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Mad Barbara

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

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