"Name o' Beverley, sir?" he inquired, chewing feverishly.
"Yes."
Hereupon the horsey person drew a letter from his pocket, chewed over it a moment, nodded, and finally handed it to Barnabas, who, seeing the superscription, hurriedly broke the seal. Observing which, the horsey person sighed plaintively and shook his head, alternately chewing upon and looking at his straw the while Barnabas read the following:
Oh, Barnabas dear, when shall I see you again? I am very foolish to-day perhaps, but though the sun shines gloriously, I am cold, it is my heart that is cold, a deadly chill—as if an icy hand had touched it. And I seem to be waiting—waiting for something to happen, something dreadful that I cannot avert. I fear you will think me weak and fanciful, but, dear, I cannot help wondering what it all means. You ask me if I love you. Can you doubt? How often in my dreams have I seen you kneeling beside me with your neck all bare and the dripping kerchief in your hand. Oh, dear Wood of Annersley! it was there that I first felt your arms about me, Barnabas, and I dream of that too—sometimes. But last night I dreamed of that awful race,—I saw you gallop past the winning post again, your dear face all cut and bleeding, and as you passed me your eyes looked into mine—such an awful look, Barnabas. And then it seemed that you galloped into a great, black shadow that swallowed you up, and so you were lost to me, and I awoke trembling. Oh Barnabas, come to me! I want you here beside me, for although the sky here is blue and cloudless, away to the north where London lies, there is a great, black shadow like the shadow of my dream, and God keep all shadows from you, Barnabas. So come to me—meet me to-morrow—there is a new moon. Come to Oakshott's Barn at 7:30, and we will walk back to the house together.
I am longing to see you, and yet I am a little afraid also, because my love is not a quiet love or gentle, but such a love as frightens me sometimes, because it has grown so deep and strong.
This window, you may remember, faces north, and now as I lift my eyes I can see that the shadow is still dark over London, and very threatening. Come to me soon, and that God may keep all shadows from you is the prayer of
Your
CLEONE.
Now when he had finished reading, Barnabas sighed, and glancing up, found the horsey person still busy with his straw, but now he took it from his mouth, shook his head at it more sternly than ever, dropped it upon the carpet and set his foot upon it; which done, he turned and looked at Barnabas with a pair of very round, bright eyes.
"Now," said he, "I should like to take the liberty o' axing you one or two questions, Mr. Barty, sir,—or as I should say, p'r'aps, Mr. Beverley."
"What," exclaimed Barnabas, starting up, "it's you again, Mr. Shrig?"