his breast, proceeded calmly to the street. Nor did he pause until he
had passed out of the north gate and left the town behind him.
"Phew!" he muttered, wiping his forehead, "I've played high in my time,
but never for such stakes as these. Heaven help me! what a hand I held,
and God forgive me, but how I played it!"
*CHAPTER XXII*
Captain Protheroe walked on rapidly across the dark field-path which led
to the little hamlet of Mallet. It was already late, and he did not
wish to keep his friends in suspense longer than was needful.
Suddenly he paused, as he became aware of a confused clamour of sounds
proceeding from the direction in which, he was going, but only for a
moment, then with a sudden misgiving he commenced to run rapidly forward
through the darkness.
The cottage where the fugitives were to await him lay on the outskirts
of the hamlet, separated from the cluster of other cottages by some
fields, and the sounds, now becoming more distinct, came from that
direction.
A confused murmur of voices met his ears, punctuated by a succession of
heavy blows of musket-butts (so he rightly guessed) upon the cottage
door; then followed the crash of a door falling, more shouting, above
which he could distinguish a voice raised loud in authority, and then
the clash of two encountering swords.
A moment later he reached the gateway of the croft within which the
cottage stood.
There he found a group of peasants, held in check, in spite of much
shouting and menacing gestures, by a small body of mounted troopers.
Nearer the cottage were some unmounted men, those evidently who had been
responsible for the attack upon the door, one or two of whom carried
lanterns, and by the combined light this afforded, and that which
streamed from the dismantled doorway, there was revealed to Captain
Protheroe the incident which formed the central feature of the picture.
At the doorway of the cottage two men were fighting. The swordsman with
his back to the doorway was Sir Ralph. With white set face, and his
breath coming in quick gasps, 'twas clear he was sore pressed, and
wellnigh spent.
His opponent, who was slowly but surely driving him to retreat into the
passage-way, was a small, dapper little man, in the uniform of an
officer of the King's troops. He fought with a cool precision, and ever
and anon as the fight proceeded, he exclaimed admiringly:
"Well thrust, sir, well indeed. Keep back, men, let be. 'Tis a fair
fight."
For a few moments Captain Protheroe stood in amazement, watching this
extraordinary scene, then suddenly realising that unless he quickly
intervened Ralph must be overcome, he thrust his way past the startled
troopers, and ere they could prevent him, seized the little officer
round the middle and lifted him aside.
The latter, with an exclamation of anger, wrenched himself free, and
turned upon the intruder.
"And by what right, sir----" he began furiously; but ere he could get
further in his speech his hand was seized in a hearty grasp, and Captain
Protheroe broke out eagerly:
"Harrington! Will! You! By all the powers, but luck is with us
wherever we go. This is splendid."
"Miles Protheroe!" cried the little man in delight, but restraining
himself suddenly, he stared hard at the captain. "What are you doing
here, Protheroe?" he asked sharply. "D---- me, I had forgot, you are a
rebel, too."
But the other's light laugh quickly reassured him.
"No more a rebel than are these, my friends, here," he cried cheerily.
"Look"--and he handed his passport to Harrington--"that is all right,
isn't it? By Jove! what a mercy I arrived in time; you were about to
make a pretty mess of things, Will."
"Plague take that meddlesome pedlar, who brought us out with such a
cock-and-bull story as this," cried the little officer indignantly.
"Here have I been forced to put your friends--and a lady, too--to most
distressing inconvenience and--er--danger, and all to no purpose. Alas!
I doubt she will never forgive me. Plague on the fellow! where is he?"
But the pedlar, who had followed them to the cottage, and having given
information had then served as guide to the patrol, was not to be found.
He was quick to appreciate that the game again had gone against and had
vanished into the night.
"But what were you after when I arrived, Will?" asked Captain Protheroe
with a laugh.
"This gentleman thought fit to hold the doorway, against me. I--I
was---er--about to remove him."
Then he turned politely to Ralph, who had sunk wearily into a seat
within the doorway, whence he smiled faintly up at Barbara as she came
anxiously from an adjoining room to his side, to ascertain whether he
had received any hurt.
"I must apologise, sir," he said with grave politeness, "for so rudely
forcing myself upon your company. 'Twas a misconception, which I trust
you will pardon. But I fear I can never hope the lady will be equally
forgiving."
Barbara looked up with a bright smile.
"Indeed, sir," she said softly, "we should rather be grateful to you,
for the generous manner in which you conducted the attack. We owe you
thanks for your courtesy in staying your men from firing upon the house
when you discovered I was here, and for your chivalry in insisting upon
fighting Sir Ralph single-handed."
The little man flushed with pleasure.
"Faith! madame," he cried gallantly; "'twas nothing. However hard
pressed a man may be, nothing would excuse discourtesy to a lady. And
for the rest, 'twas a most enjoyable fight whose interruption is
condoned only by the acquaintance thus created."
Captain Protheroe laughed lightly.
"Zounds! Will, what would the colonel say to your new methods of rebel
hunting, eh? He is ever the same, Mistress Barbara; he rides the
country with a cumbersome escort, yet doth all the work himself."
Captain Harrington again turned to his recent adversary, who still
leaned back, with half-closed eyes.
"I trust, sir," he said anxiously, "I have not been so excessively
clumsy as to wound you in our affray. 'Tis a thing I never do, unless
mortally."
Ralph smiled faintly.
"Rest assured, sir, your hand is still sure."
"Sir Ralph Trevellyan is but recovering from a fever," interposed
Barbara gently; "the encounter hath exhausted him."
"I am well enough, Barbara," exclaimed Ralph, struggling to his feet.
"Indeed, you are not," she answered firmly. "Sit still while I fetch
some water."
But now Captain Harrington was all contrition. He flew for water, he
sent his men for wine. He hovered over Barbara with most assiduous
attentions, while she ministered to her exhausted companion.
"What may I do now?" implored the little officer, when Barbara had
finished her task; "what may I do to further atone for my mistake?
Where are you bound for now, eh?"
"We are on our road to Durford; it lies north of Taunton, you know; but
we can hardly set out to-night. Is there any place hereabouts fit to
spend the night in?" asked Captain Protheroe doubtfully.
"My quarters are but five minutes' distance from here," cried Captain
Harrington eagerly; "if I dared hope to be so greatly honoured."
"Oh, no," cried Barbara quickly; "indeed, we cannot take your rooms."
"Alack! madame, I feared 'twas too great an honour to hope for," sighed
the little man mournfully. "After my error, too. And yet, if it might
have been----"
"Nay, sir," interposed Barbara, somewhat puzzled how to meet such
unexpected humility. "If you will indeed be so generous----"
"It will be the best thing we can do," interposed Captain Protheroe.
"And to-morrow, perchance, you can lend us mounts as far as Durford."
"Willingly, willingly," was the eager reply.
"Then let us be off. Where is Nannie?"
"I'm here, Master Miles," answered the old lady, calmly entering from
the adjoining room where she had been soothing the terror of the
bed-ridden owner of the cottage.
"Ah! that's well. We must be moving. Set the old fellow's mind at ease
and come along. You shall come back to him to-morrow, an you choose."
All was quiet when they came out of the cottage.
"Straight along that path, Miles!" cried Captain Harrington eagerly,
pointing out the direction; "you can't miss the way. I will escort the
lady."
"Not so," answered Captain Protheroe resolutely, putting Barbara's cloak
about her; "I will escort Mistress Barbara. You can best lead the way."
Captain Harrington glanced for a moment at the speaker, then with a deep
sigh, and a mournful shake of the head, he shrugged his shoulders, and
taking Ralph's arm, turned along the path towards the village.
"Alack!" he muttered to himself, "Alack! The early bird!"
"Mistress Barbara," pleaded Captain Protheroe, as they followed the
others along the narrow way, "Mistress Barbara, you have not said one
word to me since I arrived."
"I had nothing to say," she answered, smiling. Then she added softly,
"I knew you would come."
And with that he strove to be content.
*CHAPTER XXIII*
Next day they rode merrily to Durford. At early morning they set out,
when the white mist curled in the valley, and the russet trees,
sun-kissed on the hills, gleamed like fiery tongues of flame above a
silver sea; through the bright noonday they rode, when the mists like
evil witches of the night had vanished before the sunbeams, the broad
earth lay smiling up into the deep blue heavens, and the myriad
creatures of earth and sky raised their tiny voices in harmonious _Te
Deum_ for the glory of life. Through a world of joy and sunshine they
rode, until early in the afternoon they climbed the last hill and saw in
the valley below the red-roofed cottages of the village and the tall
grey chimneys of the Manor House hiding among the burnished leaves.
And from that point their ride was a royal progress.
Like lightning the news spread about the village that Mistress Barbara
was come home. Cottage doors were flung open, women and children rushed
headlong into the street to meet her. They crowded round her to kiss
her hands, to shower greetings upon her; the women wept, like the
foolish creatures they are; all the village was agog with joy. And
Barbara, with shining eyes, laughed and waved her hand, and rode through
them like a queen. At length they reached the park gates, and there was
Cicely, her ribbons streaming in the wind, her hands outstretched in
eager welcome, running full-pace to meet them.
Barbara leapt from her saddle, and with a sudden queer little sob rushed
into her cousin's arms.
There they stood crying and kissing, while the villagers flung up their
caps and laughed with delight, and the bells broke out into a wild peal
of music because Barbara Winslow was come home.
Presently Cicely released Barbara and ran towards Ralph with a world of
delighted greeting in her face, and as she took his hands her eyes fell
on Captain Protheroe. For a moment she stared at him as one amazed, and
then slowly the first bright joy died in her face, her cheeks flushed
crimson, and her eyes filled with misery and shame. Yet he, guessing
nought, wondered at her glance, and felt himself unwelcome.
But Barbara saw nothing, her joy to be home again filled all her
thoughts. She seized her cousin's arm, and broke into an eager chatter
of explanations, rejoicings and questionings, till Cicely was fain to
laugh in sheer bewilderment.
"Softly, softly, Bab," she cried; "I must have it all from the
beginning. Come in, and tell me all. You are safe, and you are here,
and that is all I care."
And so, Barbara, waving farewell to her followers, came at last to the
house, and the tale was told.
Some hours later Captain Protheroe was alone in the large hall of the
Manor House. Explanations had been given, questions answered; the
excitement in the village had died away, and all was still and peaceful,
with the sweet peace of a September evening.
He had been for some time alone.
Ralph, yielding to Barbara's insistence, had retired for a rest after
his long ride, and the two cousins had early slipped away together to
revel in a long talk.
He sat in one of the deep window-seats, gazing idly at the fading glows
of the sunset, dreaming of the night when he had last stood there and
struggled against the influence of the girl, who now was all the world
to him. And as he looked back and thought on all she had been to him
since that night, he wished with all his heart that Time would turn his
hour-glass, and let him live those days again. Nay, give him back but
three sweet hours again, and he would be content to endure even
banishment from her side, with such a memory to soothe his pain. So he
mused, concerned not that to many the shadow indeed proves dearer than
the substance, nor that he whose memories are tender Is ofttimes happier
than he who in the attainment loses the remembrance forever.
He was disturbed in his dreaming by the sound of his own name cried
softly, and, turning, he found Lady Cicely standing close beside him,
her hands tightly clasped, her head half turned away.
"Captain Protheroe," she said in a strained voice; "I--I have somewhat
to say to you."
"To me?" he asked wonderingly. Then catching sudden sight of her face,
he started back. "In heaven's name, Lady Cicely, what is it?" he cried.
"Is Mistress Barbara----"
"Oh! Barbara is well," interrupted the lady quickly, with the faintest
attempt at a smile. "'Tis of yourself I must speak, yourself and me."
He placed a chair for her, then took up his position opposite, leaning
against the window frame, and looking down on her in wonderment.
Then, seeing she hesitated to speak, he asked gravely:
"In what have I been so unfortunate as to offend your ladyship?"
She glanced up in distress.
"Oh! 'tis not that. 'Tis I who have offended you. I have done you
grievous wrong.'
"Done me wrong, madame?" he asked, smiling down at her, marvelling at
the small troubles with which women love to torment their minds. "Nay,
an it be so, madame, 'tis forgiven. Prithee, think no more on't."
"Oh! but I must," she cried wildly; "I have thought on it day and night
since 'twas committed; thought on it every moment till I felt I must go
mad an I could not see you to confess to't."
"Nay, madame, indeed it was not worth your thought, whatever it be," he
answered gallantly. "That you have given me place in your gentle
thoughts should be sufficient atonement."
But she, covering her face, burst on a sudden into bitter weeping.
"Oh, do not talk so!" she cried. "You do not know. You do not know."
His face grew grave. He took a step forward and leaned over her in deep
distress.
"Nay, madame, I entreat you." he said gently; "indeed, you must not
weep for such a thing. Come"--he coaxed lightly--"what is this grievous
wrong? Why, you could scarce be more distressed had you betrayed me."
Then she dropped her hands and faced him.
"You have said it," she cried in a dry voice; "'twas indeed I who
betrayed you."
He started from her and stood upright, looking down on her in amazement,
in slowly gathering wrath.
"'Tis true," she sobbed; "I betrayed you to my Lord Jeffreys."
"You did?"
"Yes. I--came even from so doing when I met you--that night in
Taunton."
"That night! And yet, madame, having done so, you allowed me to go on,
without word of warning, into the trap which you yourself had set?"
His face was in the shadow, but she trembled at the suppressed anger in
his tone.
"Is this true, madame?" he continued sharply.
She had no answer save a sob.
"And may I ask," he continued presently in the same stern tone, "may I
ask your reason for--er--taking such an active interest in my affairs?"
"I--I deemed you had betrayed Barbara," she answered timidly.
"Your suspicion was as unjust as your revenge," he cried angrily. Then
he checked himself, and presently continued coldly, "Your pardon,
madame, I forgot myself. I believe,"--he drawled with a slight
sneer--"in affairs of honour, 'tis not--customary to judge women by the
standard usually applied to men."
Cicely winced at his words, but sobbed on helplessly, making no attempt
to defend herself. Captain Protheroe walked slowly to the far end of
the room and having partially mastered his anger, slowly returned to her
side.
"Come, madame," he said sharply, "there is no need to weep more about
the matter. The thing is done; there is an end on't."
"I--I did it for Barbara," she sobbed, stung by his tone to seek for
some self-justification.
"Ah!" His tone was startled, questioning.
"Your life was to be the price of her freedom."
"Her freedom!"
"Yes. But, fool that I was, as well as traitor, they took my
information and cheated me of the reward."
She burst into a fresh passion of sobs.
But now all trace of anger had left his face, he was eager, glad.
"But, Lady Cicely," he cried, "this is, indeed, a different matter; I
had misunderstood. You were justified, perfectly. What a villain I was
to doubt you. Madame, can you ever forgive me?"
Cicely stared at him in amazement.
"Nay, sir, I see no difference. Your words were just."
"Just! madame, they were shameful, infamous! I cannot hope to win your
pardon for them. Why, Lady Cicely," he continued with boyish eagerness,
"I am grateful to you for your action, most grateful. I count it the
highest honour to have been privileged to serve Mistress Barbara, for,"
he added softly, "I would gladly die a thousand deaths to shield her
from pain. I beseech you, madame, be comforted. 'Twas no betrayal, I
was a most willing victim at the sacrifice."
But though she smiled faintly Cicely still wept.
"Ah! 'tis kind to say so," she cried, shaking her head, "But for me--for
me who betrayed you! What respect, what honour have I left me?"
"Ah! madame, would my tongue had been cut out ere ever I spake those
words," he cried miserably.
"Nay, the words were nought. But the deed! The deed remains the same.
What must you think of me? Nay, what must I think of myself?"
Bitterly she wept, and he looked down on her in helpless despair.
Then he bent over her tenderly, and gently took her hand.
"Lady Cicely," he said softly, "what would you think of me, had I
betrayed you to save Sir Rupert?"
"Ah!" Her sobs were arrested. She looked at him a moment, then gave a
long sigh of slow-dawning comprehension.
"Yes, madame! Would you look upon me as worthy your contempt? Would
you not rather be glad?"
"Yes! Yes!" she whispered eagerly.
"And for the rest," he continued gently, "'tis well enow, for Colonel
Lovelace to write that love be little if honour be not more, yet there
may be a love so self-forgetting that a man counts himself as nothing in
comparison with it, and would gladly give his dearest part, even his
honour, to serve his beloved. 'Twas with such a love, Lady Cicely, you
loved your cousin, and by Heaven! she is worthy of it."
Cicely smiled and shook her head.
"These be somewhat indiscreet doctrines, sir," she said.
"Nay, madame, when was love noted for discretion?" he answered, smiling
at her. "And, moreover, if your act were a betrayal, 'twas a right
courageous one. I warrant me, 'twas no easy task for you, madame, to
play the traitor."
She looked at him gratefully.
"How is it you understand so well?" she asked.
"I' faith, Lady Cicely," he answered with a sudden smile, "I fear me my
record is not overclean. Not a month since, in this very room, I
entered into a bargain, hardly consistent with my honour."
"And that, too, was for Barbara," she murmured softly.
"Even so. She has required much of us, has she not?" he continued,
smiling. "Yet whoso is greatly loved, to her must much be given."
"And you do not regret it?"
"Regret, madame?"
"It hath cost you much."
"Maybe, but it has won me more." Then he added, half to himself, "For
whatsoever befall me now, in this world or the next, I have at least had
my hour of heaven."
There was a silence, broken only by Barbara's voice, singing in the room
above.
Cicely rose to her feet.
"She is coming, we must go to supper."
Then she turned and laid her hand upon his arm--"You have been so good
to me, Captain Protheroe," she said gently. "And what I may do in
return, I gladly will. You love Barbara! Ah! I could tell you so
much, so much, for who knows so well as a woman how women may be wooed.
Could a man but have that knowledge, he might win every maid in
Christendom. Therefore"--she smiled--"perchance 'tis better withheld.
And for this present matter--certes! methinks you are doing very fairly
well for yourself. Only remember 'Woman loveth a bold wooer.' Let
there be no despair. More love is lost by want of hope than ever was
won by diffidence."
"Alas! Lady Cicely! How can a man such as I hope greatly to succeed?"
"Tut, sir, we women are for the most part easy of credence. An a man
tell us oft enough and resolutely enough that we need him, we needs must
be convinced at last."
"Indeed, Lady Cicely, you give me hope. If 'twas e'en thus Sir Rupert
won you----"
"Rupert!" she laughed; "nay, sir, 'twas of ordinary mortals I spoke.
There was small need for Rupert to assure me that I loved him. But
come, we must to supper."
She led him to the adjoining room where Ralph already awaited them.
And presently Barbara came down and joined them there. She was attired
in an amber brocade, and wore her jewels; her hair towered high in a
mass of wavy curls. After ten days of vagabondage she revelled in the
luxury of an exquisite toilet, and every detail of her appearance was
perfect.
Captain Protheroe had seen her in many garbs, in many phases, but never
before had she seemed so queenly, so alluring, so worthy of a man's
absolute homage, and as they looked upon her, each man gave a gasp of
hopeless adoration.
She was in the highest spirits, glowing with happiness, yet wearing
withal a certain air of gracious dignity, which suited well the mistress
of the Manor.
The two men feasted their eyes upon her face, hung upon her words. And
to each she talked with equal friendliness and vivacity. But Cicely,
who watched her closely, noted that in her manner toward Ralph there
lurked a certain tenderness, of pity or remorse, while towards Captain
Protheroe she seemed more distant, more reserved. And though she met
Ralph's looks of admiration with a merry open smile, yet when she raised
her eyes to Captain Protheroe, and read the worship in his glance, she
blushed faintly and the lashes quickly fell. So noted Cicely, and
learned her cousin's secret from her face.
Yet from the men these signs were hidden, alternately they hoped, and
then they despaired. Only as they felt the power of her presence, his
passion cried to each to win her spite of all, and they trembled at the
fascination of her beauty.
There was much to talk of during the meal, for Cicely would hear each
detail of their adventures, and on her side related all she knew of
Robert Wilcox's part in the affair.
"I would I could see him to thank him," said Barbara; "'tis a courageous
youth. And I fear I was--er--somewhat curt when last we parted."
"More than curt, Mistress Barbara," answered the Captain, smiling; "some
might even say exceedingly obstinate. We were well-nigh reduced to
desperate measures, Lady Cicely, to bend her to our will."
Barbara laughed.
"I am glad you did not so far forget yourselves," she cried saucily;
"but I trust no harm hath befallen good Master Lane on my account, Cis."
"No, he is safe, and in ignorance of the share he had in the matter, for
so I advised. He is so stout a royalist, so well-known and honoured by
the governor, and all the Tory gentlemen of the district, that upon his
denial of any complicity in the matter, he was honourably acquitted, and
the inquiry dropped. 'Tis true, some do say that money changed hands
ere the incident was closed, but an it be so we will make it up to him
anon. He is safe, and the escape remains a mystery."
"I warrant me the fiery-headed youth passed one or two anxious days
while the inquiry was pending," remarked Captain Protheroe, smiling.
"Nay, neither he nor Prue are wont to expect trouble before it comes;
they were so triumphant over their success they thought but little of
possible consequences. And I doubt not Robert found ample reward at his
mistress's hands."
"'Tis pity so brave and adroit a lad is not a soldier," said Barbara.
"Aye, so says Prue. And indeed 'tis his own desire."
"Would we could help him to his wish."