IN WHICH SHALL BE FOUND FURTHER MENTION OF A FINGER-POST
The hands of Natty Bell's great watch were pointing to the hour of
nine, what time Barnabas dismounted at the cross-roads, and
tethering Four-legs securely, leaned his back against the ancient
finger-post to wait the coming of Cleone.
Now being old, and having looked upon many and divers men (and women)
in its day, it is to be supposed that the ancient finger-post took
more or less interest in such things as chanced in its immediate
vicinity. Thus, it is probable that it rightly defined why this
particular long-legged human sighed so often, now with his gaze upon
the broad disc of the moon, now upon a certain point of the road
ahead, and was not in the least surprised to see Barnabas start
forward, bareheaded, to meet her who came swift and light of foot;
to see her pause before him, quick-breathing, blushing, sighing,
trembling; to see how glance met glance; to see him stoop to kiss the
hand she gave him, and all--without a word. Surprised? not a bit of
it, for to a really observant finger-post all humans (both he and she)
are much alike at such times.
"I began to fear you wouldn't come," said Barnabas, finding voice at
last.
"But to-night is--Barnaby Bright, and the prophecy must be fulfilled,
sir. And--oh, how wonderful the moon is!" Now, lifting her head to
look at it, her hood must needs take occasion to slip back upon her
shoulders, as if eager to reveal her loveliness,--the high beauty of
her face, the smooth round column of her throat, and the shining
wonder of her hair.
"Cleone--how beautiful you are!"
And here ensued another silence while Cleone gazed up at the moon,
and Barnabas at Cleone.
But the ancient finger-post (being indeed wonderfully knowing--for a
finger-post) well understood the meaning of such silences, and was
quite aware of the tremble of the strong fingers that still held hers,
and why, in the shadow of her cloak, her bosom hurried so. Oh! be
sure the finger-post knew the meaning of it all, since humans, of
every degree, are only men and women after all.
"Cleone, when will you--marry me?"
Now here my lady stole a quick glance at him, and immediately looked
up at the moon again, because the eyes that could burn so fiercely
could hold such ineffable tenderness also.
"You are very--impetuous, I think," she sighed.
"But I--love you," said Barnabas, "not only for your beauty, but
because you are Cleone, and there is no one else in the world like
you. But, because I love you so much, it--it is very hard to tell
you of it. If I could only put it into fine-sounding phrases--"
"Don't!" said my lady quickly, and laid a slender (though very
imperious) finger upon his lips.
"Why?" Barnabas inquired, very properly kissing the finger and
holding it there.
"Because I grow tired of fine phrases and empty compliments, and
because, sir--"
"Have you forgotten that my name is Barnabas?" he demanded, kissing
the captive finger again, whereupon it struggled--though very feebly,
to be sure.
"And because, Barnabas, you would be breaking your word."
"How?"
"You must only tell me--that, when 'the sun is shining, and friends
are within call,'--have you forgotten your own words so soon?"
Now, as she spoke Barnabas beheld the dimple--that most elusive
dimple, that came and went and came again, beside the scarlet lure
of her mouth; therefore he drew her nearer until he could look, for
a moment, into the depths of her eyes. But here, seeing the glowing
intensity of his gaze, becoming aware of the strong, compelling arm
about her, feeling the quiver of the hand that held her own, lo! in
that instant my lady, with her sly bewitchments, her coquettish airs
and graces, was gone, and in her place was the maid--quick-breathing,
blushing, trembling, all in a moment.
"Ah, no!" she pleaded, "Barnabas, no!" Then Barnabas sighed, and
loosed his clasp--but behold! the dimple was peeping at him again.
And in that moment he caught her close, and thus, for the first time,
their lips met.
Oh, privileged finger-post to have witnessed that first kiss! To
have seen her start away and turn; to have felt her glowing cheek
pressed to thy hoary timbers; to have felt the sweet, quick tumult
of her bosom! Oh, thrice happy finger-post! To have seen young
Barnabas, radiant-faced, and with all heaven in his eyes! Oh, most
fortunate of finger-posts to have seen and felt all this, and to
have heard the rapture thrilling in his voice:
"Cleone!"
"Oh!" she whispered, "why--why did you?"
"Because I love you!"
"No other man ever dared to--"
"Heaven be praised!"
"Upon--the mouth!" she added, her face still hidden.
"Then I have set my seal upon it."
"And now,--am I--immaculate?"
"Oh--forgive me!"
"No!"
"Look at me."
"No!"
"Are you angry?"
"Yes, I--think I am, Barnabas,--oh, very!"
"Forgive me!" said Barnabas again.
"First," said my lady, throwing up her head, "am I--heartless and
a--coquette?"
"No, indeed, no! Oh, Cleone, is it possible you could learn to--love
me, in time?"
"I--I don't know."
"Some day, Cleone?"
"I--I didn't come to answer--idle questions, sir," says my lady,
suddenly demure. "It must be nearly half-past nine--I must go. I
forgot to tell you--Mr. Chichester is coming to meet me to-night--"
"To meet you? Where?" demanded Barnabas, fierce-eyed all at once.
"Here, Barnabas. But don't look so--so murderous!"
"Chichester--here!"
"At a quarter to ten, Barnabas. That is why I must go at--half-past
nine--Barnabas, stop! Oh, Barnabas, you're crushing me! Not again,
sir,--I forbid you--please, Barnabas!"
So Barnabas loosed her, albeit regretfully, and stood watching while
she dexterously twisted, and smoothed, and patted her shining hair
into some semblance of order; and while so doing, she berated him,
on this wise:
"Indeed, sir, but you're horribly strong. And very hasty. And your
hands are very large. And I fear you have a dreadful temper. And I
know my hair is all anyhow,--isn't it?"
"It is beautiful!" sighed Barnabas.
"Mm! You told me that in Annersley Wood, sir."
"You haven't forgotten, then?"
"Oh, no," answered Cleone, shaking her head, "but I would have you
more original, you see,--so many men have told me that. Ah! now
you're frowning again, and it's nearly time for me to go, and I
haven't had a chance to mention what I came for, which, of course,
is all your fault, Barnabas. To-day, I received a letter from Ronald.
He writes that he has been ill, but is better. And yet, I fear, he
must be very weak still, for oh! it's such poor, shaky writing. Was
he very ill when you saw him?"
"No," answered Barnabas.
"Here is the letter,--will you read it? You see, I have no one who
will talk to me about poor Ronald, no one seems to have any pity for
him,--not even my dear Tyrant."
"But you will always have me, Cleone!"
"Always, Barnabas?"
"Always."
So Barnabas took Ronald Barrymaine's letter, and opening it, saw
that it was indeed scrawled in characters so shaky as to be
sometimes almost illegible; but, holding it in the full light of the
moon, he read as follows:
DEAREST OF SISTERS,--I was unable to keep the appointment
I begged for in my last, owing to a sudden indisposition,
and, though better now, I am still ailing. I fear my many
misfortunes are rapidly undermining my health, and
sometimes I sigh for Death and Oblivion. But, dearest Cleone,
I forbid you to grieve for me, I am man enough, I hope,
to endure my miseries uncomplainingly, as a man and a gentleman
should. Chichester, with his unfailing kindness, has offered me
an asylum at his country place near Headcorn, where I hope to
regain something of my wonted health. But for Chichester I
tremble to think what would have been my fate long
before this. At Headcorn I shall at least be nearer you,
my best of sisters, and it is my hope that you may be
persuaded to steal away now and then, to spend an hour
with two lonely bachelors, and cheer a brother's solitude.
Ah, Cleone! Chichester's devotion to you is touching, such
patient adoration must in time meet with its reward. By
your own confession you have nothing against him but
the fact that he worships you too ardently, and this, most
women would think a virtue. And remember, he is your
luckless brother's only friend. This is the only man who
has stood by me in adversity, the only man who can help
me to retrieve the past, the only man a truly loving sister
should honor with her regard. All women are more or
less selfish. Oh, Cleone, be the exception and give my
friend the answer he seeks, the answer he has sought of
you already, the answer which to your despairing brother
means more than you can ever guess, the answer whereby
you can fulfil the promise you gave our dying mother to
help
Your unfortunate brother,
RONALD BARRYMAINE.
Now, as he finished reading, Barnabas frowned, tore the letter
across in sudden fury, and looked up to find Cleone frowning also:
"You have torn my letter!"
"Abominable!" said Barnabas fiercely.
"How dared you?"
"It is the letter of a coward and weakling!"
"My brother, sir!"
"Half-brother."
"And you insult him!"
"He would sell you to a--" Barnabas choked.
"Mr. Chichester is my brother's friend."
"His enemy!"
"And poor Ronald is sick--"
"With brandy!"
"Oh--not that!" she cried sharply, "not that!"
"Didn't you know?"
"I only--dreaded it. His father--died of it. Oh, sir--oh, Barnabas!
there is no one else who will help him--save him from--that! You
will try, won't you?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, setting his jaw, "no one can help a man
against his will, but I'll try. And I ask you to remember that if I
succeed or not, I shall never expect any recompense from you, never!"
"Unless, Barnabas--" said Cleone, softly.
"Unless--oh, Cleone, unless you should--some day learn to--love
me--just a little, Cleone?"
"Would--just a little, satisfy you?"
"No," said Barnabas, "no, I want you all--all--all. Oh, Cleone, will
you marry me?"
"You are very persistent, sir, and I must go."
"Not yet,--pray not yet."
"Please, Barnabas. I would not care to see Mr. Chichester--to-night."
"No," sighed Barnabas, "you must go. But first,--will you--?"
"Not again, Barnabas!" And she gave him her two hands. So he stopped
and kissed them instead. Then she turned and left him standing
bareheaded under the finger-post. But when she had gone but a little
way she paused and spoke to him over her shoulder:
"Will you--write to me--sometimes?"
"Oh--may I?"
"Please, Barnabas,--to tell me of--my brother."
"And when can I see you again?"
"Ah! who can tell?" she answered. And so, smiling a little, blushing
a little, she hastened away.
Now, when she was gone, Barnabas stooped, very reverently, and
pressed his lips to the ancient finger-post, on that spot where her
head had rested, and sighed, and turned towards his great, black
horse.
But, even as he did so, he heard again that soft sound that was like
the faint jingle of spurs, the leaves of the hedge rustled, and out
into the moonlight stepped a tall figure, wild of aspect, bareheaded
and bare of foot; one who wore his coat wrong side out, and who,
laying his hand upon his bosom, bowed in stately fashion, once to
the moon and once to him.
"Oh, Barnaby Bright, Barnaby Bright,
The moon's awake, and shines all night!"
"Do you remember, Barnaby Bright, how I foretold we should meet
again--under an orbed moon? Was I not right? She's fair, Barnaby,
and passing fair, and very proud,--but all good, beautiful women are
proud, and hard in the winning,--oh, I know! Billy Button knows! My
buttons jingled, so I turned my coat, though I'm no turn-coat; once
a friend, always a friend. So I followed you, Barnaby Bright, I came
to warn you of the shadow,--it grows blacker every day,--back there
in the great city, waiting for you, Barnaby Bright, to smother
you--to quench hope, and light, and life itself. But I shall be there,
--and She. Aha! She shall forget all things then--even her pride.
Shadows have their uses, Barnaby, even the blackest. I came a long
way--oh, I followed you. But poor Billy is never weary, the Wise
Ones bear him up in their arms sometimes. So I followed you--and
another, also, though he didn't know it. Oho! would you see me
conjure you a spirit from the leaves yonder,--ah! but an evil spirit,
this! Shall I? Watch now! See, thus I set my feet! Thus I lift my
arms to the moon!"
So saying, the speaker flung up his long arms, and with his gaze
fixed upon a certain part of the hedge, lifted his voice and spoke:
"Oho, lurking spirit among the shadows! Ho! come forth, I summon ye.
The dew is thick amid the leaves, and dew is an evil thing for
purple and fine linen. Oho, stand forth, I bid ye."
There followed a moment's utter silence, then--another rustle amid
the leaves, and Mr. Chichester stepped out from the shadows.
"Ah, sir," said Barnabas, consulting his watch, "you are just
twenty-three minutes before your time. Nevertheless you are, I think,
too late."
Mr. Chichester glanced at Barnabas from head to foot, and, observing
his smile, Barnabas clenched his fists.
"Too late, sir?" repeated Mr. Chichester softly, shaking his head,
"no,--indeed I think not. Howbeit there are times and occasions when
solitude appeals to me; this is one. Pray, therefore, be good enough
to--go, and--ah--take your barefooted friend with you."
"First, sir," said Barnabas, bowing with aggressive politeness,
"first, I humbly beg leave to speak with you, to--"
"Sir," said Mr. Chichester, gently tapping a nettle out of existence
with his cane, "sir, I have no desire for your speeches, they, like
yourself, I find a little trying, and vastly uninteresting. I prefer
to stay here and meditate a while. I bid you good night, sir, a
pleasant ride."
"None the less, sir," said Barnabas, beginning to smile, "I fear I
must inflict myself upon you a moment longer, to warn you that I--"
"To warn me? Again? Oh, sir, I grow weary of your warnings, I do
indeed! Pray go away and warn somebody else. Pray go, and let me
stare upon the moon and twiddle my thumbs until--"
"If it is the Lady Cleone you wait for, she is gone!" said Youth,
quick and impetuous.
"Ah!" sighed Mr. Chichester, viewing Barnabas through narrowed eyes,
"gone, you say? But then, young sir," here he gently poked a
dock-leaf into ruin, "but then, Cleone is one of your tempting, warm,
delicious creatures! Cleone is a skilled coquette to whom all men
are--men. To-night it is--you, to-morrow--" Mr. Chichester's right
hand vanished into his bosom as Barnabas strode forward, but, on the
instant, Billy Button was between them.
"Stay, my Lord!" he cried, "look upon this face,--'t is the face of
my friend Barnaby Bright, but, my Lord, it is also the face of
Joan's son. You've heard tell of Joan, poor Joan who was unhappy,
and ran away, and got lost,--you'll mind Joan Beverley?" Now, in the
pause that followed, as Mr. Chichester gazed at Barnabas, his
narrowed eyes opened, little by little, his compressed lips grew
slowly loose, and the tasselled cane slipped from his fingers, and
lay all neglected.
"Sir," said Barnabas at last, "this is what I would have told you. I
am the lawful son of Joan Beverley, whose maiden name I took for--a
purpose. I have but to prove my claim and I can dispossess you of
the inheritance you hold, which is mine by right. But, sir, I have
enough for my needs, and I am, therefore, prepared to forego my just
claim--on a condition."
Mr. Chichester neither moved nor spoke.
"My condition," Barnabas continued, "is this. That, from this hour,
you loose whatever hold you have upon Ronald Barrymaine,--that you
have no further communication with him, either by word or letter.
Failing this, I institute proceedings at once, and will dispossess
you as soon as may be. Sir, you have heard my condition, it is for
you to answer."
But, as he ended, Billy Button pointed a shaking finger downwards at
the grass midway between them, and spoke:
"Look!" he whispered, "look! Do you not see it--bubbling so dark,
--down there among the grass? Ah! it reaches your feet, Barnaby
Bright. But--look yonder! it rises to his heart,--look!" and with a
sudden, wild gesture, he pointed to Chichester's rigid figure.
"Blood!" he cried, "blood!--cover it up! Oh, hide it--hide it!" Then,
turning about, he sped away, his muffled buttons jingling faintly as
he went, and so was presently gone.
Then Barnabas loosed his horse and mounted, and, with never a glance
nor word to the silent figure beneath the finger-post, galloped away
London-wards.
Now, had it been possible for a worn and decrepit finger-post to be
endued with the faculty of motion (which, in itself, is a ridiculous
thought, of course), it is probable that this particular one would
have torn itself up bodily, and hastened desperately after Barnabas
to point him away--away, east or west, or north or south,--anywhere,
so long as it was far enough from him who stood so very still, and
who stared with such eyes so long upon the moon, with his right hand
still hidden in his breast, while the vivid mark glowed, and glowed
upon the pallor of his cheek.