"Forgotten it?" she repeated.

"Quite!"

Surely no man could lie, whose eyes were so truthful and steadfast.

"And so you went and offered to--buy up his debts?"

"Yes."

"For three times the proper sum?"

"I would have paid whatever was asked."

"Why?"

"Because I promised you to help him," answered Barnabas, staring at the ground again.

"You must be--very rich?" said Cleone, stealing another look at him.

"I am."

"And--supposing you had taken over the debt, who did you think would ever repay you?"

"It never occurred to me."

"And you would have done--all this for a--stranger?"

"No, but because of the promise I gave."

"To me?"

"Yes,--but, as G.o.d sees me, I would have looked for no recompense at your hands."

"Never?"

"Never--unless--"

"Unless, sir?"

"Unless I--I had dreamed it possible that you--could ever have--loved me." Barnabas was actually stammering, and he was looking at her--pleadingly, she knew, but this time my lady kept her face averted, of course. Wherefore Barnabas sighed, and his head drooping, stared at the ground again. And after he had stared thus, for perhaps a full minute, my lady spoke, but with her face still averted.

"The moon is at the full to-night, I think?"

_Barnabas_ (lifting his head suddenly). "Yes."

_Cleone_ (quite aware of his quick glance). "And--how do you like--the d.u.c.h.ess?"

_Barnabas_ (staring at the ground again). "I don't know."

_Cleone_ (with unnecessary emphasis). "Why, she is the dearest, best, cleverest old G.o.dmother in all the world, sir!"

_Barnabas_ (humbly). "Yes."

_Cleone_ (with a side glance). "Are you riding back to London to-night?"

_Barnabas_ (nodding drearily). "Yes."

_Cleone_ (watching him more keenly). "It should be glorious to gallop under a--full-orbed moon."

_Barnabas_ (shaking his head mournfully). "London is a great way from--here."

_Cleone_ (beginning to twist a ring on her finger nervously).

"Do you remember the madman we met--at Oakshott's Barn?"

_Barnabas_ (sighing). "Yes. I met him in London, lately."

_Cleone_ (clasping her hands together tightly). "Did he talk about--the moon again?"

_Barnabas_ (still sighing, and dense), "No, it was about some shadow, I think."

_Cleone_ (frowning at him a little). "Well--do you remember what he prophesied--about--an 'orbed moon'--and 'Barnaby Bright'?"

_Barnabas_ (glancing up with sudden interest). "Yes,--yes, he said we should meet again at Barnaby Bright--under an orbed moon!"

_Cleone_ (head quite averted now, and speaking over her shoulder).

"Do you remember the old finger-post--on the Hawkhurst road?"

_Barnabas_ (leaning towards her eagerly). "Yes--do you mean--Oh, Cleone--?"

_Cleone_ (rising, and very demure). "Here comes the d.u.c.h.ess with my Guardian--hush! At nine o'clock, sir."

CHAPTER XLI

IN WHICH BARNABAS MAKES A SURPRISING DISCOVERY, THAT MAY NOT SURPRISE THE READER IN THE LEAST

Evening, with the promise of a glorious night later on; evening, full of dewy scents, of lengthening shadows, of soft, unaccountable noises, of mystery and magic; and, over all, a rising moon, big and yellow. Thus, as he went, Barnabas kept his eyes bent thitherward, and his step was light and his heart sang within him for gladness, it was in the very air, and in the whole fair world was no s.p.a.ce for care or sorrow, for his dreams were to be realized at a certain finger-post on the Hawkhurst road, on the stroke of nine. Therefore, as he strode along, being only human after all, Barnabas fell a whistling to himself under his breath. And his thoughts were all of Cleone, of the subtle charm of her voice, of the dimple in her chin, of her small, proud feet, and her thousand sly bewitchments; but, at the memory of her glowing beauty, his flesh thrilled and his breath caught. Then, upon the quietude rose a voice near by, that spoke from where the shadows lay blackest,--a voice low and m.u.f.fled, speaking as from the ground:

"How long, oh Lord, how long?"

And, looking within the shadow, Barnabas beheld one who lay face down upon the gra.s.s, and coming nearer, soft-footed, he saw the gleam of silver hair, and stooping, touched the prostrate figure.

Wherefore the heavy head was raised, and the mournful voice spoke again:

"Is it you, young sir? You will grieve, I think, to learn that my atonement is not complete, my pilgrimage unfinished. I must wander the roads again, preaching Forgiveness, for, sir,--Clemency is gone, my Beatrix is vanished. I am--a day too late! Only one day, sir, and there lies the bitterness."