BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS 
 
 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 NEW NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES. 
 
 THROUGH ANOTHER MAN'S EYES. By Eleanor 
 
 Holmes. 3 vols. 
 
 HUGH DEYNE, OF PLAS-IDRYS. By Veke Clayering, 
 
 author of ' A Modern Delilah,' ' Barcaldine, ' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. By Beatrice 
 
 Whitby, author of ' The Awakening of Mary Fenwick,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 A WOMAN IN TEN THOUSAND. By Ferrol Vance. 
 
 3 vols. 
 
 AN ISHMAELITE INDEED. By Pamela Sneyd and 
 
 Britiffe Skottowe. 2 voIb. 
 
 LONDON: HURST & BLACKETT, LIMITED.
 
 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 ALGERNON GISSING 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'A MOORLAND IDYL,' 'A VILLAGE HAMPDEN,' ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1893. 
 
 All Rights Reserved.
 
 8£3 
 
 a. 
 
 v 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 
 GHAFTB1 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 V 
 
 1 
 
 I. 
 II. 
 
 Barbara . 
 The Pool Farm 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 23 
 
 III. 
 
 A Transaction . 
 
 
 
 
 43 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Two Philosophers 
 
 
 
 
 61 
 
 V. 
 
 Fellow-Passengers . 
 
 
 
 
 84 
 
 *A 
 
 VI. 
 
 Martinmas Summer . 
 
 
 
 
 113 
 
 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 
 Fresh Fields . 
 Epistolary 
 
 
 
 
 154 
 
 174 
 
 4^ 
 
 IX. 
 
 Eulalie 
 
 
 
 
 190 
 
 < 
 
 X. 
 
 Evidences . 
 
 
 
 
 221 
 
 W 
 
 XI. 
 
 The Withy Speaks . 
 
 
 
 
 259 
 
 \ 
 
 XII. 
 
 A Case of Conscience 
 
 
 
 
 300
 
 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 CHAPTKi; I. 
 
 BARBARA. 
 
 A gate fell to in the depth of Murcott 
 High Wood, and the sound, loud amidst the 
 silence of such deep seclusion, was answered 
 by a couple of startled jays that flew up to 
 an oak-tree from their work amongst the 
 tangled brushwood. At their harsh cry, 
 a wood-pigeon sped away through the 
 branches with the flap and hurried beat of 
 its wings of steel, and all was silent as 
 before. 
 
 VOL. I B
 
 2 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 When the wind paused there was scarce 
 a sound here, for the buzz of human strife 
 did not penetrate so far, and nature's energy 
 was spent. She had been brought to pause, 
 in an artist's reverie, perhaps, maturing her 
 resources for the supreme effort of the 
 working year. The woods smelt damp and 
 earthy, there having been a month of the 
 autumn rains, for the last three or four days, 
 with but brief cessation, and a blustering- 
 south-west was rushing fitfully through 
 the branches, scattering the dead, coloured 
 leaves which lingered there. Now, in the 
 afternoon, the silent lulls were more pro- 
 longed, and the peculiar hush of the time 
 and place therefore more apparent, You 
 only get it in autumn and the days which 
 precede the spring, and half an hour of 
 such contemplative quiescence is some com-
 
 BARBARA. 6 
 
 pensation for the days, weeks, and months 
 of nature's storm and stress. At such 
 moments nature seems considerately to he 
 waiting, as at a promised milestone, for 
 panting mortals to come up with her, but 
 needless to say before you get abreast she is 
 astir again. 
 
 The gate fell to, and Barbara Winnett 
 passed into the green road or trench, as it 
 is locally called, which was cut out of the 
 woodland separating the High Wood from 
 the Low. Here lay extended a dismembered 
 elm trunk, recently felled, and upon it the 
 young lady sat. There was not much of 
 the sentimental in her appearance, nor 
 indeed was it the weather for indulging 
 such propensity in the open air if possessed 
 of it. She had a pale, clear complexion, 
 and a seriousness of aspect which be- 
 
 b 2
 
 4 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 tokened a predominance of the spiritual 
 over the robust and fleshly, but decisive 
 moral qualities presumably were not want- 
 ing. She took a scrap of note-paper from 
 her pocket, and, in examining it, smiled. 
 Laying the paper upon a smooth surface 
 of the trunk, whence an axe had cleanly 
 severed a limb, Barbara made some altera- 
 tions in pencil, and then rose to go on her 
 way. 
 
 It was necessary to pick a path along 
 the cart-track, for the rains stood in the 
 ruts, and the margins of grass and rushes 
 were like a saturated sponge. The young 
 lady seemed to pass through it with im- 
 punity, so light was her step. Before her 
 noiseless presence, you might have thought 
 the evil spirits of the wood took instinc- 
 tively to flight ; for now upon one hand
 
 BAEBAEA. 5 
 
 would be heard a harsh, scolding chatter, 
 flitting away beneath the obscurity of the 
 trees, or now upon the other an execratory, 
 and still more harsh, defiance, expressive of 
 such implacable hatred as surely no mere 
 natural throat could utter. 
 
 At the end of the trench was a gate, and 
 a field-path beyond. From here the land 
 sloped, and the secluded village of Mur- 
 cott was visible below. Like other purely 
 rural villages of mid-England in appear- 
 ance, — greystone gabled houses with mul- 
 lioned windows, mingling with a few 
 whitewashed, thatched cottages, amidst 
 which golden ricks of various shapes were 
 conspicuous, and beyond the clump of 
 elm-trees, the old grey church-tower pro- 
 mising peace. The surrounding country 
 seemed chiefly pasture and woodland, but
 
 6 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 the ricks of corn gave solid evidence of 
 the plough lurking somewhere in the 
 vicinity. Fields rose and sank in de- 
 lightfully irregular undulation, and were 
 bordered by large, overgrown, untrimmed 
 hedges of bramble, brier, hazel, thorn, 
 maple, and other bushes. Just now these 
 hedgerows presented a ruddy hue, im- 
 parted by their loads of hips and haws and 
 bryony-berries ; whilst here and there was 
 a conspicuous beech or oak-tree which still 
 retained the bulk of its mellow leaves. 
 The landscape was not cheerful, for such 
 never is November's mood ; he leaves that 
 to his lighter relatives. All was subdued 
 to a sombre, reflective aspect, one ignorant 
 of sophistication, and going direct to the 
 thing itself. 
 
 It is no doubt because of his appearing
 
 BAKBA1LY. 7 
 
 thus untricked before us that we have 
 agreed to speak ill of November. We are 
 shy, and, having ventured only to look 
 askance at him, we have perceived that his 
 form is in the main rugged, and from this 
 have awarded him his doom. To his char- 
 acter we have been blind (save as it has 
 been distorted by the artificial medium of 
 an advanced civilization) — a character for 
 variety, piquancy, and depth quite unap- 
 proached by any other month of the twelve. 
 But character we are apt to be shy of ; it 
 repels us by its unwonted, uncouth aspect. 
 It is strange to us, and we prefer to dis- 
 pose of it as eccentricity or spleen. So 
 with November ; we pull down the blind 
 and pile on coal. 
 
 Two large fields brought Barbara to the 
 road at the western extremity of the vil-
 
 8 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 lage. As she stepped from the gateway, 
 she encountered a labourer who was stand- 
 ing there to allow her to pass through. 
 
 ' Master have been a-seeking you, miss,' 
 he said, as he went onwards. 
 
 'What for, David?' 
 
 1 To go along wi' un to Knapstone.' 
 
 4 Has he driven ?' 
 
 c Not a quarter-of-an-hour agone.' 
 
 Barbara had been depending upon the 
 pony-trap, and was a little annoyed by 
 this information. The man had passed 
 on, and she too went towards the village. 
 She stopped at the first cottage, and, open- 
 ing the door, called out, 
 
 c Has William gone to Withbridge, Mrs. 
 Deakins ?' 
 
 4 Not ten minutes since, miss,' cried the 
 woman, in a shrill voice, as she came
 
 BARBARA. V 
 
 forward holding a baby round the middle. 
 
 c Then I must walk,' said Barbara. 
 
 'That be awk'ard for you, miss, for it 
 be uncommon dirty. Let me send our 
 Willie ; ur'll be in from school presently.' 
 
 i No, thank you, I'd better go myself.' 
 
 The baker's cart having thus failed her, 
 there was no further hope, so Barbara 
 forthwith set off upon her three-mile walk. 
 It was not the distance or the dirt which 
 troubled her, but it was the natural thing 
 to ride into Withbridge, and it was with a 
 sense of irregularity that you set your 
 own foot upon that well-beaten road. Mrs. 
 Deakins felt that it must be something ex- 
 traordinary that could induce Miss Win- 
 nett to countenance such hardy breach of 
 custom at such a season. But she had 
 seen the young lady descending the fields,
 
 10 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 and, by the help of that synthetic faculty 
 so fully developed in country people gene- 
 rally, she had instantly constructed a satis- 
 fying conclusion, to the effect that Bar- 
 bara's movements must have some connec- 
 tion of a more or less Samaritan tendency 
 with the outlying cottage known as the 
 Downs, between the inhabitants of which 
 and the Winnett family there was a long- 
 standing inter-dependence of parish-wide 
 notoriety. , 
 
 In her conjecture, Betsy Deakins was 
 accurate as to generalities. Barbara had 
 come direct from the Downs, and, having 
 undertaken a small commission for her 
 retainers there, preferred to carry it out 
 herself. Small, I say, but even small 
 commissions are capable of a relative im- 
 portance, and such a one as dispatching a
 
 BARBARA. 11 
 
 telegram, for instance, was to a Medlicott 
 of Miircott Downs, or even to a Miss Bar- 
 bara Winnett herself, likely to be not 
 without a peculiar magnitude. This was, 
 in fact, the service which Barbara had 
 undertaken, not thinking, certainly, at the 
 time, of its necessitating a walk of at least 
 two hours' duration, although we need not 
 suppose that a consideration of that sort 
 would have affected her readiness in under- 
 taking it. 
 
 In Murcott there was no post-office at 
 all ; the letters being collected from a box 
 in a wall at the east end of the village. 
 Rural postmen served the district from 
 With bridge, — itself an agricultural village 
 of no pretensions, beyond a certain native 
 picturesqueness and a railway-station all 
 its own, — and it was to this centre that
 
 12 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 anybody having need of the more ad- 
 vanced postal arrangements was obliged 
 to repair. The nearest market-town was 
 Knapstone, some miles away. 
 
 Up and down the road went ; between 
 woodland and in the open. The wind 
 grumbled around Barbara as she plodded 
 onwards, but the rain came not to annoy 
 her. Throughout her walk she met no- 
 body ; not a soul upon the road for the 
 whole of the three miles. The young lady 
 did not look much about her, the greater 
 part of her attention being necessary for 
 the picking of her footsteps. The roads 
 thereabouts were susceptible of a marked 
 degree of mud, and Miss Winnett, country- 
 bred as she was, was very dainty in respect 
 to mud. Few persons could traverse it 
 more cleanly.
 
 BARBARA. 13 
 
 The words of the singular message which 
 she had undertaken to dispatch ran per- 
 sistently in her mind, and by association 
 they kept before her the interview from 
 which she had come at the Downs, and 
 the feelings which it had prompted in her. 
 
 c Her must come home this night, Miss 
 Barbara,' Mrs. Medlicott had with stub* 
 bonmess asserted, in response to all her 
 young friend's representations. 
 
 c It is a pity that she should leave - 
 good a place for a reason so paltry.' 
 
 1 Teunt paltry,' said the old woman, 
 testily. t Something's to happen, and I 
 must have my maid about me. You 
 know yourself, Miss Barbara, that that 
 withy was always looked on as a part of 
 our family, 'tis called Medlicott's withy to 
 this day, (as it says i' the scriptur,) and
 
 14 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 not without cause, although it be gone out 
 of the recollection of these times. I've 
 heard old Farmer Medlicott, — that was my 
 Jonathan's grandfather ; farmers then they 
 were,' she interposed, with a sigh, c they 
 always kep to scriptur names i' their 
 family, which showed as they were a old 
 ancient people ; — I've heard old Josh, so 
 my husband called 'un, times and times 
 say, " I feel like a son to that withy," and 
 ur could ne'er abide to have it lopped, — 
 no more could my Jonathan, for that ; for 
 ur said as it was like cutting the limbs off 
 a living mortal. You know yourself as 
 David Stickly 'ev done it for years for we, 
 do it still, however.' 
 
 Barbara would, without question, have 
 granted all this, but still hold her argu- 
 ment unaffected by it. Nevertheless, she
 
 BARBARA. 15 
 
 had acknowledged herself powerless. If 
 she refused to send the message for the 
 old woman, she knew that somebody else 
 would do it, and why trouble the dame to 
 seek a more compliant envoy ? 
 
 ■ Wages beunt everything, ' asserted 
 Mrs. Medlicott, in response to another 
 line of argument which her visitor had 
 adopted. 
 
 Barbara had consequently agreed to send 
 the telegram, and here she was at the 
 counter of the post-office for the purpose. 
 The post-mistress directed her to copy the 
 message upon an official form, which the 
 young lady did, and then she handed it in 
 with a deprecating movement of the eye- 
 brows. The words were Mrs. Medlicott's ; 
 Barbara had only made alterations in the 
 orthography. She exchanged glances
 
 16 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 with, the post-mistress, but neither made 
 reference to the message. 
 
 c There is a letter for you, miss. Will 
 you take it?' 
 
 c I will, please.' 
 
 The Murcott pigeon-hole was sorted, 
 Barbara's letter handed to her, and she 
 departed with it. 
 
 The commission executed, Miss Winnett 
 could put it from her mind, and was ready 
 to entertain considerations more nearly 
 affecting her own personal affairs. She 
 was walking, and why ? that fact pointed 
 out the most obvious track for her 
 thoughts. The letter which she had in 
 her pocket confirmed her in it. 
 
 It was getting dusky when she was 
 a^ain clear of the village, but there was 
 still light enough to read by. The wind
 
 BAKBAEA. 17 
 
 was boisterous, and spots of rain was 
 borne along occasionally upon it ; so Bar- 
 bara hastened her steps. Nevertheless, 
 she tore open her letter, — it bore a Lon- 
 don post-mark, — and read it as she 
 walked. It was not a long one. and in a 
 few minutes it Avas refolded and put back 
 into her pocket. 
 
 As upon her journey hither the words 
 of the telegram had haunted her mind, so 
 now upon her return the words of this 
 letter, more especially perhaps the closing 
 sentence of it : L I hope all continues well, 
 and that you keep a vigilant eye upon the 
 " hand-looms." 
 
 Although these words held a humorous 
 family malapropisin within them, they 
 were not exhilarating to Barbara. The 
 letter as a whole was not exhilarating. 
 
 vol. i. c
 
 18 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 She would have preferred other sugges- 
 tions to accompany her upon this twi- 
 light walk than those which this afforded. 
 Despite a mild form of resentment at the 
 suggestions, the burden of the wind amidst 
 the trees was not a joyous one. She 
 wished that her father had not taken it 
 into his head to go to Knapstone that par- 
 ticular afternoon. She knew that there 
 had been no sort of necessity for it, and — 
 well, amongst other consequences, she 
 herself had now to be walking. It was 
 quite possible that such a breach of cus- 
 tom might hold even something tragic in 
 its scope. Although Barbara had found 
 it her duty to oppose Mrs. Medlicott's 
 childish superstition with regard to the 
 willow-tree, it does not at all follow that 
 the young lady herself was wholly proof
 
 BARBARA. 19 
 
 against the sinister suggestion of such a 
 catastrophe. 
 
 It was quite dark when she reached her 
 home, and the rain was beginning to fall 
 in earnest. The house was silent, and 
 looked desolate enough as she approached 
 it, not a light being visible at any point. 
 Groping her way through the farmyard, 
 she reached the hack door, and thereby 
 entered. 
 
 c Has father come back yet, Annie?' 
 she asked of the solitary maid in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 ' No, miss. Nobody's come nigh the 
 place since he left.' 
 
 ' Get me my tea, will you ? Is theru a 
 light in the room?' 
 
 ' No. 1 
 
 Barbara took a candle, and went in- 
 
 c 2
 
 20 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 wards. The spacious passage which she 
 traversed w r as cold and gloomy, and her 
 footsteps on the stone re-echoed with a 
 hollow sound. Upon opening a door, a 
 furnished interior was visible, as much by 
 the light of a blazing log-fire as by that of 
 the candle which the young lady carried. 
 Presently the lamp was alight, and Bar- 
 bara had thrown herself into a spacious 
 antique arm-chair of worn and faded 
 cushions, in which position she suggested 
 the appearance of some spirited princess 
 of romance, invoking the beneficent jjowers 
 against the malign mastery of her fate. 
 Now that her walk was accomplished, she 
 found that she was more tired than there 
 appeared any reason for. In a minute or 
 two the general maid entered, and pro- 
 ceeded to lay the table. Whilst her mis-
 
 BARBARA. 21 
 
 tress gazed into the fire, she stared at her 
 mistress. 
 
 1 Shall I lay for the master ?' she asked, 
 abruptly. 
 
 L Oh, yes ... I am stupidly tired, 
 Annie ; will you please to take off my 
 boots for me? 1 
 
 'That I will, miss. You look worn out,' 
 said the sympathetic maid, as she knelt 
 briskly before Barbara, and pulled up one 
 foot into her lap. 
 
 c Did father say what he was going for?' 
 asked the young lady, carelessly. 
 
 L Ne'er a word, miss. He called out for 
 you afore he went, but I told him as I 
 thought you'd gone to the Downs.' 
 
 Barbara's feet were small and pretty, a 
 fact perhaps recognized even by her un- 
 polished maid, for the latter stroked each
 
 22 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 foot tenderly when the boot had been 
 removed. When the slippers had been 
 got from a wall-cupboard beside the fire- 
 place, and were being held by the faithful 
 attendant close to the bars to be warmed, 
 a sound was heard at the back. 
 
 ' It be the master, miss.' 
 
 c Yes, run, Annie. And bring in the 
 ham and cold beef,' added Barbara, as the 
 girl left the room. 
 
 ' Lantern,' was repeated in a loud voice 
 from the back premises. c It be as dark 
 as the day o' judgment. Anne !'
 
 23 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE POOL FARM. 
 
 After stabling his pony, the man came 
 into the house noisily, apparently in a 
 blustering mood with everything. Each 
 door he banged as he passed it ; the great 
 arm-chair he pulled forward roughly, over- 
 turning the old four-leo'£*ed oak foot-stool 
 
 c? DO 
 
 in the movement, and causing it to tumble 
 with a clatter amongst the hre-irons. 
 Each heavy boot as it was unloosed was 
 kicked right across the threadbare hearth-
 
 24 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 rug to the final discomfiture of a tabby 
 cat, which at the first entrance of the 
 master had judiciously withdrawn to the 
 shelter of a chair adjoining. All the time 
 the man ceased not to mutter anathemas 
 against the conduct of things in general, 
 not staying to show the slightest recogni- 
 tion even of his daughter's attentions as, 
 according to custom, she laid his slippers 
 at his side. 
 
 This, then, was Bezaleel Winnett of 
 the Pool Farm, Murcott, a name familiarly 
 known over a wide agricultural and sport- 
 ing area. Whatever the man's failings, 
 and rumour spoke of several, habitual 
 ferocity at home was not one of them, 
 therefore Barbara liked not his present 
 mood. It was an occasional one, certain- 
 ly, therefore significant, and, as may be
 
 THE POOL FARM, 25 
 
 supposed, of a significance not altogether 
 exhilarating to a sensitive temperament 
 within its range. 
 
 The daughter felt damped and perhaps 
 irritated withal at the outset ; but she 
 made effort at a counteracting vivacity on 
 her own part which was soon abandoned 
 in despair. Everything conspired to-day 
 to depress her, and Barbara made no pre- 
 tensions to an extraordinary (robustness of 
 temperament. The meal passed mainly in 
 silence. The daughter had begun by 
 relating her experiences with Mrs. Medli- 
 cott that afternoon, trying to give a 
 humorous turn to them; laughing at the 
 superstitious notions of the uneducated, 
 for instance, and perhaps with more 
 assumed lightness than her own inmost 
 conviction warranted ; but it was all use-
 
 26 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 less. Her father would not meet her. 
 He made no secret of his attitude, and 
 gruffly sided with the uneducated. Other 
 topics fared no better, so dejection 
 triumphed. 
 
 Barbara took the wisest course. Feel- 
 ing indisposed to grapple systematically 
 with ill-humours, she simply yielded them 
 the held. When the table was cleared 
 she withdrew to the kitchen, and there 
 busied herself with such domestic con- 
 cerns as her establishment afforded. In 
 about half-an-hour she bade the maid take 
 more logs into the room. 
 
 c The master be in a most despert pas- 
 sion, miss,' remarked the girl, when she 
 returned. 
 
 Barbara made some inarticulate assent. 
 Despite the occupation of her hands, the
 
 THE POOL FARM. 27 
 
 picture of him had but too persistently 
 
 assailed her. The two walls afforded a 
 very inadequate screen to visions of this 
 kind. 
 
 Farmer Winnett sat deeply in his chair, 
 smoking a " church-warden, 1 with his eyes 
 fixed upon the glowing wood. The girl 
 had interpreted his mood by the word 
 passion, and in the unusual, though 
 literal, sense in which she had applied the 
 word, no doubt she was accurate enough. 
 But the mood she meant was passive, not 
 passionate, tor the man had not moved a 
 muscle at her entrance. The active dis- 
 play, as his daughter well knew, was hut 
 assumed in his contact with others as a 
 cloak to some feeling altogether different. 
 Otherwise, mere flinging about of boots 
 would have affected her but little.
 
 28 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 There had never been much sentimental 
 display between the father and daughter. 
 Winnett was a man in whom the domestic 
 propensities were but crudely developed. 
 His ideals in this respect were extremely 
 simple, and, as they were based purely 
 upon the practical, they had escaped such 
 shocks as might have awaited a more 
 transcendent system. His wife had proved 
 herself a faithful servant to him, so long- 
 as her muscle had availed her, and, when 
 this had suddenly collapsed, and the flick- 
 ering life gone out, Bezaleel was sincerely 
 distressed. In all likelihood, also, very 
 genuinely astonished, for did he not him- 
 self yet live, and had he not still the need 
 of service? For nine years, however, this 
 inconvenience had been adjusted, but how 
 inadequately only Bezaleel himself could
 
 THE POOL FARM. 21) 
 
 have asserted. It chanced that with those 
 nine years had begun a decade of bad sea- 
 sons, for which nobody was less prepared 
 than Farmer Winnett of the Pool Farm. 
 So unprepared, indeed, had he been, that 
 to him they had assumed the aspect of a 
 private and peculiar disaster, somehow 
 mysteriously connected with the untimely 
 Loss of his wife. In her days the seasons 
 had been right enough, and no disquieting 
 problems had arisen. Life had seemed to 
 him then a continuous August, one long 
 period of undisturbed harvest ; but, of late 
 years, the months of November and Janu- 
 ary had most provokingly asserted unat- 
 tractive individuality. 
 
 It is true that Mr. AVinnett's youth had 
 escaped him, — a fact which, no doubt, 
 affects the geniality of seasons as much as
 
 30 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 the other aspects of the world around us. 
 It was frequently observed, at market and 
 elsewhere, that Winnett was ageing uncom- 
 mon fast; and some would supplement the 
 remark with an expressive head-shake. 
 Could his neighbours have seen him to- 
 night, they would have emphasized still 
 more strongly the common verdict. The 
 man looked old. 
 
 The marks of age, however, could not 
 weaken the lines of rugged character de- 
 lineated on his features. Even now, as 
 his pipe was slipping through his fingers 
 to his knee, and his chin sinking more 
 deeply into his waistcoat, there was no 
 betrayal of unsuspected weakness. The 
 jaws were as firmly clenched as at another 
 time, and the brows as resolute. A mut- 
 tering sound occasionally issued from his
 
 THE POOL FARM. 31 
 
 lips, but nothing articulate The door 
 moved audibly, but the sleeper was not 
 disturbed by it, so Barbara stood silently 
 where she was to regard him. 
 
 She had entered, full of a bold resolution, 
 — a resolution which was at once to calm 
 the disquietude of her own conscience, and 
 exorcise for ever the evil mood which pos- 
 sessed her father. The position in which 
 she found him checked her, and with delay 
 came doubt and vacillation. From child- 
 hood she had feared him ; for, although he 
 had never been flagrantly unkind to her, 
 lie had never been tender. By disposition 
 wholly antipathetic, they had never at- 
 tempted any kind of mutual understand- 
 ing; but Barbara at least had, in course of 
 time, come to inevitable conclusions, and 
 was now of an age to hazard small pieces
 
 32 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 of action upon such intellectual percep- 
 tions. To the necessary pitch she had 
 brought herself to-night, but fate had un- 
 generously thwarted her. She stood with 
 her lingers upon the door-handle, gazing 
 at her father. His thoughts were troubled. 
 Why should she not ? Actually she had 
 stepped forward, but by the table had 
 again paused. He seemed as though about 
 to speak. 
 
 L I shall, Ruby,' came from his lips with 
 that desperate, though inadequate em- 
 phasis of one asleep. 
 
 This was the first time Barbara had 
 heard him use her mother's name in any 
 way since her death. 
 
 c Shall what, father?' said she, mildly. 
 
 c There's ne'er a K' look pau- 
 per,' muttered the sleeper, incoherently,
 
 THE POOL FARM. 33 
 
 with the same signs of excessive emotion. 
 4 Jephcott offered a fiddle — Roger ' 
 
 'Father!' 
 
 The call was above the tone of her ordi- 
 nary voice, but it did not arouse him. She 
 stepped nearer to him with the intention 
 of shaking him into consciousness, but 
 directly her hand was upon his shoulder 
 she paused again. His talking had ceased, 
 and he was sleeping calmly. Some thought 
 struck her, and, turning lightly on her 
 heel, she fled from the room noiselessly. 
 There was a candle on the table outside ; 
 she lit it, and ascended the stairs — broad 
 oak, polished stairs of leisurely ascent, 
 with black, substantial bannisters beside 
 them. Barbara's shadow flitted silently 
 about her as her position and its was al- 
 tered, looking like some weird phantom 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 attendant upon her present uneasy mood. 
 The landing was wide and gloomy, the 
 candle dimly illuminating a large case of 
 stuffed owls standing aside upon a table, 
 and a gaunt, oak clock beside it, which 
 latter tick-ticked the moments solemnly, 
 as if time lay heavy on his soul. Not 
 even a creak resounded to Barbara's noise- 
 less step . as she traversed the passage. 
 Through a doorway at the end she passed, 
 entering a large, musty, half-furnished 
 room, from which a four-post bedstead and 
 capacious wardrobe were unable to remove 
 a sense of gloomy void. The wind moaned 
 in the chimney, and caused to rustle to 
 and fro, with an eerie sound, a board which 
 fitted as a screen to the front of the fire- 
 place. Against the window the driven 
 rain was audible, coming in gusts.
 
 THE POOL FARM. 35 
 
 The candle was placed upon the seat of 
 a chair, and the cupboard door opened, as 
 it seemed, with hesitation. As Barbara 
 peered within, she heard a sound resulting 
 from no movement of her own. As though 
 caught in a guilty act, she turned with a 
 frightened gesture from the wardrobe, her 
 hand still holding the open door, and threw 
 her glance blank!}' across the room. A 
 board on the landing outside audibly 
 moved, and the girl was dimly conscious 
 of another presence there. In a moment, 
 indeed, the rays of another candle shot 
 through the doorway, and the figure of her 
 father afterwards appeared. In the can- 
 dle-light their eyes met, and they stared at 
 each other for a moment silently. 
 
 When Barbara had withdrawn from the 
 presence of her father, the sound of the 
 
 i) 2
 
 36 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 door closing behind her had aroused the 
 sleeper, without allowing him to be cog- 
 nizant of the cause. It took him some 
 seconds fully to collect himself, and in 
 doing so he heaved a huge sigh, then rose 
 from the arm-chair. His dream evidently 
 clung unpleasantly about him, and caused 
 some uncertainty in his waking thoughts, 
 
 c Tah — tali,' he muttered, doubtfully. 
 c Be it all a dream, then ?' but at that he 
 shook his head, and looked at familiar 
 objects in the room. ' No, Jephcott have 
 it, sure enough. They do say — but a' must 
 have it,' he re-asserted , impatiently. : Didn't 
 I come from Knapstone but now, and 
 didn't the wind belluck dismal all the way ? 
 And the rain ; there was no dream about 
 that. Dash me ! Be my reasons a-going 
 like old Jo Forty's, and me but three or
 
 THE POOL FARM. 37 
 
 four over sixty ? I'll go look straight.' 
 Therewith the man rubbed his eyes once 
 again, and walked over to get a candle from 
 the side-board. He lit it, and went from 
 the room. His step was not so light as 
 his daughters, and the uncarpeted stairs 
 creaked uneasily as he ascended them. 
 On the landing, too, his step was audible, 
 until, seeing an unexpected light through 
 the half-open doorway for which he him- 
 self was making, he paused to consider. 
 Perhaps they had got it from him ; perhaps 
 the other part was the dream. All his 
 uncertainty had returned. He was im- 
 pelled forward, to see whom in the lighted 
 chamber he knew not. He was prepared 
 for anything. 
 
 As he stood in the doorway facing his 
 daughter, despite his preparation, he ex-
 
 38 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 perienced an unpleasant shock. It was 
 his wife that seemed to be standing there 
 before him, and in her hand the very fiddle 
 of which he had been dreaming. Barbara 
 on her part also was frightened, for seeing 
 the fixed, scarce conscious, gaze of her 
 father, she fancied him still asleep. But 
 this time her voice availed her, and as she 
 uttered in a clear tone ' Father !' the spell 
 for both of them was broken. 
 
 c You, Barbara!' exclaimed the old man, 
 in a tone made up of relief and resentment. 
 ' What be you a-doing there V 
 
 He came forward into the room as he 
 spoke to her. 
 
 c I am looking for the violin ; it is not 
 here. Where is it ? It was here yester- 
 day.' 
 
 c I cannot tell where you keep your old
 
 THE POOL FARM. 39 
 
 tack. It be high time the place was cleared 
 out.' 
 
 He turned away as he spoke. 
 
 4 Where is it, father ?' 
 
 ' How can I ' But dissimulation 
 
 did not come naturally to Bezaleel Win- 
 nett, and he checked himself with an oath. 
 ' I've sold the tack, if you want to knew. 
 and what have you got to say to it?' 
 
 The man's insolent tone and glances be- 
 trayed immediately his own consciousness 
 of the falseness of his position. Barbara 
 paid no heed to his manner, but simply 
 faced him with her natural, dignified 
 composure. 
 
 ' Who have you sold it to?' 
 
 • Will you question me about my 
 doings ¥ he retorted, with rising anger. 
 1 I be master in my own house, I suppose. 1
 
 40 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 c Not in affairs that affect others as well 
 as yourself,' said the girl, boldly. c You 
 had no right to sell this or any other old 
 thing in the house. Tell me who has got it.' 
 
 The man was dumbfoundered for a mo- 
 ment. Was this indeed a woman, — the 
 docile Barbara? He rubbed his eyes 
 again, for surely his dream was still cling- 
 ing inexplicably about him. That was 
 exactly as they had confronted him, — she 
 or her mother, or both, it was impossible 
 to distinguish between them. 
 
 c No right! . . . Affecting others ! . . .' 
 he stammered. 
 
 ' Yes, affecting others, father. You are 
 not so wholly without feeling as you pre- 
 tend to be. You would not like to see all 
 your family things in pawnbrokers' shops, 
 and your family itself '
 
 THE POOL FARM. 41 
 
 'Family!' ejaculated the old man,wrath- 
 fully, when he had recovered his speech. 
 1 1 have no family. I've ne'er a son to 
 take to the barken, and, as for the damned 
 tack, I'll sell what I like of it. The Win- 
 netts are done with.' 
 
 c If I am not a Winnett,' retorted the 
 girl, indignantly, c Roger Diall is a Win- 
 nett. What will he say?' but she checked 
 herself. 
 
 As her father was obviously working 
 himself into unreasoning anger in order 
 to maintain his position, Barbara immedi- 
 ately gave way. She would be no party 
 to a continued display of what she keenly 
 felt to be his degradation. He had turned 
 away to escape her, and she released him. 
 If a more favourable opportunity were 
 never offered, this scene at least should
 
 42 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 not be continued. Winnett walked heavily 
 along the passage in his shuffling slippers, 
 and, as his daughter had expected, entered 
 his bed-room, banging the door savagely 
 behind him. Barbara then went down- 
 stairs noiselessly, and rejoined the maid 
 in the kitchen.
 
 48 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A TRANSACTION. 
 
 The girl by her looks suspected some- 
 thing' unusual, and, as her mistress did 
 not immediately satisfy her, curiosity ran 
 over. 
 
 ' Whatever be the matter, miss?' 
 ' My father's upset about something/ 
 was the reply. c He has gone to bed. You 
 can put his bread and cheese and cider 
 outside his door when you go up, Annie. 
 I shall go to Withbridge soon, and stay
 
 44 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 there for the last train to bring Miriam 
 back.' 
 
 ' You'll never go yourself, miss, in all 
 this rain ! ' 
 
 c It is rather a bad night, but I shall 
 go myself. It will be calmer soon, I 
 expect.' 
 
 ' You will do yourself an injury, Miss 
 Barbara,' exclaimed the girl, emphatically, 
 putting her arms akimbo. c You was as 
 tired as tired when you come in, and you 
 to go all back again on such a night ! It 
 beunt reasonable. I'll run and fetch 
 David Collett, and ur shall go. What 
 bemena-made for, I should like to know?' 
 
 It was with difficulty that the well-in- 
 tentioned girl was subdued to the obstinate 
 resolution of her mistress, and it is quite 
 possible that, had Barbara disclosed the
 
 A TRANSACTION. 45 
 
 whole of her adventurous purpose, mere 
 argument would not even then have 
 availed her. 
 
 Presently the two young women went 
 out at the hack together, — the wind swept 
 through the house with a dreary sough as 
 the door was opened, — and keeping close 
 to the shelter of the yard-wall they came 
 to the stable. Barbara was first, with an 
 antique lanthorn in her hand, and a large 
 shawl over her shoulders and head. The 
 pony looked round at the intruders with 
 blinking surprise, hut was reassured by 
 his mistress's voice. He submitted with- 
 out question to the irregular proceedings, 
 and followed Barbara from the stall with 
 head bowed resignedly. Outside, he 
 shook his mane as the rain beat upon him, 
 but that was all.
 
 46 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 ' Eh, it bean't fit for you, miss,' mutter- 
 ed the handmaid constantly, as they were 
 buckling the harness ; an expression of 
 opinion to which Barbara gave no answer. 
 
 c Now, Annie, you run in, and don't be 
 fretting about me,' she said at length, 
 when all was done. c I shall be back 
 soon after eleven. You can have me a 
 bit of supper ready.' 
 
 ' Eh, miss, you be as bad as your father, 
 in another way,' said the girl, as she fled 
 reluctantly to the house. 
 
 A long drive it seemed through the 
 darkness, the wind and the rain. It was 
 not upon the well-trimmed hedges border- 
 ing the road between Murcott and With- 
 bridge that Barbara's lamps flashed. They 
 were rough lanes that she was traversing ; 
 up hill and down, under dripping trees,
 
 A TRANSACTION. 47 
 
 for the most part, through which the wind 
 played passionate dirges. Gloomy as were 
 these accompaniments, the continual mo- 
 tion came as a relief to the girl's spirits, 
 and annoyances lost much of their edge. 
 Here was a cluster of houses, with lighted 
 windows, apparently a village ; evidently 
 so, for amidst the wind was heard the 
 tongue of the church clock. It was past, 
 and nowagain only the dark drenched fields 
 around her. 
 
 For nearly an hour and a half Barbara 
 travelled so, and then she saw before her 
 a solitary outlying lamp-post. It was past, 
 and others appeared; scattered houses 
 were visible; umbrellas with legs upon 
 the footpath here and there ; and at length 
 a full-fledged street, Most of the shops 
 were shut, but in Knapstone, as all the
 
 48 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 world over, a tobacconist, a lollipop ven- 
 dor, and a publican, displayed invitations 
 to the belated passenger. Barbara ignored 
 them all. 
 
 It was in a small by-street at the far 
 end of the town that she drew rein, before 
 a picturesque old timbered house, the 
 tottering, overhanging gable of which was 
 shown by the light from a lamp at hand. 
 Below was a door with shuttered upper 
 half, and a small shop window similarly 
 guarded, — over it, the words c Jephcott, 
 Dealer in Antiquities.' Barbara jumped 
 down and rapped hurriedly upon the door. 
 Her knock had to be repeated, before it 
 received any attention from within. When 
 the door had been unbolted, it was opened 
 to about the width of a human face, — a 
 singularly wizened and diminutive human
 
 A TRANSACTION. 49 
 
 face certainly, which, as it appeared in the 
 gap, seemed to suggest a ludicrous embodi- 
 ment of the presumable stock-in-trade 
 within. It was apparently a woman's 
 face, for it was crowned with a ribboned 
 cap of singular construction, and a grey 
 curl was noticeable upon each temple. 
 The eyes peered with mute enquiry into 
 the street. 
 
 Yes, Mr. Jephcott was at home, but who 
 was it wanting him ? 
 
 c Lor ! Be you M iss Winnett of Murcott ? 
 Come in, my dear.' 
 
 A human spirit, then, had its dwelling 
 under this odd exterior, and Barbara's 
 courage grew strong in her. The door 
 was thrown open, and she entered. 
 Through a strangely miscellaneous col- 
 lection of relics of a former world, large 
 
 VOL. I. e
 
 50 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 and small — from the minutest seal to the 
 full-grown oaken press — and of every 
 variety of use and uselessness, the visitor 
 was ushered to a — well, as it seemed sure- 
 ly to the antique world itself, adjusted, it 
 is true, to the dimensions of a strictly 
 limited back parlour. 
 
 Upon an uncovered black oak table 
 stood a curious old lamp, and in the light 
 of it a curious old man, reading a folio 
 which lay open before him, with other 
 objects of antiquity scattered around. He 
 raised his face as Barbara entered, and re- 
 moved gallantly from his bald head a 
 black, velvet scull-cap, — a cap which had 
 graced, no doubt, in what we should call 
 its better days, a more exalted, if never a 
 more imposing, head. 
 
 c Give Miss Winnett a chair, Mrs. Jeph-
 
 A TRANSACTION. 51 
 
 cott, and be kind enough to withdraw,' 
 said this old gentleman, in tones well be- 
 fitting his impressive appearance. He, 
 himself, remained seated, through no want 
 of courtesy, it seemed, hut as Barbara sup- 
 posed, upon making the discovery later, 
 from the fact of one of his legs being 
 deficient from the knee. 
 
 This was the young lady's first ex- 
 perience of second-hand dealers of any 
 sort, and although, as an experience, it 
 was surprising (for does not instinct 
 demand some strong taint of inhumanity 
 in such members of society?) it was, 
 nevertheless, re-assuring. Xot only was 
 the looked-for ferocity conspicuously ab- 
 sent, but mildness and positively gentle 
 breeding stood radiant in its place. 
 
 c How can I serve you, Miss AVinnett?' 
 
 e 2 
 
 ""IKRSIIY OF
 
 52 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 asked Mr. Jephcott, for this unexpected 
 reception had impressed Barbara to 
 silence. Indeed, such traitors are our 
 fears, that no sooner had this primary 
 one been removed than another, just as 
 harassing, had assailed her. 
 
 : I hope — you will excuse me troubling 
 you, Mr. Jephcott. I only came to ask if 
 my father sold a violin to you to-day. 
 Perhaps it is my mistake,' she added, 
 apologetically, seeing that he did not im- 
 mediately answer. c I thought it might 
 
 be you, but of course ' the traitor 
 
 thought choked her; her expressive eyes 
 had to say the rest. 
 
 c He did sell me it,' replied the old 
 gentleman. ' There it is.' 
 
 : It is a mistake,' ejaculated Barbara. 
 c He regrets it. Will you let me have it 
 back again?'
 
 A TRANSACTION. 53 
 
 The old dealer looked into his visitor's 
 face and smiled complacently, a smile which 
 put courage into the unbusiness-like sup- 
 pliant. She was for the moment willing to 
 kneel to this high-priest of the antique. 
 
 'The advantage of my business, Miss 
 Winnett, is that it brings with it many 
 interesting glimpses of human nature. I 
 have gained some experience by it, and 
 have, as a consequence, been thought by 
 some of the country folk wiser than I 
 ought to be. You will, therefore, pardon 
 my correcting you. You mean that you 
 regret the sale ; is it not so?' 
 
 Barbara blushed, and kept silence. 
 
 1 I don't wish to tantalize you,' he went 
 on, L but my experience convinces me that 
 we had better understand each other now. 
 Your father will, I have no sort of doubt,
 
 54 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 visit me again, and — you see what I mean ? 
 I believe you may trust me. You wish 
 nothing to escape you.' 
 
 ' I assure you, Mr. Jephcott, that you 
 are quite mistaken,' said she, with some 
 dignity. c He regrets this sale as much as 
 or more than I do, and I am quite sure 
 that he will not repeat it.' 
 
 6 Very good,' replied the old man, 
 decisively, but not unkindly. c The violin 
 is at your disposal. I gave him fifty pounds 
 for it ; it is a valuable one. You can re- 
 pay whenever you find it convenient.' 
 
 For this, at any rate, Barbara was in no 
 way prepared, and she stared at her ap- 
 parent benefactor in amazement. 
 
 c But I cannot take it like this,' she ex- 
 claimed. c It is too kind of you. I only 
 wished to ask you if you would keep it in
 
 A TRANSACTION. 55 
 
 your hands until you hear from me 
 again, however long it may be.' 
 
 4 Just as you wish.' 
 
 There was perhaps a suspicion of curt- 
 aess in the old man's tune which marked 
 a difference from his former one, but his 
 manner seemed just as genial. A few 
 more words settled the matter upon this 
 basis, and when Barbara arose Mr. Jeph- 
 cott touched a spring hell which was near 
 him, and, as it might be by magic, the old 
 lad}- instantly appeared. Refreshment was 
 insisted upon, and, whilst it was preparing, 
 the host turned the conversation to the 
 book which was before him, and which 
 proved to be Sir AV alter Raleigh's c History 
 of the World.' Barbara was not exactly a 
 student, so that the book was nothing more 
 than a name to her, but she recollected the
 
 56 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 story about it, and it presented to her 
 mind a picture of a man with a peaked 
 beard, in the fashion of ruff and doublet, 
 sitting in the studious incarceration of the 
 Tower. 
 
 c I attach peculiar value to this book, 
 Miss Winnett,' said the old gentleman, 
 c and it is rather curio ns that you should 
 have found me over it. This will explain 
 it to you,' he continued, turning the leaves 
 over until the title-page was exposed, and 
 then pushing it across the table for his 
 visitors inspection. 
 
 Barbara glanced at it, with but little in- 
 terest, it must be confessed ; but at the 
 first glimpse her aspect changed. At the 
 head of the title-page, written in a hand 
 well-known to her, was the insertion : 
 1 Samuel Jephcott, from Roger Diall.'
 
 A TKANSACTIOX. 57 
 
 She looked up into Mr. Jephcott's face, 
 surprised, and he smiled. 
 
 1 You did not know, then, of our ac- 
 quaintance ? It is some years since I saw 
 Mr. Diall, but my regard for him is never 
 Lessened.' 
 
 4 He has not been to Murcott for a long 
 tii He.' replied Barbara, with some lack of 
 spontaneity, and what might have been 
 construed into a blush. 
 
 1 So I thought, so I thought.' 
 
 Mrs. Jephcott entered, and for some 
 reason the old man rather abruptly 
 changed the subject. Soon afterwards 
 Barbara left. 
 
 Through the darkness, the wind, and the 
 rain again, but with an inexpressibly light- 
 ened heart, she traversed the hisfh-road be-
 
 58 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 tween Knapstone and Withbridge. She 
 knew r that, upon reaching this latter place, 
 she would still have an hour to dispose of 
 before the arrival of the last train, by which, 
 presumably, Miriam would travel ; but this 
 was an advantage rather than otherwise. 
 She had resolved upon which friendly 
 household she would billet herself, and the 
 time would afford a gratifying opportunity 
 of ministering to the comforts of her own 
 enduring pony, a point upon which the 
 merciful Barbara was apt to be immoderate- 
 ly considerate. 
 
 All fell out as the young lady arranged 
 it, and at about half-past-ten she stood ex- 
 pectant in the station. The wind was less 
 persistently boisterous, but the rain showed 
 no signs of abating. The station-master,
 
 A TRANSACTION. 59 
 
 one porter, and Barbara constituted the 
 whole of the human element about the 
 place. The last one walked briskly to and 
 fro under cover ; the two others talked 
 vernacularly in the office. 
 
 4 Here she comes, Jack,' said the superior 
 as a whistle was heard not far off, and 
 they both emerged from their precincts. 
 
 They eyed Barbara closely as they passed 
 her, and one said, c Rough night, miss/ 
 In a minute the train drew up at the plat- 
 form. 
 
 'What, you, Miss Barbara!' exclaimed 
 a girl, who came running to the shelter. 
 ' I thought Tom Blizard 'ud a-come/ 
 
 As they were talking, one other passen- 
 ger came following the porter from the 
 train, — a gentleman with a rug flung over
 
 60 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 his shoulder. He just glanced at the two 
 as he passed them, and heard a few of the 
 words they were exchanging. Then they 
 went out.
 
 61 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS. 
 
 From one of the topmost windows of a 
 large block of buildings overlooking 
 
 Chelsea and the Thames, Roger Diall was 
 gazing, before lowering the blind. I hie 
 could hardly take up the cudgels for 
 November here. It was not a fog, cer- 
 tainly ; but the raw drizzle, disconsolate 
 wind, and the uniformly sullen sky dark- 
 ening for night, offered a prospect scarcely 
 more exhilarating than a blank expanse of
 
 62 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 the imperviable medium itself. Bleared 
 lights were to be seen in places, and bleared 
 reflections of such lights upon the slimy 
 pavement, and upon the dusky surface of 
 the water beyond the trees, betraying but 
 a dingy world, to which the unmusical 
 sounds here alone audible, — of an oc- 
 casional omnibus or other vehicle, and of 
 the shuffling feet of soul-weary passengers, 
 from the street far below, — were unable to 
 impart any semblance of a spirit. 
 
 After looking forth for a few seconds, 
 Diall loosened the cord of the Venetian 
 blind, and, stepping backwards, he allowed 
 the laths to descend as natural laws im- 
 pelled them, without on his part any 
 artificial mitigation of speed or sound. 
 From this he turned to poke the fire, to 
 Avhich he had put a match upon his en-
 
 THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS. 63 
 
 trance a short time before, and by the light 
 which its flame afforded he lit his lamp. 
 
 It was well that Roger Diall was con- 
 stitutionally much of a self-contained man, 
 else his life might have proved irksome to 
 him. More than one of his Cotswold an- 
 cestors had been known in their parish for 
 ' a still, silent man,' and education had but 
 slightly modified this generic disposition 
 in their latter-day representative. At 
 thirty-five he was still a bachelor, a cir- 
 cumstance explained to himself by the 
 fact of his belonging by profession to that 
 not inconsiderable class of mortals retained 
 in one or other of the lower civil depart- 
 ments of Her Majesty's service. This 
 particular servant appertained to the 
 Record Office, in Fetter Lane, and he had 
 his own peculiar views upon the prospect
 
 64 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 of promotion there, and a marriageable 
 income from his daily labours for the 
 State : or perhaps I should say had had, 
 for he had ceased to vex his soul with 
 such fruitless speculations, and had ac- 
 cepted his day by day situation resignedly 
 as the only positive quality in his scheme 
 of life. He built upon nothing, — he looked 
 forward to nothing, — more than he had. 
 
 The room in which the man sat, waiting 
 for his kettle to boil, told something of its 
 occupant. Looking down at him from 
 above the mantel-piece was the wistful, 
 long-suffering face of Andrea del Sarto. 
 Diall was no artist, — in the ordinary sense 
 of the word; — was not even a connoisseur 
 in art — but that artist's face in some 
 occult way appealed to him. He would 
 make pilgrimages to the National Gallery
 
 THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS. 65 
 
 to see the original picture and to stand 
 before it, and he often gazed to abstraction 
 at this black and white copy of it over his 
 own fire-place. This no doubt offered 
 sufficient explanation of his position in 
 our world. He had his bread to make, 
 but. Inning made it, practical ambition 
 urged him no further. He was not a man. 
 of action. Other pictures hung upon the 
 walls, mostly inexpensive engravings and 
 photographs ; and there were besides two 
 tall book-cases holding rows of choice- 
 looking volumes. 
 
 The kettle began to sing, and still Diall 
 was reading, with a pencil in his hand. 
 Occasionally he made a mark on the paper, 
 and seemed to smile. His last mark was 
 placed opposite to this item : 
 
 1 Dives and Pauper, that is to say, the Riche 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 and the Pore, a Compendiouse Treatise Dialogue 
 fructuously tretying upon the X Command- 
 ments with an Introductory Dialogue of Holy 
 Povertie, BLACK LETTER, small folio, superbly 
 bound in brown morocco extra, full gilt back 
 and gilt edges, by Bedford, &c, fine, clean, and 
 perfect copy, £22, 10s. Imprentyd by one 
 Kichard Pynson, at the Temple Barre of London, 
 1493.' 
 
 It was a bookseller's catalogue he was 
 reading, just come to him by the post, and 
 every publication of this kind which ar- 
 rived (and they were many) was carefully 
 perused, and desiderata marked, indeed, so 
 to speak, purchased. He could thus with- 
 out injury indulge his princely taste for 
 letters, and if he had allowed you a 
 glimpse of his piles of accumulated cata- 
 logues (for he never destroyed any) you 
 would from his markings have supposed 
 that he must have acquired a priceless
 
 THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS. 67 
 
 collection of books. And so no doubt he 
 had, but, like many other renowned collec- 
 tors of these treasures, Roger had a library 
 iu more than one locality. His princely 
 collection he kept in a castle he possessed 
 somewhere in Spain ; his less magnificent 
 one, as became it, in his top-storey flat in 
 Chelsea. The bulk of his purchases wore 
 consigned to the former place. 
 
 The advantages attending this arrange- 
 ment were manifold, none more notable 
 than that under it the book-sellers allowed 
 him unlimited credit. For additions to his 
 Chelsea department they required cash. 
 But Diall was very favourable to the book- 
 sellers. They trusted him, and he conse- 
 quently respected them in return. He 
 always averred that no man received a 
 more disinterested patronage at their hands 
 
 f2
 
 68 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 than he did, and, comparing his moderate 
 Chelsea collection of books with the extra- 
 ordinary accumulation of bait (supplied 
 by these friends gratis), there seemed good 
 reason for his supposition. Diall attri- 
 buted this consideration to occult psychical 
 causes, for he could not otherwise explain 
 the constantly increasing circle of admirers 
 of the obscure name of Roger Diall in the 
 bibliopolic world. 
 
 He ticked another book, this time also 
 for Spain. 
 
 'HlGDEN (Ranulph, Monk of Chester) Poly- 
 chronicon, conteyning the Berynges and dedes 
 of many tymes, Englyssbed by J. de Trevisa, 
 Vicar of Barkleye, etc., BLACK LETTER, folio, calf, 
 antique style, red edges, etc. £9. 9s. Imprinted in 
 Southwark by Peter Treveris, MCCCCCXXVIL' 
 
 At this point the kettle boiled and sput-
 
 THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS. 69 
 
 tered, and Diall with mature deliberation 
 filled the tea-pot. Singular to say, after 
 doing so, he placed a dainty silk and plush 
 cosy over it ; he then returned to his cata- 
 logue. At least, he was in the act of doiiis? 
 so, when a knock upon his outer door 
 arrested him. 
 
 1 Rowe,'he muttered, and went at leisure 
 to answer him. 
 
 Diall had supreme command over his 
 movements : all were effected with the 
 same measure of deliberation. The visitor 
 was apparently aware of it, for there was 
 no repetition of the summons. 
 
 ' Now, sir,' exclaimed the latter, when 
 the door was opened. 
 
 ' Advance,' was the reply, c you are just 
 in time to make me a bit of toast.' 
 
 Rowe entered, for he it was, and the
 
 70 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 other fetched some additional things from 
 the kitchen. 
 
 c Whence comest thou ?' asked Diall, as 
 he re-entered the room. 
 
 ' From going to and fro in the earth, and 
 from walking up and down in it.' 
 
 c So I surmised.' 
 
 The visitor offered a striking physical 
 contrast to his host. The latter was broad T 
 robust, and bearded; the former, slightly 
 built, with indifferently set shoulders, and 
 a thin, clean-shaven face. He might be 
 any age from twenty-live to forty, judging 
 from appearance only ; but, as he could 
 have told you that he recollected looking 
 up with awe at school to an imposing^ 
 elder of the name of Roger Diall, he must, 
 as a matter of fact, be several years the 
 junior of that well-preserved philosopher.
 
 THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS. 71 
 
 This latter had thrown himself again into 
 a lounging wicker-chair, and Avas allowing 
 his glances to play upon the fire-lit features 
 of his companion making toast. 
 
 • You have not taken the hod yet, then?' 
 he said. 
 
 4 I am going into the country.' 
 
 c The plough, then V 
 
 'More probably. 1 
 
 c Been reading dean Jacques, Rnskin, or 
 who?' 
 
 c This city life is a gigantic curse. It 
 brings to a focus, and thrusts upon your 
 eyeballs, all the worst of this vile 
 life " 
 
 c And all the best. But, my dear fellow, 
 you grow in originality. These are deep, 
 surely hitherto unpropounded truths. Pla- 
 card them throughout the metropolis.
 
 72 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 They must not be lost. Ned, look, it's 
 burning.' 
 
 c Even truisms can be brought home to 
 you sometimes with a new and undreamed- 
 of force, and then they are so-far original. 
 They require reiteration more urgently than 
 the less-recognised forms of opinion. Ad- 
 mit only originality, and it is just possible 
 that a profound silence may rest upon the 
 face of the universe.' 
 
 4 Man's universe : and perhaps it were 
 well.' 
 
 Diall took off the piece of toast from the 
 upturned fork, and replaced it by a new 
 slice of bread as he spoke. 
 
 ' There is little need to talk,' he con- 
 tinued ; c there are the books. ' This fa- 
 natical wave of reformatory preaching is 
 least in request of all. To me it is nause-
 
 THE TWO PHILOSOPHEKS. 73 
 
 ating. The spray of it has touched even 
 you, Ned. Do stick to your literature pure 
 and simple. Write another novel. Why 
 will you rage to convert somebody else 
 instead of looking after yourselves ? You 
 remind me of the man Sam Johnson tells 
 us of, who seemed to possess but one idea, 
 and that was a wrong one. Avoid like the 
 very fiend a fixed idea. How do you know 
 that the fund of saving knowledge has 
 been intrusted so pre-eminently to you?" 
 
 c Happily, I am under no misconcep- 
 tion upon this score,' replied Rowe, with 
 humility, as he rose from the buffet with 
 the second piece of toast completed. For 
 want of a rack they were slanted against 
 the saucers. 
 
 Rowe pulled a chair up to the tire, and 
 sat with his elbow upon a corner of the
 
 74 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 table, and his knees crossed. At his 
 friend's request he poured out the tea, and 
 helped himself to a sardine. Diall still 
 reclined. His eye was upon his visitor, 
 and consequently perceived him examin- 
 ing the tea-cosy before replacing it. 
 
 ' A new purchase ? Rather singular 
 one.' 
 
 L It is not a purchase. It has been lying 
 in my cupboard for ten years.' 
 c Is its exhumation significant ?' 
 Rowe looked at his friend in asking. 
 c Significant of one more stage in 
 bachelorhood.' 
 
 ' Presumably a relic of your sister,' wa& 
 the other's facetious rejoinder. 
 
 'No, it is not the work of my sister.' 
 
 c I have never heard of a cousin.' 
 
 ' I have some relatives, I believe, some-
 
 THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS. 75 
 
 where.' replied Diall, with a careless smile. 
 
 c H'rn,' muttered Howe. c Most people 
 have.' 
 
 1 When do you go, and whither ?' 
 
 c To-night, and to Stratford-on-Avon.' 
 
 c In search of the spirit of the immortal 
 William? We have exorcised him. He 
 inhabits there no longer. 1 
 
 c I am going to examine the recesses of 
 his country. I believe some very pure 
 rustic still lingers in those parts. I want 
 t<> study it.' 
 
 ' Be assured of that. But do you seri- 
 ously think, Ned, that you are cut out for 
 the life rustic ?' 
 
 L I only know that I am not cut out for 
 the life urban. It is searing my heart and 
 brain.' 
 
 c Pooh, pooh ! Better be seared than
 
 76 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 turned mouldy, trust me. You know that 
 I am a rustic, and speak of that which I 
 know. But for my taint of rusticity, I 
 should now be a flourishing member of 
 society.' 
 
 Rowe regarded his companion as this 
 sentiment, so alien to the speaker's known 
 temperament, was uttered, but Roger al- 
 lowed not his eye to be caught. 
 
 'Why allow another day to go, man?' 
 Diall continued. c You start under the 
 disadvantage of possessing a livelihood, it 
 is true, but sacrifice that. Not in a mad 
 way, of course, but as at our last meet- 
 ing I recommended. I assure you that 
 you will be a made man. Sink your capi- 
 tal ; every farthing of it. What can you 
 command ? — say five or six thousand 
 j)ounds, possibly more. If set about ju-
 
 THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS. 77 
 
 diciously, I am convinced that yon would 
 get some rational employment in return 
 for this. You are not made for enterprise, 
 I admit, so don't speculate upon your own 
 energy. But get some junior partnership, 
 or other such connection, say with some 
 publisher of a decent sort. Why on earth 
 won't you?' 
 
 ' AVould you ?' 
 
 'Not now, perhaps; but at your age 
 right resolutely.' 
 
 6 It is impossible, Diall.' 
 
 1 Xe me dites jamais ce bete de mot ! 
 This thing must be done.' 
 
 Rowe took another sardine, and pro- 
 ceeded silently to remove its silvery coat- 
 ing with his fork. The man's nervous 
 temperament was obvious in his features ; 
 features of a somewhat intellectual expres-
 
 78 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 sion certainly, but apparently wanting in 
 the vital tinctures. If you had casually 
 met him, you might overweeningly have 
 suspected him of writing poems of c The 
 City of Dreadful Night ' order ; for a cer- 
 tain natural seriousness and reserve, sug- 
 gestive of weighty meditations, put him in 
 appearance at a greater distance from the 
 common-place than perhaps, now-a-days, 
 his mental calibre substantially warranted. 
 Early inheriting a small competence 
 from his father, who was a legal practi- 
 tioner in a town of repute in the midlands, 
 Rowe had allowed himself thereupon to 
 succumb to a restless temperament, of the 
 introspective, and not of the aggressive or 
 adventurous order. Embryo artist and 
 moralist by turns, but in no thing prac- 
 tical, the two antagonistic qualities kept
 
 THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS. 79 
 
 up in him a perpetual ineptitude. The 
 natural parts with which he was endowed, 
 turned to any systematic pursuit or course 
 of study, might undoubtedly have carried 
 him to considerable accomplishment, in- 
 stead of being dissipated in the vague and 
 fruitless speculation of a more or less 
 morbid sensibility. A little fitful amateur 
 journalising, certainly, he had done of 
 late; and, twelve months ago, had found a 
 second-rate publishing-house willing to 
 undertake the risk of a mildly-sensational 
 novel which he had written, but here ac- 
 complishment had made a pause. 
 
 c How long do you propose to stay in 
 vegetation, then V 
 
 Rowe shrugged his shoulders, — a tacit 
 admission, perhaps, of some degree of 
 self-acquaintance.
 
 80 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 ' You are fully mindful of the prospect 
 before you ? 
 
 " When icicles hang by the wall, 
 
 And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, 
 And Tom bears logs into the hall, 
 
 And milk comes frozen home in pail, 
 When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul, 
 Then nightly sings the staring owl 
 Tu-whee-t." ' 
 
 (Diall imitated with singular accuracy the 
 cry of the owl.) 'Ways can be uncom- 
 monly foul there, and for one of your 
 temperament the owl is not an exhilarat- 
 ing companion. Did you ever awake from 
 sleep in a haunted house in those rustic 
 
 ilences, — crumbling gables, ivy, and so 
 
 forth : creaking old oak banisters, and the 
 rest ; — awake to the ghastly, flitting con- 
 versation of the owls ? It is the one thing 
 to which even my matter-of-fact constitu- 
 tion could never become accustomed. You
 
 THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS. 81 
 
 will wish for the rattle of a belated han- 
 som, Ned, much as you affect to despise 
 them now.' 
 
 ' It is the one sound in nature I have 
 most wished to hear.' 
 
 ' Go and hear it, by all means; it will 
 cure you. But look here : are you going 
 with any Dulcinea crazes ? If you fall 
 into such another Quixotic enterprise as 
 that of the maid of Caverham, don't expect 
 to be so miraculously delivered a second 
 time. Avoid speculations upon topics of 
 that kind as you value your existence.' 
 
 c If they are thrust upon me ' 
 
 Diall shattered the sentence with 
 laughter. 
 
 4 Finished ? Take this chair. I will air 
 some sheets presently. There is no need 
 to go to-night.' 
 
 VOL. i. G
 
 82 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 He looked through the smoke of a 
 cigarette he was lighting at the expression 
 of Rowe's features. 
 
 ' Something urges me forth to-night. I 
 left my baggage at Padclington on my way 
 down to you.' 
 
 Diall was unable to shake his friend's 
 resolution either by sarcasm or entreaty, 
 so he altered his tactics, and entered more 
 genially into the discussion. Thus they 
 talked, until Rowe pronounced it time to 
 take his departure ; then Diall went with 
 him. 
 
 c Are you going to take Wordsworth 
 with you ?' said one, as they entered Sloane 
 Square station. 
 
 c Probably.' 
 
 'Well, don't. Go without preposses- 
 sions, and rub your eyes well. You may
 
 THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS. 83 
 
 take a text-book upon the Poor Law, and 
 a Justice's Manual, but leave the poets 
 behind. They are for us poor devils in 
 the towns.' 
 
 Diall talked loudly, and other passen- 
 gers regarded him with curiosity. 
 
 In the train he was silent, not reopening 
 the conversation until he entered the sub- 
 way leading from Praed Street to the main 
 line platform.
 
 84 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS. 
 
 There were but few passengers that night, 
 and Rowe had no difficulty in securing 
 the coveted empty compartment. There 
 was time to spare, so that when he had 
 thrown his rug into the corner, and satis- 
 fied the porter who had thrust his baggage 
 under the seat, the traveller joined his 
 friend upon the platform, and for some 
 time they paced to and fro in discursive 
 conversation.
 
 FELLOW-PASSEXGEKS. 85 
 
 4 Going on, sir ?' at length said the 
 guard in passing. 
 
 1 Yes ;' and the two went to the secured 
 compartment. 
 
 1 Good-bye, Diall.' 
 
 4 Good-bye, Ned.' 
 
 They grasped hands ; the door was 
 slammed ; a whistle, a shout or two, and 
 then the hissing of the engine in its slow 
 forward movement. Roger Diall lingered, 
 only leaving the station as the last car- 
 riage was curling away into the darkness. 
 
 Kowe wrapped himself up in his corner, 
 and, opening a book, found that the lamp 
 afforded light sufficient to read by. He 
 composed himself, and was presently ab- 
 sorbed in his highly imaginative author. 
 
 Probably the reader dozed, for upon the 
 train stopping, and Rowe's emerging to
 
 86 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 see what place he had come to, he was 
 amazed to find it already Oxford. He was 
 unable to recall distinctly the various 
 stages of the journey. They had stopped 
 at Reading, for instance, he supposed, but 
 he could not recollect their having done 
 so. Of the dark intervening spaces, with 
 solitary men in signal-boxes and cottagers 
 peeping from behind the blind at the rush 
 and the hurrying lights, he had no sort 
 of account. They must, notwithstanding, 
 have sped past all such. 
 
 c Take your seat, sir, please.' 
 
 And off again. With Rowe's persistent 
 good fortune, he is again uninvaded, and 
 has once more ensconced himself behind 
 his rug and imaginative author. But this 
 time he was reading lightly, and he fre- 
 quently looked up to glance about him.
 
 FELLOW-PASSEXGERS. 87 
 
 It was a very dark night, and he soon 
 began to be vaguely aware that the rain 
 was beating with increased force against 
 the window-panes close beside his ear, the 
 dull, metallic sound which it made being 
 audible above the rattle of the train. At 
 such perception he simply gathered him- 
 self together with satisfaction. 
 
 The passenger's reading had stimulated 
 his own imagination, and presently he 
 threw the book upon the cushion beside 
 him to indulge the wayward current of his 
 own thought. He turned his face to glance 
 at the window-pane, and then started at 
 seeing a haggard face return the gaze ; 
 but in a second he perceived it to be but 
 a gloomy phantom of himself, in a lamplit 
 compartment all alone, travelling side by 
 side with, and at the same pace as, himself.
 
 88 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 Still the rain beat musically upon the 
 glass. It fascinated him, and he calmly 
 enjoyed the contemplation of what was 
 proceeding in the darkness without. From 
 long rain floods had been spoken about, 
 and Rowe, with his face against the glass, 
 imagined the dark level fields around him 
 saturated with water ; the swollen brooks 
 and ditches flowing through them in which 
 the brown reeds and autumn leaves and 
 herbage were being drawn under by the 
 muddy current. How it would encircle 
 the protruding willow trunks, with their 
 deep-cleft lattice-work barks, eddying in 
 little whirlpools of impatience around 
 every obstacle. He even thought of the 
 water-rats, and wondered how they fared 
 in the grey mud-banks. 
 
 Rowe had a singular imagination, and
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS. 89 
 
 he found this wild, chaotic* picture of so 
 great attractiveness, and dwelt upon it in 
 such alluring detail, that he felt a desire 
 to be out in the storm ; to be sitting, per- 
 haps, at the foot of some drenched, in- 
 visible tree, the dead leaves of which he 
 might hear being torn off and whirled 
 away into the darkness, and other sounds 
 of wind and water all about him; sitting 
 there to listen to, and be part of, the deso- 
 lation of the world, — to enjoy the blind 
 ' extremity of the skies, 1 and strive in his 
 
 ' Little world of man to out-scorn 
 The to-and-fro conflicting wind and rain.' 
 
 A slackening of the speed of the train 
 checked Rowe's fancy. The steam was 
 off, and very soon they stopped. Idly he 
 peered through the rain-spattered glass, 
 and. seeing lights, took it to be a station,
 
 90 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 but lie was not sufficiently curious to look 
 further. It was evidently a small one. 
 Prolonged immunity had rendered him 
 callous. The mere possibility of annoy- 
 ance had not so much as occurred to him, 
 when the door was opened, a passenger 
 thrust in, — a bang, a whistle, and again they 
 moved. 
 
 The man's former reverie, then, must for 
 the present end, for he was not in the 
 habit of pursuing abstract thought of that 
 kind in the presence of another. He cast 
 what seemed a scowl at the intruder, and 
 took up his book to continue reading. 
 
 It was a young woman who had entered, 
 in appearance a servant of modest pre- 
 tensions, and in her glances betraying 
 obvious signs of nervousness and timidity. 
 
 'Nervous at my proximity,' mused Rowe y
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS. 91 
 
 maliciously ; ' whose the fault ? My an- 
 noyance at least is as great.' 
 
 He put on a surly aspect, and inwardly 
 rejoiced to see the tremulous clutching 
 and re-clutching of the points of her 
 drenched umbrella which stood against 
 her knee, and from which in a moment 
 a stream had trickled along the floor. 
 The girl sat, too, on the very edge of 
 the cushion, as though ready to sacri- 
 fice her life if her fellow-passenger should 
 happen to cough or find it necessary to 
 move a finger. Her eyes were fixed im- 
 movably upon him, as he could perceive 
 even when he was busily reading. From 
 what Diall playfully called his friend's 
 native malevolence, Rowe was rather de- 
 sirous of frightening her, and on that 
 account kept a deep furrow between his
 
 92 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 eyebrows in perpetual evidence, once even 
 turning his angry eyes full upon her for a 
 momentary glance. She withstood the 
 look, her only movement being the read- 
 justment of her fingers round the tips of 
 her umbrella. 
 
 After this glance, for some reason, Rowe 
 felt less angry with the girl. It was not 
 her comely face, reader, for this man — de- 
 spite his years, and Diall's opinion of him 
 — was always boastful to himself of a 
 supreme indifference to shallow consider- 
 ations of this sort ; moreover, to a more 
 susceptible observer than he, her face 
 would hardly have appeared to offer any 
 peculiar attractions. It was the expression 
 of her face which struck him. He imme- 
 diately doubted whether in reality she 
 was afraid of him at all ; at the next
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS. 93 
 
 moment, whether she was even thinking of 
 him at all. Therefore he looked at her 
 again, and in an instant shrank inwards. 
 
 This man affected a certain moroseness 
 in his attitude to the generality of man- 
 kind ; he was, in short, what Dr. Johnson 
 would have called an unclubable man. 
 Despite this temperament, supported as it 
 was by some show of physical evidence, 
 (as even the police themselves upon one 
 memorable occasion testified,) he averred 
 that his life had been rendered intolerable 
 by incessant demands for condolence and 
 help from all kinds of individuals, under 
 the most widely diverse forms of physical 
 and mental suffering. He often said to 
 Diall that it seemed as if he bore some 
 mystical badge by means of which this 
 class of persons had been enabled to sin-
 
 94 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 gle him out as a legitimate butt for all 
 their unacceptable confidences. 
 
 Upon his second glance at the girl 
 before him, the thought of his fate flashed 
 across his mind. Her eyes were still fixed 
 upon his face, with a look which greatly 
 reminded him of a collie dog which he 
 had once possessed. There was the same 
 quality of trust in her gaze, the same 
 complete absence of human self-conscious- 
 ness. The wind brought a swirl of rain 
 against the window, and the girl turned 
 her head to look at it. It seemed to 
 encourage her, and Rowe saw in a moment 
 that she was about to speak to him. 
 
 ' Are you going ' 
 
 c Again !' ejaculated he. 
 
 ' What is it, sir ?' she asked, timidly. 
 
 i Nay, what is it you were saying ?'
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS, 95 
 
 ' Please, sir, are you going far ?' 
 
 L Yes, I am going to Aberdeen,' said 
 Rowe, curtly, with deliberate perversity. 
 He saw her face fall. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that the girl 
 had the slightest notion of where that 
 place was, but evidently it sounded far 
 off, for she was impressed even to silence. 
 
 L Why do you ask me?' 
 
 ' I am going to Withbridge,' she replied. 
 L I wondered whether you were going 
 there too, sir.' 
 
 c To Withbridge !' exclaimed Rowe, and 
 burst into contemptuous laughter. 
 
 Her face did not relax one jot. She was 
 not hurt by his laughter, obviously she 
 did not understand it. 
 
 ' Where is that V he asked. 
 
 c In the hills, sir.'
 
 96 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 c In what hills ?\ 
 
 ' The Cotswold hills.' 
 
 c H'm,' he muttered, and looked again 
 more closely at her. This was his friend 
 Diall's district. 
 
 He laughed inwardly at the supposition 
 of her being afraid of him. Fear, he now 
 saw, was not at all the expression of her 
 features, yet she was under mental per- 
 turbation of some kind. His interest 
 increased. She moved her eyes from time 
 to time, but mainly she gazed at him with 
 a remarkable persistency. She was anxi- 
 ous to speak more to him, of that there 
 could be no doubt. Women of the weaker 
 sort, he reflected, cannot by any possibility 
 keep their counsel under conditions in the 
 least degree beyond the daily familiar 
 routine. At this moment Rowe perceived
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS. 97 
 
 something which had hitherto escaped 
 him. In the hand which grasped the 
 umbrella was a piece of dark paper, dirty 
 and crumpled. She must have seen his 
 eyes upon it, for she too looked down, and 
 her lips quivered with attempted utter- 
 ance, but no word came. 
 
 1 1 don't think this train goes to the 
 place you mention,' remarked he, think- 
 ing that in her excitement she had got 
 wrong. 
 
 1 No, sir. I have to change at the 
 junction.' 
 
 ' I see.' 
 
 This innocent remark was fatal to him, 
 for it evidently gave the girl the required 
 courage. She transferred her umbrella to 
 the other hand, and held towards Rowe 
 the one which clutched the paper. He 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 now saw this to be of a reddish hue, 
 salmon-coloured. 
 
 L Telegram or County- Court summons,' 
 he thought. 
 
 ' Will — will you please to read that, 
 sir?' 
 
 c Remember that I am a stranger to you,' 
 replied he, in a tone of admonition. There- 
 upon she hesitated. c Of course, if I can 
 be of any assistance to you ' 
 
 c Yes, sir, you can,' was her eager ex- 
 clamation. c You can be of assistance to 
 me.' 
 
 He took the paper from her trembling 
 fingers, and stood up to examine it more 
 effectually by the lamp. It was a tele- 
 gram, now wet and dirty, but still legible. 
 It ran thus :
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS. 99 
 
 ' Gome to-night. The withy has fallen, 
 and the owl wont leave the orchard. Come.' 
 
 Rowe read it twice, and then looked at 
 the girl perplexed. 
 
 L This is in cipher. I don't understand 
 
 it; 
 
 'In what, sir?' she asked, her lips 
 nervously apart. 
 
 6 It is written so that strangers cannot 
 know the meaning.' 
 
 1 Xo, sir, it means what it says. Mother 
 sent it.' 
 
 Rowe turned his eyes again to the 
 paper, and smiled. He had gone too far 
 now, easily to withdraw, even if his curi- 
 osity had permitted it. Has this been of 
 my seeking, Diall ? he mentally ejaculated, 
 
 h 2
 
 100 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 as he thought of the narrative it would 
 make for his sceptical friend ; is the hand 
 of my fate apparent in this, or is it not? 
 
 ' Well, first of all,' he said, aloud, turn- 
 ing again towards the girl, c what is a 
 withy ?' 
 
 ' A withy, sir !' exclaimed the girl, with 
 such expression as she might have as- 
 sumed if he had asked her to define a 
 sheep. c A withy-tree, — it is an old withy- 
 tree, and was always called Medlicott's 
 withy.' 
 
 L I see. Perhaps it is what most people 
 call a willow ' 
 
 1 Yes, sir, that's it.' 
 
 c Medlicott's withy, is it? Who is Med- 
 licott, and why is the tree called by his 
 name ? Are you a Medlicott ?' added 
 Rowe, upon second thoughts.
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS. 101 
 
 The girl showed relief at this form of 
 the question, and readily answered, 
 
 c Yes, sir, we are Medlicotts. The tree 
 is ours. My name is Miriam Medlicott. 
 We never knew why the tree was called 
 after us.' 
 
 c Because it always belonged to your 
 family, I should suppose,' remarked liowe, 
 in a matter-of-fact tone ; c and perhaps 
 there are not many withies in your part of 
 the country.' 
 
 1 Oh, yes, sir, there are many a hundred.' 
 
 c Well, I don't suppose there is any- 
 thing uncommon in an old one being 
 blown down in a November wind. What 
 kind of assistance do you want me to give 
 you?' 
 
 The tone was discouraging. 
 
 The train was stopping as Rowe put his
 
 102 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 question, and the girl peered anxiously 
 through the window-pane. 
 
 c Yes, it is the junction,' she exclaimed, 
 hurriedly, preparing at the same time for 
 her departure from the carriage. 
 
 c Do — do you think, sir,' she added, as a 
 last appeal, c that trees can oversee us ?' 
 
 c Certainly not,' replied Rowe, jocu- 
 larly, without fully understanding the 
 question. 
 
 The girl's face fell once more. Perhaps 
 she slightly resented this cavalier treat- 
 ment of what appeared to her, as well as 
 to her mother, at the very least a tragedy 
 in embryo. Minds of a certain order find 
 such consolation a disappointment, a de- 
 privation, rather than a relief; you may 
 rob them of a joy, but to be niched of a 
 foreboded mischief, of a downright grave-
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS. 103 
 
 yard casualty, is in the highest degree in- 
 tolerable. Miriam felt the slight offered 
 her, not exactly by her fellow-passenger, 
 but by her own fallible instinct, in 
 prompting her to trust him ; and when 
 Rowe had opened the door for her, and 
 handed her her possessions, she left him 
 with a very curt, c Good-night, sir.' 
 
 The instant she had gone, the man felt 
 very strongly the unsatisfactory nature of 
 the conclusion. He had missed the oppor- 
 tunity of something really interesting, — 
 something, indeed, very like what his 
 erratic mind had upon this particular 
 journey been bent upon. It had been (as 
 usual, he thought,) thrust upon him, and 
 yet, with characteristic perversity, he had 
 failed to make anything of it. What was 
 he going to Stratford for ? Nothing. He
 
 104 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 was free. It had been his boast for years. 
 No person or engagement conlcl say to him, 
 Go this way or that. 
 
 The guard had whistled, the train was 
 beginning to move, when a man was seen 
 to step hurriedly from one of the carriages, 
 dragging a heavy portmanteau after him. 
 Two porters shouted at him in a tone of 
 official resentment, and ran to slam the 
 door which he had left open. He smiled at 
 them, and asked from which side the With- 
 bridge train departed. It was pointed out 
 to him, already waiting there, and he 
 crossed to it. Without difficulty, in a 
 compartment alone, he recognised his late 
 fellow-passenger, the ingenuous Miriam 
 Medlicott, and to her blank amazement he 
 stepped in. He thrust in his luggage, and 
 went to book. Presently they were face
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS. 105 
 
 to face again, and the train moving 
 onwards. 
 
 Whatever were Miriam's feelings in her 
 former intercourse with Rowe, there was 
 no doubt that she was distinctly nervous 
 now. A casual encounter is one thing ; a 
 determined pursuit quite another. Rowe 
 immediately perceived that he must alter 
 his position very materially, if he wished 
 to remove the first unfavourable impres- 
 sion he had conveyed. 
 
 c You were disappointed at my answer,' 
 he said, with a marked kindliness of 
 utterance. 
 
 The girl looked at him more closely, but 
 made no reply. 
 
 c I had no wish to be unkind,' he con- 
 tinued, i but I ' 
 
 ' I thought you were going to
 
 106 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 somewhere far off. sir,' she said, interrupt- 
 ing him quietly. 
 
 ' I was,' replied Rowe, ' but you had 
 aroused my interest, and I thought you 
 would excuse my coming to have a few 
 more words with you. It is of no conse- 
 quence to me when I go.' 
 
 ' Are you not a clergyman, sir ?' 
 
 Rowe was determined not to take a 
 false step again, so in quite a quiet man- 
 ner he disclaimed the sacred office. 
 
 c But it is strange you should have 
 thought this,' he added, perhaps in per- 
 fectly good faith, ' for I have often thought 
 of becoming one. Do I dress like one ?' 
 
 u I suppose not,' said the girl, looking at 
 him critically, but with the most naive 
 composure, : but at first sight I felt sure 
 that you were one. I should not have
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS. 107 
 
 been so bold if I had known that yon were 
 not.' 
 
 L I hope yon may have no reason for re- 
 gretting your boldness, nevertheless. I 
 am not a ruffian, although I have not the 
 peculiar degree of virtue that you at- 
 tributed to me.' 
 
 In a few minutes Miriam was re-assured, 
 and was beginning to expand under Rowe's 
 more sagacious treatment. She told him 
 more of herself and of her family ; interest- 
 ing particulars of their rustic life and 
 manners which, to the hearer, sounded 
 positively romantic. She saw the im- 
 pression her words were making upon 
 him, and was encouraged. Her first feel- 
 ings towards him revived, and nervous- 
 ness was wholly extinguished. It was 
 impressive and inspiriting to be talking
 
 108 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 thus confidentially with one obviously be- 
 longing to the outer world, to which world 
 Miriam vaguely looked as to a vast region 
 of light and intelligence, before whose eye 
 problems bewildering to a less sophisti- 
 cated brain appeared matters of the utmost 
 simplicity. 
 
 c You hear the wind and the rain,' said 
 Rowe, at one point. ' How will you get 
 from the station to Murcott, if it is the dis- 
 tance you mention ?' 
 
 c Perhaps mother will have got Tom 
 Blizard's cart; or perhaps Miss Barbara 
 will have lent her her pony-trap. She 
 took me when I went away. She is 
 always very kind to us.' 
 
 1 Who is Miss Barbara, then?' 
 
 ' Miss Barbara Winnett of the Pool 
 Farm,' replied the girl, not without sur-
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS. 109 
 
 prise at her companion's obviously limited 
 information. 
 
 Rowe would have questioned further, 
 but felt doubts as to the policy of such a 
 course 
 
 ' I see,' he said instead, as though the 
 explanation had been ample. 
 
 'And where Avill you go, sir?' asked 
 Miriam, with curiosity, or let us say sym- 
 pathy, as though at length awaking to the 
 singularity of her companion's methods. 
 
 c I ? Oh, anywhere. There is an inn in 
 Withbridge, I suppose?' 
 
 u Yes, two or three. The " Bunch of 
 Grapes " is the best.' 
 
 c Then I shall go there. The man that 
 can live in inns is never homeless.' 
 
 Rowe probably took credit for an aphorism 
 as soon as he had uttered this, but to his-
 
 110 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 hearer it had conveyed a confession of very 
 sinister import, and not exactly of the philo- 
 sophical tendency that the framer of it had 
 intended to suggest. He saw the effect of 
 his words, and would have entered upon a 
 vindication of his morals, but circumstances 
 prevented. The train was drawing to a 
 station, and, as Miriam had seen the last to 
 be Elmsey, she knew this one to be the 
 place of her destination. Rowe's character 
 for sobriety, therefore, had for the present 
 to remain heavily overclouded, and his 
 faculty for refined morality very deeply in 
 the shade. 
 
 The rain was flung into their faces as 
 they stepped on to the platform. Miriam, 
 seizing her possessions, ran immediately 
 for shelter ; but Rowe naturally acted with 
 greater deliberation. A porter came to
 
 FELLOW-PASSENGERS. Ill 
 
 assist him with his portmanteau and to 
 carry it under cover, and him the passenger 
 followed. As they entered the roofed-in 
 part, Rowe observed his late fellow-pas- 
 senger engaged in conversation with a 
 young lady. The former's back was to- 
 wards him, and evidently it was wished 
 that their communication should not be re- 
 opened. This suited Rowe, and he passed on 
 to the waiting-room. She to whom Miriam 
 was talking regarded him as he went, and 
 he was constrained to give one look also 
 towards her in passing. As he entered the 
 room, he heard the words, 
 
 c Come, Miriam, we must go. The rain 
 will not stop for us to-night.' 
 
 Something in the accent attracted him, 
 and he lingered in the doorway. 
 
 c But have you come alone, Miss Barbara?'
 
 112 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 1 Yes, I had to go to ' Rowe heard no 
 
 more, for the speakers had passed out into 
 the rain again. For a few minutes he 
 caught the sound of wheels departing, and 
 the sound made him sensible of being alone 
 again. 
 
 After a conversation with the porter, 
 who directed him to the c Bunch of Grapes,' 
 and undertook to deliver his baggage there 
 within a quarter of an hour, Rowe left the 
 station, and sought the road to the village.
 
 113 
 
 CHAPTER VI, 
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 
 
 When Rowe awoke the following morning, 
 to his amazement he found his bed-room 
 brilliantly illumined by the rays of the 
 sun, and in place of the boisterous, rain- 
 charged wind — which had rocked him 
 easily to sleep, although it had subse- 
 quently entered largely into the formation 
 of his troubled dreams — as it seemed, a 
 summer quietude. The bed was a capa- 
 cious old four-poster, and, as Rowe lay 
 regarding the sombre, faded hangings, now 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 mostly grey, but once, as in parts still 
 vaguely hinted, of a crimson hue, he could 
 only hear the whistling of somebody out- 
 side who was clattering a bucket at the 
 pump, in addition to the cooing of pigeons 
 and the quiet chuckling of poultry. The 
 very sounds suggested warmth and repose, 
 and the astonishing sunlight fully sus- 
 tained the illusion ; for illusion the towns- 
 man felt convinced it must be. As lie 
 sprang from his bed, however, — no trivial 
 undertaking, as it happened, — some words 
 of Roger Diall's recurred to him, little 
 heeded when he had heard them spoken. 
 
 c You will awaken to Martinmas sum- 
 mer, Ned. To-morrow will most likely be 
 a warm, sparkling day. The barn-roofs 
 will be superb.' 
 
 It chanced that Rowe looked from his
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 115 
 
 window straight upon such a roof. The 
 grey stone tiles were overgrown with tufts, 
 like pin-cushions, of bright green moss, 
 now covered with raindrops which spar- 
 kled in the sun, and the whole was con- 
 trasted with a cloudless sky of very deep 
 blue. The pigeons, whose mutterings had 
 been before audible to him, were sidling to 
 and fro along the top ridge between the 
 chimneys. The whole sight made Edmund 
 Rowe unusually blithe. He felt himself 
 for the moment no longer shackled by a 
 temporal world, and, astonishing feat for 
 him, as he shaved he hummed snatches of 
 old airs. Of a sudden he became con- 
 scious that it was 'Barbara Allen ' on his 
 lips, and the discovery settled for a space 
 the current of his thought. 
 
 Highly imaginative this current became. 
 
 i 2
 
 116 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 and the Miss Barbara of the Pool Farm 
 which his fancy readily depicted, with the 
 aid of his fellow-passenger's account of 
 her, and of the momentary glimpse which 
 he himself had actually had, afforded rather 
 a singular contrast to the demure young 
 lady who in this district positively went 
 by the name. To begin with, she was not 
 at that moment singing, as he supposed. 
 Nor, it is to be feared, did the stanza in 
 his mind more accurately characterize her 
 even in the most general of ways. He 
 thought, 
 
 ' She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 
 Of mute insensate things.' 
 
 The fact was that, despite the exhilarat- 
 ing atmospheric conditions, Barbara Win-
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 117 
 
 nett was not — like Rowe himself, for in- 
 stance — in the least inclined to be sportive 
 this morning. He had slept unusually 
 well ; she, until close upon sunrise, not at 
 all. Restless she had lain for hours ; 
 after midnight, abandoned even of the 
 wind and rain, and left to watch for the 
 morning in the company alone of that 
 weary, faltering clock upon the landing. 
 
 c Jeph-cott, Jeph-cott,' were the syllables 
 it uttered to her with exasperating itera- 
 tion, as the pendulum swung deliberately 
 to and fro throughout the hours. The 
 monotony of it, in Barbara's present con- 
 dition of nervous tension, proved to be the 
 reverse of soothing. This protracted em- 
 phasizing of ' the silence and the calm of 
 mute insensate things ' pressed painfully 
 upon her, and too aptly suggested life's
 
 118 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 turbid current, as, at least, disclosed to 
 her. It flowed otherwise elsewhere, in 
 other channels, she did not doubt : to- 
 night, with perhaps some undue force, 
 acknowledged, even asserted ; and the ad- 
 mission ruffled her. The passage of time 
 was a topic upon which Barbara was 
 mature enough to feel sore — when she per- 
 mitted herself the indulgence of instinctive 
 feelings of any sort, which was not often. 
 The neutralization of instinct was Bar- 
 bara's key to the universe, and every day 
 she worked valiantly at the forging. 
 
 It would have given Rowe, therefore, 
 great surprise to know that this rustic 
 maiden had risen late, and with a head- 
 ache, and that, as he partook heartily of 
 a plenteous, if not particularly delicate, 
 repast, she was satisfying her conscience,
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 119 
 
 rather than her appetite, with a sliee of 
 bread and butter and a cup of tea. Her 
 hour's sleep about sunrise had enabled her 
 father to elude her, and she was glad of 
 it. Before she had appeared, the old man 
 had not only had a substantial meal, but 
 had reached his shepherd in the outlying 
 field known as Lower Furlong. The con- 
 versation, therefore, which Barbara had 
 firmly resolved upon was for the present 
 postponed. 
 
 The transaction with Mr. Jephcott had 
 finally awakened her. Her father's finan- 
 cial position was no secret from her, but 
 that it had got to this she never suspected. 
 Diall had frequently warned her ; his last 
 letter, received only the previous evening, 
 had closed with the words, ' Keep a vigi- 
 lant eye upon the " hand-looms ;" ' but
 
 1 20 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 until now she had treated such suggestions 
 with mild scorn, as the outcome of an ex- 
 aggerated imagination. This attitude was 
 necessarily, of a sudden, altered. Not 
 only was the discovery extremely depress- 
 ing, but in several ways humiliating also. 
 By Bezaleel Winnett himself, in this 
 bright, searching sunshine, things could 
 not be faced quite so brazenly as seemed 
 desirable. He had to admit to himself 
 that he was afraid of a woman, — in itself 
 an experience of absolute novelty ; and 
 that woman a mere chit like Barbara, — his 
 own daughter ! He had fled from her : he 
 knew it. He had swallowed his breakfast 
 even to indigestion, rather than face her; 
 and yet he knew well that he would have 
 to face her a few hours later ; but we know 
 with what pertinacity we seek to elude the
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 121 
 
 inevitable. Eleven o'clock came, an hour 
 at which the man never failed to present 
 himself for bread and cheese and cider ; 
 but to-day the viands awaited him in vain. 
 Until about half-past eleven, Barbara felt 
 uneasy. It was then that a labourer came 
 to the house for his portion of the cheer. 
 
 c Where's the master, David?' Barbara 
 asked. 
 
 c Ur unt be down this marning, miss, ur 
 bid I tell you. Ur've gone to the Downs, 
 and ur'll get a bite there, mebbe.' 
 
 This quieted the daughter, and she went 
 on with her occupations more resolutely. 
 
 When Rowe had finished his breakfast, 
 he had a conversation with the innkeeper. 
 
 c Astonishing morning, landlord, fortius 
 time of year.'
 
 122 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 'Most astonishing, sir; never seen such 
 a morning at this time of the year, and 
 I've been in this house over fifty of 'em.' 
 
 The man did not intentionally lie. All 
 the farmers and labourers in the parish 
 would have told Rowe the same ; although, 
 as a matter of fact, they had witnessed 
 such a morning in the first half of every 
 November of their existence, and had, in all 
 probability, exclaimed at it with the same 
 measure of surprise upon every occasion of 
 its recurrence. The native recollection of 
 seasonable effects is singularly limited. 
 
 From this opening they launched into 
 a general discussion of the more obvious 
 attributes of an agricultural existence, 
 throughout which Rowe so creditably ac- 
 quitted himself as to impose most success- 
 fully upon the inquisitive landlord.
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 123 
 
 c In the brewing, sir ?' he asked, with the 
 blank smile of acknowledged confraternity. 
 
 c The what?' asked Rowe, who, in his 
 singularly uncommercial attitude of mind, 
 failed to catch the allusion. 
 
 c In the brewing line, maybe ?' 
 
 C I? Oh, no; I've not come here on 
 business. Are there any good samples 
 about ?' 
 
 c Not much thrashed yet. Master Win- 
 nett of Murcott have had a bit. He be 
 generally first hereabouts,' added the inn- 
 keeper, with a suggestive twinkle, lost 
 upon his auditor ; l of late years, however ; 
 I've seen the day, though, when he've had 
 ricks to thresh at Whissunday ; but times 
 have strangely altered win. H'm.' 
 
 Rowe took his opportunity, and turned 
 the conversation to the subject of Murcott.
 
 124 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 When directly questioned, however, the 
 man became reticent, and the visitor 
 elicited nothing further of material interest 
 beyond an explicit direction for a proposed 
 walk to the village in question. 
 
 ' As good a man as you med meet in a 
 day's march, be Master Winnett,' repeated 
 the innkeeper, with some emphasis, when 
 he found that Rowe's steps lay in this 
 direction ; and so, with instructions for a 
 two-o'clock dinner, the unintelligible 
 stranger set off. 
 
 c One o' those artist chaps, maybe,' was 
 the landlord's opinion expressed presently 
 to his wife. 
 
 The clay was one to impress a stranger 
 fresh from the pavement. There was a 
 brisk breeze from the south-west, rippling 
 the branches, and, although the trees were
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 125 
 
 for the most part leafless, there was colour 
 
 and clothing enough about the hedgerows. 
 Berries imparted a general tint to them, 
 and there was a good intersprinkling of 
 the yellow maple and hawthorn leaves, 
 with bright green ivy wherever a trunk 
 appeared, and bramble leaves of all colours 
 constantly. Cloudlets of a most exquisite 
 purity now flecked the sky. and a hill to 
 the south was capped with one. a bay or 
 coomb which was formed in the side there. 
 being completely filled with the glistening 
 whiteness. Rowe looked about him with 
 appreciative glances. 
 
 But, his mind not being habitually ad- 
 justed to the pastoral outlook, it was the 
 general impression of the scene rather 
 than its details which engaged his atten- 
 tion. The unworldly idealism of its
 
 126 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 suggestion inspired him with a spiritual 
 exaltation, akin to that which religion or 
 music imparts. He mused upon the irre- 
 sistible influence which seemed to prevail 
 here, and marvelled that the effect of it 
 should not be universally obvious upon 
 the human subject. 
 
 He came upon the village of Murcott 
 suddenly ; a tree-shaded rising in the road 
 having till then hidden it from his view. 
 When the little settlement appeared just 
 before him, he paused to survey it. There 
 were no external signs of life about the 
 place, the sodden condition of the land 
 precluding all out-door labour. The in- 
 evitable dog he heard ; some querulous 
 wrangling of pigs ; and the lowing of a 
 cow; but he saw nothing to indicate whence 
 the several sounds issued. He began to
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 127 
 
 speculate upon the several buildings that 
 were visible. The church was obvious ; 
 and the trim house with the lawn and row 
 of evergreens beside it was presumably 
 the parsonage. Life was surely pleasant 
 in such a place. Then that homestead 
 standing apart, with three gables and balls 
 at the top, and mullioned windows round 
 which the ivy clustered ; Avas that the Pool 
 Farm? Fit seat for every virtue and 
 picturesque attribute that has civilized the 
 heart of man. 
 
 'Thrice happy Barbara!' was Howe's 
 soliloquy; c with no feverish craving for 
 the life which perishes. How ' 
 
 He had uttered this audibly, but, hear- 
 ing a sound on the grass beside him, he 
 checked himself, and turned. Close beside 
 him was Miriam Medlicott, who had but
 
 128 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 just issued from a stile in the hedgerow. 
 She had only heard the words that were 
 intelligible to her. After exchange of 
 greeting, she said, with diffidence, 
 
 c I don't think Miss Barbara is happy, 
 sir.' 
 
 c Nonsense!' said Rowe, with an empha- 
 sis mistaken by the other for ill-humour. 
 
 ' Stay, Miriam,' he continued, as she 
 went forward. c Which is the way to this 
 withy of yours? I am anxious to see it.' 
 
 She pointed out the field-path to the 
 wood ; he must then take the Haxburv 
 trench, and the first gate on the left-hand 
 would bring him to the Downs, which 
 stood on the edge of the High Wood. The 
 withy was up the brook beyond it ; her 
 mother would show it him if he would call 
 at the cottage.
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 129 
 
 c But why is not Miss Barbara happy?' 
 asked Rowe, checking her again. 
 
 ' Xay, I don't know, sir. Some think 
 that she reads too many of the books.' 
 
 ' You are going to see her now, I 
 
 expect 
 
 c She told me to come this morning to 
 talk about what I was going to do. She 
 is cross with mother for sending after 
 me." 
 
 4 She doesn't believe in withies and owls, 
 then? Is that it?* 
 
 Miriam looked sharply at him, but he 
 controlled his features. Not a spark of 
 sarcasm appeared there. 
 
 c The owls called dreadful before Mrs. 
 Winnett died,' was all Miriam's answer. 
 
 After a few more words, Rowe went on 
 his way, musing. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 He found no difficulty in reaching the 
 Downs — a cottage with its back to a deep 
 wood, and before it an undulating, un- 
 enclosed space of grass-land. As the 
 brook referred to was obvious, Rowe pre- 
 ferred, in the first place, to explore for the 
 withy himself without any proprietory 
 assistance from the Medlicott family. Seve- 
 ral large trees were sprawling at full length 
 in places, with their sinewy roots tragic- 
 ally spread aloft, but they were, even to 
 the unbotanic Rowe, obviously not willows. 
 A row of these latter, with their bunches 
 of leafless but rich brown twigs, marked 
 the course of the stream, but they ap- 
 peared too young to be the source of super- 
 stition. Turning a sharp corner, where 
 the water encircled the High Wood, Rowe 
 saw the object of his search before him,
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 131 
 
 and not it alone; for sitting upon the deep- 
 cleft, prostrate trunk was an elderly man, 
 meditating. His reverie was deep, for 
 Rowe had to step forward and cough de- 
 terminedly before he could excite his at- 
 tention. Then the man leaped up, cour- 
 teously raised his hat, and bade the visitor 
 good-morning, There was an interchange 
 of civilities. 
 
 'TlnYwill be Medlicott's withy, I expect, 
 sir,' said Rowe then. 
 
 1 This be the tree, sir, and an old, ancient 
 sample he be.' 
 
 1 Evidently. There is some history at- 
 tached to it, I understand. My curiosity 
 brought me to see it.' 
 
 c But you don't belong to this country- 
 side, sir?' said the old man, interroga- 
 tively. 
 
 k2
 
 132 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 4 No, I don't. I have only come to visit 
 your country. I have just walked from 
 Withbridge. I like the country.' 
 
 c 'T be very well to look at, o' course ; 
 but 't be the next-o'-kin to the poor-house 
 for we as farm it.' 
 
 L That's awkward, certainly. You farm 
 all this part, I suppose?' said Rowe, throw- 
 ing his glance over the downs before them. 
 1 It looks rich land.' 
 
 ' Xo, I don't stretch this way. My land 
 lie in the bottom at the back of the Low 
 Wood ; the Pool Farm we call it.' 
 
 Rowe betrayed no recognition, but he 
 regarded his companion with additional 
 interest. 
 
 c Pity it does not pay better,' he said, 
 ' for it must be a grand employment.' 
 
 c You'd be sick of it in a month,
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 133 
 
 sir,' remarked Winnett, good-humoured ly. 
 
 { No, that I shouldn't. It's the town 
 life I get sick of.' 
 
 c Well, I never heard a townsman say 
 that afore,' said the farmer, eyeing the 
 other curiously. c You be a lawyer, 
 maybe?' 
 
 • No,' was the reply, with a burst of 
 laughter. ' I was taken for a parson last 
 night. As a matter of fact, I have no 
 trade at all.' 
 
 'Have you not? Well, that be the 
 trade as I'd choose if I had the chance. 
 May I be so bold as to ask what brought 
 you to our country then, sir? You'll 
 have friends in Withbridge, I expect.' 
 
 ' Xo, I have no friends in the district. 
 I only came out of idleness to see this 
 withy.' He told of his encounter with
 
 134 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 Miriam in the train. ' It interested me, 
 I was really going into Warwickshire to 
 see if I conlcl get into some farm-house 
 there. I want to study farming a bit. 
 Nobody takes pupils about here, I suppose?' 
 
 ' Ne'er a one. But what kind o' farming 
 do you want?' 
 
 1 Oh, general. No special branch.' 
 
 ' Would you care to come and look over 
 mine?' said the old man, with some sus- 
 picion of hesitation. ' I've got about three 
 hundred acres in my hands. I let off 
 other two, since the times are so middling. 
 If you be in no hurry, you med have a 
 bit of dinner with us.' 
 
 Rowe's device, prompted at the moment, 
 had easily succeeded, and with alacrity he 
 accepted the invitation. In another mood 
 Winnett would have been the last to think
 
 MABTDTMAS SUMMER. 135 
 
 of taking a pupil. But this morning he 
 was intent upon dodging Barbara, and 
 Rowe's presence came as an unexpected 
 god-send. It would put off the annoying 
 
 c 1 JO 
 
 interview for, at any rate, a few hours 
 longer, whatever the result of their nego- 
 tiations. It put the old man into quite a 
 different humour, and he entered into con- 
 versation with a zest unknown to him for 
 many months. 
 
 • We'll call in on Polly Medlicott,' he 
 said, taking an antique watch from his 
 pocket, l for I've had ne'er a bite since 
 breakfast, and, wherever I be, I want some 
 victual at eleven. Just look you, now,' 
 he added, holding the watch forward, 
 1 my stomach do go as reg'lar as that 
 chronometer.' 
 
 ' I expect so. But what about this
 
 136 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 withy? Do you know anything of the 
 history of it ?' 
 
 'Polly!' cried out the farmer, to a 
 woman in the cottage doorway which they 
 were now approaching, c here be a gen- 
 tleman coming after the history o' your 
 withy. Come from London o' purpose. 
 What can you tell un ?' 
 
 L 'Te'nt in the mind o' these days, Mas- 
 ter Winnett, as you know better than I,' 
 said she, diffidently, looking at the familiar 
 figure of the farmer rather than at the 
 stranger, to whom in reality the words 
 were addressed. c But 'twere somethino; 
 ungain, I count, — always were thought so, 
 however.' 
 
 c What be the maid Miriam a- wanting 
 
 'at her should go flirting wi' a gentleman 
 in a railway- carriage, eh?'
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 137 
 
 ' 'Ee knows what a simple maid her be, 
 Master Wiimett. Her thought that the 
 gentleman was a minister ; her'd never a 
 spoken to he else, never/ 
 
 4 A minister, 'st say ?' cried the old 
 farmer, sharply. ; Why, they be the very 
 villains to guile her. Miriam !' he shouted, 
 towards the interior of the cottage, c 'st 
 think ' 
 
 c Her be gone down to the Pool. Miss 
 Barbara bade her conic first thing this 
 marning. There be only Lalie there.' 
 
 ' Yes, I met her going, 1 interposed Rowe. 
 
 'Did you, sir?' asked the woman, snap- 
 ping at the opportunity to look into his 
 face critically. ' Her told me all about it 
 when her got home, and I'm sure her 
 meant no harm to 'ee, that her didn't. You 
 know, Master Winnett, as her bent one o'
 
 138 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 these rambling girls as there be too many 
 about ; never were from a child.' 
 
 ' No, no, I understood it quite,' said 
 Rowe, reassuringly. c Nobody could have 
 thought anything but i>x>od of her, I'm 
 sure.' 
 
 1 Thank you, sir. But you'll come in- 
 side, Master Winnett, and have a snoul of 
 bread and cheese. The clock have but 
 just gone eleven, and that be your hour, 
 I know. I've got ne'er a drop of cider in 
 the house, but the parsnip wine be just 
 ready, and it have turned out uncommon 
 well.' 
 
 The farmer readily assented to his own 
 preconceived arrangement of things, and, 
 waving the subject of withies and ministers 
 alike, the two entered the cottage. It was 
 a clean and comfortable interior, with a
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 139 
 
 low ceiling rendered still lower by the 
 rack in which lay the two clean sides of 
 recently cured bacon, and the dark and 
 dusty fragment of a predecessor. Rowe 
 knocked his head against a ham which 
 dangled to about the level of his forehead, 
 but as the woman was pulling forward two 
 windsor chairs, dark with use and polish- 
 ing, she did not notice the occurrence. A 
 girl, however, who had been sitting before 
 the wide, open fireplace, saw it, and blush- 
 ed as she returned the smile with which 
 the stranger had received the blow. 
 
 1 Dunt 'ee move, Lalie,' said her mother, 
 for this girl had risen, and, as was seen, 
 stood aside with the assistance of a crutch. 
 
 1 No, no,' added old Winnett, cheerily. 
 L We ben't going to disturb you, Lalie. Sit 
 'ee down, now,' he said, taking her play-
 
 140 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 fully by the arm. ' Why, Polly, the maid 
 be getting more blooming every clay. 
 Dash me, I never saw such cheeks as she 
 have got. What do you say, Mr. Rowe ?' 
 
 The back of the fingers of his broad, 
 yeomanly hand stroked familiarly the rosy 
 velvet of her cheek, as he spoke. 
 
 L It is a sight worth coining into the 
 country to see,' was Rowe's reply; and, if 
 that were possible, the girl's colour still 
 deepened. 
 
 'That it be, sir,' assented the farmer; 
 and Mrs. Medlicott looked pleased. 
 
 The girl sat down again silently, and, 
 slanting her crutch against the back of the 
 chair, she leaned over an instrument which 
 held the elementary constituents of a new 
 kid glove, and went on sewing. Lalie 
 being by nature disqualified for the more
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 141 
 
 aggressive forms of livelihood gaining:, and 
 
 yet being compelled to make some contri- 
 bution towards the weekly domestic out- 
 lay, had fallen into the work of a glover, 
 that being a form of labour still open to 
 cottagers of this district. 
 
 She worked on silently, and in a few 
 minutes, to her own obvious satisfaction, 
 she had sunk out of the notice of those at 
 the table. Rowe, it is true, stole an inter- 
 ested glance at her occasionally, though he 
 never encountered the girl's eye in doing 
 so. Ostensibly he was promoting a con- 
 versation about the withy ; but very soon 
 he was convinced, as already he had faintly 
 suspected, that neither of his adult compan- 
 ions showed the slightest inclination for 
 the topic, so he felt obliged in courtesy to 
 abandon it for the present.
 
 142 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 The momentous consideration, which 
 this brief intercourse with the stranger 
 had given rise to, lay uppermost on Far- 
 mer Winnett's consciousness. Would it 
 mean fifty, sixty, eighty, or even a hun- 
 dred pounds yearly, additional to his 
 pocket-money, was a thought not easily to 
 be evaded; but even this was not the 
 whole of it. It blended inextricably with 
 sundry other less ignoble suggestions, for 
 Bezaleel felt an instinctive liking for this 
 fantastic stranger, and the man was by no 
 means insensible to the influence of a civil- 
 izing impulse. 
 
 When his appetite was propitiated, he 
 showed no disposition to linger. Not only 
 was that agency of repulsion in his home- 
 stead neutralized, but one of positive 
 attraction was substituted for it, beckoning
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 143 
 
 him homewards. Now that they were to 
 be presented to another gaze, the advan- 
 tages, nay the allurements of his patrimony, 
 became obvious and manifold, and he 
 longed impatiently to be displaying them. 
 Rowe Avas no less ready for the inspection, 
 so presently they departed. 
 
 As they Avalked through the High Wood 
 the conversation turned upon the fair 
 glover. Rowe felt that the withy was 
 denied him, and Barbara, of course, as yet 
 was not. 
 
 ' Yes, sir, she and her two daughters 
 be alone there. Jonathan Medlicott was 
 killed several years since, when he was 
 thatching a rick of mine. As tidy a man 
 as any in the country. Never knew how 
 'twere. He fell back'ards from the ladder, 
 and being a tall, stout man, it snapped his
 
 144 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 neck like an ash-rod. It wasn't the drink 
 nor nothing o' that. I never saw Jonathan 
 in liquor all the years as I knew him, and 
 Ave grew up boys together. It be awk'ard 
 for they, bin as they be all woman-folk. 
 They can only take to caddling jobs, like 
 that of gloving. They can't work solid, 
 you see. 'Tis a poor trade now, though I 
 have seen whole families live by it in my 
 time. Ay, and save money at it. It were 
 the making of Tom Blizard of the Five 
 Oaks yonder. But 'tis a poor trade now, 
 and no more than a make-shift, But you 
 see, Lalie can do no better, that leg of 
 hers be such a hindrance.' 
 
 c Was it some accident that lamed her?' 
 
 c No ; except an accident o' nature's 
 
 doing. She have been like it from a child : 
 
 could never run and play like the rest. It
 
 MAETIXMAS SUMMER. 145 
 
 have made her backward; and it were that, 
 I doubt, as made her take to the books. 
 She have read a mort o' books, bless you ; 
 more than I could tell you the names of. 
 It be a bad training for 'em ; for anybody, 
 however, bat more than common for 
 women. What i' the name do they want 
 with books ! It be all for books and plan- 
 ners now, and you see what a pack o' biz- 
 zums they turn out of 'em. Holding books 
 don't teach them the way to hold babies, 
 I count, and fingering pianners ban't no 
 good in the housekeeping line. But there 
 be some excuse for Lalie, poor maid.' 
 
 L I should not have thought that she 
 could get many books in a country-place 
 like this,' interposed Rowe. 
 
 c Bless you, there be a jDarson as is made 
 of books. When they come to lay him 
 
 vol. r. l
 
 146 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 out, I do believe they'll find as lie be lined 
 with 'em. And my Barbara an' all have 
 enough to paper the whole barken, m ore's 
 the pity.' 
 
 ' You have a daughter, then, Mr. 
 Winnett.' 
 
 c Yiss, I have,' asserted the farmer, with 
 a prompt emphasis which might mean 
 several things. What it did mean, Rowe 
 did not decide, but something prompted 
 him to turn to another subject. 
 
 ' I don't think Miss Barbara is happy,' 
 had^remarked Miriam to him earlier in the 
 morning; but surely, felt Rowe, this genial 
 old farmer cannot be an element of wretch- 
 edness in the life of his own daughter, 
 that was clearly impossible, something 
 very different from that must be the 
 meaning.
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 147 
 
 As they descended the green slope, after 
 leaving the wood, Winnett pointed out his 
 land lying before them. Yes, that was the 
 homestead with the gables and ivy. There 
 was the top orchard and the little orchard, 
 so many acres each ; next the Horse Pool 
 ground so many ; then Dark Hayes and 
 Sandy Hayes so many each ; Pumbleditch 
 so many ; Hurst Piece, there, by the little 
 w r ood, so many ; Farrel Quod, Buttercroft, 
 Upper Furlong, Ash-End, and Lower Fur- 
 long so many acres each. Rowe followed 
 the old man's finger and remarks with in- 
 terest, watching also the cloud shadows flit- 
 ting over the various fields and coppices 
 mentioned, seeing sheep and cows appear in 
 places where he had seen none, disappear- 
 ing ao;ain when the sunlight left them. 
 To him it seemed a garden of Eden, al- 
 
 l2
 
 148 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 though there was no spring brilliance or 
 profusion of colour, and the sunshine was 
 only that of November. For a space here 
 I tarry, was his unexpressed resolution. 
 
 They resolved to take such home fields 
 as would be least impassable, to fill up the 
 time until dinner-hour. On their way to 
 them, Winnett caught sight of a farm-boy 
 getting over a fence in a corner, and, put- 
 ting hollowed hands to his mouth, sent 
 forth a stentorian hulloa to summon him. 
 The sun's rays were just striking the in- 
 significant grey figure in the hedgerow, 
 and it was seen to turn round in a sitting 
 posture on the top rail, and raise a hand 
 to screen its eyes from the sunlight. The 
 farmer gesticulated fiercely to attract 
 him. 
 
 c 'St gwine to the village, Jo ?' shouted
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 149 
 
 lie, whilst still the boy was over a hundred 
 yards off. 
 
 1 Eess, sir, I be,' came in responsive 
 treble on the breezes. 
 
 'Then call at the Pool, and tell 'em as 
 a gentleman be a-coming home wi' I to 
 dinner ; 'st hire ?' 
 
 c All right, sir.' 
 
 This high-pitched colloquy ended, Win- 
 nett and his companion struck towards 
 another corner, so as to take a short cut 
 to the point they wished to reach. Rowe 
 had practically been walking through 
 water for some time now, and his feet 
 were as wet as they could be, so that he 
 felt fastidious no longer. He gave his 
 trousers one additional turn upwards, 
 making them clear his boot-tops alto- 
 gether, and strode forward manfully.
 
 150 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 He felt already three parts a country- 
 man. 
 
 Abandonment to any kind of purely 
 natural conditions is vastly invigorating, 
 and thoughts of possible physical detri- 
 ment succeeding are speedily extinguished. 
 It is a relief to be freed from the finical 
 restraints of sophistication, and to look for 
 a moment unhooded into the eyes of 
 mother earth. What we call unfavour- 
 able conditions of the elements, are rather 
 necessary to the experience ; for, in her 
 heyday, nature herself assumes something 
 of that sartorial counterfeit, of which there 
 are suspicions in sundry of her children. 
 
 About an hour-and-a-half the two spent 
 in wandering over the farm lands, Winnett 
 enlarging upon the merits and demerits of 
 the soils they walked over, and apologiz-
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 151 
 
 ing, or rather elaborating plausible ex- 
 tenuation, for various defects in his 
 husbandry, of which Rowe would have 
 been placidly ignorant, if his self-conscious 
 host had not pointed them out to him. 
 
 The farmer, Howe thought, became more 
 boisterously talkative, when at length they 
 were nearing the homestead, although he 
 never entered less thoroughly into the 
 subjects which it suggested. At times, 
 even, an appearance of irritation would 
 unaccountably escape him. Perhaps, 
 again, he was hungry. This place they 
 would leave to look at afterwards ; in like 
 manner, that. Well, what did he think of 
 it? A poor place to what it had been. 
 But he had thoughts of improving it. 
 This he meant to do, and that. To the 
 visitor, however, everything was delightful;
 
 152 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 and, if he had had the hardihood to confess 
 it, he preferred the broken thatch roof 
 here to the new zinc one promised him ; 
 and the tumble-down, lichen-tinted walls 
 there to any more recent efforts of the 
 mason. But he wisely concealed all his 
 artistic preferences in his heart. 
 
 As they approached the back-door, to 
 which Winnett brought his visitor, apolo- 
 gising for doing so, some fowls fluttered 
 away from the buckets there, and a flock 
 of sparrows took noisily to flight. The 
 farmer seized a besom which was leaning 
 against the pump-handle, the bristles of 
 which were so much worn as to be little 
 more than a stump, and therewith pro- 
 ceeded to take a portion of the mud from 
 his boots. 
 
 ' Go in, sir, please,' he said, as he was
 
 MARTINMAS SUMMER. 153 
 
 doing so ; and after rubbing his feet upon 
 a piece of sacking, placed as a mat in the 
 doorway, Edmund Rowe entered this 
 ancient home of the Winnetts, known to a 
 certain district as the Pool Farm, Murcott.
 
 154 
 
 CHAPTER VN. 
 
 FRESH FIELDS. 
 
 Barbara had heard the approaching foot- 
 steps, and, so as to waive all ceremony and 
 perhaps give a little assistance to her own 
 ruffled nerves, she issued from the parlour. 
 She and Rowe thus stood face to face be- 
 fore her father had finished with the 
 besom, and had already greeted each other 
 with courteous silence when the old man 
 bustled forward to introduce them. 
 
 c This gentleman's name is Mr. Rowe r
 
 FRESH FIELDS. 155 
 
 Barbara,' such was his method of doing it. 
 
 ' I believe it is the gentleman I have 
 heard something about,' she said, with a 
 smile. 'Will you come in, sir?' And 
 everything was easy. 
 
 c Ha, Miriam, be down here, the young 
 bizzum !' cried Winnett, as he followed 
 them into the room. ' I've heard the tale ; 
 thought he was a minister, ha, ha!' and 
 the laugh was needlessly obstreperous. 
 
 After a minute or two's general colloquy, 
 both Barbara and her visitor felt wholly at 
 their ease, despite an acknowledged disin- 
 clination for casual social intercourse in 
 each of them. The instinct of the young 
 housewife led her immediately to her 
 guest's welfare, and, after a momentary dis- 
 appearance, she returned with a pair of 
 her father's woollen socks and slippers
 
 156 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 warm from the kitchen fire. Bidding 
 Eowe avail himself of the comforts, and 
 her father show him to the oak-room when 
 he was ready, she again withdrew. 
 
 Deeply impressed was the visitor by 
 everything he saw about him. He seemed 
 at once to have stepped into another cen- 
 tury. He felt his own mode of thought to 
 be an intrusion, — a sacrilege ; an electric 
 IvAit in the solemn dawn of the middle- 
 ages. He refused resolutely to be critical ; 
 strove to abandon himself wholly to the 
 pure enjoyment of the pre-existence. How 
 he marvelled at, — nay, resented the old 
 man's peevish and discordant strictures. 
 Material tissue had entered into the old 
 heathen's soul, rendering it pitiable, con- 
 temptible, to this transcendent onlooker. 
 What a relief when the old babbler had
 
 FRESH FIELDS. 157 
 
 left him, and the calm twilight of the 
 situation was permitted to elose in. 
 
 Having shut the door of the chamber, 
 Rowe rested with his hand against one of 
 the fluted pillars of the bed. The win- 
 dow was open, and through it breathed the 
 mild fragrance of moist herbage and belated 
 flowers in the garden, blending with the 
 lavender sweetness of the bed-clothes and 
 drapery within, and thus forming a per- 
 fume which seemed the natural exhalation 
 of the apartment, the proper outcome of 
 its peculiar sanctity and charm. Birds 
 were twittering outside in the sunlight, — 
 twittering their praises, no doubt, to St. 
 Martin, — and a cock crew; an ivy leaf, 
 which the breeze played with, kept flap- 
 ping against the casement; but for the 
 rest, sacred and universal calm. Xature
 
 158 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 was at rest, no throbbing of her pulse 
 perceptible. 
 
 Rowe's slippered footsteps were noise- 
 less, otherwise he would undoubtedly have 
 taken his shoes from off his feet ; all his 
 movements he effected with a hush. It 
 was with a qualm, indeed, that he moved 
 at all, for some minutes ; but, hearing his 
 host's less scrupulous activity in the next 
 room, he aroused himself to the practical 
 requirements of the moment. Burying 
 his face in the fragrant towel again delayed 
 him ; then a glass of fresh cut flowers 
 (stocks and chrysanthemums) upon the 
 dressing-table ; then, at last, a portrait in 
 oils, of some age apparently, over the 
 chimney-piece. As he was gazing at this 
 latter, tracing in it a likeness to the 
 features of his young hostess, and specu-
 
 FRESH FIELDS. 159 
 
 lating upon the relationship, physical and 
 spiritual, existing between the two, he 
 heard a door bang upon the landing, and 
 knew that that old Philistine was awaiting 
 him. Bezaleel was still intent upon elud- 
 ing the inevitable. Rowe emerged from 
 his doorway, and they descended the stairs 
 in company. 
 
 If the visitor had needed anything to 
 confirm his resolution of the morning, this 
 interior had undoubtedly afforded it. 
 Everything about the place seemed to 
 minister to his imaginative craving, and 
 he decided to feed without stint upon it. 
 He had not been long at the table before 
 obtaining also a glimpse of suggestive 
 outlines looming in the background which 
 were perhaps necessary to add an engaging 
 piquancy to the situation, and consequent
 
 160 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 zest to his observations. The self-con- 
 sciousness of the old farmer was snch that 
 he constantly betrayed his secrets by his 
 ill-judged efforts to hide them. 
 
 It was with amazement that Barbara 
 heard the project of a resident pupil pro- 
 pounded. The matter was discussed 
 during the meal in detail, but she took 
 very little part in the conversation. Rowe, 
 with natural courtesy, addressed some of 
 his observations to her, but the hesitation 
 with which she gave her answers, and the 
 hasty conclusive interposition of her 
 father, constantly frustrated his intentions. 
 It was a great satisfaction to him conse- 
 quently, when, as they were rising from 
 table, the farmer was summoned from the 
 room. 
 
 4 You object to my proposal, Miss Win-
 
 FRESH FIELDS. 1G1 
 
 nett,' said Rowe, boldly, the moment the 
 old man had disappeared. 
 
 ' Oh, dear no,' was Barbara's reply, 
 readily given. c I have not the slightest 
 objection on our part. My only fear is, 
 that the place is not suitable ; that in a 
 month or two, when you had seen more 
 of it, you would find out your mistake and 
 be disappointed. My father is not now a 
 very successful farmer ; he is old-fashioned, 
 I suppose. And the house is in such dis- 
 repair, that you would not be comfortable.' 
 
 She knew that these few moments were 
 limited, and there was no flinching in her 
 purpose. 
 
 ' If seriously those are your only objec- 
 tions, I will take the risk of disappoint- 
 ment, for I am fascinated by this neigh- 
 bourhood. Sentiment has great weight 
 
 VOL. I. m
 
 162 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 with me in my movements, personal 
 comfort very little.' 
 
 c Then by all means try it, sir. We will 
 do what we can to make yon comfortable. 
 Perhaps you know something of this part 
 of the country ?' 
 
 c By hearsay. I have an intimate friend 
 who is a native of the Cotswolds.' 
 
 The servant entered to clear the table, 
 and they turned to a more general con- 
 versation. 
 
 'When would it be convenient for me 
 to come into residence, Miss Winnett?' 
 
 The farmer, coining in at the moment, 
 took it upon himself to give answer. That 
 inevitable had risen before him at Rowe's 
 question. 
 
 c Any time, sir, any time,' he asserted. 
 4 We've nothing to hide, as I know of. You
 
 FRESH FIELDS. 163 
 
 must take us as you find us. I count we 
 can give you as good accommodation as 
 they can at the " Grapes," however.' 
 
 Rowe's eyes were still turned to the 
 young lady, and she readily acquiesced in 
 the statement. Winnett therefore made 
 the arrangements which seemed good to 
 him. They were to finish the survey of 
 the premises, for which the old man's din- 
 ner seemed markedly to have prepared 
 him, and then he himself would drive his 
 visitor to Withbridge to get what baggage 
 he had left at the inn behind him. Rowe 
 politely demurred to such summary inva- 
 sion, but in a few minutes fell in with it, 
 and so the friendly compact was concluded. 
 
 That evening, then, saw Rowe tempor- 
 arily established at the Pool Farm. Beza- 
 leel, having, as it seemed to himself, for 
 
 m 2
 
 1 64 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 once positively circumvented the inevit- 
 able, was in highest feather; and had no 
 intention of losing a single advantage of 
 the victory. He was loquacious enough 
 throughout supper ; but when he got his 
 slippers within the fender, and his church- 
 warden between his fingers, the lull of 
 the civilized conversation of the other two 
 became too much for him, and he obvi- 
 ously dozed. Presently he muttered, but 
 Barbara instantly aroused him. The old 
 man looked about him in consternation, 
 then laughed aloud. For a second he had 
 thought that he was alone with her. The 
 risk was not to be again incurred, so with 
 humorous apologies he rose from his chair. 
 ' Now dunty disturb yourself, sir,' he 
 said, as Rowe took his watch from his 
 pocket. ' It be early enough yet. You'll
 
 FRESH FIELDS. 165 
 
 excuse my ways. I be'nt no good after sup- 
 per, never was. I'll say goocl-night to 'ee.' 
 
 This suggestion took the other two by 
 surprise, but after a few seconds was 
 acquiesced in, and Winnett withdrew. 
 
 The pupil and his hostess had already 
 discovered that conversation was possible 
 between them, and, as both had passed 
 the period of mere impulsive sensibility, 
 there was nothing disconcerting in the 
 situation. 
 
 ' It seems strange to me, Mr. Rowe,' said 
 Barbara, a few minutes later, c that any- 
 body not engaged in an unpleasant occu- 
 pation should weary of the town.' 
 
 c And doubly strange to me that any- 
 body should weary of the country,' replied 
 Rowe, with a smile. ' It astonishes me 
 that you are not all poets together. Sing-
 
 166 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 ing ought to be as natural to you as to the 
 birds.' 
 
 ' That is not the effect of the country 
 upon us,' remarked Barbara, drily. ' It 
 certainly never did have that effect, or 
 else people would have been so contented 
 that towns would never have been in- 
 vented. To sing requires some intellect, 
 and country life does not permit the sur- 
 vival of that quality. Poets wisely leave 
 country life, and then sing about it.' 
 
 1 AVhat heretical theories you have got, 
 Miss Winnett!' 
 
 L No, I have no theories at all ; I have 
 no faith in them. They blind people. I 
 have only thoughts ; and I do think that 
 there is no kind of life on this earth which 
 is perfect, and no kind which is exclu- 
 sively bad. If I had the opportunity, I
 
 FRESH FIELDS. 167 
 
 should try to gather the best from all.'' 
 
 'But I should fear you have special 
 causes of discontent against the country,' 
 suggested Rowe. 
 
 c Oh, dear, no ! Only the inevitable 
 results of general conditions. In fact, the 
 results are in one sense exceptionally fav- 
 ourable ; for, according to the rule in such 
 cases, I ought myself to be now the daugh- 
 ter of a labourer, and working as a labourer 
 myself upon the land. That is the law 
 for old yeoman families like ours.' 
 
 Rowe had now got over his surprise at 
 Barbara's conversation. At this point, 
 though, he received a sudden impression 
 of much of it being like an echo of his 
 friend Diall's lucubrations. 
 
 c I thought that the tendency had been 
 in the other direction.'
 
 168 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 1 Not for those that remain on the ori- 
 ginal soil. As farmers say, the crop 
 wants changing. The land and the seed 
 are tired of each other.' 
 
 ' Is that really the law ?' asked Rowe, 
 with interest. 
 
 ' In my experience, at least,' was the 
 reply. ' There are many examples about 
 here. The Medlicotts, for instance, were 
 large farmers of their own land for gener- 
 ations, until about sixty years ago. They 
 have since become merely a labouring 
 family, and lately have barely been able 
 to live at that.' 
 
 'Yes; Mr. Winnett told me a little 
 about them. It seems that they don't care 
 to talk about their withy, perhaps because 
 it is a relic of their former more prosperous 
 condition.'
 
 FRESH FIELDS. 169 
 
 c Not only that, I think. They are very 
 superstitious about it, and perhaps think 
 you will scoff. Country people are very 
 sensitive on these points. There is some 
 old belief that that tree is interwoven with 
 
 the welfare of their familv. When their 
 
 j 
 
 property was sold, that tree and ten yards 
 of ground around it were reserved to 
 them, and are so still. I believe we are 
 somehow included in the range of the 
 spell, not in a particularly enviable way : 
 so will you please not question my father 
 about it.' 
 
 1 Certainly ; I will take especial care not 
 to do so. You yourself have no objection 
 to the topic ?' 
 
 Rowe glanced at her as he put the 
 question, and she smiled, understanding 
 his purpose.
 
 170 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 ' No, I think not ; but I have told you 
 all that I know about it.' 
 
 This was enough for him, and he changed 
 the subject. 
 
 c I am glad to see that you are musical/ 
 
 He glanced at a piano as he spoke. 
 Barbara's movement was very like a shrug 
 of the shoulders. 
 
 c So far as conditions will admit. As a 
 race, we are not musical. That is an old 
 piano of my mother's.' 
 
 L She was not of your race, then ?' sug- 
 gested Rowe, with a smile. 
 
 c She was not.' 
 
 There was a pointed decisiveness of tone 
 about this which seemed suggestive to her 
 hearer. 
 
 c Is that the lady whose portrait hangs 
 in the oak-room?'
 
 FRESH FIELDS. 171 
 
 'She! Oh, no; that is my father's 
 mother, very decidedly one of the race.' 
 
 c I beg your pardon,' ejaculated Rowe, 
 laughing. c I ought to have perceived it.' 
 
 Rowe already felt some of his impulsive 
 idealism to be getting a little shaken. It 
 seemed to him quite possible that he had 
 started with an altogether inaccurate con- 
 ception of this young lady's character. 
 Perhaps Barbara felt intuitively his con- 
 ception of her, and assumed her present 
 part under a mild feeling of resentment. 
 Undoubtedly she would have surprised 
 more intimate acquaintances than this one, 
 could they have overheard the conver- 
 sation of this evening. She was always 
 thought to be an unusually silent one in 
 any general intercourse with her neigh- 
 bours, and it was no doubt on this account
 
 172 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 that she had had such character allotted 
 to her as in their opinion seemed to he 
 applicable. Rowe was a stranger, and one 
 apparently of some intelligence, facts 
 which permitted Barbara some relaxation 
 of her every-day formula. Since the with- 
 drawal of her father, she had felt the 
 visitor's presence and conversation serve 
 as a tonic to her intellect. 
 
 c You play a good deal to your father 
 on winter evenings, I expect, and on 
 
 Sun ' 
 
 For a second she looked as though she 
 suspected him of wilfully trying to pro- 
 voke her. 
 
 c My father abominates music, and would, 
 I believe, go mad if he had to sit through 
 a sonata, — I mean a polka. Pray do not 
 think that music is one of the advantages
 
 FRESH FIELDS. 173 
 
 that you are to reap from a residence 
 here.' 
 
 ' I am still very much afraid that you 
 view with disfavour the fact of my having 
 chosen my residence here.' 
 
 'You quite mis understand me, Mr. 
 1 1 owe. I am sure I am quite grateful to 
 you, — if you do not keep me up too late 
 at nights.' 
 
 ' I promise you that, at any rate.' And 
 in a few minutes they separated. 
 
 It was long before Rowe was uncon- 
 scious of that ticking of the clock upon the 
 landing, and, when he became so, his 
 thoughts were only changed into dreams, 
 wild and fantastic. He awoke once to 
 hear the rain driven in pailfuls against 
 his window ; but the next time it was day- 
 light.
 
 174 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 EPISTOLARY. 
 
 It was a couple of days thereafter, that 
 Diall, in his Chelsea flat, received two 
 letters. Diall was not an early riser ; 
 therefore, when the postman knocked, and 
 the letters fell with a flap upon the oil- 
 cloth in the passage, the philosopher was 
 still dozing. The sound aroused him, and 
 he proceeded at leisure to adjust his con- 
 sciousness to the more or less irksome 
 requirements of another day.
 
 EPISTOLARY. 175 
 
 When he had drawn up the blind and 
 fetched his letters, he got into bed again 
 to read them. Whatever his comparative 
 condition before this, immediately alter 
 it his intellect was positive enough. Nei- 
 ther envelope had he opened ; but, upon a 
 glimpse of their exteriors merely, he had 
 started into a sitting posture, and thus he 
 continued to stare at the superscriptions 
 before him. He had been expecting some- 
 thing from Rowe, certainly, having re- 
 ceived no word since the man's departure, 
 and here it was. 
 
 Both envelopes bore the Withbridge 
 post-mark, and the handwriting upon each 
 was equally familial' to the receiver. Di- 
 rectly contrary to his wont, under any 
 circumstances, Roger Diall felt a nervous 
 chill as he gazed at them. But it might
 
 176 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 be a mere eoineiclence after all, which, 
 upon examination of particulars, would 
 simplify itself considerably. Therewith 
 he tore one letter open. This was dated 
 from L The Pool Farm, Murcott,' and ran 
 thus : 
 
 c My dear Roger, 
 
 L Thank you for your letter 
 received a few days ago. I should have 
 written to you sooner, but for rather a 
 strange incident which has come to dis- 
 turb, what you call, " our vegetable som- 
 nolence. 1 ' Father has taken a pupil, and, 
 as he positively came here yesterday, you 
 will understand that I have been busily 
 occupied in the various preparations before 
 and since. I am afraid you will not quite 
 like the hap-hazard way in which the
 
 EPISTOLARY. 177 
 
 business has been done, for father only 
 met Mr. Rowe (that is his name) two days 
 before he came to us, and he is a perfect 
 stranger in this district. He tells us that 
 he comes from London, but London is a 
 big place, and perhaps he says that merely 
 to impress our rustic minds. However, he 
 seems to be a gentleman, and as father, in 
 his impulsive way, has taken a great liking 
 to him, nothing is to be said. Alas ! there 
 is another consideration of more weight, 
 perhaps, than any. At his own suggestion, 
 he is going to pay at the rate of one hun- 
 dred pounds a-year — far too much, I said, 
 for the accommodation and teaching (!) we 
 can give him ; and to show his good faith, 
 as he says, he insists upon paying twenty 
 pounds in advance. This, of course, is 
 conclusive to father. Do let me know 
 VOL. i. N
 
 178 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 what you think of all this, for I must con- 
 fess that I am not quite at ease about it. 
 He says that his only near relative living 
 is an uncle, the Reverend Godfrey Rowe, 
 vicar of Yardhope, in Northumberland. 
 Can you find out whether there is such a 
 person ? The district is sufficiently remote. 
 I wanted to write a letter to this address 
 to see if it was all fright, but father asked 
 me in a rage if I wished to insult both him 
 and his pupil, and forbade me to do any- 
 thing at all in the matter. But I do not 
 hesitate to say that I shall do whatever 
 you may advise me to do. If you cannot 
 find out any other way, perhaps you would 
 write a letter as I thought of doing. Per- 
 haps I am uncharitably suspicious, but 
 unhappily there is too much occasion for 
 it in this world.
 
 EPISTOLARY. 179 
 
 c I will do my best to guard the " hand- 
 looms." I think that now for the present 
 they ought to be in no sort of danger. 
 Thank you for the notes ; but it is horrible, 
 horrible. Please discontinue sending any- 
 thing now. 
 
 c I forgot to tell you that Medlicott's 
 withy was blown down a few days ago, 
 and that old Mrs. M. felt so superstitious 
 about it that she telegraphed for Miriam to 
 come home at once from a good situation. 
 They cannot keep themselves with her at 
 home, so that I am going to persuade Mrs. 
 M. to let Miriam come to us here whilst 
 Mr. Rowe is with us. You will let me 
 know at once what you think about the 
 above. 
 
 ' Ever yours affectionately, 
 
 1 Barbara Winnett.' 
 n 2
 
 180 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 Diall's amazement was natural enough,, 
 no doubt. With no very definite purpose, 
 he had, throughout the whole of their 
 intercourse, refrained from mentioning to 
 Rowe anything about these relatives at 
 Murcott. Even if his own social position 
 had warranted mild snobbery, Diall was 
 not the man to indulge in it, nor to feel 
 ashamed of his kinsfolk, let them be what 
 they might. Seeing that, as a matter of 
 fact, they were of as honourable a standing 
 as any reasonable mortal might desire, — the 
 direct representatives of a yeoman stock of 
 a three century unbroken record, — the 
 explanation of his reticence was to be 
 sought in altogether a different direction. 
 
 Thus far, at least, is certain, — Diall had 
 not mentioned the fact of the relationship 
 to his — yes, his only friend, Rowe; and,
 
 EPISTOLARY. 181 
 
 now that that friend seemed to have dis- 
 covered the fact for himself, Diall un- 
 doubtedly experienced a fit of nervous 
 irritation at the tidings. But the second 
 letter remained unopened ; perhaps some 
 enlightenment lay within its folds. 
 
 ' With Will Squele, I am a Cotswold 
 man,' was Diall's general statement when 
 ancestry was at any time spoken of. c My 
 father was a farmer, killed by a horse when 
 I was twenty, leaving me for fortune, when 
 everything was settled, exactly minus 
 sixty-seven pounds fourteen shillings. A 
 better man never breathed.' 
 
 He tore open — yes, tremulously — Rowe's 
 letter, and found it to consist of eisrht 
 closely written pages of ordinary note- 
 paper. At first he read eagerly, but pre- 
 sently with greater calmness, and a re-
 
 182 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 covered smile. Extracts will suffice us. 
 
 c Dear Diall, 
 
 c At length I am in the way 
 of writing genuine romance ; of a kind,, 
 too, admirably adapted to the requirements 
 of the British reader. I have already a 
 note-book three parts full of the most as- 
 tonishing material : but for you plain 
 matter of fact, — literal fact, mind. I travel- 
 led to Oxford without incident ; but a 
 little farther and my adventures began. 
 Now attend.' 
 
 Here followed a detailed account of the 
 writer's encounter with Miriam Medlicott, 
 his night's sojourn at Withbridge, and his 
 ultimate establishment at the Pool Farm, 
 Murcott ; from an old arm-chair in the
 
 EPISTOLARY. 18 6 
 
 parlour of which (Diall winced) he was at 
 that moment inditing those present words. 
 
 4 This man Winnett (even to his name : 
 Bezaleel, ye gods !) is a genuine antique. 
 You will be amused, but he frequently 
 reminds me of you. This springs from 
 the compatriot ship, no doubt. Do you 
 know this part of the hills at all? It 
 seems the very incarnation of your descrip- 
 tions of the country. All your impressions 
 of an old ivied homestead might have 
 been received from this very specimen in 
 which I now am. You will have to come 
 and see it. I should fear, though, that 
 old Winnett has seen his best days. He 
 openly complains of the altered times, and 
 the gloriously neglected condition of the 
 place adds force to his lamentations.
 
 184 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 c You will ask of my intentions here. 
 Of course, I call myself a pupil (not 
 daring to assail the yeomanly dignity with 
 such an enormity as a lodger), and in 
 strictest verity I am one ; but I do not 
 contemplate any practical outcome of my 
 bucolic experiences. As an observer, it is 
 delightful and of value, but I am so far 
 with the philosophers as to perceive that 
 commercializing it is its destruction. It 
 is this factor, no doubt, which neutralizes 
 so effectually the higher influences of the 
 employment, but this I am going to in- 
 vestigate. If I find myself getting de- 
 graded, I shall take to flight. 
 
 ' For the present, this must suffice you. 
 But no, — one topic more, or you will sus- 
 pect me. Doubt not that Bezaleel hath 
 a daughter, as fair as any that was in
 
 EPISTOLAEY. 185 
 
 Israel. But soyez tranquille, my boy. 
 Upon the word of her parent, she is within 
 a year of the thirties, and decorous in full 
 proportion. She has the face of a Madonna, 
 and from a day and a half's acquaintance 
 I should say she is an estimable young 
 woman. Cultivated beyond expectation. 
 More of her anon. They tell me also that 
 my friend Miriam is to be added to the 
 establishment in the character of a de- 
 pendent. In multiplicity there is safety. 
 Now respond to me with alacrity. 
 
 Y 
 
 ours as ever 
 
 ' E. R.' 
 
 When Diall finished the letter he was 
 grave again, and glanced at the hand- 
 writing which had engaged him before it. 
 
 c Within a year of the thirties, Barbara,'
 
 186 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 he said, laying his hand softly upon her 
 letter. c Yes, it is old, — horribly old for 
 a woman. And I — am within five of forty. 
 Eheu!' 
 
 Therewith he began to dress hurriedly. 
 
 Diall displayed less appetite for his 
 breakfast than usual. In the course of 
 the meal, he wrote the following brief 
 reply to one of the letters. He scribbled 
 it off-hand, and fastened it up, as it seemed, 
 with re s olution . 
 
 ' Dear B., 
 
 1 Curiously, I know Rowe well. 
 He is a gentleman, and entirely to be 
 trusted ; but for personal reasons, which 
 you are in no danger of misunderstanding, 
 I don't wish him at present to know of our 
 relationship. No need to mention my
 
 EPISTOLARY. 187 
 
 name, and, if he should casually do so, 
 show no recognition. Your father is not 
 likely to be communicative on the matter. 
 
 ' Yours, 
 
 'R. d: 
 
 This he posted when he went out, and 
 in due course it penetrated to the seclusion 
 of the Cots wolds. 
 
 Barbara had been looking for it with 
 some anxiety, and withdrew to a secret 
 corner when at last it was in her hand. 
 She read it twice, and, as it seemed, not 
 with perfect satisfaction. 
 
 'Is that all?' she muttered, as she 
 thrust the letter again into the envelope 
 and both into her pocket. 
 
 Barbara persistently hoped for more, 
 and was as constantly disappointed. She
 
 188 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 was a woman, and inclined to the san- 
 guine, the romantic; Roger was a man, 
 and in several respects intensely practical. 
 More so in this cousin's estimate of him, 
 no doubt, than in reality ; but appearances 
 were for her. Could she have presented 
 herself at the door in Chelsea on this par- 
 ticular Friday morning ; or could she have 
 possessed herself of some faculty for peer- 
 ing into the secret thoughts of others : she 
 would have obtained light which might 
 materially have affected the situation. The 
 effect of these two letters upon the reci- 
 pient of them had been considerable, 
 although none of it had escaped the limits 
 of his own consciousness. 
 
 As Diall sat at breakfast, he handled 
 the plush tea-cosy upon which Rowe had 
 remarked at their last meeting. It was a
 
 EPISTOLARY. 189 
 
 specimen of the workmanship of Barbara, 
 and it brought her vividly before him. 
 Herself he had not set eyes on for some 
 years past. Although cousins, they had 
 confessed themselves something more to 
 each other ; circumstances alone having 
 stood in the way of the logical issue of 
 such confession. Cases of the kind are 
 not uncommon in these days. The spiritual 
 must submit to the material. But for this 
 day, at least, Diall was in a state of 
 insurrection against the material. Bar- 
 bara knew nothing of it, and was left to 
 her disquieting inquiry.
 
 190 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 EULALIE. 
 
 It had rained heavily again throughout 
 the night, but by dawn it was clear, and 
 now as Mrs. Medlicott Avas leaving the 
 door of her cottage, the clock within 
 having just struck eight, it was like a cold 
 spring morning. A white ridge of glisten- 
 ing cloud spanned the southern sky, the 
 crests of which were smitten by the first 
 rays of the sun, in advance of his sur- 
 mounting the wooded hill in the east, and
 
 EULALIE. 191 
 
 a few tawny grey cloudlets were sailing 
 across the zenith before a south-west wind 
 which came hurrying over the downs. 
 
 1 I shall be back 'gainst tea-time,' said 
 the woman to her daughter, who was stand- 
 ing with her crutch upon the threshold. 
 
 c All right, mother. Don't hurry your- 
 self, there's a dear.' 
 
 ' No, I won't, Lalie, whatever.' 
 
 The wicket gate into the wood sounded 
 as Mrs. Medlicott passed through it, and 
 then there was nothing to be heard but 
 the rushing of the wind through the 
 branches. Eulalie drew a shawl over her 
 head, and stood there to look about her. 
 A casual glance would have taken her for 
 a pretty little girl of perhaps thirteen, so 
 short was she in stature, and of such child- 
 like purity her complexion : none, certain-
 
 192 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 ly, for what she actually was, a young 
 woman of twenty. A tress of fair hair had 
 escaped the tyranny of the shawl, and was 
 being played with joyously by the breeze, 
 — now drawn forward over the delicately- 
 tinted cheek, and across the deeper, amply 
 developed lips ; then again flung carelessly 
 back to elude the fingers which made 
 effort to restrain it. The wind was per- 
 mitted a victory, and he sent a little gleeful 
 whistle through the silky threads, scatter- 
 ing them apart like a wave would do a 
 tuft of sea- weed. 
 
 The girl looked over the downs before 
 her, and saw that she stood alone in all 
 the landscape. The perception seemed to 
 afford her satisfaction, and, apparently 
 with a stealthy action, she leant her crutch 
 against the jamb of the doorway, and sup-
 
 EULALIE. 193 
 
 ported herself merely by her hand. This 
 support was the next moment abandoned, 
 and, grasping her skirts so as to free her 
 feet of all encumbrance, she hopped delib- 
 erately forward. By a clump of primroses 
 she stooped down, one palm open upon 
 the gravel, and picked some of the blos- 
 soms which even prospective winter could 
 not succeed in intimidating. She arose 
 with some uncertainty, but was ultimately 
 erect, and then advanced with her former 
 agility. Thus she reached the farthest 
 corner of the garden. 
 
 Whilst crouching here to pluck some 
 flowers that she wanted, a great brown 
 leaf, as it seemed at least to Rowe who had 
 at that moment issued from the woodland, 
 rolled noiselessly along the pathway in 
 pursuit of her, and was actually blown on 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 to the top of her shoulder. There it 
 rested, and played with that errant tress 
 which hitherto had been the wind's exclu- 
 sive property. Now Rowe drew nearer, 
 and he saw that it was not a leaf but a 
 squirrel. 
 
 c Hold tight, Netta,' he heard the girl 
 say, c for I must get up.' 
 
 But, in attempting it, Eulalie caught 
 sight of his figure, and in her surprise 
 lost her balance, falling over on her side. 
 Rowe stepped instantly forward, but when 
 he reached her she was erect, and the squir- 
 rel perched upon her shoulder. She look- 
 ed so natural standing there that he fully 
 expected her to walk forward as he greeted 
 her. This, however, the girl made no 
 effort to do. She simply looked silently 
 at him, the ready blush suffusing her fea-
 
 EULALIE. 195 
 
 tures. Rowe, suspecting the predicament, 
 smiled. 
 
 c But you got here,' he said, in answer 
 to her request. 
 
 Thereupon he stepped forward, (the 
 squirrel scampered across the garden,) 
 and. to Eulalie's embarrassment, the visi- 
 tor offered her his arm. Rowe was un- 
 usually playful, for he thought her a 
 mere child. At length she laid her hand 
 upon his shoulder, and in that manner 
 they reached the door. The girl invited 
 him to enter, apologizing for being alone ; 
 and he went in. 
 
 ' What became of your squirrel?' 
 c She will have gone into the wood. She 
 is very shy with strangers.' 
 c Was it difficult to train her?' 
 ' No, sir. I had her very young, and 
 
 o 2
 
 196 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 she has grown to us. She lives in the 
 wood now, and only comes here some- 
 times.' 
 
 c H'm ; you are fond of all these natural 
 things, I expect, — the animals and flowers,' 
 said Rowe, taking up from the table one 
 of the primroses which the girl had 
 brought in. 
 
 c They seem company to me,' admitted 
 Eulalie, but felt guilty of an indiscretion. 
 
 c I should think so. You never feel 
 lonely here, do you ? There is always 
 something to look at and think about.' 
 
 c I don't feel lonely, sir. I have always 
 been used to the quiet, and I shouldn't like 
 anything else now.' 
 
 1 And you read a good deal, I expect?' 
 
 'Yes, sir. The rector lends me a good 
 many books.'
 
 EULALIE. 197 
 
 ' This is one ?' said Rowe, taking up 
 from a dresser a volume carefully backed 
 in brown paper. Upon the girl's assenting, 
 he opened it, and to his surprise, but infi- 
 nite satisfaction, found it to be the volume 
 of readings in Ruskin, entitled ' Frondes 
 Agrestes.' His delight was visible in his 
 features as he looked up. 
 
 I This is the kind of book, is it ? you like 
 this? } r ou can feel the truth of what he 
 says ? ' 
 
 I I like it very much, but it tells me a 
 good deal more than I ever felt or thought 
 of before.' 
 
 c Of course, but you feel his thoughts 
 to come naturally to you when they are 
 suggested?' 
 
 c I think so, sir.' 
 
 Rowe examined her farther, and gathered
 
 198 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 additional satisfaction from the experiment. 
 At length here was something like what 
 he had been looking for, what he had felt 
 convinced must exist as the natural out- 
 come of these idyllic surroundings. A 
 veritable child of nature after the poets' 
 own conception of her. He could scarce 
 hide his enthusiasm at the discovery, and 
 he permitted himself all sorts of chivalrous 
 and poetical exclamations, to which Eulalie 
 listened with respectful though rapturous 
 attention, and which seemed to have the 
 effect of intensifying her own natural beauty 
 as she heard them. He read her some 
 pieces out of the volume in his hand, and 
 both reader and listener found a charm and 
 significance in the words as they were 
 spoken surpassing all that they had hither- 
 to suspected. Rowe felt wholly free from
 
 EULAL1E. 199 
 
 the necessity of restraint, seeing the ob- 
 vious childhood of his listener ; for in his 
 enthusiasm he had paused not to consider 
 that her thoughts at least scarcely belonged 
 to the period of childhood. His affability 
 had induced a pleasing ingenuousness in her 
 which no doubt contributed something to 
 the confirmation of his delusion. 
 
 He had really come foraging for infor- 
 mation anent the withy, but in the face of 
 such a fascinating discovery he had not the 
 inclination to revert to a subject so trivial. 
 It was the girl herself who suggested it 
 when he showed signs of departure. 
 
 c You were asking about the willow-tree, 
 sir ' 
 
 ' Yes, I felt curious about it ; but I sup- 
 pose I know about as much of it as there 
 is to be known now.'
 
 200 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 c I think not,' said Eulalie, more gravely. 
 i At least, Mr. Jephcott, an antiquarian from 
 Knapstone, was here yesterday about it, 
 and he thought that there was something 
 more to be found out. He is very learned 
 about all old things, and I expect he could 
 tell you more about it than we can.' 
 
 c Oh, yes ; I must see him, then,' replied 
 Rowe, lightly, without any serious intention 
 of doing so, or indeed much heed to what 
 the girl was saying about it. c You must 
 have read a good deal for your age,' he 
 continued, turning back again c How old 
 are you?' 
 
 He saw instantly that not to a child had 
 he put the question : but she answered him. 
 
 c I am twenty, sir.' 
 
 c Oh, I beg your pardon. You look much 
 younger.'
 
 EULALIE. 201 
 
 Throughout the day both of them 
 thought much of this casual morning in- 
 terview, but in a widely differing spirit. 
 The girl's pretty face, coupled with the 
 emotional temperament of which she was 
 evidently a subject, had raised her into a 
 kind of intellectual abstraction in Rowe's 
 mind, and, despite the number of years 
 she had confessed to, so much as the bare 
 thought of her practical relationship to any 
 existing human system had not occurred 
 to him. She remained, as at first she had 
 flashed across his consciousness, a veri- 
 table child of nature — an exquisite em- 
 bodiment of a theory — in whom mere 
 mundane attributes had insignificant, if 
 any, part. Amidst the various ignobilities 
 of the town, he had often mused on such 
 a figure ; but never before had it been his
 
 202 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 good fortune to encounter one. The dis- 
 ci 
 
 covery confirmed him in his transcendent 
 aspirations. 
 
 The impress which he had left upon the 
 mind of Eulalie was of quite a different 
 mould. It seemed as though the whole of 
 her pupilage had been but a preparation 
 for this momentous meeting. Strange as 
 it may seem, there was a deeper, sensuous 
 tinge in the woman's idealism than in the 
 man's. His was entirely free from any 
 conscious human instinct ; hers found its 
 immediate and recognised end in the love 
 of man. For years it had been the ideal 
 goal to her, none the less ardently looked 
 to because known to be beyond the range 
 of any practical existence of her own. 
 This destiny was so obvious and inevitable, 
 recognised so clearly from her earliest
 
 EULALIE. 203 
 
 consciousness in such matters, that it was 
 now seldom able to elicit a murmur. The 
 2firl had even grown as accustomed as a 
 sensitive nature would permit to the sport- 
 ive irony of man's humour, for which she 
 had always been an attractive and legiti- 
 mate butt. Latterly she had enjoyed some- 
 thing resembling immunity from the shafts 
 of these delicate humourists, owing as it 
 was thought, but surely with too little 
 reason, to a slight incident of which two 
 of their number had been witnesses. It 
 was rumoured that, in some mock love- 
 making to which their buoyant spirits had 
 as usual impelled them, one had seized 
 Eulalie round the neck and kissed her. 
 Instead of joining in the natural hilarity 
 that followed, the girl had actually burst 
 into tears, an unlooked-for issue which had
 
 204 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 quite spoilt the fun of that, and, appar- 
 ently, some of the future similar under- 
 takings. 
 
 It was upon this highly sensitive organ- 
 ism that Rowe had been innocently experi- 
 menting. He had thereby unwittingly 
 supplied a concretion around which these 
 hitherto shadowy conceptions might centre, 
 and, by so doing, had instantly transformed 
 their texture to something very much less 
 shadowy. He had spoken freely of his 
 feelings, purely abstract and artistic feel- 
 ings, and not a syllable had been wasted, 
 if it had been shorn of something of 
 its transcendent abstractness. Eulalie 
 chanced to be alone the whole of that day; 
 except for her squirrel, which ventured to 
 return half-an-hour after Rowe's departure ; 
 so that there was nothing to disturb her
 
 EULALIE. 205 
 
 microscopical review. Towards mid-clay 
 the clouds again had gathered, had show- 
 ered rain even against the window-pants, 
 but she was quite ignorant of it. The sun 
 had cleared the tree-tops some minutes 
 after eight that morning, and for Eulalie 
 it had shone unclouded ever since. It had 
 illumined her cotton and turned it into 
 gold thread between her fingers, imparting 
 to those fingers too a nimbleness to which 
 even their habitual industry was a stran- 
 ger. When her mother returned in the 
 evening there were four pairs spread open 
 on the table to greet her. 
 
 c Poor lonesome maidie, you've never 
 done all they since morning?' was her 
 exclamation. L Eh, but, Lalie,' she added, 
 with hesitation, c be not over-hasty. I be 
 feared as they'll never '
 
 206 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 ' Look at them, mother. I never did 
 them so neatly.' 
 
 ' That be true an' all, child. Well, you 
 be a marvill, however.' 
 
 When Rowe got back from the Downs 
 that morning, he was glad to hear of Win- 
 nett's absence ; a boy delivered a message 
 to him to the effect that the master was 
 with the team in Sandy Hayes, if he wanted 
 to join him. 
 
 Rowe did not want to join him, 
 and, hearing the unexpected sound of a 
 piano in the house, he entered. The 
 back door was, of course, the one in gene- 
 ral use amongst them, and, in passing, 
 Rowe put his head into the kitchen. 
 Miriam only was there. 
 
 c Is Miss Barbara alone, Miriam ?' he
 
 EULALIE. 207 
 
 asked ; and received a reply in the affirm- 
 ative. Then he went on to the parlour. 
 
 He had already recognised the air, with 
 some surprise possibly, as a familiar one 
 from c Patience.' The player glanced aside 
 as he entered, but made no pause in the 
 music, so Rowe threw himself into the 
 arm-chair. He felt a little incongruity 
 between this suggestion and that which he 
 brought radiant within him. Presently 
 Barbara ceased, but she kept her eyes on 
 the music and began turning the pages. 
 
 I You will excuse my intruding, Miss 
 Winnett? Music is irresistible to me.' 
 
 I I thought I was secure. I am only 
 practising. I have just been calculating, 
 and find that it is more than seven months 
 since I touched this instrument. You 
 can't tune a piano, can yon, Mr. Rowe?'
 
 208 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 c Well, no, I'm afraid not. I can per- 
 ceive that yours wants tuning, though.' 
 
 c Unfortunately, I also have that power.' 
 And she fell again to her playing. 
 
 Neither Barbara's selection nor her exe- 
 cution lacked spirit; hence perhaps the 
 want of harmony with Rowe's require- 
 ments. Although he was exalted, a dirge 
 were the more appropriate accompaniment. 
 Something passive, at least otherwise than 
 suggestive of mere human arrogances. As 
 the young lady showed no inclination to 
 humour him, after sitting awhile in a state 
 of more or less uneasiness, he took a fav- 
 ourable opportunity of removing to another 
 atmosphere. 
 
 Barbara went on for some time longer. 
 When alone she played apparently in a 
 spirit of abandonment ; interpolating fan-
 
 EULALIE. 209 
 
 tastie extempore variations in the melodies, 
 purely, as it seemed, for the gratification 
 of her nimble fingers. Suddenly she 
 ceased, and for a long time there was 
 neither sound nor movement in the room. 
 
 Rowe, who had only crossed the outer 
 yard to the cider mill, noted the cessation, 
 and was glad of it. He was sitting on the 
 edge of the great circular stone trough 
 through which the upright mill-stone turned 
 to crunch the apples, examining his sur- 
 roundings. It was scarce a month ago 
 since the press had been in action, and the 
 place was still strongly redolent of the 
 juices of the orchard. It was dimly 
 lighted, only one of the folding doors, by 
 which Rowe had entered, standing ajar to 
 admit a ray of sunlight, which fell aslant 
 through the dusky atmosphere upon some 
 
 VOL. i. p
 
 210 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 antiquated and disabled tools against the 
 wall. Here lie could indulge his pensive 
 mood without interruption, and see in 
 that bar of motes innumerable, whatever 
 pictures he bad the inclination to portray 
 there. 
 
 Many were depicted, vivid and brilliant 
 enough ; — at length, one of surpassing 
 radiance, a veritable Sangraal to the eyes 
 of this beholder. He clung to it ; elabor- 
 ated it in every detail ; longing to 
 
 when, of a sudden, it was gone, eclipsed 
 totally. The whole beam upon which, it 
 had depended was extinguished, and a 
 vague shadow was slowly moving in its 
 place. 
 
 Rowe had scarce time to speculate on 
 the occurrence, before a human head was 
 thrust through the gap. The sun was be-
 
 EULALIE. 211 
 
 hind it, so that the features were not clear- 
 ly distinguishable, but they were so far so 
 as to enable Howe to see that they were 
 strange to him. That ample grey beard, 
 through the side fringes of which the sun- 
 light passed, appertained not to Bezaleel, 
 nor, indeed, so far as this observer knew, 
 to any other denizen of the Pool Farm. It 
 was evident that Rowe was not immediate- 
 ly perceived, for after the head the whole 
 figure appeared in the doorway, paused a 
 moment, then stepped forward into the 
 interior. Coming from the sunlight, the 
 obscurity here seemed greater to this in- 
 truder than to one whose eyes had got ac- 
 customed to it. This led him to turn 
 again and open wider the heavy door. 
 Having clone so, Rowe became apparent. 
 There had been a quietness of movement 
 
 p 2
 
 212 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 in the stranger, — despite the disadvantages 
 of a wooden leg, — suggesting rather a 
 dignified composure, than anything like 
 ignoble stealth, and that this had actually 
 been so was instantly proved by his re- 
 ception of the discovery. The old man 
 did not even start at the apparition. He 
 fixed his eyes upon it in genial curiosity, 
 smiling placidly. 
 
 L I humbly beg your pardon, sir,' he 
 said, bowing. c The impertinent curiosity 
 of an antiquary. This I believe to be the 
 oldest cider press in the county, and I 
 have difficulty in passing it without a 
 glimpse. You, too, have felt the interest 
 of it.' 
 
 The unexpected majesty of the tone had 
 taken Rowe aback for the moment, but 
 now he stepped forward and affably ex-
 
 EULALIE. 213 
 
 plained his position there. Thereupon 
 they broke into a conversation, and in a 
 few minutes Mr. Jephcott had launched 
 into a technical dissertation upon the 
 structure before them, quoting Evelyn and 
 the other elder authorities upon the sub- 
 ject with particular fluency. So interested 
 had both become, that it is scarcely sur- 
 prising that Barbara's light step should 
 have approached them unheeded. She 
 had left her piano in order to take her 
 part in the domestic arrangements, and 
 was entering the kitchen just as Mr. 
 Jephcott came to the cider mill. Her 
 recognition of him caused her a momen- 
 tary pang, but by putting her finger for 
 an instant to her lips she seemed to gather 
 the necessary resolution for the formulation 
 of a plan.
 
 214 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 Barbara was checked by the unexpected 
 sight of Rowe, but she soon fell in easily 
 with the situation. They talked awhile, 
 until she, seeing, for the present, failure of 
 her purpose, turned to withdraw. 
 
 c You will come into the house before 
 you leave, Mr. Jephcott.' 
 
 The old gentleman bowed, and promised 
 to follow immediately. 
 
 Miss Winnett's re-opening of the piano 
 that day had not been merely fortuitous. 
 Naturally disposed to the taste to which 
 this instrument ministered, and stealthily 
 brought by her mother to a respectable 
 degree of proficiency for the practical in- 
 dulgence of it, Barbara had only abandoned 
 the pursuit from mere stress of adverse cir- 
 cumstances. The conditions under which, 
 alone, she could steal the spiritual grati-
 
 EULALIE. 215 
 
 fi cation, were such as not only to go far 
 towards nullifying the effect of it if stolen, 
 Lut wholly to extinguish the inclination 
 for attempting it. Her father's attitude to 
 music in general, at any rate within the 
 radius of his own household, evinced 
 more than a mere natural distaste for it. 
 He regarded it as the accursed thino- and 
 a single stave would put him in a frenzy. 
 The instinct had developed in him. It 
 was always existent, as Barhara too well 
 recollected from the days of her childhood ; 
 Lut only since the death of her mother had 
 she been able to distinguish it as a positive 
 mania. To this she had surrendered. 
 
 It was not the stimulation of RoAve's 
 presence which had again aroused her. 
 Bluntly, it was the present necessity of 
 that fifty pounds which had done it. With
 
 216 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 that sum was she personalty saddled, hav- 
 ing rashly undertaken the custody of the 
 1 hand-looms.' It was a mere matter of 
 punctilio ; for, of course, no reasonable 
 mortal could attach a particle of responsi- 
 bility to her in the transaction. But 
 Barbara was piqued by it. She con- 
 sidered, for various reasons, that her 
 cousin Diall had a valid claim upon these 
 ancient movables, and if she was unable to 
 share his inordinate veneration for them, 
 she, at least, would make it no excuse for 
 underrating her duty as the steward of 
 his zeal. Her construction of such duty 
 was, in fact, now impelling her, for the 
 first time in the course of her twenty-nine 
 years' experience, to a critical survey of 
 the material resources of a remote agri- 
 cultural neighbourhood, as adjusted, that
 
 EULALIE. 217 
 
 is, to the capacity, physical and intellectual, 
 of a young woman of obviously limited 
 accomplishments . 
 
 For a few days Barbara had been en- 
 gaged in the survey, without any wholly 
 satisfying conclusions. That morning, 
 however, the weekly newspaper of the 
 district had come to her, and with it a 
 suggestion from an altogether unexplored 
 direction. Having made up her mind 
 about it, she was impatient for its further 
 development. It required some degree of 
 strategy for effecting her private interview 
 with the antiquary, but Barbara wanted it, 
 therefore, needless to say, it was accom- 
 plished. There was an impulsiveness ap- 
 parent in her movements, which the old 
 man regarded with interest ; the Knapstone 
 Journal was dangling from her hand.
 
 218 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 L You were very kind to me some clays 
 ago, Mr. Jephcott, and this is my only 
 excuse for now troubling you.' 
 
 Mr. Jephcott bowed, and muttered 
 something about c infinite honour.' 
 
 'Will you read that?' 
 
 Barbara's finger was on an advertise- 
 ment, and the old gentleman read : 
 
 'Coach and Horses Hotel, Knapstone.- — 
 Wanted at once, a pianist for the Quadrille Class 
 held at the above Hotel every Monday evening. 
 Apply,' &c. 
 
 L I only want to ask you, Mr. Jephcott, 
 if this is a house of ordinary respecta- 
 bility?' 
 
 c The word is of comparative import, 
 Miss Winnett, as your question implies,' 
 said he, with judicial hesitation. c If I 
 were to speak in an absolute, or rather a 
 positive sense '
 
 EULALIE. 219 
 
 ' Not below the legal limit, at any rate, 
 I presume,' interposed Barbara, smiling. 
 
 Mr. Jephcott's eyebrows deprecated this 
 tone of flippancy, — not on behalf of out- 
 raged morality, be it known, but of his 
 own abortive period. 
 
 ' I was about to say that respectability 
 has no stable significance, .Miss Winnett. 
 You say ordinary (arefo, ordinis), but, if I 
 may hazard an extempore definition of the 
 word, it means according to established 
 order, — the established order, observe, of 
 the individual speaker. What an inlet ? 
 True, now you qualify ; but consider. Do 
 you not take an ignoble standard ? The 
 law. generally speaking, takes no cogniz- 
 ance of morals.' 
 
 Barbara restrained herself. This was all 
 she could appeal to. The old man seemed
 
 220 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 to read submission, for his manner altered. 
 
 c My dear young lady,' he exclaimed, 
 with unexpected warmth, L the house is 
 well enough for a place of that kind, but 
 it does not concern you. Look for pupils. 
 You are too good for this.' 
 
 c Your opinion is kind, Mr. Jephcott,' 
 replied Barbara, with some reserve, c and 
 I thank you for it. You will consider this 
 in confidence.' 
 
 c Strictly, strictly. But do not disregard 
 my opinion. Such is not for you.' 
 
 Barbara was momentarily annoyed at 
 having given way to what she regarded as 
 .a whim of timidity, and listened to the 
 rest of Mr. Jephcott's persuasion in silence.
 
 221 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 EVIDENCES. 
 
 After the dissipation of the preliminary 
 idealised interpretation, liowe came to the 
 inevitable conclusion that he did not ex- 
 actly like Barbara. To give him full 
 justice, it must be acknowledged that he 
 hailed the discovery with satisfaction ; for 
 he was genuinely anxious to pursue his 
 investigations untrammelled, and, had Bar- 
 bara proved of another disposition, he saw 
 now that there was the bare possibility of 
 its having been far otherwise with him.
 
 222 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 Had she been like that sweet little cripple 
 at the Downs, for instance, who should 
 say what might or might not have hap- 
 pened, on her side, or even upon his ? 
 
 The mere economical aspect of the Pool 
 Farm interested him greatly, if at the 
 same time it disappointed him. Barbara 
 herself had admitted it unsatisfactory ; 
 Bezaleel never opened his mouth without 
 betraying it ; now that the glamour of 
 novelty was on the wane, even the atmo- 
 sphere itself could give some hint. The 
 decrepitude seemed not Avholly pictur- 
 esque. In the interest of theoretic inves- 
 tigation he plunged into it, upon the lines 
 which Barbara had pointed out. 
 
 The facts which Rowe elicited were 
 briefly these. The father and daughter 
 represented a very ancient family, tillers
 
 EVIDENCES. 223 
 
 of their own freehold, and dwellers under 
 their own roof, for such time as the 
 memory of man runneth not to the con- 
 trary. The same memory also failed Dot 
 to record an insuperable proclivity to low 
 water which seemed to characterise the 
 family, coupled, nevertheless, with an extra- 
 ordinary capacity for floating. However 
 shallow the current, they were never actu- 
 ally aground. How the shoals were avoid- 
 ed, nobody was bold enough to conjecture. 
 Presumable crises there had been, and as 
 Master Warner, the parish clerk of Elmsey, 
 — who was, so to speak, the 'legal memory' 
 of the district and Rowe's chief informant, 
 — stated, it was an uncommon curious affair 
 that these critical tides had been registered 
 only during the ascendency of the species 
 Bezaleel. This fact, Warner not unnatur-
 
 224 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 ally concluded, looked very much like 
 c some fatiality ' in this particular name. 
 Three representatives of it were recorded, 
 including the present possessor. The last 
 had been his grandfather, who was, upon 
 the above unimpeachable authority, ' a 
 random cove.' 
 
 c In fact, how he escaped the bum,' re- 
 marked Mr. Warner, confidentially, to 
 Rowe, 'was never rightly known ;. never 
 will be now, however, all one. Curious 
 man he were, as I have good cause to 
 remember, but a most extraordinary liar ; 
 and I have always thought, sir, begging 
 your pardon, that a liar, in regard to this 
 world, be worse than a common swearer, 
 for he deceives not only himself, but his 
 neighbour as well. But this, o' course, is 
 neither here nor there. It was about that
 
 EVIDENCES. 225 
 
 time as the family o' Medlicotts broke, and 
 a many thought as the Winnetts 'nd ha' 
 gone with them, or ought to ha' clone, 
 however; but they didn't, of course, as 
 you know 's well as I. Many's the wager 
 as was laid on they two in those days, and 
 them as Lacked Medlicott won at last, al- 
 though 'twas never thought as they would. 
 Poor old Josh Medlicott drowned urself 
 over it, — must ha' lost his reasons, of 
 course, poor man, what wi' tribulation an' 
 all ; — 'ees, ur drowned urself sure enough, 
 in the brook just anent his own withy. 
 And what was thought uncommon strange 
 by many, as well it med, however, old 
 Bezaleel Winnett as then was, died within 
 the twelvemonth after, and a black day it 
 was with him at the last. He told 'em lies 
 to the end, — lies more than common, so 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 they did tell me. It seems a most awful 
 thing. Ur died hard, poor man ; but then 
 ur 'd lived so, of course, and that makes 
 a vast odds. The Winnetts have never 
 looked kind since his day, and as I think, 
 if you'll please to excuse my plain speech, 
 'em never will again. It beunt my place 
 to judge 'em, very far from it, but, as I 
 may say to you, sir, it be an evil stock, 
 no disrespect meant to nobody, not the 
 less.' 
 
 Rowe disliked this kind of information, 
 and, what was more, disbelieved it ; for 
 the blow which it levelled at the idyllic 
 theory of a pastoral life was too obviously 
 prompted by mere ignorant prejudices to 
 be seriously treated at all. That Bezaleel, 
 upon a more intimate acquaintance, proved 
 to be not wholly the ideal yeoman, Rowe
 
 EVIDENCES. 227 
 
 was constrained to admit, but his weak- 
 nesses were venial, and without doubt 
 entirely the result of temporary causes. 
 
 On his return from Elmsey that after- 
 noon, after obtaining this information, he 
 found that he was to have tea alone. The 
 master, Miriam told him, had gone to Hay- 
 way Farm about some heifers, and Miss 
 Barbara had driven to Knapstone. Miriam's 
 assistant in the kitchen seemed also 
 absent, but upon this point the girl was 
 reticent. 
 
 c A little secret love-making, I suppose, 
 Miriam,' said Rowe, jocularly, ' whilst the 
 cats are away. You never do such dreadful 
 things, of course.' 
 
 Miriam blushed, as she generally did 
 now when Rowe spoke to her, and left the 
 kitchen with a trayful of tea-things. When 
 
 Q2
 
 228 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 she returned, the gentleman had lit a 
 cigarette, and through the halo surrounding 
 him their eyes met. 
 
 c Do you ?' he asked, playfully. 
 
 c No, sir.' 
 
 Rowe laughed incredulously. He liked 
 to tease Miriam, for her naivete was so re- 
 markable. It had never been his practice 
 to trifle with women, being, in fact, as a 
 rule, unnecessarily reserved with them; 
 but since his arrival at Murcott he had ex- 
 panded somewhat. The air of idealism 
 with which he surrounded his existence 
 here, had wrought sundry small changes 
 of this kind in his disposition. As he re- 
 marked casually in a letter to his friend 
 Diall, he felt at length that he was begin- 
 ning to live. He always experienced more 
 of this vivacity with Miriam than with any-
 
 EVIDENCES. 229 
 
 body else here, a fact not difficult to account 
 for. She, too, with growing familiarity, be- 
 gan to like his banter. 
 
 c Have you gathered the eggs ?' he asked, 
 when she had finished laying the table. 
 ■ Xot ? Then come along ; get a basket, 
 and I'll go with you. It is just light 
 enough.' 
 
 Miriam complied with alacrity, and they 
 went out. The poultry-house was first 
 visited, but as the fowls were already at 
 roost it had to be abandoned, and then 
 began the circuit of the outlying corners 
 which sundry of the hens habitually 
 affected. The cart-shed, a couple of pig- 
 sties, a hay-loft, and the rick-yard gener- 
 ally. Rowe was unusually jocose. He 
 would even make the girl get into incon- 
 venient corners, and then laugh at her
 
 230 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 agility in getting ont. This mood was, 
 no doubt, a kind of practical protest 
 against that which Master Warner had 
 done his best to induce. Miriam, like her 
 sister Eulalie, could suggest nothing but 
 what was compatible with, nay, provoca- 
 tive of, his theoretic aspirations. There 
 was, of course, something wholly unsexual 
 in his attitude towards her, a fact obvious- 
 ly recognised by the girl herself, else she 
 could never have displayed in his com- 
 pany the freedom which familiarity now 
 enabled her easily to do. She liked Rowe, 
 felt a very genuine enjoyment in this 
 scramble for the eggs. A pure-minded 
 country-girl is highly sensible of the 
 charm of good-breeding in man, when 
 brought into anything like familiar con- 
 tact with it. Half-a-dozen farm girls will
 
 EVIDENCES. 231 
 
 languish, for a week or two, for a gentle- 
 man who has stripped off his coat and made 
 hay with them. Miriam was not quite 
 bold enough thus to formulate her sense 
 of the enjoyment in Rowe's intercourse, 
 but she none the less appreciated the 
 general effect of it. 
 
 L Do you enjoy this kind of life, Miriam ?' 
 he said, unexpectedly, at the corner of a 
 hay- stack. 
 
 ' I do, sir ;' and the words conveyed the 
 least part of the impression. 
 
 6 I have to thank you for bringing me to 
 it, remember. Why on earth doesn't Miss 
 Barbara like it ?' 
 
 ' She's too clever, sir, I think,' hazarded 
 Miriam. 
 
 Rowe looked silently for eggs for a 
 second or two, smiling ; then he assented.
 
 232 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 Nevertheless, he continued to ponder over 
 the girl's remark. 
 
 He sat long alone over the tea-table, per- 
 haps still pondering it. When the girl 
 cleared his table, he scarce spoke to her, and 
 she went away in dejection, thinking she 
 had offended him. Rowe had had a pack- 
 ing case of books sent down to him, but 
 although it had been lying in the hall 
 for a week he had not yet found an oppor- 
 tunity of opening it. It comprised a 
 liberal collection of works having more or 
 less reference to country matters, — poetical, 
 theoretical, or practical. Being alone to- 
 night, he felt the inclination to examine 
 them. 
 
 The man was sincere enough in his de- 
 sire to make a comprehensive study of 
 la vie rustique. Since his residence at
 
 EVIDENCES. 233 
 
 Murcott, the wish, had taken more definite 
 shape. He was already sketching out 
 
 what he characterised as a pastoral 
 romance ; but, in addition to this, he was 
 formulating a scheme for a substanial 
 ethical dissertation, a treatise, indeed, upon 
 the pastoral life from the earliest times, 
 which was to display, upon a historical 
 basis, the advantages ethical and physical 
 of this most primitive plan of existence. 
 To this end he was going to direct his 
 reading during his residence here, and not 
 only his reading but his practical investi- 
 gations also. 
 
 Finding it bitterly cold in the capacious 
 entrance hall, — practically a chamber, in 
 which the household had doubtless form- 
 erly assembled at board, — he summoned 
 Miriam, and with her help carried the box
 
 234 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 into the parlour. With delight the girl 
 tendered her service, and seemed to linger 
 in departing. He gave her no invitation, 
 though, by word or look ; so, reluctantly, 
 she returned to pots and solitude. 
 
 Rowe lit his pipe and examined the 
 volumes. Each one as taken out was 
 dipped into, and more or less time devoted 
 to it. On this account he proceeded 
 slowly, and not half-a-dozen of the books 
 had been placed upon the table when the 
 voice of the old farmer was heard in the 
 back premises. Rowe's brows moment- 
 arily contracted, but, when the man 
 entered, he received him with a smile. 
 
 c What, more books, Mr. Rowe !' ex- 
 claimed Winnett, in a tone of mingled 
 resentment and despair. 
 
 1 A few for leisure-time. The soul
 
 EVIDENCES. 235 
 
 must be kept alive,' replied Rowe, jocularly. 
 
 c Mine be in a nation bad way, then, if 
 that be the food as they live on, for I could 
 ne'er abide to look at the printing. If I 
 take a paper for five minutes, I be as stupid 
 as an owl. Phoo h !' 
 
 With a stentorian sigh, or it might be 
 an annihilating gust at the universe of 
 books, Bezaleel sank in the arm-chair. 
 
 ' Settled your business at Hay way ?' said 
 Rowe, determined to be affable. 
 
 c Settled it, ay, and be damned to un,' 
 replied the other, without reserve. ' Never 
 you deal with these upstart villians, Mr. 
 Rowe. A piddling bald-rib, that's what 
 he be. It ben't but yesterday, as you 
 med say, since he raked out my skilling, 
 and glad o' the job, too. But now he 
 must go to market, and be a farmer,
 
 236 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 look 'ee, like the best of us. Phoo — h !' 
 Short time as Rowe had been here, he 
 understood this outburst. Translated, it 
 simply meant that some thrifty acquaint- 
 ance had had the hardihood to demand 
 money due to him, or had demurred to 
 completing a transaction on terms of in- 
 definite credit. You might take certain 
 liberties with Mr. Winnett with impunity, 
 but either of these two enormities incurred 
 penalty forte et dure. It was never for- 
 given. 
 
 ' Beunt the maid back?' he asked, in 
 a surly tone of Miriam, who was laying 
 the table for him. The girl, understand- 
 ing the reference to Barbara, answered in 
 the negative with trepidation. Woman- 
 kind stood in fear of Bezaleel. 
 
 This display irked Rowe, and he was
 
 EVIDENCES. 237 
 
 glad of the temporary cessation which 
 feeding occasioned. He affected to be 
 absorbed in a book, but in reality he was 
 fretting over inconsistent effects. At any 
 rate, he observed not the stealthy glances 
 which the farmer from time to time cast 
 on him. Once or twice the old man 
 seemed upon the point of speaking, but 
 each time the fork interfered with articu- 
 lation. When he rose from the table and 
 placed his mug of cider upon the hob, he 
 had not spoken. Rowe was determined 
 now not to assist him, so kept resolutely 
 to his book, — otherwise adverse effects. 
 
 Winnett sat down and took off his boots. 
 After this he handled the bowl of his pipe 
 and glanced about him. Nervousness was 
 not his failing, but such was the impres- 
 sion he now conveyed by his indecisive
 
 238 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 movements. At length he filled his pipe, 
 and a minute or two later lit it. This 
 meant much. 
 
 ' Take the advice of a friend, Mr. Rowe, 
 and don't put your money in this trade,' 
 remarked he, presently, with his eyes on 
 the fire. 
 
 ' I know you have a poor opinion of it, 
 but some make a good living by farming, 1 
 said Rowe. 
 
 Winnett only deigned to reply by a 
 contemptuous gust, and then relapsed into 
 silence. 
 
 ' All cadclling jobs ; all cadclling jobs;' 
 he ejaculated, presently. c Pigs ! poultry ! 
 . . . cabbages ! And there be no sound 
 credit in the country. Cash be all atop 
 instead of at bottom. Dash me, I've seen 
 the day when I'd as soon thought of knock-
 
 EVIDENCES. 239 
 
 ing a man down as of asking him for his 
 money. There was trust and respect in 
 those days, for you dealt with gentlemen. 
 But now, look 'ee !' 
 
 c Would it be any convenience if I paid 
 you up now for half-a-year?' interposed 
 Rowe, perhaps rather drily. 
 
 c They get a bit of land, and put a box 
 on wheels, and go higgling through the 
 parish, then they be famous. Phoo h !' 
 
 ' It would be just the same to me, Mr. 
 Winnett.' 
 
 ■ What's that, sir? Pay in advance ? I 
 cannot abide that there — ne'er a thought 
 on't. You be too much the other way. 
 You'll be imposed on by villians, look 'ee.' 
 
 ' I am awake to villains,' remarked 
 Rowe, good-huinouredly, ' but between 
 friends '
 
 240 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 c Give me your hand, sir,' ejaculated the 
 old farmer, effusively. c There be too 
 few like you. In this here parish, — county, 
 in fact, I may say, for I've dealt here and 
 there, — respect for your fellow man be 
 dead. It do one good to see you.' 
 
 With a few more words of the like flat- 
 tering import, Bezaleel succumbed to his 
 pupil's suggestion of a further advance of 
 thirty pounds, and very soon thereafter 
 the elder showed the unmistakable effect 
 of the arrangement by falling asleep. The 
 farmer s faculty for sleep seemed unlimited, 
 so much so that it was his common refuge 
 from the perplexities of life. If he had 
 quarrelled with a creditor, or disposed of 
 some article of furniture to meet a tem- 
 porary want, he got in a rage and came 
 home to bed. Rowe by mischance upset
 
 EVIDENCES. 241 
 
 a pile of books that he had balanced on a 
 corner of the box, and the sound awak- 
 ened the old man. In a moment of for- 
 getfnlness, the latter bluntly anathematized 
 the whole range of literature, then effu- 
 sively apologized, and thought there might 
 be something to say for it after all. To 
 liowe's infinite satisfaction, Bezaleel then 
 withdrew, — although the clock had but 
 just struck eight. 
 
 Supper-time came, and Barbara had not 
 returned. Rowe, having the ordinary 
 scruples of civilization, felt uneasy about 
 her, despite his recollection of the condi- 
 tions under which he first set eyes upon 
 his hostess. He heard the wind moaning, 
 and upon drawing the blind aside and 
 pressing his face against the glass to look 
 out, could only mutter Falstaffs charac- 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 terization of the darkness. The freedom 
 of country young women surprised him. 
 He questioned the maid that brought his 
 meal to him, (not Miriam,) and she smiled 
 at his misgivings. 
 
 ' Miss Barbara have no fear of the 
 dark, sir.' 
 
 Whether by compact Avith her fellow- 
 maid or no, I will not say, but Miriam came 
 to clear the table. 
 
 ' You'd better leave it,' suggested Rowe. 
 The girl reluctantly acquiesced. 'You can 
 go to bed when you're ready, Miriam. I'll 
 stay for Miss Winnett.' 
 
 'Yes, sir,' was the reply; and, envying 
 Barbara, she went away. 
 
 The clock struck eleven, a deathly still- 
 ness reigned throughout the house, and 
 still no Barbara. For about three quar-
 
 EVIDENCES. 243 
 
 ters of an hour longer Rowe read, or pre- 
 tended to read, then he rose and went out 
 to the back door. A waning moon had 
 now risen, and the clouds were broken, 
 so that a weird twilight made dimly visi- 
 ble the ricks and out-buildings of the 
 farm-yard. An old vane on the turret of 
 the granary creaked in the wind, and the 
 listener thought he could hear a cow sigh. 
 He had scarce noted it when he was star- 
 tled by an unearthly cry, c Hulloo — h ! 
 Hulloo — h I 1 breaking the awful silence, 
 1 upon the dark afloat,' the last note of 
 which was prolonged to an eerie dying 
 fall, which thrilled Rowe to the very tip 
 of his hair. A second or two after, from 
 afar, — it might indeed have been the echo 
 of the first, — came more faintly another, 
 • Woo — oo — ! AVoo — oo — !' 
 
 R 2
 
 244 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 Whilst straining his ears to catch the 
 last undulations of the sound lingering in 
 the darkness, Rowe heard something dif- 
 ferent, and he felt more comfortable. It 
 was a horse's hoofs this, undoubtedly; a 
 sound suggestive at least of human life 
 and fellowship, for which that other dis- 
 mal whoop had instantly raised in him an 
 intolerable craving. He listened still, 
 and — yes, it came onwards steadily. It 
 was trotting on the road, but there was 
 no light. It ceased for a minute, then a 
 gate was slammed, and the trotting began 
 again, light or no. Barbara at last, it 
 must be, and he went forth into the ob- 
 scurity to meet her. 
 
 A wave of darkness seemed to come 
 over the earth as he walked forward, and 
 it was with difficulty that he traced his
 
 EVIDENCES. 245 
 
 way through the intricacies of the cow- 
 yard. At length it was accomplished, and 
 he surmounted the gate. To this point he 
 knew the vehicle must come. He heard 
 it, but the flood of darkness rendered all 
 indistinguishable beyond a few yards from 
 where he stood. He walked on, but in a 
 moment it occurred to him that he might 
 frighten the young lady, or at any rate the 
 horse, by his untimely encounter. They 
 were close at hand, and he was about to 
 escape, when lie heard from a movement 
 of the animal that he was too late. He 
 called out to reassure Barbara, and then 
 ran forward to seize the horse's head, but 
 this served only to aggravate matters. 
 Before Rowe could be of use, he dimly 
 discerned the trap overturning in the 
 ditch.
 
 246 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 Barbara's want of harmony with a 
 theory was speedily forgotten in the face 
 of this catastrophe, and the man's chival- 
 rous instinct, coupled with unfamiliarity 
 with country incidents, naturally exagger- 
 ated the danger. He darted forward to 
 rescue at all risk the girl's mangled body 
 from the plight in which it lay, and was 
 so taken aback by an incongruous com- 
 mand to kneel on the pony's head as to be 
 for a moment stupefied. 
 
 4 Kneel on his head, Mr. Rowe,' repeat- 
 ed Barbara, loudly. c It is you, isn't it?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, yes ; but are you not hurt?' 
 
 'Never mind me,' was the rejoinder; 
 and from his position at the head Rowe 
 perceived the young lady emerge, and 
 busy herself instantly with the buckles of 
 the girths. Upon this he collected himself,
 
 EVIDENCES. 247 
 
 and breathed more freely. When the 
 harness was unloosed, Barbara bade him 
 stand aside, and she then extricated the 
 pony from the shafts. When this was 
 done, she laughed airily, and hummed as 
 she went along. Rowe thought it a duty 
 to exert his strength upon the vehicle, but 
 the young lady summoned him. 
 
 ' Only the cushions ; we will leave the 
 rest until to-morrow.' 
 
 This incident led Rowe to examine his 
 companion more critically as they sat 
 together in the parlour. When they had 
 first 2X)t m ^° the listfit her face was blood- 
 stained, but now that she had sponged it, 
 only the angry red scratch which a briar 
 had made from the temple to the chin 
 remained. This, however, was quite enough
 
 248 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 for the sensibility of a man of Rowe's tem- 
 perament, and it softened him vastly. He 
 saw more clearly than he had done before 
 the particular beauty which characterized 
 her features, and especially the keen 
 scrutinizing spirit illumining the dark 
 eyes. c She was too clever,' thought Miriam, 
 for conformity to the theory, and at the 
 present moment so Rowe felt inclined to 
 regard her. Had he examined himself 
 further, he might have found that this 
 quality in woman was opposed to his 
 ideal of them. How different this expres- 
 sion of Barbara's, for instance, from that 
 of the fascinating little cripple's ; so 
 different, indeed, that scarce an hour ago 
 he would have called it unwomanly and 
 adjudged it wholly antagonistic to his 
 individual taste. Now he was inclined to
 
 EVIDENCES. 249 
 
 be more reserved. He had discerned, in 
 fact, as I have said, that there was a form 
 of beauty in Miss Winnett, — a considerable 
 admission, surely, for one who had ac- 
 knowledged his dislike. 
 
 Although the greater difference, no 
 doubt, was in his own method of observ- 
 ing, — he fancied that there seemed a 
 marked difference in her. That spirit 
 shone more clearly from the pupils, im- 
 parting a more pronounced glow of healthy 
 animation to the whole face. Something 
 by it was subdued; something else intensi- 
 fied. Nor was it only in his fancy. 
 
 Barbara knew herself transformed; for 
 some hours past had known it. That long 
 and dark drive homewards had been short 
 to her ; beguiled, in the darkest and most 
 solitary places, by snatches of blithe song,
 
 250 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 and at moments even of echoing laughter. 
 The tumble in the ditch she had regarded 
 as a fitting close to a night so memorable. 
 Rowe's profuse apologies and even tender 
 solicitude irked her greatly. He had actu- 
 ally wanted to bathe her cheek for her ! 
 She regarded him with, — let us call it 
 pity. 
 
 How should he know of the exhilarat- 
 ing draught which this night had afforded 
 
 Co o 
 
 her? It was not he that she had con- 
 sulted about it, but the old antiquary 
 Jephcott. For the first time in the whole 
 course of her existence Barbara had, as at 
 least it seemed to herself, quaffed of life 
 to the very lees. Such mild sips as her 
 respectable career had offered her had only 
 been able to cause her irritation ; so much 
 so that, since her mothers death, even
 
 EVIDENCES. 251 
 
 they had been east away from her im- 
 patiently. To-night had supplied her 
 with something different. 
 
 Without difficulty Miss Winnett had 
 obtained the post of pianist at the c Coach 
 and Horses,' and this had been her first 
 appearance at what the host had euphem- 
 istically termed his Quadrille Class. She 
 had not been surprised by it, for the man 
 had sketched an outline of the proceedings 
 at the time of her application, and she had 
 willingly accepted it. Ludicrous disap- 
 pointment, though, she had experienced 
 in the matter of remuneration. Fifty 
 pounds was the sum she stood in need of; 
 the terms for this engagement were a 
 shilling an hour, and a meal during the 
 evening, if desired. Upon this first occa- 
 sion, at any rate, this latter she had de-
 
 252 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 clined as unnecessary ; and, when she came 
 to calculate the shillings, they seemed to 
 stretch interminably before her. But this 
 consideration was unable to depress her, 
 for, after a taste of it, Barbara considered 
 the experience amply to be its own 
 reward. 
 
 With Rowe's modified perceptions came 
 inevitably a misconstruction of appear- 
 ances. 
 
 c You have evidently had an enjoyable 
 evening, Miss Winnett,' he remarked at 
 one point, with a smile. 
 
 c I have,' was her reply, calmly out- 
 facing his glances. L I can breathe when 
 I get beyond the limits of this parish. 
 You also don't seem to have been 
 wretched.' She threw her eyes upon his 
 books.
 
 EVIDENCES. 25$ 
 
 1 I ? Oil, no ! But I fear I have been 
 exasperating your father.' 
 
 L With that display, I have no doubt it 
 is highly probable. At what time did lie 
 leave' you ? Eight ! That is conclusive. 
 Do you mind smoking a cigarette for me? T 
 
 ' AVill you have one yourself?' 
 
 With a laugh she declined, and pulled 
 her chair forward to the tire. She con- 
 tinued to surprise Rowe, admittedly to 
 interest him. He speculated upon the 
 quality of sentiment likely to recommend 
 itself to such a woman, — which, in fact. 
 had obviously recommended itself to her 
 to-nio'ht. In connection with her the sub- 
 ject had not before occurred to him, for 
 her cold, apparently unimpressionable 
 temperament had never suggested the 
 consideration.
 
 254 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 Her conversation, of course, lie deemed 
 wholly stratagem. All her talk was of an 
 active world — in fact, covert criticism of 
 her own uncongenial surroundings. Nour- 
 ished in the ancestral conviction that it 
 was woman's unalterable destiny to stand 
 and wait, now that Barbara had ventured, 
 under stress of what had seemed wholly 
 an adverse wind, mildly to rebel against 
 the conviction, she felt an exhilarating sur- 
 prise at the ease with which it had given 
 way. Hence her exuberant defiance and 
 bolder criticism. 
 
 Her loquacity rendered Eowe silent and 
 thoughtful- but withal less impatient of 
 her doctrine. More from personal reasons 
 than from intellectual, though ; for that 
 angry scratch across her flushed cheek was 
 in constant evidence, and a single glimpse
 
 EVIDENCES. 255 
 
 of it was enough to demolish threatened 
 scruples. For the time he was content to 
 abandon theory, and regard Barbara mere- 
 ly as an interesting individual upon inde- 
 pendent ground. 
 
 It was only the sinking lamp that made 
 them separate. Later, unknown to each 
 other, each sat out the candle also, and 
 even then continued to gaze upon the 
 darkness. But, dark or light, Barbara was 
 equally radiant. She had gained a victory, 
 and success inflamed her, incited her. The 
 wretched burden of her life was conquered, 
 and she was no longer the slave of any- 
 one. Inevitably she thought of Chelsea, 
 and the unsatisfying fancy which for years 
 had centred there. Impatient she had 
 often been with her cousin Diall, and had 
 more than once written an unposted letter
 
 256 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 to him; but she could now be calmer. 
 She was less dependent on him from this 
 night forward. Unlike some women, ideal 
 sentiment was never food to Barbara. 
 
 At the moment of her feeling this (the 
 clock had not long since struck two), see 
 this very Diall seated heroically in his 
 chair. To him also that night had brought 
 some resolution, the result of words which 
 had come to him from Rowe. 
 
 He re-read the letter which he had 
 written : 
 
 ' Dear Barbara, 
 
 1 1 am a Cots wold man, hence 
 you will not be surprised to hear that for 
 five years I have intended to write a 
 special letter to you. You must have 
 thought me brutal, — it is inevitable, so do
 
 EVIDENCES. 257 
 
 not dissemble. I have hoped to find a 
 way out of the ignoble dilemma, bnt must 
 now confess it hopeless. Will you regard 
 my conduct of former times as a youthful 
 iniquity, and repented ? You know ex- 
 actly what my resources are, and our 
 respective prospects ; and, in view of them, 
 what else can I propose ? Were our mar- 
 riage generally practicable, I dare hardly 
 pledge you to it, for in the aspect of im- 
 pecuniosity here and in the Cotswolds 
 there is nothing in common. True, I 
 ought to have been thus explicit years 
 ago, when I myself was old enough to be 
 stunned by the conviction, but — I did not. 
 I trusted, I suppose, to mere negative ap- 
 pearances ; and, do tell me, not wholly 
 without effect. So late, I hope this letter 
 is needless, but I am impelled to send it. 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 Let us be cousins again, dear girl ; but 
 none the less mutually helpful. 
 
 'Yours, 
 
 c r. d; 
 
 This was actually posted, and in a day 
 or two Barbara had it ; but for to-night 
 she could look out at life in freedom from 
 its questionable influence.
 
 259 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 
 
 Barbara could not read Diall's letter with 
 indifference, although the effect upon her 
 was perhaps not fully equal to what ab- 
 stract sentiment in such case demanded. 
 Roger's heroism was not so apparent to 
 her as it was to himself, for instance. 
 That he had acted heroically, there was no 
 doubt ; for moral, like positive, law pays 
 regard to the intentions. 
 
 As already mentioned, she lacked the 
 
 s2
 
 260 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 feminine conviction that sentimental rela- 
 tionship is itself a goal. A desirable com- 
 plement her nature admitted it ; but, if by 
 destiny denied her, she would grant it no 
 sigh. As Diall had suspected, she had 
 from the first understood his conduct, if 
 at no time she had approved it. This for- 
 mulated admission had not been necessary. 
 With their vaunted practicality, how im- 
 practicable were men ! Did this dismissal 
 release her ? Barbara might with reason 
 inquire, Was it not rather the strongest 
 link in the whole chain which he had 
 cast about her freedom ? So at least she 
 was impelled to regard it, but without 
 shadow of discontent. In the sense of a 
 disposable freedom, she had at no time 
 desired it. If Diall did not want it, she 
 could keep it to herself. More than this
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 261 
 
 mi^ht have been her feeling, if she had 
 known more of his design. 
 
 In his vague scheme of self-denial, Roger 
 foresaw other more promising plans for 
 Barbara. Upon these was based his reso- 
 lution. Rowe was hourly about her, and, 
 as Diall with too scrupulous perception 
 construed the expressions of his friend, 
 already not without some incipient regard 
 for her. It was on this that he had acted; 
 premises which, could Barbara but have 
 perceived them, were only needed wholly 
 to have incensed her. The brief reply 
 which she had sent to him was this : 
 
 ' Dear Roger, 
 
 1 1 had understood your 
 action, and without such characterization 
 as you deem inevitable. How could I
 
 262 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 possibly misconstrue it in the face of cir- 
 cumstances of recent years ? It shall be 
 as you suggest. I don't think either of us 
 is likely to forget the cousinship. 
 
 c I find Mr. Rowe to be a remarkable 
 visionary. Forgive this hurried scrawl. 
 
 'Yours, 
 
 1 b. w: 
 
 Thus verbally was their ten years' en- 
 gagement broken, which for the latter fi\e 
 had been tacitly in abeyance. 
 
 The only effect perceptible to Barbara 
 was an easier conscience upon the score- 
 of her abandonment to the impulses of her 
 intellect. Whilst nominally plighted, she 
 had inevitably felt some conscientious ob- 
 jection to the known scruples of her lover. 
 In this sense, at any rate, now she was
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 263 
 
 free, and recent circumstances urged her 
 to rather rebellious assertion of the fact. 
 
 Rowe continued to notice the change in 
 her, and one day he openly remarked on 
 it. It was Sunday, just after dinner, — a 
 moment at which the somnolence of Mur- 
 cott reached its maximum intensity. Beza- 
 leel had taken possession of the arm-chair, 
 as was his wont ; Barbara and Rowe stroll- 
 ed into the garden. Even the elements 
 to-day acknowledged the Sabbath, as the 
 rest of nature here invariably did. There 
 was sun and quietude, and a robin singing 
 from the glistening holly-tree. A clear 
 sky streaked with snow-white tresses, and 
 the hills on the horizon coloured like 
 damsons. 
 
 c I will not believe that you are indiffer- 
 ent to this, Miss Winnett.'
 
 264 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 1 I have never professed indifference to 
 it,' said Barbara, rather curtly. 
 
 c But in thought you live in other scenes. 
 This does not content you.' 
 
 6 Mr. Rowe, you are unreasonable. Un- 
 der any conditions, what can the brain find 
 here to content it?' 
 
 ' Very much I should have hoped, 
 else numerous observers have been in 
 error.' 
 
 c Then they have been in error, in 
 very gross error. Every particle of intel- 
 lectual advancement here has to be got 
 at the sword's point, for every attribute of 
 our existence wars against it to the death. 
 You have said that my circumstances are 
 peculiar, but I assure you they are not. 
 These Arcadian spots are saturated with 
 such sordid elements.'
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 265 
 
 4 But poverty is an evil anywhere,' com- 
 mented Rowe, — and Barbara thought of 
 Diall's letter. 
 
 ' It is, I know ; a horrible evil ; but it 
 is not of poverty, as such, that I speak. It 
 is the poverty of the soul that blights us. 
 I have seen a mother killed by it,' con- 
 tinued Barbara, with passionate utterance, 
 her glowing eyes fixed upon the damson 
 hills in the west — ' killed by mere stress 
 of foul and damning circumstance. Mere 
 material poverty would never have killed 
 her, — in fact, she had practically none of 
 it to encounter ; but against starvation of 
 the intellect she was not strong enough to 
 battle. When I awoke to consciousness 
 the evil was accomplished, else — else it — 
 should have been different.' 
 
 Rowe kept his eyes turned to the ground ;
 
 266 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 but a glance was not necessary to read the 
 expression of her features. 
 
 c You don't know the lot of women in a 
 position like ours, Mr. Rowe,' continued 
 Barbara, after a brief silence which she 
 had felt to be necessary. l If we are by 
 constitution mere beasts of burden it is well 
 with us ; but if we have aspirations beyond 
 this we may curse the hour that we were 
 born. We are born to precisely the same 
 outlook as that calf in the yard there, with 
 the additional advantage of being con- 
 scious of the prospect. Some of us are 
 sold for veal ; some of us are — are — say 
 kept for the dairy. Seek for more at our 
 peril. Is that a desirable outcome of your 
 pastoral existence ?' 
 
 Rowe was chivalrous enough to admit 
 that perhaps it was not ; but he could not
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 267 
 
 resolve the ardour of his companion into 
 a smile. She had gone farther than she 
 intended, so that retreat was no longer 
 possible. 
 
 c Perhaps not.' she muttered. c Your 
 theories, Mr. Rowe, quietly ignore the 
 intellect. I suppose you don't think it 
 necessary to take that quantity into con- 
 sideration in your estimate of us. You 
 grant us emotion to excess, if I may take 
 the liberty of saying so, — but the other 
 you prefer absent.' 
 
 c Xow you mention it, I suppose I do. 
 I prefer the emotional in women.' 
 
 4 And is it reasonable ?' 
 
 c I think so. The world requires its 
 leavening property.' 
 
 1 The world — of men, I presume you mean. 
 For that, then, we are to be sacrificed?'
 
 268 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 c I perceive you are an advocate of 
 emancipation, Miss Winnett.' 
 
 ' If you use the word in any special 
 sense, I don't fully understand it,' said 
 Barbara. ' I am certainly an advocate of 
 the cultivation of the human soul in what- 
 ever sexual form it may chance to he 
 embodied.' 
 
 c But would you not cultivate it with a 
 view to the special requirements of the 
 sexual form in which it may chance to be 
 embodied?' 
 
 c I am not aware that sexual form im- 
 poses any distinctive requirements.' 
 
 ■ Ho ! I was never able to appreciate 
 the antics of — of, say a trained canary.' 
 
 c Nor I. But does its own instinct lead 
 it towards such accomplishments ? The 
 instance is on my side, not on yours, ^ou
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 269 
 
 have just admitted that you want to train 
 us, — in the same spirit you train canaries. 
 You do not consider that their natural 
 song is sufficiently leavening.' 
 
 c You are severe, Miss AVinnett,' re- 
 marked Rowe, laughing. 
 
 4 Xo more than just,' said she, and at 
 last joined in the laughter. 
 
 This conversation rankled in Rowe's 
 mind, although it intensified his feeling of 
 kindliness towards the prompter of it. 
 The reference to her mother interested 
 him, and the intensity of feeling displayed 
 gave him satisfaction. It made him some- 
 what less inclined for his theoretic read- 
 ing, and more disposed to practical inves- 
 tigation. In this spirit he strolled the 
 following: morning to the Downs. It was
 
 270 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 fine and frosty, and the walk through the 
 woods inspirited him. 
 
 He was not sorry to find the little 
 cripple alone, — sewing, sewing, through 
 the hours of solitude, but without so 
 much as a passing cloud even to darken 
 her beautiful features. Eulalie tried to 
 repress a joyous look as he entered to her 
 summons, and tried also to still the 
 throbbing of her heart as he addressed 
 her. Rowe assumed the customary pater- 
 nal attitude, as he carelessly examined 
 the various articles in the cottage. Here 
 he could feel again at once, undisturbed, the 
 calm spirit of his dreams, — banish by its 
 aid the discomfiting reflections of Barbara. 
 
 c Do you never leave the boundaries of 
 your cottage, Eulalie?' 
 
 Nobody else ever gave her that full
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 271 
 
 sweetness of her name, and secretly she 
 rejoiced at it. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, sir, I went to church yes- 
 terday.' 
 
 i I am afraid I wasn't there to see,' he 
 replied, with a sense of apology. c Is that 
 all the change you get ?' 
 
 1 I go out often in the wood when it's 
 dry.' 
 
 c Yes, but you don't care about having 
 company, I mean. You don't wish to get 
 into the noise of many people.' 
 
 1 No, sir.' 
 
 1 You have always lived in this cottage, 
 I suppose.' 
 
 ' Ever since we had to leave our farm; 
 that was in my grandfather's time. My 
 father was a boy ; but when he was old 
 enough Squire Eastwood made him the
 
 272 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 woodman here, and he used to work some- 
 times too for Master Winnett. I was ten 
 years old when he was killed, but I can 
 remember him as a very silent man.' 
 
 'Was he a student? Did he read 
 much?' 
 
 L Oh, no, sir. Quite a homespun man 
 he was. I have seen him sit from tea to 
 bed-time with his eyes on the fire, and 
 never move or speak a word. He must 
 have been thinking about something, 
 but what it was nobody ever knew. 
 Mother supposed that it was religion, for 
 sometimes he had gloomy thoughts about 
 it.' 
 
 c Perhaps he dozed,' suggested Rowe, 
 jocularly, thinking of a bucolic friend of 
 his. 
 
 4 No, sir, it wasn't that. Mother says
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 273 
 
 lie slept very little in his late years, even 
 in the night. He used to put one of the 
 old books on his knees sometimes, and, 
 being a child, I wondered why he didn't 
 read it; but I never asked him, for we were 
 very shy with him.' 
 
 ' What old books had he ?' 
 
 The girl indicated a little heap on an 
 old mahogany dresser against the wall, 
 and Rowe walked across to examine them. 
 He smiled and muttered as he read the 
 titles. They were mostly theological or 
 devotional, but not exclusively. In addi- 
 tion he read c Wonders of Elora,' Cuvier's 
 4 Animal Kingdom,' Johnson's Works, vol. 
 vii., Barclay's Dictionary, Josephus, vol. 
 iv. 
 
 c And Saint-Pierre,' he added, with sur- 
 prise, pulling a volume out from the 
 
 VOL. I. t
 
 274 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 bottom of the pile. c " Studies of Nature." 
 A translation, I see. Did you ever read 
 it, Eulalie ?' 
 
 1 Yes, sir; two or three times.' 
 ' " Josh Medlicott his book," ' said Rowe, 
 aloud, reading the faded scrawl upon the 
 fly-leaf. ' Who was that ? Your grand- 
 father. That was the one that lost the 
 farm, then. " To B. W. 150, making in 
 all 1050," ' continued Rowe, smiling. 
 i These old notes always amuse me. They 
 meant something very important, I expect, 
 in their day. Dead for ever now.' 
 
 c That is the very note that Mr. Jeph- 
 cott copied out so carefully the other day,' 
 remarked the girl. c It seemed to delight 
 him, for he takes great interest in all those 
 ancient things. He says that he is writing 
 a history of Murcott parish.'
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 275 
 
 ' H'm. Was it from these books that 
 you got a taste for reading?' continued 
 Rowe, dipping into the volume which he 
 held. ' Why, you are quite a scholar. I 
 can lend you some more books if you like. 
 1 have got a few down here.' 
 
 Eulalie's countenance was instantly 
 aglow. Perhaps she had dreamed of such 
 a proposal, for Miriam had told her of the 
 box. 
 
 L It is a marvellous relief to have dis- 
 covered such a life as yours,' continued 
 Eowe, replacing the volume on the dresser. 
 c I don't want to natter you, for it isn't 
 your fault,' he added, less ardently, c but 
 queens may envy you. It is the life at 
 which Ave ought all to aim. I wish you 
 would let me know the secret, Eulalie.' 
 
 She freely presented her face to his 
 
 t2
 
 276 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 gaze, and modestly disclaimed all know- 
 ledge of any particular specific. 
 
 c I don't think you would have been like 
 it if your grandfather had not lost his 
 property, so that, at least, is a consolation. 
 Miss Winnett is very different, for instance.' 
 
 The girl's heart leaped madly at this. 
 She loved Barbara, if out of nothing but 
 mere gratitude ; but of late days she had 
 trembled at the thought of her. Her posi- 
 tion was so different, her everything was 
 so different, — above all, she was not a crip- 
 ple. The gossip Miriam, moreover, had 
 brought all news to her. For hours they 
 were alone together, she said, — he stayed 
 up till midnight to receive her. It had 
 been right and natural; but Eulalie had 
 trembled at it. 
 
 ' Don't tell her that I say so,' he went
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 277 
 
 on, goocl-humoureclly, ' but you have very 
 many lessons to teach her. A mere glance 
 of your eye demolishes every atom of her 
 philosophy. They ought to make you the 
 village schoolmistress. With such a mis- 
 tress in every village in the kingdom, the 
 country would, in a generation, be trans- 
 formed.' 
 
 With this thought Rowe launched into 
 an enthusiastic analysis of the proposition. 
 The girl hung upon his lips, feeling the 
 whole of his dissertation to be but a glow- 
 ing eulogy of herself and her mode of life. 
 Her crippled, solitary existence, which it 
 Avas not in human nature to have been at 
 all times fully content with, was now sud- 
 denly apotheosized in her hearing, and by 
 the lips of such a — at any rate, of such 
 an obviously learned gentleman as this
 
 278 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 was. Rowe evidently took his rise in the 
 gospel according to Jean Jacques, and from 
 this he flowed pleasantly at will through 
 flowery meadows of mingled sentiment and 
 idyllic education. 
 
 c To women, of course, belongs the edu- 
 cation of the world,' with placid assurance 
 he brought his harangue to a conclusion, 
 as he gazed through the cottage window, 
 c and from this source must they obtain 
 their inspiration. Nature is the keystone 
 to every form of artistic cultivation, and 
 for what purpose have missionary artists 
 been revealing through the centuries the 
 divine secrets of a pastoral possibility ? If 
 the country does not know the blessedness 
 of its existence, it ought to be taught it, 
 and to such hands as yours, Eulalie, the 
 task ought to be entrusted.'
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 279 
 
 It was hardly to be expected that the 
 glowing temperament of this enthusiast 
 should stay to consider whether the main 
 element in the charm of his simple-minded 
 hearer lay not exactly in her unconscious- 
 ness of her philosophical position. Tf she 
 had acquired her experience as the result 
 of conscious teaching or inquiry, might not 
 the result have been something different, 
 — something possibly too much like this 
 extremely conscious expositor himself? 
 
 Eulalie gathered, at any rate, the spirit 
 of his doctrine, and when his unquestion- 
 ably eloquent flow of words came to an 
 end, and he turned abruptly round with a 
 jocular apology, she felt as though a cloud 
 had suddenly obscured the sun. He knew 
 that he had been carried away by his 
 enthusiasm, and when he viewed the full
 
 280 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 extent of his audience, he could have 
 laughed at the apparent incongruity, and 
 have wished that his periods could have 
 fallen upon ears to which their convincing 
 harmony was more requisite. 
 
 After a few minutes' less weighty collo- 
 quy, Rowe took his departure, and the 
 girl was left to her prosaic occupation. 
 But it was some time before she felt able 
 to resume her needle. She rose stealthily, 
 and watched the man cross over to the 
 brook-side, and walk leisurely forward 
 with his eye upon the water. At the 
 corner he was hidden from her view, but 
 still she stood by the window, gazing. She 
 stroked a downy geranium leaf between 
 her fingers, then removed one that was 
 withered, — it was a few minutes later that 
 she sat down.
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 281 
 
 Rowe sauntered on, smiting the dry 
 reeds with his stick as he proceeded, and 
 watching the numberless little whirlpools 
 in the muddy, swollen brook as they went 
 eddying past him. He had had no motive 
 in coming along here, but now that he 
 stood by the notorious withy, he sat down 
 upon it, and turned his thoughts to the 
 topics which it naturally suggested. He 
 pieced the bits of family history which he 
 had gathered since his sojourn here, and 
 found the resulting picture anything but 
 a harmonious one. Could he honestly 
 argue that that spiritual little being in 
 the lone cottage yonder was the natural 
 outcome of such a series of circumstances? 
 Her father she had sufficiently character- 
 ized for him : her grandfather by report 
 had found refuge in this very water from
 
 282 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 the sordid problems which assailed him, — 
 her more remote ancestors had Clear- 
 ly he must away with that, if any particle 
 of faith in the theory was to remain to 
 him. 
 
 As a diversion he examined the structure 
 of the old tree beside him. Some age in 
 it was apparent, for in addition to an 
 imposing rotundity, for a tree of that 
 order, down the whole of one side was a 
 wide rift causing painful distortion. This 
 cavity had been piously filled by a rich 
 dark mould, in which sundry plants, nay, 
 bushes, had taken root. There was a 
 straggling bramble with tasteless black- 
 berries upon it, of which Rowe reverently 
 partook ; near what had been the pollard 
 crest was a goodly-sized hawthorn-bush in 
 vigorous growth ; of the numerous smaller
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 283 
 
 things the now crimson-leaved herb Robert, 
 with lingering blossoms, was the most 
 noticeable. 
 
 Rowe examined every specimen there 
 presented, and in the reflections to which 
 they gave rise he idly fingered the mould 
 in which the plants were rooted. It was 
 not mere earth, but a vegetable composi- 
 tion of natural decay, and in its extreme 
 softness was pleasant to the touch. Pres- 
 ently he burrowed with his fingers, as he 
 had often done upon the sands, and buried 
 his hand in the depth of the tree's heart. 
 Then he turned himself into a mole, and 
 thrust his fingers forward under cover. 
 He had not proceeded many inches before 
 his hand was checked by something solid. 
 Fancying it a stone, he groped round it, 
 and then thrust upwards the incumbrance.
 
 284 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 Whatever it might be it was not a stone, 
 that was immediately apparent. He had 
 taken it up for inspection, when a footstep 
 at hand disturbed him. Turning, he faced 
 the old antiquary, Jephcott. 
 
 c You have found something, Mr. Rowe/ 
 he exclaimed, with undisguised eagerness. 
 1 I was just coming for the purpose ; it has 
 been on my mind for days.' 
 
 Rowe was taken aback, inclined to be 
 amused at his earnestness, then for a 
 moment doubted the old man's honesty. 
 
 c I am afraid you will be disappointed, 
 Mr. Jephcott. It has hardly the appear- 
 ance of treasure-trove.' 
 
 c Not bullion, but perhaps something 
 equally precious,' continued the old man, 
 showing impatience at Rowe's apparent 
 indifference. c It ought to have occurred
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 285 
 
 to me sooner, — tah ! tali ! — but — but I am 
 
 glad it is you. No gossip — no Yes, 
 
 it is parchment,' shrieked he, gripping the 
 leaf which Rowe had now partially un- 
 folded. c It is the clue, sir; it is the link 
 I have wanted. It explains his allusion, — 
 yet I once thought he was mad.' 
 
 The object found proved to be a small 
 sheet of parchment, folded and then rolled 
 into a solid piece some three inches long, 
 tied round with a string. Howe's curiosity 
 was now fully awakened, and he became 
 eager enough even to satisfy his com- 
 panion. The outside was stained to a 
 light reddish-brown hue, but as it was 
 unfolded the natural colour of parchment 
 was perceptible. 
 
 c But this can't be very old, Mr. Jeph- 
 cott,' suggested Rowe, sceptically.
 
 286 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 ' Some thirty years, I should say ; not 
 more. But that would accord. It would 
 explain his allusion.' 
 
 Tremulously the old man drew out a 
 spectacle-case, and donned his glasses. He 
 then glanced nervously around. 
 
 ' Not a word of this, Mr. Rowe.' 
 
 ' But this does not belong to us. We 
 must restore it to the owners.' 
 
 ' Bah, bah ! Intrinsically it is worth- 
 less, but as affecting a point of curiosity, — 
 historical investigation I may call it, — it is 
 invaluable.' 
 
 Rowe again suspected the old fellow. 
 In some respects he had shown himself a 
 disinterested antiquary ; but, after all, he 
 was, by calling, a second-hand dealer, — a 
 race of men not renowned for scrupulosity. 
 
 ' I can be no party to '
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 287 
 
 c Must you insult me, sir?' cried Jeph- 
 cott, irately. ' Am I a hedge-row robber ? 
 You know nothing of the issue. Let me 
 examine it. Let me have ' 
 
 Rowe drew back the bit of parchment. 
 
 ' Only upon your undertaking to return 
 it to me uninjured." 
 
 c Damn it, sir, what do you take me for? 
 I am Samuel Jephcott of Knapstone, a 
 name not without honour before you, sir, 
 were in the nursery. But excuse me,' he 
 added, more placidly, c I am irritable, and 
 you, Mr. Rowe, are more than irritating. 
 Let me examine it in your hands. We 
 must be amicable in this matter. You 
 will see that I am justified. ' 
 
 Rowe made place on the tree beside him, 
 and the old man sat down. With heads 
 together they pored over the document.
 
 288 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 To Rowe it was for the* most part illegible; 
 for, owing to the clamp, the ink from one 
 line had been impressed upon another, 
 obscuring the words written upon both. 
 Jephcott read it easily. At the head, in 
 old English characters, were the words : 
 %\t Jflghtg Poll. 
 Thus much Rowe could read, but for the 
 rest he was dependent upon his companion. 
 The antiquary read in a whisper, hastily, 
 with a pause occasionally where the writ- 
 ing was exceptionally indistinct. 
 
 'I, Jonathan Medlicott, pray for the abso- 
 lution of God, Amen. This is the curse that 
 goeth forth over the face of the whole earth. 
 Howl fir-tree, for the cedar is fallen, because 
 the mighty are spoiled: howl, ye oaks of 
 Bashan, for the forest of the vintage is come 
 down .... I, J. M., have looked upon mur- 
 der and have held my peace. The secrets of 
 the heart shall be revealed. To God I now 
 reveal them. Give ear, Lord, and grant
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 289 
 
 Thy absolution. Thou knowest I was but a 
 boy. Thou knowest that I, only I, saw the 
 blow. He that had been his friend, even 
 B. W., smote him, him, the old man, my father. 
 With ne'er a sound he fell backwards in the 
 brook, and I ran to hide in the wood. Thou 
 sawest it, Lord, and Thou knowest the heart. 
 Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord. 
 Amen, amen.' 
 
 'Is that all?' said Rowe. 'Is it what 
 you expected ?' 
 
 ' It confirms my conjecture. For some 
 time I have felt convinced of this.' 
 
 ' It was generally supposed to be suicide. 
 What made you doubt the conclusion?' 
 
 ' It was proclaimed suicide at the in- 
 quest, because there was no witness, and 
 circumstances pointed to it. I have 
 since acquired some fragments of evidence, 
 circumstantial merely, but my conclusion 
 was really based upon an estimate of 
 
 vol. i. u
 
 290 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 character. I have got, in the course of 
 prolonged investigation, a minute account 
 of the lives of these two men, Mecllicott and 
 Winnett, and have lately obtained a ray 
 of light wholly unexpected. It is a tale 
 of hell,' observed Mr. Jephcott, with some 
 emphasis. c Happily it is now only of 
 abstract interest, and so needs no reviving. 
 It would cause unspeakable distress to two 
 families, and on this account, Mr. Rowe, 
 wholly on this account, I urge you to 
 secrecy.' 
 
 c I agree entirely to your proposition,' 
 assented Rowe. c I see that this document 
 is only of abstract interest, as you say, 
 and hope you will accept it as an addition 
 to your local collections. But,' he added, 
 with a smile, c human nature is strong. I 
 am a perfect stranger to everybody con-
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 291 
 
 cerned in the story, therefore may I also 
 hope that you will appease my curiosity 
 more fully?' 
 
 ' You are fully entitled to it, sir,' was 
 the antiquary's reply, given with all the 
 dignity of utterance. c I regret to say that 
 my time this morning is limited. Would 
 it be unwarrantably presumptuous in me 
 to beg an appointment at my house in 
 Knapstone ? You attend the market there 
 sometimes, doubtless ?' 
 
 c I should be delighted. Say Monday 
 evening, if convenient to you. Then we 
 will fix it so. You are driving ?' 
 
 c My trap is in the trench.' 
 
 The old man pocketed the document, and 
 they walked forward in amicable converse. 
 
 Rowe returned towards the Pool Farm 
 in pensive mood. He could not but muse 
 
 u2
 
 292 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 upon the ugly illustration he had received 
 of the influence of the commercial leaven 
 upon the agricultural temperament, for 
 this, he could not doubt, was at the bottom 
 of this hidden tragedy. That infernal 
 cash was the canker at the heart of his 
 ideal. Where that existed, the natural in- 
 fluence was not omnipotent ; removed, as 
 in the case of Eulalie, the very highest 
 incarnation was the inevitable result. His 
 general observation of the other inhabitants 
 seemed to confirm the impression. Those 
 most susceptible to the idyllic charm were 
 those most ignorant of cash ideals. 
 
 His reflections brought him to the village 
 road. At his cottage-gate stood old Joseph 
 Hawker, an out-worn labourer of genial 
 inclinations, with whom Rowe occasionally 
 talked. The old man was permitted space
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 293 
 
 under the roof of a married daughter, an 
 -exceptional arrangement, so that hence- 
 forth he trod the primrose path to the final 
 shelter of the parish graveyard. Rowe 
 stopped to-day, for he needed Joseph's 
 homely reflections to counteract his own 
 less sunny ones. 
 
 1 Most beautiful day that's certain, sir,' 
 said Joseph, bowing as he also touched 
 the brim of his hat : ' for the time o' year, 
 however,' he added, straightening himself. 
 
 c I always admire your cottage, Master 
 Hawker,' observed Rowe, looking at the 
 bright moss which illumined the roof of 
 thatch. ' The prettiest in the village, I 
 think.' 
 
 c So a-many do say, sir. But it be like 
 some of we, I judges, have seen its best 
 days. Mr. Jones, as was parson here a
 
 294 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 time back, were quite a man for the draw- 
 ing, quite so, and lie have drawn this 
 house times, painted it as well, however. 
 Made a most uncommon picture of it an' 
 all. As good a man as med be, was Mr. 
 Jones. Good to his neighbours always. 
 A merry man an' all, quite, but there was 
 practice in his jokes,' added the old man, 
 solemnly, ' that's the thing.' 
 
 c Gave a good deal away, I expect,' 
 suggested Rowe, in the humour for a good 
 gossip. 
 
 c No man more, sir. But ur was free in 
 his speech, too, like you yourself, sir, beg- 
 ging your pardon. They as have education 
 and means and that, most in common, have 
 no correspondence with we ; oh, no ! It do 
 seem to me a vain notion at last, but they've 
 a supposition as they be superior to the
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 295 
 
 like of we. That 'ull not hold at the last 
 day, I count. But Mr. Jones were an- 
 other guess sort of a man, quite. I worked 
 the road, then ' 
 
 Rowe started. A child had cried in the 
 cottage, and a woman's voice was instantly 
 raised in such volubility of grossest objur- 
 gation as to disconcert the hearer, and he 
 looked hurriedly at his watch. 
 
 c You must excuse me, Joseph. I'll 
 come for the story at another time. Good- 
 bye.' 
 
 At dinner old Winnett was in exuberant 
 spirits, — to what cause attributable did 
 not transpire, — and he solicitously rallied 
 his pupil upon his apparent gloom. It 
 was almost impossible for the farmer to 
 conceive of taciturnity and ill-humour
 
 296 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 otherwise than as a consequence of pecuni- 
 ary difficulties, so that it is possible he felt 
 more than a mere disinterested concern 
 in Rowe's spiritual state. He had got 
 the additional thirty pounds without 
 difficulty, it was true, but it is hardly 
 likely that hopes found appreciable pause 
 there. 
 
 Even Barbara was unpleasantly con- 
 scious of Rowe's exceptional behaviour. 
 She concluded that such quality of dejec- 
 tion she had not hitherto discerned in him; 
 and like her father, though doubtless from 
 a motive of different texture, she regarded 
 it uneasily. Several things combined to 
 promote a hope in her that the pupil 
 would be content for some time with them. 
 His mere presence naturally had wrought 
 a salutary change in the atmosphere of
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 297 
 
 the dwelling, and from her conversation 
 with him Barbara was conscious of an 
 exhilarating confirmation of her own 
 opinions. Had he been of one mind with 
 her, the effect would no doubt have been 
 less convincing, for the amicable antago- 
 nism stirred her to a fundamental scrutiny 
 in which mere ardent acquiescence would 
 have been wanting. 
 
 When at length Rowe did make some 
 effort to arouse himself, the result was 
 anything but reassuring to the other two. 
 
 L You will be going to Knapstone on 
 Monday, Miss Winnett? Do you mind 
 my going with you?' 
 
 Barbara would of course be delighted. 
 
 ' I met that curious old antiquary Jeph- 
 cott again this morning,' he went on, not 
 seeino; the change on Bezaleel's visage.
 
 298 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 4 An interesting old fellow. He offered to 
 show me some of his curiosities if ' 
 
 c Have that old scoundrel ' ejacu- 
 lated the farmer; but a glance from his 
 daughter checked him. 
 
 Rowe's scruples revived. 
 
 c Is he really an old scoundrel, then ? 
 I had my fears. I suppose it is only a 
 trick to get me to buy something,' added 
 he, with a laugh. 
 
 ' No, no, Mr. Rowe,' said Barbara, quick- 
 ly ; 'he is an honourable man. My father 
 has prejudices.' 
 
 c He be uncommon fond of prying into 
 other folks' affairs, however,' grumbled the 
 elder, as the young lady went on with a 
 vivacious and half-humorous characteriza- 
 tion of her old ally. 
 
 For the rest of the time they were at
 
 THE WITHY SPEAKS. 299 
 
 table, the conversation was confined to the 
 younger two. Bezaleel was effectually 
 annihilated, and he sought the earliest op- 
 portunity of escaping from their company. 
 
 ' Mr. Jephcott is really to be trusted, 
 then?' asked Rowe, in conclusion. 
 
 c Undoubtedly,' asserted Barbara. c He 
 is a local antiquary of repute. And,' she 
 added, jocularly, c I have no doubt he can 
 tell you all the secrets of the withy, if you 
 are still curious about them.' 
 
 ' I shall certainly ask him,' returned 
 Rowe.
 
 300 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 Nobody could possess the faculty of elud- 
 ing the inevitable in a more highly de- 
 veloped form than Bezaleel Winnett. It 
 was as much a family inheritance as the 
 Pool Farm itself, and one which had been 
 very much more systematically cultivated. 
 As Bezaleel himself, through a couple of 
 generations, had been refining the com- 
 paratively crude germ which his ancestors 
 had passed on to him, it is to be supposed 
 that never before in the family annals had
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 301 
 
 the trait reached such a state of intricate 
 perfection as at the time of which I speak. 
 As a matter of absolute fact, no possessor 
 of the Pool Farm had at any moment since 
 the second year of Queen Anne been in a 
 positively solvent condition. There had 
 been varying depths of insolvency ; but no 
 Winnett since that year, whether of the 
 Bezaleels or the Lionels (these two names 
 comprised the race), had he had the fool- 
 hardiness to make out a balance-sheet, 
 would have found his assets equal to his 
 liabilities. Xot one of them had been 
 ridiculous enough to make the experiment, 
 — not even the George-the-Third Lionel, 
 who was regarded as the genius, the finan- 
 cial bulwark of the family, — so that none 
 had suspected the predicament, although 
 a few had felt the inconvenience arising
 
 302 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 from it. The average representative had 
 been born, had lived and died in snch a 
 state of apparent competence as seemed 
 commensurate to the nominal fee-simple 
 of a few hundred acres of remunerative 
 farm-land. 
 
 The present holder of the acres had 
 lived neither more nor less wisely than 
 many of his ancestors, but in time he had 
 lived later. That was the whole of the 
 difference, and from it arose the greater 
 complexity of his problems. 
 
 During prosperous years he had eluded 
 them well enough, so as indeed to be 
 scarcely conscious of their existence ; but 
 since the progress of the seventies the 
 prospect had altered. It was in 1877 that 
 his wife Ruby had died, and that event 
 .seemed to have closed finally the old 
 period when credit was supreme. The
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 303 
 
 years of his widowerhood constituted the 
 new and decadent era, — the era of net 
 cash. 
 
 To this man had been reserved the dis- 
 tinction of confronting a problem left for 
 some two centuries in abeyance. It af- 
 fected, as he well knew, the very existence 
 of his family ; for, despite his agility in 
 elusion, Bezaleel had at last got the mea- 
 sure of that inevitable which loomed before. 
 His daughter Barbara had not, else the 
 course of events might have been differ- 
 ent. Barbara's temperament detested elu- 
 sion. Instant conflict was her creed. 
 
 The incident which centred in the violin 
 had sufficiently aroused her, but the ac- 
 cession of Rowe's payment, which had 
 come at the very moment of the discovery, 
 had quieted her alarm. That, she con- 
 sidered, would adecp,iately counteract tern-
 
 304 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 porary difficulties, and on this account she 
 had gladly enough abandoned the contem- 
 plated engagement with her father. As it 
 happened, Barbara's premises were radi- 
 cally unsound, seeing not only the par- 
 ticular temperament which had to be taken 
 into the consideration, but also the degree 
 of derangement in her father's affairs. Not 
 knowing the comprehensive nature of the 
 entanglement, she over-estimated the re- 
 straining power of an instinctive sensi- 
 bility. Bezaleel had completely overcome 
 such generous scruples as would at one 
 time have exercised this moral power of 
 control. Of any means would he now 
 avail himself, provided only they could 
 serve to protract the day to clay struggle 
 for elusion. 
 
 Such condition of a man's affairs cannot
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 305 
 
 be hidden from a commercial community. 
 A traditional pecuniary instability was, of 
 course, a Winnett's birthright, and had 
 consequently come to be regarded with 
 traditional confidence corresponding by his 
 neighbours, for nobody could declare that 
 the wolf had actually at any time been 
 seen. Lately, however, more urgent ru- 
 mour had gone forth, and it had been 
 speedily met by an unexpected impor- 
 tunity. In such progressive era doubtless 
 the man's age weighed heavily against 
 him. Had there been a younger element 
 at his command, without question the 
 struggle could still have been quite indefi- 
 nitely protracted. 
 
 In constant need of small sums of ready 
 cash, Winnett met them by all sorts of 
 petty expedient. Jephcott, in the fulness 
 
 vol. i. x
 
 306 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 of his information and the maturity of his 
 judgment, had warned Barbara of the in- 
 evitable course of events ; but her pride 
 had restrained her from accepting it. The 
 old man could therefore afford to smile at 
 the verification of his prophecy, and await 
 the upshot with interest. Since the violin 
 transaction, Bezaleel had visited the old 
 dealer twice, the last occasion being only 
 the day before the latter's meeting with 
 Rowe at the withy. That meeting, in fact, 
 had been a direct result of the visit ; for 
 amongst the articles disposed of by Win- 
 nett there had been two or three old books 
 from which the antiquary had obtained 
 information deemed by himself of the first 
 importance. 
 
 On the day appointed, Barbara and 
 Rowe drove to Knapstone together. The 
 mere expedient of an engagement with Mr.
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 6K) I 
 
 Jephcott did not screen from Barbara the 
 real object of Rowe's jonrney. That, she 
 fully understood, was nothing more nor 
 less than a piece of espionage on herself, 
 on certain doings of her own not wholly 
 intelligible to the investigator. Conscious 
 at first of a momentary resentment, she 
 had speedily resolved the affair into a mat- 
 ter of diversion. With the progress of 
 their intercourse, Barbara grew conscious 
 of a mischievous satisfaction in mystifying, 
 even slightly horrifying, her transcendental 
 acquaintance. 
 
 1 1 shall be late, Mr. Rowe,' she re- 
 marked, as they parted at the door of Mr. 
 Jephcott's establishment, c At the " Swan," 
 soon after eleven.' 
 
 Rowe assented, and watched her dis- 
 appear round the corner by the lamp-post 
 
 x 2
 
 308 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 before entering the shop. It was dark T 
 and perhaps he felt the impulse to follow 
 her ; but, if so, the feeling was momentary. 
 The more honourable instinct prevailed. 
 
 Upon mentioning his name, Rowe was 
 received as an expected guest, and ushered 
 through the shop to the diminutive parlour 
 in which Barbara had had her first inter- 
 view with the antiquary. He himself was 
 not there, but the old lady promised his 
 speedy return. In the meantime, would 
 the visitor make himself as comfortable as 
 might be. Rowe took up the newspaper 
 which lay in the seat of the antique arm- 
 chair, and deposited himself in its place. 
 
 When alone, he glanced round the apart- 
 ment with interest. All the furniture in 
 it was massive and old, and what there 
 was of ornament favoured the grotesque.
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 309 
 
 A lamp was alight upon the table, and tea- 
 things laid there for two. Rowe was no 
 connoisseur in china, but he opined that 
 the specimens before him were ancient. 
 He handled a cup to examine it, and saw 
 in outline beneath a small figure of a 
 crown. He had but just replaced it when 
 he was joined by his venerable host. 
 
 Courteous greeting was exchanged, and 
 they talked of some general news in the 
 paper. In the course of it tea was brought 
 in by Mrs. Jephcott in person, who moved 
 with a notable silence, and afterwards, 
 without any word, withdrew. 
 
 * Miss Winnett came in with you?' said 
 the old man, as they became seated. ' Ha! 
 singular young lady. You said, I think, 
 that you were completely a stranger to the 
 family?'
 
 310 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 'Entirely so;' and Rowe proceeded to 
 narrate the manner of his introduction to 
 the Pool Farm. 
 
 c Yon did not chance to be acquainted 
 with a Mr. Rowe who was a solicitor in 
 Millington ?' 
 
 ' My father, Mr. Jephcott. Did he ever 
 quarrel with you upon the Roman stations?' 
 
 ' Really so ! For some years I had the 
 honour of his correspondence. This is 
 indeed an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Rowe. 
 I see that you have inherited some of the 
 paternal ' 
 
 Rowe hastened to disclaim. Neverthe- 
 less, the discovery put the wary old gen- 
 tleman at his ease, and he immediately 
 assumed a more affable cordiality. 
 
 When the table was cleared, the visitor 
 noted that the tea-pot was re-filled, and
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 311 
 
 that, with the antiquary's cup, placed upon 
 a side-table. The old man, in the mean- 
 time, had unlocked the door of a richly- 
 carved, dark oak cabinet, and was pro- 
 ducing some bundles of papers tied round 
 the middle with tape. 
 
 c First of all, Mr. Rowe, the business of 
 the evening,' said Jephcott, gravel) 7 , as he 
 placed himself in the chair. ' The tale is 
 not a long one, but it is devilish, devilish. 
 I have naturally, in the course of my 
 antiquarian investigations, been frequently 
 led to speculate upon the numberless inci- 
 dents of injustice or positive crime which 
 lie concealed in a few generations of 
 every family history, but it has never 
 been my lot to substantiate so completely 
 and irrefragably a diabolical tragedy of 
 the nature of this one. It is seldom that
 
 312 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 they escape human justice, fortunately. 
 Ever since I took in hand the parish of 
 Murcott, I have been peculiarly interested 
 in the families of Medlicott and Winnett. 
 They represent a phase becoming rapidly 
 extinct in the country, at least in any- 
 thing like its pristine quality, and I have 
 followed very closely the course of their 
 history. For your better understanding, I 
 will sketch it briefly.' 
 
 Hereupon Mr. Jephcott opened one 
 bundle of papers and launched into an 
 elaborate genealogical dissertation upon 
 the families in question, incorporating 
 extracts from deeds, parish registers, 
 churchwardens' accounts, manor court 
 rolls, coroners' inquisitions, graveyard 
 inscriptions, and from other documentary 
 sources at the service of an indefatigable
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 616 
 
 local antiquary. Despite the somewhat 
 bombastic utterance of the worthy en- 
 thusiast, Rowe soon felt a very genuine 
 interest in his revelations, for the man 
 was no mere dryasdust investigator. He 
 had a keen eye for the human essentials, 
 and a pronounced faculty of investing 
 them with life. Here the record of a 
 petty law-suit would give an opportunity 
 for a must vivid glimpse of a past day s 
 doings in that deep agricultural seclusion ; 
 and there a malicious comment of a rival 
 churchwarden for the resuscitating a racy 
 bit of the bucolic character. But on the 
 whole the rival families had, as it seemed, 
 been neighbourly, and when Mr. Jephcott 
 had brought them down to the penulti- 
 mate generation they were distinctly 
 friends.
 
 314 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 ' That was Joshua Mecllicott the grand- 
 father of the present girls, and Bezaleel 
 Winnett the great-grandfather of Barbara,' 
 he said. ' They were men of wholly op- 
 posite temperament, but equally lax in 
 pecuniary transactions. The curse of 
 Medlicott was his methodism, the curse of 
 Winnett his sensuality. The Winnetts, as 
 I have told you, were always wanting 
 cash ; the Medlicotts up to this time seem 
 to have been in a satisfactory position. 
 But Joshua could not attend to his busi- 
 ness as well as to his preaching; man} r 
 have done so, but he couldn't. The rest 
 is now clear. From numerous brief memo- 
 randa, which I have found in various old 
 books of the respective families, I find that 
 Winnett borrowed money extensively from 
 his neighbour at various times and in
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 315 
 
 varying amounts. I have a minute on 
 the fly-leaf of Prideaux' c Connection,' in 
 Winnett's own handwriting, which seems 
 to acknowledge a debt of twelve hundred 
 pounds, but I have good grounds for sup- 
 posing that the total at last even far ex- 
 ceeded this. There was evidently no legal 
 memorandum of the transactions, for in 
 the winding up of old Medlicott's affairs, — 
 found naturally in a hopelessly bankrupt 
 condition, — there is no mention of any 
 money due from Winnett. You see then 
 to what this tends, Mr. Rowe. Any other 
 conclusion seems impossible. Medlicott 
 must have demanded a repayment of the 
 money, and the other, knowing his inability 
 to raise it, clutches at this foul means of 
 self-preservation : he murders his creditor. 
 Can you otherwise construe it ?'
 
 ■dlb BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 c The construction you suggest is too 
 obvious,' admitted Rowe. c But was not 
 the boy Medlicott's behaviour rather 
 .strange ?' 
 
 1 It would appear so, but to me that is 
 easily intelligible. He was a child of his 
 father's old age, and. at that time only 
 fourteen years of age. The shock as it 
 were paralysed his very moderate intelli- 
 gence. All his life he appeared to me 
 more or less deficient in general parts. 
 Many thought him actually deranged, but 
 that I could not aver. It was this secret 
 which oppressed him, now I perceive, and 
 which doubtless urged him to his religious 
 extravagances. He held the most extra- 
 ordinary views upon perdition generally. 
 He has by now no doubt tested several 
 of them.'
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 317 
 
 There was a dryness of utterance in 
 Mr. Jephcott's last remark which led 
 Rowe to regard him closely, but the old 
 face appeared rigidly serious, far enough 
 from the faintest expression of humour. 
 
 Mr. Jephcott helped himself to another 
 cup of tea, and the talk proceeded upon 
 sundry points arising out of the foregoing 
 dissertation. Invariably they rambled on 
 to other more general topics, and time 
 passed pleasantly. 
 
 Rowe's position at the Pool Farm natur- 
 ally precluded speech upon the more 
 recent development of the Winnetts, and 
 there was no reference made to the pre- 
 sent representatives until the question of 
 supper arose. The visitor had more than 
 once hinted at a necessity for departure, 
 but had been easily over-ruled, and the
 
 318 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 gossip had gone forward. Whilst pressing 
 him once again, Mr. Jephcott permitted 
 himself an allusion. 
 
 ' You have no other engagement V 
 
 c Not at present,' replied Rowe, looking 
 at the clock on the chimney-piece. 
 
 The old man smiled. 
 
 1 You can't leave the " Swan " before 
 eleven. Singular freak. I don't fully un- 
 derstand it.' 
 
 Rowe was of course in the dark, but out 
 of consideration for Barbara pretended to 
 understand. He returned the smile and 
 shook his head. 
 
 When the visitor went, at about a 
 quarter to eleven, the two found them- 
 selves excellent friends. Rowe was him- 
 self by disposition so far unclassed as to 
 be able to regard his social intercourse 
 wholly from the point of view of its ab-
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 319 
 
 stract results. Thus judged, he found his 
 friendship with the second-hand dealer a 
 most gratifying acquisition, and the old 
 man's dim dent desire that it might not 
 necessarily end here met with cordial 
 reciprocation. 
 
 Rowe repaired to the Swan Hotel, at 
 which hostelry the vehicle had been left 
 as a concession by Barbara to the respec- 
 tability of her companion. AVhen alone, 
 she naturally put up at the house of her 
 engagement. Agreeable to promise, Bar- 
 bara appeared, and a few minutes later 
 the two drove off. 
 
 It was a raw night, and they drove in 
 the face of the south-east wind. Earth 
 and sky were without form and void, save 
 where the lamps' rays cut out a patch of 
 the naked, shivering trees and hedges
 
 320 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 which the}' passed by. For some distance 
 both were absorbed in contemplation. 
 The evening had supplied Rowe with 
 ample food for thought ; for the imagina- 
 tive side of him rather than for the ethical. 
 So strong was its hold upon him that he 
 found it difficult to converse with his com- 
 panion even when she began to show an 
 apparent inclination for doing so. Bar- 
 bara had onl} r made the effort as a matter 
 of necessity, and was glad enough to give 
 in. 
 
 It thus happened that scarce half-a- 
 dozen words were exchanged between 
 them on the whole of their homeward 
 journey. But Rowe had travelled far in 
 meditation, wandering imperceptibly from 
 the original sketching of romance. A 
 vision of the impressionable little glover
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 321 
 
 at the Downs had latterly assailed him, in 
 connection with the heavy wrong inflicted 
 upon her family. Justice seemed to hint 
 at some species of reparation, tardy though 
 it were, but to Rowe decision was not easy. 
 However, upon more mature consideration, 
 his conscience hardly acquiesced in this 
 suggested concealment of the facts, so far, 
 at least, as related to pecuniary injury. 
 He recalled how Barbara had once told 
 him that in the ordinary course of things 
 she ought to have been in the position of 
 the Medlicotts ; how would it strike her if 
 she were told that they also ought to be 
 in hers ? The next prompting was sinister, 
 did she not really know it ? The remarks 
 and the conduct of father and daughter, 
 now he thought of it, were by no means 
 inconsistent with a knowledge of the 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 crime. Did they not, indeed, gently hint 
 at the probability of such knowledge ? 
 But no, the next moment he rejected it. 
 To Barbara, at any rate, he could not im- 
 pute the thought. Her conduct, he felt 
 convinced, would have taken a course far 
 more decisive, not to say honourable. In 
 what direction his own right conduct lay 
 he found not so easy of determination, so 
 ultimately, according to his wont, he 
 deferred definite resolve. 
 
 Upon Barbara the second fulfilment of 
 her musical engagement had wrought but 
 little effect. There was no display of such 
 exhilaration as had marked her return upon 
 the former occasion. It was not until she 
 and Rowe had partaken of their repast 
 that she showed any inclination even for 
 ordinary discourse. When they rose from
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 323 
 
 the table she threw more wood on to the 
 fire, and Rowe laughed. 
 
 c You have no thoughts of bed, then, 
 Miss Winnett.' 
 
 1 No, I haven't. You don't mind sitting 
 up, surely.' 
 
 ' Nothing but a pleasure.' 
 
 And they drew their chairs forward. 
 
 1 I envy you men your pipes,' said Bar- 
 bara, interlacing her two hands round one 
 knee, and watching Rowe with a match. 
 • They are the only rational accompaniment 
 to conversation. We are not made to con- 
 verse, I suppose, so are not allowed to 
 smoke.' 
 
 1 The needle,' suggested Rowe, drily. 
 
 ' Stitch and talk ! Butchers' bills. What 
 are we allowed to do, I should like to 
 know ? Seriously, Mr. Rowe, suggest any 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 legitimate pursuit for a woman in my 
 position.' 
 
 Rowe reflected. 
 
 4 One I have just tried,' she went on, 
 1 and have abandoned it. No doubt you 
 would never have pronounced it legitimate. 
 I have tried to play to a public-house 
 assembly, but find it hardly congenial.' 
 
 A casual remark made to her, and meant 
 for jocularity, was in fact the disturbing 
 cause. 
 
 c I should think not,' returned the other, 
 unable to restrain a laugh. ' Is that really 
 what you have attempted?' 
 
 c It seems laughable and ignoble to 
 you,' said Barbara, gathering the firelight 
 glow into the dilated pupils of her eyes r 
 ' but would you jeer at a starving man who 
 snatched an unsavoury crust from the
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 325 
 
 ditch ? Larders and pastry-cooks there 
 are, but do they exist for him ? Does it 
 appease him to be assured that more 
 dainty morsels abound ?' 
 
 c I had no intention of jeering,' meekly 
 replied the other. 
 
 4 Have you ever been confronted by the 
 thought that you can live but once ?' Bar- 
 bara continued, still gazing at the fire. 
 ' Xot in the twilight spirit of conventional 
 warning or regret, but by a lightning 
 Hash upon the very sources of human 
 aspirations. Conscious for an instant of 
 the scope and meaning of this glorious 
 world, and with it of your own exclusion 
 from so much as a grasp of its meanest 
 fringe. It is not pleasant to have the 
 calendar thrust before you at such a 
 moment. You feel strongly tempted to
 
 326 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 do many things, which at the same time 
 you vaguely suspect might lead to future 
 regret. None the less so if you chance to 
 be a woman.' 
 
 ' My temperament is so wholly contrary 
 to this that I don't suppose I have ever 
 felt it. But is more freedom impossible 
 to you, Miss Winnett ? You are only out 
 of place. Women are now beginning to 
 take the world into their hands.' 
 
 c What women ? Where, and how ?' 
 
 RoAve mentioned many of the jDractical 
 employments in which women are now-a- 
 clays engaged. Barbara knew so little of 
 practical life that she listened with obvious 
 interest. 
 
 c But they have to be free to begin 
 with.' 
 
 A thought, which had occurred to Rowe 
 during the drive homewards, now ao-ain
 
 A CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 327 
 
 suddenly came to him. Would the infor- 
 mation which he held do anything to free 
 Barbara ? Might it not serve, not only to 
 remedy in some measure an injustice, but 
 also to benefit her? Before fully consider- 
 ing the consequences, he found himself 
 submitting an imaginary point of con* 
 science to his companion. Not perceiving 
 the connection she looked at him in 
 surprise. 
 
 L I once had my opinion asked as to 
 how far individual responsibility extends, 
 whether it is the duty of descendants to 
 repair injuries inflicted by their ancestors. 
 For instance, if I find that one of my 
 ancestors, two or three generations back, 
 defrauded a man of a sum of money, but 
 that the fact was not generally known r 
 wholly unknown to the present repre- 
 sentatives of the man injured, ought I to
 
 328 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 revive the matter, and repair the dead for- 
 gotten wrong ?' 
 
 c It would hardly admit of question in a 
 mind of average honesty.' 
 
 c Such was my impression. But that 
 was by the way. You were speaking of 
 the freedom of women.' 
 
 Again Barbara readily launched into the 
 conversation, and the clock was striking 
 three before they separated. 
 
 Even then rlowe had little inclination 
 for the pillow. Miss Winnett's decisive 
 attitude towards the case of conscience, 
 though only what he had expected, had 
 aggravated his indecision, and for some 
 time he regretted that he had not disclosed 
 the actual facts to her. He had no right 
 to withhold from her the satisfaction of a 
 good deed ; but inevitably the question, 
 was she able to offer the necessary repar-
 
 A CASE OF COX SCIENCE. 32$ 
 
 ation ? Might lie not add to her disquietude 
 by merely awakening her to the fact of this 
 inability? It ended in his resolving to 
 refer the whole to an entirely independent 
 judgment, and whose was more trustworthy 
 than that of his philosophic friend, Roger 
 Diall ? The decision come to. he wrote 
 forthwith. 
 
 In this consultation there was fortunately 
 no necessity for concealing anything, Rowe 
 therefore gave to his friend a lengthy 
 account of his interesting discovery, begin- 
 ning with the unearthing of the old 
 fanatic's document from the fallen with}'. 
 He enlarged upon the dispositions of the 
 various individuals affected by the dis- 
 covery, pointing out that the disclosure of 
 the actual tragedy was, of course, from 
 every point of view unnecessary, but what 
 about the debt ? Every detail which could
 
 330 BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS. 
 
 be in the least helpful to Diall in coming 
 to a decision was stated. 
 
 c This will interest you, I know,' con- 
 cluded Rowe, c and you will hardly be 
 surprised to hear that I am already sketch- 
 in 2 from it a work of fiction which shall, 
 I promise you, be sufficiently strong. 
 Help me to settle satisfactorily this prac- 
 tical question, and then I can get on with 
 it, You shall see the MS. as it proceeds. 
 AY rit e f o r th with . ' 
 
 Rowe re-read his letter in the daylight 
 of the following morning, and approved of 
 it. The same day it was posted. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN JHACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.