The Amateur Gentleman Part 130

Cleone sighed.

"And I am a discredited impostor, the--the jest of every club in London!"

Cleone's hand stole up, and she touched his grimly-set chin very gently with one white finger.

"I am become a thing for the Fas.h.i.+onable World to sharpen its wits upon," he continued, keeping his stern gaze perseveringly averted.

"And so, my lady--because I cannot any longer cheat folks into accepting me as a--gentleman, I shall in all probability become a farmer, some day."

Cleone sighed.

"But you," Barnabas continued, a little harshly, "you were born for higher and greater fortune than to become the wife of a humble farming fellow, and consequently--"

"But I can make excellent b.u.t.ter, Barnabas," she sighed, stealing a glance up to him, "and I can cook--a little."

Now when she said this, he must needs look down at her again and lo!

there, at the corner of her mouth was the ghost of the dimple! And, beholding this, seeing the sudden witchery of her swift-drooping lashes, Barnabas forgot his stern resolutions and stooped his head, that he might kiss the glory of her hair. But, in that moment, she turned, swift and sudden, and yielded him her lips, soft, and warm, and pa.s.sionate with youth and all the joy of life. And borne away upon that kiss, it seemed to Barnabas, for one brief, mad-sweet instant that all things might be possible; if they started now they might reach London in the dawn and, staying only for Barrymaine, be aboard s.h.i.+p by evening! And it was a wide world, a very fair world, and with this woman beside him--

"It would be so--so very easy!" said he, slowly.

"Yes, it will be very easy!" she whispered.

"Too easy!" said he, beginning to frown, "you are so helpless and lonely, and I want you so bitterly, Cleone! Yes, it would be very easy. But you taught me once, that a man must ever choose the harder way, and this is the harder way, to love you, to long for you, and to bid you--good-by!"

"Oh! Barnabas?"

"Ah, Cleone, you could make the wretchedest hut a paradise for me, but for you, ah, for you it might some day become only a hut, and I, only a discredited Amateur Gentleman, after all."

Then Barnabas sighed and thereafter frowned, and so bore her to the chaise and setting her within, closed the door.

"Turn!" he cried to the postilion.

"Barnabas!"

But the word was lost in the creak of wheels and stamping of hoofs as the chaise swung round; then Barnabas remounted and, frowning still, trotted along beside it. Now in a while, lifting his sombre gaze towards a certain place beside the way, he beheld the dim outline of a finger-post, a very ancient finger-post which (though it was too dark to read its inscription) stood, he knew, with wide-stretched arms pointing the traveller:

TO LONDON. TO HAWKHURST.

And being come opposite the finger-post, he ordered the post-boy to stop, for, small with distance, he caught the twinkling lights of lanterns that swung to and fro, and, a moment later, heard a hail, faint and far, yet a stentorian bellow there was no mistaking.

Therefore coming close beside the chaise, he stooped down and looked within, and thus saw that Cleone leaned in the further corner with her face hidden in her hands.

"You are safe, now, my lady," said he, "the Bo'sun is coming, the Captain will be here very soon."

But my lady never stirred.

"You are safe now," he repeated, "as for Ronald, if Chichester's silence can save him, you need grieve no more, and--"

"Ah!" she cried, glancing up suddenly, "what do you mean?"

"That I must go, my lady, and--and--oh, my dear love, this harder way--is very hard to tread. If--we should meet no more after tonight, remember that I loved you--as I always have done and always must, humble fellow though I am. Yes, I think I love you as well as any fine gentleman of them all, and--Cleone--Good-by!"

"Barnabas," she cried, "tell me what you mean to do--oh, Barnabas, where are you going?" And now she reached out her hands as though to stay him. But, even so, he drew away, and, wheeling his horse, pointed towards the twinkling lights.

"Drive on!" he cried to the post-boy.

"Barnabas, wait!"

"Drive on!" he cried, "whip--spur!"

"Barnabas, stay! Oh, Barnabas, listen--"

But as Cleone strove desperately to open the door, the chaise lurched forward, the horses broke into a gallop, and Barnabas, sitting there beneath the ancient finger-post, saw imploring hands stretched out towards him, heard a desolate cry, and--he was alone.

So Barnabas sat there amid the gloom, and watched Happiness go from him. Very still he sat until the grind of wheels had died away in the distance; then he sighed, and spurring his jaded horse, rode back towards Headcorn.

And thus did Barnabas, in his folly, forego great joy, and set aside the desire of his heart that he might tread that Harder Way, which yet can be trod only by the foot of--A Man.

CHAPTER LXXII

HOW RONALD BARREYMAINE SQUARED HIS ACCOUNT

A distant clock was striking the hour as Barnabas rode in at the rusted gates of Ashleydown and up beneath an avenue of sombre trees beyond which rose the chimneys of a s.p.a.cious house, clear and plain against the palpitating splendor of the stars. But the house, like its surroundings, wore a desolate, neglected look, moreover it was dark, not a light was to be seen anywhere from attic to cellar. Yet, as Barnabas followed the sweep of the avenue, he suddenly espied a soft glow that streamed from an uncurtained window giving upon the terrace; therefore he drew rein, and dismounting, led his horse in among the trees and, having tethered him there, advanced towards the gloomy house, his gaze upon the lighted window, and treading with an ever growing caution.

Now, as he went, he took out one of the pistols, c.o.c.ked it, and with it ready in his hand, came to the window and peered into the room.

It was a long, low chamber with a fireplace at one end, and here, his frowning gaze bent upon the blazing logs, sat Mr. Chichester.

Upon the small table at his elbow were decanter and gla.s.ses, with a hat and gloves and a long travelling cloak. As Barnabas stood there Mr. Chichester stirred impatiently, cast a frowning glance at the clock in the corner and reaching out to the bell-rope that hung beside the mantel, jerked it viciously, and so fell to scowling at the fire again until the door opened and a bullet-headed, square-shouldered fellow entered, a formidable ruffian with pugilist written in his every feature; to whom Mr. Chichester appeared to give certain commands; and so dismissed him with an impatient gesture of his slim, white hands. As the door closed, Mr. Chichester started up and fell to pacing the floor only to return, and, flinging himself back in his chair, sat scowling at the fire again.

Then Barnabas raised the pistol-b.u.t.t and, beating in the window, loosed the catch, and, as Mr. Chichester sprang to his feet, opened the cas.e.m.e.nt and stepped into the room.

For a long moment neither spoke, while eyes met and questioned eyes, those of Barnabas wide and bright, Mr. Chichester's narrowed to s.h.i.+ning slits. And indeed, as they fronted each other thus, each was the opposite of the other, Barnabas leaning in the window, his pistol hand hidden behind him, a weary, bedraggled figure mired from heel to head; Mr. Chichester standing rigidly erect, immaculate of dress from polished boot to snowy cravat.

"So," said he at last, breaking the ominous silence, "so it's--yes, it is Mr.--Barty, I think, unpleasantly damp and devilish muddy, and, consequently, rather more objectionable than usual."

"I have ridden far, and the roads were bad," said Barnabas.

"Ah! and pray why inflict yourself upon me?"

"For a very good and sufficient reason, sir."

"Ha, a reason?" said Mr. Chichester, lounging against the mantel.

"Can it be you have discerned at last that the highly dramatic meeting between father and son at a certain banquet, not so long ago, was entirely contrived by myself--that it was my hand drove you from society and made you the derision of London, Mr. Barty?"

"Why, yes," sighed Barnabas; "I guessed that much, sir."

"Indeed, I admire your perspicacity, Mr. Barty. And now, I presume you have broken into my house with some brutal idea of pummelling me with your fists? But, sir, I am no prizefighter, like you and your estimable father, and I warn you that--"