I
It was early in August, and we were at Dyke Manor, for the Squire had
let us go home from school for the Worcester races. We had joined him
at Worcester the previous day, Tuesday, driving home with him in the
evening. To-morrow, Thursday, he would drive us over to the course
again; to-day, Wednesday, the horses would have rest; and on Friday we
must return to school.
Breakfast was over, the Squire gone out, and the few minutes'
Bible-reading to us--which Mrs. Todhetley never forgot, though Tod did
not always stay in for it, but he did this morning--came to an end.
Hannah appeared at the door as she closed the Book.
"Miss Barbary's come, ma'am," she said.
"Run, my dear," cried Mrs. Todhetley to Lena.
"I don't want to," said Lena, running to the open window instead, and
nearly pitching head-foremost through it: upon which Hannah captured
her and carried her off.
"Who on earth is Miss Barbary?" questioned Tod. "Any relation to the man
at Caramel Cottage?"
"His daughter," said Mrs. Todhetley. "She comes to teach Lena French."
"Hope she's less of a shady character than her father!" was Tod's free
comment.
A year or two before this, a stranger had made his appearance at Church
Dykely, and put up at the Silver Bear. He was a gentlemanly-looking man
of perhaps forty years, tall, slender, agile, with thin, distinguished
features, an olive skin, black hair, and eyes of a peculiar shade of
deep steel-blue. People went into raptures over his face, and called it
beautiful. And so it was; but to my thinking it had a look in it that
was the opposite of beautiful; any way, the opposite of good. They said
it was my fancy at home: but Duffham owned to the same fancy. His name,
as he wrote it down one day at the Silver Bear, was Pointz Barbary.
After a week's stay at the inn, he, finding, I suppose, that the
neighbourhood suited him, looked out for a little place to settle down
upon, and met with it in Caramel Cottage, a small dwelling near to us,
on the property called Caramel's Farm. The cottage was then to be let,
and Mr. Barbary went into it.
Some items of his past history came out by degrees; it is hard to say
how, for he told none himself. Now and then some former friend or other
came to pay him a short visit; and it may be that these strangers talked
about him.
Pointz Barbary, a gentleman by descent, and once of fairly good
substance, had been a great traveller, had roved pretty nearly all over
the world. The very few relatives he possessed lived in Canada--people
of condition, it was said--and his own property (what was left of it)
was also there. He had been married twice. First to a young lady in
France; her friends (English) having settled there for economy's sake.
She died at the end of the year, leaving him a little girl, that the
mother's people at once took to. Next he married a Miss Reste, daughter
of Colonel Reste, in her Majesty's service. A few years later she also
died--died of consumption--leaving him a widower and childless. It's
true he had his first wife's daughter, but she lived in France with her
mother's sister, so he did not get much benefit from her.
Mr. Barbary was poor. No mistake about that. The interest of his first
wife's money brought him in fifty-two pounds yearly, and this he would
enjoy till his death, when it went to his daughter. Miss Reste had
brought him several thousand pounds; but he and she had lived away, and
not a stiver remained of it. His own means had also been spent lavishly;
and, so far as was known, he had but the two and fifty pounds a year to
live upon at Caramel Cottage, with a chance remittance from Canada now
and again.
He made no acquaintance at Church Dykely, and none was made with him.
Civilly courteous in a rather grand and haughty way when he met people,
so far as a few remarks went, touching the weather or the crops, and
similar safe topics, he yet kept the world at a distance. As the time
went on it was thought there might be a reason for this. Whispers
began to circulate that Mr. Barbary's doings were not orthodox. He was
suspected of poaching, both in game and fish, and a strong feeling of
shyness grew up against him.
Some few months prior to the present time--August--his daughter came
to Caramel Cottage. Her aunt in France was dead, and she had no home
henceforth but her father's. That I and Tod had not seen or heard of
her until now, was owing to the midsummer holidays having been spent at
Crabb Cot. The vacation over, and Mrs. Todhetley back at Dyke Manor, she
found herself called upon by Miss Barbary. Hearing that Mrs. Todhetley
wished her little girl to begin French, she had come to offer herself as
teacher. The upshot was that she was engaged, and came for a couple of
hours every morning to drill French into Lena.
"What's she like?" asked Tod of the mother, upon her explaining this.
"Long and thin and dark, like Barbary, and disagreeable with a
self-contained reticence?"
"She is not the least like him in any way," was Mrs. Todhetley's
answer. "She is charmingly simple--good, I am sure, and one of the most
open-natured girls I ever met. 'I wish to do it for the sake of earning
a little money,' she said to me, when asking to come. 'My dear father
is not rich, and if I can help him in ever so small a way I shall be
thankful.' The tears almost came into her eyes as she spoke," added Mrs.
Todhetley; "she quite won my heart."
"She seems to think great things of that respectable parent of hers!"
commented Tod.
"Oh, yes. Whatever may be the truth as to his failings, _she_ sees none
in him. And, my dears, better that it should be so. She earns a little
money of me, apart from teaching Lena," added Mrs. Todhetley.
"What at?" asked Tod. "Teaching _you_?"
The mother shook her head with a smile. "I found out, Joseph, that she
is particularly skilful at mending old lace. I have some that needs
repairing. She takes it home and does it at her leisure--and you cannot
imagine how grateful she is."
"How old is she?"
"Nineteen--close upon twenty, I think she said," replied the mother.
And there the conversation ended, for Mrs. Todhetley had to go to the
kitchen to give the daily orders.
The morning wore on. We went to Church Dykely and were back again
by twelve o'clock. Tod had got Don on the lawn, making him jump for
biscuit, when the dog rushed off, barking, and we heard a scream. A
young lady in a straw hat and a half-mourning cotton dress was running
away from him, she and Lena having come out of the house together.
"Come here, Don," said Tod in his voice of authority, which the good
Newfoundland dog never disobeyed. "How dare you, sir? Johnny, lad, I
suppose that's Miss Barbary."
I had forgotten all about her. A charming girl, as the mother had said,
slight and graceful, with a face like a peach blossom, dimpled cheeks,
soft light-brown hair and dark-blue eyes. Not the hard, steel-blue eyes
that her father had: sweet eyes, these, with a gentle, loving look in
them.
"You need not be afraid of the dog," cried Tod, advancing to where she
stood, behind the mulberry tree. "Miss Barbary, I believe?"--lifting his
cap.
"Yes," she said in a frank tone, turning her frank face to him; "I am
Katrine Barbary. It is a very large dog--and he barks at me."
Large he was, bigger than many a small donkey. A brave, faithful,
good-tempered dog, he, and very handsome, his curly white coat marked
out with black. Gentle to friends and respectable strangers, Don was at
mortal enmity with tramps and beggars: we could not cure him of this, so
he was chained up by day. At night he was unchained to roam the yard at
will, but the gate was kept locked. Had he got out, he might have pinned
the coat of any loose man he met, but I don't believe he would have
bitten him. A good fright Don would give, but not mortal injury. At
least, we had never yet known him to do that.
Lena ran up in her short pink frock, her light curls flying. "Miss
Barbary is always afraid when she hears Don bark," she said to us. "She
will not go near the yard; she thinks he'll bite her."
"I will teach you how to make friends with him," said Tod: "though he
would never hurt you, Miss Barbary. Come here and pat his head whilst
I hold him; call him by his name gently. Once he knows you, he would
protect you from harm with his life."
She complied with ready obedience, though the roses left her cheeks.
"There," said Tod, loosing the dog, and letting her pat him at leisure,
"see how gentle he is; how affectionately he looks up at you!"
"Please not to think me very silly!" she pleaded earnestly, as though
beseeching pardon for a sin. "I have never been used to dogs. We do not
keep dogs in France. At least very few people do. Oh dear!"
Something that she carried in her left hand wrapped in paper had dropped
on to the lawn. Don pounced upon it. "Oh, please take it from him!
please, please!" she cried in terror. Tod laughed, and extricated the
little parcel.
"It has some valuable old lace in it of Mrs. Todhetley's," she explained
as she thanked him. "I am taking it home to mend."
"You mend old lace famously, I hear," said Tod, as we walked with her to
the entrance gate.
"Yes, I think I do it nearly as well as the nuns who taught me."
"Have you been in a convent?"
"Only for my education. I was an externe--a daily pupil. My aunt lived
next door to it. I went every morning at eight o'clock and returned home
at six in the evening to supper."
"Did you get no dinner?" asked Tod.
She took the question literally. "I had dinner and collation at school;
breakfast and supper at home. That was the way in our town with the
externes at the convent. We were Protestants, you see, so my aunt liked
me to be at home on Sundays. Thank you for teaching Don to know me: and
now I will say good morning to you."
I was holding the gate open for her to pass out, when Ben Gibbon went
by, a gun carelessly held over his shoulder. He touched his hat to us,
and we gave him a slight nod in reply. Miss Barbary said "Good day, Mr.
Gibbon."
Tod drew down his displeased lips. He had already taken a liking to
the girl--so had I, for that matter--she was a true lady, and Mr. Ben
Gibbon, a brother to the gamekeeper at Chavasse Grange, could not boast
of a particularly shining character.
"Do you know _him_, Miss Barbary?" asked Tod. "Be quiet, Don!" he cried
to the dog, which had begun to growl when he saw Gibbon.
"He comes to our house sometimes to see papa. Please pardon me for
keeping you waiting," she added to me, as I still held back the gate.
"That gun is pointed this way and it may go off."
Tod was amused. "You seem to dread guns as much as you dread dogs, Miss
Barbary. I will walk home with you," he said, as she at last came
through, the gun having got to a safe distance.
"Oh, but----" she was beginning, and then stopped in confusion, blushing
hotly, and looking at both of us. "I should like it; but----would it be
proper?"
"Proper!" echoed Tod, staring, and then bursting into a fit of laughter
long and loud. "Oh dear! why, Miss Barbary, you must be French all over!
Johnny, you can come, too. Lena, run back again; you have not any hat
on."
Crossing the road to take the near field way, we went along the path
that led beside the hedge, and soon came in view of Caramel Cottage;
it was only a stone's throw, so to say, from our house. An uncommonly
lonely look it had, buried there amidst many trees, with the denser
trees of the Grove close beyond it. We asked her whether she did not
find it dull here.
"At first I did, very; I do still a little: it is so different from the
lively town I have lived in, where we knew all the people, and they knew
us. But we shall soon be more lively," she resumed, after a pause. "A
cousin is coming to stay with us."
"Indeed," said Tod. "Is it a lady or a gentleman?"
"Oh, it is a gentleman--Edgar Reste. He is not my cousin by kin; not
really related to me; but papa says he will be as my cousin, as my
brother even, and that he is very nice. Papa's last wife was Miss Reste,
and he is her nephew. He is a barrister in London, and he has been much
overworked, and he is coming here to-morrow for rest and country air."
Within the low green gate of the little front garden of Caramel Cottage
stood Mr. Barbary, in his brown velveteen shooting coat and breeches of
the same, that became him and his straight lithe limbs so well. Every
time I saw him the beauty of his face struck me afresh; but so did the
shifty expression of his eyes.
"There's papa!" exclaimed the girl, her dimples lighting up. "And--why,
there's a gentleman with him--a stranger! I wonder who it is?"
I saw him as he came from the porch down the narrow garden-path. A
slight, slender young man of middle height and distinguished air, with a
pale, worn, nice-looking face, and laughing, luminous dark brown eyes.
Yes, I saw Edgar Reste for the first time at this his entrance at
Caramel Cottage, and it was a thing to be thankful for that I could not
then foresee the nameless horror his departure from it (I may as well
say his disappearance) was to shadow forth.
"How do you do?" said Mr. Barbary to us, courteously civil. "Katrine,
here's a surprise for you: your cousin is come. Edgar, this is my little
girl.--Mr. Reste," he added, by way of introduction generally.
Mr. Reste lifted his hat, bowed slightly, and then turned to Katrine
with outstretched hand. She met it with a hot blush, as if strange young
men did not shake hands with her every day.
"We did not expect you quite so soon," she gently said, to atone for her
first surprise.
"True," he answered. "But I felt unusually out of sorts yesterday, and
thought it would make no difference to Mr. Barbary whether I came to-day
or to-morrow."
His voice had a musical ring; his manner was open and honest. He might
be Pointz Barbary's nephew by marriage, but I am sure he was not by
nature.
"They'll fall in love with one another, those two; you'll see," said
Tod to me as we went home. "Did you mark his pleased face when he spoke
to her, Johnny--and how she blushed?"
"Oh, come, Tod! they tell me I am fanciful. What are you?"
"Not fanciful with your fancies, lad. As to you, Mr. Don"--turning to
the dog, which had done nothing but growl while we stood before
Barbary's gate, "unless you mend your manners, you shall not come out
again. What ails you, sir, to-day?"