"It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye,
All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay,
Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride!
All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side."
The light in her eyes is angelic. She has laid her hands upon both her
husband's arms, as if expecting him to take her into them, as he always
does only too gladly on the smallest provocation. Just now, however, he
fails her, for the moment only, however.
"Barbara," says he, in a choked voice: he holds her from him, examining
her face critically. His thoughts are painful, yet proud--proud beyond
telling. His examination does not last long: there is nothing but good
to be read in that fair, sweet, lovable face. He gathers her to him with
a force that is almost hurtful.
"Are you a woman at all, or just an angel?" says he, with a deep sigh.
"What is it, Freddy?"
"After all they have done to you. Their insults, coldness, abominable
conduct, to think that your first thought should be for them. Why, look
here, Barbara," vehemently, "they are not worthy that you should----"
"Tut!" interrupts she, lightly, yet with a little sob in her throat. His
praise is so sweet to her. "You overrate me. Is it for them I would do
it or for you? There, take all the thought for yourself. And, besides,
are not you and I one, and shall not your people be my people? Come, if
you think of it, there is no such great merit after all."
"You forget----"
"No; not a word against them. I won't listen," thrusting her fingers
into her ears. "It is all over and done with long ago. And it is our
turn now, and let us do things decently and in order, and create no
heart-burnings."
"But when I think----"
"If thinking makes you look like that, don't think."
"But I must. I must remember how they scorned and slighted you. It never
seems to have come home to me so vividly as now--now when you seem to
have forgotten it. Oh, Barbara!" He presses back her head and looks long
and tenderly into her eyes. "I was not mistaken, indeed, when I gave you
my heart. Surely you are one among ten thousand."
"Silly boy," says she, with a little tremulous laugh, glad to her very
soul's centre, however, because of his words. "What is there to praise
me for? Have I not warned you that I am purely selfish? What is there I
would not do for very love of you? Come, Freddy," shaking herself loose
from him, and laughing now with honest delight. "Let us be reasonable.
Oh! poor old uncle, it seems hateful to rejoice thus over his death, but
his memory is really only a shadow after all, and I suppose he meant to
make us happy by his gift, eh, Freddy?"
"Yes, how well he remembered during all these years. He could have
formed no other ties."
"None, naturally." Short pause. "There is that black mare of Mike
Donovan's, Freddy, that you so fancied. You can buy it now."
Monkton laughs involuntarily. Something of the child has always lingered
about Barbara.
"And I should like to get a black velvet gown," says she, her face
brightening, "and to buy Joyce a----Oh! but Joyce will be rich herself."
"Yes. I'm really afraid you will be done out of the joy of overloading
Joyce with gifts. She'll be able to give you something. That will be a
change, at all events. As for the velvet gown, if this," touching the
letter, "bears any meaning, I should think you need not confine yourself
to one velvet gown."
"And there's Tommy," says she quickly, her thoughts running so fast that
she scarcely hears him. "You have always said you wanted to put him in
the army. Now you can do it."
"Yes," says Monkton, with sudden interest. "I should like that. But
you--you shrank from the thought, didn't you?"
"Well, he might have to go to India," says she, nervously.
"And what of that?"
"Oh, nothing--that is, nothing really--only there are lions and tigers
there, Freddy; aren't there, now?"
"One or two," says Mr. Monkton, "if we are to believe travelers' tales.
But they are all proverbially false. I don't believe in lions at all
myself. I'm sure they are myths. Well, let him go into the navy, then.
Lions and tigers don't as a rule inhabit the great deep."
"Oh, no; but sharks do," says she, with a visible shudder. "No, no, on
the whole I had rather trust him to the beasts of the field. He could
run away from them, but you can't run in the sea."
"True," says Mr. Monkton, with exemplary gravity. "I couldn't, at all
events."
* * * * *
Monkton had to run across to London about the extraordinary legacy left
to his wife and Joyce. But further investigation proved the story true.
The money was, indeed, there, and they were the only heirs. From being
distinctly poor they rose to the height of a very respectable income,
and Monkton being in town, where the old Monktons still were, also was
commanded by his wife to go to them and pay off their largest
liabilities--debts contracted by the dead son, and to so arrange that
they should not be at the necessity of leaving themselves houseless.
The Manchester people who had taken the old place in Warwickshire were
now informed that they could not have it beyond the term agreed on; but
about this the old people had something to say, too. They would not take
back the family place. They had but one son now, and the sooner he went
to live there the better. Lady Monkton, completely, broken down and
melted by Barbara's generosity, went so far as to send her a long
letter, telling her it would be the dearest wish of her and Sir George's
hearts that she should preside as mistress over the beautiful old
homestead, and that it would give them great happiness to imagine, the
children--the grandchildren--running riot through the big wainscoted
rooms. Barbara was not to wait for her--Lady Monkton's--death to take up
her position as head of the house. She was to go to Warwickshire at
once, the moment those detestable Manchester people were out of it; and
Lady Monkton, if Barbara would be so good as to make her welcome, would
like to come to her for three months every year, to see the children,
and her son, and her daughter! The last was the crowning touch. For the
rest, Barbara was not to hesitate about accepting the Warwickshire
place, as Lady Monkton and Sir George were devoted to town life, and
never felt quite well when away from smoky London.
This last was true. As a fact, the old people were thoroughly imbued
with the desire for the turmoil of city life, and the three months of
country Lady Monkton had stipulated for were quite as much as they
desired of rustic felicity.
Barbara accepted the gift of the old home. Eventually, of course, it
would be hers, but she knew the old people meant the present giving of
it as a sort of return for her liberality--for the generosity that had
enabled them to once more lift their heads among their equals.
* * * * *
The great news meanwhile had spread like wildfire through the Irish
country where the Frederic Monktons lived. Lady Baltimore was
unfeignedly glad about it, and came down at once to embrace Barbara, and
say all sorts of delightful things about it. The excitement of the whole
affair seemed to dissipate all the sadness and depression that had
followed on the death of the elder son, and nothing now was talked of
but the great good luck that had fallen into the paths of Barbara and
Joyce. The poor old uncle had been considered dead for so many years
previously, and was indeed such a dim memory to his nieces, that it
would have been the purest affectation to pretend to feel any deep grief
for his demise.
Perhaps what grieved Barbara most of all, though she said very little
about it, was the idea of having to leave the old house in which they
were now living. It did not not cheer her to think of the place in
Warwickshire, which, of course, was beautiful, and full of
possibilities.
This foolish old Irish home--rich in discomforts--was home. It seemed
hard to abandon it. It was not a palatial mansion, certainly; it was
even dismal in many ways, but it contained more love in its little space
than many a noble mansion could boast. It seemed cruel--ungrateful--to
cast it behind her, once it was possible to mount a few steps on the
rungs of the worldly ladder.
How happy they had all been here together, in this foolish old house,
that every severe storm seemed to threaten with final dissolution. It
gave her many a secret pang to think that she must part from it for ever
before another year should dawn.