‘My heart is full of joy to-day,
The air hath music in it.’
Mr. Barry is sitting at his shabby writing-table in his very shabby
study. His pale, refined face seems paler than usual, and there is a
look of dejection in his sunken eyes that goes to Crosby’s heart. He has
entered the room without a word of warning—a very reluctant Susan at his
back—and has therefore caught that look on the Rector’s face before he
has had time to take it off.
‘Mr. Barry,’ begins he quickly. ‘I—we—Susan, where are you?—we’—with
emphasis that devastates the soul of the culprit next him—‘have come to
tell you that—Susan, this is mean,’ as Susan makes a base effort to hide
behind him once again—‘that Susan and I’—he laughs a little here, partly
through nervousness, and partly because of an agonized, if unconscious,
pinch from Susan on his arm—‘want to get married.’
Mr. Barry lays down the pen he has been holding since their unexpected
entrance, and stares at Crosby as though he were the proud possessor of
two heads, or else a decided madman.
At last a flush dyes the pallor of his face.
‘Sir,’ says he, with dignity, ‘if this is a jest——’
‘Not a jest such as you think,’ breaks in Crosby quickly; ‘though I hope
our life together’—with a quick glance back at Susan, who still declines
to show herself—‘will have a good deal of laughter in it. What I really
want you to know’—gently—‘is that I have asked Susan to marry me, and
she has said “Yes,” if’—with charming courtesy—‘you will give your
consent.’
Mr. Barry rises from his chair. If he could be paler than he was a
moment since, he is certainly so now.
‘Do you mean to tell me that you want’—he points at the only part of the
abashed Susan that he can see—‘that you want that child for your wife?’
There is a slight pause. It is long enough for Susan to cast an eloquent
glance at Crosby. ‘I told you so,’ is the gist of it.
‘She is nineteen,’ says Crosby; ‘and she says that she——’
Here he comes to grief; it seems impossible to so true a lover to say
out aloud that Susan has confessed her love for him. He turns round.
‘I really think, Susan, it is your turn now,’ whispers he. ‘You might
say something.’
Susan gives him an indignant glance. Hadn’t she told him how it would
be? But dignity sweeps her into the breach.
‘It—it is quite true, papa,’ says she, faltering, trembling.
‘What is true?’ asks her father.
She is not trembling half so much outwardly as he is trembling inwardly.
This thing, can it be true? And that baby—but is she a baby? How many
years is it since the other Susan—his own Susan—died?
‘That—that I love him!’ says Susan brokenly.
When she says this she covers her face with her hands as if distinctly
ashamed of herself, and Crosby, divining her thoughts, lays his arms
round her and presses both hands and face out of sight against his
breast.
Mr. Barry looks at him.
‘She is only a little country girl,’ says he. As if disliking the
definition of her, Susan releases herself and stands back from Crosby.
‘And you—have large possessions—and a position that will enable you to
choose a wife anywhere. Susan—has nothing!’
‘She has everything,’ says Crosby hotly. ‘When I look at her I know it
is I who have nothing. What money, what position, could compare with the
wealth of her beauty?... And now this gift of her love!... I am only too
proud, I think myself only too blest, to be allowed to lay at her feet
all that I have.’
He turns to his pretty sweetheart and holds out his hand to her frankly.
And she comes to him—a little pale, a little unnerved, but with earnest
love in her shining eyes. And as he bends to her she gives him back with
honest warmth the kiss that in her father’s presence he gives her.
It seems a seal upon the truth of their declaration. Mr. Barry, going to
her, lays his hands upon her shoulders. He is pale still, but the look
of depression that almost amounted to despair that marked his face when
Crosby first came in is now gone, and in its place is hope—and some
other feeling hard to place—but pride, perhaps, is the nearest to it.
‘God bless you, Susan, always!’ says he solemnly. In this moment, as he
looks at her, for the first time it comes to him that she is the very
image of her dead mother. ‘It is a great responsibility,’ says he. His
words are slow and difficult. ‘Try to be worthy of it! Be a good woman,
and love your husband!’
‘Oh, I will—I will, papa!’ says Susan, throwing her arms round his neck.
It seems such an easy request. And all her fear of him seems gone. She
clings to him. And the father presses her closely to him, but nervously,
as if afraid of breaking down.
Crosby can see how it is, and touches Susan lightly on the arm.
‘Go into the garden,’ he whispers to her. ‘I will meet you there
presently.’
There is a last quick embrace between father and daughter, and Susan,
who is now crying softly, leaves the room.
‘You will let me have her,’ says Crosby, turning to the Rector. ‘And I
thank you for the gift. I think’—earnestly—‘you know enough of me to
understand how I shall prize it.’
Mr. Barry comes back from the window.
‘It is such a relief,’ says he quickly, and with extraordinary honesty.
‘It will be a weight off my mind. It is such a prospect as I could never
have dreamed of for her. They tell me’—absently—‘that she is very
pretty; her mother, at that age——’ He does not continue his sentence. A
heavy sigh escapes him. ‘I have had great trouble lately,’ says he,
after a minute or two, ‘and this, coming unexpectedly, has unnerved me.’
‘There shall be no more trouble that I can prevent,’ says Crosby gently,
calmly, yet with strength. ‘You must think of me from to-day as your
son.’ He pauses. ‘By-the-by, I hear that there is some little difficulty
about Carew’s continuing his profession. That would be a pity,
considering how far he has gone. We must not allow that.’
‘There is no “we” in it,’ says Mr. Barry, his thin white face now
whiter. ‘I can do nothing in the matter. As you have heard so much, you,
of course, know that the money that I had laid by for Carew’s start in
life has been lost.’
‘That failure of a bank? Yes; but——’
‘You are giving a great deal to my daughter, Crosby,’ says the Rector
quickly; ‘I cannot allow you to give to——’
‘My brother, sir. Come, Mr. Barry, do not make me feel I am kept at
arm’s length by Susan’s people. If a man can’t help his own brother, who
can he help? And, after all, if you come to think of it, have you any
right to prevent my helping him—to check his career like this?
Besides’—laughing—‘you may as well give in, as I am going to see him
through, whether you will or not. If I didn’t, there would be bad times
for me with Susan.’
There is something about him—something in his happy, strong, kindly
manner, that precludes the idea of offence of any sort; and Mr. Barry,
after a struggle with his conscience, gives in. That suggestion about
his having any right to deny the boy his profession had touched him.
‘Well, that’s settled,’ says Crosby comfortably. And it gives an idea of
the charm of his character that, as he says it, no feeling of chagrin,
of smallness, enters into the soul of the man he has benefited. Mr.
Barry, indeed, smiles a happier smile than his worn face has known for
many a day.
‘God bless you, Crosby!’ says he. And then, pausing and colouring—the
slow and painful colour of age, ‘God bless you, George! It is useless to
speak. I cannot say what I want to say. But this’—his tone, nervous and
awkward always, now almost stammers—‘this I must say, that Susan ought
to be a happy woman.’
‘Oh, as to that,’ says Crosby, laughing again, a little nervously
himself now, as he sees the other’s suppressed emotion, ‘I hope so. I’ll
see to it, you know. But there’s one thing sure—that I’m going to be a
happy man.’
He looks towards the window.
‘I think she is waiting for me in the garden,’ says he.
‘Well, go to her.’ But as he walks to the door the Rector follows him,
struggling in his silent way with some thought; and just as Crosby is
disappearing through it the struggle ends. Mr. Barry goes quickly after
him, and lays his hand upon his shoulder.
‘Oh, Crosby,’ says he, with sharp feeling, ‘it is good to give happiness
to others. It will stand to you all your life, and on your death-bed,
too. There, go to her. She is in the garden, you say.’
And there, indeed, she is, waiting for him. He finds her in the old
summer-house watching shyly for him from between the soft green
branches. And soon she is not only in the garden, but in his strong and
loving arms.
THE END
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.