Barbara Who Came Back/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV
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 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 at 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 few words. Mr. Russell was eloquent, passionate and convincing. He told 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 some one 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 any one 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 arm-chair 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 behind 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 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 someday, 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 halfpenny, 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, I 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 will 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 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 have 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 sorrow. 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 £50 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, 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 had a prospective 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 may remember, I had to face something of the same sort, and notwithstanding all our troubles, I do not think, dear, that either of us has regretted our decision.”
Then they both rose and solemnly kissed each other over Barbara’s head.
To be concluded
next month