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 6 
 
 /■ 
 
 
 Vy^-(^ 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 BY 
 
 AMELIA B. EDWARDS, 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 MY BROTHER'S WIFE," " HAND AND GLOVE," 
 " THE STORY OF CERVANTES," 
 &c., &c. 
 
 • 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1864. 
 
 The ricjht of Translation is reserved.
 
 loniX)N: 
 
 PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUO^\^iLL, BLENHEIM HOUSE, 
 BLENHEIM STREET, OXEORD STREET.
 
 \ .1 
 
 BARBARA'S HISTORY 
 
 ^ I AM about to tell the story of my life — that is, the 
 story of my childhood and my youth ; for the ro- 
 mance of life is mostly lived out before we reach 
 V middle age, and beyond that point the tale grows 
 '^ monotonous either in its grief, or its gladness. 
 N^ine began and ended when I was young. 
 
 When I icas young ! They are but four words ; 
 ^ and yet, at the very commencement of what must 
 ,,^ prove a labour of many months, they have power 
 to arrest my pen, and blind my eyes with unac- 
 ■f's customed tears. Tears partaking both of joy and 
 g^ sorrow ; such tears as those through which we all 
 J;; look back to childliood and its half -forgotten story. 
 ^ Oh, happy time ! so islanded in the still waters of 
 ^ memory ; so remote, and yet so near ; so strange, 
 ^ yet so familiar ! Come back once more — come 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 ^
 
 Z BAEBARA .S HISTORY. 
 
 back, though never so l)riefly, and liglit these my 
 pages with the pale sunshine of a faded spring. 
 
 I am answered. A pleasant calm steals upon me ; 
 and, as one might stej) aside from the troubled 
 streets, to linger awhile in the quiet sanctuary of 
 a wayside church, so I now turn from the eager 
 present, tread the dim aisles of the past, sigh over 
 the inscriptions graven on one or two dusty tablets, 
 and begin wdth the recollections of infancy this 
 narrative of my life.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EARLY RECORDS. 
 
 *' On rajeunit aux souvenirs d'enfance 
 Comme on renait au souffle du printemps." 
 
 Beranger. 
 
 Sometimes, in the suburban districts of London, we 
 chance upon a quaint old house that was, evident- 
 ly, a country-house some hundred years ago ; but 
 which has been overtaken by the town, and stands 
 perplexed amid a neighbourhood of new streets, 
 like a rustic at Charing Cross. There are plenty 
 such. We have seen them in our w^alks, many 
 a time and oft. They look sad and strange. The 
 shadows gather round them more darkly than on 
 their neighbours. The sunlight seems to pass them 
 by ; and we fancy their very walls might speak, 
 and tell us tales. In just such a house, and such 
 a suburb, I was born. 
 
 b2
 
 4 Barbara's history. 
 
 Overgrown for the most part with a mantle of 
 dark ivy, enclosed in a narrow garden that sloped 
 down to a canal at the back, and shut sullenly 
 away from the road by some three or four dusky 
 elm-trees and a low wall, our home looked dreary 
 and solitary enough— all the more dreary and soli- 
 tary for the prim terraces and squares by which 
 it was on all sides surrounded. Within, however, 
 it was more cheerful ; or custom made it seem so. 
 From the upper windows we saw the Hampstead 
 hills. In the summer our garden was covered 
 with grass, and the lilac bushes blossomed where 
 they leaned towards the canal. Even the shapeless 
 coal-barges that laboured slowly past all the day 
 long had something picturesque and pleasant about 
 them. Besides, no place can be wholly dull where 
 children's feet patter incessantly up and down the 
 stairs, and children's voices ring merrily along the 
 upper floors. 
 
 It was a large old house— thrice too large for 
 any use of ours— and we had it all to ourselves. 
 Most of the top rooms were bare ; and I well re- 
 member what famous playgrounds they made by 
 day, and how we dreaded to pass near them after 
 dark. Up there, even when my father was at 
 home, we might be as noisy as we pleased. It was 
 our especial territory ; and, excepting once a year, 
 when the great cleaning campaign was in progress.
 
 no one disputed our prerogative. We were left, 
 indeed, only too much to our own wayward im- 
 pulses, and grew wildly, like weeds by the way- 
 side. 
 
 We were three — Hilda, Jessie, and Barbara. I 
 am Barbara ; and the day that gave me life left 
 us all motherless. Our father had not married 
 again. His wife was the one love of his existence, 
 and it seemed, when she was gone, as if the very 
 power of loving were taken from him. Thus it 
 happened that from our first infancy we were left 
 to the sole care of one faithful woman-servant, 
 who spoiled us to her heart's content, and believed 
 that we, like the king, could do no wrong. We 
 called her Goody; but her name was Sarah Beever. 
 We tyrannised over her, of course ; and she loved 
 us the more for our tyranny. After all, hers was 
 the only affection we had, and, judicious or inju- 
 dicious, we should have been poor indeed without 
 it. 
 
 Our father's name was Edmund Churchill. He 
 came of a good family ; had received a collegiate 
 education ; and, it was said, had squandered a con- 
 siderable fortune in his youth. When nearly ar- 
 rived at middle life, he married. My mother was 
 not rich — I never even heard that she was beauti- 
 ful ; but he loved her, and, while she lived, endea- 
 voured, after his own fashion, to make her happy.
 
 ft BARBARA S HISTORY. 
 
 Too far advanced in years to apply himself to a 
 profession, had even the inclination for work not 
 been wanting, he found himself a hopeless and 
 aimless man. He could not even console himself,- 
 like some fathers, in the society and education of 
 his children, for he was not naturally fond of 
 children ; and now all the domestic virtues were 
 ^vone out of him. Wrecked, stupefied, careless alike 
 of the present and the future, he moped away a 
 few dull months, and then, as was natural, returned 
 to the world. He fell in with some of his former 
 fiiends, now, like himself, gi'own staid with years ; 
 entered a club ; took to dinner-parties, politics, and 
 whist ; became somewhat of a bon-vivant ; and, 
 at forty-four, adopted all the small and selfish vices 
 of age. At the time of which I write, he was still 
 handsome, though somewhat stout and florid for his 
 years. He dressed with scrupulous neatness ; was 
 particularly careful of his health ; and prided him- 
 self upon the symmetry of his hands and feet. 
 
 His manners, in general, were courteous and cold; 
 yet, in society, he was popular. He possessed, in 
 an eminent degree, the art of pleasing ; and I do 
 not remember the day on which he dined at home. 
 Yet, for all this, he was a proud man at heart, and 
 dearly cherished every circumstance that bore 
 upon his name and lineage. An observer might 
 have detected this by only glancing round the
 
 walls of our dusky dining-room, and inspecting 
 the contents of the great old carved bookcase be- 
 tween the windows. Plere might be seen a " His- 
 tory of ye Noble and Ancient Houses of Devon," 
 with that page turned down wherein it treated of 
 the Churchills of Ash. Here a copy of that 
 scarce and dreary folio entitled " Divi Brittanici," 
 written and published by Sir Winston Churchill 
 in 1675. Several works on the wars of Queen 
 Anne ; five or six different lives of John Churc- 
 hill, Duke of Marlborough ; the Duchess of Marl- 
 borough's " Private Correspondence ;" Chester- 
 field's letters; Mrs. Manley's "Atalantis;" the 
 "Memoirs of the Count de Grammont;" various 
 old editions of Philips's " Blenheim," and Addi- 
 son's " Campaign ;" the poetical works of Charles 
 Churchill of Westminster : and twenty volumes of 
 the " London Gazette," (said to be of considerable 
 value, and dating from the year 1700 to 1715) filled 
 all the upper shelves, and furnished my father with 
 the only reading in which he ever indulged at 
 home. Nor was this all. A portrait of the bril- 
 liant hero, when Lord Churchill, and some fine 
 old engravings of the battles of Ramillies, Oude- 
 narde, and Malplaquet, were suspended over the 
 chimney-piece and sideboard. A large coloured 
 print of Blenheim House hung outside in the 
 hall.
 
 8 baiujaiia's history. 
 
 But far more impressive than any of these — far 
 more dignified and awful in our childish eyes, was 
 a painting which occupied the place of honour in 
 our best ])arlour. This work of art purported to 
 be the portrait of a second cousin of my father's, 
 one Agamemnon Churchill by name, a high autho- 
 rity upon all matters connected with the noble 
 science of heraldry, a Knight of the Bath, and 
 <me of his Majesty's most honourable heralds. 
 Depicted here in all the glory of his official costume, 
 and looking as like the knave of clubs as if he had 
 just been shuffled out of a gigantic pack of cards. 
 Sir Agamemnon Churchill beamed upon us from 
 the environment of his gilded frame, and filled our 
 little hearts with wonder and admiration. We 
 humbly looked forward to the possibility of some 
 day beholding our illustrious kinsman. We fan- 
 cied that his rank could be only second to that of 
 Kincf William himself. We even encouraf^ed a 
 secret belief that he might succeed to the throne 
 at some remote time or other ; and agreed among 
 ourselves that his first exercise of the royal prero- 
 gative would be to create our father Duke of 
 x\Iarlboroush ; or, at the least. Commander in 
 Chief and Lord Mayor of London. 
 
 It was but seldom, however, that we were al- 
 lowed to contemplate the splendour of Sir Aga- 
 memnon and his glittering tabard ; for the best
 
 Barbara's history. 9 
 
 parlonr had been a closed room ever since my 
 mother's death, and was only thrown open now 
 and then for cleaning purposes. But this very 
 restriction ; this air of mourning and solitude ; the 
 darkened windows; the sheeted furniture; the thick 
 white dust that crept in month by month ; and, 
 above all, the sense of a mysterious loss which we 
 were all too young to comprehend, only served to 
 invest the room and the picture with a still deeper 
 interest. I well remember how often we inter- 
 rupted our garden-games to peep, with suspended 
 breath, through the chinks of the closed shutters, 
 and how our voices sunk to a whisper when we 
 passed the door. 
 
 I have said that we were three ; but I have not 
 yet explained how nearly we were of one age, or 
 how, being the youngest, I was only removed 
 by three years from my eldest sister, Hilda, and 
 by fourteen months from my second sister, Jessie. 
 My father's little girls had, indeed, sprung up 
 quickly around him, and our mother was taken 
 from us at the very time when we most needed 
 her. 
 
 Jessie was fair, and somewhat pretty ; but Hilda 
 was the beauty of the family, and our father's 
 favourite. She was like him, but darker of com- 
 plexion, and more delicately featured. She in- 
 herited the same pride; was wilful and imperi-
 
 10 Barbara's history. 
 
 ous; and exercised, withal, after her precocious 
 fashion, the same power of ready fascination. 
 Besides, she was very clever — much cleverer than 
 Jessie or I — and learned with surprisint]^ facility. 
 My sister Jessie was in many respects less for- 
 ward than myself. She had neither Hilda's talent 
 nor my steadiness, and was altogether deficient in 
 ambition. To our eldest sister she was entirely 
 devoted, submitting to all her caprices, and ac- 
 cepting all her opinions with a blind faith Avorthy 
 of a better cause. This alliance was not favour- 
 able to my happiness. Hilda and Jessie were all 
 in all to each other, and I found myself excluded 
 from the confidence of both. Forgetting, or seem- 
 ing to forget, how little our ages differed, they 
 treated me as a mere baby ; called me " little Bar- 
 bara," and affected to undervalue whatever I said 
 or did. When I tacitly rejected this mortifying 
 patronage, and with it, a companionship which 
 was only offered to me during a game of blind- 
 man's-buff, or puss-in-the-corner, I was reproached 
 for my indifference, or set aside as simply dull and 
 tiresome. 
 
 To be just, I do not believe that my sisters had 
 any idea of how they made me suffer. I w^as too 
 proud to let them see it, and my grief may at 
 times have w^orn a sullen aspect. Often and 
 often have I stolen away to one of the great upper
 
 Barbara's history. 11 
 
 rooms, sobbing and lamenting, and wishing that 
 my heart might break and put an end to my 
 sorrows — and yet I kept my secret so bravely that 
 it was not even suspected by the dear old servant 
 whom I loved and trusted above all the world. 
 
 The grievances of infancy lie mostly on the 
 surface. Time heals them, and they leave no scar. 
 But this was not my case. I was more sensitive 
 than the generality of cliildren, and, I believe, 
 more affectionate. I could have loved my sisters 
 with my whole heart ; but they rejected me, and 
 so the estrangement, which at first might have 
 been healed by a word, widened with years and 
 became at last almost irreparable. By the time 
 that I had reached the age of nine or ten, I was 
 no longer a child. My freshness of feeling was 
 gone — my heart was chilled — my first impulses 
 were checked and driven back. The solitude 
 which was once my refuge became my habit; and, 
 grown indifferent to opinion, I heard myself called 
 " strange and unsociable" without emotion. I ap- 
 propriated one of the garrets to my special use, 
 and, being left in undisturbed possession, lived 
 there among occupations and amusements of my 
 own creation. Thus it happened that, unless 
 during the hours of meals or tuition, I lived almost 
 entirely alone. My father knew nothing of this ; 
 for he was always out, and troubled himself very
 
 12 Barbara's history. 
 
 little about our domestic managements. Goody 
 knew and wondered, but loved me too well to in- 
 terfere with anything I chose to do; and my 
 sisters, after teasing and laughing at me to their 
 hearts' content, at last grew weary, and abandoned 
 me to my own solitary ways. 
 
 It -was a sad life for a child, and might have led 
 to many evils, but for a circumstance which I must 
 ever regard as something more than mere good 
 fortune. 
 
 Having wandered upstairs one day with nothing 
 to read and nothing to think of, and being, more- 
 over, very listless and weary, I bethought myself 
 of a pile of old boxes which lay stored together in 
 a certain dark closet close at hand, and so set to 
 work to turn out their contents. ^lost of them 
 were empty, or contained only coils of rotten rope, 
 pieces of faded stuffs and damasks, and bundles of 
 accounts. But in one, the smallest and least pro- 
 mising of all, I found a dusty treasure. This 
 treasure consisted of some three or four dozen 
 wormeaten, faded volumes, tied up in lots of four 
 or six, and overlaid with blotches of white mould. 
 A motley company! Fox's " Martyrs;" the Works 
 of Dr. Donne ; Sir Thomas Browne on " Urn 
 Burial;" a Translation of Pliny, with Illustrations; 
 Defoe's " History of the Plague ;" Riccoboni on 
 the Theatres of Europe; ^'Hudibras;" Waller's
 
 baebara's history. 13 
 
 Poems; Bolingbroke's "Letters on English His- 
 tory ; " the Tatler, Guardian, and Specta- 
 tor; Drelincourt on Death, with the HivStory 
 of Mrs. Veal ; an odd volume or two of the 
 Gentleman's Magazine, and some few others, 
 chiefly farming books and sermons. It was a 
 quaint library for so young a reader, but a most 
 welcome one. I necessarily met with much that I 
 could not understand, and yet contrived to reap 
 pleasure and profit from all. I had boundless 
 faith to begin with, and believed, like the Arabs, 
 that everything printed must be true. I was 
 puzzled by Sir Hudibras, but never doubted either 
 his courage or identity. I was interested by the 
 letters in the Tatler, and only wondered that so 
 many ladies and gentlemen should have ventured 
 to trouble that nice good-natured Mr. Bickerstaff 
 with their unimportant private affairs. As for 
 Edmund Waller, Esquire, I was quite sorry for 
 his distresses ; and could not conceive how the 
 beautiful Sacharissa could bear to be told that she 
 had " a wild and cruel soul" without relenting im- 
 mediately. To me, happy in my credulity, the 
 Phoenix and ^Irs. Veal were alike genuine phenome- 
 na; and had Sir Agamemnon Churchill himself at- 
 tempted to convince me that the History of the 
 Plague was written by any other than " a citizen 
 who lived the whole time in London," I should
 
 14 Barbara's history. 
 
 liave made bold to reserve my own opinion on the 
 subject. 
 
 Other books I had as well — books better suited 
 to my age and capacity; but tliese, being common 
 property, were kept in the school-room, and con- 
 sisted for the most part of moral tales and travels, 
 which, read more than once, grow stale and weari- 
 some. 
 
 Fortunate was it that 1 found this second life in 
 my books; for I was a very lonely little girl, with 
 a heart full of unbestowed affection, and a nature 
 quickly swayed to smiles or tears. The personages 
 of my fictitious world became as real to me as 
 those by whom I was surrounded in my daily life. 
 They linked me with humanity. They were my 
 friends, my instructors, my companions. I loved 
 some, and hated others, as cordially as if they 
 could love or hate me in return ; and, in the in- 
 tensity of my sympathy with their airy soitows 
 and perplexities, learned to forget my own. 
 
 But I had still another happiness — a half-deve- 
 loped taste, which, fed by such scant imtriment as 
 fell now and then in my way, ripened, year after 
 year, to a deep and earnest passion, and influenced 
 beyond all calculation the destinies of my later 
 life. Art — art called the Divine, but known to 
 me under its meanest and most barren form — fed 
 the dreams of my childhood, and invested with an
 
 barbaea's history. 15 
 
 undeserved interest the few wretched prints scat- 
 tered here and there through the pages of Fox's 
 Martyrs, Goldsmith's Geography, and other 
 works of the same " mark and likelihood." Some- 
 times, after my own imperfect fasliion, I strove to 
 reproduce them in pencil or charcoal. Sometimes, 
 even, I attempted to illustrate the adventures of 
 my favourite heroes, or the landscapes described in 
 books of travel. The whitewashed walls of my 
 garret, the covers and margins of my copy-books, 
 and all the spare scraps of paper that I could find, 
 were scrawled over with designs in which the love 
 of beauty might, perhaps, have been discernible ; 
 but in which every rule of anatomy, perspective, 
 and probability was hopelessly set at naught. But 
 of this, more hereafter. 
 
 Happy art thou, O little child, to wliom is 
 granted the guidance of loving parents ! Happy, 
 thrice happy, in the fond encouragements, the 
 gentle reproofs, the tender confidences and conso- 
 lations lavished on thy first uncertain years ! I 
 lost one of mine before my lips had ever been 
 hallowed by her kisses ; and by the other I was, if 
 not wholly unloved, at least too much neglected. 
 How I yearned and wearied for those affections that 
 I now could never liave ; how I used to steal to dear 
 old Goody's knees in the dim twilight, and beseech 
 her to tell me something of my mother; how I
 
 16 Barbara's history. 
 
 listened with tears that I was ashamed to show, and 
 stole away to hide them ; how, tliiukintr over all 
 these things, I sometimes gave way to fits of bitterness 
 and anger, and sometimes sobbed myself to sleep, 
 with my head resting on a book, matters little now, 
 and, except as it may throw a light on certain pas- 
 sages of my inner life, is scarcely deserving of 
 mention. Alas! I have yet much more to tell. The 
 long story of my workings and wanderings lies all 
 before me like a summer landscape, with its lights 
 and shadows, its toilsome plains, and its places of 
 green rest, mapped out, and fading away together 
 in the blue distance. 
 
 Here, at all events, let me end my first day's re- 
 cord ; for I am weary, and these pictures of the 
 past lie heavily at my heart.
 
 17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DEPORTMENT AND DISCIPLINE. 
 
 ^Iy father's bell rang sharply. 
 
 It was about eleven o'clock on a brilliant May 
 morning. Miss Whymper, who attended to our 
 education between the hours of nine and twelve 
 daily, presided at the head of the table, correcting 
 French exercises. We, respectfully withdrawn to 
 the foot of the same, bent busily over our books 
 and slates, and preserved a decorous silence. We 
 all heard our father close his bed-room door and go 
 downstairs ; but it was his habit to rise and break- 
 fast late, and we took no notice of it. We also 
 heard him ring; but we took no notice of that 
 either. Scarcely, however, had the echo of the first 
 bell died away, when it was succeeded by a second, 
 and the second was still pealing when he opened 
 the parlour door, and called alov^d^ 
 
 YQL, I, G
 
 18 
 
 '^ Beever I " said lie, impatientlj. " Beever ! 
 am I to ring for an hour ? " 
 
 The reply was inaudible ; but he spoke again, 
 almost without waiting to hear it. 
 
 " When did this letter amve ? Was it here last 
 night when I came home, or was it delivered only 
 this morning ? Why didn't you bring it up to me 
 with the shaving-water ? Where is Barbara ? " 
 
 Startled at the sound of my own name, I rose in 
 my place, and waited with suspended breath. My 
 sisters, with their heads still bent low, glanced first 
 at me and then at each other. 
 
 "Be so good. Miss Barbara, as to concentrate 
 your attention upon your studies," said Miss Whym- 
 per, without even raising her eyes from the 
 exercises. 
 
 " I — I — that is, papa — I heard . . ." 
 
 " Be so good as to hear nothing during the hours 
 of education," interposed Miss Whymper, still 
 frostily intent upon the page before her. 
 
 " But papa calls me, and . . ." 
 
 " In that case you will be sent for. We will 
 proceed, if you please, young ladies, to the analy- 
 sation of the Idiom." 
 
 We pushed our slates away, took each our 
 French grammar, and prepared to listen. 
 
 " The Idiom," said Miss Whymper, sitting stiffly 
 upright, and, as was her wont, cadencing her voice
 
 Barbara's history. 19 
 
 to one low monotonous level, " is a familiar and 
 arbitrary turn of words, which, without being in 
 strict accordance with the received laws of . , ." 
 
 ^' Barbara ! Barbara, come here. Tell Miss 
 Whymper I want you ! " 
 
 I started up again, and Miss Whymper, inter- 
 rupted in her discourse, frowned, inclined her head 
 the very least in the world, and said : — 
 
 " You have my permission, ^liss Barbara, to re- 
 tire." 
 
 I was always nervous in my father's presence ; 
 but the suddenness and strangeness of the sum- 
 mons made me this morning more than usually 
 timid. I ran down, however, and presented my- 
 self , tremblingly, at the door of the breakfast-parlour. 
 He was pacing to and fro, between the table and 
 the window. His coffee stood untasted in the cup. 
 In his hand he crushed an open letter. Seeing me 
 at the door, he stopped, flung himself into his easy 
 chair, and beckoned me to come nearer. 
 
 ^^ Stand there, Barbara," said he, pointing to 
 a particular square in the pattern of the car- 
 pet. 
 
 Shaking from head to foot, I came forward and 
 stood there, waiting, like a criminal for his sen- 
 tence. 
 
 " Humph ! Can't you look up 1 " 
 
 I looked up; looked down again; turned red and 
 
 c2
 
 20 Barbara's history. 
 
 white alternately ; and felt as if the ground were 
 slipping from under my feet. 
 
 ^ly father uttered an exclamation of impa- 
 tience. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " said he, pettishly. " What 
 gaucherie ! Are you taught to hold yourself no 
 better than that ? Are your arms pump-handles ? 
 What stranger would imagine — well^ well, it can't 
 be helped now ! Tell me — did you ever hear of 
 your great -aunt, who lives in Suffolk ? " 
 
 "Heard of Mrs. Sandyshaft!" exclaimed Goody, 
 who had been standing by the door, twirling her 
 apron wdth both hands all the time. " I should 
 think so indeed ! Often and often ; and of Stoney- 
 crof t Hall, too — haven't you, my lamb ? " 
 
 Too confused to speak, I nodded; and my father 
 went on. 
 
 " I have had a letter from your great-aunt this 
 morning, Barbara. Here it is. She asks me to 
 send you down to Suffolk ; and, as it may be 
 greatly for your good, I shall allow you to go. 
 Though at a great inconvenience to myself, remem- 
 ber. At a great inconvenience to myself." 
 
 Uncertain what to reply, I looked down, and 
 stammered: — 
 
 "Yes, papa." 
 
 "I have not seen Mrs. Sandyshaft for many 
 years," continued my father. " In fact, we — we
 
 bakbara's historv. 21 
 
 have not been friends. But she may take a liking 
 for you, Barbara — and she is rich. You must try 
 to please her. You will go this day week, if Bee- 
 ver can get you ready in the time. What do you 
 say, Beever ? " 
 
 " Less than a w^eek will do for me, sir," sai 
 Goody, promptly. 
 
 " No, no ; a week is soon enough. And, Bee- 
 ver, you are not to spare for a pound or two. I 
 must have her look like a gentleman's child, any- 
 how. Not but that it is excessively inconvenient 
 to me, just now. Excessively inconvenient ! " 
 
 He paused, musingly, and then, leaning his chin 
 upon his hand, looked at me again, and sighed. The 
 sight, I suppose, was unsatisfactory enough ; for 
 the longer he looked, the more his countenance 
 darkened. Suddenly he rose, pushed his chair 
 away, and planted himself in the middle of the 
 hearth-rug with his back to the fire. 
 
 "My compliments to Miss Whymper, Beever, 
 and I request tlie favour of a moment's conver- 
 sation." 
 
 Beever departed on her errand. After a few 
 seconds of uneasy silence, during which I never 
 ventured to stir from that particular square upon 
 the carpet. Miss Whymper came. 
 
 My father bowed profoundly. Miss Whymper
 
 22 Barbara's history. 
 
 ciirtsied to the ground. I always noticed that they 
 were amazingly polite to each other. 
 
 " Madam," said my father with his grandest air, 
 and in his blandest accents, " unwillinir as I am to 
 trespass on your valuable time, I have ventured to 
 interrupt you this morning in order to consult you 
 upon . . . Barbara, place a chair for ^Miss Whym- 
 pcr." 
 
 Miss Whymper curtsied again, laid her head a 
 little on one side, like a raven, and folded her 
 hands together, as if she were expressing the letter 
 M in the manual alphabet. 
 
 " I propose, madam," pursued my father, " to 
 send Barbara on a visit to a relation — a rich and 
 somewhat eccentric relation — who resides in the 
 country, and with whom we have not held commu- 
 nication for many years. It is important, for seve- 
 ral reasons. Miss Whymper, that the child should 
 make a favourable impression ; and I feel sure that 
 I shall not vainly entreat your co-operation during 
 the few days that intervene between the present 
 time and the period of her departure." 
 
 " With regard to anything that / can do," mur- 
 mured Miss Whymper, patting her hands softly 
 together, as if she were applauding, "Mr. Churchill 
 may at all times command me." 
 
 My father glanced at Miss Whymper s hands, 
 which were somewhat red and bony, and at his
 
 23 
 
 own, which were particuhirly white and well shaped ; 
 and so, trifling carelessly with his watch-chain, 
 continued. 
 
 " I am aware, of course," said he, " that much 
 cannot be done in so short a time ; but that some- 
 thing may, I am induced to hope, knowing — ahem ! 
 — the talent and judgment to which I confide the 
 task." 
 
 Miss Whymper smiled the iciest of smiles, and 
 acknowledged the tribute by another bow, which 
 my father returned immediately. 
 
 "You observe, no doubt, Miss Whymper," he 
 continued, " that Barbara's carriage is essentially 
 ungraceful. She never knows what to do with 
 her feet. Her hands do not seem to belong to her. 
 She enters a room badly. She has no self-posses- 
 sion, no style, no address — in short, there is nothing 
 in her appearance which indicates either good blood 
 or good breeding." 
 
 Whereupon my father glanced over his shoulder 
 at the chimney-glass, and paused for a reply. 
 Miss Whymper, perceiving that I had withdrawn 
 behind her chair, as much out of sight as possible, 
 shifted her position, and considered me atten- 
 tively. 
 
 " It is quite true, sir," she sighed, after a few 
 minutes of silence. "She is lamentably awkward! 
 And yet her sister Hilda . . ."
 
 24 Barbara's history. 
 
 " Ah ! if it had been Hilda ! " exclaimed my 
 father, regretfully. " Why could she not have in- 
 vited Hilda?" 
 
 " So quick, so naturally graceful, such rapid 
 perception!" murmured Miss Whymper, still noise- 
 lessly applauding. 
 
 " The only one of the three who is like me !" 
 added my father, with another glance at the glass. 
 
 " A truly aristocratic cast of features," returned 
 Miss Whymper, " and the very child to please a 
 stranger! Well, well — we may do something with 
 Miss Barbara, after all ; and, perhaps, by confin- 
 ing our attention for the present to that one ob- 
 ject . . ." 
 
 " Precisely so. Madam. That is what I "v\^sh." 
 
 " And, if Mr. Churchill entertains no objection, 
 l)y employing the aid of a few calisthenic ex- 
 ercises . . ." 
 
 " Just so, Miss Wh^TTiper. Just so." 
 
 " I do not doubt being enabled to effect some 
 slight improvement." 
 
 " In which case, Madam, you will confer a favour 
 upon me." 
 
 " And should any trifling outlay be required . . ." 
 
 " You will charge whatever is necessary to my 
 account." 
 
 "A back-board, for instance, and a pair of 
 dumb-bells?"
 
 Barbara's history. 25 
 
 " I leave everything, Miss Whymper, to your 
 experience and discretion." 
 
 The tone in which my father uttered these last 
 words, and the bow by which they were accom- 
 panied, concluded the interview. Miss Whymper 
 rose; he held the door open while she passed 
 through ; more bows and curtsies were exchanged, 
 and, when she was gone, he shrugged his shoulders 
 contemptuously, and flung himself once more into 
 the easy chair. 
 
 " Pshaw !" he muttered, " governesses and chil- 
 dren — necessary evils ! Barbara, you may go 
 back to your lessons, and tell Beever to bring 
 fresh coffee." 
 
 The result of this conversation was to make my 
 life unbearably wretched for the next seven days. 
 I was taught to walk, to stand, to shake hands. I 
 stood in the stocks, and wore the back-board, till I 
 was ready to faint. I was placed before a looking- 
 glass, and made to curtsey to my own reflection 
 for the half hour together. I went through the 
 first interview with my great-aunt twenty times a 
 day ; my great-aunt being represented by a chair, 
 and Miss Whymper standing by to conduct the 
 performance. All this was very painful and per- 
 plexing, and, at the same time, very ludicrous. 
 As for Hilda and Jessie, they allowed me no peace 
 from morning till night ; but, when our governess
 
 26 Barbara's history. 
 
 was out of the way, mimicked me with elaborate 
 salutations, enquired perpetually after my health 
 and that of my great-aunt, and humbly hoped that 
 when I had inherited Stoneycroft Hall, and be- 
 come a grand lady, I should not be too proud to 
 take notice of my poor relations ! 
 
 Thus the weary week went by, and but for dear 
 old Goody, who comforted and consoled me under 
 all my trials, I hardly know how I could have gone 
 through it. Go through it I did, however ; and, 
 drilled and dislocated to the uttermost verge of 
 endm'ance, hailed with a blessed sense of coming 
 liberty the morning of my departure.
 
 27 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ON THE ROAD. 
 
 Seated in a corner of the Suffolk Stage, with 
 Goody dinging in an agony of tears to the door, 
 and the guard insisting that she must get down, as 
 the coach is going immediately, I feel that I am, 
 indeed, a very lonely little traveller. I have left 
 so early that no one in the house was awake to bid 
 me good-bye ; I have scarcely slept at all through- 
 out the night ; and I have eaten no breakfast. 
 Worse than all, my firmness is fast oozing away, 
 and there is a lump in my throat that will surely 
 break into sobs with the next word I utter. 
 
 " Now, ma'am, for the last time, if you please," 
 says the guard, impatiently. 
 
 " Eighty mile and more !" sobs Goody, clinging 
 all the faster. " Oh ! my dear lamb, eighty mile 
 and more !"
 
 28 Barbara's history. 
 
 " Well, it's your own choice," growls the guard, 
 with an oath and a scowl, as he clambers to his 
 seat. " You'll be thrown off the step, as sure as 
 you're a Christian w^oman !" 
 
 Whereupon she smothers me in one last frantic 
 embrace, and, being wrenched away by a humane 
 bystander, disappears suddenly — only to re-appear, 
 however, as suddenly ; and, as the coach starts, to 
 cry : 
 
 " Good-bye ! good-bye ! my darling ! Eat your 
 money, and take care of your sandwiches !" 
 
 Having no voice to answer, I can only hang 
 from the window and wave my hand. We plunge 
 out of the inn-yard and into the busy street beyond 
 —the guard blows his horn — the loungers give a 
 shout — and, looking after her to the last, I catch 
 one parting glimpse of Goody in insane pursuit. 
 Then a crowd of vehicles intervenes ; we whirl 
 sharply round a corner ; and there is nothing left 
 for me but to shrink back in my place and weep 
 silently. 
 
 A long time goes by thus. My fellow-travellers, 
 who are four in number and seem all to belong to 
 one family, talk loudly among themselves, and take 
 no notice of me. Looking up, by-and-bye, when 
 my first anguish has somewhat abated, I observe 
 that they consist of a father, mother, and two 
 daughters, all very cheerful and good-tempered-
 
 Barbara's history. 29 
 
 looking, and all busily engaged in the consump- 
 tion of stout sausage rolls. Being pressed to 
 accept one of these, and, to my shame, bursting 
 into another flood of tears with the effort of de- 
 clining it, I turn my face to the window, and they 
 considerately speak to me no more. 
 
 The morning is cold and grey, and a melan- 
 choly damp, which is half rain, half fog, clings to 
 the panes, and makes the prospect ghostly. We 
 are not yet out of the great suburbs; but the 
 houses, which run mostly in terraces, have an out- 
 of-town look, and are presently succeeded by 
 groups of twin-villas with gaps of market gardens 
 between. Then come brick-fields, villas half built 
 up, patches of waste ground, and lines of dreary 
 pasture, which, seen through the drizzling mist, 
 look more dismal than the streets. 
 
 Struck with the silence that has succeeded to 
 the brisk conversation with which they began the 
 journey, I venture once again to glance at my 
 companions, and find that they have all four fallen 
 asleep, with their heads tied up in pocket handker- 
 chiefs — a proceeding so sensible and contagious, 
 that I presently find myself also getting drowsy, 
 and, before many minutes are past, have forgotten 
 my troubles in a deep and dreamless slumber. 
 Not having rested all the night before, I now sleep 
 heavily — so heavily that nothing less than the
 
 30 Barbara's history. 
 
 opening of the door and tlie entrance of the sixth 
 passenger (whose place has all this time been 
 vacant) awakens me. It is now close upon mid- 
 day. The mist has cleared off ; the sun shines 
 out gloriously; the sky is islanded with great soli- 
 tary clouds; there are trees and trim hedges on 
 either side of the road ; and the country all about 
 is green and pleasant. We are running on briskly, 
 at the rate of ten miles an hour — so, at least, our 
 last traveller observes — and the village at which 
 we took him up is already left far behind. 
 
 " Ten mile an hour, a fine day, and five 
 a-greeable companions (four of 'em ladies)," says 
 the new comer, with a sniff at every comma, 
 " what can the 'art of man desire more !" 
 
 He is a plump, smooth-shaven individual, with 
 an unhealthy complexion, a black suit, a white 
 neck-cloth, and a brown cotton umbrella. Despite 
 the complacent smile with which he looks round 
 upon the company, he is not by any means attrac- 
 tive, and nobody seems disposed to improve his 
 acquaintance. 
 
 " Except conversation," he adds, after a long 
 pause. " Yea — except godly conversation." 
 
 A dead silence follows, during which he smiles 
 and looks round, as before. 
 
 " And godly conversation," says he, at the end 
 of another interval, '^ is the refreshment of the 
 sperrit."
 
 Barbara's history. 31 
 
 Still no one answers, and this time the omission 
 can hardly be misconstrued. By the fading of 
 his ugly smile, and the gloom that gathers gra- 
 dually about his heavy brow, it is plain that he 
 sees the unpleasant truth at last. Finding pre- 
 sently that the father and daughters have resumed 
 their chat in whispers, and that the mother has 
 turned directly away from him, he pulls a greasy 
 book from his pocket, lolls back in his place, and 
 reads sullenly. 
 
 Thoroughly amused by the incidents of the road, 
 and delighted with the country, I watch every- 
 thing that passes, and soon forget all about my 
 travelling companions. The green fields rippling 
 over with young wheat — the snug farm-houses, set 
 round with yellow stacks and mossy barns — the 
 wayside pond with its fleet of callow ducklings — 
 the grey church tower that peeps above the willows 
 — the weary pedlar resting by the cross roads, with 
 his bundle at his feet — the solitary inn, with its 
 s\finging sign, its old worn trough, and its sun- 
 burnt ostler lounging at the door — the travelling 
 caravan that labours on with smoking chimney and 
 close-shut windows, and is so soon left out of sight 
 — the stretch of f urzy common — ^the bridge where 
 boys are angling — the drove of frantic pigs that 
 rush under our very wheels, and seem bent on 
 suicide — the plantations, mansions, toll-gates, wag-
 
 32 Barbara's history. 
 
 gons ; in short, all these sights and sounds of 
 country life fill my mind with pleasant pictures, 
 and my heart with gladness. 
 
 Rattling at hot noon into a clean, hright, busy 
 town, where it is market-day and the streets are 
 thronged with farmers, we dash up to a large inn 
 called the " Kose and Crown," and halt to dine. 
 Having my basket of sandwiches at my feet, and 
 being, besides, somewhat shy of the inn and the 
 strange people, I remain in the coach alone; but 
 the cheerful family hurry away as briskly as if the 
 stout sausage-rolls had appealed only to their ima- 
 ginations, and the sleek stranger saunters blandly 
 up and down the yard under the shadow of his 
 cotton umbrella. Seeing me engaged, shortly 
 after, on the contents of my basket, he hovers about 
 the door, smiles, lingers, and looks interested. 
 
 " What are your sandwiches made of, my dear?" 
 he asks at length. " Ham or beef 1" 
 
 " Beef, sir," I reply, colouring painfully. 
 
 The stranger smacks his lips. 
 
 "Dear me!" says he meditatively. "Only to 
 think that they are beef ! Why, I guessed they 
 were beef from the beginning! They look very- 
 nice." 
 
 Scarcely knowing whether it be polite to do so, 
 and fearful at the same time of offending thi:s 
 gentleman's delicacy, I hold out the basket with a
 
 BARB aba's history. 33 
 
 timid hand, and try to falter forth some words of 
 invitation. To my surprise, he accepts imme- 
 diately; and not only accepts, but steps straight- 
 way into the coach, takes my basket on his knees, 
 and, to show how little pride he has, helps himself 
 as liberally to my sandwiches as though they had 
 been his own. Thus powerfully aided, I soon 
 arrive at the end of my dinner, and, somehow or 
 another, leave off almost as hungry as when I 
 began. 
 
 A sudden running to and fro, clattering of hoofs, 
 and crowding up of passengers, now indicates the 
 renewal of our journey. The cheerful family 
 hurries back, looking very warm and contented. 
 The coachman clambers to the box, and has his 
 last glass of ale handed up to him. The guard 
 sounds a farewell blast ; and away we go again, 
 across the market-hill, and out past the bank and 
 the prison, and on once more along the dusty high 
 road, with the fields on either side. 
 
 What, with the pleasant monotony of the land- 
 scape, and the heat of the sunny summer's day, 
 and the general drowsiness of these and other in- 
 fluences, we are a very sleepy company this after- 
 noon, and, unconsciously polite, nod to each other 
 incessantly. At about four o'clock we come to a 
 large town, where my cheerful neighbours are met 
 by a roomy double-bodied chaise, and all shake 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 
 
 hand with me at partini^. Not so tlie sleek travel- 
 ler, who, unmindful of the sandwiches, jumps out, 
 as the coach stops, and goes his way without a 
 word. 
 
 Handsome sliops, wide streets, picturesque old 
 houses, with projecting stories richly carved, solid 
 public buildings, and glimpses of a noble river 
 fringed with trees and villas, impress me with ad- 
 miration as we pass, and make up a total that is 
 more than commonly attractive. Having delayed 
 here full half an hour, we start away again ; and, 
 just as we begin to move, I " hear it said that the 
 name of this town is Ipswich. 
 
 Being, by this time, very tired and hungry, and 
 quite alone in the coach, I fall asleep once more, 
 and, waking bewildered at every change of horses, 
 forget where I am, and whither I am going. Some- 
 times, possessed with a vague notion that I must 
 have slept for hours and passed the place long 
 since, 1 start up in terror, and cry to be let out ; 
 but that is when w^c are going at full speed, and 
 no one hears me. Thus tw^o more weary hours lag 
 by, seeming as long as all the other hours of the 
 day together ; and then, just as dusk is coming on, 
 we pass through a straggling village, where the 
 blacksmith's forge burns redly, and the children in 
 the ivied school-house are chanting an evening 
 hymn. Dashinix on between the strao-olino; cot-
 
 Barbara's history. 35 
 
 tages, and up a liill so closely shaded by thick 
 trees, that the dusk seems to thicken suddenly to 
 night, we draw up all at once before a great open 
 gate, leading to a house of which I can only see 
 the o;abled outline and the lighted windows. 
 
 The guard jumps down ; the door is thrown 
 open ; and two persons, a man and a woman, come 
 hurrying down the path. 
 
 '' One little girl, and one box, as per book," says 
 the guard, lifting me out, and setting me down in 
 the road, as if I were but another box, to be deli- 
 vered as directed. 
 
 " From London ? " asks the woman, sharply. 
 
 " From London," replies the guard, already 
 scrambling to his seat. " All right, ain't it ? " 
 
 " All right." 
 
 Whereupon the coach plunges on again into the 
 dusk ; the man shoulders my box as though it were 
 a feather ; and the woman, who looks stran^elv 
 gaunt and grey by this uncertain light, seizes me 
 by the wrist, and strides away towards the liouse 
 at a pace that my cramped and weary limbs can 
 scarcely accomplish. 
 
 Sick and bewildered, I am hurried into a cheer- 
 ful room where the table is spread as if for tea 
 and supper, and a delicious perfume of coffee and 
 fresh flowers fills the air ; and — and, all at once, 
 even in the moment when I am first observing 
 
 I) 2
 
 3G Barbara's history. 
 
 them, these sights and scents grow all confused 
 and sink away together, and I remember no- 
 thing. 
 
 How long my miconsciousness may have lasted 
 I know not ; but when I recover, I find myself 
 laid upon a sofa, with my cloak and bonnet off, my 
 eyes and mouth full of Eau de Cologne, and my 
 hands smarting under a volley of slaps, admini- 
 stered by a ruddy youn^; woman on one side, and 
 by the same gaunt person who brought me from 
 the coach, on the other. Seeing me look up, they 
 both desist ; and the latter, drawing back a step or 
 two, as if to observe me to greater advantage, puts 
 on an immense pair of heavy gold spectacles, 
 stares steadily for some seconds, and at length 
 says : — 
 
 " What did you mean by that, now ? " 
 
 Unprepared for so abrupt a question, I lie as if 
 fascinated by her bright grey eyes, and cannot 
 utter a syllable. 
 
 " Are you better ? " 
 
 Still silent, I bow my head feebly, and keep 
 looking at her. 
 
 '' Hey, now^ ! Am I a basilisk ? Are you 
 dumb, child r' 
 
 Wondering why she speaks to me thus, and being 
 moreover, so very weak and tired, what can I do 
 but trv in vain to answer, and, failing in the effort.
 
 BARBAE AS HISTORY. 37 
 
 burst into tears again ? Hereupon she frowns, pulls 
 off her glasses, shakes her head angril}^, and, say- 
 ing — "That's done to aggravate me — I know it 
 is ! " — stalks away to the window, and stands there 
 grimly, looking out upon the night. The younger 
 woman, however, with a world of kindness in her 
 rosy face, touches my wet cheeks tenderly with her 
 rough hands, dries my tears upon her apron, and, 
 bending low with her finger to her lips, whispers 
 me " not to cry." 
 
 " That child's hungry," says the other, coming 
 suddenly back. " That's what's the matter with 
 her. She's hunm-y. I know she is, and I won't 
 be contradicted. Do you hear me, Jane % — I won't 
 be contradicted." 
 
 "Indeed, ma'am, I think she is hungry," re- 
 plies Jane. " And tired, too, poor little thing ! " 
 
 " Tired and hungry . . . Mercy alive ! then 
 why don't she eat? Here's food enough for a 
 dozen people ! Child, what will you have % Ham 
 — cold chicken-pie — bread — butter — cheese — tea 
 -^coffee— ale!" 
 
 Too faint to speak aloud even now, I rather ex- 
 press the word " Coffee " by the motion of my lips 
 than whisper it ; and, having done this, lie back 
 wearily and close my eyes. 
 
 The first step is the great effort ; but, being fed 
 and waited upon by the younger woman, I soon
 
 38 
 
 ^et better and braver, and am able to sit up and 
 be helped to a slice of chicken pie. From pie to 
 liam, from ham to a second cup of coffee, and 
 from the second cup of coffee to more pie, are 
 transitions easily understood, and pleasantly accom- 
 ])lished. Everything tastes delicious; and not 
 even the sight of the gaunt housekeeper, who sits 
 all the time at the opposite side of the table with 
 her chin resting in the palms of her hands, and 
 her eyes fixed immovably upon me, has power to 
 spoil my enjoyment. 
 
 For she is the housekeeper, beyond a doubt. 
 Those heavy gold spectacles, that sad-coloured 
 gown, that cap with its plain, close bordering, can 
 belong to no one but a housekeeper. Wondering 
 within myself why she should be so disagreeable ; 
 and why, being so disagreeable, my aunt should 
 keep her in her service ; then wondering where my 
 aunt herself can be ; why she has not yet come to 
 welcome me ; how she will receive me when she 
 does come; and whether I shall have presence 
 of mind enough to remember all the curtseys I have 
 been drilled to make, and all the speeches I have 
 been taught to say, I find myself eating as if no- 
 thing at all had been the matter with me, and even 
 staring now and then quite confidently at my op- 
 posite neighbour. 
 
 My meal over, and the funereal silence, in which
 
 Barbara's history. 39 
 
 it has been conducted, remaining still unbroken, 
 Jane clears the table, closes out the dark night, 
 trims the lamp, wheels my sofa over to the fireside 
 and is seen no more. Left alone now with the 
 sleeping dogs and the housekeeper — who looks as 
 if she never slept in her life — I find the evening 
 wearisome. Observing, too, that she continues to 
 look at me in the same grim, imperturbable way, 
 and seeing no books anywhere about, it occurs to 
 me that a little conversation would, perhaps, be ac- 
 ceptable; and that, as I am her mistress's niece, it 
 is my place to speak first. 
 
 "If you please, ma'am," I begin, after a long 
 hesitation. 
 
 "Hey!" 
 
 Somewhat disconcerted by the sharpness and 
 suddenness of this interruption, I pause, and take 
 some moments to recover myself. 
 
 ^*If you please, ma'am, when am I to see my 
 aunt?" 
 
 "Hey? What? Who?" 
 
 " My aunt, if you please, ma'am." 
 
 " Mercy alive ! And pray who do you suppose 
 I am ? " 
 
 " You, ma'am," I falter, with a vague uneasi- 
 ness impossible to describe. " Are you — are you 
 not the housekeeper ? " 
 
 To say that she glares vacantly at me from be-
 
 40 Barbara's history. 
 
 himl her spectacles, loses lier very power of speech, 
 and grows, all at once, quite stiff and rigid in her 
 chair, is to convey but a faint picture of the 
 amazement with which she receives this obser- 
 vation. 
 
 " I ! " she gasps at length. " I ! Gracious me, 
 child ! — / am your aunt." 
 
 I feel my countenance become an utter blank. 
 I am conscious of turning red and white, hot and 
 (*old, all in one moment. My ears tingle ; my 
 heart sinks within me ; I can neither speak nor 
 think. A dreadful silence follow^s, and in tlie 
 midst of this silence, my aunt, without any kind of 
 warning, burst into a grim laugh, and says : — 
 
 " Barbara, come and kiss me." 
 
 1 could have kissed a kangaroo just then, in the 
 intensity of my relief ; and so, getting up quite 
 readily, touch her gaunt cheek with my childish 
 lips, and look the gratitude I dare not speak. To 
 my surprise, she draws me closer to her knee, 
 passes one thin hand idly through my hair, looks, 
 not unkindly, into my wondenng eyes, and mur- 
 miu's, more to herself than me, the name of " Bar- 
 bara ! " 
 
 This gentle mood, however, is soon dismissed ; 
 and, as if ashamed of having indulged it, she 
 pushes me away, frowns, shakes her head, and 
 says, quite angi'ily: —
 
 Barbara's history. 41 
 
 " Nonsense, child. Nonsense ! It's time you 
 went to bed." 
 
 And so, with Jane's good help, to bed I go, and 
 thankfully, too ; for I never was so weary in my 
 life. 
 
 It is a large room, and a large bed stands in the 
 centre of it — a bed so soft and so extensive that 
 I disappear altogether in its mighty depths, and 
 am lost till morning.
 
 42 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MY AUNT AND I BEC031E BETTER ACQUAINTED. 
 
 " Jours naifs, plaisirs purs, emportes par le temps !" 
 
 J. Reboul. 
 
 "Your name," said my aunt, with a little off- 
 hand nod, " is Bab. Eemember that." 
 
 She looked grimmer than ever, sitting up so 
 stiffly behind the tea-urn ; and this was all the 
 morning salutation she vouchsafed me. A vacant 
 chair awaited me at the foot of the table — such a 
 chair ! It had a high, straight, carved back, and 
 huge elbows, to which my chin just reached, and 
 legs like bed-posts, which, as they were very long, 
 and mine very short, left my feet dangling half a 
 yard from the ground. Unpleasantly conscious of 
 my own cUminutiveness, and still more unplea- 
 santly conscious of my aunt's keen eyes, I endea-
 
 Barbara's history. 43 
 
 voured to fill this piece of furniture as best I could, 
 and to look as tall as possible. 
 
 " Bab," said my aunt, " what made you take me 
 for the housekeeper ? " 
 
 I had begun breakfast with a tolerable apprecia- 
 tion of the good things before me ; but this ques- 
 tion took away my appetite at a blow. 
 
 "I — I — I don't know, ma'am," I replied, fal- 
 teringly. 
 
 " Nonsense, Bab. You know well enough. I 
 see it in your face — and I won't be contra- 
 dicted!" 
 
 " If — if you please, ma'am ..." 
 
 "No, I don't please. What made you take 
 me for the housekeeper ? Was it my dress ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, I think so." 
 
 "Too shabby— hey?" 
 
 " N-no, ma'am — not shabby ; but . . ." 
 
 " But what ? You must learn to speak out, Bab. 
 I hate people who hesitate." 
 
 "But papa said you were so rich, and ..." 
 
 " Ah ! He said I was rich, did he ? Rich ! 
 Oho ! And what more, Bab ? What more ? Rich 
 indeed! Come, you must tell me! What else 
 did he say when he told you I was rich ? " 
 
 " N-n-nothing more, ma'am," I replied, startled 
 and confused by her sudden vehemence. "Indeed, 
 nothing more."
 
 44 
 
 " Bab," said my aunt, bringing her hand down 
 upon tlie table so heavily that the cups and saucers 
 rang again, " Bab, that's false. If he told you I 
 was rich, he told you how to get my money by- 
 and-by ! He told you to cringe, and fawn, and 
 pay court to me — to worm yourself into my favour 
 — to profit by my death — to be a liar, a flatterer, 
 and a beggar ! And why ? Because I am rich ! 
 Oh, yes ! because I am rich !" 
 
 I sat as if stricken into stone ; but half compre- 
 hending what she meant, and unable to answer a 
 syUable. 
 
 " Rich, indeed !" she went on, excited more and 
 more by her own words, and stalking to and fro 
 between the window and the table, like one 
 possessed. " Aha ! we shall see ! We shall see ! 
 Listen to me, child. I shall leave you no- 
 thin o- — not a farthing ! Never expect it — never 
 hope for it ! If you are good, and true, and I like 
 you, I shall be a friend to you while I live ; but if 
 you are mean, and false, and tell me lies, I shall 
 despise you — do you hear ? I shall despise you — 
 send you home — never speak to you, or look at 
 you again ! Either way, you will get nothing by 
 my death ! Nothing — nothing — nothing !" 
 
 My heart sw^elled within me — I shook from head 
 to foot — I tried to speak, and the words seemed to 
 choke me.
 
 barbaka's history. 45 
 
 " I don't want it !" I cried, passionately. ^' I — 
 I am not mean ! I have told no lies — not one !" 
 
 My aunt stopped short, and looked sternly down 
 upon me, as if she would read my very soul. 
 
 " Bab," said she, " do you mean to tell me that 
 your father said nothing to you about why I may 
 have asked you here, or wdiat might come of it ? 
 Nothing ? Not a word ?" 
 
 "He said it might be for my good — he told 
 Miss Whymper to make me curtsey and walk 
 better, and come into a room properly — he said he 
 wished me to please you. That was all ! He 
 never spoke of money, or of dying, or of telling 
 lies — never !" 
 
 " Well, then, he meant it !" retorted my aunt, 
 sharply. " " He meant it !" 
 
 Flushed and trembling in my childish anger, I 
 sprang from my chair and stood before her, face to 
 face. 
 
 " He did not mean it !" I cried. " How dare 
 you speak so of Papa ? How dare ..." 
 
 I could say no more, but, terrified at my own 
 impetuosity, faltered, covered my face with both 
 hands, and burst into an agony of sobs. 
 
 "Bab," said my aunt, in an altered voice, "little 
 Bab !" and took me all at once in her, two arms, 
 and kissed me on the forehead. 
 
 My anger was gone in a moment. Something
 
 4G Barbara's history. 
 
 in her tone, in her kiss, in my own heart, called 
 up a (jnick response ; and, nestling close in her 
 embrace, I wept passionately. Then she sat down, 
 drew me on her knee, smoothed my hair with her 
 hand, and comforted me as if I had been a little 
 baby. 
 
 " So brave," said she, " so proud, so honest ! 
 Come, little Bab, you and I must be friends." 
 
 And we were friends, from that minute; for, 
 from that minute, a mutual confidence and love 
 sprang up between us. Too deeply moved to 
 answer her in words, I only clung the closer, and 
 tried to still my sobs. She understood me. 
 
 " Come," said she, after a few seconds of silence. 
 " Let's go and see the pigs." 
 
 And with this she disengaged my arms from 
 about her neck, set me down abruptly, and rang 
 the bell. 
 
 " My pigs, Bab," said she, " are my hobby. I've 
 a hundred of them out yonder, waiting to be fed. 
 I always keep a hundred, and I see them fed my- 
 self, twice a-day. Won't you like to go with 
 mef 
 
 " Oh ! yes, ma'am, very much." 
 " Don't call me ma am. I don't like it. Call me 
 aunt. Jane, bring my boots and wdiip." 
 
 The whip was a short strong wdn'p, with a leather 
 thong, and the boots were the most amazing boots
 
 47 
 
 I ever saw. Jane brought them, quite as a matter 
 of course, and my aunt put them on. They had 
 iron heels, and soles half-an-inch thick, and 
 reached, moreover, a long way above her ancles. 
 They looked as though they might have been 
 Wellingtons, originally, cut a trifle shorter, and 
 opened down the fronts to admit of being buttoned. 
 These on, my aunt proceeded to tie up the skirt of 
 her dress all round, and completed her toilette by 
 the addition of a huge green silk bonnet and veil, 
 which hung on a peg in the hall. 
 
 " You see, Bab," said she, " I am a farmer. My 
 property lies in farms. I cultivate this one, and I 
 let the rest. I attend to my business myself ; and 
 as I never do anything by halves, I buy, sell, go to 
 market, keep my own books, and trust to nobody's 
 eyes but my own. Some folks laugh about it ; 
 but I let them laugh, and wish them better amuse- 
 ment. This is my orchard, and yonder is the 
 stack-yard ; but we are not going there just now. 
 The pigs are waiting." 
 
 Saying which, my aunt led the way across a 
 broad grassy space, where the turkeys were strut- 
 ting along with their heads in the air, and tliehens 
 were cackling about with broods of little yellow 
 chickens at their heels, and the fruit trees made a 
 green shade overhead. I could have stayed in 
 this deliglitful place for hours ; but my aunt took
 
 48 Barbara's iiistory. 
 
 me tlirougli a little gate to the left, and across a 
 yard Avliere a boy was chopping wood, and then 
 through another gate into another yard which was 
 littered all over with straw, and built round with 
 neat brick sties, and as full of pigs as ever it could 
 liold. 
 
 " There they are !" said she, with grim satisfac- 
 tion. " There they are !" 
 
 There they were, indeed — pigs of all sizes, ages, 
 and tempers. Black pigs, white pigs, spotted 
 pigs, little pigs, big pigs, fat pigs, lean pigs, pigs 
 with curly tails, and pigs with no tails at all. 
 Quiet enough till we came into the yard, they no 
 sooner beheld my aunt's green bonnet than they 
 broke into the most appalling chorus imaginable, 
 and came rushing up to us with an alacrity that 
 soon brought the wdiip into service, and sent some 
 of them shrieking away. But to see them fed was 
 the great sight — to watch the perpetual replenish- 
 ment of the great round troughs ; the circles of 
 tails, uplifted and quivering with excitement ; the 
 playful disturbances that broke out now and then 
 among the younger members of the company, and 
 the friendly bites, flights and scuiiies that diversi- 
 fied the graver interests of the performance. 
 
 Meanwhile, my aunt stalked about with her whip 
 in her hand ; inspected the condition of the sties, 
 and the quality of the food; rated the farm-servants;
 
 baebara's history. 49 
 
 discussed the question of bean -meal and pea-meal ; 
 gave orders that one youthful family should have 
 their noses ringed ; condemned two hapless porkers 
 of middle growth to solitary confinement ; and 
 ended by taking me round to visit a very fierce 
 dowager in an adjoining yard, who had the even- 
 ing before presented society with no less than 
 fifteen little ones, as black as jet, and not much 
 bigger than kittens. 
 
 Having dismissed the pigs, we went into the 
 stables ; and then round to the bullock yard ; and, 
 after that, went a long way off to a clover-field 
 lying on the slope of a hill, where we saw the 
 sheep and the little white lambs all feeding and 
 gambolling about, to the number of three hundred 
 and more. And throughout all this ramble, my 
 aunt's vigilant eyes were on everything and every- 
 body. Nothing escaped her ; and not a servant on 
 all the land but started into activity at her ap- 
 proach, and seemed to regard her not only with 
 respect, but with, some degree of terror. 
 
 At twelve o'clock we came home to lunch ; at 
 four we dined ; and after dinner, my aunt put tlie 
 Times into my hands, and desired me to read the 
 debates while she sat and knitted in her eas}- 
 chair. It w^as not amusing, but I acquitted myself 
 creditably, and was praised for my enunciation. 
 Having had tea at seven, we strolled about the 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 Barbara's history. 
 
 gardens and orchard till nearly nine ; and then I 
 was sent to bed. Such was my first day at Stoney- 
 croft Hall ; and such was every day for weeks and 
 months after. Sometimes we spent an evening at 
 the parsonage — sometimes the vicar or the doctor 
 dropped in to tea; but, with these slight variations, 
 the programme remained unaltered. After a few 
 weeks, my aunt taught me the leading rules of 
 whist, and we played at double-dummy regularly 
 for an hour after tea. It was a quiet life, but a 
 very happy one — all the happier for its monotony, 
 and all the pleasanter for its seclusion. The calm, 
 the good air, the early hours, and all the circum- 
 stances of the change, seemed to strengthen and 
 improve me. Every sight and sound of farm-yard 
 or field delighted me. Every hour was a holiday — 
 every breath enjoyment. Cured of my solitary 
 habits, I grew daily more fresh and childlike, and 
 more accessible to pleasant influences. To be re- 
 leased from Miss Whymper's government and my 
 sisters' petty tyranny was much; but to live 
 amongst green trees and kindly faces was even 
 more. Day by day, my aunt and I became better 
 acquainted — day by day I loved her and the old 
 house, and all the smToundings of the place, more 
 and more dearly. And this reminds me that I 
 have not yet described Stoneycroft Ilall. 
 
 Why it should ever have been called Stoney-
 
 barbaka's history. 51 
 
 croft Hall was altogether a mystery. A more in- 
 appropriate name could scarcely have been found 
 for it, since it was justified by no trace of barren- 
 ness, by no poverty of soil, by no fragment of 
 rock or boulder anywhere about. On the con- 
 trary, it would have been difficult to find in all the 
 county a district more productive, or more highly 
 cultivated. The great heaths, it is true, were in 
 the neighbourhood — vast sweeps' of undulating- 
 moorland many miles in length, which traversed 
 twelve or fourteen parishes, and ended at last upon 
 that wave-worn coast where the tides of the Ger- 
 man ocean ebb and flow between England and the 
 shores of Holland. But these heaths lay at a con- 
 siderable distance, and were not within sight from 
 even our uppermost windows. They might have 
 been a hundred miles away, for any show of waste 
 land thereabout, and could scarcely have influ- 
 enced the naming of Stoneycroft Hall. 
 
 It was a fine old Elizabethan homestead, and, 
 in spite of its hard name, the very type of an 
 ample, hospitable English dwelling. A little 
 formal pencil sketch which I made of the place a 
 few days after my first arrival, lies before me as I 
 write. Meagre and childlike though it be, it yet 
 brings back every quaint carving, every curved 
 gable, twisted chimney, and .fantastic weather- 
 cock, as vividly as though they were the impres- 
 
 E 2 
 
 ,tV
 
 52 Barbara's history. 
 
 sions of yesterday. There is tlie dear old porch 
 with its environment of red and amber roses — 
 there the window of my great formal bed-chamber 
 — there the garret whither I so often stole away 
 with my pencil and my books, and, from its 
 narrow casement, w^atched the harmless lightnings 
 of the summer dusk. Far and away, all round 
 about the house, studded by farm-building5, varied 
 by slopes and hollows, relieved by patches of 
 brown fallow and tracts of radiant green, lay the 
 pleasant Suffolk landscape. Our garden-gate 
 opened on the highway — the church-spire peeped 
 above the pollard-oaks close by — the pound stood 
 in a grassy angle a few yards down the road. To 
 the left (sheltered by a group of picturesque old 
 trees, with knotted roots, and weu*d, wild-looking 
 branches), lay the great pond, where the cattle 
 were driven in to water every evening, and many 
 a traveller stayed his horse to drink. To the 
 right, w^e were enclosed by the stacks and out- 
 houses. To the westward, skirting a ridge of 
 rising-ground and filling the valley beyond with 
 rich masses of rounded foliage, extended the park 
 and preserves of Broomhill ; while, farther away, 
 in the midst of a stretch of open country, a 
 bare gaunt poplar, with its lower branches lopped 
 and only a few stray leaves left fluttering at the 
 top, started up to an unusual height, and served as
 
 barbaka's history. 53 
 
 one of the landmarks of the place. Concealed 
 amid the plantations behind it, nestled a small 
 white building, known as the Poplar Farm. 
 
 Such was the house, and such the neighbour- 
 hood in which ni}^ aunt resided. It was no un- 
 usual scene. It would have interested the painter 
 less than the agriculturist, and by many, perhaps, 
 have been deemed but a tame specimen of even so 
 tame a county as Suffolk. But I loved it. It 
 possessed for me, at that impressionable age, a 
 novelty and a charm beyond the power of words 
 to utter. I studied it with a painter's instinct 
 under every aspect of the year and all the moods 
 of nature. Every thatched roof, every column of 
 blue smoke, every lane, and drift, and hedgerow, 
 contributed its own share of interest to the land- 
 scape. To watch the sunset burning through the 
 boughs of the park trees, or the moonlight setting 
 them in bronzed relief against the placid sky ; to 
 linger in the meadows till the very bursting of the 
 purple storm-cloud ; to lie at the foot of some far- 
 spreading oak, and gaze up through the shifting 
 leaves at the blue sky above ; or, on a summer's 
 morning, to watch the waving wheat and rippling 
 barley — these were among my keenest enjoyments. 
 The good which they worked, and the tastes which 
 they assisted to develop, have remained with me 
 ever since. Familiar with every school of beauty,
 
 54 
 
 with scenes consecrated in song and associated 
 with history, I can yet turn to the contemplation 
 of this homely English pastoral with a freshness 
 of admiration that never fades, and a love that 
 knows no change.
 
 55 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BKOOMHILL AND ITS OWNERS. 
 
 " Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees." 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 About a mile to the east of Stoneycroft Hall, lay 
 the park, mansion, and domains known col- 
 lectively as Broomhill. The estate took its name 
 from a picturesque sand-crag which rose to a con- 
 siderable height at the back of the house, and was 
 all overgrown with furze and wavy ferns. The 
 park, without being extensive, was finely situated ; 
 possessed some natural advantages ; was broken up 
 into dells and slopes, relieved by occasional gleams 
 of water, and interspersed with oaks and cedars 
 that were said to have been saplings in the reign 
 of Elizabeth. Beyond the park lay a long line of 
 plantations, and a tract of undulating common
 
 0() BAllIiARA's IIISTOllY. 
 
 that reached away for more than three miles in 
 the direction of Normanbridge. Normanbridge, 
 be it observed, was the nearest market-town. 
 
 Antique, irregular, moated, and surmounted by 
 a forest of quaint chimneys, the Hall at Broomhill 
 was altogether a composite piece of architecture. 
 It lay low in a warm hollow, surrounded by foliage 
 and sheltered from all the winds of heaven. Be- 
 gun about the year 1496, and carried on from 
 centmy to century with such deviations from the 
 original desio-n as each successive owner was 
 pleased to make, it could not be said to belong to 
 any special order of architecture, but was a mix- 
 ture of many. The octagonal tower, the bell- 
 turret, and the whole of the east front, dated from 
 the time of the early Tudors. The north wing, 
 with its unsightly pediment and awkward Corin- 
 thian pilasters, was erected during the reign of 
 Jamys I., and designed by Inigo Jones. The 
 courtyard, stone gateway, and offices were speci- 
 mens of the worst Renaissance school ; and the 
 lodges were rustic Italian. If there ever was a 
 plan, it had been abandoned and forgotten since 
 the completion of the earliest part of the building. 
 Indeed, it almost seemed as if the masters of 
 Broomhill had striven, each in the fashion of his 
 day, to encumber the old i)]ace with just whatever 
 novelty was least in harmony with all that had
 
 Barbara's history. • 57 
 
 gone before. Still it was as interesting a specimen 
 of domestic architecture as one would wish to find; 
 picturesque by reason of its very incongruity ; and, 
 in the fullest sense of the word, historic. 
 
 Conferred in fief upon some remote ancestor of 
 the time of the Norman kings, this estate had re- 
 mained in the hands of his descendants for loncj 
 centuries before a stone of the present edifice was 
 laid. Given to a Farquhar, a Farquhar had held 
 it ever since. There had never been a title in the 
 family, and they prided themselves upon it. In- 
 dependent Esquires, they had uniformly declined the 
 lesser honours of nobility, and would not exchange 
 the name and style of Farquhar of Broomhill for 
 any rank below the peerage. They were not rich ; 
 but their descent was pure, and their honour un- 
 blemished. A Farquhar, followed by his fifty 
 lances, fought with distinction in the third crusade 
 under Richard Coeur de Lion, and was present at 
 the siege of Acre. A Farquhar of the sixteenth 
 century held a command under Sir Francis Drake, 
 and was not only one of the few among that gallant 
 crew who returned to tell of a voyage round the 
 world, but even bore a share in the pursuit of the 
 Spanish Armada. The second Charles, in his long 
 exile, had few adherents more faithful than one 
 James Farquhar of Broomhill, who mortgaged his 
 lands and melted his plate for the king's service,
 
 58 Barbara's history. 
 
 and was afterwards rewarded with a captaincy in 
 his majesty's new reoiment of Coldstream Guards. 
 True to the line of the Stuarts, a Farquhar was 
 one of the first to follow the fortunes of the Pre- 
 tender, and one of the last to abandon them. 
 Later still, two of the house, father and son, fought 
 for Charles Edward on the fatal field of Culloden, 
 and fell, side by side, just as his officers forced the 
 prince away. Having by these means narrowly 
 escaped the forfeiture of their estates, the Far- 
 quhar family lived henceforth in strict retirement, 
 mingling but little in political or military questions, 
 and, for the most part, devoting their attention to 
 agricultural pursuits. To improve, to build, to 
 cultivate, to purchase, had now been for more than 
 three quarters of a century the pride and pleasure 
 of the masters of Broomhill. Profiting by the 
 economy of seclusion, they had added more than 
 one farm to the heritage of their Norman prede- 
 cessors, enlarged their preserves, and extended the 
 bounderies of their park whenever the sale of adja- 
 cent lands enabled them to do so. How they had 
 contended with my great grandfather for the pur- 
 chase of Stoneycroft Hall; and how, being de- 
 feated, they had ever since looked with a jealous 
 eye upon those rich six hundred acres which would 
 have added so materially to the value and im- 
 portance of their own estates, was a story which
 
 59 
 
 my aunt delighted to relate. Somehow or another, 
 she disliked the Farquhar family. Not a deed 
 that they had done, not an honour that they had 
 achieved, found favour in her sight. To all that 
 concerned them she was rootedly antagonistic ; and 
 there was not one of the name, from its earliest to 
 its latest representative, of whom she could speak 
 without prejudice. In all parish or county matters, 
 she opposed their views on principle ; and at elec- 
 tion times it needed but the interest of a Farquhar 
 in one scale to throw all the weight of her influence 
 into the other. Thus, because they were Tories 
 and advocated Church and State principles, my 
 aunt inclined to Liberal views, and was hard upon 
 Parliamentary Bishops ; while, for no other reason 
 than the devotion of their ancestors to the cause of 
 the Stuarts, her hero of heroes was, of course, the 
 Prince of Orange. 
 
 " The Farquhars, indeed !" she used testily to 
 exclaim. " Don't speak to me of the Farquhars ! 
 I'm tired of hearing about their musty ancestors, 
 and their Jacobite nonsense, and their trumpery 
 pride. There hasn't been an ounce of brains in 
 the family these two hundred years, Bab, and 
 that's all about it. The old man was a fool — ^the 
 last man was a fool — and the present man is a 
 fool, or mad. Mad, I think. Mad as a March hare, 
 Bab ; and you may take my word for it !"
 
 60 
 
 I did not take her word for it, however, but, 
 liavin(]r heard various opinions on the subject, en- 
 tertained quite other views with respect to the 
 sanity and capacity of the present master of 
 Broomhill. 
 
 Hugh Farquhar happened to be abroad, making 
 what was then called the " grand tour," when his 
 father's sudden death left him without any close 
 tie or near relation in the w^orld. The news 
 reached him at Genoa, and, to tlie amazement of 
 all the parish, failed to bring him home. Instead 
 of posting back to England, he took ship for the 
 East, and had remained absent ever since. The 
 house was shut up; the park gates were closed; the 
 servants paid off or pensioned, accoi'ding to their 
 age and services. A housekeeper and one or two 
 maids were left in charge of the mansion. A 
 single gardener kept the walks and pastures from 
 desolation. Year after year thus went by. Grass 
 grew in the spacious avenues, and stonecrop along 
 the coping of the garden walls. Birds built in 
 the clustered chimneys whence no smoke issued. 
 Rust gathered on the hinges of gates which were 
 never opened except to the lawyer or the steward. 
 Still the lord of Broomhill showed no care to re- 
 visit the home of his fathers ; and, at the time 
 when I first became an inmate of Stoneycroft 
 Hall, his voluntary exile had lasted for nearly five 
 years.
 
 Barbara's history. 61 
 
 Tales of recklessness and profusion, of wild ad- 
 venture, and of travels extended far beyond the 
 beaten routes, were told of him throughout the 
 county. That he had been heard of in Grand 
 Cairo, and seen in Jerusalem — that he had boated 
 up the Nile, and cut his name on the summit of 
 the great Pyramid — that he had turned Mahom- 
 medan — that he had married a Persian princess 
 with her own weight in gold and jewels for her 
 dower — that he had fraternized with some savage 
 Tartar tribe, and was living, a chieftain among 
 chieftains, somewhere in Thibet — that, Itke Lord 
 Byron, he had taken arms in the Greek cause ; 
 and that, like Lady Hester Stanhope, he had be- 
 come a dweller in Arabian tents, were among the 
 least improbable of these reports. How eagerly I 
 listened to rumours which possessed for me more 
 than the fascination of romance ; how, in my 
 childish way, I associated his name with those of 
 my favourite heroes ; how I compared him with 
 Sinbad and Don Quixote, Tom Jones, Prince Ca- 
 maralzaman and Kobinson Crusoe, needs scarcely 
 to be told here. Enough that Farquhar of Broom- 
 hill became my ideal of a preux chevalier, and that 
 none of my aunt's sarcasms weighed with me for 
 a moment. Indeed, I believe that the more he 
 was maligned, the more I admired him; which 
 added to the romance and made it nicer than ever.
 
 62 Barbara's history. 
 
 Notliing at this time gave me more dellglit than to 
 scrawl imaginary portraits of him in the fly-leaves 
 of my story books ; or, more ambitious still, to 
 cover whole sheets of foolscap with cartoons which 
 represented him in the most bewitching fancy 
 dresses, and the most stupendous situations, strug- 
 gling with tigers, overcoming crocodiles, rescuing 
 distressed princesses, putting whole tribes of 
 Indians to flight, and otherwise conducting him- 
 self in a gallant and satisfactory manner. 
 
 Of all this, however, I was careful to let my 
 aunt suspect notliing. She would surely have 
 laughed at me, and I was keenly sensitive to ridi- 
 cule. So I cherished my romance in secret ; feed- 
 ing my eager fancy with invention, and, from day 
 to day, weaving fresh incidents upon the glowing 
 tapestry of my dreams.
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DOCTOR TOPHAM AND TAUL VERONESE. 
 
 " Morning, Mrs. Sandyshaft, " said Doctor 
 Topliam, drawing rein at our garden-gate and 
 nodding to my aunt, who was pacing up and down 
 the middle path with her hands behind her back, 
 and the green bonnet inverted over her eyes like a 
 flower-pot. "Famous weather for the crops — 
 bad for the markets. Glass going up — prices 
 going down. Always two sides to a question. 
 Nobody ever satisfied — farmers especially. Eh, 
 Mrs. S.?" 
 
 Now Doctor Topham was my aunt's near friend 
 and neighbour. He never agreed with her upon 
 any subject whatever, and they seldom met but they 
 quarrelled ; wherefore, apparently, they only liked 
 each other the better. Incompatibility of taste and 
 temper formed, indeed, the bond of their regard.
 
 64 Barbara's history. 
 
 and aggravation was the salt of tlieii' intercourse. 
 Doctor Topliam was sallow and Saturnine, had 
 long legs and a short poney, and rode with an um- 
 brella. 
 
 " Humph ! You'd better let farmers and farm- 
 ing alone," replied my aunt, testily. "Talk of 
 something you understand, if only for variety." 
 
 " Can't make you my topic, then, Mrs. S.," re- 
 torted the doctor. 
 
 " I take it," said my aunt, " as no honoui' to be 
 beyond your comprehension." 
 
 Whereupon the doctor scratched his ear, and, 
 having no repartee at hand, changed the subject. 
 
 "Have you heard that story about Hugh Far- 
 quhar and the Paul Veronese ?" asked he. 
 
 "Yes. Is it true?" 
 
 " I fear so." 
 
 " Hah — and a genuine picture ?" 
 
 " So they say ; but old masters are dangerous 
 folks to meddle wdth. No article going in the choice 
 of wdiich a man may be so cheated as a picture — 
 or a wife." 
 
 " And worth six thousand pounds, too !" ejacu- 
 lated my aunt, unmindful of this satire on her 
 sex. 
 
 " Value is one thing and price another, Mrs. 
 S.," said the doctor, drily. " Six thousand were 
 paid for it. Randall told me so."
 
 bakbara's history. (j5 
 
 " Extravagant fool ! Picked it up somewhere in 
 Venice, did he not ?" 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 " Six thousand pounds for a picture ! Tut, tut ! 
 We shall have Broomhill come to the hammer 
 some day, at this rate ! The man's mad. I 
 always said he was mad. Six thousand pounds 
 for a picture ! Why, bless my soul, doctor, he 
 could have bought the Bosmere property for that 
 price !" 
 
 " And not have done so well, perhaps, after all," 
 said Doctor Topham, differing for tlie mere sake 
 of contradiction. " Travellers see strange things, 
 and sometimes do wise ones by mistake. It's just 
 possible that Farquhar may have given six thou- 
 sand for an article worth twelve." 
 
 " Doctor," said my aunt, emphatically, " you're 
 a greater idiot than I supposed." 
 
 "Much obliged, Mrs. S. Happy to return the 
 compliment." 
 
 " And ought, at your time of life, to know 
 better." 
 
 " My dear Madam, I'm a boy — seven years 
 younger than yourself." 
 
 My aunt laughed a short dry laugh like a double 
 knock. 
 
 " You'd give your head," said she, " to have the 
 
 VOL, I. F
 
 66 
 
 last word. Well — to return to the Paul Veronese. 
 Will he send it to Broomhill, think you ?" 
 
 '' Send it ! Why, it arrived yesterday ! I met 
 the procession myself, wag£^on, packing-case, Ran- 
 dall and all. That's how I come to know so much 
 about it." 
 
 "And the subject?" 
 
 " Deal boards, Mrs. S.," said the doctor, with a 
 grin, "are not generally transparent; and my eyes, 
 however piercing, are not gimlets. Still, as far as 
 size goes, I can relieve your mind. Our friend 
 seems to have got plenty for his money." 
 
 " So ! a large picture f 
 
 " A quarter of an acre of it, I should say — high 
 art, at so much per cubic foot." 
 
 My aunt shrugged her shoulders. The doctor 
 looked at his watch. 
 
 " Mrs. Sandyshaf t," said he, " I have a consul- 
 tation at eleven, and you have made me lose ten 
 minutes. By the way, you know the sad fate of 
 poor Saunders ?" 
 
 " Saunders ? No— what of him T 
 
 " It's all over with him." 
 
 "Over with him — mercy alive! is the man 
 deadr 
 
 " Worse, Mrs. S. Married !" 
 
 And with this Dr. Topham drew up his knees, 
 put spurs to the poney, and trotted away at a
 
 bakbara's history. 67 
 
 round pace, with his umbrella over his head, and 
 his feet dangling about eight inches from the 
 ground. My aunt looked after him, indulged in 
 another double knock laugh, and presently re- 
 sumed her walk. I could contain my curiosity 
 no longer. 
 
 " Aunt," said I, eagerly — " aunt, what is a Paul 
 Veronese ?" 
 
 Pacing to and fro, with her hands behind her 
 back and her eyes fixed on the ground, Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft neither heard nor replied. I plucked 
 her by the sleeve, and repeated the question^ 
 
 " Aunt, if you please — what is a Paul Vero- 
 nese ?" 
 
 " Bab, don't bother. I'm counting." 
 
 Used to these rebuffs, I drew back and waited 
 quietly. Presently she looked up, met my asking 
 eyes, and halted abruptly. 
 
 "Well, child," said she, "what is itf 
 
 I repeated my inquiry for the third time. My 
 aunt frowned and shook her head. 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is, Bab," said she, testily, 
 " you ask too many questions. My life's a per- 
 petual catechism ; and for every breath you. draw, 
 one might write a note of interrogation. I won't 
 stand it any longer. There's an Encyclopedia in 
 the house — twenty-two volumes of it — and hence- 
 forth, when you want to know anything, read it for 
 
 f2
 
 ()8 Barbara's history. 
 
 yourself. Paul Veronese, indeed ! Look for 
 him under V, and there you'll find him." 
 
 Delighted to be made free of the locked-up 
 book-case, I ran off, key in hand, and spent the 
 rest of that morning poring over dusty quartos. 
 I looked under V without success ; but at length, 
 after some trouble, found, under the head of 
 Cagliari, all that I desired to know. Found that 
 while this great artist was yet a youth, his com- 
 petitors had themselves decreed him a prize for 
 which they w^ere all contending — that in his ma- 
 tiu'ity he created a school of art, and was the asso- 
 ciate of ambassadors and kings — that whole 
 churches and palaces had been enriched by his 
 brush — that in life he achieved honours, and in 
 death immortality. Brief and meagre as it was, 
 this biography made a profound impression upon 
 me. It came to me like a revelation, and dazzled me 
 with vague dreams of art-life and the splendoui' of 
 the mediaeval painters. Allusions and references 
 in the one article led me to the discovery of others, 
 and the lives of Leonardo da Vinci, Titian, 
 Rubens, and Vandyck were in turn eagerly de- 
 voured. Never having seen a really fine painting, 
 my notions were perforce childish and confused, 
 and- the vocabulary of criticism puzzled me like 
 Greek. I could not conceive the meaning of such 
 words as '^ tone," " breadth," " chiaroscuro," and
 
 baebara's history. 69 
 
 the like; and my aunt was nnable to help me. 
 
 "Don't ask me, Bab," she used to say. " I 
 
 know more of pigs than pictures ; and as for that 
 
 art-jargon, I believe it's humbug — every word of 
 
 itr 
 
 For all this, however, I read, believed, and 
 dreamed on. To be a painter became the single 
 ambition of my soul ; and a restless desire to be- 
 hold Mr. Farquhar's Paul Veronese pursued me 
 night and day.
 
 70 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MY GREAT ADVENTURE. 
 
 ''Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?" — Marlowe. 
 
 Bolt upright, my aunt sat at her desk, writing ; 
 whilst I, waiting for the note, played with the 
 dogs, and looked out of the window. 
 
 " You'll see Dr. Topham, if he is at home, Bab," 
 said my aunt, without looking up. 
 
 " Yes, aunt." ' 
 
 "And bring back an answer." 
 
 " Yes, aunt." 
 
 " And take the path over the fields. It's much 
 the nearest." 
 
 " Nearer than the park, aunt ?'* 
 
 " Bless me ! yes. Half a mile, at least." 
 
 I sighed and was silent, while my aunt signed, 
 sealed, and addressed her letter. Having done
 
 71 
 
 this, she beckoned me to her side, looked straight 
 into my eyes, and said — 
 
 " Bab, if I were you I'd build myself a hut in 
 Broomhill park, and live there, like Robinson 
 Crusoe." 
 
 I felt myself blush up to the roots of my hair ; 
 but made no reply. 
 
 " Wherever I send you, you contrive to make 
 your way lie through the park. When you take a 
 walk, it is always through the park. You haunt 
 the park. To my knowledge you've been there 
 every day for the last fortnight or three weeks. 
 What's the meaning of it f 
 
 I looked down ; stammered ; had not a word to 
 say. It was true that I had hovered about the 
 place of late ; but I had no courage for confession. 
 How could I confide to her the wayward fancies 
 of my idle hours ? How acknowledge the " rest- 
 less unsatisfied longing" that drew me daily to 
 look from afar upon the walls which encompassed 
 a Paul Veronese? Whether she guessed some- 
 thing of the truth, or thought me merely odd and 
 unaccountable, I cannot determine ; but she took 
 pity, at all events, on my confusion, and forbore to 
 question me further. She looked at her watch, 
 and gave me the letter. 
 
 " It's now nearly five o'clock," said she, " and, 
 by the fields, you have a mile to walk. I give
 
 72 Barbara's history. 
 
 you half an hour to go, half an hour to return, 
 and half an hour for delays. It is quite far 
 enough for you, and quite time enough ; and if 
 you are not punctual, I shall conclude that you 
 have disobeyed me, and gone round by the park. 
 Now go." 
 
 Thankful to be dismissed, I bounded across 
 the hall and the garden, and was out of sight in a 
 moment. 
 
 It was now August, and the sultry sun blazed 
 fiercely, bending westward. There were reapers 
 reaping wearily in the hot fields as I went by, and 
 gleaners, footsore and dusty, resting under trees. 
 Not a breath stirred. Not a cloud sailed. The 
 hardened clods and languid grass looked parched 
 and thirsty, and the very birds sang fitfully, as if 
 pining for a shower. As for me, I delighted in 
 the heat and bared my head to the sun, like a little 
 Salamander ; and danced on, rejoicing. 
 
 When I arrived at his house. Dr. Tophani w^as 
 out, and not likely to be back before dark. The 
 servant would have had me rest awhile; but I 
 looked up wistfully at the old clock in the hall, 
 found that only twenty-five minutes of my allotted 
 time were gone, and so left the note, and took my 
 way slowly homewards. Only twenty-five mi- 
 nutes out of an hour and a half ! To the right 
 lay the fields — to the left, the stile and footpath
 
 73 
 
 leading to Broomhill. Supposing that I took the 
 latter, it would be but half a mile added to my 
 walk ; and, after all, it was not the distance to 
 which my aunt objected, but the delay. Granted 
 that I reached home even now before the time, 
 how could she be angry with me? Still hesitating, 
 I lingered where the roads divided, and argued 
 thus with my conscience. To convince ourselves 
 according to our inclinations is not difficult. The 
 debate was soon carried in my own favour ; the 
 stile soon crossed ; the park soon gained. 
 
 And what a park it was ! Putting Paul Vero- 
 nese out of the question, it was the pleasantest 
 spot in all our neighbourhood. I loved nothing 
 better than to lie under the shade of the gnarled 
 oaks, and watch the deer browsing in herds along 
 the grassy vistas round about. This afternoon the 
 place seemed more sylvan than ever. The atmo- 
 sphere, which all day had been dense with heat, 
 was now traversed by currents of cool air, and fra- 
 grant with sweet scents. The hush that precedes 
 the sunset had fallen upon every leaf, wild-flower, 
 and blade of grass. Far away, distinct though 
 dulled by distance, echoed the steady strokes of 
 the woodman's axe ; and, nearer, a party of dis- 
 putatious rooks stalked gravely to and fro, and 
 then rose, cawing, into the air. 
 
 Strolling idly on, and pausing every now and
 
 74 
 
 then to listen to the silence, I came to a point 
 where the paths again divided. One led over the 
 slopes where the horned oxen were feeding by 
 scores, and opened out on the high road — the 
 other was a right of way passing straight through 
 the yards, and skirting the private gardens of the 
 mansion. My horror of the cattle decided me in 
 favour of the latter, and I went on. On through 
 the "chequered shade" that fell between the 
 trees — on, past the two great cedars, and under 
 the archway with its sculptured shield and motto 
 overhead — on, past the coach-houses and stable- 
 doors, and under the very windows of the Tudor 
 gallery at the back of the house. Naturally a shy 
 child, I hurried along as fast as my feet would 
 carry me ; dreading lest I should meet any of the 
 servants, or see a face looking at me from some 
 upper casement. Once past the iron gate, once 
 clear of the yards and offices, I paused to take 
 breath. 
 
 Before me stretched a fresh expanse of trees and 
 slopes, bounded by a line of park-palings. To my 
 right, enclosed by a high wall above which I 
 could just see the tops of the pear-trees, lay the 
 fruit and vegetable-gardens. To my left, half in 
 light and half in shadow, stood the grand old house, 
 with the red sunset burning on its panes, like 
 " patines of bright gold." Brightest and nearest
 
 Barbara's history. 75 
 
 of all, blazed the great stained glass windows at the 
 end of the Tudor wing ; and strangely cool and 
 calm, looked, by comparison, the narrow space of 
 formal lawn in front. It was a little strip railed 
 off from the park by a wire fence, and entered by 
 a small gate that had been left partly open. An 
 air of great quiet pervaded the place. A tiny 
 fountain bubbled from a grassy mound in the 
 midst, and a sun-dial on a time-stained pedestal 
 stood before the window. Not a door banged — 
 not a voice echoed — not a footstep crossed either 
 courtyard or garden. It might haye been an en- 
 chanted palace, with a spell-bound princess dream- 
 ing out her hundred years of sleep somewhere in 
 the silence of those upper rooms, for any sign of 
 life that one could see ! Awed by the solitude 
 and the hour, I held my breath, and wondered if 
 the servants ever ventured among those suites and 
 corridors above, and how they felt at night when 
 it grew dusk. 
 
 And then I noticed for the first time that the 
 shutters of the great bay window were unfastened, 
 and stood some inches apart. Perhaps that very 
 room held the Paul Veronese ! 
 
 Struck, as it were, by a conviction, I hesitated ; 
 cast a hasty glance all around ; and darted through 
 the little open gate ! To climb up by the aid of a 
 honeysuckle, perch myself on the broad stone ledge,
 
 7(5 
 
 and press my face close against the glass, was the 
 work of a moment. I had been out so long in the 
 broad sunlight that for many minutes I could dis- 
 tinguish nothing. Then one object after another 
 became visible through the gloom, and I found, to 
 my disappointment, that I was peering into the 
 library. Books, books, books — everywhere books ! 
 Books by hundreds, lining the walls, littering the 
 tables, and piled in great heaps on the floor. The 
 room, apparently, was being cleaned, or regulated. 
 I gazed for a long time very earnestly, turned 
 away presently with a sigh, and exclaiming — 
 " Then it is not there, after all !" — swung myself 
 down upon the lawn. 
 
 " What is not there f said a voice close beside me. 
 
 Blinded by the change from dark to light, I 
 could only see a tall figure standing between me 
 and the setting sun. 
 
 " What is not there ? What are you looking 
 for ? Who are you ?" asked the stranger, laying 
 his hand upon my shoulder. " Why, what a 
 frightened little trespasser it is !" 
 
 Frightened indeed ! frightened almost out of 
 my senses. Daring neither to look up nor speak, and 
 feeling as though that touch had power to weigh me 
 to the ground ! He pitied my distress ; for when 
 he spoke again his voice was grave and sweet, like 
 the deep notes of an organ.
 
 baebaka's history. 77 
 
 " Fear nothing, my child," he said. " I am not 
 angry with you. Come, speak — tell me why you 
 were looking through that window ?" 
 
 And still he kept his hand upon my shoulder — 
 somewhat firmly too, as if he thought I should 
 presently dart away and escape him. 
 
 '' So ! still dumb ? Nay, you will at least tell 
 me your name f 
 
 I faintly stammered — " Barbara." 
 
 "Barbara!" repeated the stranger musingly. 
 "A quaint old name ! ' My mother had a maid 
 caWd — Barbara!^ Let me see — wdio says that? 
 Desdemona f 
 
 " I — I don t know, sir," said I, gaining confi- 
 dence ; but wondering at the question. 
 
 He smiled, put his hand under my chin, and 
 turned my face to the light. 
 
 "I should think not, indeed!" replied he. "What 
 should a little girl like you know about Shake- 
 speare ?" 
 
 " I have read of him," said I, stoutly. " He 
 was a poet, and wrote plays." 
 
 " Per Bacco ! A learned Barbara ! A Barbara 
 versed in the poets ! Come, petite^ you have a 
 surname, sm-ely — what is it f 
 
 Uncomfortably conscious of something like 
 irony in the stranger's manner, I hesitated and 
 looked down.
 
 78 Barbara's history. 
 
 " My other name is Churchill," I replied, after 
 a minute. 
 
 " Churchill — Barbara Churchill ! Good names 
 both ! They go ' trippingly on the tongue,' and 
 are pleasant to pronounce. There's something in 
 a name, after all. Churchill is historical, too !" 
 
 And my new acquaintance, whose obsei'vations 
 seemed like spoken thoughts and were scarcely ad- 
 dressed to me at all, began humming the old tune 
 of:— 
 
 " Marlhrook s^en vaH en guerre T 
 
 " The Duke of ^larlborough was an ancestor of 
 Papa's," said I, with great dignity. " We have 
 ever so many lives of him at home." 
 
 " By Jove, now, this is wonderful !" exclaimed 
 the stranger, laughing, and looking at me more at- 
 tentively. " She's positively a genealogical Bar- 
 bara!" 
 
 "Oh, we have the genealogy, too," said I eagerly. 
 " It hangs in Papa's room. I have often looked 
 at it — there's a gi'eat tree coming out of a man's 
 body, and the apples all have names on them." 
 
 He looked at me again, and put his hand to his 
 forehead. 
 
 " 'Tis strange," he murmured, " but I — I don't 
 remember any Churchills hereabout. Where 
 does your father live, Barbara ? In Ipswich ?"
 
 Barbara's history. 79 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ! In London." 
 
 "So— so. Not a Suffolk family at all! I 
 thought I could scarcely have forgotten that name. 
 Who are you staying with, little one? The 
 Grants of Bosmere f 
 
 " I am staying with my great-aunt," said I, " at 
 Stoneycroft Hall." 
 
 Having an immense idea of her social position, 
 I announced this fact with quite a grand air, and 
 expected to see it produce a wonderful effect. 
 But the stranger only burst into a hearty laugh, 
 and repeated my aunt's name over and over again, 
 as if the very sound of it amused him. 
 
 "What, Mrs. Sandyshaft!" he cried. "Is she 
 your great-aunt ? Mrs. Sandyshaft of the hall ! 
 Mrs. Sandyshaft of the hundred pigs ! Does she 
 still keep a hundred pigs, Barbara f 
 
 " Of course she does," replied I, half -affronted. 
 
 He laughed again — then became suddenly 
 grave, and walked to and fro between the sun-dial 
 and the gate for some minutes ; lost, apparently, in 
 thought. 
 
 " You have not yet told ihe what you were 
 doing at the library-window," he said, stopping 
 abruptly, and taking me again by the shoulder. 
 
 I felt the colour rush to my face ; but replied 
 with tolerable self-possession that I was only "look- 
 ing in."
 
 80 Barbara's history. 
 
 " Yes ; but wliat were you looking in for f 
 
 " N — n — nothing at all," said I reluctantly. 
 
 " Non e vera, Barbara ! You were looking for 
 something. I heard you say ^ it is not there, after 
 all !' Come — I must know all about it, or I will 
 take you home to your aunt and tell her you were 
 trespassing !" 
 
 I knew he did not mean that ; and I felt sure, 
 somehow, that it would be best to confess at once. 
 Besides, I was no longer afraid of him. 
 
 " I thought the picture might be there," I said 
 hesitatingly. '' I — I so wanted to see it ?" 
 
 "Picture!" repeated the stranger, hastily. " What 
 pictui-e f 
 
 "Oh, a beautiful, wonderful picture by Paul 
 Veronese !" 
 
 " Paul Veronese !" 
 
 " Yes — did you never hear of him '? He was a 
 painter — a great painter, and he died a long, long 
 time ago, somewhere in Italy," said I, with childish 
 volubility. " I have read all about him in a book 
 at home, and there's a picture of his somewhere in 
 this house — a picture worth thousands of pounds !" 
 
 " And this picture you wish to see 1" 
 
 " I have wished for nothing else, ever since Dr. 
 Topham talked about it !" 
 
 " Humph I And pray what had Dr. Topham 
 to say on the subject ?"
 
 Barbara's history. 81 
 
 " Nothing — except tliat Mr. Farquhar had 
 bought it, and it was here.'' 
 
 "And Mrs. Sandyshaft— what did she say?" 
 
 " Oh, she said that Mr. Farquhar was an extra- 
 vagant fool, and as mad as a March hare !" 
 
 The stranger laughed again ; but with a dark 
 flush on his cheek, as if the source of his amuse- 
 ment were scarcely a pleasant one. 
 
 " Not a very flattering verdict, upon my word !" 
 said he. " Instructive, however, if taken as the 
 measure of public opinion. ' A plague upon opin- 
 ion ! a man may wear it on both sides, like a 
 leather jerkin.' 'Tis well for Hugh Farquhar 
 that his hearinof is duller than that of Signor 
 Heimdale, of celestial memory !" 
 
 " Heimdale !" I exclaimed. " Who was he f 
 
 " Heimdale, my dear little Barbara," said the 
 stranger, " was a very respectable personage. He 
 acted as watchman and light porter to the Scandi- 
 navian Gods ; and his ears were so inconveniently 
 acute that he could hear the grass grow in the 
 meadows, and the wool on the backs of the sheep." 
 
 It was now my turn to laugh. 
 
 " That's a fairy tale !" cried I. "What comes 
 nextr 
 
 " More than I can tell you now," replied he, 
 looking at his watch. " Vediamo — it is but seven 
 minutes past six, and we shall have good dayliglit 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 Barbara's history. 
 
 for more than an hour. Time cnouorh, petite^ for 
 you to see the picture." 
 
 '' The — the picture ?" I faltered, incredulously. 
 
 He nodded, took me by the hand, and led me 
 round to a low gothic door at the foot of an ivy- 
 grown octagonal turret, facing the moat. 
 
 A tiny key, produced from his waistcoat pocket, 
 admitted us into a small passage, which, so soon as 
 the door was closed, became profoundly dark. He 
 then took my hand again ; warned me of some 
 three or four stone steps, up whicli we felt our 
 way cautiously ; pushed aside a heavy curtain that 
 seemed all at once to bar our farther progress ; 
 and led me into a bright eight-sided room, lined 
 with books, fragrant with fresh flowers, and flooded 
 with the glory of the descending sun. One large 
 window with a rich heraldic bordering of stained 
 glass, overlooked a broad sweep of park and open 
 country; an elaborate bronze lamp swung by a 
 triple chain from the middle of the ceiling ; some 
 three or four curious busts of Roman emperors 
 and poets, done in coloured marbles, occupied 
 brackets over the chimney-piece and book-shelves. 
 Something scholastic, something elegant and indo- 
 lent, was expressed in every trifle about the 
 chamber, from that luxurious piece of furni- 
 ture which comj)rised reading-desk, reading-lamp, 
 and easy -chair in one, down to the antique chased
 
 Barbara's history. 83 
 
 ink-stand on the table, and the delicate curiosities 
 in porcelain and terra-cotta which crowded the 
 mantel-piece. 
 
 " Oh, what a beautiful room !" I exclaimed, 
 when my first surprise had somewhat abated. 
 
 "'Tis my study, Barbara," replied my new 
 friend. 
 
 A strange suspicion for the first time flashed 
 across my mind. 
 
 " Yours r I echoed. 
 
 " Yes, I am Hugh Farquhar," said he ; and 
 rang the belL 
 
 Hugh Farquhar ! My hero, my Sindbad, my 
 Prince Camaralzaman ! Hugh Farquhar of whom 
 I had heard so much and dreamt so much; 
 whose rumoured travels I had so often tracked 
 upon old maps, and whose adventures I had illus- 
 trated upon foolscap without end ! All the stories 
 that had ever been told of him, and all the censure 
 that idle tongues had passed upon him, came back 
 in an instant to my memory — and then I recol- 
 lected the speech that I had myself repeated, and, 
 covered with confusion, knew not where to look. 
 
 " Well, petite,^^ said he, after a brief pause, 
 ^' now that you know who I am, have you notliing 
 to say to me ? Or, because I am as mad as a 
 March hare, are you afraid of me f ' 
 
 Afraid of him ! Why I felt as if I had known 
 
 g2
 
 84 
 
 liiin for years already. I did not dare, however, to 
 say so; but, looking up, saw such a world of kindly 
 merriment sparkling in his eyes, that I smiled, 
 and shook my head, and said quite confidently : — 
 
 "Not a bit." 
 
 "So much the better; for I have a mind, Bar- 
 bara, that you and I should be good friends. Tip- 
 poo, desire the servants to unclose the shutters in 
 the long gallery, and let the gardener be sent for. 
 I am going to have that packing-case opened." 
 
 " Yes, Sahib," said a low voice close behind me. 
 
 I turned somewhat nervously, and found a slender 
 olive-coloured man in a plain black suit and white 
 neckcloth, with gold rings in his ears, standing at 
 my elbow. 
 
 " And bring chisels and hammers, Tippoo ; and 
 be as quick as possible, for the daylight is going." 
 
 Tippoo bent his head ; glided like a shadow to 
 the door ; and left the room as noiselessly as he 
 had entered it. He had shown no surprise at my 
 presence — he had not even seemed to see me. 
 Ilis glittering black eyes had rested only on his 
 master's face, and he moved like an automaton, 
 obedient only to his master's will. 
 
 " Tippoo is my Hindoo servant," said Mr. Far- 
 quhar, explanatorily. " I brought him from Be- 
 nares. He saved my life once, at the risk of his 
 own, and we have never parted since."
 
 85 
 
 " Saved your life?" I exclaimed eagerly. " How ? 
 From a lion, or a tiger ?" 
 
 " No, from the bite of a snake. But I will tell 
 you all about that some other time, Barbara — let 
 us now see after the Paul Veronese. I have not 
 looked upon it myself since the day I bought it !" 
 
 And w4th this he took me away from the study 
 in the turret, through some dreary rooms filled 
 with sheeted furniture and out upon a spacious 
 staircase hung with gloomy old paintings and 
 broad enough for ten persons marching abreast. 
 At the foot of this staircase we came upon a man 
 W' ith a basket of tools, who pulled off his cap respect- 
 fully, and stood aside to let us pass. Then ^Ir. 
 Farquhar opened one half of an oaken door, and I 
 found myself in a long gallery lighted on one side 
 by a row of window^s, and closely hung with pic- 
 tures on the other. The floor was laid down with 
 matting ; a large table covered with a dusty sheet 
 was the only article of furniture in sight ; and 
 a huge deal packing-case, propped up at the back 
 by wooden supports, stood in the very centre of 
 the room. Two women- servants who were busy 
 opening the shutters when we came in, looked at 
 me with unconcealed amazement. 
 
 " This, Barbara," said Mr. Farquhar, " is the 
 picture-gallery. The pictures are mostly portraits, 
 as you see. I could tell you lots of stories about
 
 86 
 
 these grim old ladies and gentlemen ; but those will 
 keep for some other occasion. Now, gardener — 
 now TippoOj we want this lid off. Here, give me 
 a chisel, and let's see how quick we can be !" 
 
 And with this he snatched a tool from the 
 basket, and set to work as actively as either of his 
 servants. I stood by breathlessly and watched the 
 process, counting nail after nail as it fell to the 
 ground, and watching plank after plank as it was 
 removed and laid aside. When the last was with- 
 drawn, and only a covering of green baize inter- 
 vened between me and tlie object of my desires, I 
 turned cold and trembled. 
 
 " Now stand aside, all of you," said the master 
 of the house, himself somewhat flushed and ex- 
 cited. " Petite, come forward to the angle of that 
 window, and you will get the best light on it. So 
 — there it is, safe and uninjured — my Paul Vero- 
 nese !" 
 
 He had plucked the baize away, and now came 
 and stood beside me, contemplating his purchase. 
 He was, at first, so absorbed in the pleasure of 
 looking upon it, that he forgot to observe me. He 
 advanced ; he retreated ; he shaded his eyes with 
 his hands ; he moved from right to left, from left 
 to right, and exclaimed impatiently against the 
 fading daylight. 
 
 As for me — how shall I confess it ? — my first 
 impression was .... disappointment.
 
 Barbara's history. 87 
 
 I had expected too much. I had expected, I 
 know not what ; but something, at all events, sur- 
 passing all the glow and glory of nature herself. 
 The Paul Veronese of my dreams was an im- 
 mortal vision — a resplendent mystery — a pageant 
 of heroic forms more than half divine, and 
 adorned in colours transcending the gold and 
 purple of the eastern sky. The Paul Veronese of 
 my awaking was, on the contrary, darkened and 
 deepened by time; majestic, but sombre; and flawed 
 all over with those minute cracks, which are like 
 wrinkles on the brow of ancient art. An aged man, 
 robed and crowned, stood nearly in the centre of 
 the picture surrounded by senators and nobles in 
 dresses of cert,'mony, four of whom held a canopy 
 above his head. At his feet knelt ambassadors 
 with gifts, and in the distance lay the towers and 
 cupolas of a great city, and a sea thronged with 
 galleys. It was grand, but cold. It appealed 
 neither to my imagination nor my sympathies, 
 and even in point of colour fell woefully short of 
 my ideal. 
 
 Struck by my silence, Mr. Farquhar turned at 
 length, and looked at me. 
 
 "Well, little one," said he. " What of the pic- 
 ture?" 
 
 I knew not how to reply. 
 
 " Does it equal your expectations f
 
 88 Barbara's history. 
 
 It needed some courage to confess the truth ; 
 but I contrived to stammer out a reluctant nega- 
 tive. He looked surprised, annoyed, disappointed. 
 He frowned ; glanced from me to the picture, and 
 from the })icture back to me ; sighed impatiently, 
 and said aloud : — 
 
 " Of course not — I was a fool to expect it ! 
 What should the poor child know about the 
 matter ? There, Tippoo, hang the baize over it 
 again. The show's a failure." 
 
 Fain would I have begged to look longer ; to 
 have the subject explained to me ; to learn why it 
 was so good, and why I could not appreciate it — 
 but I dared not. He was vexed with me — had 
 over-estimated me — was disappointed in me. A 
 choking sense of humiliation rose in my throat. 
 I could not have uttered a syllable to save my 
 life. 
 
 Fortunately for me, my vexation passed un- 
 noticed. The covering of the picture and the re- 
 closing of the shutters occupied all ^Mr. Farquliar's 
 attention — then he made the servants go out be- 
 fore him, locked the door, and put the key in his 
 pocket. 
 
 " Come along, Barbara," said he, " let us go 
 back to the study." 
 
 And so we went back by the way we had come. 
 The place had been transformed in our absence.
 
 barbaka's history. 89 
 
 The fading dayliglit had been curtained out by a 
 heavy crimson drapery — the table was laid for 
 dinner — the lamp overhead cast a subdued light 
 all around — and, despite the season and the heat, 
 a pile of logs and pine-cones crackled on the 
 hearth. My companion flung himself into his 
 easy chair ; bent shiveringly before the fire ; and 
 seemed lost in thought. I sat on a stool at the 
 other side of the hearth, and looked at him. 
 
 Many and many a year has gone by since that 
 evening, and I have long learned to distrust my 
 pre-conceived ideas of men and things ; but it 
 puzzled me then to find myself so far mistaken. 
 How unlike the Hugh Farquhar of my dreams ! 
 How unlike that brilliant hero with the Byronic 
 collar whom I had been picturing to myself these 
 four or five months past! I imagined him so 
 handsome, so gallant, so fascinating — " a man rare 
 as phoenix." I found him none of these ; and yet, 
 strange though it may seem, I was not disap- 
 pointed. I had already a true instinct for charac- 
 ter ; and I am pleased to remember that, even then, 
 I preferred originality and power to mere physical 
 advantages. But I must describe him ; and the 
 task is one of no common difficulty. To go back 
 to the first impression of a long-familiar face — to 
 obliterate from cheek and brow the subtle finger- 
 marks of time — to recall tones and gestures which
 
 90 Barbara's history. 
 
 seemed then to indicate so much, but which cus- 
 tom hath made no longer noticeable .... all these, 
 and more, concur to baffle me. 
 
 I have never been a good judge of age ; but at 
 the time of which I write, my notions respecting 
 it were of the vaguest possible description. So 
 bronzed, so tall, so serious as he looked, sitting 
 thus by the red fire-light, I believed Hugh Far- 
 quhar already to have arrived at middle-life — I 
 now know that he was just twenty-seven years of 
 age. It is possible, however, that he looked older 
 — that varieties of climate, customs and food ; ad- 
 ventures by land and sea ; fatigue ; exposure to 
 weather; and all other contingencies of a wild and 
 wandering life, had wrought some such effect 
 upon him. Be this as it may, the year that 
 followed worked, at all events, but little percep- 
 tible difference. 
 
 I have said that he was not handsome — nay, 
 were I closely to analyse his features, I should per- 
 haps be forced to confess that he was plain ; and 
 yet I never knew anyone who thought him so. 
 There was a certain grandeur in the poise of his 
 head, a rugged power stamped upon his brow, a 
 careless strength and dignity in his every gesture, 
 that marked him for no ordinary man. Were I 
 bidden to single out any well-known head, not as 
 a likeness but a type, I should name Beethoven's.
 
 baebara's history. 91 
 
 Yet it would then be necessary to efface those 
 furrows of scorn and suffering, rage and bitterness, 
 which plough the features of the deaf musician. 
 The same loose, thick locks, however, were there 
 — the same characteristic prominences over the eyes 
 — the same broad brow and massive jaw. Swarthy 
 of complexion, dark-haired, dark -eyed, tanned by 
 the wind and sun, and wearing such an amount 
 of waviiific beard and moustache as was seldom 
 seen in those days on this side of the Channel, 
 Hugh Farquhar looked masculine and indi- 
 vidual enough; but could scarcely have been more 
 thoroughly the reverse of all that 1 had pre- 
 viously imagined. Men, as a rule, admired him 
 more generally than women. Women, rarely in- 
 different, beheld in his countenance something 
 more attractive than beauty. What was that 
 something ? How shall I define, how analyse it ? 
 Was it the impress of emotional, or the light of 
 intellectual power ? Or was it not, rather, that 
 every glance and every tone conveyed some subtle 
 record of an adventurous and reckless life, passion- 
 worn, unsatisfied, and self-consuming? 
 
 I had intended to give my first childish impres- 
 sion of Hugh Farquhar, and I find that I have 
 described him from my later experience. It is 
 prematurely done ; but let it be. Imperfect as it 
 is, I can make it no better.
 
 92 barbatia's history. 
 
 The fire blazed and crackled merrily all this 
 time. My companion sat and looked at it with 
 thoughts far distant. I crouched down in the 
 shade, and watched him till I knew his face by 
 heart. A quarter of an hour, or twenty minutes, 
 went by thus, in silence. Then the door fell 
 noiselessly back, and Tippoo came in with a small 
 tray of silver-covered dishes. ^Ir. Farquhar 
 sighed, and looked up for the first time. 
 
 " What," said he wearily, " is it already half- 
 past seven ?" 
 
 " It wants twenty-five minutes to eight. Sahib," 
 replied the Hindoo, w^aiting his master's signal to 
 remove the covers. 
 
 Mr. Farquhar rolled his easy chair round to the 
 table, and glanced with a sort of abstracted 
 wonder at the seat which had been placed for me. 
 
 " Do we expect anyone, Tippoo ?" said he. 
 
 Tippoo lifted his black eyes to his master's face, 
 and then glanced meaningly towards the corner in 
 which I was sitting. Mr. Farquhar turned half- 
 round, started, laughed w^ith something like con- 
 fusion in his face, and said : — 
 
 " Come, little one, the dinner is ready, and I 
 should hope we are both hungry by this time !" 
 
 I came over without a word, and sat down where 
 he bade me ; but I was not hungry now. He had 
 forgotten all about me !
 
 Barbara's history. 93 
 
 How kind he was all dinner-time, and how 
 he strove to compensate for his f orgetf ulness ! He 
 shook off his thoughtful mood, and I could see that 
 it cost him an effort. He chatted with me ; he 
 exerted himself to make me laugh ; he helped me 
 to the choicest morsels, and insisted that I should 
 taste every one of the dishes. They were all 
 strange to me, and had a hot, spiced flavour which 
 I did not like. Besides this, they were called the 
 oddest names imaginable — mulligatawny, pilaff, 
 caviare, curry, macaroni, and so forth — enjoying 
 thereby the double advantage of being unpalateable 
 and unpronounceable. By and by, the meats 
 were removed, and strong black coffee, dried 
 fruits, liqueurs and sweetmeats were brought to 
 table. Mr. Farquhar then heaped my plate with 
 dates, bonbons, and raisins ; turned his chair once 
 more to the fire; bade me do the same; and lighted 
 a long Turkish pipe which had a coily tube like a 
 green and golden snake, and a bowl of bell-shaped 
 glass that rested on the ground. 
 
 " I am afraid, petite,'^ said he, when Tippoo had 
 left the room and we were once more left alone, 
 " that you will not have much to say in praise of 
 my cookery when you get home ?" 
 
 Home! The word struck me like a blow. 
 Like Hazlitt's " rustic at a fair," I had been all 
 this time "full of amazement and rapture, and
 
 94 Barbara's history. 
 
 had no thought of going home, or that it would 
 soon be night." Now it all rushed upon me in a 
 moment. 
 
 ^' Oh, what o'clock is it, please ?" I faltered. 
 
 " Nearly nine by my watch, petite ^ 
 
 I had risen ; but, hearing this, laid aside the un- 
 tasted fruits, and sat down again in blank dismay. 
 Nine o'clock, and I was to have been home, at the * 
 latest, by half-past six ! What was to become of 
 me? What would my aunt say to me? How should^ 
 I dare to face her ? What excuse could I offer 
 for my disobedience ? 
 
 Something of this I contrived brokenly to ex- 
 press, and Mr. Farquhar seeing my distress, rang 
 the bell at once, and tried to reassure me. 
 
 " Fear nothing, little friend," said he kindly. 
 "I will take you home myself, presently, and bear 
 all the blame as well. Tippoo, let Satan be saddled 
 and brought round directly." 
 
 \ [Tippoo bent his head, and disappeared. !Mr. Far- 
 quhar glanced again at his watch, and smoked on 
 with the utmost composure. 
 
 "In fifteen minutes," said he, "I promise to land 
 you in your aunt's sitting-room. That allows me 
 five minutes more to enjoy my pipe and coffee, 
 and ten to ride from here to Stoney croft Hall. 
 Come, banish that melancholy look and trust to 
 me for Mrs. Sandyshaft's forgiveness ?"
 
 barbaea's history. 95 
 
 I would gladly have so trusted, if I could ; but 
 I too well knew what were my aunt's prejudices, 
 and what her opinion of Hugh Farquhar and his 
 family. However, I made an effort to be cheerful, 
 and the five minutes went slowly by. As the last 
 expired, my companion laid his pipe aside, and 
 passed in an instant from the purest oriental lan- 
 guor to a state of genuine European activity. 
 
 To ring again for Tippoo, who immediately 
 made his appearance laden with wraps — to en- 
 velope me in a cape lined with furs, and himself in 
 a huge bearskin coat, fitter for the Arctic regions 
 than for an autumn night in England — to pour 
 out a glass of some delicious liqueur, and compel 
 me to drink it — to be booted, spurred and equipped, 
 all in the twinkling of an eye — to take me up in 
 his arms, and, preceded by Tippoo, carry me down- 
 stairs and across tlie courtyard, as if I had been a 
 feather .... all this was tlie work of only a few 
 seconds, and was done in less time than it takes to 
 tell. 
 
 A groom holding a superb black horse, waited 
 for us at the outer door. 
 
 " Soho, Satan — soho, boy !" said Farquhar, 
 pausing an instant to lay his hand upon the glossy 
 neck and mane, and then springing lightly into the 
 saddle. The horse whinnied, and scraped the 
 gravel impatiently with his fore-foot — Tippoo
 
 96 Barbara's history. 
 
 lifted me up, and placed me before his master on 
 the saddle — Mr. Fanpdiar encircled me with his 
 right arm, bade me hold ti^ihtly, gave a low 
 whistle, and away we went at a gallop, dashing 
 under the great archway, and making right across 
 the ]>ark ! 
 
 The rapid motion at first took away my breath, 
 and I felt as if I must fall off and be dashed to 
 pieces. This, howeyer, soon passed away, and, 
 feeling the clasp of his strong arm, I ])resently 
 gained confidence, and enjoyed the speed with 
 which we went. It was a Morions night. The 
 moon shone with that yellow light which only be- 
 longs to her in the golden haryest-time ; the dew 
 sparkled, diamond-like, upon the grass ; there were 
 nightingales singing in the tall elms ; and the deer, 
 clustered in sleeping herds about the great oaks 
 here and there, started at our approach and fled 
 away by scores in the moonlight. 
 
 "Ha, little one!" said my companion, "see how 
 they run ! They belieye we are liunting them to- 
 night. Doesn't this remind you of Johnny Gilpin? 
 It reminds me of one mistress Lenora who once 
 rode a hundred miles somewhere in Germany at 
 an unbecoming hour of the night, and lived to re- 
 pent of it. 
 
 " Grant Liehchen audi f . . Der Mond schelnt hell! 
 Hurrah ! die Todten reiten schnell ! 
 Grant Liehchen auch vor Todten ?"
 
 Barbara's history. 97 
 
 By Jove ! I shall begin to fancy presently that I 
 am WilheliHj and you Lenora. So — here the park 
 ends, and there's a five-foot paling 'twixt us and 
 the road. Hold on, little one, and hey for a leap ! 
 Soho, Satan — soho I" 
 
 Horribly alarmed, I clung to him as a drowning 
 man clings to a plank ; but Satan took the fence 
 like a greyhound, and we were over before I knew 
 where I was. 
 
 " Why do you call him Satan ?" I asked, as 
 soon as I had recovered my breath. 
 
 " Because he is black and wicked," replied Mr. 
 Farquhar laughingly. " He is amiable to no one 
 but me. He bites all the grooms, kills all the 
 little dogs, and hates the sight of a woman. He 
 tolerates Tippoo (but that's a prejudice of colour), 
 and he loves me .... don't you, Satan, boy ? He 
 eats from my hand, kneels wdien I mount him, 
 and follows me like a dog. I bought him from an 
 Arab. He was a colt then, desert-born and bred. 
 He will never tread the Arabian sands again — nor 
 I either, perhaps. Bah ! who knows ? I may 
 turn Bedouin, and make the pilgrimage to Mecca 
 'in most profound earnest,' as Claudio says, before 
 I die!"' 
 
 And with this he hummed more German lines, 
 and urged his horse on faster and faster. The 
 trees and hedges flew past — Satan seemed as if he 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 barp.ara's history. 
 
 woulil tear the road up with his hoofs — the sparks 
 flashed from a Hint every now and then ; and our 
 shadows sped beside us, like ghosts in the moon- 
 light. Now we came upon a group of cottages, 
 only ludden from Stoneycroft Hall by a bend in 
 tlie road — now upon the pound, and the pond, and 
 the old house, where lights were moving to and 
 fro in the windows. We found the gate open — 
 (T was glad of it, for we should certainly have 
 taken the leap, had it been closed) — and dashed 
 up to the door at full gallop. A touch of the rein, 
 a word, and Satan, foaming and quivering as he 
 was, stood stone-still, like a horse carved in Ijlack 
 marble. 
 
 Mr. Farquhar dismounted with me in his arms, 
 and raised his whip to knock upon the door ; but 
 it opened before the blow fell, and my aunt, candle 
 in hand, narrowly escaped the whip-handle. She 
 looked pale and stern ; opened her lips as if to 
 question ; then, seeing my frightened face peep out 
 from the furs, uttered a sharp cry, and dropped 
 the candle. 
 
 " Found ! found ! Jane, come here ! Oh ! 
 Bab — naughty, naughty Bab, wdiat an evening 
 this has been !" 
 
 And with this, half-crying, half-laughing, she 
 snatched me up, kissed, cuffed, and shook me all 
 together, and knew not whether to be glad or
 
 BAKBARA S HISTORY. 99 
 
 angry. Then Jane came running up with lights, 
 and there was more kissing and scolding; and 
 then we all stood still, and paused for breath. My 
 aunt turned from me to Mr. Farquhar. 
 
 "And it is to this gentleman that I am indebted 
 for the return of my truant f said she, fixing her 
 keen eyes inquiringly upon him. " How can I 
 ever thank him enough f 
 
 " Simply by not thanking me at aiy said he, 
 standing by the porch with the bridle over his arm, 
 and speaking for the first time. " Indeed, before 
 we talk of obligations, I should beg your pardoii ; 
 for, upon my soul, madam, I was near making 
 your acquaintance by knocking you down !" 
 
 " Sir," replied my aunt with a stately reverence, 
 for she could be immensely formal upon occasion, 
 " I rejoice to make you.rs upon any terms." 
 
 " Then let me name them. Forgive this little 
 girl for the alarm she has caused you. The fault was 
 mine. I met her near my house, fell into chat 
 with her, and thoughtlessly took her indoors to see 
 a picture. How the time slipped by, I scarcely 
 know ; but we were amused with one another, and 
 I believe that neither of us thought of the conse- 
 quences till after dinner. It is now just twenty 
 minutes since the word 'home' was first uttered, 
 and I flatter myself that no time has been lost on 
 
 H 2
 
 100 
 
 the way. I promised to plead for her — nay, 
 more, I promised her your pardon." 
 
 My aunt looked grave, or tried to do so. I be- 
 lieve she was almost glad to be obliged to forgive 
 me. 
 
 " I redeem your promise, sir," said she, " in ac- 
 knowledgment of the trouble you have taken 
 in bringing her home ; though, but for your 
 intercession" (shaking her head at me), "I must, 
 have punished her. I exact obedience, and I will 
 have it. Bab — thank the gentleman for his kind- 
 ness. Sir, please to walk in." 
 
 '' Not to-night, I thank you," said he courte- 
 ously. "It is already late, and my little friend 
 looks weary. If, however, I may call at some 
 more reasonable hour . . . ." 
 
 • " You will be welcome," interrupted my aunt 
 with one of her abrupt nods. " You will be very 
 welcome. May I ask your name before you go? 
 Your face is strange to me, and yet I seem to 
 have some knowledge of it." 
 
 Mr. Farquhar smiled ; drew a card from his 
 pocket-book ; gave it to me with a kiss ; bade me 
 hand it to my aunt; sprang into the saddle; took his 
 hat quite off, and bowed profoundly ; cried out 
 *^good night, jyetit^,^ and dashed away at full speed 
 down the garden. 
 
 " Humph !" said my aunt, shading her eyes
 
 barbaka's history. 101 
 
 from the candle and watching him to the tm^n of 
 the road, "a fine horse, and a reckless rider. Let's 
 see who he is. Mercy alive! Farquhar of 
 Broomhill !"
 
 102 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A CITIZEN OF THE WORLD. 
 
 " Thou knowest I hunger after wisdom, as the Red Sea 
 after ghosts : therefore I travel." 
 
 Death's Jest-Book. 
 
 Some days went by, and Hugh Farquhar's pro- 
 mised visit remained unpaid. I rose eveiy morn- 
 ing with the hope that he would come before 
 night, and I went to bed every night disconsolate. 
 I waited for him — I wearied for him — I was as 
 much in love with him as any httle girl of ten 
 years old could be ! I brooded over every word 
 that he had uttered ; strove to draw his portrait, 
 and tore up each abortive outline as soon as it was 
 made ; recalled tlie last tones of his voice, the last 
 echo of his horse's hoofs, and the parting kiss that 
 he had given me in the porch. He was still my 
 hero, and a more heroic hero than ever — Prince
 
 Barbara's history. 103 
 
 Camaralzaman, witli a dasli of Eobin Hood now, 
 and a spice of the Wild Huntsman ! I believe, 
 on looking back to this childish passion, that it 
 was most of all the power of the man that at- 
 tracted me. He was altogether older and plainer 
 than I had pictured him ; and yet that sense of 
 power pleased me better than youth or beauty. It 
 Avas power of every kind — of health, and courage, 
 and daring — of the mind and the will — of freedom 
 and fortune. His wealth I believed boundless ; 
 and Broomhill, with its portrait-gallery, its corri- 
 dors, and stately suites, reminded me of Aladdin's 
 palace. His mode of life, too, had something 
 strange and solitary in it. There was a mystery 
 and a charm in the gloom that sometimes fell upon 
 liim. There was an oriental romance in the very 
 food he ate, in the pipe he smoked, in Tippoo the 
 noiseless, and in Satan the swift ! I could do no- 
 thing, in short, but talk and dream of Farquhar of 
 Broomhill. 
 
 My aunt said very little about him, and listened 
 with assumed indifference to all I had to tell. 
 That she was interested, however, and tliat she not 
 only listened but remembered,! knew to a certainty; 
 for I heard her repeating it next morning, word 
 for word, as she and Dr. Topham paced up and 
 down the crarden-walk too;et]ier. From this mo- 
 ment the train Was fired, and tlie news spread.
 
 104 Barbara's history. 
 
 Carried from parish to parish, and from house to 
 house, it was known, as if ])y telegraph, through- 
 out the county. Alas for Hugh Farquhar ! — his 
 incognito was soon over. 
 
 At length there came a day when my aunt and 
 I' were sitting together after dinner, beside the 
 open window. There had been rain, and the at- 
 mosphere was damp and close, like that of a hot- 
 house. Not a breath stirred; not a bird sang; not 
 a leaf rustled. A voluptuous languor pervaded all 
 the drowsy air — a subtle perfume uprose from the 
 reeking earth — a faint mist obscured the landscape. 
 Yielding to the influences of the hour, my aunt 
 had fallen asleep with the newspaper in her hand, 
 whilst I, perched on the broad window-seat with 
 my silks and sampler, suffered the work to lie un- 
 heeded in my lap, rested my chin upon my two 
 palms in an odd, old-fashioned way, and counted 
 the drops as they fell one by one from the broad 
 leaves of the heavy-headed sun-flower outside in 
 the garden. A long time went by thus, and was 
 meted out by the ticking of the old watch over the 
 flre-place — a long, long time, during which only 
 one solitary pedestrian trudged past, with an um- 
 brella over his shoulder. All at once, remote but 
 growing rapidly nearer, I heard the quick echo of 
 a well-remembered gallop ! Louder, closer, faster 
 it came. I felt the blood rush to my face — ^I held
 
 Barbara's history. 105 
 
 my breath — I strained my eyes to that one spot 
 where there was an opening in the trees .... then, 
 springing suddenly to my feet, I grasped Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft by the arm, and cried — 
 
 " Oh, wake up, aunt ! wake up ! Here he 
 comes at last! I knew he must come some day!" 
 
 "He? What? Who ?" exclaimed Mrs. Sandy- 
 shaft, bewildered and half-asleep. " What noise 
 is that?" 
 
 "That's Satan, aunt! Hark, how fast he's 
 coming!" 
 
 My aunt became rigid. 
 
 " Satan !" she repeated. " Mercy on us ! The 
 child's demented." 
 
 I could only point triumphantly to the gate 
 where Mr. Farquhar had that moment dismounted, 
 and was now tying up his horse. My aunt relaxed, 
 and smiled grimly. 
 
 " Oh, call him Satan, do you?" said she. "Not 
 a bad name, Bab — might suit the master as well 
 as the beast, eh ?" 
 
 Whereupon I rushed away without replying, 
 and, encountering him in the porch, became sud- 
 denly shy, and had not a word to say. Seeing me, 
 he smiled and held out both his hands. 
 
 " Eccola /" said he. "The very Barbara of my 
 thoughts ! How does your grace to-day ? Well, 
 I trust, and undisturbed by the late fluctuations in
 
 106 Barbara's history. 
 
 the funds, or the changes in the ministry? What 
 news of the pigs and the line arts ?" 
 
 Bhishing and puzzled, I Hngered with my hand 
 in his, and knew not wliat to answer. 
 
 "How! not a word? not a greeting? not a mere 
 ' give you good den ^ Sir RichanlT Oh, faithless 
 Barbara ! — and to think that I have brought a box 
 of Turkish sweetmeats for vou, in my pocket ! 
 Come, are you not glad to see me now ?" 
 
 And he took out a pretty little box of inlaid 
 woods, and held it playfully before my eyes. I 
 snatched away my hand and drew back. 
 
 " I am not glad for the sake of what you give 
 me," said I, grievously hurt ; and so ran on to the 
 parlour door, and left him to follow. My aunt 
 held up her finger at me — she had heard every 
 word — and advanced to meet him. 
 
 " Sir," she began, " I am glad to see you ; and 
 you are the first of your name to whom I ever said 
 so. Sit down." 
 
 ^Ir. Farquhar smiled, bowx^d, and took the 
 proffered seat, 
 
 " I hope, sir," continued my aunt, " that you 
 have come to settle amongst us. You have been 
 too long away. TravelHng is a fool's Paradise ; 
 and you must have sown your wild oats by this 
 lime." 
 
 Mr. Farquhar looked infinitely amused.
 
 Barbara's history. 107 
 
 "Madam," said he, "it is a branch of agriculture 
 to which I have been assiduously devoting myself 
 for the last five years." 
 
 " Humph ! And now you have come back for 
 good?" 
 
 " I should be sorry to believe that I have come 
 back for evil." 
 
 My aunt fixed her eyes sharply upon him, and 
 shook her head. 
 
 " That's not what I mean, Mr. Farquhar," said 
 she. " I want to know if you are going to live on 
 your own lands, lead the life of an English gentle- 
 man, and marry a wife ?" 
 
 " I had rather marry a maid," retorted he, with 
 the same provoking smile, "and sooner than either, 
 Mrs. Sandyshaft, I would remain a bachelor. As 
 to living on my own lands, I may aver that I have 
 done so ever since I left England; for, as my stew- 
 ard can testify, I have drawn my rents with the 
 most conscientious regularity." 
 
 " And spent them too, I'll warrant !" said my 
 aunt, grimly. 
 
 Whereupon Mr. Farquhar laughed, and made 
 no reply. 
 
 " England is the best place after all," observed 
 she, returning to the charge. " The only place !" 
 
 " For fogs and fox-hunts, granted." 
 
 " For liberty of the press, public spirit, domestic
 
 108 BARBARA*S HISTORY. 
 
 comfort, and national respectability! Find me 
 the French for ' common sense,' Mr. Farquhar !" 
 
 " Find me the French for the verb ^to grumble!'" 
 
 "I should be sorry if I could," said my aunt, 
 rubbing her hands, and enjoying the argument 
 with her whole heart. " 'Tis a national character- 
 istic — a national amusement — a national institu- 
 tion !" 
 
 *'And the exclusive privilege of the British 
 Lion," added Mr. Farquhar, with a shrug of the 
 shoulders. '^Allans ! . I am a citizen of the world 
 — a vagrant by nature — a cosmopolitan at heart. 
 I confess to little of the patriotic spirit, and much 
 of the Bohemian. London porter tastes no better 
 in my mouth than ^ Hungary wine,' and between 
 Kabohs and mutton-chops I find but little dif- 
 ference !" 
 
 My aunt held up her hands in amazement. 
 
 "Young man," said she, "your opinions are de- 
 testable. You don't deserve to have eight- centu- 
 ries of ancestors. No patriotic spirit, indeed ! 
 Mercy alive ! What's your opinion, pray, of the 
 English history?" 
 
 " My dear madam, I think it an admirable work 
 — for the library-shelves." 
 
 " Have you ever read it ?" 
 
 " Yes, in my boyish days, when I believed in 
 Messrs. Hume and Smollett, looked on Chai'les the
 
 Barbara's history. 109 
 
 First as a genuine Royal Martyr, and pinned my 
 faith upon the virgin purity of , Queen EKza- 
 beth!" 
 
 My aunt smiled in spite of herself. 
 
 " I fear," said she, " that you are a sad scape- 
 grace, and believe in very little." 
 
 " Que voidez-vous ? The world has rmbbed off 
 most of my illusions." 
 
 "So much the worse for you. The happiest 
 man is the most credulous." 
 
 " There is the ass the most enviable of quadru- 
 peds ! I cry you mercy, madam ! Let those be 
 dupes who will — ' I'll none of it.' Is it not better 
 to see things as they are, and take them at their 
 value? — to distinguish between base metal and 
 gold, paste and brilliants ? Now, for my part, I 
 had rather know at the first glance that my 
 mistress's front-teeth were false, than live to be 
 told of it by some officious friend who met her at 
 the dentist's !" 
 
 " Sir," said my aunt, emphatically, " I see no- 
 thing for you but a strict course of matrimony." 
 
 "Then your opinion of my case is, indeed, 
 serious !" 
 
 "You must settle in England," continued my 
 aunt. " You must see society. You must marry. 
 A good-tempered, kind-hearted, well-educated 
 English girl is what you want; and I know of
 
 110 
 
 four or five in this very county, all of whom would 
 suit you to a T." 
 
 " Then I will marry them all !" 
 
 " No, you won't, indeed ! You are in a civilized 
 country here, sir, and not among Turks and 
 savages. Marry them all, hey ? I like the 
 idea!" ^ 
 
 '' / should prefer the reality !" 
 
 My aunt shook her head impatiently. 
 
 " Nonsense !" said she. " I am in earnest, and 
 advise you as a friend. You want a wafe, and, I 
 repeat it, you must marry." 
 
 " Spoken ex cathedrd^^ observed lsli\ Farquhar, 
 parenthetically. 
 
 " There's — let me see — there's Sir John Cromp- 
 ton's daughter," continued my aunt, telling off the 
 young ladies on her fingers ; " and there's Miss 
 Heathcote, with thirty thousand pounds ; and 
 there are the two Somervilles, daughters of the 
 Dean of Wrentham, and . . ." 
 
 " My dear lady," interrupted Mr. Farquhar, 
 " before you go on with your list, tell me what 
 chance I have of becoming acquainted with these 
 Sirens ? Shall I advertise myself in the ' Ipswich 
 Herald,' or hang a label round my neck with the 
 w^ords ^ TO LET ' printed thereon in golden charac- 
 ters ?" 
 
 "Neither, sir. You shall send for paper-
 
 Ill 
 
 hangers, upholsterers, and confectioners ; put your 
 house in order ; and issue invitations to a ball." 
 
 *^ Not for a kingdom. What ! pull the old 
 place about my ears, and submit to an invasion of 
 flirts and fiddlers ? No, madam — I have too much 
 respect for the spiders !" 
 
 " In that case," said my aunt, " I will give a 
 party myself." 
 
 " I'll never believe it, Mrs. S. !" cried a voice at 
 the door. '^ It's a fiction, a fable — 
 
 . . . . ' a tale 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
 Signifying nothing !' " 
 
 " Topham," observed my aunt, " you are a fool. 
 Come in, will you, and be introduced to Mr. 
 Farqidiar of Broomhill." 
 
 Dr. Topham came in, hat, uml^rella, and all, 
 and solemnly deposited those properties on the table. 
 
 '^ You have mentioned that circumstance so 
 often, Mrs. S.," said he, " that I begin to fancy I 
 must be a fool, after all. I shall charge my cap 
 and bells to your account. Don't trouble yourself, 
 ma'am, to make me known to Mr. Farquhar. I 
 can do that for myself. Sir, shake hands. You 
 and I are old friends, and our acquaintance dates 
 back for more than a quarter of a century. Intro- 
 ductions, forsooth ! Why, sir, it was / who first 
 had the pleasure of introducing you to your own
 
 112 
 
 father ! I dare say you don't remember that event 
 so accurately as I do ?" 
 
 A shade, a trouble, an indescribable something 
 flitted over Hugh Farquhar's sunburnt face, at 
 these words. 
 
 " Indeed !" said he, in a low voice. " Then you 
 knew my mother?" 
 
 "I did — a most excellent and beautiful lady, 
 charitable, sincere, and earnest. She was beloved 
 by rich and poor, and for many a year her name 
 remained a household word throughout this country- 
 side." 
 
 Mr. Farquhar bent his head gravely. 
 
 " You do her justice, sir," he said ; and turned 
 away with a sigh. 
 
 There was a silence of some moments, during 
 which Dr. Topham and my aunt exchanged bel- 
 ligerent glances, and looked as if longing to begin 
 their accustomed squabble. Presently Hugh 
 Farquhar spoke again. 
 
 '^ It surprises me. Dr. Topham," said he, ^4hat 
 I have no recollection of your face. Your name 
 I seem to have heard before ; and yet, when I was 
 a lad and used to come home from Eton and 
 Oxford for the vacations, it was ^Ir. Stanley 
 who " 
 
 Precisely so. JNIr. Stanley of Normanbridge," 
 interrupted the doctor. " Your father and I could
 
 Barbara's history. 113 
 
 never agree, Mr. Farquhar. We had a grand 
 fracas, in fact ; and though jour mother did Iier 
 best to reconcile us, the breach was never healed. 
 Mr. Stanley is a very clever man — too fond of the 
 lancet, though ! Too fond of the lancet !" 
 
 "Hold your tongue, doctor," said my aunt, 
 acidly. " You're all a set of murderers. Some pre- 
 fer steel, and some poison — that's the only dif- 
 ference." 
 
 "Much obliged, Mrs. S. I reserve my vengeance 
 till you next have occasion for my services." 
 
 Hugh Farquhar laughed, and rose to take bis 
 leave. 
 
 " War being declared," said he, " I will leave 
 you to fight it out fairly. Dr. Topham, will you 
 come up and smoke a pipe of Turkish tobacco 
 with me to-morrow evening? At present I am 
 but a hermit, and live in a turret by myself, hke a 
 mouse in a trap; but I shall be glad to see and 
 know more of you. Mrs. Sandyshaft, you must 
 let me know when you have chosen a wife for me. 
 If you could allow me to see the lady before we 
 meet at the altar, I should prefer it; but, for 
 mercy's sake, don't marry me unawares!" 
 
 " You shall choose for yourself, Mr. Farquhar," 
 replied my aunt. " I mean to give that party, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " Not on my account, pray !" 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 Barbara's history. 
 
 "Yes, on your account, solely — therefore you 
 will be bound to come to it." 
 
 And with this thoy shook hands, and parted. 
 As Mr. Farquhar left the room, he beckoned me 
 to follow, and walked with me silently to the 
 garden gate. There he paused. 
 
 " Barbara," he said gently, " why were you so 
 angTy just now, wdien I offered you that box?" 
 
 I hung my head, and could find no words to 
 reply. 
 
 " If you had known," he continued, in the same 
 tone, "what trouble it gave me to find those 
 bonbons, and how many hundreds of miles they 
 have travelled with me, and with what pleasure I 
 put them in my pocket to-day (hoping to please 
 you), I don't think, petite, that you would have 
 treated me quite so ungraciously." 
 
 I felt myself tremble and change colour. 
 
 <'I — I — it wasn't that I was ungrateful," I 
 faltered. " But you said, ' Are you glad to see me 
 ^^ow?' — I was glad before! I heard you when 
 you were a mile away, and knew that it was 
 jQXxl I — I have been at the Avindow looking for 
 you all the week! Oh, pray forgive me — I was 
 not ungrateful!" 
 
 Mr. Farquhar looked at me very earnestly, and 
 with something like astonishment in his face. 
 " Whv, Barbara mia,'' said he, " you are the
 
 barbaea's history. 115 
 
 most tender-hearted little maid that ever I met! 
 Come, let us be friends. By Jove, I believe it 
 was my fault, after all!" 
 
 And with this he stooped, and kissed away two 
 large tears which were stealing down my cheeks. 
 
 "Will you take the box now, for my sake?" he 
 whispered — then, with a last kiss, placed it in my 
 hands, mounted, and galloped away. 
 
 I watched him out of sight, wondering if he 
 would look back. He never so much as glanced 
 to the right or left ; but rode strai^^ht on, and 
 vanished round the bend of the road. 
 
 i2
 
 116 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 A child's love. 
 
 " Love sought is good ; but given unsought is better." 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Hugh Farquhar's first visit was followed, not 
 long after, by a second and a third; so that he 
 soon became a recognised hahitue of the house. 
 His favourite time was twilight; and he used to 
 ride up to the porch, tie Satan by the bridle, and 
 walk in without announcement. My aunt then 
 laid aside her paper; grumbled at him heartily, if 
 he awoke her from her nap; and prepared for a 
 chat. Sometimes I sat aside in a dark corner, and 
 fell to my old occupation of watching him till it 
 grew too dusk to see his face distinctly; after 
 which I was content only to listen to his 
 voice. Sometimes, for I was a great pet now, 
 and highly privileged, I took a little stool at
 
 117 
 
 his feet, and laid my head against his knee, and 
 was ahnost too happy. When, perchance, he in- 
 terrupted his conversation to address a stray word 
 to me; or, in the listlessness of thought, passed 
 his hand through the wavy folds of my long 
 hair, I trembled and held my breath, lest any 
 motion of mine should cause him to take it away 
 the sooner. What I would have given to dare to 
 kiss that hand matters not now. It was a child's 
 idolatry — an idolatry so innocent, unselfish, and 
 spiritual, as few feel more than once, if once, in 
 life. 
 
 My aunt and he suited each other, after their 
 own odd antagonistic fashion. They always differed 
 in opinion, for the sake of argument and the plea- 
 sure of wrangling ; but I believe they often agreed 
 at heart. My aunt had read much ; and, despite 
 her crotchets and prejudices, could both speak and 
 think well when she chose. Books, history, politics, 
 foreign life and manners, agriculture, and the arts, 
 formed the staple subjects of their talk; and about 
 each and all, Hugh Farquhar had something 
 amusing and original to say. His conversation 
 was peculiar, fragmentary, discursive, idiocratic. 
 When thoroughly at his ease and " i' the vein," 
 he wandered on from topic to topic, from jest 
 to earnest, and thought aloud, rather than 
 conversed. His memory was prodigious. He
 
 118 
 
 knew Shakespeare and his contemporaries by heart, 
 and was so thoroughly steeped in the spirit of that 
 age that his very phraseology had oftentimes an 
 Elizabethan flavour. Sometimes dreamy, some- 
 times sad, sometimes sarcastic — varying in his mood 
 with every turn of the argument — breaking into 
 " flashes of merriment " and unexpected sparkles 
 of wit — abounding in quaint scraps of dry and 
 dusty philosophies, and in quotations as apt as they 
 were sometimes whimsical, Hugh Farquhar talked 
 as few can talk, and fewer still can write. To re- 
 cord his conversation is, therefore, singularly diffi- 
 cult — to preserve its aroma, impossible. I should 
 conceive, from what we read of those tea-table 
 talks at the little waterside house in Islington, 
 that Charles Lamb's familiar parlance may have 
 been somewhat similar — more exquisitely play- 
 ful, perhaps, and more sensitively sympathetic — 
 certainly less caustic. Both, at all events, were, in 
 the rapidity of their hues and changes, kaleido- 
 scopic. 1 learned much from these twilight gossips ; 
 and though I might not always understand, I al- 
 ways enjoyed them. Granted that the topics and 
 opinions mooted on both sides were generally in ad- 
 vance of my actual knowledge, they set me think- 
 ing, and perhaps did more towards the premature 
 tlevelopment of my intellect than could have been 
 effected by any set system of training. At the
 
 Barbara's history. 119 
 
 same time it must be confessed that my actual edu- 
 cation was, in some degree, at a standstill. A 
 couple of hours devoted each morning to Gibbon, 
 Goldsmith, or Buff on, and another hour or so to 
 the Parliamentary debates every afternoon, scarcely 
 deserves the name of education; and, but for other 
 circumstances, would have done little to improve 
 me. I was free, however, of my aunt's book-case, 
 of the fields, the sunlight, and the fresh air. I 
 read more, saw more, felt more than I had ever 
 read, seen, or felt in all my life before. Above all, 
 I was happy ; and happiness derived from, and 
 dependent on, the love of those who are better and 
 wiser than we, is, in itself, an education. 
 
 Thus the weeks went by, and the autumn waned, 
 and still Hugh Farquhar dwelt alone in his solitary 
 tower, and became, as I have already said, a fre- 
 quent guest at Stoneycroft Hall. As the days 
 grew shorter and the twihght encroached upon our 
 dinner-hour, he took to coming later, and often 
 rode over between eight and nine to drink coffee 
 and play piquet with my aunt. Scarcely a week 
 passed that he did not send her a present of 
 game, or the latest parcel of books and maga- 
 zines from London ; while to me he never failed 
 to bring some pretty trifle — a tiny Swiss Chalet 
 bought at Berne, a coral toy from Naples, a Cliinese 
 puzzle, or a string of Indian wampum. He cer-
 
 120 Barbara's history. 
 
 tainly spared no pains to place himself upon the 
 footing of an intimate; though why he should have 
 done so, and what pleasure he could find in the so- 
 ciety of an eccentric old lady and a shy little girl 
 of ten, seems unaccountable enough. Whether he 
 meant to stay in England, or whether he was here 
 for only a few months, remained as great a mys- 
 tery as at first. lie would either give no answer 
 when questioned, or declare that he knew no more 
 than we — cared, perhaps, even less — had no wish 
 to settle, and preferred to keep " one foot in sea, 
 and one on shore," for, at least, a few years longer. 
 
 " But surely," said my aunt, assailing him one 
 evening on this her favourite topic, "surely you 
 have some definite plans ? " 
 
 " Plans, my dear Mrs. Sandyshaft ? " he ex- 
 claimed. "Not I, indeed. Heaven forbid!" 
 
 " Well, then, some regard for the future ? " 
 
 " None. Oggi is my motto, and domani may go 
 to the devil ! " 
 
 My aunt shook her head gravely, and looked 
 shocked. 
 
 "You are wrong," said she; "young, wrong, 
 and headstrong. You don't look at life seriously 
 enough. You don't . . . ." 
 
 " Pardon me, I look at it, perhaps, too seriously. 
 If you imagine that I make of it one idle holiday, 
 you mistake me altogether. I do no such thing.
 
 121 
 
 I look upon it as a very sad, wearyful, unsatis- 
 factory affair; and because to-day is so burden- 
 some, I care little for the events of to-morrow. I 
 love to drift from day to day, like a weed from 
 wave to wave ; and it seems to me that the philo- 
 sophies of all time are comprised in that sentence 
 of Sadi the Persian : — 
 
 ' 'Tis better to sit than to stand ; 
 'Tis better to be in bed than sitting ; 
 'Tis better to be dead than in bed.' " 
 
 " Wherefore," observed my aunt drily, " you 
 choose a life of incessant activity. Nonsense ! 
 Drift here, if drifting suits you ; and if lying in 
 bed be so very philosophical, lie in bed at Broomhill." 
 
 " First provide me with that model wife, Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft ! " 
 
 "Besides," continued my aunt, "there are duties 
 arising from your position. You have a stake in 
 the country, and . . . ," 
 
 " And a very tough one it is ! " interrupted he, 
 laughingly. "I prefer a cotelette a la Soubisey 
 served at the Maison Dor^e I " 
 
 Whereupon my aunt waxed wroth, cited Dr. 
 Johnson's opinion on the making of puns and the 
 picking of pockets, and abandoned the siege for 
 that evening. 
 
 Not many nights after this, he came again. 
 It was the first frost of the season ; and, though
 
 122 Barbara's history. 
 
 he had ridden fast and wore his great fur coat, he 
 complained bitterly of the climate. 
 
 " Climate!" repeated my aunt, ''Bless the man ! 
 what better climate can he desire, I should like to 
 know ? Climate, indeed, with such a coat as that 
 on his back ! " 
 
 " ' The owl for all his feathers was a-cold ! ' " 
 quoted Hugh Farquhar, hanging over the fire like 
 a half-frozen Kamschatkan. 
 
 My aunt piled on more coals, rang for coffee, 
 and muttered something about " salamanders" 
 and " fire-worshippers." 
 
 " Do you Avonder that I freeze," said he, '^ when 
 for five years I have known no winter? My De- 
 cembers and Januarys have all been spent in South 
 Italy, the East, or the tropics. Last Christmas 
 Eve I lay awake all night in the deep grass on a 
 ledge of one of the Chilian Andes, looking up to 
 the Centaur and the Southern Cross, with not even 
 a cloak for my counterpane. The year before 
 that, I ate my roast-beef and plum-pudding with 
 the officers of the Foui'th Light Dragoons in Cal- 
 cutta. 'Tis no laughing matter, let me tell you, to 
 come back to this infernal land of fog and frost, 
 after wandering for five long years 
 
 ' where Universal Pan, 
 Kjoit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, 
 Leads on the Eternal Spring ! '
 
 123 
 
 Pshaw ! Dante was of my mind when he made 
 the lowest circle of hell an icy region, and imbed- 
 ded His Majesty in the midst of it ! " 
 
 " If you had been content to live respectably in 
 your own country," said my aunt, testily, " you'd 
 never have felt any difference. Will you take some 
 brandy with your coffee ? I hate to hear people's 
 teeth clattering like castanets ! " 
 
 " 'Tis ' a spirit of health,' and I will not refuse 
 to entertain it. Barharina 7niay will you vouch- 
 safe to kiss me this evening ? So ! There's a 
 sh}^ little salute ! Your ladyship is chary of your 
 rosy lips, methinks ! Ah ! did you but know what 
 I have brought to show you, and which of my pock- 
 ets it is in ! A sketch-book, petite — a sketch-book 
 full of pictures ! " 
 
 My hands were diving into his pockets in an in- 
 stant ; for, by this time, those pockets were fami- 
 liar ground. The first thing I brought out was a 
 little square packet, sealed at both ends — the secona, 
 a book with a silver clasp. 
 
 " Stop," said he, taking the former from me, 
 and breaking the seals that fastened it, " this is a 
 pack of cards, Mrs. Sandyshaft, which I propose 
 to play our piquet with to-night. Pray observe 
 them, and tell me which are trumps." 
 
 Saying which, he dealt out some twenty or 
 thirty visiting cards in rapid succession, laughing
 
 124 Barbara's history. 
 
 heartily the while to see my aunt's amazement. 
 
 "General Kirby— Mr. Fuller— Mrs. Fuller— 
 The Rev. Edward Grote — Sir John and Lady 
 Crompton — Miss Price — Lord Bayham — Captain 
 Carter — Mr., Mrs., and the i^Iisses Capel — the 
 Hon. and Rev. Augustus Petersham .... Why, 
 where, for gracious sake, did you get all these ? " 
 
 " They have been accumulating for the last 
 month at compound interest; and I gathered 
 them out of a basket in my study this afternoon. 
 A famous pack for playing, with a suitable sprink- 
 ling of court cards and, doubtless, the usual al- 
 lowance of knaves ! " 
 
 " Have you returned any of these visits ? " 
 
 " Not one. I thought of sending Tippoo about 
 the country, as my representative." 
 
 "Absurd!" 
 
 " Not at all. He need only lie back in a cor- 
 ner of the carriage, wear lavender kid gloves, and 
 hand visiting cards through the window. If any- 
 one caught a glimpse of his face, it would only be 
 thought that travelling had spoiled my complexion. 
 You may depend he would do it capitally, and 
 be far more majestic than myself." 
 
 But my aunt only shook her head, took out a 
 pencil and the back of an old letter, and began 
 gravely making a list of all the names. 
 
 " Have you any idea," she said, presently, " of
 
 bakbara's history. 125 
 
 the number of folks which these cards represent ?" 
 
 " Not I ! " 
 
 " Well — from eighty-five to a hundred." 
 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 "Do you doubt it? Look here, then. The 
 Cromptons have five daughters, so their tickets 
 stand for seven people — the Fullers have two sons 
 and one daughter, so they stand as five — the Misses 
 Capel are four — the Reverend . . . ." 
 
 " Hold, enough ! You are going on into un- 
 known quantities, and my brain reels already. 
 Must I be civil to all these people ? " 
 
 " Oh, that's as you please ! " 
 
 He took the list, read it through several times, 
 and, resting his head upon his hand, dropped into 
 a brown study. By and by, my aunt brought out 
 her little walnut-wood table, trimmed her lamp, 
 and sorted the playing cards. This done, they fell 
 to piquet, and so spent the evening. 
 
 As for me, to sit on a stool at Hugh Farquhar's 
 feet and pore over the book with the silver clasp, 
 was delight and employment enough. Here were 
 sketches indeed! — some in water-colours, some in 
 pencil, some in sepia. Now a page of mere rough 
 memoranda, faces seen from the window, frag- 
 ments of capitals and cornices, and the outline of 
 a boat with lateen sails — now a group of T}rrolean 
 peasants, with green hats and embroidered jackets
 
 126 
 
 — now a snow-capped mountain, a wild plain scat- 
 tered over with strange plants, an indigo sky, and 
 the word Chimhorazo written in the corner. Next, 
 perhaps, came a cluster of old houses — a bit of 
 coast and sea — an Indian head, studied from the 
 life — a curious plant, leaf, flower, and bud, all side 
 by side — a caricature of a priest, w^th a gigantic 
 black hat and a pair of spindle legs — a ruined 
 tower and ivied arch; a bridge; a tree; a vase; 
 and so on for, perhaps, a hundred pages ! When 
 I came to thq end, I went back again to the be- 
 ginning; and, save now and then to steal a glance 
 at the bronzed face which I so loved to look upon, 
 never lifted my eyes from the sketches. For here, 
 at last, was the Art of which I had been dreaming 
 all my little life — Art comprehensible, tangible, 
 real and ideal in one! Here were places and 
 people, vitality, action, colour, poetry, intention. 
 The Paul Veronese was too much for me. It 
 needed an art-education to pierce the mysteries, 
 and appreciate the beauties, of that marvellous 
 Lombardic school. Not so ^vith Hugh Farquhar's 
 sketches. They were amateurs work; often faulty, 
 no doubt, but full of character and effect, and just 
 suggestive enough to stimulate the imagination, 
 and supply all that might be wanting in them as 
 works of art. 
 
 At length the clock struck ten, and my aunt
 
 Barbara's history. 1 27 
 
 threw down her hand. Though in the middle of a 
 game, or at the most exciting point of the contest, 
 she always stopped inexorably at the first stroke of 
 the hour, and put the cards away. 
 
 '^ You are pleased with that book, Barbara?" 
 asked Mr. Farquhar, speaking to me for the first 
 time since they had begun to play. 
 
 " I never saw anything so beautiful," said I; and 
 my face, I doubt not, was more eloquent of praise 
 than any words I could have uttered. 
 
 He smiled and took the volume from me. 
 
 " Show me which drawing you like best," he 
 said, turning the leaves rapidly. 
 
 I stopped him at a sketch of a ruined fountain, 
 with a background of misty mountains, and an 
 Italian contadina filling her pitcher in the fore- 
 ground. 
 
 " I like that best of all!" I exclaimed. 
 
 " And so do I, petite. You have pitched on the 
 best thing in the book." 
 
 Saying which, he opened his penknife, cut the 
 leaf out, and placed it in my hands. 
 
 "Mercy alive!" cried my aunt, "you're never 
 going to give the child that picture?" 
 
 " Indeed I am ; and if it had been fifty times 
 better, she should have had it! Carina^ I have 
 more of these, and bigger ones, at home. You 
 ^hall come and spend a day with me, and go
 
 128 
 
 through them all — and, perhaps, you may like the 
 Paul Veronese better when you see it again. No 
 thanks, little one — I hate them. Mrs. Sandyshaft, 
 I have made up my mind!" 
 
 " To what, pray?" 
 
 " To the solemn duty of entertaining my dear 
 eighty-five unknown acquaintances! What shall 
 it be — a ball, or a dinner? Or both ?" 
 
 " Both, by all means, if you really intend it !" 
 
 "Amen. And when?" 
 
 " How can / tell? You nmst put your house 
 in order." 
 
 "And prepare to die! My dear Madam, your 
 phraseology smacks of ^ funeral bak'd meats,' and 
 suggests uncomfortable results. Well, I must 
 turn this matter over in my mind, and hold a 
 cabinet council with my housekeeper — after that, 
 nous verronsH 
 
 With this he took his leave. I followed him to 
 the porch, where Satan was waiting, fiery and im- 
 patient. There was no moon; but the stars shone 
 keenly through the frosty night, and the stable- 
 boy's lantern cast a bright circle on the path. 
 
 " Good night, little friend," he said, and touched 
 my forehead lightly with his lips. 
 
 I could not bid him "good night" in return — 
 my heart was too full; but I followed him with 
 my eyes long after the dark had swallowed him
 
 129 
 
 up, and listened for the last faint echo of his 
 horse's hoofs. That night I took my darling pic- 
 ture up with me to bed, and placed it where I 
 might see it when I Avoke. I was very, very 
 happy; and yet I remember how I cried myself to 
 sleep ! 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 130 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE BALL AT BROOMHILL. 
 
 Overshadowed bv a huge pear-tree in a snug 
 corner of the orchard behind the house, stood 
 a low wooden building, the roof whereof was 
 clustered over with patches of brown moss and 
 ashy lichens. The padlock on the doors was red 
 with rust, and the spiders had woven their webs 
 over the hinges. It looked like a place disused; 
 but it was my aunt's coach-house, and contained 
 my aunt's carriage. Never brought out, unless 
 once a year to be cleaned, or on occasions of 
 solemn ceremony, this vehicle reposed in dust and 
 dignity, like Lord Nelson's funeral car in the 
 vaults at St. Paul's, and led, on the whole, an easy 
 life of it. The first time that I ever had the 
 honour of being jolted in it, was on the day of 
 Hugh Farquhar's great dinner and evening party, 
 about five weeks after the events last related.
 
 Barbara's history. 131 
 
 I say jolted, and I say it advisedly ; for surely 
 a more obstinate and sprinp^less piece of fvirniture 
 never went upon wheels. When set in motion it 
 uttered despairing creaks ; going down-hill it stag- 
 gered from side to side, like a drunken giant ; and 
 we never turned a corner but it threatened to pitch 
 over. Notwithstanding these little eccentricities, 
 it was the object of my special veneration ; and 
 Mrs. Inchbald's hero never saluted the wig of his 
 uncle the judge, nor Friday the gun of Robinson 
 Crusoe, more reverently than I did homage to this 
 antiquated "leathern conveniency." Our diffi- 
 culties on the present occasion were increased 
 tenfold by the condition of the roads ; for there 
 had been snow the night before, and a frost 
 towards morning. 
 
 "Bab," said my aunt, "I never thought I should 
 have lived to do this." 
 
 My aunt was very grand this evening, and wore 
 her black brocaded silk dress, her black and gold 
 turban, and the suite of oriental amethysts 
 which w^ere given to her by her husband on lier 
 wedding-day. 
 
 "To do what, auntf I asked, clinging to a 
 carriage-strap; for we were just going over a piece 
 of road where the snow had drifted somew^hat 
 deeply, and our conveyance was labouring onward, 
 like a lighter in a gale. 
 
 k2
 
 132 
 
 " Why, to dine at Broomhill, to be sure ! Have 
 you not often and often heard nie say that I never 
 exchanged a civility with the Farquhars in my 
 life, or crossed the threshold of a Farquliar's door? 
 And yet here I am, at my time of life, actually 
 going to Broomhill to dinner !" 
 
 " But then you Hke this Mr. Farquhar," I sug- 
 gested, " and " 
 
 " Don't say I like him, Bab. I tolerate him. 
 He's an amusing madman with a remnant of 
 brains; and I tolerate him. That's all, and a good 
 deal, too ; for he's the first of his name that I ever 
 endured, living or dead ! So ! I never drove 
 through these gates before, old as I am. Bab, sit 
 still." 
 
 But I was all excitement, and could not have 
 sat still for the world. We had now entered the 
 park, and yonder, framed in by the gleaming snow 
 and sable sky, stood the house, lighted from 
 basement to attic, like a huge beacon of wel- 
 come. The avenue had all been cleared ; but the 
 great old oaks stretched their snow -laden arms 
 overhead, and looked, by the ghostly light of our 
 carriage-lamps, like gigantic branches of white 
 coral. There was another vehicle some little way 
 in advance of us ; and when we came to within a 
 few feet of the arched gateway, we found ourselves 
 at the end of a line of carriages, each advancing a
 
 Barbara's history. 133 
 
 few steps at a time, and setting down its occu- 
 pants one by one. How my heart beat when it 
 came to be our turn at last, and we drew up before 
 the bright perspective of the lighted hall ! 
 
 A powdered footman stood just within the en- 
 trance — a second took charge of our cloaks — a 
 third announced us at the drawing-room door. I 
 had never been to a party in my life before, and 
 as we passed into the great room all ablaze with 
 chandeliers and mirrors, I trembled and hung back. 
 There were some twenty people or so, scattered 
 about on sofas, or gathered round a table laden 
 with engravings. From this group a gentleman 
 disengaged himself at the sound of my aunt's 
 name, and came forward to meet us. I scarcely 
 knew him at first, in his close black suit and white 
 cravat — ^he looked so unlike the fur-coated, careless 
 Hugh Farquhar of every day ! He bowed pro- 
 foundly — so profoundly that I, in my ignorance, 
 was quite astonished — and led my aunt to an arm- 
 chair by the fire. 
 
 " I look upon this as a high compliment, Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft," said he, " and rejoice to bid you wel- 
 come, for the first time, to my home." 
 
 The formality of this address, the stately polite- 
 ness with which my aunt received it, and, al)ove 
 all, the sudden hush of curiosity that seemed to 
 fall upon the assembled guests, struck me as some-
 
 134 Barbara's history. 
 
 tiling very strange. Not till years after, when I 
 was old enough in the world's usages to interpret 
 the enigma, did I understand why Hugh Farquhar 
 paid her such public courtesy that evening, and 
 how her presence there stood for a recognition of 
 friendship, and the healing of old feuds. 
 
 Amid the brief silence that followed, more visi- 
 tors arrived; and then the hum of talk began afresh. 
 One after another, all the persons present came up 
 and paid their compliments to my aunt, and, with 
 very few excejitions, every face was strange to me. 
 Most of them asked her who I was ; some shook 
 hands with me, and hoped I was a good little girl ; 
 and one old gentleman with white hair, looked at 
 me attentively when he heard my name, and said 
 that I was like my mother. 
 
 Presently the dinner was announced. Mr. 
 Farquhar gave his arm to my aunt ; the rest fol- 
 lowed, two and two ; and I found myself con- 
 veyed with the stream, and seated beside that 
 same white-haired old gentleman, near the bottom 
 of a very long table covered with glass and silver, 
 glittering candelabra, and vases of delicious flowers 
 such as I had never seen in winter-time before. 
 
 This meal was a stately solemnization, and, like 
 that of matrimony, ended (so far as I was con- 
 c«4'ned) in amazement. Soup, fish, flesh, fowl, 
 game, sauces, and sweets, succeeded each other in
 
 barbaea's history. 135 
 
 bewildering variety, and promised never to come 
 to an end. Being no great eater at any time, and, 
 like most children, averse to rich and highly 
 flavoured dishes, I amused myself by listening to 
 the conversation that was going on around me, and 
 observing everything and everybody in the room. 
 There was Hugh Farquhar at the head of the 
 table, wdth my aunt at his right hand and Tippoo 
 standing stone-still behind his chair. He looked, 
 I fancied, somewhat pale, and, though studiously 
 courteous, was both grave and silent. Perhaps, 
 having been so long a dweller in tents, he found 
 these formalities irksome. Perhaps he felt himself 
 a stranger in his own house and among his own 
 guests, living another life, thinking other thoughts, 
 and conversant with other topics than theirs. At 
 the foot of the table where sat Sir John Crompton 
 (a stout, jovial, fox-bunting, country baronet, in a 
 blue coat with brass buttons and an expansive 
 white waistcoat) there was ten times more enjoy- 
 ment. Here the wine circulated more freely and 
 the talk went briskly on, and all were neighbours 
 and intimates. Captain Carter's blood mare and 
 the marriage of Miss Rowland, the quality of Mr. 
 Farquhar's Moselle, and that sad affair near 
 Ipswich between the rural police and the Tenth 
 Lancers, formed the staple subjects of their con- 
 versation. Meanwhile the ladies listened and
 
 130 
 
 cliimcd in ; and the younger people spoke low, and 
 flirted ; and the fat gentleman with the bald head 
 took two helpings of everything; and the 
 lady in the amber satin dress had the gravy spilt 
 in her lap, and was so cross that she scarcely knew 
 how to behave herself ; and the clergyman at the 
 o})posite corner talked of hunting and shooting, 
 and drank more wine than any other gentleman at 
 the table. All this I noticed, and much more be- 
 side. Nothing escaped me — not even the new 
 liveries on the footmen, or the new furniture that 
 decorated the room, or the new paper on the walls 
 — least of all the lovely Poussin that hung just 
 opposite my seat, fresh as if newly dipped in the 
 dews of " incense-breathing morn," and opening a 
 vista into Arcadia. Having feasted my eyes on 
 this till they grew dim, and having listened with 
 delight to the pale-faced young man who made 
 ])uns, and having asked endless questions of the 
 kind old gentleman beside whom I had the good 
 luck to be seated, I came at last to the end of my 
 resources, and longed for liberty again. I looked 
 at my aunt, and wondered whether she also was 
 not tired of the dinner by this time ; but she was 
 talking to an elderly gentleman in glasses, and 
 evidently not only enjoying her argument, but 
 triumphantly getting the best of it. I looked all 
 round the table, and saw none but smiling, flushed^
 
 barbaea's history. 137 
 
 and occupied faces. To eat, drink, and be merry 
 was the order of the hour ; and, save in the counte- 
 nance of the giver of the feast, I coukl nowhere 
 read any lack of entertainment. He talked, it is 
 true, but abstractedly. Once he looked up and 
 found my eyes upon him, and so smiled, put 
 his glass to his lips and nodded to me gaily ; but 
 that was the only moment when he seemed 
 genuinely himself. And thus the dreary order of 
 things went on and on ; and what with the buzz 
 and hum of conversation, the clatter of knives and 
 glasses, the monotonous gliding to and fro of 
 attentive servants, and the amalgamation of savoury 
 scents which rose like " a steam of rich distilled 
 perfumes" and hung over our heads as an oppress- 
 ive canopy, I became quite weary and confused, 
 and well-nigh dropped asleep. 
 
 At last Sir John Crompton proposed the health 
 of " the ladies " — for toasts were not yet gone 
 out of fashion — and after that my aunt 
 and Lady Crompton rose from table, and we 
 all went out in a rustling procession of silks and 
 satins, and left the gentlemen to their claret. 
 By this time it was nearly nine o'clock, and we 
 could hear the musicians in the long gallery 
 tuning their instruments and making ready for the 
 ball that was to follow. It was now duller than 
 ever. Some of the elder ladies gathered into
 
 138 Barbara's history. 
 
 little knots, and chatted of their families, and 
 their friends. The younger louncred about, and 
 yawned over the engravings, or tried the tone of 
 the piano. My aunt sat bolt upright in a high- 
 backed chair, and had forty inflexible winks. I 
 stole over to a distant window, and looked out at 
 the snow which was falling fast again. Every 
 now and then, strangely discordant with the white 
 sepulchral calm of the scene without, rose the peals 
 of laughter, and " the three-times three," of the 
 revellers in the dining-room below. By and by, 
 a carriage with gleaming lamps rolled noiselessly 
 past the window ; and then another, and another, 
 till the room began to fill with fresh arrivals, and 
 the gentlemen came up-stairs. Then coffee was 
 handed round; and card-tables were opened for 
 those who chose to play ; and the rest dropped 
 away by twos and twos, at the summons of the 
 band-music, which now rang merrily out across the 
 broad vestibule, and along the echoing staircases. 
 My aunt sat down to loo, and my white-haired 
 friend to whist. Nobody offered to take me into 
 the ball-room, and no one spoke to me ; so I kept 
 by the window and listened longingly, and felt 
 almost as lonely as I used to feel in my self-chosen 
 solitude up in the old garret of my London home. 
 A long, long time went by thus, and still more 
 guests kept coming — chiefly young people, radiant
 
 barbaea's history. 139 
 
 in delicate gauzes and flowers, and full of life and 
 gaiety. Some of the girls were beautiful, and 
 three or four of the gentlemen wore military uni- 
 forms. How I longed to see them dancing, and 
 what a glittering scene I fancied that ball-room 
 must be ! At length the anguish of disappoint- 
 ment and neglect quite overcame my fortitude, 
 and I leaned my forehead up against the window, 
 and let my tears flow silently. 
 
 "What, Barbara here, and all alone!" said Hugh 
 Farquhar's voice. " Why are you not in the ball- 
 room, mig7ionne ? " 
 
 Ashamed to be found weeping, I pressed my 
 face closer to the glass, and made no answer. 
 He laid his hand upon my shoulder, and bent 
 down till I felt his breath upon my neck. 
 
 "Something is the matter, carina^^ he said gently. 
 " Turn round and look at me, and tell me what it is !" 
 
 I could not bear his touch, or the tenderness of 
 his voice ; but trembled all at once from head to 
 foot, and sobbed openly. In another instant he 
 had taken a chair beside mine, had drawn me to 
 his knee, folded his arms about me, and kissed me 
 twenty times. 
 
 " Hush, hush, Barbara mia ! " he murmured 
 soothingly — " hush, for my sake, my bright-eyed 
 Princess ! I see how it is — she was forgotten — 
 left all alone here in this dull room, and so grew sad
 
 140 Barbara's history. 
 
 and wanted company. Ilusli, no more sobs, p^fe / 
 You shall come with me to the housekeeper's ])ar- 
 lour, and she shall wash away those tears from 
 your cheeks, and then we will go into the ball- 
 room together and have a dance ! " 
 
 "Dance!" I repeated in the midst of my sorrow. 
 "Shall /dancer' 
 
 " To be sure you shall, and I will be your part- 
 ner ! Eccola ! I thought the sunshine would soon 
 come back aimin ! " 
 
 o 
 
 With this he took me out of the drawing-room, 
 and along a passage, and into a snug little apart- 
 ment where there was an old lady in black silk filling 
 out scores of cups of tea and coffee to send up to 
 the visitors. At a word from Mr. Farquhar, this 
 excellent old lady carried me off into an inner 
 chamber, and there washed my face, brushed my 
 hair, tied my sash afresh, and made me quite smart 
 and presentable. Then he once more took my 
 hand, and we went into the ball-room together. 
 
 The ball-room was the portrait-galleiy ; but 
 the portrait-gallery transformed — transfigured — 
 changed to fairy-land. It looked like a huge 
 bower. The old portraits smiled out from envi- 
 ronments of myrtle and holly — the walls, chan- 
 deliers, and music-ffallerv were festooned with 
 devices of evergreens, crysanthemums, and winter 
 heaths — there were coloured lamps and Chinese 
 lanterns nestling in the leaves and suspended
 
 bakbara's histoey. 141 
 
 along every pillar and cornice — the orchestra was 
 hung with flags of many nations ; and at the upper 
 end of the room, filling with its single dignity 
 nearly all the space of wall, hung the Paul 
 Veronese. Add to all this a joyous crowd 
 floating in couples through the mazy circles 
 of that dreamy waltz which has disappeared 
 of late years with all the poetry of motion ; 
 superadd the intoxicating music of a military 
 band; and then conceive the breathless de- 
 light with which I paused at the threshold, hand in 
 hand with the master of Broomhill, and gazed on 
 the scene before me ! 
 
 We had not been there an instant when a couple 
 of waltzers stopped near us to rest. 
 
 " Fie, Mr. Farquhar ! " said the lady, " you en- 
 gaged me for this dance, and, like a recreant knight, 
 failed to claim me when it began. What apology 
 have you to offer ? " 
 
 '-' One so insufficient that I shall throw myself 
 on your mercy, Lady Flora, and not even name it," 
 replied my companion. "My only consolation is 
 in seeing that you have found a partner better 
 worth your acceptance." 
 
 The lady laughed and shook her head — she was 
 very lovely ; a dark beauty, rich complexioned and 
 haughty, like Tennyson's Cleopatra. 
 
 "That mock humility shall not serve you ! " said 
 she. " I mean to be implacable."
 
 142 Barbara's history. 
 
 " Nay, then, 1 have indeed no resource left but 
 exile or suicide! Choose for me, since you con- 
 demn me — shall it be arsenic or Algeria, Patago- 
 nia or pistols ? " 
 
 " Neither. You shall expiate your sins on the 
 spot, by finishing the waltz with me." 
 
 Hugh Farquhar smiled, bowed low, and encircled 
 her waist with his arm. 
 
 '^ For so fair a Purgatory who would not risk 
 perdition ? " said he, gallantly. 
 
 She laughed again, excused herself to her late 
 partner with a careless nod, rested one tiny hand 
 and an arm sparkling with jewels, on Mr. Far- 
 quhar's shoulder, and so they floated away together, 
 and were lost in the maze of waltzers. I sighed, 
 and followed them with my eyes. The gentleman 
 with whom Lady Flora had been dancing, saw 
 that wistful glance, and took pity on me. 
 
 ^'Too bad to leave you standing here alone, little 
 lady!" said he with some affectation, but much real 
 kindness. " Where would you like to sit ? Near 
 the music ? " 
 
 " Up yonder, by the Paul Veronese," I replied 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Don't know him," said my new friend with a 
 yawn ; "but if he's there we can find him. What's 
 his name ? " 
 
 I could not have kept from laughing to save my 
 life.
 
 Barbara's history. 148 
 
 He stared and looked down upon me, and 
 twirled his mustachios with his thumb and fore- 
 finger. 
 
 "The Paul Veronese — the big picture," I ex- 
 plained. "I should like to sit where I could see it." 
 
 "Oh, the six- thousand pounder!" said he. "Like 
 to sit and look at thatj eh? What an original idea! 
 Come along ! " 
 
 Saying which, he took my hand, piloted me in 
 and out among the dancers, and placed me in a 
 vacant chair by a window, at the upper end of the 
 room. 
 
 " Will that do ? " he asked. " Can you see it 
 well ? Are you comfortable ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, thank you ! " 
 
 " All right ! " said he ; nodded languidly, and 
 sauntered away. 
 
 Left to myself now, I watched the waltzers and 
 looked out for the couple in which I was most in- 
 terested. They swept past me presently, circling 
 amid a number of others, and were gone almost 
 before I had time to recognise them. Then the 
 music ceased ; the dancers fell into promenading 
 order ; and I waited and watched till they should 
 again pass by. It was not long before the stream 
 brought them round a second time. They were 
 talking, and Hugh was bending down and lool^ing 
 in her face with such an expression on his own as 
 I had never seen there before.
 
 144 
 
 "I have had no motive to keej) me here," I 
 heard him say, " and without ties all men are Bo- 
 hemians. If, however . . . ." 
 
 They went on, and I caught no more. Alas ! I 
 had heard enough, and, child as I was, that un- 
 finished phrase woke me to a sudden passion of 
 jealousy. I thought of his speaking eyes and the 
 tender earnestness of his voice — I remembered the 
 flushed smile with which she listened and looked 
 down — I compared her with the rest, and saw that 
 she was the loveliest in the room ! Oh ! a child's 
 jealousy is as poignant, after its kind, as man's, or 
 woman's — perhaps more poignant, because more 
 unreasoning ! 
 
 They came round a third time, and paused be- 
 fore the Paul Veronese. I Avas just near enough 
 to hear, and listened eagerly. 
 
 *'Itis well placed," said she, "but not well hung. 
 The light falls on it disadvantageously. Why not 
 let it lean more forward ? The effect would be 
 infinitely better." 
 
 "I think so, too," replied J\lr. Farquhar. "Would 
 you like to see it done at once ? Nothing could be 
 easier." 
 
 " I shall be delighted." 
 
 "To delight you, Lady Flora," said he, "I would 
 move every picture in the house." 
 
 With this he stepped aside, and spoke to a ser-
 
 145 
 
 The man left the room, 
 and presently returned, bearing a set of library 
 steps and followed by Tippoo. Some few of the 
 guests smiled and thought it odd ; but the greater 
 number took no notice, and kept on dancing 
 merrily. 
 
 " Now I really hope this is not very troublesome 
 —or very difficult," said Lady Flora, standing by 
 and toying with her fan. 
 
 *' Did I not say before that nothing could be 
 easier ? " returned Hugh. " They have but to let 
 the cords out longer, and the thing is done. Every 
 inch added to the length of the cord, is an inch 
 added to the incline of the picture. Gently, Tip- 
 poo — gently. Are those staples safe ? " 
 
 " If it were to fall and get injured, I should 
 never forgive myself," said Lady Flora. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! I never thought of that," eja- 
 culated he. " Stand aside — it would kill you ! " 
 
 She laughed carelessly, and stepped back. 
 
 " I w^as not thinking of myself," said she. " But 
 would it not be well to support it on this side ? " 
 
 He nodded, was advancing to lend his aid, 
 had his hand uplifted, when a shrill, inarticulate 
 cry broke from the lips of the Hindoo, and the 
 whole mass surged forward, like a falling house ! 
 
 A universal shriek of horror — a sudden rush 
 of feet — the closing up of an eager crowd and a 
 
 YOL. I. L
 
 146 
 
 hubbub of frightened voices, is all that I remember 
 for many moments. 
 
 " Dr. T()])hani ! " cried some one. " Where is 
 Doctor Topham ? " 
 
 He was in the card-room. Before the words 
 were well nigh spoken, some half-dozen gentlemen 
 had flown to fetch him, and he, pale but self-pos- 
 sessed, came running in. They opened to let him 
 pass, and closed after him chrectly, like parted 
 water. Sick, trembling, standing on my chair, 
 and yet scarce able to support myself, I leaned 
 against the wall, and watched the crowd. I could 
 see nothing of what was being done — hear nothing, 
 when all were speaking — guess nothing, or dare to 
 guess nothing, of what might have happened ! 
 
 But I was not long kept in suspense. Presently 
 the crowd swayed back and fell apart, and from 
 the midst of it issued — oh. Heaven ! — the inani- 
 mate body of Hugh Farquhar, pallid and blood- 
 stained, and borne by two of his servants ! 
 
 They carried him out, slowly and carefully, with 
 Dr. Topham walking beside them. Then a dead 
 silence fell on all the room — faces, lights, walls and 
 ceiling seemed to rock to and fro before my eyes 
 — a confused sound, as of many waters, came rush- 
 ing to my ears, and I fell without the power to 
 save myself. 
 
 I was lying in the same spot, partly hidden by
 
 147 
 
 the window-curtains, when I recovered conscious- 
 ness. No one had heard me fall, and in the gene- 
 ral trouble no one had noticed me. Feeling very 
 cold and faint, I sat up, rested my heavy head 
 against the wall, and recalled the accident that had 
 just happened. Was he dead ? Or dying ? Or 
 only badly hurt ? I dreaded to ask, and yet I felt 
 that I must know ; so I got, somehow, to my feet, 
 and made my way over to a couple of gentle- 
 men who were talking softly together in the em- 
 brasure of the nearest window. The elder of the 
 two looked kind and serious. I plucked him hy 
 the sleeve to attract his attention. 
 
 " Oh, sir, if you please," I faltered imploringly, 
 ^^ is— is he dead?" 
 
 He looked at me very gravely, and shook liis 
 head. 
 
 " No, my dear," he said, "Mr. Farquhar is not 
 dead ; but . . . ." 
 
 " But what ? " I implied rather than said, for 
 my lips moved, though my voice died away. 
 
 "But we fear he is seriously injured. The 
 picture knocked him down, and the frame came 
 ag^ainst the side of his head — in which case . . . ." 
 
 " In which case there is probal)ly a fracture : 
 and brain-fever, or something worse, may ensue,' 
 said the other gentleman, shrugging his shoulders, 
 "Tush! we are here to-day, my dear fellow, and 
 
 l2
 
 148 Barbara's history. 
 
 gone to-morrow — gone to-morrow! What a vile 
 night for one's horses ! I believe 'tis snowing 
 again !" 
 
 With this they looked out of the window, and 
 I, sick at heart and trembling still from head to 
 foot, crept away into a far corner and sat down in 
 dumb despair. 
 
 One by one, the groups of whispering guests 
 broke up and dispersed. One by one, the carriages 
 cU'ove noiselessly away through the falling snow. 
 The musicians lingered awhile; then gathered up 
 their music and their instruments, and departed 
 likewise. At length only three or four stragglers 
 remained, and when these were gone, a silence 
 and solitude as of death fell upon the place. 
 
 (crouching all alone upon a form, I closed my 
 eyes on the empty room and wondered wearily 
 where my aunt could be. Now and then I heard 
 the shutting of a distant door, and so held my 
 breath and listened eagerly. Once I saw a servant 
 flit through the hall; but he was gone in an in- 
 stant, and never even glanced in to see whether 
 any guest remained. Then the wax-lights in the 
 sconces guttered and flickered, and w^ent out here 
 and there amid the fading flowers; and by-and- 
 by, what with cold, fatigue, and weariness of 
 spirit, I was fain to stretch myself along the com-
 
 Barbara's history. 149 
 
 fortless form, pillow my flushed cheek on my arm, 
 and fall asleep. 
 
 It was an uneasy slumber, and pervaded by a 
 feverish sense of trouble. Was it a dream ? — 
 or did I wake once for a moment, to find myself 
 being carried up a dimly lighted staircase, with 
 Tippoo's olive face bent close to mine?
 
 150 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE CRISIS. 
 
 '' Grief makes one hour ten." — Shakespeare. 
 
 Hugh Farquhar was indeed very ill, and it con- 
 tinued doubtful for many days whether he would 
 live or die. To the torpid insensibility which 
 weighed upon him for long hours after his fall, 
 succeeded a burning fever accompanied by deli- 
 rium. In this state he remained, with intervals of 
 restless sleep or outworn exhaustion, for nearly a 
 fortnight, during which time Dr. Topham stayed 
 in permanent attendance at Broomhill, and my 
 aunt went daily. Now that the time of trial was 
 come, she proved, indeed, that if she could be a 
 good hater, she could also be a good friend and 
 true. On the third day, a famous physician came
 
 Barbara's history. 151 
 
 down from London — a very stout and pompous 
 gentleman, who saw the patient for about ten 
 minutes; offered no particular opinion one way or 
 the other; dined enormously; drank two bottles of 
 old port; slept in the best bedroom; and went off 
 next morning by the early coach, with a fee of 
 fifty guineas in his pocket and an air of the 
 utmost condescension and unconcern. 
 
 Oh, the weary days, how slowly they lagged by! 
 From the morning after the Ball, when I woke 
 with that strange sense of unexplained trouble at my 
 heart, up to the time when Hugh Farquhar's illness 
 came to a decided issue, seemed like the interval, 
 not of days, but of months. My recollection of it is 
 confused, like that of a dream, or chain of dreams 
 dreamt long ago. Having slept at Broomhill on 
 the night of the accident, I was sent home the next 
 morning to Stonycroft Hall, and there left alone 
 till evening, when my aunt came home. The 
 sight of my white face and swollen eyelids, and 
 the housemaid's story of how I had lain moaning 
 on the rug before the fire, eating nothing all the 
 day and refusing to be comforted, opened Mrs. 
 Sandyshaft's eyes to the danger of leaving me 
 alone. She decided, therefore, to take me with 
 her for the future; and by ten o'clock the next 
 morning, we were both at Broomhill. There we 
 remained till the carriaofe came for us at four; and
 
 152 Barbara's history. 
 
 so on for every succeediiif^ day while he lay 
 ill. 
 
 Not beiiii^ allowed to enter his room, I passed 
 away the hours as best I could. To linger aim- 
 lessly about the gardens, unconscious of the cold — 
 to wander through the wintry park, watching the 
 silent fading of the snow and wondering vaguely 
 how it would be with him when all was melted and 
 gone — to stand by the half-hour together looking 
 up to the windows of his sick-room, and trembling 
 if a hand but stirred the blind — to steal up when 
 none- were looking, and crouch down silently upon 
 the mat at his chamber-door, listening and alert, 
 like a faithful dog — to make my way fearlessly 
 along the upper floors where the sheeted furniture 
 stood ghostlike in dark corners, and so penetrate 
 to the little room in the ivied tower where the 
 books that he had last been reading were yet left 
 piled upon the table, and his pipe lay beside his 
 vacant chair, cui'led round like a green and golden 
 snake laid asleep by the Charmer — to hope, till 
 hope itself became agony — to despair, till despair 
 became intolerable and tears brought something 
 like relief — to count the ticking of the great clock 
 on the stairs, or the drops that fell from the thaw- 
 ing snow in the fantastic gargoyles by the case- 
 ment — to lie in wait for those who came out from 
 his chamber, and entreat for tidings, though all
 
 Barbara's history. 153 
 
 tidings were but a reiteration of the same doubts 
 and fears — to wake every morning, and fall asleep 
 every night, sad and sick at heart . . . this was 
 my life, and this was how I loved him! 
 
 Those who had been his guests that fatal night 
 sent frequently at this time to inquire for him, and 
 Lady Bayham and Lady Flora came more fre- 
 quently than any. They passed me once as I was 
 wandering along the leafless avenue, and I turned 
 aside at the sight of that beautiful dark face, and 
 shrank from looking on it. Was she not the cause 
 of all this evil, and had not I, according to my 
 childish logic, the right to hate her? 
 
 At length there came a day — I think it was the 
 twelfth or thirteenth — when Hugh, having been 
 worse than ever all tlie previous night, fell into a 
 deep sleep that endured for hours. Dr. Topham 
 said the crisis was come, and we all knew that he 
 would waken by-and-by to life or death. The 
 long morning and the brief afternoon passed 
 thus. Then the early dusk came on; and still 
 my aunt sat motionless beside his bed, and still the 
 servants crept noiselessly about with slippered feet, 
 and voices bated to a whisper. The carriage came 
 for us at four, as usual, and went back empty. 
 Visitors were stopped at the courtyard-gate, and 
 not suffered to approach. The striking weight was 
 taken off the great clock on the stairs. It might,
 
 154 
 
 indeed, have been an enchanted palace now, and 
 all the living creatures in it, j)hantonis ! 
 
 The dusk thickened and became dark, and 
 there was yet no change. Unable to watch there 
 longer without rest or refreshment, my aunt stole 
 cautiously away, and the nurse and doctor re- 
 mained with the sleeper. Slie came down to the 
 housekeeper's parlour and placed herself silently at 
 table. She looked paler and sterner than usual, 
 and took no notice of my presence. Something in 
 her face awed me, and I said nothing. Slie poured 
 out a glass of wine and drank it, with her elbow 
 resting on the table. Then she helped herself to 
 meat. As she did this, I saw that her hands 
 trembled. Presently she pushed the plate away, 
 and drew her chair to the fire. 
 
 " I can't do it, Bab," said she. ^' I can't do it. 
 The food seems to choke me." 
 
 I crept over to her feet, and rested my head 
 against her knees. The sympathy of a mutual 
 grief was between us, and not another word was 
 spoken. She laid her hand upon my hair, and 
 left it there. By-and-by the hand slipped off, 
 and I knew by her breathing that she slept. 
 Some time went by thus — perhaps three quarters 
 of an horn' — during which I watched the red 
 caverns in the fire, and dared not move for fear of 
 waking her. Once a coal fell, and she moaned
 
 155 
 
 uneasily ; and, after that, the French clock on the 
 sideboard struck the hour. But she slept through 
 it, and scarcely seemed to dream. All at once 
 there came a footstep along the passage, and a 
 hand upon the handle of the door. I started to 
 my feet ; but it was too late — my aunt was already 
 aroused, and Dr. Topham was in the room. 
 
 "The danger is past," said he, breathlessly. 
 " He is awake — he has asked for you — the delirium 
 is gone — he will live !" 
 
 Whereupon my aunt rose up, sat down again, 
 covered her eyes with her hand, and, after a 
 moment's pause, said very softly and distinctly : — 
 
 " Thank God !" 
 
 As for me, I burst into a passion of tears, and 
 thought my heart would break for very joy !
 
 156 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 
 
 Here is a pleasant room overlooking a garden. 
 The ceiling is lofty, and the cornice shows traces 
 of faded gilding. Where the walls are not covered 
 with pictures, they are lined with serious-looking 
 books in suits of sober calf and classic Russia. 
 Above the mantelpiece hangs an oval portrait of a 
 dark-eyed lady, with her hair in powder. The 
 likeness of a gentleman in a peruke and ruffles is 
 suspended over the door. A small old-fashioned 
 harpsichord stands in one corner, laden with rococo 
 dragons in porcelain, and nicknacks in ivory and 
 Japan. A huge screen of gilded leather, vaguely 
 representative of Chinese life and manners, reaches 
 across the lower end of the room. A cheerful fire 
 burns in the grate, and the black cat on the rug 
 enjoys it sleepily. So does the gentleman on the
 
 Barbara's history. 157 
 
 sofa close by, as he lies with half-closed eyes, 
 forgetting the newspaper which fell, just now, 
 neglected from his hand, and the orange, ready- 
 peeled, which waits on the table beside him. With- 
 out, the sun shines brightly ; but here it is delici- 
 ously subdued, save where one long sunbeam slants 
 between the crimson curtains and the green Vene- 
 tians, and falls straight on the bended head of a 
 little girl, who is half-sitting, half -lying, in the 
 middle of the floor, surrounded by a wilderness of 
 sketches. That languid invalid is Hugh Farquhar; 
 that busy little girl, myself. 
 
 Alas I he is but the wreck of his old self, and 
 sadly changed. The bronzing of many climates 
 has all faded, and left a waxen pallor in its place. 
 His cheeks are sunken ; his eyes look unnaturally 
 large ; and there are deep hollows about his 
 temples, where the veins show like thunderbolts. 
 His beard, too, has grown longer ; and his hands 
 look whiter than a lady's, and feebler than a child's. 
 The contrast, altogether, between his strength of 
 make and his physical weakness is painfully appa- 
 rent. The framework is there, but the framework 
 only ; gaunt, and ruined, and waste — mere bones, 
 and flaccid muscle — a Hercules shorn of his 
 strength. Looking up at him presently and con- 
 sidering these things, I see that his eyes are now 
 quite closed, and thathe has fallen into a placid sleep.
 
 158 Barbara's history. 
 
 Let him rest. I will pore silently and contentedly 
 over the drawings, till he wakes — are they not all 
 the work of his dear hands ? 
 
 Italian skies and clusters of dark pines ; scraps 
 of desert-scenery with processions of camels tramp- 
 ling their distorted shadows underfoot; glimpses 
 of Algerian cactus-woods, and strange curves of 
 Indian rivers where the jungle grows down to the 
 water's edge — here were all these and more, fan- 
 tastic as the changes of a dream ! 
 
 At length I came upon a sketch that waked my 
 curiosity, and set me thinking. It was a snow 
 scene among Alpine peaks, with a group of figures 
 on a ledge of rock beneath an overhanging preci- 
 pice. One man lay stretched on the snow, and 
 three others, clad in rough sheep-skins, stood round 
 him, leaning on their lance-like poles. The wan- 
 dering mists floated below their feet, and the ever- 
 lasting summits rose above and around them. Wlio 
 were they ? Where were they ? What catastro- 
 phe was this ? Was he dead ? What had killed 
 him ; or who ? 
 
 " Why so earnest, signorina ? " asked Hugh, 
 waking presently. " Which drawing is that ? " 
 
 I turned it towards him, and the smile died off 
 his lips. 
 
 " Ah," said he, " that's a sad souvenir, i^etite ! 
 Put it awav."
 
 Barbara's history. 159 
 
 I laid it aside, and stole over to the footstool by 
 the couch. It was always my place, now. 
 
 " I knew it was a true picture, Hugh," said I, 
 coaxingly. " Tell me about it." 
 
 He closed his eyes, as if on some painful sight, 
 and shook his head languidly. 
 
 '^ Cui bono? 'Twould make you melancholy," re- 
 plied he. 
 
 " I like to be melancholy sometimes, Hugh." 
 
 " Nay then, mignofine, so do I ! 'Tis a dainty 
 likino;, and we share it with the poets. Sure it 
 must be Beaumont who says : — 
 
 ' There's nought in life so sweet, 
 Were men but wise to see't, 
 But only Melancholy ; 
 Oh, sweetest Melancholy ! ' 
 
 Heigho ! Barbara, you are a strange little girl, 
 and I find myself talking to you as if you were a 
 woman of forty ! Show me the picture." 
 
 I brought it to him, and he looked at it for some 
 seconds without speaking — then drew his finger 
 along a little pathway which seemed as if trampled 
 through the snow. 
 
 ^'This ledge of rock," he said, "stands four thou- 
 sand feet above the valley, and tlie valley lies 
 down yonder. That narrow track leads to a moim- 
 tain village called Grieux, many hundred feet lower. 
 There it is green and sheltered ; but up here the
 
 160 Barbara's history. 
 
 snow often falls, even in summer. These people 
 are Tyroleans. I knew them well, and lodged in 
 their cottage for many months; fishing and sketch- 
 ing, and chamois-hunting every day. Fran9ois 
 was always my guide and fellow-sportsman." 
 
 " AVhich is Fran9ois ? " I asked, eagerly. 
 
 He pointed to the prostrate figure, and then, in 
 an altered tone, w^ent on : 
 
 " That man with the white beard is old Loizet, 
 the father of these three. Fran9ois was his favo- 
 rite son. The other two, Jean and Jacques, were 
 good lads enough ; but Fran9ois was a fine intel- 
 ligent fellow, brave as a lion, and so tender-hearted 
 that I have known him bring home a wounded 
 bird, and tend it in his own chamber till it could 
 fly again. One day, when he and I were out, I 
 brought down a chamois that stood poised on a so- 
 litary peak overhead. It fell, and, falling, became 
 entangled in a clump of bushes, half-way down the 
 precipice. Nothing would serve Fran9ois but he 
 must go and fetch it. To do this, he was forced 
 to make a circuit of more than a mile, and when 
 he was gone, I took out my book, leaned against a 
 rock, and sketched this scene. By and by, I saw 
 him on the peak. I waved my hat to him ; and 
 he began clambering down, agile as a monkey. On 
 he came, a step at a time, low^er, lower, lower, till 
 within a foot or so of the chamois ! Then he grasped
 
 bakbaea's history. 161 
 
 the upper branches of the bush with one hand, 
 planted his foot on a projecting stone, stooped, ut- 
 tered a wild cry, and , . . . I did not see him fall, 
 Barbara. I saw the rotten branch give way and 
 all his body sway forward — and I closed my eyes 
 in horror, and listened ! " 
 
 " Listened ! " I repeated, in a low, awe-struck 
 tone. " What did you hear, Hugh ? " 
 
 "I heard a dull sound, as of something rebound- 
 ing from ledge to ledge. When I looked up again 
 he lay there, as you see him in the picture, dead 
 — dead, within a few yards of my feet ! " 
 
 I covered my eyes with my hands, and shuddered. 
 
 " What did you do then? " I asked, after a long 
 pause. 
 
 " I went down, somehow, like one half-asleep, 
 and found the old man cleaning his gun before liis 
 cottage-door. I cannot remember what I said. I 
 only know that we went up the mountain together, 
 Loizet, Jean, Jacques, and I, and that it was sun- 
 set when we reached the fatal spot. Then we 
 bound our Alpine staves together, and bore the 
 corpse down into the village. That was three or 
 four years ago, Barbara ; and his grave was quite 
 green when I saw it last." 
 
 As he spoke these words, his voice sank almost 
 to a whisper and he laid his head back wearily. I 
 sat still, thinking of the story I had heard, and 
 
 VOL. T. M
 
 1G2 Barbara's history. 
 
 wondering wliy and wlien he added the figures to 
 the sketch. After a few moments, he came to it of 
 his own accord, and said — 
 
 " The scene of that accident haunted me, Bar- 
 bara, for months. I had it always before my eyes, 
 and I dreamt of it nearly every night; so one day 
 I took out my sketch and put all the figures in, as 
 you see them. I thought it might take away some- 
 thing of the vividness of the impression — transfer 
 it, in fact, from my brain to the paper. And it 
 did. I thought less and less of it from that time, 
 and at last it faded altogether. Now hide the pic- 
 ture away. I had rather not see it again." . 
 
 I obeyed ; gathered all the drawings into a folio; 
 and crept back to my old place. To crouch there 
 by the hour together, with no other occupation than 
 now and then to fetch his medicine, or find the book 
 he wished for, or peel his oranges, made me the 
 happiest of creatures! Hugh had now resumed 
 his paper, and we were silent for a long time. 
 Presently the door opened, and Tippoo came in, 
 with two cards on a salver. 
 
 " Lady Bayham and Lady Flora Percivale are 
 at the door. Sahib," he said. " They wish to know 
 if you are yet able to receive visitors." 
 
 Hugh looked at the cards, hesitated, and seemed 
 as if he knew not how to answer. 
 
 " I had not intended to see anyone," said
 
 barbaka's history. 163 
 
 he, " till I could get down to the rooms below." 
 
 " I can say that the Sahib has not yet left his 
 chamber," said Tippoo, moving away. Hugh 
 stopped him with a gesture. 
 
 " No, no," he exclaimed. " Tell them I re- 
 gret ... no, that I hope . . . Pshaw^ ! that won't do 
 — and they have called so often, too. Wheel the 
 easy chair round to the fire, and put that medicine 
 out of sight, and say that if they do not mind an 
 extra flight of stairs, Mr. Farquhar will have the 
 honour of receiving them ! ' Lord Warwick, on 
 thy shoulder will I lean', — come, Barbara, I am 
 not going to be found on the sofa, anyhow !" 
 
 To help him across the room and put the table 
 in order, was the work of a moment. As the ladies 
 were announced, he steadied himself by the arm of 
 the chair, and rose to welcome them. 
 
 I recognised Lady Bayham immediately. She 
 had been one of the guests at the dinner-party, and 
 even there, in the presence of many younger 
 women, I was struck by her exceeding loveliness. 
 Dark, queenly, rich-complexioned, like her daughter, 
 she had probably been even more beautiful than 
 Lady Flora at Lady Flora's age. Standing thus, 
 side by side, it would have been difficult, even now, 
 to say which was the most fascinating. 
 
 " Alas, Mr. Farquhar," said Lady Flora, when 
 the first greetings were spoken, ^' I have never for- 
 
 M 2
 
 104 Barbara's history. 
 
 given myself — never forgotten that I was tlie un- 
 happy cause of all your suffering I" 
 
 "You ought never to have blamed yourself," 
 replied Hugh, smilingly. " The fault, if fault there 
 were, was mine only. Since, however, it has pro- 
 cured me the pleasure of this visit, I will not be 
 so ungrateful as to regret even your remorse. You 
 are very good to come up all these stairs to see me." 
 
 "It is a cheerful room for an invalid," said 
 Lady Bayham, looking round observantly, " and 
 has a quaint old-fashioned aspect, as if you had 
 stolen it out of Kensington Palace, or furnished it 
 after an interior by Hogarth." 
 
 " As a question of date. Lady Bayham," said 
 Hugh, " your discrimination is perfect. This room 
 was my grandfather's ^closet,' and he still occupies it 
 in effigy. Yonder hangs his portrait. All that you 
 sec here was of his purchasing. He was a disciple 
 of Horace Walpole and Beckford — a lover of 
 ugly china, and a worshipper of idols. These were 
 his favourite authors ; some few old Romans, but 
 mostly his contemporaries — Sterne, Fielding, 
 Richardson, Thompson, and so forth. The room 
 is fairly illustrative of the taste of that time. It 
 became, after his death, my father's own peculiar 
 den, and . . . ." 
 
 " And is now yours," interrupted Lady Flora. 
 " Are you an idol-worshipper, also ?"
 
 bakbara's history. 165 
 
 Hugh shook his head, and smiled. 
 
 " We all have our fetishes/' he said ; " but I 
 believe that mine are few. Old china, at all 
 events, is not one of them." 
 
 " I wish I knew them, few as they are," said 
 Lady Flora, musingly ; " but I see nothing here 
 which might serve to indicate them." 
 
 " If you would discover my tastes, you must first 
 discover my sanctuniy^ said Hugh, " and that, 
 Lady Flora, lies beyond your ken." 
 
 " Ah, you have a sanctum also ?" 
 
 "The holiest of holies." 
 
 "Where lies it?" 
 
 "That is a secret known only to Tippoo and 
 myself." 
 
 " A blue closet ! Oh, delightful ! We will go 
 in search of it, while you are too ill to prevent us." 
 
 '^ Inutile ! This old house is a wilderness, full 
 of dark corners, subtle staircases, and 'passages 
 that lead to nothing.' You would only get lost, 
 like Ginevra." 
 
 "That you might discover my skeleton, fifty 
 years to come, and put it in a glass case for the 
 world to wonder at ! Mr. Farquhar, you are an 
 agreeable prophet." 
 
 " Nay, the conclusion is your own." 
 
 '^ Allons, Sieur de Broomhill ! do you defy me 
 to discover your retreat ?"
 
 166 Barbara's history. 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! I believe that you would 
 then leave no stone unturned, and no door untried, 
 till you had succeeded ! I have too much respect 
 for my own peace of mind ever to cast my gaimtlet 
 at a lady." 
 
 "Mr. Farquhar is a wise soldier," said Lady 
 Bayham, with a languid smile, " and knows discre- 
 tion to be the better part of valour. That is a 
 charming head over the mantelpiece, and painted, 
 if I mistake not, by Sir Thomas Lawrence." 
 
 " You are right, madam," replied Hugh, " Sir 
 Thomas Lawrence's brush, and none other." 
 
 " Indeed, an exquisite head. What a touch ! 
 what colouring!" 
 
 "And what a subject! Really, mamma, you 
 might spare some of your admiration for the 
 nature on which this art has been bestowed . I 
 never saw a more bewitching expression, or more 
 speaking eyes! Who was this lady, Mr. Farquhar?" 
 
 "That lady," said Hugh, seriously, "was my 
 mother." 
 
 Both visitors uttered an exclamation, and rose 
 to examine it more nearly. 
 
 " I have seen Mrs. Farquhar many times," said 
 Lady Bayham, after a brief silence ; " but she was 
 older than this, and much altered. She had bad 
 health, I believe, for some years before she died ?" 
 
 Hugh bent his head, and looked pained.
 
 Barbara's history. 167 
 
 "Powder, too, was quite gone out before I 
 ^larried, and it was not till I came dow^n here with 
 my husband that I ever'met your mother. Fashion, 
 Mr. Farquhar — fashion, and a few years more or 
 less, make all the difference to our sex !" 
 
 At any other time, and apropos of any other 
 topic, Hugh would probably have made the polite 
 speech which her ladyship expected ; but he con- 
 tented himself with another bow, and silence. 
 Lady Flora bit her handsome lip, and flashed a 
 warning glance at her mother ; but it was of no use. 
 Her ladyship was obtuse, and went on scrutinising 
 the picture through her eyeglass. 
 
 '' The eyes, Mr. Farquhar, are like yours," she 
 said. "The eyes and chin — but I see no other 
 resemblance. She was more like you when older. 
 You must have been young wdien she died. I 
 should think you hardly remember her ?" 
 
 " I remember her, madam," said Hugh, with a 
 mixed grief and impatience in his voice, " more 
 distinctly than I remember the events and people 
 of a year ago. So distinctly that the subject is 
 inexpressibly painful to me. Lady Flora, you 
 have travelled, I think, in Italy — these sketches 
 may, perhaps, interest you. Barbara mia, place 
 the folio on the table." 
 
 I obeyed, and her ladyship, looking at me for 
 the first time, asked who I w^as. He drew me
 
 1 C)S Barbara's history. 
 
 fondly to his side, and kissed nie on the forehead 
 before replying. 
 
 " Her name is Barbara," said he, keeping his 
 arm round me. "Barbara Churchill ; and a very 
 formidable little damsel she is. Descended from 
 no less a person than the great Duke of Marl- 
 borough, and mighty proud of it, also !" 
 
 Lady Flora smiled, raised her eyebrows, said 
 " Ah, in-deed ! " and became absorbed in the 
 folio. Hugh, however, went on, without seeming 
 to care whether she were interested or not. 
 
 "It was to this little girl," said he, " that I first 
 showed my Paul Veronese — nay, more, it was to 
 ])lease her that I first had the packing-case opened 
 in which it came from Venice. She is a great 
 connoisseur, Lady Flora ; a reader of parliamen- 
 tary debates; a player of whist, piquet, and ecarte; 
 and, besides all this, my most especial friend, 
 nurse, playmate, and companion. Upon my 
 honour, I don't know what I should do without 
 her. She has been my right hand ever since my 
 illness — ay, and my left, too, for that matter !" 
 
 Lady Flora looked up at this and expressed her- 
 self " immensely interested," while Lady Bayham 
 honoured me with such a long, cool, supercilious 
 stare, that I felt myself grow red and hot, and 
 knew not where to look. 
 
 "If your hatreds be as determined as your
 
 Barbara's history. 169 
 
 friendships are enthusiastic, Mr. Farquhar," said 
 she, " I should be sorry to offend you. Is your 
 2^rotegee a paragon ?" 
 
 He turned and took me by the hand. 
 
 "There is but one Barbara," said he gaily, "and 
 Hugh Farquhar is her Trumpeter ! Lady Flora, that 
 sketch of an ItaHan vintage was done near Naples, 
 where the famous Lagrima Christi is grown — a 
 wine of which travellers talk more than they taste; 
 for very little is made, even in the most favourable 
 seasons. Mignonne^ run down to Mrs. Fairhead 
 for me, and desire her to send up a bottle of that 
 old Lagrima with the yellow seal — ^nay, I will take 
 no refusal, fair guest. Duly to appreciate my 
 sketch, you must drink of the vintage which in- 
 spired it. 'Tis but an illustration of an illustra- 
 tion !" 
 
 Delighted to escape, I hastened from the room 
 and bounded down the stairs. At the foot of the 
 second flight, I came face to face with my aunt, 
 who, with the privileged freedom of an intimate, 
 was going up unannounced. 
 
 " Well, Bab," said she, " Fve come to fetch you 
 home. How is he ?" 
 
 " Lady Bayham is there," said I, " and Lady 
 Flora." 
 
 " Lady Bayham and Lady Flora !" echoed my 
 aunt, sharply. " Mercy on us ! the man^s hardly
 
 170 
 
 saved from liis grave yet, and they're here, hus- 
 band-hunting, already ! / won't go up. They're 
 none of my sort .... a poor, proud, pretentious, 
 scheming lot, without even ancestors to fall back 
 upon ! If he marries that w^oman, I'll never for- 
 give him." 
 
 " Marries her !" I repeated, with a strange sink- 
 ing ajt my heart. 
 
 " Gracious goodness !" continued my aunt, 
 working herself up and getting very angiy in- 
 deed, " she's thirty, if she's a day, and lias been 
 on hand these thirteen years, in spite of her* fine 
 eyes and her flirtations ! I knew what they were 
 after, sending, and calling, and leaving their 
 trumpery coroneted cards every day ! She hasn't 
 a farthing, either — not a farthing. Bayham's 
 over head and ears in debt — every acre mortgaged, 
 and every tree ! Aha, Lady Flora ! Broomhill 
 would suit your ladyship pretty well, even though 
 it belongs to a commoner. There was a time, too, 
 w^hen you wouldn't look at a commoner ! Pshaw, 
 Bab, Pve no patience with them. Let's go home, 
 child." 
 
 " You won't go away without seeing Hugh !" I 
 exclaimed, almost ready to cry. 
 
 " Why not ? He has his grand friends with him." 
 
 " But he'd rather see you than all the grand 
 friends in the world !"
 
 Barbara's history. 171 
 
 " I'm not so sure of that," said my aunt ; molli- 
 fied, but unwilling to seem so. 
 
 At this moment, his bell was runcr impatiently. 
 I had forgotten all about the Lagrima Ohristi ! 
 To fly past my aunt without a word of explanation, 
 fulfil my errand, and run back again, panting and 
 breathless, was the work of a few seconds. But I 
 had remembered it too late. Before the last vi- 
 brations of the bell had died away, I heard the 
 rustling of their silks on the stairs ; and, looking 
 up, saw them already coming down. Mj aunt 
 muttered something which was certainly no com- 
 pliment, and turned away abruptly. I, taken by 
 surprise, stepped aside, and knew not whether to 
 go or stay. Lady Bayham swept by, dignified and 
 unconscious ; but Lady Flora paused, and graci- 
 ously extended the tips of her fingers. 
 
 " Good-bye, little girl," said she. " What is your 
 old-fashioned name? Tabitha — Dorothea — Pa- 
 mela f 
 
 ^' Neither," I replied coldly. "I am called Bar- 
 bara." 
 
 "xlh, true — Barbara. Well, good-bye, Barbara. 
 When Mr. Farquhar is better, he shall bring you 
 some day to Ashley Park, to see me." 
 
 And with this she nodded and passed on, not 
 without a prolonged stare at my aunt, who was, 
 apparently, intent upon a painting at the further
 
 172 Barbara's history. 
 
 end of tlie corridor. No sooner ^vere they gone 
 than Mrs. Sandyshaft came striding back, very 
 red and excited. 
 
 " I like that!" said she. " Mr. Farquhar * shall' 
 bring you .... she answers for him already, hey ? 
 You shan't go, Bab. I'll not hear of it — I'll not 
 allow it. An artful designing flirt ! If I had my 
 w^ill, she should never enter these doors again. I 
 repeat it, if he marries that woman I'll never for- 
 give him ! " 
 
 Whereupon, being very indignant, my aunt took 
 three or four turns along the corridor to cool her- 
 self, and then went up two stairs at a time. As 
 for me, sorrowful and unsettled, I wandered about 
 below, wondering if Hugh would really maiTy 
 Lady Flora some day, and thinking how sad a 
 change it would make for me.
 
 173 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE SILVER RING. 
 
 Hugh Farquhar was a long time getting well. 
 Struck down wlien the snow lay on the ground, he 
 was not able to mount his horse again till the prim- 
 roses lay clustered at the roots of the old oaks in 
 the woods. His first ride was to Stoney croft Hall 
 — his second to Ashley Park. It seemed natural 
 to conclude, since his health was so far re-esta- 
 blished, that our intercourse would be firmer, more 
 frequent, more intimate than ever. It was now his 
 turn to repay my aunt's long kindness — to drop in, 
 as of old — to chat and squabble, and play piquet of an 
 evening, and renew, with interest, all the pleasant 
 meetings of long ago. And yet, from this time we 
 saw less of him. He was no longer a stranger in the 
 county ; and we were not, as formerly, his only 
 friends. Now that he was better, visitors and in-
 
 174 Barbara's history. 
 
 vitations poured in ii])oii liini ; and, tliough he 
 cared little for society, he lovx'd sport too well to 
 decline the last hunting parties of the season. Still 
 this was not all. A certain uneasy sense of change 
 came over the spirit of our intercourse. Some- 
 thing of the old genial feeling was gone, and things 
 were no longer quite the same. I believe, after 
 all, that it was Mrs. Sandyshaft's own fault, and 
 that from first to last she had but herself to blame. 
 She had made up her mind that he should not like 
 Lady Flora too well ; and she could not, for her 
 life, forbear to taunt him with the pride, ]:»overty, 
 and matrimonial designs of the Bayham family. 
 She could scarcely have done anything more inju- 
 dicious. He liked these people tolerably well, 
 visited somewhat frequently at Ashley Park, and 
 w^as received there as a welcome guest. What was 
 it to him if Lord Bayham were in debt ? His din- 
 ners were none the less pleasant, and his port 
 tasted none the worse. Lady Flora might be thirty 
 and a flirt ; but she amused him, and he could en- 
 joy her society without incurring the peine forte et 
 dure of either courtship or matrimony. When 
 first attacked by my aunt's petulent sarcasms, he 
 laughed, and parried them. When he found them 
 persistently levelled at himself, he grew weary. 
 By and by, seeing the same thing persevered in, 
 he became impatient. Thus it happened that
 
 bakbaea's history. 175 
 
 bitter things were sometimes said ; that argument 
 too often approached the confines of disagreement ; 
 and the old times never came back. 
 
 I missed him — oh, how I missed him! Latterly, 
 as he was recovering from his illness, Broomhill 
 had become almost another home to me ! I was 
 there nearly every day. I knew where to find his 
 favourite books ; how to fill his pipe ; which 
 flowers he liked best; when to be silent; and when 
 to talk to him. Sometimes I almost wished that 
 he could remain thus for ever, that I might for 
 ever wait on him. Now, however, my occupation 
 was gone, and I found myself forgotten. Let it 
 not be thought that I blame him for it. I was but 
 a childish handmaiden, and held but a childish 
 claim upon him. He had all my heart, and gave 
 me for it a kind word now and then ; a stray caress ; 
 a passing thought when he had nothing else to 
 think of. To him I was something less than a 
 pastime — to me he was something more than my 
 life. What wonder, then, that I grew pale and 
 thin, and drooped like a neglected plant ? 
 
 " Bab, you don't walk enough," said my aunt 
 one warm spring morning. " You've lost all your 
 colour, and you eat next to nothing. This won't 
 do. Put on your bonnet, and lay in a stock of 
 oxygen directly." 
 
 I obeyed, and took the path to the woods. To
 
 17G 
 
 reach them, I passed first through a large field 
 where a single ploughman was driving fragrant 
 furrows in the rich red earth, and then through a 
 hop-garden, gaunt with poles, around which the 
 young plants were just twining their first tendrils. 
 Then over a high stile, and into the shade of the 
 woods. 
 
 What words of mine shall describe the peaceful 
 beauty of the place that day ? The sky was grey 
 and low, and there was a soft air abroad, heavy 
 with gathered odours of May-blossom and wild 
 hyacinths. The close young leaves made a sylvan 
 roof above, and steeped eveiy vista in a green and 
 dreamy gloom. The birds sang to distraction in 
 the uppermost boughs. The clouds met every 
 now and then, and melted into a warm and gentle 
 shower. In some places the ground was all golden 
 with primroses, and in others the banks were so 
 blue with hyacinths that no artist would have dared 
 to paint them. By-and-by, I came to an open 
 space carpeted with springy turf, in the midst of 
 which stood a gamekeeper's cottage and a group 
 of horse-chestnuts covered with white blossoms. 
 Here a bloodhound sprang out of his kennel, 
 straining to the full length of his chain, and bark- 
 ing at me till I turned aside into the close paths 
 again, and wandered out of sight. Now I chanced 
 upon a spot where the wood-cutters had lately been
 
 Barbara's history. 177 
 
 at work. They had left the saw half buried in 
 the stem of one tall beech, and another lay felled 
 and stripped beside it, like the skeleton of the 
 giant Pagan, in the Pilgrim's Progress. Presently 
 a tiny brown squirrel darted by, and ran up a 
 larch-tree ; and, farther on, I saw a pheasant stalk- 
 ing through the faded ferns. Here it was more 
 silent, more solitary, more sylvan than ever. I 
 sat down to rest on an old mossy stump, listen- 
 ing to the silence and to those sounds that make 
 such silence deeper. Now and then I heard the 
 cuckoo's two sad notes ; and, nearer, the cooing of 
 a wood-pigeon. 
 
 " How" pleasant it would be," thought I, " to live 
 here in a thatched cottage with roses growing over 
 the door, and drink new milk and eat wdld straw- 
 berries every day ! But then it should be always 
 summer-time; and one would want to know the 
 language of the birds, like the Prince in the fairy- 
 tale !" 
 
 And then I remembered that Hugh had told me 
 that story — told it to me one morning with his arm 
 about my waist and his pale cheek resting languidly 
 against a pillow .... and this remembrance brought 
 tears with it. It is sometimes a luxury to shed 
 tears ; and to-day, in this balmy solitude, w^ith the 
 last slow drops of the passing shower yet falling 
 around me, it was both sad and sweet to weep. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of the stillness, and so 
 close that it seemed to come from behind the tree 
 against which I was sitting, I heard the crack of a 
 rifle ! At the same instant something hissed past 
 my ear ; a small bird fluttered to my feet ; a dog 
 and a man came crashing through the underwood ; 
 a well-known voice cried — ^'^ly God! I might 
 have killed her !" — and I found myself clasped in 
 Hugh Farquhar's arms; safe, frightened, trem- 
 bling, but very happy. 
 
 For the first few moments he was even more 
 agitated than myself. Then he flung away his 
 gun, sat down upon the broken tree-stump, held 
 me at arm's length, and looked in my eyes till his 
 own grew dim. 
 
 " Oh, Barbara — little Barbara!" said he, tenderly. 
 " What should I have done if I had harmed thee ?" 
 
 I nestled closer to him ; and, for answer, laid 
 my cheek down on his shoulder. 
 
 " I marvel,'* he went on, " that the ball spared 
 thee, deary. See where it grazed the bark yonder ; 
 and see where the woodcock lies — why, it must 
 have sped within an inch of thy head !" 
 
 " I heard something whistle by," I said, shud- 
 deringly ; " but it all happened so quickly that I 
 had no time for fear." 
 
 He kissed me on the forehead, and w^as silent 
 after this for several minutes.
 
 Barbara's history. 179 
 
 " It must be three weeks since I saw thee last, 
 mignonne,'' said he, at length. " How the time slips 
 through one's fingers !" 
 
 " It has seemed very slow to me, Hugh." 
 
 " Because you are young, happy, unoccupied — 
 because life is fresh to you — because you count 
 by impressions, instead of deeds. Tush, child, the 
 sands will run fast enough by-and-by ! Too fast 
 —too fast !" 
 
 "Why <oo fast?" 
 
 " Because the world is a mighty pleasant place, 
 and one would like thoroughly to enjoy it ! Think 
 of all the books that we must leave unread, all 
 the pictures we must leave unseen, all the coun- 
 tries, people, sciences, experiences which we must 
 forego for want of time to know them ! I hate to 
 be hurried, Barbara mm, — especially by that re- 
 lentless old gentleman who carries the hour-glass 
 and scythe !" 
 
 The dog, which had all this time been snuffing 
 the fallen woodcock, now took it in his mouth, 
 brought it gravely up, and laid it at his master's 
 feet. A strange flash of expression passed over 
 Hugh'Farquhar's face. 
 
 " Pompey," said he, " what have I done, oh, 
 most satirical of puppies! that thou shoulds't rebuke 
 me thus ? Lo ! my very dog cuts jokes upon me, 
 and turns up his tail in contempt of my philoso- 
 
 n2
 
 ISO barbara'^s history. 
 
 pliy ! Pompey, I confess it. I am a humbug — 
 an egotist— a base, one-sided casuist ! I love life ; 
 I grumble at death — and I slioot woodcocks ! 'Tis 
 Wordsworth who bids us 
 
 ' Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.' 
 
 That's very good poetry, and better morality — ^yet 
 Wordsworth ate game, like many a worse man." 
 
 All this was said mockingly, sadly, abstractedly, 
 more to himself than to me. Having spoken, he 
 paused with his chin in his hand, and sat for a 
 long time, looking at the dog and the bird. His 
 attitude was meditative, liis complexion paler than 
 before his illness, his expression more than usually 
 thoughtful. I crouched by, looking at him, listen- 
 ing to him, treasuring up every syllable. Con- 
 sidering all things, I followed tlie intention of his 
 words more nearly than might have been expected. 
 
 " Petite,'' said he suddenly, " when you don't see 
 me for three weeks or a month together, do you 
 ever think of me?" 
 
 "Think of you, Hugh!" I faltered. I did not 
 dare to tell him that I thought of nothing else. 
 
 He laughed, and passed his hand over my hair. 
 
 " If I were to go away again," he said, " you 
 would forget me." 
 
 '^ Never, Hugh ! Never, so long as I live." 
 
 Startled by the earnestness of my voice, he
 
 bakbara's history. 181 
 
 turned half round, took my head between his two 
 hands, and looked at me. 
 
 " My child ! my little friend !" said he wonder- 
 ingly. " Why, what a pale face is this !" 
 
 I tried to smile; but the effort was too much for 
 me. I felt my lip quiver and my eyes fill up, and 
 so dropped my head upon his knee, and sobbed 
 aloud. 
 
 '^ You — you won't go away, will you?" I cried 
 passionately. " You won't go away — or — or marry 
 Lady Flora?" 
 
 "Marry Lady Flora!" he repeated quickly. 
 " What put that into your head? Who says it? 
 Nay, child, I will know!" 
 
 " Everybody." 
 
 " And who is everybody, pray?" 
 
 " I — I don't know — Doctor Topham told us 
 that . . . that everybody says so. Please, Hugh, 
 don't be angry — I — I am so sorry; but it's qui:e 
 true." 
 
 " Is it, by Jove?" exclaimed he, starting angrily 
 to his feet, and striding to and fro. " What an 
 obliging world it is, and how flattering is the inte- 
 rest with which it dives into one's private affairs!" 
 
 I saw that he was vexed, and so held my tongue 
 and tried to subdue the sobs that kept rising in my 
 throat. 
 
 Presently he came and stood before me.
 
 182 Barbara's history. 
 
 '^ Upon my soul, Barbara," said he, with a bitter 
 laugh, " I think I had better marry you, and stop 
 tlic people's mouths that way! What say you? 
 Will you be my little wife seven years to come?" 
 
 I knew it was a jest; and yet I felt my heart 
 beat, and my cheeks grow scarlet. 
 
 " You don't mean it," said I ; " and if you 
 did " 
 
 '' Oh, but I do mean it, though," returned he. 
 " Put your hand in mine, and say ^ Hugh Far- 
 quhar, seven years hence, when I am old enough, 
 I will marry you.' Come, that's easy enough!" 
 
 I trembled from head to foot. I longed to say 
 it, but dared not. He sat down, still laughing, 
 drew me on his knee, and began disengaging a 
 curious silver ring from a variety of seals and other 
 trifles that hung at his watchguard. 
 
 " See now," said he, " I mean to betroth you 
 \^'ith all due form and ceremony. This is an ugly 
 thing ; but a curiosity. I got it from an Arab in 
 the desert near the Dead Sea, and gave him my 
 penknife in exchange for it. Now, Barbara mia, 
 say the words I told you, and you shall have the 
 Arab's ring." 
 
 Seeing that I still hesitated, he went through 
 the sentence again, and I repeated it after him, 
 whisperingly and with averted face. 
 
 " Lady, by yonder blessed moon, \ swear," said
 
 Barbara's history. 183 
 
 he, placing the ring with mock solemnity on the 
 third finger of my left hand, " that tips, most ap- 
 propriately, with Arabic silver all these fruit-tree 
 
 tops unfortunately the moon is absent just 
 
 now, on a visit to our antipodes ; but we can do 
 without it on the present occasion ! Now kiss me, 
 Barbarina, and promise not to say a word of this 
 to anybody." 
 
 I gave the promise readily. 
 
 '' Corpo di Bacco!^^ said he, "now I'll give 
 ^everybody' something to gossip about! I'll pro- 
 claim that I am an engaged man . . . what a joke ! 
 what a mystery! what a test! By Jupiter, if the 
 Bayhams have any design . . . ." 
 
 He paused ; put me gently aside ; rose ; and 
 again paced backwards and forwards, his eyes 
 fixed on the ground, and his hands clasped behind 
 his back. Coming back presently to where I was 
 standing he saw me still occupied with the ring. 
 
 " You cannot wear it, migfionne" he said. " It is 
 twice too large for your little slender finger." 
 
 " But I want to wear it, Hugh. Always to 
 wear it." 
 
 " Do you ? Nay, then, you shall have my guard, 
 and carry it round your neck, like a locket. Do 
 you see those curious characters engraved upon it? 
 They are Arabic letters, and spell the name of 
 Allah. So — that's capitally contrived. Now re-
 
 184 Barbara's history. 
 
 member, Barbara, if any one sees it, or asks you 
 about it, say I oave it to you — not a word more or 
 less." 
 
 It was a tiny elastic guard, no thicker than a 
 thread, and, having attached the ring to it, he put 
 it witli his own hands round my neck. 
 
 ^•Lifc is made up," said lie, "of curious chances. 
 I began by nearly shooting you this morning, little 
 one, and I have ended by . . . Pshaw ! a betrothal 
 is better than a bullet, anyhow ! Seven years — 
 seven short, long, pleasant, miserable years. How 
 much taller do you mean to be by then, Barbara ? 
 ' Just as high as my heart,' as Orlando saith of 
 Rosalind ? Why, body o' me ! how seriously the 
 darling takes it ! Pale one minute, red another, 
 and trembling like a frightened fawn. Come, this 
 won't do, Barbara. Cheer up, and bid me good- 
 bye ; for I have brought down but this one bird 
 to-day, and I must offer up more sacrifices to Cupid 
 before I go home." 
 
 I forced a smile, and put up my face to kiss 
 him. 
 
 " Good-bye, Hugh," I said. " When are you 
 coming again ? " 
 
 " I'll come — let me see . . . I'm engaged for two 
 days — three days this week, and to-day is Mon- 
 day. Well, petitey I'll come on Friday." 
 
 I flushed all over with delight.
 
 Barbara's history. 185 
 
 " Will you, really ? " I asked, with my whole 
 heart on my lips. 
 
 " I will, really. Now go home before the next 
 shower comes up. Adieu, my lady-love." 
 
 And with this he pressed liis lips once again to 
 my cheek, bagged the woodcock, whistled to Pom- 
 pey, shouldered his gun, and, with a last wave of 
 the hand, plunged into the copse and disappeared. 
 
 I sat there a long time — long enough for the 
 shower to come and go, and the shadows percep- 
 tibly to shift upon the grass. Once I heard the 
 distant echo of his gun ; but I remember only 
 that, and the strange, vague, dreamy wonder with 
 which I sat looking at the ring. He had asked me 
 to be his " little wife " seven years to come. Was 
 he not both in jest and in earnest ? What did it all 
 mean, and how was it to end ? 
 
 By and by I adjusted the chain in such a man- 
 ner that no one could observe it, and went home. 
 The day thus went by, slowly, deliciously, like a 
 perplexed but happy dream ; and that night I fell 
 asleep with the ring clasped tightly in my hand, 
 and that name that he had given me yet lingering 
 on my lips.
 
 186 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE ROUNDING OF THE YEAR. 
 
 *' Adieu, mes beaux joui-s I" — Maiue Stuaut. 
 
 The Friday morning came — the morning of the 
 day on which Hugh had promised to caU. I had 
 been conscious of it all night, in my dreams ; and 
 now, as the first sunbeams touched my window- 
 panes, I woke, knowing that the weary days of wait- 
 ing had gone by, and I should see him soon again. 
 The morning was brilliant, mistless, and crim- 
 son towards the East. It was yet very early ; for 
 yonder, across a field just opposite the house, went 
 the labourers to their work. Although it was not yet 
 time, I rose and dressed, opened the casement, and 
 leaned out into the fresli air to gather a few leaves 
 from the myrtle tliat clustered without. Reaching 
 forward thus, bathing my head in the sunshine
 
 baebara's history. 187 
 
 and my little white arms in the dew of the dark 
 leaves, it occurred to me all at once that this was 
 the month of May again, and that I had been here 
 just one year. 
 
 Yes, a year, a whole year, during which I had 
 beheld all the changes of nature ; seen the green 
 things flourish and die, and be born again ; wit- 
 nessed the fading of the frost and the falling of 
 the snow; and watched how the morning sun 
 varied in his rising as the months rolled on. It 
 seemed but yesterday when yonder dusky fallow 
 was yellow with corn — when the oak beside the 
 pond wore a brief livery of scarlet and gold — when 
 the blackberries lay thick in the hedge, and the 
 dead leaves rotted in the lanes. What a happy year, 
 and how quickly it had flown ! I liad heard little 
 from London all this time. A formal letter was 
 once or twice exchanged between my father and my 
 aunt; but excepting that my sisters were well, that 
 Miss Whymper continued as usual to teach them, 
 and that dear old Goody always sent her love, I 
 knew nothing of my home or its inmates. I fear 
 I had not much thought or care to know more. 
 Happy and unrestrained, I only desired to stay 
 here for ever. 
 
 " Ahi ! con che affetto amore e 11 ciel pregai 
 Che fosse eterno si dolce soggiorno ! 
 
 By and by, finding that as yet there was no one
 
 188 Barbara's history. 
 
 stirrino- in the house, I got a book, curled myself 
 u\) in tlie embrasure of the window, and began to 
 read. I remember the book as well as possible — 
 it was Dodsley's translation of Boccaccio, and the 
 story was Griselda — but I also remember that I 
 could not keep my attention to the tale ; that my 
 thoughts wandered away to Hugh Farquhar and 
 my hands to the silver ring, and that I fell into a 
 long dream from which I was at last aroused by 
 the swinging of the garden-gate, and the halting 
 tread of the lame postman on the gravel walk. 
 Seeing me at the window, he touched his cap and 
 smiled, then left the letters in the porch, and hob- 
 bled away again with his leathern satchel swing- 
 ing at his side. I watched him to the turn of the 
 road, and then, knowing by this time the house- 
 hold must be a\A'ake and stirring, w^ent downstairs. 
 I found my aunt in the breakfast ])arlour. She 
 was standing at the window with her back towards 
 me, and an open letter in her hand. An indefin- 
 able something in her attitude, in the way that she 
 kept her head turned from me, struck me the 
 moment I went in. I was about to speak ; but 
 hesitated and stood still. She then folded the 
 letter up, slowly and deliberately, and came over 
 to the breakfast-table. Silently I took my ac- 
 customed seat in the great carved chair opposite. 
 I felt that something was wrong. I saw that she
 
 bakbara's history. 189 
 
 * 
 was pale, and that her hand trembled. She laid 
 
 the letter beside her plate. I could not see the 
 writing ; but the seal looked like my father's, 
 large, round, and firm, with showy armorial bear- 
 ings. 
 
 A weary quarter of an hour went by, during 
 which I ate little,- and my aunt nothing. Now 
 and then she cast a troubled glance at the letter ; 
 but she only once lifted her eyes to my face. 
 Had I done anything to offend her ? 
 
 The silence became oppressive, and seemed all 
 the more intolerable for the sunshine and splen- 
 dour of the outer day. The hall was flooded with 
 a golden light, and the pleasant farm-house sounds 
 came mingled with the singing of the birds. Oh, 
 how I longed to be out in the free air, and what a 
 relief it was when my aunt pushed back her chair 
 and said: — 
 
 " Bab, I have letters to write this morning, and 
 must be alone. Go out and amuse yourself till ten 
 o'clock." 
 
 Welcome permission ! To call the dogs, tie on 
 my broad-brimmed country hat, and dance away, 
 revelling like a butterfly in the sun, was for me 
 but the work of a few seconds. Down the 
 " chequered shade " of the green lanes ; across the 
 meadow, yellow with buttercups; through the 
 churchyard where the vicar's old grey cob was
 
 190 
 
 grazing ; up tlie drift where the liay which they 
 had been carting late the night before was yet 
 clinging to the hedges on either side ; over more 
 meadows and through more lanes we went, and 
 thus came back towards home so warm and weary 
 that 1 was glad to sit down, at last, under the 
 shadow of a clump of young alders, and rest till it 
 was lime to go in. 
 
 " Cuckoo !" intoned the messenger of summer, 
 from a copse close by; and then I remembered 
 the old German superstition, and said to myself — 
 " Yes, I shall be here next year ! I shall still be 
 here, and I shall still be happy !" 
 
 Presently the church clock far away chimed the 
 three-quarters, and I went home. My aunt was 
 waiting for me at the gate. She shaded her eyes 
 with her hand when she saw me coming, and 
 looked at me earnestly. 
 
 *' Come here, Bab," said she, stalking up the 
 path before me, and taking her seat in the porch. 
 " Come and sit here. I have something to say to 
 you." 
 
 I sat down, my heart fluttering with a vague 
 apprehension ; and my aunt presently began. 
 
 " Your father and I have been writing to one 
 another lately, Bab," said she. " Our correspon- 
 dence is over now, however. I had a letter from 
 him this morning, and I've answered it, and sent
 
 Barbara's history. 191 
 
 my answer to the post ; and there it ends. What 
 do you suppose we have been w^ritino- about ?" 
 
 I shook my head. How should I know what 
 they had been writing about ? 
 
 " Well, Bab, we've been writing about you." 
 
 "About me?" 
 
 " Yes, and as you must know the issue of it, it 
 is only right that you should also know the fore- 
 goings. I wrote first, Bab. I wrote to ask your 
 father to leave you with me alw^ays. You have 
 been here a year, Bab, and, somehow, I have got 
 used to you — like to have you about me — believe 
 you to be a true child, and . . . and fancy 'you 
 have some kind of love for me, old and disagreeable 
 as I am. Hush ! not a word. Listen to me 
 patiently ; for I have more to tell you. Well, 
 Bab, I wrote to your father and told him some- 
 thing of this. I offered to bring you up, educate 
 you, and be a mother to you. I never had a child 
 of my own, and I should have liked to keep you 
 while I live, provided you were willing, Bab — 
 always provided you were willing." 
 
 " Willing !" I repeated, with clasped hands and 
 tear-filled eyes. " Willing !" 
 
 '^ Ay — willing — which I believe you would be. 
 Well, don't let's be foolish, child. There's more 
 to come. Your father answered my letter, and 
 said neither ' yes ' nor ' no ; ' but bargained with
 
 192 Barbara's history. 
 
 me, Bab — bargained witli me — tried to trade on 
 the love I bore you, and turn it to his profit! 
 Didn't I say it from the first? Didn't I guess it 
 from the first ? Didn't I tell you that I would be 
 your friend for life, but bid you count on nothing 
 — 'nothing — nothing at my death? Answer me, 
 child — do you remember it ?" 
 
 Trembling, I bent my head, but had no power 
 to speak. It frightened me to see her in these 
 moods, and I knew that this was, of all topics, the 
 one which moved her most. She rose and took a 
 turn or two outside the porch, looking strangely 
 angered and excited — then came back, resumed 
 her seat, and went on. 
 
 "Your father, Bab," said she, speaking very 
 calmly, but with a quivering undertone in her 
 voice, " is a very clever, worldly, calculating man 
 — a little too clever, sometimes, and a little too 
 worldly; apt to speculate over-far on other folks' 
 weaknesses ; apt to overreach himself, now and 
 then .... but no matter ! Now what do you 
 think your clever father proposed to sell you at — 
 eh, Bab ?" 
 
 " Sell me !" I exclaimed, the indignant blood 
 flushing all my face. " Sell me !" 
 
 " Ay, 'tis a rough word, but the right one, Bab 
 — chafe under it if you will ! He proposed — 
 listen to this — he proposed that I should not only
 
 Barbara's history. 193 
 
 keep, educate, and provide for you; but that I 
 should will my property to you and your two 
 sisters, share and share alike. Fancy that — share 
 and share alike !" 
 
 Dumb with shame, I could only clasp my hands 
 and hang my head. 
 
 "Well, the wonder is that I didn't tear his letter 
 into a hundred bits, and send them back by the next 
 post," said my aunt, getting excited again, but 
 striving hard to keep calm. " But no — I waited 
 two whole days, and thought it all out from be- 
 ginning to end before I answered it. What I 
 then said, Bab, I may as well tell you. I refused 
 his conditions point-blank. I would have nothing 
 to say to his two elder girls — they are nothing to 
 me, and always will be nothing. I refused to bind 
 myself by any promises, even on your account. 
 But I told him that if he left you here and trusted 
 to my justice and generosity, you should be no 
 loser at my death. What I meant by that is 
 neither here nor there, Bab. It might have been 
 all — it might have been half — at all events it 
 would have been enough ; but what I insisted on 
 was the trust ; and what I hate most in all the 
 world is to be dictated to !" 
 
 " Well — and his answer ?" I asked eagerly. 
 
 " Tush, Bab, let's make a long story short ! 
 We argued, and bai'gained, and wrote three or 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 
 
 four letters, and couldn't come to an agreement 
 anyhow. This morning I received what he is 
 pleased to call his ultimatum ; in which he dis- 
 tinctly states that I must either keep you on his 
 terms, or send you home. He counts on my love 
 for you — he believes that sooner than part from 
 you, I will consent to anything ! Well, to-morrow 
 morning he will have my answer. It's written, 
 and it's gone, and it's all over. Bab, I . . . . 
 I " 
 
 She paused, and her lip trembled. As for me, 
 I rose up, sat down, rose up again, and shook from 
 head to foot. 
 
 '^You won't send me away !" I cried. " You 
 — you won't send me away !" 
 
 " Bab," said she, with averted face, " your 
 mother was my favorite niece. I loved her dearly; 
 but she married against my will, and from the day 
 of her marriage I never looked upon her face 
 again. It cost me a deep sorrow; but I did it, and 
 I would have done it, had it cost me twenty times 
 that sorrow. Your father and I have been ene- 
 mies ever since, and our enmity will henceforth be 
 deeper than before. I cannot be his tool and play- 
 thing, Bab — I cannot, and I will not !" 
 
 " Still you won't send me away !" I repeated 
 with increasing agitation. " You won't, you can't 
 send me away !''
 
 Barbara's history. 195 
 
 She remained silent for a moment. Then, nerv- 
 ing herself to firmness, said : — 
 
 " You must go home, Bab. I have said it." 
 
 Go home ! The words struck upon my ear, but 
 bore no meaning with them. Stunned, despairing, 
 dumb, I stood before her, and neither spoke nor 
 wept. Presently she also rose, and turned as if to 
 go into the house ; but our eyes met, and she 
 paused with her hand on the latch. 
 
 " When ?" I whispered, rather than said. 
 
 She shook her head, and sighed heavily. 
 
 " When the coach comes by to-morrow," she re- 
 plied tremulously. " The sooner it's over the 
 better, Bab — the sooner the better !" 
 
 An involuntary cry of anguish escaped me, and 
 I sat down silently, looking at her. 
 
 " God help us, Bab !" said she ; then stooped, 
 kissed me hurriedly on both cheeks, and went into 
 the house. 
 
 Oh, the weary, weary day ! Oh, the heavy 
 liours — the dreary dinner-meeting — the heartache, 
 the languor of soul, the tears kept back, and ever 
 rising ! All that afternoon, I wandered like a 
 restless spirit through the dear familiar places. I 
 visited the orchard, the sheep-fold, the churchyard, 
 the meadow where I heard the cuckoo in the 
 morning, and the mossy stump in the woods, where 
 
 02
 
 19(5 
 
 Hugh Farquhar sat three days ago. To each I 
 said " good-bye ;" and yet, though I looked and 
 Hngered, and tore myself away, I could not believe 
 it was for the last time. ^ly only hope was to 
 see him in the evening; my only comfort was to 
 clasp the silver ring more closely to my heart. 
 Somehow or another, I had a vague idea that he 
 alone could help me, now ; and, till I had seen 
 him, I would not quite despair. Was he not my 
 ideal of goodness and bounty, wealth and power ? 
 Was he not still my hero and my prince, and was 
 it not natural that, even in this strait, I should look 
 to him for succom'? 
 
 The day faded out of the sky ; the twilight 
 thickened ; the stars came out one by one ; and 
 still I waited, hoped, believed. All the afternoon 
 my aunt had been shut up in her own room, and 
 now she and Jane were preparing for my depar- 
 ture. There was no one to forbid me ; so I went 
 out and stood by the gate in the dim starlight, 
 listenincr for his comino-. The nis^ht air fanned 
 my forehead and cooled my eyes, weary as they 
 were, and hot w^itli weeping. Yonder gleamed the 
 light at my chamber window, and now and then a 
 shadow flitted across the blind. I could not help 
 looking towards it, for I knew what was going 
 forward within — knew that my box was being 
 packed, and that to-morrow I must go. Alas! there
 
 BARB aba's history. 197 
 
 was both grief and anger at my heart, as I turned 
 away again and gazed into the gloom towards 
 Broomhill. My only hope lay in Hugh Farquhar 
 and his influence ; and ever as I waited, counting 
 the minutes and the beatings of my heart, that 
 hope grew stronger. 
 
 But he came not. One by one the quarters chimed 
 out from the church-tower over the meadows — 
 then nine o'clock struck — then the quarters, one by 
 one again — then ten o'clock, and I knew that the 
 last chance was past. 
 
 He had forgotten his promise; and I must go 
 without even bidding him farewell !
 
 198 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 A DREARY WELCOME HOME. 
 
 Would she really let me go ? Not till the last 
 moment could I bring myself to believe it — not till 
 the last moment, when the coach stood at the gate 
 and the time had come to say " good-bye." Then 
 by her pallor, by her silence, by the stony deter- 
 mination written in every 'line of her countenance, 
 I saw that it must be. Sick, giddy, quite worn 
 out with sorrow and wakefulness, I suffered myself 
 to be drawn to her bosom, and felt that she kissed 
 me twice on either cheek. 
 
 " Good-bye, Bab," she said, hoarsely. " Heaven 
 bless you ! " 
 
 But I had no strength to answer — I could not 
 even weep. I could only put one little cold hand 
 in hers, and dumbly, drearily, turn away and follow 
 .Fane to the gate. The guard was waiting with
 
 barbaea's history. 199 
 
 the door open, impatient to be gone ; and in an- 
 other instant I felt myself lifted in ; heard the 
 starting-signal given ; caught one brief glimpse 
 of Jane with her apron to her eyes ; saw that my 
 aunt was no longer at the porch ; and found my- 
 self speeding away — away towards London. 
 
 I can recall little or nothing of what followed, 
 except that the coach was empty, and that I lay 
 back in a corner, stupefied and motionless. Once 
 I put my hand up to my face and found my 
 cheeks were wet ; and I recollect wondering whose 
 tears they were, and how they came there ; but be- 
 yond this I seemed to notice nothing. At Ipswich 
 we stopped, as usual, for an hour ; and later in 
 the day I remember waking up, as if from a deep 
 dream, and finding the coach quite full of passen- 
 gers. How or when they took their places, and 
 of what age, sex, or station they were, I have no 
 idea. I only know that they came and went like 
 the hedges that flitted past the windows, and that, 
 drowned in the Lethe of my discontent, I took no 
 heed of anything. 
 
 As the day waned we drew near London, and, 
 towards twilight, came upon gas-lamps and a road 
 bordered by villas. Presently tlie villas were suc- 
 ceeded by long rows of liouses ; by shop-windows 
 blazing with lights ; by streets crowded, noisy, nar- 
 row, and alive with traffic. Then we turned sharply
 
 200 Barbara's history. 
 
 down a by-street, dived under an archway, clat- 
 tered into a gloomy yard, and were at the end of 
 our journey. 
 
 The passengers alighted, and were met by 
 those who aw^aitcd them. I also got out and 
 looked anxiously around, expecting Goody. But 
 no Goody was there. Bewildered by the unusual 
 noise and bustle of the place, I wandered to 
 and fro, scanning every countenance, and re- 
 cognising none. Then the luggage was unladen, 
 and each passenger claimed his own. When my 
 box was .handed down, I sat on it and waited 
 w^earily. One by one, my fellow-travellers then 
 dispersed and went away ; and only the empty 
 coach, the smoking horses, and the busy ostlers re- 
 mained. 
 
 It was now quite dark, and a searching wind 
 came blowing through the archway. No one 
 looked at me; no one spoke to me — save once, 
 when the coachman bustled past, a mountain 
 of coats and capes, and gave me a rough '^ good 
 night." Shivering, I sat perched upon my box, 
 like the dwarf in Mrs. Shelley's story, and watched 
 the stable-boys running to and fro with their Ian- 
 thorns, the grooms rubbing down the horses, and 
 the chamber-maids flitting along the wooden-gal- 
 leries above. Surely Goody had mistaken the 
 hour, and would be here presently ! Could it be
 
 Barbara's history. 201 
 
 possible that my aunt's letter had never been de- 
 livered ? What should I do, if no one came to 
 fetch me home ? 
 
 Whilst I was turning these questions over in my 
 mind, and striving hard to be brave and hopeful, 
 an old man came hobbling across the yard, and 
 peered curiously into my face. He was the oddest, 
 driest, dustiest little old man I ever saw; and 
 which was strangest of all, had a boot drawn up 
 on each arm and slippers on his feet, so that he 
 looked as if his legs were in the wrong place. 
 
 ' " To be left till called for ? " said he, in a hoarse 
 interrogative whisper. 
 
 Vaguely conscious of his meaning, I nodded ; 
 whereat he desired me to " corhe on," and limped 
 away, beckoning mysteriously with his boots, like 
 the ghost in Hamlet. Wondering, and half un- 
 willing, I followed him to a little open doorway 
 under the foot of the great wooden staircase. On 
 the threshold of this place I shrank back, and hesi- 
 tated. I had fancied that he was taking me to 
 some room where Goody was waiting; but this 
 was a mere den, filled, like a cobbler's stall, with 
 rows of boots and shoes, and lit by a rushlight in a 
 bottle. 
 
 "Come in," said he in the same tone, half-growl, 
 half-whisper. " Come in. Don't be afeard." 
 
 Saying which, he crouched down on a box, and
 
 202 
 
 pointed with the toe of the right boot at a wooden 
 stool in the corner. 
 
 Somewhat reassured by this invitation, I ven- 
 tured in and sat where he directed. A long silence 
 followed, during which I balanced myself on the 
 edge of the stool ; gazed curiously at the shelves 
 all laden with boots and shoes, old bottles, black- 
 ing-brushes, and broken candlesticks ; and now 
 and then stole a side glance at my entertainer. 
 
 " It's a queer place, ain't it ? " he observed, rest- 
 ing his elbows on his knees, and rocking himself 
 slowly to and fro. " Better to wait in than the 
 yard ; but a queer place to live in. A queer place 
 to live in." 
 
 The position in which he was now sitting and 
 the action by which it was accompanied, projected 
 so hideous and grotesque a four-legged shadow on 
 the opposite wall, that for some seconds I could 
 only sit and stare at it, like one fascinated. 
 
 " Do you live here, sir ? " I asked, presently. It 
 was the first time I had spoken, and, despite my 
 politeness, my voice trembled. 
 
 " Live here ! " he echoed. " Ay. All day — 
 every day. From year's end to year's end." 
 
 I was more amazed than ever, and, not knowing 
 what to say next, looked from him to his shadow, 
 and thence up to the inverted stairs overhead, 
 thick-set with cobwebs and studded with rusty nails.
 
 203 
 
 " But I don't sleep here," said he, after another 
 pause. "• I sleep in the stables." 
 
 To which I replied timidly, that I was glad to 
 hear it ; and again the conversation dropped. 
 
 The silence this time was so prolonged that I 
 twice heard a neighbouring clock chime the quar- 
 ters ; and still the wind moaned drearily ; and still 
 horses, and ostlers, and travellers came and went 
 in the yard without, and busy footsteps passed up 
 and down the stairs above our heads, over and over 
 again. Feeling at length desperately tired and sleepy, 
 I fell to counting the boots and shoes to keep myself 
 awake. I counted them from left to right — then 
 from right to left — then took each alternate one, 
 and went backwards for the rest, and only grew 
 more drowsy than ever for my pains. 
 
 "You're looking at f/iem," said the little old 
 man, suddenly. " There's lot's of 'em, ain't there ? 
 Lots of 'em." 
 
 " Ye — es, sir," I faltered, somewhat startled to 
 find that he had been watching me. "A great many." 
 
 " Twenty - seven pair," said he reflectively. 
 " Twenty-seven pair, not counting the odd Hes- 
 sian belonging to number thirteen with the gout." 
 
 Greatly perplexed by this observation, I hesi- 
 tated, wondered, and at last suggested that he 
 surely possessed more than he wanted of these use- 
 ful articles.
 
 204 
 
 " Oh, you think they're all mine, do you? " croaked 
 he, shifting quickly round, and peering at me 
 again from beneath a pair of bushy white eyebrows. 
 '* Who d'ye suppose I am, eh ? Who d'ye sup- 
 pose I am ? " 
 
 I shook my head doubtfully. 
 
 " I'm Boots," said he, striking himself impres- 
 sively on the breast with the heels of the pair 
 which still remained on his arms. "Boots" — 
 and immediately tucked up his legs, and sat tailor- 
 wise on the box. 
 
 Utterly discomposed and overwhelmed by this 
 tremendous revelation, I sat with parted lips and 
 stared at him breathlessly. Boots ! Boots incar- 
 nate ! Good Heavens, was he mad, and could it 
 be his propensity to wear Wellingtons as other folks 
 wear gloves ? 
 
 " I've lived here, man and boy, going over sixty 
 year," continued he. " I was a young chap when 
 I first came. They picked me out of the gutter, 
 and made Boots of me ; and Boots I've been ever 
 since." 
 
 I began fervently to wish myself out in the yard 
 again. 
 
 "The place lias changed names and masters 
 more than once all that time," he went on ; talk- 
 ing, indeed, rather to himself than me. "But I 
 belong to it, like the sign outside, or the big clock
 
 Barbara's history. 205 
 
 on the stairs. Blue Boar, or Ked Lion, or White 
 Horse, it's all the same to me. I'm a part of it; 
 and, somehow, I seem to fancy that so long as the 
 old house holds together, I shall hold with it." 
 
 He fell musing at this, and gazed at the boots 
 and shoes for a long time without speaking. 
 
 " See them, now," he said at length. " See 
 them. They've been my business, my companions, 
 my amusement these sixty year and more. You'd 
 never guess the stories they tell me, or the news 
 I pick out of 'em. Shut me up from the light of 
 day and give me only these, and I'll tell you the 
 changes in the fashion, the season of the year, and 
 the state of the weather." 
 
 Finding that he looked to me for a reply, I ven- 
 tured to enquire if he always had so many as seven 
 and twenty pairs. 
 
 " Sometimes more," said he briskly, " sometimes 
 less. It depends on the time of the year and the 
 state of the markets. Twenty pair a day is the 
 average I make of it, my dear. Twenty pair a 
 day." 
 
 I made up my mind that he was very mad in- 
 deed. 
 
 " Look here, now," he continued, untucking his 
 legs, and getting up to hunt for a fragment of old 
 slate and a morsel of chalk, which lay with a heap 
 of other rubbish on an upper shelf — '^ look here.
 
 206 
 
 Twenty pair a daj, counting seven days to the 
 week, and fifty-two weeks to the year, and letting 
 leap-years alone, makes just four hundred and thirty- 
 six thousand, eight hundred pair in sixty years. 
 Think of that ! Four hundred and thirty-six 
 tlious . . . I've a bad head for most things — 'speci- 
 ally for figures — but I've done it hundreds of times, 
 and it always comes to the same. It's right. I 
 know it's right." 
 
 " That is a great many, sir, for one person," I 
 observed nervously. 
 
 " Ay, a great many. Sometimes I wonder if I 
 shall live to make it five hundred thousand, and 
 then I think I'd like to have them write it up on my 
 gravestone, for the queerness of it. Four hun- 
 dred and thirty-six thousand, eight hundred, in sixty 
 year ! " 
 
 With this he again began rocking himself back- 
 wards and forwards, and fell into the old reverie. 
 And still the wind howled, and the footfalls echoed, 
 and I sat staring at him by the light of the flicker- 
 ing rushlight. By and by a bell rang close out- 
 side the door of the den — a shrill, impatient bell, 
 with a vixenish tongue — and a voice somewhere in 
 the galleries cried " Boots ! " 
 
 My companion shook his head, and got up 
 wearily. 
 
 " That's it ! " he growled. '^ That's it. Nothing
 
 Barbara's history. 207 
 
 but nng, ring, ring, from morning till night, and 
 from night till morning. Keep you there, little 
 girl. I'll be back presently." 
 
 And so, with his head bent forward and his arms 
 crossed behind, he shambled away, looking like a 
 man who had folded his legs over his back, and 
 was walking off on his hands. 
 
 Left alone now, and feeling very cold and tired, 
 I shut the door, and curled myself upon the box 
 where he had been sitting. Again the clock struck 
 — this time four quarters, and then nine strokes 
 for the hour. Nine o'clock, and the coach came in 
 at half -past seven ! A¥as I quite forgotten, and 
 must I remain all night in this strange place? 
 What would my aunt say, could she but see me 
 now ? Would the little old man give me shelter, 
 and let me sleep there with the boots and shoes 
 while he went to bed in the stables ? How should 
 I find my way home in the morning ? And what 
 would Goody do, when she found that I had been 
 left in this plight all the dreary night ? Despite 
 my fortitude, I could not forbear a few self -pity- 
 ing tears. Then my thoughts wandered and my 
 eyelids grew heavy, and I fell into an uneasy sleep, 
 dm'ing which I dreamed that I was once more in 
 the coach, travelling to London ; the only differ- 
 ence being that Goody was driving, and that we 
 were drawn by a team of four hundred and thirty- 
 six thousand pairs of polished Wellingtons.
 
 208 Barbara's history. 
 
 I cannot tell how long I slept. It may have 
 been more than an hour, or it may have been but 
 a few moments. Deep as my slumber was, how- 
 ever, the flashing of a sudden light across my eyes 
 awoke me. 
 
 " Barbara," said a quick distinct voice, close be- 
 side me. ^' Barbara !" 
 
 Struggling cU'owsily upright, I looked round and 
 saw my father. He had his hat on, and a large 
 cloak with a fur collar and clasp. A waiter stood 
 behind him with a candle, and Boots was peeping 
 in at the door. At first I could scarcely recollect 
 where I was ; but no sooner did my father speak 
 again than it all flashed back upon my memory. 
 
 " I am willing, of course," said he, in his old 
 imperative tone, " to pay anything you may de- 
 mand for the — the accommodation you have 
 afforded her. Faugh ! what a hole !" 
 
 " Very sorry, sir," said the waiter, obsequiousl}-. 
 " Had no idea the young lady was here at all, sir. 
 All Boots's doing, sir — not our fault, I assure you." 
 
 "" Boots, Boots, indeed !" echoed my father, 
 angrily. '' Pshaw, where is the fellow ? I'll teach 
 him to ... . Ho, you're there, are you, sirrah ? 
 Tell me how you dared to bring any gentleman's 
 child into such a filthy cellar as this ?" 
 
 Boots looked down and made no reply, which 
 onlv irritated mv father the more.
 
 BAKBARA^S HISTOKY. 209 
 
 " You may be thankful," said he, " that I don't 
 complain of this to your master. Stand out of my 
 way!" 
 
 Saying which, he grasped me by the arm and 
 dragged me across the yard, to where a hack- 
 ney coach was waiting in the shelter of the arch- 
 way. Sick with terror and cold, I shrank into a 
 corner of the vehicle, while my father, still storm- 
 ing at the apologetic waiter, flung himself into the 
 opposite corner, and bade the coachman drive on. 
 
 The wind had now brought rain with it, and 
 the streets were wet and empty. Scarcely a shop 
 was open, and scarcely a creature stirring. 
 Sitting there opposite my father and feeling that 
 I dreaded him more than ever, I gazed out at the 
 dreary night, and dared not speak or stir. We 
 had a long, long distance to go, and I remember as 
 well as if it were yesterday, how we traversed 
 street after street ; how the water stood in dark 
 pools on the pavement ; how we crossed a bridge 
 where the rain was misting down upon the river ; 
 and how we by and by entered a well-known 
 road, and drew up before that solitary house which 
 was once more to be my home. There were the 
 elm-trees, dark and gaunt as ever, and there was 
 the mournful ivy mantling half the basement. 
 There, too, as we stopped before the gate, was dear 
 old Goody, shading the light with her hand, and 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 bahbaha's history. 
 
 l)ecriiig out at the first sound of our wheels ! 
 
 Scramblini*; down as best I could while my 
 father was settling with the driver, I threw myself 
 into her arms. 
 
 " My lamb, my darling !" she cried, brokenly, 
 and covered my face with tears and kisses. 
 
 AYliile I was yet clinging to her and she to me, 
 HI}' fatlu'r came in. He glanced angrily at us 
 both, and bit his lip. 
 
 ^' Stop that noise, Beever, and put the child to 
 bed," said he, harshly ; and so brushed past, and 
 went to his room. 
 
 But Goody, instead of doing any such thing, 
 took me down to the kitchen, where there was a 
 cheerful fire blazing in the grate, and a little table 
 spread for supper. Here she chafed my cold 
 hands, and my still colder feet — took off my cloak 
 and bonnet — and, though wee})ing abundantly her- 
 self, entreated me not to cry. 
 
 " For it's no use taking on, my deary !" said she. 
 "It's a weary world, and troubles come to the 
 young as well as the old ; but what's God's will is 
 surely for the best. It's hard always to believe 
 that, darling ; but it's no use taking on. Try to 
 cat a little bit of chicken, my lamb — come, you're 
 warmer now !" 
 
 Though very faint indeed, I was not hungry, 
 and had to be persuaded and petted a great deal
 
 211 
 
 before I could make up my mind to taste anything. 
 Having once begun, however, I felt better ; and 
 then Goody brought out a bottle with some brandy 
 in it, and gave me a little warm brandy and water, 
 which refreshed and strengthened me greatly. 
 This done, I went and sat on her lap as I used to 
 do in the old time before I went away, and laid my 
 head down on her shoulder. JMuch to my sur- 
 prise, Goody once again broke out into a passion of 
 sobs, clasped me to her bosom, and began rocking 
 me to and fro, to and fro, like one in deep distress. 
 
 " Don't cry so. Goody," I whispered, putting my 
 arms about her neck. '' Pray don't cry so !" 
 
 "I can't help it, my deary — I can't help it, 
 when it comes across me," she moaned. " And 
 you'll miss her so ! You'll miss her !" 
 
 " I shall miss her every day of my life," said I, 
 struggling hard now to keep down my own tears. 
 " She was so kind to me. Goody ; and I loved her 
 so dearly !" 
 
 " Nay, she was not always so kind to you as she 
 might have been ; but she meant no harm by it, 
 and you're a dear lamb to remember her kindly," 
 sobbed Goody. " But it's been sudden — too sudden, 
 my deary, for me to know how to l)ear it yet !" 
 
 " I never knew a word of it till yesterday morn- 
 ing," cried I, fairly breaking down. " Not a word, 
 and — and I was so happy, and . . . ." 
 
 f 2
 
 212 
 
 " Yesterday morning ?" repeated Goody. ^' Why, 
 it never liap}>ened till close upon eleven last night!" 
 
 Struck by a quick conviction that she was 
 lamenting another grief than mine, I lifted my 
 head from her shoulder, and looked her in the face. 
 
 " Oh, Goody," I faltered, " what do you mean ? 
 Is anything the matter?" 
 
 She turned a startled face upon me. 
 
 " What," said she, breathlessly, " don't you 
 know ? Didn't he — didn't the master tell you, as 
 you came along ?" 
 
 " Nothino' — he told me nothing; !" 
 
 "Jessie — ^}^our sister — your poor, dear, sister 
 Jessie . . . ." 
 
 '' Oh, Goody, what of her?" 
 
 " Dead, my dear ! — dead and gone ! — dead since 
 this time l^sf night !" 
 
 And she wrung her hands, and lifted up her 
 voice, and lamented a^ain as a mother might la- 
 ment for her child ! 
 
 Chilled and horror-stricken, I looked at her, and 
 could neither weep nor speak. 
 
 " She was well in the morning," continued 
 Goody, " well, and gay, and pretty as ever ! She 
 only suffered a few hours. It was soon over, and 
 she died in my arms — in my arms, the child that I 
 had nursed at her birth, and loved .... oh ! I never 
 knew how I loved her till now ! God help us all, 
 deary ! God help and spare us !"
 
 213 
 
 "What did she die of, Goody f I whispered, 
 shudderingly. 
 
 " Cholera — cholera, my darling !" 
 
 I had never heard the word before — I could not 
 tell what it meant — I only knew that my sister 
 Jessie was dead. Dead ! I repeated the word 
 vaguely over and over again, and could not bring 
 myself to realise its meaning. I felt as if a heavy 
 hand were laid upon my heart. My eyes burned, 
 and my tongue was dry. I wondered why I could 
 not weep like Goody. A thousand things flashed 
 through my mind — things of long ago ; words that 
 she had spoken ; gestures, trifles, traits forgotten 
 till this moment. Poor Jessie ! — dead. 
 
 "And papa?" I faltered. 
 
 "He was out," said Goody, wiping her eyes 
 with her apron, and speaking somewhat bitterly. 
 " He went out early, to dine at Richmond and 
 spend the day in the country. I had no one to 
 send after him, and could not tell where he was to 
 be found. When he came home at night, little 
 Jessie was gone. He was sadly shocked at first ; 
 and walked about his room for a long time be- 
 fore he went to bed. This morning he asked to 
 see her, and then he took Hilda on his knee, and 
 kissed and cried over her .... Oh, if it had been 
 Hilda " 
 
 She checked herself, and our eyes met. After 
 this we sat for some time without speaking — I with
 
 214 Barbara's history. 
 
 my cheek laid against hers, and she with her arms 
 clasped lovingly about me. By and by, seeing 
 the fire was almost out, she took me by the hand, 
 and led me up to bed. We stopped at the door 
 of a room on the first floor, two stories lower than 
 the bedroom which used to be ours. 
 
 " Hilda is here," she whispered, with her finger 
 to her lip. " I sat with her to-night till she fell 
 asleep, and we must try not to wake her. She is 
 worn out with sorrow, i)oor darling — they loved 
 each other so dearly !" 
 
 I had not seen Hilda for a whole year. I had left 
 home without even bidding her farewell, and I 
 returned to find her as I had left her — sleeping. 
 Except that her face wore an expression of suffer- 
 ing which I had never seen there before, she 
 seemed but little changed. Her cheek was flushed 
 and feverish, and the rich tresses of her hair lay in 
 heavy masses over her neck and arms. Bending 
 down more closely, I saw that her eyelashes were 
 still wet, and her pillow stained with tears. All at 
 once, she woke, looked at me fixedly, half-fear- 
 fully, and murmured — " Barbara !" 
 
 I hung over her with clasped hands — with stream- 
 ing eyes — with I know not what prayerful longing 
 in my voice. 
 
 '' Oh, Hilda !" I cried, ^' love me, dear ! Love 
 me a little ! we are both so lonely !"
 
 Barbara's history. 215 
 
 . A languid smile flitted across her lips. She 
 opened her arms to me, and, clasping me con- 
 vulsively round the neck, sobbed as if her heart 
 would break. 
 
 That night, for the first time in our lives, we 
 slept in the same bed, each with an arm about the 
 other's neck.
 
 216 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 KESULTS. 
 
 " Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust " — 
 mournful and eternal words which find an echo in 
 all human hearts, and are borne to us, sighing, on 
 every breath we breathe, from the cradle to the 
 grave ! As they had been spoken, years ago, over 
 our lost mother, so were they spoken over our sister. 
 I remember all the circumstances of the funeral 
 with painful distinctness to this day — the mutes 
 standing at the door ; the heavy tread of the 
 bearers on the stairs ; the strange silence that fell 
 upon the house when all were gone ; the unclosing 
 of the shutters in the afternoon, and the sickening 
 Mare of the sunset as it streamed once a^ain into 
 the rooms. The day after, things lapsed, somehow, 
 back into their old track. My father went to his 
 club ; and Miss Whymper came, as usual, and took 
 her seat at the top of the schoolroom table.
 
 Barbara's "history. 217 
 
 A week, a fortnight, a month went by ; and I 
 never once heard of, or from, my aunt. I was too 
 deeply shocked at first by what had happened in 
 my home to think much of my own troubles ; but 
 as time went on, and these impressions lost some- 
 what of their intensity, all the old bitterness 
 came back. Sometimes I wondered if it could all 
 be true; and, waking from my sleep in the still 
 night-time, asked myself whether I had been 
 dreaming? Then flashed the desolate conviction 
 — then rose the burning tears — then, slipping 
 softly from my bed in the dim starlight, I crept, 
 breathlessly, to a certain drawer, and took from its 
 hiding-place the silver ring. To steal back with it 
 to my bed ; to lie with it pressed against my lips ; 
 to place it on the finger where he placed it ; take it 
 off and kiss it twenty times, and fall asleep at last 
 in the midst of murmuring his name, was all the 
 solace I had left. 
 
 As for Hilda, she was herself too unhappy to 
 give much heed to me. Gentler and more affec- 
 tionate than of old, she yet cherished a grief that 
 refused to be comforted. I soon found that, devote 
 myself as I would, the one place must yet remain 
 vacant in her life. Jessie had been her second self, 
 her companion, confidante, sister, friend. She la- 
 mented her with a passionate intensity of which 
 childhood alone is capable, and, so lamenting, lost
 
 218 Barbara's history. 
 
 sleep, appetite, and streni]^h. In certain imperious 
 natures, sorrow wears the aspect of despair and 
 consumes like a wastinii; fire. So it was with 
 Hilda. She spent her nights in weeping, and her 
 days in a hopeless apathy, from ■which no effort 
 of ours availed to rouse her. 
 
 Tims brooding away the weary weeks, she grew 
 daily thinner, paler, and more unlike her former 
 self. 
 
 One afternoon, when Miss Whymper had gone 
 away and w^e w^ere alone in the schoolroom, my 
 father suddenly came in, followed l)y a strange 
 gentleman. I was putting away the books, and 
 Hilda was lying on a couch beside the open win- 
 dow, pale and weary, and half-asleep. Tlie gentle- 
 man w'ent straight to the couch ; droAV a chair quite 
 close beside her ; and said, turning to my father — 
 
 " This, I presume, Mr. Churchill, is our young 
 friend — our, ahem ! — valetudinarian T' 
 
 To which my father replied, " Yes, Sir Andrew, 
 the same ;" and sat doAvn likewise. 
 
 Sir Andrew was a bulky man, tall and stout, 
 with a forest of grey hair, a knobby red nose, and 
 a voice husky, oleaginous, mellowed by port and 
 maturity, like a Stilton cheese. In the brief silence 
 that followed, he brought out a heavy gold snuff- 
 box, and, with much solemnity, partook of three 
 pinches. Presently he laid his hand on Hilda's
 
 Barbara's history. 219 
 
 little wrist, felt her pulse, and nodded to himself 
 several times. 
 
 " Well, Sir Andrew 1" said my father anxiously, 
 'Svell?" 
 
 The physician drew a long breath through his 
 teeth, and tapped the lid of the snuff-box with his 
 knuckles. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Churchill," said he deliberately, " we 
 are, ahem ! — debilitated — considerably debilitated. 
 We evince an absence of that vis anima which is 
 so desirable in youth — our pulse is intermittent — 
 our nerves are unstrung — we ... in short, we are 
 not absolutely ill ; but — but we are by no means 
 absolutely well." 
 
 " And the remedy, sir ?" suggested my father, 
 impatiently. " The reme»ly ?" 
 
 " Tonics ; port wine ; change of air ; amuse- 
 ment." 
 
 My father shrugged his shoulders, and clinked 
 the money in his pockets. 
 
 " In point of fact," continued Sir Andrew, 
 reflectively, " I should say .... that is, Mr. 
 Churchill, if I may offer a suggestion ?" 
 
 " Offer fifty— fifty, if you please. Sir Andrew," 
 said my father. 
 
 " Well then, I should say that mineral baths — 
 Kissengen, for instance, or Ems — would do more for 
 our young friend than any course of medical treat-
 
 220 Barbara's history. 
 
 ineiit whatever. It is the nervous S3'stem tliat wants 
 bracing, Mr. Churchill — the ner-vous sys-tem." 
 
 Saying which, he closed the snuff-hox with a 
 click, glanced again at his watch, patted Hilda pa- 
 tronizingly on the head, and rose to take his leave. 
 
 " ;Mr. Churchill," said he, " I attend you." 
 
 Whereat my father ceremoniously ushered him 
 from the room, and we heard his boots creak pon- 
 derously all the way downstairs. 
 
 The next morning, when we were summoned, as 
 usual, to the schoolroom, a letter addressed to Miss 
 Whymper was found lying on the table. I recog- 
 nised my father s large armorial seal and careless 
 superscription, and, smitten with an anguished re- 
 collection of how and when I had last seen a similar 
 missive, could scarce restrain my tears. I watched 
 her break the seal — I watched her as she read — I 
 translated that almost imperceptible expression of 
 surprise and disappointment, and the quick glance 
 wdiich reverted more than once to Hilda's downcast 
 face. 
 
 "' Hilda is to be sent away," thought I, sadly ; as 
 Miss Whymper put the letter in her pocket, and 
 said, in the same words that she had used every 
 morning for the last four years — 
 
 " Now, young ladies, if you please, we will re- 
 sume our studies." 
 
 I had guessed the truth, though not all the truth ;
 
 bakbara's history. 221 
 
 as I discovered before the day was out. Miss 
 Wliymper was to be dismissed, and not only was 
 Hilda to be sent away for change of air, but I was 
 to be sent with her. Our destination was not yet 
 decided upon ; but that it would be somewhere 
 abroad was certain. In the meantime my father 
 had set inquiries afoot, and authorised Goody 
 to make active preparations for our departure. 
 Hilda received this news with indifference — I, 
 with mingled pain and pleasure — Goody, with un- 
 speakable despair. 
 
 " Was it notienough," said she, twenty times a 
 day, " was it not enough to lose one of my darlings, 
 and must I now be parted from the two that are 
 left ? Maybe I shall never live to see either of you 
 again, and, sure, if you were my own flesh and 
 blood, I couldn't love you more !" 
 
 In reply to which, I consoled her as well as I 
 could, and promised never to forget her, though I 
 should be a dozen years away. 
 
 Thus many days went by, and the routine of 
 our life was interrupted by all kinds of novel cares 
 and occupations. Our wardrobes, which were 
 always scanty enough, had to be ahnost entirely 
 renewed ; and two young women were kept con- 
 stantly at work in an upper room, making cloaks, 
 dresses, and other necessaries, all of which had, 
 every now and then, to be fitted, and made the
 
 222 liAIlBAllA's HISTORY. 
 
 subject of discussion. Our studies, at tlie same 
 time, were no longer enforced with their accus- 
 tomed regularity, and, at the expiration of a week 
 or so, i\Iiss Whymper took her final leave. We 
 were called down, I remember, to papa's room, to 
 bid her good-bye. Although it was now mid- 
 summer and there was no fire, my father was 
 standing, as usual, in the middle of the rug, 
 with his back to the grate. Miss Whymper was 
 consigning some three or four crisp bank-notes 
 to the capacious recesses of a large red pocket- 
 book. I 
 
 " I have been careful, madam," said my father, 
 with that air of magnificent politeness which he 
 assumed at pleasure, " to keep a memorandum of 
 the numbers of the notes. You will, therefore, 
 apply to me, in case of accident," 
 
 Miss Whymper, with her head on one side, 
 thanked ^li\ Churchill for his ^'courteous con- 
 sideration." 
 
 " And should an}- thing occur to frustrate the 
 success of those views which I at present entertain 
 with regard to the education of my daughters," 
 continued he, "I trust that I may again be so 
 fortunate, madam, as to secure your invaluable co- 
 operation." 
 
 Miss Whymper replied by a profound courtesy. 
 
 " At the close of a connection," said she, " which
 
 BAEBARA's HISTOKY. 223 
 
 I think I may, without undue temerity, characterise 
 as unusually productive of satisfaction to all parties 
 concerned .... may I say to all parties, Mr. 
 Churchill r 
 
 " Madam," replied my father, with a glance at 
 his watch, " you may." 
 
 " And wdiichj" pursued Miss Whymper, all on 
 one subdued note, and as if she were repeating 
 every word by heart, " has afforded me from first 
 to last such a degree of interest iis I do not remem- 
 ber to have ever previously entertained throughout 
 the course of a long educational experience — at the 
 close, I beg to repeat, of so agreeable an inter- 
 course, have I Mr. Churchill's permission to pre- 
 sent my dear young friends with these trifling 
 evidences of my regard ?" 
 
 Saying wdiicli, she produced two very small 
 books from the depths of her reticule ; while my 
 father, more grandly than ever, protested that she 
 did us both infinite honour, and desired us to thank 
 Miss Whymper for her kindness. Whereat Miss 
 Whymper bestowed on Hilda a frosty kiss, and a 
 copy of Jo3^ce's " Scientific Dialogues ;" on me a 
 still frostier kiss, and Mrs. Marcet's " Conversations 
 on Chemistry ;" hoped that we might be industrious 
 and happy, and that neither our morals nor our 
 digestive organs might be injuriously affected by 
 foreign influences ; and so, being moved to an
 
 224 BARBARA^S HISTORY. 
 
 unusual display of emotion, applied the corner of 
 her pocket handJN:crchief to her left eye, and wiped 
 away an imaginary tear. My father then rang 
 the bell ; accompanied her as far as the study- 
 door ; bowed his stateliest bow ; wished her " a 
 very good morning ;" and so she followed Goody 
 down the stairs, and we saw Miss Whymper no 
 more. 
 
 Our fate was decided by a foreign letter which 
 arrived the next morning. We were to be received 
 in a large collegiate school at Zollenstrasse, and 
 were to start in two days, so as to arrive at the 
 beginning of the July term. Except that Zollen- 
 strasse was somewhere in Germany, and that Ger- 
 many, though it seemed near enough on the map, 
 lay a long way off across the sea, I knew nothing 
 fiu-ther of our destination.
 
 225 
 
 CHAPTER XYIL 
 
 BY LAND AND SEA. 
 
 ]Mr father went with us himself the morning of 
 our departure, and put us on board the steamer by 
 which we were to be conveyed from London to 
 Rotterdam. The bridges, quays, and floating 
 j:)iers w^ere all alive with traffic. The deck of the 
 steamer swarmed with seamen, travellers, and 
 porters. Having seen our luggage safely stowed, 
 and ascertained the situation of our berths, my 
 father handed us over to the care of the captain, 
 who not only promised us his special protection 
 during the voyage, but engaged, on landing, to 
 consign us to the care of one Jonathan Bose, Esq., 
 a merchant of Rotterdam with whom my father 
 w^as acquainted, and to whom we carried a letter of 
 introduction. Presently the bell rang, and warned 
 those who were not passengers to leave the vessel. 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 Barbara's history. 
 
 My father took Hilda's liands in both of his, and, 
 kissing her first on the forehead and then on tlie 
 mouth, hade her get well, be happy, and profit by 
 her instructors. To me he only said, " Good-bye, 
 Barbara," touched my cheek coldly with his lips, 
 turned away, and hastened on shore. Then the 
 gangway was removed; the moorings w^ere loosened; 
 the steamer heaved slowly round ; the quays and 
 bystanders seemed to recede behind us ; and away 
 we went, past the Custom-house and the Tower, 
 and the crowded masts, wdiich clustered, like a 
 forest of bare larches, down the midpath of the 
 river. 
 
 The day was fine, and for some hours we en- 
 joyed it intensely. The passengers were all kind 
 to us. Some of the ladies gave us fruit and cakes; 
 the gentlemen told us the names of the places that 
 we passed ; and the Captain, every now and tlien, 
 came up and asked us if we meant to be hungry 
 by dirnier time. Tow^ards noon, we passed the red 
 lighthouse at the Nore, and stood out to sea. The 
 steamer now began to roll ; the seagulls darted to 
 and fro; and we saw a shoal of porpoises tumbling 
 on the waves, about half a mile ahead. With 
 these sights we were more amused than ever ; till 
 presently w^e both turned ill and giddy, and were 
 glad to be carried down to our little narrow beds. 
 Of this part of the journey I remember only that
 
 227 
 
 I lay with closed eyes, and felt more sick and 
 miserable than I had ever felt before — that, in the 
 midst of my suffering, I strove every now and then 
 to say a consoling word to Hilda, which only made 
 me feel worse — that the day seemed as long as ten, 
 and was followed by a weary night, lit by a swing- 
 ing lamp, and traversed by hideous dreams and 
 semi-conscious wakings — that the morning dawned 
 greyly, and that, by and by, somebody bade me 
 try to get up, for we were in smooth water again. 
 We then got up, looking both very pale, and ven- 
 tured on deck to breathe the fresh air, and have a 
 peep at Rotterdam . 
 
 The passengers were all claiming their luggage, 
 and the boat was crowded with foreign porters 
 who wore ear-rings and red caps, and gabbled a 
 strange guttural language that I had never heard 
 before. Close beside us lay the great quays bor- 
 dered with trees and lofty houses ; laden with bales 
 of goods; and swarming with sailors of all nations. 
 Beyond us stretched the broad river, crowded with 
 merchant vessels ; and all along the banks, as far 
 as one could see, an endless perspective of ware- 
 houses, cranes, masts, and tapering steeples. The 
 strangeness of this scene, and the confusion of 
 tongues, made me so nervous, and filled me with 
 such a desolate sense of exile, that when a little old 
 gentleman presently came up with an account book 
 
 q2
 
 228 Barbara's history. 
 
 in his hand, and a pen behind his ear, and asked 
 if we were not going to land with the rest, I could 
 with difficulty frame an intelligible answer. He 
 then looked at the address upon our boxes. 
 
 " Zollenstrasse!" he exclaimed. " ZoUenstrasse 
 am Main! Why, that is a long way from here, 
 little travellers ! Who is to take care of you across 
 the country?" 
 
 I shook my head, and said I did not know. 
 
 " And what shall you do when you get there? 
 Have you friends in the Duchy?" 
 
 Hilda tossed back her curls, and lifted her dark 
 eyes to his face. 
 
 " We are going to College," she said, proudly. 
 
 "Poor children! Have you no parents, that 
 you should be sent so far from home?" 
 
 " We have a papa," replied Hilda. 
 
 The stranger shrugged his shoulders compas- 
 sionately. 
 
 " How strange!" he murmured. " Had my chil- 
 dren lived, I could never have parted from them ; 
 and yet this man trusts his little girls . . . ." 
 
 " Papa is not a man," interrupted Hilda indig- 
 nantly. " He is a gentleman." 
 
 The stranger, with a melancholy smile, sat down 
 on one of the boxes, and took her unwilling hand 
 in his. 
 
 " Just what I should have supposed, my dear," 
 he replied. " What is your father's name ?"
 
 barbaea's history. 229 
 
 " Edmund Churchill, Esquire." 
 
 " Churchill !" he repeated. " Edmund Churchill !" 
 and so, with a look of some surprise, took a book 
 from his pocket, and began hastily turning over the 
 leaves. Stopping presently, with his finger on one 
 particular entry, he said — 
 
 " I know your father — at least, I know a Mr. 
 Edmund Churchill, of London." 
 
 " Then perhaps you know Mr. Jonathan Bose?" 
 I interposed eagerly. 
 
 " I believe I do. What of him?" 
 
 "Only that we are to give him this letter; and 
 the Captain has promised to take us to his house 
 by-and-by." 
 
 Our new friend put out his hand for the letter, 
 and broke the seal. 
 
 " The Captain may spare himself that trouble," 
 he said. " I am Jonathan Bose." 
 
 Before we had. well recovered the surprise of 
 this encounter, he had glanced rapidly through the 
 contents of the missive, thrust it into his pocket, 
 and darted off in search of the Captain, 
 
 A huge porter then shouldered our boxes; and 
 Mr. Jonathan Bose, who was quite breathless with 
 excitement, gave a hand to each, and hurried us 
 along the quays. He was delighted to have charge 
 of us, and said so repeatedly as we went along ; 
 interspersing his conversation, at the same time,
 
 230 bakraha's history. 
 
 with scraps of information respecting himself, liis 
 househokl, and the places we were passing on the 
 way. 
 
 " This river," said he, " is the Maas — my house 
 lies yonder, just beside that large India vessel 
 which you see unlading farther on. This build- 
 ing belongs to the East India Compan}-. I wish 
 you could stay with me for a week, my dears, that 
 I might show you all the sights of Rotterdam ; but 
 your father desires me to see you off again to- 
 morrow morning. Well, well, this afternoon, at 
 least, we can take a walk and see something of the 
 city. I'll be sworn you never saw so many bridges 
 in one place before, did you? How pleased 
 Gretchen will be ! Gretchen is my housekeeper ; 
 and the best creature in the world. You will not 
 understand a word she says; but you will be capital 
 friends, nevertheless. This walk along the quays 
 is called the Boomjojes ; which means ' the little 
 treesJ They may have been little when they first 
 got that name ; but they are very big trees now, 
 anyhow." 
 
 Chatting thus, he went on to say that, though a 
 Dutchman by birth, he was English by education ; 
 that he had been for many years a widower, and 
 had lost two little daughters whom he dearly loved; 
 that he delighted in the society of the young ; and 
 that the pleasure with which he received us was
 
 231 
 
 only diminished by tlie knowledge that we must 
 leave so soon. 
 
 Being now arrived in front of a large house with 
 a great deal of wood carving about the doors and 
 windows, Mr. Bose ushered us into a little dark 
 office, with rows of ledgers all round the walls, and 
 a desk beside the window. He rang the bell, and 
 a fat old woman, with a mob cap, and a plate of 
 gilt metal on her forehead^ came bustling in ; em- 
 braced us rapturously, and took us upstairs to 
 breakfast. The breakfast was laid in a quaint 
 panelled room with a polished floor, upon which 
 we were not allowed to w^alk till we had exchanged 
 our dusty shoes for some huge list slippers which 
 lay outside the door. After breakfast, Mr. Bose 
 took us for a walk ; and a most perplexing walk 
 it was, through labyrinths of streets, over scores of 
 drawbridges, and beside innumerable canals ; all 
 of wdiich were alike shaded by trees, crowded with 
 vessels, and swarmino; wdth sailors. In the after- 
 noon we came back, very tired and hungry ; and 
 at dinner had thin soup, and sour cabbages, and 
 jam with our meat, none of which we liked at all, 
 though we wei'e too polite to say so. After dinner, 
 our host went out again, and Gretchen was left to 
 entertain us till evening ; when we^ had tea and 
 chatted by twilight, while Mr. Bose smoked his 
 pipe, and drank Schiedam and Seltzer water.
 
 232 Barbara's history. 
 
 I cannot recall the substance of our conversa- 
 tion, for I was tired and dreamy, and he spoke more 
 to Hilda than to me ; l)ut I remember how I sat 
 looking at him by the fading light, reading every 
 line and lineament of his face, and photographing 
 his portrait on my memory. I see him now — a 
 little spare figure, with scant grey locks, and an 
 eye blue, benevolent, and bright as day. " A man 
 of God's making," with goodness and sorrow 
 written legibly on his brow. When we wished 
 him good night, he kissed us both and bade us 
 sleep well, for we must rise wdth the sun to resume 
 our journey. And we did sleep Avell, sinking 
 deeply down between the fragrant sheets, and 
 lulled by the murmuring sounds that rose from 
 quay and river. 
 
 With the first blush of early morning came 
 Gretchen to wake us, and long before the people of 
 Rotterdam were stirring we had bidden adieu to 
 the stout old hand -maiden and the quaint house on 
 the Boompjes, and w^ere shivering on board a 
 steamer which was to convey us to Mayence. 
 
 " I only wish I could spare time to go with you, 
 my children," said Mr. Bose, as the last passengers 
 came hurrying on deck. " However you will be 
 taken good care of all the way. I have paid for 
 everything in advance, and the steward of this boat 
 engages to see you off by the diligence when your
 
 Barbara's history. 233 
 
 water journey is ended. In the meantime, I will 
 write to your father. God bless you both, and 
 good-bye. I must go now, or they will carry me 
 down the river before I know where I am !" 
 
 He then kissed us many times, gave me a paper 
 which secured our places as far as the steamer 
 could take us ; and so, with glistening eyes, bade 
 us a last farewell, and went away. 
 
 What with Hilda's continued weakness and fret- 
 fulness, the discomfort of living daily amongst 
 strangers, and the exceeding dulness of the scenery, 
 the journey w^as dreary enough. The travellers 
 were mostly Dutch, and took but little notice of 
 us ; and, for the first two days at least, our journey 
 lay between poplar-bordered dykes and dreary 
 flats, with now and then a windmill to break the 
 dull monotony of land and sky. That this river 
 could be the Rhine, the beautiful, romantic, castled 
 Rhine of which I had read so much, and of which 
 Hugh Farquhar had told me so many tales and 
 legends, seemed impossible. 
 
 On the third day, I began to believe it. Past 
 Cologne the scenery became beautiful, and for the 
 first time I beheld mountains, vineyards, and ivied 
 ruins. Then a number of French and English 
 tourists, and a band of itinerant musicians arrived 
 on board ; and, as it was very warm and fine, the 
 tables were laid on deck, and we dined in the open
 
 234 
 
 air. All this was novel and exhilarating, and the 
 hours flew so quickly that tlie summer dusk came 
 on only too soon, and we landed, quite unwillingly, 
 at Coblentz for the night. 
 
 The perpetual travelling, however, now began to 
 tell upon us, and although the weather was even 
 brighter, and the course of the ri\'er more lovely 
 than ever, we were so wearied when the fourth day 
 came that we could not half enjoy the wondei-s of 
 the journey. Landing late in the afternoon oppo- 
 site Mayence, we found that the diligence had 
 started hours ago ; so the steward took us to a quiet 
 inn close by, where we supped at a long table with 
 a number of other people, and slept in a bed-room 
 overlooking the river. 
 
 The next morning we were on the road betimes, 
 occupying two opposite corners in a huge unwieldy 
 diligence full of bearded travellers, none of whom 
 spoke a word of English. About midday we 
 alighted at a dirty inn in a dirty village, and dined 
 miserably. Then on again for hours and hours, 
 past woods, and mountains, and picturesque 
 hamlets lying low in green valleys, whei*e some- 
 times the road ran for miles together beside the 
 eager and beautiful Main river. Towards evening 
 we stopped at a little wayside building with a flag 
 before the door, where our passports and luggage 
 were examined by three or four soldiers in faded
 
 barbaea's history. 235 
 
 uniforms of blue and silver. About half an hour 
 after this, we turned the shoulder of a hill and 
 came suddenly in sight of a pretty town with 
 steeples and towers, and white houses, and a 
 quaint old bridge of boats. It was just dusk — 
 dusk enough to show the lighted oriel in the 
 Cathedral, and yet not so dusk as to veil the out- 
 lines of the hills, or the gleaming of the river. 
 The road wound downwards to the town, bordered 
 on either side by a double avenue of gigantic 
 poplars. At the foot of this avenue stood a great 
 hotel, before the door of which the diligence drew 
 up. Then a waiter came running out ; the con- 
 ductor flung our boxes on the pavement ; the 
 passengers gesticulated ; and from half-a-dozen 
 mouths together I heard the welcome name of 
 " Zollenstrasse — ZoUenstrasse-am-Main !" 
 
 We had no sooner alighted than the diligence 
 rolled rapidly away, and left us standing face to 
 face with the bowing waiter, who smiled, nodded, 
 examined the address upon our luggage, darted 
 back into the hotel, and presently returned with a 
 man in a blue and silver livery, who put our boxes 
 on a truck, and led the way. We followed him 
 down a narrow side-road bordered with trees, and 
 stopped before a huge wooden gate with two enor- 
 mous knockers, and a lamp overhead. This gate 
 was opened by a porter in the same livery, who
 
 23G 
 
 preceded us across tlie courtyard, up a lofty flight 
 of sfeps, and into a large parlour, where an elderly 
 lady and eight young girls were sitting at needle- 
 work. The lady rose, extended a hand to each, 
 and kissed us both upon the forehead. 
 
 " Welcome," said she, in good English, " wel- 
 come, my dear children, to your new home. Try 
 to like it and to be happy with us, and we shall all 
 love you." 
 
 She then made a sign to the rest, who immedi- 
 ately surrounded us. Some shook hands with us ; 
 some kissed us on the cheeks ; some disembarrassed 
 us of our cloaks and bonnets ; and all had a kind 
 word or two of broken English to bid us welcome 
 — all, except one shy little dark maiden, who 
 whispered '' willkommen," in my ear, and then, 
 blushing and laughing, ran away. 
 
 '^ Your names, I think," said the lady, referring 
 to a letter which she took from the pocket of her 
 apron, " are Barbara and Hilda Churchill. Now 
 you must tell me which is Barbara, and which 
 Hilda, that I may know how to call you." 
 
 " I am Hilda," said my sister, " and I am called 
 Miss Churchill, because I am the eldest." 
 
 The lady smiled gravely. 
 
 " We have no Misses here," said she, " and no 
 distinctions of age. Your companions call each 
 other by their baptismal names, and it is our rule
 
 Barbara's hisaory. 237 
 
 to recoo^nise no superiority but that of merit. As 
 for myself, I am the superintendent of this Aca- 
 demy, and you will call me Madame Brenner. 
 But I daresay you are tired and hungry after your 
 day's journey. Annchen, see if supper be ready." 
 
 Annchen curtsied and left the room, while 
 Madame Brenner resumed her seat, and continued 
 to address us. 
 
 " At present," said she, " our numbers are few ; 
 for the half-yearly term only commenced yester- 
 day, and our students rarely assemble under a* 
 week. However we shall have more arrivals to- 
 morrow ; and by Sunday om' society, I daresay, 
 will be complete. But here comes Annchen, tell- 
 ing us that supper is ready." 
 
 So saying she took me by the hand, left Hilda 
 to follow with Annchen and the rest, and led the 
 way into an adjoining room where there was a 
 long table laid for supper. The meal was plain, 
 but abundant, and consisted of soup, eggs, rice- 
 puddings, coffee, cream-cheese, brown bread, and 
 salad. This over, we returned to the parlour, and 
 one of the scholars read prayers aloud in German. 
 When we rose from our knees, each scholar went 
 up to Madame Brenner in turn and bade her good 
 night ; but when we followed their example, she 
 shook her head, and said — 
 
 " To-night I will go with you, and show you 
 where you are to sleep."
 
 238 
 
 We followed her through a long" corridor witli a 
 row of doors on one side and windows on the 
 other. 
 
 " This," said Madame Brenner, " is one of our 
 four donnitories. It contains six rooms, and in 
 each room six students sleep. Every door is 
 numbered, and your door is number five. Ann- 
 chen and Luisa are at present your only com- 
 panions ; but as soon as the rest arrive, each bed 
 will have its occupant. Do you like your room ?" 
 * It was a pretty, conventual, white-washed 
 chamber, containing six little beds with white 
 hangings, six rush-bottomed chairs, three large 
 deal presses, and no carpet. It looked cheerful 
 and airy, notwithstanding its simplicity, and we 
 both liked it at a glance. 
 
 Madame Brenner then bade us good night, and 
 our companions assisted us to open our trunks, 
 showed us in which press to keep our clothes, 
 helped us to undress, and made as much of us as if 
 we had been long expected guests. 
 
 " You shall have my bed, Barbara, if you like 
 it best," said Annchen. " It is next the w^indow, 
 and overlooks the garden." 
 
 " In that case," cried Lui?a, " I shall sleep next 
 to Hilda, and that will be delightful ! Hilda and 
 I must be great friends. I am so fond of the 
 English ! There was an English girl here last
 
 Barbara's history. 239 
 
 year, and we were the fastest friends in the world. 
 She gave me this locket with her hair in it ; but 
 she only wrote to me once after she left, and I fear 
 she has forgotten me. And so you have come all 
 this way, and have crossed the sea ! Ah, how I 
 should like to travel ! I have never seen the sea. 
 I come from Mulhouse, which is only a day's jour- 
 ney ; and yet that is the longest distance I have 
 ever travelled." 
 
 "You speak English very well," I observed, 
 sleepily. 
 
 " Speak English ! I should think so, indeed ! 
 You will not be surprised at it when you have been 
 here a few days, and have seen what our English 
 classes are. Such tasks as we have to learn ! 
 Such themes, and dictations, and tiresome rules ! 
 Mein Gott I we are martyrs to English, and are 
 never allowed to speak German except in the hours 
 of recreation ! And there is Madame Thompson, 
 our English gouvernante / . . . Oh, Annchen, how 
 Hilda and Barbara will be amused with Madame 
 Thompson !" 
 
 " Madame Thompson is very good-natured," said 
 Annchen, quietly. 
 
 "And then there is Monsieur Duvernoy, our 
 French tutor, and we have two French governesses 
 besides; and such lots of other professors for 
 music, drawing, Italian, natural philosophy, elocu-
 
 240 Barbara's history. 
 
 tion, and Heaven knows wliat beside ! Have you 
 been to school before ? No ! Ah, then, you have 
 no idea of wliat hard work it is ; and this is not a 
 school, you know, but a College." 
 
 " What is the difference ?" asked Hilda, sitting 
 up in bed, and looking considerably dismayed at 
 the prospect disclosed by her talkative neighbour. 
 
 "The difference? Oh, the difference is enor- 
 mous ! In the first place, this is a government 
 establishment, founded and endowed ; and there 
 are upwards of seventy students, thirty of whom 
 pay nothing, but are taught for charity, and 
 elected every five years. Then we have examina- 
 tions twice a year ; and when we leave College we 
 take home a certificate signed by the Grand Duke 
 himself. And w^e learn in terms ; and we call our 
 holidays vacations ; and our dining-room a refec- 
 tory ; and our teachers are never masters or gover- 
 nesses, but always professors. Oh, a College is a 
 very grand place, I assure, you, compared with a 
 school ; but one has to work like a slave for the 
 honour of being brought up in it !" 
 
 "I think I would rather have been sent to 
 school, though," said Hilda, dolefully. 
 
 Of this observation, however, Luisa took no 
 notice ; but kept running on long after Annchen 
 had put out the light, and I had grown too sleepy 
 to listen.
 
 Barbara's history. 241 
 
 ^' Silver medal — half-holiday — breakfast — milk 
 and water — Madame Brenner — counterpoint — per- 
 spective " 
 
 These were the last words I heard, sinking, sink- 
 iua awav into the ocean of dreams. 
 
 VOL I.
 
 242 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ZOLLENSTRASSE-AM-MAIN. 
 
 It is not my intention to dwell at any considerable 
 length upon the first years of my College life. I 
 have already lingered too long and too fondly over 
 these early reminiscences, and I must now content 
 myself with an outline of that pleasant interval 
 which links childhood to youth, and youth to 
 womanhood — which stores the mind witli know- 
 ledge, and the heart with all good impulses — which 
 touches already on the confines of Romance, and 
 yet leaves the poem of life unwritten and untold. 
 It will bear to be related rapidly. The sketch of 
 a month, a week, a day, would suffice to paint the 
 pleasant monotony of years which so nearly resem- 
 bled each other. Be this chapter devoted, then, to 
 an ^' abstract and brief chronicle '' of our occupa- 
 tions and way of life abroad ; and also of the do-
 
 Barbara's history. 243 
 
 minions, the capital, and the Collegiate academy in 
 which it had pleased fate and my father to establish 
 us. 
 
 Situated in the very heart of Central Germany, 
 traversed by a broad and beautiful river, and cele- 
 brated alike for its scenery and its mineral waters, 
 the Grand Duchy of Zollenstrasse-am-AIain occu- 
 pies but a very small space upon the map, and only 
 half a page of Murray's Continental Handbook, 
 The truth is that the whole territory covers an area 
 of only eighty square miles ; that tlie population 
 numbers somewhat less than eleven thousand souls; 
 that the capital consists of a square and two streets, 
 chiefly hotels and lodging-houses ; and that but for 
 the influx of visitors every summer and autumn, 
 the inhabitants would long ago have died of inani- 
 tion and become an extinct species. Under these 
 circumstances, the court of ZoUenstrasse can 
 hardly be expected to exercise much influence upon 
 the affairs of Em'ope, or, even in its matrimonial 
 alliances, materially to affect the balance of 
 power. And yet the Grand Duchy is a real 
 Grand Duchy; and the Grand Duke is a real 
 Grand Duke ; and the comfortable white house in 
 which he lives is called The Palace ; and the two 
 little soldiers who walk up and down before the 
 door all day long are privates in that shabby regi- 
 ment of which His Serene Highness is so proud, 
 
 r2
 
 244 hakrara's iiistoky. 
 
 and \vliich the townspeople, with pardonable 
 patriotism, style the Military Establishment of the 
 State. Besides this, the Duchy has its national 
 coina<^e, stamped with a profile of Leopold 
 XVllL, Dux ZoLL : on one side, and the Ducal 
 arms on the other ; and its national costume, w hich 
 is horribly unbecoming; and its national dialect, 
 upon which the Zollenstrassers pique themselves 
 more than enough, to the infinite amusement of 
 their neighbours. 
 
 ZoUenstrasse, tlie capital, consists, as I have 
 already observed, chiefly of lodging-houses, the 
 largest of which, however, belongs to no less a 
 landlord than His Serene Highness himself. It 
 was formerly one of the royal residences ; but is 
 now let out in suites, and is by far the most reason- 
 able and best a])])ointed establishment in the town. 
 The fact is humiliating ; but the Duke is poor 
 and the speculation profitable. The other prin- 
 cipal buildings are the Pumproom, Bath-house, 
 Conversation Haus, Palace, Theatre, and Collegiate 
 Academy. The Pumproom, or Trinkhalle, is an 
 open colonnade painted gaudily in fresco, and 
 ])rovided with a chalybeate tap at either end. The 
 Brunnen Madchen are pretty and obliging. The 
 waters taste like hot ink and lucifer matches. 
 The Conversation Ilaus is a superb building, con- 
 taining news-rooms, gaming-rooms, and a large
 
 Barbara's history. 245 
 
 hall wliicli serves for balls and concerts. It was 
 built by the present Duke, and is by him let to a 
 company of French speculators at a round rental 
 of sixty thousand dollars per annum. All things 
 considered, His Serene Highness is not, perhaps, 
 quite so needy as one might suppose. He has 
 many little perquisites, besides those already 
 enumerated. He taxes the hotel-keepers, the 
 visitors, and the itinerant dealers in stag's-horn 
 brooches and Swiss carvings. He levies an impost 
 upon pleasure-boats, omnibuses, and donkeys. He 
 regulates the tariff for ices, coffee, and Strasbourg 
 beer. He claims a per-centage on the sale of 
 guide-books and newspapers ; and exacts a dividend 
 out of the visitors' washing-bills. Then all the 
 flys and saddle-horses belong to him ; and the 
 theatre is his property ; and the Bath-house was 
 his father's private speculation ; so that, concisely 
 to sum up the sources of the Grand Ducal revenue. 
 His Serene Highness is lodging-house keeper, 
 theatrical manager, job-master, bath -owner, land- 
 lord of gambling-houses, and general tax-collector 
 to the state. You would never think this, to look 
 at him. At least, you would not have thought it 
 had you looked at him so nearly and so often as I 
 did, and seen what a fine, handsome, polite gentle- 
 man he was, with a ribbon in his button-hole, and 
 a cream-coloured moustache that hung over his
 
 24() Barbara's history. 
 
 iiiontli liko n fnn<^e of spun silk. He used to ride 
 and drive about quite unattended, and walk in the 
 public gardens after dinner with bis two little boys, 
 like a mere onhnary mortal. And many a time, 
 when the French company came down and ^ladame 
 Brenner took a select detachment of her scholars 
 to the theatre to witness a piece of Racine or 
 Moliere, I have seen his august Highness applaud- 
 ing with his own royal hands ; or, like an affable 
 potentate as he was, leaning back in his seat, and 
 laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks. The 
 theatre, I should observe, was always over at nine ; 
 and the ladies in the boxes wore their bonnets, and 
 took their knitting with them. 
 
 Then the Grand Duke was an amateur compo- 
 ser, and wrote classical cantatas which were per- 
 formed l)y the pupils of our academy ; and he 
 played the violin, it was said, to admiration ; and 
 he turned the most exquisite little boxes in ivory 
 for all his royal nieces and cousins, down to those 
 of Saxe-Hohenbausen in the fortieth degree; and 
 he painted in oils ; and he wrote poetry ; and at 
 his chateau of Schwartzberg, a romantic old hunt- 
 ing-lodge about two miles from the capital, he kept 
 a preserve of tame wild boars, for the express pur- 
 pose of getting up boar-hunts by torchlight, for the 
 amusement of those distinguished visitors who 
 came to stav with him in the season. So his tastes,
 
 Barbara's history. 247 
 
 you see, were in the liigliest degree refined, and 
 one was only surprised to tliink how little they 
 interfered with his duties as a sovereign and a 
 tradesman. 
 
 His duties as a sovereign, however, were not 
 onerous ; but consisted chiefly of a due supervision 
 of the perquisites before-mentioned, and the ex- 
 penditure of the same. He held a privy-council 
 every morning after breakfast, and a levee once a 
 month. He reviewed the Military Establishment 
 of the State every two or three days ; and, as 
 President of our Academy, honoured the Ex- 
 aminations with his presence at the close of each 
 term. On court-days a flag was hoisted at the 
 palace ; the sentries were doubled ; and the band 
 played for an extra hour in the public garden. 
 I remember now, as well as possible, how we 
 school-girls were amused to see the ladies picking 
 their way across the square in their court-dresses, 
 with their maid-servants and umbrellas — how we 
 used to make bets beforehand as to who would 
 walk, and who would hire a fly, and how many 
 families would borrow the Gnifin von Steinmetz's 
 old yellow landau — how daring our remarks were 
 when Herr Secretary Ungar went by, because 
 he was stone-deaf, and could not hear a word we 
 said — and what fun we made of General Schinkel's 
 pigtail, and the Town-Councillors' legs.
 
 248 Barbara's history. 
 
 It at first surprised me to learn how strictly 
 these little courts were confined to the nobles and 
 dignitaries of Zollenstrasse proper, and how rigidly 
 the etiquette was kept up ^^'ith regard to strangers. 
 No foreigner could be presented unless he brought 
 proof tliat he had been })resented at home ; and 
 not even a German baron from a neighbouring 
 state was received without first submitting his cre- 
 dentials to a privy-councillor. I own that I laughed 
 at this for a long time, and thought it preposterous 
 that an English commoner whose income numbered 
 thousands when that of His Highness numbered 
 tens, and whose house and gardens were probably as 
 large as all the houses and gardens in the Duchy of 
 Zollenstrasse put together, should be excluded from 
 the honoi^rs of a Ducal levee simply because he had 
 never kissed hands at St. James's ; but as I grew 
 older I discovered the wisdom of this arrangement, 
 and found that, after all, the precautions of the 
 ZoUenstrassers were not quite misplaced. The 
 fact w^as that our annual visitors were of a very 
 miscellaneous description. They came and went 
 like the swallows ; with this difference, that, in- 
 stead of seeking a warmer clime, they frequently 
 came from one wdiich was already too hot to hold 
 them. How was one to know who they w^ere, 
 whence they came, or whither they were going? 
 How guess the antecedents of those elegant ladies
 
 Barbara's history. 249 
 
 who drank the waters in the morning ; ate ices all 
 day lono; in the public garden ; and staked their 
 five- franc pieces at the roulette -tables every even- 
 ing? That French exquisite who calls himself a 
 marquis and wears a diamond as large as a three- 
 penny piece, is, perhaps, a convicted forger, with T.F. 
 branded on his shoulder. That gallant English 
 tourist with the military frock, may be a blackleg. 
 That wealthy capitalist who has hired the best 
 suite at the best hotel, a fraudulent bankrupt. To 
 speak truth, a gaming spa offers many inducements 
 to the equivocal of both sexes ; and though his 
 Serene Highness, Leopold XVIII., did condescend 
 to provide the tables, furnish the lodgings, and ac- 
 cept the profits, he had no resource but to turn his 
 august back upon those visitors by whom he lived. 
 
 But it is time that I said something of our own 
 way of life, and of the establishment whereof w^e 
 were members. 
 
 Excepting only the Conversation Haus, our Col- 
 legiate Academy w^as the handsomest building in 
 the little capital of Zollenstrasse-am-Main. The 
 house was large and imposing ; and, with its long 
 wings, occupied three sides of a spacious courtj^ard. 
 It contained a concert-room, a library, eight class- 
 rooms, two large dining-halls, apartments for the 
 resident professors, dormitories for sixty scholars, 
 a board room, and extensive offices. At the back
 
 250 barraka's iiistouv. 
 
 of tlie Academy lay an extensive kitclien-garclen ; 
 and to tlie left of the garden, a playground and 
 gymnasium. The number of residents, exclusive 
 of teachers and servants, was limited to sixty ; 
 thirty of whom were hoys, and thirty girls. Fifteen 
 of each sex were admitted on the foundation. Out- 
 pupils were also received to the number of sixty 
 more ; but these attended daily, made their pay- 
 ments half-yearly, and were neither permitted to 
 dine at our tables, nor join us in our hours of re- 
 creation. A comfortable waiting-room was placed, 
 however, at their disposal, where they could read, 
 work, or practise ; and those who came from a dis- 
 tance were allowed to have refreshments sent in 
 from a Gasthof in the Theater-phitz. The interior 
 arrangements of the Academy were perfect. The 
 male and female pupils were kept as thoroughly 
 apart as if they had not been resident under the 
 one roof. We had our separate class-rooms, din- 
 ing-rooms, and occupations ; and, save at the 
 half-yearly fetes^ the concerts, the examinations, 
 or the chapel on Sundays, never exchanged so much 
 as a glance. For the maintenence of order and 
 discipline we were also well provided. A matron 
 attended to the housekeeping, and Madame Bren- 
 ner had the supervision of all matters connected 
 with the education and comfort of the female stu- 
 dents. A president and master-librarian exercised
 
 Barbara's history. 251 
 
 supreme authority over the boys. The commis- 
 sariat was liberal ; a medical officer resided in the 
 liouse ; and six women-servants and two men were 
 kept, besides the porter at the gate. These, with 
 four resident professors, constituted the whole staff, 
 and a highly efficient staff it was. 
 
 As for the education afforded by this institution, 
 I cannot better explain its aim and nature than by 
 stating at once that it Avas essentially a school of 
 art, devoted to the cultivation of native talent and 
 regulated upon principles which subordmated all 
 minor considerations to this one jn*eat object. Thus 
 the free scholars were all brought up to the pur- 
 suit of either music, sculpture, or painting ; and 
 even those students whose means enabled them to 
 dispense with a profession, were compelled, in like 
 manner, to conform to the academic rules, and 
 select some leading study. The head masters of 
 each department resided in the house, and the 
 rest of the teachers attended daily. Every 
 year six advanced students of each sex were 
 elected as monitors, whereupon it became their 
 duty to overlook the studies of the rest; and, 
 though none but Germans were admitted to the 
 privileges of the gratuitous education, foreigners 
 who were willing to pay for their instruction were 
 not excluded. There were limitations, however, 
 to both of these laws. No German who was a
 
 2i32 Barbara's history. 
 
 subject of either Austria or Prussia could, under 
 any circumstances, be elif^ilile as a free scholar ; 
 and this because Austria and Prussia were judged 
 sufficiently rich and powerful to cultivate the fine 
 arts for themselves. Neither could any foreign 
 applicant be received on paying terms, so long m 
 there were native applicants of equal merit in the 
 field. 
 
 This being the case, it was quite a rare and for- 
 tunate chance that Hilda and I should have suc- 
 ceeded so easily. 
 
 I have already said that the Grand Duke was 
 our patron and j^erpetual president ; but we also 
 had honorary members and subscribers among 
 most of the crowned heads and nobles of the 
 German Confederation. We held yearly exhibi- 
 tions, and concerts during the season ; and besides 
 the ordinary examinations at the close of every 
 term, we had a grand triennial Competition, to 
 which art-professors and amateurs from every 
 quarter were invited. A committee of judgment 
 was then formed ; medals were distributed ; and 
 to those pupils whose term of study had ex])ired, 
 certificates of merit were delivered. Taken as a 
 Avhole, I doubt if there be in all Europe an educa- 
 tional institute so methodically conducted, and so 
 thoroughly repaying in its results as this Collegiate 
 Academy which lies perdu in the heart of a remote
 
 Barbara's history. 253 
 
 German state, scarcely known even by name be- 
 yond the confines of the Rhine and Elbe; but 
 destined some day to be famed in the fame of its 
 disciples. May all prosperity and all honour be 
 with it ; and may other nations take example by 
 it ! Methinks there are one or two institutions in 
 my native country, and, perhaps, one or two more 
 in the gayest of neighbouring capitals, which might 
 with advantage be remodelled on the principles of 
 our Zollenstrasse School of Art. 
 
 It was not long before I fell in with the pre- 
 scribed routine, and became thoroughly at home 
 and happy in my student-life. I liked my teachers, 
 my friendly school companions, and the pleasant 
 regularity of hours and occupations. Naturally 
 eager for knowledge, I derived inexpi'essible satis- 
 faction from the consciousness of daily improve- 
 ment. To^wake in the morning with all the day 
 before me, and to know that every hour of that day 
 was laid out beforehand for my benefit — to earn 
 a smile from Madame Brenner, or a word of praise 
 from Professor Metz — to work hard, while work 
 was the order of the hour — to play heartily, when 
 the interval of relaxation came — to steal by twi- 
 light into some quiet corner, and read till it was 
 too dark to do aught but sit and muse with folded 
 hands — to sup merrily off such pastoral fare as 
 milk, and fruit, and fresh brown bread ; and after-
 
 254 Barbara's history. 
 
 wards to go to bed, tired, and lia])py, and at ])eace 
 with myself and all the world beside — this was in- 
 deed a life such as I had never known before ; 
 such as I have never known since ; such as none 
 of us can know, save in our hap])y school-days. 
 
 Then the college was like a home, in the true 
 meaning of that dear old Saxon word; and we 
 house-students were to each other, for the most 
 part, as the members of a single family. I had 
 many friends, for we were all friends, and two or 
 three special intimates. Amongst these latter were 
 Annchen, and the dark-haired Luisa, and a tender- 
 hearted impulsive Bavarian, called Ida Saxe, with 
 a heart full of enthusiasm, and a head full of 
 legends. I became much attached to her; and 
 when Annchen and Luisa, who were both older 
 than myself, had left the school, our affection grew 
 even more exclusive than before. Our;itastes, ages, 
 studies, and ambitions were the same. We had 
 each chosen painting for our principal pursuit — we 
 studied under the same master — we drew from the 
 same models — we worked in the same class, and we 
 occupied the same bedroom. She was an or|)han, 
 and looked forward to art as her profession. 1 
 also cherished visions of ambition, and hoped that 
 the time might come when my father would suffer 
 me to turn my studies to their just account. For 
 I had talent, and my talent was of the right sort —
 
 Barbara's history. 255 
 
 inborn, earnest, persevering, confident to strive, 
 humble to learn, patient in defeat, and unsatisfied 
 in success. Term after term, I won the approba- 
 tion of my teachers, and felt the power growing 
 stronger and clearer within me. By and by I 
 carried off the third-class medal for the best draw- 
 ing from the antique; and, at the close of my 
 third year, the second silver medal for an original 
 composition. To achieve the first silver medal, or 
 even, at some far-off day, to become the victorious 
 winner of the first-class certificate and the grand 
 gold medal of the Triennial Competition, were 
 glories that I could scarcely hope to compass ; but 
 which, though I hardly dared confess it to myself, 
 had become the great aims of my life. 
 
 As for Hilda, she had no such ambition. Find- 
 ing herself, according to the school regulations, 
 obliged to make choice of some especial art, she 
 took up that of music, in which she was already a 
 tolerable proficient. I do not think she really 
 loved music, or selected it out of preference ; but 
 because she disliked \^^rk, and believed that in this 
 science she would find less to learn. She was 
 mistaken, however ; for music as it is taught in 
 Germany, and music as it was taught by Miss 
 Whymper, were two very different affairs. In the 
 first place, she had to unlearn much of her previous 
 knowledge, which is never easy; in the second
 
 256 Barbara's history. 
 
 place, slie liad to study counterpoint ; and in tlie 
 tliird place, she was forced to practise for a certain 
 number of hours per diem. As for the light 
 modern school to which she had hitherto been 
 accustomed, it availed her nothing. Instead of 
 Fantasias and Airs with amazing variations, she 
 was condemned to the Sonatas of Beethoven and 
 Mozart, and the fugues of Sebastian Bach. Cast 
 adrift, thus, upon an academy where an arrange- 
 ment of operatic airs by Hertz was looked upon 
 with pious horror, my unlucky sister had but a 
 hard time of it, and, for the first half year or so, 
 made herself consistently wretched and disagreeable. 
 The truth is that Hilda was not amiable. She was 
 handsome, haughty, and ready-witted; and she 
 possessed a remarkable facility in the acquirement 
 of accomplishments. Up to a certain point, and 
 for just so long as her curiosity held out, she 
 succeeded rapidly ; but she had xu) real industry ; 
 and as soon as she ceased to be amused, grew cai'e- 
 less, impatient, and out of heart. With such a 
 disposition, it is difficult to go creditably through 
 any academic education ; and indeed I hardly 
 know how or where it would have ended, had not 
 Professor Oberstein one day discovered that Hilda 
 had a voice — a voice so pure, so extensive, so sweet 
 and flexible, as had seldom before been heard with- 
 in the vs'2i\h of the college. From this time forth
 
 Barbara's history. 257 
 
 Hilda was content ; and the masters had compara- 
 tively little trouble to make her work. To sing 
 was easier than to play fugues, and study Al- 
 brechtsberger. Besides her vanity was touched. 
 She longed for the time when she could take part 
 in the academy concerts ; and she found that when 
 siniiing: she looked even handsomer than when 
 silent. Her progress soon surprised us; and though 
 she continued to be but a moderate pianist and a 
 very indifferent theorist, she improved so rapidly 
 in her new study, that after about eighteen months 
 of Professor Oberstein's tuition, she was compe- 
 tent to sing in a concerted piece at one of our 
 matinees musicales. From concerted pieces she 
 was promoted to solos ; and though I am not cer- 
 tain that she continued always to advance at the same 
 rate, she at least kept up her reputation in the 
 vocal classes, and from time to time received, not 
 only the applause of an audience, but the more 
 solid testimonial of a second or third class exami- 
 nation medal. I do not suppose, however, that 
 Hilda was ever so thoroughly happy in her school- 
 life as I was in mine. Naturally proud and re- 
 served, she made no intimacies, and was altogether 
 less popular than myself. She never took me 
 into her heart, as I had once hoped. We were 
 good friends, but not much more; and our sojourn 
 at Zolienstrasse drew us less together than one 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 Barbara's history. 
 
 could have anticipated. She had but liitlc sym- 
 pathy with my pursuits, and none with my ambi- 
 tions. That I, a Churchill, should dream of fol- 
 lowing my art as a profession, shocked all her pre- 
 judices ; whilst I, on the other hand, entertained 
 a profound indifference towards all those fashion- 
 able and matrimonial visions to which her present 
 studies were by her regarded as mere adjuncts and 
 preliminaries. And thus, alas ! it was and must 
 ever be. My sister was not to be my second self, 
 pray for it, or strive for it, as I would ! 
 
 So the years went on, and, being so far from 
 home, we spent vacation-time as well as term-time 
 at the college. We wrote to our father about 
 once in every three months — he replied to us about 
 twice in every eight or ten. His letters w^ere 
 always the same — so much the same that he might 
 as well haA^e had them lithographed. He was 
 happy to hear that we were so well satisfied with 
 our place of residence, and tliat Ave gave so much 
 satisfaction to our teachers ; he rejoiced to say that 
 he was well, and that Beever was the same as ever; 
 and he remained our affectionate father, &c. &c. 
 This was the purport of his letters, one and all — 
 not a word more, and not a word less. 
 
 For my part, I had ceased to care for home or 
 England now. I felt that there was but one home 
 in the old countrv that could ever be home to me
 
 Barbara's history. 259 
 
 — and into that I had no hope of ever entering 
 again. To stay abroad, then, for ever ; to work 
 out my life in the land of Kaulbach, Overbeck, 
 and Lessing ; to visit Eome and the Vatican some 
 time before I died ; and to end my days within the 
 walls of that Academy of which I was a loving and 
 reverent disciple, constituted all the substance of my 
 prayers — " the ultima Tkule of my wandering de- 
 sires." 
 
 s 2
 
 2()0 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED EVENT. 
 
 " Has anything been heard about the excursion ?" 
 
 "Yes, we are to go to-day, if Madame Bren- 
 ner and the afternoon continue favourable." 
 
 "Oh, delightful! I declare I had almost feared 
 that our country afternoons were never to begin 
 again." 
 
 " That is because a whole winter has gone by 
 since we took our last trip ; and that .... let me 
 see — that must have been in October." 
 
 " And we are now in the middle of April ! 
 Well, never mind, the summer is coming again, 
 and the time has not seemed so very slow, after 
 all. Where do you think we shall go ? To the 
 Hermitage, or to the ruins of Konigsberg f 
 
 "Nay, that is more than I can tell; but I should 
 say to the woods of Briihl. Professor Metz was
 
 Barbara's history. 261 
 
 there the other day, and I heard him tell Madame 
 Brenner that he had never seen such wild-flowers 
 in his life . . . ." 
 
 "Hush! Here he comes. We must not be 
 caught idling !" 
 
 And, as the door opened, the heads of the two 
 speakers were bent busily over their easels. The 
 Professor came in, tall, gaunt, and grey ; stooping 
 somewhat in the shoulders, as was his habit ; and 
 darting quick, searching glances all about the 
 room. Not a whisper disturbed the profound 
 silence of the crowded studio, and the buzzing of 
 a fly against the skylight was distinctly audible. 
 In and out, threading his way among the easels, 
 the great master then made the round of the class. 
 To some he gave a word of praise, to some a shake 
 of the head, and some he passed by in silence. 
 Pausing beside me for an instant, he uttered a 
 short grunt of approbation ; and the next moment 
 bent over my unlucky neighbour, Emma Werner, 
 took the brush from her hand, and at a single 
 touch effaced the head upon which she had been 
 toiling all the morning. 
 
 " Oh, sir!" she exclaimed, "is it so bad as that?" 
 
 "Bad?" he repeated. "So bad that I have 
 more hope for you than before. Signal failures 
 imply genius. A fool would have done better." 
 
 And with this equivocal encouragement, and a
 
 262 Barbara's history. 
 
 still more equivocal shrug of the shoulders, he 
 passed on. 
 
 " That cherub," said he to one, " has the scarlet 
 fever." 
 
 To another : — " Your Ilagar looks like a female 
 Ugolino. 'Tis a baker's conception of the subject." 
 
 To a third : — " This foreground labours under a 
 green and yellow melancholy !" 
 
 To a fourth : — " Your Madonna is a coquette." 
 
 To a fifth : — " What is your subject — Bacchus 
 and Ariadne ? Humph ! Which is Bacchus, and 
 which Ariadne?" 
 
 At last, having finished his tour of inspection, 
 he came back to where Ida and I were working 
 side by side, and stood for some time between the 
 two easels, silent and observant. We were copy- 
 ing a head of Christ by Guido, which the Grand 
 Duke had lent for the advanced students. 
 
 " It is possible," said he, presently, " to copy too 
 well. Tiy to think less of the painting, and more 
 of the idea. Truth is not necessarily literal. The 
 Divine never can be literal ; and there is in all art 
 a vanishing point where the real merges itself into 
 the ideal. Have courage, and remember that to 
 attempt much is to learn much. The horizon 
 mounts with the eye of the climber." 
 
 Having said this, he strode to the door ; bowed 
 hurriedly ; and was gone in a moment. We had
 
 Barbara's history. 263 
 
 all risen in silence to return his salutation ; but 
 the door was no sooner closed behind him than a 
 Babel of chatter broke out, and everybody was in 
 motion. This afternoon visit concluded the day's 
 work, and the Professor's exit gave the signal for 
 breaking up the class. In an instant all was con- 
 fusion, laughter, and bustle. Paintings were laid 
 aside, easels shut up, brushes washed, palates 
 cleaned, and copies put carefully away ; while in 
 the midst of it all came a message from Madame 
 Brenner, desiring us to be ready to start at three 
 o'clock upon an excursion to the woods of Briihl. 
 
 With what shouts and hand-clappings this infor- 
 mation was received ; how quickly the studio was 
 put in order ; what haste we made to dress ; and 
 with what delight we poured out of the courtyard 
 and took the road to Briihl, none but those who 
 have lived in schools and enjoyed half-holidays 
 can conceive. Ida and I walked together, and 
 Hilda, as usual, with the French governess. Made- 
 moiselle Yiolette. Whether she chose her com- 
 panion from preference, or whether, being one of 
 the elder girls, she thought it more dignified to be 
 seen walking with a teacher, I cannot tell — I only 
 know that Mademoiselle Violette yvas a little 
 elderly, frivolous, conceited Parisian, who talked 
 of nothing but her high birth, her misfortunes, her 
 lover who died abroad, and her everlasting toilette.
 
 264 Barbara's history. 
 
 Having walked very soberly, two by two, all 
 through the town and along the public road, we 
 broke up the order of march as soon as we arrived 
 at the low meadows, and became a very noisy 
 company. Our way lay mostly beside the river. 
 The trees were clad in their first pale feathery 
 foliage ; the afternoon was hot and sunny like an 
 afternoon in July ; and the swallows were darting 
 hither and thither, as if they knew not how to re- 
 joice enough in the returning summer. 
 
 The woods lay between two and three miles to 
 the west of the town, and we reached them about 
 half-past four o'clock. How pleasant to plunge 
 into the shade, after walking for an hour and a 
 half with the sun in our faces ! How delicious to 
 tread the elastic moss between the trees ; to lie 
 down upon banks literally mantled over with prim- 
 roses, blue hyacinths, and the wild geranium ; to 
 watch the shafts of sunlight piercing the green 
 gloom here and there, and gilding the smooth boles 
 of the silver ash ! Intoxicated with delight, we 
 laughed, we ran, we pelted each other with wild 
 flowers, and made the w^oods ring again with the 
 echoes of our voices. By and by, being somewhat 
 warm and weary, we strolled away by twos and 
 threes, and found resting-places and green nooks 
 to our fancy. An old felled trunk coated with 
 gi'ey moss, furnished Ida and me with a seat ; and
 
 Barbara's history. 265 
 
 there, at some little distance from the rest, we sat 
 hand in hand, and talked, as only the young ever 
 talk, of art, friendship, and the future. 
 
 " It was our old Frauenkirche in Munich that 
 made me an artist," said Ida. " From the time 
 when I was quite a little child, and my mother 
 used to carry me in her arms to mass, I remember 
 the bronze tomb of the Emperor Louis, and the 
 painted windows behind the altar. I was never 
 weary of gazing up at those gorgeous kings and 
 saints. I remember, also, how the evening sun 
 used to shine through, and stain the pavement of 
 the side-aisles with flecks of purple and gold. I 
 believe that my very soul thirsted for colour, and 
 that my eyes drank it in as eagerly as ever way- 
 farer drank from the springs of the desert. I 
 little thought at that time that I should ever come 
 to handle it familiarly, and make it the medium of 
 my own thoughts !" 
 
 " But you hoped to be a painter from the first?" 
 
 " No. My parents were humble folks, and 
 chance alone determined my career." • 
 
 " Chance ! What chance, Ida? " 
 
 " I will tell you. My father kept a small fruit- 
 garden on the left bank of the Isar, about three- 
 quarters of a mile out of Munich on the Harlaching 
 road. Our house stood by the way-side, and from 
 the back we had a view of the Tyrolean Alps. We
 
 2G6 Barbara's history. 
 
 were very poor. The produce of tlie garden barely 
 sufficed to keep us, though the land and cottage 
 were our own ; and in the winter time we suffered 
 many privations. Still my childhood passed very 
 happily. I went to the Free-school every day, 
 and to Mass every Sunday and Saint' s-day ; and 
 each October, when the People's festival came 
 round, my parents made holiday, and took me with 
 them to see the prize fruits and flowers, and the 
 rifle-shooting in the Theresa-fields. Thus the years 
 went by, and at thirteen I was less ignorant than 
 might have been supposed. About this time, hav- 
 ing by dint of severe economy saved a score or so 
 of dollars, my parents contrived to furnish and let 
 our two best rooms. Om' first lodger was a clerk 
 from some banking-house in the town, who went 
 in to business every morning, and remained away 
 all day. However, he only stayed with us about 
 three months, and was succeeded by an English 
 artist, who had come to study in the galleries of 
 Munich. This artist discovered, somehow, that I 
 loved art ; became interested in me ; gave me a 
 few lessons, and — and taught me, in short, to know 
 my own destiny." 
 
 " Well 1 " said I, finding that she paused in her 
 narrative. 
 
 " Well, it went on thus for a year or more, till 
 one day my kind friend suggested that I should be-
 
 bakbaka's history. 267 
 
 come a candidate for one of the free scholarships 
 of the Zollenstrasse School of Art, and himself of- 
 fered to defray the expenses of election. I made 
 the effort — I succeeded — I have been here, as you 
 know, five years already, and I have two more years 
 to remain." 
 
 " And the English artist — where is he ? Do 
 you ever hear from him ? Have you seen him 
 since you left Munich ? " 
 
 Ida shook her head, and turned her face 
 away. 
 
 "Pie went back, soon after, to his native country," 
 she said, " and we have heard nothing of him from 
 that day to this. But it is your turn now, Bar- 
 bara. Tell me, when did you first recognise your 
 vocation ? " 
 
 " In my cradle, I think," I replied, with a smile 
 and a sigh. "Before I could speak plainly, I 
 scrawled with a pencil : and when I was quite a 
 little girl I could see more faces in the clouds, and 
 more pictures in the fire, than either of my sisters. 
 I never studied, however, till I came here." 
 
 "And that," exclaimed Ida, "was at the very 
 same term that I joined, six years ago ? " 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 " And you are one year younger than I ? " 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " I am just seventeen, and 
 you are eighteen. You have the advantage of me
 
 268 Barbara's history. 
 
 in every way. You had a year's teaching before 
 you came here." 
 
 " Bah ! What is that? I have not half your 
 genius ! " 
 
 " Nay — if you talk thus we shall quarrel." 
 
 "For the first time, Barbara!" laughed Ida, 
 putting her arms about my neck. " For the first 
 time ! Besides, you know, we have promised each 
 other never to disagi'ee— never to love eacli other 
 less — never to let anything come between us, either 
 in our friendship or our future ! " 
 
 "Do you suppose, Ida, that I forget it?" 
 
 " And then," continued she, "we shall some day 
 go to Rome together — Rome, the artist's Paradise! 
 We shall lodge among the painters in the Via Mar- 
 gutta, and go to tlie artists' festival at Albano. We 
 will hire a studio; paint together; study together; 
 wander together in the ruins of the Forum, and 
 under the moonlit arches of the Coliseum ! Oh, 
 Barbara, does it not make your heart beat to think 
 of it?" 
 
 " Alas ! dear, I am not so confident. Could I 
 but believe it possible . . . ." 
 
 " To those who rely upon their own industry, all 
 things are possible." 
 
 " A most sententious maxim ; but how shall I 
 apply it?" 
 
 " You shall apply it by . . . let me see, by paint-
 
 bakbaka's histoky. 269 
 
 ing a great historical picture, a masterpiece of 
 modern art ! " 
 
 "Oh, by all means!" 
 
 " And the Grand Duke must buy it . . . stay, he 
 could not afford to buy it. It will be too expensive 
 for him ; and, besides, if he did buy it, where could 
 he put it ? No — no. King Louis of Bavaria must 
 buy it ! He will give you two or three » thousand 
 dollars for it, and it will be hung in the modern 
 Pinacothek, in my own dear city of Munich, 
 where all the world will see and do it justice." 
 
 " I desire nothing better. Pray go on." 
 
 " Well, with your three thousand dollars you 
 can go to Rome, and voila — the thing is done ! " 
 
 " Would that it were, Ida !" I exclaimed, laugh- 
 ing. " Unfortunately, however, something more 
 than self-reliance is necessary to carry out this ad- 
 mirable project. At present, yours is but a pro- 
 gramme, with no entertainment to follow." 
 
 " That does not prove that the entertainment 
 never will follow. Oh, I have set my heart on 
 seeing you famous ! " 
 
 " Come, Barbara," said Hilda close behind me. 
 " We are all going, and I suppose you do not wish 
 to be left in the wood." 
 
 "What, already?" 
 
 " It is six o'clock, and will be dusk before we 
 reach home," replied my sister coldly. Then, drop-
 
 2"0 Barbara's history. 
 
 ping her voice so as to be heard by me only : — 
 '^ What folly have you been talking ? " she added. 
 " I have been standing here these five minutes, lis- 
 tening with amazement to all this nonsense about 
 Rome and fame, and Heaven knows what beside ! 
 One would think you were a free scholar, like your 
 dear friend here, and had to work for your bread!" 
 
 " One may work for something better than 
 bread, sister," I replied smiling. 
 
 But she turned angrily away, and we were pre- 
 sently surrounded by a troop of the younger girls, all 
 shouting and dancing, and laden with wild-flowers, 
 like a bevy of little bacchantes. 
 
 " Look here, Ida," said one. " Here is a daisy- 
 chain that would reach across the river ! Did you 
 ever see one so long ? " 
 
 " I have found a lovely maiden-hair fern, roots 
 and all, for Madame Brenner's fernery!" cried an- 
 other. 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed a third, " I know something 
 which none of you know — such good new^s ! " 
 
 " Good new^s ! " repeated a dozen voices at once. 
 "What is it? Oh, what is it?" 
 
 "Guess — but you'll never guess. Shall I tell 
 you ? Well, we are to have chocolate and cream- 
 cakes for supper ! " 
 
 And thus, chattering, laughing, and rejoicing, 
 the merry crowd swept on homewards, and left the
 
 271 
 
 setting sun behind the woods of Briihl. By and 
 by some elder girls began singing four-part songs ; 
 and then the twilight came down ; and the stars 
 gleamed out in the green-blue sky ; and the music 
 mingled in with the lapsing of the river that ran 
 beside us all the way. 
 
 It was almost dark by the time we reached the 
 college. We were tired and silent enough now, 
 and the wild-flowers had all been thrown away on 
 the road. Still we were very happy, very hungry, 
 very glad to be home again, and very glad to 
 have been out. 
 
 The porter who opened the gate touched his hat 
 and spoke to Madame Brenner. She left him, and 
 came quickly into the midst of us. 
 
 "Barbara," said she, "Barbara and Hilda 
 Churchill, where are you ? Some friends of yours 
 are here. You will find them waiting in the parlour." 
 
 Friends ! Who could they be ? Whence had 
 they come ? Save a flying call two or three years 
 ago from dear old Mr. Bose, no one had asked for 
 us ever since we had been in the College ! Could 
 it be my aunt ? Could it be Hugh ? I felt my- 
 self flush, and then grow pale again. Going up 
 the steps, I clung involuntarily to Hilda's arm, 
 and when we reached the parlour-door, trembled 
 like a leaf. 
 
 The room was dimly lighted, and contained two
 
 272 Barbara's history. 
 
 persons, a lady and a gentleman. The lady was 
 Ipng back in an easy chair, and turned her head 
 languidly at the opening of the door. The gentle- 
 man was standing at the window with his hands 
 behind his back. 
 
 " Madame," said he, addressing himself with a 
 stately bow to Madame Brenner, " permit me to 
 introduce myself — Edmund Churchill — the father 
 of your pupils." 
 
 The superintendent curtsied, and looked from 
 him to us, expecting to see us fly into his arms. 
 My father, however, bowed again and glanced to- 
 wards the occupant of the easy chair, who rose 
 slowly, and threw back her veil. 
 
 " And Mrs. Churchill," added he very ceremo- 
 niously. He then tui'ned towards us for the first 
 time. 
 
 " ^fy dear children," said he, touching our fore- 
 heads lightly with his lips, " I rejoice to see you 
 again. Be pleased to receive this lady with the 
 affection and respect due to . . . ahem ! your father's 
 wife. Mrs. Churchill, I have the pleasure of pre- 
 senting my daughters." 
 
 But that lady, instead of embracing us with ma- 
 ternal fervour, extended only the tips of two fingers, 
 and said : — 
 
 ^*I had no idea that your ' little girls' were grown 
 up, Mr. Churchill!"
 
 273 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 HILDA DISCOVEKS HER VOCATION. 
 
 And so my father had married again — married 
 again at sixty, and brought his bride to Zollen- 
 strasse-am-Main ! It was their honeymoon. They 
 had come up the Rhine via Brussels, and were re- 
 turning by way of Paris ; having at present been 
 just ten days en voyage. This event was so unex- 
 pected that at first I could scarcely realize it. It 
 took me, in fact, some two or three days to form 
 an opinion of my father's choice, and in order to 
 express that opinion I find myself referring not 
 exactly to my first impression, but to the successive 
 impressions of several interviews. 
 
 Mrs. Churchill was what is generally called a 
 fine woman. That is to say, she was large, well- 
 defined, and of a comely presence. She was about 
 forty years of age. Pier hands were small, her teeth 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 Barbara's history. 
 
 Hdmirable, her complexion well-preserved, and her 
 taste in dress unexceptionable. Easy, indolent, 
 self-possessed, and somewhat distant, her manner 
 was that of a thorough woman of the world — or 
 rather that of a woman who knew the world and 
 herself by heart, and had determined to make the 
 most of both. She was not clever — I soon disco- 
 vered that — but she had tact. She knew what to 
 admire, what tastes to profess, and how to give 
 them effect. She spoke seldom, always slowly, 
 and never unless she really had something to say. 
 That something, if clever, was not original ; and, if 
 original, was not clever ; but it was invariably ju- 
 dicious, and, like a paper currency, represented a 
 value which was not intrinsic. Above all, she had 
 studied the art of silence, and knew how to main- 
 tain a dignified repose. If that repose seemed 
 somewhat artificial and over-elaborated — if she 
 was, perhaps, on the whole, more fastidious than 
 refined, more fashionable than highly bred, she 
 could, nevertheless, be sufficiently gracious when 
 she pleased, and was, beyond all doubt, well accus- 
 tomed to the ways, means, and appliances of that 
 little corner of society called " the world." 
 
 That she also had been previously married — that 
 her first husband held a civil appointment in India 
 under Lord Amherst, and there accumulated a 
 considerable fortune — that he had been dead some
 
 baebaPvA's history. 275 
 
 fifteen years or so, and left her with a consolatory 
 jointure of several hundreds per annum — that she 
 had since then travelled hither and thither ; gone 
 extensively into society; spent every season in 
 Paris ; and preferred the interesting role of a 
 wealthy widow to that of a wife twice wedded, 
 were facts which we soon learned, and which she 
 herself was not slow to announce. Where and 
 when she had first known my father, how she 
 came to be wearied of her single life, and why she 
 married him, were points left to conjecture. One 
 thing, however, was evident — namely, that she was 
 not prepared to find his "little girls" grown up; 
 and I believe, to do him justice, that he was almost 
 as much surprised himself. We were really little 
 girls when he left us, six years ago, on board the 
 Rotterdam steamer, and little girls, I have no 
 doubt, he still expected to find us. Be that as it 
 may, Mrs. Churchill was undisguisedly chagrined, 
 and treated us for the first day or so with mortify- 
 ing coldness. There is, however, a proverb in 
 favour of second thoughts ; and before a week was 
 past, Mrs. Churchill had seen fit to reverse her 
 tactics. Looking upon us, I suppose, as inevitable 
 evils, she made up her mind to endure us with the 
 best grace she could, and became, on a sudden, 
 quite sympathetic and pleasant. She discovered 
 that I had genius and originality; that Hilda's 
 
 T 2
 
 276 Barbara's history. 
 
 beauty and accomplishments were of the highest 
 order; and that she (Mrs. Churchill) was unfeign- 
 edly proud of us both. I cannot say that I was 
 particularly elated by this tardy reception into my 
 stepmother's good graces. I had neither sufficient 
 respect for her understanding to value her praise, 
 nor enou<]jh regard for herself to care much for her 
 favour. But I received her advances with polite- 
 ness, and endeavoured, for my father's sake, to keep 
 on such terms as might ensure the comfort of our 
 future intercourse. 
 
 Hilda, on the contraiy, was completely won over 
 by Mrs. Churchill's civilities, and tolerably well 
 imposed upon by Mrs. Churchill's admirable man- 
 ner. Having at first disliked our new stepmother 
 ten times more bitterly than myself, she now found 
 that she had judged too hastily of one who com- 
 pared her singing to Persiani's, and herself 
 to Lady Clementina Villiers. Thus it hap- 
 pened that in the course of a few days they were 
 on the best footing imaginable; and before the 
 second week was over, had become almost inse- 
 parable. Mrs. Churchill declared that she could 
 go nowhere without Hilda — Hilda was only too 
 well pleased to go everywhere w^ith Mrs. Churchill. 
 So they lunched, dined, and drove out together 
 every day, more like a pair of romantic friends 
 than a middle-aged bride and a grown-up step-
 
 277 
 
 daughter. It is not impossible that Mrs. Churchill 
 may have foreseen some such desirable effect, and 
 acted accordingly. 
 
 Naturally fond of excitement, Hilda plunged 
 with delight into this new life, and neglected every- 
 thing for it. Mrs. Churchill's Paris bonnets, Mrs. 
 Churchill's fashionable acquaintances, and Mrs. 
 Churchill's patronage, almost turned her head. 
 She talked, thought, dreamt of nothing but dress, 
 amusement, and the people whom she daily met. 
 Remonstrance on my part was useless; for Madame 
 Brenner, knowing that my father intended to re- 
 main only a month, thought fit to allow us every 
 liberty during his stay, and voluntarily released ua 
 from our collegiate duties. To her surprise, I 
 availed myself but sparingly of that privilege, pur- 
 suing my daily studies much as usual, and only 
 spending an evening now and then at my father's 
 hotel. 
 
 Going in there one afternoon about seven o'clock, 
 I found the dessert still on the table ; Hilda trying 
 on a bonnet before the glass ; my father sipping 
 his wine with half-closed eyes; and Mrs. Churchill 
 lying on a sofa with her back to the light, and her 
 head resting languidly on her arm. Mrs. Churchill 
 always sat with her back to the light; and, having 
 a white and very lovely arm, generally rested her 
 head upon it.
 
 278 
 
 My father looked up and nodded as I came 
 in ; Mrs. Cliui'cliill extended two fingers ; Hilda 
 turned eagerly towards me, and exclaimed : — 
 
 " Oil, Barbara, you are just in time to see my 
 new bonnet ! Is it not charming ? " 
 
 " Yours ! " I ejaculated, seeing what a thing of 
 gauze and marabouts it was. '' That bonnet, 
 yours ? " 
 
 " Mine — my own exclusive property ! Is it not 
 becoming ? " 
 
 I hesitated. I had not yet reconciled myself to 
 the metamorphosis in my sister's appearance ; and 
 though she looked handsomer than ever in these 
 fashionable things, I could not help liking her old 
 simple clothing best. 
 
 " It is stylish," I said, after a pause, " and, in a 
 certain sense, becoming ; but . . . ." 
 
 " But wdiat ? " 
 
 '^ But I do not see of w hat use it wdll be to you 
 when Mrs. Churchill is no longer here." 
 
 Hilda and my stepmother exchanged glances, 
 
 " In fact," I continued, " Madame Brenner will 
 taboo it, as she tabooed Ildegarde's pink mantle 
 last midsummer." 
 
 Hilda shrugged her shoulders. 
 " Cela litest egal ! " she said lightly. " I will, 
 at all events, w^ear it while 1 can, and where I can. 
 Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof — nest ce 
 pas, ma belle mdre ? "
 
 barbaea's history. 279 
 
 Mrs. Churchill nodded a languid affirmative, and 
 Hilda went on. 
 
 " What would be the good of the present," said 
 she, " if one were always fretting for the future ? 
 Let the future take care of itself. It is bad enough 
 when it comes, without being anticipated ! " 
 
 " The future," said Mrs. Churchill, significantly, 
 " sometimes exceeds our anticipations. But our 
 dear Barbara is practical — immensely practical ! " 
 
 " Only with respect to bonnets," I replied, laugh- 
 ingly. "In other matters, I fear, I am as visionary 
 as most people." 
 
 " I should like to know what those other matters 
 are." 
 
 " Nay — I am not fond of telling my dreams ! " 
 
 " Except to Ida Saxe by sunset, in the woods of 
 Bruhl," said Hilda satirically. " Come, Barbara, 
 confess that, on one occasion, you were anything 
 but practical." 
 
 But I was not disposed to enter on that subject 
 before my father and his wife ; so I only shook 
 my head, and turned the conversation by asking 
 what they had done since the morning. 
 
 "Done? Oh, not much to-day," replied my 
 sister, still admiring the bonnet. "We promenaded 
 in the gardens before lunch, drove to Wiesbach in 
 the afternoon with papa, and dined at six. Why 
 did you not come in time to dine ? "
 
 280 Barbara's history. 
 
 " The class broke up late to-day, and I could not 
 leave sooner." 
 
 Hilda tossed her head impatiently. 
 
 "Be honest, Barbara," said she, "and say at 
 once that you prefer the society of your easel to that 
 of your relations." 
 
 " Be considerate, Hilda ; and remember that 
 satire is often neither witty nor true." 
 
 I answered sharply ; for it seemed to me, some- 
 how, that my sister was seeking either to provoke 
 me, or to irritate the others against me. Be this 
 as it might, Mrs. Churchill interposed before she 
 had time to retort. 
 
 "My darling Hilda," said she, "I must positively 
 find fault with you ! Why blame your sister for 
 a perseverance that floes her so much honour? 
 Our dear Barbara has genius, and the enthusiasm 
 of genius. For my part, I adore art. I had rather 
 have been Raphael than Shakespeare." 
 
 This was one of ISlrs. Churchill's " effects." I 
 began to know them now, and the little pause by 
 which they were always followed. 
 
 " Besides," she added, after a minute, " Bar- 
 bara is still very young, and youth is the season 
 for study. Her industry, I am sure, is delightful. 
 Perfectly delightful ! Let us hope, however, that 
 she will not overtax her strength. Art has its 
 dangers as well as its fascinations ; and I have
 
 Barbara's history. 281 
 
 heard that oils are sometimes bad for the chest." 
 
 Laughing, I scarcely knew why, at something 
 in the tone of Mrs. Churchill's observations, I has- 
 tened to assure her that she need entertain no such 
 apprehensions for me. 
 
 "Painters," I said, "do not die so easily. When 
 they love art, they have the good sense to live 
 for it." 
 
 "And you really do love it, I suppose?" said my 
 stepmother interrogatively. 
 
 " With my whole heart." 
 
 " And prefer your studies to all the pleasures of 
 the great world ? " 
 
 " I can conceive no greater misfortune than to 
 leave them off." 
 
 Again Mrs. Churchill and Hilda glanced at one 
 another, and I detected something like a flitting 
 smile upon the face of each. 
 
 My father, who had been dozing for the last ten 
 minutes or so with his cheek on his palm, now woke 
 up and looked at his watch. 
 
 " A quarter to eight ! " said he. " A quarter to 
 eight already ! Will it be agreeable to you, Mrs. 
 Churchill, to order coffee ? " 
 
 Mrs. Churchill was agreeable, and Hilda rang 
 the bell. 
 
 My father was the same as ever — a little stouter 
 and greyer, perhaps, and a little more bald than
 
 282 Barbara's history. 
 
 when we left home; but the same man, every inch. 
 He paced about the room; gUmced in the looking- 
 glass ; and cherished his handsome hands just in 
 the old way. He addressed his wife with as much 
 stately politeness as he once addressed Miss Whym- 
 per. He was irritable with the waiters ; despotic 
 with the fly-drivers ; and courteous to the cham- 
 ber-maids. Above all, he planted himself on the 
 rug, and turned his back to the fire with exactly 
 the same air of commanding ownership ; even 
 though there were no fire there, but only an ugly, 
 empty porcelain stove, with a blackened chimney 
 reaching through the ceiling. 
 
 Having had coffee, and discussed the compara- 
 tive attractions of the summer theatre, the Plof- 
 garten, and the concert in the grounds of the 
 Conversation - Haus, Mrs. Churchill and Hilda 
 made an elaborate walking-toilette, and insisted 
 that I, for once, should make one of the party. 
 My father, not without a dissatisfied glance at my 
 plain brown dress, then gave his arm to !Mrs. 
 Churchill, and we followed. 
 
 What with her new bonnet, and a lace shawl 
 lent by our stepmother ; and what with her own 
 rich, haughty beauty, Hilda attracted all eyes, as 
 we went along. Everyone turned to stare after 
 her ; and my father, proud of the general admira- 
 tion, glanced back every now and then with a well-
 
 Barbara's history. 283 
 
 satisfied smile, as if saying — '^ I am Edmund 
 Churchill, and she is my daughter — my daughter, 
 sir, and a Churchill, pur sang I " 
 
 Once arrived at the gardens, we were beset by 
 a crowd of gentlemen, 
 
 " Friends of Mrs. Churchill," whispered Hilda. 
 "And people of the highest fashion." She knew 
 them all as they came up ; had the name, rank, 
 and professioU of each at her fingers' ends ; and 
 seemed already intimate with most. Some she 
 greeted with a jest, some with a shake of the hand, 
 and for all had a bow, a smile, or a gracious 
 word. I listened, looked on, and scarce believed 
 my eyes. Ten days ago she was but a school-girl. 
 Now I found her developed all at once into a 
 consummate flirt ; conscious of her advantages ; 
 and as thoroughly at her ease as Mrs. Churchill 
 herself. 
 
 I cannot say that I was agreeably impressed b}^ 
 ^Irs. Churchill's distinguished acquaintances ; and 
 yet they were very grand folks, Counts, Barons, Ex- 
 cellencies, and so forth, with nothing less dignified 
 than a captain among them. They were all bearded, 
 buttoned, frogged, and mustachioed, and wore little 
 scraps of red or green ribbon at their breast. Per- 
 haps the most striking amongst them, was a certain 
 Captain Talbot, some thirty-five years of age and 
 six feet two in height; bronzed, stalwart, as-
 
 284 Barbara's history. 
 
 siduous; with somctliing infinitely pursuasive in 
 his voice and manner, and something unpleasantly 
 bold in the expression of his eyes. I liked him 
 less, and Hilda seemed to like him better, than any 
 of the rest. They kept up an incessant fire of 
 raillery and flirtation ; and by and by, when, 
 weary of promenading, we sat down to eat ices and 
 listen to the music, he usurped the seat beside hers, 
 and succeeded in keeping all others at a distance. 
 Then my father strolled away to the roulette-tables; 
 and !Mrs. Churchill sat like a queen amid her 
 little court, and gave utterance every now and then 
 to judicious observations on Rossini, politics, milli- 
 nery, and the fine arts. 
 
 Thus the evening passed, and I was glad when 
 it was over. 
 
 All that night, and for several days and nights 
 follo^^^ng, I was restless and disquieted. I now 
 scarcely saw Hilda at all, unless in the refectory 
 at breakfast, or at night when she came in late and 
 tired, after having spent the day with Mrs. 
 Churchill. 
 
 " How will she endure the old life, when they 
 are gone?" I asked myself continua%. "How 
 will she exist without excitement ? What of these 
 fashionable men with whom she has been flirting 
 for the last three weeks ? How will she conform 
 again to the old rules and simple pleasures of the 
 school?"
 
 285 
 
 Troubled and apprehensive, I turned these ques- 
 tions over and over in my mind, and could arrive 
 at no conclusion. 
 
 " Would that they were gone ! " I murmured 
 anxiously, as I saw the evil deepening day by day. 
 " Would to Heaven that they had never come ! " 
 
 At length there arrived a night when my doubts 
 were brought to an abrupt conclusion. It was the 
 evening of the twenty-fifth of May, and my father's 
 departure was fixed for the tw^enty-seventh. Hilda 
 had been all day wath them, as usual ; the rest of 
 the girls were gone for an evening walk ; and I, 
 tired and thoughtful, sat alone in the deserted 
 class-room, looking out at the quiet garden and the 
 gathering twilight. The banging of a distant 
 door, the echo of a quick step in the corridor, and 
 Hilda's sudden appearance at my elbow, roused me 
 from my reverie. 
 
 " Well, Barbara," said she, " are you not sur- 
 prised to see me so early ? " 
 
 " It is early," I replied, " for you ; but I sup- 
 pose you are going back to spend the evening." 
 
 "No, I have come, on the contrary, to spend 
 the evening with you and Madame Brenner. What 
 do you think of that ? " 
 
 " Why, that wonders will never cease ; or that 
 you are jesting."
 
 280 barbaua's history. 
 
 " I am in earnest, 1 assure you." 
 
 " Then papa is not going away the day after to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " He is going away, indeed, and — and I have 
 sometliing to tell you." 
 
 I looked up, and saw by the half-light that she 
 was flushed and nervous. 
 
 ^' Something to tell me ? " I repeated. 
 
 " Well, they are going," said Hilda reluctantly, 
 "and . . . and . . . promise not to be dreadfully hurt 
 or angry, dear ! " 
 
 " Hurt ! angry ! What can you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean that . . . that I am going with them." 
 
 " Going with them ? " I faltered. " Impossible! 
 In the middle of term . . . wdth the competition 
 fixed for July ... it is against the rules." 
 
 " What do I care for the rules, if I leave the 
 College ? " said Hilda, with a scornful gesture. 
 
 Leave the College ! I sat down, bewildered, and 
 looked at her silently. 
 
 " Why, you see," said my sister, speaking very 
 fast, and plucking a pen to pieces, fibre by fibre, 
 "I — I am not like you, Barbara. I don't love 
 this place, as you do. I don't care for its rewards 
 and honours, its medals, competitions, and petty 
 successes, as you do. You desire nothing better 
 than to be a painter — I would not be a singer for 
 the universe. Work, in fact, is not my mefier. I
 
 Barbara's history. 287 
 
 hate it. I am tired of it. I have had enough of 
 it. Besides, I am three years your senior, and it is 
 time I ceased to be a school girl. Mrs. Churchill 
 says I am destined to make a great success in 
 society." 
 
 Mrs. Churchill. Ay, to be sure, this was her work. 
 
 " And then papa's plans are quite altered," she 
 continued, finding that I remained silent. ^' In- 
 stead of going back to London, they mean to spend 
 some months in Paris. Mrs. Churchill's Paris con- 
 nection is immense ; and she means to introduce 
 me in all the best circles. It is not to be supposed, 
 of course, with her means and position, that she 
 will give up society just because she has married 
 papa. Neither does he desire it. He has lived 
 long enough out of the world, and it is time he re- 
 turned to it, if only for your sake and mine. We 
 must be introduced, you know, Barbara ; and, as I 
 am the elder, my turn comes first. You cannot ob- 
 ject to that, surely % " 
 
 I shook my head sadly. 
 
 " Not if you prefer it," I said, speaking for the 
 first time. '^ Not if you think you will be happy." 
 
 "Happy!" echoed she. "Why, of course, I shall 
 be happy. Society is my vocation ! " 
 
 " Society is a phantom — a mockery— an illusion. 
 Beware how you trust it. It will vanish some day, 
 ' and leave not a rack behind.' "
 
 BARBARA S HISTORY. 
 
 Hilda shrugged her shonlders disdainfully. 
 
 " For mercy's sake, no moralisin:^' ! " exclaimed 
 she. " I love life, and the little that I have seen 
 disposes me to see more. You will like it, too, 
 when you have the opportunity. Oh, how I long 
 to be rid of this monotonous College routine, and 
 all the art-jargon of our hum-drum professors ! " 
 
 "Oh, Hilda!" 
 
 Touched by the reproach which my words con- 
 veyed, or moved, perhaps, by something like re- 
 morse for her own indifference, my sister bent down 
 suddenly, and kissed me on the brow. 
 
 " I am sorry to leave you, dear," she said, apolo- 
 getically; "but I cannot help rejoicing in my 
 emancipation. I never was industrious or self- 
 denying, like you ; and papa and Mrs. Churchill 
 are both very- kind to me, and . . . and you have 
 Ida Saxe, you know ; and she will be here quite 
 as long, or longer, than you — so you will not be 
 lonely, or miss me very much when I am gone, will 
 you?" 
 
 " If I felt sure you would have no reason to re- 
 pent the change," said I, speaking very slowly, 
 and mastering the tears that rose unbidden to my 
 eyes ; " if I knew that your relations with Mrs. 
 Churchill would continue to be as pleasant as they 
 now are, believe, Hilda dear, that I should desire 
 nothing farther."
 
 289 
 
 " You will not even be vexed with me for go- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Not in the least." 
 
 " Come, that is reasonable ! I had no idea that 
 you would have taken my news so good-temperedly, 
 or I would have told you long ago. Why, I have 
 been hesitating for the last eight days, in the 
 dread that we should have some horrid scene 
 about it, and now .... well, enough of that ! I 
 wish you would come with me to my bedroom, and 
 help me to make the inventory of my wardrobe. 
 I must pack to-night before I go to bed ; for they 
 have made up their minds to go down the river to- 
 morrow, and I shall not have a moment to spare." 
 
 About an hour after this we supped together 
 for the last time at the general table; and in the 
 morning she took leave of the school, and removed 
 with her luggage to my father's hotel. Madame 
 Brenner embraced her, and the girls bade her a 
 kindly farewell ; but there were no tears shed on 
 either side, and the parting, altogether, was cool 
 enough. 
 
 " The Friiulein might have done her teachers the 
 justice to wait, at least, for the July competition," 
 said Professor Oberstein, not without a touch of 
 bitterness. 
 
 ^' Or have left us with something like regret," 
 observed Madame Brenner. 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 " Oh, Barbara !" whispered one of the younger 
 children, nestUng close to my side, "had youheen 
 cToing away, how sorry we should have been !"
 
 291 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A DIPLOMATIC INTERVIEW. 
 
 *'An artist, an organist, a pianist, all these are very good 
 people ; but, you know, not ' de notre monde,^ and Clive 
 ought to belong to it." 
 
 The Newco7nhes. 
 
 " You are of course aware, Barbara," said my 
 father, "that my income is circumscribed — exceed- 
 ingly circumscribed — and that your educational 
 expenses have been heavy." 
 
 Mrs. Churchill and Hilda were upstairs, busied 
 with their last travelling arrangements. My father 
 and I were sitting at opposite sides of the break- 
 fast table, with the hotel bill and the empty coffee 
 cups between us. 
 
 " You ought also to be informed," he added, 
 "that although Mrs. Churchill is possessed of good 
 private means, my own circumstances are not ma- 
 
 u2
 
 292 Barbara's history. 
 
 terially bettered by the alliance. I am even, in 
 some vespects, a poorer man than before. I must 
 resmne my position in society, reside in a better 
 house, and inevitably increase tlie general ratio of 
 my private expenditure." 
 
 Not knowing what reply was expected of me, or 
 to what end this statement tended, I bowed, and 
 was silent. 
 
 "I purpose, nevertheless," continued he, *'to 
 leave you here for the present. I believe that you 
 have perseverance, and a certain amount of — of 
 ability ; and I have too much regard for your pro- 
 gress to withdraw you just yet from the College. 
 This decision, understand, will put me to consider- 
 able inconvenience — very considerable inconveni- 
 ence — which I am, however, disposed on your ac- 
 count to meet. On your account only." 
 
 Feeling almost overwhelmed, if not by the magni- 
 tude of the favour, at all events by the manner in 
 which it w^as announced, I stammered a word or 
 two of thanks. 
 
 "Circumstanced as I am," said my father, after 
 a Inief pause, " I cannot provide for my family as 
 I would. I am a poor man, and it is indispen- 
 sable that the daughters of a poor man should 
 marry well. For sons I could have made interest 
 in high quarters ; but to my daughters I can give 
 only descent and education. Hilda, I feel sure.
 
 Barbara's history. 293 
 
 will do well. She has tact, style, conversation, 
 and " 
 
 " And beauty," I suggested. 
 
 "Exactly so. And beauty," said he, with some- 
 thing like a shade of polite embarrassment. "She 
 will marry, no doubt, before the expiration of the 
 year ; in which case the field will be open to you. 
 In the meantime I desire to draw your attention 
 very particularly to one or two matters." 
 
 He was as formal to me now that I was grown 
 up, as he was brusque and harsh when I was a 
 child! It was strange, but, sitting opposite to each 
 other at eight o'clock this bright May morning, 
 with the travelling caleche waiting at the door, and 
 the certainty of a long separation before us, we were 
 carrying on our conversation as distantly as if, 
 instead of being father and daughter, we were a 
 couple of ambassadors discussing affairs of state ! 
 
 Finding that he was now coming to the point, I 
 bowed again and waited anxiously. 
 
 "In the first place," said he, "you must cultivate 
 manner. As a child you were awkward; and even 
 now you are deficient in that style which your 
 sister appears instinctively to have acquired. Style 
 is the first requisite for society ; and on society a 
 young woman's prospects depend. I have some- 
 times feared, Barbara, that you do not sufficiently 
 appreciate society."
 
 294 Barbara's history. 
 
 '^I — I must confess, sir, that for me it possesses 
 few attractions." 
 
 My father shook his head, and trifled diplomati- 
 cally with his snuff-box. 
 
 " So much the worse for you," he observed, 
 drily. "I have no fortune for you; remember 
 that. If you do not marry, what is to become of 
 you?" 
 
 " I should hope, sir, that my profession will at 
 all times enable me to live." 
 
 He looked fixedly at me, as if scarcely compre- 
 hending the sense of my words. 
 
 ^' Your lohatV^ he said at length. ^' Your .... 
 say that again." 
 
 " My profession, sir," I repeated, not without a 
 strange fluttering at my heart. 
 
 '' Your profession!" he exclaimed, flushing scar- 
 let. " Upon my soul, I was not aware that you 
 had one! What is it, pray? The church, the 
 law, or the armyf 
 
 The tears came rushing to my eyes. I looked 
 down. I could have borne his anger; but I had 
 no reply for his sarcasm. 
 
 ^' I suppose," he continued, "" that, because you 
 have been daubing here for the last few years, you 
 fancy yourself a painter?" 
 
 " i— I had hoped " 
 
 "Hope nothing!" interinipted he. "Hope no-
 
 bakbara's history. 295 
 
 thing on that head, for I will never countenance 
 it! Do you suppose that I — a Churchill — will 
 permit my daughter to earn her bread like a dress- 
 maker? Do you suppose, if I had had a son, that 
 I would have allowed him to become a beggarly 
 painter? If you have ever dreamt of this (and I 
 suppose it has been instilled into you at this con- 
 founded College), forget it. Forget it once for 
 all, and never let me hear another word about 
 it!" 
 
 Still trembling as I had so often trembled before 
 him in my early childhood, I nevertheless dashed 
 away the tears, and looked up into his face. 
 
 " But, sir," I said firmly, " if you have no for- 
 tane for me, and if I do not marry — what then?" 
 
 "I will hear of no alternative. You must 
 marry. It is your duty to marry. Every well- 
 born and well-bred young woman who is properly 
 introduced, has opportunities of marriage. You 
 are tolerably good-looking. There is no reason 
 why you should not succeed in society as well as 
 others. Let me hear no more of this sign-painting 
 nonsense. It displeases me exceedingly." 
 
 Saying which, he rose coldly, moved towards the 
 door, and was leaving without another glance at 
 me ; but I had something to say — something that 
 I had not yet ventured to say, though I had seen 
 him daily for a month.
 
 29G Barbara's history. 
 
 " Stay," I cried, hurriedly. " One question, sir 
 — it is the only moment, the last moment, I can 
 ask it. What of ^li's. Sandyshaft? Is she still 
 living?" 
 
 He flushed again, and paused with his hand 
 upon the door. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " I believe that she is living." 
 
 " And has she never written to you ? Never 
 asked for me? Never attempted to recall me?" 
 
 " Never," said he, with mingled impatience and 
 embarrassment. " Never." 
 
 And so passed on abruptly, and left the room. 
 
 I dropped into the nearest chair and covered 
 my face with my hands. Alas! I was quite, quite 
 forgotten. 
 
 Presently they all came down, cloaked and ready 
 for the journey. Hilda tried to look serious at 
 parting. 
 
 "Good-bye, darling," she said, kissing me re- 
 peatedly. " I am so sorry to leave you ; but I will 
 write from Paris as soon as we arrive. You will not 
 fret, will you?" 
 
 "Fret!" echoed Mrs. Churchill, taking my dis- 
 engaged hand between both of hers. " How can 
 she fret when she has Art, divine Art, for her 
 companion? Adieu, dearest girl — we shall not 
 forget you !" 
 
 They then stepped into the carriage — my
 
 297 
 
 father touched my cheek coldly with his lips, and 
 as he did so, whispered " Remember" — the courier 
 shut up the steps— the coachman cracked his whip 
 — my sister waved her hand, and, amid jingling 
 harness-bells, bowing waiters, and a world of clat- 
 tering and prancing, they drove rapidly away, and 
 vanished in a cloud of dust round the corner of 
 the Theater-platz. 
 
 That night I went sorrowfully to bed and lay 
 awake for hours, thinking of Hilda, of the future, 
 of my Old Suffolk home, and of all that had there 
 befallen me. Was I never again to see her who 
 had been more to me than a mother? Was I 
 never more to clasp that hand which placed the 
 silver ring on mine, long, long ago, in the far 
 away woods about Broomhill I 
 
 Heigho! There it lay — there, in the corner of 
 my desk — the Arab's ring, with the old watch- 
 guard knotted to it still !
 
 298 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE STUDENT IN ART. 
 
 "Ai-t's a service." — Elizabeth Barkett Browning. 
 
 There is something almost sacred in the enthu- 
 siasm, the self-devotion, the pure ambition of the 
 student in art. He, above all others, lives less for 
 himself than for the past and all that made it glo- 
 rious. What to him is the ignorant present ? What 
 the world, and the pleasures of the world ? Truth, 
 excellence, beauty, are his gods ; and to them he 
 offers up the sacrifice of his youth. He is poor ; 
 but poverty is a condition of endeavour. He is 
 unknown ; but were it not better to wrest one re- 
 velation from failure, than be blinded by a foolish 
 prosperity ? For his remote and beautiful Ideal 
 he is content to suffer all things — privation, ob- 
 scurity, neglect. Should the world never recognise
 
 bakbara's history. 299 
 
 him, can he therefore be said to have lived in vain? 
 Has he not acquired the principles of beauty ; 
 studied under Michael Angelo; adored Raffaelle 
 from afar off ? Humble, earnest, steadfast, is he ; 
 modest of his own poor merit ; and full of won- 
 der and admiration as a little child. Infinitely 
 touching are his hopes, his fears, his moments of 
 despondency and doubt — infinitely joyous and re- 
 paying are his first well-earned successes. No 
 mean desires leaven as yet the unsullied aspirations 
 of his soul. A copper-medal, a wreathe that will 
 fade ere night, a word of encouragement from one 
 whose judgment he reveres, are more to him than 
 an inheritance. Worth, not wealth, is the end of 
 liis ambition ; and he is richer in the possession of 
 these frail testimonies than in any of those grosser 
 rewards with which society could crown him. 
 
 Surely there may be found in all this something 
 admirable and instructive — something which bears 
 unmistakable impress of the old heroic element ! 
 What but this same mood of simple faith and con- 
 stancy inspired the masterpieces, the martyrdoms, 
 the discoveries of the past ? What but this sent 
 Leonidas to Thermopylae, and Montrose to the 
 scaffold ; held Columbus on his course across the 
 waste of waters, and consoled Galileo for the ridi- 
 cule and persecution of his age "? 
 
 It is pleasant thus to consider the nature of the
 
 300 Barbara's history. 
 
 student ; to accept him as our livin*^ representative 
 of the heroic race of gods and men — as the last 
 lone dweller on those ^' shores of old romance " 
 which, but for himself and the poets, were now 
 well-nigh blotted from our charts. Let us cherish 
 him, for he is worthy of all cherishing. Let us 
 praise him, for he is worthy of all praise ; and this 
 independently of any genius that may be in him, 
 but for love of that which he loves, and in honour 
 of that which he honours. 
 
 Dwelling in the Art-School of Zollenstrasse-am- 
 Main ; sharing the hopes, efforts, and daily life of 
 the scholars ; witnessing their generous emulation, 
 and partaking their simple pleasures, I came insen- 
 sibly to form these views of art and its influences ; 
 to regard it as a high, almost as a holy calling ; and 
 to idealise, to a certain extent, the mission of the 
 student. Under other circumstances, and in any 
 other land, I might have had reason to judge dif- 
 ferently ; but it is not in the German nature to 
 be diverted from a lofty pursuit by petty passions. 
 Reflective, persevering, somewhat obstinate and 
 limited in his opinions, somcAvhat heavy and phleg- 
 matic by temper, the German student lives in bro- 
 therly relations wdth his fellow-labourers ; helps 
 cheerfully where help is needed ; praises heartily 
 where praise is due ; and is too much in earnest 
 about his own Avork to envy the progress or scorn
 
 barbaea's history. 301 
 
 the efforts of others. So national is he, indeed, 
 and so thoroughly does he identify himself with the 
 general cause, that he rejoices honestly in their 
 success, and finds in it matter for self-encourage- 
 ment. Of this disposition I never beheld more 
 proof than during the six or seven vs^eeks which 
 intervened between my father's departure and the 
 date of our July festival. 
 
 It was a momentous epoch for us. Report said 
 that it would be the grandest competition ever 
 known since the founding of the school. We all 
 had something to strive for, and something to. hope. 
 In every department the students were working 
 like bees ; and, though it be the tritest of similes, 
 I defy you to have avoided comparing the whole 
 college to one vast hive, had you stood at hot noon 
 in the midst of the empty courtyard, listening to 
 the hum that issued from the open windows all 
 around. 
 
 We had, indeed, abundant motive for industry, 
 since a harvest of honour, and prizes for every 
 branch of study, awaited our success. Concerts 
 and musical examinations were to take place, and 
 an exhibition of fine arts was to be held in the 
 great-room of the Conversation-Haus. Amateurs, 
 professors, and strangers were expected from far 
 and near. The names of Heine, Lamartine, Over- 
 beck, Waagen, Schwanthaler and others, were al-
 
 302 
 
 ready stated to be upon the list of judges. King 
 Louis of Bavaria, it was said, was coming to visit 
 the Grand Duke ; and some even whispered of the 
 probable presence of Danneker, the venerable Dan- 
 neker, " whose hand sculptured the beauteous Ari- 
 adne and the Panther." What wonder, then, if 
 every student w^ere at work, heart, soul, and brain, 
 for the coming trial ? What wonder if the musi- 
 cians deafened us all day ; if we painters smelt of 
 megilp and copal varnish from morning till night, 
 and came in to dinner as plentifully besmeared 
 with yellow ochre and Venetian red as a society of 
 Cherokees or Blackfeet ; if the teachers were all 
 in a state bordering on distraction ; and if Pro- 
 fessor Metz (grown more ruthless and satirical than 
 ever) hovered about the studios like a critical 
 Asmodeus, breaking our hearts daily ? 
 
 " You are a colony of daubers," he used to say; 
 " canvas-spoilers, caricaturists ! Were I Dame 
 Nature, I w^ould bring an action against you for 
 libel. Do you call these pictures ? They are not 
 pictures. They are senseless masses of colour. 
 What do they mean? What do they teach? 
 What do they prove? Keep every other com- 
 mandment as faithfully as you have kept the 
 second, and you will do well ; for these ai'e like- 
 nesses of nothing that is in heaven or eai'th ! Gott 
 imHimmel! if I am on the hanging committee, 
 I'll tum everv canvas to the wall !"
 
 Barbara's history. 303 
 
 Notwithstanding this cold comfort on the part 
 of our imperious Professor, we worked merrily on, 
 encouraging and helping one another, and looking 
 forward to the coming trial with expectations far 
 from despondent. Ida, whose talent for landscape 
 was unrivalled among us, touched up the moun- 
 tains in Bertha's " Flight into Egypt." Bertha, 
 whose figures were capital, put in a group of 
 shepherds for Gertrude?, whose " Vale of Tempe " 
 would have been nothing without them — Luisa, a 
 very Pre-Raffaellite of finish, manufactured weedy 
 foregrounds by the dozen — and Frederika, whose 
 forte lay in aerial perspective, dashed in skies and 
 blue mists and graduated flights of birds for 
 almost every girl in the class. As for poor 
 Emma Werner, who really had no talent what- 
 ever, we all helped her, and produced by our com- 
 bined efforts a very tolerable picture, which, I may 
 as well observe at once, carried off a third-class 
 medal, and made the crowning glory of her life for 
 ever after. 
 
 I have hesitated, up to this point, whether or no 
 to dwell npon my share of the hopes and toils of 
 the time — whether to describe my own picture, or 
 leave all such details to the imagination of those 
 who read my story. Yet this book is the true 
 chronicle of my life ; and that picture was more 
 than my life for many and many a month. I had
 
 304 Barbara's history. 
 
 it .before my eyes at all times of the day, and in 
 all places. I saw it painted on the darkness when 
 I woke, restless and feverish, in the midst of the 
 summer night. I knew every inch of it by heart, 
 and could have reproduced it from memory, touch 
 for touch, without the variation of a hair's breadth, 
 right or left. My opinion fluctuated about it all 
 this time to a degree that nearly drove me mad. 
 Sometimes I delighted in it — sometimes I loathed 
 it. Twenty times a day I passed from the summit 
 of hope to the lowest depths of despair. Twenty 
 times a day I asked myself, " Is it good ? Is it 
 bad ? Am I a painter ; or have I deceived my- 
 self with the phantom of a vain desire ?" I could 
 not answer these questions. I could only hope, 
 and fear, and paint on, according to the prompt- 
 ings that were in me. 
 
 My subject was Rienzi ; my scene, the ruins of 
 the Forum. A solitary figure seated, draped and 
 meditative, upon a fallen capital at the foot of the 
 column of Phocas ; a dim perspective of buildings 
 with the Colosseum far away in the shadowy dis- 
 tance; a goat browsing in the foreground; and, 
 over all, a sky filled with the last rose-tints of the 
 sunken sun, steeping all the earth and the base of 
 every pillar in rich shadow, and touching church- 
 tower, pediment, and sculptured capital with a 
 2;lory direct from heaven — this was the scene I
 
 305 
 
 strove to paint, the dream I strove to realise, the 
 poem I strove to utter. How imperfect that 
 utterance was, and how vague that dream, none 
 now know better than myself; but all the romance 
 and ambition of my youth were lavished on it, 
 though I have painted better pictures since, yet, 
 in one sense, have I never painted another so good. 
 And thus the weeks went by, and the appointed 
 time came up with rapid strides, desired yet dreaded, 
 and pregnant with events. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 306 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF FINE ARTS. 
 
 The great week came at last, and with it 
 such shoals of visitors as filled the town of 
 ZoUenstrasse-am-Main to overflowing. Every 
 hotel, lodging-house, boarding-house, gasthaus, and 
 suburban inn was crammed from basement to 
 garret. The King of Bavaria was at the palace, 
 and the King of Wiirtemberg at the Kaiser Krone 
 over the way. Every boat, diligence, and public 
 conveyance came laden daily with double its lawful 
 freight. Travelling caleches multiplied so rapidly 
 that the inn yards were in a state of blockade. The 
 streets swarmed with officers of the royal suites, 
 and every passer-by wore a uniform or a court suit. 
 As for honorai'y ribbons, you saw as mucli in half-
 
 Barbara's history. 307 
 
 an-hour as might have stocked a haberdasher's shop, 
 and stars were as plentiful as if the milky way had 
 dropped in upon a visit. 
 
 The Competition lasted just a week, and was 
 arranged according to programme, thus ; — 
 
 On Monday and Wednesday the musicians com- 
 peted in the Academy concert room for the best 
 orchestral symphony, instrumental quartett, and 
 four-part song. On Tuesday and Thursday, the 
 solo players and vocalists gave a public concert. 
 On Friday and Saturday was held an exhibition 
 of paintings and sculptures by the art-students. 
 Sunday, however, the grandest day of all, was set 
 apart for the distribution of prizes. For this cere- 
 mony the Assembly-room of the Conversation 
 Hans was to be fitted up, and no visitor could 
 be admitted without a card of invitation. Then, 
 besides all this, we had a French company 
 at the theatre ; a review ; a boar-hunt ; a ball 
 every night at the Conversation Haus ; and a fair 
 in the public gardens — to say nothing of the extra 
 roulette tables which Messieurs Fripon and Coquin 
 found it necessary to provide for the occasion. A 
 fine time, truly, for Zollenstrasse-am-Main — a fine 
 time for the Grand Duke, the hotel keepers, and 
 the blacklegs ! 
 
 Nor were we students one whit less excited than 
 the rest of the community; for till the Sunday 
 
 X 2
 
 308 Barbara's history. 
 
 we knew no more than others wliat our fate would 
 be. Every second day the committees of judgment 
 met, discussed, passed resohitions, and recorded de- 
 cisions of which we could in no wise foretell the 
 purport. Whose would be the first prize, and 
 whose the second? Would the medal be his, or 
 hers, or mine ? For my own part, when I saw the 
 works of art assembled together in one hall, and 
 came to compare my picture with those of my 
 competitors, I lost all heart, and believed it to be 
 the most egregious failure there. 
 
 At length the six days and nights were past, and 
 the Sunday morning dawned, bright and hot, 
 and flooded with intensest light. The ceremony 
 was announced for two o'clock in the afternoon ; 
 so we went to church, as usual, in the morning, 
 though none of us, I fear, attended much to the 
 service. By half-past one we were at the Conver- 
 sation Haus, and in our places. It was a magnifi- 
 cent room, some eighty feet in length, decorated 
 with alternate panellings of looking-glass and 
 fresco-painting, and hung with superb chandeliers, 
 like fountains of cut glass. At the upper end, on 
 a dais of crimson cloth, stood a semicircle of 
 luxurious arm-chairs for the Duke and his chief 
 guests ; to the left of the dais a platform of seats, 
 tier above tier, for the accommodation of the minor 
 nobility ; and to the right of the dais, a similar
 
 309 
 
 platform for the artists and men of letters from 
 among whom the different committees had been 
 organised. Directly facing this formidable array, 
 on benches that extended half way down the 
 room, and were divided off from the lower end by 
 a wooden barrier, we students were seated — the 
 youths on one side, and the girls on the other, with 
 a narrow alley between. In the space behind us 
 and in the gallery above the door, were crowded all 
 those spectators who, having procured cards, were 
 fortunate enough to find places. 
 
 For the first half-hour all was confusion and 
 chatter. Everybody was staring at everybody else, 
 asking questions which nobody could answer, and 
 making wild guesses which somebody else was sure 
 to contradict immediately. " Where will the 
 Grand Duke sit V " Who is that stout man with 
 the crimson ribbon on his breast f "Which is 
 Baron Humboldt, and which the Chevalier Bun- 
 sen f " Do you see that old man with the silver 
 locks? — that is Longfellow, the American poet." 
 " Nonsense, Loniy^fellow is quite a young man. It 
 is more likely Danneker, or Beranger, or Dr. 
 Spohr ! " " See, there is Professor Metz — there, 
 yonder, talking to that strange-looking animal with 
 the red beard and the brown court suit !" " Ani- 
 mal, do you call him? Why, that is Alexandre 
 Dumas." " Alexandre Dumas ? Absurd ! Do
 
 810 Barbara's history. 
 
 you not know that Dumas is a negro, and did you 
 ever see a negro with red hair ?" 
 
 And so forth, questioning, guessing, and con- 
 tradicting, till two o'clock struck, and the Grand 
 Duke, preceded by a couple of ushers and fol- 
 lowed by five or six gentlemen in rich uniforms, 
 came in, and took his seat upon the centre chair. 
 The others placed themselves to his right and left. 
 
 A low buzz, that subsided presently into a pro- 
 found silence, ran round the room. Then the 
 Duke rose, and pronounced that celebrated speech 
 which, after being printed on pink glazed paper, 
 and distributed gratuitously to the visitors, reading- 
 room subscribers, and academy students, was not 
 only reprinted on coarse white ditto, and sold at the 
 price of three kreutzers per copy, but was also re- 
 viewed, extracted, criticised, ridiculed, praised, 
 quoted, and commented upon by every journal, 
 magazine, and literary organ throughout the thirty- 
 eight independent states of the Germanic Con- 
 federation. 
 
 I am not going to incorporate, that speech, elo- 
 quent as it was, with my personal narrative. I 
 shall not even recapitulate the heads of it, or dwell, 
 however briefly, on those brilliant passages wherein 
 his Serene Highness was pleased to enlarge upon 
 the pleasures and advantages of tlie arts ; to cite 
 Plato, Fichte, Lord Bacon, and Sir Joshua Key-
 
 baebara's history. 311 
 
 nolcls ; to compare our Academy with the School 
 of Athens ; and finally, in drawing a skilful paral- 
 lel between the Grand Duchy of Zollenstrasse-am- 
 Main and that other insignificant Grand Duchy of 
 Central Italy where Michael Angelo dwelt, Giotto 
 painted, and Dante was born, to liken himself, with 
 infinite modesty, to no less a patron and promoter 
 of learning than Lorenzo of Tuscany, surnamed 
 the Magnificent. 
 
 Enough, then, that his Highness spoke the 
 speech " trippingly on the tongue ;" that it was 
 applauded as loudly as etiquette permitted; and 
 that, at the close thereof, receiving a written paper 
 from one of the ushers, he began the business of 
 the day by summoning one Friedrich Bernstoff, of 
 Wlirtemberg, free scholar, to receive a first class 
 medal for the best orchestral symphony. 
 
 " Herr Friedrich Bernstoff," echoed the usher, 
 "Herr Friedrich Bernstoff is requested to ad- 
 vance." 
 
 A pale slender boy rose from the ranks of his 
 companions, and stepped forward to the foot of the 
 dais. The Duke addressed him in a few con- 
 gratulatory but scarcely audible words ; presented 
 him with a small morocco case containing a gold 
 medal ; and then, stooping slightly forward, placed 
 a fillet of laurel leaves upon his brow. The boy 
 blushed, bent low, and returned to his seat, glad to
 
 312 
 
 escape observation and to snatch the wreath away 
 as soon as nobody was looking. 
 
 The same ceremony then continued to be re- 
 peated with little or no variation, as the musical 
 candidates were called up, one by one, throughout 
 the sultry hours of the July afternoon. 
 
 Next came the sculptors, of whom there were 
 but few in the school, and whose audience was pro- 
 portionately brief. Lastly, aft^r a tantalising 
 pause, during which his Serene Highness chatted 
 with provoking nonchalance to his left-hand neigh- 
 bour, Professor Metz came hurriedly to the foot of 
 the dais, and, bowing, placed a paper in his High- 
 ness's hand. A whispered conference ensued. The 
 Duke smiled ; the professor retired ; the usher 
 cleared his throat, and waited the word of com- 
 mand. Instead, however, of giving, as before, the 
 name of the successful competitor, his Highness 
 rose and addressed us, somewhat to the following 
 effect : — 
 
 " Ladies and Gentlemen of the Academy — As 
 regards the prizes which remain to be presently 
 awarded, we have been placed — ahem! — in a position 
 of some doubt and difficulty — which position, ladies 
 and gentlemen, I hasten — that is to say, I feel it 
 due to yourselves to — in short, to explain." 
 
 (There were ill-natured tongues in the room 
 which compared this speech with the preceding,
 
 barbaea's history. 313 
 
 and hesitated not to point out the difference be- 
 tween things studied and things extemporised.) 
 
 " Our rules/' continued his Highness, " are ex- 
 act with regard to most emergencies — for instance, 
 ladies and gentlemen, we cannot admit a foreigner 
 to — to the advantages of a free scholarship. You 
 are all aware of that. We have, however, had 
 very few foreigners, as yet, among our numbers — 
 at present, I believe, we have only two. The dif- 
 ficulty to which I allude has arisen out of — of the 
 fact that one of these foreigners has been judged 
 to — to deserve a prize which up to this time has 
 never been awarded to any but a native of Ger- 
 many. Divided between the desire to be just, and 
 the fear of — of overstepping the laws of our insti- 
 tution, the committee of criticism have hesitated up 
 to this moment, and I have but now received their 
 decision through the hands of our friend. Profes- 
 sor Metz. The prize in question, ladies and gen- 
 tlemen, is for the best historical painting in oils. 
 Were we to be swayed by prejudices of sex or na- 
 tion, that prize would be awarded to Herr Johann 
 Brandt, whose ' Siege of Corinth ' is, in point of 
 drawing and composition, inferior to only one pic- 
 ture in the hall; but, ladies and gentlemen, having 
 considered the matter under all its — under every 
 aspect, the committee decides that, although the 
 first prize for the first historical painting has never
 
 314 Barbara's history. 
 
 yet been decreed to a foreigner, or — or a lady, it 
 must on the present occasion in justice be bestowed 
 upon . . . ." 
 
 Here he referred to the paper — 
 
 — " Upon Mademoiselle Barbara Churchill, na- 
 tive of England, and six years a resident student in 
 this Academy." 
 
 *^ Mademoiselle Barbara Churchill," repeated 
 the usher, with an accent that left my name al- 
 most unrecognisable. ^' Mademoiselle Barbara 
 Churchill is requested to advance." 
 
 Utterly confused and sceptical, I rose up, stood 
 still, and, conscious of the eyes of the whole room, 
 dared not leave my place, 
 
 " Come, my pupil," said a land voice close be- 
 side me. " Fear nothing." 
 
 It was Professor Metz, who had made his way 
 down the central alley, and offered me the support 
 of his arm. 
 
 I do not remember if I took it — I do not even 
 remember how I came there ; but I found myself 
 the next moment standing at the foot of the dais, 
 and the Duke bending over me, with the laurels in 
 his hand. He spoke ; but I heard only the sound 
 of his voice. He placed the medal in my hand, 
 and the wreath upon my head. I stooped, instinc- 
 tively, to receive it ; and this done, turned trem- 
 blingly and awkwardly enough, to return to my
 
 Barbara's history. 315 
 
 place. As I did so, I looked up, and there amid 
 the visitors to the right of the dais — there, bending 
 earnestly forward, conspicuous among a hundred 
 others, pale, eager-eyed, dark-haired, with the old 
 impetuous glance, and the old free bearing, I saw 
 — oh, joy ! — for the first time since that morning 
 in the woods, long years ago — my childhood's idol, 
 my hero, Farquhar of Broomhill ! 
 
 It was not the suddenness of the announcement 
 — it was neither confusion, nor fatigue, nor the 
 emotion of an unexpected triumph — it had nothing 
 whatever to do v>^ith prizes, examinations, or Grand 
 Dukes ... it was the sight of that one swarthy 
 face, and the shock of those dark eyes shining into 
 mine, that sent the room reeling, and made me 
 lean so heavily on the professor's proffered arm. 
 
 " You need air," he whispered, and led me 
 to an ante-room, where Madame Brenner brought 
 me a glass of wine and water, and insisted on 
 taking me back at once to the College, I went to 
 my bed-room, and entreated to be left quite alone. 
 
 "If I sleep," I said, "I shall be better." 
 
 But it was not sleep that I wanted. It was soli- 
 tude and silence, 
 
 END OF VOL, I. 
 
 LONDON ! PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.
 
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