"I'd have sworn it," said Barbara Quinton.

"But with Mr Simon Dale----"

"With Simon Dale? What concern have you with Simon Dale?"

"He has mocked me twice, and I believe hinders me now," returned Fontelles, his hot temper rising again.

Barbara clasped her hands, and cried triumphantly,

"Go to him, go to him. Heaven is good to me! Go to Simon Dale!"

The amazed eyes of Fontelles and the sullen enraged glance of Carford recalled her to wariness. Yet the avowal (O, that it had pleased G.o.d I should hear it!) must have its price and its penalty. A burning flush spread over her face and even to the border of the gown on her neck. But she was proud in her shame, and her eyes met theirs in a level gaze.

To Fontelles her bearing and the betrayal of herself brought fresh and strong confirmation of Carford's warning. But he was a gentleman, and would not look at her when her blushes implored the absence of his eyes.

"I go to seek Mr Dale," said he gravely, and without more words turned on his heel.

In a sudden impulse, perhaps a sudden doubt of her judgment of him, Barbara darted after him.

"For what purpose do you seek him?"

"Madame," he answered, "I cannot tell you."

She looked for a moment keenly in his face; her breath came quick and fast, the hue of her cheek flashed from red to white.

"Mr Dale," said she, drawing herself up, "will not fear to meet you."

Again Fontelles bowed, turned, and was gone, swiftly and eagerly striding down the avenue, bent on finding me.

Barbara was left alone with Carford. His heavy frown and surly eyes accused her. She had no mind to accept the part of the guilty.

"Well, my lord," she said, "have you told this M. de Fontelles what honest folk would think of him and his errand?"

"I believe him to be honest," answered Carford.

"You live the quieter for your belief!" she cried contemptuously.

"I live the less quiet for what I have seen just now," he retorted.

There was a silence. Barbara stood with heaving breast, he opposite to her, still and sullen. She looked long at him, but at last seemed not to see him; then she spoke in soft tones, not as though to him, but rather in an answer to her own heart, whose cry could go no more unheeded. Her eyes grew soft and veiled in a mist of tears that did not fall. (So I see it--she told me no more than that she was near crying.)

"I couldn't send for him," she murmured. "I wouldn't send for him. But now he will come, yes, he'll come now."

Carford, driven half-mad by an outburst which his own device had caused, moved by whatever of true love he had for her, and by his great rage and jealousy against me, fairly ran at her and caught her by the wrist.

"Why do you talk of him? Do you love him?" he said from between clenched teeth.

She looked at him, half-angry, half-wondering. Then she said,

"Yes."

"Nell Gwyn's lover?" said Carford.

Her cheek flushed again, and a sob caught her voice as it came.

"Yes," said she. "Nell Gywn's lover."

"You love him?"

"Always, always, always." Then she drew herself near to him in a sudden terror. "Not a word, not a word," she cried. "I don't know what you are, I don't trust you; forgive me, forgive me; but whatever you are, for pity's sake, ah, my dear lord, for pity's sake, don't tell him. Not a word!"

"I will not speak of it to M. de Fontelles," said Carford.

An amazed glance was followed by a laugh that seemed half a sob.

"M. de Fontelles! M. de Fontelles! No, no, but don't tell Simon."

Carford's lips bent in a forced smile uglier than a scowl.

"You love this fellow?"

"You have heard."

"And he loves you?"

The sneer was bitter and strong. In it seemed now to lie Carford's only hope. Barbara met his glance an instant, and her answer to him was,

"Go, go."

"He loves you?"

"Leave me. I beg you to leave me. Ah, G.o.d, won't you leave me?"

"He loves you?"

Her face went white. For a while she said nothing; then in a calm quiet voice, whence all life and feeling, almost all intelligence, seemed to have gone, she answered,

"I think not, my lord."

He laughed. "Leave me," she said again, and he, in grace of what manhood there was in him, turned on his heel and went. She stood alone, there on the terrace.

Ah, if G.o.d had let me be there! Then she should not have stood desolate, nor flung herself again on the marble seat. Then she should not have wept as though her heart broke, and all the world were empty. If I had been there, not the cold marble should have held her, and for every sweetest tear there should have been a sweeter kiss. Grief should have been drowned in joy, while love leapt to love in the fulness of delight.

Alas for pride, breeder of misery! Not life itself is so long as to give atonement to her for that hour; though she has said that one moment, a certain moment, was enough.

CHAPTER XXIII