"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, God!"
And Barnabas saw her shudder violently.
"Yet you were going to him."
"To save my brother. But now--God 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 God 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 passionate entreaty. And the lanterns made a shining 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 hoarse 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.