Part 12 (2/2)

But Barnett was intelligent and sensible, and he rose to the occasion.

Circ.u.mstances helped him. The year after old Giles's death Barnett for the first time fell in love, wisely and well. His affection was bestowed on a worthy object--Marion Grover, the daughter of a yeoman in the next county--and was fully returned.

Marion was years younger than her lover, fifteen at least, eminently practical, healthy, and pretty. She brought her husband just exactly what he was most in need of--brightness, energy, and youth. It was an ideal marriage, and everything prospered at Mayling. Four years after the advent of the new Mrs. Giles you would scarcely have recognised the farmer, he seemed another man.

He adored his wife, and could hardly find it in his heart to regret that their child was not a son, even though, failing an heir, the old name must die out; for if there was one creature the husband and wife loved more than each other it was their baby girl.

A month or two after this child's second birthday the singular catastrophe occurred which changed the world to poor Barnett Giles, leaving him but a wreck of his former self, physically and mentally.

Young Mrs. Giles was strong in every way, and from the first she took the line of saving her husband all extra fatigue or annoyance which she could possibly hoist on to her own brave shoulders. There was something quaint and even pathetic in the relations of the couple. For, notwithstanding Marion's being so much Barnett's junior, her att.i.tude towards him had a decided suggestion of the maternal about it, though at times of real emergency his sound judgment and advice never failed her.

It was within a week or two of Christmas; the weather was bitingly, raspingly cold. And though as yet no snow had fallen, the weather-wise were predicting it daily.

”I _must_ go over to Colletwood this week,” said Mrs. Giles, ”and I must take Nelly. Her new coat is waiting to be tried at the dressmaker's, and I must get her some boots and several other things before Christmas. And there is a whole list of other shopping too--all our Christmas presents to see to.”

Her husband was looking out of the window, it was still very early in the day.

”I doubt if the snow will hold off much longer,” he said.

”And once it begins it may be heavy,” his wife replied, ”and then I might not be able to go for ever so long, even by the road,”--for a deep fall of snow at Scarby was practically a stoppage to all traffic. ”I'll tell you what, Barnett, we'll go to-day and make sure of it. I will put other things aside and start before noon. A couple of hours, or three at the most, will do everything, and then Nelly and I will be back long before dark. You'll come to meet us, won't you?”

”Of course I will--if you go. But,” and again he glanced at the sky.

The morning was, so far, clear and bright, though very cold, but over towards the north there was a suspicious look about the blue-grey clouds. ”I don't know,” he said, ”but that you'd better wait till to-morrow and see if it blows off again.”

But Marion shook her head.

”I've a feeling,” she said, ”that if I don't go to-day, I won't go at all. And I really must. I'll take Betsy to carry the child till we're just above the town, and then send her home, so as not to be tired for coming back. Not that I'm _ever_ tired, as you know,” with a smile.

He gave in, only stipulating that at all costs they should start to return by a certain hour, unless the snow should have already begun, in which case Marion was to run no risks, but either to hire a fly to bring her home by the road, or to stay in the town with some of her friends till the weather cleared again.

”And I'll meet you,” he added. ”Let us set our watches together--I'll start from here so as to be at--let me see----”

”Half-way between the stiles,” said Marion. ”We can each see the other from one stile to the opposite one, you know, even though it's a good bit of a way. Yes, dear, I'll time it as near as I can to meet half-way between the stiles.”

And with these words the last on her lips, she set off, a picture of health and happiness--little Nelly crowing back to ”Dada” from over stout Betsy's shoulder.

Betsy was home again within the hour.

But the mother and child--alas and alas! It was the immortal story of ”Lucy Gray” in an almost more pathetic shape.

Farmer Giles, as I have said, was a studious, often absent-minded man.

There was not much to do at that season and in such weather, and what there was, some amount of supervision on his part was enough for. After his early dinner he got out his books for an hour or two's quiet reading till it should be time to set off to meet his darlings. No fear of his forgetting _that_ time, but till the clock struck, and he saw it was approaching nearly, he never looked out--he was unconscious of the rapid growth of the lurid, steely clouds; he had no idea that the snowflakes were already falling, falling, more and more closely and thickly with each instant that pa.s.sed.

Then rose the storm spirit and issued his orders--all too quickly obeyed. Before Barnett Giles had left the village street he found himself in what now-a-days would be called a ”blizzard”. And his pale face grew paler, and his heart beat as if to choke him, when at last he reached the first stile and stood there panting, to regain his breath.

It was all he could do to battle on through the fury of the wind, the blinding, whirling snow, which seemed to envelop him as if in sheets.

Not for many and many a day will that awful snowstorm be forgotten in Scars.h.i.+re.

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