CHAPTER VII
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.