"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.