"He might change his mind, or--die."
"If so, I should not change mine," said Barbara. "Very likely I shallnot marry him, but I shall not marry anyone 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 earnestand unalterable respect," he said in a somewhat broken voice, and takingher hand he touched it lightly with his lips, turned, and departed outof Barbara's sight and life.
Ten minutes later Lady Thompson arrived, and her coming was like tothat of a thunderstorm. She shut the door, locked it, and sat down in anarmchair in solemn, lurid silence. Then with one swift flash the stormbroke.
"What is this I hear from Mr. Russell?"
"I am sure I don't know what you have heard from Mr. Russell," answeredBarbara 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 hewere--rubbish. And it is ungrateful to throw away the chances that akind 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 mightyet 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 areyou going into a nunnery? Or is there--another man?"
"Yes, Aunt."
"Where is he?" said Lady Thompson, looking about her as though sheexpected to find him hidden under the furniture. "And how did you manageto become entangled with him, you sly girl, under my very nose? And whois he? One of those bowing and scraping Italians, I suppose, who thinkyou'll get my money. Tell me the truth at once."
"He is somebody you have never seen, Aunt. One of the Arnotts down athome."
"Oh, that Captain! Well, I believe they have a decent property, about2,000 pounds 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 apeeress of you some day and given you a great position meanwhile. But Isuppose 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, theproperty is all entailed, and he will scarcely have a half-penny, forhis mother brought no money to the Arnotts. Oh, this is too much! Tothrow up Mr. Russell for an Anthony. Are you engaged to him with yourparents' consent, may I ask, and if so, why was the matter concealedfrom me, who would certainly have declined to drag an entangled youngwoman about the world?"
"I am not engaged, but my father and mother know that we are attachedto each other. It happened the day after you came to Eastwich, orthey would have told you. My father made me promise that we would notcorrespond while I was away, as he thought that we were too young tobind ourselves to each other, especially as Anthony has no presentprospects or means to support a wife."
"I am glad they had so much sense. It is more than might have beenexpected of my sister after her own performance, for which doubtless sheis sorry enough now. Like you, she might have married a title instead ofa 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 thismoon-calf business of yours or not?"
"It is not a moon-calf business, whatever that may be, and I will notgive it up."
"Very well, then, I can't make you as you are of age. But I have donewith you. You will go to your room and stop there, and to-morrow morningyou will return to your parents, to whom I will write at once. You havebetrayed my hospitality and presumed upon my kindness; after all thethings I have given you, too," and her eyes fixed themselves upon apearl necklace that Barbara was wearing. For Lady Thompson could begenerous when she was in the mood.
Barbara unfastened the necklace and offered it to her aunt without aword.
"Nonsense!" said Lady Thompson. "Do you think I want to rob you of yourtrinkets because I happen to have given them to you? Keep them, theymay be useful one day when you have a husband and a family and no money.Pearls may pay the butcher and the rent."
"Thank you for all your kindness, Aunt, and good-bye. I am sorry thatI am not able to do as you wish about marriage, but after all a woman'slife is her own."
"That's just what it isn't and never has been. A woman's life is herhusband'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 anyrate, it isn't mine, so we had better part. Still, I rather admire yourcourage. I wonder what this young fellow is like for whose sake you areprepared to lose so much; more than you think, maybe, for I had grownfond 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 tome when you get into a tight place," and rising, she kissed her, ratherroughly but not without affection, and flung out of the room like onewho feared to trust herself there any longer.
On the evening of the following day Barbara, emerging from the carrier'scart at the blacksmith's corner at Eastwich, was met by a riotous throngof five energetic young sisters who nearly devoured her with kisses.So happy was that greeting, indeed, that in it she almost forgot hersorrows. 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 auntwhose very kindness was oppressive and whose temper was terrible. Shehad fifty pounds in her pocket and a good stock of clothes, to saynothing of the pearls and other jewellery, wealth indeed if measured bythe Walrond standard. Her beloved sisters were evidently in the best ofhealth and spirits; also, as she thought, better-looking than any girlsshe had seen since she bade them farewell. Her father and mother were,as they told her, well and delighted at her return; and lastly, as shehad 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 andthank God for these good things?
On that evening, however, when supper was done, she had a somewhatserious interview with her father and mother who sat on either side ofher, each of them holding one of her hands, for they could scarcely bearher out of their sight. She had told all the tale of the Hon. CharlesRussell and of her violent dismissal by her aunt, of which story theywere not entirely ignorant, for Lady Thompson had already advised themof these events by letter.
The Reverend Septimus shook his head sadly. He was not a worldly-mindedman; still, to have a presumptive peer for a son-in-law, who woulddoubtless also become an ambassador, was a prospect that at heart herelinquished with regret. Also this young Arnott business seemed veryvague and unsatisfactory, and there were the other girls and theirfuture to be considered. No wonder, then, that he shook his kindly greyhead and looked somewhat depressed.
But his wife took another line.
"Septimus," she said, "in these matters a woman must judge by her ownheart, and you see Barbara is a woman now. Once, you remember, I hadto face something of the same sort, and I do not think, dear,notwithstanding all our troubles, that either of us have regretted ourdecision."
Then they both rose and solemnly kissed each other over Barbara's head.
CHAPTER V
WEDDED
Next day, oh! joy of joys, Barbara and Anthony met once more after somefifteen months of separation. Anthony was now in his twenty-fourthyear, a fine young man with well-cut features, brown eyes and a pleasantsmile. Muscularly, too, he was very strong, as was shown by his athleticrecord at Cambridge. Whether his strength extended to his co
nstitutionwas another matter. Mrs. Walrond, noticing his unvarying colour, whichshe thought unduly high, and the transparent character of his skin,spoke to her husband upon the matter.
In his turn Septimus spoke to the old local doctor, who shruggedhis shoulders and remarked that the Arnotts had been delicate forgenerations, "lungy," he called it. Noticing that Mr. Walrond lookedserious, and knowing something of how matters stood between Anthony andBarbara, he hastened to add that so far as he knew there was no causefor alarm, and that if he were moderately careful he thought thatAnthony would live to eighty.
"But it is otherwise with his brother," he added significantly, "and forthe matter of that with the old man also."
Then he went away, and there was something in the manner of hisgoing which seemed to suggest that he did not wish to continue theconversation.
From Anthony, however, Barbara soon learned the truth as to his brother.His lungs were gone, for the chill he took in the Crimea had settled onthem, and now there was left to him but a little time to live. This wassad news and marred the happiness of their meeting, since both of themwere far too unworldly to consider its effect upon their own prospects,or that it would make easy that which had hitherto seemed impossible.
"Are you nursing him?" she asked.
"Yes, more or less. I took him to the South of England for two months,but it did no good."
"I am glad the thing is not catching," she remarked, glancing at him.
"Oh, no," he replied carelessly, "I never heard that it was catching,though some people say it runs in families. I hope not, I am sure, asthe poor old chap insists upon my sleeping in his room whenever I am athome, as we used to do when we were boys."
Then their talk wandered elsewhere, for they had so much to say to eachother that it seemed doubtful if they would ever get to the end of itall. Anthony was particularly anxious to learn what blessed circumstancehad caused Barbara's sudden re-appearance at Eastwich. She fenced for awhile, then told him all the truth.
"So you gave up this brilliant marriage for me, a fellow with scarcely ahalf-penny and a very few prospects," he exclaimed, staring at her.
"Of course. What would you have expected me to do--marry one man whileI love another? As for the rest it must take its chance," and while thewords were on her lips, for the first time it came into Barbara's mindthat perhaps Anthony had no need to trouble about his worldly fortunes.For if it were indeed true that Captain Arnott was doomed, who elsewould succeed to the estate?
"I think you are an angel," he said, still overcome by this wondrousinstance of fidelity and of courage in the face of Lady Thompson'sanger.
"If I had done anything else, I think, Anthony, that you might very wellhave called me--whatever is the reverse of an angel."
And thus the links of their perfect love were drawn even closer thanbefore.
Only three days later Mr. Walrond was summoned hastily to the Hall. Whenhe returned from his ministrations it was to announce in a sad voicethat Captain Arnott was sinking fast. Before the following morning hewas dead.
A month or so after the grave had closed over Captain Arnott theengagement of Anthony and Barbara was announced formally, and bythe express wish of Mr. Arnott. The old gentleman had for years beenpartially paralysed and in a delicate state of health, which thesad loss of his elder son had done much to render worse. He sent forBarbara, whom he had known from her childhood, and told her that thesooner she and Anthony were married the better he would be pleased.
"You see, my dear," he added, "I do not wish the old name to die outafter we have been in this place for three hundred years, and youWalronds are a healthy stock, which is more than we can say now. Wornout, I suppose, worn out! In fact," he went on, looking at her sharply,"it is for you to consider whether you care to take the risks of cominginto this family, for whatever the doctors may or may not say, I thinkit my duty to tell you straight out that in my opinion there is somerisk."
"If so, I do not fear it, Mr. Arnott, and I hope you will not put anysuch idea into Anthony's head. If you do he might refuse to marry me,and that would break my heart."
"No, I dare say you do not fear it, but there are other--well, thingsmust take their course. If we were always thinking of the future no onewould dare to stir."
Then he told her that when first he heard of their mutual attachment hehad been much disturbed, as he did not see how they were to marry.
"But poor George's death has changed all that," he said, "since nowAnthony will get the estate, which is practically the only property wehave, and it ought always to produce enough to keep you going and tomaintain the place in a modest way."
Lastly he presented her with a valuable set of diamonds that hadbelonged to his mother, saying he might not be alive to do so when thetime of her marriage came, and dismissed her with his blessing.
In due course all these tidings, including that of the diamonds, cameto the ears of Aunt Thompson, and wondrously softened that lady's anger.Indeed, she wrote to Barbara in very affectionate terms, to wish herevery happiness and say how glad she was to hear that she was settlingherself so well in life. She added that she should make a point of beingpresent at the wedding. A postscript informed her that Mr. Russell wasabout to be married to an Italian countess, a widow.
Barbara's wedding was fixed for October. At the beginning of that month,however, Anthony was seized with some unaccountable kind of illness, inwhich coughing played a considerable part. So severe were its effectsthat it was thought desirable to postpone the ceremony. The doctorordered him away for a change of air. On the morning of his departure hespoke seriously to Barbara.
"I don't know what is the matter with me," he said, "and I don't thinkit is very much at present. But, dear, I have a kind of presentimentthat I am going to become an invalid. My strength is nothing likewhat it was, and at times it fails me in a most unaccountable manner.Barbara, it breaks my heart to say it, but I doubt whether you ought tomarry me."
"If you were going to be a permanent invalid, which I do not believe forone moment," answered Barbara steadily, "you would want a nurse, and whocould nurse you so well as your wife? Therefore unless you had ceased tocare for me, I should certainly marry you."
Then, as still he seemed to hesitate, she flung her arms about him andkissed him, which was an argument that he lacked strength to resist.
A day or two afterwards her father also spoke to Barbara.
"I don't like this illness of Anthony's, my dear. The doctor does notseem to understand it, or at any rate so he pretends, and says he hasno doubt it will pass off. But I cannot help remembering the case of hisbrother George; also that of his mother before him.. In short, Barbara,do you think--well, that it would be wise to marry him? I know thatto break it off would be dreadful, but, you see, health is so veryimportant."
Barbara turned on her father almost fiercely.
"Whose health?" she asked. "If you mean mine, it is in no danger; and ifit were I should care nothing. What good would health be to me if I lostAnthony, who is more to me than life? But if you mean his health, thenthe greatest happiness I can have is to nurse him."
"Yes, yes, I understand, dear. But, you see, there might be--others."
"If so, father, they must run their risks as we do; that is if there areany risks for them to run, which I doubt."
"I dare say you are quite right, dear; indeed, I feel almost sure thatyou are right, only I thought it my duty to mention the matter, which Ihope you will forgive me for having done. And now I may tell you I havea letter from Anthony, saying that he is ever so much better, and askingif the fifteenth of November will suit us for the wedding."
On the fifteenth of November, accordingly, Anthony and Barbara were mademan and wife by the bride's father with the assistance of the clergymanof the next parish. Owing to the recent death of the bridegroom'sbrother and the condition of Mr. Arnott's health the wedding wasextremely quiet. Still, in its own way it was as charming as it washappy. All her five sisters acted as Barbara's bridesmaids
, and manygathered in that church said they were the most beautiful bevy ofmaidens that ever had been seen. But if so, Barbara outshone them all,perhaps because of her jewels and fine clothes and the radiance on herlovely face.
Anthony, who seemed to be quite well again, also looked extremelyhandsome, while Aunt Thompson, who by now had put off her mourning,shone in that dim church as the sun shines through a morning mist.
In short, all went as merrily as it should, save that the bride's motherseemed depressed and wept a little.
This, said her sister to someone in a loud voice, was in her opinionnothing short of wicked. What business, she asked, has a woman withsix portionless daughters to cry because one of them is making a goodmarriage; "though it is true," she added, dropping her voice to aconfidential whisper, "that had Barbara chosen she might have made abetter one. Yes, I don't mind telling you that she might have been apeeress, instead of the wife of a mere country squire."
In truth, Mrs. Walrond was ill at ease about this marriage, why shedid not know. Something in her heart seemed to tell her that her deardaughter's happiness would not be of long continuance. Bearing in mindhis family history, she feared for Anthony's health; indeed, she feareda hundred things that she was quite unable to define. However, at thelittle breakfast which followed she seemed quite to recover her spiritsand laughed as merrily as anyone at the speech which Lady Thompsoninsisted upon making, in which she described Barbara as "her darling,beautiful and most accomplished niece, who indeed was almost herdaughter."