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.