster it came. I felt the blood 
 rush to my face — I held my breath — I strained 
 my eyes to that one spot where there was an 
 opening in the trees — tlien, springing suddenly 
 to my feet, I grasped Mrs. Sandyshaft by the 
 arm, and cried — 
 
 " Oh, wake up, aunt ! wake up ! Here he 
 comes at last ! I knew he must come some day !" 
 "He? What? Who?" exclaimed Mrs. San- 
 dyshaft, bewildered and half asleep. " What 
 noise is that ?" 
 
 " That's Satan, aunt ! Hark, how fast he's 
 coming !" 
 
 My aunt became rigid. 
 
 " Satan !" she repeated. " Mercy on us ! The 
 child's demented." 
 
 I could only point triumphantly to the gate 
 where Mr. Farquhar had that moment dismount- 
 ed, and was tying up his horse. My aunt re- 
 laxed, and smiled grimly. 
 
 " Oh, call him Satan, do you ?" said she. " Not 
 a bad name, Bab — might suit the master as well 
 the beast, eh ?" 
 
 Whereupon I rushed away without replying, 
 and, encountering him in the porch, became sud- 
 denly shy, and had not a word to say. Seeing 
 me, he smiled and held out both his hands. 
 
 " EccoUP^ said he. " The very Barbara of 
 my thoughts ! How does your grace to-day ? 
 Well, I trust, and undisturbed by the late fluc- 
 tuations in tho -funds, or the changes in the min- 
 istrv? What news of the pigs and the fine 
 arts'?" 
 
 Blushing and puzzled, I lingered with my 
 hand in his, and knew not what to answer. 
 
 " How ! not a word ? not a greeting ? not a 
 mere '■give you good den, Sir Richard?'' Oh, 
 faithless Barbara ! — and to think that I have 
 brought a box of Turkish sweatmeats for you, 
 in my pocket ! Come, are you not glad to see 
 me now?" 
 
 And he took out a pretty little box of inlaid 
 woods, and held it playfully before my eyes. I 
 snatched away my hand and drew back. 
 
 " I am not glad for the sake of what you give 
 me," said I, grievously hurt ; and so ran on to 
 the parlor door, and left him to follow. My 
 aunt held up her finger at me — she had heard 
 every word — and advanced to meet him. 
 
 " Sir," she began, " I am glad to see you ; and 
 you are the first of your name to whom I ever 
 said so. Sit down." 
 
 Mr. Farquhar smiled, bowed, and took the 
 proffered seat. 
 
 " I hope, sir," continued my aunt, " that you 
 have come to settle amongst us. You have been 
 too long away. Traveling is a fool's Paradise ; 
 and you must have sown your wild oats by this 
 time." 
 
 Mr. Farquhar looked infinitely amused. 
 
 " Madam," said he, " it is a branch of agricul- 
 ture to which I have been assiduously devoting 
 myself for the last five years." 
 
 " Humph ! And now you have come back 
 for good ?" 
 
 " I should be sorry to believe that I have come 
 back for evil." 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 27 
 
 My aunt fixed her eyes sharply upon him, and 
 shook her head. 
 
 " That's not what I mean, Mr. Farquhar," 
 said she. " I want to know if you are going to 
 live on your own lands, lead the life of an Eng- 
 lish gentleman, and marry a wife ?" 
 
 " I had rather marry a maid," retorted he, 
 with the same provoking smile, '' and sooner 
 thain either, Mrs. Sandyshaft, I would remain a 
 bachelor. As to living on my own lands, I may 
 aver that I have done so ever since I left Eng- 
 land ; for as my steward can testify, I have 
 drawn my rents with the most conscientious 
 regularity." 
 
 " And spent them too, I'll warrant," said my 
 aunt, grimly. 
 
 Whereupon Mr. Farquhar laughed, and made 
 no reply. 
 
 " England is the best place after all," observed 
 she, returning to the charge. " The o/i/^lace !" 
 
 "For fogs and fox-hunts, granted." 
 
 " For liberty of the press, public spirit, domes- 
 tic comfort, and national respectability ! Find 
 me the French for 'common-sense,' Mr. Farqu- 
 har !" 
 
 *' Find me the French for the verb ' to grum- 
 ble !' " 
 
 " I should be sorry if I could," said my aunt, 
 rubbing her hands, and enjoying the argument 
 with her whole heart. " 'Tis a national char- 
 acteristic — a national amusement — a national in- 
 stitution !" 
 
 "And the exclusive privilege of the British 
 Lion," added Mr. Farquhar, with a shrug of the 
 shoulders. " Allans .^ I am a citizen of the 
 world — a vagrant by nature — a cosmopolitan at 
 heart. I confess to little of the patriotic spirit, 
 and much of the Bohemian. London porter 
 tastes no better in my mouth than ' Hungary 
 wine,' and between Kabohs and mutton-chops I 
 find but little difference !" 
 
 My aunt held up her hands in amazement. 
 
 "Young man," said she, " your opinions are 
 detestable. You don' t deserve to have eight cen- 
 turies of ancestors. No patriotic spirit, indeed I 
 Mercy alive ! What's your opinion, pray, of the 
 English history ?" 
 
 "My dear madam, I think it an admirable 
 work — for the library-shelves." 
 
 " Have you ever read it ?" 
 
 " Yes, in my boyish days, when I believed in 
 Messrs. Hume and Smollett, looked on Charles 
 the First as a genuine Royal Martyr, and pinned 
 my faith upon the virgin purity of Queen Eliza- 
 beth !" 
 
 My aunt smiled in spite of herself. 
 
 " I fear," said she, " that you are a sad scape- 
 grace, and believe in very little." 
 
 " Que-voulez-vous ? The world has rubbed off 
 most of my illusions." 
 
 " So much the worse for you. The happiest 
 man is the most credulous." 
 
 " Then is the ass the most enviable of quad- 
 rupeds ! I cry you mercy, madam ! Let those 
 be dupes who will — ' I'll none of it.' Is it not 
 better to see things as they are, and take them 
 at their value ? — to distinguish between base 
 metal and gold, paste and brilliants ? Now, for 
 my part, I had rather know at the first glance 
 that my mistress's front-teeth were false, than 
 live to be told of it by some officious friend 
 who met her at the dentist's !" 
 
 " Sir," said my aunt, emphatically, " I see 
 nothing for you but a strict course of matrimony." 
 
 " Then your opinion of my case is, indeed, 
 serious !" 
 
 " You must settle in England," continued my 
 aunt. " You must see society. You must mar- 
 ry. A good-tempered, kind-hearted, well-edu- 
 cated English girl is what you want ; and I know 
 of four or five in this very county, all of whom 
 would suit you to a T." 
 
 " Then I will marry them all." 
 
 " No, you won't, indeed ! You are in a civil- 
 ized country here, sir, and not among Turks 
 and savages. Marry them all, hey ? I like the 
 idea!" 
 
 "/should prefer the reality !" 
 
 My aunt shook her head impatiently. 
 
 " Nonsense !" said she. " I am in earnest, 
 and advise you as a friend. You want a wife, 
 and, I repeat it, you must marry." 
 
 "Spoken ex cathedrd^^'' observed Mr. Farqu- 
 har, parenthetically. 
 
 "There's — let me see — there's Sir John 
 Crompton's daughter," continued my aunt, tell- 
 ing off the young ladies on her fingers, " and 
 there's Miss Heathcote, with thirty thousand 
 pounds; and there are the two Somervilles, 
 daughters of the Dean of Wrentham, and " 
 
 " My dear lady," interrupted Mr. Farquhar, 
 " before you go on with your list, tell me what 
 chance I have of becoming acquainted with these 
 Sirens ? Shall I advertise myself in the ' Ipswich 
 Herald,' or hang a label round my neck with 
 the words ' to let ' printed thereon in golden 
 characters ?" 
 
 " Neither, sir. You shall send for paper-hang- 
 ers, upholsterers, and confectioners ; put your 
 house in order; and issue invitations to a ball." 
 
 "Not for a kingdom. What! pull the old 
 place about my ears, and submit to an invasion 
 of flirts and fiddlers ? No, madam — I have too 
 much respect for the spiders !" 
 
 " In that case," said my aunt, *' I will give a 
 party myself." 
 
 " I'll never believe it, Mrs. S. !" cried a voice 
 at the door. " It's a fiction, a fable — 
 
 ' a tale * 
 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
 Signifying nothing !' " 
 
 "Topham," observed my aunt, "you are a 
 fool. Come in, will you, and be introduced to 
 Mr. Farquhar of Broomhill." 
 
 Dr. Topham came in, hat, umbrella, and all, 
 and solemnly deposited those properties on the 
 table. 
 
 " You have mentioned that circumstance so 
 often, Mrs. S.," said he, " that I begin to fancy 
 I must be a fool, after all. I shall charge my 
 cap and bells to your account. Don't trouble 
 yourself, ma'am, to make me known to Mr. 
 Farquhar. I can do that for myself. Sir, shake 
 hands. You and I are old friends, and our ac- 
 quaintance dates back for more than a quarter 
 of a century. Introductions, forsooth ! Why, 
 sir, it was I who first had the pleasure of intro- 
 ducing you to your own father ! I dare say you 
 don't remember that event so accurately as I 
 do?" 
 
 A shade, a trouble, an indescribable some- 
 thing flitted over Hugh Farquhar's sunburnt 
 face, at these words. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 "Indeed!" said he, in a low voice. " Then 
 you knew my mother ?" 
 
 *' I did — a most excellent and beautiful lady, 
 charitable, sincere, and earnest. She was be- 
 loved by rich and poor, and for many a year her 
 name remained a household word throughout 
 this countryside." 
 Mr. Farquhar bent his head gravely. 
 "You do her justice, sir," he said; and 
 turned away with a sigh. 
 
 There was a silence of some moments, during 
 which Dr. Topham and my aunt exchanged bel- 
 ligerent glances, and looked as if longing to be- 
 gin their accustomed squabble. Presently Hugh 
 Farquhar spoke again. 
 
 "It surprises me. Dr. Topham," said he, 
 "that I have no recollection of your face. 
 Your name I seem to have heard before ; and 
 yet, when I was a lad and used to come home 
 from Eton and Oxford for the vacations, it was 
 Mr. Stanley who " 
 
 " Precisely so. Mr. Stanley of Normanbridge," 
 interrupted the doctor. " Your father and I 
 could never agree, Mr. Farquhar. We had a 
 grand fracas, in fact ; and though your mother 
 did her best to reconcile us, the breach was 
 never healed. Mr. Stanley is a very clever 
 man — too fond of the lancet, though ! Too 
 fond of the lancet !" 
 
 " Hold your tongue, doctor," said my aunt, 
 acidly. " You're all a set of murderers. Some 
 prefer steel, and some poison — that's the only 
 difference." 
 
 " Much obliged, Mrs. S. I reserve my ven- 
 geance till you next have occasion for my serv- 
 ices." 
 
 Hugh Farquhar laughed, and rose to take his 
 leave. 
 
 " War being declared," said he, " I will leave 
 you to fight it out fairly. Dr. Topham, will you 
 come up and smoke a pipe of Turkish tobacco 
 with me to-morrow evening ? At present I am 
 but a hermit, and live in a turret by myself, like 
 a mouse in a trap ; but I shall be glad to see 
 and know more of you. Mrs. Sandyshaft, you 
 must let me know when you have chosen a wife 
 for me. If you could allow me to see the lady 
 before we meet at the altar, I should prefer it ; 
 but, for mercy's sake, don't marry me un- 
 awares !" 
 
 " You shall choose for yourself, Mr. Far- 
 quhar," replied my aunt. "I mean to give that 
 party, I assure you." 
 
 "Not on my account, pray !" 
 
 " Yes, on your account, solely — ^therefore you 
 will be bound to come to it." 
 
 And with this they shook hands, and parted. 
 As Mr. Farquhar left the room, he beckoned me 
 to follow, and walked with me silently to the 
 garden gate. There he paused. 
 
 " Barbara," he said gently, " why were you 
 so angry just now, when I offered you that 
 box?" 
 
 I hung my head, and could find no words to 
 reply. 
 
 " If you had known," he continued, in the 
 same tone, " what trouble it gave me to find 
 those bonbons^ and how many hundreds of miles 
 they have traveled with me, and with what 
 pleasure I put them in my pocket to-day (hoping 
 to please you), I don't think, petite, that you 
 yould have treated me quite so ungraciously." 
 
 I felt myself tremble and change color. 
 
 "I — I— it wasn't that I was ungrateful," I 
 faltered. "But you said, 'Are you glad to see 
 me now?'' — I was glad before! I heard you 
 when you were a mile away, and knew that 
 it was you ! I — I have been at the window 
 looking for you all the week ! Oh, pray forgive 
 me — I was not ungrateful !" 
 
 Mr. Farquhar looked at me very earnestly, 
 and with something like astonishment in his 
 face. 
 
 " Why, Barbara mia,'*^ said he, " you are the 
 most tender-hearted little maid that ever I met ! 
 Come, let us be friends. By Jove, I believe it 
 was my fault, after all !" 
 
 And with this he stooped, and kissed away 
 two large tears which were stealing down my 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Will you take the box now, for my sake ?" 
 he whispered — then, with a last kiss, placed 
 it in my hands, riiounted, and galloped away. 
 
 I watched him out of sight, wondering if he 
 would look back. He never so much as glanc- 
 ed to the right or left; but rode straight on, 
 and vanished round the bend of the road. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 A child's love. 
 
 " Love sought is good ; but given unsought is better." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Hugh Farquhar's first visit was followed, 
 not long after, by a second and a third ; so that 
 he soon became a recognized habitue of the 
 house. His favorite time was twilight ; and he 
 used to ride up to the porch, tie Satan by the 
 bridle, and walk in without announcement. 
 My aunt then laid aside her paper ; grumbled at 
 him heartily, if he awoke her from her nap ; 
 and prepared for a chat. Sometimes I sat aside 
 in a dark corner, and fell to my old occupation 
 of watching him till it grew too dusk to see his 
 face distinctly; after which I was content only 
 to listen to his voice. Sometimes, for I was a 
 great pet now, and highly privileged, I took a 
 little stool at his feet, and laid my head against 
 his knee, and was almost too happy. When, 
 perchance, he interrupted his conversation to 
 address a stray word to me ; or, in the listless- 
 ness of thought, passed his hand through the 
 wavy folds of my long hair, I trembled and held 
 my breath, lest any motion of mine should 
 cause him to take it away the sooner. What I 
 would have given to dare to kiss that hand mat- 
 ters not now. It was a child's idolatry — an 
 idolatry so innocent, unselfish, and spiritual, as 
 few feel more than once, if once, in life.. 
 
 My aunt and he suited each other, after their 
 own odd antagonistic fashion. They always dif- 
 fered in opinion, for the sake of argument and the 
 pleasure of wrangling ; but I believe th(iy often 
 agreed at heart. My aunt had read much ; and, 
 despite her crotchets and prejudices, could both 
 speak and think well when she chose. Books, 
 history, politics, foreign life and manners, agri- 
 culture, and the arts, formed the staple subjects 
 of their talk ; and about each and all, Hugh 
 Farquhar had something amusing and original 
 to say. His conversation was peculiar, frag- 
 mentary, discursive, idiocratic. When thor- 
 oughly at his ease and " i' the vein," he wan- 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 29 
 
 dered on from topic to topic, from jest to 
 earnest, and thought aloud, rather than con- 
 versed. His memory was prodigious. He knew 
 Shakspeare and his cotemporaries by heart, 
 and was so thoroughly steeped in the spirit of 
 that age that his very phraseology had often- 
 times an Elizabethan flavor. Sometimes dreamy, 
 sometimes sad, sometimes sarcastic — varying in 
 his mood with every turn of the argument — 
 breaking into "flashes of merriment" and un- 
 expected sparkles of wit — abounding in quaint 
 scraps of dry and dusty philosophies, and in 
 quotations as apt as they were sometimes whim- 
 sical, Hugh Farquhar talked as few can talk, 
 and fewer still can write. To record his con- 
 versation is, therefore, singularly difficult — to 
 preserve its aroma, impossible. I should con- 
 ceive, from what we read of those tea-table 
 talks at the little waterside house in Is)kigton, 
 that Charles Lamb's familiar parlance may have 
 been somewhat similar — more exquisitely play- 
 ful, perhaps, and more sensitively sympathetic — 
 certainly less caustic. Both, at all events, were 
 in the rapidity of their hues and changes, 
 kaleidoscopic. I learned much from these twi- 
 light gossips ; and though I might not always 
 understand, I always enjoyed them. Granted 
 that the topics and opinions mooted on both 
 sides were generally in advance of my actual 
 knowledge, they set me thinking, and perhaps 
 did more toward the premature development of 
 my intellect than could have been effected by 
 any set system of training. At the same time 
 it must be confessed that my actual education 
 was, in some degree, at a standstill, A couple 
 of hours devoted each morning to Gibbon, Gold- 
 smith, or Buffon, and another hour or so to the 
 Parliamentary debates every afternoon, scarcely 
 deserves the name of education ; and, but for 
 other circumstances, would have done little to 
 improve me. I was free, however, of my aunt's 
 book-case, of the fields, the sunlight, and the 
 fresh air. I read more, saw more, felt more 
 than I had ever read, seen, or felt in all my life 
 before. Above all, I was happy; and happi- 
 ness derived from, and dependent on, the love 
 of those who are better and wiser than we, is, 
 in itself, an education. 
 
 Thus the weeks went by, and the autumn 
 waned, and still Hugh Farquhar dwelt alone in 
 his solitary tower, and became, as I have al- 
 ready said, a frequent guest at Sfbneycroft 
 Hall. As the days grew shorter and the twihght 
 encroached upon our dinner-hour, he took to 
 coming later, and often rode over between eight 
 and nine to drink coffee and play piquet with 
 my aunt. Scarcely a week passed that he did 
 not send her a present of game, or the latest 
 parcel of books and magazines from London ; 
 while to me he never failed to bring some 
 pretty trifle — a tiny Swiss Chalet bought at 
 Berne, a coral toy from Naples, a Chinese puz- 
 zle, or a string of Indian wampum. He cer- 
 tainly spared no pains to place himself upon the 
 footing of an intimate ; though why he should 
 have done so, and what pleasure he could find 
 in the society of an eccentric old lady and a shy 
 little girl of ten, seems unaccountable enough. 
 Whether he meant to stay in England, o'r 
 whether he was here for only a few months, 
 remained as great a mystery as at first. He 
 would either give no answer when questioned, 
 
 or declare that he knew no more than we — 
 cared, perhaps, even less — had no wish to set- 
 tle, and preferred to keep " one foot in sea, and 
 one on shore," for, at least, a few years longer. 
 
 " But surely," said my aunt, assailing him 
 one evening on this her favorite topic, " surely 
 you have some definite plans ?" 
 
 "Plans, my dear Mrs. Sandyshaft?" he ex- 
 claimed. " Not I, indeed. Heaven forbid !" 
 
 " Well, then, some regard for the future?" ^ 
 
 " None. Oggi is my motto, and domani may 
 go to the devil !" 
 
 My aunt shook her head gravely, and looked 
 shocked. 
 
 " You are wrong," said she ; " young, wrong, 
 and headstrong. You don't look at life seri- 
 ously enough. You don't " 
 
 " Pardon me, I look at it, perhaps, too seri- 
 ously. If you imagine that I make of it one 
 idle holiday, you mistake me altogether. I do 
 no such thing. I look upon it as a very sad, 
 wearyful, unsatisfactory affair ; and because to- 
 day is so burdensome, I care little for the events 
 of to-morrow. I love to drift from day to day, 
 like a weed from wave to wave ; and it seems 
 to me that the philosophies of all time are com- 
 prised in that sentence of Sadi the Persian : — 
 
 ' 'Tis better to sit than to stand ; 
 'Tis better to be in bed than sitting ; 
 'Tis better to be dead than in bed.' " 
 
 " Wherefore," observed my aunt dryly, " you 
 choose a life of incessant activity. Nonsense ! 
 Drift here, if drifting suits you ; and i| lying in 
 bed be so very philosophical, lie in bed at 
 Broomhill." 
 
 "First provide me with that model wife, Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft !" 
 
 "Besides," continued my aunt, "there are 
 duties arising from your position. You have a 
 stake in the country, and " 
 
 " And a very tough one it is !" interrupted 
 he, laughingly. "I prefer a cotelette d la 
 Soubise, served at the Maison Doree /" 
 
 Whereupon my aunt waxed wroth, cited Dr. 
 Johnson's opinion on the making of puns and 
 the picking of pockets, and abandoned the siege 
 for that evening. 
 
 Not many nights after this, he came again. 
 It was the first frost of the season ; and, 
 though he had ridden fast and wore his great 
 fur coat, he complained bitterly of the climate. 
 
 " Climate !" repeated my aunt, " Bless the 
 man ! what better climate can he desire, I 
 should ' like to know ? Chmate, indeed, with 
 such a coat as that on his back !" 
 
 " ' The owl for all his feathers was a-cold !' " 
 quoted Hugh Farquhar, hanging over the fire 
 hke a half-frozen Kamschatkan. 
 
 My aunt piled on more coals, rang for coffee, 
 and muttered something about " salamanders " 
 and " fire-worshipers." 
 
 "Do you wonder that I freeze," said he, 
 " when for five years I have known no winter ? 
 My Decembers and Januarys have all been 
 spent in South Italy, the East, or the tropics. 
 Last Christmas Eve I lay awake all night in the 
 deep grass on a ledge of one of the Chilian 
 Andes, looking up to the Centaur and the 
 Southern Cross, with not even a cloak for my 
 counterpane. The year before that, I ate my 
 roast-beef and plum-pudding with the oflELcers 
 
80 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 of the Fourth Light Dragoons in Calcutta. 'Tis 
 no laughing matter, let me tell you, to come 
 back to this infernal land of fog and frost, after 
 wandering for five long years 
 
 ' where Universal Pan, 
 
 Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, 
 
 Leads on the Eternal Spring !" 
 
 Pshaw ! Dante was of my mind when he made 
 the lowest circle of hell an icy region, and im- 
 bedded His Majesty in the midst of it !" 
 
 " If you had been content to live respectably 
 in your own country," said my aunt, testily, 
 " you'd never have felt any diflference. Will 
 you take some brandy with your coffee ? I hate 
 to hear people's teeth clattering like castanets !" 
 
 "'Tis 'a spirit of health,' and I will not re- 
 fuse to entertain it. Barharina mia, will you 
 vouchsafe to kiss me this evening ? So ! There's 
 a shy little salute ! Your ladyship is chary of 
 your rosy lips, methinks ! Ah ! did you but know 
 what I have brought to show you, and which of 
 my pockets it is in ! A sketch book, petite — a 
 sketch-book full of pictures !" 
 
 My hands were diving into his pockets in an 
 instant ; for, by this time, those pockets were 
 familiar ground. The first thing I brought out 
 was a little square packet, sealed at both ends — 
 the second, a book with a silver clasp. . 
 
 '' Stop," said he, taking the former from me, 
 and breaking the seals that fastened it, "this is 
 a pack of cards, Mrs. Sandyshaft, which I pro- 
 pose to play our piquet with to-night. Pray 
 observe them, and tell me which are trumps." 
 
 Saying, which, he dealt out some twenty or 
 thirty visiting card^ in rapid succession, laughing 
 heartly the while to see my aunt's amazement. 
 
 " General Kirby— Mr. Fuller — Mrs. Fuller— 
 The Rev. Edward Grote — Sir John and Lady 
 Crompton — Miss Price — Lord Bayham — Captain 
 Carter — Mr., Mrs., and the Misses Capel — the 
 
 Hon. and Rev. Augustus Petersham Why, 
 
 where, for gracious sake, did you get all these ?" 
 
 " They have been accumulating for the last 
 month at compound interest; and I gathered 
 them out of a basket in my study this afternoon. 
 A famous pack for playing, with a suitable 
 sprinkling of court cards and, doubtless, the 
 usual allowance of knaves !" 
 
 " Have you returned any of these visits ?" 
 
 "Not one. I thought of sending Tippoo 
 about the country, as my representative." 
 
 " Absurd !" 
 
 " Not at all. He need only lie back in a cor- 
 ner of the carriage, wear lavender kid gloves, 
 and hand visiting cards through the window. 
 If any one caught a glimpse of his face, it would 
 only be thought that traveling had spoiled my 
 complexion. You may depend he would do it 
 capitally, and be far more majestic than my- 
 self" 
 
 But my aunt only shook her head, took out a 
 pencil and the back of an old letter, and began 
 gravely making a list of all the names. 
 
 " Have you any idea," she said, presently, " of 
 the number of folks which these cards reore- 
 sent ?" 
 
 " Not I !" 
 
 " Well— from eighty-five to a hundred." 
 
 "Impossible !" 
 
 "Do you doubt it? Look here, then. The 
 Croraptons have five daughters, so their tickets 
 stand for seven pe9ple — the Fullers have two 
 
 sons and one daughter, so they stand as five — 
 the Misses Capel are four — the Reverend " 
 
 " Hold, enough ! You are going on into un- 
 known quantities, and my brain reels already. 
 Must I be civil to all these people ?" 
 
 " Oh, that's as you please !" 
 
 He took the list, read it through several 
 times, and, resting his head upon his hand, drop- 
 ped into a brown study. By and by, my aunt 
 brought out her little walnut-wood table, trim- 
 med her lamp, and sorted the playing cards. 
 This done, they fell to piquet, and so spent 
 the evening. 
 
 As for me, to sit on a stool at Hugh Farqu- 
 har's feet and pore over the book with the sil- 
 ver clasp, was delight and employment enough. 
 Here were sketches indeed ! — some in water- 
 colors, some in pencil, some in sepia. Now 
 a page of mere rough memoranda, faces seen 
 from the window, fragments of capitals and cor- 
 nices, and the outline of a boat with lateen sails 
 — now a group of Tyrolean peasants, with green 
 hats and embroidered jackets — now a snow-cap- 
 ped mountain, a wild plain scattered over with 
 strange plants, an indigo sky, and the word 
 Chimborazo written in the corner. Next, per- 
 haps, came a cluster of old houses — a bit of 
 coast and sea — an Indian head, studied from the 
 life — a curious plant, leaf, flower, and bud, all 
 side by side — a caricature of a priest, with a gi- 
 gantic black hat and a pair of spindle legs — a 
 ruined tower and ivied arch ; a bridge ; a tree ; 
 a vase ; and so on for, perhaps, a hundred pages ! 
 When I came to the end, I went back again to 
 the beginning ; and save now and then to steal 
 a glance at the bronzed face which I so loved 
 to look upon, never lifted my eyes from the 
 sketches. For here, at last, was the Art of 
 which I had been d-eaming all my little life — 
 Art comprehensible, tangible, real and ideal in 
 one ! Here were places and people, vitality, 
 action, color, poetry, intention. The Paul Ve- 
 ronese was too much for me. It needed an art- 
 education to pierce the mysteries, and appreci- 
 ate the beauties, of that marvelous Lombardic 
 school. Not so with Hugh Farquhar's sketches. 
 They were amateur's work ; often faulty, no 
 doubt, but full of character and effect, and just 
 suggestive enough to stimulate the imagination, 
 and supply all that might be wanting in them 
 as works of art. 
 
 At length the clock struck ten, and my aunt 
 threw down her hand. Though in the middle 
 of a game, or at the most exciting point of the 
 contest, she always stopped inexorably at the 
 first stroke of the hour, and put the cards away. 
 
 " You are pleased with that book, Barbara ?" 
 asked Mr. Farquhar, speaking to me for the first 
 time since they had begun to play, 
 
 " I never saw any thing so beautiful," said I ; 
 and my face, I doubt not, was more eloquent of 
 praise than any words I could have uttered. 
 
 He smiled and took the volume from me. 
 
 " Show me which drawing you like best," lie 
 said, turning the leaves rapidly. 
 
 I stopped him at a sketch of a ruined fount- 
 ain, with a background of misty mountains, and 
 an Italian contadina filling her pitcher in the 
 foregroHnd. 
 
 " I like that best of all !" I exclaimed. 
 
 " And so do I, petite. You have pitched on 
 the best thing in the book." 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 81 
 
 Saying which, he opened hi3 penknife, cut the 
 leaf out, and placed it in my hands. 
 
 "Mercy alive!" cried my aunt, "you're 
 never going to give the child that picture ?" 
 
 " Indeed I am ; and if it had been fifty times 
 better, she should have had it ! Carina, I have 
 more of these, and bigger ones, at home. You 
 shall come and spend a day with me, and go 
 through them all — and, perhaps, you may like 
 the Paul Veronese better when you see it 
 again. No thanks, little one — I hate them. 
 Mrs. Sandyshaft, I have made up my mind !" 
 
 " To what, pray ?" 
 
 " To the solemn duty of entertaining my dear 
 eighty-five unknown acquaintances ! What shall 
 it be — a ball, or a dinner ? Or both ?" 
 
 " Both, by all means, if you really intend it!" 
 
 "Amen. And when?" 
 
 " How can / tell ? You must put youHiouse 
 in order." 
 
 " And prepare to die ! My dear Madam, 
 your phraseology smacks of ' funeral baked 
 meats,' and suggests uncomfortable results. 
 Well, I must turn this matter over in my mind, 
 and hold a cabinet council with my housekeep- 
 er — after that, nous verrons P' 
 
 With this he took his leave. I followed him 
 to the porch, where Satan was waiting, fiery and 
 impatient. There was no moon ; but the stars 
 shone keenly through the frosty night, and the 
 stable-boy's lantern cast a bright circle on the 
 path. 
 
 "Good night, little friend," he said, and 
 touched my forehead lightly with his lips. 
 
 I could not bid him " good night" in return — 
 my heart was too full ; but I followed him with 
 , my eyes long after the dark had swallowed him 
 up, and listened for the last faint echo of his 
 horse's hoofs. That night I took my darling 
 picture up with me to bed, and placed it where 
 I might see it when I woke. I was very, very 
 happy; and yet I remember how I ^ cried my- 
 self to sleep ! 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE BALL AT BROOMIIILL. 
 
 Overshadowed by a huge pear-tree in a 
 snug corner of the orchard behind the house, 
 stood a low wooden building, the roof whereof 
 was clustered over with patches of brown moss 
 and ashy lichens. The padlock on the doors 
 was red with rust, and the spiders had woven 
 their webs over the hinges. It looked like a 
 place disused; but it was' my aunt's coach- 
 house, and contained ray aunt's carriage. Never 
 brought out, unless once a year to be cleaned, 
 or on occasions of solemn ceremony, this vehi- 
 cle reposed in dust and dignity, like Lord Nel- 
 son's funeral car in the vaults at St. Paul's, and 
 led, on the whole, an easy life of it. The first 
 time that I ever had the honor of being jolted 
 in it, was on the day of Hugh Farquhar's great 
 dinner and evening party, about five weeks 
 after the events last related. 
 
 I say jolted, and I say it advisedly ; for surely 
 a more obstinate and springless piece of furni- 
 ture never went upon wheels. When set in 
 motion it uttered despairing creaks ; going 
 down-hill it staggered from side to side, like a 
 drunken giant ; and we never turned a corner 
 
 but it threatened to pitch over. Notwithstand- 
 ing these little eccentricities, it was the object of 
 my special veneration ; and Mrs. Inchbald's hero 
 never saluted the wig of his uncle the judge, 
 nor Friday the gun of Robinson Crusoe, more 
 reverently than I did homage to this antiquated 
 " leathern conveniency." Our difficulties on 
 the present occasion were increased tenfold by 
 the condition of the roads ; for there had been 
 snow the night before, and a frost toward 
 morning. 
 
 " Bab," said my aunt, " I never thought I 
 should have lived to do this," 
 
 My aunt was very grand this evening, and 
 wore her black brocaded silk dress, her black 
 and gold turban, and the suite of oriental 
 amethysts which were given to her by her 
 husband on her wedding-day. 
 
 " To do what, aunt?" I asked, clinging to a 
 carriage-strap ; for we were just going over a 
 piece of road where the snow had drifted some- 
 what deeply, and our conveyance was laboring 
 onward, like a lighter in a gale. 
 
 "Why, to dine at Broomhill, to be sure'. 
 Have you not often and often heard me say 
 that I never exchanged a civility with the Far- 
 quhars in my life, or crossed the threshold of a 
 Farquhar's door ? And yet here I am, at my 
 time of life, actually going to Broomhill to 
 dinner !" 
 
 "But then you like this Mr. Farquhar," I 
 suggested, " and " 
 
 "Don't say I like him, Bab. I tolerate him. 
 He's an amusing madman with a remnant of 
 brains ; and I tolerate him. That's all, and a 
 good d6al, too; for he's the first of his name 
 that I ever endured, living or dead ! So ! I 
 never drove through these gates before, old as I 
 am. Bab, sit still." 
 
 But I was all excitement, and could not have 
 sat still for the world. We had now entered the 
 park, and yonder, framed in by the gleaming 
 snow and sable sky, stood the house, lighted 
 from basement to attic, like a huge beacon of 
 welcome. The avenue had all been cleared ; 
 but the great old oaks stretched their snow-laden 
 arms overhead, and looked, by the ghostly light 
 of our carriage-lamps, like gigantic branches of 
 white coral. There was another vehicle some 
 little way in advance of us ; and when we came 
 to within a few feet of the arched gateway, we 
 found ourselves at the end of a line of carriages, 
 each advancing a few steps at a time, and set- 
 tin<2^ down its occupants one by one. How my 
 heart beat when it came to be our turn at last, 
 and we drew up before the bright perspective of 
 the lighted hall ! 
 
 A powdered footman stood just within the 
 entrance — a second took charge of our cloaks — 
 a third announced us at the drawing-room door. 
 ' I had never been to a party in my life before, 
 and as we passed into the great room all ablaze 
 with chandeliers and mirrors, I trembled and 
 hung back. There were some twenty people or 
 so, scattered about on sofas, or gathered round 
 a table laden with engravings. From this group 
 a gentleman disengaged himself at the sound of 
 my aunt's name, and came forward to meet us. 
 I scarcely knew him at first, in his close black 
 suit and white cravat — he looked so unlike the 
 fur-coated, careless Hugh Farquhar of every day ! 
 He bowed profoundly — so profoundly that I, in 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 my ignorance was quite astonished — and led 
 my aunt to an arm-chair by the fire. 
 
 " I look upon this as a high compliment, 
 Mrs. Sandyshaft," said he, " and rejoice to bid 
 you welcome, for the first time, to my home." 
 
 The formality of this address, the stately 
 politeness with which my aunt received it, and, 
 above all the sudden hush of curiosity that 
 seemed to fall upon the assembled guests, 
 struck me as something very strange. Not till 
 years after, when I was old enough in the 
 world's usages to interpret the enigma, did I 
 understand why Hugh Farquhar paid her such 
 public courtesy that evenmg, and how her 
 presence there stood for a recognition of friend- 
 ship, and the healing of old feuds. 
 
 Amid the brief silence that followed, more 
 visitors arrived ; - and then the hum of talk began 
 afresh. One after another, all the persons pres- 
 ent came up and paid their compliments to my 
 aunt, and, with very few exceptions, every face 
 was strange to me. Most of them asked her 
 who I was ; some shook hands with me, and 
 hoped I was a good little girl ; and one old 
 gentleman with white hair, looked at me atten- 
 tively when he heard my name, and said that I 
 was like my mother. 
 
 Presently the dinner was announced. Mr. 
 Farquhar gave his arm to my aunt ; the rest 
 followed, two and two ; and I found myself 
 conveyed with the stream, and seated beside 
 that same white-haired old gentleman, near the 
 bottom of a very long table covered with glass 
 and silver, glittering candelabra, and vases of 
 delicious flowers such as I had never seen in 
 winter-time before. 
 
 This meal was a stately solemnization, and, 
 like that of matrimony, ended (so far as I was 
 concerned) in amazement. Soup, fish, flesh, 
 fowl, game, sauces, and sweets, succeeded each 
 other in bewildering variety, and promised never 
 to come to an end. Being no great eater at any 
 time, and, like most children, averse to rich and 
 highly flavored dishes, I amused myself by 
 listening to the conversation that was going on 
 around me, and observing every thing and every 
 body in the room. There was Hugh Farquhar 
 at the head of the table, with my aunt at his 
 right hand and Tippoo standing stone-still be- 
 hind his chair. He looked, I fancied, somewhat 
 pale, and, though studiously courteous, was both 
 grave and silent. Perhaps, having been so long 
 a dweller in tents, he found these formalities 
 irksome. Perhaps he felt himself a stranger in 
 his own house and among his own guests, living 
 another life, thinking other thoughts, and con- 
 versant with other topics than theirs. At the 
 foot of the table where sat Sir John Crompton 
 (a stout, jovial, fox-hunting, country baronet, in 
 a blue coat with brass buttons and an expansive 
 white waistcoat) there was ten times more en- 
 joyment. Here the wine circulated more freely 
 and the talk went briskly on, and all were 
 neighbors and intimates. Captain Carter's blood 
 mare and the marriage of Miss Rowland, the 
 quality of Mr. Farquhar' s Moselle, and that sad 
 affair near Ipswich between the rural police and 
 the Tenth Lancers, formed the staple subjects of 
 their conversation. Meanwhile the ladies listened 
 and chimed'in ; and the younger people spoke 
 low, and flirted ; and the fat gentleman with 
 the bald head took two helpings of every thing ; 
 
 and the lady in the amber satin dress had the 
 gravy spilt in her lap, and was so cross that she 
 scarcely knew how to behave herself ; and the 
 clergyman at the opposite corner talked of 
 hunting and shooting, and drank more wine 
 than any other gentleman at the table. All this 
 I noticed, and much more beside. Nothing 
 escaped me — not even the new liveries on the 
 footmen, or the new furniture that decorated 
 the room, or the new paper on the walls — least 
 of all the lovely Poussin that hung just opposite 
 my seat, fresh as if newly dipped in the dews of 
 " incense-breathing morn," and opening a vista 
 into Arcadia. Having feasted my eyes on this 
 till they grew dim, and having listened with 
 delight to the pale-faced young man who made 
 puns, and having asked endless questions of 
 the kind old gentleman beside whom I had the 
 good luck to be seated, I came at last to the end 
 of my resources, and longed for liberty again. 
 I looked at my aunt, and wondered whether she 
 also was not tired of the dinner by this time ; 
 but she was talking to an elderly gentleman in 
 glasses, and evidently not only enjoying her 
 argument, but triumphantly getting the best of 
 it. I looked all round the table, and saw none 
 but smiling, flushed, and occupied faces. To 
 eat, drink, and be merry was the order of the 
 hour ; and, save in the countenance of the giver 
 of the feast, I could nowhere read any lack of 
 entertainment. He talked, it is true, but ab- 
 stractedly. Once he looked up and found my 
 eyes upon him, and so smiled, put his glass to 
 his lips and nodded to me gayly ; but that was 
 the only moment when he seemed genuinely 
 himself. And thus the dreary order of things 
 went on and on ; and what with the buzz and 
 hum of conversation, the clatter of knives and ' 
 glasses, the monotonous gliding to and fro of 
 attentive servants, and the amalgamation of 
 savory scents which rose like " a steam of rich 
 distilled perfumes" and hung over our heads as 
 an oppressive canopy, I became quite weary and 
 confused, and well-nigh dropped asleep. 
 
 At last Sir John Crompton proposed the health 
 of the " ladies " — for toasts were not yet gone 
 out of fashion — and after that my aunt and Lady 
 Crompton arose from table, and we all went out 
 in a rustling procession of silks and satins, and 
 left the gentlemen to their claret. By this time 
 it was nearly nine o'clock, and we could hear 
 the musicians in the long gallery tuning their 
 instruments and making ready for the ball that 
 was to follow. It was now duller than ever. 
 Some of the elder ladies gathered into little 
 knots, and chatted of their families, and their 
 friends. The younger lounged abCut, and 
 yawned over the engravings, or tried the tone of 
 the piano. My aunt sat bolt upright in a high- 
 backed chair, and had forty inflexible winks. 
 I stole over to a distant window, and looked out 
 at the snow which was falling fast again. Every 
 now and then, strangely discordant with the 
 white sepulchral calm of the scene without, 
 rose the peals of laughter, and the " three-times 
 three," of the revelers in the dining-room be- 
 low. By and by, a carriage with gleaming lamps 
 rose noiselessly past the window ; and then 
 another, and another, till the room began to fill 
 with fresh arrivals, and the gentlemen came up- 
 stairs. Then coffee was handed round ; and 
 card-tables were opened for those who chose to 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 83 
 
 play ; and the rest dropped away by twos and 
 twos, at the summons of the band-music, which 
 now rang merrily out across the broad vestibule, 
 and along the echoing staircases. My aunt sat 
 down to loo, and my white-haired friend to 
 whist. Nobody offered to take me into the ball- 
 room, and no one spoke to me ; so I kept by 
 the window and listened longingly, and felt 
 almost as lonely as I used to feel in my self- 
 chosen solitude up in the old garret of my Lon- 
 don home. A long, long time went by thus, 
 and still more guests kept coming — chiefly 
 young people, radiant in delicate gauzes and 
 flowers, and full of life and gayety. Some of the 
 girls were beautiful, and three or four of the 
 gentlemen wore military uniforms. How I 
 longed to see them dancing, and what a glitter- 
 ing scene I fancied that ball-room must be ! 
 At length the anguish of disappointment and 
 neglect quite overcame my fortitude,'^and I 
 leaned my forehead up against the window, and 
 let my tears flow silently. 
 
 "What, Barbara here, and all alone!" said 
 Hugh Farquhar's voice. *' Why are you not in 
 the ball-room, mignonne .^" 
 
 Ashamed to be found weeping, I pressed my 
 face closer to the glass, and made no answer. 
 He laid his hand upon my shoulder, and bent 
 down till I felt his breath upon my neck. 
 
 "Something is the matter, carina^'''' he said 
 gently. " Turn round and look at me, and tell 
 me what it is !" 
 
 I could not bear his touch, or the tenderness 
 of his voice ; but trembled all at once from head 
 to foot, and sobbed openly. In another instant 
 he had taken a chair beside mine, had drawn 
 me to his knee, folded his arms about me, and 
 kissed me twenty times. 
 
 " Hush, hush, Barbara mia .'" he murmured 
 soothingly — "hush, for my sake, my bright- 
 eyed Princess ! I see how it is — she was for- 
 gotten — left all alone here in this dull room, and 
 so grew sad and wanted company. Hush, no 
 more sobs, petite ! You shall come with me to 
 the housekeeper's parlor, and she shall wash 
 away those tears from your cheeks, and then we 
 will go into the ball-room together and have a 
 dance!" 
 
 " Dance !" I repeated in the midst of my 
 sorrow. " Shall /dance ?" 
 
 " To be sure you shall, and I will be your 
 partner ! Eccola ! I thought the sunshine 
 would soon come back again !" 
 
 With this he tooJ^ me out of the drawing- 
 room, and along a passage, and into a snug little 
 apartment where there was an old lady in black 
 silk filling out scores of cups of tea and coffee 
 to send up to the visitors. At a word from Mr. 
 Farquhar, this excellent old lady carried me off" 
 into an inner chamber, and there washed my 
 face, brushed hay hair, tied my sash afresh, and 
 made me quite smart and presentable. Then he 
 once more took my hand, and we went into the 
 ball-room together. 
 
 The ball-room was the portrait-gallery ; but 
 the portrait-gallery transformed— transfigured — 
 changed to fairy-land. It looked like a huge 
 bower. The old portraits smiled out from en- 
 vironments of myrtle and holly — the walls, 
 chandeliers, and music-gallery were festooned 
 with devices of evergreens, crysanthemums, 
 
 and winter heaths — there were colored lamps 
 and Chinese lanterns nestling in the leaves and 
 suspended along every pillar and cornice — the 
 orchestra was hung with flags of many nations ; 
 and at the upper end of the room, filling with 
 its single dignity nearly all the space of wall, 
 hung the Paul Veronese. Add to all this a 
 joyous crowd floating in couples through the 
 mazy circles of that dreamy waltz which has 
 disappeared of late years with all the poetry of 
 motion ; superadd the intoxicating music of a 
 military band ; and then conceive the breathless 
 delight with which I paused at the threshold, 
 hand in hand with the master of Broomhill, 
 and gazed on the scene before me ! 
 
 We had not been there an instant when a 
 couple of waltzers stoppt^d near us to rest. 
 
 "Fie, Mr. Farquhar!" said the lady, "you 
 engaged me for this dance, and, like a recreant 
 knight, failed to claim me when it began. What 
 apology have you to offer ?" 
 
 " One so insufficient that I shall throw myself 
 on your mercy. Lady Flora, and not even name 
 it," replied my companion. "My only con- 
 solation is in seeing that you have found a 
 partner better worth your acceptance." 
 
 The lady laughed and shook her head — she was 
 very lovely ; a dark beauty, rich complexioned 
 and haughty, like Tennyson's Cleopatra. 
 
 " That mock humility shall not serve you !" 
 said she. " I mean to be implacable." 
 
 " Nay, then, I have indeed no resource left 
 but exile or suicide ! Choose for me, since you 
 condemn me — shall it be arsenic or Algeria, 
 Patagonia or pistols ?" 
 
 "Neither. You shall expiate your sins on 
 the spot, by finishing the waltz with me." 
 
 Hugh Farquhar smiled, bowed low, and en- 
 circled her waist with his arm. 
 
 " For so fair a Purgatory who would not risk 
 perdition ?" said he, gallantly. 
 
 She laughed again, excused herself to her late 
 partner with a careless nod, rested one tiny hand 
 and an arm sparkling with jewels, on Mr. Far- 
 quhar's shoulder, and so they floated away to- 
 gether, and were lost in the maze of waltzers. 
 I sighed, and followed them with my eyes. The 
 gentleman with whom Lady Flora had been 
 dancing, saw that wistful glance, and took pity 
 on me. 
 
 " Too bad to leave you standing here alone, 
 little lady!" said he with some affectation, but 
 much Teal kindness. "Where would you like 
 to sit ? Near the music ?" 
 
 " Up yonder, by the Paul Veronese," I re- 
 plied eagerly. 
 
 "Don't know him," said my new friend with 
 a yawn ; " but if he's there we can find him. 
 What's his name ?" 
 
 I could not have kept from laughing to save 
 my life. 
 
 He stared and looked down upon me, and 
 twirled his mustachios with his thumb and fore- 
 finger. 
 
 " The Paul Veronese — the big picture," I ex- 
 pldned. " I should like to ait where I could see 
 it." 
 
 "Oh, the six-thousand pounder!" said he. 
 "Like to. sit and look at ihat^ eh? What an 
 original idea ! Come along !" 
 
 Saying which, he took my hand, piloted me 
 
34 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 in and out among the dancers, and placed me in 
 a vacant chair by a window, at the upper end of 
 the room. 
 
 " Will that do?" he asked. " Can you see it 
 well ? Are you comfortable ?" 
 " Oh, yes, thank you !" 
 " All right !" said he ; nodded languidly, and 
 sauntered away. 
 
 Left to myself now, I watched the waltzers 
 and looked out for the couple in which I was 
 most interested. They swept past me presently, 
 circling amid a number of others, and were gone 
 almost before I had time to recognize them. 
 Then the music ceased ; the dancers fell into 
 promenading order ; and I waited and watched 
 till they should again pass by. It was not long 
 before the stream brought them round a second 
 \ time. They were talking, and Hugh was bend- 
 * ing down and looking in heif face with such an 
 expression on his own as I had never seen there 
 before. ** 
 
 "I have had no motive to keep me here," I 
 heard him say, "and without ties all men are 
 Bohemians. If, however " 
 
 They went on, and I caught no more. Alas ! 
 I had heard enough, and, child as I was, that 
 unfinished phrase woke me to a sudden passion 
 of jealousy. I thought of his speaking eyes and 
 the tender earnestness of his voice — I remem- 
 bered the flushed smile with which she listened 
 and looked down — I compared her with the rest, 
 and saw that she was the loveliest in the room ! 
 Oh 1 a child's jealousy is as poignant, after its 
 kind, as man's, or woman's — perhaps more 
 poignant, because more unreasoning ! 
 
 They came round a third time, and paused 
 before the Paul Veronese. I was just near 
 enough to hear, and listened eagerly. 
 
 "It is well placed," said she, "but not well 
 hung. The light falls on it disadvantageously. 
 Why not let it lean more forward ? The effect 
 would be infinitely better." 
 
 "I think so, too," replied Mr. Farquhar. 
 " Would you like to see it done at once ? Noth- 
 ing could be easier." 
 
 "I shall be delighted." 
 
 "To delight you, Lady Flora," said he, "I 
 would move every picture in the house." 
 
 With this he stepped aside, and spoke to a 
 servant who was in waiting. The man left the 
 room, and presently returned, bearing a set of 
 library steps and followed by Tippoo. Some 
 few of the guests smiled and thought it odd; 
 but the greater number took no notice, and 
 kept on dancing merrily. 
 
 "Now I really hope this is not very trouble- 
 some — or very difficult," said Lady Flora, stand- 
 ing by and toying with her fan. 
 
 " Did I not say before that nothing could be 
 easier?" returned Hugh, "They have but to 
 let the cords out longer, and the thing is done. 
 Every inch added to the length of the cord, is 
 an inch added to the incline of the picture. 
 Gently, Tippoo — gently. Are those staples 
 • safe?" 
 
 "If it were to fall and get injured, I should 
 never forgive myself," said Lady Flora. 
 
 "Good Heavens! I never thought of that," 
 ejaculated he. " Stand aside — it would kill 
 you !" 
 
 She laughed carelessly, and stepped back. 
 
 "I was not thinking of myself," said she. 
 "But would it not be well to support it on this 
 side ?" 
 
 He nodded, was advancing to lend his aid, 
 had his hand uplifted, when a shrill, inarticulate 
 cry broke from the lips of the Hindoo, and the 
 whole mass surged forward, like a faUing house ! 
 
 A universal shriek of horror — a sudden rush 
 of feet — the closing up of an eager crowd and a 
 hubbub of frightened voices, is all that I re- 
 member for many moments. 
 
 " Dr. Topham !" cried some one. "Where 
 is Doctor Topham ?" 
 
 He was in the card-room. Before the words 
 were well nigh spoken, some half-dozen gentle- 
 men had flown to fetch him, and he, pale but 
 self-possessed, came running in. They opened to 
 let him pass, and closed after him directly, like 
 parted water. Sick, trembling, standing on my 
 chair, and yet scarce able to support myself, 
 I leaned against the wall, and watched the 
 crowd. I could see nothing of what was being 
 done — hear nothing, when all were speaking — 
 guess nothing, or dare to guess nothing, of what 
 might have happened ! 
 
 But I was not long kept in suspense. Pres- 
 ently the crowd swayed back and fell apart, and 
 from the midst of it issued — oh. Heaven! — the 
 inanimate body of Hugh Farquhar, pallid and 
 blood-stained, and borne by two of his servants ! 
 
 They carried him out, slowly and carefully, 
 with Dr. Topham walking beside them. Then 
 a dead silence fell on all the room — faces, lights, 
 walls and ceiling seemed to rock to and fro be- 
 fore my eyes — a confused sound, as of many 
 waters, came rushing to my ears, and I fell with- 
 out the power to save myself. 
 
 I was lying in the same spot, partly hidden 
 by the window-curtains, when I recovered con- 
 sciousness. No one had heard me fall, and in the 
 general trouble no one had noticed me. Feel- 
 ing very cold and faint, I sat up, rested my 
 heavy head against the wall, and recalled the 
 accident that had just happened. Was he dead ? 
 Or dying ? Or only badly hurt ? I dreaded to 
 ask, and yet I felt that I must know ; so I got, 
 somehow, to my feet, and made my way over 
 to a couple of gentlemen who were talking soft- 
 ly together in the embrasure of the nearest 
 window. The elder of the two looked kind and 
 serious. I plucked him by the sleeve to attract 
 his attention, 
 
 *' " Oh, sir, if you please," I faltered imploring- 
 ly, " is — is he dead ?" 
 
 He looked at my very gravely, and shook his 
 head, 
 
 " No, my dear," he said, " Mr, Farquhar is not 
 dead ; but " 
 
 "But what ?" I implied rather than said, for 
 my lips moved, though my voice died away, 
 
 " But we fear he is seriously injured. The 
 picture knocked him down, and the frame came 
 against the side of his head — in which case " 
 
 " In which case there is probably a fracture ; 
 and brain-fever, or something worse, may ensue," 
 said the other gentleman, shrugging his shoulders. 
 " Tush ! we are here to-day, my dear fellow, and 
 gone to-morrow — gone to-morrow ! What a vile 
 night for one's horses ! I believe 'tis snowing 
 again !" 
 
 With this they looked out of the window, and 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 85 
 
 I, sick at heart and trembling still from head to 
 foot, crept away into a far corner and sat down 
 in dumb despair. 
 
 One by one, the groups of whispering guests 
 broke up and dispersed. One by one, the car- 
 riages drove noiselessly away through the falling 
 snow. The musicians lingered awhile ; then 
 gathered up their music and their instruments, 
 and departed likewise. At length only three or 
 four stragglers remained, and when these were 
 gone, a silence and solitude as of death fell upon 
 the place. 
 
 Crouching all alone upon a form,*I closed my 
 eyes on the empty room and wondered wearily 
 where ray aunt could be. Now and then I heard 
 the shutting of a distant door, and so held my 
 breath and listened eagerly. Once I saw a serv- 
 ant flit through the hall ; but he was gone in an 
 instant, and never even glanced in to see wjiether 
 any guest remained. Then the wax-lights in the 
 sconces guttered and flickered, and went out 
 here and there amid the fading flowers ; and by 
 and by, what with cold, fatigue, and weariness 
 of spirit, I was fain to stretch myself along the 
 comfortless form, pillow my flushed cheek on 
 my arm, and fall asleep. 
 
 It was on uneasy slumber, and pervaded by a 
 feverish sense of trouble. Was it a dream ? — 
 or did I wake once for a moment, to find myself 
 being carried up a dimly lighted staircase, with 
 Tippoo's olive face bent close to mine ? 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE CRISIS. 
 " Grief makes one hour ten."— Shakspeare. 
 
 Hugh Farqdhar was indeed very ill, and it 
 continued doubtful for many days whether he 
 would live or die. To the torpid insensibility 
 which weighed upon him for long hours after 
 his fall, succeeded a burning fever accompanied 
 by delirium. In this state he remained, with 
 intervals of restless sleep or outworn exhaustion, 
 for nearly a fortnight, during which time Dr. 
 Topham staid in permanent attendance at Broom- 
 hill, and my aunt went daily. Now that the 
 time of trial was come, she proved, indeed, 
 that if she could be a good hater, she could also 
 be a good friend and true. On the third day, a 
 famous physician came down from London — a 
 .very stout and pompous gentleman, who saw the 
 patient for about ten miimtes ; offered no par- 
 ticular opinion one way or the other ; dined enor- 
 mously ; drank two bottles of old port ; slept in 
 the best bedroom ; and went off next morning 
 by the early coach, with a fee of fifty guineas in 
 his pocket and an air of the utmost condescen- 
 sion and unconcern. 
 
 Oh, the weary days, how slowly they lagged 
 by ! From the morning after the Ball, when I 
 awoke with that strange sense of unexplained 
 trouble at my heart, up to the time when Hugh 
 Farquhar's illness came to a decided issue, 
 seemed like the interval, not of days, but of 
 months. My recollection of it is confused, like 
 that of a dream, or chain of dreams dreamt long 
 ago. Having slept at Broomhill on the night of 
 the accident, I was sent home the next morn- 
 ing to Stoneycroft Hall, and there left alone till 
 evening, when my aunt came home. The 
 
 sight of my white face and swollen eyelids, and 
 the housemaid's story of how I had lain moan- 
 ing on the rug before the fire, eating nothing all 
 the day and refusing to be comforted, opened 
 Mrs. Sandyshaft's eyes to the danger of leaving 
 me alone. She decided, therefore, to take me 
 with her for the future ; and by ten o'clock the 
 next morning, we were both at Broomhill, There 
 we remained till the carriage came for us at 
 four ; and so on for every succeeding day while 
 he lay ill. 
 
 Not being allowed to enter his room, I passed 
 away the hours as best I could. To linger aim- 
 lessly about the gardens, unconscious of the cold 
 — to wander through the wintry park, watching 
 the silent fading of the snow and wondering 
 vaguely how it would be with him when all was 
 melted and gone — to stand by the half-hour to- 
 gether looking up to the windows of his sick- 
 room, and trembling if a hand but stirred the 
 blind — to steal up when none were looking, and 
 crouch down silently upon the mat at his cham- 
 ber-door, listening and alert, like a faithful dog 
 — to make my way fearlessly albng the upper 
 floors where the sheeted furniture stood ghost- 
 like in dark corners, and so penetrate to the lit- 
 tle room in the ivied tower where the books 
 that he had last been reading were yet left piled 
 upon the table, and his pipe lay beside his vacant 
 chair, curled round like a green and golden 
 snake laid asleep by the Charmer — to hope, till 
 hope itself became agony — to despair, till despair 
 became intolerable and tears brought something 
 like relief— to count the ticking of the great 
 clock on the stairs, or -the drops that fell from 
 the thawing snow in the fantastic gargoyles by 
 the casement — to lie in wait for those who came 
 out from his chamber, and entreat for tidings, 
 though all tidings were but a reiteration of the 
 same doubts and fears — to wake every morning, 
 and fall asleep every night, sad and sick at 
 heart — this was my life, and this was how I loved 
 him! 
 
 Those who had been his guests that fatal night 
 sent frequently at this time to inquire for him, 
 and Lady Bayham and Lady Flora came more 
 frequently than any. They passed me once as I 
 was wandering along the leafless avenue, and I 
 turned aside at the sight of that beautiful dark 
 face, and shrank from looking on it. Was she 
 not the cause of all this evil, and had not I, ac- 
 cording to my childish logic, the right to bate 
 her? 
 
 At length there came a day — I think it was 
 the twelfth or thirteenth — when Hugh, having 
 been worse than ever all the previous night, fell 
 into a deep sleep that endured for hours. Dr. 
 Topham said the crisis was come, and we all 
 knew that he would waken by and by to life or 
 death. The long morning and the brief after- 
 noon passed thus. Then the early dusk came 
 on ; and still my aunt sat motionless beside his 
 bed, and still the servants crept noiselessly 
 about with slippered feet, and voices bated to 
 a whisper. The carriage came for us at four, as 
 usual, and went back empty. Visitors were 
 stopped at the courtyard-gate, and not suffered 
 to approach. The striking weight was taken off 
 the great clock on the stairs. It might, indeed, 
 have been an enchanted palace now, and all the 
 living creatures in it phantoms ! 
 
 The dusk thickened and became dark, and 
 
36 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 there was yet no change. Unable to watch 
 there longer without rest or refreshment, my 
 aunt stole cautiously away, and the nurse and 
 doctor remained with the sleeper. She came 
 down to the housekeeper's parlor and placed 
 herself silently at table. She looked paler and 
 sterner than usual, and took no notice of my 
 presence. Something in her face awed me, and 
 I said nothing. She poured out a glass of wine 
 and drank it, with her elbow resting on the table. 
 Then she helped herself to meat. As she did 
 this, I saw that her hands trembled. Presently 
 she pushed the plate away, and drew her chair 
 to the fire. 
 
 "I can't do it, Bab," said she. " I can't do 
 it. The food seems to choke me." 
 
 I crept over to her feet, and rested my head 
 against her knees. The sympathy of a mutual 
 grief was between us, and not another word was 
 spoken. She laid her hand upon my hair, and 
 left it there. By and by the hand slipped off", 
 and I knew by her breathing that she slept. 
 Some time went by thus — perhaps three quarters 
 of an hour — duriag which I watched the red 
 caverns in the fire, and dared not move for fear 
 of waking her. Once a coal fell, and she 
 moaned uneasily; and, after that, the French 
 clock on 'the sideboard struck the hour. But 
 she slept through it, and scarcely seemed to 
 dream. All at once there came a footstep along 
 the passage, and a hand upon the handle of the 
 door. I started to my feet ; but it was too late 
 — my aunt was already aroused, and Dr. Top- 
 ham was in the room. 
 
 " The danger is past," said he, breathlessly. 
 " He is awake— he has asked for you — the deli- 
 rium is gone — he will live !" 
 • •' Whereupon my aunt rose up, sat down again, 
 covered her eyes with her hand, and, after a 
 moment's pause, said very softly and distinctly : 
 
 "Thank God!" 
 
 As for me, I burst into a passion of tears, 
 and thought my heart would break for very 
 
 joy! 
 
 — ♦ — 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CONTALE SCEN C E. 
 
 Here is a pleasant room overlooking a gar- 
 den. The ceiling is lofty, and the cornice shows 
 traces of faded gilding. "Where the walls are 
 not covered with pictures, they are lined with 
 serious-looking books in suits of sober calf and 
 classic Russia. Above the mantlepiece hangs 
 an oval portrait of a dark-eyed lady, with her 
 hair in powder. The likeness of a gentleman in a 
 peruke and ruffles is suspended over the door. 
 A small old-fashioned harpsichord stands in one 
 corner, laden with rococo dragons in porcelain, 
 and nicknacks in' ivory and Japan. A huge 
 screen of gilded leather, vaguely representative 
 of Chinese life and manners, reaches across the 
 ) lower end of the room. A cheerful fire burns 
 .' in the grate, and the black cat on the rug en- 
 joys it sleepily. So does the gentleman on the 
 sofa close by, as he lies with half-closed eyes, 
 forgetting the newspaper which fell, just now, 
 neglected from his hand, and the orange, ready- 
 peeled, which waits on the table beside him. 
 Without, the sun shines brightly ; but here it is 
 deliciously subdued, save where one long sun- 
 
 beam slants between the crimson curtains and 
 the green Venetians, and falls straight on the 
 bended head of a little girl, who is half-sitting, 
 half-lying, in the middle of the floor, surround- 
 ed by a wilderness of sketches. That languid 
 invalid is Hugh Farquhar ; that busy little girl, 
 myself. 
 
 Alas ! he is but the wreck of his old self, and 
 sadly changed. The bronzing of many climates 
 has all faded, and left a waxen pallor in its 
 place. His cheeks are sunken ; his eyes look 
 unnaturally large ; and there are deep hollows 
 about his temples, where the veins show like 
 thunderbolts. His beard, too, has grown long- 
 er ; and his hands look whiter than a lady's, 
 and feebler than a child's. The contrast, alto- 
 gether, between his strength of make and his 
 physical weakness is painfully apparent. The 
 framework is there, but the framework only ; 
 gaunt, and ruined, and waste — mere bones, 
 and flaccid muscle — a Hercules shorn of his 
 strength. Looking up at him presently and con- 
 sidering these things, I see that his eyes are now 
 quite closed, and that he has fallen into a placid , 
 sleep. Let him rest. I will pore silently and 
 contentedly over the drawings, till he wakes — 
 are they not all the work of his dear hands ? 
 
 Italian skies and clusters of dark pines ; 
 scraps of desert-scenery with processions of 
 camels trampling their distorted shadows under- 
 foot ; glimpses of Algerian cactus-woods, and 
 strange curves of Indian rivers where the jun- 
 gle grows down to the water's edge — here were 
 all these and more, fantastic as, the changes of 
 a dream 1 
 
 At length I came upon a sketch that waked 
 my curiosity, and set me thinking. It was a ' 
 snow scene among Alpine peaks, with a group 
 of figures on a ledge of rock beneath an over- 
 hanging precipice. One man lay stretched on 
 the snow, and three others, clad in rough sheep- 
 skins, stood round him, leaning on their lance- 
 like poles. The wandering mists floated below 
 their feet, and the everlasting summits rose 
 above and around them. Who were they? 
 Where were they ? What catastrophe was this ? 
 Was he dead ? What had killed him ; or who ? 
 
 "Why so earnest, signorina?" asked Hugh, 
 waking presently. " Which drawing is that V 
 
 I turned it toward him, and the smile died 
 off his lips. 
 
 " Ah," said he, " that's a sad souvenir, 
 petite ! Put it away." 
 
 I laid it aside, and stole over to the footstool 
 by the couch. It was always my place now. 
 
 " I knew it was a true picture, Hugh," said I, 
 coaxingly. " Tell me about it." 
 
 He closed his eyes, as if on some painful 
 sight, and shook his head languidly. 
 
 " Cut bono ? 'Twould make you melancholy," 
 replied he. 
 
 " I like to be melancholy sometimes, Hugh." 
 
 "Nay then, mignonne, so do I ! 'Tis a dainty 
 liking, and we share it with the poets. Sure it 
 must be Beaumont who says : 
 
 ' There's naught in life so sweet, 
 Were men but wise to see't, 
 
 But only Melancholy ; 
 Oh, sweetest Melancholy ! ' 
 
 Heigho ! Barbara, you are a strange little girl, 
 and I find myself talking to you as if you were 
 a woman of forty ! Show me the picture." 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 37 
 
 I brought it to him, and he looked at it for 
 some seconds without speaking — then drew his 
 finger along a little pathway which seemed as if 
 trampled through the snow. 
 
 " This ledge of rock," he said, " stands four 
 thousand feet above the valley, and the valley 
 lies down yonder. That narrow track leads to a 
 mountain village called Grieux, many hundred 
 feet lower. There it is green and sheltered ; 
 but up here the snow often falls, even in sum- 
 mer. These people are Tyroleans. I knew 
 them well, and lodged in their cottage for many 
 months ; fishing and sketching, and chamois- 
 hunting every day. Francois was always my 
 guide and fellow-sportsman." 
 
 " Which is Fran9ois?" I asked, eagerly. 
 
 He pointed to the prostrate figure, and then, 
 in an altered tone, went on ; 
 
 " That man with the white beard is old Loi- 
 zet, the father of these three. Frangois'^as his 
 favorite son. The other two, Jean and Jacques, 
 were good lads enough ; but Frangois was a fine 
 intelligent fellow, brave as a lion, and so ten- 
 der-hearted that I have known him bring home 
 a wounded bird, and tend it in his own cham- 
 ber till it could fly again. One day, when he 
 an^d I were out, ' I brought down a chamois 
 that stood poised on a solitary peak overhead. 
 It fell, and, falling, became entangled in a 
 clump of bushes, half-way down the precipice. 
 Nothing would serve Fran9ois but he must go 
 and fetch it. To do this, he was forced to make a 
 circuit of more than a mile, and when h6 was 
 gone I took out my book, leaned against a rock, 
 and sketched this scene. By and by, I saw him 
 on the'peak. I waved my hat to him ; and he 
 began clambering down, agile as a monkey. On 
 he came, a step at a time, lower, lower, lower, 
 till within a foot or so of the chamois ! Then 
 he grasped the upper branches of the bush with 
 one hand, planted his foot on a projecting stone, 
 stooped, uttered a wild cry, and — I did not 
 see him fall, Barbara. I saw the rotten branch 
 give way and all his body sway forward — and 
 I closed my eyes in horror, and listened .'" 
 
 " Listened !" I repeated, in a low, awe-struck 
 tone. " What did you hear, Hugh ?" 
 
 " I heard a dull sound, as of something re- 
 bounding from ledge to ledge. When I looked 
 up again he lay there, as you see him in the 
 picture, dead — dead, within a few yards of my 
 feet !" 
 
 I covered my eyes with my hands, and shud- 
 dered. 
 
 " What did you do then ?" I asked, "after a 
 long pause. 
 
 " I went down, somehow, like one half-asleep, 
 and found the old man cleaning his gun before his 
 cottage-door. I can not remember what I said. I 
 only know that we went up the mountain to- 
 gether, Loizet, Jean, Jacques, and I, and that it 
 was ,sunset when we reached the fatal spot. 
 Then we bound our Alpine staves together, and 
 bore the corpse down into the village. That 
 was three or four years ago, Barbara ; and his 
 grave was quite green when I saw it last." 
 
 As he spoke these words, his voice sank almost 
 to a whisper, and he laid his head back wearily. 
 I sat still, thinking of the story I had heard, and 
 wondering why and when he added the figures to 
 the sketch. After a few moments, he came to it 
 of his own accord, and said — 
 
 " The scene of that accident haunted me, Bar- 
 bara, for months. I had it always before my 
 eyes, and I dreamt of it nearly every night ; so 
 one day I took out my sketch and put all the fig- 
 ures in, as you see them. I thought it might take 
 away something of the vividness of the impres- 
 sion — transfer it, in fact, from my brain to the 
 paper. And it did. I thought less and less of 
 it from that time, and at last it faded altogether. 
 Now hide the picture away. I had rather not 
 see it again." 
 
 I obeyed; gathered all the drawings into a 
 folio ; and , crept back to my old place. To 
 crouch there by the hour together, with no other 
 occupation than now and then to fetch his med- 
 icine, or find the book he wished for, or peel his 
 oranges, made me the happiest of creatures ! 
 Hugh had now resumed his paper, and we were 
 silent for a long time. Presently the door 
 opened, and Tippoo came in, with two cards on a 
 salver. 
 
 " Lady Bayham and Lady Flora Percivale are 
 at the door, Sahib," he said. " They wish to 
 know if you are yet able to receive visitors." 
 
 Hugh looked at the cards, hesitated, and seem- 
 ed as if he knew not how to answer. 
 
 " I had not intended to see any one," said he, 
 " till I could get down to the rooms below." 
 
 " I can say that the Sahib has not yet left his 
 chamber," said Tippoo, moving away. Hugh 
 stopped him with a gesture. 
 
 " No, no," he exclaimed. " Tell them I re- 
 gret — no, that I hope — Pshaw! that won't 
 do — and they have called so often, too. 
 Wheel the easy-chair round to the fire, and put 
 that medicine out of sight, and say that if they 
 do not mind an extra flight of stairs, Mr. Far- 
 quhar will have the honor of receiving them ! 
 ' Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean,' — 
 come, Barbara, I am not going to be found on 
 the sofa, anyhow !" 
 
 To help him across the room and put the 
 table in order, was the work of a moment. As 
 the ladies were announced, he steadied himself 
 by the arm of the chair, and rose to welcome 
 them. 
 
 I recognized Lady Bayham immediately. She 
 had been one of the guests at the dinner-party, 
 and even there, in the presence of many younger 
 women, I was struck by her exceeding loveliness. 
 Dark, queenly, rich-complexioned,like her daugh- 
 ter, she had probably been even more beautiful 
 than Lady Flora at Lady Flora's age. Standing 
 thus, side by side, it would have been difficult, 
 even now, to say which was the most fascinating. 
 
 " Alas, Mr. Farquhar," said Lady Flora, when 
 the first greetings were spoken, *' I have never 
 forgiven myself— never forgotten that I was the 
 unhappy cause of all your sufiering !" 
 
 " You ought never to have blamed yourself," 
 replied Hugh, smilingly. " The fault, if fault 
 there were, was mine only. Since, however, it 
 has procured me the pleasure of this visit, I will 
 not be so ungrateful as to regret even your re- 
 morse. You are very good to come up all these 
 stairs to see me." 
 
 *' It is a cheerful room for an invalid," said 
 Lady Bayham looking round observantly, " and 
 has a quaint old-fashioned aspect, as if you had 
 stolen it out of Kensington Palace, or furnished 
 it after an interior by Hogarth." 
 
 " As a question of date, Lady Bayham," said 
 
38 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 Hugh, *' your discrimination is perfect. This 
 room was my grandfather's ' closet,' and he still 
 occupies it in effigy. Yonder hangs his portrait. 
 All that you see here was of his purchasing. 
 He was a disciple of Horace "Walpole and Beck- 
 ford — a lover of ugly china, and a worshiper 
 of idols. These were his favorite authors ; 
 some few old Romans, but mostly his cotempo- 
 raries — Sterne, Fielding, Richardson, Thom- 
 son, and so forth. The room is fairly illustrative 
 of the taste of that time. It became, after his 
 death, my father's own peculiar den, and — " 
 
 " And is now yours," interrupted Lady Flora. 
 " Are you an idol-worshiper, also ?" 
 
 Hugh shook his head, and smiled. 
 
 " We all have our fetishes," he said ; " but I 
 believe that mine are few. Old china, at all 
 events, is not one of them." 
 
 " I wish I knew them, few as they are," said 
 Lady Flora, musingly ; " but I see nothing here 
 which might serve to indicate them." 
 
 " If you would discover my tastes, yoii must 
 first discover my sanctum,'''' said Hugh, " and that. 
 Lady Flora, lies beyond your ken." 
 
 "Ah, you have a sanctum also ?" 
 
 " The holiest of holies." 
 
 *' Where Hes it ?" 
 
 " That is a secret known only to Tippoo and 
 myself" 
 
 " A blue closet ! Oh, delightful ! We will 
 go in search of it, while you are too ill to pre- 
 vent us." 
 
 " Inutile ! This old house is a wilderness, full 
 of dark corners, subtle staircases, and ' passages 
 that lead to nothing.' You would only get lost, 
 like Ginevra." 
 
 " That you might discover my skeleton, fifty 
 years to come, and put it in a glass case for the 
 world to wonder at ! Mr. Farquhar, you are an 
 agreeable prophet." 
 
 " Nay, the conclusion is your own." 
 
 " Allons, Sieur de Broomhill ! do you defy me 
 to discover your retreat ?" 
 
 *' Heaven forbid ! I beheve that you would 
 then leave no stone unturned, and no door un- 
 tried until you had succeeded ! I have too much 
 respect for my own peace of mind ever to cast 
 my gauntlet at a lady." 
 
 " Mr. Farquhar is a wise soldier," said Lady 
 Bayham, with a languid smile, " and knows dis- 
 cretion to be the better part of valor. That 
 is a charming head over the mantlepiece, 
 and painted, if I mistake not, by Sir Thomas 
 Lawrence." 
 
 " You are right, madam," replied Hugh, " Sir 
 Thomas Lawrence's brush, and none other." 
 
 " Indeed, an exquisite head. What a touch ! 
 what coloring !" 
 
 " And what a subject ! Really, mamma, you 
 might spare some of your admiration for the 
 nature on which this art has been bestowed. I 
 never saw a more bewitching expression, or 
 more speaking eyes ! Who was this lady, Mr. 
 Farquhar ?" 
 
 " That lady," said Hugh seriously, " was my 
 mother." 
 
 Both visitors uttered an exclamation, and rose 
 to examine it more nearly. 
 
 " I have seen Mrs. Farquhar many times/' said 
 Lady Bayham, after a brief silence ; " but she 
 was older than this, and much altered. She 
 had bad health, I believe, for some years before 
 she died ?" 
 
 Hugh bent his head, and looked pained. 
 
 *' Powder, too, was quite gone out before I 
 married, and it was not till I came down here 
 with my husband that I ever met your mother. 
 Fashion, Mr. Farquhar — fashion, and a few 
 years more or less, make all the difierence to 
 our sex !" 
 
 At any other time, and Apropos of any other 
 topic, Hugh would probably have made the 
 polite speech which her ladyship expected ; but 
 he contented himself with another bow, and 
 silence. Lady Flora bit her handsome lip, and 
 flashed a warning glance at her mother ; but it 
 was of no use. Her ladyship was obtuse, and 
 went on scrutinizing the picture through her 
 eyeglass. 
 
 " The eyes, Mr. Farquhar, are hke yours," 
 she said. " The eyes and chin — but I see no 
 other resemblance. She was more like you 
 when older. You must have been young when 
 she died. I should think you hardly remember 
 her ?" 
 
 " I remember her, madam," said Hugh, with 
 a mixed grief and impatience in his voice, 
 " more distinctly than I remember the events 
 and people of a year ago. So distinctly that 
 the subject is inexpressibly painful to me. Lady 
 Flora, you have traveled, I think, in Italy — 
 these sketches may, perhaps, interest you. Bar- 
 bara mm, place the folio on the table." 
 
 I obeyed, and her ladyship, looking at me for 
 the first time, asked who I was. He drew me 
 fondly to his side, and kissed me on the fore- 
 head before replying. 
 
 " Her name is Barbara," said he, keeping his 
 arm round me. " Barbara Churchill ; and a 
 very formidable little damsel she is. Descended 
 from no less a person than the great Duke of 
 Marlborough, and mighty proud of it, also !" 
 
 Lady Flora smiled, raised her eyebrows, said 
 "Ah, in-deed !" and became absorbed in the 
 folio. Hugh, however, went on, without seem- 
 ing to care whether she was interested or not. 
 
 " It was to this little girl," said he, " that I 
 first showed my Paul Veronese — nay, more, it 
 was to please her that I first had the packing- 
 case opened in which it came from Venice. She 
 is a great connoisseur, Lady Flora ; a reader of 
 parliamentary debates ; a player of whist, piquet, 
 and ecarte ; and, besides all this, my most es- 
 pecial friend, nurse, playmate, and companion. 
 Upon my honor, I don't knew what I should do 
 without her. She has been my right hand ever 
 since my illness — ay, and my left, too, for that 
 matter 1" 
 
 Lady Flora looked up at this and expressed 
 herself " immensely interested," while Lady 
 Bayham honored me with such a long, cool, 
 supercilious stare, that I felt myself grow red 
 and hot, and knew not where to look. 
 
 "If your hatreds be as determined as your 
 friendships are enthusiastic, Mr. Farquhar," 
 said she, " I should be sorry to offend you. Is 
 '^oViV protegee a paragon ?" 
 
 He turned and took me by the hand. 
 
 " There is but one Barbara," said he gayly, 
 " and Hugh Farquhar is her Trumpeter ! Lady 
 Flora, that sketch of an Italian vintage was 
 done near Naples, where the famous Lagrima 
 Christi is grown — a wine of which travelers 
 talk more than they taste ; for very little is 
 made, even in the most favorable seasons. 
 Mignonne, run down to Mrs. Fairhead for me, 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 39 
 
 and desire her to send up a bottle of ths«t old 
 Lagrima with the yellow seal — nay, I will take 
 no refusal, fair guest. Duly to appreciate my 
 sketch, you must drink of the vintage which in- 
 spired it. 'Tis but an illustration of an illus- 
 tration !" 
 
 Delighted to escape, I hastened from the 
 room and bounded down the stairs. At the 
 foot of the second flight, I came face to face 
 with my aunt, who, with the privileged free- 
 dom of an intimate, was going up unannounced. 
 
 " Well, Bab," said she, " I've come to fetch 
 you home. How is he ?" 
 
 " Lady Bayham is there," said I, " and Lady 
 Flora." 
 
 " Lady Bayh&m and Lady Flora !" echoed my 
 aunt, sharply. " Mercy on us ! the man's hardly 
 saved from his grave yet, and they're here, hus- 
 band-hunting, already ! / won't go up. * They're 
 none of my sort — a poor, proud, pret^tious, 
 scheming lot, without even ancestors to fall 
 back upon ! If he marries that woman, I'll 
 never forgive him." 
 
 " Marries her !" I repeated, with a strange 
 sinking at my heart. 
 
 " Gracious goodness !" continued my aunt, 
 working herself up and getting very angry in- 
 deed, " she's thirty, if she's a day, and has been 
 on hand these thirteen years, in spite of her fine 
 eyes and her flirtations ! I knew what they 
 were after, sending, and calling, and leaving 
 their trumpery coroneted cards every day ! 
 She hasn't a farthing, either — not a farthing. 
 Bayham's over head and ears in debt — every 
 acre mortgaged, and every tree ! Aha, Lady 
 Flora ! Broomhill would suit your ladyship 
 pretty well, even though it belongs to a com- 
 moner. There was a time, too, when you 
 wouldn't look at a commoner! Pshaw, Bab, 
 I've no patience with them. Let's go home, 
 child." 
 
 " You won't go away without seeing Hugh !" I 
 exclaimed, almogt ready to cry. 
 
 " Why not ? He has his grand friends with 
 him." 
 
 " But he'd rather see you than all the grand 
 friends in the world !" 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that," said my aunt; 
 mollified, but unwilling to seem so. 
 
 At this moment, his bell was rung impa- 
 tiently. I had forgotten all about the La- 
 grima Christi ! To fly past my aunt without 
 a word of explanation, fulfill my errand, and 
 run back again, panting and breathless, was the 
 work of a few seconds. But I had remembered 
 it too late. Before the last vibrations of the 
 bell had died away, I heard the rustling of their 
 silks on the stairs ; and, looking up, saw them 
 already coming down. My aunt muttered some- 
 thing which was certainly no compliment, and 
 turned away abruptly. I, taken by surprise, 
 stepped aside, and knew not whether to go or 
 stay. Lady Bayham swept by, dignified and 
 unconscious ; but Lady Flora paused and gra- 
 ciously extended the tips of her fingers. 
 
 " Good-by, little girl," said she. *' What is 
 you old-fashioned name ? Tabitha — Dorothea — 
 Pamela ?" 
 
 "Neither," I replied coldly. "I am called 
 Barbara." 
 
 " Ah, true — Barbara. Well, good-by, Bar- 
 bara. When Mr. Farquhar is better, he shall 
 
 bring you some day to Ashley Park, to see 
 me." 
 
 And with this she nodded and passed on, not 
 without a prolonged stare at my aunt, who was, 
 apparently, intent upon a painting at the further 
 end of the corridor. No sooner were they gone 
 than Mrs. Sandyshaft came striding back, very 
 red and excited. 
 
 "I like that!" said she. "Mr. Farquhar 
 ' shall ' bring you — she answers for him al- 
 ready, hey ? You shan't go, Bab. I'll not hear 
 of it — I'll not allow it. An artful designing 
 flirt ! If I had my will, she should never enter 
 these doors again. I repeat it, if he marries 
 that woman I'll never forgive him !" 
 
 Whereupon, being very indignant, my aunt 
 took three or four turns along the corridor to 
 cool herself, and then went up two stairs at a 
 time. As for me, sorrowful and unsettled, I 
 wandered about below, wondering if Hugh 
 would really marry Lady Flora some day, and 
 thinking how sad a change it would make for 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 THE SILVER RING. 
 
 Hugh Farquhar was a long time getting 
 well. Struck down when the snow lay on the 
 ground, he was not able to mount his horse 
 again till the primroses lay clustered at the roots 
 of the old oaks in the woods. His first ride was 
 to Stoneycroft Hall — his second to Ashley Park. 
 It seemed natural to conclude, since his health 
 was so far reestablished, that our intercourse 
 would be firmer, more frequent, more intimate 
 than ever. It was now his turn to repay my 
 aunt's long kindness — to drop in, as of old — to 
 chat and squabble, and play piquet of an even- 
 ing, and renew, with interest, all the pleasant 
 meetings of long ago. And yet, from this time, 
 we saw less of him. He was no longer a stranger 
 in the county ; and we were not, as formerly, his 
 only friends. Now that he was better, visitors and 
 invitations poured in upon him; and, though 
 he cared little for society, he loved sport too 
 well to decline the last hunting parties of the 
 season. Still this was not all. A certain imeasy 
 sense of change came over the spirit of our inter- 
 course. Something of the old genial feeling 
 was gone, and things were no longer quite the 
 same. I believe, after all, that it was Mrs. San- 
 dyshaft's own fault, and that from first to last 
 she had but herself to blame. She had made up 
 her mind that he should not like Lady Flora too 
 well ; and she could not, for her life, forbear to 
 taunt him with the pride, poverty, and matri- 
 monial designs of the Bayham family. She 
 could scarcely have done any thing more injudi- 
 cious. He liked these people tolerably well, 
 visited somewhat frequently at Ashley Park, 
 and was received there as a welcome guest. 
 What was it to him if Lord Bayham were in debt ? 
 His dinners were none the less pleasant, and his 
 port tasted none the worse. Lady Flora might 
 be thirty and a flirt ; but she amused him, and 
 he could enjoy her society without incurring the 
 peine forte et dure of either courtship or matri- 
 mony. When first attacked by my aunt's petu- 
 lant sarcasms, he laughed, and parried them. 
 When he found them persistently leveled at 
 
40 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 himself, he grew weary. By and by, seeing the 
 same thing persevered in, he became impatient. 
 Thus it happened that bitter tilings were some- 
 times said ; that argument too often approached 
 the confines of disagreement ; and the old times 
 never came back. 
 
 I missed him — oh, how I missed him ! Lat- 
 terly, as he was recovering from -his illness, 
 Broomhill had become almost another home to 
 me ! I was there nearly every day. I knew 
 where to find his favorite books ; how to fill 
 his pipe ; which flowers he liked best ; when to 
 be silent ; and when to talk to him. Sometimes 
 I almost wished that he could remain thus for- 
 ever, that I might forever wait on him. Now, 
 however, my occupation was gone, and I found 
 myself forgotten. Let it not be thought that I 
 blame him for it, I was but a childish hand- 
 maiden, and held but a childish claim upon him.^ 
 He had all my heart, and gave me for it a kind 
 word now and then ; a stray caress ; a passing 
 thought when he had nothing else to think of. 
 To him I was something less than a pastime — 
 to me he was something more than my life. 
 What wonder, then, that I grew pale and thin, 
 and drooped like a neglected plant ? 
 
 " Bab, you don't walk enough," said my aunt 
 one warm spring morning. " You've lost all 
 your color, and you eat next to nothing. This 
 won't do. Put on your bonnet, and lay in a 
 Stock of oxygen directly," 
 
 I obeyed, and took the path to the woods. 
 To reach them, I passed first through a large 
 field where a single plowman was driving fra- 
 grant furrows in the rich red earth, and then 
 through a hop-garden, gaunt with poles, around 
 which the young plants were just twining their 
 first tendrils. Then over a high stile, and into 
 the shade of the woods. 
 
 What words of mine shall describe the peace- 
 ful beauty of the place that day ? The sky was 
 gray and low, and there was a soft air abroad, 
 heavy with gathered odors of May-blossom and 
 wild hyacinths. The close young leaves made 
 a sylvan roof above, and steeped every vista in 
 a green and dreamy gloom. The birds sang to 
 distraction in the uppermost boughs. The 
 clouds met every now and then, and melted into 
 a warm and gentle shower. In some places the 
 ground was all golden with primroses, and in 
 others the banks were so blue with hyacinths 
 that no artist dared to paint them. By and by, 
 I came to an open space carpeted with springy 
 turf, in the midst of which stood a gamekeeper's 
 cottage and a group of hiorse-chestnuts covered 
 with white blossoms. Here a bloodhound sprang 
 out of his kennel, straining to the full length of 
 his chain, and barking at me till I turned aside 
 into the close paths again, and wandered out of 
 sight. Now I chanced upon a spot where the 
 woodcutters had lately been at work. They 
 had left the saw half buried in the stem of one 
 tall beech, and another lay felled and stripped 
 beside it, like the skeleton of the giant Pagan, 
 in the Pilgrim's Progress. Presently a tiny 
 brown squirrel darted by, and ran up a larch- 
 tree ; and, farther on, I saw ar pheasant stalking 
 through the faded ferns. Here it was more 
 silent, more solitary, more sylvan than ever. I 
 i sat down to rest on an old mossy stump, listen- 
 ing to the silence and to those sounds that make 
 such silence deeper. Now and then I heard the 
 
 cucloo's two sad notes ; and, nearer, the cooing 
 of a wood-pigeon, 
 
 " How pleasant it would be," thought I, " to 
 live here in a thatched cottage with roses grow- 
 ing over the door, and drink new milk and eat 
 wild strawberries every day. But then it should 
 be always summer-time ; and one would want to 
 know the language of the birds, like the Prince 
 in the fairy-tale !" 
 
 And then I remembered that Hugh had told 
 me that story — told it to me one morning with 
 his arm about my waist and his pale cheek rest- 
 ing languidly against a pillow — and this remem- 
 brance brought tears with it. It i^ sometimes a 
 luxury to shed tears ; and to-day, in this balmy 
 solitude, with the last slow drops of the passing 
 shower yet falling around me, it was both sad 
 and sweet to weep. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of the stillness, and so 
 close that it seemed to come from behind the 
 tree against which I was sitting, I heard the 
 crack of a rifle ! At the same instant something 
 hissed past my ear ; a small bird fluttered to my 
 feet ; a dog and a man came crashing through 
 the underwood ; a well-known voice cried — *' My 
 God ! I might have killed her !" — and I found 
 myself clasped in Hugh Farquhar's arms ; safe, 
 frightened, trembling, but very happy. 
 
 For the first few moments he was even more 
 agitated than myself. Then he flung away his 
 gun, sat down upon the broken tree-stump, held 
 me at arm's length, looked in my eyes till his 
 own grew dim. 
 
 " Oh, Barbara — little Barbara !" said he ten- 
 derly. " What should I have done if I had 
 harmed thee?" 
 
 I nestled closer to him ; and, for answer, laid 
 my cheek down on his shoulder. 
 
 *' I marvel," he went on, " that the ball spared 
 thee, deary. See where it grazed the bark yon- 
 der ; and see where the woodcock lies — why, it 
 must have sped within an inch of thy head !" 
 
 " I heard something whistle by," I said, shud- 
 deringly ; " but it all happened so quickly that I 
 had no time for fear." 
 
 He kissed me on the forehead, and was silent 
 after this for several minutes. 
 
 " It must be three weeks since I saw thee last, 
 mignorme^''' said he, at length. " How the 
 time slips through one's fingers !" 
 
 " It has seemed very slow to me, Hugh." 
 
 " Because you are young, happy, unoccupied 
 — ^because life is fresh to you — because you 
 count by impressions, instead of deeds. Tush, 
 child, the sands will run fast enough by and by ! 
 Too fast— too fast !" 
 
 " Why too fast ?" 
 
 " Because the world is a mighty pleasant place, 
 and one would like thoroughly to enjoy it! 
 Think of all the books that we must leave un- 
 read, all the pictures we must leave unseen, all 
 the countries, people, sciences, ^ experiences 
 which we must forego for want of time to know 
 them ! I hate to be hurried, Barbara mia, — 
 especially by that relentless old gentleman who 
 carries the hour-glass and scythe !" 
 
 The dog, which had all this time been snuffing 
 the fallen woodcock, now took it in his mouth, 
 brought it gravely up, and laid it at his master's 
 feet, A strange flash of expression passed over 
 Hugh Farquhar's face. 
 
 '' Porapey," said he, " what have I done, oh, 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 41 
 
 most satirical of puppies ! that thou should'st 
 rebuke me thus ? Lo ! my very dog cuts jokes 
 upon me, and turns up his tail in 'contempt of 
 my philosophy ! Pompey, I confess it. I am a 
 humbug — an egotist — a base, one-sided casuist ! 
 I love life ; I grumble at death — and I shoot 
 woodcocks ! 'Tis Wordsworth who bids us 
 
 ' Never to blend our pleasures or our pride 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.' 
 
 That's very good poetry, and better morality — 
 yet Wordsworth ate game, , like many a worse 
 man." 
 
 All this was said mockingly, sadly, abstracted- 
 ly, more to himself than to me. Having spoken, 
 he paused with his chin in his hand, and sat for 
 a long time, looking at the dog and the bird. 
 His attitude was meditative, his complexion paler 
 than before his illness, his expression more than 
 usually thoughtful. I crouched by, looking at 
 him, listening to him, treasuring up every syl- 
 lable. Considering all things, I followed the in- 
 tention of his words more nearly* than might 
 have been expected. 
 
 " Petite,''' said he suddenly, " when you don't 
 see me for three weeks or a month together, 
 do you ever think of me ?'' 
 
 " Think of you, Hugh !" I faltered. I did 
 not dare to tell him that I thought of nothing 
 else. 
 
 He laughed, and passed his hand over my 
 hair. 
 
 " If I were to go away again," he said, " you 
 would forget me." 
 
 "Never, Hugh ! Never so long as I live." 
 Startled by the earnestness of my voice, he 
 turned half round, took my head between his 
 two hands, and looked at me. 
 
 " My child 1 my little friend !" said he wonder- 
 ingly. " Why, what a pale face is this !" 
 
 I tried to smile ; but the effort was too much 
 for me. I felt my lip quiver and my eyes fill 
 up, and so dropped my head upon his knee, 
 and sobbed aloud. 
 
 "You — you won't go away, will you ?" I cried 
 passionately. "You won't go away — or — or 
 marry Lady Flora ?" 
 
 "Marry Lady Flora!" he repeated quickly. 
 " What put that into your head ? Who says it ? 
 Nay, child, I will know !" 
 " Every body." 
 
 " And who is every body, pray ?" 
 " I — I don't know — Doctor Topham told us 
 that — that every body says so. Please, Hugh, 
 don't be angry — I — I am so sorry ; but it's quite 
 true." 
 
 "Is it, by Jove?" exclaimed he, starting 
 angrily to his feet, and striding to and fro. 
 " What an obliging world it is, and how flatter- 
 ing is the interest with which it dives into one's 
 private affairs 1" 
 
 I saw that he was vexed, and so held my 
 tongue and tried to subdue the sobs that kept 
 rising in my throat. 
 
 Presently he came and stood before me. 
 "Upon my soul, Barbara," said he, with a 
 bitter laugh, " I think I had better marry you, 
 and stop the people's mouths that way ! What 
 say you ? WiU you be my little wife seven years 
 to come ?" 
 
 I knew it was a jest ; and yet I felt my heart 
 beat, and my cheeks grow scarlet. 
 
 "You don't mean it," said I; "and if you 
 did " 
 
 *' Oh, but I do mean it, though," returned 
 he. " Put your hand in mine, and say ' Hugh 
 Farquhar, seven years hence, wlien I am old 
 enough, I will marry you.' Come, that's easy 
 enough !" 
 
 I trembled from head to foot. I longed to 
 say it, but dared not. He sat down, still laugh- 
 ing, drew me on his knee, and began disengag- 
 ing a curious silver ring from a variety of seals 
 and other trifles that hung at his watchguard. 
 
 "See now," said he, "I mean to betroth you 
 with all due form and ceremony. This is an 
 ugly thing ; but a curiosity. I got it from an 
 Arab in the desert near the Dead Sea, and 
 gave him my penknive in exchange for it. Now, 
 Barbara mia, say the words I told you, and you 
 shafl have the Arab's ring." 
 
 Seeing that I still hesitated, he went through 
 the sentence again, and I repeated it after him, 
 whisperingly and with averted face. 
 
 "Lady, by yonder blessed moon, I swear," 
 said he, placing the ring with mock solemnity 
 on the third finger of my left hand, " that tips, 
 most appropriately with Arabic silver, all these 
 
 fruit-tree tops unfortunately the moon is 
 
 absent just now, on a visit to our antipodes ; but 
 we can do without it on the present occasion ! 
 Now kiss me, Barbarina, and promise not to say 
 a word of this to any body," 
 
 I gave the promise readily. \ 
 
 " Corpo di Bacco .'" said he, now I'll give 
 ' every body,' something to gossip about ! I'll 
 proclaim that I am an engaged man — what a 
 joke! what a mystery! what a test! By Jupi- 
 ter, if the Bayharas have any design " 
 
 He paused ; put me gently aside ; rose ; 
 and again paced backward and forward, his 
 eyes fixed on the ground, and his hands clasped 
 behind his back. Coming back presently to 
 where I was standing he saw me still occupied 
 with the ring. 
 
 "You can not wear it, miffnonne,^^ he said. 
 "It is twice too large for your little slender 
 finger." 
 
 " But I want to wear it, Hugh. Always to 
 wear it." 
 
 " Do you ? Nay, then, you shall have my 
 guard, and carry it around your neck, like a 
 locket. Do you see those curious characters en- 
 graved upon it ? They are Arabic letters, and 
 spell the name of Allah. So that's capitally 
 contrived. * Now remember, Barbara, if any one 
 sees it, or asks you about it, say I gave it to you 
 — not a word more or less." 
 
 It was a tiny elastic guard, no thicker than a 
 thread, and, having attached the ring to it, he 
 put it with his own hands round my neck. 
 
 "Life is made up," said he, "of curious 
 chances. I began by nearly shooting you this 
 
 morning, little one, and I have ended by 
 
 Pshaw ! a betrothal is better than a bullet, any- 
 how ! Seven years — seven short, long, pleasant, 
 miserable years. How much taller do you mean 
 to be by then, Barbara ? * Just as high as my 
 heart,' as Orlando saith of Rosalind? Why, 
 body, o' me ! how seriously the darling takes it ! 
 Pale one minute, red another, and trembling 
 like a frightened fawn. Come, this won't do, 
 Barbara. Cheer up, and bid me goodby ; for I 
 have brought down but this one bird to-day, and 
 
43 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 I must offer up more sacrifices to Cupid before I 
 go home." 
 
 I forced a smile, and put up my face to kiss 
 him. 
 
 " Good-by, Hugh," I said. " When are you 
 coming again?" 
 
 "I'll come — let me see I'm engaged for 
 
 two days — three days this week, and to-day is 
 Monday. Well, petite^ I'll come on Friday." 
 
 I flushed all over with delight. 
 
 " Will you, really V I asked, with my whole 
 heart on my lips. 
 
 "I will, really. Now go home before the 
 next shower comes up. Adieu, my lady-love." 
 
 And with this he pressed his lips once again 
 to my cheek, bagged the woodcock, whistled to 
 Pompey, shouldered his gun, and, with a last 
 wave of the hand, plunged into the copse and 
 disappeared. 
 
 I sat there a long time — ^long enough for the 
 shower to come and go, and the shadows per- 
 ceptibly to shift upon the grass. Once I heard 
 the distant echo of his gun ; but I remember 
 only that, and the strange, vague, dreamy 
 wonder with which I sat looking at the ring. 
 He had asked me to be his " little wife" seven 
 years to come. Was he not both in jest and in 
 earnest ? What did it all mean, and how was it 
 to end ? 
 
 By and by I adjusted the chain in such a 
 manner that no one could observe it, and went 
 home. The day thus went by, slowly, delicious- 
 ly, like a perplexed but happy dream ; and that 
 night I fell asleep with the ring clasped tightly 
 in my hand, and that name that he had given me 
 yet lingering on my lips. 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 THE ROUNDING OP THE YEAR. 
 " Adieu, mes beaux jours !" — Marie Stcart. 
 
 The Friday morning came — the morning of 
 the day on which Hugh had promised to call. 
 I had been conscious of it all night, in my 
 dreams; and now*, as the first sunbeams touched 
 my window-panes, I woke, knowing that the 
 weary days of waiting had gone by, and I should 
 see him soon again. 
 
 The morning was brilliant, mistless, and crim- 
 son toward the East. It was yet very early; 
 for yonder, across a field just opposite the 
 house, went the laborers to their work. Al- 
 though it was not yet time, I rose and dressed, 
 opened the casement, and leaned out into the 
 fresh air to gather a few leaves from the myrtle 
 that clustered without. Reaching forward thus, 
 bathing my head in the sunshine and my little 
 white arms in the dew of the dark leaves, it oc- 
 curred to me all at once that this was the month 
 of May again, and that I had been here just one 
 year. 
 
 Yes, a year, a whole year, during which I had 
 beheld all the changes of nature ; seen the green 
 things flourish and die, and be born again ; wit- 
 nessed the fading of the frost and the falling of 
 the snow; and watched how the morning sun 
 varied in his rising as the months rolled on. It 
 seemed but yesterday when yonder dusky fallow 
 was yellow with corn — when the oak beside the 
 pond wore a brief livery of scarlet and gold — 
 
 when the blackberries lay thick in the hedge, 
 and the dead leaves rotted in the lanes. What 
 a happy year, and how quickly it had flown ! 
 I had heard little from London all this time. A 
 formal letter was once or twice exchanged be- 
 tween my father and my aunt; but excepting 
 that my sisters were Avell, that Miss Whymper 
 continued as usual to teach them, and that dear 
 old Goody always sent her love, I knew nothing 
 of my home or its inmates. I fear I had not 
 much thought or care to know more. Happy 
 and unrestrained, I only desired to stay here for- 
 ever. 
 
 " Ahi ! con che afltetto amore e il ciel pregai 
 Che fosse eterno si dolce soggiorao !" 
 
 By and by, finding that as yet there was no 
 one stirring in the house, I got a book, curled 
 myself up in the embrasure of the window, and 
 began to read. I remember the book as well as 
 possible — it was Dodsley's translation of Boc- 
 caccio, and the story was Griselda — but I also 
 remember that I could not keep my attention to 
 the tale; th^t my thoughts wandered away to 
 Hugh Farquhar and my hands to the silver ring, 
 and that I fell into a long dream from which I 
 was at last aroused by the swinging of the 
 garden-gate, and the halting tread of the lame 
 postman on the gravel walk. Seeing me at the 
 window, he touched his cap and smiled, then 
 left the letters in the porch, and hobbled away 
 again with his leathern satchel swinging at his 
 side. I watched him to the turn of the road, 
 and then, knowing by this time the household 
 must be awake and stirring, went down-stairs. 
 
 I found my aunt in the breakfast-parlor. 
 She was standing at the window with her back 
 toward me, and an open letter in her hand. 
 An indefinable something in her attitude, in the 
 way that she kept her head turned from me, 
 struck me the moment I went in. I was about , 
 to speak; but hesitated and stood still. She 
 then folded the letter up, slowly and deliberate- 
 ly, and came over to the breakfast-table. Si- 
 lently I took my accustomed seat in the great 
 carved chair opposite. I felt that something 
 was wrong. I saw that she was pale, and that 
 her hand trembled. She laid the letter beside 
 her plate. I could not see the writing; but 
 the seal looked like my father's, large, round, 
 and firm, with showy armorial bearings. 
 
 A weary quarter of an hour went by, during 
 which I ate little, and my aunt nothing. Now 
 and then she cast a troubled glance at the let- 
 ter ; but she only once lifted her eyes to my face. 
 Had I done any thing to offend her ? 
 
 The silence became oppressive, and seemed 
 all the more intolerable for the sunshine and 
 splendor of the outer day. The hall was flood- 
 ed with a goldto hght, and the pleasant farm- 
 house sounds came mingled with the singing of 
 the birds. Oh, how I longed to be out in the 
 free air, and what a rehef it was when my aunt 
 pushed back her chair and said : — 
 
 " Bab, I have letters to write this morning, and 
 must be alone. Go out and amuse yourself till 
 ten o'clock." 
 
 Welcome permission ! To call the dogs, tie 
 on my broad-brimmed country hat, and dance 
 away, reveling like a butterfly in the sun, was 
 for me but the work of a few seconds. Down 
 the " checkered shade " of the green lanes ; 
 across the meadow, yellow with buttercups ; 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 43 
 
 through the churchyard where the vicar's old 
 gray cob was grazing ; up the drift where the 
 hay which they had been carting late the night 
 before was yet cUngiug to the hedges on either 
 side ; over more meadows and through more 
 lanes we went, and thus came back toward 
 home so warm and weary that I was glad to sit 
 down, at last, under the shadow of a clump of 
 young alders, and rest till it was time to go in. 
 " Cuckoo !" intoned the messenger of summer, 
 from a copse close by ; and then I remembered 
 the old German superstition, and said to myself 
 — " Yes, I shall be here next year ! I shall still 
 be here, and I shall still be happy !" 
 
 Presently the church clock far away chimed 
 the three-quarters, and I went home. My aunt 
 was waiting for me at the gate. She shaded her 
 eyes with her hand when she saw me coming, 
 and looked at me earnestly. 
 
 " Come here, Bab," said slie, stalking tfp the 
 path before me, and taking her seat in the porch. 
 " Come and sit here. I have something to say 
 to you." 
 
 I sat down, my heart fluttering with a vague 
 apprehension ; and my aunt presently began. 
 
 " Your father and I have been writing to one 
 another lately, Bab," said she. " Our corre- 
 spondence is over now, however. I had a letter 
 from him this morning, and I've answered it, 
 and sent my answer to the post ; and there it 
 ends. What do you suppose we have been writ- 
 ing about ?" 
 
 I shook my head. How should I know what 
 they had been writing about ? 
 
 " Well, Bab, we've been writing about you." 
 "About me?" 
 
 " Yes, and as you must know the issue of it, it 
 is only right that you should also know the fore- 
 goings. I wrote first, Bab. I wrote to ask your 
 father to leave you with me always. You have 
 been here a year, Bab, and somehow, I have got 
 used to you — like, to have you about me — Re- 
 lieve you to be a true child, and — and fancy 
 you have some kind of love for me, old and dis- 
 agreeable ae I am. Hush ! not a word. Listen 
 to me patiently ; for I have more to tell you. 
 Well, Bab, I wrote to your father and told him 
 something of this. I offered to bring you up, 
 educate you, and be a mother to you. I never 
 had a child of my own, and I should have liked 
 to keep you while I live, provided you were will- 
 ing, Bab — always provided you were wilUng." 
 " Willing !" i repeated, with clasped hands 
 and tear-filled eyes. " Willing !" 
 
 " Ay — willing — which I believe you would be. 
 Well, don't let's be foolish, child. There's more 
 to come. Your father answered my letter, and 
 said neither ' yes ' nor ' no ;' but bargained with 
 me, Bab — bargained with me — tried to trade on 
 the love I bore you, and turn it to his profit ! 
 Didn't I say it from the first ? Didn't I guess it 
 from the first ? Didn't I tell you that I would 
 be your friend for life, but bid you count on noth- 
 ing — nothing — nothing at my death ? Answer 
 me, child — do you remember it ?" 
 
 Trembling, I bent my head, but had no power 
 to speak. It frightpned me to see her in these 
 moods, and I knew that this was, of all topics, 
 the one which moved her most. She rose and 
 took a turn or two outside the porch, looking 
 strangely angered and excited — then came back, 
 resumed her seat, and went on. 
 
 " Your father, Bab," said she, speaking very 
 calmly, but with a quivering undertone in her 
 voice, " is a very clever, worldly, calculating man 
 — a little too clever, sometimes, and a little too 
 worldly ; apt to speculate over-far on other folks' 
 weaknesses ; apt to overreach himself, now and 
 then — but no matter ! Now what do you think 
 your clever father proposed to sell you at — eh, 
 Bab ?" 
 
 " Sell me !" I exclaimed, the indignant blood 
 flushing all my face. " Sell me !" 
 
 " Ay, 'tis a rough word, but the right one, Bab 
 — chafe under it if you will ! He proposed — 
 listen to this — he proposed that I should not 
 only keep, educate, and provide for you ; but that 
 I should will my property to you and your two 
 sisters, share and share alike. Fancy that — share 
 and share alike !" 
 
 Dumb with shame, I could only clasp my 
 hands and hang my head. 
 
 " Well, the wonder is that I didn't tear his 
 letter into a hundred bits, and send them back 
 by the next post," said my aunt, getting excited 
 again, but striving hard to keep calm. " But 
 no — I waited two whole days, and thought it 
 all out from beginning to end before I answered 
 it. What I then said, Bab, I may as w-ell tell 
 you. I refused his conditions point-blank. I 
 would have nothing to say to his two elder girls 
 — they are nothing to me, and always will be 
 nothing. I refused to bind myself to any 
 promises, even on your account. But I told 
 him that if he left you here and trusted to my 
 justice and generosity, you should be no loser at 
 my death. What I meant by that is neither 
 here nor there, Bab. It might have been all — 
 it might have been half — at all events it would 
 have been enough ; but what I insisted on was 
 the trust ; and what I hate most in all the world 
 is to be dictated to !" 
 
 " Well — and his answer ?" I asked eagerly. 
 " Tush, Bab, let's make a long story short ! 
 We argued, and bargained, and wrote three or 
 four letters, and couldn't come to an agreement 
 anyhow. This morning I received what he is 
 pleased to call his ultimatum ; in vehich he dis- 
 tinctly states that I must either keep you on his 
 terms or send you home. He counts on my 
 love for you — he believes that sooner than part 
 from you, I will consent to any thing ! Well, 
 to-morrow morning he will have my answer. 
 It's written, and it's gone, and it's all over. 
 
 Bab, I— I " 
 
 She paused, and her lip trembled. As for. 
 me, I rose up, sat down, rose up again, and 
 shook from head to foot. 
 
 " You won't send me away !" I cried. " You 
 — you won't send me away !" 
 
 " Bab," said she, with averted face, " your 
 mother was my favorite niece. I loved her 
 dearly ; but she married against my will, and 
 from the day of her marriage I never looked 
 upon her face again. It cost me a deep sorrow ; 
 but I did it, and I would have done it, had it cost 
 me twenty times that sorrow. Your father and 
 I have been enemies ever since, and our enmity 
 will henceforth be deeper than before. I can 
 not be his tool and plaything, Bab — I can not, 
 and I will not !" 
 
 " Still you won't send me away !" I repeated 
 with increasing agitation. "You won't, you 
 can't send me away !" 
 
44 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 She remained silent for a moment. Then, 
 nerving herself to firmness, said : — 
 
 " You must go home, Bab. I have said it." 
 
 Go home ! The words struck upon my ear, 
 but bore no meaning with them. Stunned, 
 despairing, dumb, I stood before her, and 
 neither spoke nor wept. Presently she also 
 rose and turned as if to go into the house ; but 
 our eyes met, and she paused with her hand on 
 the latch. 
 
 " When?" I whispered, rather than said. 
 
 She shook her head, and sighed heavily. 
 
 " When the coach comes by to-morrow," she 
 replied tremulously. " The sooner it's over the 
 better, Bab — the sooner the better !" 
 
 An involuntary cry of anguish escaped me, 
 and I sat down silently, looking at her. 
 
 " God help us, Bab !" said she ; then stooped, 
 kissed me hurriedly on both cheeks, and went 
 into the house. 
 
 Oh, the weary, weary day ! Oh, the heavy 
 hours — the dreary dinner-meeting — the heart- 
 ache, the languor of soul, the tears kept back, 
 and ever rising ! All that afternoon, I wander- 
 ed like a restless spirit through the dear familiar 
 places. I visited the orchard, the sheep-fold, 
 the churchyard, the meadow where I heard the 
 cuckoo in the morning, and the mossy stump in 
 the woods, where Hugh Farquhar sat three days 
 ago. To each I said " good-by ;" and yet, though 
 I looked and lingered, and tore myself away, I 
 could not believe it was for the last time. My 
 only hope was to see him in the evening ; my 
 only comfort was to clasp the silver ring more 
 closely to my heart. Somehow or another, I 
 had a vague idea that he alone could help me now, 
 and till I had seen him, I would not quite despair. 
 Was he not my ideal of goodness and bounty, 
 wealth and power ? Was he not still my hero 
 and my prince, and was it not natural that, even 
 in this strait, I should look to him for succor ? 
 
 The day faded out of the sky; the twilight 
 thickened ; the stars came out one by one ; and 
 still I waited, hoped, believed. All the afternoon 
 my aunt had been shut up in her own room, 
 and now she and Jane were pr.eparing for 
 my departure. There was no one to forbid me ; 
 so I went out and stood by the gate in the dim 
 starlight, listening for his coming. The night 
 air fanned my forehead and cooled my eyes, 
 weary as they were, and hot with weeping. 
 Yonder gleamed the light at my chamber 
 window, and now and then a shadow flitted across 
 the blind. I could not help looking toward it, for 
 I knew what was going forward within — knew 
 that my box was being packed, and that to- 
 morrow I must go. Alas ! there was both grief 
 and anger at my heart, as I turned away again 
 and gazed into the gloom toward Broomhill. 
 My only hope lay in Hugh Farquhar and his 
 influence ; and ever as I waited, counting the 
 minutes and the beatings of my heart, that hope 
 grew stronger. 
 
 But he came not. One by one the quarters 
 chimed out from the church-tower over the 
 meadows — then nine o'clock struck — then the 
 quarters, one by one again — then ten o'clock, 
 and I knew that the last chance was past. 
 
 He had forgotten his promise, and I must go 
 without even bidding him farewell ! 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A DREARY WELCOM^J HOME. 
 
 Would she really let me go ? Not till the 
 last moment could I bring myself to believe it 
 — not till the last moment, when the coach 
 stood at the gate and the time had come to say 
 "good-by." Then by her pallor, by her 
 silence, by the stony determination written in 
 every line of her countenance, I saw that it 
 must be. Sick, giddy, quite worn out with sor- 
 row and wakefulness, I suffered myself to be 
 drawn to her bosom, and felt that she kissed me 
 twice on either cheek. 
 
 " Good-by, Bab," she said, hoarsely. " Heav- 
 en bless you !" 
 
 But I had no strength to answer — I could 
 not even weep. I could only put one little cold 
 hand in hers, and dumbly, drearily, turn away 
 and follow Jane to the gate. The guard was 
 waiting with the door open, impatient to be 
 gone ; and in another instant I felt myself lifted 
 in ; heard the starting-signal given ; caught one 
 brief glimpse of Jane with her api'on to her 
 eyes ; saw that my aunt was no longer at the 
 porch; and found myself speeding away — 
 away toward London. 
 
 I can recall little or nothing of what 
 followed, except that the coach was empty, and 
 that I lay back in a corner, stupefied and 
 motionless. Once I put my hand up to my face 
 and found my cheeks were wet ; and I recollect 
 wondering whose tears they were, and how they 
 came there ; but beyond this I seemed to notice 
 nothing. At Ipswich we stopped, as usual, for 
 an hour ; and later in the day I remember wak- 
 ing up, as if from a deep dream, and finding 
 the coach quite full of passengers. How or 
 when they took their places, and of what age, 
 sex, or station they were, I have no idea. I 
 only know that they came and went like the 
 hedges that flitted past the windows, and that, 
 drowned in the Lethe of my discontent, I took 
 no heed of any thing. 
 
 As the day waned we drew near London, 
 and, toward twilight, came upon gas-lamps and 
 a road bordered by villas. Presently thfs villas 
 were succeeded by long rows of houses ; by 
 shop-windows blazing with lights; by streets 
 crowded, noisy, narrow, and alive with trafiic. 
 Then we turned sharply down a by-street, dived 
 under an archway, clattered into a gloomy yard, 
 and were at the end of our journey. 
 
 The passengers alighted, and were met by 
 those who awaited them. I also got out and 
 looked anxiously around, expecting Goody. But 
 no Goody was there. Bewildered by the un- 
 usual noise and bustle of the place, I wandered 
 to and fro, scanning every countenance, and 
 recognizing none. Then the luggage was un- 
 laden, and each passenger claimed his own. 
 When my box was handed down, I sat on it 
 and waited wearily. One by one, my fellow- 
 travelers then dispersed and went away ; and 
 only the empty coach, the smoking horses, and 
 the busy ostlers remained. 
 
 It was now quite dark, and a searching wind 
 came blowing through the archway. No one 
 looked at me ; no one spoke to me — save once, 
 when the coachman bustled past, a mountain 
 of coats and capes, and gave me a rough " good 
 night." Shivering, I sat perched upon my box, 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 45 
 
 like the dwarf in Mrs. Shelley's story, and 
 watched the stable-boys running to and fro with 
 their lanterns, the grooms rubbing down the 
 horses, and the chamber-maids flitting along the 
 wooden galleries above. Surely Goody had 
 mistaken the hour, and would be here present- 
 ly ! Could it be possible that my aunt's letter 
 had never been delivered ? What should I do, 
 if no one came to fetch me home ? 
 
 Whilst I was turning these questions over in 
 my mind, and striving hard to- be brave and 
 hopeful, an old man came hobbling across the 
 yard, and peered curiously into my face. He 
 was the oddest, driest, dustiest little old man I 
 ever saw ; and which was strangest of all, had 
 a boot drawn up on each arm and slippers on 
 his feet, so that he looked as if his legs were in 
 the wrong place. 
 
 *' To be left till called for ?" said he, in a 
 hoarse interrogative whisper. ^ 
 
 Vaguely conscious of his meaning, I nodded ; 
 whereat he desired me to "come on," and 
 limped away, beckoning mysteriously with his 
 boots, like the ghost in Hamlet. Wondering, 
 and half unwilling, I followed him to a little 
 open doorway under the foot of the great wood- 
 en staircase. On the threshold of this place I 
 shrank back, and hesitated. I had fancied that 
 he was taking me to some room where Goody 
 was waiting ; but this was a mere den, filled, 
 like a cobbler's stall, with rows of boots and 
 shoes, and lit by a rushlight in a bottle. 
 
 " Come in," said he in the same tone, half- 
 growl, half-whisper. " Come in. Don't be 
 afeard." 
 
 Saying which, he crouched down on a box, 
 and pointed with the toe of the right boot at a 
 wooden stool in the corner. 
 
 Somewhat reassured by this invitation, I 
 ventured in and sat where he directed. A long 
 silence followed, during which I balanced my- 
 self on the edge of the stool ; gazed curiously 
 at the shelves all laden with boots and shoes, 
 old bottles, blacking-brushes, and broken can- 
 dlesticks ; and now and then stole a side glance 
 at my entertainer. 
 
 " It's a queep place, an't it ?" he observed, 
 resting his elbows on his knees, and rocking 
 himself slowly to and fro. " Better to wait in 
 than the yard ; but a queer place to live in. A 
 queer place to live in." 
 
 The position in which he was now sitting and 
 the action by which it was accompanied, pro- 
 jected so hideous and grotesque a four-legged 
 shadow on the opposite wall, that for some 
 seconds I could only sit and stare at it, like one 
 fascinated. 
 
 " Do you live here, sir ?" I asked, presently. 
 It was the first time I had spoken, and, despite 
 my politeness, my voice trembled. 
 
 " Live here 1" he echoed. "Ay. All day — 
 every day. From year's end to year's end." 
 
 I was more amazed than ever, and, not 
 knowing what to say next, looked from him to 
 his shadow, and thence up to the inverted stairs 
 overhead, thick-set with cobwebs and studded 
 with rusty nails. 
 
 " But I don't sleep here," said he, after an- 
 other pause. *' I sleep in the stables." 
 
 To which I replied timidly, that I was glad to 
 hear it ; and again the conversation dropped. 
 
 The silence this time was so prolonged that I 
 
 twice heard a neighboring clock chime the quar- 
 ters ; and still the wind moaned drearily ; and 
 still horses, and ostlers, and travelers came and 
 went in the yard without, and busy footsteps 
 passed up and down the stairs above our heads, 
 over and over again. Feeling at length desper- 
 ately tired and sleepy, I fell to counting the 
 boots and shoes to keep myself awake. I count- 
 ed them from left to right — then from right to 
 left — then took each alternate one, and went 
 backward for the rest, and only grew more 
 drowsy than ever for my pains. 
 
 " You're looking at ^Aem," said the little old 
 man, suddenly. " There's lots of 'em, an't 
 there? Lot's of 'em." 
 
 " Ye — es, sir," I faltered, somewhat startled 
 to find that he had been watching riie. "A 
 great many." 
 
 " Twenty-seven pair," said he reflectively. 
 *' Twenty-seven pair, not counting the odd Hes- 
 sian belonging to number thirteen with the 
 gout." 
 
 Greatly perplexed by this observation, I hesi- 
 tated, wondered, and at last suggested that he 
 surely possessed more than he wanted of these 
 useful articles, 
 
 "Oh, you think they're all mine, do you?" 
 croaked he, shifting quickly round, and peering 
 at me again from beneath a pair of bushy white 
 eyebrows. " Who d'ye suppose I am, eh ? 
 Who d'ye suppose I am ?" 
 
 I shook my head doubtfully. 
 
 "I 'm Boots," said he, striking himself im- 
 pressively on the breast with the heels of the 
 pair which still remained on his arms. " Boots " 
 — and immediately tucked up his legs, and sat 
 tailor-wise on the box. 
 
 Utterly discomposed and overwhelmed by 
 this tremendous revelation, I sat with parted 
 lips and stared at him breathlessly. Boots ! 
 Boots incarnate ! Good Heavens, was he mad, 
 and could it be his propensity to wear Welling- 
 tons as other folks wear gloves ? 
 
 " I've lived here, man and boy, going over 
 sixty year," continued he. " I was a young 
 chap when I first came. They picked me out of 
 the gutter, and made Boots of me ; and Boots 
 I've been ever since." 
 
 I began fervently to wish myself out in the 
 yard again. 
 
 " The place has changed names and masters 
 more than once all that time," he went on ; talk- 
 ing, indeed, rather to himself than me. " But 
 I belong to it, like the sign outside, or the big 
 clock on the stairs. Blue Boar, or Red Lion, 
 or AVhite Horse, it's all the same to me. I'm a 
 part of it ; and somehow, I seem to fancy that 
 so long as the old house holds together, I shall 
 hold with it." 
 
 He fell musing at this, and gazed at the boots 
 and shoes for a long time without speaking. 
 
 " See them, now," he said at length. " See 
 them. They've been my business, my compan- 
 ions, my amusement these sixty year and more. 
 You'd never guess the stories they tell me, or 
 the news I pick out of 'em. Shut me up from 
 the light of day and give me only these, and I'll 
 tell you the changes in the fashion, the sgason 
 of the yelR", and the state of the weather." 
 
 Finding that he looked to me for a reply, I 
 ventured to inquire if he always had* so many 
 as seven and twenty pairs. 
 
46 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 "Sometimes more," said he briskly, "some- 
 times less. It depends on the time of the year 
 and the state of the markets. Twenty pair a 
 day is the average I make of it, my dear. 
 Twenty pair a day." ^ 
 
 I made up my mind that he was very mad 
 indeed. 
 
 "Look here, now," he continued, untucking 
 his legs, and getting up to hunt for a fragment 
 of old slate and a morsel of chalk, which lay with 
 a heap of other rubbish on an upper shelf — 
 " look here. Twenty pair a day, counting seven 
 days to the week, and fifty-two weeks to the 
 year, and letting leap-years alone, makes just 
 four hundred and thirty-six thousand, eight 
 hundred pair in sixty years. Think of that! 
 
 Four hundred and thirty-six thous I've a 
 
 bad head for most things — 'specially for figures 
 — but I've done it hundreds of times, and it 
 always comes to the same. It's right. I know 
 it's right." 
 
 " That is a great many, sir, for one person," 
 I observed nervously. 
 
 " Ay, a great many. Sometimes I wonder if 
 I shall live to make it five hundred thousand, 
 and then I think I'd like to have them write it 
 up on my gravestone, for the queerness of it. 
 Four hundred and thirty-six thousand, eight 
 hundred, in sixty year !" 
 
 With this he again began rocking himself 
 backward and forward, and fell into the old 
 reverie. And still the wind howled, and the 
 footfalls echoed, and I sat staring at him by the 
 light of the flickering rushlight. By and by a 
 bell rang close outside the door of the den — a 
 shrill, impatient bell, with a vixenish tongue — 
 and a voice somewhere in the galleries cried 
 "Boots!" 
 
 My companion shook his head, and got up 
 wearily. 
 
 " That's it !" he growled. " That's it. Noth- 
 ing but ring, ring, ring, from morning till 
 night, and from night till morning. Keep you 
 there, little girl. I'll be back presently." 
 
 And so, with his head bent forward and his 
 arms crossed behind, he shambled away, look- 
 ing like a man who had folded his legs over his 
 back, and was walking off on his hands. 
 
 Left alone now, and feeling very cold and 
 tired, I shut the door, and curled myself upon 
 the box where he had been sitting. Again the 
 clock struck — this time four quarters, and then 
 nine strokes for the hour. Nine o'clock, and the 
 coach came in at half-past seven ! Was I quite 
 forgotten, and must I remain all night in this 
 strange place ? What would my aunt say, could 
 she but see me now ? Would the httle old man 
 give me shelter, and let me sleep there with the 
 boots and shoes while he went to bed in the 
 stables ? How should I find my way home in 
 the morning ? And what would Goody do, when 
 she found that I had been left in this plight 
 all the dreary night ? Despite my fortitude, I 
 could not forbear a few self-pitying tears. Then 
 my thoughts wandered and my eyelids grew 
 heavy, and I fell into an uneasy sleep, during 
 which I dreamed that I was once more in the 
 coach traveling to London ; the only difference 
 being that Goody was driving, and th&t we were 
 drawn by a team of four hundred and thirty- 
 six thousand pairs of polished Wellingtons. 
 
 I can not tell how long I slept. It may have 
 
 been more than an hour, or it may have been 
 but a few moments. Deep as my slumber was, 
 however, the flashing of a sudden light across 
 my eyes awoke me. 
 
 " Barbara," said a quick distinct voice, close 
 beside me. " Barbara !" 
 
 Struggling drowsily upright, I looked round 
 and saw my father. He had his hat on, and a 
 large cloak with a fur collar and clasp. A waiter 
 stood behind him with a candle, and Boots was 
 peeping in at the door. At first I could scarcely 
 recollect where I was ; but no sooner did my 
 father speak again than it all flashed back upon 
 my memory. 
 
 "I am willing, of course," said he, in his old 
 imperative tone, " to pay any thing you may 
 demand for the — the accommodation you have 
 afforded her. Faugh ! what a hole !" 
 
 "Very sorry, sir," said the waiter, obsequi- 
 ously. "Had no idea the young lady was here 
 at all, sir. All Boots's doing, sir — not our fault, 
 I assure you." 
 
 "Boots, Boots, indeed!" echoed my father, 
 angrily. " Pshaw, where is the fellow ? I'll 
 
 teg,ch him to Ho, you're there, are you, 
 
 sirrah ? Tell me how you dared to bring any 
 gentleman's child into such a filthy cellar as 
 this ?" 
 
 Boots looked down and made no reply, which 
 only irritated my father the more. 
 
 " You may be thankful," said he, " that I 
 don't complain of this to your master. Stand 
 out of my way !" 
 
 Saying which, he grasped me by the arm and 
 dragged me across the yard, to where a hack- 
 ney coach was waiting in the shelter of the 
 archway. Sick Avith terror and cold, I shrank 
 into a corner of the vehicle, Avhile my father, 
 still storming at the apologetic waiter, flung 
 himself into the opposite corner, and bade the 
 coachman drive on. 
 
 The wind had now brought rain with it, and 
 the streets were wet and empty. Scarcely a 
 shop was open, and scarcely a creature stirring. 
 Sitting there opposite my father and feeling that 
 I dreaded him more than ever, I gazed out at 
 the dreary night, and dared not speak or stir. 
 We had a long, long distance to go, and I re- 
 member as well as if it were yesterday, how we 
 traversed street after street ; how the water 
 stood in dark pools on the pavement ; how we 
 crossed a bridge where the rain was misting 
 down upon the river ; and how we by and by 
 entered a well-known road, and drew up before 
 that solitary house which was once more to be 
 my home. There were the elm-trees, dark and 
 gaunt as ever, and there was the mournful ivy 
 mantling half the basement. There, too, as we 
 stopped before the gate, was dear old Goody, 
 shading the light with her hand, and peering 
 out at the first sound of our wheels ! 
 
 Scrambling down as best I could while my 
 father was settling with the driver, I threw my- 
 self into her arms. 
 
 " My lamb, my darling !" she cried, brokenly, 
 and covered my face with tears and kisses. 
 
 While I was yet clinging to her and she to 
 me, my father came in. He glanced angrily at 
 us both, and bit his lip, 
 
 " Stop that noise, Beever, and put the child 
 to bed," said he, harshly : and so brushed past, 
 and went to his room. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 47 
 
 But Goody, instead of doing any such thing, 
 took me down to the kitchen, where there was 
 a cheerful fire blazing in the grate, and a little 
 table spread for supper. Here she chafed my 
 cold hands, and ray still colder feet — took off 
 my cloak and bonnet — and, though weeping 
 abundantly herself, entreated me not to cry. 
 
 " For it's no use taking on, my deary !" said 
 she. " It's a weary world, and troubles come 
 to the young as well as the old ; but what's 
 God's will is surely for the best. It's hard al- 
 ways to believe that, darling ; but it's no use 
 taking on. Try to eat a little bit of chicken, 
 my lamb — come, you're warmer, now !" 
 
 Though very faint indeed, I was not hungry, 
 and had to be persuaded and petted a great deal 
 before I could make up my mind to taste any 
 thing. Having once begun, however, I felt bet- 
 ter ; and then Goody brought out a bottle with 
 some brandy in it, and gave me a little ;ft'arm 
 brandy and water, which refreshed and strength- 
 ened me greatly. This done, I went and sat on 
 her lap as I used to do in the old time before I 
 went away, and laid my head down on her 
 shoulder. Much to my surprise, Goody once 
 again broke out into a passion of sobs, clasped 
 me to her bosom, and began rocking me to and 
 fro, to and fro, like one in deep distress. 
 
 " Don't cry so. Goody," I whispered, put- 
 ting my arms about her neck. "Pray don't 
 cry so !" 
 
 " I can't help it, my deary — I can't help it, 
 when it comes across me," she moaned. " And 
 you'll miss her so ! You'll miss her !" 
 
 " I shall miss her every day of my life," said 
 I, struggling hard now to keep down my own 
 tears. " She was so kind to me, Goody ; and I 
 loved her so dearly !" 
 
 ■'* Nay, she was not always so kind to you as 
 she might have been ; but she meant no harm 
 by it, and you're a dear laml> to remember her 
 kindly," sobbed Goody. " But it's been sud- 
 den — too sudden, my deary, for me to know 
 how to bear it yet !" 
 
 " I never knew a word of it till yesterday 
 morning," cried I, fairly breaking down. " Not 
 
 a word, and — and I was so happy, and " 
 
 " Yesterday morning ?" repeated Goody. 
 " Why, it never happened till close upon eleven 
 last night !" 
 
 Struck by a quick conviction that she was 
 lamenting another grief than mine, I lifted my 
 head from her shoulder, and looked her in the 
 face. 
 
 " Oh, Goody," I faltered, " what do you 
 mean ? Is any thing the matter ?" 
 She turned a startled face upon me. 
 " What," said she, breathlessly, " don't you 
 know ? Didn't he — didn't the master tell you 
 as you came along ?" 
 
 "Nothing — he told me nothing!" 
 
 " Jessie — your sister — your poor, dear, sister 
 
 Jessie " 
 
 " Oh, Goody, what of her ?" 
 *' Dead, my dear ! — dead and gone ! — dead 
 since this time last night !" 
 
 And she wrung her hands, and lifted up her 
 voice, and lamented again as a mother might 
 lament for her child ! 
 
 Chilled and horror-stricken, I looked at her, 
 and could neither weep nor speak. 
 
 " She was well in the morning," continued 
 Goody, "well, and gay, and pretty as ever! 
 
 She bnly suffered a few hours. It was soon 
 over, and she died in my arms — in my arms, the 
 child that I had nursed at her birth, and loved 
 
 oh ! I never knew how' I loved her till 
 
 now ! God help us all, deary ! God help and 
 spare us !" 
 
 " What did she die of, Goody ?" I whispered, 
 shudderingly. 
 
 " Cholera— cholera, my darling !" 
 I had never heard the word before — I could 
 not tell what it meant — I only knew that my 
 sister Jessie was dead. Dead ! I repeated the 
 word vaguely over and over again, and could 
 not bring myself to reahze its meaning. I felt 
 as if a heavy hand were laid upon my heart. 
 My eyes burned, and my tongue was dry. 1 
 wondered why I could not weep like Goody. A 
 thousand things flashed through my mind — 
 things of long ago ; words that she had spoken ; 
 gestures, trifles, traits forgotten till this mo- 
 ment. Poor Jessie ! — dead. 
 " And papa ?" I faltered. 
 " He was out," said Goody, wiping her eyes 
 with her apron, and speaking somewhat bit- 
 terly. " He went out early, to dine at Rich- 
 mond and spend the day in the country. I had 
 no one to send after him, and could not tell 
 where he was to be found. When he came 
 home at night, little Jessie was gone. He was 
 sadly shocked at first; and walked about his 
 room for a long time before he went to bed. 
 This morning he asked to see her, and then he 
 took Hilda on his knee, and kissed and cried 
 
 over her. Oh ! if it had been Hilda " 
 
 She checked herself, and our eyes met. 
 After this we sat for some time without speak- 
 ing — I with my cheek laid against hers, and 
 she with her arms clasped lovingly about me. 
 By and by, seeing the fire was almost out, she 
 took me by the hand, and led me up to bed. 
 We stopped at the docg: of a room on the first 
 floor, two stories lower than the bedroom which 
 used to be ours. 
 
 " Hilda is here," she whispered, with her fin- 
 ger to her hp. " I sat with her to-night till 
 she fell asleep, and we must try not to wake 
 her. She is worn out with sorrow, poor dar- 
 ling — they loved each other so dearly !" 
 
 I had not seen Hilda for a w hole year. I had 
 left home without even bidding her farewell, 
 and I returned to find her as I had left her — 
 sleeping. Except that her face wore an ex- 
 pression of suffering which I had never seen 
 there before, she seemed but little changed. 
 Her cheek was flushed and feverish, and the 
 rich tresses of her hair lay in heavy masses over 
 her neck and arms. Bending down more closely, 
 I saw that her eyelashes were still wet, and her 
 pillow stained with tears. All at once, she 
 awoke, looked at me flxedly, half-fearfuUy, and 
 murmured — " Barbara !" 
 
 I hung over her with clasped hands — with 
 streaming eyes — with I know not what prayer- 
 ful longing in my voice. 
 
 " Oh, Hilda !" I cried, " love me, dear ! Love 
 me a little 1 we are bpth so lonely !" 
 
 A languid smile flitted across her lips. * She 
 opened her arms to me, and, clasping me con- 
 vulsively round the neck, sobbed as if her heart 
 would break. 
 
 That night, for the first time in our lives, we 
 slept in the same bed, each with an arm about 
 the other's neck. 
 
48 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 " Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust " 
 — mournful and eternal words which find an 
 echo in all human hearts, and are borne to us, 
 sighing, on every breath we breathe, from the 
 cradle to the grave ! As they had been spoken, 
 years ago, over our lost mother, so were they 
 spoken over our sister. . I remernber all the 
 circumstances of the funeral with painful dis- 
 tinctness to this day — the mutes standing at the 
 door ; the heavy tread of the bearers on the 
 stairs ; the strange silence that fell upon the 
 house when all were gone ; the unclosing of the 
 shutters in the afternoon, and the sickening glare 
 of the sunset as it streamed once again into the 
 rooms. The day after, things lapsed, somehow, 
 back into their old track. My father went to 
 his club : and Miss Whymper came, as usual, 
 and took her seat at the top of the schoolroom 
 table. 
 
 A week, a fortnight, a month went by ; and I 
 never once heard of, or from, my aunt. I was 
 too deeply shocked at first by what had happen- 
 ed in my home to think much of my own trou- 
 bles ; but as time went on, and these impres- 
 sions lost somewhat of their intensity, all the 
 old bitterness came back. Sometimes I won- 
 dered if it could all be true ; and, waking from 
 my sleep in the still night-time, asked- myself 
 whether I had been dreaming ? Then flashed 
 the desolate conviction — then rose the burning 
 tears — then, slipping softly from my bed in the 
 dim starlight, I crept, breathlessly, to a certain 
 drawer, and took from its hiding-place the silver 
 ring. To steal back with it to my bed ; to lie 
 with it pressed against my lips ; to place it on 
 the finger where he placed it ; take it off and 
 kiss it twenty times, and fall asleep at last in 
 the midst of murmuring his name, was all the 
 solace I had left. 
 
 As for Hilda, she was herself too unhappy to 
 give much heed to me. Gentler and more affec- 
 tionate than of old, she yet cherished a grief 
 that refused to be comforted. I soon found 
 that, devote myself as I would, the one place 
 must yet remain vacant in her life. Jessie had 
 been her second self, her companion, confidante, 
 sister, friend. She lamented her. with a pas- 
 sionate intensityj of which childhood alone is 
 capable, and, so lamenting, lost sleep, appetite, 
 and strength. In certain imperious natures, 
 sorrow wears the aspect of despair and con- 
 sumes like a wasting fire. So it was with Hilda. 
 She spent her nights in weeping, and her days 
 in a hopeless apathy, from which no effort of 
 ours availed to rouse her. 
 
 Thus brooding away the weary weeks, she 
 grew daily thinner, paler, and more unUke her 
 former self. 
 
 One afternoon, when Miss Whymper had gone 
 away and we were alone in the school-room, my 
 father suddenly came in, followed by a strange 
 gentleman. I was putting away the books, and 
 Hilda . was lying on a couch beside 'the open 
 window, pale and weary, and half-asleep. The 
 gentleman went straight to the couch ; drew a 
 chair quite close beside her ; and said, turning 
 to my father — 
 
 '* This, I presume, Mr. Churchill, is our young 
 friend — our, ahem '.—valetudinarian ?" 
 
 To which my father replied, " Yes, Sir An- 
 drew, the same ;" and sat down likewise. 
 
 Sir Andrew was a bulky man, tall and stout, 
 with a forest of gray hair, a knobby red nose and 
 a voice husky, oleaginous, mellowed by port and 
 maturity, like a Stilton cheese. In the brief si- 
 lence that followed, he brought out a heavy gold 
 snuff-box, and, with much solemnity, partook of 
 three pinches. Presently he laid his hand on 
 Hilda's little wrist, felt her pulse, and nodded to 
 himself several times. 
 
 " Well, Sir Andrew," said my father anxiously, 
 "well?" 
 
 The physician drew a long breath through his 
 teeth, and tapped the lid of the snuff-box with 
 his knuckles. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Churchill," said he deliberately, 
 " we ^ are, ahem ! — debiUtated — considerably 
 debilitated. We evince an absence of that vis 
 anima which is so desirable in youth — our 
 pulse is intermittent — our nerves are unstrung 
 
 — we — in short, we are not absolutely ill ; but 
 
 — but we are by no means absolutely well." 
 
 " And the remedy, sir ?" suggested my father, 
 impatiently. " The remedy." 
 
 " Tonics ; port wine ; change of air ; amuse- 
 ment." 
 
 My father shrugged his shoulders, and clinked 
 the money in his pockets. 
 
 " In point of fact," continued Sir Andrew, 
 reflectively, " I should say — that is, Mr. Church- 
 ill, if I may offer a suggestion ?" 
 
 *' Offer fifty — fifty, if you please. Sir Andrew," 
 said my father. 
 
 " Well, then, I should say that mineral baths 
 
 — Kissengen, for instance, or Ems — Avould do 
 more for our young friend than any course of 
 medical treatment whatever. It is the nervous 
 system that wants bracing, Mr. Churchill — the 
 ner-vous sys-tem." 
 
 Saying which, he closed the snuff-box with a 
 click, glanced again at his watch, patted Hilda 
 patronizingly on the head, and rose to take his 
 leave. 
 
 " Mr. Churchill," said he, " I attend you." 
 
 Whereat my father ceremoniously ushered him 
 from the room, and we heard his boots creak 
 ponderously all the way down-stairs. 
 
 The next morning, when we were summoned, 
 as usual, to the school-room, a letter addressed 
 to Miss Whymper was found lying on the table. 
 I recognized my father's large armorial seal and 
 careless superscription, and, smitten with an 
 ahguished recollection of how and when I had 
 last seen a similar missive, could scarce restrain 
 my tears. I watched her break the seal — I 
 watched her as she read — I translated that al- . 
 most imperceptible expression of surprise and 
 disappointment, and the quick glance which 
 reverted more than once to Hilda's downcast 
 face. 
 
 " Hilda is to be sent away," thought I, sadly ; 
 as Miss Whymper put the letter in her pocket, 
 and said, in the same words that she had used 
 every morning for the last four years — 
 
 " Now young ladies, if you please, we will re- 
 sume our studies." 
 
 I had guessed the truth, though not all the 
 truth ; as I discovered before the day was out 
 Miss Whymper was to be dismissed, and not only 
 was Hilda to be sent away for change of air, but 
 I was to be sent with her. Our destination 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 49 
 
 was not yet decided upon ; but that it would be 
 somewhere abroad was certain. In the mean 
 time my father had set inquiries afoot, and au- 
 thorized Goody to make active preparations for 
 our departure. Hilda received this news with 
 indifference — I, with mingled pain and pleas- 
 ure — Goody, with unspeakable despair. 
 
 " Was it not enough," said she, twenty times 
 a day, " was it not enough to lose one of my 
 darlings, and must I now be parted from the 
 two that are left ? May be I shall never live to 
 see either of you again, and, sure, if you were 
 my own flesh and blood, I couldn't love you 
 more !" 
 
 In reply to which, I consoled her as well as I 
 could, and promised never to forget her, though 
 I should be a dozen years away. 
 
 Thus many days went by, and the routine of 
 our life was interrupted by all kinds of novel 
 cares and occupations. Our wardrobes, ;syhich 
 were always scanty enough, had to be almost 
 entirely renewed ; and two young women were 
 kept constantly at work in an upper room, mak- 
 ing cloaks, dresses, and other necessaries, all of 
 which had, every now and then, to be fitted, 
 and made the subject of discussion. Our stud- 
 ies, at the same time, were no longer enforced 
 with their accustomed regularity, and, at the ex- 
 piration of a week or so, Miss Whymper took her 
 final leave. We were called down, I remember, 
 to papa's room, to bid her good-by. Although it 
 was now mid-summer and there was no fire, my 
 father was standing, as usual, in the middle of 
 the rug, with his back to the grate. Miss 
 Whymper was consigning some three or four 
 crisp bank-notes to the capacious recesses of a 
 large red pocket-book. 
 
 " I have been careful, madam," said my 
 father, with that air of magnificent politeness 
 which he assumed at pleasure, " to keep a mem- 
 orandum of the numbers of the notes. You 
 will, therefore, apply to me, in case of acci- 
 dent." 
 
 Miss Whymper, with her head on one side, 
 thanked Mr. Churchill for his " courteous con- 
 sideration." 
 
 "And should any thing occur to frustrate the 
 success of those views which I at present en- 
 tertain with regard to the education of my 
 daughters," continued he, " I trust that I may 
 again be so fortunate, madam, as to secure your 
 invaluable cooperation." 
 
 Miss Whymper replied by a profound court- 
 esy. 
 
 " At the close of a connection," said she, 
 *' which I think I may, without undue temerity, 
 characterize as unusually productive of satisfac- 
 tion to all parties concerned — may I say to all 
 parties, Mr. Churchill ?" 
 
 " Madam," replied my father, with a glance 
 at his watch, " you may." 
 
 "And which," pursued Miss Whymper, all 
 on one subdued note, and as if she were re- 
 
 f (eating every word by heart, "has afforded me 
 rom first to last such a degree of interest as I 
 do not remember to have ever previously en- 
 tertained throughout the course of a long edu- 
 cational experience — at the close, I beg to re- 
 peat, of so agreeable an intercourse, have I 
 Mr. Churchill's permission to present my dear 
 young friends with these trifling evidences of 
 my regard ?" 
 
 Saying which, she produced two very small 
 books from the depths of her reticule ; while my 
 father, more grandly than ever, protested that 
 she did us both infinite honor, and desired us to 
 thank Miss Whymper for her kindness. Where- . 
 at Miss Whymper bestowed on Hilda a frosty 
 kiss, and a copy of Joyce's " Scientific Dia- 
 logues;" on me a still frostier kiss, and Mrs. 
 Marcet's " Conversations on Chemistry ;" hoped 
 that we might be industrious and happy, and 
 that neither our morals nor our digestive organs 
 might be injuriously affected by foreign in- 
 fluences ; and so, being moved to an unusual 
 display of emotion, applied the corner of her 
 pocket handkerchief to her left eye, and wiped 
 away an imaginary tear. My father than rang 
 the bell ; accompanied her as far as the study- 
 door ; bowed his stateliest bow ; wished her 
 " a very good morning;" and so she followed 
 Goody down the stairs, and we saw Miss Whym- 
 per no more. 
 
 Our fate was decided by a foreign letter which 
 arrived the next morning. We were to be re-, 
 ceived in a large collegiate school at Zollenstrasse, 
 and were to start in two days, so as to arrive at 
 the beginning of the July term. Except the 
 Zollenstrasse was somewhere in Germany, and 
 that Germany, though it seemed near enough on 
 the map, lay a long way off across the sea, I 
 knew nothing further of our destination. 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 Y LAND AND SEA. 
 
 My father went with us himself the morning 
 of our departure, and put us on board the 
 steamer by which we were to be conveyed from 
 London to Rotterdam. The bridges, quays, and 
 floating piers were all alive with traffic. The 
 deck of the steamer swarmed with seamen, * 
 travelers, and porters. Having seen our lug- 
 gage safely stowed, and ascertained the situation 
 of our berths, my father handed us over to the 
 care of the captain, who not only promised us 
 his special protection during the voyage, but 
 engaged, on landing, to consign us to the care 
 of one Jonathan Rose, Esq., a merchant of Rot- 
 terdam with whom my father was acquainted, 
 and to whom we carried a letter of introduction. 
 Presently the bell rang, and warned those who 
 were not passengers to leave the vessel. My 
 father took Hilda's hands in both of his, and, 
 kissing her first on the forehead and then on 
 the mouth, bade her get well, be happy, and 
 profit by her instructors. To me he only said, 
 "Good-by, Barbara," touched my cheek cold- 
 ly with his lips, turned away, and hastened on 
 shore. Then the gangway was removed ; the 
 moorings were loosened; the steamer heaved 
 slowly round ; the quays and bystanders seemed 
 to recede behind us ; and away we went, past 
 the Custom-house and the Tower, and the crowd- 
 ed masts, which clustered, like a forest of bare 
 larches, down the midpath of the river. 
 
 The day was fine, and for some hours we en- 
 joyed it intensely. The passengers were all 
 kind to us. Some of the ladies gave us fruit 
 and cakes ; the gentlemen told us the names of 
 the places that we passed ; and the Captain, 
 every now and then, came up and asked us if 
 
50 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 we meant to be hungry by dinner-time. Toward 
 noon, we passed the red lighthouse at the Nore, 
 and stood out to sea. The steamer now began 
 to roll ; the seagulls darted to and fro ; and 
 % WQ saw a shoal of porpoises tumbling on 
 the waves, about half a mile ahead. With 
 these sights we were more amused than ever ; 
 till presently we both turned ill and giddy, and 
 were glad to be carried down to our little nar- 
 row beds. Of this part of the journey I remem- 
 ber only that I lay with closed eyes, and felt 
 more sick and miserable than I had ever felt 
 before — that, in the midst of my suffering, I 
 strove every now and then to say a consoling 
 word to Hilda, which only made me feel worse — 
 that the day seemed as long as ten, and was fol- 
 lowed by a weary night, lit by a swinging lamp, 
 and traversed by hideous dreams and semi-con- 
 scious wakings — that the morning dawned 
 grayly, and that, by and by, somebody bade me 
 try to get up, for we were in smooth water 
 again. We then got up, looking both very pale, 
 and ventured on deck to breathe the fresh air, 
 and have a peep at Rotterdam, 
 
 The passengers were all claiming their luggage, 
 and the boat was crowded with foreign porters 
 who wore ear-rings and red caps, and gabbled a 
 strange guttural language that I had never heard 
 before. Close beside us lay the great quays 
 bordered with trees and lofty houses ; laden with 
 bales of goods ; and swarming with sailors of 
 all nations. Beyond us stretched the broad 
 river, crowded with merchant vessels ; and all 
 along the banks, as far as one could see, an end- 
 less perspective of warehouses, cranes, masts, 
 and tapering steeples. The strangeness of this 
 scene, and the confusion of tongues, made me 
 so nervous, and filled me with such a desolate 
 sense of exile, that when a little old gentleman 
 presently came up with an account book in his 
 hand, and a pen behind his ear, and asked if 
 ^ we were not going to land with the rest, I could 
 with difficulty frame an intelhgible answer. He 
 then looked at the address upon our boxes, 
 
 " Zollenstrasse !" he exclaimed. " ZoUen- 
 strasse am Main ! Why, that is a long way 
 from here, little travelers ! Who is to take 
 care of you across the country ?" 
 
 I shook my head, and said I did not know. 
 
 " And what shall you do when you get there ? 
 Have you friends in the Duchy ?" 
 
 Hilda tossed back her curls, and lifted her 
 dark eyes to his face. 
 
 " We are going to College," she said, proudly. 
 
 " Poor children ! Have you no parents, that 
 you should be sent so far from home ?" 
 
 " We have a papa," replied Hilda, 
 
 The stranger shrugged his shoulders compas- 
 sionately, 
 
 " How strange !" he murmured, " Had my 
 children lived I could never have parted from 
 them ; and yet this man trusts his little girls " 
 
 " Papa is not a man," interrupted Hilda in- 
 dignantly, " He is a gentleman." 
 
 The stranger, with a melancholy smile, sat 
 down on one of the boxes, and took her 
 unwilling hand in his. 
 
 " Just what I should have supposed, my 
 dear," he replied, " What is your father's 
 name ?" 
 
 " Edmund Churchill, Esquire," 
 
 " Churchill !" he repeated, " Edmund Church- 
 
 ill !" and so with a look of some surprise, took 
 a book from his pocket, and began hastily 
 turning over the leaves. Stopping presently, 
 with his finger on one particular entry, he 
 said — 
 
 " I know your father — at least, I know a Mr. 
 Edmund Churchill, of London," 
 
 "Then perhaps you know Mr, Jonathan 
 Bose ?" I interposed eagerly, 
 
 " I believe I do. What of him ?" 
 
 " Only that we are to give him this letter ; 
 and the Captain has promised to take us to his 
 house by and by," 
 
 Our new friend put out his hand for the letter, 
 and broke the seal, 
 
 " The Captain may spare himself that trouble," 
 he said, " I am Jonathan Bose." 
 
 Before we had well recovered the surprise of 
 this encounter, he had glanced rapidly through 
 the contents of the missive, thrust it into his 
 pocket, and darted off in search of the Captain. 
 
 A huge porter then shouldered our boxes ; 
 and Mr, Jonathan Bose, who was quite breath- 
 less with excitement, gave a hand to each, and 
 hurried us along the quays. He was delighted 
 to have charge of us, and said so repeatedly as 
 we went along ; interspesring his conversation, 
 at the same time, with scraps of information 
 respecting himself, his household, and the 
 places we were passing on the way. 
 
 " This river," said he, *' is the Maas — my 
 house lies yonder, just beside that large India 
 vessel which you see unlading farther on. This 
 building belongs to the East India Company. 
 I wish you could stay with me for a week, my 
 dears, that I might show you all the sights of 
 Rotterdam ; but your father desires me to see 
 you off again to-morrow morning. Well, well, 
 this afternoon, at least, we can take a walk and 
 see something of the city. I'll be sworn you 
 never saw so many bridges in one place before, 
 did you ? How pleased Gretchen will be ! 
 Gretchen is my housekeeper; and the best 
 creature in the world. You will not understand 
 a word she says ; but you will be capital friends, 
 nevertheless. This walk along the quays is 
 called the Boompjes ; which means Hhe little 
 trees.'* They may have been little when they 
 first got that name ; but they are very big trees 
 now, anyhow," 
 
 Chatting thus, he went on to say that, though 
 a Dutchman by birth, he was English by educa- 
 tion ; that he had been for many years a widow- 
 er, and had lost two little daughters whom he 
 dearly loved ; that he delighted in the society of 
 the young ; and that the pleasure with which he 
 received us was only diminished by the know-: 
 ledge that we must leave so soon. 
 
 Being now arrived in front of a large house 
 with a great deal of wood carving about the 
 doors and windows, Mr, Bose ushered us into a 
 little dark office, with rows of ledgers all round 
 the walls, and a desk beside the window. He 
 rang the bell, and a fat old woman, with a mob 
 cap, and a plate of gilt metal on her forehead, 
 came bustling in ; embraced us rapturously, and 
 took us up-stairs to breakfast. The breakfast 
 was laid in a quaint paneled room with a pol- 
 ished floor, upon which we were not allowed to 
 walk till we had exchanged our dusty shoes for 
 some huge list slippers which lay outside the 
 door. After breakfast, Mr. Bose took us for a 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 61 
 
 walk ; and a most perplexing walk it was, 
 through labyrinths of streets, over scores of 
 drawbridges, and beside innumerable canals ; 
 all of which were alike shaded by trees, crowded, 
 with vessels, and swarming with sailors. In the 
 afternoon we came back, very tired and hungry ; 
 and at dinner had thin soup, and sour cabbages, 
 and jam with our meat, none of which we liked 
 at all, though we were too pohte to say so. 
 After dinner, our host went out again, and 
 Gretchen was left to entertain us till evening ; 
 when we had tea and chatted by twilight, while 
 Mr. Bose smoked his pipe, and drank Schiedam 
 and Seltzer water. 
 
 I cannot recall the substance of our conversa- 
 tion, for I was tired and dreamy, and he spoke 
 more to Hilda than to me ; but I remember 
 how I sat looking at him by the fading light, 
 reading every line and lineament of his faQ©-, and 
 photographing his portrait on my memory. I 
 see him now — a little spare figure, with scant 
 gray locks, and an eye blue, benevolent, and 
 bright as day. "A man of God's making," 
 with goodness and sorrow written legibly on his 
 brow. When we wished him good-night, he 
 kissed us both and bade us sleep well, for we 
 must rise with the sun to resume our journey. 
 And we did sleep well, sinking deeply down 
 between ftie fragrant sheets, and lulled by the 
 murmuring sounds that rose from quay and 
 river. 
 
 With the first blush of early morning came 
 Gretchen to wake us, and long before the people 
 of Rotterdam were stirring we had bidden 
 adieu to the stout old hand-maiden and the 
 quaint house on the Boompjes, and were 
 shivering on board a steamer which was to 
 convey us to Mayence. 
 
 " I only wish I could spare time to go with 
 you, my children," said Mr. Bose, as the last 
 passengers came hurrying on deck. " However, 
 you will be taken good care of all the way. I 
 have paid for every thing in advance, and the 
 steward of this boat engages to see you off" by 
 the diligence when your water journey is ended. 
 In the mean time, I will write to your father. 
 God bless you both, and good-by. I must go 
 now, or they will carry me down the river 
 before I know where I am !" 
 
 He then kissed us many times, gave me a 
 paper which secured our places as far as the 
 steamer could take us ; and so, with glistening 
 eyes, bade us a last farewell, and went away. 
 
 What with Hilda's continued weakness and 
 fretfulness, the discomfort of living daily 
 amongst strangers, and the exceeding dullness of 
 the scenery, the journey was dreary enough. 
 The travelers were mostly Dutch, and took but 
 little notice of us ; and, for the first two days 
 at least, our journey lay between poplar-border- 
 ed dykes and dreary flats, with now and then a 
 windmill to break the dull monotony of land 
 and sky. That this river could be the Rhine, 
 the beautiful, romantic, castled Rhine, of which 
 I had read so much, and of which Hugh Farqu- 
 har had told me so many tales and legends, 
 seemed impossible. 
 
 On the third day, I began to believe it. Past 
 Cologne, the scenery became beautiful, and for 
 the first time I beheld mountains, vineyards, and 
 ivied ruins. Then a number of French and 
 English tourists, and a band of itinerant musi- 
 cians arrived on board ; and, as it was very 
 
 warm and fine, the tables were laid on deck, 
 and we dined in the open air. All this was 
 novel and exhilarating, and the hours flew so 
 quickly that the summer dusk came on only too 
 soon, and we landed, quite unwillingly, at 
 Coblentz for the night. 
 
 The perpetual traveling, however, now began 
 to tell upon us, and although the weather was 
 even brighter, and the course of the river more 
 lovely than ever, we were so wearied when the 
 fourth day came that we could not half enjoy 
 the wonders of the journey. Landing late in 
 the afternoon opposite Mayence, we found that 
 the diligence had started hours ago ; so the. 
 steward took us to a quiet inn close by, where 
 we supped at a long table with a number of 
 other people, and slept in a bedroom overlook- 
 ing the river. 
 
 The next morning we were on the road 
 betimes, occupying two opposite comers in a 
 huge unwieldy diligence full of bearded travel- 
 ers, none of whom spoke a word of English. 
 About midday we alighted at a dirty inn in a 
 dirty village, and dined miserably. Then on 
 again for hours and hours, past woods, and 
 mountains, and picturesque hamlets lying low in 
 green valleys, where sometimes the road ran for 
 miles together beside the eager and beautiful 
 Main river. Toward evening we stopped at a 
 little wayside building with a flag before the 
 door, where our passports and luggage were 
 examined by three or four soldiers in faded 
 uniforms of blue and silver. About half an 
 hour after this, we turned the shoulder of a hill 
 and came suddenly in sight of a pretty town 
 with steeples and towers, and white houses, and 
 a quaint old bridge of boats. It was just dusk 
 — dusk enough to show the lighted oriel in the 
 Cathedral, and yet not so dusk as to vail the 
 outlines of the hills, or the gleaming of the 
 river. The road wound downward to the town, 
 bordered on either side by a double avenue of 
 gigantic poplars. At the foot of this avenue 
 stood a great hotel, before the door of which 
 the diligence drew up. Then a waiter came 
 running out ; the conductor flung our boxes on 
 the pavement ; the passengers gesticulated ; 
 and from half-a-dozen mouths together I heard 
 the welcome name of " Zollenstrasse — Zollen- 
 strasse-am-Main !" 
 
 We had no sooner alighted than the diligence 
 rolled rapidly away, and left us standing face to 
 face with the bowing waiter, who smiled, nodded, 
 examined the address upon our luggage, darted 
 back into the hotel, and presently returned with 
 a man in a blue and silver livery, who put our 
 boxes on a truck, and led the way. We follow- 
 ed him down a narrow side-road bordered with 
 trees, and stopped before a huge wooden gate 
 with two enormous knockers, and a lamp over- 
 head. This gate was opened by a porter in the 
 same livery, who preceded us across the court- 
 yard, up a lofty flight of steps, and into a large 
 parlor, where an elderly lady and eight young 
 girls were sitting at needlework. The lady rose, 
 extended a hand to each, and kissed ua both 
 upon the forehead. 
 
 " Welcome," said she, in good English, " wel- 
 come, my dear children, to your new home. 
 Try to like it and to be happy with us, and we 
 shall all love you." 
 
 She then made a sign to the rest, who im- 
 mediately surrounded us. Some shook hands 
 
52 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 with us ; some kissed us on the cheeks ; some 
 disembarrassed us of our cloaks and bonnets ; 
 and all had a kind word or two of broken 
 English to bid us welcome — all, except one shy 
 little dark maiden, who whispered " willkom- 
 men," in my ear, and then, blushing and laugh- 
 ing, ran away. 
 
 " Your names, I think," said the lady, refer- 
 ring to a letter which she took from the pocket' 
 of her apron, " are Barbara and Hilda Churchill, 
 Now you must tell me which is Barbara, and 
 which Hilda, that I may know how to call you." 
 " I am Hilda," said my sister, " and I am 
 called Miss Churchill, because I am the eldest." 
 The lady smiled gravely. 
 " We have no Misses here," said she, " and no 
 distinctions of age. Your companions call each 
 other by their baptismal names, and it is our 
 rule to recognize no superiority but that of 
 merit. As for myself, I am the superintendent 
 of this Academy, and you will call me Madame 
 Brenner. But I daresay you are tired and 
 hungry after your day's journey. Annchen, see 
 if supper be ready." 
 
 Annchen courtesied and left the room, while 
 Madame Brenner resumed her seat, and con- 
 tinued to address us. 
 
 " At present," said she, " our numbers are 
 few ; for the half-yearly term only commenced 
 yesterday, and our students rarely assemble un- 
 der a week. However, we shall have more ar- 
 rivals to-morrow ; and by Sunday our society, I 
 daresay, will be complete. But here comes 
 Annchen, telling us that supper is ready." 
 
 So saying she took me by the hand, left Hilda 
 to follow with Annchen and the rest, and led 
 the way into an adjoining room where there was 
 a long table laid for supper. The meal was 
 plain, but abundant, and consisted of soup, eggs, 
 rice-puddings, coffee, cream-cheese, brown bread 
 and salad. This over, we returned to the par- 
 lor, and one of the scholars read prayers aloud 
 in German. When we rose from our knees, 
 each scholar went up to Madame Brenner in 
 turn and bade her good night; but when we 
 followed their example, she shook her head, and 
 said — 
 
 " To-night I will go with you, and show you 
 where you are to sleep." 
 
 We followed her through a long corridor with 
 a row of doors on one side and windows on the 
 otiier. 
 
 " This," said Madame Brenner, " is one of 
 our four dormitories. It contains six rooms, and 
 in each room six students sleep. Every door 
 is numbered, and your door is number five. 
 Annchen and Luisa are at present your only 
 companions ; but as soon as the rest arrive, 
 each bed will have its occupant. Bo you like 
 your room ?" 
 
 It was a pretty, conventual, white-washed 
 diamber, containing six little beds with white 
 hangings, six rush-bottomed chairs, three 
 large deal presses, and iio carpet. It looked 
 ciieerful and airy, nothwithstanding its sim- 
 plicity, and we both liked it at a glance. 
 
 Madame Brenner then bade us good night, 
 Mid our companions assisted us to open our 
 trunks, showed us in which press to keep our 
 dothes, helped us to undress, and made as 
 much of us as if we had been long-expected 
 guests. 
 
 " You shall have my bed, Barbara, if you 
 like it best," said Annchen. " It is next the 
 window, and overlooks the garden." 
 
 " In that case," cried Luisa, " I shall sleep 
 next to Hilda, and that will be delightful ! 
 Hilda and I must be great friends. I am so 
 fond of the English ! There was an English 
 girl here last year, and we were the fastest 
 friends in the world. She gave me this locket 
 with her hair in it ; but she only wrote to me 
 me once after she left, and I fear she has for- 
 gotten me. And so you have come all this way, 
 and have crossed the sea ! Ah, how I should 
 like to travel ! I have never seen the sea. I 
 come from Mulhouse, which is only a day's jour- 
 ney ; and yet that is the longest distance I have 
 ever traveled." 
 
 " You speak English very well," I observed, 
 sleepily. 
 
 " Speak English ! I should think so, indeed ! 
 You will not be surprised at it when you have 
 been here a few days, and have seen what our 
 English classes are. Such tasks as we have to 
 learn ! Such themes, and dictations, and tire- 
 some rules ! Mein Gott ! we are martyrs to 
 English, and are never allowed to speak German 
 except in the hours of recreation ! And there 
 is Madame Thompson, our English gouvernante ! 
 — Oh, Annchen, how Hilda and Barbara will be 
 amused with Madame Thompson !" 
 
 " Madame Thompson is very good-natured," 
 said Annchen, quietly. 
 
 " And then there is Monsieur Duvemoy, our 
 French tutor, and we have two French govern- 
 esses besides, and such lots of other professors 
 for music, drawing, Italian, natural philosophy, 
 elocution, and Heaven knows what beside ! 
 Have you been to school before ? No ! Ah, 
 then, you have no idea of what hard work it 
 is ; and this is not a school, you know, but a 
 College." 
 
 "What is the difference?" asked Hilda, 
 sitting up in bed, and looking considerably 
 dismayed at the prospect disclosed by her talk- 
 ative neighbor. 
 
 " The difference ? Oh, the difference is enor- 
 mous I In the first place, this is a government 
 establishment, founded and endowed ; and there 
 are upward of seventy students, thirty of 
 whom pay nothing, but are taught for charity, 
 and elected every five years. Then we have 
 examinations twice a year ; and when we leave 
 College we take home a certificate signed by 
 the Grand Duke himself And we learn in 
 terms; and we call our holidays vacations; and 
 our dining-room a refectory ; and our teachers 
 are never masters or governesses, but always 
 professors. Oh, a College is a Very grand place, 
 I assure you, compared with a school ; but one 
 has to work like a slave for the honor of being 
 brought up in it !" 
 
 " I think I would rather have been sent to 
 school, though," said Hilda, dolefully. 
 
 Of this observation, however, Luisa took no 
 notice ; but kept running on long after Annchen 
 had put out the light, and I had grown too 
 sleepy to listen. 
 
 " Silver medal — half-hohday — breakfast — 
 milk and water — Madame Brenner — counter 
 
 point — perspective ' ' 
 
 These were the last words I heard, sinking, 
 sinking away into the ocean of dreams. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 53 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ZOLLENSTRASSE-AM-MAIN. 
 
 It is not my intention to dwell at any con- 
 siderable length upon the first years of my Col- 
 lege life. I have already lingered too long and 
 too fondly over these early reminiscences, and 
 I must now content myself with an outline of 
 that pleasant interval which links childhood to 
 youth, and youth to womanhood — which stores 
 the mind with knowledge, and the heart with all 
 good impulses — which touches already on the 
 confines of Romance, and yet leaves the poem 
 of life unwritten and untold. It will bear to be 
 related rapidly. The sketch of a month, a week, 
 a day, would suffice to paint the pleasant monot- 
 ony of years which so nearly resemble each 
 other. Be this chapter devoted, then, to an '* ab- 
 stract and brief chronicle" of our occu^tiona 
 and way of life abroad ; and also of the domin- 
 ions, the capital, and the Collegiate academy in 
 which it had pleased fate .and my father to es- 
 tablish us. 
 
 Situated in the very heart of Central Germany, 
 traversed by a broad and beautiful river, and 
 celebrated alike for its scenery and its mineral 
 waters, the Grand Duchy of ZoUenstrasse-am- 
 Main occupies but a very small space upon the 
 map, and only half a page of Murray's Conti- 
 nental Handbook. The truth is that the whole 
 territory covers an area of only eighty square 
 miles ; that the population numbers somewhat 
 less than eleven thousand souls ; that the cap- 
 ital consists of a square and two streets, chiefly 
 hotels and lodging-houses ; and that but for the 
 influx of visitors every summer and autumn, the 
 inhabitants would long ago have died of inani- 
 tion and become an extinct species. Under 
 these circumstances, the court of ZoUenstrasse 
 can hardly be expected to exercise much influ- 
 ence upon the affairs of Europe, or, even in its 
 matrimonial alliances, materially to affect the 
 balance of power. And yet the Grand Duchy 
 is a real Grand Duchy ; and the Grand Duke is 
 a real Grand Duke ; and the comfortable white 
 house in which he lives is called The Palace ; and 
 the two httle soldiers who walk up and down 
 before the door all day long are privates in that 
 shabby regiment of which His Serene Highness 
 is so proud, and which the townspeople, with 
 pardonable patriotism, style the Military Estab- 
 lishment of the State. Besides this, the Duchy 
 has its national coinage, stamped with a profile 
 of Leopold XVIII., Dux Zoll : on one side, 
 and the Ducal arms on the other ; and its na- 
 tional costume, which is horribly unbecoming ; 
 and its national dialect, upon which the Zollen- 
 strassers pique themselves more than enough, to 
 the infinite amusement of their neighbors. 
 
 ZoUenstrasse, the capital, consists, as I have 
 already observed, chiefly of lodging-houses, the 
 largest of which, however, belongs to no less a 
 landlord than His Serene Highness himself. It 
 was formerly one of the royal residences ; but is 
 now let out in suites, and is by far the most rea- 
 sonable and best appointed establishment in the 
 town. The fact is humiliating ; but the Duke 
 is poor and the speculation profitable. The 
 other principal buildings are the Pump-room, 
 Bath-house, Conversation Haus, Palace, Theater, 
 and Collegiate Academy. The Pump-room, or 
 
 Trinkhalle, is an open colonnade painted gaudi- 
 ly in fresco, and provided with a chalybeate tap 
 at either end. The Brunnen Madchen are pretty 
 and obliging. The waters taste like hot ink and 
 lucifer matches. The Conversation Haus is a 
 superb building, containing news-rooms, gaming- 
 rooms, and a large hall which serves for balls 
 and concerts. It was built by the present Duke, 
 and is by him let to a company of French spec- 
 ulators at a round rental of sixty thousand dol- 
 lars per annum. All things considered. His 
 Serene Highness is not, perhaps, quite so needy 
 as one might suppose. He has many little per- 
 quisites, besides those already enumerated. He 
 taxes the hotel-keepers, th^ visitors, and the itin- 
 erant dealers in stag's-horn brooches and Swiss 
 carvings. He levies an impost upon pleasure- 
 boats, omnibuses, and donkeys. He regulates 
 the tariff for ices, coffee, and Strasbourg beer. 
 He claims a per-centage on the sale of guide- 
 books and newspapers ; and exacts a dividend 
 out of the visitors' washing-bills. Then all the 
 flys and saddle-horses belong to him ; and the 
 theater is his property; and the Bath-house 
 was his father's private speculation; so that, 
 concisely to sum up the sources of the Grand 
 Ducal revenue. His Serene Highness is lodging- 
 house keeper, theatrical manager, job-master, 
 bath-owner, landlord of gambling-houses, and 
 general tax-collector to the state. You would 
 never think this to look at him. At least, you 
 would not have thought it had you looked at him 
 so nearly and so often as I did, and seen what a 
 fine, handsome, polite gentleman he was, with a 
 ribbon in his button-hole, and a cream-colored 
 moustache that hung over his mouth like a fringe 
 of spun silk. He used to ride and drive about 
 quite unattended, and walk in the public gardens 
 after dinner with his two little boys, Uke a mere 
 ordinary mortal, and many a time, when the 
 French company came down and Madame Bren- 
 ner took a select detachment of her scholars to 
 the theater to witness a piece of Racine or 
 Moliere, I have seen his august Highness ap- 
 plauding with his own royal hands ; or, like an 
 affable potentate as he was, leaning back in his 
 seat, and laughing till the tears ran down his 
 cheeks. The theater, I should observe, was 
 always over at nine ; and the ladies in the boxes 
 wore their bonnets, and took their knitting with 
 them. \ 
 
 Then the Grand Duke was an amateur com- 
 poser, and wrote classical cantatas which were 
 performed by the pupils of our academy ; and he 
 played the violin, it was said, to admiration ; and 
 he turned the most exquisite little boxes in ivory 
 for all his royal nieces and cousins, down to those 
 of Saxe-Hohenhausen in the fortieth degree ; and 
 he painted in oils ; and he wrote poetry ; and at 
 his chateau of Schwartzberg, a romantic old 
 hunting-lodge about two miles from the capital, 
 he kept a preserve of tame wild-boars, for the 
 express purpose of getting up boar-hunts by 
 torchlight, for the amusement of those distin- 
 guished visitors who came to stay with Jtiim in 
 the season. So his tastes, you see, were in the 
 highest degree refined, and one was only sur- 
 prised to think bow little they interfered with 
 his duties as a sovereign and a tradesman. 
 
 His duties as a sovereign, however, were not 
 onerous ; but consisted chiefly of a due super- 
 vision of the perquisites before mentioned, and 
 
 / / 
 
•54 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 the expenditure of the same. He held a privy- 
 council every morning after breakfast, and a 
 levee once a month. He reviewed the Military 
 Establishment of the State every two or three 
 days ; and, as President of our Academy, hon- 
 ored the Examinations with his presence at the 
 close of each term. On court-days a flag was 
 hoisted at the palace ; the sentries were doubled ; 
 and the band played for an extra hour in the 
 public garden. I remember now, as well as 
 possible, how we school-girls were amused to 
 see the ladies picking their way across the 
 square in their court-dresses, with their maid- 
 servants and umbrellas — how we used to make 
 bets beforehand as to who would walk and who 
 would hire a fly, and how many families would 
 borrow the Grafin von Steinmetz's old yellow 
 landau — how daring our remarks were when 
 Herr Secretary Ungar went by, because he was 
 stone-deaf, and could not hear a word we said — 
 and what fun we made of General Schinkel's 
 pigtail, and the Town-Councillors' legs. 
 
 It at first surprised me to learn how strictly 
 these little courts were confined to the nobles 
 and dignitaries of ZoUenstrasse proper, and how 
 rigidly the etiquette was kept up with regard to 
 strangers. No foreigner could be presented 
 unless he brought proof that he had been pre- 
 sented at home ; and not even a German baron 
 from a neighboring state was received without 
 first submitting his credentials to a privy-coun- 
 cillor. I own that I laughed at this for a long 
 time, and thought it preposterous that an Eng- 
 lish commoner whose income numbered thou- 
 sands when that of His Highness numbered tens, 
 and whose house and gardens were probably as 
 large as all the houses and gardens in the Duchy 
 of ZoUenstrasse put together, should be excluded 
 from the honors of a Ducal levee simply because 
 he had never kissed hands at St. James's ; but 
 as I grew older I discovered the wisdom of this 
 arrangement, and found that, after all, the pre- 
 cautions of the Zollenstrassers were not quite 
 misplaced. The fact was that our annual visit- 
 ors were of a very miscellaneous description. 
 They came and went like the swallows ; with 
 this difference, that, instead of seeking a warm- 
 er clime, they frequently came from one which 
 was already too hot to hold them. How was 
 pne to know who they were, whence they came, 
 or whither they were going ? How guess the 
 antecedents of those elegant ladies who drank 
 the waters in the morning ; ate ices all day long 
 in the pubhc garden ; and staked their five-franc 
 pieces at the roulette-tables every evening? 
 That French exquisite who calls himself a mar- 
 quis and wears a diamond as large as a three- 
 penny piece, is perhaps a convicted forger, with 
 T. F: branded on his shoulder. That gallant 
 English tourist with the military frock, may be 
 a blackleg. That wealthy capitalist who has hired 
 the best suite at the best hotel, a fraudulent bank- 
 rupt. To speak truth, a gaming spa offers many 
 inducements to the equivocal of both sexes ; 
 and though his Serene Highness, Leopold XVIII., 
 did condescend to provide the tables, furnish the 
 lodgings, and accept the profits, he had no re- 
 source but to turn his august back upon those 
 visitors by whom he lived. 
 
 But it is time that I said something of our 
 own way of life, and of the establishment where- 
 of we were members. 
 
 Excepting only the Conversation Haus, our 
 Collegiate Academy was the handsomest build- 
 ing in the little capital of Zol!enstrasse-am-Main. 
 The house was large and imposing ; and, with its 
 long wings, occupied three sides of a spacious 
 courtyard. It contained a concert-room, a library, 
 eight class-rooms, two large dining-halls, apart- 
 ments for the resident professors, dormitories for 
 sixty scholars, a board room, and extensive of- 
 fices. At the back of the Academy lay an ex- 
 tensive kitchen-garden; and to the left of the 
 garden, a playground and gymnasium. The 
 number of residents, exclusive of teachers and 
 servants, was limited to sixty ; thirty of whom 
 were boys, and thirty girls. Fifteen of each sex 
 were admitted on the foundation. Out-pupils 
 were also received to the number of sixty more ; 
 but these attended daily, made their payments 
 half-yearly, and were neither permitted to dine at 
 our tables, nor join us in our hours of recreation. 
 A comfortable waiting-room was placed, how- 
 ever, at their disposal, where they could read, 
 work, or practice ; and those who came from a 
 distance were allowed to have refreshments sent 
 in from a Gasthof in the Theater-platz. The in- 
 terior arrangements of the Academy were per- 
 fect. The male and female pupils were kept as 
 thoroughly apart as if they had not been resident 
 under the one roof. We had our separate class- 
 rooms, dining-rooms, and occupations ; and, save 
 at the half-yearly /(?^es, the concerts, the exam- 
 inations, or the chapel on Sundays, never ex- 
 changed so much as a glance. Fdr the mainte- 
 nance of order and discipline we were also well 
 provided. A matron attended to the housekeep- 
 ing, and Madame Brenner had the supervision 
 of all matters connected with the education and 
 comfort of the female students. A president and 
 master-librarian exercised supreme authority 
 over the boys. The commissariat was liberal ; 
 a medical officer resided in the house ; and six 
 women-servants and two men were kept, besides 
 the porter at the gate. These, with four resi- 
 dent professors, constituted the whole staff, and a 
 highly efficient staff it was. 
 
 As for the education afforded by this institu- 
 tion, I can not better explain its aim and nature 
 than by stating at once that it was essentially a 
 school of art, devoted to the cultivation of native 
 talent and regulated upon principles which sub- 
 ordinated all minor considerations to this one 
 great object. Thus the free scholars were all 
 brought up to the pursuit of either music, sculp- 
 ture, or painting ; and even those students whose 
 means enabled them to dispense with a profes- 
 sion, were compelled, in like manner, to conform 
 to the academic rules, and select some leading 
 study. The head masters of each department re- 
 sided in the house, and the rest of the teachers at- 
 tended daily. Every year six advanced students 
 of each sex wei'e elected as monitors, whereupon 
 it became their duty to overlook the studies of the 
 rest ; and, though none but Germans were admit- 
 ted to the privileges of the gratuitous education, 
 foreigners who were willing to pay for their in- 
 struction were not excluded. There were limit- 
 ations, however, to both of these laws. No 
 German who was a subject of either Austria or 
 R-ussia could, under any circumstances, be eligi- 
 ble as a free scholar ; and this because Austria 
 and Prussia were judged sufficiently rich and 
 powerful to cultivate the fine arts for themselves. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 55 
 
 Neither could any foreign applicant be received 
 on paying terms, so long as there were native 
 applicants of equal merit in the field. 
 
 This being the case, it was quite a rare and 
 fortunate chance that Hilda and I should have 
 succeeded so easily. 
 
 I have already said that the Grand Duke was 
 our patron and perpetual president ; but we also 
 had honorary members and subscribers among 
 most of the crowned heads and nobles of the 
 German Confederation. We held yearly exhibi- 
 tions, and concerts during the season ; and be- 
 sides the ordinary examinations at the close of 
 every term, we had a grand triennial Competi- 
 tion, to which art-professors and amateurs from 
 every quarter were invited. A committee of 
 judgment was then formed ; medals were distrib- 
 uted ; and to those pupils whose term of study 
 had expired, certificates of merit were deljyered. 
 Taken as a whole, I doubt if there be in all 
 Europe an educational institute so methodically 
 conducted, and so thoroughly repaying in its re- 
 sults as this Collegiate Academy which lies perdu 
 in the heart of a remote German state, scarcely 
 known even by name beyond the confines of 
 the Rhine and Elbe ; but destined some day to 
 be famed in the fame of its disciples. May all 
 prosperity and all honor be with it ; and may 
 other nations take example by it ! Methinks 
 there are one or two institutions in my native 
 country, and, perhaps, one or two more in the 
 gayest of neighboring capitals, which might with 
 advantage be remodeled on the principles of our 
 Zollenstrasse School of Art. 
 
 It was not long before I fell in with the pre- 
 scribed routine, and became thoroughly at home 
 and happy in my student-life. I liked my teachers, 
 my friendly school companions, and the pleas- 
 ant regularity of hours and occupations. Natural- 
 ly eager for knowledge, I derived inexpressible 
 satisfaction from the consciousness of daily im- 
 provement. To wake in the morning with all 
 the day before me, and to know that every hour 
 of that day was laid out beforehand for ray ben- 
 efit — to earn a smile from Madame Brenner, or 
 a word of praise from Professor Metz — to work 
 hard, while work was the order of the hour — to 
 play heartily, when the interval of relaxation 
 came — to steal by twilight into some quiet cor- 
 ner, and read till it was too dark to do aught 
 but sit and muse with folded hands — to sup mer- 
 rily off such pastoral fare as milk, and fruit, and 
 fresh brown bread ; and afterward to go to bed, 
 tired, and happy, and at peace with myself and 
 all the world besides — this was indeed a life such 
 as I had never known before ; such as I have 
 never known since ; such as none of us can 
 know, save in our happy school-days. 
 
 Then the college was like a home, in the true 
 meaning of that dear old Saxon word ; and we 
 house-students were to each other, for the most 
 part, as the members of a single family. I had 
 many friends, for we were all friends, and two or 
 three special intimates. Amongst these latter 
 were Annchen, and the dark-haired Luisa, and a 
 tender-hearted impulsive Bavarian, called Ida 
 Saxe, with a heart full of enthusiasm, and a head 
 full of legends. I became much attached to her ; 
 and when Annchen and Luisa, who were both 
 older than myself, had left the school, our affec- 
 tion grew even more exclusive than before. 
 Our tastes, ages, studies, and ambitions were the I 
 
 We had each chosen painting for our 
 principal pursuit — we studied under the same 
 master — we drew from the same models — we 
 worked in the same class, and we occupied the 
 same bedroom. She was an orphan, and looked 
 forward to art as her profession. I also cherished 
 visions of ambition, and hoped that the time 
 might come when my father would suffer me to 
 turn my studies to their just account. For I 
 had talent, and my talent was of the right swt 
 — inborn, earnest, persevering, confident to 
 strive, humble to learn, patient in defeat, and 
 unsatisfied in success. Term after term, I won 
 the approbation of my teachers, and felt the 
 power growing stronger and clearer within me. 
 By and by I carried off the third-class medal for 
 the best drawing from the antique ; and, at the 
 close of my third year, the second silver medal 
 for an original composition. To achieve the 
 first silver medal, or even, at some far-off day, 
 to become the victorious winner of the first-class 
 certificate and the grand gold medal of the Tri- 
 ennial Competition, were glories that I could 
 scarcely hope to compass ; but which, though I 
 hardly dared confess it to myself, had become 
 the great aims of my life. 
 
 As for Hilda, she had no such ambition. 
 Finding herself, according to the school regula- 
 tions, obliged to make choice of some especial 
 art, she took up that of music, in which she was 
 already a' tolerable proficient. I do not think 
 she really loved music, or selected it out of pre- 
 ference ; but because she disliked work, and be- 
 lieved that in this science she would find less to 
 learn. She was mistaken, however ; for music 
 as it is taught in Germany, and music as it was 
 taught by Miss Whymper, were two very dif- 
 ferent affairs. In the first place, she had to un- 
 learn much of her previous knowledge, which 
 is never easy ; in the second place, she had to 
 study countei'point ; and in the third place, she 
 was forced to practice for a certain number of 
 hours per diem. As for the light modern school 
 to which she had hitherto been accustomed, it 
 availed her nothing. Instead of Fantasias and 
 Airs with amazing variations, she was condemn- 
 ed to the Sonatas of Beethoven and Mozart, 
 and the fugues of Sebastian Bach. Cast adrift, 
 thus, upon an academy where an arrangement 
 of operatic airs by Hertz was looked upon with 
 pious horror, my unlucky sister had but a hard 
 time of it, and, for the first half year or so, 
 made herself consistently wretched and dis- 
 agreeable. The truth is that Hilda was not 
 amiable. She was handsome, haughty, and 
 ready-witted; and she possessed a remarkable 
 faciUty in the acquirement of accomplishments. 
 Up to a certain point, and for just so long as her 
 curiosity held out, she succeeded rapidly ; but she 
 had no real industry ; and as soon as she ceased 
 to be amused, grew careless, impatient, and out 
 of heart. With such a disposition, it is difficult 
 to go creditably through any academic educa- 
 tion ; and indeed I hardly know how or where it 
 would have ended, had not Professor Oberstein 
 one day discovered that Hilda had a voice — a 
 voice so pure, so extensive, so sweet and flexi- 
 ble, as had seldom before been heard within the 
 walls of the college. From this time forth Hilda 
 was content; and the masters had compara- 
 tively little trouble to make her work. To sing 
 was easier than to play fugues, and study Al- 
 
56 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 brechtsberger. Besides her vanity was touched. 
 She longed for the time when she could take 
 part in the academy concerts ; and she found 
 that when singing she looked even handsomer 
 than when silent. Her progress soon surprised 
 us ; and though she continued to be but a 
 moderate pianist and a very indifferent theorist, 
 she improved so rapidly in her new study, that 
 after about eighteen months of Professor Ober- 
 stein's tuition, she was competent to sing in a 
 concerted piece at one of our matinees musicales. 
 From concerted pieces she was promoted to 
 solos; and though I am not certain that she 
 continued always to advance at the same rate, 
 she at least kept up her reputation in the vocal 
 classes, and from time to time received, not 
 only the applause of an audience, but the more 
 solid testimonial of a second or third class ex- 
 amination medal, I do not suppose, however, 
 that Hilda was ever so thoroughly happy in her 
 school-life as I was in mine. Naturally proud 
 and reserved, she made no intimacies, and was 
 altogether less popular than myself. She never 
 took me into her heart, as I had once hoped. 
 We were -good friends, but not much more ; and 
 our sojourn at Zollenstrasse drew us less together 
 than one could have anticipated. She had but 
 little sympathy with my pursuits, and none with 
 my ambitions. That I, a Churchill, should dream 
 of following my art as a profession, shocked all 
 her prejudices; whilst I, on the other hand, 
 entertained a profound indifference toward all 
 those fashionable and matrimonial visions to 
 which her present studies were by her regarded 
 as mere adjuncts and preliminaries. And thus, 
 alas ! it was and must ever be. My sister was 
 not to be my second self, pray for it, or strive 
 for it, as I would ! 
 
 So the years went on, and, being so far from 
 home, we spent vacation-time as well as term- 
 time at the college. We wrote to our father 
 about once in every three months — he replied 
 to us about twice in every eight or ten. His 
 letters were always the same — so much the same 
 that he might as well have had them lithograph- 
 ed. He was happy to hear that we were so well 
 satisfied with our place of residence, and that we 
 gave so much satisfaction to our teachers ; he 
 rejoiced to say that he was well, and that Bee- 
 ver was the same as ever ; and he remained our 
 affectionate father, etc. etc. This was the pur- 
 port of his letters, one and all — not a word 
 more, and not a word less. 
 
 For my part, I had ceased to care for home 
 or England now. I felt that there was but one 
 home in the old country that could ever be 
 home to me — and into that I had no hope of 
 ever entermg again. To stay abroad, then, for- 
 ever ; to work out my life in the land of Kaul- 
 bach, Overbeck, and Lessing ; to visit Rome and 
 the Vatican some time before I died; and to 
 end my days within the walls of that Academy 
 of which I was a loving and reverent disciple, 
 constituted all the substance of my prayers — 
 "the ultima Thule of my wandering desires." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED EVENT. 
 
 " Has any thing been heard about the ex- 
 cursion ?" 
 
 " Yes, we are to go to-day, if Madame Bren- 
 ner and the afternoon continue favorable." 
 
 "Oh, delightful! I declare I had almost 
 feared that our country afternoons were never 
 to begin again." 
 
 " That is because a whole winter has gone by 
 since we took our last trip ; and that — let me 
 see — that must have been in October." 
 
 "And we are now in the middle of April I 
 Well, never mind, the summer is coming again, 
 and the time has not seemed so very slow, after 
 all. Where do you think we shall go ? To 
 the Hermitage, or to the ruins of Konigsberg?" 
 "Nay, that is more than I can tell; but I 
 should say to the woods of Biihl. Professor 
 Metz was there the other day, and I heard him 
 tell Madame Brenner that he had never seen 
 
 such wild-flowers in his hfe " 
 
 " Hush ! Here he comes. We must not be 
 caught idling !" 
 
 And, as the door opened, the heads of the two 
 speakers were bent busily over their easels. 
 The Professor came in, tall, gaunt, and gray ; 
 stooping somewhat in the shoulders, as was his # 
 habit ; and darting quick, searching glances all 
 about the room. Not a whisper disturbed the 
 profound silence of the crowded studio, and the 
 buzzing of a fly against the skylight was dis- 
 tinctly audible. In and out, threading his way 
 among the easels, the great master then made 
 the round of the class. To some he gave a 
 word of praise, to some a shake of the head, 
 and some he passed by in silence. Pausing 
 beside me for an instant, he uttered a short 
 grunt of approbation ; and the next moment 
 bent ever my unlucky neighbor, Emma Werner, 
 took the brush from her hand, and at a single 
 touch effaced the head upon which she had been 
 toiling all the morning. 
 
 " Oh, sir !" she exclaimed, " is it so bad aa 
 that ?" 
 
 " Bad ?" he repeated. " So bad that I have 
 more hope for you than before. Signal failures 
 imply genius. A fool would have done better." 
 And with this equivocal encouragement, and 
 a still more equivocal shrug of the shoulders, he 
 passed on. 
 
 " That cherub," said he to one, " has the 
 scarlet fever." 
 
 To another : — " Your Hagar looks like a 
 female Ugolino. 'Tis a baker's conception of 
 the subject," 
 
 To a third : — " This foreground labors under 
 a green and yellow melancholy!" 
 
 To a fourth : — " Your Madonna is a coquette." 
 To a fifth : — " What is your subject — Bacchus 
 and Ariadne ? Humph ! Which is Bacchus, 
 and which Ariadne ?" 
 
 At last, having finished his tour of inspection, 
 he came back to where Ida and I were working 
 side by side, and stood for some time between 
 the two easels, silent and observant. We were 
 copying a head of Christ by Guido, which the 
 Grand Duke had lent for the advanced stu- 
 dents. 
 
 "It is possible," said he, presently, "to copy 
 too well. Try to think less of the painting, 
 and more of the idea. Truth is not necessarily 
 literal. The Divine never can be literal ; and 
 there is in all art a vanishing point where the 
 real merges itself into the ideal. Have courage, 
 and remember that to attempt much is to learn 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 m 
 
 much. The horizon mounts with the eye of the 
 climber." 
 
 Having said this, he strode to the door; 
 bowed hurriedly ; and was gone in a moment. 
 "We had all risen in silence to return his saluta- 
 tion ; but the door was no sooner closed behind 
 him than a Babel of chatter broke out, and 
 every body was in motion. This afternoon visit 
 concluded the day's work, and the Professor's 
 exit gave the signal for breaking up the class. 
 In an instant all was confusion, laughter, and 
 bustle. Paintings were laid aside, easels shut 
 np, brushes washed, pallets cleaned, and copies 
 put careriUy away ; while in the midst of it all 
 came a message from Madame Brenner, desiring 
 us to be ready to start at three o'clock upon an 
 excursion to the woods of Briihl. 
 
 With what shouts and hand-clappings this 
 information was received ; how quic^y the 
 studio was put in order ; what haste we made to 
 dress ; and with what delight we poured out of 
 the courtyard and took the road to Briihl, none 
 but those who have lived in schools and enjoyed 
 half-holidays can conceive. Ida and I walked 
 together, and Hilda, as usual, with the French 
 governess, Mademoiselle Violette. Whether she 
 chose her companion from preference, or 
 whether, being one of the elder girls, she 
 thought it more dignified to be seen walking 
 with a teacher, I can not tell — I only know that 
 Mademoiselle Violette was a little elderly, frivo- 
 lous, conceited Parisian, who talked of nothing 
 but her high birth, her misfortunes, her lover 
 who died abroad, and her everlasting toilette. 
 
 Having walked very soberly, two by two, all 
 through the town and along the public road, we 
 broke up the order of march as soon as we 
 arrived at the low meadows, and became a very 
 noisy company. Our way lay mostly beside the 
 river. The trees were clad in their first pale 
 feathery foliage ; the afternoon was hot and 
 sunny like an afternoon in July ; and the swal- 
 lows were darting hither and thither, as if they 
 knew not how to rejoice enough in the returning 
 summer. 
 
 The woods lay between two and three miles 
 to the west of the town, and we reached them 
 about half-past four o'clock. How pleasant to 
 plunge into the shade, after walking for an hour 
 and a half with the sun in Qur faces ! How 
 delicious to tread the elastic moss between 
 the trees ; to lie down upon banks literally 
 mantled over with primroses, blue hyacinths, 
 and the wild geranium ; to watch the shafts of 
 sunlight piercing the green gloom here and there, 
 and gilding the smooth boles of the silver ash ! 
 Intoxicated with delight, we laughed, we ran, 
 we pelted each other with wild flowers, and 
 made the woods ring again with the echoes of 
 our voices. By and by, being somewhat warm 
 and weary, we strolled away by twos and threes, 
 and found resting-places and green nooks to 
 our fancy. An old felled trunk coated with 
 gray moss, furnished Ida and me with a seat ; 
 and there, at some little distance from the rest, 
 we sat hand in hand, and talked, aS only the 
 young ever talk, of art, friendship, and the 
 future. 
 
 " It was our old Frauenkirche in Munich that 
 made me an artist," said Ida. " From the time 
 when I was quite a little child, and my mother 
 used to carry me in her arms to mass, I remem- 
 
 ber the bronze tomb of the Emperor Louis, and 
 the painted windows behind the altar. I was 
 never weary of gazing up at those gorgeous 
 kings and saints. I remember, also, how the 
 evening sun used to shine through, and stain the 
 pavement of the side-aisles with flecks of purple 
 and gold. I believe that my very soul thirsted 
 for color, and that my eyes drank it in as eager- 
 ly as ever wayfarer drank from the springs of 
 the desert. I little thought at that time that I 
 should ever come to handle it familiarly, and 
 make it the medium of my own thoughts !" 
 
 "But you hoped to be a painter from the 
 first ?" 
 
 " No. My parents were humble folks, and 
 chance alone determined my career." 
 
 " Chance ! What chance, Ida ?" 
 
 *'I will tell you. My father kept a small 
 fruit-garden on the left bank of the Isar, about 
 three-quarters of a mile out of Munich on the 
 Harlaching road. Our house stood by the way- 
 side, and from the back we had a view of the 
 Tyrolean Alps. We were very poor. The pro- 
 duce of the garden barely sufficed to keep us, 
 though the land and cottage were our own ; and 
 in the winter time we suffered many privations. 
 Still my childhood passed very happily. I went 
 to the Free-school every day, and to Mass every 
 Sunday and Saint' s-day; and each October, 
 when the People's festival came round, my 
 parents made holiday, and took me with them 
 to see the prize fruits and flowers, and the rifle- 
 shooting in the Theresa-fields. Thus the years 
 went by, and at thirteen I was less ignorant 
 than might h^ve been supposed. About this 
 time, having by dint of severe economy saved a 
 score or so of dollars, my parents contrived to 
 furnish and let our two best rooms. Our first 
 lodger was a clerk from some banking-house in 
 the town, who went in to business every morn- 
 ing, and remained away all day. However, he 
 only staid with us about three months, and 
 was succeeded by an English artist, who had 
 come to study in the galleries of Munich. This 
 artist discovered, somehow, that I loved art ; be- 
 came interested in me ; gave me a few lessons, 
 and — and taught me, in short, to know my own 
 destiny." 
 
 " Well ?" said I, finding that she paused in 
 her narrative. 
 
 " Well, it went on thus for a year or more, 
 till one day ray kind friend suggested that I 
 should become a candidate for one of the free 
 scholarships of the Zollenstrasse School of Art, 
 and himself offered to defray the expenses of 
 election. I made the effort — I succeeded — I 
 have been here, as you know, five years already, 
 and I have two more years to remain." 
 
 "And the English artist — where is he? Do 
 you ever hear from him ? Have you seen him 
 since you left Munich ?" 
 
 Ida shook her head, and turned her face 
 away. 
 
 "He went back soon after, to his native 
 country," she said, "and we have heard nothing 
 of him from that day to this. But it is your 
 turn now, Barbara. Tell me, when did you first 
 recognize your vocation ?" 
 
 "In my cradle, I think," I replied, with a 
 smile and a sigh. " Before I could speak plain- 
 ly, I scrawled with a pencil : and when I was 
 quite a little girl I oould see more faces in the 
 
68 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 clouds, and more pictures in the fire, than either 
 of my sisters. I never studied, however, till I 
 came here." 
 
 "And that," exclaimed Ida," was at the very 
 same time that I joined, six years ago ?" 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 " And you are one year younger than I ?" 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " I am just seventeen, and 
 you are eighteen. You have the advantage of 
 me in every way. You had a year's teaching 
 before you came here." 
 
 "Bah! What is that? I have not half your 
 genius !" 
 
 " Nay — if you talk thus we shall quarrel." 
 
 " For the first time, Barbara !" laughed Ida, 
 putting her arms about my neck. "For the 
 first time ! Besides, you know, we have prom- 
 ised each other never to disagree — never to love 
 each other less — never to let any thing come 
 between us, either in our friendship or our 
 future !" 
 
 " Do you suppose, Ida, that I forget it?" 
 
 "And then," continued she, "we shall some 
 day go to Rome together — Rome, the artist's 
 Paradise 1 We shall lodge among the painters 
 in the Via Margutta, and go to the artists' festi- 
 val at Albano. We will hire a studio ; paint 
 together; study together; wander together in 
 the ruins of the Forum, and under the moonlit 
 arches of the Coliseum ! Oh, Barbara, does it 
 not make your heart beat to think of it ?" 
 
 " Alas ! dear, I am not so confident. Could 
 I but believe it possible " 
 
 " To those who rely upon their own industry, 
 all things are possible." . 
 
 " A most sententious maxim; but how shall 
 I apply it ?" 
 
 " You shall apply it by — ^let me see, by 
 painting a great historical picture, a masterpiece 
 of modern art!" 
 
 "Oh, by all means!" 
 
 *' And the Grand Duke must buy it — stay, he 
 could not afford to buy it. It will be too expen- 
 sive for him ; and, besides, if he did buy it, 
 where could he put it ? No — no. King Louis of 
 Bavaria must buy it ! He will give you two or 
 three thousand dollars for it, and it will be hung 
 in the modern Pinacothek, in my ovra dear city 
 of Munich, where all the world will see and do 
 it justice." 
 
 " I desire nothing better. Pray go on," 
 
 " Well, with your three thousand dollars you 
 can go to Rome, and voild — the thing is done." 
 
 " Would that it were, Ida !" I exclaimed, 
 laughing. " Unfortunately, however, something 
 more than self-reliance is necessary to carry out 
 this admirable project. At present, yours is but 
 a programme, with no entertainment to follow." 
 
 " That does not prove that the entertainment 
 never will follow. Oh, I have set my heart on 
 seeing you famous !" 
 
 " Come, Barbara," said Hilda close behind me. 
 "We are all going, and I suppose you do not 
 wish to be left in the woods." 
 
 " What, already ?" 
 
 " It is six o'clock, and will be dusk before we 
 reach home," replied my sister coldly. Then, 
 dropping her voice so as to be heard by me 
 only : — " What folly have you been talking ?" 
 she added. "I have been standing here these 
 five minutes, listening with amazement to all 
 this nonsense about Rome and fame, and Heaven 
 
 knows what besides ! One would think you 
 were a free scholar, hke your dear friend here, 
 and had to work for your bread !" 
 
 "One may work for something better than 
 bread, sister," I replied smiling. 
 
 But she turned angrily away, and we were 
 presently surrounded by a troop of the younger 
 girls, all shouting and dancing, and laden with 
 wild-flowers, like a bevy of little bacchantes. 
 
 " Look here, Ida," said one. " Here is a 
 daisy-chain that would reach across the river I 
 Did you ever see one so long ?" 
 
 " I have found a lovely maiden-hair fern, roots 
 and all, for Madame Brenner's fernery!" cried 
 another. 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed a third, "I know some- 
 thing which none of you know — such good 
 news !" 
 
 " Good news !" repeated a dozen voices at oace. 
 " What is it ? Oh, what is it ?" 
 
 " Guess — but you'll never guses. Shall I tell 
 you? Well, we are to have chocolate and 
 cream-cakes for supper !'* 
 
 And thus, chattering, laughing, and rejoicing, * 
 the merry crowd swept on homeward, and left 
 the setting sun behind the woods of Briihl. By 
 and by some elder girls began singing four-part 
 songs ; and then the twilight came down ; and 
 the stars gleamed out in the green-blue sky; 
 and the music mingled in with the lapsing of the 
 river that ran beside us all the way. 
 
 It was almost dark by the time we reached 
 the college. We were tired and silent enough 
 now, and the wild-flowers had all been thrown 
 away on the road. Still we were very happy, 
 very hungry, very glad to be home again, and 
 very glad to have been out. 
 
 The porter who opened the gate touched his 
 hat and spoke to Madame Brenner. She left 
 him, and came quickly into the midst of us. 
 
 ■"Barbara," said she, "Barbara and Hilda 
 Churchill, where are you? Some friends of 
 yours are here. You will find them waiting in 
 the parlor." 
 
 Friends ! Who could they be ? Whence had 
 they come? Save a flying call two or three 
 years ago from dear old Mr. Bose, no one had 
 asked for us ever since we had been in the»Col- 
 lege ! Could it be my aunt ? Could it be Hugh ? 
 I felt myself flush, and then grow pale again. 
 Going up the steps, I clung involuntarily to 
 Hilda's arm, and when we reached the parlor- 
 door trembled like a leaf. 
 
 The room was dimly lighted, and contained 
 two persons, a lady and a gentleman. The lady 
 was lying back in an easy chair, and turned her 
 head languidly at the opening of the door. The 
 gentleman was standing at the window with his 
 hands behind his back. 
 
 " Madame," said he, addressing himself with a 
 stately bow to Madame Brenner, "permit me to 
 introduce myself — Edmimd Churchill — ^the father 
 of your pupils." 
 
 The superintendent courtesied, and looked 
 from him to us, expecting to see us fly into his 
 arms. My father, however, bowed again and 
 glanced toward the occupant of the easy chair, 
 who rose slowly, and threw back her vail. 
 
 "And Mrs. Churchill," added he very cere^ 
 moniously. He then turned toward us for the 
 first time. 
 
 " My dear children," said he, toucliing our 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 69 
 
 foreheads lightly with his lips, " I rejoice to see 
 you again. Be pleased to receive this lady with 
 the affection and respect due to — ahem ! your 
 father's wife. Mrs. Churchill, I have the pleas- 
 ure of presenting my daughters." 
 
 But that lady, instead of embracing us with 
 maternal fervor, extended only the tips of two 
 fingers, and said : 
 
 " I had no idea that your * little girls ' were 
 grown up, Mr. Churchill !" 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 HILDA DISCOVERS HER TOCATION. 
 
 And so my father had married again — ^married 
 again at sixty, and brought his bride to Zollen- 
 strasse-am-Main ! It was theu* honeyijioon. 
 They had come up the Rhine vid Brussels, and 
 were returning by way of Paris ; having at 
 present been just ten days en voyage. This event 
 was so unexpected that at first I could scarcely 
 realize it. It took me, in fact, some two or 
 three days to form an opinion of my father's 
 choice, and in order to express that opinion I 
 find myself referring not exactly to my first im- 
 pression, but to the successive impressions of 
 several interviews. 
 
 Mrs. Churchill was what is generally callpd a 
 fine woman. That is to say, she was large, well 
 defined and of a comely presence. She was 
 about forty years of age. Her hands were small, 
 her teeth admirable, her complexion well-pre- 
 served, and her taste in dress unexceptionable. 
 Easy, indolent, self-possessed, and somewhat 
 distant, her manner was that of a thorough 
 woman of the world — or rather that of a woman 
 who knew the world and herself by heart, and 
 had determined to make the raost of both. She 
 was not clever — I soon discovered that — but slfe 
 had tact. She knew what to admire, what tastes 
 to profess, and how to give them effect. She 
 spoke seldom, always slowly, and never unless 
 she really had something to say. That some- 
 thing, if clever, was not original; and, if 
 original, was not clever ; but it was invariably 
 judicious, and, like a paper 'currency, represent- 
 ed a value which was not intrinsic. Above all, 
 she had studied the art of silence, and knew 
 how to maintain a dignified repose. If that re- 
 pose seemed somewhat artificial and over-elabo- 
 rated — if she was, perhaps, on the whole, more 
 fastidious than refined, more fashionable than 
 highly bred, she could, nevertheless, be sufficient- 
 ly gracious when she pleased, and was, beyond 
 all doubt, well accustomed to the ways, means, 
 and appliances of that little corner of society 
 called " the world," 
 
 That she had also been previously married — 
 that her first husband held a civil appointment 
 in India under Lord Amherst, and there accu- 
 mulated a considerable fortune — that he had 
 been dead some fifteen years or so, and left her 
 with a consolatory jointure of several hundreds 
 per annum — that she had since then traveled 
 hither and thither; gone extensively into so- 
 ciety ; spent every season in Paris ; and pre- 
 ferred the interesting role of a wealthy widow- 
 to that of a wife twice wedded, were facts which 
 we soon learned, and which she herself was not 
 slow to announce. Where and when she had 
 
 first Snown my father, how she came to be 
 wearied of her single life, and why she married 
 him, were points left to conjecture. One thing, 
 however, was evident — namely, that she was 
 not prepared to find his " little girls" grown up ; 
 and I believe, to do him justice, that he was 
 almost as much surprised himself We were 
 really little girls when he left us, six years ago, 
 on board the Rotterdam steamer, and little girls, 
 I have no doubt, he still expected to find us. 
 Be that as it may, Mrs. Churchill was undis- 
 guisedly chagrined, and treated us for the first 
 day or so with mortifying coldness. There is, 
 however, a proverb in favor of second thoughts ; 
 and before a week was past, Mrs. Churchill had 
 seen fit to reverse her tactics. Looking upon us, 
 I suppose, as inevitable evils, she made up her 
 mind to endure ue with the best grace she could, 
 and became, on a sudden, quite sympathetic and 
 pleasant. Sh§ discovered that I had genius and 
 originality ; that Hilda's beauty and accomplish- 
 ments were of the highest order ; and that she 
 (Mrs. Churchill) was unfeignedly proud of us 
 both. I can not say that I was particularly 
 elated by this tardy reception into my step- 
 mother's good graces. I had neither sufficient 
 respect for her understanding to value her 
 praise, nor enough regard for herself to care 
 much for her favor. But I received her advances 
 with politeness, and endeavored, for my father's 
 sake, to keep on such terms as might insure 
 the comfort of our future intercourse. 
 
 Hilda, on the contrary, was completely won 
 over by Mrs. Churchill's civilities, and tolerably 
 well imposed upon by Mrs. Churchill's admirable 
 manner. Having at first disliked our new step- 
 mother ten times more bitterly than myself, she 
 now found that she had judged too hastily of 
 dfce who compared her singing to Persiani's and 
 herself to Lady Clementina Villiers. Thus it 
 happened that in the course of a few days they 
 were on the best footing imaginable ; and be- 
 fore the second week was over, had become 
 almost inseparable. Mrs. Churchill declared 
 that she could go nowhere without Hilda — 
 Hilda was only too well pleased to go every- 
 where with Mrs. Churchill. So they lunched, 
 dined, and drove out together every day, more 
 like a pair of romantic friends than a middle- 
 aged bride and a grown-up step-daughter. It 
 is not impossible that Mrs. Churchill may have 
 foreseen some such desirable effect, and acted 
 accordingly. 
 
 Naturally fond of excitement, Hilda plunged 
 with delight into this new life, and neglected 
 every thing for it. Mrs. Churchill's Paris 
 bonnets, Mrs. Churchill's fashionable acquaint- 
 ances, and Mrs. Churchill's patronage, almost 
 turned her head. She talked, thought, dreamed 
 of nothing but dress, amusement, and the people 
 whom she daily met. Remonstrance on my part 
 was useless; for Madame Brenner, knowing 
 that my father intended to remam only a month, 
 thought fit to allow us every liberty during his 
 stay, and voluntarily released us from our col- 
 legiate duties. To her surprise, I availed my- 
 self but sparingly of that privilege, pursuing my 
 daily studies much as usual, and only spend- 
 ing an evening now and then at my father's 
 hotel. 
 
 Going in there one afternoon about seven 
 o'clock, I found the dessert still on the table ; 
 
60 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 Hilda trying on a bonnet before the glass ; my 
 father sipping his wine with half-closed eyes; 
 and Mrs. Churchill lying on a sofa with her back 
 to • the light ; and her head resting languidly 
 on her arm. Mrs. Churchill always sat with her 
 back to the light ; and, having a white and very 
 lovely arm, generally rested her head upon it. 
 
 My father looked up and nodded as I came 
 in ; Mrs. Churchill extended two fingers ; Hilda 
 turned eagerly toward me, and exclaimed : — 
 
 *' Oh, Barbara, you are just in time to see my 
 new bonnet ! Is it not charming ?" 
 
 " Yours 1" I ejaculated, seeing what a thing of 
 gauze and marabouts it was. " That bonnet, 
 yours ?" 
 
 *'Mine — my own exclusive property! Is it 
 not becoming?" 
 
 I hesitated. I had not yet reconciled myself 
 to the metamorphosis in my sister's appearance ; 
 and though she looked handsomer than ever in 
 these fashionable things, I could not help liking 
 her old simple clothing best. 
 
 " It is stylish," I said, after a pause, " and, in 
 a certain sense, becoming ; but " 
 
 " But what ?" 
 
 "But I do not see of what use it will be to 
 you when Mrs. Churchill is no longer here." 
 
 Hilda and my stepmother exchanged glances. 
 
 "In fact," I continued, "Madame Brenner 
 will taboo it, as she tabooed Ildegarde's pink 
 mantle last midsummer. 
 
 Hilda shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " Cela m'est egalV she said lightly. "I will, 
 at all events, wear it while I can, and where I 
 can. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof — 
 rCest ce pas, ma belle mere .^" 
 
 Mrs. Churchill nodded a languid affirmative, 
 and Hilda went on. 
 
 " What would be the good of the present*' 
 said she, "if one were always fretting for the 
 future ? Let the future take care of itself. It 
 is bad enough when it comes, without being an- 
 ticipated !" 
 
 " The future," said Mrs. Churchill, significant- 
 ly, " sometimes exceeds our anticipations. But 
 our dear Barbara is practical — immensely prac- 
 tical!" 
 
 " Only with respect to bonnets," I replied, 
 laughingly. " In other matfers, I fear, I am as 
 visionary as most people." 
 
 "I should like to know what those other mat- 
 are." 
 
 " Nay — I am not fond of telling my dreams !" 
 
 " Except to Ida Saxe by sunset, in the woods 
 of Briihl," (wid Hilda satirically. " Come, Bar- 
 bara, confess that, on one occasion, you were 
 any thing but practical." 
 
 But I was not disposed to enter on that sub- 
 ject before my father and his wife ; so I only 
 shook my head, and turned the conversation by 
 asking what they had done since the morning. 
 
 " Done ? Oh, not much to-day," replied my 
 sister, still admiring the bonnet. " We prome- 
 naded in the gardens before lunch, drove to 
 Wiesbach in the afternoon with papa, and dined 
 at six. Why did you not come in time to dine ?" 
 
 " The class broke up late to-day, and I could 
 not leave sooner," 
 
 Hilda tossed her head impatiently. 
 
 " Be honest, Barbara," said she, " and say at 
 once that you prefer the society of your easel 
 to that of your relations." 
 
 "Be considerate, Hilda; and remember that 
 satire is often neither witty nor true." 
 
 I answered sharply; for it seemed to me, 
 somehow, that my sister was seeking either to 
 provoke me, or to irritate the others against 
 me. Be this as it might, Mrs. Churchill inter- 
 posed before she had time to retort. 
 
 " My darling Hilda," said she, "I must posi- 
 tively find fault with you ! Why blame your 
 sister for a perseverance that does her so much 
 honor ? Our dear Barbara has genius, and the 
 enthusiasm of genius. For my part, I adore 
 art. I had rather have been Raphael than 
 Shakspeare." 
 
 This was one of Mrs. Churchill's " effects." I 
 began to know them now, and the little pause 
 by which they were always followed. 
 
 "Besides," she added, after a minute, "Bar- 
 bara is still very young, and youth is the season 
 for study. Her industry, I am sure, is delight- 
 ful. Perfectly delightful ! Let us hope, how- 
 ever, that she will not overtax her strength. 
 Art has its dangers as well as its fascinations ; 
 and I have heard that oils are sometimes bad 
 for the chest." 
 
 Laughing, I scarcely knew why, at something 
 in the tone of Mrs. Churchill's observations, I 
 hastened to assure her that she need entertain 
 no such apprehensions for me. 
 
 "Painters," I said, "do not die so easily. 
 When they love art, they have the good sense to 
 live for it." 
 
 "And you really do love it, I suppose?" said 
 my stepmother interrogatively. 
 
 " With my whole heart." 
 
 "And prefer your studies to all the pleasures 
 of the great world ?" 
 
 "I can conceive no greater misfortune than to 
 leave them off." 
 
 Again Mrs. Churchill and Hilda glanced at 
 one another, and I detected something like a 
 flitting smile upon the face of each. 
 
 My father, who had been dozing for the last 
 ten minutes or so with his cheek on his palm, 
 now woke up and looked at his watch. 
 
 "A quarter to eight !" said he. " A quarter 
 to eight already ! Will it be agreeable to you, 
 Mrs. Churchill, to order coffee ?" 
 
 Mrs. Churchill was agreeable, and Hilda rang 
 the bell. 
 
 My father was the same as ever — -a little 
 stouter and' greyer, perhaps, and a little more 
 bald than when we left home ; but the same 
 man, every inch. He paced about the room ; 
 glanced in the looking-glass ; and cherished his 
 handsome hands just in the old way. He ad- 
 dressed his wife with as much stately politeness 
 as he once addressed Miss Whymper. He was 
 irritable with the waiters ; despotic with the fly- 
 drivers; and courteous to the chamber-maids. 
 Above all, he planted himself on the rug, and 
 turned his back to the fire with exactly the same 
 air of commanding ownership ; even though 
 there were no fire there, but only an ugly, empty 
 porcelain stove, with a blackened chimney 
 reaching through the ceiling. 
 
 Having had coffee, and discussed the com- 
 parative attractions of the summer theater, the 
 Hofgarten, and the concert in the grounds of 
 the Conversation-Haus, Mrs. Churchill and Hilda 
 made an elaborate walking-toilette, and insisted 
 that I, for once, should make one of the party. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 61 
 
 My father, not without a dissatisfied glance at 
 my plain brown dress, then gave his arm to 
 Mrs, Churchill, and we followed. 
 
 What with her new bonnet, and a lace shawl 
 lent by our stepmother ; and what with her own 
 rich, haughty beauty, Hilda attracted all eyes, as 
 we went along. Every one turned to stare after 
 her; and my father, proud of the general ad- 
 miration, glanced back every now and then with 
 a well-satisfied smile, as if saying — " I am Ed- 
 mund Churchill, and she is my daughter — my 
 daughter, sir, and a Churchill, pur sang /" 
 
 Once arrived at the gardens, we were beset 
 by a crowd of gentlemen. 
 
 " Friends of Mrs. Churchill," whispered Hil- 
 da. "And people of the highest fashion." 
 She knew them all as they came up ; had the 
 name, rank, and profession of each at her fin- 
 gers' ends; and seemed already intimate with 
 most. Some she greeted with a jest, som^with 
 a shake of the hand, and for all had a bow, a 
 smile, or a gracious word. I listened, looked 
 on, and scarce believed my eyes. Ten days ago 
 she was but a school-girl. Now I found her de- 
 veloped all at once into a consummate flirt; 
 conscious of her advantages ; and as thoroughly 
 at her ease as Mrs. Churchill herself. 
 
 I cannot say that I was agreeably impressed 
 by Mrs. Churchill's distinguished acquaintances ; 
 and yet they were very grand folks, Counts, Ba- 
 rons, ExceUencies, and so forth, with nothing 
 less dignified than a captain among them. They 
 were all bearded, buttoned, frogged, and mus- 
 tachioed, and wore little scraps of red or green 
 ribbon at their breast. Perhaps the most strik- 
 ing amongst them, was a certain Captain Talbot, 
 some thirty-five years of age and six feet two in 
 height ; bronzed, stalwart, assiduous ; with some- 
 thing infinitely persuasive in his voice and man- 
 ner, and something unpleasantly bold in the ex- 
 pression of his eyes. I liked him less, and 
 Hilda seemed to like him better, than any of 
 the rest. They kept up an incessant fire of rail- 
 lery and flirtation ; and by-and-by, when, weary 
 of promenading, we sat down to eat ices and 
 listen to the music, he usurped the seat be- 
 side hers, and succeeded in keeping all others at 
 a distance. Then my father strolled away to 
 the roulette-tables ; and Mrs. Churchill sat like 
 a queen amid her little court, and gave utter- 
 ance every now and then to judicious observa- 
 tions on Rossini, politics, millinery, and the fine 
 arts. 
 
 Thus the evening passed, and I was glad when 
 it was over. 
 
 All that night, and for several days and nights 
 following, I was restless and disquieted. I now 
 scarcely saw Hilda at all, unless in the refectory 
 at breakfast, or at night when she came in late 
 and tired, after having spent the day with Mrs. 
 Churchill. 
 
 "How will she endure the old life, when they 
 are gone ?" I asked myself continually. " How 
 will she exist without excitement ? What of 
 these fashionable men with whom she has been 
 flirting for the last three weeks ? How will 
 she conform again to the old rules and simple 
 pleasures of she school ?" 
 
 Troubled and apprehensive, I turned these 
 questions over and over in my mind, and could 
 arrive at no conclusion. 
 
 "Would that they were gone !" I murmured 
 
 anxiously, as I saw the evil deepening day by 
 day. " Would to Heaven that they had never 
 come !" 
 
 At length there arrived a night when my 
 doubts were brought to an abrupt conclusion. 
 It was the evening of the twenty-fifth of May, 
 and my father's departure was fixed for the twen- 
 ty-seventh. Hilda had been all day with them 
 as usual ; the rest of the girls were gone for an 
 evening walk; and I, tired and thoughtful, sat 
 alone in the deserted class-room, looking out at 
 the quiet garden and the gathering twilight, 
 The banging of a distant door, the echo of a 
 quick step in the corridor, and Hilda's sudden 
 appearance at my elbow, roused me from my 
 reverie. 
 
 " Well, Barbara," said she, " are you not sur- 
 prised to see me so early?" 
 
 " It is early," I replied, " for you ; but I sup- 
 pose you are going back to spend the evening." 
 " No, I have come, on the contrary, to spend 
 the evening with you and Madame Brenner. 
 What do you think of that ?" 
 
 " Why, that wonders will never cease ; or that 
 you are jesting." 
 
 " I am in earnest, I assure you." 
 " Then papa is not going away the day after 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " He is going away, indeed, and — and I have 
 something to tell you." 
 
 I looked up, and saw by the half-4ight that she 
 was flushed and nervous. - 
 
 " Something to tell me ?" I repeated. 
 "Well, they are going," said Hilda reluctant- 
 ly, " and — and — promise not to be dreadfully 
 hurt or angry, dear." 
 
 " Hurt ! angry ! What can you mean ?" 
 " I mean that — that I am going with them." 
 " Going with them ?" I faltered. " Impossible! 
 In the middle of term — with the competition 
 fixed for July — it is against the rules." 
 
 " What do I care for the rules, if I leave the 
 College ?" said Hilda, with a scornful gesture. 
 
 Leave the College ! I sat down, bewildered, 
 and looked at her silently. 
 
 " Why, you see," said my sister, speaking very 
 fast, and plucking a pen to pieces, fiber by fiber, 
 " I — I am not like you, Barbara. I don't love 
 this place, as you do. I don''t care for its rewards 
 and honors, its medals, competitions, and petty 
 successes, as you do. You desire nothing better 
 than to be a painter — I would not be a singer for 
 the universe. Work, in fact, is not my metier. 
 I hate it. I am tired of it. I have had enough 
 of it. Besides, I am three years your senior, 
 and it is time I ceased to be a school-girl. Mrs. 
 Churchill says I am destined to make a great 
 success in society." 
 
 Mrs. Churchill. Ay, to be sure, this was her 
 work. 
 
 " And then papa's plans are quite altered," 
 she continued, finding that I remained silent. 
 " Instead of going back to London, they mean 
 to spend some months in Paris. Mrs. Churchill's 
 Paris connection is immense ; and she means to 
 introduce me'in all the best circles. It is not to 
 be supposed, of course, with her means and posi- 
 tion, that she will give up society just because 
 she has married papa. Neither does he desire it. 
 He has lived long enough out of the world, and 
 it is time he returned to it, if only for your sake 
 and mine. We must be introduced, you know, 
 
63 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 Barbara ; and, as I am the elder, my turn comes 
 first. You cannot object to that surely ?" 
 
 I shook my head sadly. 
 
 " Not if you prefer it," I said, speaking for 
 the first time. " Not if you think you will be 
 happy." 
 
 " Happy !" echoed she. " Why, of course, 
 I shall be happy. Society is my vocation !" 
 
 *' Society is a phantom — a mockery — an illu- 
 sion. Beware how you trust it. It will vanish 
 some day, ' and leave not a rack behind.' " 
 
 Hilda shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. 
 
 " For mercy's sake, no moralizing!" exclaimed 
 she. " I love life, and the little that I have seen 
 disposes me to see more. You will like it, too, 
 when you have the opportunity. Ob, h'ow I 
 long to be rid of this monotonous College rou- 
 tine, and all the art-jargon of our hum-drum 
 professors !" 
 
 " Oh, Hilda !" 
 
 Touched by the reproach which my words con- 
 veyed, or moved, perhaps, by something like re- 
 morse for her own indifference, my sister bent 
 ^ down suddenly, and kissed me on the brow. 
 
 " I am sorry to leave you, dear," she said, 
 apologetically ; " but I cannot help rejoicing in 
 my emancipation. I never was industrious or 
 self-denying, like you ; and papa and Mrs. 
 Churchill are both very kind to me, and — and 
 you have Ida 'Saxe, you know ; and she will be 
 here quite as long, or longer, than you — so you 
 will not be lonely, or miss me very much when 
 I am gone, will you ?" 
 
 " If I felt sure you would have no reason to 
 repent the change," said I, speaking very slowly, 
 and mastering the tears that rose unbidden to my 
 eyes ; " if I knew that your relations with Mrs. 
 Churchill would continue to be as pleasant as 
 they now are, believe, Hilda dear, that I should 
 desire nothing farther." 
 
 " You will not even be vexed with me for go- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Not in the least." 
 
 " Come, that is reasonable ! I had no idea 
 that you would have taken my news so good- 
 temperedly, or I would have told you long ago. 
 Why, I have been hesitating for the last eight 
 days, in the dread that we should have some 
 horrid scene about it, and now — well, enough of 
 that ! I wish you would come with me to my 
 bedroom, and help me to make the inventory of 
 my wardrobe. I must pack to-night before I go 
 to bed ; for they have made up their minds to go 
 down the river to-morrow, and I shall not have a 
 moment to spar£." 
 
 About an hour after this we supped together 
 for the last time at the general table, and in the 
 morning she took leave of the school, and re- 
 moved with her luggage to my father's hotel. 
 Madame Brenner embraced her, and the girls 
 bade her a kindly farewell ; but there were no 
 tears shed on either side, and the parting, alto- 
 gether, was cool enough. 
 
 " The Fraulein might have done her teachers 
 the justice to wait, at least, for the July compe- 
 tition," said Professor Oberstein, not without a 
 touch of bitterness. 
 
 " Or have left us with something like regret," 
 observed Madame Brenner. 
 
 " Oh, Barbara !" whispered one of the young- 
 er children, nestling close to my side, " had you 
 been going away, how sorry we should have 
 been ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A DIPLOMATIC INTERVIEW 
 
 " An artist, an organist, a pianist, all these are very 
 good people ; but, you know, not ' de notre monde,^ 
 and Clive ought to belong to it." 
 
 The Ne/wcorribes. 
 
 "You are of course aware, Barbara," said 
 my father, " that my income is circumscribed — 
 exceedingly circumscribed — and that your edu- 
 cational expenses have been heavy." 
 
 Mrs. Churchill and Hilda were up-stairs, busied 
 with their last traveling arrangements. My 
 father and I were sitting at opposite sides of 
 the breakfast table, with the hotel bill and the 
 empty coffee-cups between us. 
 
 " You ought also to be informed," he added, 
 " that although Mrs. Churchill is possessed of 
 good private means, my own circumstances 
 are not materially bettered by the alliance. I 
 am even, in some respects, a poorer man than 
 before. I must resume my position in society, 
 reside in a better house, and inevitably increase 
 the general ratio of my private expenditure." 
 
 Not knowing what reply was expected of me, 
 ov to what end this statement tended, I bowed, 
 and was silent. 
 
 " I purpose, nevertheless," continued he, " to 
 leave you here for the present. I believe that 
 you have perseverance, and a certain amount of 
 — of ability; and I have too much regard for 
 your progress to withdraw you just yet from the 
 College. This decision, understand, will put 
 me to considerable inconvenience — very con- 
 siderable inconvenience — which I am, however, 
 disposed on your account to meet. On your 
 account only." 
 
 Feeling almost overwhelmed, if not by the 
 magnitude of the favor, at all events by the 
 manner in which it was announced, I stammered 
 a word or two of thanks. 
 
 " Circumstanced as I am," said my father, 
 after a brief pause, " I can not provide for my 
 family as I would. I am a poor man, and it is 
 indispensable that the daughters of a poor man 
 should marry well. For sons I could have made 
 interest in high quarters ; but to my daughters 
 I can give only descent and education. Hilda, 
 I feel sure, will do well. She has tact, style, 
 conversation, and " 
 
 " And beauty," I suggested. 
 
 "Exactly so. And beauty," said he, with 
 something like a shade of polite embarrassment. 
 " She will marry, no doubt, before the expira- 
 tion of the year ; in which case the field will 
 be open to you. In the mean time ,[ desire to 
 draw your attention very particularly to one or 
 two matters." 
 
 He was as formal to me now that I was 
 grown up, as he was brusque and Sarsh when I 
 was a child ! It was strange, but, sitting op- 
 posite to each other at eight o'clock this bright 
 May morning, with the traveling caliche waiting 
 at the door, and the certainty of a long separa- 
 tion before us, we were carrying on our conver- 
 sation as distantly as if, instead of being father 
 and daughter, we were a couple of ambassadors 
 discussing afifairs of state ! 
 
 Finding thas he was now coming to the point, 
 I bowed again and waited anxiously. 
 
 "In the first place," said he, "you must cul- 
 tivate manner. As a child you were awkward ; 
 and even now you are deficient in that style 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 63 
 
 which your sister appears instinctively to have 
 acquired. Style is the first requisite for society ; 
 and on society a young woman's prospects de- 
 pend. I have sometimes feared, Barbara, that 
 you do not sufficiently appreciate society." 
 
 " I — I must confess, sir, that for me it pos- 
 sesses few attractions." 
 
 My father shook his head, and trifled diplo- 
 matically with his snuff-box. 
 
 " So much the worse for you," he observed, 
 drily. " I have no fortune for you ; remember 
 that. If you do not marry, what is to become 
 of you ?" 
 
 " I should hope, sir, that my profession will 
 at all times enable me to live." 
 
 He looked fixedly at me, as if scarcely com- 
 prehending the sense of my words. 
 
 " Your what V he said at length, " Your 
 
 say that again." 
 
 " My profession, sir," I repeated, not without 
 a strange fluttering at my heart. 
 
 "Your profession!" he exclaimed, flushing 
 scarlet. " Upon my soul, I was not aware that 
 you had one ! What is it, pray ? The church, 
 the law, or the army ?" 
 
 The tears came rushing to my eyes. I looked 
 down. I could have borne his anger; but I 
 had no reply for his sarcasm. 
 
 "I suppose," he continued, "that, because 
 you have been daubing here for the last few 
 years, you fancy yourself a painter ?" 
 
 " I— I had hoped " 
 
 " Hope nothing !" interrupted he. " Hope 
 nothing on that head, for I will never counte- 
 nance it ! Do you suppose that I — a Churchill — 
 will permit my daughter to earn her bread like 
 a dress-maker ? Do you suppose, if I had a son, 
 that I would have allowed him to become a beg- 
 garly painter ? If you have ever dreamt of this 
 (and I suppose it has been instilled into you at 
 this confounded College), forget it. Forget it 
 once for all, and never let me hear another word 
 about it !" 
 
 Still trembling as I had so often trembled be- 
 fore him in my early childhood, I nevertheless 
 dashed away the tears, and looked up .into his 
 face. 
 
 "But, sir," I said firmly, "if you have no 
 fortune for me, and if I do not marry — what 
 then?" 
 
 " I will hear of no alternative. You mu8t 
 marry. It is your duty to marry. Every well- 
 born and well-bred young woman who is prop- 
 erly introduced, has opportunities of marriage. 
 You are tolerably good-looking. There is no 
 reason why you should not succeed in society 
 as well as others. Let me hear no more of this 
 sign-painting nonsense. It displeases me ex- 
 ceedingly." 
 
 Saying which, he rose coldly, moved toward 
 the door, and was leaving without another glance 
 at me ; but I had something to say — something 
 that I had not yet ventured to say, though I 
 had seen him daily for a month. 
 
 " Stay," I cried, hurriedly. " One question, 
 sir — it is the only moment, the last moment, I 
 can ask it. What of Mrs. Sandyshaft ? Is she 
 still Hving?" 
 
 He flushed again, and paused with his hand 
 upon the door. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " I believe that she is 
 living." 
 
 " And has she never written to you ? Never 
 asked for me ? Never attempted to recall me ?" 
 
 " Never," said he, with mingled impatience 
 and embarrassment. " Never." 
 
 And so passed on abruptly, and left the room. 
 
 I dropped into the nearest chair and covered 
 my face with my hands. Alas ! I was quite, 
 quite forgotten. 
 
 Presently they all came down, cloaked and 
 ready for the journey. Hilda tried to look seri- 
 ous at parting. 
 
 " Good-by, darling," she said, kissing me re- 
 peatedly. " I am so sorry to leave you ; but I 
 will write from Paris as soon as we arrive. You 
 wil not fret, will you ?" 
 
 "Fret!" echoed Mrs. Churchill, taking my 
 disengaged hand between both of hers. " How 
 can she fret when she has Art, divine Art, for 
 her companion ? Adieu, dearest girl — we shall 
 not forget you !" 
 
 They then stepped into the carriage — my 
 father touched my cheek coldly with his lips, 
 and as he did so, whispered " Remember " — the 
 courier shut up the steps — the coachman crack- 
 ed his whip — my sister waved her hand, and, 
 amid jingling harness-bells, bowing waiters, and 
 a world of clattering and prancing, they drove 
 rapidly away, and vanished in a cloud of dust 
 round the corner of the Theater-platz. 
 
 That night I went sorrowfully to bed and lay 
 awake for hours, thinking of Hilda, of the future, 
 of my old Suffolk home, and of all that had 
 there befallen me. Was I never again to see 
 her who had been more to me than a mother ? 
 Was I never more to clasp that hand which 
 placed the silver ring on mine, long, long ago, 
 in the far-away woods about Broomhill ? 
 
 Heigho ! There it lay — there, in the corner 
 of my desk — the Arab's ring, with the old 
 watchguard knotted to it still ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 THE STUDENT IN ART. 
 
 " Art's a service."— Elizabeth Barrett Beowkixo. 
 
 There is something almost sacred in the 
 enthusiasm, the self-devotion, the pure ambition 
 of the student in art. He, above all others, 
 lives less for himself than f(Jr the past and all 
 that made it glorious. What to him is the 
 ignorant present? What the world, and the 
 pleasures of the world? Truth, excellence, 
 beauty, are his gods ; and to them he offers up 
 the sacrifice of his youth. He is poor; but 
 poverty is a condition of endeavor. He is un- 
 known ; but were it not better to wrest one re- 
 velation frona failure, than be blinded by a fool- 
 ish prosperity ? For his remote and beautiful 
 Ideal he is content to- suffer all things— priva- 
 tion, obscurity, neglect. Should the world never 
 recognise him, can he therefore be said to have 
 lived in vain ? Has he not acquired the princi- 
 ples of beauty ; studied under Michael Angelo ; 
 adored Raffaelle from afar off? Humble, earn- 
 est, steadfast, is he; modest of his own poor 
 merit f and full of wonder and admiration as a 
 little child. Infinitely touching are his hopes, 
 his fears, his moments of despondency and 
 doubt — infinitely joyous and repaying are his 
 fi.r8t well-earned successes, No mean desires 
 
64 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 leaven as yet the unsullied aspirations of his 
 Boul. A copper-medal, a wreath that will fade 
 ere night, a word of encouragenaent from one 
 whose judgment he reveres, are more to him 
 than an inheritance. Worth, not wealth, is the 
 end of his ambition; and he is richer in the 
 possession of these frail testimonies than in any 
 of those grosser rewards with which society 
 could crown him. 
 
 Surely there may be found in all this some- 
 thing admirable and instructive — something 
 which bears unmistakable impress of the old 
 heroic element ! What but this same mood of 
 simple faith and constancy inspired the master- 
 pieces, the max-tyrdoms, the discoveries of the 
 past ? What but this sent Leonidas to Thermo- 
 pyl86, and Montrose to the scaffold ; held Co- 
 lumbus on his course across the waste of waters, 
 and consoled Galileo for the ridicule and perse- 
 cution of his age ? 
 
 It is pleasant thus to consider the nature of 
 the student ; to accept him as our living repre- 
 sentative of the heroic race of gods and men — as 
 the last lone dweller on those "shores of old 
 romance " which, but for himself and the poets, 
 were now well-nigh blotted from our charts. 
 Let us cherish him, for he is worthy of all cher- 
 ishing. Let us praise him, for he is worthy of 
 all praise ; and this independently of any genius 
 that may be in him, but for love of that which 
 he loves, and in honor of that which he honors. 
 
 Dwelling in the Art-School of Zollenstrasse- 
 am-Main; sharing the hopes, efforts, and daily 
 life of the scholars ; witnessing their generous 
 emulation, and partaking their simple pleasures, 
 I came insensibly to form these views of art and 
 its influences ; to regard it as a high, almost as 
 a holy calling ; and to idealize, to a certain ex- 
 tent, the mission of the student. Under other 
 circumstances, and in any other land, I might 
 have had reason to judge differently; but it is 
 not in the German nature to be diverted from a 
 lofty pursuit by petty passions. Reflective, per- 
 severing, somewhat obstinate and limited in his 
 opinions, somewhat heavy and phlegmatic by 
 temper, the German student lives in brotherly 
 relations with his fellow-laborers ; helps cheer- 
 fully where help is needed ; praises heartily 
 where praise is due ; and is too much in earnest 
 about his own work to envy the progress or 
 scorn the efforts df others. So national is he, 
 indeed, and so thoroughly does he identify him- 
 self with the general cause, that he rejoices 
 honestly in their success, and finds in it matter 
 for self-encouragement. Of this disposition I 
 never beheld more proof than during the six 
 or seven weeks which intervened between my 
 father's departure and the date of our July 
 festival. 
 
 It was a momentous epoch for us. Report 
 said that it would be the grandest competition 
 ever known since the founding of the school. 
 We all had something to strive for, and 
 something to hope. In every department the 
 students were working like bees ; and, though 
 it be the tritest of similes, I defy you to have 
 avoided comparing the whole college to one vast 
 hive, had you stood at hot noon in the midst of 
 the empty courtyard, listening to the hum that 
 issued from the open windows all around. 
 
 We had, indeed, abundant motive for indus- 
 try, since a harvest of honor, and prizes for 
 
 every branch of study, awaited our success. 
 Concerts and musical examinations were to take 
 place, and an exhibition of fine arts was to be 
 held in the great-room of the Conversation-Haua. 
 Amateurs, professors, and strangers were ex- 
 pected from far and near. The names of Heine, . 
 Lamartine, Overbeck, Waagen, Schwanthaler; 
 and others, were already stated to be upon the 
 list of judges. King Louis of Bavaria, it was 
 said, was coming to visit the Grand Duke ; and 
 some even whispered of the probable presence of 
 Danneker, the venerable Danneker, " whose 
 hand sculptured the beauteous Ariadne and the 
 Panther." What wonder, then, if every stu- 
 dent were at work, heart, soul, and brain, for 
 the coming trial ? What wonder if the musi- 
 cians deafened us all day ; if we painters smelt 
 of megilp and copal vai-nish from morning till 
 night, and came into dinner as plentifully be- 
 smeared with yellow ochre and Venetian red as 
 a society of Cherokees or Blackfeet ; if the teach- 
 ers were all in a state bordering on distraction ; 
 and if Professor Metz (grown more ruthless and 
 satirical than ever) hovered about the studios 
 like a critical Asmodeus, breaking our hearts 
 daily ? 
 
 " You are a colony of daubers," he used to 
 say; "canvas-spoilers, caricaturists! Were I 
 Dame Nature, I would bring an action against 
 you for hbel. Do you call these pictures? 
 They are not pictures. They are senseless 
 masses of color. What do they mean ? What 
 do they teach ? What do they prove ? Keep 
 every other commandment as faithfully as you 
 have kept the second, and you will do well ; for 
 these are likenesses of nothing that is in heaven 
 or earth ! Gott im Himmd! if I am on the 
 hanging committee, I'll turn every canvas to the 
 wall 1" 
 
 Notwithstanding this cold comfort on the 
 part of our imperious Professor, we worked 
 merrily on, encouraging and helping one an- 
 other, and looking forward to the coming trial 
 with expectations far from despondent. Ida, 
 whose talent for landscape was unrivaled 
 among us, touched up the mountains in Bertha's 
 " FHght into Egypt." Bertha, whose figures 
 were capital, put in a group of shepherds for 
 Gertrude, whose " Vale of Tempe" would have 
 been nothing without them — Luisa, a very Pre- 
 Raffaellite of finish, manufactured weedy fore- 
 grounds by the dozen — and Frederika, whose 
 forte lay in aerial perspective, dashed in skies 
 and blue mists and graduated flights of birds 
 for almost every girl in the class. As for poor 
 Emma Werner, who really had no talent what- 
 ever, we all helped her, and produced by our 
 combined efforts a very tolerable picture, which, 
 I may as well observe at once, carried off a 
 third-class medal, and made the crowning glory 
 of her life for ever after. 
 
 I have hesitated, up to this point, whether or 
 no to dwell upon my share of the hopes and 
 toils of the time — whether to describe my own 
 picture, or leave all such details to the imagina- 
 tion of those who read my story. Yet this 
 book is the true chronicle of my Ufe ; and that 
 picture was more than my life for many and 
 many a month. I had it before my eyes at all 
 times of the day, and in all places. I saw it 
 painted on the darkness when I woke, restless 
 and feverish, in the midst of the summer night. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 65 
 
 I knew every inch of it by heart, and could have 
 reproduced it from memory, touch for touch, 
 wilhout the variation of a hair's breadth, right 
 or left. My opinion fluctuated about it all this 
 time to a degree that nearly drove me mad. 
 Sometimes I delighted in it — sometimes I 
 loathed it. Twenty times a day I passed from 
 the summit of hope to the lowest depths of de- 
 spair. Twenty times a day I asked myself, " Is 
 it good ? Is it bad ? Am I a painter ; or have 
 I deceived myself with the phantom of a vain 
 desire ?" I could not answer these questions. 
 I could only hope, and fear, and paint on, ac- 
 cording to the promptings that were in me. 
 
 My subject was Rienzi ; my scene, the ruins 
 of the Forum. A solitary figure seated, draped 
 and meditative, upon a fallen capital at the foot 
 of the column of Phocas ; a dim perspective of 
 buildings with the Colosseum far away in the 
 shadowy distance ; a goat browsing in the fore- 
 ground ; and, over all, a sky filled with the last 
 rose-tints of the sunken sun, steeping all the 
 earth and the base of every pillar in rich 
 shadow, and touching church-tower, pediment, 
 and sculptured capital with a glory direct from 
 heaven — this was the scene I strove to paint, 
 the dream I strove to realize, the poem I strove 
 to utter, . How imperfect that utterance was, 
 and how vague that dream, none now know bet- 
 ter than myself; but all the romance and ambi- 
 tion of my youth were lavished on it ; though I 
 have painted better pictures since, yet, in one 
 sense, have I never painted another so good. 
 
 And thus the weeks went by, and the ap- 
 pointed time came up with rapid strides, de- 
 sired yet dreaded, and pregnant with events. 
 
 CHAPTER XXl^I. 
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF FINE ARTS. 
 
 The great week came at last, and with it such 
 shoals of visitors as filled the town of Zollen- 
 strasse-am-Main to overflowing. Every hotel, 
 lodging-house, boarding-house, gasthaus, and 
 suburban inn was crammed from basement to 
 garret. The King of Bavaria was at the palace, 
 and the King of Wiirtemberg at the Kaiser 
 Krone over the way. Every boat, diligence, 
 and public conveyance came laden daily with 
 double its lawful freight. Traveling caleches 
 multiplied so rapidly that the inn-yards were in 
 a state of blockade. The streets swarmed with 
 officers of the royal suites, and every passer-by 
 wore a uniform or a court suit. As for honor- 
 ary ribbons, you saw as much in half an hour as 
 might have Stocked a haberdasher's shop, and 
 stars were as plentiful as if the milky way had 
 dropped in upon a visit. 
 
 The Competition lasted just a week, and was 
 arranged according to programme, thus : — 
 
 On Monday and Wednesday the musicians 
 competed in the Academy concert-room for the 
 best orchestral symphony, instrumental quar- 
 tet, and four-part song. On Tuesday and 
 Thursday, the solo players and vocalists gave a 
 public concert. On Friday and Saturday w|s 
 held an exhibition of paintings and sculptur^ 
 by the art-students. Sunday, however, the 
 grandest day of all, Avas set apart for the distri- 
 bution of prizes. For this ceremony the As- 
 E 
 
 sembly-room of the Conversation-Haus was to 
 be fitted up, and no visitor could be admitted 
 without a card of invitation. Then, besides all 
 this, we had a French company at the theater ; 
 a review ; a boar-hunt ; a ball every night at 
 the Conversation-Haus ; and a fair in the pubhc 
 gardens — to say nothing of the extra roulette 
 tables which Messieurs Fripon and Coquin found 
 it necessary to provide for the occasion. A fine 
 time, truly, for ZoUenstrasse-am-Main — a fine 
 time for the Grand Duke, the hotel keepers, and 
 the blacklegs ! 
 
 Nor were we students one whit less excited 
 than the rest of the community ; for till the 
 Sunday we knew no more than others what our 
 fate would be. Every second day the commit- 
 tees of judgment met, discussed, passed resolu- 
 tions, and recorded decisions of which we could 
 in no wise foretell the purport. Whose would 
 be the first prize, and whose the second ? 
 Would the medal be his, or hers, or mine ? 
 For my own part, when I saw the works of art 
 assembled together in one hall, and came to 
 compare my picture with those of my competi- 
 tors, I lost all heart, and beheved it to be the 
 most egregious failure th^re. 
 
 At length the six days and nights were past, 
 and the Sunday morning dawned, bright and 
 hot, and flooded with intensest light. The cere- 
 mony was announced for two o'clock in the 
 afternoon ; so we went to church, as usual, in 
 the morning, though none of us, I fear, attended 
 much to the service. By half-past one we were 
 at the Conversation-Haus, and in our places. 
 It was a magnificent room, some eighty feet in 
 length, decorated with alternate panelings of 
 looking-glass and fresco-painting, and hung with 
 superb chandeliers, like fountains of cut glass. 
 At the upper end, on a dais of crimson cloth, 
 stood a semicircle of luxurious arm-chairs for 
 the Duke and his chief guests ; to the left of 
 the dais a platform of seats, tier above tier, for 
 the accommodation of the minor nobility ; and 
 to the right of the dais, a similar platform for 
 the artists and men of letters from among whom 
 the different committees had been organized. 
 Directly facing this formidable array, on benches 
 that extended halfway down the room, and were 
 divided off" from the lower end by a wooden bar- 
 rier, we students were seated — the youths on 
 one side, and the girls on the other, with a nar- 
 row alley between. In the space behind us and 
 in the gallery above the door, were crowded all 
 those spectators who, having procured cards, 
 were fortunate enough to find places. 
 
 For the first half-hour all was confusion and 
 chatter. Every body was staring at every body 
 else, asking questions which nobody could an- 
 swer, and making wild guesses which some- 
 body else was sure to contradict immediately. 
 " Where will the Grand Duke sit ?" " Who is 
 that stout man with the crimson ribbon on his 
 breast?" "Which is Baron Humboldt, and 
 which the Chevalier Bunsen ?" " Do you see 
 that old man with the silver locks? — that is 
 Longfellow, the American poet." " Nonsense, 
 Longfellow is quite a young man. It is more 
 likely Danneker, or Beranger, or Dr. Spohr !" 
 " See, there is Professor Metz — there, yonder, 
 talking to that strange-looking animal with the 
 red beard and the brown court suit !" "Animal, 
 do you call him ? Why, that is Alexandre Du- 
 
66 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 mas." " Alexandre Dumas ? Absurd ! Do you 
 not know that Dumas is a negro, and did you ever 
 see a negro witli red hair ?" 
 
 And so forth, questioning, guessing, and con- 
 tradicting, till two o'clock struck, and the Grand 
 Duke, preceded by a couple of ushers and fol- 
 lowed by five or six gentlemen in rich uniforms, 
 came in and took his seat upon the center chair. 
 The others placed themselves to his right and 
 left. 
 
 A low buzz, that subsided presently into a pro- 
 found silence, ran round the room. Then the 
 Duke rose, and pronounced that celebrated speech 
 which, after being printed on pink glazed paper, 
 and distributed gratuitously to the visitors, read- 
 ing-room subscribers, and academy students, was 
 not only reprinted on coarse white ditto, and 
 sold at the price of three kreutzers per copy, 
 but was also reviewed, extracted, criticised, 
 ridiculed, praised, quoted, and commented upon 
 by every journal, magazine, and literary organ 
 throughout the thirty-eight independent states of 
 the Germanic Confederation. 
 
 I am not going to incorporate that speech, 
 eloquent as it was, with my personal narrative. 
 I shall not even recapitulate the heads of it, or 
 dwell, however briefly, on those briUiant pass- 
 ages wherein his Serene Highness was pleased to 
 enlarge upon the pleasures and advantages of 
 the arts ; to cite Plato, Fichte, Lord Bacon, and 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds ; to compare our Academy 
 with the School of Athens ; and finally, in 
 drawing a skillful parallel between the Grand 
 Duchy of Zollenstrasse-am-Main and that other 
 insignificant Grand Duchy of Central Italy where 
 Michael Angelo dwelt, Giotto painted, and Dante 
 was born, to liken himself, with infinite modesty, 
 to no less a patron and promoter of learning than 
 Lorenzo of Tuscany, surnamed the Magnificent. 
 
 Enough, then, that his Highness spoke the 
 speech " trippingly on the tongue ;" that it was 
 applauded as loudly as etiquette permitted ; and 
 that, at the close thereof, receiving a written 
 paper from one of the ushers, he began the 
 business of the day by summoning one Friedrich 
 Bernstoff, of Wiirtemberg, free scholar, to re- 
 ceive a first-class medal for the best orchestral 
 symphony, 
 
 " Herr Friedrich Bernstoff," echoed the usher, 
 " Herr Friedrich Bernstoff is requested to ad- 
 vance." 
 
 A pale slender boy rose from the ranks of his 
 companions, and stepped forward to the foot of 
 the dais. The Duke addressed him in a few 
 congratulatory but scarcely audible words ; pre- 
 sented him with a small morocco case containing 
 a gold medal ; and then, stooping slightly for- 
 ward, placed a fillet of laurel leaves upon his 
 brow. The boy blushed, bent low, and returned to 
 his seat, glad to escape observation and to snatch 
 the wreath away as soon as nobody was looking. 
 
 The same ceremony then continued to be re- 
 peated with little or no variation, as the musical 
 candidates were called up, one by one, through- 
 out the sultry hours of the July afternoon. 
 
 Next came the sculptors, of whom there were 
 but few in the school, and whose audience was 
 proportionately brief Lastly, after a tantalizing 
 pause, during which his Serene Highness chatted 
 with provoking nonchalance to his left-hand 
 neighbor, ProfessoV Metz came hurriedly to the 
 foot of the dais, and, bowing, placed a paper in 
 
 his Highnetes's hand. A whispered conference 
 ensued. The Duke smiled ; the professor retired ; 
 the usher cleared his throat, and waited the word 
 of command ; instead, however, of giving, as be- 
 fore, the name of the successful competitor, his 
 Highness rose and addressed us, somewhat to 
 the following effect : — 
 
 " Ladies and Gentlemen of the Academy — As 
 regards the prizes which remain to be presently 
 awarded, we have been placed — ahem ! — in a 
 position of some doubt and difficulty — which ' 
 position, ladies and gentlemen, I hasten — that 
 is to say, I feel it due to yourselves to — ' in short, 
 to explain." 
 
 (There were ill-natured tongues in the room 
 which compared this speech with the preceding, 
 and hesitated not to point out the difference be- 
 tween things studied and things extemporized.) 
 
 " Our rules," continued his Highness, " are ex- 
 act with regard to most emergencies — for in- 
 stance, ladies and gentlemen, we cannot admit a 
 foreigner to — to the advantages of a free scholar- 
 ship. You are all aware of that. We have, 
 however, had very few foreigners, as yet, among 
 our numbers — at present, I believe, we have 
 only two. The difficulty to which I allude has 
 arisen out of — of the fact that one of these 
 foreigners has been judged to-'— to deserve a 
 prize which up to this time has never been 
 awarded to any but a native of Germany. Di- 
 vided between th^ desire to be just, and the fear 
 of — of overstepping the laws of our institution, 
 the committee of criticism have hesitated up to 
 this moment, and I have but now received their 
 decision through the hands of our friend. Pro- 
 fessor Metz. The prize in question, ladies and 
 gentlemen, is for the best historical painting in 
 oils. Were we to be swayed by prejudices of 
 sex or nation, that prize would be awarded to 
 Herr Johann Brandt, whose * Siege of Corinth ' 
 is, in point of drawing and composition, inferior 
 to only one picture in the hall ; but, ladies and 
 gentlemen, having considered the matter under 
 all its — under every aspect, the committee de- 
 cides that, although the first prize for the first 
 historical painting has never yet had been de- 
 creed to a foreigner or — or a lady, it must on 
 the present occasion in justice be bestowed 
 upon " 
 
 Here he referred to the paper — 
 
 — " Upon Mademoiselle Barbara Churchill, 
 native of England, and six years a resident stu- 
 dent in this Academy." 
 
 " Mademoiselle Barbara Churchill," repeated 
 the usher, with an accent that left my name al- 
 most unrecognizable. " Mademoiselle Barbara 
 Churchill is requested to advance." 
 
 Utterly confused and skeptical, I rose up, stood 
 still, and, conscious of the eyes of the whole 
 room, dared not leave my place. 
 
 " Come, my pupil," said a kind voice close be- 
 side me. " Fear nothing." 
 
 It was Professor Metz, who had made his way 
 down the central alley, and offered me the sup- 
 port of his arm. 
 
 I do not remember if I took it — I do not 
 even remember how I came there ; but I found 
 myself the next moment standing at the foot of 
 tne dais, and the Duke bending over me, with 
 the laurels in his hand. He spoke ; but I heard 
 only the sound of his voice. He placed the 
 medal in my hand, and the wreath upon my 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 67 
 
 head. I stooped, instinctively to receive it; 
 and this done, turned tremblingly and awkward- 
 ly enough, to return to my place. As I did so, 
 I looked Up, and there, amid the visitors to the 
 right of the dais — there, bending earnestly for- 
 ward, conspicuous among a hundred others, pale, 
 eager-eyed, dark-haired, with the old impetuous 
 glance, and the old free bearing, I saw — oh joy ! 
 — for the first time since that morning in the 
 woods long years ago — my childhood's idol, my 
 hero, Farquhar of Broomhill ! 
 
 It was not the suddenness of the announce- 
 ment — it was neither confusion nor fatigue, nor 
 the emotion of an unexpected triumph — it had 
 nothing whatever to do with prizes, examinations, 
 or Grand Dukes — it was the sight of that one 
 swarthy face, and the shock of those darfc eyes 
 shining into mine, that sent the room reeling, 
 and made me lean so heavily on the professor's 
 proffered arm. 
 
 " You need air," he whispered, and led me to 
 an ante-room, where Madame Brenner brought 
 me a glass of wine and water, and insisted on 
 taking me back at once to the College. I went 
 to my bed-room and entreated to be left quite 
 alone. 
 ^ " If I sleep," I said, « I shall be better." 
 
 But it was not sleep that i wanted. It was 
 solitude and silence. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 AWELCOME VISITOR. 
 
 He took my hands in his, and led me to the 
 ■window. 
 
 "What, Barbara?" said he. "Little Bar- 
 barina, who climbed a certain library window 
 one fine afternoon, and rode home upon Satan ! 
 By my soul, I can hardly believe it." 
 
 " Believe or disbelieve as you will. Sahib," I 
 replied, half-laughing, half-crying ; " it is none 
 the less true." 
 
 " I suppose not," he said, seriously. " I sup- 
 pose not. There could scarcely be two Bar- 
 barinas in so small a world as this ! And then 
 to find you here — here, of all nooks and corners 
 in Europe ! Why, I should as soon have thought 
 of meeting you ' where the Chineses drive their 
 cany wagons light !' So tall, too — so clever — 
 such a capital artist ! Peste ! the sight of you 
 makes me feel a dozen years younger. How 
 long is it, carina^ since you and I were at Broom- 
 hill together ?" 
 
 "I left Stoneycroft Hall," sighed I, "just six 
 years and three months ago." 
 
 "It seems like six centuries. I have been 
 from Dan to Beersheba in the mean time ; and I 
 can not say that I am much the better for it — 
 whilst you — by the by, you always had a taste 
 for art. Do you remember choosing the best 
 drawing in my sketch-book, Barbara ? And do 
 you remember how I unpacked the Paul Ver- 
 onese for your connoisseurship's special delec- 
 tation?" 
 
 "Indeed, yes— and I also remember how 
 that same picture very nearly proved your 
 death." 
 
 " Shade of Polyphemus, and so do I !' A 
 little more, and I should have been crushed as 
 flat as Acis, without even a Galatea to weep for 
 
 me. Poor old Paolo ! Heaven grant that mine 
 ancestral rats have not quite eaten him up by 
 this time. But, Barbarina, how came you here ? 
 And why? Have you adopted art as a pro- 
 fession ? What are your plans, prospects, and 
 so forth ? Why, you have a thousand things 
 to tell me." 
 
 " Not half so ma^y as you have to tell me, 
 Mr. Farquhar. From Dan to Beersheba is a 
 journey worth relating, and you must have had 
 many adventures by the way." 
 
 " As many as the Knight of La Mancha ! As 
 many as Don Diego, on his road to and from 
 the Promontory of Noses ! As many as any Sir 
 Galahad that ever sat in the Siege Perilous, or 
 brake bread at Arthur's round table ! But let 
 my stories lie and rest awhile longer Barbarina. 
 They are scarcely worth the breath it costs to 
 tell them. Sit down here, instead, and talk to 
 me. Tell me all that has happened, and what 
 your life has been since we parted." 
 
 " Will you answer me one question first ?" 
 
 " Willingly— if I can." 
 
 " How long is it since you left Broomhill ? 
 Did you often see my aunt after I was gone ? 
 Did she miss me ? Was she sorry for me ? 
 Did she never speak of me, or think of me 
 again ? Why did she not write to me after I 
 went home ? What had I done that she should 
 utterly abandon me ?" 
 
 " My child, instead of one question, here are 
 a dozen ; none of which I can satisfactorily 
 answer. In the first place, I do not even know 
 in what month you went away." 
 
 " In May." 
 
 " And I in September. In the second place, 
 I never saw Mrs. Sandyshaft more than twice 
 during that time. It was my own fault, and I 
 was a fool for my pains. I behaved like an un- 
 civilized savage ; played with edged tools ; 
 very nearly fell into the hands of a female 
 Phihstine; discovered my error before it was 
 too late, and fled the country. Pshaw ! you re- 
 member her, Barbara?" 
 
 " Lady Flora " I faltered. 
 
 "Now Countess of somewhere or another, 
 with a castle in the west of England and a hus- 
 band as old as Methusalah ! Well, to return to 
 Mrs. Sandyshaft — I saw her but twice. Once 
 soon after you left, and again when I called to 
 bid her good-by, the night before I started for 
 the East." 
 
 " And what did she say of me ?" 
 
 " Very little the first time, and nothing the 
 second." 
 
 " Did she know that Papa had sent us to Ger- 
 many?" 
 
 " I fancy not. I think she would have told 
 me, had she known it." 
 
 " Do you think she missed me ?" 
 
 "I am sure of it — the surer because she 
 never said a word about it. Janet missed you 
 sadly, and cried when she heard your name." 
 
 " Poor Janet !" , 
 
 " For my own part, Barbara, I felt as if the 
 house were not the same place at all. The day- 
 light seemed to have gone out of it, and silence 
 to have settled on it Hke a spell. When I was 
 shown into the old familiar parlor, and saw your 
 aunt in her old familiar place, and looked round 
 for you as usual, and then heard that you were 
 g<3ne — gone right away never to return — I 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 felt — by Jove, I felt as if a cold hand had been 
 laid upon my heart !" 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Farquhar, did you miss me also ?" 
 
 " Miss you ? My little girl, I could not have 
 
 missed you more had I Parhleu ! it was for 
 
 that I staid away. Do you suppose I would not 
 have spent many an hour with the old lady in 
 her solitude, had I not been a selfish monster 
 and hated to go near the place ? And so you 
 have never seen her since ?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 ** Nor heard from her ?" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 ** And you do not even know whether she is 
 alive or dead ?" 
 
 " I have seen my father ; and he says that 
 she is living." 
 
 " But why not write to her ?" 
 
 *' I can not. I loved her, as though she were 
 my mother, and her house was more to nfe than 
 home had ever been. She exiled me from her- 
 self and from all that made me happy, and — 
 and I can not write to her now — I can not write 
 to her now !" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and looked as 
 people look when they blame you and refrain 
 from saying so. ' 
 
 " Well, ifrell," said he, " we will talk this 
 over some day ! In the mean time, Barbarina, 
 tell me something of yourself. Tell me what 
 has become of the wild, bright-eyed little girl 
 whom I once knew at Broomhill, and what pos- 
 sible affinity can exist between her and you ?" 
 
 I took the chair he placed for me, and obey- 
 ed him as literally, and in as few words as I 
 could. I went back to that darkest day in all 
 my calendar, when my aunt told me I must 
 leave her. I recalled my weary journey home, 
 and how I found my sister Jessie dead. I 
 sketched the circumstances of my arrival in 
 Germany; the routine of my school life; the 
 growth of my taste for art ; and all ' that I 
 thought could interest or amuse him, down to 
 my father's second marriage, and the departure 
 of my sister Hilda for Paris. He listened 
 attentively ; sometimes interrupting me with 
 exclamations, and sometimes with questions. 
 When I had done, he pushed his chair away, 
 and paced restlessly about the room 
 
 " Strange !" said he, more to himself than me. 
 "Strange, how all things shape themselves to 
 the ends of genius ! The old, new story, over 
 and over again! The old, new story of how' 
 heartbreak, and exile, and neglect develop the 
 nature of the artist, and arm him for his future 
 career. Tush, Barbara, you may congratulate 
 yourself upon your troubles ! Had you vege- 
 tated till now in the bucolic atmosphere of 
 Stoneycroft Hall, you had never carried off a 
 gold medal or painted Rienzi in the ruins of the 
 Forum !" 
 
 " Perhaps not," I replied sadly ; " but then 
 my childhood would' have been cared for, and 
 the first impulses of my heart would not have 
 faded among strangers. I should have known 
 the happiness of home, and " 
 
 My voice failed, and I broke off abruptly. 
 He finished my sentence for me. 
 
 " And, like a foolish virgin, you regret the 
 good the Gods have sent you ! Pshaw, child, 
 beware of these longings — beware of such 
 empty words as home, or love, or friendship. 
 
 They mean nothing — worse than nothing — 
 disappointment; bitterness of soul, restlessness, 
 despair ! Forget that you have a heart, or be- 
 gin life afresh with the determination to regard 
 it merely as a useful muscle employed in the 
 circulation of the blood. Steel yourself to this, 
 and you may have some chance of happiness in 
 the future. Devote yourself to your art. Make 
 it your home, your country, your friend. Wed 
 it ; live in it ; die for it ; shut your eyes and 
 your ears against all else ; and if ever a fool 
 comes talking love to you, laugh at him for his 
 pains, and bid him ' go a bat-fowling !' " 
 
 " And if I cannot do all this ? If the hu- 
 manity that is in me demands something more 
 than paint and canvas — what then ?" 
 
 "What then? Why, shipwreck, child. 
 Shipwreck on the deep sea, without a compass, 
 without a morrow, without a hope." 
 
 There was a fierce and bitter regret in his 
 voice, that struck me hke a revelation. 
 * " You speak as one who has suffered," I said, 
 almost without intending it. 
 
 He smiled drearily. 
 
 " I speak," said he, " as one who has tried all 
 things, and eaten of the Dead Sea apples — as 
 one who, having wealth, is poor, and, having a 
 home, is homeless ! As one, Barbara, to whom 
 ' this goodly frame, the earth,' seems but a ster- 
 ile promontory, and this 'brave o'erhanging 
 firmament no other thing than a foul and pesti- 
 lent congregation of vapors !' But this is non- 
 sense. Parlous autre chose H 
 
 " If I dared," said I sadly, " I would ask you 
 to talk to me of yourself alone ; but " 
 
 " But you are too young to be my confidante, 
 Barbara — too young — too innocent, too hope- 
 ful. Nay, it is useless to ask — Heaven forfend 
 that I should burden your memory with the rec- 
 ord of my faults and follies !" 
 
 I had no reply for this, and a long silence fol- 
 lowed, during which he continued to pace to 
 and fro, with his hands clasped behind his back 
 and his eyes fixed gloomily upon the ground. 
 For the first time since our meeting, I found 
 myself at liberty to observe him closely. He 
 was but little changed, if at all. Somewhat 
 browner, perhaps ; somewhat broader and more 
 vigorous ; but the same Hugh Farquhar, every 
 inch ! If the lines of the mouth seemed to have 
 grown sterner and the brow more thoughtful, 
 six years of traveling were sufficient to account 
 for it ; but would they also account for that 
 deeper fire, so weary, wistful and consuming, 
 that burned in his dark eyes, like the flame of 
 a smouldering volcano? He had asked me 
 what my life was since we parted : I asked my- 
 self what had been his ? A thousand questions 
 started to my lips ; but I dared not utter one. I 
 longed to ask him why he had again wandered 
 away from Broomhill ; where he had been trav- 
 eling ; whence he came ; and whither he was 
 going. I longed, also, to tell him that I kept 
 his silver ring, and had kept it, ever since, as a 
 sacred relic ; but a strange reluctance tied my 
 tongue, and kept me silent. In the midst of 
 my reverie, he looked up suddenly and' found 
 me watching him. 
 
 " Barbara," said he, " you think me a strange 
 being ; fitful, perverse, good for nothing ! 
 Well, you are right ; and if I puzzle you, I puz- 
 zle myself as much, and more. Some day or 
 
Il 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 69 
 
 Y 
 
 another, when you and I are both older and 
 wiser, I will tell you the story of my inner life 
 from first to last — if only to show you how a 
 man may gamble away Heaven's precious gifts, 
 and find himself, at thirty-four, bankrupt of all 
 that makes the future not wholly desperate !" 
 
 " Bankrupt !" I faltered, bewildered by his 
 vehemence, and fearing I knew scarcely what. 
 " Pshaw, child, bankrupt in hopes — not 
 acres!" he exclaimed, injpatiently. "What is 
 life but a game of chance, and what are we but 
 the players ? We stake on the future — it may 
 perhaps be a prize ; perhaps a blank. Who 
 knows till the card turns up, or the ball has 
 done rolling?" 
 
 " I can not bear that you should feel thus," I 
 said, the tears starting to my eyes. " You are 
 still young — you are rich — you might make 
 yourself and so many others happy ;x'and 
 
 yet " 
 
 "And yet, Barbara, I envy you with my 
 whole soul !" 
 
 " Envy me, Mr. Farquhar ?" 
 "Ay, as Edmund envied Edgar! When I 
 came to-day into the calm atmosphere of this 
 house, — when being conducted through yon- 
 der corridor, I passed an open door, and saw 
 some twenty young girls sitting round a table 
 with their books and samplers, all industrious, 
 innocent, and happy — when I was shown into 
 this pleasant, simple parlor, with its matted 
 floor and open window, and flower-laden bal- 
 cony — when I see you in that plain brown 
 gown and snowy collar, looking so good and 
 purposeful, and working out the problem of a 
 studious and ennobling career ; when I see all 
 this, Barbara, and compare it with my wander- 
 ing, aimless, hopeless, futile life, I envy you 
 and such as you, and wish myself something 
 worthier — or something worse — than I am ! 
 Nay — do not interrupt me. I know what you 
 would say. I know all that can be said upoil 
 the subject — but I am too old now to turn the 
 current of my ways.!" 
 
 " You are unjust to yourself," I suggested, 
 scarcely knowing what to reply. "He who 
 travels much, learns much ; and I can conceive 
 nothing finer than the life of one who studies his- 
 tory from the ruins of Greece and Rome, geology 
 from the mountains and mines, and human nature 
 from association with all the races of mankind." 
 He laughed, or forced a laugh ; and, taking a 
 volume of Bacon from the table, read aloud — 
 
 " ' Travel in the younger sort is a part of edu- 
 cation ; in the elder, a part of experience ' — why, 
 Barbarina, you are aVerulam in petticoats ! Now, 
 look you, I am of the ' elder ' sort, and travel is 
 not only a part of my experience, but all my ex- 
 perience. For more than twelve years I have 
 been wandering about the world, and what do 
 you suppose I have learned for my pains?" 
 " I should exceedingly like to know." 
 " In the first place, then, I am convinced that 
 English ale is better drinking than train-oil ; and 
 that Burgundy and Bordeaux are better than 
 either." 
 
 " I think I could have told you that, without 
 going from Dan to Beersheba, Mr. Farquhar," 
 "Miss Churchill, you are satirical! In the 
 second place, I have come to the conclusion that 
 the world really is a round world, and not a flat 
 surface with the Celestial Empire in the midst." 
 
 " Amazing discovery !" 
 
 *' Be pleased not to interrupt the court. And 
 in the third place, madam, I am persuaded that 
 it is my destiny to dangle about diligences, be a 
 perigrinator in post-chaises, and a diner at table 
 d'hotes throughout the term of my natural life. 
 Surely this is experience and wisdom enough for 
 one mortal man, and as much as my worst ene- 
 mies have a right to expect from me !" 
 
 With this he snatched up his hat, and pointed 
 to the time-piece on the mantle-shelf. 
 
 " I have been here an hour and a half," he ex- 
 claimed. " If I make my visits too long, the 
 Academic powers will, perhaps, have the bad 
 taste to object. Adieu, Barbarina. I shall come 
 again soon." 
 
 " Do you remain long at Zollenstrasse ?" 
 
 " Chi lo sa? Yes — no — perhaps. 'Tis as 
 the fancy takes me, and the mood lasts. Fare- 
 well !" 
 
 He shook hands ; hesitated a moment, as if 
 doubtful whether I were too old to be kissed ; 
 laughed ; drew back ; and throwing wide the 
 window, which opened on a balcony only three 
 or four feet from the ground, leaped lightly down 
 into the courtyard, without troubling himself to 
 go round by the corridors, and out at ,the front 
 entrance, like a respectable and orderly visitor. 
 At the gate he turned again, waved his hand, 
 and was gone in a moment. 
 
 I hastened to the solitude of my room, locked 
 the door, and sat on the side of my bed, for a 
 long time, thinking of many things. Was I hap- 
 py ? or sorrowful ? or both ? I know not — I 
 only know that when I was summoned down to 
 supper, I heard one of my schoolfellows whisper 
 to her neighbor : 
 
 " Look at Barbara's eyes. She has been cry- 
 ing. The dark stranger from England brought 
 bad news to-day !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 I SHINE WITH A REFLECTED LUSTRE. 
 
 The competition over, Zollenstrasse subsided 
 into its normal state of semi-fashionable quiet. 
 The King of Wiirtemberg drove away in a ba- 
 rouche and four, preceded by his outriders and 
 followed by three carriages containing his suite. 
 The other illustrious visitors, with the exception 
 of a few who remained to drink the waters, de- 
 parted with more or less of magnificence to their 
 several destinations. The paintings and casts 
 came back to the studios ; the benches and red 
 hangings were cleared out of the Assembly 
 room ; the theater, which for a whole week had . 
 been crowded every night, was advertised, as 
 usual, for Sundays and Wednesdays only, and 
 the waiters might once more be seen loitering 
 with their hands in their pockets at the doors of 
 the hotels. In the Academy, an unnatural calm 
 succeeded to an unwonted confusion. The pres- 
 ent was the long vacation, when every one, save 
 a melancholy minority, packed up and went joy- 
 ously away. Hilda and I, Ida Saxe, and one or 
 two others, were among those who always staid 
 behind. Now Hilda, too, was gone, and the 
 great building was more desolate than ever. 
 Had it not been for Hugh, my triumph, after all, 
 would have been a sad one. 
 
 Still it was a triumph ; and my heart throbbed 
 
TO 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 with pleasure when my companions thronged 
 about me that Sunday evening, asking to see my 
 medal — my beautiful gold medal, in its case of 
 morocco and velvet. I even went to sleep with 
 it under my pillow that first night ; and looked 
 at it, I need hardly say, as soon as I opened my 
 eyes in the morning. 
 
 " You will be made a sub-professor, now, Bar- 
 bara," said one. 
 
 *' And take out a double first-class certificate, 
 when you leave the College !" added another. 
 
 " And sit at Madame Brenner's right hand at 
 table and at chapel," said a third. 
 
 All of which came to pass ; for at supper that 
 very same night, I was installed in the seat of 
 honor ; and next day received my appointment 
 as sub-professor, with a salary of two hundred 
 florins per annum. Nor was this all. Professor 
 Metz, the critical, the formidable, he who never 
 praised or pitied, summoned me a few days later 
 to his private studio, and graciously proclaimed 
 his intention of employing me to assist him, dur- 
 ing the vacation, in painting the panels of the 
 Grand Duke's summer pavilion. I confess that 
 I was more elated by this mark of distinction 
 than by any other of my successes. Of course I 
 wrote to Hilda by the first post, and filled four 
 large pages of letter-paper with details of the 
 Competition, not forgetting my own good for- 
 tune. I omitted, however, though I scarcely 
 knew why, all mention of Farquhar of Broom- 
 Mil. 
 
 The school was nearly empty when he next 
 came to see me, and Madame Brenner, who was 
 somewhat scandalized by the manner of his de- 
 parture on the first occasion, received him in her 
 own parlor, and remained there till he left. 
 When he was gone, she said — 
 
 "Your friend, Barbara, is a very strange per- 
 son." 
 
 To which I replied : — 
 "Strange, Madame?" 
 
 " Is it his custom to prefer the window to the 
 door, when he leaves a house ?" 
 
 "He — he has been a great traveler, Ma- 
 dame," I stammered. "He has eccentricities. 
 
 He '' 
 
 " Have you known him long ?" 
 " Since I was a little girl, Madame." 
 " And his profession ?" 
 " He is a gentleman, Madame — a proprietair 
 — very rich — a connoisseur of the fine arts." 
 
 " Evidently a connoisseur," said Madame. " I 
 should have supposed him, from his conversa- 
 tion, to be a painter." 
 
 Here our little colloquy ended ; but Madame 
 Brenner was not quite at ease upon the subject 
 of my English visitor. That any man should 
 run, when he might walk ; jump from a window, 
 when he might go round by a door ; stand up 
 and pace about a room, when he might sit in a 
 chair; and travel about the world, when he 
 might live at home in a chateau of his own, 
 were peculiarities entirely beyond the radius of 
 her comprehension. All that he said, all that 
 he did, was at variance with her German deco- 
 rum ; and henceforth she made a point of being 
 present at our interviews. One day, however, 
 when we were walking along the Weimar Strasse, 
 we met the royal cortege face to face, with Hugh 
 riding beside the Grand Duke, in familiar con- 
 versation. He took off his hat first to Madame, , 
 
 and then to me. I observed that this incident 
 produced a deep impression on her. 
 
 " Your friend is a man of rank ?" said she, 
 interrogatively, when the Ducal party was out 
 of sight. 
 
 "No, Madame." 
 She looked perplexed. 
 " Of high position, then ?" 
 " He is a gentleman, Madame, of ancient 
 family." 
 
 " And enormously rich ?" 
 "No, Madame — not rich for an English pro- 
 prietaire. He has about a hundred and fifty 
 thousand florins a year." 
 
 This was a piece of malice on my part : for 
 the Grand-Ducal revenue amounted to about one 
 third of the sum, perquisites included. Poor 
 Madame Brenner murmured '■'■ Mein Gott !" 
 sighed meekly, looked more perplexed than be- 
 fore, and was silent during the rest of the walk. 
 A day or two after this, one of the girls show- 
 ed me his name in the Zollenstrasser Zeitung. 
 He had been dining with the Duke and Duchess, 
 and was written down an "Excellency." 
 " He must be a very great man," said. she. 
 "He is a very wonderful man," I replied. 
 " He has been all over the world. He speaks 
 as many languages as you have fingers on your 
 hands. He has a horse that kneels down to let 
 him mount ; and a black valet who saved his 
 life from the bite of a serpent in India. He has 
 a house four times as big as the Ducal Residenz ; 
 and a park larger than the woods of Briihl ; and 
 some years ago he bought a Paul Veronese, for 
 which he gave thirty thousand florins." 
 
 " Wunderhar ! And with all this he has no 
 title ?" 
 
 "None at all." 
 
 " And is not even a Geheimrath ?" 
 " Nothing of the kind, dear. Nothing but an 
 English gentleman, pur et simple^ 
 
 I did not think it necessary to say that we 
 deemed that the better title of the two. 
 
 These things created an immense excitement 
 in the Academy. Those few pupils who remain- 
 ed behind were very inquisitive about the mar- 
 velous Englishman, and listened eagerly to all 
 that I could be brought to tell them on the sub- 
 ject. Whatever I said was repeated, with exag- 
 gerations, to Madame Brenner ; Madame Bren- 
 ner communicated it, with placid amazement, to 
 the resident professors ; the professors carried 
 the news to all the aesthetic teas in Zollenstrasse ; 
 and Hugh Farquhar became the Monte Christo 
 of the day. In the mean time, I shone with a 
 reflected lustre, and was almost more revered 
 by my fellow-students for my friend than for 
 my medal. 
 
 Still, he came but seldom. Sometimes I met 
 him going out of the public library, with a book 
 under his arm. Sometimes I saw his horse and 
 groom waiting before the door of his hotel. 
 And one morning he came armed with an order 
 to see the College, on which occasion Madame 
 Brenner, whose respect and perplexity were ever 
 on the increase, informed me that Her Excel- 
 lency was an extraordinary man, and made ex- 
 traordinary observations about every thing ! 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE GRAND DUKE's SUMMER PAVILION. 
 
 The Grand Duke's summer' pavilion was in 
 shape an oblong parallelogram, built in imita- 
 tion of the celebrated Casino Rospig^osi. The 
 fa9ade was incrusted with tasteful bas-reliefs, 
 and the interior divided into paneled compart- 
 ments, filled alternately with mirrors and paint- 
 ings. The old designs, of a bastard Watteau 
 school, had been lately removed ; and Professor 
 Metz was replacing them by subjects descriptive 
 of German life and landscape. His plan was to 
 "lay in" the broad effects of each picture, and 
 then leave me to carry it forward, guided by a 
 small original sketch. When I had done as 
 much as he deemed necessary, he took it in hand 
 again, and finished it. Thus the work progress- 
 ed rapidly. 
 
 One morning, when the Professor had gone 
 home to lunch, and I was painting alo;fte, Ida 
 came in with a letter in her hand. She was 
 flushed with running, and sat down, quite out 
 of breath, in an old fauteuil in the middle of 
 the room. 
 
 " I saw by the post-mark," said she, " that it 
 came^ from Paris, and I knew by the writing 
 that it was a letter from Hilda ; so I put on my 
 hat, and brought it directly. I have also brought 
 you a roll, and some slices of liver-sausage ! I 
 was sure you must be hungry, and equally sure 
 that you would never take the trouble to come 
 ■ back for the college dinner." 
 
 "Thanks, Ida dear. I believe I really am 
 hungry ; but it is so tiresome to go all the way 
 back to College, across that wearisome Hof-gar- 
 
 ten in the broiling sun, and " 
 
 " Nonsense ! Genius must eat. No, Barbara 
 — roll and sausage first, and letter afterward !" 
 "Nay, please let me have my letter !" 
 " Not till you have eaten !" 
 " Tyrant ! How can I eat while you keep me 
 in suspense ? Remember, I have not heard from 
 Hilda since I wrote to tell her that I had the 
 medal !" 
 
 Ida gave it with a kiss. 
 "Tliere," said she, "you are always to be 
 spoiled ! I shall amuse myself by looking at 
 the pictures, What a charming place this would 
 be for a studio !" 
 
 I broke the seal eagerly, and read my letter. 
 " My dearest Barbara," wrote Hilda, " Paris 
 delights me more every day. I can not tell you 
 how happy I am. My life is a perpetual fete. 
 Every day we drive out and pay visits ; and 
 every evening is devoted to society. Mamma 
 receives once a week, and, as she knows only 
 the best people^ our circle is of the most unex- 
 ceptionable kind. Last evening we went to a 
 ball at the Tuileries. I wore white lace over 
 white gros de Naples^ and mamma Avhite lace 
 over blue satin. The President received his 
 guests, standing. He is a cold, resolute-looking 
 man, of about the middle hight. He bears 
 himself like a soldier, and looks taller than he 
 is. He and Prince Napoleon strolled about the 
 ball-room in the course of the evening. He was 
 very polite to mamma, whose first husband, I 
 find, held some appointment which brought 
 him into communication with the French Gov- 
 ernment. She presented me ; and, later in the 
 evening, I had the honor of dancing with Prince 
 
 Napoleon. I was engaged for that dance, as it 
 happened, to the Count de Chaumont ; but a 
 royal invitation supersedes every other, so I 
 danced the next quadrille with the Count in- 
 stead. The Count de Chaumont and papa are 
 old acquaintances, and knew each other years 
 ago in Brussels, before the Count had succeeded 
 to his title. He is a highly distinguished man, 
 still handsome, and very dignified. He holds 
 an important office in the royal household, and 
 admires me most particularly. Indeed, my 
 dear sister, you would be surprised to see how 
 I am flattered and feted wherever I go. The 
 Count told papa last night that I was the belle 
 of the season. I have been taking riding-les- 
 sons, and next week am to ride with papa in 
 the Bois. He says I shall create an immense 
 sensation en Amazone ; and Mrs, Churchill, 
 who no longer rides on horseback, has given 
 me her habit, which, with certain alterations, 
 fits me to perfection. In short, I never was so 
 happy. I can not understand how I lived 
 through the monotony of our life at Zollen- 
 strasse ; and the mere recollection of that 
 weary College overwhelms me with ennui. I 
 ought not to forget, however, that I owe my 
 knowledge of singing to Professor Oberstein ; 
 and my singing is one of my successes. I 
 should tell you of an exquisite compliment paid 
 
 to me the other day by Monsieur de B , 
 
 the celebrated historian. ' Mademoiselle,' he 
 said, ' the race of Churchill is fatal to our na- 
 tion ; and I foresee that you are destined to 
 carry still farther the conquests which your 
 ancestor began.' And now, my dear Barbara 
 adieu. This is a long letter, and must conten 
 you for some weeks ; for my life is a perpetua 
 engagement, and I never have an hour that I 
 can call my own. Mamma desires her love to 
 you. Papa is gone to call on the Count de 
 Chaumont, or he would doubtless desire some 
 message. Once more, adieu, dear sister, and 
 believe me, etc., etc." 
 
 I read it to the end, and sat silent, 
 
 " Well, Barbara," cried Ida, " what does she 
 say to your success ? How did your father re- 
 ceive it? Oh, I wish I had been there when 
 they opened the letter !" 
 
 " Hilda says nothing at all about it," replied 
 I, trying to look indifferent. 
 
 "Nothing at all?" repeated Ida. "But you 
 wrote the day after the competition — you wrote 
 on purpose !" 
 
 " Quite ti'ue." 
 
 " Then the letter miscarried !" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 " But — but are you sure she does not men- 
 tion it ?" persisted Ida. 
 
 I folded the letter, and put it in my pocket. 
 
 " Hilda names the College but once," said I, 
 " and then only to wonder how she could have 
 endured it so long. She never mentions the 
 competition." 
 
 " Unkind ! ungenerous !" exclaimed Ida, pas 
 sionately. " If I were in your place " 
 
 " If you were in my place, dear, you would 
 forgive it as I forgive it — forget it, as I shall try 
 to forget it ; and — and " 
 
 " And become famous in spite of^ them !" 
 cried the warm-hearted little Bavarian, throw- 
 ing her arms about my neck. " Yes, Barbara, 
 you shall force them to care for it ! You shall 
 
72 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 force them to be proud of you ! Think of the 
 future that lies before you. Think of all that 
 you have already done^-think of all that you 
 have yet to do. What matter if Hilda is care- 
 less of your success — Hilda or any one — so long 
 as the success is fairly achieved ? Come, cheer 
 up ! Let us forget all about the letter and 
 think only of this exquisite panel with the vin- 
 tagers in the foreground !" . 
 
 Saying thus, she took my hands in hers, and 
 dragged me playfully back to my work. But 
 the charm of the task was gone. The color 
 that I had laid in half an hour ago looked 
 muddy and indecisive, and I effaced my morn- 
 ing's labor at the first touch. 
 
 " Oh, Barbara !" cried my friend. "All those 
 lovely vine-leaves sacrificed !" 
 
 " And quite rightly," said a voice at the door. 
 
 It was Professor Metz, returning from his 
 one o'clock dinner. He wore a round straw- 
 hat and a holland coat, and carried a red um- 
 brella to shade him from the sun. 
 
 "And quite rightly," he repeated, walking 
 straight up to the picture, umbrella and all. "I 
 had a vast mind to draw my brush across them 
 before I went out ; but I thought it best to let 
 Mademoiselle make the discovery herself" 
 
 " What discovery, mein Professor ?" said Ida, 
 timidly. " They were very like." 
 
 " Too like, Fraulein." 
 
 " Too like, mein Professor ?" 
 
 " Yes. Too labored, too literal, too minute. 
 Flowers, young ladies, should be treated like 
 heads — with character and freedom. Compare 
 the leaves which were painted here just now 
 with that Van Huysum that you had in the 
 class-room last spring. The one is a Denner ; 
 the other a Titian !" 
 
 Having said this, he laid aside the hat and 
 umbrella, seized his own brushes, and plunged 
 into his work. A dead silence followed. The 
 Professor never spoke when he was painting, 
 and so hated interruption that we often worked 
 on for hours in the pavilion without exchanging " 
 a syllable. Presently Ida rose, and Avent quietly 
 away ; and then nothing was audible save the 
 moist dragging of our brushes, the humming of 
 the insects outside, and the distant rumble of 
 an occasional vehicle. 
 
 Hilda's letter had pained me more than I 
 cared to confess. It came between me and my 
 Avork, and I could not banish it. I felt that I 
 was very lonely, and I knew that I must accept 
 my solitude sooner or later. Then Hugh's bit- 
 ter warning came back to my memory, as if 
 written there in letters of fire. " Beware of 
 such empty words as home, or love, or friend- 
 ship. Devote yourself to your art. Make it 
 your home, your lover, your friend. Live in it 
 — die for it." Alas ! were they really " empty 
 words ?" Must I, indeed, make up my mind to 
 the barrenness of life, and forget that I have a 
 father, a sister, and a home ? 
 
 Profoundly dejected, I painted on, effacing 
 each touch as soon as made, and pausing every 
 now and then for very lassitude. Startled from 
 one of these pauses by the pressure of a heavy 
 hand upon my shoulder, I found the Professor 
 standing by my side. 
 
 " What is the matter, Fraulein ?" he asked, 
 bending a searching glance upon me. " Why 
 do you weep ?" 
 
 " I am not weeping, sir." 
 
 He touched my cheek significantly. It was 
 wet with unconscious tears. 
 
 " I — I did not know — I am not well," I 
 stammered. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " You are not happy," he said, with unusual 
 gentleness. " There — put away your work for 
 to-day. One can not paint when the mind is 
 out of tune." 
 
 " I am very sorry " 
 
 " Nay, you will do better to-morrow. Have 
 you bad news from home ?" 
 
 " No, mein Professor." 
 
 " What is it, then ? Come, Fraiilein, tell me 
 your trouble, and let me help you if I can." 
 
 " You can not help me," I said, brokenly. 
 " You are very kind, but — ■ — " 
 
 The Professor frowned, and shook his head 
 again. 
 
 " Fraiilein Barbara," said he, " you have com- 
 mon-sense. Yours is not a merely sentimental 
 trouble. You are not one of those young ladies 
 who think it pleasant to be melancholy, and cry 
 for want of something better to do. You have 
 a grief. Well, fight through it alone if you are 
 able. You will be all the wiser -«ind stronger 
 hereafter. But if you want counsel, or help, or 
 any thing that I can give you, come to me," 
 
 Greatly touched by this unusual demarche on 
 the part of our terrible Professor, I tried to ex- 
 press my thanks, but he stopped me at the first 
 word. 
 
 " Hush, hush, nonsense !" said he abruptly. 
 " Put away your work. Put away your work, 
 and go for a walk. Make haste, and leave me 
 in peace." 
 
 I made what haste I could ; but while I was 
 yet cleaning up brushes and pallet, I heard 
 voices in conversation close beside the open 
 window. 
 
 " The cactus," said one of the speakers, with 
 a strong German accent, " is doubtless of the 
 same family as the Euphorbias. Have you seen 
 any specimens of the melon genus ? They have 
 one, I understand, in Paris." 
 
 " I have not seen it in the Jardin des Plantes," 
 repUed a second speaker, whom I at once recog- 
 nized as Hugh Farquhar ; " but I have had my 
 mule lamed by its thorns in the deserts of South- 
 Africa." 
 
 " But the juice is not unwholesome." 
 
 " By no means. Traveler and mule are alike 
 thankful for it, Bernardin St. Pierre calls these 
 succulent cacti ' the vegetable fountains of the 
 desert.' I have a sketch of the melon-cactus 
 which I shall be happy to place at your High- 
 ness's disposal," 
 
 The Grand Duke thanked him, and the voices 
 passed away. Before I could tie 6n my bonnet 
 and escape, they became audible again, and again 
 approached the window. 
 
 "And the sketcher," said the Grand Duke, 
 " has the privilege of perpetuating his travels. 
 He can revisit his favorite scenes, and renew his 
 first impressions, whenever he chooses to open 
 his folio," 
 
 " The memory needs some such assistance," 
 replied Hugh. "Impressions of scenery fade 
 from the mind, like imperfect photographs, and 
 the keenest observer can not long continue to re- 
 call them. Who, for instance, after the lapse of 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 73 
 
 half a year, could accurately reproduce the out- 
 Ime of a chain of Alps ?" 
 
 " Who, indeed ! But shall we step in here, 
 and see how the panels are progressing in my 
 pavilion ?" 
 
 They came in. The Professor rose to receive 
 them. 
 
 "What, Barbara?" said Hugh, with out- 
 stretched hand, and a smile of frank surprise. 
 " I never thought to find you here !" 
 
 " Sit down, sit down, Herr Metz," said the 
 Duke, with voluble good-humor. " Do not let 
 me interrupt the work. Ha ! the English Fraii- 
 lein who carried off our gold medal the other 
 day ! Good — good ! Young lady, you have 
 but to work hard, and obey Professor ketz, and 
 you can not fail to become a fine painter. Re- 
 member that perseverance is to genius what fuel 
 is to the locomotive. However perfect the ma- 
 chine, it is of no value without the fire thatpro- 
 pels, or the engineer who guides. What say 
 you. Professor ? What say you ?" 
 
 " Your Highness has defined perseverance as 
 the fuel," said the Professor, bluntly ; " but who 
 is the engineer ?" 
 
 " Yourself — myself — the Academy," replied 
 the Duke, somewhat embarrassed by the detec- 
 tion of a flaw in his simile. 
 
 The Professor looked as if he should have 
 liked to say something about this plurality of 
 engineers ; but he bowed instead, and held his 
 tongue. 
 
 " And what progress has been made ?" con- 
 tinued the Duke. " Has the Herr Professor suc- 
 ceeded in striking out any spark of picturesque- 
 ness from our stoUd peasant-folk ? So — the 
 vintage — the Kirmess — the Schiitzen-fest — 
 excellent subjects — excellent subjects ! Herr 
 Farquhar, permit me to introduce to you Pro- 
 fessor Metz, our Director of Fine Arts, Hof- 
 maler, and Academic Lecturer — a Zollenstras- 
 ser of whom ZoUenstrasse is proud. This gen- 
 tleman, Professor Metz, is a connoisseur, a 
 sketcher, and a traveler, who has exhausted 
 every quarter of the globe." 
 
 The Professor bowed again ; and, having taken 
 the Duke at his word, went on painting. He 
 was evidently in no mood for chatting, and 
 wished his visitors further. 
 
 " That is a charming sky," said the Grand 
 Duke with the air of a dilett'ante. 
 
 " Yes ; a sky under which one could breathe, 
 without feehng that all above the clouds was a 
 dome of blue paint," replied Hugh. 
 
 " That's very true," said the Duke. " Why 
 do our landscape painters make their cobalts so 
 solid ?" 
 
 *' Because they will not take the trouble to re- 
 member that we have fifty miles of atmosphere 
 above our heads. The spectator should be able 
 to look through an open sky, as we seem to look 
 through this ; conscious of depth beyond depth, 
 and distance beyond distance." 
 
 The Professor glanced up sharply ; but still 
 said nothing. 
 
 " What do you mean to have for your fore- 
 ground object, Professor Metz?" asked the 
 Grand Duke, presently. 
 
 " Nothing, your Highness." 
 
 " Nothing ! Why, I thought it was a canon 
 of art to have some foreground object to throw 
 back the distance. A^- a figure, for instance ; 
 
 or a fallen tree ; or a piece of rock ; or some- 
 thing ?" 
 
 " I trust my distance will keep its place with- 
 out needing any device of that sort, your High- 
 ness," growled the Professor. 
 
 Leopold the Eighteenth smoothed out his 
 cream colored moustache and looked puzzled. 
 
 " Still there are canons," persisted he ; " such 
 as the division of a picture in three parts ; the 
 proportions of light and shadow as three to five ; 
 the pyramidal grouping of principal objects ; the 
 introduction of " 
 
 "All mischievous pedantry, your Highness," 
 interrupted the Professor. " Such canons may 
 do very well for cooks. They ruin painters." 
 
 The Duke smiled furtively, and offered the 
 Professor a cigar. 
 
 " Thanks, your Highness. I never smoke till 
 evening," 
 
 " Then put it in your cigar-case. It is of a 
 very rare quality." 
 
 Sulkily polite, the Professor accepted it. 
 
 " And I have a folio of etchings to show you 
 — just arrived from Paris — containing some 
 fine proofs of Rembrandt and Albert Diirer. 
 Will you join the dinner-party at the Residenz 
 this evening, Professor Metz, and oblige me with 
 your opinion on my purchase ?" 
 
 "Impossible, your Highness," blurted out the 
 Professor, utterly disregardful of the etiquette 
 attaching to a royal invitation. " I am not used 
 to court dinners — I'm — I'm a very plain man 
 — your Highness must excuse me." 
 
 His Highness looked infinitely amused. 
 
 " As the Herr Professor pleases," said he. 
 " But if I excuse him at dinner, I hold him en- 
 gaged to join our party at coffee. " 
 
 " I am at his Highness's command," replied 
 the maestro, reluctantly. 
 
 The Duke led the way to a door at the farther 
 end of the room. 
 
 " Before we go, Herr Farquhar," said he, " I 
 should like you to see the view from the Bel- 
 vedere. Will you follow me ?" 
 
 Whereupon Hugh followed, and they both 
 went up-stairs. 
 
 " Mein Gott !" exclaimed the Professor, wip- 
 ing his forehead with every sign of trepidation. 
 " Why won't these confounded aristocrats leave 
 a man alone ? Ah, Fraulein Barbara, you are 
 escaping while you can. Quite wise. I have a 
 vast mind to do the same." 
 
 " Oh, no, mein Professor ! What would the 
 Grand Duke think, if he found no one here ?" 
 
 His eyes wandered affectionately toward the 
 red umbrella. 
 
 " I'm afraid you are right ; and yet " 
 
 " Good morning, sir." 
 
 " Humph ! good morning," 
 
 I ran down the steps of the pavilion, and 
 turned into the first shady side walk that offered. 
 The Professor had given me a half-holiday, and 
 I scarcely knew what to do with my liberty. I 
 had no inclination to spend it in the Academy ; 
 and still less to waste it in the park, or the Hof- 
 garten, or any frequented place. After a few 
 moments' consideration, I decided upon the 
 Botanic Garden; a secluded, quiet spot, just 
 beyond the Leopold Thor, where the public 
 could only obtain admission by favor, and where 
 we Academy students had a right of perpetual 
 entree. 
 
74 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 I had not far to go. As I passed in at the 
 little side-gate, the old doorkeeper said — 
 
 " You have it all to yourself, Fraulein. 
 There hasn't been a soul here to day." 
 
 It was just what I would have asked for. 
 Restless and dissatisfied, I needed solitude ; and 
 the solitude here was perfect. I walked to and 
 fro for some time among the deserted paths, 
 and presently sought out a grassy slope where 
 the garden went down to the river's edge. 
 Sitting there in the shade of a group of foreign 
 trees, and lulled by the gentle rippling of the 
 stream among the reeds, I fell into a profound 
 train of thought. 
 
 The future — what should I do with the 
 future ? I felt like one who has climbed the 
 brow of a great hill, and finds only a sea of mist 
 beyond. Go forward I must ; but to what goal ? 
 With what aim ? With what ho'pes ? My 
 father had already distinctly forbidden me to 
 adopt art as a profession. My sister, by ignor- 
 ing all the purport of my last letter, as distinctly 
 signified her own contempt for that which was 
 to me as the life of my life. Neither loved me ; 
 both had wounded me bitterly ; and I now, 
 almost for the first time, distinctly saw how 
 difficult a struggle lay before me. 
 
 " If I become a painter," I thought, " I be- 
 come so in defiance of my family ; and defying 
 them, am alone in the wide world evermore. 
 If, on the contrary, I yield and obey, what 
 manner of life lies before me ? The hollow life 
 of fashionable society, into which I shall be car- 
 ried as a marriageable commodity, and where I 
 shall be expected to fulfill my duty as a daughter 
 by securing a wealthy husband as speedily as 
 possible." 
 
 Alas ! alas ! what an alternative ! Was it for 
 this that I had studied and stpiven ? Was it for 
 this that I had built such fairy castles, and 
 dreamt such dreams ? 
 
 Lost in these thoughts, I heard, but scarcely 
 heeded, a rapid footstep on the graveled walk 
 above. Not till that footstep left the gravel for 
 the grass, and a well-known voice called me fa- 
 miliarly by name, did I even look up to see who 
 the intruder might be. It was Hugh. 
 
 " Why, Barbara," said he, running down the 
 slope, and flinging himself upon the bank by 
 my side, " I almost despaired of finding you. I 
 have been twice round the gardens already ; 
 and but for the gatekeeper, who declared he had 
 not let you out since he let you in, I should 
 certainly have given you up, and gone away." 
 
 " How did you know I was here?" 
 
 " Easily enough. I saw you from the Belve- 
 dere up yonder — traced you down the path, and 
 all along the road, and in at the side-gate — and 
 here I find you, sitting by the river- side, like 
 Dorothea in the Brown Mountain." 
 
 " It is my favorite nook," I replied ; " the 
 quietest spot in all this quiet garden." 
 
 " Quiet enough, certainly," said Hugh, yawn- 
 ing. " Might one smoke here, think you?" 
 
 " I should say so. The gardeners do." 
 
 " And your majesty has no objection ?" 
 
 "My majesty has filled your hookah often 
 enough at Broomhill, Hugh, to be tolerably well 
 seasoned by this time." 
 
 " So you have, Barbara mia — so you have." 
 
 And with this he lighted his cigar, lay down 
 at full length on the grass, and amused himself 
 
 for some time by sending up little spiral 
 wreaths of smoke into the still air. 
 
 " I expected to find yon sketching," said he, 
 after a long interval of silence. 
 
 " Sketching ? Why, there is nothing here to 
 sketch." 
 
 " Plenty, I should say — tropical plants, strange 
 trees, orchids, cacti " 
 
 " But I am not a flower-painter.'' 
 
 " Nonsense, Barbarina. That is just one of 
 the rocks that so many painters split upon. 
 They fancy they must be either flower-painters, or 
 landscape-painters, or figure-painters; and that 
 in order to be one of these, they are bound to be 
 ignorant of the other tw'o. And yet no man 
 was ever truly great who could not, to a certain 
 extent, combine all three. If Raffaelle but 
 places a lily in the hand of a Madonna, or in- 
 troduces a paroquet among the ornaments of an 
 arabesque, he paints them as though flowers and 
 birds had been the study of his life. If Rubens 
 undertakes a landscape background, he almost 
 makes us regret that he ever painted any thing 
 else. The mind of the artist should be the 
 mirror of nature, reflecting all things, and 
 neglecting none." 
 
 " That sounds terribly like the truth, Hugh ; 
 and yet who can hope to be universal ?" 
 
 " That which has been, may be," said he 
 oracularly ; and closed his eyes, and smoked like 
 a lazy Pacha. 
 
 After this, we both sat for a long time in 
 silence, with the golden sunlight creeping 
 toward us, inch by inch, across the fragrant 
 grass. Insensibly, my thoughts flowed back to 
 their old channel, and I felt quite bewildered 
 when Hugh broke in suddenly upon my reverie. 
 
 " I have been indulging in the queerest chain 
 of fantastic speculations during this last quarter 
 of an hour," exclaimed he ; " and all a propos 
 of those same orchids and cacti. There will be 
 a great revolution in the world some day, Bar- 
 bara mia !" 
 
 " Will there ?" said I, dreamily. " When ?" 
 
 " Ten or twelve thousand years hence, per- 
 haps." 
 
 " Then what can it matter to us ?" 
 
 " Matter, child ? Why, in a scientific point of 
 view, every thing. You might as well say what 
 do the stars matter to us ? There are few 
 subjects more interesting than the variations of 
 climate." 
 
 " Variations of climate !" I repeated, i' What 
 do you mean ? You were speaking of revolu- 
 tions just now." 
 
 " True ; but it was a revolution of vegetables 
 — not men." 
 
 " How absurd ! Who ever heard of a revo- 
 lution of vegetables !" 
 
 He laughed, flung away the end of his cigar, 
 raised himself on his elbow, and said kindly : — 
 
 " What a child you are still, Barbara ! Come, 
 I will explain myself more clearly, and tell you 
 what my fantastic fancies were. Would you 
 care to hear this?" 
 
 " Yes, Hugh ; very much." 
 
 "In the first place, then," said he, "our 
 mother Natui-e is by no means so consistent a 
 lady as one might suppose ; but, like the rest of 
 her sex, is apt to change her mind. She is con- 
 tinually shifting sea-bords, varying the beds of 
 rivers, and experimenting upon the mutability of 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 T5 
 
 matter. Thus we find ammonites* and oyster- 
 shells upon ridges of the Andes thirteen thou- 
 sand feet above sea-level ; and fossil fish imbed- 
 ded below strata of petrified forests. Thus, 
 also, we know that laud and sea are but trans- 
 ferable commodities in her hands ; that where 
 the tides of oceans now ebb and flow, continents 
 may some day be upheaved ; and that Europe, 
 with all her treasures, may yet be obliterated 
 from the surface of our globe, and leave not 
 even a legend of her glory." 
 
 He paused ; passed his hand over his fore- 
 head, as if to collect his thoughts ; and then, 
 finding me attentive, resumed the thread of his 
 discourse. 
 
 " Of all Nature's conditions," pursued he, 
 " climates and products are among the most 
 variable. Fossilized remains, indicative of torrid 
 heats, are found underlying the upper strata of 
 our northern lands, and the beds of-^many 
 European rivers are paved with the bones of 
 elephants and other 'very strange beasts.' I 
 have myself been present at the opening of a 
 cave in South Devon, where the skeletons of 
 hyenas, tigers, and even crocodiles were found 
 in abundance. Now these facts can only be 
 explained in one of two ways. Either the cli- 
 mates of the globe have varied from age to age ; 
 or some vast motive power has transported these 
 remains from one hemisphere to the other. For 
 my part, I go with those who attribute the 
 phenomena to mutability of climate, consequent 
 on the shifting of the poLs. I believe that 
 they have not only shifted, but are shifting ; 
 that the face of the world has not only changed, 
 but is changing ; and that what once was, will 
 surely be again." 
 
 " Yet these great changes were Pre-adamite," 
 I ventured to suggest, "and perhaps only pre- 
 pared the worl(f for man's habitation. Is it 
 
 likely they would be renewed now, when " 
 
 " Listen," interrupted Hugh, with sudden 
 vivacity ; "for this is precisely my pet theory. 
 The cactus is a plant indigenous to the tropics, 
 and to certain districts of the new continent. 
 In Peru, in Chili, on the table-lands of the 
 Andes, and on the banks of the Amazon, it is 
 equally familiar to the traveler ; . and yet of late 
 years — nay, within the last quarter of a century 
 — it has spread mysteriously through North- 
 Africa and Syria, and naturalized itself in Greece 
 and Italy. What is the evident deduction ? 
 What if this migration be the herald of strange 
 changes ? What if we are about to return by 
 gradual but perceptible degrees to that tempera- 
 ture which, in ages past, is known to have 
 fostered the bamboo and zamia on the plains of 
 France, peopled with apes the Isle of Sheppey, 
 and crowned the promontories of Portland with 
 forests of the Indian palm ?" 
 
 " It is a large inference to draw from the mi- 
 gration of a single plant," said I. 
 
 " And then think of all that it would lead 
 to," continued he, with unabated eagerness. 
 " Think of the difference it would make in our 
 manners and customs, our civilization, our mo- 
 rale, our politics ! Fancy the Belgian flats turned 
 into rice -fields, and crocodiles sunning them- 
 selves on the meadow-islands of the Rhine ! 
 Fancy a lion-hunt in the New Forest ! Fancy 
 honorable members going down to the house in 
 palanquins, and the premier taking out his stud 
 
 of elephants for a little tiger-shooting in Sep- 
 tember !" • 
 
 " Fancy yourself with a shaved head and a 
 turban," said I, laughing. " Fancy Broomhill 
 fitted up with punkahs and musquito curtains ; 
 and think how its master would look reposing 
 on a divan, with slaves fanning him to sleep !" 
 
 " Oh, prophet Mohammed !" exclaimed he, " I 
 should buy beautiful Circassians in the Marche 
 des Innocents !" 
 
 " But, Hugh, supposing that all these thinga 
 really took place, and we could live to see them, 
 should we, or our descendants, get brown, or 
 copper-colored, or black? What a dreadful 
 thing that would be !" 
 
 " Ah, that is another and more difficult ques- 
 tion still," said he, gravely. "It involves the 
 vexed topics of race and climate ; and leads one 
 into a thousand labyrinths of speculation. 1 be- 
 lieve that color and type result from custom and 
 locality. I believe that we should degenerate in 
 form, darken in hue, and, after a few generations 
 lose every trace of our Caucasian origin. Take 
 the Americans for instance. Gathered together 
 from all the shores of the old world, they have, 
 as it were, received a type of nationality from 
 the very soil on which they dwell — a type 
 which becomes apparent in every second gener- 
 ation of emigrants." 
 
 "In short, then, to change climates would 
 simply be to change states with the Asiatic." 
 
 " Ay ; and some day the Hindoo race, grown 
 warlike and hardy, would pour down upon our 
 feeble millions, ransack our treasuries, farm out 
 our royalties, and lord it over us as we now lord 
 it at Calcutta. Faith ! the picture is complete." 
 Whereupon, we rose, for the sun was now 
 full in our eyes, and strolled toward the hot- 
 houses. There Hugh showed me some strange 
 plants ; described the places where they grew ; 
 the uses to which they were put ; and the cir- 
 cumstances under which he had seen them when 
 traveling in the far East. Anecdote, illustra- 
 tion, and jest, flowed from his lips that after- 
 noon with the same freshness and abundance 
 that used to charm my childish imagination 
 years ago ; and I almost fancied, as I listened, 
 that I was back again sitting at his feet in my 
 aunt's quiet parlor, or turning over the folios in 
 the Hogarth room at Broomhill. 
 
 By and by, the clocks of Zollenstrasse struck 
 five, at which hour the students had cofiee, be- 
 fore going for their evening walk ; so I bade 
 Hugh a hurried good-by, and we parted at the 
 gate. Before I had gone many yards, however, 
 I paused, looked round, found that he was still 
 gazing after me, and so turned back again. 
 
 " One more word, Hugh," I said, breathless- 
 ly. " What would it cost to go to Rome ?" 
 " To Rome ? From what point ?" 
 "From here." 
 " Why do you ask ?" 
 " No matter — I want to know." 
 "Well, I can hardly tell. It would cost me, 
 perhaps, a hundred pounds ; but then I'm not 
 an economical traveler. I dare say a modest, 
 quiet, steady-going fellow, who did not stop to 
 sketch and dawdle on the way, might do it for 
 half, or even a quarter of that sum." 
 
 " And I suppose one might live and lodge 
 there for about a pound a. week ?" 
 
 " Yes, no doubt. I question if many of the 
 
TQ 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 poor devils of artists in the Yia Margutta have 
 as much." 
 
 " Thank you. Once more, good-by." 
 
 "But, Barbara — I say, Barbara " 
 
 However, I did not want to be questioned, so 
 I only shook my head, and ran away. 
 
 *' Twenty pounds !" said I, unconsciously 
 thinking aloud, as I sat on the side of the bed, 
 that night, before putting out the candle. 
 " Twenty pounds, at least, for the journey, and 
 then fifty more for a year's living ! Oh, dear 
 me ! how could I ever save all that out of six- 
 teen pounds per annum ?" 
 
 " What did you say, Barbara ?" murmured 
 Ida, sleepily, from her bed in the corner. 
 To which I only replied — 
 " Nothing, Liebchen. Good night." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE PIPER OP HAMELIN. 
 
 " Hamelin town's in Brunswick, 
 By famous Hanover city ; 
 
 The river Weser, deep and wide, 
 
 Washes its wall on the southern side ; 
 
 A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 
 But, when begins my ditty, 
 
 Almost five hundred years ago, 
 
 To see the townsfolk suflfer so 
 
 From vermin was a pity. 
 
 Rats !" Robert Browning. 
 
 "Bring me back yoursel', Jamie." 
 
 Scotch Song, 
 
 " My dear little Barbara," said Hugh, taking 
 possession of the Professor's painting stool, and 
 advantage of the Professor's dinner-hour, " I 
 am very glad to find you alone ; for I have come 
 to say good-by. I am going to St. Petersburgh." 
 
 I felt myself turn scarlet and then pale. 
 
 "To St. Petersburgh?" I repeated. 
 
 "Ay. It is one of the places I have not 
 yet visited, and I have a mind to become ac- 
 quainted with our friend the Russ, in his own 
 capital. I want to see what is the actual differ- 
 ence between Ivan the prince, who rents his hotel 
 in the Chaussee d'Antin and runs his horse at 
 Newmarket, and Ivan the boor, who leads the 
 life of a beaten hound, and drinks brandy from 
 his cradle." 
 
 " Is this a sudden resolution?" 
 
 "Yes — all my resolutions are sudden, carina. 
 I am the slave of a demon whose name is 
 Whim ; and when he casts his spells about me, 
 I can not choose but obey. Did you never hear 
 of the Piper of Hamelin'?" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 " Then, Barbara, your education has been 
 neglected. Listen, and I will tell you the story. 
 Once upon a time, and a very long time ago, the 
 town of Hamelin in Brunswick was infested by 
 a plague of rats. There were, in fact, more 
 rats than townspeople ; and the race of cats was 
 exterminated. So the mayor and council met 
 to discuss the matter, and decide what was best 
 to be done. In the midst of their conference, 
 in came a little gnome-like creature clad in yel- 
 low and red, carrying a flageolet in his hand — 
 but you are not listening, carina .'" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I am listening. Pray, go on." 
 
 " And this queer httle piper offered to spirit 
 the rats clean away, for the small consideration 
 of one thousand guilders. The Mayor was only 
 
 too glad to close with him ; the bargain was 
 struck ; the piper set up a quaint melody ; and 
 out came the rats from cellar and sewer, garret 
 and basement — red rats, gray rats, black rats, 
 rats of all ages, sizes, and colors— and followed 
 the piper by thousands through the main street 
 of the town, right down to the banks of the river 
 Weser, where they all plunged in and perished, 
 like the host of Pharaoh." 
 
 "But what has this to do with your journey 
 to St. Petersburgh ?" 
 
 "Let- me finish my legend in peace, and then 
 I will tell you. Well, when the rats were all 
 drowned, and not even a tail of one was left be- 
 hind, the Mayor repented his liberality, and de- 
 clined to sign the order for the thousand guild- 
 ers. _ ' You shall have ten,' said he, ' and a bottle 
 of wine ; but when we talked of paying a thou- 
 sand, it was only for the joke of it.' ' Is that your 
 last word on the matter, Herr Mayor ?' asked 
 the piper. ' It is our last word,' replied the 
 Mayor and Councilors, all together. So the 
 piper made a bow, more in mockery than in rev- 
 erence ; flung the ten guilders on the floor ; 
 put his pipe once again to his lips ; and walked 
 straight to the middle of the market-place, 
 where he took up his station, and began playing 
 the most beautiful tune that ever was heard in 
 Hamelin before or since. No sooner, however, 
 had he begun to play, than such a pattering of 
 little feet, such a clapping of little hands, and 
 sucl^ bursts of ringing laughter filled the air, 
 that the piper's music was nearly silenced in 
 the hubbub. And whence came all this riot, do 
 you suppose ? Why, from all the children in the 
 town — from the children who came trooping 
 out, like the rats, by scores and hundreds, with 
 their,, fair hair all fluttering behind them, and 
 their little cheeks flushed with pleasure — from 
 the children who escaped frdhi mothers and 
 nurses at the sound of the pipe, and followed 
 the piper, as the rats had followed him, all down 
 the main street, and out by the old gate leading 
 down to the Weser ! Only, Barbara, he had 
 not the heart to drown the pretty babies. He 
 led them into a valley at the foot of a great 
 black mountain, about half a league from the 
 walls ; and the side of the mountain opened to 
 receive them ; and there they all are to this 
 day, shut up in the granite heart of it, waiting 
 till the piper shall relent from his vengeance 
 and bring them back to the town. Now what 
 say you to my legend ?" 
 
 " That it is charming, as a legend, but very 
 perplexing as an explanation of your St. Peters- 
 burgh journey." 
 
 " Is it possible that you have not found out 
 that my demon and the goblin piper are one and 
 the same ; and that when he pipes, I am bound 
 to follow, like one of the rats of Hamelin ? It 
 pleases him, just now, to pipe to a Russian tune, 
 and off we go together, ' Hnked With the Graces 
 and the Hours in dance,' and cutting the most 
 ludicrous melancholy figure imaginable !" 
 
 Something in his manner, something in the 
 telling of the story and the comment with which 
 it ended, convinced me that he was ill at ease. 
 
 "Do not treat me quite as a child, Mr. 
 Farquhar," I said, earnestly. " You have some 
 deeper motive for undertaking this journey. I 
 do not desire to know what that motive may be ; 
 but I am sure it is not whim alone." 
 
 I 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 77 
 
 He turned suddenly, and looked at me — then 
 turned as suddenly away. 
 
 " You are wrong," he said, "I am the soul of 
 whim — the sport of a restless fancy — the crea- 
 ture of my own morbL^ imagination. There are 
 in toe neither motives, nor purposes, nor princi- 
 ples of action. Like the thistledown, I veer 
 with every wind ; and, like the wind, am ' every 
 thing by turns, and nothing long.' I have the 
 fancy to go to St. Petersburgh, and I am going. 
 Voild tout r 
 
 '• Then I wish you had the fancy to stay here, 
 instead," said I, sadly. 
 
 " Stay here ? Not for the world. I have 
 staid too long already." 
 
 As he said the words, a shadow darkened the 
 doorway, and Professor Metz came in. He 
 looked unusually grave ; saluted Mr. Farquhar 
 with a nod and a scowl ; and, ungraciously^urn- 
 ing his back upon us, began painting away as if 
 his life depended on it. 
 
 " A fine day, Herr Professor," said Hugh, va- 
 cating the stool with an apologetic bow. 
 
 " A confoundedly disagreeable day, to my 
 mind," growled the Professor. 
 
 "Nay, with this glorious sunshine, and this 
 
 refreshing breeze ." 
 
 "Lapland in the shade, and the infernal re- 
 gions in the sun," interrupted the Professor. 
 " I hate such weather." 
 
 " The panels progress rapidly, Herr Profes- 
 sor," observed Hugh, after a brief pause. " The 
 effect, when complete, will be charming." 
 " I don't think so," retorted the Professor. 
 "May I ask why?" 
 
 " Because the shape of the room is bad, and 
 the light is bad, and the designs are bad, and 
 the whole thing is a failure." 
 Hugh laughed outright. 
 "The Herr Professor has certainly left his 
 rose-colored glasses at home to-day," said he 
 good-humoredly. "Happily, he will find no 
 one to agree in his verdict." 
 
 The Professor muttered something inaudible 
 about " public opinion," and then became so 
 obstinately silent that, after one or two abortive 
 efforts to keep up the conversation, Hugh was 
 fain to take up his hat and say " good morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " I shall come round to-night, and bid you a 
 last good-by, Barbara," whispered he, as we 
 shook hands. 
 
 "Will you really — really?" said I, the tears 
 starting to my eyes. 
 
 " I will indeed, my dear," he replied very 
 gently, and hurried away without once looking 
 back. 
 
 I watched him out of sight, and was just re- 
 turning to my own work, when the Professor 
 flung down his pallet and brushes, faced sud- 
 denly round upon his stool, and said — 
 
 "I must give you another holiday to-day, 
 Fraulein Barbara." 
 
 "Why so, miein Professor? I had rather 
 get forward with that sky." 
 
 "It isn't a question of 'rather,'" grumbled 
 he. "You're to go back to College; Madame 
 Brenner wants you." 
 
 " What can Madame Brenner want with me 
 at this hour of the day ?" 
 
 The Professor tugged gloomily at hisiftious- 
 tache and glared at me without replying. 
 
 " Still I suppose I must go," said I, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 "Ay," said he ; " you must go." 
 
 I put on my bonnet and gloves, and went to- 
 ward the door. 
 
 " Good-by," said the Professor. 
 
 " Good-by, sir," I replied. " I shall be back 
 again very soon." 
 
 "No you won't" said the professor, holding 
 out his hand. 
 
 That Professor Metz should offer to shake 
 hands with me was in itself such a wonderful 
 occurrence, that I had scarcely any power of 
 astonishment left ; but that the tears should 
 be standing in his fierce little gray eyes when 
 our palms met, was a phenomenon so utterly 
 and overwhelmingly unexpected, that I stared 
 at him in blank amazement, and had not a word 
 to say. 
 
 " Adieu," said he, holding my hand loosely, 
 and yet not letting it go. " God bless you." 
 
 "Mein Professor," I exclaimed, with a sud- 
 den presentiment, "what is the matter? You 
 are bidding me farewell !" 
 
 "Yes — go — " he replied, abruptly. "Go. 
 I am bidding you farewell." 
 
 " But I will not go ! What is it ? What does 
 it mean ?" 
 
 " You will soon know what it means. It means 
 that I am a superstitious old fool, who believes 
 that his little scholar will never come back again. 
 There, go, I tell you ! Go to Madame Brenner. 
 She is waiting for you." 
 
 I ran back all the way across the Hof-garten ; 
 but, when within a few yards of the College 
 gates, lingered, hesitated, and dreaded to go in. 
 I felt that something strange and sudden was at 
 hand, and would gladly have deferred it, if I could. 
 
 " The Fraulein is to go up to Madame's room," 
 said the porter at the gate ; and so, with my heart 
 beating fast, I obeyed. 
 
 Madame received me with open arms. 
 
 " Come hither, mein Kind," she exclaimed, " I 
 have news for you. I have received a letter 
 from the Herr, your father. Such news ! Your 
 sister Hilda is about to be married." 
 
 " Married !" I repeated. " Hilda married ?" 
 
 " Yes, and in ten days ; and you are to go im- 
 mediately to Paris, to be present at the wedding." 
 
 I sat down in the nearest chair, speechless. I 
 could not beheve it. 
 
 " Though how you are to travel alone, Gott im 
 Himmel only knows," said Madame, shaking her 
 head, despairingly. " If the girls were not all 
 coming back this week, I would go with you my- 
 self; but it is impossible — impossible ! There 
 are the Pfeffers, to be sure ; but they can not 
 start till next week ; and the Bachs went yester- 
 day. What is to be done ?" 
 
 " May I see the letter, Madame ?" 
 
 " Ay, to be sure. And then there are your 
 things to be packed ; and the letter says you are 
 to go immediately. How are you to go immedi- 
 ately, my child, without even a passport — much 
 less an escort ?" 
 
 I took the letter, written in my father's dash- 
 ing hand, and sealed with his massive seal. It 
 ran as follows : — 
 
 " Esteemed Madame, 
 
 " I have the honor of informing you that 
 my daughter, Hilda Churchill, your late pupil, 
 
78 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 was last evening betrothed to His Excellency 
 the Count Hippolyte Amad^e de Chaumont, 
 late plenipotentiary at the Court of Brussels, 
 Chevalier of the Order of St. Esprit, etc., etc., 
 etc. My daughter's marriage will take place in 
 ten days from the present date. We desire the 
 immediate presence of my youngest daughter, 
 to whom be pleased to communicate the fore- 
 going intelligence. I regret that it is not in my 
 power personally to conduct her from Zollen- 
 strasse to Paris ; but I trust that it may be found 
 possible to place her under the protection of 
 some respectable family traveling in the same 
 direction. Be so obliging, if you please, Ma- 
 dame, as to let me know by an early post, at 
 what hour, and by what conveyance, I may 
 expect her arrival. 
 
 " Accept, Madame, my distinguished compli- 
 ments, and believe me to be your obedient ser- 
 vant. 
 
 "Edmund Churchill." 
 
 " It is a grand match," said Madame Bren- 
 ner, admiringly ; " a wonderful match ! She will 
 be Madame la Comtesse — only think of that, 
 Barbara ! No mere ' Gnddige Frau^ or ' Frau 
 Oeheimrath ;'' but Madame la Comtesse de (?hau- 
 mont !" 
 
 " I hope she loves him dearly," said I. 
 
 "Loves him? You may depend, she adores" 
 him," replied Madame, whose tender German 
 heart was brimful of sentiment. " Young, noble, 
 handsome, distinguished — how can she help lov- 
 ing him ?" 
 
 No one had said that he was young or hand- 
 some ; but Madame Brenner conceiv^ed it must 
 be so, and believed it accordingly. 
 
 "Ah, well, well," continued she, "and we all 
 thought she would be a singer at one time ! How 
 little we can guess what a few months may bring 
 forth ! I have told Professor Oberstein of his 
 pupil's good fortune ; and " 
 
 "And Professor Metz also; have you not, 
 Madame ?" 
 
 " Yes, to be sure ; because I begged him to 
 send you home at once ; but I forbade him to tell 
 you the news, because I wanted to have that 
 pleasure myself But, dear heart ! here we are 
 standing and chattering, while there is such a 
 world of things to be done, and no time to do 
 them ! I have already sent Gretchen down to 
 the laundry with all the things that want getting 
 up ; and Ida is gone into the town to buy a new 
 ribbon for your bonnet — for you could never 
 have gone to Paris, my dear, in this shabby old 
 hat ! — and Professor Oberstein has kindly offer- 
 ed to see about your passport ; and I have sent 
 down to Krauter, the carpenter, to come and 
 look at your boxes ; for it's years and years since 
 you came among us, and they've been lying up 
 in the lumber-rooms ever since, and are almost 
 tumbling to pieces by this time, I shouldn't 
 wonder ! But, Barbara, my child, I thought you 
 would have been more pleased to hear of Hilda's 
 betrothal y" 
 
 " I do not know, Madame. It is so sudden — 
 I hope she may be happy." 
 ■ " How can she help being happy ?" 
 
 I shook my head, sadly. 
 
 " Then, are you not yourself delighted to visit 
 Paris ?" 
 
 " I had rather stay here, dear Madame Bren- 
 
 ner, a thousand times. There is the pavilion, 
 you know — I Avas so proud to help Professor 
 Metz in the paviUon. And then Ida — how sh6 
 will miss me !" 
 
 " How we shall all miss you, Liehchen /" said 
 Madame, tenderly. " I don't know what we shall 
 do when you're gone." 
 
 " Oh, but I shall hurry back as soon as the 
 wedding is over." 
 
 Madame looked incredulous. 
 
 " Paris is a city of enchantment," said she. 
 " You may like it too well to leave it ; or you, 
 also, may find a husband. Who knows ?" 
 
 " But I intend never to marry ! I have re- 
 solved to devote my life to painting." 
 
 "The resolutions of seventeen are easily 
 broken," replied Madame, smiling. 
 
 " You. forget how happy I am here. You for- 
 get that the College is my home." 
 
 " I forget nothing," said she; "but the hours 
 are precious, and you will have to start early in 
 the morning. Come up-stairs, my child, at once, 
 and let us look over your wardrobe." 
 
 But I was in despair that she should believe 
 it possible that I could prefer Paris and matri- 
 mony to Zollenstrasse and Art. 
 
 " You are mistaken, Madame," I repeated, as "» 
 we went up the great stone staircase. " Indeed, 
 indeed, you are mistaken." 
 
 To which she only replied — " We shall see." 
 
 We worked hard all the rest of the day and 
 far into the evening, trimming, repairing, and 
 packing my little outfit. At about half-past 
 eight o'clock, Hugh came, according to his prom- 
 ise, and was shown into Madame Brenner's par- 
 lor, where we were all sitting together, still busy 
 with our needles. 
 
 " I come to bid Parbara a last adieu," said he ; 
 " for we are very olJ friends, as you know, Ma- 
 dame Brenner ; and do not like parting." 
 
 " I know you are, Herr Farquhar," replied 
 Madame ; " but you are not more sorry than we 
 are, for all that." 
 
 " Upon my word, Madame," said Hugh, look- 
 ing very much surprised, and bowing politely, 
 " )'ou are too good." 
 
 " The place will not seem the same to any of 
 us," continued Madame, with the tears in her 
 kind eyes. '' 
 
 "I — believe me I really do not know how 
 to " 
 
 " And as for this poor Ida," said Madame, lay- 
 ing her own plump hand aifectionately on Ida's 
 slender fingers, " she will nearly break her 
 heart, poor child." 
 
 Hugh looked from one face to another in 
 such bewilderment and consternation, that I 
 could forbear laughing no longer. 
 
 " And all because poor little Barbara is sum- 
 moned away to Paris to her sister's wedding !" 
 I exclaimed, purposely destroying the thread of 
 the double entendre. " You did not know, Mr. , 
 Farquhar, that if you are off to-morrow to St. 
 Petersburgh, I also start for Paris." 
 
 " You — you are going to Paris ?" said he, 
 with a deep breath of satisfaction. " This is 
 sudden, is it not ?" 
 
 " Yes, Hugh," I replied, demurely. " All my 
 resolutions are sudden. I am the slave of a 
 demon whose name is Whim. Did you never 
 hear of the Piper of Hamelin ?" 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 re 
 
 " The Piper of Hamelin !" repeated Madame 
 Brenner. " Who is he, pray ?" 
 
 " Oh, a friend of the Herr Farquhar, Madame. 
 But, indeed, Hugh, I have very important news 
 from Paris. My sister Hilda is to be married 
 in ten days to the Count de Chaumont ; and 
 my father" insists that I shall be present at the 
 ceremony." 
 
 " But you are not going alone, little one ?" 
 
 « Indeed I am." 
 
 " It is very unfortunate," said Madame ; " but 
 We have so short a notice that it is impossible 
 to find any family traveling in the same di- 
 rection." 
 
 " I am about to leave Zollenstrasse," said 
 Hugh ; " and a few days sooner or later would 
 make no difference to me. I shall be happy to 
 take care of Barbara as far as Paris, if Madame 
 pleases." ^ 
 
 The superintendent held up her hands in 
 horror. 
 
 " Mein Gott ! impossible," said she. " Such 
 a thing was never heard of. The Herr Farquhar 
 is a foreigner, and probably is not aware " 
 
 " Oh, les convenances, I suppose !" replied he, 
 laughing. " Madame, I confess to you frankly 
 that I am a savage. I know no more of the by- 
 laws of life than an Esquimaux ; and if I con- 
 ceived that, having known Barbara Churchill 
 since she was no taller than my cane, I might 
 with propriety volunteer to protect her during 
 so short a journey, blame, if you please, my 
 ignorance only. Why, petite, you have never 
 been anywhere -by your own little self, ever 
 since you were born !" 
 
 "I beg your pardon. I traveled alone to 
 and from Suffolk, when I was a very little girl," 
 I replied ; " and Hilda and I came alone from 
 London Bridge to these College gates, six years 
 ago." 
 
 " And how do you propose to make your way/ 
 to Paris ?" 
 
 " I leave Zollenstrasse to-morrow morning by 
 the steamboat that goes down the Main as far 
 as Frankfort. At Frankfort I am to sleep, and 
 thence shall go on by diligence and railroad, ac- 
 cording to the plan that Madame will write out 
 for me." 
 
 " Can I be of any assistance in that matter, 
 Madame V" said he. " I know every route, road, 
 boat, rail, and diligence by heart ; and every 
 rood of the ground between this place and 
 Paris. In me, without vanity, I may say you 
 behold an accomplished courier, a steamboat 
 directory, a hotel guide, a fluent vocabulary,- a 
 polyglot interpreter, a circumstantial handbook 
 for travelers on the Continent ; and, in short, 
 all that the most inexperienced tourist can de- 
 sire in a work of reference." 
 
 "Indeed I shall be very grateful," replied 
 Madame ; "for I never can understand these 
 new-fashioned ways of traveling. Ten years 
 ago, one never went by any thing but schnell- 
 wagens, or steamboats ; and now one hears of 
 nothing but railroads springing up in every 
 direction." 
 
 So Hugh pulled out his guide-book and time- 
 tables, and he and Madame sat down quite 
 cosily, side by side, and planned my journey for 
 me. I was to go by boat to Frankfort ; from 
 Frankfort by diligence to Mayence ; from May- 
 ence to Cologne by steamboat ; and from Co- 
 
 logne by railroad to Paris. As soon as all this 
 was written down, with the fares and hours of 
 starting, and the names of the hotels at which I 
 was to stay, Hugh rose and took his leave. 
 
 " Good-by, petite,''* said he, quite gayly. 
 "When I am tired of Russia, I shall come 
 back to Zollenstrasse and hear all about Hilda's 
 wedding, and the visit to Paris. What shall I 
 bring you from St. Petersburgh ?" 
 
 " Nothing, thank you." 
 
 " Nonsense — I will bring you a set of sables ; 
 or, if you like it better, a bracelet of gold 
 roubles." 
 
 " What do I want with bracelets or sables, 
 Hugh ? Bring yourself back. I am very lonely 
 here, now that Hilda is gone." 
 
 " Ah, Barbarina, that is more difficult ! Adieu, 
 and God bless you. Adieu, gracious Madam. I 
 hope some day to have the pleasure of paying 
 my respects to you again." 
 
 And with this he went away. I was very sad 
 that evening ; and I felt it hard, somehow, that 
 he could go so cheerfully. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVin. 
 
 A KIRMESS AND SCHUETZEN-FEST. 
 
 It is almost as difficult to part from places 
 that we love, as from people who are dear to 
 us. I scarcely knew, indeed, w^hether my tears 
 fell faster for the Academy, or for the friends 
 whom I left in it. Twenty times I turned back 
 to take a last look at the pretty bedroom which 
 Ida and I had shared so long between us ; at 
 the familiar studio in which I had worked so 
 happily; at the half finished painting Avhich I 
 was leaving on the easel. To one I said : " Take 
 care of my mignonette, and water it for me every 
 morning before breakfast." To another : " Let 
 no one take my seat in the studio, or move my 
 easel from the corner it always occupies." To 
 me there was something significant in every 
 petty detail of the localities I loved — something 
 precious in the very patterns of the furniture, 
 in the weather-stains upon the old flags in the 
 courtyard, in the rough chalk outlines scrawled 
 here and there on the walls of the class-rooms. 
 
 They were all sorry to part from me, and 
 crowded round to bid me a thousand last good- 
 bys. Professor Metz came out from his private 
 room to shake hands with me ; Madame Bren- 
 ner accompanied me to the wharf; and Ida, 
 and two or three others who had not gone 
 home for the vacation, went down to the bridge 
 to see me off*. To every one I kept repeating : 
 " I shall be back soon ! I am sure to be back, 
 at the latest, in a month, or five weeks." But 
 my heart failed me all the time ; and the more 
 I strove to console others, the more inconsola- 
 ble I became. At length the bell rang, and 
 Madame left me, with many embraces ; and the 
 steamer hove slowly round, and carried me 
 away. My school-friends on the bridge waved 
 their handkerchief^. Madame Brenner put hers 
 to her eyes, and turned away ; and Ida's pale, 
 tearless face grew less and less distinct, till the 
 bend of the river carried us out of sight, and 
 the last spire of Zollenstrasse disappeared be- 
 hind the woods of Briihl. 
 
 The morning was dull and chilly. The decks 
 
80 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 were still damp from recent swabbing. The 
 passengers were few, and the scenery looked 
 ghostly through the white fog hanging low 
 upon the banks. Whenever we came to a lit- 
 tle river -side village, which happened about 
 four or five times in every hour, the bell rang, 
 and the steamer lay to for the purpose of re- 
 ceiving and landing passengers. These Avere 
 chiefly market-women and washer-women, who 
 piled their picturesque baskets in the middle of 
 the deck, and sat knitting and chattering to- 
 gether as long as they remained on board. 
 Some brought crates of live poultry ; some, 
 glittering brass milk- cans, slender and graceful 
 as antique vases ; and one was accompanied by 
 a very noisy and disobliging pig, who protested 
 loudly against the manner of transit, and was 
 landed by force at a squalid little hamlet about 
 eight miles down the river. By and by, shortly 
 after mid-day, we arrived at an ancient walled 
 town standing on a granite cliff high above the 
 Stream, with, a line of quaint watch-towers 
 reaching down to the water's edge. Here we 
 stopped, as usual, and took in some soldiers, a 
 few peasants, and a pair of splendid horses, 
 covered with horse-cloths from their ears to 
 their fetlocks. Sad and weary as I was (for the 
 four hours that I had already been on board 
 seemed like sixteen) I saw, but scarcely heeded, 
 these fresh arrivals. What, then, was my amaze- 
 ment, when a gentleman came and flung him- 
 self familiarly on the bench beside me, and 
 said — 
 
 " Shall we go down together to the cabin, and 
 have some lunch, Fraulein ?" 
 
 Without even turning my head to look at 
 him, I rose indignantly, and was about tq move 
 away, when he seized me by the wrist, and add- 
 ed— 
 
 "Barbarina!" 
 
 " What, Hugh ?" 
 
 " Of course. Who else ?" 
 
 " But— but how " 
 
 " How came I here ? Well, by a post-chaise, 
 if I am bound to render up an account of my 
 proceedings. I sent my horses to this place last 
 night — it is only fourteen miles by the road — 
 and followed them this morning, just in time to 
 catch the boat, and place myself at your High- 
 ness's service. I had no mind that my little 
 Barbarina should travel to Paris alone." 
 
 " Oh, Hugh, how good of you — how wrong of 
 you ! What would Madame say if she knew 
 it?" 
 
 "What she pleased, carina. I have a right 
 to travel when and where I choose. Would you 
 like to come and look at the horses ?" 
 
 Of course I liked to look at the horses. I 
 should have liked to look at a pair of basilisks, 
 by his invitation. I knew nothing about horses ; 
 but that was of no consequence. I admired 
 them because they were his ; and a smart Eng- 
 lish groom, whose top-boots were the wonder of 
 all the German rustics on board, stepped for- 
 ward and unbuckled the horse-cloths for my 
 especial satisfaction. This done, we went into 
 the cabin and had sour claret and tough cutlets 
 for lunch ; by which time the fog had cleared 
 away, and the sun was shining, and it became 
 quite a pleasant thing to go on deck again, and 
 enjoy the scenery. 
 
 All that day, Hugh exerted himself to keep 
 
 me amused and cheerful. He pointed out 
 every picturesque effect, every ruin, boat, and 
 incident on the way. For me he ransacked the 
 store-houses of his memory; for me raked up 
 every dry and dusty legend of the Franconian 
 land — legends of the Fichtelgebirge, and the 
 magical mountain filled with halls of gold and 
 jewels ; and the story of Conrad the devil ; and 
 the history of the Empress Cunigunda, whose 
 petticoat is kept to this day in the Cathedral of 
 Bamberg, as a cure for the toothache. 
 
 Besides all this, I found myself traveling en 
 princesse, and surrounded with unaccustomed 
 luxury. At Frankfort, where we stopped for 
 the night, Tippoo suddenly made his appearance, 
 and, after his old noiseless fashion, took the 
 charge and conduct of every thing. He seemed 
 neither to see nor recognize me; but, having 
 quietly searched out our luggage, and delivered 
 over the groom and horses to an ostler who was 
 waiting on the quay, preceded us to a spacious 
 hotel, where we were received by a crowd 
 of bowing waiters, and ushered into a pleasant 
 parlor opening upon a garden, at the foot of 
 which flowed the river Main. Here the table 
 was ready laid with glittering glass and silver, 
 and flowers that filled the air with fragrance. 
 
 " What a charming room !" I exclaimed. 
 
 But Hugh flung his hat impatiently upon a 
 sofa, and said : — 
 
 " How is this, Tippoo ? Did I not tell you 
 the pavilion ?" 
 
 "Sahib, the pavilion is engaged." 
 
 '■'■ Mille diahles! Remembef, then, that to- 
 morrow I have the Oreen Drawing-Room over- 
 looking the river." 
 
 "Yes, Sahib." 
 
 "You see, Barbara," explained Hugh, "I 
 have my favorite apartments, wherever I go ; 
 and it is Tippoo's duty to secure them. I have 
 also my own especial taste in the matter of 
 cuisine. I can not eat these innocuous European 
 dishes. I must have my Indian spices, and, like 
 Sir Epicure Mammon, bargain for ' the tongues 
 of carp, dormice, and. camels' heels : ' — so Tip- 
 poo always travels in advance, and prepares 
 both the rooms and the dinner. Nay, never 
 look so dismayed, little one ! For you I have 
 provided 
 
 Syllabubs, and jellies, and mince-pies, 
 And other such lady-like luxuries.' 
 
 I have no mind to starve you between this and 
 Paris." 
 
 -*' And where is this green-parlor of which you 
 spoke just now ?" 
 
 " At Coblentz, where we break our journey 
 again to-morrow evening. But will you not go 
 to your room now; for we are already some- 
 what after the time at which I ordered dinner ?" 
 
 So I hastened to take off my bonnet, and 
 make such scanty toilette as I could ; and then 
 came back to the pretty parlor, where we dined 
 in great state, with Tippoo standing behind his 
 master's chair, and two waiters in attendance. 
 Despite this grandeur, the dinner passed off 
 merrily, thanks to my companion's inexhausti- 
 ble gayety. After the cloth was removed, we 
 strolled for an hour through the old dusky 
 streets in the summer twilight, and saw the 
 Cathedral, and the house where Goethe was 
 born, and the Ober-Main Thor, and the gilt 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 81 
 
 weather-cock at which the child-poet loved to 
 gaze in the sunshine. Then, when it grew quite 
 dark, we came back to our hotel; and coffee 
 was served; and Tippoo produced the never- 
 failing hookah, and the spirit-lamp in its stand 
 of frosted-silver. So I bade good-night, and 
 left Hugh to enjoy his pipe and his book. 
 
 The next morning we were breakfasting be- 
 fore six ; for the railway at that time was only 
 just commenced between Frankfort and Mann- 
 heim, and we had a long day's work before us. 
 Instead of the weary schnell-wagen, a smart 
 open carriage and four post-horses, with bells 
 upon their collars, and red-worsted tassels and 
 rosettes upon their heads, waited at the hotel- 
 door to convey us on our journey. The land- 
 lord and waiters bowed us out, calling Hugh 
 " my lord," and me " my lady ;" the little boys 
 set up a feeble cheer as we stepped in and drove 
 away ; and I remember feeling quite sorpy that 
 tlie good people of Frankfort were not up and 
 stirring, to witness the grandeur of our de- 
 parture. 
 
 It was a glorious summer day, and we had 
 nothing to do but to enjoy it to the music of the 
 horses' bells, and the singing of the birds. We 
 had it all to ourselves. Tippoo, as usual, had 
 gone on before ; the groom and horses were left 
 behind, to follow by easy stages; and if a re- 
 morseful thought of Madame Brenner did now 
 and then cross my mind, I banished it as quick- 
 ly as possible. About every two German miles 
 we changed horses ; and at eleven in the fore- 
 noon reached a quaint little town where there 
 was a Kirmess^ or fair, and a shooting festival 
 going forward. Here our arrival created an ex- 
 ta-aordinary excitement ; for the streets were full 
 of rustics, to whom the sight of a traveling- 
 carriage with four horses and two postillions was 
 an event of some magnitude. The market- 
 place and chief thoroughfare were lined with 
 booths ; the eating-houses were full of custom- 
 ers ; the free-shooters, in their gray and green 
 coats and steeple-crowned hats, were standing in 
 knots at the doors of the wine-shops ; the bare- 
 headed, broad-shouldered peasant-girls were 
 crowding, gossiping, and eating gingerbread in 
 tlie broiling sunshine; and the air was all alive 
 with laughter, music, shouting, shooting, and 
 the creaking of merry-go-rounds. Having with 
 difficulty procured a disengaged parlor, we stop- 
 ped at the principal inn to take lunch, and 
 while it was being prepared, went out to see 
 something of the fair. 
 
 It was a thorough German Volks-Fest, and the 
 booths were stocked with thorough German 
 wares. Here was a stall for combs, probably 
 made at Heidelberg, and beside it a fantastic 
 little temple piled high with compact brown bun- 
 dles of " Brennen Cigarren." Beyond these 
 again, came stalls for the sale of untanned leath- 
 er, soft and velvety, with a curly surface, like 
 brown tripe — stalls for mock jewelry and bead 
 necklaces, dear to German Madchens — stalls full 
 of Tyrolean knapsacks, faced with goatskin and 
 ornamented with fi-inges of knotted twine — stalls 
 of Nuremberg toys ; beer-jugs gray and blue, 
 with hieroglyphic patterns ; tin oil lamps, pre- 
 serving something of the antique Roman shape ; 
 Bavarian glass; umbrellas, chiefly of colored 
 chintz and scarlet gingham ; gorgeous ginger- 
 bread ; brooms ; brushes ; spectacles ; clocks ; 
 F 
 
 cutlery ; Lutheran hymn-books and Roman Cath- 
 olic missals ; stationery ; china ; silver hair-ar- 
 rows ; pumpernickel ; cravats ; and wooden shoes. 
 One stall was exclusively devoted to the sale of 
 mouse-traps. But foremost in attraction, and 
 most characteristic of all, were the pipe-stalls. 
 Here were carved wooden pipes ; great porcelain 
 pipes with colored pictures of huntsmen and 
 maidens on the bowls ; pipes with metal stop- 
 pers, and little German silver chains ; pipes with- 
 out stoppers ; pipes of cherrywood, clay, meer- 
 schaum, red earth ; pipes with twisted stems, elas- 
 tic stems, short stems, long stems ; comic pipes 
 with queer faces on the bowls ; solemn pipes, like 
 grinning death's heads ; portly aldermanic pipes ; 
 slender, genteel ones — in short, pipes of all 
 shapes and complexions, sizes, prices, and colors. 
 The love of the German for his pipe is almost a 
 sentiment; and he puts into the pattern and 
 painting of it such small change of fancy, hu- 
 mor, and poetry, as passes current with the hon- 
 est Gottliebs and Heinrichs of every-day life. 
 
 Mingling still with the noisy crowd, Hugh and 
 I passed through these long avenues of stalls till 
 we came to the old medieval town-gate. Be- 
 yond this lay a meadow, part of which was par- 
 titioned off for the shooting ground, while the 
 rest was filled with booths of a larger size than 
 those within the walls. Here were tents with 
 the words " Tanz Micsik''^ painted up conspicu- 
 ously over the entrance ; in each of which we 
 saw some twenty or thirty stalwart couples whirl- 
 ing and stamping about as merrily as if the mid- 
 day sun were not shining down with almost trop- 
 ical splendor. Here, too, were Punch and Judy 
 shows, where the showman appeared on the 
 stage in person, as far as his head and shoulders, 
 and exchanged thumps with his quarrelsome 
 hero — peep-shows containing views of London, 
 Paris, and the Rhine — maneges^ in which grown- 
 up folks were going gravely round — and the 
 great "Puppet-theater from Vienna," recom- 
 mended to public admiration by a huge external 
 fresco representing two gentlemen in Paul Pry 
 costume with labels issuing from their mouths, 
 on one of which was inscribed, " I have been in 
 to see it, and it is splendid !" To which the 
 other replies, " I would go ; but I haven't a 
 groschen !" 
 
 Beyond the shows lay the refreshment booths ; 
 ambitious edifices of planks and canvas, sur- 
 mounted by flags, and disclosing vistas of tables 
 and benches occupied by jovial holiday folks, 
 feasting on German sausages, black bread, Swiss 
 cheese, and flagons of thin Rhenish or sparkling 
 Bai'erisch. These booths bore all kinds of high- 
 sounding titles, such as Bavarian Beer-Ualls, 
 Jiiger's Refreshment Halls, Free-shooters' eat- 
 ing-rooms, Kirmess Gasthofs, and the like ; 
 whilst in their neighborhood hovered profes- 
 sional touters who filled our hands with printed 
 advertisements and our ears with vociferate 
 praises of the establishments to which they were 
 severally attached. 
 
 " Try Mollberg's * Temple of Cookery,' gra- 
 cious Excellency !" cries one Jewish -looking fel- 
 low with gold rings in his ears. " Venison, no- 
 del soup, grape-cakes, and the best Lager-bier 
 in the world, for thirty-six kreutzers per head !" 
 
 " Come to Schwindt's Restauration, Herr 
 Graf!" shouts another. "The best hotel ia 
 Frankfort couldn't serve you better I" 
 
82 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 " Read this, gncidlges Frdulein^'' says a third, 
 thrusting a slip of paper into my hand. " Read 
 this, and persuade the Herr Excellency to bring 
 you to the ' Hunter's Delight.' " 
 
 The slip of paper proves to be an advertise- 
 ment in doggerel rhyme, over which Hugh and I 
 have a hearty laugh together ; and which, roughly 
 translated, would run as follows :— 
 
 Esser's Kirmess Restacuakt. 
 
 " Tlie IIunter''8 DelighV 
 
 Come, neighbors, 'tis our yearly fair ; 
 Let all to Esser's booth repair ! 
 There every friend and honored guest 
 May freely feast upon the best. 
 Cutlets, and sucking pigs, and veal, 
 Hams, jellies, capons, ducks, and teal, 
 Plums, peaches, melons, figs, and pease, 
 All kinds of sausages and cheese. 
 Anchovies, sardines, oysters, steaks, 
 And (for the women) sweets and cakes ; 
 All these, and more (if you've the mind) 
 At Esser's eating-rooms you'll find. 
 As for my stock of wine and beer, 
 I can not dwell upon it here ; 
 Enough that there will be, as well. 
 An extra cask of prime Moselle ; 
 So good that it would be a shame 
 If but a single schoppen came 
 To palates dulled by beer and spirits, 
 And, therefore, tasteless to its merits. 
 
 So come, my friends, and try my fiimous cheer : 
 
 A bottle and a capon, who need fear ? 
 
 Remember, Kirmess comes but once a year ! 
 
 Resisting the attractions held out by these 
 beery and smoky temples of festivity, we crossed 
 to the free-shooters' ground, where some eighty 
 riflemen were gathered together at the lower 
 end of the field ; each man with his gun in his 
 hand, and all wearing the characteristic hat and 
 coat of the brotherhood. At the upper end of 
 the inclosure stood three large targets. In a 
 small tent close by were ranged the prizes to be 
 shot for. In a large booth against the place of 
 entrance, a young woman dispensed wine and 
 beer, and an old man collected the shooting-fees. 
 These were about twopence each for entrance, 
 and a penny for every shot. 
 
 " Stand aside, meine Herren^"" cried the old 
 money-taker, as we passed the wicket, and came 
 in. " Stand aside, and let His Excellency have 
 a shot!" 
 
 But Hugh laughed, and shook his head. 
 
 " I have no gun, friend," said he. 
 
 " Eh, mein Gott, Excellency, here are guns in 
 plenty. See — one, two, three, foui', five, six !" 
 
 And the old man pointed to a row of well- 
 used rifles ranged on a stand behind his counter. 
 
 " The Herr Excellency is welcome to mine," 
 said a handsome free-shooter, standing close by. 
 
 Something in the man's tone, perfectly civil 
 though it was, brought the angry color to my 
 cheeks. 
 
 " Take it, Hugh ; take it," I whispered. 
 "These men think you can not shoot." 
 
 " And what matter if they do, carina ? They 
 are the best rifle-shots in the world, except the 
 Tyroleans ; and they know it." 
 
 " But you are quite as fine a marksman as any 
 Tyrolean in Tyrol." 
 
 " I am a very fair marksman," replied Hugh ; 
 "but " 
 
 " But they do not believe it ! See, they are 
 smiling. Do — do take the man's rifle." 
 
 He laughed, and took it. 
 
 " The young lady wishes it," said he ;. " so I 
 accept your offer, friend, with thanks. A heavy 
 
 gun to carry on a long day's shooting, upon my 
 word !" 
 
 " We mountaineers think nothing of heavier 
 rifles than this," said the free-shooter, with a 
 slight curl of his handsome lip. " I come from 
 the Black Forest ; and I carry that gun on ray 
 shoulder all day, where the mountains are steep- 
 est. Take care, Excellency. When cocked, a 
 breath is almost enough to free the trigger." 
 
 But Hugh, balancing the rifle in his hand, 
 seemed scarcely to hear the warning. 
 
 " What is the distance of your farthest tar- 
 get ?" asked he. " Three hundred paces ?" 
 
 " Two hundred and fifty, Excellency," replied 
 the old man at the counter. 
 
 Hugh lifted the rifle to his shoulder and fired, 
 almost without seeming to take aim. 
 
 " Stop !" shouted he, as some half-dozen free- 
 shooters . began running toward the target. 
 " Stop ! Another shot first ! Will any one lend 
 me another rifle ?" 
 
 One of the recalled runners handed his own 
 immediately. 
 
 Hugh fired again. 
 
 "Now," said he carelessly, "find the two 
 balls." 
 
 The target was presently surrounded. There 
 was a moment of silence ; then a shout ; then a 
 sudden waving of caps, and a general rush to- 
 ward the further end of the field. 
 
 " What havejou done, Hugh ?" cried I, scarce- 
 ly able to forbear following the example of the 
 rest. " What have you done ?" 
 
 " Fired the second ball precisely upon the first, 
 if I am not strangely mistaken," answered he. " I 
 could have done the same thing at nearly double 
 the distance. Why, you excitable little monkey, 
 you are quivering from head to foot ! Surely the 
 firing does not frighten you ?" 
 
 "Frighten me! Do you suppose I tremble 
 from terror ? But this must be a wonderful 
 feat ?" 
 
 " They seem to think so." 
 
 " How glad I am you fired !" 
 
 " So am I, Barbarina, since it has given you 
 pleasure ; but I did not desire to do so. There 
 is something ' snobbish ' in exhibitions of skill, 
 merely as exhibitions." 
 
 By this time the men had thronged back again, 
 and were pressing round us ; all eager to shake 
 hands with Hugh at the same moment. 
 
 " We never saw such a shot." 
 
 "The Ilerr Excellency is Tell come back 
 again !" 
 
 '* Wunderbar P^ 
 
 " Unerhort r 
 
 And the bullets, completely socketed the one 
 in the other, were passed from hand to hand 
 among the crowd. 
 
 In the mean time, the young woman at the 
 counter had fetched a heavy earthenware drink- 
 ing Krug with a still heavier German-silver lid, 
 representing a free-shooter sitting astride on a 
 beer-barrel, and presented it to Hugh with much 
 ceremony. 
 
 " What am I to do with this, meinFriiulein?" 
 asked he, gallantly. " Shall I drink your health m 
 in it ?" f 
 
 " It is the first prize. Excellency," replied the 
 young woman with a courtesy, 
 
 " Nay, nay, I do not wish for a prize !" 
 
 " But his Excellency has won it." 
 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 83 
 
 " Yes ! Yes ! Fairly Avon it ! Take it ! Take 
 it !" was echoed on every side. 
 
 " I had rather leave it still to be shot for," said 
 Hugh ; " but I will gladly drink a health out of 
 it, to my friends the German free-shooters. They, 
 in return, must, however, allow me to offer them 
 some of the Friiulein's best Lager-bier. Friiu- 
 lein, have you enough of the best to furnish all 
 these Herren with two ScJioppen each ?" 
 
 " With three, if the Herr Excellency pleases," 
 replied the young woman, briskly. 
 
 " Then three let it be. Gentlemen, to your 
 health and success." 
 
 Saying which, Hugh Farquhar drained a mea- 
 sure in their honor ; returned the cup to the 
 Miidchen with a broad gold-piece lying at the 
 bottom ; shook hands once more with the hon- 
 est riflemen all roimd ; and, giving mg his arm, 
 hastened away from the meadow and thg fair, 
 and round by a pretty field-path to the gate by 
 which we had first entered the ton'n. Long be- 
 fore we left it, which was in less than an hour 
 from the time we regained our inn, the fame of 
 Hugh's achievement had flown all over the place ; 
 so that there was quite a crowd about the door 
 when we drove away. Their last shout rings in 
 my ears to this moment. I never was so proud 
 and happy before ; indeed, I doubt whether, at 
 any period of my life, I have been so proud and 
 so happy at the same instant of time. It was 
 one of those rare and transient gleams of pure, 
 unalloyed, unselfish, perfect pleasure that glance 
 now and then, like mysterious etoiles JUantes^ 
 across the dark horizon of our lives. 
 
 That afternoon, we took the Rhine steamer at 
 Mayence, and went with the rapid river as far as 
 Coblentz, where we had the green-room with the 
 balcony overlooking the river, just as Hugh had 
 directed. Here we found the table laid, and the 
 dinner ready ; and after dinner, being too tired to 
 stroll about as we had done the night before, we 
 sat outside, and watched the late steamers com- 
 ing in ; and the people going to and fro across 
 the bridge of boats ; and the lights along the 
 banks coming out brighter and brighter as the 
 twilight crept up from the west, and the stars 
 stole out overhead. Then coffee was brought ; 
 and, after coffee, the spirit-lamp and the hookah ; 
 but Hugh laid the pipe aside, and said — 
 
 " Stay a little longer, Barbarina. By this time 
 to-morrow we shall be in Paris ; and then, who 
 knows when we shall meet again ?" 
 
 So I sat down again, and he talked to me. 
 Such talk ! At that time, though tolerably well 
 read in German literature, I was but slightly ac- 
 quainted with any, except Shakspeare, among 
 our English poets. Of Coleridge, I knew only 
 that he was the author of " The Ancient Mar- 
 iner," and a brother-in-law of Robert Southey. 
 Had I then read any of those written testimonies 
 in which his friends and hearers bear witness to 
 the wonders of his eloquence — that eloquence 
 which was reported to " marshal all history, har- 
 monize all experiment, and probe the depths of 
 all consciousness " — I might perhaps have been 
 able to measure Hugh Farquhar's conversation 
 ))y something of an ideal standard. As it was, 
 I lost myself in listening ; and he went on from 
 topic to topic, from speculation to speculation, 
 like an inspired dreamer. 
 
 I can recall only fragments of what he said 
 — mere waifs and strays of splendid reasoning 
 and gorgeous metaphor. To put them into any 
 
 thing like an intelligible form would, at this dis- 
 tance of time, be altogether impossible. He be- 
 gan, I think, iDy some observation on the night- 
 landscape before our windows, and thence diverg- 
 ed into Shakspeare'a sonnets, Goethe's Theory of 
 Plants, the influence of poetry, the Arcadia of 
 Sir Philip Sidney, and the Utopia of Sir Thomas 
 More. Hence he plunged into a strange theory 
 of the fundamental unity of the arts, and related 
 some wild adventure of his own in the depths 
 of a South-American forest, where he chanced 
 one days upon the ruin of a primeval temple, 
 and found, yet standing erect above its portals, 
 a sculptured figure with uplifted arm and broken 
 bough; rude, imperfect, but embodying the 
 identical conception of the Belvedere Apollo. 
 
 Supposing, even, that I could' remember his 
 very words, reconstruct his very sentences, how 
 should I then express the power and variety of 
 his style ? It was like the flowing of a royal 
 river ; now broad and strong — now narrow, and 
 wild, and eager — now bearing the sunlight along 
 with it like a freight of jewels — now gliding 
 subtly through the shadow — now winding round 
 some sweet green isle of fancy — and anon 
 breaking forth into foam, and hurrying on, on, 
 till it leaps over the rocks with a mighty voice 
 of triumph. 
 
 But to describe all this, " one should write 
 like a god." 
 
 When, at length, he came to a pause, and saw 
 how earnestly I was listening, he smiled sadly, 
 rose from his chair, and began pacing to and fro, 
 as was his wont, when moved by strong excite- 
 ment. 
 
 "Barbara," said he, "to-night my thoughts 
 run away with me, and I, like a foolish Phaeton, 
 can not hold them in. Do I weary you ?" 
 
 " You can not weary me," I replied. " Even 
 when I was a child, and less able to understand 
 you, I used to think that I could gp on listening 
 to you forever." 
 
 " And do you understand me now ?" 
 
 " Yes — in a certain sense." 
 
 " What do you mean by ' a certain sense ' ?" 
 
 " I mean that even when your ideas are too 
 deep, or too high, for my following, I always 
 feel their beauty ; as I might feel the melody of 
 a language that I had never heard before." 
 
 Suddenly, before I could guess what he was 
 about to do, he clasped me in his arms, and 
 kissed me twice or thrice upon the eyes and 
 forehead — kissed me so wildly, so passionately, 
 so strangely, that I could neither speak nor 
 move, nor be any thing but passively and trem- 
 blingly amazed. Then, releasing me as sud- 
 denly — 
 
 " Child ! child !" he exclaimed, " forgive me ! 
 I am not myself to-night. Leave me. Go to 
 bed — forget this folly. Pshaw ! I am old 
 enough to be your father. There — shake hands. 
 I am not going to kiss you again. Good-night." 
 
 Without a word, I left him and went to my 
 room. I felt strange and bewildered, as if I 
 were walking in my sleep ; and my heart beat 
 painfully. To shed tears might have been a 
 relief; but no tears came — so I sat, half un- 
 dressed, upon the bed, with ray face buried in 
 my hands, and the moonlight streaming in 
 through the uncurtained casement. By and by, 
 my eyes grew heavy and my thoughts more 
 vague, till at last I was fain to lay my tired 
 head upon the pillow, and fall fast asleep. «• 
 
84 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 PARTING AND MEETING. 
 
 We met the next morning, and resumed our 
 journey, as if nothing had taken place. Finding 
 that Hugh in nowise alluded to the events of 
 the previous evening, I gradually recovered my 
 self-possession, and came to look upon them as 
 the results of a fantastic ebullition — a freak — a 
 suggestion of the Goblin Whim ; and so ceased 
 to puzzle myself about the matter. 
 
 Still, things were not quite the same with us. 
 I observed that he was more grave and silent 
 than heretofore, and that he frequently roused 
 himself to talk on subjects from which his 
 thoughts were, far distant. Thus a shade of 
 restraint interposed between us, and our third 
 day's journey seemed ten times longer than 
 either of those by which it was preceded. 
 
 We left Coblentz very early in the morning, 
 while the mists were yet hanging about the 
 armed bights of Ehrenbreitstein, and, landing 
 at Bonn, thence took the railway to Paris. I 
 had never traveled by railway before ! My 
 journey to Zollenstrasse had been accomplished 
 nearlyall the way by water ; and most of the 
 great Continental and English lines had sprung 
 into existence during the time of my quiet 
 academic life. I remember that I was very 
 much impressed by the speed, and smoothness, 
 and mysterious strength of this new power. I 
 was even somewhat nervous, though I would not 
 confess it ; and felt that it was a great additional 
 security to have Hugh Farquhar sitting by my 
 side. 
 
 It was a weary journey, and we did not come 
 iu sight of Paris till past ten o'clock in the 
 evening. AH the afternoon, while it was yet 
 day, I had been wondering when these mono- 
 tonous corn-flats and lines of melancholy poplars 
 were to be ^felieved by something green and 
 hopeful — and now that the dusk had closed in, 
 and the lights glared up to the sky, and the 
 blurred outline of a mighty city seemed to 
 gather round us, with towers and spires uplifted 
 here and there through the darkness, a great 
 depression fell upon me. Yet a little farther, 
 and the houses grew thicker, and the lights 
 nearer. Then came nothing but stone walls on 
 either side, and a glass roof over head, and a 
 blaze of brilliant gas ; and it was Paris at last. 
 
 We alighted, and there, as usual, was Tippoo 
 waiting to receive us. 
 
 " Look round, Barbara," said Mr. Farquhar, 
 " and see if there be any face you know." 
 
 I looked round ; but, though the platform was 
 not crowded, I saw no one who I could suppose 
 was there to meet me. We went into the 
 waiting rooms; but they were empty. We 
 came back to the platform ; and still with the 
 same result. 
 
 " They have either forgotten you, Barbarina, 
 or made some mistake about the time," said my 
 companion. " And yet the train is true to a 
 minute." 
 
 " And I wrote last evening from Coblentz," 
 said I, "as soon as we arrived. It is not flatter- 
 ing to be forgotten." 
 
 " At all events you remember your father's 
 address?" 
 
 " No — but I have his letter in my pocket." 
 
 " Then we need only send Tippoo for a cab. 
 Here, Tippoo — a voiture de place .'" 
 
 But, to my dismay, I could not find the letter 
 One by one, I took out all the contents of my 
 pocket, and found that, beyond a doubt, I had 
 left the letter on my bedroom table at the hotel 
 in Coblentz. I had no need to tell of my loss 
 — my face told it for me. 
 
 "Never mind!" said Hugh, smiling. "The 
 misfortune is not irreparable. We must e'en 
 go to Meurice's together, and be fellow-travelers 
 for twelve hours longer." 
 
 "But " 
 
 "But I engage to find your father before 
 noon to-morrow; so think no more about it. 
 Come, it is of no use to linger here." 
 
 Just at this moment, as we were preparing to 
 leave the station, a servant in livery came 
 hurrying up the platform. He compared his 
 watch wijh the railway-clock, looked at me, 
 looked at my companion, hesitated, looked at 
 the clock again, and finally, touching his hat, 
 came forward and said — 
 
 " Pardon, Madame I Je cherche Mademoiselle 
 Churchill." 
 
 Which statement put an end to all my diffi- 
 culties. 
 
 Mr. Farquhar gave me his arm ; the servant 
 preceded us ; a porter followed with the lug- 
 gage ; and Tippoo brought up the rear. To 
 my surprise, I found a carriage drawn up and 
 waiting for me at the entrance — a superb car- 
 riage, with blazing lamps, and crested hammer- 
 cloths, and a pair of magnificent bays. 
 
 " Adieu, Barbara," said Hugh, as I turned to 
 say good-by. " Our companionship is ended." 
 
 " For the present, Mr. Farquhar." 
 
 "Ay — for the present. Who cares for the 
 past, and who dare answer for the future ? Thou 
 wilt forget me when I am gone — eh, little Bar- 
 bara ?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " ' JVb, sir,' indeed ! Why you are as spr;^ • 
 ing of protest as Cordelia herself ! I shall seud 
 Tippoo on the box, to see you safely home. Is 
 this your father's carriage ?" 
 
 " I do not think; so." 
 
 "Nay, then, whence comes it?" 
 
 " I neither know nor care ; but, if you are 
 curious, you can inquire." 
 
 "Of course I shall inquire. There maybe 
 witchcraft in it. Good Heavens ! it might turn 
 to a pumpkin before you were half-way home — 
 who knows ?" 
 
 And with this he asked the servant to whom 
 the equipage belonged. 
 
 "^ Monsieur le Comte de GhaumontJ^ 
 
 "To your future brother-in-law, Barbarina; 
 who, it appears, is as good a judge of a horse 
 as of a bride. Now, fare-you-well, since I know- 
 that you are in safe custody." 
 
 "Good-by — but do not send Tippoo with 
 me. It is quite unnecessary." - 
 
 " It is not unnecessary, if I choose to be sat- 
 isfied of youi safety. Besides, I shall then 
 know your address." 
 
 "And will you make use of it?" I asked, 
 eagerly. " Will you come and see mc, before 
 you go to St. Petersburgh ?" 
 
 He lingered for a moment with my hand in 
 his, and his foot on the carriage-step. 
 
 " I do not know — perhaps !" he said abrupt- 
 ly ; and so shut the door upon me, and turned 
 away. 
 
 In another moment I was whirling through 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 85 
 
 he busy Paris streets — streets bright as day, 
 ined with foUage, crowded with pleasure-seek- 
 rs, and noisy with the multitudinous life of a 
 -leat city ! Dazzled and bewildered, I knew 
 lot at which side to look, or what most to ad- 
 aiire ; and in the midst of it all, the scene 
 changed to what seemed like a huge park trav- 
 ersed by innumerable avenues of lamps, and 
 filled with one moving mass of carriages and 
 riders. Here we proceeded for some distance 
 at a foot-pace, till we came to a large circular 
 opening with a fountain in the midst, and then 
 turned aside into an avenue, comparatively dark 
 and empty, with houses peeping whitcly through 
 the trees. Before one of these we stopped. It 
 was a handsome residence, with a garden and a 
 high wall dividing it from the road, and heavy 
 wooden gates, that opened to admit the carriage. 
 
 An English page, in a plain black suit, was 
 waiting in the hall. I alighted and iOoked 
 round for Tippoo, but he was already gone ; so 
 I followed the servant up-stairs, not without 
 some little agitation, and wondered with what 
 kind of reception I should meet. At the first 
 landing he paused, threw open a door, and 
 stood aside to let me pass. 
 
 It was a spacious drawing-room, dimly lighted 
 and richly furnished. 
 
 " Mrs. and Miss Churchill are gone to the 
 opera," said the lad, seeing me look round. 
 
 " Gone to the opera ?" 
 
 "Yes, miss, with the Count de Chaumont. 
 The Count's carriage went to fetch you after 
 setting them down." 
 
 " And my father ?" 
 
 " Master is at his club, miss. Would you 
 please to have any refreshment?" 
 
 I sat down, wearily, upon the nearest sofa ; 
 scarce able to keep down the rising tears. 
 
 " You can bring me some coffee," I replied. 
 " And desire some one, if you please, to show 
 me to my bed-chamber.". 
 
 I looked round the room. A few illustrated 
 books with indifferent engravings and rich bind- 
 ings lay scattered here and there upon the 
 tables. The card-baskets were full of cards. 
 A pile of Hilda's music lay upon the piano. A 
 shawl of Mrs. Churchill's showed from which 
 couch she had last risen. A superb bouquet in 
 a vase on one of the side-tables told of the last 
 night's party. I sighed. 
 
 " What would I not give that it were all 
 over," thought I, " and I going back to Zollen- 
 strasse to-morrow ! Well, at all events, I shall 
 see the Louvre !" 
 
 My reverie was interrupted by the return of 
 the page, who brought me a very small cup of 
 coffee on a very large salver. This youth was 
 closely followed by a smart French lady's maid, 
 who wore her hair drawn back d la Chbioise, 
 and conducted me up-stairs to a small ill-fur- 
 nished room on the fourth story. Her name, 
 she informed me, was Juliette, and she was Mrs. 
 Churchill's fcmmc de chambre. Being abundant- 
 ly loquacious, she then went on to say that she 
 hoped to transfer herself and her accomplish- 
 ments to the service of that charmante demoi- 
 selle, my sister, on her auspicious marriage with 
 M'sieur le Comte de Chaumont. As for Hilda, 
 Mademoiselle Juliette averred that she had 
 never known any lady upon whom the arts of 
 dress were more satisfactorily bestowed. She 
 
 was so beautiful — she had such enchanting 
 taste — she so amply repaid all the pains that 
 one could take to adorn her charms to the 
 greatest advantage. Then her hair — Ah, c'lel ! 
 it was a real pleasure to dress such hair as Ma- 
 demoiselle Hilda^s ! She looked ravishing with 
 it in every style you could name — whether a la 
 Grecque ; or in bands; or in ringlets a V An- 
 glaise ; or a la Sevlffne ; or drawn simply back, 
 (i V Espagnole, with one little mignonne curl on 
 each cheek ; or even with it powdered d, la Ma- 
 rie Antoinette, as Mademoiselle wore it last 
 Thursday week at the Prefet's fancy-ball. Ah ! 
 let one figure that to one's self -powdered, posi- 
 tively powdered ! But then Mademoiselle Bar- 
 bara's hair was lovely, also. And Mademoi- 
 selle's was of the finest quality ; soft, glossy, 
 abundant, and of that exquisite brown (the 
 brown with the chestnut flush) which is so greatly 
 admired in the beau monde ! Decidedly, Made- 
 moiselle Barbara would find the new rouleaux 
 very becoming. 
 
 But I protested that I had no wish to change 
 the familiar fashion of my hair ; whereat Made- 
 moiselle Juliette held up both her hands, and 
 refused to entertain any such possibility. Of all 
 the essential points connected with a lady's toi- 
 lette, said she, the art of arranging the hair was 
 the most important. To judge of styles and 
 their application to individuals, was in itself a 
 study — a study to which she, Mademoiselle 
 Juliette, had devoted herself from her youth 
 upward, and in which, without vanity, she be- 
 lieved herself without a rival. This being the 
 case, and as if was likewise the express desire 
 of Madame Churchill and Mademoiselle Hilda 
 that she should make it her especial care to 
 transform me as speedily as possible into a 
 faultless Parisienne, she must begin by entreat- 
 ing that I would permit her to dress my hair to- 
 morrow morning d VEspagnole, which she was 
 persuaded would improve the contour of my 
 head, display the moulding of my throat, and 
 bring out the intellectuality of my forehead in a 
 most unprecedented and surprising manner ! To 
 all of .which, being excessively tired and preoc- 
 cupied, I replied briefly enough ; and brought 
 the subject to an end by dismissing Mademoi- 
 selle Juliette for the night. 
 
 From my window I could see down to the 
 end of the road, where it opened upon the 
 great Park through which I had passed on my 
 way. The carriages were still going by in one 
 continuous stream, and I leaned out for a long 
 time, watching the bright lamps flitting through 
 the trees, like a current of fire-flies. It was 
 strange to think of how much love and how 
 much hate, what youth, what age, what eager 
 pleasure-seekers, and what wearied world-worn 
 hearts those lamps were lighting through the 
 dusk of the sweet summer night. Stranger 
 still, that this should be Paris, and that hun- 
 dreds of miles hence, deep down amid the pine- 
 grown hills that leaned above the waters of the 
 Upper Main, kind hearts and loving lips were, 
 perhaps, .at this very moment, busy with my 
 name. 
 
 At twelve o'clock the scene was still the same, 
 and the moving lamps were undiminished in 
 number ; so, weary and sad, I closed the case- 
 ment, and went to bed. 
 
 I fell asleep immediately, and had slept for 
 
m 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 a long time — or for what seemed a long time, 
 so dreamless was my sleep — when I was awaken- 
 ed by a hand on my shoulder, and a sudden 
 light throughout the room. 
 
 "Barbara!" said a familiar voice. "Barbara, 
 dear ! we are just home, and I would not go to 
 bed without seeing you." 
 
 "Hilda!" I exclaimed, forgetting where I 
 was, and looking up with a vague wonder at the 
 radiant creature beside my bed. " Why, where 
 have you been ?" 
 
 " To the opera first, and then to a reception 
 at the Prussian embassy. Did not Bruce tell 
 you ?" 
 
 " To the opera ?" I repeated. " Ab, true — 
 I remember. And the Count ?" 
 
 *' The Count de Chaumont was with us, of 
 course. He goes everywhere with us. To- 
 night he gave me this bracelet — see, is it not 
 beautiful? — a snake in blue enamel, set with 
 diamonds I" 
 
 I looked at the bracelet, and then at her. 
 
 " I scarcely know which is the more beau- 
 tiful," I said, smiling. "He may well be proud 
 of you !" 
 
 She laughed, cast away the lace cloak from 
 her shoulders, and sat down on the edge of my 
 bed. 
 
 "He is proud of me," she replied, well 
 pleased with my admiration. "He already in- 
 troduces mamma to every one as his belle-mere, 
 and not a day passes that he does not bring me 
 some splendid gift. On Thursday it was an or- 
 nament for my hair, and yesterday it was his 
 portrait set as a brooch. Wolild you like to 
 see it?" 
 
 " Indeed, yes — if you do not mind the 
 trouble of bringing it!" 
 
 " Oh, my bedroom is next to yours, and the 
 case lies on the table. I shall not be a mo- 
 ment !" 
 
 And with this she flitted away, and came back 
 with the portrait in her hand. 
 
 " Mind," said she, with a somewhat embar- 
 rassed gayety, "you must tell me exactly what 
 you think of him — I bargain for that." 
 
 I took it, glanced at it, and, taken by sur- 
 prise, uttered an exclamation of dismay. 
 
 "Is it possible," I cried, "that he is as old as 
 this ?" 
 
 She looked down, and bit her lip. 
 
 "He is not old," she said. " At least, not 
 so very old ! He is a year younger than papa." 
 
 " A year younger than papa," I repeated. 
 "Oh, Hilda!" 
 
 " And his features are very fine. Indeed, he 
 is still considered a remarkably handsome man." 
 
 " And you love him ?" 
 
 " Yes — that is to say, I love him — of course I 
 love him. Quite as much as — as I ought. Why 
 not ?" 
 
 I continued looking at the portrait, and made 
 no reply. 
 
 " Besides," added my sister, getting more and 
 more piqued, " we do not live in the times of the 
 Troubadours and Crusaders, or expect to find 
 Leanders and Romeos every day at our feet. 
 Matters are differently managed in the beau 
 moncle, my dear ; and people who marry for rank 
 and wealth are not supposed to be dying for love ! 
 The Count is very generous, very gentlemanly, 
 highly dlstingiie, and quite rich enough for my 
 ambition. What more could one desire ?" 
 
 " What more ? Nay, no more, if this be suffi- 
 cient." 
 
 " Sufficient ? Why, Barbara, how absurd you 
 are ! Do you think 1 would marry, if I were not 
 quite sure of being happy ? I tell you that I 
 like the Count very much, and that he adores me. 
 I know that, as his wife, I shall never have a de- 
 sire ungratified. I shall have a Hotel in Paris, 
 and a villa in Florence ; I shall travel ; I shall 
 go into the best society ; I shall become a leader 
 of the fashion ; and have as much money as I 
 care to spend!" 
 
 " And that will make you happy ?" 
 
 " Happy ? Perfectly happy. Oh, you do not 
 know all that I intend to do ! I mean to dress 
 better than Madame de Bernard — to give more 
 elegant soirees than the Vicomtess de St. Etienne 
 — to— but I have not told you where the Count 
 is to take me for our wedding tour ! Guess." 
 
 " How should I guess, dear ? Perhaps to 
 Naples and Sicily." 
 
 " Naples and Sicily at this time of the year ? 
 Why, one might as well take apartments in the 
 crater of Vesuvius, at once ! No — no, Barbara. 
 Guess again." 
 
 "Well, Switzerland." 
 
 " Too vulgar. Every one goes to Switzerland 
 in the autumn." 
 
 " Nay, then, I am utterly at a loss. Spain, I 
 suppose, would not be cool enough, nor Scotland 
 genteel enough, to please you. If it be not 
 Vienna and the Danube, I will give it up." 
 
 " It is neither Spain, nor Scotland, nor Vienna ; 
 but Norway ! What say you to Norway ? Is it 
 not a magnificent idea ?" 
 
 " It is indeed. Was it your own ?" 
 . "Entirely. The Count asked me where I 
 should like to go, and so I took the map, and 
 studied the matter thoroughly. It must not be 
 very far South, I said, on account of the autumnal 
 heat ; and it must not be on the beaten track, 
 because I should like to do something original. 
 And then I decided upon Norway." 
 
 " Eh bien f When does the wedding take 
 place ?" 
 
 " To-morrow week — or, rather, this day week ; 
 for it is three hours past midnight I" 
 
 "And it will be a grand affair, no doubt ?" 
 
 " Yes — as grand as we can afford to make it ; 
 but papa's means, you know, are not great, and 
 though Mrs. Churchill is well off", one does not 
 like to owe too much to her bounty. However, 
 the Count will bear a part of the expense. We 
 shall be married first at the Protestant Chapel In 
 the Rue du Chaillot, and from thence go on to 
 the Church of N6tre Dame de Lorette for the 
 Roman Catholic ceremony. I am to wear white 
 Brussels lace over white gros de Naples, and a vail 
 to match. The lace is a present from the Count, 
 and Mrs. Churchill says it can not have cost less 
 than three thousand francs ! But it is shamefully 
 late, and I am tired to death, and you, by the by, 
 have been traveling." 
 
 " Yes, I have come between four and five hun- 
 dred miles in three days." 
 
 " Poor child ! And all alone, too." 
 " Not alone. I had an escort all the way." 
 " That was fortunate. Some acquaintance, I 
 suppose, of Madame Brenner ? Ah, mon Dim ! 
 I had almost forgotten the existence of Madame 
 Brenner. Does the College still stand in the old 
 place, and are the rolls on Monday mornmgs as 
 stale as ever ?" 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 87 
 
 " Every thing is as you left it," I replied, with 
 a sigh. 
 
 " Ainsi soit il ! Now good-night !" 
 
 I embraced her silently, and, as she left the 
 room, followed her with my eyes, and sighed 
 again. Was it possible that she could be happy ? 
 She seemed so — and yet — and yet it was but a 
 bartering of her youth and beauty ! Money, 
 dress, position, and the empty vanity of a title — 
 these were her gods, and to these she offered 
 herself as a sacrifice. For her, neither the wo- 
 man's dream of love, nor the artist's lofty ani- 
 bition — for her, neither the poetry, nor the puri- 
 ty, nor the passion that makes life beautiful, and 
 marriage holy ! Instead of home, she has chosen 
 society— instead of love, the admiration, or 
 envy, of a careless world — instead of Paradise, 
 the mirage of the desert, fruitless as the sands, 
 and fleeting as the mists that paint it on the 
 poisoned air. -^ 
 
 Alas, poor Hilda ! 
 
 — ♦ 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 AT THE OPERA FRANgAISE. 
 
 The next day, when we were assembled in the 
 drawing-room before dinner, waiting the arrival 
 of the Count de Chaumont, my father took a 
 card from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to 
 Hilda, saying — 
 
 " This "was left for you to-day, by a gentleman 
 on horseback. Who is he ? I do not remember 
 the name." 
 
 "Nor I," replied my 'sister, and passed it to 
 Mrs. Churchill. " It must have been for mam- 
 ma," 
 
 Mrs. Churchill looked at it languidly, through 
 her double eye-glass, and shook her head. 
 
 " Never heard of him in my life," she mur- 
 mured, and leaned back again in the corner of 
 the sofa. 
 
 My father put on his spectacles, and took the 
 card over to the window. 
 
 " I feel convinced, Hilda," said he, "that the 
 visit was for you. You must have been introduced 
 to this person last evening at the Prussian em- 
 bassy ; for I was in the breakfast-room when he 
 called, and I heard him inquire if you were fa- 
 tigued this morning. Just consider. Whom 
 did you meet last evening ?" 
 
 "Very few English," said she, "and none 
 whom I had not met before." 
 
 " Humph ! It is scarcely an English name — 
 more likely Scotch, by the sound of it. Farqu- 
 har ! Farquhar — ^let me see, there was a Cap- 
 tain Farquharson of — no, that can have nothing 
 to do with it. How singular 1" 
 
 My heart beat, and my color rose in spite of 
 me. 
 
 " If it be Mr. Farquhar of Broomhill," I said, 
 nervously, " the card was left for me. He ac- 
 companied me from Zollenstrasse to Paris." 
 
 They all turned and looked at me, and Hilda 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 " Brava, Barbara !" she exclaimed. " You 
 begin well. Why, how you blush ! Who is this 
 Mr. Farquhar?" 
 
 "Yes, who is this Mr. Farquhar?" repeated 
 my father, drawing himself to his full hight, 
 and assuming his most dignified deportment. 
 " Who is this Mr. Farquhar, that he should think 
 
 fit to call at my house without an introduction ? 
 What did Madame Brenner know of liim, that 
 she should intrust my daughter to his care ? I 
 am not fond of these English frequenters of 
 petty German spas." 
 
 " Mr. Farquhar is a gentleman of family and 
 fortune," I replied ; " a great traveler, and a 
 patron of the fine arts. He was constantly in 
 the society of the Grand Duke ; and dined fre- 
 quently at the Residenz, during his stay at 
 Zollenstrasse." 
 
 " And that is all that any one knows about 
 him, eh ?" 
 
 " By no means, sir," I said, firmly. " His 
 estates join those of Mrs. Sandyshaft ; and I 
 know every inch of Broomliill as well as I 
 know the College in which I have been brought 
 up." 
 
 My father coughed, and looked disconcerted. 
 
 " Is this old friend of yours a young man, 
 Barbara ?" asked my sister, satirically. 
 
 " About thirty-four." 
 
 "And tolerably well off?" 
 
 " I remember that he once gave six thousand 
 pounds for a picture." 
 
 Mrs. Churchill and Hilda exchanged glances. 
 My father rang the bell, and desired Bruce to 
 fetch a certain book from a certain shelf in the 
 little closet which they dignified by the name 
 of the study. It was a thick volume in an old- 
 fashioned calf binding with red edges, and my 
 father, as he turned over the leaves, took occa- 
 sion to inform us of its contents. 
 
 ".This book," said he, " gives a brief account 
 of the old county families of England. It goes 
 wherever I go. So does the peerage, and so 
 does the baronetage ; but this, in ordinary cases, 
 is the most useful of the three. It tells one who 
 is who, which is no trifling advantage abroad, 
 
 and Ah ! here we have it. ' Farquhar of 
 
 Broomhill' — humph ! — take Broomhill as a 
 kind of title, like the Scotch lairds ; very curi- 
 ous that ! ' One of the oldest families of East" 
 Anglia ' — ' possessions considerably increased 
 during the last half century ' — ' present owner 
 married to 'Lucy, eldest daughter of J. CUve, 
 Esq., M. P. — rental from twelve to fourteen 
 
 thousand per annum ' So, your friend is 
 
 married, Barbara ?" 
 
 " No, sir. I think if you look to the date — — " 
 
 " True — the book has been published these 
 twenty-five or thirty years. Then the present 
 man is the son of this Farquhar and Lucy his 
 wife — I see ! And what do you say is his age ?" 
 
 " About thirty-four, I believe." 
 
 My father looked at me thoughtfully, and 
 clinked the money in his pockets. 
 
 " Fourteen thousand a year is no such unde- 
 sirable income !" said he, more to himself than 
 me. " Ha ! — four — teen thou — sand ; and thir — 
 ty-three years of age !" 
 
 ' Mrs. Churchill smiled, and nodded — (she had 
 the art of implying a hod with her eyelids, 
 which saved trouble, and looked distingue) — 
 but Hilda, with a satirical laugh, repeated my 
 father's last words. 
 
 " Fourteen thousand and thirty-three years 
 of age would alone be a guarantee of respecta- 
 bility !" said she. "No occasion to look in 
 your county book, papa, when a man is his own 
 ancestry, and dates himself hack to the Pre- 
 Adamite world !" 
 
83 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 My father's brow darkened. According to 
 his creed, all jesting was undignified ; but a jest 
 at his expense, or a play upon his words, was 
 an offense little short of treason. Just, how- 
 ever, as he was about to speak, the door opened 
 and Bruce announced — ■ 
 
 " Monsieur the Count de Chaumont." 
 A tall grave man, with a conical bald head 
 and a huge white moustache, ,carae into the 
 room with his hat under his arm, and one glove 
 dangling in his hand. Any thing more stiff, 
 polite, and diplomatic it would be impossible 
 to conceive. He bowed profoundly to Mrs, 
 Churchill ; he bowed profoundly to my father ; 
 he carried Hilda's hand to his lips ; and, being 
 introduced to me, he bowed again. This done, 
 he sat down and said nothing, till we were sum- 
 moned to the dinner-room. 
 
 The dinner passed off grimly. My father 
 
 was still annoyed ; Hilda seemed out of temper 
 
 with herself and every one ; and the Count, 
 
 ^ who had no conversation, stared incessantly at 
 
 ' Hilda with his round light eyes, and adored her 
 
 in silence. 
 
 After dinner, we went up to dress for the 
 opera. 
 
 It was an event in my life, and I had been 
 anticipating it the whole day long ; so, when 
 Mademoiselle Juliette insisted upon dressing me 
 in a pink silk of my sister's, with trimmings of 
 flowers, and ribbons, and all kinds of unaccus- 
 tomed fineries, I submitted with slight resist- 
 ance. In one matter only I would have my 
 will ; and that was in wearing my hair as I .had 
 always worn it, twisted plainly round a comb, 
 and waving round my forehead in its own un- 
 controlled luxuriance. 
 
 At half-past eight o'clock we all went down 
 to the theater in the Count's carriage, and the 
 overture was just ending as we came into the 
 box. 
 
 Mrs. Churchill and Hilda took the front seats, 
 and»I placed myself behind them, where I had a 
 good view of the stage. The curtain rose upon 
 a crowded scene — the first chords of a chorus 
 broke forth at once from a couple of hundred 
 voices — a procession of monks and soldiers 
 came winding down a rocky pass at the back — 
 and one singer, more richly dressed than the 
 rest, advanced to the foothghts. I could scarce- 
 ly breathe, for wonder and delight ; but listened 
 in a kind of ecstasy. 
 
 " Is this Mario ?" I asked, laying my hand on 
 Hilda's shoulder, 
 
 " Mario ?" she repeated, " How absurd ! 
 This is the Opera Fran9aise, Don't you hear 
 that they are singing in French ?" 
 
 " I had not observed it, I thought it was the 
 Italian theater. How should I know ?" 
 
 " How should you know ? Why, every one 
 knows that the Italian season only lasts from 
 October to March ! How stupid you are !" 
 I drew back, pained and surprised. 
 " Two months ago, Hilda," I said, " you knew 
 as little of these matters as myself" 
 
 And so the conversation dropped. Her mood 
 puzzled me. Last evening, when she came to 
 my bedroom in her ball-dress, she seemed kind, 
 and gay, and, as I then thought, more than 
 
 usually affectionate ; but now But now the 
 
 novelty and splendor of the theater gave me no 
 time for any thing but admiration ; so I dis- 
 missed the subject. 
 
 To this day I remember nothing T^ut the be- 
 wilderment with which I gazed and listened. I 
 can recall neither the names of the singers, nor 
 the plot, nor the title of the piece, nor any thing 
 but the result produced upon myself Perhaps 
 had I never seen any kind of theater, I should 
 have expected more, and have been less de- 
 lighted ; but I had formed my notions of the 
 stage upon our little establishment at Zollen- 
 strasse, and the contrast took me by surprise. 
 These masterly effects of light and distance ; 
 the grandeur of the grouping ; the variety of 
 costume ; the richness and harmony of color ; 
 and, above all, the wonderfully artistic beauty 
 of the scenery, dazzled me on the side of pic- 
 torial illusion, and carried me out of myself I 
 could hardly believe that all was not real — that 
 these moving masses of soldiers, nobles, and 
 priests were not actual characters, swayed by 
 actual passions, and acted upon by the very 
 " form and pressure " of the time ! I could stiil 
 less believe that these airy distances and Claude- 
 like vales, these palace-fronts, and endless cor- 
 ridors, were mere daubs of paint and canvas, 
 to be looked upon from afar. All seemed per- 
 fect, real, wonderful ; and when the curtain fell 
 upon the first act, I felt as Ferdinand might 
 have felt when Prospero suddenly dismissed 
 " into thin air " his masque of spirits. 
 
 Mrs. Churchill tapped me on the cheek, and 
 smiled benevolently. 
 
 " It is quite a luxury, my dear child," said 
 she, " to witness your pleasure. Come now to 
 the front of the box, and look round the house. 
 This is the interval when every body criticises 
 every body. What say you to the Parisian 
 toilettes .?" 
 
 "I like the play much better," I replied. 
 " Will they soon begin again ?" 
 
 " Yes — in about ten minutes. Hilda, my 
 sweet love, who is that distinguished-looking 
 man in the second row of stalls ? His glass has 
 been leveled at our box for the last three 
 minutes. 
 
 Involuntarily, I looked in the direction indi- 
 cated. The gentleman lowered his glass, and 
 bowed immediately. 
 
 "It is Mr, Farquhar," I said, with something 
 of a childish triumph ; and returned his saluta- 
 tion. 
 
 " Mr, Farquhar ?" repeated my father, and 
 Hilda, and Mrs. Churchill, in one breath. " Is 
 that Mr. Farquhar?" — and pressed forward to 
 look at him. 
 
 " A very gentlemanly person, upon my word," 
 said my father, approvingly. " Really, a very 
 gentlemanly person." 
 
 "But excessively plain," added Hilda. 
 "Nay, not 'excessively,' my love," said Mrs, 
 Churchill. "Not 'excessively' by any means. 
 Rather a — if I may so express it — a prepossess- 
 ing plainness ; and decidedly aristocratic !" 
 
 '■^ Mais out — c'est un Monsieur tres comme U 
 faut,^^ chimed in the Count, with a glance to- 
 ward the mirror at the side of the box, 
 
 " I — ahem ! — I really am of opinion," said 
 my father, " that, considering all Mr. Farquhar's 
 attention to Barbara, I might, with propriety, 
 go down and express my sense of obligation in 
 person. What do you say, Mrs, Churchill?'' 
 
 " That it would be only correct to do so ; 
 
 and, Mr, Churchill, bring him here if you can!" 
 
 So my father took his hat, and went down, 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 89 
 
 and vre saw him presently in conversation with 
 that very Mr. Farquhar who had " thought fit " 
 to call at his house without an introduction. 
 So much for position, and a rental of twelve or 
 fourteen thousand per annum ! In the course 
 of a few minutes they left the stalls and came 
 up to our box ; where Hugh Farquhar was for- 
 mally introduced. 
 
 " Delighted, I am sure," murmured Mrs. 
 Churchill, with the most benignant smile. " Gen- 
 tleman of Mr. Farquhar's position and taste — 
 kind attentions to our darling girl — charmed 
 with the opportunity of expressing our gratitude. 
 Barbara, my love — a seat for Mr. Farquhar !" 
 
 "I think," said he, "that I have had the 
 pleasure of seeing Mrs. Churchill before." 
 
 Mrs. Churchill suspended the dexterous flut- 
 ter of her fan, and expressed interrogation with 
 her eyebrows. ^ 
 
 " At Homburg," replied Hugh, " if I remem- 
 ber rightly ; about four years ago." 
 
 "I did once visit Homburg in the spring," 
 hesitated Mrs. Churchill, " and it was probably 
 about that time ; but I am ashamed to confess 
 that " 
 
 " Oh, Madam, I did not imply that I had had 
 the honor of an introduction ! There ai'e per- 
 sons whom to see is to remember." 
 
 Mrs. Churchill bowed, and tried to look as if 
 she blushed. Her good opinion was won for- 
 ever. Hugh turned to me as the curtain rose, 
 and withdrew to the back of the box. 
 
 "Why, Barbarina," he said, "you are trans- 
 formed to-night ! Where is the Jenny Wren 
 dress? I seem scarcely to know you m any 
 other." 
 
 " I scarcely know myself, Mr. Farquhar," I 
 replied. " I like my brown feathers better than 
 all this gay plumage." 
 
 " So do I — and yet, somehow, it pleases me 
 to see you thus. It looks young and bright; 
 and heaven knows that you are young and 
 bright enough ! Never so bright, I fancy, as to- 
 night." 
 
 " That is because I have been so much ex- 
 cited." 
 
 " By the music ?" 
 
 " No — strangely enough ; not so much by the 
 music, as by the grandeur of the scenes and cos- 
 tumes. I can not describe to you how these 
 have affected me. Each time the curtain rises, 
 I feel as if a window were opened into fairy 
 land !" 
 
 " That is because your artistic perce} -tions are 
 more highly educated than your ear. Your 
 sense of color, of form, of composition, is being 
 perpetually gratified ; and each scene presents 
 you with a gallery of living pictures. For my 
 part, I am more influenced by the music ; and 
 yet I love art almost as well as you love it. 
 How do you account for that ?" 
 
 " Easily enough. Your tastes are variously cul- 
 tivated, and your judgment is matured. Amid 
 many things, you know how to choose the best, 
 and, having chosen, accept the rest as ad- 
 juncts." 
 
 " Excellently reasoned !" exclaimed Hugh ; 
 " and truly reasoned, too. How is it that you 
 are so good a logician ?" 
 
 "I am no logician, Mr. Farquhar. .How 
 should I be ?" 
 
 "Nay, how should you not be, being an 
 
 artist? It is the power of rightly seeing Na" 
 ture that makes the painter ; and to see rightly 
 with the eyes of the body, is surely but a step- 
 ping-stone to seeing rightly with the eyes of the 
 mind." 
 
 "I am not so sure of that," I replied laugh- 
 ingly. " Between a landscape and a proposition 
 there is a considerable difference. But the 
 scene changes — oh, how lovely ! See, the light 
 absolutely flickers on that water — the gondola 
 casts a reflection that moves with it — the moon 
 goes behind a cloud ! Can this be art ?" 
 
 " Not high art, certainly," replied Hugh. 
 
 " Because it is higher than art ! It is nature 
 herself ! Oh, Mr. Farquhar, I feel as if I should 
 never care to paint again, after this !" 
 
 " You are a foolish child, and know not what 
 you say," said he, impatiently. "I tell you 
 this is not pure art — nay, it is but one third art, 
 and two-thirds machinery. This ripple is pro- 
 duced by moving lights behind the canvas, and 
 that moon is made of muslin and gas ! All that 
 you see here is imitation ; and art does not im- 
 itate — it interprets." 
 
 "Hush — do not destroy the illusion !" 
 
 " I am willing to leave you the illusion, Bar- 
 barina ; but I can not suffer you to mistake 
 illusion for art." 
 
 " Suffer me, then, to mistake it for nature." 
 
 " Worse again ! Learn to accept it for what 
 it is. Accept it as an ingenious and beautiful 
 background to a fine story ; and remember that 
 mock moons and practicable waves bear to true 
 painting the same relation that wax-modehng 
 bears to sculpture. But silence for a moment. 
 I want you to hear this duo.^^ 
 
 I leaned back, and listened. The audience 
 was profoundly silent, and a semi-darkness pre- 
 vailed in every part of the theater. In the 
 orchestra only a single harp was heard, and to 
 this accompaniment the two voices rose and fell, 
 mingled and parted, threaded all the involutions 
 of harmony and all the mazes of passion, and 
 died away at last, tremblingly, throbbingly, 
 wearily — like a whirlwind wasted of its fury, or 
 a heart of its desire ! 
 
 Then came a moment of intense suspense, and 
 then, before the last vibration seemed quite 
 to have faded from the air, a storm of applause 
 that shook the very chandeliers above our 
 heads ! 
 
 " Well, Barbara," murmured Hugh, bending 
 so low that I felt his breath upon my shoulder ; 
 " is this true art, think you ? But, child, you 
 are weeping!" 
 
 I raised my hand to my cheek, and found it 
 wet with tears. 
 
 "I did not know it," I faltered. " It was so 
 wild and sad, that " 
 
 "That, like Jessica, you are 'never merry 
 when you hear sweet music!' Tender little 
 heart ! it is as susceptible to all the influences 
 of feeling, as a flower to the changes of the 
 sky !" 
 
 There was a strange, caressing gentleness in 
 his voice, as he said this, which brought my 
 color back and made me tremble. Involuntari- 
 ly, I looked up to see if any one were listening; 
 but my father was gone; the Count de Chau- 
 mont was talking in an undertone to Hilda ; 
 and Mrs. Churchill's eyes were discreetly fixed 
 upon the stage. 
 
90 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 "I did not think to see you here to-night, 
 Barbara," he continued — "still less to be so 
 near you." 
 
 *' I am very glad — it was so good of you to 
 come up. You had a much better place in the 
 stalls." 
 
 " That is a matter of opinion, carina. I have 
 the bad taste to prefer this. But, tell me, were 
 you up this morning when I called ?" 
 
 *'Yes; but I never heard of your visit till 
 many hours after. Papa thought at first that 
 you left your card for Hilda." 
 
 " Cupid and the Count ibrbid ! Ifais, dites 
 done, how do you fancy your future brother-in- 
 law?" 
 
 I sighed, and shook my head. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " it is a sacrifice. 
 
 * Crabbed age and youth 
 Can not live together.' 
 
 I never could understand the loves of Goethe 
 and Bettina ! Your father, by the way, is polite 
 enough to invite me to the wedding ; and also 
 to dine with him to-morrow." 
 
 " And you will come?" 
 
 *' To-morrow — yes." 
 
 " And to the wedding ?" 
 
 " If I can ; but I may be far, far hence, ere 
 then ; where no echoes of marriage bells can 
 follow me !" 
 
 " So soon, Mr. Farquhar ?" 
 
 " So late, you mean ! There, let us say no 
 more of it. I am not yet gone." 
 
 "But you are going !" 
 
 " I am going — yes, I am going, ' sith I have 
 cause and will, and strength, and means to do 
 it.' Strength, do I say ? Pshaw ! the words 
 are not mine, but Hamlet's !" 
 
 Startled by the vehemence of his manner, I 
 drew back and looked at him ; but he turned 
 his face quickly away, and said no more. Just 
 at this moment the curtain fell again, and he 
 took the opportunity to leave us. As he made 
 his adieux, I saw that he looked pale and dis- 
 turbed ; but no one else observed it. Mrs. 
 Churchill gave him her hand. 
 
 " Then to-morrow, at seven o'clock, Mr. Far- 
 quhar," said she, "we may expect to be indulg- 
 ed with the pleasure of your society ?" 
 
 " To-morrow at seven. Madam, the indulgence 
 will be yours — the pleasure mine." 
 
 Saying this, he bowed over her hand, as 
 tliough it had been the hand of an Empress, and 
 touched it with his lips. To Hilda he bowed 
 also, but more distantly, and from me he parted 
 silently, with a warm pressure of the hand. 
 
 " My dear Barbara," sighed Mrs. Churchill, 
 as the door closed behind him, " that is the most 
 elegant, the most aristocratic, the most gentle- 
 manly man I have met for many a season ! I 
 am not given to sudden prepossessions — far from 
 it ! — but I protest that with Mr. Farquhar I am 
 positively fascinated !" 
 
 " Mais oni,''^ repeated the Count. " C^est un 
 Monsieur tres comme il fauV 
 
 " Quite the tone of high society !" said Mrs. 
 Churchill. 
 
 '■'- Tout-ii-fait^^ replied the Count senten- 
 tiously. 
 
 "And evidently a person of education and 
 judgment. But, my darling Hilda, you say 
 nothing ?" 
 
 " Because I have nothing to say," retorted my 
 sister, with a scornful smile. " Your vara avis 
 appears to me to be a very ordinary biped.'' 
 
 Mrs. Churchill's color rose. She leaned back, 
 toyed with her glass, and said, in her most 
 measured accents — 
 
 " Your mistake, my love, arises from igno- 
 rance of the world. You have yet much to 
 learn ; but you are improving." 
 
 Hilda bit her lip, and turned to the stage with 
 an impatient gesture ; the Count looked puz- 
 zled ; and Mrs. Churahill smiled in the calm con- 
 sciousness of victory. 
 
 As for me, I scarcely heeded their conversa- 
 tion. My eyes were fixed upon Mr. Farquhar's 
 vacant stall ; but he occupied it no more that 
 night. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 DOMESTIC DETAILS. 
 
 " We are appreciated," writes a cynic, " not 
 for what we are, but for what others think of 
 us." 
 
 And my belief in that maxim dates from the 
 time when Hugh Farquhar became known to my 
 family. They respected him on account of his 
 position ; they liked him because he was pleased 
 to exert himself to make them do so ; and the 
 result of all this was that I came in for some 
 share of their good opinion. He was attentive 
 to me ; and they became considerate. He loved 
 to talk with me ; and therefore they began to 
 suppose that I might have some kind of clever- 
 ness. He praised me ; and they discovered 
 that I was amiable. In a few days my position 
 at home was radically changed. I found myself 
 listened to, consulted, placed on an equal foot- 
 ing with Hilda, and in all respects treated as it 
 was pleasant to be treated. The morning after 
 we had been to the theater, my father called 
 me into his " study," and gaye me a check for 
 six hundred francs, intimating that I tvas to use 
 that sum for my present necessities, that I should 
 have more in the course of a couple of days, and 
 that I was to be sure and make " as good an ap- 
 pearance" as ray sister. Mrs. Churchill, not to be 
 outdone in generosity, presented me with a brace- 
 let of mosaic-work, and devoted one whole morn- 
 ing to accompany me in my sliopping — on which 
 occasion, however, I persisted, to her great dis- 
 may, in preferring a plain brown silk of rich 
 quality, to all the delicate light fabrics which 
 were put before me. In vain she argued that 
 it looked too sober, and old, and somber for my 
 wearing. I was determined to adhere to my 
 " Jenny Wren" colors, at all events on ordinary 
 occasions, and only consented to purchase 
 lighter materials for the wedding, on condition 
 that I retained the one dress in which I knew 
 lie would prefer to see me. 
 
 Altogether, I was much happier in my home 
 relations than I had ever been before ; I should 
 have been happier still, but for the daily and in- 
 creasing coldness with which Hilda treated me. 
 Communicative and pleasant on the night of my 
 arrival, she was now fretful, impatient, and re- 
 served. Nothing that I did was right — nothing 
 that I said pleased her. She could scarcely 
 hear Hugh Farquhar's name without some sar- 
 castic or depreciatory remark. One might 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 91 
 
 almost have believed that she hated him for 
 being my friend, and me for the consideration 
 with which he treated me. As for the renova- 
 tion of my wardrobe, and my father's recom- 
 mendation to make as "good an appearance" 
 as herself, she laughed it to scorn, and protested 
 that it was the most ridiculous arrangement she 
 had heard in her life. Considering that she 
 was to be married within a week, and that none 
 of these domestic trifles could be of import to 
 her in her new sphere, I thought her remarks 
 on this head singularly illiberal. Even the poor 
 Count received his share of her displeasure, and 
 led, at this time, the most miserable life in the 
 world. She quarreled with him continually ; 
 if quarreling it can be called, where on one. 
 side all is tyranny, and on the other all submis- 
 sion. I even fancied, more than once, that she 
 had conceived some strange and sudden dislike 
 to him, and would fain have got rid of Kim if 
 she could ! 
 
 In the mean time the days went by, and the 
 eventful one di'cw nearer. The breakfast was 
 ordered from Tortoni's — the passports of M. le 
 Comte and Madame la Comtesse de Chaumont 
 were made out for Norway. The light travel- 
 ing-carriage which was to accompany them for 
 their use in a country where railroads and com- 
 fortable post-chaises were unknown, had been 
 brought round for Hilda's inspection, and dis- 
 missed with approval. The guests were invited 
 to the number of forty in the morning, and one 
 hundred in the evening. And, above all, Sir 
 Agamemnon Churchill — he whose glory had 
 been the tradition of our childhood ; whose por- 
 trait (as the knave of clubs) hung in the place 
 of honor in our London home ; whose position 
 as a knight, a herald, and an archaeologist placed 
 him at the head of all that now remained of our 
 branch of the great Marlborough family — Sir 
 Agamemnon Churchill himself, was coming, in 
 his own august person, to grace our wedding 
 feast, and give the bride away ! 
 
 And all this time Hugh Farquhar came and 
 went as he pleased, and became our frequent 
 guest. He talked politics and the wars of Queen 
 Anne with my father. He was gallant to Mrs. 
 Churchill. He was polite and stately with the 
 Count. Sometimes I fancied that he knew how 
 his friendship had led them to be kinder to me 
 — at all events I heard no more about St. Peters- 
 burgh ! 
 
 — ^ — 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 IN THE FOREST OP VINCENNE3. 
 
 It was the morning of Hilda's wedding day. 
 The bride was dressed ; the carriages were at 
 the door ; the guests were assembled ; and we 
 only waited for Sir Agamemnon Churchill. 
 A messenger from Meurice's had brought word 
 of his arrival late the night before ; and as it 
 had been arranged that Hilda was not to make 
 her appearance till "he came, she and I remained 
 up-stairs listening to the echo of every passing 
 wheel. Now and then one of the bridesmaids 
 came up, or we heard my father's impatient 
 voice upon the landing ; and still we waited, and 
 still the great man of the family kept us in sus- 
 pense. 
 
 Hilda looked ill and agitated ; but haughtily 
 
 beautiful as ever. She had scarcely slept at all 
 the night before. I had heard her in her room, 
 and seen the light under her door long hours 
 after midnight ; but deterred by her coldness, 
 had not ventured to intrude on her privacy. 
 
 Now, white and silent, with her hands locked 
 fast together, she stood before the glass, seem- 
 ing to lool^ at her own image, but seeing only 
 vacancy. Thus the last anxious quarter of an 
 hour ebbed slowly away ; and then, at the very 
 moment when to have delayed longer would 
 have been impossible, a carriage dashed up to 
 the door, and a servant came running breath- 
 lessly to tell us that "Sir Agamemnon was 
 come !" 
 
 Finding my sister still unmoved, I went over 
 and repeated the message. 
 
 " Sir Agamemnon is here," I said. " We 
 must go down," 
 
 She started, and, as it were mechanically, 
 took her gloves and bouquet from the table. 
 
 " And it is very late," I added. 
 
 " Late indeed," she echoed, drearily. *' Too 
 late !" and moved toward the door. At the 
 threshold she paused, stooped forward all at 
 once, and kissed me. 
 
 " Sister," she said, hurriedly, " forgive me ! 
 I have not been kind ; but my life has been a 
 hell this past "week ! I have hated myself and 
 all the world !" 
 
 " Oh, Hilda 1" . 
 
 " Yes — I see it all now ; but it is too late — 
 too late ! Your future is bright, Barbara, You 
 love each other — you will be very happy. My 
 future is dark enough — God help me !" 
 
 And with this she drew her vail about her 
 face, and went down-stairs. 
 
 I followed her, with her last words echoing in 
 my ears, and my heart beating painfully. The 
 first face I saw as I went into the room was Mr. 
 Farquhar's. He was standing just inside the 
 door, and, as I came in, put out both his hands, 
 and smiled joyously. 
 
 " Eccold, .^" he said, surveying me from head 
 to foot. "Why, what a dainty, coquettish, 
 charming little Barbara it is to-day ! Quite a 
 dangerous Barbara, I vow ! But why so pale 
 and nervous, petite ? Your hands tremble — you 
 are not well ! Is any thing wrong ?" 
 
 I shook my head — I dared not look at him, 
 remembering the words that Hilda had just 
 spoken. 
 
 " Nothing is wrong," I said, and turned hastily 
 away — too hastily as I fancied ; for when I had 
 threaded my way half-across the room, I turned, 
 and saw^ him following me with his eyes, so 
 gravely, so inquiringly, that had I known how 
 to say it, I should have gone back and asked 
 his pardon. As it was, our eyes met just as my 
 father took me by the hand and said : 
 
 " My second daughter, Sir Agamemnon. Bar- 
 bara, make Sir Agamemnon Churchill welcome 
 to Paris." 
 
 A shrunken, under-sized, dissipated-looking 
 old beau of the Prince Regent type, was my illus- 
 trious kinsman ; with little, bold, bloodshot eyes, 
 and a flushed face, and a withered double chin 
 buried behind a huge white satin cravat sprig- 
 ged with gold He had been a ' ladies' man,' a 
 ' buck,' and a leader of the ' ton,' some five and 
 forty years ago; and now, wigged, laced, pad- 
 ded, scented, dyed, and 'used-up,' he clung 
 
92 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 fondly to the traditions of his youth and his 
 '- bonnes fortunes.' Ho tied his neckcloth in the 
 Brummel bow, and wore three inside waistcoats 
 and a mulberry coat with a velvet collar as high 
 as his ears. In short, he looked as if he might 
 just have stepped out from the Pavilion at Brigh- 
 ton, or liave come straight from a breakfast at 
 Carlton House ! 
 
 Courtesying, I murmured something, I scarce- 
 ly know what ; but he interrupted me by kissing 
 first my hand, and then my cheek, and protest- 
 ing that he was " devilish glad" to see me, and 
 that " a fellow might be devilish proud of two 
 such pretty cousins — begad !" 
 
 One wedding is just like another, and the only 
 respect in which this differed from most lay in 
 the fact that it was celebrated in two churches, 
 in two languages, and in two religions. Nobody 
 shed tears, for we were late and had no time for 
 sentiment. As it was, we dashed through the 
 streets at a pace better becoming an elopement 
 than a wedding, and overturned a flower-stall at 
 the corner of the Place de la Madeleine. Then 
 the bride and bridegroom drove back alone 
 in the Count's carriage, and we, having quite 
 lost the order of going, followed as we pleased, 
 taking whatever vehicles and companions we 
 could get. Thus it happened that Mr. Farqu- 
 har found his way to the bridesmaids' carriage, 
 and came back in the seat beside my own. 
 
 Then came the congratulations, the break- 
 fast, the champagne, and the speeches — most 
 notable of all, that speech of Sir Agamemnon 
 Churchill's, in which he brought a very rambling 
 oration to a close by saying that he had that 
 morning performed the most disagreeable task 
 he had ever undertaken in his life : — 
 
 " For, ladies and gentlemen," said he, looking 
 round to enjoy the surprise with which this ob- 
 servation was received, and nursing his final 
 joke till the last moment, " when I came to give 
 tlie bride away, begad ! I was devilish sorry I 
 couldn't keep her myself!" 
 
 Which delicate and ingenious witticism was 
 greeted with immense applause (as well by the 
 foreigners who didn't understand it, as by the 
 English who did) and covered Sir Agamemnon 
 with glory. 
 
 Then the Count de Chaumont, in three or four 
 very brief and solemn sentences, returned thanks 
 for himself and his bride ; and then, my father, 
 with a great deal of self-possession and dignity, 
 made a speech full of point and emphasis, which 
 threw all the rest into the shade, and produced 
 the great effect of the day. After this the ladies 
 withdrew, and Hilda went up to change her dress 
 for the journey. 
 
 Her pallor, her agitation, her despair, were all 
 gone now ; but her cheek was flushed, and her 
 eye strangely bright and restless. In vain I 
 looked for any trace of the emotion which had 
 so startled me a few hours back. Not a glance, 
 not a tone, betrayed that she even remembered 
 it. Thus she dressed and went down in all the 
 splendor of her proud beauty. Thus she em- 
 braced us, was handed into her carriage by the 
 husband of her choice, and drove away. The 
 game was played out. The stakes were won. 
 She was Madame la Comtesse de Chaumont ! 
 
 After this, the guests mostly dispersed — some 
 to their avocations, and some to amuse them- 
 selves, till it became time to dress for the even- 
 
 ing party. My fiither and Sir Agamemnon, and 
 three or four of the elder men, chiefly members 
 of ray father's club, went out to play at billiards 
 or stroll in the Champ Elysees. Mrs. Churchill, 
 whose delicate nervous system was supposed to 
 be overwrought by the morning's excitement, 
 retired to her room, and had a sound sleep on 
 the sofa ; whilst we three bridesmaids, Hugh 
 Farquhar, a pretty widow named Julie de Lune- 
 ville, the Count de Chariot, Monsieur deFauval, 
 and some three or four other young men, all of 
 whom were frequent guests at Mrs. Churchill's 
 receptions, drove over to Vincennes. When we 
 reached the forest, we left our vehicles at a cer- 
 tain spot, and alighted. It was now between 
 three and four o'clock, and the slanting light 
 came goldenly through the trees, and lay in broad 
 patches on the open glades. The place was very 
 quiet and lovely, and we sat on the fragrant 
 grass under the shade of oaks as old as the far- 
 away toAvers of Notre Dame. Here the young 
 men lit their cigars, and the ladies took off their 
 bonnets ; and some flirted, and some ate bonbons, 
 and we were all as sociable as if Ave had known 
 each other from childhood. As for Hugh Far- 
 quhar, I had never before seen him give such 
 play to his exiiberant animal spirits. He jested ; 
 told stories ; talked as readily in French as in 
 English, and in German as in either ; and was 
 the very life of the party. Buoyant, almost 
 boyish, in his gayety, he seemed as if he had 
 that morning drunk of the Elixir of Life. 
 
 My recollection of the general conversation as 
 we sat there on the grass, like a group by Wat- 
 teau, is now somewhat confused and fragment- 
 ary ; but Ave had been talking, I think, of park 
 and forest scenery, and Hugh had been telling 
 us something of his Avild Avanderings in South- 
 America. 
 
 " It always seems to me," said he, as he lay 
 reclining on his elboAv, " that a forest is a school 
 of etiquette, and that nothing could be more 
 natural than for Hazlitt to take off his hat to a 
 certain majestic oak whenever he passed it, as 
 he tells us somcAvhere in his Essays. See the 
 great elms, how polite they are ! How they bow 
 their plumed heads, and stretch out their stately 
 arms to one another ! For my part, I never 
 enter a forest Avithout feeling at once that I am 
 moving in the best society." 
 
 They smiled at this ; and -some one observed 
 that " it Avas a pity the trees limited their court- 
 esies to their OAvn circles." 
 
 " How agreeable it would be, for instance," 
 said Monsieur de Fauval, a dramatic author and 
 feuilleto7iiste, " if some of the more hospitable 
 among our present hosts would unpack their 
 trunks just noAv, and oblige us with a fcAv ices 
 and a dozen cups of coffee !" 
 
 " Or if the woodpecker AA-ould make himself 
 useful, and tap us some good old Burgundy from 
 his ' hollow beech tree !' " added Hugh. " But 
 whom have we here ? A Jongleur of the olden 
 time ?" 
 
 " Say, rather, an Orpheus of shreds and 
 patches 1" 
 
 It Avas a Avandering musician, with a guitar 
 slung over his shoulder. Seeing our carriages 
 before the gates, he had sought us out through 
 the pathAvays of the forest. Timidly, he took 
 off his battered cap, and passed his fingers over 
 the strings of his instrument. 
 
[ 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 93 
 
 " Chantez done /" said one of the young men, 
 tossing him a franc for encouragement. 
 
 He looked up, bowed, preluded a few chords, 
 and sang, with a slightly foreign accent, three 
 or four verses of a plaintive ballad, the refram 
 of which was always — 
 
 " File, file, pauvre Marie, 
 Pour secourir le prisonnier ; 
 File, file, pauvre Marie, 
 File, file, pour le prisonnier !" 
 
 The guitar was cracked; but the song had 
 truth of feeling, and. the singer, voice and senti- 
 ment. After he had finished, we were silent. 
 
 Then somebody signed to him to continue, and 
 he sang a little rhyming Biscayan romance about 
 a fisherman and a phantom ship — a mere story 
 to a fragmentary chant ; but wild as the winds, 
 and melancholy as the moaning of the sea. 
 
 When he had done, Mr. Farquhar becjitoned 
 to him to come nearer. 
 
 " Your music is of the saddest, friend," said 
 he. " Can you sing nothing gay ?" 
 
 The man shook his head. 
 
 " Monsieur," he replied, " Je ne suis pas gaV 
 
 The answer provoked our curiosity, and we 
 urged him to tell us his history ; but we urged 
 in vain. 
 
 "I have nothing to -tell," he said. "I am 
 poor, and a wanderer." 
 
 " But are you French ?" asked one. 
 
 " I do not come from these parts," he rephed, 
 equivocally. " Bonjour, Messieurs et Mesdamesy 
 
 He was going ; but Mr. Farquhar stopped him. 
 
 " Stay, man ami^' said he. " I have a fancy 
 to try your guitar." 
 
 The musician unslung and handed it to him, 
 with an apologetic shrug. 
 
 " It is not good," he remonstrated humbly. _ 
 
 " Nay, it has seen honorable service," said 
 Hugh, "and has been excellent. It was made, 
 I see, in Naples." 
 
 The man. looked down, and made no reply. 
 
 " Sing something, Mr. Farquhar !" cried three 
 or four together. 
 
 He smiled, and ran his fingers over the strings 
 with a touch that evoked more tone than one 
 could have expected from so poor an instrument. 
 
 " What shall I sing ?" said he. 
 
 Some asked for one thing ; some for another. 
 I who had never dreamt till this moment that he 
 had any musical knowledge, remained silent. 
 
 Eh hi 
 
 he exclaimed. " I will give you 
 
 a Spanish hallata — something very savage 
 about a bull-fight. It is supposed to be sung by 
 a girl who is sitting among the spectators, and 
 whose lover is a matador in the arena. You 
 will hear how she cries to him to kill the bull, 
 '■par Vanior de Dios .'' " 
 
 And with this he struck the strings with the 
 side of his hand, producing a strange barbaric 
 jangle, and broke out into the wildest rush of 
 words and notes that I had ever heard in my 
 life. Well might he call it " something savage !" 
 It made my heart throb, and my blood run cold, 
 and, which is more, produced some such effect 
 on the rest ; for, when it was over, we looked 
 in each other's faces, and drew a long breath of 
 relief. 
 
 " Mais^ man Dieu ! Monsieur Farquhar," said 
 Madame de Luneville, " do you wish us all to be 
 afraid of you ? Where, in Heaven's mme. did 
 ^'ou learn that diabolical song ?" 
 
 " In Madrid," replied he, laughingly, " where 
 it is as popular in the most refined salons as in 
 the lowest posadas. My teacher was an Anda- 
 lusian water-carrier, who, after plying his trade 
 all day long in the Puerta del Sol, used ' to sing 
 songs o' nights,' sitting on the steps of a public 
 fountain, and surrounded by all the ragamuflans 
 of the quarter." 
 
 "How picturesque !" I exclaimed ; for the 
 whole group came at once before my eyes. 
 
 " Yes ; it was an animated Murillo. But, 
 since I have shocked you with my savage per- 
 formance, I will soothe you with something 
 sweet and sentimental." 
 
 Whereupon he modulated through a succession 
 of keys, and, to a soft arpeggio accompaniment, 
 sang, "with infinite tenderness and passion, the 
 following 
 
 SERENADE.* 
 
 " Tlie winds are all hushed, and tlie moon is high. 
 Like a queen on her silver throne ! 
 
 Tranquil and dusk the woodlands lie ; 
 
 Scarcely a cloud sails over the sky ; 
 
 None are awake, save the stars and I — 
 Sleepest thou still, mine own ? 
 
 " The song of the nightingale stirs the air, 
 And the breath of the brier is blown ! 
 
 Come forth in thy beauty beyond compare ; 
 
 I'll clasp thee close, and I'll call thee fair ; 
 
 And I'll kiss off the dew from thy golden hair— 
 Sleepest thou still, mine own ?" 
 
 Again there was a long-drawn breath when he 
 had ended, but this time it was a breath of ap- 
 probation. Monsieur de Fauval was the first to 
 speak. 
 
 " That song," said he, "breathes the very 
 soul of passion. Whose is it ? Where can it 
 be purchased ?" 
 
 "It can not be purchased at all," replied 
 Hugh, smiling. "It is an unpublished manu- 
 script." 
 
 " And the author ?" 
 
 "Unknown." 
 
 " Unknown !" repeated Madame de Luneville. 
 " But you are in the secret ?" 
 
 " Of course I am, or else how should I have 
 known it ? But enough of al fresco music. 
 The grass is already getting damp, and we must 
 not suffer these ladies to ta.ke cold. Many 
 thanks, friend, for the use of your instrument." 
 
 And with this he returned the guitar to its 
 owner, and took out a handful of loose silver. 
 
 The musician drew back. 
 
 " Thanks, Monsieur," he said. " I am already 
 sufficiently paid." 
 
 " Nay — for the loan of the guitar." 
 
 The stranger drew himself up, and with a 
 gesture full of dignity, again refused. 
 
 " My guitar," said he, " is not only mjgagne- 
 pain ; but my friend. Monsieur did me the 
 honor to borrow it." 
 
 Hugh rose from his half-recumbent attitude. 
 
 " In that case," he said, courteously, " I wish 
 you hon voyaged 
 
 The stranger murmured something of which 
 we lost the purport ; and, with one low, com- 
 prehensive bow, slung his guitar once more 
 across his back, and turned away. At the bend 
 of the path, he paused, looked back and then 
 disappeared among the trees. 
 
 " There is something odd about that man !" 
 
 * The words of this song are copy-right, and have been 
 set to music by Mr. J. F. Duggan. 
 
% 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 said the Count dc Chariot. " I would give a 
 hundred francs to know his story." 
 
 " If you gave a thousand, he would not tell 
 it," said De Fauval. "I believe that he is an 
 escaped convict from Toulon or Brest." 
 
 *' And I, that he is a political exile," said 
 Madame de Luneville. 
 
 " He certainly is not a Frenchman," observed 
 another. " Did you notice how he evaded the 
 question, when he was asked his country ?" 
 
 " Yes — and how silent he was when Mr. Far- 
 quhar examined his guitar !" 
 
 " Poor fellow !" said -Hugh. " He is no com- 
 mon adventurer ; and by his accent, I should 
 say he is Italian. He refused my little oholu>^ 
 with an almost Roman dignity. But what is 
 your opinion, Barbarina ?" 
 
 " Indeed I scarcely know," I replied. " The 
 expression of his eyes struck me painfully. I 
 feel sorry for him, and — but you will laugh at 
 me, if I tell you that !" 
 
 " N^o — I promise not to laugh. Pray tell me." 
 
 " Well, then, I feel as if — as if the sight of 
 him were unlucky — as if — I scarcely know what 
 I mean, or how to say it ; but as if he brought 
 some shadow of trouble with him ! Bo you 
 understand me ?" 
 
 " Perfectly ; and think I can account for it, 
 too. We were very gay when he came and 
 sobered us. Those sobering processes are not 
 pleasant. The time has gone by when a skele- 
 ton was looked upon as an agreeable addition to 
 a dinner-party. But we may as well talk of 
 something more agreeable!" 
 
 He had given me his arm, and we were now 
 strolling, two and two, in the direction of the 
 gates. ]3eing somewhat in the rear of the rest, 
 we had our conversation quite to ourselves, and 
 could chat Avithout reserve. 
 
 " With all my heart," I replied, smiling. 
 " Of your singing for instance. I never knew 
 that you were a musician before ; and still less 
 that you were a poet !" 
 
 " A poet !" he repeated. " What do you 
 mean ?" 
 
 " Simply that your unknown author, Mr. Far- 
 quhar, has no incognito for me. That Serenade 
 is yours." 
 
 " In the name of St. Ursula and her eleven 
 thousand virgins ! how could you tell that ?" 
 
 " Nay, I am not wise enough to analyze my 
 impressions ! I only know that I recognized 
 you in the verses — should have even known 
 them to be yours, had any other person read or 
 sung them to me." 
 
 He came to a sudden halt, and laid his hand 
 heavily upon my shoulder. 
 
 " Barbara," he said, in a low vibrating tone, 
 scarce louder than a Avhisper. " What can you 
 recognize of the Ego in that song ? What ex- 
 perience have you of any power of passion that 
 may be in me ? You neither know how I can 
 love, nor how I can hate. I am a sealed book to 
 you." 
 
 Was he a sealed book to me ? I began to 
 doubt it. 
 
 '''' You are silent," he said, and I felt that he 
 was looking at me. " You are silent ; and I dare 
 not interpret that silence, lest I deceive myself. 
 Is it possible that you know me too well ? Is it 
 possible that your eyes have read that page 
 which I had vowed they should never read, 
 
 though to blot it out were to erase the fairest pas- 
 sage from my life ? Speak child ; for I must 
 know !' 
 
 " I — I have read nothing — I know nothing," 
 I stammered. "I never wish to know any thing 
 that you do not choose to tell me ! Pray do not 
 be angry with me, Mr. Farquhar !" 
 
 " Angry !" he echoed. " Angry, my darling?" 
 
 His voice, as he spoke these words, took an 
 accent so sweet and tender that I looked up and 
 smiled involuntarily, like a child forgiven. 
 
 He passed liis arm about my waist, and drew 
 me gently toward him. 
 
 " We have misunderstood each other, Barbara 
 mia," he said, soothingly. "Nothing was far- 
 ther from my mood, heaven knows ! than to 
 pain or terrify you. It was not anger, but —but, 
 child, can you not understand that there might 
 be something — something written down in that 
 same book of my soul, which I would not place 
 before you for a kingdom; and yet — if you 
 guessed it Am I talking enigmas ?" 
 
 Saying this, he held me still more closely, and 
 looked down into my eyes with such a burning 
 light in his that I could"not meet them. 
 
 " I — yes — you bewilder me," I faltered. " See 
 — we are left quite behind ! Let us go on." 
 
 " Yes, let us go on," he repeated ; but, instead 
 of going on, bent down, and pressed his lips 
 upon my forehead. 
 
 For a moment I rested in his arms, willingly, 
 wearily, and allowed my eyes to close, and my 
 check to lean against the beatings of his heart 
 Only for a moment ; and yet in that moment, the 
 sense of the mystery grew clear to me, and life 
 began in earnest ! 
 
 Then he suffered me to disengage myself from 
 his embrace, and we went on our way without 
 another word. 
 
 The rest of that walk, the drive back to Paris, 
 the ball that followed in the evening, all passed 
 over me like a dream. I remember nothing of 
 the incident, nothing of the conversations that 
 took place. I only know that he was there ; that 
 he danced with me ; that he looked at me ; that 
 he held my hand many times in his ; and that 
 once during the evening he praised my looks, 
 and the fashion of my hair, and told me I was 
 like some picture of Jephtha's daughter that he 
 had seen abroad. And then, when it was all 
 over, and the guests were gone, and I had gained 
 the solitude of my own room, I was happy — so 
 happy, that I threw open my window and leaned 
 out into the cool night, and wept for joy ! 
 
 And then I thought of Hilda, and my heart 
 bled for her. I had pitied her in the morning ; 
 but I now pitied her far more. A whole world 
 of feeling had been revealed to me since then. 
 I had passed in a few hours from childhood to 
 womanhood ; and now, measuring her loss by 
 my sweet gain, shuddered at the life to which 
 she had condemned herself. 
 
 And all this time I never paused to reason on 
 my own feelings or my possible future. I never 
 once asked myself " what next ?" or wondered at 
 aught that had hitherto been ambiguous and 
 strange in the tenor of our intercourse. It was 
 enough happiness to love and be loved — and 
 enough knowledge, also ! 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 95 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE NEXT MORNI NO. 
 
 Mr. Farquhar called the next morning, about 
 noon. My father had gone to see Sir Agamem- 
 non off by the midday train, and Mrs. Churchill 
 was reclining on a sofa, aljsorbed in a novel by 
 George Sand. When our visitor came in, she 
 lai4 her book aside, welcomed him graciously, 
 and assigned him a seat beside her sofa. To me 
 he gave only a glance, and a pressure of the 
 hand. 
 
 First they talked of the wedding, the ball, the 
 belles toilettes, and such other matters. Then the 
 conversation fell upon Norway, and they traced 
 out Hilda's route upon the map, and calculated 
 the probable whereabouts of the bridal pair at 
 that present moment. In all this I took no part, 
 but sat by silently, content to listen to his vpice. 
 I had been sketching a little subject in Mrs. 
 Churchill's album, and I endeavored still to seem 
 occupied upon it ; but my hand grew unsteady, 
 and my attention wandered. By and by Mrs. 
 Churchill left the room on some trivial pretext, 
 smiling as she passed me ; and I suddenly re- 
 membered that she had done the same thing 
 once or twice before. The blood rushed to my 
 face, and, half in shame and half in anger, I rose 
 to follow her. 
 
 He was at my side in an instant. 
 
 " Whither away, my child ?" he said. " Are 
 you afraid of me to-day ?" 
 
 I murmured something unintelligible — I 
 scarcely know what — but passively resumed my 
 seat. He stooped over the back of the chair, 
 and looked at my half-finished sketch. 
 
 " What have we ,here ?" he exclaimed. "A 
 fountain and a group of beggars — one stalwart 
 figure high above the rest — a mandolin in his 
 
 hand — a pair of buckets at his feet Fer Bac- 
 
 co ! 'tis my Andalusian water-carrier of the Pu- 
 erta del Sol ! Whose album is this ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Churchill's." 
 
 " Then Mrs. Churchill must resign the water- 
 carrier in my fiivor. Nonsense, child ! I have 
 half a right to him already. He is the creature 
 of my experience." 
 
 " But he is also the creature of my imagina- 
 tion," I remonstrated, seeing him take his pen- 
 knife from his pocket ; " and as such I have al- 
 ready given him away." 
 
 " A reason the more why I should have him ! 
 I mean to take possession of your imagination, 
 your heart, your past, your future, and all that 
 is yours ! So ! when Madame la belle mere comes 
 to examine her album, she will wonder what con- 
 jurer has been at work upon it." 
 
 And with this he very deliberately and dex- 
 terously cut the page away, and put the drawing 
 in his pocket-book. 
 
 "Indeed, Mr. Farquhar," I said reproachfully, 
 " this is not fair. What shall I say to Mrs. 
 Churchill ?" 
 
 "Nothing whatever. I engage to make it 
 right with her myself. You look tired, Barbara 
 mia r 
 
 " I am tired," I replied. " I have been out 
 with Mrs. Churchill all the morning." 
 " And slept too little last night !" 
 " Nay, it was not a very late party. They were 
 all gone by one o'clock." 
 
 "True; but you were not in bed till after 
 three." 
 
 " How should you know ?" I exclaimed, start- 
 led into involuntary confession. 
 
 " Ah, that is my secret. Guess it if you can." 
 
 "How should I guess it, unless you possess a 
 magic mirror, or Doctor Dee's crystal, or travel 
 over Paris at night, like the Devil on two Sticks !" 
 
 " Neither of the three, carina. What will 
 you give me if I tell you ?" 
 
 I smiled, and shook my head. I was pain- 
 fully nervous ; and, strive as I would, could not 
 control the changing of my color, or the trem- 
 bling of my hand. 
 
 " Will you give me this curl of brown hair ?" 
 
 " No ; for it is the most unlucky of gifts." 
 
 " My child, you are superstitious. However, 
 I am not difficult. Give me this little golden 
 cross from round your neck, and I will promise 
 to kneel to it every night before I sleep, and 
 every morning when I rise, like the best of 
 Catholics !" 
 
 "No, for the cross was Ida's, and I have 
 promised to keep it for her sake. Besides, you 
 should kneel to better purpose." 
 
 " Ay — to yourself. Well, give me yourself, 
 and I will lie forever at your feet I" 
 
 " Tell me without asking to be paid at all," 
 I stammered. "It would be far more gen- 
 erous." 
 
 " But I am not generous ! I am jealous, ex- 
 orbitant, insatiable — a very Shylock at a bar- 
 gain ! Well, well, Barbarina, since you are so 
 hopelessly mean, give me what you will ; or give 
 me nothing. I will tell you all the same !" 
 
 " I have already given you the sketch, Mr. 
 Farquhar." 
 
 " Given me the sketch ! Hear that, oh Gods 
 of Olympus ! Why, you have no conscience, 
 Barbara, if you call that a gift ! I stole it — 
 'tis ' the captive of my bow and spear,' and I 
 owe you no thanks in the matter. Come, I Avill 
 make you a present of my information, and 
 leave you to reward me as you will. I know 
 that you were not asleep till three <3'clock this 
 morning, because it was not till three o'clock 
 that you extinguished your candle. Now, if you 
 want to be told whence I obtained that know- 
 ledge, we will begin bargaining over again !" 
 
 " Indeed, we will do no such thing. I be- 
 lieve it is but a chance guess, after all !" 
 
 " A chance guess ! Alas ! shall I confess to a 
 piece of arrant folly ?" 
 
 " Nay, I am not your father confessor." 
 
 " No matter — supposing now — supposing 
 that I, ' potent, grave, and reverend signor ' as 
 I am, had actually been romantic enough to 
 linger last night, like Romeo, in the shade of 
 yonder trees, watching that little taper light of 
 yours for two mortal hours — what then ?" 
 
 What then, indeed ! I felt my lip quiver, 
 and dared not trust my voice with words ! The 
 whole tone of this conversation, half jesting, 
 half passionate, was inexpressibly trying. I 
 felt as if I would have given the world to 
 escape. 
 
 All at once he rose, and stood before me. 
 "Little Barbara," he said, earnestly, "let us 
 trifle no more. I am a conceited monster — 
 granted. And I am as unworthy as I am con- 
 ceited — granted again. But, when I saw that 
 light burning in vour window — when once I 
 
96 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 even fiincicd that I saw the very flutter of your 
 drapery — I had the vanity, the stupid, ignorant 
 vanity, to believe that you were wakeful for my 
 sake — just as I was wakeful for yours. I was 
 wrong. I know I was wrong — and yet I shall 
 not be quite at rest until I have my answer from 
 yourself. Give it to me in a single word, a 
 single look, and let me go I" 
 
 I felt my color rise and then ebb quite away ; 
 and still I spoke not. He bent over me, lower 
 and lower. 
 
 " What ! silent, Barbara ? Have you no word 
 of banishment for me ?" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 *' Why should I banish" you ?" I faltered. 
 " Why should I banish you, when your pres- 
 ence makes my happiness ?" 
 
 With a sort of wild sob, he fell down before 
 me, and covered my hands with kisses. 
 
 " My darling ! my darling !" he cried, *' can 
 you really love me ?" 
 
 "I have loved you," I whispered, "ever since 
 I was a little child. Do you remember our last 
 meeting in the woods ?" 
 
 " I remember it," he said, softly. 
 
 "I have cherished the ring ever since. It 
 was too big for me then — it is too big for me 
 still. Do you remember it?" 
 
 " Yes," he repeated, m the same low tone. 
 "I remember it." 
 
 We were silent for some moments. 
 
 *' How much has happened," I said, " since 
 then ! I never thought to see you again." 
 
 " And now you really love me ? You are 
 sure — sure you love me, Barbara ?" 
 
 " Quite sure," I replied, laying my hand 
 timidly upon his brow. " Quite sure, Hugh — 
 and quite happy." 
 
 He shuddered, and buried his face in my lap. 
 
 " Happy !" he echoed. " Happy ! — oh, my 
 God !" 
 
 " What do you mean ?" I faltered. "Are t/ou 
 not happy?" 
 
 "I — I happy?" he cried, hoarsely. "I am 
 utterly miserable — I hate myself ! Oh, Bar- 
 bara, tell me that you love me no longer, and 
 let me go !" 
 
 "That is the second time that you have bade 
 me send you from me !" I said, becoming greatly 
 agitated. " The second time within a few mo- 
 ments ! What do you mean ? You are free 
 to go — you were free never to have come ! 
 Why can not my aflfection make you happy ? 
 If it be fault of mine, I will amend it ; but do 
 not torture me with vague fears, or tell me that 
 you are miserable. If you love me, why desire 
 to leave me ? If you do not love me, Avhy come 
 here to humble my pride, and wrest from me an 
 avowal " 
 
 " I do love you !" he sobbed. " I love you 
 better than earth or heaven I" 
 
 His anguish disarmed me. 
 
 " Oh, Hugh," I said,. " your love is the bless- 
 ing of my life !" 
 
 He sprang to his feet, and turned upon me a 
 face so haggard and disfigured that it seemed 
 scarcely the same. 
 
 "But it is the curse — the curse of mine !" he 
 exclaimed bitterly, and, with wavering steps, 
 turned toward the door. About half-way he 
 paused, ran back, caught me in a wild embrace, 
 and was gone in an instant. 
 
 Terrified, half-fainting, sick at heart, I fol- 
 lowed him to the landing, and heard the echo 
 of the closing door — theij sat down on the 
 stairs and wondered why I could not weep, or 
 whether I were dreaming ? 
 
 " I shall never see him again," I said to my- 
 self. " I shall never, never see him again !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 BEFORE BREAKFAST. 
 
 Three days went by, and I neither saw nor 
 heard any thing of him. I believed that he was 
 gone forever, and so gave myself quite up to a 
 passive despair which I can not now recall with- 
 out a shudder. I seemed to live " 'twixt asleep 
 and awake," and, on the plea of some minor in- 
 disposition, kept chiefly in the solitude of my 
 chamber. There I lay for hours at a time, with 
 closed eyes and clasped hands, scarcely moving, 
 scarcely breathing, scarcely conscious of living, 
 save for the dull weight upon my heart, and 
 the perpetual throbbing at my temples. All my 
 thought was but of the one theme — he was 
 gone ! 
 
 I never once asked myself whether he was 
 gone. I never once hoped that he would come 
 back. I simply said — " it is over." 
 
 On the evening of the third day, I made up 
 my mind that I would return to ZoUenstrasse. 
 This resolution did me good, and gave me tem- 
 porary strength. I thought of Ida ; and I endea- 
 vored to persuade myself that while art and 
 friendship remained to me, all was not wholly 
 dark in life. I did not really believe in my own 
 reasoning, and I was not really comforted by 
 it. Like all who mourn^ I had a conviction 
 that the present shadow must lie upon my soul 
 forever; but still the mere contemplation of 
 action brought with it something like the relief 
 of change. That night I slept for several hours, 
 and on the morning of the fourth day rose, still 
 weak and pale, but resolved to carry out my 
 design, and to acquaint my father of it without 
 delay. 
 
 "If I can but start this evening !" I kept re- 
 peating to myself "If they will but let me go 
 without torturing me with questions !" The 
 questioning was all I dreaded. 
 
 Having awoke early, and dressed with all the 
 haste of this project on my mind, I found that 
 it yet wanted an hour and a half to our usual 
 breakfast time, and that none but the servants 
 were stirring. An unconquerable restlessness 
 had taken possession of me, and, in my present 
 mood, inaction was no longer possible. What 
 was I to do for an hour and a half ? The morn- 
 ing was cool and bright, and the trees rustled 
 pleasantly in the breeze. I fancied the air would 
 brace my nerves for all that was to come ; so I 
 put on a thick vail, wrapped a shawl hastily 
 about me, and went out 
 
 I walked fast, and the quick motion did me 
 good. I think I went as far as the gates of the 
 Bois ; but I remember nothing distinctly, save 
 that a detachment of troops came marching 
 past, with a band playing merrily before tliem, 
 and that the music to my sick ears sounded sad- 
 der than a requiem. As I came back to the 
 Round Point and turned down the avenue in 
 which we lived, the clocks were striking nine. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 97 
 
 While I was yet listening to their echoes, and 
 hesitating whether to go home or turn back 
 again, a man rose from a stone bench close at 
 hand, and called me by name. 
 
 " Barbara !" he said. " I am here, Barbara !" 
 
 Oh, the dear voice that I had thought never 
 to hear again ! It seemed for a moment to stop 
 the pulsations of my heart, and then sent it 
 beating so fast that I could scarcely breathe. 
 
 "Hugh!" I faltered. "I thought you were 
 gone !" 
 
 "And so I was; but at Liege my strength 
 failed me. I could not leave you, Barbara." 
 
 " Let me sit down," I said, clinging to him. 
 "I am giddy." 
 
 He passed his arm about my waist, and car- 
 ried me to a bench farther in among the trees. 
 
 " My own darling !" he exclaimed brokenly. 
 " Look up — look up — smile upon me — tell me 
 that I am welcome ! Oh, I have sufferedj/Bar- 
 bara! I have gone through an eternity since 
 we parted !" 
 
 " And is it really you ?" 
 
 " It is really I. I, thy friend, thy lover, thy 
 husband !" 
 
 " And you will never leave me again ?" 
 
 "Not till you bid me go !" 
 
 I smiled at this, and laid my head upon his 
 shoulder like a tired child. 
 
 " Yesterday," he went on, " all Belgium lay 
 between us. I was mad — utterly mad, and 
 broken-hearted. I should have been glad to die 
 — ^I felt I must die if I went farther !" 
 
 " And so you turned back again?" 
 
 " Turned back — traveled all the afternoon, all 
 the night, and reached this place five hours ago. 
 It was just dawn, and I have been walking up 
 and down these roads ever since, waiting till it 
 Was late enough to claim admittance." 
 
 "One day more, and you would not have 
 found me. I had made up my mind to return 
 to ZoUenstrasse to-night." / 
 
 "What of that? I should have followed 
 you." 
 
 "So far?" 
 
 "Cruel! Have I not fled from you, come 
 back to you, traveled without rest or pause since 
 I last saw you ; and do you doubt that I would 
 follow you, though ZoUenstrasse lay at the ends 
 of the earth ?" 
 
 " Ah, but why did you fly from me at all ?" 
 
 He looked down, and hesitated. 
 
 "My darling," he said, pressing his hand ner- 
 vously to his brow, " I am a strange fellow, and 
 have led a strange life. I — I can not look at 
 things as others do — I am but half civilized, you 
 know, and — and reason upon ordinary events 
 more like a red Indian than a man of the world. 
 You can not understand what I have felt of late 
 — I can not even explain to you what I mean ! 
 I have fantastic scruples — self-torturing doubts 
 — all sorts of hesitations — weaknesses, if you 
 choose so to call them. You must not question 
 me too closely — you must make allowances and 
 excuses for me, and be content with knowing 
 how I love you. It would puzzle me, indeed, to 
 reply distinctly to all that you might ask. My 
 motives are not always clear to myself, and I 
 act more frequently from impulse than reflec- 
 tion." 
 
 " Then unpulse took you from me," I said re- 
 proachfully, " and reflection brought you back !" 
 
 G 
 
 " By heavens ! the reverse. I left you be- 
 cause — because I felt unworthy of your fresh, 
 pure love. I came back, because I could not 
 live without it !" 
 
 " And yet ^" 
 
 " And yet you are not satisfied ! Oh, Barbara, 
 bear with me, bear with me ; for I love you I I 
 love you with a love beyond love ; with all my 
 strength and all my weakness — ^with every breath 
 that I draw, and with every pulse of my heart ! 
 To dedicate my life to your happiness; to be 
 the author of your future ; to build up all your 
 joys ; shield you from all sorrow ; and turn aside 
 every shaft of evil fortune as it flies — these, 
 these are now the only privileges for which I 
 pray to heaven !" 
 
 Feeling how thoroughly every word came 
 from his heart of hearts, what could I do but 
 listen and believe ? 
 
 " I never thought," continued he, " to love 
 again. I never hoped to win a nature so sweet, 
 so fresh, so innocent as yours. My experience, 
 dear, has been fierce and stormy ; and my very 
 soul is scarred with self-inflicted wounds. Would 
 you know the secret of my restless life ? Read 
 it in my bitterness of heart, my weariness of 
 soul, my inward rage of disappointment, my un- 
 satisfied longings ! Begun in the first buoy- 
 ancy of youth, these wanderings became at last 
 my sole resource. Change of scene, intercourse 
 with strangers, accident, danger, activity — these 
 things alone rescued me from utter lassitude of 
 spirit, and preserved me from becoming a mere 
 misanthrope. He who dwells always in the world 
 can never wholly hate it ; and I, thank God ! 
 have lived too much among my fellow-men to 
 judge them harshly. Still, Barbara, I have suf- 
 fered — suffered disappointment, and solitude, 
 and that feverish recklessness of past and future 
 that has already hurried many a better man to 
 perdition. But it is over — over forever, my 
 sweet child ! You love me, and I am at rest ! 
 You love me, my love*, and that knowledge is 
 the undeserved blessing of my life." 
 
 I had listened, till now, in a dreamy content, 
 paying less heed to the sense of what he said 
 than to the low, passionate music of his voice ; 
 but at these last words I started. My love " the 
 undeserved blessing of his life !" Alas ! four 
 days ago — only four days ago — in accents that 
 I never could forget, had he not cried against it as 
 "a curse?" A curse! The recollection was 
 horrible, and flashed across me like an evil pro- 
 phecy. 
 
 "Oh, Hugh," I faltered, "are you sure that 
 I can make you happier?" 
 
 " As sure," said he, " as of my own exist- 
 ence." 
 
 " But I am so young and ignorant — what 
 power of blessing can there be in me ?" 
 
 " As much as in any saint that ever visited 
 the visions of an anchorite ! Power to bless, to 
 heal, to save ! Power, dear heart, to bring me 
 back to the earnestness of life, and teach me all 
 the meanings of that sweet word ' home,' which 
 as yet I have never, never learned 1" 
 
 " Home 1" I repeated, musingly. " Home I 
 Home means Broomhill — oh, Hugh, how 
 strange that seems !" 
 
 His hand closed sharply and suddenly on 
 mine. 
 
 " Home, my dear love," he said, hurriedly, 
 
98 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 "means any corner of God's earth where you 
 and I may care to pitch our tent together. We 
 carry our home in our own true hearts, and 
 neither country, nor climate, have aught to do 
 with it!" 
 
 "But — ^but will you still care to be always 
 wandering ?" I asked, somewhat dismayed. 
 
 *' Heaven forbid ! Nay, darling, why that 
 troubled face ! My wanderings are done, my 
 anchor cast, my haven found ! Your presence is 
 now become my only need ; and where you are, 
 there is home for me ! Do you not believe that 
 loving you thus, I could be as happy with you 
 in Siberia as in England — in a prison as at 
 Broomhill? Now, for my part, I should ask 
 nothing better than to live with you forever in 
 a secluded chalet on the borders of some blue 
 Swiss lake, isolated and unknown ! Or, better 
 still, in some old Italian villa looking to the sea, 
 with gardens half in ruin, halls once painted by 
 the hand of Mantegna or Bordone, and a name 
 recalling all the faded glories of a race long 
 passed away ! What say you, Barbara mia .?" 
 
 '" That I could be happy anywhere with you, 
 needing neither chalets, nor villas, nor any kind 
 of probation to prove it, Hugh ; but that, above 
 all imaginary homes, I prize and prefer your 
 own dear substantial, actual English house at 
 Broomhill !" 
 
 He turned his head away, still playing caress- 
 ingly with my hand. 
 
 "Do you so love and remember it?" he 
 asked in a low constrained tone. 
 
 " I remember it, as if it were but yesterday 
 when last I saw it ; and I love it better than 
 any spot in all the world !" 
 
 He was silent, and, in the midst of his silence, 
 the clocks again began striking. 
 
 " Ten o'clock !" I exclaimed. " Ten o'clock, 
 and we always breakfast punctually at half-past 
 nine ! What will papa say ?" 
 
 " That he has no objection, I hope, to receive 
 me for a son-in-law ! Come, shall we go in and 
 tell him that he has this morning lost another 
 daughter?" 
 
 And so we rose from our bench among the 
 trees, and went back along the AUee des Veuves. 
 At our own gate we paused, and Hugh put out 
 his hand to ring the bell. I laid mine on his 
 wrist, and stopped him. 
 
 "But tell me," I said, half-laughing, half- 
 crying — " shall I really not go back to Zollen- 
 8trasse-am-Main ?" 
 
 "No more, dearest, than I shall go to St. 
 Petersburgh !" 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE SILVER RING IS TURNED TO GOLD. 
 
 Three weeks went by — only three weeks of 
 betrothal between that morning and our mar- 
 riage day ! An interval too brief, considering 
 how mere a child I was ; but, even* so, too long 
 for his impatience. • Bewildered by a thousand 
 womanly cares and preparations and hurried on 
 by his feverish entreaties, I saw the time glide 
 past, almost without comprehending how utterly 
 my future was transformed, or how grave a care 
 I had taken into my life. I was about to be- 
 come Hugh Farquhar's wife — that was the one 
 thought filling all my being, starting up before . 
 
 me at every turn, and informing my very dreams 
 with a strange joy, half wonder and half prayer. 
 His wife ! There were times when I could not 
 believe it — when not even that little ruby ring, 
 '' heart-shaped and vermeil-dyed," with which he 
 had commemorated our first vows, seemed proof 
 enough — when only the pressure of his warm, 
 strong hand, and the repeated assurance that he 
 loved me, and only me in all the world, could 
 bring conviction of the truth. His wife ! How 
 should I deserve, and how do honor to that 
 name ? What was I, that he should have chosen 
 me to be the friend and companion of his life ? 
 I loved him, it is true ; and I had loved him 
 from my childhood upward. Before I had 
 ever seen him, he was the hero of every fairy- 
 tale and every wild adventure that I read — the 
 prince in disguise, the avenger, the conqueror, 
 the chevalier "saws peur et sans reproche.'^ 
 At Broomhill, from that night when first we 
 met, he became the idol of my dreams ; and, 
 engrafting upon my knowledge of the man as I 
 then saw him all that had before been visionary 
 and romantic in my conception of him, I loved 
 him as only a child can love — purely, passionate* 
 ly, humbly, like a dog, or a devotee. Remem. 
 bering how I lay at his door when he was ill ; 
 how I prayed for him ; how I watched his every 
 look ; anticipated his merest wish ; and was re- 
 paid a thousand-fold by only a smile or a word, 
 I could but acknowledge that I deserved, after 
 all these years, to win his love in return. Yes — 
 I had loved him all my life, and he had chosen 
 me to be his wife at last ! 
 
 Still I was very young — very ignorant of the 
 world and its duties — very doubtful how to 
 make him happy, and how to be worthy of his 
 choice. Fain would I, for these reasons, have 
 prolonged our engagement for a year ; but my 
 father objected to the delay, and Hugh himself 
 could scarcely have pleaded more eagerly had I 
 desired to break it off altogether. Even when 
 I had given up this point, and the day was close 
 at hand, he tormented himself and me with a 
 thousand apprehensions. 
 
 "I feel," he said, "as if something m?^s< hap- 
 pen to rob me of my happiness — as if an in- 
 visible hand were outstretched, even now, to 
 snatch you from me ! I never leave you with- 
 out a vague dread lest it should be the last time 
 that I behold you ; and I never return to the 
 house without asking myself what I should do 
 if you were gone, no one knew whither ! At 
 night I start from sleep, calling upon your 
 name, and fancying we are parted forever. I 
 know that these are absurd terrors ; but is it my 
 fault if I suJBfer from them ? Till you are wholly 
 and irrevocably mine, it must be thus. Without 
 you I am nothing — not even myself. Tortured 
 by a thousand fears and follies, I count every 
 day and every hour that lies between me and 
 the fulfillment of my hopes. Do you wonder 
 at it ? I have never yet been happy, and hap- 
 piness is just within my grasp. I have thirsted ; 
 and an angel holds the cup to my lips. I have 
 wandered all my life in the desert ; and Par- 
 adise is opening before me ! If I am a coward, 
 it is because I love you, and because to lose you 
 were to lose all that makes existence precious !" 
 Saying thus, he would clasp me wildly to his 
 heart ; or seize my hands and cover them with 
 kisses. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 99 
 
 Sometimes he was absent, silent, oppressed, 
 as it were, with an overwhelming melancholy. 
 Sometimes he almost terrified me by his frantic 
 and unbounded gayety. More than once, when 
 we were sitting quietly alone, talking as lovers 
 talk by twilight, he started from my side like 
 one possessed, and paced the room in uncon- 
 trollable agitation. If I questioned him upon 
 these wayward moods he laughed the subject 
 off, or went back to the old theme of his pre- 
 sentiments and his impatience. 
 
 During these three weeks my father was kind- 
 er to me than he had ever been before. Know- 
 ing what my views had been with regard to art, 
 I think he was agreeably surprised by the turn 
 affairs had taken — at all events, he took occa- 
 sion to show me that I had risen in his good 
 opinion, and that he looked upon my present 
 conduct as the result of his' own paternal/eares 
 and counsels. He considered that to marry ad- 
 vantageously was the duty of every well-bred 
 young woman, and that to achieve this duty as 
 early as possible, evinced on her part only the 
 more gratitude and discretion. I had fulfilled 
 both these conditions, and he was pleased to re- 
 gard me with proportionate favor. In all mat- 
 ters connected with my trousseau, he was liberal 
 to a degree that surprised me ; for I knew that 
 Mrs. Churchill's fortune was settled on herself, 
 and that our means had never been large ; but 
 he explained this by telling me that he had some 
 years ago sunk his capital for an annuity, re- 
 serving only a few hundreds in case of sudden 
 need. These hundreds he had now divided be- 
 tween Hilda and myself; judging it better for 
 ourselves, and more creditable to his own name 
 and position to equip his daughters richly, than 
 to bequeath them, at his death, a sum too small 
 to be regarded in the light of a dowry. His 
 own pride, in short, colored all my father's 
 opinions, and governed every action of his life. 
 
 From the manner in which he received Mr. 
 Farquhar's proposals, and the readiness with 
 which he consented to our speedy union, I 
 could not help thinking that he had, from the 
 first, foreseen how this intimacy might end, and 
 was glad to get me married as soon as might be. 
 Certain it was that both he and Mrs. Churchill 
 had afforded every facility to our attachment ; 
 and I now remembered a thousand trifles that had 
 escaped me at the time, if not without observa- 
 tion, at all events without suspicion. Now they 
 recurred to me distinctly enough, and despite 
 my present happiness, irritated and humiliated 
 me almost beyond endurance. 
 
 Thus the three weeks ebbed away, and it 
 came to the eve of our wedding. 
 
 We had had news that day from Hilda, Her 
 letter was dated from Drontheim, and full of 
 the scenery of the DovreQeld, over which they 
 had just passed. In a brief message she desired 
 her love and her congratulations to her "sister 
 Barbara ;" but it read coldly and grudgingly, as 
 if she could scarcely forgive me for my happiness. 
 This impression, added to the cares and excite- 
 ments of this busy time, made me sad and 
 weary ; and I was thankful when Hugh came at 
 length to tempt me out for a last stroll among 
 the dusky avenues of the Champs Elys^es. 
 
 It was twilight, and the evening air tasted al- 
 ready of autumnal frosts. We were glad to 
 walk fast and get warm, exchanging just a word 
 
 from time to time, and finding as much com- 
 panionship in silence as in speech. How gay it 
 was here among the crowded pathways ! How 
 the lamps glittered, and the music echoed in 
 the illuminated gardens of the Cafes Chantants ! 
 Here were carriages, " thick as leaves in Yal- 
 lambrosa." Yonder, with a helmet on his head, 
 and a trumpeter at his side, stood a quack doc- 
 tor, gesticulating like a marionnette. A little 
 farther on was gathered a ring of applauding 
 spectators, with the dancing dogs performing in 
 the midst. It was Paris epitomized — pleasure- 
 seeking, feverish Paris, with all its wealth, its 
 poverty, and its unrest ! 
 
 Strolling idly hither and thither ; hazarding 
 guesses as to where we two might be this day 
 week, or this day month ; talking now of Rome, 
 now of Venice, and now of the great Alps 
 which I was soon to see for the first time, we 
 came all at once upon a space to the left of the 
 Cirque, where an itinerant ballad-singer stood, 
 surrounded by his little audience. Something in 
 the voice, something in the melody struck me, 
 and we paused to listen. 
 
 " Surely," said Hugh, "it is our guitarist of 
 Vincennes !" 
 
 And so it was. We did not care to go near- 
 er ; but, lingering beyond the circle, could just 
 catch the plaintive burden of his song : — 
 
 " File, file, pav/vre Marie, 
 File, file, pour le prisonnier .'" 
 
 When this was ended, he sang another as sad. 
 Then there was a stir among the listeners, and 
 some dispersed, and we saw a woman collecting 
 such stray contributions as three or four of the 
 more liberal were pleased to offer. 
 
 "Poor Orpheus!" ejaculated my companion, 
 taking out his purse. "I had not supposed 
 that there was a Eurydice in the case !" 
 
 Scarcely had the words escaped his lips, when 
 she came a step or two nearer ; but hesitatingly, 
 as if too proud to solicit. Hugh slipped a five- 
 franc piece into my hand. 
 
 " Be my almoner," he whispered, and drew 
 back to let me give it. 
 
 She took it, unconscious of its value ; then 
 paused, exammed it wonderingly, and looked 
 up in my face. At that moment I felt my arm 
 crushed in Hugh's grasp, as in a vice ! 
 
 " Come away ! come away !" he said, drag- 
 ging me suddenly, almost savagely, into the 
 road. " My God, child ! why do you hold 
 back ?" 
 
 Too frightened to reply, X suffered myself to 
 be hurried between the very wheels o[ the car- 
 riages, and lifted into the first empty fly that 
 came past. 
 
 " Oil allez voiis, Monsieur .^" asked the driver. 
 
 Hugh flung himself back, with a kind of 
 groan. 
 
 " Anywhere — anywhere ! " he exclaimed. 
 " Out beyond the barriers — round by the In- 
 valides. Anywhere !" 
 
 The man touched his hat, and took the road to 
 Neuilly. For a long time we were both silent ; 
 but at length, weary of waiting, I stole my hand 
 into his, and nestled closer to his side. 
 
 " Oh, Hugh," I said, " what ails you ? What 
 has happened ?" 
 
 He shook his head gloomily, 
 
 « Was it my fault, Hugh ?" 
 
100 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 " Your fault, my darling ? What folly !" 
 
 And, taking my head in his two hands, he 
 kissed me tenderly, almost compassionately, like 
 an indulgent father. 
 
 *' Nay, then, what ailed you just now ?" 
 
 He shuddered, hesitated, sighed heavily. 
 
 "I — I scarcely know," he said. " It was the 
 sight of that — that woman's face when the light 
 fell on it — a resemblance, Barbara — a resem- 
 blance so strange and ghost-like, that — Pshaw, 
 child, can you not understand that, when a man 
 has traveled about the world for twelve or four- 
 teen years, he may sometimes come across a face 
 that startles him — reminds him perhaps of some 
 other face thousands of miles away ? It has 
 happened to me before — fifty times before." 
 
 " And was that all ?" 
 
 " All. All and enough." 
 
 "But you frightened me — and my arm will 
 be black and blue to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, Heavens ! Have I hurt you ?" 
 
 Laughing, I rolled up my sleeve, and, by the 
 light of the lamps, showed him the red marks 
 on my arm. He overwhelmed himself with re- 
 proaches and me with pity, till, satisfied with 
 the excess of his penitence, I silenced and for- 
 gave him. 
 
 " But," I began, " you have not yet told me 
 whose face " 
 
 He interrupted me by a gesture. 
 
 *' My dear love," he said earnestly, " spare me 
 that question. By and by, when you have known 
 me longer and better, I will tell you from end 
 to end, the story of "my life — all its follies, all 
 its weaknesses, all its errors. But this is not 
 the time or place, Barbara. Wait — wait and 
 trust ; and till then ask no more. Will you 
 promise this ?" 
 
 I promised it, readily enough ; and there it 
 ended. 
 
 The next morning we were married. Married 
 very early, and very quietly, in the little Mar- 
 boeuf Chapel of the Rue du Chaillot. We had 
 neither bridesmaids, nor carriages, nor wedding- 
 guests. We walked down to the chapel before 
 ^ breakfast, my father, Mrs. Churchill, and I, and 
 found Hugh waiting for us, and the clergyman 
 chatting with him over the rails of the chancel. I 
 can see the place now ; the morning sun shining 
 slantwise through the upper windows ; the turned 
 cushions in the pews ; and the old "sextoness, in 
 her mob-cap and sabots, dusting the hassocks on 
 which we were to kneel. I even remember how, 
 in the midst of the service, my eyes became at- 
 tracted to a tablet beside the altar, recording 
 the early death of a certain Eleanor Rothsay, 
 " one year and three days after her marriage ;" 
 and how, with a strange pang, I wondered if 
 she were content to die ; if her husband soon 
 forgot her ; and whether he loved another when 
 she was gone? 
 
 When the ceremony was over, and the great 
 books had been signed in the vestry, we went 
 home again on foot, and breakfasted together, 
 as usual. As for me, my thoughts still ran on 
 that poor Eleanor and her brief year of happi- 
 ness. It haunted me, like a sad tune, and set 
 itself to every sight and sound of the " garish 
 day ;" nor did I quite forget it till, having bade 
 them all good-by, I found myself alone with my 
 husband, speeding, speeding away, with Paris 
 
 already far behind, and the eager train bearing 
 us on toward Italy — the " azure Italy" of my 
 old desires. 
 
 " My wife !" murmured Hugh, as he folded me 
 closer and closer to his heart. " Mine — my 
 own — my beloved ! never, never more, by day 
 or night, to be parted from me !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 OUR HALCYON DAYS. 
 
 •' Ye glittering towns with wealth and splendor crowned ; 
 Ye fields where summer spreads profusion round ; 
 Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale." 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 We are traveling — have been traveling for 
 many days — and find a second summer among 
 the hights of the Bernese Oberland. The sky 
 hangs over lis like a dome of blue and burning 
 steel ; and for a week we have not seen a cloud. 
 Every night we rest at some hamlet in a valley 
 among mountains ; and every morning are on the 
 road again. How happy we are, wandering like 
 children, hand in hand, amid this wild and beauti- 
 ful nature ! Italy hes yonder, behind those far- 
 thest peaks ; but we are in no haste to climb 
 them while this rare autumn lasts. Free to go, 
 free to stay, free to loiter away our halcyon days 
 where or how we will, we linger among the up- 
 per Alps, and can not bear to leave them. Some- 
 times our path lies across brown, heathery slopes, 
 blazing with sunlight ; sometimes through gorges 
 dark with firs and deep in shade, where the night- 
 dews rest till noon. The other morning, we saw 
 the sunrise from the Righi. Yesterday we row- 
 ed across the blue-green lake of Brientz, and 
 slept within hearing of the waterfalls in the vale 
 of Hasli. To-day we have the Wetterhorn be- 
 fore us, piercing the calm sky like an obe- 
 lisk of frosted silver. By and by, crossing a 
 plateau of bare rock, we stand where the glacier 
 of Rosenlaui reaches a frozen arm toward us 
 down a chasm in the mountains. Tossed in 
 huge peaks, and precipices, and crests of cruel 
 ice, it lies with the blue light permeating through 
 its uppermost blocks, and the sun shimmering 
 over all its surface, like a moving mantle of in- 
 tolerable splendor.' Silently we traverse a mere 
 plank across a rushing cataract, and tread the 
 solid ice. Great crevices and pinnacles are 
 around us. We enter a cavern in the glacier — 
 a cavern blue and glassy as the grotto at Capri 
 — and open in places to the still bluer vault of 
 heaven. Strange passages of ice branch from 
 it right and left, leading no one knows whither ; 
 but our mountaineers whisper together of one 
 who ventured to explore them and returned no 
 more. 
 
 "Supposing, now, that these ice-walls were 
 to give way," says my husband, leaning com- 
 posedly upon his Alpenstock, " our remains 
 might be preserved here for centuries ; like the 
 Mammoths that have been found from time to time 
 imbedded in the ice-fields of Siberia ! Only con- 
 ceive, Barbarina, how the savants of a thousand 
 years to come would be delighted with us !" 
 
 Seeing how the sides of the cave drip in the 
 sun, and to what frail points of junction they 
 have melted here and there, I confess to having 
 but little relish for such speculations. 
 
 " This place," continues he, " reminds me of 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY 
 
 101 
 
 Dante's lowest circle. Here are the '■gelate crosfe;* 
 but where is Lucifer, with his mouthful of sin- 
 ners ? By the way, had Dante ever seen a gla- 
 cier ? It is possible. He traveled to Germany 
 and Paris, and studied theology at Oxford. He 
 might have crossed the Alps, Barbarina — who 
 can tell ?" 
 
 Who, indeed ? But we have now once more 
 emerged upon the outer world, and stand look- 
 ing up toward that mysterious and immeasur- 
 able ice-field reaching away from plateau to 
 plateau, from peak to peak, from Alp to Alp, of 
 which the mightiest glaciers are but fringes on 
 the mantle of winter. Before this sight, we 
 both are silent ; and, as we go down again into 
 the valley, I remember those solemn lines, 
 " written before Sunrise at Chamounix" : — 
 
 " ' Ye Icefalls ! Ye that from the mountain's brow 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plung^' " 
 
 It is a glowing golden afternoon, and this 
 " summer of All Saints " has not yet been trou- 
 bled by a sign of change. "We are staying now 
 at Interlaken, whence all the summer visitors 
 have long departed ; and this morning have come 
 up the Valley of Lauterbrunnen, and seen the 
 rainbow on the StaubbaQh. Hence, a steep 
 zig-zag in the cliff has brought us to a plateau of 
 pasture-lands nine hundred feet above the valley. 
 Far beneath, threaded by a line of shining tor- 
 rent, and looking so white, and still, and small, 
 that I fancy I might almost cover it with my 
 hand, lies the tiny village with its wooden bridge 
 and antique painted spire. High above and be- 
 fore us, with only the fir-forests of the Wengern 
 Alp between, rise the summits of the Jungfrau 
 and the Peak of Silver. 
 
 " How strange it is up here !" says Hugh, as 
 we pause to rest and look around. " What a de- 
 licious sensation of hight and freedom ! This pla- 
 teau is a mere shelf midway up the mountain, 
 and yet we have streams, and meadow-lands, and 
 all the verdure of the valleys. Faith, love, I 
 had rather live in such a scene, with the Alps 
 for my neighbors, than in any family mansion 
 that disfigures the face of the earth !" 
 
 " Had you been born to the inheritance of a 
 chalet and a couple of meadows, husband, you 
 would tell a different tale !" 
 
 " Nay, wife, you should have milked the cows, 
 and made the cheeses ; and I would have car- 
 ried them to market on my back, like that stal- 
 wart felloe who went by just now. It would 
 have been a pretty piece of pastoral for us both !" 
 
 And so, laughing gayly together, we go for- 
 ward in the sunshine, and at every step the 
 scene becomes more lovely. We are in a dis- 
 trict of farm-lands and pastures. Every now 
 and then, we come upon a cluster of cottages 
 built in red-brown wood, with great sheltering 
 eaves, and carven balconies, where long strings 
 of Indian corn hang out to dry in the sun. 
 Some of these cottages have proverbs and sen- 
 tences of Scripture cut in German charabters all 
 across the front ; and at the doors sit old women 
 with their distaffs, and young girls who sing as 
 we pass by. Now we turn aside to gather the 
 wild gentians hidden in the grass, and fill our 
 mountain flasks at a pool among the rocks ; and 
 
 now, on a mound overgrown with briers, we find 
 an Alpine strawberry. Here, too,are purple whor- 
 tleberries and star-leaved immortelles, and whole 
 shrubberies of the Alp-rose, with its myrtle-Uke 
 leaf. But the roses are faded, and will bloom 
 no more till the snows have fallen and melted 
 again ! 
 
 Now the cliffs close round more nearly, and the 
 plateau narrows to a space of rock-strewn heath, 
 a mile or so in width. The spot is strangely 
 desolate, sind looks as though it might have been 
 the battle-ground of ^the Titans. Huge blocks 
 of slate-gray granite here lie piled and scatter- 
 ed — each fragment a rock. Some are brown 
 with moss ; some are half-buried in the turf ; and 
 some are clothed with shrubs, the growth of 
 years. A few goats browsing here and there, 
 with bells about their necks, and a few rude cow- 
 sheds built in sheltered corners, " all in and out 
 of the rocks," only serve to make the place more 
 solitary. 
 
 " I remember this spot,'' says Hugh, eagerly. 
 " I descended upon it from the mountains, years 
 ago, when I walked through Switzerland on foot. 
 It was more wild and savage then — and so was 
 I. Ah, little wife, you can not fancy how wild 
 and savage I was !" 
 
 " Nay, it is not difl&cult. You are half a bar- 
 barian now !" 
 
 "Ami? Well, so much the better; for it 
 
 shall be your occupation to tame me ! But look 
 
 up yonder — do you see a tiny rift there, on the 
 
 face of the crag ; like a scar on a soldier's brow ?" 
 
 "Yes, I see it." 
 
 *' Well from that rift fell a rock, which, shat- 
 tering from ledge to ledge, covered these acres 
 with ruin. It happened, fortunately, toward 
 midday, on the anniversary of some country fes- 
 tival, when the farm-folks were all gone down into 
 the valley. What must they have felt, poor 
 souls, when they came up at sunset, and found 
 their homes desolate !" 
 
 " Oh, Hugh ! when did this happen ?" 
 *' Long, long ago — twenty years, or more. 
 The grass has grown, and the shrubs have sprung 
 up since then, making destruction beautiful. 
 But it was not- thus when I first saw it. Those 
 green hillocks were then mere mounds of stones 
 and rubbish, and all the ground was sown with 
 rugged fragments. Hark ! what sound is that ?" 
 Startled, we hold our breathing, and listen. 
 First come a few hoarse discordant notes, and 
 then, as if in the air above our heads, a silvery en- 
 tanglement of such rare cadences as we have 
 never heard before. What can it be? We hear it 
 die away, as if carried from us by the breeze, 
 and, looking in each other's faces, are about to 
 speak, when it breaks forth again, mingling, 
 echoing, fading as before, upon the upper air ! 
 " We are' on enchanted ground," whispers 
 Hugh ; " and this is the music that Ferdinand 
 followed in the Island of Prospero !" 
 
 " Say, rather, that there are Eolian harps hid- 
 den somewhere in the rocks," I more practically 
 suggest. " Let us look for them !" 
 
 " Look for them yourself, prosaic mortal — I 
 shall seek Ariel. What ho ! my tricksy spirit !" 
 But lo ! a sudden turn in the rocks brings us 
 face to face with the mystery ; and our fairy 
 music, so wild and sweet, proves to be a won- 
 drous echo, tossed from cliff to cliff. As for 
 Ariel, he is only a tiny cow-boy blowing a horn 
 
102 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 seven feet in length for the entertainment of a 
 solitary traveler, who rides by, like Doctor Syn- 
 tax, with a mule and an umbrella. 
 
 Thun, Berne, the Gemmi, Leukerbad — we 
 have seen all these, and left the Oberland behind 
 us ; and now our route lies through the valley of 
 the Rhone. We came from Leukerbad to Leuk 
 last evening by the gorge of the Dala ; and this 
 morning drive gayly out through the one deso- 
 late street of this crumbling old Vallaisan town, 
 passing the church, and the antique castle with 
 its four quaint turrets, and the covered bridge 
 over the Rhone. Hence we journey for some 
 distance among stony shrub-grown hillocks, and 
 plantations of young trees ; and then we cross 
 the river again into a district of vineyards, with 
 our road reaching straight into the dim perspec- 
 tive, miles and miles away. How like a paint- 
 ing of Turner's 'it opens before us, this broad 
 and beautiful valley ! Rich sloping vines 
 " combed out upon the hillsides" skirt the mount- 
 ains on either hand; sometimes divided from 
 the road by flats of emerald meadow, and some- 
 times trailing their ripe fruits within reach of the 
 passing wayfarer. Behind us, the stupendous 
 precipices of the Gemmi still tower into sight ; 
 and in advance, far as we can see, the valley is 
 bounded right and left by the Vallaisan Alps, 
 which mingle their snow-peaks with the gather- 
 ing cumuli, and fade away to air. Midway along 
 the shadowy vista rise two steep and solitary 
 hills, each crowned, like a Roman victor, with 
 its mural coronet of ruins. A glorious landscape, 
 so stately with poplars, so garlanded with vines, 
 so thoroughly Italian in its beauty, that it might 
 well be on the other side of the Alps, for any 
 difference that the eye can see ! 
 
 Thus, as we go forward through the plain, 
 passing villages, and towns, and vineyards where 
 the merry vintage is at its hight, the scene be- 
 comes more and more Italian. In Sierra, through 
 which our postillions rattle at full speed, the 
 houses are high and dilapidated, with arca^des 
 running along the basement stories, and Italian 
 signs and names above the doors. In Sion there 
 are Capuchins at the corners of the streets ; and 
 sullen, handsome women, who throw up their 
 windows, and lean out to look at us, in true Ital- 
 ian fashion. Even the farm-houses scattered 
 all about the valley are stuccoed white, or built 
 of stone; with loggias on the roof, and some- 
 times a trellised vine before the door. We are 
 now, it- would seem, in the very heart of the 
 grape-district. Here are vineyards in the val- 
 ley, vineyards on the hillsides, vineyards down 
 to the road on either hand ! From some the 
 harvest has already been gathered — some are 
 still heavy with white and purple fruit — and 
 some are filled with gay groups of vintagers, 
 sunburnt as the soil. By and by we come upon 
 a long procession of carts, all laden with high 
 wooden cans of grapes ; then upon an open shed, 
 where some five or six swarthy fellows, armed 
 with short poles, are mashing the red fruit ; then 
 upon a couple of grave shovel-hatted Abbes, and 
 a stalwart friar, who prints the dusty road with 
 the firm impress of his sandaled foot at each im- 
 patient stride. Then come more farms, more 
 villages, more 
 
 " Wains oxen-dra\ni, 
 Laden with grapes, and dropping rosy wine ;" 
 
 and presently we pass a blind beggar sitting by a 
 roadside cross, who asks charity in the name of 
 the Blessed Mary. 
 
 Thus the day wanes, and, toward afternoon, 
 we reach a famous vineyard of the Muscat grape, 
 where the vigmrons load our carriage with arm- 
 fuls of the perfumed fruit. Here the cottages 
 are more than ever Italian, with tiled roofs, and 
 jutting eaves, and ingots of Indian com festooned 
 about the upper casements. Here, also, the 
 wild peaks of the Diablerets come into sight 
 — grim sentinels of the legendary Inferno of the 
 Vallaisan peasant. 
 
 And now, as the sun sinks westward, we hear 
 the chiming of the chapel-bells far away, and see 
 bands of vintagers trudging wearily home ; and 
 still the^long road lies before us, bordered by 
 tremulous poplars, dusty, direct, interminable as 
 ever ! Being by this time very weary, I nestle 
 down " like a tired child," in my husband's arms, 
 and implore to be amused ; so Hugh proceeds 
 to ransack th^ dusty storehouse of his memory, 
 bringing forth now an anecdote of one who was 
 buried alive by a landslip among the Diablerets — 
 now an incident of his own travels — now a weird 
 Hungarian legend of a vampire-priest who slaked 
 his fearful thirst upon the fairest of the province, 
 and was stabbed at last upon the steps of his 
 own altar." Thus the tender gloom of early twi- 
 light steals over the landscape. Thus the first 
 pale stars come forth overhead. Thus, loving 
 and beloved, we journey on together toward that 
 still distant point where yonder solitary tower 
 keeps watch above the village of Martigny. 
 
 We are in Italy. The snows of St. Bernard 
 and the plains of Piedmont are passed. We 
 have visited Turin, the most symmetrical and 
 monotonous of cities ; Alessandria, the dullest ; 
 and Genoa, where hail and sunshine succeeded 
 each other with every hour of the day. Now it 
 is fine again ; but clear and cold, and we are 
 traveling by easy stages along the delicious Hi- 
 viera. All day long, we have the blue sea be- 
 side us. At night, we put up at some little town 
 in a nook of sandy bay, and are lulled to sleep 
 by the sobbing of the waves. Sometimes, if the 
 morning be very bright and warm, we breakfast 
 on the terrace in front of our osteria, and watch 
 the fishing-boats standing out to sea, and the 
 red-capped urchins on the beach. Sometimes, 
 as we are in the mood for loitering, we do not 
 care to go farther than twelve or fifteen miles 
 in the day ; and so I spend long hours climbing 
 among the cliflfs, or coasting hither and thither 
 in a tiny felucca with fantastic sails. 
 
 " Truly," says Hugh, as we sit one afternoon 
 upon a "sea-girt promontory," watching the 
 gradual crimson of the sunset, " Plutarch was a 
 man of taste." 
 
 " Plutarch !" I repeat, roused from my 
 dreamy reverie. " Why so ?" 
 
 " Because he has somewhere observed, that 'on 
 land, our pleasantest journeys are those beside 
 the sea ; and that at sea, no voyage is so delight- 
 ful as a cruise along the coast,' And he is 
 right. Contrast and combination — these are the 
 first elements of the picturesque. Salvator Rosa 
 knew well the relative value of land and sea, 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 103 
 
 and, whatever his faults, made a wise use of both. 
 I am often reminded of his pictures by the 
 scenery about us !" 
 
 "Why, Hugh, I have heard you condemn 
 Salvator Rosa by the hour together !" 
 
 " Yes, for his blue mountains and his unnatural 
 skies ; for everything, in short, save the choice 
 of his subjects, and the tone that time has helped 
 to give them. See those overhanging cliffs, and 
 that natural arch of rock above the road ; could 
 he have painted that, think you ? Or yonder 
 village with its open campanile^ and background 
 of ilex groves sloping almost to the water's edge ? 
 But this reminds me, dear, that you have not 
 made a single sketch since we left Paris !" 
 " I have been very idle, it is true." 
 "Extremely idle! Come, you shall do pen- 
 ance to-morrow morning, and make me a sketch 
 from this very spot ; taking in that fragment of 
 red cliff, that group of fan-palms, and that 
 exquisite cove with the old broken boat dfawu 
 up upon the beach ! The coloring of that rock, 
 Barbarina, with the dark cacti growing out of 
 every cliff, is a study in itself!" 
 
 " Yes ; but you would do it as well, and, per- 
 haps, more patiently than I. Do you never 
 (ijaw now, Hugh ?" 
 " Seldom or never." 
 
 " And yet you are a true artist. I have not 
 forgotten those great folios full of sketches at 
 Broomhill ! They were in sad disorder, too — 
 Algiers and Brighton, the Thames and the Nile, 
 Devonshire and the Andes, all thrown together 
 in most admired disorder, I shall regulate them 
 when we go home, Hugh — ah, how strange it 
 will seem, after so many, many years !" 
 
 "Yes," replies my husband, gloomily, "you 
 
 were a little girl then, and I Heigho 1 
 
 Tempora mutantur, " 
 " And then I shall see my aunt once more^ 
 
 and " 
 
 " Your aunt, child !" says Hugh, turning his 
 face away. " Pshaw ! she has forgotten you." 
 "I know it. She has cast me out of her 
 heart, for a sin not my own. That is very bitter ; 
 and yet I believe I love her as dearly as ever I 
 I have been tempted a thousand times to write 
 to her ; and then again I have checked the im- 
 pulse, believing that — that she cares for me no 
 longer." . 
 
 " My poor little Barbara !" 
 " Hush ! I am not poor now, dearest I I am 
 rich — very rich, and very happy." 
 
 And, with this, I nestle closer to his side, and 
 the dear, protecting arm is folded round me. 
 
 " Can you not guess, Hugh, why I have been 
 80 very, very idle ? " I whisper, presently. 
 "Nay, little wife, am I a sorcerer?" 
 "Yes — no — sometimes I think you are!" 
 " Well, then, I am a sorcerer no longer. I 
 have broken my wand, burned my book, dismiss- 
 ed my goblin messengers, and become a mere 
 mortal, Hke yourself. Eh hien^ why is it ?" 
 
 " Because — because I am too happy to sketch. 
 Too happy for even Art to make me happier I" 
 " My darling !" 
 
 " And — and Love is so new to me, Hugh, 
 and life so fair ; and I feel as if to be grateful 
 and happy were occupation enough." 
 
 " And so it is, wife — so it is ! The gods do 
 not often come down from Olympus ; but when 
 they do, let us entertain them royally, and put 
 all else aside to do them honor !" 
 
 " But — but sometimes, Hugh, when I con- 
 sider what a perfect love is ours, I tremble, and^ 
 ask myself, ' shall I always be so happy ?' " 
 
 " Ah, Barbara, that is a question that we all 
 ask once, p)erhaps twice,^ in life. But who can 
 answer it ? Neither you nor I ! The present is 
 ours — let ua be" content with it." 
 
 " I could not be content with it, Hugh, unless 
 I accepted it as a prophecy of the future." 
 
 " Nor I, dear wife — nor 1 ; but I believe that, 
 with God's help, it will be so. And yet I have 
 learned to mistrust the morrow,, to mock the 
 past, and to value the present moment at no 
 more than its worth I These are hard lessons^ 
 love, and I have not yet unlearnted them !" 
 
 " Hush," I cry, shudderingly. " To doubt onr 
 morrow is to blaspheme our love !" 
 
 "Child, I do not doubt — I speculate; and 
 this only because I am so happy. Because I 
 would fain stay the glory of the passing hour, 
 and, like one of old, bid the Sun and Moon 
 stand still above our heads. But I can not — I 
 cannot!" 
 
 "Alas! no. We must grow gray, and old, 
 and change as others change ; but what of that ? 
 We shall love on to the last, and die, as we have 
 lived, together.'' 
 
 " Dear love, we will ! Amo^ Amas, Amamus^ 
 Amaverimus. Ah, what a pleasant verb, and 
 how readily we learn to conjugate it I" 
 
 By this time the sunset has faded quite away, 
 and the vesper-bell chimes from the campanile 
 on the hight ; so we rise and go homeward by 
 the beach, and find our landlady sitting on the 
 threshold of her bouse with her infant at her 
 breast, like one oi Raffaelle's Madonnas. With- 
 in, a little brazen hand-lamp, by which Virgil 
 might have sat to write, half lights our dusky 
 chamber. The window is open and looks upon 
 the sea ; and beside it stands a table with our 
 frugal supper. How sweet is the flavor of our 
 omelette to-night, and how excellent this flask 
 of Orvieto ! Like children on a holiday, we 
 find every thing delicious, and turn all things 
 " to favor and to prettiness." The glorious 
 world itself seems made for our delight; and 
 the phenomena of nature appear, to our happy 
 egotism, like spectacles played off to give us 
 pleasure. For us the moon rises yonder, and 
 the silver ripples break upon the beach — for ua 
 the evening air makes music in the pines, and 
 wafts past our casement the last lingering notes 
 of the Ave Maria ! 
 
 " Ah, me ! how sweet is love itself possessed. 
 When but love's shadows are so rich in joy l*^ 
 
 Time went on, and the New Year found us 
 dwelling in the shadow of that marble tower 
 that leans forever above the Holy Field of 
 Pisa. We liked the strange, old, lonely city, 
 and lingered there for some weeks, sketching 
 the monuments in the Campo Santo, wandering 
 by moonlight among the grass-grown streets and 
 silent palaces, and watching the sluggish Arno 
 winding from bridge to bridge, on its way toward 
 the sea. At length, as February came, the calm, 
 bright skies and distant hills tempted us forth 
 again ; so we resumed our pleasant traveling 
 life ; turning aside, as heretofore, when it 
 pleased us, from the beaten track ; pausing on 
 the road to sketch a ruin, or a lake ; sleeping 
 sometimes in a town, and sometimes at a farm- 
 
104 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 house among olive-groves ; and loitering away 
 our happy time, as though, like Sir Philip Syd- 
 ney's Arcadian shepherd-boy, we should "never 
 grow old." 
 
 By and by, however, there comes a day long 
 to be remembered. Last night we were upon the 
 sea, having taken a felucca at Orbitello, This 
 morning we are slowly traversing a brown and 
 sterile region. Our road lies among shapeless hil- 
 locks, shaggy with bush and brier. Far away on 
 one side gleams a line of soft, blue sea — on the 
 other, he mountains as blue, but more distant. 
 Not a sound stirs the stagnant air. Not a tree, 
 not a housetop breaks the wide monotony. The 
 dust lies beneath our wheels like a carpet, and 
 follows us Uke a cloud. The grass is yellow ; 
 the weeds are parched ; and where there have 
 been wayside pools, the ground is cracked, and 
 dry. Now we pass a crumbling fragment of 
 something that may have been a tomb or a 
 temple, centuries ago. Now we come upon a lit- 
 tle wild-eyed peasant-boy, keeping goats among 
 the ruins, like Giotto of old. Presently a buf- 
 falo lifts his black mane above the brow of a 
 neighboring hillock, and rushes away before we 
 can do more than point to the spot on which 
 "we saw it. Thus the day attains its noon, and 
 the sun hangs overhead like a brazen shield, 
 briUiant, but cold. Thus, too, we reach the 
 brow of a long and steep ascent, where our 
 driver pulls up to rest his weary beast. The 
 sea has now faded almost out of sight — the 
 mountains look larger and nearer, with streaks 
 of snow upon their summits — the Campagna 
 reaches on and on and shows no sign of limit 
 or of verdure — while, in the midst of the clear 
 air, half way, as it would seem, between us and 
 the purple Sabine range, rises one solemn, soli- 
 tary dome. Can it be the dome of St. Peter's ? 
 
 I have been anticipating this for hours, look- 
 ing for it from the top of every hill, and re- 
 hearsing in my own mind all the effect that it 
 must produce upon me; and yet, now that I 
 have it actually before my eyes, it comes upon 
 me like something strange, sudden, unreal ! 
 
 " Yes, little wife," says Hugh, answering m;^ 
 unspoken thought, " Rome lies, unseen, in the 
 shadow of that dome — Rome, and the Seven 
 Hills ! That mountain to our left is the classi- 
 cal Soracte. Yonder, amid the misty hollows 
 of those remotest Apennines, nestle Tivoli and 
 Tusculum. All around us reaches the battle- 
 ground of centuries, the wide and wild Cam- 
 pagna, every rood of which is a chapter in the 
 history of the world !" 
 
 I hear, but can not 'speak; for I am thinking 
 of Raffaelle and Michael Angelo, and the trea- 
 sures, of the Vatican. 
 
 "How often," continues my husband, musing- 
 ly, " have the barbaric foes of early Rome 
 paused thus at first sight of the Eternal City — 
 paused, perchance, upon this very spot, with 
 clash of sword and spear, eager for spoil, and 
 thirsting for vengeance ! And how often — ah ! 
 how often, may not the victorious legions of the 
 Republic and the Empire have here staid the 
 torrent of their homeward march, to greet with 
 shouts of triumph those distant towers where the 
 Senate awaited them with honors, and their wives 
 and children watched for their return ! Faith, 
 Barbai-a, I never come to Rome without wishing 
 that I had hved in the period of her glory !" 
 
 " Absurd ! You would have been dead hun- 
 dreds of years by this time." 
 
 " A man can live but once, petite ; and 'tis 
 hard that he may not, at least, make choice of 
 his century. Now, for my part, I would give up 
 all that has happened since, only to have heard 
 Mark Antony's speech over the dead body of 
 Ca3sar, and to have dined with Cicero at his 
 villa in Tusculum !" 
 
 " Whilst / prefer to read Shakspeare's ver- 
 sion of the former, and to picnic at Tusculum 
 with Farquhar of Broomhill!" 
 
 " That is because times are degenerate, Bar- 
 barina !" replies Hugh, laughingly. " Had you 
 been educated at Magdalen College, Oxford, in- 
 stead of at Zollenstrasse-am-Main, you would 
 have had better taste, and more respect for the 
 classics. " Oh^ Roma, Roma, non e piu come 
 era prima P Have I not seen a traveling circus 
 in the Mausoleum of Augustus, a French gar- 
 rison in the Mole of Hadrian, and a Roman 
 audience at a puppet-show ?" 
 
 We have now lost sight of St. Peter's, and en- 
 tered upon a narrow, dusty road, with molder- 
 ing white walls on either side. 'Tis a dreary 
 approach to a great city, and for more than 
 three miles is never varied, unless by a wayside 
 trough, a ruined shed, a solitary juniper tree, or 
 a desolate albergo with grated windows, and a 
 rough fresco of a couple of flasks and a bunch 
 of grapes painted over the door. Then comes 
 a steep descent, a sharp bend to the right, and 
 the great dome again rises suddenly at the end 
 of the road, so near that it seems as if I might ' 
 almost touch it with my hand ! And now the 
 gates of Rome are close before us ; and a cart 
 comes through, driven by a tawny Roman peas- 
 ant who guides his oxen standing, like a char- 
 ioteer of old. Now we pass the piazza and 
 colonnade of St. Peter's, and the Castle of St. 
 Angelo, with St. Michael poised above in ever- 
 lasting bronze — ah, how well I seem to know 
 it! Then the bridge guarded by angels ; and* 
 the Tiber, the classic Tiber that Clelia swam ! 
 Alas ! can this be it — this brown and sluggish 
 stream, low sunk between steep banks of mud 
 and ooze? Ay, it is indeed i\\Qflavus Tiheri- 
 nus, the golden river of the poets ; and these 
 narrow streets, these churches, palaces, and 
 hovels are Rome ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXYII. 
 
 ROME. 
 
 I AM in Rome ! the City that so long 
 Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world ; 
 The mighty vision that the prophets saw, 
 And trembled." 
 
 In Rome, the artist feels impelled to stay for- 
 ever and be at rest. For him, other cities lose 
 their old attractions ; modern art, progress, 
 personal ambition, cease alike to be of import- 
 ance in his eyes ; effort and emulation pass 
 from him like mere dreams ; " he walks amid a 
 world of art in ruins," and would fain loiter 
 away the remainder of his days among the 
 wrecks of this antique world. Nor does he even 
 feel that a life thus spent were unworthy of the 
 genius that is in him. Self-forgetting, reveren- 
 tial, absorbed, he stands in the presence of the 
 " Transfiguration," like a mortal before the 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 106 
 
 Gods. If ever he chances to look back upon 
 his former aspirations, it is with a sense of 
 inferiority that is neither humiliation, nor envy, 
 nor despair ; but only lassitude of spirit, and 
 the willing homage of the soul. Thus he comes 
 to live more in the past than the present, more 
 in the ideal than the real. Thus, too, all that is 
 not Rome gradually loosens its hold upon his 
 heart and his imagination. He feels that certain 
 statues and pictures are henceforth necessary to 
 him, and that certain ruins have become almost 
 a part of his being. He could scarcely live 
 away from the Vatican, or the Campidoglio, or 
 the sweet sad face of Beatrice Cenci in the 
 Barberini palace ; and not to be within reach of 
 Caracalla's Baths, or the solemn corridors of the 
 Colosseum, would be exile unbearable. In this 
 mood, he suffers the years to go by unheeded, 
 and voluntarily blots his own name from the 
 book of the Future ; for Art is to him a religion, 
 and he, like a monastic devotee, is contcht to 
 substitute worship for work. 
 
 But for the strong tie binding me to the 
 present, and but for that love which had of late 
 become more to me than art or fame, I should 
 have yielded utterly to the influences of the 
 place. As it was, the days and weeks seemed to 
 glide past in one unceasing round of delight and 
 wonder, I was never weary of villas, palaces, 
 and galleries ; of Raffaelle's violinist, or the 
 dying gladiator, or the Archangel of Guido in 
 the little church of the Cappucini. I filled my 
 sketch-book with outlines, and spent whole 
 days in the Halls of the Vatican, copying 
 the figures on a frieze, or the bassi relievi 
 of an antique sarcophagus. In these studies 
 Hugh was my critic, associate, and guide; 
 and, although his practical knowledge fell short 
 of mine, I learned much from him. His taste 
 was perfect: his judgment faultless. He was 
 familiar with every school, and had all the best 
 pictures in the world by heart. The golden 
 glooms of Rembrandt, the " rich impasting" of 
 Van Eyck, the grand touch of Michael Angelo, 
 were alike " things known and inimitable" to his 
 unerring eye. He detected a copy at first sight ; 
 assigned names and dates without the help of a 
 catalogue ; and recognized at a glance 
 
 " Whate'er Lorraine light touched with soft'ning hue, 
 Or savage Rosa dashed, or learned Poussin drew !" 
 
 To the acquisition of his critical knowledge he 
 had, in short, devoted as much study as might 
 have fitted him for a profession ; and to use his 
 own words, had spent as many years of life in 
 learning to appreciate a picture as he need have 
 spent in learning to paint it. Thus I acquired 
 from him much that had hitherto been wanting 
 to my education, and made daily progress in the 
 paths of art. Thus, like many another, I could 
 have gone on forever from gallery to gallery, 
 from church to church, from palace to palace, 
 dreaming my life away in one long reverie of 
 admiration before 
 
 " The grandeur that was Greece, and the glory that was 
 Rome." 
 
 We lived on the Pincian Hill, close by the 
 gardens of the French Academy. Far and wide 
 beneath our windows lay the spires and house- 
 tops of the Eternal city, with the Doria pines 
 standing out against the Western horizon. At 
 the back we had a loffgia overlooking the garden- 
 
 studios of the French school, with the planta- 
 tions of the Borghese Villa and the snow-streak- 
 ed Apennines beyond. Ah, what glorious 
 sights and sounds we had from those upper 
 windows on the Pincian hill ! What pomp and 
 pageantry of cloud ! What mists of golden dawn I 
 What flashes of crimson sunset upon distant 
 peaks ! How often " we heard the chimes at mid- 
 night," rung out from three hundred churches, 
 and were awakened in the early morning by mili- 
 tary music, and the tramp of French troops march- 
 ing to parade ! After breakfast, we used to go 
 down into the city to see some public or private 
 collection ; or, map in hand, trace the site of a 
 temple or a forum. Sometimes we made pious 
 pilgrhnages to places famous in art or history, 
 such as the house of Rienzi, the tomb of 
 Raffaelle, or the graves of our poets in the 
 Protestant Burial-ground. Sometimes, when the 
 morning was wet or dull, we passed a few 
 pleasant hours in the studios of the Via Mar- 
 gutta, where the artists " most do congregate ;" 
 or loitered our time away among the curiosity 
 shops of the Via Condotti. Later in the day, 
 our horses were brought round, and we rode or 
 drove beyond the walls, toward Antemnae or 
 Veil ; or along the meadows behind the Vati- 
 can ; or out by the Fountain of Egeria, in sight 
 of those ruined Aqueducts which thread the 
 brown wastes of the Campagna, like a funeral 
 procession tui-ned to stone. Then, when evening 
 came, we piled the logs upon the hearth and 
 read aloud by turns ; or finished the morning's 
 sketches. Now and then, if it were moonlight, 
 we went out again ; and sometimes, though 
 seldom, dropped in for an hour at the Opera, or 
 the Theatre Metastasio, 
 
 Oh ! pleasant morning of youth, when these 
 things made the earnest business of our lives — 
 when the choice of a bronze or a cameo occu- 
 pied our thoughts for half a day, and the pur- 
 chase of a mosaic was matter for our gravest 
 consideration — when the reading of a poem 
 made us sad ; or the sight of a painting quick- 
 ened the beating of our hearts ; or the finding 
 of some worthless relic filled us with delight! 
 We could not then conceive that we should ever 
 know more serious cares than these, or take 
 half the interest in living men and women that 
 we took in the Scipios and Servilii of old. We 
 loved Rome as if it were our native city, and 
 thought there could be no place in the world 
 half so enchanting ; but that was because we 
 were so happy-in it, and so solitary. We lived 
 only in the past, and for each other. We had 
 no friends, and cared to make none. Excepting 
 as we were ourselves concerned, the present 
 possessed but little interest for us ; and dwelling 
 amid the tombs and palaces of a vanished race, 
 we seemed to live doubly isolated from our fel- 
 low-men. 
 
 Thus the winter months glided away, and the 
 spring-time came, and Lent was kept and ended. 
 Thus Rome made holiday at Easter ; and the 
 violets grew thicker than ever on the grave of 
 Keats ; and the primroses lay in clusters of pale 
 gold about the cypress glades of Monte Mario. 
 Thus, too, we extended our rambles for many a 
 mile beyond the city walls, trampling the wild- 
 flowers of the Campagna ; tracking the antique 
 boundaries of Latium and Etruria; mapping 
 out the battle-fields of the Eneid ; and visiting 
 
106 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 the sites of cities whose history has been for 
 long centuries confounded with tradition, and 
 whose temples were dedicated to a religion of 
 which the poetry and the ruins alone survive. 
 
 It was indeed a happy, happy time ; and the 
 days went by as if they had been set to music ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 CARPE DIEM. 
 
 " Deserted rooms of luxury and state, 
 That old magnificence had richly furnished 
 With pictures, cabinets of ancient date, 
 And carvings gilt and burnished." 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 I NOW hardly know in what way the idea first 
 came to me ; but, somehow or another, I began 
 about this time to suspect that my husband had 
 no wish to return to Broomhill. The discovery 
 was not sudden. It dawned upon me slowly, 
 vaguely, imperceptibly ; and was less the result 
 of my own penetration than of evidence accu- 
 mulated from a thousand trifles. 
 
 He never named Broomhill, or any circum- 
 stance that might lead to the subject. If I 
 spoke of it, he was silent. If I exacted a re- 
 ply, he gave it as briefly as possible, and turned 
 the conversation. When sometimes we talked, 
 as lovers will, of how this love should run 
 through all our days, like a golden thread in the 
 rough woof of life, he avoided all mention of 
 that ancestral home which should have been the 
 scene of our romance ; but laid it ever under 
 foreign skies. Sometimes he talked of buying 
 land in Switzerland, and cultivating a model 
 farm. Sometimes of purchasing a villa at Cas- 
 tellamare ; or of building one upon the borders 
 of Lake Como ; or of buying some old deserted 
 palazzo in the environs of Rome, and fitting it 
 up in the Renaissance style. Then, again, he 
 would have a project for the extension of our 
 tour through Hungary, Bavaria, and the Danu- 
 bian provinces ; or propose to equip a vessel 
 for a lengthened cruise in Mediterranean waters 
 touching at all the chief ports of the Turkish 
 and Dalmatian coasts, threading the mazes of 
 the Isles of Greece, and ending with the Nile 
 or the Holy Land. At first I only used to smile 
 at these restless fancies, and attribute them to 
 his old wandering habits ; but a time came, by 
 and by, when I could smile no longer — when a 
 strange uneasy doubt stole gradually upon me, 
 and I began to wonder whether there might not 
 be, in all this, some purpose of intentional de- 
 lay ; some design to keep longer and longer 
 away, and, perhaps, never to return. 
 
 How this doubt deepened into certainty, and 
 in what manner it affected me, are transitions of 
 thought and feeling which I now find it difficult 
 to trace. I only know that I was bitterly dis- 
 appointed ; perhaps not altogether without rea- 
 son, and yet more so than the occasion warranted. 
 In the first place, my expatriation had already 
 lasted many years. I longed to be once more 
 surrounded by cheery English faces, and to hear 
 the pleasant English tongue spoken about me. 
 In the next place, I felt hurt that my love was 
 not enough to make my husband happy, even 
 under our gray skies in " duller Britain." Nay, 
 I was half jealous of these foreign climes that 
 had grown so dear to him, and of these habits 
 
 which had become necessities. Besides, Broom- 
 hill, of all places in the land, was now my lawful 
 home. Broomhill, of which I had been dream- 
 ing all these years. Broomhill, where, as a little 
 child, I had contracted the first and last love of 
 my life ! It was no wonder, surely, that I yearned 
 to go home to it across the Channel — and yet 
 I might have been content with the sweet 
 present ! Except Hugh, no one loved or cared 
 for me; and I had better have accepted my 
 happiness per se, without a care or desire beyond 
 it. Ah, why did I not ? Why, when I had most 
 reason to be glad, did I suffer myself to be 
 tormented by the phantasm of a trouble ? What 
 mattered it whether we dwelt in England or Italy, 
 Rome or Broomhill, so that we were only 
 together ? He was with me ; he loved me ; and 
 where love is, heaven is, if we would but believe 
 it ! Eve made Adam's paradise, and Robinson 
 Crusoe's isle was a desert only because he lived 
 in it alone. But, alas ! it is ever thus. We cavil 
 at the blessing possessed, and grasp at the shadow 
 to come. We feel first, and reason afterward ; 
 only we seldom begin to reason till it is too late ! 
 
 One day, as the spring was rapidly merging 
 into summer, we took a carriage and drove out 
 from Rome to Albano. It was quite early when 
 we started. The grassy mounds of the CampO 
 Vaccino were crowded with bullock-trucks as 
 we went down the Sacred Road ; and the brown 
 walls of the Colosseum were touched with golden 
 sunshine. The same shadows that had fallen 
 daily for centuries in the same places, darkened 
 the windings of the lower passages. The blue 
 day shone through the uppermost arches, and 
 the shrubs that grew upon them waved to and 
 fro in the morning breeze. A monk was preach- 
 ing in the midst of the arena ; and a French 
 military band was practicing upon the open 
 ground behind the building. 
 
 " Oh, for a living Caesar to expel these Gauls I " 
 muttered Hugh, aiming the end of his cigar at 
 the spurred heels of a dandy little sous -lieutenant 
 who was sauntering "delicately," like King 
 Agag, on the sunny side of the road. 
 
 Passing out by the San Giovanni gate, we 
 entered upon those broad wastes that lie to the 
 south-east of the city. Going forward thence, 
 with the aqueducts to our left, and the old Ap- 
 pian way, lined with crumbling sepulchers, reach- 
 ing for miles in one unswerving line to our far 
 right, we soon left Rome behind. Faint patches 
 of vegetation gleamed here and there, like streaks 
 of light ; and nameless ruins lay scattered broad- 
 cast over the bleak slopes of this " most desolate 
 region." Sometimes we came upon a primitive 
 buUock-wagon, or a peasant driving an ass laden 
 with green boughs ; but these signs of life were 
 rare. Presently we passed the remains of a 
 square temple, with Corinthian pilasters — then 
 a drove of shaggy ponies — then a little truck 
 with a tiny pent-house reared on one side of the 
 seat, to keep the driver from the sun — then a 
 flock of rusty sheep — a stagnant pool — a clump 
 of stunted trees — a conical thatched hut — a 
 round sepulcher, half-buried in the soil of ages 
 — a fragment of broken arch ; and so on, for 
 miles and miles, across the barren plain. By 
 and by, we saw a drove of buffaloes scouring 
 along toward the aqueducts, followed by a 
 mounted herdsman, buskined and brown, with 
 his lance in his hand, his blue cloak floating 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 lor 
 
 behind him, and his sombrero down upon his 
 brow — the very picture of a Mexican hunter. 
 
 Now the Campagna was left behind, and 
 Albano stood straight before us, on the summit 
 of a steep and weary hill. Low lines of white- 
 washed wall bordered the road on either side, 
 inclosing fields of fascine, orchards, olive- 
 grounds, and gloomy plantations of cypresses 
 and pines. Next came a range of sand-banks, 
 with cavernous hollows and deep undershadows ; 
 next, an old cinque-cento gateway, crumbling 
 away by the road side ; then a little wooden cross 
 on an overhanging crag ; then the sepulcher of 
 Pompey ; and then the gates of Albano, through 
 which we rattled into the town, and up to the 
 entrance of the Hotel de Russie. Here we tasted 
 the wine that Horace praised, and lunched in a 
 room that overlooked a brown sea of Campagna, 
 with the hazy Mediterranean on the farthest 
 horizon, and the tower of Corioli standing against 
 the clear sky to our left, /^ 
 
 By and by, we went out through the mai-ket- 
 place, and up a steep road leading to the lake. 
 Ah, how well I remember it ! How well I 
 remember that table-land of rock on which we 
 stood, with Monte Cavo rising high before us, 
 and the blue lake lying at our feet in a steep 
 basin clothed with forests! Scrambling down 
 tipon a kind of natural terrace several feet below, 
 we pushed our way through the briers and found 
 a grassy knoll at the foot of an ilex, just on the 
 margin of the precipice. Here we sat sheltered 
 from the sun, with the placid lake below, the 
 mountains above, and the pines of Castel Gon- 
 dolfo standing like sentinels between us and the 
 landscape. The air was heavy with fragrance, 
 and a golden haze hung over Rome. We had 
 brought sketch-books, but they laj^^^untouched 
 beside us on the grass. The scene was too fair 
 for portraiture ; and all that we could do was to 
 drink deeply of its poetry, and talk from time 
 to time of our great happiness. 
 
 *' 'Twas by the merest chance that you and I 
 ever met again, love," said Hugh, taking up the 
 broken threads of our conversation. ' ' A feather 
 might have turned the scale and carried me direct 
 to St. Petersburgh ; and then, good heavens ! 
 what a miserable wretch I should have been to 
 this day !" 
 
 " A good angel brought me to you, Hugh," I 
 murmured, leaning my head against his shoulder. 
 " I can not bear to think that we might never 
 have met. I can not believe but that we must 
 some day have come face to face, and been 
 happy !" 
 
 " Alas ! we should have been strangers, 
 Barbara mia. "We might have looked in each 
 other's eyes, and passed on for evermore !" 
 
 " Nay, that at all events would have been im- 
 possible ! I should have known yow anywhere." 
 
 " Perhaps so, little wife ; but time, remember, 
 has changed me less than you. You have jour- 
 neyed all the way from Lilliput to Brobdignag ; 
 whilst I have only grown rougher, browner, and 
 uglier than ever. But you look grave, mignonne. 
 What have I said to vex you ?" 
 
 '•' Nothing, dearest — and yet — and yet I am 
 grieved to think that you could have passed me 
 without one gleam of recognition. Sui-ely some 
 old thought must have come knocking at your 
 heart — some vague picture of the little girl who 
 loved you so dearly, long and long ago !" 
 
 My husband smiled, and laid his hand upon 
 my head, as he used to lay it in that far-off 
 time. 
 
 *' Enfant P' he said, tenderly, " what matters 
 it to thee or me, since we have met, and are 
 happy? Think what it would have been had 
 our meeting happened many a year to come, 
 and happened too late !" 
 
 " Or if all things had come to pass just as they 
 did, and yet you had not cared for me ! Oh, 
 Hugh, that would have been the crudest of 
 all" 
 
 '* And the least likely. Why, Barbara, you 
 came to me at the time when I most needed 
 you. You revived my trust in heaven, and my 
 faith in man. You reconciled me to the present 
 and the future ; blotted out the past, and turned 
 to wine the bitter waters of my life ! How, 
 then, could I choose but love you ? Ay, with 
 every pulse of my heart, and every nerve of my 
 brain — with my hopes', and my dreams, and aU 
 that is worthiest in me ! Hush you are weep- 
 ing !" 
 
 " For joy," I whispered, brokenly ; " for joy 
 only. Speak to me thus forever, and I wiU 
 listen to you !" 
 
 He pressed his lips upon my forehead, and 
 for some minutes we were both silent. 
 
 " Tell me," I said at length, " how and when 
 you first began to love me. Did it come to you 
 suddenly, or steal imperceptibly upon your 
 heart, like the shadow over the dial ?" 
 
 " Neither, and yet both," replied he, musingly. 
 "I never knew the moment when it first befell me; 
 and yet, like one of those mysterious isles that 
 are upheaved in a single night from the depths of 
 the great ocean, it rose all at once upon my 
 life, and became my Paradise. Now it is ours, 
 and ours alone. None but ourselves shall enter 
 into that Eden — none but ourselves gather its 
 flowers, or feed upon its fruits ! Pshaw ! what 
 children we both are ! With what delicious 
 egotism we treasure up each ' trivial, fond 
 record,' and tell the old tale o'er and o'er 
 again !" 
 
 " Say rather the tale that is never old," I sug- 
 gested ; " the poem that is never ended ; the 
 song that can not be sung through ! Ah, Hugh, 
 I almost fear, sometimes, that to be so happy 
 is not good for me." 
 
 " Not good, my Barbara — why so ?" 
 
 " Because I seem to live for love alone, and 
 to have forgotten all that once made the pleas- 
 ure and purpose of my life. I have neither 
 strength nor ambition left ; and my ' so potent 
 art !' has lost its magic for me. I fear that I 
 shall never make a painter." 
 
 He smiled and sighed, and a look half of re- 
 gret, half of compassion, passed across his 
 face. 
 
 " Art is long, and life is short," he said, " We 
 can never compass the one ; but we may at 
 least reap all that is fairest in the other. Look 
 yonder, child, beyond the boundary of the 
 pines — look yonder, where Rome glitters in the 
 sun, and remember that Raffaelle lies buried in 
 the Pantheon." 
 
 "I do remember it." 
 
 " Ay, and remember that love is here, but 
 fame is hereafter — that to be great is to be ex- 
 posed to all the shafts of envy ; but that to love 
 thus is to wear an ' armoure against fate !' What 
 
108 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 to us are the changes of the years, the wars of 
 kings, the revolutions of empires ? We dwell 
 in the conscious security of our love, as 
 
 " In a green island far from all men's knowing ;" 
 
 and, happen what may in the wide world beyond, 
 there abide * till our content is absolute.' 
 Heigho ! I also used to dream, once upon a 
 time, of art, and poetry, and fame ; but that 
 was before I knew how much had already been 
 done — how little was left to do ! Now I am 
 wiser, and more indolent. Satisfied to appreciate, 
 I wander from Shakspeare to Goethe, from 
 Raffkelle to Rembrandt, from Plato to Bacon. 
 I taste of all arts and all philosophies, ' Seneca 
 can not be too heavy, nor Plautus too light ' for 
 me ; and yet what hope have I of ever com- 
 passing one half of the accumulated riches of 
 the past? Ten lives would not be enough to 
 read all the best books, and see all the best 
 pictures in the world !" 
 
 " Nor ten times ten," I added, sadly. " Alas ! 
 to what end are we working, and of what avail 
 is any thing that we can do ? Why paint pictures 
 that can achieve no fame, or write books that 
 will never be read ? Why multiply failure upon 
 failure; and why 'monster' our 'nothings' in 
 the face of all that has been done by the greatest 
 and the wisest ? For my part when I think of 
 these things, I am hopeless." 
 
 "And for mine, Barbarina, I believe that the 
 life of the connoisseur is as well spent as that of 
 any other man on earth ! It is for him that the 
 author toils, and the painter mixes his colors ; 
 and neither of them could well live without 
 him. He reads the books that others write. 
 He buys the pictures that others paint. He re- 
 presents popular opinion, embodies the taste of 
 the age, and keeps us in mind of all that we 
 owe to the past. Per Bacco ! I begin to have 
 quite a respectful admiration for myself when I 
 think of it!" 
 
 I could not help smiling. 
 
 " This is mere sophistry," I said. " You love 
 an idle life, and are ' nothing if not critical ;' 
 and now you want to make your very idleness 
 heroic. No, no, Hugh — confess that it is pleas- 
 anter to dream in libraries and galleries than to 
 contribute to either ; and that enjoyment is more 
 agreeable than work !" 
 
 He laughed, and sprang lightly to his feet. 
 
 "Be just, Barbarina," he said. " Be just, if 
 nothing more. A reckless dare-devil, such as I 
 have been this many a year, scarcely deserves 
 to be accused of idleness or dreaming. I am 
 an Epicurean, if you will ; but not a Sybarite." 
 
 " Be both," I cried, hastily ; " be an idler, a 
 dreamer, a trifler — any thing you please ; but 
 never, never wander away into dangers and des- 
 erts again ! You once talked to me of the 
 pleasure of peril. Oh, I have never forgotten 
 that phrase !" 
 
 " Foolish little wife ! Forget it, dear, at once 
 and forever. Henceforth I shall only travel 
 where I can take you with me, and that is guar- 
 antee enough for my own safety. But the after- 
 noon is waning, and I have still something to 
 show you in Albano." 
 
 Upon this, we went down again into the town, 
 passing our hotel by the way, and stopping be- 
 fore the heavy double doors of what seemed to 
 1)0 a handsome private residence. Here Hugh 
 
 rang, and a very old woman admitted us. A 
 paved carriage-way intersected the ground floor, 
 and led out upon a graveled space at the back. 
 Beyond this lay extensive grounds, richly wood- 
 ed, with vistas of lawn, and winding walks be- 
 tween. 
 
 " This is the Yilla Castellani," said Hugh pass- 
 ing through with a nod to the portress. " We 
 will go over the gardens first, and then see the 
 house. It is a strange, rambling, deserted place, 
 but there is something romantic about it — some- 
 thing shady, quiet, and medieval which takes a 
 peculiar hold on my imagination, and possesses 
 a charm which I scarcely know how to define." 
 
 " Then you have been here before ?" 
 
 " I once lodged in the house for two months. 
 It was a long time ago — six or eight years, "I 
 suppose ; but I remember every nook and cor- 
 ner as well as if I had left it only yesterday. 
 Stay — this turning should lead to the ruins !" 
 
 We went down a broad walk, wide enough for 
 a carriage drive, and completely roofed in by 
 thick trees. Weeds grew unheeded in the gravel, 
 and last year's leaves lay thick on the ground. 
 Here and there, in the green shade, stood a 
 stone seat brown with mosses ; or a broken urn ; 
 or a tiny antique altar, rifled from a tomb — and 
 presently we reached a space somewhat more 
 open than the rest, with a shapeless mass of re- 
 ticulated brick-work, and a low arch guarded by 
 two grim lions in the midst. Here the leaves 
 had drifted more deeply, and the weeds had 
 grown more rankly than elsewhere ; and a faint 
 oppressive perfume sickened on the air. We 
 pushed our way through the grass and brambles, 
 and looked down into the darkness of that cav- 
 ernous archway. A clinging damp lay on the 
 old marble lions, and on the leaves and blossoms 
 of the trailing shrubs that overgrew them. A 
 green lizard darted by on a fragment of broken 
 wall. A squirrel ran up the shaft of a stately 
 stone pine that stood in the midst of the ruins. 
 
 I shuddered, and sighed. 
 
 "The place is strangely melancholy," I said. 
 " What ruins are these ?" 
 
 " Probably those of Pompey's villa," replied 
 my husband; "but their history is lost. The 
 estate now belongs to a noble Roman family, one 
 of whose ancestral Cardinals built the house 
 yonder, about a hundred and sixty years ago. 
 They are now too poor to keep it in repair, and 
 they let it whenever they can get tenants to take 
 it. The whole place is going fast to decay." 
 
 "And you once lived here for two whole 
 months ?" 
 
 "Ay, for two very pleasant months, during 
 which I spent all my time wandering about these 
 lakes and ruins, with a carbine on my shoulder 
 and a book in my hand — like a literary bandit. 
 How often I have lain among these very trees, 
 with a volume of Tasso in my hand, dreaming 
 and reading alternately, and peopling the shady 
 avenues with Armida and her nymphs !" 
 
 But I hardly listened to him. I was fasci- 
 nated by this gloomy arch leading away into 
 subterranean darkness, and could think of noth- 
 ing else. 
 
 " I wonder where it goes, and if it has been 
 explored," I said. " These lions look as if they 
 were guarding the secret of some hidden trea- 
 sure. There ought to be a dreadful tale con- 
 nected with the place !" 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 109 
 
 " There shall be one, if you wish it, carina. 
 Let me see — we have a Cardinal, who is an in- 
 tellectual voluptuary, fond of learning and pleas- 
 ure, and in love with a beautiful peasant girl 
 down in the village. We have gardens, with 
 ancient ruins lying in the shadows of the trees 
 — a jealous lover lurking in the archway — twi- 
 light — an ambuscade — a revenge — a murder 
 
 oh, it would make a charming story!" 
 
 " Then you shall put it together, and tell it 
 to me as we drive back to Rome." 
 
 "Willingly; but come a few yards farther, 
 where you see the light at the end of the ave- 
 nue." 
 
 I followed, and we emerged upon a terrace 
 that bounded the gardens on this side. The 
 Campagna and the hills lay spread before us in 
 the burning sunset, and a shining zone of sea 
 bounded the horizon. Long shadows streamed 
 across the marble pavement, and patches of bril- 
 liant light pierced through the carved interstices 
 of the broken balcony. A little fountain dripped 
 wearily in the midst, surmounted by a headless 
 Triton, and choked with water-weeds ; whilst all 
 along the parapet, with many a gap, and many a 
 vacant pedestal, the statues of the Caesars stood 
 between us and the sun. 
 
 When at length we went back, we took a path 
 skirting the ridge of a deep hollow, where a for- 
 est of olives shivered grayly in the breeze. The 
 house stood before us all the way, stately but 
 dilapidated ; with closed windows and shattered 
 cornices, and an open Belvedere on the top, 
 where one shuddered to think how the wind 
 must howl at night. Something of this I must 
 have shown in my face, for Hugh, looking at me, 
 said anxiously: — 
 
 *' The place is solemn, but not sad ; and to my 
 mind, is only the more beautiful for its desola- 
 tion." 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " it is very beautiful." 
 
 But I felt a strange oppression, nevertheless. 
 
 " And one might paint twenty pictures from 
 these gardens alone." 
 
 " Yes, truly." 
 
 He glanced at me again, and seemed about to 
 speak ; but checked himself, and walked on 
 silently. The same old woman was waiting at 
 the house to receive us — such a weird, withered, 
 tottering creature, that one might have fancied 
 her as old as the building. 
 
 " The Hall of the Hercules, signora,'''' said she, 
 in a shrill treble, that quavered like the tones of 
 a broken instrument. 
 
 It had once been a stately vestibule ; but was 
 now a lumber-room. Ladders, gardening tools, 
 and rubbish of all kinds lay piled in the corners ; 
 and at the farther end a store of fagots and fas- 
 cine was sracked against the wall. The frescoes 
 on the ceiling were broken away in patches here 
 and there. The tesselated pavement was defaced 
 and soiled. Busts, black with the dust of years 
 and draped with cobwebs, looked down from their 
 niches overheard, as if in solemn pity "for a 
 glory left behind." Altogether it was a mourn- 
 ful place — still more mournful than the grounds 
 and the ruins. 
 
 From this erewhile " Hall of the Hercules," 
 we passed on through the chambers of the lower 
 floor, preceded by our guide, with her bunch of 
 rusty keys. They were all dusty and solitary alike. 
 The daylight filtered drearily into them through 
 
 half-opened shutters, and the doors complained 
 upon their hinges. In some were broken mir- 
 rors, worm-eaten remains of costly furniture, 
 and funereal hangings which fell to pieces at a 
 touch and sent up clouds of dust. Others were 
 bare of every thing save cobwebs ; and all were 
 profusely decorated with tarnished gilding ; mar- 
 ble pilasters, rich cornices, panelings from which 
 the delicate arabesques were fast disappearing, 
 and ceilings where " many a fallen old divinity " 
 still presided, amid faded Cupids and regions of 
 roses and blue clouds. 
 
 In the second story, the rooms were smaller 
 and cleaner, and contained, moreover, a scanty 
 supply of uncomfortable modern furniture. It 
 was this part, said the old cicerone^ which his 
 noble Highness graciously condescended to let 
 during the season, reserving the lower floor to 
 his own masterful use, or Misuse, as the case 
 might be. 
 
 " Then it must have been here that you lived, 
 Hugh," I said, as we took our way from suite to 
 suite. 
 
 " No — like a true hero I sought to climb above 
 my fellows, and secured the top of the house, 
 IJp there, ' my soul was like a star, and dwelt 
 apart.' I could do as I pleased, had a terrace to 
 myself, and the key of the Belvedere. Oh, 
 what songs and sonnets I scribbled by moonlight 
 on that terrace-top, and how I used to twist them 
 into pipe-lights the next morning !" 
 
 By this time we had reached the foot of the 
 last staircase, and Hugh, springing forward, took 
 the lead. 
 
 " See," said he, " these are my old quarters. 
 What do you thmk of them ?" 
 
 It was like passing from dark to light — from 
 winter to summer — from a prison to a palace. 
 The private apartments of a princess in a fairy 
 tale could not have been more daintily luxurious. 
 Ante-room, saloUy library, and bed-room led one 
 from another ; and the library opened on a mar- 
 ble terrace with orange trees in tubs at all the 
 corners, and a great stone vase of mignonette 
 before the window. Exquisite furniture, glitter- 
 ing with pearl and ormolu ; mosaic tabks ; walls, 
 paneled with mirrors and paintings ; gauzy hang- 
 ings ; carpets in which the feet sank noiselessly ; 
 precious works of art in marble and terra-cotta ; 
 books, flowers, and all those minor accessories 
 which give grace and comfort to a home, were 
 here in abundance. 
 
 "Well," repeated my husband, laughingly, 
 " what do you think of them ?" 
 
 " I scarcely know what to think," I replied 
 confusedly. "I — surely I — I seem to recog- 
 nize some of these things — that bronze, for 
 instance ; and those vases — and this cabmet — 
 nay, I am certain this is the cabinet that we 
 bought the other day, in the Via Frattina! 
 Why are they here ? — and what does it all 
 • mean ?" 
 
 " It means," said he, taking me by the hand, 
 with a strange mixture of doubt and eagerness, 
 " it means that all wise people will soon be 
 leaving Rome for the hot season, and — and that 
 I have reengaged these old rooms of mine for 
 your reception. See, here are all our recent pur- 
 chases — our pictures, our statues, our mosaics. 
 These shelves contain copies of your favorite 
 authors ; and in the next room you will find an 
 easel, and a stock of artistic necessaries. Our 
 
110 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 bedroom windows overlook the hills about. Gen- 
 sano — our salon commands the town and market- 
 place — our library opens toward the Campagna, 
 with Ostia in the distance, and the gardens at 
 our feet. Here, with all Latium mapped out 
 before us, we can spend our happy summer in 
 absolute retirement. Here, wandering at will 
 among lakes, forests, and mountains, we can 
 Bketch — we can read — we can ride — we can 
 Btudy this beautiful, half-savage Roman people, 
 and trace in the present the influences of the 
 past ! Ah, dearest, you know not yet the en- 
 chantment of an Italian summer amid Italian 
 hills ! You know not what it is to breathe the 
 perfume of the orange gardens — to lie at noon 
 in the deep shadow of an ilex-grove, listening to 
 the ripple of a legendary spring, older than 
 history — to stroll among ruins in the purple 
 twilight! Then up here, far from the sultry 
 city and the unhealthy plains, we have such 
 sunrises and sunsets as you, artist though you 
 be, have never dreamed of — here, where the cool 
 airs linger longest, and the very moon and stars 
 look more golden than elsewhere ! Tell me, 
 dear heart, have I done well, and will my bird 
 be happy in the nest that I have made for her ?" 
 Seeing how flushed he was with his own elo- 
 quence, and how he had anticipated all things 
 for my pleasure, I tried to seem glad — even to 
 smile, and thank him. But, for all that, my 
 heart was heavy with hope deferred; and, as 
 we drove back to Rome iil the gray dusk, I 
 wept behind my vail, thinking of home, and 
 seeing the term of my exile growing more and 
 more indefinite. 
 
 Not many days after this, we moved out to 
 Albano, and established ourselves in villeggia- 
 tura at the Villa Castellani ; taking with us for 
 our only attendants two Italian women-servants 
 and our faithful Tippoo. Alas ! why was I not 
 happy ? Why was I restless, and why did I 
 cast aside canvas after canvas, unable to settle 
 to my art, or to enjoy the paradise around me? 
 Wherefore when the transparent nights were 
 radiant with fire-flies, did I yearn only for the 
 red glimmer of one far-off village smithy; and 
 wherefore, when the sun went down in glory 
 behind the convent-crested brow of Monte Cavo, 
 could I only sigh, and picture to myself how 
 it was burning even now upon the Tudor win- 
 dows at Broomhill ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 A VICTORY. 
 
 The year wore on, and, toward autumn, my 
 health gradually declined. I suffered no pain, 
 and my physicians could discover no disease; 
 but a strange mental and physical lassitude had 
 taken possession of me, and I faded slowly. I 
 seemed to have lost all my old strength and 
 energy— all my love of life — all my appreciation 
 of beauty. Lying languidly upon a sofa on the 
 terrace, I used to listen to the noises in the 
 market-place without ever caring to look down 
 on the picturesque crowd beneath ; and many 
 a time I closed my eyes upon the landscape and 
 the sky, in utter weariness of spirit, because 
 "I had no pleasure in them." Thus day after 
 day went by, and at length it waa said that 
 I must bave change of air. 
 
 Unanimous upon this one point, my advisers 
 could agree upon no other. One recommended 
 Nice. Another was of opinion that Nice would 
 be too mild, and advocated Florence. A third 
 insisted upon the waters of Vichy. When they 
 were all gone, I called Hugh to my side, and as 
 he knelt down by my couch in the light of the 
 golden afternoon, I clung to his neck, like a sick 
 child, and whispered — 
 
 " Take me home, dear — only take me home !" 
 " Home ?" he repeated, vaguely. 
 " Yes — to Broomhill. I shall never get well 
 here, or anywhere, unless you take me to Broom- 
 hill !" 
 
 I fek him shudder in my arms, and that was 
 all. After waiting some moments for the an- 
 swer that did not come, I went on pleading. 
 
 " You don't know, Hugh, how I have longed 
 for it, or how I have been thinking of it, these 
 last months. If we had gone^there first of all, 
 though only for a few weeks, I believe I should 
 have been content — content to stay with you 
 here for years and years; but now — you will 
 not be angry with me, dear, if I tell you how I 
 have yearned to go back ?" 
 
 He shook his head, and drew my cheek closer 
 to his own, so that I could not see his face. 
 
 " And you will not fancy that I have been un- 
 happy, or discontented, or ungrateful ?" 
 
 He shook his head again, with a quick gesture 
 of deprecation. 
 
 "Well then, I— I feel as though I could 
 never get well anywhere but at home, and 
 as though I must die if you do not take me 
 there. You see, dear, I have thought of it so 
 much — thought, indeed, of nothing else for 
 months. When you told me that you loved me, 
 my first thought was for you, and my second for 
 Broomhill. Ever since our marriage, I have 
 looked forward to the happy day when we 
 should go back there together, and make it our 
 own, dear, quiet home. Ah, Hugh, you can 
 not know the charm, there is for me in that 
 word. Home ! You can not know how often I 
 have lain awake in the pauses of the night, 
 repeating it to myself, and trying to call back 
 every tree in the old park — every picture, 
 and corridor, and nook in the old house, till 
 memory seemed to grow too vivid, and became 
 almost pain I" 
 
 " My poor child," said my husband, tenderly, 
 "this is a mal de paysy 
 
 "Perhaps so. I have fancied that it might 
 be, more than once. No Swiss, I am sure, 
 could sicken for his own Alps more than I 
 sicken for Broomhill. But then, you see, dear, 
 the happiest days of all my past life were linked 
 with it — and I have been so many, many years 
 away from England — and — and, like Queen 
 Mary, I fancy if I were to die now, you would 
 find the name of Broomhill engraven on my 
 heart !" 
 
 He drew a long breath that sounded almost 
 like a sob, and, disengaging himself from my 
 embrace, got up, and paced about the room. 
 
 " How strange it is !" he said. " We love 
 each other — why can we not live anywhere, be 
 happy anywhere together ? I have heard of 
 those who were happy in a garret — a prison — a 
 desert — and this is the garden of the world ! 
 What is it ? Fate ? No — no — no ! We make 
 our own ends— our own pitfalls — our own sor- 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 rows. All might be well, if we would have it 
 so — but we cannot rest — we are fools; and 
 the fool's punishment must follow, sooner or 
 later — sooner or later ! Turn aside the light- 
 ning from heaven, and it comes up through the 
 ground on which one stands !" 
 
 " Oh, Hugh ! Hugh ! you are angry with 
 me!" I cried, terrified by these wild words. 
 "Forgive me — pray forgive me! I could be 
 happy with you in a dungeon — indeed, indeed I 
 oould. Only say that you forgive me !" 
 
 He mastered his agitation by a strong effort, 
 and drew a chair, quite calmly, beside my 
 couch. 
 
 " I have nothing to forgive," he said, in a low, 
 measured voice. " Nothing whatever, Barbara. 
 You desire only what is just and reasonable. 
 You have married the master of Broomhill, and 
 you have a right to live at Broomhill." 
 
 " No, no— not a right !" I interrupted.^ " I 
 wish to have no rights, save those which your 
 dear love gives me !" 
 
 *' And you have a right to live at Broomhill," 
 he repeated, as if he had not heard me. " But, 
 on the other hand, I dislike England. I prefer 
 a continental life, and a continental climate ; and 
 I had hoped that you, educated and almost 
 naturalized abroad, would share my tastes, and 
 conform gladly to my wishes." 
 
 " I have tried to do so," I said complainingly ; 
 for I was very weak, and felt hurt to hear him 
 set it forth so coldly. " I have tried ; and 
 while my strength lasted, I succeeded. But 
 though I was silent, I was always longing to go 
 back — and now — and now my longing has worn 
 me out, and, with me, all my power of resist- 
 ance !" 
 
 He looked at me, and his forced coldness 
 melted all at once. 
 
 " My Barbara !" he said. " My poor, pale 
 Barbara !" And so leaned his forehead moodily 
 in his two palms. 
 
 A long time went by thus — he bent and 
 brooding ; I anxiously watching him. By and 
 by I raised myself from my pillows, and crept 
 close to his knees. 
 
 "You will take me home, dear, will you 
 not?" I said once more, trymg to draw his 
 hands down from his face. 
 
 " Yes. If you must go — yes," he answered, 
 looking up with a face that startled me — it was 
 80 much whiter than my own. " I can not let 
 you fade, my Flower ; but — God help us both !" 
 
 And with this he kissed me, and lifted me 
 from the floor, and laid me tenderly upon the 
 couch again ; and then went out upon the ter- 
 race. 
 
 I had prevailed. The desire that had been 
 upon my mind for so many months was spoken 
 at last, and granted ; and yet I felt uneasy, ap- 
 prehensive, and but half satisfied. Was it well, 
 I asked myself, to succeed against his will ? 
 Was it well to have evoked the first hint of dis- 
 sension for my gratification ? Might not ill 
 come of it ; and might I not, at least, have tried 
 the air of Nice, or Florence, first? Wavering 
 thus, I was more than once upon the point of 
 calling to him — then I checked myself, and 
 thought how happy I would make him at 
 Broomhill ; and how he should thank me by 
 and by for having brought him there ; and what 
 a pleasure it would be to see him once more in 
 
 the home of his fathers, respected and honored, 
 and bearing, as became him, 'the grand old 
 name of gentleman.' Thus the moment, the 
 precious moment of concession, went by ; and 
 I wandered away into a train of dreams and 
 musings. 
 
 It was almost dusk before Hugh came in 
 again ; but he had regained his composure, and 
 spoke cheerfully of England and our journey. 
 His nature was too generous to do a kindness 
 by halves, and, since he had yielded, he yielded 
 graciously. For all this, however, I saw the 
 dark shade settle now and then upon his brow, 
 and noted the effort by which it was dismissed- 
 
 In a few days more, we were on our way 
 home. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE FIRST CLOUD ON THE HORIZON. 
 
 What with waiting some days for finer 
 weather at Civita Vecchia, and what with the 
 delays occasioned by my fatigue at different 
 points of the journey, we were more than three 
 weeks travehng from Rome to London. I had 
 begun to mend, however, from the day that we 
 left Albano — I might almost say, from the hour 
 that our return was resolved upon — and by the 
 time I stepped on shore at Dover, I had already 
 recovered my spirits, and much of my strength. 
 We came home without having met any whom 
 we knew, having rested a few days in Paris in a 
 solitude as complete as that of Albano. Hilda 
 and her husband were with the court at Fon- 
 tainebleau ; and Mrs. Churchill, who could not 
 exist throughout the autumn, even in Paris, 
 without the excitement of a German Spa, had 
 gone with my father to Homburg some ten days 
 before. So we went our way like strangers, 
 welcomed only by the hotel-keepers along the 
 road ; and, arriving in London toward the lat- 
 ter end of August, put up at Claridge's in Brook 
 Street. 
 
 On the evening of the second day, as we 
 were sitting at desert, Hugh looked up suddenly, 
 and said — 
 
 " You are going to make a pilgrimage to- 
 morrow to your old home, are you not, Barba- 
 ra?" 
 
 " To my old home and my old nurse, dear. I 
 wan^o bring poor Goody to live with us at 
 Broomhill." 
 
 " Do so, darling, by all means. She shall have 
 one of my model cottages ; or, if you prefer it, 
 a nook in the old house, somewhere." 
 
 " Then we will let her choose, please, Hugh ; 
 but I think she will prefer a little cottage of her 
 own to a great house full of servants." 
 
 " And in the mean time," said my husband, 
 with something like a shade of embarrassment 
 in his manner, " I think of running down to 
 Broomhill myself to-morrow, for a few hours ; 
 just to — to see that all is in order before its 
 Uttle mistress makes her triumphal entry." 
 
 " What folly, dearest, when we are both going 
 the very following day !" 
 
 " Ah, but that is no longer possible, carina. 
 I have an appointment here with my lawyer for 
 that precise evening ; and my business may, per- 
 haps, detain us in town till Monday or even 
 Tuesdav next;" 
 
112 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 I looked down to conceal the tears which I 
 could not prevent from springing to my eyes. 
 This delay was almost more than I could bear ; 
 and I should have been ashamed to confess how 
 keenly I felt it. 
 
 "Besides," continued he, "the servants do 
 not yet know that we are in England. I ought 
 to have written to Mrs. Fairhead by this day's 
 post." 
 
 "Is Mrs. Fairhead the same housekeeper 
 whom I remember ?" 
 
 " The very same — an excellent old soul, whom 
 I have tormented in various ways ever since I 
 was born. By the way, she does not even know 
 that her vagabond master brings a wife home 
 with him ; so, you see, it would never do to take 
 her by surprise." 
 
 " You have not told her that we are married ?" 
 
 " Not a bit of it. I wrote home a few weeks 
 ago, to say that I was on the point of returning 
 to England, and desired the house might be 
 thoroughly ready in every part. I suppose, how- 
 ever, that I am bound to reveal the fact before 
 you make your appearance." ' 
 
 " And — and shall you really go to-morrow ?" 
 
 " I think so," replied he, carelessly. " And I 
 also think that Mr. Claridge might find us a bet- 
 ter wine. Tippoo, go down and inquire if they 
 have any genuine white Hermitage, which they 
 can particularly recommend." 
 
 Tippoo glided away ; and for some moments 
 we were uncomfortably silent. 
 
 "I — I hope you will not be long away, Hugh," 
 I faltered, presently. " I do not like being left 
 all " 
 
 " Left ?" echoed he. " Why, you little goose, 
 I shall come back by the last train." 
 
 " What, the same day ?" 
 
 " Of course. — in time for supper, if your high- 
 ness will consent to dine early and sup late." 
 
 " But how is it possible " 
 
 " Every thing is possible where there are rail- 
 ways and steam-engines. The station, carina, is 
 within eleven miles of home ; and the express 
 whirls me over all the rest of the distance in two 
 hours and a half. I'll be bound, now, that you 
 had forgotten all about the railway, and thought 
 I should be two or three days away from you !" 
 
 " I had forgotten it. Remember, I have been 
 living a conventual life these last years, and the 
 face of the world is changed since Hooked upon 
 it last. But don't you think we might go home 
 on Saturday, husband ? It is so long to wait till 
 Monday or Tuesday next ?" 
 
 He passed his hand caressingly over my hair, 
 as if I were a spoiled child, and sighed. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said; "perhaps. We shall 
 see." 
 
 "And tell me," I whispered nestling closer to 
 his side, " is Satan quiet enough for me ? I should 
 so like to ride that dear, beautiful xjreature." 
 
 " Satan ? Oh, poor old Satan ! I don't even 
 know if he is still alive. He must be sixteen 
 years old by this time, at the least." 
 
 " But if he is alive " 
 
 " If he is still ^alive, he is so old that he is sure 
 to be quiet enough for a baby. But I shall buy 
 my Barbarina a dainty cream-colored Arab, fit 
 for a princess's mounting ; and a little chaise and 
 pair of Shetlands that Cinderella might envy." 
 
 " Oh, no, Hugh — not for me." 
 
 " Not for you, you foolish birdie ? And why 
 
 not, pray ? Can any thing be too good or too 
 rare for you ? Why, I mean my wife to be the 
 best dressed and the best mounted, as well as the 
 best loved little woman in the county ! And 
 that reminds me that you must be measured for 
 a new habit before we leave town ; and the day 
 after to-morrow we must go shopping together, 
 and I will show you what a lady's man I can be, 
 and how learned I am in silks, satins, laces, cash- 
 meres, and chiffonnerie.'''' 
 
 " But, dear husband, what do I want with laces 
 and satins — I, a poor little painter, whose only 
 happiness is to be quite alone with you, and quite 
 unnoticed ?" 
 
 "My ohild," said Hugh, with a look half of 
 sad reproach, " we should have staid away, if we 
 desired to live on in our solitary paradise. In 
 Suffolk, every one knows me. I can not live 
 incognito on my own acres. When it is known 
 that I am at Broomhill, and that I have brought 
 a wife to my hearth, we shall be inundated with 
 visitors and invitations. Ah, Barbarina, you had 
 not thought of that." 
 
 I was dismayed. 
 
 " But — but we need not see them," I said. 
 " We can refuse their invitations." 
 
 " Only to a certain extent. I can not suffer 
 my neighbors to suppose that my wife is not pre- 
 sentable. There are families whom we must re- 
 ceive and visit, or we shall appear ridiculous. 
 Uncivilized as I am, carina, I have no mind to 
 become the laughing-stock of the county." 
 
 <'But " 
 
 " But there is no help for it, little wife. I am 
 willing, even now, if you desire it, to go back to 
 Italy — or travel in any direction you please. 
 East, West, North or South, without going one 
 mile farther on the road to Suffolk ; but if the 
 master of Broomhill returns thither with his 
 wife at his side, he must not forget that he is 
 the last representative of a long line of English 
 gentlemen who never yet closed their doors in 
 the faces of their neighbors, or neglected the 
 good old English virtue of hospitality." 
 
 It was the first time he had ever spoken to me 
 thus. It was the first time he had ever used a 
 tone even bordering upon authority. It was the 
 first time that I had ever heard him express any 
 thing like pride of birth, or respect for the ob- 
 servances of society. Startled, confused, al- 
 most abashed, I knew not how to answer. 
 
 " You — you did not think thus seven years 
 ago," I faltered. " You shut yourself up like a 
 hermit ; and it was Mrs. Sandyshaft who " 
 
 " Who dragged me into society," interrupted 
 he, impatiently. " I know it. But I was not a 
 married man ; and I was just seven years younger 
 than now. As I said before, Barbara, I can not 
 let the world suppose that I have made a mes- 
 alliance, and am ashamed to introduce my wife 
 in the county. We will turn back, if you please. 
 God knows, I came here only for your sake, and 
 would far rather retrace the pleasant road that 
 leads to liberty ; but, if we go forward, we must 
 be prepared to occupy our home in a manner 
 consistent with our own dignity. Which shall 
 it be— Brooriihill or Italy?" 
 
 " I — I don't know," I repHed, feeling half-hurt, 
 half angry, and bitterly disappointed. "I must 
 have time to consider — I will tell you when you 
 come back to-morrow evening." 
 
 " Nay, that will hardly do, my child ; because 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 113 
 
 if we turn back, there will be no need for me 
 to go down at all." 
 
 I went over to the window, and looked out for 
 some minutes in silence. 
 
 "Well," said Hugh, after a considerable 
 pause, " have you made up your mind, Bar- 
 barina?" 
 
 " Yes, Hugh, I have made up my mind. We 
 will go to Broomhill." 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 A PIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 It was a dull, gray day, when (having break- 
 fasted very early, and seen Hugh step into the 
 cab which was to convey him to the Eastern 
 Counties Station) I ordered a fly to be brought 
 round, and desired to be driven to that familiar 
 suburb, every street and house of which I knew 
 by heart. The way, however, was long, and the 
 approach from this side of London so new to^ 
 me, that till we turned into the High Street, I 
 scarcely recognized any of the old topography. 
 Even there, nothing seemed quite the same. 
 New houses had sprung up ; the trades in the 
 shops were many of them changed ; a smart ter- 
 race occupied the site of the stone-yard by the 
 canal ; and a church stood on the waste ground 
 where the boys used to play at cricket on sum- 
 mer afternoons. Seeing all these changes, I 
 began to fear lest the old house might be gone ; 
 but just as the doubt occurred to me it came in 
 sight, gloomy as ever, behind the dusty trees. 
 
 Finding myself so near, I stopped the car- 
 riage and went forward on foot, with a strange 
 sensation of being still a child and having left 
 the place but yesterday. I looked up at the 
 windows — they were blacker and blanker than 
 ever. I rang the bell, and its echoes jangled 
 painfully in the silence. Then, after a long, 
 long pause, a footstep slowly crossed the paved 
 space between the house-door and the gate ; a 
 key grated rustily in the lock ; and not Goody, 
 but a dark and sullen-looking woman stood be- 
 fore me. I asked for Mrs. Beever. 
 
 "Mrs. Beever?" repeated she, holding the 
 door jealously ajar, " I never heard the name." 
 
 Never heard the name ! This answer so con- 
 founded me that I scarcely knew what to say 
 next. 
 
 " She had charge of the house," I faltered. 
 
 "/have charge of the house," replied the 
 woman, " and it's let." 
 
 With this she seemed about to shut the 
 door ; but I staid her by a gesture. 
 
 " Let ?" I reiterated. "Let! Mr. Church- 
 ill " 
 
 " Mr.- Churchill is gone to live abroad," said 
 she. " If you want his address, I have it on a 
 card, indoors." 
 
 I shook my head, and, being still weak, and 
 somewhat overcome, leaned against the door- 
 way for support. 
 
 "I want the old servant," I said ; "the old 
 servant who was here before the house was given 
 up. If you can tell me where to find her, I 
 shall be very thankful." 
 
 She shook her head impatiently. She knew 
 nothing of any such person. She could give 
 me Mr. Churchill's address, if I wanted it ; but 
 
 not his servant's. That was no part of lier 
 business. And again she made as if she would 
 shut the door. 
 
 I took out my purse and spoke gently to her, 
 ungentle as she was. 
 
 "Will you let me go over the house?" I 
 said, placing a half-crown in her hand. 
 
 She glanced sharply at me, and at the coin. 
 
 " But the house is let," she said again. 
 
 " I know it. Still, if you are alone here, you 
 can let me go through the rooms. I — I lived 
 here once ; and I should like to see the place 
 again." 
 
 She seemed about to refuse ; but looked again 
 at the money, and put it in her pocket. 
 
 "Well, come in," she said, a little more civ- 
 illy. "I suppose there can be no harm in 
 that." 
 
 So I passed in. She locked the door behind 
 me, like a jailer, and followed me into the house. 
 With this I would willingly have dispensed ; but 
 she kept me in sight, suspiciously, from room to 
 room, through all the lower floors. They were 
 mostly bare, or contained only worthless lumber. 
 I asked her what had been done with Mr. Church- 
 ill's furniture, and if there had been a sale ; 
 but found that she knew, or would know, noth- 
 ing. At the foot of the garret-stairs she paused, 
 thinking it useless, I suppose, to follow farther. 
 I went up alone. 
 
 Alas ! my lonely garrets, where we used to 
 play as little children, half fearful of the silence 
 when the ringing of our baby-laughter died 
 away ! Where, a few years later, 1 spent so 
 many bitter solitary hours, blistering my books 
 with tears, and rebelling against the fate that 
 made me younger than my sisters. Where I 
 come back now, after long years, to find upon 
 the walls strange traces of my former self, 
 scribbled sentences of childish writing, and 
 charcoal outlines, half-defaced, but full, to me, 
 of their old meanings ! This, I remember, was 
 a landscape ; this. Sir Hudibras and Sidrophel ; 
 this, the vision of Mirza — all suggested by the 
 books I had read, and all bearing, at the least, 
 some stammering evidence to my inborn love 
 of art. I looked at them sadly, as one long 
 freed might decipher his own writing on the 
 walls of what had been his cell, and sighed, 
 with a retrospective pity, for my bygone self — 
 then, turning to the window, saw the strip of 
 weedy garden, and the foul canal with its slug- 
 gish barges creeping by, just as they used to 
 creep in that old time ; and far away, beyond 
 the spires and house-tops, those well-remem- 
 bered hills that had mocked me so often with 
 their summer greenness. I had trodden the 
 snows and glaciers of the Alps since last I looked 
 on them — I had dwelt with Rome and the Ti- 
 ber before my windows, and seen the sun go 
 down behind Soracte, " his own beloved mount- 
 ain ;" but I question if I ever looked on either 
 with such emotion as I felt this day in sight of 
 the only glimpse of nature that gladdened my 
 childhood. 
 
 I seemed to have been here only a few mo- 
 ments, but I suppose the time went quickly; for 
 the woman presently came iSp, as if to see what I 
 could be doing there so long. So I hurried down 
 again, almost glad to be spared the pain of staying 
 longer. At the house-door I paused, and gath- 
 ered a few leaves of dusty ivy. 
 
114 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 *' And you have no idea of where I can find 
 the servant ?" I asked for the last time. 
 
 She shook her head sullenly, and unlocked the 
 outer door. 
 
 " Perhaps they may be able to tell you over 
 there," she said, pointing to a baker's at a dis- 
 tant corner. 
 
 I passed out, and would have bade her good 
 morning ; but she shut the door behind me in 
 an instant, and turned the key. I never crossed 
 that threshold agaih. Never again. 
 
 At the baker's they could tell me nothing ; but 
 referred me to a grocer's next door. The 
 grocer directed me to Pink's Row, the third gar- 
 den on the right. Mrs. Beever, he said, had been 
 there — might be there still, for aught that he 
 could tell. At all events I should there learn 
 all particulars. So, still leaving the carriage in 
 sight, I took the grocer's little daughter for my 
 guide, and went in search of Pink's Row. 
 
 It opened from a noisy by-street, all alive 
 with stalls, and consisted of some eight or ten 
 poor dwellings, each with a narrow space of gar- 
 den railed off in front. In one or two of these 
 stood blackened skeletons of trees^ and rotting 
 summer-houses, and, perhaps, a sickly sunflower 
 tied, like a martyr, to a stake. But most of 
 them were mere uneven patches of rubbish and 
 waste ground, trodden out of all productiveness, 
 and gone utterly to ruin. 
 
 Though very small — smaller, it even seemed, 
 than the others — the third house to the right 
 looked clean and decent. A wljite blind, and a 
 flower in the window, gave it an air of cheerful- 
 ness ; and a little child playing on the threshold 
 added that precious link that binds poetry to 
 life in the poorest home. I dismissed my guide, 
 and went up to the door alone. There were 
 two women in the little room ; one by the win- 
 dow, stitching busily — the other attending to 
 something on the fire. Though her back was 
 turned, I knew the last directly. 
 
 " Goody," I said, forgetting at once all that I 
 had meant to say by way of preparation. " Goody, 
 dear, don't you know me ?" 
 
 And Goody, with an inarticulate cry, dropped 
 her saucepan, and stared at me as if I were a 
 ghost — then laughed, and sobbed, and flung her 
 arms about me, and said all the loving, foolish 
 things that she could think of 
 
 *' But sure, my lamb," she said, when the first 
 outburst was over, " sure you've not come home, 
 thinking to find the old house as it was, and with 
 nowhere else to go ? May be you didn't know 
 your father was still in foreign parts, and never 
 likely to return? Or is he with you, deary? 
 And have you left the school for good ? And has 
 he changed his mind, meaning to live in Eng- 
 land, after all ; and you with him ? Then, to 
 think of his having married again — ah, my 
 pretty, I never thought he would have done 
 that ! And to think of little Hilda being mar- 
 ried too, and to a fine foreign gentleman with a 
 title to his name ! Dear, dear, how things have 
 changed ! How things have changed !" 
 
 " And we also," I answered, holding her hands 
 in mine, and smiling to think how much I had 
 to tell her. " And we also. Goody. Don't you 
 think I am changed, since you last saw me ?" 
 
 *' Changed ! Why, you were a little child — a 
 little, pale, wee, delicate child, when you went 
 away, my deary ; and now Why, I can hard- 
 
 ly bring myself to believe it is the same littlej 
 Barbara! And yet I knew you— should have! 
 known you any where— anywhere ! You have 
 the same brown eyes, and the same smile, and 
 the same wave in your hair — oh, my darling, 
 what a happy day for me !" 
 
 I drew a chair beside her, and prepared for a 
 long chat. The younger woman had left the 
 room, taking the child with her ; and we were 
 quite alone. First I drew her simple story from 
 her, and then I told her mine. 
 
 Of all that had befallen me I found her still 
 ignorant, and of my father she had only heard 
 through the agent who li'om time to time trans- 
 mitted money to her. The house, it seemed, 
 had been given up six months ago, and she, after 
 her life's devotion, dismissed with a year's salary 
 and a message that Mr. Churchill intended, for 
 the future, to reside abroad. But of this she 
 did not even complain. She had saved money, 
 and was now living, happily enough, with her 
 married niece, whom I remembered as a tall girl 
 who played with us sometimes when we were 
 children. As for the furniture, some had been 
 sold, and some was stored away in a warehouse 
 in the neighborhood. More than this she could 
 not tell me. 
 
 Then I bade her prepare for a great surprise, 
 and so took off my glove, and, smiling, held my 
 left hand up before her eyes. Ah, me ! what 
 laughing and crying, what broken exclamations 
 and eager questions ! Was I really married ? 
 Was I happy ? Was my husband also a fine 
 foreign gentleman with a title to his name? 
 Where did I see him ? How long was it ago ? 
 And so forth, in an endless tide of questions. 
 But her delight when she found that he was an 
 English gentleman, and her wonder when I told 
 her the circumstances of our first acquaintance, 
 knew no bounds ; so I gave her the whole story 
 from beginning to end. When I had finished, 
 she drew a long breath, and said — 
 
 " Now, my lamb, please begin, and tell it to 
 me all over again ; for I'm confused in my head, 
 you see, and can hardly bring myself to believe 
 it at first !" 
 
 Whereupon I, repeated my narrative, with 
 some abridgments, and having brought it once 
 more to a close, found that it was more than 
 time to go. But she would hardly part from me. 
 
 " I will come again to-morrow, Goody," I sa?d, 
 lingering on the threshold with her hand upon 
 my shoulder. " I will come to-morrow, and take 
 you with me to our hotel. You must see my 
 husband, and love him, for my sake." 
 
 " Bless his heart !" said Goody. 
 
 " And by and by, when we are quite settled 
 at Broomhill, you shall come and live with me, 
 dear ; and never, never leave me again !" 
 
 " If I might only live to nurse another little 
 Barbara !" ejaculated Goody, with her apron to 
 her eyes. 
 
 " So good-by, till to-morrow." 
 
 She shook her head, and embraced me again, 
 and seemed so sad that, when half-way down 
 the garden, I turned back and repeated — 
 
 " Only till to-morrow, remember !" 
 
 "Maybe, my lamb. Maybe," she sobbed; 
 " but I feel as if to-morrow would be never ! 
 I don't fare to feel as if I should see you 
 again!" 
 
 But I waved my hand and hurried away, and 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 115 
 
 she stood watching me as long as I remained in 
 
 sight. 
 
 ThjB evening was very lonely without Hugh. 
 It was'the first time that we had been parted by 
 so many miles and so many hours, and it seemed 
 as if the moment of his return would never 
 come. I sent down for a railway-book ; and, 
 when it was brought, could not fathom the mys- 
 tery of the time-tables. I took up a novel, and 
 found my thoughts wandering far away from the 
 ^tory. I threw aside the novel for the ' Times,' 
 and the first column that met my eyes recorded 
 a " terrible railway accident and fearful loss of 
 life." Thoroughly restless and nervous, I then 
 took a seat by the window, and watched ^evj 
 vehicle that came and went, till impatience be- 
 came agony, and I felt as if I must go down to 
 the station to be sure that nothing had happened 
 on the line that day. Just at the very last mo- 
 ment, when it was about five-and-thirty minutes 
 past eleven, and I had made up my mind to ring 
 for a fly without further delay, a cab dashed up 
 to the door; a gentleman jumped out; there 
 was a rapid footfall on the stairs; and Hugh 
 burst into the room. 
 
 " Oh, husband, at last ! Thank heaven, at 
 last ! " 
 
 " At last, my darling, and in capital time, too," 
 he replied, cheerily. "The train was in to a 
 moment, and my cabman -had a famous horse, 
 and here I am, hungry as a hunter ! Why, you 
 look quite agitated — what is the matter ?" 
 
 " You were so late, Hugh ; and I have been 
 reading about a dreadful accident in the news- 
 paper, and " 
 
 He interrupted me with a kiss, rang loudly 
 for his supper, closed the window shiveringly, 
 and muttered something about " this diabolical 
 climate." 
 
 " Nonsense, sir," I said, " you ought to like 
 your native temperature. It is a delicious night, 
 coming after an oppressively hot day." 
 
 "A delicious purgatory! I'll buy a suit of 
 bearskins." 
 
 Do, dear. It will be quite in character. 
 But have you no news for me ? What did Mrs. 
 Fairhead say, when you told her? How does 
 the old place look ? Were they not very glad 
 to see you ? Is Satan still alive ?" 
 
 " I will not answer a single question till I 
 have had my supper." 
 
 "Nay, one, dearest — only one. Did you 
 hear any intelligence of — of my aunt?" 
 
 Hugh looked grave, and shook his head. 
 
 " I am sorry to say that I did, my Barbarina," 
 he replied. "Mrs. Sandyshaft is ill — very ill." 
 
 "Ill ! ^' I echoed, all my gayety deserting me 
 in a moment. " What is the matter with her ?" 
 
 "I don't know. Some kind of low fever, I 
 fancy. They told me she had been confined to 
 her bed for the last fortnight or more." 
 
 "Low fever — so old as she is — so strong 
 and healthy as sh6 has always been ! Do they 
 say she is in danger ?" 
 
 " Indeed, I fear so. Doctor Topham, I am 
 told, is far from sanguine, and " 
 
 " Let us go," I interrupted, vehemently. 
 " Let us go at once. Oh, I thank God that we 
 are in England ! " 
 
 I had risen, in my excitement, and moved 
 toward the door ; but he brought me back to 
 
 my chair, and took my hands gently between his 
 own. 
 
 " Be patient, my darling,"- he said. "I have 
 already considered what must be done." 
 
 " Considered ! Oh, heavens ! as if there yvere 
 time for considering !" 
 
 " Plenty of time, if one be only calm. Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft is very ill, but I have not heard that 
 she is dying. Besides, we can not go at once. 
 It is impossible." 
 
 " Nothing is impossible ! with post-horses " 
 
 " With money and post-horses," said my hus- 
 band, "we could certainly travel all night, very 
 uncomfortably ; but to-morrow morning, by the 
 better help of the railway, we shall reach Ipswich 
 in three hours and a half. Besides, we can 
 telegraph in advance, and have a post-chaise 
 waiting for us at the station." 
 
 "You are right, Hugh," I admitted, after a 
 brief silence. " Forgive my impatience." 
 
 " As heartily as you forgive your aunt for her 
 long neglect." 
 
 " Hush, Hugh I I remember only her love." 
 
 Just then, the supper was brought, and we 
 sat down to table. Hungry as he said he was, 
 Hugh ate but little, and made no effort to resume 
 his temporary cheerfulness. By and by, the 
 supper was removed, and the hookah brought ; 
 but the hour of our most genial intercourse went 
 by in unbroken silence ; and the cloud that had 
 brooded over Hugh for the last few weeks came 
 and settled more heavily than ever on his brow : 
 settled like the darkness on the earth ; like the 
 weight on my own heart. 
 
 Alas ! dear Goody, there are such things as 
 presentiments, let those deny them who will ! 
 I shall be far away to-morrow — far away ! 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 
 
 It was between three and four o'clock, and 
 we had been traveling by rail and road for 
 nearly five hours ; so we left our spattered post- 
 chaise down at the inn, and walked up the hill 
 together. There had been rain during the 
 greater part of the day; but the clouds were 
 now clearing off rapidly, and %he red sunlight 
 of the autumnal afternoon glittered on the wet 
 leaves in the hedges, and in the rain-pools on 
 the road. Presently a laborer passed us, dilving 
 a tumbril with the name of Ann Sandyshaft 
 painted on the side. 
 
 "Good evening, friend," said Hugh. "Is 
 your mistress better to-day ? " 
 
 The man touched his cap, and stared at us 
 vacantly. Hugh repeated the question. 
 
 " Oh* ay," drawled he, " she's bad enough, 
 and to spare, master. Yon comes the Doctor. 
 Ask him." 
 
 And with this, and a prolonged shake of the 
 head, he plodded on his way. At the same 
 moment a single horseman came round the bend 
 of the road behind us, and was about to pass on 
 with a civil salutation, when Hugh stepped for- 
 ward and took the pony by the reins. 
 
 " Dr. Topham," said he, " I hope you are not 
 going to pass me like a stranger ?" 
 
 " God blesa my soul, sir! " exclaimed Dr. 
 Topham. " Is it — is it possible that I see Mr. 
 Farquhar, of Broomhill ?" 
 
116 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 " Such as he is, you do," replied Hugh. And 
 they shook hands heartily. 
 
 " You — you come upon us, Mr. Farquhar, like 
 an apparition," said the little man, still flurried 
 and surprised. "Egad, sir, you did the same 
 thing a few years ago, and startled the whole 
 county by appearing suddenly, like a jack in a 
 box ! What part of the globe do you come from 
 now, pray?" 
 
 " From Italy," replied Hugh, " where I have 
 been residing for nearly a year." 
 
 *' Italy ! Why, Randall told me the other day 
 that you were in America!" ejaculated the 
 Doctor, with a side glance at myself. " Ton 
 my life, the fellow said America to hoax me !" 
 
 " Randall is an excellent steward," said Hugh, 
 quietly, " and knows that I do not care to let 
 * the stones prate of my whereabout.' America 
 does well enough for an answer." 
 
 The Doctor scratched his ear, and looked 
 puzzled. Then glanced at me again. 
 
 " I suppose," said he, pointing with his whip- 
 handle in the direction of the hall, " I suppose 
 you have heard the sad news over yonder, Mr. 
 Farquhar ? Our pooc friend, Mrs. Sandyshaft — 
 very ill, very ill, indeed. Low fever — debility 
 — my second visit to her to-day, sir — -jny second 
 visit." 
 
 " Indeed I have heard of it," replied Hugh, 
 " and that brings me to the subject of my sud- 
 den arrival. But I have not yet introduced you 
 to my wife. Barbara, I think you are not un- 
 acquainted with the name of Doctor Topham ?" 
 
 Dr. Topham took off his hat, and bowed pro- 
 foundly. 
 
 *' I — I really had no idea," he stammered. 
 " This is surprise upon surprise ! The — the 
 honor — the pleasure — the — the congratulations 
 
 Egad, I'm so amazed that I don't know 
 
 what to say !" 
 
 " Amazed to find Benedick a married man, or 
 amazed that Beatrice should turn out to be 
 an old acquaintance, eh, Doctor ?" laughed my 
 husband. 
 
 The little man looked more bewildered than 
 ever. 
 
 "Excuse me," he said, "but, proud as I am 
 to become acquainted with a lady so — in short, 
 with Mrs. FarquRar — I can not presume to— to 
 lay claim to any previous " 
 
 " For shame. Dr. Topham !" I interposed. 
 " Do you forget Barbara — little Barbara 
 Churchill ?" 
 
 Dr. Topham deliberately dismounted, put his 
 hat on the pony's head, and kissed me on both 
 cheeks. 
 
 " From this time forth," said he, " I will 
 never be astonished at any thing." 
 
 In a few moments more he had passed his 
 arm through the bridle, and we were all walking 
 on slowly, side by side, with the gables of 
 Stoneycroft Hall peeping over the trees some 
 little distance ahead. 
 
 " I am glad you are here," he said ; " more 
 glad than I can tell you. And I am also very 
 glad to have met you before you went up to the 
 house. The shock might have excited her too 
 much, and this enables me to prepare her for 
 it. The sight of your face, Barbara, will do her 
 more good than all the physic in ray surgery. I 
 beg your pardon — old habit, you see I Mrs. 
 Farquhar, I should say." 
 
 " No, no. Doctor — please call me Barbara." 
 
 "Well then, Barbara, I look upon you as a 
 great tonic to be employed for my patient's 
 benefit. Poor soul ! how she has longed to 
 see you !" 
 
 " Oh, Doctor Topham ! has she ever really 
 said so ?" 
 
 " Said so ? Hundreds of times." 
 
 " Then she has not forgotten me ?" 
 
 " If she had forgotten you, would she have 
 sent for you ?" 
 
 " What do you mean ? Sent for me ?" 
 
 " Why, of course. If not, how should you 
 be here now? You — surely you received my 
 letter ?" 
 
 It was now my turn to be puzzled. 
 
 "I know of no letter," I said; "and if you 
 have written to my father, I have heard nothing 
 of it. He is at Spa, and very seldom writes 
 to me." 
 
 " Then mine, being addressed to his old club 
 in London, has most likely followed him," said 
 the Doctor ; " which explains both his silence 
 and yours. But what lucky accident brought 
 you home ? And how did you know that Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft was ill ? And — and, above all, how 
 is it that at the very time when we believed you 
 to be still learning your lessons in some foreign 
 school, you turn out to be married and settled 
 — married, by all that's incomprehensible, to 
 Fai-quhar of Broomhill ?" 
 
 " Is that so wonderful ?" asked Hugh, 
 amused at the Doctor's mystification. " You 
 forget that Barbara and I have known each 
 other ever since I was last in England. It is 
 quite an old attachment." 
 
 " An old attachment ?" repeated Doctor Top- 
 ham, incredulously. " Humph ! I should as 
 soon have expected to see her married to the 
 Wandering Jew." 
 
 " Thank you ; but the disparity is hardly so 
 great." 
 
 " I don't allude to your age, Mr. Farquhar, 
 but to your habits," said the Doctor, quickly. 
 " You must remember that we are accustomed 
 to think of you as the Flying Dutchman. We 
 hear of you as being everywhere by turns, and 
 nowhere long; and that you could ever commit 
 any thing so civilized as matrimony, never 
 entered the sphere of our calculations. Then to 
 think that Barbara, our little Barbara should be 
 
 Upon my soul, Mr. Farquhar, I believe it 
 
 would have surprised me less if you had married 
 an Indian begum, or a North American squaw !" 
 
 " You do my taste but Httle honor, then," 
 said Hugh, " and give me credit for nothing but 
 my love of locomotion. A pretty reputation 
 for a county gentleman ! But see, Barbara, 
 here we are at the garden-gate, where you so 
 often ran to meet me. The place looks just the 
 same." 
 
 Ah me ! it did, indeed. Nothing was changed. 
 There were the same roses on the porch — the 
 same swallows' nests under the eaves — the same 
 laurels at the gate — the same old trees shower- 
 ing down their russet leaves upon the pond ! 
 
 The doctor tied his pony to the staple in the 
 wall, as he used to tie it years ago, and preceded 
 us up the path. In the porch he paused, and 
 laid his hand upon my shoulder. 
 
 " God bless you, Barbara," he said earnestly. 
 " If any thing can save her now, it will be your 
 
IJAKJhfAKA'b HlSlUKi. 
 
 TTT 
 
 presence. I scarcely hoped to see you, child ; 
 and had it depended on your father, I don^t 
 believe you would have been here now. But it 
 depended on a higher will. There is a Provi- 
 dence in the chance that brought you — a great 
 and gracious Providence." 
 
 Saying which, he reverently took off his hat, 
 and I noticed for the first time how his hair had 
 silvered since last I saw him. 
 
 " She is my oldest friend," he added, sorrow- 
 fully, "and the best I ever had. Hush! go 
 into the parlor, and wait till I have been .up- 
 stairs." 
 
 We went into the little parlor with the 
 deep bay window, which I remembered so well. 
 A strange servant was preparing the doctor's 
 te», but dropped a startled courtesy at the sight 
 of strangers, and vanished. There stood my 
 aunt's chair and footstool, and yonder, in its old 
 place, the bookcase half filled with the ponder- 
 ous Encyclopaedia, I sat down in the nearest 
 seat, faint with agitation and fatigue ; wMle my 
 husband, absorbed in his own thoughts, stood 
 looking out upon the garden. 
 
 " Of course, Barbara," he said, after a long 
 silence, " you will not think of leaving here for 
 the next day or two ?" 
 
 " I suppose not," I answered, with a sigh. 
 
 *' I have sent Tippoo to Broomhill for a 
 horse," he added. 
 
 " For a horse, Hugh ?" 
 
 " Certainly. You did not suppose that I 
 could establish myself here without invitation ?" 
 
 I had not thought about it; but it seemed 
 like an evil omen that my husband should go 
 home this first night to his own roof, alone. 
 
 " No, no," I said, " do not do that. Stay 
 here, or take me with you." 
 
 " I can not stay here," he said hastily, " in a 
 sick-house — uninvited — unexpected— it would be 
 impossible. And as for taking you with me — 
 why, you are no longer a child to ride before me 
 on the pummel 1" 
 
 " We could get the postchaise which we left 
 in the village !" 
 
 But he waved his hand impatiently. 
 
 "Nonsense, darUng," he said, "you talk like 
 a child. It is clearly your place to stay, and 
 mine to go. I shall be down here again to 
 breakfast, and you will scarcely have had time to 
 miss me. Why, what folly is this ? Tears for 
 such a trifle !" 
 
 " It is no trifle to me. Call it folly, superstition, 
 if you please ; but I can not bear that you should 
 go back to Broomhill without me. I feel as if it 
 were a bad beginning to our home-life ; and — 
 and we have never yet been parted " 
 
 The door opened, and Dr. Topham came in. 
 
 " I have kept you waiting a long time," said 
 he ; " but I was obliged to prepare her by de- 
 grees. She knows now that you are here, Bar- 
 bara, and is ready to see you ; but we must be ' 
 careful not to excite her. She is very weak to- 
 day." 
 
 " But not in danger ?" 
 
 " In no immediate danger. If, however, she 
 were not to rally within the next twelve hours, I 
 should begin to fear seriously for the result. 
 But you have been giving way to nervousndfcs, 
 and unfitting yourself for the interview. That is 
 very wrong, Barbara. Tears and trembling do 
 no good to an invaUd, and often a great deal of | 
 
 harm. You must compose yourself before you 
 go up." 
 
 Seeing how Hugh persisted, and how lightly 
 he put my remonstrance aside, I felt angry with 
 myself and him, and forced myself to be firm. 
 
 " I am not nervous now," I said. " You may 
 trust me to go up." 
 
 " I think I may," he rephed approvingly. 
 " You are a brave little woman. Please to re- 
 member, however, that your aunt is not in a 
 state to bear any farther surprise or excitement. 
 You are still little Barbara Churchill, and Mr. 
 Farquhar here is still at the Antipodes. Let 
 this be understood between us." 
 
 " With all my heart." 
 
 " Then follow me." 
 
 So we went, leaving Hugh still loitering gloom- 
 ily about the parlor, with the twilight thickening 
 fast, and the rain beginning to pelt against the 
 panes. The next moment I was on the thresh- 
 old of the sick-chamber, forgetting all my lesser 
 troubles in the sight of that curtainless bed, and 
 the gaunt figure reclining on it, like a/statue on 
 a tomb. Her face was turned toward the win- 
 dow, so that her profile came for an instant be- 
 tween me and the light, stern as ever, but 
 sharpened by time and sickness. Her hands lay 
 listlessly upon the counterpane. Her hair was 
 drawn back beneath the same plain cap that she 
 always used to wear. After all, she was not so 
 much changed as I had expected. As the door 
 closed, she turned her head and said, faintly and 
 slowly : — 
 
 " Bab, is it you ?" 
 
 In answer to which I kissed her on the brow, 
 and said, as composedly as I could : — 
 
 " Yes, aunt, it is I." 
 
 She waved me back by a feeble gesture, and 
 pointed to the foot of the bed. 
 
 " Stand there, Bab," she said, " and take that 
 bonnet off. I want to look at you." 
 
 I obeyed her, and stood there, holding my 
 breath lest it should break into sobs. When 
 she had looked long enough, she beckoned me 
 back, and bade me sit beside her. Then, turn- 
 ing her face again to the window — 
 
 " The light is going," she said. " Put the blinds 
 back, that I may watch it to the last." 
 
 A servant sitting by the fire rose and ^rew 
 them back ; but the sky was wild and dark, and 
 the rain continued to come in heavy gusts. 
 
 " A bad night at sea," observed the doctor, 
 briskly. " I don't envy those who are beating 
 about the Atlantic in this treacherous wind." 
 
 But she seemed scarcely to hear him, and kept 
 her eyes fixed upon the fading twilight. When 
 it was quite gone, and all beyond the casement 
 looked darker than within, she sighed heavily, 
 asked for lights, and complained that the dark- 
 ness seemed to weigh upon her. 
 
 " Bab," she sSW after a while," you look older 
 than I expected." 
 
 "I am eighteen, dear aunt," I replied, "and 
 it is seven years since you saw me." 
 
 " Tush, you are a child still. Only eighteen ! 
 But you look older." 
 
 To which, being warned by a sign from the 
 doctor, I made no answer. 
 
 " You have had no froubles ?" she asked after 
 another pause. " You are not unhappy ?" 
 
 " No — my troubles have been few, and I shall 
 be quite happy when you are well again." 
 
Something like a 'faint smile passed over her 
 face, as I said this, and took her hand in mine. 
 Alas ! how thin and weak it was, and I remem- 
 bered it so firm and masculine ! 
 
 " Poor Bab !" she mmnnured. " Poor little 
 Bab ! I knew you would come back to me at 
 last !" 
 
 And with this she closed her eyes, and seemed 
 to fall suddenly asleep. The doctor laid his 
 finger on his lip, and drew a chair softly to the 
 fire ; but I could not stir, for her hand remained 
 in mine, and I fea,red to wake her. And still 
 the wind moaned round the gables, and the rain 
 came and went in stormy bursts ; and save the 
 dropping of a cinder on the hearth, or the tick- 
 ing of my aunt's great watch upon the chimney- 
 piece, all within was silent as the grave. A long 
 time went by thus ; and at last, being myself 
 very weak and tired, I also fell into an uneasy 
 sleep, from which I woke up every few minutes 
 without the power to keep myself from dropping 
 off again. By and by, something, I knew not 
 what, roused me all at once, and seeing that my 
 aunt still slept, and that Dr. Topham was nod- 
 ding in his chair, I sat up and Ustened. Hush ! 
 is it a horse's footfall on the wet road ? Is that 
 the latch of the side-gate ? Do I not hear a 
 sound like the cautious opening of a door down- 
 stairs ? 
 
 Breathlessly, and by the gentlest degrees, I 
 drew my hand away without waking her, crept 
 to the door, felt my way along the corridor, and 
 ran down in the dark, taking, by a kind of in- 
 stinct, the passage leading to the back of the 
 house. 
 
 I found him standing by the open door, pen- 
 ciling some Avords on a leaf torn from his 
 pocket-book, while the servant stood beside him 
 with a lantern. Seeing me, he crushed the 
 paper in his hand and flung it away. 
 
 " I was bidding you good night, carissima,''^ 
 he said, in Italian ; " but paper farewells are not 
 worth the having. I am glad you have come, 
 though I would not send for you." 
 
 " Cruel ! Then you will go ?" 
 
 " I must. Hush ! do not try to persuade me. 
 It is better thus, and yet — and yet I am weak 
 enough to yield, if you look at me with those 
 imploring eyes. No — ^no — I must go, for your 
 sake more than mine. Oh ! Barbara, Barbara, 
 why did you bring me back to England ?" 
 
 " What can you mean ?" I cried. " For God's 
 sake, stay with me. You are not well, Hugh !" 
 
 "Nor ill, my love. Pshaw ! it is hard to kiss 
 and ride away, like a knight in a novel — but 
 the rain beats in upon you, and if I close this 
 door I shall not have courage to open it again ! 
 Good-by, my wife, my own — the night will be 
 long without thee !" 
 
 Thus, clasping me closely in his arms, he 
 kissed me twice or thrice ; broke away, as if he 
 dared not trust his resolution ; sprang into the 
 saddle ; and was gone. 
 
 All without was intensely dark. I could see 
 nothing — nothing but the groom leisurely pre- 
 paring to follow his master, and the rainpools 
 lying round the door. I could not even hear 
 his horse's footfalls for the raving of the wind. 
 So, cold and heavy-hearted, I came in and closed 
 the door, and thought how empty the house 
 seemed now that he was no longer in it — how 
 empty life would be without him — and, above 
 
 all, how strange his moods had been of late, 
 how irritable, how impatient, how wayward ! 
 Musing and wondering thus, perplexing myself 
 with questions that I could not answer, and with 
 doubts that I could not solve, I made my way 
 slowly back to the door of my aunt's chamber 
 — then, remembering the scrap of writing he had 
 thrown away, stole down again to look for it. 
 It was but a tiny crumpled leaf, and the wind 
 had blown it into a distant corner ; but I found 
 it, for all that, and rescued it from the dust, and 
 smt>othed it out tenderly, as if it were a sentient 
 thing to be prized and comforted. 
 
 There were only a few words scrawled hastily 
 in pencil — a few Italian words, beginning with 
 " anima mia" and breaking off abruptly before 
 the ending of the first sentence ; but the " ankna 
 mia^^ was enough. It consoled, it made me 
 happy. I felt that I was no longer alone, and 
 that his love and his thoughts would be with me 
 all the weary night. *' Aoiima mia " — my Soul ! 
 Was I indeed his soul ? his very soul ? more than 
 his heart — more than his wife — more even than 
 himself ? Nay, better than himself— his soul, the 
 spiritual and divine part of his nature — the gift 
 of God ! I kissed the paper, hid it in my bosom, 
 and went up again to my place by the bedside. 
 Alas ! on what trifles do our smiles and tears 
 depend, and how eagerly we interpret all things 
 to our comfort ! I had already forgotten much 
 that was unexplained in his conduct, much that 
 had pained me in his speech ; and, child that I 
 was ! blamed only myself for my past uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 My aunt continued to sleep all that evening, 
 and' Dr. Topham to sit before the fire, drinking 
 strong tea to keep himself awake. At ten 
 o'clock, seeing how worn out I was, he insisted 
 on dismissing me for the night, and so I found 
 myself once more occupying the same bedroom 
 which was mine years ago. Perhaps I fell 
 asleep dreaming the same dreams, and, waking, 
 found myself whispering the same name as of 
 old! 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 MY AUNT AND THE DOCTOR CONTINUE TO DIFFER. 
 
 " Mrs. S.," said Dr. Topham, " you are con- 
 siderably better this morning." 
 
 " Nothing of the kind," replied my aunt. " I 
 feel much weaker." 
 
 " That is because the fever has left you.'' 
 
 My aunt shook her head. 
 
 " And for that very reason," persisted the 
 doctor, " you are better." 
 
 " I am a great deal worse," said my aunt, 
 " and worn out for want of sleep." 
 
 "But you have slept profoundly all night 
 long," urged the doctor.- 
 
 *' Not a wink," said my aunt. 
 
 " Thirteen hours, by my watch," said the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Thirteen fiddlesticks !"• ejaculated my aunt 
 contemptuously. 
 
 The doctor turned red, and took up his hat 
 with great dignity. 
 
 " I presume, Mrs. Sandyshaft," said he, "that 
 I may be allowed to trust the testimony of my 
 senses. I tell you that you have slept, and I 
 tell you that you are better. If you do not 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 119 
 
 choose to believe me, you are at liberty to call 
 in any other opinion you please." 
 
 " Of course I am," said my aunt, tartly. " I 
 knew that without your telling me." 
 
 Dr. Topham bowed his stiffest bow. 
 
 " And as to the matter of better or worse, I 
 suppose I am the best judge of my own feel- 
 ings," added my aunt. 
 
 The doctor bowed again. 
 
 " If I choose to die, it's my business, and con- 
 cerns nobody but myself — eh ?" 
 
 " Oh, certainly !" 
 
 "And if I choose to live " 
 
 "If you choose to live, Mrs. Sandyshaft," 
 interrupted the doctor, dwelling somewhat satiri- 
 cally on the verb, " you will also cfioose, I hope, 
 to assign me some little credit for my share in 
 helping you to do so." 
 
 My aunt smiled good-humoredly. 
 
 " Topham," said she, " you are an idiot,/Tind 
 I have always told you so. I suppose I am 
 better, or I should not have the spirit to quarrel 
 with you." 
 
 " Quarrel with me as much as you please, my 
 dear friend," replied the little man, with a sud- 
 den break in his voice, and an odd quivering of 
 the lip. " Abuse me to your heart's content — 
 I deserve it all, and I was a fool to be irritated. 
 I ought to have been glad — I am glad — I — I am 
 more glad than I know how to express. Bless 
 my heart, you couldn't have aggravated me yes- 
 terday, if your life had depended on it !" 
 
 "I don't believe I could," admitted my aunt ; 
 " but Where's Bab all this time ?" 
 
 Whereupon Bab, who had been listening 
 behind the door, with a strong inclination to 
 laugh and an equally strong inclination to cry, 
 came in precipitately, and spoiled the situation 
 by yielding to both weaknesses at once. 
 
 " Good gracious, Bab," said my aunt testily, 
 " you're more tiresome than the doctor ! Be 
 quiet, for goodness' sake, and don't make your 
 eyes red." 
 
 "Ay, to be sure, Miss Barbara, don't you 
 see that your conduct is neither agreeable nor 
 well-timed?'.' chuckled the doctor, rubbing his 
 hands. " Don't you linow that sentiment is 
 misplaced, and that your aunt wants her break- 
 fast ? You do want your breakfast, don't you, 
 Mrs. S. ? You are experiencing a return of ap- 
 petite, are you not, Mrs. S.?" 
 
 My aunt reluctantly conceded the point, and 
 Dr. Topham rang the bell, and ordered a supply 
 of tea and toast immediately. 
 
 " I tell you what it is, ma'am," he said, 
 " those thirteen hours of sleep have been the 
 salvation of you. All that you now want is 
 nutriment — beef-tea, jellies, port wine, tonics 
 and all the good things we can think of; and 
 if you are not strong and well in three weeks 
 from this, I'll lose my head." 
 
 " No great loss, either," observed my aunt, 
 politely. 
 
 " You flatter me." 
 
 " But of one thing, Topham," she continued, 
 breaking her toast into the cup which I was 
 holding, " I may as well warn you at once. I 
 take no more of your poison." 
 
 " Poison !" echoed the doctor, aghast. 
 
 "Ay, poison. I've had enough of it — too 
 much, I dare say ; but if so, I forgive you. At 
 all events, I'll not touch another drop of it ; and 
 
 if you send me any more, I'll make you drink 
 it." 
 
 " Mrs. Sandyshaft," began the doctor, " you 
 are the most unreasonable, and the most " 
 
 "Topham," interposed my aunt, "hold your 
 tongue. If you were to talk till midnight it 
 would make no difference. Bab, my dear, you 
 don't look nearly so old this morning." 
 
 " My dear aunt," I replied, " that is becaufe 
 I am so happy. Yesterday, you know, I was 
 both very tired and very anxious — and besides 
 I, also, am only just recovering from an ill- 
 ness." , 
 
 She looked at me tenderly, and patted my 
 cheek, just as she used to pat it when she was 
 pleased with me, years ago. 
 
 "Poor Bab!" she said. "Poor little Bab! 
 What has been the matter with you ? Over 
 study ?" 
 
 "No — home-sickness, I think. I pined to 
 come back to England again, and fell ill." 
 
 " Ay — true. They sent you to some foreign 
 school, did they not ? Yes, yes. I remember. 
 I wrote to you, and your father sent me back 
 my letter. He would not tell me where you 
 were, Bab, and he would not send my letter to 
 you. I wonder he has allowed you to come to 
 me at all ; but I suppose he thought I was 
 dying, and it couldn't matter !" 
 
 " Oh, my dear aunt, did you really write to 
 me?" 
 
 " Write to you, child ! Ay, to be sure I did 
 — and, after you were gone, would have given 
 all I possessed to get you back again. Not that 
 lever confessed so much, however! No — I 
 was too proud to do that. Mercy on us, whit 
 fools we all are !" 
 
 " And I who thought you had forgotten me ! 
 
 I who was also too proud to — to I shall 
 
 never forgive myself!" , 
 
 My aunt, who had all this time been progress- 
 ing with her tea and toast in the most matter-of- 
 fact manner, dealt me a smart blow with the 
 spoon, and'bade me hold my peace. 
 
 " Here you are," said she, " and that's enough. 
 Don't let us have any whimpering about it. 
 Now tell me, were you happy at the outlandish 
 place they sent you to ? And did they treat 
 you kindly when you were ill ? And did you 
 learn any thing worth knowing, besides their 
 gibberish ? Come, you have plenty of news for 
 me, Bab." 
 
 " All of which must for the present be reserv- 
 ed," interposed the doctor. " Mrs. S., I am not 
 going to let you talk yourself into a relapse of 
 the fever. Miss Barbara, I forbid every thing 
 like news. Suppose that you and I take a turn 
 in the garden together, while your aunt rests 
 from the fatigue of^this last half-hour ?" 
 
 Saying which, and despite my aunt's remon- 
 strances, he drew my arm through his, and led 
 me from the room. In the parlor below, we 
 found Hugh waiting. He had come round 
 quietly by the back-way, and, true to his pro- 
 mise, was in time for breakfast. 
 
 " Well, little wife !" said he. " Well, doctor, 
 what news of your patient?" 
 
 " The best — the best in the world," replied 
 Dr. Topham, joyfully. " A reaction has taken 
 place, and the danger is past. I believe we 
 must thank Mrs. Farquhar for some share in this 
 result." 
 
120 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 My husband smiled, and drew me fondly to 
 his side. 
 
 " I have more than once found her to be the 
 best of physicians," he said. 
 
 "Well, last night she surpassed herself, for 
 she sent Mrs. Sandyshaft to sleep for thirteen 
 consecutive hours. But you, by the by, look as 
 if you had scarcely slept at all." 
 
 " I ?" said Hugh, with some embarrassment. 
 " Oh, I am right enough. I sat up late with my 
 steward, looking through the accounts." 
 
 "Very foolish, vei-y foolish, indeed!" said 
 Dr. Topham. " What business has ^n independ- 
 ent man to work by night, when every hour of 
 the day is at his disposal ? Barbara^ my dear, 
 you must not let your husband do these incon- 
 siderate things. See how haggard and ill he 
 looks to-day !" 
 
 " Nonsense, doctor, I tell you I am well 
 enough," exclaimed Hugh, impatiently. " I do 
 not habitually sit up beyond midnight, but last 
 night " 
 
 " Last night you had no one to call you to 
 order, eh ?" suggested the doctor. " Well, 
 well, we must bind you over to keep good hours 
 for some few nights yet to come — that is, if 
 you will spare us our physician till the patient 
 is out of all danger ?" 
 
 " Nay, for how long will that be ?" 
 
 "Four or five days, at the most." 
 
 " Four or five days !" repeated my husband. 
 " Steal my little Barbara from me for four or 
 five days — why, I shall be lost without her !" 
 
 But though he sighed as he said this, and 
 played reluctantly with my hair, a strange, im- 
 probable notion flashed across my mind. Could 
 it be a relief to him that I must stay for some 
 days longer at Stoneycroft Hall ? 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE FIRST NIGHT AT BROOMHILL. 
 
 Hamlet. — Do you see nothing there ? 
 Queen. — Nothing at all ; yet all that is I see 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 " Well, Bab, what's done can't be undone," 
 observed my aunt, " and marriages, they say, 
 are made in heaven — though, for my part, I be- 
 lieve they are much oftener concocted in t'other 
 place. I suppose we must just try to make the 
 best of it." . 
 
 " Try to make the best of it !" I repeated. 
 " Why, my dear aunt, there is no effort needed. 
 I am perfectly happy." 
 
 My aunt shook her head, ominously. 
 
 "Poor child — poor little Bab!" said she. 
 " So young ! Such a tender, foolish, inexperi- 
 enced baby ! Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! She ought 
 to be at school now. Farquhar of Broomhill, 
 indeed ! A man old enough to be her father " 
 
 "I beg your pardon, aunt," I interposed, 
 somewhat warmly. " Hugh is only thirty -four, 
 and, for freshness of feeling, might be ten years 
 younger." 
 
 "Freshness of fiddlededee !" said my aunt. 
 "What freshness of feeling can any man retain, 
 after knocking about the world for ten or fifteen 
 years? Why, child, he is the most unsettled, 
 uncivilizedj uncertain of God's creatures ! He'll 
 be taking you here, and there, and everywhere 
 
 all your life long, just as the fancy strikes him ; 
 and as to a quiet life and a happy home, you'll 
 never know what they are for six months toge- 
 ther. I confess to you, Bab, that I'm disap- 
 pointed. I thought to have had you back, and 
 to have kept you with me for as few, or as many, 
 years as I may have to live ; and now I find you 
 whipped off" by a fellow who may take you next 
 week to the antipodes, for aught that I can say 
 or do to prevent it ! It's aggravating, Bab." 
 
 "But, my dear aunt, I have already explained 
 this to you, and told you that I now hope to 
 settle permanently at Broomhill. What more 
 can you desire than to have me always near you, 
 and united to the man whom I love best in the 
 world — whom I have loved all my life ?" 
 
 " You might as well have fallen in love with 
 the weathercock on my bam I" exclaimed my 
 aunt, "But it was my own fault ever to have 
 made his acquaintance — I, who hated the very 
 name of Farquhar ! I, who would not have 
 crossed his father's threshold for a hundred 
 pounds !" 
 
 " But you liked him — you invited him — you 
 visited him !" 
 
 " He amused me," said my aunt, tartly. 
 " And when he was ill, you nursed him !" 
 " I would have done the same for any one 
 else." 
 
 "But not in the same way. Nay, dear aunt, 
 Hugh is my husband, and I love him — I respect 
 him — I honor him. I know how brave and true 
 he is. I know how superior he is to me in know- 
 ledge, and what deep springs of poetry lie hidden 
 beneath the careless surface of his daily life. I 
 read his noble nai;ure though you can not read it ; 
 and I know how it was embittered by solitude 
 and want of sympathy. Be just to him, I en- 
 treat you ; and if you no longer feel the friend- 
 ship you once felt for him, for my sake, at least, 
 respect the goodness and greatness that is in 
 him !" 
 
 My aunt shrugged her slioulders, and looked as 
 though she pitied me for my infatuation. 
 
 "He must do something great before I ac- 
 knowledge his greatness," she said ; " and as for 
 
 respect " 
 
 " And as for respect," I interposed hastily, " I 
 am not aware that my husband has ever for- 
 feited his just claim to it from all who know 
 him. You seem to forget, aunt, that he is, by 
 birth and fortune, a gentleman." 
 
 " Oh, I forget nothing — not even his fortune, 
 which he squanders abroad like an Englishman 
 and a fool !" 
 
 I remained silent. 
 
 "Nor his talents, which rust, for want of use 
 — nor the idle life that he has led all these years, 
 dangling about picture-galleries, writing his 
 name upon pyramids, and shooting monkeys 
 in American forests ! Mercy on us ! what sort 
 of a career do you call that for a county gentle- 
 man ? I tell you, Bab, it's neither poetry, nor 
 philosophy, nor want of sympathy that sends 
 a man vagabondizing all over the world in that 
 mad way — it's the mere love of excitement, and 
 nothing else. The same shallow, vulgar, fatal 
 passion that drives a poor man to the ale-house, 
 and a rogue to the gallows — take my word for 
 it." 
 
 What language to stand by and hear from her 
 lips ! I dared not trust my tongue to answer, 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 121 
 
 lest it should utter something unforgivable; 
 but I turned away, and, standing in the deep 
 embrasure of the window, shed tears of mor- 
 tification. It was the fourth day of my stay 
 at Stoneycroft Hall, and my aunt was so far re- 
 covered that Hugh had arranged to come for 
 me in the evening, and take me home to Broom- 
 hill. In the mean time I had told her the story 
 of my love and my happiness, and she, in return, 
 had spoken words too bitter, ah ! surely too bit- 
 ter to carry with them any leaven of the truth ! 
 And yet — what if his love for me were only to 
 last till the excitement had burnt out, and were 
 then to crumble away into dust and ashes? 
 What if he were to grow weary and restless, and 
 go back some day to his old wild life, and leave 
 me weeping ? The thought was too teri'ible. I 
 dared not dwell upon it. 
 
 Alas ! life knows no darker moment than that 
 which first disturbs our faith in the fair romance 
 of the future. Happily our incredulityis brief 
 The shock is too rude, and the arrow, like vault- 
 ing ambition, " o'erleaps itself" and flies beyond 
 the mark. The idol of a woman's love is not so 
 easily hurled from its pedestal. For my part, I 
 believed only the more implicitly for having 
 wavered, however momentarily, in my faith ; 
 and so lifted my idol from the dust, and kissed 
 it reverently, and fell down again, and wor- 
 shiped it. 
 
 It was but the revolution of a few moments ; 
 yet in those few moments I passed through a 
 whole cycle of feeling, and became, by some 
 strange alchemy of passion, other than I was 
 before. What h5,d happened to me ? I could 
 scarcely tell. I only felt calmer, better, more 
 worthy of myself and him. Ten years seemed 
 to have flown suddenly over my head, and to 
 have brought with them clearer convictions of 
 duty, and deeper resources of self-help. My 
 pride as a woman, my dignity as a wife, were 
 developed, as it were, spontaneously, from this 
 ordeal of doubt"; and I felt that, happen what 
 might, no deed or thought of mine should ever 
 seem to sanction the injustice of others. Whose 
 tongue so fit as mine to "smooth his name," 
 though all the world should mangle it ? Whose 
 faith so necessary, whose respect so justly due 
 to him ? In less time than it has taken to write, 
 these things succeeded each other in my mind, 
 and determined my line of conduct for the fu- 
 ture. 
 
 I put back the curtain behind which I had 
 concealed my trouble, and returned quietly to 
 my seat beside the bed. 
 
 " Aunt," I said, " for our mutual peace and 
 love, let this conversation never be renewed. It 
 is my place to silence those who censure my hus- 
 band — not to defend him, for he needs no de- 
 fense. His honor and mine, his interests and 
 mine, are one ; and who wrongs him, injures me. 
 He will be here in a few moments to take me 
 home for the first time since our marriage — have 
 you nothing kinder, nothing more just, to say to 
 me before I go ?" 
 
 My aunt stirred uneasily, but remained obsti- 
 nately silent, I heard a carriage draw up at the 
 gate. 
 
 "He is here," I said, earnestly, "He is here, 
 and I must leave you — but not thus ? Surely, 
 not thus?" 
 
 My aunt opened her lips, as if to speak, and 
 
 shut them again quickly, like a trap. I moved 
 toward the door. 
 
 " Good-by, then," I faltered. 
 " Bab," said my aunt, " come back." 
 I was at her bedside almost before the words 
 were out of her mouth, 
 
 " I am an old woman," she continued, turning 
 her face from me, " and no wiser, I dare say, 
 than my neighbors. As for my politeness, or 
 my 'good temper, the less we say about either, 
 the better. Remember, child, that I am disap- 
 pointed. I didn't want you to marry, and I 
 didn't dream you'd marry for many a year to 
 come ; and it aggravates me that you should 
 have chosen a man who never lives on his acres, 
 alid who may carry you off to Timbuctoo any 
 day, at a moment's notice." 
 
 " My dear aunt," I began ; but she stopped 
 me with a gesture. 
 
 " Don't interrupt me, Bab. I hate it. Now, 
 listen to me. I dare say I said some harsh 
 things just now — if I did, forget them. I dare 
 say they were true enough, too ; but that's not 
 to the purpose. You may think 'em all false, 
 if you please ; and as to this precious husband 
 of yours, why, I dare say he is not so bad as he 
 seems. If he only makes you happy, Bab, I'll 
 forgive him." 
 
 " If he did not," thought I to myself, " I would 
 never tell you, Aunt Sandyshaft !" 
 
 "But you must make him live in England," 
 she continued. "Be sure you make him live in 
 England." 
 
 " Nay," said I, " of that you may be certain. 
 Is it not my own dearest wish ?" 
 
 " Ay, then you may go. Stay, though— one 
 may as well be civil, even to the devil. Let him 
 come up and see me." 
 
 " Who, aunt ? The devil ?" 
 " Nonsense, child ! Your husband, of course. 
 Who else ?" 
 
 It was an ungracious invitation ; but I worded 
 it more pleasantly, and brought him to her room. 
 " So ! Hugh Farquhar," she began, before he 
 h^d time to open his lips, " what business had 
 you to steal my Bab ? What have you to say 
 for yourself? What have you been after all 
 these years ? Mischief, I'll be bound ! There, 
 I know what you are goirg to say, by the ex- 
 pression of your face — that is, by what's visible 
 of it. Why, man, you look like a Skye terrier, 
 with all that hair about you !" 
 
 Hugh laughed, good-naturedly, and took a 
 seat by the bedside. 
 
 " Complimentary as ever, I see, Mrs. Sandy- 
 shaft," he said. " I am glad, however, to find 
 you well enough to be sarcastic. You are look- 
 ing better than I expected." 
 
 " Looking, indeed 1 I look like a lendon, and 
 feel as sour. What right had you to marry my 
 Bab ?" 
 
 " No right at all, my dear Madam ; but great 
 good fortune," replied Hugh. 
 
 " That's very true," said my aunt, " and good 
 luck always falls to those who don't deserve it. 
 She's too good for you, by half, Hugh Farquhar ; 
 and that's the long and short of it. Come, tell 
 me what you've been doing all ^ these years? 
 Buying more pictures at six thousand pounds 
 apiece, eh ?" 
 
 " On the contrary, I have been improving my- 
 self in arithmetic and self-denial, and learning 
 
122 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 how to balance my love of art against my bank- 
 ing book." 
 
 " Humph ! so much the better. And where 
 have you been ? What have you been doing ?" 
 
 *' Since when, Mrs. Sandyshaft ?" 
 
 " Why, since you left England six or seven 
 years ago, after so nearly making a fool of your- 
 self with Flora Bayham." 
 
 A dark flush mounted to the very roots of his 
 hair; but he repressed the rising answer, and 
 said — 
 
 " I have been to more places, and had more 
 adventures than you would care to hear, or I to 
 tell. I have shot buffaloes in North-America, 
 and tigers in the Indian jungle — I have smoked 
 my pipe in a Nile boat, and my paper cigarette 
 in a Mexican wine-shop — I have thrown my 
 harpoon at a whale ; caught turtles at Ascen- 
 sion ; left my visiting card on the peak of Ten- 
 erifte ; and supped with Mr. Layard among the 
 ruins of Nineveh, Enfin^ I have packed away 
 my ' sandal shoon and scallop shell ;' and taken 
 unto myself the responsibility of a wife. Will 
 that do, Mrs. Sandyshaft ; or shall I go into de- 
 tails of latitude and longitude, ships' names, 
 private expenses, and so forth ?" 
 
 "No, thank you. I had much rather hear 
 you say that you've done with all such freaks 
 for the future. Traveling, without any useful 
 object in view, is folly, sir, and nothing short of 
 it." 
 
 " Traveling, like love, my dear madam, is the 
 folly of the wise man, and the wisdom of the 
 fool. Now I am modest enough to fancy that 
 it has^T^een my wisdom." 
 
 " Well, supposing that I admit this proposi- 
 tion, can you tell me what have been the fruits 
 of your wisdom ? What you have gained by all 
 this gadding about, and what you have learned ?" 
 
 " tJnquestionably. I have acquired an ad- 
 mirable judgment of old masters and cigars — 
 learned the art of playing the castanets, and 
 throwing the lasso — studied every variety of 
 war-whoop, under the best native teachers ; and 
 practiced the art of fishing by night with a lamp 
 and a knife, till I defy the most practiced mount- 
 aineer to excel me." 
 
 " Meritorious and useful in the highest de- 
 gree !" said my aunt. " Pray, is that all ?" 
 
 " Not half," replied Hugh, determined not to 
 observe the growing bitterness with which she 
 listened. " I can interpret a Turkish love-let- 
 ter, and frame an answer in return. I can eat 
 rice with chop-sticks, and dine off* caviare with- 
 out holding my nose. I can dance like a der- 
 vish, fli^ig a lance like a Bedouin, cook chowder 
 like a Yankee " 
 
 " Enough," interrupted my aunt. " Don't 
 fatigue yourself with more examples. In a wig- 
 wam, or a desert, I have no doubt that you are 
 a delightful companion ; but here, I fear, your 
 accomplishments will not meet with the respect 
 they merit. The conversation and habits of our 
 English gentry will be intolerable to you, after 
 the wit and refinement of your Choctaw and 
 Tartar friends." 
 
 " True ; but when I weary of civilized socie- 
 ty, I can takefc refuge in yours." 
 
 My aunt smiled grimly. Like a good fencer, 
 'she could applaud her adversary's " very palpa- 
 ble hit," and like him the better for it. 
 
 '*Done," said she. "My barbarity will al- 
 
 ways be at your service. In the mean time, I 
 recommend you to let your Asiatic talents lie 
 dormant for the present. Don't be throwing 
 the lasso at your neighbor's cows, or the javelin 
 at my pigs, or you may find the sport expensive. 
 Now, good night to you." 
 
 Thus abruptly dismissed, we took our leave, 
 and as I kissed her, she whispered, " Come back 
 to-morrow, Bab. I'm a cross old woman, but I 
 can't do without you." 
 
 An old-fashioned yellow chariot was waiting 
 at the gate, with lighted lamps and a pair of 
 patient horses. The coachman started from a 
 doze at the sound of our voices. He was a very 
 old man, and touched his hat to me as I got in ; 
 then feebly gathered up the reins, and drove us 
 at a foot pace down the hill. Hugh flung him- 
 self impatiently into a corner, and found fault 
 with every thing. 
 
 " A delightful mode of progression, certain- 
 ly !" he exclaimed. " It carries us back, Bar- 
 barina, to the time of our forefathers, and 
 proves the possibility of going from London to 
 York in four days by the ' Flying Coach.' Did 
 you ever see such a musty old vehicle ? It was 
 ray father's coach, built for him on his marriage. 
 Faugh ! it smells of cobwebs ! I unearthed it 
 yesterday, and had it furbished up for your 
 ladyship's state progress. That relic of anti- 
 quity on the driving-box was my father's coach- 
 man, and my grandfather's also, I believe. I 
 had to unearth him as well ; for he has been 
 lodge-keeper these last fifteen years. As for 
 the horses, they are as old arid out of date as 
 the rest of the equipage, and have been doing 
 duty at the plow this many a year. Corpo di 
 Bacco ! if we stay in this place, what a revolu- 
 tion I'll effect ! I'll build a billiard-room, and a 
 private theater. I'll keep hunters, and a French 
 cook, and teach you to follow the hounds ! How 
 will you like that, my little wife ?" 
 
 I shook my head. His restless gayety jarred 
 upon me, and my heart was full of a very dif- 
 ferent future. 
 
 " I should not like it at all, Hugh," I said, 
 sadly. " I had far rather transfer to Broomhill 
 the quiet life we led in Italy — that happy life of 
 books and art, that suits us both so well." 
 
 "Tush, child 1" he answered, lightly, "the 
 dolce far niente needs a Southern sky. In this 
 bitter North, men are driven to rough stimulants, 
 and need something more than books to stir the 
 currents of their blood. For my part, when in 
 England, I almost lived in the saddle. By the 
 by, you were asking about Satan !" 
 
 " Satan," I repeated, vaguely ; thinking less 
 of the question than of what had gone before. 
 "What of him V" 
 
 " He's dead, poor brute. A good horse he 
 was, too — ^pure Arabian." 
 
 "But surely," I said, anxiously, " surely you 
 do not mean to tell me that you can never again 
 be satisfied to share my quiet pleasures, simply 
 because this is Broomhill, and not Rome. Oh, 
 Hugh, when I think how perfectly happy we 
 have been up to this moment " 
 
 He laid his hand, laughingly, upon my 
 mouth. 
 
 " Silenzio, Barharina mia .^" he exclaimed. 
 " We have been happy — we are happy — we may, 
 can, shall, and will be happy, etccstera, etccetera^ 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 123 
 
 etccetera! Now look out, and tell me if you 
 know where we are !" 
 
 Where indeed ! Under the arching branches 
 of the dear old avenue — passing the great gnarl- 
 ed oaks, the centenarians of the park — approach- 
 ing the cedars, and the Tudor gateway, and all 
 the hallowed places photographed for years upon 
 my memory ! It was dark, and the moon had 
 not yet risen ; but I could trace their outlines 
 through the gloom. We turned the western 
 angle, and passed under the archway. 
 
 " One word, Hugh," I faltered, " one word 
 before we reach the door. Is it no pleasure to 
 you to bring me home to your own ancestral 
 roof ? Absolutely none ?" 
 
 " My dear love," he said, hastily, " why revive 
 that vexed question at such a moment ? Here 
 we are, and we must make the best of it. Stay, 
 I will get out first." 
 
 Make the best of it ! For the second time 
 that afternoon I heard those unsatisfying T^rds. 
 Was there, indeed, "something rotten" under- 
 lying every condition of my life, that I must 
 always be warned to " make the best of it ?" 
 What was wrong ? What was wanting ? Whence 
 this vague trouble, the very source of which I 
 knew not ? 
 
 Discouraged and oppressed, I crossed the 
 threshold of my husband's home, and passed the 
 servants in the hall without even observing that 
 they were assembled there in ray honor. Tip- 
 poo preceded us with a pair of wax-lights, and 
 we followed in silence. I scarcely noticed to 
 which part of the building he was leading us. 
 I scarcely remarked through what a number of 
 corridors, and up how many flights of stairs we 
 had to go. Not till he stopped before a gothic 
 door, and drew aside the curtain by which it was 
 shrouded within, did I even guess that we were 
 to dine that first evening in the turret-chamber ! 
 Ah, the snug, secluded, pleasant turret-chamber! 
 There it was, just as I remembered it, with its 
 books, and its busts, and its swinging lamp, and 
 all its graceful accessories — ay, even to the green 
 and golden hookah in the corner, and the table 
 glittering with glass and silver. Seeing all this 
 brought back, as it were, suddenly, out of the 
 past, I uttered an exclamation of joyful recogni- 
 tion. 
 
 " That's well," said Hugh. " I fancied I should 
 please you by bringing you to my old snuggery, 
 where we dined together the day of our first ac- 
 quaintance. Ah, wifie, do you remember how 
 frightened you were when I came behind you 
 at the library window ?" 
 
 "Ah, husband, do you remember how you 
 forgot all about me, though I was sitting in that 
 corner all the time ; and how you asked Tippoo 
 why he laid a second cover?" 
 
 " IJfay, did I ? I had forgotten it. I recol- 
 lect, however, that you had the bad taste not to 
 like my dinner, and ate scarcely any thing." 
 
 " And the still worse taste to be disappointed 
 in the Paul Veronese ! Tell me, am I yet for- 
 given that offense ?" 
 
 Hugh laughed, and shook his head. 
 
 " Not yet," said he. " Not till you have seen 
 it again with your own, dear, sensible artist-eyes, 
 and performed a heavy penance of admiration. 
 But sec, here comes our dinner. Tippoo, desire 
 Mrs. Fairhead to send us up a bottle of the old 
 Romance, and a pint of the special Tokay with 
 
 the yellow seal. Come, wife, we will feast to- 
 night, and make " high holiday." What say 
 you ? Shall we dismiss that awkward super- 
 numerary in the white cravat, and keep only 
 Tippoo to wait upon us ?" 
 
 " Only Tippoo, of course." 
 
 So the servant was dismissed, and Tippoo 
 waited on us as noiselessly and dexterously as 
 the slave of the lamp. We jested, we laughed, 
 we drank toasts, and were as gay as children out 
 of school. Every thing that evening seemed 
 delicious, and life all rose-color. My husband 
 exerted himself solely to amuse me ; and if it 
 did once or twice occur to me that he made an 
 effort to be gay — that if he ceased one moment 
 to make that effort, he would relapse into the 
 sullen gloom which had of late become his fre- 
 quent mood — I banished it, and flattered myself 
 that I was mistaken. 
 
 After dinner we sat long over our coflFee and 
 dessert, and talked of Italy, and Rome, and our 
 wanderings in the Alps ; and looked through a 
 portfolio of rare etchings that he had brought 
 from the library to show me ; and planned how 
 we would go to Yenice and the Tyrol some day, 
 and perhaps as far as Constantinople. Ah, what 
 a child I was, and how little made me happy ! 
 
 Thus the pleasant evening passed away, and 
 it was almost midnight before we went to bed. 
 This brings me to something which I must tell 
 in its place — something so strange, so uncom- 
 fortable, that merely to recall it brings back the 
 shuddering disquiet of the moment when it hap- 
 pened. 
 
 The house was very still. As I have already 
 said, it was just midnight, and the servants, used 
 to country hours, had long since retired. Tip- 
 poo waited, as usual, in my husband's dressing- 
 room, ready, if we rang, to attend upon us. To- 
 night, however, being still in merry conversa- 
 tion, we did not care to summon him ; so Hugh 
 took the lamp himself and led the way. It was 
 a very powerful lamp, with a shade over it, which 
 concentrated the light into one intense circle, 
 and left all beyond in darkness. As we went 
 out into the corridor, suffering the door of the 
 turret-chamber to swing back with a reverbera- 
 ting echo, I laughingly compared the effect of this 
 light to that of a lantern in a fine Rembrandt 
 ^etching of the Nativity, which we had been ad- 
 miring a little while ago. Whereupon Hugh, 
 profanely humoring the idea, fell into the ma- 
 jestic attitude of the chief shepherd, and inton- 
 ed the first verse of a drawling Christmas carol. 
 It was a boyish trick, boyishly done — one of 
 those foolish jests that arise when two people 
 are in high spirits, and no third stands by to 
 keep them within the bounds of common-sense. 
 
 At that very moment I saw something darker 
 than the darkness glide down the gloom of the 
 corridor. I looked at Hugh ; but he had evi- 
 dently seen nothing. 
 
 " Hush !" I said shudderingly. " Don't wake 
 the echoes of these great wandering passages, 
 at such an hour of the night. Let us go on. I 
 shall never dare to walk about this house alone, 
 after dark !" 
 
 " Why not, child ? We have nothing so vul- 
 gar as a ghost in the family. But you tremble !" 
 
 I muttered something about the cold, and he 
 put his arm around me, quickening his pace the 
 while. We were now at the head of the great 
 
124 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 well-staircase, and again, if I were not strangely 
 mocked by my own terrors, I saw the dark shad- 
 ow stealing swiftly down before us. To keep 
 silent longer was impossible. 
 
 " What's that ?" I cried, clinging to the bal- 
 ustrade, and pointitig downward with unsteady 
 finger. " What's that ? See ! — see where it 
 goes !" 
 
 He snatched the shade from the lamp, and 
 held it at arm's length over the deep shaft. 
 
 " Where what goes ?" said he, shifting the 
 light so that it fell from flight to flight, and from 
 side to side, down all the windings of the stairs, 
 till lost in the lower darkness. " I see nothing." 
 
 " Nor I — and yet I am positive — -just now — a 
 figure — it could not have been fancy !" 
 
 "It was fancy, then, and nothing else. Why, 
 Barbarina, I never dreamed that you were such a 
 coward. You shake from head to foot !" 
 
 So I did, and was too thoroughly frightened 
 to be even ashamed of my terror. I only clung 
 to his arm, and implored him to hurry on ; and, 
 when we came to our own bright, snug bed-room, 
 with its cheerful lights and crackling wood-fire, 
 bolted the door, and sank into an easy-chair 
 with a deeper sense of relief than I had ever 
 known in my life before. 
 
 Was it fancy — fancy and nothing else ? 
 
 Revolving that question in my mind, I lay 
 awake long after Hugh had fallen into his first 
 deep sleep : and all through the night, at inter- 
 vals that seemed, in my restlessness, to follow 
 each other with scarcely a moment's intermis- 
 sion, started from uneasy dreams to listen, and 
 Wonder, and ask myself the same thing over 
 and over again. * 
 
 CHAPTER XLY. 
 
 THE SHAKSPEARE FOLIO OF 1623. 
 " Out, damned spot !" — Macbeth. 
 
 "Fear is a night-bird, and vanishes, like the 
 owl, at sunrise. Come, wife, are you not 
 ashamed to have been such a coward ?" 
 
 Seeing the bright day pouring in at every win- 
 dow and lighting up the brown and amber foli- 
 age of the sere woodlands round about, I was 
 thoroughly ashamed, and owned it freely. 
 
 " As for apparitions," continued Hugh, alter- 
 nately sipping his coffee and examining the lock 
 of his gun, " we decline to harbor any such 
 spiritual rogues and vagabonds. We leave them 
 to the tender mercies of Messrs. Dumas and Co., 
 to be dealt with according to the law of public 
 taste. Broomhill, my child, abounds in game — 
 not ghosts. Now it is my firm belief that I shall 
 shoot a dozen pheasants before dinner." 
 
 " Not till you have first made the tour of the 
 house with me, Hugh — and. I am longing to ex- 
 plore every nook and corner of it." 
 
 ■ " Nonsense, love ; the house will not run away. 
 You are mistress here, and can see it at any 
 time." 
 
 " And because I am mistress, I mean to see it 
 at once. There, lay your gun aside. Grant the 
 pheasants a reprieve for my sake, and indulge 
 me this one morning with your company." 
 
 " And why will not Mrs. Fairhead do as well ? 
 She knows the house and its history far better 
 than I." 
 
 " Mrs. Fairhead may come too ; but I can not 
 do without you." 
 
 " Quatre-vingt mille tonnerres ! What do you 
 want with me ?" 
 
 " A hundred things. I want you to show me 
 the Paul Veronese ; and the ball-room where the 
 accident happened ; and the library. And I want 
 you to introduce me to your ancestors in the 
 
 matted gallery " 
 
 " I hate my ancestors," said Hugh, irreve- 
 rently. 
 
 " And I want you to tell me the history of all 
 
 that old armor in the west wiijg, and " 
 
 " Then it is quite evident, Barbarina, that your 
 wants far exceed my resources. Come, let us 
 compound the matter. I will go with you through 
 the library and the matted gallery, and you must 
 be content with Mrs. Fairhead's company the 
 rest of the way. She is a wonderful old lady, I 
 assure you, and has all the genealogy of the Far- 
 quhar family at her fingers' ends. She will show 
 you every thing, and explain every thing, from the 
 plate-closet to the picture-gallery, with the ac- 
 curacy and elegance of a catalogue raisonnee. 
 Bid her discourse, and she will enchant thine ear 
 for hours on the fashion of a morion, the tone 
 of a Murillo, or the pattern of a Majolica service. 
 ArchjBology is not too heavy, nor court scandal 
 too light for her. She will relate all about the 
 battle of Worcester better than the Boscobel 
 tracts, and tell sad stories of the freaks of kings, 
 when de Querouailles became Duchesses in the 
 land, and orange-girls rode in coaches to White- 
 hall. As for architecture " 
 
 I put my fingers in my ears, and refused to 
 hear another word. 
 
 " Enough of Mrs. Fairhead's accomplishments !" 
 I cried, impatiently. " Let us have her up in 
 person, and begin at once." 
 
 We rang for her, and she came — a fair, portly 
 sedate old lady, in an ample gray silk dress, with 
 a small key-basket in her hand, and in the key- 
 basket a book with a red cover. She courtesied 
 profoundly, first to me, then to Hugh, and then 
 to me again. 
 
 " We want you — that is, your mistress wants 
 you, to take her over the house, Mrs. Fairhead," 
 said Hugh. 
 
 *' I concluded as much, sir," replied Mrs. Fair- j 
 head, with a glance at the key-basket, and a side- ' 
 glance of curiosity at myself 
 
 " We came so late last night, Mrs. Fairhead," 
 continued Hugh, " that I forgot to present you to 
 my wife. Barbara, in Mrs. Fairhead you see an 
 old and attached servant of the family. One 
 whom we can not value too highly." 
 
 Mrs. Fairhead, with the gravity of a Moham- 
 medan at his genuflexions, courtesied three 
 times, as before. 
 
 " When your lamented father brought home 
 his lady^ sir," she said, " it was in a carriage and 
 four, to the ringing of the church-bells ; and we 
 servants, fourteen of us, received our mistress 
 in the hall, and very happy and proud we were. 
 But now, sir, the house is more than half shut 
 up, and we had so little time to prepare, and 
 your establishment for the last twelve or fifteen 
 
 years Tias been so small, that " 
 
 Hugh stopped her with a quiet gesture. 
 " Mrs. Farquhar knows all that," he observed, 
 " and will make every allowance for the neglect- 
 ed state of the place. My dear, you understand 
 that we are only on a peace footing here, with 
 all our cannon rusted, and our soldiers out at 
 elbow. Shall we begin with the matted gaUery ?" 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 125 
 
 We began with the matted gallery, and Mrs. 
 Fairhead led the way. It was a noble room, 
 oak-paneled, lit from the left by a long line of 
 windows, and diminishing to a fine perspective. 
 On the side opposite the windows hung a double 
 row of paintings, chiefly family portraits, with a 
 sprinkling of old masters ; and between each 
 window stood a bracket with a bust on it. At 
 the farther end, like a note of admiration at the 
 close of a fine sentence, stood a pedestal, and a 
 superb Roman vase of dark green marble. 
 
 " This gallery, ma'am," began Mrs. Fairhead, 
 " occupies the upper floor of the Tudor wing. 
 The library occupies the ground-floor, immedi- 
 ately beneath our feet. This wing was built in 
 
 the "year fifteen hundred and " 
 
 " Spare us the dates, my good Mrs. ^air- 
 head," interrupted Hugh, "and tell us about 
 the pictures. Who is this scarecrow in the 
 brown cloak and muffin cap ?" 
 
 Mrs. Fairhead looked shocked, and said, with 
 increased gravity : 
 
 " That, sir, is a portrait of Marmaduke, fourth 
 Baron de Grey, whose second daughter, the 
 Lady Mary, married John Farquhar of Broom- 
 hill, the head of this house, in the year fifteen 
 hundred and eleven. That is John Farquhar's 
 portrait above, painted by the celebrated Hol- 
 bein. He appears in a fancy costume, supposed 
 to be the dress worn by him at a court-enter- 
 tainment given in honor of King Henry the 
 Eighth's marriage with Queen Anne Boleyn." 
 
 " No more painted by Holbein than by me !" 
 said Hugh, between his teeth. *' Well, Mrs. 
 Fairhead, go on. Number seven, in a ruff. 
 Who is number seven ?" 
 
 " Number seven, sir," replied the house- 
 keeper, " represents Madam Eleanor Farquhar, 
 wife of Richard Farquhar of Broomhill, eldest 
 son and heir of John Farquhar, just mentioned. 
 Madam Eleanor was the daughter of a wealthy 
 London merchant, and brought a considerable 
 fortune to her husband. She was a great 
 beauty, and her portrait is considered to be 
 very curious." 
 
 " And so it is — for a beauty ! Well, Mrs. 
 Fairhead, number nine ?" 
 
 *' The eldest son of Madam Eleanor, and 
 Richard Farquhar, sir. This young gentleman 
 went out with the Earl of Essex's expedition in 
 fifteen hundred and seventy-six, and was killed 
 at Cadiz, The next three portraits represent the 
 next three generations — Edward Farquhar, high 
 sheriff of the county under James the First ; 
 William Farquhar, his eldest son and succes- 
 sor ; and Richard Farquhar, eldest son of the 
 last, who commanded a squadron at the battle 
 of Naseby, and died in London of the great 
 plague, in the year sixteen hundred and sixty- 
 five." 
 
 " Ay, I remember. One of the few men who, 
 having succored the exile, were remembered by 
 the king. He got a commission in the Cold- 
 stream Guards, then first levied. What busi- 
 ness had he to be painted thus ? He ought to 
 have left us the portrait of his uniform, if only 
 to give some flavor to his own ! Go on, Mrs. 
 Fairhead !" 
 
 "Portrait of the celebrated Inigo Jones," 
 began the housekeeper, " by whom the elegant 
 facade of the east wing was designed in the year 
 sixteen hundred and nineteen, and " 
 
 "And the effect of the whole building de- 
 stroyed !" interposed Hugh, shaking his fist at 
 the portrait. " You mischievous, meretricious 
 old scoundrel, I have a great mind to make a 
 bonfire of you, next fifth of November !" 
 Mrs. Fairhead turned pale with horror. 
 " What, sir !" she exclaimed, " burn a painting 
 that has been in your family for generations ?" 
 
 " The more shame to my forefathers, for not 
 sparing me the trouble. And this jovial-looking 
 warrior in the blue and buff livery ?" 
 
 "The portrait of Lionel Farquhar, Esquire, 
 who was made a major in the Suffolk militia in 
 the year 1759 ; which was the first year of the 
 militia being raised in all parts of JEngland, in 
 consequence of the expected invasion of the 
 French under King Lewis the Fifteenth." 
 
 " Oh, such marchings and counter-marchings, 
 from Brentford to Ealing, from Ealing to Acton, 
 from Acton to Uxbridge," laughed Hugh. "Ah, 
 Barbarina, I quote Major Sturgeon ; a hero with 
 whom you are not acquainted. Well, Mrs. Fair- 
 head, number fourteen ?" 
 
 " Lionel Farquhar, Esquire, junior, son of the 
 last, and Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, under 
 Admiral Lord Rodney," pursued the house- 
 keeper, keeping steadily on, catalogue in hand, 
 and evidently scandalized by our levity. " Num- 
 ber fifteen ; the infant family of Lionel Farqu- 
 har, junior, with the family mansion in the 
 background. The littlfe boy in the blue gown 
 is Alexander, the eldest son and heir, whose 
 portrait you observe above, painted some years 
 later by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Alexander Far- 
 quhar, Esquire, was the first of the name who 
 represented the Borough of Ipswich in the 
 House of Qommons." 
 
 " Patriotic grandpapa Alexander !" ejaculated 
 Hugh. " Shall I follow his example, wife, and 
 present myself as a candidate at the next general 
 election ?" 
 
 " If your question were put seriously, I should 
 ask time to consider, Hugh, before replying." 
 
 "Number seventeen, as I can tell without 
 Mrs. Fairhead's help, is by Quintin Matsys — 
 one of the most curious and valuable paintings 
 in the house," said he, without seeming to have 
 heard me. "It is a variation on his favorite 
 'miser' subject, one specimen of which is at 
 Windsor, and the other at Antwerp. Look at 
 that fellow's eager eyes and long greedy fingers. 
 The picture is a sermon on avarice." 
 
 "But where," I asked, "is the Paul Ve- 
 ronese ?" 
 
 "In the dining-room, I believe." 
 "And who is this in the blue coat, and white 
 neck-cloth ? What a candid, benevolent face !" 
 " That," said Hugh, a shade of sudden 
 anguish passing over his face, "is my father — 
 my dear father, from whom I parted in health, 
 and hope, and joy, as I went out upon my first 
 travels ; and whom I never saw in life again." 
 
 I looked at the portrait with earnest interest, 
 trying to trace in it some resemblance to my 
 husband. 
 
 " You are not like him, Hugh," I said. 
 " Only my eyes are like his, and the vein upon 
 my left temple. All the Farquhars have that 
 vein upon the temple — invisible when they are 
 calm, but starting into angry relief in moments . 
 of passion. But we have come to the end of 
 the portraits." 
 
126 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 Your own should be added now," I sug- 
 
 " Pshaw ! I am too ugly." 
 
 " Ugly, sposo mio /" 
 
 "Ay; and too old." 
 
 " What folly ! I believe you only want to be 
 camplimented on your youth and beauty. But, 
 indeed, Hugh, I should like to see your portrait 
 carrying on the line of Farquhars." 
 
 " Then we will both be painted, carina, when 
 we next go up to London for a few weeks. You 
 are looking at that vase. It is veritable verde 
 antico. I bought it in Rome, on my first visit 
 to Italy, and had shipped it home as a present 
 to my father, only a few days before I received 
 intelligence of his death. But these are sad 
 memories. Mrs. Fairhead, we will follow you 
 to the library." 
 
 His gayety was gone, and we left the gallery 
 in a mood very unlike that in which we had 
 ' entered it. Mrs. Fairhead preceded us down the 
 great stone staircase, and paused to direct my 
 attention to a large battle-picture in the hall. 
 
 " That subject ought to interest you, Barbara," 
 observed Hugh, seeing me turn away with 
 scarcely a glance at the huge dull canvas. " It 
 represents the siege of Nimeguen." 
 
 " Why should I be interested in the siege of 
 Nimeguen?" asked I. "I am no admirer of 
 battle-pieces." 
 
 " Because it was at Nimeguen that your hand- 
 some ancestor first distinguished himself, and 
 Turenne predicted his future greatness. You 
 must know, Mrs. Fairhead," added Hugh, turn- 
 ing to the housekeeper, " that my wife is de- 
 scended from the famous Duke of Marlborough." 
 
 Mrs. Fairhead dropped a profound courtesy. 
 
 " The same who won so many battles against 
 the French, in the reign of Queen Anne, and 
 whose portrait, in miniature, hangs in my father's 
 study." 
 
 Mrs. Fairhead courtesied lower than before, 
 and declared she could see a likeness to Madam 
 about- the forehead and eyes. These facts 
 evidently went far to raise me in her good 
 opinion. 
 
 "And now, Barbarina, for the room of which 
 lam proudest in this old house — the library 
 accumulated by my forefathers from generation 
 to generation during a term of nearly four hun- 
 dred years. We have here a manuscript Horace 
 of the seventh century ; a genuine copy of the 
 Shakspeare folio of 1623; a first edition of 
 Chaucer ; a volume of unpublished manuscript 
 notes and extracts of Jeremy Taylor; and I 
 know not — what's the matter with the lock, 
 Mrs. Fairhead ?" 
 
 " Nothing, sir, to my knowledge," replied the 
 housekeeper, turning the key with some little 
 difficulty. " It opened quite easily this morning." 
 
 She and Hugh staid back a moment, examin- 
 ing the lock, while I pushed the door open, and 
 went in. 
 
 To my surprise, l' heard another door, at that 
 instant, closed sharply and suddenly at the 
 farther end of the library. It was a very long, 
 narrow room, corresponding exactly in shape 
 and length to the matted gallery above, and 
 lined with books from end to end. I looked, 
 naturally, for the door that I had heard; but 
 there was no second door visible. Windows 
 there were all along one side, like the windows 
 
 in the picture gallery ; but not one that opened 
 to the ground, and could therefore be used as a 
 means of entrance or exit. And yet I was con- 
 fident that my ears had not deceived mo. I 
 heard the creak of the hinge and the click of the 
 lock as distinctly as I now heard Hugh walk up 
 to my side, and say : 
 
 " A goodly show of literature, is it not, 
 petite r' 
 
 " Goodly, indeed. It makes me feel like a 
 traveler in sight of a strange country." 
 
 " Or a discoverer about to journey round the 
 great world of books, in search of unknown 
 continents. Ah, wife, what exploring voyages 
 we will make together — what strange specimens 
 of ' barbaric gold and pearl,' scraps of crabbed 
 verse, quaint rhyme, and flowery rhetoric, we 
 will bring back, in testimony of our wander- 
 ings !" 
 
 " Is there no other entrance to this library ?" 
 I asked, suddenly. 
 
 " My child, what an absurd question ! Don't 
 your own eyes answer you ? Why do you ask ?" 
 
 "Because I am confident I heard a door 
 closed as I came in." 
 
 " In one of the upper rooms, no doubt," said 
 my husband, turning abruptly aside and search- 
 ing along the nearest shelves. " Mrs. Fairhead, 
 do you know where that last lot of foreign 
 books has been placed ?" 
 
 " The large case, sir, that you sent from Ger- 
 many ?" 
 
 " Yes. I desired they should be bound 
 before they were placed upon the shelves." 
 
 "I believe they are between two of the win- 
 dows, sir, lower down," replied Mrs. Fairhead, 
 " but I am sure I don't know which. By refer- 
 ring to the catalogue " 
 
 "Yes, yes, of course," interrupted Hugh; 
 " but I am sure to cume to them presently. See, 
 Barbara, here is the 1623 Shakspeare — a 
 volume which dignifies a library like a patent of 
 nobility." 
 
 " A grand folio, truly ; and, I suppose, very 
 valuable ?" 
 
 "I gave three hundred pounds for it, and * 
 never spent my money with more hearty satis- 
 faction. Faulty as the text is, if you once begin 
 to read Shakspeare out of these pages, you will 
 never tolerate him in any other edition. You 
 can not think what a flavor of antiquity this old 
 type gives to Macbeth and King Lear." 
 
 " But — but, Hugh " 
 
 " Yes, my darling ?" . 
 
 "I know you will think me very foolish ; but 
 I do assure you that sound was too distinct to 
 be in any upper floor. It came, apparently, 
 from the farther end of this very room, and " 
 
 " And was, no doubt, the work of that ghost 
 which you fancied you saw on the stairs last 
 night ! What say you to this, Mrs. Fairhead ? 
 Your mistress would have me believe the old 
 place is haunted !" 
 
 Mrs. Fairhead smiled respectful incredulity. 
 
 " I have lived in it all my life, sir," said she, 
 " and this is the first time I ever heard of such 
 a thing." 
 
 " Fancied she saw a ghost last night on the 
 great staircase," continued Hugh, speaking 
 rapidly, " and declares she heard a supernatural 
 door closed in this very room, while you and I 
 were examining that lock a moment ago." 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 127 
 
 But for the impossibility of such a thing, I 
 could have believed that I detected a glance of 
 intelligence between Mrs. Fairhead and her 
 master. Anyhow, the smile vanished from the 
 housekeeper's lips, and the color mounted to 
 her face. 
 
 "I — I am sure," stammered she, "if — if 
 
 Madam " 
 
 " Mr. Farquhar only jests," I said, impatiently. 
 "I have as little faith in ghosts, Mrs. Fairhead, 
 as either himself or you ; but I do believe that 
 these old mansions have often secret doors and 
 hiding places, the very existence of which is 
 forgotten. Such a door there might have been 
 in this room — nay, may be, and yet unknown to 
 you. So simple a thing as the trick of a sliding 
 panel might be accidentally discovered, any day, 
 by a servant; and the sound I heard ^ but, 
 there, it is of no consequence. You know of no 
 door, and perhaps there is none. Most likely, 
 I was mistaken." 
 
 " Most likely and most certainly, Barbara," 
 said Hugh, shrugging his shoulders. " Where 
 every shelf is. full, as you see here, the best con- 
 trived sliding panel that ever medieval builder 
 planned, would be of little service. And now 
 let us have done with ghosts. Shall I put back 
 the Shakspeare?" 
 
 " No, I should like to look through it for a 
 few moments." 
 
 "Then I will place it on this table for you, 
 while I find the manuscript Horace." 
 
 He placed it on the table — one of two, carved 
 in oak and covered with green morocco, which 
 stood at equal distances down the middle of the 
 room — and I began turning over the yellow 
 leaves with that reverent delight which is only 
 known to the real book lover. As I did so, 
 dwelling on the fantastic head and tail pieces, 
 and spelling over the quaint address supposed 
 ta have been written by Ben Jonson, I saw with 
 dismay that my finger left an ink mark on the 
 page. 
 
 I looked at my hand, and found the stain yet 
 damp upon it. How could this be ? I had used 
 no writing materials ; written nothing ; touched 
 nothing on which there was writing this day! 
 I anxiously closed the precious folio, and ex- 
 amined the cover ; but the glossy old brown 
 calf was dry and stainless. Pipzzled, but re- 
 lieved, I drew a chair to the table, and reopened 
 the volume. Suddenly, I felt the blood rush 
 to my face, like a fiery tide. 
 
 I saw a large ink-drop on the green morocco, 
 close against my arm. 
 
 My first impulse was to utter an exclamation ; 
 my second to suppress it, and try whether the 
 drop was really fresh, or whether the gloss had 
 only dried upon it. I touched it, and the stain 
 came off upon my finger, leaving a little half- 
 dried circle outlined on the table. What 
 mystery was this ? There was an inkstand, it is 
 true, upon each table ; but what of that ? The 
 door was locked before we came in. There was 
 no second door, and the room was empty. 
 Empty ? Was it empty ? Was there no second 
 door? Was Mrs. Fairhead absolutely certain 
 that there was no second door ? Was Hugh — 
 No, no ! if mystery there was, he had no share 
 in it. He was deceived as well as I ; and Mrs. 
 Fairhead — I mistrusted Mrs. Fairhead. I re- 
 membered her embarrassment. I trembled. I 
 
 knew not why, and bending low above the book, 
 leaned my head upon my hand, and concealed 
 my agitation as well as I could. 
 
 " See here, Barbarina," said my husband, 
 cheerily, coming up from the lower end of the 
 library with an armful of dusty volumes, " here 
 are treasures for your delectation — the early 
 Chaucer ; a queer old Tasso, clasped and bound 
 in vellum ; a very curious illuminated Greek 
 testament of — but what is the matter? You 
 look pale !" 
 
 "I do not feel very well, Hugh," I replied. 
 "A slight faintness came over me just now, 
 
 and " 
 
 " This room is too cold for you, my child," 
 he interrupted, anxiously. " I ought to have 
 remembered that we are in the first days of 
 October, and have ordered the stove to be light- 
 ed before you came into this great desolate 
 library. Let us go up-stairs at once. I can 
 bring the Shakspeare, if you wish it ; and send 
 one of the servants for these other books Do 
 you still feel faint ?" 
 
 " Not nearly so faint as I did. A walk, I 
 think, would do me good ; and it is quite time 
 that I went over to Stoneycroft, if I would not 
 make my visit too brief." 
 
 "I fear those four days spent at Mrs. Sandy- 
 shaft's bedside have done you harm, my wifie," 
 said Hugh, encircling my waist with his strong 
 arm, and leading me tenderly away. 
 " Oh, it is not that, Hugh !" 
 " Nay, I am not so sure. I shall not let you 
 stay long with her to-day. Remember, my little 
 one, you have but lately recovered from illness 
 yourself, and are too precious a jewel to be im- 
 periled, though all the aunts in creation clam- 
 ored for your company." 
 
 " My poor aunt, Hugh, I tell you again, has 
 nothing to do with it," I repeated, when we 
 had reached our quiet up-stairs room, and were 
 alone again. 
 
 " What was it then ?" 
 
 " If I tell you, you will laugh at me." 
 
 " By Jove, now, if it's any thing more about 
 
 your imaginary ghost " 
 
 I laid my hand upon his mouth. 
 " It's about no ghosts," I said; "but an ink- 
 drop." 
 
 "The ghost of an ink-drop ?" laughed Hugh. 
 " No — a very material ink-drop, I am sorry 
 to say," replied I ; " for it has left a stain on 
 the title-page of your 1623 Shakspeare." 
 " Confound it ! How did that happen ?" 
 " Sit down quietly, and I will tell you ; but 
 first of all, understand that although I was the 
 unlucky transferrer of the stain, it was through 
 no fault of mine. I would not have injured 
 your precious folio, husband, for the world." 
 
 And with this I told my story with all my 
 doubts, suspicions, and conclusions. When I 
 had done, he laughed, patted me on the cheek, 
 and told me I was a goose for my pains. 
 
 " But some one must have been in the room, 
 Hugh," I persisted ; " or how could the ink- 
 drop have fallen on the table ?" 
 
 " And some one had been in the room, no 
 doubt — one of the housemaids, most probably. 
 The place was dusted this morning, of course, 
 before we went into it." 
 
 " But it was still wet, and " 
 
 " A large drop, such as you describe, carina^ 
 
128 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 would take some time to dry in a room without 
 a fire, this cool October morning." 
 
 *' Then housemaids don't go into libraries to 
 write." 
 
 " By no means certain, if the housemaid has 
 a sweetheart ; but it does not follow that she 
 was writing. She may have set the inkstand 
 roughly down, or have whisked her duster into 
 it, or have spilled the ink in half a dozen ways, 
 without using a pen for the purpose." 
 
 "And as for that sound that I heard, Hugh, 
 I am as certain that it was not on an upper 
 floor " 
 
 " As I am, that it was the work of your own 
 fancy !" interrupted he, " Pshaw, my darling, 
 it needs no sliding panels, no ghosts, no diabol- 
 ical machinery whatever to account for your 
 marvelous ink-drop ! As for poor, good, simple 
 Mrs. Fairhead, I wish you joy of her, if she is to 
 be your arch-conspirator ! Be advised by me, 
 you nervous unreasoning child, and banish all 
 this nonsense from your mind. I declare, 1 
 thought you had more sense, and less German 
 romance, in your dear little head !" 
 
 Silenced, but only half convinced, I gave up 
 the point, and said no more about it. 
 
 "You do love your little Barbarina, even 
 though you think her a goose, don't you, Hugh?" 
 I said, presently. 
 
 " Love you, my darling ! It is all I live to 
 do." 
 
 " I beheve it," 
 
 He was kneeling beside my chair ; and I took 
 his great shaggy head in my two han4s, and 
 kissed him on the forehead. 
 
 "Now may I go and shoot some pheasants?" 
 asked he, with mock humility, 
 
 " Yes ; and be sure you come and fetch me 
 home at five o'clock, sir." 
 
 " Thy servant hears ; and to hear is to obey." 
 
 I watched him go forth with his gun and his 
 dogs, active and athletic as a prairie hunter. 
 As he crossed the courtyard, he turned and 
 waved his hat to me. That gesture, and the 
 smile by which it was accompanied, staid by 
 me all the day and made me happy. I knew 
 that he loved me ; and I knew that I loved 
 him, and trusted him, perfectly. 
 
 . CHAPTER XL VI. 
 
 OUR LIFE AT BROOMHILL. 
 
 Hugh's prophecy came but too true. Our 
 arrival at Broomhill was no sooner known 
 through the county, than we were overwhelmed 
 with visitors. They came day after day, and 
 week after week, till I began to think we should 
 never be at peace again. The gravel in the 
 avenue was cut into furrows by their carriage- 
 wheels ; and had to be rolled continually. The 
 card-baskets filled and overflowed, like perpetual 
 fountains. Every evening I added fresh names 
 to the list of visits which must be returned — 
 some day. I need hardly say that this influx of 
 strangers wearied and annoyed me beyond 
 description. I knew that curiosity alone brought 
 nine tenths of them to my door, and felt that I 
 was the object of their criticism from the mo- 
 ment- they passed its threshold till they went 
 away again. That I was Mrs. Sandyshaft's niece ; 
 
 that my father was descended from the Marl- 
 borough family ; that my sister Hilda was mar- 
 ried to the Count de Chaumont ; that I had 
 been educated in Germany; and that we had 
 been married and living abroad for more than a 
 whole year, were facts that seemed to have 
 propagated themselves in the air, and spread, 
 heaven only knew how ! in all directions. 
 Every body seemed to know every thing about 
 me ; and one of the county papers even went so 
 far as to hint at " a romantic attachment of long 
 standing ;" though that could have been nothing^ 
 but conjecture. In the midst of all this visiting, 
 I confess that I did not regret the absence of 
 Lady Flora Bayham, now married, and living in 
 a distant county. That childish wound of 
 jealousy had left its scar, and though long since 
 healed over, was not forgotten. 
 
 In the mean time my husband lavished gifts 
 upon me ; and, sober and simple as were my 
 tastes, insisted, though with a more substantial 
 result than did Petruchio, on providing me — 
 
 " With silken coats, and caps and golden rings, 
 With ruffs, and cuffs, and farthingales, and things." 
 
 I had cashmeres brought by himself from the 
 East, that a queen might envy ; furs fit for a 
 Russian princess ; gold and silver filigrees from 
 Genoa ; coral ornaments from Naples ; mosaics 
 from Rome and Florence ; silks and velvets so 
 rich that I felt afraid to wear them, and which 
 a stately London court-dressmaker came all the 
 way to Broomhill to fit and adapt to my little 
 person. Then I had a riding horse ; and a new 
 habit ; and a dainty little whip set with tur- 
 quoises. And, above all, there came one day for 
 my approval the most exquisite lounge-chaise that 
 Messrs, Turrill and Co, ever turned out from 
 their workshops — a graceful shell-shaped thing, 
 so light that it seemed to be hung upon nothing 
 — and a pair of the shaggiest, tiniest, friskiest 
 Shetland ponies that ever scampered in harness ! 
 This last gift delighted me more than all the rest, 
 and went far to reconcile me to the stern duty 
 of returning my neighbors' visits. 
 
 In spite, however, of all this luxury, and all 
 these indulgences, my happiest hours were those 
 which I spent in my painting-room, or alone with 
 Hugh after dinner in our favorite turret-chamber. 
 The painting-room had been a spare bedroom 
 in the wing traditionally appropriated to visitors, 
 and I chose it for my studio for ti^o reasons ; 
 one of which was that it commanded a fine view 
 and an excellent north light, and the other that 
 it was only separated by a landing from that 
 very turret chamber, the threshold of which no 
 strange foot e\'er profaned, I had but little 
 time ; for the days grew short, and my interrup- 
 tions were frequent ; but it was very pleasant 
 only to have a picture on the easel and a task in 
 hand ; and I contrived almost daily to secure 
 the first two hours after breakfast. 
 
 My aunt, meanwhile, recovered rapidly ; and, 
 save such inevitable alteration as seven years 
 must work, looked much the same as ever. Her 
 step perhaps was a shade less firm, her carriage 
 a trifle less erect, her voice a little less resonant, 
 than when I first came to live with her at 
 Stoneycroft Hall ; but her eye was as vigilant, 
 and her tongue as caustic, as of old. As for* 
 her temper, it had become far more sour and 
 overbearing than I had ever known it before. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 129 
 
 "While she was yet very Ul I began to suspect 
 
 this; and as she got well, I saw it more and 
 more plainly. 
 
 " I know I am cross, Bab," she used to say, 
 " I know I am cross, and very disagreeable ; but 
 I can't help it. It's my infirmity. If you had 
 never left me, I shouldn't have been half so bad. 
 I had got used to you; and the loss of you 
 soured me — I know it did ; and now it's too late 
 to be helped. I have lived too much alone 
 these last years. It isn't in human nature to 
 live alone, and improve. You must take me as 
 you find me, and make the best of me." 
 
 I did take her as I found her, and I made the 
 best of her ; but, for all that, things would not 
 go quite easily and cordially between us. Her 
 temper was an infirmity ; and I made every 
 allowance for it. The loss of me had soured her 
 — I did not doubt it for an instant. But that 
 was not all. The fact was that she coul^never 
 forgive me for marrying Hugh, nor Hugh for 
 asking me. It had frustrated all her favorite 
 plans; and time, instead of reconciling her to 
 the disappointment, seemed only to aggravate 
 her sense of the injury and injustice which she 
 conceived had been dealt out to herself. Thus 
 it came to pass that she waS always saying some 
 bitter thing which I could not hear without re- 
 monstrance, and which she was angry with me 
 for feeling. To my husband she was so rude, 
 that, with all his forbearance, he found it diffi- 
 cult to steer clear of open disagreement with 
 her ; and so staid away more and more, till at 
 last his visits might almost be said to have en- 
 tirely ceased. 
 
 These things were to me, of necessity, the 
 sources of profound and frequent trouble. The 
 two whom I loved best in all the world were 
 gradually growing to dislike each other more 
 and more ; and nothing that I could do would 
 avert the catastrophe. The breach widened 
 daily before my eyes. I tried to patch it over 
 continually ; but in vain. In the attempt to 
 justify Hugh to my aunt, or excuse my aunt to 
 Hugh, I soon found that I did more harm than 
 good ; and so gave it up after a while, and sadly 
 suffered matters to take their course. 
 
 The month of October, and the greater part 
 of November, passed by thus, in receiving 
 and paying visits, driving, riding, wearing fine 
 clothes, and staving off that quarrel between my 
 aunt and Hugh which seemed to be inevitable 
 at some time or other. Active and restless by 
 nature, my husband had been more than ever 
 unsettled since our return to Broomhill, anji 
 now lived almost entirely in the open air. When 
 not riding or driving with me, he was out shoot- 
 ing in his preserves. He rode to every meet, 
 however distant ; although in Rome he had 
 never expressed a wish to follow the subscrip- 
 tion pack. It appeared, indeed, as if he had 
 lost his taste for all the quiet pleasures of indoor 
 life ; as if he never could never be happy unless 
 out and stirring ; as if, alas ! he took so little 
 pleasure in his ancestral home that it was a re- 
 lief to him to get beyond its precincts. 
 
 There were times when 1 looked back with lov- 
 ing regret to our delicious life in Italy — when, 
 but for the confident hope that better times 
 must come, I should almost have wished that I 
 had never brought him back to Broomhill. 
 In the mean time Goody — dear, faithful Goody 
 I 
 
 — came down and made her home in a little 
 gothic cottage that had once been a game- 
 keeper's lodge, situated on a pleasant green 
 knoll, just where the woods bordered on the 
 western boundary of the park. To furnish this 
 little maisonette for her, to stock her presses 
 with linen, her cupboards with crockery, and 
 her poultry-yard with cocks and hens, afforded 
 me many hours of unmixed pleasure. Possessed 
 of all these luxuries, she thought herself a rich 
 woman ; and though it was almost winter when 
 she came, looked upon Broomhill as little short 
 of an Eden upon earth. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVn. 
 
 THE FAMILY DIAMONDS. 
 
 "Barbarina mia," said Hugh, as we were 
 sitting together one evening after dinner^ "I 
 forgot to tell you that the Bayhams are going to 
 give a great ball," 
 "Who told you so?" 
 
 " Lord Bayham, himself; I met him as I was 
 coming home." 
 
 " Oh, dear me ! shall we be obliged to go?" 
 " Most undoubtedly ; since it is to be given 
 chiefly in honor of ourselves." 
 
 " I am so tired of society," said, I, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 " I am not 'tired' of it — I loathe it," grum- 
 bled Hugh, dealing a savage kick at the log upon 
 the fire, and sending a shower of sparks, like a 
 miniature firework, careering up the chimney. 
 
 "If we could only live here, Hugh, as we 
 lived abroad !" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders gloomily. 
 " We might if we liked, you know," I pursu- 
 ed, laying my hand coaxingly upon his. " We 
 were bound to return the people's calls, and we 
 have done so ; but we are not bound to accept 
 their invitations, or cultivate their acquaintance, 
 unless we please." 
 
 " Bah ! what else can we do ? What else is 
 there for us to do in a place like this ?'' 
 
 *' More than life itself would be long enough 
 to do satisfactorily, depend on it. In the first 
 place, you have books ; in the second, you have 
 
 art " 
 
 "My dear girl," said he, impatiently, "books 
 and pictures are all very well in their way ; but 
 to an English country life they can add very 
 little real enjoyment." 
 
 "You desired no other pleasures when we 
 were in Italy." 
 
 " In Italy the case was different. In Rome 
 we had all the art of the world. At Albano we 
 had natural scenery. In both we had the climate 
 of Paradise," 
 
 « But " 
 
 " But, my darling, this is a subject which we 
 see so differently, that it is useless to argue 
 upon it. And now about this ball at Ashley 
 Park. It is to take place in about a month 
 from the present time — that is to say, a week 
 before Christmas ; and as it will be her first ap- 
 pearance in a large assembly, I am anxious that 
 my little wife should make a good appearance." 
 '" I want no more new dresses, Hugh," I ex- 
 claimed, " I have more now than I shall ever 
 wear." 
 
130 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 " What an amazing Barbarina it is !" laughed 
 he, unlocking a quaint old carved bureau in a 
 recess beside the fireplace, and taking thence a 
 large red morocco case. " The lady of Bur- 
 leigh herself could scarcely have regarded the 
 haberdasher and dress-maker with a more pious 
 horror. Mais, rassure-toi, cherie. It was not of 
 your dress that I was thinking, but of these." 
 
 He touched the spring, and disclosed what 
 looked like a constellation of diamonds. 
 
 " Oh, husband, how beautiful !" 
 
 "They were my mother's, and my father's 
 mother's," said Hugh, somewhat sadly; "and 
 some of the stones, I believe, have been in the 
 fiimily even longer. They are yours now, my 
 darling," 
 
 " They are magnificent : but — ^but fancy me 
 in all these diamonds !" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I should feel ashamed — my grandeur would 
 overwhelm me. How well Hilda would become 
 them !" 
 
 " Not better than thyself, carissima. But they 
 are old-fashioned, and must be reset before my 
 little woman wears them." 
 
 " Indeed, no ! they will do beautifully as they 
 are." 
 
 "Indeed, yes. Look at this aigrette. How 
 would you like to go to Lord Bay ham's ball with 
 an aigrette perched upon your head, like an or- 
 nament on a twelfth cake ? Then here are ear- 
 rings. You have never worn earrings in your 
 life ; and do you think I could endure to see my 
 wifie's ears barbarously stilettoed, as if she were 
 a Choctaw squaw? No, no — the aigrette and 
 earrings will make a charming little tiara for 
 her brow ; and the necklace shall assume a more 
 modern pattern; and the brooch — what shall 
 we do with the brooch? Have it reset as a 
 brooch, or turn it into a bracelet ?" 
 
 " Turn it into a bracelet, by all means, with a 
 miniature of yourself in the midst." 
 
 '■'■ Bon. I should not have trusted any one 
 but myself to take the jewels up to town, and I 
 can see about the miniature at the same time. 
 I think I will go to-morrow by the, early train," 
 
 " And come back by the last ?" 
 
 " Humph ! I don't know how to promise that, 
 Barbarina. I shall have to choose the patterns 
 for the diamonds ; to find an artist, to give my 
 artist a sitting, if he will take me on so short a 
 
 notice ; to well, I will do my best ; and if 
 
 I find I can not catch the train, I will tele- 
 graph." 
 
 " You will not telegraph," said I. "You will 
 come. Remember the motto of Henri Quatre : 
 ' cl coeur vaillant, rien d'' impossible P " 
 
 I drove him over to the station the next 
 morning by starlight, and saw him vanish like 
 Aubrey's ghost, to the " melodious twang " of 
 the railway whistle. As I came back, the day 
 was superb. The frosty road rang beneath the 
 hoofs of my Shetlanders. The blue sky, un- 
 flecked by even a vapor, seemed immeasurably 
 high and transparent. There was a magical 
 sharpness in the tracery of every bare bough 
 that rose into the sunlight ; and the yellow leaves 
 that still masked the nakedness of the wood- 
 lands, mocked the wintry landscape with autum- 
 nal hues. But for those yellow leaves, it might 
 have been a morning of early spring-time. 
 
 Some such thought as this it was, perhaps, 
 
 that led me back, during that homeward drive 
 to old memories of the happy spring-tide that I 
 spent here long ago. I thought of that last 
 morning when I met Hugh in the woods ; and re- 
 membered, almost with a sense of self-reproach, 
 that I had not once revisited the place since my 
 return. Then I looked at the silver ring, now 
 transferred to my watch-chain ; and wondered 
 if the marks of the shot were yet visible on the 
 beech-bark ; and if the old mossy stump on which 
 I was sitting when they whistled past, had been 
 spared all this time by the woodcutters. Finally, 
 when, at about the distance of a mile and a half 
 from Broomhill, I met one of the grooms and 
 two or three of the dogs, I alighted, desired the 
 man to drive the ponies home, and announced 
 my intention of walking round by the woods. 
 
 " If you please, 'm," said he, touching hia 
 cap, " I think Nap would like to go with you." 
 
 " Then he shall certainly do so, Joseph. 
 Come, Nap ! Come on, boy !" 
 
 And with this I struck down a side path, lead- 
 ing to the woods, with the great dog barking 
 and galloping round me. The groom, the point- 
 ers, and the Shetlanders pursued their way by 
 the high road. 
 
 Nap and I were great friends. He was a 
 magnificent beast, of pure St. Bernard breed ; 
 powerful and tawny as a young lion, with a deep 
 furrow on his brow, and a voice that sounded 
 as if it came from an organ-pipe. His name 
 was Napoleon, called Nap for shortness; and 
 his pedigree was as illustrious as his name. He 
 was, in fact, the last lineal descendant of an an- 
 cestor whose owner acted as guide to the First 
 Consul in the celebrated passage of 1800 ; and 
 who himself accompanied his master and the 
 army through all the difficulties and dangers of 
 the route. I used sometimes to think that Nap 
 was conscious of his own nobility, and- becom- 
 ingly proud of his genealogical advantages. He 
 accepted caresses as if they were his due ; was 
 dignified in his intercourse with small dogs; 
 and had at all times such an air of easy grandeur 
 that it would have been impossible to treat him 
 with disrespect. 
 
 His first greeting over, and his satisfaction 
 sufficiently expressed. Nap trotted calmly for- 
 ward, some three or four yards in advance, with 
 now and then a pause and a glance back. Thus 
 we crossed the upland fallows, and skirted part 
 of the Stoneycrofc land, and entered the woods 
 by a little rustic stile, the top-rail of which was 
 carved all over with the initials of by-gone 
 loiterers. 
 
 It was by this time nearly mid-day, and the 
 wintry wood, carpeted with russet leaves, and 
 interspersed here and there with ilex, holly and 
 fir-trees, glowed in Ihe sunshine with a beauty 
 peculiar to the season. Unexcluded by foliage, 
 the broad full light poured in upon every bank 
 and hollow, and checkered the ground with 
 shadows of interlacing boughs. There was 
 scarcely a breath of air, and the calm of the 
 place was perfect. The dry leaves crackled 
 underfoot. Now and then, a bird twittered, or 
 a pheasant rose, whirring, from the brushwood. 
 Now and then, a leaf fluttered down through the 
 sunshine. As I went forward, half uncertain of 
 the way, and looking out on all sides for any 
 indication of the rising ground which had been 
 the scene of my childish romance, I could 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 131 
 
 not help thinking of this passage in "Christ- 
 abei :"— 
 
 " There was not wind enough to twirl 
 The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
 That dances as often as dance it can, 
 Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 
 On the topmost twig that loolis up at the sky.'* 
 
 Suddenly, while I was repeating the last two 
 lines dreamily over and over, the St. Bernard 
 uttered a short joyous bark, bounded from my 
 side, dashed away across a little space of open 
 glade where several fallen trunks showed that the 
 woodmen had been lately at work, and precipi- 
 tated himself in a rapture of recognition upon 
 the knees of a lady whom, but for this incident, 
 I believe I should have passed without seeing. 
 She was dressed all in black, and half hidden by 
 the pile of log-wood on which she was sitting, 
 I was just close enough to see her thro^ her 
 arms passionately round the dog's neck, and kiss 
 • him on the furrowed forehead — ^glance quickly 
 round — snatch up a book from the grass beside 
 her — start to her feet, turning upon me a pale 
 face with a strange flash of terror and dislike on 
 it — and plunge hastily away among the trees. 
 The dog plunged after her. Surprised and dis- 
 turbed, I stood for a moment, looking after them. 
 Then, while I could yet hear him crashing through 
 the brushwood, I called "Nap ! Nap ! Nap !" re- 
 peatedly, but in vain. Once, after an interval 
 of several minutes, I heard him give a faint, far- 
 away, uncertain bark — then all was still again. 
 
 Somewhat unsettled by the loss of my four- 
 footed companion, and perplexed by the strange 
 manner of his disappearance, I followed the open 
 glade till I came to a game-keeper's cottage, and 
 thence inquired my way home. I was tired, and 
 it was useless to think of searching the woods 
 to-day for a spot which by this time, no doubt, 
 had lost all its former characteristics. Besides, 
 I did not quite like wandering alone, without 
 even a dog to bear me company. So I went 
 back, by the nearest path, to Broomhill, intend- 
 ing to send some one in search of Nap as soon 
 as I got home ; and feeling something like an un- 
 easy doubt as to whether we should ever see him 
 again. 
 
 What, then, was my relief when the first ob- 
 ject I beheld as I approached the house on the 
 library-side, was Nap himself, lying sphynx-like, 
 with his nose upon his paws, in the midst of the 
 sunny graveled space where the fountain was 
 playing ! 
 
 I opened the little iron gate — the same through 
 which I had ventured, a breathless trespasser, 
 that day when Hugh surprised me at the window 
 — and went up to him, and patted him, and re- 
 monstrated with him on his late behavior. But 
 he only thumped his tail upon the ground, and 
 blinked at me lazily — and it was of no use to ask 
 him where he had been, or with whom. 
 
 Then I went in, sent for Mrs. Fairhead, de- 
 scribed the lady, and inquired if any one had 
 seen the dog come home. But Mrs. Fairhead 
 could tell me no more than Nap himself ; so I 
 betook myself to my painting-room, and proceed- 
 ed to work away the weary hours before my 
 husband's return. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVin. 
 
 IMPERIAL TOKAY IN VENETIAN GLASSES. 
 
 " To have my way, in spite of your tongue and reap 
 son's teeth, tastes better than Hungary wine." 
 
 Death's Jest Book. 
 
 " Put the painting by for to-day, Barbara," 
 said Hugh, thrusting his head just inside the 
 door, " and come with me." 
 " Where, dear ?" 
 
 " Into the next room." , 
 
 " What for ?" 
 
 " You shall know, when you get there." 
 "Well — in five minutes." 
 " No, carina — at once." 
 " Tiresome fellow ! The light is just going, 
 and I want to add another touch or two to this 
 head, before leaving ofif." 
 
 " Never mind the head. I can show you some- 
 thing much better worth looking at." 
 " Your own perhaps V 
 " May be. Chi lo sa P 
 
 "Your portrait?" I exclaimed, starting up at 
 once. " I am sure it is your portrait ? Who 
 has brought it ? When did it come ?" 
 
 " I have not even said that it is my portrait," 
 replied he, laughing, and leading the way. At 
 the door of the turret chamber, he paused and 
 put his hands over my eyes, saying that I must 
 go in, blindfolded. 
 
 " And now, one — two — THREE, and the cur- 
 tain rises on the Halls of Dazzling Light, in the 
 Refulgent Abode of the Fairy Crystallina !" 
 
 He withdrew his hands, and for the first mo- 
 ment I was really dazzled ; for he had caused 
 the fading daylight to be shut out, and two enor- 
 mous branch candelabra and a powerful vesta 
 lamp to be lighted; bo that the little room 
 seemed all ablaze. Then, as my eyes grew ac- 
 customed to it, I saw that these lights were 
 ranged round a sort of fantastic altar draped 
 with a rich oriental shawl of crimson silk and 
 gold, supporting a velvet cushion on which 
 were arranged a glittering tiara, necklace, and 
 bracelet of diamonds. 
 
 I flew to the bracelet, and burst into exclama- 
 tions of delight. 
 
 " Oh, husband, how charming ! What an ad- 
 mirable likeness ! What a treasure !" 
 
 " I am glad the portrait pleases you, Barbara 
 mia." 
 
 " It enchants me ! You never gave me any 
 thing that pleased me half so much." 
 
 " Come, that's well. And the setting ?" 
 
 " It has your very expression." 
 
 "My expression is brilliant, I confess," said 
 Hugh ; "but you mustn't be too flattering." 
 
 " I could declare that the mouth is just about 
 to say ' Barbarina !' And then the eyes, looking 
 up, half in jest and half in earnest " 
 
 " Will it please your Majesty to turn your 
 own eyes in this direction, and tell me what you 
 think of the rest of the regalia ?" 
 
 " I think it exceedingly beautiful — ^much too 
 beautiful for my wearing. I shall feel like King 
 Cophetua's bride, or Grisildis with the ' croune 
 on hir hed,' when I wear that circlet upon mine." 
 
 " Never mind how you will feel ; I want to 
 see how you will look. Come, let me crown you." 
 
 "Nay, in this woolen gown " 
 
 "Oh, the woolen gown is easily disguised. 
 See, with this shawl flung over it — and fast- 
 ened on the shoulder, thus — and the sleeve 
 
132 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 rolled up, out of sight — and the bracelet on the 
 
 pretty white arm — and the tiara " 
 
 " What a boy you are, Hugh !" 
 " Stop, here's the necklace yet to come. Per 
 BaccOy I have seen many a genuine queen who 
 looked not half so well in her finery !" 
 
 " But I can not see myself in this mirrorless 
 room !" 
 
 "Then we will go into the drawing-room, 
 carina^ where you can flourish at full length in 
 three or four mirrors at once." ■ 
 
 *' How absurd, if we meet any of the servants 
 on the stairs !" 
 
 "Pshaw! what does that signify ?" laughed 
 Hugh, ringing the bell. " We will make a state 
 procession of it. Tippoo shall precede you with 
 the branches, and I will bring up the rear with 
 the lamp. Shall we send for Mrs. Fairhead to 
 carry your train ?" 
 
 " Mercy on us ! what mummery is this ?" 
 cried a voice at the door ; and not Tippoo, but 
 Mrs. Sandyshaft stood before us. 
 
 We both started at the sight of this stern ap- 
 parition, and, for a moment, could find nothing 
 to say. 
 
 " You must be mad," pursued my aunt, still 
 on the threshold ; " stark, staring mad, both of 
 you ! It's only charity to suppose it. Pray, 
 may a sane person inquire what it is you're 
 after ?" 
 
 " My dear aunt," I stammered, divesting my- 
 self of the shawl, and pulling down my sleeves 
 as fast as I could ; " the — the diamonds — Hugh 
 wanted to see how I should look iii them. They 
 have just come home." 
 
 " The diamonds ?" repeated she, incredu- 
 lously. " Stuff and nonsense — the fiddlesticks ! 
 What are they made of ? Bristol paste, or bog 
 crystal ?" 
 
 " My dear Madam," said Hugh, shrugging his 
 shoulders, " do you suppose I should allow my 
 wife to wear mock jewels ?" 
 
 My aunt snatched the tiara from my head, 
 and examined it closely; 
 
 "If the stones are real, Hugh Farquhar," 
 said she, " the more shame for you ! No man 
 in your position can afford to buy diamonds at 
 this rate. They'd be worth eight or ten thou- 
 sand pounds." 
 
 " They are valued at twelve," replied he, 
 calmly. 
 
 " But he has not bought them," I inter- 
 posed. " They are old family jewels, reset. 
 They belonged to his mother, and his grand- 
 mother; and some of them are older still." 
 
 " Humph ! And are you going to be such a 
 fool as to wear them, Bab ?" 
 
 " I can not see where the folly would be, 
 aunt." ♦ 
 
 " Nonsense ! a child like you ; young enough 
 to be at school now — people will laugh at you." 
 
 " If they do, the folly will be theirs. As the 
 wife of a gentleman, and the daughter of a 
 gentleman " 
 
 " Bab, don't argue with me. I won't stand 
 it. I think one of you might have offered me a 
 seat all this while, considering it's the first time 
 I've called on you." 
 
 "Forgive me, Mrs. Sandyshaft," said Hugh, 
 placing a chair for her, immediately ; " but you 
 took us so by surprise that " 
 
 " That you forgot your good manners," inter- 
 
 rupted my aunt, sharply ; " though, goodness 
 knows, they're not much to boast of at any 
 time !" 
 
 " Always indulgent and complimentary, Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft," retorted he with a bow of mock 
 acknowledgment. 
 
 Having by this time thrust the shawl out of 
 sight, and shut the jewels away in their cases, I 
 hastened to divert the conversation by helping 
 my aunt to loosen her great cloth cloak and 
 boa, and telling her how glad I was to see her 
 at Broomhill. 
 
 "You're not glad to see me, Bab," said she, 
 suspiciously. " I don't beHeve it." 
 
 "My dearest aunt, why " 
 
 "Because I'm old, and you're young. Be- 
 cause I'm crabbed and sour, and you're happy 
 and gay. Don't tell me ! I know the world ; 
 and I know you'd far rather have my room 
 than my company !" 
 
 " You know nothing of the kind, aunt," I re- - 
 plied, giving her a hearty kiss ; " and you don't 
 mean a word of it." 
 
 " Every syllable," said she, obstinately. 
 
 "And you know that I have always loved 
 you dearly, and that " 
 
 "You care a deal more for your trumpery 
 diamonds, and your ugly ponies, and your gauds 
 of silk and satin, I'll be bound !" 
 
 " How dare you say so ? I've a great mind 
 to say that I don't love you a bit — that I am 
 very sorry to see you — that I wish you would 
 go away directly, and not even stay to dine 
 with us, like a dear, good, sociable, welcome 
 old darling, as you are !" 
 
 " I'm not good," said my aunt, grimly; "and 
 I never was sociable." 
 
 " Be bad and unsociable, then, if you like ; 
 but at all events remain a few hours with us, 
 now that you are here," persuaded I, with an 
 impatient glance at Hugh to second my invi- 
 tation. 
 
 " I think Mrs. Sandyshaft will stay," said he, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Do you ?" exclaimed she, with a determined 
 little jerk of the head. " Then you're mistaken. 
 / dine with you, indeed ? No, thank you. None 
 of your outlandish foreign messes for me ! I go 
 home to my plain beef and mutton — ^plain Eng- 
 lish beef and mutton !" 
 
 " But my dear aunt," I began, " you shall " 
 
 " Bab," said she, " you're as bad as he is by* 
 this time, I've no doubt. I can't eat sour kraut, 
 my dear. It's of no use to ask me." 
 
 " What shall we do, Hugh, to persuade her ?" 
 pouted I; fancying that she, perhaps, refused 
 because he did not press her sufficiently. " How 
 shall we make her believe that she would not 
 be poisoned ?" 
 
 " We — that is, you, can do no more than you 
 have done, my child," replied he, drawing back 
 one of the curtains, and looking out across the 
 park. " Still I am of opinion that Mrs. Sandy- 
 shaft will stay." 
 
 " And why ?" said my aunt. 
 
 " For two excellent reasons ; the first of 
 which is that it is now dark, and' " 
 
 " I have my old close carriage with me," in- 
 terrupted my aunt. 
 
 " — and rather foggy," pursued Hugh ; " and 
 your old close carriage has just disappeared 
 through the gates of the west lodge." 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 183 
 
 " Disappeared ! Mercy on us ! who dared to 
 send it away ?" 
 
 " I did. And the second reason " 
 
 " But I tell you I can't stay, and I won't stay ! 
 I insist on having it called back ! Bab, do you 
 hear me ? — I insist on having it called back." 
 
 "And the second reason," continued Hugh, 
 with the same cheerful impassibiUty, " is that 
 we have red mullet for dinner." 
 
 Now if there was one delicate dish which 
 more than another tempted my aunt's frugal 
 appetite, it was a dish of red mullet. Distant 
 as we were from any large town, fish was at all 
 times scarce in our part of the country ; and 
 red mullet especially so. It was not in human 
 nature to resist such a combination of circum- 
 stances. My aunt's countenance softened. I 
 suspect that she had wished, in her heart, to 
 stay with us from the first ; but the red mullet 
 ^ave her an opportunity of doing so'^pon 
 purely neutral grounds, and that was no small 
 advantage. 
 
 ** Red mullet?" said she. "Humph ! Where 
 did you get it ?" 
 
 " From London — fresh this morning." 
 
 " And how d'ye have it cooked ? Red mul- 
 let properly cooked is the best dish that comes 
 to table ; but messed up with foreign kick- 
 shaws " 
 
 " It shall be dressed, my dear aunt," said I, 
 "in any way you prefer." 
 
 " Well — what else will you give me ? — not 
 but what I can make my dinner off the fish, if 
 the rest is uneatable." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Sandyshaft," said Hugh, " you 
 shall dine exclusively upon red mullet, if you 
 please ; though I think I can answer for a pal- 
 atable pheasant as well. As for Barbara and 
 myself, we, of course, habitually sit dow^j. to 
 birds' nest soup, fricasseed frog, alligators' 
 brains d la sauce, potted cobra-di-capello, and 
 other foreign trifles of the same kind ; but of 
 these you need not partake, unless you please." 
 
 My aunt smiled grimly. 
 
 " You have a disgusting imagination, Hugh 
 Farquhar," said she ; " but you may depend 
 that you have eaten things quite as bad, and 
 worse, many a time without knowing it." 
 
 And so the dinner question ended, and she 
 staid. How often and how vainly I afterward 
 wished that I had never persuaded her to do so ! 
 
 We dined at seven, and it was nearly six by 
 the time she had agreed to remain ; but that 
 hour was actively employed by Mrs. Fairhead 
 and the cook, and the result was an excellent 
 dinner in the genuine English style ; so well 
 dressed and so well served, that it even elicited 
 the approbation of Mrs. Sandyshaft herself. In 
 addition to this, Hugh, of course, brought out 
 the best wines that his well-stocked cellars af- 
 forded ; and, at dessert, produced a very small, 
 cobwebbed, ancient-looking bottle, which was 
 placed upon the table in a silver stand, as rev- 
 erently as if it had been a sacred relic. 
 
 " What have you got there ?" ask^d my aunt, 
 complacently. 
 
 " A patriarch," replied Hugh. "A patriarch 
 that once dwelt in an Emperor's cellar, and was 
 one of a hundred dozen presented by the Em- 
 peror to a great Jew capitalist. The Jew capi- 
 talist died, and his heirs put up to auction all his 
 wines, plate, pictures, books, horses and person- 
 
 al property. At this auction the patriarch, with 
 his surviving brethren, now only twelve dozen 
 in number, passed into the hands of a great 
 English physician, famed alike for his wit, hos- 
 pitality, and learning. The physician and ray 
 father were friends and school-fellows. My 
 father died first ; but the physician remembered 
 me in his will, and left me, among other items, 
 a valuable chronometer, a very curious Latin 
 library, and the last fifteen bottles of the wine 
 now before you. Tippoo, draw the cork." 
 
 Tippoo stepped forward from behind his mas- 
 ter's chair, where he had been standing like a 
 bronze statue, and obeyed. 
 
 " Bring me three Venetian glasses." 
 
 And three Venetian glasses (quaint, delicate 
 things, with bowls like finely blown soap-bub- 
 bles, and fantastic wreath stems of white and 
 sapphire glass) were placed before him. Into 
 these he slowly poured the precious liquid, 
 which came out sullenly, like a liquor, and 
 hung in heavy red drops about the brim. 
 
 My aunt tasted hers — set it down — tasted it 
 again — sniffed it — held it up to the light ; and 
 finally said — 
 
 " The richest wine I ever tasted in my life. 
 What is it?" 
 
 "Imperial Tokay." 
 
 "And is that all true that you've been telling 
 us?" 
 
 " Evei'y word of it. The Emperor was Fran- 
 cis the First of Austria; the capitalist was 
 Goldschmidt, and the physician was Sir Astley 
 Cooper." 
 
 " I've tasted Tokay before," said my aunt ; 
 " but it wasn't like this." 
 
 " I dare say not. This is the real Tokay es- 
 sence, and is used by Austrian and Hungarian 
 wine-merchants merely as a flavoring for the 
 Tokay that is bought and sold. The genuine 
 essence, in its unadulterated purity, is hardly to 
 be tasted at other than royal tables. The name 
 of this wine is the Mezes-Male Tokay, and it 
 grows in a small vineyard which is the property 
 of the Emperor." 
 
 " It must be valuable," said my aunt, empty- 
 ing her glass with infinite gusto. 
 
 " It is valuable. This wine is at least sixty 
 years old. Sir Astley Cooper bought it for. 
 sixty-three shillings the bottle. The bottle con- 
 tains six glasses, and each glassful is therefore 
 worth half a guinea. The Venetian beakers 
 out of which we drink it are three hundred 
 years old ; and the value of each beaker is 
 about equivalent to a bottle of the wine. 
 There's a pretty piece of arithmetic for you, 
 ladies." 
 
 " It's drinking money," exclaimed my aunt. 
 "It's sinful!" 
 
 " Pleasant sinning, however," replied Hugh. 
 " PecJions encore .'" 
 
 "Not for the world. Mercy on us! I 
 wouldn't have drunk that, if I had know what 
 it was worth." 
 
 "Nonsense. The patriarch is sacrificed ia_ 
 your honor, and you are bound to perform your ' 
 share in dispatching him. Tippoo, fill Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft's glass." 
 
 "No — no thank you ; not another drop !" 
 
 And my aunt in the energy of her abstinence, 
 clapped her hand so roughly over the top of 
 her glass, that the delicate globe snapped away 
 
134 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 at its junction with the stem, rolled over the 
 edge of the table, and shattered into a thousand 
 fragments. 
 
 " Mercy on us ! — a glass worth three pounds ! 
 I'll — I'll get you another like it !" gasped my 
 aunt, aghast at her misfortune. 
 
 " Indeed you must not think of such a thing," 
 said Hugh. "It is a matter of no importance. 
 Tippoo, another glass for Mrs. Sandyshaft." 
 
 '*But indeed I will ! I'll have every curiosity 
 shop in London ransacked till I find one. Give 
 me the pieces for a pattern, please — dear, 
 dear me, I wish people wouldn't eat and drink 
 out of things that are too fine for use !" 
 
 " People who do so, dearest aunty, must be 
 prepared for the possible consequences," laughed 
 I. *' Pray say no more about it." 
 
 " And pray do not attempt to replace the 
 glass either," added Hugh ; " for it would be 
 perfectly useless. I bought that half-dozen at 
 the sale at the Manfrini palace, and I know 
 there are no others like them." 
 
 "How do you know it?" asked my aunt, 
 snappishly. 
 
 " Because I am a connoisseur of antique glass, 
 and am acquainted with all the best collections 
 in Europe." 
 
 " I believe Hugh Farquhar," said my aunt, 
 " that you know every thing that isn't worth 
 knowing, and nothing that is." 
 
 "I know that this Tokay is too good to be 
 refused. Let me persuade you to take a second 
 glass." 
 
 "Not I! I only wish I hadn't taken the 
 first." 
 
 "I should have been really vexed if you had 
 declined it," said Hugh; "for it is a wine that 
 I only produce on rare occasions." 
 
 " The rarer the better, I should say," retorted 
 my aunt. " Especially if you give it to people 
 in glasses that can't be touched without being 
 broken ; and which, when broken, can not be re- 
 placed. It may be a compliment — I dare say 
 it is ; but it's a very disagreeable one, let me 
 tell you." 
 
 " I wish, upon my honor, Mrs. Sandyshaft, 
 that you would think no more about it." 
 
 " But I can't help thinking about it. It an- 
 noys me." 
 
 " Well, let us, at all events, say nothing far- 
 ther upon the subject." 
 
 " Oh, it's of no use trying to impose silence 
 on me," said my aunt. " What I think of, I 
 talk of. It's my way." 
 
 A slight flush of displeasure rose to my hus- 
 band's brow, and he looked down without re- 
 plying. He had been admirably poHte and 
 good-humored up to this time ; but I could see 
 that he had not liked the tone of her re- 
 marks for some minutes past. 
 
 "And besides," added she, working herself 
 into a worse temper, as she went on, " I hate to 
 incur obligations that I can't return. I feel I've 
 cost you six guineas within the last half-hour ; 
 three "of which at least, no money can make 
 'right again." 
 
 " I beg leave to assure you, Mrs. Sandyshaft," 
 said Hugh, coldly, " that I am not in the habit 
 of estimating the pounds, shillings, and pence 
 which it may cost me, when I entertain a friend 
 at my table." 
 
 " Perhaps, if you thought a little more about 
 
 the pounds, shillings, and pence, it would be bet- 
 ter for you," repUed she. 
 
 " Of that you must permit me to judge." 
 
 " A civil way, I suppose, of desiring me to 
 mind my own business." 
 
 " My dear aunt," said I, growing momentarily 
 more and more uneasy, " this conversation has 
 wandered quite far enough from the subject. 
 Pray let us talk of something else." 
 
 " Bab, it's neither your place, nor your hus- 
 band's, to stop my mouth. What I think, I think ; 
 and what I choose to say, I say ; and both Houses 
 of Parliament shouldn't prevent me. When I 
 see people extravagant, and ostentatious, and 
 thoughtless, I tell 'em of it. If they don't like 
 to hear the truth, it's not my fault." 
 
 " You must give me leave to say, Mrs. Sandy- 
 shaft, that I am really at a loss to understand 
 your meaning," said Hugh. "If I could suppose 
 that you intended those expressions for " 
 
 " Intended ? — fiddlesticks ! Who else should I 
 intend them for ? You are ostentatious, and ex- 
 travagant, and thoughtless, Hugh Farquhar ; and 
 you know it; there isn't another man in this 
 county who has spent his money so wildly and 
 foolishly as ^yourself — and not only nis money, 
 but all the most precious years of his life, into 
 the bargain. Ah, Bab, it's no use to look at me 
 like that ! These things have been on my mind 
 a long time, and now that I've begun, I'll just 
 say my say out, and have done with it. I tell 
 you I'm sick of your art-jargon, and absentee- 
 ism, and continental ways — of your Paul What- 
 you-may-call-'ems, and your ponies, and your 
 curiosities, and your nonsenses and follies. Noth-. 
 ing English is good enough for you. If you've 
 a horse, he must be Arabian. If you've a dog, 
 he must be a St. Bernard, or a Dutch pug, or a 
 Freijph poodle, or an Italian greyhound. If you 
 buy a picture, it's never a Gainsborough nor a 
 Sir Joshua Keynolds ; but some miserable for- 
 eign daub got up in the back slums of Rome to 
 dupe the English. Every sentence you speak is 
 interlarded with parley-voos. The very servant 
 that stands behind your chair is a nasty, sly, 
 black, heathenish savage, more like a monkey 
 than a man !" 
 
 "Stop, Mrs. Sandyshaft," interposed Hugh, 
 the angry vein swelling on his temple, and an 
 ominous flash lighting up his eyes. " I can make 
 large allowance for your prejudices and your tem- 
 per ; but I will not suffer you to utter malicious 
 untruths of the most faithful friend and servant 
 I have ever known." 
 
 " Oh, Hugh !" I exclaimed, " she does not 
 mean it ! Pray, pray let this discussion be 
 ended !" 
 
 " Bab, I do mean it," repHed my aunt, whose 
 long-repressed irritation had now burst forth in a 
 fiery torrent, stronger than her own reason. " I 
 do mean it, and it's true ; and I only say what 
 every body thinks, and nobody dares to say be- 
 fore his face. He's no Englishman. No man 
 who lives as he has Hved these last twelve or 
 fifteen years, deserves the name of Enghsh- 
 man. He has performed none of the duties be- 
 longing to his position in the county. He has 
 neither represented it in Parliament ; nor served 
 it as a magistrate ; nor improved his acres ; nor 
 cultivated the good-will of his neighbors and ten- 
 ants ; nor done any one single thing but spend 
 out of his country the money that his ancestors 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 185 
 
 invested in it. Nothing but ruin can come of it — 
 nothing but ruin !" 
 
 " Upon my soul, Mrs. Sandyshaft," said Hugh, 
 rising angrily from his seat at the table, " this is 
 insufferable ! By what right do you take the 
 liberty of judging my conduct according to your 
 standard ? I have yet to learn that " 
 
 " By the right of my relationship to this poor, 
 luckless, mistaken child !" interrupted my aunt. 
 " A year ago, I would h«*^e said nothing about 
 it. You might have gone to perdition your own 
 way, for any interference of mine ; but now 
 things are different. Your worthless lot is linked 
 up with hers, and if you're ruined, she must be 
 the victim. I wish she'd never seen you. I wish 
 I'd never seen you. I'd as soon she'd married 
 a strolling player, or a wandering Arab, as you, 
 Hugh Farquhar! You're the last man Uving 
 whom I'd have given her to, if I'd had any^oice 
 in the matter ; and I don't mind telling you so !" 
 
 " Having told me so, Mrs. Sandyshaft, and 
 having, I presume, insulted me sufficiently at my 
 own table, you will now be satisfied, and permit 
 me to wish you a good evening," said Hugh, look- 
 ing very pale, and moving toward the door. 
 " Barbara, I leave to you the task, or the pleas- 
 ure, of entertaining Mrs. Sandyshaft during the 
 remainder of the evening." 
 
 " That won't be for long, then, I can tell you ; 
 and what's more, it will be many a day before I 
 cross your threshold again." 
 
 " As you please. Madam.' 
 
 And with this, he left the room. 
 
 " Oh, aunt Sandyshaft ! aunt Sandyshaft ! 
 What have you done?" I cried, bursting into 
 tears. 
 
 "Told him a piece of my mind, Bab ; and 
 much good may it do him," replied she, stalking 
 angrily up and down the room. 
 
 "But you will never, never be friends again !" 
 
 " I can't help that." 
 
 " But I — what am I to do ? I who love you 
 both so well ! Remember how dear he is to me 
 ■ — my husband " 
 
 " Bab, he's a scamp. He is not worthy of 
 you." 
 
 • " It is false ! You do not know him — he is 
 the best, the bravest, the — the noblest " 
 
 My sobs choked me, and I broke down. My 
 aunt stopped short before me, and struck the 
 table violently .with her open hand. 
 
 " Bab," said she, " you're a fool. The man 
 will break your heart some day, and then you'll 
 believe me. ' 
 
 A few minutes more, and she was gone ; never, 
 as I felt in my heart, to return again. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 THE MYSTERY IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 -to be wroth with one we love 
 
 Doth work like madness in the brain." 
 
 Chbistabel. 
 
 Short as were the wintry days, and frequent 
 my interruptions, I went on painting regularly 
 throughout November and the greater part of 
 December. The beloved occupation did me good 
 in all ways, and helped to keep my thoughts from 
 dwelling too constantly on that painful breach 
 
 which now seemed as if it could never again be 
 healed over. My aunt had been the aggressor ; 
 and I knew her too well to hope that she would 
 ever acknowledge herself wrong. She would have 
 died, at any time, rather than apologize. This 
 being the case, I found it more and more diffi- 
 cult to keep peace with her ; and so staid chief- 
 ly at home and at work, during the time that 
 elapsed between the great Bayham ball, and the 
 evening of her unfortunate visit. As that long 
 appointed date drew nearer, my picture approach- 
 ed completion. The subject had been suggested 
 by Hugh when we were traveling in Switzerland, 
 more than a year ago, and had dwelt in my re- 
 collection as a hope and a project ever since. It 
 represented Erasmus at Basle. 
 
 The great wit and theologian was seen stand- 
 ing, toward evening, on the terrace in front of 
 the Cathedral, looking thoughtfully over toward 
 the hills of the Schwartz-Wald. The sun had 
 just set, and a calm light filled the sky. Far 
 below coursed the Rhine, broad, green, and 
 eddying. Between the chestnut trees on the 
 terrace peeped the quaint red columns of the 
 cloister which he loved to pace ; and on the 
 ledge of the parapet, against the stone-bench on 
 which he would seem to have been sitting, lay an 
 antique folio, printed, perhaps, by Gutenberg of 
 Maintz. On the figure of Erasmus I had be- 
 stowed infinite pains, having made a sketch 
 from his portrait in the Concilium Saal for this 
 purpose. Desirous of representing him as he 
 appeared toward the latter end of his life, when 
 he had returned to Basle for the secopd time, I 
 took care to deepen the lines about the face ; 
 and strove to light it up, as if from within, with 
 that divine expression of hope and resignation 
 which is said to have settled upon it, like a glory, 
 during his last sufferings. He wore a long 
 furred robe, and a flat, three-cornered cap of 
 black velvet. One thin hand rested on the 
 book, while with the other he supported his frail 
 and failing form upon a 'Stick with a transverse 
 handle, like a short crutch. Close of day, and 
 close of stainless life ; peace within, and peace 
 on the world without ; night coming on, and 
 the Great Dawn after the night : — these were 
 the thoughts I sought to utter upon the canvas ; 
 this was the tale I endeavored, however im- 
 perfectly, to relate. 
 
 It happened one morning, when Hugh was 
 out with his gun, and I had settled down to a 
 long day's work, that I became dissatisfied, some- 
 how, with the folio on the parapet. I had taken 
 the 1623 Shakspeare for my model — a fine old 
 book, which looked as though it might have 
 sat for its portrait to the author of these 
 well-known lines descriptive of a medieval 
 volume: — 
 
 " That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid, 
 Those ample clasps of solid metal made, 
 The close-pressed leaves unclosed for many an age, 
 The dull red edging of the well-filled page, 
 On the broad back the stubborn ridges rolled. 
 Where yet the title stands in tarnished gold." • 
 
 The Shakspeare's "leathern coat," however, 
 was of dark brown calf, and looked too somber • 
 when seen in conjunction with the deepening 
 shadows on the terrace, and the dark-robed 
 figure of Erasmus. I placed the picture in 
 various lights, and the more I looked, the more 
 I became convinced that some less heavy color 
 
136 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 would improve the composition. What if I 
 made it a binding of antique vellum, toned by 
 age to a mellow golden hue, in harmony with 
 the warm tints of the sky ? I had seen one 
 whole compartment full of such in the library 
 below — great, ponderous, ancient folios of theo- 
 logic lore, lettered " Ada Sanctorum^^^ and ex- 
 tending through some thirty or forty volumes. 
 Could I do better than take one of these ? 
 Could I, if I searched for a year, place in the 
 hands of Desiderius Erasmus a work which he 
 was more likely to have had in frequent use ? 
 Delighted with the idea, and eager to put it into 
 immediate execution, I ran down at once to the 
 library, to select my volume. 
 
 The circular stove within its trellis of wrought 
 bronze, diffused a mild warmth throughout the 
 great room. The wintry sunlight poured in at 
 intervals through the lofty windows, and fell in 
 bright patches on the floor. The long rows of 
 books, shelf above shelf, in their rich and 
 varied bindings, glowed with a friendly lustre, 
 and gave out a pleasant odor of Russia and 
 Morocco. The brass wire-work glittered like 
 gold. It was a place to have made even a 
 savage in love with books — a columbarium 
 where there was found neither dust, nor ashes, 
 nor funereal urns ; but only caskets of rich work- 
 manship embalming the souls of the wise. 
 
 The library, as I think I have already men- 
 tioned elsewhere, was divided into compartments 
 of carved oak ; each of which was about four 
 feet in width, and reached all the way to the 
 ceiling, where it terminated in a simple cornice 
 supporting a small entablature. Of these com- 
 partments there were sixteen on the right hand 
 side, divided half way by the stove, which stood 
 somewhat back in an antique carved fireplace. 
 On the opposite side, divided at regular intervals 
 by five long windows, stood twelve similar com- 
 partments; while at the end the great Tudor 
 window, through which I was caught peeping so 
 many years ago, filled in the vista with rich 
 heraldic emblazonments of stained glass, through 
 which the daylight filtered in streams of purple 
 and gold. 
 
 And all this was his and mine ! 
 There were moments, now and then, when I 
 seemed to wake up to a sense of sudden wonder 
 and gratitude, scarce believing that my happiness 
 was more than a dream ; and this was one of 
 those moments. I paused; looked up and 
 down the noble gallery; and asked myself 
 what I had done to deserve so much devotion, 
 so much wealth, so great and many advantages ? 
 Truly, I had done nothing but love, and love 
 perfectly; and my love had brought its own 
 " exceeding great reward." Was not that 
 reward too gracious and abundant ? Was I old 
 enough, and wise enough, to use it rightly? I 
 could but try, humbly, earnestly, faithfully. I 
 could but try ; and I would try — and my eyes 
 grew dim as I registered that silent resolution, 
 which was a prayer and a promise in one. 
 
 Turning these things over in my mind, I 
 passed slowly up the library, looking for the 
 compartment of the " Acta Sancto7'uin.^^ I 
 found it at the farthest end, making the last 
 compartment on the right hand side, on a line 
 with the fireplace. I have said that the books 
 were protected by wire screens. These wire 
 screens worked upon hinges, and opened in the I 
 
 middle of each compartment, like folding-doors. 
 I turned the key ; took out the first volume on 
 which I happened to lay my hand ; and was 
 about to close the book-case without further 
 investigation, when it occurred to me that the 
 folios on the left half of the compartment looked 
 fresher and more attractive. I therefore re- 
 placed it ; unbolted the other half of the wire- 
 door ; and proceeded to take down another 
 specimen. » 
 
 To my surprise, the book would not stir. I 
 tried its next neighbor, and then one on the 
 shelf below ; and still with the same result. 
 Looking more closely, I found that, although 
 their vellum backs were gilt and lettered pre- 
 cisely like those on the adjoining shelves, they 
 were, in fact, not books at all ; but imitations 
 put there to fill a vacant space. No wonder 
 they looked fresher than their genuine brethren, 
 which had withstood the wear of centuries ! 
 
 Half smiling at the deception and its success, 
 I was about to turn back to my former choice, 
 when a thought flashed across me, like a revela- 
 tion, and brought the blood in a torrent to my 
 face. The door ! The door that I had heard aa 
 I came in that morning, weeks and weeks ago ! 
 The secret door of which no one knew any thing, 
 and for suggesting the very possibility of which 
 I was laughed at as a romantic child ! 
 
 Trembling with excitement, I eagerly examin- 
 ed the false half of the sixteenth compartment, 
 in every part. If it were a door, it must open 
 somewhere ; and that opening would, most 
 likely, be hidden in some part of the woodwork. 
 Nevertheless, I scrutinized the woodwork in 
 vain. I next looked for the hinges; but no 
 trace of a hinge was visible. I then thought 
 that one of the mock books might, perhaps, be 
 movable, concealing a lock at the back ; but 
 having tested all in succession, I found all false 
 alike. At last I began to think I must be 
 mistaken, and that no door existed, after all. 
 
 Having come to this conclusion, I chanced to 
 pass my hand, almost mechanically, along the 
 under edges of the shelves. I did not even say 
 to myself " there may be a bolt here ;" but I did 
 it, as if by a kind of instinct. Suddenly my 
 finger slipped into a groove, and encountered a 
 metal catch. I drew back, flushed and agitated, 
 and scarcely able to stand. I had suspected the 
 existence of the door ; I had searched for it ; 
 and now that I had found it, I was terrified by 
 my own discovery. What weakness ! Half 
 angry with myself, and half defiant, I pulled the 
 catch quickly back, and, leaning my knee against 
 the books, saw the five lower shelves yield at 
 once to the pressure, swing back on concealed 
 hinges, and reveal a narrow dark passage of 
 about two feet in width. The passage once be- 
 fore me, I plunged into it without a second's 
 hesitation ; struck my foot almost immediately 
 against the first step of a steep and narrow stair- 
 case ; and felt my way cautiously upward. 
 
 I counted the steps, one by one, till I reached 
 the eighteenth, and then my outstretched hand 
 came suddenly against a door. It was totally 
 dark, and only a faint gleam from below showed 
 the way by which I had come ; for the staircase 
 seemed to have turned in ascending, and the 
 hidden door had swung nearly close again, after 
 I passed through. I felt the panels over, with 
 the slow and careful touch of a blind person. 
 
 I 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 137 
 
 I found a small metal knob, which turned noise- 
 lessly within my grasp. I paused. My heart 
 beat violently. My forehead was bathed in a 
 cold perspiration. I asked myself for the first 
 time what it was that I was about to see when 
 this door was opened ? What chamber, long 
 closed — what deed of mystery, long forgotten — 
 what family-secret, long buried, would be reveal- 
 ed to my eyes ? "Was it right, after all, that I 
 should pursue this discovery? Ought I not, 
 perhaps, to go back as I had come ; tell my 
 husband of the secret upon which I had stum- 
 bled ; and leave it to him to deal with according 
 to his pleasure ? Hesitating thus, I had, even 
 now, more than half a mind to go no farther. 
 It was a struggle between delicacy and curiosity ; 
 but I was a mere woman, after all, and curiosity 
 prevailed. 
 
 " Come what may," said I aloud, " I will see 
 what lies beyond this door !" "^ 
 
 And with this I opened it. 
 
 My disappointment was great. I had strung 
 myself up for the sight of something strange 
 and terrible — ^for closed shutters, through which 
 a narrow thread of daylight should half reveal a 
 room, in every corner of which the dust of years 
 would lie like a mysterious mantle ; for a floor 
 stained, perchance, with blood, and furniture 
 giving evidence in its disorder of some fearful 
 struggle enacted long ago ; for something, per- 
 haps, even more ghastly still ; and now — 
 
 And now I found myself, instead, upon the 
 threshold of a pretty, cheerful, bright little 
 sitting-room, with a good fire Ijlazing in the 
 grate, and a window overlooking part of the 
 gferubberies. The walls were covered with 
 books and pictures. In a cage hanging against 
 the window, sang and fluttered a pair of little 
 gold-colored canaries. Across the back of an 
 easy chair beside the fireplace lay a woman's 
 shawl of black cashmere, bound with black 
 velvet ; and on the table lay a pile of books, 
 some of them open ; a desk ; writing materials ; 
 and a small work-basket. 
 
 I had made a wonderful discovery, after all ! 
 Here was, doubtless, some little sanctum sacred 
 to the private hours of good Mrs. Fairhead ; and 
 a very snug little sanctum^ too ! 
 
 "She must be fond of reading," thought I, 
 looking round at the books with some surprise. 
 " Where can she have got all these ? And what 
 kind of literature does she indulge in ?" 
 
 I went over to the table, smiling at my own 
 thoughts, and expecting to find the works of 
 Soyer and Miss Acton on the desk of my studi- 
 ous housekeeper. But the smile vanished and 
 left me cold, motionless, paralyzed. 
 
 The first book on which my eyes fell was en- 
 titled " Storia d'Italia, di Francesco Guic- 
 CiARDiNi, gentiluomo di Firenze.'^ 
 
 I sat down, mechanically, in the chair facing 
 the desk, and closed my eyes, like one who is 
 stunned by a sudden blow. A history of Italy, 
 in Italian ! How should this thing be possible ? 
 Who, in my house, could read that book, unless 
 it were my husband or myself ? Surely I must 
 be mad, or dreaming. 
 
 I opened my eyes again ; but the same words 
 stared me in the face. Another book lay beside 
 it, also opened — the celebrated "Storia della 
 Letteratura Italiana " of Tiraboschi. Three 
 or four others were within reach. These I drew 
 
 toward me with shaking hands that could 
 scarcely turn the leaves. I examined them in a 
 kind of dull stupor. They were "Baretti's 
 Italian and English Dictionary," "Waverley," 
 the "Pr/^iom" of Silvio Pellico, and Rogers's 
 " Italy." 
 
 Who, then, was the reader of these books ? 
 Who the inhabitant of this room? I looked 
 round vaguely, with a sense of bewildered un- 
 easiness, such as one feels in a dream, when on 
 the verge of some unknown danger. There lay 
 the shawl — here the work-basket. Then it was 
 a woman. Merciful God ! what woman ? Why 
 had I never seen her ? Why had no one told 
 me that she lived under my roof? What was 
 her name ? What right had she here ? Was 
 Hugh in the secret ? Was Mrs. Fairhead ? 
 Were they both deceiving me ; and, if so, for 
 what purpose ? I sprang to my feet. I felt as 
 if my brain were on fire. Finding no name 
 written in any of the books on the table, I 
 turned to those on the shelves, and tore down 
 volume after volume with feverish haste. They 
 were chiefly Italian, some much worn, and some 
 yet uncut— Manzoni, Alfieri, Metastasio, Ariosto, 
 and the like. In none of them, any writing. 
 There were pictures on the walls ; colored prints 
 and engravings, for the most part — Naples, Mes- 
 sina, Psestum, and the Grotto of Capri. There 
 were ornaments on the chimney-piece — a leaning 
 Tower in alabaster, a bronze Temple of Vesta, 
 a model of Milan Cathedral. Italy — everywhere 
 Italy ! 
 
 Then this woman was Italian. 
 
 The very thought that she was Italian seemed, 
 somehow, to make the mystery less endurable- 
 than before. I felt that I hafed her, unknown 
 as she was. All my senses appeared to be un- 
 naturally keen. Nothing escaped me. I saw 
 every thing, and reasoned upon all that I saw 
 with a rapidity and directness that seemed like 
 inspiration. Possessed by a kind of despairing 
 recklessness, I searched every article of furni- 
 ture, every shelf ; even the shawl on the chair ; 
 even the work-basket on the table. Then I 
 opened the desk. At any other time, the mere 
 thought of such an act would have shocked me ; 
 but now, half insane as I was, I did it without 
 even the consciousness of possible wrong. 
 
 The first things that I saw inside were a small 
 book and a little oval velvet case, about the size 
 of a five-shilling piece. I opened the book first ; 
 a dainty pocket volume of Petrarch's Sonnets, 
 bound in scarlet morocco, with a gilt clasp. On 
 the first leaf was written in Hugh's bold hand, 
 somewhat cramped to suit the tiny page — 
 ^^ 3faddalena, del suo amico — H. K" 
 
 Maddalena ! Her name was Maddalena. 
 
 Then I took up the oval case. A mist swam 
 before my eyes. I scarcely dared to look at the 
 portrait within, even when it lay open before 
 me— but I did look. It was Hugh— a younger 
 Hugh, beardless, boyish, different, and yet the 
 same. Opposite the portrait, on a gold plate 
 inside the cover, were engraved the words 
 " Huffo a Maddalena.'^ 
 
 I do not know how long I stood gazing down 
 upon this in my dumb despair ; but it seemed as 
 if hours had gone by, when I at last dropped 
 again into the chair, laid my head and arms on 
 the table, and burst into an agony of sobbing. 
 
 Presently I became conscious that there waa 
 
188 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 some one in the room. I had heard no one 
 enter ; but I felt that I was no longer alone. 
 Looking up in sudden terror and defiance, I saw 
 my husband standing before me. He was very- 
 pale — lividly pale — and his eyes were full of 
 tears. 
 
 " My poor Barbara," said he, softly, and held 
 out his hand. I shrank back, involuntarily. 
 He shuddered. 
 
 " No, no," he said, " not that ! any thing but 
 that." Then, as if recollecting himself, he re- 
 sumed his former tone, and added, " I see it all, 
 my Barbara. Come with me — truSt me — and I 
 will explain every thing." 
 
 I pointed to the portrait. 
 
 " Yes, every thing, my darling — every thing." 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 THE STORY OP MADDALENA. 
 
 "Un pezzo di cielo caduto in terra." — Sannazaro. 
 
 " Poor Maddalena !" said Hugh. " Her life 
 is very solitary — her story very brief. An exile 
 from her country, a fugitive from her family, she 
 has for years taken refuge under my roof It is 
 her only home. Alone here with her books and 
 her sad thoughts, she wears away the slow cycle 
 of a companionless existence. She is no longer 
 young ; and she has no friend in all the wide 
 world, but myself. You will pity her, my Bar- 
 bara, as I do, when you have heard me to the 
 end. i 
 
 " You know that I chanced to be abroad when 
 my father died. It was my first visit to the 
 Continent, and I was making what was then 
 called the ' grand tour.' I loved him very dearly, 
 and could not endure to return to the home 
 where I should have missed him in every room ; 
 so I prolonged my travels indefinitely ; and, in- 
 stead of coming back to England, went farther 
 and farther East, leading a wild nomadic life, 
 and seeking to forget my sorrow in deeds of 
 peril and adventure. Wearying at length of 
 the tent and the saddle, I retraced my steps, after 
 a year and a half of Oriental wanderings, and re- 
 •turned westward as far as Naples ; where I bought 
 a yacht, hired a villa at Capri, and lived like a 
 hermit. Here Tippoo and a female servant con- 
 stituted all my establishment ; while, for the 
 management of my little yacht, I needed only 
 one sailor and a pilot. The pilot's name was 
 Jacopo. He lived in the island, and was at my 
 service when I needed him. The sailor slept on 
 board ; and there was a sheltered cove at the foot 
 of my garden, where we used to cast anchor. 
 
 " In this place I lived a delightful life. Every 
 day I coasted about the enchanting shores and 
 islands of the Neapolitan bay ; sketching ; fish- 
 ing ; reading Cicero, Suetonius and Virgil ; land- 
 ing wherever it pleased my fancy ; and wandel*- 
 ing among the ruins of Paestum, Pompeii, and 
 Baiae. My books, at this time, were my only as- 
 sociates. I knew no one in the neighborhood of 
 Naples, and desired only to be alone. It was a 
 strange life for a young man, not yet twenty- 
 three years of age. 
 
 " I have already mentioned to you my pilot 
 Jacopo. He was a swarthy, handsome fellow, 
 about three years older than myself, sullen, active, 
 and taciturn as a Turk. All I knew of him was 
 
 that he was unmarried, and lived somewhere on 
 the other side of the island. Accident, however, 
 brought me to a knowledge of his family. Com- 
 ing home one afternoon, about two hours before 
 sunset, and running the yacht into our little har- 
 bor, I saw a young contadina waiting in the shad- 
 ow of the rocks. As Jacopo sprang on shore, 
 she ran to meet him, clasped him by the arm 
 with both hands, and spoke with great apparent 
 earnestness. He, in reply, nodded, muttered 
 some three or four brief syllables, and kissed her 
 on the forehead. She then ran lightly up one 
 of the many rugged paths that here intersect the 
 face of the cliff", and disappeared. As we went 
 up to the house, I laughed at Jacopo about his 
 innamorata. ' She' is no innamorata, signore,' 
 said he. ' She is my sister.' ' Thy sister, Jaco- 
 po,' repeated I. ' Hast thou a sister, amico P 
 ' I have a sister, signore, and a brother, and a 
 sister-in-law,' replied he ; ' and Maddalena tells 
 me that the sister-in-law has this day been de- 
 livered of her first-born. The babe will be bap- 
 tized to-night, and if the signore wants me no 
 
 more this evening ' ' No, no, Jacopo,' said I. 
 
 ' Go to the baptism, by all means, llhou wilt 
 act as godfather ?' ' Si, signore, and as father, 
 too ; Paolo being away.' ' Who is Paolo ?' ' My 
 brother, signore, who is at sea.' ' Friend Jaco- 
 po,' said I, ' do you think the sister-in-law would 
 allow me to be among the guests ?' Jacopo 
 flushed up under his dark skin, and said she 
 would think it a great honor. ' But,' added he, 
 with a kind of proud shame, ' it is a poor place, 
 signore.' To which I replied that I was a citizen 
 of the world, and all places were alike to me ; 
 and so it was settled. We then started at once 
 for his home, striking across the island by short 
 cuts and sheep-tracks known to my companion, 
 who preceded me in his accustomed silence. By 
 and by we came again in sight of the sea, and, 
 following the course of the shore, reached an 
 open space, or high level plateau, on the very 
 verge of which stood a small antique stone dwell- 
 ing, bowered in with trellised vines, and almost 
 overhanging the sea. A raised terrace in front ; 
 a little garden at the back, full of orange and 
 fig-trees ; a rude dove-cot clinging, like a para- 
 site, to the walls of an outhouse ; a few goats 
 browsing on the herbage round a:bout ; and a 
 flight of rough steps, hewn in the solid rock, and 
 leading down to the beach, seventy feet below, 
 made up the picture of this humble home. As 
 we drew near the music of a zampogna and tam- 
 bourine became audible ; and Maddalena came out 
 to meet us. Learning that I was the padrone^ 
 she kissed my hand, bade me welcome, and made 
 me known to the guests. They were the priest ; 
 some fishermen and their wives ; and one Mat- 
 teo, a wealthy peasant, who kept the only little 
 alhergo in Capri, They all rose at our approach. 
 The zampogna and tambourine players laid aside 
 their instruments ; the priest put on his alb and 
 chasuble ; the inn-keeper made his best bow ; 
 and we all went into the house, where, in a room 
 opening on the garden, lay the young mother 
 and her infant ; their cleM white coverlet strewn 
 with sprigs of rosemary and fresh thyrne, and a 
 crucifix at the head of the bed. Jacopo and 
 Maddalena then stood by as sponsors — the priest 
 gabbled through the baptismal formula — the lit- 
 tle Christian protested lustily against the mouthful 
 of salt administered to him on the finger of the 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY 
 
 139 
 
 holy man ; and so the ceremony ended. Mad- 
 dalena then ran to prepare supper on the terrace, 
 while we congratulated the mother, and made 
 such little presents to the baby as each could af- 
 ford. Thus the priest gave a tiny medal, blessed 
 by the Pope ; Jacopo a piece of linen ; the inn- 
 keeper a string of coral beads ; and I, in pledge of 
 a gift to come, a broad gold coin, for which the 
 mother and Jacopo kissed my hands. After this we 
 we went oiit on the terrace, and supped by sunset, 
 waited on, in Eastern fashion, by the women. I 
 shall never forget the crimson splendor of that 
 evening sky, nor the pastoral charm of that rustic 
 festival, at which Plenty and Good-will presided, 
 like unseen gods. There was white bread made 
 from Indian corn, and wine in goat-skin vessels. 
 There were crabs fried in olive-oil ; quails, for 
 which the island is famous ; omelettes, dried fish, 
 salad, fresh cucumbers, melons, green figs, maca- 
 roni, and the delicious nco^a of goat's-milk,'^hich 
 every peasant of South Italy is skilled in making. 
 While we were yet feasting, the tender twilight 
 came on, and the broad summer moon rose over 
 the tops of the olive-trees, glowing and golden. 
 Then the tables were cleared away ; the priest 
 took his leave ; those who could play snatched 
 up their instruments ; and a circle was formed 
 on the grassy plateau for the tarantella. I could 
 dance it myself, then, as well as any Neapolitan 
 among them ; and so, by and by, took Maddale- 
 na for my partner, and delighted my simple hosts 
 by performing their national dance like one ' to 
 the manner born.' Would you know what Mad- 
 dalena was like when I first saw her ? Well, I 
 will try to describe her. She was about eighteen 
 years of age, and looked somewhat older. Her 
 features were agreeable without being handsome. 
 Her complexion was pale, her figure slight, her 
 hair black and abundant. At eighteen, most 
 Italian women are married or betrothed; but 
 Maddalena was neither. Her life had, hitherto, 
 been devoted to her brothers. Their will was 
 her law ; and if she feared Jacopo more than she 
 loved him, she adored Paolo and his wife with 
 her whole heart. I learned these things after- 
 ward, and by degrees ; but I tell them to you 
 now, carina^ to make my story clearer and briefer. 
 For a peasant — and you must remember, my Bar- 
 bara, that she was nothing but a peasant — Mad- 
 dalena had a more than ordinary air of intelli- 
 gent thoughtfulness. Something of this she may 
 have owed to her housewifely habits and seclud- 
 ed life ; but much also to natural abilities of no 
 common order. For all this, she could neither 
 read nor write ; and was as ignorant as a child 
 of all the world that was not Capri. She had 
 never been farther than Naples in her life. 
 Her beads were her library ; the Madonna was 
 her religion ; Tasso, as she had now and then 
 heard him chanted by the Canta Storia^ her 
 only historian. 
 
 " I have always loved to identify myself with 
 the life of the people in every land that I have 
 visited, and my introduction to this family of 
 simple islanders gave me unusual pleasure. I 
 staid with them till nearly midnight, taking 
 my turn at the guitar or the tarantella ; helping 
 Maddalena to mix lemonade for the thirsty 
 dancers ; and joming, between whiles, in the 
 chorus of a canto popolaro. When, at length, 
 I bade them farewell, and went home, with 
 Jacopo for my guide, the fishers were out in the 
 
 bay with their nets and torches, like sea meteors, 
 and the moon was declining with yet unabated 
 splendor. 
 
 *' ' I shall go over to Naples to-morrow, 
 Jacopo,' said I, as we went along. ' Si, signore.' 
 — 'But you must tell me what gifts to buy.' 
 Jacopo shook his head. ' Nay, but how can I 
 guess what would be acceptable to the father and 
 mother?' Jacopo, however, was as proud and 
 shy as he was taciturn, and would only say that 
 whatever the padrone pleased would surely be 
 most acceptable ; so, being thrown on my own 
 resources, I suggested a pair of gold earrings 
 for the mother, a piece of cloth to make a holi- 
 day suit for the father, and a necklace for Mad- 
 dalena. To each of these, Jacopo bent his 
 head, with a pleased '■grazie, signore;' and to 
 the last he said, ' La sorella will keep it for her 
 wedding.' — ' Has she then a lover ?' I asked. He 
 shook his head again. 'Not yet,' he replied; 
 ' ma vedremo — we shall see.' — ' And Paolo,' 
 I said, 'where is he now?' — 'At sea, signore, 
 with his ship.' — 'And where is his ship ?' — ' N^on 
 50, signore.'—' To what port was she bound ?' — 
 ' To Smyrna, signore, and the Greek Isles.' — 
 ' You never hear from him while he is away ?' — . 
 ' Never, signore.' — ' Surely his wife is some- 
 times anxious ?' Jacopo shrugged his shoulders. 
 ' JE buon giovane^ said he ; ' the Madonna will 
 watch over him,' 
 
 " By this time we had come upon roads that I 
 knew, and so I bade Jacopo good night, and we 
 parted company. 
 
 "The next day, I sailed over to Naples, 
 as agreed ; made my purchases, spent my even- 
 ing at the San Carlo, and returned to Capri just 
 as the sun was rising behind Vesuvius. That 
 same afternoon, I coasted round to the north- 
 west of the island ; cast anchor in a little creek 
 at Point Vitareto, about half a mile below Mad- 
 dalena's home ; and went up to the cottage on 
 rfoot. I found Jacopo there b^ore me, tying up 
 the vines ; and Maddalena sitting in the porch, 
 spinning, singing to the baby, and rocking the 
 cradle with her foot. She rose and bade me 
 welcome, fetched a wooden chair from the house, 
 and placed before me a plate of fresh figs, and a 
 small flask of wine. * It is the vino Tiberiano, 
 signore,' said she. 'The wine of Tiberius!' I 
 repeated, ' A good wine, but deserving a better 
 name.' She looked up inquiringly. ' Did you 
 never hear of Tiberius, who lived on this island 
 in the ancient times ?' I asked. ' Yes, signore,' 
 she replied, crossing herself; 'he was a magi- 
 cian.' — ' Ay, and a Pagan,' added Jacopo, com- 
 ing down from his ladder among the vines. 
 ' He built twelve palaces here by enchantment ; 
 but they were all destroyed by the holy Saint 
 Constantine.' — '^ vero — e verissimo, signore,' 
 said Maddalena, seeing the smile which I could 
 not wholly suppress ; ' one may see the ruins in 
 all parts of Capri.' — 'I have seen the ruins, 
 Maddalena,' I replied; 'but Tiberius was no 
 magician. He was a wicked Emperor, and all 
 his palaces were razed to the ground by his suc- 
 cessor.' At this moment, my sailor came up 
 from the beach, bringing the box of gifts, and 
 we went into the house to open it. The sister- 
 in-law was sitting up in bed to receive me, and 
 the room, as usual in South-Italy, when a 
 woman is recovering from her confinement, was 
 fragrant with sweet herbs. First, I took out the 
 
140 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 earrings ; then a mug for the baby ; then the 
 cloth for Paolo ; then a silver watch for Jacopo ; 
 and, lastly, a coral necklace for Maddalena. 
 You would have thought, Barbarina, that I had 
 given them the sovereignty of the island. The 
 young mother called on the Madonna and all the 
 saints to bless me. Jacopo, though he said 
 little, was eloquent in gesticulation. As for 
 Maddalena, almost childlike in her joy, she 
 clapped her hands, laughed, danced, hung the 
 necklace on the baby's little neck, and finally 
 ran to the well, like a young water-nymph, 
 to see how it looked upon her own. For my 
 part, carina, I only felt ashamed to think at how 
 little cost of money or effort I had made these 
 poor souls so happy. Anxious, at last, to put 
 an end -to their thanks and praises, I proposed 
 that Maddalena should go down to see the 
 yacht. 
 
 "We went — Maddalena going first, rapidly 
 and lightly as an island-born Diana — down the 
 rock-hewn steep, and along the narrow path of 
 amber strand that lay between the precipice and 
 the sea. She had seen the yacht often, from 
 afar off; but had never yet been on board. She 
 admired every thing — the polished deck ; the 
 brass-swivel gun, shining hke gold; the com- 
 pass in its mahogany shrine ; the dainty little 
 cabin, with its chintz hangings, ' its mirror, its 
 pictures, and its books. All was beautiful, all 
 was wonderful in her eyes ; and she would have 
 taken off her shoes at the cabin-door if I had 
 not prevented it. My book-case, which, like 
 that of the clerk in Chaucer, stood at my ' bed- 
 des hed,' and contained about as many volumes, 
 surprised her more than all the rest. * Dio P 
 said she, to Jacopo, ' can the padrone read all 
 these ?' — ' Certo,'' replied her brother ; ' and ten 
 times as many.' She shook her head, incredu- 
 lously. * What can they tell him ?' exclaimed 
 she. Jacopo shrugged his shoulders ; but I 
 came to his assistance. ' They tell me, Madda-* 
 lena,' said I, ' of all kinds of strange and pre- 
 cious things, some of which happened hundreds 
 of years ago, and some of which are happening 
 every day. Here is a book that tells me about 
 Italy in the time when all men were pagans, and 
 no one had heard of Christ or the Madonna. 
 Here is another which explains about the stars, 
 how they come and go in the heavens, how far 
 off they are, and what are their appointed uses. 
 This one gives an account of all the seas and 
 cities, islands, mountains, and rivers all over the 
 face of the earth. This is poetry — not such 
 poetry as the hymns and ballads which the fish- 
 ermen sing ; but long histories of war and love, 
 all in rhyme, Hke the ' Rinaldo.' ' — Maddalena 
 listened eagerly, devouring each volume with 
 her eyes as I took it out, and almost holding 
 her breath while I spoke. ' La guerra e 
 Vamore /' repeated she. ' How beautiful ! 
 What is it called, signore ?' — ' It is called the 
 Ilias of Homer,' I replied, ' and it is written in 
 Greek.' — 'Did Homer write it?' she asked, 
 quickly. — 'Yes, Homer wrote it.' — 'In Greek, 
 signore ?' — ' Yes ; Homer was a Greek by 
 birth.' — ' Then perhaps Paolo will see him ; cJii 
 lo sa r — I laughed, and shook my head. ' No, 
 no, Maddalena,' I said, ' Paolo will not see him. 
 Homer has been dead nearly three thousand 
 years.' She clasped her hands, and her dark 
 eyes dilated with wonder. 'Three thousand 
 years !' she murmured. ' Madre heata ! three 
 
 thousand years !' And presently, when we were 
 leaving the cabin, I saw her turn back to the 
 book-case, and touch the volume timidly with 
 one finger, as if it were a sacred relic, and had 
 some virtue in it. 
 
 " After this, I landed now and then at Point 
 Vitareto, and went up to the cottage to see 
 Maddalena and her brother's wife. The affec- 
 tion of these women for each other, and for the 
 sailor far away at sea ; the patriarchal sim- 
 plicity of their home ; the calm sanctity of their 
 lives ; the antique songs which they sang to the 
 baby in his cradle ; the legends which they re- 
 peated with the credulity of children, were all, 
 to me, sources of interest and pleasure. Even 
 their household occupations charmed my imagi- 
 nation, like the details of an idyllic poem. The 
 plying of the distaff", the pruning of the vines, 
 the salting of the olive-harvest, the gathering of 
 the honey, the preserving of the figs — what 
 were these but commentaries upon Hesiod and 
 Virgil ? If only as a student of the poets and 
 an observer of manners, I loved to familiarize 
 myself with this pastoral interior, and to learn 
 all that I could of the hopes, fears, and narrow 
 ambitions of its inmates. Sometimes, however, 
 we talked of Paolo, and then their hearts welled 
 over with love and praise. Sometimes I told 
 them tales of far-off lands, or translated into 
 their own soft vernacular a page of the Geor- 
 gics. Then would Jacopo pause in his work, 
 and Maddalena's distaff* He idle on her knee ; 
 and when I left off", they would point across the 
 bay toward Posilippo and the tomb of Virgil, 
 and say, ' Yonder is his place of rest.' 
 
 " At length there came a day when Jacopo 
 informed me, not without a certain air of sub- 
 dued exultation, that la sorella bad just been 
 asked in marriage by Matteo Pisani of Capri. 
 * Matteo Pisani !' I repeated. ' Not the inn- 
 keeper, Jacopo ?' — ' Si, signore,' he replied. 
 ' Matteo whom you saw on the night of the 
 baptism of little Paolino.' — ' But he is old 
 enough,' said I, ' to be Maddalena's father ! ' 
 Jacopo shrugged his shoulders. ' He is rich, 
 signore.' I shook my head. ' Riches alone do 
 not make a marriage happy,' I objected. ' Does 
 Maddalena love him ?' Jacopo laughed. ' Mat- 
 teo is a good man,' said he, ' and if la sorella 
 likes him well enough to marry him, the love 
 will be sure to follow.' And with this he turned 
 away, and said no more. 
 
 "It happened that this conversation took 
 place as we were scudding before the wind on 
 our way to Salerno, where I had made arrange- 
 ments to remain for some days, for the purpose 
 of sketching that part of the coast. During all 
 this absence, neither my pilot nor myself recur- 
 red to the subject of Maddalena's betrothal, and 
 by the time we returned to Capri I had almost 
 forgotten it. Once home again, I found my 
 time more than usually occupied ; for the term 
 of months for which I had hired my villa was 
 on the point of expiration, and I had made up 
 my mind to go to Algiers for the winter. Busy, 
 therefore, in packing my books and sketches, 
 and making such final arrangements as not 
 even a dweller in tents like myself could wholly 
 escape, I allowed nearly another week to elapse 
 before visiting my humble friends at Vitareto. 
 When at length I found time to do so, it was to 
 bid them farewell. 
 
 " The afternoon was mild and delicious, when 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 141 
 
 I walked across the hights toward Jacopo's 
 home. It was the third week in October. The 
 yellow vine-leaves were withering fast in the 
 grape-stripped vineyards, and the early snow 
 already lay in faint streaks about the summit 
 of Mount Solaro. As the ground rose, Naples 
 and Ischia, Vesuvius with its pipme of smoke, 
 anfl the blue sea flecked with sails, came into 
 sight. Half way to Vitareto, there was a point 
 whence all the glorious bay might be seen on a 
 day as clear as this. A stone seat and a soli- 
 tary tree marked the spot. I pressed eagerly 
 forward, remembering how m&nj and many a 
 year might go by before my eyes should rest 
 upon that sight again. As I drew near I saw 
 a woman sitting on the bench, with her face 
 buried in her hands. At the sound of my ap- 
 proaching footsteps, she looked up. It was 
 Maddalena. ^ 
 
 " ' Well met, Maddalena,' said I. *I was 
 coming to see you.' — She blushed ; but the blush 
 died away, and left her very pale, ' Our hearts 
 always bid the signore welcome,' she replied. — 
 ' I was also coming,' I added, ' to say farewell.' 
 
 * Alas !' said she, ' we have heard it. The signore 
 is going away.' — * Yes,' I said, regretfully ; ' I am 
 going ; but I am sorry to leave Capri.' She look- 
 ed up with naive wonder. ' The padrone is 
 master,' said she. ' He can stay if he chooses.' 
 
 * True,' I replied ; ' but I can also return when I 
 please ; and — and I have something of the Zin- 
 garo in my blood — I can not help wandering. I 
 am going to Africa for the winter. Still, I should 
 have wished to stay, Maddalena, for your wed- 
 ding.' — She blushed again, more faintly than be- 
 fore, and turned still paler after. ' I hear that 
 it is a fortunate marriage,' said I, hastily disen- 
 gaging a small ornament from my watch-chain. 
 ' You must accept my congratulations, and this 
 little remembrance of your English friend.' — 
 She murmured some scarcely audible thanks. 
 I looked at her closely, and could see that 
 she had been lately weeping. Her face, too, 
 looked haggard, and her hands thin. ' I hope, 
 Maddalena,' said I, 'that you may be happy.' — 
 Her lips trembled; but she made no reply. 
 ' Marriage,' I continued earnestly, ' is a very se- 
 rious thing — almost more serious, Maddalena, 
 for a woman than for a man. It is a bondage 
 for life ; and unless it be a bondage of love, not 
 all the golden ducats in the world can make it 
 happy. I hope you do not accept Matteo be- 
 cause he is rich ?' — ' No, no, signore,' she re- 
 plied, turning her face from me. — ' Nor in obedi- 
 ence only to the wishes of your family ?' She 
 shook her head. ' If you do not love him,' I said, 
 ' which I fear may be the case, you at all events 
 respect him, Maddalena ? You have no person- 
 al objection to him ?' She shook her head again, 
 with something like a suppressed sob. I took 
 her hand. It was cold and damp, and I could 
 feel all the nerves of the palm vibrating with 
 agitation. ' Cava Maddalena,' I said very gently 
 and soothingly, ' I have no right — I know I have 
 no right to question you thus ; but I can not bear 
 to think that you are, perhaps, about to sacrifice 
 your whole life to some mistaken sense of duty. 
 Confide in me, as in one who knows the world 
 so much better than yourself; and be assured 
 that I will spare neither money nor influence, if 
 money or influence can help you. Is there — as 
 I can not help thinking there may be — some 
 
 other with whom you believe you could be more 
 happy ?' — Maddalena covered her face with her 
 hands, and burst into an agony of weeping. 
 
 * No one can help me !' she cried, brokenly. 
 
 * No one can help me !' ' Hush, Maddalena,' I 
 said. 'Do not weep — do not despair. I am 
 your true friend. I offer no more than I am 
 ready to perform ; and I believe that I can help 
 you. Who is it that you prefer ? If there are 
 obstacles, what can be done to remove them?' 
 ' Nothing, signore ! nothing !' — * Is it that your 
 lover is poor ?' I asked. She shook her head. 
 
 * Is it that Jacopo dislikes him ?' She shook her 
 head again. ' Is it that you have quarreled, and 
 parted, and are too proud to be reconciled ; or 
 is it that he is no longer free to claim you ?' — 
 Maddalena started to her feet, and for the first 
 time since our conversation had begun, looked 
 straight at me through her tears. ' Signore,' she 
 said, rapidly and vehemently, ' ask me no more. 
 You mean kindly ; but you can do nothing, noth- 
 ing, nothing-! If my heart aches, no medicine 
 can cure it! My lot is cast. I must marry 
 Matteo. I have given my promise, and whether 
 I keep or break it, can make no difference now. 
 He is rich. He is our landlord. If I marry him, 
 I can, at least, do something to help my brothers 
 and our little Paolino. By refusing him, I could 
 do nothing to help myself. If you desire to be 
 kind to me, question me no more, and forget all 
 about me ! God and the Madonna bless and 
 keep you, dear signore ! I am not ungrateful, 
 and — and I am not unhappy !' 
 
 " And with these words, Maddalena seized my 
 hands, covered them with tears and kisses, and 
 fled away before I could utter a word in reply. 
 I sat for a long time on the stone bench, after 
 she had disappeared, troubled and perplexed by 
 what had taken place. I was sincerely grieved 
 for her, my Barbara ; and all the more grieved 
 because I could see no way to serve her. The 
 more I considered what she had said, the more 
 I became convinced that it was now my duty to 
 interfere no farther. I had sought her confi- 
 dence, and she had refused it. I had offered my 
 aid, and offered it in vain. If neither money 
 nor influence could avail her, there remained but 
 one conclusion. Maddalena, without doubt, loved 
 a man who was already married ; and in this case 
 her best hope lay in honest Matteo. What 
 readier cure, after all, for the heart-ache, than 
 the love of a good man, the cares of a house- 
 hold, and the duties of maternity? As I sat 
 and pondered thus, the sun sank lower and lower, 
 till it was too late for me to go on to Vitareto 
 that evening. So I rose and retraced my steps, 
 resolving to send some farewell message by Ja- 
 copo the following day. 
 
 "The rest of my story, carina, may be 
 summed up in a few words. I went no more to 
 Vitareto ; and, having only two days to remain 
 in Capri, I discharged Jacopo. Having made 
 arrangements to dispose of my little yacht and 
 forward my superfluous books and drawings to 
 England, I then bade farewell to the pretty vil- 
 la ; and on the third day after my interview 
 with Maddalena, slept on board my boat for the 
 last time, and steered for Naples. I had now- 
 only my one sailor to navigate the yacht ; but 
 it was all plain sailing enough, so, after remain- 
 ing on deck till the little white house that had 
 been my home for so many months was carried 
 
142 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 out of sight by the curve of the shore, I went 
 down into the cabin. At the cabin-door I met 
 Tippoo, with a strange startled look upon his 
 face. ' Sahib !' he said, pointing over his 
 shoulder. ' Sahib — do you know ?' — ' Do I 
 know what ?' I asked. ' There, Sahib - in there !' 
 Puzzled and impatient, I pushed past him into 
 the cabin, and found — Maddalena ! ^addalena, 
 who fell at my feet, entreating me*to forgive 
 her, and imploring me to save her ! 
 
 " I am almost ashamed to confess to you, 
 Barbara, that my first impulse was one of an- 
 ger. I felt that, having offered to help her 
 when I could have done so without serious in- 
 convenience, it was excessively annoying to find 
 her claiming my protection just as I was starting 
 on a long journey. However, I raised her up, 
 soothed her as well as I could, and learned, to 
 my amazement and distress, that she had been 
 married to Matteo Pisani the day before. Once 
 married, her friendly indifference changed, to 
 use her own impassioned expression, to an un- 
 conquerable personal loathing. FeeUng that 
 she could never be his wife, she fled from his 
 roof on her wedding night, and took refuge till 
 daylight in a little oratory on Mount Solaro. 
 Returning at dawn to her old home, she found 
 Jacopo absent, summoned away to assist Matteo 
 in the search for herself, and her sister-in-law 
 in the deepest trouble. In vain^he represented 
 her aversion toward her husband. In vain she 
 implored her sister's mediation and sympathy. 
 She was told, and with bitter truth, that she 
 should have known her own mind while there 
 was yet time ; that now her only course was 
 submissively to apologize to Matteo, and return 
 to his roof without delay ; and that if she did 
 not do so, none of her family would ever speak 
 to her again. ' In this strait, signore,' said Mad- 
 dalena, ' what could I do but fly to you for pro- 
 tection ? I found your vessel ready to start — 
 I chose a moment when there was no one within 
 sight — I stole on board, and hid myself under 
 your bed, till I knew that we were safely at sea. 
 And now — now I am at your mercy ! If you 
 take me back, my husband and Jacopo will kill 
 me. If they do not, I shall kill myself, sooner 
 than be the wife of a man whom I abhor. You, 
 and you only, signore, can save me now !' — 
 Serious, almost tragic as the situation was, I 
 could not help feeling that there was in it an 
 element of the ludicrous. ' Good God ! Mad- 
 dalena,' said I, ' it is all well enough to ask me 
 to save you ; but what am I to do with you ?' — 
 ' Let me be your slave,' replied she. In spite 
 of myself, I could not keep from smiling. ' You 
 foolish little girl,' said I, ' what do I want with 
 a slave ? And why should you prefer slavery to 
 a comfortable home with an honest, respectable 
 husband, like Matteo Pisani ? Come now, Mad- 
 dalena, don't you think you have been some- 
 what rash and romantic, and that it would be 
 better for us to turn the boat about, and steer 
 for Capri ? I will do my best to make your 
 
 peace with Matteo, and ' ' Enough, signore !' 
 
 •she exclaimed, flushed, and trembling, and in- 
 dignant. ' I see that you despise me ! Take 
 me back, if you will. Take me back, and aban- 
 don me to my fate. I deserve your scorn.' I 
 became serious in an instant. ' Maddalena,' 
 I said, ' I no more despise you than I am dis- 
 posed to abandon you. I offered you my help 
 
 three days ago, and I will help you still. Give me 
 a few moments to think what is best to be done ; 
 and believe that, whatever the difficulty or dan- 
 ger, I will, by the help of Heaven, save you if 
 I can.' 
 
 " With this I went on deck, and looked out 
 ahead. We were, as nearly as possible, half- 
 way across between Capri and Naples, and the 
 shores of the little island were already indistinct 
 in the distance. I went up to my sailor, who 
 was steering. 'Tommaso,' I said, 'what wind 
 have we ? It seems to me to be blowing due 
 west.' ' Si, signore ; due west,' replied Tom- 
 maso, with his eye on the compass. I took a 
 turn or two on deck, and came back again. 
 * You are not a married man, I think, Tom- 
 maso ?' said I. He looked surprised at the 
 question, laughed and shook his head. ' And 
 you have no particular home-ties, either — I 
 mean you are a free man to come and go as you 
 please ; is it not so ?' ' St, signore ; certo, certo,'' 
 replied Tommaso. I took another turn ; again 
 came back ; laid my hand on his shoulder, and 
 said, ' Supposing that I were to keep the yacht, 
 after all, Tommaso, and change the whole of 
 my plans, would you stay with me ?' ' Gladly, 
 signore.' ' And could you, do you think, pilot 
 the boat safely as far as Palermo, without put- 
 ting into Naples at all?' 'Yes, signore.' 'Ai^e 
 you certain, Tommaso ?' ' Quite certain, signore. 
 It is all open sea, and my whole life has been 
 spent in these waters.' ' Then 'bout ship, my 
 man, at once,' said I, ' and steer for Palermo. 
 There we shall be sure to pick up a pilot ; and 
 we can go on to Greece, or Constantinople, or 
 Grand Cairo, or to the deuce, if we choose !' 
 
 "And this, Barbarina, was how I came to 
 know poor Maddalena, and how I made myself 
 responsible for her protection. I took her first 
 of all to Palermo; then up the Adriatic to 
 Venice ; and from Venice to Vienna, where I 
 placed her in a private family, and gave her, in 
 accordance with her own desire, every facility 
 for the improvement of her mind. She had ex- 
 cellent abilities, and a passion for knowledge ; 
 so that she became educated, as it were, by a 
 miracle. At the end of three years, she could 
 not only read and write her own language with 
 correctness, but had made good progress in 
 English as well. Since then, she has gone on 
 improving year after year. Her happiness i8 
 bound up, so to speak, in her favorite authors ; 
 and her whole life is one long course of study. 
 For the last five or six years, she has lived un- 
 der my roof here, at Broomhill ; occupying two 
 little rooms at the back of the house ; maintain- 
 ing the strictest seclusion ; knowing no one, and 
 known of none. It has pleased her, poor soul, 
 to constitute herself my librarian. She loves, in 
 her gratitude, to believe herself of some little 
 service to her benefactor ; and the arrangement, 
 classification, and cataloguing of the books 
 down-stairs have given her occupation and 
 amusement together. As for the secret door, 
 my Barbara, it has only been so disguised since 
 she came here. It was originally contrived by 
 my grandfather for his own convenience, and 
 communicated with the rooms which he had in 
 occupation. Those rooms, for that very reason, 
 I assigned to Maddalena ; and the door I caused 
 to be masked by shelves of mock ' Acta Sancto- 
 rum,' partly for the better appearance of the 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 148 
 
 library, and partly for Maddalena's satisfaction. 
 She is haunted to this hour by a morbid fear of 
 discovery. She believes, after all these years, 
 that her husband or her brother, will some day 
 track her to her hiding-place ; and that she is, 
 perhaps, a little safer in having a concealed 
 door by which to escape to her apartments. 
 She dreads every strange face — even yours, my 
 wife ; and would have kept her very existence 
 a secret from you, had it been possible. Now 
 you know her story, and my share in it. Was 
 I not right when I said that, having heard 
 it, you would pity her, even as I pity her 
 myself?" 
 
 I have not here interrupted Hugh's narrative, 
 as I continually interrupted it at the time, with 
 questions, and anticipations of what was to 
 come. I have given it as he would have given 
 it to a less impatient listener; and, eve«' so, 
 feel that my version fails to do his story justice. 
 When he had quite finished, he took me in his 
 arms and asked me if I was satisfied. 
 
 Was I satisfied ? Yes — for the moment ; and 
 frankly gave him the assurance for which he 
 asked. Listening to him, looking at him, how 
 could I do otherwise than accept in its fullest 
 sense every explanation given or implied ? How 
 could I pause to ask myself if, when all looked 
 fair and open, there were any flaw, or gloze, or 
 reservation ? I did not pause, I believed. It 
 was, therefore, in the simplest faith that, just as 
 we were parting, I said, 
 
 " Oh, stop, Hugh ! One thing more — did 
 you never find out who it was that poor Madda- 
 iena loved, after all ; and why she could not 
 marry him ?" 
 
 " I did, my darling, and a hopeless affair it 
 was. She loved a man who no more loved her, 
 or thought of her, than you love or think of the 
 Grand-Duke of Zollenstrasse-am-Main." 
 
 " Poor, poor girl ! But do you think, Hugh, 
 that you could have done any thing if she had 
 confided in you that day when you met her on 
 the hights ? Do you think " 
 
 " My child, how can I tell ? You might as 
 well ask me if I believe that Tasso and Leonora 
 would have lived happily together all their days 
 in the bonds of holy matrimony, if the poet had 
 not been mad, and the lady a duchess !" 
 
 " Still, if Maddalena could have procured a 
 divorce " 
 
 " Barbarina," interrupted he, laughing, " you 
 are fl goose, with your ifs and supposes ! If 
 Queen Cleopatra's nose had been an inch 
 shorter, the face of the world would have been 
 changed. We have that foct upon the authority 
 of Pascal. Besides, the Holy Roman Catholic 
 Church couples up her children very firmly in- 
 deed. I could more easily have procured a 
 cardinal's hat for myself, than a divorce for 
 Maddalena." 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 TOTAL ECLIPSE. 
 
 " Total eclipse ^ 
 
 Without all hope of day !" — Milton. • 
 
 The eventful night came at last — the night 
 on which I was to make my debdt in society. It 
 was my first ball ; excepting only the memorable 
 
 night at Broomhill, years ago — but I am not, 
 therefore, going to describe it. In brief, it was a 
 ball like every other ; crowded and stately, with 
 blaze of lights and blush of flowers, with rustle 
 of silk, and murmur of compliment, and, over 
 all, the clash and clang of a military band. 
 " Every ball," wrote one as wise as he was 
 witty, " is a round ; but not a perpetual round 
 of pleasure." To me it was no pleasure at all, 
 l)ut a moral penance. I was the heroine of the 
 evening, and I would fain have been unsought 
 and unobserved. I was nervous ; I was stared 
 at ; I was flattered by the men ; I was criticis- 
 ed by the women ; • and I went through more 
 introductions than I could ever hope to remem- 
 ber. Happy was I when, having taken leave 
 of our Boble entertainers, we were once more 
 driving homeward. 
 
 " My little wife," said Hugh, circling me fond- 
 ly with his arm. " My little wife, who has 
 borne herself so well and gracefully, and of 
 whom I have been so proud!" 
 
 " You would hardly have been proud of me, 
 Hugh," said I, " if you had known how frighten- 
 ed I was the whole time." 
 
 " I did know it, carhsima^ and thought you 
 went bravely through the ordeal — looking so 
 pretty, and so pale, too, under that coronal of 
 diamonds!" 
 
 " It is very heavy — it hurts my forehead." 
 
 " What ! wearying already of the ' polished 
 perturbation,' and sighing for the ' homely 
 biggin,' my Barbarina ? Tush ! these are the 
 penalties of splendor." 
 
 " Say, then, the penalties of a penalty." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me seriously, wife, that 
 you did not enjoy the homage lavished upon 
 your little self this evening !" 
 
 " Seriously, husband, I did not." 
 
 " Nor the attentions of Lord and Lady Bay- 
 ham ?" 
 
 " Not in the least. I thought him very dull 
 and pompous ; and her so satirical, that I dared 
 not open my lips in her presence." 
 
 " Still, my darling, you are but mortal ; and I 
 don't believe there ever lived the woman who 
 did not love to be well dressed and admired." 
 
 " I love to be well dressed, for you j and I 
 love to be admired, hy you — and I love both be- 
 cause I love you. There, sir, are you satisfied ?" 
 
 " If I were not more than satisfied," replied 
 he, "I should deserve to have you carried off 
 from my arms by some worthier knight. By 
 the way, I have gleaned one wheat-ear of use- 
 ful information out of the barren stubble of 
 small-talk this evening. Holford tells me that 
 Lord Walthamstow's library has come to the 
 hammer, and will be on sale to-morrow and the 
 four following days. It is an auction that I 
 would not willingly miss. Will you come with 
 me, Barbarina, in the morning ?" 
 
 " Where will it be held ?" 
 
 " At Christie and Manson's." 
 
 " What, in London ?" 
 
 "Unquestionably. Where else would you 
 have it ? We should try to get our old rooms 
 at Claridge's, and " 
 
 " No, no, Hugh — not in December, thank you. 
 I prefer Broomhill to a dreary hotel, where I 
 should be alone all day, with nothing to do but 
 watch for you from the windows. Mv^t you go 
 to-morrow ?" 
 
144 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 " If I do not go to-morrow, my darling, I may 
 as well not go at all ; for the very books that I 
 should, perhaps, most desire to purchase, may 
 be the first oiFered." 
 
 " Then why go at all ? I am sure we have 
 books enough — more than you or I will ever 
 live to read." 
 
 " Books enough, Barbarina ! Can a hero have 
 glory enough ? or a miser gold enough ? or a col- 
 lector books enough ? Why, my child, there is 
 one volume in the Walthamstow library for 
 which I would go to Calcutta, if necessary ; an 
 original copy of Meninsky's great Oriental Dic- 
 tionary. It is a very scarce book. Shall 1 tell 
 you the cause of its rarity ?" 
 
 " If you please, Hugh," I replied, sleepily. 
 
 " Well, then, Meninsky was a great^Oriental 
 scholar, who lived in Vienna toward the latter 
 part of the seventeenth century. This diction- 
 ary, in four folios, was the result of seven years' 
 labor and the studies of a life. In 1683, Vienna 
 was besieged by the Turks. A bomb burst upon 
 Meninsky's house. Nearly the whole edition 
 of the Dictionary was consumed ; the very types 
 from which it had been printed were destroyed ; 
 and of the few copies which remain scattered 
 through Europe, scarcely one may be found which 
 is not either blistered by the fire, or stained by 
 the water with which the flames were extin- 
 guished. Now, for a dabbler in all kinds of 
 tongues, like myself, that book will be " 
 
 I heard no more. Meninsky and his diction- 
 ary, Vienna and the Turks, seemed to shift con- 
 fusedly by, in a stream of unmeaning phrases ; 
 and when I next opened my eyes, it was to see 
 Tippoo's olive face at the carriage-door, and the 
 lighted- hall beyond. 
 
 Wearied out with fatigue and excitement, I 
 went up at once to my dressing-room, whither 
 my husband presently followed me. 
 
 "I have come, my darling," said he, "to say 
 good-night, and implore you to go to bed as 
 quickly as possible. For myself, I shall be late, 
 for I have several letters to write.". 
 
 " Letters?" I repeated. " Why, it is already 
 two o'clock !" 
 
 " I know it ; but having to start by the early 
 train, and be at the rooms by the time the sale 
 commences, I must write now, or wait till to- 
 morrow evening. You see, my love, I go so sel- 
 dom to town, that I am compelled to make the 
 most of my short visits ; and by writing now to 
 my lawyer, my tailor, and such other persons as 
 I may desire to see while in London, I save sev- 
 eral posts, and provide for my more speedy re- 
 turn." 
 
 " And when will that be, husband ?" 
 
 " Perhaps the day after to-morrow ; but I shall 
 know better when I have seen the catalogue, and 
 learned on what days the various books will be 
 sold." 
 
 " Which means, I suppose, that you may pos- 
 sibly be away till Saturday ?" 
 
 " Possibly ; but not probably." 
 
 " Oh, Hugh, what a long time ! Five days ! 
 — five dull, dreary, miserable days ; and all for 
 the sake of a stupid Oriental dictionary !" 
 
 " What an illogical Barbara ! In the first 
 place, I do not go ' all for the sake of a stupid 
 Oriental dictionary,' because that book is only 
 one among many which I should wish to secure. 
 In the second place, the dictionary is one of the 
 
 noblest works ever undertaken by a single labor- 
 er. In the third place, it is unlikely that the 
 best lots should be left to the last, or that I 
 should need to remain away later than Thursday. 
 In the fourth place " 
 
 I put my fingers to my ears, and refused to 
 hear another syllable. 
 
 "Enough !" I cried pettishly. "If you had 
 been Orpheus, and I Eurydice, you would have 
 talked Pluto into compliance without help of 
 song or lyre. Go write your letters, Hugh, and 
 try to snatch, at least, a couple of hours' rest 
 before starting.'' 
 
 He laughed, and pulled my ear. 
 
 " I forgot to mention," said he, " that there 
 are some magnificent 'picture-books,' in the 
 Walthamstow collection : — fac-similes of the 
 drawings of Raffaelle and Michael Angelo ; en- 
 gravings after Leonardo, Veronese, and Titian ; 
 to say nothing of a complete set of Piranesi's 
 Roman Antiquities." 
 
 " Oh, Hugh !" 
 
 "But they are sure to fetch a large price. 
 Good works of art always do." 
 
 My enthusiasm went down to zero. 
 
 " Besides," added he, maliciously, " they wiU 
 undoubtedly reserve the prints till the books are 
 sold ; and by that time I shall have returned 
 home again." 
 
 " Hugh, you are the most tormenting, tire- 
 some, tantalizing " 
 
 — " Indulgent, delightful, and admirable hus- 
 band upon earth !" interpolated he. " Eh bien, 
 petite, nous ferons notre possible. I shall see 
 to what price these things are likely to amount ; 
 and if I ruin myself, we will sell the family dia- 
 monds. Now, good night, my dear love — good 
 night, sweet dreams, and happy waking." 
 
 And with this, and a kiss, he left me. 
 
 The ball-dress thrown aside, and the " warmed 
 jewels" all unclasped and laid in their velvet 
 cases, I then dismissed my maid, and sat by the 
 fire for some time, in a delicious idleness. I was 
 very happy, and dreamily conscious of my hap- 
 piness. Every uneasy doubt that had of late 
 been knocking at my heart seemed laid at rest ; 
 every perplexing trifle, forgotten. I tried to 
 think of the old time at Zollenstrasse, and to com- 
 pare the dear present with that past which al- 
 ready seemed so far away in the distance ; but 
 my eyes closed, and my thoughts wandered, and 
 I sank away to sleep. 
 
 By and by, after what seemed like the inter- 
 val of only a few minutes, I awoke. Aw#ke to 
 find the fire quite out, the lamp dim, and my- 
 self ice-cold from head to foot, I sat up, shiver- 
 ing. My first thought was to hasten to bed, lest 
 Hugh should come and find me waking. I next 
 looked at my watch. It was half-past four o'clock. 
 Half-past four already, and Hugh still writing ! 
 Naughty Hugh, from whom I had parted more 
 than two hours ago, and who would have to 
 leave the house, at latest, by seven ! I rose ; 
 exchanged my slight dressing-gown for a mantle 
 lined with furs ; lit a small Roman hand-lamp ; 
 peeped into his vacant dressing-room as I passed ; 
 and went at once to seek and summon him. 
 
 In^prder to go from our sleeping-room to the 
 turret-chamber, I had to traverse a corridor 
 extending the whole length of one front of the 
 house. All was very dark and still. My little 
 lamp shot a feeble glimmer on each closed door 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY 
 
 145 
 
 that I passed. My shadow stalked awfully 
 beside me. The very rustling of my garments 
 had a ghostly sound. At the top of the great 
 well-staircase I looked away and shuddered, 
 remembering the shape that I saw, or fancied I 
 saw, gliding down the darkness, the first night 
 of my coming home. Once past this dreaded 
 point, I went on more bravely and reached the 
 door of the turret-chamber. Before lifting the 
 inner curtain, I hesitated. 
 
 It seemed to me that I heard voices. 
 
 I held my breath — I advanced a step — I 
 paused. 
 
 *■'' Hugo — Hugo mio''^ — these were the words 
 I heard — ^^guardami — look at me, listen to me, 
 for a moment I" 
 
 ^'Fazienza, caraj' rephed my husband, ab- 
 stractedly. 
 
 " Pazienza /" repeated the other. " Alas ! is 
 it not always pazienza ? What is my HTe but 
 one long patience ?" 
 
 I had heard the scratching of his pen. I now 
 heard it laid aside. 
 
 " My poor Maddalena !" said he. 
 
 Si — povera Maddalena,^^ she echoed, with a 
 heavy sigh. 
 
 "You look very pale to-night," said he. 
 " Are you tired ?" 
 
 " Of my existence — yes." 
 
 " Alas ! Maddalena, I know how weary it must 
 be. And then I can so seldom see you." 
 
 "That is the worst — that is the worst!" 
 replied she, eagerly. " If I could speak to you 
 onpe or twice in each long day — touch your 
 hand or your hair, thus — feel the sunshine of 
 your eyes upon me, I should be almost happy. 
 You do not know how I pine, sometimes, for 
 the tones of your voice, Hugo. You do not 
 know how often I creep out at dusk, to listen to 
 them." 
 
 "But, cara," said Hugh, "it is not well that 
 you should haunt about the house in such 
 ghostly fashion, for fear " 
 
 "For fear that I should meet Tier?" inter- 
 rupted Maddalena. " No— no, I am careful. I 
 only venture near when you are dining or 
 reading. There is no danger." 
 
 " You can not tell. Accident might " 
 
 "Never. I have seen her once, face to face. 
 I would die, sooner than meet her so again." 
 
 She had seen me once ? My heart was beat- 
 ing so heavily that I almost thought they must 
 hear it. I blew out my lamp, advanced a step, 
 and drew back a corner of the curtain. It was 
 as I had already suspected. Maddalena and the 
 lady in the woods were one and the same. 
 Hugh was sitting at his desk, with his head 
 resting on his hand. Maddalena was kneeling 
 beside him, with just the same look of defiance 
 on her pale face that I saw upon it first. 
 
 In the same moment the look faded and the 
 face became gentle. 
 
 "And yet, Hugo mio,^^ a&id she, "I do not 
 hate her. I — I have even tried to love the 
 thought of her, for thy sake." 
 
 " You would love herself, if you knew her," 
 said my husband, quickly. 
 
 " She is very young, and fair, and true-look- 
 ing," replied Maddalena. " I am glad she is so 
 fair, for thee." , 
 
 " She is as true as she looks," said Hugh. 
 "She knows all your story now — at least, as 
 J 
 
 much of it as I could tell her — and if you would 
 only see her " 
 
 " See her !" interrupted the Italian, with a 
 vehement gesture. " Are you mad to ask it ? 
 See her — the woman who bears your name ? — 
 who sleeps every night in your arms ? — 
 who, perhaps, even now, bears a child of yours 
 in her bosom ? Whilst I — Dio I how tame a 
 wretch you must think me 1" 
 
 " Maddalena " 
 
 " The light in my eyes would with'er her — 
 the breath of my lips would poison her !" con- 
 tinued she, impetuously. Then, suddenly check- 
 ing herself, " Pardon, pardon," she cried, " I do 
 not mean to vex thee, Hugo ! Thou knowest 
 how gentle I have been — how patient — how 
 obedient ! Thou knowest how I have kept my 
 word to thee !" 
 
 " Yes, yes, poverina ; I know it." 
 
 Maddalena took his disengaged hand and 
 kissed it, and laid her cheek caressingly upon it. 
 
 " What do I live for, idol mio" murmured 
 she, " if not to obey thee ? Why do I drag on 
 this weary chain of years, unless to dedicate 
 each day and hour to thy service ? And yet, I 
 sometimes weep because I can do nothing for 
 thee. Dost thou remember the time, Hugo, 
 when I used to mend thy gloves ? It was long, 
 long ago. It made me very happy. I have not 
 even that happiness now. Dost thou remember 
 a little purse which thou hadst thrown away one 
 day, and I asked for it ? See — here it is, all 
 worn with my kisses. Ah, do I not love thee ?" 
 
 Standing there, cold and trembling, with that 
 horrible sensation of helplessness that one has 
 in a dream, I saw my husband cover his eyes 
 with his hand — ^heard him reply, in a voipe 
 altered by emotion : 
 
 "/Si, si, Maddalena — turn) ami.'''' 
 
 " Could any one love thee better ?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " Could any one — any one, Hugo, love thee 
 so well ? Could she give thee up as I have done ? 
 Could she sleep under the same roof, knowing 
 another in her place, as I do ? Could she live, 
 banished as I am, and yet love thee as I love 
 thee, utterly and blindly ?" 
 
 " No — no, impossible !" 
 
 " And yet you avoid me ! Nay, do not shake 
 your head ; for it is true. You keep out with 
 your dogs and your gun, day after day, and 
 never seek to see me of your own will. Is it 
 that you fear my reproaehes ? You need not ; 
 for I never even think blamefuUy of you, now. 
 Is it that you shrink from the sight of my sor- 
 row ? You need not ; for, when I see you, I 
 am happy. Are you not my king and my life ? 
 Is not one such hour as this, my recompense for 
 weeks of suffering ?" 
 
 " Maddalena, Maddalena, you torture me !" 
 cried Hugh, brokenly. " When I think of thee, 
 and of all the misery I have caused thee, I hate 
 myself!" 
 
 "Nay, thou shalt not hate what I adore," said 
 Maddalena, with a piteous smile. 
 
 Hugh laid his head down upon his desk, and 
 covered his face with his hands. 
 
 " Hugo," she faltered ; " Hugo mio, there is 
 one thing — one little thing, which thou couldst 
 do, my love, to make me very happy." 
 
 " Then, in God's name, let me do it." 
 
 "Dare I ask it?" 
 
146 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 " Yes, if— if— what is it?" 
 
 " Only this — only this," — and I saw her throw 
 her arms passionately about him, and press her 
 head against his shoulder — "call me once — but 
 once — by my old name. Let me, oh ! let me 
 hear it, even though it be for the last time !" 
 
 He lifted his pale face from the desk, and 
 took her head in his two hands. My heart stood 
 still. I felt as if it were my sentence that he was 
 going to utter. 
 
 He bent forward — his lips moved — he whis- 
 pered, " Sjposa mia .?" 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 I WEARY AND HEAVY-LADEN. 
 
 His wife ! 
 
 He had called her his wife — I had heard it — 
 and I lived. I remember wondering, vaguely, 
 how it was that the words had not killed me 
 where I stood. But they did not. They only 
 paralyzed me, brain and body, and left me scarce- 
 ly conscious of the blow by which I had been 
 crushed. I havfe no distinct recollection of any 
 thing that followed. I saw their lips move in 
 speech, but the words had no sense for me. I 
 saw Hugh resume his writing, and Maddalena 
 trim the lamp, without at the time deriving any 
 kind of mental impression from what passed, or be- 
 ing sensible that their conversation was ended. I 
 can form no conceptions of how long I staid 
 there ; or how I came to find myself, by and by, 
 in my own room, standing before the empty 
 grate. Here, for the first time, a wondering 
 consciousness of misery dawned upon me. I be- 
 gan to remember, word by word, look by look, 
 gesture by gesture, all the fatal evidence that 
 had just been brought before me. I began to_ 
 comprehend that Hugh had deceived me with a 
 false story — that two words had changed all my 
 past and all my future — that my world had sud- 
 denly became a chaos of ruin, and that I had 
 better have died than survived it. 
 
 The room was almost dark. The lamp which 
 I had left flickering had long since gone out ; and 
 only a faint reflex of the outer starlight strug- 
 gled through the blinds. 
 
 Cold and dark as it was, I crept to bed with- 
 out relighting the lamp — a statue of ice with a 
 brain of fire. The reaction had come now. My 
 head burned ; my temples throbbed ; fears, pos- 
 sibilities, retrospections, thronged and surged 
 upon me, like the waves of a tumultuous sea. 
 I could not think ; for I had no power to arrest 
 my thoughts. They racked me, tossed me to 
 and fro, mastered, and bewildered me. . I could 
 weigh nothing, compare nothing. I only felt 
 that I was wrecked and heart-broken — that he 
 called another. Wife — that he was no longer my 
 own — that I was alone in the wide world — alone 
 for evermore ! 
 
 Some time had gone by thus — perhaps hours ; 
 perhaps minutes — when I heard a cautious foot- 
 step in the corridor, and a hand at' the door. I 
 buried my face in the pillow, and feigned sleep. 
 He came in very gently. I heard him set his 
 candle down upon the table and cross to the 
 foot of the bed, where he stood some moments 
 without moving. It then seemed to me that he 
 went back, drew a chair to the table, and took 
 something from his pocket. Once or twice, 
 
 during the silence that followed, I distinguished 
 the rustling of paper. Presently he moved 
 again, very cautiously; and I distinctly heard 
 him fold the paper over and over. He was 
 writing to me — I knew it as well as if I had 
 been at his shoulder — writing to bid me farewell, 
 because he would not awake me ! I felt as if 
 my senses were leaving me. I bit the pillow in 
 my agony of anguish ; and felt my heart con- 
 tract as if grasped by an iron hand. 
 
 Then he came back to the bed ; laid the note 
 beside me ; bent over me silently. I felt the soft 
 incense of his breath upon my neck — I heard 
 him murmur my name fondly to himself — I knew 
 what a loving light was in his eyes as he looked 
 down upon me. Then he lifted a stray curl from 
 the pillow, pressed it to his lips,^ lingered, sighed, 
 and went away. 
 
 For one moment — one wild, delirious moment 
 I felt as if I must call him back, open my arms • 
 and my heart to him, forgive all, and weep oui 
 my grief on his bosom. But the words " Sposo, 
 mia,'''' started up before me in letters of flame. 
 The desperate question, *' What am I to this man, 
 if another is his wife ?" forced itself upon me 
 with pitiless rigor. I crushed the impulse down 
 — I let the moment passJ He was gone. 
 
 Then a deadly, sickening, stifling sensation 
 rushed suddenly upon me. I tried to sit up in 
 the bed ; but it seemed to sink away beneath me. 
 I fainted. 
 
 I recovered my consciousness gradually and 
 painfully. I think I must have lain a long time, 
 for when I again opened my eyes, it was daylight. 
 God ! was I mad, or was it all a wicked 
 dream ? My eyes fell upon the note which he 
 had left on the pillow. I recoiled, as if I had 
 been stung ; for it was directed in pencil, " To 
 myw'ifey His wife? What wife ? Not I! not 
 I ! Another claimed that title — it was her " old 
 name;" whilst I — oh shame and sorrow! I 
 was only his mistress. 
 
 I had but one thought now ; one insane, des- 
 perate, overruling thought — flight. 
 
 Yes ; flight. I felt that I must go — that I 
 could not sleep another night under his roof — 
 that I never dare look upon his face again. I 
 scarcely asked myself whither I should turn. I 
 neither knew nor cared. Anywhere, so that it 
 were but far, far away, where none who had ever 
 known me should witness my misery ! 
 
 This resolve once taken, I became possessed 
 by a feverish haste which brooked no delay, and 
 hurried me from step to step, from project to 
 project, with an energy of will that, for the time, 
 supplied the place of physical strength. I rose, 
 weak and trembling, and dress'ed myself that 
 cold December morning, without any thought of 
 those luxuries of the toilette to which I had of 
 late been accustomed. While I was dressing, 
 the thought of my poor old fiiithful nurse flashed 
 across my mind, and I determined, if she would 
 go, to take her with me. Desperate as I was, 
 the prospect of being utterly alone in my flight 
 appalled me. As for my father, or my sister, or 
 Mrs. Sandyshaft, I would sooner have died than 
 seek a refuge with either. Their pity would have 
 driven me mad. 
 
 I rang for my maid, who was amazed to see 
 me up. From her I learned that Hugh had left 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 147 
 
 the house at seven, taking Tippoo with him. It 
 was already half-past eight o'clock. The next 
 direct train left, I knew, at half-past one ; there- 
 fore I had four hours before me. I desired the 
 girl immediately to pack my smallest portman- 
 teau, and said that I was going to London. 
 
 " To London, ma'am — to-day ?" faltered she. 
 " You — you look so very tired — more fit to be in 
 bed than to take a journey." 
 
 I glanced at the glass, and saw a haggard, 
 white-lipped shadow of myself. I tried to smile, 
 and answer carelessly. 
 
 " I am not used to balls and late hours, Ann," 
 I replied. " I think I shall never go to another 
 large party." 
 
 *' What would you please to have packed, 
 ma'am ?" said Ann, still looking at me somewhat 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Only necessaries — no laces, no jewelry. 
 Nothing but some underclothing and one dress ; 
 the darkest and plainest I have." 
 
 " That will be your brown silk, ma'am. Noth- 
 ing else ?" 
 
 " Yes — my case of colors." 
 
 " And shall you require me to go with you, 
 ma'am ?" 
 
 " No ; I go alone. I may, perhaps, take Mrs. 
 Beever with me. I am now going across the 
 park, to ask her about it." 
 
 Ann looked more surprised than before. 
 
 " Not without your breakfast, ma'am ?" said 
 she, seeing me with ray bonnet in my hand. 
 " May I not bring you a cup of coffee first ? In- 
 deed, you should not go out this bitter morning 
 without it." 
 
 I told her she might bring it, and when she 
 was gone, swept the jewels that were lying 
 about into my jewel-case, stripped the rings 
 from my fingers, took out the brooch with 
 which I had mechanically fastened my collar, 
 and locked them all in — all, except my wedding 
 ring. I could not part from that. Mockery as 
 it was, I felt I mitst keep it. 
 
 In a few minutes more, I was hurrying across 
 the park. The day was dull and intensely cold ; 
 but I went forward like one under the influence 
 of opium, heeding neither the moaning wind 
 nor the wet grass about my feet. I should 
 scarcely have hesitated in my path had a thun- 
 derstorm been raging. Arrived at the cottage, 
 I went in without " knocking, and found my old 
 nurse ironing linen. 
 
 "Goody," I said, abruptly; "will you leave 
 all this, and come with me? I am going 
 away." 
 
 She looked at me, turned deathly white, and 
 sank into a chair. 
 . "Dear God!" stammered she, "what has 
 happened ?" ♦ 
 
 " Great wrong and sorrow," I replied. " I 
 am leaving my — Mr. Farquhar, forever. Will 
 you come with me ?" 
 
 She wrung her hands, and stared at me pite- 
 ously. 
 
 " Yes, yes — God love you, yes, my poor 
 lamb !" she cried. " Where will you go ?" 
 
 "I# don't know. Somewhere abroad, far 
 away." 
 
 " And when, my darling — when?" 
 
 " To-day—at once." 
 
 The old woman clasped her head with both 
 hands, utterly bewildered. 
 
 "To-day!" she repeated. "Mercy! that's 
 sudden.'' 
 
 " Yes, yes — today," I replied, impatiently. 
 " Every hour that I linger here, is torture to 
 me." 
 
 I wanted to be gone without delay. I felt as 
 if the loss of every minute were irreparable. I 
 would have set off for London, walking, by the 
 high road, sooner than wait for the train, if she 
 had proposed it. 
 
 " Oh, that it should all end like this !" moan- 
 ed she, rocking herself to and fro. " My little 
 lamb, that I nursed on my knees so often ! 
 Well, well, my poor rags are soon put together 
 
 ^What will the master say? And Miss 
 
 Hilda, too ! Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! we are here 
 to-day and gone to-morrow. Where is he, my 
 darling ?" 
 
 "Gone." 
 
 "He'll support you in comfort, my deary, 
 anyhow ?' 
 
 " I would not accept a farthing from him, if I 
 starved!" I cried, fiercely. "I have kept 
 nothing of his — not a book, not a jewel. I can 
 support myself, Goody, and you too." 
 
 " Well, well, deary, there's Mrs. Sandyshaft — 
 she won't let you^ " 
 
 " Mrs. Sandyshaft knows nothing — never will 
 know any thing from me," I interrupted. " All 
 I want is to hide myself far away, where none of 
 them will ever see me, or hear of me, again. 
 Don't ask me why. You shall know all, by and 
 by. I have been cruelly deceived and wronged 
 — there, not a word. Make haste, for God's 
 sake, and let us be gone." 
 
 The old woman stood up mechanically, and 
 began folding the linen that lay upon the table. 
 All at once she stopped, and said : — 
 
 "But, my deary, have you any money ?" 
 
 Money ? In my distress and eagerness, I had 
 never thought of it ! I had none of my own ; 
 and I would not have taken his to save myself 
 from beggary. I felt as if a thunderbolt had 
 fallen at my feet. 
 
 " Not a farthing," I replied. 
 
 Goody shook her head sorrowfully. 
 
 " Alas, and alas ! my lamb," said she, " where 
 can we go, and what can we do, without it ? I 
 — I have a little bit of money laid by, myself; 
 but it's only a bit, and when that's gone " 
 
 " When it's gone, I can earn more, and pay 
 you back tenfold!" I said, hurriedly. "How 
 much have you ?" 
 
 "Oh, very little, my deary; a — a matter, 
 may be, of thirty pound," replied she, somewhat 
 reluctantly. 
 
 Thirty pounds ! We might travel a long way 
 for thirty pounds, with economy. To Belgium, 
 perhaps ; or some obscure corner of Switzerland ; 
 or Rome — ah I no ; Rome was too difficult of 
 access. We could not go to Rome for thirty 
 pounds ; and yet in Rome, I could have earnedx 
 money by my art more easily than elsewhere. 
 What was to be done ? 
 
 " Or — or, may be, it's pretty nigh as much as 
 fifty," added Goody, after an anxious pause, 
 during which she had watched all the changes 
 of my countenance. " I'm pretty sure it's fifty ; 
 but no more." 
 
 " But it's enough," I said. " Yes — yes, quite 
 enough," 
 
 Goody took a little withered stump of myrtle 
 
148 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 from her window, set the pot on the table, and 
 said, with a sigh : — 
 
 " It's all there, my deary — every penny of it. 
 I'll give it to you at once, and it will be off my 
 mind." 
 
 And with this, she turned the myrtle out, 
 took a very small circular tin box from the 
 bottom of the pot, cleansed it carefully from 
 the loose earth, and laid the contents before 
 me. There were some bank notes, and a few 
 loose coins. 
 
 " Two twenties, my lamb," said she, smooth- 
 ing them out tenderly, as they lay upon the 
 table ; " two twenties, and a five, and four sov- 
 ereigns, and two halves, and a lucky sixpence. 
 It's the savings of a life, my deary, but you're 
 welcome to them, that you are — kindly wel- 
 come." 
 
 The simple, generous fidelity of this honest 
 heart melted the ice of my despair, and I burst 
 into tears. 
 
 "God bless you, dear! God bless you, and 
 thank you," I cried, throwing my arms about 
 her neck, and laying my head down upon her 
 shoulder, as I used when I was a little child. 
 " You, at least, will never deceive me!" 
 
 They were the first tears I had shed since 
 this blow fell upon me ; and they seemed to 
 cool my brain, and slacken the unnatural ten- 
 sion of my nerves. They left me clearer to 
 think and freer to act ; and it was well they did 
 so, for now, alas ! helpless and inexperienced as 
 I was, I had to act and think for two. 
 
 In the mean time, the day was passing. A 
 few more words, and we had arranged all. I 
 was to keep the money; we were to leave 
 Broomhill at midday ; and I was to take her up 
 at the lodge gate, on my way to the station. 
 Thus we parted. I had scarcely passed the 
 garden gate when she came running after me. 
 
 " You'll bid them mind the poor dumb things, 
 my deary," said she, with her apron to her eyes. 
 " There's the cat, and the bulfinch, and the cocks 
 and hens — they all love me ; and I should be 
 loth to think they were forgotten." 
 
 Struck with the selfishness of my sorrow, 
 I turned back, took her by both hands, and 
 said, earnestly — 
 
 "You shall not leave them — no, dear old 
 friend, you shall not leave them. You — you love 
 your little home ; you had thought.to end your 
 days in it. I will not tear you from it, to share 
 my sad and uncertain fortunes. I am young ; 
 fitter and better able to battle with the world 
 than you. Forget that I asked you to go with 
 me. God bless you, dear, and good-by." 
 
 But Goody vrould not hear of this. I might 
 say what I pleased ; but she would never leave 
 me. If I refused to take her with me, she 
 would follow me upon her knees ; beg her way 
 after me wherever I might be; pursue me to 
 the ends of the earth with her love and her 
 devotion. Finding her thus resolute, and feel- 
 ing my own weakness and desolation, what 
 could I do but thank her with my whole heart 
 for the sacrifice, and gratefully accept it? 
 
 A few hours more, and we were speeding 
 toward London; Broomhill receding every 
 moment farther and farther into the past, and 
 the wide world opening, a desert, before me. 
 
 A weary journey ! a weary, wretched journey, 
 
 made up of anxious days and dreary nights ; of 
 bodily unrest, and nervous prostration ; of per- 
 petual heart-ache, of broken sleep, and terrified 
 wakings, and strange mental confusion ! My 
 recollection of it is indistinct and fragmentary. 
 Scenes and incidents occur to me here and there, 
 as one might remember glimpses- of a half-for- 
 gotten panorama. Faces of fellow-travelers pass 
 before my mind's eye, like faces seen in dreams. 
 To this day, I shudder when I recall these scat- 
 tered mosaics of things and places which aro 
 bound up in my memory with so much suffering. 
 
 Now, it is the dull room where we wait, hour 
 after hour, till the starting of the Dover train. 
 I see the gloomy fireplace with its cavernous 
 hollow of sullen red fire. I see the reversed 
 letters on the e^er-swinging glass door,. I see 
 the table heaped with rugs and traveling-bags ; 
 the travelers that come and go incessantly ; the 
 colored flashes on the wall from red and green 
 lamps which are carried past, lighted by hurry- 
 ing porters. I see the widow-lady in the corner, 
 with her little girl asleep on the sofa beside her, 
 at the sight of whose pale face and mourning 
 garb my tears fell without control. I hear the 
 rumbling vehicles outside, and the shrill whistle 
 of arriving trains ; and I remember, oh, how 
 distinctly ! the dread with which I turned to the 
 door each time it opened, trembling lest some 
 fatal chance should bring Hugh to the spot 
 before we could get away from it. 
 
 Now it is midnight, and we are in Dover. We 
 are late, and are hurried off to the boat, which 
 is on the point of moving. A few wintry stars 
 glimmer here and there overhead. The lights 
 from the quays flicker down upon the troubled 
 water in the harbor. The pier seems to recede. 
 The steamer begins to lurch. We are at sea. 
 
 Now we are on shore again, in a dim office 
 guarded by foreign soldiers. Here, all is confu- 
 sion and dismay, for I have forgotten to provide 
 myself with a passport. Interrogated, rebuffed, 
 alarmed, I am forbidden to pursue my journey 
 without the authorization of the resident En- 
 glish Consul. It is now between four and five 
 in the morning, and the Consulate will not be 
 open before nine; so we are conducted to a 
 huge gloomy hotel, like a prison, and there left 
 till morning. Our room is immense, carpetless, 
 damp as a vault, and furnished with two funereal- 
 looking beds, antique oaken bureaus, dusty mir- 
 rors, and consoles that look as if they dated 
 from the reign of Louis Treize. Weary and 
 miserable, my poor old nurse and I sit, hand in 
 hand, talking and weeping together till the 
 neighboring clocks clash and clang the hour of 
 six, and the market-folks begin to be noisy in 
 the street below. Then, outworn with fatigue 
 and sorrow, we both sleep heavily. 
 
 Now it is the railway again, and we are on our 
 way to Marseilles. I am Mrs. Carlyon, British 
 subject, traveling on the continent, attended by 
 her servant. It is a good name, and belonged 
 to some distant ancestor of our family. I re- 
 membered it in the old genealogical chart that 
 used to hang in my father's sitting-room, and 
 chose it for that reason. It is very trying and 
 monotonous, this perpetual railway traveling. 
 Hour after hour, in daylight or dusk, the same 
 landscape seems to be forever flying past. 
 Sometimes the lamp is flickering down upon the 
 faces of our fellow-travelers, while without there 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 149 
 
 are white villages dimly seen, steep cuttings, and 
 wide flats crossed at intervals by lines of skele- 
 ton poplars that look ghostly in the moonshine. 
 Sometimes it is daylight, and very cold. The 
 country is lightly sprinkled with snow. Trees, 
 hills, plains, and villages flit past us as before ; 
 and every now and then we come to a station 
 near a large town, where passengers arrive and 
 alight, and venders of roasted chestnuts and 
 French journals cry their wares shrilly to and fro 
 upon the platform. And all this time I travel like 
 one who is flying from fate ; jaded, benumbed, 
 feverish, and sullenly silent. Sometimes I fall 
 asleep ; then wake, trembling, from fantastic 
 dreams, in which Hugh and Maddalena and my 
 old school-friends at ZoUenstrasse are strangely 
 associated. My head aches ; my lips arc parched 
 and bleeding ; my eyes are burning hot ; and, 
 sleeping or waking, an oppressive sense of woe 
 weighs on my chest, and impedes mf very 
 breathing. There are times when, do what I 
 will, I can not keep my thoughts steady ; when 
 all seems confusion in my brain, and I can not 
 dissever the things of the past from the events 
 of the present. There are also times when I 
 recall our life in Italy with strange distinctness — 
 when I torture myself with reproaches and self- 
 questionings, and repeat over and over again, in 
 the silence of my heart, " Alas ! why was I not 
 content in my Paradise ? Why could I not 
 have been happy a little longer ?" 
 
 Thus, with one night's rest at Chalons-sur- 
 Saone, the long land journey passes, and we 
 traverse all France from coast to coast. The 
 poor old woman by my side sleeps nearly all the 
 time ; and bears it, on the whole, better than I 
 could have hoped. For my own part, I have 
 some recollection of wondering once or twice, 
 in a passive confused way, whether acute mental 
 suffering and bodily fatigue acted upon others as 
 they were now acting upon me — whether this 
 faintness and shivering, this alternate burning 
 heat and freezing cold, this torpidity and 
 languor, were common to all who, like myself, 
 were weary and heavy-laden, and in need of 
 rest? 
 
 Now it is a great crowded port; and high 
 white buildings, forts, batteries, ships, piers, 
 quays, light-houses, and traffic of all kinds, 
 seem to pass multitudinously before me. Our 
 luggage is placed upon a truck, and we follow it 
 down to the place of embarkation, through 
 streets crowded with vehicles, soldiers, sailors, 
 and foot-passengers. Weak and trembling, I 
 cling to Goody's arm for support ; and, once on 
 board, am thankful to go at once to my berth, 
 and be at peace. By and by, the steamer be- 
 gins to sway, and we are again at sea. 
 
 Then comes a troubled, restless time, of which 
 I can remember nothmg distinctly. A time when 
 I lie, hour after hour, in a state which is neither 
 Bleeping nor waking — when I have dreams which 
 seem scarcely to be dreams, but are mixed up, 
 in some painful way, with realities — when not 
 blood, but fire, courses through my veins — 
 when my thoughts wander, and I try in vain to 
 stay their wanderings — when I am conscious of 
 uttering words over which I have no control — 
 when my own voice sounds far away — when I 
 fancy I can hear Hugh's footstep in the cabin ; 
 and there is something unfamiliar in Goody's 
 well-known face beside my pillow ; and the 
 
 steamer is no longer the steamer, but the old 
 house in which I was born ; and the dashing of 
 the sea against the port-hole is the flowing of 
 the canal, through which the painted barges 
 pass and repass all day long. 
 
 Then I hear a strange voice, which says that 
 I am very ill — and then all is blank. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 goody's secret. 
 
 " SuRELT, dear Goody," said I feebly, " I have 
 been very ill. 
 
 " Indeed you have, my lamb," repUed Goody, 
 wiping her eyes. " So ill, that I never thought 
 to hear you call me by my right name again !" 
 
 I looked, languidly, round the room ; at the 
 painted arabesques on the walls and ceiUng ; at 
 the print in a black frame over the fireplace ; 
 at the medicine-bottles on the table. All were 
 strange to me. 
 
 " What place is this ?" I asked. 
 
 " They call it a hotel," said Goody, contemp- 
 tuously, "/call it a barrack." 
 
 " And where is it ?" 
 
 Goody shook her head vehemently. 
 
 " There, then, my deary," exclaimed she, 
 "don't you ask me, for I'm sure I can't tell 
 you, no more than one of them cherubs on the 
 ceiling ! It's some outlandish name or another ; 
 and though I hear it twenty times a day, and 
 though, when I do hear it, I know it, I couldn't 
 fit my lips to it, if it was to save my life ! All 
 I can answer for is, that the Pope of Rome an't 
 very far off, and all the travelers land here from 
 the steamers." 
 
 I closed my eyes and lay silent for a long 
 time, trying to remember how and why it was 
 that I had left Broomhill, and by what chance 
 my old nurse happened to be with me ; but I 
 was too weak to think, and in the effort fell 
 
 When I next woke, it was dusk, and there 
 were two gentlemen in the room, talking softly 
 together beside the fireplace. Finding that I 
 was awake, one came to my bedside, and sat 
 down ; the other left the room. 
 
 " La Signora sta meglio,''^ said the stranger, 
 taking my wrist between his fingers, and smil- 
 ing gravely. ^^ Ifolio meglio." 
 
 " It's the doctor, my darling," whispered 
 Goody, over his shoulder. 
 
 He was a tall young man, with a black beard, 
 and a very gentle voice. Catching the sense of 
 her explanation, he bowed his head slightly, and 
 added — 
 
 Si, Signora ; sono il medico.''^ 
 
 I replied, in Itahan, that I was much obliged 
 to him ; and asked how long I had been ill. 
 
 "The Signora arrived here," said he, "on 
 the fifth of January, and it is to-day the second 
 of February." 
 
 "And this, I suppose, is Civita Vecchia ?'* 
 
 " Si, Signora. E Civita Vecchia,''^ he replied. 
 
 I had been ill a month — a whole month, every 
 day of which was as completely blotted from 
 my memory as if it had never been ! He turned 
 away, examined the medicines in the bottles, 
 and scribbled a rapid prescription. In that mo- 
 ment I remembered all that had happened ; but, 
 
150 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 being so very weak, remembered it with no 
 other emotion than a kind of languid wonder, 
 as if it were a thing of long ago. The prescrip- 
 tion written, the doctor came back to my bed- 
 side. 
 
 " The Signora must keep very quiet," said he. 
 
 To which I replied — 
 
 " How soon, Signore, shall I be able to go on 
 to Roipe ?" 
 
 He smiled, and shook his head. 
 
 " If you are impatient, not so soon as if you 
 could, for the present, put all thought of it 
 aside. You can not keep your mind too calm. 
 You can not, just now, think or converse too 
 little." 
 
 I promised to obey as literally as I could ; 
 whereupon he took his leave. 
 
 The next day, about noon, I suddenly recol- 
 lected the second gentleman whom I had seen 
 in the room the evening before, and asked 
 Goody who he was. 
 
 " Second gentleman, my latnb f" said she, 
 confusedly. " What do you me^n ? What 
 second gentleman ?" 
 
 "He left the room just as I woke," I replied. 
 " He was standing by the fireplace, where you 
 are, with his back toward the bed. Surely you 
 must know whom I mean !" 
 
 " Eh ? deary me ! What was he like, dar- 
 ling ?" said Goody, bending over the fire. 
 
 " I don't know. It was dusk ; and he was 
 gone immediately. Is he the doctor's assist- 
 ant?" 
 
 " The doctor's assistant ?" repeated she. 
 "Ay, to be sure. Yes, yes, my lamb, I re- 
 member." 
 
 " Then he was the assistant ?" 
 
 " Now, didn't I say so ? But, bless your 
 heart, deary, you know you're not to talk." 
 
 " Well, tell me one thing — what is the Doc- 
 tor's name ?" 
 
 " His name ? Bless you ! my lamb, / can't 
 remember their outlandish talk. Why, they 
 don't even call beef-tea, beef-tea ; nor gruel, 
 gruel — the poor heathens ! I'm sure, I'm ready 
 to go down on my knees, sometimes, and thank 
 God that I wasn't born one of 'em. His name, 
 indeed ! No, no, my deary ; but here's his 
 card. May be you can make it out by that." 
 
 I looked at the card, which she held before 
 my eyes, and read — " Giorgio Marco, M.D.'*'' 
 
 I lay still, after this, for a long time ; for my 
 thoughts flowed very slowly. When I next 
 spoke, it was to say — 
 
 " Goody — how much money have we left ?" 
 
 To which Goody replied, briskly — 
 
 " Oh, plenty, my deary. Near five-and-twenty 
 pound." 
 
 Near five-and-twenty pounds ! I closed my 
 eyes again, and tried to think how much we 
 had spent before I lost my memory ; but this 
 was an effort of which I was quite incapable. 
 I then tried to calculate what our expenses at 
 Civita Yecchia might amount to ; but with no 
 better success. 
 
 " There's the doctor to pay. Goody," I sug- 
 gested, after a while, 
 
 " That won't be much," said she. 
 
 " He has attended me for a month, has he 
 not?" 
 
 Goody admitted the fact, reluctantly. 
 
 " And has called, I suppose, daily ?" 
 
 Goody admitted this also. 
 
 " Indeed, there were some days," added she, 
 " when he came twice — that was when you were 
 at the worst, my deary. But, bless you! his 
 bill won't be much, for all that. Why, he lives 
 in two little rooms up at the top of a great 
 white house over yonder ; and he always comes 
 walking ; and when it's wet, he carries a red 
 umbrella." 
 
 Another long pause. 
 
 " And then there's the hotel bill," I resumed, 
 by and by. 
 
 " Ah, well ; that can't be much either," said 
 Goody. " We have only this one room, and I 
 attend upon you myself; and as for eating and 
 drinking — ugh ! it's little enough / take of their 
 nasty food. My living don't cost sixpence a 
 day." 
 
 "Well, well. Goody," I sighed, quite wearied 
 out by this long conversation, " I dare say the 
 money will last out till I can earn some more. 
 If not " 
 
 " Don't you think of that, my lamb," inter- 
 rupted she. "It'll be enough, and to spare; 
 take my word for it. And besides, I know 
 what I know — but there, the doctor says you're 
 not to talk ; so don't let's say another word 
 about it." 
 
 And I noticed, after this, that whenever I 
 began to speak about money, or my desire to 
 reach Rome, or any other subject involving 
 anxiety about the future, she invariably took 
 refuge in Dr. Marco's prohibition, and reduced 
 me to silence. 
 
 Day by day, though very slowly, I progressed 
 toward recovery. My hours went by in a 
 kind of passive languor. Sitting up in bed, or 
 propped with pillows in an easy chair, I was 
 content to watch Goody at her work ; or to let 
 my eyes wander from curve to curve, from 
 wreath to wreath of the poor conventional ara- 
 besques upon the wall, with scarcely the accom- 
 paniment of a thought. As I grew stronger, 
 however, my mind began to dwell more upon 
 the future and the past ; and the old perpetual 
 sense of trouble resumed its hold upon my 
 heart. I became restless and feverish. I pined 
 for active occupation, I felt that the first great 
 shock of my grief was indeed over ; but that 
 the weariness and desolation of life were mine 
 forever. 
 
 My young physician, observant of every 
 symptom, came to me one morning with a par- 
 cel of books under his arm. 
 
 " What have you there, Dr. Marco?" I asked. 
 
 " A tonic, signora," he replied. " Your 
 thoughts want feeding, just as your body wants 
 strengthening. Change of mental occupation is 
 as necessary to health as change of scene or 
 diet," 
 
 I thanked him, and untied the parcel. There 
 were Sir Joshua Reynolds's Discourses; Lessing's 
 " Laocoon " in German ; Schlegel's "Letters on 
 Christian Art," also in German ; and Viardot 
 on " Les Musees d'ltalie." Every one upon 
 Art ! I was startled, and, looking up with the 
 quick apprehension of one who has a secret to 
 keep, said — 
 
 " This is a strange choice. Dr. Marco. Your 
 books are all on one subject. How could you 
 tell that that subject would interest me ?" 
 
 He colored up to the roots of his hair. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 151 
 
 " I — I did not know — I did not observe, sig- 
 nora," stammered he. . 
 
 " You did not observe ?" I repeated. 
 I " The truth is, signora," replied he, " they 
 are not my boolrs. I borrowed them for you ; 
 and took them, as they were given to me." 
 
 " Then you borrowed them from an artist," I 
 said, smiling. 
 
 "Even that I do not know," he replied, ex- 
 amining the volumes with some embarrassment. 
 " They belong to a gentleman who was staying 
 at this hotel when you were first brought here, 
 and who is now in Rome. He still comes occa- 
 sionally to Civita Vecchia. He may be an art- 
 ist. It is very possible. Rome is always 
 crov\-ded with them." 
 
 " Ah, Signor Marco," I said, eagerly, " if I 
 could but reach Rome I should be well. How 
 
 soon, do you thinly " 
 
 '* As soon, signora," interposed he, 'Hs you 
 can take a drive without too much fatigue, and 
 are strong enough to bear a journey of eight 
 hours. In the mean time, I think it would be 
 as well if you could remove into a more cheer- 
 ful room. There are apartments in this house 
 which look toward the south, and command the 
 sea and the harbor. You would find one of 
 those much pleasanter." 
 
 I thought of our scanty means, and sighed. 
 Dr. Marco blushed again, like a girl. 
 
 " You have been here so long," said he, 
 " that the landlord would, no doubt, let you 
 have a front room for the same rent as this. 
 May I negotiate for you with him ?" 
 
 I thanked him, and accepted his offer. When 
 he was gone, I took up a volume of Schlegel. 
 Turning to the fly-leaf, I found the right hand 
 top corner torn off. I turned to the next, and 
 found it mutilated in the same way. I then 
 examined all the rest ; and from each the name 
 of the owner had been subtracted in the same 
 rough fashion. The strangeness of it awakened 
 my curiosity. ' 
 
 ''iroody," I said, "did you ever see that 
 gentleman who was staying here when we first 
 came ? — the gentleman who lent these books to 
 Dr. Marco ?" 
 
 " How should I know, my deary ?" replied 
 Goody, carelessly. "I've seen a good many 
 gentlemen, first and last, since we've been in 
 this house." 
 
 " The one I mean has gone to Rome." 
 To which she only said, " Ay, indeed ?" and 
 so the subject dropped. 
 
 The next day we removed into a front room 
 overlooking the harbor, where I could sit for 
 hours in a southward window basking in the 
 sunshine, and watching the fishermen's barks 
 as they came and went with the tides. Leaning 
 on Goody's arm, I could now walk about the 
 room for a quarter of an hour at a time ; and 
 Dr. Marco proposed that I should venture on a 
 drive the following morning. 
 
 Thus recovering, as it were, hourly, and see- 
 ing myself ever nearer and nearer to the end of 
 my journey, I began to get seriously anxious 
 lest our money should not be sufficient for the 
 discharge of our debts at Civita Vecchia. I 
 examined the contents of the purse, and found, 
 as Goody had said, a sum equivalent to about 
 twenty-four pounds and #relvc shillings. 
 
 " What shall we do, dear, if it is not enough ?" 
 
 I said, looking hopelessly at the money in my 
 lap. 
 
 " It will be enough, and pounds to spare, my 
 lamb, as I've told you before," replied Goody, 
 oracularly. 
 
 " I might sell my watch and chain, it is 
 true," I pursued, "though I should be sorry to 
 do so." 
 
 " Did he give 'em to you, my deary ?" 
 '■''He? Do you suppose I should have thought 
 them away with me, if he had ?" I asked, flush- 
 ing at the mere mention of his name. "No, 
 they were my father's gift, on — on my wedding- 
 day." 
 
 "Ah, well ; you won't have to part from 'em 
 just yet," said' Goody, with confident cojnpo- 
 sure. 
 
 I was not quite so well satisfied ; and so, by 
 and by, wrote a little note to the landlord in 
 my best Italian, and begged that I might have 
 his bill made out up to the present time. To 
 my amazement. Goody flatly refused to take it 
 down. 
 
 " Goin' worrittln in this way about bills, and 
 money, and watches, and what all !" exclaimed 
 she, irritably. " It's just the way to make your- 
 self ill again, and lay you on your bed for 
 another month, it is ! I wonder what Doctor 
 Mark would say! No, no, — I'll have nothing 
 to do with it. Wait a day or two longer, till 
 you're strong enough to think of going, and 
 then I'll take your messages, and welcome." 
 I rose, and rang the bell. 
 "I had not expected this from you, Beever," 
 I said angrily. " But there are servants in the 
 hotel who will obey my orders." 
 
 The door opened almost immediately, and a 
 waiter, who was probably passing, came in. 
 " Is the landlord within?" I inquired. 
 " Si, signora." 
 
 " Then be so good as to give him this note, 
 and say that I shall be obliged by a speedy 
 reply." 
 
 The waiter took it, and retired. He was no 
 sooner gone than Goody burst into tears, and 
 went over to the window in great agitation. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! oh, dear 1" moaned she, " what's 
 to be done now ? What's to be done now ? I 
 can't bear your anger, my lamb, and all I've 
 done, I've done for the best ; and because I love 
 you as if you had been my own flesh and blood ! 
 And now you'll never trust me again — I know 
 you won't ; and whether I have done right or 
 wrong, I know no more than the babe un- 
 born I" 
 
 The vehemence and suddenness of her re- 
 pentance quite took me by surprise. 
 
 "My dear old friend," I said, affectionately, 
 "don't be grieved — don't say another word 
 
 about it. You were wrong to refuse, but " 
 
 " No, no, no," she interrupted, sobbing. " It 
 isn't that, my dreary love ; it isn't that at all ! 
 But you'll know quite soon enough— ^h. Lord ! 
 oh. Lord! here's the landlord himself; and 
 now it'll all come out !" 
 
 The landlord came in ; a grave man dressed 
 all in black, with a white cravat, and a profusion 
 of jewelry. He held my note, opened, in his 
 
 hand ; and said, bowing profoundly 
 
 " The Signora has done me the honor to 
 write ?" 
 I replied that I had written, and requested 
 
152 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 him to be seated. Goody's last mysterious words 
 had somewhat unnerved me, and I waited with 
 some anxiety for what he should say. 
 
 He, however, bowed again, sat down, 
 coughed, and ventured to hope that the signora's 
 health was becoming reestablished. 
 
 I thanked him, and said that my health was 
 already much improved ; for which I was large- 
 ly indebted to the care of Doctor Marco. 
 
 " Doctor Marco, Signora," observed the land- 
 lord, " is a very clever young man. He is lost 
 in Civita Vecchia. There is an opening in 
 Rome for a physician of Doctor Marco's 
 abilities." 
 
 I replied that I had no doubt there might be. 
 V "The air of Civita Vecchia, signora, is highly 
 favorable to invalids," "continued. .the landlord. 
 "Many come from Rome to recover. The sig- 
 nora, I will venture to affirm, would not have 
 been restored so rapidly either in Rome or Flor- 
 ence." 
 
 1 bowed, interrogatively ; and was about to 
 lead to the subject of my note, when the land- 
 lord, with polite fluency, resumed : — 
 
 "The signora," said he, " sees Civita Vecchia 
 at its dullest season. At this period of the year, 
 we stagnate. The signora should visit us in the 
 bathing season. Then all is life and gayety. 
 Every hotel and lodging-house is filled. The 
 beach is covered with promenaders. We have 
 music on the Molo, daily. E molto piacevole.'''' 
 
 " I have understood," I replied, " that it is 
 an agreeable villeggiatura. - But " 
 
 "The bathing, too, is excellent," said the 
 landlord, "and is preferred by many to the 
 Baths of San Giuliano. We were honored, last 
 autumn, by a visit from His Holiness the 
 Pope." 
 
 " To return, however, to the subject of my 
 note," said I, resolutely stemming this tide of 
 small talk. " The padrone will do me the favor 
 to make out my bill in full, up to the present 
 time ; after which, if he pleases, we can begin 
 a new account. I purpose leaving Civita Vecchia 
 for Rome in a few days, and I wish to form 
 some estimate of what my expenses have been 
 during my illness." 
 
 The landlord bowed again ; referred to the 
 note through a double eye-glass ; darted a sus- 
 picious glance toward Goody, who was rocking 
 herself restlessly to and fro in her chair at the 
 farther end of the room ; and said — 
 
 " The signora desires to have a — a copy of all 
 her weekly accounts, dating from the fifth of 
 January ?" 
 
 " Precisely." 
 
 " We are not in the habit of copying former 
 accounts," said the landlord ; " but as this is 
 not our busiest season, and the signora has been 
 with us for some weeks, it shall be done, to 
 oblige her.' 
 
 " To oblige me ?" I repeated, with a smile. 
 
 He darted another glance at Goody ; looked 
 somewhat embarrassed ; and said, with a hesita- 
 tion very unlike his former fluency — " 
 
 " I am surely mistaken in supposing the sig- 
 nora to be ignorant of the fact that — that her 
 accounts have been regularly paid during the 
 period of her stay in my house ?" 
 
 " Paid?" I echoed, scarcely believing my ears. 
 
 " Paid punctually, every Monday morning." 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 " By the signora's own servant, who has all 
 the receipts in her possession." 
 
 " Is this true ?" I asked, rising, all in a tremble, 
 and facing her where I stood. " Is this true ?" 
 
 " Is what true ?" whimpered Goody, with 
 averted face. 
 
 Her voice and attitude confirmed it, without 
 need of confession. I turned to the landlord, 
 who was fidgeting with his eye-glass in the 
 utmost perplexity, and wished him good-day. 
 
 " If I can be of any further service to the 
 signora " he began. 
 
 " Not of the least, thank you." 
 
 " The accounts," said he, lingering, " shall be 
 copied forthwith." 
 
 " Pray do not take the trouble," I replied. 
 " It is sufficient if my servant has the originals 
 in her care. Good afternoon." 
 
 " Good afternoon, signora— good afternoon." 
 
 And the padrone reluctantly took his leave, 
 with his curiosity unsatisfied. 
 
 When he was gone, I went over and stood 
 before her. 
 
 "Whose money was it?" I asked, in an 
 agitated whisper. " Tell me at once. No lies — 
 no equivocations. Whose money was it ?" 
 
 " Oh, dear ! oh dear !" cried she, " I did it 
 for the best — indeed, indeed, I did." 
 
 Half beside myself with apprehension and 
 anger, I took her by the arm and shook it 
 violently. 
 
 " Speak at once," I said. " What wicked 
 folly have you been committing ? You have be- 
 trayed me — confess that you've betrayed me !" 
 
 " No, no, my dear lamb, not that ! not that ! 
 I couldn't help his seeing you — you being 
 carried up on a mattress, poor love, as helpless 
 as a babe — how could I ? But, there — only 
 give- me time, and don't frighten me, and I'U 
 tell you every thing — that I will, my deary, true 
 as Gospel !" 
 
 " HeP'' I faltered, catching at a chair for sup- 
 port. " Who ? For God's sake, who ?" 
 
 Poor old Goody wrung her hands together, 
 and looked up, deprecatingly, through her 
 tears. 
 
 " I don't know, my deary !" she sobbed, " I 
 never saw him before, in all my life ; but he 
 said he knew you as well as if he was your own 
 father — and — and I believed him — and I know 
 I was very wrong to take his money ; but I was 
 all alone among strangers, my deary, in a — a 
 foreign land — and you all but dying — and — and 
 I was so thankful to find a friend, that — that ' ' 
 
 I flung myself into her arms, and kissed her 
 over and over again. 
 
 " Hush, dear, hush !" I cried. " I thought it 
 was — you know who I thought it must be ! 
 Since it is a stranger, never mind. We can pay 
 him back his money, whoever he may be. I 
 was very, very harsh to you, dear — pray for- 
 give me. There, now — dry your eyes, and try 
 to describe him to me ; and let us think how 
 we can find him out, and how much we owe 
 him, and who he can be. In the first place, 
 what is his name ?" 
 
 "I don't know, my deary." 
 
 " Did he never tell you ? Or have you for- 
 gotten it?" 
 
 " He never told me, my deary." 
 
 "Was he old or*^oung? Tall or short? 
 Fair or dark ?" 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 153 
 
 " Bless you, my lamb," said Goody, with a 
 bewildered face, " I haven't the leaat notion." 
 
 "Itisn'tDr. Topham?" 
 
 She shook her head, doubtfully. 
 
 " You remember to have seen him, dear, at 
 Broomhill? The doctor, you know — my aunt's 
 doctor, who used to come riding through the 
 park on his little pony — a very cheerful, pleas- 
 ant " 
 
 " It's no one I've ever seen before," replied 
 Goody, decisively ; "and the farthest off from 
 cheerful and pleasant that I've come across this 
 many a day. I don't mean to say but what he's 
 very kind, my lamb — as kind as can be. He 
 helped to carry you up-stairs himself; and he 
 downright forced the money into my hand, say- 
 ing you might want comforts, and that was to 
 make sure of your having all that was necessary 
 before he came again." 
 
 "And he did come again?" '^ 
 
 "Bless you, yes — ho was staying in the 
 hotel for the first day or two ; and after he'd 
 gone away to the Pope of Rome, he came back 
 once or twice ; and would have had me take 
 more money every time, only I knew we had 
 enough without it, and wouldn't hear of it." 
 
 " Did he seem to be very rich and grand ?" I 
 asked next, with some vague idea of the Grand 
 Duke floating through my mind. "Had he 
 many servants with him ; and did he seem like 
 a nobleman ?" 
 
 " Lord, no, my deary ! as plain as could be." 
 
 "You are quite sure he was an Englishman?" 
 
 " Indeed I wouldn't be sure at all," replied 
 she. " He had a queer way in his talk. To be 
 sure, he might be from some other part of the 
 country ; but I can't help thinking the English 
 didn't come quite natural to him." 
 
 My eyes fell upon the volumes. A sudden 
 thought flashed across me. 
 
 " It is the same who left the books with Doc- 
 tor Marco !" I cried, eagerly. " Run, dear — 
 run down and ask the landlord to let me see 
 the visitor's book. I'm sure I know who it is 
 now !" 
 
 " How am I to ask for it, my deary ?" said 
 Goody. " You must write it on a bit of paper, 
 please, and — Mercy ! there he is !" 
 
 "Where? where?" 
 
 " There, my deary — down by those posts 
 there — coming up to the house, with his face 
 this way !" 
 
 I followed the direction of her finger ; and 
 saw, as I had already expected to see — Profes- 
 sor Metz. 
 
 CHAPTER LIY. 
 
 THE CHANGE 'tWIXT NOW AND THEN. 
 
 " Roma ! Roma ! Roma ! 
 Non 6 piu come era prima !" 
 
 To an artist, the words " habitable Rome," 
 convey few ideas beyond the Via Margutta and 
 the Cafe Greco. In the former he lives and 
 works ; in the latter he smokes, sups, meets 
 his friends, and with them discusses his bottle 
 of Orvieto and the news of the day. From the 
 cafe my inclinations and sex alike excluded me ; 
 but in its immediate neighborhood, if not in the 
 street itself, my lodgings were situated. I 
 
 lived, in short, in precisely that central house 
 of the Vicolo dAliberti that looks down the 
 Via Margutta. Those who know Rome will not 
 need to be told that these two streets, in their 
 relative positions, take the form of a T. 
 
 The Via Margutta is a street of studios and 
 stables, crossed at the upper end by a little 
 roofed gallery with a single window, like a shab- 
 by Bridge of Sighs. Horses are continually be- 
 ing washed and currycombed outside their 
 stable-doors; frequent heaps of immondezzajo 
 make the air unfragrant ; and the perspective is 
 too frequently damaged by rows of linen sus- 
 pended across the road from window to window. 
 Unsightly as they are, however, these obstacles 
 in no wise afiect the popularity of the Via Mar- 
 gutta, either as a residence for the artist, or a 
 lounge for the amateur. Fashionable patrons 
 leave their carriages at the corner, and pick 
 their way daintily among the gutters ^nd dust- 
 heaps. A boar-hunt by Vallati compensates 
 for an unlucky splash ; and a Campagna sunset 
 of Dessoulavey glows all tho richer for the 
 squalor through which it is approached. But I 
 was not a resident in the street of painters. I 
 only commanded it from my bedroom window ; 
 and I lived chiefly at the back of the house, in 
 a room which served me for studio and parlor 
 together. Just outside this room was a little 
 loggia, where I could breakfast in the open air ; 
 and where Goody used to sit in the sun with 
 her needlework while I was painting, and chat 
 to me through the open window. The loggia 
 was a great comfort to us ; for there was no 
 garden attached to the house in which we Hved. 
 We were, however, surrounded on this side by 
 the gardens of others, overlooking, as we did, 
 the great quadrangle formed by the backs of 
 the houses in the Via Babuino, the north side 
 of the Piazza di Spagna, the high ridge of the 
 Pincian hill, and our own modest little Vicolo 
 d'Aliberti. Within this quadrangle the air was 
 always fresh, and the sunshine warm and lulling. 
 The gardens below were full of orange and 
 lemon trees ; some of which (laden with yellow 
 fruit, like the golden apples of the poets) were 
 trained along the walls; while others, again, 
 stood sturdy and wide-spreading, like mere 
 northern apple-trees. Most of our neighbors 
 kept poultry ; and many were the contrivances 
 of up-stair lodgers to hang linen from window- 
 to window, or balcony to balcony. In one gar- 
 den close by, there was an old marble water- 
 tank, that had once been a costly sarcophagus, 
 and came, most probably, from the tomb of 
 some noble Roman on the Appian Way. In an- 
 other, were two crumbling moss-grown urns of 
 stone, apparently of cinque-cento origin. Piled 
 high upon a loggia nearly opposite, rose a pyra- 
 mid of empty Orvieto bottles, in their wicker- 
 coats. Lower down were the stables of a re- 
 mise ; and on the brow of the Pincian, closing 
 in our horizon on the left, stood the twin-tow- 
 ered villa of the French Academy. Mei-ely to 
 lounge on this little loggia in the morning sun- 
 light, throwing crumbs to the chickens in my 
 neighbor's garden, watching the light and 
 shadow on the green leaves and the broken 
 urns, and listening to the military music on the 
 Pincian, was pleasant and soothing to one whose 
 health was so broken as mine. It was a quiet, 
 cheerful nook — just the place in which to live a 
 
lU 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 life of -work and solitude ; day repeating day, 
 and year year, till the end should come. 
 
 This little home was found for me by my good 
 friend, tha Professor. Poor Goody, it appeared, 
 'had told him, in her perplexity and fesjr of pos- 
 sible consequences, that I had lost my husband, 
 and come abroad for change of scene. He be- 
 lieved my name to be Carlyon ; and he knew 
 that I looked to my artistic talents for a liveli- 
 hood. Finding all this to be the case, I suffered 
 him to continue in the same convictions ; and 
 this with all the less difficulty, since he scrupu- 
 lously abstained from even an allusion to my 
 married life. Was I wrong to do this ? I think 
 not. I could have told him nothing, unless I 
 told all ; and my wounds were too fresh to bear 
 reopening. And then the shame of it ! No — 
 no ; broken as I was, my pride sealed that con- 
 fession on my lips, and gave me strength to 
 suffer in silence. 
 
 The dear, rough, kind Professor! I had 
 never known till now how gentle, how chival- 
 rous, how generous a heart beat beneath that 
 rugged exterior. I was unhappy, and he respect- 
 ed my sorrow. I was ill, and he succored me. 
 I was alone, and he protected me. He brought 
 me to my little home himself, all the way from 
 Civita Vecchia ; saw to the drawing up of the 
 agreement by which I hired it ; and was as 
 careful of my interests and my comfort as if 
 I had been his own child. He had come to 
 Rome to collect works of art for the Grand 
 Duke, and was lodging temporarily in the Piazza 
 di Spagna. Closely as his time was occupied, 
 he came to see me once in every day ; and often, 
 when he had been the whole morning among 
 the print-shops or studios, would bring an open 
 vettura in the afternoon, to take me for a drive 
 along the meadows behind St. Angelo. As I 
 became stronger, he introduced me to several 
 of the best picture-dealers; one of whom at 
 once commissioned me to copy a painting in 
 the Schiarra Palace. From this moment, my 
 modest future was assured. Once known in 
 Rome as the pupil of so eminent a master, I was 
 certain of employment as a copyist; and a 
 copyist was now all that I desired to be. Am- 
 bition, hope, the desire of excellence, the love 
 of praise, were all dead within me. The en- 
 thusiasm with which I once worshiped the 
 painter's art, was dead also. I did not even 
 look upqn the masterpieces of the past with the 
 same eyes as before. For me, the Magdalens of 
 Guido had lost their languid charm. Something 
 of its subtlety had fled from the syren smile of 
 Johanna of Naples. A power was gone out 
 from the walls of the Sistine, and ,a glory had 
 faded from the Transfiguration. Not all the 
 wonders of art, antiquity, or story had power 
 now to hasten the pulses of my heart. I could 
 wander among the colossal ruins of the Baths of 
 Caracalla, or tread the chariot- worn pavement of 
 the Appian Way, with an apathy at which I 
 marveled. Nothing moved me, save the re- 
 membrance of when and with whom I had first 
 visited each well-known site. In the Colosseum, 
 I no longer saw Commodus, " the Imperial Sa- 
 gittary," with his crescent -shaped shafts, decap- 
 itating the ostrich as it fled round the arena. 
 Amid the gigantic desolation of the Palace of 
 the Caesars, I no longer remembered Caligula 
 dancing madly before the trembling Consuls, 
 
 "in the second watch of the night," or Nero 
 weeping on the bosom of his nurse, I thought 
 only of Hugh, and of how we had wandered 
 together in the shadow of these very walls and 
 arches. I remembered how, for my pleasure, 
 he used to ransack the stores of his learning, 
 people each ruin with the men of antique Rome, 
 and "unsphere" the spirits of Suetonius and 
 Plutarch. " In Italy," saith a brilliant Essayist, 
 " we leave ourselves behind, and travel through 
 a romance." Alas ! it was so with me, but in a 
 sadder and a very different sense. I had indeed^ 
 left far behind my former self of youth and hap- 
 piness; and now, a mere shadow traveled 
 mournfully through the romance of my own fair 
 and faded past. Every broken column, every 
 mouldering architrave, recalled some half-for- 
 gotten passage from its pages. On this fallen 
 capital I sat to rest, while he filled my lap with 
 violets. At this fountain we stooped and drank, 
 in the mid-day sunshine. In this mosaic-paven 
 nook we read aloud the fourth canto of Childe 
 Harold. It was all over now. He whom I had 
 worshiped as a child, dreamed of as a girl, 
 adored as a wife, had deceived me, wronged me, 
 embittered all my past, and laid waste all my 
 future. Yet I lived, and knew that I must bear 
 the burden, and set myself to the business of 
 life. Life ? — alas ! what was life to me ? Like 
 the Campagna, on nil sides a desert ; at every 
 step, a tomb. All the joy and the fullness of 
 this life of mine had sunk, in one night, at a 
 single blow ; like a stately ship that goes down 
 in the deep waters, with all sail set, and every 
 hand on- board. Still I lived, and was calm ; — 
 so calm that I sometimes asked myself if my 
 heart yet beat in my bosom, and the blood yet 
 ran warm in my veins ? 
 
 And thus the weary sands dropped, dropped, 
 dropped daily, in the great hour-glass of Time. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 TIME PAST AND TIME PRESENT. 
 
 " Parvcm parva decent. Mihi jam non regia Roma 
 Sed vacuum Tibur placet." — ^Horace. 
 
 " Cyprus and ivy, weed and wall -flower grown 
 Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped 
 On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown 
 In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes steeped 
 In subterranean damps." — Byron. 
 
 Tpiere was a tap at the door 
 
 " May I come in ?" said a well-known voice. 
 
 The voice was followed by the shaggy gray 
 head of the Herr Professor, and the head was 
 duly succeeded by the rest of his gaunt person, 
 
 "Are you not always welcome?" I replied, 
 answering a question with a question. "I am 
 making the coffee, while Goody is gone to the 
 Via Condotti for the rolls. Will you breakfast 
 with us ?" 
 
 " Breakfast ! I breakfasted two hours ago, 
 by candle-light." 
 
 " You are a Spartan, mein Professor." 
 
 "You are a Sybarite, mdne Hebe Schiilerinn. 
 Who ever heard of such an hour as eight for 
 breakfast at the Zollenstrasse College? Madame 
 Brenner would be ashamed of you." 
 
 " My dear friend," I said, smiling and sighing 
 together, "that was at least fifty years ago — 
 when I was young." 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 165 
 
 " Pooh ! you are a child now," growled the 
 Professor ; " and because you are a child, I come 
 to propose a holiday. Will you go to TivoU ?" 
 
 " To Tivoli ? When ?" 
 
 " To-day. It is still early enough, and will do 
 you good. Yes or no ?" 
 
 I had no desire to go, but feared to disappoint 
 him by a refusal. 
 
 " If you can spare the time," I began, " and 
 would enjoy it " 
 
 " I can spare the time," he interrupted ; " but 
 my stay in Rome draws to an end ; and in another 
 week I may be no longer here. Shall I order a 
 carriage to be at the door in half an hour ?" 
 
 " In twenty minutes, if you Uke, mein Pro- 
 fessor." 
 
 " No no — eat your breakfast in peace. And, 
 remember, your friend Goody is a charming old 
 woman ; but she may as well stay at home, and 
 keep house." ^ 
 
 With this, he strode away down-stairs, three 
 steps at a time, and I presently saw him in the 
 yard of the remise, several gardens off, inspect- 
 ing the condition of an open carriage which was 
 being cleaned by one of the stablemen. 
 
 The drive was less beautiful than most of those 
 which lie round Rome, and the Professor was' 
 more than usually silent. Thus two hours and 
 a half went by, dully ; and I was not sorry when, 
 turning aside from the castellated tomb of the 
 Plautia family, we passed down a shady lane, 
 and stopped at the gate of Hadrian's Villa. 
 Alighting here, we passed into that wide and 
 wondrous wilderness of ruin, through avenues 
 dark with cypress, and steep banks purple with 
 violets. The air was heavy with perfume. The 
 glades were carpeted with daisies, wild peri- 
 winkle, and white and yellow crocus-blooms. 
 We stepped aside into a grassy arena which was 
 once the Greek theater, and sat upon a fallen 
 cornice. There was the narrow shelf of stage 
 on which the agonies of (Edipus and Prometheus 
 were once rehearsed ; there was the tiny altar 
 which stood between the audience and the act- 
 ors, and consecrated the play ; there, row above 
 row, were the seats of the spectators. Now, the 
 very stage was a mere thicket of brambles, and a 
 little thrush lighted on the altar, while we were 
 sitting by, and filled all the silent space with 
 song. 
 
 Passing hence, we came next upon open fields, 
 partly cultivated, and partly cumbered with shape- 
 less mounds of fallen masonry. Here, in the 
 shadow of a gigantic stone pine, we found a sheet 
 of mosaic pavement glowing with all its marbles 
 in the sun ; and close by, half buried in deep 
 grass, a shattered column of the richest porphyry. 
 Then came an olive plantation ; another theater ; 
 the fragments of a temple ; and a long line of 
 vaulted cells, some of which contained the re- 
 mains of baths and conduits, and were tapes- 
 tried within with masses of the delicate maiden- 
 hair fern. Separated from these by a wide space 
 of grass, amid which a herd of goats waded and fed 
 at their pleasure, rose a pile of reticulated wall, 
 with part of a'vast hall yet standing,upon the vault- 
 ed roof of which, sharp and perfect as if mould- 
 ed yesterday, were incrusted delicate bas-reliefs 
 of white stucco, representing groups of Cupids, 
 musical instruments, and figures reclining at 
 table. Near this spot, on a rising ground formed 
 all of ruins overgrown with grass and under- 
 
 wood, we sat down to rest, and contemplate the 
 view. 
 
 A deep romantic valley opened before us, 
 closed in on either side by hanging woods of 
 olive and ilex, with here and there a group of 
 dusky junipers, or a solitary pine, rising like a 
 dark green parasol above all its neighbors. In- 
 terspersed among these and scattered about the 
 foreground, were mountainous heaps of but- 
 tressed wall, arch, vault, and gallery, all more 
 or less shattered out of form, or green with ivy. 
 At the bottom of the valley, forming, as it were, 
 the extreme boundary of the middle distance, 
 rose two steep volcanic hills, each crowned with 
 a little white town, that seemed to wink and glit- 
 ter in the sun ; while beyond these, again, undu- 
 lating, melancholy, stretching mysteriously away 
 for miles and miles in the blue distance, lay the 
 wastes of the Campagna. 
 
 The Professor pulled out his book, and made 
 a rapid sketch. 
 
 " Why do you not also draw ?" asked he. 
 
 " Because I prefer to be idle, and fancy how 
 this scene may have looked eighteen hundred 
 years ago." 
 
 "You can not fancy it," he said, abruptly. 
 " It's impossible. Who could reconstruct, to the 
 mind's eye, a group of palaces, theaters, bar- 
 racks, temples, and gardens, such as once were 
 here gathered together ? Why, the outer wall 
 measured between eight and ten miles round." 
 
 "It was not a villa at all," I replied. "It 
 was a model city." 
 
 " And can you ' fancy ' a city ?" 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 The professor grinned, somewhat contemptu- 
 ously ; shook his head ; and went on sketching. 
 
 Now it happened that I really could ' fancy ' 
 these things with a degree of accuracy that 
 would have been surprising had the knowledge 
 been my own. I had gone over this very ground 
 with Hugh, when we were living in and near 
 Rome, many and many a time. It had been one 
 of 'our most favorite spots, and I knew every 
 site, every path, and every historical conjecture 
 of the place by heart. To reconsti-uct these 
 buildings; to people temple, and palace, and 
 amphitheater, with the life of eighteen hundred 
 years ago ; to identify each hill, and vale, and 
 pile of ruin, had been precisely the object and 
 the charm of our explorations. It was in studies 
 such as these that Hugh's active mind found one 
 of its highest satisfactions. They brought his 
 vast reading to the surface. They exercised his 
 imagination, stimulated his memory, and in- 
 terested him on the side of poetry and art. I 
 think I seldom knew him so communicative of 
 his knowledge, and so happy in the exercise of 
 his manifold powers, as when, strolling through 
 these ruins, he used to think aloud, and enrich 
 my mind with the precious overflowings of his 
 own. 
 
 Of all this, however, the Professor knew noth- 
 ing; and 80, being tjiis morning in a particu- 
 larly amiable mood, began presently to banter 
 me on my " antiquarian spirit." 
 
 " Why so silent ?" said he. " Lost among 
 the Romans — eh ? Perhaps you knew the Em- 
 peror Hadrian in some state of preexistenee— 
 who knows ?" 
 
 " Perhaps I was a handmaiden of J[ulia Sabina." 
 
 " Julia Sabiua 1 Who was she ?" 
 
166 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 " His wife, mein Professor." 
 
 " Humph ! I wish your antiquarian inspira- 
 tion would move you to discover what all these 
 places were, that I'm putting in my sketch." 
 
 " Will you confess that I am a genuine Sibyl, 
 if I really tell you?' 
 
 " Oh, of course." 
 
 " Well, then, this spot on which we are sit- 
 ting was probably the site of an Academy. The 
 valley before us was called the Vale of Tempo, 
 and laid out in imitation of the celebrated 
 Thessalian pass. Down yonder, where you see 
 that line of bushes and deep grass, there runs a 
 tiny rivulet which the Emperor caused to be led 
 through the valley in imitation of the Perseus." 
 
 "You have got this from the guide-book," 
 said the Professor. "False Sibyl! fill me this 
 cup with water from your mock Perseus. I 
 must just add a dash of color." 
 
 I took the little tin cup and filled it for him. 
 When I came back he desired me to go on. 
 
 " What is the use of going on," said I, " if 
 you deny my inspiration ? No Sibyl ever brooked 
 incredulity." 
 
 " Tell me something worth hearing, and I 
 will believe in you to any extent you please." 
 
 " Upon your honor ?" 
 
 " Upon my honor — if your Sibylline leaves 
 are not stolen from Murray's Hand-book." 
 
 " Be silent, then, while I invoke the aid of 
 the gods." 
 
 The Professor mixed a great pool of cobalt, 
 and laid a flat wash of cloudless sky over all 
 the upper half of his paper. Then humming 
 an unmusical growl, touched in the shadow-sides 
 of his ruins with a warm gray which seemed at 
 once to put every thing in its place, and harmonize 
 the picture. I, in the mean time, strove to col- 
 lect my thoughts, and arrange my already half- 
 forgotten learning. 
 
 " Come, my pupil," said the Professor, " you 
 are a slow prophetess." 
 
 " I have to travel back through eighteen cen- 
 turies," I replied, " and that is no light matter. 
 Now listen, while I summon up remembrance of 
 things past, and bring before your eyes the 
 revels of the Caesars!" 
 
 The Professor put his brush to his lips, and 
 blew an imaginary trumpet. I proceeded with 
 my narrative. 
 
 " Imagine, learned Apelles, that it is now 
 the tenth hour of the Roman day. There has 
 this morning been a chariot-race, followed by a 
 show of gladiators, and the victors have just 
 gone down through the valley crowned with 
 palm leaves and ribbons. Now we hear a sound 
 of flutes and clarions. A company of the Pre- 
 torian guard advances, followed by musicians 
 and fire-bearers, after whom comes the Em- 
 peror, clothed in a long white robe and crowned 
 with roses. He is followed by some two dozen 
 Roman nobles, all in festive dress ; and another 
 company of guards brings up the rear. They 
 are going to sup in the Imperial Banqueting- 
 hall, of which the ruins are now before your 
 eyes. Imagine that hall " 
 
 "Stop!" cried the Professor. "Those are 
 the ruins of the Thermae." 
 
 " They are called so, O Apelles, by the ignorant 
 who compile guide-books," I replied ; " but I, 
 the Sibyl, tell thee that those ruined arches 
 once echoed to the sounds of feasting. See the 
 
 stuccoed flutes and garlands, the amphorae, the 
 groups of revelers yet fresh upon the hollow of 
 that vault. To what end should decorations 
 such as these be moulded upon the ceiUng of a 
 bath-room?" 
 
 "Humph! There's some reason in that," 
 admitted he, now busy upon a cluster of dock 
 leaves and a fallen trunk in the foreground. 
 
 "Let us follow the Emperor," continued I. 
 " Let us pass, invisible, through the guards at 
 the portal, and the crowd of Sicilian cooks, 
 pantomimists, slaves, and dependents in the 
 outer hall. Guided by the sound of music, let 
 us penetrate to the coenaculum itself Here, 
 on semicircular couches, recline the Emperor 
 and his guests, their hair redolent of fragrant 
 ointments, their fingers covered with rings, and 
 their jeweled slippers lying beside them on the 
 floor. Each man holds in his left hand a nap- 
 kin with a gold and purple fringe. On the tables 
 stand small images of the gods. At the lower 
 end of the room is an elevated stage, on which 
 a party of buifoons are performing a comic in- 
 terlude. The visitors play at dice between the 
 courses. Now and then, through revolving com- 
 partments in the ceiling, flowers and perfumes 
 are showered down upon the feasters ; while 
 slaves stand by, whose duty it is to fan away the 
 flies, and bring fresh towels and scented water 
 to the guests, after' every dish." 
 
 "By Thor and Woden!" exclaimed the Pro- 
 fessor, " how do you come to know all this ?" 
 
 " The feast begins," said I, taking no notice of 
 the interruption, "to the sound of trumpets; 
 and slaves carry round cups of Falernian wine, 
 flavored with honey. Then come oysters from 
 the Lucrine lake, cray-fish from Misenum, mul- 
 lets from Baiae, lampreys, and perhaps a stur- 
 geon, which is weighed alive at table, allowed 
 to expire before the eyes of the guests, and 
 then carried off to the kitchen, presently to ap- 
 pear again, cooked with a rich sauce of wine and 
 pickles. Then come dishes of nightingales, 
 thrushes, roasted shrimps, African cockles, Me- 
 lian cranes, Ambracian kid, and a boar from the 
 Umbrian forests, roasted whole, and stuffed with 
 beef and veal. This is carved by the carptor^ 
 with pantomimic gestures, to the sound of 
 music." 
 
 " But how do you know this ?" repeated the 
 Professor, fairly laying down his brush with as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 " Next some jars of rare Massic and Chian 
 wines are opened ; a libation is poured out to 
 the gods ; and the Emperor pledges his guests. 
 Then enter four musicians playing on double 
 flutes, followed by as many servants crowned 
 with flowers. They bring the royal dish of the 
 entertainment — a peacock with all its plumage 
 displayed, on a salver garlanded with roses. At 
 this sight, the guests burst into murmurs of ap- 
 plause, and salute the Emperor. The buffoons 
 now retire, and a couple of gladiators make 
 their appearance on the stage, armed with hel- i 
 mets, bucklers, greaves, and short swords. The 
 serious business of supper being nOw over, and 
 the dessert about to be brought on, the feasters 
 have leisure to enjoy this more exciting ainuse- 
 ment. Additional cushions are brought ; spiced 
 wines are handed round ; the tables are cleared ; 
 fresh cloths are laid ; the guests lean back ; the 
 Emperor gives the signal, and the gladiators 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 15Y 
 
 begin their combat. Now pistachio nuts, dates, 
 Venafran olives, Matian apples, pears, grapes, 
 dried figs, mushrooms, sweet cakes, preserves, 
 and all kinds of delicate confectionery moulded 
 into curious and graceful devices, are placed 
 upon the tables. Conversation becomes ani- 
 mated. A gladiator falls, mortally wounded, the 
 spectators cry ' hahet ! ' a fresh combatant re- 
 places him ; and the Emperor himself deigns to 
 bet upon the victor. Thus amid bloodshed, 
 dicing, wine and feasting, the hours pass by, 
 and the entertainment draws to a close. Valu- 
 able presents are then distributed to the guests. 
 One gets a precious ring, one a robe of Tyrian 
 dye, another a sketch by Parrhasius, another a 
 bust of Hadrian in colored marbles ; and thus 
 each takes his leave, enriched and feasted, and 
 pours a last libation to the health of the Em- 
 peror and the honor of the gods." ^ 
 
 " f s that all ?" gasped the Professor. 
 
 " Apelles ! the Sibyl hath spoken." 
 
 He jumped up and flourished his umbrella 
 menacingly before my eyes. 
 
 " Cmifess !" cried he. " Down on your knees 
 and confess directly where you read all this ! 
 Name the book, the author, the publisher and 
 the price ! Tell every thing this moment, you 
 impostor, on pain of death !" 
 
 "I have nothing to tell," replied I, com- 
 posedly. 
 
 " False ! inconceivably false ! Where did you 
 read it ?" 
 
 " Nowhere." 
 
 "Who wrote it?" 
 
 " Nobody." 
 
 " Have you invented it ?" 
 
 " By no means." 
 
 " Nowhere — nobody — by no means ! Sphinx ! 
 Monster of negations ! Speak, and be intelli- 
 gible. If thou hast neither read nor invented 
 these things, whence thy knowledge of them ?" 
 
 " Inspiration." 
 
 " Humbug ! humbug ! humbug !" 
 
 " As you please, mein Professor," I replied, 
 quietly smiling. " Is the sketch finished ?" 
 
 The Professor flung away his umbrella, and 
 resumed his seat by my side. 
 
 "Seriously, meine Schiilerinn,'" said he, "I 
 want the secret of your learning. I know you 
 to be a sensible young woman, and a very toler- 
 able painter ; but a savant in petticoats, ' darkly, 
 deeplv, beautifully blue.' Pooh ! it's impos- 
 sible V' 
 
 " Wonder of wonders ! Apelles quotes 
 Byron ?" 
 
 "You trifle with me," said the Professor, 
 frowning darkly. " You do not choose to 
 speak. Eh ?■" 
 
 " Can you not guess why ?" I asked, turn- 
 ing away that he might not see the tears in my 
 eyes. " Can you not guess that I trifle, be- 
 cause it would cost me so much pain to be in 
 earnest ?" 
 
 " I — I don't understand," stammered -he. 
 
 " Then I will tell you. You do not know, 
 perhaps, how familiar this place is to me. I 
 have been here over and over again, in — in 
 time past, I once staid at Tivoli for more 
 than a week. I have sketched this very scene 
 from almost the same point of view as yourself. 
 I know every ruin in the place by heart — out- 
 wardly, in its form and color ; inwardly, in its 
 legend and history. The outward, I gathered 
 
 for myself. The inward, dear friend, I acquired 
 from the lips of one who had 
 
 ' made a general survey 
 
 Of all the best of men's best knowledges, 
 And knew so much as ever learning knew.' 
 
 One to whom all art, all poetry, all history was 
 dear and familiar— one " 
 
 My voice failed, and I covered my eyes with 
 my hand. The Professor coughed, fidgeted, 
 and was for some moments silent. When he 
 spoke it was with a voluble embarrassment 
 quite foreign to his ordinary manner. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said he. " I — I was 
 an ass. I ought to have guessed — I might have 
 guessed. If I am a fool, I can't help it. You 
 — you see, I forget. I always think of you as 
 my little scholar. It always seems to me that 
 we are still at Zollenstrasse, and — and when I 
 look at you and talk to you, I never remember 
 that you — perhaps if you wore a widow's dress, 
 it would be different ; or if you sometimes 
 talked about your late — but I beg your pardon. 
 Of course it's a very sad subject, and — and, as 
 I said before, if I am a fool, I can't help it !" 
 
 "You are my best friend in all the world," 
 said I, putting out my hand. 
 
 He shook it, as if it had been a pump-handle, 
 and blushed purple to the very tips of his great 
 ears. Then, relapsing into sudden misanthropy, 
 said — 
 
 " Nonsense ! All men are fools, and all wo- 
 men are hypocrites. I don't believe you care a 
 groscfien for me. Bi, schweigen Sie I I won't 
 hear a word you have to say. Do you see that 
 man on the top of those arches ? I wonder 
 how he got there. What a famous distance 
 I should get for my sketch if I could find my 
 way up !" 
 
 " I can show you the path," said I. " It lies 
 round behind those bushes. You must, how- 
 ever, follow it alone, for it is rough climbing." 
 
 He gathered up his sketching traps, and I led 
 the way, pausing at the foot of the ascent, which 
 was even more wild and inaccessible than when 
 I last saw it. Leaving him there to fight his 
 way through the brambles as well as he could, 
 I then strolled back into the valley, and fol- 
 lowed the little rivulet, as it gurgled and spark- 
 led through cresses and pebbles, till lost among 
 the deep grass farther down. Little rivulet that 
 had been flowing on thus for so many cen- 
 turies, singing the same low song forever and 
 ever ! For my ears that song had but one 
 burthen* What to me were the Imperial feet 
 that had once trodden its borders, and become 
 dust ? What to me were the ravages of Goth 
 or Gaul ? I remembered only Hugh, and how 
 we had wandered there together in the sunlight 
 of two short years ago. I plucked a little red 
 flower from the bank, and watched it float away 
 with the stream. "Is it not thus," I asked my- 
 self, " that a life floats down the stream of time ? 
 Is it not thus that those whom we love are 
 snatched from our embrace, and hurried away 
 forever ? To what shore, oh flower ? To what 
 sea, oh stream ? To what haven, oh my heart ?" 
 
 It was one of those moments when I realized, 
 in all its bitterness, the thought of how, on this 
 fair earth, we two could never meet in peace 
 and love again ; and it smote me with a sense 
 of pain " too deep for tears." 
 
 The Professor came back covered with dusk 
 and scratches, and looking much the worse for 
 
158 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 his excursion ; but delighted, nevertheless, with 
 all that he had seen and sketched from the 
 roof of the Banqueting-hall. And now, as the 
 day was advancing, and our time was fast ebb- 
 ing away, we hastened back, found our vettura 
 waiting at the gate, and drove on through the 
 famous olive-wood, to Tivoli. As the town 
 came in sight, the Professor pulled out his 
 watch, shook his head, and sighed. 
 
 "All the inns are detestable," said he. 
 "Heaven only knows what we shall get. for 
 dinner." 
 
 " Oh, never mind," I replied, " What does 
 it matter ?" 
 
 "Matter?" said he, sharply. "It matters 
 every thing in this infernal country. My dinner 
 has been the misery of my daily life ever since 
 I have been in Rome. The sight of the trat- 
 tore's list each morning drives me. mad. I 
 never know what any thing means ; and when 
 at length I mark off three or four things, they 
 generally turn out to be loathsome messes, unfit 
 for any but a Caliban. Yesterday, when I sat 
 down to dinner, I found I had ordered nothing 
 but a few saucers, and some scraps of half-raw 
 potato, swimming in oil ?" 
 
 " Well, I promise you that shall not be the 
 case to-day," said I, smiling. 
 
 " Then they eat such unholy things," grumbled 
 he. "What do you think I saw on the price- 
 list at the Lq)re the other day. It ran thus : — 
 
 * Beef— the eye of. 
 Do. — the tongue. 
 Do. — the ear. 
 Do.— the feet. 
 
 Fancy a people that can feed on such offal as 
 this ! What wonder that art dies out among 
 them ? What wonder that they are priest-rid- 
 den and degraded ? Do you beheve that Michael 
 Angelo and Raffaelle nourished their mighty 
 thoughts on the eyes and ears of Campagna bul- 
 locks ? Faugh !" 
 
 We were by this time entering the dirty, ruin- 
 ous alleys of Tivoli, followed by a lively crowd 
 of beggars. 
 
 " What hotel, signore ?" asked the driver. 
 
 " Hotel !" growled the Professor. " Say hovel. 
 Take us to the Sibyl. There, if we are starved, 
 we shall at least have something to look at." 
 
 So we drove into the yard of the Hotel de la 
 Sibylle, which was already crowded with car- 
 riages and coachmen, and were at once shown 
 out upon the terrace overlooking the falls. 
 Here, at a long table in the shadow of the love- 
 liest of Roman temples, sat a merry party of 
 ladies and gentlemen, dining in the open air. 
 No sooner, however, had we made our appear- 
 ance, than three or four started up from their 
 seats, and, to my dismay, burst into exclamations 
 of welcome. 
 
 " Why, it's Professor Metz !" 
 
 " What lucky chance has brought you here to- 
 day. Professor Metz ?" 
 
 " Just in time to dine with us, too !" 
 
 " Well, now, this is famous !" 
 
 " Couldn't have happened better !" 
 
 To all of which the Professor replied by shak- 
 ing hands with nearly the whole party, and blurt- 
 ing out such commonplaces as first suggested 
 themselves. This done, he came back to me, 
 looking considerably embarrassed. 
 
 "What's to be done?" said he. "They 
 want us to dine with them ; and — and they've 
 
 such a capital dinner there, furnished by Naz 
 zari. Every thing cold. Brought it with them 
 from Rome. If we order a dinner at this vile 
 place, we shan't be able to eat it. What do you 
 say ?" 
 
 " I say, do as you please, my kind friend." 
 
 " Humph ! Ha ! But — but you don't like 
 strangers — I know you don't like strangers ! 
 Then you need not know them again to-morrow, 
 you see, unless you choose. They are nearly all 
 artists. Still, if it wasn't for the dinner " 
 
 " I won't condemn you to die by starvation," 
 said I. 
 
 " Pm afraid I'm selfish," hestitated the Pro- 
 fessor. 
 
 " I should know I was, if I allowed you to re- 
 fuse on my account." 
 
 While we were yet wavering, a lady left the 
 party, and came toward us. Her person was 
 large; her complexion fair; her face square, 
 massive, full of power and frankness, and lit by 
 a pair of wondrous eyes that seemed to flash and 
 vary with every word she uttered. 
 
 " Will it not be possible, Herr Metz," said she, 
 " to prevail upon your friend ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes — I — that is, she — permit me to in- 
 troduce Miss Dunham — Mrs. Carlyon," stam- 
 mered the Professor. 
 
 Miss Dunham put out her hand with the sun- 
 niest smile in the world, and said : — 
 
 " You are very welcome. Our tables are ' but 
 coldly furnished forth ;' yet if you will balance 
 our good-will against our baked meats, both 
 shall be heartily at your service." 
 
 I thanked and followed her, while the Profes- 
 sor whispered hastily in my ear : — 
 
 " Miss Dunham, you know — the celebrated 
 American tragedian. One of the most charm- 
 ing women in Rome." 
 
 Miss Dunham resumed her seat at the head of 
 the table, made room for me at her right hand, 
 and introduced me to the rest of the company. 
 The Professor found a place at the farther end ; 
 and thus I found myself, for the first time since the 
 fatal night of the ball at Ashley Park, surround- 
 ed by strangers, and listening to a whirl of con- 
 versation and laughter. Confused, bewildered, 
 feeling strangely sad and out of place, I sat si- 
 lently by,, replying in monosyllables when spoken 
 to, and scarcely able at first to disentangle the 
 separate threads of talk. Presently, as my em- 
 barrassment subsided, I found that my neighbors 
 at the upper end of the table were chiefly occu- 
 pied with the present state of Roman art. 
 
 " That which shocks me most," said Miss Dun- 
 ham, " is the fatal influence of Rome upon our 
 young artists. Men who in London or New- York 
 showed vigor and originality, here either sink 
 into classical imbecility, or turn manufacturers of 
 busts and medallions." 
 
 " Nothing more easily accounted for," replied 
 a handsome young man with an open collar and 
 long hair, at tne opposite side of the table. " A 
 fellow can but choose between the antique' and 
 the modern. The antique drives him to despair ; 
 and all he does is miserable imitation. The mod- 
 ern is a market, governed by the almighty dol- 
 lar." 
 
 " If the artist did his duty, he might make 
 that market what he pleased," said a bright-faced 
 girl, whom they called Charlie. " It is his busi- 
 ness to elevate the public, taste." 
 
 " All very well when he has a fixed public to 
 
 I 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 159 
 
 deal with," replied the young man ; " but the 
 public of Rome is a mere fluctuating tide of 
 tourists, most of whom know no more about art 
 than about Lindley Murray — wretches who prefer 
 a marble record of their own ugliness to the 
 bust of the young Augustus ; and see a finer 
 study of color in a yard of Tartan than in a mas- 
 terpiece of Titian." 
 
 " Fenwarne," said Miss Dunham, " you grow 
 misanthropic. That unsold Eve that I saw in 
 your studio yesterday will prove the ruin of you. 
 Remember the fall." 
 
 " I'd rather put the Eve into the fire than sell 
 her to some of your countrymen," said the 
 painter, coloring. " A Yankee monster asked 
 me the other day what I would take for — ' the 
 gal eating oranges.' " 
 
 ■ " I can tell you a better story than that," ob- 
 served a quiet man at the lower end of the^ble. 
 " An American capitalist came to me not many 
 months since, and opened the conversation by 
 saying — ' Sir, your name is Robson.' I admitted 
 that my name was Robson. ' And you air a Stat- 
 uary,' said he. I admitted this fact also, substi- 
 tuting sculptor. ' Sir,' continued he, ' I will 
 give you a commission.' I bowed, and begged 
 him to be seated. ' Mr. Robson, sir,' said he, 
 drawing a paper from his pocket, ' I am a re- 
 . markable man. I was born in the en-Vi-rons of 
 Boston city, and began life by selling matches 
 at five cents the bunch. I am worth, at this mo- 
 ment, one million o' dollars.' I bowed again, 
 and said I was glad to hear it. ' Sir,' he went 
 on to say, ' how I aimed that million o' dollars 
 — how from selling matches I came to running 
 of errands ; to taking care of a boss ; to trading in 
 dogs, tobaccos, cottons, corns, and sugars ; and 
 how I came to be the man I am, you'll find all 
 made out on this paper, dates and facts correct. 
 Sir it's a very Re-markable statement.' I re- 
 plied that I had no doubt of it ; but that I could 
 not quite see what it had to do with the matter 
 in hand. ' Sir,' said my capitalist, ' every thing. 
 I wish, sir, to per-petuate my name. You have 
 a very pretty thing, sir, here in Rome — a pillar 
 with a Pro-cession twisting up all around it, and 
 a figger up at top. I think you call it Trajan's 
 column. Now, Mr. Robson, sir, I wish you to 
 make me one exactly like it — same hight, same 
 size, and money no object. You shall re-present 
 my career in all my va-ri-ous trades a-twisting 
 round the column, beginning with the small chap 
 selling matches at five cents the bundle, and end- 
 ing with a full length figger of me on the sum- 
 mit, with one hand, thus, in my Bo-som, and the 
 other under my coat-tails !" 
 
 " Won't do ! won't do !" laughed a chorus of 
 skeptics. " A palpable invention, Robson ! Too 
 good to be true." 
 
 " Does any b-b-b-body know what is to be 
 done at the artist's fete this year?" asked a slim 
 youth with blue glasses and a stutter. " I c-c- 
 can't find out any thing ab-b-b-bout it." 
 
 "There's nothing decided yet," replied Mr. 
 Penwarne. "Murray was talking about a tra- 
 vestie of Sardanapalus the other day ; but the 
 notion didn't seem to be popular." 
 
 "Why not pay the 'tedious-brief scene' of 
 Pyramus and Thisbe?" suggested Miss Dun- 
 ham. 
 
 *' Why not play the whole Midsummer Night's 
 Dream ?" said another lady. " It needs no 
 scenery that the Campagna will not furnish." 
 
 "Then Charlie should play Puck," said Miss 
 Dunham, smiling. 
 
 " And yourself, Oberon," rejoined the young 
 girl. 
 
 "I should wonderfully like to play B-b-b- 
 bottom," stammered the youth in the specta- 
 cles. 
 
 " Yes, it would suit you capitally," said Pen- 
 warne ; " and no expense for the head." 
 
 " It has always seemed to me," observed an 
 intelligent-looking man who had not spoken be- 
 fore, " that there is a poetical inconsistency in 
 the remarks made by Bottom, after he is ' trans- 
 lated.' When he is introduced to Mustard-seed 
 he makes a pungent allusion to ox-beef. When 
 Titania presses him to eat, he asks for a peck of 
 provender. How are these to be reconciled? 
 If he thinks as an ass, he would know nothing 
 of beef and mustard. If he thinks as a man, he 
 would not ask for oats." 
 
 " You can only reconcile it by remembering 
 that he is both a man and an ass," replied Miss 
 Dunham. " No uncommon phenomenon either." 
 
 " You might get up an annual exhibition, 
 I should fancy, in one of the private galleries," 
 said the Professor, in answer to some observa- 
 tion which I had not heard. " Where no com- 
 parisons can be made, the fire of emulation 
 smoulders. A man ought to see his own works 
 beside those of his cotemporaries at least once 
 in every two or three years." 
 
 " We would gladly do so, if we could," re- 
 plied the gentleman with whom he was convers- 
 ing ; " but a thousand difficulties are thrown in 
 our way by the government whenever it is pro- 
 posed. We all feel the want of an exhibition 
 room. We should be able to undertake larger 
 works, if we had a large place in which to hang 
 them. It is just this advantage that causes the 
 historical school to be almost abandoned by 
 our young artists, and drives so many into the 
 realistic style." 
 
 "Realistic! historical]" repeated the Profes- 
 sor, impatiently. " Nonsense, nonsense, young 
 man ! All true art is a form of history. If you 
 paint but a tree, or a face, or a boat, faithfully 
 — that is history. Don't lose yourself in a maze 
 of words. Painting big pictures of medieval 
 men and women from hired models in hired 
 costumes, is not history. The real is your only 
 historic ; and all art, to be beautiful, must first 
 be true." 
 
 " But the best critics " 
 
 " Critics be hanged !" interrupted the Pro- 
 fessor, savagely. " God sent art, and the devil 
 sent critics. Where were the critics when 
 Raffaelle painted his Transfiguration, and Mi- 
 chael Angelo worked in the Sistine Chapel? 
 In those days, there were no critics. The best 
 pictures the world ever saw were painted before 
 the brood existed. Critics, indeed I Vultures 
 feeding on the corpse of ancient art — fungi 
 flourishing among ruins — ghouls !" 
 
 " Will any b-b-body go down to see the falls ?" 
 asked the youth in the spectacles. 
 
 " No one who objects to being left behind," 
 replied Miss Dunham, who was evidently the 
 leader of the party. "It is half-past four 
 already, and we have all our miles before us. 
 The night-mists will have risen, as it is, before 
 we are half across the Campagna." 
 
 " No danger of B-b-b-banditti, I suppose?" 
 
 " Banditti ?" repeated Mr. Penwarne, care- 
 
160 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 lessly; "why, I fear not. There are a few- 
 hordes aboiit ; but they chiefly haunt the Flor- 
 entine and Neapolitan roads. Fancy falling in 
 with a Fra Diavolo and his gang — wouldn't it be 
 exciting ?" 
 
 " I shouldn't f-f-f-fancy it at all," stammered 
 the other, looking very uncomfortable. 
 
 " Nonsense ! think of the romance of it." 
 
 " B-b-b-bother the romance of it," replied the 
 stammerer, upon whose mind was dawning a 
 dim consciousness of banter. " R-r-r-robbery 
 and murder are acquired tastes, and I don't 
 p-p-possess them." 
 
 The al fresco dinner was now over; the 
 order was given for putting in the horses ; and 
 the gentlemen began gathering the knives, 
 glasses, and unemptied bottles into two large 
 baskets. In the mean time we made the tour 
 of the little temple, and looked down upon the 
 plunging waters of the Cascatelle, the distant roar 
 of which had accompanied our voices all dinner- 
 time, like a concert of solemn instruments. 
 
 " I wish I had gone to the b-b-bottom," said 
 the stammerer regretfully, as he leaned over the 
 parapet. 
 
 " I wish you had, with all my heart," replied 
 Penwarne. 
 
 A few minutes more, and we were all on our 
 road back to Rome. Mr. Robson and Mr. Pen- 
 warne shared our carriage, and chatted of Ital- 
 ian politics, books, art, and artist-gossip all the 
 way ; and as we went along, the sun set, and the 
 mountains changed from rose-color to amethyst, 
 and from amethyst to a cold and wintry gray. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI 
 
 THE PROFESSOR. 
 
 " Sweetest nut hath sourest rind."— As You Like It. 
 
 I HAD been all day, copying in the Sciarra 
 Palace, and was cowering over my little wood 
 fire after dinner, when the Professor walked in, 
 unannounced, and sat down at the opposite side 
 of the hearth. 
 
 " The evenings are still cold," said he. " I 
 am glad you have a fire." 
 
 " They are very cold," I replied, throwing on 
 a couple of pine cones, which blazed up immedi- 
 ately in a wavering pyramid of flame. 
 
 " That's cheerful," said the Professor, approv- 
 ingly. 
 
 " So cheerful that I only wish it were possible 
 to bear it all through the summer. There is real 
 companionship in a fire." 
 
 "You are lonely here?" 
 
 "Sometimes." 
 
 He stirred uneasily in his chair, and stared at 
 the fire. 
 
 " I am not more lonely," I said, after a long 
 pause, " than I should be elsewhere. You must 
 not suppose, kind friend, that I do not like the 
 place." 
 
 " That's well," he said ; and sighed. 
 
 And then we were both silent again. 
 
 " Rome is a melancholy place," he observed, 
 after some five minutes' interval. 
 
 " I am not sure that I think so. It is melan- 
 choly, perhaps, to the heavy-hearted, in the 
 sense that all visible history is melancholy ; 
 
 but to those who are happy, it is- one of the 
 most charming places in the world." 
 
 The Professor looked up, sharply. 
 
 " Your definition ?" said he. 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 "Of visible history.' What do you mean by 
 it ? Ruins, monuments, records of past genera- 
 tions ?" 
 
 " Yes, precisely." 
 
 " Humph ! And do you suppose that a pair 
 of honeymoon lovers would find the Appian 
 Way a lively place of resort ?" 
 
 " We were speaking of Rome, Herr Professor. 
 Not of the road from Rome to Heaven." 
 
 " A pretty idea," said he, smiling ; " but of 
 doubtful application. Not many of those old 
 Romans, I fancy, went to Heaven. Quite the 
 reverse." 
 
 And then the conversation dropped again. 
 
 " I — I must go, meine Schillerinn,''^ he said, by 
 and by. 
 
 "Not till I have made you a cup of coffee?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " That's not what I mean. I must go back to 
 Germany." 
 
 " Alas ! when !" 
 
 " The day after to-morrow ; or — or, perhaps, 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " So soon ?" 
 
 "Ay, so soon." 
 
 " How much more lonely it will be when you 
 are gone !" I said, sadly. 
 
 He stared gloomily at the fire, and made no 
 reply. 
 
 " You — you will sometimes take the trouble 
 to write to me, mein Professor ?" 
 
 "Ay — surely." 
 
 Another long silence. 
 
 " I have one favor to beg from you," I began, 
 at length. " That is to say, one more favor, in 
 addition to so many." 
 
 " You have only to name it, child," said he, 
 still with the same intent look. 
 
 " Then I — I want you to promise me some- 
 thing." 
 
 " I promise. What is it ?" 
 
 " To keep my name, my place of residence, 
 my very existence secret. To deliver over to 
 no living soul the key of my seclusion. To deny 
 me, if need be, to my own father." 
 
 He looked up with a startled flash in his eyes. 
 
 " To your own father ?" he exclaimed. 
 
 " To my own father — my own sister — all who 
 ever knew me. To — to Mr. Farquhar, if he 
 should visit ZoUenstrasse again." 
 
 "Mr. Farquhar ?" said he, quickly. "The 
 rich Englishman who " 
 
 " The same. Do you promise this ?" 
 
 " I have promised," he replied, sinking back 
 into his former attitude. 
 
 " Why I desire it," I continued, falteringly, 
 " is — is of no consequence to any one but myself. 
 I am not happy. I look back upon a very 
 dreary past, and forward to a very dreary future. 
 My only prayer now is for solitude. Let me be 
 dead to all the world except yourself — dead and 
 buried." 
 
 " Be it so," he said. " I will keep your 
 secret faithfully." 
 
 " And — you are not vexed that I withhold my 
 motive from you ?" 
 
 "Not in the least." 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 161 
 
 I put out my hand to him in silent thanks. 
 He took it ; held it loosely for a moment, as if 
 he did not quite know what he ought to do with 
 it ; and then dropped it. 
 
 " Do you really think you shall miss me?" he 
 . said, after another pause. 
 
 " Can you ask the question ?" 
 " I'm but an old bear." 
 " You are the best friend — the only friend, I 
 have." 
 
 " I would stay if I could," he continued, pull- 
 ing contemplatively at his moustache. ," If I 
 gave up the Art-directorship and settled here in 
 Rome, I might, perhaps, manage it." 
 
 " Gave up the Art-directorship I" I repeated, 
 with incredulous amazement. " You can not be 
 serious ?" 
 
 " Humph ! the Art-directorship is, more honor 
 than profit, and more plague than either^ The 
 salary is only twelve hundred florins a year." 
 
 " But the Academy — the Grand Duke — what 
 would they do without you ? How could ypu 
 endure to live out of Germany ?" 
 
 " I should do more for my own fame," said he. 
 " True — you would paint more pictures." 
 " And I should not be leaving you alone here 
 in Rome." 
 
 " For heaven's sake, put that thought aside ! 
 If you take such an important step, my dear 
 friend, let it be in consideration of your own 
 prosperity and happiness only." 
 
 " As far as my prosperity is concerned, I 
 should do well enough, no doubt. Whenever I 
 have time to paint a picture, it sells at once. 
 Besides, I have a little money put by. Then as 
 for my happiness, I — why, the fact is, melne 
 Schulerinn, I'm just as lonely as yourself, and — 
 
 and I have no ties — and why do you suppose 
 
 I took you the other day to Tivoli ?" 
 
 " To give me pleasure, I am sure ; though I 
 fear vou could ill spare the tune." 
 "Not a bit of it." 
 
 " Well, then, to give yourself pleasure." 
 "Not a bit of it." 
 
 " Oh, in that case I give up guessing." 
 " To — to ask you a question, gnddlge Frdulein.'" 
 " A question ? Nay, you are jesting." 
 He shook his head, and sat tugging at his 
 moustache as if he meant to pull it off. 
 " I'm serious," said he. 
 " But what question?" 
 
 "One that I hadn't courage to put to you, 
 after all. Can't you guess it ?" 
 
 " Not in the very least ; but if it be any thing 
 that I can do for you — any thing in this wide 
 
 world, no matter how difficult, or " 
 
 "No, no, DO — nothing of the kind. Bah I 
 what a fool I am !" 
 
 " But why do you hesitate ?" 
 " Because — because something tells me that I 
 had better hold my tongue. And yet — I hate 
 the thought of your toiling here year after year, 
 with no one to work for you or watch over you. 
 You're young, and you're poor, and you're — 
 you're pretty ; and the world will come hard to 
 you in many ways that you've not yet thought 
 of. You want some one to take care of you. 
 I'm — I'm a disagreeable old fellow — trough and 
 gruff, and tough as a bear ; but — will you marry 
 me?" 
 
 Marry him! Marry the Professor I Were 
 my senses deceiving me ? 
 K 
 
 " I — I don't expect you to love me," he went 
 on, hastily. "I know that isn't possible. I 
 quite understand that your heart is buried with 
 the husband you have lost. But if you can 
 esteem me, take me for what I am, and put up 
 with my companionship for life, why — just say 
 so at once, and let us make an end of the matter." 
 
 " If I thought that you loved me, my kind 
 friend," I began, " and if " 
 
 " I do love you," interrupted he, with his eyes 
 still fixed unwaveringly upon the fire. 
 
 " Yes, I know you do, as a dear friend ; but 
 if I thought you loved me as a lover- " 
 
 "Well? If you thought I loved you as a 
 lover: — what then ?" 
 
 " Then I should have one more bitter grief to 
 bear ; because I could never be your wife." 
 
 " I expected this," he muttered, more to him- 
 self than me. 
 
 " I can not tell you why. It makes part oi 
 my unhappy secret ; but " 
 
 " But I know why," said he, with an impatient 
 movement. " Because I aijj old, and gray, and 
 ugly." 
 
 " Before heaven, no I" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " Do you not believe me ?" 
 
 " I don't believe that the Beauty would ever 
 have loved the Beast, if he had not turned into 
 a handsome prince at last." 
 
 " Alas ! you did not ask me for love, two 
 minutes since. You asked only for my hand, 
 and my esteem. My esteem you know you 
 have — nay, more ; my warmest gratitude — my 
 friendliest affection." 
 
 "Then why " 
 
 " Do not ask me why ! Is it not enough if 
 I say that it is impossible ?" 
 
 " Oh, it is quite enough," he replied bitterly. 
 
 I started up, stung by his incredulity. 
 
 "Ungenerous!" I exclaimed. "Ungenerous 
 and unkind ! Know, then, if you mil know it, 
 that I am no widow. He whom I wedded, lives. 
 He deceived me — I fled from him I have 
 neither hand nor heart to give. Now you know 
 all. Are you satisfied ?" 
 
 He looked up, for the first time ; and his eyes 
 met mine. He rose. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said; so softly that 
 his breath seemed to tremble, and not his voice. 
 "I beg your pardon. I was greatly in the 
 wrong." 
 
 " You were, indeed !" 
 
 " You will forgive me before I go ? You will 
 shake hands with me?" 
 
 I put out my hand, somewhat reluctantly. 
 He took it between both his own. They were 
 damp, and cold, and trembled palpably. 
 
 " Good-by," he said. 
 
 " Good-by." 
 
 He went toward the door, paused half-way, 
 and stood irresolute. 
 
 " We part friends^ surely ?" he asked, almost 
 in a whisper. 
 
 " Friends 1" I repeated, the last shade of vexa- 
 tion vanishing in an instant. " The best and . 
 truest friends in all the world. Never doubt it, 
 while we both live I" 
 
 " Thank you,," he said ; and moved a step 
 farther. 
 
 " And you will not leave Rome to-morrow ? 
 You will come and see me again ?" 
 
162 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 *' Well — I will not leave Rome to-morrow," 
 he replied, after a moment's hesitation. 
 
 There was something strange in his manner ; 
 something that- 1 could not entirely understand, 
 
 "You would not, surely, be here another 
 whole day without seeing me ?" I persisted. 
 
 He put his hand to his brow, as if in pain. 
 
 " No, no," he said. *' I will not be in Rome 
 another day without seeing you. Good-by — 
 God bless you." 
 
 He made but one step to the threshold — 
 looked back with a face, oh, so pale ! — moved 
 his lips without uttering any sound ; and was 
 gone. 
 
 I listened to his footsteps going down the 
 stairs, and then went back to my seat by the fire. 
 His empty chair stood opposite. The pine-cones, 
 had long since burnt to ashes, and my little room 
 looked lonelier than ever. I sat with clasped 
 hands, sadly thinking. 
 
 "Alas !" I said to myself. " Is this to cost me 
 the only friend I had ? Shall we ever be the 
 same again ? Wil4 not something, henceforth, 
 be gone from our friendship — something from 
 the pleasant tenor of our intercourse ? Poor as 
 I was before this night, am I now poorer still ? 
 God grant that it may not be so. He did not 
 love me. It is not possible that he should love 
 me! Seeing me so desolate, he generously 
 sought the right to protect me. Good, chival- 
 rous, gentle heart ! He knows now that that 
 right can never be his ; and he knows it without 
 offense to his pride, or pain to his friendship. 
 Then why can we not meet to-morrow, as if this 
 interview had never been ? If, indeed, he had 
 
 really loved me but he did not. No, he 
 
 certainly did not love me!" 
 
 Having reasoned myself into this persuasion, 
 I alternately reproached myself for the anger 
 into which I had been betrayed, and consoled 
 myself by thinking of all that I would say to 
 him on the morrow, before parting. In the 
 midst of my reverie, Goody came in with the 
 coffee. 
 
 " My blessed lamb," said she, looking strange- 
 ly disturbed; " nothing's the matter, is there ? 
 Just tell me if any thing's the matter, my 
 deary ?" 
 
 " No — that is to say, not much. Why do you 
 ask?" 
 
 " Because — ^because, my dear lamb, it's given 
 me such a turn, that I'm all of a tremble." 
 
 " What has given you a turn ?" I asked, 
 quickly. " Is any thing wrong ?" 
 
 " I — I don't know, my deary. I suppose so ; 
 .^ else why should he be taking on like that?" 
 
 "He? Who? The Professor ?" 
 
 " To be sure, deary. Who else ? Then, you 
 see, I didn't know him at first, coming upon 
 him inf the dark, at the foot of the staircase." 
 
 " When was this ?" 
 
 "Not two minutes ago, as I was bringing in 
 the sugar for your coffee, darhng." 
 
 " Not two minutes ago ?" I repeated, going 
 toward the door. " Then he is there still !" 
 
 " No, no, my lamb ; he's far enough by this 
 time. He just pulled his hat over his eyes and 
 ran away like a madman, when he saw me." 
 
 " But what was he doing. Goody ?" 
 
 "Doing, my deary? Just leaning his poor 
 head down upon the banisters, and sobbing fit to 
 break his heart" 
 
 My own heart sank within me. I turned cold 
 from head to foot. Oh, was it love, then, after 
 all? 
 
 The next morning I found a note on my 
 breakfast table, containing these words : — 
 
 " By the time this reaches you, I shall be 
 many leagues away. I keep my word. I do 
 not leave Rome ' to-morrow ;' I leave to-night, 
 by the courier. I feel that it is best. I do not 
 wish to see you again, till this dream has become 
 a painless memory. I did love you. I do love 
 you. ^ It is the first, last, only love of my hfe. 
 Let this truth excuse my presumption, and be 
 then forgotten. To love you is now a crime, to 
 be lived down and expiated. When I feel that 
 I have conquered, and dare dwell in your pres- 
 ence again, I will return to Rome and watch 
 over you till I die. I have left a balance of a 
 few hundred scudi at Pakenham's bank, which I 
 entreat you to borrow if you need money. I 
 have entered it in your name, to save trouble ; 
 and you shall pay it back by and by, when you 
 are prosperous. God bless you I" 
 
 CHAPTER LYII. 
 
 THE SECRET THAT CAME WITH THE SUMMER. 
 
 " Mat bien vestu d'habit reverdissant 
 Sem6 de fleurs." — Francois I. 
 
 The spring came ; the languid, fragrant, joy- 
 ous Italian spring, all sunshine and perfume, and 
 singing of birds, and blossoming of flowers. 
 The Easter festivals were past, and the strangers 
 dispersed and gone. The snow faded suddenly 
 from the summit of Soracte. The Colosseum 
 hung out its banners of fresh green. The Cam- 
 pagna glowed under the midday sun, like a Per- 
 sian carpet — one wilderness of poppies and hare- 
 bells, buttercups, daisies, wild convolvuli, and pur- 
 ple hyacinths. Every crumbling ruin burst into 
 blossom, like a garden. Every cultivated patch 
 within the city walls, ran over, as it were, spon- 
 taneously, with the delicious products of the 
 spring. Every stall at the shady corner of every 
 quiet piazza was piled high with early fruits ; and 
 the flower-girls sat all day long on the steps of 
 the Trinita de' Monti. Even the sullen pulses 
 of the Tiber seemed stirred by a more genial 
 current as they eddied round the broken piers 
 of the Ponte Rotto. Even the solemn sepul- 
 chers of the Appian Way put forth long feathery 
 grasses from each mouldering cranny, and the 
 wild eglantine struck root among the shattered 
 urns of the road-side columbarium. Now, too, 
 the transparent nights, all spangled with fire- 
 flies, were even more balmy than the days. And 
 now the moon shone down on troops of fleld-la- 
 borers encamped under the open sky against the 
 city walls ; and the nightingales sang as if in- 
 spired, among the shadowy cypresses of the 
 Protestant burial-ground. 
 
 A happy, gentle time, fruitful in promise and 
 tender in peace 1 — a gracious time, full of balm 
 for wounded hearts, and hope for troubled souls 
 > — a time when the weariest sufferer was for a 
 moment at rest, and the bitterest questions were 
 hushed on the hps of the despairing ! A blessed, 
 blessed time, never to be recalled without tears 
 of prayer and thanksgiving ! 
 
 It had been first a doubt— then a hope — ^now 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. . 
 
 163 
 
 a certainty. It had haunted me for months, by 
 day and night, at my worlc, and in my dreams. 
 It had flashed upon me, quite suddenly, when I 
 was not alone, making my heart beat, and my 
 cheek vary from pale to crimson. It had waked 
 me, over and over again, in the dead waste and 
 middle of the night, forbidding sleep from my 
 eyes, and conjuring before me such visions of 
 possible joy that I scarcely dared to let my 
 thoughts dwell on them. I remember how I 
 used to lie in bed in the darkness, with closed 
 eyes and folded hands, centering all my being in 
 the one supreme act of prayer ; and how I some- 
 times broke down under an overwhelming sense 
 of my own weakness, and wept till I fell asleep. 
 And now it was certainty — a wonderful, en- 
 rapturing, bewildering certainty ; and the world 
 was suddenly transfigured ; and I walked upon 
 roses ; and the air I breathed was liquid sunghine ! 
 It was my secret. I was a miser, and kept 
 it to myself. I loved to be alone, that I might 
 exult in it, and dwell upon it, and repeat it a 
 hundred times, and again a hundred times, and 
 find fresh music in the words at every utterance ! 
 I could not work when the knowledge first be- 
 came mine. I went daily to the Sciarra Palace ; 
 took my usual seat ; mixed the colors on the 
 pallet ; and then sat idle, lost in delicious dreams. 
 As the day advanced, I generally gave up the 
 useless effort, and wandered out to some quiet 
 place where I could sit in the shade of trees 
 and dream again. Thus for several days in 
 succession, I haunted the secluded alleys of 
 the Quirinal Gardens, and the ruins of the 
 Baths of Caracalla ; sometimes roaming rest- 
 lessly to and fro, but oftenest sitting still, in a 
 kind of passive ecstasy, wondering how the 
 world had suddenly become so beautiful. Noth- 
 ing now seemed as it was before. A little while 
 ago, and day followed day mechanically; and 
 the sun shone, or the rain fell, and I heeded 
 not ; and the flowers blossomed by the wayside, 
 and I passed them unobservant. Now I saw 
 every thing, as if for the first time ; and drank 
 in delight from each sight and sound of spring. 
 And all this arose out of my secret ; and that 
 secret — ah ! that priceless secret lay close, close 
 to my heart, doubling each fond pulsation in a 
 tender, mysterious harmony ; blending life with 
 life, and love with love, and irradiating all the 
 future with a light direct from heaven. My 
 child — dear God ! how the words thrilled my 
 very brain, when I whispered them softly to my 
 self ! Was there ever such melody in words be- 
 fore ? Was there ever such consolation ? Was 
 there ever such wealth ? Only those who had 
 lived with nothing to live for, only those who 
 have worked with nothing to work for, can tell 
 what my secret was to me. 
 
 It informed every thought, and influenced 
 every act of my daily life. It revived the am- 
 bition of art which had so long been dead within 
 me. It awakened the sense of beauty which had 
 so long lain dormant. It created a new interest 
 in every earth-born thing, inanimate or animate, 
 and linked it with a thousand happy projects. I 
 could not see the wild flowers in the grass with- 
 out thinking how sweet it would be, by and by, 
 to gather them for tiny hands to play with. I 
 could not hear the lark's song over head, with- 
 out some fancy of how I might train that baby 
 ear to love sweet sounds, and all God's happy 
 
 creatures. I even overleaped the chasm of 
 years, and, sitting among the ponderous arches 
 of the ancient baths, planned how I would study 
 the history and language of this vanished people, 
 and teach them to my child amid the scenes of 
 their greatness. 
 
 Thus, building my fairy castles in the air, the 
 sunny hours went by, and evening came, and I 
 went home through the dusky streets with heaven 
 in my heart. Sometimes I turned aside for a 
 few moments, to enter the open door of some 
 church and listen to the chanting. I remember 
 that even the tawdry images of the Virgin and 
 Child at the comers of the public thoroughfares 
 touched me now with something of a poetical 
 significance which they had never possessed, 
 before. 
 
 I always went home, at this time, with reluc- 
 tance. I was in love with solitude, and, egotist 
 that I was ! grew impatient of dear old Goody's 
 harmless prattle. Ah, how unwilling I was to 
 share my secret with her ! How I put it off 
 from day to day, and dreaded lest she should dis- 
 cover it for herself! 
 
 Henceforth I was to be no more alone. Hence- 
 forth, the highest and holiest of all earthly love, 
 and the tenderest of all earthly companionship, 
 was to be mine. This thought was my crowning 
 happiness — not a wholly unalloyed and unshad- 
 owed happiness, even then ; for how could I, even 
 in the first flush of my new joy, forget that my 
 child must enter life legally dishonored, and never 
 know the father from whom its being came ? 
 Alas ! the father — the father whom I still loved 
 so dearly — whose portrait I should look for, 
 presently, in a baby face — whose tone I should 
 by and by listen for in a baby voice — whom I 
 must try to love henceforward as a mere memory, 
 dead, and forgiven, and passed away. 
 
 And this was my secret that came with the 
 summer. 
 
 CHAPTER LVm. 
 
 AN OLD FRIEND. 
 
 " I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions 
 In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days." 
 
 C. Lamb. 
 
 The summer went by in work, and hope, and 
 tender expectation. My task finished at the 
 Sciarra Palace, I found myself " passing rich," 
 with a capital of two hundred scudi, and a fresh 
 commission. This time it was a cabinet paint- 
 ing by Giulio Romano, and the original was in- 
 trusted to my care, to copy at home, I now 
 made myself a little studio by partitioning oflf 
 half my sitting-room, with a large folding screen, 
 and used to paint there all day long close 
 against the partly darkened window, with the 
 warm orange-scented air creeping in from the 
 gardens beyond. Here Goody would sit by with 
 her needle-work, or chat to me from the other 
 side of the screen while she prepared our modest 
 dinner; and on the outer loggia we loitered 
 many an hour after dusk, watching the fire-flies 
 circling to and fro, and whispering to each other 
 of the guests to come. As the later heats drew 
 on, a silence fell upon the Roman streets, and 
 all who could afford to leave the city emigrated 
 to the seaside or the mountains. But I had no 
 desire to follow the general example, and no 
 
164 
 
 BARBARAS HISTORY. 
 
 means; unless by borrowing from the Profes- 
 sor's fund, to which nothing short of necessity 
 should have compelled me. I loved Rome best 
 in its season of solitude ; and, less fearful of 
 recognition than at other times, ventured oc- 
 casionally into the public gardens and galleries, 
 and sometimes indulged myself with an after- 
 noon among the delicious glades of the Bor- 
 ghese grounds. 
 
 Thus July and August passed, and Septem- 
 ber came with rumors of the vintage on the 
 hills — September^ so full of hope, and promise ; 
 so rich in giving'; so long in ^ming ; so wel- 
 come at last ! 
 
 The Professor wrote seldom, and very briefly. 
 Early in September, while the hope of which he 
 knew nothing was yet unfulfilled, I received a 
 letter from him which informed me that my old 
 friend and school-companion, Ida Saxe, was on 
 her way to Rome. Promoted to the sub-pro- 
 fessorship which I had left vacant, and having 
 been twice successful in competition for the 
 medal, she had now received a small grant from 
 the Academic fund, to enable her to prosecute 
 her studies in Italy. *' She has already spent 
 some weeks in Florence," wrote Professor Metz; 
 " and by the time you receive my letter, will 
 probably have arrived in Rome. You can learn 
 her address, if you choose, at the Hotel Minerva. 
 I do not ask you to seek her. I have kept your 
 secret faithfully, and it is for yourself to judge 
 whether you Will in this case depart from your 
 prescribed line of conduct. If I might advise 
 you, I should say, ' Go to her.' A student in 
 Rome, like yourself, traversing the same streets, 
 frequenting the same galleries, and devoted to 
 the same pursuits, it is impossible that she 
 should not, some day, encounter you. It is 
 not likely that she will stay less than three 
 years ; and it is most unlikely that for three 
 years you can succeed in avoiding her. If, how- 
 ever, you prefer removing to Florence, by all 
 means do so. I can give you an introduction 
 to a dealer on the Lung' Arno, and may venture, 
 I think, to promise that you will do as well 
 there as in Rome. I shall be glad to know your 
 decision by an early post. Ever yours, etc., 
 etc." 
 
 My decision was speedily made. I put my 
 work aside ; and, having first looked at a large 
 airy upper room for which my landlady re- 
 quired a tenant, went at once to the Albergo 
 de la Minerva, and inquired if the signora Saxe 
 had arrived. 
 
 " Si, signora, by the Siena diligence, about 
 an hour ago," replied the waiter ; and showed 
 me up four flights of stairs, to a little gloomy 
 room against the roof, where I found her 
 sitting in the midst of her boxes, pale, weary and 
 disconsolate. 
 
 " Ida," I said, lifting my vail. " Do you re- 
 member me ?" 
 
 She rose, looked at me, hesitated, changed 
 color, and then, with a cry of surprise, and joy, 
 sprang into my arms. 
 
 " Barbara !" she exclaimed. " Meine geliebte 
 Barbara ! Is it really, really thyself?" 
 
 And with this she wept and laughed, and 
 kissed me over and over again, and could 
 scarcely believe that it was not all a dream. 
 
 "Ah, what years have gone by!" she said, 
 presently, as we sat hand in hand. " What 
 long, long years ! I never thought to see you 
 
 again, Barbara. "We heard that you had married; 
 but we knew not even your name. Why did 
 you never write ? Why did you never come to 
 see us again ? Alas ! you forgot us — you for- 
 got your poor Ida, who loved you so dearly, and 
 whose easel stood beside your own for so many 
 years ! Are you living in Rome ? Is your 
 husband a painter ? How did you know I was 
 here ? Who told you ? How good of you to 
 come so soon ! I have not been here an hour, 
 and I was so lonely !" 
 
 To which I replied — 
 
 " Meine liebe Ida, you ask more questions in 
 a breath than I can answer in a day. Tell me 
 first what your plans are ?" 
 
 "Plans?" said she. "I have none, except 
 to study hard." 
 
 " But where do you propose to live ?" 
 
 " I have no idea." 
 
 " Have you no friends in Rome ?" 
 
 " I thought not, an hour ago." 
 
 "Would you like to live with me? Mjpct- 
 drona has a room to let, and " 
 
 " What happiness ! I would rather live with 
 you than with anyone in the world." 
 
 " Then I can assure you, my darling, that you 
 are the only person in the world whom I would 
 take to live with me. Your boxes, I see, are not 
 even uncorded ; so, if you please, we will send 
 for a vettura, and go at once." 
 
 "But your husband — are you sure that he 
 will be pleased to — to have a stranger " 
 
 "My husband, dear, is not in Rome, and I 
 have but my own pleasure to consult in taking 
 you to my home. Are you too tired to go with 
 me now?" 
 
 " Tired ? The sight of your face has ban- 
 ished all my fatigue. How far have we to go ?" 
 
 " About half a mile. If you prefer to walk, 
 we can send the luggage by a/accAmo." 
 
 " I would much rather walk, if — if you " 
 
 " It will not fatigue me," I rephed, hastily. 
 " I walk out every day at this time, whien the 
 dusk is coming on, and the heat of the after- 
 noon is past. It will do me good to stroll 
 quietly homeward through this sweet evening 
 air." 
 
 So we groped our way down the four dark 
 flights of stairs, and, having left the necessary 
 directions, emerged into the piazza at the back 
 of the Pantheon. 
 
 " And this is Rome !" said Ida, as we went 
 along. " And this the Pantheon, where Raf- 
 faelle lies buried ! And this Barbara, .whom I 
 thought I had lost forever ! I feel as if I must 
 wake presently, and find myself in my own lit- 
 tle dormitory at Zollenstrasse-am-Main. Tell 
 me, Barbara, am I really awake ?" 
 
 "Indeed, I believe so,". I replied, smiling. 
 " But I can not prove it." 
 
 " It is not in the least like the Rome of my 
 dreams," continued she. " I was not prepared 
 for shops, and cabs, and modern streets like 
 these. I had pictured a sort of Palmyra — a 
 wilderness of majestic ruins in the midst of the 
 Campagna, with a kind of modern suburb, out 
 of sight, where people lived, and slept, and ate, 
 and drank, like other common mortals. Mercy ! 
 what strange creature is that, with the ruff 
 and the striped stockings? He looks as if he 
 had stepped out of a medieval German pic- 
 ture." 
 
 " It is one of the Pope's Swiss Guard," I re- 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 165 
 
 plied, amused by her naive volubility. "And 
 now we are in the Corso — the heart of modern 
 Rome." 
 
 " How cheerful it is here !" said she ; " how 
 much fuller of life than Florence ! I have just 
 come from Florence — I was there five weeks, in 
 a gloomy boarding-house, in a still more gloomy 
 street. I was so miserable ! I don't know what 
 I should have done, if it had not been for a 
 dear, kind, disagreeable old English lady, who 
 liked me, and took me out sometimes for a 
 drive in the lovely country outside the walls. 
 She was such a dear old lady. She contradicted 
 every body, and she hated every thing foreign, 
 and she made me laugh so ! They all detested 
 her in the boarding-house — except myself At 
 last she went away to join her niece in Pisa; 
 and then the place became so intolerable that 
 I would stay no longer." 
 
 " But the galleries and the churches--«urely 
 those delighted you ?" 
 
 " Delighted me ? They bewildered me. I wan- 
 dered through them, like Aladdin in the garden 
 of jewels. If I were to tell you how I felt when 
 I first saw Michael Angelo's David standing out 
 in the open air against the Ducal palace, or how 
 I almost wept for joy when I found myself in 
 presence of the Venus and the Fornarina, you 
 would laugh at me ! Was there ever such a 
 painter's Paradise as the Uffizii ? Do you re- 
 member the first long corridor, full of religious 
 subjects of the early Tuscan school ? Do you 
 remember all those sad-looking Madonnas, each 
 with her head a little on one side ; and those 
 stiff golden-haired angels, that hold up their 
 hands in quaint adoration, never bending a 
 finger ? Do you remember how wonderfully 
 the velvets and embroideries were painted ? 
 Do you remember the queer old medieval 
 saints in court dresses, looking so like Louis 
 the Eleventh ; the St. Johns and St. Stephens 
 in red velvet shoes, and jeweled baldrics, and 
 elaborate doublets, each with a golden plate of 
 glory miraculously suspended an inch above his 
 head?" 
 
 " Indeed I do ; and the amazing landscapes 
 in the background, where uncomfortable red 
 castles are perched on inaccessible peaks of 
 bright blue rock, and the world seems made of 
 nothing but coral and carbonate of copper !" 
 
 "And then the Niobe, and the Madonna della 
 Seggiola, and the frescoes of Giotto — is it not 
 something to have lived for, when one has seen 
 all these ? But there ! one can not take up 
 one's abode in churches and galleries ; and Flor- 
 ence is a dreary place after three o'clock in the 
 afternoon ! Every house looks like a prison ; 
 and a pension full of uncongenial strangers is 
 worse than no society at all. I often wished 
 myself back at the College, in spite of the Raf- 
 faelles and Giotfos. But you have not yet told 
 me how you heard of my arrival in Rome ?" 
 
 "By a letter which I received to-day from 
 Professor Metz." 
 
 " Professor Metz ! Then he knew where you 
 were, and — why, to be sure, he was in Rome a 
 few months ago ! So, I suppose he met you 
 and — how stupid of me not to have guessed 
 that at fir^! How strange of him, never to 
 tell us one%ord about you ! And by the by, 
 liebe, I do not yet know your married name. I 
 know you only as my fellow-student, Barbara 
 Churchill." 
 
 " Then you must know me now, dear Ida, as 
 Barbara Carlyon," I replied. 
 
 " Barbara Carlyon ! What a pretty name ! 
 Ah, dear, I always thought you would marry 
 the Herr Farquhar, and be a grand lady, ever 
 so much richer and finer than our Grand 
 Duchess. I am almost disappointed that you 
 are Mrs. Carlyon, instead. And now tell me 
 something about your husband ; but you look 
 vexed ! What have I said?" 
 
 "Nothing, dear— nothing, at least, that you 
 could help, or I avoid. So— you like the name 
 of Carlyon ? It is one that has brought me 
 much grief. We will not talk of my — my hus- 
 band or myself, dear, just at present. The sub- 
 ject is a painful one, and — and — this is the 
 Piazza di Spagna, and the church at the top of 
 that noble flight of steps is the Trinity de' 
 Monti. This is quite the English quarter of 
 Rome. Up yonder lies the French Academy. 
 We have but a few yards farther to go now." 
 
 Ida pressed my arm affectionately, and made 
 no reply. Her joyous flow of talk was all 
 checked, and I could see that her kind heart 
 was troubled. As we approached the corner 
 of the Via della Croce, we came upon a little 
 crowd gathered round a street-singer, who was 
 chanting some simple ballad to the accompani- 
 ment of a cracked guitar. The man's voice was 
 deep and musical, and he wore a scarlet cap, 
 and a long black beard, frosted here and there 
 with silver. 
 
 " What a picturesque feUow !" exclaimed Ida. 
 " How I should like to make a study of his 
 head !" 
 
 " Then do so, by all means," I replied. " He 
 would sit to you, no doubt, for a few pauls." 
 
 But she was shy, and would not speak before 
 the bystanders ; so, after lingering a moment, we 
 passed on. 
 
 " It is strange," I said, more to myself than 
 her ; " but I seem to have seen that face before 
 — somewhere — long ago — and yet there is some- 
 thing changed about it. Where could it have 
 been? And where?" 
 
 " Perhaps in a picture," suggested Ida. 
 
 "Very likely. I dare say he has sat as a 
 model many a time ; and yet — well, Ida, this is 
 the Vicolo d'Aliberti, and this little house with 
 the green shutters is — ^home." 
 
 Thus I took my old school-friend to dwell with 
 me in my humble lodging in the Vicolo d'Ali- 
 berti, and made her welcome ; and by and by we 
 had coffee together upon the loggia, and talked of 
 old times till the moon rose over the brow of 
 the Pincio. But that very night the angels of 
 lifeand death stood on my threshold ; and for 
 hours it seemed doubtful whether the Almighty 
 One would send a soul to earth, or gather two 
 to heaven. But as suffering came with dark- 
 ness, so came joy with the rising of the sun ; and 
 as the morning light poured in at the window, 
 a little tender blossom of life was laid in my 
 arms. 
 
166 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 THE MODEL. 
 
 •• As mine own shadow was this child to me 
 A second self, far dearer and more fair, 
 Which clothed in undissolving radiancy- 
 All those steep paths which languor and despair 
 Of human things, had made so dark and bare. " 
 Shelley. 
 
 My little living flower, so fair, so placid, so 
 fragile ; to whom my love was providence, my 
 life nourishment, my arms the world ! I adored 
 him ; and he was mine — utterly mine. I was 
 never weary of repeating this to myself, and 
 whispering it upon his lips between the kisses — 
 those rose-leaf lips of which I was so jealous, 
 that, when another mouth had touched them, I 
 hastened to kiss the stranger-kiss away, and 
 make them once more all my own, 
 
 I was almost ashamed, at first, to let them see 
 how I worshiped my idol. If he smiled in any 
 face but mine, I was ready to weep with vexa- 
 tion. I never yielded him from my embrace 
 without a secret pang. Only to lie and watch him 
 as he slept on the pillow by my side was perfect 
 content ; but to lean above him when he waked 
 — to meet the wanderings of his tiny hands — to 
 gaze down into the clear unconscious depths of 
 his blue eyes, was ecstasy and joy unspeakable. 
 Day by day I beheld the sweet mystery of his 
 growth, and entered some fresh record upon the 
 tablets of my memory. Day by day I watched 
 the everlasting miracle of life unfolding itself 
 for my adoration and delight, till my heart ached 
 with the fullness of its love, and every thought 
 became a poem, and every act a prayer. Thus 
 the first weeks w«it by, and each week my 
 " wonder-flower " bloomed into new loveliness 
 and strength. His beauty at first was but that 
 angelic baby-beauty of perfect fairness and puri- 
 ty that almost seems to give confirmation to the 
 poet's theory of how "Heaven lies about us in 
 our infancy ;" but before the first month of his 
 little life was all lived out, there came a change 
 which spoke to no heart, and was visible to no 
 eyes but mine — a dawning of the father in his 
 infant face, which made him, if that could be, 
 more beloved than ever ; and yet thrilled all my 
 pleasure with a sense of bitter pain. It was not 
 always there. When I looked for it, I could 
 seldom see it. It came and went in flashes ; an 
 indefinable, inexphcable something no sooner 
 seen than vanished. 
 
 In the mean time Ida had become established 
 as part of our little household. She tenanted 
 the large room up-stairs ; Goody acted as cook 
 and general purveyor ; and we all three took our 
 meals together without distinction of precedence, 
 like King Arthur and his knights of the Round 
 Table. For the first few weeks, Ida staid al- 
 most constantly at home, surrounding me with 
 loving cares, and indiflferent to all the wonders 
 of Rome. I with difficulty prevailed upon her 
 once or twice to go as far as St. Peter's, or the 
 Colosseum, or the little church of the Cappucini, 
 where Guide's masterpiece lights all the sor- 
 did chancel, like a window opening to the sun ; 
 but I could not prevail upon her to visit the 
 Vatican without me. She had promised herself, 
 she said, not to see the Transfiguration, or the 
 School of Athens, or the Communion of St. 
 Jerome, or the Last Judgment, till we looked 
 
 upon them together ; and though it were three 
 months hence, she was determined to wait for 
 me. From this resolution I could not move her. 
 Meanwhile, she occupied my little studio, and 
 painted from whatever model she could find. 
 Of these there were always plenty haunting 
 about the corners of the Piazza di Spagna, and 
 the steps of the Trinity de' Monti — fierce bri- 
 gands purchasable attwopaulsthehour ; Traste- 
 verini Madonnas with little brown babies ; ma- 
 jestic patriarchs whose venerable heads were the 
 common property of all the artists in Rome ; 
 and Pififerari who were willing, for a considera- 
 tion, to " pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone," 
 at the pleasure of the hirer. Better than all 
 these, however, she one day chanced again upon 
 the bearded guitar-singer of the Via della Croce, 
 and brought him home in triumph. After a sit- 
 ting of two hours, she dismissed him with an ap- 
 pointment for the following morning, and came 
 to me with her sketch in her hand, and her head 
 full of projects. 
 
 " See, Barbara," said she; "it is but roughly 
 laid in, yet what an effect already ! He. has a 
 charming head — so refined, so melancholy ! I 
 have the greatest mind in the world to under- 
 take a large picture at once, and make him my 
 principal figure. It would do to send over to 
 Zollenstrasse for the competition next spring ; 
 and if I do not secure this model while I can 
 get him, I shall lose him altogether ; for he is 
 going a\fay, he tells me, before long. What 
 think you of Galileo before the council of In- 
 quisitors; or Columbus laying his project before 
 Ferdinand and Isabella ? Both are good sub- 
 jects ; and I have studies for both in my port- 
 folio. One is expected, you see, to do some- 
 thing ambitious in Rome; and — and if you 
 do not think I should be venturing out of my 
 
 depth " 
 
 " Who dares nothing, achieves nothing," I re- 
 plied, smiling. " Let me see your studies." 
 
 She ran and fetched them, radiant with excite- 
 ment. Both were unusually clever ; but of the 
 two, I preferred the Columbus. 
 
 " And you really think I may venture to un- 
 dertake it ?" said Ida, breathlessly. 
 " I do, truly." 
 "And my model?" 
 
 "I do not see how you could have found a 
 better. It is the face of one who has thought 
 and suffered ; the very type of the contempla- 
 tive, intellectual, heroic navigator. Strange ! 
 the more I look at it, the more familiar it 
 seems. I am certain I have seen that man some- 
 where — a long time ago." 
 
 "I will run at once to Dovizielli's, and order 
 the canvas," said Ida, and was gone in a moment. 
 The model came again next morning at ten 
 o'clock, and found Ida waiting for him with a 
 canvas measuring six feet by three. I was sit- 
 ting out upon the loggia in a great lounge chair, 
 enjoying the balmy October air and the shade of 
 the flickering vine-leaves that roofed in the trel- 
 lis over head. An open book lay unread in my 
 lap ; my baby slept in his cradle at my feet ; and 
 Goody sat opposite, cutting beans for dinner. 
 
 " Buon giorno, signore,'^ said the model, 
 taking off his cap, and bowing to each of us in 
 succession. 
 
 " Buon giorno,^' replied Ida. " I am going to 
 put you in a large picture, amico ; and I hope 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 167 
 
 you will stay in Rome long enough to let me 
 complete it." ► 
 
 " I hope so, signora." 
 
 " How soon shall you be leaving?" 
 
 " I do not know, signora." 
 
 " In six weeks, do you think ?" 
 
 " I can not tell, signora. It does not depend 
 on myself." 
 
 "On what does it depend, then?" asked Ida, 
 somewhat impatiently. 
 
 The model looked grave. 
 
 " On God's will, signora," replied he, and 
 came to the open window, outside which I was 
 sitting. 
 
 " Che hello J'anciullo .'" he said, bending to- 
 ward the cradle: " e la sua, signora P'' 
 
 " Yes," I answered, with a flush of pride and 
 pleasure. "He is my baby." 
 
 " He is like a snow-drop," said the model, in 
 his musical Italian; and sighed, and turned 
 away. 
 
 In that instant I recognized him. It was the 
 ballad-singer of the forest of Vincennes. He 
 looked older, and sadder, and wore a beard 
 reaching midway to his waist ; but I knew him, 
 for all that. The recognition came upon me 
 like a shock, bringing with it a throng of as- 
 sociations. I closed my eyes, and the green 
 woods were once more waving around me, and 
 Hugh's warm kiss was glowing on my lips. 
 Then I remembered how I had seen the same 
 man a few weeks later in the Champs Elysees, 
 the very evening before my wedding-day. My 
 husband never explained his wild conduct of 
 that evening ; and till this moment I had for- 
 gotten it as though it had never been. Ah, 
 dolce tempo passato ! How much joy and how 
 much sorrow had been mine, since then ! The 
 burning tears welled up, and dropped down, one 
 by one. No one saw them. Ida had placed the 
 model and begun her charcoal outline ; and 
 Goody was busy with her household task. Pres- 
 ently my boy woke, smiling, and turned his 
 blue eyes to the light. I snatched him to my 
 bosom, and covered him with kisses. My poor 
 boy, who would never know any parent's love 
 but mine — who had not even the right to bear 
 his father's ancient name ! 
 
 Her beans finished, Goody rose and went in, 
 leaving me alone on the loggia. I plucked a 
 bunch of vine leaves, and, turning somewhat 
 aside that I might not be disturbed by the sight 
 of the model, played with my baby till the tears 
 on my cheeks*" took sunshine from his eyes." 
 A burst of military music presently filled the air, 
 and I saw a file of bayonets scintillating above 
 the level of the road wall leading up to the 
 Pincio. The tiny creature in my lap laughed 
 and moved its little arms. I fancied he was 
 listening to the joyous clang, and my heart 
 throbbed tumultuously, believing that in these 
 indications I beheld the first awakenings of the 
 intelligent soul. 
 
 Suddenly, in the very flush of my rapture, I 
 heard a name that seemed to stop my pulses and 
 my breathing, and freeze the smile upon my 
 lips. 
 
 "Capri." 
 
 Sitting there like one stunned, I lost what 
 immediately followed. The next words which 
 bore meaning to my ear were spoken by Ida. 
 
 " You are quite sure of what you tell me, 
 amico .^" 
 
 " Certo, certo, signora.'''' 
 "' How is it that you know so much about the 
 rigging of a vessel ?" 
 
 " Signora, I have been a sailor." 
 "But this is a Spanish galleon of more than 
 three hundred years ago." 
 
 " Fa niente, signora. No vessel lying in port 
 would be rigged like that vessel in your picture. 
 It is impossible. Where did the signora see 
 the ship which she has taken for a model ?" 
 " In an old Spanish engraving." 
 " And was the ship at anchor alongside the 
 quays?" 
 
 "No; the engraving represented a fleet of 
 galleons at sea." 
 
 '■'■Eccola! If the vessel were under way, the 
 
 signora would be absolutely right ; but she may 
 
 rely upon it that all these ropes would be slack, 
 
 and these sails furled, in harbor, I beg the 
 
 signora's pardon for my boldness in naming it." 
 
 " Pray do no such thing," said Ida, " I am 
 
 sincerely obliged to you for your information." 
 
 And then they were both sUent. 
 
 He was Italian — he had been a sailor — ^he had 
 
 spoken the name of Capri ! He might, perhaps, 
 
 know something of the history of Maddalen#— 
 
 he might be able to tell me something — to make 
 
 many things clearer to me "Who could tell ? 
 
 It was not impossible. It was worth a trial. 
 What should I do ? To question him would be 
 to tell Ida all that my pride had hitherto kept 
 sealed in my own heart. Yet not to question 
 him would be to abandon a chance that might 
 never again present itself. While I was yet 
 confused and hesitating, Ida spoke again. 
 
 " How long is it, amico ^'' said she, " since ycu 
 have given up the sea ?" 
 
 "About three years, signora." 
 You find it more profitable, I suppose, to sit 
 to artists as a model." 
 
 " To be a model, signora, is not my calling. 
 I told the signora so, when she requested me to 
 sit to her." 
 
 " True; I had forgotten it. You are a ballad- 
 singer." 
 
 "Yes, signora." 
 
 "And why have you given up the sea for 
 street-singing. Do you earn more money by 
 it?" 
 
 "On the contrary, signora. Where I earn 
 two pauls by music, I could earn a scudo at 
 sea." 
 
 " Then why abandon the sea ?" 
 " Because — because I wished to see foreign 
 countries, signora." 
 
 " But a sailor sees foreign countries." 
 '"'' E vero, signora; but he only sees the ports. 
 I wished to travel over land," 
 
 " And where have you traveled, then ?" ask- 
 ed Ida, evidently interested and amused. 
 " To Paris and London, signora." 
 "On foot?" 
 
 "Always on foot, signora, and singing for my 
 daily bread." 
 
 " How singular ! And now, I suppose, hav- 
 ing seen the world, you have come home to 
 your native country for the rest of your life ?" 
 
 " I know not, signora. The world is wide, 
 and I have seen very little of it ; and — and the 
 purpose for which I traveled is yet unfulfilled. 
 But I am going home for the present." 
 " Shall you go to sea again ?" 
 " Yes, signora ; I think so." 
 
168 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 **You said you were a Neapolitan?" 
 " A native of Capri, signora." 
 " The inhabitants of those islands are mostly 
 sailors, are they not ?" 
 
 " Sailors and fishermen, signora." 
 " And you are a sailor." 
 " I am both, signora. That is to say, I am a 
 pilot between Naples and the Grecian Archipe- 
 lago ; and when I am at home for a week or 
 two, I go out fishing like the others." 
 
 I trembled — I turned cold — I laid the child 
 down in the cradle, and bent forward with 
 clasped hands and parted lips. 
 
 " Are you married ?" asked Ida presently, in 
 the abstracted tone of one whose thoughts are 
 more than half engaged elsewhere. 
 
 " Yes, signora." 
 
 *' Did your wife travel with you ?" 
 
 " Yes, signora." 
 
 " Is she now in Rome ?" 
 
 *' No, signora. I sent her back to Capri some 
 weeks since, in a sailing vessel that was leav- 
 ing Livorno." 
 
 " You have no family, I suppose ?" 
 
 " "We had one child, signora," said the model, 
 safty ; '* but he died three years ago." 
 
 "Poor things!" exclaimed Ida, with ready 
 sympathy, *' That must have been a great sor- 
 row for you," 
 
 " It was the will of the good God, signora," 
 replied the model. 
 
 *' Did he die in infancy ?" 
 
 " No, signora. He lived to be ten years of age 
 — such a fine, brave boy ! It was very hard to 
 art from him," 
 
 " Alas, how sad !" 
 
 "We took him to the best physician in 
 Naples," continued the model, "and his mother 
 made a pilgrimage to the shrine of our Lady of 
 Loretto ; but it was of no avail. The hand of 
 God was upon him. The signora is very good 
 to interest herself in our sorrows." 
 
 "I can only give you my sympathy, amico^'' 
 said Ida. " I wish I could do more." 
 
 " No one can do more," replied the model, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 "It is, however, some comfort to talk now 
 and then of one's troubles." 
 
 " I never talk of them, signora. I — I some- 
 times wish I could. It is only the signora's 
 great kindness and sympathy that have now led 
 me to speak so freely." 
 
 Again the conversation dropped. 
 
 My agitation had risen to agony. My thoughts 
 leaped from fact to fact, comparing dates, weigh- 
 ing possibilities, marshaling evidence, and unit- 
 ing link to link, with a clearness and rapidity 
 that seemed independent of my own volition. 
 Maddalena's eldest brother w6,s a pilot in Nea- 
 politan and Greek waters — he was married 
 — his child was born thirteen years ago, and 
 Hugh was present at the baptism. Could all 
 this be coincidence only? Were they never 
 going to speak again ? What would be said 
 next? What should I do, if they remained 
 silent ! Every moment of suspense seemed like 
 an hour. 
 
 At length Ida resumed the subject. 
 
 " You have only led this wandering life, then, 
 since you lost your boy ?" said she. 
 
 " That is all, signora." 
 
 " Ah, I understand. You traveled to forget 
 your grief." 
 
 He made no reply. 
 
 "And shall you now go back to your old 
 home ?" 
 
 "Yes, signora." 
 
 " Will not that be very sad for you ?" 
 " /&\ signora; ma che fare? It was my 
 father's house. His children were born there, 
 and beneath its roof he and our mother died. 
 It is sad, but it is sacred. We islanders do not 
 abandon our homes because our loved ones are 
 gone." 
 
 " Who has taken care of the place for you all 
 this time ?" 
 
 "No one, signora. It is locked up, and the 
 priest has the key. Our neighbors will not 
 suffer the garden to fall to ruin ; and there are 
 no robbers in the island. We shall find every 
 thing as we left it." 
 
 " But you spoke just now of your father's 
 family. Have you no brothers or sisters to wel- 
 come you back?" 
 
 The model shook his head. 
 
 " I had one brother, signora," said he ; "but 
 he has been dead many years. He was drowned 
 at sea." 
 
 " Alas ! — and no sisters ?" 
 
 " I — I have neither father nor mother, brother 
 nor sister," replied the model, gloomily. "My 
 wife and I are alone in the world together." 
 
 I rose up — sat down again— shuddered from 
 head to foot. Every word that he spoke ad- 
 ded confirmation to my suspicions. His very 
 reservations were testimonies. He was Paolo — 
 I knew he was Paolo — the beloved brother 
 of Maddalena, whom Hugh had never seen; 
 whom he twice met, therefore, without recogni- 
 tion. . The one drowned at sea was the sullen 
 Jacopo. But the wife — the wife to whom I had 
 given the five-franc piece that evening in the 
 Champs Elysees — Hugh had known her, and 
 hence his agitation when the light fell on her 
 face! I felt that I must question him, cost 
 what it might ! 
 
 The next silence was interrupted by the 
 model. 
 
 " The signora is not Italian," said he. 
 
 " No," replied Ida, " I am Bavarian." 
 
 "Bavarian?" repeated he. "I never heard 
 of that nation." 
 
 "Bavaria is a part of Germany," said Ida. 
 "A Bavarian is a German; as a Neapolitan is 
 an Italian." 
 
 " CapitOy signora,^'' replied he, thoughtfully ; 
 and then, after a pause, added, "I — I thought 
 the signora might be English. There are so 
 many English in Rome." 
 
 " Yes, very many," rejoined Ida, absorbed in 
 her work. " The head a little more toward the 
 left shoulder, if you please. No — that is too 
 much — there- -just so." 
 
 " The signora has, perhaps, been in England ?" 
 pursued the model. 
 
 "No, never — do not move, pray — why do 
 you ask ?" 
 
 " Oh — it is of no consequence, signora." 
 
 " My friend here is English," said Ida, "and 
 a Londoner." 
 
 I could resist the impulse no longer. 
 
 "Ida!" I said. "Ida, come here — come to 
 me, Zie5e." 
 
 She laid down her brush, and came directly. 
 
 " Ach, lieher Gott I how pale you are. What 
 is the matter ?" 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 169 
 
 *' I want to speak to that man, Ida — alone." 
 
 "To the model?" stammered she, amazed. 
 
 " To the model, darling. I — I think I know 
 something of his family — his private history. 
 Will you stay here while I speak to him ?" 
 
 " I will go up-stairs to my room, if you 
 
 " No need, liehe. Take care of baby while I 
 am gone." 
 
 And with this I went in, closing the window 
 after me, and, taking Ida's seat, said — 
 
 " I am English, amico. Can I do any thing 
 for you ? Have you any friends in my country 
 about whom I can help you to inquire ?" 
 
 He colored up, and paused a moment before 
 replying. 
 
 " Grazie^ signora," he said. " I have a friend 
 who— who went to England— who may be in 
 England now, if she yet lives. But I ha»e lost 
 sight of her." 
 
 " Was she a relation ?" 
 
 "Yes, signora." 
 
 " Your sister, perhaps ?" 
 
 "Ye — yes, signora." 
 
 " Then it was in search of her, I suppose, 
 that you undertook the journey of which I 
 heard you speaking just now?" 
 
 He bent his head somewhat reluctantly, as 
 if annoyed at having to confess it. 
 
 " How long is it since she went to England ?" 
 
 " I — I can not tell, sigftora. I only know that 
 she has been in England since she — left Capri ?" 
 
 "How long is it, then, since she left Capri?" 
 
 "About thirteen years. But it is of no use, 
 lady. You can not help us. She is gone, and 
 we shall never see her or hear of her again." 
 
 " You can not tell. The lost sometimes re- 
 appear when we least expect to find traces of 
 them. How do you know that your sister has 
 been in England?" 
 
 " She wrote to me, signora ; and the letter 
 bore the English post-mark." 
 
 "Did she give you no address?" 
 
 " None." 
 
 " How long since was this ?" 
 
 " About five years ago, signora." 
 
 " Why did she leave Capri, and with whom ?" 
 
 "Pardon, signora. Those questions I cannot 
 answer." 
 
 ".JS'ay, how can I hope to help you, if you 
 will not freely tell me all ?" 
 
 " I — I can not, signora." 
 
 I rose, and looked out from the loggia. Ida 
 had withdrawn to the farthest corner with my 
 baby in her arms, and was playing with him as 
 if she were a child herself. Satisfied that she 
 he^rd nothing, I resumed my seat. 
 
 " Listen," I said. " I once heard of a young 
 girl — the sister of two sailors whose home was 
 in the island of Capri — as it might be your sis- 
 ter, and your home. One of these brothers was 
 married, as you might be ; and the young sis- 
 ter, and the young wife, and the two brothers, 
 all dwelt under the same roof, and were one 
 family. The elder brother was a pilot, as you 
 say you were. He went to sea, and while he 
 was at sea, his wife brought a little infant into 
 the world." 
 
 The model lifted his head sharply, and uttered 
 a suppressed guttural exclamation. 
 
 " There came to Capri about this time," I 
 contmued, " a rich English gentleman. The 
 young girl fell in love with him, and " 
 
 " Ah^ JDio ! her name ? Her name ?" 
 
 " Maddalena." 
 
 He sprang forward — he fell at my feet — ^he 
 kissed the hem of my garment. 
 
 " Signora — for the love of God ! Where is 
 she, dear signora, blessed signora, la sorellina 
 mia — my sister, whom I have sought with bleed- 
 ing feet and aching heart ? Speak, signora, 
 where is she ?" 
 
 "Alas!" I said, almost as much agitated as 
 himself, " that I can not tell you. I only know 
 that she was living and well, a year ago." 
 
 " Did you see her ?" 
 
 " A friend of mine who had seen her, told 
 me her story." 
 
 " Was she unhappy ?" 
 
 " No — she was melancholy ; very studious ; 
 very quiet ; a student of many books." 
 
 " And poor, signora ?" 
 
 "No, not poor." 
 
 " And that maladetto Inglese — what of him ? 
 Had he abandoned her ?" 
 
 * Abandoned her? No — that could not be. 
 She was his wife." 
 
 "His wife?" 
 
 "Yes — he married her." 
 
 Paolo sprang to his feet, and laughed bitterly. 
 
 "Impossible," said he. "She was married 
 already." 
 
 My heart leaped up in my bosom — my whole 
 being was flooded with a tide of inexpressible 
 joy. 
 
 " Married already ?" I repeated. "But — ^but 
 perhaps a divorce " 
 
 " No, Ao, no, signora. Our church knows no 
 divorce. Besides, her husband is still living in 
 Capri." 
 
 I shaded my face with my hand, lest it should 
 betray me. I was dizzy with happiness. 
 
 "No," continued Paola, sternly. "He se- 
 duced her — he stole her away from a good man 
 and an honorable home. She might have been 
 a happy woman now, but for him, with child- 
 ren's faces about her hearth," 
 
 " But are you sure that he stole her away ?" 
 I faltered. 
 
 " What does the signora mean ?" 
 
 " I — I have heard that she fled to him of 
 her own will, for protection — that he found her 
 hidden on board his vessel after he had put to 
 sea; and that, in short, she — threw herself upon 
 his mercy." 
 
 Paola struck a heavy blow upon the table 
 with his clenched fist. 
 
 " I do not believe it," he said violently. 
 
 " I also heard that she abhorred the man to 
 whom she was married." 
 
 " I do not believe that either. I can under- 
 stand that she did not love him. He was old — old 
 enough to be her father ; but she need not have 
 married him. I would not believe it, signora, 
 unless she told me so herself." 
 
 "And supposing that she did tell you so her- 
 self?" 
 
 " Then I should despise her." 
 
 " Nay, you would forgive and pity her." 
 
 He paused, and passed his hand across his 
 brow. 
 
 " Well — I suppose I should, signora," he said, 
 slowly. " She was my darling. She was like 
 my own child. Our father, with his last breath, 
 bade me love and cherish her. Yes, poor Mad- 
 dalena — I should forgive her, and pity her." 
 
iro 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 " And — and you would forgive him, too ?" 
 
 " The Englishman ?" 
 
 "Yes, the Englishman." 
 
 " I took an oath that I would be revenged 
 upon him," said Paolo. "We are not mere 
 peasants, signora. We are untaught, and we 
 are poor ; but our father's father could count 
 back for generations, to the time when our 
 name was noble, and half the island was ours. 
 We prize our honor, signora, as jealously as if 
 we were noble still ; and I swore to avenge our 
 disgrace upon Maddalena's lover, if I ever met 
 him, face to face." 
 
 " But if the fault were hers ?" 
 
 " The disgrace is still ours, signora," 
 
 " Then punish the one who brought it upon 
 you — Maddalena herself." 
 
 " She is punished long since," replied Paolo. 
 " Povera Maddalena !" 
 
 " But " 
 
 " But my oath, signora." 
 
 " To keep that oath would be more wicked 
 than to break it. Are you a Christian ?" '* 
 
 " Signora, I am an Italian." 
 
 "Enough," I said, rising in anger. "You 
 shall never find your sister." 
 
 " Signora !" 
 
 " I know who that Englishman is. He is the 
 dear friend of my friend, and I will not betray 
 him to your ignorant vengeance. I could have 
 helped you. Now it is over. They shall be 
 warned of you ; and you will never see Madda- 
 lena's face again." 
 
 He turned pale, and the tears rose to his eyes. 
 
 " Cara signora,^'' he stammered, "per pie- 
 tcL " 
 
 I turned to the window ; but he caught my 
 hand. 
 
 " I — I will promise what you please," he 
 cried ; " if — ^if she confesses that she fled to him 
 unasked — I will forego my oath — I will do any 
 thing, if you but give me Maddalena !" 
 
 " I can not give her to you," I said. " I can 
 but cause inquiry to be made. I know no more 
 where she is at this moment than yourself." 
 
 " Then will you inquire, signora ?" 
 
 "I do not know. How can I be sure that 
 you will keep faith with me ?" 
 
 " I swear it, signora." 
 
 "That is not enough." 
 
 He took a little metal cross from his bosom, 
 fell on his knees, and kissed it devoutly. 
 
 " By my belief in the mercy of God, and the 
 intercession of the blessed mother of Christ ; by 
 my hopes of forgiveness in the world to come ; 
 by my faith in the holy Saint Paolo, my patron 
 saint ; and by the memory of my father and 
 mother, whose souls I trust are in heaven." 
 
 The solemnity with which he uttered this 
 pledge left no room for doubt. 
 
 " I believe you," I said ; " and I will do what 
 I can. In the mean time, go back to Capri, and 
 leave all in my hands. If any living soul can 
 help you to find your sister, I am that person. 
 Be satisfied with this assurance, and be patient. 
 It may be months before I succeed in even hear- 
 ing of her ; for I can only use remote and cir- 
 cuitous means. But such means as I can com- 
 mand shall be employed. This you may rely 
 upon." 
 
 He rose, and kissed my hand. . 
 
 " I will pray for you, signora, night and day," 
 said he. 
 
 " Then we understand each other ?" 
 
 "Wholly, signora." 
 
 " And you consent to all my conditions ?" 
 
 "All, and absolutely." 
 
 I was about to open the window and recall 
 Ida, when another thought occurred to me, and 
 I paused with my hand upon the lock. 
 
 " What was the name of this Englishman ?" 
 I asked. 
 
 " Does not the signora know it ?" 
 
 " I can — ascertain it ; but it might save time 
 if you could give it to me co;rrectly." 
 
 " Alas ! signora, I can not. My brother and 
 wife called him Signer Hugo ; but that was only 
 his baptismal name. His other name was harsh 
 and difficult, and they could not remember it." 
 
 " Well, we must try to do without it." 
 
 " Stay, signora, I have this book — he left it 
 at our cottage, and there is writing in it. I have 
 always carried it about with me, in the hope 
 that it might some day be of use. See — here 
 are words in pencil !" 
 
 It was a tiny volume of the Georgics of Virgil, 
 bound in old stained vellum, with the initials H. 
 F. on the title-page, and a few explanatory notes 
 in his careless hand, scrawled here and there 
 upon the margins. 
 
 " Is this the only proof you have ?" 
 
 " Yes, signora." 
 
 " You had better leave it with me. To one 
 who knew his writing, it might perhaps help to 
 identify him ; but you are not even sure, I sup- 
 pose, that it is his writing ?" 
 
 " I believe it, signora ; but I can not be sure." 
 
 " Ehhene, we must have patience." 
 
 "I have had patience for so many years, sig- 
 nora, that I can well be patient now. You have 
 given me hope, gentilissima signora^ and I was 
 well-nigh despairing." 
 
 " Hope, then, friend Paolo ; and believe 
 that I will do all I can to restore your lost sister 
 to her home." 
 
 " The saints bless and watch over you, sig- 
 nora." 
 
 I opened the window, recalled Ida, took 
 my baby from her arms, and with a hasty kiss 
 and a whispered " thanks, liehe^"" ran to my bed- 
 room, and locked the door. There my first im- 
 pulse was to lay him down upon a sofa, fall on 
 my knees beside him, and cover him with kisses 
 and tears of joy. 
 
 No stain now upon his birth — no shame 
 attaching to hisinnocent life — my boy, my dar- 
 ling, my own ! Some day he shall bear his 
 ancient name — some day, though I may not live 
 to see it, he shall hold his own under his an-, 
 cestral roof, and keep up the olden dignity of 
 Farquhar of Broomhill ! Oh, blessed, blessed 
 certainty ! What a bright world it had become 
 within the short space of this last half-hour ; and 
 yet — and yet the tears, the foolish, hot, rebel- 
 lious tears kept raining down, as if I were not, 
 even now, as happy as I ought to be. 
 
 Were they tears of joy ? 
 
 A difficult question. They were not tears of 
 sorrow ; and yet there was sorrow in the joy, 
 and bitter minghng with the sweet, and shadow 
 with the sunshine. Possibly there may also 
 have been something of self-questioning as to 
 the past. At all events I wept, and could not 
 stay from weeping. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 171 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 THE TORSO OF THE BELTEDERE. 
 
 How was I to keep my promise to Paolo ? 
 This question "teased me out of thought;" 
 haunted me by day, and troubled my sleep by 
 night. If the disclosure of my real position 
 toward my husband had been productive of 
 great comfort, it was also fruitful in anxieties. 
 I had, in truth, undertaken a task which I 
 knew not how to fulfill. I had no one to 
 counsel me ; no one to aid me. If I sought 
 advice I betrayed my secret. If I set in- 
 quiries on foot by opening a correspondence 
 with any of my friends or family, I betrayed 
 my incognito. My pride forbade that I should 
 take any steps which might seem to pave 
 the way toward a reconciliation with my hus- 
 band. My poverty made it impossible>^hat I 
 should employ expensive and secret means for 
 the prosecution of such inquiries as were neces- 
 sary. At the same time, I desired Maddalena's 
 removal with a passionate eargerness that only 
 made the powerlessness of my position doubly 
 bitter. Tormented by doubts, and wearied out 
 by vain thinking, I sadly needed some wise 
 friend upon whose judgment I could rest. My 
 own passions were my only advisers ; and from 
 such counselors as pride, resentment, jealousy, 
 and wounded love, what temperate verdict could 
 be expected to result ? In this painful incer- 
 titude some weeks went by ; and still nothing 
 was done. Anxiety began to tell upon me, and 
 I grew daily paler and thinner. As for Paolo, 
 I avoided him as though he were my creditor, 
 and shrunk from his questioning face like a 
 guilty creature. Alas ! how — how was I to 
 keep my promise ? 
 
 About this time, when my boy was nearly 
 three months old, and my perplexities were at 
 their bight, I fulfilled another promise, long- 
 delayed, and went with Ida to the Vatican. We 
 chose a private day, locked up our rooms, and 
 took Goody with us to carry the baby. 
 
 It was a delicious day, mild and sunny ; the 
 date, I think, the second of December ; the 
 atmosphere May ; the sky a cloudless dome of 
 infinite blue, softened by a tender haze that 
 melted into gray on the horizon. We crossed 
 the courtyard, in which three or four carriages 
 were waiting,- and began with the gallery of in- 
 scriptions, and the Museo Chiaramonti ; neither 
 of which possessed any attraction for my impa- 
 tient companion. Her desires were winged, and 
 flew direct to the Transfiguration, and the 
 Stanze of Raflfaelle. She longed to run, that 
 she might be there the sooner. Thus we came 
 to the vestibule of the Torso, and stood in pres- 
 ence of that grand fragment, the divine ideal 
 of all physical power, which confers eternal 
 glory upon the name of "Apollonius, son of 
 Nestor of Athens." Here she forgot her im- 
 patience, and wandered round and round the 
 wondrous ruin, silent in admiration. Then we 
 talked of Michael Angelo, and his worshiping 
 study of it, and of all he said he owed to it 
 through life. And then I told Ida of how, when 
 he was old and blind, he used to cause himself 
 to be led into the room where it stood, that he 
 might pass his wise hands over it and feel the^ 
 beauty that he could no longer see. 
 
 " &estjoli,^^ said a grave voice, close by. 
 
 " Question de gout .'" replied something rust- 
 ling past in silks and perfumes. 
 
 "Well !" ejaculated a third, "/call it fright- 
 ful rubbish, and I don't care who says to the 
 contrary." 
 
 " I declare, Barbara, it's my dear disagreeable 
 old lady of Pisa !" exclaimed Ida. 
 
 But I had recognized her for myself already. 
 Turning involuntarily at the sound of those well- 
 known accents, I found myself face to face 
 with — Mrs. Sandyshaft. 
 
 "Eh? What? Mercy alive! Hilda— Hilda, 
 look here ! Bab, as I live and breathe !" 
 " My dear aunt !" 
 
 " Dear aunt — dear aunt, indeed ! De^ fiddle- 
 stick ! There, what's the good of kissing, when 
 you've — you've — you've half broken my heart, 
 you — somebody give me a smelling-bottle — 
 I'm making a fool of myself." 
 
 We both made fools of ourselves, if to laugh, 
 cry, kiss, and speak, all in a breath, be the way 
 to do it. The truth was that we loved each 
 other dearly; hardly conscious of how much 
 till we were parted, and never demonstrating it 
 unless under the influence of strong emotion. 
 Now, however, we clung together as though we 
 never meant to be parted again. 
 
 " Well, Barbara," said Bifida, wiping away a 
 natural tear or two, " I must say I am very glad 
 to have found you at last ; but how could you 
 do such a — such an excessively vulgar thing as 
 to run away in this ridiculous manner ?" 
 
 " Yes ; my Goodness Gracious, yes ! What 
 on earth made you run away, you little fool ?" 
 gasped my aunt, wiping her eyes with one hand, 
 and holding me fast with the other. " Why, in 
 heaven's name, have you made us all miserable 
 for a whole twelvemonth ? — costing us a fortune 
 in advertising, and what not ; and dragging me 
 out of my comfortable home into all manner of 
 filthy, barbarous, uncivilized foreign countries, 
 where soap and water's an unknown luxury, 
 and the beds mere sacks of fleas, if not worse ! 
 And at my time of life too ! You ought to be 
 ashamed of yourself, and I hope yo.u are ; and 
 if you're not, you're worse than I took you to 
 be!" 
 
 At which moment, the Count de Chauraont, 
 who had discreetly retired into the background, 
 came forward, solemly polite as ever, and rais- 
 ing his hat a quarter of an inch from his head, 
 said — 
 
 ^^ Madame, fai Vhonneur de vous saluery 
 " I'll tell you what it is, Bab," said my aunt, 
 when the first shock of our meeting was some- 
 what over, " now I've caught you, I don't mean 
 to lose sight of you. You must come home with 
 me to my hotel, and there I shall keep you ; 
 and we'll go at once, too, and have our talk out ; 
 for I must have the whole story of your ' 
 vababondizing, you Httle idiot, from beginning 
 to end." 
 
 "But I have a friend with me," I began, 
 
 " and " 
 
 " You must give your friend her dismissal for 
 to-day," interrupted my aunt, " and tell her 
 you live in future at the Hotel d'Angleterre, 
 where she may come to see you, if she likes." 
 
 " But we live in lodgings together " 
 
 " Live in fiddlesticks together 1 Don't I tell 
 you, child, you live with me ? I won't be con- 
 tradicted. Where's your friend ? Oh, I 
 
172 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 that young woman over yonder. Well, go and 
 tell her that I'm your aunt, and I've taken law- 
 ful possession of you, and you're going home 
 with me straightway." 
 
 " If I do," said I, desperately, " I must bring 
 the baby. 
 
 " The WHAT ?" shrieked my aunt. 
 
 " The baby." 
 
 " Whose hahyr 
 
 " Mine." 
 
 My aunt said not another word, but deliber- 
 ately sat down on an antique colossal foot near 
 which she happened to be standing, and shut 
 her eyes in silence. 
 
 " This is too much," she said faintly, after a 
 pause of several seconds. " I had not expected 
 this of you, Bab. To — to run away was bad 
 enough ; but to commit the additional folly of a 
 baby Ugh! is the monster here ?" 
 
 " He's not a monster !" I replied, indignantly. 
 "He's the most beautiful baby you ever saw 
 in your life!" 
 
 "Bring him here,"said my aunt, still with her 
 eyes shut. 
 
 I beckoned to Goody to come forward. 
 
 " Now look, if you please, aunt, and see if he 
 deserves to be called a — what I can not bring 
 my lips to call him again." 
 
 "Is he there?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 My aunt opened one eye cautiously ; then 
 the other; stared at him as if he were some 
 strange invention ; touched his cheek with the 
 extreme tip of her forefinger, as if she feared 
 he might explode like a grenade ; and said 
 nothing. 
 
 " Really, a very fine child," observed Hilda, 
 patronizingly. " How old is he, dear?" 
 
 " Nearly three months." 
 
 ^^ Ifadame,^^ said the Count,, sententiously, 
 "^e vous enfais mes compliments.^^ 
 
 But still my aunt said nothing. 
 
 I felt piqued ; and, not caring to linger there 
 for her opinion on my darling, turned away, and 
 went over to where Ida was sitting quietly in a 
 corner, waiting till I should have time to re- 
 member her presence. A few words of explana- 
 tion sufficed. We shook hands ; said farewell 
 for the day — and behold, on turning suddenly 
 round,' I caught my aunt in the very act of sur- 
 reptitiously kissing the baby, when she thought 
 I was not looking ! 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 MRS. SANDYSHAFT IN THE CHARACTER OF A 
 MEDIATOR. 
 
 " And now," said my aunt, drawing her chair 
 opposite to mine, and settling herself for a 
 thorough cross-examination ;" now that we are 
 alone and quiet, be so good as to tell me, Bab, 
 what you think of yourself?" 
 
 Sitting there, face to face with Mrs. Sandy- 
 shaft, in that dreary private sitting-room of the 
 Hotel d'Angleterre, with Goody and the baby 
 banished to an adjoining bedroom, and a search- 
 ing semi-judicial process coming on, I felt my- 
 self fortified by an unwonted spirit of resistance, 
 and made up my mind on no account to say what 
 I did think of myself, whatever the provocation. 
 
 " In what way do you mean, my dear aunt ?" 
 I asked, smiling. 
 
 " In every way. As a niece, for instance — as 
 a daughter — as a wife. You did not suppose it 
 would be very pleasant for me to have you run 
 away, heaven only knew where, and be living, 
 heaven only knew how — did you ? You did not 
 suppose your father would "be particularly de- 
 lighted to have a public scandal attaching to his 
 daughter's name — did you ? You did not sup- 
 pose you were acting up to your marriage vows, 
 or doing much in the way of loving, honoring, 
 and obeying your lawful husband, when you took 
 it into your head to desert his roof— did you ? 
 A pretty dance you have led all your friends,' to 
 be sure ; and a pretty goose you have made of 
 yourself, into the bargain !" ' 
 
 " My dear, dear aunt," I said, " that i/ou should 
 have missed me, and grieved for me, and sought 
 for me — that you should have departed from the 
 habits of a long life, surmounted the prejudices 
 of years, and encountered all the discomforts of 
 foreign travel for my sake " 
 
 " Discomforts enough and to spare, goodness 
 knows !" ejaculated my aunt, parenthetically. 
 
 " — touches me to a degree that I hardly know 
 how to express to you in words. It fills me with 
 so much gratitude — I might almost say, with so 
 much remorse " 
 
 " Ay, you may say it indeed. Plenty of room 
 for it !" muttered my aunt. 
 
 " — to think that any -conduct of mine (how- 
 ever justifiable on other grounds) should have 
 been the cause of all this pain to you, that I feel 
 I can only offer you, in compensation, the devo- 
 tion and companionship of my life. I will never 
 leave you again, dear, if you care to have me !" 
 
 " Humph !" said my aunt, softened, but du- 
 bious. 
 
 " As for my father," I continued, " his pride 
 alone has suffered in my disappearance. He has 
 loved me so little all my life, that I must confess 
 I attach but trifling importance to any effect my 
 conduct may have produced upon him." 
 
 " Well, so far, that's all well and good," re- 
 plied my aunt, " but as for your husband ^" 
 
 " As for Mr. Farquhar, aunt, you are, certainly, 
 the last person by whom I should expect to be 
 called to account in this question of separa- 
 tion." 
 
 " And why so, pray ?" asked she, sharply, 
 
 " Because you never liked him — at least, never 
 since he became my husband." 
 
 " I've liked him a vast deal better, poor fel- 
 low ! since your misconduct toward him," said 
 she, with a resolute shake of the head. 
 
 " And because you were so annoyed and disap- 
 pointed, on learning the choice I haid made." 
 
 " No reason why I should not wish you to con- 
 duct yourself like a respectable married woman, 
 when once you had made it !" 
 
 " And because, whenever you found the oppor- 
 tunity, you said every thing in your power to un- 
 settle my faith in his stabiUty, and my respect 
 for himself." 
 
 " More fool I !" said my aunt. " I ought to 
 have known better." 
 
 I did not contradict her. I had come to the 
 end of my retort in all its clauses, and waited 
 for what she should say next. 
 
 " And pray where have you been these twelve 
 months ?" asked she, after a brief pause. 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 173 
 
 " Here — in Rome." 
 
 •' Humph ! and what have you been doing ?" 
 
 "Well, I had a brain-fever, to begin with, and 
 lay ill at Civita Vecchia for several weeks. Since 
 then, I have supported myself by copying the old 
 masters." 
 
 "Are you in debt?" 
 
 " Not a farthing — stay ; I must not forget that 
 I owe my old servant fifty pounds, which were 
 the savings of her whole life, and which she lent 
 to me when we left — Broomhill." 
 
 " She shall have them back to-day," said Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft, promptly. " And now, ma'am, may 
 I make so bold as to inquire what your name 
 may have been all this time ; for if it had been 
 either Farquhar or Churchill, I must have found 
 you long since." 
 
 *'Ihave called myself Mrs. Carlyon." 
 
 " Carlyon," repeated she, musingly. ^" Carl- 
 yon — I'm sure I've heard the name somewhere. 
 Bless you ! I have had the passport books 
 searched at all the principal ports, and the Lord 
 knows what besides ; but it was no good. No- 
 body could tell me any thing about you; and 
 here you turn up, at last, by chance ! Just like 
 your perversity." 
 
 " You would rather have hunted me down, I 
 suppose, in fair chase," said I, with a laugh. 
 
 " I would rather have had something for my 
 money," replied Mrs. Sandyshaft. " Why, Bab, 
 you scamp, you've cost me — well, never mind 
 what you've cost me. More than you're worth 
 from head to foot, I can tell you. As for Hugh, 
 he's spent hundreds in the search." 
 
 " Indeed ?" 
 
 " Indeed !" echoed my aunt, angrily. " You 
 may curl up your lip, and drawl ^ indeed ' as su- 
 perciliously as you please ; but he's worth a dozen 
 of you, for all that ! And you've never once 
 asked for him yet ! You don't know whether 
 he's alive or dead, I suppose ? *No — not you. 
 He may be dead twice over, for aught you can 
 tell." 
 
 " He may be dead, my dear aunt," said I, af- 
 fecting a profound indifference ; " but I do not 
 really see how he could possibly be so twice 
 over." 
 
 " We all die twice," replied she. " The first 
 time is when we simply cease to be ; the second, 
 when we are forgotten." 
 
 " Dear aunt," I exclaimed, " that is very well 
 said !" 
 
 " Well said, or ill said, it's nothing to the 
 purpose," she retorted sharply. " You needn't 
 trouble to compliment me. I don't value it one 
 farthing. I value good feeling, and common- 
 sense, and principle, a mighty deal more than 
 compliments, I can tell you." 
 
 "I hope," said I, turning red and feeling 
 somewhat nettled, " that you do not think me 
 wanting in either good feeling or principle ?" 
 
 " Indeed I do, though. A woman who runs 
 away from her husband for no reasonable 
 cause " 
 
 •' I beg your pardon. I had what seemed to 
 me an absolutely reasonable cause." 
 
 " Fiddlededee ! you acted on mad impulse. 
 Reason had nothing whatever to do with it." 
 
 " Again, I must beg your pardon " 
 
 " You'd better beg your husband's pardon," 
 interrupted my aunt. 
 
 " Yoa can not tell under what impressions I 
 acted or what provocation I received." 
 
 " Then you're just wrong ; for I know all 
 about it, from beginning to end." 
 
 " How " 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Bab, and I'll tell you. 
 The night you came home from Lord Bayham's 
 ball, you overheard a conversation between your 
 husband and— somebody else. You interpreted 
 what you heard according to your notions. 
 You asked for no explanations. You sought no- 
 body's advice. You 'reasoned' about as much 
 as a child that's frightened by a shadow. The 
 consequence was that you acted like a fool, and 
 ran away. I dare say you thought it very fine, and 
 heroic, and dramatic, and all that sort of thing. 
 Nobody else did ; that's one comfort." 
 
 " But how do you know that I overheard that 
 conversation, and how can you tell what that 
 conversation was about ?" 
 
 " You goose, you dropped something down 
 by the door at which you listened — some trinket 
 or another, that was found there afterward by 
 the servants, and given to your husband. Of 
 course, the mystery of your flight was at once 
 explained. He remembered all that had been 
 said, and guessed the wise conclusions to which 
 you had jumped. It was as plain as a pikestaff." 
 
 " And then, I suppose, went to you with the 
 story of his wrongs," said I, bitterly. 
 
 " He came to me," replied my aunt, very 
 gravely, " believing that I knew where to find 
 you — full of regret for all his past follies, and 
 of self-reproach for every weak concession of 
 which he had been guilty. Full of love and 
 pity for you, also — which you didn't deserve. 
 You heard her ask him to call her wife, and he 
 was ass enough to do it. She was no more his 
 wife than I'm his grandmother." 
 
 " I know that now," said I; "but I would 
 not believe an angel from heaven who should 
 tell me she was never his mistress !" 
 
 " Of course she was his mistress — he doesn't 
 deny it ; but that was twelve or thirteen years 
 ago." 
 
 " He seduced her away from a good husband 
 and a respectable home," said I, quoting Paolo, 
 " and brought her " 
 
 "He did no such a thing," interposed my 
 aunt. " She fell in love with him, and hid her- 
 self on board his yacht, like a bold hussy as she 
 was !" 
 
 " Oh, of course you defend him, if only to 
 blame me!" I exclaimed, working myself up to 
 a pitch of genuine anger. " Perhaps you are 
 of opinion that an English gentleman may 
 with propriety maintain his wife and his mistress 
 under the same roof?" 
 
 " I think nothing of the kind. I cannot so 
 much blame him for having yielded to the first 
 temptation, when he was young, and free, and 
 the woman threw herself at his feet. No man 
 could have helped himself in such a case — un- 
 less it was Saint Anthony ; and I'm not one of 
 those who believe in your miracles of virtue. 
 But what I blame him for, was letting her re- 
 main at Broomhill after he had brought you 
 home. There wa^his great fault." 
 
 "A fault which nothing can excuse." 
 
 " Humph ! I won't say that, Bab. I won't 
 say that. The poor thing was nothing to him 
 but a woman who had loved him to her own cost 
 and suffering — who had been nothing to him for 
 years and years before he cared for you — who 
 had given all her mind up to books and study ; 
 
174 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 and whose only happiness in life was to live like 
 a mouse under a corner of his roof, and take 
 care of his library, and kiss the dust he trod 
 upon, if he would but let her. He hadn't the 
 heart to turn her out, Bab. It was weak. It 
 was culpably weak ; but the last straw breaks 
 the camel's back, Bab — and the last blow some- 
 times breaks a woman's heart. She might have 
 died, Bab ; and that wouldn't have been a pleas- 
 ant thought for Hugh Farquhar, all the rest of 
 his life." 
 
 " Hugh Farquhar seems to have found an ex- 
 cellent advocate," said I, steeling myself against 
 compassion. 
 
 " That was his first great fault," continued 
 Mrs. Sandy^haft, taking no notice of my observ- 
 ation. " The second was just such another piece 
 of weakness. When you found out that she 
 lived in the house, he should have trusted to your 
 generosity, and told you all. Half-truths often 
 do more mischief than lies. If that's a proverb, 
 it's one of my own making. It's true anyhow, 
 and here's a case in point." 
 
 " Any other woman wolild have felt and be- 
 lieved as I did." 
 
 " Very likely ; but she woufdn't have run away 
 as you did, without waiting to ask whether her 
 beliefs and feelings were founded on facts." 
 
 "I — I confess that I acted hastily," said I, re- 
 luctantly. 
 
 " The first word of sense you've spoken yet," 
 
 *' I'm much obliged to you." 
 
 *' Bab — will you listen to good advice if one 
 takes the trouble to offer it ?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 " Then just sit down at my desk yonder, and 
 write to your husband. You confess you acted 
 hastily — confess^t to him. Say you're sorry for 
 your own follies, and ready to forgive his ; and 
 make an end of the matter." 
 
 " I'll do no such thing — I would die first !" 
 
 "And why, pray?" 
 
 "Because it is he who has been in the wrong 
 from first to last. I committed an error of pre- 
 cipitation — he a deliberate offense. You seem 
 to forget, aunt, how my pride has been insulted, 
 and my trust deceived !" 
 
 " I grant he was a great fool to keep her there, 
 and worse than a fool not to admit all while he 
 was about it ; but there ! he's suffered enough for 
 his faults, goodness knows." 
 
 " He deserved to suffer," said I ; "but what 
 have his sufferings been, compared with mine ?" 
 
 "Pretty equal, I should say," observed my 
 aunt, coolly. 
 
 " Nay, this is too much ! Has he suffered 
 jealousy, fever, despair, exile, shame ? Has he 
 believed our marriage illegal ? Has he under- 
 gone the misery of toiling for his daily bread 
 under every pressure of mental unrest and physi- 
 cal weakness?" 
 
 " He has been ill both in body and mind ; and 
 as for unrest, one would think the poor man had 
 St. Vitus's dance, to see him always pacing up 
 and down the room ; getting up from his chair 
 as soon as he has sat down ; wandering about 
 the park and the roads in all weathers ; off" to-day 
 to London ; back again to-morrow atBroomhill ; 
 off" to Dover, or Calais, or Marseilles the next 
 day ; coming back after having traveled day and 
 night for a week, with his clothes all covered 
 with mud and dust, and his hat so battered that 
 
 you wouldn't pick it out of the gutter, and his 
 neckcloth tied all on one side, as if he was go- 
 ing to be hanged by it ! I'm sure I've often 
 thought he looked more like a maniac than a 
 man in his senses. And then he begins a sen- 
 tence and stops, forgetting what he meant to say 
 next ; and then pulls a map out of his pocket, 
 and begins to show you how his wife must have 
 gone in this direction, or that ; and how, if he 
 had only thought of it sooner, he must have 
 overtaken her ! Then he looks twenty years 
 older ; for what with his bad nights, and his gray 
 hairs " 
 
 " Gray hairs?" I exclaimed. " Hugh Farqu- 
 har gray ?" 
 
 " As a badger," replied my aunt ; " and as thin 
 and pallid as if he had lived on opium all his life. 
 Nobody who hadn't seen him within the last 
 year would know him in the street. Why, the 
 perpetual traveling would alone have killed 
 most men. He's been twice to Zollenstrasse ; 
 ever so many times to Paris ; once here, as far 
 as Rome, even — and never with any reward for 
 his pains. But what's the good of telling you 
 all this ? You don't care to hear it !" 
 
 " I do care, indeed," I said, unable to control 
 the faltering of my voice, and turning away, so 
 as to shade my face with my hand. 
 
 " Humph ! if you did, you'd write the letter." 
 
 " No, Aunt Sandyshaft," I replied, struggling 
 to speak firmly. " I would not write the let- 
 ter. ; I — I can not but grieve at the picture 
 you put before me. It wrings my heart to know 
 that the husband whom I have so much loved — 
 whom I still so much love — should be so changed 
 and shattered ; but — but if my heart were to 
 ' break for it, nothing should induce me to write 
 that letter. Nothing — so it is mere waste of 
 time to ask me." 
 
 " All very fine," said my aunt ; " but what 
 .does it mean? I suppose you don't intend to 
 stay in Rome all the rest of your days, and live 
 by copying the old masters, as you call 'em ?" 
 
 " I did not say that." 
 
 "What do you say then? Speak plain Eng- 
 lish, Bab ; for I don't understand heroics." 
 
 "It means this, aunt — that before I touch his 
 hand again in reconciliation, before I cross his 
 threshold as his wife, that woman must be giv§n 
 back to her own people, and banished out of my 
 sight forever. As to tolerating her beneath my 
 roof " 
 
 " Nobody's asked you to tolerate her," inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Sandyshaft. "Of course she'll be 
 sent away, neck and crop. Do you think 7 'df let 
 you go back, with that hussy in the house ?" 
 
 " Let all this be done ; and let him ask my 
 pardon for not having done it before I ever 
 passed the gates of Broomhill, and then -" 
 
 " And then, when there's nothing left to write 
 about, and he's probably rushed off to Rome as 
 if he'd been shot out of a cannon, you'll conde- 
 scend to write. Is that it, Bab ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Oh, very well ; then we understand each 
 other. But" in the mean time somebody must in- 
 form him that your ladyship is found, and com- 
 municate your high and mighty conditions— eh ?" 
 
 " Clearly ; but I must dictate the letter." 
 
 "Who's to write it?" 
 
 " Nobody so fit as yourself." 
 
 " Then I write it my own way — ^thalte flat." 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 175 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear aunt ! In a matter so 
 utterly concerning myself " 
 
 "I'm not a puppet," said Mrs. Sandyshaft, 
 with an obstinate jerk of the head. "I've ca- 
 pacity enough to write a simple letter, I should 
 hope ; and I won't write at any body's dictation, 
 if I know it." 
 
 " But this is not a ' simple ' letter. It is a 
 very important letter ; and a great deal depends 
 on the way in which it is worded. My own dig- 
 nity and self-respect demand that " 
 
 " Bother your dignity and self-respect ! Think 
 a little less about both, Bab, and more about 
 that poor, miserable fellow, who's never known 
 a moment's peace, day or night, since you left 
 him. And as for the letter, tell me what you 
 want said, and I'll say it ; but I won't have it 
 dictated." 
 
 " Then I won't have it written." ^ 
 
 *' Oh, very well ! Please yourself." 
 
 " And, remember, Aunt Sandyshaft, that it is 
 you, now, who are raising up obstacles." 
 
 " Fiddlededee 1" 
 
 "And — and some day," sobbed I, "you'll 
 perhaps, be sorry that — that you re — re — 
 fused — ^" 
 
 "Bab, this is temper — temper and nothing 
 else. It won't do with me. You may write 
 your letter yourself, if you like ; or you may get 
 Hilda to write it. But if I do it, I do it my own 
 way, and there's an end of it." 
 
 At this moment there came a gentle tap at 
 the door, and Goody looked in. 
 
 " It's past three o'clock', deary, and asking 
 your pardon, ma'am, for the intrusion, but the 
 dear blessed little angel is very restless ; audit's 
 getting dusk already ; and out after dark, my 
 lamb, he should not be." 
 
 " That's quite true, GoOdy, and I was a cruel, 
 thoughtless creature to forget it. There, you 
 see, I've only my bonnet to put on, and I'm 
 ready in a moment. Good-by, Aunt Sandyshaft 
 — here is my address, if you care to come and 
 see me. It's close by — not a quarter of a mile 
 hence ; and — and if, after I am gone, you think 
 better of your decision, and like to come round 
 and take tea with me at seven o'clock, we can 
 talk over the subject of the letter. I am sure 
 you will think differently when you have time to 
 reflect. Give my love to Hilda, and tpll her I 
 hope to see her again to-morrow. Here, Goody 
 — give the darling to me. I will carry him down- 
 stairs myself." 
 
 And with this, I hurried away, down the 
 great stone staircase, and home by the back 
 streets and short cuts, as fast as I could walk ; 
 pausing only once, for a couple of minutes, at 
 the English baker's in the Via Condotti, to buy 
 some English muffins for my aunt's tea. 
 
 For I felt certain she would come. 
 
 How slowly the hours of that afternoon went 
 by ! How restless I was, and how my certainty 
 faded away and diminished as seven o'clock drew 
 near ! 
 
 " She is so obstinate^" thought I. " She never 
 can see that she has been in the wrong. But 
 then she is just, after all ; and she must admit 
 that I have a right to the principal voice in a 
 matter so vitally concerning myself. Will she 
 come? Or will she pique herself on staying 
 away, and making me go to her first ? If she 
 meant to come, she would surely be here now ! 
 and yet " 
 
 I went to the bedroom window every mo- 
 ment. I heaped fresh logs on the fire ; placed 
 her chair ready in the warmest corner ; trimmed 
 the lamp ; peeped at the muffins ; solaced my- 
 self every now and then with a cautious glance 
 at my darling sleeping in his little cot ; and lis- 
 tened, with a beating heart, to every sound upon 
 the stairs. At last, just as my watch pointed 
 to a quarter past the time, and I was ready to 
 sit down and weep for disappointment, the door 
 opafifed and my aunt walked in. 
 
 I sprang to meet her with a cry of delight — 
 kissed her — helped her off with her cloak — ran 
 to fetch a stool for her feet — poured out our 
 first cups of tea, and, having helped her to a 
 slice of muffin, took her by both hands, and 
 said — 
 
 " Now, you dear old thing, since you have 
 been so nice, and kind, and good, and have 
 yielded this point so sweetly, I'll yield a point 
 too. You shall write the letter your own way, 
 while you're here to-night ; and I'll just look 
 over your shoulder, and put in a word here and 
 there." 
 
 " Humph ! the post went out at four, my 
 dear," replied my aunt, drily, " and my letter 
 with it. But I thought I'd come and tell you — 
 and, upon my word, this is the first drop of tea, 
 deserving the name of tea, that I've tasted since 
 I left England." 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 susPEisrsE. 
 
 Hugh, it appeared, was on the point of start- 
 ing for Chambery when my aunt last heard from 
 him, and had requested her, in case of emergen- 
 cy, to write to him at that place. He was led 
 thither, it seemed, by some vague report, hop- 
 ing against hope, but prepared for the inevita- 
 ble disappointment which always awaited him. 
 " I go," he wrote, " but I know beforehand that 
 I go in vain. She is lost to me forever. Some 
 day, perhaps, when I am quite worn out Avith 
 long seeking, I may find her grave in some soli- 
 tary spot, among the graves of strangers. God 
 grant it ! I would fain die there, and be laid 
 beside her." My aunt gave me this letter. I 
 carried it in my bosom by day ; slept with it 
 under my pillow at night ; blistered it all over 
 with my tears. Mine was a mere make-believe 
 stoicism, surface-deep and sadly transparent, af- 
 ter all. 
 
 From Rome to Chambery: — I looked in the 
 map, and was dismayed to see how far apart 
 they lay, and what a world of mountains lay be- 
 tween. I went down to the post-office, and was 
 told that letters to Chambery might be dis- 
 patched via Turin or Marseilles. In either case 
 they would take from five to six days— as long 
 as if sent to London ! I then made my way to 
 the Hotel d'Angleterre, to ask Mrs. Sandyshaft 
 by which route she had directed her letter to be 
 forwarded; and received for answer that she 
 " hadn't troubled her head about routes, or 
 branches either. Not she. She had just put 
 Post Office, Chambery, Savoy— and quite 
 enough. The Where was all that concerned 
 her ; the How she left to those whose business 
 it was to convey it." 
 
 Thus poorly comforted, I could only sit down 
 patiently, counting out each lagging hour of the 
 
ire 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 six long days, and feeding my imagination with 
 conjectures of every possible calamity that 
 might befall my aunt's letter. 
 
 Supposing, now, that the address was illegi- 
 ble ! A hand more essentially crabbed and dis- 
 tort, when written in haste, it would be difficult 
 to conceive. And she must have written in 
 haste ; for it was past three when I left her, and 
 the letter had to be posted by four o'clock. Sup- 
 posing, on the other hand, that it went via Tu- 
 rin, and the mail was robbed among the mount- 
 ains — or by sea, and the steamer were lost ? 
 Supposing, even, that it arrived safely at Cham- 
 bery, and Hugh were gone before it came ? 
 Would it, in that case, be forwarded to Broom- 
 hill ? or would it lie there month after month, 
 dusty and unclaimed, with its words of hope and 
 comfort all unread ? 
 
 Thus five days went by. On the fifth, I said, 
 " To-morrow he will receive it." On the sixth, 
 " To-day it is his." I fancied him calling list- 
 lessly at the post-office as he passed by ; or find- 
 ing it in the morning on his bredkfast-table. 
 I pictured to myself the impatient sigh with 
 which he would toss it aside, incredulous of any 
 good it might contain — the reluctance with 
 which he would presently break the seal — the 
 sudden flash lighting up his poor pale face — 
 the bound that he would make to the bell ; the 
 ringmg voice in which he would call for post- 
 horses ; the instantaneous transition from apathy 
 to energy, from that state of hope deferred 
 which maketh the heart sick, to hope fulfilled, 
 glowing, radiant, and instinct with vitality. 
 
 As the day advanced, and the evening drew 
 on, I said to myself, " He is on his way. He 
 will travel day and night. Every mile will 
 seem a league to his impatience, and every hour 
 a week." Then I calculated how long the 
 journey would take him, if he came by Turin, 
 Genoa, and the sea ; and found that he might 
 quite possibly arrive by the evening of the 
 third day. At this thought, I trembled and 
 turned pale. 
 
 Only two days more ! I could not believe it. 
 My aunt came to sit with me in the morning, 
 while I was painting; and Hilda brought her 
 carriage to take me for a drive, later in the day. 
 I forget where we went, or what was said or done 
 by the way. I thought of nothing but Hugh. 
 
 Only one day more! I went through my 
 morning's work mechanically, breaking oflF, every 
 now and then, to kiss my baby, and whisper in 
 his little uncomprehending ear — " to-morrow, 
 to-morrow, my angel, thou shalt lie in thy fa- 
 ther's arms !" To Paolo I said, " Wait with pa- 
 tience. We shall soon have news of Maddalena." 
 
 The last day passed as if in a dream. I could 
 neither paint, nor talk, nor sit still ; and so stole 
 away quietly to the gardens of the Pincio, and 
 wandered about the sunny walks alone. At 
 dinner, I literally fasted. In the evening, my 
 nervous excitement became so painfully un- 
 controllable that if only the ashes collapsed 
 on the hearth, or the windows shook, I 
 trembled from head to foot. He would go 
 direct to my aunt, at the Hotel d'Angle- 
 terre; and she would send him on to the 
 Vicolo d'Aliberti. Fancy his footsteps on the 
 stairs! Fancy the joy of being folded once 
 more in his arms, and weeping out the last of so 
 many bitter tears upon his bosom 1 Then 
 
 came the painful remembrance of how altered 
 he must be ; and I tried to prepare myself for 
 the cruel fines channeled on his brow, and the 
 gray hairs sprinkling his dark locks, once so free 
 from change. Thus the evening hours trailed ' 
 slowly by, and midnight came and no Hugh. 
 At one o'clock, Ida stole down-stairs, entreating 
 me to go to bed; but of what avail would 
 it have been to do so, with every nerve of body 
 and brain strung to the keenest wakefulness? 
 Finding persuasion useless, she sat up with me, 
 prepared to retreat at the first intimation of his 
 coming. Thus the night wore on, and the ex- 
 pectations which, a few hours since, had been 
 certainties, turned to doubts and apprehensions. 
 At length six o'clock struck ; and, worn out 
 with watching, I waked Ida, who had fallen 
 asleep in her chair, and we both went to bed. 
 
 I slept heavily for a few hours, and woke to 
 find Mrs. Sandyshaft at my bedside. 
 
 "Is he come ?" were the words that. sprung 
 instantaneously to my lips. 
 
 " No, child. He hasn't wings." 
 
 "But it is now three days and three nights 
 since he received the letter 1" 
 
 " You goose ! Suppose he finds the mountain 
 roads blocked up with snow between Chambery 
 and Lyons? Suppose, when he gets to Mar- 
 seilles, he finds no steamer ready to start ? Sup- 
 pose he had left Chambery for some other place 
 — say Paris — when the letter arrived, and it had 
 to be forwarded — what then ?" 
 
 What then, indeed! I sank back upon my 
 pillow with a weary sigh, and said — 
 
 " Well — any of these things might be ; but in 
 such case, when — when will he come ?" 
 
 " Impossible to say — ^but within a week, no 
 doubt." 
 
 " A week ! Another long week !" 
 
 "And in the mean time," added she, " I'd 
 advise you not to make it your practice to sit 
 up every night. It won't bring him one bit the 
 sooner." 
 
 " How long is it, Aunt Sandyshaft, since you 
 last saw him ?" I asked, presently. 
 
 " Not since I made up my mind to join Hilda 
 and her precious Count out here in Italy. He 
 came with me as far as Marseilles — and I'm sure 
 I don't knOw what would have become of me on 
 the way, if he hadn't — and saw me safe on 
 board the Leghorn boat before he left me." 
 
 " That was kind of him!" I said, warmly. 
 
 " Humph ! it was civil ; but nothing wonder- 
 ful," repUed my aunt, with a sharp side-glance 
 at me. 
 
 "And then what did he do ?" 
 
 " Went back to England, I believe. At all 
 events, his first letter to me was dated from 
 Broomhill." 
 
 " And you have only had two from him, 
 you say ?" 
 
 " Only two, one of which you have." 
 
 "And the other you destroyed. Are you quite 
 sure you destroyed it, aunt ?" 
 
 " Bless my heart, yes ; and saw the sparks fly 
 up the chimney. I only kept this one, for fear I 
 should forget the name of the place. Rubbish- 
 storing, Bab, has never been a failing of mine." 
 
 Rubbish ! She called his letter rubbish ! 
 
 "I suppose," I said, after another pause, "he 
 concludes you are in Rome by this time ?" 
 
 " I don't see how that's likely, for I hadn't 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 irr 
 
 concluded it myself when I replied to his letter. 
 The De Chaumonts, at that time, talked of spend- 
 ing the winter in Naples ; but Hilda, as usual, 
 changed her mind at the last moment, and came 
 here instead. To me, one place was the same 
 as another ; and you were as likely to be found 
 in Rome as in Naples, if in either. As for 
 Hugh Farquhar, if he supposes any thing, he 
 supposes I'm in South Italy, scrambling up 
 Mount Vesuvius. By the by, Bab, did I tell 
 you that your father had settled in Brussels?" 
 " No — you had not mentioned it." 
 " He has, then. They have taken rooms in a 
 fashionable quarter ; and go to court ; and drive 
 out every day in their own barouche (jobbing 
 the horses,) and give fortnightly receptions, 
 with nothing to eat ; and are mighty fine folks, 
 indeed, in a small way. That just suits your 
 father. Edmund Churchill, Esquire, wa^^lways 
 a grand man, in his own opinion. But you 
 don't listen ?" 
 
 " Yes — oh, yes — I listen." 
 " Like the man in the song — * My body's in 
 Segovia, my heart is in Madrid.' Oh, Bab, Bab, 
 you're made of the same stuff as other people, 
 in spite of the airs you give yourself when 
 you're dignified. Mercy on us ! don't cry. What 
 good can crying do to you, or any body ?" 
 
 " I — I feel as if he wouldn't come now at aU !" 
 sobbed I, fairly breaking down, and hiding my 
 face in the pillows. " I was so full of hope all 
 these ten days ; and now the hope is all gone — 
 all gone !" 
 
 " Because he is twelve hours after the time 
 you had fixed upon, out of your own wise head ! 
 Bab, don't be a fool. Suppose he is a week 
 after the time — what then ? He's sure to come 
 at last." 
 
 " A week — what shall I do for a whole week, 
 not knowing where he is, or whether he's had 
 the letter ? He — he may be ill — or gone all the 
 way back to England — who can tell ?" 
 
 My aunt rose up, very deliberately, and put 
 on her gloves. 
 
 *' If you ask me, Bab, what you, are to do for 
 a whole week," said she, " I'd advise you to do 
 what he has done for a whole year. Bear it." 
 *' You're — you're very cruel !" 
 " Perhaps I am. It was your turn last, and 
 it's mine now. However, to show you that I'm 
 not a miracle of wickedness, I'll tell you what 
 I'm now going home to do — to write three 
 letters ; one to Hugh Farquhar, addressed to his 
 own house at Broomhill ; one to his housekeeper, 
 desiring her to forward that letter to him, 
 wherever he may be ; and the third to the post- 
 master at Naples, requesting that any thing 
 which may have arrived for me there shall be at 
 once sent on to Rome. Now, what d'ye say to 
 that ?" 
 
 " My dearest, kindest aunt " 
 
 " Oh, I'm kind now, am I ? I was cruel two 
 minutes ago. There, cheer up, Bab ; and make 
 haste to dress and have your breakfast, and be 
 all right by two o'clock, when I'll bring a car- 
 riage round, and take you and that infant monster 
 for a drive. Good by." 
 
 I did cheer up, by a great effort, for that and 
 several succeeding days ; but my heart was heavi- 
 est when I smiled most ; and my nights were 
 spent in tears. Thus the prescribed week went 
 by, and then another week ; and still he neither I 
 
 came nor wrote. There had been time, and more 
 than time, for the letter to be forwarded from 
 Chambery to Broomhill, and from Broomhill 
 back to Chambery. At length the suspense be- 
 came intolerable, and I made up my mind to 
 bear it no longer. I went to Mrs. Sandyshaft, 
 and announced my determination to start for 
 Chambery the following day. 
 
 " The stupidest thing you could do, Bab," 
 said she. " That's precisely the way to miss 
 him. Where two people are looking for each 
 other, one should always stop still." 
 
 "How can I tell that he is not that one ? 
 How can I tell that he is not lying on a bed of 
 sickness ?" 
 
 "If he were, he would have had his letter; 
 and either have written himself, or caused some- 
 body to write." 
 
 " Well — these are but conjectures ; and I 
 mean to go, I sliall at least have the satisfac- 
 tion of hearing whatever there is to hear ; and 
 at all events I shall not be breaking my heart in 
 idleness here in Rome." 
 
 " Your mind's made up ?" 
 
 " Firmly. I am now going to secure my place 
 to Civita Vecchia." 
 
 " No need. If you must go, I'll go with you 
 — under protest — and we'll take post-horses. 
 What about the monster?" 
 
 " Baby and Goody must go, of course." 
 
 "A pretty piece of folly, to be sure ; and the 
 day after to-morrow, the first of January ! Bab, 
 Bab, you're a greater idiot than I took you to be 
 — the greatest idiot I ever knew, except myself." 
 
 CHAPTER LXIII. 
 
 " I THANK you, valiant Cassio. 
 What tidings can you tell me of my lord ?" — Othello. 
 
 From Rome to Civita Yecchia with post- 
 horses ; from Civita Vecchia to Marseilles by 
 steamer, with a bitter wind blowing from the 
 north-east, and brief but sudden storms of snow 
 and rain sweeping over the sea ; from Marseilles 
 to Lyons by railway ; and from Lyons by post- 
 chaise to Chambery. A dreary journey of many 
 days' duration, intensely cold and comfortless, 
 and made doubly difficult by the helplessness of 
 my companions. The last day was the worst of 
 all. We were fifteen hours on the road ; six of 
 which were spent in snow and darkness, strug- 
 gling slowly up among mountain roads rendered 
 almost impassable by several days of bad wea- 
 ther. Worn out with fatigue and cold, we 
 reached Chambery an hour after midnight, and 
 were driven to the Hotel du Petit Paris. Here 
 my first inquiry was for Hugh. The sleepy 
 waiter knew nothing of the name. I described 
 him; but he v;as confident that no such gentle- 
 man had been there. I asked what other hotels 
 there were in the town. He replied that there 
 were several ; but none so good as the Petit 
 Paris, There was La Poste ; and there was 
 L'Aigle Noir. Madame might inquire at both 
 to-morrow ; but it was unlikely that any English 
 ti-aveler would prefer either to the Hotel du 
 Petit Paris. As for the other inns, they were 
 aubercfes, and out of the question. With this I 
 was obliged to be content till morning. 
 
178 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 I was so weary that I slept heavily, and never 
 woke till between nine and ten o'clock the fol- 
 lowing day. The sunlight met my eye like a 
 reproach. It was a glorious morning, cold but 
 brilliant, with something hopeful and reassuring 
 in the very air. I rose, confident of success, 
 and went to the post-office before breakfast. A 
 young man lounging at the door, with a cigar in 
 his mouth, followed me into the office, and took 
 his place at the bureau. I asked if he could 
 give me the address of an English gentleman, 
 Farquhar by name, who I had reason to believe 
 was staying, or had been staying, in Chambery. 
 The clerk shook his head. • He knew of no 
 such person. 
 
 " There are, perhaps, some letters awaiting 
 Mr. Farquhar's arrival?" 
 " No, Madame. None." 
 " Nay, one I think there must be ; for I know 
 that it was dispatched nearly a month since. 
 Will Monsieur oblige me by looking ?" 
 
 Monsieur retired, reluctantly, to a distant 
 corner of the bureau ; took a packet of letters 
 from a pigeon-hole in a kind of little cupboard 
 between the windows, shuffled them as if they 
 were cards, tossed them back into the pigeon- 
 hole, and returned with the same shake of the 
 head. There were no letters for Madame's 
 friend. Absolutely none. 
 
 I turned away, disappointed, but incredulous. 
 At the threshold, I paused. It might be a mere 
 mistake of pronunciation, after all. I took out 
 my pocket-book, penciled the words "Hugh 
 Farquhar, Esquire," very plainly on a blank leaf, 
 and handed it to the clerk. His face lighted up 
 directly. 
 
 "Ah, that name ?" said he. " Mais^ oui ; je 
 crois qu'il y a des lettres. I beg Madame's par- 
 don a thousand times; but Madame said an 
 English gentleman, and this name is surely 
 Polish or Russian ?" 
 
 " No, no, English," I replied impatiently, my 
 eyes fixed on the pigeon-hole. 
 
 He returned to it ; took out the letters ; sort- 
 ed them, oh, how slowly ! laid one aside; sorted 
 them again, to make sure that he had omitted 
 none ; replaced the packet ; paused to dust the 
 letter before bringing it to the counter; and 
 then, instead of placing it in my eager hand, said : 
 " Madame has brought Monsieur Farquhar's 
 passport ?" 
 
 " No— how can I bring it when I do not even 
 know that he is here ?" 
 
 " Then I can not surrender the letter." 
 " But, Monsieur — I am his wife." 
 "The postal law does not permit letters to 
 be delivered unless on exhibition of the passport 
 of the individual to whom they are addressed." 
 " Then, Monsieur will, at least, permit me to 
 see the letter ?" 
 
 He would not trust it across the counter ; but 
 held it jealously, in such a manner that I could 
 read the address. It was directed in Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft's handwriting to Hugh Farquhar, 
 Esq., Broomhill, and re-directed to Chambery 
 by Mrs. Fairhead. The back was almost covered 
 with English, French, and Italian postmarks of 
 various dates. It was evidently the second 
 letter, written on the tenth day after the first. 
 Where, then, was the first ? 
 
 " Are you sure, Monsieur, that there is no 
 other ?" 
 
 " Madame, fen suis Men sur." 
 " And there have been no others ?" 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " I can not say, Madame. If so, they have 
 been delivered." 
 
 I felt myself flush scarlet with impatience. 
 " But, good heavens ! monsieur, this is a matter 
 of deep importance. Can you not remember 
 what letters you have given out, or to whom you 
 gave them ?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and replied, with 
 a half-impertinent smile — 
 
 " Madame asks impossibilities. I do not say 
 that there may not have been other letters. I 
 believe there were ; but I can not undertake to 
 remember them. Perhaps my colleague may 
 recollect having delivered them. Madame had 
 better inquire of him." 
 
 " Where is monsieur's colleague to be found ?" 
 I asked, haughtily. 
 
 " He is at present gone out to breakfast — ah, 
 le voild .'" 
 
 At this moment another young man entered 
 the office, short, brisk, black-eyed ; a thorough 
 man of business. They exchanged a few words 
 in an undertone. Then the new comer came 
 forward, and took the other's place at the little 
 counter. 
 
 " Madame demands if there have been other 
 letters delivered from this office to Monsieur — 
 
 Monsieur " 
 
 " Hugh Farquhar." 
 
 " Precisely, ^h Men, madame, there have 
 been others. I can not tell how many. Three 
 or four — perhaps six. They have all been de- 
 livered ; except the last, which has been shown 
 to madame, and is yet unclaimed." 
 " Delivered to himself ?" 
 " To himself some ; and some to his messenger, 
 on exhibition of monsieur's passport." 
 
 " How long since. Monsieur ?" 
 . " Three weeks, I should think — or a month." 
 " Then he has left Chambery ?" 
 " It would seem so, madame ; but if you will 
 take the trouble to inquire at the Hotel de la 
 
 Poste " 
 
 " At the Hotel de la Poste ! Was he staying 
 there ?" 
 
 "I conclude so, madame, since the gar9on 
 from La Poste came once or twice for letters." 
 " It would be in vain, I suppose, to ask if 
 monsieur can remember whether a letter directed 
 in the same handwriting as the one now lying 
 here, Avas delivered to Monsieur Farquhar on or ' 
 about the twelfth of December ?" 
 
 The clerk took up Mrs. Sandyshaft's letter, 
 carefully scrutinized the superscription, and 
 said — 
 
 "So many letters pass through our hands, 
 madame, that I should be unwilling to hazard a 
 decided opinion ; but I think I have observed this 
 writing before, and on a letter addressed to the 
 same party. If so, it was somewhere about the 
 
 time which madame specifies, and " 
 
 " Was it delivered to himself, monsieur ?" 
 " I was just about to say, madame, that, in 
 that case, I rather incline to the belief that I de- 
 livered that letter to a lady." 
 " To a lady ?" 
 
 " On exhibition of monsieur's passport." 
 I leaned upon the counter for a moment, quite 
 faint and speechless ; then, pulling my vail down 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 179 
 
 upon my face, said, quickly and tremulously, — 
 " Thanks, monsieur," — and hurried out of the 
 oflSce. 
 
 A little way up the road there stood a clump 
 of trees, a fountain, and a stone bench. I made 
 my way to the bench and sat down, feeling very 
 giddy. My mind was all confused. I felt as if 
 some great misfortune had befallen me ; though 
 I scarcely comprehended the nature of it. Pres- 
 ently some young girls came up, chattering and 
 laughing, to fill their pitchers from the fountain. 
 I saw them look at me and whisper together. I 
 shuddered, rose, and turned away. Walking on, 
 as it were, instinctively, I crossed an open space 
 surrounded by public buildings, and entering a 
 street which opened off by one of the angles, 
 found myself immediately opposite a large white 
 house, across the front of which was pajjftted the 
 words, " H6tel de la Poste," A respectable- 
 looking man was standing at the door, with his 
 hands in his pockets. I paused, advanced a step, 
 and asked if I could speak to the landlord. To 
 which he replied, with a bow — 
 
 " Madame^ je suis le maitre cfhotel. Be pleased 
 to walk in." 
 
 " No, thank you, monsieur, I — I only wish to 
 make an inquiry." 
 
 "At your service, madame." 
 " I am anxious to know, monsieur, whether 
 an English gentleman named Farquhar has been 
 staying lately at your hotel ?" 
 
 " Not very lately, madame. He has been gone 
 nearly a month." 
 
 " May I ask how long he remained here ?" 
 " About'a fortnight, madame." 
 " Can you tell me if he is gone back to Eng- 
 land ?" 
 
 " If madame will take the trouble to accept a 
 seat in the bureau, I will refer to the visitor's 
 book, and see if monsieur left any address." 
 
 I stepped into the landlord's little parlor and, 
 sat down, while he turned over the pages of a 
 large book that lay upon a side-table. Presently 
 his forefinger, which had been rapidly running 
 down column after column, stopped at a certain 
 entry, like a pointer. 
 
 " No address left, madame," said he. *' But 
 monsieur, I think, took post-horses from here. 
 I will refer to my books, and see in what direc- 
 tion he traveled." 
 
 And the obUging maitre d'hotel took down a 
 ledger from his bookshelves, and resumed the 
 same process of search. Again the swift fore- 
 finger came to a sudden halt. 
 
 " Monsieur F. — numeros^ quatre, trois^ cinq, ef 
 six,'^ said he, running rapidly over the items of 
 the various entries. " Appartments, so much ; 
 dinners, breakfast, wine, etc. — post-horses to Gre- 
 noble — Monsieur went from here to Grenoble." 
 
 '.' To Grenoble ?" I repeated. " Thanks, mon- 
 sieur — and left no address ?" 
 " None, madame." 
 
 " Monsieur Farquhar traveled — alone ?" 
 "Monsieur arrived alone, Madame — c'esi d 
 dire, accompanied by his colored servant ; and 
 was joined here by Mademoiselle, his sister." 
 " By — by his — sister ?" 
 *' Yes, Madame. Mademoiselle arrived the 
 day before they started for Grenoble. Man 
 Bieu, Madame ! Vous — vous trouvez malade /" ' 
 " Thank you—" I said, pressing my hand to 
 my forehead. "I — I feel somewhat faint. A 
 
 long journey — and — and the fatigue of walking 
 before breakfast " 
 
 " Allow me to call for a glass of wine " 
 
 " No, thank you — a little water. You are 
 very good." 
 
 The landlord ran himself to a filter standing in 
 the hall, and brought me a tumblerful of fresh 
 water. Refreshed and steadied by the cool 
 draught, I rose, and bade him good morning. He 
 attended me to the door, and, seeing me hesi- 
 tate, asked in what direction I wished to go. 
 
 " To the Hotel du Petit Paris." 
 
 " Straight on, madame, till you come to the 
 end of the street, and then turn to the left. The 
 Petit Paris will be straight before you. You can 
 not miss your way." 
 
 " I am much obliged, Monsieur ; good morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " Madame, I have the honor to wish you good 
 morning." 
 
 " Bab, my dear," said my aunt, " we can do no 
 more than we have done. We must just sit down 
 now, and be patient." 
 
 " Patient !" I echoed, with a bitter sigh. 
 " Well, what's to be gained by impatience ? 
 Here's Grenoble ; yonder's the railway station ; 
 and to-day is the eighth of January. Six-and- 
 twenty days ago, a traveler leaves this hotel, 
 bag and baggage ; goes to that railway station ; 
 takes tickets for somewhere or another ; and dis- 
 appears. Who's to tell in what direction he went 
 — east, west, north, or south ? The cleverest, ' 
 detective in Bow Street couldn't track a man on 
 such a clue as that. I defy him. Much less 
 three women and a baby." 
 
 " Yet it is so hard to give up, now that we 
 
 are on his very footsteps " 
 
 ^ "Fiddlesticks, Bab. Footsteps don't help one 
 six-and-twenty days after date. One might go 
 to New-York and back in the time." 
 
 My aunt was sitting in an easy chair by the 
 fire; I was standing by the window, looking 
 over toward the Alps and the sunset. We had 
 followed on as far as Grenoble, and here aU 
 traces of Hugh and his companions disappeared. 
 They had left by railway the morning after their 
 arrival, and were gone no one knew whither. 
 Reluctant as I was to admit it, I knew that my 
 aunt was right, and further search useless. 
 
 " Well ?" said she, presently. " What's to 
 be done ?" 
 
 " What you please," I replied listlessly. 
 
 " Humph ! if I did what I pleased, I should go 
 back to Suffolk at once, and take you with me. 
 Will you go ?" 
 
 " To Suffolk ? Oh, no — never, never again, 
 unless " 
 
 " Unless what, pray ?" 
 
 " Unless with him." 
 
 "That's a ridiculous condition, Bab." 
 
 "Let him make every thing clear tome — let 
 him let him explain how it is that this wo- 
 man is again with him " 
 
 " That's easily explained. She has followed 
 him, I've no doubt, like a dog." 
 
 "Perhaps; but that is not all. That's not 
 enough." 
 
 " Well, Bab — your fittest home, for the pres- 
 ent, is my home. Decline it, if you please ; but 
 that's where you ought to be. In the mean time, 
 
180 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 we can't stay in this out-of-the-world place — 
 can we?" 
 
 " Certainly not. We must go back to Rome. 
 Perhaps he is already there, awaiting our re- 
 turn." 
 
 " I'll be bound, if so, that he won't be such a 
 fool as to run off to Chambery after 2<s," said 
 my aunt. " But I don't believe we shall find 
 him there." 
 
 " Nor I," I replied, hopelessly. 
 
 My aunt stood up, and came over to the win- 
 dow. 
 
 *' Shall we trudge off again to-morrow then?" 
 said she, laying her hand kindly on my shoulder. 
 *' Do you feel strong enough — eh ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes — quite strong enough." 
 
 " And you'd rather go to Rome ?" 
 
 " Of course. It is our only chance." 
 
 " Very well — Rome it shall be. And as for 
 that letter — well, well, I've my own suspicions ; 
 but never mind. Time will show. We must 
 play the game of patience, now ; but we hold 
 all the best cards in our own hands, my dear, 
 and win we must — some day. Poor Bab !" 
 
 We stood there for several minutes quite 
 silently, and watched the round red sun sink 
 slowly down behind the farthest peaks. The 
 broad plain lay below, all dusk and mysterious. 
 The lowest mountains became violet in shade, 
 and the loftiest crimson in light ; and the great 
 glaciers flashed like fire on the remotest horizon. 
 I thought of the time when Hugh and I travel- 
 ed together in the mighty Oberland, and my 
 eves grew dim, and my heart heavy, with the 
 remembrance. 
 
 " How grand it is," I said sadly. 
 
 " Yes, it's grand, of course it's grand," re- 
 plied Mrs. Sandyshaft. " But the truth is, my 
 dear, I've no taste for the sublime. Mountains 
 are all very well in their way ; but give me Suf- 
 folk !" 
 
 The next morning, we took the railway back 
 again to Marseilles, and embarked on board the 
 French boat for Civita Vecchia. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 THE OLD, OLD STORY. 
 
 " He is but a landscape painter, 
 And a village maiden she." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 January, February, March went by; April 
 came ; and still there was no sign or word from 
 Hugh. Hilda went off to Naples with her obe- 
 dient husband, for the fashionable season. Ida 
 completed her large picture, and dispatched it 
 to Zollenstrasse for the approaching competi- 
 tion. Paolo, after lingering in Rome week after 
 week, lost faith in my ability to help him, and 
 went back to his wife and home in Capri. In 
 the mean time my aunt came to live with u^ in 
 the Yicolo d'Aliberti, and we engaged all the 
 upper portion of the house, and a couple of good 
 servants for her accommodation. In the mean 
 time, also, my darling throve like a young plant 
 in the sunshine, drinking in strength and beauty 
 from every fragrant breath that stirred the open- 
 ing blossoms of the spring. He knew me now 
 — held out his little arms when he saw me from 
 afar off — smiled when I smiled ; and testified 
 his love in a thousand fond and helpless ways, 
 scarcely intelligible to any eyes but mine. 
 
 " Methought his looks began to talk with me ; 
 And no articulate sounds, but something sweet 
 His lips would frame." 
 
 Heaven knows I needed all the unconscious 
 comfort his baby heart could give ! I was very 
 wretched. 
 
 It was the mystery that made my life so 
 miserable — the painful, oppressive, entangling 
 mystery, that haunted me perpetually, sleeping 
 or waking, till my brain ached, and my very 
 soul was weary. 
 
 The letter had been delivered— that was cer- 
 tain. Immediately after its delivery, Hugh had 
 left Chambery for Grenoble — that also was cer- 
 tain. From Grenoble he had taken his de- 
 parture, after one night's delay, by railway ; and 
 from this point all trace of him disappeared. 
 He had left no address.* He had neither written 
 to Mrs. Sandyshaft, nor to any of his own peo- 
 ple at Broomhill. He had totally, unaccountably, 
 mysteriously vanished ; and with him had also 
 vanished Tippo and Maddalena. Sometimes I 
 thought he must have been murdered by banditti, 
 and buried where he fell. Sometimes I asked 
 myself if Maddalena could have poisoned him 
 in some fierce passion of jealousy and despair ? 
 She was Italian, and her black eyes had in them 
 " something dangerous." Again, I questioned 
 if he had ever received Mrs. Sandyshaft's letter. 
 The clerk believed that he had delivered it to a 
 lady. That lady must have been Maddalena ; 
 and what if she had destroyed it ? Supposing 
 this, would he not have marveled at my aunt's 
 long silence, and have written to her at the 
 Neapolitan oflBce ? 
 
 These questions tormented me ; pursued me ; 
 poisoned the very air and sunshine around me ; 
 and made my life one long, sickening, heart- 
 breaking suspense. In vain those around me 
 preached the wisdom and necessity of patience. 
 I could endure, and I could suffer ; but there 
 was no patience for such a burthen of anxiety as 
 mine. 
 
 Thus the slow weeks dragged past, and hope 
 gradually died away, and I made up my mind 
 that I should never see him more. 
 
 And now my turn had come to grow pale and 
 absent — to pore upon the map, and say " If I had 
 taken this direction, I should have met him ;" 
 or " If I had gone at once, I should have found 
 him" — to rack my brain with suppositions, and 
 my heart with bitter reproaches. It was retri- 
 bution, terrible, literal, torturing. Retribution 
 dealt out even-handed ; measure for measure ; 
 cup for cup, to the last drop of the draught. My 
 aunt never reproached me now ; but my self-con- 
 demnation was enough. In every pang that I suf- 
 fered, I remembered those which my flight had 
 inflicted on him. In every dark conjecture that 
 sent a shudder through my whole being, I recog- 
 nized his anguish. It was a woeful time ; and 
 any fault that had been mine in the past was ex- 
 piated to the utmost. 
 
 One afternoon, very early in April, Ida came 
 to me in my little painting-room, and sat down 
 on a stool at my feet. I was alone, and had been 
 brooding over my grief for hours in silence. She 
 took my hand, and laid her cheek upon it, ten- 
 derly. 
 
 " My poor Barbara," said she, *' you have been 
 solitary. Where is Mrs. Sandyshaft ?" 
 
 " Out, dear. She dines to-day at her banker's, 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 181 
 
 after accompanying them in a drive to Antemnae 
 and Fidenae." 
 
 *'Had I known that, I would have staid at 
 home. It is not good for you to be alone." 
 
 " Nay, dear, it makes little difference " I re- 
 plied, sadly. 
 " You have not been painting?" 
 "No." 
 
 "Nor readin«?" 
 "No." 
 
 " Nor walking ?" 
 
 " I walked on the Pincio this morning before 
 breakfast, with Goody and the child." 
 
 *' You must not always call him ' the child,' 
 and ' the baby,' " said Ida coaxingly. " You 
 must accustom yourself, dear, to give him his 
 own pretty name. I should love to call him 
 Hugh, if I were you — little Hugh — Ugolino." 
 " No, no— not yet. I can not." ^ 
 " Well then, may I ?" 
 *' No, darling — I can not bear it yet. By and 
 
 by, perhaps — when I am stronger " 
 
 " Enough — I will not tease you. And now — 
 and now, do you not wonder where I have been 
 all day ?" 
 
 " Ay, dear," was my listless answer. " Where?" 
 " Well, I went first to Plowden's to inquire if 
 there were yet any news from ZoUenstrasse re- 
 specting the safe arfival of my picture. I told 
 you I was going there, when I went out." 
 " I had forgotten it." 
 
 " And then I thought I would step in at Piale's, 
 to see if he had yet procured that Hand-book of 
 Rome for Mrs. Sandyshaft, which she ordered 
 several days ago." 
 
 " That was thoughtful and kind, my Ida." 
 "And — and at Piale's, I met the gentleman, 
 dear, whom I told you I encountered once or 
 twice before — do you remember?" 
 
 " To be sure. The English artist who lodged 
 in your father's house in Munich ; and who was 
 so good to you when you were a child." 
 
 " To whom I owe my first beginnings of art, 
 and who procured me my presentation to the 
 ZoUenstrasse College," said Ida warmly. 
 
 "He has been, indeed, a good friend," I re- 
 plied, trying to fix my wandering attention. 
 " So you met him again to-day at Piale's ?" 
 
 " Yes — he was in the reading-room ; but — ^he 
 rose up when he saw me, and shook hands so 
 kindly ; and — and asked me if I would like to 
 go to the Campana Museum, for which he had a 
 permission of entry. Now, you know, dear, 
 the Campana collection is one of the great dif- 
 ficulties of Rome. It is almost impossible to 
 
 procure admission, and " 
 
 " And you went, I suppose ?" 
 " I was very glad to avail myself of the op- 
 portunity — and I thought there could be no ob- 
 jection to the escort of a — a gentleman whom I 
 
 had known since I was a little girl '' 
 
 " Surely not, my dear Ida. I am glad you 
 
 have seen the collection. It is very beautiful." 
 
 " Indeed it is," replied Ida. " He asked me 
 
 with whom I was living. I find he knows you, 
 
 Barbara." 
 
 "Knows me?" I repeated. "How should 
 that be ?" 
 
 " He has met you, dear — at a pic-nic." 
 " Ah — that is possible. I have forgotten his 
 name ?" 
 
 " Penwame— Alfred Penwame. Is it not a 
 grand name?" 
 
 " Yes — it is a good name. I remember him 
 now. He is very satirical." 
 
 " He is very witty," said Ida, coloring up, and 
 speaking somewhat emphatically. 
 
 " Nay, dear child — I mean no unkindness of 
 your friend. So he remembers to have seen me 
 at Tivoli ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and he asked me if you were one of 
 the Carylons of Pen — Pen — something, in Corn- 
 wall ; and then he said that Carlyon was a Cor- 
 nish name, and that he himself was a Cornish man. 
 I was so confused, Barbara; and yet I could 
 scarcely keep from laughing." 
 
 "Poor Ida! it was very annoying for you." 
 
 " Oh, it was nothing. Well, dear — we went 
 
 all through the Campana gallery ; and then, on 
 
 coming out, Mr. Penwame proposed that we 
 
 should take a turn on the Pincio. And — and 
 
 then " 
 
 She paused ; and I was startled to find how 
 her hand trembled in mine. 
 
 "Why, Ida," I exclaimed, " you are nervous, 
 child ! Your cheek is flushed — you tremble — 
 what is it?" 
 
 " I — I scarcely know whether to laugh or cry," 
 faltered she ; " but — but it is all so strange — I 
 
 seem as if I could not believe it " 
 
 " Could not beUeve what, my darling?" 
 " What he told me in — in the gardens." 
 A sudden light flashed upon me. I stooped 
 over her where she sat at my feet, and taking 
 her pretty head between my hands, turned her 
 face toward me. 
 
 " What did he tell you, my little Ida ?" I said, 
 smiling. " That he had never forgotten you, 
 all these years — and that Ida Penwarne would 
 sound far prettier for a lady's name than Ida 
 Saxe ?" 
 
 She flung her arms round my neck, and buried 
 her blushing face in my bosom. 
 
 " He said that — that he had always thought 
 . of me with kindness," whispered she, " and that 
 — since the first day he met me here in Rome, 
 he — he loved me !" 
 
 " And you, Liehe — what did you reply ?" 
 
 " I hardly remember 1 — I think I said I was 
 
 very glad not to have been — ^forgotten — by him." 
 
 "But, my dear child, is not all this strangely 
 
 precipitate ? You have not seen Mr. Penwarne 
 
 more than twice before to-day, and how can yo\i 
 
 tell whether " 
 
 " I have seen him a great many times," said 
 Ida, guiltily. " I — I couldn't help it. I suppose 
 
 that, knowing where I lived " 
 
 "He contrived to meet you, by accident — 
 eh?" 
 
 " Perhaps ; and then " 
 
 "And then, what?" 
 
 " He lived in our house for more than two 
 years. It is not as if we were strangers." 
 " That is true." 
 
 "And — and besides, Barbara, I — I think I 
 loved him a little, before I came to ZoUenstrasse 
 at all !" 
 
 Pretty, artless Ida ! Her long-hidden secret 
 was told at last, and all the rest of her life's in- 
 nocent romance was soon poured out. It was 
 the old, old story, of which the world is never 
 weary — the old story of how admiration and 
 gratitude became love in a simple maiden's heart, 
 dwelling there, an unwritten poem, year after 
 year ; unfostered by a single hope ; untainted by 
 a single regret ; pure as her own soul, and sacred 
 
182 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 as her religion. She had so much to tell, and 
 yet it was so little when told ! How he first 
 came to live at her father's cottage by the banks 
 of the Isar; how he took kindly notice of her 
 from the first ; how she loved to linger near 
 when he was painting, and with what eager won- 
 der she watched the daily progress of his work ; 
 how he took her, one day, to the museum of 
 pictures ; how, another day, he made a little por- 
 trait of her in oils, and gave it to her mother ; 
 how, at last, he offered to teach her something 
 of drawing ; and what a happy time it was when 
 she used to go out with him into the fields be- 
 hind the house, and sketch the pine rafts that 
 came down the river, the great elms that fringed 
 the opposite bank, and all the homely subjects 
 round about — these, and the like simple inci- 
 dents, made the substance of her little story ; 
 yet every detail interested me, and I listened to 
 it from first to last with a tender sympathy that 
 caused me, for the time, to forget my trouble in 
 her happiness. 
 
 Thus we sat talking till the early dusk drew 
 on, and the red glow of the embers on the 
 hearth became the only light by which we saw 
 each other's face ; and then Ida went up to her 
 own room, and I was alone again. 
 
 The wind had risen within the last hour, and 
 came, every now and then, in sudden gusts 
 against !he window. I rose, and looked out. 
 A few stars gleamed between the rifts of ragged 
 cloud that drifted across the sky, and an occasion- 
 al blot of rain came with the wind. I turned 
 from the cheerless prospect with a shudder ; and, 
 resuming my former seat, fell back upon the old 
 train of thought, as if nothing had occurred to 
 interrupt it. Presently my boy waked in his 
 little cot, with that sweet, impatient, inarticulate 
 cry that was so eloquent to my ear. I hastened 
 to throw on a fresh log and a couple of pine- 
 cones, to make the room bright for him ; then 
 took him in my arms ; danced him to and fro 
 before the fire to the tune of a quaint, old-fash- 
 ioned Italian lullaby ; kissed him ; talked to him ; 
 and watched how his great blue eyes were turned 
 toward the leaping flame in wonder and delight. 
 These were my happy moments — my only happy 
 moments now — and even these were often over- 
 cast by sudden clouds of anguish. 
 
 All at once the door opened, and Goody, with 
 a startled look upon her face, peeped in. 
 
 " My deary," said she, " there's a lady wait- 
 ing to see you." 
 "A lady?" 
 
 " And — and she asked for Mrs. Farquhar, 
 my deary," added the old servant, apprehen- 
 sively. 
 
 " My name ?" I stammered, seized with a 
 vague terror. *' Who knows my name ?" 
 
 " She's quite a stranger," said Goody, " and — 
 she's here !" 
 
 I rose as my visitor appeared on the thresh- 
 old. She came in — closed the door — lifted 
 her vail. 
 
 It was Maddalena. 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. 
 
 maddalena's confession. 
 
 " Fack to face in my chamber, my silent chamber, I saw 
 her! 
 God, and she and I only."— Mrs. Browning. 
 
 My first impulse was one of terror — unmixed, 
 overmastering terror. I turned cold from head 
 to foot, and my heart failed within me. For a 
 moment, we stood there, face to face, in the 
 firelight ; both silent. Maddalena was the first 
 to speak. 
 
 " At last we meet," she said, in a low, dis- 
 tinct tone. " At last !" 
 
 ^ I shuddered. I so well remember that vibra- 
 ting, melancholy voice, with its slightly foreign 
 intonation. 
 
 *' Whose child is that ?" 
 I clasped my boy closer to my bosom. My 
 lips moved, but uttered no sound. 
 
 " Whose child is that ?" she repeated. 
 "Mine." 
 
 She took a step forward ; but as she did so, I 
 sprang back, laid my baby in his cot, and stood 
 before it, trembling but desperate, like some 
 wild creature at bay. 
 
 "Keep off"!" I cried, vehemently. "You 
 shall not touch him." 
 
 She looked at me with -eyes that dilated as 
 she spoke. 
 
 " Fool !" she said, scornfully. " Do you think 
 I would harm your child ?" 
 
 Then her face grew gentle and her voice soft- 
 ened, as she added : 
 " Is it not 7ws, also ?" 
 
 " His !" I echoed, my terror rapidly giving 
 place to indignation. " Do you presume to name 
 my husband to my face ?" 
 
 " I come here to-night for no other purpose 
 than to speak of him." 
 
 " In that case," I said, controlHng my voice 
 to a steady coldness as I went on, " you will be 
 so good as to remember that you address Mr. 
 Farquhar's wife." 
 
 She smiled, disdainfully, 
 " His wife ?" she repeated. " Ay — I am not 
 likely to forget it." 
 
 " What have you to say to me ?" 
 " Much," she replied, leaning against the table, 
 and pressing her hand to her side, as if in pam. 
 "Truths bitter to tell — so bitter that, three 
 weeks ago, I would have torn my. tongue out, 
 sooner than utter them. Yet I am here to-night 
 to tell them to — youP 
 
 She paused again, as if for breath, and I saw 
 that she looked very ill. I pointed, almost invol- 
 untarily, to a chair that was standing by ; but 
 she took no notice of the gesture. 
 
 ' Listen," she said, in a voice so resolutely 
 defiant that it seemed to mock the quivering of 
 her lips ; " listen, you, his lady- wife, to a peasant 
 who was his mistress. He never sought me. It 
 was I who fled to him, and laid myself at his 
 feet. He never loved me. The love was mine ; 
 the pity and indulgence his. He never married 
 me. Such was the chivalry of his nature, that 
 he would have made me his wife if he could ; 
 simply because I was a woman, and had given 
 myself to him. But I was already married ; and 
 so that could not be. Yet, in the rashness of 
 his gcnerosit)', he gave me a solemn promise 
 that he would never wed another. It was a pro- 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 188 
 
 mise that he should never have given. It was a 
 promise that he had not strength to keep. He 
 has told me since how he suffered and struggled 
 under temptation ; how he even fled from that 
 temptation before he yielded. You know that, 
 better than I can tell you." 
 
 Indeed, I did know it. I bowed my head in 
 silence. I could not speak — I could only listen. 
 It was as if my life and all my future hung upon 
 her lips ; while, at every word she uttered, some 
 cloud seemed to roll away from the past. 
 
 " I never knew that promise was broken," 
 she continued, "4ill a few days before he brought 
 — his wife — to Broomhill. It had been my home 
 up to that time, and he had vowed it should be 
 mine while I lived. I then learned that I must 
 either leave the shelter of his roof; or dwell be- 
 neath it a voluntary prisoner. I chose the latter, 
 and, for his sake, endured ^" ^ 
 
 She checked herself, and flashing a hasty 
 glance at me, said : 
 
 " No matter what I endured. I loved him — 
 and love him. A hundred wives- could do no 
 more. Not one in a hundred thousand would 
 have done so much." 
 
 " Hush," I said, gently. " These are compari- 
 sons which it neither becomes you to make, nor 
 me to hear." 
 
 She waved her hand impatiently. 
 
 " My precautions," said she, " were in vain. 
 Fate guided you. Step by step, you discovered 
 all. You, however, rejected some truths ; and 
 too literally accepted the purport of words which 
 — which were not for your ear. Do you under- 
 stand me ?" 
 
 " Perfectly. But my husband — Mr. Farquhar 
 — tell me where " 
 
 "Patience. I have a confession to make 
 first." 
 
 " A confession ?" I repeated ; all my fears 
 flooding back at once upon my heart. 
 
 She turned even paler than before, and fierce- 
 ly clenched the hand that rested on the table. 
 
 "You fled," said she, in a deep low tone; 
 " and your flight sealed my fate. Sooner or 
 later you must return — I knew that. I also 
 knew that the day of your return would be the 
 day of my banishment. I had hated you be- 
 fore, but from that hour I hated you with ten- 
 fold bitterness. Ay, you may well shrink ! 
 We Southerns hate as we love — to madness. 
 There was a time, and that not long since, when 
 I could have taken your life without pity." 
 
 I listened, as if in a terrible dream. 
 
 "You fled," she went on to say, breathing 
 with difficulty, and speaking in short, sharp sen- 
 tences, like one in pain. "You fled, and I was 
 again free. But my peace was gone. He suf- 
 fered ; and his suffierings were my sufferings — 
 his restlessness, my restlessness. Life lost its 
 last charm for me. I loathed even Broomhill — 
 Broomhill, once so calm and pleasant ! Thus a 
 year passed." 
 
 Again she broke off abruptly. Her brow 
 contracted, and the veins rose like cords upon 
 the back of her thin, resolute hand. It was as 
 if she could not bring herself to utter what she 
 had next to say. 
 
 "He went abroad," she continued. "He 
 wrote to me. It was his wish that I should re- 
 main no longer at Broomhill. He— he had re- 
 solved to provide me with a home far away ; 
 
 and he bade me join him — at Chambery. That 
 letter came to me like my death-warrant. I had 
 expected it ; but the blow fell none the less 
 heavily. I obeyed without a murmur. Had he 
 bidden me die by slow poison, I should have 
 obeyed as literally. I went. He told me that 
 I was to live henceforth at Nice, where he had 
 bought a villa for me by the sea. He thought 
 kindly for me, even in this. It was my own 
 climate, my own sea, the land of my own 
 tongue. But it was banishment — banishment 1" 
 
 " But when you left Chambery," I began, 
 trembling with eagerness to know more, " when 
 you left Chambery, in what " 
 
 "Patience," she said again. "You shall 
 hear all in its course. I joined him at Cham- 
 bery. He made it appear there that I was his 
 sister. I arrived on the Sunday afternoon. It 
 was arranged that we should begin our journey 
 the following day. I rose early the next morn- 
 ing, and went out before breakfast ; for I was 
 very restless. He asked me to call at the Post- 
 office, and leave directions that all letters should 
 be forwarded to him at the Bureau Restante, 
 Nice. He also gave me his passport to show, 
 in case any should have arrived by that morn- 
 ing's mail. I made up my mind, as I w5nt 
 along, that I would not leave his address. There 
 was always danger that news of yourself might 
 come at last, and my only hope hung on your 
 absence. They were just opening the bag when 
 I went in, and at once handed me a letter for 
 him. I recognized Mrs. Sandyshaft's writing. 
 I had often seen it at Broomhill. I had no 
 sooner taken that letter in my hand than I felt 
 a presentiment of evil. I wandered out beyond 
 the town, and sat down in a solitary place to ex- 
 amine it. The more I looked at it, the more I 
 was convinced that it contained some fatal intel- 
 ligence. My destiny trembled in the balance. 
 It was in my own power to turn the scale. I — 
 I hesitated long. The temptation was all-pow- 
 erful, and yet I — I struggled against it " 
 
 " You destroyed the letter !" I exclaimed. 
 
 " I was desperate," she replied, starting into 
 sudden energy. " It was my only stake — and I 
 played it. Yes, I confess it — I opened the let- 
 ter — read it — tore it into a thousand fragments, 
 and sent it floating down the stream that hur- 
 ried by. There, you know it now — all the 
 black and bitter truth." 
 
 " Alas, poor Hugh !" I faltered, tearfully. 
 
 Maddalena opened her dark eyes full upon 
 me, half in wonder, half in scorn. She had ex- 
 pected a torrent of reproaches. She could not 
 comprehend how grief and pity should take 
 precedence of resentment in my heart. 
 
 " We left Chambery," she resumed hastily, 
 " and went to Nice. There he consented to rest 
 awhile, and repair his shattered strength. It 
 had been agreed that Mrs. Sandyshaft should 
 only write in case she had something definite to 
 communicate. Day after day, he waited and 
 hoped. At last he wrote to her at Naples. I 
 intercepted that letter also, and it remained un- 
 answered. At length the climate, which at first 
 had done him good, began to fail of its effect. 
 As the spring advanced, he fell gradually more 
 and more out of health. I saw him declining 
 daily-r-not from disease ; but because he was too 
 weary of life to bear the burdea of living. Then 
 my punishment began." ' 
 
1^4 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 " Wretch !" I cried, " you let him die ! You 
 let him die, when a word would have saved 
 him ! Oh, it was murder — murder !" 
 
 She smiled — a strange, agonized, terrible 
 smile. 
 
 *' You have been well avenged," she said, 
 " in all that I have suffered." 
 
 I fell on my knees beside the little cot, in a 
 paroxysm of despair and horror. I could not 
 weep. I could only struggle for breath, and 
 grasp the woodwork frame with both hands, 
 convulsively. 
 
 " My child !" I gasped. " My poor, father- 
 less baby ! Dead — oh, God ! dead — dead !" 
 
 Maddalena came over swiftly and silently, and 
 laid her cold hand on mine. 
 
 " Be comforted," she said. "Your husband 
 lives." 
 
 I looked at her. My lips moved, but my 
 tongue was dumb. I felt as if her words had 
 some meaning which my sense failed to com- 
 pass. 
 
 " He lives," she repeated. "I have come to 
 take you to him." 
 
 The reaction was too much. I had not strength 
 to bear the sudden joy. I uttered a faint cry ; 
 felt myself falling forward, powerless to put out 
 a hand in self help; and lapsed into utter un- 
 consciousness. 
 
 CHAPTER LXVI. 
 
 THE OSTERIA DELLA FOSSA. 
 " Quite dumb ? Dead, dead." — Shakspeare. 
 
 " Where is she ?" 
 
 They were the first words I uttered, when my 
 memory came back and I had strength to speak. 
 
 " Hush, Bab," said my aunt, putting her fin- 
 ger to her lip. " You mustn't talk. What's- 
 her-name's gone this three quarters of an hour, 
 and — ^mercy on us ! you mustn't try to sit up, 
 child ! Lie down and be quiet, or we shall have 
 you going off again, as sure as fate." 
 
 "Gone? Gone without me ?" I cried, strug- 
 gling to an upright posture, in spite of my 
 aunt's well-meant eiforts to pin me to the sofa. 
 
 " Without you ? — well, I should think so. 
 Here you've been in a dead faint, ever since 
 they fetched me home. You wouldn't have had 
 her put you in a coach and carry you off like 
 that, I suppose ? But do lie down, Bab, and 
 hold your tongue, and be rational." 
 
 I fell back, silenced and exhausted. 
 
 "Besides, we've got the address," added my 
 aunt. " Ida has it all written out upon a card. 
 
 Hotel-— hotel whatever is the name of the 
 
 place, my dear ? I'm sure I can't remember." 
 
 " Osteria della Fossa," replied Ida, smoothing 
 my hair back, tenderly. 
 
 " Where is it?" I whispered. 
 
 " Some little way beyond La Storta, lAehchen^ 
 on the Florence road — not far, I believe, from 
 Veii." 
 
 I closed my eyes and lay still for several 
 minutes, during which my aunt insisted on pre- 
 scribing sal-volatile and water, while Goody 
 busied herself in the preparation of some strong 
 "English" tea. 
 
 " What o'clock is it ?" was my next question. 
 
 "Nearly ten, darling; and a wild dreary 
 night." 
 
 My aunt looked up, sharply. 
 
 "It's of no use, Bab," said she. "I know 
 what you're thinking of; but it can't be done. 
 You don't stir an inch before to-morrow, I pro- 
 mise you — and not then, unless you're a vast 
 deal better." 
 
 I made no reply ; but I pressed Ida's hand 
 significantly, and she returned the pressure. 
 
 "And Hugh won't expect you, either," con- 
 tinued my aunt. "She'll tell him you're not 
 well; and it won't kill him to wait twelve 
 hours longer!" 
 
 " He will not wait till to-morrow," I said, 
 confidently. " He will be here himself before 
 midnight." 
 
 " Here himself ? No, no, my dear — ^love can 
 do a good deal, I've no doubt ; but I don't be- 
 lieve in miracles. Love won't give a man 
 strength to rise from a sick-bed, on which " 
 
 "A sick-bed?" I cried, starting upright in a 
 moment. " Merciful heaven ! he is ill, and you 
 never told me 1" 
 
 " Never told you ?" stammered my aunt. 
 " But she didn't she tell you ?" 
 
 " Not a word. Oh, speak — speak — quickly — 
 the truth' — let me have the truth !" 
 
 My aunt hesitated, and looked as if she would 
 fain recall her words. 
 
 " He — he was ill when he started, you know," 
 she began. 
 
 "I did not know it!" 
 
 " But he would come, when he once knew you 
 were in Rome. He was too ill to venture by 
 sea, so they traveled post " 
 
 "All the way from Nice ?" 
 
 " No, from the baths of Lucca, where he had 
 gone for change of air, about ten days before." 
 
 " Go on — go on !" 
 
 " Well, my dear, there's not much more to 
 tell. He ought to have been in his bed when 
 he started; but nothing would keep him. He 
 knocked up half-way, at a place called — 
 called " 
 
 "Bolseno," suggested Ida. 
 
 "Where he was obliged to put up for half a 
 day, and a night," continued my aunt. "But 
 the next morning he would go on again. He 
 got worse and worse, the farther he went ; and . 
 at this place — ^what dy'e call it — Fossa? — 
 within twelve or fourteen miles of Rome, was 
 forced to give in, and do what any sensible man 
 would have done at first ; namely, take to his 
 bed, and send for you and a doctor." 
 
 "And she told you all this ?" 
 
 "After a deal of cross-examination; but you 
 know, my dear, when I question folks I will be 
 answered. Mercy on us, child ! what are you 
 about ?" 
 
 " I am going to my husband," I replied, firm- 
 ly. "Nay, aunt, no opposition can stay me. 
 I will go. Let a carriage and post-horses be 
 sent for instantly." 
 
 " But you're ill yourself, Bab, and " 
 
 " I am well — quite well, now." 
 
 " It's midsummer madness, I tell, you !" 
 
 " Let it be madness, then — I mean to be at 
 the Osteria della Fossa by midnight." 
 
 My aunt threw up her hands in indignant pro- 
 test, while Ida glided quietly from the room, to 
 see that my orders were obeyed. 
 
 " Mind this, Bab," said Mrs. Sandyshaft; "if 
 any harm comes of it, remember I set my face 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 185 
 
 against it. Why, you may be waylaid by ban- 
 ditti on the road ! Who ever heard of such a 
 thing as a lady going across that horrible desert 
 outside Rome, at night, and unprotected ? Be- 
 sides, how can you leave the child ?" 
 
 *' I shall take him with me." 
 
 " Oh, if you want to kill the child, I have no 
 more to say," exclaimed my aunt, very angrily. 
 " You know better than I do, what effect the 
 pestilent night-air of the Campagna is likely to 
 take upon a poor little infant like that. It's a 
 wicked tempting of Providence — God forgive 
 me, that I should say so of my own niece ; but 
 that's what I think. Please yourself!" 
 
 I did please myself. I knew that on a night 
 when the atmosphere was purified by heavy rain, 
 there would be no danger from miasmata ; and 
 I also knew that I could carry my boy from his 
 bed to the carriage, and so, most probably, all 
 the way, without once awaking him. I'^aid so, 
 briefly but very decidedly, and left Mrs. Sandy- 
 shaft to cool down while I dressed for the jour- 
 ney. When I came back from my bedroom, I 
 found her with her bonnet on, and a ponderous 
 old horse-pistol lying before her on the table. 
 
 "There, my dear," said she, nodding very 
 good-temperedly, and taking up this weapon 
 with an air of great satisfaction, " that's to keep 
 off the banditti. It always hung over my bed- 
 room chimney-piece at Stoneycroft Hall ; and 
 when I came abroad, I brought it in the drawer 
 of my dressing-case, where other folks carry 
 jewelry. None of your foreign spies thought 
 of looking there ; and catch me traveling about 
 the world without some means of self-defense !" 
 
 Night ; darkness ; the wind howling round the 
 empty piazzas ; the rain dashing against the 
 carriage-windows ; the blurred lamps flaring at 
 the street-corners; the long, lonely thorough- 
 fares echoing to our wheels as we rattle past — 
 every revolution of those wheels, every clatter 
 of our horses' hoofs on the wet stones, every 
 lagging second of every minute carrying us 
 nearer and nearer ! Now we cross the Piazza 
 del Popolo, with the solemn old Egyptian obe- 
 lisk dimly seen in the midst ; and are stopped 
 for a moment at the gate, where some half-dozen 
 soldiers and a customs official are loitering in- 
 side, by a blazing wood-fire. Now we are out 
 upon the walled road beyond ; and overhead all 
 is pitchy darkness, and around us the driving, 
 blinding rain. 
 
 Mrs. Sandyshaft sits beside me, and my baby 
 sleeps sweetly in my arras. We are both silent. 
 The postillion shouts to his horses and cracks his 
 whip. Once we meet a traveling carriage with 
 blazing lamps, and once overtake a lumber- 
 ing diligence escorted by a couple of dragoons. 
 These are the only incidents of our journey. 
 By and by the walls and outlying villas are left 
 behind ; and we traverse a black, mysterious ex- 
 panse of open country, over which our road 
 seems sometimes to rise, and sometimes to fall, 
 as if the ground were hilly. Thus the weary 
 minutes ebb away ; and still every turn of the 
 wheels carries us nearer and nearer. 
 
 Now we reach La Storta, the first post from 
 Rome, and take fresh horses. The change is 
 effected, no doubt, as quickly as usual ; but the 
 delay, to#Qy impatience, seems interminable. I 
 throw a liberal buono mano to the last postil- 
 lion ; the new one springs into his saddle ; we 
 
 dash away at a gallant pace ; and through the 
 gloom of the night, something like the outlines 
 of near hills are now and then vaguely dis- 
 tinguishable. More than two thirds of the dis- 
 tance are now past. In about twenty minutes 
 
 more 1 turn hot and cold by turns. I can 
 
 scarcely breathe. The wildest apprehensions flit 
 across my mind. What.if he were dead when 
 I arrive ? What if he should only live to sigh 
 out his last breath in my arms ? What if Mad- 
 dalena knew that he was dying ; and so brought 
 me hither to gratify a last, subtle, pitiless, pro- 
 found revenge ? I strive to recall her face as I 
 saw it just before I fainted. It looked pale, and 
 strange, and full of meaning. She said, " your 
 husband lives ; " — not " he loill live." Alas ! 
 
 The road takes an abrupt turn. Then comes 
 a break in the stormy canopy of clouds, and a 
 faint gleam shows that we have entered a steep 
 ravine. The brawl of a torrent mingles with 
 the hoarse murmuring of the wind. 
 
 "Just the place for banditti," mutters my 
 aunt, peering suspiciously from side to side. 
 
 All at once, a light is seen gleaming some 
 little distance ahead. Our postillion spurs his 
 horses — shouts — cracks his whip — pulls up be- 
 fore a low, wide-fronted wayside inn — the Oste- 
 ria della Fossa ! 
 
 The landlord (a mere peasant in a sheep-skin 
 jacket^ comes hurrying out with a lighted pine- 
 torch m his hand, and bows us into a tiny, com- 
 fortless parlor with a paved floor, and a hand- 
 ful of smoldering ashes on the hearth. 
 
 " I'll wait here, Bab, and take care of the 
 child," says my aunt, flurriedly ; " and, for 
 mercy's sake, keep as cool as you can. Re- 
 member, he's very ill, and excitement can only 
 do him mischief. There now, keep up a good 
 heart, and God bless you." 
 
 " Is he awake ?" I ask, tremulously. 
 
 " Dimandero, signora^''^ replies the landlord, 
 moving toward the stairs. 
 
 I sprang after him. 
 
 " No, no," I cried, snatching the lamp from 
 the table. " Show me the way." 
 
 " Up-stairs, signora — ^the second door to the 
 right. Permetta " 
 
 " Enough — I will go up alone." 
 
 I went alone. At the landing I paused; 
 dreading, longing to go forward ; a wild flutter- 
 ing at my heart ; a weight of lead upon my feet. 
 Another two or three steps, and the first door is 
 passed. Before I reach the second, I pause 
 again.* Is it only shadow, or do I see something 
 dark against the threshold ? 
 
 The shadow moves — moans — lifts a white face 
 to the light, and, crawling toward me along the 
 sordid passage, grovels in piteous supplication. 
 
 " If you have a woman's heart in your 
 breast — if you hope for God's pity in your last 
 need, speak for me !" 
 
 " Maddalena ?" 
 
 " Only to see him once more — to kiss his 
 hand — to hear his voice, and know myself for- 
 given ! Only this ! only this !" 
 
 " Poor soul ! what has happened ?" 
 
 " He will not see me — he will not speak to 
 me ! I lie at his threshold, dying — dying — 
 dying, because he hates me !" 
 
 " Nay, you are not dying, and he does not 
 hate you. Be calm. You shall see him, and he 
 shall forgive you — for my sake. There, rise — 
 
186 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 rise and go down to the fireside. Your hands 
 are like ice."" 
 
 "You promise?" 
 
 " I promise. It shall be my first prayer to 
 him, and I know he will grant it. How long is 
 it since he refused to see you ? What have you 
 done to anger him ?" 
 
 " Confessed — confessed every thing ! Till 
 this evening, I had never told him all. I did 
 not dare. I pretended I had news of you from 
 a stranger. It was to save his life. I knew he 
 would die without you. But I could not bear 
 to deceive him longer. I told him ; and when 
 I told him, he — aA, Dio ! he cursed me!" 
 
 " He will recall the curse. Let me go to him, 
 Maddalena, and, by the love I bear toward my 
 child, he shall pardon you." 
 
 *' God in heaven bless you !" 
 
 " But you must go down to the fire, and be 
 patient awhile. It may be an hour before I call 
 you." 
 
 " An hour? Oh, no — no — not an hour !" 
 
 I comforted her with such assurance of speed 
 as I could give ; helped her to rise ; saw her 
 totter feebly down the stairs, a step at a time ; 
 and then turned to the door of the second cham- 
 ber ; opened it softly, and went in. 
 
 I saw a bed, screened by a single curtain ; a 
 table, on which a small oil-lamp was burning ; 
 and a young peasant woman dozing in a chair 
 beside the window. I hesitated a moment, con- 
 sidering what was best to be done ; then crossed 
 the room noiselessly; woke her by a gentle 
 touch ; laid my finger to my lips ; and pointed 
 first to my wedding-ring, and then to the door. 
 She opened her dark eyes — looked startled — 
 then puzzled — then intelligent ; whispered 
 " capisco ;" and crept out of the room. 
 
 I sat down in her vacant chair — alone with 
 him. 
 
 His watch lay on the table — his dear familiar 
 •watch ; and with it a little plain gold locket 
 that I had once given him, containing my por- 
 trait. It seemed so strange to see them here ! 
 I held my breath, and listened for his breathing. 
 I could not hear it. My terrors rushed back 
 upon me. I had meant to sit there quietly till 
 he woke ; but it was impossible. I felt that I 
 must look upon him, be the risk what it might ! 
 
 I rose, shading the lamp with my hand, and 
 stole over to the bedside. His face was turned 
 to the wall ; his hair fell on the pillow in long, 
 wild locks ; and he lay with one arm above his 
 head, and the other thrown carelessly back. 
 What a wasted hand it was, and how the veins 
 throbbed on it, as I gazed ! 
 
 The blinding tears welled up from my heart 
 to my eyes, and dropped heavily, one by one, 
 upon the coverlet, like drops of summer rain. 
 He stirred ; and I moved back, quickly. 
 
 Then he sighed ; muttered something to> him- 
 self; stirred again ; and said : 
 
 ''Che,oraer 
 
 1 stammered — 
 
 " Mezza-notte^ signore" 
 
 He drew his breath quickly ; seemed to listen 
 for a moment ; then sat up all at once — tore 
 the curtain aside — cried, *' Barbara ! my wife !" 
 — and we were once more folded in each other's 
 arms. 
 
 Once more, after so many bitter, bitter months 
 of parting. Oh, the joy of that moment ! the 
 
 bewildering, overwhelming, intoxicating joy ; 
 never to be forgotten, and yet never to be per 
 fectly remembered. Tears, kisses, questions, 
 sobs, broken exclamations — who can recall or 
 record them ? They are sacred, and dwell 
 vaguely upon the memory, like a half-forgotten 
 perfume. 
 
 " I am better — I know that I am better. The 
 dead weight is gone from my heart, and the 
 springs of life are renewed in my veins. Ah, 
 Barbarina — my little Barbarina, how sweet to 
 live again! How weary the world has been 
 without thee ! Mcthinks I hardly knew all the 
 depths of my own tenderness for thee, till I had 
 lost thee." 
 
 " We will never part again, my beloved." 
 
 "Never, till death — but we won't talk of 
 death, my darling. There — let me lay my head 
 upon your bosom ; let me feel your breath upon 
 my forehead. God be thanked for all this hap- 
 piness !" 
 
 " Amen, husband." 
 
 " Hast thou missed me, my little one?" 
 
 " Day and night ; sleeping and waking ; in 
 every act, and thought, and effort of my life.'' 
 
 He smiled, and closed his eyes. An ineffable 
 peace stole over his features, and he fell asleep. 
 
 I dared not move — I scarcely dared to breathe ; 
 for his head was resting on my bosom, and my 
 arms supported him. Alas ! how weak he was 
 — how weak and pale, and sorrow-worn and wan ! 
 A long time, or what seemed a long time, went 
 by thus. He slept like an infant ; and, as he 
 slept, I saw with rapture the faint color return- 
 ing to his parted lips, and the deadly pallor 
 fading from his cheeks and brow. Then my po- 
 sition began to grow intensely painful. My 
 limbs became cramped ; my head swam ; my 
 hands and feet lost sensation ; and I felt as if I 
 might at any moment make some involuntary 
 movement which would wake him. But my 
 strong self-control prevailed. I bore it, agony 
 as it was, till it ceased to be agony, and became 
 a mere physical numbness, easy to endure. 
 
 The house all this time was profoundly quiet. 
 I could hear the horses pawing now and then in 
 the stable outside, and every tick of a clock 
 somewhere on the ground-floor below. Once I 
 fancied I heard a footstep on the stairs ; but it 
 was only for an instant. At length, when my 
 eyes were beginning to close, despite my efforts 
 to keep them open, he awoke. 
 
 "Then it is true!" said he. "No dream, 
 after all!" 
 
 " Utterly true, my husband." 
 
 " And I have been asleep, sweetheart — asleep 
 in thy dear arms ! Such sleep is life. I feel 
 well — quite well, already — and quite happy. 
 Another kiss, my Barbara — let me hold your 
 hand — so ! '^ 
 
 And he fell asleep again. 
 
 As he slept, his grasp relaxed, and I was en- 
 abled gradually to disengage my hand. His 
 head was now resting on the pillow. His breath- 
 ing was gentle and regular. His hands were 
 cool; and the smile with which he had last 
 spoken yet lingered on his lips. SudMUleep was 
 life, indeed! He was saved — I knew that he 
 was saved; and I knelt down by his bedside, 
 
BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 187 
 
 and offered up a silent thanksgiving to Him who 
 " giveth his beloved sleep." 
 
 Then I rose, took the lamp, and stole across 
 the room. I opened the door. Something dark 
 lay stretched across the threshold. It was Mad- 
 dalena, crouched in her old place, with her face 
 buried in her hands. Poor Maddalena ! I had 
 almost forgotten her. 
 
 Fearing to rouse her while the door was yet 
 open, I stepped cautiously over her feet ; closed 
 the door behind me ; and then touched her on 
 the shoulder. 
 
 " Maddalena," I whispered. " Wake, Mad- 
 dalena !" 
 
 She neither stirred nor spoke. I stooped, 
 and took her hand. It was cold, like marble, 
 and as heavy. An icy shiver ran through me at 
 the touch. 
 
 " Maddalena !" I repeated, " are you asleep ?" 
 
 She still made no reply. I held the lamp to 
 her face — she was dead. 
 
 My story is told. I believed, when I began 
 to write, that I had " the labor of many months" 
 before me. That was just six years ago. Wealth 
 and happiness are no friends to industry. I 
 have loitered over my task till its latest incidents 
 have already become things of the far past, and 
 more than one of the actors who figure in its 
 pages have passed away forever from the stage 
 of life. Who are those vanished ones ? Nay ; 
 I will assume the story -tcjller's license, and be 
 silent. What need to jar our viols with the 
 echo of a passing bell : What need, indeed, to 
 follow farther the fortunes of any of those who, 
 having played their parts, now make their exits 
 as the curtain falls ? Paolo sailing sadly home- 
 ward over the sapphire fields of the Tyrrhene 
 
 sea, bearing his sister's body to its last rest in 
 the little lonely graveyard of her native Capri — 
 the good Professor merging his whole life and 
 pouring his whole soul into his work ; climbing 
 steadily on toward ever loftier aims and broader 
 views ; less anxious for personal fame than for 
 the development of truth in art, yet winning the 
 one for himself and the other for his disciples 
 by the force of his own rugged, resolute genius — 
 Hilda ruling her dull husband as if he were a 
 , lackey in her service ; carrying her imperious 
 beauty from court to court; dissatisfied at heart, 
 and weary of even the wealth and homage for 
 which she had staked all the freshness of her 
 youth — Mrs. Sandyshaft exulting once more in 
 English roast-beef and the society of her hun- 
 dred pigs ; hating foreigners and the fine arts 
 with an undying bitterness ; quarreling with Dr. 
 Topham, playing piquet with Hugh, and persist- 
 ing in calling all babies monsters, without ex- 
 ception or favor — Ida and her husband leading 
 their pleasant artist-life close against that spot 
 where "the antique house in which Raphael 
 lived, casts its long brown shadow down into 
 the heart of modem Rome " — what are all these 
 but pictures which each reader will long ago 
 have conceived for himself, and which no color- 
 ing of mine can bring before him more vividly? 
 For my own part, in the golden years that 
 have gone by since these times of which I Have 
 been writing, I can add nothing. Great hap- 
 piness, like deep grief, is sacred. Words mock 
 it. Its peace is too profound, its joy too perfect, 
 to bear the gross translation. Let those who 
 love, realize the poem of our lives. To all other 
 ears, its music would be discord ; its language 
 unintelligible. The hazel wand that brings to 
 light the treasures of the earth, hath no magic 
 save in the hand of the Diviner. 
 
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