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.
Then Barnabas sank into a chair, like one that is very tired, and
sat there lost in frowning thought, and with one hand clasped down
upon his breast where hidden away in a clumsily contrived
hiding-place a certain rose, even at that moment, was fading away.
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