CHAPTER XX.

Taranaki Herald, Volume XLIX, Issue 11778, 28 September 1901, Page 2 (Supplement)

CHAPTER XX.

There was a certain homeliness about the little sitting-room though it was the conventional London lodging apartment, and while Baba had only had possession of it for a few days, it already spoke of her presence. All sorts of familiar things were scattered about, photographs tbat had stood in the parlor at Tudor Cottage, books, engravings and the old-fashioned writing-table which had belonged to her mother.

The hour was late, the lamps were

Basil was -standing: looking out of one of the windows which commanded a view of the street. Bessie was fluttering to and fro like a hen that has lost one of its chickens.

She had laid the tea things, and had msde the toast, and all was ready for the evening meal, and yet Barbara did not come. 'She will be tired out,' Bessie said to herself every now and then, and Basil drummed on the window-pane and whistled unconsciously. He was only twelve, and he had been treated as the baby cf the family. There was as yet no self-reliance in him ; he had one theory, and that was that everything that Barbara did must be right. Bessio went restlessly to look out of the other window,' and her fhougbts were always with the girl. •She has snch a burden on her shoulders,' she said to herself, 'and she is nothing bat a child. Why does not Master Dick try to comfort and cheer her, as he ought to do ? What has changed him ? He did not seem even to care to be with her when they laid the poor master in the grave. I know she is just fretting her heart out over him. It is not right that she should be left to do all these things. Master Dick is older than she is, and strooger, too. When I stop to think what that poor child has had to do since her father died, it fairly takes my breath away. But she is clever, too,' said Bessie prondly ; 'she does not let the grass grow under her feet, and she will take good care of her brothers, if they will let her do it.'

But here Bessie paused in her musings ; she caught the Bound of a footstep on the stairs and she darted out to meet her mistress.

Barbara gave her a weary f»n»il<». The girl looked older, whiter, and somewhat thin in her heavy mourning. There were sobs in her throat, which she Hed to suppress, and tears had been i» her eyes, but sbe had brushed them away before she entered the house. Bessie took the girl affectionately in her arms.

•Now you sit down there, my dear,' she said,* 'and Master Basil and 1 will take care of you. You are very late. I cud not let you run about like thia by yourself, Misß Barbara.' '1 shall come to no harm,' said the girl in a low voice, 'and there is so oinch to arrange. If ' Here she broke off with a faint sigh. -It was very pleasant to be waited upo i by Bessie — pleasaut in a sense to sit in the cosy little room, and to feel Basil's arm about her and receive his boyish kisses ; but, ob ! how different it was from the time that had stretched before this last dark, horrible fortnight! How unspeakably desolate to remember the dear little old home, with that beloved form in it, and to know that all was gone, never to ba recalled. 'You shall have some tea/ Bessie cried, whisking away. 'A cup of tea will do you all the good in the world, Miss Barbara.'

'There are some letters for you, Barbara,' Basil said, aa he was alone witb his sister.

He brought them to her and oat on the edge of her chair. 'That is from Baillie,' he said, pointing to an envelope with very irregular writing ; 'and that is from Lady Susan, and that looks as if it were written by Dick ; but why should Dick write to you ? You Baw bim to-day, did you uot?'

Barbara sighed. ♦1 ba?e been waiting all this afternoon in his rooms,' 3he said ; 'I wrote and asked bim to meet me there, but he never came. Dick is very croel, Basil. I—l think he is forgetting that he belongs to us.' 'Oh, how can he forget that V Basil cried. The idea amused him. 'Well, perhaps he wrote to tell you ho could not come,' he said. Batbara open 3d her brother's letter. It was very short.

♦I want you to understand,' Dick wrote, 'that I cannot have you worry - ing me at the hospital. It is not the proper thing for you to do. We have discussed everything, and I have nothing more to add to what I said when we were last together. I consider that you are behaving very badly, Barbara ; and until you learn how to treat my friend Lionel as he should be treated, I don't intend to bave anything to do with you. Basil is left to your charge, which I consider a very extraordinary act on my father's part. We have divided the money, and therefore you can go your way and I «an go mine. I must ask you not to bother me by running after me at the hospital. It looks awfully ridiculous ; and I can only repeat that I have nothing to say to you till von behave as you ought to do. You pretend to care a great deal about what father wished, yet you know perfectly well that he was anxious for you to marry Lionel j and I must confess I don't in the least understand why you act so strangely.' Something in this letter drove the tears away from Baibara's eye 9 and stirred both anger and pride in her heart.

She had sought her brother with a heart filled with yearning tenderness. It was not that Dick could be of such material assistance to her, yet with her father's last wishes pressing at her heart, it was her desire to link Dick in with his home ties as closely as possible ; but Dick evidently had no intention of acceding to her plans.

Their father bad scarcely been in the grave before Dick had attacked her on the subject of Lionel Villiers, and bad Barbara been less sorrowfu', less fall of trottble, she roust have- been struck fey the Btrauge eagerness with which Dick pleaded Lionel's cau-e. It was an unfortunate beginning, but Barbara had never imagined that Dick intended to carry his anger with her to such a pitch. So much had happened in the last fortnight tbat it was no wonder the girl's brain and heart were w»ary. Hfr father must evident^ have for some time anticipated his end. He left everything in ord°r. There were no debts, and the money, though small, was sufficient to keep a little home together, especially with the sum paid for the sale of Doctor Bunting's practice and their little bouse. Acting on the lawyer's advice, Barbara immediately left the village and came to London. <It would be better for your brother Dick to live with you. You can got a j little house at a small rent somewhere in the north of London, and nntil this is found I can give you the address of some comfortable lodgings where you will be at very little expense and will be well looked after. It was one thing, however, to make arrangements for Dick and another to obtain his competence w'th those arrangements. He refused to leave the hospital ; he refuged to join Barbara and Basil. He seemed to have utterly changed from the affectionate boy of whom Barbara had always been so proud. She hardly recognised him ; his face looked so much older, his man Der so mach more sharp, his whole attitudewas so unsympathetic ; and yet she clung to him, for she knew that her father had put faith in the power of her love, and she did love Dick. But this letter was so hard, so inconsiderate, so lacking in thought or affection, that it almost drove the impulse of her love away from her. 'What does pick say, Barbara?' Basil asked, as he saw his sister sitting silent in the chair, with one hand shading her brow. Barbara could not answer the boy, her heart wa9 too full.

Bessie came in at this moment, and announced that tea was ready.

iShe chattered on as lightly as she could, while she plied her young mistress with all sorts of little delicacies tnat she had prepared to tempt the girl's appetite. 'Yonng Mr Richardson called this afternoon, Miss Babs,' sue said ; 'and Mr Villiers sent those beautiful flowers; he drove up with them himself in a bansom ; and then, just after he had gone, Sir Charles Graatley called. He left you this little note.' Barbara stretched out her hand and took the letter almost eagerly.

She bad not realised till this moment how much she had yearned for a word from him.

Not that she had misunderstood h:m; she had felt that he had been in ignorance of her grief, or otherwise he would sorely have remeoibe-ed her.

She slipped the letter into her pocket ; she would read it by and by , when she was alone ; but the mere coniact with the paper tbat had pu.«s'd from hia bands seemed to put courage

into her heart, and to lift the weight a little.

Bessie was delighted to see her pale lips smile now and again, but she asked no questions ; she knew that Barbara would speak to her freely when she was able to do so. Thinking to give the girl pleasure, Bessie went to bring the large bowl of flowers. The indifferent way in which Barbara turned away from these flowers, combined with the expression on her face, was a little shock to the goodhearted servant ; for she, too, had been building up in her mind a scheme by which Barbara might pass from the anxiety of her present position into ease and luxury.

She was not aware that the mere knowledge that Lionel called each day at the shabby lodging-house was something more than a pain to Barbara. She did not know that the girl resented this man's persistent attention. It would have stutled Bessie, indeed, could she have realised how better had grown the girl's dislike for this man. She knew that she wav not unjust when she traced Dick's present treatment of her to Lionel's influence, and there were moments when there passed through her heart a foreboding of evil that was to arise from this influence.

She always refused to see Lionel; she sent him no acknowledgements of his gifts ; yet her coldness seemed to have absolutely no effect. His attentions were to her something in the natnre of an insult, for surely this man had no right to intrude into her life, his visits being regarded by those about her as evidences of a most ardent friendship. She could not explain to Bessie or to Bisil why sbp shrank 4rova tne mere mention of this man's name, or why Bhe turned even from accepting the kindness that Lady Susan would have lavished upon her. It was no wonder that at times, brave as she was, Barbara felt unequal to fi#bt ogaiast all the difficulties that were springing up about her. Nothing, however, was so hard or so sad ac the knowledge that she and Dick were separated. Surely at such a time as this they should have stood hand in hand ; even if he were angry with her, he should have put that anger aside, remembering the desolation of her heart. That night, when Basil had gone to bed, she spoke out more freely to Bussie than she had done as yet.

•Dick will not see me,' she said, with tears in her eyes, 'he is angry with me.' ' And what right ha« Master Dick to be angry with yon, I should like to kuow ?' demanded Bessie, wrath fully. •I shall give Master Dick a pitce of my mind one of these times.' Barbara Bat down on the hearth-rug and stared into the fire.

'Bessie,' she said, in a low voice, 'I am so unhappy I It seems to ma so terrible that there should be bard words and hard thoughts between Dick and me just now. You know how father wished us always to be together ; surely Dick ought to remerabet him. Yet what can I do ?' She flung her arms out. 'It is useless for me to rent a little house and try to make a home ; Dick will not come with ug. Something or someone seems to be drawing him away. 'Take my advice, dearie,' said Bessie, 'let things be as they are — leave Master Dick to himself. Boys have a way of squirming against the curb ; and, though he thinks he is a wi.se, grownup man, he is nothing but a boy. Let him alone ; make no plans.' •Bat I mußt nuke plans,' Barbara answered. 4 I don't think Dick under stands wbat father's death signifies to him. It will be with the greatest difficulty that we shall be able to pay his fees at the hospital. We must join together and economise. I sometimes fear/ she added, in a low voice, •that Dick has no sense of the value of money. I feel extremely anxious about him.'

She knelt beside Bessie and looked into the good creature's face, 'If he will only let me help him — if he will only turn to me, Bessie, that will be my happiness ; but we cannot ba separated. It was father's wish that I should be with Dick, therefore I cannot be outside his life.'

Bessie patted her hands.

•Patience, dear,' she said ; 'Master Dick will change, lam sure. He will come to you when you least expect it.'

And so, with many cheery words of the same Import, Bessie tried to comfort the girl, and in a sense she did console Barbara ; for, while sh» bad this kindly, sympathetic soul close to her, she felt protected ; and if Bessie could not help her to carry the heaviest part of her burden, she would do much to lighten the weight of those smaller anxieties and cares that crowded the daily life.

When she was alone in her little room, Barbara sat down and opened Sir Charles' letter.

It was simple almost to coldness, yet it sail so much to her The tears rushed to her eyes as she read it.

She noted with admiration the hold, strong handwriting. •Ever your faithful friend,' he had signed himself, and the words, conventional in themselves, made her heart thrill.

She wondered if he could possibly know how much comfort this little letter brought to her. It was the first night that she had sat in this little room and had not given way to the depressing anguish that would come upon her at times — the first time in which the hopelessness of her sorrow seemed to he lifted.

Other nights she had sat here, looking about her with hot, tearless eyes, telling herself, in a numbed sort of. way, the story of her loss. The fact that her father was dead, separated from her altogether, would come upon her at times, shaking her heart to its very depths. Not once,, but a dozen times in these days that bad been so restless, so agitating, had the girl started out of her heavy sleep, realising, with a moan, that it was not her father's voice tbat called her, but that that voice was stilled forever — that the joy of ministering to that father was taken away from her.

But to-night she seemed to be calmed, even though there was this sorrow and difficulty with Dick.

It seemed to her as if this letter was helping her t > bear her troubles bravely. Indeed, she felt only too sure thai if it had been prudent to have appealed to Charles' Granfley, he would have left no s to uo unturned to help in that which seemed to her now her life's task. And as she sat thera thinking about him, tde man himself was pacing to and fro in the street outside, looking up to the rooms which made her home for the present. It was a cold and cheerless night, bat Charles Grantley felt a transitory gleam of happiness as he found uimself so near to Barbara.

He had not spoken to her yet, bat he had seen her when she had not seen him, and he bad marked with sorrow that wan look on her face, tke misery in her dark-circled eyes.

Bessie had snok.n to him that afternoon when ha bad called, and, though they had only exchanged a few words, enough had been eaid to let him grasp somethiug of the burden which this brave child had to carry at this time.

It would not only be grief that would darken her days — there would be poverty and sordid care ; and this hurt him even to think abont, he who had so much, and whp would so gladly have laid his life itself at her feet.

He turned at last with a sigh, to go back to Kenneth.

Perhaps on the morrow he might see Barbara, although he knew right well that if he did a wise thing for him3elf ha would stand beyond this girl's presence all his life.