The Amateur Gentleman Part 129

CHAPTER LXXI

WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS, IN HIS FOLLY, CHOSE THE HARDER COURSE

"You! Is it you--Barnabas?" she whispered and thereafter sighed, a long, quivering sigh. "I--I've been hoping you would come!"

And now, as he looked at her, he saw that her cheeks were suffused, all at once, with a warm and vivid color. "Hoped?" said Barnabas, wondering.

"And--prayed!" she whispered.

"Then, you expected me? You knew I should come?"

"Yes, Barnabas. I--I hoped you would see my--letter to Ronald--that was why I wrote it! And I prayed that you might come--"

"Why?"

"Because I--oh, Barnabas, I'm afraid!"

"You were going to--Chichester?"

"Yes, Barnabas."

"You don't--love him, do you?"

"Love him!" she repeated, "Oh, G.o.d!"

And Barnabas saw her shudder violently.

"Yet you were going to him."

"To save my brother. But now--G.o.d help me, I can't do it! Oh, it's too hateful and--and I am afraid, Barnabas. I ought to have been at Ashleydown an hour ago, but oh, I--I couldn't, it was too horrible--I couldn't! So I came the longest way; I made the post-boy drive very slowly, I--I was waiting--for you, Barnabas, praying G.o.d that you would come to me--"

"Because you--were afraid, my lady."

"Yes, Barnabas."

"And behold, I am here!" said Barnabas. But now, seeing the quiver of her white hands, and the light in her eyes--a sudden glow that was not of the lanterns, he turned his head and looked resolutely away.

"I am here, my lady, to take you back home again," said he.

"Home?" she repeated. "Ah, no, no--I have no home, now! Oh, Barnabas,"

she whispered, "take me, take me away--to my brother. Let us go away from England to-night--anywhere, take me with you, Barnabas."

Now, as she spoke, her hands came out to him with a swift gesture, full of pa.s.sionate entreaty. And the lanterns made a s.h.i.+ning glory of her hair, and showed him the deep wonder of her eyes, the quick surge of her round, young bosom, the tender quiver of the parted lips as she waited his answer; thus our Barnabas beholding the witchery of her shy-drooping lashes, the scarlet lure of her mouth, the yielding warmth and all the ripe beauty of her, fell suddenly a-trembling and sighed; then, checking the sigh, looked away again across the dim desolation of the country-side, and clenched his hands.

"My lady," said he, his voice hoa.r.s.e and uncertain, "why do you--tempt me? I am only--an amateur gentleman--why do you tempt me so?" As he spoke he wheeled his horse and motioned to the flinching postboy. "Turn!" he commanded.

"No!" cried Cleone.

"Turn!" said Barnabas, and, as the post-boy hesitated, levelled his pistol.

But now, even as the postilion chirruped to his horses, the chaise door was flung open and Cleone sprang down into the road; but even so, Barnabas barred her way.

"Let me pa.s.s!" she cried.

"To Chichester?"

"Yes--G.o.d help me. Since you force me to it! Let me go!"

"Get back into the chaise, my lady."

"No, no! Let me pa.s.s, I go to save my brother--"

"Not this way!"

"Oh!" she cried pa.s.sionately, "you force it upon me, yes--you! you!

If you won't help me, I must go to him! Dear heaven! there is no other way, let me go--you must--you shall!"

"Go back into the chaise, my lady."

Barnabas spoke very gently but, as she stared up at him, a movement of his horse brought him into the light of the lanterns and, in that moment, her breath caught, for now she beheld him as she had seen him once before, a wild, desperate figure, bare-headed, torn, and splashed with mud; grim of mouth, and in his eyes a look she had once dreamed of and never since forgotten. And, as she gazed, Barnabas spoke again and motioned with his pistol hand.

"Get back into the chaise, my lady."

"No!" she answered, and, though her face was hidden now, he knew that she was weeping. "I'm going on, now--to Ashleydown, to save Ronald, to redeem the promise I gave our mother; I must, I must, and oh--nothing matters to me--any more, so let me go!"

"My lady," said Barnabas, in the same weary tone, "you must get back into the chaise."

"And let Ronald die--and such a death! Never! oh never!"

Barnabas sighed, slipped the pistol into his pocket and dismounted, but, being upon his feet, staggered; then, or ever she knew, he had caught her in his arms, being minded to bear her to the chaise. But in that moment, he looked down and so stood there, bound by the spell of her beauty, forgetful of all else in the world, for the light of the lanterns was all about them, and Cleone's eyes were looking up into his.

"Barnabas," she whispered, "Barnabas, don't let me go!--save me from--that!"

"Ah, Cleone," he murmured, "oh, my lady, do you doubt me still? Can you think that I should fail you?

"Oh, my dear, my dear--I've found a way, and mine is a better way than yours. Be comforted then and trust me, Cleone."

Then, she stirred in his embrace, and, sighing, hid her face close against him and, with her face thus hidden, spoke:

"Yes, yes--I do trust you, Barnabas, utterly, utterly! Take me away with you--tonight, take me to Ronald and let us go away together, no matter where so long as--we go--together, Barnabas." Now when she said this, she could feel how his arms tightened about her, could hear how his breath caught sudden and sharp, and, though she kept her face hid from him, well she knew what look was in his eyes; therefore she lay trembling a little, sighing a little, and with fast-beating heart. And, in a while, Barnabas spoke:

"My lady," said he heavily, "would you trust yourself to--a publican's son?"

"If he would not be--too proud to--take me, Barnabas."

"Oh, my lady--can't you see that if I--if I take you with me tonight, you must be with me--always?"