Kitabı oku: «There & Back», sayfa 15

CHAPTER XXVIII. BARBARA AND LADY ANN

As they went, neither said much. Both seemed to avoid the subject of their conversation as they came. They talked of poetry and fiction, and did not differ. Though Barbara there also had precious insights, happily she had no opinions.

When they reached a certain point, Richard drew back, and, from a coign of vantage, saw Barbara try the study-window and fail. He then followed her as she went round to the door, and, still covertly, saw her ring the bell. The door was opened with what seemed to him a portentous celerity, and she disappeared. He turned away into the park, and wandered about, revolving many things, till by slow gradations the sky’s gray idea unfolded to a brilliant conviction, and, lo, there was the morning, not to be controverted! But he took care to let the house not only come awake, but come to its senses, before he sought admission. When it seemed well astir, he rang the bell; and when the door, after some delay, was opened, he went straight to the library, and was fairly at work by five o’clock.

He saw nothing of Barbara all day, or indeed of any of the family except Vixen, who looked in, made a face at him, and went away, leaving the door open. At eight o’clock he had his breakfast, and at nine he was again in the library; so that by lunch-time he had been seven of his eight hours at work, and by half-past two found himself free to go to his grandfather’s and inquire after Alice.

On his way to the road through the park, he met Arthur Lestrange. Richard touched his hat as was his wont, and would have passed, but, with no friendly expression on his countenance, Arthur stopped.

“Where are you going, Tuke?” he said.

“I am going to my grandfather’s, sir,” answered Richard.

“Excuse me, but your day’s work is not over by many hours yet.”

Richard found his temper growing troublesome, but tried hard to keep it in hand.

“If you remember, sir,” he said, “our agreement mentioned no hour for beginning or leaving off work.”

“That is true, but you undertook to give me eight hours of your day!”

“Yes, sir. I was at work by five o’clock this morning, and have given you more than eight hours.”

“Hm!” said Arthur.

“I am quite as anxious,” pursued Richard, “to fulfill my engagement, as you can be to have it fulfilled.”

Arthur said nothing.

“Ask Thomas, who let me in this morning,” resumed Richard, “whether I was not at work in the library by five o’clock.”

It went a good deal against the grain with Richard to appeal to any witness for corroboration: he was proud of being a man of his word; but although not greatly anxious to keep his temporary position, he was anxious the compact should not be broken through anything he did or said.

“Let you in?” exclaimed Arthur; “—let you in before five o’clock in the morning? Then you were out all night!”

“I was.”

“That cannot be permitted.”

“I am surely right in believing that, when my work is over, I am my own master! I had something to do that must be done. My grandfather knows all I was about!”

“Oh, yes, I remember! old Simon Armour, the blacksmith!” returned Arthur. “But,” he went on, plainly softening a little, “you ought not to work for him while you are in my employment.”

“I know that, sir; and if I wanted, my grandfather would not let me. While my work is yours, it is all yours, sir.”

With that he turned, and left Arthur where he stood a little relieved, though now annoyed as well that a man in his employment should not have waited to be dismissed. Hastening to the smithy, he found his grandfather putting off his apron to go home for a cup of tea.

“Oh, there you are!” he said. “I thought we should be catching sight of you before long!”

“How’s Alice, grandfather? You might be sure I should want to know!”

“She’s been asleep all day, the best thing for her!”

“I hope, grandfather,” said Richard, for Simon’s tone troubled him a little, “you are not vexed with me! I assure you I had nothing to do with her coming down here—that I know of. You would not have had me leave her sitting there, out on that stone in the moonlight, all night long, a ghost before her time without a grave to go to? She would have been dead before the morning! She must have been! I am certain you would not have left her there!”

“God forbid, lad! If you thought me out of temper with you, it was a mistake. I confess the thing does bother me, but I’m not blaming you. You acted like a Christian.”

Richard hardly relished the mode of his grandfather’s approbation. A man ought to do the right thing because he was a man, not because he was something else than a man! He had yet to learn that a man and a Christian are precisely and entirely the same thing; that a being who is not a Christian is not a man. I perfectly know how absurd this must seem to many, but such do not see what I see. No one, however strong he may feel his obligations, will ever be man enough to fulfill them except he be a Christian—that is, one who, like Christ, cares first for the will of the Father. One who thinks he can meet his obligations now, can have no idea what is required of him in virtue of his being what he is—no idea of what his own nature requires of him. So much is required that nothing more could be required. Let him ask himself whether he is doing what he requires of himself. If he answer, “I can do it without Christianity anyway,” I reply, “Do it; try to do it, and I know where the honest endeavour will bring you. Don’t try to do it, and you are not man enough to be worth reasoning with.”

Simon and his grandson had not yet turned the corner, when Richard heard a snort he knew: there, sure enough, stood Miss Brown, hitched to the garden-paling, peaceable but impatient.

“Miss Wylder here!” said Richard.

“Yes, lad! She’s been here an hour and more. Jessie came and told me, but I knew it: I heard the mare, and knew the sound of my own shoes on her!—I doubt if she’ll stand it much longer though!” he added, as she pawed the road. “Well, she’s a fine creature!”

“Yes, she’s a good mare!”

“I don’t mean the mare! I mean the mistress!”

“Miss Wylder is just noble!” said Richard. “But I’m afraid she got into trouble last night!”

“It don’t sound much like it!” returned the old man, as Barbara’s musical, bird-like laugh came from the cottage. “She ain’t breaking her heart!—Alice, as you call her, must be doing well, or missie wouldn’t be laughing like that!”

As they entered, Barbara came gliding down the perpendicular stair in front of them, her face yet radiant with the shadow of the laugh they had heard.

“Good morning, Mr. Armour!” she said. “—I did not expect to see you so soon again, Mr. Tuke. Will you put me up!”

Richard released Miss Brown, got her into position, and gave his hand to Barbara’s foot, as he had seen Mr. Lestrange do. But lifting, he nearly threw her over Miss Brown’s back. She burst into her lovely laugh, clutched at a pommel, and held fast.

“I’m not quite ready to go to heaven all at once!” she said.

“I thought you were!” answered Richard. “But indeed I beg your pardon! I might have known how light you must be!”

“I am very heavy for my size!”

“May I walk a little way alongside of you, miss?”

“You have a right; I have offered you my company more than once,” answered Barbara.

They walked a little way in silence.

“Why is there no way to the heaven you believe in, but the terrible gate of death?” asked Richard at length. “If a God of love, as you say your God is, made the world, and could not—for want of room, I suppose—let his creatures live on in it, he would surely have thought of some better way out of it than such a ghastly one!”

Perhaps the most surprising thing about Barbara was her readiness. Very seldom had one to wait for her answer.

“This morning,” she said, “for the first time with me on her back at least, Miss Brown refused a jump—and I grant the place looked ugly! But I gave her a little sharp persuasion, and she took it beautifully, coming away as proud of herself as possible.—If there be a God, he must know as much better than you and I, as I know better than Miss Brown. One who never did anything we couldn’t understand, couldn’t be God. How else could he make things?”

“Yes, if they are made!”

“If I were you, I would be quite sure first, before I said they were not. You won’t assert anything you are not sure of; don’t deny anything either. Good-bye.—Go, Miss Brown!”

She was more peremptory than usual, but he liked it—rather. He felt she had some right to speak to him so: positive as he had hitherto been, he was not really sure of anything!

The fact was, Barbara had been irritated that morning, and had got over the irritation, but not quite over the excitement of it. She thought Miss Brown should never again set hoof within the gates of Mortgrange.

After breakfast, lady Ann had sent for her to her dressing-room, and Barbara had gone, prepared to hear of something to her disadvantage. The same woman who had been so uncivil to Richard, had watched and seen them go out together. She fastened the library window behind them, and went and told lady Ann, who requested her to mind her own business.

When Barbara rang the bell, not caring much—for a night in the park was of little consequence to her—the door was immediately opened, but only a little way, by some one without a light, whose face or even person she could not distinguish, for the door was quite in shadow. It closed again, and she was left darkling, to find her way to her room as best she might. She stood for a moment.

“Who is it?” she said.

No one answered. She heard neither footstep nor sound of garments. Carefully feeling her way, she got to the foot of the great stair, and in another minute was in her room.

When Barbara entered lady Ann’s dressing-room, she greeted her with less than her usual frigidity.

“Good morning, my love! You were late last night!” she said.

“I thought I was rather early,” answered Barbara, laughing.

“May I ask where you were?” said her ladyship, with her habitual composure.

“About a mile and a half from here, at that little cottage in Burrow-lane.”

“How did you come to be there—and for so long? You were hours away!”

Even lady Ann could not prevent a little surprise in her tone as she said the words.

“Mr. Tuke came and told me–”

“I beg your pardon, but do I know Mr. Tuke?”

“The bookbinder, at work in the library.”

“Wouldn’t your mother be rather astonished at your having secrets with a working-man?”

“Secrets, lady Ann!” exclaimed Barbara. “Your ladyship forgets herself!”

Lady Ann looked up with a languid stare in the fresh young face, rosy with anger.

“Was I not in the act,” pursued the girl, “of telling you all about it? You dare accuse me of such a thing! I only wish you would carry that tale of me to my mother!”

“I am not accustomed to be addressed in this style, Barbara!” drawled lady Ann, without either raising or quickening her voice.

“Then it is time you began, if you are accustomed to speak to girls as you have just spoken to me! I am not accustomed to be told that I have a secret with any man—or woman either! I don’t know which I should like worse! I have no secrets. I hate them.”

“Compose yourself, my child. You need not be afraid of me!” said lady Ann. “I am not your enemy.”

She thought Barbara’s anger came from fear, for she regarded herself as a formidable person. But for victory she rested mainly on her imperturbability.

“Look me in the face, lady Ann, and tell yourself whether I am afraid of you!” answered Barbara, the very soul of indignation flashing in her eyes. “I fear no enemy.”

Lady Ann found she had a new sort of creature to deal with.

“That I am your friend, you will not doubt when I tell you it was I who let you in last night! I did not wish your absence or the hour of your return to be known. My visitors must not be remarked upon by my servants!”

“Then why did you not speak to me?”

“I wished to give you a lesson.”

“You thought to frighten me, as if I were a doughy, half-baked English girl! Allow me to ask how you were aware I was out.”

Lady Ann was not ready with her answer. She wanted to establish a protective claim on the girl—to have a secret with, and so a hold upon her.

“If the servants do not know,” Barbara went on, “would you mind saying how your ladyship came to know? Have the servants up, and I will tell the whole thing before them all—and prove what I say too.”

“Calm yourself, Miss Wylder. You will scarcely do yourself justice in English society, if you give way to such temper. As you wish the whole house to know what you were about, pray begin with me, and explain the thing to me.”

“Mr. Tuke told me he had found a young woman almost dead with hunger and cold by the way-side, and carried her to a cottage. I came to you, as you well remember, and begged a little brandy. Then I went to the larder, and got some soup. She would certainly have been dead before the morning, if we had not taken them to her.”

“Why did you not tell me what you wanted the brandy for?”

“Because you would have tried to prevent me from going.”

“Of course I should have had the poor creature attended to!—I confess I should have sent a more suitable person.”

“I thought myself the most suitable person in the house.”

“Why?”

“Because the thing came to me to get done, and I had to go; and because I knew I should be kinder to her than any one you could send. I know too well what servants are, to trust them with the poor!”

“You may be far too kind to such people!”

“Yes, if one hasn’t common sense. But this girl you couldn’t be too kind to.”

“It is just as I feared: she has taken you in quite! Those tramps are all the same!”

“The same as other people—yes; that is, as different from each other as your ladyship and I.”

Lady Ann found Barbara too much for her, and changed her attack.

“But how came you to be so long? As you have just said, Burrow-lane can’t be more than a mile and a half from here!”

“We could not leave her at the cottage; it was not a fit place for her. Mr. Tuke had to go to his grandfather’s—four miles—and I had to stay with her till he came back. Old Simon came himself in his spring-cart, and took her away.”

“Was there no woman at the cottage?”

“Yes, but worn out with work and children. Her night’s rest was of more consequence to her than ten nights’ waking would be to me.”

“Thank you, Barbara! I was certain I should not prove mistaken in you! But I hope such a necessity will not often occur.”

“I hope not; but when it does, I hope I may be at hand.”

“I was certain it was some mission of mercy that had led you into the danger. A girl in your position must beware of being peculiar, even in goodness. There are more important things in the world than a little suffering!”

“Yes; your duty to your neighbour is more important.”

“Not than your duty to yourself, Barbara!” said lady Ann, in such a gently severe tone of righteous reproof, that Barbara’s furnace of a heart made the little pot that held her temper nearly boil over.

“Lady Ann,” she said, unconsciously drawing herself up to her full little height, “I am sorry I gave you the trouble of sitting up to open the door for me. That at least shall not happen again. Good morning.”

“There is nothing to be annoyed at, Barbara. I am quite pleased with what you have told me. I say only it was unwise of you not to let me know.”

“It may not have been wise for my own sake, but it was for the woman’s.”

“There is no occasion to say more about the woman; I am quite satisfied with you, Barbara!” said lady Ann, looking up with an icy smile, her last Parthian arrow.

“But I am not satisfied with you, lady Ann,” rejoined Barbara. “I have submitted to be catechized because the thing took place while I was your guest; but if such a thing were to happen again, I should do just the same; therefore I have no right, understanding perfectly how much it would displease you, to remain your guest. I ought, perhaps, to have gone home instead of returning to you, but I thought that would be uncivil, and look as if I were ashamed. My mother would never have treated me as you have done! You may think her a strange woman, but her heart is as big as her head—much bigger when it is full!”

It was not right of Barbara to get so angry, and answer lady Ann so petulantly, for she knew her pretty well by this time, and yet was often her guest. That it was impossible for such a girl to feel respect for such a woman, if it accounts for her bearing to her, condemns the familiarity that gave occasion to that bearing. At the same time, but for lady Ann’s superiority in age, Barbara would have spoken her mind with yet greater freedom. Her rank made no halo about her in Barbara’s eyes.

Lady Ann took no more trouble to appease her: the foolish girl would, she judged, be ashamed of herself soon, and accept the favour she knew to be undeserved! Lady Ann understood Barbara no more than lady Ann understood the real woman underlying lady Ann. She was not afraid of losing Barbara, for she believed her parents could not but be strongly in favour of an alliance with her family. She knew nothing of the personal opposition between Mr. and Mrs. Wylder: she never opposed sir Wilton except it was worth her while to do so; and sir Wilton never opposed her at all—openly. It gave lady Ann no more pleasure to go against her husband, than to comply with his wishes; and she had anything but an adequate notion of the pleasure it gave sir Wilton to see any desire of hers frustrated.

Barbara went to the stable, where man and boy had always his service in his right hand ready for her—got Miss Brown saddled, and was away from Mortgrange before Richard, early as he had begun, was half-way through his morning’s work.

She went to see Alice almost every day from that afternoon; and as no one could resist Barbara, Alice’s reserve, buttressed and bastioned as it was with pain, soon began to yield before the live sympathy that assailed it. They became fast friends.

CHAPTER XXIX. ALICE AND BARBARA

It was weeks before Alice was able to leave her bed: she had been utterly exhausted.

On a lovely summer morning she woke to a sense of returning health. She had been lying like a waste shore, at low spring-tide, covered with dry seaweeds, withered jelly-fishes, and a multitudinous life that gasped for the ocean: at last, at last, the cool, washing throb of the great sea of bliss, whose fountain is the heart of God, had stolen upon her consciousness, and she knew that she lived. She lay in a neat little curtained bed, in a room with a sloping roof on both sides, covered, not with tiles or slates, but with warm thatch, thick and sound. Ivy was creeping through the chinks of the ill-fitting window-frame; but through the little dormer window itself the sun shone freely, and made shadows of shivering ivy-leaves upon the deal floor. It was a very humble room, and Alice had been used to much better furniture—but neither to room nor furniture so clean. There was a wholesomeness and purity everywhere about her, very welcome to the lady-eyes with which Alice was born; for it is God that makes ladies, not stupid society and its mawkish distinctions. One brief moment she felt as if she had gained the haven of her rest, for she lay at peace, and nothing gnawed. But suddenly a pang shot through her heart, and she knew that some harassing thought was at hand: pain was her portion, and had but to define itself to grow sharp. She rose on her elbow to receive the enemy. He came; she fell back with a fainting heart and a writhing will. She had left love and misery behind her to seek help, and she had not found it! she had but lost sight of those for whom she sought the help! She could not tell how long it was since she had seen her mother and Arthur: she lay covered with kindness by people she had never before seen; and how they were faring, she could but conjecture, and conjecture had in it no comfort!

Alice had little education beyond what life had given her; but life is the truest of all teachers, however little the results of her teaching may be valued by school-enthusiasts. She did not put the letter H in its place except occasionally, but she knew how to send a selfish thought back to its place. She did not know one creed from another, but she loved what she saw to be good. She knew nothing of the Norman conquest, but she knew much of self-conquest. She could make her breakfast off dry bread, that her mother might have hot coffee and the best of butter. She wore very shabby frocks, but she would not put bad work into the seams of a rich lady’s dress. She stooped as she walked, and there was a lack of accord between her big beautiful eyes and the way she put her feet down; but it was the same thing that made her eyes so large, and her feet so heavy; and if she could not trip lightly along the street, she could lay very tender hands on her mother’s head when it ached with drinking. She had suffered much at the hands of great ladies, yet she had but to see Barbara to love her.

As she lay with her heart warming in that sunshine in which every heart must one day flash like the truest of diamonds, she heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the road. Her angel came to Alice with no flapping of great wings, or lighting of soft-poised heavenly feet on wooden floor, but with the sounds of ringing iron shoes and snorting breath, to be followed by a girl’s feet on the stair, whose herald was the smell, now of rosiest roses, now of whitest lilies, in the chamber of her sad sister. Well might Alice have sung, “How beautiful are the feet!” At the music of those mounting feet, death and fear slunk from the room, and Alice knew there was salvation in the world. What evil can there be for which there is no help in another honest human soul! What sorrow is there from which a man may not be some covert, some shadow! Alas for the true soul which cannot itself save, when it has no notion where help is to be found!

“Well, how are you to-day, little one?” said Barbara, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Alice was older and taller than Barbara, but Barbara never thought about height or age: strong herself, she took the maternal relation to all weakness.

“Ever so much better, miss!” answered Alice.

“Now, none of that!” returned the little lady, “or I walk out of the room! My name is Barbara, and we are friends—except you think it cheeky of me to call you Alice!”

Alice stretched out her thin arms, folded them gently around Barbara, and burst into weeping, which was not all bitter.

“Will you let me tell you everything?” she cried.

“What am I here for?” returned Barbara, deep in her embrace. “Only don’t think I’m asking you to tell me anything. Tell me whatever you like—whatever will help me to know you—not a thing more.”

Alice lay silent for an instant, then said—

“I wish you would ask me some question! I don’t know how to begin!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Barbara said in response—

“What do you do all day in London?”

“Sew, sew, sit and sew, from morning to night,” answered Alice. “No sooner one thing out of your hands, than another in them, so that you never feel, for all you do, that you’ve done anything! The world is just as greedy of your work as before. I sometimes wish,” she went on, with a laugh that had a touch of real merriment in it, “that ladies were made with hair like a cat, I am so tired of the everlasting bodice and skirt!—Only what would become of us then! It would only be more hunger for less weariness!—It’s a downright dreary life, miss!”

“Have a care!” said Barbara solemnly, and Alice laughed.

“You see,” she said, and paused a moment as if trying to say Barbara, “I’m used to think of ladies as if they were a different creation from us, and it seems rude to call you—Barbara!”

She spoke the name with such a lingering sweetness as made its owner thrill with a new pleasure.

“It seems,” she went on, “like presuming to—to—to stroke an angel’s feathers!”

“And much I’d give for the angel,” cried Barbara, “that wouldn’t like having his feathers stroked by a girl like you! He might fly for me, and go—where he’d have them singed!”

“Then I will call you Barbara; and I will answer any question you like to put to me!”

“And your mother, I daresay, is rather trying when you come home?” said Barbara, resuming her examination, and speaking from experience. “Mothers are—a good deal!”

“Well, you see, miss—Barbara, my mother wasn’t used to a hard life like us, and Artie—that’s my brother—and I have to do our best to keep her from feeling it; but we don’t succeed very well—not as we should like to, that is. Neither of us gets much for our day’s work, and we can’t do for her as we would. Poor mamma likes to have things nice; and now that the money she used to have is gone—I don’t know how it went: she had it in some bank, and somebody speculated with it, I suppose!—anyhow, it’s gone, and the thing can’t be done. Artie grows thinner and thinner, and it’s no use! Oh, miss, I know I shall lose him! and when I think of it, the whole world seems to die and leave me in a brick-field!”

She wept a moment, very quietly, but very bitterly.

“I know he does his very best,” she resumed, “but she won’t see it! She thinks he might do more for her! and I’m sure he’s dying!”

“Send him to me,” said Barbara; “I’ll make him well for you.”

“I wish I could, miss—I mean Barbara!—Oh, ain’t there a lot of nice things that can’t ever be done!”

“Does your mother do nothing to help?”

“She don’t know how; she ‘ain’t learned anything like us. She was brought up a lady. I remember her saying once she ought to ‘a’ been a real lady, a lady they say my lady to!”

“Indeed! How was it then that she is not?”

“I don’t know. There are things we don’t dare ask mamma about. If she had been proud of them, she would have told us without asking.”

“What was your father, Alice?”

The girl hesitated.

“He was a baronet, Barbara.—But perhaps you would rather I said miss again!”

“Don’t be foolish, child!” Barbara returned peremptorily.

“I suppose my mother meant that he promised to marry her, but never did. They say gentlemen think no harm of making such promises—without even meaning to keep them!—I don’t know!—I’ve got no time to think about such things,—only—”

“Only you’re forced!” supplemented Barbara. “I’ve been forced to think about them too—just once. They’re not nice to think about! but so long as there’s snakes, it’s better to know the sort of grass they lie in!—Did he take your mother’s money and spend it?”

“Oh, no, not that! He was a gentleman, a baronet, you know, and they don’t do such things!”

“Don’t they!” said Barbara. “I don’t know what things gentlemen don’t do!—But what happened to the money? There may be some way of getting it back!”

“There’s no hope of that! I’ll tell you how I think it was: my father didn’t care to marry my mother, for he wanted a great lady; so he said good-bye to her, and she didn’t mind, for he was a selfish man, she said. So she took the money, for of course she had to bring us up, and couldn’t do it without—and what they call invested it. That means, you know, that somebody took charge of it. So it’s all gone, and she gets no interest on it, and the shops won’t trust us a ha’penny more. We can’t always pay down for the kind of thing she likes, and must take what we can pay for, or go without; and she thinks we might do better for her if we would, and we don’t know how. The other day—I don’t like to tell it of her, even to you, Barbara, but I’m afraid she had been taking too much, for she went to Mrs. Harman and took me away, and said I could get much better wages, and she didn’t give me half what my work was worth. I cried, for I couldn’t help it, I was that weak and broken-like, for I had had no breakfast that morning—at least not to speak of, and I got up to go, for I couldn’t say a word, and wanted my mother out of the place. But Mrs. Harman—she is a kind woman!—she interfered, and said my mother had no right to take me away, and I must finish my month. So I sat down again, and my mother was forced to go. But when she was gone, Mrs. Harman said to me, ‘The best thing after all,’ says she, ‘that you can do, Ally, is to let your mother have her way. You just stop at home till she gets you a place where they’ll pay you better than I do! She’ll find out the sooner that there isn’t a better place to be had, for it’s a slack time now, and everybody has too many hands! When her pride’s come down a bit, you come and see whether I’m able to take you on again.’ Now wasn’t that good of her?”

“M-m-m!” said Barbara. “It was a slack time!—So you went home to your mother?”

“Yes—and it was just as Mrs. Harman said: there wasn’t a stitch wanted! I went from place to place, asking—I nearly killed myself walking about: walking’s harder for one not used to it than sitting ever so long! So I went back to Mrs. Harman, and told her. She said she couldn’t have me just then, but she’d keep her eye on me. I went home nearly out of my mind. Artie was growing worse and worse, and I had nothing to do. It’s a mercy it was warm weather; for when you haven’t much to eat, the cold is worse than the heat. Then in summer you can walk on the shady side, but in winter there ain’t no sunny side. At last, one night as I lay awake, I made up my mind I would go and see whether my father was as hard-hearted as people said. Perhaps he would help us over a week or two; and if I hadn’t got work by that time, we should at least be abler to bear the hunger! So the next day, without a word to mother or Artie, I set out and came down here.”

“And you didn’t see sir Wilton?”

“La, miss! who told you? Did I let out the name?”

“No, you didn’t; but, though there are a good many baronets, they don’t exactly crowd a neighbourhood! What did he say to you?”

“I ‘ain’t seen him yet, miss,—Barbara, I mean! I went up to the lodge, and the woman looked me all over, curious like, from head to foot; and then she said sir Wilton wasn’t at home, nor likely to be.”

“What a lie!” exclaimed Barbara.

“You know him then, Barbara?”

“Yes; but never mind. I must ask all my questions first, and then it will be your turn. What did you do next?”