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Mad Barbara

<div><h1> XXVI</h1></div> 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!” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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