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The end of Noy's match fell red-hot on John Barron's face. Then he turned as footsteps sounded; the curtains were moved aside and the footman reappeared, followed by another person. "Why, you wasn't the undertaker after all!" he explained. "Did you think the man was alive? Good Lord! But you've found him anyway." "Iss, I thot he was alive. I wanted to see en livin' an' leave en " he stopped.
Gammit, that's enough," agreed the woodsman, civilly. "But the other is all right, eh? What did they ketch?" "Well, they ketched a big weasel!" said Mrs. Gammit, eyeing him with challenge. A broad smile went over Barron's face. "I knowed it," he exclaimed. "I knowed as how it was a weasel." "An' I knowed as how ye'd say jest them very words," retorted Mrs. Gammit.
Was she among them the lady of Barron's tale? He thought of the story as he might have thought of the plot of a novel. When medieval charters were not to be had, it made an interesting subject of speculation. And Barron could not have confided it to any one in the diocese, so discreet so absolutely discreet as he.
They saw their companion was perturbed, and found him plunged into a black, cynic fit more deeply than usual. He spared no subject, no individual, least of all himself. Paul Tarrant a Christian painter, already mentioned was the first to find fault with Barron's picture.
"I have had no direct communication with him," he said, reluctantly; "no doubt because of our already strained relations." On Barron's lips there dawned something which could hardly be called a smile or triumphant; but the Bishop caught it. In another minute the door had closed upon his visitor. Barron walked away through the Close, his mind seething with anger and resentment.
Preble, Eaton, and Decatur are our three distinguished African officers. As Barron's squadron did not fire a shot into Tripoli, indeed never showed itself before that port, to Eaton alone belongs the credit of bringing the Pacha to terms which the American Commissioner was willing to accept. The attack upon Derne was the feat of arms of the fourth year, and finished the war.
In the front row sat the strange spinster, Miss Nairn, a thin, sharp nosed woman of fifty, in rusty black clothes, holding her head high; not far from her the dubious publican who had been Maurice Barron's companion on a certain walk some days before. There too were Hugh and Rose Flaxman.
The signs a slightly strained look, a quickened breathing that Meynell still bore upon him of a physical wrestle, combined perhaps with a moral victory, suddenly seemed, even in Barron's own eyes, to dwarf what he had to say to make a poor mean thing out of his story.
"Mister Jan" had told her so many astounding things; and her own heart, too, had made bold utterances concerning matters which she had crushed out of sight with some shame and many secret blushes until now. But, seen in the light of John Barron's revelations, this emotion which she had thrust so resolutely to the back of her mind could remain there no more.
It was an outline map of England, apparently sketched by Meynell himself, as the notes and letterings were in his handwriting. It was labelled "Branches of the Reform League." All over England the little flags bristled, thicker here, and thinner there, but making a goodly show on the whole. Barron's face lengthened as he pondered the map. Then he passed by the laden writing-table.
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