"Do you start for London—soon?"
"To-night," nodded Barnabas.
"Sir," said she, after a pause, "I would thank you, if I could, for—for all that you have done for me."
"No, no," said Barnabas, hastily.
"Words are poor things, I know, but how else may I show my gratitude?"
And now it was Barnabas who was silent; but at last—
"There is a way," said he, staring at the finger-post.
"How—what way?"
"You might—kiss me—once, Cleone."
Now here she must needs steal a swift look at him, and thus she saw that he still stared at the ancient finger-post, but that his hands were tight clenched.
"I only ask," he continued heavily, "for what I might have taken."
"But didn't!" she added, with lips and eyes grown suddenly tender.
"No," sighed Barnabas, "nor shall I ever,—until you will it so,—because, you see, I love you."
Now as he gazed at the finger-post, even so she gazed at him; and thus she saw again the mark upon his cheek, and looking, sighed; indeed, it was the veriest ghost of a sigh, yet Barnabas heard it, and straightway forgot the finger-post, forgot the world and all things in it, save her warm beauty, the red allurement of her mouth, and the witchery of her drooping lashes; therefore he reached out his hands to her, and she saw that they were trembling.
"Cleone," he murmured, "oh, Cleone—look up!"
But even as he spoke she recoiled from his touch, for, plain and clear, came the sound of footsteps on the road near by. Sighing, Barnabas turned thitherwards and beheld advancing towards them one who paused, now and then, to look about him as though at a loss, and then hurried on again. A very desolate figure he was, and quaintly pathetic because of his gray hair, and the empty sleeve that flapped helplessly to and fro with the hurry of his going—a figure, indeed, that there was no mistaking. Being come to the finger-post, he paused to look wistfully on all sides, and Barnabas could see that his face was drawn and haggard. For a moment he gazed about him wild-eyed and eager, then with a sudden, hopeless gesture, he leaned his one arm against the battered sign-post and hid his face there.
"Oh, my lass—my dear!" he cried in a strangled voice, "why did you leave me? Oh, my lass!"
Then all at once came a rustle of parting leaves, the flutter of
flying draperies, and Cleone had fled to that drooping, disconsolate
figure, had wreathed her protecting arms about it, and so all moans,
and sobs, and little tender cries, had drawn her tyrant's head down
upon her gentle bosom and clasped it there.
CHAPTER XXII
IN WHICH THE READER IS INTRODUCED TO AN ANCIENT FINGER-POST
"Why, Cleone!" exclaimed the Captain, and folded his solitary arm about her; but not content with this, my lady must needs take his empty sleeve also, and, drawing it close about her neck, she held it there.
"Oh, Cleone!" sighed the Captain, "my dear, dear lass!"
"No," she cried, "I'm a heartless savage, an ungrateful wretch! I am, I am—and I hate myself!" and here, forthwith, she stamped her foot at herself.
"No, no, you're not—I say no! You didn't mean to break my heart. You've come back to me, thank God, and—and—Oh, egad, Cleone, I swear—I say I swear—by Gog and Magog, I'm snuffling like a birched schoolboy; but then I—couldn't bear to—lose my dear maid."
"Dear," she sighed, brushing away his tears with the cuff of his empty sleeve, "dear, if you'd only try to hate me a little—just a little, now and then, I don't think I should be quite such a wretch to you." Here she stood on tip-toe and kissed him on the chin, that being nearest. "I'm a cat—yes, a spiteful cat, and I must scratch sometimes; but ah! if you knew how I hated myself after! And I know you'll go and forgive me again, and that's what makes it so hard to bear."
"Forgive you, Clo'—ay, to be sure! You've come back to me, you see, and you didn't mean to leave me solitary and—"
"Ah, but I did—I did! And that's why I am a wretch, and a cat, and a savage! I meant to run away and leave you for ever and ever!"
"The house would be very dark without you, Cleone."
"Dear, hold me tighter—now listen! There are times when I hate the house, and the country, and—yes, even you. And at such times I grow afraid of myself—hold me tighter!—at such times I long for London—and—and—Ah, but you do love me, don't you?"
"Love you—my own lass!" The Captain's voice was very low, yet eloquent with yearning tenderness; but even so, his quick ear had caught a rustle in the hedge, and his sharp eye had seen Barnabas standing in the shadow. "Who's that?" he demanded sharply.
"Why, indeed," says my lady, "I had forgotten him. 'Tis a friend of yours, I think. Pray come out, Mr. Beverley."
"Beverley!" exclaimed the Captain. "Now sink me! what's all this?
Come out, sir,—I say come out and show yourself!"
So Barnabas stepped out from the hedge, and uncovering his head, bowed low.
"Your very humble, obedient servant, sir," said he.
"Ha! by Thor and Odin, so it's you again, is it, sir? Pray, what brings you still so far from the fashionable world? What d'ye want, sir, eh, sir?"
"Briefly, sir," answered Barnabas, "your ward."
"Eh—what? what?" cried the Captain.
"Sir," returned Barnabas, "since you are the Lady Cleone's lawful guardian, it is but right to tell you that I hope to marry her—some day."
"Marry!" exclaimed the Captain. "Marry my—damme, sir, but you're cool—I say cool and devilish impudent, and—and—oh, Gad, Cleone!"
