Barbara Rebell

it, mon c?ur plein de ré

ath's, the futu

el

ince the eventful birthday

he dimly-lighted hall of Chancton Priory, her foot slipped on the floor; and she would have fallen had not a man's hand, small but curiously bony and

they smote on her ear as though laden with welcome, for they recalled the voice of a certain Andrew Johnstone, the Scotch Governor of the West Indian island of Santa Maria, whose brotherly kindnes

iar place offering both welcome and shelter. For she was at once aware that this must be the notable Jane Turke, Madame Sampiero's housekeeper, one to whom Barbara's own mother had often referred when

across its wearer's ample bosom was spread an elaborate parure of topazes set in filigree gold, a barbaric ornament which, however, did not seem out of place on the remarkable-looking old lady. Two earrings, evidently belonging t

ial about the salutation, and each time the yellow gown swept the stone-flagged floor she uttered the words, "Welcome, Ma'am, to C

rength Mrs. Turke was by now an old woman-said more naturally, "You don't remember Jane Turke, Ma'am, but J

rer welcome. It was essentially a made-up, artificial voice,-one to which only the old-fashioned but expressive word "genteel" could possibly app

ross the hall just above the head of the little group, seemed to nerve the housekeeper to a fresh effort: "This gentleman, Ma'am," she cried, waving a

d Mrs. Rebell knew him for a certain Alexander McKirdy, of whom, again, she had often heard from her mother. "I'll just thank ye," he said harshly, "to let me

inly, owing to the huge size of his head and the disproportionate breadth of his shoulders. His features were rough-hewn and irregular, only redeemed by a delicate, well-shaped mouth, and penetrating, not unkindly pale blue eyes. His hair, once bright red, now sandy grey streaked with white, was always kept short, bristling round a high intellig

hat is-better an hour hence than now, and better still to-morrow than to-day"-but a twinkle in his small bright eyes softened the u

no reply. Instead, he jerked his right shoulder, that as to which Barbara wondered if it could be higher than the other, towards the shadows from which he had himself emerged, and Mrs. Turke meekly turned

of the hall more visible, in his strong, steady hands. Then he turned abruptl

rfully, as she went, at the quivering grotesque shadows flung by herself and her companion across the bare spaces of flagged floor, and

ding. Doctor McKirdy motioned to his companion to open it, and as she did so they

d faced his companion, and with a certain surprise Mrs. Rebell realised that he wa

no preamble, "that it was I who wro

Indian island where she had spent her wretched married life, and make Chancton Priory her home, had not been written by her godmother's own han

: but it was my notion that when going through London you should see Goodchild. He's an honest man,-that

go wrote and told me of her illness? Mr. Goodchild also explained to me that Madame Sampiero sees very few people. He seemed to doubt"-Barbara's soft, steady voice suddenly tre

is going to see you,-tha

d it to travel slowly downwards till it seemed wholly to envelop her, and yet Barbara felt no offence: she realised that this st

g from Mrs. Rebell. How would this still young creature-Barbara's look of fragility and youth gave him somethi

ink from the sight of suffering?-who abhor distortion?-who only sympath

s, flung at her with quick shor

people shrink from seeing suffering, and that it is not to their discredit that they do so shrink--" There was a defiant

o notice, with any repugnance, physical deformity." Then she stopped, for the strong lined face o

te right," he went on with apparent irrelevancy, "I did know your mother. I had a sincere respect for her, and--" Again his thoughts seemed to take an

which had prompted the las

, and that my mother"-a very charming smile lighted up her sad

ly seemed to hear the w

are busy. We were walking, I say, and I-young fool!-was full of pride, for it was the first walk a lady had ever deigned to take with me. I was uglier, yes, and I th

e call her here, you know,-was so beautiful, such a contrast to myself: just a pretty doll, I took her to be, and as thoughts ar

taring at him, astonished a

sick-wanted to get away, to fetch someone along from the village. But Mrs. Richard-she was the tenderest creature alive, remember-never flinched. Those were not the days of gun ladies, but there, with me standing by, foolish, helpless, she put an end to the poor beastie-she put it out of its misery-with my knife too. Now that deserved the Humane Society's medal, eh? I never go by there without thinking of

all I see my

looked at her

o see you as you are to see her," then, as he watched her walking back into the hal

ch and vestibule, one of the four corners of the great hall, for those who had designed and built the newer portion of Chan

the music gallery which overlooked the hall; to the left a broad well-lighted corridor led, as Mrs. Rebell at once divined, if only because of the s

lly ushered Mrs. Rebell with some ceremony-for every incident connected with daily life was to Mrs. Turke a matter of ritual-into a suite of low-ceilinged, plainly furnished r

elf well able, nay, desirous to unpack and dress alone-all tha

lief. Barbara was no longer struggling in deep water, but she still felt terribly bruised and sore, and the smart of the injuries which had befallen her was still with her

es' invitation to Government House, and the leaving by her of her husband's plantation. Then she looked at herself in the glass, rather pitifully anxious

even after Madame Sampiero and her kinsman had broken off all epistolary relationship. Why had they done so? Out of the past came the memory of sharp bitter words uttered by Barbara's father concerning Madame Sampiero and a certain Lord Bosworth. Then, more recentl

looking down on the great dark spaces below, she suddenly felt, for the first time, a deep sense of peace and of protection from past sorrows and indignities. For the first

come free, but mentally she still had often during the last five weeks felt herself to be a bondswoman. During the voyage-aye, even during the two days spent by her in London-she had seemed to suffer more sentiently than when actually crushed under the heel of Pedro Rebell, the half-Spanish planter whose name seemed the only English thing about him. Since she had escaped from him, Ba

and impotent anger which had overwhelmed her when she had found out, a few weeks after her wedding day, that the sum of money paid yearly by Madame Sampiero to Richard Rebell's account,

the shelter of her roof. She could never have brought herself to do so but for the kindly letter, accompanied by a gift of a hundred pounds, which had reached her once a year ever since her ill-fated marriage. These

, and, taking up a candle, made her way s