CHAPTER III
He did so, to the letter; and though, as the crocus followed the
snowdrop and the daffodil the crocus in Lucy's garden, the harbour-
road was a not unpleasant place to walk in, Barnet's feet never trod
its stones, much less approached her door. He avoided a saunter
that way as he would have avoided a dangerous dram, and took his
airings a long distance northward, among severely square and brown
ploughed fields, where no other townsman came. Sometimes he went
round by the lower lanes of the borough, where the rope-walks
stretched in which his family formerly had share, and looked at the
rope-makers walking backwards, overhung by apple-trees and bushes,
and intruded on by cows and calves, as if trade had established
itself there at considerable inconvenience to Nature.
One morning, when the sun was so warm as to raise a steam from the
south-eastern slopes of those flanking hills that looked so lovely
above the old roofs, but made every low-chimneyed house in the town
as smoky as Tophet, Barnet glanced from the windows of the town-
council room for lack of interest in what was proceeding within.
Several members of the corporation were present, but there was not
much business doing, and in a few minutes Downe came leisurely
across to him, saying that he seldom saw Barnet now.
Barnet owned that he was not often present.
Downe looked at the crimson curtain which hung down beside the
panes, reflecting its hot hues into their faces, and then out of the
window. At that moment there passed along the street a tall
commanding lady, in whom the solicitor recognized Barnet's wife.
Barnet had done the same thing, and turned away.
'It will be all right some day,' said Downe, with cheering sympathy.
'You have heard, then, of her last outbreak?'
Downe depressed his cheerfulness to its very reverse in a moment.
'No, I have not heard of anything serious,' he said, with as long a
face as one naturally round could be turned into at short notice.
'I only hear vague reports of such things.'
'You may think it will be all right,' said Barnet drily. 'But I
have a different opinion . . . No, Downe, we must look the thing in
the face. Not poppy nor mandragora--however, how are your wife and
children?'
Downe said that they were all well, thanks; they were out that
morning somewhere; he was just looking to see if they were walking
that way. Ah, there they were, just coming down the street; and
Downe pointed to the figures of two children with a nursemaid, and a
lady walking behind them.
'You will come out and speak to her?' he asked.
'Not this morning. The fact is I don't care to speak to anybody
just now.'
'You are too sensitive, Mr. Barnet. At school I remember you used
to get as red as a rose if anybody uttered a word that hurt your
feelings.'
Barnet mused. 'Yes,' he admitted, 'there is a grain of truth in
that. It is because of that I often try to make peace at home.
Life would be tolerable then at any rate, even if not particularly
bright.'
'I have thought more than once of proposing a little plan to you,'
said Downe with some hesitation. 'I don't know whether it will meet
your views, but take it or leave it, as you choose. In fact, it was
my wife who suggested it: that she would be very glad to call on
Mrs. Barnet and get into her confidence. She seems to think that
Mrs. Barnet is rather alone in the town, and without advisers. Her
impression is that your wife will listen to reason. Emily has a
wonderful way of winning the hearts of people of her own sex.'
'And of the other sex too, I think. She is a charming woman, and
you were a lucky fellow to find her.'
'Well, perhaps I was,' simpered Downe, trying to wear an aspect of
being the last man in the world to feel pride. 'However, she will
be likely to find out what ruffles Mrs. Barnet. Perhaps it is some
misunderstanding, you know--something that she is too proud to ask
you to explain, or some little thing in your conduct that irritates
her because she does not fully comprehend you. The truth is, Emily
would have been more ready to make advances if she had been quite
sure of her fitness for Mrs. Barnet's society, who has of course
been accustomed to London people of good position, which made Emily
fearful of intruding.'
Barnet expressed his warmest thanks for the well-intentioned
proposition. There was reason in Mrs. Downe's fear--that he owned.
'But do let her call,' he said. 'There is no woman in England I
would so soon trust on such an errand. I am afraid there will not
be any brilliant result; still I shall take it as the kindest and
nicest thing if she will try it, and not be frightened at a
repulse.'
When Barnet and Downe had parted, the former went to the Town
Savings-Bank, of which he was a trustee, and endeavoured to forget
his troubles in the contemplation of low sums of money, and figures
in a network of red and blue lines. He sat and watched the working-
people making their deposits, to which at intervals he signed his
name. Before he left in the afternoon Downe put his head inside the
door.
'Emily has seen Mrs. Barnet,' he said, in a low voice. 'She has got
Mrs. Barnet's promise to take her for a drive down to the shore to-
morrow, if it is fine. Good afternoon!'
Barnet shook Downe by the hand without speaking, and Downe went
away.
