"Come!" he said. And thus, for a moment, while he looked up into her
eyes, she looked down into his, and sighed, and moved towards him,
and--set her foot upon the pebble.
And thus, behold the pebble had achieved its purpose, for, next
moment Cleone was lying in his arms, and for neither of them was
life or the world to be ever the same thereafter.
Yes, indeed, the perfume of the roses was full of intoxication
to-night; the murmurous brook whispered of things scarce dreamed of;
and the waning moon was bright enough to show the look in her eyes
and the quiver of her mouth as Barnabas stooped above her.
"Cleone!" he whispered, "Cleone--can you--do you--love me? Oh, my
white lady,--my woman that I love,--do you love me?"
She did not speak, but her eyes answered him; and, in that moment
Barnabas stooped and kissed her, and held her close, and closer,
until she sighed and stirred in his embrace.
Then, all at once, he groaned and set her down, and stood before her
with bent head.
"My dear," said he, "oh, my dear!"
"Barnabas?"
"Forgive me,--I should have spoken,--indeed, I meant to,--but I
couldn't think,--it was so sudden,--forgive me! I didn't mean to
even touch your hand until I had confessed my deceit. Oh, my dear,
--I am not--not the fine gentleman you think me. I am only a very
--humble fellow. The son of a village--inn-keeper. Your eyes
were--kind to me just now, but, oh Cleone, if so humble a fellow
is--unworthy, as I fear,--I--I will try to--forget."
Very still she stood, looking upon his bent head, saw the quiver of
his lips, and the griping of his strong hands. Now, when she spoke,
her voice was very tender.
"Can you--ever forget?"
"I will--try!"
"Then--oh, Barnabas, don't! Because I--think I could--love
this--humble fellow, Barnabas."
The moon, of course, has looked on many a happy lover, yet where
find one, before or since, more radiant than young Barnabas; and the
brook, even in its softest, most tender murmurs, could never hope to
catch the faintest echo of Cleone's voice or the indescribable thrill
of it.
And as for the pebble that was so round, so smooth and
innocent-seeming, whether its part had been that of beneficent sprite,
or malevolent demon, he who troubles to read on may learn.