"I knew we should get you back," said Lady Henrietta.
That had been her first word last night, and she repeated it with the
emphasis of a prophetess justified. Still her clasp of the truant had
been almost fierce.
The journey to London had done her no harm. Rather had all this
excitement given her a fillip. There was a triumphant pink in her
cheek, and amusement twinkled in the fine lines surrounding the corners
of her eyes. Whilst Barnaby had been searching she had been busy,
dealing with an imposing but worldly personage in gaiters, who had been
an old admirer of hers and was her sworn ally. The situation charmed
her; it was like a thrilling but perfectly righteous bit of intrigue.
Quizzically, delightedly, she was regarding Susan.
"Yes," she maintained. "I pinned my faith to that battered old brooch
of mine. It's unlucky to wear, but still--when I remembered that it
was doomed to come back to me I was tranquil. I knew it would."
She turned from one to the other, challenging them to mock at her
superstition; and then she laughed.
"My dear!" she said. "I'll never forget his face when I was raging at
him.--I blamed him, you may be sure. Or his voice when he called to
me--'She has written!' I could get no more out of him till I lost my
patience and cried--'Then for Heaven's sake read the letter and tell me
what she says!' And when he said--'She says she has found out that my
marriage was illegal' I could only exclaim--'Thank goodness!'"
She laughed again at her picture of his amazement.
"I shocked him awfully," she said. "But I was transported. It had
solved a riddle.... 'So _that_ was the mysterious American business,'
I said, '_that_ is what was the matter! And she has rushed off and set
you free and all the rest of it, you undeserving laggard! If that's
all it can soon be mended.'--And then he woke up from his stupefaction.
But it was I who thought of the Bishop. It was I who suggested a
special licence. I am the head conspirator, Susan,--and I'll go and
put on my things."
She went, glancing back to them as she reached the door.
"Don't let her out of your sight, Barnaby," she said warningly, and
left them together.
The girl stayed where she was, quite still; gazing down from the dizzy
height of the window on the restless world in the streets below.
Barnaby was limping across to her side. She felt his touch on her
shoulder.
"There's the church down there," he said. "Like an island in a
whirlpool, isn't it? But all the roar and the rush dies down like the
noise in a dream when you get inside. It's wonderfully dim and dark in
there, and they're dusting the pews for us,--and there are a few lilies
on the altar. And we'll just walk into it hand in hand."
Her breath came hurriedly, like a sob.
"Are you--sure?" she said.
"Ah," he reminded her, "I've never made love to you, have I, Susan?"
She could not answer him, knowing him so close; and she dared not look
up at him. There was so much to remember, and she had begun to guess
how dangerous it had been.... He laughed, and his hand leaned heavier
on her shoulder.
"I've been hopping all over London like a mad cripple," he said, "and
at last I've got you. I must hold on to you, or you'll manage to
disappear. Why did you run away when you thought I couldn't follow?
It wasn't fair. Oh, my darling, couldn't you understand?"
His voice was not steady now; there was reproach in its passionate
undertone.
"I'm sorry," she said, and laid her cheek against his sleeve. This
thing that was still too wonderful was true.
"Why," said Barnaby. "It was only you from the first,--that first
night when the sight of you staggered me. I didn't know why, but I did
know that at any cost, at any risk, I couldn't let you go. I thought I
was strong enough, man enough, to keep you safe in my house:--and when
I began to find out what a hard thing I had undertaken, when I had to
fight back the mad desire to make the farce we played at real,--you
believed that I had betrayed you to another woman.... I've got your
letter, your dear scrap of a piteous letter, letting me know that she
and I had no barrier between us.... And that was to be the last I
heard of you, was it, Susan?"
The reproach in his question was lost in its bantering tenderness.
"Wait," he said, "till I have you safe, and I'll teach you... And
then, perhaps, we'll dare to look back on it all and laugh,--a long
time afterwards; just you and I, by ourselves."
Lady Henrietta was back already. She had been discreet, had asked for
no fuller explanation than the one she had so promptly furnished
herself. It was all she was to know; but she was too wise to pry. At
the back of her mind there was nothing but an absolute satisfaction, as
of a warrior who had won her battle. If her eyes, shrewd and
understanding, were dimmed a little as she considered them, she flung
off her emotion quickly and smiled again.
"How funny it is," she said. "You have no idea how I am enjoying
myself, you children. Put her furs on, Barnaby, button her up to the
chin. I promised the Bishop we wouldn't be late. Secret marriages
never are."
Then, hurrying him, she was moved to plague him with an irrepressible
spark of mischief.
"Incomprehensible pair," she said. "I wish I had been at your first
wedding. It must have been frightfully romantic."
Barnaby put away his watch. An unconquerable flicker lit up his eyes.
"It was," he said. "I just took her hand like this, and I said--" he
was holding it tight in his--"Let's go and get married, Susan."
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.
PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH