Part 49 (1/2)

I sat and looked at her; yet, though I seemed to look at her only, the whole of the room with its furnis.h.i.+ngs is stamped clear and clean on my memory. Nell moved a little away and stood facing me.

”It grows late,” she said softly, ”and we must be early on the road.

I'll bid you good-night, and go to my bed.”

She came to me, holding out her hand; I did not take it, but she laid it for a moment on mine. Then she drew it away and moved towards the door.

I rose and followed her.

”I'll see you safe on your way,” said I in a low voice. She met my gaze for a moment, but made no answer in words. We were in the corridor now, and she led the way. Once she turned her head and again looked at me. It was a sullen face she saw, but still I followed.

”Tread lightly!” she whispered. ”There's her door; we pa.s.s it, and she would not love to know that you escorted me. She scorns you herself, and yet when another----” The sentence went unended.

In a tumult of feeling still I followed. I was half-mad with resentment against Barbara; swearing to myself that her scorn was nothing to me, I shrank from nothing to prove to my own mind the lie that my heart would not receive.

”The door!” whispered Nell, going delicately on her toes with uplifted forefinger.

I cannot tell why, but at the word I came to a stand. Nell, looking over her shoulder and seeing me stand, turned to front me. She smiled merrily, then frowned, then smiled again with raised eye-brows. I stood there, as though pinned to the spot. For now I had heard a sound from within. It came very softly. There was a stir as of someone moving, then a line of some soft sad song, falling in careless half-consciousness from saddened lips. The sound fell clear and plain on my ears, though I paid no heed to the words and have them not in my memory; I think that in them a maid spoke to her lover who left her, but I am not sure. I listened. The s.n.a.t.c.h died away, and the movement in the room ceased. All was still again, and Nell's eyes were fixed on mine. I met them squarely, and thus for awhile we stood. Then came the unspoken question, cried from the eyes that were on mine in a thousand tones. I could trace the play of her face but dimly by the light of the smoky lantern, but her eyes I seemed to see bright and near. I had looked for scorn there, and, it might be, amus.e.m.e.nt. I seemed to see (perhaps the imperfect light played tricks), besides lure and raillery, reproach, sorrow, and, most strange of all, a sort of envy. Then came a smile, and ever so lightly her finger moved in beckoning. The song came no more through the closed door: my ears were empty of it, but not my heart; there it sounded still in its soft pleading cadence. Poor maid, whose lover left her! Poor maid, poor maid! I looked full at Nell, but did not move. The lids dropped over her eyes, and their lights went out. She turned and walked slowly and alone along the corridor. I watched her going, yes, wistfully I watched. But I did not follow, for the s.n.a.t.c.h of song rose in my heart. There was a door at the end of the pa.s.sage; she opened it and pa.s.sed through. For a moment it stood open, then a hand stole back and slowly drew it close. It was shut. The click of the lock rang loud and sharp through the silent house.

CHAPTER XX

THE VICAR'S PROPOSITION

I do not know how long I stood outside the door there in the pa.s.sage.

After awhile I began to move softly to and fro, more than once reaching the room where I was to sleep, but returning again to my old post. I was loth to forsake it. A strange desire was on me. I wished that the door would open, nay, to open it myself, and by my presence declare what was now so plain to me. But to her it would not have been plain; for now I was alone in the pa.s.sage, and there was nothing to show the thing which had come to me there, and there at last had left me. Yet it seemed monstrous that she should not know, possible to tell her to-night, certain that my shame-faced tongue would find no words to-morrow. It was a thing that must be said while the glow and the charm of it were still on me, or it would find no saying.

The light had burnt down very low, and gave forth a dim fitful glare, hardly conquering the darkness. Now, again, I was standing still, lost in my struggle. Presently, with glad amazement, as though there had come an unlooked-for answer to my prayer, I heard a light step within.

The footfalls seemed to hesitate; then they came again, the bolt of the door shot back, and a crack of faint light shewed. ”Who's there?” asked Barbara's voice, trembling with alarm or some other agitation which made her tones quick and timid. I made no answer. The door opened a little wider. I saw her face as she looked out, half-fearful, yet surely also half-expectant. Much as I had desired her coming, I would willingly have escaped now, for I did not know what to say to her. I had rehea.r.s.ed my speech a hundred times; the moment for its utterance found me dumb. Yet the impulse I had felt was still on me, though it failed to give me words.

”I thought it was you,” she whispered. ”Why are you there? Do you want me?”

Lame and halting came my answer.

”I was only pa.s.sing by on my way to bed,” I stammered. ”I'm sorry I roused you.”

”I wasn't asleep,” said she. Then after a pause she added, ”I--I thought you had been there some time. Good-night.”

She bade me good-night, but yet seemed to wait for me to speak; since I was still silent she added, ”Is our companion gone to bed?”

”Some little while back,” said I. Then raising my eyes to her face, I said, ”I'm sorry that you don't sleep.”

”Alas, we both have our sorrows,” she returned with a doleful smile.

Again there was a pause.

”Good-night,” said Barbara.

”Good-night,” said I.