"Quite so," nodded the Duchess, "highly filial and very pious, oh,
indeed, most righteous and laudable, but--there remains an eighthly,
Barnabas."
"And pray, madam, what may that be?"
"What of Cleone?"
Now when the Duchess said this, Barnabas turned away to the window
and leaning his head in his hands, was silent awhile.
"Cleone!" he sighed at last, "ah, yes--Cleone!"
"You love her, I suppose?"
"So much--so very much that she shall never marry an innkeeper's son,
or a discredited--"
"Bah!" exclaimed the Duchess.
"Madam?"
"Don't be so hatefully proud, Barnabas."
"Proud, madam--I?"
"Cruelly, wickedly, hatefully proud! Oh, dear me! what a superbly
virtuous, heroic fool you are, Barnabas. When you met her at the
crossroads, for instance--oh, I know all about it--when you had her
there--in your arms, why didn't you--run off with her and marry her,
as any ordinary human man would have done? Dear heaven, it would
have been so deliciously romantic! And--such an easy way out of it!"
"Yes," said Barnabas, beginning to frown, "so easy that it was--wrong!"
"Quite so and fiddlesticks!" sniffed the Duchess.
"Madam?"
"Oh, sir, pray remember that one wrong may sometimes make two right!
As it is, you will let your abominable pride--yes, pride! wreck and
ruin two lives. Bah!" cried the Duchess very fiercely as she rose
and turned to the door, "I've no patience with you!"
"Ah, Duchess," said Barnabas, staying her with pleading hands,
"can't you see--don't you understand? Were she, this proud lady, my
wife, I must needs be haunted, day and night, by the fear that some
day, soon or late, she would find me to be--not of her world--not
the man she would have me, but only--the publican's son, after all.
Now--don't you see why I dare not?"
"Oh, Pride! Pride!" exclaimed the Duchess. "Do you expect her to
come to you, then--would you have her go down on her knees to you,
and--beg you to marry her?"
Barnabas turned to the window again and stood there awhile staring
blindly out beyond the swaying green of trees; when at last he spoke
his voice was hoarse and there was a bitter smile upon his lips.
"Yes, Duchess," said he slowly, "before such great happiness could
be mine she must come to me, she must go down upon her knees--proud
lady that she is--and beg this innkeeper's son to marry her. So you
see, Duchess, I--shall never marry!"
Now when at last Barnabas looked round, the Duchess had her back to
him, nor did she turn even when she spoke.
"Then you are going back--to your father?"
"Yes, madam."
"To-day?"
"Yes, madam."
"Then--good-by, Barnabas! And remember that even roses, like all
things else, have a habit of fading, sooner or later." And thus,
without even glancing at him, the Duchess went out of the room and
closed the door softly behind her.