



Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed
Proofreaders Canada team (http://www.pgdpcanada.net) from
page images generously made available by the Internet
Archive American Libraries
(https://archive.org/details/madbarbara00deepgoog).





[Illustration: BARBARA FELL BACK AGAINST THE WALL]




                              MAD BARBARA


                                   BY

                            WARWICK DEEPING


                               AUTHOR OF
                 “BERTRAND OF BRITTANY” “A WOMAN’S WAR”
                       “THE SLANDERERS” ETC. ETC.


                         WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY
                        CHRISTOPHER CLARK, R. I.


                          NEW YORK AND LONDON
                      HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
                                 MCMIX




                 Copyright, 1908, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
                         _All rights reserved._
                       Published February, 1909.




                              MAD BARBARA




                                   I


In the little music-house in his garden overlooking the Park of St.
James’s, Sir Lionel Purcell—Knight—lay dead, with his cloak half
thrown across his face and one hand still gripping the hilt of his
sword. The door of the music-room stood ajar, giving a glimpse of the
autumn garden, the grass silvered with heavy dew, yellow leaves flaking
it, like splashes of gold on a green shield. The curtains were drawn
across the windows, so that a few stray shafts of light alone streamed
in, giving a sense of some mystery unrevealed as yet, some riddle of
human passion waiting to be read.

The silent room seemed all shadows, save where those Rembrandtesque
strands of sunlight slanted upon the floor. And there, as though touched
by light from another world, the dead man’s forehead gleamed out above
the black folds of his cloak. His sword, a streak of silver, joined him
to the surrounding shadows, a last bond between him and the past.

Without—an autumn morning, with the clocks chiming the hour of six, and
the water-fowl calling from the decoy in the park. A golden mist
swimming in the east; the grass white with dew; the trees still
sleeping, though the yellow leaves fell slowly, softly from the silent
branches overhead. A virginal gray-eyed wonder in the eyes of the day.
Freshness and fragrance everywhere, with the spires of Westminster
striking upward into pearly haze, and the broad river catching the
sunlight that sifted through the ragged vapor.

Dawn may be the egotist’s hour of smug self-congratulation, or the
poet’s moment for praising solitude, even though like Thomson he buries
his head in a nightcap, and wallows in bed till noon. The dead man had
no one as yet to question his quietude, though there was a sense of
stirring everywhere—attic windows opening, milk frothing into jugs at
kitchen steps, carts lumbering lazily over the cobbles. The sun
ascended, the mist began to rise, the sunflowers in a row along the wall
had their broad faces made splendid by the day. A couple of thrushes
were hopping to and fro over the grass. An inquisitive robin came
perking in through the half-shut door, to stand twittering with one
black, beady eye cocked curiously at the motionless figure on the floor.
In one dark corner a harpsichord showed the ivory of its key-board with
something suggestive of a sinister smile.

Had that ingenious connoisseur of feminine beauty—Mr. Pepys—taken an
early stroll in the park that morning, he might have derived infinite
contentment from the sight of a young girl, a “comely black wench,”
standing at her open window with nothing but a red cloak to hide the
whiteness of her night-gear. She was binding her hair, her eyes gazing
over the empty park, a little table at the window beside her full of
ribbons, pins, trinkets, and laces. She was wondering whether her father
would walk early in the park that morning. She had fallen asleep before
he had returned from supping at my Lord Montague’s the night before,
though Mrs. Jael—her mother’s woman, had sat up to watch for the flare
of links along the street.

The garden looked innocent enough in the morning sunlight, with its
gravel walks, sleek grass, and quaint bay-trees trimmed into the
likeness of pinnacles. The music-room, with its diminutive classic
portico, lyre, mask, and trumpets in gilt upon the tympanum, seemed,
with its white pillars, no place where tragedy might watch and wait.

Whatever impulse drew the girl to the music-room that autumn morning,
she had caught no prophetic gleam of the thing that waited to be known.
A few steps across the grass, a moment’s surprise at finding the door
ajar, a startled pause upon the threshold. Then, the lights and shadows
of that Rembrandtesque interior burning themselves in upon the brain,
the limning of that motionless figure in lines of fire against a
background of imperishable memories.

That he was dead, a touch of the hand betrayed without one moment’s
hope. The reason of his death blazoned in gules, with a red rose over
the heart. The face set in a smile of infinite sadness. An overturned
candle with the wax spilled upon the table, a bowl of flowers broken
upon the floor. And in the left hand, held by the stiff fingers, a short
chain of gold with a knot of pearls, for a button, like a loop torn from
a man’s cloak.

It was thus that Barbara Purcell, child that she yet was, found her
father lying dead with a sword-thrust through the heart. He had been a
silent man, no courtier, a man whose life had hoped more from the quiet
corners of the world than from the pageantry of state. He had had no
enemies, so far as the child knew; yet the world might have warned her
that a man may be grudged the possession of a handsome wife. Even the
Bible might have told her that.

As for the short curb of gold with its knot of pearls, she took it from
the dead hand, and hid the thing in her bosom under her dress. To blazon
the truth abroad, to run shrieking into the house, that was not the way
the passion of her grief expressed itself. The curb of gold was the one
link that might join the future to the past. She would show it to no
one. That right should be hers to watch and to discover.




                                   II


“Listen!”

She touched his shoulder suddenly, and their eyes met in a questioning
stare, the eyes of two people who have some secret to be guarded.

“I heard some one in the gallery.”

“A coach stopped in the yard two minutes ago.”

“It is Barbara come home. The girl moves about like a ghost.”

They drew aside from each other; my lord, bland, buxom, imposing, in
periwig, and black coat broidered with gold; my lady, plump, luscious,
yet a little furtive about the eyes, her flowered gown in green and blue
pleated into a hundred folds over her camlet petticoat. She wore her
dark hair low upon her neck, with a rose over the left ear, and a mass
of exquisite lace upon her bosom.

Lord Stephen Gore cleared his throat, and began speaking with discreet
distinctness on some wholly impersonal topic. The pair were decorously
distant when the door of the great parlor opened, the man standing at
the window, as though watching the people passing in the street beneath;
the woman seated, almost primly, in a high-backed chair, a book in her
lap, mild apathy upon her face.

My lord at the window turned on his heel abruptly, as though he had just
become aware of the presence of a third person in the room. He was a man
of poise, of genial aplomb, one of those complacent gods who are never
out of countenance or at loss for a trick of the tongue.

The girl’s eyes seemed to sweep from one to the other with a momentary
gleam of distrust. She still wore her mourning, a gown of plain black
velvet with a circle of lace at the throat. The expression on her face
was one of tired nonchalance. But for that evanescent gleam of the eyes
she might have passed as a bloodless and languid girl whose vitality
lacked the stimulus of perfect health.

My lord met her with a bow that expressed unnecessary condescension. He
had reached an age when it is possible to be fatherly, and even
officious in a frank, twinkling, stately fashion.

“And how is my Proserpine? Still in the pensive droops? And yet Mr.
Herrick preaches the gathering of roses!”

He put forward a chair for her with the tolerance of an amiable
gentleman of the world. She took it without thanking him, her cold,
colorless face masking an instinctive repulsion, an impatience that his
urbanity seemed fated to inspire.

The lord and the lady exchanged glances. It was as though the girl had
brought a frost with her into the midst of June. Her silence and her
almost sullen apathy embarrassed them. It was like being in the presence
of a statue that had eyes and ears but no tongue.

Anne Purcell clapped her book to, and jerked it aside on to an oak
table.

“Where did you drive—in the park?”

“Drive?”

“Good lack! girl, are you torpid? I could swear you have not noticed the
color of a gown or the set of a hat. One might as well send out a
mummy.”

She glanced unconcernedly at the buckles on my lord’s shoes.

“The park? Yes. A great business there, to see—and to be seen. Enough
dust to stifle one; and too many people.”

The words were the perfunctory words of one who would rather have
remained silent. Her face seemed vacant and expressionless. My lord drew
in a deep breath through his nostrils, and regarded her with philosophic
pity.

“Eheu, holy Gemini, dust and ashes—at two-and-twenty!”

He nodded his head benignantly, yet with a cynical curving of the mouth,
while the plump, well-complexioned mother studied her bantling with
irritable contempt. There was some inherent antipathy between these two.
Their attitude was one of vague distrust, as though the sun and the moon
found themselves in miraculous juxtaposition at mid-day.

“You had better go to bed, girl; you look tired enough.”

She met her mother’s hard, inquisitive stare, and seemed to stiffen at
it with a sensitive hatred of being watched.

“No, I am not tired.”

“Fiddlesticks!”

My lord held up a bland white hand ruffled in Mechlin, immaculate to the
finger-tips.

“Let her alone, Anne. These feather moods need a south wind.”

His lofty compunction repelled her more than her mother’s brusque
contempt. The atmosphere of the room seemed overburdened with a sensuous
flavor. The very roses suggested a rank and vivid worldliness, a
fulsomeness of the flesh gotten of meat and wine.

She rose, pushing back her chair, with a languid drooping of the lids.

“Tell Jael to have supper sent to my room. Shall you be late to-night?”

Her face was turned toward her mother, as though the gentleman in the
periwig were a mere negligible shadow.

“Go to bed, child, and don’t trouble your head about healthy people.
Nell is at The King’s to-night. I wish you could catch some of the
wench’s devil.”

“Oh—the Drury Lane woman! I have seen her at her window in her
night-dress shouting at Moll Davis in the next house. She looked
something of a drab with her hair done up in papers. Do the candles make
such a difference?”

She looked listlessly over her shoulder at my lord, her lassitude giving
her an air of tired vacuity. And the smile he gave her might have been
the smile he would have given to a credulous child.

“We are all moths, coz, when the candles are lit. Which is a riddle that
you need not be bothered with.”

Her going relieved the two worldlings from an uncongenial feeling of
oppression, and yet some uneasiness of spirit remained to trouble both.
Miss Barbara had chilled the room for them with her wraithlike and
sinister sickliness. The sleek self-content of the well-fed animal had
been disturbed by impressions and by thoughts that neither cared to
analyze. My Lord of Gore stood at the window, stroking his periwig with
some such dissatisfaction on his face as he might have betrayed at the
first hint that he was growing old.

“The girl looks ill.”

Madam made a _moue_.

“Oh—that is nothing; she is always the color of sour cream. Lord, but I
think I hate the child; she drags things into my mind that make me
miserable.”

The angles of the man’s mouth twitched slightly.

“By the plague, Nan, why let yourself be overshadowed?”

“Why—indeed! We might understand that, you and I.”

He turned to her sharply with a gleam of impatience in his eyes.

“Why not be rid of the little blight?”

“Yes, no doubt—and how? Are you ingenious enough to suggest a method?”

“Get her married.”

“Lord! And who would have her?”

“She is something of a bargain—in movables. There are plenty of debtors
and fools.”

“The persuading would lie elsewhere. The girl has a sort of sullen
stubbornness that is worse than temper.”

Stephen Gore shook his periwig with the action of an impatient horse
shaking its mane.

“I suppose these mopes were put on with her mourning. The girl wants the
merry devil in her rousing. Jove, Nan, but she’s your child; there must
be blood somewhere.”

Anne Purcell picked up a fan, spread it with an impatient whisk of the
hand, and glanced uneasily at the closed door. She started up brusquely,
crossed the room, flung the door open suddenly, and looked down the long
gallery as though to prove that they were not being spied upon. Then she
returned to her tapestried chair.

“Well, have you any plan?”

My lord licked his upper lip, a sly smile spreading over his healthy
face.

“Will she go out with you?”

“Sometimes. To the old, dull houses where they wear starched aprons and
have the servants in to prayers.”

“And judge of godliness by the length of the jowl. Poor people! No—that
is not the elixir, the juice of crab-apples. Take her to the Mancini,
that witch who turns dross into sunshine. The woman would wake the merry
devil in a Quaker. She has old Rowley kissing her very slippers.”

“Hortense?”

“Who else, Nan? It is life, blood, mischief that the girl needs.”

My lady’s eyes flashed up at him mistrustfully for the moment. He caught
the look and the significance thereof, and laughed.

“Oh, she is not my fortune, Nan! I am too old a moth for that candle.
The woman is like a conduit of red wine let loose in the garden of White
Hall. She makes all but the abstemious—drunk. And the marvel is that
she is just as magical with women, is Hortense. Ask my Lord Sussex how
he likes the transfiguration of his wife.”

“Castlemaine’s stupid brat!”

“Little whey face all turned into dimples, roguery, and mischief. She
twinkles round the Mancini like a little Mercury with feathers at her
heels. I will speak with Hortense; she has some sort of sisterly
good-will to me, and a kind of pride in making sulky people merry.
She’ll set the girl’s blood spinning, or I’m a fool.”

Anne Purcell leaned back in her chair as though tired.

“Anything to get rid of that sour face. But it’s her mawkishness, her
squeamy, ‘pray-with-me-or-I-shall-die’ look, that makes me doubtful.”

The gentleman nodded understandingly.

“Leave that to Hortense. The Italian has a veneer of softness; she is
not like a Nell Gwyn. It is a question of subtleties. Nell would swear
the girl into a fit in three minutes. The Mancini has a trick of seeming
a saint—when necessary. If the Italian makes no romp out of her, then I
will dub her nothing but a petticoated Hamlet.”

My lady stretched her arms with a gesture of impatient ennui.

“Well we can try. Let us forget the ghost to-night. I feel I must laugh,
or I shall have wrinkles round my mouth.”

“Nell shall do that for you. You will come in my coach?”

“And the proprieties?”

He laughed with the true sardonic gayety of the Restoration.

“Sister Kate shall see to them. Though she is stone deaf she likes to
see the dresses and the candles. There is one mistake that Mr. Milton
made in that he did not tell us that the devil is deaf in one ear.”




                                  III


Had Lady Purcell, herself unseen, followed her daughter to her room,
she would have been astonished by the sudden transformation that swept
over her so soon as the door closed. The apathetic figure straightened
into keen aliveness; the look of vacuity vanished from the face. It was
like a sudden transition from damp, listless November to the starlit
brilliance of a frosty night.

“Dust and ashes at two-and-twenty!”

My Lord Gore’s echoing of Biblical pessimism seemed to have lost its
appropriateness so far as Barbara Purcell was concerned. There was
nothing listless about the intense and rather swarthy face that looked
down into the garden with its white-pillared music-room and its October
memories. It was more the face of some impassioned child of destiny
striving to gaze into the mystery of the coming years.

The acting of a part to delude the world, and to make men ignore her as
a spiritless girl. The merciless fanaticism of youth watching, and ever
watching, behind all that assumption of listlessness and sloth. Then, in