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Mad Barbara

<div><h1>X</h1></div> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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