"How-dare you! Oh, coward that you are!" exclaimed another voice, low and repressed, yet vibrant with bitter scorn; "you know that I found you out—in time, thank God!"
"Beatrix?" said Barnabas to himself.
"In time; ah! and pray who'd believe it? You ran away from me—but you ran away with me—first! In time? Did your father believe it, that virtuous old miser? would any one, who saw us together, believe it? No, Beatrix, I tell you all the world knows you for my—"
"Stop!" A moment's silence and then came a soft, gently amused laugh.
"Lord, Beatrix, how handsome you are!—handsomer than ever, begad! I'm doubly fortunate to have found you again. Six years is a long time, but they've only matured you—ripened you. Yes, you're handsomer than ever; upon my life and soul you are!"
But here came the sudden rush of flying draperies, the sound of swift, light footsteps, and Barnabas was aware of the door behind him being opened, closed and bolted, and thereafter, the repressed sound of a woman's passionate weeping. Therefore he rose up from the settle, and glancing over its high back, beheld Clemency.
Almost in the same moment she saw him, and started back to the wall, glanced from Barnabas to the open lattice, and covered her face with her hands. And now not knowing what to do, Barnabas crossed to the window and, being there, looked out, and thus espied again the languid gentleman, strolling up the lane, with his beaver hat cocked at the same jaunty angle, and swinging his betasselled stick as he went.
"You—you heard, then!" said Clemency, almost in a whisper.
"Yes," answered Barnabas, without turning; "but, being a great rascal he probably lied."
"No, it is—quite true—I did run away with him; but oh! indeed, indeed I left him again before—before—"