He had written his letter to Barbara. A long time of waiting followed, but no waiting brought any answer. Lady Ann had dropped a hint, and Mr. Wylder had picked it up—a hint subtle, but forcible enough to make him keep an outlook on the letters that came for his daughter. When Richard’s arrived, it did not look to him that of a gentleman, and without a proper seal. Where his own family was concerned Mr. Wylder was not the most delicate of men—he opened the letter and found in it what he called a rigmarole of poetry and theology. “Confound the fellow!” he said to himself. Lady Ann did well to warn him. There should be no more of this! The scatterbrain girl took after her mother!

He never said a word about the letter. He feared the little girl he pretended to protect and did not want to rouse her against him. So Richard’s letter went into the fire and Bab never read the petition of her poor friend.

The next morning Richard went to the shop and took up the first job that fell to his hand. He told his father of Lestrange’s proposal about the library, and Tuke would have him accept it.

Richard made no objection. He would gladly keep the door open to any place where Barbara’s shadow might fall. But when John wrote to arrange the thing there was no reply, and a gulf seemed to yawn between the houses.

Thus began a dreary time for Richard. Now, for the first time, he began to know what unhappiness was. But as dead as his work seemed, he could not remain indoors a moment after it was done. Whatever the weather, out he went, often on the Thames, heedless of cold or wind or rain. His mother grew worried about him, attributed his unrest to despair, and feared she might have to tell him the secret source of her uneasiness. But she longed to avoid breaking up the happiness of seeing him about the house. And he would most certainly leave, once he was apprised of the truth. It would be so much easier to go on as they were. A day would come when she would have to part with him, but that day was not yet. She dreaded uncaging her secret, dreaded the changes it would work. She never suspected that anyone knew or surmised it but herself, or that she had to beware of any tongue but her own.

Her husband left the matter entirely to her. It was her business, he said, from the first. He would let it be hers to the last.

29. Nature

— Twenty-Nine —

Nature

Richard soon began to recover both from the separation and from his disappointment about his letter to Barbara. He was satisfied that whatever might be the cause of her silence, it came from no fault in Barbara. Nothing shook his faith in her.