Shortly before she left the villa they had a great play. It was the best they had ever had. There was a prologue and an epilogue, written and spoken by Pietro, and ever so much shouting, and a very bloody scene in which Guido rescued Henrighetta from the ruffians, who were being led by a traitor page (Barnaba, of course) to kill her for her jewels. "Luigi," said Barnaba, "I hate to be mean, even in a play. I wish you would be the page and let me be a ruffian." Then Luigi laughed hard, and told his brothers. And they said, "Fancy Barnaba a ruffian," and laughed until poor Barnaba looked sadder than ever. "Oh, you'll make a real good page, and you know you have to kiss Henrighetta's long dress," said Guido, as he whittled a little gun. "So I will," said Barnaba, and was quite happy.
Now, really Henrighetta was a good deal like other girls, not very pretty or very wise, but fresh and happy. But with the eight boys she was a queen indeed—dared even to speak threateningly to Pietro, though she was but ten years old, and stamped her foot one day at Guido. Oh, how vexed he was! Yet she was always kind to Barnaba, and on the night of the play bade him kiss her hand instead of her dress, if he wished. It was very inappropriate, but Barnaba thought it angelic, and imprinted just the most serious and tender kiss on Henrighetta's chubby fingers at the moment when Guido carried her off from her terrible fate. They had quite an audience that night. Henrighetta's friends were many, and they all said how beautifully she looked when she was married to Guido at the close of the play, as she was, of course, with Pietro for a cardinal and Barnaba as page, to hold up my lady's train.
Well, the boys grew up, and though they wandered off to see the world and study, they found their way home often and often. Barnaba alone stayed there all the while. He grew of use to his father in writing, became his private secretary, and seemed to be as much a part of the home as the olive grove near by, or the long, shaded walks he loved so well. Barnaba's hair was as straight as ever, and his white collar grew crumpled sooner than it ought, and he looked as if he belonged somewhere else. Observing people wondered sometimes, but only a little, and Barnaba's brothers would have told you he was a shy, good boy, and his father would have said the same, and I dare say Barnaba himself might have replied a little in like manner, had he replied at all. But Barnaba did not talk much. He read, and dreamed, and walked in the woods. Sometimes at evening he would take off his cap, and the wind would blow his hair, and a light would burn in his eyes, and you would have thought, "Barnaba will do something surely." But he never did.
It was in the summer time, twelve years later than the play time, that Henrighetta came again to the villa. It was a little dull for her, for all the boys were away from home but Giuseppe and Barnaba. Giuseppe was older and angelic. He went to see the poor, and he had written a beautiful book about the Cross, and he slept in a little room on a hard bed, and said his prayers a great deal. His brothers would cross themselves often in speaking of him. "Giuseppe is a holy man," they would say. There was a verse in Giuseppe's book that Barnaba loved. He said it often to himself. It was this: "There is a road, and the name of it is Patience; the flowers that grow by it are few, but they are very sweet; and if you pluck them and weave them into a crown, the fragrance shall last for ever."
Barnaba was in the woods one day, saying these words softly to himself, when the lady Henrighetta approached. She was dressed all in white, and Barnaba thought her very beautiful and proud. Yet she spoke so sweetly to him. "Are you not my old friend Barnaba?" she asked. Had he been patient, and had he plucked one of the rare sweet flowers? It seemed so, truly. She spoke so sweetly, and she smiled at him, and she seated herself by him. "I am going to make a wreath for myself," she said, "while my father talks to your brother near by, and you shall get me flowers and tell me about your brothers—where you all are and what you are doing." Such dainty commands! How Barnaba flew for the flowers! How oddly he looked with his long hair flowing, and his eager hands clutching up the sweetest herbs, and grasses, and blossoms, all for her. "May I make your wreath?" he said, for Barnaba knew well what flowers loved each other.
What a happy Barnaba! How the sun shone, and the trees whispered that day, and how she talked to him, told him of all the years, of her travels, for she had seen much, and he sat and listened, and wove the flowers together, and watched her white hands and her full, soft throat. And after the lady Henrighetta talked she sang a little. It was such a fair day, so dreamy, and shady, and restful. She sang scraps of old Italian songs. When Barnaba had finished the wreath he handed it to her to place upon her head. "What shall I give you for this?" she said, and held out her hand. It was only a moment, yet it was a long enough moment to have placed a kiss upon it, and Barnaba was a man, and Barnaba longed to do it, but did he dare? While he wondered Giuseppe and her father joined them, and they all walked home to Henrighetta's together, talking of the olden times. Then they bade her good-by. She lingered at the doorway to watch them go. Barnaba looked back once and saw her standing there, all in white, with the wreath he had made crowning her dark hair. "And the fragrance shall last for ever," he whispered so softly that Giuseppe did not hear.
The next day Guido came home. He was a real soldier now, with spurs and a jaunty cloak, and such a twinkle in his eye and swing in his walk and laugh in his voice that you longed to see him enter the room, and wished for him to speak—not that he said so much, but he said it so well. The quiet home was always changed when Guido arrived. Merry songs were heard all over the house, horns, and racings, and laughter. And this time Guido was more than ever gay. He and the lady Henrighetta grew to be great friends. They would ride and walk, and although there were always people with them, they seemed to talk for each other all the time, and to smile for each other all the time. Every one saw it and smiled too—every one but Barnaba. He was very busy during this while with his father, correcting proofs for a new book on archæology.
It was not until twelve long days had gone by that he again saw the lady Henrighetta. Then he went over one evening to her father's villa, "where we are to have some plays as we used to do," said Guido. Barnaba's heart beat hard, and he longed to see the lady Henrighetta again. She was getting ready for the play. "Barnaba, you are to be page, please," said Guido, "and hold my lady's train." So Barnaba was page, and the play began. There were many strange faces and voices in it, and it was a studied play, each part learned by rote. It did not seem like old times at all. Barnaba began to feel very far away, when suddenly he was called to where the lady Henrighetta was, and bidden to follow her as her page. She greeted him kindly. "All you have to do is to stand by my side," she said. To stand by her side! And then the curtain rose again, and the lady Henrighetta, clad in regal robes, sailed forward, and Barnaba, clad as a page, followed her meekly and stood at her side.
What a little hum there was when she appeared! and when Guido strode rapidly in toward her and pressed her passionately, how the applause rang! It was an intense scene, and Guido seemed intensely in earnest. "How well he plays," thought Barnaba. Then, as Guido looked at Henrighetta and Henrighetta really blushed a little and dropped her eyelids, Barnaba's soul rose. It was a strong soul; it was a man's soul; and it was in a white heat of rage now. If he, the page, had but a sword to kill him, the lover! Just then he heard a little whisper which the others did not hear. It was too low. Guido had said, not "Leonora, mia cara," as the play said, but "Henrighetta, mia cara." There was a sudden movement on the stage. It was the page who had turned quickly, frantically. He had nearly reached the door when he turned again and came back, white but firm, with a strange smile on his lip, and resumed his place. Guido swore. The pretty tableau was spoiled. I am afraid even my lady sighed softly, but Barnaba did not know that. She had told him to stand by her side, and her command must be obeyed.
The scene over, however, Barnaba rushed from the house, out into the fresh air. He turned and gazed back through the window. There they stood together, side by side, smiling, happy, Guido and Henrighetta, and here was poor Barnaba, still in the trappings of livery, with his heart all torn in his hands. Out in the darkness he dropped his head toward the earth. Giuseppe saw the face, and came toward him. "What is it, brother?" asked he softly. "What have you lost?" Barnaba looked up at him. His brave, firm lips trembled once. "My life," he said; "I have lost my life." There was a silence. "He that loseth his life shall find it," said Giuseppe. "These are the words of the Lord." And the two brothers crossed themselves and walked homeward together in silence.