HOW BARNABAS CLIMBED A WALL
Now presently, as he went, he became aware of a sound that was not
the stir of leaves, nor the twitter of birds, nor the music of
running waters, though all these were in his ears,--for this was
altogether different; a distant sound that came and went, that
swelled to a murmur, sank to a whisper, yet never wholly died away.
Little by little the sound grew plainer, more insistent, until,
mingled with the leafy stirrings, he could hear a plaintive melody,
rising and falling, faint with distance.
Hereupon Barnabas halted suddenly, his chin in hand, his brow
furrowed in thought, while over his senses stole the wailing melody
of the distant violins. A while he stood thus, then plunged into the
cool shadow of a wood, and hurried on by winding tracks, through
broad glades, until the wood was left behind, until the path became
a grassy lane; and ever the throbbing melody swelled and grew. It
was a shady lane, tortuous and narrow, but on strode Barnabas until,
rounding a bend, he beheld a wall, an ancient, mossy wall of red
brick; and with his gaze upon this, he stopped again. But the melody
called to him, louder now and more insistent, and mingled with the
throb of the violins was the sound of voices and laughter.
Then, standing on tip-toe, Barnabas set his hands to the coping of
the wall, and drawing himself up, caught a momentary vision of
smiling gardens, of green lawns where bright figures moved, of
winding walks and neat trimmed hedges, ere, swinging himself over,
he dropped down among a bed of Sir George Annersley's stocks.
Before him was a shady walk winding between clipped yews, and,
following this, Barnabas presently espied a small arbor some
distance away. Now between him and this arbor was a place where four
paths met, and where stood an ancient sun-dial with quaintly carved
seats. And here, the sun making a glory of her wondrous hair, was my
Lady Cleone, with the Marquis of Jerningham beside her. She sat with
her elbow on her knee and her dimpled chin upon her palm, and, even
from where he stood, Barnabas could see again the witchery of her
lashes that drooped dark upon the oval of her cheek.
The Marquis was talking earnestly, gesturing now and then with his
slender hand that had quite lost its habitual languor, and stooping
that he might look into the drooping beauty of her face, utterly
regardless of the havoc he thus wrought upon the artful folds of his
marvellous cravat. All at once she looked up, laughed and shook her
head, and, closing her fan, pointed with it towards the distant house,
laughing still, but imperious. Hereupon the Marquis rose, albeit
unwillingly, and bowing, hurried off to obey her behest. Then Cleone
rose also, and turning, went on slowly toward the arbor, with head
drooping as one in thought.
And now, with his gaze upon that shapely back, all youthful
loveliness from slender foot to the crowning glory of her hair,
Barnabas sighed, and felt his heart leap as he strode after her. But,
even as he followed, oblivious of all else under heaven, he beheld
another back that obtruded itself suddenly upon the scene, a broad,
graceful back in a coat of fine blue cloth,--a back that bore itself
with a masterful swing of the shoulders. And, in that instant,
Barnabas recognized Sir Mortimer Carnaby.
Cleone had reached the arbor, but on the threshold turned to meet
Sir Mortimer's sweeping bow. And now she seemed to hesitate, then
extended her hand, and Sir Mortimer followed her into the arbor. My
lady's cheeks were warm with rich color, her eyes were suddenly and
strangely bright as she sank into a chair, and Sir Mortimer,
misinterpreting this, had caught and imprisoned her hands.
"Cleone," said he, "at last!" The slender hands fluttered in his
grasp, but his grasp was strong, and, ere she could stay him, he was
down before her on his knee, and speaking quick and passionately.
"Cleone!--hear me! nay, I will speak! All the afternoon I have tried
to get a word with you, and now you must hear me--you shall. And
yet you know what I would say. You know I love you, and have done
from the first hour I saw you. And from that hour I've hungered for
your, Cleone, do you hear? Ah, tell me you love me!"
But my lady sat wide-eyed, staring at the face amid the leaves
beyond the open window,--a face so handsome, yet so distorted; saw
the gleam of clenched teeth, the frowning brows, the menacing gray
eyes.
Sir Mortimer, all unconscious, had caught her listless hands to his
lips, and was speaking again between his kisses.
"Speak, Cleone! You know how long I have loved you,--speak and bid
me hope! What, silent still? Why, then--give me that rose from your
bosom,--let it be hope's messenger, and speak for you."
But still my lady sat dumb, staring up at the face amid the leaves,
the face of Man Primeval, aglow with all the primitive passions;
beheld the drawn lips and quivering nostrils, the tense jaw savage
and masterful, and the glowing eyes that threatened her. And, in
that moment, she threw tip her head rebellious, and sighed, and
smiled,--a woman's smile, proud, defiant; and, uttering no word,
gave Sir Mortimer the rose. Then, even as she did so, sprang to her
feet, and laughed, a little tremulously, and bade Sir Mortimer Go! Go!
Go! Wherefore, Sir Mortimer, seeing her thus, and being wise in the
ways of women, pressed the flower to his lips, and so turned and
strode off down the path. And when his step had died away Cleone
sank down in the chair, and spoke.
"Come out--spy!" she called. And Barnabas stepped out from the leaves.
Then, because she knew what look was in his eyes, she kept her own
averted; and because she was a woman young, and very proud, she
lashed him with her tongue.
"So much for your watching and listening!" said she.
"But--he has your rose!" said Barnabas.
"And what of that?"
"And he has your promise!"
"I never spoke--"
"But the rose did!"
"The rose will fade and wither--"
"But it bears your promise--"
"I gave no promise, and--and--oh, why did you--look at me!"
"Look at you?"
"Why did you frown at me?"
"Why did you give him the rose?"
"Because it was so my pleasure. Why did you frown at me with eyes
like--like a devil's?"
"I wanted to kill him--then!"
"And now?"
"Now, I wish him well of his bargain, and my thanks are due to him."
"Why?"
"Because, without knowing it, he has taught me what women are."
"What do you mean?"
"I--loved you, Cleone. To me you were one apart--holy, immaculate--"
"Yes?" said Cleone very softly.
"And I find you--"
"Only a--woman, sir,--who will not be watched, and frowned at, and
spied upon."
"--a heartless coquette--" said Barnabas.
"--who despises eavesdroppers, and will not be spied upon, or
frowned at!"
"I did not spy upon you," cried Barnabas, stung at last, "or if I did,
God knows it was well intended."
"How, sir?"
"I remembered the last time we three were together,--in Annersley
Wood." Here my lady shivered and hid her face. "And now, you gave
him the rose! Do you want the love of this man, Cleone?"
"There is only one man in all the world I despise more, and his name
is--Barnabas," said she, without looking up.
"So you--despise me, Cleone?"
"Yes--Barnabas."
"And I came here to tell you that I--loved you--to ask you to be my
wife--"
"And looked at me with Devil's eyes--"
"Because you were mine, and because he--"
"Yours, Barnabas? I never said so."
"Because I loved you--worshipped you, and because--"
"Because you were--jealous, Barnabas!"
"Because I would have my wife immaculate--"
"But I am not your--wife."
"No," said Barnabas, frowning, "she must be immaculate."
Now when he said this he heard her draw a long, quivering sigh, and
with the sigh she rose to her feet and faced him, and her eyes were
wide and very bright, and the fan she held snapped suddenly across
in her white fingers.
"Sir," she said, very softly, "I whipped you once, if I had a whip
now, your cheek should burn again."
"But I should not ask you to kiss it,--this time!" said Barnabas.
"Yes," she said, in the same soft voice, "I despise you--for
a creeping spy, a fool, a coward--a maligner of women. Oh,
go away,--pray go. Leave me, lest I stifle."
But now, seeing the flaming scorn of him in her eyes, in the
passionate quiver of her hands, he grew afraid, cowed by her very
womanhood.
"Indeed," he stammered, "you are unjust. I--I did not mean--"
"Go!" said she, cold as ice, "get back over the wall. Oh! I saw you
climb over like a--thief! Go away, before I call for help--before I
call the grooms and stable-boys to whip you out into the road where
you belong--go, I say!" And frowning now, she stamped her foot, and
pointed to the wall. Then Barnabas laughed softty, savagely, and,
reaching out, caught her up in his long arms and crushed her to him.
"Call if you will, Cleone," said he, "but listen first! I said to
you that my wife should come to me immaculate--fortune's spoiled
darling though she be,--petted, wooed, pampered though she is,--and,
by God, so you shall! For I love you, Cleone, and if I live, I will
some day call you 'wife,'--in spite of all your lovers, and all the
roses that ever bloomed. Now, Cleone,--call them if you will." So
saying he set her down and freed her from his embrace. But my
lady, leaning breathless in the doorway, only looked at him
once,--frowning a little, panting a little,--a long wondering look
beneath her lashes, and, turning, was gone among the leaves. Then
Barnabas picked up the broken fan, very tenderly, and put it into
his bosom, and so sank down into the chair, his chin propped upon
his fist, frowning blackly at the glory of the afternoon.