"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,
RONALD BARRYMAINE.
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.
