Читать книгу Mad Barbara - Warwick Deeping - Страница 8

Table of Contents

A ship’s boat came up the river with half a dozen brown fellows tugging at the oars, their dark skins and the patched picturesqueness of their gaudy-colored shirts giving them something of the air of a boat-load of buccaneers with gayly kerchiefed heads, ringed ears, and belts full of pistols. A man in a soiled red coat, with remnants of lace hanging to the cuffs, sat in the stern-sheets, his sword across his knees, and beside him on the gunwale squatted a boy whose cheeky sparrow’s face stared out from a tangle of crisp fair hair.

The man in the red coat looked even more brown and picturesque than the seamen at the oars. He wore no wig under his battered beaver, and his own black hair looked as though it had not been barbered for six months. His shoes had lost their buckles, and the stocking of his right leg showed a hole the size of a guinea above the heel.

“Three more strokes—and easy—lads.”

“Right, capt’n.”

“Let her run now; in with the bow sweeps.”

They had passed the Savoy, and drawn close in toward Charing Steps, with a west wind sending the water slapping against the planking. The man in the red coat held the tiller, and let the boat glide in, while the seamen shipped their oars. The boat’s nose rubbed against the stone facing of the steps, while a brown hand or two grabbed at the mooring-rings. The boy on the gunwale was the first to leap ashore.

A number of watermen lounging about the steps were staring at the boat and its crew, and exchanging opinions thereon with more candor than curtesy. The sea-captain, standing in the stern-sheets, buckled his sword to a faded baldric, callous to any criticism that might be lavished on him by the river-side sots.

“Good-luck to you, capt’n.”

“You won’t forget us, sir.”

“We’ll follow you round Cape Horn again for a fight.”

The man in the red coat looked down at the brown faces along the boat that were turned to him with a species of watchful, dog-like alertness.

“I shall have my flag flying in a month,” he said; “men sha’n’t rot down at Deptford—the devil knows that. We have our tallies to count in the South, eh, and Jasper shall have a long caronado to squint along. Good-luck to you, lads. Here’s the end of the stocking. I wish it were deeper.”

He tossed a purse to a grizzled old giant who was leaning upon his oar. The man picked it up, looked at it lovingly a moment, and then glanced over his shoulder at the men behind him.

“No dirty dog’s tricks here,” growled one.

“There’s a gold piece or two for ye,” said another, slapping his belt.

The giant stretched out a great fist with the purse in it.

“Maybe you’ll be selling the little frigate, capt’n; we can knock along—”

The man in the red coat looked him straight in the eyes.

“Damnation, Jasper, I owe you all your pay—yet. Pocket it for beer money.”

“Drink your last guinea, capt’n, not me!”

“Why, man, I can get a bagful for the asking—in an hour. And, look you all, stand by down at ‘The Eight Bells’ to-morrow. I’ll pay every man of you before noon.”

The watermen above had been listening to this dialogue with ribald cynicism.

“Holy Moses,” said one, “here’s a boat-load of saints!”

“Throw it up here, mate, we ain’t shy of the dross.”

The captain had climbed the steps, with the boy beside him. But old Jasper, standing up in the boat with his oar held like a pike, turned his sea-eagle’s face toward the gentry on the causeway.

“Squeak, ye land-rats. By God’s death, you’ve never seen the inside of a Barbary prison. If you were men you’d take your hat off to the capt’n. But being land-gaffers, you’re all mud-muck and tallow. Shove her off, mates, or I’ll be smashing some chicken’s stilts with my oar.”

The loungers jeered him valiantly as the bow sweeps churned foam, and the boat, gathering weigh, swung out into the river.

“Look at their great mouths,” said the sea-wolf, grimly; “when we want our bilge emptying we’ll send for ’em to have a drink.”

Meanwhile the man in the red coat and the boy had passed up the passage from the river in the direction of Charing Cross, the shabbiness of their raiment flattering the curiosity of the passers-by. The man in the red coat appeared wholly at his ease. As for the boy, he was ready to spread his fingers at the whole town on the very first provocation. Even the fact that he had a rent in his breeches that suffered a certain portion of his underlinen to protrude did not humble his self-satisfaction.

The sea-captain, who had been walking with his chin in the air, glanced down suddenly at the boy beside him.

“How are the ‘stores,’ Sparkin, my lad?”

“Getting low in the hold, sir.”

“We will put in and replenish.”

The boy gave a greedy twinkle.

“Hallo! I thought I told Jasper to patch you up with a piece of sail-cloth?”

Sparkin did not betray any self-conscious cowardice.

“He was worse off, captain.”

“Poor devil!” And the man in the red coat laughed.

They turned into “The Three Tuns” at Charing Cross, the sea-captain looking more like a Whitefriars’ bully than a gentleman adventurer. Two comfortable citizens gathered up the skirts of their coats and edged away sourly when the new-comers sat down next them at a table. The captain remarked their neighborly caution, and smiled.

“Good-day, gentlemen. We embarrass you, perhaps?”

There was a humorous grimness about his mouth that carried conviction.

“Not at all, sir, not at all,” said the larger of the twain, poised between propitiation and distrust.

“We are not Scotch, sir, so you will catch nothing.”

They dined in silence, the boy’s animation divided between his plate and his surroundings, while the man in the red coat watched him with the air of one who has an abundant past to feed his thoughts. His neighbors cast curious momentary glances at him from time to time, but having once spoken he appeared to have forgotten their existence. They had but to look beneath the superficial shabbiness to see that the man was of some standing in the world. He had that gift of remaining statuesquely silent, that poise that suggests power. The brown, resolute face had the comeliness of courage. Of no great stature, his sturdy, hollow-backed figure betrayed strength to those who could distinguish between fat and muscle.

The boy’s appetite reached impotence at last. The man in the red coat beckoned to the servant, paid his due with odd small change routed out of every pocket, and with a curt bow to his neighbors walked out into the street.

He made his way toward St. James’s, and paused in the street of that same name, before a big house with a pompous portico. A flight of steps led up to the great door.

“Run up—and knock.”

The boy obeyed, his breeches bringing a smile to the sea-captain’s face as he waited unconcernedly on the sidewalk.

“Don’t mind your knuckles, my lad.”

And Sparkin hammered as though he were sounding the ship’s bell.

A servant in livery opened the door and looked down at the boy with the air of a bully scenting a beggar. The man in the red coat listened to the following dialogue:

“My Lord Gore’s house, this?”

“What d’you want at the front door?”

“Lord Gore’s house?”

“Oh—is it?”

“Well, is it, stupid?”

“Here, you skip it, you—”

The sea-captain interposed with a laugh curving his mouth. There was so much significance in the fellow’s gospel of cloth.

“Wake up, Tom Richards!”

The footman’s eyes protruded. He stared down at the seaman with the air of a superior being resenting and distrusting familiarity.

“Well, what d’you want?” And his glance added, “You shabby, cutthroat-looking devil!”

The man in red ascended the steps, while the servant’s face receded inch by inch, so that he resembled a discreet dog backing sulkily into his kennel. He was about to clap the door to, when the captain pushed Sparkin bodily into the breach.

“Richards, man, have you forgotten me?”

Sparkin’s head had taken the fellow well in the stomach, and the shock may have accounted for the man’s vacant and astonished face.

“Is my lord in? Brisk up, man, and don’t judge the whole world by its coat.”

“The Lord forgive me, sir!”

“Possibly He will, Richards.”

“I didn’t know you, Mr. John, sir, you’re so brown—and—”

“Shabby, Richards; say it, and have done. Is my lord in town?”

“Oh yes, sir. Won’t you come in and dine? There is a good joint of roast, Mr. John, sir, and a barrel of oysters. My lord is at Lady Purcell’s in Pall Mall.”

“Lady Anne Purcell’s?”

“Yes, Mr. John.”

He turned and walked down the steps, the footman marvelling at his effrontery in wearing such dastardly clothes.

“Take the boy in, Richards.”

Richards and Master Sparkin regarded each other suspiciously.

“Give him a wash, and a new pair of breeches, if you can find a pair to fit.”

“Yes, Mr. John; and your baggage, sir?”

“Lies somewhere in Barbary, Richards, so you need not trouble your head about that.”

The whole episode so piqued the footman that he proceeded to lead the boy in the direction of the kitchen quarters by the ear. Whereat, Sparkin, who had already gauged the gentleman’s tonnage, fetched him a valiant kick upon the shin, and broke loose with a grin of whole-hearted scorn.

“You keep your hands to yourself, Tom Richards.”

The footman made a grab at the boy, but Sparkin was on the alert.

“Touch me, and I’ll dig my dirk into you.”

Mr. Richards reverted to that easier and safer weapon—the tongue.

“Didn’t Mr. John tell me to wash you, you little bundle of rags?”

Sparkin’s hand went to his belt.

“You touch me, and I’ll let your blood for you, Tom Richards. The Lord forgive me, sir”—and he imitated the man’s voice—“you’d be learning something if you went to sea with Captain Gore.”

“Oh, I should, should I!”

“The devil you would.”

“And you’d be teaching me, perhaps!” said the man in livery, with a sententious sniff.

“’Twouldn’t be my business. They’d send you to the cook’s galley to clean pots.”

While Sparkin was instilling obfuscated respect and caution into Tom Richards, Captain John Gore made his way to Lady Purcell’s house. The stare he met there was no more flattering than that which his father’s servant had given him. A three days’ beard, no wig, a soiled coat, and a moulting beaver were not calculated to conciliate menials.

“My Lord Gore is here?”

“What may your business be?”

He walked in over the servant’s toes.

“Tell my lord that Captain Gore is below.”

“Captain Gore, sir?”

The gentleman merely reiterated the order with a straight stare.

“Would you be pleased, sir, to walk into the garden.”

John Gore followed the fellow’s lead, amused at the caution that did not intend to offer him the chance of pocketing anything of value in the house. He was left pacing the gravel walks, with his red coat showing up against the green of the grass.

John Gore had taken two turns up and down the garden when a girl came out between the pillars of the music-room, and stood gazing at the gentleman’s broad back with the impatient air of one who has been cornered by a stranger. She drew back again, as though waiting her opportunity to cross from the portico to the house without being observed. Her chance came and she seized it, only to discover that the garden door of the house was locked.

The man in the red coat turned and came down the path again. He caught sight of the girl standing on the steps, bowed, and lifted his hat to her.

“I am afraid you are locked out,” he said.

“Oh—”

“Your man did not like the look of me, I suppose, and wisely turned the key in the lock. There seems nothing to be pocketed in the garden but a few green peaches.”

They were looking straight into each other’s eyes. Who this sturdy, shabby gentleman could be Barbara could not gather for the moment. Nor was she pleased at being left there—at his mercy.

“You have forgotten me, Mistress Barbara,” he said.

She frowned slightly.

“My father, Lord Gore, is here, I believe.”

Her eyes flashed suddenly, and she colored.

“Oh—you are—”

“The boy who pulled your ribbons off—that day—at Sheen. You may remember the incident,” and he bowed.

Barbara remembered it. There was a short pause.

“You have changed,” she said, curtly, glancing over her shoulder at the glass panel in the door.

He passed a hand critically over his chin.

“Seemingly, in the heat of adventure. My father’s man took me for a bully. I have been in England about five hours.”

They stood regarding each other in silence, the man puzzled by her swarthy, sullen face, the girl conscious of a rush of embittered memories. It was as though something out of the past had risen up before her, something ignorant and unwelcome that might blunder any moment against her sensitive reserve.

“I trust that Sir Lionel is hearty as ever?”

She seized the handle of the door and shook it.

“I wonder where that fool—Miles—”

“Pardon me, shall I shout?”

Barbara kept one shoulder turned toward him, her face, bleak and white, reflected in the glass panel of the door.

“Oh—at last!”

There was the sound of a key turning in a lock. She pushed past the man as he opened the door, leaving John Gore wondering what manner of mischief three years had made in a girl’s temper.

In the parlor, with its panelling, its massive furniture, and great fireplace filled with blue Dutch tiles, Anne Purcell and my Lord Gore had been talking for above an hour. My lord was standing at a window in his favorite attitude of philosophic stateliness. The lady’s face had an impatient sharpness of expression that hinted that the man’s sympathy had not sounded the deeps of her unrest.

“I tell you, Nan, that these—these possibilities—leave us where we stood before. The girl may be a little touched in the head. Leave her to Hortense; if she cannot tame her, well, there are other ways.”

Anne seemed less credulous—and more obstinate than he desired.

“I am not superstitious, but to think of the girl praying to those—I tell you, Stephen, the thought of it makes me afraid. Thank Heaven, she is praying—in the dark.”

“Tush—tush,” and he smiled down at her, “the girl is not quite human. We understand her, you—and I. Yet you seem to lack that diplomatic foresight, Nan, that sees in an enemy’s tricks—the very tools for one’s own hand.”

She looked up at him blankly.

“No, I foresee nothing save that—betrayal.”

“Which, if it occurred, could be turned aside as easily as I snap my fingers. There is but one person to be considered, and we must keep her fat and contented.”

“Jael?”

“Yes; the woman is greedy; that simplifies everything. To-morrow, then, you will come with me to the Mancini’s?”

“Oh—if it will help.”

“At least it can do no harm. Listen!”

They heard the footsteps of the servant climbing the stairs, and in ten seconds my Lord Gore had the first news of his seafaring and unshaven son.