A sunny afternoon in summer. More correctly speaking, it may be said a summer's evening, for the bright beams were already slanting athwart the substantial garden of Mr. Justice Hare, and the tea hour, seven, was passing. Mr. and Mrs. Hare and Barbara were seated at the meal; somehow, meals always did seem in process at Justice Hare's; if it was not breakfast, it was luncheon--if it was not luncheon, it was dinner --if it was not dinner, it was tea. Barbara sat in tears, for the justice was giving her a "piece of his mind," and poor Mrs. Hare deferently agreeing with her husband, as she would have done had he proposed to set the house on fire and burn her up in it, yet sympathizing with Barbara, moved uneasily in her chair.
"You do it for the purpose; you do it to anger me," thundered the justice, bringing down his hand on the tea-table and causing the cups to rattle.
"No I don't, papa," sobbed Barbara.
"Then why /do/ you do it?"
Barbara was silent.
"No; you can't answer; you have nothing to urge. What is the matter, pray, with Major Thorn? Come, I will be answered."
"I don't like him," faltered Barbara.
"You do like him; you are telling me an untruth. You have liked him well enough whenever he has been here."
"I like him as an acquaintance, papa; not as a husband."
"Not as a husband!" repeated the exasperated justice. "Why, bless my heart and body, the girl's going mad! Not as a husband! Who asked you to like him as a husband before he became such? Did ever you hear that it was necessary or expedient, or becoming for a young lady to act on and begin to 'like' a gentleman as 'her husband?' "
Barbara felt a little bewildered.
"Here's the whole parish saying that Barbara Hare can't be married, that nobody will have her, on account of--of--of that cursed stain left by----, I won't trust myself to name him, I should go too far.
Now, don't you think that's a pretty disgrace, a fine state of things?"
"But it is not true," said Barbara; "people do ask me."
"But what's the use of their asking when you say 'No?' " raved the justice. "Is that the way to let the parish know that they ask? You are an ungrateful, rebellious, self-willed daughter, and you'll never be otherwise."
Barbara's tears flowed freely. The justice gave a dash at the bell handle, to order the tea things carried away, and after their removal the subject was renewed, together with Barbara's grief. That was the worst of Justice Hare. Let him seize hold of a grievance, it was not often he got upon a real one, and he kept on at it, like a blacksmith hammering at his forge. In the midst of a stormy oration, tongue and hands going together, Mr. Carlyle came in.
Not much altered; not much. A year and three-quarters had gone by and they had served to silver his hair upon the temples. His manner, too, would never again be careless and light as it once had been. He was the same keen man of business, the same pleasant, intelligent companion; the generality of people saw no change in him. Barbara rose to escape.
"No," said Justice Hare, planting himself between her and the door; "that's the way you like to get out of my reach when I am talking to you. You won't go; so sit down again. I'll tell you of your ill-conduct before Mr. Carlyle, and see if that will shame you."
Barbara resumed her seat, a rush of crimson dyeing her cheeks. And Mr. Carlyle looked inquiringly, seeming to ask an explanation of her distress. The justice continued after his own fashion.
"You know, Carlyle, that horrible blow that fell upon us, that shameless disgrace. Well, because the parish can't clack enough about the fact itself, it must begin about Barbara, saying that the disgrace and humiliation are reflected upon her, and that nobody will come near her to ask her to be his wife. One would think, rather than lie under the stigma and afford the parish room to talk, she'd marry the first man that came, if it was the parish beadle--anybody else would. But now, what are the facts? You'll stare when you know them. She has received a bushel of good offers--a bushel of them," repeated the justice, dashing his hand down on his knee, "and she says 'No!' to all. The last was to-day, from Major Thorn, and, my young lady takes and puts the stopper upon it, as usual, without reference to me or her mother, without saying with your leave or by your leave. She wants to be kept in her room for a week upon bread and water, to bring her to her senses."
Mr. Carlyle glanced at Barbara. She was sitting meekly under the infliction, her wet eyelashes falling on her flushed cheeks and shading her eyes. The justice was heated enough, and had pushed his flaxen wig nearly hind-part before, in the warmth of his argument.
"What did you say to her?" snapped the justice.
"Matrimony may not have charms for Barbara," replied Mr. Carlyle half jokingly.
"Nothing does have charms for her that ought to have," growled Justice Hare. "She's one of the contrary ones. By the way, though," hastily resumed the justice, leaving the objectionable subject, as another flashed across his memory, "they were coupling your name and matrimony together, Carlyle, last night, at the Buck's Head."
A very perceptible tinge of red rose to the face of Mr. Carlyle, telling of inward emotion, but his voice and manner betrayed none.
"Indeed," he carelessly said.
"Ah, you are a sly one; you are, Carlyle. Remember how sly you were over your first----" marriage, Justice Hare was going to bring out, but it suddenly occurred to him that all circumstances considered, it was not precisely the topic to recall to Mr. Carlyle. So he stopped himself in the utterance, coughed, and went on again. "There you go, over to see Sir John Dobede, /not/ to see Sir John, but paying court to Miss Dobede."
"So the Buck's Head was amusing itself with that!" good-naturedly observed Mr. Carlyle. "Well, Miss Dobede is going to be married, and I am drawing up the settlements."
"It's not she; she marries young Somerset; everybody knows that. It's the other one, Louisa. A nice girl, Carlyle."
