proprietary air of old acquaintanceship. "'Twill be nigh twenty years
since my cousins and I first made it. We were Oxenham's men then, an I
remember rightly," he continued with a smile, "fighting against the
Spaniards in the Neck of Panama. My father had read us the history, and
we built our camp according to the fashion therein described. By the
look of it, one would say that none had been here since. The forest
stretches far, and 'tis an unfrequented place. 'Twill shelter us well
for to-night at least, and then we can lay our plans. And now, madame,
you must rest."
He turned to one corner of the clearing, where the moss grew thick and
soft, and pulling down some branches, together with long fronds of
bracken, he built a rough bower to shelter her from the cool breeze, and
give her at least a thought of privacy. Then he spread his cloak upon
the ground, and rolled the wide cape over a pile of leaves and grass to
form a rough pillow.
He eyed his handiwork with an air of dissatisfaction.
"'Tis a poor place," he muttered; "but I can do no more to-night."
Barbara crossed to his side; she looked up at him with a sudden smile,
but her eyes were soft and dark with unshed tears.
"For this, for a thousand kindnesses, Captain Protheroe, I must remain
forever in your debt."
She held out her hand; he stooped low before her, and pressed it to his
lips.
"Madame, I am amply rewarded."
So he answered her, and had she met the look in his eyes she had known
that his words were true.
Long after Barbara's tired eyes had closed in sleep, Captain Protheroe
lay silent, motionless, lost in thought.
Twelve hours ago he had held rank in the royal army, rich in wealth, in
power, in all the prosperity and happiness of a favoured officer. Now
he was an outcast from his profession, an exile from his home, a rebel
over whose head hung the penalty of death.
Yet he did not blame his fate. For there, beside him, an outlaw as he,
helpless save for his protection, was the one woman in the world who
throughout his life had awakened the worship of his nature, and though
the star of his fortunes hung low and dim on the horizon, yet before
him, in the darkness gleamed the rising star of love.
Yes, he was amply repaid.
So these two rested peacefully in the shade of the sheltering leaves,
while behind them in Taunton, Prudence and Robert tossed sleepless, in a
consternation of wonder and doubt, and Cicely, to whom Prue had confided
the whole story, prayed desperately the night through in an agony of
newly awakened hope.
*CHAPTER XVII*
Barbara opened her eyes wonderingly and gazed upwards into a maze of
soft shimmering green. She had slept long and soundly on her improvised
couch, and some moments passed ere she could collect her thoughts, and
solve the mystery of her surroundings. But gradually the events of the
previous night took shape from the mist of dreams that clouded her
brain, and she awoke to the new day. With a prayer of thankfulness for
her safety she sprang from her couch, and stepped out of her bower into
the wider enclosure beyond.
But there she paused, with a quick gasp of wonder and delight at the
scene which met her eyes.
She was alone in a strange, green world. The ground was carpeted with
thick, springy moss. The walls were of green leafy bushes, and
intertwining branches festooned with trails of creepers hanging from
tree to tree. Far overhead the giants of the forest greeted each other
in a close embrace, each tree trunk arching high to meet its neighbour,
and all veiled in the delicate shimmer of the ever-moving leaves. Here
and there a shaft of green light pierced through the branches and lit up
to a brilliant sparkle the emerald dewdrops which lay thickly encrusted
on the moss.
"Sure it must be even thus under the sea," murmured Barbara, "except
that there, men say, is ever silence, and here is ever sound."
She paused again to hearken with wondering delight to the thousand
voices of the forest, the never ceasing whisper of the leaves, the
ripple of water, the songs of the birds, clear among them the trill of
the robin, even then beginning his winter serenade, all the mysterious
sounds heard only in the heart of woodland life.
Close at hand a spring bubbled up and trickled away in a tiny silver
stream. Barbara plunged face and hands into the clear, cold water, and
the blood went tingling through her veins. She hesitated a moment,
glancing round to make sure she was alone. Then with a half defiant
toss of her head, she drew off shoes and stockings, and sitting on the
soft moss, dabbled her feet in the stream.
The fresh air of the morning blew upon her face. She was gay with
freedom, with health, joy, sheer animal happiness. She laughed aloud,
and flinging back her head burst into a wild song of life and love which
she had heard Rupert sing a score of times, but which she had never
until now fully understood.
But as she sang she stopped abruptly and sprang to her feet, crimsoning
with blushes, for the bushes where she sat were parted, and Captain
Protheroe stepped out and stood before her, on the other side of the
tiny stream.
"Good-morning, Mistress Barbara," he cried gaily. "Is it you indeed, or
has some nymph of the forest sought haven in our glade?"
Barbara looked down at her bare feet guiltily, and then as her glance
travelled slowly up her figure, she gave a sudden gasp of helpless
dismay.
The bottom of her skirt hung limply about her, in veritable shreds and
tatters; it was covered with green and brown stains and was torn in a
score of places. Her bodice was equally dishevelled, one sleeve had been
pulled right out of the gathers, and her dainty lawn fichu hung round
her neck in a long draggled string.
For a moment she was filled with consternation, then gradually the
ridiculous in the situation tickled her humour, and after one minute's
pause her face dimpled into mischief and she broke into a merry laugh.
As for Captain Protheroe, he vowed to himself that never before had she
looked so lovely. Her cheeks glowed with health and freshness, and her
eyes danced, her pretty feet and slender ankles peeped from beneath her
skirt, and her face and figure seemed infinitely attractive, a
harmonious part of the beauty around her. She was adorable, and he
longed to tell her so; aye, more, he longed to tell her of his new-born
love, to plead for her mercy, to lay his life, his worship in homage at
her feet.
But he dared not speak his thoughts, he dared not let himself be carried
away by her beauty, lest losing for a moment his self-restraint, he lose
it forever, and destroy at once his honour and the hope of her love.
So with an effort he turned his gaze aside and assumed once more his
customary manner of careless raillery.
"Ah! Mistress Barbara," he cried gaily, again glancing at her garments
disarranged and travel-stained, "I vow 'tis too bad of me. I knew it
was no path of roses we followed last night, but I little dreamed the
journey was so severe an one as this betokens. It was indeed careless
of me, and yet I knew no other way. I pray your forgiveness."
"Indeed, there is nought to forgive. Is it not ever a path of thorns
that leads to Paradise, and methinks e'en Paradise can scarce be more
lovely than this."
He flushed with pleasure.
"You like our camp, madame!"
"'Tis perfection. I have never seen aught so lovely. The forest is a
new world to me."
"A new world, and you the queen on't."
"A pretty queen i' faith, in rags and tatters. More like a beggar-maid
methinks."
"An all beggar-maids were so, madame, one would judge King Cophetua a
man of infinite discernment, and wisest choice."
Her eyes danced in recognition of the compliment, but meeting his glance
she deemed it wiser to bring him back to earth.
"An I be queen, prithee, fair subject, give me my breakfast, for I am
hungry as a trooper."
"'Twill be a somewhat cheerless meal, I fear," he muttered
discontentedly; "I have been abroad in search of something better to
offer than the cold bacon and pasty we purloined from the inn, but I met
with little success. Here are all my spoils."
He unfolded two large leaves filled with wild plums and berries, and
together they sat down to the meal. Barbara laughed lightly at the
extraordinary collection of viands her companion produced from his
bundle, but Captain Protheroe regarded the food scattered about on the
ground with a rueful countenance.
"'Tis poor fare indeed, Mistress Barbara. But that foul witch,
Misfortune, has driven us forth into the wilderness, and we must needs
endure the distresses she showers on us with as bold a heart as we may."
"Fie, fie! sir," answered Barbara gaily, devouring her bread and
blackberries with infinite gusto. "Where are your eyes? This is no
wilderness, but a sweet enchanted isle. Some gentle enchantress hath
led us hither, and now encloses us with a hundred magic spells safely
guarded from the malice of our foes."
"And here we shall dwell happily ever after. Runs not the story so?
For my part I should be well content," he added softly.
Again Barbara ignored the tenderness in his voice.
"This is no pasty, neither is it mere greasy bacon that you eat," she
continued her parable calmly, "though to your eyes so it may appear.
'Tis magic food that our enchantress hath supplied. While this water,"
she added, stooping with cupped hand to drink from the spring, "sure no
ordinary water could have so sweet a taste. 'Tis the nectar of the
gods, and whosoever drinks it shall remain forever young."
"I' faith, madame, you are a lesson in contentment. For myself, hard
fare is nothing, but I feared for you. I went fishing also this morning,
but with ill success, my hand has lost its cunning since boyhood. But
you shall have trout for supper, or I will drown in the attempt."
Barbara laughed brightly.
"Tell me of your camp here when you were a boy," she commanded.
So he told her of his boyhood, becoming boy again as he talked. Told of
his games, adventures, beliefs, of life in those golden days when the
forest had been to him a place of magic, each rock a fortress, each
rotting tree-trunk a fearsome beast of prey, each flower-clad glade a
dwelling for the fairies. And she listened to all with a sweet
eagerness, a ready comprehension, a quick sympathy which led him to
another and yet another tale, till his whole boyhood lay open before her
like a book, and through the boy she learned to know the man, the man as
he really was beneath his veneer of careless gallantry, brave, honest,
simple, and chivalrous. For the man who looks back with love to the days
of his childhood preserves one treasure in his heart which the world may
never sully.
Thus they talked, these two, cut off from all their world. Naturally,
openly they talked, disclosing to one another their deepest, purest
thoughts, for the spell of the forest was upon them, and for the nonce
the man and the woman met face to face, simple and unashamed The
sunlight played about them, the leaves danced and whispered, and the air
thrilled with the song of the birds.
[Illustration: "THUS THEY TALKED, THESE TWO, CUT OFF FROM ALL THEIR
WORLD"]
"And were there no women in your camp?" asked Barbara at last, smiling.
"Yes, one. We would have appointed her our cook, our slave, as is the
manner of lads towards most maids of their age. But not she! How that
chit of a maiden ruled us, and how presently we worshipped her! She
would sit here, our queen, enthroned and crowned, while we must scour
the forest for fruit and flowers, rare gifts for her Majesty. We must
wait upon her pleasure, fight for her favours, be in all things her
slaves. Young as she was, she knew her power well, she tyrannised over
us even then, and we--we loved her for it with all our hearts."
His voice was soft and tender, and a shadow fell on Barbara's heart.
"Where is she now?" she asked, with eager, too eager, Interest.
Again he hesitated, and answered in a cold, slightly restrained voice:
"She hath been, for some years, at the court of his Majesty, King
Louis."
Then there fell a silence between them, but no longer the silence of
sympathy, for he was lost in recollection, and she in wondering doubt.
Presently he rose abruptly to his feet.
"I think, Mistress Barbara, 'twere well I should go and reconnoitre. I
will soon return; but I would fain see, if possible, what our enemies
are about. Are you afraid to stay here alone?"
"Afraid?" she asked in astonishment, "why, what should harm me?"
"Yes, 'twas a foolish question to ask you, Mistress Barbara, I might
have known the answer," he replied admiringly.
He paused a moment, smiling down at her, turned with a nod, and vanished
into the wood.
For some time after his departure Barbara lay still, nestling in the
luxurious couch of moss, wrapt in dreams. But the fresh joy of the
morning had passed, and her dreams grew less bright.
She remembered now for the first time the helplessness of her position;
an outcast, with no shelter save such as Captain Protheroe might
provide, no escape save through his contrivance, no protection save his
arm; she was utterly dependent upon him.
And then she remembered, with a sudden hot rush of blood to her cheeks,
that it was she herself who had brought this about.
For he had not offered to take her with him, rather had he advised her
to seek out the Lanes and take shelter with them; but she in her
heedlessness had refused his advice, had forced her company upon him.
And he could not in courtesy refuse, but was bound by his honour to
undertake the task, to provide for her, and protect her, even at the
risk of his life.
No, she had thrust herself, unwelcome, upon him, and had now no hope
save in him.
So she mused, growing each moment more ashamed, more angry, her pride
stinging her afresh at each recollection of his kindness and her
dependence on it.
For this dependence, which might once perchance have been a sweet
thought to her, was now turned to gall and bitterness by the shadow of
another, the aforetime queen of the forest, whose presence seemed to her
to haunt the little glade, the girl who had claimed his homage, whom he
had loved with all his heart.
For if he loved the girl of whom he spoke so tenderly, then she,
Barbara, could be nothing to him, save that perchance her beauty
gratified his eyes; her presence was but an aggravation of his
distresses, her helplessness a burden, unwelcome as unsought.
Her first impulse, nay, her firm intention was to flee from him at once,
relieve him from his forced task, and win or lose her safety for
herself. Thus her pride urged her to act.
But more gentle thoughts held sway. For Barbara was practical, and
above all things, just. She saw clearly that to leave him now, in
secret, would but add to his troubles, since he would without doubt seek
her again, nor rest until he found her, fearing for her safety.
Further, to urge him to leave her were useless; such a man as he did not
lightly relinquish a task he had once taken in hand.
No, clearly she could not escape from the position in which she had
thrust herself, her punishment must be to remain with him, dependent on
his care. Nor must she accept his kindness grudgingly, but with a free
heart, simply, confidently, else her conduct were indeed unjust. For
since she had imposed the task upon him, she must not make it bitter by
any act of hers.
So she resolved, though it hurt her pride sorely to accept his favours,
deeming that she had nought to give in turn. For the Winslows were ever
proud folk, giving gift for gift, blow for blow, in fair exchange, and
Barbara had by no means consented to give nought and receive all at the
hands of any man, save that her wonderful sense of fairness (no such
common attribute of her sex), forced her to give his feelings the
consideration she felt was but his due.
But for that other woman! The woman who had once sat there, enthroned,
accepting his homage, perchance in the very spot where new she lay. She
rose abruptly and walked to the far side of the hollow, where she seated
herself stiffly on a fallen tree, and glanced distastefully at the soft
bank of moss that had lately formed her couch.
Presently she grew restless, and so to escape from the folly of her
thoughts, she resolved to make a short voyage of exploration on her own
account.
She had no difficulty in discovering the opening in the bushes which
enclosed the hollow, and passing through she found herself on a narrow
green path leading through the forest. The brambles crept close to her
side, and at times even stretched their long arms across her path, but
in the clear light of day she had no great difficulty in making her way
along a road which in the darkness of the previous night had appeared
fraught with almost insuperable difficulty.
She tripped along at a fair pace beneath the towering branches, pausing
ever and anon to gaze with wondering delight at some newly opening scene
of woodland beauty.
Now she would pass a stretch of bracken, higher than her head, through
which the sunlight streamed in a blaze of emerald fire. Anon she came
to pause in a grove of beeches, gazing up in awe at the giant branches
above her, curving in graceful arches far above her head; or she stooped
in delight over some gnarled old tree-stump, alive with feathery ferns
and delicately coloured lichens; and once she came to a wide, green bank
o'ercovered quite with delicate cobwebs, dew-flecked, shimmering like
silken gauze, beneath which swayed the tender lily-plants, like the
slender forms of eastern beauties, dancing in their jewelled veils.
It was a world of magic delight, and as she wandered on, she fell again
beneath the forest spell, and forgot her cares in the sheer joy of
beauty. For the forest has a magic charm for all who will yield to its
influence. The song of the sea is restlessness; the teaching of the
hills is aspiration, but the spell of the forest is peace.
But suddenly she stopped, with a quick indrawing of the breath, for
close beside her, separated only by a leafy screen, she heard a deep,
shuddering sigh.
Her first impulse was to flee at once along the road she had come, back
to the safe shelter of the hollow. But her curiosity stayed her, and she
waited, hand on heart, for what should follow.
Again came the groan, and this time she could distinguish some muttered
words.
"My God! I will endure no more. It must end now."
Barbara had been no true woman had she turned back now. But it was
perhaps as much pity as curiosity that prompted her to push gently aside
the branches, and peer through them at the speaker of these despairing
words.
Before her, on a fallen tree sat the dismallest figure of a man she had
ever seen. Pale, emaciated, with haggard face half concealed by a
tangle of matted hair, and clad in that most melancholy of
apparels--soiled and tattered finery. His right arm hung limply at his
side, a pistol in the hand. His head was bowed upon his breast, but
even as Barbara looked, he raised it, and she marked his desperate
glance, his eyes hardened in despair.
As she looked upon his face the beauty of the forest vanished, it showed
but as a drear wilderness of thorn and bramble, a fit setting to the
desperate figure of the man before her; even so does the sight of a
drowned corpse rob the sea of all its glory.
The man raised his face for a minute to the heavens, as though he would
fling a look of defiance at the pitiless gods; then slowly lifted the
pistol in his hand and turned the muzzle towards his temple, curling his
finger round the trigger.
Without thought of aught save that the deed must be prevented, Barbara
did not pause to consider her best course of action; she sprang through
the bushes and confronted the sufferer, holding out her hands
entreatingly towards him, and, with a sudden flash of instinct, crying
in half-pleading, half-commanding tones:
"Hold, sir, hold. I require your protection."
The man sprang to his feet, and stood for a moment staring in amazement
at this unexpected apparition. Then he fell on his knees before her, his
eyes fixed adoringly upon her eager face.
"Barbara," he whispered, "Barbara! You! You!"
It was the girl's turn to be astonished. She drew back a step, and
regarded the speaker with a frown of bewilderment.
"Do you not know me, Barbara?" he whispered again. "You can't have
forgotten me, Ralph Trevellyan."
"Ralph!" she cried in amazement. "Is it possible?" It was indeed
difficult to recognise in this haggard figure the gay debonair youth she
had known in former days, her brother's boon companion, and a favourite
playmate of her childhood.
"Ralph Trevellyan!" she repeated again doubtfully.
Then glancing down quickly at the pistol still in his hand, she cried
reproachfully, "Oh, Ralph!"
He understood her meaning, and flushed hotly.
"And why not, Barbara?" he questioned defiantly. "What else remained to
do? I am sick of this life, and here in this cursed forest is neither
food nor shelter. It had to be death one way or another, better thus
than on the scaffold."
"But not now, Ralph," she pleaded; "surely not now."
He took her hand and kissed it.
"Not now, Barbara, if you have need of me."
"Oh! indeed I have great need," she answered quickly. "For I am a
fugitive even as thou, a rebel tried and condemned, and but yesterday
escaped from Taunton gaol."
His face gleamed with anger.
"What! Did they dare! The fiends! But tell me how it befell,
Barbara."
"No, I will have your story first. Tell me---- But stay, I had forgot.
You are worn and hungry. Come. I know where there is food in plenty.
Come!"
So she led him back to the hollow, and on the way he told her his story.
How he had been left for dead on the field of Sedgemoor, but was saved
by some pitiful peasants, who hid him in their cottage and nursed him
back to life. But a few days since, while his strength was still but
half-restored, a raid was made upon his hiding-place, he having been
betrayed, and he had but just escaped to the wood in safety. There he
had lurked for three days, feeding upon berries and such wild fruits as
he could find, until at last, his strength well-nigh spent, and his
spirit hopeless, he had resolved to give up the struggle and end his
life.
As he finished his story, to which the girl listened with eager
sympathy, they reached the enclosure, and parting the bushes, Barbara
led him proudly into the hollow.
"Here is our camp, Ralph, is it not a Paradise? And now sit, and I will
fetch you food."
"But tell me, Barbara," he asked suddenly. "You are not alone here.
Surely you cannot have wandered all night alone in this wilderness."
Now Barbara hesitated, wondering how best to explain the apparent
inconsistency of her conduct in having declared herself in urgent need
of his protection, when she was provided with a most capable protector
already. And while she paused, choosing her words, Captain Protheroe
himself suddenly appeared at the entrance and stopped in wonder, gazing
questioningly at the intruder.
Then a strange thing happened. Before Barbara could explain matters to
either of her companions, Ralph turned, and saw the cause of her sudden
silence. He stared wildly at the captain for one moment, then springing
to his feet, he drew his sword, and rushed full pace to throw himself
upon the intruder.
Captain Protheroe was unarmed, and the attack was utterly unexpected,
but he was a man of ever ready wit, quick to meet all turns and shifts
of fortune, and was accordingly in no wise overthrown by the onslaught.
He stepped back a pace, into the shelter of the bushes, and pulling down
a large leafy branch, he entrenched himself behind it, as behind a
shield, and peered cautiously through the twigs at his opponent.
As for Ralph, he stopped dead for a moment in absolute amazement at this
manoeuvre, then with a new rush of anger at what he deemed the cowardice
of the fellow, he flew fiercely to the attack, slashing aside the
leaves, and thrusting through the branches in a fury of rage. But
Captain Protheroe's spirits rose to the fight, and he on his part did
good work with his branch, swinging it from side to side, warding off
the blows of his opponent, and occasionally getting in a thrust on his
own account with the leafy mass, at his enemy's face.
The twigs snapped, the branches cracked, the leaves flew round them in a
wild shower at the sweeping strokes of Ralph's sword. Sure never before
was such a mad confusion.
Barbara stood for some minutes transfixed with astonishment at the
strange turn of events, then with a quick cry she rushed to Ralph's
side, and seized his arm firmly with both hands.