"Yes, Ronald."
"D'you know w-what he is? D'you know he's a publican's son?—a vile, low fellow masquerading as a g-gentleman? Yes, he's a p-publican's son, I tell you!" he repeated, seeing how she shrank at this. "And you s-stoop to such as he—s-stoop to meet him in s-such a place as this! So I came to save you f-from yourself!"
"Did you, Ronald?"
"Yes—but oh, Cleone, you don't love the fellow, do you?"
"I think I—hate him, Ronald."
"Then you won't m-meet him again?"
"No, Ronald."
"And you'll try to be a little kinder—to C-Chichester?" Cleone shivered and rose to her feet.
"Come!" said she, her hands once more clasped upon her bosom, "it grows late, I must go."
"Yes. D-devilish depressing place this! G-give me your arm, Clo."
But as they turned to go, the bushes parted, and Barnabas appeared.
"Cleone!" he exclaimed.
"I—I'm going home!" she said, not looking at him.
"Then I will come with you,—if I may?"
"I had rather go—alone—with my brother."
"So pray s-stand aside, sir!" said Barrymaine haughtily through his swollen lips, staggering a little despite Cleone's arm.
"Sir," said Barnabas pleadingly, "I struck you a while ago, but it was the only way to save you from—a greater evil, as you know—"
"He means I threatened to s-shoot him, Clo—so I did, but it was for your sake, to sh-shield you from—persecution as a brother should."
"Cleone," said Barnabas, ignoring Barrymaine altogether, "if there is any one in this world who should know me, and what manner of man I am, surely it is you—"
"Yes, she knows you—b-better than you think, she knows you for a publican's son, first of all—"
"May I come with you, Cleone?"
"No, sir, n-not while I'm here. Cleone, you go with him, or m-me, so—choose!"
"Oh, Ronald, take me home!" she breathed.
So Barrymaine drew her arm through his and, turning his back on Barnabas, led her away. But, when they had gone a little distance, he frowned suddenly and came striding after them.
"Cleone," said he, "why are you so strange to me,—what is it, —speak to me."
But Cleone was dumb, and walked on beside Ronald Barrymaine with head averted, and so with never a backward glance, was presently lost to sight among the leaves.
Long after they had gone, Barnabas stood there, his head bowed, while the shadows deepened about him, dark and darker. Then all at once he sighed again and, lifting his head, glanced about him; and because of the desolation of the place, he shivered; and because of the new, sharp pain that gripped him, he uttered a bitter curse, and so, becoming aware of the pistol he yet grasped, he flung it far from him and strode away through the deepening gloom.
On he went, heeding only the tumult of sorrow and anger that surged within him. And so, betimes, reached the "Oak and Ivy" inn, where, finding Peterby and the phaeton already gone, according to his instructions, he hired post-horses and galloped away for London.
Now, as he went, though the evening was fine, it seemed to him that high overhead was a shadow that followed and kept pace with him, growing dark and ever darker; and thus as he rode he kept his gaze upon this menacing shadow.
As for my lady, she, securely locked within the sanctuary of her chamber, took pen and paper and wrote these words:
"You have destroyed my faith, and with that all else. Farewell."
Which done, she stamped a small, yet vicious foot upon a certain
crumpled letter, and thereafter, lying face down upon her bed, wept
hot, slow, bitter tears, stifling her sobs with the tumbled glory of
her hair, and in her heart was an agony greater than any she had
ever known.
CHAPTER LVII
BEING A PARENTHETICAL CHAPTER ON DOUBT, WHICH, THOUGH UNINTERESTING, IS VERY SHORT
It will perhaps be expected that, owing to this unhappy state of affairs, Barnabas should have found sleep a stranger to his pillow; but, on the contrary, reaching London at daybreak, he went to bed, and there, wearied by his long ride, found a blessed oblivion from all his cares and sorrows. Nor did he wake till the day was far spent and evening at hand. But, with returning consciousness came Memory to harrow him afresh, came cold Pride and glowing Anger. And with these also was yet another emotion, and one that he had never known till now, whose name is Doubt; doubt of himself and of his future—that deadly foe to achievement and success—that ghoul-like incubus which, once it fastens on a man, seldom leaves him until courage, and hope, and confidence are dead, and nothing remains but a foreknowledge and expectation of failure.
With this grisly spectre at his elbow Barnabas rose and dressed, and went downstairs to make a pretence of breaking his fast.
"Sir," said Peterby, watching how he sat staring down moodily at the table, "sir, you eat nothing."
"No, John, I'm not hungry," he answered, pushing his plate aside. "By the way, did you find the cottage I mentioned in my note? Though, indeed, you've had very little time."
"Yes, sir, I found one just beyond Lewisham, small, though comfortable. Here is the key, sir."
"Thank you, John," said Barnabas, and thereafter sat staring gloomily at the key until Peterby spoke again:
