Captain Protheroe thus day by day grew to love Barbara more, but with the growth of his love his despair increased at sight of her devotion to Sir Ralph.
As she listened perforce to the sick man's ravings, he would steal from the room with despairing heart and maddened thought, that another could pour out to her so freely the words which he might not speak.
So the days passed, until preparation for their escape from the country could be perfected. Captain Protheroe had not been idle in searching for news of a vessel bound for Holland. There was a certain old shipmaster, John Quelch, whom he had known since boyhood, and to him he resolved to turn for help, for Master Quelch, he knew well, was a frequent visitor to Wells, where his sister kept an inn. Accordingly at the inn he ventured secretly to seek news of him, and there, luck being with him, he discovered the man himself, and confided to him his difficulties. Master Quelch owed something to the captain's kindness in former days, and having readily promised his help, two days later brought the welcome news that his brother's vessel, the Roaring George, was shortly to sail from Listoke and the skipper would take them on board. He further suggested that they journey to the coast as his companions, and thus there would be less danger of interruption on their way, since such journeys of seamen and their relatives were frequent betwixt Wells and the sea, and he was a man well known upon the road.
The fugitives accepted the offer right willingly, and this matter being arranged, time again hung heavily on Captain Protheroe's hands until the day arrived for departure. It was easy for Barbara to wait, busy with her many duties; it was easy for Ralph, still weak from his fever; but he had nought to do save sit hour-long watching Barbara at her work, and wondering wherein exactly lay the magic of her charm. All her ways fascinated him, and he could not keep his eyes from following her every movement.
This persistent watch upon her doings for a time annoyed and embarrassed Barbara. She felt sadly conscious of a want of habitude in her work, and feared lest a critical brain lurked behind his observant glance. She endeavoured to appear perfectly confident even with the results of her cookery, but 'twas at times a trying effort. Yet, finding no comments were offered, and her failures passed unnoticed, she grew emboldened to meet him glance for glance, and what she read in his eyes was so unmistakable that it brought the blush to her cheek, and the mischievous smile to her lips, and, for women are at best but mortal, sent her about her work with added daintiness and allurement.
But at length he could no longer satisfy himself with watching in silence; the force of his love, hopeless though he feared it to be, overpowered his prudence; he could not restrain his tongue.
Barbara was in the kitchen, concerned with the making of a pasty. She was alone, nor aware of his presence in the next room, and as she worked she sang a plaintive little song concerning the mystery of love. Thus it ran:
"Oh! what is love? Some say it is but sorrow,
Passion unholden, joy a three-part pain.
Here for to-day but gone for aye to-morrow,
Leaving behind a memory and a stain,
If this be so, my heart it shall not move.
Let me not love. Let me not love.
"Oh! what is love? Some say 'tis but a dreaming
Born in the Spring-time of a single sigh.
Blazing in glory, earth an Eden seeming,
Dying of passion as the roses die.
If this be so, if love a vision prove,
Let me not love. Let me not love.
"Oh! what is love? A worship all undying.
Faith looks to faith, and heart to heart has fled.
Faith is fulfilled, no more the soul goes sighing.
Love is for aye, and time itself is dead.
If this be so, if earth a heaven may prove.
Ah! give me love. Ah! give me love."
Scarcely was the song ended when Captain Protheroe strode abruptly into the room, and crossing to her side seized her almost roughly by the arm.
"Mistress Barbara," he asked hoarsely, "know you aught of what you sing?"