needing a hand which neither man nor woman could hold
out. Their kind hostess had crept into bed beside
her husband, and was snoring as loud as he. Without
a word he wrapped Alice in the blanket he had brought,
and taking her once more in his arms, carried her to
the cart. Leaning down from his perch, the sturdy
old man received her in his, placed her comfortably
beside him, put his arm round her, and with a nod
to Barbara, and never a word to his grandson, drove
away. Richard knew his rugged goodness too well
to mind how he treated him, and was confident in him
for Alice, as one to do not less but more than he
promised. He was thus free to walk home with Barbara,
glad at heart to know Alice in harbour, but a little
anxious until Miss Wylder should be safe shut in her
chamber.
BARBARA AND LADY ANN.
As they went, neither said much. Both seemed
to avoid the subject of their conversation as they
came. They talked of poetry and fiction, and
did not differ. Though Barbara there also had
precious insights, happily she had no opinions.
When they reached a certain point, Richard drew back,
and, from a coign of vantage, saw Barbara try the
study-window and fail. He then followed her as
she went round to the door, and, still covertly, saw
her ring the bell. The door was opened with what
seemed to him a portentous celerity, and she disappeared.
He turned away into the park, and wandered about,
revolving many things, till by slow gradations the
sky’s gray idea unfolded to a brilliant conviction,
and, lo, there was the morning, not to be controverted!
But he took care to let the house not only come awake,
but come to its senses, before he sought admission.
When it seemed well astir, he rang the bell; and when
the door, after some delay, was opened, he went straight
to the library, and was fairly at work by five o’clock.
He saw nothing of Barbara all day, or indeed of any
of the family except Vixen, who looked in, made a
face at him, and went away, leaving the door open.
At eight o’clock he had his breakfast, and at
nine he was again in the library; so that by lunch-time
he had been seven of his eight hours at work, and
by half-past two found himself free to go to his grandfather’s
and inquire after Alice.
On his way to the road through the park, he met Arthur
Lestrange. Richard touched his hat as was his
wont, and would have passed, but, with no friendly
expression on his countenance, Arthur stopped.
“Where are you going, Tuke?” he said.
“I am going to my grandfather’s, sir,”
answered Richard.
“Excuse me, but your day’s work is not
over by many hours yet.”
Richard found his temper growing troublesome, but
tried hard to keep it in hand.
“If you remember, sir,” he said, “our
agreement mentioned no hour for beginning or leaving
off work.”
“That is true, but you undertook to give me
eight hours of your day!”
