"Mr. Fellowes sent me. Will you see him in the hall in ten minutes. It is important; he must see you. 'It is for your own sake.' Those were his own words, madam."
Barbara received the message, but gave no answer, and the man departed. Had the message come from anyone but Sydney Fellowes she would have taken no notice of it, but, remembering what he had said to her, this request assumed importance. She was more likely to discover the truth about the Abbey from Sydney Fellowes than from anyone else.
There was only a dim light in the great hall—candles upon a table at the far end. The moonlight came through the painted windows, staining the stone floor here and there with misty colours. There was no movement near her, but the sound of voices and laughter came from the chamber beyond—the one from which she had angrily departed some time ago. Now the voices were hushed to a murmur, now they were loud, and the laughter was irresponsible. How she hated the sound of it, and that shriller note, peculiarly persistent for a moment, was Mrs. Dearmer's. No Christian feeling could prevent her from hating that woman.
Barbara crossed to the wide hearth and waited.
A door opened suddenly; there was the rustling of the curtain which hung over it being thrust aside, a shaft of light shot across the hall for a moment, and the sounds of voices and laughter were loud, then the door closed again sharply. There were a few hasty steps, and then silence.
"You sent me a message, Mr. Fellowes."
In a moment he was beside her.
"Barbara!"
She stepped back as though the sound of her own name startled her.
"I love you. Women were made for love—you above all women. You think I can only scribble poetry—you are wrong! I mean to—Barbara, my Barbara!"