CHAPTER XXIII

Next day they rode merrily to Durford. At early morning they set out, when the white mist curled in the valley, and the russet trees, sun-kissed on the hills, gleamed like fiery tongues of flame above a silver sea; through the bright noonday they rode, when the mists like evil witches of the night had vanished before the sunbeams, the broad earth lay smiling up into the deep blue heavens, and the myriad creatures of earth and sky raised their tiny voices in harmonious Te Deum for the glory of life. Through a world of joy and sunshine they rode, until early in the afternoon they climbed the last hill and saw in the valley below the red-roofed cottages of the village and the tall grey chimneys of the Manor House hiding among the burnished leaves.

And from that point their ride was a royal progress.

Like lightning the news spread about the village that Mistress Barbara was come home. Cottage doors were flung open, women and children rushed headlong into the street to meet her. They crowded round her to kiss her hands, to shower greetings upon her; the women wept, like the foolish creatures they are; all the village was agog with joy. And Barbara, with shining eyes, laughed and waved her hand, and rode through them like a queen. At length they reached the park gates, and there was Cicely, her ribbons streaming in the wind, her hands outstretched in eager welcome, running full-pace to meet them.

Barbara leapt from her saddle, and with a sudden queer little sob rushed into her cousin's arms.

There they stood crying and kissing, while the villagers flung up their caps and laughed with delight, and the bells broke out into a wild peal of music because Barbara Winslow was come home.

Presently Cicely released Barbara and ran towards Ralph with a world of delighted greeting in her face, and as she took his hands her eyes fell on Captain Protheroe. For a moment she stared at him as one amazed, and then slowly the first bright joy died in her face, her cheeks flushed crimson, and her eyes filled with misery and shame. Yet he, guessing nought, wondered at her glance, and felt himself unwelcome.

But Barbara saw nothing, her joy to be home again filled all her thoughts. She seized her cousin's arm, and broke into an eager chatter of explanations, rejoicings and questionings, till Cicely was fain to laugh in sheer bewilderment.

"Softly, softly, Bab," she cried; "I must have it all from the beginning. Come in, and tell me all. You are safe, and you are here, and that is all I care."

And so, Barbara, waving farewell to her followers, came at last to the house, and the tale was told.

Some hours later Captain Protheroe was alone in the large hall of the Manor House. Explanations had been given, questions answered; the excitement in the village had died away, and all was still and peaceful, with the sweet peace of a September evening.

He had been for some time alone.

Ralph, yielding to Barbara's insistence, had retired for a rest after his long ride, and the two cousins had early slipped away together to revel in a long talk.

He sat in one of the deep window-seats, gazing idly at the fading glows of the sunset, dreaming of the night when he had last stood there and struggled against the influence of the girl, who now was all the world to him. And as he looked back and thought on all she had been to him since that night, he wished with all his heart that Time would turn his hour-glass, and let him live those days again. Nay, give him back but three sweet hours again, and he would be content to endure even banishment from her side, with such a memory to soothe his pain. So he mused, concerned not that to many the shadow indeed proves dearer than the substance, nor that he whose memories are tender Is ofttimes happier than he who in the attainment loses the remembrance forever.

He was disturbed in his dreaming by the sound of his own name cried softly, and, turning, he found Lady Cicely standing close beside him, her hands tightly clasped, her head half turned away.

"Captain Protheroe," she said in a strained voice; "I—I have somewhat to say to you."

"To me?" he asked wonderingly. Then catching sudden sight of her face, he started back. "In heaven's name, Lady Cicely, what is it?" he cried. "Is Mistress Barbara——"

"Oh! Barbara is well," interrupted the lady quickly, with the faintest attempt at a smile. "'Tis of yourself I must speak, yourself and me."

He placed a chair for her, then took up his position opposite, leaning against the window frame, and looking down on her in wonderment.

Then, seeing she hesitated to speak, he asked gravely:

"In what have I been so unfortunate as to offend your ladyship?"

She glanced up in distress.

"Oh! 'tis not that. 'Tis I who have offended you. I have done you grievous wrong.'

"Done me wrong, madame?" he asked, smiling down at her, marvelling at the small troubles with which women love to torment their minds. "Nay, an it be so, madame, 'tis forgiven. Prithee, think no more on't."

"Oh! but I must," she cried wildly; "I have thought on it day and night since 'twas committed; thought on it every moment till I felt I must go mad an I could not see you to confess to't."

"Nay, madame, indeed it was not worth your thought, whatever it be," he answered gallantly. "That you have given me place in your gentle thoughts should be sufficient atonement."

But she, covering her face, burst on a sudden into bitter weeping.

"Oh, do not talk so!" she cried. "You do not know. You do not know."

His face grew grave. He took a step forward and leaned over her in deep distress.

"Nay, madame, I entreat you." he said gently; "indeed, you must not weep for such a thing. Come"—he coaxed lightly—"what is this grievous wrong? Why, you could scarce be more distressed had you betrayed me."

Then she dropped her hands and faced him.

"You have said it," she cried in a dry voice; "'twas indeed I who betrayed you."

He started from her and stood upright, looking down on her in amazement, in slowly gathering wrath.

"'Tis true," she sobbed; "I betrayed you to my Lord Jeffreys."

"You did?"

"Yes. I—came even from so doing when I met you—that night in Taunton."

"That night! And yet, madame, having done so, you allowed me to go on, without word of warning, into the trap which you yourself had set?"

His face was in the shadow, but she trembled at the suppressed anger in his tone.

"Is this true, madame?" he continued sharply.

She had no answer save a sob.

"And may I ask," he continued presently in the same stern tone, "may I ask your reason for—er—taking such an active interest in my affairs?"

"I—I deemed you had betrayed Barbara," she answered timidly.

"Your suspicion was as unjust as your revenge," he cried angrily. Then he checked himself, and presently continued coldly, "Your pardon, madame, I forgot myself. I believe,"—he drawled with a slight sneer—"in affairs of honour, 'tis not—customary to judge women by the standard usually applied to men."

Cicely winced at his words, but sobbed on helplessly, making no attempt to defend herself. Captain Protheroe walked slowly to the far end of the room and having partially mastered his anger, slowly returned to her side.

"Come, madame," he said sharply, "there is no need to weep more about the matter. The thing is done; there is an end on't."

"I—I did it for Barbara," she sobbed, stung by his tone to seek for some self-justification.

"Ah!" His tone was startled, questioning.

"Your life was to be the price of her freedom."

"Her freedom!"

"Yes. But, fool that I was, as well as traitor, they took my information and cheated me of the reward."

She burst into a fresh passion of sobs.

But now all trace of anger had left his face, he was eager, glad.

"But, Lady Cicely," he cried, "this is, indeed, a different matter; I had misunderstood. You were justified, perfectly. What a villain I was to doubt you. Madame, can you ever forgive me?"

Cicely stared at him in amazement.

"Nay, sir, I see no difference. Your words were just."

"Just! madame, they were shameful, infamous! I cannot hope to win your pardon for them. Why, Lady Cicely," he continued with boyish eagerness, "I am grateful to you for your action, most grateful. I count it the highest honour to have been privileged to serve Mistress Barbara, for," he added softly, "I would gladly die a thousand deaths to shield her from pain. I beseech you, madame, be comforted. 'Twas no betrayal, I was a most willing victim at the sacrifice."

But though she smiled faintly Cicely still wept.

"Ah! 'tis kind to say so," she cried, shaking her head, "But for me—for me who betrayed you! What respect, what honour have I left me?"

"Ah! madame, would my tongue had been cut out ere ever I spake those words," he cried miserably.

"Nay, the words were nought. But the deed! The deed remains the same. What must you think of me? Nay, what must I think of myself?"

Bitterly she wept, and he looked down on her in helpless despair.

Then he bent over her tenderly, and gently took her hand.

"Lady Cicely," he said softly, "what would you think of me, had I betrayed you to save Sir Rupert?"

"Ah!" Her sobs were arrested. She looked at him a moment, then gave a long sigh of slow-dawning comprehension.

"Yes, madame! Would you look upon me as worthy your contempt? Would you not rather be glad?"

"Yes! Yes!" she whispered eagerly.

"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.