A YEAR LATER
Something over a year had gone by, and Barbara, returned from her
foreign travels, sat in the drawing-room of Lady Thompson’s house in
Russell Square.
That year had made much difference in her, for the sweet country girl,
now of full age, had blossomed into the beautiful young woman of the
world. She had wintered in Rome and studied its antiquities and art.
She had learned some French and Italian, for nothing was grudged to her
in the way of masters, and worked at music, for which she had a natural
taste. She had seen a good deal of society also, for Lady Thompson was
at heart proud of her beautiful niece, and spared no expense to bring
her into contact with such people as she considered she should know.
Thus it came about that the fine apartment they occupied in Rome had
many visitors. Among these was a certain Secretary of Legation, the
Hon. Charles Erskine Russell, who, it was expected, would in the course
of nature succeed to a peerage. He was a very agreeable as well as an
accomplished and wealthy man, and—he fell in love with Barbara. With
the cleverness of her sex she managed to put him off and to avoid any
actual proposal before they left for Switzerland in the early summer.
Thither, happily, he could not follow them, since his official duties
prevented him from leaving the Embassy. Lady Thompson was much annoyed
at what she considered his bad conduct, and said as much to Barbara.
Her niece listened, but did not discuss the matter, with the result that
Lady Thompson’s opinion of the Hon. Charles Russell was confirmed.
Was it not clear that there had been no proposal, although it was
equally clear that he ought to have proposed? Poor Barbara! Perhaps
this was the only act of deception of which she was ever guilty.
So things went on until the previous day, the Monday after their arrival
in London, when, most unhappily, Lady Thompson went out to lunch and
met the Hon. Charles Russell, who was on leave in England.
Next morning, while Barbara was engaged in arranging some flowers in the
drawing-room, who should be shown in but Mr. Russell. In her alarm she
dropped a bowl and broke it, a sign that he evidently considered
hopeful, setting it down to the emotion which his sudden presence
caused. To emotion it was due, indeed, but not of a kind he would have
wished. Recovering herself, Barbara shook his hand and then told the
servant who was picking up the pieces of the bowl to inform her
ladyship of the arrival of this morning caller.
The man bowed and departed, and as he went Barbara noticed an ominous
twinkle in the pleasant blue eyes of the Hon. Charles Russell.
The rest of the interview may be summed up in a few words. Mr. Russell
was eloquent, passionate and convincing. He assured Barbara that she
was the only woman he had ever loved with such force and conviction
that in the end she almost believed him. But this belief, if it
existed, did not in the least shake her absolutely definite
determination to have nothing whatsoever to do with her would-be lover.
Not until she had told him so six times, however, did he consent to
believe her, for indeed he had been led to expect a very different
answer.
“I suppose you care for someone else,” he said at last.
“Yes,” said Barbara, whose back, metaphorically, was against the
wall.
“Somebody much more—suitable.”
“No,” said Barbara, “he is poor and not distinguished and has
all his way to make in the world.”
“He might change his mind, or—die.”
“If so, I should not change mine,” said Barbara. “Very likely
I shall not marry him, but I shall not marry anyone else.”
“In heaven’s name, why not?”
“Because it would be a sacrilege against heaven.”
Then at last Mr. Russell understood.
“Allow me to offer you my good wishes and to assure you of my earnest
and unalterable respect,” he said in a somewhat broken voice, and
taking her hand he touched it lightly with his lips, turned, and
departed out of Barbara’s sight and life.
Ten minutes later Lady Thompson arrived, and her coming was like to that
of a thunderstorm. She shut the door, locked it, and sat down in an
armchair in solemn, lurid silence. Then with one swift flash the storm
broke.
“What is this I hear from Mr. Russell?”
“I am sure I don’t know what you have heard from Mr.
Russell,” answered Barbara faintly.
“Perhaps, but you know very well what there was to hear, you wicked,
ungrateful girl.”
“Wicked!” murmured Barbara, “ungrateful!”
“Yes, it is wicked to lead a man on and then reject him as though he
were—rubbish. And it is ungrateful to throw away the chances that a
kind aunt and Providence put in your way. What have you against him?”
“Nothing at all, I think him very nice.”
Lady Thompson’s brow lightened; if she thought him “very
nice” all might yet be well. Perhaps this refusal was nothing but
nonsensical modesty. Mr. Russell, being a gentleman, had not told her
everything.
“Then I say you shall marry him.”
“And I say, Aunt, that I will not and cannot.”
“Why? Have you been secretly converted to the Church of Rome, and are
you going into a nunnery? Or is there—another man?”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“Where is he?” said Lady Thompson, looking about her as though she
expected to find him hidden under the furniture. “And how did you
manage to become entangled with him, you sly girl, under my very nose?
And who is he? One of those bowing and scraping Italians, I suppose,
who think you’ll get my money. Tell me the truth at once.”
“He is somebody you have never seen, Aunt. One of the Arnotts down at
home.”
“Oh, that Captain! Well, I believe they have a decent property, about
2,000 pounds a year, but all in land, which Sir Samuel never held by. Of
course, it is nothing like the Russell match, which would have made a
peeress of you some day and given you a great position meanwhile. But I
suppose we must be thankful for small mercies.”
“It is not Captain Arnott, it is his younger brother Anthony.”
“Anthony! Anthony, that youth who is reading for the Bar. Why, the
property is all entailed, and he will scarcely have a half-penny, for
his mother brought no money to the Arnotts. Oh, this is too much! To
throw up Mr. Russell for an Anthony. Are you engaged to him with your
parents’ consent, may I ask, and if so, why was the matter concealed
from me, who would certainly have declined to drag an entangled young
woman about the world?”
“I am not engaged, but my father and mother know that we are attached
to each other. It happened the day after you came to Eastwich, or they
would have told you. My father made me promise that we would not
correspond while I was away, as he thought that we were too young to
bind ourselves to each other, especially as Anthony has no present
prospects or means to support a wife.”
“I am glad they had so much sense. It is more than might have been
expected of my sister after her own performance, for which doubtless she
is sorry enough now. Like you, she might have married a title instead
of a curate and beggary.”
“I am quite sure that my mother is not sorry, Aunt,” replied
Barbara, whose spirit was rising. “I know that she is a very happy
woman.”
“Look here, Barbara, let’s come to the point. Will you give up this
moon-calf business of yours or not?”
“It is not a moon-calf business, whatever that may be, and I will not
give it up.”
“Very well, then, I can’t make you as you are of age. But I have
done with you. You will go to your room and stop there, and to-morrow
morning you will return to your parents, to whom I will write at once.
You have betrayed my hospitality and presumed upon my kindness; after
all the things I have given you, too,” and her eyes fixed themselves
upon a pearl necklace that Barbara was wearing. For Lady Thompson could
be generous when she was in the mood.
Barbara unfastened the necklace and offered it to her aunt without a
word.
“Nonsense!” said Lady Thompson. “Do you think I want to rob
you of your trinkets because I happen to have given them to you? Keep
them, they may be useful one day when you have a husband and a family
and no money. Pearls may pay the butcher and the rent.”
“Thank you for all your kindness, Aunt, and good-bye. I am sorry that
I am not able to do as you wish about marriage, but after all a
woman’s life is her own.”
“That’s just what it isn’t and never has been. A
woman’s life is her husband’s and her children’s, and
that’s why—but it is no use arguing. You have taken your own line.
Perhaps you are right, God knows. At any rate, it isn’t mine, so we
had better part. Still, I rather admire your courage. I wonder what
this young fellow is like for whose sake you are prepared to lose so
much; more than you think, maybe, for I had grown fond of you. Well,
good-bye, I’ll see about your getting off. There, don’t think that
I bear malice although I am so angry with you. Write to me when you get
into a tight place,” and rising, she kissed her, rather roughly but
not without affection, and flung out of the room like one who feared to
trust herself there any longer.
On the evening of the following day Barbara, emerging from the
carrier’s cart at the blacksmith’s corner at Eastwich, was met by a
riotous throng of five energetic young sisters who nearly devoured her
with kisses. So happy was that greeting, indeed, that in it she almost
forgot her sorrows. In truth, as she reflected, why should she be sorry
at all? She was clear of a suitor whom she did not wish to marry, and
of an aunt whose very kindness was oppressive and whose temper was
terrible. She had fifty pounds in her pocket and a good stock of
clothes, to say nothing of the pearls and other jewellery, wealth
indeed if measured by the Walrond standard. Her beloved sisters were
evidently in the best of health and spirits; also, as she thought,
better-looking than any girls she had seen since she bade them farewell.
Her father and mother were, as they told her, well and delighted at her
return; and lastly, as she had already gathered, Anthony either was or
was about to be at the Hall. Why then should she be sorry? Why indeed
should she not rejoice and thank God for these good things?
On that evening, however, when supper was done, she had a somewhat
serious interview with her father and mother who sat on either side of
her, each of them holding one of her hands, for they could scarcely
bear her out of their sight. She had told all the tale of the Hon.
Charles Russell and of her violent dismissal by her aunt, of which
story they were not entirely ignorant, for Lady Thompson had already
advised them of these events by letter.
The Reverend Septimus shook his head sadly. He was not a worldly-minded
man; still, to have a presumptive peer for a son-in-law, who would
doubtless also become an ambassador, was a prospect that at heart he
relinquished with regret. Also this young Arnott business seemed very
vague and unsatisfactory, and there were the other girls and their
future to be considered. No wonder, then, that he shook his kindly grey
head and looked somewhat depressed.
But his wife took another line.
“Septimus,” she said, “in these matters a woman must judge by
her own heart, and you see Barbara is a woman now. Once, you remember, I
had to face something of the same sort, and I do not think, dear,
notwithstanding all our troubles, that either of us have regretted our
decision.”
Then they both rose and solemnly kissed each other over Barbara’s
head.