"She gave him the rose!" said Barnabas, between set teeth. TheDuchess tittered.
"Dear heart! how tragic you are!" she sighed. "Suppose she did,—what then? And besides—hum! This time it is young D'Arcy, it seems,—callow, pink, and quite harmless."
"Madam?" said Barnabas, wondering.
"Over there—behind the marble faun,—quite harmless, and very pink, you'll notice. I mean young D'Arcy—not the faun. Clever minx! Now I mean Cleone, of course—there she is!" Following the direction of the Duchess's pointing fan, Barnabas saw Cleone, sure enough. Her eyes were drooped demurely before the ardent gaze of the handsome, pink-cheeked young soldier who stood before her, and in her white fingers she held—a single red rose. Now, all at once, (and as though utterly unconscious of the burning, watchful eyes of Barnabas) she lifted the rose to her lips, and, smiling, gave it into the young soldier's eager hand. Then they strolled away, his epaulette very near the gleaming curls at her temple.
"Lud, young sir!" exclaimed the Duchess, catching Barnabas by the coat, "how dreadfully sudden you are in your movements—"
"Madam, pray loose me!"
"Why?"
"I'm going—I cannot bear—any more!"
"You mean—?"
"I mean that—she has—"
"A very remarkable head, she is as resourceful as I was—almost."
"Resourceful!" exclaimed Barnabas, "she is—"
"An extremely clever girl—"
"Madam, pray let me go."
"No, sir! my finger is twisted in your buttonhole,—if you pull yourself away I expect you'll break it, so pray don't pull; naturally, I detest pain. And I have much to talk about."
"As you will, madam," said Barnabas, frowning.
"First, tell me—you're quite handsome when you frown,—first, sir, why weren't you formally presented to me with the other guests?"
"Because I'm not a guest, madam."
"Sir—explain yourself."
"I mean that I came—over the wall, madam."
"The wall! Climbed over?"
"Yes, madam!"
"Dear heaven! The monstrous audacity of the man! You came to seeCleone, of course?"
"Yes, madam."
"Ah, very right,—very proper! I remember I had a lover—in the remote ages, of course,—who used to climb—ah, well,—no matter! Though his wall was much higher than yours yonder." Here the Duchess sighed tenderly. "Well, you came to see Cleone, you found her,—and nicely you behaved to each other when you met! Youth is always so dreadfully tragic! But then what would love be without a little tragedy? And oh—dear heaven!—how you must adore each other! Oh, Youth! Youth!—and there's Sir George Annersley—!"
"Then, madam, you must excuse me!" said Barnabas, glancing furtively from the approaching figures to the adjacent wall.
"Oh dear, no. Sir George is with Jerningharn and Major Piper, a heavy dragoon—the heaviest in all the world, I'm sure. You must meet them."
"No, indeed—I—"
"Sir," said the Duchess, buttonholing him again, "I insist! Oh, Sir George—gentlemen!" she called. Hereupon three lounging figures turned simultaneously, and came hurrying towards them.
"Why, Duchess!" exclaimed Sir George, a large, mottled gentleman in an uncomfortable cravat, "we have all been wondering what had become of your Grace, and—" Here Sir George's sharp eye became fixed upon Barnabas, upon his spurred boots, his buckskins, his dusty coat; and Sir George's mouth opened, and he gave a tug at his cravat.
"Deuce take me—it's Beverley!" exclaimed the Marquis, and held out his hand.
"What—you know each other?" the Duchess inquired.
"Mr. Beverley is riding in the steeplechase on the fifteenth," the Marquis answered. Hereupon Sir George stared harder than ever, and gave another tug at his high cravat, while Major Piper, who had been looking very hard at nothing in particular, glanced at Barnabas with a gleam of interest and said "Haw!"
As for the Duchess, she clapped her hands.
"And he never told me a word of it!" she exclaimed. "Of course all my money is on Jerningham,—though 'Moonraker' carries the odds, but I must have a hundred or two on Mr. Beverley for—friendship's sake."
"Friendship!" exclaimed the Marquis, "oh, begad!" Here he took out his snuff-box, tapped it, and put it in his pocket again.
"Yes, gentlemen," smiled the Duchess, "this is a friend of mine who—dropped in upon me, as it were, quite unexpectedly—over the wall, in fact."
"Wall!" exclaimed Sir George.
"The deuce you did, Beverley!" said the Marquis.
As for Major Piper, he hitched his dolman round, and merely said:
"Haw!"
"Yes," said Barnabas, glancing from one to the other, "I am a trespasser here, and, Sir George, I fear I damaged some of your flowers!"
"Flowers!" repeated Sir George, staring from Barnabas to the Duchess and back again, "Oh!"
"And now—pray let me introduce you," said the Duchess. "My friendMr. Beverley—Sir George Annersley. Mr. Beverley—Major Piper."
"A friend of her Grace is always welcome here, sir," said Sir George, extending a mottled hand.
"Delighted!" smiled the Major, saluting him in turn. "Haw!"
"But what in the world brings you here, Beverley?" inquired theMarquis.
"I do," returned his great-aunt. "Many a man has climbed a wall on my account before to-day, Marquis, and remember I'm only just—seventy-one, and growing younger every hour,—now am I not, Major?"
"Haw!—Precisely! Not a doubt, y' Grace. Soul and honor! Haw!"
"Marquis—your arm, Mr. Beverley—yours! Now, Sir George, show us the way to the marquee; I'm dying for a dish of tea, I vow I am!"
Thus, beneath the protecting wing of a Duchess was Barnabas given his first taste of Quality and Blood. Which last, though blue beyond all shadow of doubt, yet manifested itself in divers quite ordinary ways as,—in complexions of cream and roses; in skins sallow and wrinkled; in noses haughtily Roman or patricianly Greek, in noses mottled and unclassically uplifted; in black hair, white hair, yellow, brown, and red hair;—such combinations as he had seen many and many a time on village greens, and at country wakes and fairs. Yes, all was the same, and yet—how vastly different! For here voices were softly modulated, arms and hands gracefully borne, heads carried high, movement itself an artful science. Here eyes were raised or lowered with studied effect; beautiful shoulders, gracefully shrugged, became dimpled and irresistible; faces with perfect profiles were always—in profile. Here, indeed, Age and Homeliness went clothed in magnificence, and Youth and Beauty walked hand in hand with Elegance; while everywhere was a graceful ease that had been learned and studied with the Catechism. Barnabas was in a world of silks and satins and glittering gems, of broadcloth and fine linen, where such things are paramount and must be lived up to; a world where the friendship of a Duchess may transform a nobody into a SOMEBODY, to be bowed to by the most elaborate shirtfronts, curtsied to by the haughtiest of turbans, and found worthy of the homage of bewitching eyes, seductive dimples, and entrancing profiles.
In a word, Barnabas had attained—even unto the World of Fashion.
"Gad, Beverley! how the deuce did y' do it?"
"Do what, Marquis?"
"Charm the Serpent! Tame the Dragon!"
"Dragon?"
"Make such a conquest of her Graceless Grace of Camberhurst, my great-aunt? I didn't know you were even acquainted,—how long have you known her?"
"About an hour," said Barnabas.
"Eh—an hour? But, my dear fellow, you came to see her—over the wall, you know,—she said so, and—"
"She said so, yes, Marquis, but—"
"But? Oh, I see! Ah, to be sure! She is my great-aunt, of course, and my great-aunt, Beverley, generally thinks, and does, and says—exactly what she pleases. Begad! you never can tell what she'll be up to next,—consequently every one is afraid of her, even those high goddesses of the beau monde, those exclusive grandes dames, my Ladies Castlereagh, Jersey, Cowper and the rest of 'em—they're all afraid of my small great-aunt, and no wonder! You see, she's old—older than she looks, and—with a perfectly diabolical memory! She knows not only all their own peccadillos, but the sins of their great-grandmothers as well. She fears nothing on the earth, or under the earth, and respects no one—not even me. Only about half an hour ago she informed me that I was a—well, she told me precisely what I was,—and she can be painfully blunt, Beverley,—just because Cleone happens to have refused me again."
"Again?" said Barnabas inquiringly.
"Oh, yes! She does it regularly. Begad! she's refused me so often that it's grown into a kind of formula with us now. I say, 'Cleone, do!' and she answers, 'Bob, don't!' But even that's something,—lots of 'em haven't got so far as that with her."
"Sir Mortimer Carnaby, for instance!" said Barnabas, biting his lip.
"Hum!" said the Marquis dubiously, deftly re-settling his cravat, "and what of—yourself, Beverley?"
"I have asked her—only twice, I think."
"Ah, and she—refused you?"
"No," sighed Barnabas, "she told me she—despised me."
"Did she so? Give me your hand—I didn't think you were so strong in the running. With Cleone's sort there's always hope so long as she isn't sweet and graciously indifferent."
"Pray," said Barnabas suddenly, "pray where did you get that rose,Marquis?"
"This? Oh, she gave it to me."
"Cleone?"
"Of course."
"But—I thought she'd refused you?"
"Oh, yes—so she did; but that's just like Cleone, frowning one moment, smiling the next—April, you know."
"And did she—kiss it first?"
"Kiss it? Why—deuce take me, now I come to think of it,—so she did,—at least—What now, Beverley?"
"I'm—going!" said Barnabas.
"Going? Where?"
"Back—over the wall!"
"Eh!—run away, is it?"
"As far," said Barnabas, scowling, "as far as possible. Good-by, Marquis!" And so he turned and strode away, while the Marquis stared after him, open-mouthed. But as he went, Barnabas heard a voice calling his name, and looking round, beheld Captain Chumly coming towards him. A gallant figure he made (despite grizzled hair and empty sleeve), in all the bravery of his white silk stockings, and famous Trafalgar coat, which, though a little tarnished as to epaulettes and facings, nevertheless bore witness to the Bo'sun's diligent care; he was, indeed, from the crown of his cocked hat down to his broad, silver shoe-buckles, the very pattern of what a post-captain of Lord Nelson should be.
"Eh, sir!" he exclaimed, with his hand outstretched in greeting, "are ye blind, I say are ye blind and deaf? Didn't you hear her Grace hailing you? Didn't ye see me signal you to 'bring to'?"
"No, sir," answered Barnabas, grasping the proffered hand.
"Oho!" said the Captain, surveying Barnabas from head to foot, "so you've got 'em on, I see, and vastly different you look in your fine feathers. But you can sink me,—I say you can scuttle and sink me if I don't prefer you in your homespun! You'll be spelling your name with as many unnecessary letters, and twirls, and flourishes as you can clap in, nowadays, I'll warrant."
"Jack Chumly, don't bully the boy!" said a voice near by; and looking thitherward, Barnabas beheld the Duchess seated at a small table beneath a shady tree, and further screened by a tall hedge; a secluded corner, far removed from the throng, albeit a most excellent place for purposes of observation, commanding as it did a wide view of lawns and terraces. "As for you, Mr. Beverley," continued the Duchess, with her most imperious air, "you may bring a seat—here, beside me,—and help the Captain to amuse me."
"Madam," said Barnabas, his bow very solemn and very deep, "I am about to leave, and—with your permission—I—"
"You have my permission to—sit here beside me, sir. So! A dish of tea? No? Ah, well—we were just talking of you; the Captain was describing how he first met you—"
"Bowing to a gate-post, mam,—on my word as a sailor and a Christian, it was a gate-post,—I say, an accurs—a confoundedly rotten old stick of a gate-post."
"I remember," sighed Barnabas.
"And to-day, sir," continued the Captain, "to-day you must come clambering over a gentleman's garden wall to bow and scrape to a—"
"Don't dare to say—another stick, Jack Chumly!" cried the Duchess.
"I repeat, sir, you must come trespassing here, to bow—I say bah! and scrape—"
"I say tush!" interpolated the Duchess demurely.
"To an old—"
"Painted!" suggested the Duchess.
"Hum!" said the Captain, a little hipped, "I say—ha!—lady, sir—"
"With a wig!" added the Duchess.
"And with a young and handsome,—I say a handsome and roguish pair of eyes, sir, that need no artificial aids, mam, nor ever will!"
"Three!" cried the Duchess, clapping her hands. "Oh, Jack! Jack Chumly! you, like myself, improve with age! As a midshipman you were too callow, as a lieutenant much too old and serious, but now that you are a battered and wrinkled young captain, you can pay as pretty a compliment as any other gallant youth. Actually three in one hour, Mr. Beverley."
"Compliments, mam!" snorted the Captain, with an angry flap of his empty sleeve, "Compliments, I scorn 'em! I say pish, mam,—I say bah! I speak only the truth, mam, as well you know."
"Four!" cried the Duchess, with a gurgle of youthful laughter. "Oh, Jack! Jack! I protest, as you sit there you are growing more youthful every minute."
"Gad so, mam! then I'll go before I become a mewling infant—I say a puling brat, mam."
"Stay a moment, Jack. I want you to explain your wishes to Mr. Beverley in regard to Cleone's future."
"Certainly, your Grace—I say by all means, mam."
"Very well, then I'll begin. Listen—both of you. Captain Chumly, being a bachelor and consequently an authority on marriage, has, very properly, chosen whom his ward must marry; he has quite settled and arranged it all, haven't you, Jack?"
"Quite, mam, quite."
"Thus, Cleone is saved all the bother and worry of choosing for herself, you see, Mr. Beverley, for the Captain's choice is fixed,— isn't it, Jack?"
"As a rock, mam—I say as an accurs—ha! an adamantine crag, mam. My ward shall marry my nephew, Viscount Devenham, I am determined on it—"
"Consequently, Mr. Beverley, Cleone will, of course, marry—whomsoever she pleases!"
"Eh, mam? I say, what?—I say—"
"Like the feminine creature she is, Mr. Beverley!"
"Now by Og,—I say by Og and Gog, mam! She is my ward, and so long as I am her guardian she shall obey—"
"I say boh! Jack Chumly,—I say bah!" mocked the Duchess, nodding her head at him. "Cleone is much too clever for you—or any other man, and there is only one woman in this big world who is a match for her, and that woman is—me. I've watched her growing up—day by day—year after year into—just what I was—ages ago,—and to-day she is—almost as beautiful,—and—very nearly as clever!"
"Clever, mam? So she is, but I'm her guardian and—she loves me—I think, and—"
"Of course she loves you, Jack, and winds you round her finger whenever she chooses—"
"Finger, mam! finger indeed! No, mam, I can be firm with her."
"As a candle before the fire, Jack. She can bend you to all the points of your compass. Come now, she brought you here this afternoon against your will,—now didn't she?"
"Ah!—hum!" said the Captain, scratching his chin.
"And coaxed you into your famous Trafalgar uniform, now didn't she?"
"Why as to that, mam, I say—"
"And petted you into staying here much longer than you intended, now didn't she?"
"Which reminds me that it grows late, mam," said the Captain, taking out his watch and frowning at it. "I must find my ward. I say I will bring Cleone to make you her adieux." So saying, he bowed and strode away across the lawn.
"Poor Jack," smiled the Duchess, "he is such a dear, good, obedient child, and he doesn't know it. And so your name is Beverley, hum! Of the Beverleys of Ashleydown? Yet, no,—that branch is extinct, I know. Pray what branch are you? Why, here comes Sir Mortimer Carnaby,—heavens, how handsome he is! And you thrashed him, I think? Oh, I know all about it, sir, and I know—why!"
"Then," said Barnabas, somewhat taken aback, "you'll know he deserved it, madam."
"Mm! Have you met him since?"
"No, indeed, nor have I any desire to!"
"Oh, but you must," said the Duchess, and catching Sir Mortimer's gaze, she smiled and beckoned him, and next moment he was bowing before her. "My dear Sir Mortimer," said she, "I don't think you are acquainted with my friend, Mr. Beverley?"
"No," answered Sir Mortimer with a perfunctory glance at Barnabas.
"Ah! I thought not. Mr. Beverley—Sir Mortimer Carnaby."
"Honored, sir," said Sir Mortimer, as they bowed.
"Mr. Beverley is, I believe, an opponent of yours, Sir Mortimer?" pursued the Duchess, with her placid smile.
"An opponent! indeed, your Grace?" said he, favoring Barnabas with another careless glance.
"I mean—in the race, of course," smiled the Duchess. "But oh, happy man! So you have been blessed also?"
"How, Duchess?"
"I see you wear Cleone's favor,—you've been admitted to the Order of the Rose, like all the others." And the Duchess tittered.
"Others, your Grace! What others?"
"Oh, sir, their name is Legion. There's Jerningham, and young Denton, and Snelgrove, and Ensign D'Arcy, and hosts beside. Lud, Sir Mortimer, where are your eyes? Look there! and there! and there again!" And, with little darting movements of her fan, she indicated certain young gentlemen, who strolled to and fro upon the lawn; now, in the lapel of each of their coats was a single, red rose. "There's safety in numbers, and Cleone was always cautious!" said the Duchess, and tittered again.
Sir Mortimer glanced from those blooms to the flower in his own coat, and his cheek grew darkly red, and his mouth took on a cruel look.
"Ah, Duchess," he smiled, "it seems our fair Cleone has an original idea of humor,—very quaint, upon my soul!" And so he laughed, and bowing, turned away.
"Now—watch!" said the Duchess, "there!" As she spoke, Sir Mortimer paused, and with a sudden fierce gesture tore the rose from his coat and tossed it away. "Now really," said the Duchess, leaning back and fanning herself placidly, "I think that was vastly clever of me; you should be grateful, sir, and so should Cleone—hush!—here she comes, at last."
"Where?" inquired Barnabas, glancing up hastily.
"Ssh! behind us—on the other side of the hedge—clever minx!"
"Why then—"
"Sit still, sir—hush, I say!"
"So that is the reason," said Cleone's clear voice, speaking within a yard of them, "that is why you dislike Mr. Beverley?"
"Yes, and because of his presumption!" said a second voice, at the sound of which Barnabas flushed and started angrily, whereupon the Duchess instantly hooked him by the buttonhole again.
"His presumption in what, Mr. Chichester?"
"In his determined pursuit of you."
"Is he in pursuit of me?"
"Cleone—you know he is!"
"But how do you happen to know?"
"From his persecution of poor Ronald, for one thing."
"Persecution, sir?"
"It amounted to that. He found his way to Ronald's wretched lodging, and tempted the poor fellow with his gold,—indeed almost commanded Ronald to allow him to pay off his debts—"
"But Ronald refused, of course?" said Cleone quickly.
"Of course! I was there, you see, and this Beverley is a stranger!"
"A stranger—yes."
"And yet, Cleone, when your unfortunate brother refused his money,—this utter stranger, this Good Samaritan,—actually went behind Ronald's back and offered to buy up his debts! Such a thing might be done by father for son, or brother for brother, but why should any man do so much for an utter stranger—?"
"Either because he is very base, or very—noble!" said Cleone.
"Noble! I tell you such a thing is quite impossible—unheard of! No man would part with a fortune to benefit a stranger—unless he had a powerful motive!"
"Well?" said Cleone softly.
"Well, Cleone, I happen to know that motive is—yourself!" Here the Duchess, alert as usual, caught Barnabas by the cravat, and only just in time.
"Sit still—hush!" she whispered, glancing up into his distorted face, for Mr. Chichester was going on in his soft, deliberate voice:
"Oh, it is all very simple, Cleone, and very clumsy,—thus, see you. In the guise of Good Samaritan this stranger buys the debts of the brother, trusting to the gratitude of the sister. He knows your pride, Cleone, so he would buy your brother and put you under lasting obligation to himself. The scheme is a little coarse, and very clumsy,—but then, he is young."
"And you say—he tried to pay these debts—without Ronald's knowledge?Are you sure—quite sure?"
"Quite! And I know, also, that when Ronald's creditor refused, he actually offered to double—to treble the sum! But, indeed, you would be cheap at sixty thousand pounds, Cleone!"
"Oh—hateful!" she cried.
"Crude, yes, and very coarse, but, as I said before, he is young—what, are you going?"
"Yes—no. Pray find my guardian and bring him to me."
"First, tell me I may see you again, Cleone, before I leave forLondon?"
"Yes," said Cleone, after a momentary hesitation.
Thereafter came the tread of Mr. Chichester's feet upon the gravel, soft and deliberate, like his voice.
Then Barnabas sighed, a long, bitter sigh, and looking up—sawCleone standing before him.
"Ah, dear Godmother!" said she lightly, "I hope your Grace was able to hear well?"
"Perfectly, my dear, thank you—every word," nodded the Duchess, "though twice Mr. Beverley nearly spoilt it all. I had to hold him dreadfully tight,—see how I've crumpled his beautiful cravat. Dear me, how impetuous you are, sir! As for you, Cleone, sit down, my dear,—that's it!—positively I'm proud of you,—kiss me,—I mean about the roses. It was vastly clever! You are myself over again."
"Your Grace honors me!" said Cleone, her eyes demure, but with a dimple at the corner of her red mouth.
"And I congratulate you. I was a great success—in my day. Ah me! I remember seeing you—an hour after you were born. You were very pink, Cleone, and as bald as—as I am, without my wig. No—pray sit still,—Mr. Beverley isn't looking at you, and he was just as bald, once, I expect—and will be again, I hope. Even at that early age you pouted at me, Cleone, and I liked you for it. You are pouting now, Miss! To-day Mr. Beverley frowns at me, and I like him for it,—besides, he's very handsome when he frowns, don't you think, Cleone?"
"Madam—" began Barnabas, with an angry look.
"Ah! now you're going to quarrel with me,—well there's the Major,—I shall go. If you must quarrel with some one,—try Cleone, she's young, and, I think, a match for you. Oh, Major! Major Piper, pray lend your arm and protection to a poor, old, defenceless woman." So saying, the Duchess rose, and the Major, bowing gallantly gave her the limb she demanded, and went off with her, 'haw'-ing in his best and most ponderous manner.
Barnabas sat, chin in hand, staring at the ground, half expecting that Cleone would rise and leave him. But no! My lady sat leaning back in her chair, her head carelessly averted, but watching him from the corners of her eyes. A sly look it was, a searching, critical look, that took close heed to all things, as—the fit and excellence of his clothes; the unconscious grace of his attitude; the hair that curled so crisp and dark at his temples; the woeful droop of his lips;—a long, inquisitive look, a look wholly feminine. Yes, he was certainly handsome, handsomer even than she had thought. And finding him so, she frowned, and, frowning, spoke:
"So you meant to buy me, sir—as you would a horse or dog?"
"No," said Barnabas, without looking up, and speaking almost humbly.
"It would have been the same thing, sir," she continued, a little more haughtily in consequence. "You would have put upon me an obligation I could never, never have hoped to repay?"
"Yes, I see my error now," said Barnabas, his head sinking lower. "I acted for the best, but I am a fool, and a clumsy one it seems. I meant only to serve you, to fulfil the mission you gave me, and I blundered—because I am—very ignorant. If you can forgive me, do so."
Now this humility was new in him, and because of this, and because she was a woman, she became straightway more exacting, and questioned him again.
"But why—why did you do it?"
"You asked me to save your brother, and I could see no other way—"
"How so? Please explain."
"I meant to free him from the debt which is crushing him down and unmanning him."
"But—oh, don't you see—he would still be in debt—to you?"
"I had forgotten that!" sighed Barnabas.
"Forgotten it?" she repeated.
"Quite!"
Surely no man could lie, whose eyes were so truthful and steadfast.
"And so you went and offered to—buy up his debts?"
"Yes."
"For three times the proper sum?"
"I would have paid whatever was asked."
"Why?"
"Because I promised you to help him," answered Barnabas, staring at the ground again.
"You must be—very rich?" said Cleone, stealing another look at him.
"I am."
"And—supposing you had taken over the debt, who did you think would ever repay you?"
"It never occurred to me."
"And you would have done—all this for a—stranger?"
"No, but because of the promise I gave."
"To me?"
"Yes,—but, as God sees me, I would have looked for no recompense at your hands."
"Never?"
"Never—unless—"
"Unless, sir?"
"Unless I—I had dreamed it possible that you—could ever have—loved me." Barnabas was actually stammering, and he was looking at her—pleadingly, she knew, but this time my lady kept her face averted, of course. Wherefore Barnabas sighed, and his head drooping, stared at the ground again. And after he had stared thus, for perhaps a full minute, my lady spoke, but with her face still averted.
"The moon is at the full to-night, I think?"
Barnabas(lifting his head suddenly). "Yes."
Cleone(quite aware of his quick glance). "And—how do you like—the Duchess?"
Barnabas(staring at the ground again). "I don't know."
Cleone(with unnecessary emphasis). "Why, she is the dearest, best, cleverest old godmother in all the world, sir!"
Barnabas(humbly). "Yes."
Cleone(with a side glance). "Are you riding back to London to-night?"
Barnabas(nodding drearily). "Yes."
Cleone(watching him more keenly). "It should be glorious to gallop under a—full-orbed moon."
Barnabas(shaking his head mournfully). "London is a great way from—here."
Cleone(beginning to twist a ring on her finger nervously). "Do you remember the madman we met—at Oakshott's Barn?"
Barnabas(sighing). "Yes. I met him in London, lately."
Cleone(clasping her hands together tightly). "Did he talk about—the moon again?"
Barnabas(still sighing, and dense), "No, it was about some shadow, I think."
Cleone(frowning at him a little). "Well—do you remember what he prophesied—about—an 'orbed moon'—and 'Barnaby Bright'?"
Barnabas(glancing up with sudden interest). "Yes,—yes, he said we should meet again at Barnaby Bright—under an orbed moon!"
Cleone(head quite averted now, and speaking over her shoulder). "Do you remember the old finger-post—on the Hawkhurst road?"
Barnabas(leaning towards her eagerly). "Yes—do you mean—Oh, Cleone—?"
Cleone(rising, and very demure). "Here comes the Duchess with my Guardian—hush! At nine o'clock, sir."
Evening, with the promise of a glorious night later on; evening, full of dewy scents, of lengthening shadows, of soft, unaccountable noises, of mystery and magic; and, over all, a rising moon, big and yellow. Thus, as he went, Barnabas kept his eyes bent thitherward, and his step was light and his heart sang within him for gladness, it was in the very air, and in the whole fair world was no space for care or sorrow, for his dreams were to be realized at a certain finger-post on the Hawkhurst road, on the stroke of nine. Therefore, as he strode along, being only human after all, Barnabas fell a whistling to himself under his breath. And his thoughts were all of Cleone, of the subtle charm of her voice, of the dimple in her chin, of her small, proud feet, and her thousand sly bewitchments; but, at the memory of her glowing beauty, his flesh thrilled and his breath caught. Then, upon the quietude rose a voice near by, that spoke from where the shadows lay blackest,—a voice low and muffled, speaking as from the ground:
"How long, oh Lord, how long?"
And, looking within the shadow, Barnabas beheld one who lay face down upon the grass, and coming nearer, soft-footed, he saw the gleam of silver hair, and stooping, touched the prostrate figure. Wherefore the heavy head was raised, and the mournful voice spoke again:
"Is it you, young sir? You will grieve, I think, to learn that my atonement is not complete, my pilgrimage unfinished. I must wander the roads again, preaching Forgiveness, for, sir,—Clemency is gone, my Beatrix is vanished. I am—a day too late! Only one day, sir, and there lies the bitterness."
"Gone!" cried Barnabas, "gone?"
"She left the place yesterday, very early in the morning,—fled away none knows whither,—I am too late! Sir, it is very bitter, but God's will be done!"
Then Barnabas sat down in the shadow, and took the Preacher's hand, seeking to comfort him:
"Sir," said he gently, "tell me of it."
"Verily, for it is soon told, sir. I found the place you mentioned, I found there also, one—old like myself, a sailor by his look, who sat bowed down with some grievous sorrow. And, because of my own joy, I strove to comfort him, and trembling with eagerness, hearkening for the step of her I had sought so long, I told him why I was there. So I learned I was too late after all,—she had gone, and his grief was mine also. He was very kind, he showed me her room, a tiny chamber under the eaves, but wondrous fair and sweet with flowers, and all things orderly, as her dear hands had left them. And so we stayed there a while,—two old men, very silent and full of sorrow. And in a while, though he would have me rest there the night, I left, and walked I cared not whither, and, being weary, lay down here wishful to die. But I may not die until my atonement be complete, and mayhap—some day I shall find her yet. For God is a just God, and His will be done. Amen!"
"But why—why did she go?" cried Barnabas.
"Young sir, the answer is simple, the man Chichester had discovered her refuge. She was afraid!" Here the Apostle of Peace fell silent, and sat with bent head and lips moving as one who prayed. When at last he looked up, a smile was on his lips. "Sir," said he, "it is only the weak who repine, for God is just, and I know I shall find her before I die!" So saying he rose, though like one who is very weary, and stood upon his feet.
"Where are you going?" Barnabas inquired.
"Sir, my trust is in God, I take to the road again."
"To search for her?"
"To preach for her. And when I have preached sufficiently, God will bring me to her. So come, young sir, if you will, let us walk together as far as we may." Thus, together, they left the shadow and went on, side by side, in the soft radiance of the rising moon.
"Sir," said Barnabas after a while, seeing his companion was very silent, and that his thin hands often griped and wrung each other, —that gesture which was more eloquent than words,—"Sir, is there anything I can do to lighten your sorrow?"
"Yes, young sir, heed it well, let it preach to you this great truth, that all the woes arid ills we suffer are but the necessary outcome of our own acts. Oh sir,—young sir, in you and me, as in all other men, there lies a power that may help to make or mar the lives of our fellows, a mighty power, yet little dreamed of, and we call it Influence. For there is no man but he must, of necessity, influence, to a more or less degree, the conduct of those he meets, whether he will or no,—and there lies the terror of it! Thus, to some extent, we become responsible for the actions of our neighbors, even after we are dead, for Influence is immortal. Man is a pebble thrown into the pool of Life,—a splash, a bubble, and he is gone! But—the ripples of Influence he leaves behind go on widening and ever widening until they reach the farthest bank. Oh, had I but dreamed of this in my youth, I might have been—a happy man to-night, and—others also. In helping others we ourselves are blessed, for a noble thought, a kindly word, a generous deed, are never lost; such things cannot go to waste, they are our monuments after we are dead, and live on forever."
So, talking thus, they reached a gate, and, beyond the gate, a road, white beneath the moon, winding away between shadowy hedges.
"You are for London, I fancy, young sir?"
"Yes."
"Then we part here. But before I bid you God speed, I would know your name; mine is Darville—Ralph Darville."
"And mine, sir, is Barnabas—Beverley."
"Beverley!" said the Preacher, glancing up quickly, "of Ashleydown?"
"Sir," said Barnabas, "surely they are all dead?"
"True, true!" nodded the Preacher, "the name is extinct. That is how the man—Chichester came into the inheritance. I knew the family well, years ago. The brothers died abroad, Robert, the elder, with his regiment in the Peninsula, Francis, in battle at sea, and Joan—like my own poor Beatrix, was unhappy, and ran away, but she was never heard of again."
"And her name was Joan?" said Barnabas slowly, "Joan—Beverley?"
"Yes."
"Sir, Joan Beverley was my mother! I took her name—Beverley—for a reason."
"Your mother! Ah, I understand it now; you are greatly like her, at times, it was the resemblance that puzzled me before. But, sir—if Joan Beverley was your mother, why then—"
"Then, Chichester has no right to the property?"
"No!"
"And—I have?"
"If you can prove your descent."
"Yes," said Barnabas, "but—to whom?"
"You must seek out a Mr. Gregory Dyke, of Lincoln's Inn; he is the lawyer who administered the estate—"
"Stay," said Barnabas, "let me write it down."
"And now, young sir," said the Preacher, when he had answered all the eager questions of Barnabas as fully as he might, "now, young sir, you know I have small cause to love the man—Chichester, but, remember, you are rich already, and if you take this heritage also,—he will be destitute."
"Sir," said Barnabas, frowning, "better one destitute and starving, than that many should be wretched, surely."
The Preacher sighed and shook his head.
"Young sir, good-by," said he, "I have a feeling we may meet again, but life is very uncertain, therefore I would beg of you to remember this: as you are strong, be gentle; as you are rich, generous; and as you are young, wise. But, above all, be merciful, and strive to forgive wrongs." So they clasped hands, then, sighing, the Preacher turned and plodded on his lonely way. But, long after he had vanished down the moonlit road, Barnabas stood, his fists clenched, his mouth set, until he was roused by a sound near by, a very small sound like the jingle of distant spurs. Therefore, Barnabas lifted his head, and glanced about him, but seeing no one, presently went his way, slow of foot and very thoughtful.
The hands of Natty Bell's great watch were pointing to the hour of nine, what time Barnabas dismounted at the cross-roads, and tethering Four-legs securely, leaned his back against the ancient finger-post to wait the coming of Cleone.
Now being old, and having looked upon many and divers men (and women) in its day, it is to be supposed that the ancient finger-post took more or less interest in such things as chanced in its immediate vicinity. Thus, it is probable that it rightly defined why this particular long-legged human sighed so often, now with his gaze upon the broad disc of the moon, now upon a certain point of the road ahead, and was not in the least surprised to see Barnabas start forward, bareheaded, to meet her who came swift and light of foot; to see her pause before him, quick-breathing, blushing, sighing, trembling; to see how glance met glance; to see him stoop to kiss the hand she gave him, and all—without a word. Surprised? not a bit of it, for to a really observant finger-post all humans (both he and she) are much alike at such times.
"I began to fear you wouldn't come," said Barnabas, finding voice at last.
"But to-night is—Barnaby Bright, and the prophecy must be fulfilled, sir. And—oh, how wonderful the moon is!" Now, lifting her head to look at it, her hood must needs take occasion to slip back upon her shoulders, as if eager to reveal her loveliness,—the high beauty of her face, the smooth round column of her throat, and the shining wonder of her hair.
"Cleone—how beautiful you are!"
And here ensued another silence while Cleone gazed up at the moon, and Barnabas at Cleone.
But the ancient finger-post (being indeed wonderfully knowing—for a finger-post) well understood the meaning of such silences, and was quite aware of the tremble of the strong fingers that still held hers, and why, in the shadow of her cloak, her bosom hurried so. Oh! be sure the finger-post knew the meaning of it all, since humans, of every degree, are only men and women after all.
"Cleone, when will you—marry me?"
Now here my lady stole a quick glance at him, and immediately looked up at the moon again, because the eyes that could burn so fiercely could hold such ineffable tenderness also.
"You are very—impetuous, I think," she sighed.
"But I—love you," said Barnabas, "not only for your beauty, but because you are Cleone, and there is no one else in the world like you. But, because I love you so much, it—it is very hard to tell you of it. If I could only put it into fine-sounding phrases—"
"Don't!" said my lady quickly, and laid a slender (though very imperious) finger upon his lips.
"Why?" Barnabas inquired, very properly kissing the finger and holding it there.
"Because I grow tired of fine phrases and empty compliments, and because, sir—"
"Have you forgotten that my name is Barnabas?" he demanded, kissing the captive finger again, whereupon it struggled—though very feebly, to be sure.
"And because, Barnabas, you would be breaking your word."
"How?"
"You must only tell me—that, when 'the sun is shining, and friends are within call,'—have you forgotten your own words so soon?"
Now, as she spoke Barnabas beheld the dimple—that most elusive dimple, that came and went and came again, beside the scarlet lure of her mouth; therefore he drew her nearer until he could look, for a moment, into the depths of her eyes. But here, seeing the glowing intensity of his gaze, becoming aware of the strong, compelling arm about her, feeling the quiver of the hand that held her own, lo! in that instant my lady, with her sly bewitchments, her coquettish airs and graces, was gone, and in her place was the maid—quick-breathing, blushing, trembling, all in a moment.
"Ah, no!" she pleaded, "Barnabas, no!" Then Barnabas sighed, and loosed his clasp—but behold! the dimple was peeping at him again. And in that moment he caught her close, and thus, for the first time, their lips met.
Oh, privileged finger-post to have witnessed that first kiss! To have seen her start away and turn; to have felt her glowing cheek pressed to thy hoary timbers; to have felt the sweet, quick tumult of her bosom! Oh, thrice happy finger-post! To have seen young Barnabas, radiant-faced, and with all heaven in his eyes! Oh, most fortunate of finger-posts to have seen and felt all this, and to have heard the rapture thrilling in his voice:
"Cleone!"
"Oh!" she whispered, "why—why did you?"
"Because I love you!"
"No other man ever dared to—"
"Heaven be praised!"
"Upon—the mouth!" she added, her face still hidden.
"Then I have set my seal upon it."
"And now,—am I—immaculate?"
"Oh—forgive me!"
"No!"
"Look at me."
"No!"
"Are you angry?"
"Yes, I—think I am, Barnabas,—oh, very!"
"Forgive me!" said Barnabas again.
"First," said my lady, throwing up her head, "am I—heartless and a—coquette?"
"No, indeed, no! Oh, Cleone, is it possible you could learn to—love me, in time?"
"I—I don't know."
"Some day, Cleone?"
"I—I didn't come to answer—idle questions, sir," says my lady, suddenly demure. "It must be nearly half-past nine—I must go. I forgot to tell you—Mr. Chichester is coming to meet me to-night—"
"To meet you? Where?" demanded Barnabas, fierce-eyed all at once.
"Here, Barnabas. But don't look so—so murderous!"
"Chichester—here!"
"At a quarter to ten, Barnabas. That is why I must go at—half-past nine—Barnabas, stop! Oh, Barnabas, you're crushing me! Not again, sir,—I forbid you—please, Barnabas!"
So Barnabas loosed her, albeit regretfully, and stood watching while she dexterously twisted, and smoothed, and patted her shining hair into some semblance of order; and while so doing, she berated him, on this wise:
"Indeed, sir, but you're horribly strong. And very hasty. And your hands are very large. And I fear you have a dreadful temper. And I know my hair is all anyhow,—isn't it?"
"It is beautiful!" sighed Barnabas.
"Mm! You told me that in Annersley Wood, sir."
"You haven't forgotten, then?"
"Oh, no," answered Cleone, shaking her head, "but I would have you more original, you see,—so many men have told me that. Ah! now you're frowning again, and it's nearly time for me to go, and I haven't had a chance to mention what I came for, which, of course, is all your fault, Barnabas. To-day, I received a letter from Ronald. He writes that he has been ill, but is better. And yet, I fear, he must be very weak still, for oh! it's such poor, shaky writing. Was he very ill when you saw him?"
"No," answered Barnabas.
"Here is the letter,—will you read it? You see, I have no one who will talk to me about poor Ronald, no one seems to have any pity for him,—not even my dear Tyrant."
"But you will always have me, Cleone!"
"Always, Barnabas?"
"Always."
So Barnabas took Ronald Barrymaine's letter, and opening it, saw that it was indeed scrawled in characters so shaky as to be sometimes almost illegible; but, holding it in the full light of the moon, he read as follows:
DEAREST OF SISTERS,—I was unable to keep the appointment I begged for in my last, owing to a sudden indisposition, and, though better now, I am still ailing. I fear my many misfortunes are rapidly undermining my health, and sometimes I sigh for Death and Oblivion. But, dearest Cleone, I forbid you to grieve for me, I am man enough, I hope, to endure my miseries uncomplainingly, as a man and a gentleman should. Chichester, with his unfailing kindness, has offered me an asylum at his country place near Headcorn, where I hope to regain something of my wonted health. But for Chichester I tremble to think what would have been my fate long before this. At Headcorn I shall at least be nearer you, my best of sisters, and it is my hope that you may be persuaded to steal away now and then, to spend an hour with two lonely bachelors, and cheer a brother's solitude. Ah, Cleone! Chichester's devotion to you is touching, such patient adoration must in time meet with its reward. By your own confession you have nothing against him but the fact that he worships you too ardently, and this, most women would think a virtue. And remember, he is your luckless brother's only friend. This is the only man who has stood by me in adversity, the only man who can help me to retrieve the past, the only man a truly loving sister should honor with her regard. All women are more or less selfish. Oh, Cleone, be the exception and give my friend the answer he seeks, the answer he has sought of you already, the answer which to your despairing brother means more than you can ever guess, the answer whereby you can fulfil the promise you gave our dying mother to help
Your unfortunate brother,
Now, as he finished reading, Barnabas frowned, tore the letter across in sudden fury, and looked up to find Cleone frowning also:
"You have torn my letter!"
"Abominable!" said Barnabas fiercely.
"How dared you?"
"It is the letter of a coward and weakling!"
"My brother, sir!"
"Half-brother."
"And you insult him!"
"He would sell you to a—" Barnabas choked.
"Mr. Chichester is my brother's friend."
"His enemy!"
"And poor Ronald is sick—"
"With brandy!"
"Oh—not that!" she cried sharply, "not that!"
"Didn't you know?"
"I only—dreaded it. His father—died of it. Oh, sir—oh, Barnabas! there is no one else who will help him—save him from—that! You will try, won't you?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, setting his jaw, "no one can help a man against his will, but I'll try. And I ask you to remember that if I succeed or not, I shall never expect any recompense from you, never!"
"Unless, Barnabas—" said Cleone, softly.
"Unless—oh, Cleone, unless you should—some day learn to—love me—just a little, Cleone?"
"Would—just a little, satisfy you?"
"No," said Barnabas, "no, I want you all—all—all. Oh, Cleone, will you marry me?"
"You are very persistent, sir, and I must go."
"Not yet,—pray not yet."
"Please, Barnabas. I would not care to see Mr. Chichester—to-night."
"No," sighed Barnabas, "you must go. But first,—will you—?"
"Not again, Barnabas!" And she gave him her two hands. So he stopped and kissed them instead. Then she turned and left him standing bareheaded under the finger-post. But when she had gone but a little way she paused and spoke to him over her shoulder:
"Will you—write to me—sometimes?"
"Oh—may I?"
"Please, Barnabas,—to tell me of—my brother."
"And when can I see you again?"
"Ah! who can tell?" she answered. And so, smiling a little, blushing a little, she hastened away.
Now, when she was gone, Barnabas stooped, very reverently, and pressed his lips to the ancient finger-post, on that spot where her head had rested, and sighed, and turned towards his great, black horse.
But, even as he did so, he heard again that soft sound that was like the faint jingle of spurs, the leaves of the hedge rustled, and out into the moonlight stepped a tall figure, wild of aspect, bareheaded and bare of foot; one who wore his coat wrong side out, and who, laying his hand upon his bosom, bowed in stately fashion, once to the moon and once to him.
"Oh, Barnaby Bright, Barnaby Bright,The moon's awake, and shines all night!"
"Do you remember, Barnaby Bright, how I foretold we should meet again—under an orbed moon? Was I not right? She's fair, Barnaby, and passing fair, and very proud,—but all good, beautiful women are proud, and hard in the winning,—oh, I know! Billy Button knows! My buttons jingled, so I turned my coat, though I'm no turn-coat; once a friend, always a friend. So I followed you, Barnaby Bright, I came to warn you of the shadow,—it grows blacker every day,—back there in the great city, waiting for you, Barnaby Bright, to smother you—to quench hope, and light, and life itself. But I shall be there, —and She. Aha! She shall forget all things then—even her pride. Shadows have their uses, Barnaby, even the blackest. I came a long way—oh, I followed you. But poor Billy is never weary, the Wise Ones bear him up in their arms sometimes. So I followed you—and another, also, though he didn't know it. Oho! would you see me conjure you a spirit from the leaves yonder,—ah! but an evil spirit, this! Shall I? Watch now! See, thus I set my feet! Thus I lift my arms to the moon!"
So saying, the speaker flung up his long arms, and with his gaze fixed upon a certain part of the hedge, lifted his voice and spoke:
"Oho, lurking spirit among the shadows! Ho! come forth, I summon ye. The dew is thick amid the leaves, and dew is an evil thing for purple and fine linen. Oho, stand forth, I bid ye."
There followed a moment's utter silence, then—another rustle amid the leaves, and Mr. Chichester stepped out from the shadows.
"Ah, sir," said Barnabas, consulting his watch, "you are just twenty-three minutes before your time. Nevertheless you are, I think, too late."
Mr. Chichester glanced at Barnabas from head to foot, and, observing his smile, Barnabas clenched his fists.
"Too late, sir?" repeated Mr. Chichester softly, shaking his head, "no,—indeed I think not. Howbeit there are times and occasions when solitude appeals to me; this is one. Pray, therefore, be good enough to—go, and—ah—take your barefooted friend with you."
"First, sir," said Barnabas, bowing with aggressive politeness, "first, I humbly beg leave to speak with you, to—"
"Sir," said Mr. Chichester, gently tapping a nettle out of existence with his cane, "sir, I have no desire for your speeches, they, like yourself, I find a little trying, and vastly uninteresting. I prefer to stay here and meditate a while. I bid you good night, sir, a pleasant ride."
"None the less, sir," said Barnabas, beginning to smile, "I fear I must inflict myself upon you a moment longer, to warn you that I—"
"To warn me? Again? Oh, sir, I grow weary of your warnings, I do indeed! Pray go away and warn somebody else. Pray go, and let me stare upon the moon and twiddle my thumbs until—"
"If it is the Lady Cleone you wait for, she is gone!" said Youth, quick and impetuous.
"Ah!" sighed Mr. Chichester, viewing Barnabas through narrowed eyes, "gone, you say? But then, young sir," here he gently poked a dock-leaf into ruin, "but then, Cleone is one of your tempting, warm, delicious creatures! Cleone is a skilled coquette to whom all men are—men. To-night it is—you, to-morrow—" Mr. Chichester's right hand vanished into his bosom as Barnabas strode forward, but, on the instant, Billy Button was between them.
"Stay, my Lord!" he cried, "look upon this face,—'t is the face of my friend Barnaby Bright, but, my Lord, it is also the face of Joan's son. You've heard tell of Joan, poor Joan who was unhappy, and ran away, and got lost,—you'll mind Joan Beverley?" Now, in the pause that followed, as Mr. Chichester gazed at Barnabas, his narrowed eyes opened, little by little, his compressed lips grew slowly loose, and the tasselled cane slipped from his fingers, and lay all neglected.
"Sir," said Barnabas at last, "this is what I would have told you. I am the lawful son of Joan Beverley, whose maiden name I took for—a purpose. I have but to prove my claim and I can dispossess you of the inheritance you hold, which is mine by right. But, sir, I have enough for my needs, and I am, therefore, prepared to forego my just claim—on a condition."
Mr. Chichester neither moved nor spoke.
"My condition," Barnabas continued, "is this. That, from this hour, you loose whatever hold you have upon Ronald Barrymaine,—that you have no further communication with him, either by word or letter. Failing this, I institute proceedings at once, and will dispossess you as soon as may be. Sir, you have heard my condition, it is for you to answer."
But, as he ended, Billy Button pointed a shaking finger downwards at the grass midway between them, and spoke:
"Look!" he whispered, "look! Do you not see it—bubbling so dark, —down there among the grass? Ah! it reaches your feet, Barnaby Bright. But—look yonder! it rises to his heart,—look!" and with a sudden, wild gesture, he pointed to Chichester's rigid figure. "Blood!" he cried, "blood!—cover it up! Oh, hide it—hide it!" Then, turning about, he sped away, his muffled buttons jingling faintly as he went, and so was presently gone.
Then Barnabas loosed his horse and mounted, and, with never a glance nor word to the silent figure beneath the finger-post, galloped away London-wards.
Now, had it been possible for a worn and decrepit finger-post to be endued with the faculty of motion (which, in itself, is a ridiculous thought, of course), it is probable that this particular one would have torn itself up bodily, and hastened desperately after Barnabas to point him away—away, east or west, or north or south,—anywhere, so long as it was far enough from him who stood so very still, and who stared with such eyes so long upon the moon, with his right hand still hidden in his breast, while the vivid mark glowed, and glowed upon the pallor of his cheek.