CHAPTER VII
BARBARA'S SIN
The months following Anthony's death were to Barbara as a bad dream.
Like one in a dream she saw that open, wintry grave beneath the tall
church tower about whose battlements the wind-blown rooks wheeled on
their homeward way. She noted a little yellow aconite that had opened
its bloom prematurely in the shadow of the wall, and the sight of it
brought her some kind of comfort. He had loved aconites and planted
many of them, though because of his winter absences years had gone by
since he had seen one with his eyes, at any rate in England. That this
flower among them all should bloom on that day and in that place
seemed to her a message and a consolation, the only one that she could
find.
His sad office over, her father accompanied her home, pouring into her
ear the words of faith and hope that he was accustomed to use to those
broken by bereavement, and with him came her mother. But soon she
thanked them gently and bade them leave her to herself. Then they
brought her son to her, thinking that the sight of him would thaw her
heart. For a while the child was quiet and subdued, for there was that
about his mother's face which awed him. At last, weary of being still,
he swung round on his heel after a fashion that he had, and said:
"Cook says that now father is dead I'm master here, and everyone will
have to do what I tell them."
Barbara lifted her head and looked at him, and something in her fawn-
like eyes, a mute reproach, pierced to the boy's heart. At any rate,
he began to whimper and left the room.
There was little in the remark, which was such as a vulgar servant
might well make thoughtlessly. Yet it brought home to Barbara the grim
fact of her loss more completely perhaps than anything had done. Her
beloved husband was dead, of no more account in the world than those
who had passed from it at Eastwich a thousand years ago. He was dead,
and soon would be forgotten by all save her, and she was alone; in her
heart utterly alone.
The summer came and everyone grew cheerful. Aunt Thompson arrived at
the Hall to stay, and urged Barbara to put away past things and resign
herself to the will of Providence--as she had done in the case of the
departed Samuel.
"After all," she said, "it might have been worse. You might have been
called upon to nurse an invalid for twenty years, and when at last he
went, have found the best part of your life gone, as I did," and she
sighed heavily. "As it is, you still look quite a girl, having kept
your figure so well; you are comfortably off and have a good position,
and in short there is no knowing what may happen in the future. You
must come up and stay with me this winter, dear, instead of poking
yourself away in this damp old house, where everybody seems to die of
consumption. Really it is a sort of family vault, and if you stop here
long enough you will catch something too."
Barbara thanked her with a sad little smile, and answered that she
would think over her kind invitation and write to her later. But in
the end she never went to London, at least not to stay, perhaps it
reminded her too vividly of her life there with Anthony. At Eastwich
she could bear such memories, but for some unexplained reason it was
otherwise in London.
Indeed, in the course of time her aunt gave up the attempt to persuade
her, and devoted herself to forwarding the fortunes of her other
pretty nieces, Barbara's sisters, two of whom, it should be said,
already she had settled comfortably in life. Also she took a fancy to
the boy, in whose rough, energetic nature she found something akin to
her own.
"I am sick of women," she said; "it is a comfort to have to do with a
male thing."
So it came about that after he went to school young Anthony spent a
large share of his holidays at his great-aunt's London house. It may
be added that he got no good from these visits, since Lady Thompson
spoilt him and let him have his way in everything. Also she gave him
more money than a boy ought to have. As a result, or partly so,
Barbara found that her son grew more and more uncontrollable. He mixed
with grooms and low characters, and when checked flew into fits of
passion which frightened her.
Oddly enough, during these paroxysms, which were generally followed by
two or three days of persistent sulking, the only person who seemed to
have any control over him was a certain under-housemaid named Bess
Cotton, the daughter of a small farmer in the neighbourhood. This
girl, who was only about three years older than Anthony, was
remarkable for her handsome appearance and vigour of body and mind.
Her hair and large eyes were so dark that probably the local belief
that she had gipsy or other foreign blood in her veins was true. Her
complexion, however, was purely English, and her character had all the
coarseness of those who have lived for generations in the Fens, whence
her father came, uncontrolled by higher influences, such as the
fellowship of gentle-bred and educated folk.
Bess was an excellent and capable servant, one, moreover, who soon
obtained a sort of mastery in the household. On a certain occasion the
young Squire, as they called him, was in one of the worst of his
rages, having been forbidden by his mother to go to a coursing meeting
which he wished to attend. In this state he shut himself up in the
library, swearing that he would do a mischief to anyone who came near
him, a promise which, being very strong for his years, he was quite
capable of keeping. The man-servant was told to go in and bring him
out, but hung back.
"Bless you," said Bess, "I ain't afraid," and without hesitation
walked into the room and shut the door behind her.
Barbara, listening afar off, heard a shout of "Get out!" followed by a
fearful crash, and trembled, for all violence was abominable to her
nature.
"He will injure that poor girl," she said to herself, and rose,
proposing to enter the library and face her son.
As she hurried down the long Elizabethan corridor, however, she heard
another sound that came to her through an open window, that of Anthony
laughing in his jolliest and most uproarious manner and of the
housemaid Bess, laughing with him. She stayed where she was and
listened. Bess had left the library and was coming across the
courtyard, where one of the other servants met her and asked some
question that Barbara did not catch. The answer in Bess's ringing
voice was clear enough.
"Lord!" she said, "they always gave me the wild colts to break upon
the farm. It is a matter of eye and handling, that's all. He nearly
got me with that plaster thing, so I went for him and boxed his ears
till he was dazed. Then I kissed him afterwards till he laughed, and
he'll never be any more trouble, at least with me. That mother of his
don't know how to handle him. She's another breed."
"Yes," said the questioner, "the mistress is a lady, she is, and
gentle like the squire who's gone. But how did they get such a one as
Master Anthony?"
"Don't know," replied Bess, "but father says that when he was a boy in
the Fens they'd have told that the fairy folk changed him at birth.
Anyway, I like him well enough, for he suits me."
Barbara went back to her sitting-room, where not long afterwards the
boy came to her. As he entered the doorway she noted how handsome he
looked with his massive head and square-jawed face, and how utterly
unlike any Arnott or Walrond known to her personally or by tradition.
Had he been a changeling, such as the girl Bess spoke of, he could not
have seemed more different.
He came and stood before her, his hands in his pockets and a smile
upon his face, for he could smile very pleasantly when he chose.
"Well, Anthony," she said, "what is it?"
"Nothing, mother dear, except that I have come to beg your pardon. You
were quite right about the coursing meeting; they are a low lot, and I
oughtn't to mix with them. But I had bets on some of the dogs and
wanted to go awfully. Then when you said I mustn't I lost my temper."
"That was very evident, Anthony."
"Yes, mother; I felt as though I could have killed someone. I did try
to kill Bess with that bust of Plato, but she dodged like a cat and
the thing smashed against the wall. Then she came for me straight and
gave me what I deserved, for she was too many for me. And presently
all my rage went, and I found that I was laughing while she tidied my
clothes. I wish you could do the same, mother."
"Do you, Anthony? Well, I cannot."
"I know. Where did I get my temper from, mother? Not from you, or my
father from all I have heard and remember of him."
"Your grandfather would say it was from the devil, Anthony."
"Yes, and perhaps he is right; only then it is rather hard luck on me,
isn't it? I can't help it--it comes."
"Then make it go, Anthony. You are to be confirmed soon. Change your
heart."
"I'll try. But, mother dear, though I am so bad to you, you are the
only one who will ever change me. When that wild-cat of a girl got the
better of me just now, it was you I thought of, not her. If I lost you
I don't know what would become of me."
"We have to stand or fall alone, Anthony."
"Perhaps, mother. I don't know; I am not old enough. Still, don't
leave me alone, for if you do, then I am sure which I shall do," and
bending down he kissed her and left the room.
After this scene Anthony's behaviour improved very much; his reports
from school were good, for he was quick and clever, and his great
skill in athletics made him a favourite. Also his grandfather, who
prepared him for confirmation, announced that the lad's nature seemed
to have softened.
So things remained for some time, to be accurate, for just so long as
the girl Bess was a servant at the Hall.
Anthony might talk about his mother's influence over him, and without
doubt when he was in his normal state this was considerable. Also it
served to prevent him from breaking out. But when he did break out,
Bess Catton alone could deal with him. Naturally it would be thought
that there was some mutual attraction between these young people. Yet
this was not so, at any rate on the part of the girl, who had been
overheard to tell Anthony to his face that she hated the sight of him
and "would cut him to ribbons" if she were his mother.
At any rate, there were others, or one other, of whom Bess did not
hate the sight, and in the end her behaviour caused such scandal that
Barbara was obliged to send her out of the house.
"All right, ma'am," she said, "I'll go, and be glad of a change. You
may ring your own bull-calf now and I wish you joy of the job, since
there's none but me that can lead him."
A few days later Anthony returned from school. With him came a letter
from the head master, who wrote that he did not wish to make any
scandal, and therefore had not expelled the boy. Still, he would be
obliged if his mother would refrain from sending him back, as he did
not consider him a suitable member of a public school. He suggested,
in the lad's own interest, that it might be wise to place him in some
establishment where a speciality was made of the training of unruly
youths. He added that he wrote this with the more regret since
Anthony's father and grandfather had been scholars at ---- in their
day, and her son possessed no mean intellectual abilities. This would
be shown by the fact that he was at the head of his class, and might
doubtless under other circumstances have risen to a high place in the
sixth form.
Then followed the details of his misdoings, of which one need only be
mentioned. He had fought another boy, who, it may be added, was older
than himself, and beaten him. But the matter did not end there, since
after his adversary had given up the fight Anthony flew at him and
maltreated him so ferociously before they could be separated, that for
a while the poor lad was actually in danger of collapse.
When reproached he expressed no penitence, but said only that he
wished that he had killed him. This he repeated to his mother's face;
moreover, he was furious when he found that Bess Catton had been sent
away and demanded her return. When told that this was impossible he
announced quietly that he would make the place a hell, and kept his
word.
For a year or more before this date Barbara had not been well. She
suffered from persistent colds which she was unable to shake off, and
with these came great depression of spirit. Now in her misery the poor
woman went to her room, and falling on her knees prayed with all her
heart that she might die. The burden laid upon her was more than she
could bear. Only one consolation could she find, that her beloved
husband had not lived to share it, for she knew it would have crushed
him as it crushed her.
Her father was now very old, and so feeble that everyone screened him
from trouble so far as might be. But this particular trouble could not
be hid, and Barbara told him all.
"Do not give way, my dearest daughter," he said, "and above all do not
seek to fly from your trial, which doubtless is sent to you for some
good purpose. Troubles that we strive to escape nearly always recoil
upon our heads, whereas if they are faced, often they melt away. If
you remain in the world to watch and help him, your son's nature, bad
as it seems to be, may yet alter, for after all I know that he loves
you. But if you give up and leave the world, who can tell what will
happen to him when he is quite uncontrolled and in possession of his
fortune?"
Barbara recognised the truth of her father's words, and while he lived
tried to act up to them. But as it happened Mr. Walrond did not live
long, for one evening he was found dead in the church, whither he
often went to pray.
About this time the doctors told Barbara that her condition of health
was somewhat serious. It seemed that her lungs also showed signs of
being affected. Perhaps she had contracted the disease from her
husband, and now that she was so broken in spirit, it asserted itself.
They added, however, that if she took certain precautions, and above
all went away from Eastwich, there was every reason to hope that she
would quite recover her health.
In the end Barbara did not go away. At the time Anthony was being
instructed by a tutor who resided at the Hall to prepare him for the
University and ultimately for the Army. Needless to say, she was
employed continually in trying to compose the differences between him
and this tutor. How then could she go away and leave that poor
gentleman and her old mother, who when she was not staying with one of
her other married daughters now made her home at the Hall?
Thus she argued to herself, but the truth was that she did not wish to
go. Her dearest associations were in the churchyard yonder, the
churchyard where she hoped ere long she would be laid. She hated life,
she sought and craved for death. This was her sin.
Night by night she lay awake and thought of Anthony, her darling, her
beloved. She remembered that dream of his about a home that awaited
him in another world, and she loved to fancy him as dwelling in that
place of peace and making ready for her coming.
Nobody thought of him now except herself and his old dog Nell. The dog
thought of him, she was sure, for it would sleep beneath his empty
bed, and at times sit up, look at it and whine. Then it would come and
rest its head upon her as she slept, and she would wake to find it
looking at her with a question in its eyes. One night in the darkness
it did this, then left her and broke into a joyous whimpering, such as
it used to make when its master was going to take it out. She even
heard it jumping up as though to paw at him, and wondered dreamily
what it could mean.
When she woke in the morning she saw the poor beast lying stiff and
cold upon the bed that had been Anthony's, and though she wept over
it, her tears were perhaps those of envy rather than of sorrow, for
she was sure that it had found Anthony.
More and more Barbara threw out her soul towards Anthony. Across the
void of Nothingness she sent it travelling, nor did it return with
empty hands. Something of Anthony had greeted it, though she could not
remember the greeting, had spoken with it, though she could not
interpret the words. Of this at least she was sure, she had been near
to Anthony.
Once she seemed to see him. In the infinite, infinite distance,
millions of miles away, the sky opened as it were. There in the
opening was Anthony talking with one whom she knew for their daughter,
the baby that had died, talking of her. In a minute they were gone,
but she had seen them, she was sure that she had seen them, and the
knowledge warmed her heart.
So there was no error, the Bible was true, more or less; Faith was not
built on running water or on sand. Life was not a mere hellish
mockery, where tiaras turned to crowns of thorn and joy was but an
inch rule by which to measure the alps of human pain. Life was a door,
a gateway. The door dreadful, the gate perilous, if you will, but
beyond it lay no dream, no empty blackness. Beyond it stretched the
Promised Land peopled with the lost who soon would be the found.
Barbara's last illness was rapid. When she began to go she went
swiftly.
"Can't you save her?" asked her son of one of the doctors.
"The disease has gone too far," he answered. "Moreover, it is
impossible to save one who seeks to die."
"Why does she seek to die?" blurted Anthony, glaring at him.
"Perhaps, young gentleman, you are in a better position to answer that
question than I am," replied the doctor, who knew of Anthony's cruel
conduct to his mother and had reproached him with it, not once but on
several occasions.
"You mean that I have killed her," said Anthony savagely.
"No," replied the doctor, "she is dying of tuberculosis of the lungs.
What were the primary causes which induced that disease I cannot be
sure. All I said was that she appears to welcome it, or rather its
issue. And I will add this on my own account, that when she does die
the world will lose one of the sweetest women that ever walked upon
it. Good morning."
"I know what he means," said Anthony to himself, as he watched the
retreating form. "He means that I have murdered her, and perhaps I
have. She is sick of me and wants to get back to my father, who was so
different. That's why she won't go on living when she might. She is
committing suicide--of a holy sort. Well, what made me a brute and her
an angel? And when she's gone how will the brute get on without the
angel? Why should I be filled with fury and wickedness and she of whom
I was born with sweetness and light? Let God or the devil answer that
if they can. My mother, oh! my mother!" and this violent, sinister
youth hid his face in his hands and wept.
Barbara sank down and down into a very whirlpool of nothingness.
Bending over it, as it were, she saw the face of her aged mother, the
faces of some of her dear sisters, the face of the kindly doctor, and
lastly the agonised face of her handsome son.
"Mother! Don't leave me, mother. Mother! for God's sake come back to
me, mother, or we shall never meet again. Come back to save me!"
These were the last words that Barbara heard.
