BARBARA’S RING.

Jasper quickly got the lantern out of the stable, and lighted the candle in the kitchen. Then he ran with it along the rough, stone-strewn lane, between walls of moorstone, till he came to the moor. He followed the track rather than road which traversed it. With evening, clouds had gathered and much obscured the light. Nevertheless the north was full of fine silvery haze, against which stood up the curious conical hill of Brent Tor, crowned with its little church.

When suddenly Jasper came up to Miss Jordan, he took her unawares. She was stooping, searching the ground, and, in her dark-green riding habit, he had mistaken her for a gorse bush. When he arrived with the lantern she arose abruptly, and on recognising the young man the riding-whip dropped from her hand.

‘Mr. Jasper!’ she exclaimed.

‘Miss Barbara!’

They stood still looking at each other in the twilight. One of her white hands was gloveless.

‘What has brought you here?’ asked Barbara, stooping and picking up her whip with one hand, and gathering her habit with the other.

‘I heard that you had lost something.’

‘Yes; I was thoughtless. I was warm, and I hastily whisked off my glove that I might pass my hand over my brow, and I felt as I plucked the glove away that my aunt’s ring came off. It was not a good fit. I was so foolish, so unnerved, that I let drop the glove—and now can find neither. The ring, I suspect, is in the glove, but I cannot find that. So I sent on Johnny Ostler for the lantern. I supposed he would return with it.’

‘I took the liberty of coming myself, he is a boy and tired with his long journey; besides, the horses have to be attended to. I hope you are not displeased.’

‘On the contrary,’ she replied, in her frank, kindly tone, ‘I am glad to see you. When one has been from home a long distance, it is pleasant to meet a messenger from home to say how all are.’

‘And it is pleasant for the messenger to bring good tidings. Mr. Jordan is well; Miss Eve happy as a butterfly in summer over a clover field.’

If it had not been dusk, and Barbara had not turned her head aside, Jasper would have seen a change in her face. She suddenly bowed herself and recommenced her search.

‘I am very, very sorry,’ she said, in a low tone, ‘I am not able to be a pleasant messenger to you. I am——’ she half raised herself, her voice was full of sympathy. ‘I am more sorry than I can say.’

He made no reply; he had not, perhaps, expected much. He threw the light of the lantern along the ground, and began to search for the glove.

‘You are carrying something,’ he said; ‘let me relieve you, Miss Jordan.’

‘It is—your violin.’

‘Miss Barbara! how kind, how good! You have carried it all the way?’

‘Not at all. Johnny Ostler had it most part. Then Mr. Coyshe carried it. The boy could not take it at the same time that he led my horse; you understand that?’ Her voice became cold, her pride was touched; she did not choose that he should know the truth.

‘But you thought of bringing it.’

‘Not at all. Your father insisted on its being taken from his house. The boy has the rest of your things, as many as could be carried.’

Nothing further was said. They searched together for the glove. They were forced to search closely together because the lantern cast but a poor light round. Where the glare did fall, there the tiny white clover leaves, fine moor grass, small delicately-shaped flowers of the milkwort, white and blue, seemed a newly-discovered little world of loveliness. But Barbara had other matters to consider, and scarcely noticed the beauty. She was not susceptible as Eve to the beautiful and picturesque. She was looking for her glove, but her thoughts were not wholly concerned with the glove and ring.

‘Mr. Jasper, I saw your father.’ She spoke in a low voice, their heads were not far asunder. ‘I told him where you were.’

‘Miss Barbara, did he say anything to you about me? Did he say anything about the—the loss of the money?’

‘He refused to hear about you. He would hardly listen to a word I said.’

‘Did he tell you who took the money?’

‘No.’ She paused. ‘Why should he? I know—it was you——’

Jasper sighed.

‘I can see,’ pursued Barbara, ‘that you were hard tried. I know that you had no happy home, that you had no mother, and that your father may have been harsh and exacting, but—but—’ her voice shook. ‘Excuse me, I am tired, and anxious about my ring. It is a sapphire surrounded with diamonds. I cannot speak much. I ought not to have put the ring on my finger till the hoop had been reduced. It was a very pretty ring.’

Then the search was continued in silence, without result.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, after a while, ‘I may seem engrossed in my loss and regardless of your disappointment. I expected that your father would have been eager to forgive you. The father of the prodigal in the Gospel ran to meet his repentant son. I am sure—I am sure you are repentant.’

‘I will do all in my power to redress the wrong that has been done,’ said Jasper calmly.

‘I entreated Mr. Babb to be generous, to relax his severity, and to send you his blessing. But I could not win a word of kindness for you, Mr. Jasper, not a word of hope and love!’

‘Oh, Miss Jordan, how good and kind you are!’

‘Mr. Jasper,’ she said in a soft tremulous voice, ‘I would take the journey readily over again. I would ride back at once, and alone over the moor, if I thought that would win the word for you. I believe, I trust, you are repentant, and I would do all in my power to strengthen your good resolution, and save your soul.’

Then she touched a gorse bush and made her hand smart with the prickles. She put the ungloved hand within the radius of the light, and tried to see and remove the spines.

‘Never mind,’ she said, forcing a laugh. ‘The ring, not the prickles, is of importance now. If I do not find it to-night, I shall send out all the men to-morrow, and promise a reward to quicken their interest and sharpen their eyes.’

She put her fingers where most wounded to her lips. Then, thinking that she had said too much, shown too great a willingness to help Jasper, she exclaimed, ‘Our holy religion requires us to do our utmost for the penitent. There is joy in heaven over one sinner that is contrite.’

‘I have found your glove,’ exclaimed Jasper joyously. He rose and held up a dog-skin riding-glove with gauntlet.

‘Feel inside if the ring be there,’ said Barbara. ‘I cannot do so myself, one hand is engaged with my whip and skirt.’

‘I can feel it—the hoop—through the leather.’

‘I am so glad, so much obliged to you, Mr. Jasper.’ She held out her white hand with the ring-finger extended. ‘Please put it in place, and I will close my fist till I reach home.’

She made the request without thought, considering only that she had her whip and gathered habit in her right, gloved hand.

Jasper opened the lantern and raised it. The diamonds sparkled. ‘Yes, that is my ring,’ said Barbara.

He set the lantern on a stone, a slab of white felspar that lay on the grass. Then he lightly held her hand with his left, and with the right placed the ring on her finger.

But the moment it was in place and his fingers held it there, a shock of terror and shame went to Barbara’s heart. What inconsiderateness had she been guilty of! The reflection of the light from the white felspar was in their faces. In a moment, unable to control herself, Barbara burst into tears. Jasper stooped and kissed the fingers he held.

She started back, snatched her hand from him, clenched her fist, and struck her breast with it. ‘How dare you! You—you—the escaped convict! Go on; I will follow. You have insulted me.’

He obeyed. But as he walked back to Morwell ahead of her, he was not cast down. Eve, in the garret, had that day opened a coffer and made a discovery. He, too, on the down, had wrenched open for one moment a fast-closed heart, had looked in, and made a discovery.

When Barbara reached her home she rushed to her room, where she threw herself on her bed, and beat and beat again, with her fists, her head and breast, and said, ‘I hate—I hate and despise myself! I hate—oh, how I hate myself!’