The Amateur Gentleman

"Cleone," said Barnabas, ignoring Barrymaine altogether, "if there

is any one in this world who should know me, and what manner of man

I am, surely it is you--"

"Yes, she knows you--b-better than you think, she knows you for a

publican's son, first of all--"

"May I come with you, Cleone?"

"No, sir, n-not while I'm here. Cleone, you go with him, or m-me,

so--choose!"

"Oh, Ronald, take me home!" she breathed.

So Barrymaine drew her arm through his and, turning his back on

Barnabas, led her away. But, when they had gone a little distance,

he frowned suddenly and came striding after them.

"Cleone," said he, "why are you so strange to me,--what is it,

--speak to me."

But Cleone was dumb, and walked on beside Ronald Barrymaine with

head averted, and so with never a backward glance, was presently

lost to sight among the leaves.

Long after they had gone, Barnabas stood there, his head bowed,

while the shadows deepened about him, dark and darker. Then all at

once he sighed again and, lifting his head, glanced about him; and

because of the desolation of the place, he shivered; and because of

the new, sharp pain that gripped him, he uttered a bitter curse, and

so, becoming aware of the pistol he yet grasped, he flung it far

from him and strode away through the deepening gloom.

On he went, heeding only the tumult of sorrow and anger that surged

within him. And so, betimes, reached the "Oak and Ivy" inn, where,

finding Peterby and the phaeton already gone, according to his

instructions, he hired post-horses and galloped away for London.

Now, as he went, though the evening was fine, it seemed to him that

high overhead was a shadow that followed and kept pace with him,

growing dark and ever darker; and thus as he rode he kept his gaze

upon this menacing shadow.

As for my lady, she, securely locked within the sanctuary of her

chamber, took pen and paper and wrote these words: "You have destroyed my faith, and with that all else. Farewell."

Which done, she stamped a small, yet vicious foot upon a certain

crumpled letter, and thereafter, lying face down upon her bed, wept

hot, slow, bitter tears, stifling her sobs with the tumbled glory of

her hair, and in her heart was an agony greater than any she had

ever known.