MY COUSIN BARBARA.

Bruce Herald, Volume XXXI, Issue 3217, 20 November 1900, Page 7

MY COUSIN BARBARA.

Last Babbasa Bbashox's affection is nn fortunately capable of the most minute disseotion, and only a fraction of it is bestowec . On me. This ia'tha vaont rnon-Aff aMa aa lam

-—~ ——** •• •— — t i_B uiuDV icgntiauc ao * nui, always have been, and ever shall be, totally . devoted to^ hev~and the servant to her humblest wish. Barbara is twenty -three to* morrow, and for the last fonr years I have bi-annually petitioned her to be my wife* To show how minute has been in the past the disseotion of her love, let me refer to her sohoolroom days. At twelve years of age a Frenoh governess was imported into the nursery, and for her brief reign, Barbara divided her love between her mother and the governess, giving just about half to eaoh, aud showing no favour. After a few months, however, Barbara was introduced to Bob, the stable boy, and her affections, formerly bisected, now became divided mathematically into three eqnal parts. Later on, the curate of the parish, as her tutor, caused a still further subdivision, and when I came on the scene I imagine my share was about one- tenth. At the end of ihe first season I asked Barbara to marry me. It was in my chambers — at least I think so, though I confess lam ascertain, I hare aeked her ia so many different places— and Barbara's mother had gone out for a moment to bny something at a shop close by. Barbara heard me very complacently. She did not get flurried, or blush, or stammer. She merely began fixing her veil on, pulling her lips together when the veil caught on them, and then said : * Dear Jack ' — I am hpr second cousin, and have known her since sohoolroom days — * 1 do wish you wouldn't ! That makes six in the last fortnight, and I'm only nineteen. I'm very fond of you, as you know, but of course I'm not going to marry yoa. Do pin this veil on at the baok.' So I pinned the veil on. At this, my first refusal, I became very dejected, and for a month afterwards went nightly to music-halls, musical farces, or poker parties. It was also at that period that I learned many cynical epigrams and retailed them to my friends, many of whom, I have reason to believe, had also been rejected by Barbara. She did not seem to notice any difference in my behaviour, and still made me carry her parcels and call hansoms for her as before. After a while, when I had asked har two or three times to be my wife, and she had each time refused, she grew to recognise it as one of my characteristics, and, I imagine, rather admired me for my persißtenoy. After each repulse I determined never to see her a^ain, never to meet her, never to think of her ; but of course this wbb as futile as if a piece of steel were to determine not to be attracted by a magnet. • • • • Finally I confessed to my own dear old mother the predicament I was iv. I withheld nothing from her. I painted all my passion for Barbara, told ncr how hopeless I knew it to be, and then in the same breath asked her if she thought there was the slightest chance ol her ever returning my affection. And my mother replied : ' I hope there is none, Jack. A girl who treats you as Barbara is doing, does not deserve the love of my Bon.* ' Oh ! indeed she does, mother,' I hastened to protest. ' Barbara is worthy of any man's love, of every man's love. After a man has gazed on Barbara, he henceforth sees no one else in this world. That is not ber fault ; indeed, Barbara is faultless. Ido not complaim of Barbara's treatment of me. It is generous in the extreme. If only she would say jn«t once, 'Go away, Jack ; I dislike you,' I would be content— at any rate, peaceful. But Barbara won't. She shows me favours, gives me parcels to carry, oruers to perform, and wears my flowers at dances. No, indeed, Barbara is not to blame !* My mother stroked gently my disordered hair. •Then you must leave her, Jack,' she said. * You mußt show determination, strength of purpose, character. It is not right tbat any man should cast his life away and make it useless for the sake of a girl. You find it difficult at first to do so, but in time the wound will heal, and I shall find my boy cured entirely of Barbara.' I refieeted for a few minutes, turning the ring rcund on my finger, and wondering if I had the strength to follow the good advice. At last I replied, raising my head proudly : 4 You are right, quite right, mother, and I shall do as you cay. Barbara shall be nothing to me. I Bhall go abroad and forget her. I shall send her no more flowers, studiously avoid her at dances, take her to no more theatres.' Tfce page knocked at the door at this moment, and entering, handed me a telegram. I took it from him and continued my speech, waving the little brown packet above my head. 4 Henceforward no one shall say I am Barbara's slave. If Barbara says 'come,' I shall go : if Barbara says 'go,' I shall come. I shall do the things she wishes me to leave undone ; I shall leave undone the things she wishes me to do. Mother,' I continued after a pause, and slowly tearing open the telegram, 'how is it you can change a man's mind so easily ? Before you spoke to me I was as weak as water, my resolves as feeble as a thread, now — now I am determined and strong. Mother, you are a true counsellor, and' — I looked down at the telegram and read: Please take us to the Opera to-night. Carriage will be at your chambers at halfpast seven We bave booked supper-table at the Savoy.— Babbaba. I hurriedly looked at my watch. The incongruity of the situation did not strike me. TLere was just time to catch the five o'clock train to town. ' Well, Jack ?' my mother said. I nervously shuffled my feet. ' I— I had an important telegram,' I stammered, ' and must go up to town at once/ * At once, Jack ?' • Yes, mother, at once. There is barely time to catch the five o'clock train.' The old lady looked at me anxiously, and said : * May I ask whom the telegram is from ?' ' Oh, yes, mother, who would ask if not yen P The — cr — telegram is from — from — no one of importance— my stockbroker, he wants to ask me about some investments.* I felt my parent's trustful eyes on me. • Well, perhaps not my stockbroker,' I said ashamed. ' but — but ' • It's from Barb_a, Jack,' my mother sair'. I pulled at my moustache, and looked down at the carpet. Weak as -water ! weak as waler ! I repeated to myself. Fic^lly I took my hat, stick, and gloves from the table beside me and kissed my mother's brow. 4 Yes, mother,' I said, with a sigh, ' it's undoubtedly from Barbara.' • • • • After a year or two of this foolishness, I had lost any iota of self-respect which was mite. I collapsed mentally and allowed myself to drift wherever Barbara current might take me, and it in all honesty took me into curious shoals. I floated on its Burface to German watering places, to the Riviera, into the Casino, and on to Caito — Barbara's little sunshade ever bobbing up and down in front. I was alternately merry and moody ; merry of course when Barbara was by, moody when she was away. Nevertfceles, Barbara and I parted for a whole winter. She took suddenly a fanoy that eho would go to Leipzic, and study music there, and having deoided this en a certain Tuesday travelled to Germany on the Friday following', being: before all things, Impetuous and irresponsible. Jt intended to follow her, bat she said

•No T so Instead' I saw her o_ at Charing Cross! She was very busy with her luggage on the platform, bat while I was collecting it? for her, and seeing that it was correctly labelled, I managed by scratches and at odd intervals to propose to her again, with the invariable result. ' Where's my hold- all P' she said, 'and my portmanteau P What's that you said, Jaok? You silly boy, get me some magazines to read, end take 'No 1' for a final and deliberate answer. Jaok, write to me ! Cousins may, may they not ?' Nevertheless, I took Barbara at her word, and wrote frequently and lengthily. The world seemed very blank and barren to me for the first month or two after Barbara's departure : there were no flowers, no green meadows, no leaves in it : all were prickly shrubs of sandy deserts in my eyesight. More than onoe the spirit wooed me beyond my power, and I fled to the railway station preparatory to following Barbara ; but on the platform her imperious 'No' came baok to me, and I beat a hasty retreat. My chambers Knew me more frequently than before, and the pipe- raok over the fireplace and the orossed swords over my door became my companions and my confidants, heaving my oft-repeated tale with a good-natured listener's attention, soothing and comfortable. Through Barbara's mother I heard of her. She was repeating on the Continent her performance of the sohoolroom, subdividing and disseoting her affection still iurther. Her violin and piano masters were the objeotß of her fractional devotion, and they are the only two persons I have known who have made the slightest disturbance in her temperament. As suoh I have ever since respected them ; indeed, her happiness and misery depended entirely on their approval or disapproval of her playing. One week she would write home with content in every line of her letter, and I would know that Herr Hoffman had said • Goot !' at the end of her lesson ; the next her letter would be burdened with despair in eaoh syllable, and in my imagination £ heard the professor say ' Ach ! how treadful !' at her performance. But to show how even apparently hopeless cases may be oured, I confess that in the third month after Barbara's departure I began again to take an interest in the external world. Slight, indeed, it was at first ; but as the weeks passed by it increased, and as though awakening from a long, deep trance, I watched tbe busy world of Piccadilly and Pall Mall with quite a child's wonder and amazement. I allowed the triangular chats between the crossed swords over the door, the pipe-rack and myself, to be narrowed to a duet between the inanimates, and I myself closed the door on them, went out into the world, and, seeking, found amusement. Not that Barbara was forgotten, for Barbara is, once known, to he for ever remembered, only that her memory mingled with the outeido world and became a part of it. My dear old mother noticed the change in _c, and for a time was blent. At last, one day when I was seated on a stool at her feet, watohing her and her coloured wools, she put the work on her lap and took my hand in hers. 'My boy,' she eaid lovingly, ' Barbara abroad is not Barbara at home.' I laughed heartily. ' No, mother,' I said , 'of course not. Only — only ' ' Only Barbara is not forgotten. I did not expect it, nor hope it. But it is good to see my son playing his part in the world, as his father did before him. Barbara should be the theme of my son's life, not the sum of its incidents.' ' Mother,* I said, ' while you are alive, Barbara can never be everything to me.' The old lady looked at me. ' I wonder if you will think so when Barbara comes home,' she said. And I wondered, too. • • • •! Barbara has come heme again, and I am sitting in my rooms amazed and wonderstruck, looking at a letter from her I hold in my hand. I do not know if she is changed by her sojourn abroad. She is still the same beautiful, impetuous, fascinating girl, only there is something in her eyes that speak of a difference. Perhaps the novelty of the world has somewhat worn off, leaving her more desire for its content, and less for its gaiety. I feared to meet her at the station, doubting my own power to resist her charm, and dreading lest I should too slavishly fall and worskip her. Yet when I saw her after one or two days, I knew that my love for her had in no wiee lessened, and if it was quieter, it was still as deep, and if less abject, still as true. The six months' absence had made a greater difference in me than in her. ' Why, mother,' she said, after I had ohatted a few minutes with her, ' Jaok has changed. He is not the cousin who said good-bye to me when I went abroad. Haa he — has he fallen in love ?' 'My dearest Barbara ' her mother protested. A moment or two after she left the room. ' Have you, Jack ?' Barbara said to me, when we were lef* - alo^e. 'Not falian, Barbara,' I said. 'I fell seven years ago, and have never risen since.' Barbara looked puzzled, and gazed at me in wonder. ' Is that another proposal ?' she asked. ' Undoubtedly,' I said, laughing casually. ' If my memory holds good — the seventh.' 'But — but. Jack.' she continued, 'it's — it's quite different from the other six. I don't believe you want me to say 'Yes' at all this time.' I protested. • And, of course, you know my answer will —will be the same as before ?' ' Of course,' I replied. • Then, why do you ask ?' I took a cigar from my case and prepared to go. ' Really, Barbara,' I said, ' you might as well ask me why I smoke. Both have become with me merely — bad habits. Besides, among my many vices, permit me to at least claim the virtue of persistency.' * * • • And after this — Barbara's letter lies open in my hand, an amazing document of a woman's mind. If I took Barbara and her mother to fewer concerts and theatres ; if Willis knew us less often to dinner, and the Savoy to supper — I was still attentive. Barbara for some ocult reason, treated me differently than before her sojourn on the Continent. I even frequently ventured to disobey her commands, and to issue some to her, and she heard me with an expression of her face which interested and amused me ; in consequence, I began to have quite a respeot for myself. Indeed, after a month I began to think that Barbara and I were merely the best of friends and almost to forget my last proposal of a few weeks before ; and I commenced to debate within myself whether our present relationship was not preferable to that for which I had so ardently longed before Barbara had gone to Germany. And now I have come down this morning to find on my breakfast table this note from Barbara. Whioh confesses in brief : That her reply to my last proposal was an incorrect one. That she hopes I have not changed my mind, but she has: That she has always liked me, but that lately she bas grown to— to like me still more. That persistency is a virtue which is worthy of reward. That however true in the past may have been my accusation of the power of dissection of her affection, at the present is false. That she and her mother would like to go to the Lyceum to-night, and she would be glad if I accompanied them, and gave my answer then. That she is always my Affectionate cousin, Babbaea. Bnt this last Item has set me thinking ' seriously, and I have duoaawd with tho '

pipe Cask and the crOrfleJaworilsm* pc.-itiou. Shall Barbara always be my affectionate cousin, or shall we draw the relationship ologer ? For on the one hand our platonio companionship of the last month has been very delightful, and it, perhaps, wonld be foolish ofme to change it. But on the other hand something tells me that Barbara my wife would be even more delightful still. And one salient fact I have learnt, to guide me through a married life, namely— that a woman would rather take orders than give them ; would rather obey than command. Therefore, if my pipe raok does not lend me any other oounsal before to-night, I am afraid I know what my answer to Barbara will be.— J. Hubst Hates.