"Worship me? When?"
"When you are--my--wife."
Again she was silent, while one slender hand plucked nervously at the grass.
"Are you so sure of me?" she inquired at last.
"No; only of myself."
"Ah! you mean to--force a promise from me--here?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it is night, and you are solitary; I would not have you fear me again. But I shall come to you, one day, a day when the sun is in the sky, and friends are within call. I shall come and ask you then."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I shall wait."
"Until I wed another?"
"Until you change your mind."
"I think I shall--refuse you."
"Indeed, I fear it is very likely."
"Why?"
"Because of my unworthiness; and, therefore, I would not have you kneel while I stand."
"And the grass is very damp," she sighed.
So Barnabas stepped forward with hand outstretched to aid her, but, as he did so, the wandering singer was between them, looking from one to the other with his keen, bright eyes.
"Stay!" said he. "The Wise Ones have told me that she who kneels before you now, coveted for her beauty, besought for her money, shall kneel thus in the time to come; and one--even I, poor Billy--shall stand betwixt you and join your hands thus, and bid you go forth trusting in each other's love and strength, even as poor Billy does now. And, mayhap, in that hour you shall heed the voice, for time rings many changes; the proud are brought low, the humble exalted. Hush! the Wise Ones grow impatient for my song; I hear them calling from the trees, and must begone. But hearkee! they have told me your name, Barnabas? yes, yes; Barn--, Barnabas; for the other, no matter--mum for that! Barnabas, aha! that minds me--at Barnaby Bright we shall meet again, all three of us, under an orbed moon, at Barnaby Bright:--"
"Oh, Barnaby Bright, Barnaby Bright, The sun's awake, and shines all night!"
"Ay, ay, 't is the night o' the fairies--when spirits pervade the air. Then will I tell you other truths; but now--They call me. She is fair, and passing fair, and by her beauty, suffering shall come upon thee; but 'tis by suffering that men are made, and because of pride, shame shall come on her; but by shame cometh humility. Farewell; I must begone--farewell till Barnaby Bright. We are to meet again in London town, I think--yes, yes--in London. Oho! oysters! oysters, sir?"
"Many a knight and lady gay My oysters fine would try, They are the finest oysters That ever you could buy! Oysters! Oysters."
And so he bowed, turned, and danced away into the shadows, and above the hush of the leaves rose the silvery jingle of his many buttons, that sank to a chime, to a murmur, and was gone. And now my lady sighed and rose to her feet, and looking at Barnabas, sighed again--though indeed a very soft, little sigh this time. As for Barnabas, he yet stood wondering, and looking after the strange creature, and pondering his wild words. Thus my lady, unobserved, viewed him at her leisure; noted the dark, close-curled hair, the full, well-opened, brilliant eye, the dominating jaw, the sensitive nostrils, the tender curve of the firm, strong mouth. And she had called him "a ploughman--a runaway footman," and had even--she could see the mark upon his cheek--how red it glowed! Did it hurt much, she wondered?
"Mad of course--yes a madman, poor fellow!" said Barnabas, thoughtfully.
"And he said your name is Barnabas."
"Why, to be sure, so he did," said Barnabas, rubbing his chin as one at a loss, "which is very strange, for I never saw or heard of him before."
"So then, your name is--Barnabas?"
"Yes. Barnabas Bar--Beverley."
"Beverley?"
"Yes--Beverley. But we must go."
"First, tell me how you learned my name?"
"From the Viscount--Viscount Devenham?"
"Then, you know the Viscount?"
"I do; we also know each other as rivals."
"Rivals? For what?"
"Yourself."
"For me? Sir--sir--what did you tell him?"
"My name is Barnabas. And I told him that I should probably marry you, some day."
"You told him--that?"
"I did. I thought it but honorable, seeing he is my friend."
"Your friend!--since when, sir?"
"Since about ten o'clock this morning."
"Sir--sir--are you not a very precipitate person?"
"I begin to think I am. And my name is Barnabas."
"Since ten o'clock this morning! Then you knew--me first?"
"By about an hour."
Swiftly she turned away, yet not before he had seen the betraying dimple in her cheek. And so, side by side, they came to the edge of the clearing.
Now as he stooped to open a way for her among the brambles, she must needs behold again the glowing mark upon his cheek, and seeing it, her glance fell, and her lips grew very tender and pitiful, and, in that moment, she spoke.
"Sir," she said, very softly, "sir?"
"My name is Barnabas."
"I fear--I--does your cheek pain you very much, Mr. Beverley?"
"Thank you, no. And my name is Barnabas."
"I did not mean to--to--"
"No, no, the fault was mine--I--I frightened you, and indeed the pain is quite gone," he stammered, holding aside the brambles for her passage. Yet she stood where she was, and her face was hidden in her hood. At last she spoke and her voice was very low.
"Quite gone, sir?"
"Quite gone, and my name is--"
"I'm very--glad--Barnabas."
Four words only, be it noted; yet on the face of Barnabas was a light that was not of the moon, as they entered the dim woodland together.
CHAPTER XXI
IN WHICH BARNABAS UNDERTAKES A MISSION
Their progress through the wood was slow, by reason of the undergrowth, yet Barnabas noticed that where the way permitted, she hurried on at speed, and moreover, that she was very silent and kept her face turned from him; therefore he questioned her.
"Are you afraid of these woods?"
"No."
"Of me?"
"No."
"Then,