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."
"'AH! BARBARA, IF YOU KNOW MERCY, BID ME NOT LEAVE YOU NOW'"
"'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.

The End