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two hundred years。
CHAPTER IX
Twenty…one years and six months do not pass without setting a mark
even upon durable stone and triple brass； upon humanity such a
period works nothing less than transformation。 In Barnet's old
birthplace vivacious young children with bones like india…rubber had
grown up to be stable men and women； men and women had dried in the
skin； stiffened； withered； and sunk into decrepitude； while
selections from every class had been consigned to the outlying
cemetery。 Of inorganic differences the greatest was that a railway
had invaded the town； tying it on to a main line at a junction a
dozen miles off。 Barnet's house on the harbour…road； once so
insistently new； had acquired a respectable mellowness； with ivy；
Virginia creepers； lichens； damp patches； and even constitutional
infirmities of its own like its elder fellows。 Its architecture；
once so very improved and modern； had already become stale in style；
without having reached the dignity of being old…fashioned。 Trees
about the harbour…road had increased in circumference or disappeared
under the saw； while the church had had such a tremendous practical
joke played upon it by some facetious restorer or other as to be
scarce recognizable by its dearest old friends。
During this long interval George Barnet had never once been seen or
heard of in the town of his fathers。
It was the evening of a market…day； and some half…dozen middle…aged
farmers and dairymen were lounging round the bar of the Black…Bull
Hotel； occasionally dropping a remark to each other； and less
frequently to the two barmaids who stood within the pewter…topped
counter in a perfunctory attitude of attention； these latter sighing
and making a private observation to one another at odd intervals； on
more interesting experiences than the present。
'Days get shorter；' said one of the dairymen； as he looked towards
the street； and noticed that the lamp…lighter was passing by。
The farmers merely acknowledged by their countenances the propriety
of this remark； and finding that nobody else spoke； one of the
barmaids said 'yes；' in a tone of painful duty。
'Come fair…day we shall have to light up before we start for home…
along。'
'That's true；' his neighbour conceded； with a gaze of blankness。
'And after that we shan't see much further difference all's winter。'
The rest were not unwilling to go even so far as this。
The barmaid sighed again； and raised one of her hands from the
counter on which they rested to scratch the smallest surface of her
face with the smallest of her fingers。 She looked towards the door；
and presently remarked； 'I think I hear the 'bus coming in from
station。'
The eyes of the dairymen and farmers turned to the glass door
dividing the hall from the porch； and in a minute or two the omnibus
drew up outside。 Then there was a lumbering down of luggage； and
then a man came into the hall； followed by a porter with a
portmanteau on his poll； which he deposited on a bench。
The stranger was an elderly person； with curly ashen white hair； a
deeply…creviced outer corner to each eyelid； and a countenance baked
by innumerable suns to the colour of terra…cotta； its hue and that
of his hair contrasting like heat and cold respectively。 He walked
meditatively and gently； like one who was fearful of disturbing his
own mental equilibrium。 But whatever lay at the bottom of his
breast had evidently made him so accustomed to its situation there
that it caused him little practical inconvenience。
He paused in silence while； with his dubious eyes fixed on the
barmaids； he seemed to consider himself。 In a moment or two he
addressed them； and asked to be accommodated for the night。 As he
waited he looked curiously round the hall； but said nothing。 As
soon as invited he disappeared up the staircase； preceded by a
chambermaid and candle； and followed by a lad with his trunk。 Not a
soul had recognized him。
A quarter of an hour later； when the farmers and dairymen had driven
off to their homesteads in the country； he came downstairs； took a
biscuit and one glass of wine； and walked out into the town； where
the radiance from the shop…windows had grown so in volume of late
years as to flood with cheerfulness every standing cart； barrow；
stall； and idler that occupied the wayside； whether shabby or
genteel。 His chief interest at present seemed to lie in the names
painted over the shop…fronts and on door…ways； as far as they were
visible； these now differed to an ominous extent from what they had
been one…and…twenty years before。
The traveller passed on till he came to the bookseller's； where he
looked in through the glass door。 A fresh…faced young man was
standing behind the counter； otherwise the shop was empty。 The
gray…haired observer entered； asked for some periodical by way of
paying for admission； and with his elbow on the counter began to
turn over the pages he had bought； though that he read nothing was
obvious。
At length he said； 'Is old Mr。 Watkins still alive？' in a voice
which had a curious youthful cadence in it even now。
'My father is dead； sir；' said the young man。
'Ah； I am sorry to hear it；' said the stranger。 'But it is so many
years since I last visited this town that I could hardly expect it
should be otherwise。' After a short silence he continued'And is
the firm of Barnet； Browse； and Company still in existence？they
used to be large flax…merchants and twine…spinners here？'
'The firm is still going on； sir； but they have dropped the name of
Barnet。 I believe that was a sort of fancy nameat least； I never
knew of any living Barnet。 'Tis now Browse and Co。'
'And does Andrew Jones still keep on as architect？'
'He's dead； sir。'
'And the Vicar of St。 Mary'sMr。 Melrose？'
'He's been dead a great many years。'
'Dear me！' He paused yet longer； and cleared his voice。 'Is Mr。
Downe； the solicitor； still in practice？'
'No； sir； he's dead。 He died about seven years ago。'
Here it was a longer silence still； and an attentive observer would
have noticed that the paper in the stranger's hand increased its
imperceptible tremor to a visible shake。 That gray…haired gentleman
noticed it himself； and rested the paper on the counter。 'Is MRS。
Downe still alive？' he asked； closing his lips firmly as soon as the
words were out of his mouth； and dropping his eyes。
'Yes； sir； she's alive and well。 She's living at the old place。'
'In East Street？'
'O no； at Chateau Ringdale。 I believe it has been in the family for
some generations。'
'She lives with her children； perhaps？'
'No； she has no children of her own。 There were some Miss Downes； I
think they were Mr。 Downe's daughters by a former wife； but they are
married and living in other parts of the town。 Mrs。 Downe lives
alone。'
'Quite alone？'
'Yes； sir； quite alone。'
The newly…arrived gentleman went back to the hotel and dined； after
which he made some change in his dress； shaved back his beard to the
fashion that had prevailed twenty years earlier； when he was young
and interesting； and once more emerging； bent his steps in the
direction of the harbour…road。 Just before getting to the point
where the pavement ceased and the houses isolated themselves； he
overtook a shambling； stooping； unshaven man； who at first sight
appeared like a professional tramp； his shoulders having a
perceptible greasiness as they passed under the gaslight。 Each
pedestrian momentarily turned and regarded the other； and the tramp…
like gentleman started back。
'Goodwhyis that Mr。 Barnet？ 'Tis Mr。 Barnet； surely！'
'Yes； and you are Charlson？'
'Yesahyou notice my appearance。 The Fates have rather ill…used
me。 By…the…bye； that fifty pounds。 I never paid it； did I？ 。 。 。
But I was not ungrateful！' Here the stooping man laid one hand
emphatically on the palm of the other。 'I gave you a chance； Mr。
George Barnet； which many men would have thought full value
receivedthe chance to marry your Lucy。 As far as the world was
concerned； your wife was a DROWNED WOMAN； hey？'
'Heaven forbid all that； Charlson！'
'Well； well； 'twas a wrong way of showing gratitude；