BARBARA
After Monsieur Mornay’s coach had rumbled away, Mistress Barbara
excused herself to Captain Ferrers and threw herself upon her couch
in poignant distress and indecision. Why she had hated this Monsieur
Mornay so she could not for her life have told herself. Perhaps it
was that she had begun by hating him. But now, when he had killed
her friend and counsellor and had used violent means to approach
and coerce her--now when she had every right and reason for hating
him, she made the sudden discovery that she did not. The shock of it
came over her like the sight of her disordered countenance in the
mirror. The instinct and habit of defense, amplified by a nameless
apprehension in the presence of the man, had excited her imagination
so that she had been willing to believe anything of him in order to
justify her conscience for her cruelty. But now that he was gone--in
all probability to the gallows--and she was no longer harassed by
the thought of his presence, she underwent a strange revulsion of
feeling. She knew it was not pity she felt for him. It would be hard,
she thought, to speak of pity and Monsieur Mornay in the same breath.
It was something else--something that put her pride at odds with her
conscience, her mind at odds with her heart. She lay upon the couch
dry-eyed, clasping and unclasping her hands. What was he to her that
she should give him the high dignity of a thought? Why should the
coming or the going of such a man as he--scapegrace, gambler, duelist,
and now fugitive from justice--make the difference of a jot to a woman
who had the proudest in England at her feet? Fugitive from justice!
Ah, God! Why were men such fools? Here was a brave man, scapegrace
and gambler if you like, but gallant sailor, soldier, and chevalier
of France, a favorite of fortune, who, through that law of nature by
which men rise or sink to their own level, had achieved a position
in which he consorted with kings, dukes, and princes of the realm,
and boasted of a king for an intimate. In a moment he had rendered at
naught the struggles of years--had tossed aside, as one would discard a
worn-out hat or glove, all chances of future preferment in France and
England--all for a foolish whim, for a pair of silly gray eyes. She hid
her face in her arms. Fools! all fools!
She hated herself that she did not hate Monsieur Mornay. Struggle as
she would, now that he was gone she knew that the impulsive words
that she had used when she had spurned him had sprung from no origin
of thought or reflection, but were the rebellious utterings of anger
at his intrusion--of resentment and uncharity at the tale he told.
But what if it were true? She sat upright, and with a struggle tried
dispassionately and calmly to go over, one by one, each word of his
speech, each incident of his bearing, as he told his portentous story
of the secrets of her family. How had Monsieur Mornay come into
possession of all this information? She knew that Eloise de Bresac
had died in France and that the Duke of Nemours had sent the body
to be buried on the estates in Normandy, where it lay in the family
tomb. She knew that Sir Henry Heywood’s intimacy with the Duke was of
long standing, and that there was a mystery in regard to the death of
this daughter of the house which had never been explained to her. Her
grandfather had been ill at the time, she remembered, and had died
before Sir Henry Heywood and her father--who had gone to France--had
returned. The story of the Frenchman tallied strangely with the facts
as she knew them. How did Mornay know of the unfortunate woman’s death
at Amiens? Was the story of the Spaniard D’Añasco invented to comport
with the family’s traditionary hatred of the Spanish? Were the names
_Castillano_, of the ship, and Ruiz, of the boy, mere fabrications,
to achieve an end? How did he know these things? The family history
of the Bresacs was not an open book to all the world. No one but Sir
Henry Heywood and herself had known of the visits to Paris and the
death-place of Eloise.
And Captain Ferrers! How could she explain his loss of countenance
when the tale was told? What papers were these the very mention of
which could deprive him of his self-possession? And what reason had he
for keeping papers referring to her estate from her knowledge? They
were matters which put her mind upon a rack of indecision. She should
know, and at once. The Frenchman had planned well. He had proved that
Captain Ferrers was concealing something from her--of this she was
confident; although in her discovery she had scorned to show Mornay
that she believed him in anything. If Sir Henry Heywood had intrusted
matters pertaining to the estate to Captain Ferrers, she was resolved
that she should know what they were. She judged from his actions that
Captain Ferrers had reasons for wishing these papers kept from her;
she therefore resolved to learn what they contained. If he would not
give them to her--and this she thought possible--she would meet him in
a different spirit and try with art and diplomacy what she might not
accomplish by straightforward methods.
“What if Mornay’s tale were true?” she asked herself again. “What if
these papers _were_ the secret proofs of the marriage of Eloise de
Bresac and of the birth of a son and heir to the estates in accordance
with her grandfather’s will? What if Monsieur Mornay could prove that
he was Ruiz, son of D’Añasco, and had sailed from Valencia upon the
_Castillano_?” In the cool light of her reasoning it did not seem
impossible. She recalled the face of Monsieur Mornay and read him again
to herself. It seemed as though every expression and modulation of his
voice had been burned upon her memory. Had he flinched--had he quivered
an eyelash? Had he not borne the face and figure of an honest man?
Argue with herself as she might, she had only to compare the bearing
of the Frenchman with that of Stephen Ferrers for an answer to her
questions.
She arose and walked to the table by the window. The sun was setting in
an effusion of red, picking out the chimney-pots and gables opposite
in crimson splendor, glorifying the somber things it touched in
magnificent detail.
She looked long--until the top of the very highest chimney-pots became
again a somber blur against the greenish glow of the east.
“I shall know,” she murmured at last. “At whatever cost, Captain
Ferrers shall tell me.”
And before the captain arrived the next day she had resolved upon a
plan of action. In justice to Monsieur Mornay, she would give his tale
the most exhaustive test. For the sake of the experiment she would
assume that it was true. But if it were, and she believed it, the
difficulty lay in getting Captain Ferrers to acknowledge anything.
She must deceive him. If her deception did not avail, she would try
something else; but of one thing she was resolved--that tell he should,
or all the friendship she bore him should cease forever.
Captain Ferrers wore a jubilant look as he came in the door.
“My service, Barbara. You are better, I hope.”
She smiled. “Well?”
“He’s gone. Escaped us last night and got to ship in the river. By
this time he is well into the Channel.”
Mistress Barbara frowned perceptibly.
“You have allowed him to get away?” she asked, her eyebrows upraised.
“Yes,” he muttered; “a very demon possesses the man. If I had my way
the fellow should never have left this room.”
She motioned to a seat beside her.
“Tell me about it,” she said.
He sat and told her such of the happenings at the Fleece Tavern as he
thought well for her to hear, but he omitted to mention the rape of the
papers from his pockets. Of this attack he said:
“After all, the fellow is but a common blusterer and bully. He waited
for his chance and then set upon me like a fish-monger.”
Her eyes sparkled. “And you?” she asked.
“He had me off my guard, but as he broke away from me I shot at
him”--he paused for a word--“as I would at a common thief.”
“And you did not kill him?” The words fell cold and impassive from her
lips.
He looked at her in some surprise. She had set her teeth, and her hands
were tightly clasped upon her knees, but her eyes were looking straight
before her and gave no sign of any emotion.
“Why, Barbara,” he said, “’tis truly a mighty hatred you have for the
fellow! I thought if you were rid of him--”
“I despise him!” she cried, vehemently. “I hate him!”
Captain Ferrers paused a moment, and the smile that crossed his lips
told her how sweet her words sounded in his ears.
“Ever since he has been in London,” she went on, coolly, “he has
crossed my path at every rout and levee. Wherever I’d turn I’d see his
eyes fixed upon me. From such a man it was an insult. His attentions
were odious.” She gave a hard, dry little laugh. “Why could he not have
been killed then--before he told me this fine tale of his right to my
fortunes and estates--”
“But surely you don’t believe--” Ferrers broke in.
“I do and I do not,” she said, carefully considering her reply. “It is
a plain tale, and he tells it well, whether it be likely or unlikely.”
“Why, Barbara, ’tis a palpable lie! Can you not see--”
“I can and I cannot,” she said, evenly. Then she turned around, so that
she looked full in his eyes. “I care not whether he be the heir or
no--I would not listen to his pleadings were he my cousin thrice over.”
Captain Ferrers laughed.
“’Tis plain he has not endeared himself, mistress mine”; and then, with
lowered voice and glance full of meaning, “Do you really mean that you
hate him so?”
It was the first time that his manner had given a hint of a secret. She
turned her head away and looked at the opposite wall.
“I do,” she replied, firmly. “I do hate him with all my heart.”
Ferrers leaned towards her and laid his hand upon one of hers. She did
not withdraw it--her fingers even moved a little as though in response
to his touch.
“Barbara, this man”--he paused to look down while he fingered one
of her rings--“is an impostor. But if he were not, would you--would
you--still wish him dead?”
She looked around at him in surprise.
“Why, what--’tis a strange question. Is there a chance that it is
true--that he is what he says?”
He halted at this abrupt questioning and did not meet her eye. “No,
Barbara, I have not said so. But suppose he were the real Vicomte de
Bresac, would you still wish him dead?”
It was her turn to be discomfited. She averted her head, and her eyes
moved restlessly from one object upon the table to another.
“Have I not told you that I hate him?” she said; the voice was almost
a whisper. Ferrers looked at her as though he would read the inmost
depths of her heart. She met his eyes a moment and then smiled with a
little bitter irony that had a touch of melancholy in it.
“Can I find it pleasant thinking,” she went on, “that the houses, the
lands, the people who owe me allegiance, my goods, my habits, my very
life, are not mine, but another’s?”
A look of satisfaction crossed Captain Ferrers’s face. He relinquished
her hand and arose.
“What nonsense is this, Barbara, to be bothering your pretty head about
such a matter! Zounds, dear lady, it is the silliest thing imaginable!”
“Nay,” she said, with a gesture of annoyance and a woful look that
was only half assumed--“nay, it is no nonsense or silliness. Should
Monsieur Mornay come back, my quandary becomes as grievous as ever.”
Ferrers had been pacing up and down, his hands behind his back. “He
will not come back. Besides, what could he prove?” He stopped before
her.
She did not answer, but, trembling, waited for him to continue.
“Listen, Barbara. There has been something I have had in my mind to
tell you. The Frenchman’s story has made some impression upon you.”
She looked up almost plaintively. “How could it fail?” Then she went
on, for his encouragement: “It would make no difference to me whether
he is the heir or no. So why should it make a difference to you?”
“That decides me. The fellow is gone forever. He will never cross your
path again. You think your quandary is grievous. Even if the fellow
came back, what could he prove? Nothing. I will tell you why. Because
the only proofs of another heir to the estate are in my possession.”
It was out at last. The thing she half hoped yet most dreaded to hear
rang in her ears. She got up, making no effort to conceal her emotion,
and, walking to a window, leaned heavily upon the back of a chair.
“The proof--the papers--are in your possession?” And then, with an
attempt at gayety which rang somewhat discordantly, “’Tis fortunate
that they still remain in the hands of my friends.”
“I have been through fire and water for them, dear Barbara, and will go
again if need be. Last Wednesday night these papers were given me in
sacred trust to safely keep or destroy. It were better had I destroyed
them. As you know, my regiment is about to take the field. I have but
just changed my lodgings, and had no place of security for them. So
since then I have carried them upon my person, until I could place
them safely.” And then he told her how they had been taken from him by
Mornay, and how he had recovered them, to his surprise and delight,
somewhat moist but perfectly legible, from the doublet in the boat
which was sunk by the vessel in the river. She listened to him with
eyes that spoke volumes of her interest and wonder. When that was done
she asked him more of the secret. And he told her how her guardian had
so long kept it from her, and how Captain Cornbury had carried the
story to Mornay. He broke off suddenly and went over to where she stood.
“Barbara, can you not put this matter from your mind? Will you ruin
our day with this silly business? Have you no word for me? Have you no
thought for me--no answer to the question that is forever on my lips,
in my eyes and heart?”
She looked around at him, her clear eyes smiling up with an expression
he could not fathom. The level brows were calm and judicial--the eyes,
though smiling, were cognizant and searching.
“The lips--yes, Stephen,” said she, in a tantalizing way; “the eyes--a
little, perhaps; but the heart”--she dropped her eyes and turned her
head away--“the heart of man is a mystery.”
But Captain Ferrers was undaunted. He took in his the hand that hung at
her side.
“Why, Barbara,” he said, “have I not given you all my devotion? Can you
not learn--”
She drew a little away from him.
“I am but a dumb scholar.”
“Then do not add deafness to your failings. Listen to me. I have asked
you again and again the same question. Answer me now, Barbara. Promise
me that you will--”
She had turned around and faced him, looking him full in the eyes.
“What would you do for me if I promised you what you wish?”
“By my love! anything--anything in my power to win, anything in my gift
to bestow.”
She smiled gayly. “Very well,” she said, “I shall begin at once. First,
I shall want the papers in your possession.”
His face clouded; he dropped her hand and fell back a pace or two.
“The proofs--”
“The very same,” she said, coolly.
“My trust!” he exclaimed. “I have sworn to keep them secret or destroy
them!”
She turned away pettishly.
“So much for your love, Captain Ferrers. You swear to give me anything.
The first favor I ask, you refuse.”
“But my honor, Barbara. You would not have me break oath with the dead?”
“Will you give me the papers?” she asked again, imperturbably. He
looked at her uncertainly.
“And if I do not give them to you?”
“Then you may go.” She pointed imperiously to the door.
“You are cruel. And if I _do_ give them?”
Her face lighted.
“Ah. If you give them, perhaps--”
He leaned forward. “Well?”
“Perhaps--perhaps--you may have an answer.”
When he took her hand again she gave it to him unresistingly. “If I
give you these papers, will you promise me--to be my wife?”
She had attained her end and at the price she had expected to pay. And
yet she hesitated. She dropped her head and her figure seemed to relax
and grow smaller under his touch. He leaned over her, expectancy and
delight written upon his features.
“Will you promise, Barbara?” he repeated.
She straightened her head, but did not draw away as she answered, at
last:
“I will.”
He put his hands in his breast, and, drawing out the packet, laid it
before her upon the table.
“There is my honor, Barbara. Take it. I give it to you willingly--as I
give you my life.”
She took the packet of papers and looked at the blurred writing upon
the outside. Captain Ferrers made a step towards her, and, taking her
hand again, would have drawn her towards him. But as he approached and
she felt his breath warm upon her cheek, a change came over her and she
drew back and away from him to the other side of the table.
Captain Ferrers could not understand. His brows knit angrily.
“How now, Barbara--” he began.
“Not to-day, Stephen. Not to-day, I pray you.” She was half smiling,
half crying. “Can you not see I am overwrought with my grief and
worries? Leave me for the day. I will requite you better another time.”
She fell upon the couch and buried her face in her hands. Captain
Ferrers looked at her quizzically for a moment, but the smile at his
lips was not a pleasant one. Then he tossed his chin and walked towards
the door.
“Very well, then! Until to-morrow.” He took his hat and was gone.
For some moments Mistress Barbara lay there as one stricken and unable
to move. But at last, with a struggle, she broke the seal of the
packet which she had held tightly clutched in her hand. Then, while
the sun gilded again the chimney-pots opposite her, one by one she
read over the papers before her--the attestation of the nurse, Marie
Graillot, and the witnesses, Anton Gratz and Pierre Dauvet; the last
testament of Eloise de Bresac, and her confession; the statement of the
priest who had confessed her, and the description of the child; all
sworn and properly subscribed to before an official of the parish of
Saint-Jacques. Then there were some letters from Juan d’Añasco, clear
proof of Henry Heywood and Wilfred Clerke’s complicity in the plot. The
tears came to her eyes and made even dimmer the blur of the ink in the
faded documents. At last the letters became indistinct, and she could
read no more.
Far into the night she lay there. Her duenna would have entered, but
she sent her away. Servants came with food, but she refused to eat.
At last, when the reflection from the passing links no longer flashed
in fiery red across her ceiling, and the sounds of the street were no
longer loud or frequent, she arose, and, putting her head out of the
window, looked up at the quiet stars. The cool air bathed her brow, and
the tranquillity and all-pervading equality of peace helped her to her
resolution.
The next day, as Captain Stephen Ferrers presented himself at Mistress
Clerke’s lodgings, he was given a letter.
This is the cry of a soul that suffers [it ran]. I have read
one by one the papers you have given me, and from them an iron
resolution has been forged--forged with the warmth of passion
and tempered with the wet of tears. Yesterday I was your
promised wife. Unless you wish to be released, I am the same
to-day. But this morning every estate that I possess, every
revenue--all my fortune, in fact, down to the last penny--has
been placed under the Crown, where it will remain until the
rightful heir of the estates of De Bresac is found. Believe me,
this decision of mine is irrevocable. If you would claim me for
yourself under these new conditions, I shall still be the same
to you.
BARBARA.
Captain Ferrers left the house in some haste. A week later he went to
France upon a commission to purchase guns for the Royal Artillery. And
Mistress Barbara Clerke sailed as duenna to Señorita de Batteville, the
daughter of the Spanish Ambassador, to visit the señorita’s uncle, who
was governor of a castle at Porto Bello, upon the Spanish Main.