MR. BABB AT HOME.
A LOVELY July day in the fresh air of Dartmoor, that seems to sparkle
as it enters the lungs: fresh, but given a sharpness of salt: pure,
but tinged with the sweetness of heather bloom and the honey of gorse.
Human spirits bound in this air. The scenery of Dartmoor, if bare of
trees, is wildly picturesque with granite masses and bold mountain
peaks. Barbara could not shake off the anxiety that enveloped her
spirits like the haze of a valley till she rose up a long ascent of
three miles from the wooded valley of the Tavy to the bald, rock-strewn
expanse of Dartmoor. She rode on, attended by her little groom, till
she reached Prince’s Town, the highest point attained by the road,
where, in a desolate plain of bog, but little below the crests of
some of the granite tors, stands a prison surrounded by a few mean
houses. From Prince’s Town Barbara would have a rough moor-path, not
a good road, before her; and, as the horses were exhausted with their
long climb, she halted at the little inn, and ordered some dinner for
herself, and required that the boy and the horses should be attended to.
Whilst ham and eggs—nothing else was procurable—were being fried,
Barbara walked along the road to the prison, and looked at the gloomy,
rugged gate built of untrimmed granite blocks. The unbroken desolation
swept to the very walls of the prison.[1] At that height the wind moans
among the rocks and rushes mournfully; the air is never still. The
landlady of the inn came to her.
‘That is the jail,’ she said. ‘There was a prisoner broke out not long
ago, and he has not yet been caught. How he managed it none can tell.
Where he now is no one knows. He may be still wandering on the moor.
Every road from it is watched. Perhaps he may give himself up, finding
escape impossible. If not, he will die of hunger among the rocks.’
‘What was the crime for which he was here?’ asked Barbara; but she
spoke with an effort.
‘He was a bad man; it was no ordinary wickedness he committed. He
robbed his own father.’
‘His own father!’ echoed Barbara, starting.
‘Yes, he robbed him of nigh on two thousand pounds. The father acted
sharp, and had him caught before he had spent all the money. The
assizes were next week, so it was quick work; and here he was for a few
days, and then—he got away.’
‘Robbed his own father!’ murmured Barbara, and now she thought she saw
more clearly than before into a matter that looked blacker the more she
saw.
‘There’s a man in yonder who set fire to his house to get the
insurance. Folks say his house was but a rummagy old place. ‘Tis a
pity. Now, if he had got away it would not have mattered; but, a
rascal who did not respect his own father!—not that I hold with a man
prosecuting his own son. That was hard. Still, if one was to escape, I
don’t see why the Lord blessed the undertaking of the man who robbed
his father, and turned His face away from him who only fired his house
to get the insurance.’
The air ceased to sparkle as Miss Jordan rode the second stage of her
journey: the sun was less bright, the fragrance of the gorse less
sweet. She did not speak to her young groom the whole way, but rode
silently, with compressed lips and moody brow. The case was worse than
she had anticipated. Jasper had robbed his father, and all that story
of his coming as a messenger from Mr. Babb with the money was false.
One evening, unattended, Barbara Jordan rode to Buckfastleigh, asked
for the house of Mr. Babb, and dismounted at the door. The house was
a plain, ugly, square modern erection, almost an insult to the beauty
of the surroundings. The drive from the entrance gate was grass-grown.
There was a stucco porch. The door was painted drab, and the paint was
blistered, and had flaked off. The house also was mottled. It had been
painted over plaster and cement, and the paint had curled and come off
in patches. The whole place had an uncared-for look. There were no
flower beds, no creepers against the walls; the rain-shoots to the roof
were choked, and the overflowing water had covered the walls where it
reached with slime, black and green. At the back of the house was a
factory, worked by a water-wheel, for cloth, and a gravel well-trodden
path led from the back door of the house to the factory.
Barbara had descended from her cob to open the gate into the drive; and
she walked up to the front door, leading her horse. There she rang the
bell, but had doubts whether the wire were sound. She waited a long
time, and no one responded. She tried the bell again, and then rapped
with the handle of her whip against the door.
Then she saw a face appear at a side window, observe her and withdraw.
A moment after, a shuffling tread sounded in the hall, chains and bolts
were undone, the door was cautiously opened, and in it stood an old man
with white hair, and black beady eyes.
‘What do you want? Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Am I speaking to Mr. Babb?’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘May I have a few words with you in private?’
‘Oh, there is no one in the house, except my housekeeper, and she is
deaf. You can say what you want here.’
‘Who is there to take my horse?’
‘You can hold him by the bridle, and talk to me where you stand.
There’s no occasion for you to come in.’
Barbara saw into the hall; it was floored with stone, the Buckfastleigh
marble, but unpolished. The walls had been papered with glazed
imitation panelling, but the paper had peeled off, and hung in strips.
A chair with wooden seat, that had not been wiped for weeks, a set of
coat and hat pegs, some broken, on one a very discoloured great coat
and a battered hat. In a corner a bulging green umbrella, the silk
detached from the whalebone.
‘You see,’ said the old man grimly, half turning, as he noticed that
Barbara’s eyes were observing the interior; ‘you see, this is no place
for ladies. It is a weaving spider’s web, not a gallant’s bower.’
‘But——’ the girl hesitated, ‘what I have to say is very particular, and
I would not be overheard on any account.’
‘Ah! ah!’ he giggled, ‘I’ll have no games played with me. I’m no longer
susceptible to fascination, and I ain’t worth it; on my sacred word I’m
not. I’m very poor, very poor now. You can see it for yourself. Is this
house kept up, and the garden? Does the hall look like a lap of luxury?
I’m too poor to be a catch, so you may go away.’
Barbara would have laughed had not the nature of her visit been so
serious.
‘I am Miss Jordan,’ she said, ‘daughter of Mr. Jordan of Morwell, from
whom you borrowed money seventeen years ago.’
‘Oh!’ he gave a start of surprise. ‘Ah, well, I have sent back as much
as I could spare. Some was stolen. It is not convenient to me after
this reverse to find all now.’
‘My father has received nothing. What you sent was lost or stolen on
the way.’
The old man’s jaw fell, and he stared blankly at her.
‘It is as I say. My father has received nothing.’
‘I sent it by my son.’
‘He has lost it.’
‘It is false. He has stolen it.’
‘What is to be done?’
‘Oh, that is for your father to decide. When my son robbed me, I
locked him up. Now let your father see to it. I have done my duty, my
conscience is clear.’
Barbara looked steadily, with some curiosity, into his face. The face
was repulsive. The strongly marked features which might have been
handsome in youth, were exaggerated by age. His white hair was matted
and uncombed. He had run his fingers through it whilst engaged on his
accounts, and had divided it into rat’s-tails. His chin and jaws were
frouzy with coarse white bristles. In his black eyes was a keen twinkle
of avarice and cunning. Old age and the snows of the winter of life
soften a harsh face, if there be any love in it; but in this there was
none. If a fire had burnt on the hearth of the old man’s heart, not a
spark remained alive, the hearth was choked with grey ashes. Barbara
traced a resemblance between the old man and his son. From his father,
Jasper had derived his aquiline nose, and the shape of mouth and chin.
But the expression of the faces was different. That of Jasper was
noble, that of his father mean. The eyes of the son were gentle, those
of Mr. Babb hard as pebbles that had been polished.
As Barbara talked with and observed the old man she recalled what
Jasper had said of ill-treatment and lack of love. There was no
tenderness to be got out of such a man as that before her.
‘Now look you here,’ said Mr. Babb. ‘Do you see that stretch of field
yonder where the cloth is strained in the sun? Very well. That cloth is
mine. It is woven in my mill yonder. That field was purchased seventeen
years ago for my accommodation. I can’t repay the money now without
selling the factory or the field, and neither is worth a shilling
without the other. No—we must all put up with losses. I have mine; the
Lord sends your father his. A wise Providence orders all that. Tell
him so. His heart has been hankering after mammon, and now Heaven has
deprived him of it. I’ve had losses too. I’ve learned to bear them. So
must he. What is your name?—I mean your Christian name?’
‘Barbara.’
‘Oh! not Eve—dear, no. You don’t look as if that were your name.’
‘Eve is my sister—my half-sister.’
‘Ah, ha! the elder daughter. And what has become of the little one?’
‘She is well, at home, and beautiful as she is good. She is not at all
like me.’
‘That is a good job—for you. I mean, that you are not like her. Is she
lively?’
‘Oh, like a lark, singing, dancing, merry.’
‘Of course, thoughtless, light, a feather that flies and tosses in the
breath.’
‘To return to the money. It was to have been my sister’s.’
‘Well,’ said the old man with a giggle, ‘let it so remain. It _was_ to
have been. Now it cannot be. Whose fault is that? Not mine. I kept the
money for your father. I am a man of my word. When I make a covenant I
do not break it. But my son—my son!’
‘Your son is now with us.’
‘You say he has stolen the money. Let your father not spare him. There
is no good in being lenient. Be just. When my son robbed me, I did not
spare him. I will not lift a little finger to save Jasper, who now, as
you say, has robbed your father. Wait where you are; I will run in, and
write something, which will perhaps satisfy Mr. Jordan; wait here, you
cannot enter, or your horse would run away. What did you give for that
cob? not much. Do you want to sell him? I don’t mind ten pounds. He’s
not worth more. See how he hangs his off hind leg. That’s a blemish
that would stand in your way of selling. Would you like to go over
the factory? No charge, you can tip the foreman a shilling. No cloth
weaving your way, only wool growing; and—judging from what I saw of
your father—wool-gathering.’ With a cackle the old man slipped in and
shut the door in Barbara’s face.
Miss Jordan stood patting the neck of her disparaged horse. ‘You are
not to be parted with, are you, Jock, to an old skinflint who would
starve you?’
The cob put his nose on her shoulder, and rubbed it. She looked round.
Everything spoke of sordidness, only the factory seemed cared for,
where money was made. None was wasted on the adornment, even on the
decencies, of life.
The door opened. Mr. Babb had locked it after him as he went in. He
came out with a folded letter in his hand.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘give that to your father.’
‘I must tell you, Mr. Babb, that your son Jasper is with us. He
professes to have lost the money. He met with an accident and was
nearly killed. He remains with us, as a sort of steward to my father,
for a while, only for a while.’
‘Let him stay. I don’t want him back, I won’t have him back. I dare
say, now, it would do him good to have his Bible. I’ll give you that to
take to him. He may read and come to repentance.’
‘It is possible that there may be other things of his he will want. If
you can make them up into a bundle, I will send for them. No,’ she said
after a pause, ‘I will not send for them. I will take them myself.’
‘You will not mind staying there whilst I fetch them?’ said Mr. Babb.
‘Of course you won’t. You have the horse to hold. If you like to take a
look round the garden you may, but there is nothing to see. Visit the
mill if you like. You can give twopence to a boy to hold the horse.’
Then he slipped in again and relocked the door.
Barbara was only detained ten minutes. Mr. Babb came back with a jumble
of clothes, a Bible, and a violin, not tied together, but in his arms
anyhow. He threw everything on the doorstep.
‘There,’ he said, ‘I will hold the bridle, whilst you make this into
a bundle. I’m not natty with my fingers.’ He took the horse from her.
Barbara knelt under the portico and folded Jasper’s clothes, and tied
all together in an old table cover the father gave for the purpose.
‘Take the fiddle,’ he said, ‘or I’ll smash it.’
She looked up at him gravely, whilst knotting the ends.
‘Have you a message for your son—of love and forgiveness?’
‘Forgiveness! it is your father he has robbed. Love——There is no love
lost between us.’
‘He is lonely and sad,’ said Barbara, not now looking up, but busy with
her hands, tightening the knots and intent on the bundle. ‘I can see
that his heart is aching; night and day there is a gnawing pain in his
breast. No one loves him, and he seems to me to be a man who craves for
love, who might be reclaimed by love.’
‘Don’t forget the letter for your father,’ said Mr. Babb.
‘What about your son? Have you no message for him?’
‘None. Mind that envelope. What it contains is precious.’
‘Is it a cheque for fifteen hundred pounds?’
‘Oh, dear me, no! It is a text of scripture.’
Then, hastily, Mr. Babb stepped back, shut the door, and bolted and
chained it.