"I wish I could go abroad, anywhere, everywhere with you, Lucy, and leave this place and its a.s.sociations for ever!"
She played with the end of her bonnet-string, and hastily turned aside.
"Don"t ever touch upon that kind of topic again," she said, with a quick severity not free from anger. "It simply makes it impossible for me to see you, much less receive any guidance from you. No, thank you, Mr.
Barnet; you can do nothing for me at present; and as I suppose my uncertainty will end in my leaving for India, I fear you never will. If ever I think you can do anything, I will take the trouble to ask you.
Till then, good-bye."
The tone of her latter words was equivocal, and while he remained in doubt whether a gentle irony was or was not inwrought with their sound, she swept lightly round and left him alone. He saw her form get smaller and smaller along the damp belt of sea-sand between ebb and flood; and when she had vanished round the cliff into the harbour-road, he himself followed in the same direction.
That her hopes from an advertis.e.m.e.nt should be the single thread which held Lucy Savile in England was too much for Barnet. On reaching the town he went straight to the residence of Downe, now a widower with four children. The young motherless brood had been sent to bed about a quarter of an hour earlier, and when Barnet entered he found Downe sitting alone. It was the same room as that from which the family had been looking out for Downe at the beginning of the year, when Downe had slipped into the gutter and his wife had been so enviably tender towards him. The old neatness had gone from the house; articles lay in places which could show no reason for their presence, as if momentarily deposited there some months ago, and forgotten ever since; there were no flowers; things were jumbled together on the furniture which should have been in cupboards; and the place in general had that stagnant, unrenovated air which usually pervades the maimed home of the widower.
Downe soon renewed his customary full-worded lament over his wife, and even when he had worked himself up to tears, went on volubly, as if a listener were a luxury to be enjoyed whenever he could be caught.
"She was a treasure beyond compare, Mr. Barnet! I shall never see such another. n.o.body now to nurse me--n.o.body to console me in those daily troubles, you know, Barnet, which make consolation so necessary to a nature like mine. It would be unbecoming to repine, for her spirit"s home was elsewhere--the tender light in her eyes always showed it; but it is a long dreary time that I have before me, and n.o.body else can ever fill the void left in my heart by her loss--n.o.body--n.o.body!" And Downe wiped his eyes again.
"She was a good woman in the highest sense," gravely answered Barnet, who, though Downe"s words drew genuine compa.s.sion from his heart, could not help feeling that a tender reticence would have been a finer tribute to Mrs. Downe"s really sterling virtues than such a second-cla.s.s lament as this.
"I have something to show you," Downe resumed, producing from a drawer a sheet of paper on which was an elaborate design for a canopied tomb.
"This has been sent me by the architect, but it is not exactly what I want."
"You have got Jones to do it, I see, the man who is carrying out my house," said Barnet, as he glanced at the signature to the drawing.
"Yes, but it is not quite what I want. I want something more striking--more like a tomb I have seen in St. Paul"s Cathedral. Nothing less will do justice to my feelings, and how far short of them that will fall!"
Barnet privately thought the design a sufficiently imposing one as it stood, even extravagantly ornate; but, feeling that he had no right to criticize, he said gently, "Downe, should you not live more in your children"s lives at the present time, and soften the sharpness of regret for your own past by thinking of their future?"
"Yes, yes; but what can I do more?" asked Downe, wrinkling his forehead hopelessly.
It was with anxious slowness that Barnet produced his reply--the secret object of his visit to-night. "Did you not say one day that you ought by rights to get a governess for the children?"
Downe admitted that he had said so, but that he could not see his way to it. "The kind of woman I should like to have," he said, "would be rather beyond my means. No; I think I shall send them to school in the town when they are old enough to go out alone."
"Now, I know of something better than that. The late Lieutenant Savile"s daughter, Lucy, wants to do something for herself in the way of teaching.
She would be inexpensive, and would answer your purpose as well as anybody for six or twelve months. She would probably come daily if you were to ask her, and so your housekeeping arrangements would not be much affected."
"I thought she had gone away," said the solicitor, musing. "Where does she live?"
Barnet told him, and added that, if Downe should think of her as suitable, he would do well to call as soon as possible, or she might be on the wing. "If you do see her," he said, "it would be advisable not to mention my name. She is rather stiff in her ideas of me, and it might prejudice her against a course if she knew that I recommended it."
Downe promised to give the subject his consideration, and nothing more was said about it just then. But when Barnet rose to go, which was not till nearly bedtime, he reminded Downe of the suggestion and went up the street to his own solitary home with a sense of satisfaction at his promising diplomacy in a charitable cause.
CHAPTER VII
The walls of his new house were carried up nearly to their full height.
By a curious though not infrequent reaction, Barnet"s feelings about that unnecessary structure had undergone a change; he took considerable interest in its progress as a long-neglected thing, his wife before her departure having grown quite weary of it as a hobby. Moreover, it was an excellent distraction for a man in the unhappy position of having to live in a provincial town with nothing to do. He was probably the first of his line who had ever pa.s.sed a day without toil, and perhaps something like an inherited instinct disqualifies such men for a life of pleasant inaction, such as lies in the power of those whose leisure is not a personal accident, but a vast historical accretion which has become part of their natures.
Thus Barnet got into a way of spending many of his leisure hours on the site of the new building, and he might have been seen on most days at this time trying the temper of the mortar by punching the joints with his stick, looking at the grain of a floor-board, and meditating where it grew, or picturing under what circ.u.mstances the last fire would be kindled in the at present sootless chimneys. One day when thus occupied he saw three children pa.s.s by in the company of a fair young woman, whose sudden appearance caused him to flush perceptibly.
"Ah, she is there," he thought. "That"s a blessed thing."
Casting an interested glance over the rising building and the busy workmen, Lucy Savile and the little Downes pa.s.sed by; and after that time it became a regular though almost unconscious custom of Barnet to stand in the half-completed house and look from the ungarnished windows at the governess as she tripped towards the sea-sh.o.r.e with her young charges, which she was in the habit of doing on most fine afternoons. It was on one of these occasions, when he had been loitering on the first-floor landing, near the hole left for the staircase, not yet erected, that there appeared above the edge of the floor a little hat, followed by a little head.
Barnet withdrew through a doorway, and the child came to the top of the ladder, stepping on to the floor and crying to her sisters and Miss Savile to follow. Another head rose above the floor, and another, and then Lucy herself came into view. The troop ran hither and thither through the empty, shaving-strewn rooms, and Barnet came forward.
Lucy uttered a small exclamation: she was very sorry that she had intruded; she had not the least idea that Mr. Barnet was there: the children had come up, and she had followed.
Barnet replied that he was only too glad to see them there. "And now, let me show you the rooms," he said.
She pa.s.sively a.s.sented, and he took her round. There was not much to show in such a bare skeleton of a house, but he made the most of it, and explained the different ornamental fittings that were soon to be fixed here and there. Lucy made but few remarks in reply, though she seemed pleased with her visit, and stole away down the ladder, followed by her companions.
After this the new residence became yet more of a hobby for Barnet.
Downe"s children did not forget their first visit, and when the windows were glazed, and the handsome staircase spread its broad low steps into the hall, they came again, prancing in unwearied succession through every room from ground-floor to attics, while Lucy stood waiting for them at the door. Barnet, who rarely missed a day in coming to inspect progress, stepped out from the drawing-room.
"I could not keep them out," she said, with an apologetic blush. "I tried to do so very much: but they are rather wilful, and we are directed to walk this way for the sea air."
"Do let them make the house their regular playground, and you yours,"
said Barnet. "There is no better place for children to romp and take their exercise in than an empty house, particularly in muddy or damp weather such as we shall get a good deal of now; and this place will not be furnished for a long long time--perhaps never. I am not at all decided about it."
"O, but it must!" replied Lucy, looking round at the hall. "The rooms are excellent, twice as high as ours; and the views from the windows are so lovely."
"I daresay, I daresay," he said absently.
"Will all the furniture be new?" she asked.
"All the furniture be new--that"s a thing I have not thought of. In fact I only come here and look on. My father"s house would have been large enough for me, but another person had a voice in the matter, and it was settled that we should build. However, the place grows upon me; its recent a.s.sociations are cheerful, and I am getting to like it fast."
A certain uneasiness in Lucy"s manner showed that the conversation was taking too personal a turn for her. "Still, as modern tastes develop, people require more room to gratify them in," she said, withdrawing to call the children; and serenely bidding him good afternoon she went on her way.
Barnet"s life at this period was singularly lonely, and yet he was happier than he could have expected. His wife"s estrangement and absence, which promised to be permanent, left him free as a boy in his movements, and the solitary walks that he took gave him ample opportunity for chastened reflection on what might have been his lot if he had only shown wisdom enough to claim Lucy Savile when there was no bar between their lives, and she was to be had for the asking. He would occasionally call at the house of his friend Downe; but there was scarcely enough in common between their two natures to make them more than friends of that excellent sort whose personal knowledge of each other"s history and character is always in excess of intimacy, whereby they are not so likely to be severed by a clash of sentiment as in cases where intimacy springs up in excess of knowledge. Lucy was never visible at these times, being either engaged in the school-room, or in taking an airing out of doors; but, knowing that she was now comfortable, and had given up the, to him, depressing idea of going off to the other side of the globe, he was quite content.
The new house had so far progressed that the gardeners were beginning to gra.s.s down the front. During an afternoon which he was pa.s.sing in marking the curve for the carriage-drive, he beheld her coming in boldly towards him from the road. Hitherto Barnet had only caught her on the premises by stealth; and this advance seemed to show that at last her reserve had broken down.
A smile gained strength upon her face as she approached, and it was quite radiant when she came up, and said, without a trace of embarra.s.sment, "I find I owe you a hundred thanks--and it comes to me quite as a surprise!
It was through your kindness that I was engaged by Mr. Downe. Believe me, Mr. Barnet, I did not know it until yesterday, or I should have thanked you long and long ago!"
"I had offended you--just a trifle--at the time, I think?" said Barnet, smiling, "and it was best that you should not know."
"Yes, yes," she returned hastily. "Don"t allude to that; it is past and over, and we will let it be. The house is finished almost, is it not?
How beautiful it will look when the evergreens are grown! Do you call the style Palladian, Mr. Barnet?"
"I--really don"t quite know what it is. Yes, it must be Palladian, certainly. But I"ll ask Jones, the architect; for, to tell the truth, I had not thought much about the style: I had nothing to do with choosing it, I am sorry to say."
She would not let him harp on this gloomy refrain, and talked on bright matters till she said, producing a small roll of paper which he had noticed in her hand all the while, "Mr. Downe wished me to bring you this revised drawing of the late Mrs. Downe"s tomb, which the architect has just sent him. He would like you to look it over."
The children came up with their hoops, and she went off with them down the harbour-road as usual. Barnet had been glad to get those words of thanks; he had been thinking for many months that he would like her to know of his share in finding her a home such as it was; and what he could not do for himself, Downe had now kindly done for him. He returned to his desolate house with a lighter tread; though in reason he hardly knew why his tread should be light.
On examining the drawing, Barnet found that, instead of the vast altar- tomb and canopy Downe had determined on at their last meeting, it was to be a more modest memorial even than had been suggested by the architect; a coped tomb of good solid construction, with no useless elaboration at all. Barnet was truly glad to see that Downe had come to reason of his own accord; and he returned the drawing with a note of approval.