"Susan see anybody?" exclaimed his mother. "She had eyes for nobody but her patient. All the wild horses in Rackham's stables would not drag her away from you.—He's thinking of going abroad for a bit, he says. To America, or Canada;—he confused me with his talk of cities and mines and mountains. I don't know if he has any idea of making a fortune there or if he is looking out for a lady. I said you might have to go out there too, but the unfortunate accident had postponed it,—and he said it was a bigger place than I fancied, but to let him know if he could be of any use to you. His manner was rather queer."
"Poor chap," said Barnaby. "I daresay he is hard up. It would have been lucky for him if I—Why, what is the matter, Susan?"
"Don't tease her," said Lady Henrietta. "You can't possibly realize what a fright she had!" She turned briskly to the girl, however. "We never heard any more of that mysterious telegram that was to carry you off so quickly the day Barnaby was hurt," she said. "Have you quite forgotten it? Does absolutely nothing matter to you but him?"
Barnaby had begun to laugh, weakly, uncontrollably.
"Oh, that will keep," he said.
"What do you know about it?" said Lady Henrietta, catching him up sharply. "It came when you were out. I understood she was looking for you when she witnessed your smash. And I'm convinced it has never entered her head from that day to this."
Then she remembered her heap of letters.
"Look at all these!" she cried. "All begging for news of him! And the offerings! There never was anything so romantic.... There's one old woman down in the village that's killed her pig and, Barnaby—she sent up a delicate bit in a dish for you."
"Romantic—?" said Barnaby.
"Oh, romance has singular manifestations," said Lady Henrietta. "You never know.... There was that girl of Bessy's, for example, who used to write poetry.—She was too romantic, poor thing, and that's why she never married.—She went in for hero-worship. Used to go into kind of trances of adoration over a famous soldier that she had never seen. And once I tumbled over her sitting on the hearth-rug with her hands clasped behind her head, gazing with a rapt expression into the fire. I thought she was fighting his battles with him in her imagination, or poetising; but she whispered—'Don't interrupt me! I'm darning his socks.—'"