Smith and the Pharaohs, and other Tales

  "Oh! it is Anthony's coat tails. Just look, they are turning quitebrown. Why, Anthony, you must be as beautifully done as the beef. If youcan sit there and say nothing, you are a Christian martyr wasted, that'sall."

  Anthony sprang up, murmuring that he thought there was something wrongbehind, which on examination there proved to be. The end of it was thatthe chairs were all pushed downwards, with the result that for the restof that meal there was a fiery gulf fixed between him and Barbara whichmade further confidences impossible. So he had to talk of other matters.Of these, as it chanced, he had something to say.

  A letter had arrived that morning from his elder brother George, whowas an officer in a line regiment. It had been written in the trenchesbefore Sebastopol, for these events took place in the mid-Victorianperiod towards the end of the Crimean War. Or rather the letter had beenbegun in the trenches and finished in the military hospital, whitherGeorge had been conveyed, suffering from "fever and severe chill," whichseemed to be somewhat contradictory terms, though doubtless they were infact compatible enough. Still he wrote a very interesting letter, which,after the pudding had been consumed to the last spoonful, Anthony readaloud while the girls ate apples and cracked nuts with their teeth.

  "Dear me! George seems to be very unwell," said Mrs. Walrond.

  "Yes," answered Anthony, "I am afraid he is. One of the medical officerswhom my father knows, who is working in that hospital, says they meanto send him home as soon as he can bear the journey, though he doesn'tthink it will be just at present."

  This sounded depressing, but Mr. Walrond found that it had a brightside.

  "At any rate, he won't be shot like so many poor fellows; also he hasbeen in several of the big battles and will be promoted. I look upon himas a made man. He'll soon shake off his cold in his native air----"

  "And we shall have a real wounded hero in the village," said one of thegirls.

  "He isn't a wounded hero," answered Janey, "he's only got a chill."

  "Well, that's as bad as wounded, dear, and I am sure he would have beenwounded if he could." And so on.

  "When are you going back to Cambridge, Anthony?" asked Mrs. Walrondpresently.

  "To-morrow morning, I am sorry to say," he answered, and Barbara's facefell at his words. "You see, I go up for my degree this summer term,and my father is very anxious that I should take high honours inmathematics. He says that it will give me a better standing in the Bar.So I must begin work at once with a tutor before term, for there's noone near here who can help me."

  "No," said Mr. Walrond. "If it had been classics now, with a littlerefurbishing perhaps I might. But mathematics are beyond me."

  "Barbara should teach him," suggested one of the little girls slyly."She's splendid at Rule of Three."

  "Which is more than you are," said Mrs. Walrond in severe tones, "whoalways make thirteen out of five and seven. Barbara, love, you arelooking very tired. All this noise is too much for you, you must goand lie down at once in your own room. No, not on the sofa, in your ownroom. Now say good-bye to Anthony and go."

  So Barbara, who was really tired, though with a happy weariness, did asshe was bid. Her hand met Anthony's and lingered there for a little,her violet eyes met his brown eyes and lingered there a little; her lipsspoke some few words of commonplace farewell. Then staying a moment totake the violets from the cracked vase, and another moment to kiss herfather as she passed him, she walked, or rather glided from the roomwith the graceful movement that was peculiar to her, and lo! at oncefor Anthony it became a very emptiness. Moreover, he grew aware of thehardness of his wooden seat and that the noise of the girls was makinghis head ache. So presently he too rose and departed.

  CHAPTER III

  AUNT MARIA

  Six months or so had gone by and summer reigned royally at Eastwich,for thus was the parish named of which the Reverend Septimus Walrondhad spiritual charge. The heath was a blaze of gold, the cut hay smeltsweetly in the fields, the sea sparkled like one vast sapphire, thelarks beneath the sun and the nightingales beneath the moon sang theirhearts out on Gunter's Hill, and all the land was full of life and soundand perfume.

  On one particularly beautiful evening, after partaking of a meal called"high tea," Barbara, quite strong again now and blooming like the wildrose upon her breast, set out alone upon a walk. Her errand was to thecottage of that very fisherman whose child her father had baptised onthe night when her life trembled in the balance. Having accomplishedthis she turned homewards, lost in reverie, events having happened atthe Rectory which gave her cause for thought. When she had gone a littleway some instinct led her to look up. About fifty yards away a man waswalking towards her to all appearance also lost in reverie. Even at thatdistance and in the uncertain evening light she knew well enough thatthis was Anthony. Her heart leapt at the sight of him and her cheeksseemed to catch the hue of the wild rose on her bosom. Then shestraightened her dress a little and walked on.

  In less than a minute they had met.

  "I heard where you had gone and came to meet you," he said awkwardly."How well you are looking, Barbara, how well and----" he had meant toadd "beautiful," but his tongue stumbled at the word and what he saidwas "brown."

  "If I were an Indian I suppose I should thank you for the compliment,Anthony, but as it is I don't know. But how well _you_ are looking, howwell and by comparison--fat."

  Then they both laughed, and he explained at length how he had been ableto get home two days earlier than he expected; also that he had takenhis degree with even higher honours than he hoped.

  "I am so glad," she said earnestly.

  "And so am I; I mean glad that you are glad. You see, if it hadn't beenfor you I should never have done so well. But because I thought youwould be glad, I worked like anything."

  "You should have thought of what your father would feel, notof--of--well, it has all ended as it should, so we needn't argue. Howis your brother George?" she went on, cutting short the answer that wasrising to his lips. "I suppose I should call him Captain Arnott now, forI hear he has been promoted. We haven't seen him since he came home lastweek, from some hospital in the South of England, they say."

  Anthony's face grew serious.

  "I don't know; I don't quite like the look of him, and he coughs such alot. It seems as though he could not shake off that chill he got in thetrenches. That's why he hasn't been to call at the Rectory."

  "I hope this beautiful weather will cure him," Barbara replied ratherdoubtfully, for she had heard a bad report of George Arnott's health.Then to change the subject she added, "Do you know, we had a visitoryesterday, Aunt Maria in the flesh, in a great deal of flesh, as Janeysays."

  "Do you mean Lady Thompson?"

  She nodded.

  "Aunt Thompson and her footman and her pug dog. Thank goodness, she onlystayed to tea, as she had a ten mile drive back to her hotel. As it was,lots of things happened."

  "What happened?"

  "Well, first when she got out of the carriage, covered with jet anchorchains--for you know Uncle Samuel died only three months ago and lefther all his money--she caught sight of our heads staring at her out ofthe drawing-room window, and asked father if he kept a girls' school.Then she made mother cry by remarking that she ought to be thankful toProvidence for having taken to its bosom the four of us who died young--you know she has no children herself and so can't feel about them.Also father was furious because she told him that at least half of usshould have been boys. He turned quite pink and said:

  "'I have been taught, Lady Thompson, that these are matters which GodAlmighty keeps in His own hands, and to Him I must refer you.'

  "'Good gracious! don't get angry,' she answered. 'If you clergymen cancross-examine your Maker, I am not in that position. Besides, they areall very good-looking girls who may find husbands, if they ever see aman. So things might have been worse.'

  "Then she made remarks about the tea, for Uncle Samuel was atea-merchant; and lastly that wicked Janey sent the footman to takethe pug dog
to walk past the butcher's shop where the fighting terrierlives. You can guess the rest."

  "Was the pug killed?" asked Anthony.

  "No, though the poor thing came back in a bad way. I never knew beforethat a pug's tail was so long when it is quite uncurled. But the footmanlooked almost worse, for he got notice on the spot. You see he went intothe 'Red Dragon' and left the pug outside."

  "And here endeth Aunt Maria and all her works," said Anthony, who wantedto talk of other things.

  "No, not quite."

  He looked at her, for there was meaning in her voice.

  "In fact," she went on, "so far as I'm concerned it ought to run, 'Herebeginneth Aunt Maria.' You see, I have got to go and live with herto-morrow."

  Anthony stopped and looked at her.

  "What the devil do you mean?" he asked.

  "What I say. She took a fancy to me and she wants a companion--someoneto do her errands and read to her at night and look after the pug dogand so forth. And she will pay me thirty pounds a year with my board anddresses. And" (with gathering emphasis) "we cannot afford to offend herwho have half lived upon her alms and old clothes for so many years.And, in short, Dad and my mother thought it best that I should go, sinceJoyce can take my place, and at any rate it will be a mouth less to feedat home. So I am going to-morrow morning by the carrier's cart."

  "Going?" gasped Anthony. "Where to?"

  "To London first, then to Paris, then to Italy to winter at Rome, andthen goodness knows where. You see, my Aunt Maria has wanted to travelall her life, but Uncle Samuel, who was born in Putney, feared the seaand lived and died in Putney in the very house in which he was born. NowAunt Maria wants a change and means to have it."

  Then Anthony broke out.

  "Damn the old woman! Why can't she take her change in Italy or wherevershe wishes, and leave you alone?"

  "Anthony!" said Barbara in a scandalised voice. "What do you mean,Anthony, by using such dreadful language about my aunt?"

  "What do I mean? Well" (this with the recklessness of despair), "if youwant to know, I mean that I can't bear your going away."

  "If my parents," began Barbara steadily----

  "What have your parents to do with it? I'm not your parents, I'myour----"

  Barbara looked at him in remonstrance.

  "--old friend, played together in childhood, you know the kind of thing.In short, I don't want you to go to Italy with Lady Thompson. I want youto stop here."

  "Why, Anthony? I thought you told me you were going to live in chambersin London and read for the Bar."

  "Well, London isn't Italy, and one doesn't eat dinners at Lincoln'sInn all the year round, one comes home sometimes. And heaven knows whomyou'll meet in those places or what tricks that horrible old aunt ofyours will be playing with you. Oh! it's wicked! How can you desert yourpoor father and mother in this way, to say nothing of your sisters? Inever thought you were so hard-hearted."

  "Anthony," said Barbara in a gentle voice, "do you know what we have gotto live on? In good years it comes to about 150 pounds, but once, whenmy father got into that lawsuit over the dog that was supposed to killthe sheep, it went down to 70 pounds. That was the winter when twoof the little ones died for want of proper food--nothing else--and Iremember that the rest of us had to walk barefoot in the mud and snowbecause there was no money to buy us boots, and only some of us couldgo out at once because we had no cloaks to put on. Well, all this mayhappen again. And so, Anthony, do you think that I should be right tothrow away thirty pounds a year and to make a quarrel with my aunt, whois rich and kind-hearted although very over-bearing, and the only friendwe have? If my father died, Anthony, or even was taken ill, and he isnot very strong, what would become of us? Unless Aunt Thompson chose tohelp we should all have to go to the workhouse, for girls who have notbeen specially trained can earn nothing, except perhaps as domesticservants, if they are strong enough. I don't want to go away and readto Aunt Maria and take the pug dog out walking, although it is true Ishould like to see Italy, but I must--can't you understand--I must.So please reproach me no more, for it is hard to bear--especially fromyou."

  "Stop! For God's sake, stop!" said Anthony. "I am a brute to have spokenlike that, and I'm helpless; that's the worst of it. Oh! my darling,don't you understand? Don't you understand----?"

  "No," answered Barbara, shaking her head and beginning to cry.

  "That I love you, that I have always loved you, and that I always shalllove you until--until--the moon ceases to shine?" and he pointed to thatorb which had appeared above the sea.

  "They say that it is dead already, and no doubt will come to an end likeeverything else," remarked Barbara, seeking to gain time.

  Then for a while she sought nothing more, who found herself lost in herlover's arms.

  So there they plighted their troth, that was, they swore, more enduringthan the moon, for indeed they so believed.

  "Nothing shall part us except death," he said.

  "Why should death part us?" she answered, looking him bravely in theeyes. "I mean to live beyond death, and while I live and wherever I livedeath shall _not_ part us, if you'll be true to me."

  "I'll not fail in that," he answered.

  And so their souls melted into rapture and were lifted up beyond theworld. The song of the nightingales was heavenly music in their ears,and the moon's silver rays upon the sea were the road by which theirlinked souls travelled to the throne of Him who had lit their lamp oflove, and there made petition that through all life's accidents anddeath's darkness it might burn eternally.

  For the love of these two was deep and faithful, and already seemed tothem as though it were a thing they had lost awhile and found oncemore; a very precious jewel that from the beginning had shone upon theirbreasts; a guiding-star to light them to that end which is the dawn ofEndlessness.

  Who will not smile at such thoughts as these?

  The way of the man with the maid and the way of the maid with the manand the moon to light them and the birds to sing the epithalamium oftheir hearts and the great sea to murmur of eternity in their openedears. Nature at her sweet work beneath the gentle night--who is therethat will not say that it was nothing more?

  Well, let their story answer.

  CHAPTER IV

  A YEAR LATER

  Something over a year had gone by, and Barbara, returned from herforeign travels, sat in the drawing-room of Lady Thompson's house inRussell 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 theworld. She had wintered in Rome and studied its antiquities and art. Shehad learned some French and Italian, for nothing was grudged to her inthe way of masters, and worked at music, for which she had a naturaltaste. She had seen a good deal of society also, for Lady Thompson wasat heart proud of her beautiful niece, and spared no expense to bringher into contact with such people as she considered she should know.

  Thus it came about that the fine apartment they occupied in Rome hadmany visitors. Among these was a certain Secretary of Legation, the Hon.Charles Erskine Russell, who, it was expected, would in the courseof nature succeed to a peerage. He was a very agreeable as well as anaccomplished and wealthy man, and--he fell in love with Barbara. Withthe cleverness of her sex she managed to put him off and to avoid anyactual proposal before they left for Switzerland in the early summer.Thither, happily, he could not follow them, since his official dutiesprevented him from leaving the Embassy. Lady Thompson was much annoyedat what she considered his bad conduct, and said as much to Barbara.

  Her niece listened, but did not discuss the matter, with the result thatLady Thompson's opinion of the Hon. Charles Russell was confirmed. Wasit not clear that there had been no proposal, although it was equallyclear that he ought to have proposed? Poor Barbara! Perhaps this was theonly act of deception of which she was ever guilty.

  So things went on until the previous day, the Monday after their arrivalin London, when, most unhappily,
Lady Thompson went out to lunch and metthe Hon. Charles Russell, who was on leave in England.

  Next morning, while Barbara was engaged in arranging some flowers in thedrawing-room, who should be shown in but Mr. Russell. In her alarmshe dropped a bowl and broke it, a sign that he evidently consideredhopeful, setting it down to the emotion which his sudden presencecaused. To emotion it was due, indeed, but not of a kind he would havewished. Recovering herself, Barbara shook his hand and then told theservant who was picking up the pieces of the bowl to inform her ladyshipof the arrival of this morning caller.

  The man bowed and departed, and as he went Barbara noticed an ominoustwinkle in the pleasant blue eyes of the Hon. Charles Russell.

  The rest of the interview may be summed up in a few words. Mr. Russellwas eloquent, passionate and convincing. He assured Barbara that she wasthe only woman he had ever loved with such force and conviction that inthe end she almost believed him. But this belief, if it existed, did notin the least shake her absolutely definite determination to have nothingwhatsoever to do with her would-be lover.

  Not until she had told him so six times, however, did he consent tobelieve her, for indeed he had been led to expect a very differentanswer.

  "I suppose you care for someone 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 hisway to make in the world."