He did so, to the letter; and though, as the crocus followed the
snowdrop and the daffodil the crocus in Lucy’s garden, the harbour-road
was a not unpleasant place to walk in, Barnet’s feet never trod its
stones, much less approached her door. He avoided a saunter that way as
he would have avoided a dangerous dram, and took his airings a long
distance northward, among severely square and brown ploughed fields,
where no other townsman came. Sometimes he went round by the lower
lanes of the borough, where the rope-walks stretched in which his
family formerly had share, and looked at the rope-makers walking
backwards, overhung by apple-trees and bushes, and intruded on by cows
and calves, as if trade had established itself there at considerable
inconvenience to Nature.
One morning, when the sun was so warm as to raise a steam from the
south-eastern slopes of those flanking hills that looked so lovely
above the old roofs, but made every low-chimneyed house in the town as
smoky as Tophet, Barnet glanced from the windows of the town-council
room for lack of interest in what was proceeding within. Several
members of the corporation were present, but there was not much
business doing, and in a few minutes Downe came leisurely across to
him, saying that he seldom saw Barnet now.
Barnet owned that he was not often present.
Downe looked at the crimson curtain which hung down beside the panes,
reflecting its hot hues into their faces, and then out of the window.
At that moment there passed along the street a tall commanding lady, in
whom the solicitor recognized Barnet’s wife. Barnet had done the same
thing, and turned away.
‘It will be all right some day,’ said Downe, with cheering sympathy.
‘You have heard, then, of her last outbreak?’
Downe depressed his cheerfulness to its very reverse in a moment. ‘No,
I have not heard of anything serious,’ he said, with as long a face as
one naturally round could be turned into at short notice. ‘I only hear
vague reports of such things.’
‘You may think it will be all right,’ said Barnet drily. ‘But I have a
different opinion . . . No, Downe, we must look the thing in the face.
Not poppy nor mandragora—however, how are your wife and children?’
Downe said that they were all well, thanks; they were out that morning
somewhere; he was just looking to see if they were walking that way.
Ah, there they were, just coming down the street; and Downe pointed to
the figures of two children with a nursemaid, and a lady walking behind
them.
‘You will come out and speak to her?’ he asked.
‘Not this morning. The fact is I don’t care to speak to anybody just
now.’
‘You are too sensitive, Mr. Barnet. At school I remember you used to
get as red as a rose if anybody uttered a word that hurt your
feelings.’
Barnet mused. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘there is a grain of truth in that.
It is because of that I often try to make peace at home. Life would be
tolerable then at any rate, even if not particularly bright.’
‘I have thought more than once of proposing a little plan to you,’ said
Downe with some hesitation. ‘I don’t know whether it will meet your
views, but take it or leave it, as you choose. In fact, it was my wife
who suggested it: that she would be very glad to call on Mrs. Barnet
and get into her confidence. She seems to think that Mrs. Barnet is
rather alone in the town, and without advisers. Her impression is that
your wife will listen to reason. Emily has a wonderful way of winning
the hearts of people of her own sex.’
‘And of the other sex too, I think. She is a charming woman, and you
were a lucky fellow to find her.’
‘Well, perhaps I was,’ simpered Downe, trying to wear an aspect of
being the last man in the world to feel pride. ‘However, she will be
likely to find out what ruffles Mrs. Barnet. Perhaps it is some
misunderstanding, you know—something that she is too proud to ask you
to explain, or some little thing in your conduct that irritates her
because she does not fully comprehend you. The truth is, Emily would
have been more ready to make advances if she had been quite sure of her
fitness for Mrs. Barnet’s society, who has of course been accustomed to
London people of good position, which made Emily fearful of intruding.’
Barnet expressed his warmest thanks for the well-intentioned
proposition. There was reason in Mrs. Downe’s fear—that he owned. ‘But
do let her call,’ he said. ‘There is no woman in England I would so
soon trust on such an errand. I am afraid there will not be any
brilliant result; still I shall take it as the kindest and nicest thing
if she will try it, and not be frightened at a repulse.’
When Barnet and Downe had parted, the former went to the Town
Savings-Bank, of which he was a trustee, and endeavoured to forget his
troubles in the contemplation of low sums of money, and figures in a
network of red and blue lines. He sat and watched the working-people
making their deposits, to which at intervals he signed his name. Before
he left in the afternoon Downe put his head inside the door.
‘Emily has seen Mrs. Barnet,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘She has got
Mrs. Barnet’s promise to take her for a drive down to the shore
to-morrow, if it is fine. Good afternoon!’
Barnet shook Downe by the hand without speaking, and Downe went away.