"My poor lonely Barbara!" said the Colonel, smiling tenderly as he passed
again out of sight of his daughter.
"Dear father!" said Barbara, as the Colonel disappeared from view. She did
not, however, at once leave the window, but remained leaning out, with the
warm touch of the sun on her head, drinking in the morning sounds.
The village, half a mile distant, was just visible to Barbara through the
trees--red-roofed, compact, the cottages gathering about the church like
chickens round the mother hen. On a summer day like this anyone listening
at the Hall could hear the busy noises, the hum of this little hive of
humanity, with perfect clearness; the beat of the hammer on the anvil in
Matthew Hale's smithy, the "Gee, whoa!" of the carter on the distant road,
the scrunching of the wagon-wheels, the crowing cocks, and now and then the
shouts of boys and the laughter of children. These audible tokens of active
life were a comfort to Barbara. A moment before, on parting with her
father, she was aware of a new and disturbing loneliness, but now she felt
no longer with the same melancholy that she was solitary, apart from her
fellows.
It was the time when the country was divided between the followers of the
Throne and the followers of Cromwell; the time when sour visages, who were
for the moment in the places of authority, glowered beneath black hats, and
the village games were forbidden; the time when Royalist gentlemen dropped
a crumb into their wineglasses after dinner, and, looking meaningly at each
other, tossed off the red liquor, saying fervently as they did so, "God
send this CRUMB WELL down.
Pages:
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125