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.