BARBARA WHO CAME BACK
CHAPTER I
THE RECTORY BLIND
This is the tale of Barbara, Barbara who came back to save a soul
alive.
The Reverend Septimus Walrond was returning from a professional visit
to a distant cottage of his remote and straggling parish upon the
coast of East Anglia. His errand had been sad, to baptise the dying
infant of a fisherman, which just as the rate was finished wailed once
feebly and expired in his arms. The Reverend Septimus was weeping over
the sorrows of the world. Tears ran down his white but rounded face,
for he was stout of habit, and fell upon his clerical coat that was
green with age and threadbare with use. Although the evening was so
cold he held his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and the wind from the
moaning sea tossed his snow-white hair. He was talking to himself, as
was his fashion on these lonely walks.
"I think that fresh milk would have saved that child," he said, "but
how was poor Thomas to buy fresh milk at fourpence a quart? Laid up
for three months as he has been and with six children, how was he to
buy fresh milk? I ought to have given it to him. I could have done
without these new boots till spring, damp feet don't matter to an old
man. But I thought of my own comfort--the son that doth so easily
beset me--and so many to clothe and feed at home and poor Barbara, my
darling Barbara, hanging between life and death."
He sobbed and wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, then
began to pray, still aloud.
"O God of pity, in the name of the loving and merciful Christ, help me
and poor Thomas in our troubles."
"I ought to have put Thomas's name first--my selfishness again," he
ejaculated, then went on:
"Give consolation to Thomas who loved his baby, and if it pleases Thee
in Thy infinite wisdom and foresight, spare my dearest Barbara's life,
that she may live out her days upon the earth and perhaps in her turn
give life to others. I know I should not ask it; I know it is better
that she should go and be with Thee in the immortal home Thou hast
prepared for us unhappy, suffering creatures. Yet--pity my poor human
weakness--I do ask it. Or if Thou decreest otherwise, then take me
also, O God, for I can bear no more. Four children gone! I can bear no
more, O God."
He sobbed again and wiped away another tear, then muttered:
"My selfishness, always my selfishness! With six remaining to be
looked after, that is counting Barbara if she still lives, I dare to
ask to be relieved of the burdens of the flesh! Pitiful Christ, visit
not my wickedness on me or on others, and O Thou that didst raise the
daughter of Jairus, save my sweet Barbara and comfort the heart of
poor Thomas. I will have faith. I /will/ have faith."
He thrust his hat upon his head, pulling it down over his ears because
of the rough wind, and walked forward quite jauntily for a few yards.
"What a comfort these new boots are," he said. "If I had stepped into
that pool with the old ones my left foot would be wet through now. Let
me thank God for these new boots. Oh! how can I, when I remember that
the price of them should have been spent in milk for the poor baby? If
I were really a Christian I ought to take them off and walk barefoot,
as the old pilgrims used to do. They say it is healthy, and I tried to
think so because it is cheap, though I am sure that this was the
beginning of poor little Cicely's last illness. With her broken
chilblains she could not stand the snow; at any rate, the chill struck
upwards. Well, she has been in bliss three years, three whole years,
and how thankful I ought to be for that. How glad she will be to see
Barbara too, if it pleases God in His mercy to take Barbara; she
always was her favourite sister. I ought to remember that; I ought to
remember that what I lose here I gain there, that my store is always
growing in Heaven. But I can't, for I am a man still. Oh! curse it
all! I can't, and like Job I wish I'd never been born. Job got a new
family and was content, but that's their Eastern way. It's different
with us Englishmen."
He stumbled on for a hundred yards or more, vacuously, almost
drunkenly, for the hideous agony that he was enduring half paralysed
his brain, and by its very excess was bringing him some temporary
relief. He looked at the raging sea to his right, and in a vague
fashion wished that it had swallowed him. He looked at the kind earth
of the ploughed field to his left, and wished vividly, for the idea
was more familiar, that six feet of it lay above him. Then he
remembered that just beyond that sand-heap he had found a plover's
nest with two eggs in it fifty years ago when he was a boy, and had
taken one egg and left the other, or rather had restored it because
the old bird screamed so pitifully about him. In some strange manner
that little, long-forgotten act of righteousness brought a glow of
comfort to his tormented spirit. Perhaps God would deal so by him.
In its way the evening was very beautiful. The cold November day was
dying into night. Clear, clear was the sky save for some black and
heavy snow clouds that floated on it driven before the easterly wind
that piped through the sere grasses and blew the plovers over him as
though they were dead leaves. Where the sun had vanished long bars of
purple lay above the horizon; to his excited fancy they looked like
the gateway of another and a better world, set, as the old Egyptians
dreamed, above the uttermost pylons of the West. What lay there beyond
the sun? Oh! what lay beyond the sun? Perhaps, even now, Barbara knew!
A figure appeared standing upon a sand dune between the pathway and
the sea. Septimus was short-sighted and could not tell who it was, but
in this place at this hour doubtless it must be a parishioner, perhaps
one waiting to see him upon some important matter. He must forget his
private griefs. He must strive to steady his shaken mind and attend to
his duties. He drew himself together and walked on briskly.
"I wish I had not been obliged to give away Jack," he said. "He was a
great companion, and somehow I always met people with more confidence
when he was with me; he seemed to take away my shyness. But the
license was seven-and-sixpence, and I haven't got seven-and-sixpence;
also he has an excellent home with that stuffy old woman, if a dull
one, for he must miss his walk. Oh! it's you, Anthony. What are you
doing here at this time of night? Your father told me you had a bad
cold and there's so much sickness about. You should be careful,
Anthony, you know you're not too strong, none of you Arnotts are.
Well, I suppose you are shooting, and most young men will risk a great
deal in order to kill God's other creatures."
The person addressed, a tall, broad-shouldered, rather pale young man
of about twenty-one, remarkable for his large brown eyes and a certain
sweet expression which contrasted somewhat oddly with the general
manliness of his appearance, lifted his cap and answered:
"No, Mr. Walrond, I am not shooting to-night. In fact, I was waiting
here to meet you."
"What for, Anthony? Nothing wrong up at the Hall, I hope."
"No, Mr. Walrond; why should there be anything wrong there?"
"I don't know, I am sure, only as a rule people don't wait for the
parson unless there is something amiss, and there seems to be so much
misfortune in this parish just now. Well, what is it, my boy?"
"I want to know about Barbara, Mr. Walrond. They tell me she is very
bad, but I can't get anything definite from the others, I mean from
her sisters. They don't seem to be sure, and the doctor wouldn't say
when I asked him."
The Reverend Septimus looked at Anthony and Anthony looked at the
Reverend Septimus, and in that look they learned to understand each
other. The agony that was eating out this poor father's heart was not
peculiar to him; another shared it. In what he would have called his
"wicked selfishness" the Reverend Septimus felt almost grateful for
this sudden revelation. If it is a comfort to share our joys, it is a
still greater comfort to share our torments.
"Walk on with me, Anthony," he said. "I must hurry, I have every
reason to hurry. Had it not been a matter of duty I would not have
left the house, but, so to speak, a clergyman has many children; he
cannot prefer one before the other."
"Yes, yes," said Anthony, "but what about Barbara? Oh! please tell me
at once."
"I can't tell you, Anthony, because I don't know. From here to the
crest of Gunter's Hill," and he pointed to an eminence in front of
them, "is a mile and a quarter. When we get to the crest of Gunter's
Hill perhaps we shall know. I left home two hours ago, and then
Barbara lay almost at the point of death; insensible."
"Insensible," muttered Anthony. "Oh! my God, insensible."
"Yes," went on the clergyman in a voice of patient resignation. "I
don't understand much about such things, but the inflammation appears
to have culminated that way. Now either she will never wake again, or
if she wakes she may live. At least that is what they tell me, but
they may be wrong. I have so often known doctors to be wrong."
They walked on together in silence twenty yards or more. Then he added
as though speaking to himself:
"When we reach the top of Gunter's Hill perhaps we shall learn. We can
see her window from there, and if she had passed away I bade them pull
the blind down; if she was about the same, to pull it half down, and
if she were really better, to leave it quite up. I have done that for
two nights now, so that I might have a little time to prepare myself.
It is a good plan, though very trying to a father's heart. Yesterday I
stood for quite a while with my eyes fixed upon the ground, not daring
to look and learn the truth."
Anthony groaned, and once more the old man went on:
"She is a very unselfish girl, Barbara, or perhaps I should say was,
perhaps I should say was. That is how she caught this horrible
inflammation. Three weeks ago she and her sister Janey went for a long
walk to the Ness, to--to--oh! I forget why they went. Well, it came on
to pour with rain; and just as they had started for home, fortunately,
or rather unfortunately, old Stevens the farmer overtook them on his
way back from market and offered them a lift. They got into the cart
and Barbara took off the mackintosh that her aunt gave her last
Christmas--it is the only one in the house, since such things are too
costly for me to buy--and put it over Janey, who had a cold. It was
quite unnecessary, for Janey was warmly wrapped up, while Barbara had
nothing under the mackintosh except a summer dress. That is how she
caught the chill."
Anthony made no comment, and again they walked forward without
speaking, perhaps for a quarter of a mile. Then the horror of the
suspense became intolerable to him. Without a word he dashed forward,
sped down the slope and up that of the opposing Gunter's Hill, more
swiftly perhaps than he had ever run before, although he was a very
quick runner.
"He's gone," murmured Septimus. "I wonder why! I suppose that I walk
too slowly for him. I cannot walk so fast as I used to do, and he felt
the wind cold."
Then he dismissed the matter from his half-dazed mind and stumbled on
wearily, muttering his disjointed prayers.
Thus in due course he began to climb the little slope of Gunter's
Hill. The sun had set, but there was still a red glow in the sky, and
against this glow he perceived the tall figure of Anthony standing
quite still. When he was about a hundred yards away the figure
suddenly collapsed, as a man does if he is shot. The Reverend Septimus
put his hand to his heart and caught his breath.
"I know what that means," he said. "He was watching the window, and
they have just pulled down the blind. I suppose he must be fond of her
and it--affects him. Oh! if I were younger I think this would kill me,
but, thank God! as one draws near the end of the road the feet harden;
one does not feel the thorns so much. 'The Lord gave and the Lord hath
taken away, bl--bl--yes, I /will/ say it--blessed be the Name of the
Lord.' I should remember that she is so much better where she is; that
this is a very hard world; indeed, sometimes I think it is not a
world, but a hell. Oh! Barbara, my sweet Barbara!" and he struggled
forward blindly beating at the rough wind with his hands as though it
were a visible foe, and so at last came to the crest of the hill where
Anthony Arnott lay prone upon his face.
So sure was Septimus of the cause of his collapse that he did not even
trouble to look at the Rectory windows in the hollow near the church
two hundred yards or so away. He only looked at Anthony, saying:
"Poor lad, poor lad! I wonder how I shall get him home; I must fetch
some help."
As he spoke, Anthony sat up and said, "You see, you see!"
"See what?"
"The blind; /it is quite up/. When I got here it was half down, then
someone pulled it up. That's what finished me. I felt as though I had
been hit on the head with a stick."
The Reverend Septimus stared, then suddenly sank to his knees and
returned thanks in his simple fashion.
"Don't let us be too certain, Anthony," he exclaimed at length. "There
may be a mistake, or perhaps this is only a respite which will prolong
the suspense. Often such things happen to torment us; I mean that they
are God's way of trying and purifying our poor sinful hearts."
