Once more he closed his eyes, sighed deeply and, with the sigh,Captain Slingsby of the Guards had paid his debts—for good and all.
And now, the "Galloping Countryman" found himself famous, and, being so, made the further, sudden discovery that all men were his "warmest friends," nay, even among the gentler sex this obtained, for the most dragon-like dowagers, the haughtiest matrons, became infinitely gracious; noble fathers were familiarly jocose; the proudest beauties wore, for him, their most bewitching airs, since as well as being famous, he was known to be one of the wealthiest young men about town; moreover His Royal Highness had deigned to notice him, and Her Grace of Camberhurst was his professed friend. Hence, all this being taken into consideration, it is not surprising that invitations poured in upon him, and that the doors of the most exclusive clubs flew open at his step.
Number Five St. James's Square suddenly became a rendezvous of Sport and Fashion, before its portal were to be seen dashing turn-outs of all descriptions, from phaetons to coaches; liveried menials, bearing cards, embossed, gild-edged, and otherwise, descended upon St. James's Square in multi-colored shoals; in a word, the Polite World forthwith took Barnabas to its bosom, which, though perhaps a somewhat cold and flinty bosom, made up for such minor deficiencies by the ardor of its embrace. By reason of these things, the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder were exalted,—that is to say, were in a perpetual quiver of superior gratification, and Barnabas himself enjoyed it all vastly—for a week.
At the end of which period behold him at twelve o'clock in the morning, as he sits over his breakfast (with the legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder planted, statuesque, behind his chair), frowning at a stupendous and tumbled pile of Fashionable note-paper, and Polite cards.
"Are these all?" he inquired, waving his hand towards the letters.
"Them, sir, is—hall!" answered the Gentleman-in-Powder.
"Then ask Mr. Peterby to come to me," said Barnabas, his frown growing blacker.
"Cer-tainly, sir!" Here the Gentleman-in-Powder posed his legs, bowed, and took them out of the room. Then Barnabas drew a letter from his pocket and began to read as follows:
The Gables,Hawkhurst.
MY DEAR BARNABAS,—As Cleone's letter looks very long (she sits opposite me at this precise moment writing to you, and blushing very prettily over something her pen has just scribbled—I can't quite see what, the table is too wide), mine shall be short, that is, as short as possible. Of course we are all disappointed not to have seen you here since the race—that terrible race (poor, dear Captain Slingsby,—how dreadful it was!) but of course, it is quite right you should stay near the Viscount during his illness. I rejoice to hear he is so much better. I am having my town house, the one in Berkeley Square, put in order, for Cleone has had quite enough of the country, I think, so have I. Though indeed she seems perfectly content (I mean Cleone) and is very fond of listening to the brook. O Youth! O Romance! Well, I used to listen to brooks once upon a time—before I took to a wig. As for yourself now, Barnabas, the Marquis writes to tell me that your cravats are 'all the thing,' and your waistcoats 'all the go,' and that your new coat with the opened cuff finds very many admirers. This is very well, but since Society has taken you up and made a lion of you, it will necessarily expect you to roar occasionally, just to maintain your position. And there are many ways of roaring, Barnabas. Brummell (whom I ever despised) roared like an insolent cat—he was always very precise and cat-like, and dreadfully insolent, but insolence palls, after a while—even in Society. Indeed I might give you many hints on Roaring, Barnabas, but—considering the length of Cleone's letter, I will spare you more, nor even give you any advice though I yearn to—only this: Be yourself, Barnabas, in Society or out, so shall I always subscribe myself:
Your affectionate friend,
3 P.M.—I have opened this letter to tell you that Mr. Chichester and Ronald called here and stayed an hour. Ronald was full of his woes, as usual, so I left him to Cleone, and kept Mr. Chichester dancing attendance on me. And, oh dear me! to see the white rage of the man! It was deliciously thrilling, and I shivered most delightfully.
"You sent for me, sir?" said Peterby, as Barnabas re-folded the letter.
"Yes, John. Are you sure there is no other letter this morning from—from Hawkhurst?"
"Quite, sir."
"Yet the Duchess tells me that the Lady Cleone wrote me also. This letter came by the post this morning?"
"Yes, sir."
"And no other? It's very strange!"
But here, the Gentleman-in-Powder re-appeared to say that the Marquis of Jerningham desired to see Mr. Beverley on a matter of importance, and that nobleman presenting himself, Peterby withdrew.
"Excuse this intrusion, my dear Beverley," said the Marquis as the door closed, "doocid early I know, but the—ah—the matter is pressing. First, though, how's Devenham, you saw him last night as usual, I suppose?"
"Yes," answered Barnabas, shaking hands, "he ought to be up and about again in a day or two."
"Excellent," nodded the Marquis, "I'll run over to Half-moon Street this afternoon. Is Bamborough with him still?"
"No, his Lordship left yesterday."
"Ha!" said the Marquis, and taking out his snuff-box, he looked at it, tapped it, and put it away again. "Poor old Sling," said he gently, "I miss him damnably, y'know, Beverley."
"Marquis," said Barnabas, "what is it?"
"Well, I want you to do me a favor, my dear fellow, and I don't know how to ask you—doocid big favor—ah—I was wondering if you would consent to—act for me?"
"Act for you?" repeated Barnabas, wholly at a loss.
"Yes, in my little affair with Carnaby—poor old Sling, d' you see.What, don't you twig, Beverley, haven't you heard?"
"No!" answered Barnabas, "you don't mean that you and Carnaby are going—to fight?"
"Exactly, my dear fellow, of course! He fouled poor old Sling at the wall, y'know—you saw it, I saw it, so naturally I mean to call him to account for it. And he can't refuse—I spoke doocid plainly, and White's was full. He has the choice of weapons,—pistols I expect. Personally, I should like it over as soon as possible, and anywhere would do, though Eltham for preference, Beverley. So if you will oblige me—"
But here, once again the Gentleman-in-Powder knocked to announce:"Mr. Tressider."
The thinnish, youngish gentleman in sandy whiskers entered with a rush, but, seeing the Marquis, paused.
"What, then—you 're before me, are you, Jerningham?" he exclaimed; then turning, he saluted Barnabas, and burst into a torrent of speech. "Beverley!" he cried, "cursed early to call, but I'm full o' news—bursting with it, damme if I'm not—and tell it I must! First, then, by Gad!—it was at White's you'll understand, and the card-room was full—crammed, sir, curse me if it wasn't, and there's Carnaby and Tufton Green, and myself and three or four others, playing hazard, d'ye see,—when up strolls Jerningham here. 'It's your play, Carnaby,' says I. 'Why then,' says the Marquis,—'why then,' says he, 'look out for fouling!' says he, cool as a cucumber, curse me! 'Eh—what?' cries Tufton, 'why—what d' ye mean?' 'Mean?' says the Marquis, tapping his snuff-box, 'I mean that Sir Mortimer Carnaby is a most accursed rascal' (your very words, Marquis, damme if they weren't). Highly dramatic, Beverley—could have heard a pin drop—curse me if you couldn't! End of it was they arranged a meeting of course, and I was Carnaby's second, but—"
"Was?" repeated the Marquis.
"Yes, was,—for begad! when I called on my man this morning he'd bolted, damme if he hadn't!"
"Gone?" exclaimed the Marquis in blank amazement.
"Clean gone! Bag and baggage! I tell you he's bolted, but—with all due respect to you, Marquis, only from his creditors. He was devilish deep in with Gaunt, I know, beside Beverley here. Oh damme yes, he only did it to bilk his creditors, for Carnaby was always game, curse me if he wasn't!"
Hereupon the Marquis had recourse to his snuff-box again.
"Under the circumstances," said he, sighing and shaking his head,"I think I'll go and talk with our invalid—"
"No good, my boy, if you mean Devenham," said Tressider, shaking his head, "just been there,—Viscount's disappeared too—been away all night!"
"What?" cried Barnabas, springing to his feet, "gone?"
"Damme if he hasn't! Found his fellow in the devil of a way about it, and his little rascal of a groom blubbering on the stairs."
"Then I must dress! You'll excuse me, I know!" said Barnabas, and rang for Peterby. But his hand was even yet upon the bellrope when stumbling feet were heard outside, the door was flung wide, and the Viscount himself stood upon the threshold.
Pale and haggard of eye, dusty and unkempt, he leaned there, then staggering to a chair he sank down and so lay staring at the floor.
"Oh, Bev!" he groaned, "she's gone—Clemency's gone, I—I can't find her, Bev!"
Now hereupon the Marquis very quietly took up his hat and, nodding to Barnabas, linked his arm in Tressider's and went softly from the room, closing the door behind him.
"Dick!" cried Barnabas, bending over him, "my dear fellow!"
"Ever since you spoke, I—I've wanted her, Bev. All through my illness I've hungered for her—the sound of her voice,—the touch of her hand. As soon as I was strong enough—last night, I think it was—I went to find her, to—to kneel at her feet, Bev. I drove down to Frittenden and oh, Bev—she was gone! So I started back—looking for her all night. My arm bothered me—a bit, you know, and I didn't think I could do it. But I kept fancying I saw her before me in the dark. Sometimes I called to her—but she—never answered, she's—gone, Bev, and I—"
"Oh, Dick—she left there weeks ago—"
"What—you knew?"
"Yes, Dick."
"Then oh, Bev,—tell me where!"
"Dick, I—can't!"
"Why—why?"
"I promised her to keep it secret."
"Then—you won't tell me?"
"I can't."
"Won't! won't! Ah, but you shall, yes, by God!"
"Dick, I—"
"By God, but you shall, I say you shall—you must—where is she?"The Viscount's pale cheek grew suddenly suffused, his eyes glaredfiercely, and his set teeth gleamed between his pallid lips."Tell me!" he demanded.
"No," said Barnabas, and shook his head.
Then, in that moment the Viscount sprang up and, pinning him with his left hand, swung Barnabas savagely to the wall.
"She's mine!" he panted, "mine, I tell you—no one shall take her from me, neither you nor the devil himself. She's mine—mine. Tell me where she is,—speak before I choke you—speak!"
But Barnabas stood rigid and utterly still. Thus, in a while, the griping fingers fell away, the Viscount stepped back, and groaning, bowed his head.
"Oh, Bev," said he, "forgive me, I—I'm mad I think. I want her so and I can't find her. And I had a spill last night—dark road you see, and only one hand,—and I'm not quite myself in consequence. I'll go—"
But, as he turned toward the door, Barnabas interposed.
"Dick, I can't let you go like this—what do you intend to do?"
"Will you tell me where she is?"
"No, but—"
"Then, sir, my further movements need not concern you."
"Dick, be reasonable,—listen—"
"Have the goodness to let me pass, sir."
"You are faint, worn out—stay here, Dick, and I—"
"Thanks, Beverley, but I accept favors from my friends only—pray stand aside."
"Dick, if you'll only wait, I'll go to her now—this moment—I'll beg her to see you—"
"Very kind, sir!" sneered the Viscount, "you are—privileged it seems. But, by God, I don't need you, or any one else, to act as go-between or plead my cause. And mark me, sir! I'll find her yet. I swear to you I'll never rest until I find her again. And now, sir, once and for all, I have the honor to wish you a very good day!" saying which the Viscount bowed, and, having re-settled his arm in its sling, walked away down the corridor, very upright as to back, yet a little uncertain in his stride nevertheless, and so was gone.
Then Barnabas, becoming aware of the polite letters, and cards, embossed, gilt-edged and otherwise, swept them incontinent to the floor and, sinking into a chair, set his elbows upon the table, and leaning his head upon his hands fell into a gloomy meditation. It was thus that the Gentleman-in-Powder presently found him, and, advancing into the room with insinuating legs, coughed gently to attract his attention, the which proving ineffectual, he spoke:
"Ex-cuse me, sir, but there is a—person downstairs, sir—at the door, sir!"
"What kind of person?" inquired Barnabas without looking up.
"A most ex-tremely low person, sir—very common indeed, sir. Won't give no name, sir, won't go away, sir. A very 'orrid person—in gaiters, sir."
"What does he want?" said Barnabas, with head still bent.
"Says as 'ow 'e 'as a letter for you, sir, but—"
Barnabas was on his feet so quickly that the Gentleman-in-Powder recoiled in alarm.
"Show him up—at once!"
"Oh!—cer-tainly, sir!" And though the bow of the Gentleman-in-Powder was all that it should be, his legs quivered disapprobation as they took him downstairs.
When next the door opened it was to admit the person in gaiters, a shortish, broad-shouldered, bullet-headed person he was, and his leggings were still rank of the stables; he was indeed a very horsey person who stared and chewed upon a straw. At sight of Barnabas he set a stubby finger to one eyebrow, and chewed faster than ever.
"You have a letter for me, I think?"
"Yessir!"
"Then give it to me."
The horsey person coughed, took out his straw, looked at it, shook his head at it, and put it back again.
"Name o' Beverley, sir?" he inquired, chewing feverishly.
"Yes."
Hereupon the horsey person drew a letter from his pocket, chewed over it a moment, nodded, and finally handed it to Barnabas, who, seeing the superscription, hurriedly broke the seal. Observing which, the horsey person sighed plaintively and shook his head, alternately chewing upon and looking at his straw the while Barnabas read the following:
Oh, Barnabas dear, when shall I see you again? I am very foolish to-day perhaps, but though the sun shines gloriously, I am cold, it is my heart that is cold, a deadly chill—as if an icy hand had touched it. And I seem to be waiting—waiting for something to happen, something dreadful that I cannot avert. I fear you will think me weak and fanciful, but, dear, I cannot help wondering what it all means. You ask me if I love you. Can you doubt? How often in my dreams have I seen you kneeling beside me with your neck all bare and the dripping kerchief in your hand. Oh, dear Wood of Annersley! it was there that I first felt your arms about me, Barnabas, and I dream of that too—sometimes. But last night I dreamed of that awful race,—I saw you gallop past the winning post again, your dear face all cut and bleeding, and as you passed me your eyes looked into mine—such an awful look, Barnabas. And then it seemed that you galloped into a great, black shadow that swallowed you up, and so you were lost to me, and I awoke trembling. Oh Barnabas, come to me! I want you here beside me, for although the sky here is blue and cloudless, away to the north where London lies, there is a great, black shadow like the shadow of my dream, and God keep all shadows from you, Barnabas. So come to me—meet me to-morrow—there is a new moon. Come to Oakshott's Barn at 7:30, and we will walk back to the house together.
I am longing to see you, and yet I am a little afraid also, because my love is not a quiet love or gentle, but such a love as frightens me sometimes, because it has grown so deep and strong.
This window, you may remember, faces north, and now as I lift my eyes I can see that the shadow is still dark over London, and very threatening. Come to me soon, and that God may keep all shadows from you is the prayer of
YourCLEONE.
Now when he had finished reading, Barnabas sighed, and glancing up, found the horsey person still busy with his straw, but now he took it from his mouth, shook his head at it more sternly than ever, dropped it upon the carpet and set his foot upon it; which done, he turned and looked at Barnabas with a pair of very round, bright eyes.
"Now," said he, "I should like to take the liberty o' axing you one or two questions, Mr. Barty, sir,—or as I should say, p'r'aps, Mr. Beverley."
"What," exclaimed Barnabas, starting up, "it's you again, Mr. Shrig?"
"That werry same i-dentical, sir. Disguises again, ye see. Yesterday, a journeyman peg-maker vith a fine lot o' pegs as I didn't vant to sell—to-day a groom looking for a job as I don't need. Been a-keeping my ogles on Number Vun and Number Two, and things is beginning to look werry rosy, sir, yes, things is werry promising indeed."
"How do you mean?"
"Vell, to begin vith," said Mr. Shrig, taking the chair Barnabas proffered, "you didn't 'appen to notice as that theer letter had been broke open and sealed up again, did ye?"
"No," said Barnabas, staring at what was left of the seal.
"No, o' course you didn't—you opened it too quick to notice anything—but I did."
"Oh, surely not—"
"That theer letter," said Mr. Shrig impressively, "vas wrote you by a certain lady, vasn't it?"
"Yes."
"And I brought you that theer letter, didn't I?"
"Yes, but—"
"And 'oo do ye suppose give me that theer letter, to bring to you,—the lady? Oh no! I'll tell you 'oo give it me,—it vas—shall ve say, Number Two, the Accessory afore the fact,—shall ve call 'im C.? Werry good! Now, 'ow did C. or Number Two, 'appen to give me that theer letter? I'll tell you. Ven Number Vun and Number Two, B. and C., vent down to Hawkhurst, I vent down to Hawkhurst. They put up at the 'Qveen's 'ead,' so I 'angs about the 'Qveen's 'ead,'—offers myself as groom—I'm 'andy vith an 'orse—got in the 'abit o' doing odd jobs for Number Vun and Number Two, and, last night, Number Two gives me that theer letter to deliver, and werry pertickler 'e vas as I should give it into your werry own daddle, 'e also gives me a guinea and tells as 'ow 'e don't vant me no more, and them's the circumstances, sir."
"But," said Barnabas in frowning perplexity, "I don't understand.How did he get hold of the letter?"
"Lord, sir, 'ow do I know that? But get it 'e did—'e likewise broke the seal."
"But—why?"
"Vell now, first, it's a love-letter, ain't it?"
"Why—I—"
"Werry good! Now, sir, might that theer letter be making a app'intment—come?"
"Yes, an appointment for to-morrow evening."
"Ah! In a nice, qviet, lonely place—say a vood?"
"Yes, at a very lonely place called Oakshott's Barn."
"Come, that's better and better!" nodded Mr. Shrig brightly, "that's werry pretty, that is—things is rosier than I 'oped, but then, as I said afore, things is allus blackest afore the dawn. Oakshott's Barn, eh? Ecod, now, but it sounds a nice, lonesome place—just the sort o' place for it, a—a—capital place as you might call it." And Mr. Shrig positively chuckled and rubbed his chubby hands together; but all at once, he shook his head gloomily, and glancing at Barnabas, sighed deeply. "But you—von't go, o' course, sir?"
"Go?"
"To Oakshott's Barn, to-morrow evening?"
"Yes, of course," answered Barnabas, "the appointment is for seven-thirty."
"Seven-thirty!" nodded Mr. Shrig, "and a werry nice time for it too! Sunset, it'll be about—a good light and not too long to vait till dark! Yes, seven-thirty's a werry good time for it!"
"For what?"
"V'y," said Mr. Shrig, lowering his voice suddenly, "let's say for 'it'!"
"'It,'" repeated Barnabas, staring.
"Might I jest take a peep at that theer letter, v'ere it says seven-thirty, sir?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, pointing to a certain line of Cleone's letter, "here it is!"
"Ah," exclaimed Mr. Shrig, nodding and rubbing his hands again, "your eyes is good 'uns, ain't they, sir?"
"Yes."
"Then jest take a good look at that theer seven-thirty, vill you, sir—come, vot do you see?"
"That the paper is roughened a little, and the ink has run."
"Yes, and vot else? Look at it a bit closer, sir."
"Why," said Barnabas staring hard at the spot, "it looks as though something had been scratched out!"
"And so it has, sir. If you go there at seven-thirty, it von't be a fair lady as'll be vaiting to meet you. The time's been altered o' course—jest as I 'oped and expected."
"Ah!" said Barnabas, slowly and very softly, and clenched his fist.
"So now, d'ye see, you can't go—can ye?" said Mr. Shrig in a hopeless tone.
"Yes!" said Barnabas.
"Eh? Vot—you vill?"
"Most assuredly!"
"But—but it'll be madness!" stammered Mr. Shrig, his round eyes rounder than ever, "it'll be fair asking to be made a unfort'nate wictim of, if ye go. O' course it 'ud be a good case for me, and good cases is few enough—but you mustn't go now, it 'ud be madness!"
"No," said Barnabas, frowning darkly, "because I shall go—before seven-thirty, you see."
Even on a summer's afternoon Oakshott's Barn is a desolate place, a place of shadows and solitude, whose slumberous silence is broken only by the rustle of leaves, the trill of a skylark high overhead, or the pipe of throstle and blackbird.
It is a place apart, shut out from the world of life and motion, a place suggestive of decay and degeneration, and therefore a depressing place at all times.
Yet, standing here, Barnabas smiled and uncovered his head, for here, once, SHE had stood, she who was for him the only woman in all the world. So having paused awhile to look about him, he presently went on into the gloom of the barn, a gloom damp and musty with years and decay.
Now glancing sharply this way and that, Barnabas espied a ladder or rather the mouldering remains of one, that led up from the darkest corner to a loft; up this ladder, with all due care, he mounted, and thus found himself in what had once served as a hay-loft, for in one corner there yet remained a rotting pile. It was much lighter up here, for in many places the thatch was quite gone, while at one end of the loft was a square opening or window. He was in the act of looking from this window when, all at once he started and crouched down, for, upon the stillness broke a sudden sound,—the rustling of leaves, and a voice speaking in loud, querulous tones. And in a while as he watched, screening himself from all chance of observation, Barnabas saw two figures emerge into the clearing and advance towards the barn.
"I tell you C-Chichester, it will be either him or m-me!"
"If he—condescends to fight you, my dear Ronald."
"C-condescend?" cried Barrymaine, and it needed but a glance at his flushed cheek and swaying figure to see that he had been drinking more heavily than usual. "C-condescend, damn his insolence! Condescend, will he? I'll give him no chance for his c-cursed condescension, I—I tell you, Chichester, I'll—"
"But you can't make a man fight, Ronald."
"Can't I? Why then if he won't fight I'll—"
"Hush! don't speak so loud!"
"Well, I will, Chichester,—s-so help me God, I will!"
"Will—what, Ronald?"
"W-wait and see!"
"You don't mean—murder, Ronald?"
"I didn't s-say so, d-did I?"
"Of course not, my dear Barrymaine, but—shall I take the pistols?" And Mr. Chichester stretched out his hand towards a flat, oblong box that Barrymaine carried clutched beneath his arm. "Better give them to me, Ronald."
"No,—w-why should I?"
"Well,—in your present mood—"
"I—I'm not—d-drunk,—damme, I'm not, I tell you! And I'll give the f-fellow every chance—honorable meeting."
"Then, if he refuses to fight you, as of course he will, you'll let him go to—ah—make love to Cleone?"
"No, by God!" cried Barrymaine in a sudden, wild fury, "I-I'll sh-shoot him first!"
"Kill him?"
"Yes, k-kill him!"
"Oh no you won't, Ronald, for two reasons. First of all, it would be murder—!"
"Murder!" Barrymaine repeated, "so it would—murder! Yes, by God!"
"And secondly, you haven't the nerve. Though he has clandestine meetings with your sister, though he crush you into the mud, trample you under his feet, throw you into a debtor's prison to rot out your days—though he ruin you body and soul, and compromise your sister's honor—still you'd never—murder him, Ronald, you couldn't, you haven't the heart, because it would be—murder!"
Mr. Chichester's voice was low, yet each incisive, quick-spoken word reached Barnabas, while upon Barrymaine their effect was demoniac. Dropping his pistol-case, he threw up wild arms and shook his clenched fists in the air.
"Damn him!" he cried, "damn him! B-bury me in a debtor's prison, will he? Foul my sister's honor w-will he? Never! never! I tell you I'll kill him first!"
"Murder him, Ronald?"
"Murder? I t-tell you it's no murder to kill his sort. G-give me the pistols."
"Hush! Come into the barn."
"No. W-what for?"
"Well, the time is getting on, Ronald,—nearly seven o'clock, and your ardent lovers are usually before their time. Come into the barn."
"N-no,—devilish dark hole!"
"But—he'll see you here!"
"What if he does, can't g-get away from me,—better f-for it out here—lighter."
"What do you mean? Better—for what?"
"The m-meeting."
"What—you mean to try and make him fight, do you?"
"Of course—try that way first. Give him a ch-chance, you know, —c-can't shoot him down on s-sight."
"Ah-h!" said Mr. Chichester, very slowly, "you can't shoot him on sight—of course you can't. I see."
"What? W-what d'ye see? Devilish dark hole in there!"
"All the better, Ronald,—think of his surprise when instead of finding an armful of warm loveliness waiting for him in the shadows, he finds the avenging brother! Come into the shadows, Ronald."
"All right,—yes, the shadow. Instead of the sister, the b-brother—yes, by God!"
Now the flooring of the loft where Barnabas lay was full of wide cracks and fissures, for the boards had warped by reason of many years of rain and sun; thus, lying at full length, Barnabas saw them below, Barrymaine leaning against the crumbling wall, while Mr. Chichester stooped above the open duelling-case.
"What—they're loaded are they?" said he.
"Of c-course!"
"They're handsome tools, Ronald, and with your monogram, I see!"
"Yes. Is your f-flask empty, Chichester?"
"No, I think not," answered Mr. Chichester, still stooping above the pistol in his hand.
"Then give it me, will you—m-my throat's on fire."
"Surely you 've had enough, Ronald? Did you know this flint was loose?"
"I'm n-not drunk, I t-tell you. I know when I've had enough, g-give me some brandy, Chit, I know there's p-precious little left."
"Why then, fix this flint first, Ronald, I see you have all the necessary tools here." So saying, Mr. Chichester rose and began feeling through his pockets, while Barrymaine, grumbling, stooped above the pistol-case. Then, even as he did so, Mr. Chichester drew out a silver flask, unscrewed it, and thereafter made a certain quick, stealthy gesture behind his companion's back, which done, he screwed up the flask again, shook it, and, as Barrymaine rose, held it out to him:
"Yes, I'm afraid there's very little left, Ronald," said he. With a murmur of thanks Barrymaine took the flask and, setting it to his lips, drained it at a gulp, and handed it back.
"Gad, Chichester!" he exclaimed, "it tastes damnably of the f-flask—faugh! What time is it?"
"A quarter to seven!"
"Th-three quarters of an hour to wait!"
"It will soon pass, Ronald, besides, he's sure to be early."
"Hope so! But I—I think I'll s-sit down."
"Well, the floor's dry, though dirty."
"D-dirty? So it is, but beggars can't be c-choosers and—dev'lish drowsy place, this!—I'm a b-beggar—you know t-that, and—pah! I think I'm l-losing my—taste for brandy—"
"Really, Ronald? I've thought you seemed over fond of it—especially lately."
"No—no!" answered Barrymaine, speaking in a thick, indistinct voice and rocking unsteadily upon his heels, "I'm not—n-not drunk, only—dev'lish sleepy!" and swaying to the wall he leaned there with head drooping.
"Then you'd better—lie down, Ronald."
"Yes, I'll—lie down, dev'lish—drowsy p-place—lie down," mumbled Barrymaine, suiting the action to the word; yet after lying down full length, he must needs struggle up to his elbow again to blink at Mr. Chichester, heavy eyed and with one hand to his wrinkling brow. "Wha-what w-was it we—came for? Oh y-yes—I know—Bev'ley, of course! You'll w-wake me—when he c-comes?"
"I'll wake you, Ronald."
"S-such a c-cursed—drowsy—" Barrymaine sank down upon his side, rolled over upon his back, threw wide his arms, and so lay, breathing stertorously.
Then Mr. Chichester smiled, and coming beside him, looked down upon his helpless form and flushed face and, smiling still, spoke in his soft, gentle voice:
"Are you asleep, Ronald?" he inquired, and stirred Barrymaine lightly with his foot, but, feeling him so helpless, the stirring foot grew slowly more vicious. "Oh Ronald," he murmured, "what a fool you are! what a drunken, sottish fool you are. So you'd give him a chance, would you? Ah, but you mustn't, Ronald, you shan't, for your sake and my sake. My hand is steadier than yours, so sleep, my dear Ronald, and wake to find that you have rid us of our good, young Samaritan—once and for all, and then—hey for Cleone, and no more dread of the Future. Sleep on, you swinish sot!"
Mr. Chichester's voice was as soft as ever, but, as he turned away, the sleeping youth started and groaned beneath the sudden movement of that vicious foot.
And now Mr. Chichester stooped, and taking the pistols, one by one, examined flint and priming with attentive eye, which done, he crossed to a darkened window and, bursting open the rotting shutter, knelt and levelled one of the weapons, steadying his wrist upon the sill; then, nodding as though satisfied, he laid the pistols upon the floor within easy reach, and drew out his watch.
Slowly the sun declined, and slowly the shadows lengthened about Oakshott's Barn, as they had done many and many a time before; a rabbit darted across the clearing, a blackbird called to his mate in the thicket, but save for this, nothing stirred; a great quiet was upon the place, a stillness so profound that Barnabas could distinctly hear the scutter of a rat in the shadows behind him, and the slow, heavy breathing of the sleeper down below. And ever that crouching figure knelt beside the broken shutter, very silent, very still, and very patient.
But all at once, as he watched, Barnabas saw the rigid figure grow suddenly alert, saw the right arm raised slowly, stealthily, saw the pistol gleam as it was levelled across the sill; for now, upon the quiet rose a sound faint and far, yet that grew and ever grew, the on-coming rustle of leaves.
Then, even as Barnabas stared down wide-eyed, the rigid figure started, the deadly pistol-hand wavered, was snatched back, and Mr. Chichester leapt to his feet. He stood a moment hesitating as one at a sudden loss, then crossing to the unconscious form of Barrymaine, he set the pistol under his lax hand, turned, and vanished into the shadow.
Thereafter, from the rear of the barn, came the sound of a blow and the creak of a rusty hinge, quickly followed by a rustle of leaves that grew fainter and fainter, and so was presently gone. Then Barnabas rose, and coming to the window, peered cautiously out, and there, standing before the barn surveying its dilapidation with round, approving eyes, his nobbly stick beneath his arm, his high-crowned, broad-brimmed hat upon his head, was Mr. Shrig.
Surprise and something very like disappointment were in Mr. Shrig's look as Barnabas stepped out from the yawning doorway of the barn.
"V'y, sir," said he, consulting a large-faced watch. "V'y, Mr. Beverley, it's eggs-actly tventy minutes arter the time for it!"
"Yes," said Barnabas.
"And you—ain't shot, then?"
"No, thank heaven."
"Nor even—vinged?"
"Nor even winged, Mr. Shrig."
"Fate," said Mr. Shrig, shaking a dejected head at him, "Fate is a werry wexed problem, sir! 'Ere's you now, Number Three, as I might say, the unfort'nate wictim as was to be—'ere you are a-valking up to Fate axing to be made a corp', and vot do you get? not so much as a scrat—not a westige of a scrat, v'ile another unfort'nate wictim vill run avay from Fate, run? ah! 'eaven's 'ard! and werry nat'ral too! and vot does 'e get? 'e gets made a corp' afore 'e knows it. No, sir, Fate's a werry wexed problem, sir, and I don't understand it, no, nor ever shall."
"But this was very simple," said Barnabas, slipping his hand in Mr. Shrig's arm, and leading him away from the barn, "very simple indeed, I got here before they came, and hid in the loft. Then, while they were waiting for me down below, you came and frightened them away."
"Ah! So they meant business, did they?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, nodding grimly, "they certainly meant business, —especially Mr. Chich—"
"Ssh!" said Mr. Shrig, glancing round, "call 'im Number Two. Sir, Number Two is a extra-special, super-fine, over-weight specimen, 'e is. I've knowed a many 'Capitals' in my time, but I never knowed such a Capital o' Capital Coves as 'im. Sir, Vistling Dick vas a innercent, smiling babe, and young B. is a snowy, pet lamb alongside o' Number Two. Capital Coves like 'im only 'appen, and they only 'appen every thousand year or so. Ecod! I 'm proud o' Number Two. And talking of 'im, I 'appened to call on Nick the Cobbler, last night."
"Oh?"
"Ah! and I found 'im vith 'is longest awl close 'andy—all on account o' Number Two."
"How on his account?" demanded Barnabas, frowning suddenly.
"Vell, last evening, Milo o' Crotona, a pal o' Nick's, and a werry promising bye 'e is too, 'appened to drop in sociable-like, and it seems as Number Two followed 'im. And werry much Number Two frightened that 'andsome gal, by all accounts. She wrote you a letter, vich she give me to deliver, and—'ere it is."
So Barnabas took the letter and broke the seal. It was a very short letter, but as he read Barnabas frowned blacker than ever.
"Mr. Shrig," said he very earnestly as he folded and pocketed the letter, "will you do something for me—will you take a note to my servant, John Peterby? You'll find him at the 'Oak and Ivy' in Hawkhurst village."
"Vich, seeing as you're a pal, sir, I vill. But, sir," continued Mr. Shrig, as Barnabas scribbled certain instructions for Peterby on a page of his memorandum, "vot about yourself—you ain't a-going back there, are ye?" and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the barn, now some distance behind them.
"Of course," said Barnabas, "to keep my appointment."
"D'ye think it's safe—now?"
"Quite,—thanks to you," answered Barnabas. "Here is the note, and if you wish, John Peterby will drive you back to London with him."
"V'y, thank'ee sir,—'e shall that,—but you, now?" Mr. Shrig paused, and, somewhat diffidently drew from his side pocket a very business-like, brass-bound pistol, which he proffered to Barnabas, "jest in case they should 'appen to come back, sir," said he.
But Barnabas laughingly declined it, and shook his chubby hand instead.
"Vell," said Mr. Shrig, pocketing note and weapon, "you're true game, sir, yes, game's your breed, and I only 'ope as you don't give me a case—though good murder cases is few and far between, as I've told you afore. Good-by, sir, and good luck."
So saying, Mr. Shrig nodded, touched the broad rim of his castor, and strode away through the gathering shadows.
And when he was gone, and the sound of his going had died away in the distance, Barnabas turned and swiftly retraced his steps; but now he went with fists clenched, and head forward, as one very much on the alert.
Evening was falling and the shadows were deepening apace, and as he went, Barnabas kept ever in the shelter of the trees until he saw before him once more, the desolate and crumbling barn of Oakshott. For a moment he paused, eyeing its scarred and battered walls narrowly, then, stepping quickly forward, entered the gloomy doorway and, turning towards a certain spot, started back before the threatening figure that rose up from the shadows.
"Ah! So you 've c-come at last, sir!" said Barrymaine, steadying himself against the wall with one hand while he held the pistol levelled in the other, "ins-stead of the weak s-sister you find the avenging brother! Been waiting for you hours. C-cursed dreary hole this, and I fell asleep, but—"
"Because you were drugged!" said Barnabas.
"D-drugged, sir! W-what d' you mean?"
"Chichester drugged the brandy—"
"Chichester?"
"He meant to murder me while you slept and fix the crime on you—"
"Liar!" cried Barrymaine, "you came here to meet my s-sister, but instead of a defenceless girl you meet me and I'm g-going to settle with you—once and for all—t-told you I would, last time we met. There's another pistol in the c-case yonder—pick it up and t-take your ground."
"Listen to me," Barnabas began.
"N-not a word—you're going to fight me—"
"Never!"
"Pick up that pistol—or I'll sh-shoot you where you stand!"
"No!"
"I'll c-count three!" said Barrymaine, his pale face livid against the darkness behind, "One! Two!—"
But, on the instant, Barnabas sprang in and closed with him, and, grappled in a fierce embrace, they swayed a moment and staggered out through the gaping doorway.
Barrymaine fought desperately. Barnabas felt his coat rip and tear, but he maintained his grip upon his opponent's pistol hand, yet twice the muzzle of the weapon covered him, and twice he eluded it before Barrymaine could fire. Therefore, seeing Barrymaine's intention, reading his deadly purpose in vicious mouth and dilated nostril, Barnabas loosed one hand, drew back his arm, and smote—swift and hard. Barrymaine uttered a cry that seemed to Barnabas to find an echo far off, flung out his arms and, staggering, fell.
Then Barnabas picked up the pistol and, standing over Barrymaine, spoke.
"I—had to—do it!" he panted. "Did I—hurt you much?"
But Ronald Barrymaine lay very white and still, and, stooping, Barnabas saw that he had struck much harder than he had meant, and that Barrymaine's mouth was cut and bleeding.
Now at this moment, even as he sank on his knees, Barnabas again heard a cry, but nearer now and with the rustle of flying draperies, and, glancing up, saw Cleone running towards them.
"Cleone!" he cried, and sprang to his feet.
"You—struck him!" she panted.
"I—yes, I—had to! But indeed he isn't much hurt—" But Cleone was down upon her knees, had lifted Barrymaine's head to her bosom and was wiping the blood from his pale face with her handkerchief.
"Cleone," said Barnabas, humbly, "I—indeed I—couldn't help it. Oh, Cleone—look up!" Yet, while he spoke, there came a rustling of leaves near by and glancing thither, he saw Mr. Chichester surveying them, smiling and debonair, and, striding forward, Barnabas confronted him with scowling brow and fierce, menacing eyes.
"Rogue!" said he, his lips curling, "Rascal!"
"Ah!" nodded Mr. Chichester gently, "you have a pistol there, I see!"
"Your despicable villainy is known!" said Barnabas. "Ha!—smile if you will, but while you knelt, pistol in hand, in the barn there, had you troubled to look in the loft above your head you might have murdered me, and none the wiser. As it is, I am alive, to strip you of your heritage, and you still owe me twenty thousand guineas. Pah! keep them to help you from the country, for I swear you shall be hounded from every club in London; men shall know you for what you are. Now go, before you tempt me to strangle you for a nauseous beast. Go, I say!"
Smiling still, but with a devil looking from his narrowed eyes, Mr. Chichester slowly viewed Barnabas from head to foot, and, turning, strolled away, swinging his tasselled walking cane as he went, with Barnabas close behind him, pistol in hand, even as they had once walked months before.
Now at this moment it was that Cleone, yet kneeling beside Barrymaine, chanced to espy a crumpled piece of paper that lay within a yard of her, and thus, half unwitingly, she reached out and took it up, glanced at it with vague eyes, then started, and knitting her black brows, read these words:
My Dear Barnabas,—The beast has discovered me. I thought I only scorned him, but now I know I fear him, too. So, in my dread, I turn to you. Yes, I will go now— anywhere you wish. Fear has made me humble, and I accept your offer. Oh, take me away—hide me, anywhere, so shall I always be
Your grateful,
Thus, in a while, when Barrymaine opened his eyes it was to see Cleone kneeling beside him with bent head, and with both hands clasped down upon her bosom, fierce hands that clenched a crumpled paper between them. At first he thought she was weeping, but, when she turned towards him, he saw that her eyes were tearless and very bright, and that on either cheek burned a vivid patch of color.
"Oh, Ronald!" she sighed, her lips quivering suddenly, "I—am glad you are better—but—oh, my dear, I wish I—were dead!"
"There, there, Clo!" he muttered, patting her stooping shoulder,"I f-frightened you, I suppose. But I'm all right now, dear. W-where'sChichester?"
"I—don't know, Ronald."
"But you, Cleone? You came here to m-meet this—this Beverley?"
"Yes, Ronald."
"D'you know w-what he is? D'you know he's a publican's son?—a vile, low fellow masquerading as a g-gentleman? Yes, he's a p-publican's son, I tell you!" he repeated, seeing how she shrank at this. "And you s-stoop to such as he—s-stoop to meet him in s-such a place as this! So I came to save you f-from yourself!"
"Did you, Ronald?"
"Yes—but oh, Cleone, you don't love the fellow, do you?"
"I think I—hate him, Ronald."
"Then you won't m-meet him again?"
"No, Ronald."
"And you'll try to be a little kinder—to C-Chichester?" Cleone shivered and rose to her feet.
"Come!" said she, her hands once more clasped upon her bosom, "it grows late, I must go."
"Yes. D-devilish depressing place this! G-give me your arm, Clo."But as they turned to go, the bushes parted, and Barnabas appeared.
"Cleone!" he exclaimed.
"I—I'm going home!" she said, not looking at him.
"Then I will come with you,—if I may?"
"I had rather go—alone—with my brother."
"So pray s-stand aside, sir!" said Barrymaine haughtily through his swollen lips, staggering a little despite Cleone's arm.
"Sir," said Barnabas pleadingly, "I struck you a while ago, but it was the only way to save you from—a greater evil, as you know—"
"He means I threatened to s-shoot him, Clo—so I did, but it was for your sake, to sh-shield you from—persecution as a brother should."
"Cleone," said Barnabas, ignoring Barrymaine altogether, "if there is any one in this world who should know me, and what manner of man I am, surely it is you—"
"Yes, she knows you—b-better than you think, she knows you for a publican's son, first of all—"
"May I come with you, Cleone?"
"No, sir, n-not while I'm here. Cleone, you go with him, or m-me, so—choose!"
"Oh, Ronald, take me home!" she breathed.
So Barrymaine drew her arm through his and, turning his back on Barnabas, led her away. But, when they had gone a little distance, he frowned suddenly and came striding after them.
"Cleone," said he, "why are you so strange to me,—what is it, —speak to me."
But Cleone was dumb, and walked on beside Ronald Barrymaine with head averted, and so with never a backward glance, was presently lost to sight among the leaves.
Long after they had gone, Barnabas stood there, his head bowed, while the shadows deepened about him, dark and darker. Then all at once he sighed again and, lifting his head, glanced about him; and because of the desolation of the place, he shivered; and because of the new, sharp pain that gripped him, he uttered a bitter curse, and so, becoming aware of the pistol he yet grasped, he flung it far from him and strode away through the deepening gloom.
On he went, heeding only the tumult of sorrow and anger that surged within him. And so, betimes, reached the "Oak and Ivy" inn, where, finding Peterby and the phaeton already gone, according to his instructions, he hired post-horses and galloped away for London.
Now, as he went, though the evening was fine, it seemed to him that high overhead was a shadow that followed and kept pace with him, growing dark and ever darker; and thus as he rode he kept his gaze upon this menacing shadow.
As for my lady, she, securely locked within the sanctuary of her chamber, took pen and paper and wrote these words:
"You have destroyed my faith, and with that all else. Farewell."
Which done, she stamped a small, yet vicious foot upon a certain crumpled letter, and thereafter, lying face down upon her bed, wept hot, slow, bitter tears, stifling her sobs with the tumbled glory of her hair, and in her heart was an agony greater than any she had ever known.
It will perhaps be expected that, owing to this unhappy state of affairs, Barnabas should have found sleep a stranger to his pillow; but, on the contrary, reaching London at daybreak, he went to bed, and there, wearied by his long ride, found a blessed oblivion from all his cares and sorrows. Nor did he wake till the day was far spent and evening at hand. But, with returning consciousness came Memory to harrow him afresh, came cold Pride and glowing Anger. And with these also was yet another emotion, and one that he had never known till now, whose name is Doubt; doubt of himself and of his future—that deadly foe to achievement and success—that ghoul-like incubus which, once it fastens on a man, seldom leaves him until courage, and hope, and confidence are dead, and nothing remains but a foreknowledge and expectation of failure.
With this grisly spectre at his elbow Barnabas rose and dressed, and went downstairs to make a pretence of breaking his fast.
"Sir," said Peterby, watching how he sat staring down moodily at the table, "sir, you eat nothing."
"No, John, I'm not hungry," he answered, pushing his plate aside. "By the way, did you find the cottage I mentioned in my note? Though, indeed, you've had very little time."
"Yes, sir, I found one just beyond Lewisham, small, though comfortable. Here is the key, sir."
"Thank you, John," said Barnabas, and thereafter sat staring gloomily at the key until Peterby spoke again:
"Sir, pray forgive me, but I fear you are in some trouble. Is it your misunderstanding with Viscount Devenham? I couldn't help but overhear, and—"
"Ah, yes—even the Viscount has quarrelled with me," sighed Barnabas, "next it will be the Marquis, I suppose, and after him—Gad, John Peterby—I shall have only you left!"
"Indeed, sir, you will always have me—always!"
"Yes, John, I think I shall."
"Sir, when you—gave a miserable wretch another chance to live and be a man, you were young and full of life."
"Yes, I was very, very young!" sighed Barnabas.
"But you were happy—your head was high and your eye bright with confident hope and purpose."
"Yes, I was very confident, John."
"And therefore—greatly successful, sir. Your desire was to cut a figure in the Fashionable World. Well, to-day you have your wish—to-day you are famous, and yet—"
"Well, John?"
"Sir, to-day I fear you are—not happy."
"No, I'm not happy," sighed Barnabas, "for oh! John Peterby, what shall it profit a man though he gain the whole world, and lose his soul!"
"Ah, sir—you mean—?"
"I mean—the Lady Cleone, John. Losing her, I lose all, and success is worse than failure."
"But, sir,—must you lose her?"
"I fear so. Who am I that she should stoop to me among so many? Who am I to expect so great happiness?"
"Sir," said Peterby, shaking his head, "I have never known you doubt yourself or fortune till now!"
"It never occurred to me, John."
"And because of this unshaken confidence in yourself you won the steeplechase, sir—unaided and alone you won for yourself a place in the most exclusive circles in the World of Fashion—without friends or influence you achieved the impossible, because you never doubted."
"Yes, I was very confident, John, but then, you see, I never thought anything impossible—till now."
"And therefore you succeeded, sir. But had you constantly doubted your powers and counted failure even as a possibility, you might still have dreamed of your success—but never achieved it."
"Why then," sighed Barnabas, rising, "it seems that Failure has marked me for her own at last, for never was man fuller of doubt than I."
Night was falling as, turning out of St. James's Square, Barnabas took his way along Charles Street and so, by way of the Strand, towards Blackfriars. He wore a long, befrogged surtout buttoned up to the chin, though the weather was warm, and his hat was drawn low over his brows; also in place of his tasselled walking-cane he carried a heavy stick.
For the first half mile or so he kept his eyes well about him, but, little by little, became plunged in frowning thought, and so walked on, lost in gloomy abstraction. Thus, as he crossed Blackfriars Bridge he was quite unaware of one who followed him step by step, though upon the other side of the way; a gliding, furtive figure, and one who also went with coat buttoned high and face hidden beneath shadowy hat-brim.
On strode Barnabas, all unconscious, with his mind ever busied with thoughts of Cleone and the sudden, unaccustomed doubt in himself and his future that had come upon him.
Presently he turned off to the right along a dirty street of squalid, tumble-down houses; a narrow, ill-lighted street which, though comparatively quiet by day, now hummed with a dense and seething life.
Yes, a dark street this, with here and there a flickering lamp, that served but to make the darkness visible, and here and there the lighted window of some gin-shop, or drinking-cellar, whence proceeded a mingled clamor of voices roaring the stave of some song, or raised in fierce disputation.
On he went, past shambling figures indistinct in the dusk; past figures that slunk furtively aside, or crouched to watch him from the gloom of some doorway; past ragged creatures that stared, haggard-eyed; past faces sad and faces evil that flitted by him in the dark, or turned to scowl over hunching shoulders. Therefore Barnabas gripped his stick the tighter as he strode along, suddenly conscious of the stir and unseen movement in the fetid air about him, of the murmur of voices, the desolate wailing of children, the noise of drunken altercation, and all the sordid sounds that were part and parcel of the place. Of all this Barnabas was heedful, but he was wholly unaware of the figure that dogged him from behind, following him step by step, patient and persistent. Thus, at last, Barnabas reached a certain narrow alley, beyond which was the River, dark, mysterious, and full of sighs and murmurs. And, being come to the door of Nick the Cobbler, he knocked upon it with his stick.
It was opened, almost immediately, by Clemency herself.
"I saw you coming," she said, giving him her hand, and so led him through the dark little shop, into the inner room.
"I came as soon as I could. Clemency."
"Yes, I knew you would come," she answered, with bowed head.
"I am here to take you away to a cottage I have found for you—a place in the country, where you will be safe until I can find and bring your father to you."
As he ended, she lifted her head and looked at him through gathering tears.
"How good—how kind of you!" she said, very softly, "and oh, I thank you, indeed I do—but—"
"But, Clemency?"
"I must stay—here."
"In this awful place! Why?"
Clemency flushed, and looking down at the table, began to pleat a fold in the cloth with nervous fingers.
"Poor little Nick hasn't been very well lately, and I—can't leave him alone—" she began.
"Then bring him with you."
"And," she continued slowly, "when I wrote you that letter I was—greatly afraid, but I'm—not afraid any longer. And oh, I couldn't leave London yet—I couldn't!"
Now while she spoke, Barnabas saw her clasp and wring her hands together, that eloquent gesture he remembered so well. Therefore he leaned across the table and touched those slender fingers very gently.
"Why not? Tell me your trouble, my sister."
Now Clemency bowed her dark head, and when she spoke her voice was low and troubled: "Because—he is ill—dangerously ill, Milo tells me, and I—I am nearer to him here in London. I can go, sometimes, and look at the house where he lies. So you see, I cannot leave him, yet."
"Then—you love him, Clemency?"
"Yes," she whispered, "yes, oh yes, always—always! That was why I ran away from him. Oh, I love him so much that I grew afraid of my love, and of myself, and of him. Because he is a great gentleman, and I am only—what I am."
"A very good and beautiful woman!" said Barnabas.
"Beauty!" she sighed, "oh, it is only for that he—wanted me, and dear heaven! I love him so much that—if he asked me—I fear—" and she hid her burning face in hands that trembled.
"Clemency!"
The word was hoarse and low, scarcely more than a whisper, but, even so, Clemency started and lifted her head to stare wide-eyed at the figure leaning in the doorway, with one hand outstretched to her appealingly; a tall figure, cloaked from head to foot, with hat drawn low over his brows, his right arm carried in a sling. And as she gazed, Clemency uttered a low, soft cry, and rose to her feet.
"My Lord!" she whispered, "oh, my Lord!"
"Dearest!"
The Viscount stepped into the room and, uncovering his head, sank upon his knees before her.
"Oh, Clemency," said he, "the door was open and I heard it all—every word. But, dearest, you need never fear me any more—never any more, because I love you. Clemency, and here, upon my knees, beg you to honor me by—marrying me, if you will stoop to such a pitiful thing as I am. Clemency dear, I have been ill, and it has taught me many things, and I know now that I—cannot live without you. So, Clemency, if you will take pity on me—oh! Clemency—!"
The Viscount stopped, still kneeling before her with bent head, nor did he look up or attempt to touch her as he waited her answer.
Then, slowly, she reached out and stroked that bowed and humble head, and, setting her hands upon his drooping shoulders, she sank to her knees before him, so that now he could look into the glowing beauty of her face and behold the deep, yearning tenderness of her eyes.
"Dear," said she very gently, "dear, if you—want me so much you have only to—take me!"
"For my Viscountess, Clemency!"
"For your—wife, dear!"
And now, beholding their great happiness, Barnabas stole from the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Then, being only human, he sighed deeply and pitied himself mightily by contrast.