THE OWLS.

Barbara had been interrupted in her meditations, so was Jasper. As he stood lost in a painful dream, but with a dew from heaven falling on his parched soul, suddenly he was startled out of his abstraction by a laugh and an exclamation at his elbow.

‘Well, Jasper, composing verses to the weak-eyed Leah or the blue-orbed Rachel?’

‘What brings you here, Watt?’ asked Jasper, disguising his annoyance.

‘Or, my sanctimonious fox, are you waiting here for one of the silly geese to run to you?’

‘You have come here bent on mischief,’ said Jasper, disdaining to notice his jokes.

The evening, the still scene, the solitary platform raised so high above the land beyond, had seemed holy, soothing as a church, and now, at once, with the sound of Walter’s voice, the feeling was gone, all seemed desecrated.

‘Watt,’ said Jasper, sternly, ‘you sent me away to Buckfastleigh by a lie. Why did you do that? It is utterly false that my father is ill and dying.’

‘Is it so? Then I dreamed it, Jasper. Morning dreams come true, folks say. There, my brother, you are a good, forgiving fellow. You will pardon me. The fact is that Martin and I wanted to know how matters went at home. I did not care to go myself, Martin could not go, so—I sent you, my good simpleton.’

‘You told me a lie.’

‘If I had told you the truth you would not have gone. What was that we were taught at school? “Magna est veritas, et prÆvalebit.” I don’t believe it; experience tells me the contrary. Long live lies; they win the day all the world over.’

‘What brings you here?’

‘Have I not told you? I desired to see you and to have news of my father. You have been quick about it, Jasper. I could scarce believe my eyes when I saw you riding home.’

‘You have been watching?’

‘Of course I have. My eyes are keen. Nothing escapes them.’

‘Walter, this will not do. I am not deceived; you did not come here for the purpose you say. You want something else, what is it?’

The boy laughed, snapped his fingers, and began to dance, whistling a tune, on the rock; approaching, then backing from Jasper.

‘Oh, you clever old Jasper!’ he laughed, ‘now you begin to see—like the puppy pitched into the water-butt, who opened his eyes when too late.’

Jasper folded his arms. He said nothing, but waited till the boy’s mad pranks came to an end. At last Watt, seeing that he could not provoke his brother, desisted, and came to him with affected humility.

‘There, Jasper—Saint Jasper, I mean—I will be quiet and go through my catechism.’

‘Then tell me why you are here.’

‘Well, now, you shall hear our scheme. Martin and I thought that you had better patch up your little quarrel with father, and then we knew we should have a good friend at his ear to prompt forgiveness, and so, perhaps, as his conscience stirred, his purse-strings might relax, and you would be able to send us a trifle in money. Is not this reasonable?’

Yes, there could be no denying it, this was reasonable and consistent with the characters of the two, who would value their father’s favour only by what it would profit them. Nevertheless Jasper was unsatisfied. Watt was so false, so unscrupulous, that his word never could be trusted.

Jasper considered for a few minutes, then he asked, ‘Where is Martin—is he here?’

‘Here!’ jeered the boy, ‘Martin here, indeed! not he. He is in safe quarters. Where he is I will blab to no one, not even to you. He sends me out from his ark of refuge as the dove, or rather as the raven, to bring him news of the world from which he is secluded.’

‘Walter, answer me this. Who met Miss Eve this evening on this very rock? Answer me truly. More depends on this than you are aware of.’

‘Miss Eve! What do you mean? My sister who is dead and gone? I do not relish the company of ghosts.’

‘You know whom I mean. This is miserable evasion. I mean the younger of the daughters of Mr. Jordan. She was here at sundown this evening and someone was with her. I conjure you by all that you hold sacred——’

‘I hold nothing sacred,’ said the boy.

‘I conjure you most solemnly to tell me the whole truth, as brother to brother.’

‘Well, then—as brother to brother—I did.’

‘For what purpose, Watt?’

‘My dear Jasper, can we live on air? Here am I hopping about the woods, roosting in the branches, and there is poor Martin mewed up in his ark. I must find food for him and myself. You know that I have made the acquaintance of the young lady who, oddly enough, bears the name of our dear departed mother and sister. I have appealed to her compassion, and held out my hat for money. I offered to dance on my head, to turn a wheel all round the edge of this cliff, in jeopardy of my life for half a guinea, and she gave me the money to prevent me from risking broken bones.’

‘Oh, Watt, you should not have done this!’

‘We must live. We must have money.’

‘But, Watt, where is all that which was taken from my pocket?’

‘Gone,’ answered the boy. ‘Gone as the snow before south-west wind. Nothing melts like money, not even snow, no, nor butter, no, nor a girl’s heart.’ Then with a sly laugh, ‘Jasper, where does old addle-brains keep his strong box?’

‘Walter!’ exclaimed Jasper, indignantly.

‘Ah!’ laughed the boy, ‘if I knew where it was I would creep to it by a mouse hole, and put my little finger into the lock, and when I turned that, open flies the box.’

‘Walter, forbear. You are a wicked boy.’

‘I confess it. I glory in it. Father always said I was predestined to——’

‘Be silent,’ ordered Jasper, angrily; ‘you are insufferable.’

‘There, do not ruffle your feathers over a joke. Have you some money to give me now?’

‘Watt,’ said Jasper, very sternly, ‘answer me frankly, if you can. I warn you.’ He laid his hand on the boy’s arm. ‘A great deal depends on your giving me a truthful answer. Is Martin anywhere hereabouts? I fear he is, in spite of your assurances, for where you are he is not often far away. The jackal and the lion hunt together.’

‘He is not here. Good-bye, old brother Grave-airs.’ Then he ran away, but before he had gone far turned and hooted like an owl, and ran on, and was lost in the gloom of the woods, but still as he ran hooted at intervals, and owls answered his cry from the rocks, and flitted ghost-like about in the dusk, seeking their brother who called them and mocked at them.

Now that he was again alone, Jasper in vain sought to rally his thoughts and recover his former frame of mind. But that was not possible. Accordingly he turned homewards.

He was very tired. He had had two long days’ ride, and had slept little if at all the previous night. Though recovered after his accident he was not perfectly vigorous, and the two hard days and broken rest had greatly tired him. On reaching Morwell he did not take a light, but cast himself, in his clothes, on his bed, and fell into a heavy sleep.

Barbara walked quietly back after having parted with Jane. She hoped that Jasper had on second thoughts taken the prudent course of escaping. It was inconceivable that he should remain and allow himself to be retaken. She was puzzled how to explain his conduct. Then all at once she remembered that she had left the convict suit in her father’s room; she had forgotten to remove it. She quickened her pace and arrived breathless at Morwell.

She entered her father’s apartment on tiptoe. She stood still and listened. A night-light burned on the floor, and the enclosing iron pierced with round holes cast circles of light about the walls. The candle was a rushlight of feeble illuminating power.

Barbara could see her father lying, apparently asleep, in bed, with his pale thin hands out, hanging down, clasped, as if in prayer; one of the spots of light danced over the finger tips and nails. She heard him breathe, as in sleep.

Then she stepped across the room to where she had cast the suit of clothes. They lay in a grey heap, with the spots of light avoiding them, dancing above them, but not falling on them.

Barbara stooped to pick them up.

‘Stay, Barbara,’ said her father. ‘I hear you. I see what you are doing. I know your purpose. Leave those things where they lie.’

‘O papa! dear papa, suffer me to put them away.’

‘Let them lie there, where I can see them.’

‘But, papa, what will the maids think when they come in? Besides it is untidy to let them litter about the floor.’

He made an impatient gesture with his hand.

‘May I not, at least, fold them and lay them on the chair?’

‘You may not touch them at all,’ he said in a tone of irritation. She knew his temper too well to oppose him further.

‘Good night, dear papa. I suppose Eve is gone to bed?’

‘Yes; go also.’

She was obliged, most reluctantly, to leave the room. She ascended the stairs, and entered her own sleeping apartment. From this a door communicated with that of her sister. She opened this door and with her light entered and crossed it.

Eve had gone to bed, and thrown all her clothes about on the floor. Barbara had some difficulty in picking her way among the scattered articles. When she came to the bedside, she stood, and held her candle aloft, and let the light fall over the sleeping girl.

How lovely she was, with her golden hair in confusion on the pillow! She was lying with her cheek on one rosy palm, and the other hand was out of bed, on the white sheet—and see! upon the finger, Barbara recognised the turquoise ring. Eve did not venture to wear this by day. At night, in her room, she had thrust the golden hoop over her finger, and had gone to sleep without removing it.

Barbara stooped, and kissed her sister’s cheek. Eve did not awake, but smiled in slumber; a dimple formed at the corner of her mouth.

Then Barbara went to her own room, opened her desk, and the secret drawer, and looked at the bunch of dry roses. They were very yellow now, utterly withered and worthless. The girl took them, stooped her face to them—was it to discover if any scent lingered in the faded leaves? Then she closed the drawer and desk again, with a sigh.

Was Barbara insensible to what is beautiful, inappreciative of the poetry of life? Surely not. She had been forced by circumstances to be practical, to devote her whole thought to the duties of the house and estate; she had said to herself that she had no leisure to think of those things that make life graceful; but through her strong, direct, and genuine nature ran a ‘Leitmotif’ of sweet, pure melody, kept under and obscured by the jar and jangle of domestic cares and worries, but never lost. There is no nature, however vulgar, that is deficient in its musical phrase, not always quite original and unique, and only the careless listener marks it not. The patient, attentive ear suspects its presence first, listens for it, recognises it, and at last appreciates it.

In poor faithful Barbara now the sweet melody, somewhat sad, was rising, becoming articulate, asserting itself above all other sounds and adventitious strains—but, alas! there was no ear to listen to it.

Barbara went to her window and opened it.

‘How the owls are hooting to-night!’ she said. ‘They, like myself, are full of unrest. To-whit! To-whoo!’