The same evening Barbara rode to the smithy, in the hope of hearing some
news of Richard from his grandfather. The old man was busy at the anvil
when he heard Miss Brown's hoofs on the road. He dropped his hammer,
flung the tongs on the forge, and leaving the iron to cool on the anvil,
went to meet her.
“How do you do, grandfather?” said Barbara, with unconscious use of the
appellation.
Simon was well pleased to be called grandfather, but too politic and too
well bred to show his pleasure.
“As well as hard work can help me to. How are you yourself, my pretty?”
returned Simon.
“As well as nothing to do--except nursing poor Mark--will let me,” she
answered. “Please can you tell me anything about Richard yet?”
“Can you keep a secret, honey?” rejoined Simon. “I ain't sure as
I'm keeping strict within the law, but if I didn't think you fit, I
shouldn't say a word.”
“Don't tell me, if it be anything I ought to tell if I knew it.”
“If you can show me you ought to tell any one, I will release you from
your promise. But perhaps you feel you ought to tell everything to your
mother?”
“No, not other people's secrets. But I think I won't have it. I don't
like secrets. I'm frightened at them.”
“Then I'll tell you at my own risk, for you're the right sort to trust,
promise or no promise. I only hope you will not tell without letting
me know first; because then I might have to do something else by way
of--what do they call it when you take poison, and then take something
to keep it from hurting you?--Richard's gone to college!”
Bab slid from Miss Brown's back, flung her arms, with the bridle on
one of them, round the blacksmith's neck, and, heedless of Miss Brown's
fright, jumped up, and kissed the old man for the good news.
“Miss! miss! your clean face!” cried the blacksmith.
“Oh Richard! Richard! you _will_ be happy now!” she said, her voice
trembling with buried tears. “--But will he ever shoe Miss Brown again,
grandfather?”
“Many's the time, I trust!” answered Simon. “He'll be proud to do it. If
not, he never was worth a smile from your sweet mouth.”
“He'll be a great man some day!” she laughed, with a little quiver of
the sweet mouth.
“He's a good man now, and I don't care,” answered the smith. “As long as
son of mine can look every man in the face, I don't care whether it be
great or small he is.”
“But, please, Mr. Armour,” said Bab timidly, “wouldn't it be better
still if he could look God in the face?”
“You're right there, my pretty dove!” replied the old man; “only a
body can't say everything out in a breath!--But you're right, you _are_
right!” he went on. “I remember well the time when I thought I had
nothing to be ashamed of; but the time came when I was ashamed of many
things, and I'd done nothing worse in the meantime either! When a man
first gets a peep inside himself, he sees things he didn't look to
see--and they stagger him a bit! Some horses have their hoofs so shrunk
and cockled they take the queerest shoes to set them straight; an' them
shoes is the troubles o' this life, I take it.--Now mind, I ain't
told you what college he's gone to--nor whether it be at Oxford or at
Cambridge, or away in Scotland or Germany--and you don't know! And if
you don't feel bound to mention the name of the place, I'd be obliged
to you not to. But I will let him know that I've told you what sort of a
place he's at, because he couldn't tell you himself, being he's bound to
hold his tongue.”
Barbara went home happy: his grandfather recognized the bond between
them! As to Richard, she had no fear of his forgetting her.
With more energy still, she went about her duties; and they seemed
to grow as she did them. As the end of Mark's sickness approached, he
became more and more dependent upon her, and only his mother could take
her place with him. He loved his father dearly, but his father never
staid more than a moment or two in the sick-chamber. Mark at length went
away to find his twin; and his mother and Barbara wept, but not all in
sorrow.
One morning, the week after Mark's death, Mr. Wylder desired Barbara to
go with him to his study--where indeed about as much study went on as
in a squirrel's nest--and there, after solemn prologue as to its having
been right and natural while she was but a girl with a brother that
she should be allowed a great deal of freedom, stated that now,
circumstances being changed, such freedom could no longer be given her:
she was now sole heiress, and must do as an heir would have had to do,
namely, consult the interests of the family. In those interests, he
continued, it was necessary he should strengthen as much as possible his
influence in the county; it was time also that, for her own sake, she
should marry; and better husband or fitter son-in-law than Mr. Lestrange
could not be desired: he was both well behaved and good-looking, and
when Mortgrange was one with Wylder, would have by far the finest estate
in the county!
Filial obligation is a point upon which those parents lay the heaviest
stress who have done the least to develop the relation between them and
their children. The first duty is from the parent to the child: this
unfulfilled, the duty of the child remains untaught.
“I am sorry to go against you, papa,” said Barbara, “but I cannot marry
Mr. Lestrange!”
“Stuff and nonsense! Why not?”
“Because I do not love him.”
“Fiddlesticks! I did not love your mother when I married her!--You don't
dislike him, I know!--Now don't tell me you do, for I shall not believe
you!”
“He is always very kind to me, and I am sorry he should want what is not
mine to give him.”
“Not yours to give him! What do you mean by that? If it is not yours,
it is mine! Have you not learned yet, that when I make up my mind to
a thing, that thing is done! And where I have a right, I am not one to
waive it!”
Where husband and wife are not one, it is impossible for the daughter to
be one with both, or perhaps with either; and the constant and foolish
bickering to which Barbara had been a witness throughout her childhood,
had tended rather to poison than nourish respect. Whether Barbara failed
to yield as much as Mr. Wylder had a right to claim, I leave to the
judgment of my reader, reserving my own, and remarking only that, if
his judgment be founded on principles differing from mine, our judgments
cannot agree. The idea of parent must be venerated, and may cast a glow
upon the actual parent, himself nowise venerable, so that the heart of a
daughter may ache with the longing to see her father such that she could
love and worship him as she would; but when it comes to life and action,
the will of such a parent, if it diverge from what seems to the child
true and right, ought to weigh nothing. A parent is not a maker, is not
God. We must leave father and mother and all for God, that is, for what
is right, which is his very will--only let us be sure it is for God,
and not for self. If the parent has been the parent of good thoughts and
right judgments in the child, those good thoughts and right judgments
will be on the parent's side: if he has been the parent of evil thoughts
and false judgments, they may be for him or against him, but in the end
they will work solely for division. Any general decay of filial manners
must originate with the parents.
“I am not a child. I am a woman,” said Barbara; “and I owe it to him who
made me a woman, to take care of her.”
“Mind what you say. I have rights, and will enforce them.”
“Over my person?” returned Barbara, her eyes sending out a flash that
reminded him of her mother, and made him the angrier.
“If you do not consent here and now,” he said sternly, “to marry Mr.
Lestrange--that is, if, after your mother's insolence to lady Ann.--”
“My mother's insolence to lady Ann!” exclaimed Barbara, drawing herself,
in her indignation, to the height of her small person: but her father
would rush to his own discomfiture.
“--if, as I say,” he went on, “he should now condescend to ask you--I
swear--”
“You had better not swear, papa!”
“--I swear you shall not have a foot of my land.”
“Oh! that is all? There you are in your right, and I have nothing to
say.”
“You insolent hussy! You won't like it when you find it done!”
“It will be the same as if Mark had lived.”
“It's that cursed money of your mother's makes you impudent!”
“If you could leave me moneyless, papa, it would make no difference. A
woman that can shoe her own horse,--”
“Shoe her own horse!” cried her father.
“Yes, papa!--You couldn't!--And I _made_ two of her shoes the last time!
Wouldn't any woman that can do that, wouldn't she--to save herself from
shame and disgust--to be queen over herself--wouldn't she take a place
as house-maid or shop-girl rather than marry the man she didn't love?”
Mr. Wylder saw he had gone too far.
“You know more than is good!” he said. “But don't you mistake: you're
mother's money is settled on you, but your father is your trustee!”
“My father is a gentleman!” rejoined Barbara--not so near the truth as
she believed.
“Take you care how you push a gentleman,” rejoined her father.
“Not to love is not to marry--not if the man was a prince!” persisted
Barbara.
She went to her mother's room, but said nothing of what had passed. She
would not heat those ovens of wrath, the bosoms of her parents.
The next morning she ran to saddle Miss Brown. To her astonishment, her
friend was not in her box, nor in any stall in the stable; neither was
any one visible of whom to ask what had become of her; for the first
time in her life, everybody had got out of Barbara's way. In the
harness-room, however, she came upon one of the stable-boys. He was in
tears. When he saw her, he started and turned to run, looking as if he
had had a piece of Miss Brown for breakfast, but she stopped him.
“Where is Miss Brown?” she said.
“Don' know, miss.”
“Who knows, then?”
“P'raps master, miss.”
“What are you crying for?”
“Don' know, miss.”
“That's not true. Boys don't cry without knowing why?”
“Well, miss, I ain't _sure_ what I'm crying for.”
“Speak out, man! Don't be foolish.”
“Master give me a terrible cut, miss!”
“Did you deserve it?”
“Don' know, miss.”
“You don't seem to know anything this morning!”
“No, miss!”
“What did your master give you the cut for?”
“'Cause I was cryin'.”
Here he burst into a restrained howl.
“What were you crying for?”
“Because Miss Brown was gone.”
“And you cried without knowing where she was gone?” said Barbara,
turning almost sick with apprehension.
“Yes, miss,” affirmed the miserable boy.
“Is she dead?”
“No, miss, she ain't dead; she's sold!”
The words were not yet out of his mouth when he turned and bolted.
“That's my gentleman-papa!” said Barbara to herself before she could
help it. Had she been any girl but Barbara, she would have cried like
the boy.
Not once from that moment did she allude to Miss Brown in the hearing of
father or servant.
One day her mother asked her why she never rode, and she told her. The
wrath of the mother was like that of a tigress. She sprang to her feet,
and bounded to the door. But when she reached it, Barbara was between
her and the handle.
“Mother! mother dear!” she pleaded.
The mother took her by the shoulders, and thought to fling her across
the room. But she was not so strong as she had been, and she found the
little one hard as nails: she could not move her an inch.
“Get out of my way!” she cried, “I want to kill him!”
“Mammy dear, listen! It's a month ago! I said nothing--for love-sake!”
“Love-sake! I think I hear you! Dare to tell me you love that wretch of
a father of yours! I will kill _you_ if you say you love him!”
Barbara threw her arms round her mother's neck, and said, “Listen,
mammy: I do love him a little bit: but it wasn't for love of him I held
my tongue.”
“Bah! Your bookbinder-fellow! What has he to do with it?”
“Nothing at all. It wasn't for him either, it was for God's sake I held
my peace, mammy. If _all_ his children quarrelled like you and dad, what
a house he would have! It was for God's sake I said nothing; and you
know, mammy, you've made it up with God, and you mustn't go and be
naughty again!”
The mother stood silent and still. It seemed for an instant as if the
old fever had come back, for she shivered. She turned and went to her
chair, sat down, and again was still. A minute after, her forehead
flushed like a flame, turned white, then flushed and paled again several
times. Then she gave a great sigh, and the conflict was over. She
smiled, and from that moment she also never said a word about Miss
Brown.
But in the silence of her thought, Barbara suffered, for what might not
be the fate of Miss Brown! No one but a genuine lover of animals would
believe how she suffered. In her mind's eye she kept seeing her turn her
head with sharp-curved neck in her stall, or shoot it over the door of
her box, looking and longing for her mistress, and wondering why she did
not come to pat her, or feed her, or saddle her for the joyous gallop
across grass and green hedge; and the heart of her mistress was sore for
her. But at length one day in church, they read the psalm in which come
the words, “Thou, Lord, shalt save both man and beast!” and they went to
her soul. She reflected that if Miss Brown was in trouble, it might
be for the saving of Miss Brown: she had herself got enough good
from trouble to hope for that! For she heartily believed the animals
partakers in the redemption of Jesus Christ; and she fancied perhaps
they knew more about it than we think,--the poor things are so silent!
Anyhow she saw that the reasonable thing was to let God look after his
own; and if Miss Brown was not his, how could she _be_?
But the mother was sending all over the country to find who had Miss
Brown; and she had not inquired long before she learned that she was in
the stables at Mortgrange. There she knew she would be well treated, and
therefore told Barbara the result of her inquiries.