do you want? Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Am I speaking to Mr. Babb?’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘May I have a few words with you in private?’
‘Oh, there is no one in the house, except my housekeeper, and she is deaf. You can say what you want here.’
‘Who is there to take my horse?’
‘You can hold him by the bridle, and talk to me where you stand. There’s no occasion for you to come in.’
Barbara saw into the hall; it was floored with stone, the Buckfastleigh marble, but unpolished. The walls had been papered with glazed imitation panelling, but the paper had peeled off, and hung in strips. A chair with wooden seat, that had not been wiped for weeks, a set of coat and hat pegs, some broken, on one a very discoloured great coat and a battered hat. In a corner a bulging green umbrella, the silk detached from the whalebone.
‘You see,’ said the old man grimly, half turning, as he noticed that Barbara’s eyes were observing the interior; ‘you see, this is no place for ladies. It is a weaving spider’s web, not a gallant’s bower.’
‘But——’ the girl hesitated, ‘what I have to say is very particular, and I would not be overheard on any account.’
‘Ah! ah!’ he giggled, ‘I’ll have no games played with me. I’m no longer susceptible to fascination, and I ain’t worth it; on my sacred word I’m not. I’m very poor, very poor now. You can see it for yourself. Is this house kept up, and the garden? Does the hall look like a lap of luxury? I’m too poor to be a catch, so you may go away.’
Barbara would have laughed had not the nature of her visit been so serious.
‘I am Miss Jordan,’ she said, ‘daughter of Mr. Jordan of Morwell, from whom you borrowed money seventeen years ago.’
‘Oh!’ he gave a start of surprise. ‘Ah, well, I have sent back as much as I could spare. Some was stolen. It is not convenient to me after this reverse to find all now.’
‘My father has received nothing. What you sent was lost or stolen on the way.’
The old man’s jaw fell, and he stared blankly at her.
‘It is as I say. My father has received nothing.’
‘I sent it by my son.’
‘He has lost it.’
‘It is false. He has stolen it.’
‘What is to be done?’
‘Oh, that is for your father to decide. When my son robbed me, I locked him up. Now let your father see to it. I have done my duty, my conscience is clear.’
Barbara looked steadily, with some curiosity, into his face. The face was repulsive. The strongly marked features which might have been handsome in youth, were exaggerated by age. His white hair was matted and uncombed. He had run his fingers through it whilst engaged on his accounts, and had divided it into rat’s-tails. His chin and jaws were frouzy with coarse white bristles. In his black eyes was a keen twinkle of avarice and cunning. Old age and the snows of the winter of life soften a harsh face, if there be any love in it; but in this there was none. If a fire had burnt on the hearth of the old man’s heart, not a spark remained alive, the hearth was choked with grey ashes. Barbara traced a resemblance between the old man and his son. From his father, Jasper had derived his aquiline nose, and the shape of mouth and chin. But the expression of the faces was different. That of Jasper was noble, that of his father mean. The eyes of the son were gentle, those of Mr. Babb hard as pebbles that had been polished.
As Barbara talked with and observed the old man she recalled what Jasper had said of ill-treatment and lack of love. There was no tenderness to be got out of such a man as that before her.
‘Now look you here,’ said Mr. Babb. ‘Do you see that stretch of field yonder where the cloth is strained in the sun? Very well. That cloth is mine. It is woven in my mill yonder. That field was purchased seventeen years ago for my accommodation. I can’t repay the money now without selling the factory or the field, and neither is worth a shilling without the other. No—we must all put up with losses. I have mine; the Lord sends your father his. A wise Providence orders all that. Tell him so. His heart has been hankering after mammon, and now Heaven has deprived him of it. I’ve had losses too. I’ve learned to bear them. So must he. What is your name?—I mean your Christian name?’
‘Barbara.’
‘Oh! not Eve—dear, no. You don’t look as if that were your name.’
‘Eve is my sister—my half-sister.’
‘Ah, ha! the elder daughter. And what has become of the little one?’
‘She is well, at home, and beautiful as she is good. She is not at all like me.’
‘That is a good job—for you. I mean, that you are not like her. Is she lively?’
‘Oh, like a lark, singing, dancing, merry.’
‘Of course, thoughtless, light, a feather that flies and tosses in the breath.’
‘To return to the money. It was to have been my sister’s.’
‘Well,’ said the old man with a giggle, ‘let it so remain. It was to have been. Now it cannot be. Whose fault is that? Not mine. I kept the money for your father. I am a man of my word. When I make a covenant I do not break it. But my son—my son!’
‘Your son is now with us.’
‘You say he has stolen the money. Let your father not spare him. There is no good in being lenient. Be just. When my son robbed me, I did not spare him. I will not lift a little finger to save Jasper, who now, as you say, has robbed your father. Wait where you are; I will run in, and write something, which will perhaps satisfy Mr. Jordan; wait here, you cannot enter, or your horse would run away. What did you give for that cob? not much. Do you want to sell him? I don’t mind ten pounds. He’s not worth more. See how he hangs his off hind leg. That’s a blemish that would stand in your way of selling. Would you like to go over the factory? No charge, you can tip the foreman a shilling. No cloth weaving your way, only wool growing; and—judging from what I saw of your father—wool-gathering.’ With a cackle the old man slipped in and shut the door in Barbara’s face.
Miss Jordan stood patting the neck of her disparaged horse. ‘You are not to be parted with, are you, Jock, to an old skinflint who would starve you?’
The cob put his nose on her shoulder, and rubbed it. She looked round. Everything spoke of sordidness, only the factory seemed cared for, where money was made. None was wasted on the adornment, even on the decencies, of life.
The door opened. Mr. Babb had locked it after him as he went in. He came out with a folded letter in his hand.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘give that to your father.’
‘I must tell you, Mr. Babb, that your son Jasper is with us. He professes to have lost the money. He met with an accident and was nearly killed. He remains with us, as a sort of steward to
