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!"