"Disappoint me!" repeated Barnabas, rising also; "the words are unjust."
For a moment she stood, her head thrown back, her eyes averted disdainfully, and it was now that Barnabas first noticed the dimple in her chin, and he was yet observing it very exactly when he became aware that her haughtiness was gone again and that her eyes were looking up at him, half laughing, half shy, and of course wholly bewitching.
"Yes, I know it was," she admitted, "but oh! won't you please believe that a woman can't fall off her horse without being hurt, though it won't bleed much." Now as she spoke a distant clock began to strike and she to count the strokes, soft and mellow with distance.
"Nine!" she exclaimed with an air of tragedy--"then I shall be late for breakfast, and I'm ravenous--and gracious heavens!"
"What now, madam?"
"My hair! It's all come down--look at it!"
"I've been doing so ever since I--met you," Barnabas confessed.
"Oh, have you! Then why didn't you tell me of it--and I've lost nearly all my hairpins--and--oh dear! what will they think?"
"That it is the most beautiful hair in all the world, of course," said Barnabas. She was already busy twisting it into a shining rope, but here she paused to look up at him from under this bright nimbus, and with two hair-pins in her mouth.
"Oh!" said she again very thoughtfully, and then "Do you think so?" she inquired, speaking over and round the hairpins as it were.
"Yes," said Barnabas, steady-eyed; and immediately down came the curling lashes again, while with dexterous white fingers she began to transform the rope into a coronet.
"I'm afraid it won't hold up," she said, giving her head a tentative shake, "though, fortunately, I haven't far to go."
"How far?" asked Barnabas.
"To Annersley House, sir."
"Yes," said Barnabas, "that is very near--the glade yonder leads into the park."
"Do you know Annersley, then, sir?"
Barnabas hesitated and, having gone over the question in his mind, shook his head.
"I know of it," he answered.
"Do you know Sir George Annersley?"
Again Barnabas hesitated. As a matter of fact he knew as much of Sir George as he knew of the "great house," as it was called thereabouts, that is to say he had seen him once or twice--in the distance. But it would never do to admit as much to her, who now looked up at him with eyes of witchery as she waited for him to speak. Therefore Barnabas shook his head, and answered airily enough:
"We are not exactly acquainted, madam."
Yesterday he would have scorned the subterfuge; but to-day there was money in his purse; London awaited him with expectant arms, the very air was fraught with a magic whereby the impossible might become concrete fact, wherein dreams might become realities; was not she herself, as she stood before him lithe and vigorous in all the perfection of her warm young womanhood--was she not the very embodiment of those dreams that had haunted him sleeping and waking? Verily. Therefore with this magic in the air might he not meet Sir George Annersley at the next cross-roads or by-lane, and strike up an enduring friendship on the spot--truly, for anything was possible to-day. Meanwhile my lady had gathered up the folds of her riding-habit, and yet in the act of turning into the leafy path, spoke:
"Are you going far, sir?"
"To London."
"Have you many friends there?"
"None,--as yet, madam."
After this they walked on in silence, she with her eyes on the lookout for obstacles, he lost to all but the beauty of the young body before him--the proud carriage of the head, the sway of the hips, the firm poise of the small and slender foot--all this he saw and admired, yet (be it remarked) his face bore nothing of the look that had distorted the features of the gentleman in the bottle-green coat--though to be sure our Barnabas was but an amateur at best--even as Natty Bell had said. So at last she reached the fateful glade beyond which, though small with distance, was a noble house set upon a gentle hill that rose above the swaying green of trees. Here my lady paused; she looked up the glade and down the glade, and finally at him. And her eyes were the eyes of a maid, shy, mischievous, demure, challenging.
"Sir," said she, shyly, demurely--but with eyes still challenging-- "sir, I have to thank you. I do thank you--more than these poor lips can tell. If there is anything I could--do--to--to prove my gratitude, you--have but to--name it."
"Do," stammered Barnabas. "Do--indeed--I--no."
The challenging eyes were hidden now, but the lips curved wonderfully tempting and full of allurement. Barnabas clenched his fists hard.
"I see, sir, your cheek has stopped bleeding, 't is almost well. I think--there are others--whose hurts will not heal--quite so soon--and, between you and me, sir, I'm glad--glad! Good-by! and may you find as many friends in London as you deserve." So saying, she turned and went on down the glade.
And in a little Barnabas sighed, and turning also, strode on London-wards.
Now when she had gone but a very short way, my lady must needs glance back over her shoulder, then, screened to be sure by a convenient bramble-bush, she stood to watch him as he swung along, strong, graceful, but with never a look behind.
"Who was he?" she wondered. "What was he? From his clothes he might be anything between a gamekeeper and a farmer."
Alas! poor Barnabas! To be sure his voice was low and modulated, and his words well chosen--who was he, what was he? And he was going to London where he had no friends. And he had never told his name, nor, what was a great deal worse, asked for hers! Here my lady frowned, for such indifference was wholly new in her experience. But on went long-legged Barnabas, all unconscious, striding through sunlight and shadow, with step blithe and free--and still (Oh! Barnabas) with never a look behind. Therefore, my lady's frown grew more portentous, and she stamped her foot at his unconscious back; then all at once the frown vanished in a sudden smile, and she instinctively shrank closer into cover, for Barnabas had stopped.
"Oh, indeed, sir!" she mocked, secure behind her leafy screen, nodding her head at his unconscious back; "so you've actually thought better of it, have you?"
Here Barnabas turned.
"Really, sir, you will even trouble to come all the way back, will you, just to learn her name--or, perhaps to--indeed, what condescension. But, dear sir, you're too late; oh, yes, indeed you are! 'for he who will not when he may, when he will he shall have nay.' I grieve to say you are too late--quite too late! Good morning, Master Shill-I-shall-I." And with the word she turned, then hastily drew a certain lace handkerchief from her bosom, and set it very cleverly among the thorns of a bramble, and so sped away among the leaves.
CHAPTER VII
IN WHICH MAY BE FOUND DIVERS RULES AND MAXIMS FOR THE ART OF BOWING
"Now, by the Lord!" said Barnabas, stopping all at once, "forgetful fool that I am! I never bowed to her!" Therefore, being minded to repair so grave an omission, he turned sharp about, and came striding back again, and thus it befell that he presently espied the lace handkerchief fluttering