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Twenty-one years and six months do not pass without setting a mark evenupon durable stone and triple brass; upon humanity such a period worksnothing less than transformation. In Barnet's old birthplace vivaciousyoung children with bones like india-rubber had grown up to be stable menand women, men and women had dried in the skin, stiffened, withered, andsunk into decrepitude; while selections from every class had beenconsigned to the outlying cemetery. Of inorganic differences thegreatest was that a railway had invaded the town, tying it on to a mainline at a junction a dozen miles off. Barnet's house on theharbour-road, once so insistently new, had acquired a respectablemellowness, with ivy, Virginia creepers, lichens, damp patches, and evenconstitutional infirmities of its own like its elder fellows. Itsarchitecture, once so very improved and modern, had already become stalein style, without having reached the dignity of being old-fashioned.Trees about the harbour-road had increased in circumference ordisappeared under the saw; while the church had had such a tremendouspractical joke played upon it by some facetious restorer or other as tobe scarce recognizable by its dearest old friends.

During this long interval George Barnet had never once been seen or heardof in the town of his fathers.

It was the evening of a market-day, and some half-dozen middle-agedfarmers and dairymen were lounging round the bar of the Black-Bull Hotel,occasionally dropping a remark to each other, and less frequently to thetwo barmaids who stood within the pewter-topped counter in a perfunctoryattitude of attention, these latter sighing and making a privateobservation to one another at odd intervals, on more interestingexperiences than the present.

'Days get shorter,' said one of the dairymen, as he looked towards thestreet, and noticed that the lamp-lighter was passing by.

The farmers merely acknowledged by their countenances the propriety ofthis remark, and finding that nobody else spoke, one of the barmaids said'yes,' in a tone of painful duty.

'Come fair-day we shall have to light up before we start for home-along.'

'That's true,' his neighbour conceded, with a gaze of blankness.

'And after that we shan't see much further difference all's winter.'

The rest were not unwilling to go even so far as this.

The barmaid sighed again, and raised one of her hands from the counter onwhich they rested to scratch the smallest surface of her face with thesmallest of her fingers. She looked towards the door, and presentlyremarked, 'I think I hear the 'bus coming in from station.'

The eyes of the dairymen and farmers turned to the glass door dividingthe hall from the porch, and in a minute or two the omnibus drew upoutside. Then there was a lumbering down of luggage, and then a man cameinto the hall, followed by a porter with a portmanteau on his poll, whichhe deposited on a bench.

The stranger was an elderly person, with curly ashen white hair, a deeply-creviced outer corner to each eyelid, and a countenance baked byinnumerable suns to the colour of terra-cotta, its hue and that of hishair contrasting like heat and cold respectively. He walked meditativelyand gently, like one who was fearful of disturbing his own mentalequilibrium. But whatever lay at the bottom of his breast had evidentlymade him so accustomed to its situation there that it caused him littlepractical inconvenience.

He paused in silence while, with his dubious eyes fixed on the barmaids,he seemed to consider himself. In a moment or two he addressed them, andasked to be accommodated for the night. As he waited he looked curiouslyround the hall, but said nothing. As soon as invited he disappeared upthe staircase, preceded by a chambermaid and candle, and followed by alad with his trunk. Not a soul had recognized him.

A quarter of an hour later, when the farmers and dairymen had driven offto their homesteads in the country, he came downstairs, took a biscuitand one glass of wine, and walked out into the town, where the radiancefrom the shop-windows had grown so in volume of late years as to floodwith cheerfulness every standing cart, barrow, stall, and idler thatoccupied the wayside, whether shabby or genteel. His chief interest atpresent seemed to lie in the names painted over the shop-fronts and ondoor-ways, as far as they were visible; these now differed to an ominousextent from what they had been one-and-twenty years before.

The traveller passed on till he came to the bookseller's, where he lookedin through the glass door. A fresh-faced young man was standing behindthe counter, otherwise the shop was empty. The gray-haired observerentered, asked for some periodical by way of paying for admission, andwith his elbow on the counter began to turn over the pages he had bought,though that he read nothing was obvious.

At length he said, 'Is old Mr. Watkins still alive?' in a voice which hada curious youthful cadence in it even now.

'My father is dead, sir,' said the young man.

'Ah, I am sorry to hear it,' said the stranger. 'But it is so many yearssince I last visited this town that I could hardly expect it should beotherwise.' After a short silence he continued--'And is the firm ofBarnet, Browse, and Company still in existence?--they used to be largeflax-merchants and twine-spinners here?'

'The firm is still going on, sir, but they have dropped the name ofBarnet. I believe that was a sort of fancy name--at least, I never knewof any living Barnet. 'Tis now Browse and Co.'

'And does Andrew Jones still keep on as architect?'

'He's dead, sir.'

'And the Vicar of St. Mary's--Mr. Melrose?'

'He's been dead a great many years.'

'Dear me!' He paused yet longer, and cleared his voice. 'Is Mr. Downe,the solicitor, still in practice?'

'No, sir, he's dead. He died about seven years ago.'

Here it was a longer silence still; and an attentive observer would havenoticed that the paper in the stranger's hand increased its imperceptibletremor to a visible shake. That gray-haired gentleman noticed ithimself, and rested the paper on the counter. 'Is Mrs. Downe stillalive?' he asked, closing his lips firmly as soon as the words were outof his mouth, and dropping his eyes.

'Yes, sir, she's alive and well. She's living at the old place.'

'In East Street?'

'O no; at Chateau Ringdale. I believe it has been in the family for somegenerations.'

'She lives with her children, perhaps?'

'No; she has no children of her own. There were some Miss Downes; Ithink they were Mr. Downe's daughters by a former wife; but they aremarried and living in other parts of the town. Mrs. Downe lives alone.'

'Quite alone?'

'Yes, sir; quite alone.'

The newly-arrived gentleman went back to the hotel and dined; after whichhe made some change in his dress, shaved back his beard to the fashionthat had prevailed twenty years earlier, when he was young andinteresting, and once more emerging, bent his steps in the direction ofthe harbour-road. Just before getting to the point where the pavementceased and the houses isolated themselves, he overtook a shambling,stooping, unshaven man, who at first sight appeared like a professionaltramp, his shoulders having a perceptible greasiness as they passed underthe gaslight. Each pedestrian momentarily turned and regarded the other,and the tramp-like gentleman started back.

'Good--why--is that Mr. Barnet? 'Tis Mr. Barnet, surely!'

'Yes; and you are Charlson?'

'Yes--ah--you notice my appearance. The Fates have rather ill-used me.By-the-bye, that fifty pounds. I never paid it, did I? . . . But I wasnot ungrateful!' Here the stooping man laid one hand emphatically on thepalm of the other. 'I gave you a chance, Mr. George Barnet, which manymen would have thought full value received--the chance to marry yourLucy. As far as the world was concerned, your wife was a drowned woman,hey?'

'Heaven forbid all that, Charlson!'

'Well, well, 'twas a wrong way of showing gratitude, I suppose. And nowa drop of something to drink for old acquaintance' sake! And Mr. Barnet,she's again free--there's a chance now if you care for it--ha, ha!' Andthe speaker pushed his tongue into his hollow cheek and slanted his eyein the old fashion.

'I know all,' said Barnet quickly; and slipping a small present into thehands of the needy, saddening man, he stepped ahead and was soon in theoutskirts of the town.

He reached the harbour-road, and paused before the entrance to a well-known house. It was so highly bosomed in trees and shrubs planted sincethe erection of the building that one would scarcely have recognized thespot as that which had been a mere neglected slope till chosen as a sitefor a dwelling. He opened the swing-gate, closed it noiselessly, andgently moved into the semicircular drive, which remained exactly as ithad been marked out by Barnet on the morning when Lucy Savile ran in tothank him for procuring her the post of governess to Downe's children.But the growth of trees and bushes which revealed itself at every stepwas beyond all expectation; sun-proof and moon-proof bowers vaulted thewalks, and the walls of the house were uniformly bearded with creepingplants as high as the first-floor windows.

After lingering for a few minutes in the dusk of the bending boughs, thevisitor rang the door-bell, and on the servant appearing, he announcedhimself as 'an old friend of Mrs. Downe's.'

The hall was lighted, but not brightly, the gas being turned low, as ifvisitors were rare. There was a stagnation in the dwelling; it seemed tobe waiting. Could it really be waiting for him? The partitions whichhad been probed by Barnet's walking-stick when the mortar was green, werenow quite brown with the antiquity of their varnish, and the ornamentalwoodwork of the staircase, which had glistened with a pale yellow newnesswhen first erected, was now of a rich wine-colour. During the servant'sabsence the following colloquy could be dimly heard through the nearlyclosed door of the drawing-room.

'He didn't give his name?'

'He only said "an old friend," ma'am.'

'What kind of gentleman is he?'

'A staidish gentleman, with gray hair.'

The voice of the second speaker seemed to affect the listener greatly.After a pause, the lady said, 'Very well, I will see him.'

And the stranger was shown in face to face with the Lucy who had oncebeen Lucy Savile. The round cheek of that formerly young lady had, ofcourse, alarmingly flattened its curve in her modern representative; apervasive grayness overspread her once dark brown hair, like morning rimeon heather. The parting down the middle was wide and jagged; once it hadbeen a thin white line, a narrow crevice between two high banks of shade.But there was still enough left to form a handsome knob behind, and somecurls beneath inwrought with a few hairs like silver wires were verybecoming. In her eyes the only modification was that their originallymild rectitude of expression had become a little more stringent thanheretofore. Yet she was still girlish--a girl who had been gratuitouslyweighted by destiny with a burden of five-and-forty years instead of herproper twenty.

'Lucy, don't you know me?' he said, when the servant had closed the door.

'I knew you the instant I saw you!' she returned cheerfully. 'I don'tknow why, but I always thought you would come back to your old townagain.'

She gave him her hand, and then they sat down. 'They said you weredead,' continued Lucy, 'but I never thought so. We should have heard ofit for certain if you had been.'

'It is a very long time since we met.'

'Yes; what you must have seen, Mr. Barnet, in all these roving years, incomparison with what I have seen in this quiet place!' Her face grewmore serious. 'You know my husband has been dead a long time? I am alonely old woman now, considering what I have been; though Mr. Downe'sdaughters--all married--manage to keep me pretty cheerful.'

'And I am a lonely old man, and have been any time these twenty years.'

'But where have you kept yourself? And why did you go off somysteriously?'

'Well, Lucy, I have kept myself a little in America, and a little inAustralia, a little in India, a little at the Cape, and so on; I have notstayed in any place for a long time, as it seems to me, and yet more thantwenty years have flown. But when people get to my age two years go likeone!--Your second question, why did I go away so mysteriously, is surelynot necessary. You guessed why, didn't you?'

'No, I never once guessed,' she said simply; 'nor did Charles, nor didanybody as far as I know.'

'Well, indeed! Now think it over again, and then look at me, and say ifyou can't guess?'

She looked him in the face with an inquiring smile. 'Surely not becauseof me?' she said, pausing at the commencement of surprise.

Barnet nodded, and smiled again; but his smile was sadder than hers.

'Because I married Charles?' she asked.

'Yes; solely because you married him on the day I was free to ask you tomarry me. My wife died four-and-twenty hours before you went to churchwith Downe. The fixing of my journey at that particular moment wasbecause of her funeral; but once away I knew I should have no inducementto come back, and took my steps accordingly.'

Her face assumed an aspect of gentle reflection, and she looked up anddown his form with great interest in her eyes. 'I never thought of it!'she said. 'I knew, of course, that you had once implied some warmth offeeling towards me, but I concluded that it passed off. And I havealways been under the impression that your wife was alive at the time ofmy marriage. Was it not stupid of me!--But you will have some tea orsomething? I have never dined late, you know, since my husband's death.I have got into the way of making a regular meal of tea. You will havesome tea with me, will you not?'

The travelled man assented quite readily, and tea was brought in. Theysat and chatted over the meal, regardless of the flying hour. 'Well,well!' said Barnet presently, as for the first time he leisurely surveyedthe room; 'how like it all is, and yet how different! Just where yourpiano stands was a board on a couple of trestles, bearing the patterns ofwall-papers, when I was last here. I was choosing them--standing in thisway, as it might be. Then my servant came in at the door, and handed mea note, so. It was from Downe, and announced that you were just going tobe married to him. I chose no more wall-papers--tore up all those I hadselected, and left the house. I never entered it again till now.'

'Ah, at last I understand it all,' she murmured.

They had both risen and gone to the fireplace. The mantel came almost ona level with her shoulder, which gently rested against it, and Barnetlaid his hand upon the shelf close beside her shoulder. 'Lucy,' he said,'better late than never. Will you marry me now?'

She started back, and the surprise which was so obvious in her wroughteven greater surprise in him that it should be so. It was difficult tobelieve that she had been quite blind to the situation, and yet allreason and common sense went to prove that she was not acting.

'You take me quite unawares by such a question!' she said, with a forcedlaugh of uneasiness. It was the first time she had shown anyembarrassment at all. 'Why,' she added, 'I couldn't marry you for theworld.'

'Not after all this! Why not?'

'It is--I would--I really think I may say it--I would upon the wholerather marry you, Mr. Barnet, than any other man I have ever met, if Iever dreamed of marriage again. But I don't dream of it--it is quite outof my thoughts; I have not the least intention of marrying again.'

'But--on my account--couldn't you alter your plans a little? Come!'

'Dear Mr. Barnet,' she said with a little flutter, 'I would on youraccount if on anybody's in existence. But you don't know in the leastwhat it is you are asking--such an impracticable thing--I won't sayridiculous, of course, because I see that you are really in earnest, andearnestness is never ridiculous to my mind.'

'Well, yes,' said Barnet more slowly, dropping her hand, which he hadtaken at the moment of pleading, 'I am in earnest. The resolve, twomonths ago, at the Cape, to come back once more was, it is true, rathersudden, and as I see now, not well considered. But I am in earnest inasking.'

'And I in declining. With all good feeling and all kindness, let me saythat I am quite opposed to the idea of marrying a second time.'

'Well, no harm has been done,' he answered, with the same subdued andtender humorousness that he had shown on such occasions in early life.'If you really won't accept me, I must put up with it, I suppose.' Hiseye fell on the clock as he spoke. 'Had you any notion that it was solate?' he asked. 'How absorbed I have been!'

She accompanied him to the hall, helped him to put on his overcoat, andlet him out of the house herself.

'Good-night,' said Barnet, on the doorstep, as the lamp shone in hisface. 'You are not offended with me?'

'Certainly not. Nor you with me?'

'I'll consider whether I am or not,' he pleasantly replied. 'Good-night.'

She watched him safely through the gate; and when his footsteps had diedaway upon the road, closed the door softly and returned to the room. Herethe modest widow long pondered his speeches, with eyes dropped to anunusually low level. Barnet's urbanity under the blow of her refusalgreatly impressed her. After having his long period of probationrendered useless by her decision, he had shown no anger, and hadphilosophically taken her words as if he deserved no better ones. It wasvery gentlemanly of him, certainly; it was more than gentlemanly; it washeroic and grand. The more she meditated, the more she questioned thevirtue of her conduct in checking him so peremptorily; and went to herbedroom in a mood of dissatisfaction. On looking in the glass she wasreminded that there was not so much remaining of her former beauty as tomake his frank declaration an impulsive natural homage to her cheeks andeyes; it must undoubtedly have arisen from an old staunch feeling of his,deserving tenderest consideration. She recalled to her mind with muchpleasure that he had told her he was staying at the Black-Bull Hotel; sothat if, after waiting a day or two, he should not, in his modesty, callagain, she might then send him a nice little note. To alter her viewsfor the present was far from her intention; but she would allow herselfto be induced to reconsider the case, as any generous woman ought to do.

The morrow came and passed, and Mr. Barnet did not drop in. At everyknock, light youthful hues flew across her cheek; and she was abstractedin the presence of her other visitors. In the evening she walked aboutthe house, not knowing what to do with herself; the conditions ofexistence seemed totally different from those which ruled only four-and-twenty short hours ago. What had been at first a tantalizing elusivesentiment was getting acclimatized within her as a definite hope, and herperson was so informed by that emotion that she might almost have stoodas its emblematical representative by the time the clock struck ten. Inshort, an interest in Barnet precisely resembling that of her early youthled her present heart to belie her yesterday's words to him, and shelonged to see him again.

The next day she walked out early, thinking she might meet him in thestreet. The growing beauty of her romance absorbed her, and she wentfrom the street to the fields, and from the fields to the shore, withoutany consciousness of distance, till reminded by her weariness that shecould go no further. He had nowhere appeared. In the evening she took astep which under the circumstances seemed justifiable; she wrote a noteto him at the hotel, inviting him to tea with her at six precisely, andsigning her note 'Lucy.'

In a quarter of an hour the messenger came back. Mr. Barnet had left thehotel early in the morning of the day before, but he had stated that hewould probably return in the course of the week.

The note was sent back, to be given to him immediately on his arrival.

There was no sign from the inn that this desired event had occurred,either on the next day or the day following. On both nights she had beenrestless, and had scarcely slept half-an-hour.

On the Saturday, putting off all diffidence, Lucy went herself to theBlack-Bull, and questioned the staff closely.

Mr. Barnet had cursorily remarked when leaving that he might return onthe Thursday or Friday, but they were directed not to reserve a room forhim unless he should write.

He had left no address.

Lucy sorrowfully took back her note went home, and resolved to wait.

She did wait--years and years--but Barnet never reappeared.

April 1880.