Mistress Deborah she beheld no more; but once the Widow Constance brought
Barbara to town, and the two, being very simple women, went to the play to
see the old Audrey, and saw instead a queen, tinseled, mock-jeweled, clad
in silk, who loved and triumphed, despaired and died. The rude theatre
shook to the applause. When it was all over, the widow and Barbara went
dazed to their lodging, and lay awake through the night talking of these
marvels. In the morning they found the small white house, and Audrey came
to them in the garden. When she had kissed them, the three sat down in the
arbor; for it was a fine, sunny morning, and not cold. But the talk was
not easy; Barbara's eyes were so round, and the widow kept mincing her
words. Only when they were joined by Mistress Stagg, to whom the widow
became voluble, the two girls spoke aside.
"I have a guinea, Barbara," said Audrey. "Mr. Stagg gave it to me, and I
need it not,--I need naught in the world. Barbara, here!--'tis for a warm
dress and a Sunday hood."
"Oh, Audrey," breathed Barbara, "they say you might live at Fair
View,--that you might marry Mr. Haward and be a fine lady"-Audrey laid her hand upon the other's lips. "Hush! See, Barbara, you must
have the dress made thus, like mine."
"But if 'tis so, Audrey!" persisted poor Barbara. "Mother and I talked of
it last night. She said you would want a waiting-woman, and I thought--Oh,
Audrey!"
Audrey bit her quivering lip and dashed away the tears. "I'll want no
waiting-woman, Barbara. I'm naught but Audrey that you used to be kind to.
Let's talk of other things. Have you missed me from the woods all these
days?"
"It has been long since you were there," said Barbara dully. "Now I go
with Joan at times, though mother frowns and says she is not fit. Eh,
Audrey, if I could have a dress of red silk, with gold and bright stones,
like you wore last night! Old days I had more than you, but all's changed
now. Joan says"-The Widow Constance rising to take leave, it did not appear what Joan had
said. The visitors from the country went away, nor came again while Audrey
dwelt in Williamsburgh. The schoolmaster came, and while he waited for his
sometime pupil to slowly descend the stairs talked learnedly to Mr. Stagg
of native genius, of the mind drawn steadily through all accidents and
adversities to the end of its own discovery, and of how time and tide and
all the winds of heaven conspire to bring the fate assigned, to make the
puppet move in the stated measure. Mr. Stagg nodded, took out his
snuffbox, and asked what now was the schoolmaster's opinion of the girl's
Monimia last night,--the last act, for instance. Good Lord, how still the
house was!--and then one long sigh!