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He rose with a sudden rebelliousness, put on his hat and coat, and wentout of the house, pursuing his way along the glistening pavement whileeight o'clock was striking from St. Mary's tower, and the apprentices andshopmen were slamming up the shutters from end to end of the town. Intwo minutes only those shops which could boast of no attendant save themaster or the mistress remained with open eyes. These were ever somewhatless prompt to exclude customers than the others: for their owners' earsthe closing hour had scarcely the cheerfulness that it possessed for thehired servants of the rest. Yet the night being dreary the delay was notfor long, and their windows, too, blinked together one by one.

During this time Barnet had proceeded with decided step in a direction atright angles to the broad main thoroughfare of the town, by a long streetleading due southward. Here, though his family had no more to do withthe flax manufacture, his own name occasionally greeted him on gates andwarehouses, being used allusively by small rising tradesmen as arecommendation, in such words as 'Smith, from Barnet & Co.'--'Robinson,late manager at Barnet's.' The sight led him to reflect upon hisfather's busy life, and he questioned if it had not been far happier thanhis own.

The houses along the road became fewer, and presently open groundappeared between them on either side, the track on the right hand risingto a higher level till it merged in a knoll. On the summit a row ofbuilders' scaffold-poles probed the indistinct sky like spears, and attheir bases could be discerned the lower courses of a building latelybegun. Barnet slackened his pace and stood for a few moments withoutleaving the centre of the road, apparently not much interested in thesight, till suddenly his eye was caught by a post in the fore part of theground bearing a white board at the top. He went to the rails, vaultedover, and walked in far enough to discern painted upon the board 'ChateauRingdale.'

A dismal irony seemed to lie in the words, and its effect was to irritatehim. Downe, then, had spoken truly. He stuck his umbrella into the sod,and seized the post with both hands, as if intending to loosen and throwit down. Then, like one bewildered by an opposition which would existnone the less though its manifestations were removed, he allowed his armsto sink to his side.

'Let it be,' he said to himself. 'I have declared there shall bepeace--if possible.'

Taking up his umbrella he quietly left the enclosure, and went on hisway, still keeping his back to the town. He had advanced with moredecision since passing the new building, and soon a hoarse murmur roseupon the gloom; it was the sound of the sea. The road led to theharbour, at a distance of a mile from the town, from which the trade ofthe district was fed. After seeing the obnoxious name-board Barnet hadforgotten to open his umbrella, and the rain tapped smartly on his hat,and occasionally stroked his face as he went on.

Though the lamps were still continued at the roadside, they stood atwider intervals than before, and the pavement had given place to commonroad. Every time he came to a lamp an increasing shine made itselfvisible upon his shoulders, till at last they quite glistened with wet.The murmur from the shore grew stronger, but it was still some distanceoff when he paused before one of the smallest of the detached houses bythe wayside, standing in its own garden, the latter being divided fromthe road by a row of wooden palings. Scrutinizing the spot to ensurethat he was not mistaken, he opened the gate and gently knocked at thecottage door.

When he had patiently waited minutes enough to lead any man in ordinarycases to knock again, the door was heard to open, though it wasimpossible to see by whose hand, there being no light in the passage.Barnet said at random, 'Does Miss Savile live here?'

A youthful voice assured him that she did live there, and by a suddenafterthought asked him to come in. It would soon get a light, it said:but the night being wet, mother had not thought it worth while to trimthe passage lamp.

'Don't trouble yourself to get a light for me,' said Barnet hastily; 'itis not necessary at all. Which is Miss Savile's sitting-room?'

The young person, whose white pinafore could just be discerned, signifieda door in the side of the passage, and Barnet went forward at the samemoment, so that no light should fall upon his face. On entering the roomhe closed the door behind him, pausing till he heard the retreatingfootsteps of the child.

He found himself in an apartment which was simply and neatly, though notpoorly furnished; everything, from the miniature chiffonnier to theshining little daguerreotype which formed the central ornament of themantelpiece, being in scrupulous order. The picture was enclosed by aframe of embroidered card-board--evidently the work of feminine hands--andit was the portrait of a thin faced, elderly lieutenant in the navy. Frombehind the lamp on the table a female form now rose into view, that of ayoung girl, and a resemblance between her and the portrait was earlydiscoverable. She had been so absorbed in some occupation on the otherside of the lamp as to have barely found time to realize her visitor'spresence.

They both remained standing for a few seconds without speaking. The facethat confronted Barnet had a beautiful outline; the Raffaelesque oval ofits contour was remarkable for an English countenance, and thatcountenance housed in a remote country-road to an unheard-of harbour. Buther features did not do justice to this splendid beginning: Nature hadrecollected that she was not in Italy; and the young lady's lineaments,though not so inconsistent as to make her plain, would have been acceptedrather as pleasing than as correct. The preoccupied expression which,like images on the retina, remained with her for a moment after the statethat caused it had ceased, now changed into a reserved, half-proud, andslightly indignant look, in which the blood diffused itself quicklyacross her cheek, and additional brightness broke the shade of her ratherheavy eyes.

'I know I have no business here,' he said, answering the look. 'But Ihad a great wish to see you, and inquire how you were. You can give yourhand to me, seeing how often I have held it in past days?'

'I would rather forget than remember all that, Mr. Barnet,' she answered,as she coldly complied with the request. 'When I think of thecircumstances of our last meeting, I can hardly consider it kind of youto allude to such a thing as our past--or, indeed, to come here at all.'

'There was no harm in it surely? I don't trouble you often, Lucy.'

'I have not had the honour of a visit from you for a very long time,certainly, and I did not expect it now,' she said, with the samestiffness in her air. 'I hope Mrs. Barnet is very well?'

'Yes, yes!' he impatiently returned. 'At least I suppose so--though Ionly speak from inference!'

'But she is your wife, sir,' said the young girl tremulously.

The unwonted tones of a man's voice in that feminine chamber had startleda canary that was roosting in its cage by the window; the bird awokehastily, and fluttered against the bars. She went and stilled it bylaying her face against the cage and murmuring a coaxing sound. It mightpartly have been done to still herself.

'I didn't come to talk of Mrs. Barnet,' he pursued; 'I came to talk ofyou, of yourself alone; to inquire how you are getting on since yourgreat loss.' And he turned towards the portrait of her father.

'I am getting on fairly well, thank you.'

The force of her utterance was scarcely borne out by her look; but Barnetcourteously reproached himself for not having guessed a thing so natural;and to dissipate all embarrassment, added, as he bent over the table,'What were you doing when I came?--painting flowers, and by candlelight?'

'O no,' she said, 'not painting them--only sketching the outlines. I dothat at night to save time--I have to get three dozen done by the end ofthe month.'

Barnet looked as if he regretted it deeply. 'You will wear your pooreyes out,' he said, with more sentiment than he had hitherto shown. 'Youought not to do it. There was a time when I should have said you mustnot. Well--I almost wish I had never seen light with my own eyes when Ithink of that!'

'Is this a time or place for recalling such matters?' she asked, withdignity. 'You used to have a gentlemanly respect for me, and foryourself. Don't speak any more as you have spoken, and don't come again.I cannot think that this visit is serious, or was closely considered byyou.'

'Considered: well, I came to see you as an old and good friend--not tomince matters, to visit a woman I loved. Don't be angry! I could nothelp doing it, so many things brought you into my mind . . . This eveningI fell in with an acquaintance, and when I saw how happy he was with hiswife and family welcoming him home, though with only one-tenth of myincome and chances, and thought what might have been in my case, itfairly broke down my discretion, and off I came here. Now I am here Ifeel that I am wrong to some extent. But the feeling that I should liketo see you, and talk of those we used to know in common, was verystrong.'

'Before that can be the case a little more time must pass,' said MissSavile quietly; 'a time long enough for me to regard with some calmnesswhat at present I remember far too impatiently--though it may be youalmost forget it. Indeed you must have forgotten it long before youacted as you did.' Her voice grew stronger and more vivacious as sheadded: 'But I am doing my best to forget it too, and I know I shallsucceed from the progress I have made already!'

She had remained standing till now, when she turned and sat down, facinghalf away from him.

Barnet watched her moodily. 'Yes, it is only what I deserve,' he said.'Ambition pricked me on--no, it was not ambition, it was wrongheadedness!Had I but reflected . . . ' He broke out vehemently: 'But alwaysremember this, Lucy: if you had written to me only one little line afterthat misunderstanding, I declare I should have come back to you. Thatruined me!' he slowly walked as far as the little room would allow him togo, and remained with his eyes on the skirting.

'But, Mr. Barnet, how could I write to you? There was no opening for mydoing so.'

'Then there ought to have been,' said Barnet, turning. 'That was myfault!'

'Well, I don't know anything about that; but as there had been nothingsaid by me which required any explanation by letter, I did not send one.Everything was so indefinite, and feeling your position to be so muchwealthier than mine, I fancied I might have mistaken your meaning. Andwhen I heard of the other lady--a woman of whose family even you might beproud--I thought how foolish I had been, and said nothing.'

'Then I suppose it was destiny--accident--I don't know what, thatseparated us, dear Lucy. Anyhow you were the woman I ought to have mademy wife--and I let you slip, like the foolish man that I was!'

'O, Mr. Barnet,' she said, almost in tears, 'don't revive the subject tome; I am the wrong one to console you--think, sir,--you should not behere--it would be so bad for me if it were known!'

'It would--it would, indeed,' he said hastily. 'I am not right in doingthis, and I won't do it again.'

'It is a very common folly of human nature, you know, to think the courseyou did not adopt must have been the best,' she continued, with gentlesolicitude, as she followed him to the door of the room. 'And you don'tknow that I should have accepted you, even if you had asked me to be yourwife.' At this his eye met hers, and she dropped her gaze. She knewthat her voice belied her. There was a silence till she looked up toadd, in a voice of soothing playfulness, 'My family was so much poorerthan yours, even before I lost my dear father, that--perhaps yourcompanions would have made it unpleasant for us on account of mydeficiencies.'

'Your disposition would soon have won them round,' said Barnet.

She archly expostulated: 'Now, never mind my disposition; try to make itup with your wife! Those are my commands to you. And now you are toleave me at once.'

'I will. I must make the best of it all, I suppose,' he replied, morecheerfully than he had as yet spoken. 'But I shall never again meet withsuch a dear girl as you!' And he suddenly opened the door, and left heralone. When his glance again fell on the lamps that were sparsely rangedalong the dreary level road, his eyes were in a state which showed straw-like motes of light radiating from each flame into the surrounding air.

On the other side of the way Barnet observed a man under an umbrella,walking parallel with himself. Presently this man left the footway, andgradually converged on Barnet's course. The latter then saw that it wasCharlson, a surgeon of the town, who owed him money. Charlson was a mannot without ability; yet he did not prosper. Sundry circumstances stoodin his way as a medical practitioner: he was needy; he was not a coddle;he gossiped with men instead of with women; he had married a strangerinstead of one of the town young ladies; and he was given toconversational buffoonery. Moreover, his look was quite erroneous. Thoseonly proper features in the family doctor, the quiet eye, and the thinstraight passionless lips which never curl in public either for laughteror for scorn, were not his; he had a full-curved mouth, and a bold blackeye that made timid people nervous. His companions were what in oldtimes would have been called boon companions--an expression which, thoughof irreproachable root, suggests fraternization carried to the point ofunscrupulousness. All this was against him in the little town of hisadoption.

Charlson had been in difficulties, and to oblige him Barnet had put hisname to a bill; and, as he had expected, was called upon to meet it whenit fell due. It had been only a matter of fifty pounds, which Barnetcould well afford to lose, and he bore no ill-will to the thriftlesssurgeon on account of it. But Charlson had a little too much brazenindifferentism in his composition to be altogether a desirableacquaintance.

'I hope to be able to make that little bill-business right with you inthe course of three weeks, Mr. Barnet,' said Charlson with hail-fellowfriendliness.

Barnet replied good-naturedly that there was no hurry.

This particular three weeks had moved on in advance of Charlson's presentwith the precision of a shadow for some considerable time.

'I've had a dream,' Charlson continued. Barnet knew from his tone thatthe surgeon was going to begin his characteristic nonsense, and did notencourage him. 'I've had a dream,' repeated Charlson, who required noencouragement. 'I dreamed that a gentleman, who has been very kind tome, married a haughty lady in haste, before he had quite forgotten a nicelittle girl he knew before, and that one wet evening, like the present,as I was walking up the harbour-road, I saw him come out of that dearlittle girl's present abode.'

Barnet glanced towards the speaker. The rays from a neighbouring lampstruck through the drizzle under Charlson's umbrella, so as just toillumine his face against the shade behind, and show that his eye wasturned up under the outer corner of its lid, whence it leered with impishjocoseness as he thrust his tongue into his cheek.

'Come,' said Barnet gravely, 'we'll have no more of that.'

'No, no--of course not,' Charlson hastily answered, seeing that hishumour had carried him too far, as it had done many times before. He wasprofuse in his apologies, but Barnet did not reply. Of one thing he wascertain--that scandal was a plant of quick root, and that he was bound toobey Lucy's injunction for Lucy's own sake.