One September evening, four months later, when Mrs. Barnet was inperfect health, and Mrs. Downe but a weakening memory, an errand-boypaused to rest himself in front of Mr. Barnet's old house,depositing his basket on one of the window-sills. The street wasnot yet lighted, but there were lights in the house, and atintervals a flitting shadow fell upon the blind at his elbow. Wordsalso were audible from the same apartment, and they seemed to bethose of persons in violent altercation. But the boy could notgather their purport, and he went on his way.

　　Ten minutes afterwards the door of Barnet's house opened, and a tallclosely-veiled lady in a travelling-dress came out and descended thefreestone steps. The servant stood in the doorway watching her asshe went with a measured tread down the street. When she had beenout of sight for some minutes Barnet appeared at the door fromwithin.

　　'Did your mistress leave word where she was going?' he asked.

　　'No, sir.'

　　'Is the carriage ordered to meet her anywhere?'

　　'No, sir.'

　　'Did she take a latch-key?'

　　'No, sir.'

　　Barnet went in again, sat down in his chair, and leaned back. Thenin solitude and silence he brooded over the bitter emotions thatfilled his heart. It was for this that he had gratuitously restoredher to life, and made his union with another impossible! Theevening drew on, and nobody came to disturb him. At bedtime he toldthe servants to retire, that he would sit up for Mrs. Barnethimself; and when they were gone he leaned his head upon his handand mused for hours.

　　The clock struck one, two; still his wife came not, and, withimpatience added to depression, he went from room to room tillanother weary hour had passed. This was not altogether a newexperience for Barnet; but she had never before so prolonged herabsence. At last he sat down again and fell asleep.

　　He awoke at six o'clock to find that she had not returned. Insearching about the rooms he discovered that she had taken a case ofjewels which had been hers before her marriage. At eight a note wasbrought him; it was from his wife, in which she stated that she hadgone by the coach to the house of a distant relative near London,and expressed a wish that certain boxes, articles of clothing, andso on, might be sent to her forthwith. The note was brought to himby a waiter at the Black-Bull Hotel, and had been written by Mrs.

　　Barnet immediately before she took her place in the stage.

　　By the evening this order was carried out, and Barnet, with a senseof relief, walked out into the town. A fair had been held duringthe day, and the large clear moon which rose over the most prominenthill flung its light upon the booths and standings that stillremained in the street, mixing its rays curiously with those fromthe flaring naphtha lamps. The town was full of country-people whohad come in to enjoy themselves, and on this account Barnet strolledthrough the streets unobserved. With a certain recklessness he madefor the harbour-road, and presently found himself by the shore,where he walked on till he came to the spot near which his friendthe kindly Mrs. Downe had lost her life, and his own wife's life hadbeen preserved. A tremulous pathway of bright moonshine nowstretched over the water which had engulfed them, and not a livingsoul was near.

　　Here he ruminated on their characters, and next on the young girl inwhom he now took a more sensitive interest than at the time when hehad been free to marry her. Nothing, so far as he was aware, hadever appeared in his own conduct to show that such an interestexisted. He had made it a point of the utmost strictness to hinderthat feeling from influencing in the faintest degree his attitudetowards his wife; and this was made all the more easy for him by thesmall demand Mrs. Barnet made upon his attentions, for which sheever evinced the greatest contempt; thus unwittingly giving him thesatisfaction of knowing that their severance owed nothing tojealousy, or, indeed, to any personal behaviour of his at all. Herconcern was not with him or his feelings, as she frequently toldhim; but that she had, in a moment of weakness, thrown herself awayupon a common burgher when she might have aimed at, and possiblybrought down, a peer of the realm. Her frequent depreciation ofBarnet in these terms had at times been so intense that he wassorely tempted to retaliate on her egotism by owning that he lovedat the same low level on which he lived; but prudence had prevailed,for which he was now thankful.

　　Something seemed to sound upon the shingle behind him over and abovethe raking of the wave. He looked round, and a slight girlish shapeappeared quite close to him, He could not see her face because itwas in the direction of the moon.

　　'Mr. Barnet?' the rambler said, in timid surprise. The voice wasthe voice of Lucy Savile.

　　'Yes,' said Barnet. 'How can I repay you for this pleasure?'

　　'I only came because the night was so clear. I am now on my wayhome.'

　　'I am glad we have met. I want to know if you will let me dosomething for you, to give me an occupation, as an idle man? I amsure I ought to help you, for I know you are almost withoutfriends.'

　　She hesitated. 'Why should you tell me that?' she said.

　　'In the hope that you will be frank with me.'

　　'I am not altogether without friends here. But I am going to make alittle change in my life--to go out as a teacher of freehand drawingand practical perspective, of course I mean on a comparativelyhumble scale, because I have not been specially educated for thatprofession. But I am sure I shall like it much.'

　　'You have an opening?'

　　'I have not exactly got it, but I have advertised for one.'

　　'Lucy, you must let me help you!'

　　'Not at all.'

　　'You need not think it would compromise you, or that I amindifferent to delicacy............