My Lord of Gore’s coach carried Anne Purcell and her daughter back to
Westminster, for the gathering at the house at Bushy had dispersed
prematurely, owing to sundry regrettable differences of opinion that had
arisen between the three elder women. My lord himself travelled cityward
with the Purcells, as though discountenancing Mrs. Catharine Gore, who
had been spirited by Lady Marden and her daughter away in her coach to
Kensington. For the quarrel, such as it was, had originated in Mrs.
Kate’s deafness and her utter lack of reasonable discretion, since her
loud and irritable tongue had not only set the two elder ladies by the
ears, but had driven even her stately brother to a tempestuous ruffling
of his dignity. The repartee had verged on coarseness, for Mrs.
Catharine Gore was the most exasperating person to argue with on the
face of God’s earth. Her deafness, exaggerated for the occasion, made
her impregnable both against weight of metal and sharpness of wit. And
she could retaliate in the most violent and acrid fashion, pretending
all the time that she had mistaken the rival disputant’s meaning.
Thus when my lord had persisted with some heat and an impressive
dogmatism that his sister painted her prejudices too vividly, Mrs. Kate
had seized the chance of flinging an explosive retort into the midst of
the party.
“If my Lady Purcell had said that my Lady Marden painted her face, it
was no business of her brother’s to repeat it, and that only fools made
mischief wantonly.”
And it may be imagined that a few such sweet misapplications of the
truth had ruined the tranquillity of her brother’s house.
John Gore and the two gentlemen had ridden over earlier that morning,
for the sea-captain had business at Deptford that concerned the men who
had lain with him in a Barbary prison. Nor were the three in my lord’s
coach sympathetically arranged. There were three angles to the diagram,
and though two of them may have been in geometrical agreement, the third
spoiled the symmetry of the whole human proposition. For Barbara had
never seemed more moody or distraught. She sat like a figure of Fate
with her great eyes looking into the distance, and her face blank and
impassive to any sallies from my lord. An atmosphere of dreariness and
of apathy seemed to emanate from her, an atmosphere so sluggish and
sincere that it blighted the two elders, who would have been buxom
enough if they had been alone.
The lord and the lady exchanged glances from time to time. They were
wise in their generation, nor were they ready to be displeased at the
little romance that appeared to be developing under their noses. The
girl had an eccentric way of accepting homage. Yet they understood her
to be a queer piece of morose comeliness; nor had she the habit of
simpering like other women.
Stephen Gore smiled, and looked with surreptitious shrewdness at the
mother.
“Pauvre petite!”
“La maladie des femmes.—Jean et Jeanette!”
They laughed and glanced, each of them; out of their respective windows,
not noticing the dull gleam in the girl’s dark eyes.
Meanwhile the Don John of their love prophecies had changed his nag for
a fast wherry on the Thames, and had landed at Deptford stairs before my
lord’s coach had come within sight of the towers of Westminster. Picking
his way amid the sea-lumber of the place, he hunted out a tavern known
as “The Eight Bells,” a tavern with great tipsy tables, and little
windows like blinking eyes, and rough benches along the wall.
Within, a parlor full of tobacco smoke, black beams, and copper-colored
faces that seemed to conjure up all the adventuresomeness of the wild
life of the sea. It was a corner of the world where men about a winter
fire might tell tales of treasure, of sea-fights, and all the coarse,
quaint, crudely colored romance of the Spanish seas. The mere words were
magical to a roving spirit. Pieces of eight, culverins, great rivers
with strange names, treasure-houses full of ingots of gold, the far
islands of the buccaneers. There men should tell tales of wine drunk
under tropical moons, of mulatto women in bright garments, of Indian
girls, of prize-money and the smell of powder, and the salt sweat of the
bustling seas. The whole strong perfume of that adventurous life seemed
to permeate the shadows of that low-beamed room, with Jasper of the guns
turning his hawk’s eyes from man to man, and talking of the days when
the captain should sail the ship that they had already seen and coveted.
Ha!—and Jasper’s face grew fierce and happy—they would sweep down the
Channel with sails whiter than Dover cliffs, and all their cannon
sparkling like ingots of gold! There would be pikes bristling in the
arm-racks around the masts; the hissing of the grindstone as the men
sharpened their cutlasses. Full sail past Tangier, and a “lookout” in
the foretop for any heathen devil that dared show a nose in the open
sea. Even a few piratical jests would not come amiss. Jasper had
pictured it all to his mates after they had seen and coveted Old Man
Hollis’s ship, _The Wolf_, lying at anchor in mid-stream. Just the girl
to carry the captain in her lap! They would wipe out the smell of that
Barbary prison, and set the brass boys bellowing like bulls of Bashan.
They tumbled up from the benches of “The Eight Bells” when the figure in
the red coat showed at the doorway. Jasper, old sea-wolf, with ringed
ears and a buckram skin, grinned joyfully, proud with the pride of an
old Norse pirate.
There was a chair by the rough table for John Gore. He sat down there,
while the men formed a ring round him, while Jasper of the guns said his
say.
“We have found you a ship, captain: twenty brass cannon and wings like a
sea-gull. All her tackle new as a girl’s stockings after Michaelmas.”
John Gore looked at them all a little sadly, like a man who must speak
bad news. He had picked up Jasper’s pipe, and was tracing an imaginary
pattern on the table. The sailors would have sworn that it was a
love-knot had they been able to see inside the captain’s head.
“Don’t tempt me, Jasper, my man; when you go to sea again, it won’t be
under my flag.”
Bluntly, yet with a great kindness for them that could not be hid, he
blew to the winds all Jasper’s visions of judgment. Not for a year at
least would he sail on a second voyage. The big man regarded him
sorrowfully, as though listening to the news of a Dutch victory. The
sailors looked at one another and shifted uneasily from foot to foot. A
pipe was tapped softly, even dismally, on the heel of a sea-boot. One
worthy could find no other method of expression than that of firing a
stream of tobacco juice into a pile of sawdust in a corner.
They were like so many dismasted hulks with the spirit out of them, so
many disappointed children. Jasper’s enthusiasm broke into a last flare.
“Such a little dancing devil, captain, and her guns all like new pins.
She ought to carry you, and no one else.”
The man in the red coat still drew patterns on the table.
“Look you, my men, don’t count on serving under me; I am high and dry
for a year or more. You are too tough to rot here in taverns. My
business is to see good men of mine afloat in a good ship.”
“That’s like you, captain.”
“We did not fight the _Sparhawk_ for nothing, did we? You served me
well; I mean to serve you. Will you go to sea as picked men in a King’s
ship?”
Jasper looked at his mates, first over one shoulder and then over the
other.
“That’s the next best,” he said, bluntly.
“Well, then, I’ll make it my affair.”
“I can’t keep my fingers off a gun or a rope for long, sir, that’s God’s
truth.”
“The smell of the tar sticks, lads? Mr. Pepys and the Duke, if
necessary, shall be my men. I would rather see fellows of mine in the
best ship that carries the King’s flag than rolling in some dirty ketch
between Dover and Dunkirk.”
John Gore called for a tankard of ale, and they pledged healths together
in the tavern of “The Eight Bells.” Leaving them a purse of guineas as
largesse, he returned to his boat, with Jasper and his mates acting as a
kind of state guard to the water-side.
“If God won’t have a man, the devil will! That’s an old proverb,
captain, and the King’s a better master than Old Nick.”
With some such philosophy Jasper looked lovingly on John Gore as he
stood on the water-steps and took his leave. Far down the stream the
masts of Old Man Hollis’s ship seemed to beckon them unavailingly toward
the brightness of Spanish seas.
At the Admiralty offices a plump, buxom, bustling gentleman received
John Gore with great good-will. Something of a dandy, with protuberant
eyes that appeared to have grown weak with straining at everything that
was to be seen, Mr. Pepys bundled himself gladly from the multifarious
responsibilities of office, and let loose all his heartiness in the
service of a friend. It was impossible to be jovial or to enjoy a gossip
where so many detestable quills were scratching and scolding over
parchment and paper. The dinner-table was the secretary’s inspiration.
Mrs. Pepys would be infinitely contented at the thought of an old friend
dining off the new silver plate. John Gore and the ubiquitous, but yet
lovable, busybody departed dinnerward arm in arm.
At home the fair St. Michel appeared triste and a little out of temper.
Her husband’s hospitality was often inconsistently impulsive. There are
moments, even in the best households, when the joints are scraggy, and
the puddings like country cousins, homely and out of fashion. Mr. Pepys
kissed his wife with excellent unction, let fall a hint that he had seen
a new gown at the New Exchange, and compelled the domestic sun to shine
by the sheer vitality of his good-humor.
Jack Gore praised his sherry, and frankly confessed that he had a favor
to ask. Mr. Pepys chuckled. So many people always appeared to be in like
case. His sherry was the finest sherry in the three kingdoms on such
occasions. Some of these suppliants—well, that was a purely private
affair! And he gave a confidential and deliberate wink that suggested
that he was popular.
“Most revered Jack,” quoth he, “you throw a request in a man’s face like
a twenty-pound shot into a Dutchman’s hull. There is just the polite
spark at the touch-hole to give one warning, your urbanity concerning
the sherry. None the less, I like it. Candor makes me feel quite fat.”
“You will get these fellows of mine well berthed?”
“All captains and lieutenants in three weeks! I would have you come and
see some of the scrofulous schemers who wriggle in and smirk at me—most
days of the month. They are so polite, so considerate in suggesting how
I may be made a fool and a rogue. And sea-captains, sir, seem to be the
fated husbands of pretty wives. It makes a Prometheus of me at times, I
assure you. And as for Mrs. Pepys there, somehow she always has a
sneaking preference for the mild and simple bachelors!”
The secretary’s wife stared hard at her husband’s embroidered vest. The
direction of such a glance is considered disconcerting when applied to
gentlemen who are approaching maturity.
“Sam is always a fool where women are concerned,” she said, with an
autocratic poise of the head.
“There now, sir—and I married her! How can she speak such truths? Some
more pie? Nonsense apart, Jack, I will see these men of yours well
placed.”
What with chattering on his own affairs and questioning John Gore on his
voyage, Mr. Pepys appeared to forget that there was such an incubus as
his Majesty’s business. He suggested a drive in the park. His own coach,
so he said, had eclipsed the Mancini’s, as Hortense had eclipsed the
Breton Rose. Then there was Nell to be seen in a new play at The King’s,
but he would not wink at her. Mrs. Pepys should see to that. And their
best bedroom stood empty! A man who had so much cosmopolitan gossip to
impart could not be suffered to call a link-boy that night. They could
sit out together on the “leads” after supper, and talk till the stars
blinked and they both fell a-yawning.
The end of all this amiable bustle was that John Gore slept between Mr.
Pepys’s best sheets, and spent a great part of the following day with
him, looking at his books and plate, drinking his wine, and hearing his
new maid sing one of the secretary’s old songs. For Mr. Pepys was such a
bubble of mirth, such a book of shrewd sense, such a register of
anecdotes, that his loquacity and his infinite good-fellowship made even
romance linger in its onrush for an hour.
Late shadows were floating down the river before John Gore escaped from
the secretary’s weak eyes and stalwart tongue. He had some small affairs
of his own to attend to in the City and at the New Exchange in the
Strand: some new harness at a saddler’s; stockings and shirts at a silk
mercer’s; a case of long pistols at a gunsmith’s in a street near the
New Exchange. The pistol-stocks were inlaid with ivory and
mother-of-pearl, and he left them with the smith for an hour to have his
name scrolled upon the barrels. A coffee-house and a _Gazette_ filled up
his leisure. And not being a man afraid of carrying a parcel through the
public streets, he returned to the gunsmith’s shop, and went westward
with the pistols under his arm.
He took some of the quieter ways past Charing Cross, where the city and
the fields met in scattered gardens and narrow lanes. Apple boughs,
already hung with fruit, drooped alluringly over high brick walls. Here
and there came the scent of rosemary and sage, of clove-pinks, marjoram,
and lavender. And through the bars of some iron gate you might see great
sheaves of sweet-peas in bloom, or torch-lilies stiff and quaint, or
rose-trees with the flowers falling and turning brown.
In one of these narrow lanes, with a high wall upon the one side and a
thorn-hedge upon the other, John Gore met the last soul on earth he
expected to meet at such a moment—Barbara Purcell, alone, not even
followed by a servant. However dreamily John Gore’s thoughts may have
lingered amid the stately walks of my lord’s house at Bushy, he was
surprised to see her before him in the flesh. She was dressed quietly,
with a cloak over her shoulders, and the hood turned forward to cover
her hair, so that she looked more like a shopkeeper’s daughter than a
young madam from the atmosphere of St. James’s.
There was no turning back for either of them in that narrow lane, even
if either had desired to escape a meeting. John Gore saw her flush
momentarily, with a glitter of something in the eyes wonderfully like
anger. How symbolical that hedged-in pathway seemed to her—a pathway
where fate could not be eluded, and where death followed her like a
shadow!
“I never thought to see you here!”
She looked at him darkly with her sombre eyes—eyes that made him think
of watchfulness and waiting.
“Sometimes I come here and walk in the lanes. They are quiet, and one is
not stared at.”
“You should not walk here, though, when it is getting dusk.”
“Oh, I am not afraid.”
The unfeigned earnestness of the man betrayed a depth beyond the
shallows of mere words.
“Others—may be afraid for you. These paths that seem so sweet and green
are often the night tracks of the vermin of the streets.”
Their eyes met and appeared to exchange a challenge.
“I have never been troubled here.”
“God save the chance that you ever should. We can walk back together,
now that we have met.”
She had no excuse with which to parry his grave frankness. Had life
promised another meaning she might have suffered herself to be touched
by the message that his manhood seemed to utter. And to John Gore,
walking at her side, the rose-trees that had bloomed in the quaint
gardens were budding again into crimson flame. The high hedgerows were
full of golden light, caught and held in the mysterious shadow-net of
the dusk.
Under his arm were the pistols that he had bought at the gunsmith’s shop
in the street near the New Exchange. He little thought that Barbara
Purcell had been bound for that very place, where steel barrels
glistened row by row in the oak racks against the wall. Chance, and
their meeting, had prevented her that day, and her first impulse had
been one of anger and impatience. It was not easy to slip away alone and
unobserved from the house in Pall Mall. John Gore had marred the first
endeavor. She could but pretend tolerance, and hold to that patience
that counts upon the morrow.
Yet, when he was leaving her as the dusk fell, she felt like one nearing
the grim and incredible climax of a dream. It hurt and oppressed her to
be near him, and yet there was an indefinable mystery in his nearness
that made her heart cry out against the inevitable doom of all desire.
“Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
She felt that he stood and watched her with those grave eyes of his
after she had turned from him along the footway. And the shadow of the
coming night seemed more apparent to her soul.