Captain Protheroe, through whose help I have escaped from prison."
The two men eyed one another angrily for a moment, then Captain
Protheroe cautiously lowered his branches, and Ralph sheathed his sword.
"Your pardon, Barbara," muttered the latter; "I did not recognise the
gentleman as one of your friends. I had thought from his dress----"
"Captain Protheroe was indeed an officer of the royal army. But he hath
been imprisoned---- You have never told me wherefore you were
imprisoned," she interrupted suddenly, turning to the captain.
He turned to her in amazement.
"Why, madame, do you not know?"
"I!" she cried. "What mean you? Is it possible you were condemned for
the affair at Durford! Indeed I knew nought of it! I am sorry--I----"
He turned the subject quickly.
"Then this gentleman, madame----?" he queried doubtfully.
"This is Sir Ralph Trevellyan; an old, a very dear friend of
Rupert's--and of mine. He was wounded at Sedgemoor, and is now a
fugitive as we are. He hath agreed to join our company, and we will all
three travel together."
Captain Protheroe bowed stiffly, and glanced jealously at the newcomer.
"I am sorry, madame," he muttered sulkily. "You do not consider my
protection sufficient."
"Hoots!" exclaimed Barbara crossly. "Two are ever better than one."
"Possibly. I doubt not this gentleman is also of that opinion," he
answered with a slight sneer.
But here Ralph broke in hotly.
"If this gentleman like not my company, Barbara, I will right willingly
rid myself of his."
"Certainly not!" cried Barbara, thoroughly exasperated, fearful also
lest, removed from her influence, Ralph might again attempt his life.
"If Captain Protheroe like not my friends, he may e'en journey alone."
Captain Protheroe looked up in astonishment.
"Do you desire me to leave you, madame?" he demanded coldly.
"As you please. An you care to do so, of a certainty I would not
prevent you," she answered angrily, but her voice faltered. Here was
the opportunity she had told herself she desired, the opportunity to
free him from her dependence. But now her pride wavered, and despite
her angry words, she prayed he might not go.
But he also had pride, pride now stung by jealousy. Without a word he
turned on his heel, and strode from the glade.
Barbara stared after his retreating figure in dismay, but she could not
call him back. She turned fiercely upon Sir Ralph.
"And pray what right had you, Ralph, to quarrel with Captain Protheroe?"
she cried in a fury.
"Tut! Barbara," he answered coaxingly. "We shall do better without
him. I doubt not the fellow is but a spy."
"He is no spy," she answered, stamping her foot in her rage. "He is a
most brave, a most chivalrous gentleman. And--and I would to Heaven he
had not left me."
She turned angrily away from her astonished companion--and found herself
face to face with the captain himself.
The gloom had vanished from his face, and he looked down at her with a
smile in his eyes.
"I pray you pardon me, Mistress Barbara," he began; "I did not willingly
play the eavesdropper. I returned to fetch my cloak. But now----" he
paused, and looked down at her whimsically. "Now, may I stay?"
In vain Barbara endeavoured to preserve her anger, gazing back haughtily
into his laughing eyes; she was too delighted to see him again, and
presently her lips twitched, and the dimple appeared.
"You--you are very troublesome," she answered, turning away.
Being a wise man and well versed in the ways of women Captain Protheroe
sought for no more definite expression of relenting, but seated himself
cheerfully on a fallen tree, and awaited her pleasure.
Presently Barbara continued, as though nothing had occurred.
"Come, you two must be friends. Give Captain Protheroe your hand,
Ralph, and crave pardon for your rough welcome."
She accompanied the words with a glance in the direction of the
discomfited Ralph, and he dared not refuse, but he complied with the
request in a somewhat sulky fashion.
"Believe me, sir," he said, with the slightest curl of his lips, "I
deeply regret that in my eagerness to protect this lady, I did not
observe that you have been--er--deprived of your sword."
Captain Protheroe flushed at the implied insult, but accepted the
extended hand.
Barbara hastily continued:
"That is well," she said cheerfully, affecting to ignore the rising
quarrel. "Now will we be all friends together. And now, Captain
Protheroe, the result of your expedition?"
"I fear I have but little to tell. One patrol indeed passed on the road
to the south, but for the rest the country looks quiet enough. Yet we
can scarce hope to pass another day here in safety; if you are ready we
should move on to-night."
"Whither, then?"
"Aye, that is the question. We--" then interrupting himself with a
bitter laugh--"I had forgot, 'tis we no longer,--they, the King's
troops, are guarding the coast from Watchet to Parret mouth, since so
many have escaped thence; there is small hope to the north. We might
turn south, and lie hid among the Blackdown Hills, yet there is little
to be gained by that; 'twill be some months ere the country be quiet,
and you cannot lie all that time in the open. My plan, an it meet your
pleasure, is to strike eastward to-night, skirt Bridgewater, and so make
for Wells. There lives in that city an old woman who was my
foster-nurse. She's a faithful soul, and would do aught for me, I
verily believe. I could bestow you safely enow with her, indeed 'tis
like enough the three of us could lie hid there a day or so, until we
hear of some means of escape to Holland. There you can rejoin your
brother, and we can take service with Brunswick."
"But how to reach Wells?" queried Barbara.
"We must journey by dark, and lie hid in the day-time in whatsoever
corner it pleases fate to lead us to. We must press on rapidly, and
should be there in three marches at most. I confess to the risk, but
know no better plan. What say you?"
"I know nought of the matter," answered Barbara somewhat helplessly.
"Do what you think wisest."
"To Wells be it then. I know the disposition of our--the troops, and
the search is like to be less stringent there than elsewhere."
"We will leave the matter in your hands," continued Barbara. "But I
must go to Durford before we start for Holland, if you please."
"To Durford, madame! Impossible! 'Tis the one place where you would be
in greatest danger. What in Heaven's name would you at Durford?"
"Why, marry, collect my gowns of course. Do you dream I would leave
them behind for any trollop to flaunt her person in them? My French
silk, and the blue taffeta, and--oh! my new gold brocade. I cannot go
away and leave my new gold brocade. I must have it; 'tis a matter of
absolute necessity."
"But it is impossible," he cried desperately.
"Yet I can't go to Holland in these tatters," she persisted in
exasperation.
"Indeed, madame, I see not how the effect could be improved," he
answered, smiling at her admiringly. "But an it be indeed a matter of
absolute necessity, tho' it seemeth at present an utter impossibility, I
will bear the matter in mind when I lay my plans."
"That is kind," answered Barbara, with an approving smile.
Then she turned to Ralph with a sudden exclamation of distress.
"Oh! you poor boy," she exclaimed, "I had forgotten you entirely; you
must be famished. See, here is our store. Eat what you will, and then
rest; you must be wearied out with fatigue."
There was a tenderness in her voice and actions as she hovered over her
old playmate seeing to his wants, a tenderness that sounded bitterly in
the ears of Captain Protheroe. It was after all only the 'mother'
feeling, natural in all women towards one whom they instinctively know
to be weaker than themselves, but it was capable of a very different
interpretation, and small blame to her companions did they thus
interpret it, the one with a quick gladness, the other with a sudden
pang.
When Ralph's wants had been supplied, and he had at last stretched
himself out to sleep, Barbara came slowly and seated herself by Captain
Protheroe's side.
"Captain Protheroe," she began hesitatingly, "were you indeed imprisoned
solely on account of what you did for Rupert?"
"Nay, madame," he assured her quickly; "that was but the pretext I was
imprisoned on account of an old grudge."
"Yet had there not been that pretext," she began.
"They had invented another, madame."
"But none save I knew of it. How could they hear it?" she questioned
wonderingly.
"That, Mistress Barbara, is what I have been wondering ever since my
arrest."
She looked at him curiously.
"And did you ever, in the midst of your wondering, suspect me, Captain
Protheroe?"
He dropped his eyes before her clear glance.
"I am ashamed to confess that I did."
"That was unjust," she exclaimed quickly. "Despite all testimony, I
never believed that you had betrayed me."
"I betray you!" he cried indignantly. "Why, how could you dream it,
madame?"
"And how should you then deem it possible in me?"
"Oh; that was different."
"I do not see it," she answered with a smile. "But you know now that I
am no traitor?"
"My faith upon it, Mistress Barbara," he cried earnestly. "I knew it
the instant I looked again upon your face."
"And yet----" she mused, "'tis passing strange. It would seem we have a
mutual enemy. I would I knew who had betrayed us."
"And I," he answered grimly.
"You would be revenged?" she questioned curiously.
"There should be a reckoning, Mistress Barbara."
"You believed me a traitor when we were together in prison?"
"I deemed it possible. Consider, Mistress Barbara, I knew no other who
could have----"
"And yet, believing that, you saved me?"
"And yet, I saved you," he answered, smiling.
"Was that then your revenge?"
"Revenge! On you! Ah! Mistress Barbara, that were indeed different.
Is not my life yours to do with as you wish?"
"The forest is no place for compliment, sir," she rebuked. "This pure
air puts such empty words to shame."
"I know it, madame," he answered quietly. "'Twas indeed for that reason
I dared to speak the words, trusting that you would know them to be
true."
She had no answer to his words. Her heart trembled with gladness, but
she despised herself for the weakness. "His life was hers." Aye, but
might not a man speak so, look so, a hundred times, and mean no more
than empty courtesy? And in her heart she cursed this cruel art of
compliment, the meaningless gallantry towards her sex which permits a
man to stale his homage at every maiden's feet, and forbids a woman to
place credence in aught a man may say, lest she shame herself by seeming
to take that which was never offered.
For Barbara had met too many such light gallants, men who, in all
innocence doubtless, yet with deep cruelty, juggle with maiden's hearts
as lightly as they throw a main; and she had already learned to don her
armour, and enchain her free heart in the heavy fetters of her pride.
So she answered him nothing, wotting not what to say. And he, fearing to
displease her, spoke no further.
Silence hung about them, the heavy stillness of the noonday hour
accentuated by the drowsy hum of insects.
Presently Captain Protheroe glanced up at the sun shining high above
their heads, and looked across at Barbara with a smile.
"Noon, Mistress Barbara," he said in a meaning tone.
She understood instantly the drift of the allusion, and shuddered
fearfully.
"Ah! we are not yet far enough from Taunton," she cried anxiously.
"On the contrary, we should rejoice that we are already so far. Tho' I
suppose," he added with a sudden smile, "had we waited, in a few minutes
from this hour I for one should have journeyed much further."
"Indeed we should be greatly thankful," continued Barbara seriously.
"For here we are, free and"--glancing at the loveliness around her--"one
would almost say in Paradise. Why only last night I bade you farewell,
and----"
She stopped abruptly, their eyes met, and her face crimsoned with
blushes; for as she spoke the words, she remembered, on a sudden, the
manner of that farewell.
He understood the cause of her confusion and pitied it. With a sudden
impulsive movement he leaned forward and laid his hand upon her knee.
"Nay, Mistress Barbara," he began hurriedly. "I beg of you not to be so
distressed about so small an act of charity. The events of yesterday
are as a bad dream; we will look upon all we said and did as the acts of
delirium."
To his surprise Barbara sprang to her feet, her face crimson, her breast
heaving with anger.
"Indeed, Captain Protheroe," she answered in the coldest tones, "you
need have no fear I should otherwise have understood your words. The
whole affair was but a jest."
She strode haughtily past him and disappeared into her bower.
Captain Protheroe looked after her with a long, low whistle of
astonishment and dismay. Then he shook his head solemnly and drew out
his pipe.
"The longer a man lives," he remarked to that trusty confidant, "the
more surely he learns that the only safe method of dealing with women is
to preserve an absolute silence. Thus only may he chance to escape
offence, for they can interpret it as they will."
*CHAPTER XVIII*
Not until evening did Barbara emerge from her retirement. She found Sir
Ralph seated by the spring, mightily refreshed with his sleep, but
gazing somewhat gloomily at his surroundings.
He greeted her appearance, however, enthusiastically.
"Ah! Barbara, that is well," he cried joyously. "Methought you had
vanished entirely. Come, sit here and talk. I have a thousand things
to say to thee, now we are alone. This is like old times again, is it
not?"
Barbara assented absently. She was wondering whither Captain Protheroe
had vanished. She paid small heed to the look of admiration in her
companion's eyes.
"You haven't forgotten the old days, have you, Barbara?" he questioned,
with a suspicion of tenderness in his voice.
"Of course not," she answered gaily. "My memory is scarce so short.
Why 'tis but five years since you were with us."
"And I have thought on you every day since we parted, Barbara," he
continued softly.
Barbara started, there was no doubt as to the tenderness of the tone.
She was on her guard.
"Indeed, a most profitless proceeding," she answered sharply.
There was a pause during which Ralph feasted his eyes upon his
companion's face. Then he continued in a meditative voice.
"Do you remember, Barbara, how Rupert and I were wont to play we were
knights tilting for our lady's favour? You were ever my mistress then."
"You had no choice," she answered laughing. "Rupert took all others
unto himself."
"Yet had you still been mine, Barbara, were there a thousand others, you
alone. I wore your favour, and vowed to serve thee all my days. You
have not forgotten that, Barbara? The day I took my vow?"
"Alack-a-day," murmured Barbara to herself. "Here now is Ralph gone
crazy. Ah, me! what shall I do? And 'tis five years since we met. Can
a man indeed remain so faithful?"
She looked at him doubtfully, but the look in his eyes left no room for
doubt. Then she grew angry at the folly and the wilfulness of man, who
seeks ever for love where it may not be found. Yet her anger was
slight, seeing no woman is ever angry at love, however unsought, and she
pitied him and liked him the more for his love.
So she answered lightly, striving to drive him from his course.
"We played many games in those days, Ralph, I cannot mind them all."
But he leaned across and laid his hand upon hers. "'Twas not merely a
game to me, Barbara, surely you know that? You knew that when we
parted, Barbara."
Then springing to his feet, he burst out eagerly: "Oh! Barbara, I swear
I have thought on you each day these five long years. And now to find
you again! You were lovely as a child, and I loved you. You are ten
times more lovely now; why may I not love you still? And loving you, why
may I not tell you so, as in the old days."
"Because--because--Oh! 'tis folly. We were but children then, and----"
"Then let us be children again, Bab," he answered softly. "See, the
forest has brought us together again, and----"
But Barbara sprang to her feet, too angry with herself and shamed for
having conjured up, in former days, this love which she could not still,
and womanlike, angry with him for persisting in a love which pained her.
For even the best of women look upon the heart of man as an unbreakable
toy. They tread upon it unthinkingly.
"Indeed the forest has done nothing of the sort," she retorted angrily.
"Do not be so foolish, Ralph, or I will talk with you no more. 'Tis
unfair to tease me with matters that are past and done with."
He looked at her gravely.
"I am not foolish, Bab, and 'tis not past and done with yet," he
answered stubbornly.
"Then, 'tis high time it was. Look you, Ralph, I am glad you are here,
'tis good to see you again, but an you pester me with such talk, I
shall--I shall---- I won't have it, Ralph; 'tis unfair."
He looked at her doubtfully, not knowing what to make of her anger.
Then he submitted with a quietness that surprised her. Yet he deemed
his cause not hopeless, only unripe.
"I am sorry I angered you, Barbara," he answered quietly. "We will talk
no more on the matter. Yet, perchance I seemed somewhat sudden. But I
have always longed for you, Barbara, and when you came to me suddenly,
in the wood, 'twas as tho' Paradise had opened to me again."
Barbara answered nothing. She had seated herself again by the stream
and was now plucking the grass and dropping it bit by bit into the
rippling water, pondering the while why love may not beget love, and
blaming herself for her ungracious acceptance of a constancy of homage a
woman should be proud to win.
Presently Ralph sat down again by her side, and eyeing her for a minute
doubtfully, he began with some hesitation:
"Barbara!"
"Well?"
"Who is this fellow?"
"What fellow, pray?"
"Why, this Protheroe. Where did you meet with him, eh!"
"I--I knew him first at Durford. He was quartered there with some
troops, and rendered us some courtesy."
"Hum! I like him not."
"'Tis a pity," she answered drily.
"No," he continued gravely; "and I like not that you should be wandering
thus in his company. Why not send him away now, Barbara?"
"Certainly not."
"But wherefore not?" he urged.
"Because I do not choose," she answered tartly. "Besides 'twould be
foul ingratitude. He saved me from prison."
"That is no reason why you should burden him with your protection now I
am here. Indeed, Barbara, 'twere wiser to--to thank him, and leave him
now."
"I will not. 'Twere most ungracious. And, prithee, how should we fare
without him?"
"Well enow, I warrant. See here, Barbara, he may be honourable
enow----"
"He is."
"Yes, but he is not one of us. He is but a soldier of fortune, and I
like not that you should have to do with such an one. 'Twas vastly
unseemly that you and he should be trapesing the country alone together,
and I only hope no harm comes o't."
"And 'tis vastly impertinent of you, Ralph Trevellyan, to suppose that I
cannot guard my honour and my own good name," she broke out hotly; for
the suggestion in his words startled her, and stung her to the quick.
"How dare you speak thus? Upon my word, Ralph, you may be an old
friend, but, certes, you presume on the fact."
"Good Heavens! Barbara. What is the matter? I only suggested----"
"Then do not do so again. Captain Protheroe is a most honourable
gentleman. 'Tis base of you to distrust him."
"Well! Don't be angry, Barbara," he pleaded quickly. "You know in
Rupert's absence----"
"You put yourself in Rupert's place, eh? It suits you ill. Rupert hath
both greater knowledge of me, and greater trust in me than thou hast, it
would appear."
"Now, Barbara, dear---- _Damnation!_"
He dropped her hand and turned aside angrily, for a rustling of leaves
and crackling of twigs announced the return of the third member of the
party.
Barbara greeted him brightly; she was relieved at his return.
"Whither have you wandered, sir? You have been absent for hours."
"I have been fishing, madame; behold my success."
He crossed to her side, and with an air of deep pride laid before her
three tiny trout.
"Is that all?" she asked doubtfully, fearing lest a smile might hurt his
feelings.
"All!" he cried indignantly. "Why, what would you more? There is one
apiece."
"Assuredly, but----" then she noted the twinkle in his eyes and burst
into a merry laugh.
"Indeed, sir; you have kept your promise nobly. Yet I think we must
thank the fates that we are not entirely dependent for our supper upon
your skill."
"Ingratitude, thy name is woman! Here have I lain, arm deep in water,
for three mortal hours, to catch these--er--tempting morsels, and all I
meet with is contempt. Never again, Mistress Barbara."
"And have you not even the story of some monster who hath escaped you,
to comfort your heart?" she queried solemnly. "I believe Rupert ever
derived much solace from such illusions when he could produce no more
substantial triumph."
"Alas, madame, I fear illusions are but little to my taste. But since
you scorn my offerings, we had best make as good a meal as we can of the
somewhat stale viands which remain to us, and then if you are rested, we
ought to make a move."
So they supped, and bidding farewell to the hollow, presently set out on
their tramp.
Their way led for some time through the wood, and when they finally
emerged in the open country the night had already fallen.
But Captain Protheroe knew the country well, he led them unerringly
through meadows and along lonely and deserted bye-lanes, never pausing
to doubt his path.
They were, in truth, an ill-assorted party, these three, so strangely
thrown together by Fortune, to tramp the night through. For the two men
were divided by every difference of life, rank, opinion, and character;
they were followers of different leaders, supporters of widely opposed
causes, and but two months before they had been adversaries in one of
the bloodiest battles of their time. And to this was yet added that
fatal gulf twixt man and man, which even a lifelong friendship can
scarce hope to bridge across--love for the same woman.
By all tokens they should have hated each other, and assuredly they did.
And Barbara? She had in hand a task which called for all the gentleness
and tact of her nature. For with her lay the task of keeping these two
at least in outward friendship, seeing from the one she could not, from
the other she would not part. And yet, with neither, was her heart at
ease. She could not rebuff Ralph, lest he in despair be again driven to
desperate ends; moreover, the affection of a lifelong friendship, the
gratitude for a constant love, above all, the loneliness of her
position, forbade her be ungracious to one who loved so well. Yet even
while she showed him kindness, her heart reproached her, knowing she was
but leading him to hope for more. For 'tis ever so with women, their
tenderness towards all misery leading them to be kind when they should
be cruel, far more often than cruel when they should be kind.
'Twixt Captain Protheroe and herself, checking the free flow of her
spirit, lay the ever-widening barrier of her pride. For when she
discerned the tenderness in his voice, or worship in his eyes, while her
heart leaped towards him in the sweet simplicity of her love, her pride
cried to her to beware, telling her that it was nought but pity for her
weakness. The words of Ralph had done their part, bringing, like the
words of the serpent, evil to the breast of Eve. For an it were in
truth so unseemly, this wandering with him alone which before had seemed
to her so sweet, so natural, what then would men say of that embrace in
the prison, given, indeed, in all simplicity, yet given unsought? Nay,
but what mattered it what men said? what would he think? Would he think
her light o' love? Her heart burned at the thought. So she mused ever,
growing morbid in her weariness, with the strain of those last fearful
days. So she mused, scorning him in a fierce defiance lest perchance he
deem her simple, shrinking from him in a fierce shame, lest he deem her
unashamed.
Thus her troubled thoughts strove within her brain, but to all outward
seeming she was as before, gay, gracious, natural as a child.