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Mad Barbara

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

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