"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."
CHAPTER XLI
IN WHICH BARNABAS MAKES A SURPRISING DISCOVERY, THAT MAY NOT SURPRISE THE READER IN THE LEAST
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."
