Chapter XI: Part 11

"And for the rest," he continued gently, "'tis well enow, for Colonel Lovelace to write that love be little if honour be not more, yet there may be a love so self-forgetting that a man counts himself as nothing in comparison with it, and would gladly give his dearest part, even his honour, to serve his beloved. 'Twas with such a love, Lady Cicely, you loved your cousin, and by Heaven! she is worthy of it."

Cicely smiled and shook her head.

"These be somewhat indiscreet doctrines, sir," she said.

"Nay, madame, when was love noted for discretion?" he answered, smiling at her. "And, moreover, if your act were a betrayal, 'twas a right courageous one. I warrant me, 'twas no easy task for you, madame, to play the traitor."

She looked at him gratefully.

"How is it you understand so well?" she asked.

"I' faith, Lady Cicely," he answered with a sudden smile, "I fear me my record is not overclean. Not a month since, in this very room, I entered into a bargain, hardly consistent with my honour."

"And that, too, was for Barbara," she murmured softly.

"Even so. She has required much of us, has she not?" he continued, smiling. "Yet whoso is greatly loved, to her must much be given."

"And you do not regret it?"

"Regret, madame?"

"It hath cost you much."

"Maybe, but it has won me more." Then he added, half to himself, "For whatsoever befall me now, in this world or the next, I have at least had my hour of heaven."

There was a silence, broken only by Barbara's voice, singing in the room above.

Cicely rose to her feet.

"She is coming, we must go to supper."

Then she turned and laid her hand upon his arm--"You have been so good to me, Captain Protheroe," she said gently. "And what I may do in return, I gladly will. You love Barbara! Ah! I could tell you so much, so much, for who knows so well as a woman how women may be wooed. Could a man but have that knowledge, he might win every maid in Christendom. Therefore"--she smiled--"perchance 'tis better withheld. And for this present matter--certes! methinks you are doing very fairly well for yourself. Only remember 'Woman loveth a bold wooer.' Let there be no despair. More love is lost by want of hope than ever was won by diffidence."

"Alas! Lady Cicely! How can a man such as I hope greatly to succeed?"

"Tut, sir, we women are for the most part easy of credence. An a man tell us oft enough and resolutely enough that we need him, we needs must be convinced at last."

"Indeed, Lady Cicely, you give me hope. If 'twas e'en thus Sir Rupert won you----"

"Rupert!" she laughed; "nay, sir, 'twas of ordinary mortals I spoke. There was small need for Rupert to assure me that I loved him. But come, we must to supper."

She led him to the adjoining room where Ralph already awaited them.

And presently Barbara came down and joined them there. She was attired in an amber brocade, and wore her jewels; her hair towered high in a mass of wavy curls. After ten days of vagabondage she revelled in the luxury of an exquisite toilet, and every detail of her appearance was perfect.

Captain Protheroe had seen her in many garbs, in many phases, but never before had she seemed so queenly, so alluring, so worthy of a man's absolute homage, and as they looked upon her, each man gave a gasp of hopeless adoration.

She was in the highest spirits, glowing with happiness, yet wearing withal a certain air of gracious dignity, which suited well the mistress of the Manor.

The two men feasted their eyes upon her face, hung upon her words. And to each she talked with equal friendliness and vivacity. But Cicely, who watched her closely, noted that in her manner toward Ralph there lurked a certain tenderness, of pity or remorse, while towards Captain Protheroe she seemed more distant, more reserved. And though she met Ralph's looks of admiration with a merry open smile, yet when she raised her eyes to Captain Protheroe, and read the worship in his glance, she blushed faintly and the lashes quickly fell. So noted Cicely, and learned her cousin's secret from her face.

Yet from the men these signs were hidden, alternately they hoped, and then they despaired. Only as they felt the power of her presence, his passion cried to each to win her spite of all, and they trembled at the fascination of her beauty.

There was much to talk of during the meal, for Cicely would hear each detail of their adventures, and on her side related all she knew of Robert Wilcox's part in the affair.

"I would I could see him to thank him," said Barbara; "'tis a courageous youth. And I fear I was--er--somewhat curt when last we parted."

"More than curt, Mistress Barbara," answered the Captain, smiling; "some might even say exceedingly obstinate. We were well-nigh reduced to desperate measures, Lady Cicely, to bend her to our will."

Barbara laughed.

"I am glad you did not so far forget yourselves," she cried saucily; "but I trust no harm hath befallen good Master Lane on my account, Cis."

"No, he is safe, and in ignorance of the share he had in the matter, for so I advised. He is so stout a royalist, so well-known and honoured by the governor, and all the Tory gentlemen of the district, that upon his denial of any complicity in the matter, he was honourably acquitted, and the inquiry dropped. 'Tis true, some do say that money changed hands ere the incident was closed, but an it be so we will make it up to him anon. He is safe, and the escape remains a mystery."

"I warrant me the fiery-headed youth passed one or two anxious days while the inquiry was pending," remarked Captain Protheroe, smiling.

"Nay, neither he nor Prue are wont to expect trouble before it comes; they were so triumphant over their success they thought but little of possible consequences. And I doubt not Robert found ample reward at his mistress's hands."

"'Tis pity so brave and adroit a lad is not a soldier," said Barbara.

"Aye, so says Prue. And indeed 'tis his own desire."

"Would we could help him to his wish."

"He shall be helped," answered the captain quickly; "an you take interest in his fate, Mistress Barbara. When I get the command I expect, in Holland, I will send for him, and see to his advancement with all my heart."

Barbara repaid, with a grateful glance, this ready offer to fulfil her wish, and so the matter was decided.

They sat long over their meal, talking over what had befallen them in their wanderings, discussing plans for their future, wondering on the life that awaited them abroad.

At length, when the evening was far advanced, Barbara pushed back her chair and cried to her cousin that 'twas time for rest. But ere she rose she filled her glass and looked up with a merry smile.

"Come!" she cried, "here we sit together safe after all our troubles, and it seems 'tis occasion for a toast, and yet I know not exactly what it should be."

"May I not give the toast, madame?" asked the captain gravely.

"Certes, an you will. I feel I must drink to something."

"Nay, you must not join in this," he answered with a smile. Then springing to his feet and raising his glass, he turned and faced her boldly:

"What think you of this toast, Sir Ralph?" he cried: "I drink to the bravest comrade in misfortune, the sweetest companion in peace, and at all times the most courageous of women----"

"Barbara Winslow!"

Ralph sprang to his feet, and for a moment the two men stood together, their glasses raised aloft, looking down with adoration where she sat blushing and laughing in all the pride of her beauty. Then crying her name again, they drank the toast, and with a simultaneous impulse turned and dashed their glasses against the wainscot, so that the shining fragments fell like showers upon the floor.

The moment of enthusiasm passed, the two men turned sharply and glared at one another, with a silent challenge in their eyes.

Cicely saw the look and trembled, and deeming it wisdom at once to remove this apple of discord from the feast, she rose quickly, and smiling good-night to her companions, carried her cousin off to bed.

When they were left together the two men seated themselves at the table, but there was a silence between them, and a shadow brooded over the room.

At length Ralph pushed aside his glass, and leant across the table towards his companion with the air of one who has determined on his course.

"Whither are you bound now, Protheroe?" he began. "What are your plans?"

Captain Protheroe hesitated a moment.

"There is no chance for me in England yet," he said slowly, "though General Churchill would give me his help. But there is no room in the army for Kirke and myself--at present. No, I shall to Holland, I have a cousin there already, and take service with the Prince of Orange, he is a man to be served."

There was a moment's pause. Then Ralph continued with a would-be careless air.

"Doubtless you will set off to-morrow. I will escort Mistress Barbara to her brother, and we need--er--burden you with our company no longer."

Captain Protheroe stared for a moment at his companion.

"For the present," he answered coldly, "my way lies with yours."

Ralph eyed him angrily.

"Pardon me, sir, but in Mistress Barbara's interests, it were wiser you should leave her, now your company is no longer necessary to her safety."

"Heavens! man, what would you imply?" asked the officer sharply.

"Your escape and wanderings with this lady, the whole story of your intercourse together, is enough to set many scandalous tongues wagging about her name. The sooner this intercourse ceases, the better."

"If that be your fear, then, on the contrary, the longer I remain at her side, the better," answered the captain drily. "Seeing that tongues do not long speak scandalously of a lady whom I have the honour to protect."

"Captain Protheroe," cried Ralph sharply, "I were loth to quarrel with you, but if you will take no hint, I must e'en speak plainly. This lady is nothing, can be nothing to you. After what hath passed betwixt you, part I know and part I guess, your attentions but trouble and embarrass her; nay, more, they are an insult. I insist that you at once cease to burden her with your company."

"You insist?" repeated Captain Protheroe slowly.

"I do. An it be necessary I will prove my right to do so." He touched the hilt of his sword menacingly.

Captain Protheroe rose to his feet.

"You are mad," he cried angrily; "'tis impossible for me to fight you."

"Indeed!" scoffed Ralph, "would you have me brand you coward then?"

Captain Protheroe laughed scornfully.

"Bah! Perchance that would prove no easy matter. Seeing that those who know me would know it for a falsehood, and those who do not know me could be taught. No, Sir Ralph, I will not fight you. And for the other matter----" he paused. "You say that my attentions are a burden to Mistress Barbara?"

"I do. And that both for the sake of her fair name, and her own peace of mind, you must leave her."

"And I think, sir, you are mistaken. I will only leave Mistress Barbara at her express command."

"Since you know well she is too courteous ever to urge her way," sneered Ralph sharply.

Again there was silence. The captain was thinking now on all that had passed betwixt Barbara and himself; remembering her sweet trustful ways, her gentle words; treasuring that one golden hour together in the forest, ere discord had sent this man to part their souls.

Then he rose to his feet and faced Ralph, eyeing him keenly, hanging on his answer.

"Tell me, Sir Ralph," he asked abruptly, "has Mistress Barbara given you the right to protect her?"

See now how strange a thing is a man's love for woman, since it may inspire him alike to deeds of highest purity or words of deepest shame.

After one moment's pause, Ralph set honour behind him, and answered quietly:

"I have that right."

But even as Ralph spoke the words, a wild passion leapt into Captain Protheroe's eyes, a passion of hatred, of jealousy, of unbelief.

"Now, by Heavens! Sir Ralph," he shouted fiercely; "I believe you lie."

"Have a care, sir," cried Ralph sharply; "for one who will not fight, you are strangely free with your words. 'Tis easy to speak that for which you may not be called in question."

"Man, you will drive me mad. 'Tis impossible that I should fight you."

"Even with this to warm your blood?" Sir Ralph flung the contents of his glass into his companion's face.

Then the last shred of resolution to avoid a quarrel vanished. That had passed between them which could not be overlooked. Captain Protheroe drew his sword and bowed stiffly to his opponent, the gleam of the death-harbinger in his eyes.

"It is enough, sir," he said furiously; "I am at your service."

But Ralph was now the calmer of the two.

"'Tis impossible here," he cried; "we should be interrupted. If it will suit your convenience I will meet you at sunrise to-morrow in the meadow behind the stables. There we shall be undisturbed."

"As you will. I am at your service whensoever you choose to appoint."

So they bowed and parted for the night, with murder in their hearts. While above in the sweet calm of her chamber, the cause of their quarrel lay dreaming peacefully, innocent of all wrong, save only of a heart too tender to give pain, and of a face too fair to leave a man his peace.

Alas! for a woman, since though many seek, she loves but one. Alas! for a woman, since if she too quickly perceive and ward off love, false tongues cry shame upon her vanity, but, if not perceiving, she foster it, then belike must a man's life be laid to her charge, aye, or a man's soul.

*CHAPTER XXIV*

As the first rays of the sunrise flushed the sky with glory, Barbara awoke on the morning following her home-coming. She sprang from her bed and crept softly to the casement, intending but to greet the morning, and then slip back to sleep. But the birds, the flowers, the sunshine all called to her to join them, and casting away all thoughts of further rest, she hastened to the adjoining room, and rousing her reluctant cousin, begged her to rise and join her in an early ramble.

But Cicely declined firmly to leave her cosy bed, so Barbara was forced to dress alone.

Presently, however, she reappeared at her cousin's bedside, and kissed her into wakefulness.

"Cis, you must rise," she cried; "'tis disgraceful. All the world is stirring. Even Ralph and Captain Protheroe are abroad, I have just seen them go down the garden together."

"Plague take you all for a set of fools," cried Cicely sleepily; "what should they want out at this hour o' the morning?"

"Why, Cis, 'tis heavenly."

With a deep sigh Cicely relented.

"Well, Bab, I will come. But not one step do I take without some breakfast, so bid Phoebe prepare it."

And with that Barbara must perforce be content. Yet she herself would wait for no breakfast, but snatching up her hat, ran into the garden to drink in the joys of the bright September morning.

Full speed she ran down the garden, and there came to a sudden halt, remembering with a pang of remorse that she had not yet greeted Butcher since her return. So, with intent to free him to join in her ramble, she turned into the copse, a short cut to the stables. But there she again came to a pause, puzzled at the sounds which reached her ears.

"Now, what in Heaven's name----"

Then she ran through the copse at fullest speed, for of a sudden she divined what was passing beyond, and with a loud cry darted into the open meadow, and ran towards the two men who were thus engaged in the settlement of their quarrel.

At sudden sight of her, Captain Protheroe leapt quickly back out of his opponent's reach and lowered his swordpoint, at the same moment Barbara seized Sir Ralph's arm.

She seized his arm, but her eyes were fixed on Captain Protheroe in wide-eyed indignation and reproach.

"Oh! This is too much," she gasped; "you might have killed him."

The possibility of Ralph killing the captain had not entered her head, but the insult and the compliment went unheeded by each. They thought only of the anxiety implied in her words.

"This must end now, forever," she continued firmly; "Captain Protheroe, 'tis for you to apologise."

"Madame!"

"Certainly, sir, you are in the wrong."

He stared at her in wonder.

"Do you know the cause of our quarrel, Mistress Barbara?" he asked doubtfully.

"Assuredly," she answered in surprise, for she deemed it but the consummation of the quarrel she had interrupted on Sedgemoor. "Assuredly. I am of one mind with Ralph in this matter; he is in the right, and you have been mistaken."

Slowly the light of hope died in the captain's eyes, and left there only a great yearning. He drooped his head for one long minute in silence, then drew himself up and slowly sheathed his sword.

"Yes," he said quietly; "I have been mistaken." Then he turned to Barbara, and his voice was full of tenderness.

"Mistress Barbara," he said, "a man should not be blamed, if having once looked on heaven he become blind to things of earth. Forgive me the mistake. In this, in all things, I remain ever your devoted servant. Your happiness is mine, I--I am content."

He turned and walking slowly out of the meadow, disappeared amongst the trees.

"What does he mean?" asked Barbara wonderingly, staring after his retreating figure.

But she had no time for further conjecture.

Directly Captain Protheroe disappeared, Ralph snatched her in his arms, and covered her face with kisses.

"Oh! my darling, my darling," he cried; "is it indeed so? In truth I dared to hope it, overbold that I am. But now--to be convinced! Ah! Barbara, mine! mine!"

So he cried in the intervals of his kisses. But he stopped abruptly in the midst of his ecstasy, becoming suddenly conscious that the lady was struggling in his embrace, struggling violently, passionately, to be free.

He freed her, gazing at her in surprise, as she stood confronting him, her face crimson with anger.

"Ralph!" she gasped furiously, "are you mad? What mean you? How dare you--touch me?"

He stepped back a pace in astonishment.

"Why, Barbara! Barbara!" he cried.

"How dare you touch me?"

"Nay, sweetheart," he pleaded, "I have not really angered you?"

"Angered me!" cried Barbara in desperation; "angered--! Good Heavens! am I gone crazy? What right can you think, can you dream you have, to treat me so?"

"But, Barbara!" cried the amazed man; "did you not say, e'en now, you were one with me in this matter."

"Assuredly. But if I dislike his slander of Monmouth's officers, must it follow that you may treat me thus? For shame, Ralph."

"If you dislike--Barbara! Is't possible you deem we fought for the affair at Sedgemoor?"

"For what else, pray?" she asked indignantly.

But he turned aside with a groan and leaning his elbow against a tree, buried his head in his arm.

Barbara eyed him doubtfully.

"Ralph! Ralph! What is't?" she asked sharply. "Why did you fight?"

"Because--and on my faith, Barbara, I believed it to be the truth--I told that fellow, Protheroe, that his presence, his attentions pestered you, and I insisted he should leave you."

Barbara drew herself up royally.

"You did, Ralph?" she asked coldly. "And pray what reason had you for so insulting a guest in my house, a man to whom we owe everything? Your reason, Ralph?" she urged with an imperious stamp of her foot.

"Ah! Barbara," he moaned; "look in your glass and there seek my reason. Your face is reason enough to send a man to hell."

Barbara's indignation gave way at this unexpected retort. She was subdued, silent.

Then Ralph raised his head and turned to face her.

"Barbara! I must know the truth. Do you not love me?"

She looked at him with eyes full of pity.

"No, Ralph, I cannot. Indeed, I wish I could. But love comes at no man's bidding, comes unsought, and"--she added with a break in her voice--"so oft, alas! comes when it is not wanted."

His face was white and strained, his eyes hard as he looked at her.

"If this be so, Barbara," he cried harshly, "you have deceived me, cruelly. Why did you save me in the forest? Why did you nurse me back to life at Wells? Better to have left me to die then, deeming you worthy my love, than let me live to learn such love in vain. No, by Heaven!" he cried passionately, "I care not what becomes of me; I will not live if I must lose you."

Barbara laid her hands softly upon his arm, and in her eyes as she raised them to his face, a strange light gleamed.

"Ralph," she whispered, "am I so unworthy of your love?"

"What mean you?" he cried, staring down at her.

"Nay, perchance I am wrong," she answered, "only it seemeth to me sad that love must turn to bitterness an it be not crowned by possession. And methinks a man's love for a woman, an the woman be worthy, should be so high a thing, that whether he win her or no, yet is his life dedicated to her forever, and for her sake should be lived in all honour and purity. For think not, tho' a woman may not love a man, her heart is hardened at his suit. Rather does she strive her life thro' to be more pure, more true, more noble, even for his love's sake, to grow more worthy of that highest gift which he has offered to her. Thus in their separate paths thro' the world, two lives shine brighter in honour of each other, and love that seemeth but to lead to bitterness and despair, proves rather a mighty power strengthening and glorifying her to whom 'twas offered, and him who bore it. Nay, Ralph, I cannot rightly say my meaning, but sure true love should make a man strong, not weak; strong to love even without reward."

She paused, and as he looked into her eyes, the enthusiasm of her soul passed into his, and his heart went out to her in worship, wholly unselfish, wholly pure. For he perceived how fair a part it is for a man, rather than seek ever wages for service in just exchange, to give life in service unrewarded if his soul be wakened to the sacrifice.

Low stooping he kissed her hands.

"You are right, Barbara," he said softly; "who was I to speak to you of love? Yet now, God helping me, my life, my love, shall prove as worthy of you as you are worthy of the best a man may give."

But still her eyes looked on him pityingly.

"And, Ralph," she pleaded, "surely love is not all to a man. There are other prizes worth the winning: fame, power, knowledge, may not these fill your heart?"

He smiled at her, shaking his head.

"Nay, Barbara, when I ask for bread, wilt throw me a stone? Leave me my love, dear, it sufficeth me. All I ask of life now is grace to prove me worthy to live in your memory."

So he spake, nor dreamed that in a few short years, his love would have faded to a tender memory, and life, fame, honour, again be all in all.

So they turned and went back through the copse into the sunlit garden, and Ralph, his heart still heavy beneath his sorrow, passed on into the shadow of the house.

But Barbara lingered in the full blaze of the sunshine, on the glittering, dew-encrusted lawn. And since love is ever selfish, the memory of Ralph's trouble faded quickly in the glory and the triumph of her own sweet dream of love. For in reading Ralph's heart she had learned at last to read her own. She knew now that God's great gift was hers, that her heart had learned the world's secret, and she loved with a love that crowned her life with glory. So her heart leapt out to the sunshine, and it seemed to her, as she stood thus, in the beauty of the garden, that all nature knew her joy; the wind whispered it to the trees, the birds sang it to the sunbeams, and the great deep-hearted roses, pouring forth their souls in a passionate sigh of fragrance, bowed their heads at her passing as to their queen, to whom was given all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them, to whom was revealed all the beauty and the treasures and the wonders of the earth.

For so is ever the first coming of love to a woman; loving, purified, one with all the world, she walks innocent as Eve in the garden of Eden, dreaming that God hath blessed her above all women, and that from thenceforth the purpose of her being is fulfilled. So Barbara dreamed away the time, in the glory of the sunshine, and the sweetness of her joy-crowned youth.

Soon Cicely stepped from the deep shadow of the wide doorway, and came slowly down the garden, stopping ever and anon to gather one of the delicate roses, late-blossoming on the trees. And as she approached she eyed Barbara questioningly and smiled at her own thoughts.

Presently she reached her cousin's side, and then, as she stopped to free her skirt from an entangling branch, she began in careless, cheerful tone:

"Oh, Barbara! Captain Protheroe prayed me to bid you adieu; he has gone."

"Gone!"

The sun had vanished from her sky; the glory of the world had faded.

"Gone!" she cried again. "Left us? Whither should he go?"

"To Watchet, to take ship to Holland, so he said; there to seek service with the Prince of Orange," answered Cicely casually, still gathering her flowers, still smiling to herself.

"But, wherefore?" cried Barbara, in desperation. "Wherefore should he leave me thus, leave me without a word?"

"Nay, the riddle is more than I can read. Yet from what he said, methought you yourself had bid him go."

"I! Cis, what madness! What were his words?"

"Why, marry, that Sir Ralph had told him his presence wearies you, and that you have declared that you are of one mind with Ralph in the matter."

"Cicely!" she cried, a world of desperation in her tone; "sure, 'tis impossible."

Yet even as she spoke she knew it to be true, for if Ralph had so misunderstood her words that morning, why might not others also?

"Oh! Cis, what shall I do?" she questioned hopelessly. "'Tis all a mistake. I meant not--no, indeed, I meant not that he should leave us. What can I do?"

"Nay, child," answered Cicely calmly, "I see not what can be done now. The man has gone. 'Tis pity you have sent him so discourteously away, but he has gone."

As she spoke she glanced once more quickly, questioningly at her cousin, then gathering together her flowers, she turned back towards the house.

But as she went she smiled mischievously and hummed a light ditty she herself had learned from Sir Rupert, and thus ran the words:

"When maiden fair, to rouse despair,
Doth ponder long 'twixt yea and no,
The man who sighs, an he be wise,
Will lightly turn his back and go.
For tho' he fear, while he be near,
Of love for him the maid hath none;
Yet when, alack! he turns his back,
He'll find her heart is quickly won."

Cicely passed into the house, leaving Barbara standing alone by the sun-dial heedless alike of song or smile; for her, song and laughter seemed to have died forever. As she watched the shadow creep along the dial, it seemed to her like the shadow creeping over her soul, darkening each succeeding moment of her life as her sun passed further on his way. And as the shadow crept, so must her life creep on henceforth; slowly, in silence and in shadow to the end.

And all her heart surged up in the despairing cry:

"I love him, I love him; he has gone!"

Gone! Aye! but not past recall.

She started, the crimson flushing to her brows at the thought.

Could she--could she not follow him and beg him to return, seeing he had gone in misunderstanding, deeming her ungrateful, unkind? Nay, did she not owe it to her love to do so, seeing he had left her apprehending that she loved another?

But could she, indeed, do this? Could she, Barbara Winslow, follow any man and beg him to return to her, as it would seem, kneeling before him to entreat his favour; she who hitherto had walked ever as proudest among women? The thought angered her.

And yet, she loved him, and perchance, nay, surely, he loved her. Must two lives be darkened because she feared to lower her pride? Men might look askance upon her deed, but--she loved him. Was her love so poor a thing that it could be dishonoured by so small a thought? If love was worthy of aught, surely it was worthy of courage.

She loved him, was he not her king, a man to whom a queen might be proud to stoop!

Thus was she tortured, now daring, now shrinking, till her pride faded in the glory of her love, and she raised her head proudly to the free heavens, resolved upon her course.

She hastened to the stables, and with her own hands saddled her horse. There Cicely joined her, wondering.

"What would you, Barbara?" she asked.

"I will follow him," she answered calmly, "to beg him not to leave me."

"Barbara! You cannot!" cried Cicely quickly; "think what will be said! Think of the shame!"

But Barbara looked at her with a strange smile.

"I love him, Cis," she said softly; "what has love to do with shame?"

And so saying, she mounted her pony, and rode off.

Her heart sang in wild triumph, for pride lay dead within her and love was all in all.

"He loves me," she sang, "he loves me. I go to tell him of my love."

"And if he loves me not!"

Her heart trembled at the thought; yet since her love was strong, she did not pause.

"For," she thought, "I think, indeed, that he loves me. But an he do not, what then? I can but return alone. For what harm to him to know he has my love? 'Twill be no burden to him, rather an added triumph to his life. Surely he shall know I love him. Men do not shame to speak their love to women, is women's love then so poor a thing that they must shame to speak of it to men?"

So mused Barbara, deeming herself more or less than woman.

Then on a sudden, turning the corner of a quiet lane, she saw him. Slowly he rode, his reins hanging loosely on his horse's neck, his head bowed upon his breast in thought.

And at the sight she drew rein and paused, her eyes wide with doubt and consternation.

For, so strange is woman's heart, at sight of him, there, close before her, all her resolution fled, and she could but stand at gaze, trembling at the thought of his near presence, shrinking in a horror of doubt, fear, shyness from what had, but a moment since seemed so simple, so natural an action. No. 'Twas beyond question impossible, she could not speak the words.

So, at a sudden pride-awakening thought, she resolved, and had even then, turned her pony's head and softly ridden away, but for the intervention of an unexpected occurrence.

For while she paused in hesitation, a rabbit darted out of the hedge beside her, and the pony, restive at the check to their progress, on a sudden swerved aside, and ere she could fully recover her seat and regain tight control of the reins, had bolted along the road, in a senseless panic, past the astonished object of her thoughts.

Then, since perforce it must be, slowly, reluctantly, with cheeks a flaming crimson, she turned to meet him.

As for Captain Protheroe, suddenly interrupted in his reverie by the sight of the lady of his dreams flying past him in a whirl of hoof-thundering, hair-flying disorder, his astonishment knew no bounds. He reined up his horse and stood regarding her in amazement, half doubting the reality of the vision.

"Mistress Barbara!" he exclaimed, "you here! What do you here?"

But she trembled and flushed yet more at sight of his surprise.

"I--I do but ride abroad, sir," she faltered; "may I not ride these roads as well as another?"

"Assuredly," he answered gravely. But there was an eager gleam in his eyes, for he thought on the words of Lady Cicely, spoken ere he rode away:

"I know nought of this affair," she said. "But I am a woman, Captain Protheroe, and 'tis we women who see the truth. And trust me, Barbara loves you, whether she yet know it herself or no."

And he had ridden away, deeming the words but gentle folly, spoken to ease his pain. But now, as he looked upon her flushed cheek, and downcast eyes, he thought on them again, and his heart beat quickly.

Then he looked at the pony, sweating with the fury of the ride, and he smiled, thinking:

"Assuredly, 'twas even me she came to seek."

He dismounted and standing beside her, after a pause asked quietly:

"Madame, why did you ride after me?"

"I--I----"

"Have you nought to say to me?"

Then she gathered her courage, and turned on him to escape his questionings.

"Why did you leave us so discourteously?" she asked.

"Alas! madame," he murmured, "I lacked courage to bid you farewell."

"But, now----"

"Now, Mistress Barbara! Think you it were easier now to bid farewell, now, while I look upon your face? Ah, no! in truth, I cannot leave you now. For, ah! Mistress Barbara----" he broke out passionately, laying his hands on hers--"I love you--I love you, and to leave you is to go from the joys of heaven out into the darkness of death. Ah! Barbara, if you know mercy, bid me not leave you now."

He paused, then as she sat dumbstricken by the force of his passion, he continued with a sudden bitterness:

"And yet how should I stay, seeing my love is nought to you. Better to leave you now. For in truth, a man must not ask too much of Heaven. But to leave you--to see your face no more! Ah! madame, madame, what is this you have done to me, seeing I cannot leave you now, and yet I dare not stay?"

There was silence. Then Barbara, turning away her face, said slowly:

"Captain Protheroe! I supposed you and Ralph fought concerning the affair on Sedgemoor. I--I knew of no other cause of quarrel betwixt you."

Captain Protheroe raised his head with a quick hope. "Ah?" he questioned breathlessly.

"Yes. And"--she continued hurriedly--"in this quarrel Ralph was in the wrong. I--I do not wish you to leave me."

A moment he paused. Then he answered in a low restrained voice:

"While I can serve you I will remain. But, an you need me no more, I pray you then, in pity, turn away your face and let me go."

But Barbara turned her head and looked at him, and she whispered softly, so softly that he but caught the words ere they died away:

"Nay, sir, but what an I need thee all my days?" And having so spoken again she turned away her head.

The birds' chorus rose loud and triumphant in the human silence that followed, while he took her hands in his and pressed them to his lips.

Then he tried to see her face, but 'twas still turned from him, he could but see one crimson cheek and the curling lashes resting upon it. He sighed softly, but smiled withal.

"Mistress Barbara," he pleaded, "have I not told you your eyes are like unto the clear depths of the heavens? Alas! why are the heavens so oft veiled from the gaze of man?"

She answered not, but turned her head slightly, and he saw a smile was playing round her lips.

"Is it lest by too long contemplation of their beauty, a man should lose himself in longing?" he asked again.

Then Barbara turned her head and faced him, but still her lashes drooped, and she whispered very softly:

"Nay, but rather lest by too long contemplation a man should learn their secret."

"Ah, Barbara," he pleaded; "be merciful. Show me the secret of the heavens."

So she raised her eyes to his, and far in their depths he read her secret.

And she, stooping, gave her face to his kisses, and her life to him for all its span.