It needed but a glance at the huddled figure in the comfortless little attic to assure Barnabas of the identity of Mr. Bimby's "poor young friend"; wherefore, setting down the candle on the broken table, he crossed the room and touched that desolate figure with a gentle hand.
Then Ronald Barrymaine looked up and, seeing Barnabas, struggled to his knees:
"Beverley!" he exclaimed, "oh, thank God! You'll save her from that d-devil—I tried to kill him, b-but he was too quick for me. But you—you'll save her!"
"What do you mean? Is it Cleone? What do you mean—speak!" saidBarnabas, beginning to tremble.
"Yes, yes!" muttered Barrymaine, passing a hand across his brow. "Listen then! Chichester knows—he knows, I tell you! He came to me, three days ago I think—while D-Dig was out, and he talked and talked, and questioned me and questioned me, and s-so I—I told him everything—everything! But I had to, Beverley, I had to—hemade me—yeshe, Jasper Gaunt. So I told C-Chichester everything and then—he laughed, and I t-tried to k-kill him, but he got away and left me alone with—him. He's always near me now—always c-close behind me where I can't quite s-see him, only sometimes I hear him ch-choke, oh, my God, Beverley!—like he did—that night! I r-ran away to escape him but—oh Beverley!—he's followed me, he was here a moment ago—I heard him, I t-tell you! Oh, Beverley, don't l-look as if you thought me m-mad, I'm not! I'm not! I know it's all an illusion, of c-course, but—"
"Yes," said Barnabas gently, "but what of Cleone?"
"Cleone? Oh, God help me, Beverley, she's going to g-give herself to that devil—to buy his silence!"
"What—what," stammered Barnabas. "What do you mean?"
"I got this to-day—read it and see!" said Barrymaine and drew from his bosom a crumpled letter. Then Barnabas took it, and smoothing it out, read these words:
Ronald dear, I'm sorry I didn't let you kiss me good-by. So sorry that I am going to do all that a woman can to save you. Mr. Chichester has learned your awful secret, and I am the price of his silence. So, because of my promise to our dying mother, and because life can hold nothing for me now, because life and death are alike to me now, I am going to marry him to-night, at his house at Headcorn. Good-by, Ronald dear, and that God may forgive and save you in this life and hereafter, is the undying prayer of
Your Sister,CLEONE.
Barnabas refolded the letter and, giving it back to Barrymaine, took out Natty Bell's great silver watch.
"It is a long way to Headcorn," said he, "I must start at once!"
"Ah! You'll g-go then, Beverley?"
"Go? Of course!"
"Then, oh Beverley, whatever happens—whether you're in time or no, you'll—k-kill him?"
"I think," said Barnabas, putting away his watch, "yes, I think I shall."
"The house is called Ashleydown," continued Barrymaine feverishly, "a b-big house about a m-mile this side the village."
"Ashleydown? I think I've heard mention of it before. But now, you must come with me, Smivvle is downstairs, you shall have my rooms to-night."
"Thanks, Beverley, but do you m-mind—giving me your arm? I get f-faint sometimes—my head, I think, the faintness came on me in the s-street to-night, and I f-fell, I think."
"Indeed, yes, sir," added Mr. Bimby with a little bow, "it was so I found you, sir."
"Ah, yes, you were kind to me, I remember—you have my g-gratitude, sir. Now, Beverley, give me your arm, I—I—oh, God help me!" Barrymaine reached out with clutching fingers, swayed, twisted sideways and would have fallen, had not Barnabas caught him.
"Poor boy!" cried Mr. Bimby, "a fit, I think—so very young, poor boy! You'll need help, sir. Oh, poor boy, poor boy!" So saying, the little gentleman hurried away and presently returned with John and Mr. Smivvle. Thus, between them, they bore Ronald Barrymaine downstairs and, having made him as comfortable as might be in the inner room, left him to the care of the faithful Mr. Smivvle.
Then Barnabas crossed to the narrow window and stood there a while, looking down at the dim figures of the Bow Street Runners who still lounged against the wall in the gathering dusk and talked together in gruff murmurs.
"John," said he at last, "I must trouble you to change coats with me." Peterby slipped off the garment in question, and aided Barnabas to put it on.
"Now, your fur cap, John."
"Sir," said Peterby all anxiety in a moment, "you are never thinking of going out, tonight—it would be madness!"
"Then mad am I. Your cap, John."
"But—if you are arrested—"
"He will be a strong man who stays me tonight, John. Give me your cap."
So Peterby brought the fur cap and, putting it on, Barnabas pulled it low down over his brows and turned to the door. But there Peterby stayed him.
"Sir," he pleaded, "let me go for you."
"No," said Barnabas, shaking his head.
"Then let me go with you,"
"Impossible, John."
"Why?"
"Because," answered Barnabas, grim-lipped, "tonight I go to ride another race, a very long, hard race, and oh, John Peterby—my faithful John, if you never prayed before—pray now, that I may win!"
"Sir," said Peterby, "I will!"
Then Barnabas caught his hand, wrung it, and striding from the room, hurried away down the dark and narrow stair.
The shadows were creeping down on Giles's Rents, hiding its grime, its misery and squalor, what time Barnabas stepped out into the court, and, turning his back upon the shadowy River, strode along, watchful-eyed, toward that dark corner where the Bow Street Runners still lounged, smoking their pipes and talking together in their rumbling tones. As he drew nearer he became aware that they had ceased their talk and guessed rather than saw that he was the object of their scrutiny; nor was he mistaken, for as he came abreast of where they stood, one of them lurched towards him.
"Why, hullo, Joe," exclaimed the man, in a tone of rough familiarity, "strike me blue if this ain't fort'nate! 'Ow goes it, Joe?"
"My name isn't Joe," said Barnabas, pausing, for the man had lurched in front of him, barring his way.
"Not Joe, eh?" growled the man, thrusting his head unpleasantly close to Barnabas to peer into his face, "not Joe, eh? Why then p'r'aps it might be—Barnabas, eh? P'r'aps it might be—Beverley, eh? Barnabas Beverley like-wise, eh? All right, Ben!" he called to his mate, "it's our man right enough!"
"What do you mean?" inquired Barnabas, casting a swift glance about him; and thus, he saw a moving shadow some distance down the court, a furtive shape that flitted towards them where the gathering shadows lay thickest. And at the sight, Barnabas clenched his fists and poised himself for swift action.
"What do you want?" he demanded, his gaze still wandering, his ears hearkening desperately for the sound of creeping footsteps behind, "what do you want with me?"
"W'y, we wants you, to be sure," answered Runner No. 1. "We wants you, Barnabas Beverley, Esk-vire, for the murder of Jasper Gaunt. And, wot's more—we've got ye! And, wot's more—you'd better come along nice and quiet in the name o' the—"
But in that moment, even as he reached out to seize the prisoner, Runner No. 1 felt himself caught in a powerful wrestling grip, his legs were swept from under him, and he thudded down upon the cobbles. Then, as Barnahas turned to meet the rush of Runner No. 2, behold a dark figure, that leapt from the dimness behind, and bore No. 2, cursing savagely, staggering back and back to the wall, and pinned him there, while, above the scuffling, the thud of blows and the trample of feet, rose a familiar voice:
"Run, sir—run!" cried John Peterby, "I've got this one—run!"
Incontinent, Barnabas turned, and taking to his heels, set off along the court, but with No. 1 (who had scrambled to his feet again) thundering after him in hot pursuit, roaring for help as he came.
"Stop, thief!" bellowed No. 1, pounding along behind.
"Stop, thief!" roared Barnabas, pounding along in front.
Round the corner into the street of tumble-down houses sped yellingBarnabas, scattering people right and left; round the corner cameNo. 1 Hard in his rear.
"Stop, thief!" bellowed No. 1, louder than ever.
"Stop, thief!" roared Barnabas, louder still, and running like the wind. Thus, No. 1 continued to bellow along behind, and Barnabas ran on roaring before, by dint of which he had very soon drawn about him divers other eager pursuers who, in their turn, taking up the cry, filled the air with a raving clamor that grew and ever grew. On sped Barnabas, still yelling "thieves," and with a yelling rabblement all about him, on he went by crooked ways, plunging down gloomy courts, doubling sudden corners, leading the pursuit ever deeper into the maze of dark alleys and crooked back streets, until, spying a place suitable to his purpose, he turned aside, and darting down a dark and narrow entry-way, he paused there in the kindly shelter to regain his breath, and heard the hue and cry go raving past until it had roared itself into the distance. Then, very cautiously and with no little difficulty, he retraced his steps, and coming at length to the River, crossed Blackfriars Bridge and hurried west-wards; nor did he stop or slacken his swift pace until he found himself in that quiet, back-street at the end of which his stables were situated. Being come there, he hammered upon the door which was presently opened by old Gabriel Martin himself.
"Martin, I'm in a hurry," said Barnabas, "have 'The Terror' saddled at once, and bring me a pair of spurred boots—quick!"
Without wasting time in needless words, the old groom set the stable-boys running to and fro, and himself brought Barnabas a pair of riding-boots, and aided him to put them on. Which done, Barnabas threw aside the fur cap, stripped off Peterby's rough coat, and looked about for other garments to take their place.
"If it be a coat as you're wanting, sir, there be one as you wore at the race," said Martin, "I keep it upstairs in my room. It be a bit tore, sir, but—"
"It will do," said Barnabas, nodding, "only—hurry, Martin!" By the time the old groom had returned with the scarlet hunting-frock and helped Barnabas into it, "The Terror" was led out from his box, and immediately began to snort and rear and beat a ringing tattoo with his great, round hoofs to a chorus of chirruping and whoa-ing from the stable-boys.
"A bit fresh-ish, p'r'aps, sir!" said Martin, viewing the magnificent animal with glistening eyes, "exercised reg'lar, too! But wot 'e wants is a good, stretching, cross-country gallop."
"Well, he's going to have it, Martin."
"Ah, sir," nodded the old groom, as Barnabas tested girth and stirrup-leathers, "you done mighty well when you bought 'im—theer ain't another 'oss 'is ekal in London—no, nor nowheers else as I knows on. 'E's won one race for you, and done it noble, and wot's more sir—"
"Tonight he must win me another!" said Barnabas, and swung himself into the saddle. "And this will be a much harder and crueller race than he ran before or will ever run again, Martin, I hope. Pray what, time is it?"
"Nigh on to 'alf-past eight, sir."
"So late!" said Barnabas, grim-lipped and frowning as he settled his feet in the stirrups. "Now—give him his head there—stay! Martin, have you a brace of pistols?"
"Pistols! Why yes, sir, but—"
"Lend them to me."
Forthwith the pistols were brought, somewhat clumsy weapons, but serviceable none the less.
"They're loaded, sir!" said Martin as he handed them up.
"Good!" nodded Barnabas, and slipping one into either pocket, gathered up his reins.
"You'll not be back tonight, sir?"
"Not tonight, Martin."
"Good night, sir."
"Good night, Martin."
"Are you ready, sir?"
"Quite ready, Martin."
"Then—stand away there!"
Obediently the stable-boys leapt aside, freeing "The Terror's" proud head, who snorted, reared, and plunged out through the open doorway, swung off sharp to his right and thundered away down the echoing street.
And thus "The Terror" set out on his second race, which was to be a very hard, cruel race, since it was to be run against no four-legged opponent, no thing of flesh and blood and nerves, but against the sure-moving, relentless fingers of Natty Bell's great, silver watch.
Over Westminster Bridge and down the Borough galloped Barnabas, on through the roaring din of traffic, past rumbling coach and creaking wain, heedless of the shouts of wagoners and teamsters and the indignant cries of startled pedestrians, yet watchful of eye and ready of hand, despite his seeming recklessness.
On sped the great, black horse, his pace increasing as the traffic lessened, on and on along the Old Kent Road, up the hill at New Cross and down again, and so through Lewisham to the open country beyond.
And now the way was comparatively clear save for the swift-moving lights of some chaise or the looming bulk of crawling market-wagons: therefore Barnabas, bethinking him always of the long miles before him, and of the remorseless, creeping fingers of Natty Bell's great watch, slacked his rein, whereat "The Terror," snorting for joy, tossed his mighty crest on high and, bounding forward, fell into his long, racing stride, spurning London further and further into the dimness behind.
Barnabas rode stooped low in the saddle, his watchful eyes scanning the road ahead, a glimmering track bordered by flying hedges, and trees that, looming ghost-like in the dusk, flitted past and, like ghosts, were gone again. Swift, swift sped the great, black horse, the glimmering road below, the luminous heaven above, a glorious canopy whence shone a myriad stars filling the still night with their soft, mysterious glow: a hot, midsummer night full of a great hush, a stillness wherein no wind stirred and upon whose deep silence distant sounds seemed magnified and rose, clear and plain, above the rhythmic drumming of "The Terror's" flying hoofs. Presently, out of the dimness ahead, lights twinkled, growing ever brighter and more numerous and Bromley was before him; came a long, paved street where people turned to stare, and point, and shout at him as he flashed by, and Bromley was behind him, and he was out upon the open road again where hedge, and barn, and tree seemed to leap at him from the dark only to vanish in the dimness behind.
On swept the great, black horse, past fragrant rick and misty pool, past running rills that gurgled in the shadows, by wayside inns whence came the sound of voices and laughter with snatches of song, all quickly lost again in the rolling thunder of those tireless galloping hoofs; past lonely cottages where dim lights burned, over hill, over dale, by rolling meadow and sloping down, past darkling woods whence breathed an air cool and damp and sweet, on up the long ascent of Poll Hill and down into the valley again. Thus, in a while, Barnabas saw more lights before him that, clustering together, seemed to hang suspended in mid-air, and, with his frowning gaze upon these clustering lights, he rode up that long, trying hill that leads into the ancient township of Sevenoaks.
At the further end of the town he turned aside and, riding into the yard of the Castle Inn, called for ale and, while he drank, stood by to watch the hissing ostlers as they rubbed down "The Terror" and gave him sparingly of water. So, into the saddle again and, bearing to the right, off and away for Tonbridge.
But now, remembering the hill country before him, he checked his pace, and thus, as he went, became once more aware of the profound stillness of the night about him, and of a gathering darkness. Therefore lifting his gaze to the heavens, he saw a great, black cloud that grew and spread from east to west, putting out the stars.
Now, with the gathering cloud, came sudden fear to clutch at his heart with icy fingers, a shivering dread lest, after all, he be too late; and, clenching sweating palms, Barnabas groaned, and in that moment "The Terror" leapt snorting beneath the rowelling spur.
Suddenly, as they topped River Hill, out of the murk ahead there met him a puff of wind, a hot wind that came and so was gone again, but far away beyond the distant horizon to his left, the sombre heaven was split and rent asunder by a jagged lightning flash whose quivering light, for one brief instant, showed him a glimpse of the wide valley below, of the winding road, of field and hedgerow and motionless tree and, beyond, the square tower of a church, very small with distance yet, above whose battlements a tiny weather-vane flashed and glittered vividly ere all things vanished, swallowed up in the pitchy dark.
And now came the wind again and in the wind was rain, a few great pattering drops, while the lightning flamed and quivered upon the horizon, and the thunder rolled ever louder and more near.
Came a sudden, blinding flame, that seemed to crackle in the air near by, a stunning thunder-clap shaking the very firmament, and thereafter an aching blackness, upon whose startled silence burst the rain—a sudden, hissing downpour.
Up—up reared "The Terror," whinnying with fear, then strove madly to turn and flee before the fury of wind, and flame, and lashing rain. Three times he swerved wildly, and three times he was checked, as with hand, and voice, and goading spur, Barnabas drove him on again—on down the steep descent, down, down into the yawning blackness of the valley below, on into the raging fury of the storm.
So, buffeted by wind, lashed by stinging rain, blinded by vivid lightning-flash, Barnabas rode on down the hill.
On and ever on, with teeth hard clenched, with eyes fierce and wide, heedless alike of wind and wet and flame, since he could think only of the man he rode to meet. And sometimes he uttered bitter curses, and sometimes he touched and fondled the weapons in his pocket, smiling evilly, for tonight, if he were not blasted by the lightning or crushed beneath his terrified horse, Barnabas meant this man should die.
And now upon the rushing wind were voices, demon voices that shrieked and howled at him, filling the whirling blackness with their vicious clamor.
"Kill him!" they shrieked. "Whether you are in time or no, kill him! kill him!"
And Barnabas, heedless of the death that hissed and crackled in the air about him, fronting each lightning-flash with cruel-smiling mouth, nodded his head to the howling demons and answered:
"Yes, yes, whether in time or no, tonight he dies!"
And now, uplifted with a wild exhilaration, he laughed aloud, exulting in the storm; and now, crushed by fear and dread, and black despair, he raved out bitter curses and spurred on into the storm. Little by little the thought of this man he meant to slay possessed him utterly; it seemed to Barnabas that he could actually hear his soft, mocking laughter; it filled the night, rising high above the hiss of rain and rush of wind—the laugh of a satyr who waits, confident, assured, with arms out-stretched to clasp a shuddering goddess.
On beneath trees, dim-seen, that rocked and swayed bending to the storm, splashing through puddles, floundering through mire, slack of rein and ready of spur, Barnabas galloped hard. And ever the mocking laughter rang in his ears, and ever the demons shrieked to him on the howling wind:
"Kill him! kill him!"
So, at last, amidst rain, and wind, and mud, Barnabas rode into Tonbridge Town, and staying at the nearest inn, dismounted stiffly in the yard and shouted hoarsely for ostlers to bring him to the stables. Being come there, it is Barnabas himself who holds the bucket while the foam-flecked "Terror" drinks, a modicum of water with a dash of brandy. Thereafter Barnabas stands by anxious-eyed what time two ostlers rub down the great, black horse; or, striding swiftly to and fro, the silver watch clutched in impatient hand, he questions the men in rapid tones, as:
"Which is the nearest way to Headcorn?"
"'Eadcorn, sir? Why surely you don't be thinking—"
"Which is the nearest way to Headcorn?" repeats Barnabas, scowling blackly; whereat the fellow answers to the point and Barnabas falls to his feverish striding to and fro until, glancing from the watch in his hand to "The Terror's" lofty crest, observing that his heaving flanks labor no more and that he paws an impatient hoof, Barnabas thrusts watch in fob, tightens girth and surcingle and, having paid his score, swings himself stiffly into the saddle and is off and away, while the gaping ostlers stare after him through the falling rain till he has galloped out of sight.
Away, away, down empty street, over rumbling bridge and so, bearing to the left, on and up the long hill of Pembury.
Gradually the rain ceased, the wind died utterly away, the stars peeped out again. And now, upon the quiet, came the small, soft sound of trickling water, while the air was fragrant with a thousand sweet scents and warm, moist, earthy smells.
But on galloped the great, black horse, by pointed oast-house, by gloomy church, on and ever on, his nostrils flaring, his eye wild, his laboring sides splashed with mire and streaked with foam and blood; on he galloped, faltering a little, stumbling a little, his breath coming in sobbing gasps, but maintaining still his long, racing stride; thundering through sleeping hamlets and waking echoes far and near, failing of strength, scant of breath, but indomitable still.
Oh, mighty "Four-legs"! Oh, "Terror"! whose proud heart scorns defeat! to-night thou dost race as ne'er thou didst before, pitting thy strength and high courage against old Time himself! Therefore on, on, brave horse, enduring thy anguish as best thou may, nor look for mercy from the pitiless human who bestrides thee, who rides grim-lipped, to give death and, if need be, to taste of its bitterness himself, and who, unsparing of himself, shall neither spare thee.
On, on, brave horse, endure as best thou may, since Death rides thee to-night.
Now, in a while, Barnabas saw before him a wide street flanked on either hand by cottages, and with an ancient church beyond. And, as he looked at this church with its great, square tower outlined against the starry heaven, there came, borne to his ears, the fretful wailing of a sleepless child; therefore he checked his going and, glancing about, espied a solitary lighted window. Riding thither, he raised himself in his stirrups and, reaching up, tapped upon the panes; and, in a while, the casement was opened and a man peered forth, a drowsy being, touzled of head and round of eye.
"Pray," said Barnabas, "what village is this?"
"Why, sir," answered the man, "five an' forty year I've lived here, and always heard as it was called Headcorn."
"Headcorn," said Barnabas, nodding, "then Ashleydown should be near here?"
"Why, sir," said the man, nodding in turn, "I do believe you—leastways it were here about yesterday."
"And where is it?"
"Half a mile back down the road, you must ha' passed it, sir. A great house it be though inclined to ruination. And it lays back from the road wi' a pair o' gates—iron gates as is also ruinated, atween two stone pillars wi' a lion a-top of each, leastways if it ain't a lion it's a griffin, which is a fab'lous beast. And talking of beasts, sir, I do believe as that theer dratted child don't never mean to sleep no more. Good night to ye, sir—and may you sleep better a-nights than a married man wi' seven on 'em." Saying which, he nodded, sighed, and vanished.
So back rode Barnabas the way he had come, and presently, sure enough, espied the dim outlines of the two stone columns each with "a lion a-top," and between these columns swung a pair of rusted iron gates; and the gates were open, seeing which Barnabas frowned and set his teeth, and so turned to ride between the gates, but, even as he did so, he caught the sound of wheels far down the road. Glancing thither he made out the twinkling lights of an approaching chaise, and sat awhile to watch its slow progress, then, acting upon sudden impulse, he spurred to meet it. Being come within hail he reined in across the road, and drawing a pistol levelled it at the startled post-boy.
"Stop!" cried Barnabas.
Uttering a frightened oath, the postilion pulled up with a jerk, but as the chaise came to a standstill a window rattled down. Then Barnabas lowered the pistol, and coming up beside the chaise looked down into the troubled face of my Lady Cleone. And her checks were very pale in the light of the lanterns, and upon her dark lashes was the glitter of tears.
"You! Is it you—Barnabas?" she whispered and thereafter sighed, a long, quivering sigh. "I—I've been hoping you would come!"
And now, as he looked at her, he saw that her cheeks were suffused, all at once, with a warm and vivid color. "Hoped?" said Barnabas, wondering.
"And—prayed!" she whispered.
"Then, you expected me? You knew I should come?"
"Yes, Barnabas. I—I hoped you would see my—letter to Ronald—that was why I wrote it! And I prayed that you might come—"
"Why?"
"Because I—oh, Barnabas, I'm afraid!"
"You were going to—Chichester?"
"Yes, Barnabas."
"You don't—love him, do you?"
"Love him!" she repeated, "Oh, God!"
And Barnabas saw her shudder violently.
"Yet you were going to him."
"To save my brother. But now—God help me, I can't do it! Oh, it's too hateful and—and I am afraid, Barnabas. I ought to have been at Ashleydown an hour ago, but oh, I—I couldn't, it was too horrible—I couldn't! So I came the longest way; I made the post-boy drive very slowly, I—I was waiting—for you, Barnabas, praying God that you would come to me—"
"Because you—were afraid, my lady."
"Yes, Barnabas."
"And behold, I am here!" said Barnabas. But now, seeing the quiver of her white hands, and the light in her eyes—a sudden glow that was not of the lanterns, he turned his head and looked resolutely away.
"I am here, my lady, to take you back home again," said he.
"Home?" she repeated. "Ah, no, no—I have no home, now! Oh, Barnabas," she whispered, "take me, take me away—to my brother. Let us go away from England to-night—anywhere, take me with you, Barnabas."
Now, as she spoke, her hands came out to him with a swift gesture, full of passionate entreaty. And the lanterns made a shining glory of her hair, and showed him the deep wonder of her eyes, the quick surge of her round, young bosom, the tender quiver of the parted lips as she waited his answer; thus our Barnabas beholding the witchery of her shy-drooping lashes, the scarlet lure of her mouth, the yielding warmth and all the ripe beauty of her, fell suddenly a-trembling and sighed; then, checking the sigh, looked away again across the dim desolation of the country-side, and clenched his hands.
"My lady," said he, his voice hoarse and uncertain, "why do you—tempt me? I am only—an amateur gentleman—why do you tempt me so?" As he spoke he wheeled his horse and motioned to the flinching postboy. "Turn!" he commanded.
"No!" cried Cleone.
"Turn!" said Barnabas, and, as the post-boy hesitated, levelled his pistol.
But now, even as the postilion chirruped to his horses, the chaise door was flung open and Cleone sprang down into the road; but even so, Barnabas barred her way.
"Let me pass!" she cried.
"To Chichester?"
"Yes—God help me. Since you force me to it! Let me go!"
"Get back into the chaise, my lady."
"No, no! Let me pass, I go to save my brother—"
"Not this way!"
"Oh!" she cried passionately, "you force it upon me, yes—you! you! If you won't help me, I must go to him! Dear heaven! there is no other way, let me go—you must—you shall!"
"Go back into the chaise, my lady."
Barnabas spoke very gently but, as she stared up at him, a movement of his horse brought him into the light of the lanterns and, in that moment, her breath caught, for now she beheld him as she had seen him once before, a wild, desperate figure, bare-headed, torn, and splashed with mud; grim of mouth, and in his eyes a look she had once dreamed of and never since forgotten. And, as she gazed, Barnabas spoke again and motioned with his pistol hand.
"Get back into the chaise, my lady."
"No!" she answered, and, though her face was hidden now, he knew that she was weeping. "I'm going on, now—to Ashleydown, to save Ronald, to redeem the promise I gave our mother; I must, I must, and oh—nothing matters to me—any more, so let me go!"
"My lady," said Barnabas, in the same weary tone, "you must get back into the chaise."
"And let Ronald die—and such a death! Never! oh never!"
Barnabas sighed, slipped the pistol into his pocket and dismounted, but, being upon his feet, staggered; then, or ever she knew, he had caught her in his arms, being minded to bear her to the chaise. But in that moment, he looked down and so stood there, bound by the spell of her beauty, forgetful of all else in the world, for the light of the lanterns was all about them, and Cleone's eyes were looking up into his.
"Barnabas," she whispered, "Barnabas, don't let me go!—save me from—that!"
"Ah, Cleone," he murmured, "oh, my lady, do you doubt me still? Can you think that I should fail you?
"Oh, my dear, my dear—I've found a way, and mine is a better way than yours. Be comforted then and trust me, Cleone."
Then, she stirred in his embrace, and, sighing, hid her face close against him and, with her face thus hidden, spoke:
"Yes, yes—I do trust you, Barnabas, utterly, utterly! Take me away with you—tonight, take me to Ronald and let us go away together, no matter where so long as—we go—together, Barnabas." Now when she said this, she could feel how his arms tightened about her, could hear how his breath caught sudden and sharp, and, though she kept her face hid from him, well she knew what look was in his eyes; therefore she lay trembling a little, sighing a little, and with fast-beating heart. And, in a while, Barnabas spoke:
"My lady," said he heavily, "would you trust yourself to—a publican's son?"
"If he would not be—too proud to—take me, Barnabas."
"Oh, my lady—can't you see that if I—if I take you with me tonight, you must be with me—always?"
Cleone sighed.
"And I am a discredited impostor, the—the jest of every club inLondon!"
Cleone's hand stole up, and she touched his grimly-set chin very gently with one white finger.
"I am become a thing for the Fashionable World to sharpen its wits upon," he continued, keeping his stern gaze perseveringly averted. "And so, my lady—because I cannot any longer cheat folks into accepting me as a—gentleman, I shall in all probability become a farmer, some day."
Cleone sighed.
"But you," Barnabas continued, a little harshly, "you were born for higher and greater fortune than to become the wife of a humble farming fellow, and consequently—"
"But I can make excellent butter, Barnabas," she sighed, stealing a glance up to him, "and I can cook—a little."
Now when she said this, he must needs look down at her again and lo! there, at the corner of her mouth was the ghost of the dimple! And, beholding this, seeing the sudden witchery of her swift-drooping lashes, Barnabas forgot his stern resolutions and stooped his head, that he might kiss the glory of her hair. But, in that moment, she turned, swift and sudden, and yielded him her lips, soft, and warm, and passionate with youth and all the joy of life. And borne away upon that kiss, it seemed to Barnabas, for one brief, mad-sweet instant that all things might be possible; if they started now they might reach London in the dawn and, staying only for Barrymaine, be aboard ship by evening! And it was a wide world, a very fair world, and with this woman beside him—
"It would be so—so very easy!" said he, slowly.
"Yes, it will be very easy!" she whispered.
"Too easy!" said he, beginning to frown, "you are so helpless and lonely, and I want you so bitterly, Cleone! Yes, it would be very easy. But you taught me once, that a man must ever choose the harder way, and this is the harder way, to love you, to long for you, and to bid you—good-by!"
"Oh! Barnabas?"
"Ah, Cleone, you could make the wretchedest hut a paradise for me, but for you, ah, for you it might some day become only a hut, and I, only a discredited Amateur Gentleman, after all."
Then Barnabas sighed and thereafter frowned, and so bore her to the chaise and setting her within, closed the door.
"Turn!" he cried to the postilion.
"Barnabas!"
But the word was lost in the creak of wheels and stamping of hoofs as the chaise swung round; then Barnabas remounted and, frowning still, trotted along beside it. Now in a while, lifting his sombre gaze towards a certain place beside the way, he beheld the dim outline of a finger-post, a very ancient finger-post which (though it was too dark to read its inscription) stood, he knew, with wide-stretched arms pointing the traveller:
And being come opposite the finger-post, he ordered the post-boy to stop, for, small with distance, he caught the twinkling lights of lanterns that swung to and fro, and, a moment later, heard a hail, faint and far, yet a stentorian bellow there was no mistaking. Therefore coming close beside the chaise, he stooped down and looked within, and thus saw that Cleone leaned in the further corner with her face hidden in her hands.
"You are safe, now, my lady," said he, "the Bo'sun is coming, theCaptain will be here very soon."
But my lady never stirred.
"You are safe now," he repeated, "as for Ronald, if Chichester's silence can save him, you need grieve no more, and—"
"Ah!" she cried, glancing up suddenly, "what do you mean?"
"That I must go, my lady, and—and—oh, my dear love, this harder way—is very hard to tread. If—we should meet no more after tonight, remember that I loved you—as I always have done and always must, humble fellow though I am. Yes, I think I love you as well as any fine gentleman of them all, and—Cleone—Good-by!"
"Barnabas," she cried, "tell me what you mean to do—oh, Barnabas, where are you going?" And now she reached out her hands as though to stay him. But, even so, he drew away, and, wheeling his horse, pointed towards the twinkling lights.
"Drive on!" he cried to the post-boy.
"Barnabas, wait!"
"Drive on!" he cried, "whip—spur!"
"Barnabas, stay! Oh, Barnabas, listen—"
But as Cleone strove desperately to open the door, the chaise lurched forward, the horses broke into a gallop, and Barnabas, sitting there beneath the ancient finger-post, saw imploring hands stretched out towards him, heard a desolate cry, and—he was alone. So Barnabas sat there amid the gloom, and watched Happiness go from him. Very still he sat until the grind of wheels had died away in the distance; then he sighed, and spurring his jaded horse, rode back towards Headcorn.
And thus did Barnabas, in his folly, forego great joy, and set aside the desire of his heart that he might tread that Harder Way, which yet can be trod only by the foot of—A Man.
A distant clock was striking the hour as Barnabas rode in at the rusted gates of Ashleydown and up beneath an avenue of sombre trees beyond which rose the chimneys of a spacious house, clear and plain against the palpitating splendor of the stars. But the house, like its surroundings, wore a desolate, neglected look, moreover it was dark, not a light was to be seen anywhere from attic to cellar. Yet, as Barnabas followed the sweep of the avenue, he suddenly espied a soft glow that streamed from an uncurtained window giving upon the terrace; therefore he drew rein, and dismounting, led his horse in among the trees and, having tethered him there, advanced towards the gloomy house, his gaze upon the lighted window, and treading with an ever growing caution.
Now, as he went, he took out one of the pistols, cocked it, and with it ready in his hand, came to the window and peered into the room.
It was a long, low chamber with a fireplace at one end, and here, his frowning gaze bent upon the blazing logs, sat Mr. Chichester. Upon the small table at his elbow were decanter and glasses, with a hat and gloves and a long travelling cloak. As Barnabas stood there Mr. Chichester stirred impatiently, cast a frowning glance at the clock in the corner and reaching out to the bell-rope that hung beside the mantel, jerked it viciously, and so fell to scowling at the fire again until the door opened and a bullet-headed, square-shouldered fellow entered, a formidable ruffian with pugilist written in his every feature; to whom Mr. Chichester appeared to give certain commands; and so dismissed him with an impatient gesture of his slim, white hands. As the door closed, Mr. Chichester started up and fell to pacing the floor only to return, and, flinging himself back in his chair, sat scowling at the fire again.
Then Barnabas raised the pistol-butt and, beating in the window, loosed the catch, and, as Mr. Chichester sprang to his feet, opened the casement and stepped into the room.
For a long moment neither spoke, while eyes met and questioned eyes, those of Barnabas wide and bright, Mr. Chichester's narrowed to shining slits. And indeed, as they fronted each other thus, each was the opposite of the other, Barnabas leaning in the window, his pistol hand hidden behind him, a weary, bedraggled figure mired from heel to head; Mr. Chichester standing rigidly erect, immaculate of dress from polished boot to snowy cravat.
"So," said he at last, breaking the ominous silence, "so it's—yes, it is Mr.—Barty, I think, unpleasantly damp and devilish muddy, and, consequently, rather more objectionable than usual."
"I have ridden far, and the roads were bad," said Barnabas.
"Ah! and pray why inflict yourself upon me?"
"For a very good and sufficient reason, sir."
"Ha, a reason?" said Mr. Chichester, lounging against the mantel. "Can it be you have discerned at last that the highly dramatic meeting between father and son at a certain banquet, not so long ago, was entirely contrived by myself—that it was my hand drove you from society and made you the derision of London, Mr. Barty?"
"Why, yes," sighed Barnabas; "I guessed that much, sir."
"Indeed, I admire your perspicacity, Mr. Barty. And now, I presume you have broken into my house with some brutal idea of pummelling me with your fists? But, sir, I am no prizefighter, like you and your estimable father, and I warn you that—"
"Sir," said Barnabas softly, "do not trouble to ring the bell, my mission here is—not to thrash you."
"No? Gad, sir, but you're very forbearing, on my soul you are!" and Mr. Chichester smiled; but his nostrils were twitching as his fingers closed upon the bell-rope. "Now understand me—having shown up your imposture, having driven you from London, I do not propose to trouble myself further with you. True, you have broken into my house, and should very properly be shot like any other rascally thief. I have weapons close by, and servants within call, but you have ceased to interest me—I have other and weightier affairs on hand, so you may go, sir. I give you one minute to take yourself back to your native mud." As he ended, Mr. Chichester motioned airily towards the open window. But Barnabas only sighed again and shook his head.
"Sir," said he, more softly than before, "give me leave to tell you that the Lady Cleone will not keep her appointment here, to-night."
"Ah-h!" said Mr. Chichester slowly, and staring at Barnabas under his drawn brows, "you—mean—?"
"That she was safe home three-quarters of an hour ago."
Mr. Chichester's long, white fingers writhed suddenly upon the bell-rope, released it, and, lifting his hand swiftly, he loosened his high cravat, and so stood, breathing heavily, his eyes once more narrowed to shining slits, and with the scar burning redly upon his cheek.
"So you have dared," he began thickly, "you have dared to interfere again? You have dared to come here, to tell me so?"
"No, sir," answered Barnabas, shaking his head, "I have come here to kill you!"
Barnabas spoke very gently, but as Mr. Chichester beheld his calm eye, the prominence of his chin, and his grimly-smiling mouth, his eyes widened suddenly, his clenched fingers opened, and he reached out again towards the bell-rope. "Stop!" said Barnabas, and speaking, levelled his pistol.
"Ah!" sighed Mr. Chichester, falling back a step, "you mean to murder me, do you?"
"I said 'kill'—though yours is the better word, perhaps. Here are two pistols, you will observe; one is for you and one for me. And we are about to sit down—here, at the table, and do our very utmost to murder each other. But first, I must trouble you to lock the door yonder and bring me the key. Lock it, I say!"
Very slowly, and with his eyes fixed in a wide stare upon the threatening muzzle of the weapon Barnabas held, Mr. Chichester, crossed to the door, hesitated, turned the key, and drawing it from the lock, stood with it balanced in his hand a moment, and then tossed it towards Barnabas.
Now the key lay within a yard of Barnabas who, stepping forward, made as though to reach down for it; but in that instant he glanced up at Mr. Chichester under his brows, and in that instant also, Mr. Chichester took a swift, backward step towards the hearth; wherefore, because of this, and because of the look in Mr. Chichester's eyes, Barnabas smiled, and, so smiling, kicked the key into a far corner.
"Come, sir," said he, drawing another chair up to the table, "be seated!" saying which, Barnabas sat down, and, keeping one pistol levelled, laid the other within Mr. Chichester's reach. "They are both loaded, sir," he continued; "but pray assure yourself."
But Mr. Chichester stood where he was, his eyes roving swiftly from Barnabas to the unlatched window, from that to the door, and so back again to where Barnabas sat, pale, smiling, and with the heavy weapon levelled across the narrow table; and as he stood thus, Mr. Chichester lifted one white hand to his mouth and began to pull at his lips with twitching fingers.
"Come," repeated Barnabas, "be seated, sir."
But Mr. Chichester yet stood utterly still save for the petulant action of those nervous, twitching fingers.
"Sir," Barnabas persisted, "sit down, I beg!"
"I'll fight you—here—and now," said Mr. Chichester, speaking in a strange, muffled tone, "yes—I'll fight you wherever or whenever you wish, but not—not across a table!"
"I think you will," nodded Barnabas grimly. "Pray sit down."
"No!"
"Why, then, we'll stand up for it," sighed Barnabas rising."Now, sir, take up your pistol."
"No!"
"Then," said Barnabas, his teeth agleam, "as God's above, I'll shoot you where you stand—but first I'll count three!" And once more he levelled the pistol he held.
Mr. Chichester sighed a fluttered sigh, the twitching fingers fell from his mouth and with his burning gaze upon Barnabas, he stepped forward and laid his hand upon the chair-back, but, in the act of sitting down, paused.
"The candles—a little more light—the candles," he muttered, and turning, crossed to the hearth and raised his hand to a branched silver candlestick that stood upon the mantel. But in the moment that his left hand closed upon this, his right had darted upon another object that lay there, and, quick as a flash, he had spun round and fired point-blank.
While the report yet rang on the air, Barnabas staggered, swayed, and, uttering a gasp, sank down weakly into his chair. But, as Mr. Chichester watched him, his eyes wide, his lips parted, and the pistol yet smoking in his hand, Barnabas leaned forward, and steadying his elbow on the table, slowly, very slowly raised and levelled his weapon.
And now, as he fronted that deadly barrel, Mr. Chichester's face grew suddenly livid, and haggard, and old-looking, while upon his brow the sweat had started and rolled down, glistening upon his cheeks.
The fire crackled upon the hearth, the clock ticked softly in the corner, the table creaked as Barnabas leaned his weight across it, nearer and nearer, but, save for this, the place was very quiet. Then, all at once, upon this silence broke another sound, a distant sound this, but one that grew ever nearer and louder—the grind of wheels and the hoof-strokes of madly galloping horses. Mr. Chichester uttered a gasping cry and pointed towards the window—
"Cleone!" he whispered. "It's Cleone! She's coming, in God's name—wait!"
The galloping hoofs drew rapidly nearer, stopped suddenly, and as Barnabas, hesitating, glanced towards the window, it was flung wide and somebody came leaping through—a wild, terrible figure; and as he turned in the light of the candles, Barnabas looked into the distorted face of Ronald Barrymaine.
For a moment he stood, his arms dangling, his head bent, his glowing eyes staring at Mr. Chichester, and as he stood thus fixing Mr. Chichester with that awful, unwavering stare, a smile twisted his pallid lips, and he spoke very softly:
"It's all r-right, Dig," said he, "the luck's with me at l-last— we're in time—I've g-got him! Come in, D-Dig, and bring the tools—I—I've g-got him!"
Hereupon Mr. Smivvle stepped into the room; haggard of eye he looked, and with cheeks that showed deadly pale by contrast with the blackness of his glossy whiskers, and beneath his arm he carried a familiar oblong box; at sight of Barnabas he started, sighed, and crossing hastily, set the box upon the table and caught him by the arm:
"Stop him, Beverley—stop him!" he whispered hurriedly. "Barry's gone mad, I think, insisted on coming here. Devil of a time getting away, Bow Street Runners—hard behind us now. Means to fight! Stop him, Beverley, for the love of—Ah! by God, what's this? Barry, look—look here!" And he started back from Barnabas, staring at him with horrified eyes. "Barry, Barry—look here!"
But Ronald Barrymaine never so much as turned his head; motionless he stood, his lips still contorted with their drawn smile, his burning gaze still fixed on Mr. Chichester—indeed he seemed oblivious to all else under heaven.
"Come, Dig," said he in the same soft voice, "get out the barkers, and quick about it, d' you hear?"
"But, Barry—oh, my dear fellow, here's poor Beverley, look—look at him!"
"G-give us the barkers, will you—quick! Oh, damnation. Dig, y-you know G-Gaunt and his hangman are hard on my heels! Quick, then, and g-get it over and done with—d'you hear, D-Dig?" So saying, Barrymaine crossed to the hearth and stood there, warming his hands at the blaze, but, even so, he must needs turn his head so that he could keep his gloating eyes always directed to Chichester's pale face.
"I'm w-warming my pistol-hand, Dig," he continued, "mustn't be cold or s-stiff tonight, you see. Oh, I tell you the luck's with me at last! He's b-been so vastly clever, Dig! He's dragged me down to hell, but—tonight I'm g-going to-take him with me."
And ever as he spoke, warming himself at the fire, Ronald Barrymaine kept his burning gaze upon Mr. Chichester's pale face, while Barnabas leaned, twisted in his chair, and Mr. Smivvle busied himself with the oblong box. With shaking hands he took out the duelling-pistols, one by one, and laid them on the table.
"We'll g-give him first choice, eh, Dig?" said Barrymaine. "Ah—he's chosen, I s-see. Now we'll t-take opposite corners of the room and f-fire when you give the word, eh, Dig?"
As he spoke, Barrymaine advanced to the table, his gaze always upon Mr. Chichester, nor did he look away even for an instant, thus, his hand wandered, for a moment, along the table, ere he found and took up the remaining pistol. Then, with it cocked in his hand, he backed away to the corner beside the hearth, and being come there, nodded.
"A good, comfortable distance, D-Dig," said he, "now tell him to take his g-ground."
But even as he spoke, Mr. Chichester strode to the opposite corner of the long room, and turning, stood there with folded arms. Up till now, he had uttered no word, but as Mr. Smivvle leaned back against the wall, midway between them, and glanced from one to the other, Mr. Chichester spoke.
"Sirs," said he, "I shall most certainly kill him, and I call upon you to witness that it was forced upon me."
Now as his voice died away, through the open window came a faint sound that might have been wind in the trees, or the drumming of horse-hoofs, soft and faint with distance.
"Oh, g-give us the word, D-Dig!" said Barrymaine.
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Smivvle, steadying himself against the panelling with shaking hands, "the word will be—Ready? One! Two! Three—Fire! Do you understand?"
An eager "Yes" from Barrymaine, a slight nod from Chichester, yet Mr. Smivvle still leaned there mutely against the wall, as though his tongue failed him, or as if hearkening to that small, soft sound, that might have been wind in the trees.
"The word, Dig—will you give us the word?"
"Yes, yes, Barry, yes, my dear boy—certainly!" But still Mr. Smivvle hesitated, and ever the small sound grew bigger and louder.
"S-speak! Will you s-speak, Dig?"
"Oh, Barry—my dear boy, yes! Ready?"
At the word the two pistols were raised and levelled, almost on the instant, and with his haggard eyes turned towards Barrymaine's corner, Mr. Smivvle spoke again:
"One!—Two!—Three—"
A flash, a single deafening report, and Ronald Barrymaine lurched sideways, caught at the wall, swayed backwards into the corner and leaned there.
"Coward,—you fired too soon!" cried Smivvle, turning upon Mr. Chichester in sudden frenzy, "Villain! Rouge! you fired too soon—!"
"S-stand away, Dig!" said Barrymaine faintly.
"Oh, Barry—you're bleeding! By God, he's hit you!"
"Of c-course, Dig—he never m-misses—neither do I—w-watch now, ah! hold me up, Dig—so! Now, stand away!" But even as Barrymaine, livid of brow and with teeth hard clenched, steadied himself for the shot, loud and clear upon the night came the thudding of swift-galloping horse-hoofs.
And now, for the first time, Barrymaine's gaze left Chichester's face, and fixed itself upon the open casement instead.
"Ha!" he cried, "here comes G-Gaunt at last, D-Dig, and with his hangman at his elbow! But he's t-too late, Dig, he's too l-late—I'm going, but I mean to take our friend—our d-dear friend Chichester w-with me—look now!"
As he spoke he raised his arm, there came the stunning report of the pistol, and a puff of blinding smoke; but when it cleared, Mr. Chichester still stood up rigid in his corner, only, as he stood he lifted his hand suddenly to his mouth, glanced at his fingers, stared at them with wide, horrified eyes. Then his pistol clattered to the floor and he coughed—a hideous, strangling sound, thin and high-pitched. Coughing still, he took a swift pace forward, striving to speak, but choked instead, and so choking, sank to his knees. Even then he strove desperately to utter something, but with it still unspoken, sank down upon his hands, and thence slowly upon his face and lay there very still and quiet.
Then Barrymaine laughed, an awful, gasping laugh, and began to edge himself along the wall and, as he went, he left hideous smears and blotches upon the panelling behind him. Being come to that inanimate figure he stood awhile watching it with gloating eyes. Presently he spoke in a harsh whisper:
"He's dead, D-Dig—quite dead, you see! And he was my f-friend, which was bad! And I trusted him—which was w-worse. A rogue always, Dig, and a l-liar!"
Then Barrymaine groaned, and groaning, spurned that quiet form weakly with his foot and so, pitched down headlong across it.
Now as they lay thus, they together made a great cross upon the floor.
But presently shadows moved beyond the open window, a broad-brimmed, high-crowned hat projected itself into the candle light, and a voice spoke:
"In the King's name! I arrest Ronald Barrymaine for the murder ofJasper Gaunt—in the King's name, genelmen!"
But now, very slowly and painfully, Ronald Barrymaine raised himself upon his hands, lifted his heavy head and spoke in a feeble voice.
"Oh, m-master Hangman," he whispered, "y-you're too l-late—j-just too late!" And so, like a weary child settling itself to rest, he pillowed his head upon his arm, and sighing—fell asleep.
Then Mr. Shrig stepped forward very softly, and beholding that placid young face with its tender, smiling lips, and the lashes that drooped so dark against the dead pallor of the cheek, he took off his broad-brimmed hat and stood there with bent head.
But another figure had followed him, and now sprang toward Barnabas with supporting arms outstretched, and in that moment Barnabas sighed, and falling forward, lay there sprawled across the table.
The sunlight was flooding in at the open lattice and, as if borne upon this shaft of glory, came the mingled fragrance of herb and flower and ripening fruit with the blithe carolling of birds, a very paean of thanksgiving; the chirp of sparrows, the soft, rich notes of blackbirds, the warbling trill of thrushes, the far, faint song of larks high in the blue—it was all there, blent into one harmonious chorus of joy, a song that spoke of hope and a fair future to such as were blessed with ears to hear. And by this, our Barnabas, opening drowsy eyes and hearkening with drowsy ears, judged it was yet early morning.
He lay very still and full of a great content because of the glory of the sun and the merry piping of the birds.
But, little by little, as he hearkened, he became conscious of another sound, a very gentle sound, yet insistent because of its regularity, a soft click! click! click! that he could in no wise account for. Therefore he would have turned his head, and straightway wondered to find this so difficult to accomplish; moreover he became aware that he lay in a bed, undressed, and that his arm and shoulder were bandaged. And now, all at once he forgot the bird-song and the sunshine, his brow grew harassed and troubled, and with great caution he lifted his free hand to his neck and began to feel for a certain ribbon that should be there. And presently, having found the ribbon, his questing fingers followed it down into his bosom until they touched a little, clumsily-wrought linen bag, that he had fashioned, once upon a time, with infinite trouble and pains, and in which he had been wont to carry the dried-up wisp of what had once been a fragrant, scarlet rose.
And now, having found this little bag, he lay with brow still troubled as one in some deep perplexity, the while his fingers felt and fumbled with it clumsily. This was the little bag indeed; he knew it by reason of its great, uneven stitches and its many knots and ends of cotton; yes, this was it beyond all doubt, and yet? Truly it was the same, but with a difference.
Now as he lay thus, being full of trouble because of this difference which he could in no wise understand, he drew a deep sigh, which was answered all at once by another; the soft clicking sound abruptly ceased and he knew that some one had risen and now stood looking down at him. Therefore Barnabas presently turned his head and saw a face bent over him, a face with cheeks suspiciously pink, framed in curls suspiciously dark and glossy, but with eyes wonderfully young and bright and handsome; in one small, white hand was a needle and silk, and in the other, a very diminutive piece of embroidery.
"Why, Barnabas!" said the Duchess, very gently, "dear boy—what is it? Ah! you've found it then, already—your sachet? Though indeed it looks more like a pudding-bag—a very small one, of course. Oh, dear me! but you're not a very good needlewoman, are you, Barnabas? Neither am I—I always prick my fingers dreadfully. There—let me open it for you—so! Now, while I hold it, see what is inside."
Then, wondering, Barnabas slipped a clumsy thumb and finger into the little bag and behold the faded wisp had become transfigured and bloomed again in all its virgin freshness. For in his hand there lay a great, scarlet rose, as sweet and fresh and fragrant as though—for all the world as though it had been plucked that very morning.
"Ah, no, no, no," cried the Duchess, reading his look, "it was no hand of mine worked the transformation, dear Barnabas."
"But," murmured drowsy Barnabas, speaking with an effort— "it—was—dead—long ago—?"
"Yet behold it is alive again!" said the Duchess. "And oh, Barnabas dear, if a withered, faded wisp may bloom again—so may a woman's faith and love. There, there, dear boy! Close your eyes and go to sleep again."
So, being very weary, Barnabas closed his eyes and, with the touch of her small, cool fingers in his hair, fell fast asleep.
Now as Barnabas lay thus, lost in slumber, he dreamed a dream. He had known full many sleeping visions and fancies of late, but, of them all, surely none had there been quite like this.
For it seemed to him that he was lying out amid the green, dewy freshness of Annersley Wood. And as he lay there, grievously hurt, lo! there came one hasting, light-footed to him through the green like some young nymph of Arcady or Goddess of the Wood, one for whom he seemed to have been waiting long and patiently, one as sweet and fresh and fair as the golden morning and tender as the Spirit of Womanhood.
And, for that he might not speak or move because of his hurt, she leaned above him and her hands touched him, hands very soft, and cool, and gentle, upon his brow, upon his cheek; and every touch was a caress.
Slowly, slowly her arms came about him in a warm, clinging embrace, arms strong and protecting that drew his weary head to the swell of a bosom and pillowed it sweetly there. And clasping him thus, she sighed over him and wept, though very silently, and stooped her lips to him to kiss his brow, his slumberous eyes, and, last of all, his mouth.
So, because of this dream, Barnabas lay in a deep and utter content, for it seemed that Happiness had come to him after all, and of its own accord. But, in a while, he stirred and sighed, and presently opened dreamy eyes, and thus it chanced that he beheld the door of his chamber, and the door was quivering as though it had but just closed. Then, as he lay watching it, sleepy-eyed, it opened again, slowly and noiselessly, and John Peterby entered softly, took a step towards the bed, but, seeing Barnabas was awake, stopped, and so stood there very still.
Suddenly Barnabas smiled, and held out a hand to him.
"Why, John," said he, "my faithful John—is it you?"
"Sir," murmured Peterby, and coming forward, took that extended hand, looking down at Barnabas joyful-eyed, and would have spoken, yet uttered no other word.
"John," said Barnabas, glancing round the faded splendors of the bed-chamber, "where am I, pray?"
"At Ashleydown, sir."
"Ashleydown?" repeated Barnabas, wrinkling his brow.
"Sir, you have been—very ill."
"Ah, yes, I was shot I remember—last night, I think?"
"Sir, it happened over three weeks ago."
"Three weeks!" repeated Barnabas, sitting up with an effort, "three weeks, John?—Oh, impossible!"
"You have been very near death, sir. Indeed I think you would have died but for the tender nursing and unceasing care of—"
"Ah, God bless her! Where is she, John—where is the Duchess?"
"Her Grace went out driving this morning, sir."
"This morning? Why, I was talking with her this morning—only a little while ago."
"That was yesterday morning, sir."
"Oh!" said Barnabas, hand to head, "do you mean that I have slept the clock round?"
"Yes, sir."
"Hum!" said Barnabas. "Consequently I'm hungry, John, deuced sharp set—ravenous, John!"
"That, sir," quoth Peterby, smiling his rare smile, "that is the best news I've heard this three weeks and more, and your chicken broth is ready—"
"Chicken broth!" exclaimed Barnabas, "for shame, John. Bring me a steak, do you hear?"
"But, sir," Peterby remonstrated, shaking his head, yet with his face ever brightening, "indeed I—"
"Or a chop, John, or ham and eggs—I'm hungry; I tell you."
"Excellent!" laughed Peterby, nodding his head, "but the doctor, sir—"
"Doctor!" cried Barnabas, with a snort, "what do I want with doctors?I'm well, John. Bring me my clothes."
"Clothes, sir!" exclaimed Peterby, aghast. "Impossible, sir! No, no!"
"Yes, yes, John—I'm going to get up."
"But, sir—"
"This very moment! My clothes, John, my clothes!"
"Indeed, sir, I—"
"John Peterby," said Barnabas, scowling blackly, "you will oblige me with my garments this instant,—obey me, sir!"
But hereupon, while Barnabas scowled and Peterby hesitated, puckered of brow yet joyful of eye, there came the sound of wheels on the drive below and the slam of a coach door, whereat Peterby crossed to the window and, glancing out, heaved a sigh of relief.
"Who is it?" demanded Barnabas, his scowl blacker than ever.
"Her Grace has returned, sir."
"Very good, John! Present my compliments and sa'y I will wait upon her as soon as I'm dressed."
But hardly had Peterby left the room with this message, than the door opened again and her Grace of Camberhurst appeared, who, catching sight of Barnabas sitting up shock-headed among his pillows, uttered a little, glad cry and hurried to him.