Mistress Fytch, she took into her own hands the greater part of the
housework, and busied herself about parlour and kitchen with all the
delight of a child engaged in a new amusement. She had certainly slight
knowledge of the art of cookery, but it was never her nature to
anticipate difficulties, and she applied herself to her new tasks with
the same grave resolution, the same hopeful self-confidence that she was
ever wont to bring to bear upon all her undertakings.
Some of her experiments certainly horrified poor Mistress Fytch, but the
old lady speedily grew to love the girl, despite her whimsies, and
despairing of controlling so determined an assistant, she let her have
her way.
But Barbara had also another task to her hand. For Ralph, his strength
exhausted by exposure and starvation, was laid low with a fever, and for
two days lay delirious, dependent on her care. She nursed him with
unwearying tenderness, though the duty was no light one, and she shrank
in dread at his raving, which wrung her heart sorely. For ever his talk
was of Barbara, Barbara his perfect woman, Barbara whom he worshipped
with his heart and soul. And as she listened to his words, and learned
the story of his years-long devotion, her heart grew heavy with pity and
she redoubled her tenderness towards him, crying to herself that she was
cruel, cruel, to have nought to give him in return.
Even when the delirium passed, and he was on the speedy road to
recovery, her self-reproach, her gratitude, led her in cruel kindness
still to continue her tender ministrations, and as he watched her
waiting upon him, hovering over him, ever watchful to supply his wants,
it seemed to him that Mistress Fytch's simple rooms were changed to a
veritable paradise, and those few short days passed like a glimpse of
heaven.
But for Miles Protheroe life during those days was alternate heaven and
hell.
For howsoever rapturously a man may love a woman, regarding constantly
her courage, her beauty or even her disdain, yet is his love made more
devout when he may watch her, moving simple, gracious, sweet, about her
household work. Then first is revealed to him the full influence of her
nature. No haughty queen, no unapproachable goddess she, but the bright
light of a man's life, the very homemaker, glorifying by the beauty of
her gracious presence the humblest tasks.
Captain Protheroe thus day by day grew to love Barbara more, but with
the growth of his love his despair increased at sight of her devotion to
Sir Ralph.
As she listened perforce to the sick man's ravings, he would steal from
the room with despairing heart and maddened thought, that another could
pour out to her so freely the words which he might not speak.
So the days passed, until preparation for their escape from the country
could be perfected. Captain Protheroe had not been idle in searching
for news of a vessel bound for Holland. There was a certain old
shipmaster, John Quelch, whom he had known since boyhood, and to him he
resolved to turn for help, for Master Quelch, he knew well, was a
frequent visitor to Wells, where his sister kept an inn. Accordingly at
the inn he ventured secretly to seek news of him, and there, luck being
with him, he discovered the man himself, and confided to him his
difficulties. Master Quelch owed something to the captain's kindness in
former days, and having readily promised his help, two days later
brought the welcome news that his brother's vessel, the _Roaring
George_, was shortly to sail from Listoke and the skipper would take
them on board. He further suggested that they journey to the coast as
his companions, and thus there would be less danger of interruption on
their way, since such journeys of seamen and their relatives were
frequent betwixt Wells and the sea, and he was a man well known upon the
road.
The fugitives accepted the offer right willingly, and this matter being
arranged, time again hung heavily on Captain Protheroe's hands until the
day arrived for departure. It was easy for Barbara to wait, busy with
her many duties; it was easy for Ralph, still weak from his fever; but
he had nought to do save sit hour-long watching Barbara at her work, and
wondering wherein exactly lay the magic of her charm. All her ways
fascinated him, and he could not keep his eyes from following her every
movement.
This persistent watch upon her doings for a time annoyed and embarrassed
Barbara. She felt sadly conscious of a want of habitude in her work,
and feared lest a critical brain lurked behind his observant glance.
She endeavoured to appear perfectly confident even with the results of
her cookery, but 'twas at times a trying effort. Yet, finding no
comments were offered, and her failures passed unnoticed, she grew
emboldened to meet him glance for glance, and what she read in his eyes
was so unmistakable that it brought the blush to her cheek, and the
mischievous smile to her lips, and, for women are at best but mortal,
sent her about her work with added daintiness and allurement.
But at length he could no longer satisfy himself with watching in
silence; the force of his love, hopeless though he feared it to be,
overpowered his prudence; he could not restrain his tongue.
Barbara was in the kitchen, concerned with the making of a pasty. She
was alone, nor aware of his presence in the next room, and as she worked
she sang a plaintive little song concerning the mystery of love. Thus
it ran:
"Oh! what is love? Some say it is but sorrow,
Passion unholden, joy a three-part pain.
Here for to-day but gone for aye to-morrow,
Leaving behind a memory and a stain,
If this be so, my heart it shall not move.
Let me not love. Let me not love.
"Oh! what is love? Some say 'tis but a dreaming
Born in the Spring-time of a single sigh.
Blazing in glory, earth an Eden seeming,
Dying of passion as the roses die.
If this be so, if love a vision prove,
Let me not love. Let me not love.
"Oh! what is love? A worship all undying.
Faith looks to faith, and heart to heart has fled.
Faith is fulfilled, no more the soul goes sighing.
Love is for aye, and time itself is dead.
If this be so, if earth a heaven may prove.
Ah! give me love. Ah! give me love."
Scarcely was the song ended when Captain Protheroe strode abruptly into
the room, and crossing to her side seized her almost roughly by the arm.
"Mistress Barbara," he asked hoarsely, "know you aught of what you
sing?"
She paused, silent, wondering at his tone.
"Ah! Mistress Barbara," he continued more gently; "would it were mine
to teach you the meaning of your words."
But, though she dearly loved to read that look upon his face, yet at his
words a spirit of mischief possessed her; and, maiden-like, loving him
she loved to show him cruelty that she might hereafter prove the kinder
in atonement. So drawing from him she turned to place her pasty in the
oven, at the same time asking mischievously:
"What! Wouldest teach me that love is sorrow, sir?"
He smiled at her and shook his head.
"Nay, that was not all your song, Mistress Barbara."
"A worship all undying," she repeated softly. Then she turned to him
demurely.
"Captain Protheroe, how long is't since you saw the lady of whom you
spake to me in the forest, she who was once your queen?"
He started back angrily.
"Mistress Barbara! Who hath been spreading scandalous stories
concerning me?" he cried in a fury of indignation.
She stared at him in amazement.
"Nay, sir, none that I know on," she faltered.
"Then what----"
"I did but wonder how long a man's 'worship undying' lives," she
answered mischievously.
He eyed her keenly for a moment, then he laughed.
"Sure a man can scarce be writ down inconstant because he remain not
true to his childhood's love."
"Yet some men have proved themselves so constant," she murmured softly.
"That should be easy, madame, to one who hath known you all his life,"
he answered quickly, disarming her by his gallantry. Then he continued:
"'Twould indeed go hard with me, must I forfeit all other loves for that
one, seeing the lady hath been wed for more than ten years."
"She is wed! Ah!" Then she looked at him curiously. "You loved her
once?" she asked gently.
"Love!" he cried quickly. "What should a boy of eighteen know of love?
Oh! he may dream he loves, but he knows nought of life; to him all women
are angels. But when a man loves, a man who knows his world, who hath
seen both what is good and evil in woman, who hath outgrown his
illusions; when he loves---- Ah! madame, what must a man feel, who,
having learned to detect the flaw in every gem, yet finds one perfect
pearl; who, having come to fear that purity in woman is but a dream of
youth, yet meets one to restore to him his hope. Ah! truly, a boy may
love a perfect woman, but a man must worship her with all his soul."
There was silence between them. Presently he continued more lightly.
"That, Mistress Barbara, is a man's love; what do you know of a
woman's?"
"A woman's love!" she began dreamily. Then on a sudden she sprang to
her feet with a sudden cry.
"Oh! my pasty, my pasty! I had altogether forgot it."
She flew to open the oven-door, but alas! it was too late, the pasty was
a cindered crust. She drew it out and laid it on the table, then turned
to Captain Protheroe with a look of deep reproach. To her indignation
he was laughing heartily at the disaster.
"Oh! 'tis too bad!" she cried indignantly. "'Twas you who made me
forget it."
"'Pon my honour, Mistress Barbara, I am very sorry," he answered
penitently; "is't indeed ruined. Could we not scrape it or--or in some
other means----"
"No," she answered in melancholy tone; "'tis useless. I must e'en set to
work upon another."
"But I may stay and talk to you?" he pleaded.
"Certes, no," she cried sharply; "'twould but cause me to forget again.
Prithee, leave me alone, I do better so. Indeed I will not have you
here. Go!"
She frowned angrily, and he fled from her in despair, nor marked the
blank look of disappointment on her face when he obeyed her, nor the
sigh with which she turned again to work. For man will never understand
that he was not born to obey woman, and that woman, true to nature, does
not require obedience at his hands.
'Twas that same evening. Ralph was rapidly recovering health and
spirits, and the three were seated together in his room, chatting
merrily.
Presently Mistress Fytch climbed the stair, and entered the room, her
face beaming with pleasure.
"Mistress Barbara, my dearie," she began. "There is a pedlar below."
"A pedlar!" cried Barbara, springing up with an alacrity that drew a
laugh from both her companions; "a pedlar!"
"Aye, dearie. 'Twas Master Miles here bid me find one, saying you had
need of matters for your journey. This fellow hath but just come to
town, and they tell me he hath some rare stuffs to show, so I e'en bade
him bring them here to-night."
"Oh! Nannie, how good, how--how heavenly of you," cried Barbara with
shining eyes. "I will go to him on the instant, I will buy of his best,
I will. Oh! how I have grown to hate the very sight of this gown! To
think that I need no longer wear it!"
She clapped her hands in sheer delight.
"Don't buy the whole pack, Barbara," cried Ralph cheerily as she hurried
away; "or we must charter a special vessel to carry your wardrobe to
Holland!"
"You grow well too fast, Ralph," was the laughing reply. "I must needs
put you on bread and water an you wax too impertinent."
She shut the door behind her, and tripped down the stairs humming a
merry tune, all a woman's inexplicable joy of purchase dancing in her
eyes. The visitor was in the parlour, into which opened alike the door
of the staircase and the door of the street. He was standing with his
back towards her, busily unstrapping his pack, but turned upon her
entrance.
On a sudden her cheeks grew white as her kerchief, and her eyes filled
with fear. It was none other than Simon!--For a moment she hoped wildly
that he might not recognise her or, even recognising her, might not be
aware of her arrest and trial, but the hope was destined soon to fade.
For an instant the man stared at her in amazement, then a quick gleam of
satisfaction flashed across his face, and he broke into a low chuckle.
"Mistress Barbara Winslow!" he cried with an ugly grin at the trembling
girl. "I come from Taunton, Mistress Winslow, from Taunton, where there
be those who mightily desire your presence. There's an empty cell in
Taunton gaol for your ladyship, there's an idle whipping-post awaiting
you there, Mistress Barbara Winslow!"
Again he chuckled and rubbed his hands with malicious glee.
Barbara's first impulse was to cry for help, and so bring down the two
men from above stairs to her aid. But with an effort she controlled
herself, for she perceived on the instant what must be the result. The
pedlar was but a step from the street door; at her first alarm he would
make his escape, and returning speedily with the guard, would secure not
herself alone, but her friends. Her wit seemed to desert her now, in
her greatest need; she could devise no plan of escape to insure the
safety of the three. As yet the others might be safe, the man knew
nothing of their presence in the house. Was it not better, braver, to
go with him at once, surrender herself, since clearly Heaven willed not
her escape, and so shield her companions from the danger that threatened
them? For had Captain Protheroe rescued her from prison (she gave poor
Rob little credit for his share) only that she should, by cowardice,
betray him now? And Ralph! Had she saved him from death in the forest,
only to insure for him a death a thousand times more horrible? Ralph,
so weak, so lightly despairing, who loved her so truly. Yes, she might
still save these two who had done so much for her. She would not shrink
from the sacrifice.
Her mind was made up.
"God wills it," she said. "You have found me. I will go with you."
"That is wisdom, mistress," grinned the man. "'Tis not here as at
Durford." Quickly he put up again his pack, and shouldering it, laid
his hand upon her arm.
Firm and unflinching Barbara followed him to the door. Simon laid his
hand upon the latch, another moment and they would have been in the
street. Suddenly he paused. He turned his head to listen, and a smile
of low cunning crept slowly into his eyes. For they heard the opening
of a door, and a man's cheery whistle sounded in the room above.
Barbara gave a quick gasp of terror, she felt the pedlar's eyes were
fixed upon her face.
"Quick, quick," she cried losing her wits in her excitement; "let us be
off. Someone is coming."
"Aye," said the man slowly; "someone is coming. And there are two
rewards to be won in Taunton."
He released her arm, and still with his hand upon the latch, turned to
confront the newcomer.
Barbara could do no more. With a sigh of desperation she sank into a
chair and covered her face with her hands.
The door opened and Captain Protheroe appeared.
For a moment the two men stood staring at each other, then the truth
flashed to the brain of the soldier and he made a spring forward to
secure the pedlar. But the man was too quick for him; he darted through
the already opened door, into the street, slamming the door behind him.
Captain Protheroe was about to follow, but recognising the hopeless
folly of such action, he stopped, and having fastened the door turned to
where Barbara sat, white and trembling.
"The fellow knew you?" he asked sharply.
"Yes, he was about to take me to the guardhouse," she answered,
trembling.
"Good Heavens! why didn't you cry for help? We might have seized him
perchance."
"I--I feared, an I did so, he would discover that you and Ralph were
here," she stammered. "'Twould have undone all three. And Ralph----"
"You would have gone without a word?"
Barbara hesitated.
"I--I could not bear that Ralph should be taken," she muttered, shy even
then, of confessing her fear for his capture too.
He looked down at her for a moment with deep pain in his eyes:
"I see," he said gently; "I--I understand."
She knew that he did not understand but she could not tell him so, and
indeed he gave her no time. In an instant he was alert, ready for
action.
"No time to lose, Mistress Barbara," he said cheerily. "We must be out
of this directly. I'll give your friend a quarter of an hour to tell
his tale and return with the guard."
"But how! Where?" she cried desperately. "Ralph can't travel yet."
"He must. You don't know, Mistress Barbara, what can be done when it's
a case of do it or hang. Come."
They hurried upstairs, summoned Mistress Fytch, and quickly told their
story.
Ralph was up in an instant.
"I'm ready," he cried abruptly. "What are the orders?"
He had learned much during the past ten days. Despite his jealousy of
Captain Protheroe he knew him as one to be relied on, and his love for
Barbara forbade him do aught that would increase the difficulties of the
one man who could save her.
"We've little time to consider ways and means now," muttered Captain
Protheroe, striding about the room as was his wont when in deep thought.
"You'll take Mistress Barbara at once out by the north gate (twill not
yet be closed) and go by the fields to Mallet, 'tis but a mile hence.
Nannie must go too--'tis safe here for her no longer; and she knows the
road."
The old dame was called and matters quickly explained to her.
"Very good, Master Miles," she answered, as calmly as though he had
bidden her serve his supper. She had implicit faith in her foster-son
in all matters save those appertaining to the care of his health.
"To Mallet then, and wait there. Is Johnny Dean still living, Nannie?"
"Why, for sure he is, Master Miles, why not? Shall I take the young
mistress thither?"
"Yes, go to Johnny Dean's and wait me there."
"But you? What will you do?" cried Barbara suspiciously.
"Why, Mistress Barbara," he answered, smiling and drawing from his
breast the green silk letter-case found in the Sedgemoor ditch. "I
purpose to see an these letters will fetch their price."
"But how? Of whom?"
"Of whom but the man most likely to pay it, my Lord Jeffreys."
"What? you would go there, to him, alone! Oh, no, no, you must not,
indeed you must not. 'Tis too rash, 'tis madness. Better risk all than
that you--you should---- Oh! Captain Protheroe, we can't leave you
behind."
Her voice trembled, her eyes were full of tears. For a moment he
hesitated, gazing at her with surprise, with a faint, wondering hope;
but he shook his head.
"Do not be afraid, Mistress Barbara," he said lightly; "I have faith in
the power of these bits of paper. Trust me, I'll join you ere two hours
are passed."
Somewhat comforted by his words, Barbara said no more. She had learned
to know by his face when he had made up his mind, and recognised that
further argument would but waste time.
When the two women had left the room in search of cloaks, Captain
Protheroe turned abruptly to his companion.
"Look you, Sir Ralph, this is a desperate strait. You can await me at
Mallet till nine o'clock. If by that time I have not come, then go
north, make for Listoke, try to get aboard the _Roaring George_. And,
look you, take these letters (I have made copies of them). If you are
ta'en, get them to Churchill, or, better still, Rochester. They may
save you yet, even if I fail."
"But, Heavens, man! if you fail it's death for you. Why not come with
us, and try to win to Holland? Why go to Jeffreys at all?"
"Because, tho' a desperate chance, 'tis worth risking. Zounds! man, you
don't think. What hope have two women and a man weak with fever of
escaping the royal troops? Practically none, unless I can buy free
pardons for all and a safe conduct into Holland from Jeffreys."
The women being now ready to set out, Captain Protheroe went with them
to the door at the back of the house, from whence a short labyrinth of
streets led to one of the gates of the town.
There he turned to the girl who stood beside him, her dark eyes gleaming
in the shadow of her hood. It was a crimson hood and reminded him of
the night he first met her in the country lane at Durford.
"Good-bye, Mistress Barbara," he said wistfully.
A sudden fear awoke in her eyes.
"But you will come after us, you will see me again?" she cried quickly.
"Assuredly, Mistress Barbara," he answered softly; "if there be pity in
Heaven I shall see you again."
She looked at him doubtfully, but urged him no more.
"God keep you," she said gently.
Captain Protheroe watched them disappear in the darkness. But he failed
to note a dark figure flit from the shadow of a neighbouring house, and
follow them on their way.
*CHAPTER XXI*
Chief Justice Jeffreys sat alone in his lodging at Wells.
The long sitting in court was over. All day he had stormed and bullied,
reducing prisoners and advocates alike, and even his brothers on the
bench, to a state of terrified submission. He had poured forth abuse on
the heads of timorous witnesses, cracked his jests and thundered his
threats at the miserable victims of the law's severity. He had sworn,
wrangled, and blustered, and now he was alone.
The wearying journey, the tedious days of work, the long nights of
carouse, above all the unrestrained passions in which he daily indulged
had conduced to the inevitable result; on his arrival in Wells his
malady had become greatly aggravated, and his physicians had urged on
him the absolute necessity of quiet and abstinence. Accordingly
to-night he followed their advice; the officers and other jovial
gentlemen who formed his escort feasted apart, and, sick in body, weary
in mind, he sat alone.
And as he sat there in all the luxury of his surroundings, despite his
high position, despite his success, despite his wealth, power, and
influence, 'twould have been hard to find in all the length and breadth
of the kingdom a more wretched man than George Jeffreys, lord chief
justice of England, lord chancellor elect.
For the man was cursed with a double curse, and the burden of his life
seemed at times too heavy to be borne. Cursed with an ambition which
would not let him rest, which ever urged him to new struggles, new
extravagances, new ventures, and contrariwise cursed with a
sensitiveness, a cowardice that made each step in the path of his career
an added terror to his brain, each rough encounter a fresh misery, each
rebuff a stinging agony.
The mainspring of his character was an overweening vanity. He must be
first of his company, he must, by whatever means offered, rise to the
highest; but on the other hand he could brook no opposition, a taunt or
a rebuke was torture to him, a threat a terror that moved him at times
to tears. The rebuffs and sneers which to a braver nature appear but
the natural pricks of life, were to him a veritable torment from which
he shrank with all the horror of a keenly sensitive soul. While his
ambitious vanity drove him to assume airs of overweening insolence, to
bully and overawe all who came before him, to delight to see men shrink
and tremble at his words; yet if he met with opposition, his haughty
mien vanished in a burst of childish passion, and if he found his aims
thwarted he became reduced to a state of helpless misery.
Thus his ambition drove him into a struggle with the world, but the very
enmity and hatred naturally evoked were to him the source of misery
unspeakable.
Such was the man who had elected to climb the highest rung of the
ladder. Verily he paid his price.
As he sat alone, forced no longer to wear his mask, to preserve an air
of proud assurance and command, the reflection of his thoughts played
across his face, and 'twas a bitter tale to read. His brows frowned in
pain and perplexity, his lips twitched nervously, and in his eyes lurked
a look as of one cowering beneath an ever-present dread. He leaned
weariedly back in his chair, his hands idly resting on its arms, his
face drawn with suffering.