"Cleone!" he whispered, "Cleone—can you—do you—love me? Oh, my white lady,—my woman that I love,—do you love me?"
She did not speak, but her eyes answered him; and, in that moment Barnabas stooped and kissed her, and held her close, and closer, until she sighed and stirred in his embrace.
Then, all at once, he groaned and set her down, and stood before her with bent head.
"My dear," said he, "oh, my dear!"
"Barnabas?"
"Forgive me,—I should have spoken,—indeed, I meant to,—but I couldn't think,—it was so sudden,—forgive me! I didn't mean to even touch your hand until I had confessed my deceit. Oh, my dear, —I am not—not the fine gentleman you think me. I am only a very —humble fellow. The son of a village—inn-keeper. Your eyes were—kind to me just now, but, oh Cleone, if so humble a fellow is—unworthy, as I fear,—I—I will try to—forget."
Very still she stood, looking upon his bent head, saw the quiver of his lips, and the griping of his strong hands. Now, when she spoke, her voice was very tender.
"Can you—ever forget?"
"I will—try!"
"Then—oh, Barnabas, don't! Because I—think I could—love this—humble fellow, Barnabas."
The moon, of course, has looked on many a happy lover, yet where find one, before or since, more radiant than young Barnabas; and the brook, even in its softest, most tender murmurs, could never hope to catch the faintest echo of Cleone's voice or the indescribable thrill of it.
And as for the pebble that was so round, so smooth and
innocent-seeming, whether its part had been that of beneficent sprite,
or malevolent demon, he who troubles to read on may learn.
CHAPTER XLVII
HOW BARNABAS FOUND HIS MANHOOD
"Oh—hif you please, sir!"
Barnabas started, and looking about, presently espied a figure in the shadow of the osiers; a very small figure, upon whose diminutive jacket were numerous buttons that glittered under the moon.
"Why—it's Milo of Crotona!" said Cleone.
"Yes, my lady—hif you please, it are," answered Milo of Crotona, touching the peak of his leather cap.
"But—what are you doing here? How did you know where to find us?"
"'Cause as I came up the drive, m'lady, I jest 'appened to see you a-walking together,—so I followed you, I did, m'lady."
"Followed us?" repeated Cleone rather faintly. "Oh!"
"And then—when I seen you slip, m'lady, I thought as 'ow I'd better—wait a bit. So I waited, I did." And here, again, Milo of Crotona touched the peak of his cap, and looked from Barnabas to Cleone's flushing loveliness with eyes wide and profoundly innocent,—a very cherub in top-boots, only his buttons (Ah, his buttons!) seemed to leer and wink one to another, as much as to say: "Oh yes! Of course! to—be—sure?"
"And what brings you so far from London?" inquired Barnabas, rather hurriedly.
"Coach, sir,—box seat, sir!"
"And you brought your master with you, of course,—is the Viscount here?"
"No, m'lady. I 'ad to leave 'im be'ind 'count of 'im being unfit to travel—"
"Is he ill?"
"Oh, no, not hill, m'lady,—only shot, 'e is."
"Shot!" exclaimed Barnabas, "how—where?"
"In the harm, sir,—all on 'count of 'is 'oss,—'Moonraker' sir."
"His horse?"
"Yessir. 'S arternoon it were. Ye see, for a long time I ain't been easy in me mind about them stables where 'im and you keeps your 'osses, sir, 'count of it not being safe enough,—worritted I 'ave, sir. So 's arternoon, as we was passing the end o' the street, I sez to m'lud, I sez, 'Won't your Ludship jest pop your nob round the corner and squint your peepers at the 'osses?' I sez. So 'e laughs, easy like, and in we pops. And the first thing we see was your 'ead groom, Mr. Martin, wiv blood on 'is mug and one peeper in mourning a-wrastling wiv two coves, and our 'ead groom, Standish, wiv another of 'em. Jest as we run up, down goes Mr. Martin, but—afore they could maul 'im wiv their trotters, there's m'lud wiv 'is fists an' me wiv a pitchfork as 'appened to lie 'andy. And very lively it were, sir, for a minute or two. Then off goes a barker and off go the coves, and there's m'lud 'olding onto 'is harm and swearing 'eavens 'ard. And that's all, sir."
"And these men were—trying to get at the horses?"
"Ah! Meant to nobble 'Moonraker,' they did,—'im bein' one o' the favorites, d' ye see, sir, and it looked to me as if they meant to do for your 'oss, 'The Terror', as well."
"And is the Viscount much hurt?"
"Why no, sir. And it were only 'is whip-arm. 'Urts a bit o' course, but 'e managed to write you a letter, 'e did; an' 'ere it is."
So Barnabas took the letter, and holding it in the moonlight where
Cleone could see it, they, together, made out these words:
MY DEAR BEV,—There is durty work afoot. Some Raskells have tried to lame 'Moonraker,' but thanks to my Imp and your man Martin, quite unsuccessfully. How-beit your man Martin—regular game for all his years—has a broken nob and one ogle closed up, and I a ball through my arm, but nothing to matter. But I am greatly pirtirbed for the safety of 'Moonraker' and mean to get him into safer quarters and advise you to do likewise. Also, though your horse 'The Terror,' as the stable-boys call him, is not even in the betting, it almost seems, from what I can gather, that they meant to nobble him also. Therefore I think you were wiser to return at once, and I am anxious to see you on another matter as well. Your bets with Carnaby and Chichester have somehow got about and are the talk of the town, and from what I hear, much to your disparagement, I fear.
A pity to shorten your stay in the country, but under the circumstances, most advisable.
