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 ‘Don’t talk nonsense. You know what I mean perfectly well. Did he
come over to Rooklands to see you?’
‘To see me—what will you get into your head next?’
‘Well, you seemed to be hitting it off pretty well together. What
were you whispering to him about just now?’
‘I didn’t whisper to him.’
‘You did! I saw you stoop your head to his ear. Now look here,
Rosa! Don’t you try any of your flirtation games on with Darley, or
I’ll go straight to the governor and tell him.’
‘And what business is it of yours, pray?’
‘It would be the business of every one of us. You don’t suppose
we’re going to let you marry a gamekeeper, do you?’
‘Really, George, you’re too absurd. Cannot a girl stop to speak to a
man in the road without being accused of wanting to marry him?
You will say I want to marry every clodhopper I may dance with at
the harvest-home to-night next.’
‘That is a very different thing. The ploughboys are altogether
beneath you, but this Darley is a kind of half-and-half fellow that
might presume to imagine himself good enough to be a match for
you.’
‘Half-and-half indeed!’ exclaimed Rosa, nettled at the reflection on
her lover; ‘and pray, what are we when all’s said and done? Mr
Darley’s connections are as good as our own, and better, any day.’
‘Halloa! what are you making a row about? I’ll tell you what, Rosa.
It strikes me very forcibly you want to “carry on” with Lord
Worcester’s keeper, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for
thinking of it. You—who have been educated and brought up in
every respect like a lady—to condescend to flirt with an upstart like
that, a mere servant! Why, he’s no better than Isaac Barnes, or old
Whisker, or any of the rest of them, only he’s prig enough to oil his
hair, and wear a button-hole, in order to catch the eye of such silly
noodles like yourself.’
‘You’ve no right to speak to me in this way, George. You know
nothing at all about the matter.’
‘I know that I found Darley and you in the lane with your heads
very close together, and that directly he caught sight of me he made
off. That doesn’t look as if his intentions were honourable, does it?
Now, look you here, Rosa. Is he coming to the barn to-night?’
‘I believe so!’
‘And who asked him?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, evasively; ‘papa, perhaps—or very likely
Mr Darley thought he required no invitation to join a ploughman’s
dance and supper.’
‘Well, you’re not to dance with him if he does come.’
‘I don’t know what right you have to forbid it.’
‘None at all! but if you won’t give me the promise I shall go
straight to the governor, and let him know what I saw to-day. He’s
seen something of it himself, I can tell you, and he told me to put
you on your guard, so you can take your choice of having his anger
or not.’
This statement was not altogether true, for if Farmer Murray had
heard anything of his daughter’s flirtation with the handsome
gamekeeper, it had been only what his sons had suggested to him,
and he did not believe their reports. But the boys, George and
Robert, now young men of three or four-and-twenty, had had more
than one consultation together on the subject, and quite made up
their minds that their sister must not be allowed to marry Frederick
Darley. For they were quite alive to the advantages that a good
connection for her might afford to themselves, and wanted to see
her raise the family instead of lowering it.
 Rosa, however, believed her brother’s word. Dread of her father’s
anger actuated in a great measure this belief, and she began to fear
lest all communication between Darley and herself might be broken
off if she did not give the required promise. And the very existence
of the fear opened her eyes to the truth, that her lover was become
a necessary part of life’s enjoyment to her. So, like a true woman
and a hunted hare, she temporised and ‘doubled.’
‘Does papa really think I am too intimate with Mr Darley, George?’
she inquired, trembling.
‘Of course he does, like all the rest of us.’
‘But it’s a mistake. I don’t care a pin about him.’
‘Then it will be no privation for you to give up dancing with him
to-night.’
‘I never intended to dance with him.’
‘Honour bright, Rosa?’
‘Well, I can’t say more than I have. However, you will see. I shall
not dance with him. If he asks me, I shall say I am engaged to you.’
‘You can say what you like, so long as you snub the brute. I
wonder at his impudence coming up to our “Home” at all. But these
snobs are never wanting in “cheek.” However, if Bob and I don’t give
him a pretty broad hint to-night that his room is preferable to his
company, I’m a duffer! Are you going in, Rosa?’
For the young people had continued to walk towards their own
home, and had now arrived at the farm gates.
‘Yes. I’ve been in the saddle since ten o’clock this morning, and
have had enough of it.’
‘Let me take Polly round to the stables before the governor sees
the state you’ve brought her home in, then,’ said George, as his
sister dismounted and threw him the reins. He could be good-
natured enough when he had his own way, and he thought he had
got it now with Rosa. But she went up to her chamber bent but on
one idea—how best to let Mr Darley know of what had passed
between her brother and herself, that he might not be surprised at
the caution of her behaviour when they met in the big barn.

Meanwhile Lizzie Locke having left her basket of cockles at Mavis

Farm, had reached her cottage home. Her thoughts had been very
pleasant as she journeyed there and pondered on the coming
pleasure of the evening. It was not often the poor child took any
part in the few enjoyments to be met in Corston. People were apt to
leave her out of their invitations, thinking that as she was blind she
could not possibly derive any amusement from hearing, and she was
of too shrinking and modest a nature to obtrude herself where she
was not specially required. She had never been to one of the
harvest-home suppers given by Farmer Murray (in whose employ her
cousin Laurence worked), though she had heard much of their
delights. But now that Miss Rosa had particularly desired her to
come, she thought Larry would be pleased to take her. And she had
a print dress nice and clean for the occasion, and her aunt would
plait her hair neatly for her, and she should hear the sound of Larry’s
voice as he talked to his companions, and of his feet whilst he was
dancing, and, perhaps, after supper one of his famous old English
songs—songs which they had heard so seldom of late, and the
music of which her aunt and she had missed so much.
It was past twelve o’clock as she entered the cottage, but she was
so full of her grand news that she scarcely remembered that she
must have kept both her relations waiting for their dinner of bacon
and beans.
‘Why, Lizzie, my girl, where on earth have you been to?’ exclaimed
her aunt, Mrs Barnes, as she appeared on the threshold. Mrs Barnes’
late husband had been brother to the very Isaac Barnes, once
poacher, now gamekeeper on Farmer Murray’s estate, and there
were scandal-mongers in Corston ill-natured enough to assert that
the taint was in the blood, and that young Laurence Barnes was very
much inclined to go the same way as his uncle had done before him.
But at present he was a helper in the stables of Mavis Farm.
‘I’ve been along the marshes,’ said Lizzie, ‘gathering cockles, and
they gave me sixpence for them up at the farm; and oh, aunt! I met
Miss Rosa on my way back, and she says Larry must take me up to
the big barn this evening to their harvest-home supper.’
Laurence Barnes was seated at his mother’s table already
occupied in the discussion of a huge lump of bread and bacon, but
as the name of his master’s daughter left Lizzie’s lips it would have
been very evident to any one on the look-out for it that he started
and seemed uneasy.
‘And what will you be doing at a dance and a supper, my poor
girl?’ said her aunt, but not unkindly. ‘Come, Lizzie, sit down and
take your dinner; that’s of much more account to you than a harvest
merry-making.’
‘Not till Larry has promised to take me up with him this evening,’
replied the girl gaily, and without the least fear of a rebuff. ‘You’ll do
it, Larry, won’t you? for Miss Rosa said they’d all be there, and if she
didn’t see me she’d send round to the cottage after me. She said,
“Tell Larry I insist upon it; she did, indeed!”’
‘Well, then, I’m not going up myself, and so you can’t go,’ he
answered roughly.
‘Not going yourself!’
The exclamation left the lips of both women at once. They could
not understand it, and it equally surprised them. Larry—the best
singer and dancer for twenty miles round, to refuse to go up to his
master’s harvest-home! Why, what would the supper and the dance
be without him? At least, so thought Mrs Barnes and Lizzie.
‘Aren’t you well, Larry?’ demanded the blind girl, timidly.
‘I’m well enough; but I don’t choose to go. I don’t care for such
rubbish. Let ’em bide! They’ll do well enough without us.’
 Lizzie dropt into her seat in silence, and began in a mechanical
way to eat her dinner. She was terribly disappointed, but she did not
dream of disputing her cousin’s decision. He was master in that
house; and she would not have cared to go to the barn without
Larry. Half the pleasure would be gone with his absence. He did not
seem to see that.
‘Mother can take you up, Liz, if she has a mind to,’ he said,
presently.
‘I take her along of me!’ cried Mrs Barnes, ‘when I haven’t so
much as a clean kerchief to pin across my shoulders. You’re daft,
Larry. I haven’t been to such a thing as a dance since I laid your
father in the churchyard, and if our Liz can’t go without me she must
stop at home.’
‘I don’t want to go, indeed I don’t, not without Larry,’ replied the
blind girl, earnestly.
‘And what more did Miss Rosa say to you?’ demanded her aunt,
inquisitively.
‘We talked about the sands, aunt. She’d been galloping all over
them this morning, and I told her how dangerous they were beyond
Corston Point, and we was getting on so nice together, when some
one came and interrupted us.’
‘Some one! Who’s some one?’ said Laurence Barnes, quickly.
‘I can’t tell you; I never met him before.’
‘’Twas a man, then?’
‘Oh yes! ’twas a man—a gentleman! I knew that, because there
were no nails in his boots, and he didn’t give at the knees as he
walked.’
‘What more?’ demanded Larry, with lowered brows.
‘Miss Rosa knew him well, because they never named each other,
but only wished “good morning.” She said, “What are you doing
here?” and he said, “Looking after you.” He carried a rose in his
hand or his coat, I think, for I smelt it, and a cane, too, for it struck
the saddle flap.’
‘Well, that’s enough,’ interrupted Laurence, fiercely.
‘I thought you wanted to hear all about it, Larry?’
‘Is there any more to tell, then?’
‘Only that as they walked away together, Miss Rosa said she was
so glad he was coming up to the harvest-home to-night.’
‘So he’s a-going, the cur!’ muttered the young man between his
teeth. ‘I know him, with his cane, and his swagger, and his stinking
roses; and I’ll be even with him yet, or my name’s not Larry Barnes.’
It was evident that Mr Frederick Darley was no greater favourite in
the cottage than the farm.
‘Whoever are you talking of?’ said Larry’s mother. ‘Do you know
the gentleman Lizzie met with Miss Rosa?’
‘Gentleman! He’s no gentleman. He’s nothing but a common
gamekeeper, same as uncle. But don’t let us talk of him any more. It
takes the flavour of the bacon clean out of my mouth.’
The rest of the simple meal was performed in silence, and then
Mrs Barnes gathered up the crockery and carried it into an outer
room to wash.
Larry and Lizzie were left alone. The girl seemed to understand
that in some mysterious way she had offended her cousin, and
wished to restore peace between them, so she crept up to where he
was smoking his midday pipe on the old settle by the fire, and laid
her head gently against his knees. They had been brought up from
babes together, and were used to observe such innocent little
familiarities towards each other.
‘Never mind about the outing, Larry. I’m not a bit disappointed,
and I’m sorry I said anything about it.’
‘That’s not true, Liz. You are disappointed, and it’s my doing; but I
couldn’t help it. I didn’t feel somehow as if I had the heart to go. But
I’ve changed my mind since dinner, and we’ll go up to the harvest-
home together, my girl. Will that content you?’
‘Oh, Larry! you are good!’ she said, raising herself, her cheeks
crimsoned with renewed expectation; ‘but I’d rather stop at home a
thousand times over than you should put yourself out of the way for
me.’
A sudden thought seemed to strike the young man as he looked at
Lizzie’s fair, sightless face. He had lived with her so long, in a sisterly
way, that it had never struck him to regard her in any other light.
But something in the inflection of her voice as she addressed him,
made him wonder if he were capable of making her happier than
she had ever been yet. He cherished no other hopes capable of
realisation. What if he could make his own troubles lighter by
lightening those of poor Liz? Something of this sort, but in much
rougher clothing, passed through his half-tutored mind. As it grasped
the idea he turned hurriedly towards the girl kneeling at his knee.
‘Do you really care about me, lass?’ he said. ‘Do you care if I’m
vexed or not? Whether I come in or go out? If I like my dinner or I
don’t like it? Does all this nonsense worry you? Answer me, for I
want to know.’
‘Oh! Larry, what do you mean? Of course I care. I can’t do much
for you—more’s the pity—without my poor eyes, but I can think of
you and love you, Larry, and surely you know that I do both.’
‘But would you like to love me more, Liz?’
‘How could I love you more?’
‘Would you like to have the right to care for me—the right to creep
after me in your quiet way wherever I might happen to go—the right
to walk alongside of me, with your hand in mine, up to the
harvesting home to-night; eh, Liz?’
The girl half understood her cousin’s meaning, but she was too
modest not to fear she might be mistaken. Larry could never wish to
take her, blind and helpless, for his wife.
 ‘Larry, speak to me more plainly; I don’t catch your meaning
quite.’
‘Will you marry me then, Liz, and live along of mother and me to
the end of your life?’
‘Marry you!—Be your wife!—Me! Oh, Larry, you can’t mean it!
never.’
‘I do mean it,’ replied her cousin with an oath; ‘and I’ll take you as
soon as ever you’ll take me if you will but say the word.’
‘But I am blind, Larry.’
‘Do you suppose I don’t know that? Perhaps I likes you blind best.’
‘But I am so useless. I get about so slowly. If anything was to
happen to aunt, how could I keep the house clean and cook the
dinners, Larry? You must think a bit more before you decide for
good.’
But the poor child’s face was burning with excitement the while,
and her sightless eyes were thrown upwards to her cousin’s face as
though she would strain through the darkness to see it.
‘If anything happened to mother, do you suppose I’d turn you out
of doors, Liz? And in any case, then, I must have a wife or a servant
to do the work—it will make no difference that way. The only
question is, do you want me for a husband?’
‘Oh! I have loved you ever so!’ replied the girl, throwing herself
into his arms. ‘I couldn’t love another man, Larry. I know your face
as well as if I had seen it, and your step, and your voice. I can tell
them long before another body knows there’s sound a-coming.’
‘Then you’ll have me?’
‘If you’ll have me,’ she murmured in a tone of delight as she
nestled against his rough clothes.
‘That’s settled, then, and the sooner the banns are up the better!
Here, mother! Come along and hear the news. Lizzie has promised
to marry me, and I shall take her to church as soon as we’ve been
cried.’
‘Well! I am pleased,’ said Mrs Barnes. ‘You couldn’t have got a
neater wife, Larry, though her eyesight’s terribly against her, poor
thing! But I’m sure of one thing, Liz, if you can’t do all for him that
another woman might, you’ll love my lad with the best among them,
and that thought will make me lie quiet in my grave.’
The poor cannot afford the time to be as sentimental over such
things as the rich. Larry kissed his cousin two or three times on the
forehead in signification of the compact they had just entered into,
and then he got up and shook himself, and prepared to go back to
his afternoon work.
‘That’s a good job settled,’ he thought as he did so; ‘it will make
Lizzie happy, and drive a deal of nonsense may be out of my head.
But if ever I can pay out that scoundrel Darley I’ll do it, if it costs me
the last drop of my blood.’
The blind girl regarded what had passed between her cousin and
herself with very different feelings. Condemned, by reason of her
infirmity, to pass much of her young life in solitude, the privation had
repaid itself by giving her the time and opportunity for an amount of
self-culture which, if subjected to the rough toil and rougher
pleasures of her class, she never could have attained. Her ideas
regarding the sanctity of love and marriage were very different from
those of other Corston girls. She could never have ‘kept company,’ as
they termed it, with one man this month and another the next. Her
pure mind, which dwelt so much within itself, shrank from the levity
and coarseness with which she had heard such subjects treated, and
believing, as she had done, that she should never be married, she
had pleased herself by building up an ideal of what a husband
should be, and how his wife would love and reverence him. And this
ideal had always had for its framework a fancied portrait of her
cousin Laurence. In reality, this young fellow was an average
specimen of a fresh-faced country youth, with plenty of colour and
flesh and muscle. But to the blind girl’s fancy he was perfection. Her
little hands from babyhood had traced each feature of his face until
she knew every line by heart, and though she had never
acknowledged it even to herself, she had been in love with him ever
since she was capable of understanding the meaning of the term. So
that although his proposal to marry her had come as a great
surprise, it had also come as a great glory, and set her heart
throbbing with the pleasant consciousness of returned affection.
She was in a flutter of triumph and delight all the afternoon, whilst
Larry was attending to his horses, and hardly knew how to believe in
her own happiness. Her aunt brushed and plaited her long hair for
her till it was as glossy and neat as possible, and tied her new
cherry-coloured ribbon round the girl’s throat that she might not
disgrace her son’s choice at the merry-making. And then Lizzie sat
down to wait for her affianced lover’s return, the proudest maid in
Corston. Larry came in punctually for his tea, and the first thing he
did was to notice the improvement in his little cousin’s appearance;
and indeed joy had so beautified her countenance that she was a
different creature from what she had been on the sands that
morning. The apathy and indifference to life had disappeared, and a
bright colour bloomed in her soft cheeks. As she tucked her hand
through her cousin’s arm, and they set off to walk together to
Farmer Murray’s harvest-home, Mrs Barnes looked after them with
pride, and declared that if poor Liz had only got her sight they would
have made the handsomest couple in the parish.
Larry was rather silent as they went up to the barn together, but
Liz was not exigeante, and trotted by his side with an air of perfect
content. When they arrived they found the place already full, but the
‘quality’ had not yet arrived, and until they did so, no one ventured
to do more than converse quietly with his neighbour, although the
fiddlers from Wells were all ready and only waiting a signal to strike
up. But in those days the working men did not consider their festival
complete without the presence of the master, and it would have
been a sore affront if the members and guests of the household had
not also joined them in order to open the ball and set the liquor
flowing. In these days of Radicalism perhaps they find they can get
on just as well without them. Larry still kept Lizzie’s arm snugly
tucked within his own as he described to her how beautiful the walls
of the barn looked hung with flags and decorated with flowers and
evergreens, and what a number of lamps there were, and what a lot
of liquor and eatables were stowed away at the further end. He was
still talking to her rapidly, and, as she imagined, somewhat uneasily,
when a cheer rose up from a group of rustics outside, and Larry
gave a start that almost disengaged her from his clasp.
‘What’s the matter?’ she demanded. ‘Is it the gentry coming,
Larry?’
‘Yes! ’tis they, sure enough. Keep close to me, Liz—I don’t want to
part from you, not for one moment.’
‘Oh, Larry! that do make me feel so happy,’ she whispered. As she
spoke, the party from Mavis Farm entered the barn and were
received with a shout of welcome. Mr Murray, a fine, hale old
gentleman, and his sons came first; then Miss Rosa, looking rather
conscious, tripping after her brothers in a white muslin dress. The
farmer advanced to the beer barrel, and having filled his glass, drank
success to all present, and asked them to give three cheers for a
bountiful harvest. When that ceremony was completed the fiddlers
struck up a merry country dance, and every one was at liberty to
drink and caper about. The young people from Mavis Farm all took
part in the first dance, and Rosa Murray came up and asked Larry if
he would be her partner on the occasion. She ought in fairness to
have opened the ball with her father’s bailiff or one of the upper
servants, but she preferred the young groom, with whom she held
daily intercourse, and she was accustomed to go her own way
without reference to anybody’s feelings. As she approached the
cousins she gave Lizzie a kindly welcome.
‘I am so glad you have come up, Lizzie; and now your cousin must
get you a nice seat until this dance is ended, for I intend him to
open the ball with me.’
 This was considered a great honour on the part of the villagers,
and the blind girl coloured with pleasure to think that her fiancé had
been selected for the ceremony.
‘Oh, Miss Rosa, you are good! Larry, why don’t you thank the
young lady, and say how proud you shall be to dance alongside of
her?’
But Larry said nothing. He reddened, it is true, but more from
confusion than pleasure, and he was so long a time settling Lizzie to
his satisfaction, that Rosa was disposed to be angry at his
dilatoriness, and called out to him sharply that if he were not ready
she should open the ball with some one else. Then he ran and took
his place by her side, and went through the evolutions of ‘down the
middle’ and ‘setting at the corners’ with a burning face and a fast-
beating heart. Poor Laurence Barnes! His young mistress’s constant
presence in the stables and familiarity with himself had been too
much for his susceptible nature. She was to him, in the pride of her
youthful loveliness and the passport it afforded her for smiling upon
all classes of men, as an angel, rather than a woman, something set
too high above for him ever to reach, but yet with the power to thrill
his veins and make his hot blood run faster. The touch of her
ungloved hand in the figures of the dance made him tremble, and
the glance of her eyes sickened him, so that as soon as the terrible
ordeal was concluded he made her an awkward salute, and rushed
from her side to that of the beer barrel, to drown his excitement in
drink. And it was just there that he had left Lizzie Locke.
‘That was beautiful, Larry,’ she exclaimed, with glowing cheeks. ‘I
could hear the sound of your feet and Miss Rosa’s above all the
others, even when you went to the further end of the barn. It must
be lovely to be able to dance like that. But it has made you thirsty,
Larry. That’s the third glass, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, lass, it’s made me thirsty. But don’t you keep counting my
glasses all the evening, or I shall move your chair a bit further off.’
 She laughed quietly, and he flung himself upon the ground and
rested his arm upon her knee. He seemed to feel safer and more at
peace when by Lizzie’s side, and she was quite happy in the
knowledge that he was there. The Mavis Farm party did not dance
again after the ball had been opened, at least Miss Rosa did not. But
she moved about the barn restlessly. Sometimes she was in, and
sometimes she was out. She did not seem to know her own mind for
two minutes together.
‘Why is that fellow Darley skulking about here, Larry?’ demanded
Isaac Barnes of his nephew. ‘I’ve seen his ugly face peeping into the
barn a dozen times. Why don’t he come in or stay out? I hate such
half-and-half sneaking ways.’
Larry muttered an oath, and was about to make some reply, when
George Murray came up to them.
‘Is that Mr Darley I see hanging about the barn door, Isaac?’ he
inquired of their own keeper.
‘That it be, Master George; and as I was just saying to Larry here,
why not in or out? What need of dodging? He don’t want to catch no
one here, I suppose?’
‘He’d better try. I’d soon teach him who the barn belongs to.’
‘And I’d back you, Master George,’ cried Larry resolutely. The
strong-brewed Norfolk ale was giving him a dash of Dutch courage.
‘Would you, Larry? That’s right! Well, I can’t be in all parts of the
barn at once, and father wants me to take the bottom of the supper-
table, so you keep your eye on Mr Darley for me, will you? and if he
looks up to anything, let me know.’
‘I’m your man, Master George,’ replied Larry heartily.
Rosa was near enough to them to overhear what had passed. Her
brother had intended she should do so. But when he set his wit
against that of a woman he reckoned without his host. Rosa had
been on the look-out for Frederick Darley from the beginning of the
evening, and during the first greeting, had managed to slip a little
note into his hand, warning him of her brother’s animosity, and
begging him to keep as much as possible out of their sight until an
opportunity occurred for her joining him in the apple copse. Now,
she felt afraid of what might happen if there were an encounter
between the two young men, and decided at once that her best plan
would be, as soon as she saw George safely disposed of at the
supper-table, to tamper with his spy. And unfortunately Rosa Murray
knew but too well how to accomplish this. Young Barnes’ infatuation
had not been unnoticed by her. She would have been aware of it if a
cat had admired her. She knew his hand trembled when he took her
foot to place her in the saddle, and that he became so nervous and
agitated when she entered the stable as often to have to be recalled
to a sense of his duty by a sharp rebuke from the head groom. She
had known it all for months past, and it had pleased her. She was so
vain and heartless that she thought nothing of what pain the poor
fellow might be undergoing. She laughed at his presumption, and
only considered it another feather in her cap. But now she saw her
way to make use of it. The dancing had recommenced, and was
proceeding with vigour, and the huge rounds of beef and legs of
mutton on the supper-table were beginning to be served out.
George was in full action, leading the onslaught with his carving-
knife, when Rosa Murray approached Laurence Barnes.
‘Won’t you dance again, nor go and have your supper, Larry dear?’
Lizzie was asking, with a soft caress of her hand upon the head laid
on her knee.
‘I don’t want to dance no more,’ said Larry, ‘and I sha’n’t sup till
the table’s clearer and you can sup with me, Liz.’
‘That’s very good of you, Barnes,’ said Rosa, who had caught the
words; ‘but if you’ll take Lizzie to the table now, I’m sure George will
find room for you both.’
‘No thank you, miss,’ he answered; ‘I promised Master George to
bide here till he came back, and I mustn’t break my word.’
 ‘Then I shall sit here with you, and we’ll all have supper together
by-and-by,’ replied Rosa. ‘Have you been gathering cockles again this
afternoon, Lizzie?’
‘Oh no, miss!’ said Lizzie, blushing at the recollection of how her
afternoon had been employed; ‘it’s high tide at four o’clock now, and
I haven’t been out of the house again to-day.’
‘Did your cousin tell you how she scolded me for riding in the salt
marshes, Barnes?’
‘Well! it is dangerous, miss, for such as don’t know the place. I
mind me when Whisker’s grandfather strayed out there by himself—’
‘Oh, Larry!’ cried Lizzie, ‘don’t go to tell that terrible tale. It always
turns me sick!’
‘Is that what they call the Marsh Ghost, Barnes? Oh! I must know
all about it. I love ghost stories, and I have never been able to hear
the whole of this one. Where does it appear, and when?’
‘Lizzie here can tell you better than me, miss—she knows the story
right through.’
‘It’s a horrible tale, Miss Rosa. You’ll never forget it, once heard.’
‘That’s just why I want to hear it; so, Lizzie, you must tell it me
directly. Don’t move, Barnes, you don’t inconvenience me. I can sit
up in this corner quite well.’
‘Well, miss, if you must hear it,’ began the blind girl, ‘it happened
now nigh upon twenty years ago. Whisker’s grandfather, that used to
keep the lodge at Rooklands, had grown so old and feeble the late
lord pensioned him off and sent him home to his own people. He
hadn’t no son in Corston then, miss, because they was both working
in the south, but his daughter-in-law, his first son’s widdy, that had
married Skewton the baker, she offered to take the old man in and
do for him. Lord Worcester allowed him fifty pounds a-year for life,
and Mrs Skewton wanted to take it all for his keep, but the old man
was too sharp for that, and he only gave her ten shillings a-week
and put by the rest, no one knew where nor for what. Well, miss,
this went on for three or four years may be, and then poor Whisker
had grown very feeble and was a deal of trouble, and his sons didn’t
seem to be coming back, and the Skewtons had grown tired of him,
so they neglected him shamefully. I shouldn’t like to tell you, miss,
all that’s said of their beating the poor old man and starving him,
and never giving him no comforts. At last he got quite silly and took
to wandering about alone, and he used to go out on the marshes,
high or low tide, without any sense of the danger, and everybody
said he’d come to harm some day. And so he did, for one day they
carried his body in from Corston Point quite dead, and all bruised
with the rocks and stones. The Skewtons pretended as they knew
nothing about how he’d come to his death, but they set up a cart
just afterwards, and nothing has ever been heard of the old man’s
store of money, though his sons came back and inquired and
searched far and near for it. But about six months after—Larry!
’tisn’t a fit tale for Miss Rosa to listen to!’
‘Nonsense, Lizzie! I wouldn’t have the ghost left out for anything.
It’s just that I want to hear of.’
‘Well, miss, as I said, six months after old Whisker’s death he
began to walk again, and he’s walked ever since.’
‘Where does he walk?’
‘Round and round Corston Point every full moon, wringing his
hands and asking for his money. They say it’s terrible to see him.’
‘Have you ever seen him, Barnes?’
Larry coloured deeply and shook his head. The peasantry all over
England are very susceptible to superstition, and the Corston folk
were not behindhand in their fear of ghosts, hobgoblins, and
apparitions of all sorts. This young fellow would have stood up in a
fight with the best man there, but the idea of seeing a ghost made
his blood curdle.
‘Dear me, miss, no,’ said Lizzie, answering for him, ‘and I hope he
never may. Why, it would kill him.’
 ‘Nonsense, Lizzie. Barnes is not such a coward, I hope.’
Something in Miss Murray’s tone made the blood leap to her
retainer’s face.
‘I’m not a coward, miss,’ he answered quickly.
‘Of course not; I said so. But any man would be so who refused to
go to Corston Point by night for fear of seeing old Whisker’s ghost.
He walks at full moon, you say! Why, he must be at it to-night, then!
There never was a lovelier moon.’
‘Don’t, miss,’ urged Lizzie, shivering.
‘You silly goose! I don’t want you to go. But, I must say, I should
like to try the mettle of our friend here.’
‘I beg your pardon, miss; did you mean that for me?’ said Larry
quickly.
‘Yes, I did, Barnes. What harm? I should like to see some one who
had really seen this ghost, and I’ll give my gold watch chain to the
man who will go to Corston Point to-night and bring me a bunch of
the samphire that grows upon the top of it.’
Larry’s mind was in a tumult. Some wild idea of rendering himself
admirable in Rosa Murray’s eyes may have influenced his decision—
or the delight of possessing her watch chain may have urged him on
to it. Anyway, he rose up from the floor, and with chattering teeth,
but a resolute heart, exclaimed,—
‘I’ll take you at your word, miss. I’ll go to Corston Point and bring
you the samphire, and prove to you that Larry Barnes is not a
coward.’
‘Larry, Larry, you’ll never do it!’ cried Lizzie.
‘Let me alone, my girl. I’ve made up my mind, and you won’t turn
it.’
‘You are a brave fellow, Barnes,’ said Rosa. ‘I believe you’re the
only man in Corston that would have taken my wager. And, mind, it’s
a bargain. My gold watch chain for your bunch of samphire and
news of old Whisker’s ghost.’ She was delighted at the idea of
getting him out of the way.
‘But, Larry! Miss Rosa! Think of the danger,’ implored poor Lizzie.
‘Oh, he’ll never come back; I know he’ll never come back.’
‘What are you afraid of, Lizzie? Doesn’t Barnes know the sands as
well as you do? And the moonlight is as bright as day. It’s silly to try
and stop him.’
‘But he’s going to be my husband, miss,’ whispered Lizzie,
weeping, into Miss Murray’s ear.
‘Oh! if that’s the case, perhaps he’d better follow your wishes,’
rejoined Rosa coldly. ‘Mine are of no consequence, of course, though
I’d have liked Barnes to wear my chain—we’ve been such good
company together, haven’t we, Larry?’
Her smile, and the way in which she spoke his name, determined
him. He had heard the whispered conversation between her and
Lizzie, and he felt vexed—he didn’t know why—that it should have
occurred.
‘Be quiet, Liz,’ he said, authoritatively. ‘What’s to be has nothing to
do with this. I’m only too glad to oblige Miss Rosa, even with a bit of
samphire. Good-bye, my girl, and good-bye, miss; it’s close upon the
stroke of ten, so you mayn’t see me again till to-morrow morning;
but when you do, it’ll be with the bunch of samphire in my hand!’
He darted away from them as he spoke, and left the barn; whilst
Lizzie Locke, disappointed at his departure, and frightened for his
safety, wept bitterly. But the noise around them was so great, and
everyone was so much occupied with his or her own pleasure, that
little notice was taken of the girl’s emotion.
‘Come, Lizzie, don’t be foolish,’ urged Miss Murray, in a whisper,
afraid lest the errand on which she had sent Larry should become
public property. ‘Your lover will be back in an hour, at the latest.’
‘He’ll never come back, miss! You’ve sent him to his death; I feel
sure of it,’ replied Lizzie, sobbing.
 ‘This is too ridiculous,’ said Rosa. ‘If you intend to make such a
fool of yourself as this, Lizzie, I think you had much better go home
to your aunt. Shall I send Jane Williams back with you? You know
her; she’s a kind girl, and she’ll lead you as safely as Larry would.’
‘No; thank you, miss; Larry said he would return to the barn with
your samphire, and I must wait here till he comes—if ever he
comes,’ she added mournfully.
‘Well, you’ve quite upset me with all this nonsense, and I must
have a breath of fresh air. If Master George, or papa, should ask for
me, Lizzie, say I’ve got a headache, and gone home for a little while.
I’ll be round again before Larry’s back; but if anything should keep
me, tell him he shall have the chain to-morrow morning. For he’s a
brave fellow, Lizzie, and whether he sees the ghost or not, he shall
keep my watch chain as a wedding present.’
She patted the blind girl’s hand before she tripped away; but no
amount of encouragement could have driven the conviction from
Lizzie Locke’s breast that her lover was a doomed man; and added
to this, she had an uncomfortable feeling in her heart (though too
undefined to be called jealousy), that his alacrity in complying with
his young mistress’s request arose from something more than a
desire to maintain his character for courage in her eyes. So the poor
child sat by the beer barrel, sad and silent, with her face buried in
her hands; and so she remained till midnight had sounded from the
church clock, and the lights were put out, and the festivities
concluded, and some kind neighbour led her back to her aunt’s
house. But neither Miss Rosa nor Larry had returned.

Miss Rosa’s ‘breath of fresh air’ meant, of course, her appointment

with Frederick Darley in the apple copse. She had got Larry nicely
out of the way (notwithstanding the fears of his betrothed), and
there was no obstacle in her path as she left the barn and
approached the place of meeting. She had taken the precaution to
wrap a large dark shawl round her white dress, and, thus concealed,
crept softly down the lane and through the lower meadow
unobservant or unheeding that her father’s terrier, Trim, had
followed her footsteps. Mr Darley was in waiting for her, and a lover-
like colloquy ensued. He did not again mention the subject of
marriage, at which Rosa was somewhat disappointed; for she
believed that, notwithstanding her brother’s assertions to the
contrary, Mr Murray might not refuse his consent to her becoming
Frederick Darley’s wife; and he certainly was the handsomest man
round about, Lord Worcester himself not excepted. But in the midst
of their tender conversation, as Darley was telling Rosa he loved her
better than ever man had loved woman in this world before, Trim
commenced wagging his tail and snuffing the grass.
‘What is the matter?’ cried Rosa in alarm. ‘Down, Trim, down—be
quiet, sir! Oh, Frederick! surely no one can be coming this way.’
‘Don’t be afraid,’ said her companion; ‘throw your shawl over your
head and trust to me. I will answer for it that no one shall molest
you whilst under my protection.’
But he had not calculated upon having to make his words good in
the presence of her father and brother.
Trim would not lie down, nor be quiet, but kept on with his little
signals of warning, until two dark figures could be discerned making
their way towards them over the grass, when he bounded away to
meet them. Rosa guessed who the newcomers must be, and her
heart died within her for fear. She would have screamed, but Darley
placed his hand before her mouth. There was no escape for the
lovers, even if an attempt to escape would not have increased
suspicion, for the apple copse was a three-cornered field that had
but the one entrance through which they had come. In another
moment the four had met, and Rosa recognised her father and her
brother George. How they had guessed they would find her there
she did not stay to ask or even think. All her thought was how to
shield herself from the farmer’s anger. The fact was that George had
wished to seat his sister at the supper-table, when, finding that she
and Darley and Larry had all three mysteriously disappeared, he had
communicated his suspicions and the events of the morning to his
father, and they had sallied forth together in search of the missing
daughter, and were on their way to the farm, where they had been
told she had gone, when Trim’s unwarrantable interference led them
to the very spot.
Mr Murray’s rage was unbounded. He did not wait for any
explanations, but walked up straight to Rosa and demanded,—
‘Is this my daughter?’
The girl was too frightened to speak as she clung to her lover’s
arm, but Darley, perceiving that an amicable settlement was out of
the question, replied in the same tone,—
‘What right have you to ask, sir?’
‘The right of a father, Mr Darley, who has no intention to let
disgrace be brought into his family by such as you.’
He pulled Rosa by the arm roughly as he spoke, and dragged the
shawl from her face.
‘So it is you, you jade; and you would try and deceive your father,
who has never refused you a thing in his life. That’s the gratitude of
women. However, you’ll pay for it. You’ve had your first clandestine
meeting and your last. No more gamekeeper’s courtships for you if I
know it.’
‘By what right, Mr Murray, do you insult me, or this young lady, in
my presence? If I have persuaded her to do a foolish thing, I am
sorry for it, but you cannot give a harsher name to a lover’s
moonlight walk.’
‘I do give it a harsher name, sir, and you know it deserves it. A
lover’s moonlight walk indeed! You mean a scoundrel’s endeavour to
get an innocent girl into his clutches.’
‘Papa! papa! you are quite mistaken. Mr Darley has asked me to
marry him. He will marry me to-morrow by special licence if you will
only give your consent.’
‘Marry you to-morrow! you poor fool! You’ve been swallowing
every lie he chose to tell you. He can’t marry you to-morrow nor any
day, and for a good reason. He’s a married man already.’
Rosa screamed, George uttered an oath, and Darley darted
forward.
‘Who told you so, Mr Murray?’
‘Never mind who told me; you know it is true. Can you deny that
you left a wife down south when you came to Rooklands? Lord
Worcester does not know it, perhaps, but there are those who do.’
‘Who is your informant?’ repeated Darley.
‘I shall not tell you; but if you don’t clear out of my meadow and
Corston within half-an-hour, and promise never to show your face
here again, I’ll lay the whole story before his lordship.’
‘Are you going, or shall I kick you out?’ inquired George.
Frederick Darley thought upon the whole he’d better go. He
turned on his heel with an oath, and slunk out of the apple copse
like a beaten cur.
‘Come, my girl,’ said Farmer Murray, not unkindly, as he
commenced to walk homeward, with his hand still on Rosa’s arm;
‘you’ve been a fool, but I hope you’ve been nothing worse. Never
see nor speak to the man again, and I’ll forgive you.’
‘Oh, papa! is it really true?’ she answered, sobbing.
‘It’s as true as Heaven, Rosa! It was Larry Barnes told it me a
week ago, and he had it from one of the Whiskers, who worked near
Lord Worcester’s estate in Devon, and knew Mrs Frederick Darley by
sight. You’ve had a narrow escape, my girl, and you may thank Larry
for it.’
‘Poor Larry!’ sighed Rosa; and if she could have known what was
happening to poor Larry at that moment, she would have sighed still
deeper. He had accepted her wager, and rushed off at her bidding to
get the bunch of samphire that grew at the top of Corston Point. His
brain was rather staggered at the idea of what he had undertaken,
but he had been plentifully plied with Farmer Murray’s “Old October,”
and it was a bright, moonlight night, so that he did not find the
expedition after all so terrible as he had imagined. The salt marshes
were very lonely, it is true, and more than once Larry turned his
head fearfully over his shoulder, to find that nothing worse followed
him than his own shadow; but he reached the Point in safety, and
secured the samphire, without having encountered old Whisker’s
ghost. Then his spirits rose again, and he whistled as he commenced
to retrace his steps to the village. He knew he had been longer over
the transaction than he had expected, and that he should be unable
to see Miss Rosa that night; but he intended to be up at the farm
the very first thing in the morning, and give the bunch of samphire
into her own hands. He did not expect to receive the watch chain;
he had not seen the ghost, and had not earned it; but Larry’s heart
was all the lighter for that. He would not have exchanged a view of
the dreaded spectre even for the coveted gold chain that had hung
so long round the fair neck of his divinity. But as he turned Corston
Point again, he started back to see a figure before him. The first
moment he thought it must be old Whisker’s ghost, but the next
convinced him of his error. It was only Mr Darley—Lord Worcester’s
gamekeeper! He had been so absorbed in angry and remorseful
thought since he left the apple copse that he had unwittingly taken
the wrong turning, and now found himself upon the wide, desolate
waste of the salt marshes, and rather uncertain on which side to find
the beaten track again which led to the road to Rooklands. The two
men were equally surprised and disgusted at encountering one
another.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Darley, insolently.
‘What business is that of yours?’ replied the other. ‘The salt
marshes belong to me, I suppose, as much as they do to you.’
‘You’re not likely to have business here at this time of night.
You’ve been dogging my footsteps,’ said Darley, without the least
consideration for probability.
‘Follow you!’ exclaimed Larry, with a big oath; ‘it would be a long
time before I’d take the trouble to care what happened to you. And
since you ask my business here, pray what may yours be? You didn’t
think to find Farmer Murray’s daughter in the marshes at twelve
o’clock at night, did you?’
‘You insolent hound! how dare you take that young lady’s name
upon your lips in my presence?’
‘I’ve as good a right to name her as you have—perhaps better. It
was at her bidding I came here to-night. Did she send you here,
too?’
‘I shall not condescend to answer your question nor to link our
names together. Do you know what you are?’
‘I know what you are, Mr Darley, and that’s a villain!’
Poor Larry had said he would have it out with him, and he thought
his time had come. A sudden thought flashed through Darley’s brain
that here was the informer who had stopped his little game with the
farmer’s pretty daughter.
‘Are you the man,’ he demanded fiercely, ‘who has thought fit to
inform Mr Murray of my antecedents?’
‘Antecedents’ was a long word for Larry’s comprehension, but he
grasped the meaning somehow.
‘If you’d say, am I the man who told the master that you have got
a wife and children down in Devonshire, I answer “Yes;” and I hope
he’s told you of it, and kicked you out of the barn to-night for a
scoundrel, as you are, to try and make love to his daughter.’
‘You brute!’ cried Darley, throwing off his coat; ‘I’ll be revenged on
you for this if there’s any strength left in my arm.’
‘All right,’ replied the young country-man; ‘I’ve longed to punch
your head many and many a day. I’m glad it’s come at last. There’s
plenty of room for us to have it out here, and the devil take the
hindmost.’
He flew at his adversary as he spoke, and fastened his hands on
to his coat-collar. Larry was the younger and the stronger built man
of the two; but Frederick Darley had had the advantage of a politer
education, in which the use of his fists was included, so that after a
very little while it would have been evident to any bystander that
Barnes was getting the worst of it. He had energy and muscle and
right on his side, but his antagonist, unfortunately, possessed the
skill, and after he had stood on the defensive four or five times, he
seized his opportunity, and with a dexterous twist threw Larry
heavily from him on the ground. The young man fell backward,
crashing his skull against a projecting fragment of rock, and then lay
there, bleeding and unconscious. Darley glanced around him—not a
creature was in sight. The broad harvest moon looked down placidly
upon the deed of blood he had just committed, but human eyes to
see it there were none. Finding that Barnes neither stirred nor
groaned, he stooped down after a while, and laid his hand upon his
heart. It had stopped beating. The body was getting cold. The man
was dead!
Darley had not intended this, and it alarmed him terribly. His first
idea was what he should do to secure his own safety. If he left the
body there, would it be discovered, and the guilt traced home to
him, or would the in-coming tide carry it out to sea, and wash it up
again, weeks hence perhaps, as a drowned corpse upon the shore?
He thought it might. He hoped it would. He remembered Larry’s
words, that Miss Rosa had sent him there that night. It was known,
then, that he had gone to the marshes, and the fact was favourable.
He dragged the corpse a little way upon the sands that it might
the sooner be covered by the water; but finding it left deep traces of
its progress, he lifted it with some difficulty upon his shoulders, and
after carrying it perhaps a couple of dozen yards towards the sea,
flung it with all his force before him. What was his amazement at
seeing the body immediately sink in what appeared to be the solid
ground, and disappear from view? Was it magic, or did his senses
deceive him? Darley rubbed his eyes once or twice, but the miracle
remained the same. The sand, with its smooth, shining surface, was
before him, but the corpse of Larry Barnes had vanished. With a
feeling of the keenest relief—such relief as the cowardly murderer
who has cheated the gallows must experience—the gamekeeper
settled his clothes, glanced once or twice fearfully around him, and
then, retracing his steps, ran until he had gained the high road to
Rooklands. But retribution dogged his murderous feet, and he was
destined never to reach his master’s home. When the morning
dawned upon Corston, a fearful tale was going the round of its
cottages. The dead body of Lord Worcester’s gamekeeper had been
found on the borders of the estate, shot through the heart, as it was
supposed, in an encounter with poachers, as traces of a fierce
struggle were plainly visible around him.
And Laurence Barnes was missing!
The two circumstances put together seemed to provide a solution
of the mystery. Everyone in Corston knew that poor Larry had not
been entirely free from the suspicion of poaching, and most people
had heard him abuse Frederick Darley, and vow to have vengeance
upon him. What more likely, then, that Larry, having been taken at
his old tricks, had discharged his rusty gun at the gamekeeper, and
sent him out of the world to answer for all his errors. This was the
light by which Corston folk read the undiscovered tragedy. All, that is
to say, but two, and those two were the dead man’s mother and his
betrothed, who knew of his visit to the Point, and fully believed that
old Whisker had carried him off.
The murder of Frederick Darley made quite a sensation in Corston.
Lord Worcester gave his late gamekeeper a handsome funeral, and
monument in the churchyard; and Rosa Murray lost her spirits and
her looks, and wore a black ribbon on her bonnet for three months,
although she dared not let her father know the reason why. But
Darley had been so generally disliked that, when the first horror at
his death had subsided, people began to think he was a very good
riddance, and though Rosa still looked grave if anyone mentioned his
name, there was a certain young farmer who rode over from Wells
to see her every Sunday, on whom the gossips said she seemed to
look with considerable favour. And so, in due course of time, the
name of Darley appeared likely to become altogether forgotten.
But not so Larry Barnes. Larry was a native of Corston, and had
been a general favourite there, and his mother still lived amongst
them to keep his memory green. No one in the village thought Larry
was dead, except Lizzie and Mrs Barnes. The rustics believed that,
finding he had shot Darley, he had become alarmed and ran away—
left the country, perhaps, in one of the numerous fishing smacks
that infest the coast, and gone to make his fortune in the ‘Amerikys.’
Larry would come back some day—they were assured of that—when
the present lord was dead and gone, perhaps, and the whole affair
was forgotten; but they were certain he was alive, simply because
they were. But Lizzie Locke knew otherwise—Lizzie Locke, to whom
a glimpse of heaven had been opened the day of his death, and to
whom the outer life must be as dark as the inner henceforward. She
mourned for Larry far more than his mother did. Mrs Barnes had
lived the best part of her life, and her joys and her sorrows were
well-nigh over, but the poor blind girl had only waked up to a
consciousness of what life might hold for her on the awful day on
which hope seemed blotted out for ever. From the moment her
cousin left the barn at Rosa’s bidding, Lizzie drooped like a faded
flower. That he never returned from that fatal quest was no surprise
to her. She had known that he would never return. She had waited
where he had left her till all the merry-making was over, and then
she had gone home to her aunt, meek, unrepining, but certain of
her doom. She had never been much of a talker, but she seldom
opened her mouth, except it was absolutely necessary, after that
day. But she would take her basket whenever the tide was low, and
walk down to Corston Point and sit there—sometimes gathering
cockles, but oftener talking to the dead, and telling him how much
she had loved him. The few who had occasionally overheard her
soliloquies said they were uncanny, and that Lizzie Locke was losing
her wits as well as her eyes. But the blind girl never altered her
course. Corston Point became her home, and whenever it was
uncovered by the tide, she might be seen sitting there beside her
cockle basket, waiting for—she knew not what, talking to—she knew
not whom.

The autumn had passed, and the winter tides had set in. Rosa
Murray never rode upon the Corston marshes now—she was more
pleasantly engaged traversing the leafless lanes with the young
farmer from Wells. Most people would have thought the fireside a
better place to mourn one’s dead by than out on the bleak marsh;
yet Lizzie Locke, despite her cotton clothing and bare head, still took
her way there every morning, her patient, sightless eyes refusing to
reveal the depths of sorrow that lay beneath them. One day,
however, Mrs Barnes felt disposed to be impatient with the girl. She
had left the house at eight o’clock in the morning and had not
returned home since, and now it was dark, and the neighbours
began to say it was not safe that Lizzie should remain out alone on
such a bitter night, and that her aunt should enforce her authority to
prevent such lengthy rambles. Two or three of the men went out
with lanterns to try and find her, but returned unsuccessful, and they
supposed she must have taken shelter at some friend’s house for the
night. Lizzie Locke knew the marshes well, they said (no one in
Corston better), and would never be so foolish as to tempt
Providence by traversing them in the dark, for the currents were at
their worst now, and the quicksands were shifting daily. The logs
and spars of a ruined wreck of a year before had all come to the
surface again within a few days, and with them a keg of pork,
preserved by the saline properties of the ground in which it had
been treasured, so that its contents were as fresh as though they
had been found yesterday. Inquiries were made for the blind girl
throughout the village, but no one had seen anything of her, and all
that her friends could do was to search for her the first thing in the
morning, when a large party set out for Corston Point, Mrs Barnes
amongst them. Their faces were sad, for they had little hope that
the cruel tide had not crawled over the watching girl before she was
aware of it, and carried her out to sea. But as they neared the Point
they discovered something still crouched upon the sand.
‘It can’t be Lizzie,’ said the men, drawing closer to each other,
though a bright, cold sun was shining over the February morning. ‘It
can’t be nothing mortal, sitting there in the frost, with the icy waves
lapping over its feet.’
But Mrs Barnes, who had rushed forward, waved her arms wildly,
and called to them,—
‘It’s him! It’s my Larry, washed up again by the sands; and poor
Lizzie has found him out by the touch of her finger.’
The men ran up to the spot, and looked upon the sight before
them. The corpse of Larry Barnes, with not so much as a feature
changed by the hand of Time—with all his clothes intact and whole,
and a bunch of samphire in his breast—lay out upon the shining
sands, stiff as marble, but without any trace of decomposition upon
his fresh young features and stalwart limbs.[1] And beside him, with
her cheek bowed down upon his own, knelt Lizzie Locke. Lizzie, who
had braved the winter’s frost, and withstood the cold of a February
night, in order to watch beside the recovered body of her lover.
‘Lizzie!’ exclaimed Mrs Barnes. ‘Look up now; I’ve come to comfort
thee! Let us thank Heaven that he’s found again, and the evil words
they spoke of him must be took back.’
But the blind girl neither spoke nor stirred.
‘Can’t thee answer, my lass?’ said Isaac the poacher, as he shook
her by the arm.
The answer that she made was by falling backwards and
disclosing her fair, gentle face—white and rigid as her lover’s.
‘Merciful God! she is dead!’ they cried.