The farmers merely acknowledged by their countenances the propriety
of this remark； and finding that nobody else spoke； one of the
barmaids said 'yes；' in a tone of painful duty。
'Come fair…day we shall have to light up before we start for home…
along。'
'That's true；' his neighbour conceded； with a gaze of blankness。
'And after that we shan't see much further difference all's winter。'
The rest were not unwilling to go even so far as this。
The barmaid sighed again； and raised one of her hands from the
counter on which they rested to scratch the smallest surface of her
face with the smallest of her fingers。 She looked towards the door；
and presently remarked； 'I think I hear the 'bus coming in from
station。'
The eyes of the dairymen and farmers turned to the glass door
dividing the hall from the porch； and in a minute or two the omnibus
drew up outside。 Then there was a lumbering down of luggage； and
then a man came into the hall； followed by a porter with a
portmanteau on his poll； which he deposited on a bench。
The stranger was an elderly person； with curly ashen white hair； a
deeply…creviced outer corner to each eyelid； and a countenance baked
by innumerable suns to the colour of terra…cotta； its hue and that
of his hair contrasting like heat and cold respectively。 He walked
meditatively and gently； like one who was fearful of disturbing his
own mental equilibrium。 But whatever lay at the bottom of his
breast had evidently made him so accustomed to its situation there
that it caused him little practical inconvenience。
He paused in silence while； with his dubious eyes fixed on the
barmaids； he seemed to consider himself。 In a moment or two he
addressed them； and asked to be accommodated for the night。 As he
waited he looked curiously round the hall； but said nothing。 As
soon as invited he disappeared up the staircase； preceded by a
chambermaid and candle； and followed by a lad with his trunk。 Not a
soul had recognized him。
A quarter of an hour later； when the farmers and dairymen had driven
off to their homesteads in the country； he came downstairs； took a
biscuit and one glass of wine； and walked out into the town； where
the radiance from the shop…windows had grown so in volume of late
years as to flood with cheerfulness every standing cart； barrow；
stall； and idler that occupied the wayside； whether shabby or
genteel。 His chief interest at present seemed to lie in the names
painted over the shop…fronts and on door…ways； as far as they were
visible； these now differed to an ominous extent from what they had
been one…and…twenty years before。
The traveller passed on till he came to the bookseller's； where he
looked in through the glass door。 A fresh…faced young man was
standing behind the counter； otherwise the shop was empty。 The
gray…haired observer entered； asked for some periodical by way of
paying for admission； and with his elbow on the counter began to
turn over the pages he had bought； though that he read nothing was
obvious。
At length he said； 'Is old Mr。 Watkins still alive？' in a voice
which had a curious youthful cadence in it even now。
'My father is dead； sir；' said the young man。
'Ah； I am sorry to hear it；' said the stranger。 'But it is so many
years since I last visited this town that I could hardly expect it
should be otherwise。' After a short silence he continued'And is
the firm of Barnet； Browse； and Company still in existence？they
used to be large flax…merchants and twine…spinners here？'
'The firm is still going on； sir； but they have dropped the name of
Barnet。 I believe that was a sort of fancy nameat least； I never
knew of any living Barnet。 'Tis now Browse and Co。'
'And does Andrew Jones still keep on as architect？'
'He's dead； sir。'
'And the Vicar of St。 Mary'sMr。 Melrose？'
'He's been dead a great many years。'
'Dear me！' He paused yet longer； and cleared his voice。 'Is Mr。
Downe； the solicitor； still in practice？'
'No； sir； he's dead。 He died about seven years ago。'
Here it was a longer silence still； and an attentive observer would
have noticed that the paper in the stranger's hand increased its
imperceptible tremor to a visible shake。 That gray…haired gentleman
noticed it himself； and rested the paper on the counter。 'Is MRS。
Downe still alive？' he asked； closing his lips firmly as soon as the
words were out of his mouth； and dropping his eyes。
'Yes； sir； she's alive and well。 She's living at the old place。'
'In East Street？'
'O no； at Chateau Ringdale。 I believe it has been in the family for
some generations。'
'She lives with her children； perhaps？'
'No； she has no children of her own。 There were some Miss Downes； I
think they were Mr。 Downe's daughters by a former wife； but they are
married and living in other parts of the town。 Mrs。 Downe lives
alone。'
'Quite alone？'
'Yes； sir； quite alone。'
The newly…arrived gentleman went back to the hotel and dined； after
which he made some change in his dress； shaved back his beard to the
fashion that had prevailed twenty years earlier； when he was young
and interesting； and once more emerging； bent his steps in the
direction of the harbour…road。 Just before getting to the point
where the pavement ceased and the houses isolated themselves； he
overtook a shambling； stooping； unshaven man； who at first sight
appeared like a professional tramp； his shoulders having a
perceptible greasiness as they passed under the gaslight。 Each
pedestrian momentarily turned and regarded the other； and the tramp…
like gentleman started back。
'Goodwhyis that Mr。 Barnet？ 'Tis Mr。 Barnet； surely！'
'Yes； and you are Charlson？'
'Yesahyou notice my appearance。 The Fates have rather ill…used
me。 By…the…bye； that fifty pounds。 I never paid it； did I？ 。 。 。
But I was not ungrateful！' Here the stooping man laid one hand
emphatically on the palm of the other。 'I gave you a chance； Mr。
George Barnet； which many men would have thought full value
receivedthe chance to marry your Lucy。 As far as the world was
concerned； your wife was a DROWNED WOMAN； hey？'
'Heaven forbid all that； Charlson！'
'Well； well； 'twas a wrong way of showing gratitude； I suppose。 And
now a drop of something to drink for old acquaintance' sake！ And
Mr。 Barnet； she's again freethere's a chance now if you care for
itha； ha！' And the speaker pushed his tongue into his hollow
cheek and slanted his eye in the old fashion。
'I know all；' said Barnet quickly； and slipping a small present into
the hands of the needy； saddening man； he stepped ahead and was soon
in the outskirts of the town。
He reached the harbour…road； and paused before the entrance to a
well…known house。 It was so highly bosomed in trees and shrubs
planted since the erection of the building that one would scarcely
have recognized the spot as that which had been a mere neglected
slope till chosen as a site for a dwelling。 He opened the swing…
gate； closed it noiselessly； and gently moved into the semicircular
drive； which remained exactly as it had been marked out by Barnet on
the morning when Lucy Savile ran in to thank him for procuring her
the post of governess to Downe's children。 But the growth of trees
and bushes which revealed itself at every step was beyond all
expectation； sun…proof and moon…proof bowers vaulted the walks； and
the walls of the house were uniformly bearded with creeping plants
as high as the first…floor windows。
After lingering for a few minutes in the dusk of the bending boughs；
the visitor rang the door…bell； and on the servant appearing； he
announced himself as 'an old friend of Mrs。 Downe's。'
The hall was lighted； but not brightly； the gas being turned low； as
if visitors were rare。 There was a stagnation in the dwelling； it
seemed to be waiting。 Could it really be waiting for him？ The
partitions which had been probed by Barnet's walking…stick when the
mortar was green； were now quite brown with the antiquity of their
varnish； and the ornamental woodwork of the staircase； which had
glistened with a pale yellow newness when first erected； was now of
a rich wine…colour。 During the servant's absence the following
colloquy could be dimly heard through the nearly closed door of the
drawing…room。
'He didn't give his name？'
'He only said 〃an old friend；〃 ma'am。'
'What kind of gentleman is he？'
'A staidish gentleman； with gray hair。'
The voice of the second speaker seemed to affect the listener
greatly。 After a pause； the lady said； 'Very well； I will see him。'
And the stranger was shown in face to face with the Lucy who had
once been Lucy Savile。 The round cheek of that formerly young lady
had； of course； alarmingly flattened its curve in her modern
representative； a pervasive grayness overspread her once dark brown
hair； like morning rime on heather。 The parting down the middle was
wide and jagged； once it had been a thin white line； a narrow
crevice between two high banks of shade。 But there was still enough
left to form a handsome knob behind； and some curls beneath
inwrought with a few hairs like silver wires were very becoming。 In
her eyes the only modification was that their originally mild
rectitude of expression had become a little more stringent than
heretofore。 Yet she was still girlisha girl who had been
gratuitously weighted by destiny with a burden of five…and…forty
years instead of her proper twenty。
'Lucy； don't you know me？' he said； when the servant had closed the
door。
'I knew you the instant I saw you！' she returned cheerfully。 'I
don't know why； but I always thought you would come back to your old
town again。'
She gave him her hand； and then they sat down。 'They said you were
dead；' continued Lucy； 'but I never thought so。 We should have
heard of it for certain if you had been。'
'It is a very long time since we met。'
'Yes； what you must have seen； Mr。 Barnet； in all these roving
years； in comparison with what I have seen in this quiet place！'
Her face grew more serious。 'You know my husband has been dead a
long time？ I am a lonely old woman now； considering what I have
been； though Mr。 Downe's daughtersall marriedmanage