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diff --git a/old/50995-0.txt b/old/50995-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c293986..0000000 --- a/old/50995-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,13906 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mad Barbara, by Warwick Deeping - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Mad Barbara - -Author: Warwick Deeping - -Illustrator: Christopher Clark - -Release Date: January 22, 2016 [EBook #50995] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAD BARBARA *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team (http://www.pgdpcanada.net) from -page images generously made available by the Internet -Archive American Libraries -(https://archive.org/details/madbarbara00deepgoog). - - - - - -[Illustration: BARBARA FELL BACK AGAINST THE WALL] - - - - - MAD BARBARA - - - BY - - WARWICK DEEPING - - - AUTHOR OF - “BERTRAND OF BRITTANY” “A WOMAN’S WAR” - “THE SLANDERERS” ETC. ETC. - - - WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY - CHRISTOPHER CLARK, R. I. - - - NEW YORK AND LONDON - HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS - MCMIX - - - - - Copyright, 1908, by HARPER & BROTHERS. - _All rights reserved._ - Published February, 1909. - - - - - MAD BARBARA - - - - - I - - -In the little music-house in his garden overlooking the Park of St. -James’s, Sir Lionel Purcell—Knight—lay dead, with his cloak half -thrown across his face and one hand still gripping the hilt of his -sword. The door of the music-room stood ajar, giving a glimpse of the -autumn garden, the grass silvered with heavy dew, yellow leaves flaking -it, like splashes of gold on a green shield. The curtains were drawn -across the windows, so that a few stray shafts of light alone streamed -in, giving a sense of some mystery unrevealed as yet, some riddle of -human passion waiting to be read. - -The silent room seemed all shadows, save where those Rembrandtesque -strands of sunlight slanted upon the floor. And there, as though touched -by light from another world, the dead man’s forehead gleamed out above -the black folds of his cloak. His sword, a streak of silver, joined him -to the surrounding shadows, a last bond between him and the past. - -Without—an autumn morning, with the clocks chiming the hour of six, and -the water-fowl calling from the decoy in the park. A golden mist -swimming in the east; the grass white with dew; the trees still -sleeping, though the yellow leaves fell slowly, softly from the silent -branches overhead. A virginal gray-eyed wonder in the eyes of the day. -Freshness and fragrance everywhere, with the spires of Westminster -striking upward into pearly haze, and the broad river catching the -sunlight that sifted through the ragged vapor. - -Dawn may be the egotist’s hour of smug self-congratulation, or the -poet’s moment for praising solitude, even though like Thomson he buries -his head in a nightcap, and wallows in bed till noon. The dead man had -no one as yet to question his quietude, though there was a sense of -stirring everywhere—attic windows opening, milk frothing into jugs at -kitchen steps, carts lumbering lazily over the cobbles. The sun -ascended, the mist began to rise, the sunflowers in a row along the wall -had their broad faces made splendid by the day. A couple of thrushes -were hopping to and fro over the grass. An inquisitive robin came -perking in through the half-shut door, to stand twittering with one -black, beady eye cocked curiously at the motionless figure on the floor. -In one dark corner a harpsichord showed the ivory of its key-board with -something suggestive of a sinister smile. - -Had that ingenious connoisseur of feminine beauty—Mr. Pepys—taken an -early stroll in the park that morning, he might have derived infinite -contentment from the sight of a young girl, a “comely black wench,” -standing at her open window with nothing but a red cloak to hide the -whiteness of her night-gear. She was binding her hair, her eyes gazing -over the empty park, a little table at the window beside her full of -ribbons, pins, trinkets, and laces. She was wondering whether her father -would walk early in the park that morning. She had fallen asleep before -he had returned from supping at my Lord Montague’s the night before, -though Mrs. Jael—her mother’s woman, had sat up to watch for the flare -of links along the street. - -The garden looked innocent enough in the morning sunlight, with its -gravel walks, sleek grass, and quaint bay-trees trimmed into the -likeness of pinnacles. The music-room, with its diminutive classic -portico, lyre, mask, and trumpets in gilt upon the tympanum, seemed, -with its white pillars, no place where tragedy might watch and wait. - -Whatever impulse drew the girl to the music-room that autumn morning, -she had caught no prophetic gleam of the thing that waited to be known. -A few steps across the grass, a moment’s surprise at finding the door -ajar, a startled pause upon the threshold. Then, the lights and shadows -of that Rembrandtesque interior burning themselves in upon the brain, -the limning of that motionless figure in lines of fire against a -background of imperishable memories. - -That he was dead, a touch of the hand betrayed without one moment’s -hope. The reason of his death blazoned in gules, with a red rose over -the heart. The face set in a smile of infinite sadness. An overturned -candle with the wax spilled upon the table, a bowl of flowers broken -upon the floor. And in the left hand, held by the stiff fingers, a short -chain of gold with a knot of pearls, for a button, like a loop torn from -a man’s cloak. - -It was thus that Barbara Purcell, child that she yet was, found her -father lying dead with a sword-thrust through the heart. He had been a -silent man, no courtier, a man whose life had hoped more from the quiet -corners of the world than from the pageantry of state. He had had no -enemies, so far as the child knew; yet the world might have warned her -that a man may be grudged the possession of a handsome wife. Even the -Bible might have told her that. - -As for the short curb of gold with its knot of pearls, she took it from -the dead hand, and hid the thing in her bosom under her dress. To blazon -the truth abroad, to run shrieking into the house, that was not the way -the passion of her grief expressed itself. The curb of gold was the one -link that might join the future to the past. She would show it to no -one. That right should be hers to watch and to discover. - - - - - II - - -“Listen!” - -She touched his shoulder suddenly, and their eyes met in a questioning -stare, the eyes of two people who have some secret to be guarded. - -“I heard some one in the gallery.” - -“A coach stopped in the yard two minutes ago.” - -“It is Barbara come home. The girl moves about like a ghost.” - -They drew aside from each other; my lord, bland, buxom, imposing, in -periwig, and black coat broidered with gold; my lady, plump, luscious, -yet a little furtive about the eyes, her flowered gown in green and blue -pleated into a hundred folds over her camlet petticoat. She wore her -dark hair low upon her neck, with a rose over the left ear, and a mass -of exquisite lace upon her bosom. - -Lord Stephen Gore cleared his throat, and began speaking with discreet -distinctness on some wholly impersonal topic. The pair were decorously -distant when the door of the great parlor opened, the man standing at -the window, as though watching the people passing in the street beneath; -the woman seated, almost primly, in a high-backed chair, a book in her -lap, mild apathy upon her face. - -My lord at the window turned on his heel abruptly, as though he had just -become aware of the presence of a third person in the room. He was a man -of poise, of genial aplomb, one of those complacent gods who are never -out of countenance or at loss for a trick of the tongue. - -The girl’s eyes seemed to sweep from one to the other with a momentary -gleam of distrust. She still wore her mourning, a gown of plain black -velvet with a circle of lace at the throat. The expression on her face -was one of tired nonchalance. But for that evanescent gleam of the eyes -she might have passed as a bloodless and languid girl whose vitality -lacked the stimulus of perfect health. - -My lord met her with a bow that expressed unnecessary condescension. He -had reached an age when it is possible to be fatherly, and even -officious in a frank, twinkling, stately fashion. - -“And how is my Proserpine? Still in the pensive droops? And yet Mr. -Herrick preaches the gathering of roses!” - -He put forward a chair for her with the tolerance of an amiable -gentleman of the world. She took it without thanking him, her cold, -colorless face masking an instinctive repulsion, an impatience that his -urbanity seemed fated to inspire. - -The lord and the lady exchanged glances. It was as though the girl had -brought a frost with her into the midst of June. Her silence and her -almost sullen apathy embarrassed them. It was like being in the presence -of a statue that had eyes and ears but no tongue. - -Anne Purcell clapped her book to, and jerked it aside on to an oak -table. - -“Where did you drive—in the park?” - -“Drive?” - -“Good lack! girl, are you torpid? I could swear you have not noticed the -color of a gown or the set of a hat. One might as well send out a -mummy.” - -She glanced unconcernedly at the buckles on my lord’s shoes. - -“The park? Yes. A great business there, to see—and to be seen. Enough -dust to stifle one; and too many people.” - -The words were the perfunctory words of one who would rather have -remained silent. Her face seemed vacant and expressionless. My lord drew -in a deep breath through his nostrils, and regarded her with philosophic -pity. - -“Eheu, holy Gemini, dust and ashes—at two-and-twenty!” - -He nodded his head benignantly, yet with a cynical curving of the mouth, -while the plump, well-complexioned mother studied her bantling with -irritable contempt. There was some inherent antipathy between these two. -Their attitude was one of vague distrust, as though the sun and the moon -found themselves in miraculous juxtaposition at mid-day. - -“You had better go to bed, girl; you look tired enough.” - -She met her mother’s hard, inquisitive stare, and seemed to stiffen at -it with a sensitive hatred of being watched. - -“No, I am not tired.” - -“Fiddlesticks!” - -My lord held up a bland white hand ruffled in Mechlin, immaculate to the -finger-tips. - -“Let her alone, Anne. These feather moods need a south wind.” - -His lofty compunction repelled her more than her mother’s brusque -contempt. The atmosphere of the room seemed overburdened with a sensuous -flavor. The very roses suggested a rank and vivid worldliness, a -fulsomeness of the flesh gotten of meat and wine. - -She rose, pushing back her chair, with a languid drooping of the lids. - -“Tell Jael to have supper sent to my room. Shall you be late to-night?” - -Her face was turned toward her mother, as though the gentleman in the -periwig were a mere negligible shadow. - -“Go to bed, child, and don’t trouble your head about healthy people. -Nell is at The King’s to-night. I wish you could catch some of the -wench’s devil.” - -“Oh—the Drury Lane woman! I have seen her at her window in her -night-dress shouting at Moll Davis in the next house. She looked -something of a drab with her hair done up in papers. Do the candles make -such a difference?” - -She looked listlessly over her shoulder at my lord, her lassitude giving -her an air of tired vacuity. And the smile he gave her might have been -the smile he would have given to a credulous child. - -“We are all moths, coz, when the candles are lit. Which is a riddle that -you need not be bothered with.” - -Her going relieved the two worldlings from an uncongenial feeling of -oppression, and yet some uneasiness of spirit remained to trouble both. -Miss Barbara had chilled the room for them with her wraithlike and -sinister sickliness. The sleek self-content of the well-fed animal had -been disturbed by impressions and by thoughts that neither cared to -analyze. My Lord of Gore stood at the window, stroking his periwig with -some such dissatisfaction on his face as he might have betrayed at the -first hint that he was growing old. - -“The girl looks ill.” - -Madam made a _moue_. - -“Oh—that is nothing; she is always the color of sour cream. Lord, but I -think I hate the child; she drags things into my mind that make me -miserable.” - -The angles of the man’s mouth twitched slightly. - -“By the plague, Nan, why let yourself be overshadowed?” - -“Why—indeed! We might understand that, you and I.” - -He turned to her sharply with a gleam of impatience in his eyes. - -“Why not be rid of the little blight?” - -“Yes, no doubt—and how? Are you ingenious enough to suggest a method?” - -“Get her married.” - -“Lord! And who would have her?” - -“She is something of a bargain—in movables. There are plenty of debtors -and fools.” - -“The persuading would lie elsewhere. The girl has a sort of sullen -stubbornness that is worse than temper.” - -Stephen Gore shook his periwig with the action of an impatient horse -shaking its mane. - -“I suppose these mopes were put on with her mourning. The girl wants the -merry devil in her rousing. Jove, Nan, but she’s your child; there must -be blood somewhere.” - -Anne Purcell picked up a fan, spread it with an impatient whisk of the -hand, and glanced uneasily at the closed door. She started up brusquely, -crossed the room, flung the door open suddenly, and looked down the long -gallery as though to prove that they were not being spied upon. Then she -returned to her tapestried chair. - -“Well, have you any plan?” - -My lord licked his upper lip, a sly smile spreading over his healthy -face. - -“Will she go out with you?” - -“Sometimes. To the old, dull houses where they wear starched aprons and -have the servants in to prayers.” - -“And judge of godliness by the length of the jowl. Poor people! No—that -is not the elixir, the juice of crab-apples. Take her to the Mancini, -that witch who turns dross into sunshine. The woman would wake the merry -devil in a Quaker. She has old Rowley kissing her very slippers.” - -“Hortense?” - -“Who else, Nan? It is life, blood, mischief that the girl needs.” - -My lady’s eyes flashed up at him mistrustfully for the moment. He caught -the look and the significance thereof, and laughed. - -“Oh, she is not my fortune, Nan! I am too old a moth for that candle. -The woman is like a conduit of red wine let loose in the garden of White -Hall. She makes all but the abstemious—drunk. And the marvel is that -she is just as magical with women, is Hortense. Ask my Lord Sussex how -he likes the transfiguration of his wife.” - -“Castlemaine’s stupid brat!” - -“Little whey face all turned into dimples, roguery, and mischief. She -twinkles round the Mancini like a little Mercury with feathers at her -heels. I will speak with Hortense; she has some sort of sisterly -good-will to me, and a kind of pride in making sulky people merry. -She’ll set the girl’s blood spinning, or I’m a fool.” - -Anne Purcell leaned back in her chair as though tired. - -“Anything to get rid of that sour face. But it’s her mawkishness, her -squeamy, ‘pray-with-me-or-I-shall-die’ look, that makes me doubtful.” - -The gentleman nodded understandingly. - -“Leave that to Hortense. The Italian has a veneer of softness; she is -not like a Nell Gwyn. It is a question of subtleties. Nell would swear -the girl into a fit in three minutes. The Mancini has a trick of seeming -a saint—when necessary. If the Italian makes no romp out of her, then I -will dub her nothing but a petticoated Hamlet.” - -My lady stretched her arms with a gesture of impatient ennui. - -“Well we can try. Let us forget the ghost to-night. I feel I must laugh, -or I shall have wrinkles round my mouth.” - -“Nell shall do that for you. You will come in my coach?” - -“And the proprieties?” - -He laughed with the true sardonic gayety of the Restoration. - -“Sister Kate shall see to them. Though she is stone deaf she likes to -see the dresses and the candles. There is one mistake that Mr. Milton -made in that he did not tell us that the devil is deaf in one ear.” - - - - - III - - -Had Lady Purcell, herself unseen, followed her daughter to her room, -she would have been astonished by the sudden transformation that swept -over her so soon as the door closed. The apathetic figure straightened -into keen aliveness; the look of vacuity vanished from the face. It was -like a sudden transition from damp, listless November to the starlit -brilliance of a frosty night. - -“Dust and ashes at two-and-twenty!” - -My Lord Gore’s echoing of Biblical pessimism seemed to have lost its -appropriateness so far as Barbara Purcell was concerned. There was -nothing listless about the intense and rather swarthy face that looked -down into the garden with its white-pillared music-room and its October -memories. It was more the face of some impassioned child of destiny -striving to gaze into the mystery of the coming years. - -The acting of a part to delude the world, and to make men ignore her as -a spiritless girl. The merciless fanaticism of youth watching, and ever -watching, behind all that assumption of listlessness and sloth. Then, in -those solitary interludes when she had no part to play, the restrained -passion in her breaking like lava to the surface, filling her eyes with -a species of prophetic fire. - -In a little carved cabinet of black oak she kept some of those relics -that made for her a ritual of revenge—her father’s shirt stained with -blood, some of the dead flowers she had found beside him on the floor, a -piece of the cloth that had covered him that autumn morning. Almost -nightly she would take these things from their hiding-place, spread them -upon her bed, and kneel before them as a papist might kneel before a -relic or the symbol of the Sacred Heart. As for the curb of gold with -its knot of pearls, she carried it always in her bosom, sewn up in a -case of scarlet silk. Distrusting every one, hardly sane in the personal -passion of her purpose, she never parted with the talisman, but -treasured its possible magic for herself. - -Yet what had she discovered all these many months? The knowledge that -her mother had put aside her black stuffs gladly, a growing sense of -antipathy toward the man who had been her father’s friend. She could -remember the time when my Lord Stephen had carried her through the -garden on his shoulder; bought her sweetmeats, green stockings, and -jessamy gloves; and even served as her valentine with a big man’s -playful gallantry toward a child. She had thought him a splendid person -then, but now—all had changed for her, and the analysis of her own -instinctive repulsion left her obstinately baffled. She had no mandate -from the past for hating him; on the contrary, facts might have stood to -prove that she was his debtor. She remembered how she had caught him -praying beside her father’s coffin, and how he had risen up with a -strange spasm of the face and blundered from the room. He had offered -money for the discovery of the truth, importuned magistrates, petitioned -the King, put his own servants in black. No man could have done more -loyally as a friend. - -Yet nothing had been discovered. Some unknown sword had passed through -Lionel Purcell’s body. The very motive remained concealed. The world had -buried him, gossiped awhile, and then forgotten. - -But Barbara had a heart that did not know how to forget. She had -Southern blood, the passionate heirloom of an Elizabethan wooing. The -Spanish wine of her ancestry had given her a flash of fanaticism and the -swarthy melancholy of her comely face. And the whole promise of her -youth had bent itself, like some dark-eyed zealot—to a purpose that had -none of the softer and more sensuous moods of life in view. - -Why should she hate this big, bland, stately mortal, this Stephen Gore -who had no enemies and many friends? That was a question she often asked -herself. Was it because she had been caught by the suspicion that he -might console the widow for the husband’s death? There was no palpable -sin in the possibility, and yet it angered her, even though she had no -great love for her mother. A supersensitive delicacy made her jealous -for the dead. The very buxom effulgence of my lord’s vitality seemed to -insult the shadow that haunted the house for her. - -As she sat at the window looking down upon the garden the sun sank low -in the west, throwing a broad radiance under the branches of the trees. -Their round boles were bathed in light. The figures that moved about the -park were touched with a weird brilliance, so that a red coat shone like -a ruby, a blue like a sapphire, a silver-gray like an opal iridescent in -the sun. There was much of the charm of one of Watteau’s pictures, yet -with a greater significance of light and shadow. - -Dusk began to fall. A hand fumbled at the latch of the door, and a -figure in black entered bearing a tray. It was Mrs. Jael, her mother’s -woman, a stout little body with a florid face and an overpolite way with -her that repelled cynics. She had amiable blue eyes that seemed to see -nothing, a loose mouth, and a big bosom. Her personality appeared to -have soaked itself in sentimentality as a stewed apple soaks itself in -syrup. - -Barbara did not turn her head. - -“Why, dear heart, all in the dusk! Here’s a little dish or two.” - -“Set them down on the table.” - -“You’ll get your death chill—there, sitting at that window—” - -The woman fidgeted officiously about the room, as though trying to -insinuate her sympathy betwixt the girl’s silence and reserve. Her -dilatory habit only roused Barbara’s impatience. Mrs. Jael’s sly, -succulent motherliness had lost its power of deceiving, so far as Anne -Purcell’s daughter was concerned. - -“Light the candles.” - -She remained motionless while the woman bustled to and fro. - -“Thanks. You can leave me, Jael.” - -The tire-woman could meet a snub with the most obtuse good temper. - -“Should you be tired, Mistress Barbara, I can come and put you to bed, -my dear, while my lady is at the playhouse.” - -“I am old enough to put myself to bed, am I not?” - -Mrs. Jael laughed as though bearing with a peevish miss of twelve. - -“Dear life, of course you are.” And she broke into a fat giggle as -though something had piqued her sense of humor. - -Barbara’s face remained turned toward the window. - -“You can go, Jael.” - -The woman curtesied and obeyed. - -Her face lost its good-humor, however, as quickly as a buffoon’s loses -its stage grin when he has turned his back upon the audience. She stood -outside the door a moment, listening, and then went softly down the -passage to my lady’s room, with its stamped leather hangings in green -and gold, its great carved bed and Eastern rugs. - -Anne Purcell was seated before her mirror, her long, brown hair, of -which she was mightily proud, falling about her almost to the ground. -She had a stick of charcoal in her hand, and was leaning forward over -the dressing-table, crowded with its trinkets, scent-flasks, and -pomade-boxes, staring at her face in the glass as she heightened the -expressiveness of her eyes. - -Her glance merely shifted from the reflection of her own face to that of -Mrs. Jael’s figure as she entered the room. They were not a little -alike, these two women, save that the one boasted more grace and polish; -the other more pliability and unctuousness, and perhaps more cunning. - -“Get me my red velvet gown from the cupboard, Jael.” - -“Yes, my lady.” - -“Have you seen the girl?” - -Mrs. Jael’s head and shoulders had disappeared into the depths of the -carved-oak wardrobe. Her voice came muffled as from a cave. - -“Yes, my lady.” - -“What was she doing with herself?” - -“Sitting at her window, poor dear, and looking very low and sulky.” - -Anne Purcell turned her head to and fro as she scrutinized herself -critically in the glass. She still looked young, with her high color and -her sleek skin, her large eyes and full red mouth. Her style of -comeliness seemed suited to the times, plump and pleasurable, full and -free in outline and expression. My Lord of Gore had no reason to feel -displeased at the prospect of possessing such a widow. - -“What do you make of the girl, Jael?” - -The tire-woman had turned from the wardrobe with the gown of red velvet -over her arm. - -“The child is strange, my lady, and out of health. You might say that -she had been moon-struck, or that she was watching for a ghost.” - -Anne Purcell moved restlessly in her chair. - -“Sometimes, Jael, I think that Barbara is a little mad. I am ready for -you to dress my hair.” - -Mrs. Jael spread the gown upon the bed. - -“She doesn’t seem to have a spark of life in her, poor dear. I’m half -scared often that she should do herself some harm.” - -My lady was watching the woman’s face in the mirror. - -“Oh—” - -“She’s always moping by herself like a sick bird. It often makes me -wonder, my lady—” - -“Well?” - -“What Mistress Barbara does all those hours when she is alone. I have -tried looking—” - -“Through the key-hole, Jael?” - -“Your pardon, but it is my concern for the child. I’ve started awake at -night thinking I heard her cry out, and I have dreamed of seeing her in -her shroud.” - -A flash of cynicism swept across Anne Purcell’s face. But she did not -rebuke the woman for her sentimental canting. - -“The girl ought to be watched.” - -“Yes, my lady.” - -“She will not have Betty to sleep with her.” - -A sly suggestive smile on the face above hers in the mirror warned her -that Mrs. Jael understood her in every detail. - -“What were you going to say, Jael? There is no need for us to beat about -the bush.” - -“There is the little closet, my lady.” - -“Yes, next to Mistress Barbara’s room.” - -“It used to have a door—leading to the bedroom. But Sir Lionel—poor -gentleman—had it filled in.” - -“Yes, I remember.” - -“Only with double panelling, my lady, and the woodwork has shrunk a -little. I happened to notice it last night when I went in there in the -dark to get a blanket, and Mistress Barbara’s candle was burning.” - -The eyes of the two women met in the looking-glass. Mrs. Jael’s face -gave forth a sunny, insinuating smile. - -“It is not my nature, my lady, to spy and shuffle, but—” - -“If you scraped a little of the wood away with a knife?” - -“I don’t feel happy about Mistress Barbara, my lady. And if—” - -“Be careful, Jael, you are pulling my hair.” - -“A hundred pardons, my lady.” - -“If you should see anything strange, it is well that I should know.” - - - - - IV - - -If the divine Hortense ruled his Majesty the King that year, her sway -spread itself over the majority of those ambitious gentlemen who were in -quest of “place” and plunder. When women exploited the state, and burst -the bubble of a reputation with a kiss, politicians baited their -interests with some new “beauty,” and pinned their petitions to the -flounce of a petticoat. - -Castlemaine had faded into France; Portsmouth watched from behind a -cloud; even the irrepressible Nell had prophesied the splendor of the -Mancini’s conquest. Hortense had landed at Torbay, and, like the -exquisite romanticist that she was, had ridden up to London in man’s -attire with seven servants, a maid, and a black boy in attendance. What -was of more significance, she had ridden at a canter into the august -heart of Whitehall. The palace of St. James had held her for a season, -till the Duke of York, with commendable brotherly discretion, had -purchased Lord Windsor’s house for her in the park, that such a -brilliant might shine upon them from a fitting setting. - -There was a fascination in the fact that Cardinal Mazarin should have -possessed such a sheaf of adventurous nieces. They were all beautiful, -all romantically rebellious, all deliciously feminine. It was impossible -not to fall in love with them, and often impossible not to forget the -intoxication, for none of the Cardinal’s kinswomen were mere sentimental -fools. As for Hortense, she was a woman for whom a man might gamble away -his soul, simply because she looked at him with those black, roguish, -yet shrewd eyes of hers and made him feel that she was a desire beyond -his reach. - -The incarnation of all womanly mystery, her beauty seemed to have stolen -some singular inspiration from twenty different types. A Greek symmetry -softened by a sensuous suppleness; the look of the gazelle, and yet of -the falcon; the stateliness of the great lady torn aside on occasions by -the nude audacity of a laughing Bacchic girl. Her sumptuousness made a -man’s glance drop instinctively to her bosom and watch the drawing of -her breath. There was sheer magic about her, fire in the blood, color in -the mind. When she entered a room the men looked at her, simply because -they could not help but look. - -As my Lord Gore had said, “there was a merry heavenly devil in -Hortense.” She loved youth and all the glamour of its irresponsible -vitality, and would rather have seen some buffooning trick played upon a -bishop than have listened to the most eloquent of sermons. For she -herself was vital, magnetic, filled with all genius of sex. A mere -glance at her enriched the consciousness with visions, the flush of -sunsets, the heart of a rose, the redness of wine, the white curve of a -woman’s throat, moonlight and music, bridal casements opening upon foam. - -My Lord of Gore heard the laughter in the great salon, even while the -Mancini’s footman in red and gold was taking his cane and hat. There was -nothing autumnal in Hortense’s house. Old men left their gout and their -growls behind them on the staircase, for the exquisite art of fooling -was a thing to be cherished and enjoyed. - -The great salon had the brilliancy of color of a rose-garden in June. -The brown floor reflected everything like a pool of woodland water that -turns noonday into something vague and mystical. It caught the gleam of -a satin slipper and threw it back with the imitative rendering of the -gliding body of a fish. Like the villas of Pompeii, with its painted -walls and ceilings, this salon enclosed sunny worldliness and -picturesque realities. Its inmates were all sufficiently happy to be -able to forget to analyze the nature of their sensations. - -“Ready—ready all. Go!” - -My lord paused in the doorway to watch an improvised chariot-race that -offered any gentleman the chance of laying a wager. Three gallants had -been harnessed with sashes to as many chairs, and in each chair sat a -lady. Twice up and down the polished floor, with a turn at each end, and -a forfeit for upsetting. It was much like a great Christmas -romping-party for children. - -A youth in blue satin with a fair-haired girl driving him came in an -easy first. The other two chariots had collided at the last turn, with -some slight damage to the furniture, and to the delight of the -spectators. She who had driven the blue boy to victory frisked out -joyfully, and performed a _pas seul_ in the middle of the room. - -“Bravo! bravo!” - -“Hortense, I have won my necklace.” - -“Thanks, madam, to Tearing Tom.” - -One of the fallen gallants stood rubbing a bruised shin. He was a slim -little fop with a weak face that pretended toward impudence, and a -name—even Sir Marmaduke Thibthorp—that suited his personality. - -“I protest. We were overweighted—” - -The lady whom he had overturned retorted with an unequivocal “Sir!” - -My Lord Gore, with the genius of an opportunist, introduced his wit as a -fitting climax. - -“The gibe may seem overstrained,” he said, flicking a lace ruffle, “but -surely the gentleman who claims to have been overweighted is hopelessly -under-calved.” - -Nor was the joke visible till my lord pointed whimsically to Thibthorp’s -very ascetic shanks. Whereat they all laughed, more for the love of -ridicule than out of curtesy to my lord’s wit. - -Hortense herself sat at one of the windows watching the youngsters at -their romps with the air of a laughing philosopher, whose mature age of -nine-and-twenty constituted her a fitting confidante either for children -or for cynics. She was dressed in some brown stuff that shone with a -reddish iridescence. The dress was cut low at the throat, so low as to -show the white breadth of her bosom. A chain of pearls was woven to and -fro amid the black masses of her hair. - -My Lord Gore crossed the room to her and kissed her hand. They were very -good friends were my lord and Hortense. Something more tangible than -sentimental tendencies had drawn them together. Their worldly ambitions -were identical; the petticoat and the periwig were allied in their -campaign against the amiable idiosyncrasies of the King. - -“Pardon me, but what a public-spirited woman I always find in you.” - -He stood beside her chair, looking down at her, and at the lace that -filled her bosom. - -“And you, my friend?” - -“I come to enjoy perpetual rejuvenescence, and to learn to live in the -sun rather than in a fog of philosophy that gives us little but cold -feet and swollen heads.” - -She looked up at him and laughed. And Hortense’s laugh had a delightful -audacity that rallied the world upon its dulness. - -“They enjoy themselves, these children; they romp, chatter, make a -noise; I never allow them to quarrel. I try to teach them that there is -one folly to be condemned, the folly of suffering ourselves to lose our -youth.” - -My lord’s eyes were fixed on the young spark, Tom Temple, who was -burlesquing a Spanish dance in the middle of the salon. - -“We are always in danger of losing the art of make-believe.” - -“You English are so serious, so grim.” - -“Say, rather—selfish.” - -“Is it not often the same thing?” - -“Assuredly.” - -“The world is only a great puppet-show; one of your playwriters has said -as much. We can all see the fun, even though we remain in the crowd. But -you English, you set your teeth, you push and fight; you must be in the -front, or nothing will content you. You make yourselves sullen in -struggling for your pleasures, while every one else is laughing, perhaps -at you.” - -My lord bowed. - -“I think you wrong the one enlightened spot in the kingdom, -madam—Whitehall. We must petition his Majesty to order Sir Christopher -to build you an academy, where we can institute you a new Hypatia. But I -gather that your philosophy would not end in oyster shells. For the -rest—I have a favor to ask.” - -“I am listening.” - -“Suffer me to introduce a very dull virgin into your atmosphere. I want -to convert her. She has a conscience.” - -Hortense’s eyes met his frankly. - -“So have I, my friend.” - -“I do not question it. But the child I speak of has not learned to -laugh.” - -“Deplorable!” - -“She is a tax in sulkiness upon her mother. The poor woman is weary of -living with a corpse. In my humanity—I remembered you.” - -“Bring her to me.” - -“We shall be your debtors.” - -“At least—I will tell you whether she will ever laugh. What mischief -have we brewing now?” - -Tom Temple had bethought himself of some fresh piece of boyish -buffoonery, in which the girl whom he had drawn to victory in the -chariot-race had joined him. It was nothing more complex than a game of -double blind-man’s buff. The furniture was pushed aside into corners, -and the salon prepared for a lively chase. - -“Hortense, Hortense, come and play!” - -It was little Anne of Sussex, Castlemaine’s child, whisking a scarf in -one hand, while she held her skirts up with the other. - -“Tom Temple and I are to be blind first. I am to catch the men, he—the -ladies.” - -Lord Gore made her a grand obeisance. - -“I will stand wilfully in the middle of the room, madam, and be caught.” - -“Then you will have to give me three pairs of gloves. But you are too -large, my lord; we should always be catching you.” - -“Like a leviathan in a fish-pond, eh?” - -“Or an elephant in a parlor. Bind my eyes up, Hortense, and please pin -up my skirts.” - -The Mancini humored her. - -“Are you ready, Tom?” - -“At your command,” said the youth, whom a friend had blindfolded. - -“Turn me, Hortense; one, two, three. Now—have at all of you. If I catch -you—Tom—cry carrots.” - -My lord and Hortense stepped back toward the window to watch the fun. - -“It is just like the marriage market,” said she. - -“Catch what you can,” he retorted, “and find out what sort of thing it -is—afterward.” - -There was a great deal of scampering and laughing, of creeping into -corners and huddling against walls. In the very glory of a stampede, -when Tom Temple had sailed straight with his arms spread for a bunch of -girls, the salon door opened, and a servant announced: - -“My Lord Sussex.” - -The dramatic humor of the moment was missed by all save Hortense and -Lord Gore, so briskly and indiscriminately went the chase. My lord -pursed up his lips and whistled with a significant lifting of the -eyebrows. Hortense stifled a laugh. - -Thomas Lennard, Lord Dacre, Earl of Sussex, was a prim aristocrat with -very stately prejudices against fashionable horse-play. Moreover, he had -one of those jealous and egotistical temperaments that persuades a man -to believe that the woman whom he had honored with marriage should -henceforth sit meekly at his feet—and play the mirror to his majesty. - -He stood on the threshold, watching the whirligig of youth with the cold -wrath of a man who had come with the full expectation of being offended. -And to add to the irony of the moment, my Lady Anne came doubling down -the room in close pursuit of a couple of men. She made her capture not -three yards from her husband’s person, and made it gamely—with both -arms round the neck of Sir Marmaduke Thibthorp of the thin shanks. - -She whipped off the bandage with a breathless laugh. - -“Gemini—but it’s Duke Thibthorp!” - -The gallant, whose back was toward the door, offered a mouth, and caught -his captor by the wrists. - -“Forfeit, forfeit! A pledge—!” - -Sudden silence had fallen on the room, to be followed by indiscriminate -and half-smothered giggling. My Lady Dacre’s face betrayed blank -consternation. - -“Let me go—” - -“Not for—” - -“Let me go, fool.” - -He of the thin shanks imagined that he was amusing the salon with his -waggery till a hand fastened upon his collar. Tom Temple, still -blissfully blind, came careering along one wall, and added emphasis to -the climax by coming down with a crash over a three-legged stool. - -“I shall deem it a curtesy, sir, if you will release Lady Dacre’s -wrists.” - -Thomas Lennard’s face had the cold fury of a blizzard. Yet he was -utterly polite. The gallant whom he had taken by the collar had twisted -round, and was staring with ludicrous vacuity into my lord’s eyes. - -Stephen Gore watched the drama with an expression of angelic -satisfaction. - -“Hortense, my friend, let me see you stop a quarrel.” - -She had moved forward from the window with all the atmosphere of the Sun -King’s court. - -“Pardon me, my lord. Your hand should be at my throat—if—you are -offended.” - -The husband still had a firm hold of Marmaduke Thibthorp, and was -looking at him as though undecided whether it would be dignified to drop -the fop down the stairs. The aristocratic apathy in him triumphed. He -swept the youth aside, and with a curt bow to his wife, offered her his -arm. - -“Come. Madam, I wish you a boisterous evening.” - -His young wife had hesitated, with a whimsical grimace in the direction -of Hortense. - -“Oh, what a sermon!” - -The Italian’s eyes met those of Lord Dacre. It was as though they -challenged each other in their influence over the child. - -“If my Lord Dacre will stay with us, I myself will put on the scarf. And -perhaps my Lord Gore—here—” - -The leviathan bowed. - -“I will flounder—most biblically.” - -The Lady Anne giggled, and then glanced furtively at her husband’s face. - -“A thousand thanks. My Lord Gore should delight even the psalmist. But -my coach is waiting. I wish you no broken furniture. Anne—come.” - -There was a short, pregnant silence when he had departed with his -child-wife on his arm. Stephen Gore shrugged his shoulders and smiled at -Hortense. - -“Most serious of swains! Oh, sage Solomon, who would grudge him the -responsibility of taming even one wife!” - -“Alas, another unfortunate who has not learned to laugh.” - -Sir Marmaduke Thibthorp was standing sheepishly beside the door, -striving to look amused. - -“Such is fate,” he giggled. - -“And such is a stool!” quoth Thomas Temple, sticking out a leg with a -blotch of blood on his stocking. - -My Lord Gore took leave of Hortense after talking with her a moment -alone by the window. - -“Bring her to me, my friend,” she said, as he made his bow. - -“If you cannot cure her—” - -“Ah, well—we shall see.” - -He was crossing the park when a servant met him and handed him a note. -It was sealed with pink wax and smelled of ambergris. My lord opened it -as he strolled under the trees. - - - “I would see you soon. Jael has been of use to me.” - “A. P.” - - - - - - V - - -A ship’s boat came up the river with half a dozen brown fellows -tugging at the oars, their dark skins and the patched picturesqueness of -their gaudy-colored shirts giving them something of the air of a -boat-load of buccaneers with gayly kerchiefed heads, ringed ears, and -belts full of pistols. A man in a soiled red coat, with remnants of lace -hanging to the cuffs, sat in the stern-sheets, his sword across his -knees, and beside him on the gunwale squatted a boy whose cheeky -sparrow’s face stared out from a tangle of crisp fair hair. - -The man in the red coat looked even more brown and picturesque than the -seamen at the oars. He wore no wig under his battered beaver, and his -own black hair looked as though it had not been barbered for six months. -His shoes had lost their buckles, and the stocking of his right leg -showed a hole the size of a guinea above the heel. - -“Three more strokes—and easy—lads.” - -“Right, capt’n.” - -“Let her run now; in with the bow sweeps.” - -They had passed the Savoy, and drawn close in toward Charing Steps, with -a west wind sending the water slapping against the planking. The man in -the red coat held the tiller, and let the boat glide in, while the -seamen shipped their oars. The boat’s nose rubbed against the stone -facing of the steps, while a brown hand or two grabbed at the -mooring-rings. The boy on the gunwale was the first to leap ashore. - -A number of watermen lounging about the steps were staring at the boat -and its crew, and exchanging opinions thereon with more candor than -curtesy. The sea-captain, standing in the stern-sheets, buckled his -sword to a faded baldric, callous to any criticism that might be -lavished on him by the river-side sots. - -“Good-luck to you, capt’n.” - -“You won’t forget us, sir.” - -“We’ll follow you round Cape Horn again for a fight.” - -The man in the red coat looked down at the brown faces along the boat -that were turned to him with a species of watchful, dog-like alertness. - -“I shall have my flag flying in a month,” he said; “men sha’n’t rot down -at Deptford—the devil knows that. We have our tallies to count in the -South, eh, and Jasper shall have a long caronado to squint along. -Good-luck to you, lads. Here’s the end of the stocking. I wish it were -deeper.” - -He tossed a purse to a grizzled old giant who was leaning upon his oar. -The man picked it up, looked at it lovingly a moment, and then glanced -over his shoulder at the men behind him. - -“No dirty dog’s tricks here,” growled one. - -“There’s a gold piece or two for ye,” said another, slapping his belt. - -The giant stretched out a great fist with the purse in it. - -“Maybe you’ll be selling the little frigate, capt’n; we can knock -along—” - -The man in the red coat looked him straight in the eyes. - -“Damnation, Jasper, I owe you all your pay—yet. Pocket it for beer -money.” - -“Drink your last guinea, capt’n, not me!” - -“Why, man, I can get a bagful for the asking—in an hour. And, look you -all, stand by down at ‘The Eight Bells’ to-morrow. I’ll pay every man of -you before noon.” - -The watermen above had been listening to this dialogue with ribald -cynicism. - -“Holy Moses,” said one, “here’s a boat-load of saints!” - -“Throw it up here, mate, we ain’t shy of the dross.” - -The captain had climbed the steps, with the boy beside him. But old -Jasper, standing up in the boat with his oar held like a pike, turned -his sea-eagle’s face toward the gentry on the causeway. - -“Squeak, ye land-rats. By God’s death, you’ve never seen the inside of a -Barbary prison. If you were men you’d take your hat off to the capt’n. -But being land-gaffers, you’re all mud-muck and tallow. Shove her off, -mates, or I’ll be smashing some chicken’s stilts with my oar.” - -The loungers jeered him valiantly as the bow sweeps churned foam, and -the boat, gathering weigh, swung out into the river. - -“Look at their great mouths,” said the sea-wolf, grimly; “when we want -our bilge emptying we’ll send for ’em to have a drink.” - -Meanwhile the man in the red coat and the boy had passed up the passage -from the river in the direction of Charing Cross, the shabbiness of -their raiment flattering the curiosity of the passers-by. The man in the -red coat appeared wholly at his ease. As for the boy, he was ready to -spread his fingers at the whole town on the very first provocation. Even -the fact that he had a rent in his breeches that suffered a certain -portion of his underlinen to protrude did not humble his -self-satisfaction. - -The sea-captain, who had been walking with his chin in the air, glanced -down suddenly at the boy beside him. - -“How are the ‘stores,’ Sparkin, my lad?” - -“Getting low in the hold, sir.” - -“We will put in and replenish.” - -The boy gave a greedy twinkle. - -“Hallo! I thought I told Jasper to patch you up with a piece of -sail-cloth?” - -Sparkin did not betray any self-conscious cowardice. - -“He was worse off, captain.” - -“Poor devil!” And the man in the red coat laughed. - -They turned into “The Three Tuns” at Charing Cross, the sea-captain -looking more like a Whitefriars’ bully than a gentleman adventurer. Two -comfortable citizens gathered up the skirts of their coats and edged -away sourly when the new-comers sat down next them at a table. The -captain remarked their neighborly caution, and smiled. - -“Good-day, gentlemen. We embarrass you, perhaps?” - -There was a humorous grimness about his mouth that carried conviction. - -“Not at all, sir, not at all,” said the larger of the twain, poised -between propitiation and distrust. - -“We are not Scotch, sir, so you will catch nothing.” - -They dined in silence, the boy’s animation divided between his plate and -his surroundings, while the man in the red coat watched him with the air -of one who has an abundant past to feed his thoughts. His neighbors cast -curious momentary glances at him from time to time, but having once -spoken he appeared to have forgotten their existence. They had but to -look beneath the superficial shabbiness to see that the man was of some -standing in the world. He had that gift of remaining statuesquely -silent, that poise that suggests power. The brown, resolute face had the -comeliness of courage. Of no great stature, his sturdy, hollow-backed -figure betrayed strength to those who could distinguish between fat and -muscle. - -The boy’s appetite reached impotence at last. The man in the red coat -beckoned to the servant, paid his due with odd small change routed out -of every pocket, and with a curt bow to his neighbors walked out into -the street. - -He made his way toward St. James’s, and paused in the street of that -same name, before a big house with a pompous portico. A flight of steps -led up to the great door. - -“Run up—and knock.” - -The boy obeyed, his breeches bringing a smile to the sea-captain’s face -as he waited unconcernedly on the sidewalk. - -“Don’t mind your knuckles, my lad.” - -And Sparkin hammered as though he were sounding the ship’s bell. - -A servant in livery opened the door and looked down at the boy with the -air of a bully scenting a beggar. The man in the red coat listened to -the following dialogue: - -“My Lord Gore’s house, this?” - -“What d’you want at the front door?” - -“Lord Gore’s house?” - -“Oh—is it?” - -“Well, is it, stupid?” - -“Here, you skip it, you—” - -The sea-captain interposed with a laugh curving his mouth. There was so -much significance in the fellow’s gospel of cloth. - -“Wake up, Tom Richards!” - -The footman’s eyes protruded. He stared down at the seaman with the air -of a superior being resenting and distrusting familiarity. - -“Well, what d’you want?” And his glance added, “You shabby, -cutthroat-looking devil!” - -The man in red ascended the steps, while the servant’s face receded inch -by inch, so that he resembled a discreet dog backing sulkily into his -kennel. He was about to clap the door to, when the captain pushed -Sparkin bodily into the breach. - -“Richards, man, have you forgotten me?” - -Sparkin’s head had taken the fellow well in the stomach, and the shock -may have accounted for the man’s vacant and astonished face. - -“Is my lord in? Brisk up, man, and don’t judge the whole world by its -coat.” - -“The Lord forgive me, sir!” - -“Possibly He will, Richards.” - -“I didn’t know you, Mr. John, sir, you’re so brown—and—” - -“Shabby, Richards; say it, and have done. Is my lord in town?” - -“Oh yes, sir. Won’t you come in and dine? There is a good joint of -roast, Mr. John, sir, and a barrel of oysters. My lord is at Lady -Purcell’s in Pall Mall.” - -“Lady Anne Purcell’s?” - -“Yes, Mr. John.” - -He turned and walked down the steps, the footman marvelling at his -effrontery in wearing such dastardly clothes. - -“Take the boy in, Richards.” - -Richards and Master Sparkin regarded each other suspiciously. - -“Give him a wash, and a new pair of breeches, if you can find a pair to -fit.” - -“Yes, Mr. John; and your baggage, sir?” - -“Lies somewhere in Barbary, Richards, so you need not trouble your head -about that.” - -The whole episode so piqued the footman that he proceeded to lead the -boy in the direction of the kitchen quarters by the ear. Whereat, -Sparkin, who had already gauged the gentleman’s tonnage, fetched him a -valiant kick upon the shin, and broke loose with a grin of whole-hearted -scorn. - -“You keep your hands to yourself, Tom Richards.” - -The footman made a grab at the boy, but Sparkin was on the alert. - -“Touch me, and I’ll dig my dirk into you.” - -Mr. Richards reverted to that easier and safer weapon—the tongue. - -“Didn’t Mr. John tell me to wash you, you little bundle of rags?” - -Sparkin’s hand went to his belt. - -“You touch me, and I’ll let your blood for you, Tom Richards. The Lord -forgive me, sir”—and he imitated the man’s voice—“you’d be learning -something if you went to sea with Captain Gore.” - -“Oh, I should, should I!” - -“The devil you would.” - -“And you’d be teaching me, perhaps!” said the man in livery, with a -sententious sniff. - -“’Twouldn’t be my business. They’d send you to the cook’s galley to -clean pots.” - -While Sparkin was instilling obfuscated respect and caution into Tom -Richards, Captain John Gore made his way to Lady Purcell’s house. The -stare he met there was no more flattering than that which his father’s -servant had given him. A three days’ beard, no wig, a soiled coat, and a -moulting beaver were not calculated to conciliate menials. - -“My Lord Gore is here?” - -“What may your business be?” - -He walked in over the servant’s toes. - -“Tell my lord that Captain Gore is below.” - -“Captain Gore, sir?” - -The gentleman merely reiterated the order with a straight stare. - -“Would you be pleased, sir, to walk into the garden.” - -John Gore followed the fellow’s lead, amused at the caution that did not -intend to offer him the chance of pocketing anything of value in the -house. He was left pacing the gravel walks, with his red coat showing up -against the green of the grass. - -John Gore had taken two turns up and down the garden when a girl came -out between the pillars of the music-room, and stood gazing at the -gentleman’s broad back with the impatient air of one who has been -cornered by a stranger. She drew back again, as though waiting her -opportunity to cross from the portico to the house without being -observed. Her chance came and she seized it, only to discover that the -garden door of the house was locked. - -The man in the red coat turned and came down the path again. He caught -sight of the girl standing on the steps, bowed, and lifted his hat to -her. - -“I am afraid you are locked out,” he said. - -“Oh—” - -“Your man did not like the look of me, I suppose, and wisely turned the -key in the lock. There seems nothing to be pocketed in the garden but a -few green peaches.” - -They were looking straight into each other’s eyes. Who this sturdy, -shabby gentleman could be Barbara could not gather for the moment. Nor -was she pleased at being left there—at his mercy. - -“You have forgotten me, Mistress Barbara,” he said. - -She frowned slightly. - -“My father, Lord Gore, is here, I believe.” - -Her eyes flashed suddenly, and she colored. - -“Oh—you are—” - -“The boy who pulled your ribbons off—that day—at Sheen. You may -remember the incident,” and he bowed. - -Barbara remembered it. There was a short pause. - -“You have changed,” she said, curtly, glancing over her shoulder at the -glass panel in the door. - -He passed a hand critically over his chin. - -“Seemingly, in the heat of adventure. My father’s man took me for a -bully. I have been in England about five hours.” - -They stood regarding each other in silence, the man puzzled by her -swarthy, sullen face, the girl conscious of a rush of embittered -memories. It was as though something out of the past had risen up before -her, something ignorant and unwelcome that might blunder any moment -against her sensitive reserve. - -“I trust that Sir Lionel is hearty as ever?” - -She seized the handle of the door and shook it. - -“I wonder where that fool—Miles—” - -“Pardon me, shall I shout?” - -Barbara kept one shoulder turned toward him, her face, bleak and white, -reflected in the glass panel of the door. - -“Oh—at last!” - -There was the sound of a key turning in a lock. She pushed past the man -as he opened the door, leaving John Gore wondering what manner of -mischief three years had made in a girl’s temper. - -In the parlor, with its panelling, its massive furniture, and great -fireplace filled with blue Dutch tiles, Anne Purcell and my Lord Gore -had been talking for above an hour. My lord was standing at a window in -his favorite attitude of philosophic stateliness. The lady’s face had an -impatient sharpness of expression that hinted that the man’s sympathy -had not sounded the deeps of her unrest. - -“I tell you, Nan, that these—these possibilities—leave us where we -stood before. The girl may be a little touched in the head. Leave her to -Hortense; if she cannot tame her, well, there are other ways.” - -Anne seemed less credulous—and more obstinate than he desired. - -“I am not superstitious, but to think of the girl praying to those—I -tell you, Stephen, the thought of it makes me afraid. Thank Heaven, she -is praying—in the dark.” - -“Tush—tush,” and he smiled down at her, “the girl is not quite human. -We understand her, you—and I. Yet you seem to lack that diplomatic -foresight, Nan, that sees in an enemy’s tricks—the very tools for one’s -own hand.” - -She looked up at him blankly. - -“No, I foresee nothing save that—betrayal.” - -“Which, if it occurred, could be turned aside as easily as I snap my -fingers. There is but one person to be considered, and we must keep her -fat and contented.” - -“Jael?” - -“Yes; the woman is greedy; that simplifies everything. To-morrow, then, -you will come with me to the Mancini’s?” - -“Oh—if it will help.” - -“At least it can do no harm. Listen!” - -They heard the footsteps of the servant climbing the stairs, and in ten -seconds my Lord Gore had the first news of his seafaring and unshaven -son. - - - - - VI - - -My Lord Gore could not conceal an instinct of fastidious disapproval -as he walked homeward with his son along Pall Mall. Sumptuousness came -before godliness in his scheme of values, and though poverty and -slovenliness were inevitable to the world, my lord found them useful as -a respectable background to heighten the effect of an exquisite -refinement in dress. But to have a soiled and weather-beaten scamp -familiarly at one’s elbow offered too crude a contrast, and suggested a -sinister interest in Whitefriars. - -“What a devil of a mess you are in, Jack, my man!” And there was a -slight lifting of my lord’s nostrils. “You might have sent one of the -men to me instead of making a martyr of yourself.” - -The reference to martyrdom carried a perfect sincerity, for it would -have pained Stephen Gore inexpressibly to have been caught in a seedy -coat. - -John Gore met his father’s critical sidelong glance. - -“It is only in plays and poems, sir, that you find your adventurer clean -and splendid. We were muzzle to muzzle with those heathen for half a -day; the prison they put us in was monstrously dirty; and the vegetation -they plant in their gardens and about their fields seems to have been -created with a grudge against people who have to run. We ran, sir, like -heroes, despite aloes, cacti, and thorns like a regiment of foot with -sloped pikes. After such incidents one has a tendency toward torn -clothes.” - -My lord nodded. - -“Still, Jack,” said he, “when you fall in a ditch and get muddied to the -chin, you do not stroll home through the park at three in the afternoon. -You should read _Don Quixote_, sir—a great book that.” - -“I am more of a philosopher than the Spaniard.” - -His father did not trouble to suppress a sarcastic smile. - -“Oh, if you are a philosopher I have nothing more to say, save that you -have chosen the wrong school. There is the philosophy of clothes to be -considered at this happy period of ours. If you wish to try your -Diogenes’ humor, go to court in some such scraffle. You would be clapped -in the Tower for insulting the King.” - -John Gore laughed. - -“Who himself knows what ragged stockings and flea-ridden beds mean.” - -“Exactly so, sir, and therefore any tactless allusion to the past would -be uncourtierlike in the extreme.” - -My lord betrayed some impatience in his last retort, very possibly -because he beheld a group of acquaintances approaching with all the -niceness of fashionable distinction. The young gallants of the court had -all the merciless cynicism of premature middle-age. Genius, to prove -itself, scintillated with satire. Even when the youngsters laughed, -their laughter symbolized an epigram, a caricature, or a lampoon. - -Lord Gore advanced very valiantly under the enemy’s fire. The party -numbered among its members Tom Chiffinch, the redoubtable royal pimp. - -There was an ironical lifting of hats. John Gore’s costume had -interested the party for the last twenty yards of its approach. My lord -would have marched past with flags flying. But from some instinct of -devilry the gentlemen appeared overjoyed at the _rencontre_. - -“We must take you with us to the Mall, my lord.” - -“His Majesty has a match there.” - -“Bring your friend with you, sir. By-the-way, who is he?” And Chiffinch -took Stephen Gore familiarly by the button and dropped his voice to a -forced whisper. - -My lord’s dignity did not falter. He had caught a peculiar look in his -son’s eyes that pricked the pride in him. - -“Gentlemen, Captain John Gore, my son.” - -They bowed, all of them, with sarcastic deference. - -“Delighted, sir.” - -“You have seen hard service, sir.” - -“No doubt you are a great traveller. May I ask your honor whether it is -true that the Spaniards in Peru grow their beards down to their belts?” - -The man in the red coat showed no trace of temper. - -“I lost my laces and my ribbons on the coast of Africa, gentlemen,” he -said. “They are a slovenly crew—those Barbary corsairs. It is a -pleasure to find myself once more among—men.” - -My lord stood regarding the upper windows of a house with stately -unconcern. He glanced sharply at his son, and then bowed to Chiffinch -and his party. - -“Come, Jack. Simpson of the Exchange must have been waiting an hour for -you. My son is like King John, gentlemen—he has lost bag and baggage to -the sea.” - -They parted with ironical smiles, my lord spreading himself like an -Indian in full sail. - -“Who the devil may Simpson be?” asked the son, bluntly. - -His father frowned. - -“My recommendation, sir.” And in a lower voice: “The first tailor in the -kingdom, you booby; the one reputation that might carry shot into those -gentlemen’s hulls. Such is the world, sir, that you can be put in -countenance by uttering the name of your tailor.” - -Concerning his adventures, John Gore spoke with the grim reserve of a -man who had learned that the least impressive thing in this world is to -boast. He had lost his ship and seen the walls of an African prison, an -ironical climax to a seventeenth-century Odyssey. More from incidental -allusions than from any coherent confession, his father learned that he -had touched even Japan and far Cathay, his knight-errantry of the sea -carrying him into more than one valiant skirmish. An unhappy whim had -lured him, when homeward-bound, into the blue sea of the Phœnicians and -the Greeks, there to be pounced upon by a squadron of African rovers. -They had carried his decks by boarding after a five hours’ fight. - -My lord listened with an air of fatherly condescension before reverting -to the eternal topic of clothes. - -“I must turn you loose in my wardrobe, Jack, my man. You can contrive a -makeshift for a week or two. We must have Simpson in for you to-morrow.” - -His manner was semijocular and genial, as though this man of many oceans -were still a boy poling a punt on an ancestral fish-pond. My lord had -never travelled, save into France and Holland, and the wild by-ways of -the world had no significance for him. As a courtier and an aristocrat -he was a complete and perfect figure, and the life of a gentleman about -court had given him the grandiose attitude of one who had turned the -last page of worldly philosophy. He had said what he pleased for many -years to the great majority of people with whom he had come in contact. -His “air” itself suggested the majestic finality of experience. - -They supped together in the house of St. James’s Street, my lord asking -questions in a perfunctory fashion, often interrupting the replies by -irrelevant digressions and displaying the careless contempt of the -egotist for those superfluous subjects of which he condescended to be -ignorant. It appeared to the son that the father was preoccupied by -other matters. It was only when they came to the discussion of certain -questions concerning property that my lord showed some of the acumen of -the master of the many tenants. - -“How much have you lost by this voyage of yours? As for throwing money -into the sea—” - -John Gore pretended to no grievance. - -“It is only what other men would have spent on petticoats and horses. -Call it an eccentric extravagance. I have had a glimpse of the earth to -balance the loss. About my Yorkshire property?” - -“I have had my hand on it, Jack. Swindale has been a success as steward. -More money—for the sea’s maw. Is that the cry?” - -John Gore maintained a meditative reserve. - -“Possibly.” - -“I have the rent-roll—and a copy of the accounts in my desk. Go down -and see Swindale for yourself. There is no need to think of such a means -as a mortgage. Money has been accumulating. Besides, my boy, though your -mother left her property to you, my own purse is always open.” - -The son thanked him, and changed to another subject—a subject that had -been lurking for an hour or more in the conscious background of my -lord’s mind. - -“How is Lionel Purcell?” - -Stephen Gore turned his wineglass round and round by the stem, eying his -own white fingers and the exquisite lace of his ruffles. - -“Dead,” he said, shortly. - -The man in the red coat drew his heels up under his chair and leaned his -elbows on the table. - -“Dead! Why, of all the quiet, careful livers—” - -“He had no say in the matter. Some one killed him.” - -There was a short pause. The elder man’s face remained a stately, -meditative mask. He raised the wineglass and sipped the wine, pressing -his lace cravat back with his left hand. - -“It was a sad affair, Jack, and came as a blow to me.” - -“Who killed him?” - -“Ah, that is the question! No one knows. I suspect that no one will ever -know.” - -“Was there a reason?” - -My lord looked at his son shrewdly, meaningly. - -“A man of the world could infer. These scholars—well—they have blood -in them like other mortals. We breathe nothing of it—because of the -girl.” - -“Barbara?” - -My lord nodded. - -“The whole tragedy broke something in the child. She was bright and -sparkling enough, you remember, though always a little fierce. There is -the fear—” - -He paused expressively, with his eyes on his son’s face. - -“There is the fear of madness. The thing seems to have worn on her, -chafed her mind. Anne Purcell and I have done what we can, for God -knows—I was Lionel Purcell’s friend. But there is always the chance. -She is not like other women.” - -My lord spoke as a man who feels an old burden chafe his shoulder. As -for the son, he was looking beyond his father at the opposite wall. He -recalled the girl as he had seen her in the garden. She had baffled him. -Here was the explanation. - -“It is well that she should never know,” he said, gravely; “she has -enough to haunt her—without that.” - -My lord had finished his wine and fruit. He rose from the table, and, -catching sight of himself in a Venetian mirror on the wall, turned away -with a slight frown. - -“You had better amuse yourself choosing some of my clothes,” he said. “I -have business to-night with Pembroke, and I may be late. Richards will -give you the keys. We are much of a size, Jack, though you are shorter -in the shanks. Thank the Lord for one mercy, I have not put on too much -fat.” - -By the light of a couple of candles in silver sconces John Gore amused -himself in my lord’s bedroom, with the boy Sparkin to act as a -self-constituted judge of fashions. Mr. Richards, who had accompanied -them, indulged in a few polite and irrelevant directions, and then -departed, as though he found the boy’s company incompatible with his -own. Every corner of the bedroom soon had its selection of satins, -camlets, and cloths, for Sparkin appeared possessed by an exuberant -desire to see and handle everything. - -My lord’s wardrobe was the wardrobe of a gentleman who had a fancy for -every color and for every combination of shades. His stockings were to -be numbered by the dozen, and Sparkin, half hidden in a chest, baled the -stuffs out as though he were baling water out of a boat. - -“Easy, there, you young hound. What manner of tangle do you think you -are making?” - -The boy turned a hot and happy face to him. - -“Take your choice, captain. What would some of the Greenwich girls give -for a picking! How does crushed strawberry please you?” - -John Gore was standing in front of a mirror trying on a coat. - -“That’s a sweet thing, captain. Just look at the lace. Here’s a chest we -haven’t opened yet.” - -“Leave it alone, then. You have tumbled enough shirts to give Tom -Richards work for a week.” - -Sparkin had been fumbling with the keys. He found the right one as John -Gore spoke, and lifted the chest’s lid as though there was no -disobedience in looking. - -“What have you got there?” - -Supremely tempted, Sparkin had fished out a periwig and clapped it on -his head. He pulled it off again just as briskly, merely remarking that -“the thing tickled.” A second dive of the arm brought up a black cloak -edged with gold cord and lined with purple silk. - -“Bring that here, boy.” - -Sparkin obeyed, and John Gore swung it over his shoulders. - -“Just your color, captain,” said the boy, seriously. - -“Thanks for a valuable opinion. Well, put it aside with the shirts and -stockings I have chosen. The devil take you, but what a fearsome mess -you have made!” - -“That’s soon mended, captain.” And, after depositing the black cloak on -the bed, he proceeded to fill his arms with my lord’s luxuries, and -tumble them casually into chest and cupboard. - -“Here, leave the clothes alone.” - -“But—” - -“You had better, out of regard for those new breeches of yours. Richards -must come up and restore order.” - -A spasm of vivacious devilry lit up the boy’s face. - -“So he had, captain. He is such a particular man! Shall I call down the -stairs?” - -“Yes, call away.” - -Sparkin disappeared, and John Gore heard his voice piping through the -house. - -“Richards—Tom Richards there! I say Richards—Mr. Thomas Richards, the -captain’s orders are that you are to come aloft and clear up the -clothes.” - -Sparkin’s voice reached to the nether regions, for slow and unwilling -footsteps were heard below. The boy slipped down the stairs and met the -man with a loud whisper. - -“The captain has made a most fearsome muddle, Tom. He’s turned out every -chest and cupboard in the room. Just you come and look. It’s like a rag -booth at a fair.” - - - - - VII - - -Barbara Purcell could not sleep that night, perhaps because she had -chosen not to have her curtains drawn, so that the light of the full -moon poured into the room. An increasing restlessness brought with it -that feverish race of thoughts, where the memories of years flash out -and intermingle like fantastic figures at a masked ball. - -She sat up at last in bed, shook her dark hair free from her shoulders, -and stretched her arms out over her knees. The window stood a brilliant -square in the blackness of the wall, each lozenge of glass like crystal -set in ebony. Through the open casement she could see the silvery domes -of the great trees in the park and the few faint clouds that streaked -the summer sky. Her restlessness and the close night air made the -moonlight seem like a shower of icy spray. And it was as though some -feverish freak inspired her with the whim of bathing her hands and face -in it, for she slipped out of bed, her white feet gliding over the -polished woodwork of the floor. - -A sound like the scuffling of rats behind the wainscoting startled her -for a moment, so that she stood listening with her face turned toward -the door. The deep silence of the house seemed to listen with her for -the recurrence of the sound, but she heard nothing but the sigh of her -own breath. Moving to the window, she leaned her hands upon the sill, -letting the draught play upon her bosom and in her hair. She felt as -though the night laid a cool hand upon her forehead, while the infinite -calmness of everything entered into her soul. - -Beneath her lay the garden, the lawn like a stretch of dusky silver, the -bay-trees casting sharp shadows upon it, the portico of the music-room -cut into black panels by its pillars. She stood gazing down upon it all -with the air of one whose mind was full of dreams. The moon mirrored -itself, twin images, within her eyes, and made her night-gear shine like -snow under the torrent of her hair. - -Distant clocks began chiming suddenly, to be followed by the deep -pealing of the hour. The sound roused the girl from her lethargy, like -the challenge of a trumpet waking a sentinel at his post. - -The echoes of the chimes still seemed to be sweeping upward into the -moonlight when she heard a sound below her in the house. It was like the -snap of a turning lock, brief, crisp, and final. The striking of the -hour might have had the significance of a signal to some one in the -house. She was still listening for other sounds to follow when a shadow -moved out between the outlines of the bay-trees on the lawn. - -Barbara leaned toward the window, and then drew back with an instinct of -caution, still keeping her view of the moonlit garden. The shadow and -the figure that cast it moved toward the music-room with the gliding -motion attributed to ghosts. The breath of the night air seemed doubly -cold upon her face and bosom for the moment. She saw the figure -disappear under the portico of the music-room with all the mystery of -the night to solemnize its passing. - -A slight shiver swept up her limbs toward her heart. Things may seem -possible at such an hour that the reason might ridicule at noon. Yet she -remembered the snap of the shooting lock, and that mere incident of -sound held the supernatural vagueness of her thoughts in thrall. - -Still listening, she seemed to hear something that brought a sharp and -almost fierce expression to her face. Holding her breath, she leaned -against the window-jamb as though to steady herself against the -slightest movement that might distract her sense of hearing. A murmur of -voices came to her out of the silence of the night, like the rustle of -aspen leaves in a light wind. - -Her body straightened suddenly, bearing its weight upon one -out-stretched arm whose hand rested against the jamb of the window. Her -eyes became brighter in the moonlight. Her throat showed white under her -raised chin. Then turning as though impelled by some inspired thought, -she moved toward the door, opened it, and stepped out into the gallery. - -Pausing for an instant, she began to walk slowly down the passageway -toward a transomed window that gleamed white in the moonlight. She moved -haughtily, with no shrinking haste, her head held high, her hands -hanging at her sides. It was the poise of a sleep-walker, stately, -wide-eyed, without a flicker of self-consciousness. - -Barbara had not gone ten steps before she heard a slight sound behind -her like the rustle of a skirt. Startled though she may have been, she -betrayed nothing, but moved on with every sense alert. That some one was -close behind her she felt assured. Her hand was on the latch of her -mother’s door before her suspicions began to be confirmed. - -She pushed the door open and crossed the threshold; yet though the room -was in utter darkness, she felt instinctively that it was empty. Turning -slowly so that she faced the door, she saw the outline of a figure -framed there against the dim glow of the moonlight that filled the -gallery. - -Barbara stood motionless awhile, making no sign or sound, and then -walked straight toward the door. The figure faltered a moment before -gliding aside. Barbara passed it, her eyes fixed as on some dreamy -distance, her face blank and expressionless, her step unhurried. As she -passed back along the gallery she felt that the figure was following -her, and knew that it was a woman, and that woman Mrs. Jael. - -Still statuesque as one walking in her sleep she re-entered her room, -closed the door, locked it, and moved toward the window. She stood there -a moment, motionless, and if she saw anything in the garden beneath her -she betrayed no feeling and no conscious life. Before the clocks had -chimed the half-hour she was in her bed again, but not to sleep. - -By the door leading into the garden two shadowy figures were whispering -together. - -“She was asleep?” - -“Yes, my lady.” - -“Are you sure?” - -“She walked past me as though I was not there. I have seen such a thing -before, yet it gave me a fright.” - -“And she went to my room, Jael?” - -“It was as dark as a cupboard, my lady. No one could have told that it -was empty—even if they had been awake.” - -The sky was a brave blue next morning, and the air full of the scent of -summer when Barbara came down to the little parlor that looked out on -the garden. Her air of lethargy had a touch of gentleness to soften it. -Anne Purcell was already at the table. A plate of cherries and a flask -of red wine added color to the prosaic usefulness of pie and bacon. - -Anne Purcell glanced at her daughter with momentary and questioning -distrust. The girl’s face betrayed no more self-consciousness than the -great white loaf on the trencher near her mother. She sat down, glanced -over the table listlessly, and then through the window where the sun was -shining. - -“You look tired, Barbe?” - -An insinuating friendliness approached her in the mother’s voice. - -“Tired?—I slept all night. How fresh the garden looks! I feel I should -like a drive in the park to-day.” - -“Yes; you want more interest—more bustle in your life.” - -“Perhaps I should have fewer moods—” - -“Take some wine, dear,” and she pushed the flask toward her. “Why not -trust yourself to me a little more? We are not all so melancholy.” - -“I might only spoil your pleasure.” - -“Nonsense. I should enjoy life more if you had a happier face.” - - - - - VIII - - -Set a thief to catch a thief, and a woman to unravel the character of -a woman. Such was the aphorism my Lord Gore had bestowed in confidence -upon Hortense when he had bequeathed Anne Purcell’s daughter to the -Italian’s cleverness. If there were anything beneath that sullen and -lethargic surface, Hortense would discover it, and perhaps resurrect the -girl’s instinct to laugh and live. - -Few guests met in the painted salon that summer evening: three girls of -Barbara’s age, an elderly knight with sharp, humorous eyes, a -sentimental widow, and Hortense. The windows were open toward the park, -where dull, rain-ladened clouds shut out the stars. A few shaded candles -in sconces along the walls made a glimmering twilight in the room, and -in one corner a little brazen lamp burned perfumed oil, so that the air -was richly scented. - -A girl stood singing beside the harpsichord when Anne Purcell and her -daughter entered the salon. Hortense herself was accompanying the song, -while those who listened were like figures in a picture, each with a -shadowy individuality of its own. There was an atmosphere of opulence -and sensitive refinement about the scene. The breeze of youth had been -banished and the salon made sacred to musing maturity. - -Hortense excelled in the art of welcoming a friend. Even the flowing -lines of her figure could put forth an intoxicating graciousness that -fascinated women as well as men. She suggested infinite sympathy, yet -infinite shrewdness. Strangers might have mistrusted her if she had -shown only the one or the other. - -My Lady Anne looked commonplace beside Hortense. Her smile had a crude -affectation of good-will that did not completely conceal latent distrust -and jealousy. The Englishwoman was there with a purpose, and a purpose -is often one of the most difficult things on earth to smother. It was in -the daughter that Hortense discovered a vacant unapproachableness, a -callous apathy that piqued her interest. The girl was not gauche, -despite her silence. It was as though her individuality refused to -mingle with the individuality of others. - -Hortense disposed of my lady by setting her to chat with the grim old -gentleman in the big periwig, whose interest in life gravitated between -the latest piece of learned gossip he might pick up at the meetings of -the Royal Society and the lighter, more glittering gossip of Whitehall. -My lady could at least satisfy him in the lighter vein. The three girls -were given a pack of cards and a table in a corner; the sentimental -widow—some new book. Hortense herself drew Barbara aside toward one of -the windows, as though she was the one person whom she chose to actively -amuse. - -The prelude between them resembled a game of chess in which one player -made tentative moves to which the other blankly refused to respond. A -series of challenges provoked nothing but monosyllabic answers. Hortense -had no difficulty, as a rule, in persuading even dull or frightened -people to talk. There were the many mundane topics to be invoked when -necessary: clothes, music, books, men, amusements—and other women. - -“Mère de Dieu!” she confessed to herself, at last, “the child is -impenetrable. There is a magic spring in every mortal. I have not -touched it—here—as yet.” - -She studied Barbara with the easy air of the woman of the world who does -not betray the glance behind the eyes. - -“And who is your great friend—in England, cara mia? We women must -always have a confidential mirror, though it does not always tell us the -truth. When I was quite young I used to write down all my thoughts and -adventures in a book. Some of us make friends with our own souls—in our -diaries.” - -Barbara looked at her as though all the Italian’s subtle suggestiveness -beat on nothing more intelligent than the blank surface of a wall. - -“Do you keep a diary, madam?” - -Hortense laughed. - -“Oh, life is my diary, and then—I write on the faces of those I meet.” - -“Do you—how?” - -“You must guess my meaning.” - -“I can never guess anything.” - -“How dull! Have you travelled much—with your mother?” - -“My mother?” - -“Yes. Is she not charming? so young—and Junelike! She should promise -you a long youth.” - -“I do not care whether she does or not.” - -“Then you have not learned to envy her?” - -“What have I to envy?” - -Hortense paused, with a momentary gleam of impatience in her eyes. - -“Has the child any enthusiasm? Let us try her on another surface. Do you -remember your father, cara mia?” - -Barbara’s eyes met the Mancini’s with a sudden intense stare. - -“My father?” - -“He was a great scholar, was he not?” - -“Yes.” - -“Books become such friends to us! Did he teach you—at all?” - -“Oh, sometimes. He was very patient. How dark the sky looks!” - -Hortense smiled. She had a suspicion that she was no longer fumbling in -the dark. She had touched the girl beneath her apathy and her reserve. - -“Have you your father’s books—still?” - -“They are in the library—covered with dust.” - -“Why do you not keep the dust away by reading them. You could fancy -yourself talking with him when you turned the pages he had turned.” - -“Could I?” - -Hortense became silent suddenly, her face turned with an expression of -sadness toward the night. - -“Of course. It is in our memories that we live again. The past may -become a kind of religion to us.” - -She did not look at the girl, but her brilliant and sensitive -consciousness waited for impressions. Barbara remained motionless, with -stolid, morose face. - -“What clever things you think of!” she said, abruptly. “But the books -are nearly all in Latin. I wish I had not eaten so much supper. It -always makes me sleepy and stupid.” - -Hortense turned with a sharpness that contradicted her soft and -sympathetic attitude. - -“Perhaps you would like some wine?” - -“No, I thank you, madam. Mother made me drink half a jugful before we -came. She said that it might make me talk.” - -Hortense gave her one searching stare. - -“Either you are very clever or very dull,” she said to herself. “I must -try other methods, for I want to see you show yourself. Then—we may -understand.” - -It was possible that the Mancini knew that her salon would not maintain -its air of Platonic tranquillity throughout the whole evening. She who -queened it for the moment above a galaxy of queens could not be left -long uncourted by the courtiers of her King. She was the Spirit of Wit -and the Pyre of Passion for that year at least; a fire about which the -moths might flutter; a Partisan of Princes; a shrewd, roguish, -laughter-loving woman. She was never unwilling that a fashionable rout -should storm and take possession of her house, for they came to -entertain her with their nonsense and to flatter her pride by attending -at her court. - -A flare of links across the park, and the sound of laughter warned -Hortense of a possible invasion. The torches flowed in the direction of -her house, with a confusion of voices that betrayed the spirit of the -invaders. Barbara, who sat watching the stream of fire, saw the -link-boys running on ahead, with the glare of their torches flashing -over the grass and upon the trunks of the trees, while behind these -fire-flies came a stream of gentlemen in bright-colored cloaks, arguing -and laughing, some of them flourishing their swords like sticks. - -Hortense appealed to her guests. - -“Alas! my friends, here come the court innocents with all manner of -nonsense in their noddles. Shall we stand a siege?” - -“You will never keep fools out of heaven, madam,” said the Fellow of the -Royal Society, with a cynical sniff; “have them in, and let us moralize -on the wasted energies of youth.” - -“And you—my vestals?” - -The girls at the card-table betrayed no immoderate shyness. - -“And my Lady Purcell?” - -“Should a woman be afraid of a boy’s tongue? We can clip it with our -wit.” - -“They are in the court-yard already, the mad children! Let us see what -power music may have over them.” And she sat down at the harpsichord and -began to play with great unction a dolorous chant that was familiar to -serious singers of psalms. - -Comus and his crew came in right merrily with a superfluity of ironical -obeisances and vivid color-contrasts in their clothes. The party was -headed by a figure in a black silk gown, with huge lawn ruffles at the -wrists, a white periwig, and a big lace bib. Barbara recognized my Lord -Gore among the gentlemen, and in the background she caught a glimpse of -the brown and imperturbable face of John Gore, his son. - -Hortense still fingered out her psalm as though ignoring the irruption -of the world, the flesh, and the devil into her house. The three girls -at the card-table sat with eyes cast down and hands folded demurely in -prim laps. The grim old gentleman reclined in his chair, and stared at -the intruders with the inimitable assurance of a Diogenes. Barbara -remained by the window in isolation, while her mother and the widow were -smiling and whispering together in a corner. - -The gentry of Whitehall appreciated the satirical humor of their -welcome. Hortense was laughing at them with that dolorous canticle of -hers. - -“Now, Thomas, where is your wit?” - -“Prick the bishop’s calves, he has gone to sleep.” - -They laughed and applauded as the figure in the silk gown moved forward -into the room. Mr. Thomas Temple could play a variety of parts. His -mimicry excelled in burlesquing the episcopate. - -“My children, let peace be upon this house.” And he gave them a pompous -blessing with upraised hands. - -Hortense rose from the harpsichord with the assumed fire of a fanatic. - -“Children of Belial!” - -“Lady, pardon me, they are already qualifying as saints.” - -“What sayest thou, Antichrist, thou Red Man of Rome? Woe, woe unto this -city when its priests wax fat in purple and fine linen!” - -The bishop extended reproving hands. - -“Woman, blaspheme not! We are here to save all souls with the kiss of -peace. My children, come hither. Have you been baptized?” - -The three girls tittered. Hortense stood forward, flinging out one arm -with a passionate gesture of scorn. - -“Behold the book of the beast. Behold the Serpent without a surplice! -And you—ye children of iniquity—make way for Thomas with the wine!” - -There was a shout of laughter as my lord the bishop, picking up his -skirts, cut a delighted caper. - -“Alas, she has bewitched me! St. Sack, where art thou—oh, strengthener -of my soul?” - -A footman bearing a tray with flasks and glasses moved stolidly through -the crowd. The mock churchman extended a protecting arm. - -“Bless you, my son. Blessed are all vintners and tavern-keepers! And -you, madam” (he turned to her with a stately obeisance), “our Lord the -King of his nobleness hath sent us to unbind your eyes—and to lead you -into the paths of light. We will baptize those innocents yonder into the -one true church, even the church of Sack—and Sashes. Let all the -heathen rejoice for the souls we shall save this day from the pit of -prudery. No woman can be saved unless she be kissed. Amen.” - - - - - IX - - -For a girl to maintain her dignity in some such assemblage as that at -the house of Hortense, she needed a glib tongue, an easy temper, and no -prejudices with regard to the inviolate sanctity of her lips or cheek. -The gentlemen of fashion had renounced the central superstition of -Chivalry, while retaining some of its outward pageantry and splendor. -Cynics and worldlings, they had no real reverence for woman, no belief -in her honor, and little consideration for her name. She was merely a -thing to be coveted, to be maligned, or to be made, perhaps, the butt of -the bitterest and most unmanly ridicule. How mean and utterly -contemptible those splendid gentlemen of the court could be, Anne Hyde -had learned in the days before she became a duchess. So many noble -fellows conspiring to swear away a woman’s honor, and fabricating -unclean lies about her, in the belief they would please a prince. - -Barbara remained isolated by the window, studying the scene with an -expression of sulky scorn. It was her first glimpse of the gadflies of -the court; their methods of attack and of torture were to her things -unknown. Many of the men had prematurely aged features, harsh skins, and -unhealthy eyes. Some two or three were palpably the worse for wine. And -despite their rich clothes and the beauty of mere surface refinement, -they brought an atmosphere of unwholesome insolence into the Italian’s -salon—an insolence that made such true aristocrats as John Evelyn -despair of the courts of kings. - -The Mancini had drawn the mock bishop aside, and they were talking -together with ironical little smiles and gestures. Barbara met -Hortense’s eyes across the room. The man in the silk cassock glanced -also in the same direction, and Barbara had the sudden sense of being -under discussion. - -The majority of the men were drinking wine at a side table, talking -loudly and without an atom of restraint, as though they were in a tavern -and not in the salon of a great lady. My Lord Gore and his son were the -centre of a little group; the brown face of the sea-captain contrasting -with the whiter skins of the idlers about town. He was glancing about -the room, as though tired of being penned up in a corner by a party of -fops with whom he had no sympathy. More than once his eyes met those of -Barbara Purcell. They appeared to be the only two people in the room who -chafed instinctively at their surroundings. - -A loud voice at the door of the salon, strident and harsh, overtopped -the babbling of the crowd. Heads were turned in the direction; periwigs -bowed; slim swords cocked under velvet coat-tails. The commotion hinted -at the entry of some great captain in the campaign of pleasure. The knot -of many-colored figures fell apart, and a big man in black and silver -stalked forward to salute Hortense. - -It was Philip of Pembroke, the most outrageous and hot-headed aristocrat -in the kingdom, a man whose own friends treated him as they would have -treated an open powder-mine, and whose very friendship was often the -prelude to a quarrel. Few people had the nerve to sit near him at table, -for an argument was his great joy, and his method of debate was so -fierce and fanatical that his arguments very frequently took the form of -wine bottles and dishes, or any forcible persuader that came to hand. He -would quarrel with any one, anywhere, on any topic, and appeared to -cherish the conviction that the whole world had conspired to contradict -him. Lean, ominous, with a fierce, intent, brown face, his sharp, -snapping jowl made him appear more like a mad fanatic than a sane and -stately English peer. The marvel was that a man with such a face should -waste even his madness on irresponsible brawls and outrages. It was like -some fierce Egyptian monk playing insane tricks in Christian Alexandria. - -He saluted Hortense with his usual air of restless-eyed and explosive -abruptness. She had assumed her utmost graciousness, her full feminine -fascination. My lord stared at her for a moment in his queer, -distrustful way, and then turned to the figure in the silk cassock. - -“Well, you dull dog, how are we to be amused to-night?” - -Tom Temple adopted a tone of the blandest deference. - -“We have founded a mission, my lord, for the conversion of unkissed -females.” - -“Damnation, boy, there are none!” - -“My Lord of Pembroke is a great authority.” - -“Am I? Who told you that? I should like to talk with him a minute. Where -are your converts, eh? By my soul, I don’t see many!” - -The bishop made an unctuous gesture with his open hands. - -“There are an innocent few, my lord.” - -“Three pinafores and two aprons! Who’s that there—old Purcell’s widow? -She is as plump as a fat hen! And the one there by the window, who’s -she?” - -Tom Temple appealed to Hortense. - -“Anne Purcell’s daughter.” - -“A sour, scratch-your-face looking wench! Zounds, Tom, begin your -mission there! Go and kiss her, or I’ll knock your head against the -wall.” - -He laughed, as though hugely tickled, while the majority of the men, who -had been listening, exchanged glances, and divided their curiosity -between the girl by the window, my Lord Pembroke, and Bishop Tom. - -Hortense had drawn aside, and was bending over Anne Purcell. There may -have been a motive in the move. Possibly she did not wish to countenance -the joke, and yet desired to profit by the information she might gain -thereby. - -The bishop looked embarrassed. - -“If you will lend me your countenance, my lord—” - -“Go and kiss her.” - -“On my conscience, sir, but—” - -He was drifting perilously near an argument, and the mad peer’s eyes -began to sparkle. The crowd settled itself to enjoy the drama. - -“Why, my lord bishop is a heretic!” - -“The recusant, the Fifth Monarchy maniac! Pull his bibs off!” - -Tom Temple found himself in the midst of a dilemma. On the one hand was -this silent, swarthy-face girl who looked as unapproachable as a -Minerva; on the other, my Lord of Pembroke, ready to explode at the -slightest opposition. - -“I accept your mandate, my lord.” - -“Forward, then, sainted sir; I am the church militant to support the -conversion.” - -Tom Temple plucked up his impertinence, and approached Barbara with an -air of grim solemnity. All eyes were turned in her direction. She found -herself the cynosure of this mocking, sneering, mischief-loving crowd. - -“My daughter, I am authorized by his Majesty, Pope of Whitehall, and by -my Lord Cardinal Pembroke, here, to initiate you into the one true -church. Are you, my daughter, in a fit and ready state to be converted?” - -Barbara looked the young man straight in the face and said nothing. - -“Have you no answer for me, my child?” - -My Lord of Pembroke gave him a push from behind. - -“To it, Tom, or I’ll convert her myself!” - -“My Lord Cardinal, I am ready to abdicate in your favor.” - -“Sophist! Kiss her, and have done.” - -Tom Temple looked at Barbara and found his expiring impudence unequal to -the task. A breeze of cynical laughter swept the room. The three girls -had left the card-table, and were standing huddled together, giggling -and glancing from Barbara to the gentlemen. Hortense and Anne Purcell -had drawn aside toward the harpsichord, while the sentimental widow -seemed scared. - -“The church militant must intervene!” - -My Lord of Pembroke jostled the mock churchman aside and faced Barbara. -She had risen and was standing at her full height, an angry color -flooding into her face. The peer and the lady looked each other in the -eyes. - -The man’s cynical yet malicious stare humiliated her, despite her wrath -and her defiance. Her glance travelled over the faces that seemed to -fill the room. Nowhere did she find a glimmer of pity or resentment. She -was just a silly, prudish girl to them; a sulky child to be teased; a -thing that piqued their cynical curiosity. - -My Lord of Pembroke made her a curt bow. - -“You will permit me to receive you into the bosom of our church,” he -said. - -She flashed a fierce stare at him, and then drew back close to the -window. It was then that her eyes met the eyes of some one in the room, -some one who had been standing in the background, and who was watching -her with intense earnestness. She recognized John Gore. A rush of appeal -and of chivalrous sympathy seemed to leap from face to face. - -My Lord of Pembroke advanced a step. There was something satanic about -his eyes. - -“Come, little simpleton.” - -He stretched out an arm, and caught her wrist roughly. But she twisted -it free. - -“Gently, my wild filly; we must break you to harness. Come—now—” - -He was shouldered aside abruptly with a vigor that set the whole room -gaping at the thunderclap that would follow. A shortish, sturdy man with -a brown, imperturbable face had established himself calmly between my -lord and Barbara Purcell. - -“It seems, my lord, that, since you are all Christians, I am the only -heathen in the room.” - -The retort came instantly with a sweep of the peer’s arm. John Gore was -ready for it, and put the blow aside. Half a dozen gentlemen rushed in -and made a human barrier between the pair. - -My Lord of Pembroke struggled like a knot of fire half smothered by damp -fuel. - -“Hold off, fools! Let go my arm, Howard, or by God, I’ll run my sword -through you!” - -They tried to pacify him, but his violent temper blazed through their -words. He looked madman enough as he spat his fury over the shoulders of -those who held him back. But for the inevitable steel, the scene might -have been ridiculous. - -“Will you fight?” - -“I am at your service, my lord.” - -“Come then, draw! Clear the room. Howard, you are my second.” - -Hortense’s voice intervened with imperious feeling. - -“Gentlemen, not in my house.” - -Stephen Gore had pushed through and stood beside his son. - -“Take me, Jack; keep cool, boy; the fool’s mad.” - -“In the park, then.” - -“Lud! but it’s raining—torrents,” said some one, peering through the -window. - -“Rain! Who the devil cares for rain? Tell my boys to light their links. -Get me my cloak, Howard. Are you ready, sir?” - -“Ready, my lord,” said John Gore. “We can use the swords we have. That -is my privilege, I believe.” - - - - - X - - -Barbara Purcell stood alone by the window, her eyes fixed upon the -torches that were spitting and flaring in the rain. The salon had been -emptied of its wits and gallants, as though the men had been whirled -away into the darkness by the very energy of my Lord Pembroke’s wrath. -The women were left alone with the cynical old aristocrat who dabbled in -science, and who had not moved from his chair during the brawl. -Hortense, who had dreaded bloodshed in her house and the scandal that -might follow, was watching from another window, with the three girls and -the widow gathered round her. My Lady Purcell appeared to be the most -vexed and troubled of them all. She moved restlessly about the room; sat -down in a chair beside the cynic; spoke a few words to him, and seemed -repelled by the flippancy of his retort; rose again; walked to and fro -for a minute, and then, as though driven thither by some spasm of -suspense, joined Hortense and the rest at the window. - -The Mancini heard my lady’s deep breathing, and, turning to make room -for her, was startled by the scared expression of her face. But, being -discreet, she ignored her guest’s uneasiness. - -“These men, they must be forever quarrelling! As for that mad, -irresponsible lord, I am always in dread of murder when he enters my -house.” - -Anne Purcell leaned against the window-jamb. - -“And they must drag in others, too. I suppose Howard and Stephen Gore -will be at each other’s throats.” - -Hortense eyed her curiously. - -“I think they have too much wisdom to cross swords over a lunatic. Who -is the little brown man with the broad shoulders and the cool face?” - -“John Gore, my lord’s son.” - -“Jack Gore; a good name for a gallant swashbuckler. The fellow pleased -me; he has a backbone and a keen eye. It was like a scene out of a -stage-play. And there is the distressed damsel, your daughter, watching -to see her champion do his devoir.” - -Anne Purcell glanced at Barbara and gave a shrug of the shoulders. - -“If the fool had only had some sense!” - -“If—yes—if!” - -“The stubborn brat! To shut her eyes to a mere piece of play!” - -Hortense looked thoughtful. - -“Pardon me, but the girl is no fool; that is my belief. It was no sulky, -stupid child that dared my Lord Pembroke to bully her.” - -“No?” - -“No. But a woman with pride, and a depth of courage in her that could -make her dangerous in a quarrel. My Lady Purcell, I could swear that -your daughter is cleverer than you imagine.” - -Hortense saw the plump woman’s face harden. - -“Perhaps,” she retorted, brusquely; “for myself, I have always thought -her a little mad.” - -As for Barbara, she had no memory for Hortense and the rest. The dim, -rain-smirched park, with its pool of stormy light, absorbed all the life -in her for the moment. She had seen the torches go tossing out from the -gate with a trail of shadowy figures following. The link-boys had headed -for a great tree where there would be some shelter from the rain. The -torches made a wavering yellow circle about the four chief figures; the -rest of the gentlemen gathered in the deeper shadows under the tree. The -drifting rain blurred and distorted the details as bad glass distorts -the landscape to one at watch behind a window. Yet the four figures with -the smoke and flare of the torches seemed vividly distinct to her, two -of them stripped of cloaks and coats, so that their white shirts showed -up like patches of snow on a distant mountain-side. - -Engrossed as she was, she heard one of the watchers at the other window -give a sharp cry of relief. - -“At last—see—they have begun! My Lord Gore and Howard stand aside.” - -It was her mother’s voice, and the words seemed to set some subtle -surmise moving in the daughter’s brain. She remained motionless, her -eyes on the circle of torches and the faint flicker of steel that was -discernible as the two swords crossed. - -She heard a short, dry laugh, and turned to find the Fellow of the Royal -Society standing at her elbow. He was watching the scene under the tree -with eyes that had lost none of their youthful sharpness. - -“There is no need for anxiety,” he said, with a friendly glance at -Barbara. - -They stood side by side in silence for a minute. Then the cynic nodded -in the direction of the park. - -“That mad jackass stood no chance against Stephen Gore’s son. Just as I -thought. That—will keep the fool quiet for a time, at least.” - -There was a sudden swaying of the torches, and the circle of figures -swept in upon my Lord Pembroke and John Gore as the sea sweeps in on a -sinking ship. Nothing was discernible for the moment but the torch-flare -and the knot of eager, crowding men. Then the circle parted abruptly, -and they could see two friends throwing his coat and cloak over my Lord -Pembroke’s shoulders. He was leaning against his second, his sword-arm -hanging at his side. - -The torches swayed forward and moved in a blot of light from under the -tree. John Gore, with his sword set in the grass, was struggling into -his coat, his eyes watching the violent fool whom he had wounded in the -shoulder. Stephen Gore, distinguishable by his stateliness and his bulk, -threw a cloak over his son’s shoulders. The torches moved away, the -figures scattered, and the whole scene seemed to melt into nothingness -behind the falling rain. - -The cynic and Miss Barbara still maintained their silent fellowship at -the window, as though they approached to each other by showing an -uncompromising front toward the world. Her companion seemed to hint that -they had a common interest in the proceedings, when he pointed out to -her that a couple of torches were moving back toward the house. - -“Here come the gentlemen who will assure us. Had I had the guiding of -that young man’s sword, I should have pricked that wind-bag for good and -all.” - -He continued to talk, as though addressing no one in particular, but -only enumerating his own thoughts. - -“But then—of course—it would be deucedly inconvenient. It is much -wiser to let fashionable fools alone; if you kill them, there will be -trouble; if you wing them only, there will still be trouble. It is -probable that we shall hear within a month or so that my Lord Gore’s son -has been bludgeoned some dark night.” - -Barbara glanced at him with a sharp challenge in her eyes. - -“Pardon me, it is a very usual method of procedure among gentlemen of -fashion. If you have an enemy who is too strong for you, or a man you -are afraid to fight, you hire a couple of bullies to ambuscade him—and -crack his skull. Both your honor and your spite are thereby greatly -relieved.” - -The torches were close to the gate of the court-yard, though the -watchers at the window could but dimly distinguish the faces of those -who were returning. - -“I hope to Heaven he is not hurt!” - -“Stay there, children! you must not meddle in these men’s affairs.” - -Hortense and my Lady Anne had moved by mutual impulse toward the door. -The girls, who had wished to follow them, remained talking in undertones -near the harpsichord. But Barbara was bound by no such casual -regulations. She left the cynic by the window, and followed her mother -and Hortense. - -From the salon the staircase of the great house ran with broad shallow -steps into the hall. The beautiful balustrade was of carved oak, the -corner pillars topped with griffins holding gilded shields. French -tapestries covered the walls, and from the central boss of the ceiling a -great brass lantern hung by a chain. - -Hortense paused at the stair’s head, with Anne Purcell at her side. The -rain rattled against the windows, with the light of the torches casting -wavering shadows over the glass. A servant stood holding the door of the -hall open, with the torches making a turmoil of smoke and flame. -Barbara, as she came from the salon, was struck by the eager poise of -her mother’s figure as she leaned forward slightly over the balustrade. - -My Lord Gore and his son came in out of the night with their cloaks -aglisten, and rain dropping from their beavers. The vision that greeted -them was the vision of two women waiting at the stair’s head in their -rich dresses, the light from the lantern throwing their figures into -high relief. Hortense, in autumn gold, tall and opulent, crowned by her -crown of splendid hair, seemed a figure divine enough to top that great -oak stairway with its sweep of shadows. Anne Purcell, leaning forward -with one hand on a carved pillar, symbolized watchfulness and secret -suspense. While in the background the Spanish swarthiness of her -daughter’s face added that mystery and solemn strangeness to the picture -that life conveys in its moment of pathos or of passion. - -My Lord Gore made straight for the stairway, hat in hand. - -“Soyez tranquille, mesdames; a mere pin-prick in the shoulder.” - -Hortense glanced past him with interest at the bronzed and imperturbable -face of his son. - -“Whose was the wound? Not—?” - -“No, no, my Jackanapes had the madman at his mercy. May we men of blood -ascend? Assuredly the name of Gore seems suited to the occasion!” - -He turned his head and smiled over his shoulder at his son. - -“Come up, my Jack the Giant-killer! Where is our little mistress, our -inspirer of heroics?” - -Anne Purcell bent toward him—as though swayed by her woman’s instinct. - -“The little fool shall stay at home in future—” - -“Psst—beware—!” - -My lord gave a forced laugh, and looked upward over my lady’s shoulder. -He had caught sight of Barbara standing in the doorway of the salon. - -“Behold the inflamer of the peaceful citizens of Westminster! Mistress -Barbara, my child, see what an obstinate mouth will do!” - -Anne Purcell and Hortense had both turned toward the salon. My Lord -Stephen was at the stair’s head, his son a little below him, with the -light from the lantern falling full upon his face. But the girl standing -in the doorway of the salon seemed the significant and compelling figure -of the moment. She was staring at John Gore with a bleak intentness that -ignored the three who waited for her to make way. - -“Barbara!” - -Her mother seized her arm and pushed her—almost roughly—into the -salon. - -“Where are your wits, girl? Don’t gape like that! On my honor, I think -you are mad.” - -She suffered her mother’s hectoring with an apathy that betrayed neither -resentment nor understanding. Her eyes held John Gore’s for the moment. -Then she turned and walked back to the window as though she had no more -interest in the affair. - -Yet—she had seen on the cloak that John Gore was wearing three short -chains of gold, each with a knot of pearls for a button. They were -spaced out irregularly, those three strands of gold, as though one had -been lost—perhaps torn off in a struggle and never been replaced. - - - - - XI - - -My lord paused abruptly with the wine-decanter in his hand, his eyes -fixed in a vacant stare on his son, who was drawing a high-backed chair -forward to the table. The rumble of the wheels of the coach that had -brought them home from Hortense Mancini’s could be heard dying away -along St. James’s. - -“Wine, Jack? They should have got Pembroke comfortably to bed by now. -The man will be about again in a month—ready to quarrel with his best -friend. What made you meddle in the game? A little mockery might do Nan -Purcell’s girl some good.” - -John Gore was unfastening the curbs of his black cloak. His father -watched him, his brows knitted into a sudden frown of uneasiness—the -frown of a man surprised by a spasm of pain at the heart. - -“You all seemed so ready to make a fool of the child.” - -“Tut—tut, sir, you ought to have come by more shrewd sense than to make -a pother over such a piece of fun. Where the devil, may I ask, did you -get that cloak?” - -John Gore glanced down at the garment as though my lord’s tone of -contempt might have made the thing shrivel on his shoulders. - -“The cloak? You should know it, since it came out of your own wardrobe!” - -“Mine! I deny the imputation.” - -He laughed with a cynical twist of the mouth, and regarded his son slyly -over the rim of his wineglass. - -“Well, it came out of your room, sir!” - -“Come, come, Jack!” - -“My boy Sparkin fished it out of a chest when he was advising me on -frills and fashions. The sobriety of the garment suited my -inclinations.” - -Stephen Gore’s eyes gleamed for the moment with a flash of fierce -impatience. - -“The meddlesome ape! You must pardon me being tickled by the irony of -facts. Since Captain Jack Gore listens to a cook-boy’s opinions on -costumes, I am mum.” - -The son seemed amused and piqued in turn by his father’s inquisitive and -fanatical prejudices. He swung the cloak from his shoulders and held it -up with one hand. - -“What have you to quarrel with, sir? The refinements of fashion are too -deep for me. I shall be landed in Newgate for wearing the wrong kind of -buckle on my shoes before the week is out.” - -My lord appeared in earnest. - -“Pshaw! Quarrel with? Why, the thing is about ten years out of date. -Unpardonable! Give it up, Jack; I’ll not countenance you in such a -pudding-cloth.” - -John Gore broke into a hearty, seafaring laugh. - -“Sancta Maria! is the offence so flagrant?” - -“You might as well go to the King’s levee with a dirty face, sir. Don’t -guffaw; I’m in earnest. Richards has orders to get rid of all the -husks.” - -The sea-captain fingered the gold tags. - -“Being a prodigal, I will put up with such husks as these. I suppose I -may be preferred before Tom Richards?” - -My lord took the cloak from him casually, as though he had not noticed -the gold chains with their knots of pearls. - -“Hallo! these are worth saving, after all. I’ll keep them myself, Jack. -Give a thing, and take it back again. That is philosophy of a sort, -according to Hobbs.” - -He laughed, pulled out a silver-handled clasp-knife from a pocket, and -cut the gold curbs away from the cloth. - -“For what we have saved, let us be thankful. It is not always wise to -lend other people either your opinions or your wardrobe, much less your -purse.” - -John Gore had picked up the cloak again. - -“Three, are there? There must have been four once. Look at the tear, -there—in the cloth. Curious; I should not have noticed it before.” - -My lord took the cloak from him and examined it with a careless air, -making use of one corner to hide a yawn. - -“The mark of the beast, Jack. Tom Richards’ fingers have been at work -here, or I know nothing of human nature. Well, the fellow must have his -pickings. If one worries about a small man’s petty pilferings one ought -not to have the insolence to be a courtier. We are all sooted by the -same chimney. Another glass of wine, Jack? No? Well, let’s to bed.” - -They parted with a hand-shake and a light word or two upon the stairs, -words that hid in either case the deeper impulses beneath. In my lord’s -heart there was something of scorn, something of dismay, and the fierce -uneasiness of a man who loves to look only upon the more flattering -features of his soul. There seemed nothing in the incident to shake his -confidence, and yet it had shaken him as a light wind sways a mighty elm -that is rotten at the roots. A cloak, so much mere cloth, which he had -hidden away and forgotten! Yet the thing had brought back visions of an -autumn night, of betrayal and of anger, of passionate reproaches and of -swift violence in the dark. What though he solaced himself with the oath -that death had judged between the fortunes of two swords? The sin of -treachery had been his. The blood-guilt remained, and no sophistry and -no well-wishing to himself could wipe the stain away. - -For the son, the happenings of the night had a richer aftermath. He was -no self-conscious, strutting righter of wrongs; no chivalrous -adventure-hunter launching his lance at the world’s throat. My Lord -Pembroke might have kissed most women with impunity as far as John Gore -was concerned; for though they might have protested, he knew, as a man -of the world, that not one in twenty would have been worth the -interference. Any chivalrous fool who had pushed in to a rescue would -have merely flattered a coquette with the offer of blood where the other -man had only offered kisses. - -But that tall girl with the Spanish face had given the scene a different -meaning. The uncompromising sincerity of her pride had turned a piece of -fantastic fooling into insolence and dishonor. The call of solitary soul -to soul is ever something of a riddle, and yet to the man there must be -that one woman whose hair has the darkness of night, whose eyes are -mysterious, whose face has an alluring sadness near to pain. Out of one -thread of pathos or of passion may be woven that scarlet robe that -covers the dim white body of Romance. A trick of the voice, a poise of -the head, and the sleeper wakes in the world of color and desire. The -streaking of the night sky by a falling star is not more swift and -strange than that flash of divine wonder across the consciousness of a -woman or a man. - -The memory of her standing by the window, tall, defiant, aloof, with -those cynical fools mocking her, burned with great vividness in John -Gore’s brain. He remembered the moment when her eyes had wandered round -the room to remain fixed on his. He thrilled still, strong man that he -was, at that appeal the girl had given him, as though some instinct had -warned her that his manhood was a nobler thing than to suffer her pride -to be humbled before them all. Fighting against wild seas and the -primeval perils of strange lands had given John Gore the cool and -unflurried courage that is steady rather than impetuous. And yet that -one glance from the girl’s eyes had drawn an instant and impulsive -answer from him, as though all that she held sacred had been trusted to -his hands. - -And then—her history, this morose, brooding grief that my lord had -hinted at! The very shadow of sadness that haunted her added a mystery, -an alluring strangeness that beckoned the soul. She was not like other -women. What more subtle deification! For strong natures are untaken save -by strong contrasts and by keen impressions. The song of the nightingale -may have no meaning for the falcon. Nor could the chattering lutes of -“court beauties” call to a man who had stood where Cortez stood, gazing -from Darien on the ocean limitless toward the burning west. - -John Gore stood awhile at the open window of his room, as he had often -stood at the rail of his quarter-deck on a southern night. The great -silence of the sea seemed once more with him, and the far unutterable -splendor of the moon. Then, as by contrast, his thoughts were caught by -his father’s furious convictions as to the importance of the proper -droop of a feather or the color of a coat. Who remembered such things -when the storm-wind was shrieking, like the ghosts of the sea’s dead, -through a great ship’s tackle? Yet, after all, it was only the -fanaticism of another circle, another world. Your scientific zealot will -cut a caper over the discovery of some new bug. It was a mere question -of environment, and Father Adam may have strutted vaingloriously in some -new-fangled smock of leaves. - -Not for John Gore alone had it been a night of impressions. They had -proved keen, pitiless, and pathetic so far as Barbara Purcell was -concerned. She was alone in her room, and at her open window, the human -counterpart of John Gore. In her lap lay a little strand of gold, while -the moonlight touched the bleak pallor of her face, making the night, -like her heart, a contrast of mysterious light and shadow. - -With Barbara her impressions were like elemental fire and ice, vivid, -distinct, at war with one another. They stood opposed within her mind, -hurting her heart by their very enmity. Gratitude and hatred unable to -be reconciled; the harsh notes of revenge and the voices of heaven -clashing together in the galleries of the brain. She had seen and she -had recognized, yet the gross incongruity of it all made her falter for -a meaning. The incidents of the night passed and repassed rhythmically -before her. The uprising of his manhood in her service; her mother’s -strained dismay; the scene at the stair’s head; the glimpse of the three -gold curbs upon the cloak. Where were the beginnings and the endings in -this tangled skein for her? Had she not looked for exultation in this -moment when at last it should come into her life? And now that the truth -seemed close to her very heart, she found the near future blurred by a -dimness of doubt, of incredulity, even—of dread. - - - - - XII - - -Summer freshness after rain, a splendor of wet shimmering fields and -woods, gardens full of a hundred perfumes, a sky changing from azure to -opalescent gold on the horizon. The slow sweep of the river through the -dream of a summer day. White swans moving over the water; scattered -houses with black beams and plaster-work, or warm red walls, lifting -their gables amid sleeping trees. Now and again the plash of oars and -the sound of voices stealing down some quiet “reach.” - -Two boats with cushions and banners at the stern were moving up-stream -while the day was still in its April hours. They were nearing Richmond, -stately in memories and in trees, and Sheen also, where the last of the -Tudors delivered up her queenship unto God. The two boats had pulled out -from Whitehall stairs that morning, carrying a river-party to my Lord -Gore’s house at Bushy. Discretion and the voice of some “back-stairs -friend” had hinted that my lord and his son would discover the country -preferable to the town until my Lord of Pembroke’s recovery should be -assured. The King had lately assumed a prejudice against brawls, and my -lord had left this chance indiscretion in the hands of Hortense, who -was—for the while—the King. - -Stephen Gore had collected a few especial friends to go by river and -spend some days with him at Bushy. His deaf sister from Kensington had -been appointed state duenna for the week. With my lord were two -gentlemen of the same political tendencies as himself; my Lady Purcell, -fresh and fragrant as a Provence rose; a certain Sir Peter Marden’s wife -and daughter, blood relatives of the Gores; and Captain John, his son. -Moreover, in the same boat as her mother, with a scarlet cushion under -her arm, sat Mistress Barbara, solemn, and dark as some Proserpine to -whom the breath of the summer day presaged the shadows of a sadder -world. - -Her mother would probably have left her at the house in Pall Mall had -not the girl displayed a sudden tractable cheerfulness that had -surprised Lady Anne into searching for motives. Nor had the fertile and -intuitive brain of woman far to seek. My Lady Purcell drew her own -amused conclusions, nor was she sorry to suspect the girl of such -reasonable yet uncharacteristic softness. - -It so happened that Barbara and John Gore were not shipped in the same -boat, the son having taken charge of the second and smaller of the two, -with a cargo of luggage and servants, to say nothing of Master Sparkin, -who had scrambled into the bow, and amused himself alternately by -tickling the neck of the nearest waterman with a feather and dabbling -his hands in the water over gunwale. John Gore’s boat proved the faster -of the two, and though she started half a mile behind my lord’s, she had -drawn up by the time that they had reached Mortlake, much to the -satisfaction of Sparkin, who had urged the men on to a race. For a while -they pulled stroke and stroke, John Gore laughing and talking to the -guests in his father’s boat. - -Stephen Gore was steering, his sister next him on his left, Lady Purcell -on his right. And the moment that the two boats had drawn level, Anne -Purcell had touched my lord’s knee with hers and glanced meaningly at -Barbara, who had been looking back at the flashing oars of John Gore’s -boat. Her mother had been on the watch for suggestions. And in such -matters the most commonplace incidents may appear significant. Yet -Barbara had merely been watching Sparkin’s drolleries, for one cannot -always breathe to the rhythm of tragic verse. - -“Jack, my boy, when you put to sea with a boat-load of ‘baggage,’ you -will find yourself faster than stately dowager-ladened ships.” - -My lord’s second cousin, my Lady Marden, a fat, happy woman eternally on -the verge of laughter, shook the large green fan that ladies used then -in the place of a parasol. - -“Dowagers, indeed! I am sure we look younger than our daughters.” - -“That is always the case,” said one of my lord’s friends. - -“I would venture it that Captain John would rather be in our boat,” and -she glanced at Barbara as though for confirmation. - -Anne Purcell’s daughter gazed at the far bank over the lady’s shoulder. - -“Even a boat-load of aunts and cousins may be duller than a Barbary -prison,” quoth my lord, with a play upon words that no one understood. - -“And even a weevily biscuit better than none—when you’re empty,” said -Sparkin, who seemed to consider himself perfectly justified in airing -his wit. But seeing that the venture drew a sharp and ominous glance -from the great gentleman in the other boat, Sparkin became suddenly -oblivious to its presence, and returned to tickling the brown neck of -the man who pulled the bow oar—an act that stamped him as the meanest -of opportunists, seeing that the man could not express himself in the -presence of “quality.” - -The boats were still moving side by side when Mistress Catharine Gore, -the deaf duenna, began asking questions in her shrill, aggressive voice. - -“Who’s that boy, Stephen?” - -My lord assumed an alarmed look and held up a silencing hand. - -“My dear Kate,” he shouted in her ear, “do not ask embarrassing -questions.” - -His sister’s face betrayed a sudden gleam of shocked intelligence that -made my lord’s fooling appear more piquant. Deafness had developed a -habit of irritability in her, and she was accustomed to blurt out her -opinions in a voice that she probably intended for a whisper. - -“You don’t say so, Stephen! I am astonished that your son should have -the effrontery. But these sailors—” - -The other ladies began to giggle. My lord nudged his sister vigorously -with his knee. - -“Jack brought the boy home from America with him.” - -“Why don’t you speak louder, Stephen? What did you say her name was?” - -But as she discovered that they were trying to hide their laughter -behind fans and coat-sleeves, Mistress Catharine Gore gave her brother -one stare, and relapsed into a silence that was not altogether amiable. - -Nor did John Gore look the complaisant son smiling at his father’s -waggery. He nodded to his men, who quickened at the oars, making the -boat forge ahead of my lord’s galley. Barbara’s eyes met the -sea-captain’s as he glanced back for a moment to look at something, -perhaps at her. She was glad and yet sorry that they were not together, -for the secret that she concealed made his nearness a martyrdom and a -season of suspense. How could she keep the consciousness of that grim -blood-debt before her soul, with the beat of the ripples against the -boat and the flash of the sunlight on the water? She felt too close to -humanity to be able to look into her own haunted heart. These laughing, -chattering women, these mercurial, pleasure-loving men! She could only -sit there in a silence as in a trance, and let the shores and the tide -of life glide by, until she could wake in the tragic loneliness of -solitude—and of self. - -The garden of my Lord Gore’s house at Bushy came down to the river with -a sweep of perfect sward. There was a stone boat-house with quaint -copper dragons on the recessed gable ends, and a gilded vane shaped like -a ship in sail. The steps that led up from the river had statues of -fauns and wood-nymphs upon their pillars, and along the bank -weeping-willows trailed their boughs in the brown water of the shallows. - -The garden itself had all that quaint formalism, that stately simplicity -that was part of the lives of some of the Old-World gentry. A great -stretch of grass cut into four squares by gravel paths, with closely -clipped bays and yews set rhythmically along the walks. On the north, an -ancient yew alley, a gallery of green gloom. On the south, a broad -flower border, full of roses, pinks, and stocks, and all manner of -flowers and herbs. On the west, the stone terrace of the house, with -orange-trees in tubs ranged behind the balustrade. In the centre of all, -where the four walks met, a fountain playing, throwing a plume of spray -from the bosom of a river-god. - -John Gore’s boat, half a mile ahead of my lord’s galley, disembarked -first at the steps, so that the servants were able to clear the baggage -into the house and help in preparing that most essential of all -incidents—dinner. John Gore sent Sparkin off to the kitchen, and passed -the time pacing the gravel walks, with the river before him and the air -sweet with the perfumes of the herbs. The stateliness of the place, its -repose and opulence, had a strong charm for the man after rough years of -voyaging and the squalid loneliness of prison. He contrasted it with the -weird brilliance and fragmental beauty of the countries of the Crescent. -Nothing could seem more rich to him than those splendid lawns, like -green samite spread without seam or wrinkle. Even the gilded vane on the -boat-house had memories, for he could remember coveting it as a child, -and the thing may have suggested the life of those who go down to the -sea in ships. - -John Gore saw in season the flash of my lord’s oars, the bluff bow of -the galley pushing the ripples aside, the banner floating over the -stern. Going to the water-steps, he stood there and waited, hat in hand, -the quiet dignity of such a man seeming in keeping with such a scene. -With one foot on the gunwale, he gave a hand in turn to my lord’s -guests, while the rowers held the boat in place by using their oars as -poles. - -The character of the different women might have been guessed by the way -each accepted the curtesy of the man upon the steps. Anne Purcell smiled -in his face with a full-blown and fragrant vanity. Mrs. Catharine Gore -gave him a severe stare. My Lady Marden might have melted his dignity -with her good-humor; her daughter faltered with assumed shyness, looking -at her feet and not into John Gore’s eyes. As for Barbara, she ignored -his hand unconcernedly, gazing straight before her with a straight mouth -and a passionless face. - -The gentlemen followed, John Gore leaving them to their own legs. He had -turned and climbed the steps close on Barbara’s heels, noticing, as a -man does, the poise of her head and the proud youth in her figure. A -high-born and imperious spirit seemed proper from one who walked between -those stiff and stately trees. John Gore would not have wished for a -hoyden in such a setting. - -The party moved up the central walk toward the house, my Lady Marden -verbosely pleased with everything that she saw. “But there were no -peacocks! Surely that sweet terrace should have been a proper place for -the birds to show their tails! But perhaps my Lord Gore did not like -their voices?” My lord replied that he saw so many peacocks at Whitehall -that there was nothing singular or distinctive about having such -commonplace birds on show. He would send for a barge-load if my Lady -Marden would promise to imitate a pea-hen in her dress. Anne Purcell -looked tried by the fat woman’s excessive and loquacious amiability. She -had Mrs. Catharine Gore for a stimulating “cup of bitters,” Mrs. Kate, -whose wood billet of a figure looked fit only for a great wheel -farthingale. My lord’s two gentlemen friends were walking one on either -side of my Lady Marden’s daughter, who pretended to be embarrassed, and -was not. She had a black patch at the corner of a very suggestive mouth, -and a figure that did not promise prudery. For the rest, John Gore and -Barbara Purcell were left pacing side by side like two grave and staid -strangers walking up the aisle of a church. - -The party dined in the long salon whose windows opened upon the terrace -with its row of orange-trees. My Lady Marden careered in her -conversation like a fat mare turned out to grass. My lord alone appeared -inclined to keep step with her. After dinner there were wines and fruit: -wines of Spain and Burgundy; peaches, nectarines, apricots, and grapes. -After the fruit and wine, those who desired could steal a siesta, for -the river air is fresh after rain, and mature appetites minister at the -altar of Morpheus. - -The two gentlemen were amusing themselves by making hot love to the -younger Marden, and watching the expression of keen curiosity and -chagrin on Mrs. Catharine Gore’s face. To be able to see so many -suggestive things, and to hear nothing! What more tantalizing position -for a duenna, and a spinster! John Gore could not keep back a smile as -he watched the drama. He rose, and went and stood by Barbara’s chair -with the quiet simplicity of a man who was not self-conscious. - -“Do you remember the old place? I suppose you have been -here—often—since I was last here.” - -“No, not for a long while.” - -“Would you like to see the garden?” - -She glanced up at him and rose. - -“Yes.” - -And that was all they said to each other for fully three minutes. - -Probably their interest in glass houses, herb beds, and flowers was a -wholly subordinate affair, yet it served the purpose of bringing two -people together who desired to be near each other for very different -reasons. John Gore may have thought the girl curiously reserved and -silent. Yet he did not wish her otherwise, preferring her swarthy, -pale-skinned aloofness to red-faced and commonplace good temper. Men who -have seen the world have little use of people who let their -insignificant souls bolt from their mouths like a mouse out of a hole. -Hearts easily won are easily lost. The open field has no lure for the -imagination; high walls and a mass of dusky trees pretend to hide all -manner of mystery. - -Neither of them referred to the brawl of the other night—Barbara, for -reasons known to her own heart; John Gore, from a sense of delicacy and -chivalrous understanding. He began to talk to her of the days when they -had been mere children, and the subject served to sweep away some of the -reserve that chilled the air between them. - -They were in the fruit-garden, with its high, red-brick walls, when John -Gore recalled to her an incident of their irresponsible youth. - -“Do you remember old Jock, the head gardener?” - -She looked at him with a slight frown of thought. - -“Jock, the Scotchman?” - -“The old fellow with the bandy legs, and the head that lolled to and fro -when he walked. It was just here I played that trick on him. You were -standing there—by the door; I was behind a bush with the squirt. I can -see you laughing now, and the flick of your green skirt as you bolted -into the yew alley.” - -She smiled, but her face grew grave again abruptly, as though reproved -by some power within. - -“How long ago it seems! We have changed so much! And you have been -nearly over the whole world!” - -He glanced at her as she spoke, finding by instinct in her a sense of -something to be overcome. It might be the natural strength of reserve in -her. Yet she appeared to him like a girl brought up in some fanatical -home where laughter was a sign of carnal inclinations. Her heart might -begin to smile, but some habit of self-repression stifled the impulse -before it could mature. - -“You will tell me about your voyages?” - -“If they are of any interest to you.” - -Her eyes met his, and then swerved away with a flash of wayward feeling -that puzzled him. - -“I should like to hear everything. It has an interest for me. And -then—you were in a Moorish prison?” - -He looked into the distance with the air of a man ready to speak of his -very self. - -“Prison. That is an experience that grinds the folly out of the heart. A -man is walled up with that strange riddle of a thing—himself. It made -me learn to understand those old hermits in the deserts. For the devils -who tempted them, and whom they fought and cast out into the night, were -the devils a man carried about with him in his own heart. Prison makes a -man a wild beast—or a philosopher.” - -“More often a beast, Jack,” said my lord, who appeared at the gate -leading into the yew walk, fanning himself with a big fan that he had -borrowed from Anne Purcell. - - - - - XIII - - -On the evening of the third day at my Lord Gore’s house at Bushy, -Barbara walked alone in the yew alley on the north of the great garden. -It was like some dim cloister built for those who fled from the fever of -life to cool their hearts in Gothic mysteries. The dark trunks broke, -sheaf by sheaf, into groins that crossed in a thousand arches. Its -shadowy atmosphere seemed silent and remote, full of an absorbed sadness -that spoke of sanctuary. - -On the tennis-court beyond the house Stephen Gore and his friends were -playing out a match that had been put up for a wager. The women-folk -were looking on, ready to hazard a brooch or a scarf on the fortunes of -a racquet. Barbara, whose heart was full of a fierce unrest, had slipped -away alone into the garden, and even if her mother had missed her, she -had pinned a sentimental meaning to her daughter’s mood. - -The sun sank low in the west as Barbara walked in the alley of yews, so -low that the western arch of the cloister was a panel of ruddy gold. The -long shafts of the decline came streaming through and through the -criss-cross boughs, splashing the trunks with amber, and weaving a -checker of light and shadow upon the path. There was no sound to break -the silence save the occasional plash of oars upon the river and the -faint voices from the tennis-court beyond the house. - -Yet for Barbara the sweet sanctity of the ancient trees had no solace -and no shade. She had fled there as to a sanctuary to escape from that -most fierce and incomprehensible thing—herself. The desire to be alone -had been like the thirst of one in a desert—thirst for quiet waters and -the shadow of some great rock. - -The girl had come to my Lord Gore’s house with the purpose of three -years struggling to be matured. Perhaps she was a little mad, even as a -mind that has brooded upon one shadowy memory must lose the sane breadth -of noonday for the more vivid contrasts of dawn or twilight. The -fanatical Spanish blood in her had taken fire and burned those three -years in the deeps of her sombre eyes. For she had loved the man—her -father—as she had loved no other living thing on earth. The manner of -his death still woke a slow, ominous fury in her—a phase that placid -natures might have been unable to understand. Yet the Jews of old were -true and elemental in their vengeances and in the vengeance of their -God. They understood that flame of fire in the heart that consumes even -its own substance till the sacrificial victim has been found. - -Yet here was the bitterness of the thing that she should falter before -this very sacrifice. It is so easy to strike when the whole heart is in -the blow; so difficult when some trick of lovableness makes the courage -waver. If only the man had helped her by being gross, arrogant, or -contemptible! Yet he was all that she would not have him be, and all -that she, as a woman, would have desired had there been no inevitable -tragedy urging her on. His very surface, though she rallied herself with -cynical distrust, made her incredulous, even afraid. Often she would -fling the very suspicion from her with passionate unbelief. And yet in -an hour it would flow back again like dark water into a well. - -Walking the yew walk in some such mood of doubt and hesitation, she saw -a boy’s face looking down at her from overhead—a brown, impudent, -snub-nosed face with an intelligent twinkle in the eyes. It was John -Gore’s boy, Sparkin, straddling the fork of a yew, the dense vault of -foliage overhead casting so deep a shadow that he might have escaped -notice like his Majesty in the oak after Worcester fight. - -Barbara paused and glanced up at him threateningly, angry at the thought -that she had been spied upon. - -“What are you doing there?” - -“Birds’-nesting,” said the boy, promptly. - -“You won’t find any eggs this month of the year.” - -“Oh, sha’n’t I!” - -“No, the birds are fledged.” - -“Some of them sit twice,” quoth Sparkin, determined neither to be -corrected nor to be crushed, though he had been caught at such a -disadvantage. - -There was a stone bench at the western end of the yew alley, and -Barbara, leaving Sparkin skied by his own conceit, walked on and sat -down on the bench, knowing that the best way to hurt a boy is to ignore -him. But Sparkin was out on no vainglorious adventure. He had nearly -been tempted to interest himself in his master’s affairs, for it was a -new experience for the youngster to watch this king of the quarter-deck -dipping his flag to a thing in a petticoat. - -Therefore, Sparkin came scuffling down the tree as soon as he discovered -that his ambuscade had failed, and, pushing his way between the yews and -a high brick wall, disappeared in the direction of the house. - -Making a bolt for the doorway leading into the tennis-court, he ran full -tilt into a gentleman as he rounded the corner, and that gentleman being -none other than Captain Gore himself, he took Master Sparkin playfully -by the ear, concluding that the boy had been in mischief, and that -vengeance in some shape or form followed at his heels. - -“Hallo! what are you running for?” - -Sparkin had no excuse for the moment. It would have been useless to -explain that he preferred the more vigorous form of exercise. - -“I met Mistress Barbara in the yew walk, captain.” - -His innocence was sublime. What earthly interest could John Gore take in -such a coincidence? - -“I was birds’-nesting, and I thought it would be good manners to run -away.” - -John Gore maintained his hold on Sparkin’s ear, and looked down at him -with shrewd amusement. Then he gave him a fillip, and a gesture in the -direction of the house, a hint that the boy had the wisdom to accept as -final. - -The stone bench in the yew walk was set forward a little from the trunks -of the trees, and John Gore, as he entered the alley, saw the girl’s -figure outlined against the gold of the western sky. This tunnel of -shadows seemed to him to lead toward mystery and desire. The figure at -the end thereof remained motionless as a statue in black marble set -before the entrance to a shrine. - -She did not wake to his presence till he was quite near to her, with the -sun shining upon his face, and upon the new coat of scarlet cloth that -he wore. There may have been some symbolism in the very color of the -cloth. The simple richness of it suited his brown skin and the swarthy -strength of his clean-shaven face. - -“Oh, is it you!” - -“You were tired of watching grown men playing with a ball?” - -“Perhaps I had other things to think of.” - -She moved aside and gathered up her dress so that there was ample room -for him upon the bench. Yet, though it was done coldly, imperturbably, -without a glimmer of a smile, the man whom she had sworn to kill -suspected nothing but habitual melancholy. - -“Your boy was here a minute or two ago.” - -“Sparkin? I caught him on the run, and gave him a tweak of the ear to -last for a week.” - -“The child seems very fond of you.” - -“Perhaps because I have never spared the rope’s-end when necessary, and -perhaps because he has never caught me lying.” - -“How did you come by him?” - -“A mere chance. He was no man’s child—a kind of wild-cat that haunted -the river-side and lived as best it could. It was before I sailed three -years ago that I saw the youngster outside a Greenwich tavern. He was -standing up in his rags to some big, well-conditioned bully of a -school-boy, and thrashing him squarely by sheer pluck.” - -“That is how you became friends?” - -“I took him to sea with me, and grew fond of the youngster in spite of -his insolence, which I chastened like a father. And the humor of it was -that after pulling him out of a Greenwich gutter, the boy pulled a -ship’s crew out of a Barbary prison. I have told you that tale before.” - -Barbara watched his face while he was speaking with an intentness that -made him feel the nearness of her eyes. - -“A lucky day for the boy.” - -“And for me. We are more than quits. I am here in England.” And he -glanced at her as though he had meant more than he had said. - -Barbara cherished her reserve. - -“It was in the autumn of 1675 that you sailed,” she said. - -“No, earlier than that.” - -“I remember the year well.” - -“It was in June, not in the autumn.” - -“I remember every month of that year, because it was the year that my -father died.” - -She spoke calmly, yet he was startled by the expression of her face. It -shone white in the half-gloom of the evening under the yews, the eyes -gleaming out from it with a dull fire. - -“The month was June; I am sure of that.” - -“If you say it was June it must have been so. You should know.” - -Her wayward strangeness puzzled him. At times he was even tempted to -believe that what my Lord Gore had hinted at might some day prove too -true. The thought roused in him a shock of rebellion at the heart, and -an instinct of strong tenderness that woke a longing to cherish and to -protect. - -“Are you cold here? There is a mist beginning to rise from the river.” - -“They will be wondering what has become of us.” - -“Let them wonder. I will fetch you a cloak.” - -“No. Let us go in.” - -She shivered momentarily and rose from the bench, drawing a little away -from him as they walked up the yew alley together. The east was full of -a faint crimson splendor; the colder tints had not come as yet. - -Neither of them appeared to have a word to say. Yet the silence was -tinged with a vague mystery that seemed to catch the spirit of the dying -day. To John Gore it seemed that any memory of that fatal year chilled -the girl like the breath of a raw November night. - -Barbara went to her room with a feeling of infinite loneliness weighing -upon her heart, the loneliness of a gray twilight over a gray land. An -utter dreariness dulled all feeling in her for the hour. Perfunctorily, -almost blindly, she changed her dress, putting on something richer for -the wax lights and the music in the state salon. A procession of dim -thoughts moved slowly through her brain, their significance hurting her -despite her obstinate self-will. - -It was inevitable that the man should swear that he had sailed from -England before the month of her father’s death. - -Had not the voyage itself been a trick to cover the meaning of the past? -Neither he nor that other one whom she suspected had betrayed one -glimmer of a tragic intimacy. But that, too, was inevitable—a surface -hypocrisy that might betray caution, penitence, even a fading of desire. - -And yet—and yet! - -She stretched her arms out with a kind of anguish of incredulous -helplessness, feeling utterly alone in a world of bitterness and horror. -Could he be that man whose sword had left her father dead that autumn -night? - - - - - XIV - - -My Lord of Gore’s coach carried Anne Purcell and her daughter back to -Westminster, for the gathering at the house at Bushy had dispersed -prematurely, owing to sundry regrettable differences of opinion that had -arisen between the three elder women. My lord himself travelled cityward -with the Purcells, as though discountenancing Mrs. Catharine Gore, who -had been spirited by Lady Marden and her daughter away in her coach to -Kensington. For the quarrel, such as it was, had originated in Mrs. -Kate’s deafness and her utter lack of reasonable discretion, since her -loud and irritable tongue had not only set the two elder ladies by the -ears, but had driven even her stately brother to a tempestuous ruffling -of his dignity. The repartee had verged on coarseness, for Mrs. -Catharine Gore was the most exasperating person to argue with on the -face of God’s earth. Her deafness, exaggerated for the occasion, made -her impregnable both against weight of metal and sharpness of wit. And -she could retaliate in the most violent and acrid fashion, pretending -all the time that she had mistaken the rival disputant’s meaning. - -Thus when my lord had persisted with some heat and an impressive -dogmatism that his sister painted her prejudices too vividly, Mrs. Kate -had seized the chance of flinging an explosive retort into the midst of -the party. - -“If my Lady Purcell had said that my Lady Marden painted her face, it -was no business of her brother’s to repeat it, and that only fools made -mischief wantonly.” - -And it may be imagined that a few such sweet misapplications of the -truth had ruined the tranquillity of her brother’s house. - -John Gore and the two gentlemen had ridden over earlier that morning, -for the sea-captain had business at Deptford that concerned the men who -had lain with him in a Barbary prison. Nor were the three in my lord’s -coach sympathetically arranged. There were three angles to the diagram, -and though two of them may have been in geometrical agreement, the third -spoiled the symmetry of the whole human proposition. For Barbara had -never seemed more moody or distraught. She sat like a figure of Fate -with her great eyes looking into the distance, and her face blank and -impassive to any sallies from my lord. An atmosphere of dreariness and -of apathy seemed to emanate from her, an atmosphere so sluggish and -sincere that it blighted the two elders, who would have been buxom -enough if they had been alone. - -The lord and the lady exchanged glances from time to time. They were -wise in their generation, nor were they ready to be displeased at the -little romance that appeared to be developing under their noses. The -girl had an eccentric way of accepting homage. Yet they understood her -to be a queer piece of morose comeliness; nor had she the habit of -simpering like other women. - -Stephen Gore smiled, and looked with surreptitious shrewdness at the -mother. - -“Pauvre petite!” - -“La maladie des femmes.—Jean et Jeanette!” - -They laughed and glanced, each of them; out of their respective windows, -not noticing the dull gleam in the girl’s dark eyes. - -Meanwhile the Don John of their love prophecies had changed his nag for -a fast wherry on the Thames, and had landed at Deptford stairs before my -lord’s coach had come within sight of the towers of Westminster. Picking -his way amid the sea-lumber of the place, he hunted out a tavern known -as “The Eight Bells,” a tavern with great tipsy tables, and little -windows like blinking eyes, and rough benches along the wall. - -Within, a parlor full of tobacco smoke, black beams, and copper-colored -faces that seemed to conjure up all the adventuresomeness of the wild -life of the sea. It was a corner of the world where men about a winter -fire might tell tales of treasure, of sea-fights, and all the coarse, -quaint, crudely colored romance of the Spanish seas. The mere words were -magical to a roving spirit. Pieces of eight, culverins, great rivers -with strange names, treasure-houses full of ingots of gold, the far -islands of the buccaneers. There men should tell tales of wine drunk -under tropical moons, of mulatto women in bright garments, of Indian -girls, of prize-money and the smell of powder, and the salt sweat of the -bustling seas. The whole strong perfume of that adventurous life seemed -to permeate the shadows of that low-beamed room, with Jasper of the guns -turning his hawk’s eyes from man to man, and talking of the days when -the captain should sail the ship that they had already seen and coveted. - -Ha!—and Jasper’s face grew fierce and happy—they would sweep down the -Channel with sails whiter than Dover cliffs, and all their cannon -sparkling like ingots of gold! There would be pikes bristling in the -arm-racks around the masts; the hissing of the grindstone as the men -sharpened their cutlasses. Full sail past Tangier, and a “lookout” in -the foretop for any heathen devil that dared show a nose in the open -sea. Even a few piratical jests would not come amiss. Jasper had -pictured it all to his mates after they had seen and coveted Old Man -Hollis’s ship, _The Wolf_, lying at anchor in mid-stream. Just the girl -to carry the captain in her lap! They would wipe out the smell of that -Barbary prison, and set the brass boys bellowing like bulls of Bashan. - -They tumbled up from the benches of “The Eight Bells” when the figure in -the red coat showed at the doorway. Jasper, old sea-wolf, with ringed -ears and a buckram skin, grinned joyfully, proud with the pride of an -old Norse pirate. - -There was a chair by the rough table for John Gore. He sat down there, -while the men formed a ring round him, while Jasper of the guns said his -say. - -“We have found you a ship, captain: twenty brass cannon and wings like a -sea-gull. All her tackle new as a girl’s stockings after Michaelmas.” - -John Gore looked at them all a little sadly, like a man who must speak -bad news. He had picked up Jasper’s pipe, and was tracing an imaginary -pattern on the table. The sailors would have sworn that it was a -love-knot had they been able to see inside the captain’s head. - -“Don’t tempt me, Jasper, my man; when you go to sea again, it won’t be -under my flag.” - -Bluntly, yet with a great kindness for them that could not be hid, he -blew to the winds all Jasper’s visions of judgment. Not for a year at -least would he sail on a second voyage. The big man regarded him -sorrowfully, as though listening to the news of a Dutch victory. The -sailors looked at one another and shifted uneasily from foot to foot. A -pipe was tapped softly, even dismally, on the heel of a sea-boot. One -worthy could find no other method of expression than that of firing a -stream of tobacco juice into a pile of sawdust in a corner. - -They were like so many dismasted hulks with the spirit out of them, so -many disappointed children. Jasper’s enthusiasm broke into a last flare. - -“Such a little dancing devil, captain, and her guns all like new pins. -She ought to carry you, and no one else.” - -The man in the red coat still drew patterns on the table. - -“Look you, my men, don’t count on serving under me; I am high and dry -for a year or more. You are too tough to rot here in taverns. My -business is to see good men of mine afloat in a good ship.” - -“That’s like you, captain.” - -“We did not fight the _Sparhawk_ for nothing, did we? You served me -well; I mean to serve you. Will you go to sea as picked men in a King’s -ship?” - -Jasper looked at his mates, first over one shoulder and then over the -other. - -“That’s the next best,” he said, bluntly. - -“Well, then, I’ll make it my affair.” - -“I can’t keep my fingers off a gun or a rope for long, sir, that’s God’s -truth.” - -“The smell of the tar sticks, lads? Mr. Pepys and the Duke, if -necessary, shall be my men. I would rather see fellows of mine in the -best ship that carries the King’s flag than rolling in some dirty ketch -between Dover and Dunkirk.” - -John Gore called for a tankard of ale, and they pledged healths together -in the tavern of “The Eight Bells.” Leaving them a purse of guineas as -largesse, he returned to his boat, with Jasper and his mates acting as a -kind of state guard to the water-side. - -“If God won’t have a man, the devil will! That’s an old proverb, -captain, and the King’s a better master than Old Nick.” - -With some such philosophy Jasper looked lovingly on John Gore as he -stood on the water-steps and took his leave. Far down the stream the -masts of Old Man Hollis’s ship seemed to beckon them unavailingly toward -the brightness of Spanish seas. - -At the Admiralty offices a plump, buxom, bustling gentleman received -John Gore with great good-will. Something of a dandy, with protuberant -eyes that appeared to have grown weak with straining at everything that -was to be seen, Mr. Pepys bundled himself gladly from the multifarious -responsibilities of office, and let loose all his heartiness in the -service of a friend. It was impossible to be jovial or to enjoy a gossip -where so many detestable quills were scratching and scolding over -parchment and paper. The dinner-table was the secretary’s inspiration. -Mrs. Pepys would be infinitely contented at the thought of an old friend -dining off the new silver plate. John Gore and the ubiquitous, but yet -lovable, busybody departed dinnerward arm in arm. - -At home the fair St. Michel appeared triste and a little out of temper. -Her husband’s hospitality was often inconsistently impulsive. There are -moments, even in the best households, when the joints are scraggy, and -the puddings like country cousins, homely and out of fashion. Mr. Pepys -kissed his wife with excellent unction, let fall a hint that he had seen -a new gown at the New Exchange, and compelled the domestic sun to shine -by the sheer vitality of his good-humor. - -Jack Gore praised his sherry, and frankly confessed that he had a favor -to ask. Mr. Pepys chuckled. So many people always appeared to be in like -case. His sherry was the finest sherry in the three kingdoms on such -occasions. Some of these suppliants—well, that was a purely private -affair! And he gave a confidential and deliberate wink that suggested -that he was popular. - -“Most revered Jack,” quoth he, “you throw a request in a man’s face like -a twenty-pound shot into a Dutchman’s hull. There is just the polite -spark at the touch-hole to give one warning, your urbanity concerning -the sherry. None the less, I like it. Candor makes me feel quite fat.” - -“You will get these fellows of mine well berthed?” - -“All captains and lieutenants in three weeks! I would have you come and -see some of the scrofulous schemers who wriggle in and smirk at me—most -days of the month. They are so polite, so considerate in suggesting how -I may be made a fool and a rogue. And sea-captains, sir, seem to be the -fated husbands of pretty wives. It makes a Prometheus of me at times, I -assure you. And as for Mrs. Pepys there, somehow she always has a -sneaking preference for the mild and simple bachelors!” - -The secretary’s wife stared hard at her husband’s embroidered vest. The -direction of such a glance is considered disconcerting when applied to -gentlemen who are approaching maturity. - -“Sam is always a fool where women are concerned,” she said, with an -autocratic poise of the head. - -“There now, sir—and I married her! How can she speak such truths? Some -more pie? Nonsense apart, Jack, I will see these men of yours well -placed.” - -What with chattering on his own affairs and questioning John Gore on his -voyage, Mr. Pepys appeared to forget that there was such an incubus as -his Majesty’s business. He suggested a drive in the park. His own coach, -so he said, had eclipsed the Mancini’s, as Hortense had eclipsed the -Breton Rose. Then there was Nell to be seen in a new play at The King’s, -but he would not wink at her. Mrs. Pepys should see to that. And their -best bedroom stood empty! A man who had so much cosmopolitan gossip to -impart could not be suffered to call a link-boy that night. They could -sit out together on the “leads” after supper, and talk till the stars -blinked and they both fell a-yawning. - -The end of all this amiable bustle was that John Gore slept between Mr. -Pepys’s best sheets, and spent a great part of the following day with -him, looking at his books and plate, drinking his wine, and hearing his -new maid sing one of the secretary’s old songs. For Mr. Pepys was such a -bubble of mirth, such a book of shrewd sense, such a register of -anecdotes, that his loquacity and his infinite good-fellowship made even -romance linger in its onrush for an hour. - -Late shadows were floating down the river before John Gore escaped from -the secretary’s weak eyes and stalwart tongue. He had some small affairs -of his own to attend to in the City and at the New Exchange in the -Strand: some new harness at a saddler’s; stockings and shirts at a silk -mercer’s; a case of long pistols at a gunsmith’s in a street near the -New Exchange. The pistol-stocks were inlaid with ivory and -mother-of-pearl, and he left them with the smith for an hour to have his -name scrolled upon the barrels. A coffee-house and a _Gazette_ filled up -his leisure. And not being a man afraid of carrying a parcel through the -public streets, he returned to the gunsmith’s shop, and went westward -with the pistols under his arm. - -He took some of the quieter ways past Charing Cross, where the city and -the fields met in scattered gardens and narrow lanes. Apple boughs, -already hung with fruit, drooped alluringly over high brick walls. Here -and there came the scent of rosemary and sage, of clove-pinks, marjoram, -and lavender. And through the bars of some iron gate you might see great -sheaves of sweet-peas in bloom, or torch-lilies stiff and quaint, or -rose-trees with the flowers falling and turning brown. - -In one of these narrow lanes, with a high wall upon the one side and a -thorn-hedge upon the other, John Gore met the last soul on earth he -expected to meet at such a moment—Barbara Purcell, alone, not even -followed by a servant. However dreamily John Gore’s thoughts may have -lingered amid the stately walks of my lord’s house at Bushy, he was -surprised to see her before him in the flesh. She was dressed quietly, -with a cloak over her shoulders, and the hood turned forward to cover -her hair, so that she looked more like a shopkeeper’s daughter than a -young madam from the atmosphere of St. James’s. - -There was no turning back for either of them in that narrow lane, even -if either had desired to escape a meeting. John Gore saw her flush -momentarily, with a glitter of something in the eyes wonderfully like -anger. How symbolical that hedged-in pathway seemed to her—a pathway -where fate could not be eluded, and where death followed her like a -shadow! - -“I never thought to see you here!” - -She looked at him darkly with her sombre eyes—eyes that made him think -of watchfulness and waiting. - -“Sometimes I come here and walk in the lanes. They are quiet, and one is -not stared at.” - -“You should not walk here, though, when it is getting dusk.” - -“Oh, I am not afraid.” - -The unfeigned earnestness of the man betrayed a depth beyond the -shallows of mere words. - -“Others—may be afraid for you. These paths that seem so sweet and green -are often the night tracks of the vermin of the streets.” - -Their eyes met and appeared to exchange a challenge. - -“I have never been troubled here.” - -“God save the chance that you ever should. We can walk back together, -now that we have met.” - -She had no excuse with which to parry his grave frankness. Had life -promised another meaning she might have suffered herself to be touched -by the message that his manhood seemed to utter. And to John Gore, -walking at her side, the rose-trees that had bloomed in the quaint -gardens were budding again into crimson flame. The high hedgerows were -full of golden light, caught and held in the mysterious shadow-net of -the dusk. - -Under his arm were the pistols that he had bought at the gunsmith’s shop -in the street near the New Exchange. He little thought that Barbara -Purcell had been bound for that very place, where steel barrels -glistened row by row in the oak racks against the wall. Chance, and -their meeting, had prevented her that day, and her first impulse had -been one of anger and impatience. It was not easy to slip away alone and -unobserved from the house in Pall Mall. John Gore had marred the first -endeavor. She could but pretend tolerance, and hold to that patience -that counts upon the morrow. - -Yet, when he was leaving her as the dusk fell, she felt like one nearing -the grim and incredible climax of a dream. It hurt and oppressed her to -be near him, and yet there was an indefinable mystery in his nearness -that made her heart cry out against the inevitable doom of all desire. - -“Good-night.” - -“Good-night.” - -She felt that he stood and watched her with those grave eyes of his -after she had turned from him along the footway. And the shadow of the -coming night seemed more apparent to her soul. - - - - - XV - - -There are few episodes in a man’s life that plunge him into that dim -forest world of romance where the woodways are full of whisperings and -elfin music, and the gleam of moonlight upon the smooth trunks of mighty -trees. In youth romance is a habit; in maturity, a mere digression. The -boy is naturally an imaginative creature; he dreams dreams of beauty and -strangeness, and of women whose lips suck the blood from the heart. The -marriage service sobers him. He ceases his excursions into hypothetical -raptures, and becomes the steady, workaday busybody, proud of his house, -his table, or his garden, paternally patient with poetical youth. -Affection takes the place of that inconvenient thing called passion. To -romance he is inert, fuddled—unless one illegitimate fire plays havoc -with his respectable tranquillity. - -And yet those moments of passion when the heart was all flame, incense, -and music, and the world a young world gorgeous with dawns and sunsets, -those moments of wistful youth come back dearly with a rush of regret -that makes gray reality transiently bright with a faint afterglow. What -though it be a cheat and an illusion, it is the finest dream that will -ever steal through the gates of day. The man may remember it when he -figures at his ledger, and may yearn secretly for that rich, sensuous -youth which the cumulative common-sense of years has crushed into a -faded, foolish fancy. - -There are few lives without one red gleam from the west, one moment of -desire when the wind comes with the cry of a lover through midnight -forest ways. To feel again that strange stir of mystery many a man has -leaped into what the world calls “sin.” It is but Nature’s living voice: -the potion of sweet herbs that she presses upon her children, that they -may drink and see the sky waving with red banners, and smell the far -fragrance of pine woods or wild thyme. For life must beget life, and -Nature weaves her mystery about the hearts of mortal men, only snatching -the magic veil aside when her witchery has worked its will. - -Now my Lord Gore had passed through many such phases, and was as wise as -most men who have studied others and themselves. To remain interested in -life the man of the world must be piqued continually by some new plot. A -dish that can be had for the asking has less spice in it than one that -boasts delicacies from strange lands. And my lord was amused by his -son’s possible lunacy, even as a man who has been under the table many a -night is amused by watching some grave person make a first experiment in -the art of self-intoxication. - -My Lord Gore and his dear Goddess enjoyed the little drama together, -being in such sympathy with each other that they could discuss its -subtleties and smile over its innocent blindness. There was some -singularity in the case in question. The woman was not what the world -would call wooable. As for the man, he was no courtier, and not given to -fine phrases. They imagined that much bellows-work would be needed to -make such green wood flare up into flame. - -My lord and Lady Anne were standing at a window in the main gallery of -the house—a window that looked out upon the garden and the music-room. -My lord was hiding, almost playfully, behind a curtain, and peering at -the mother with inimitable slyness. Anne Purcell stood back a little, so -that she could hear without being seen. - -“They are not very talkative,” said my lord. - -“No.” - -“A couple of sphinxes making love to each other without speaking a word! -I have no doubt but that Jack will prove a veritable Petruchio. It will -be boot and saddle for him to-morrow, and a canter along the road to -York to see how his property doth in those parts. A man must be given -opportunities of saying good-bye. It is discreet and amiable of us to -stand here chuckling in a draughty gallery.” - -Anne Purcell held up a hand, a sharp gesture for silence. - -“Hark! some one is playing the harpsichord!” - -“Not Jack.” - -“No one has touched the thing for months.” - -“That accounts for the discords. Mistress Barbara is picking up the old -fascinations that girls learn at school. Phew! Jack must be a gallant -liar if he can swear that he enjoys it!” - -“For Heaven’s sake, be quiet, Stephen. I want to listen.” - -She bent toward the window, holding her hollowed hand to her ear. My -Lord Gore pulled down his ruffles and leaned gracefully against the -wainscoting. He winced hypersensitively as the harpsichord notes jangled -out of tune. - -“Well, madam, if you can make anything out of it—” - -“Be still.” - -“For five minutes I will have no tongue.” - -There was an expression of bleak intentness upon Anne Purcell’s face. -More than once her lips moved. My lord watched her with an air of -cynical tolerance. - -Suddenly she straightened at the hips and swung the lattice to with a -clash of impatience. - -“Tut—tut!” quoth the gentleman, soothingly. - -“Did you hear what the girl is thumbing out?” - -“No, on my honor.” - -“That song of Sutcliffe’s which the Westminster choir-master set to -music! Such things must run in the girl’s brain.” - -A frown gathered upon my lord’s debonair and buxom face. - -“You are always looking for the snake under the stone, Nan. Why should -we worry over such a flick of the memory?” - -“Why? Why, indeed! Except that some shadow seems always to strike across -my face. You—you should understand.” - -He drew a deep breath, and expelled it slowly with a hissing sound -between his closed teeth. - -“If you believe in omens, Nan, we must transfer the sinister side of it -to Captain Jack. Pah! what do either of the young fools know? They will -help each other to forget every one and everything on earth save their -two sweet selves. That is one of the advantages of the disease. What are -parents when a lover appears? He has already roused the girl to some -show of spirits, and for that, Nan, you should be thankful.” - -There was, however, something false and forced in the energy of his -cynicism, and in the flippant way he tossed the past aside. Yet even -when they returned to the salon on the other side of the house, the -faint, husky voice of the harpsichord followed them like a voice from -another world. - - - - - XVI - - -In the music-room a sudden silence had fallen, like the pause between -the two stanzas of a song. Barbara, seated on an oak settle with a -cushion of crimson velvet, let her hands rest idly on the key-board of -the harpsichord. Her eyes were raised as though her thoughts had been -carried beyond the four walls of the room by the music her fingers had -drawn from the keys. Yet it was not the pose of one who was dreaming, -for she was looking into a mirror that hung on the wall above the -harpsichord. - -In that mirror—she had hung it there with her own hands—she could see -the greater part of the room reflected with all the minute brilliance of -a Dutch “interior”: the polished floor, the oak table, John Gore’s red -coat, the brown wainscoting; even the vivid grass beyond the window, and -the massed colors of a bed of summer flowers. John Gore was sitting in -the window-seat, and she could watch his face in the mirror on the wall. - -He was bending forward and looking at her with an intentness that -betrayed his ignorance that she had him at a disadvantage, in that he -saw only the curve of a cheek, while Barbara had everything before her. -His elbows were on his knees, his hands knitted together between them, -his sword lying on the window-seat, the scarf a knot of brilliant color -like a great red rose. He was a man in whom even a child would have -found great strength, and a kind of quiet sternness that mellowed when -he smiled. - -John Gore had come to her to say good-bye, and she knew the meaning of -his coming, the meaning that had come kindling in those eyes of his -since the duel that wet night in June. It was a mere man’s trick to be -near her, and to turn a month’s absence to the service of the heart. And -they were alone together in that room where she had found her father -dead—the room that might prove an altar of sacrifice. - -Barbara’s white face seemed near to tragedy as she gazed steadily into -the mirror on the wall. Every fibre of her heart had been strung to a -tenseness that made each heart-beat hard and perceptible. She had put -pity from her with the dry cold eyes of a fatalist and the fierce apathy -of one driven onward by force of fate. She had faltered too long, clung -too treacherously to an incredulous caution. Life had become a dull -misery for her, full of infinite doubt and sudden passionate impulses -that carried her to the edge of the unknown. Only to grasp the truth, to -tear aside the veil of sentiment, to end the uncertainty of it, even if -it should be forever! Her heart was emptying of the power to hate. She -had begun to distrust herself. She had to scourge herself with memories, -as a fanatic uses a knotted whip upon the flesh. - -“Is that the end?” - -The silence had seemed a silence of hours instead of moments, and she -started at the sound of his voice, pressing a hand over her bosom with -an involuntary spasm of swift consciousness. She was wearing a loose -gown with a mass of lace over the breasts. There was something more -tangible hidden there than a memory. - -“I have no voice to sing; I shall only remind you of a missel-thrush.” - -“But the harpsichord?” - -“The notes are all harsh and the wires rusty.” - -She glanced at the mirror and saw the same intentness in his eyes. - -“Then you do not play often?” - -“No.” - -“Why not?” - -“My mother is no music-lover. And my fingers have grown stiff.” - -“Why should that have been?” - -“I have hardly touched the key-board since—my father died.” - -She watched him in the mirror, but he did not change his posture or -betray anything upon his face. It seemed stern, and a little sad, the -face of a man with depths beneath a surface of reserve. - -“I can understand that—in measure.” - -His voice struck a chord in her, as a voice that sings may set a wire -vibrating. - -“It was here—in this room.” - -“Here?” - -“Yes. It was I who found him. His hands had touched these notes the day -before. He had sung the song that I have played to you.” - -Upon the panel of the upturned lid was a picture painted in an oval -scroll of flowers, a sensuous scene from a _fête galante_ with men and -women dancing and looking love. The colors and the gestures of each -minute figure seemed to burn in upon the girl’s brain, as small things -will when life hangs upon a look or upon a word. - -Barbara rose slowly, pushing the settle back, and gazing into the mirror -at the man’s dark and thoughtful face. - -“It was some unknown sword that killed him.” - -She had turned, and his eyes met hers. - -“Nothing was ever discovered.” - -“Nothing?” - -“That was what seemed so strange.” - -She stood a moment gazing through the window at the flowers in the -border, yet trying to penetrate by sheer instinct beyond the man’s quiet -dignity. John Gore remembered his father’s innuendos. It had been a -pitiable affair for an innocent girl. It would have been even more -pitiable had she been confronted with what my lord had hinted to be the -truth. - -“Does the thrust of a sword hurt? I have often wondered.” - -Her eyes were fixed upon him, as though she had discovered the slightest -flicker of uneasiness, a length of silence that suggested premeditation. - -“Why think of such things?” - -“One cannot always help one’s thoughts; they come like the wind through -the window.” - -John Gore leaned his head upon his hand, his fingers tugging at his -hair, much like a school-boy baffled by a pile of figures. Man of -action, and of the world that he was, his ways were often quaintly -boyish. - -“There may be one pang, perhaps.” - -“The thought of steel in one’s body makes one shiver.” - -She seemed to persist in her morbid melancholy like one whose thoughts -move in a circle. - -“Is that the sword with which you fought Lord Pembroke?” - -“That? Yes.” - -“Let me look at it. Strange that such bodkin can be so deadly.” - -He took it for a whim of hers, and humored her, hiding the pity in his -eyes. - -“Why, it is not much heavier than a gentleman’s cane!” - -She held it in her two hands, balancing it, and looking at the silver -work upon the sheath. John Gore watched her, grave-eyed and -compassionate. - -“It is said that the sword suits itself to the age.” - -“Oh!” And she drew back innocently, step by step. - -“Broad and trenchant; slim and subtle.” - -“Then you would call this a sword for a treacherous hand?” - -“No, rather a tool for the man with a brain. Any fool can fight with a -club.” - -She drew the blade sharply from the scabbard, still moving backward step -by step till the table was between her and John Gore. - -“It was some such sword as this that killed my father.” - -“Perhaps.” - -He shirked the subject, as though afraid of paining her or abetting her -in her distemper. - -“If I could only know the truth! The mystery of it haunts me.” - -She laid the sword upon the table, quite close to her hand, so that she -could snatch at it if things came to such a pass. - -“Some parts of life are better forgotten.” - -“If we can forget.” - -A great impulse stirred in him, bidding him go to her and take her -hands. - -“The bitter things remain, and with them—for contrast—the silliest -trifles.” - -He looked up at her with a brightening of the eyes. - -“Yes; why, Heaven alone knows! I can remember kissing my mother when she -lay dead. And with the same vividness I can remember a wooden horse I -had as a boy, a gray horse with a brown saddle painted on his back, and -his nostrils a gay scarlet. Whenever I see a horse I think of that -wooden horse’s nose.” - -Barbara gave a queer, short laugh, her face firing with sudden -animation. - -“That is just what life is. And sometimes we see the same thing -again—afterward. I can call to mind looking into the window of a -goldsmith’s shop, and seeing upon a little green board a short gold -chain with a knot of pearls for a button. Why I should have noticed and -remembered that one thing I can’t tell. But I saw its brother chain one -night this summer.” - -His eyes met hers, calm, steady, and unperturbed. - -“Where?” - -“On the cloak you wore that night.” - -“A cloak?” - -“Yes, at Hortense Mancini’s, when you came in wet with the rain. And I -thought that one of the gold chains seemed missing.” - -She watched his face, her hand going instinctively toward her bosom. - -“Strange! That chain probably belonged once to the cloak I wore.” - -“Ah!” - -“There was a chain missing and a small scar in the cloth, as though it -had been torn away. The loss might easily be answered for.” - -She steadied herself against the table, feeling every muscle in her -rigid, yet ready to tremble when the end had come. - -“You had worn that cloak before?” - -“I?” - -He glanced up at her curiously, struck by her white, set face and the -harsh straining of her voice. - -“Yes.” - -“No. The cloak was borrowed, if the truth concerns you.” - -“Borrowed?” - -“I came home from sea with one shirt, one coat, and the other part of me -in like proportion. My father’s wardrobe came to the rescue.” - -“Then the cloak was my Lord Gore’s?” - -“Yes; and his man probably stole the chain and sold it.” - -He laughed; but on looking up at her again a silent, questioning wonder -swept the lighter lines aside. She was standing motionless behind the -table, her hands fixed upon the edge thereof, her eyes staring at -nothing like the eyes of one in a trance. Yet even as he looked at her a -great spasm of emotion seemed to sweep across her face. She turned -without a word to him and fled out of the room. - -John Gore found himself looking at the table behind which she had stood -and at the sword that lay unsheathed thereon. The inexplicable swiftness -of her mood went utterly beyond him, save that the words my lord had -spoken flashed up like letters of fire upon the wall. - -He rose and went to the door of the music-room, moving slowly as one -weighted with thoughts that bear heavily upon the heart. The garden was -empty, save for its closely clipped bays. Like some wayward cloud-shadow -she had passed it and was gone. - -But Barbara had fled to her room with a tumult of deep feeling within -her heart. It was as though something had broken within her brain, -letting forth infinite tenderness that welled up into poignant tears. - -She went in and fell on her knees beside her bed. And if her heart found -utterance it was in the one short cry: “Thank God!” - - - - - XVII - - -John Gore rode for Yorkshire the next day, mounted on a good gray nag, -with pistols in his holsters, and a servant with a blunderbuss, and a -valise strapped on the saddle of a stout brown cob. Travellers had to -take their chance of meeting rough gentry on the road, and many a -nervous countryman, weighing sixteen stone, made out his will before he -did so desperate a thing as travel forty miles. The sea-captain was not -a man with jumpy nerves, and his thoughts went to and fro between -rentals and harvestings and the ways of women as though he sat smoking -at home in a padded chair. Put a man in the saddle on a summer morning, -when the dawn is coming up, and all the hedgerows are dashed with dew, -and he will be moved to sing, and to think well of the world, for the -fresh kisses of the dawn leave no stain upon the mouth. - -John Gore was thinking of Barbara Purcell; and the mistake a man so -often makes is to accuse a woman of whims when he does not understand -her, it being easier to call a thing by a name than to investigate its -properties. Man is the creature of a superstition in this respect, and -if a cow kicks the milk-pail over he calls her “a cussed beast,” and as -such she is branded. For man, taking himself so solemnly, cannot stay in -his stride to find out why a woman has her silks or her worsteds in a -tangle. If she weeps, his great solatium is a sweep of the arm and a -kiss. If she seems sulky, it is just her perversity, and it is no more -use for him to trouble his wise head about her vapors than to ask a -February morning cloud why it shows such a sour face. It is nature’s -business, and man, unless he happens to be a psychologist, leaves it as -such and thinks about his dinner. - -John Gore, jogging along at a good pace, with the fields and woods all -silver under the rising sun, looked back at the hours of yesterday with -more thoroughness than the majority of lovers. An ordinary egotist might -have drawn some flattering inference from the strange melting of the -girl’s reserve and her eagerness to escape him. He would have reminded -his own conceit that a woman cries, “Shame, sir!” and thinks what she -will wear for the wedding. But John Gore was not so ordinary a fool. His -thoughts went deeper into the soil than the thoughts of frailer men. And -he had more true manhood in him than to insinuate even to his own heart -that because a woman played the will-o’-the-wisp, she was luring him on -with the lure of mystery. - -It was all so simple, had he but known, as all great secrets seem when -they are once discovered. Your astrologist goes weaving grotesque -obscurities about man’s destiny and the stars, till one calm brain sets -the whole grand and reasonable scheme in order. Men wrote with -prodigious pomposity about a pump. “Nature abhors a vacuum,” quoth they. -And Nature, like a misunderstood woman, laughed in her sleeve, knowing -that the larger a wise man’s words are, the less he knows. - -That Lionel Purcell’s death had left a great void in the girl’s life, -and that she still brooded over the violent mystery of it, of these -things John Gore felt assured. He could put no clear meaning to the mood -of yesterday, save that much grieving had left, as it were, an open -wound upon the brain, and that memory, touching it, would not suffer it -to heal. She had never given him one glimpse of the real purpose that -she cherished. Yet probably John Gore’s nag would have leaped forward -under a sudden slash of his rider’s spurs had the man been told what -Barbara had kept hidden from him in her bosom. As it was, her past life -appeared to him suffused with a wistful glow of infinite sadness, -infinite regret. Her face rose before him dim with a mist of autumn -melancholy. Her crown was a crown of scarlet berries woven and -interwoven amid the dark peril of her hair. - -As for Barbara, she had fallen into a strange mood that day when John -Gore rode northward out of her life. She rose early, and walked alone in -the garden, showing an untroubled face to her mother when my lady -descended after taking breakfast in bed. Barbara, to appear occupied, -had a basket on her arm, and a pair of scissors with which she was -cutting off the dead flowers along the border. - -Anne Purcell was a lady who had never bent her back over such a hobby. -“Such things were for maiden ladies with round shoulders and no bosoms.” -And the mother was a little inquisitive that morning, for John Gore’s -face had told her nothing the night before. Her wishes were all for an -understanding between the two, and she was not squeamish. The grip of a -man’s arm would hug the mopes out of the girl. Barbara needed hot blood -to teach her to live and to enjoy. My lady was wise in all these -matters. - -“It is a new thing for you to touch the harpsichord, Barbe,” she said, -with that kindness that comes easily when people seemed inclined to -shape themselves to one’s wishes. “I will send Rogers to the City and -have a man out to tune the wires.” - -Barbara reached for a dead flower, showing off her figure finely as she -leaned over the border—but there was no man there to see. - -“You can have a singing-master again, if you wish for it, so that you -can sing to some one when he comes riding back from the North.” - -She laughed and looked at her daughter with motherly archness. It was -good, at least, to see the girl busying herself even over such things as -dead flowers. - -“My voice is not worth training.” - -“What! When some one is ready to sit in the dusk and hear you sing?” - -Barbara looked at her mother innocently enough. She was all meek guile -that morning. - -“My Lord Gore is a good judge.” - -“Why, to be sure, he shall give you a lesson or two. We must get you -some new songs pricked. The old ones are too chirrupy and out of date.” - -Thus my lady imagined that she had discovered much of the truth, and -perhaps she had discovered some small portion of it beneath that placid -surface. Dead flowers! Anne Purcell had no prophetic instinct in such -matters. And Barbara was glad when she was gone, and the garden empty of -all thought save the thought of expiation. She was neither happy nor -sad, but possessed by a strange tranquillity, like the first sense of -coming sleep to one who has been in pain. She might have been surprised -at her own calmness had she been in a mood to be surprised at anything. -It was as though bitterness and doubt had been swept out of her path, -leaving the way easy toward the inevitable end. - -Barbara went into the music-room, and, lifting the lid of the -harpsichord, let her fingers go idly to and fro over the notes. So few -hours had passed, and yet the passionate voice of yesterday had died -down to a distant whisper. She was glad, quietly glad now, that he had -gone out of her life innocent and unharmed. There was still the -blood-debt between them, and in the consummation of her purpose she -would leave him a memory that could retain but little tenderness. - -It was a strange yet very natural mood, the mood of one going calmly to -the scaffold with all the fears and yearnings of yesterday drugged into -stoical sleep. Her one wonder was that she had been so blind, and that -she should have overlooked the grim simplicity of the riddle of three -years. Now, everything seemed as apparent and real to her as the -reflection of her own face in the mirror upon the wall. Her whole -insight had seized upon the discovery and accepted it with swift -conviction, even as a man in doubt and trouble seizes on the text that -answers his appeal. She could have laughed at her own blindness, had -laughter been possible over such a hazard. - -My Lord Gore was to sup with them at six o’clock that evening. Barbara -looked calmly toward the hour, as though her heart had emptied itself of -all emotion. There was no anger in her, no haste, no clash of horror and -regret. “I shall kill him to-night,” she said to herself, quite quietly, -as though there could be no other ending to that three years’ vigil. -Judged by the ordinary sentiment of life, men would have called her -utterly callous, execrably vindictive, a thing without any heart in her -to feel or fear. Yet fireside judgments are shallow things. No man knows -what a hanging is like till he happens to drive in the tumbrel to -Tyburn, and the imagination looks for lurid lights where everything may -be as calm and cold as snow. It is easy for a man to sit as judge with -the stem of a pipe between his teeth and a good dinner inside him. He -has no more knowledge of what love and desire and vengeance and death -may be than a plum-pudding can know the thoughts inside the head of the -woman who stirred it in the making. - -At noon Barbara dined with her mother, and in a Venetian vase upon the -table there were some late roses sent from my Lord Gore’s garden at -Bushy. The subtle scent of the flowers remained with the memory of that -day like the perfume from censers before a sacrifice. After dinner she -dressed herself, and, taking the girl who waited on her as maid, walked -in the park and down past Whitehall toward the river. The girl with her -noticed nothing strange, save that she was very silent, and seemed not -to see the people who went by. - -Leaning over the parapet of the river-walk, Barbara saw a barge moored -near in, and a couple of brown children sitting at the top of the cabin -steps and blowing bubbles from broken clay pipes. The soapy water in the -porringer between them would not have been wasted had it been used upon -their faces. But they were so brown and healthy and happy watching the -bubbles sail and burst that Barbara turned away from the water-side with -the first pang of the heart that she had felt that day. - -Coming back past Whitehall a troop of the King’s guard came by with -drums beating and trumpets blowing, and all the pomp of the Palace in -their red coats and burnished steel. The girl with Barbara stopped to -stare; but Barbara walked on under Hans Holbein’s gate, letting a crowd -of boys rush past her to see the redcoats and hear the trumpets. - -She would liked to have wandered into the fields beyond Charing village, -but time was passing, and there were things to be remembered. She went -straight to her room on reaching home, and, locking the door, opened an -oak coffer of which she kept the key. Lying there on a green silk scarf -were two pretty little flintlocks, their barrels damascened and the -stocks set with silver. She took them out and, sitting on her bed, held -them in her lap while she ran the ramrod down the barrels to see that -the charges were safely there. The scattering of powder in the pan from -the ivory powder-flask should be left till the last moment. - -Barbara was putting the pistols back in the coffer when she heard voices -at the far end of the gallery. It was her mother and Mrs. Jael talking -together. Their footsteps came down the gallery, and a hand knocked at -the door. - -“Yes. Who is it?” - -Mrs. Jael’s voice answered, bland and sweet: - -“Mistress Barbara, my dear, my lady wishes to see you in her room.” - -Barbara closed the lid of the coffer, put the keys in her bosom, and -went to the door. Mrs. Jael curtesied, never forgetting her good -manners. - -“Will you please go to my lady’s room?” - -“What does mother want with me?” - -“Go and see, my dear mistress,” quoth the woman, with an air of -motherliness and mystery. - -Barbara passed up the gallery without locking the door after her, since -Mrs. Jael made a pretence of going down the stairs. Yet the woman was -back again, with a briskness that did her years credit, so soon as she -had heard the closing of my lady’s door. Mrs. Jael appeared wise as to -what to do in Barbara’s room, probably because of that peep-hole in the -wainscoting of the wall. She went straight to the table where the oak -coffer stood, pulled out a bunch of keys from her pocket, and, choosing -one marked with a tag of red ribbon, unlocked the coffer and lifted the -lid. - -Mrs. Jael showed no surprise at seeing the pistols lying therein half -concealed by the green scarf. She ran a knitting-needle, which she drew -from her stocking, down each barrel in turn, holding the pistol close to -her ear and listening as she probed it. Then she examined the -powder-pans, smiled to herself sweetly, and, putting the pistols back -just as she had found them, relocked the coffer and sidled out of the -room. - - - - - XVIII - - -My Lord Gore came to the supper-table in the best of tempers, welding -fatherliness, gallantry, and wit into one and the same humor. After a -glance at his debonair and handsome face the veriest nighthawk out of -Newgate might have declared him a great gentleman, a pillar of the -state, and upholder of all chivalry. No man could be more gracious when -the wine had no sour edge to it. He could dance a child to the ceiling, -laugh like a boy, and make the majority of young maids fall in love with -him with a tremor of romance. - -In the world it is too often self that is served, and the gallant -courtier may be a bear at home. My Lord Gore was a man charmed with his -own charm. It pleased him to shine upon people, to radiate warmth, to be -looked upon as generous and splendid by men of duller manners. Yet he -could act generously, and not always with an eye to personal effect. The -plague came when his own comfort or his self-love were menaced. Then the -great gentleman, the classic courtier, showed the crust of Cain beneath -silks and velvets and coats of arms. Cross him, and Stephen Gore’s -stateliness became a power to crush instead of to propitiate. He could -be brutal with a courtly, sneering facility that was more dangerous than -the blundering anger of a rough and clumsy nature. For though every man -with the normal passions in him may be a potential Cain, it is chiefly -in the two extremes of brutishness and luxurious refinement that one -meets with that savage intolerance of the rights of others. And it must -be confessed that in the matter of sheer selfishness the poet has often -eclipsed the boor. - -At the supper-table Anne Purcell spoke of Barbara’s singing. Who was -considered the best master, and did my lord prefer the Italian manner? - -“For a man, yes,” he answered, quickly, “if he has a bull’s chest on -him. But give me a Frenchman to teach a woman to sing love-songs. That -is the fashion for Proserpine, eh, when Master Pluto has gone -a-farming?” - -He winked at Barbara over his wine, looking very bland and fatherly, -with his lips rounded as though he were saying “Oporto” to his own -comfort. - -“You might try the girl’s voice after supper, Stephen.” - -My lord was very ready. He had a bass of rich compass, like the voice of -a popish priest chanting in some glorious choir. - -“Herrick should be the man for Barbara. Soft, delicate lyrics, with an -amorous droop of the eyelids. Poor Lionel was too fond of the old -Cavalier ditties.” - -Barbara looked at him with sombre, widely opened eyes. It was not often -of late that she had heard him speak her father’s name. And that night -it woke a flare of exultant anger in her, because of the touch of -patronage, as though the dead could always be safely pitied. - -“Well, then, let us go to the music-room,” said her mother. “I will ring -to have candles lit.” - -My lord wiped his mouth daintily and laughed. - -“Next month there will be no lights needed, but chaste Diana peeping -through the casements and wishing she was not cursed with so prudish a -reputation.” - -They wandered out into the garden, where a great slant of golden light -came over the trees and made the grass vivid, even to violet in the -shadows. Barbara walked a little apart, like one whose thoughts went -silently to meet the night. Now and again she glanced at my lord, when -his eyes were off her, with an earnestness that might have puzzled him -had he noticed it. - -It was Mrs. Jael who came out with a tinder-box and lit the candles in -the music-room. Barbara watched her through the window, noticing, almost -unconsciously, the woman’s double chin, and loose, lying, voluble mouth. -She was watching Mrs. Jael when my lord took her by the elbow playfully -and turned her toward the portico. - -“Come, Mistress Jet and Ivory, we must see how you fancy Parson -Herrick.” - -Anne Purcell went in after them, Mrs. Jael standing back as my lady -entered. - -“You can send the people to bed early, Jael.” - -“Yes, my lady,” and the confidential creature passed out. - -Yet what she did was to fly up to Mistress Barbara’s room so that her -breath came in short wheezes, unlock the coffer, grope therein -tentatively, relock it, and hurry down again with a complacent smirk on -her fat face. For Mrs. Jael had a sense of the dramatic where self was -concerned, and could keep a shut mouth, despite her loquacity, till the -occasion should come when she could most magnify herself by opening it. -She went out again into the garden, where it was already growing dusk, -and, crossing the grass softly, stood at one corner of the music-room -where she could wait to hear whether her prophecies were likely to be -realized. - -My lord had established himself on the settle with the scarlet cushion, -and was playing an aria, the rings on his fingers glancing in the -candle-light. The mirror had been taken from the wall above the -harpsichord. In the window-seat Anne Purcell showed a full-lipped, -round-chinned profile ready to be outlined by the rising moon, while on -a high-backed chair beside the door sat Barbara, quiet and devout as any -novice. - -“Sing us that song of Mr. Pepys’s, Stephen.” - -“‘Beauty Advance,’ eh? A wicked wag, that Admiralty fellow. I have -watched him in church trying to discover which girl in the congregation -would make the prettiest beatitude. A dull song, very, for so lively a -gossip.” - -My lord had a habit of turning his head and looking over his shoulder, -as though he never for one moment forgot his audience. - -“Well, has Proserpine a word to say?” - -Barbara gave him her sombre eyes at noon. - -“There are my father’s songs.” - -My lord struck a false note on the harpsichord. - -“Some old Cavalier ditty, fusty as a buff coat! No, my dear, we have -forgotten how to carry a bandolier.” - -“Let the girl try something. Teach her one of the playhouse songs.” - -Barbara sat with one hand in her bosom. - -“There is an old song I remember,” she said, with the far-away look of -one calling something to mind. - -My lord paused and glanced at her. - -“What do you call it?” - -She met his eyes. - -“‘The Chain of Gold.’” - -“The name has slipped my memory. How does it run?” - -Barbara leaned against the high back of her chair. She looked steadily -at Stephen Gore, every fibre in her tense as the fibres of a yew bow -bent by an English arm. - -“‘My love has left me a chain of gold.’ That is the first line.” - -My lord furrowed his forehead thoughtfully. - -“Hum! go on. I catch nothing of it yet.” - - “‘My love has left me a chain of gold, - With a knot of pearls, for a token. - It came from his hand when that hand was cold, - And the heart within him broken.’” - -There was a short silence in the music-room, the flames of the candles -swaying this way and that as though some one moving had sent a draught -upon them. - -My lord turned with a laugh that had no mirth in it. - -“A dreary ditty. Where did you come by the song?” - -She answered him with three words. - -“In this room.” - -My lady’s silks rustled in the window-seat like the sound of trees -shivering in autumn. - -“What moods the girl has!” - -My lord kept his eyes on Barbara. - -“Is there any more of that song?” - -“There was only one verse to it till I found another.” - -“So!” - -“For to match that chain—there were three other chains. And they were -sewn upon a black cloak with a lining of purple silk, the cloak Captain -John wore the night he fought Lord Pembroke.” - -My lord pushed back the settle very slowly. His face was in the shadow, -but for all that it was not pleasant to behold. - -“Has the child these mad fits often?” he asked, with a jerk of the chin. -“She will be wishing Jack at Newgate next.” - -Barbara would not take her eyes from him to glance in the direction of -her mother. Had she looked at Anne Purcell she would have seen a plump, -comely woman grown old suddenly, and trying to make anger shine through -fear. - -“The cloak did not belong to John Gore, my lord. Nor did he know that I -have the chain from it that I found in my father’s hand.” - -She rose suddenly, and, swinging the chair before her, knelt with one -knee on it and steadied her elbow on the back. - -“Father lay over there—near the table. There is a stain on the floor -still—though Mrs. Jael was set to scrub. It was I who found him. You -may remember that.” - -They both looked at her askance, cowed and caught at a disadvantage for -the moment by this knowledge that she had and by her hardiness in -accusing. - -“My dear young madam, you had better go to bed.” - -Her bleak imperturbability turned my lord’s sneer aside like granite. - -“Here is the chain from your cloak. I give it back to you now that it -has served its purpose.” - -She flung out her hand, and the chain fell close to my Lord Gore’s feet. -He did not even trouble to look at it, as though he had no wish to -appear seriously concerned. - -“We appear to be judge, jury, and witness all in one,” he said. “Come -down off that chair, my dear, and don’t be foolish.” - -He spoke with an air of amused impatience, but there was something in -his eyes that made her know the truth of what she had said. - -“You have always thought me a little mad, my lord.” - -“No, assuredly not. Only a little strange in your appreciation of a -joke. Nan, stay quiet.” - -Barbara had put her hands into her bosom, given one glance behind her, -and then levelled a pistol at my lord’s breast. The high-backed chair -and the settle were scarcely four paces apart. - -“I made a promise to myself that I would find out the man who killed my -father. When I discovered it I bought these pistols.” - -My lady had risen from the window-seat and was standing with her arms -spread, her open mouth a black oval, as though she were trying to speak -and could not. - -“Mother, do not move. I will beseech my Lord of Gore to tell me the -truth before I pull the trigger.” - -The great gentleman looked at her like a man dumfounded, hardly able to -grasp the meaning of that steel barrel and that little circle of shadow -that held death in the compass of a thumb’s nail. - -“Assuredly I will tell you the truth,” he said, at last. - -“Then let me hear it.” - -He grappled himself together, gave a glance at my lady, who had sunk -again into the window-seat, and then met Barbara eye to eye. - -“Since you seek the truth at the pistol’s point, my child, I will tell -it you, though no man on earth should have dragged it from me at the -sword’s point. Good God!” And he put his hand to his forehead and looked -from mother to daughter as though unwilling to speak, even under such -compulsion. - -Barbara watched him, believing he was gaining leisure to elaborate some -lie. - -“You are determined to hear everything?” - -She nodded. - -“Have it then, girl, to your eternal shame! Why should the unclean, -disloyal dead make the living suffer? Much good may the truth do all of -us, for none are without our sins.” - -He spoke out in a few harsh, solemn words—words that were meant to -carry the sorrow and the travail and the anger of a great heart. It was -the same tale that he had told John Gore, yet emphasized more grimly to -suit the moment. And when he had ended it he put his head between his -hands and groaned, and then looked up at Barbara as though trying to -pity her for the shock of his confession. - -“Is that everything?” - -She was white and implacable. My lord’s lower lip drooped a little. - -“Is it not enough?” - -“Of lies—yes.” - -He looked in her eyes, and then gave a deep, fierce cry, like the cry of -a wild beast taken in the toils. It was done within a flash, before he -could cross the space that parted them. He stumbled against the chain -that she had thrown down toward him. And as the echoes sped, and the -smoke and the draught made the candles flicker, Barbara fell back -against the wall, her hand dropping the pistol and going to her bosom -for the consummation of it all. - -“Mercy of me, my dear, mercy of me, what have you done?” - -She found Mrs. Jael clinging to her and holding her arms with all her -strength. Barbara tried to shake the woman off, but could not for the -moment. Then, quite suddenly, as the smoke cleared, she ceased her -striving and leaned against the wall, her eyes staring incredulously -over Mrs. Jael’s head as the little woman clung to her and pinioned her -with her arms. - -For though my Lord Gore had fallen back against the table with a great -black blur on his blue coat and the lace thereof smouldering, he stood -unhurt, with my lady holding to one arm and looking up with terror into -his face. - -“Safe, Nan,” he said, very quietly, being a man of nerve and courage; -“where the bullet went, God only knows!” - -A gray fog came up before Barbara’s eyes. She stood like one dazed, yet -feeling the warmth of Mrs. Jael’s bosom as the woman still clung to her. -Then her muscles relaxed and her face fell forward on Mrs. Jael’s -shoulder. - -Stephen Gore put the mother aside, and, striding forward, thrust his -hand into Barbara’s bosom. He drew out the second pistol, looked at it -with a grim, inquiring smile, and then laid it upon the table. - -“The child must be clean mad,” he said, with admirable self-control and -a glance full of meaning at my lady and Mrs. Jael. - -“Oh, the poor dear! oh, the poor dear! To raise her hand against such a -gentleman without cause or quarrel! Her wits must have gone. I’ve feared -it many weeks.” - -Stephen Gore pondered a moment, looking at Barbara’s bowed head with a -look that boded nothing good for her. - -“Get her to her room, Nan. Keep the servants out of the way. We don’t -want any pother over the child’s madness. Understand me there; for her -sake we can hold our tongues.” - -Mrs. Jael looked at him as though he were a saint. - -“Poor dear, to think of it!” - -My lady and the woman took Barbara by either arm. She lifted her head -and looked for a moment at my lord, and then went with them meekly, as -though dazed and without heart. Whispering together behind her back, -they led her across the garden and up the staircase to her own room. -When they had locked the door on her, Anne Purcell laid a hand on Mrs. -Jael’s arm, and they went together into my lady’s chamber. - - - - - XIX - - -When Anne Purcell returned to the music-room she found my lord waiting -for her there, walking to and fro with his hands behind his back and his -handsome face lined and shadowed with thought. He looked up quickly when -she entered, a look full of infinite meaning, as though he had felt a -chill of loneliness and was glad that this woman shared with him what -the future might convey. - -He closed the door and casements carefully, after walking round the -garden to see that no one was lurking there. Anne Purcell’s face still -looked white and scared. The horror of a betrayal haunted her as she -went to the window-seat, where the moonlight was already glimmering upon -the glass. - -“Speak softly. I had better draw the curtains.” - -He did so, leaning over my Lady Anne, and stooping to kiss her before he -drew away. Restlessness seemed in his blood, for he kept walking to and -fro as they talked, pausing sometimes as though to think. - -“Does the woman Jael know anything of this?” - -“She knows everything. It was she who saved your life by tampering with -the charges.” - -“She knew the girl had pistols?” - -“Yes—by watching through the hole in the wainscoting. She saw where -Barbara kept them, and found a key to fit the coffer. Jael seemed to -have foreseen something, for to-night she found that the pistols were no -longer there.” - -My lord turned to the table where the steel barrels glistened in the -candle-light. He picked them up and looked at them closely, a deep -pucker of thought upon his forehead. - -“Who would have thought that the girl had so much devil in her! I tell -you, Nan, she must have been playing with us all these years, watching -and waiting, and pretending to be asleep. And it was a narrow thing, by -God! But for that woman of yours, I should be lying there, where—” - -He did not complete the sentence, but broke off abruptly, for the -conscious shock seemed to strike him more heavily now the intensity of -the moment had passed. He looked white about the mouth, and his eyes had -a hard, scared wrath in them that made them ugly. - -Anne Purcell turned on the window-seat to look at him, and then covered -her face with her hand. - -“She said that the stain is still there. And it is—” - -“Fiddle-faddle! What of that, Nan?” And the evil spirit in him flashed -out fiercely. “The girl has cornered us. It is no time for whimpering.” - -He recovered his serene and cynical poise almost instantly, and, putting -two fingers in the pocket of his embroidered vest, drew out the curb of -gold with its knot of pearls. - -“This little thing came very near ending everything. I shall give it no -second chance. Like the easy fool I am I put that cloak away and forgot -it, never suspecting that it had left such a clew behind. Jack turned it -out of an old chest when he came home shirtless from sea, and wore it -that night at Hortense’s. It was only when we got home that I noticed -the thing, and talked him into surrendering it. She must have -cross-questioned him. And, by the prophets of Israel, Jack was near -having a bullet in his heart! She said she told him nothing. God grant -that’s true. Jack’s a man with a tight mouth and a kind of grimness that -sails straight in the face of a storm.” - -He paused, staring hard at the flame of one of the candles, and tossing -the chain up and down in his palm. - -“What are you going to do, Stephen?” - -“Do?” And his face darkened, although so close to the light. “Keep the -Spanish fury out of danger. What can you desire—” - -She stretched out an arm to him, her face rigid with dread. - -“No, not again, Stephen. I cannot bear it—I will not—” - -“There, there,” and he laughed, “how you women leap at conclusions! -There is no such serious need. But I value my neck too much, and yours, -my dear, to let her run at large.” - -“Then how?” - -He looked down at her steadily. - -“The girl is mad.” - -“Barbara!” - -“Yes, mad, poor thing, as a March hare. Mad! Drink the word in, and live -on it. Mad—mad! This wild scarecrow of a suspicion is nothing but a -shadow on the brain, a shadow of distortion and madness brought on by -poor Lionel’s death. There are some of us to swear to that, and our -words carry more weight and volume than the ravings of a girl. Mrs. Jael -must be worth her money. The whole affair will be very simple. Thank -Heaven, son Jack is in the country! I can bleed him and doctor him when -he returns.” - -Anne Purcell watched him with a trace of wonder in her eyes. The man was -so many-sided, such an actor, such a cynic. - -“Then—” - -“She must be treated as one gone mad, yet discreetly and gently, as -though the family niceness were to be considered. No idle talking, no -news about town. Yet being dangerous, even, perhaps, against -herself—mark that, Nan!—she must be put under soft restraint in some -quiet corner where she can do no harm.” - -He spoke so shrewdly, and with such a meaning between the words that -Anne Purcell again looked scared. - -“No whips, Stephen, and all those things. I have heard—” - -“Tush, my love, am I a fool?” - -“But—” - -He opened his arms to her, with an impulse of tenderness and strong -appeal. - -“Now, sweetheart, trust me. We have been too much to each other, you and -I. Look at me, Nan; what I am I am because you are what you are. We are -on the edge of a cliff. Don’t tell me that I must drag you over.” - -He played to the woman in her, yet not without real feeling. She rose to -him, and for a moment he had her in his arms. - -“There. You understand, Nan, why I want to live. It is for your sake as -well as mine, though I shall not see fifty again. We cannot help -ourselves. And I tell you the girl is mad. I have said so to others -before it came to this.” - -My lord put her gently out of his arms, and led her with some majesty -back to the window-seat. - -“You must know, Nan, that this will be de prerogativa regis—that is to -say, it will be the chancellor’s affair, and he is an easy man to -manage. As to a private inquiry, we can probably slip by it—with -Christian discretion. The point is—that the unfortunate subject is -confined in custody under the care of her nearest friends or kinsfolk.” - -Anne Purcell began to understand. - -“But there may still be danger in it.” - -“No; trust me; very little. It can be done quietly. There is your place -of Thorn.” - -“Thorn! Why, it is half in ruins, and no one ever goes there.” - -“Nan, my sweet, are you a fool?” - -“No, Stephen; but—” - -“The country air and food, and contact with some simple couple—what -more could the poor wench wish for? An old house in the deeps of Sussex, -seven miles from a town. Why, it is made for such a case.” - -She looked at him helplessly, for her selfish worldliness had received a -shock that night. - -“There is no other way?” - -“None, unless you wish to feel a silk rope round your neck, my dear.” - -They said little more that night, my lord putting on a cloak to hide his -powder-blackened coat, and kissing her very kindly before he went. He -gave her a few words of warning, commended Mrs. Jael to her, and spoke -of the money that should be forthcoming. Barbara was to see no one but -Mrs. Jael and her mother. They were to keep her locked in her room till -my lord should bring a physician whom he could trust to inquire into the -state of the girl’s mind. - -Yet there was one thought that haunted Stephen Gore as he walked home -alone by the light of the moon without a single torch to keep him -company and scare away footpads: it was possible that the girl might -turn against herself. And though he tried not to hanker after the -chance, he knew how it would simplify the tangle. Barbara’s window stood -some height from the ground, and there were no bars to it. My lord -remembered these details before he went to bed. He was careful to show -the man Rogers his blackened coat, and to tell him that he had been -fired at by some villain, but that the ball had missed him by some mercy -of God. - -Mrs. Jael came down from her attic next day soon after dawn, her eyes -red and suffused, her bosom full of sentimental sighings. She went about -the house, blubbering ostentatiously in odd corners, dabbing with her -handkerchief, and setting all the servants spying on her. - -Yet all she would say was: - -“Poor dear, poor sweet! The brain is turned over in her. And so young, -too! I always was afeard of it, she took it so to heart. Oh, dear Lord, -what a sad world it is, surely! The poor child’s made me ten years -older.” - -And then she would shuffle away, jerking her fat shoulders and trying to -smother sobs, so that every servant in the house knew that something -strange had happened, and were ready to hear of anything—and to accept -it as an interesting fact. - - - - - XX - - -John Gore, riding over the yellow stubbles with some burly farmer at -his side, seemed very far from the stately littlenesses of Whitehall. -For, next to the open sea, John Gore had always loved the open country, -either moor, field, or forest, so long as the eye could take in some -sweeping distance. He loved, also, the smell of the soil, the byres, and -the old farm-houses with the scent of the hay and the fragrant breath of -cattle at milking-time. Much of his boyhood clung to the memories of it -all, where the play of lights and shadows upon the moors made the -purples and greens and gold as glorious as the colors of sky and sea at -sunset. - -John Gore had inherited these Yorkshire lands from his mother, who had -been able to will them to him by right of title. Her marriage with Lord -Gore had not been a happy one, for he had been too desirous of pleasing -all women, while she was a lady of sweet earnestness who would have -given her heart’s blood for a man—had he been worthy. Her character -appeared to have mastered my lord’s, for her nature ousted his from the -soul of their only child—a boy, John Gore. She had died in her Junetide -while the lad was schooling at the great school of Winchester, leaving -her property in trust for him till he should come of age. - -Shirleys, for such was the name of the manor-house and the park, had -been leased to a city merchant, a man who had trudged to London as a -Yorkshire lad, and driven out of it as Sir Peter in a coach-and-six. The -farms and holdings were under the eye of a steward, Mr. Isaac Swindale, -a lawyer at Tadcaster. The whole estate was worth a good sum yearly to -John Gore, and it was with the money, therefore, that he had bought and -fitted out the _Sparhawk_, and sailed in her as gentleman adventurer -into strange seas. - -John Gore passed some days at Shirleys as Sir Peter Hanson’s guest, for -his mother had died in the old house, and he had wished to see the place -after the passing of three years. Perhaps his heart went out the more to -the memory of that dead mother because she had taught him to reverence -women, and given him that most precious thing that a man can have: the -power to love deeply and with all the tenderness that makes love -stronger even than death. The gardens and the walks were just as in his -mother’s day, for John Gore had stipulated that nothing should be -meddled with, and the flowering shrubs and the herb borders were there -as she had left them. - -The spirit of the place seemed full of sympathy for him that September. -Its memories had a restfulness that touched him even more than of old. -For the thought of his mother bending her pale, serious face over the -rose-bushes and the green ferns where the roach pool lay seemed more -dear and vivid to him because of that other thing that had taken birth -within his heart. He felt that he would have given much to have walked -with his mother through those little coppices and the green aisles of -the orchard where the Lent-lilies dashed the April winds with gold, and -to have talked to her as a son can sometimes talk to a mother, even -though he be a grown man with the tan of the wide world upon his face. -So near did her spiritual presence seem to him that he would not go to -kneel before the stately tomb in the chantry at the church, feeling that -she lived in the place that she had loved, and not under that mass of -alabaster and of marble that covered the mere dust. - -For John Gore had found the one woman in the world who could make the -heart grow great with awe in him—as with the awe of unsailed seas. It -was sweet even to be so far away from her that he might feel the -dream-lure drawing him amid those Yorkshire moors. The memory of his -mother shared in the tenderness thereof, as though she had breathed into -him at birth that soul of hers that could love even in sadness and -regret. - -John Gore spent two weeks upon his land, walking in the gardens and the -park of Shirleys, and talking to Sir Peter of the great ships and the -trade routes, and the doings of the Dutch in the East Indies. Sir Peter -and his wife were a grave and homely couple without children, whose -simple dignity hurt none of his recollections. Or he would ride over the -various farms, finding old friends among the farmers and the men, -inquiring into his tenants’ affairs, and ready to sit down and take his -dinner in the great kitchens with the country folk and their children. -For John Gore was more at home in an ingle-nook, with some little -Yorkshire maid on his knee, than idling in his father’s painted salon -with a score of somebodies trying to seem more splendid and more witty -than either their estates or their brains could justify. - -Now John Gore dreamed a quaint dream the last night that he lay at -Shirleys in the very room where his mother had died. He dreamed that he -was at sea again, and sitting in the stern-sheets of a boat that was -being rowed in toward an unknown shore. It was all vivid and real to -him—the heave of each billow under the boat, the dash through the surf, -the men leaping out and dragging the boat up on the sand. He crossed the -beach alone, drawing toward a little grove of palms whose green plumes -were clear and breathless against a tropical sky. And as he neared the -grove a woman came out from among the straight boles of the palm-trees, -and that woman was his mother. - -There is no astonishment in dreams, and John Gore went toward her as -though she had not known death, and as though there was nothing strange -in finding her there where palm-trees grew in lieu of elms and birches. - -But she held up her hands to him, and cried: - -“Go back—go back!” - -Then there was the sound like the ringing shot of a carbine, and he woke -in the room at Shirleys, wondering whether there were thieves in the -house, and whether the old merchant knight had used a musket or a pistol -upon the marauders. - -Yet though believers in dreams might have sworn that his brain had -caught an echo of some tragedy that concerned him deeply, how little -John Gore thought of the dream may be judged by the fact that he went -back to bed, after sallying forth with a candle and a horse-pistol to -reconnoitre, and slept till the servant drew back the curtains to let in -the sun. For the episode of Barbara Purcell’s expiation had become a -thing of the past by the time John Gore reached Shirleys. - -The day following the affair in the music-room, Stephen Gore drove a -jaundice-faced old gentleman in his coach to the house in Pall Mall. -They talked gravely together on the road, the rattle of the wheels on -the cobbles compelling them to mouth their words almost in each other’s -ears. The old gentleman wore a white periwig, and a kind of gown or -cassock of black silk, beneath which protruded a very thin pair of legs -ending in clumsy square-toed shoes. The top of his long cane was made to -carry snuff, and the whole front of his silk gown appeared blotched with -the powder. His long nose prying out from his shrewd face gave one the -impression that the habit of snuff-taking had lengthened it abnormally. -The skin over either cheek-bone was mottled with small blue veins, and -his mouth, long and curved like a half-moon, made one wonder whether he -was smiling or sneering. - -My lord had explained the nature of the case to Dr. Hemstruther, -adopting a tone of paternal and chivalrous concern that he contradicted -on several occasions by a majestic wink. The physician was a quaint -character, for he combined in himself two vices that might have been -considered mutually opposed. Yet the resulting energy that arose from -the friction between these two passions, the love of precious stones and -the love of the eternal feminine, inspired Dr. Hemstruther with a lust -to grab every gold Carolus he could lay his fingers to. He was a man of -great repute, and had made money out of “back-stairs secrets,” though -the apothecaries and the midwives hated him, swearing that he knew more -than a mere physician should. - -Now this shrewd, snuffy, peaky-faced little man was ushered about twelve -o’clock into Barbara Purcell’s room, with my lady and Mrs. Jael to act -as guards. The curtains were drawn, and Barbara, dressed in simple -black, with her hair upon her shoulders, was lying, in the dim light, on -her bed. She sat up and looked at them with her large eyes as they -entered—heavy, languid eyes, that seemed to have been empty of sleep. - -Dr. Hemstruther made a little bow to her, handed his hat and cane to -Mrs. Jael, tossed back one of the curtains, and drew a chair up toward -the bed. He sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on Barbara’s face, and -sniffing from time to time as though he missed his snuff. - -“So you are not feeling in good health, my dear young lady.” - -He had a soft, silky voice, easy to swallow as good wine. Barbara, -seated on the bed, stared at him and said nothing. It was easy to see -that the girl had suffered greatly, either in mind or body, for the -youth seemed to have left her face, leaving it blanched, lined, and very -weary. Her eyes looked doubly big because of the shadows under them, and -her lips were no longer firmly pressed together. The strain of her -sacrifice had broken the heart in her, and she had fallen into a stupor -like one whose brain has been numbed by frost. - -Dr. Hemstruther considered her with his clever eyes. - -“Can you sleep, my dear?” he asked her, at last. - -“No.” - -She was only dimly conscious that her mother and Mrs. Jael were in the -room, and who the little man was she hardly had the will to wonder. - -“What is it that keeps you from sleep at night?” - -“Oh, thoughts—and other things.” - -“Perhaps you hear voices?” - -She looked at him vaguely. - -“Yes, voices.” - -“And they talk to you?” - -“Sometimes. There are often voices with one, are there not?” - -Dr. Hemstruther rubbed his hands together, forgetting to sniff for a -minute or more, a lapse that the sentimental Jael mended. - -“Are they the voices of people whom you know?” - -“Sometimes.” - -“And perhaps you hear bells ringing, and other such sounds? Do you ever -see the people who talk to you at night?” - -She maintained an indolent yet questioning silence. Dr. Hemstruther -repeated the question. - -“Yes, I have fancied it,” she answered; “one can fancy so many things in -the dark.” - -Dr. Hemstruther gave a jerk of the chin as though to emphasize this as a -fact worth noting. He drew his chair nearer, and, taking her hand, -looked at it attentively, rubbing the skin with his thumb-nail. Then he -asked her a few more questions, keeping his eyes on hers, and watching -her with the alertness of a hawk. - -My lady and Mrs. Jael saw the girl’s eyelids begin to quiver. When Dr. -Hemstruther spoke to her she did not answer him, but sat rigid, like a -cataleptic, her face betraying no feeling and no intelligence. She -remained in some such posture till the old man rose and pushed back his -chair. Then a deep breath seemed to come from her with a great sigh, and -the lashes closed over her eyes so that she appeared asleep. - -Dr. Hemstruther watched her for a while, and then turned to Anne Purcell -with an expression of sympathetic gravity upon his face. - -“She is best left alone, madam, at present.” - -And he marched out at my lady’s heels, Mrs. Jael following and carrying -his hat and cane. - -Dr. Hemstruther had satisfied a pliant conscience with regard to the -nature of the case. He sat—much at his ease—in one of the -leather-seated chairs in the room that had been Lionel Purcell’s -library, and declared his conviction that the girl was of unsound mind. - -“I can understand, madam,” he said, with a courtly little bob of the wig -to my lady, “how much exercised you are in mind over your daughter’s -sanity. At present it is the calm after the storm, the cool dew after -the fire of noon. The pulse is depressed, the brain almost torpid, and -she did not even hear some of the things I said. Then you heard her -confess to hearing voices; that is a very common and significant -symptom. My experience goes to prove that some of these cases are the -most dangerous and distressing.” - -He nodded his head, took snuff with emotion, and looked under -half-lowered eyelids at my lord. - -“The young gentlewoman must be most carefully watched. It would be -expedient to have non compos mentis proven. That gives her guardians the -very necessary power to have her cared for and restrained in some safe -place.” - -He was merely advising what he knew Stephen Gore desired in the matter -of advice. There was sufficient on which to swear that the girl’s mental -state was not healthy. Young gentlewomen who fired pistols and made wild -accusations against old and honorable friends could scarcely be regarded -as either sane or safe. - -“Then you advise us to apply for powers of custody and restraint.” - -“Assuredly, my lord, for the patient’s sake. She cannot be trusted not -to turn against herself. I would suggest that you send her into the -country and put her in charge of some capable relative—some sensible -maiden aunt, let us say.” And his mouth curved with huge -self-satisfaction. - -“You prefer the country?” - -“Far away from all distractions and all cares. Perfect rest, and a -convent life. Then I may hope that God’s grace will heal her.” And he -rose with a bow to my lady. - -Stephen Gore touched him on the shoulder. - -“Supposing that one of those violent fits should occur? A dose of -soothing physic, eh?” - -“Certainly, my lord, certainly. I will have it compounded and despatched -to you without delay.” - -That same afternoon Stephen Gore drove out in his two-horse coach, and -called on no less a person than Sir Heneage Finch, the Keeper of the -Great Seal. My lord and the chancellor happened to be well disposed -toward each other for the moment, and Stephen Gore approached him as a -friend with an air of grief and of concern. He spoke most movingly about -“the child.” It was a sad affair, and might have been far sadder but for -the mercy of God. Dr. Hemstruther had seen Mistress Barbara Purcell that -morning, and given it as his opinion that she was of unsound mind. He -had advised immediate seclusion and restraint, warning them that unless -she was watched and guarded she might do some damage to herself. - -My lord’s sympathies were importunate and appealing. It would be less -humiliating for both the mother and the daughter if the thing could be -done quietly, and without noise or scandal. The chancellor, being an -amiable man, and not proof against sentiment on occasions, declared -himself ready to agree. Yet since it was a question of the King’s -prerogative, his Majesty would have the matter laid before him quietly; -that was the only formality that would be needed, and no very serious -one, for the King was grateful to people who took business off his -hands, provided they did not relieve him also of the perquisites. - -In three days the whole affair was settled, thanks to my lord’s -briskness and influence—and his ability to pay. On the third evening he -was carried in a sedan to the house in Pall Mall, and spent more than an -hour with my lady in her salon. He had made his plans, and all that the -mother had to do was to agree with him and to commend him for his -ingenuity. - -“We had better travel at once,” he said, when they had talked over every -detail; “we can take her in a closed coach. And the nurse and her man -can come with us; they are both trustworthy people. You say that there -are only a gardener and his wife at Thorn? They must be pensioned and -discharged.” - -“Yes, no one else.” - -“We must have the girl mewed up before Jack comes back. I shall be able -to deal with him. He must not know where we have hidden her.” - -“No; but should he—” - -“Prove obstinate! We must find a substitute, or pack him off to sea -again. The man has a roving disposition. But listen—in your ear, Nan: I -have discovered some one who has taken a sudden liking to Captain John.” - -“Who?” - -“Guess.” - -“Not poor Barbara—she does not count.” - -“No, no; but Hortense.” - -My lady looked at him with open eyes. - -“Hortense! Why, she has only seen him perhaps twice in her life. And -then—?” - -“His Majesty? Oh, Mr. Charles is—well, her banker. It would be like -Hortense; it is the blood, and the southern fire in her.” - -“But how do you know this?” - -He flipped her playfully on the chin. - -“How long have I lived in the world, Nan, and how much do I know about -women?” - - - - - XXI - - -A blustering, cheerless wind beat up over the hills as John Gore rode -the last five miles of a three days’ journey, and saw the vague glimmer -of the distant city clinging to the loops of the river Thames. Scudding -clouds made the sky cold and full of a gray hurrying unrest, though it -was splashed toward the west with stormy gouts of gold. - -John Gore rode over the heathlands, with the furze-bushes shivering as -the wind swished through them; and the sandy road was dry and adrift -with dust, although the sky looked so wet and sullen. The servant behind -him on the cob kept a sharp eye cocked on the hollows of the heath and -the knolls of furze, and nursed his blunderbuss for comfort, though his -face looked as red and as round as the sunny side of an apple. Here and -there clumps of stunted hollies jostled each other, their whisperings -making the evening seem doubly gray and dreary. An unhallowed dusk was -creeping over the landscape—an unhallowed dusk that made travellers -imagine footpads lurking behind the thorn-bushes or the furze. - -As they trotted downhill a solitary horseman came creeping up a side -track, with his cloak blowing about him and his beaver over his nose. -John Gore had a hand ready for a pistol, and the man Tom began to nudge -the butt of his blunderbuss against his knee. Yet the stranger appeared -more scared of them than they of him, for he went skimming like a -swallow into the dusk, itching for his own chimney glow and the warm -side of a safely barred door. - -John Gore had come by an instinctive distrust of the man Tom’s -forefinger. He pulled up, and sent him ahead. - -“I shall be safer at your back, Tom, with that tool of yours ready to -roar like a boy at the sight of the birch.” - -Tom obeyed him with rather a shamefaced grin, for thirty miles south of -Shirleys his blunderbuss had exploded at two in the afternoon, the road -running through a wood with a stray cow pushing through the -hazel-bushes. A scattering of slugs and buckshot had pattered into the -grass beside John Gore’s horse; for Tom’s forefinger had a habit of -crooking itself for comfort round the trigger when the road wound into -shady bottoms. And if an owl screeched at dusk along a hedge-row, Thomas -would give such a start in the saddle that it was a mere turn of the -coin whether the flint would come sparking on the powder in the pan. - -It was growing very gray in the west when they came by Edgeware toward -Hyde Park, and soon saw the spires of Westminster like faint streaks -against a fainter sky. The lights that were looking up in the gathering -twilight had a heartening, warming twinkle. Tom slung his blunderbuss by -a strap over his shoulder, and began to look buxom and bold enough—as -though he already sniffed a hot supper and felt the ale-mug tickling his -beard. They came without event toward St. James’s, Charing Village, and -Whitehall, and all that sweet savor of courtliness where great gentlemen -and roguish “maids of honor” drank wine and let the warmth thereof mount -into their eyes. - -To John Gore the whole purlieu of the palaces had a mystic glow—a glow -that the romance of the heart throws out like a June sun over an -Old-World garden. His thoughts were very different from those of -red-faced Tom, who may have associated the ogle of a pair of merry eyes -with the glint of a pewter pot; for John Gore forgot a twenty-mile -hunger at a glimpse of the dim trees of St. James’s and the imagined -gleam of Rosamond’s Pool. And hunger in a strong man is an earnest -pleader. Therefore, romance had the greater glory, and even so the queen -thereof—a girl in a black dress, with white bosom and white arms, and -eyes so sombre that the sorrow of the world might have sunk therein. - -The lower windows of my Lord Gore’s house were aglow as John Gore and -his man rode up St. James’s Street with a homeward clatter over the -stones. The iron gates leading into the court-yard at the side of the -house stood open, and in the yard itself several coaches were standing -without their horses, and a couple of sedan-chairs in one corner with -the poles piled against the wall. Yet though there was as much talking -going on as in the parlor of a river-side tavern, there was not such a -thing as a servant to be seen. - -As John Gore rolled out of the saddle, being a little stiff after three -days’ riding, a couple of red faces were poked out of the near window of -one of the coaches. The postilions and footmen had taken their master’s -places, issued invitations to the chairmen and the grooms, and were all -much at their ease with the beer-mugs passing round, and one of my -lord’s cook-boys playing “powder-monkey,” and running round from coach -to coach with a great can and an apron full of bread and cheese. In one -of the carriages that was upholstered in orange and blue a fat chairman -had stuck a farthing candle on the prong of a dung-fork, and so arranged -the primitive candle-stand by leaning it against the door that the -company within had a light to drink by, though the upholsterings might -suffer from the droppings of the tallow. Even my lord’s grooms were -making familiar with plush and scarlet cloth and stamped leather, with -their heavy stable-boots planted where a satin slipper or a -silver-buckled shoe alone had the right of repose. - -The impudent roguery of it so tickled John Gore that he gave the two men -at the near window a gruff “Goodevening,” coarsening his voice so that -they should think him one of themselves. - -“Hallo! Be that you, Sam Gibbs?” - -“Samuel it is, old codger. Liquor going?” - -“A hogshead full. Come inside; there’s room for a porker.” - -John Gore laughed. It was dark in the yard, and the men could not -recognize him. - -“Whose coach?” he asked. - -“This ’ere? Old Porteus Panter’s. And pant he would, the liquoring old -scoundrel, if he knew what honest fellows were warming his cushions. -Come along in, lad. Skin o’ my eyes, where’s that damned boy with the -beer?” - -“I’ll go and clap the horses in, and come and clink mugs.” - -He walked toward the stables, leading his horse by the bridle. Catching -the man Tom while he was still staring at the dim but vociferous -vehicles in the yard, he slapped him lightly on the shoulder. - -“Keep mum, Tom, my lad. There is some fun here. Put the horses in, and -swing your heels on the manger for half an hour.” - -John Gore managed to slip into the house by the garden entry, and making -his way along a passage, reached the door of the dining-room without -meeting any of my lord’s servants. Supper was over, and the gentlemen -were at their wine, and talking so hard that a company of carol-singers -might have struck up in the court-yard without being noticed. John Gore -turned the handle and walked in—top-boots, riding-cloak, and all, -dusty, and a little hot. His father sat with his back to him at the head -of the long table, with some dozen guests talking and drinking on either -side hereof. - -Seated on Stephen Gore’s right hand was one of the gentlemen who had -been at Bushy those few days in the summer. He was the first to -recognize the intruder, and welcomed him with a laugh and an upraised -glass of wine. - -“All hail, John Gore! Here are we, all on the right side of the -table—as yet!” - -John Gore’s eyes were fixed upon his father. He saw him turn sharply -with the look of a man who sees in a mirror the face of an enemy behind -his chair. He was on his feet almost instantly, his buxom face pleasant -as a glass goblet full of Spanish wine. - -“Jack, my lad, this is well timed! We are all friends here, or should -be. Gentlemen, my son, Captain John Gore, just out of the saddle from -Yorkshire. Never mind your boots, boy. You have a hungry look, and a dry -look. Pull the bell-rope, Launce, and I’ll thank you. Supper is the song -that a man wants to hear after a hard day’s ride.” - -A boy in a pink velvet coat, and with the grand airs of a lord -chamberlain, rose and offered John Gore his chair. The sea-captain bowed -to the youngster in turn, though the child’s attitude of condescension -was vastly quaint to a man who had dared more adventures in one year -than the young fop would meet in a lifetime. - -“You seem to have left a great many of your friends outside in the cold, -gentlemen,” he said, still standing, and looking down the long table; -“my father has enough chairs, and more than enough liquor.” - -His coming had brought a momentary lull with it, and not a few of the -gentry at the table were staring with some curiosity at a man who had -seen the inside of a Barbary prison. - -My lord caught his son’s words. - -“What’s that you are saying, Jack?” - -“These gentlemen have left some of their friends outside in their -coaches. Sir Porteus, sir,” and he bowed to an apoplectic old fellow -with a fringe of white hair and a tonsure like a monk’s, “there are -people in your carriage. I trust you have not been too modest.” - -The baronet stared boozily across the table. - -“People in my coach, sir?” - -“Certainly. And drinking small-beer when they should be drinking -sherry.” - -John Gore had such a stern and serious way with him at times that casual -acquaintances might have set him down as a Puritan, with none of the -sly, jesting spirit behind his swarthy and imperturbable face. - -“I assure you, sir, there were gentlemen seated inside your coach. My -father’s house is not so niggardly—” - -Stephen Gore caught his son’s eye and twinkled. A servant came in at the -same opportune moment, having taken fully three minutes to answer the -bell. - -“Here, Jeremy, sirrah, Sir Porteus has left some gentlemen to wait in -his coach. Desire them to join us; my table is big enough.” - -The man stared, and then appeared in a great hurry to go about his -master’s business. But my lord hindered him. - -“Jeremy, you rascal, come here. Pardon me, Porteus”—and my lord assumed -his most impressive manner—“perhaps you had better call these friends -of yours in to us.” - -“I should recommend the other gentlemen to do likewise,” said John Gore, -gravely; “Sir Porteus is not the only culprit. The more the merrier.” - -The curiosity of the whole room appeared piqued. Several of my lord’s -guests pushed their chairs back and made toward the door. But what Sir -Porteus and the rest of them said when they poked their heads into the -windows of their respective coaches no one but a hostler could possibly -confess. The tallow dip on the pitchfork was knocked over by a judicious -fist, but not before it had gutted all down the cushions of the door. -There was a sudden exodus of stable boots and small clothes into the -dark, and from the whistling and hissing in the stable any innocent man -might have imagined that horses had never been so carefully rubbed down -after a two-mile drive. The boy with the beer-can was the only thing -captured, and most unjustly cuffed because his ears happened to be at -the right level for the easy exercise of a gentleman’s hand. - -It was well after midnight before Stephen Gore and his son were left -alone in the great dining-room, with the air thick with the fumes of -tobacco and of wine. John Gore opened the windows that faced the street. -His father was standing by the Jacobean fireplace, with one elbow on the -ledge of the carved oak over-mantel and the stump of a little brown -cigarro between his fingers. He was frowning to himself, and looking at -the dying fire upon the irons, for a log fire had been burning, though -it was still September. - -John Gore pulled out a short clay pipe and a tortoise-shell box from a -pocket. He filled the pipe leisurely, and lit it with a splinter of -burning wood that he picked up with the tongs. - -“Well, Johnny, how is Yorkshire?” - -My lord, like a father, showed no discretion or sense of proportion -either in the diminutives or in the vernacular renderings of his son’s -name. Moreover, the Yorkshire moors were very far away, and a more vivid -vista blotted them into the distance. - -“Shirleys has changed very little. They have a new pump in the village. -All the farms are in good fettle. Swindale seems as honest as such men -ever are.” - -My lord appeared distraught and preoccupied. - -“How are old Peter Hanson and his woman? Does she still wear a -farthingale?” - -“Well—as ever, like the solid north country folk they are. I have no -news, save that the new pump’s leaden snout was cut off the first week -it was put up, and that a couple of deer were shot at Shirleys three -days afterward. How have things passed here—in the world?” - -My lord put his cigarro to his lips, drew a deep breath, and expelled -the smoke slowly, watching it curve under the hood of the chimney. - -“Oh, somewhat sadly. I have a thing to tell you, Jack.” - -John Gore’s face darkened perceptibly. - -“News?” - -“Yes. After all, it may not concern you much—at least—I trust not. We -all have our little impulses, our chance inclinations. Do you remember, -Jack, something I said to you in this very room the night you fought -Phil Pembroke?” - -John Gore remembered that something very keenly. His eyes betrayed as -much. - -“Does it concern Barbara Purcell?” - -My lord gave him one look, and then threw the stump of his cigarro into -the fire. - -“It does, poor child. She has gone stark mad. There’s the blunt truth, -Jack. If I have hit you hard, take it in the face like a man—and -forget.” - - - - - XXII - - -John Gore asked few questions that night, but went to his room with a -silent and impenetrable air that refused to betray any inward bleeding -of the heart. His reserve challenged my lord to decide whether the son -was really unconcerned, or whether he hid what he might feel beneath a -casual surface. For Stephen Gore had spoken with great pathos of this -“maid’s tragedy,” and had tempted his son with a display of sympathy to -make some sentimental confession of faith. - -But John Gore had knocked his pipe out against the hood of the -fireplace, pulled off his heavy boots, and pretended that he was sleepy -after a forty-mile ride and a good supper. He had taken one of the -candles from the table and gone to his room, leaving his father no wiser -as to what the son felt or what he knew. - -John Gore did not sleep that night, despite the September wind over the -open country and the dust that had been blown into his eyes. He had left -my lord that he might be alone, and escape that parental curiosity and -concern that grated upon the raw surface of his consciousness. For, -strong man that he was, he had felt sick at heart over the news of the -girl’s madness; it had come as a shock at the end of a day of dreams; -sudden as a musket-ball lodged beneath the ribs, making him faint with -the pain of it and with an inward flow of blood. In those few seconds, -when his father had spoken to him, he had realized how deeply he had -pledged himself to that mystery of mysteries. It had laid bare the truth -to him as a knife lays bare the bleeding heart of a pomegranate. - -John Gore left the candle burning and sat at the open window, his arms -crossed upon the window-ledge. It was the attitude of one whose eyes -gazed out into the night with sadness and great awe, while the soul went -down into the deeps to drink bitterness bravely to the dregs and gain -new strength thereby. He was still there, fully dressed, when the candle -guttered in the candlestick, throwing up spasmodic gleams of light -before dying into the dark. The dawn came up and found him there, like -one who has kept watch all night on the deck of a great ship before a -battle. - -With men who live the life of action the coming of each new day brings a -fresh impulse and fresh inspiration. John Gore seemed to throw off the -stupor of the night as the grayness of the dawn deepened into bands of -blue and gold across the east. He shook himself, dashed cold water over -his head and face, and, putting on fresh linen and new clothes, went -down into the house before a servant so much as stirred. Opening the -street door, he met the dewy breath of the morning and all the silent -and gradual glamour of the dawn. He was not the man to mope and write -sonnets in a corner, or to surrender a strenuous will to feeble -speculation. Wandering down to the river, he hired a waterman who -happened to be industriously early with a pot of paint down by Charing -Stairs, and, making the man row him into mid-stream, he stripped and -plunged, and swam a good half-mile with the tide, feeling the fitter for -it in body and heart. - -Returning, he breakfasted alone, and, inquiring from the man Rogers, -learned that my lord had rung for his morning cup of chocolate, which he -always drank in bed. He heard also the account of how Sparkin had been -sent to school some days ago, for John Gore had entered the youngster as -a boarder at St. Paul’s. He had been packed off, as Mr. Rogers described -it, like a pressed man to a king’s ship, swearing that he would desert -at the first chance, and cut the servant’s throat who had had the -insolence to drag him schoolward by the collar. But Rogers, who had been -sent by my lord to inquire after the child, confessed that he had found -Sparkin more resigned to his fate. He had fought three fights in as many -days, and been royally licked in the last encounter. Defeat seemed to -have decided Mr. Sparkin to remain, in order to be avenged as honor and -the prestige of the past demanded. - -My lord was luxuriously at his ease, leaning against a pile of pillows -in the four-post bed, when his son paid him a morning call. He lost a -little of his dignity in a silk nightcap and a black velvet bed-gown as -elaborately belaced as some priestly vestment. But Stephen Gore was -still the great gentleman, the man of affairs, the dispenser of favors, -as the litter on the quilt testified—letters, pamphlets, a needy poet’s -new book of poems, bills, petitions, and what not. The man Rogers was -laying out shirts, stockings, and silk underwear—preparing for that -most solemn ceremonial, the sacrament of the toilet. - -“You can leave us, Rogers, for half an hour. If any of my people call, -keep them waiting till I ring.” - -John Gore had opened the window, and stood looking down into the little -garden at the back of the house. - -“My dear Johann, I am not seasoned, like you, to sea breezes. Please -pity my gray hairs, my son. I allow no draughts till I have gotten me my -periwig. Hum—ha, what’s this! Will your honor put such and such a -matter before the Duke of York? Yes, of course, dirty work, as usual. -Let it bide. I hope you have got rid of the saddle-ache, Jack, my -fellow. My business hour—this; look at all this infernal paper; it is -an amazing pity that so many people should learn to write.” - -He was picking up letters and papers, and tossing them aside, stopping -now and again to scribble notes upon his tablets. - -“I had a secretary, Jack, for a year, but I distrust the tribe. I find -that they are always selling one’s secrets behind one’s back. Is this a -filial visit, or am I to include it among my business?” - -John Gore was watching his father with those dark, intent eyes of his. - -“I want to speak to you about Barbara Purcell.” - -My lord threw his tablets upon the bed, and looked at his son with -questioning keenness. It was still of vital interest to him to discover -whether this sea-rover had lost his heart or no. - -“Tell me one thing first, Jack. Had you any strong fancy for the girl?” - -“It is four months since I smelled the sea, sir.” - -“Then she had some flavor for you—beyond the mere scent of a -petticoat?” - -“Yes, a good deal more than that.” - -His father regarded him with sympathetic solemnity. Yet my lord’s -attitude betrayed the fact that even a clever man of the world may prove -shallowly pompous in dealing with a son. - -“I gave you all the information I have, Jack, last night. If you care to -see the pistol-mark the poor child made on me, the coat is hanging in -that cupboard.” - -John Gore kept his place. - -“You said, sir, that she believed that you knew the name of her father’s -murderer.” - -“Some such madness, Jack. But I can assure you that it was a most -unholy, startling incident. I can see her now standing like a young -figure of Fate, with a pistol in her hand and her eyes like two live -coals. I told her to go to bed, and then she fired at me. Southern -blood—Southern blood! Not that I bear any malice against the poor -thing, John, though she was so near sending me to my account with all my -sins upon my head. What more do you want to know?” - -“Where she is.” - -My lord pushed some of the papers aside with a trace of impatience. - -“Safe, and well cared for, Jack. Dr. Hemstruther’s commands. We applied -to the Chancery—” - -“Where, sir, did you say?” - -“The child has everything that can make life easy.” - -“You have not told me yet, sir, where she is.” - -My lord swung to one side of the bed, and, putting an arm round the -carved corner-post, looked straight into his son’s face. - -“You want to know the one thing, Jack, that I have not the least -intention of telling you.” - -“And why not, sir?” - -“Why not!” And Stephen Gore threw himself back again upon the pillows -with some of the dramatic action that he could make appear so natural. -“Look you, most obstinate of bulkheads, do you care one brass culverin -for the girl? Answer me that.” - -There was no need for the answer; my lord galloped on. - -“Do you want her to come by her reason and her right mind again? You -will protest that you do. Of course. Once more, John, my son, would you -like to see your love making mouths at you, gnawing her bib, and perhaps -shouting like a fish-wife? You will protest, perhaps, that you do not.” - -John Gore stood very still about two paces from his father’s bed. His -eyes had a gleam of fierceness in them, for even the possible truth -filled him with an impulse to strike the man who uttered it. My lord, -who was watching him as a swordsman watches his enemy’s eye, changed his -tactics abruptly, and held out an appealing hand like an orator pleading -for a reasonable understanding. - -“Don’t glare at me, Jack, my boy, as though I had called some one a bona -roba. If I have struck hard, it is for your good. Understand that I am -not an old fool, and that I have some sense. You are one of those men -who love a woman with the same headlong fierceness with which you would -board an enemy’s ship. Look at the matter through my eyes. You would -only harm the girl by seeing her, for, by God’s providence, she may -recover if we rest her as we rest inflamed eyes in the dark. It would -only hurt your heart, Jack, if you were to see her as she is now. That -is why I am minded to keep temptation out of your way.” - -He threw himself back again upon the pillows, for he had been leaning -forward like a preacher over a pulpit rail. - -“You must trust me, my son. Some day you may thank me for this. I may be -pardoned for wishing the best in life for you, for though you may think -me a wild old worldling, even a courtier, Jack, may have a heart.” - -He spoke with such a burst of manliness and emotion that John Gore bent -over his father’s hand. - -“You are in the right, sir, and I thank you.” - -And he went out from my lord’s room touched to the heart, and awed a -little by the sudden fervor of this great gentleman of the court whose -flippant splendor had so much of the simpler, braver manhood. - -Yet so strange and mercurial a thing is temperament that Stephen Gore -lay back upon his pillows when his son had gone with the drawn look of a -man caught by some spasm of a faltering heart. He forgot for the moment -to ring for Rogers, but sat staring straight before him, his hands -moving amid the papers on the quilt. For my Lord Gore, like many a man -embarked on crooked courses, was very human, as such men often are. He -could not forever be callous in hypocrisy, and a touch of tenderness -lurks like a faint red glow amid the cold embers of every heart. - -Stephen Gore felt a sudden pity for his son that morning. Something drew -him toward that silent, brown-faced man, so strong and yet so simple—so -wise, and yet so ready to believe. Yet what was the use of soliloquizing -over broken pitchers and squandered wine? He had entered an alley in -which there was no turning, and those who hindered him must be brushed -aside. To hesitate would only plunge all those concerned into bitterer -complexities, and perhaps into deeper guilt. And yet he could not forget -that look in his son’s eyes, for the man trusted him, and the man was -his own son. - -“Crooked corners are best left crooked,” he said to himself, at last, as -he reached out a hand toward the bell-rope. “After all, he need not make -an Arabella Stewart of the girl; there are handsomer and better-tempered -women by the score.—Come along, Rogers; I am late as it is. Put my -plum-colored suit out. And have you stropped those razors properly? They -were beginning to bite like files.” - -Rogers bustled forward with hot water, scented napkins, and a phial of -perfumes. - -“Yes, sir, they are as sharp as your own wit, sir.” - -“Give me the glass, Rogers. I feel yellow this morning. Do I look it?” - -“A little tired, sir, perhaps. Nothing more.” - - - - - XXIII - - -They will tell you in those parts how Waller, the parliamentarian, -battered with his cannon the Purcells’ house of Thorn, leaving it half -ruinous, as a warning to all royalists who felt tempted to trust in the -breadth of their moats or the stoutness of their walls. Be the woodland -legend what it may, the Purcells were poor after the long war, and Thorn -had been for thirty years a haunt of owls and jackdaws—a strange, dim -place set in the midst of stagnant water, far from a high-road, and -hidden by wastes and woods. From broken gable ends and tottering -battlements a red-brick tower and a few twisted chimneys rose against -the blue. Even in those short years ivy had climbed up over the walls, -pouring over the stone sills of the windows, and growing knotty and -stout of stem even up to the leaden water-spouts of the tower. When the -wind blew from the southwest the whole house seemed to shake and glimmer -with the movements of those myriad leaves. And through the windows of -roofless rooms you could see the sky redden or grow gold at dawn or -sunset. - -As for the moat, it was a checker of black and green, with moor-hens -swimming on it and water-rats making rippling tracks from wall to wall, -while here and there great rambling roses, that had not felt the knife -for many a year, poured over the brick parapet, and hung in summer-like -banners of green flowered with crimson and gold. The crown of the bridge -had been broken, and several tree-trunks, ranged side to side and banked -with earth and brushwood, filled up the gap. The court-yard gate, a new -one since Waller’s day, seemed the only unruined thing about the place; -but the court-yard itself was knee-deep with grass and weeds at -hay-time. In the garden there were stretches of turf that had once been -lawns, paths that were no longer visible, roses and shrubs growing as -they listed, for a corner of the vegetable-garden alone had been kept in -cultivation. The out-houses and stables in the kitchen court were -crumbling and falling in—a quaint medley of ragged thatch and gaunt -roof timber, falling plaster, and lichened brick. - -Yet the old thorns that grew in the grass-land beyond the moat, -thorn-trees that had given the house a name and were outliving it, -stretched out their flat tops like so many pleading and appealing hands. -They were white each spring above the green rushes, the brown -mole-heaps, and the dew-wet grass. And in the winter the birds flocked -to them and fed upon the red berries, welcome, indeed, when the turf was -frost-bound or when the snow lay deep. So the old thorns lived on as -they had lived for generations, while “Thorn” crumbled brick by brick, -and the ivy, as though yearning to hide its nakedness, made it dim with -glimmering green. - -Thorn had its ghost, and no Sussex churl would come within half a mile -of it when dusk began to fall. An old Scotch gardener and his wife had -lived there some ten years, warm and snug in the rain-proof kitchen, -daring the devil and all spirits and insects with a handful of good -sulphur. MacAlister and his dame had been given their quittance that -autumn, and had been packed off into some distant county, no man knew -why or where, and no man cared. The owls might fledge their broods, the -jackdaws build in the chimneys, and the place be given up to all manner -of mystery and ghostliness. None had troubled in those parts about -Thorn, save one farmer who had needed a new barn, and had driven a wagon -over to thieve bricks, and come away with such a scaring that every one -believed him when he swore the place was cursed. - -There were ghosts at Thorn that autumn—but solid, hungry, and most -gluttonous ghosts, who seemed to have abundance of good beer and food -stowed away in the huge cupboards of the kitchen. The kitchen and the -two rooms over it had been made habitable for the MacAlisters, and were -now used by the new spirits who haunted Thorn—a big, stocky man, with a -back like a flagstone; a comely, broad-hipped woman, with black eyes and -a tight, hard face. They had come there suddenly, when the moon was -full, walking by the woodland track from a great black coach that had -set them down upon the high-road. - -One evening in October, as the dusk was falling, the figure of a man, a -burly blotch of darkness in the half light of the yard, came across from -an out-building that was used as a wood-shed with an apron full of oak -blocks for the fire. Farmer Knapp, he who had come to steal bricks, had -told how he had come to the gate of Thorn and had seen through the -grill, not a foot from his own eyes, a great white face as big as the -moon when full. Farmer Knapp had not taken a second look, and, although -it was only three in the afternoon, he had jumped into his wagon and -driven off with his cart-horses lumbering at a canter. Now the man who -crossed the court-yard, carrying his billets of wood, had a piece of -white cloth covering his face, tied under the chin and about the -forehead, with two holes for the eyes and a slit where the mouth should -be. - -The huge calves of the man’s legs rubbed together as he walked, and -under the brim of his beaver his pate was as bald as the ivory knob of a -gentleman’s cane. He went down into the kitchen by three steps and a -short passageway, and tumbled his wood into a corner of the open hearth. - -At the table the woman was stirring something in a basin. A big black -pot hung on a rack and chain over the fire, and on the bricks before the -hearth lay a dog of the mastiff breed, who lifted his head and blinked -when the man entered. - -“Supper ready?” - -“Throw some more wood on, Sim, will ye?” - -The man tossed two or three blocks into the red heart of the fire, -pulled a rough settle forward with one foot, and sat down and stared at -the pot. The firelight glittered on the eyes behind the white cloth, -showing up the red lids unshaded by the trace of an eyelash. - -“Lord, what a dull hole this is, or I’m saved!” - -The woman had her sleeves turned up, and her big forearms were brown and -comely. - -“Dull,” said the man, “when there’s plenty to eat?” - -“And drink, Sim?” - -“Better than Tyburn or Newgate, anyway. Only there ain’t nothing to lay -one’s fist to; not so much as a dog for old Blizzard to take by the -throat.” - -“Turn smuggler, my dear, if you want to let blood.” - -The man sniffed at the pot. - -“Smuggler? No, thank ye; we don’t want none of those gentry inside -Thorn. Stodging about the country for a keg of liquor when we can have -it for going to the cupboard! This deuced viz of mine smarts like hot -Hollands to-night.” - -He untied the strings and turned the mask up, but the woman did not look -at him, it being near supper-time and food upon the table. They were not -Sussex folk, nor even country people, by their speech, but gentry whose -childhood had been passed within hail of Southwark or the Savoy. - -“Who’s going to carry the girl’s food up to-night?” - -The man took an oil flask and a piece of linen from the long shelf above -the open fireplace. Over the shelf hung a long gun and a couple of heavy -pistols, also a seaman’s cutlass and a pair of iron wristlets. He -dropped some of the oil on the rag, and began to dab his face with it, -blinking his red lids like an owl. - -“Take it up yourself, Nance; I’m tired.” - -She looked at him with a shrewish lift of the chin. - -“Tired, you great hulk! Dang those rickety stairs, they make my knees -ache; a bat put the candle out last night. Mother of God! I wouldn’t be -here another week but for the doubloons! Think of the smell of the -sausage shops and the snug little taverns Southwark way! I would give a -gold Jacobus to sniff the river mud at low water. They might take us for -papists from St. Omer; as for the girl—Black Babs, she’s no more mad -than I am.” - -The woman had a certain air of culture—the culture, perhaps, of a bold -and clever orange girl who had caught some of the courtliness of the -playhouses and the gardens. - -“So we are papists,” quoth the man, still dabbing his face, “and to say -whether a wench is mad or not is none of our business.” - -“It’s my business, Sim, to see no one drops a noose over my neck.” - -“Noose be damned! When a great gentleman opens his purse, you slut, wise -folk ask no questions.” - -“P’r’aps not. Lift the pot off. My Lord Pomposity wishes the girl mad, I -gather, and mad she will be in six months, with the winter coming—or, -maybe, stiff as a frozen bird. Then it will be old Drury and Whitefriars -again.” - -“As likely as not. Captain Grylls will be black-guarding it this way -with orders before long. They must get us fresh supplies sent in before -December.” - -“That’s the real business of life, Sim, to be sure. There’s the girl’s -bread and dripping. Run up with it like a good lad, or I shall spoil the -pudding. You had better take the lantern; the old tower is full of bats -and draughts.” - -The man put the oil flask on the shelf, and, dropping the white cloth -over his face, took down a horn lantern from a beam and lit the candle -in it with a burning brand from the fire. He trod on the dog’s paw in -the doing of it, and gave the beast his boot in the ribs because he -presumed to snarl at him. - -“Anything to wash it down?” - -“I filled the jug this morning.” - -Simon Pinniger picked up the pewter plate and marched off swinging the -lantern. From the kitchen a passage led to what had been the hall, now -rafterless, with the stars blinking between ivied walls. A flight of -steps led to a door that opened into the lower story of the tower. Simon -put the lantern down, pulled out a key, and, unlocking the door, picked -up the lantern again and began to climb the interminable stair. Thud, -thud, thud, up into the darkness, with the light from the lantern -swinging this way and that, and the raw cold of the autumn night -breathing in at the open squints, and through the shot-holes that could -be seen here and there in the walls. Simon Pinniger climbed sixty steps -or so, passing two narrow landings before he came to a door with a bar -across it. He put down the lantern, unlocked the door, lifted the bar -that worked upon a pin, and, opening the door about a foot, pushed the -plate in with the toe of his boot. - -“Supper,” was all he said. - -Then, after the turning of the lock and the creaking of the bar, the -thud, thud died down again into the darkness of the stair. - -Only one thing moved for the moment in the tower-room, and that a mouse, -who came out boldly to nibble at the bread on the pewter plate. A single -window, high up in the wall and closed with stanchions, let in the brown -gloom of the dusk and the glitter of a star. There was no fire, no -furniture to speak of, and nothing that could be broken and used as an -edge to cut and wound. - -In one corner stood a truckle-bed, and sitting thereon a still, shadowy -figure whose face showed a gray oval in the darkness. The place seemed -far above all sound, though the wind might moan there and shake the ivy -on the wall. - -The figure rose from the bed and moved toward the door. It went on its -knees there, and with cold hands began to crumble some of the rough -bread. A tiny shadow crept up toward the white fingers and took crumbs. -It was so little a thing, too small to be caressed, yet it had grown -tame in one short month, and, above all, it was alive. - -Barbara, kneeling there, fed the mouse with crumbs, and ate some -mouthfuls of the bread herself. For there was nothing for her to do at -Thorn but to watch for this friend at dusk, or for the white pigeons -that sometimes flew up to her window during the day. She could see -nothing of the world, not even the waving woods, but only the clouds -moving and a few stars at night. One book they had given her, and that -an old Bible bound in faded red leather. She had read it twice from -cover to cover, sometimes with listlessness, sometimes with fierce -hunger, sometimes with tears. And for an hour or more she would sit on -the bed and think, her white face thin and questioning, but with no -madness in her eyes. - - - - - XXIV - - -There was a shadow of unrest over England that year, as though each -man distrusted his neighbor, and was ready to accuse his own friend of -treason and papish practices, of taking the French King’s money, or of -complicity in some wild and improbable plot. There had been no rush of -the mob as yet, no Protestant fury, but the discontent and the fear and -the distrust were there, spread on either side by vague whisperings and -all manner of monstrous rumors. Men were seen to sit cheek by jowl in -the taverns, and talk of an armed landing, of a second Massacre of St. -Bartholomew, when all good Protestants were to be murdered in their -beds. There were tales of Jesuits swarming over the country-side like -silent, night-flying moths. The Catholic lords had long been arming, so -it was said, and were ready even to murder his Majesty the King, and set -up the Duke of York, that morose-faced inquisitor, in his stead. - -John Gore, who had suspected his father of being trammelled up in some -secret undertaking, had called on my Lady Purcell one gray afternoon, -and was walking home alone across the park, taking a circuit so as to -pass by Rosamond’s Pool. He had been often of late to the house in Pall -Mall, drawn thither by instincts that he could not smother. He went to -hear news, and more than once he had spoken to Anne Purcell of her -daughter; but my lady had set her mouth very firmly, and made him -believe that the affair was too poignant for her. He had even questioned -Mrs. Jael quietly, and the woman had drawn two gold pieces from him with -her emotional loquacity and the trickle of tears down her plump cheeks. - -My lord had advised patience, and John Gore had done his best to abide -by the advice, suspecting no treachery in it, and hoping for all that -God might give. Yet often he rebelled against his blindness, yearning -but to know the place where they had hidden her away. The truth might -have been had by bribery, but John Gore had no reason as yet to persuade -him to bribe his father’s servants, nor would he have stooped to such a -thing without great need. Yet the girl had vanished out of the world, -and there was no horizon toward which he might turn his eyes and know -that she was there, like a light beyond the hills. In his heart he kept -her image bright, even as she had appeared to him those summer days, -swarthy and sorrowful, with silent lips and watchful eyes. - -Dusk was falling as John Gore crossed the park, and there were few -people strolling along the paths. He had come close to Rosamond’s Pool -when he saw two figures leaning over the rail, with the collars of their -cloaks turned up and their hats down over their eyes. They turned from -the water as John Gore came by, and even in the dusk he recognized the -taller of the two as Stephen Gore, his father. - -The son stopped, and saw his father give a tug to the shorter man’s -cloak. - -“Well met, Jack; you are the man I want. This, Captain Grylls, is that -son of mine who has sailed a ship farther than any of your sea-going -bravoes.” - -My lord’s companion bowed and lifted his hat. He was pock-marked and -somewhat overdressed, with a hook nose and a sharp, dry mouth. One of -his shoulders appeared higher than the other, and his head set a little -askew upon his neck. - -“The great navigator! Proud to approach you, sir; we are mere duck-pond -gentry, some of us, though we may have fought the Dutch.” - -His nose wrinkled queerly when he smiled, and he displayed a row of -teeth discolored by tobacco. John Gore judged the man to be a rogue, and -a hanger-on to the skirts of patrons about the court. His eyes had a -knack of seeming to look both ways, and no doubt he would have been -pleased if he had been able to see behind him like a hare. - -“Attend to this little affair of mine, Grylls. I shall expect you some -day this week.” - -“Yes, my lord; you know me to be as steady as a clock.” - -“Yet clocks need winding, Grylls.” - -The man laughed politely as though he saw the gilt edge of the jest, -and, lifting his hat, moved away with the discretion of an underling who -has learned to tell instantly when he is no longer wanted. - -My lord opened his cloak and set his hat at a happier angle. - -“Come along, Jack; I have business for you to-night.” - -Now John Gore carried one matter uppermost in his mind that evening. My -lord seemed to read the nature of his son’s thoughts, and dashed any -illusion with the candor of a friend. - -“No, nothing of that kind, Jack; I had news this morning. She is well in -body, but she has not changed greatly yet in soul. Put it behind you, -and wait for the best. After all, there are stirring things to be done -in the world, and a maid should not make a man’s blood turn to milk.” - -John Gore walked on in silence, his father humming a tune that sounded -very much like a chant. For my Lord Stephen was a papist, though the -conversion had not come till his maturer years, and whether it had been -a question of conscience or of statecraft none but a Jesuit could have -explained. - -“Who was the man you were talking with by the Pool?” - -“Grylls? A poor, willing kind of rogue who has learned to make himself -of use. Small fry, Jack, to float in shallow streams. I have deeper -waters for you, sir, with all your guns and tackle.” - -There was a gleam of grimness in his eyes as he spoke. - -“The Bible sayeth, Jack, ‘Put not your trust in princes.’ A wise saying, -truly; yet I have a wiser, and that, sir, is, ‘Put not your faith in the -mob.’ Trust the sheep-dog, and watch the wag of his tail, rather than -bump and scurry and run with the flock. Yonder lies our anchorage.” - -A house rose before them amid the trees, its windows dark save for one -in the first story, and that dim with the shadow of drawn curtains. John -Gore recognized it as the house of Hortense. They were crossing the -ground where he had fought my Lord Pembroke that wet night in summer. - -“Is your call there, sir?” - -Stephen Gore glanced this way and that, and then laid a hand on his -son’s shoulder. - -“Yes. Join with me, Jack; there are nobler prizes to be won here than -you will ever take at sea.” - -They entered the Mazarin’s house through the little garden door, behind -which some one seemed to have been waiting, for it was opened directly -my lord had given five sharp knocks. The door closed behind them, and in -the dim light John Gore saw the janitor was a woman. My lord walked -straight ahead toward a back stairway as though he knew the intimate -secrets of the house. John Gore was following him, when he felt the -woman touch his arm. - -“Of your curtesy, sir, the lock has caught; will you turn it for me?” - -She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, drawing out every syllable -with quaint directness. - -“Have you the key?” - -“Here it is, sir. Fie, now, I have dropped it; how very clumsy!” - -She began to draw her skirts this way and that in the narrow passage, -peering for the thing in the dark, and even sweeping the floor with her -hands. John Gore bent down to help her. And in the quest the woman’s -hair brushed up against his cheek. - -She gave a sudden, thrilling little laugh, and took John Gore softly by -the ear. - -“So you have come to join us, Signor Giovanni? That is very sweet of -you. We need brave men.” - -To be held by the ear by a waiting-woman surprised the sea-captain for -the moment. He took a firm but meaning hold upon the lady’s wrist. But -with the other hand she put back the hood of the cloak she wore. - -“Ah, how good! I have played a trick upon you both. Have you never been -held by the ear, Sir John, by some pretty little waiting-maid? Now do -not pretend, Sir John; I shall be able to tell a different tale.” - -She seemed to grow taller suddenly, and to radiate splendor even in the -dusk. Her voice changed also from a mincing treble to a full contralto -that seemed made for song. - -John Gore knew that it was Hortense. - -“Madam,” he said, “I beg your pardon.” - -She laughed with mischievous charm, and drew her hand away slowly so -that it brushed his cheek. - -“How simple of you, Sir John. And yet you can handle a sword so well. -Shall we follow my lord?” - -“And the key?” he asked, with a glance at the floor. - -“Is in the lock. And the lock is turned. So you see!” - -She dropped the cloak that she was wearing, and as they ascended into -the light he could see the splendor of her dress gleam up gradually, the -color of her hair, and the compelling beauty of her face. Her eyes -seemed full of sparkles of light; her lips red, soft, and mobile, as -though on the brink of a smile. - -She paused at the head of the stairway, and stretched out an arm across -the passage that led toward a room whence light and the sound of voices -came. John Gore paused also, and she stood and looked into his eyes with -an earnestness that made him color. - -“I am serious now, Sir John. We are risking our necks here; it may be no -mere supper-party and a trifling loss at cards. You are young—and, -then, you have been in other lands. And yet, after all, I am speaking to -you as though you were a boy.” - -For the moment he could only look at her, for she was so very lovely and -so womanly that it was not in a man’s nature not to look. - -“I am in the dark,” he said, at last. - -“Are you afraid of the dark?” - -“I have dared it before—for the sake of adventure.” - -She still stood regarding him with her great eyes, so liquid, so -mysterious, and perhaps a little sad. John Gore saw her press something -to her bosom, and when she took her hand away he saw that it was a -little silver crucifix hung by a chain about her neck. Her lips moved as -though she were repeating some Latin prayer. - -“Fides sanctissima, Maria beatissima, Pater-noster in cœlo.” - -And then she swept forward toward the room, and John Gore followed her -lest she should think him afraid. - -The room was quite small, panelled with dark oak, and with a fire -burning upon the open hearth at one end. A long table stood in the -centre. About it were seated some half a score men, and at the head -thereof, in a great leather-backed chair, Coleman the Jesuit, chaplain -to the Duchess of York. - -My Lord Gore exchanged glances with Hortense. - -“It was you, then, most magical Dian, playing porter at the door. I -wondered what had become of our friend here. Had I known—” And he laid -a hand over his heart. - -Hortense turned her head for an instant with an audacious flash of the -eyes at John Gore. - -“I will not betray him, but he wished to help a woman find a key that -she had not dropped, gallant Sir John!” And the look she gave him would -have made the greatest epicure push his plate aside and talk. - -Father Coleman, infamous or sainted Coleman, as men were soon to call -him, sat at the head of a table that was covered, not with papers and -epistles, but with dishes of fruit, wineglasses, bottles, comfits, and -spiced cakes. The gentlemen about it appeared to have easy consciences -and pleasant thoughts. They were debonair, familiar, talkative, very -much in the grace of pleasure. The panelling of the room was fanatical -and austere, yet the Duchess’s chaplain had cheerful cheeks and -vivacious eyes, and bore himself with that easy-flowing worldliness that -carries a clever priest into the intimate life of palaces. - -It might have been nothing more than a gathering of lords and gentlemen -who gossiped over their wine, comparing their views, and exchanging the -ordinary news of the day. There appeared to be no elaboration of -secrecy, no self-conscious sense of urgent peril. They ladled out punch, -or filled their wineglasses, smiling across the table at one another, -and listening to little pieces of scandal with the ingenuous -cheerfulness of country ladies over their dishes of tea. - -All of those present appeared very interested in the breeding of -race-horses, and the technicalities of the sport were bandied to and -fro, even Father Coleman appearing to be possessed of very pronounced -views upon so unpriestly a subject. They talked much of a famed French -horse named “Soleil d’Or,” and also of a Dutch stallion whose breed none -of the gentry seemed to fancy. There were a great number of noted beasts -in the shires whose names and points were familiar to the whole table. -“Norfolk Joe,” “Northern Star,” “Jenny of Cheshire,” “Hertford -Prince”—such were some of the many titles that John Gore heard passing -from mouth to mouth. Being a seaman, he felt himself out of touch with -the “horse gossip” of the day. That some gentleman contemplated -introducing a stud of French mares into the country was news whose -significance was largely lost to him. He knew very little of Italian -roans and Spanish jennets, nor why “Oak Apple” should be spoken of as a -sire who had not been properly watched. - -There was no coarseness in their gossiping, and John Gore, who sat at -one corner of the table close to Father Coleman and Hortense, saw no -need for either the priest or the lady to look embarrassed. The -gentlemen were still intent upon the topic when the Mazarin leaned over -the side rail of her chair and drew a plate of grapes toward her. - -She cut a small bunch, and began to eat the grapes one by one, doing it -so daintily that it was good to watch her white hands and her full red -mouth. She glanced now and again at the man beside her with a charming -suggestion of coy interest in him that contrasted with the mischievous -mood of an hour ago. - -“You know more of ships than of horses, Sir John?” - -She gave him the title as though it provided her with an excuse for -mouthing two very pretty syllables where one might have sounded blunt -and clumsy. - -John Gore looked at her with his grave eyes and smiled. - -“At the Nore you would have heard ships talked of in much the same -fashion.” - -“Yes. A sea-captain must love his ship as an Arab loves his horse.” - -“If she can spread her wings well and swing her shot home into an -enemy.” - -“Truly, Sir John, even I should love to go to sea, and sail away for -leagues and leagues—away to those dim islands where everything is new -and strange. I feel like a little ignorant girl when I think of what you -men of the sea have seen.” - -She looked at him so delightfully, with her eyes full of wonder and -interest, that a far stronger man than Ulysses might have lingered to -tell her of the splendors of unsailed seas. John Gore discovered himself -in Calypso land, with white hands pushing dishes of fruit toward him and -proffering Spanish wine. - -He was telling her of the grim passage of Cape Horn, and of the savages -who lived in those wild parts, when a sudden gleam from his inner -consciousness swept across his mind. He remembered how he had told the -same tales to that silent, sad-eyed girl whose life had had no glamour -of homage in it, and whose tragic face looked out at him from a mist of -madness. - -He grew silent quite suddenly, bringing his voyages to a clumsy and -confused end, and not noticing the questioning look in Hortense’s eyes. -He felt instinctively that she was nearer to him than he wished. Her -beauty became a sudden glare, clashing with something more spiritual, -more mysterious, and more strangely sad. He was glad when some of the -gentlemen rose and began to kiss Father Coleman’s hand. - -They went down by the same stairway, Hortense herself lighting them with -a little Italian lamp. She was very close to John Gore in the -passageway. Her dress brushed against him, while the lamp she carried -made her beauty seem softly brilliant amid the shadows. - -“Good-night, my lord; good-night, Sir John; I hope we have not -frightened you very greatly?” - -She searched him with her great eyes, so full of intentness for the -moment that he felt their power and could not look away. - -“You must tell me more of those wild seas, the great rivers, and the -Indians, the gold and the pearls.” - -He bowed to her a little gauchely, but did not touch her hand, and he -had a last glimpse of her standing there with the glow from the lamp -upon her face as he went out into the night. - -My lord appeared in excellent spirits as they walked home together in -the dark. His son had a silent mood upon him, and Stephen Gore found -nothing in his silence to be reproved. - -“Pearls and gold and strange lands. That is Hortense,” he said, -suddenly, as they entered the broad street; “a splendid creature, -too—in heart as well as in body.” - -John Gore walked on with no sound save the crisp beat of his feet upon -the stones. - -“What was the meaning of it all, sir?” he asked, at last. - -“Meaning, Jack?” - -“Yes.” - -“Why, just what you please, my lad. We choice spirits and good Catholics -love to have our gossip, and you can find in it just as much as you wish -to know. You must come with me again, and tell the lady more about the -pearls and the gold and the strange lands. I tell you, John Gore, there -is something for you to discover more mysterious and alluring than -anything Cortés and all the Spaniards discovered in the New World over -the sea.” - - - - - XXV - - -In the salon of the Purcells’ house in Pall Mall there hung a portrait -of the Spanish lady whom the Purcell of Queen Bess’s days had won with -the romantic daring of an adventurer’s sword. It was the portrait of a -young woman in a quaint stiff dress of black and gold, her dark hair -curled loosely about her head, and her black eyes looking down out of a -proud and rather peevish face. - -The portrait was touched by a ray of sunlight that October morning when -John Gore stood beneath it, finding a strange and wistful familiarity in -the Spaniard’s face. He was waiting in the salon for my Lady Purcell, -being the bearer of a letter from his father, who had ridden suddenly -into the eastern counties, giving no other reason than that of business -with a friend. These Purcell pictures had been familiar to John Gore -from his boyhood, yet they were full of a deeper significance for him -now as he searched face after face, but especially that of the lady in -black and gold. There was a stretch of landscape in one corner of the -picture, the one sunlit space upon the canvas, a scene of meadows and of -woodlands, with a mansion of red brick rising from the narrow waters of -a moat. John Gore guessed it to be the Purcells’ house of Thorn, now -ruinous in a Sussex waste, but once the home of the fair Spaniard with -the peevish mouth. - -He was looking at this picture with some intentness when Anne Purcell -came in to him, with cross lines about her mouth, and the strained air -of a woman whose temper is not at its best when inconsiderate persons -make morning calls. She was wearing a faded puce-colored gown, and lace -and ribbons that were none too clean, and she looked sallow in the -morning sunlight, and restless yet heavy about the eyes. - -“Good-morning, Jack.” - -She treated him with blunt ceremony, having seen his ears boxed as a -boy. John Gore turned and bowed to her, with his head full of other -things. - -“I was looking at Donna Gloria’s picture,” he said, making the most -obvious remark, as a man commonly does on such occasions; “there is a -strange likeness there.” - -“Ah, yes, Gloria had a temper.” - -“Is that Thorn—in the corner of the canvas, where the patch of sunlight -lies?” - -My lady glanced at him as though she had found him infinitely tiresome -on previous visits. - -“Thorn? I suppose it is.” - -“It lies some miles from the Rye road, does it not—not far from a place -called Battle?” - -Anne Purcell looked at him with sudden suspiciousness, and, turning -aside, sat down on a low couch with her back toward the light. John Gore -had always angered her of late with the grim and quiet persistency of a -forlorn and ridiculous faith. And possibly this impatience of hers came -from the inevitable pain she suffered when gleams of the finer spirit in -her broke through the shades of self. - -John Gore, feeling in his pocket for his father’s letter, could not help -being struck by the haggard expression of my lady’s face. So ripe and -healthy by nature, the change in her was the more obvious and the more -marked. The woman looked ill, with an indefinable grayness about the -mouth and a heaviness about the eyes. Wrinkles had appeared in the skin -that she had not touched that morning with rouge and powder, making her -look thin, yellow, and even old. - -“I have a letter for you from my father.” - -“For me?” - -Her face lighted up instantly, yet John Gore was struck by a shallow -gleam like fear in her eyes. - -“He has gone into the country for a few days.” - -“The country! Where?—what part?” - -“Suffolk, I believe.” - -He handed her the letter, and turned to the window as though to give her -leisure to break the seal and read it. Yet for nearly half a minute she -suffered the letter to lie unopened upon her lap as though she were -afraid to dip into its contents. Her eyes had fixed themselves with a -look of prophetic dread upon the Spaniard’s picture where the sunlight -shone. - -John Gore, standing at the window, heard the stiff crackle of the paper -in her hands as she spread it upon her knee. Stephen Gore and my Lady -Purcell had been friends for so many years that the son almost thought -of them as brother and sister. His father had been Lionel Purcell’s -friend and Barbara’s godfather, and the sympathies of the two families -had seemed to flow in one common channel. - -“John”—her voice startled him, for his thoughts had flown elsewhere, as -a lover’s thoughts will; he turned and saw her sitting with the letter -on her lap, her face dead white, and the muscles twitching about her -mouth—“will you ring for Jael?” - -He looked at her keenly, with some concern. - -“Have you had bad news—” - -“No—” - -“—about Barbara?” - -“No, no, I am only faint. I have not been well these last few days.” And -she crumpled the letter in her hands. - -As he crossed the room he heard her give a curious, shivering cry, and -when he turned again she was sitting with her face hidden in her hands, -swaying slightly from side to side, her whole body shaken by some -convulsive storm of tears. John Gore looked at her helplessly. -Experience had not taught him to deal with an hysterical woman of forty. - -Seizing the most discreet impulse, he moved toward the door and nearly -pushed against Mrs. Jael as he opened it. He stood aside, and nodded her -into the room, feeling that only a woman could deal with a woman in such -a case. What the woe was he could only conjecture; perhaps some woman’s -affair that made her emotions passionate and uncertain. - -The spirit of unrest that seemed in the blood of every man that year -might well have entered into John Gore’s mood as he wandered without -purpose in the park after leaving my Lady Anne to Mrs. Jael’s -ministrations. To a man who had led an active and adventurous life the -court world seemed a trivial world, unless he were a libertine, a -gambler, or a dabbler in ambitious schemes. John Gore felt himself out -of touch with all these people, for after a three years’ voyage a man -may be more ignorant of the political passions of the moment than a -ploughboy who can catch the village gossip in a tavern. There were -causes and interests to be served, and numberless back-stair intrigues -to enthrall those who loved crooked pleasures and the mystery of some -plot. John Gore realized that his father had plunged both hands into -some secret undertaking, yet even the glamour of the Mazarin’s private -salon did not lure him to mingle an amour with intrigues. The times -seemed sinister, and full of violent yet treacherous motives. The life -about him appeared vague, elusive, and unsatisfying. Even my Lady -Purcell, so plump and buxom of yore, seemed to have fallen under the -spell of some secret panic, to judge by her sickly look, and the strange -emotion she had betrayed that morning. He found himself wondering what -she had read in my lord’s letter, for the suddenness of her distress -could hardly be explained by a fit of the vapors. For Anne Purcell had -always appeared to him to be a thoughtless and selfishly cheerful woman, -affectionate toward those who pleased her, but not one who would suffer -greatly for the sake of others. The thought haunted him that the news -had concerned Barbara, and that she had concealed the truth from him -with a spasm of motherly pity. - -His mood was of restlessness and discontent that morning—the -restlessness of a man who lacks a purpose for the moment, and who longs -for something to grapple with and overcome. My Lord Gore had counted on -this adventurous spirit in the son, believing that it would lure him -into the angry intrigues of the hour, and that he would forget that -which my lord wished heartily to be forgotten. The fascinations of -Hortense might have won many a man’s sword, and her splendor have dimmed -the feeble and romantic glimmer of a distant face. To forego such -plunder for a sulky girl whose mouth did not seem to be made for kisses! -My lord’s worldliness scoffed at the chance. Hortense would disenchant -him for any such sickly whim, and with a pout of her red lips or a touch -of the hand, turn him aside from stupid melancholy. Yet Stephen Gore -misunderstood the nature of the man, for though the vicissitudes of life -make most folk fickle, there are some fanatics who grow more obstinate -when threatened by fate. - -John Gore passed by the Duke of Albemarle’s rooms, and entered the -street by Holbein’s Gate. He walked under the windows of the Banqueting -Hall, over the place where a king’s head had fallen, and turned in at -the Palace Gate. He was strolling across the first court with the air of -a man who wishes the whole world with the devil, when at the entry of -the passage that ran past the Great Hall and the Chapel to Whitehall -Stairs, he cannoned against an equally preoccupied person who came out -by a side alley with a couple of books under his arm. - -“Pardon, sir; but may I remind you that God gave us eyes!” - -“Tu quoque, my friend; you have some weight behind those books, to judge -by the dig in the ribs you gave me.” - -They stared at each other irritably for the moment, and then fell -a-laughing like a couple of boys. - -“Bless my eyes, Jack Gore, but they are always playing me these scurvy -tricks. I shall be kissing all my neighbors’ wives soon in mistake for -my own.” - -“And no doubt the excuse will be useful, unless the husbands are fools.” - -“Ah, you dog! Remember my dignity, and in the public and august place. -Where are you bound?” - -“Anywhere—and nowhere.” - -“The most devilish, dangerous course, John Gore, that a man can ever -sail; it ends too often with places beginning with T and B. It also -betokens a precarious state of mind, sir—a readiness to be made a fool -of by a satin slipper or the turn of an ankle. I have had experience. -Don’t laugh, you buccaneer. I am minded to take you under cover of my -guns, and sail you into the country, where you can run into nothing more -dangerous than a milkmaid with scarlet stockings.” - -Mr. Pepys insinuated a hand round John Gore’s arm, and turned him back -in the direction of the Palace Gate. - -“Lest you find your way to the Stone Gallery, John, or to the bowers of -the maids of honor, I will conduct you under escort as one who may prove -an incorrigible vagrant. But to be most serious. Are you so -incontinently idle and unoccupied?” - -“I am.” - -“Then you should be the very man for a fat and purblind friend who is -driven to making pilgrimages on other people’s business. It is an error, -sir, to be considered honest and good-tempered. How would a week’s -saddle-shaking help your hunger. You have the took of a man too full of -bile.” - -John Gore looked into Mr. Pepys’s florid, short-sighted, and shrewdly -amiable face. - -“Are you going into the country?” - -“Yes, like a Jew to Babylon. For of all the things I abominate, John -Gore, commend me to country inns and the sloughs that bumpkins call -roads. Being plump, Jack, I am piteously popular with certain officious -insects, and when I consider it, I am moved by the reflection that these -insects might split their affections out of curtesy to a strapping -sailor.” - -Mr. Pepys turned abruptly in his bustling way, dragging John Gore round -by the elbow. - -“We will go back by boat and dine, and after dinner a friend can refuse -nothing. Take count of my inflictions, John Gore: Item one, to visit a -female cousin and inquire into some business where she has been robbed -and skinned by some rogue of a steward; and the woman is monstrously -ugly, Jack, with not so much as a simper to make a man feel gallant. -Item two, to go in person and render some private matter to Lord -Montague who is resting—resting in one of his accursed country houses; -it is no real business of mine, John Gore, but the kind of sottish -business that a man allows himself to be saddled with because he is what -people call trustworthy. Item three, to ride on to Portsmouth and poke -my nose into certain unsavory messes there. This is what it means, sir, -to be a man of affairs, and the most popular purse-carrier in an -accursedly large family.” - -John Gore laughed at Mr. Pepys’s declamatic energy, knowing him to be a -man who would read a beggar a sharp lecture and then give him sixpence -to drink with on the road. - -“When do you start?” he asked. - -“To-morrow.” - -“And by what road?” - -“The Rye road, John—and a wry road it is, I wagerdown to some miserable -town called Lamberhurst, in Kent. They work iron there, and I suppose -the beds are full of smuts that bite and smuts that don’t. Thence to the -town of Battle to find my Lord Montague, if he chances to be there and -not at Cowdray. Thence on to Portsmouth, and so home. The one cup of -spiced wine is that we ride by Tunbridge; I shall visit The Wells, buy -apples from the country girls, drink ink, and perhaps see some fine -women. And if you will take the road with me, I shall be more easy in my -mind as to footpads and fleas.” - -Now there had flashed into John Gore’s mind the vision of Donna Gloria’s -picture, with the glimpse of Thorn amid its woods and meadows. And -sometimes a man is swayed by the veriest whim toward destinies that are -far beyond the moment’s vision. So it proved with John Gore as he -followed Mr. Pepys into the boat at Whitehall Stairs, for he promised to -share with him the mellow comfort of St. Luke’s summer, and to serve as -partner in the matter of rustic beds. - - - - - XXVI - - -Mr. Pepys was a gentleman whose spirits were never dashed save when he -was testy for want of food or plunged into some periodical ague fit of -shivering religiosity. He was an excellent companion for the road, with -his vivacity and his bustling determination to get the best that life -could give. John Gore and the Secretary had agreed to take no servants -with them, for, as Mr. Pepys declared, “the rogues only drank their -masters’ purses dry, and ran away at the first click of a -pistol”—though it is highly probable that Mr. Samuel preferred to ride -alone upon his travels simply because he was minded to enjoy himself -without some prying rascal of a groom carrying home all manner of -scandalous lies as to what Mr. Samuel said and did and drank in his -hours of ease and absence. - -They slept the first night at The Checkers Inn at Tunbridge, a fine -timber and plaster house whose great gables overhung the street. The -next day they rode on to The Wells, where many fashionable folk still -lingered, enjoying the autumn sunshine and the country air. Mr. Pepys -contrived to hire one of the little wooden cottages upon The Common for -the night, a step that saved them riding off to Speldhurst. The -Secretary appeared chiefly delighted with the fair held near The -Pantiles, where pretty country girls sold fruit and flowers and garden -stuff, and robbed their customers coquettishly, being not so simple as -they seemed. Mr. Pepys proved such a zealous marketeer that he came away -with a boy carrying a big basket, in which were three cabbages, a gallon -of apples, two pounds of butter, a chicken and a duck, some home-made -cakes, several bunches of ribbons, and a bottle of gooseberry wine. -“What the deuce to do with the stuff?” That was a problem that made him -laugh most heartily. And being an ingenious wag he went down in the -evening with the basket to a little pavilion where some of the quality -were playing cards by candle-light, and, soon finding friends there, he -sat down and played ombre till he had lost three guineas. Then came the -jest of protesting that he must pay his debts “in kind,” and the duck -and the cabbages and the butter were hauled forth out of the basket. The -bottle of gooseberry cordial was the only thing they took back with them -to the cottage on The Common, and they shared it between them, finding -it far stronger and more fiery than they had expected. - -Mr. Pepys had a religious fit next morning when they rode on toward -Lamberhurst to condole with the ugly cousin over her losses. It proved -to be a smoky village in a valley, with a little stream running through -it and a good inn near the bridge. Mr. Pepys established himself at the -inn, swearing that he would cause Cousin Jane no extra expense; for her -cooking would have caused a second revolt in heaven—at least, so he -told John Gore. He appeared in need of a comfortable cup of mulled wine -when he returned from calling upon the relative, who lived in a dull -little house up the hill. Mr. Pepys confessed that she had talked five -gold pieces out of him, and he went to bed so surlily that the officious -insects, if there were any in the place, remained at a discreet and -respectful distance. - -On the fourth day from crossing London Bridge they rode for the town of -Battle, leaving the Rye road at Flimwell, and entering upon a track that -made Mr. Pepys sore in spirit as well as in the saddle. The roughness -and the quagmires of the so-called highway reduced him to one of those -sad and pensive moods when a man beholds rottenness in every -institution, and despairs of an age that can suffer so much mud. When -Mr. Pepys felt gloomy he took to talking politics, and to inveighing -against the venality of the times, and the dangers that threatened every -man, however shrewd and honest he might be. - -“Keep away from it, John,” he said, solemnly; “for I assure you there -will be heads falling before you and I are a year older. We are passing -through a pest of plots—ouch!—hold up, you beast, that is the fifth -time you have bumped me on the same place! I trust, John, that you have -not meddled with any of these intrigues.” - -“I am just as wise as a child, Sam.” - -“Be careful that you are not too simple. Now, in your ear, John, I have -many fears for that fine gentleman, your father. He is dabbling his -hands in dangerous dishes. God knows what will come of all this ferment. -The Protestant pot is on the bubble, John; it will boil over and scald a -good many people, or I know nothing.” - -“How much of it is froth?” - -“Perhaps on the top, sir; but there is a deuced lot of hot liquor -underneath. I know more of these things than most men, John; I am in and -out, here, there, and everywhere; I keep my ears open, my clacker quiet, -and my opinions to myself. There are some people who must be forever -meddling, and banking up secret bonfires under their own houses. The -papists are just such folk, John. There will be a flare soon, I tell -you, and a bigger flare, perhaps, than the Great Fire ever made. Keep -your fingers to yourself, John, and let fools play with hot coals.” - -John Gore listened to Mr. Pepys’s prophecies, and watched the autumn -woods flow by, russet and green, and bronze and gold. They were riding -now over the Sussex hills, with a gorgeous landscape flowing toward the -sea. Blue distances, far, faint horizons, dim, winding valleys ablaze -with the splendor of decay. Leaves falling with a flicker of amber in -the autumn sunlight. Berries red upon the bryony and the brier. Bracken -bronzing the woodlands and the hill-sides, vague mists ready to rise so -soon as the sun had set. - -It was late in the afternoon, and the west a sweep of cold clear gold, -when they came to the town of Battle, riding over the hill where the -windmills stood, the hill called Mountjoy in those parts, for there the -knights of William the Norman had tossed their spears in triumph as the -sun went down. Coming by Mill Street into King Street they saw the great -gray gate of the Abbey facing the town green where the fairs were held -and where they baited bulls. Looking about them for a good inn, they -chose “The Half Moon,” on the eastern side of the green. Over the way -stood the great beamed house where wayfarers had been lodged before the -days of the Abbey’s death. - -The first piece of news Mr. Pepys had from the hostler as he dismounted -was that my Lord Montague was not at the Abbey, but was expected from -Cowdray some day that week. Mr. Pepys swore by way of protest, being -stiff and hungry, and inclined to be choleric and testy over trifles. He -was walking to and fro in the yard to stretch his legs, and throwing -caustic brevities toward John Gore, when a neat and comely woman of -forty came stepping over the stones, and desired to know how she could -make the gentlemen welcome. - -Mr. Pepys looked at her bland, brown face, with plaits of dark hair -drawn over the forehead, and recovered some of his urbanity. - -“Your best bedroom, ma’am, the best supper you can serve, and the best -bottle of wine you have. You may not know Mr. Pepys of the Admiralty in -these parts.” - -The landlady spread her apron and curtesied very prettily, her brown -eyes and the red handkerchief over her bosom making Mr. Pepys approve of -her manners. - -“The great Mr. Samuel Pepys, sir?” - -“Some people would question the adjective, ma’am.” - -“I have a boy in one of the King’s ships, sir, and Mr. Pepys, sir, is -mighty popular in the navy. I am proud to serve you, sir.” And she -dropped him another curtesy that made the great man think her a mighty -fine woman. “Tom, carry up the gentlemen’s valises to the big front -room. I can give you a little parlor to yourselves, sirs. And what may -it please you to take for supper?” - -They became quite coy and coquettish over pasties and spitted woodcock, -duck and apple sauce, and Mr. Pepys’s favorite pudding. The Secretary -appeared to forget the stiffness in his legs. He walked in with the -genial air of a man who feels that his dignity is sure of its deserts, -whispering to John Gore, with a wink, that it is useful at times to be -somebody in this world, even for the sake of a clean bed. - -The hostess of “The Half Moon” reconciled Mr. Pepys so thoroughly to his -quarters by the polish of her pewter, the warmth of the wood fire, and -by the supper she sent him by the hands of her daughter, that he lost -his spite against my Lord Montague for being on the other side of -Sussex. Lolling in a chair before the fire, his shoes off and his -stockinged feet enjoying the blaze, he made as comfortable a picture as -a philosopher could wish to praise. - -“I could stomach a day or two here, John, with great contentment,” he -said; “for the thought of those Sussex roads at night make me bless God -for the burning logs, although it is October. My Lord Montague can come -to me while we enjoy ourselves. Let us consider what there is to be seen -in this part of Sussex. Ha, so—let us call up mine hostess’s daughter -and hear what she has to say.” - -There was no bell in the parlor, but Mr. Pepys improvised a gong with -the bottom of a big brass candlestick and the poker. But since this most -martial clashing did not bring the damsel, he went to the stairs-head -and called over the balusters: - -“Betty—Betty, my dear.” - -Petticoats bustled up the stairs, and the daughter of the house appeared -with a tray held like a buckler across her bosom. Mr. Pepys made her a -polite little bow. - -“We shall be beholden to you, my dear, if you will tell us how we may be -amused to-morrow. Are there any gentlemen’s houses worth a ride in the -neighborhood?” - -Mr. Pepys retreated backward into the room as though desirous of drawing -the girl after him. - -“There is the Abbey, sir.” - -“The Abbey!” And Mr. Pepys tossed the suggestion aside as superfluous. -“I shall see enough of it, Betty, when my Lord Montague reaches us. Are -there any houses hereabouts where murder has been committed, or a plot -hatched, or a king been entertained. We like to see the shows.” - -The girl leaned against the door-post with the tray lodged jauntily upon -one hip, and her green stays with their red laces showing off a very -embraceable figure. - -“There is Bodjam Castle, sir.” - -“Bodjam—Bodjam. What a name, my dear, for a cobbler! It likes me -little.” And he admired the red petticoat and the green stays. - -“Hastings Town—and Castle, sir.” - -“Fish and old stones! No, John, eh; no Betty. Try me again.” - -“Perhaps Rye Town would please you, sir.” - -“A wry road, no doubt, which is more than your figure is, my dear; not -wry, I mean, but trim as—well—just what you please.” - -The girl laughed, perked up her chin, and glanced at John Gore as though -he looked a sturdy fellow, and as though she expected him to wink. - -“There is Pevensey, sir, where the King landed, and Thorn House, and -Hurstmonceux.” - -“Ah, Hurstmonceux, and Thorn, did you say? Thorn belongs to the -Purcells, John, surely?” - -“Yes, Mr. Pepys—” - -“Pat off the tongue—Patrick Pepys shall be patted!” - -“No one ever goes to Thorn, sir; there is nothing to see but ravens.” - -“Hurstmonceux is a pretty word, my dear. Say it again; I like to see -your lips pout out. What! giggling? Now, dear soul, what is there to -laugh at? I am an old bachelor, as this gentleman will tell you. And, -Betty, don’t forget the warming-pan, will you, my dear?” - -John Gore and Mr. Pepys shared the same room that night, and the -Secretary’s bed-going was as lengthy as his tongue. He had a habit of -undressing by degrees, and of sitting down and roasting his toes at the -fire between each act. He would even draw off his small-clothes from one -leg and sit with the other still breeched, while he chatted and fondled -his chin. Even when he had undressed, the toilet for the night was -nearly as thorough as the toilet for the day. Mr. Pepys aired the -contents of his travelling valise before the fire, and donned in -succession a pair of lamb’s-wool bed-boots, a thick undervest, a blue -cloth sleeping-coat, and a great nightcap, which he drew down over his -ears. Then he shut the lattice tight, pushed a table against the door, -put his money under his pillow, warmed his feet for the last time at the -fire, and then clambered into bed. - -“Lord Montague can stay at Jericho,” he said, as he wallowed down into a -feathered mattress. “The weather should be steady, Jack—my corns are -quiet. What do you say to Hurstmonceux for to-morrow. I wager that we -can get inside.” - -“The girl spoke of Thorn.” - -“That was an allegory, John; ask her if her name is Rose. Now I dare you -to keep me awake with your talking, sir; I know you sailors, all yarn to -the rope’s-end. Good wench, she has warmed the bed well just where my -feet go, God bless her! Did you applaud the color of those stays, John? -Red and green are rare colors on a dark woman. Ah—ho!—if I tie not my -clacker up, you will never let me sleep till midnight.” - -John Gore still remembered Mr. Pepys’s snoring when they ordered their -horses out next morning for a jaunt over the Sussex hills. Mistress -Green Stays brought Mr. Pepys a mug of sack into the court-yard as he -sat in the saddle, for which favor he thanked her gallantly, and told -her she had pretty dimples at the elbow. They took a track that ran out -of the western end of the town past the old Watch Oak, and soon toward -Ashburnham and Penhurst. - -Now, to put the matter frankly, these two gentlemen got wickedly lost -that day, largely through a fit of friskiness on Mr. Pepys’s part in -chasing a stray donkey down a side road. He had been lusting for a -gallop, so he said, and the moke gave it him, to land him quizzically in -a stout thorn-hedge. John Gore extricated the Secretary, condoled with -him over the scratches, and prevailed upon him to return toward the -road. But Mr. Pepys boasted a great belief in his own bump of locality, -and, taking to a bridle-path, lost himself with complete success. And -then he swore roundly at the Sussex roads, as though it was their duty -to fly up in his face and not go crawling and sneaking like a lot of -thieves behind a wood. - -John Gore laughed, for it was Mr. Pepys’s outing and not his, and he -suffered his friend to follow his own nose, being amused to know what -would be the end of it. They were following a grass track that curled -hither and thither through thickets and over scrubby meadows, not a -house to be seen anywhere, with the sun at noon, and no dinner -threatening. - -The track proved kind to them, however, for the woods gave back -suddenly, and they saw a red farm-house shelving its thatch under the -shelter of a few beech-trees against the clear blue of an October sky. -The beeches themselves were a-glitter with ruddy gold. And from the low -brick chimney blew a wisp of smoke, as though flying a signal to Mr. -Pepys’s inner man. - -The Secretary bumped his heels into his horse and went forward at a -canter. John Gore saw him rein in clumsily as he skirted a hedge that -closed the orchard and yard, rolling forward in the saddle as though he -was in danger of going over his horse’s head. He waved an arm over the -hedge toward a great pond that lay on the farther side thereof, between -the farm-yard and the orchard. - -It seemed that the farmer’s child of seven had something of the Columbus -in him, for while the men were in the fields and his mother in the -kitchen he had rolled a big tub down from the yard, floated the craft, -and embarked boldly, with a couple of thatching-pegs for oars. Whether -the child paddled his way too daringly or no, the tub overturned in the -middle of the pond, and, righting itself, lay there water-logged, while -a flaxen head and a pair of frightened hands went bobbing and clawing -and gulping amid ripples of scared water. And on the far bank, with the -drake at their head, a company of white ducks were quacking in chorus, -shaking their tails, and making a mighty pother. - -John Gore saw that the boy was likely to drown, and, vaulting out of the -saddle, he broke through the hedge and reached the pond. The pool looked -too dark and deep for wading, and probably had two feet of mud at the -bottom; so, pulling off his horseman’s coat and his heavy riding-boots, -he went in, made a breast plunge for it, and struck out for the child. -The white head was going under again when John Gore snatched at the -curls. He held the boy at arm’s-length, and, swimming till his feet -touched mud, stood up and lifted the youngster in his arms. - -Mr. Pepys, who had run into the farm-house, appeared at the hedge with a -round of rope and a big, raw-boned woman in a blue petticoat and a kind -of linen smock. She pushed through, not sparing her brown forearms or -her face, and would have taken the child out of John Gore’s arms. - -But he put her aside kindly, and, laying the boy on the grass under the -hedge, unfastened his little doublet, and then held him up by the legs -to empty the windpipe and lungs of water. - -“Have you a good fire burning?” - -“Lord bless you, sir, yes.” - -“Go and get your blankets ready. We shall soon have him alive and -roaring.” - -John Gore carried the child into the farm kitchen, and, laying him in a -blanket almost upon the hearth-stone, rubbed and kneaded him till the -skin began to redden. A loud sneeze was the first greeting that he gave -them. His mother went down on her knees instantly and huddled him to her -bosom, the blanket trailing across the brick floor. - -“You be for terrifying me, you God-forsaken little rascal! Playing these -tricks on us, with the good gentleman here wet to the skin and his -stockings all mud! Won’t I smack ye when ye can bear a hand on a spot -where a hand can’t do much harm!” - - - - - XXVII - - -Mr. Christopher Jennifer came to the kitchen in the middle of all this -fussing over the child, with his bill and his hedging-gloves and his -boots caked with muck. He was a short, round-headed man with bowed legs -and a broad chest, and, after hearing the truth of it all from his wife, -he laid the child solemnly and deliberately across his knee. “Come now, -Chris, man, he ben’t fit for ye yet.” - -“Oh, ben’t he? I reckon it will make him livelier nor cakes.” - -And he began in the same stolid and unflurried fashion to lay one of his -hedging-gloves across the child, till the sound of his roaring sent -Death out with ignominy by the back door. - -The chastening of youth attended to, Mr. Jennifer and his woman began to -make a great to-do over John Gore and Mr. Pepys. The farmer took John -Gore upstairs to the best bedroom, fetched out his Sabbath suit of gray -cloth with the silver buttons, and gave his guest a change of stockings -and of underwear. Then he went and mixed him a glass of hot toddy, -remarking, with grave solemnity: - -“That water be powerful wet!” - -His wife Winnie bustled about the kitchen, banking up the fire with -fagots till it roared in the black throat of the chimney, pulling out -her best table linen from the press, and talking to Mr. Pepys all the -time as though she had known him all her life. The Secretary was just -the genial soul for such an adventure. He turned to very gallantly, and -pressed himself into Mrs. Winnie’s service, tramping to and fro to the -larder with her—a larder that smelled of herbs and ale, carrying mugs -and platters of hollywood, a chine of bacon, and a round of beef. He -even filled the big, black jack for her from the barrel in the dark -corner, taking a good pull to his own content, and declaring that he -pledged Mrs. Jennifer’s health. - -The farmer came down-stairs carrying John Gore’s wet clothes, followed -by that gentleman himself in Chris Jennifer’s Sabbath suit. Mr. Pepys -looked at him quizzically, and bunched out his own vest with a -significant wink. The farmer’s shoes were inches too big for the -sea-captain, so that the heels clacked upon the bricks of the kitchen -floor. - -Mrs. Winnie hung the wet clothes before the fire, while her man stared -at the table with the critical eyes of a host whose gratitude meant to -prove its warmth by persuading his guests to overeat themselves. - -“Turn your chairs to, my masters. Ye’ll be welcome to Furze Farm so long -as my boots leave their muck upon t’ floor. Be it for me to tell ye for -why, sir?” And he looked at John Gore steadily, and jerked a thumb in -the supposed direction of the pond. - -These good people of Furze Farm were so hospitable and so full of honest -gratitude that what with the hot liquor, the drying of John Gore’s -clothes, and Mr. Pepys’s happy torpor after a big meal, the afternoon -was nearly gone before they remembered the homeward road. Farmer -Jennifer would have had them stay the night, but Mr. Pepys roused -himself to refuse, remembering the comforts of “The Half Moon” and the -dimples of Mistress Green Stays. John Gore changed again into his own -clothes (though Chris Jennifer would have made him a present of the -undergear), and went above to say good-bye to little Will Jennifer, who -had been put to bed and left to meditate over this Tale of a Tub. The -boy seemed a little shy of John Gore, who dropped a sixpence on the -pillow; for when a child has been smacked before strangers, some -allowance must be made for outraged pride. - -“I be sure thee had better bide the night,” said Mrs. Winnie, as they -moved out from the kitchen. “Battle be a good nine miles, and in an hour -will come sundown.” - -Mr. Pepys thanked her very heartily, and declined her kindness with -proper grace. They would be grateful, however, if Mr. Jennifer would put -them upon the road. - -“Get thee up on Whitefoot, Chris, and ride with the gentlemen to the -Three Ashes.” - -Mr. Jennifer brought a big brown filly from the stable, and set out with -no more harness than a halter, and a sack for a saddle. Mrs. Jennifer -held the farm-gate open for them, looking up at John Gore very kindly -with just a glimmer of tears in her eyes, for though Winnie Jennifer had -a strong arm and a rough, brown face, she was as warm-hearted a creature -as ever creamed the milk. - -“If ever it should be that we can serve ye, sir, God see to it, we will -not forget.” - -And John Gore gave her a sweep of his hat, never dreaming for the moment -that Winnie Jennifer might one day prove a right dear friend. - -Mr. Christopher rode with them a mile or more, saying very little, for -he was a silent man, and accustomed to leave the talking to his wife. He -looked sincerely puzzled by Mr. Pepys’s jokes, tickling his chin with a -stumpy forefinger, and grinning occasionally as though wishing to be -polite. They reached the Three Ashes, and Mr. Jennifer would have ridden -farther with them, but Mr. Pepys, still obstinately sure of his own -powers, refused to carry the farmer another furlong. Chris Jennifer gave -them some very rambling directions, and after a long, dog-like stare at -John Gore—a look that betrayed that he wished to say something graceful -and could not—he wished them God-speed, and rode off on the brown -filly. - -Mr. Pepys professed himself wholly enlightened by the farmer’s rigmarole -of “keep to t’ beech hanger on thy left”—“get ye down into t’ -bottom”—“second lane ye come by afore t’ brook, and t’ second yonder -along under t’ brow wid a turnip-field under t’ hedge.” John Gore had -the seaman’s sense of direction, nothing more. Mr. Pepys was accustomed -to strange documentary ambiguities, and persisted cheerfully that he -knew just how to go. - -And thus it befell that the Secretary lost himself valiantly a second -time that day, and meeting not so much as a ploughboy to put him right, -he lumbered on stubbornly, trusting to good-fortune. The dusk came down -and caught them as they followed a rough “ride” that pretended to run in -the direction of Battle Town. But it led them ungenerously into the -heart of a wood, and then disappeared amid impassable undergrowth that -was black with the coming night. - -Mr. Pepys could face it out no longer. They were lost, and he accepted -the blame of it, ruefully wishing that he had bottles in lieu of pistols -in his holsters. - -“What’s to be done, Jack? No ‘Half Moon’ for us to-night.” - -A wind had risen and was beating through the underwood, making a dismal -moan and setting the brown leaves shivering. The horses’ hoofs sucked at -the spongy soil. Woodland and sky would soon be one great black void. - -“We had better pick our way back and trust to luck.” - -“And to think, John, that we left that warm corner of a kitchen! I would -give a guinea for the smell of the smoked bacon, and a glimpse of the -wood fire licking the chimney.” - -They began to pick their way back again, the woodland “ride” growing -black as the gallery of a mine. Their horses drooped their heads and -went mopingly as though feeling as hungry and dismal as their masters. -The hazel twigs kept stinging Mr. Pepys’s face, and though he swore -peevishly at the first flick across the cheek, he pulled his hat down -over his nose and took his punishment with the grim silence of a man who -has only himself to blame. - -A word from John Gore, who rode a little ahead, made Mr. Pepys perk up -in the saddle. - -“What—John—what?” - -“A light over yonder.” - -“God bless the smallest candle, John, that strives with this infernal -darkness.” - -They had come out from the wood, and could see far below them in a -valley a faint glimmer of light. The ground seemed to fall away into a -long sweep of vague gloom. The sky had become dark with clouds, and -though they could see nothing but that faint spark of fire, they could -hear the trees whispering and muttering not ten yards away. - -“We had better make for the light.” - -Mr. Pepys acquiesced fervently, the night growing raw and cold, and full -of eerie sounds. - -“I begin to think great things of Mr. Bunyan,” quoth he; “there is a -sermon in yonder candle that makes me remember the responsibilities of -my immortal soul.” - -They rode down through the night, going very slowly, with the heavy -sound of tired horses plodding over wet grass, and the wind blowing -about them in restless gusts. They could see nothing but the glimmer of -the light, nor could they even tell from what place it came, save that -it most probably burned behind a casement because of its steadiness -against the night. - -They passed a few spectral trees that spread out into flat tops from -short, knotted trunks. Then a vague, black mass seemed to rise against -the opaque sky. Mr. Pepys, who had pushed on a few feet ahead, leaned -forward in the saddle, straining his eyes to see what was before him. -They had passed the trees by scarcely twenty paces when there was a -sharp, scuffling sound, and the ring of something metallic against -stone. John Gore saw the shadowy outline of horse and man swerve -violently, and back past him over the grass. His beast carried Mr. Pepys -into the boughs of a thorn-tree, yet, though tangled up with his periwig -in his mouth, he managed to shout and warn John Gore. - -“Hold back, John, for the love of God! There’s a wall in front of us, -and water beyond it.” - -John Gore dismounted and ran to help his friend, whose scared horse was -raking him through the thorn boughs. He caught the animal’s bridle and -quieted him, so that Mr. Pepys was able to slip out of the saddle. - -“Where the devil are we now, John? Heaven help my poor face! I feel as -though I had married fifteen wives, and all of them with finger-nails -and tempers.” - -“Hold the horses and I’ll reconnoitre.” - -“Do, good John; but first let me find my hat.” - -Outlined dimly by the light were two massive pillars that looked as -though they flanked a gate. Moving very cautiously, John Gore found a -bridge of tree-trunks across a moat, and a heavy gate at the end -thereof. Peering through the crevice between the hinge-edge and the -pillar, he could see the light burning behind a window near the ground. - -“Where are you, John?” - -“Here, over the bridge. There is a gate here, barred. The place must be -of some size to have such a moat round it. I will try a shout.” - -He gave a seaman’s hail, while Mr. Pepys, who was a man of many tricks, -put two fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle. - -The light did not move, but they heard the deep baying of a dog, and -then footsteps coming out into the yard. The steps paused, as though -some one was listening, and a voice growled out an order to the dog. - -“Halloo, there!” - -The footsteps approached the gate. A man’s voice called to them from the -other side, and they could hear the dog rubbing his snout along the -lower edge and sniffing. - -“Who’s there?” - -“We have lost our way, and want a night’s lodging.” - -“Who’s who?” - -“Two gentlemen travelling alone. Open the gate, my good fellow, and take -us in—” - -“Deuce take you, that I shall not.” - -Mr. Pepys, who had led the horses forward, put in a bland appeal. - -“My good soul, why so surly? We are honest men and have the wherewithal -to pay. What is more, we are hungry and dead tired.” - -“How many are you?” asked the voice, while the dog kept sniffing at the -gate. - -“Two of us, and our horses.” - -“What will you pay?” - -Mr. Pepys gave John Gore a shocked and indignant nudge. - -“The foul clod, bargaining with our starvation! A gold carolus, my -friend.” - -“Say five,” quoth the voice, laconically. - -“Five! Why it’s sheer robbery!” - -“Stay outside, then; it’s no business of mine.” - -“Five be it, then,” said Mr. Pepys, in disgust. - -The man went off, saying that he would chain the dog up, because the -beast was fierce. They heard him call to some one, and then the sound of -voices haggling together and the rattle of a chain. Presently the slow -and heavy footsteps came back across the court-yard, with the lighter, -quicker tread of a woman following. She had brought a lantern with her, -and the light from it played under the gate. - -“You can sleep in the barn,” said the man’s voice. “My woman won’t take -strangers into the kitchen.” - -Mr. Pepys expostulated. - -“Five gold pieces, you rogue, for a night in an out-house?” - -“Warm hay is better than wet grass. We can send you in a jug of beer and -some bread and bacon.” - -“Thank Heaven, John, there is such a place as hell! Open the gate, my -man.” - -“Throw the money over first.” - -“Deuce take me, I am no such fool. Open the gate, and you shall have the -money.” - -They heard the lifting of the bar and the shooting of the bolts. It was -a woman who met them—a cloak over her head and a lantern swinging in -her hand. The man stood in a deep shadow behind the gate, and they could -see the glint of a gun-barrel and the grayness of his face. - -“Money down, gentlemen.” - -Mr. Pepys felt very much like being held up by a footpad. He glanced -over his shoulder for John Gore, who led the horses, and then threw five -gold pieces down on the court-yard stones. The woman picked them up, one -by one, examining each in turn by the light of the lantern. - -“Come this way, sirs.” - -Mr. Pepys did not like the gleam of the gun-barrel, nor the mystery of -the place; but he felt more at ease, now that he had something in -petticoats to deal with. - -“I must make my apologies, ma’am,” he said, intending to try civility, -“for disturbing you at such an hour. We have lost ourselves twice to-day -on the road. Seeing us to be such quiet gentlemen, you might be -persuaded—” - -The woman cut him short without great ceremony, and they heard the -grinding of hinges as the man closed the court-yard gate. - -“You had better walk more this way or the dog will have a bite at your -leg.” - -“Obliged, ma’am, I swear,” and he took the hint promptly. “If you happen -to have a warm corner in your kitchen—” - -“I don’t keep a tavern, sir,” she said, quietly. “This is my man’s -business, not mine. If you can’t sleep on clean hay, the more’s the -pity.” - -Mr. Pepys felt frost-bitten. Here was a lady who meant what she said, -and was not to be argued with. Mr. Pepys had studied the sex. “Barn” she -had said, and “barn” it would be. - -The woman pulled open a door that sagged on its hinges and scraped the -stones with its lower edge, and going in she hung the lantern to a nail -in the wall. Mr. Pepys saw a litter of hay in one corner, a pile of -broken bricks in another, and a few old garden tools and remnants of -furniture in a third. He could not refrain from making a cynical -grimace. - -“This is the dearest and the dirtiest lodging, ma’am, I ever paid for in -advance.” - -“That’s as you please, sir; be grateful for what you can get.” - -She left them and crossed the yard, while John Gore fastened the two -horses to a couple of iron brackets in the wall. Mr. Pepys took the -lantern down and turned the hay over critically with his boot. Then he -went and stood in the doorway, sniffing the night air hungrily, and -attempting to decipher his surroundings in the dark. - -“I do not stomach this greatly, John. Where the deuce are we? That is -what I should like to discover.” - -John Gore was unsaddling the horses. - -“As queer a place as ever I saw—and queer people in it, too. Listen -here, John”—and he came in with an air of mystery—“those voices were -never trained in Sussex.” - -“Oh!” - -“You hear such sweet strains in London City, John. What the deuce has -brought such folk down here into Sussex?” - -John Gore laid one of the saddles on the ground. Mr. Pepys stooped over -it and pulled a pistol from a holster. - -“Look to your powder-pans, John; my hair feels stiff under my wig. They -would cut our throats for a shilling.” - -He smuggled the pistol suddenly under his coat as he heard footsteps -crossing the court. The woman came in with a big jug, and bread and cold -bacon upon a plate. Mr. Pepys made one more attempt to melt her -churlishness. - -“Would you be so gracious as to tell us, ma’am, where we happen to be -passing the night?” - -She kept her eyes to herself as she set the jug on an old stool. - -“In Sussex, sir.” - -Mr. Pepys shrugged his shoulders. - -“There is such a thing as a house, my dear madam.” - -“So I have heard, sir; but there is no house here.” - -“There is also a commandment, ma’am, that tells us not to prevaricate.” - -“So I have heard, sir. My man will call you in the morning.” - -She left them without another word, though John Gore called after her, -bidding her to send her man with water for the horses. She came back -herself anon, and left them a single bucketful, going out again as -silently and sullenly as before. John Gore was holding the bucket under -his horse’s nose when he heard the barn door grate over the stones, and -close on them with a final heave from a heavy shoulder. - -Mr. Pepys’s face looked blankly scared. - -“Halloo, there, what are you shutting us in for?” - -“To keep the wind out,” said the man’s voice. “Good-night, gentlemen,” -and they heard something thud and grind against the door, as though the -fellow had jammed a piece of timber against it. - -Mr. Pepys put his shoulder to the door, but could not move it. - -“The scoundrel has wedged us in, John!” - -Slow, solid footsteps died away across the court-yard. They heard the -rattle of a falling chain and the whimpering of a dog. And presently -they heard the beast come sniffing at the door. - -Mr. Pepys looked at his companion, and then glanced with no appetite at -their supper. - -“Stars and garters, John! I don’t like this at all. Keep away from that -beer—the rogues may have poisoned it; I would rather share the water -with the nags. Get your pistols out, John. Just listen to that brute of -a dog sniffing and scraping to get at us. If you catch me asleep -to-night, sir, you may call me a fat fool!” - - - - - XXVIII - - -Nevertheless, Mr. Pepys fell fast asleep on the hay that night, for -the Sussex air and the ale at Furze Farm triumphed over his -presentiments of violence and murder. The sea-captain, who was of harder -fibre than the Secretary, sat in the hay with his pistols beside him and -his ears on the alert for any sound that the night might send. - -The candle in the lantern guttered about midnight, and John Gore was -left in the dark to listen to Mr. Pepys’s snoring and the heavy -breathing of the tired horses. He could hear rats scrambling and -squeaking in the walls, the harsh creaking of a rusty vane over one -gable-end of the barn, and the occasional sniffing of the dog’s nose at -the door. The barn was warm enough, and full of a musty fragrance, what -with the heat of the horses and the hay, and John Gore might have -followed Mr. Pepys’s example had he not come by the habit of keeping -watch at sea. And worthy man though Mr. Pepys was, John Gore commended -him for falling asleep, being desirous of thinking his own thoughts -without the distraction of his companion’s tongue. - -The place and its people puzzled John Gore, and he trusted them even -less than did Mr. Pepys. There might be priests in hiding, or some -secret to be guarded, for John Gore guessed that only the couple’s greed -had persuaded them to give casual strangers shelter in the barn for the -night. Their surly aloofness, as though they were risking something for -five gold pieces, had set the sea-captain’s curiosity at work. The place -had a moat and a gate that suggested a manor-house or a grange of some -size. Nor did the folk themselves smell of the country. John Gore -determined to reconnoitre the place at dawn if he were able to force the -door. - -Matters shaped otherwise, however, for it was still pitch-dark on an -autumn morning when he heard the sound of a door opening and a heavy -tread upon the court-yard stones. The man’s voice called to the dog, and -by the rattle of a chain John Gore guessed that the beast was being -fastened. The footsteps crossed the court and paused outside the barn, -with the glow from a lantern sending fingers of light through the chinks -in the door. - -“Halloo, gentlemen—halloo there!” - -He hammered at the door, the sound making such a thunder in the barn -that Mr. Pepys woke up with a gurgle, as though he were being throttled, -and sat up, striking out with his fists into the dark. - -“Soul of me, what is it? John! Where are you?” - -“Here, watching over you like a father.” - -“And I have been asleep! My conscience! Call me a fat fool, John, out -loud!” - -“Time to start, gentlemen.” - -“Start!” said Mr. Pepys, rubbing his eyes, “why, it can’t be much after -midnight!” - -“Five of the clock it is, sirs.” - -“Call us again at seven, Solomon; the hay is sweeter than I thought.” - -The man pulled the prop away, dragged the door open a foot or so, and -pushed the lantern inside. But he did not show them his face. - -“I go to work in half an hour,” he said, stubbornly, “and my woman wants -you away before I go.” - -“Dear soul alive, we shall not eat her, nor even salute her tenderly! -And there is breakfast to be considered.” - -“You can get your breakfast on the road. Up with you, or, by Old Noll, -I’ll let the mastiff off the chain!” - -The fellow’s bullying tone roused John Gore’s grimness, but he felt that -nothing was to be gained by a squabble. Mr. Pepys dragged himself up -from the hay, and helped himself to some of the bread and bacon that had -been left over from the night. John Gore was already at work saddling -the horses, not sorry to remember the warm parlor of The Half Moon Inn -at Battle. - -The man had moved off, and they heard him opening the court-yard gate. -It was still dark when they sallied from the barn, and found the woman -waiting for them with a cloak over her head. John Gore loitered and -looked about him, but could see nothing but low, dilapidated, thatched -roofs, and a vague, shadowy mass looming up against the northern sky. -The woman seemed to have no wish to let them linger, and the growling of -the dog typified the temper of the humans who owned him. The man had -disappeared, but what with the darkness and the raw cold of an autumn -morning, Mr. Pepys had no desire to wish him good-bye. He remembered the -glint of a gun-barrel as he climbed into the saddle. - -“You can at least tell us, my good woman, how to find the road to Battle -Town?” - -“I never was at Battle in my life, sir.” - -“Oh, cheering Aurora, how helpful thou art! Can you give us just one -point of the compass, ma’am?” - -“Ride east, sir; you must come somewhere.” - -“I agree with that statement, heartily,” quoth Mr. Samuel, with a -philosophical grimace. - -They rode out through the gate and over the bridge of tree-trunks with a -vague, black gleam of water on either side. They had hardly crossed when -the gate was slammed on them, and they heard the woman laughing, and -calling with coarse words to her man. - -“The pope deliver us, John, but I congratulate my throat on being -sound.” - -“Did you get a glimpse of the man’s face?” - -“No.” - -“Nor did I. He seemed shy of showing it.” - -“The surly scoundrel! As I said before, John, thank Heaven there is a -hell.” - -They pushed on slowly in the dim light, riding over spongy grass-land -that sloped upward toward the west. Everywhere the silence of the night -still held, save for the fluttering call of an awakened bird. They had -gone little more than a furlong when they came to the outstanding -thickets of a wood, the trees rising black and strange against the -heaviness of the sky. John Gore drew rein suddenly, and swung out of the -saddle. - -“What’s your whim, John?” - -For he was leading his horse by the bridle toward a clump of beech-trees -whose boughs swept close to the ground. - -“I am going to wait for the dawn.” - -“There is some wisdom in that,” said Mr. Pepys. - -“What is more, I want to have a look at the place where we have spent -the night. And the folk yonder will not get a glimpse of us in the thick -of these trees.” - -A slow grayness gathered in the east with little crevices of silvering -light opening across the sky. The silver turned betimes to gold, with -tawny edges to the clouds, and here and there the faintest flush of -rose. The grayness rolled back gradually, with a glimmer here and a -glimmer there of a hill-top catching the first gleams. In lieu of the -ghastly twilight the landscape began to take on color, and to glow, as -though touched by fire, with all the wild tints of an autumn dawn. - -As the day came John Gore saw a great house rise in the valley, with -water about it, and grass-land and woods on every side. The walls were -smothered with ivy, and through some of the empty windows shone the -dawn. Above the roofless rooms a square tower rose, showing a few feet -of red brick above its mantling of ivy. There were rotting out-buildings -beyond the court-yard, and a green space that looked like a wild garden, -while in the meadows about the place grew a number of old thorns. - -Now there flashed suddenly across John Gore’s mind the picture of Donna -Gloria in the Purcells’s house at Westminster. And he knew as he gazed -upon it that this place in the valley was their ruined house of Thorn. - -Mr. Pepys was too short-sighted to distinguish the place distinctly. - -“Well, John, what do you make of it?” - -His companion jerked a look at him as though he had forgotten Mr. -Pepys’s existence. - -“Strange chance, Sam! We have spent the night, without knowing it, at -the Purcells’s house of Thorn.” - -“Thorn!” - -“I have seen a picture of it before the Parliament men made it a ruin. -The windows are out, the roof in, and the walls shaggy with ivy. I -wonder that they did not batter down the tower.” - -Mr. Pepys was screwing up his eyes and shading them with his hand, but -things run into a blur at a distance, and much straining made the tears -come. - -“We had better be mounting, John.” - -“Wait! Bide quiet a moment.” - -John Gore’s face had a keen, hawk-like look as he leaned forward a -little, drawing a beech bough down to shade his eyes. He had seen -several white pigeons flutter up from the circular brick dove-cote that -still stood in one corner of the court, and beat their wings about a -narrow window high up in the tower. The dark ivy seemed to give -distinctness to the fluttering specks. Two of the birds had perched upon -the sill, and it was then that John Gore’s far-sighted eyes had seen -something that made him wonder. For two faint, white things had appeared -at the window, like hands thrust out, and the pigeons had fluttered to -them as though to be fed. - -“What is it, John?” - -The sea-captain ignored the question, and Mr. Pepys began to yawn and -fidget. - -The white birds had fluttered away again, and the faint hands and wrists -showed in the dark framing of the narrow window. They looked like hands -thrust up in supplication, the hands of a prisoner who could only see -the white birds and the sky. - -John Gore turned sharply, and climbed into the saddle with the air of a -man gripped and held by some inspired suspicion. He rode off slowly, Mr. -Pepys following him, and they began to pick their way through the autumn -woods. And fortune was kind to them that morning, for they struck a -track that led them to the Battle road. - -John Gore fell into a deep silence, a slight frown on his forehead and -his mouth firmly set. Mr. Pepys’s sallies lighted upon a stubborn and -irresponsive surface, for his companion seemed grimly set upon -reflection. - -“It puzzles me to know,” the Secretary had said, “what that man and his -woman are doing down at Thorn. Has my Lady Purcell established them -there as her retainers, and if so—why? Or have they taken up their -lodging there like rats in a ruin?” - -Mr. Pepys did not suspect how sudden a significance that same question -had gathered for John Gore. The sea-captain kept his own counsel on -certain matters, nor did he tell his companion of the hands he had seen -at the tower window. They might have belonged to the woman, but John -Gore did not imagine her to be a creature who would climb a tower in -order to feed pigeons. - -And yet the suspicion that had seized him seemed wild and incredible -when he thought of the people who were responsible for such a thing. -Even in an age when the mad were treated more like caged beasts, no man -with manhood in him could have given a mere girl such a prison and such -keepers. - -John Gore gave his horse the spur suddenly, and took Mr. Pepys into -Battle at a canter, the Secretary bumping fiercely in the saddle, much -to the delight of certain rude children who watched them come riding -into the town. - -But at Thorn, Barbara, cold and very quiet, sat on the bed under the -window, with the red book in her lap and her eyes full of vague musings. -For though those four walls let life in only by the window overhead, her -thoughts flew out into the wide world—sad and poignant thoughts that -bled at the bosom like a bird that has been wounded by a bolt. - -She had heard strangers come and go, and with them the echo of a voice -that made her heart hurry and her white face flush, and her eyes grow -full of desire and mystery. It had seemed but an echo to her from far -away, no dear reality—yet there had been tears upon the page when she -read the book that morning. - -For many things had changed in Barbara’s heart that autumn, with the -cold and the loneliness, the wretched food, and the wind in the tower at -night. She had grown gentler, more wistful, less sure of her own soul. -It was as though suffering were softening her, even ripening the heart -in her, despite the raw nights and the shivering dawns. What the future -had in store she could not tell, but she fed the birds at the window, -and the mouse that now crept out to her in the daytime and not only when -dusk fell. And with these childish things some new impulse seemed to -quicken and take fire within her, like the life of a child that is -reborn in those who suffer. - - - - - XXIX - - -Mr. Pepys looked very glum when John Gore told him over their wine -that he could go no farther into the county of Sussex. The business -between my Lord Montague and the Secretary to the Admiralty had been -thrashed out confidentially in my lord’s private parlor in the Abbey the -day after the adventurous return from Thorn. Mr. Pepys was ready for the -Portsmouth road, and could not or would not be brought to understand for -the moment John Gore’s humor in deserting him thus suddenly. The -sea-captain would only hint at a reason, and Mr. Pepys’s curiosity was -piqued to the extreme limit of good temper. He even suggested rather -pointedly that Mistress Green Stays might be to blame, but John Gore -looked so grim at the innuendo that Mr. Pepys pushed his pleasantries no -further. - -“Well, John,” he said, at last, like a man of sense, “let each dog -follow his own nose. I gather that you have affairs that need careful -watching, and a friend should be able to respect a friend’s privacy. If -you have any winks to give me, John, let me have them that I may not -blab anything that will rouse your wrath.” - -He was such a shrewd good soul that John Gore felt tempted to tell him -everything, but refrained, from a sense of sacredness and pride. - -“Rely on it, Sam,” he said, gravely, “this is no whim of mine. I am not -a man to be blown here and there for nothing. I have happened on -something here in Sussex that has made me drop anchor and bide my time.” - -“And should I return to London before you?” - -“Know nothing about me, and I will thank you.” - -“So be it, John; I will keep my tongue quiet, though I trust you are not -for meddling in any mischievous plot.” - -“I have no finger in any plot, Sam; that is the plain truth.” - -And though Mr. Pepys looked mystified, and even helplessly inquisitive -despite his self-restraint, he made the best of the business as far as -his own plans were concerned, and said no more either one way or the -other. - -He was greatly cheered and comforted next morning by a piece of news -that he had from one of my Lord Montague’s men. Dr. William Watson, the -Dean of Battle, was riding down to Chichester next day with two armed -servants who knew the road. Mr. Pepys went instantly to call upon the -churchman, and proved himself so amiable and engaging a soul that they -were soon agreed as to the advantages of their taking the road together. -And so they set out for Lewes on a fine October morning, bobbed to most -respectfully by all the old dames and children of the place, and talking -perhaps less of salvation than of Cambridge dinners and of wine and the -wit that was to be had in college halls. For Dean Watson was an old St. -John’s man, and had drunk of other things besides the classics. - -John Gore, left to himself in Battle Town, spent the day in riding over -the Sussex hills, probing the tracks and woodways on the side toward -Thorn. He had done much meditating since that dawn amid the beech-trees, -and his suspicions, such as they were, importuned him to satisfy his -curiosity with regard to Thorn. For he had only his surmises and the -strange coincidences of the affair to launch him on such a fool’s -adventure. - -He rode back to Battle soon after noon, with his horse muddy and his -face warm with a blustering wind. And being minded to learn what he -could in the matter of gossip and common report, he went, after dinner, -into the public parlor of the inn and sat down on a settle near the -window. A little round man and a great gaunt farmer were drinking and -smoking opposite each other in the ingle-nook, and John Gore pulled out -his pipe, for gossip’s sake, and smoked himself into the pair’s good -graces. - -The little man proved to be the barber-surgeon of the town, a rolling, -jolly quiz of a rogue who made his patients laugh even when he was -bleeding them, and had a wink for every pretty girl and a pat of the -hand or a pinch for the children. He was a communicative person, and had -been carrying on most of the conversation with the farmer, who sat with -his long legs crossed and the stem of his pipe resting upon his folded -arms. The farmer would give his pipe a cock and nod his head when the -surgeon said anything he heartily approved of, and scrape the heels of -his boots on the bricks and heave himself when he was inclined to -disagree. - -John Gore had joined these worthies in a gossip on the Dutch wars, and -was proving to them how a ship could throw a broadside of shot to the -best advantage, when the sound of a trotting horse came down the street, -and the surgeon, who never let a cart pass without looking to see what -was in it, came to the window to look out. They saw a man in a brown -coat and a big beaver loom up on a lean black horse. He pulled in toward -“The Half Moon,” and, glancing about him for a moment, got out of the -saddle as though he were stiff and tired. A hostler came running from -the yard, and the man in the brown coat tossed the bridle to him, and, -stooping down, lifted his nag’s near forefoot. The horse had cast a -shoe, and his master looked vexed over it, as though he grudged the -delay. - -The little surgeon was noticing all these details, but not with the same -interest as the man at his elbow. Something familiar in the man’s figure -had struck John Gore at the first glance, but it was only when he -dismounted that he noticed that the fellow carried one shoulder a little -higher than the other, and that his head seemed set a trifle askew. Then -suddenly he remembered the man’s face, with its sallowness, its roving -eyes, and its air of impudence that could change into quick servility. -It was the man whom my Lord Gore had spoken of as Captain Grylls, and -whom he had met with him by Rosamond’s Pool in the park that evening -before the gathering at the house of Hortense. - -John Gore stood irresolute a moment. Then, after he had turned over -twenty possibilities in his mind, he walked out of the parlor and down -the passage leading to the stairs. My lady of the inn was standing in -the street doorway, waiting till the man in the brown coat should have -finished giving orders about his horse. John Gore loitered on the stairs -and listened. - -“My nag has cast a shoe, ma’am, and I am held up for an hour, and deuced -hungry. Get me some good hot liquor and some dinner, and I will remember -you in my prayers.” - -“Will you please to step into the parlor, sir?” - -“My best services, ma’am; I have another three leagues of road yet. Your -fellow has taken my nag to the smith’s.” - -John Gore heard the bustle of the landlady’s petticoat, and retreated up -the stairs to the private parlor overhead. He walked to and fro for a -while, with a frown of thought on his face, before crossing to the -bedchamber to pack his belongings into the little leather valise he -carried strapped to the saddle. He was fastening the straps when he -heard footsteps on the stairs, and caught Mistress Green Stays coming up -with a bosomful of clean linen. - -“Betty, my girl, run down and ask your mother to let me know her -charges. I am following my friend on to Chichester in an hour.” - -The girl looked surprised, but, putting down her linen, went below about -the bill. Her mother came up betimes with some show of concern, hoping -that the gentleman had not found anything lacking. John Gore relieved -her from any such doubt, paid her her money, with a gold piece thrown -in, and asking her to fill his flask for him and make him a small parcel -of food, he gathered up cloak, sword, pistols, and valise, marched down -the stairs and out by a side door into the stable-yard. - -His horse had finished a good meal of bran and oats when a stable-boy -pitched the saddle on again, while John Gore stood and looked on. -Through the doorway of the stable he had a view of the street, and kept -his eyes upon it, knowing that the smithy lay down in the borough of -Sanglake. Mistress Green Stays came in with John Gore’s flask and some -food tied up in a clean napkin, and John Gore gave her a kiss and a -piece of silver while the boy was fastening the girths under the nag’s -belly. The girl had gone, blushing a little, with the coin in her palm, -when Captain Grylls’s black horse came up the street with a hostler at -his head. - -John Gore appeared to remember of a sudden that he had left a bunch of -seals in his bedroom, and he walked off, telling the boy to keep the -horse warm in the stable, for the beast’s coat was still wet with the -sweat of the morning. From the window of the upper parlor John Gore saw -Captain Grylls come out into the road and look at the new shoe on his -nag’s foot. He had a roll of brown tobacco leaves between his lips, and -looked flushed and comforted by his dinner. John Gore saw that the -captain was ready to mount before he went down again into the -stable-yard. A clatter of hoofs warned him that his man was on the road, -so he mounted and rode quietly out of the yard with his eyes on the -watch for Captain Grylls. - -The man in the brown coat rode out by the western end of the town, -puffing smoke from his cigarro, and looking about him alertly like a man -who is no longer tired. John Gore let him draw ahead, so that there was -a good space between them, and the curves of the road to hide them from -each other. He kept his distance upon Captain Grylls by catching a -glimpse of him every now and then over a hedge-top. For from the moment -that John Gore had recognized the gentleman, the suspicion had seized on -him that Captain Grylls was bound for Thorn. What charges the fellow had -there, or whether he were riding on my Lord Gore’s service, John o’ the -Sea could only guess. - -There was a good hour’s daylight left when they approached the track -that led down through the woods toward Thorn. John Gore drew up a -little, riding on the grass, and going very warily, so as not to blunder -into a betrayal. He had a mind to get to the bottom of this business, -and to prove whether he was the fool of fancy or whether his grim -surmises were drawing toward the truth. The road ran straight for two -hundred yards or more, and the sea-captain, pulling close under some -brushwood, reined in to see what Captain Grylls would do. John Gore saw -him rein in, pause, and then turn his horse suddenly toward the left, -where a dead oak stood, and disappear into the woods. Captain Grylls had -taken the track for Thorn, and John Gore brought his fist down on his -knee with the air of a man whose suspicions were closing up, link by -link. - -John Gore shadowed Captain Grylls through the woods, riding very warily -till he saw him go trotting over the grass-lands where the waning light -from the west beat vividly upon Thorn. Turning into that same thicket of -beeches, he tethered his horse where the trunks hid him from the house, -and advancing from tree to tree he was in time to see Captain Grylls -lead his horse up to the gate. One glance at that window of the tower -showed it him as a mere slit of blackness amid the ivy, and he kept his -eyes fixed upon the figure at the gate. He could see into the court-yard -from where he stood, and as he watched he saw a man come round the angle -of the house with what looked like a white cloth tied over his face. -Even at that distance John Gore recognized him by his slow, ponderous -walk, and by his size, for the man who had taken them in that night -stood nearly six feet four. - -The gate opened, and Captain Grylls led his horse in, turning to glance -up the valley, as though to see if any one were moving there. They -crossed the court and disappeared round the angle of the house, and -though he watched there till dusk fell, John Gore saw no more of the -captain or the man with the white cloth over his face. - -He leaned against the tree for a while, eating the food he had brought -with him from the inn, and washing it down with liquor from his flask. -He was summing up the situation, and wondering what to make of it, for -it seemed more than probable that he would spend a night in the open -woods. Captain Grylls had most assuredly ridden into Thorn, and he -suspected Captain Grylls to be his father’s creature. He remembered also -that gathering in Hortense’s house, and the hints his father had thrown -out to him. Anne Purcell might be in the secret of some intrigue; Thorn -was her house and the very place for a refuge in case of need. Then -there were the white hands he had seen at the window, those hands that -had set all manner of passionate surmises afire within his brain. Yet -what a suspicious, speculative fool he might prove himself to be! It was -humanly possible and reasonable that the couple down yonder should have -a daughter. - -Darkness had fallen, and, taking his cloak, he cast it over his horse’s -loins. Then after petting and fondling the beast as though to persuade -him to patience, he started out from the beech thicket over the -grass-land toward the house. - -He had come within a hundred yards of the moat when he saw a beam of -light steal out suddenly from the black mass of the ruin. It came and -went, mounting higher each moment, for some one was carrying a lantern -up the tower stair, the light shooting out, as it passed, through the -narrow squints in the wall. John Gore gained one of the thorn-trees -close to the moat and took cover there, about twenty yards from the -gate. - -An upper window in the tower shone out suddenly, a yellow oblong against -the blackness of the ivied walls. The light remained steady. John Gore -heard the sound of a rough, bullying voice that would have rasped any -man’s fighting instinct and made him knit his muscles as though to take -an enemy by the throat. For a moment there was silence. Then the voice -came down to him again, harsh, threatening, with sharp, fierce words -that sounded like oaths. Moreover, there was the sound as of a blow -given, and then—shrill and full of strange anguish—a woman’s cry. - -John Gore straightened where he stood, his upper lip stiffening and his -teeth pressing grimly against each other. With the shadow of the -thorn-tree over him, he stood there listening, the silence of the night -about him, and from the lighted window high up in the tower a faint -sound coming like the sound of some one weeping. A dull murmur of voices -struck upon his ear. Then the light died away suddenly, the window -melted into the darkness, and he heard the rough closing of a door. The -light came down the stair again, flashing out where the squints opened, -with a muffled thud of feet and the faint growl of voices. - -But John Gore, as he stood under the thorn-tree, could still hear the -sound as of weeping coming from the shadows of the great tower. - - - - - XXX - - -John Gore let his heart have its way that night, for the impulse in -him was too strong to be withstood. Yet, like the cool and dogged man he -was, he chastened the adventurous passion of a boy with the quiet -hardihood of one who has learned to hold a rough ship’s company in awe -of him. - -Unbuckling his sword, he thrust it into the grass under the tree, for -the thing would only have cumbered him, and after drawing off his heavy -boots and coat he went quietly to the bridge and across it to the -court-yard gate. As on the night when he had waited there with Mr. -Pepys, he could see a light burning in a window near the ground and the -shadow of some one moving in the room within. Taking a couple of steps -back, he made a running jump at the gate, and got his hands on the top -thereof with hardly a sound to convict him of clumsiness. The rest was -easy, and he straddled the gate and then dropped softly into the -court-yard. His chief fear was lest the dog should hear him and give -tongue. But there was not so much as the rattle of a chain to show that -the beast was on the alert. - -Moving along the court-yard wall that edged the moat, he came to the -terraceway that ran along the western front of the house. The place was -smothered with weeds and brambles, the brambles catching his ankles like -gins, so that he was constrained to go warily and set his teeth and his -temper against the pricks. The wall fell to a couple of feet where the -terrace began, giving a glimpse of the dim black waters of the moat. - -John Gore halted when the outlines of the tower rose above him against -the night sky. The western face thereof came down to the terrace stones, -and in the western face was the window at which he had seen the hands -appear. Crossing the terrace, he leaned against the plinth of the tower, -almost burying himself in the ivy that hung there in masses. But for the -very faint shivering of the leaves he could hear no sound, not even the -sound of a voice from the far wing where the couple appeared to have -their quarters. - -John Gore ran his hands along the plinth, feeling for the main stems of -the ivy where they had lifted and cocked the flagstones of the terrace. -These stems were stout and tough as a great ship’s cable, forked here -and there so that a man’s foot might rest, and sending out a net-work of -ropes over the tower. John Gore thought of Sparkin, and how he would -have laid a hatful of gold on the boy’s pluck and sinew for such a -climb. But since there was no Sparkin to venture such a climb for him, -he pulled his stockings up, took a look at the precipice overhead, and -staked his neck on a scramble into the dark. - -A rat would have thought nothing of such a climb, for you may find them -nesting high up in the ivy about a house. A daring boy might have -ventured it by daylight, but to scale such a place at night might have -made the most monkeyish seaman swear that he was not yet tired of the -taverns. John Gore was not a man who had trained as a sea-captain by -drinking wine in his state-room and strutting in scarlet upon his -quarter-deck. He could make the tops as briskly as any man in his ship’s -company, and carry tarry hands and shiny clothes to the credit of his -seamanship. - -But his heart never felt so near his mouth before, nor his fingers so -desperately tenacious, as when he had climbed some forty feet up that -tower of Thorn. The ivy stems were smaller and gave less grip, while the -sheer mass above him made the black void behind and below seem full of a -sense of suction drawing him toward a smashing fall upon the terrace -stones. He pressed his chest to the brickwork, breathing hard through -dilated nostrils, his teeth set, and his hands clinched upon the cordage -of the creeper. - -His brain grew steadier anon, and he went on, slowly and grimly, like a -mountaineer laboriously and patiently clinging to narrow niches in the -rock. Another ten feet brought him to one of the windows. It was barred, -but the bar gave him something to hold to, and he found a knotted stem -beneath that jutted out like a corbel. He rested there awhile, -listening, and he could hear a dull, rhythmic sound above, as though -some one were pacing to and fro in an upper room. - -Then he went on again, even more slowly and perilously than before, -thinking what a mad fool he was, and trying to forget that the return -journey was before him. He was so close to the window now, and so grimly -intent on keeping his hold, that he had no instinct left in him but the -instinct of self-preservation. His whole consciousness seemed in his -fingers and his toes. At last he felt one hand go over the window-ledge, -and, lifting himself slowly, he got a grip of the stanchions and drew -himself up till he could rest his elbows on the sill. - -He hung there dizzy and out of breath, yet with a sense of infinite -comfort at having his hand upon an iron bar. His fingers were bleeding, -and his stockings torn into holes at the toes. Life and the full memory -of things came back to him as he lay on the sill of the window. It was -no moment for elaborate curtesy, as though he were in a velvet coat and -bowing himself gallantly on the threshold of a great lady’s salon. - -One word came to him as the blood steadied in his brain, and he uttered -it in a half whisper, as though it would have the power of a spell. - -“Barbara!” - -He heard some one move, and the creaking of woodwork. - -“Barbara, is it you?” - -There was a rustling sound against the wall, and two hands came up to -him out of the darkness. - -“John—John Gore?” - -“Dear, you should know my voice.” - -“You, John! is it you? Oh, but you frightened me! I heard something -climbing, and was shivering in a corner.” - -Now John Gore seemed suddenly to forget the eighty feet of space below -him. His heart had given a great leap and was drumming against his ribs, -for the truth that he had discovered went far beyond his dreams. The -window was cut in the thickness of the wall, and the stanchions set -deeply in it, so that he contrived to drag himself over the sill and -wedge himself there with his face close to the bars. - -“Thank God,” he said, “that I dared this climb! It was a climb into the -dark, dear, but I have found more than ever I sought.” - -He saw her hands come up to the bars. They touched his face, and then -drew back as though she had not thought him so near. Her heart was so -full of manifold emotions that for the moment she could not think. The -suddenness of it had dizzied her, and yet through the strange tumult of -it all she felt an infinite sweet joy. - -“Barbe!” - -His voice roused her suddenly to a sense of keen reality. - -“Speak softly, or they may hear. You—you should not have risked so -much.” - -“Barbe, why are you here, and why did they tell me lies?” - -“Lies?” - -“Yes, may God confound them! Come close to the window, dear; you can -trust me to the death.” - -He heard her catch a short, sharp breath as though some one had dashed -icy water upon her bosom. - -“John, I can’t tell you—I can’t!” - -“Why, child?—come?” - -“Don’t ask me—don’t ask me anything to-night. I cannot bear it, when -you have risked so much.” - -He could not see her, not even her hands, but he felt that she was very -close to him. Assuredly this was not the Barbara of the old sullen days? -Her infinite dumb distress went to his heart like wine. - -“Barbe!” - -She could not answer him for the moment, her thoughts in a tumult with -the miserable secrets of the past. - -“I cannot—I cannot!” - -“Tell me, dear; you can trust me.” - -She was leaning her arms against the wall and her head against her arms. - -“Oh, I was mad, John, and I think I had no heart—then. You must have -heard; they must have given you some reason for this.” - -The wrath in him flashed out for an instant. - -“Whether you were mad or not, child, I have no need to ask. They had put -me off with lies, and but for God’s mercy I should never have chanced -upon the truth.” - -He heard her move with a little sound of anguish in the throat. - -“The truth—what truth?” - -“Why, that you were never mad, Barbara; God even pardon me for uttering -the word.” - -“Mad—only that?” - -“And does that mean nothing to me—to-night.” - -She saw that he was only half wise as to the miserable intrigue that had -let blood forth, blood that had dimmed her vision and filled her with a -hate that now made her shudder. His tenderness would out, beating about -her like mysterious movement in the air, making her dizzy and in terror -of the past. - -“Of your goodness, John, don’t ask me anything—don’t ask me anything -to-night.” - -She broke down utterly, and though she tried to stifle it, the sound of -her weeping would not be smothered. Pity of it went to the man’s heart. -A great tremor swept across his face. He stretched out an arm between -the bars into the darkness of the room. - -“Barbe, I ask nothing—I’ll know nothing—till you wish. Don’t weep, -dear heart, when I cannot come at you to comfort.” - -His tenderness beat in on her, so that she seemed to master herself, -only to fall into a new fear, and that lest he should be discovered. - -“You must go, John. Why am I keeping you here? If they were to come!” - -No words could have made him hardier in his daring. - -“Take no care for me, Barbe. This is but the beginning of it all.” - -She put up her hands to him in appeal. - -“No, no; they would kill you, perhaps!” - -“I am not so easily dealt with, dear. Answer me one thing. Some brute -struck you to-night?” - -She leaned her head against the wall. - -“Oh, that is nothing—nothing.” - -“Nothing!” And she could picture the bronzed grimness of his face. “Tell -me, Barbe—the big man, or the little crooked rogue?” - -“The big man.” - -“Now I know my dog.” - -The hardness of the window-stone, and the cramp and stiffness in his -muscles, forced him to remember that he had the descent to make, and -that it would not do to waste his strength. - -“I must go now, Barbe,” he said, “before I get too stiff.” - -She seemed to realize suddenly all the peril of that dark descent, and -the dear hardihood that had brought him to her. - -“John, if you should slip!” - -Her tone held him there, loath to leave her when her voice thrilled so. - -“No, I have done my scrambling about a ship’s gear. Next time I shall -bring a rope.” - -She put up her hands to the bars. - -“But it is so dark, and so deep. Can’t I help you, John?” - -He hung there, and, seeing her hands so near, stretched one of his to -meet them. - -“What have you in the room, Barbe?” - -“There are the sheets on the bed.” - -“How many?” - -She climbed down and pulled the bedclothes on to the floor. - -“Two sheets and the blanket.” - -“A short three fathoms. They would help me over the worst piece. Are you -strong enough to knot them into a rope?” - -“Yes, John—yes.” - -She set to work in the dark, rolling the sheets up and knotting the ends -as stoutly as she could. Yet she mistrusted the knots, lest they should -slip and dash the man to the stones below. And in her dread of it she -pondered the case, and then looked up at the window. - -“Have you a knife?” - -“Surely, being a sailor.” - -He fumbled for it, cramped and wedged in as he was, and dropped it down -upon the bed. Barbara felt for it, and, cutting off two thick strands of -her hair, bound down the ends of the knots with the strands so that they -should hold more surely under his weight. - -“Here, John.” - -She mounted the bed and held the end to him, and he knotted it about the -bar as firmly as a seaman could. - -“Can you reach it when I have gone? Try.” - -She reached out her hands. - -“Yes, easily. Take the knife back. They might find it, and suspect.” - -Their hands touched and thrilled in the darkness of the night. Then John -Gore drew the sheet rope out, trying the knots to see that they were -firm. - -“What have you bound them with? Why, child, you have cut your hair!” - -“Only two small pieces.” - -“Then the rope is blessed, dear. Good-night.” - -“Good-night.” - -“Trust to me, dear; I shall have you away from here before long. Trust -me in your heart.” - -Barbara stood close to the wall, the anguish of the past, with all its -memories, flooding back on her, now that he was going. She thought of -that secret that seemed to flow between them like a river of doom. Her -heart grew chilled and afraid with dread of the truth. - -“John!” - -He hung there, waiting. - -“You must not come again, John. Promise me; it is risking your life, and -I—” - -“And you?” - -“Don’t ask me to tell you; I have not the courage; it was all so -terrible, and the truth was too great for me. Promise you will not -come.” - -“If I promised that,” he said, simply, “I might as well drop and end -it.” - -“Oh—but—John—” - -“Barbe, good-night.” And she felt the tightening of the rope against the -bar. “I cannot part with such wild talk from you. Good-night. God hold -you in His keeping.” - -She heard the rustle of leaves and the dull chafing of the sheet against -the stone. Leaning against the wall and listening, her heart seemed to -beat but thrice in a minute while she waited to hear whether he were -safe or no. The rope slackened, and she heard the faint rustle of leaves -go slowly down the tower. Then all was silent, and there was nothing -left but the empty night. - -Suddenly, as though bending beneath some great weight of humiliation and -utter helplessness, she sank down on the bed with her head resting -against the wall. A great shudder ran through her, yet no tears came; -for all the dreariness of the hour seemed lost in the miserable menace -of the past. - - - - - XXXI - - -John Gore made his retreat from Thorn with nothing more threatening in -the way of a betrayal than a low, querulous growl from the mastiff -chained in the yard. He scaled the gate, and made his way back to the -thorn-tree where he had left his heavier clothes and his sword. - -Now the sea-captain’s brain might have been a Spanish treasure-ship, and -the happenings of the night so many buccaneers by the way they stormed -in and put everything to confusion. There were a hundred questions to be -asked and answered, and many of them were the worst of riddles. The -night sky seemed full of new meanings, new mysteries, new secrets, and -Thorn itself a strange dim place where the heart of a man might lose -itself in wonder. Yet one truth shone out like a great star above the -tower, steady and sure amid so many drifting clouds. He had found the -girl with the white face and the dusky hair, and learned that she was no -more mad than he was; and for that he gave God thanks. - -But setting the romance and the tenderness thereof aside for a moment, -John Gore found himself face to face with some very sinister and savage -questions. Plodding back over the grass toward the beech-thicket where -he had left his horse, he began to scan the past as he walked, beating -up memories with the keenness of a lawyer sifting evidence. Why had they -mewed the girl up in this ruin of a place? Why had they lied to him -about her madness? What had they to fear from her that they had made -such a secret of the thing? Barbara herself had seemed haunted by some -hidden anguish, some mysterious dread that had made her shudder at the -simplest question. He recalled all that he had heard concerning her—the -mystery of her father’s death, her moodiness and silence, the fears my -lord had expressed as to her state of mind. He retold, piece by piece, -the tale his father had told him on the night of his return from -Yorkshire in September. Why had they gotten her into their power, made -some pretence of madness, and shut her up with such keepers, and at the -mercy of a ruffian’s fist? The inevitable answer was that Barbara had -discovered some secret that my Lord Gore and her mother were fiercely -compelled to conceal. It had not been madness on her part, but perhaps -too much knowledge, that had led them to seize such sinister methods. As -for the secret itself, the core and pith of the whole mystery! He could -only recall the tale his father had told him, and knit his brows over it -like a man meeting the sleet of a storm. - -Now John Gore was a man of action, and as such laid his plans that -night. He was going to take Barbara out of Thorn, for all the plots and -intrigues and miserable shadows of shame the whole world might boast. -There was the fellow Grylls to be dealt with, his father’s creature, and -though his heart smote him at the thought of it, he was grimly -determined to lose no chance. Whatever authority the man might have, he -might at least be robbed of information. Captain Grylls would probably -spend the night at Thorn, and might be dealt with when he sallied out in -the morning. - -A night watch in the woods opened for John Gore; he and his horse would -have to make the best of such quarters as they had, the shelter of the -beeches and the litter of leaves and bracken. John Gore swung himself -into the fork of a tree, and, wrapping his cloak about him, sat looking -toward Thorn, his heart full of the night’s adventures. The darker -thoughts drifted aside for a season, and he thought only of the woman -whose womanhood meant so much to him. He found himself wondering at the -change in her, for never before had she shown her true self to him with -its flood of pathos, simplicity, and passion. A few moments at a window, -a touch of the hands, and they were sharing life and its impulses -together. He thought of the long, cold nights in that tower room, the -loneliness, the forebodings, the burden of past sorrow. It was easy to -understand how the less lovable pride in her had been broken, and how -with tears her womanhood had come by its true strength. The very sound -of her voice had seemed richer to him; the change in her was a change -that no true man would ever quarrel with. - -Though mists rose and a frail moon came up to make the dark woods seem -more raw and cold, John Gore kept watch all night in the fork of the -beech-tree, thinking of Barbara and of the strange things he had -discovered. He saw the dawn steal slowly into the east, and with the -first gray light thereof the flutter of something white at the upper -window of the tower. But with the day and the sound of the stirring of -birds, John Gore came down out of the beech-tree, for there was work -before him, and he had made his plans. There were his pistols to be -cleaned and primed, his horse to be given a canter for both their sakes, -and a crop at the grass in the forest ride. He still had some victuals -left him, and John Gore made a meal under the tree where he had spent -the night, keeping an eye on Thorn for a glimpse of Captain Grylls. Nor -had the gossamer and the dew shone for long in the sunlight before he -saw a horseman ride out from the gate of Thorn, and push on slowly -toward the forest track. - -Captain Grylls was jogging along peacefully that morning, thinking of -such things as a man thinks of when he feels fat and warm, the money he -is making, the clever things he may have done, or the woman he happens -to fancy for the moment, when he heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs -sucking wet grass, and the creak and jingle of harness. The track had -broadened into an open place with a number of great oak-trees spreading -their branches over it, so that they made a golden dome with the turf -green and sleek beneath. A man on horseback appeared suddenly amid the -oak-trees, riding at a canter under the sweeping boughs, with his hat -over his eyes as though to save his face from the hazel twigs of the -track. The stranger bore down straight on Captain Grylls, though that -worthy shouted lustily and tried to get his horse out of the path. And -even before he could curse the clumsy folly of the thing, his horse went -down like a rammed wall, throwing him heavily, and crushing one leg -badly under his flank. - -Captain Grylls was stunned, and lay there on his back with his mouth -open, a great gobbet of wet mud on his forehead. His nag picked himself -up, shook himself till the harness rattled, and then stood quietly -staring at the stranger who had blundered into him like a cavalry horse -at the charge. John Gore was out of the saddle and bending over Captain -Grylls. The fellow was far from dead, though conveniently senseless. -John Gore opened his coat, searched his pockets, and found in a brown -leather pocket-book a little package about the size of a man’s palm, -wrapped in a piece of paper that looked like the torn-out fly-leaf of a -book. The packet was tied up with worsted and roughly sealed. - -John Gore took the thing, slipping the leather pocket-book back again -into its place. Then he turned his attention to Captain Grylls’s horse, -taking out that gentleman’s pistols, scattering the powder, and rubbing -wet mud into the pans. He searched the holsters and the saddle-bags, but -found nothing but a pipe and a paper of tobacco, some food, a change of -undergear, and a bottle of wine. He had put the things back again when -Captain Grylls came to his senses and sat up. - -With the first clearing of his wits he laid a hand to his bruised ankle, -and began to swear like a buccaneer at the man who had ridden into him -so clumsily. - -“Teeth and hair of the Almighty! you blind sot of a jackass, isn’t there -enough road for you to ride to blazes without blundering into better men -than yourself? What the devil do you mean by it, you Sussex clod, you -bumpkin, you lousy yeoman? Give us a hand, can’t you? Wet grass ain’t -anything of a cushion, especially when a man has no change of -small-clothes with him.” - -He glanced at John Gore, but did not seem to recognize him, and, getting -upon his feet, limped to and fro awhile, cursing. Then he began slapping -his pockets with his hands to make sure that his purse and pocket-book -were there, looking at John Gore the while out of the corners of his -eyes. - -“I have not had anything in the way of an apology yet, sir,” he said. - -John Gore lifted his hat, watching Captain Grylls carefully, to see -whether his lack of recognition was a blind or no. He remembered that he -had had the collar of his coat turned up that night in the park, and -that he himself might not have recognized Grylls but for the wryness of -his figure. - -“Most certainly, I offer you my apologies, sir. I was in a hurry, and -had taken a bridle-track, having business Hastings way by eight.” - -John Gore coarsened himself to the likeness of a gentleman farmer in his -best clothes. - -“You will crack your skull and spill your business if you ride about it -in such fashion.” - -“We Sussex folk have hard heads.” - -“And no manners—either,” quoth the man in the brown coat, glancing -rather threateningly at the pistol-holsters on his saddle. - -He limped up to his horse, and examined the saddle-bag to see that his -things were there. Then he jammed his hat down on his head, looked -sourly at his muddy clothes, and passed a hand over the wettest portion -of his figure. - -“A nice start for a thirty-mile ride. I shall have to bait somewhere and -dry my breeches.” - -“A day in the saddle, then?” - -“Tunbridge to-night, London to-morrow.” He put his foot in the stirrup -and climbed up heavily, grunting and swearing to ease his temper. “I -wish you a clear road, sir,” he said, with sarcasm. “You would do well -to lead a charge of horse.” - -“I can only assure you of my regrets, my dear sir. We farmer gentry ride -fast when there is a marriage to be arranged.” - -Captain Grylls tilted his nose. - -“Green youth, green youth!” he said, sententiously. “In ten years, my -lad, you will break your neck riding to be rid of the sweet thing’s -temper. Let the blood be hot for a month or two, till she begins to -scold in bed instead of kissing.” - -John Gore laughed. - -“You are a man of experience, sir. Well, I must not waste your time—or -my own.” - -The man in the brown coat went away with a jeer. - -“Spend your time on a wife, my lad, and you’ll waste it. Learn to spend -it on other men’s wives—steal the kisses, and leave them the -scratches.” - -“Good-morning to you, sir; I wish I had some spare small-clothes to lend -you.” - -“They’ll dry in the saddle, Master Numskull, or I’ll sit with my back to -the next fire I come across.” And he went off at a trot into the autumn -woods. - -John Gore led his horse aside among the oak-trees, and proceeded to -examine the package that he had taken from Captain Grylls. On the paper -was roughly scrawled “My lord,” and, breaking the seal and the worsted, -he found nothing more astonishing than a mass of wool pressed tightly -together. But as he unravelled the stuff he came upon something hard -that glistened—a gold ring set with a seal and bound round with a piece -of red silk. The seal was an intaglio cut in sardonyx—a gorgon’s head -with a hand holding a firebrand above it. - -John Gore knew it to be his father’s signet-ring, and this circle of -gold, with its seal, cast out all doubt as to my lord’s authority in the -matter. That ring might carry his father’s orders to and fro without his -compromising himself by putting pen to paper. John Gore wondered what -the piece of red silk meant. The message it carried might have some -sinister meaning, for the mystery and the secrecy of it all had drawn -many dark thoughts into his mind. How far would Captain Grylls ride -before discovering the loss of the packet? Would he return, or ride on -ahead for London? Above all, what message had he carried to Thorn, and -had his coming foreshadowed some peril for Barbara? John Gore had -thought of holding Captain Grylls at the pistol-point and of forcing a -confession from him, but he had realized the rashness of such a measure; -nor could he have proved that the rogue was telling him the truth. -Captain Grylls might be a mere despatch-rider knowing nothing of the -news he carried. It would be wiser to let him go his way without his -discovering who was meddling in the plot. - -John Gore put the ring upon his finger, mounted his horse, and made for -the main road. He needed a place where he could lie quiet, and people -whom he could trust, and Furze Farm was such a place. He made for it -that morning, guided by the shouts of a man whom he found ploughing in a -field, and before noon he rode down the grass track that Mr. Pepys had -followed, and saw the red farm-house, the dark thatch, the yellow -stacks, and the golden beeches against a breezy sky. As he came riding -by Chris Jennifer’s orchard he saw Mrs. Winnie hanging linen out to dry, -while white-polled Will paddled round the pond, and surreptitiously -threw sticks at the white ducks thereon. - -Mrs. Winnie’s blue petticoat was blowing merrily, and she had a -clothes-peg in her mouth when John Gore called to her over the hedge. -She dropped the peg suddenly, while the wind blew an apron across her -face. - -“Good-morning, Mrs. Jennifer.” - -“Drat the clothes! Who be it this time of the morning? And me with a -short petticoat on!” - -She flicked the apron aside, settled her skirts, and came round under a -great apple-tree, with a few pullets running at her heels. - -“Good-morning, Mrs. Jennifer.” - -“Sakes alive! is it you, sir?” - -“Yes, come to ask you a favor. You had better keep an eye on that boy of -yours. He still seems in love with the pond.” - -She moved along the hedge, smoothing her brown hair down, and showing -the muscles in her big brown arms. - -“Come in, sir, and be welcome. Will, Will, you little frummet, what be -you doing there, terrifying all of us with puddling round in the mud?” - -She opened the gate for John Gore and gave him a curtesy, for Winnie -Jennifer had served as woman in a great house, and her manners and her -speech were less quaint that Mr. Christopher’s. - -“Come in, sir; my man will be up from the ploughland soon. Dinner will -be coming, though it be only rough stuff.” - -John Gore dismounted, and made Mrs. Winnie a slight bow. - -“You offered me your good-will,” he said, frankly, “and I have come to -take it—as a friend.” - -He led his horse toward the stable while Chris Jennifer’s wife bustled -into the house, putting washing-day behind her with good-natured -patience. John Gore found her going into the little old parlor with an -apron full of sticks, but he protested that the kitchen ingle-nook would -do for him, and that he liked the smell of dinner. So he sat himself -down in the nook under the hood of the great fireplace, stretching his -legs out to the fire, and wondering what he would say to Christopher -Jennifer’s wife. - -There was a pot boiling over the fire, and Mrs. Winnie began to gather -her flour and things upon the table for the making of a pudding. She -took a great pot of preserves from a cupboard, and set to work very -sensibly in her practical, brown-armed way. - -“If I had known, sir, I wouldn’t have put an old one in the pot.” - -“Old one?” - -“One of the old hens, sir; they’re not so bad when you boil ’em. I’ll -make up some herb sauce to help the old lady down.” - -Now whether it was the warmth of the fire, or the frank freshness of -Mrs. Winnie’s manner, John Gore found himself telling her enough of the -truth to set the woman in her heartily at his service. She forgot her -pudding in her sympathy, even so far as to stir the air with a wooden -spoon and to spill jam upon the table. John Gore had come to the pith of -the matter when he saw her flourish the spoon threateningly in the -direction of the back-yard door. - -“Will, you little spying rogue, get you out and look for the eggs.” - -“There ain’t none,” came the retort; “t’ birds be moultin’.” - -“Don’t answer me, young man; do what I tell ye.” And she made a step -forward that sent the youngster running for fear of the spoon. - -Mrs. Winnie turned to her pudding, casting a look now and again at the -grim, brown-faced man in the ingle-nook. - -“You move me—powerful, sir. As sure as I love my man, sir, coming to -him as a clean maid as I did, with all my linen and my savings, if it be -no liberty on my part—I’ll ask to serve you—as you please. Come into -this house as yours, sir; come and go, and we’ll ask no questions. My -man and I will thank God for it, that we can give you service for what -you did.” - -John Gore felt that he could trust her, and Mrs. Winnie had no less -trust in him. She was a shrewd woman, with some knowledge of the world -in her own blunt way, and more sentiment and warmth in her than one -would have guessed by the masterfulness of her manner. - -“I shall be very grateful to you,” said, the man, simply. - -“Why, there, sir, it’s little enough. There sha’n’t be any poking of -noses round Furze Farm, I can tell you that. I have a tongue—and a -tongue, and my man is a man o’ sense. Order your own goings, sir, and -we’ll just mind our business.” - -She could not have shown her good-sense or her honor better than by -taking the matter as she did. But when John Gore spoke of his more -tangible debt to her, she stirred the pudding hard, and would have none -of his protests. - -“No, sir, we have got good crops in, three milking-cows, a yard full of -pullets, all stuff off our own ground. It’s just our own stuff, and we -shall thank you to eat of it, though it be a bit rough, and not puffed -up for a gentleman’s table. Charge you sixpence when we kill a chicken, -or a penny when I take a bowl of apples down out of the attic? Dear -life, sir, not me! My hands aren’t made that way.” - -Chris Jennifer came in about dinner-time, heralding his approach by -kicking his muddy boots against the stone step at the yard door. He came -in, and received John Gore and his wife’s orders without so much as a -blink of surprise. He stared hard at his guest for half a minute or so, -and then took a big jug from a shelf over the fireplace. - -“I’ll tap t’ new cask,” he said, as though that would be his warmest -welcome. “Put some apples t’ sizzle, my dear. Suppose thee’ll be airin’ -t’ best sheets.” - -“Go on with you,” said his wife, bluntly; “do you think I be one to -forget such a thing?” - -Mr. Jennifer lumbered round to her, stood by her solemnly a moment, and -then gave her a very deliberate dig under the arm. - -“T’ woman stole gentleman Adam’s rib; mindings be mendings.” And he went -off with a chuckle toward the pantry, leaving John Gore to disentangle -the meaning of so solemn a jest. - - - - - XXXII - - -Little Dr. Hemstruther, in his rusty clothes, came out from my Lady -Purcell’s house and entered the “chair” that was in waiting for him, -telling the men to carry him to my Lord Gore’s, in St. James’s Street. -He took snuff vigorously as the two chairmen swung along over the -cobbles, patted his chest, and beat his hands together to keep them -warm. His unwholesome face had a beaky, bird-like alertness, and he -appeared cynically amused by something, for Dr. Hemstruther delighted in -the quaint inconsistencies of human nature, and had a fanatical hatred -of all altruism and the sentiment of religion. Like many sour old men, -he was hugely pleased when he had discovered anything mean and -scandalous. And yet he was to be trusted in the keeping of a secret, his -cynical temper helping him to cover up the follies of those who filled -his purse. He merely jeered and mocked at them in philosophic privacy, -taking their money, and mocking his own self for being the creature of -such hire. - -The chairmen stopped before the house in St. James’s Street, Dr. -Hemstruther waiting in the chair till the house door opened, for a keen -northwest wind was sweeping the street. Toddling in at last—a shrewd, -meagre figure, his long nose poking forward between the curls of his -huge wig—he was shown by the man Rogers into a little room at the back -of the house where Stephen Gore kept his books and papers. - -Dr. Hemstruther was warming his hands at the fire when my lord came in -to him, his florid cheerfulness struggling to shine through a cloud of -anxiety and unrest. His suit of sky-blue satin, the lace ruffles at his -wrists, the very rings upon his fingers, seemed part of a radiance that -was wilfully assumed. A keen eye could detect a certain hollowness in -the face, a bagginess beneath the eyes, some slackness of the muscles -about the mouth. The silky gloss of his fine manner betrayed through the -very beauty of its texture the darker moods and thoughts beneath. - -Dr. Hemstruther noted and commented on all this as he bowed his lean -little body, and rubbed his hands for fear of chilblains; and Dr. -Hemstruther despised my lord, though he covered up his sneers with -subserviency and unction. For my Lady Purcell had fallen sick of the -small-pox some days ago, and in her panic and distress of soul was -sending my lord messages, which he—brave gentleman—put discreetly to -one side. - -“Well, sir, what news to-day?” - -Dr. Hemstruther carried a very solemn face for the occasion. - -“Great peril, my lord—great peril.” - -“What! No better?” - -“A threatening of malignancy, my lord.” - -A flash of impatience escaped from Stephen Gore. - -“What is your experience worth, Dr. Hemstruther, if you cannot handle a -woman with a fever? The greater part of our earthly wisdom is a mere -matter of words.” - -He walked to the window and opened it. - -“Poor Nan Purcell, to have escaped so long with a clean skin! There will -be much weeping and gnashing of teeth and covering up of mirrors.” - -The petulance in his voice betrayed his resentment at the lack of -improvement in her affairs. Her sickness was infinitely mischievous at -such a moment, and inspired him with an uneasy and savage impatience. He -flung down into a chair, with all his sweet loftiness in peril of -toppling into a snarl of unseemly temper. Dr. Hemstruther appeared to be -intent upon brushing some of the snuff from his coat. - -“The danger is not skin deep, sir,” he said. - -“You find yourself quite helpless, Dr. Hemstruther, eh? There, pardon my -peevishness—” - -“I would not venture the weight of a feather either way, my lord. And -she is a bad patient, mens turbida in corpore ægro.” - -He sniffed, smoothed his wig, and looked deferentially at his shoes. - -“My Lady Purcell is asking for you, my lord.” - -“Then she is conscious—of everything?” - -“Conscious to the quick, in spite of the heat of the fever. If I may be -pardoned—” - -His eyes met my lord’s, and Stephen Gore was the more embarrassed of the -two. - -“You think that I should do her good?” - -“More good, my lord—” - -“Than all your draughts and bleedings!” - -Dr. Hemstruther bowed, and hid a smile with the obeisance. - -“My Lord Gore might find some words to soothe the lady.” - -“But you forget, man, that—” - -He did not complete the sentence, for even his egotism stumbled at the -confession of the instinct of cowardice and self-love. Dr. Hemstruther -understood him, and mocked inwardly at the great man’s prudence. - -“There is some danger, my lord; but still I would advise—” - -“As a matter of policy?” - -“As a matter of policy.” - -Stephen Gore pushed back his chair and stood at his full height, as -though he felt the need of feeling himself taller than this little crab -of a man who knew so much, and whose authority was so obsequious and yet -so strong. - -“Women have no patience, sir, and will scream ‘fire’ when a log falls on -the hearth. I am up to my eyes in a rush of affairs to-day. And my -friends will thank me if I breathe a pest into all their faces.” - -“To-morrow would serve, my lord.” - -“I may take your word for that? Good. Are there any cautions you would -give me?” - -Dr. Hemstruther screwed his face into an expression of intense sagacity. - -“I will send you a powder to burn, my lord, and a mild draught to clear -you. Sit by an open window, and have all the clothes you go in burned.” - -“My thanks. And now, sir, if you will pardon me, my leisure is not my -own.” - -He unlocked a cabinet, took out a silk purse, and, crossing the room, -held the purse out to the physician. - -“I am exerting myself in that little affair of yours, Dr. Hemstruther,” -he said. “It is a pleasure to labor for one’s friends.” - -Both smiled faintly as they looked into each other’s eyes. Dr. -Hemstruther put the purse away in an inner pocket and made one of his -most courtly bows. - -“Your servant, my lord. I trust that I am mindful of all your -interests.” And he went out sniffing, to wrinkle up his nose -sardonically, like a grinning dog, so soon as he was out of Stephen -Gore’s sight. - -But if Anne Purcell burned with a fever upon her bed, whimpering and -calling continually on Mrs. Jael, who had taken a heavy bribe to bide -beside her lady, my Lord Gore was in an equal fever of mind, the fever -of a man who has many things to dread. He knew enough of the human heart -to remember that the cords of silence char and slacken when Death holds -the torch to the secrets of the past. A panic of penitence, the betrayal -of others in the mad impulse to make amends, the emotions thirsting for -the comfort of the confessional dew. And Stephen Gore was wise as to the -gravity of a betrayal, for the man Grylls had ridden into Sussex, and -Anne Purcell knew it, and the sealed order that he carried. Moreover, -this blood-debt was not the only stain that darkened my lord’s -consciousness. He was sunk to the chin in other and wider waters, where -the breath from a hired creature’s lips might stir such a storm as -should smother death into the mouths of many. - -He stood before the fire, staring into it, and turning the rings upon -his fingers. For the moment it was all self with him: self, savage, -querulous, impatient, driven to that height of fanaticism whence the -sorrows and hopes of a man’s fellows seem infinitely small and -insignificant. It was the mad, angry self that beats down and tramples -on the life instincts of others, crying a savage sacrifice to the Moloch -of the ego. And yet this man in the satin coat, so bland, so debonair, -so generous on the surface, heard the low clamor of that underworld that -every man carries in the deeps of consciousness. He suffered, yet would -not countenance his suffering, hardening himself to escape from it with -fierce strength and subtlety and anger. - - - - - XXXIII - - -If Winnie Jennifer was not in love with John Gore, she was in love -with the love in him, for no man could sit and stare so at the fire, and -look so quietly grim over such a matter, without winning over a woman’s -heart. There was a romance here, and your true woman, be she drudge or -madam, has that trick of the fancy that lifts life out of its sordid -round and makes her a queen of the fairies, though there be gray in her -hair. And when he looked at Winnie with those deepset eyes of his she -knew that he was looking beyond her toward his love, and that the heart -in him said: “I must go to her, for she has suffered.” - -Therefore, when John Gore rose up from the ingle-nook about three in the -afternoon, and asked her whether Mr. Jennifer could lend him several -fathoms of good rope, Mrs. Winnie regarded him with a curious glint of -the eyes, and felt a delight in meddling in such a matter. - -“To be sure, sir, there is a good round of rope hanging on a harness-peg -in the stable. Come you—we will see.” - -She went out with him, swinging her brown arms and holding her head -high, as though proud in her woman’s way of sharing in the adventure, -and, opening the stable door, showed him a hank of brown rope hanging -from the wood. - -“How much would you be wanting, sir?” - -“Ten fathoms will do.” - -He took the hank down, and, laying it on the floor, began to measure the -rope out, yard by yard, coiling it neatly close by Mrs. Winnie’s feet. -It was good hemp, unfrayed and unrotted, not too thick and stiff, yet -stout enough to carry the weight of three men. - -Mrs. Winnie watched him, her eyes inquisitively kind, and her tongue all -of a tremble. He was borrowing the rope in the cause of adventure, and -she felt flattered in the lending of it, but she wished he would tell -her what it was for. - -“It is good hemp, sir.” - -“I should know a good rope, being a sailor. I shall need it to help me -in a bit of a scramble.” - -Mrs. Winnie began to think of all the cliffs and quarries in the -neighborhood, for John Gore had withheld the name of Thorn. - -“I had better get you a wallet full of food, sir; you may be needing -it.” - -“You think of everything, Mrs. Jennifer. I am going treasure-hunting.” -And he laughed. - -“Treasure, sir?” - -“Yes. In a few days I may bring my treasure-trove back with me.” - -Mrs. Winnie understood of a sudden, and her eyes grew full of light. - -“No doubt she is all you desire, sir, and I ask no more questions of -you. You have told me enough before to make me want to take and comfort -her.” - -She went away, and returned anon with an extra cloak, a parcel of bread -and meat, some apples, and a drop of good hollands in a flask, for the -autumn nights were growing raw and cold. John Gore had saddled his horse -and hung the rope over one of the holsters. He looked touched by Mrs. -Winnie’s simple kindliness, and by the faith she seemed ready to give to -him. - -“I shall have a heavy debt before long,” he said. - -“We don’t count by tallies here, sir.” - -And she was quite happy, good soul, in feeling his gratitude pledge its -truth. She watched him ride away along the hedge, knowing him for a -brave man and a strong one—a man whom a woman instinctively respects. - -Now, at Thorn, Simon Pinniger sat on a tree-stump in an out-house lazily -splitting billets of wood with the axe edge of a pick. It was growing -dusk, and a pile of white wood lay beside him, with here and there the -pink core of an old apple trunk amid the billets of oak and ash. Simon -Pinniger was tired of the job, and, filling a basket with split logs, he -shouldered it and crossed the court-yard into the kitchen, and dumped -the basket down beside the hearth with the air of a man whose day’s work -was done. - -The woman Nance was at the table, peeling apples for a pie, her lips -pressed intently together, and three hard lines running across her -forehead. The man looked at her a little furtively, and then went to -draw some beer from a cask that stood in the corner. He put the jug on -the floor under the tap, so that the ale should have a head on it, and -stood there watching the liquor flow with the stupid slouching pose of a -man whose body was too big for his brain. - -“Sim!” - -The sharp rasp of the woman’s voice brought him round as though she had -clouted him on the ear. - -“What are you thinking of, man?” - -The red-lidded eyes behind the eyelet-holes in the linen looked capable -of expressing nothing but fleshly things. - -“Supper,” he said, curtly. - -“Well, you’ll wait for it. Quick, you fool, the liquor’s running over.” - -He turned and put a hand to the spigot, muttering as a rivulet of good -ale curled across the floor. - -“All your tongue, as usual.” - -“It’s always my tongue, Sim, and never your lumpishness. Wipe that slop -up; I’m not going to soil my shoes in it.” - -He obeyed her, and then sat himself on the three-legged stool before the -fire, taking the jug with him, and standing it on the hearth. - -“There’s comfort in the stuff,” he said, sullenly. - -The woman gave a sharp laugh. - -“Courage, you mean, you six feet and a half of fat and folly! You would -run away from it all but for me.” - -“Run!” - -“Yes, you.” - -“You want a week of the branks, my dear. Give me my money and my liquor, -and I’m the bully for any man.” - -“Oh, you’re a fine fat falcon—you! Keep a little courage in the cask, -Sim, till the business comes. Three days’ grace and no countermand. -What’s it to be—a mattress, or a fathom of rope, or a soft scarf? What -are you looking so sulky about?” - -For the man had bunched himself over the fire, and was rocking backward -and forward on two legs of the stool. - -“Let it alone, you fool,” he said; “it don’t do a man good to think of -such things.” - -She looked up mockingly, and threw a half-rotten apple at him. - -“Oh, you soft head!—you piece of pulp! You’re no better than a great -girl—you, who pulled Adam Naylor’s windpipe out and broke in that -Frenchman’s chest. You, to make such a blubber over this!” - -“Who’s afraid?” he asked, savagely. - -“My sweet conscience! Oh, dear, good saints! I’m a poor sinner, a poor -snivelling sinner—” - -“Nance, shut your trap!” And he opened his chest and roared at her with -sudden fury. - -She took it with a laugh. - -“Better, Sim, better. Put a little temper into it. I’ll give you a pint -of hollands when the night comes, and smack you across the face with a -firebrand to make you mad.” - -And she filled her apron with the apple-peelings, and came and tossed -them into the fire. - -A west wind blew fitfully about the tower of Thorn. The ivy rustled, -leaf tapping against leaf; and the clouds passed slowly across the -stars. An owl was beating up and down the edge of a neighboring wood, -hooting as he went, now strangely near, now faint in the distance. From -the court-yard came the dull “burr” of the dog’s chain as he fidgeted in -his kennel. - -Barbara had been at war with herself all day—distraught, troubled, -afraid to believe that which she most desired. And with the dusk her -uneasiness and her wavering suspense had deepened, heralding an anguish -of self-hatred and humiliation that shirked the ordeal of another -meeting. She dreaded lest John Gore should come, and yet listened for -his coming, fearing and longing for him in one breath, the past and -present fighting for her desire. Twice she rolled up the sheets to -succor him in his climb, and twice unrolled them with a fever of -indecision. Her heart labored with the secret that it held, striving -against the untellable, yet trying to beat out nothing but the truth. -There was that eternal blood-debt between them, lurid to her, now that -the night had come, like the glare of a fire reddening the sky. - -Barbara walked to and fro awhile, and then stood listening, leaning -against the wall. Nor had she been long motionless when there was a -faint rustling of the ivy, a sound as of something moving, of something -drawing near to her in the darkness. She climbed the bed and put her -hands to the bars. A faint whisper came up to her out of the sibilant -shiver of the leaves. - -“Barbara!” - -The fever of doubt and of fear left her suddenly. - -“John!” - -“Can you help me?” - -“Yes; wait.” - -She was down instantly, rolling the sheets and knotting them into a -rope. The strands of her hair were under the pillow. She took them and -wound them round the knots, and, making them fast to a bar, threw the -end thereof out of the window. But the rope would not run by its own -weight, and she had to thrust it out foot by foot, standing on the bed -and leaning her bosom against the wall. - -The rope tightened, the knot straining at the bar. Then a shadow blotted -out the window. - -“Dear heart!” - -She stretched out her hands to him, and then drew them with a sharp sob -into her bosom, bending down her head and feeling the old despair taking -possession of her heart. - -“Barbe!” - -He had forced himself into the stone framing of the window, and she -could hear him breathing hard with the grimness of the climb. - -“Where are you, child?” - -He lay there with his face to the bars, and heard nothing but sudden -passionate weeping. The sound of it went through him to the heart. He -stretched out an arm and was able to touch her hair. - -“Dear heart, what is it?” - -She shivered and drew away. - -“You should not have come—” - -“No, no.” - -“John, you should not—” - -“My life, child—come, speak to me—I cannot bear to hear you weep.” - -She knew that he was trying to touch her, to be nearer to her, even with -all the deep tenderness of his manhood. It was so easy and yet so -difficult, so sweet and yet so full of torment. She felt that she could -not bear out against him; and yet—how could she tell? - -He spoke again. - -“Barbara!” - -And then: - -“Dear heart, do you not trust me?” - -Something seemed to break within her, and she thrust up her hands to him -with a cry as of one drowning. - -“John, I am afraid! John, I am afraid!” - -“There, my life.” - -“Take my hands—hold them—keep me; I am afraid, John! Dear God, what -can I say!” - -Her courage and her will had gone, and a storm of trembling shook her. -John Gore felt the quivering of her body coming along her arms to him. -Her hands strained at his, as though he were the one sure thing left to -her in the anguish of it all. - -“Barbara!” - -He drew her as close to him as bars and wall would suffer. - -“Tell me, child, everything.” - -“I can’t, John! oh, I can’t!” - -“Dear, do you think there is not one heart in the world? Look up, and -tell me; I cannot let you go!” - -She was silent a moment, still trembling greatly. - -“John, you will hate me!” - -“No! no! no!” - -“Your father—” - -His hands tightened on hers. - -“My life, courage!” - -“Your father killed my father, John!” - -“Child!” - -“And I—I tried to win revenge.” - -She buried her face upon her arms, and then lifted it suddenly toward -him in the dark, as though in an agony to know what he was thinking. His -hands still had hold of hers, and there was no slackening of his -fingers. - -“John!” - -“Dear heart!” - -He bent his head, and drawing her hands to him, pressed his lips to -them. Below him he could see the dim, appealing whiteness of her face. - -“Barbe, you should have told me.” - -“I was mad.” - -“Who shall judge us, dear? You should have told me. I might have spared -you much.” - -He drew her hands close into his bosom, and she leaned there, letting -the tears flow silently and the sorrow in her take refuge in his -strength. - -“You will not condemn me, John—you?” - -“I! What am I, child, to condemn you?” - -“But I have learned and I have suffered, and, John, in the long, silent -nights I have prayed to God that He would be merciful to me—that I in -turn might be more merciful.” - -He kissed her hands again. - -“God is with us, child, here and now.” - -“How good you are, John! If I could only tell him—and my mother.” - -“Dear heart, let that rest awhile. It is you I pray for—you that I -remember.” - -He was silent awhile, like a man waking to life from some strange dream. -Then he pressed her hands in his, and spoke very dearly through the bars -to her. - -“Barbe, I must get you away from here. I would do it without violence -for your sake—for the sake of every one. It would be easy for me to -kill that man, but I would not have blood with the memory of this.” - -She looked up at him and sighed. - -“Listen: you can trust me. I have a rope here round my body; take it, -when I am gone, and hide it in your bed. I will come again to-morrow and -file these bars through. Do you know how the door is fastened?” - -“With lock and bar.” - -“A tough customer. Do they leave you alone the whole night?” - -“Yes.” - -“Time, an auger, and a good knife will serve then. I have a place to -take you to. You will trust me in this?” - -“John, need you ask that?” - -“Dear heart of mine, no, no. Now for a rope’s-end. When I am safe below -I will give three twitches to the rope. Draw it up, dear, and hide it in -your bed.” - -“Yes.” - -“And, child, if you are in danger, or fear anything, tear off a piece of -linen and tie it to one of the bars. I shall storm in then without by -your leave or welcome, and deal with those gentry at the point of the -sword.” - -He kissed her fingers, hung there a moment, and then unwound the rope -from about his body. Fastening it, he touched her hands through the bars -of the window and went down into the night. - - - - - XXXIV - - -There were two link-boys waiting outside Lord Gore’s house in St. -James’s Street when a short, stumpy woman came hurrying along with the -hood of her cloak down over her head. The street door of the house was -open, and a servant waiting on the step with a fur cloak over one arm -and a sword under the other. - -His master came out as the woman paused at the steps—a thin, swarthy, -sallow man, with alert eyes and a brisk manner. He took the cloak from -the servant and swung it over his shoulders, putting his chin up as he -fastened the cloak, and making his lower lip protrude beyond the upper. -Coming down the steps he looked hard at the woman who was leaning -against the railings, a look that was half gallant, half suspicious, and -even paused to stare in her face as though he thought she might have -some message for him. But since she hung back and waited for him to -pass, and was, moreover, woolly and middle-aged, he gave an order to the -link-boys for the Savoy, and went away at a good fast stride with the -servant following at his heels. - -The woman ran up the steps and spoke to Tom Rogers, who was holding the -door open and staring curiously after the retreating figure. Her voice -was importunate, and even threatening—so much so that he let her in and -closed the door, and went about her business without demur, as though -knowing that she had some right to hustle. - -My lord was in the little library at the back of the house, sorting and -looking through a litter of papers on the table with a feverish, -irritable air. There was a good fire burning, and charred fragments of -paper littered the hearth and fluttered in the draught at the throat of -the chimney. My lord had taken a roll of letters, and was thrusting them -into the heart of the fire with the tongs when Rogers knocked at the -door and entered upon privilege. - -His master glanced at him with a gleam of impatient distrust. - -“What is it now?” - -“My Lady Purcell’s woman, sir.” - -“Where?” - -“In the hall, my lord. She says that she must speak with you.” - -Stephen Gore’s face had the dusky look of a face gorged with blood from -drinking. - -“Send her in, Rogers. Take warning, I am at home to no one, not even to -the King.” - -The roll of letters was a black mass spangled over with sparks and -corroding lines of fire when Mrs. Jael came in with the hood of her -cloak turned back. She waited till Rogers had closed the door, and even -then looked at it suspiciously, as though afraid that the fellow might -be listening. Stephen Gore understood her meaning. He opened it, found -the passage empty, and, closing the door again, stood with his back to -it and his hand upon the latch. - -“Your message?” - -Mrs. Jael fidgeted her arms under her cloak, and looked hot and a little -scared. - -“My lady has sent me, my lord—” - -“Well, well?” - -“She must see you to-night; she will take no denial; I am bidden to -bring you back.” - -Stephen Gore frowned at her didactic tone and the menace in her manner. - -“Indeed!” - -“She cannot bear it alone, my lord; she must speak with you; we fear -that she is dying.” - -“Dying?” - -“Yes, sir; yes—don’t curl your mouth at me. She bade me say that unless -you come to her, she will—” - -The expression of my lord’s face so frightened Mrs. Jael that her voice -faltered away into an almost inaudible murmur. He stood staring at her, -his flushed face seamed with the passions of a man whose courage and -patience had already suffered, and on whom all the hazards of life were -falling in one and the same hour. - -“I will come.” - -He pressed back his shoulders, steadied his dignity, and crossed the -room to where hat, cloak, and sword lay on a carved chair. His hands -fumbled with the tags of the cloak as he fastened them. Mrs. Jael kept -her distance as he walked toward the door, for there was a look in my -lord’s eyes that night that made her afraid of him. He was as a man -driven to bay, and ready to stab at any one who should venture too near -his person. - -Stephen Gore walked the short distance to Anne Purcell’s house in grim -silence, heartily cursing all women, and in no mood to humor a sick -sinner. The whole thing was accursedly vexatious and inopportune, and he -hardened himself against all sentiment with the savage impatience of a -man who is harassed and menaced on every quarter. Mrs. Jael was a -snivelling fool, an emotional creature who had helped to froth up her -mistress’s panic. Both of them, no doubt, needed ice to their heads, and -a couple of gags to keep them quiet. - -Yet the great house was so solemn and dim and silent, and the woman’s -manner in tragic keeping therewith, that Stephen Gore felt chilled and -uneasy as he followed her flickering candle up the stairs. The place -seemed ghostly and deserted, full of dark corners, draughts, and -mysterious empty rooms. Stephen Gore had come in with his pulses -thrumming lustily, and the hot intent to put all this meddlesome -nonsense out of his path. But the house had much of the eeriness of a -moorland in a fog, with quags ready to suck at a man’s feet, and a -strange, vast silence to unnerve him. - -Mrs. Jael led him along a gallery, and opened a door at the end thereof. -She stood back waiting for him to cross the threshold, and then, as -though she had had her orders, she swung the door to and turned the key -in the lock. - -Stephen Gore turned with a start, hesitated, biting his lip, and then -let things take their course. The room was lit by a single candle; the -boards and walls were bare, and there was little in it save the -four-post bed. A great fire burned on the hearth, and the air felt hot -and heavy, and full of the indescribable scent of sickness. - -“Stephen!” - -He forced back his shoulders, gave a tug to his cravat, and turned -toward the bed. The curtains were drawn back, and on the white pillow he -saw a dusky, swollen face—a face that might haunt a man till the day of -his death. - -“Stephen, are you there?” - -My lord looked shocked despite himself, as though thinking of the face -that he had kissed not many days ago. - -“Why, Nan, how is it with you?” - -Her breathing was labored, her lips cracked and dry, and the hand that -she stretched out to him swung up and down, like a branch in the wind. - -“I cannot see you; my eyes are touched.” - -He looked at her helplessly, half loathing the thing he saw, and yet -unnerved by a blind rush of pity that beat and shook the pedestal of -self. - -“Stephen, don’t come near me if you are afraid.” - -She might have reproached him with the pusillanimous prudence he had -shown in keeping away from her until this night. And, vain woman that -she had been, she felt that it was the threat alone that had brought him -to her. Yet she spoke calmly at first, and feebly, like one who had come -to a sense of awe and of the end. - -My lord put the best dignity he could upon it, but he felt the heat and -the wilfulness in him growing cold. - -“You have sent for me, Nan—” - -“It is not the first time.” - -“I should have come before, but I have been pressed and driven by a -hundred things.” - -Instinctively she turned her face toward him on the pillow, though she -could not see him because the disease had blinded her. - -“Let us make no excuses to-night, Stephen. Do you know that I am dying?” - -“No, Nan—not that.” - -She gave a long sigh, and her hands moved to and fro over the coverlet. - -“Yes. I am dying. You know why—I have sent for you.” - -“What is your desire?” - -He stood looking at her in some astonishment and with unwilling awe, for -she whom he had always led seemed mistress of herself under the shadow -of death, and not the weeping, pleading, terrified thing that he had -thought to find. - -“Stephen, you must go to-night.” - -He faced up as though to attention. - -“Go? Where?” - -“Need I tell you that?” - -“My heart, you are ill—and distraught.” - -She raised herself on the pillow with a sudden energy of passion; her -poor marred face could not express it, but her voice had a deep, fierce -thrill that came from the heart of the world. - -“Man, man, do not play with me to-night, as you have played with me -these many years!” - -“Anne, if you will listen to me—” - -“Listen! What have I to hear? This thing lies in my throat—and stifles -me. I cannot bear it, I cannot bear to die with it—smothering my -breath.” - -He breathed out, and tried to hold himself in hand. - -“Nan, it is impossible—” - -“No, no.” - -“I cannot go to-night. There are matters—affairs that it would be death -to me to leave. I tell you, I tell you—my honor is pledged here.” - -She held out a rigid arm toward him, her blurred, sightless eyes at -gaze. - -“Stephen, I warn you—” - -“I tell you, you do not understand—” - -“Your honor! You weigh your honor against this thing! Stephen, I warn -you—” - -“For God’s sake, listen: I—” - -“No, no. Save the child, I charge you, or before I die I will tell the -truth.” - -Her hand dropped and then went to her throat, for a spasm of choking -seized her, and he could see the muscles straining in her throat and her -dry lips praying for air. Stephen Gore thought that death had her that -instant, but the strength of her purpose bore her through. - -“Stephen, promise me.” - -He held out his hands appealingly, helplessly; but the gesture was lost -upon her blindness. - -“Promise.” - -“It is impossible.” - -“Man, man, have you ever loved any one but yourself? Have you never -stood on the edge of the world—and looked over—over into darkness? I -cannot go to it—with this thing stifling me. Stephen, I ask you, if you -have ever loved me, do me this last mercy.” - -He walked to and fro with a quick, rigid step, and paused at the far end -of the room, feeling the air hot and poisonous, and the blood drumming -at his temples. - -“I am to sacrifice myself, Nan. You ask that?” - -She propped herself upon the pillow, her head swaying slightly from side -to side. - -“I ask you not to face your God, Stephen, with more blood upon your -hands.” - -He cried out at her with bitterness. - -“Woman, woman, what can I do?” - -“What I have asked. Ride down to Thorn—to-night. And, Stephen, do not -think that I shall die—so soon—that you can play with me—and shirk -it. You may wish that I were dead now—and silent.” - -He leaned against the wall, spreading his arms against it as though to -steady himself. - -“Before God, Nan, not that!” - -“Stephen, if you have ever loved me, do not stoop to play a coward’s -trick upon me now.” - -He leaned there against the wall, almost like a man crucified, his face -haggard, his forehead agleam with sweat. He had come to temporize, to -dissuade, to cheat the truth with a few glib words, and he found the -heart plucked out of him, and his self beaten against its anger and its -will. - -“Nan, I will go.” - -“There is time—yet.” - -“A night—and a day.” - -She held out her hands as though with a piteous sense of loneliness and -leave-taking; but though he was humbled, shaken, he could not look into -her face. - -“Nan, I will go. Let that help you to live. What will come of it God -alone can tell.” - -She felt instinctively through all the tumult of it that he could not -look at her without a shudder, he who had always loved sun and color and -richness about him—a soft skin and pleasant lips. Yet she was too near -the veil, too close upon the eternal mystery, to cry out over a lost -desire. - -“Stephen, for God’s sake, go!” - -She fell back on the pillow as he turned to the door and shook it, -forgetting in the chaos of his thoughts that the woman Jael had turned -the key. He beat upon the panels with his fist, and when the door opened -for him, pushed past her without a word, and went heavily down the dark -stairway to the hall where he had left his cloak and sword. - -My Lord Gore was within twenty yards of his own house when a figure that -had been loitering in the shadow came slantwise across the road to meet -him, and stopped on the footway as he passed. My lord had a glimpse of a -pair of shining eyes and the white oval of a man’s face between the -drooping brim of a beaver and the upturned collar of a cloak. - -“Good-night, my lord—fugax, fugax, solvendo non sumus.” - -He was pushing on with nothing more than a low, soft whistle when -Stephen Gore caught him by the arm. - -“Blake!” - -“Softly, for God’s sake, sir; I have loitered here for half an hour to -give you the wink and the text.” - -My lord still gripped his arm. - -“What is it, man?” - -“Boot and saddle for me, sir, before midnight, and the godsend of a boat -across the Channel. Coleman’s correspondence has been seized.” - -“The fool—the Jesuit fool!” - -“The poor devil will be in the Protestant purgatory soon, sir. If you -are wise, ride—ride. There will be bigger titles than yours, my lord, -bumping in the saddle to-night.” - -He looked about him uneasily, and then freed himself quietly from -Stephen Gore’s grip. - -“Your pardon, sir, but the hawks will soon be on the wing for some of us -poor popish pigeons. Good-night.” - -“Blake, thanks for this.” - -“Nonsense, sir; you helped me once, and I am an Irishman. Good-night.” - -He went away at a good pace, leaving Stephen Gore standing on the -footway, with the wind blowing his periwig about his face. He stood -there for half a minute watching a faint shadow melt into the night. -Then he seemed to steady himself like a tree between the gusts of a -storm, and, turning, walked on slowly toward his house. - -But Stephen Gore did not sleep in Westminster that night, for he went -alone into the stable when the grooms had gone and the servants were in -bed, and saddled and bridled a horse with his own hands. He had thrown -his periwig into a corner, put on the oldest clothes he could find, to -ride out like a sturdy crop-head of a Britisher daring enough to venture -on the roads at such an hour. Pistols, money, and food he took with him, -and leading his horse out into the street, went away at a brisk trot -into the black chasm of the night. He might be knocked out of the saddle -at any corner, but Stephen Gore hazarded the chance, since he might be -given an axe or a halter for his badge. - - - - - XXXV - - -Chris Jennifer was too busy a man to worry his slow brain greatly over -other people’s affairs, for when a man farms for the children who shall -come after him he can give all the daylight to the land, and trudge home -to feed and sleep without much communion with the philosophers and -poets. There is always work upon a farm, save for those who have sore -heels and a chronic thorn in the forefinger. For these autumn and winter -months ploughing, hedging, ditching, carting fagots and stacking them -for the winter, spreading the muck abroad, taking odd carpentering jobs -in hand, to say nothing of the feeding and tending of sheep and cattle, -the fattening of pigs and bullocks for Christmas, the trapping of -vermin, and the netting of the accursed cony. Chris Jennifer’s most -luminous moment was after a rat-hunt about the barns and out-houses. To -take by the tail the carcasses of sundry strapping rats and heap them in -a funeral pile was an act that made Mr. Jennifer feel that Satan can be -confounded in this world and his imps punished for stealing a farmer’s -com. For if Chris Jennifer hated anything it was a rat, and next to the -rat he hated couch-grass, while the purple-polled thistle came in a bad -third. - -When Mrs. Winnie’s husband went to bed he slept the deep, sonorous sleep -of a round-headed peasant whose lungs had been breathing in clean air -all the day. And not even the facts that John Gore had borrowed his best -rope and that his wife was dabbling her hands in affairs that did not -concern her could keep Master Christopher awake and talking. All he had -deigned to hope was that “us be not goin’ agen the law,” and that “this -fine gentleman ben’t feedin’ on hot pie-crust.” Then he drew his -nightcap down, turned on his right side, and went to sleep with the ease -of a dog. - -Mrs. Winnie, being a woman, and more impressionable and imaginative, -remained very wakeful all that night, thinking of all manner of strange -adventures, and not a little afraid of John Gore’s neck. She had banked -the kitchen hearth up with logs, left some supper on the table, and the -door unbarred, so that there should be some welcome for him if he came -home after bedtime. Yet in spite of all this satisfying forethought she -kept awake to listen, and even when she dropped away toward -Christopher’s oblivion Mrs. Winnie came to with a start, thinking that -she had heard sounds. - -Daylight came, with a west wind swishing in the beech-trees and making a -low murmur in the chimney, and the adventurer had not returned. Mrs. -Winnie jerked an elbow into her man’s back, rose up, and began to dress. -She was down and at work in the kitchen getting the fire alight before -Chris Jennifer got a very stout pair of legs out of the bed. - -Mrs. Winnie had piled up the fire, lit the dry brushwood under it, and -was kneeling to help the blaze with the bellows, when the door swung -open, and John Gore walked in. He looked muddy as to the boots and -breeches, and rather white about the face, like a man who has been out -long in the cold, though his eyes had a quiet steadfastness that proved -he had no pallor at the heart. - -Winnie Jennifer twisted round on her knees. - -“Body of me, sir, you are here at last! I’ve been kep’ awake most of the -night through thinking of ye, and listening.” - -He smiled down at her, and when he smiled the mystery that was in him -seemed to glow and to exult in a way that made Mrs. Winnie hanker after -her own days of being courted. - -“You should not have troubled your head about me, Mrs. Jennifer.” - -The fire was blazing now, making a brave crackle, and John Gore looked -at it as though he were cold and empty and dead tired. Mrs. Winnie was -up and bustling in an instant. - -“Sit you down, sir. Why, bless my heart, you must be cold and damp as a -dish-clout! I’ll fetch Chris down to see to your horse.” - -“I have seen to him myself, Mrs. Winnie.” - -She pushed forward the great box of a chair that was padded with -horsehair and leather, and had been polished to a rare sheen by her -husband’s breeches. - -“Just you pull off your boots, sir, and rub yourself dry. I’ll have -something hot in ten minutes, and a dish of bacon and some eggs.” - -She was bustling with curiosity as well as with good-will, for there was -something in the man’s manner that told of mystery and of strange things -accomplished, and perhaps of looking deep into other eyes. He sat down -obediently before the fire, and, pulling off his boots, spread himself -to the blaze. Overhead they could hear the stumping of Chris Jennifer’s -feet as he tumbled into his clothes with decent circumlocutions. - -Mrs. Winnie came to hang the kettle on the chain, and while she was -bending forward with the firelight on her face John Gore sat forward in -his chair and laid a hand upon her shoulder. - -“I am giving you a great deal of trouble, Mrs. Jennifer,” he said. - -“Dear life, no, sir.” - -“Can I ask you to do something more for me?” - -She knelt and looked around at him, her honest, comely face perfectly -trustful. - -“To be sure, sir.” - -“Then I must make my terms with you.” - -“You can talk of them, sir, though I may not be for listening to them -when you have told me what you wish.” - -John Gore sat back in the chair again, his eyes on the fire. - -“Mrs. Jennifer, I want some one whom I can trust. I want to bring her to -you here, away from people who wish her out of the world.” - -Mrs. Winnie took up the poker and made a thrust or two at the fire. - -“It’s good of you, sir, to give me the honor—” - -“There shall be no danger to you or yours, I can promise that.” - -“There, sir, I was not thinking of any such thing! We are only farming -folk, and the lady may have prettier notions than—” - -He bent forward suddenly and looked into her face. - -“She would bless you, Mrs. Winnie, as I should, for the very warmth of a -fire. She has not felt the warmth of a fire this month or more, and she -is half starved into the bargain.” - -Mrs. Jennifer opened her eyes with indignation. - -“What! not a stick of fire! Who be they who have the caring for her? And -no victuals!” - -“Then you will let me bring her here—if I can?” - -“Dear heart, sir, yes. I’ll have my best blankets out, and make cakes -and pasties. And perhaps she would like a nice young pullet, sir. We -will put her in the parlor ingle-nook, and melt her heart, and give her -stuff to make the color come.” - -John Gore held out a hand. - -“You do not know how I thank you for this. But there are my terms to be -considered.” - -“Oh, get along, sir.” - -“I shall pass over to you three gold pieces a week.” - -Mrs. Winnie looked ready to scoff and laugh. - -“Three sixpences would be nearer the mark, sir. Why, Jem and Sam and -Nicholas, our men, wouldn’t eat and drink a third of that in seven whole -days.” - -“Never mind your men, Mrs. Jennifer.” - -“Not mind them! And where should we be in six months, the lazy loons! -No, I tell you, sir.” - -John Gore tried her on another quarter. - -“Very well, Mrs. Winnie, take the money and put it in a stocking for -your boy.” - -“But, sir—” - -“Take it, or turn me out of the door. I hold to your good-will and your -trust with all my heart, but live on you I will not, just because I -happened to pull the youngster out of the pond.” - -The woman gave the fire three more pokes. - -“I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, sir.” - -“Then you will put the money aside for the child’s sake.” - -Mr. Christopher Jennifer had had great faith in his wife’s wisdom ever -since she had elected to marry him in preference to a gay sprig of a -harness-maker at Lewes, a gallant who could write verses after the -fashion of a gentleman, and had deigned to dazzle both with dress and -address. Chris Jennifer in his courting days and season of rivalry had -fallen violently foul of this same harness man for the love of Mrs. -Winnie. Chris, who had never been a quarrelsome man, had put his -bristles up at last under the provocation of his rival’s genteel and -foppish impertinence. He had led the harness man by the ear into the -back-yard of Mrs. Winnie’s father’s house, and there had smitten him, -and in the smiting had won his way to Winnie’s heart. For she was a -woman who must have strength of a kind in a man, and silence and shrewd -sense, nor could she abide a ranter or a puff-bag, nor a fellow who was -always talking big about the gentry, and telling how he had dined at the -justice’s table. Men with long tongues were not after her fancy, seeing -that length of tongue generally goes with a league of silly vanity and -boasting, and that men who talk much are still talking while your quiet -man has ploughed his furrow. - -Therefore, when Mrs. Winnie threw out a downright hint to her man that -Gentleman John was likely to bring his lady-loveto Furze Farm, and -insisted upon putting sundry gold pieces into son William’s pocket, Mr. -Jennifer humphed and nodded, and supposed there would be no harm in it -“if t’ parson be not left out in t’ cold.” Mrs. Winnie snubbed him for -his sneaking prudery, and protested that he had no wits in him to see -when a gentleman was of clean, brave blood and the very stock of honor. - -“The lad’s in love, Chris, as a lad should be, though he be past thirty -by the set of his jaw and mouth. He ben’t one of your gilliflower -gentlemen, prancing along and tweaking his chin to and fro to see how -the women fall to him. It be none of my business to spy and to -speculate, but the woman he be after, Chris, must be a woman worth -winning.” - -Mr. Jennifer was heaving a couple of fagots into the wood-shed while his -wife dropped these suggestions into his ear. Son William had been sent -out with a basket to pick blackberries, and the men were down in the -fields. - -“I hope it be nothing agen t’ law, Winnie.” - -“Go on, you great coward!” - -“Woa, my dear!” - -“When ye smacked Peter Tinsel on the mouth that day for love of me, did -ye think of the law, Chris?” - -He stood and looked at her with a slow, broadening grin, as though he -were proud of her cleverness and her courage. - -“T’ law be damned; that were what I told Peter Tinsel.” - -Mrs. Winnie stuck out her elbows as though to express the word -“exactly.” But her husband came up to her and kissed her on the mouth -with a manly vigor that swept away any sense of superiority on her part. - -Mrs. Jennifer was busy over many things that day, seeing that Furze Farm -might be turned into a refuge for romance, and that she had people of -quality to cook for. Yet she found time to have a short gossip or two -with John Gore over the parlor fire, and that which struck her most was -the grim foreshadowing of something in his eyes, as though he had an -enemy to meet or a debt to wipe out in the cause of honor. Had Mrs. -Winnie been able to read his thoughts as he sat before the fire and -cleaned his pistols after sending the bullets splashing into the pond, -she would have hugged her bosom and have understood that grim look about -his eyes and mouth. For in the silence of the night, and amid the wet, -black woods where he had seen the dawn gather, John Gore had suffered a -revelation that would have made any man’s heart heavy and ashamed. He -had never greatly loved his father, nor had they ever trusted each other -with the inner intimacies of life, yet a son cannot lay bare his -begetter’s true nature without recoiling from it when he beholds -rottenness and hidden sores. The tragedy was so plain to him, so -terribly simple now that the scattered rays of his conjectures had been -gathered by the burning-glass of truth. And John Gore had ridden into -Furze Farm that morning with the cold raw air of the wet woods in his -blood and the heart numb in him but for the thought of Barbara. The -warmth of the fire and a tankard of ale had driven some of the poisonous -taste from under his tongue, but the truth galled him like a bone in the -throat, filling him with wrath and shame and pity. - -Mrs. Winnie found herself called upon to provide more tools for him that -day, and after some rummaging in an oak locker in the harness-room she -found him what he needed—namely, a file and a half-inch auger. He also -borrowed the pillion on which Christopher Jennifer took his wife to -market at Battle, Hailsham, or Robertsbridge. By reason of these details -Mrs. Winnie understood that the romance was deepening to a crisis, and -though she kept her tongue to herself in the matter of asking questions, -she cordially commended John Gore in his prison-breaking, having a -hearty contempt for authority when true sentiment was threatened. - -While John Gore rode through the woods when the evening mists began to -dim the splendor of the trees so that they were like shrines of gold -seen through the drift of incense, Simon Pinniger sat in the kitchen at -Thorn drinking to get his temper up and his blood hot and muddled -against the night. He would spread out his great hands before the fire -and look at them with a kind of sottish pride, keeping an uneasy eye -upon the woman Nance, who in turn kept a keen eye on him. - -“What is it to be, Sim?” she asked, with the air of one who must keep a -surly dog in good temper with himself. - -The man drew off a great red neckerchief that he was wearing, made a -loop, and, putting one fist through it, drew the ends tight with his -teeth and the other hand. - -“That’s my trick,” he said, dropping the end from his mouth; “them -Spaniards have a liking for it, and Spaniards are particular in the -playing of such tricks.” - - - - - XXXVI - - -There was to be a moon that night, and the thickets were black at -sunset against the cold yellow of a winter sky. Frost hung in the air, -with a gusty, arid northeast wind that came sweeping south with a sense -of coming snow, while great purple cloudbanks loomed slowly into the -north. The grass was already stiffening, and the leaves made a dry thin -rattle as John Gore drew up in the beech-thicket over against Thorn. He -had brought an extra cloak with him, and a loin-cloth for his horse, and -after some searching he found a little hollow where dead bracken stood, -and where the beast would be sheltered from the wind. He buckled the -bridle about a young ash whose black buds and branches stood out against -the sky. - -John Gore took his sword, pistols, and tools into Thorn with him that -night, tying them up in the end of a red scarf, and swinging them after -him as he straddled the gate. He hid the sword and one pistol in the ivy -at the foot of the tower, and set out on a reconnoissance, holding close -under the deep shadow of the walls, and keeping a long knife ready in -case the dog should be loose and on the prowl. There was a faint silvery -glow low down in the eastern sky, but no moon as yet, and John Gore, -meeting the keen north wind, thought of Barbara in that cold room, and -felt his heart warm to her, and to Mrs. Winnie as he remembered the -blazing kitchen at Furze Farm. - -Probing about in the dusk, he found the doorway that led into the ruined -hall, and in the corner of the hall the rough stone stair and door that -gave access to the tower. It might have seemed simpler to have set to -work straightway upon that door, but he chose the safer, slower method -of forcing the window and then working from within. - -The rope was dangling from within reach when John Gore returned to the -foot of the tower, and he went up it hand over hand with the tools slung -behind him by the scarf. He was soon under Barbara’s window, where the -rope ran taut over the sill, and, reaching in for a grip of the bars, he -called to her in a whisper. - -“I am here, John, waiting.” - -He felt the wind on his back, and guessed how miserably cold that room -must be. - -“Poor heart, the blood must be numb in you.” - -“No, John, not quite.” - -“Let me have your hands, dear.” - -He lay in on the window-ledge with his face against the bars, and -stretched his arms in. His hands groped for hers and found them, and of -a truth they were like ice. - -“Why, my life, you are all a-shiver!” - -She was shuddering a little—half with the cold, half with a deep thrill -from within. - -“No, it is not only the cold, John.” - -“No?” - -“It is all so strange—and hazardous.” - -He held her hands between his, and then began to chafe them to get them -warm. - -“We will soon have you out of this. I have found a warm nest for you, -where they pile the wood half-way up the chimney, and look glum if one -does not eat more than one needs. You must rest there, Barbe, and forget -everything for a while, and let the past die, dear, if you can. I -suppose the folk below will not meddle to-night?” - -“No. Yet it is strange, John, they have brought me no food to-day.” - -“No food, child! Why?” - -“Oh, I had a little bread left.” - -“The brutes! And here am I chattering like a starling instead of getting -to work.” - -He drew up the scarf, and unfastening the knot about the tools and -pistol, laid them before him on the sill. Then he made a loop in the -rope, so that the end should not be left dangling near the ground and -betray him in case the man Pinniger were in a vigilant mood. He had -brought a rag with a slip of lard in it, and he greased the bar with the -fat where the file was to work, so that the tool should make less sound. -The steady “burr” of the steel teeth soon told of their bite upon the -rusty metal. The three bars were as thick as John Gore’s forefinger, but -they had rusted away more at the lower ends, where the damp gathered and -the rain had stood in tiny pools. A strong arm would be able to thrust -them in after an hour or so’s steady filing. - -Barbara stood on the bed, leaning her arms against the wall and -listening to the stubborn rasping of the file. There was a sweetness -even in that rough, shrill sound to her, for life and desire were -breaking in with strong arms and the beat of a man’s heart. She no -longer felt the cold, but stood there conscious only of the dearness and -mystery of it all, letting a sense of infinite peace steal in. She fell -almost into a dreamy, wandering mood like one near to the edge of sleep, -hearing him speak to her from time to time. Now and again he would stop -and rest, and stretch a hand in between the bars, and she felt him once -take a strand of her hair and lay it across his lips. - -John Gore had filed through one bar and bent it back, when a sudden, -clear, ringing sound came up to them out of the silence of the tower, -like the clash of something metallic upon stone. Barbara woke from her -stupor of dreams like a frightened sentinel, and put up a hand as though -in warning. - -“John! Did you hear that?” - -He had heard it, and hung there with every sense upon the alert, hating -the wind that made the ivy rustle. Barbara had stepped down from the bed -and crossed the room to the door. She knelt and laid her ear to the -lock, holding her breath, her lips parted, her eyes at gaze. - -A vague suggestion of movement came to her from the dark well of the -tower stair—a dull, slow, scraping sound that came up and up with -moments of silence in between. There was no glimmer of light as she -looked through the key-hole, nothing but that slow, cautious sound like -some big thing crawling in a dark and narrow place. - -Shivering, her skin a-prickle as with cold, she went back to the window, -climbed the bed, and gave the man a whisper. - -“John, there is some one coming up the stair.” - -“Lie down on the bed, child; I will slip out and wait.” - -She heard the rope chafe slightly against the window-ledge as John Gore -lowered himself cautiously so as to be out of view. He hung there as a -sailor can, with feet and knees gripping the rope, and one hand on the -butt of the pistol that he had thrust into his belt. He had left the -tools on the window-sill, and no one would see them or the knotted rope -about the bar, unless they climbed up from the bed to look. - -Hanging there, with the wind shaking the ivy, he could hear no sound in -the tower and see no glimmer of light coming from the squints. The -rising moon was beginning to throw gleams down into the valley, but the -western quarter of the tower was as dark as a well. It was a moment when -a man may feel scared by some vague, indefinite peril invisible to him -in the darkness. Or he may clinch his teeth and keep his right hand -ready, knowing, if he be a man who has had his share of -adventure-hunting, that his own imagination may be far more sinister -than any living thing on earth or sea. - -There was a sudden faint click like the twist of a turned lock, a sound -that made John Gore lift his chin heavenward and listen with both his -ears. Then came a slow whine, as though an unoiled hinge were turning. -The door of Barbara’s room had been opened; he had no doubt of that. -Probably she was feigning sleep, thinking that one of my lord’s -creatures had come to see that all was safe. A harsh gust of wind shook -the ivy on the wall, making John Gore curse the leaves for setting up -such a flutter. - -But above the rustling of the ivy he heard an abrupt and half-smothered -cry, and then the sound as of people struggling. The bed creaked; there -was an inarticulate choking as of some one striving to call for help -through the smothering folds of a cloak. The black room within seemed -full of movement, of piteous effort, of hoarse, savage whisperings that -made his mane bristle like a furious dog’s. - -He gave one shout as a challenge and a warning, and then slid down the -rope without heeding how it chafed his hands. Plucking out his sword and -pistol from the ivy at the foot of the tower, he ran for the doorway -that led from the terrace into the hall, his face meeting the moonlight -that poured down through a broken window. - - - - - XXXVII - - -The door at the foot of the tower stood open, and John Gore plunged in -with his sword forward and his pistol at the cock. The place was as dark -as a pit, and he thrust out right and left with the sword, the point -ringing against the walls till he found where the gap of the stairs -opened. He went up silently, for he was in his stockings, but there was -more grimness in that swift and silent climb than any clangor and clash -that armed men might have made. His blood was up, the devil awake in -him, and the spirit of murder howling in his ears. He seemed to see all -the gross, smothering horror of the scene above, and he set his teeth as -he wondered whether he would come too late. - -A quick shuffling sound came down to him in the darkness. A hurrying -human thing was close to him, and John Gore challenged and lunged -without pity. There was a hard sob, and a dim shadow of a figure dragged -down his sword’s point in its fall. He freed the blade and went on with -hardly a thought, as a stormer pushes on over the bodies in the throat -of a “breach.” A sudden gleam of light slanted down the stair, and he -heard the tread of heavy feet and a harsh shout of “Nance! Nance!” -Rounding the last twist of the stair, John Gore came upon a man with a -white cloth over his face, standing on the landing outside Barbara’s -room and holding a shaded lantern in his hand. - -There was no parleying between those two, and Simon Pinniger, caught -without arms, lifted up the lantern as though to dash it in John Gore’s -face. The sea-captain flung up his left arm, and firing straight into -the man’s body, saw him go lurching back, the lantern falling at his -feet. John Gore sprang up with his sword ready, thinking for the moment -that the bully had it in his heart. But Simon Pinniger’s ribs were tough -enough to turn a pistol-bullet, and he recovered himself and came at the -rescuer like a bull. - -He tried to beat the sword aside with a sweep of the arm, but the -lantern still burned upon the floor, and John Gore was too grim a -gentleman to be tricked so easily. He avoided the blow with a backward -step and a swift back swing of the right arm. The point was still to the -fore, and lunging with the whole weight of arm and shoulder, he felt the -blade grate between the fellow’s ribs. Then he was caught full face, -like a bluff ship by an ocean roller, and knocked backward down the -stairs by the mass and impact of the man’s charge. - -The sword broke a foot from the guard, but John Gore held to the hilt, -even while the brute bulk of the man was grinding over him down the -steps. Twisting free, he slipped aside against the wall, only to feel a -hand grasping at his throat, and the sound of hoarse, wet breathing -mingling with savage curses. He struck out with the hilt of the sword, -broke the man’s grip, and came up top dog despite Simon Pinniger’s -brute, plunging fury. It was like the death-thrashing of a leviathan -amid blood and spray. They struggled, clawed, and smote for a moment, -till a chance stab went deep into the fellow’s eye. He crumpled down -into the darkness; John Gore heard his head strike the wall, and the -breath come out of him like the wind out of a stabbed “float.” - -The man was mere carrion, and John Gore sprang up the stairs, finding -the lantern still burning, though the grease from the candle had -guttered through upon the stones. He picked it up, and was about to push -forward into the room when a black square in the flooring caught his -eye. A flagstone had been turned upon its side against the wall, -uncovering the mouth of some oubliette or pit, and for a moment he bent -over it, trying to probe its depths, as though dreading lest that dear -body should be lying broken in the darkness beneath. - -A glance through the open door of the room showed him Barbara lying upon -the floor, with the bedclothes half covering her as she lay. He was down -beside her with a cold sweat of fear on him as the light from the -lantern fell upon her face. A red scarf had been wound about her neck, -and her two hands were still straining at it, pathetic in their -impotence to let in life and breath. John Gore set the lantern down, -caught her up and unwound the thing, cursing as he did so the marks -where the white throat had been bruised by brutal hands. There was froth -on her lips and dusky shadow covering her face, yet the lips were warm -when he pressed his cheek to them, and, putting an ear to her bosom, he -found that her heart still throbbed. - -An inarticulate “Thank God!” came from him, but the cry of the moment -was “Air! air!” Taking her in his arms, he bent for the lantern, and -swinging it by the ring from one finger, he started down the stairs. He -hardly heeded the two bodies lying there, save to step over them, and -so, with all his manhood praying and striving for the life in her, he -came out into the cold night air and the pale gleam of the moon. - -Now John Gore remembered a trick that an old buccaneer surgeon had -taught him at Port Royal—a trick that had saved men who had been cut -down from the gallows or pulled out senseless from the sea. He laid -Barbara on the wet grass that grew in the old hall, and, kneeling at her -head, took her two arms at the wrists and began to move them gently from -the shoulders, spreading them wide, and then crossing them with slight -pressure upon her bosom. Nor did man ever thank God more than did John -Gore when she began to breathe feebly of her own sweet self, and the -rise and fall of her bosom showed that the tide of life had turned. He -bent over her and wiped her lips, touched her bruised throat tenderly -with his fingers, and then leaned back and looked at the moon, as though -that broad, white, heavenly face could understand what all this meant to -him. - -He lifted her up again in his arms, and seeing a yellow glow beating -along the passage that led from the hall into the kitchen, he made for -it and found a huge fire blazing on the hearth, the light from it making -the place far brighter than in the day. There was a rough sort of couch -under the window, and John Gore laid Barbara upon it, and drew the thing -up before the fire so that the warmth should hearten the life in her. -And then, for the first time, he took notice of the swelter he himself -was in, his shirt hanging open and showing his chest, blotches of -crimson staining it, his very stockings soaked from the blood of the two -dead creatures upon the stairs. A man in such a war tackle was not a -savory thing to meet the eyes of a frightened girl. - -John Gore bent over her a moment and saw a faint pink flush creeping -into her cheeks, while her breath came and went steadily with a quiet -sighing. There was an oak chest in the kitchen, and John Gore found some -clothes in it: a rough shirt that had belonged to the dead man and some -woollen hose. He went out into the yard where the dog was rattling his -chain and making a great whimpering, as though calling for his supper, -and, knowing that there was a pump by the stable, he stripped himself to -the waist, washed, and put on clean gear. Then he unbarred the gate, and -brought in his coat and riding-boots from under the thorn-tree, so that -he should seem something of a gentleman, and not a ragged scoundrel -hardly fit to touch a woman’s hand. - -Barbara was still lying like one asleep before the fire when he -returned, for she had been so near to death that life seemed to steal -back softly and slowly as though still afraid. John Gore had never -looked thus at his love before, as a man might look at a sleeping child -or at some fair valley under a golden dawn. He saw the faint flush upon -her cheeks, the shadowy sweep of the long lashes, the little dark curls -of hair falling with such a sheen of sweetness over her forehead, the -line of the red mouth, the soft warmth of her skin. She looked thin, -poor child, frail and tragical, and yet the suffering that she had borne -had shed a glamour over her that made her more lovable and more womanly -than of old. His heart went out to her with all the awe of a man’s -desire as he stood and watched the coming of life—and love. - -There was a fluttering of the shadowy lashes, a long-drawn breath, a -movement of the hands, and then the low cry of one waking to some -revolting memory. John Gore bent over her and took her hands in his. - -“There is nothing to fear, dear heart.” - -A shudder ran through her as she looked at him, and some moments passed -before light and understanding swept the shadows from her eyes. But the -look that came into them when her soul awoke made John Gore long to take -her in his arms and to hold her close to him, so that he could feel the -beating of her heart. - -“John—is it you?” - -She spoke huskily, from the bruising of her throat by Simon Pinniger’s -murderous hands. - -“It is all over, Barbe. We are king and queen of the castle.” - -He wished to hide all the grimness of the night’s work from her, seeing -that her great eyes were ready to grow frightened and full of fear, -showing that she had borne too much already in body and soul. - -“John, I remember it all now—they were smothering me in the dark!” - -He took her face between his two hands, and looked dearly into her eyes. - -“Barbara, you are in my keeping; try and forget all that, dear heart. I -came in time to scare those wolves into the night. Now you must suffer -me to have my way.” - -She looked up at him almost timidly, as though conscious of his nearness -and the homage in his eyes. It had been dark at the tower window, but -now they saw each other in the light, and a mysterious coyness covered -her face. - -“I will do all that you wish, John.” - -“I shall take you away to-night.” - -“Yes, yes; take me away from Thorn.” - -Her hands went into his. - -“There is a moon, dear, and I have a pillion for you, if you are strong -enough.” - -“Oh yes, I am quite strong now.” - -She made as though to sit up on the couch, but she grew faint instantly, -so that John Gore held her with one arm about her shoulders. - -“More spirit than strength, Barbe, yet.” - -Some of her old obstinacy appeared in her for the moment. - -“No, I am only a little giddy.” - -“Lie down again.” - -“No, I must make a start.” - -She dropped her feet in their worn shoes over the edge of the couch, -glanced at him a little wilfully, and then looked away with a rush of -color and a tremulous flash of the eyes. - -“You must try and be patient with me, John.” - -“It is not a matter of patience, child, but food and good wine.” - -She put a hand to her throat. - -“I could not touch anything in this place.” - -He looked at her with a smile. - -“Not even if it came in my pocket?” - -“I will try, John.” - -“Of course you will. I have work to do here before we start.” - -He brought out a flask from his pocket, and food that Mrs. Winnie had -wrapped up in a clean white napkin. There were some little cakes and -some baked meat laid in slices between slips of home-made bread. Barbara -looked at them, and then gave him a first sad smile. - -“It is gross of me, John, but those cakes make me feel hungry.” - -“The very best confession, dear.” - -“Will you have some?” - -He had laid the cloth upon her knees. - -“No, child, not yet. Can you bear to be left alone awhile?” - -“I am quite brave now, John. But—” - -“Well, sweetheart?” - -“You are not going far?” - -“No. Only into the tower to get the rope which is not mine to leave. Is -there anything that you would wish to take?” - -She looked down thoughtfully, her dark lashes sweeping her cheeks. - -“There is a book, John, bound in red leather. I would not leave it -here—because—it has helped me—taught me—almost as much as you have -done.” - - - - - XXXVIII - - -John Gore had grim things on his mind that night, and a task before -him that he did not wish to come to Barbara’s knowledge. She, poor -child, with Mrs. Winnie’s food in her lap—food such as she had not -touched for many a day—would have had no heart to eat and drink had she -known of the dead on those dark stairs. He wished to spare her the -horror of it, for the night had been gross and violent enough, and after -all the suffering she had borne he was afraid for her in body and mind. - -Taking the lantern, he made his way to the tower, closing the door in -the passage that led from the kitchen into the ruined hall. Nance -Pinniger lay dead upon the stairs, her mouth open and her hands clinched -over the place where the sword had entered, and John Gore shuddered as -he looked at her, wishing, for the sake of her womanhood, that he had -held his hand. He went higher to where the man lay half doubled against -the wall, the cloth that covered his face caught between his teeth in -the death spasm. The fellow’s bulk seemed a veritable barrier against -burial, and John Gore, hardened as he had been to the rough life of the -sea, felt a vital horror of this huddled mass that seemed gross and -gluttonous even in death. - -Remembering the open pit, he went and held the lantern over the black -hole in the floor, but was still unable to fathom its depth. Here was a -ready vault if he could but get the dead to it—a pit that seemed to -scoff with open mouth at those whom Fate had cheated. - -To make short work of a grisly business, even as John Gore did, he took -one of the sheets from Barbara’s room, and knotting it about the dead -man’s ankles, contrived, thanks to his great strength, to draw the body -to the edge of the pit. Unknotting the sheet, he turned Simon Pinniger -down into the darkness, handling him daintily so as not to foul his own -clothes. For the woman he underwent a like labor, letting the bloody -sheet slip after her, and turning the flag down into its place. He had -the feelings of a man who had played scavenger to a headsman upon a -scaffold, and he still seemed to hear the soughing rush of wind from the -pit as those dead things went to their last resting-place in the secret -depths of Thorn. - -When he had drawn the rope up from the window, unknotted and coiled it, -and gathered tools, pistols, and his broken sword, he searched for and -found Barbara’s red Bible, and retreated, with all his gear, out of the -tower. The memory of the place made his gorge rise, and he was glad of -the night air and the light of the moon. He drove his feet through some -clumps of grass and weeds, yearning to wipe off every stain of the place -before taking this child out into the world. - -In the kitchen he found Barbara warming herself before the fire, and the -spirit of maidenhood in her, the smooth, virginal contours of her face -and figure, filled him with a sense of freshness and of awe. He saw the -play and counterplay of shadow and light within her eyes, and held it to -be witchcraft miraculously pure and sweet, bringing down God to him, and -beauty, and clean living. Somehow he felt that night that he could not -go close to her, that he had a butcher’s hands, and that it would be -impiety to touch a thing so goodly. Moreover, there was a delight in -holding a little aloof from her, in watching all her half-coy sweetness, -so fresh and new to him in her altered womanhood. He could mark the -shade and sunlight in her glances, the passing gleams of color on her -face, the birth of that dear consciousness that strove to smother that -which could not be wholly hid. - -“How long you have been, John!” - -“I had dropped some of my things and had to hunt for them. I found your -book.” - -He gave it to her, and, throwing the ropes and tools upon the table, he -busied himself with reloading the pistol that had sent its lead into -Simon Pinniger’s body, having a small ivory powder-horn and a bag of -bullets with him. - -“I heard such strange sounds, John, while you were away!” - -“Oh!” And he seemed intent on ramming home the charge. - -“It was like something falling in a cellar under the house.” - -“Old houses are full of such sounds,” he said, looking up at her -suddenly. “Thorn sheds bricks and plaster most nights in the year, with -the ivy working its way everywhere.” - -He made so little of it that Barbara did not press him further, for she -had no knowledge of the pit that had been opened for her, with its -well-like shoot cut in the thickness of the tower wall. John Gore began -to gather up all that belonged to him, and, finding a sack in one of the -cupboards, he tumbled the tools and rope into it, tying the mouth of the -sack with a strip of stuff torn from the quilt of the couch. His own -sword was broken in its scabbard, so he took the hanger down that hung -over the fireplace, and also the long carbine that had a strap for -slinging across the back. - -John Gore had brought his horseman’s cloak with him from under the -thorn-tree, and he took it and laid it upon Barbara’s shoulders. -Moreover, Mrs. Winnie had lent him a woollen scarf and some gloves, -which he had stowed away at the bottom of his holsters, and he knew that -the girl would need them because of the keen wind. - -“I have left the horse in the woods, Barbe. What sort of shoes are you -wearing?” - -She showed him them, and he did not commend their flimsiness. - -“You must let me carry you, child, or you will have your stockings -soaked in those boggy meadows, and we shall be somewhile on the road.” - -She glanced at the table where the sack and the arms lay, and then gave -him an unequivocal smile. - -“And you think you can carry me as well as all that, John?” - -“It can be done.” - -“I am not so selfish as that. I have stolen your cloak already.” - -“There is another on the horse.” - -“Instead of carrying me, John, give me something to carry.” - -He looked at the thin hands she held out to him. - -“There is your book.” - -“Yes, but I can take more than that.” - -“As for that, we will see what the grass is like when we get over the -moat.” - -They went out together into the court-yard, where the moonlight came -down upon the checker of stones outlined and interlaced with grass and -weeds. Above them rose the black tower, dark as with mystery, while on -every hand dim, silvery hills rose toward the frosty curtain of the sky. - -“I had forgotten the dog.” - -The mastiff had come out from the old cask that served him as a kennel, -and was clanking his chain over the stones and growling. - -“Some one will find him, John; they may come back when we have gone.” - -But John Gore knew better. - -He did not like the thought of leaving the beast chained there to -starve, and he was debating whether a pistol bullet would not be the -kinder end, when something far more hazardous challenged his attention. -The wind was beating about Thorn, shaking the ivy on the walls, while -the clank of the dog’s chain had a suggestive ghostliness. Yet beyond -these sounds came the dull, rhythmic thud of a horse trotting over -stiffening turf, the muffled cadence coming down upon the wind as they -stood in the court of Thorn and listened. - -“Quick, dear, we must play at hide-and-seek. It is that fellow Grylls -riding back again.” - -They were close to the open gate at the moment, and John Gore took -Barbara by the hand and drew her aside along the wall to where a stunted -bush had made roots and grown despite the stones. He pressed Barbara -back within its shadow, and stood covering her, a pistol ready and the -hanger at his belt should he need cold steel. - -“Not a sound, Barbe; be ready to slip away when I take your hand.” - -They could hear the steady thud of hoofs over the grass, and even the -heavy breathing of the beast, as though he had been pushed and bustled -by the spur. John Gore guessed that his rider was skirting along the -moat. Then came the sharper clatter of the iron shoes upon the timbers -of the bridge. The dog set up a savage barking, and in the moonlight -they saw a man ride into the court of Thorn, steam rising from his horse -like smoke, so that the beast looked huge and spectral. The man himself, -though outlined against the moon, showed nothing but the sweep of a -cloak and the droop of a black beaver. - -He sat motionless a moment in the saddle, and then, dismounting, led his -horse by the bridle toward the mist of light that came from the archway -leading into the kitchen. John Gore felt for Barbara’s hand, and they -glided along the wall toward the gate, for the man’s back was toward -them, while the barking of the dog and his grinding against the chain -drowned the sound of their footsteps utterly. They made the gate, and -went out hand in hand over the bridge and away over the moonlit -grass-land, with the barking of the dog dying down into a hoarse -whimper. John Gore had thrust the pistol in his belt and swung the sack -over his left shoulder. He put his right arm about Barbara’s body and -swept her along by main strength toward the towering beech-trees that -shone in the moonlight while the seal of silence seemed over Thorn. - - - - - XXXIX - - -It was Stephen Gore who had ridden that steaming horse into the -court-yard of Thorn—Stephen Gore, with jaded, twitching face, and eyes -that looked weary with straining and gazing into the deeps of the night. - -No man can be constantly and statuesquely selfish through life; the very -whims and impulses of human nature are against such a frozen constancy -in self-seeking. Nor can a man ever swear to being master either of -himself or of his future; the whole gamut of the emotions are arrayed -against him; a child may prove his vanquisher or a woman his seducer. - -Stephen Gore exchanging epigrams with some princely wit or bending over -a pretty woman’s chair was a different creature from Stephen Gore -shabby, saddle-sore, jaded to death, riding with an imagined price upon -his head and a prophetic mist of blood before his eyes. Throw a man out -of his natural environment and he may lose all the genius of self, and -even the poise of manhood. Milton seated upon a boat’s thwart in the -midst of mad, cursing Jamaica buccaneers would have probably seemed -contemptible and a coward. March out a fop in vile clothes, and he may -prove a sneaking, cringing, self-shamed thing, for all his soul was in -his coat. We are so much the creatures of habit that our habits flatter -us like well-trained and obsequious servants, and we lose our dignity -and even ourselves without their ministrations. - -So it had proved with my Lord of Gore that November night after a -reckless, memory-haunted ride from something he feared toward something -that he was being taught to fear by the bleak, wind-swept loneliness of -wild roads in night and in winter. Nature is powerful to work upon a -man’s mind when all the primal instincts of hunter or hunted come again -to the surface. All the damned out of hell might have been rushing on -him through those gibbering, moaning woods. The very trees had grotesque -and sinuous hands stretched out to catch and strangle. There had been -the physical weariness of it all, the chafing of the saddle, the -stiffness, the lust for speed, the flounderings of a tired horse, the -hundred and one vexations that break the heart in a man when it has no -inspiration to keep it whole. And as the poise and the self-grip of the -colder will had slackened, so the emotions had taken law of license and -had scrambled abroad over the man’s consciousness. The cool, eclectic, -cynical, civilized gentleman gave place to the credulous, elemental, -emotional savage. Primitive instincts came to the surface: an awe of -death and the invisible, a dread of the dark. - -My Lord Gore’s nerves were as tremulous as the nerves of a coddled boy -when he reined in his steaming horse under the shadow of Thorn tower. -His face looked flaccid and yet under strain, he had lost that power and -precision of movement that is second nature to a man bred among pomps. -He nearly fell as he climbed out of the saddle, looking about him with -quick, scared glances such as a child might have given in a dark garden -at night. - -The dog seemed alive enough, and sufficiently lusty to scare away -ghosts, but my lord cursed him for the infernal pother he made, being -out of heart, and therefore out of temper. He led his horse toward the -kitchen entry whence the light of the fire came out, and stood there -waiting in the throat of the short passageway, as though expecting some -one to come out to him and at least be decently servile. But since no -living soul appeared to answer the barking of the dog and the clatter of -hoofs on the stones, he hitched the bridle over a hook in the wall and -marched in slowly, yet with the slight swagger of a man who has no -reason to be proud of his courage, and yet is determined not to be put -out of countenance by anything he may see or hear. - -But there was nothing tangibly alive in Thorn that night, save the dog -in the yard; nothing but the crusts and embers of life, and a silence -amid the rush of the wind that made the place seem cold and ominous. A -man’s nerve may come back to him again when he has got a grip upon -realities, but surmises and conjectures at midnight are apt to run -toward emotionalism and panic. There were the blazing fire, the remnants -of a meal upon the table, the whining of the hungry dog to prompt him to -a conclusion. But my Lord of Gore began to shiver inwardly, and to -become conscious of an empty feeling under the heart and of a vague -horror that seemed to penetrate the air. - -Yet a lust to see the end of it, and a blind impatience that set aside -shadows and suspicions, gave him sufficient animal courage to light the -lantern his son had left and to go exploring through the ruins. The ways -of Thorn seemed known to him, for he went first to the tower; nor did he -need to go beyond the first few steps in order to discover the ooze of a -tragedy staining the stones. None the less he went on doggedly, as -though carried upward by the very ferment of the passions in him, -greatly dismayed within himself, yet greatly afraid of missing the whole -truth. And so the lantern went jerking upward into the darkness of the -tower, its movements seeming to signal some restless, devil-driven quest -after unhallowed spoil. - -When Stephen Gore came back again into the blaze and warmth of the -kitchen he looked shrunken and ashy about the mouth, and he walked in a -stooping, hollowchested way like a man huddling into himself because of -the cold. He closed both doors, and even the doors of the cupboards, -after peering into them, as though he were afraid of the dark and of any -dim, unlit corner. Then he drew the couch up close to the fire, -spreading his hands to it, and staring at the flames with a vacant, -colorless face. The horror of some unseen thing seemed in his eyes, and -his lips fell apart and loosened like the lips of a very old and feeble -man. - -At midnight there had been a moon, but before dawn snow came, a great, -gray, shimmering gloom drifting through the vague world. The dry leaves -shivered and crackled in the wind as the myriad flakes came sweeping -down, ribbing the boughs and the curved fronds of the bracken, piling -itself amid the moss at the roots of great trees, and scudding over the -open lands with a fierce, withering haste that left the grass tussocks -white like stones catching foam from a rushing stream. The dawn came as -a mere grayness, with a flocculent, drifting chaos of snow in the air, -and a bite in the northwest wind that sent spikelets of ice bearding the -fringes of ponds and ditches. - - * * * * * - -Now Mrs. Winnie had been awake most of the night, and had risen very -early full of an instinct that strange things were about to happen, what -with such a storm of snow the first week in November. She had lit the -fire in the kitchen and was standing at the window watching the snow -come down when she heard a horse neigh in the stable, as though the -beast had caught the sound of a comrade’s coming. And, sure enough, -through the maze of snow she saw something dark draw up toward the gate, -and knew in her heart that John Gore had returned. - -Going to the door, she lifted the bar and saw the snow come whirling in -with a hungry wind that went deep into her bosom. There was the click of -the gate, and a man came up the path between the drooping stocks and the -withered, swaying rose-bushes with something wrapped in a cloak lying in -his arms. Mrs. Winnie went out to meet him, her woman’s nature caught by -the spell of such a love tale. - -“Mrs. Winnie!” - -“Thank God, sir, and you have brought her back.” - -The breast of his coat was white with snow, for he had wrapped both the -cloaks about Barbara to keep her warm. And he looked down anxiously at -the face that lay against his shoulder, as though he feared that the -cold had gone to her heart. - -“We lost our way, and only luck helped us back again. A warm fire, Mrs. -Winnie; she is half frozen.” - -Christopher Jennifer’s wife had taken a sly peep at this desired one, -but she was as brisk and concerned as John Gore was, and not a woman to -talk and dally. - -“Come in, sir, out of this wind; it bites into the blood of the child. -Such a storm, with autumn only half out of the door! Let me have her, -sir; I know what the cold be on these Sussex hills.” - -John Gore carried Barbara into the kitchen, for he had ridden with her -in his arms to keep her warm, guiding his nag with a touch of the knee. -She had fallen asleep with weariness and the cold—a dazed, numb sleep -that was not pleasant to consider. Her lips were white and her hands -like ice, so that she looked more like a sleeping snow-maiden than a -living girl. - -Mrs. Winnie had shut the snow and the wind out, drawn her man’s chair -forward, and was running and rummaging for pillows, wraps, and blankets. -Son William put his head in, and was sent packing with the flick of a -flannel across his cheek, much amazed and not a little delighted. Mrs. -Winnie wellnigh took Barbara out of John Gore’s arms, as though this was -a woman’s affair, and not a matter for a man to meddle with. The wood -fire had roared up to a great red mound, and was flinging out such a -heat that the very air seemed a-simmer. Mrs. Winnie had Barbara propped -up before it, with her head on a pillow and her bosom open to the fire. - -“You will find a brick, sir, holding the pantry door open. Put it in the -fire to heat.” - -John Gore did as she bade him, while she reached for the chain with an -iron crook and slung the kettle on it. - -“There be the tongs, sir. I’ll wrap the thing in a bit of flannel and -put it to the child’s feet. Poor, dear young thing—lady, I mean, sir. -Mercy o’ me, her shoes are wet and almost froze!” - -She knelt down and stripped off the shoes and stockings, and began -chafing the little feet, admiring them in her blunt, frank way, and -calling them the feet of a lady of quality. She had noticed the marks on -Barbara’s neck, and John Gore, seeing her eyes fixed there, nodded -grimly and put a hand to his throat. His eyes held Mrs. Winnie’s, and -she understood the need for silence. - -“Where be that brick, sir?” - -John Gore brought it out with the tongs, and Chris Jennifer’s wife -patted it into a piece of flannel and set Barbara’s feet upon it with a -smile of satisfaction. - -“Now for some hot toddy, sir.” And she went away to mix it. - -John Gore bent over Barbara and touched her cheek, for a faint color was -creeping back, and he felt that even Mrs. Winnie might be kissed at such -a moment. But being a quiet man, he went out to see to his horse, hardly -noticing that his own feet were still like frozen clay and that his arms -were stiff from carrying his love. - -There was a brave breakfast cooking, and the fire was a red, shimmering -slope of wood ash when Mr. Jennifer came stumping down the stairs to -pause and stare in astonishment at Barbara as he opened the stairway -door. She was lying back in the chair with her eyes open, but with no -real soul in them as yet, her hands hanging over the chair-rail, her -black hair bathing her face. - -Mr. Jennifer came in softly and discreetly, and stood about three yards -from her, fingering the side seam of his breeches. Then he made a bob -and waited, and then a second bob, with a stolid, persistent desire to -be proper in the matter of politeness. But though Barbara hardly had -sight or hearing for anything as yet, Mr. Jennifer stood stolidly to his -convictions, and scraped his feet to make the lady look at him. - -Mrs. Winnie caught him at this bobbing and scraping, with a puzzled -stare in his eyes and his thick head full of kindness. He glanced at his -wife with extreme cunning, and gave her a whisper behind his hands. - -“Come ye here, Winnie. What be t’ lady a-staring at? Here be I makin’ a -knee to her—” - -“Get out with you, you great fool!” - -She gave him a cuff across the ear. But Mr. Jennifer still gazed at -Barbara. - -“She be purty enough. But what be a-terrifying me—be—why she won’t -blink them eyes o’ hers.” - -“Get along with you, Chris Jennifer, you great booby! Can’t you see she -be dazed with t’ cold? And will she be thanking you for standing there -and staring like a cow? Go and help the gentleman with his horse.” - -“And did them come all on one horse, my dear?” - -Mrs. Winnie looked at him, and Mr. Jennifer went. - - - - - XL - - -With the coming of winter there had been strange happenings at the -Purcells’ house in Pall Mall, for my lady had died the night after -Stephen Gore’s going, with no one to comfort her but Mrs. Jael. The -servants had all fled, and the house stood deserted save for the live -woman and the dead one; the very tradesmen shirked the steps; friends -had business elsewhere; and Dr. Hemstruther himself, being a keen -Protestant when popery was especially perilous, kept his distance, -knowing that my Lord Gore’s influence had been paramount there in heart -and body. For my Lord Gore was one of the Catholic gentlemen upon whom -the Plot-men longed to lay their hands. - -It happened that when poor Anne Purcell died that there was some store -of silver and of plate in the house, also her jewels and trinkets, and -sundry precious things that belonged to the Purcell family. Mrs. Jael -showed some little care for the corpse by covering it with a clean -sheet, but she showed far more care for her own concerns and for the -valuables that were at her mercy. She ransacked the whole house, -gathering every small thing of value into a heap on the floor of one of -the attics, gloating and smiling over it, and promising herself great -joys. For Mrs. Jael had picked up a sweetheart, a rough, sturdy fellow -from Aldgate way, and she crept out one night to warn him of her -good-fortune, and to persuade him to help in spiriting away the plunder. -The man was a common thief, and had tricked even the smooth, sly Jael -for three months past, pretending that he was in the cloth trade, and -that he hankered greatly after a comely widow. He was ready enough to -join in the adventure, and cared as little for small-pox as for the reek -of an open drain. And thus Mrs. Jael let him into the house by night, -and they packed up the plunder between them in a couple of sacks, and so -went their way into the darkness. But the man no longer had any desire -for the voluptuous embraces of a widow, and in some way Mrs. Jael came -to her end that night, and was found weeks later afloat in the Thames, -an unrecognizable and nameless body. - -Now Jael, during the time that she was gathering the treasure together, -had left lights burning in my lady’s room to make people think that Anne -Purcell was still alive. She had put new candles to burn the very night -she had fled out to her death, and so an eerie thing befell, for -officers in quest of papists, and my Lord Gore in particular, broke into -the house, having heard the rumor of small-pox and considered that it -might be a trick. But they found Anne Purcell lying dead in her bed, a -sheet covering her, and the candles burning, not a living soul in the -whole house, and every chest and cupboard rifled. So the Law stepped in, -beat round for witnesses, and buried my lady at night with a bushel of -quick-lime and extra pay to the man who buried her. Then there was a -learned to-do, much hunting out of documents, and much puzzling over -facts. For Mistress Barbara Purcell was her father’s heiress after her -mother’s death, and Mistress Barbara had come within the chancellor’s -ken by reason of unsound mind, yet no living soul seemed able to tell -where this same Barbara Purcell was. The lawyers looked wise over it, -and sat down cheerfully to make their pickings, Chancery claiming -authority in the case, and not caring greatly how long the dilemma -lasted so long as they handled the property. For every man’s mind was -full of the Plot those months, and not for many years had the wigs -boasted so much business. - -Titus Oates had come toward full notoriety in October by harrowing the -public with the fulminations of a furious imagination. Then had followed -Sir Edmundbury Godfrey’s murder, the seizing of Coleman’s -correspondence, and a panic in London, with mobs shouting in the -streets. The Protestant beacon had been fired, and blazed with terrified -fury, while Oates threw fagot after fagot to feed the flames. Catholic -peers were cast into the Tower; two thousand or more smaller people were -arrested; all papists commanded to leave London. The train-bands marched -through the streets; executions were soon to begin; it was nothing but -Plot—Plot—Plot—from Parliament to Pulpit. - -At Thorn, in Sussex, my Lord of Gore hid himself from the knowledge of -all these things, a man shrunken strangely from his former buxom self, a -man without nerve or energy for the moment, vacillating between plans on -a dash across the Channel for France, and the timidity of a hunted thing -that fears to leave its hiding-place for the open. Even as Monmouth the -Protestant prince at the head of an army differed from Monmouth the -panic-obsessed fugitive skulking in a ditch, so the Stephen Gore of -Whitehall differed from the Stephen Gore of Thorn. Some blight seemed to -have fallen on him, turning his manhood into a white-faced, -memory-haunted thing afraid of the very shadow of its own thoughts. That -brief, fierce burst of winter may have helped to chill the marrow in the -courtier’s bones, with the wailing of the wind and the whirling of the -snow. For a man cannot do without food and fire, and Stephen Gore had to -turn drudge to his own need. At first he had tried to dispense with a -fire for fear the smoke should betray him, but when he had shivered and -ached for two days his caution surrendered to the lust for warmth, and -he brought in fagots and with great trouble made a blaze. He had found a -store of salted meat, ship’s biscuits, and other stuffs still left in -the place, and though Thorn had a horror for him, he clung to it like a -fox to his “earth,” knowing of no other place wherein to hide himself. -For there seemed hardly a better place in the kingdom than Thorn, for -Pinniger and his woman had not been molested all those weeks. There -would be a score of open ways for a bold and resolute man to take later, -but the heart was utterly out of Stephen Gore, and the spirit of -yesterday was not the spirit of to-day. - -Yet what, after all, had he to fear, setting visions of judgment and -other worlds aside, but the passing fury of a Protestant mob and the -wild tale of a double murder? A month ago these menaces would have stung -the self in the man to thrust them aside with audacity and resolution. -But a climax had come and gone; something was breaking in him and taking -his cool self-trust away, and he felt like Samson shorn of his hair. -Perhaps the bile had congealed in him with the cold, for nothing can -make a man more tame and listless than a clogged and sluggish liver. -Perhaps he had lost faith in his own genius for success. Perhaps he was -penitent. This last would have been the pretty, saintly end, confession -and absolution, penance, the lighting of tapers and saying of masses, -and all the saints in the calendar stretching out succoring hands. Yet -there is something incongruous in the idea of a strong, selfish, cynical -man huddling himself feverishly into the habit of religiosity when -Retribution comes knocking at the door. It often fails to impress the -conscience. It is not always convincing, even in romance. - -Probably the secret of all this crumbling up of courage lay in the -nature of the man’s very self. Vanity may be a rare cement in the walls -of a man’s fortune so long as there is no corroding acid in the air. And -Stephen Gore’s genius had rested upon his vanity, not in his dress -alone, but in all those attributes that a man desires to see given to -his splendor. His vital force had been fed upon the pleasant things of -life; he was a self-inflated, artificial creature, who was strong so -long as he could be flattered. But, like an orthodox believer smitten to -the heart with doubt, he began to find his convictions dissolving into -chaos, and the adulations of self-worship becoming a mockery despite his -efforts to believe them real. - -Voices—sharp, sneering, sardonic voices that he had had the strength to -stifle of old—began to cut him with his own cleverness, using the very -gibes against him that he had used in the gay salons to his own glory. -For when a cynic falls into misfortune he is likely to discover that he -has nurtured a devil that will use its claws upon the master who has -reared it. - -Stephen Gore had often said that— - -“A man who begins to think his virtue shabby is a man who cannot afford -to pay his tailor—the priest.” - -“Never confess to yourself any cause for shame, or you will soon find -your feet in the mire.” - -“Men may regret; only women and fools repent.” - -“Consciousness is life; therefore a man ought to suffer himself to be -conscious only of pleasant things.” - -And my Lord of Gore was having a wider consciousness forced upon him in -the narrow world of that ruined house. And where were the studied -pleasantries of consciousness? A fine gentleman feeding on salt beef and -onions, scraping his own fire together, and living in devout horror of a -prosaic thing called death. So much so that he was possessed by a -species of “morsomania” grim enough to prevent him seeing the cynically -comic side of his own condition. - - - - - XLI - - -A man in love is not supposed to think of his lady’s clothes, but only -of the brightness of her eyes and the beauty of her body, the way her -lips curve when she smiles, and how she may look coy or mischievous, or -sad and silent with some mysterious desire. Yet there is a delight in -practical things when shoes are for certain feet, and the petticoats to -hide a certain comely pair of ankles. John Gore had inquired of Mrs. -Winnie as to the shops in Battle Town, and qualified her enthusiasm -somewhat to himself when she vowed that Mr. Bannister’s mercery and -haberdashery shop might have served the Queen. - -Chris Jennifer was riding into Battle that week, for the wind had backed -into the southwest, and the snow had thawed in a day. And John Gore set -forward to ride with Mr. Jennifer, Mrs. Winnie whispering to him that -her man could carry a power of things, being accustomed to suffer all -manner of commissions. For Barbara had nothing but the clothes she stood -in, and was wearing a pair of Mrs. Winnie’s shoes when she went down the -garden path to watch John Gore mount for Battle. Mrs. Jennifer was -always taking her man by the coat-tails when these “young things” were -about together. Poor Christopher had no peace in his own house, being -ordered out of the way wherever he might go, and told that he was a -blind booby for not keeping the corner of an eye open, and for not -thrashing those lazy, gossiping rogues—his men—for loitering and -hanging about the buildings. Yet Christopher took it all very patiently, -going out to the stable to smoke his pipe and teach son William to make -“jumping-jacks” and bird snares and pop-guns out of elder wood. - -Mr. Jennifer and John Gore came to Battle Town that day and pulled up -outside Mr. Bannister’s shop, where Mill Street ran toward Mountjoy and -The Mills. Chris Jennifer had business at the farrier’s and the -grocer’s, so he left John Gore to his own affairs, promising to be back -in half an hour in order to help load the baggage. John Gore called a -boy to hold his horse, and went into Mr. Bannister’s shop with the grim -air of an Englishman who is tempted to feel shy. - -A young woman came forward with ribbons in her cap, and a saucy, -giggling look that seemed to rally the gentleman on his surroundings. -John Gore had no use for her at all. He looked round the shop and saw no -one else but a little old woman carding wool. - -“Is Mr. Bannister in?” - -The girl stared, and the old lady put down her wool. John Gore took off -his hat to her. - -“May I see Mr. Bannister himself, madam?” - -“Titsy, go and see where the master is.” - -And Titsy went, with a flaunting fling of the shoulders, for the man had -not taken off his hat to her. - -Mr. Bannister was a mild man in rusty brown. John Gore could see that he -had just washed his hands and bustled into his Sunday wig, for he had -put it on awry. He came forward with the walk of a man who suffered from -chronic rheumatism about the spine, and he was wearing at least five -pairs of stockings, to judge by his bulgy legs. - -John Gore persuaded him to the end of the counter next the door, not at -all pleased to see that Titsy of the ribbons had come back into the shop -and was listening with both her ears. - -“Good-day, sir. In what way may I serve you?” - -“I want some of these stuffs here, God knows what you call them, stuff -for gowns and petticoats—and—and—things!” - -The need seemed rather vague and extensive. Mr. Bannister worked his -mouth about, and wondered who the stranger was and whether he had proper -money. The girl Titsy began to giggle, and John Gore half wished that he -had let Mrs. Winnie come and do the shopping for him, though her taste -was crude and monstrous in many ways. - -“The fact is, sir, I have been made the guardian of a young gentlewoman, -and I find that she is not clothed in the style she should be. Come here -to the door, sir, to get out of range of that confounded girl of yours, -whose manners might be mended. Now, Mr. Bannister, I have heard your -shop well spoken of, and I want proper stuffs for a wardrobe. -The—the—you know what I mean—I leave it to you; but show me your -cloths and silks and ribbons.” - -Mr. Bannister was a man of tact, especially when a gentleman produced a -purse. He turned Titsy and the old lady out of the shop, locked the -door, and commenced business. John Gore was soon handling all manner of -dainty stuffs: silks, brocades, cloth of red and green and blue, -cottons, and the like. Mrs. Winnie had truly praised Mr. Bannister’s -store of treasures, and the lover soon had all that he listed for the -glorifying of his lady. - -Gold passed across the counter. Mr. Bannister had begun piling certain -dainty linen aside with the mystery of a man of sentiment. - -“Can I send these by the carrier, sir?” - -“Thanks; my friend and I can take them, if you will cord the stuff so -that we can carry it aboard our horses.” - -“Very good, sir, very good.” - -Mr. Jennifer came in at that moment, his hat on the back of his head and -his face trying to kill a grin. Mr. Bannister glanced at him a little -severely, and was more surprised to see the stranger own him as the -friend he had referred to. - -“What be all these doings here, Mister Bannister, in Battle, hey?” - -“What doings may you be referring to, Mr. Jennifer?” - -“Doings! Why, there be old Squire Oxenham out on his gray ’oss on t’ -Green, with a pair of sodgering fellows in red, and half a score yeomen, -and Lawyer Gibbs, and a little gen’leman in a great wig, with a face -like a raw side of beef.” - -Mr. Bannister had heard of none of these doings, and they went to the -door, all three of them, and stood on the footway, looking toward the -Green. Squire Oxenham was there, sure enough, with a couple of troopers -and the yeomen—all mounted, and one or two more gentlemen to watch the -mounted men, who were keeping their horses moving, all save Squire -Oxenham, the lawyer, and the red-faced man in the big black periwig. - -“What be ut, Garge?” - -Mr. Jennifer accosted a man in a leather apron who came swinging along -the sidewalk. - -“Devil a bit I knows. Some of these papistry gentry to be taken, I -guess. Squire Oxenham’s keeping mum.” - -Mr. Bannister pulled out a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles and took -stock of the scene. He had hardly adjusted the spectacles when the two -troopers came riding up the street, followed by the yeomen, Squire -Oxenham, and the rest. A rabble of small boys followed at their heels, -till the Squire made free with the whip he carried and drove the boys -back like a lot of dogs. They swept past Mr. Bannister’s shop, Chris -Jennifer running forward to hold the heads of his and John Gore’s -horses. They saw the cavalcade go westward past the Watch Oak, the -Squire’s gray horse and the red coats of the troopers standing out -vividly from the duller tints of the rest. - -Mr. Bannister folded up his spectacles and remarked that “the times were -troubled, and that a king who gave all his days to women could not keep -a kingdom clean.” And he looked severely at the row of heads protruding -from the windows all down the street, and caught Miss Titsy’s beribboned -cap bobbing back to escape his censure. - -“The parcels yonder are for you, Mr. Jennifer.” - -The farmer went in to survey the bales on the counter, while John Gore -passed three doors down the street to a cobbler who sold gentlewomen’s -shoes. He bought a pair of red leather slippers with silver buckles, and -also some strong, stout shoes fit for the wet grass-lands in winter, for -it was his desire that Barbara should bide at Furze Farm till he knew -how matters fared in other quarters. - -Christopher Jennifer was a genius at piling baggage about a horse, and -they were soon on the homeward road, John Gore thinking not a little of -the things he had seen in Battle Town, and wondering whither that -cavalcade had ridden, and what their business might be. For when a man -has a secret in his heart he is always jealous of the vaguest threat, -and ready to imagine that his secret may be meddled with by all the law -and the prophets. And John Gore had no wish for the tragedy of Thorn to -be dragged into the light as yet. He thought of Barbara before all else, -and of any peril that might threaten her new-found health and hope. - -Son William was packed off to bed early that night, and Chris Jennifer -went out into the wood-lodge to cut logs for the fire. In the parlor -were the bales that John Gore had brought in from Battle, and Mrs. -Winnie’s fingers itched to open them, but Barbara knew nothing. - -It was after supper that John Gore took his knife and cut the cords, -and, turning back the sacking, left Barbara and Mrs. Winnie to look at -the things together. He left them to it because he was the giver, and -because he knew that there were some matters that he could have no hand -in. He had told Mrs. Winnie what to say, for Barbara had fallen to like -Mrs. Winnie very greatly, and Chris Jennifer’s wife was no less fervent -in her eagerness to mother “the little lady.” - -John Gore was sitting alone before the kitchen fire when the parlor door -opened very softly and a shadow fell athwart the clean red bricks. -Barbara was standing there with some ruddy silken stuff held up over her -bosom and falling in rich folds to her feet. - -He turned in his chair, smitten with the thought of how fair she looked -with her swarthy beauty and that ruddy sheen of silk to heighten it. -There was just a flash of woman’s vanity in her eyes that moment, a -thing new in her since he had come. - -“Barbe!” - -She came to him, holding the stuff in her two hands, and they could hear -Mrs. Winnie singing with purposeful vigor in the parlor. - -“John, how good of you! But you must let me—” - -“Let you do what, my soul?” And he rose and stood looking at her very -dearly. - -“Pay you, John.” - -“What pride—and nonsense! But that silk is sweet, now, is it not?” - -She met his eyes, blushed, and looked down at her own figure. And then, -suddenly, she let the silken stuff fall to the floor, put her two hands -up over her face, and burst into tears. - -“How wicked of me—how utterly wicked!” - -“Why, Barbe, child?” - -“Don’t speak to me, John. To think that I should give thought to such -things when all this is over you—over us both!” - -He went to her, putting an arm about her shoulders, touched her hands -gently with his lips. - -“Weep not, dear heart, if it be wrong that you should have these pretty -stuffs, it is I who am to blame for loving you.” - -She let her hands fall and looked up through a mist of tears into his -face. - -“John, can we—can you ever forget the past? Can you forgive?” - -“What have I to forgive, dear heart?” - -“Ah yes; but—” - -He held her at arm’s-length, his two hands upon her shoulders, and -looked into her eyes. - -“Barbara, it is not your heart that is hard now. God has given this love -to us, and what God gives, who shall forbid?” - -She hung her head and sighed. - -“I am wondering, John.” - -“Well, my life?” - -“What will happen, what we must do—what the end may be.” - -He looked at her a moment in silence, and then spoke like a man whose -strength is in his own heart. - -“Child, there is one good and certain thing with us—let us hold to it, -you and I together. I will take shame from no man, and no lie from any -living throat. If there should be dark days, let them come; I will not -let you go from me—no, for here life is, nor can there be sin or shame -in that which God has given.” - -She looked up at him quickly with a great brightness of the eyes. - -“John, I cannot, I could not, stand all alone now.” - -“Why, my desire, what more can a man pray for!” - -And they still heard Mrs. Winnie singing as though she were singing at a -harvest-home. - -In a little while they went back together into the parlor hand in hand. -Chris Jennifer’s wife was standing with her back to them, posing herself -before a little old mirror with a bright piece of stuff—pink roses upon -a green ground—folded about her bosom. She turned with a start, and -whisked the thing away as though shy of a piece of matronly vanity. - -“Why, Mrs. Winnie, you have picked out the very thing!” - -“Me, sir? I was only trying how my little lady would look in it gathered -up over the breast—just so, Mr. John.” - -“But I bought that piece of stuff for you, Mrs. Winnie.” - -“Now, come, my dear good gentleman—me with pink roses!” - -“Well, I should praise you in it.” - -“Pink roses and a face like a side of bacon! Dear soul, but it be too -young for me.” - -Barbara went to her suddenly, and, taking the stuff, unfolded it, and -held it to Mrs. Jennifer’s figure. And in truth she looked comely with -the sweet colors of it, turning her coy, brusque face this way and that -with self-conscious pride. - -“You look like a bride, Mrs. Jennifer.” - -“Go along with you, Mr. John, you be as bad as the rest of them with -your tongue. But, by my soul, dearie, it do look sweet!” - - - - - XLII - - -It would almost seem that Stephen Gore was a little mad those first -few days in Thorn, what with the fever of a chill he had taken in the -saddle, the utter ghostliness and melancholy of the place, and the cold, -raw mists that hung about the moat. The cold went to his marrow and the -sinister solitude of the house to his brain, for at night Thorn was a -veritable goblin castle where a man might imagine all manner of dim -horrors. The wind made strange noises and whisperings of dismay; plaster -crumbled and fell; slants of moonlight sprang in as the clouds drifted -over the moon; the ivy rattled on the walls; worm-eaten beams creaked -and cracked; and the wind was everywhere like a haunted spirit. Stephen -Gore had found only one candle left in the place; it had lasted him but -one night, so that when the dusk fell he had no light but the light of -the fire. And he would lie awake on the couch in the kitchen, the hot -blood simmering in his brain, and a sweat of shivering fear on him, -while he fancied that he heard voices in the thickness of the walls and -a sound as of things moving in the darkness. - -However dainty and superfine a man may be, his flesh takes command of -his spirit when the smaller necessities of life fall to his own hands. -It would have delighted some of the cynics of Whitehall to have seen -this fine gentleman in his shirt-sleeves splitting firewood with pitiful -clumsiness, and disciplining his stomach in an attempt to boil salt -beef. For Stephen Gore was repeating some of the experiences of a -Selkirk, save that his solitude was of his own seeking, and yet not a -matter of choice. - -What with misery of mind and body, the _malaise_ of the fever, and the -utter melancholy of the place, my lord’s manhood and his moral courage -were in ruins within a week. He gave way to a sense of panic and to a -delirious lust for self-preservation that would have seemed ridiculous -but for the very real torment he was in. Whether he was hunted as a -conspirator against the state or as a spiller of innocent blood were -possibilities that pointed only to the one grim issue. A morbid belief -in their having “sinned against the Holy Ghost” has sent superstitious -mortals to Bedlam. A morbid dread of death seized on my lord with equal -grimness, and in a week he had lost that larger consciousness, that cool -sanity and shrewd sense of humor, that give a man power over the chances -of life. His intelligence began to drop to the level of the animal that -seeks to cover its tracks from possible pursuers. Sagacity gave place to -cunning and a blind passion for the annihilation of everything that -might betray him. - -He sent his horse adrift, driving him out with savage prickings from his -sword, so that the beast fled panic-stricken into the woods. As for the -dog, he put a pistol bullet through his head, tied a weight to the -carcass, and sunk it in the moat. Saddle and harness he buried in the -garden, keeping the bar up across the court-yard gate, and going out -from the house only at dusk. He even made his fire on the floor in the -middle of the kitchen, enduring the smoke and the smarting of his eyes, -so that the smoke might leak away through doors and windows and crevices -instead of pluming up out of the chimney. He burned all the rough -furniture in the place, save the couch and an old stool, and, taking up -two of the flagstones in the floor, dug a hole under them to hide the -store of food, not realizing, perhaps, that the stuff would be mouldy -and rotten in a month. It was his feverish purpose to blot out every -trace of life from Thorn, so that should it be raided by the Law there -should be no clews. The marvel was that he found such a life worth -living for the sake of the life he hoarded. But Stephen Gore was not -wholly sane those days, what with the fever, and the sweat of fear in -him at night, and the thoughts that haunted him as thirst haunts a -straggler in the desert. - -Nor was all this cunning of his wasted upon chimerical possibilities and -feverish fancies, as the event soon proved. It was the day of John -Gore’s ride into Battle Town with Mr. Jennifer, and Stephen Gore had -fallen asleep on the couch in the kitchen, for he could sleep in the day -if not at night. About two o’clock in the afternoon he awoke to find -that the fire had burned itself out, for the erstwhile philosopher had -much to learn in the simple matter of building a wood fire so that it -should not be out in an hour. He scrambled up rather sourly, and was -about to cross the court to the wood-lodge when he heard a faint -“halloo” coming from the misty stillness of the wooded slopes of the -valley. - -Stephen Gore turned back into the kitchen like a man who has escaped -walking over a cliff in the dark, and stood listening a moment with his -hand to his ear. Then he pushed the couch away toward the window, and, -kneeling, swept the ashes of the fire on to the hearth-stone with his -hands, thanking Heaven for the providential perverseness of the thing in -burning out while he was asleep. Climbing the lower story of the tower, -he looked cautiously through the narrow window to see nearly twenty -mounted men coming down over the grass-land at a fast trot. My lord’s -knees rubbed together as he recognized the red coats of the two -troopers, and the more sombre and magisterial look of the gentry who -followed. - -Days ago Stephen Gore had searched out a hiding-place for himself, and -his choice had lighted on nothing cleaner and more distinguished than -the chimney in the kitchen. He had climbed up by the chain, despite the -soot—he who could hardly wear the same shirt twice in a week—till the -throat of the chimney narrowed so that he could use his hands and feet. -About fifteen feet from the ground he had discovered a little recess in -the brickwork where a man might stand and not be seen by any one looking -upward. He had eased the ascent to this possible niche of refuge by -knocking in an old nail or two that he had found in one of the -out-houses. - -A great amount of majestic cant has been written about the stately -courage of the Gentleman. There are very few Sir Richard Grenvilles in -the world, but far more Falstaffs ready to take refuge in the -washing-basket at a pinch. To have played the proper heroic part my lord -should have gone out calmly to the gate of Thorn and courteously dared -these gentry to take him while he lived, or at least to have awaited -them with aristocratic composure and delivered up his arms like a great -captain surrendering a fortress that he has no longer the power to hold. -Such should have been the picturesque setting of the scene, but the -meaner impulses of human nature triumphed, and the gentleman Went up the -chimney like any sweep’s boy, barking his knees and elbows, and coloring -his dignity with most satanic soot. - -Squire Oxenham and his party came to the gate of Thorn, and sent one of -the yeoman over it to drop the bar and let the others in. Three men were -left to guard the horses and the gate, and two more to patrol the -borders of the moat, while magistrate, attorney, king’s rider, and the -rest spread themselves abroad to ransack the place, keeping their steel -and powder ready in case they might come to grips with desperate men. -But for all their bravery and bustle they found nothing but silence and -emptiness in Thorn, as though the place had remained lifeless since the -old Scotch folk left it in the autumn. - -Squire Oxenham and Lawyer Gibbs found their way into the kitchen and -went no farther in the man hunt, being content with the work done. The -lawyer noticed the discolored stones in the floor and some wood-ash -lying in the crevices. And had he touched those stones, instead of -staring at them in a perfunctory and superior way, he would have -discovered that they were warm, and that a fire had been lit there that -very day. - -Squire Oxenham, being an old and plethoric man with threatenings of gout -in the right foot, sat down on the couch and pulled out a flask of -hollands. He and the lawyer began gossiping together, and the Knight of -the Chimney could hear every word that passed. - -“We shall have an appetite for supper, Thomas, though we may not set -eyes on Mr. Shaftesbury’s lord. Deuce take me if I can get my blood hot -over the notion of sending some poor devil to the block. What are you -staring at the floor for, Thomas?” - -“There has been a fire here, Squire.” - -“Months old, man; the place where Sandy Macalister smoked his Sabbath -clothes before sneaking into heaven without crossing Peter’s palm. Have -a drop of spirit, Thomas Gibbs. I wonder what made those Westminster -wolves scent out Thorn as the man’s hiding-hole. The fellow Maudesly -tells me that the Purcell woman—Halloo, Sacker, my man, have you found -anything except owls?” - -“Not a thing, your worship.” - -“Just as I thought, Mr. Gibbs—just as I thought. Any man of sense with -a warrant out against him would have been in France days ago and eating -French dinners instead of freezing in a damned rubbish-heap like this. -But these Jacks in Office must pretend to know everything. Some noodle -at Westminster would be ready to tell me how much to allow my wife’s -sisters, and how often my cess-pit ought to be emptied. Well, Mr. -Maudesly, have you had enough of Thorn?” - -The little man in the big periwig came in looking testy, and not to be -trifled with. The men trooped in after him, while the Squire passed his -flask round to the gentlemen, and condoled with them satirically on -having drawn a “blank.” Stephen Gore in the chimney heard them gossiping -there awhile before they tramped out into the court-yard to take horse -for Battle Town before dusk fell. The thunder of hoofs went over the -timbers of the bridge, and slowly, almost eerily, as the water of a -stagnant pool settles over the stone that has been thrown into it, the -heavy silence closed again over Thorn. - -It was probable that my lord felt some elation over his escape, and that -he was not a little eager to be out of so black and draughty a refuge. -He was also very stiff and cold from having stood in that narrow recess -for over an hour. At all events, he began the descent clumsily and -carelessly, and, bearing too much weight on one of the nails that he had -driven into the wall, the thing broke away from the rotten mortar, and, -though he drove out his knees and elbows in an attempt to wedge himself -in the chimney, his weight and bulk carried him heavily to the hearth -below. Coming down on his right flank, his right thigh struck one of the -iron fire-dogs about a hand’s-breadth below the great trochanter of the -hip. And Stephen Gore felt the bone snap as a dead branch snaps across a -man’s knee. - -In the agony of it he rolled over and over till his body was stopped by -the couch that Squire Oxenham had drawn forward from the window. He -gripped the lower stretcher of the wood frame with both hands and took -the sleeve of his coat between his teeth, as a seaman will clinch his -teeth upon a rope’s-end to save himself from screaming when the -surgeon’s hot iron sears the stump of a mangled limb. Then he lay on his -back, breathing deeply and slowly, his hands tugging at the collar of -his shirt as though the band were tight about his throat. His right foot -had fallen outward, and when he tried to move the limb there was nothing -but a spasm of the muscles and a sense of bone gritting against bone. - - - - - XLIII - - -The days were pleasant enough at Furze Farm, with Barbara gaining in -health and color, and in a womanly winsomeness that made even Mrs. -Jennifer wonder. It was as though the real soul had come to life in her -again, and her heart, that had been a thing of moods and sorrows of old, -had warmed into a richer consciousness of life, so that the beautiful -shell began to glow with the light of the beautiful spirit within. There -was a sweet sparkle of youth in her that began to play over the surface -of sadness, and though the past still shadowed her, she stood free from -the utter gloom of it and saw the golden rim of the sun. She made -friends with little Will Jennifer, played hide-and-seek with the boy, -and told him tales in the dusk before he went to bed. She and Mrs. -Winnie, too, were busy making up the stuffs from Battle into gowns and -petticoats, and though Mrs. Winnie’s craft was simple and somewhat -crude, the colors lighted up Barbara’s comeliness, and the very -simplicity of the frocks seemed in keeping with that Sussex fireside. -She even besought Mrs. Winnie to let her learn the lore of the dairy, -the art of butter-making, and the like; for the primitive, busy life of -the place seemed good to her, and full of the warmth and fragrance of a -home. - -John Gore took her riding with him over the winter fields, for he had -bought her a quiet saddle-horse in one of the market towns. Yet though -the days were magical for lover and beloved, there were the sterner -issues of life to be confronted, nor could they forget those clouds that -had withdrawn a little toward the horizon. Moreover, John Gore began to -feel the very material need of a replenished purse, and an insight into -the future that concerned him and his love, even unto the death. - -He laid everything before Barbara one evening as they rode homeward -toward Furze Farm, with a red, wintry glow in the west, and the hills -wrapped in bluish gloom. Riding very close to him, she listened to all -his reasonings, accepting things that went against her heart, because -she knew that he loved her, and because she felt him to be shrewd and -strong. - -“Do that which you think best, John,” she said, with an upward look into -his face; “I trust you with all that life can hold.” - -And so their nags went homeward side by side, so close that the man’s -arm was over the girl’s shoulders, and her breathing rising up to him in -the keen, clear air like a little cloud of incense. - -One morning early in December John Gore took the London road, following -the same course that he and Mr. Pepys had taken—by Battle, Lamberhurst, -Tunbridge, and Seven Oaks. Nor could he help contrasting the difference -of the ways, and the different spirit that inspired him, though the -woods were bare now, and the country gray and colorless when no sun -shone. His thoughts went back over the Sussex hills to that farm-house -with its broad black thatch, its beech-trees, and its uplands, its -brick-paved, low-beamed kitchen with the fire red even to the chimney’s -throat, and the kindly folk who moved therein. But chiefly he thought of -Barbara sitting before that winter fire, her great eyes full of the -light and dreams thereof, and her Spanish face betraying new deeps of -womanhood because of the suffering she had borne and the spirit of -beauty she had won thereby. - -John Gore put up at an inn in Southwark, meaning to keep his distance -from the precincts of St. James’s, and from that intriguing, cultured, -cruel world that had held his own father as a murderer and a paramour. -He had heard of grim things in the Spanish Provinces and the Islands, -but nothing that had brought home to him the shame of the goddess self -in passion as this tragedy in an English home had done. He could only -think of the man—his father—with pity, and a kind of revolting of the -honorable manhood in him. It was almost a subject beyond the pale of -thought; a thing rather to be realized and then—buried. - -Now John Gore was innocent of all knowledge of Oates’s Plot and of the -wild ferment the City was in, for the news of it had not trickled as yet -into the by-ways of Sussex, and he had kept to himself upon the road. -His plan was to hunt out Samuel Pepys and hear the news of the surface -of things, whether my lord was in town, and whether the Secretary would -act for him in receiving and forwarding his Yorkshire moneys. His first -visit across the water was to the Admiralty offices, and there, when he -had sent his name in, Mr. Pepys came out in person with a mightily -solemn face. He took his friend straight to a little private cabinet of -his own, locked the door, and pushed John Gore unceremoniously into a -chair. - -“Well, John, you have come here, have you, with a lighted candle to look -for sixpence in a barrel of gunpowder. Where have you been all these -weeks?” - -Mr. Pepys’s manner was the manner of a man who had some reason for being -honestly perturbed. - -“Within ten miles of the place you left me at, Sam. I have come up for -news and money.” - -Mr. Pepys looked at him steadily, yet with a species of alarmed awe. - -“News, John! Gracious God, we are shaken in our shoes with fresh news -every other day! You have heard of the Plot, of course.” - -“Plot! What plot?” - -Mr. Pepys’s silent stare expressed infinite things. He stepped forward, -tapped John Gore on the chest with his forefinger, then stepped back -again, and made him a reverence. - -“Can I bow, sir, to a gentleman who has never heard of Titus Oates? -Alack, John, I fear me I have many sad and solemn things to tell you! I -thought that you had heard everything, and that you were wintering in -the country—like a wise man. For it is not flattering at present to -bear the name of Gore.” - -He saw the sea-captain straighten suddenly in his chair and look up at -him keenly. - -“What do you mean, Sam?” - -“Mean, sir? Did I not warn you that the papists were likely to burn -their fingers? And we are in the thick of such fire and fright and fury -because of them that we are all afraid to catechize our own souls. News, -my good John! The Protestants raging, informers making Ananias seem a -simpleton, Catholic peers in the Tower, hundreds in jail, Coleman the -Jesuit tried and executed, a warrant out against your father, who has -taken to his heels and fled.” - -“Good God, Sam! Where?” - -“That is what certain people would like to know, sir. I pity your -innocence, John, but we are all of us shaking in our shoes. Even the -Queen has not been pitied.” - -John Gore sat forward in his chair, his hands on his knees, his eyes -looking into the distance. He was silent a moment, while Mr. Pepys -fidgeted with his feet and glanced nervously at both door and window. - -“I have not seen my—Lord Gore since I left London with you, Sam.” - -“No?” - -“I have heard nothing of all this. What is more, I have had matters of -my own.” - -Mr. Pepys stroked his chin. - -“There is yet another piece of news, John.” - -“Well?” - -“Concerning the Purcells.” - -The sea-captain looked at him sharply. - -“What?” - -“Anne Purcell died of the small-pox a month ago.” - -“Anne Purcell!” - -“Yes; it would have been the talk of the town but for this furious -belcher of accusations, even the man Oates.” - -John Gore looked at him in silence. - -“She was found dead in her bed in her house in Pall Mall. All the -servants had fled, and the house had been rifled. But there also appears -to be a mystery about the daughter. The lawyers have discovered that she -was put away in the autumn for being of unsound mind; and now that all -the property seems to have fallen to her, not a living soul knows what -has become of the girl.” - -The sea-captain smiled very slightly, with a grim light in the eyes. - -“Who has the control of the matter?” he asked. - -“It has fallen into Chancery.” - -“Like the traveller to Jericho, Sam, in the parable. How long is it -since my Lord Stephen hoisted sail?” - -“Somewhere about a month ago—before I returned from Portsmouth.” - -“Did Anne Purcell die before then?” - -“Heaven help me if I know, John. But what has that to do with the case?” - -“More than you know, my friend—more than you may suspect.” - -He had the air of a man who was troubled and perplexed by many -difficulties. - -“Sam, I want your help and advice. I can trust you.” - -Mr. Pepys made him a little bow. - -“Where are you staying, John?” - -“In Southwark. I had my reasons. Can you give me supper to-night, and an -hour’s private talk? I have many things to turn over in my mind before -then.” - -The Secretary laid a hand upon John Gore’s shoulder. - -“A friend’s trust is a friend’s affection, John. Come and sup with me; -what I can do I will.” - -The Secretary’s wife was feasting with friends that night, and Mr. Pepys -and John Gore had the table to themselves. When supper was over, Mr. -Samuel took the sea-captain to the library, locked the door, and -prepared to play the part of counsellor and friend. For Mr. Pepys was a -shrewd, sound man of the world, for all his oddities and love of news—a -man who had walked the slippery path of public responsibility, and who -knew the world’s deceitfulness, even to the latest lie from the lips of -a king. - -But even this critic of court scandals, and of the vanities of himself -and of mankind at large, was flustered a little by John Gore’s account -of his doings, and of the tragedy that had taken place at Thorn. Mr. -Pepys could pass over a gay intrigue, but this darker and more sinister -affair gripped the manhood in him, and made him understand his friend’s -grimness. - -“On the Cross of our Lord, Sam, I pledge you to silence over this. I -know you are to be trusted where questions of life and death are -concerned.” - -There was no need to question the intenseness of the Secretary’s -sincerity. He was a man of oak whose foibles and frivolities were merely -the flutter of leaves in the wind. - -“Have no doubt of that, John. But upon my conscience, this is black -villany or something marvellous like it. Iago, oh Iago, thou dinest with -us and smilest at us in church, thou art not only a thing of the stage!” - -John Gore sat thinking, smoking his pipe, and snapping the thumb and -middle finger of his right hand. - -“It is the girl who has to be considered, Sam. She has borne enough, -suffered enough, and from my own flesh and blood; that’s where the rub -comes.” - -Mr. Pepys sat and considered. - -“The Chancery folk are such a dastardly meddlesome lot,” he said. - -“I am not afraid of the lawyers, Sam; we can take our chances over the -sea, if needs be. But there is this man—this father—to be considered. -And, by my hope in Heaven, I will kill him as he killed Lionel Purcell -if he meddles further with the girl’s life!” - -Mr. Pepys looked a little shocked despite his sympathy. He had been a -good son himself, and the word “father” had its true meaning for him. - -“Softly, John, softly. There is always the other side of the case; we -cannot always see into another man’s heart.” - -John Gore stared at the floor grimly. - -“What I have said, Sam, I have said; even one’s father is not privileged -to seduce and murder as he pleases. I shall put my sword to his breast -and say: ‘Sir, no further.’ He has his life in his hand.” - -Mr. Pepys looked at him kindly. - -“Have you not thought, John, that it may rest with the girl?” - -“With her—how?” - -“If she chooses not to speak, to play a part.” - -John Gore met his friend’s eyes. - -“Why should this—this man be shielded? There is blood upon his hands; -he has stained the lives of others. Who shall consider him?” - -“John, John, you talk like a man who stabs fiercely at a shadow. No man -is wholly the devil’s creature, and, say what you will, his loins begot -you.” - -“The greater the need, Sam, to put aside false sentiment. Still, he is -out of our ken at present. We must bide our time—and watch.” - -Mr. Pepys rubbed his knees with the palms of his hands. - -“Do you know what I would have you do, John? Go back to this quiet farm; -let the child come by her health and happiness. Keep the lawyers out of -it, and marry her, if you can.” - -“You are echoing my own thoughts, Sam.” - -“Good; very good. See what a seal, my friend, you might set upon the -past, if God granted you children and happiness, and the long love of -wife and man.” - -John Gore understood his meaning. - -“The blood-debt might be wiped away, Sam, for the sake of the future.” - -“God grant it. And now, John, you will want money.” - -“Money! How do you know that?” - -“John, my man, when I was in love I was always poor. I know how Dan -Cupid picks a man’s pocket. Besides, money is above the law, John, and -at a pinch you might find it useful.” - -“I have money enough; it needs handling, that is all. There is all my -property in Yorkshire.” - -“Give me a written authority, John, and I will act for you.” - -“Sam, you are a friend.” - -“I am a man of business, sir. I can receive and hand on rentals, can I -not? And as for the present need, I always keep money in my house. Take -what you want; the security is good enough.” - -John Gore began to thank him, but Mr. Pepys rose up from his chair and -put his two hands on his friend’s shoulders. - -“Man John, there may be two or three souls in the wide world whom a man -may love without prejudice and without disaster. The friends of a life -are few, John, and we find them without forethought. Men come to me for -favors, scores of them in the year; most of them are sycophants, rogues, -hypocrites; I know it, and there is no deep pleasure in what I do. But -there are some men, John, to whom the heart goes out in the game of -life. To be a friend to a friend comes not so very often. A man who has -seen life will swear to that.” - - - - - XLIV - - -Rain was falling and the wind beating about the chimneys of Furze Farm -as the daylight waned toward a gray night like a fog coming up from the -sea. Barbara and Mrs. Jennifer were sitting before the kitchen fire, the -girl watching the sparks fly upward, the woman’s brown hands busy with -thread and needle. Gusts of wind came down the chimney, making the -wood-ash shimmer at red heat, even blowing flakes of fire out on to the -bricks. Now and again the drippings of the rain fell on the red mass, -rousing the fire to spit like an angry cat. - -Chris Jennifer’s wife, looking up from time to time at her “little -lady,” could see that Barbara was listening for something beyond the -mere roar of the wind in the chimney and the swish of the beech boughs -in the gathering dusk. The pupils of her eyes would grow large of a -sudden, and she would lift her chin and keep her bosom from breathing, -as though she heard some sound far away in the coming night. Mrs. Winnie -knew well what was passing in the girl’s heart. Nearly a week had gone -since John Gore had ridden for London, and her thoughts were out on the -wet road, wondering whether he were facing the wind and rain. - -“I be thinking, my little lady”—and Mrs. Jennifer gave a tug to the -gown she was making—“I be thinking that a bunch of red ribbon would -look just fair for a shoulder-knot to yon scarf. My man Christopher has -a liking for red in the winter, it being the color of the berries, he -says, and warm and comely when there be snow about.” - -Barbara only woke to the sense of Mrs. Winnie’s words when the good -woman had come to the middle of her statement. - -“Is that why they wear red stockings so much in the country, Mrs. -Winnie?” - -“Lor’, my dear, what a fancy! If I thought that about Christopher, I’d -be talking to him with a broomstick. Red stockings for a man to stare at -on market-day! No, my lady, red be a warm and comfortable color, like -holly berries, and that shoulder-knot would just be a touch to t’ -green.” - -Barbara listened to the wind. - -“How heavy the roads must be!” she said. - -“Honest mud never harmed nobody, my dear. Lord bless you, we don’t think -anything of mud in Sussex.” - -“Are the roads dangerous at night?” - -“And what may you mean by dangerous, my lady?” - -“Footpads and rough men.” - -“London way there be them kind of creatures. Puddles and ruts be our -great trouble, and the mud-holes when the ways be rotten. A horse may -break his leg in one of ’em; but there, God’s providence be powerfuller -nor mud-holes.” - -She went on with her stitching, watching a red slipper tapping a little -restlessly on the brick curb about the hearth, as though beating out the -furlongs and the miles. Dusk was falling rapidly, and though the fire -was bright, Mrs. Winnie was thinking of lighting the candles when the -red slipper ceased its tapping, and the figure before her remained -motionless and alert. - -“I can hear a horse, Mrs. Winnie.” - -Mrs. Jennifer listened. - -“It be a loose bough of the old plum-tree clapping against the wall.” - -“I am sure it is a horse.” - -She rose up and went to the window, and leaned her elbows on the sill. -Mrs. Jennifer gave a nod of the head, as though assuring herself that -youth must have its way. She knew every sound in and about the house -when the wind blew from over the sea. - -“I will put a candle in the window, Mrs. Winnie.” - -She went and took one from the shelf, lit it, and put it upon the sill. -And she was returning again toward the fire when she paused and stood -listening, her head held a little to one side. - -“There, do you hear it?” - -Mrs. Winnie stopped her stitching and listened. This time she did hear -something beyond the clapping of a bough against the wall. - -“Why, yes, little lady.” - -“Listen, there is the farm gate.” - -She turned quickly toward the door, opened it, and stood looking out -into the dusk. - -Mrs. Winnie put her work aside, gave a glance through the window, smiled -to herself, and then discovered that she had business in the dairy. In -the dusk she had seen a man dismounting from a horse, and her husband -plodding across the yard to welcome the traveller and take his nag to -the stable. Mrs. Winnie was a woman of tact. She caught son William -sneaking in by the back door, and took him with her to inspect the -milk-pans. - -Barbara stood framed in the doorway with a warm light playing about her, -and the brown wainscoting, the great beams in the ceiling, and the red -bricks for a background. Yet the impulse of the moment failed in her, -and a shy panic took its place, so that she went and stood before the -fire and turned her head away so as not to see his coming. For there was -something in the intense truth that almost made her afraid, and she -might have fled away to her room but for the thought that he had seen -her at the door and might not understand the whim of a woman. - -She heard his footsteps on the path, and when she looked he was on the -threshold, wet and travel-stained, but with eyes that were very bright. -He came and took her hands, but stood a little apart because of his wet -clothes, and also because there was a sense of awe between them. His -eyes searched her face to see whether there were any shadow of pain or -sadness thereon. And now that he was so near to her, her shyness and her -confusion fled, and simple love alone had utterance. - -“John, how wet you are! Come to the fire, and let me dry your coat. I -had a feeling that you would come to-night.” - -She led him to the fire; yet though the initiative was hers, she went -with his arm about her waist. - -“You are looking wondrous well, Barbe!” - -“Am I?” And she colored, and hid her eyes from him a moment. “I am glad, -very glad, to have you back, John. I was afraid, with this rough -weather, and the roads so bad, and you riding alone.” - -“And yet I was not alone,” he said, touching her hair reverently. “I -shall never be alone again, pray God.” - -“Yes, dear, I understand.” And she put her face up for him to kiss her, -her eyelids closed and the lashes shading her cheeks. - -Then she made him sit down in the chair before the fire, and, fetching -the rough towel that hung on one of the doors, she rubbed his coat while -he sat patiently and tried not to look amused. For there was something -infinitely quaint and sweet in this ministration to a man who had seen -the wild world in its cups and in its quarrels. He caught the two hands -and kissed them, and looked up into eyes that were full of a mysterious -tremor of light. - -“Do you know, child, what you bring into my mind?” - -“No, John.” - -“All the rough, blasphemous, accursed things that a man must see in this -world, whether he wills it or not. They come to me, dear, as so many -black memories, and I lift up these white hands—so—and I see what is -clean and what is pure.” - -She looked at him an instant, and then fell on her knees beside the -chair and hid her face upon his shoulder. - -“John, you forget; you make me ashamed when you speak thus; we women are -not angels; we are quick, selfish, passionate things, though we may be -unselfish when we love.” - -“Dear, I forget nothing of that,” he said. “Do you think that I would -choose to love a saint?” - -“I am nothing of a saint, John.” - -“Thank God,” said he. - -John Gore told her nothing that night of her mother’s death, for the -evening in that great warm kitchen seemed too goodly and dear a time to -be marred by evil tidings. Perhaps self had some weight, too, with him -that night, for it was a delight to watch the warm blood mantling under -the soft skin, the radiance of her eyes, and the way she would look at -him suddenly and color. John Gore’s eyes could not leave her that -evening as they sat round the fire with Mrs. Winnie busy at her -stitching, and Mr. Christopher smoking his pipe and trying to pretend -that he was half asleep. - -The eyes of the day were empty of tears on the morrow, the world full of -winter sunlight, the sky all blue, the woods all purple and gray. John -Gore borrowed Mr. Jennifer’s nag, for his own beast needed a rest, and, -saddling Barbara’s horse, he took her out with him for a canter along -the grass track that wound past Furze Farm and onward into the vague -lands. It was a grass track that might have come down from old Celtic -times, before the Romans spaced out their Itineraries, a highway that -had run south of the great weald that stretched from the marshes of -Portus Lemanis to the plains of Gwent. - -John Gore waited till they were on the homeward road and not a mile from -the farm before telling her of Anne Purcell’s death. They were riding -along the ridge of a hill, with Beechy Head a great blue shadow far -away, and the silver bow of the sea bent against the land. Barbara rode -on beside him, with the light gone suddenly from her eyes, and a shocked -silence making her mute. Her mother had borne and bred her, little more; -she had even been ready to sacrifice the child to save her paramour and -herself; and yet Barbara felt a great pity for that poor, gay woman who -would paint her cheeks no more, nor ogle herself in the glass to see how -her eyes beckoned. Barbara’s heart had changed greatly those months. She -had a wider consciousness, more sympathy, more insight. It had become -easier to pity than to hate. - -John Gore saw that she was weeping the tears of compassion and of regret -rather than the tears of passion. And he let her weep, pushing his horse -a little ahead of hers to give her privacy, for there are times in life -when every soul must meet its intimate thoughts alone. - -They were within view of the farm when he heard her call to him, and her -voice was very gentle, as though there were no malice and anger left in -her. - -“Death brings things home to the heart, John,” she said, softly; “it is -like a great silence that compels one to think.” - -He looked at her very dearly. - -“My life, what can I say to you?” - -“Tell me; John, that I was fierce and revengeful, and it would be the -truth. Who are we that we should judge? One cannot gauge another’s -temptations. She may have suffered while I was blind to it.” - -John Gore reached for her bridle, and they rode the last furlong side by -side. And compassion for the dead seemed to hallow the love in their -hearts. - -John Gore had said little concerning his father, save the news of the -Popish Plot, and my lord’s flight with many others who were concerned. -He was believed to have found refuge in France, and yet at Thorn, not -five miles from Furze Farm, a miserable, maimed thing dragged itself to -and fro like an animal that has been crushed in the jaws of a steel -trap. - -A long splint, sand-bags, and six weeks in bed—such should have been -Stephen Gore’s portion; but when a man with a broken thigh is alone in a -ruin he must either crawl or starve by inches. Destiny had hipped him, -and Necessity had him at her mercy. It was with labor and a sweat of -anguish that he went like a worm upon his belly, for the belly hungered -and tortured him with thirst, and the worm still wriggled with a blind -instinct toward life. - -December was cold and raw at Thorn, but there was no fire, and the man -lay on the stone floor with nothing under him but the cover and the -padding that he had torn from the couch. There was no drink either in -the kitchen of Thorn, and the quenching of his thirst became an ordeal -that made his flesh quiver. Once a day a miserable, unwashen figure -would go crawling across the court-yard to where the pump stood in a -corner. The face of the thing that crawled resembled the face of a -swimmer who feels a limb seized by the jaws of a shark. Slowly, with -infinite carefulness, and a tremor of the whole body, he would prop -himself against the wall, reach for the pump-handle, and trickle the -water into the leather bottle that he had dragged after him by a strip -of linen. Then he would crawl back again, agonized, cursing the pain of -those grinding splinters as the leg came over the stones, the toe -catching in the grass and weeds. Sometimes the water in the bottle would -last him more than one day, for he husbanded it like a miser, knowing -that each drop meant the sweat of his very blood. The food was an easier -matter, for he had only to drag himself to the hole in the floor. But -from the cold there was no escape. It froze into heart and marrow at -midnight, keeping sleep from him, even making him weep like an idiot -child. - -What a change, too, on the surface of things! Hands grimed, nails black, -a stubble of gray hair over the jowl, holes in the cloth over knees and -elbows, the dirt of the court-yard upon his linen. A squalor about his -bed on the stones such as is found in foul jails. - -Even the lust for life, such life, would flicker out in him at times, -and he would take his sword as he lay with the broken bone galling him -like hot grit in the flesh, and run his fingers along the blade, and -look at it, and consider. More than once he bared his breast and set the -point of the sword over his heart, feeling for a gap between the ribs so -that the steel should make no error. But the cold pricking of the point -against the skin seemed to frighten even the despair and weariness in -him, and he would lay the sword aside, cover his chest again, and stare -at the beams in the ceiling. He had the blind lust to live, but not the -blind courage to die. For even life in its most squalid misery may seem -better, kinder than the black, unfathomable unknown. - - - - - XLV - - -Though all the gay stuffs, the reds and the greens and the rich -brocades, were put aside for a season, and though Barbara wore a plain -black gown that Mrs. Winnie bought of Mr. Bannister at Battle, they made -ready for Christmas at Furze Farm in country fashion, with a great -abundance of food and liquor, with a yule-log the size of a tub, and -holly boughs gathered out of the woods. Mrs. Winnie would have quieted -the day out of curtesy to her “little lady,” but Barbara would have none -of their pleasure spoiled because she wore a black gown for her mother. -To cheat the living of their good cheer would not comfort the sleeping -dead, and the very kitchen seemed warming itself for the wassail-bowl, -and the beef and the pies, and the women with their ribbons. - -Now, Barbara had no money and a great deal of pride despite her love, so -that John Gore, who knew how matters stood with her, had to resort to a -lover’s stratagem to fill her purse. He told her a solemn tale of how -the lord chancellor managed the affairs of the nation, and how she was -her father’s heiress, though the estates were in the lawyers’ hands till -the time came for her to step forward and prove herself a very comely -young woman without a mad whim in her head, save that whim of loving a -sailor. He also related that a very good friend of his had certain -matters in hand, and was likely to receive on her behalf certain moneys -that had been found in the house in Pall Mall. That money might come to -her any day by private messenger, and so it did, though delivered to -John Gore, and greatly to the girl’s secret delight, for she knew -nothing of law, and, believing the lover’s invention, guessed not that -the money was his. - -Yet here John Gore wellnigh landed himself in a dilemma. She began to -plead that she owed him money for all the things he had bought at -Battle, nor could he silence her for a long while, and then only by -pretending to be a little hurt. Whereat she dropped the money as though -it had burned her, and went to him and asked his pardon. - -The gold pieces had rolled hither and thither over the kitchen floor, -and they gathered them and counted them into little piles. Barbara’s -eyes had begun to dance with a multitude of generous desires, and she -was already planning how to spend it. - -“I must go a-shopping, John,” she said, “for Christmas. If we could only -borrow Mr. Jennifer’s wagon.” - -“A wagon, sweetheart! Do you want to empty all the shops in the town?” - -“No, dear; but I feel that I cannot give enough to these good people -here. It has been a home, and a very dear home, John; I shall not forget -it to the day of my death.” - -Now, John Gore talked privately to Mr. Jennifer, and Mr. Jennifer took -counsel privately of his wife, and the result of all this talking was -that Christopher prepared for a day’s jaunt into the county town of -Lewes. He cleaned up his wagon, put straw and bracken in the bottom -thereof, tied his horses’ manes with ribbons, and put out his Sabbath -best. One of his men and his wife came into Furze Farm for the day, -while the household went a-wagoning to Lewes, starting two hours before -dawn because the roads were heavy and the days short. Barbara, Mrs. -Winnie, and son William rode in the wagon, and John Gore on his horse, -while sturdy Kit marched beside his cattle, his whip over his shoulder, -and a sprig of holly in his hat. - -Barbara had a radiant face and but little money left by noon that day in -Lewes, for even if the heart has cause for sadness there is joy in -giving others joy. She seemed incarnate womanhood that Christmas-tide, -taking a delight in all the little mysteries and mummeries of the season -and in the revels that were held. John Gore had bought all manner of -merchandise: a new gun for Mr. Christopher; a great family Bible for the -wife; toys, sweetmeats, and oranges for son William and the laborers’ -children; a beautiful chain of amethysts for his love. There was much -giving and receiving that Christmas-tide at Furze Farm. The three -laborers came with their wives and youngsters to the state dinner in the -kitchen. Mr. Jennifer brewed punch, got a flushed face, and talked more -than he had talked for a whole year. Little Will nearly fell into the -fire while roasting chestnuts. John Gore played with the Sussex children -till Mrs. Winnie exclaimed at “the gentleman’s good-nature.” Pipes were -smoked in the ingle-nooks. The three countrywomen tried their best -manners, and stared hard yet kindly at “the lady” about whom there was a -mystery that had set their tongues a-clacking. Yet a woman who is sweet -to other women’s children wins a way into the hearts of mothers. “A -gracious lady, surely,” they whispered to one another, and thought the -better of her because she touched their children’s lips. And when -ribbons and blankets and good woollen stuffs came to them from her -hands, they may have regretted the disobedience of Mrs. Winnie’s orders -as to the minding of their own business, for Mrs. Jennifer had forbidden -them to gossip about the “quality biding at Furze Farm.” Yet gossip had -gone abroad, for all Mrs. Winnie’s caution, and even the lazy parson -knew that there were strangers in his parish. - -With Christmas fare and festivity questions of the past, and St. Stephen -claiming his day in the calendar, Mr. Jennifer had his cart-horses out -for a gallop to sweat them well before the yearly bleeding, for it was -the custom to give horses a warming and then to bleed them on St. -Stephen’s day. Whether John Gore subscribed to the superstition or not, -he saddled his own beast early and went out alone for a canter, having -the Christmas dinner upon his conscience, and, what was more, a certain -hankering to visit Thorn. For several weeks he had intended riding over -to the place, but Barbara had been nearly always with him, and they had -taken happier and less sinister paths. He desired to see whether there -were signs of folk having been there since that November night when the -horseman whom he had taken for Captain Grylls had ridden back to inquire -after his lost packet. - -It was a still and rather misty morning with moisture dropping from the -trees, and the grass wet and boggy. The fog did not hinder him greatly, -for he had learned to pick up his landmarks at every furlong, and the -track was familiar and simple when once known. About ten of the clock he -came into the valley of thorns, and saw the dim mass of the tower -glooming amid the mist. The place seemed infinitely melancholy with the -fog about it, and the dripping thorn-trees and the black, stagnant water -that showed never a ripple. The very ivy looked wet and sodden with the -raw vapor of that December day. - -John Gore tethered his horse to one of the thorn-trees, and, finding the -gate open, much as he had left it, he crossed the court-yard where the -mist hung in the air like breath upon a mirror. He saw that the dog was -gone, but, what was more, the kennel also, and this slight detail -puzzled him a little and made him more cautious in his exploring. Going -to the kitchen entry and finding the door ajar, he stood there and -listened. The moisture was pattering down from the ivy leaves all about -the house, yet from the kitchen came a sound that could not be easily -mistaken—the regular, heavy breathing of a man in a deep sleep. - -John Gore saw that his sword was loose in its sheath, and, pushing the -door open cautiously, he passed on into the kitchen. The figure of a man -lay upon the floor with nothing between him and the stones but what -appeared to be a tatter of rags. A sword, a leather bottle, and two -mouldy biscuits lay beside him. His head was thrown back and his throat -showing, with the stubble of a beard making the jaw look gray and -slovenly. - -John Gore crossed the room softly, and recognized in that ragged, -haggard thing my Lord Gore—his father. - - * * * * * - -It was well past noon when John Gore mounted his horse again, and rode -away from the mist and shadows of Thorn, with the look of a man who had -spoken, even as Dante spoke, with some soul in the deeps of hell. He was -thinking of an old, yellow-faced man, maimed, dirty, servile, with -clothes worn into holes, and an intelligence that had flapped between -emotional contrition and paroxysms of selfish fear. This thing had been -the mighty man of manners, the serene gentleman of Whitehall and St. -James’s, whose body had smelled of ambergris and whose fine raiment had -shamed the sheen of tropical birds. Pride, vanity, even self-honor, in -the dust and dirt! A white, flaccid, furtive face that had lost all its -buxom boldness, most of its intellect—almost its very reason. - -What had they said to each other, those two? - -Murderer and adulterer; lover and son. - -Yet John Gore had filled the leather bottle for his father that morning, -lit a fire with odd wood gathered from the rotting out-houses, and -brought in an armful of musty straw to soften the sick man’s bed. - -And my lord had wept—miserable, senile tears that had no dignity and no -true passion. He had fawned on the man, his son, grovelled to him -without shame, till the son’s manhood had revolted in him, for he would -have welcomed savagery and cursing rather than moral slime. It had been -like a polluted river bringing all manner of drift to the lip of a weir. -And though he had ministered to his father, he had kept an implacable -face and a firm mouth. He had acted as a man who knew everything, and -chosen to let my lord realize that he knew it, even assuming the truth -that Barbara was dead. - - - - - XLVI - - -John Gore rode for Furze Farm with many turbulent thoughts at work in -him, and the raw mist that thickened from over the sea making the wet -woods no more comforting than the degradation he had found at Thorn. He -had been fierce at first with the man whom he called father, till my -lord’s squalid ignominy had become apparent to him, and he had realized -that he was dealing with a creature and not a man. For there had been no -sense of strength opposed to him, no pride, no will, not even savage -passion, nothing to struggle with, nothing to overcome with shame. My -lord was dead in the better sense. Those weeks in Thorn had starved and -frozen the soul out of him, and he had become half a savage, yet a -timid, fawning savage whose consciousness was bounded by elemental -things. At first there had been nothing but abhorrence and disgust for -John Gore. This cringing thing with the face of an imbecile, embracing -his own son’s knees, lying amid his own offal! What could a man say to -this shadow of a self? Where lay the promise of judgment or of appeal? -Good God! He could remember the time when he had stood in some awe of -this same man because of his fine presence and his habit of command. - -Yet as John Gore rode through the white mist the impressions and -instincts of the morning began to sift themselves and to piece up a -broader, saner picture. Incidents, acts, details started forward or -receded into clearer, truer perspective. The offensive flavor of the -thing began to prejudice him less. He tried to see the whole untarnished -truth with the sincerity of a man who is not content with mere -impressions. - -Perhaps what he saw was this: a man bred in luxury, a bon-vivant, a -lover of pleasure, thrown down, broken into a species of dark pit where -the mere physical miseries of existence would bring him near to death in -body and mind. Pain, sleeplessness, cold, hunger, are grim inquisitors -fit to break a man on the rack and tear the very senses from him. John -Gore had looked into the hole where his father had kept his food, and -had seen meat going putrid and biscuits covered with mould. He -remembered, too, very vividly an incident in the Indies when he and his -ship’s company had found a man who had been marooned on an island that -was little better than a reef. The man was a Norman, and his sojourn -there had been but a matter of days. Yet he was skull-faced, parched, -abject, and as mad as an idiot child. He had run from them, screaming, -when they landed, though his legs had given under him before he had gone -fifty yards. And he had died on board John Gore’s ship, and they had -buried him at sea, and often afterward at night the sea-captain had -fancied that he still heard the man’s wild cry: “J’ai soif, mon Dieu! -mon Dieu, j’ai soif!” - -Now Stephen Gore had been a proud man, and a man of sentiment after his -own ideals. He had had other things to torture and humiliate him besides -anguish in the flesh. Proportionately as a man’s physical strength -wanes, so the menace of spiritual suffering grows the more quick and -poignant. This man had spilled blood and betrayed friends. A well-fed -cynic might have put such things under his feet and trampled them. It -would be otherwise with a half-starved, memory-haunted, isolated being -shivering the nights through, listening and ever listening, while the -solitude hung like an eternal silence, and the slightest movement of the -body set bone grating against bone. Who could shrug his shoulders -through such an ordeal and come forth smiling with an epigram? Would not -the very intellect curse itself and die by its own hand? Innocent blood; -the betrayal of honor and of friends; lies, inevitable self-salvation. -These thoughts would grip such a man, throttle him, spit at his very -soul. They would not be conjured or persuaded. They would be awake with -him through the winter nights; scoff when some spasm of pain made him -curse and set his teeth; watch him with cold eyes when the light of the -dawn came in. The same miserable dragging of the days, the same -miserable passion-play of the crucified soul. Where would a man’s -manhood be at the end of such a chastisement? - -The glow of the winter fires reddened the windows of Furze Farm as the -shadow of the house loomed up through the mist. The orchard hedge was -dripping with dew, the grass gray and sodden, the beech-trees like -phantom trees, the coming of the dusk mournful and full of a heavy -silence. Yet the windows of the house, with their lozenged latticing -outlined by the fire, sent John Gore’s thoughts back with a sudden -shiver of pity to dreary, ruinous, fog-choked Thorn. He dismounted -heavily, and leading his horse to the stable left him to Mr. Jennifer, -who was sitting astride a rough bench mending harness by the light of a -candle. - -In the kitchen Barbara came out to welcome him, with just the faintest -glimmer of shyness that made her love the more desirable. Mrs. Winnie -was above, turning out her linen cupboard, little Will in the wood-lodge -cutting firewood with the hand-bill—a thing he had been solemnly -forbidden to do. Barbara and John had both kitchen and parlor to -themselves. No candles had been lit in the house as yet, but the burning -logs threw a rich light upon the wainscoting. - -“You have had a long ride, John.” - -He hung his cloak on a chair and took her hands, her pale face with its -new ripeness of color seeming to bring to him freshness and perfume -after these abhorrent hours at Thorn. Yet his heart was stern and -troubled in him because of the man, his father; nor could even his -love’s eyes flash a complete smile into his. - -“They will be pleased with this fog at sea,” he said. “I can fancy that -I hear the bells ringing. What have you been doing all day, little -woman?” - -She looked at him with questioning intentness. Rarely can a man hide -care from the world—very rarely, indeed, from the eyes of the woman who -loves him. - -“Mrs. Winnie has been teaching me to make button-holes, John. Will and I -went out after dinner, and were nearly lost in the fog. You look tired.” - -He had dropped her hands, but he caught them again with the impulsive -frankness of a man who knows himself to be but a poor dissembler. - -“I am tired, Barbe—heart-tired; I cannot pretend that I am not.” - -“John!” - -Her voice had a touch of appeal in it. - -“This morning I went out innocently enough, child; but I have returned -with more than I foreshadowed.” - -“Where have you been, John?” - -“To Thorn.” - -“Thorn!” - -“Yes.” - -She hung back a little from him, reading the forethought and trouble in -his eyes, and the tired yet generous calm of a man thinking of others -rather than himself. - -“You are troubled, John. Tell me.” - -He looked down at her reflectively, and his eyes seemed to say: “Shall I -or shall I not?” Womanwise, she appeared to understand. - -“You are afraid for my sake, John.” - -“A little.” - -“Is it because you cannot trust me?” - -Her eyes held his, and for once it was as though she had the greater -power of will. - -“No. Because I wish worry and care away.” - -“John, do you think I shall leave all the burden of life to your -shoulders? Are we so little to each other? Am I so selfish?” - -She felt his hands tighten on hers. - -“Barbe, I have found my father.” - -“At Thorn?” - -“Yes.” - -She shuddered slightly, despite herself, and he saw her eyes darken. - -“John, did you speak to him?” - -“Without mercy.” - -“Does he know?” - -“He thinks you dead.” - -“Why is he at Thorn?” - -“Hiding from the law because of this Plot; hiding from us, a miserable -wreck of a man, half starved, almost mad.” - -She saw his face grow haggard and stern, the lines deepening about the -mouth, his eyes staring fixedly at the fire, as though he were looking -upon a thing that revolted him. The instinct in her was one of a strong, -pure passion to be of use. He had feared for her courage, perhaps for -her magnanimity. Yet it was she who took the torch that evening, and -carried it so that the darkness seemed less dark. - -“John, my heart, tell me everything.” - -She drew him by the hands into the inner room, and shut the world out, -save that world at Thorn. He looked down at her, as though wondering at -the will in her, and feeling a strength and courage near him that might -have the power of turning destiny into providence. She was calm yet -infinitely vital, and her face had a radiance that drove scorn and -bitterness and malice into the dark. He beheld a transfiguration—love -bending toward love, beautiful with the beauty of sacrifice, pity, and -desire. - -“John, do you fear for me?” - -He opened his arms, but paused with a sudden awe of her, and, bowing -himself, touched her hands. - -“No, not now.” - -“Then tell me everything.” - -And he told her, sitting in the firelight, with his hands clasped upon -his knees. - -Silence held them awhile in thrall. Barbara was leaning against the jamb -of the chimney, one hand laid along her cheek, her eyes full of the -past. It was as though some sharp struggle were passing within her, and -for a moment her eyes had a glitter of anger. But the gleam passed from -them, and her mouth softened. - -She looked down at the man with a mystery of a smile—a smile with no -mirth in it, but full of sadness, yearning, and self-reproach. - -“John.” - -He started, almost as though he had forgotten her. - -“Do you love your father?” - -The question seemed to stagger him; he frowned at the fire. - -“Love that!” - -She rested her head upon her arm; his scorn had made the heart leap in -her. - -“I did, John, my father. And then—What misery! What greater shame!” - -“But you—” - -“John—John, what must it be to lose everything, even the love of one’s -own son? That touches me, even to the heart. Is it not strange that I -should feel that, even more than you?” - -He looked at her questioningly, mutely. She had not seen what he had -seen—cowardice, squalor, bestial fawning that was infamous in a man. -And yet her words woke a depth of feeling in him, something finer and -more delicate than his man’s nature had fashioned of itself. - -He opened his mouth to tell her more of the gross truth, but some -impulse rebuked him. He waited instinctively for her. - -Barbara had raised her head. For a moment she stared at the fire and -then turned to him with a look he would never forget. - -“John, it may help you if I tell you what is in my heart.” - -“Child!” - -“It is this, John: I can forgive—yes, I can forgive.” - -He looked at her wonderingly, and then sprang up, opening his arms. She -went to him with a low, inarticulate cry, and let him hold her to him, -while a great tremor passed through her, as though the old self were -vanishing with a last spasm of pain and bitterness. - -“Barbe, you can forgive!” - -“Yes.” - -“But it is for my sake?” - -She raised her head, and her eyes were full of tears. - -“Yes—partly; you have changed me; and yet—it is of my own will.” - -He bent, and kissed her lips. - -“Child, you make me ashamed. It is you that shall teach me. God keep -you!” - - - - - XLVII - - -For three weeks John Gore rode almost daily to Thorn, starting out -from Furze Farm toward dusk, sometimes spending the night at the ruin -and riding back with the breaking of the day. He took over food with -him, blankets, clean linen, and a keg of spirits, carrying something on -each journey, yet keeping the whole matter as secret as he might. Mrs. -Winnie and her man had to be enlightened in some measure, and they were -folk who could be trusted when once their love had been won; for Sussex -folk are often slow and surly in their likings, but they make good -friends when once they have forgiven the strangeness of an unfamiliar -face. - -Nothing had ever gone more grimly against John Gore’s nature than those -first days of ministration to the refugee at Thorn. It was a question of -will and effort, an ordeal of self-compulsion, lightened by a vague -glimmer of magnanimity that Barbara’s renunciation had inspired; for -John Gore had closed heart and hand against his father with the -determined passion of a man whose nature was strong and combative, and -none too gentle where infamy was concerned. The romantic rush of the -past months was still with him. It was not easily hindered or turned -aside into a sordid, shallow channel. Even in the flush of fighting, a -man may throw down his sword and hold out a generous hand to a beaten -enemy whose gallantry had touched his manhood. But the refugee at Thorn -had roused no generous impulses as yet. Courage respects courage, even -in a rogue; my lord seemed half an imbecile, half a coward. None of the -finer manliness seemed left in him: he was servile, unclean, furtive, -suspicious as an animal, lacking in all the grace of the nobler -feelings. It was as though the perfumes and the colors of that complex -flower, “the gentleman of fashion,” had evaporated and decayed, leaving -the raw and naked self stripped in its ugliness to the last husk. - -John Gore had made a rough splint and bound his father’s leg to it, and -contrived a bed with straw and blankets that should keep him from sores -and from the cold. A spark of my lord’s easy cynicism had flashed out -momentarily in the midst of his degradation. - -“Mending a leg to break a neck, John; you are Puritan enough for that.” - -But it was a flash in the pan. Even the polite insolence seemed dead in -him. He had caught his son’s arm and clung to it pleadingly. - -“Think better of me, John. I came here to save the girl: I swear that, -before God.” - -And then he would show great cunning behind the chatterings of dismay, -trying to worm from his son all that he knew, and also how he had come -to know it. But John Gore kept a shut mouth and the face of a flint, the -heart hard and contemptuous within him when he remembered the look in -Barbara’s eyes when she had spoken these words: “I can forgive.” Surely -there was no soul here worth forgiving. Better dead. That was the grim -judgment his heart uttered. - -Such was the first week at Thorn, with the dark rides to and fro along -the woodland roads, the mournfulness and dolor of the winter landscape, -love by the fireside, retribution amid ruins. Sometimes Barbara would -walk out a little way toward Thorn in the hope of meeting John Gore upon -the homeward ride. She could not but mark the bitterness in him, a -certain questioning look about the eyes that seemed to gaze toward some -inevitable end. The riddle would have been baffling enough even if his -heart had been in the solving of it. Granted that the past were given to -oblivion, his father was a proscribed man; there was some risk even in -shielding him; any day he might be discovered and taken. - -Nor could he tell Barbara all that he saw at Thorn. It was too sordid, -too contemptible; and yet his very reticence led her to understand. -Perhaps she had more sympathy, more vision than John Gore that winter. -She knew what Thorn could be even to one without guilt, without physical -pain, without an eternal dread, and with some one to bring food. This -man had gone down into the deeps of misery and degradation. He had been -starved and broken. That was her thought. - -Once she asked John Gore to let her see him, but he shook his head and -would not hear of it. - -“He thinks that I am dead, John,” she said. - -“Then let him think it. God! Are we to make the thing so easy?” - -“John! John!” - -His fierceness hurt her a little, seeming to wake a clash of discords in -her, as though the brazen gates of that closed tragedy were jarring wide -again. - -“John, don’t speak like that, dear.” - -His tenderness shone through the anger in him. - -“Barbe, you may forget; I cannot. When I touch your hand, when I see the -life in you, I remember.” - -The memory of that night came back, and she shuddered: the dark room, -those throttling hands, the violence and horror in the dark. She looked -at her lover and understood. - -“It is hard for you,” she said, very gently. - -For to John Gore at that time it was like pampering a man who had sought -to betray the honor of his wife. - -The old year had gone; the new was in with white hoar-frost on the grass -and the boughs each dawn, and a silvery smoke of mist melting into clear -blue mornings. January went plodding on—a heavy, toothless, torpid -month, despite the frost and the shimmer of sunlight; for January has -little of the likeness of a child; rather it appears as a gray old man -laboring in the dusk and the mists of the morning at some task that no -man sees. It is a month when gnomes work below the ground, laboring for -the mystery of beauty that is to be, touching the hidden seed with fire, -breathing into brown roots the colors of the flowers that shall come -hereafter. - -With January, Stephen Gore’s life seemed to sink to the lowest level of -lethargy. Torpor fell upon him till he was like a frost-nipped plant -with the sap congealed, the leaves shrivelled and gray. He would sleep -for hours, and even when awake lie staring at the beams in the ceiling -above him, his face blank and without intelligence. He hardly ever -spoke. Even the fever of fear left him. He asked for nothing, not even -food. John Gore thought that my lord was dying, and even picked out a -place in the garden where he would bring him when he was dead. - -Yet it was not death with Stephen Gore, but a stupor that nature had -brought upon him even as the winter fields lie inert and frost-crumbled -under the sky. Fresh food and the warmth of the bed had a narcotic -effect upon the man. The half-starved body seized greedily upon -everything and bade the mere mind sleep, and so the mind slept on for -many days, as though helping forward the old adage—“_Mens sana in -corpore sano._” For the body is but the stem of the tree of the senses, -and the sick body is often the cause of the sick mind. - -Toward the last week in January John Gore saw a slow and subtle change -in his father, a change that came like the first thrusting of growth -through the winter soil. The flabbiness melted out of the man’s face; -his eyes grew brighter and full of the intelligence of inward life. He -was still very silent, but it was the silence of growth, not the silence -of paralysis. John Gore would find his father watching him, not with the -old, furtive, cringing look, but with a kind of sadness, a mute -perplexity that betrayed the mind working behind the eyes. More than -once he had made tentative little attempts to show gratitude, always -watching his son’s face as though conscious of its imperturbable -sternness. His son’s face began to be a dial of destiny to him. He could -read the truth about himself in the younger man’s grave eyes. - -It became evident that Stephen Gore’s manhood and his self-respect were -returning to him slowly as he lay in the kitchen of Thorn. What his -thoughts were John Gore could only guess, though he was struck by the -change in his father, the indefinable refining and strengthening of the -outer and inner man, as though my lord had ceased to be the animal, and -had come again to the cognizance of higher things. They seldom spoke to -each other, these two, nor did they venture beyond the trivial needs or -happenings of the day. Both were conscious of the imminent and dark -shadow, and faltered before it, sheltering behind reticence and -procrastination. Yet John Gore would see a certain look come into his -father’s eyes, as though the man were dumb and were striving to speak. - -And the first breaking of the superficial surface of reserve was caused -by nothing more dramatic than a beard. My lord’s self-respect seemed -intimately married to bodily cleanliness and perfection in dress. Silks -and brocades and perfumes were beyond him; perhaps he would not have -asked for them even if they had been at hand. But it was with a gleam of -his old wit that he desired most humbly to be barbered, and to be -deprived of the hair that had grown at Thorn. - -John Gore accepted the incident without a smile, brought a razor with -him next day, and dutifully shaved my lord’s upper lip and chin. He had -done his barbering in silence, with the air of a man who had no care -beyond the dexterity of his fingers, when my lord laid a hand on his -son’s shoulder. - -“You would like to cut my throat, John. Cut it.” - -They looked at each other squarely in the eyes. Stephen Gore was the -first to glance away. - -“Nor should I blame you, my son.” - -And that was all that passed between them over the shaving of my lord’s -chin. - -John Gore told Barbara of the change in Stephen Gore, and she listened -with a faint smile hovering about her mouth, as though her intuition -gave her some vision of the future. - -“Be gentle with him, John,” she said. “I have heard it said that pottery -is brittle when it first comes from the furnace.” - -“Then you think the clay has been recast, child?” - -“Why should it not be so!” - -And he could only marvel at the change in her. - -So the month went, and my lord’s “grand air” began to flutter out feebly -like a faded butterfly on a sunny day in spring. Yet there was a certain -humility about him that made John Gore reflect, for his father was very -patient now, strangely so for one who had sworn at lackeys. Often the -son would catch a troubled shadow darkening the father’s face. He would -drop his eyes when they met John Gore’s, yet he watched his son almost -hungrily when the son’s back was turned. - -It was a day early in February, and John Gore sat on Simon Pinniger’s -three-legged stool before the fire, and cleaned his pistols that grew -foul quickly in the damp winter air. His father had been asleep, and the -son believed him still sleeping as he polished the barrels and scoured -the powder-pans. - -He heard a slight movement behind him, and, turning sharply, found my -lord awake and watching him with thoughtful eyes. Both men colored -slightly. John Gore turned again, and went on with his work. - -Then he heard his father speak. - -“John, how long have I been here?” - -The son considered. - -“Three months—or so,” he answered. - -My lord sighed. - -“This leg of mine is mending.” - -The son said nothing. - -“I am wondering whether it is worth the mending. A man must die some -day; though it is better that he should die like a man, not like a dog.” - -There was a minute’s silence. John Gore could hear his father’s -breathing, but he went on doggedly with the cleaning of his pistols. - -“John.” - -My lord spoke softly, almost pleadingly. - -“Yes.” - -“Will you answer me a few questions?” - -“Ask them.” - -Again there was a short pause. - -“Have you any news from Westminster?” - -“What news?” - -“The Catholics, my friends—the rest.” - -John Gore laid one pistol down and took up the other. - -“Coleman is dead,” he said, curtly. - -“Coleman! How?” - -“The scaffold.” - -He heard his father mutter indistinctly, and the words sounded like the -words of a Latin prayer. - -“And the rest?” - -“Some with Coleman, some in the Tower and the jails, some scattered. -London has been calling for blood.” - -My lord lay very still. Then he turned slightly, and his eyes were on -his son. - -“And in Pall Mall?” - -“My Lady Purcell?” - -“Yes.” - -“She died three months ago.” - -There was another and a longer pause. - -“John.” And he spoke with effort. - -“Yes.” - -“Why did you save me from dying?” - -The son frowned at the fire. - -“I do not know,” he said, at last. - -“John, you were always honest. Yet—God help me—with the irony of the -truth.” - -Stephen Gore asked no more questions, but lay staring at the beams above -him, his mouth twitching, his eyes glazed with a film of thought. He -seemed to forget the presence of his son. The great dim world of the -past, and the vast “beyond” that holds the past world in its shadows, -engrossed the life in him, and he made no sound. - -As for John Gore, his heart was full of a conflict of strong emotions. -Nor was his mouth so straight and stern when he turned and glanced at -his father over his shoulder. Yet what he beheld moved him more deeply -than any words my lord had spoken. For Stephen Gore’s eyes were wet and -blurred, and there was the glisten of tears upon his face. - -John Gore rose suddenly from before the fire, and, taking his pistols -with him, went out without a word. He was half angry and half ashamed, -for though pity had welled up like blood into his mouth, a rough and -scolding bitterness pointed to the meaner motives of mankind, and the -leer of a possible hypocrisy hardened his heart. - -He rode home toward Furze Farm, meeting a strong west wind that made the -sky move fast and the ash boughs clash in the thickets. And in the woods -north of the farm Barbara met him, where a number of old hollies threw -up a wall of dense, green gloom. - -He dismounted, and kissed her with some of the brusqueness of a man -whose eyes seem too shallow, and whose heart is too near his lips. She -let the strangeness in him pass, and they walked on side by side, the -horse following at their heels. John Gore looked at the grass road -before him, Barbara at the sky. And for nearly half a furlong they -walked on thus in silence. - -“John, you two have spoken.” - -He glanced at her sharply, as though wondering how she knew. - -“Yes.” - -“What did he say to you?” - -“Questions. He asked questions.” - -“About—” - -“His friends; about your mother.” - -“What did you tell him, John?” - -“I told him the truth.” - -“Yes; and then—” - -“What could I say to the man? Curse him, he wept!” - -She paused a moment, taking her lover’s arm, and holding him back a -little as though about to speak. The impulse changed, however, and she -walked on again with a light of infinite wisdom in her eyes. For a man’s -nature is a proud and contrary thing. She felt what was passing in John -Gore’s heart, and she was too tender and too prudent to drag it roughly -into the light of day. - - - - - XLVIII - - -My lord took his first walk in the kitchen of Thorn leaning upon John -Gore’s shoulder, the son’s arm about the father’s body. Any one who had -seen the pair would have judged them to have been the best of friends, -for the son steadied the father’s steps with the grave, patient air of -one whose care was almost a devotion. And the father, who had the look -of a man who had aged very rapidly, what with the white in his hair and -the deep lines upon his face, seemed to lean upon the son with a sense -of confidence and trust. He was wearing a new suit of plain black cloth, -with a white scarf about his throat. Some of his little gestures and -tricks of expression came to him as in the old days, save that they were -less emphatic and less characteristic of the aggressive self. - -At the third turn Stephen Gore looked at the window that was lit by the -March sunlight, and a sudden wistfulness swept into his eyes, as though -he were touched by pathetic memories. He paused, leaning his weight upon -his son, for he was feeble and easily out of breath after those weeks -upon his back. - -“I should like to go into the open air, John, and sit in the sun.” - -John Gore looked at him doubtfully. - -“You are safer here,” he said. - -My lord gave a shake of the head. - -“Are you cautious for my sake, my son? John—John, you do not understand -me yet.” - -There seemed a new atmosphere of sympathy enveloping them, for John Gore -answered his father very gently. - -“It shall be as you wish.” - -“Then put your arm under my shoulders, John—so. What a strong fellow -you are! I can just toddle like a dot of two.” - -They went out into the court-yard, Stephen Gore’s right leg dragging -stiffly. He would walk with a limp for the rest of his life, since the -limb that had been broken had been shortened by three inches in the -mending. The son carried Simon Pinniger’s three-legged stool in his left -hand. They crossed the court-yard very slowly, and passed through a -doorway into the wilderness of the garden. The green of the spring was -thrusting through a thousand buds; there was the thrill of growth in the -air, and the birds were singing. - -Close on the sunny side of a ragged box-tree that was half netted in -brambles a clump of Lent-lilies stood in bloom, swinging their golden -heads over the weeds and grass. There seemed the beauty of symbolism -about these flowers. The sunlight appeared to centre upon them, and to -burnish their golden heads with the warmth of the March day. - -My lord’s glance settled on the flowers. He paused before them with a -sudden curious smile. - -“Set the stool here, John.” - -And he sat down there, with the clump of daffodils at his feet. - -John Gore left him there awhile, and strolled on along the rank walks -where primroses glimmered from lush green glooms, and gilliflowers were -beginning to scent the air from the crumbling tops of the old brick -walls. The softness and the glamour of spring seemed everywhere. There -was no wind, hardly a cloud—nothing but the warm shimmer of the -sunlight. - -Father and son had come closer to each other those last days, not -through any sentimental outburst of the emotions, but because the father -had become once more a man, and a man whom it was even possible to -respect. “Mea culpa,” he had said, and the dignity of a simple -acceptance of guilt had given him a new impressiveness. It had been -difficult, at first, for John Gore to accept his father’s humility as a -thing born of the heart and the spirit. There was ever the sneer of -possible “play-acting” penitence, the tawdry sentimental epilogue spoken -with a hypocritical leer and a thought of the nearest brothel. John Gore -had distrusted his father, and had watched keenly for the old self to -betray itself. Yet he had still continued to behold a quiet, patient, -and sorrowful old man who seemed grateful for small services, and who -looked at him with watchful and troubled eyes. John Gore distrusted any -religious display in such a man as my lord. And yet he came to -understand by degrees all that was passing in his father’s heart. - -He returned presently to where the elder man was seated, and found him -in an attitude of saddened thought. Stephen Gore looked up as his son -joined him, and then turned his head away so that his eyes were on the -tower of Thorn. The place itself must of necessity force the full -meaning of the past upon him. The stones spoke; the very silence of the -place had a message of its own. For my lord still believed Anne -Purcell’s child to be dead, and that thought had survived to haunt him -above all others. - -“John.” - -“Yes.” - -“I have something to say to you as between man and man.” - -The son stood back, and leaned against the trunk of an apple-tree. - -“You have given me the chance, John, to judge myself, and to discover -the truth with my own eyes. Let us have no parson’s talk—no snivelling. -As a man of the world I fought for myself, and pushed others out of the -path. I blundered immortally over my selfishness, John, and they ought -to hang me for a fool.” - -He still looked toward the tower, and John Gore guessed whither his -thoughts tended. - -“That was the damnedest thing the self in me ever rushed on, my son. And -yet I tried to alter it at the last—perhaps for my own sake, perhaps -for the mother’s. She was dying then—I have told you that; perhaps that -was why I repented. The heart of a man is a strange, elusive, -treacherous thing, even to its owner, John. Sometimes we can hardly -decide why we do the things we do.” - -He sat in silence awhile, with his head bowed down. - -“You must have hated me, my son; if you had spat upon me, I should -hardly have questioned it. Words are not life: I cannot give you back -that which I destroyed. And there is where bitterness grips the heart in -a man when he sees what manner of ruin he has made. What are regrets, -despair, protestations? Air—mere air in the brain! When once a man has -fallen into the slough, John, his struggles seem only to carry him -deeper. He may even drag others below the surface or splash foul mud -onto innocent faces. But the awe and the bitterness are in the -knowledge, John, of our own utter, miserable impotence. Things cannot be -wiped out. They last and endure against us till the crack of doom.” - -He stared at the grass and knitted his hands together. - -“I had thought of giving myself up, my son, and telling the whole truth. -But that—that cannot help the dead. And somehow I have come to shudder -at the thought of throwing shame into the grave of the one woman who -really loved me. And, John, I shall suffer more by living than by dying. -Fools do not always realize that in this world. They tie a man to a -rope, and think that they are even with him for his sins. They would -often get the greater vengeance on him if they only let him live.” - -He paused, staring straight before him, his shoulders bent. - -“Weeks ago, John, I remember, as in a dream, that I lived in a mad -horror of death. That has passed, I know not quite how. But I leave the -judgment in your hands, my son. Do with me what you please.” - -He seemed to grow very weary of a sudden, for his strength was but the -strength of a sick man, and the grim truths of life seemed heavy on him. -His son went to him, and, putting an arm about his father’s body, helped -him to his feet, and led him back to the bed in the kitchen. - -“I am not your judge, father,” he said, very gently; “there is another -one who should judge, and from whom forgiveness may have come.” - -He was thinking of Barbara, but my lord thought that he spoke of God. - -The meadows about Furze Farm were full of the bleating of lambs those -days, and the youngsters skipped and butted one another, galloping to -and fro on their ridiculous legs, while the stupid old dames baaed, each -to its own child. There had been one sick lamb that Christopher Jennifer -had brought home in his arms, and the little beast had been laid upon -hay in a basket beside the fire. There were also two cade-lambs in a pen -in the orchard, and Barbara, who had many hours to herself now that John -Gore rode almost daily to Thorn, had asked Mrs. Winnie to let her have -the tending of the two motherless ones, also the feeding of the early -chicks and the gathering of the eggs. The whole life at the farm was -fresh and quaint to her, and brisk life it was those spring days—a -cackling, bleating, lowing life, with the thrushes singing in the -beech-trees and the blackbirds in the hedgerows. The bloom on the apple -and pear trees in the orchard would soon be pink and white, and there -were daffodils nodding their heads at Furze Farm as well as in the -wilderness of Thorn. - -The evening after Stephen Gore’s confession at Thorn, John Gore took his -love away over the uplands where the furze was all a glitter of gold, -with the green slopes of the hills and the brown ploughlands making a -foreground to the distant sea. They desired to be alone that evening, to -feel the spirit of spring in them, and to watch the sun go down and the -twilight creep into the valleys. Their happiness was the greater because -others were not forgotten in the romance of their two selves. Moreover, -the glamour of the morrow had the delight of a plot in it. Mrs. Winnie -alone was suffered to taste the spice in the secret, though the duty -fell to her of sending out for clean rushes, taking down the rosemary -and bay from the beams in the pantry, and gathering flowers to spread -upon the coverlet of the bed. - -She smiled to herself very pleasantly when John Gore and the “little -lady” rode out early next morning as though for nothing more solemn than -a morning’s canter. She knew that the gentleman had smoked a pipe in the -parson’s parlor more than a month ago, and Mrs. Winnie was quite wise as -to what was in the wind. There was to be no stir made, and Chris -Jennifer’s wife rather approved of being the solitary holder of such a -secret. Her attitude was quite motherly. She spent the morning sweeping -Barbara’s room, and strewing rushes and flowers about it, and putting -posies of bay and rosemary upon the pillows. - -The pair were back at Furze Farm by dinner-time, looking mild and -innocent, even hungry, as though nothing serious had befallen. They -walked into the kitchen just as Mr. Jennifer was settling himself to -carve the meat. John Gore glanced at Mrs. Winnie, who had run forward to -kiss and embrace her “little lady.” That occurred behind Mr. Jennifer’s -back, and son William had too brisk an appetite to trouble about the -emotions of his elders. - -“Shall I give you a dump o’ fat, sir?” - -And so they sat down to dinner. - -They were half through with it when Mrs. Winnie accepted a nod from John -Gore and pushed back her chair, and picking up a wedding-favor from -under a mug on the dresser, she went to her man and held it under his -nose. - -Mr. Jennifer stared at the gilded sprigs and the ribbons very gravely. - -“I dunno as I be a widower yet,” he said, as his slow brain took in the -nature of the thing, “nor be you a widow, Winnie.” - -“Oh, you thick-head, Chris!” - -Mr. Jennifer looked at her, and then, with a sudden gleam of the eyes, -at John Gore and the lady. - -“Be that so, my dear?” - -“Surely,” said Mrs. Winnie, in a whisper. - -Then Mr. Jennifer laid a hand to his mug, rose slowly and solemnly, and -stared hard at the bride and bridegroom. - -“Ut be a pleasure—” - -He paused and reconsidered the beginning. - -“Ut be a pleasure—” - -John Gore and Barbara looked up at him smilingly, and their eyes seemed -to drive the whole art of oratory out of Mr. Jennifer’s head. He took -refuge in his mug, brandished it toward them, and set it down empty, -with emphasis. Then he looked at his wife with an affectionate grin. - -“I be powerful pleased, my dear. Seven years ago—” - -“Eight,” interposed the wife, with a shocked glance at son William. - -“Eight be ut, then—I dared ut like a man, and I’d dare ut again, please -God.” - -“Lor’, Christopher!” - -“William, keep t’ gravy off thy breeches. Mr. Gore, sir, you’ll be for -pardoning me, but t’ lady’s face be a good bargain. T’ Bible says -something of vines and fig leaves and olive branches—I dunno as I quite -knows what; but I wish ye all of ut, sir, you—and the lady.” - -So Barbara lay in her lover’s arms that night, and they heard the birds -break out with their songs at dawn. - - - - - XLIX - - -The sun was up, the birds making the air quiver, the life of the world -awake with the faint fragrance of a spring morning. Barbara, lying upon -her lover’s arm, looked with shadowy eyes at the casement that caught -the light of the glowing east. And with the first coming of -consciousness she had remembered the refugee at Thorn and the part that -they had set themselves to play that day. The “self” in them was to be -thrust aside on that first morning of their life together. - -Barbara, combing her hair at the little glass by the window, could hear -her man walking to and fro in the garden; for he had risen first, and -taken the bar down from the house door before the Jennifers were -stirring. And though he whistled the tune of a love-song, she seemed to -feel a spirit of melancholy and foreboding stealing up through the -spring morning. Nor was her own consciousness without a sense of -shadowiness and vague unrest. Bridal dawns are not always the happiest -dawns, yet it was not the love in Barbara that had suffered pain. The -destiny that she was to fulfil that day brought back a fog of -recollections that chilled the air a little and weakened the sunlight. -This was the aftermath, the second reaping and gathering of memories. - -The joy of the night had been sweet, intimate, and wrapped in the -darkness, and perhaps her heart was not ready for the daylight—and -realities. It was a sensitive and sacred hour with her, and almost she -could have desired to spend that day alone. There was so much to -realize, so much to feel, so much to foreshadow. She was no longer -herself; the sacrament had its mysteries; her maidenliness felt a little -shy of the world at first. - -She heard John Gore walking below her window, and a sudden rush of -tenderness seized on her. For the moment she felt lonely, even afraid; -for he to whom she had given everything alone could give everything in -return. The sense of surrender was quick in her. She would be utterly -alone in the world, save for this one man. Love was life. And the -wistfulness made her yearn over him as though one day the world might -take him from her. - -“John!” - -He turned and looked up at the window. - -“Halloo, little wife!” - -She leaned forward with her comb caught in a tress of her hair, knowing -not what to say to him now that she had called him. - -“What a heavy dew there has been!” - -“Yes; the grass is gray in the meadows.” - -“Is Mrs. Winnie up yet?” - -“No; we are the larks this morning.” - -She was silent a moment, looking away toward the distant hills. Her -voice had a tremor when she spoke again. - -“John!” - -“Yes!” - -“Come to me; I want you.” - -And he went up, to find her weeping. - -Man, being a creature of tougher fibre, cannot always comprehend a -woman’s moods. They may seem inexplicable to him, because her -sensitiveness can be as fine as gossamer, and hardly visible against the -coarser background of reality. Even as a man cannot always gauge the -strange, shrinking prides of a shy child, so he may blunder against the -delicate and sacred things of a woman’s soul, unless love, spiritual -love, gives him that intuition that sees beyond the carnal clay. - -“Why, Barbe—weeping!” - -He looked at her, not a little troubled, searching his own heart -guiltily, yet having no consciousness of having wounded her in any way. -The tears of a woman whom he loves have always a personal issue for a -man. They may pique him if he is vain, challenge him if he be honest. - -“Oh, it is nothing, John!” - -He did the only thing a man could do, and that was to take her face -between his two hands and kiss her. - -“Little wife, no secrets from me. Let us begin life so; we shall never -regret it.” - -She closed her eyes, and, putting her hands upon his shoulders, hung her -head a little. - -“It was foolish of me, dear. I have been so happy, and sometimes when -one has been very happy—” - -“The tears come, little wife.” - -“I have never been very happy till now, John. And just now it came into -my heart so suddenly—” - -She faltered, and he stood looking down at her as he held her in his -arms. - -“Barbara—wife, you felt lonely.” - -She darted up a look at him as though surprised that he should know. - -“How do I know, child? Because I had something of the same feeling -myself. What a pair of fond fools, eh! No, it is something deeper and -more sacred than that.” - -“Yes, John, I know. But do you think—” - -“I think a great many things, Barbe.” - -“Yes; but that I shall make you happy, that I can fill your life for -you?” - -He took her unloosed hair, and put it back from off her forehead. -Perhaps he was learning the familiar truth that no being can be more -fiercely conscientious and self-critical than a good woman newly -married. Fevers of doubt and of introspection rise in her. The surrender -is so final, so utter, and the future seems so precious. - -“Barbe, we have been married not quite a day. Yes—yes—I know. It is -the sweet, brave heart in you that is blind to its own worth. Little -wife, look in my eyes and see if you see any shadows there.” - -She looked and smiled. - -“No, John.” - -“Then never look for them, dear heart. One’s imagination may create -curses. Always speak out; never think in. If I ever hurt you—yet God -forbid—tell me so; that can be mended.” - -She felt for his hands and held them. - -“I will try always not to think of myself, John.” - -“Then you will be a very foolish woman, dear, and I shall have to do the -thinking for you.” - -“And you will take me to Thorn to-day?” - -He looked at her gravely. - -“You wish that?” - -“I wish it.” - -It was still early when John Gore brought the horses to the gate after -breakfast and lifted Barbara into her saddle. She wore a plain black -riding-habit that morning, a black beaver with a black plume curled -round the brim, and a collar of white lace about her throat. The life at -Furze Farm had tinted her skin with a brown, pearly haze. She was never -a girl for much color, but her lips were red and generous, and her -figure more rich in womanliness than of yore. - -The shy, introspective mood of the early morning had passed. Hill and -valley bathed in sunlight, the freshness of the woods, the movement, the -sympathy between heart and heart, brought back that happier courage that -is the true boast of health. For it is the brave, clear-eyed woman who -holds the love of a man in this world. Melancholy and helplessness may -please the lover; they do not often hold the husband. Man needs a mate -who can spread her wings with him, whose eyes look trustfully, who has -no trick of selfish tears. And John Gore, riding beside his wife that -morning, felt glad and strong and sure because of her, for generosity -counts with a man almost before all other virtues. Let a woman be pure -and generous, and she will never lack the reverence of men. - -When they came to the valley of thorns that morning John Gore drew rein -in the beech thicket that he knew so well. He desired to bring Barbara -into Thorn without my lord suspecting it. - -“I will go down first,” he said; “when I am ready I will come into the -court and wave my cloak. Then, little wife, you will follow.” - -And it was agreed between them as he said. - -My lord was not in the kitchen that morning, and John Gore, seeing that -the stool was gone, guessed that his father was in the garden. Going out -into the court he waved his cloak as a sign to Barbara, and passing on -into the garden he found Stephen Gore sitting in the sunlight with his -sword across his knees. He looked younger by years than he had looked -for many weeks. His eyes had an alertness new to them, and he rose up to -meet his son with the air of an aristocrat and a man. - -“Good-morning to you, John; I am making the most of the sunlight.” - -The son looked questioningly at the father’s sword. My lord’s manner had -something final, something stately in its tranquillity. - -“I had a visitor yesterday, my son; I was glad that you were absent.” - -“A visitor? Who?” - -“One of those gentlemen, John, who walk through the world with a ladle -full of hot sulphur. He came to spy and to discover. I entertained him. -I assure you that he was mightily exalted.” - -John Gore looked grave. - -“An informer?” - -“Call the creature what you will, my son, he has scented the fox and run -him to earth. He seemed astonished at my urbanity, and sat with a hand -upon his pistol. ‘Good sir,’ said I, ‘I am tired of the country, and -yearn for the city and that noble place where so many good gentlemen are -entertained. Do me the honor of waiting on me to-morrow with a few fiery -Protestant friends; let us fix the hour at noon. I assure you that I -shall not run,’ and I believe the fellow believed me. I shall be taken -to-day, John; I am waiting for them quietly here. What does it matter! -They cannot frighten me; I am beyond that now.” - -He spoke simply yet pungently, a quiet pride giving him something of -grandeur and impressiveness. John Gore was listening for the sound of -Barbara’s coming. A clatter of hoofs from the court-yard rose on the -morning air. My lord heard it and smiled, and then held out a hand to -his son. - -“Hear them, John! I did not expect the rogues so early. Clear, my lad; I -don’t want you caught in the tangle. Get behind some of yonder bushes.” - -John Gore looked hard at his father. - -“It is not your friends yet,” he said; “wait here; this is my affair.” - -The sunlight shone on Barbara’s face as she met her husband in the -court-yard. He said but one word—“Come”—and led her by the hand into -the garden. A tangle of shrubs hid the place where Stephen Gore waited. -And thus John Gore and Barbara came upon my lord quite suddenly, and -stood before him almost like a pair of runaways returning for a father’s -pardon. - -My lord looked at Barbara and went white to the lips. His arms hung -limply. He stooped, and seemed to shrink into himself, his eyes -remaining fixed on her as though unable to look away. For the moment the -old, frightened, fawning expression came back into his eyes. Then he -gave a sudden, inarticulate cry, flung out his hands, and stood groping -almost like one struck blind. - -“John, you have deceived me!” - -He would probably have fallen had not the son sprung to him and put an -arm about his body. - -“John, you have deceived me! My God, are you against me, even at the -last!” - -“No, no; it is not that.” - -He glanced at Barbara, for Stephen Gore seemed in a kind of agony. He -trembled greatly, leaned heavily upon his son, almost clinging to him as -though stricken with the dread that he had been tricked and condemned -even at the last by the one man whose love was the one thing left to -him. - -Barbara answered her husband’s glance; her lips were quivering. This -strong man’s anguish went to her heart. - -“John, tell him—” - -“It is forgiveness.” - -“A blotting out of the past.” - -At the sound of her voice Stephen Gore recovered his courage and his -self-control. He stood back from his son, putting John Gore’s arm aside, -as though he had strength enough to stand alone. He looked at Barbara -sadly, yet with thankfulness—the look of a man whose grosser prides -were dead. - -“You are alive, child; thank God for that! The truth of this was hid -from me.” - -She would have spoken, but he held up his hands as though to beg her -patience. - -“You know everything? Does she know the whole truth, John?” - -The son nodded and turned his face away. My lord spoke on. - -“Child, I did you and yours a great wrong. I cannot justify myself; out -of my own mouth I am judged. These are the words of a man who expects to -die. Yet be it said, child, without pride of heart, that I would have -gladly ended the thing I called my life that I might wipe out all the -past.” - -There was silence between the three for several seconds. Then Barbara -looked at John Gore and he at her. - -“We have buried the past,” she said, turning to my lord. - -Stephen Gore did not move. - -“John and I are man and wife. We have put the past away from us. It is -better for us—and for the dead.” - -My lord raised his eyes slowly till they rested on Barbara’s face. He -saw nothing there but a mist of tenderness and tears. - -“Child, you say this to me?” - -She held out her hands generously. - -“Out of my heart I say it.” - -My lord bowed himself and took her hands, and when he had kissed them he -put them reverently away from him, and stood up bravely, yet with a -twitching face. John Gore had come to stand beside his wife. And the -three looked at each other and were silent. - -Then my lord spoke. - -“Children, go—and God bless you.” - -They looked at him questioningly, but he did not falter. - -“John, my son, you understand. They will come for me soon; I am ready; I -shall no longer be ashamed. Go. I would not have you near the fringe of -the slough into which these good Protestants will throw me. You have -your lives to live. It is my desire that no shadow of mine should ever -darken them again.” - -Barbara looked at her husband, for she did not understand the meaning of -what was said. My lord smiled at her and pointed toward the distance. -The authority seemed his that day. - -“John will tell you the truth. It is for your sakes that I demand this.” - -Both husband and wife faltered, but Stephen Gore’s eyes were clear and -unflinching. - -“John, if this should be the end of me, what I have is yours, unless the -rogues sequestrate it. Now go, my son, and be happy. It is my last wish, -and you will grant it me.” - -And so they left him, sadly, unwillingly, feeling like traitors leaving -a friend to death. For the man had seemed lovable, even great, at that -last moment, and yet they had felt that it would have been graceless to -question his last desire. - -Stephen Gore watched them go, following them to the court-yard, and -standing above the moat as they rode slowly away toward the woods. Under -the beech-trees they turned and looked back at Thorn, and saw him -standing there, and waved him a farewell. - -“What will it mean?” - -Barbara’s eyes asked her love that as he took her bridle and drew away -into the woods. - -“They will take him to-day,” he said; “yesterday he was discovered. -Other heads have fallen; so may his.” - -She was silent awhile, and then looked at John Gore wistfully. - -“And we are leaving him!” - -“Wife, it was his wish, his prayer, his penance. I—a man—would not -grudge it him. Can you not understand?” - -“Yes, John, I can understand.” - -And they rode back to Furze Farm sadly, knowing that it would be wiser -for them to leave the place and seek some other refuge till they saw how -the times promised. - -Before noon my lord was taken in Thorn as a Catholic and a conspirator -against the state. He met them calmly, with the fine carriage of the man -of the world, courteous and debonair, ready even with an epigram and a -smile. His face seemed strangely tranquil as he rode with his escort out -of the gate of Thorn. - -“May the sins of the fathers rest not upon the children.” - -That was the prayer that his heart uttered. - - THE END - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the original. Punctuation -and minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Mad Barbara, by Warwick Deeping - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAD BARBARA *** - -***** This file should be named 50995-0.txt or 50995-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/9/9/50995/ - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team (http://www.pgdpcanada.net) from -page images generously made available by the Internet -Archive American Libraries -(https://archive.org/details/madbarbara00deepgoog). - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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