The Brown Mask
by Percy James Brebner · English · Gutenberg #9849 · 535,255 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Brown Mask
Author: Percy James Brebner
Release date: February 1, 2006 [eBook #9849]
Most recently updated: December 26, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9849
Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Beth Trapaga and PG Distributed Proofreaders
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROWN MASK ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Beth Trapaga and PG
Distributed Proofreaders
THE BROWN MASK
By
Percy J. Brebner
Author of "Princess Maritza," "Vayenne," "A Royal Ward"
1911
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
1. BRETHREN OF THE ROAD
2. BARBARA LANISON
3. GREY EYES
4. THE NUN OF AYLINGFORD
5. CHILDREN OF THE DEVIL
6. MAD MARTIN
7. KING MONMOUTH
8. SEDGEMOOR AND AFTERWARDS
9. "THE JOLLY FARMERS"
10. FATE AND THE FIDDLER
11. THE FUGITIVE AT AYLINGFORD
12. BARBARA HELPS TO CLOSE A DOOR
13. THE WAY OF ESCAPE
14. A WOMAN REBELS
15. BARBARA LANISON IN TOWN
16. PREPARED FOR SACRIFICE
17. BARBARA'S SELF-SACRIFICE
18. THE JOURNEY TO DORCHESTER
19. THE HUT IN THE WOOD
20. SCARLET HANGINGS
21. LORD ROSMORE DICTATES TERMS
22. THE LUCK OF LORD ROSMORE
23. LORD ROSMORE AS A FRIEND
24. LOVE AND FEAR
25. THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE
26. THE FLIGHT
27. OUT OF DORCHESTER
28. THE LEATHER CASE
29. SAFETY
30. ALONG THE NORTH ROAD
CHAPTER I
BRETHREN OF THE ROAD
Dismal in appearance, the painted sign over the mean doorway almost
obliterated by time and weather, there was nothing attractive about the
"Punch-Bowl" tavern in Clerkenwell. It was hidden away at the end of a
narrow alley, making no effort to vaunt its existence to the world at
large, and to many persons, even in the near neighbourhood, it was
entirely unknown. Like a gentleman to whom debauchery has brought shame
and the desire to conceal himself from his fellows, so the "Punch-Bowl"
seemed an outcast amongst taverns. Chance visitors were few, were
neither expected nor welcomed, and ran the risk of being told by the
landlady, in terms which there was no possibility of misunderstanding,
that the place was not for them. It was natural, therefore, that a
certain air of mystery should surround the house, for, although the
alley was a _cul-de-sac_, there were stories of marvellous escapes
from this trap even when the entrance was closed by a troop of soldiers,
and it was whispered that there was a secret way out from the
"Punch-Bowl" known only to the favoured few. Nor was an element of
romance wanting. The dwellers in this alley were of the poorest sort,
dirty and unkempt, picking up a precarious livelihood, pickpockets and
cutpurses--"foysters" and "nyppers" as their thieves' slang named them;
yet, through all this wretched shabbiness there would flash at intervals
some fine gentleman, richly dressed, and with the swagger of St. James's
in his gait. Conscious of the sensation he occasioned, he passed through
the alley looking strangely out of place, yet with no uncertain step. He
was a hero, not only to these ragged worshippers, but in a far wider
circle where wit and beauty moved; he knew it, gloried in it, and recked
little of the price which must some day be paid for such popularity. The
destination of these gentlemen was always the "Punch-Bowl" tavern.
Neither of a man, nor of a tavern, is it safe to judge only by the
exterior. A grim and forbidding countenance may conceal a warm heart,
even as the unprepossessing "Punch-Bowl" contained a cosy and
comfortable parlour. To-night, half a dozen fine gentlemen were enjoying
their wine, and it was evident that the landlady was rather proud of her
guests. Buxom, and not too old to forget that she had once been
accounted pretty, she still loved smartness and bright colours, was not
averse to a kiss upon occasion, and had a jest--coarse, perhaps, but
with some wit in it--for each of her customers. She knew them
well--their secrets, their love episodes, their dangers; sometimes she
gave advice, had often rendered them valuable help, but she had also a
keen eye for business. Her favours had to be paid for, and even from the
handsomest of her customers a kiss had never been known to settle a
score. The "Punch-Bowl" was no place for empty pockets, and bad luck was
rather a crime than an excuse. When it pleased her the landlady could
tell many tales of other fine gentlemen she had known and would never
see again, and she always gave the impression that she considered her
former customers far superior to her present ones. Perhaps she found the
comparison good for her business since she spoke to vain men. She had
become reminiscent this evening.
"The very night before he was taken he sat where you're sitting," she
said, pointing to one of her customers who was seated by the hearth.
"Ah! He made a good end of it did Jim o' the Green Coat; kicked off his
boots as if they were an old pair he had done with, and threw the
ordinary out of the cart, saying he had no time to waste on him just
then. I was there and saw it all."
There was silence as she concluded her glowing tale. Depression may take
hold of the most careless and light-hearted for a moment, and even the
attraction of making a good end, with an opportunity of spurning a
worthless ordinary, cannot always appeal. The landlady had contrived to
make her story vivid, and furtive glances were cast at the individual
who occupied the seat she had indicated. There suddenly appeared to be
something fatal in it and ample reason why a man might congratulate
himself on being seated elsewhere. The occupant was the least concerned.
He had taken the most comfortable place in the room; it seemed to be
rightly his by virtue of his dress and bearing. He had the grand air as
having mixed in high society, his superiority was tacitly admitted by
his companions, and the landlady had addressed herself especially to
him, as though she knew him for a man of consequence.
"When the time comes you shall see me die game, too, I warrant," he
laughed, draining his glass and passing it to be refilled. "One death is
as good as another, and at Tyburn it comes quicker than to those who lie
awaiting it in bed."
"That's true," said the landlady.
"I should hate to die in a bed," the man went on. "The open road for me
and a quick finish. It's the best life if it isn't always as long as it
might be. I wouldn't forsake it for anything the King could offer me.
It's a merry time, with romance, love and adventure in it, with plenty
to get and plenty to spend, with a seasoning of danger to give it
piquancy--a gentleman's life from cock-crow to cock-crow, and not worthy
of a passing thought is he who cannot make a good end of it. I'd sooner
have the hangman for a bosom friend than a man who is likely to whimper
on the day of reckoning. Did I tell you that a reverend bishop offered
me fifty guineas for my mare the other day?"
"You sold her?" came the question in chorus.
"Sold her! No! I told him that she would be of little use to him, since
no one but myself could get her up to a coach."
"Your impudence will be the death of you, John," laughed the landlady.
"That seems a fairly safe prophecy," answered Gentleman Jack--for so his
companions named him--"still, I've heard of one bishop who took to the
road in his leisure hours. He died of a sudden fever, it was said; but,
for all that, he returned one night from a lonely ride across Hounslow
Heath, and was most anxious to conceal the fact that somebody had put a
bullet into him. My bishop may have become ambitious--indeed, I think he
had, for he had intellect enough to understand my meaning and was not in
the least scandalised."
"Then we may yet welcome him at the 'Punch-Bowl,'" said one man. "So
far, this house has entertained no one higher in the church than a Fleet
parson. I see no sin in drinking the bishop's good health and wishing
him the speedy possession of a horse to match his ambition."
"Anyone may serve as a toast," said another; "but could a bishop be good
company under any circumstances, think you?"
"Gad! why not?" asked Gentleman Jack. "He'd Spend his time trying to
square his profession with his conscience maybe, and when a man is
reduced to that, bishop or no bishop, there's humour enough, I warrant."
The health was drunk with laughter, and the air of depression which had
followed the landlady's recital disappeared like clouds from an April
sky. Each one had some story to tell, some item to add to the
accumulated glory of the road.
"Ay, it's a merry life," said the man who had had doubts about the
bishop's company, "and the only drawback is that it comes to an end when
you're at the top of your success. The dealers in blood-money never hunt
a man down until he's worth his full price."
"And isn't that the best time to take the last ride?" exclaimed
Gentleman Jack. "Who would choose to grow old and be forgotten? What
should we do sitting stiffly in an armchair, wearing slippers because
boots hurt our poor swollen feet? What should we be without a pair of
legs strong enough to grip the saddle or with eyes too dim to recognise
a pretty woman, lacking fire to fall in love, and with lips which had
lost their zest for kissing?"
"But we come to that last ride before we lack anything--that's the
trouble," was the answer.
"Not always," said another man. "Galloping Hermit was feared on all the
roads before I had stopped my first coach, and he is still feared
to-day." The speaker was young, and he mentioned the name of the
notorious highwayman with a kind of reverence.
"They say he's the devil himself, and that's why he's never been taken,"
said another. "Did any of you ever see him?"
"Once." And they all turned quickly towards the man who spoke. "My mare
had gone lame, and I had dismounted in a copse to examine her, when
there was the quick, regular beat of hoofs at a gallop across the turf.
I was alert on my own account in a moment, crouching down amongst the
undergrowth, for with a lame animal I could have made but a poor show.
There flashed past me a splendid horseman, man and beast one perfect
piece of harmony. The moon was near the full. I saw the neat, strong
lines of the horse, the easy movement of the rider, and I could see that
the mask which the man wore was brown. This happened two years ago, out
beyond Barnet."
"And without that brown mask no one knows him." said the man who had
first spoken of him. "He has been met on all the roads, north, south,
east and west--never in company, always alone. He never fails, yet the
blood-feasters have watched for him in vain. Truly, he disappears as
mysteriously as the devil might. He may go to Court. He may be a
well-known figure there, gaming with the best, a favoured suitor where
beauty smiles. He may even have been here amongst us at the 'Punch-Bowl'
without our knowing it."
"It is not impossible," Gentleman Jack admitted, smiling a little at the
others' enthusiasm.
"I envy him," was the answer. "We seem mean beside such a man as
Galloping Hermit."
"I do not cry 'Yes' to that," said Gentleman Jack, just in time to
prevent an outburst from the landlady, who appeared to fancy that the
quality of her entertainment was being called in question. "The brown
mask conceals a personality, no doubt, but before we can judge between
man and man we must know something of their various opportunities. Were
he careful and lucky, such a man as my bishop would be hard to run to
earth. Galloping Hermit is careful, for only at considerable intervals
do we hear of him. The road would seem to be a pastime with him, rather
than a life he loved. For me, the night never comes that I do not long
to be in the saddle, that I do not crave for the excitement, even if
there be no spoil worth the trouble of taking. This man is different. He
is only abroad when the quarry is certain. True, success has been his,
but for all that the fear of Tyburn may spoil his rest at night, and
when he gets there we may find that the brown mask conceals a coward
after all."
"Had you seen him that night as I did you would not say so," was the
answer.
"I like speech with a man before I judge his merits," said Gentleman
Jack, rising from his chair and flicking some dust from his sleeve. He
appeared to resent such slavish admiration of Galloping Hermit--perhaps
because he felt that his own pre-eminence was challenged. It pleased him
to think that his name must be in everyone's mouth, that his price in
the crime-market must for months past have been higher than any other
man's, and he was suddenly out of humour with the frequenters of the
"Punch-Bowl." He threw a guinea to the landlady, told her to buy a
keepsake with the change, and passed out with a careless nod, much as
though he intended never to come back into such low company.
The landlady stood fingering the guinea, turning it between her finger
and thumb, rather helping her reflections by the action than satisfying
herself that the coin was a good one.
"I believe we've had Galloping Hermit here to-night," she said suddenly.
"It was unlike Gentleman Jack to talk as he did just now. Mark my words,
he wears a brown mask on special occasions, and thought by sneering to
throw dust in our eyes. It's not the first time I have considered the
possibility, and I'm not sure that I won't buy a brown silk mask for
keepsake and slip it on when next I see him coming in at the door. That
would settle the question."
She had many arguments to support her opinion, reminded her customers of
many little incidents which had occurred in the past, recalling
Gentleman Jack's peculiar behaviour on various occasions. Her arguments
sounded convincing, and for an hour or more they discussed the question.
The opportunity to test her belief by wearing a brown silk mask never
came, however, for that same night Gentleman Jack was taken on Hounslow
Heath. A stumbling horse put him at the mercy of the man he sought to
rob, who struck him on the head with a heavy riding-whip, and when the
highwayman recovered consciousness he found himself a prisoner, bound
hand and foot. He endeavoured to bargain with his captor, and made an
attempt to outwit him, but, failing in both efforts, he accepted his
position with a good grace, determined to make the best of it. Newgate
should be proud of its latest resident. For a little space, at any rate,
he would be the hero of fashionable circles, and go to his death with
all the glamour of romance. He would leave a memory behind him that the
turnkeys might presently make stirring tales of, as they drank their
purl at night round the fire in the prison lobby.
The highwayman's story concerning the bishop quickly went the round of
the town, and a wit declared that at least half the reverend gentlemen
went trembling in their shoes for fear of their names being mentioned.
The story, and the wit's comment, served to raise the curiosity of the
fashionable world, and more than one coach stopped by Newgate to set
down beauty and its escort on a visit to the highwayman. But a greater
sensation was pending. Who first spread the report no one knew, but it
was suddenly whispered that this man was in reality no other than the
notorious wearer of the brown mask. When questioned he did not deny it,
and his evident pleasure at the mystery which surrounded him went far to
establish the story. For every person interested in Gentleman Jack, a
dozen were anxious to see and speak to Galloping Hermit. Every tale
concerning him was recalled and re-told, losing nothing in the
re-telling. Men had rather envied his adventurous career, many women's
hearts had beat faster at the mention of his name, and now the most
absurd theories regarding his real personality were seriously discussed
in coffee-houses, in boudoirs, and even at Court. It was whispered that
the King himself would intervene to save him from the gallows.
For a long time no trial had caused such a sensation, and Judge
Marriott, whose ambition it was to be likened to his learned and famous
brother, Judge Jeffreys, rose to the occasion and succeeded in giving an
excellent imitation of the bullying methods of his idol. This was an
opportunity to win fame, he argued, and he gave full play to the little
wit he possessed and ample licence to his undeniable powers of
vituperation and blasphemy.
Newgate was thronged, and the prisoner bore himself gallantly as a man
might in his hour of triumph. It was a great thing to be an object of
interest to statesmen, scholars, and wits, and to win smiles and tears
from beauty. His eyes travelled slowly over the sea of faces, and rested
for a little while upon a young girl. Her eyes were downcast, but he
thought there must be tears in them, and for a moment he was more
interested in her than in anyone else. Why had she come? She was
different from all the other women about her. Beside her sat an elderly
woman who seemed to be enjoying herself exceedingly, and appeared to
find especial relish in Judge Marriott's remarks. The more brutal they
were the more witty she seemed to think them.
As sentence was pronounced the girl rose to her feet and turned to go.
In truth, it had been no wish of hers to come. The judge, the people,
and the whole atmosphere sickened her. She longed to get away, to feel
the fresh air upon her cheek; and in her anxiety to depart she took no
particular trouble to make sure that her companion was following her.
There was a hasty crushing on all sides of her, and as she was carried
forward she became conscious that she was alone, that she was being
stared at and commented upon by some of those who were about her. She
ought not to be there, she felt it rather than knew it, and was
painfully aware that people were judging her accordingly. One man spoke
to her, and in her effort to escape his attentions she contrived to
thrust herself into a corner of an outer lobby, and waited.
"Can I be of service?"
For a moment she thought that the man she had escaped from had found
her, and she turned indignantly. The steady grey eyes that met hers were
eyes to trust--she felt that at once. This was quite a different person.
He was young, with a face grave beyond his years, and a sense of
strength about him likely to appeal to a woman.
"I am waiting for my aunt, Lady Bolsover," she said, the colour mounting
to her cheeks under his steady gaze, and then, suddenly anxious that he
should not think evil of her, she added: "I did not want to come. It was
horrible."
"Your aunt must have missed you," he said, glancing round the almost
empty lobby, for the crowd had poured out into the street by this time.
"If you have a coach waiting, may I take you to it?"
"Oh, please--do."
The crowd was dense in the street, and their progress was slow, but the
man forced a way for her. His face gave evidence that it would be
dangerous for anyone to throw a jest at his companion. There was a
general inclination to give him the wall as he went.
"I am glad you did not come here willingly," he said suddenly, as though
no other thought had been in his mind all this time. "This is no place
for a woman."
"Indeed, no. I am wondering why a man should be here either."
"Galloping Hermit once did me a kindness. I would like to repay the
debt."
"But how? What could you do?"
"I could not tell. Something might have happened to give me an
opportunity. It did not; still, I shall see him presently. Perhaps I may
yet be able to do him some small service."
"Oh, I hope so, poor man," she answered. "There is the coach, and my
aunt. She will thank you."
Lady Bolsover, who was talking to Lord Rosmore, did not appear agitated,
but she hurried forward when she caught sight of her niece.
"My child, I have been consumed with anxiety, and--"
"This gentleman--" the girl began, and then stopped. The man had not
followed her as she went to meet her aunt. He had disappeared.
There came no intervention on the prisoner's behalf in the days that
followed, nor did he set up any plea for his life on the ground of
knowing of plots against the King's Majesty. This would be to shirk the
day of reckoning, and he had boasted to his companions at the
"Punch-Bowl" that they should see him play the game to the end. He would
fulfil this promise to the letter. He had ridden up Holborn Hill scores
of times, seeking spoil and adventure on Hounslow Heath or elsewhere; he
would journey up it once more, and pay the price like a gentleman. It
would be no lonely journey; there would be excitement and triumph in it.
He had lived his life and enjoyed it; he had allowed nothing to stand in
the way of his desires; he had pressed into a few short years far more
satisfaction than any other career could have given him. Why should he
whimper because the end came early? It would be a good end to make, full
of movement and colour. He knew, for he had been a spectator when others
had taken that journey, and he was of more importance than they were.
The whole town was ringing with his fame. Why should he have regrets?
Beauty and fashion came to visit him, and one man came to thank him for
some former kindness, a trivial matter that the highwayman had thought
nothing of and had forgotten.
It came, that last morning, a fine morning flushed with the new life of
the world that trembles hesitatingly in the spring of the year, and
steeps the hearts of men and women with stronger hope and wider
ambition; such a morning as draws a veil over past failures and
disappointments, and floods the future with success and achievement. It
seemed a pity to have to die on such a morning, and for one moment there
was regret in the highwayman's soul as he took his place in the cart.
The next he braced himself to play his part, for there were great crowds
in the streets, waiting and making holiday. All eyes were turned,
watching for the procession, for was it not Galloping Hermit who came,
the notorious wearer of the brown mask, the hero of wealth and squalor
alike, the man whose deeds had already passed into legend? No one
thought of him as Gentleman Jack, not even his companions of the
"Punch-Bowl" who were in the crowd to see him pass; not the landlady,
who had come to see the last of him, and stood at the end of the
journey, waiting and watching.
By the steps of St. Sepulchre's Church there was a pause. A woman, one
of a frail sisterhood, yet strangely pretty and innocent to look upon,
held up a great nosegay to the hero of the hour, and as he took it he
bent down and kissed her.
"Don't let another's kiss make you forget this one too soon," he said
gaily, and her lips smiled while there was a sob in her throat.
The cart jogged on again, and at intervals the man buried his face in
the flowers. This was his hour, and if he had any fear or regret, there
were no eyes keen enough to note the fact.
Tyburn and its fatal tree were in sight across a surging crowd. Even at
the last moment the King might intervene, it was whispered, and there
were some who looked for signs of a swift-coming messenger. But the cart
came nearer, slowly and surely; the space round the gallows was kept
clear with difficulty, and there was no sign of hurrying reprieve.
This was the end of the game. Now was the great test of courage. He was
too great a man to indulge in small things to prove it.
"I've been used to riding in the night; a morning ride tires one," he
said carelessly. "Let's get it over, or I shall be getting hungry, as
all these folks must be. There's a good pair of boots for anyone who has
the courage to wear them. I'm ready. Make an end of it."
And the landlady at the "Punch-Bowl" that night drank to his memory,
declaring that he had died game, as was fitting for a gentleman of the
road.
CHAPTER II
BARBARA LANISON
As the coach rolled heavily homewards towards St. James's Square, Lady
Bolsover speedily recovered from her anxiety concerning her niece; she
did not even reprimand her for getting lost in the crowd, and seemed to
take no interest whatever in the gentleman who had come to the rescue
and had not waited to be thanked. He could have been no person of
consequence, or he would not have neglected the opportunity of bowing
over her hand. She talked of nothing but the trial and the excellent
manner in which her friend Judge Marriott had conducted it. Some of his
witticisms she remembered and repeated with such excellent point that
her niece shuddered again as she had done when they fell from the
judge's lips.
"It was altogether horrible," said the girl. "I wonder why you made me
go."
"Judge Marriott's wit horrible!" exclaimed Lady Bolsover. "Pray do not
say so in company, or you will be taken for a fool."
"I meant the trial--the whole thing. Why did we go?"
"Would you be altogether out of the fashion, Barbara?"
"Such fashion, yes, I think so."
"Ah, that's the drawback of living in the country," was the answer. "All
one's morals and manners smell of the soil, and a woman's attainments
are limited to the making of gooseberry wine and piecrusts. I was of
that pattern myself once, but, thank heaven! I married wisely and
escaped from it. You must do the same, Barbara."
"Indeed, I am not sure that I want to, and yet--"
"I am grateful for the reservation," said Lady Bolsover, "or I should be
compelled to think that all my care of you during these last few months
had been wasted."
"Oh, no; I have learnt many things--many things that it is good for me
to know. I have seen men and women who seem to live in another world to
the one I have knowledge of, a large and most interesting world, truly,
yet not altogether to my taste. Is it not a strange world that can enjoy
what we have witnessed to-day?"
"I must confess I enjoyed Judge Marriott hugely," was the answer, "and
the prisoner was a man, I'll say that for him. I almost regret not
having had the honour of being stopped by him. I grant you he was
interesting, and played his part gallantly."
"Doomed to die on the gallows! Do you call that playing a part?"
"My dear," and Lady Bolsover touched the girl's arm, "did I not know
your ancestry I should imagine your father a scurvy Puritan and your
mother a kitchen wench given to long hymns and cant of a Sunday. Are you
sure this cavalier of yours was not some miserable sniveller who found
time to favour you with a sermon? He disappeared so hastily that it
would seem he was ashamed of himself."
The girl did not answer, and if the colour came into her cheeks at the
memory of what the man had said to her, Lady Bolsover was too amused at
her own conjecture to notice it.
There are those who are so intent upon living that they have little time
to think. Lady Bolsover was of these. The hour that did not hold some
excitement in it wearied her and made her petulant. Her husband, dead
these ten years, had been amongst the enthusiastic welcomers of Charles
at his Restoration, and his wife had from first to last been a
well-known figure in the Court of the Merry Monarch. That she was no
beauty, rather than because she possessed any great strength of
character, probably accounted for the fact that she enjoyed no peculiar
fame in that dissolute company. As she could not be the heroine of an
intrigue, it pleased her to consider herself too great a dame for such
affairs, and she was fully persuaded that she might count her lovers by
the score, even now, had she so desired. As she had no very definite
character, so she had no real convictions. Charles was dead, and James
was King. Many changes were imminent, and Lady Bolsover was waiting to
see in which direction the wind blew. Her nature, perhaps, was to hate
Puritans and all their ways, but, if necessary to her own well-being,
she would easily be able to love them and curse all Catholics. She was
not really bad at heart, but she was a strange companion for Barbara
Lanison.
Some few months ago Sir John Lanison, of Aylingford Abbey in Hampshire,
Lady Bolsover's brother and Barbara's uncle and sole guardian since the
death of her parents, had suggested that his sister should take charge
of his ward for a little while. Practically she knew nothing of London,
he said, and it was time she did. Sir John declared that he did not want
it to be said that he had hidden his niece away at the Abbey so that no
man should have a chance of seeing her. He had known prettier women, but
she was well enough, and where her face failed to attract her ample
fortune would.
"She's got more learning than is needful for a girl, to my mind," he
told his sister; "but that kind of nonsense will be knocked out of her
as soon as she understands her value as a woman. Send her back with all
the corners rounded, my dear Peggy--that is what I want."
Lady Bolsover had done her best, but the result was not very
satisfactory. Barbara had convictions which her aunt was powerless to
undermine, and seemed to set such a value upon herself that no man was
able to make the slightest impression on her. She had barely refrained
from laughing outright at the compliments of recognised wits, and half a
dozen gallants with amorous intentions had been baffled and put to
shame. Lord Rosmore, whose way with a woman was pronounced irresistible,
had declared her adorable, but impossible, and Judge Marriott had
promised Lady Bolsover a very handsome gratuity if she could persuade
her niece to favour him and become his wife.
Barbara Lanison could not be unconscious of the sensation she caused--a
woman never is--but she sometimes studied the reflection in her mirror,
and tried to discover the reason. Quite honestly she failed. She was not
dissatisfied with the reflection, in its way it was pleasing, she
admitted, but she had not supposed that it was of the kind that would
appeal to men, and to such a variety of men. The women who usually
pleased them were so different. It even occurred to her that there might
be something in herself, in her behaviour, which was not quite nice, and
that her real attraction lay in this, an idea which proved that her
estimate of the men who came to her aunt's house was not a very high
one.
Born and bred in the country, and with an amount of learning which her
uncle considered unnecessary, she had prejudices, no doubt, and possibly
had a standard of female beauty in her mind which her own reflection did
not satisfy. That she was mistaken in her own estimate of herself was
certain, or the men would not have been so assiduous in their
attentions. Perhaps she admired dark women, and the reflection which
smiled at her out of the depths of the mirror was fair. The eyes were
blue--that blue which the sky shows in the early morning of a cloudless
day, and there was a suggestion of tears in them--the tears which may
come from much laughter rather than those which speak of sorrow. There
was a touch of gold in the fair hair, which was inclined to be
rebellious and curl into little lovelocks about her neck and forehead.
The skin was fair, with the bloom of perfect health upon it, and the
little mouth was firm, the lips fresh as from the kiss of a rose. There
was grace in all her movements, that unstudied grace which tells of life
in the open air and freedom from restraint; and in thought and word and
deed conventionality had small interest for her. It was hardly wonderful
that Lord Rosmore should pronounce her adorable, or that Judge Marriott
should forget that his youth was a thing of the past. Indeed, she had
come as a revelation to the men whose lives were made up of Court
intrigue and artificiality.
Perhaps another reason why Barbara Lanison found it difficult to
understand the sensation she created lay in the fact that her heart and
affections remained entirely untouched. Those blue eyes, underneath
their long lashes, saw very keenly, and gave her a quick insight into
character. She was not to be easily led, and if she did a good many
things in her aunt's house, where she was a guest, which did not come
naturally to her and which did not please her, there was a point beyond
which no persuasion on Lady Bolsover's part could make her go. Much
against her will she had been taken to the trial of the highwayman, and
that she was ashamed of being there was shown by her eager desire to
explain her presence to the man who had come to her rescue in the crowd.
It would probably have annoyed Lady Bolsover considerably had she known
that her niece thought more of this man during the next few days than of
all the eligible gallants who had been brought to her notice.
If in one sense Lady Bolsover had to admit failure with regard to her
plans concerning her niece, in another direction she had achieved
considerable success, for since the advent of Barbara Lanison her own
favour had been courted on all sides, and her house in St. James's
Square had become a little Court in itself. To half a dozen men who had
flattered her sufficiently as a first step towards her good graces, she
had promised to do her best with her niece on their behalf, and at
intervals she dispensed encouragements for which no action or private
word of Barbara's gave any foundation. Lady Bolsover found her present
_entourage_ very pleasant, and was not inclined to spoil it by being
too definitely honest. It was therefore with considerable chagrin
that, a few days after the trial, she received a message from her
brother that Barbara was to return to Aylingford Abbey without delay;
and since Judge Marriott was about to pay him a visit, nothing could be
better than that Barbara should travel in his company.
Barbara was quite ready to return to the Abbey, but she did not relish
Judge Marriott as a travelling companion. He was old enough to be her
father, and foolish enough to attempt to make love to her. She had
disliked him from the first; she had come near to hating him since she
had seen and heard him at that dreadful trial. The self-satisfied judge,
on the other hand, hoped to make capital out of the trial. He had been
instrumental in ridding the world of a notorious highwayman, one who had
made himself unpleasantly known to not a few of those who were Sir
John's guests from time to time. The trial would be much talked of at
Aylingford, and Marriott could not fail to be a centre of attraction.
His acumen must also have appealed to the woman whose escort he was to
be. His conduct of the case must have impressed her with his importance.
She was the most beautiful woman with whom he had ever been brought into
contact, and his ambition took to itself wings. Why should not this
woman belong to him? True, he had no family behind him to boast of, but
he had made a position, and the way to greater things lay open before
him. Jeffreys was his friend, and Jeffreys was a power with the new
King. High honours might be in the near future for Judge Marriott. He
was an ugly man--with all his willingness to do so, he could not gainsay
that; but he consoled himself with the reflection that many beautiful
women had married men whose looks certainly did not recommend them. It
was only the commonplace that women turned from, and he was sufficiently
ugly not to be commonplace.
So Judge Marriott exerted himself to amuse and interest his fair young
charge as they journeyed together into Hampshire, and not altogether
without success. He soon discovered that all discussion concerning the
trial was unwelcome, that the girl's foolish sympathies had been with
the prisoner rather than the judge, and he quickly talked of other
things. He almost made Barbara believe that he regretted Nature had not
made him a highwayman instead of a judge, and he certainly succeeded in
making the girl confess to herself that he was not such an unpleasant
travelling companion as she had expected.
The day had been cloudy, threatening rain, and twilight came early. When
the coach began to cross Burford Heath it was dusk. Barbara was tired,
and leaned back in her corner, while the judge lapsed into silence, not
altogether oblivious to the fact that there might be dangers upon the
heath. The road was heavy, and in places deep-rutted; the grinding and
crunching of the wheels, the only sound breaking the stillness of the
evening, grew monotonous; and the constant heavy jolting was trying.
Suddenly there was a cry from the post-boys, and the coach came to a
standstill with a jerk.
"Curse them! They've managed to break down!" exclaimed Marriott. His
hand trembled a little as he let down the window, and it seemed to
Barbara that he was more afraid than angry. He thrust his head out of
the window with an oath, then drew it in sharply. A horseman stood at
the door with a pistol in his hand.
"There is payment to make for crossing the heath."
The judge broke out into a torrent of abuse, but whether at the man who
barred his way or at himself for being unprepared, it was difficult to
say.
"And the payment is extra for cursing your luck, especially in the
presence of a lady," said the man sharply, in a tone which admitted no
argument and proved him master of the situation.
Barbara, sitting upright, looked steadily into the masked face of the
highwayman, deeply interested, but without fear. Was it fancy, or was
there a familiar note in the man's voice? Marriott had shrunk back in
the coach as he fumbled for his purse. He tried to conceal his face from
the man, for, should the highwayman discover his identity, he might
consider the moment opportune to avenge his brother of the road who had
so recently died at Tyburn.
"A meagre purse for so famous a judge," the man said, weighing it in his
hand; "but your money is a small matter. I have a bigger score to settle
than that. Out with you!" and the man flung open the coach door.
Marriott shrank farther back until he appeared a very small and mean man
in the corner of the coach. He tried to speak, but his words were
inarticulate, and Barbara could feel him trembling violently.
"Get out, or--"
"Surely, sir, you would not kill him?" and Barbara stretched out an arm
to protect him.
"Do you plead for him, mistress? He is lucky to have such an advocate.
Get out, judge. For the sake of those bright eyes beside you, you may
keep your life, but you shall do penance for your sins. Get out, I say."
Very reluctantly Marriott crept from the carriage.
"You have all my money," he whimpered.
"Down on your knees, then, and ask pardon for passing judgment on a
better man than yourself. Down! Quickly, or this pistol of mine may
forget that I have made a promise."
Marriott sank upon his knees in a place where the road was very muddy.
"The man I sent to Tyburn--say it after me."
"The man I sent to Tyburn," repeated Marriott.
"--was a gentleman compared to me."
"--was a gentleman compared to me."
"I am an unjust judge, a scoundrel at heart, a mean, contemptible
coward, unfit to consort with honest men, and every pure, good woman
should spurn me like dirt. Say it! Louder! The lady should be interested
in your confession."
Marriott said the words, raising his voice as he was ordered.
"And I pray to Heaven to have pity on the soul of the man I sent to his
death at Tyburn. Say it aloud, with uplifted hands. It is a prayer you
may well make, for, God knows, you'll have need of all His mercy some
day."
The prayer was repeated, and so like a real prayer was it that, in the
darkness of the coach, Barbara smiled. Prayer and Judge Marriott seemed
so wide asunder.
"Now get back into the coach, and take care your muddy clothes do not
soil the lady's gown, as your presence could hardly fail to be
pestilential to her, did she but know you as you really are. Good-night,
fair mistress; some day I hope to see you under better escort."
For a moment he bowed low over his horse's neck, then he turned and
galloped straight across the heath.
Judge Marriott had entered the coach hurriedly, so glad to escape from
the highwayman that he did not consider how poor a figure he had cut in
the sight of the girl. Fearful that his tormentor might not yet have
done with him, he sank back in his corner again. Barbara was sitting
forward looking from the window.
"He has gone," she said.
"Curse him!" said Marriott in a whisper. He was still afraid, and his
voice trembled. "Surely his mask was--"
"It was brown," said Barbara. "I thought the man who wore the brown mask
was dead."
"I thought so too," he muttered as he leaned forward to the window and
watched the highwayman disappear into the shadows of the night.
CHAPTER III
GREY EYES
Where a stream, running through a wide track of woodland, turned to flow
round three sides of a plateau of rising ground, a community of
Cistercian monks had long ago founded their home. Possibly the original
building was of small dimensions, but as the wealth of the community
increased it had been enlarged from time to time, and, it would appear,
with an ever-increasing idea of comfort. Of this completed building as
the monks knew it, a large part remained, some of it in a more or less
ruinous state it is true, but much of it incorporated in the work of
those subsequent builders who had succeeded in converting Aylingford
Abbey into one of the most picturesque residences in Hampshire. It faced
away from the stream, and the long, massive front, besides being the
most modern part of the building, was the least interesting aspect;
indeed, it was difficult to get a comprehensive view of it, because the
woods approached so closely that the traveller came upon it almost
unawares. From every other side the outlines of the Abbey were
singularly beautiful. Here a small spire sharply cut the sky, or a
graceful point of roof told of a chapel or high-pitched hall; there,
half frowning, half friendly, a mass of creeper-clad, grey wall looked
capable of withstanding a siege. In some places solid pieces of masonry
spoke of comparatively recent improvement, while towards one end of the
building walls had crumbled, leaving ruined chambers open to wind and
weather. There were open casements, through which one might catch a
glimpse of comfort within, and again there were narrow slits, deeply
sunk into thick walls, through which fancy might expect to hear the moan
of some prisoner in a dungeon.
As it swept round the Abbey the stream broadened out, and its current
became almost imperceptible. On one side the bank was comparatively low,
but on the Abbey side a stone wall had been built up from the water.
Above this was a broad terrace, flanked by the top of the wall, which
rose some three or four feet above it, and into which seats had been cut
at intervals. This terrace ran round three sides of the Abbey, and was
mostly of stone flags, worn and green with age, but in some places there
were stretches of trimly-kept grass. Two stone bridges arched and dipped
from the terrace to the opposite bank of the stream. Wonderful vistas of
the surrounding country were to be seen from the vantage ground of the
terrace; here a peep through a sylvan glade to the blue haze of the
hills beyond; there a glimpse of the roofs of the village of Aylingford,
a mile away; and again a deep, downward view into dark woods, where
mystery seemed to dwell, and perhaps fear, and out of which came the
sound of running and of falling water.
It was not difficult to believe in the legends which the simple country
folk told of Aylingford, and they were many. Had some old monk come
suddenly out of the wood, over the bridge, and walked in meditation
along the terrace, he would hardly have looked strange or out of place
so long as a bevy of Sir John's visitors had not chanced to meet him. It
seemed almost natural that when the night was still the echoes of old
prayer and chant should still be heard, as folk said they were. Sir John
himself had heard such sounds, so he affirmed, and would not have his
belief explained away by the fact that the wind found much to make music
with in the ruins. Then there were rooms which never seemed to be
unoccupied; corridors where you felt that someone was always walking a
little way in front of you or had turned the corner at the end the
moment before; stairs upon which could be heard descending footsteps;
doors which you did not remember to have noticed before. But while of
legend there was plenty, of history there was little. It would appear
that the monks had forsaken their home even before the Reformation, for
the first Lanison had acquired in the Eighth Henry's reign a property
"long fallen into ruinous decay," according to an old parchment.
Possibly the writer of this description had not seen the Abbey,
trusting, perchance, to the testimony of a man who had not seen it
either, for certainly much of the present building was in existence
then, and could hardly have been as ruinous as the parchment would lead
one to suppose. It may be that Aylingford, lying in the depth of the
country, away from the main road, escaped particular notice, and this
might also account for the fact that it had never attracted the
attention of Cromwell's men, which it reasonably might have done, seeing
that the Lanisons were staunch for the King.
Since old Sir Rupert Lanison had first come to Aylingford, Lanisons had
always been masters there--indifferent ones at times, as at intervals
they had proved indifferent subjects, yet reverenced by the country
folk.
Sir John, in the course of time, had become the head of the house of his
ancestors, proud of his position, punctilious as to his rights,
superstitious, and a believer in the legends of his home. He had married
twice, losing each wife within a year of his wedding day, and had no
child to succeed him. His brother, who had gone abroad ready to serve
where-ever there was fighting to be done, had also married. His wife
died young, too, and her daughter Barbara had come as a child to
Aylingford. She did not remember her father, who subsequently died in
the East Indies, leaving his child and a great fortune to the care of
Sir John.
So the Abbey and the woods which surrounded it had been Barbara's world
for eighteen years, for only once had she been to London before her
visit to Lady Bolsover. In a measure this second visit was unhappily
timed, for the death of King Charles had cast a gloom over the capital,
and the accession of his brother James caused considerable apprehension
in the country. Still, Barbara had created a certain sensation, and,
according to Lady Bolsover, would have made a great match had not Sir
John foolishly recalled her to the Abbey.
"She was just getting free from pastry and home-made wine, and my
brother must needs plunge her back into them," Lady Bolsover declared to
her friends, who were neither so numerous nor so distinguished now that
Barbara had left St. James's Square.
Sir John had welcomed his niece, but had given no reason for bringing
her home. She did not expect one. She had been away a long while; it was
natural she should be home again, and she was glad. There was no real
regret in her mind that she had left London; yet, somehow, life was
different, and although she had been home nearly a week there was
something which kept her from settling down into the old routine.
"Why is it? What is it? I wonder."
She was sitting on one of the stone seats cut in the wall of the
terrace, leaning back to look across the woods. The morning sun flooded
this part of the terrace with golden light, the perfume of flowers was
heavy in the air. From the woods came a great song of birds; in the
water below her a fish jumped at intervals--a cool sound on a hot day.
She had this part of the terrace to herself for a little while, but from
another part, round an angle of the house, came the murmur of voices and
sometimes laughter, now a man's, now a woman's. It had all been just the
same before, many, many times, yet now the girl was conscious of a sound
of discord in it. Nothing had really changed. The Abbey was full of
guests, as her uncle loved to have it, many of the same guests who came
so constantly, many of those who had been her companions at Lady
Bolsover's, and yet the world seemed changed somehow. The reason must
lie in herself. Her visit to London had brought enlightenment to her,
although she had only a vague idea of its meaning. She found it
difficult not to shrink from some of her uncle's guests, a feeling she
had not experienced until now. True, she had been brought more in
contact with them during this last week than she had previously been.
They treated her differently, no longer as a child, but as one of
themselves. They spoke more freely, both the men and women, and it
seemed to Barbara that only now was she beginning to understand them,
and that it was this wider knowledge which made her shrink from them.
"I have become a woman; before I was only a girl--that must be the
reason," she said, resting her chin on her clasped hands and looking
down into the depths of the wood on the opposite side of the stream. "I
have been very happy as a child, I do not believe I am going to be happy
as a woman," and then she glanced towards the distant blue hills. The
world was full of sunlight, even though the woods below her were dark
and gloomy.
She looked along the terrace to make certain that no one was coming to
disturb her--and she smiled to think how often she was disturbed in
these days. Judge Marriott had only to catch sight of her, and he would
leave any companion--man or woman--to hurry after her. At first he
seemed only intent on proving to her that he had not really been afraid
of the highwayman on Burford Heath, not on his own account at least,
only on hers; but presently he began to praise her, stammering over
high-flown compliments concerning her eyes or her hair, and looking
ridiculously distressed as he uttered them. He made her laugh until she
understood that he was making love to her, then she was angry. All
yesterday he was sighing to be forgiven.
Then there was Sir Philip Branksome, who twice within the last three
days had endeavoured to impress upon her the fact that his attentions
were a very great honour. He was so sure of himself in this particular
that it was almost impossible to despise him. There was Sydney Fellowes,
too, near kinsman to my Lord Halifax, full of boyish enthusiasm, now for
some warrior, now for some poet, chiefly for Mr. Herrick, whose poems he
knew by heart and repeated sympathetically. In Barbara Lanison he
professed to find the ideal woman, the inspiration which, he declared,
warrior and poet alike must have; and for hours together he would
explain how debased he was, how exalted was she. He wrote verses to her,
breathing these sentiments, and appeared to touch the height of his
ambition for a moment when she deigned to listen to them. Barbara felt
herself so much older than he was that she only stopped him when he grew
too persistent, neither laughing at him nor despising him. She praised
his verses which really had merit, but she would not understand that she
had inspired them. And last evening Lord Rosmore had arrived, had bowed
low over her hand and whispered a compliment. His looks, his attitude,
had occasioned comment, for my Lord Rosmore seldom sought, he was so
consistently sought after. Had not King Charles once called him the
handsomest attraction of his acquaintance, and laughingly turned to warn
a bevy of beauties of the danger of running after so well favoured a
cavalier?
"It is all because I am a woman," said Barbara, with a little sigh. "I
suppose I ought to be happy, proud, pleased; and yet--"
She looked across the woods, far away into the blue distance where fancy
well might have its kingdom, and her thoughts became a day-dream. That
she was a woman, that the horizon of her mind had widened, that in
touching the great world she had understood things which before were a
sealed book to her, did not altogether account for the change. In her
day-dream she was conscious of a pair of grey eyes which seemed to look
into her soul; conscious of a voice--kindly, yet with something stern in
it--saying in her ear: "Can I be of service?" and again, "This is no
place for a woman."
It was strange that she should remember so vividly; strange, too, that
he had gone from her so quickly. Why had he done so? Who was he? Such
questions brought another in their train. Why had the voice of the
highwayman with the brown mask seemed familiar? She tried to remember
the exact figure of the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate, her
fair brow frowning a little with the endeavour, but only the look in his
eyes and the sound of his voice remained. Somehow the highwayman's voice
had seemed unnatural.
The opening and closing of a door startled her, and she turned quickly
to see her uncle crossing the terrace.
"It is surprising to find you alone in these days, Barbara. London has
worked marvels, and it would seem that you have become a reigning toast,
Such is the news that has filtered down to Aylingford."
"That may be my misfortune; it is certainly none of my choice," was her
answer.
"And she has grown as quick at repartee as the best of them," laughed
Sir John, touching her shoulder lightly with approval. His laugh was a
pleasant one, his face kindly, his pose rather graceful, in spite of the
fact that his increasing bulk gave him anxiety. Report declared that his
youth had had wild passages, that one episode in his career had led to a
duel in which Sir John had killed his man, and it was whispered at the
time that justice and honour had gone down before the better
swordsmanship of a libertine. But this was years ago, before he was
master of Aylingford Abbey, and was forgotten now. Sir John Lanison of
Aylingford seemed to have nothing in common with that young roysterer of
long ago, and to-day there was no more popular man in this corner of
Hampshire.
"Indeed, I had to run away to be alone this morning," Barbara went on.
"I saw Judge Marriott go into the woods yonder not long since, and I
warrant he is looking for me."
"And Branksome, and Fellowes, and half a dozen more--they are always
seeking you," said Sir John, with mock consternation. "I am to have my
hands full, it seems, looking after my niece. It might have been better
if I had kept her at the Abbey."
"In my absence I have seen enough of men to make me careful about
falling in love with one."
"Still, it must needs be with a man if you fall in love at all," said
her uncle, seating himself on the stone seat beside her, "and there is
something I want to say on this matter, Barbara. It is well that you
should have seen something of the town, but it is not a good place in
which to judge men."
"And around Aylingford I know of no men worth troubling about," said
Barbara, "so it would seem that I am on the high road to dying a
spinster."
"Never was woman more unlikely to do that than you," answered Sir John.
"When a young girl talks like that, an old campaigner like myself begins
to wonder in which direction her heart has fluttered. No woman ever yet
regarded being a spinster with complacency, and few women jest about it
unless they are satisfied there is no danger. Is there a confession to
be made, Barbara?"
"None. Except for you and Martin Fairley, all men are--well, just men,
and of little interest to me. It is certain I cannot marry my uncle, and
I am not likely to fall in love with Martin, am I? By the way, where is
Martin? I have not seen him since I returned to the Abbey."
"I met him just a week ago, here on the terrace, with his fiddle under
his arm. He was starting to tramp to the other end of the county, he
told me, to play at a village wedding."
"Poor Martin!" said the girl.
"Mad Martin, rather," said Sir John; "and yet not so mad that he has not
had a certain effect upon us all, and upon you most of all. Ever since
you were a child he has been your willing slave, and he has taught you
many things out of that strange brain of his. I sometimes fancy that he
has made you look upon life differently from the way in which most women
look upon it, has filled it with more romance than it can hold, and
taken out of it much that is real."
"In fact, made me as mad as he is," laughed Barbara.
"I am not jesting," Sir John said gravely. "You have come back to the
Abbey a woman. You are more beautiful than I thought you were. You have
made something of a sensation. You say you have no confession to make."
"That I have no confession to make is true, and for the other items I am
glad I please you."
"But you do not please me," returned Sir John. "I should have been more
gratified had you made a confession. I have no son, Barbara."
She put her hand upon his arm in a quick caress, full of sympathy,
knowing how sore a trouble this was to him.
"So you see my interests are centred in you," he went on after a
moment's pause which served to intensify the meaning in his words. "One
of those interests--indeed, the chiefest of them--is your marriage. It
must be a wise marriage, Barbara, one worthy of a Lanison. Have you
never thought of it at all?"
"Never, definitely."
"And yet it is time."
"Yesterday I was a child," she answered, her eyes looking towards the
distant hills. A pair of grey eyes seemed to be watching her.
"You were born before your mother was your age," Sir John answered. "I
was prepared to look with favour upon any man on whom your choice had
fallen. It has fallen on no one, you say."
"I have said so. We must wait a little while. I am very happy as I am."
"I have been thinking for you," said her uncle.
"You mean--Surely you don't want me to marry Judge Marriott?"
"No, Barbara," and he smiled. "I am too young myself yet to care for the
judge as a nephew."
"Ah! We are talking absurdly, aren't we?" she said, and although she
laughed she still looked towards the distant hills. "Of course, I could
never marry a man I didn't love, and to have a man chosen for you would
naturally prevent your loving him, wouldn't it?"
"To advise is not to force, Barbara."
"Who is the man you have thought of?" she asked.
"You cannot guess?"
"Has he grey eyes and a low, strong voice and--"
"Grey eyes!" said Sir John, glancing at her sharply.
"Grey eyes--yes." She had spoken dreamily, only half conscious that she
had put thoughts into words. Now she laughed and went on gaily, "I have
always thought I should like to marry a man with grey eyes. Girls get
fancies like that sometimes. Foolish, isn't it?"
Sir John lifted his shoulders a little as though the point were too
trivial to discuss, and he tried to remember what coloured eyes young
Sydney Fellowes had.
"I am not sure whether Lord Rosmore's eyes are grey or not; I rather
think they are," he said slowly.
"Lord Rosmore!"
Laughter sounded along the terrace, and several people came towards
them, Lord Rosmore and Sydney Fellowes amongst them.
"If his eyes are grey, they are not the shade I like," said Barbara
decidedly, and as Sir John rose she turned and walked along the terrace
in the opposite direction. If her uncle were annoyed at her action he
did not show it as he went to meet his guests.
"I was taking a quiet half-hour to discuss matters with the châtelaine
of the Abbey," he said. "She will worry over small details more than is
needful."
"Perhaps if I go and read her some new verses it will soothe her," said
Fellowes.
"Better wait a more convenient season, unless you would have some of the
servants for your audience," laughed Sir John, as he turned to walk with
Rosmore. "You would find her engaged with them, and domesticities go ill
with poetry."
"Plagued ill with the poetry Fellowes writes," said Branksome; "is that
not true, Mistress Dearmer?"
"I am no judge, since Mr. Fellowes has never made verses for me,"
answered the lady.
"So facile a poet may remedy that on the instant," said Branksome.
"Come, Master Rhymster, there's a kiss from the reddest lips I know
waiting as payment for a stanza."
"They are kisses which are not at your disposal," answered the lady, but
she looked at Fellowes.
"Gad! I believe you may have the kiss without the trouble of earning it,
Fellowes," laughed Branksome. "I can go bail for the goods."
Mistress Dearmer pouted, but the laugh was against her until Fellowes
came to the rescue.
"You shall have a sonnet," he said. "You may pay if you think it
worthy."
Another woman caught Sir Philip's hand and whispered, "The poetry could
hardly be so bad as the kisses are cheap, could it?"
Lord Rosmore and his host had walked to the end of the terrace talking
confidentially.
"I should have said more, but you came to interrupt us," Sir John
replied in answer to a question from his companion.
"You can force her to do as you wish," said Rosmore. "Indeed, if
necessary, you must."
"How?"
"You are her guardian. If your powers are limited, that is no reason you
should tell her so."
"You seem strangely doubtful about your own powers, Rosmore, yet rumour
has it that few women are proof against you."
"She may be one of the few, that is why you have spoken to her. I want
her more than I have ever wanted anything on earth. You--well, if all
else fails, you must force her to marry me."
"There is another alternative," and Sir John stopped and drew himself up
stiffly.
"I don't think you would take it," Rosmore answered carelessly. "I
should not advise you to take it."
"She spoke of grey eyes," said Sir John, as though he were disinclined
to argue the point. "She has thought of some man with grey eyes."
"Tell me all she said--it may be useful," and for some minutes Rosmore
listened attentively while Sir John talked.
"I have more than one way of wooing," Rosmore said presently, "and my
love must condone them all. The siege shall begin forthwith. A man may
win any woman if he is subtle enough; in that conviction lies the secret
of the success with which rumour credits me. I may persuade your niece
to believe my eyes are grey, or perchance charm her into hating grey
eyes henceforth. Where shall I find her, Sir John?"
"Probably in the Nun's Room."
"No place for so desirable a lady, and surely a strange room to have in
Aylingford Abbey," laughed Rosmore. "There are many strange things about
Aylingford which Mistress Barbara must never discover."
Sir John laughed, a forced laugh with a curse underneath it, and his
hands tightened a little as he watched his guest go quickly along the
terrace.
CHAPTER IV
THE NUN OF AYLINGFORD
Before she had taken many steps Barbara regretted that she had not
remained with her uncle. Lord Rosmore must have said something to Sir
John, and would guess that they had been talking about him; it would
have been better to have stayed and shown him by her manner how
distasteful the subject was to her. But she did not turn back. If she
had missed an opportunity, it was certain that many more would be given
her. She even began to wonder whether she really disliked Lord Rosmore;
he had certainly given her no definite cause. In London he had not
attempted to pay her any marked attention, and last night, when he had
bent low over her hand, was the first time there had been anything
noticeable in his behaviour. She liked him better--far better--than
Judge Marriott; Sydney Fellowes hardly counted, and there was no other
man whose coming had pleased her or whose departure had caused her a
single regret. The man who had come to her help at Newgate was a shadow,
a dream. Only curiosity could account for her remembering him. Indeed,
it was doubtful if she did really remember him; were she to meet him she
would probably not know him again. No, she had no ground for disliking
Lord Rosmore. She did not dislike him, but, since he had been chosen for
her, there was ample reason why she could never love him. Any woman
would naturally hate the man she was commanded to love.
She turned from the terrace and, passing through a low doorway from
which the door had gone long ago, entered a wide space enclosed by
ruinous and moss-grown walls. It was open to the sky and littered with
_débris_. At one end the blocked-up entrance from the present house
was distinctly visible; at the other a small door, deeply sunk into the
massive masonry, gave entrance to a small round tower or bastion, which
rose some feet above the walls and overhung the terrace. The tower had
escaped ruin, almost accidentally it would seem, for there were no signs
of any particular care having been expended upon it. This open space had
evidently been chiefly occupied by a large hall, its floor a little
lower than the terrace level, but adjoining the tower end of it there
had been other rooms, for traces of stone steps could be seen in the
wall. In one corner, too, there had been a room below the level of the
floor--indeed, some of the stone flags still projected over it. Its
walls, strong and dungeon-like, were built down some fifteen feet; two
or three narrow slits piercing the outer wall in a sharp upward angle
had evidently given this buried chamber a dim light, and the entrance to
it could only have been from the top, probably by a trap door. Some
_débris_ had fallen into it, but not very much, and creepers had sown
themselves and, climbing over part of the walls to the top, had spread
themselves over a portion of the floor of the hall.
Barbara picked her way across the fallen _débris_ and stood looking
down into this hole for a few minutes. It seemed to possess a certain
fascination for her, as though it were in some way connected with her
history. Then she went to the small door in the tower. It was locked,
and although she knocked several times, and stood back to look up at the
narrow windows above her, there was no sound, and no one answered her
summons. She sat down upon a fallen piece of stonework, and her thoughts
troubled her. Truly, she had come back to a new life. Even that locked
door seemed to have its significance. She did not remember ever to have
found it fastened before when she really wanted to enter.
She turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, and then rose quickly
to her feet.
"What a place to hide in!" exclaimed Lord Rosmore as he came towards
her. "I have never had the curiosity to penetrate into this rubbish heap
before, and behold I am rewarded by finding a jewel."
"I came here to be alone for a little while," she said.
"I came for the same reason."
"You did not follow me?" she asked, evident disbelief in her tone.
"I wish I could say that I had, if it would please you; but, alas! truth
will out. I came to think and to get through a troubled hour where my
fellows could not see me. In this, at least, we can sympathise with each
other it would seem."
"We can talk plainly, perhaps; it will be best," she answered.
"At least, I can explain," said Rosmore; "but won't you be seated again?
That is better," he went on as she sat down, "it seems to make
confession of my fault easier. A little while since I spoke to your
uncle about you. It was unwise, I know that now, but I did not think so
then. Your position and your wealth seemed to make it the honourable
thing to do. Sir John was kind enough to wish me good fortune, and I was
content to wait. It was not my intention that Sir John should say
anything to you, I did not imagine he would do so. Now, I learn that you
have been pestered with my sentiments by proxy, that I have been forced
to your notice. It is enough surely to make me seek solitude, where I
may curse the hard fate that ruins me."
"I thought--"
"I dare not try and understand all you thought," Rosmore interrupted. "I
can only suppose that Sir John meant to be kind, that in some sense he
did not consider me an altogether unworthy alliance; but that I should
ever have my wooing done for me--the idea is maddening! A man could not
take a surer road to a woman's contempt."
"My uncle has made a mistake," said Barbara. "I understand, and you have
my thanks for the explanation."
"And your forgiveness?"
"I hardly think I had become angry."
"You lift my trouble from me with generous hands," said Rosmore. "Truly,
Sir John has made a mistake, his desire perhaps marring his judgment;
but, as truly, I am your humble worshipper. No! please hear me out. In
London I did not thrust myself upon you because I had wit enough to
understand that professions with even a suspicion of lightness in them
were distasteful to you; now, after what has occurred, I am at a
disadvantage, and I have no intention of putting my happiness to the
test at such an inopportune time. For the present look upon me as a
friend who hopes presently to win a greater regard, and who is,
meanwhile, always at your service."
"I thank you," Barbara said, and the man's nerves tingled as she rose
and swept him a graceful curtsy. She had never looked more beautiful,
never so desirable as at that moment. He had conquered so often and so
carelessly that he could not think of failure now.
"So we are friends and our troubles gone," he said gaily. "They are lost
in the _débris_ of this ruinous place. It is strange this part should
have been left in ruins, while the rest of the Abbey has been so
carefully rebuilt and preserved."
"It is because of the Nun of Aylingford."
"A nun! In an Abbey for monks?"
"Strange, but true. I thought everyone knew the story."
"No. Won't you tell it to me?"
"You must look into the Nun's Room first, Lord Rosmore," said Barbara,
and she was so interested in the legend that she forgot to ask herself
whether she liked or disliked her companion as she led the way to the
sunken stone chamber. "Be careful you do not stumble and fall into it,
for it is said that death comes to such a stumbler within the year."
"A fable, of course?" he laughed.
"I have only known one man who fell in. He was helped out unhurt, but he
died within the week. I should not like to fall."
"Give me your hand," he said.
"For your safety or for mine?" she returned. "I am used to this place,
have loved it since I was a child; besides, it is said that the curse
applies only to men. You see, the Nun had pity on her own sex."
Lord Rosmore's hand was still extended, but she did not take it.
"For thirteen years a woman lived in this dungeon. Under the creeper on
yonder wall you can see the stone slab which was her bed. The floor of
the hall shut her up almost in darkness, and from the hour she stepped
down into this room she saw no human face, heard no human voice."
"You stand too close to the opening, Mistress Lanison. I pray you come
back or take my hand."
Barbara stepped back and stood by the wall, facing him.
"Her story is a sad one, sad and cruel," she went on. "She had a lover,
and an enemy who said he loved her. The lover--a knight of prowess--went
to the wars, and on his return was told that the woman he worshipped was
false. He sought for her from one end of the land to the other, still
believing in her, until by some artifice he was brought to believe in
her unfaithfulness. Life had lost all zest for him, and he came here at
last, to Aylingford Abbey, to seek consolation in a life of religion. It
was the enemy who had contrived to keep the lovers apart, telling the
girl also that the knight in whom she trusted was untrue. How she
discovered the lie I do not know, nor does it matter, but when she did
she sought for him as he had sought for her. She heard at last that he
had become a monk, and she presently came to seek him at Aylingford.
Dressed in a monk's gown, she asked for him. They met, and were
discovered by the Abbot just at the moment when she had almost persuaded
him to forsake his vows for love of her. Religion had claimed him
because a lie had deceived him, she argued; therefore no vow could
really bind him. She argued in this way with the Abbot, too, who was a
shrewd man and as cruel as death. The monk, he knew, was no longer a
monk at heart; the woman had penetrated into the Abbey under a false
guise--as a man. No punishment was too severe for such a sin, he said,
and he used religious arguments which could certainly never find an echo
in a merciful heaven. The woman was condemned and lowered into that
room--a nun by force--and there for thirteen years she existed. Once a
day sufficient food to keep her alive was given her through the trap, in
such a manner that she should see no one, and never a word was spoken.
The monk fought for her release in vain, and soon died, raving mad, it
is said. When the nun died, she was carried to the woods beyond the
stream and buried. Village legend has marked a tree, which they call
'Nun's Oak,' as her burying-place, but probably this is fancy. Ever
since that time there has been a curse on this part of the Abbey, and
that is why it has been allowed to go to ruin."
"A sad tale most sweetly told," said Lord Rosmore; "a tale to appeal to
a lover."
"Or it may be to warn a woman how cruel men can be," Barbara answered.
"Some men, not all," he said gently. "The monk in the story went mad for
love. Still, there is a warning, too, not to trust men over easily. The
greatest villains have often good looks to recommend them and can
deceive most easily."
"I think I could tell," said Barbara.
"I wonder," Rosmore answered slowly. "There is often a vein of romance
in a woman which makes her blind. I have thought of this more than once
when thinking of you."
"It would seem I have troubled you a great deal in one way or another,
Lord Rosmore."
"Some day, when you have forgotten that you were inclined to hate me, I
may tell you how much. Yet there is one thing I might tell you now, as a
friend, in case there should be much of this vein of romance in you."
"Yes, as a friend."
"Newgate--the trial day of the highwayman, Galloping Hermit."
He spoke abruptly, after a moment's pause, and had his intention been to
startle her he could hardly have employed a better method.
"I see you remember it," he said. "Lady Bolsover should not have taken
you, it was no place for a woman--indeed, she and I almost quarrelled
about it afterwards. You may remember I was with Lady Bolsover when
that--that gentleman brought you out of the crowd, the mysterious person
who did not want to be seen."
"Yes, I remember," she said quietly.
"A good-looking man, yet--"
"You knew him, Lord Rosmore?"
"Well enough to follow him; but I failed to find him."
"Why should you follow him?"
"You would hardly understand," he returned. "It is a matter concerned
with politics. This you know, however, that the King has enemies.
Monmouth plots in Holland, the Duke of Argyll is being defeated in
Scotland. Well, Mistress Lanison, there are traitors and traitors--those
that one may at least recognise as brave men, and others who are
cowardly curs. Of the first is Argyll and, perhaps, Monmouth; of the
second are those who promote rebellion from safe hiding-holes, and never
show themselves to take a hand in the fighting. There is a rascal hiding
from the officers of justice now--one Danvers--who is of this second
kind, a scurrilous fellow who is willing to barter the lives of better
men, but dares nothing himself. He is one of a gang. The man who came to
your rescue at Newgate is a companion of his. I have wondered whether
you have seen him since."
"At least it was courteous of him to come to my rescue," Barbara said.
"Never was there a man yet who had not a good instinct on occasion.
Besides, the basest of men would not fail to grasp the opportunity of
doing a service to a beautiful woman."
"I was almost crying, and in that condition I am positively repulsive,"
she answered, almost as if she were angry at being spoken of as a
beautiful woman. "What is the name of this man?"
"He calls himself Crosby--Gilbert Crosby. Probably he has no right to
the name. He is a dangerous and a clever man--dangerous because he plots
and schemes while other men act, clever because he skilfully manages to
evade the law. Many people find it difficult to believe ill of him, for
he has all the appearance of a courageous gentleman."
"I am among those people difficult to convince," said Barbara.
"Exactly, hence my warning," said Rosmore. "You noted how quickly he
disappeared. He saw me, and had no desire to face a man who knows him
for what he is. Those grey eyes of his were sharper than mine or he
would not have escaped so easily."
Barbara glanced at him quickly, wondering how much of their conversation
her uncle had repeated, but Lord Rosmore did not appear to notice her
look.
"And if you had found him?" she asked.
"I should have forced a quarrel on some pretext or other, and so
contrived that he could not have run away without giving me
satisfaction. By killing him I should have done a public service, and,
for my own honour, I should have snapped the sword I had been compelled
to stain with the blood of so contemptible a person. You smile, Mistress
Lanison. Why?"
"At your vindictiveness, and at a thought which came into my mind."
"May I know it?"
"I was wondering what this Mr.--did you say the name was Crosby?--would
have done with his sword had he proved equal to reversing the issue of
the quarrel."
"Ah! I wonder," and Lord Rosmore laughed, but not good-naturedly. "I
have faith enough in my skill to believe that it can successfully defend
you whenever you may have need of it."
She turned towards the doorway opening on to the terrace, but having
taken two or three hasty steps, as if desirous of bringing the interview
to a speedy end, she stopped and faced him:
"Lord Rosmore, this highwayman, this Galloping Hermit; he is not dead,
you know that?"
"Judge Marriott will not allow us to forget it," he laughed. "Give him
the slightest opportunity, and he will tell of his adventure on Burford
Heath half a dozen times in the day."
"Who is this Galloping Hermit?" Barbara asked, almost as though she
expected a definite answer to the question.
"Could I satisfy that curiosity I should be quite a famous person," he
said. "Scores of men envy him his reputation and half the women of
fashion are in love with him."
"Is he this Gilbert Crosby, think you?"
"Why should you suggest such a thing?" Rosmore asked sharply. "Were they
grey eyes which peeped through the brown mask that night?"
"I could not see; and, besides, I do not belong to that half of the
women of fashion."
"Truly, if you did you would be in no bad company. I have a sneaking
fondness for the fellow myself, and it has been my ill-fortune never to
meet him. By all accounts he is a gallant scoundrel, with a nerve of
iron, whereas Crosby--Oh, no, whoever Galloping Hermit may be, he is
not Gilbert Crosby."
Lord Rosmore did not follow Barbara on to the terrace. He had made his
peace with her, and had succeeded in establishing a definite
understanding between them. She accepted his friendship--that counted
for a great deal with such a woman. It would be strange if he could not
turn it into love. Yet he was conscious that this was to be no easy
triumph, no opportunity must be neglected, and his busy brain was full
of schemes for bending circumstances to further his desires.
A little later, as he slowly crossed one of the stone bridges towards
the woods, he saw Barbara sitting on the terrace, and Sydney Fellowes
standing before her reading from sheets of paper in his hand.
"I cannot write verses to please her, that is certain," he mused. "She
cannot care for Fellowes, his eyes are not grey. It is this fellow
Crosby she thinks of, and of a highwayman, perhaps. A strange pair of
rivals, truly! Sydney Fellowes might be useful, besides--" Some
brilliant idea seemed to take sudden possession of him, for there was
excitement in his step as he crossed the bridge quickly and disappeared
into the woods beyond.
Neither Barbara nor Fellowes noticed Lord Rosmore, nor were either of
them thinking of him. Fellowes was absorbed in reading his verses to the
best advantage. Barbara, while apparently listening intently to her
companion, was wondering if the man who had come more often into her
thoughts than perhaps she had realised could possibly be a scoundrel and
a coward.
CHAPTER V
CHILDREN OF THE DEVIL
Although Barbara Lanison had found that life at the Abbey was different
since her return from London, and had concluded that the true reason lay
in the fact that she was now considered a woman, whereas before she had
been looked upon as a child only, she did not at once appreciate how
great the difference really was. Her uncle seemed a little doubtful how
to treat her. He talked a great deal about her taking her place as
mistress of the house, yet he made little attempt to have this position
recognised. The guests, especially the women, while quite willing to
admit her as one of themselves, did not even pretend to consider her
their hostess, and, on the whole, Sir John seemed quite contented that
they should not do so. He seemed rather relieved whenever Barbara
withdrew herself from the general company, as she constantly did, and
those who knew Sir John best found him more natural when his niece was
not present.
Since she only saw him when, as his intimates declared, he was under a
certain restraint, Barbara had not much opportunity of forming a clear
judgment of her uncle. He had been very kind to her ever since she had
come to Aylingford as a little child, and if his manner towards her had
changed recently she hardly noticed it. Under the circumstances she
would not easily be ready to criticise. But in the case of the guests
the change was not only very marked, but increasingly so, particularly
with the women. Whereas the men, chivalrous in spite of themselves,
perhaps, showed her a certain amount of deference, the women seemed to
resent her. It was so soon apparent that she had nothing in common with
them that they appeared to combine to shock her. Mistress Dearmer led
the laughter at what she termed Barbara's country manners and prudery.
There were few things in heaven or earth exempt from the ridicule of
Mrs. Dearmer's tongue, and it was a loose tongue, full of coarse tales
and licentious wit. She was a pretty woman, which, from the men's point
of view, seemed to add piquancy to her scandalous conversation, but the
fact only made Barbara's ears tingle the more. Mrs. Dearmer was in the
fashion; Barbara knew that, for even at Lady Bolsover's she had often
been made to blush, but she had never heard in St. James's Square a
tithe of the ribaldry which assailed her at the Abbey.
It was natural, perhaps, that Barbara Lanison should propound a problem
to herself. Was she foolish to resent what was little more than the
fashion of the day? These people were her uncle's guests, honoured
guests surely, since they had come to Aylingford so often. Would he
countenance anything to which there was any real objection? She would
have asked him, but found no opportunity. For two or three days after
his talk with her about Lord Rosmore she hardly saw him, and never for a
moment alone. More guests arrived, and it was during these days that
Mrs. Dearmer's conversation became more daring. On two occasions Barbara
had got up and walked away, followed by a burst of laughter--she thought
at her modesty, but it might have been at Mrs. Dearmer's tale.
On the second occasion Sydney Fellowes followed her as soon as he could
do so without undue comment.
"Why did you go?" he asked.
"That woman maddens me."
"Yes, she is--the fact is, you ought not to be here."
"Not be here!" she exclaimed. "This is my home. It is she who ought not
to be here. I shall speak to my uncle."
"Wait! Have a little patience," said Fellowes. "After all, she is Mrs.
Dearmer, a lady of fashion, a lady who has been to Court. You would be
astonished at the power she wields in certain directions. In these days
the world is not censorious, and is apt to laugh at those who are."
"If you merely came to defend that woman, I am in the mood to like your
absence better than your company."
"I hate her," Fellowes answered. "I think I hate all women now that I
have known one beautiful, pure ideal. Oh, do not misunderstand me. I
look up at a star to worship its dazzling brightness, and I would not
have it come to earth for any purpose. You are too far removed from Mrs.
Dearmer to understand her, nor can she possibly appreciate you. To fight
her would be to fail, just now at any rate--even Sir John would laugh at
you."
"You speak seriously?"
"Intentionally. I am a very debased fellow. A dozen men will tell you
so, and women too for that matter, but I can appreciate the good,
although I am incapable of rising to its level. I recognise it from the
gutter, but I go on lying in the gutter. There is only one person on the
earth who can pick me out and keep me out."
"I should not suppose there was a person in the world who would consider
such a man worth such a labour," said Barbara.
"No doubt you are right, and that is why I must remain in the gutter."
He looked, in every way, so exactly the opposite of anyone doomed to
such a resting-place that Barbara laughed.
"I suppose you know who that person is?" he said.
"At least I know that any woman would be a fool to attempt such an
unprofitable task," she answered. "If I thought you were really speaking
the truth, I should hate you. You would not be worthy the name of a man,
and even a Mrs. Dearmer, in her more reasonable moments, would despise
you."
Fellowes looked at her for a moment.
"I wish my mother had lived to make a better man of me," he said
abruptly, and turned and left her.
Barbara had become so accustomed to Sydney Fellowes' sudden and
changeable moods that she thought little of his words, or his manner of
leaving her. Yet, to the man had come a sudden flash of repentance, not
lasting but real enough for the moment, holding him until the next
temptation came in his path. He did not seek his companions, but crossed
one of the bridges, and plunged into the woods, cursing himself and
feeling out of tune with the rest of the world. Two hours later he and
Lord Rosmore came back together, slowly, and talking eagerly. Fellowes,
like many other quite young men, had a profound admiration for Lord
Rosmore, and his opinion upon any matter carried weight.
"You have not sufficient faith in yourself, Fellowes," Rosmore said as
they crossed the bridge. "That is the trouble."
"It is easily remedied," was the answer.
"That is the spirit which brings victory," said Rosmore, patting his
companion on the shoulder.
The guests who had arrived during the last two or three days had
introduced a noisier and wilder element into the Abbey. Barbara was
puzzled at her uncle's attitude, and retired from the company as much as
possible. This evening she left early, pretending no excuse as hitherto
she had done. She wanted her uncle to understand, and question her.
Surely he must do so if she were rude to his guests. A burst of laughter
followed her withdrawal.
"You must be a Puritan in disguise, Abbot John, to have such a niece,"
said Mrs. Dearmer; and then she turned and whispered something into the
ear of Sir Philip Branksome that might have made him blush had he been
capable of such a thing. Sir John seemed mightily entertained at the
lady's suggestion. He laughed aloud, cursed Puritans generously, and
drank deeply to their ultimate perdition.
There is ever some restraint in vice when virtue is present, but with
Barbara's departure all restraint seemed to vanish. There were probably
degrees in the viciousness of these men and women, but, as a whole, it
would have been difficult to bring together a more abandoned company.
High play was here, and the ruin of many a man's fortune. Honour, save
of the spurious sort, held no man in check, and virtue was as dross.
Debauchery of every kind was practised openly and unashamedly. Vice was
enthroned in this temple, and her ribald followers bowed the head. This
was Aylingford Abbey, built for worship long ago, therefore worship
should be in it now. "We will be monks and nuns of the devil," some
genius in wickedness had cried one evening, and the suggestion had been
hailed with delight. This was their foundation, so they had called
themselves ever since, and Sir John Lanison delighted to be the "Abbot"
of such a community. They chose a sign whereby they might be known to
one another in the world--the slow tracing of a circle on the forehead
with the forefinger--and they bound themselves by an oath to their
master to love him and all his works, and to eschew all that was called
good. It had often been noticed how many persons of condition, who
seemed to be at one with Sir John in politics, had never been offered
the hospitality of Aylingford. The true reason had never been divulged.
If, as had chanced on one or two occasions, guests had been there who
knew nothing of these debaucheries, the devil's children present
dissembled, and affected to yawn over the dull entertainment provided by
Sir John. The secret of the Abbey had never leaked out, nor did it
appear that any man or woman, desirous of betraying it, had ever found
an entrance into the community. Once, a year ago, a woman had whispered
her suspicion of a man, and he was found dead in his lodging in Pall
Mall before he had time to speak of what he knew, even if he intended to
do so.
As he was popular in the county, passing for a God-fearing gentleman, so
Sir John Lanison was popular as the devil's "Abbot." There were few who
could surpass him in wickedness, but he was a man of moods, and there
were times when fear peered out of his eyes. He was superstitious,
finding omens when he gambled at basset, and premonitions in all manner
of foolish signs. He had played this evening with ill success, he had
drunk deeply, and was inclined to be quarrelsome.
"The Abbot is wanting to make us all do penance," laughed Fellowes, who
some time since had parted with sobriety. "I'll read him these verses to
pacify him; they would make an angry devil collapse into a chuckle. Mrs.
Dearmer inspired them, so you may guess how wicked they are."
"Always verses--nothing but verses," said Rosmore, who had drunk little
and seemed to watch his companions with amusement.
"No woman was ever won by poetry," said a girl in Fellowes' ear. "Try
some other way."
"What way?"
The girl whispered to him, laughing the while. She was very pretty, very
innocent to look upon.
"Women must be carried by assault, gloriously, as a besieged city is,"
roared Branksome from the other end of the room. "The lover who attempts
to starve them into surrender is a fool, and gets ridiculed for his
pains. What do you say, Rosmore?"
"Nothing. There are many ladies who can explain my methods better than I
can."
Mrs. Dearmer laughed, and desired a lesson forthwith.
"My dear lady, there would be too many lovers to call me to account for
my presumption," Rosmore answered.
"Branksome is right," said Mrs. Dearmer. "Take a woman by force or not
at all. She loves a desperate man. His desperation and overriding of all
convention do homage to her. I never yet met the virtue that could stand
against such an assault."
"She is right, Sydney," whispered the girl to Fellowes, her hands
suddenly clasped round his arm.
Fellowes looked down into her face, and a strange expression came into
his own.
"I believe she is," he said almost passionately. "I believe she is.
There's no woman so virtuous that--"
"None," whispered the girl.
Fellowes laughed, and shook himself free from her.
"I'll drink to success, and then--" He stumbled as he rose to his feet,
and, recovering himself, laughed at Sir John. "You shall have the verses
another time, Abbot; I have other things to do just now."
He called a servant, and talked to him in a low voice.
"Yes, blockhead, I said the hall," he exclaimed in a louder voice. "The
hall in ten minutes, and if she isn't there I'll come and let the life
out of you for a lazy scoundrel who cannot carry a message. A drink with
you, reverend Abbot--a liquid benediction on me."
Lord Rosmore watched him, but Sir John took no notice of him. Sir John's
thoughts were wandering, and had anyone been watching him closely they
might have seen fear looking out of his eyes. A candle on a table near
him spluttered and burnt crookedly.
"That means disaster," he muttered, and then he turned to Lord Rosmore
fiercely, though he spoke in an undertone. "You were a fool to let me
bring her back."
It was evident that he had made a similar statement to his companion
before, for Rosmore showed no surprise or ignorance of his meaning.
"I shall take her away presently, her lover and deliverer. In this case
it is the best method."
"And let her curse me?"
"No. I shall promise to deliver you and bring about your redemption."
"A devilish method," said Sir John.
"One must work with the tools that are to hand," said Rosmore with a
shrug of his shoulders.
"But when? When?"
"Perhaps in a few short hours. Wait! Wait, Sir John. It seems to me that
opportunity is in the air to-night."
"And disaster," said Sir John, glancing at the spluttering candle. Lord
Rosmore made no comment--perhaps did not hear the words, for he was
intent upon watching Sydney Fellowes, who was standing near a door which
opened into the hall. No one else appeared to notice him, not even the
pretty girl he had spurned. She was too much engaged in consoling a
youth who had lost heavily at basset.
Barbara was dull in her room. The silence was oppressive, for no sounds
of the riotous company reached her there, and the pale moonlight on the
terrace below, and over the sleeping woods, seemed to throw a mist of
sadness over the world. She had opened the casement, and for a time had
puzzled over her uncle and his strange guests. Something must be going
forward at the Abbey of which she was ignorant. Sydney Fellowes must
know this, and there had been more meaning in his words than she had
imagined. Why ought she not to be at the Abbey? And then her thoughts
wandered to another man who had found her in a place where no woman
ought to be, and she remembered all Lord Rosmore had said about him.
Looking out on the quiet, sleeping world, so full of mystery and the
unknown, it was easy to fall into a reverie, to indulge in speculations
which, waking again, she would hardly remember; easy to lose all count
of time. Once, at some distance along the terrace towards the servants'
quarters, there was the sound of slow footsteps and a low laugh. There
were two shadows in the moonlight--a man's and a woman's. Some serving
maid had found love, for the low laugh was a happy one, and some man,
perchance no more than a groom, had suddenly become a hero in a girl's
eyes. Unconsciously perhaps, Barbara sighed. That girl was happier than
she was.
A gentle knock came at her door, and a man stood there.
"Mr. Fellowes sent me. Will you see him in the hall in ten minutes. It
is important; he must see you. 'It is for your own sake.' Those were his
own words, madam."
Barbara received the message, but gave no answer, and the man departed.
Had the message come from anyone but Sydney Fellowes she would have
taken no notice of it, but, remembering what he had said to her, this
request assumed importance. She was more likely to discover the truth
about the Abbey from Sydney Fellowes than from anyone else.
There was only a dim light in the great hall--candles upon a table at
the far end. The moonlight came through the painted windows, staining
the stone floor here and there with misty colours. There was no movement
near her, but the sound of voices and laughter came from the chamber
beyond--the one from which she had angrily departed some time ago. Now
the voices were hushed to a murmur, now they were loud, and the laughter
was irresponsible. How she hated the sound of it, and that shriller
note, peculiarly persistent for a moment, was Mrs. Dearmer's. No
Christian feeling could prevent her from hating that woman.
Barbara crossed to the wide hearth and waited.
A door opened suddenly; there was the rustling of the curtain which hung
over it being thrust aside, a shaft of light shot across the hall for a
moment, and the sounds of voices and laughter were loud, then the door
closed again sharply. There were a few hasty steps, and then silence.
"You sent me a message, Mr. Fellowes."
In a moment he was beside her.
"Barbara!"
She stepped back as though the sound of her own name startled her.
"I love you. Women were made for love--you above all women. You think I
can only scribble poetry--you are wrong! I mean to--Barbara, my
Barbara!"
"You insult me, Mr. Fellowes."
He caught her in his arms as she turned away from him.
"Insult! Nonsense! Love insults no woman. You are mine--mine! I take you
as it is right a man should take a woman."
She struggled to free herself, but could not. She did not want to cry
out.
"You remembered your mother to-day, remember her now," she panted.
The wine fumes were in his head, confusion in his brain; reason had left
her seat for a while, and truth was distorted.
"I do remember her," he answered, speaking low but wildly. "She was a
woman. A man took her, as I take you; wooed her, loved her as I love
you. I do remember--that is why you are mine to-night."
She struggled again. She did not want to cry out. There was no man in
that room she wished to call upon to defend her--not even her uncle.
Evil seemed to surround her. Had any other man touched her like this,
she would have called to Sydney Fellowes, so far had she believed in him
and trusted him.
"Barbara, you shall love me!" he went on, holding her so that she was
powerless. "Love shall be sealed, my lips on yours."
"Help! Save me from this man!" Her fierce, angry cry woke the echoes. In
a moment there was the sound of hurrying feet, the sudden opening of a
door, and again a shaft of light cut through the hall. Men and women
rushed in from the adjoining room with loud and eager inquiry. Then Sir
John, closely followed by Lord Rosmore.
"Quick! More lights!" he said. "Who is it screaming for help?"
"Is it some serving-maid in distress?" cried Branksome.
"Or a fool too honest to be kissed," laughed a woman.
"Barbara!" Sir John's exclamation was almost a whisper. Lights were in
the hall now, brought hastily from the room beyond. Some had been put
down in the first place that offered, some were still held by the
guests. Fellowes had turned to face this wild interruption, and Barbara
had wrenched herself free from his arms as he did so.
"A love passage!" laughed Fellowes. "Why interfere?"
"He insulted me!" said Barbara.
"My niece is--"
"Leave this to me, Sir John," said Rosmore, laying a hand upon his
shoulder.
"That's right, Rosmore, and leave me to my wooing," cried Fellowes.
"You cur! You shall repent this night's folly," said Rosmore.
"Excellent! Excellent! You should have been a mummer. This is glorious
comedy!" and Fellowes laughed aloud. "What! A hint of tragedy in it,
too!"
A naked sword was in Rosmore's hand.
"A woman's honour must be defended," hissed Rosmore.
"Gad! I'll not spoil the play for want of pantomime," cried Fellowes,
still laughing. "Why don't you all laugh at such excellent fooling?"
"There is no laughter in this," said Rosmore, and Fellowes' face grew
suddenly serious.
"This is real? You mean it?" he said.
"I mean it."
"Devil's whelp that you are!" Fellowes cried. "Between two scoundrels
may God help the least debased."
In an instant there was the ring of steel and the quick flash of the
blades as the light caught them.
Sir John had made a step forward to interfere, but had hesitated and
stopped. No one else moved, and there was silence as steel touched
steel--breathless silence. For a moment Barbara was hardly conscious of
what was happening about her. It seemed only an instant ago that she had
cried out, and now naked swords and the shadow of death. Lord Rosmore's
face looked evil, sinister, devilish. Fellowes was flushed with wine,
unsteady, taken by surprise. There came to Barbara the sudden conviction
that in some manner Fellowes had fallen into a trap. He had insulted
her, but the wine was the cause, and Rosmore had seized the opportunity
for his own ends. She tried to speak, but could not. There was a fierce
lunge, real and deadly meaning in it, an unsteady parry which barely
turned swift death aside, and then a sudden low sound from several
voices, and an excited shuffle of feet. Barbara had rushed forward and
thrown herself between the fighters.
"This is mere trickery," she cried. "You play a coward's part, my lord,
fighting with a drunken man."
"He insulted you--that sufficed for me."
"I did not ask you to punish him," she answered.
She faced Lord Rosmore, shielding Fellowes, who was behind her. Now
Fellowes gently touched her arm.
"Grant me your pardon, Mistress Lanison, and then let me pay the
penalty," he said.
She had thrust out her arm to keep him behind her, when the big door at
the end of the hall opening on to the terrace was flung open, and on the
threshold stood a tall figure, dark and distinct against the moonlit
world beyond. His garments were of nondescript fashion, but his pose was
not without grace. Under one arm he carried a fiddle, and the bow was in
his hand. He raised it and waved it in a sort of benediction.
"Give you greeting, ladies and gentlemen--and news besides. Monmouth has
landed at Lyme, and all the West Country is aflame with rebellion."
CHAPTER VI
MAD MARTIN
The sudden interruption served to relax the tension in the hall. There
was the quick shuffling of feet, as though these men and women had
suddenly been released from some power which had struck them motionless,
and eager faces were turned towards the doorway. Barbara did not move.
Her eyes were still fixed on Lord Rosmore's face, her arm was still
outstretched to prevent a renewal of the fight.
The man stood in the doorway for a moment with his bow raised, pleased,
it seemed, with the sensation he had caused. He had spoken in rather a
high-pitched voice, almost as if his words were set to a monotonous
chant or had a poetic measure in them.
"It is only that mad fool Martin Fairley," said Branksome.
"What is this news?" Sir John asked. His anger seemed to have gone, and
he spoke gently.
"That depends," said Martin, advancing into the hall with a step which
appeared to time itself with some unheard rhythm. "That depends on who
it is who hears it. Good news for those who hate King James; bad for
those who love priests and popery. How can such a mad fool as I am, Sir
Philip Branksome, guess to which side so many gallant gentlemen and fair
ladies may lean?"
There was grace, and some mockery perhaps, in the low bow he made, his
arms wide extended, the fiddle in one hand, the bow in the other; and
then, slowly standing erect again, he appeared to notice Barbara for the
first time.
"Drawn swords!" he exclaimed, "and my lady of Aylingford between them.
Another legend for the Abbey in the making--eh, Sir John? I must write a
song upon it, or else Mr. Fellowes shall. If his sword is as facile as
his pen, my Lord Rosmore, 'tis a marvel you are alive."
"This fool annoys me, Sir John. I am not in the mood for jesting."
"That, at least, is good news," said Martin, "for in this Monmouth
affair there is no jest but real fighting to be done. Will you not save
your strength for one side or the other?"
"Peace, Martin," said Sir John. "We must hear more of this news of yours
at once. And you, gentlemen, will you not put up your swords at my
niece's request?"
"I drew it to play a dishonourable part," said Fellowes. "I used it to
defend a worthless life. Do you command its sheathing, Mistress Lanison?"
"Yes," and she still looked at Lord Rosmore as she spoke.
"Since Mr. Fellowes has apologised, and you have commanded, I have no
alternative," said Rosmore. "If Mr. Fellowes resents my attitude he may
find a time and an opportunity to force me to a better one."
"Come, Martin, we must hear the whole story," said Sir John, and then he
whispered to Rosmore as they crossed the hall together: "He is certain
to be right, Martin invariably hears news, good or bad, before anyone
else."
"May we all hear it?" asked Mrs. Dearmer.
"Why, surely," Martin Fairley exclaimed. "Monmouth was always
interesting to ladies, and he may, as likely as not, set up his court at
St. James's before another moon is at the full."
They followed Sir John and Lord Rosmore back into the room which they
had left so hurriedly a few moments ago, and as Martin Fairley went in
after them he drew his bow across the strings of his fiddle, sounding
just half a dozen quick notes in a little laughing cadenza.
"He is going to sing his tale to us," said Branksome, rather bored with
the whole proceeding.
"He is quite mad," answered Mrs. Dearmer, "but I fancy Abbot John is
somewhat afraid of him."
The little sequence of notes made Barbara Lanison start, she had heard
it so often. When she was a child Martin had told her fairy tales, and
he constantly finished the story by playing just these notes, a sort of
musical comment to the end of a tale in which prince and princess lived
happily ever afterwards. When he had been thinking out some difficult
point he would play this cadenza as a sign that he had come to a
decision. Once when Barbara had been ill, and got well again, he had
played it two or three times in rapid succession. If he declared he was
busy when Barbara wanted to go to him, he would tell her she might come
when she heard his fiddle laugh, and these notes were the laugh, always
the same notes. They had evidently some meaning for him, and they had
come to have a meaning for Barbara. They were a link between her and
this strange mad friend of hers. When she heard them she always felt
that Martin had something to tell her, or could help her in any
difficulty she was in at the moment.
"Mistress Lanison."
She started. She was almost unconscious that the people who had
surrounded her just now had gone and closed the door. She was alone in
the hall with Sydney Fellowes, from whom a few moments ago she had cried
out to be delivered.
"Mistress Lanison, I ask your pardon for to-night. Forget it, blot it
out of your memory, if you can. If some day you would deign to set me a
task whereby I might prove my repentance, I swear you shall be humbly
served. Against your will, perhaps, you have picked me out of the
gutter. Please God, I'll keep out of it. Thank you for all you have done
for me."
He spoke hurriedly, giving her no opportunity to answer him, and then
turned and left her, going out through the door which opened on to the
terrace, and which still stood open. Had he waited Barbara would not
have answered him, perhaps; she was not thinking of him, but of Martin
Fairley and the laugh of his fiddle. The sound of Fellowes's retreating
footsteps had died into silence before she turned and went out slowly on
to the terrace, closing the door quietly behind her.
The fiddle, with the bow beside it, lay on the table near its master, a
strange master, whose moods were as varying as are those of an April
day. Mad Martin he was called, and he was known and loved in all the
villages for miles round Aylingford. He and his fiddle brought mirth to
many a simple festival, and in time of trouble it was strange how
helpful were the words and presence of this madman. Martin Fairley was
not as other men, the village folk said, he was not sane and ordinary as
they were, he was to be pitied, and must often be treated as a wayward
child. Yet there were times when he seemed to see visions, when the
invisible spirits of that world with which he was in touch whispered
into his ear things of which men knew nothing. He was suddenly endowed
with knowledge above his fellows, and the whole aspect of the man
changed. At such times the villagers were a little afraid of him and
spoke under their breath of magic and the black art. Even Sir John
Lanison was not free from this fear of his strange dependent. He never
spoke roughly to him, never checked him, never questioned his goings and
comings. Sometimes, half-jestingly it seemed, he asked his advice, and
whatever Martin said was always considered. As often as not the advice
given took the form of a parable, and, no matter how absurd it sounded,
Sir John invariably tried to understand its meaning.
Martin Fairley had come to the Abbey one winter's night soon after
Barbara Lanison had been brought there. He had come out of the woods,
struggling against a hurricane of wind across one of the bridges, his
fiddle cuddled in his arms for protection. He had begged for food and
shelter, and then, warm and satisfied, he had played to the company
gathered round the Abbey fire, had told them strange tales, and, with a
light laugh, had declared that he was the second child to come to the
good Sir John Lanison for care and protection, first the little niece,
now the poor fool. Someone told Sir John that there was luck in keeping
such a fool about the place, and whether it was that he believed it, or
really felt pity for the homeless wanderer, Martin Fairley had been
allowed to remain at the Abbey ever since, a willing slave to Barbara
Lanison, an inconsequent person who must not be interfered with. Perhaps
he was twenty years old when he came, strong and lithe of limb then, and
to-day he was hardly changed, older-looking, of course, but still lithe
in his movements. Mentally, his development had been curious. His powers
had both increased and decreased. There were times when he was silent,
depressed, when his mind was a complete blank, and whatever words he
might utter were totally without meaning; but there were other times
when his eyes were alight with intelligence, when his wit was as keen as
a well-tempered blade, and his whole appearance one of resolute energy
and competent action.
He was keen to-night as he told the story of Monmouth's landing.
"Lyme went mad at his coming," he said. "His address was read from the
market cross, and the air rang again with shouts of 'Monmouth! and the
Protestant faith!' As captain-general of that faith has he come, and the
people flock to his blue standard and scatter flowers in his path. The
Whig aristocracy will rise to a man, it is said, and London fly to arms.
The King and his Parliament tremble and turn pale, and the train-bands
of Devon are only awaiting the opportunity to join the Duke. All the
West is in arms."
"How did you hear the news?" asked Sir John.
"It flies in all directions; you have only to listen."
"We have heard nothing," said Rosmore contemptuously.
"Ah, but these walls are thick," said Martin, "and wine makes people
dull of hearing, while the company of fair ladies breeds disinclination
to hear. Perhaps, too, you were making a noise over your play."
"I am inclined to think it is all a tale," said Branksome. "Before this
we have known you to dream prodigiously, Martin."
"True. I dreamed last night as I lay on a bed of hay in a loft, with my
fiddle for company, that all the gentleman at the Abbey had flown to
fight for Monmouth."
"A stupid dream," said a man who was a Whig, and whose mind was full of
doubt as to what his course of action must be should Monmouth's landing
be a fact.
"And I come back to find two gentlemen fighting in the hall," Martin
went on. "Were you trying to rob King James of a supporter, my lord?"
Rosmore laughed.
"No, Martin; I was endeavouring to punish a man for insulting a lady."
"Truly the world is upside down when it falls to your lot to play such a
part as that," was the answer.
"How many men has Monmouth?" asked Sir John, silencing the laugh against
Lord Rosmore.
"They come by the hundreds, 'tis a labour to write down their names fast
enough. From the ploughs, from the fields, from the shops they come;
their tools turned into implements of war even as Israel faced the
Philistines long ago. Men cut loose the horses from the carts and turn
them into chargers; labourers bind their scythes to poles and carry
reaping-hooks for swords; the Mendip miners shoulder their picks making
a brave front; and here and there a clerk may wield a ruler for want of
a better weapon. And night and day they drill, march, and countermarch.
The cause is at their heart and no leader need feel shame at such a
host."
"A rabble," said Rosmore.
"A rabble that will not run counts for much, my lord, and Monmouth is no
mean general as those who fought at Bothwell Bridge know well."
"You talk as though you were a messenger from Monmouth himself," said
Rosmore. "Were you a witness of the landing?"
"No, no; my fiddle and I have been to a wedding--besides, I am far too
changeable a fellow to take sides," said Martin. "Were I for Monmouth
to-night, I might wake to-morrow morning and find myself for King James.
I shall make a song of victory so worded that it will serve for either
side. Were I Monmouth's messenger I should have made certain of my
company before telling my news. You may all be for the King; that would
be to send you marching against Monmouth. He does not want such a
messenger as I am. Do you march early to-morrow, Sir John?"
"Not so soon as that, I think, Martin."
"And you, Lord Rosmore?"
"Is it worth while marching at all against such a rabble?" was the
answer.
Martin took up his fiddle.
"You, Sir Philip, will hardly leave the ladies, I suppose? Like me, you
are no fighting man."
Sir Philip Branksome chose to consider himself a very great fighting
man, and every acquaintance he had knew it. His angry retort was drowned
in the laughter which assailed him on all sides, and by the time the
laughter had ended Martin Fairley had left the room.
"That madman knows too much," said Rosmore, turning to Sir John. "You
give him too great licence. Had I anything to do with him I should slit
that wagging tongue of his."
"He talks too freely to be dangerous," said Sir John. "His news is
doubtless true, and we--which side do we favour?"
Mrs. Dearmer propounded a question.
"Does it not depend upon which is the good? If popery, then Monmouth and
the Protestants claim us; if Protestantism, then must we die for King
James and all the evil he meditates."
"A fair abbess reminding us of our rules," said Branksome. "Would not
the most wicked course be to do nothing, and then side with the victor?"
"That madman seems to have spoken shrewdly when he said you did not like
fighting," said a girl beside him.
"There is evil to be done whichever side we fight for," said Rosmore. "I
see more personal advantage in fighting for King James, and should
anyone be able to persuade Fellowes to throw in his lot with Monmouth he
will do me a service. The world grows too small to hold us both."
"At least I hope that all my lovers will not fall victims to the
rabble," said Mrs. Dearmer. "Abbot John, you at least must stay at the
Abbey to keep me merry."
* * * * *
Martin Fairley tucked his fiddle under his arm and went quickly down the
terrace. As he approached the doorway leading into the ruined hall a man
came out of the shadows.
"My brother poet!" Martin exclaimed. "You have left the revel early,
brother!"
"Can you be serious, Martin, and understand me clearly?" asked Fellowes.
"It happens that I am rather serious just now," was the answer.
"Martin, I was a scoundrel to-night," said Fellowes, catching him by the
arm. "I might plead wine as an excuse, but I will not, or love, which I
dare not. All women are to be won, you know the roué's damnable creed. I
was in despair; a few words from a pure woman's lips had convinced me of
my unworthiness, and then I met Rosmore. He ridiculed me; suggested,
even, that my love was returned, goaded me to play the lover wilfully
and as a man who will not be beaten. Then the wine and the sham courage
that is in it drove me on. I sent a lying message, and she came to the
hall yonder. I would not let her go, and she cried out. In a moment they
came hurrying in upon us, Rosmore with them. They would have turned it
to comedy, laughed at her, applauded me; but Rosmore, Martin, drew his
sword to defend her--he had played for the opportunity. Had any other
man but Rosmore faced me I should say nothing, but he is worse even than
I am. You saw the end."
"She was shielding you," said Martin.
"I know. I do not count, but Rosmore desires her, Martin. He thought to
stand high with her by killing me to-night. She must never belong to
Lord Rosmore. She will listen to you, Martin--she always does, she
always has."
"Would you make a Cupid's messenger of me, Mr. Fellowes?"
"Fool! I tell you I am nothing. Save her from Rosmore, that is your
mission. My sword, my life are at her service, she knows that, and
probably would not use them, no matter what her peril might be; but you,
some day, might use me on her behalf, without her knowledge. Take this
paper; it is the name of my lodging in town. Keep it. Do you understand?
To-morrow I leave the Abbey."
"To join Monmouth?"
"To try and do what is right," Fellowes answered, "and find a worthy
death, if possible, to atone for an unworthy life."
"A new day will change your mood," said Martin.
"Think so if you will, only keep the paper, and save her from Rosmore."
As he turned away Martin caught his arm.
"There was once a man like you," he said, "a man who loved like you, who
was a scoundrel like you. Suddenly an angel touched him, and in great
pain he turned aside into a rugged, difficult path. At the end of it he
shrank back at the sound of a voice, shrank back until he knew that the
voice spoke words of praise and confidence and honour; and a hand, clean
as men's hands seldom are, grasped his in friendship."
The madman's hand was stretched out to him, and Fellowes took it.
"The eyes of a fool often see into the future," said Martin. "I am
grasping the hand of the man you are to be. I shall keep the paper."
Fellowes went along the terrace without another word, and Martin went to
the deep-set door in the tower by the Nun's Room. It was not locked
to-night, and he climbed the narrow, winding stair quickly.
A dim light was burning in the circular chamber, and as Martin entered
Barbara rose from a chair to meet him. Swiftly he drew the bow across
the fiddle strings.
"The fiddle laughs at your trouble, child."
"It must not be laughed at so easily, Martin. Your news to-night--"
"Was just in time to save a very foolish man from my Lord Rosmore. I can
guess what happened. The one insults you, the other pretends to defend
you and--"
"And my uncle wishes me to marry him; but that is not the trouble,
Martin."
"I should have called that trouble enough."
"But listen," said Barbara, "this news of Monmouth's landing distresses
me for a very strange reason."
"Tell me," said Martin.
Barbara told him of the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate, and
repeated all that Lord Rosmore had said of him.
"Do you think he can be such a man as that, Martin?"
"If Lord Rosmore knows him then--"
"If--but does he?"
"Lord Rosmore knows a great many scoundrels, I have been told. What was
the name of this one?"
"He is not a scoundrel, Martin, I am sure, quite sure. A woman
knows--how, I cannot tell, but she does. And then, even if he be a
scoundrel, I would do him a service, if he can be found. That Monmouth
is in England will be an excuse for taking him, even if he is innocent."
"Still you do not tell me his name."
"Gilbert Crosby," said Barbara.
Martin sat in a corner where the shadows fell, and Barbara did not
notice his sudden start of interest.
"Crosby, Crosby," he said slowly. "There are Crosbys in Northamptonshire,
and here in Hampshire, close by the borders of Wilts and Dorset, there
is one; but a Gilbert Crosby--what is he like?"
"I cannot tell. He made me ashamed to be in such a place, and I did not
look much into his face. He had grey eyes, and a voice that was stern
but kind."
"An excellent picture!" cried Martin. "He should be as easy to find as a
cat in winter time. Cats always go towards the fire, you know, and blink
the dreamy hours away in the warmth of the blaze. Oh, we'll find this
Gilbert Crosby, never fear; and when we find him, what shall we say? Our
Lady of Aylingford is in love. Come with us."
"You are foolish, Martin."
"I was born so, they say, and therefore cannot help it, but, being a
fool, I am convinced that folly is sometimes better than wisdom.
To-night, like a fool, I will dream of this Gilbert Crosby, and learn in
what direction he must be sought for; but now I must be wise and tell
you that the hour grows late and that children should be in bed."
"I fear that childhood, and with it happiness, is being left far behind
me, Martin," Barbara said with a sigh.
She could not see him clearly in the shadows, could not discern the
strange light in his eyes, nor catch the hushed echo to her sigh which
came from her crazy companion.
"No, no; we are all children right to the end," he said suddenly. "There
are moments when we know it and feel it, and, alas! there are times,
too, when we are blind and feel quite old. Open your eyes and you'll
know that childhood has you always by the hand, keeping love and purity
and fair dreams blossoming in your heart. Come, I will take you along
the terrace lest Mr. Fellowes or my Lord Rosmore or--Ah! how many more
are there who would not give half their years and most of their fortune
to stand in the shoes of this fool to-night."
"Peace, Martin."
"Do you hear her little fiddle?" and he laid his hand lovingly on the
polished wood for a moment.
"You must not laugh while I am away. Maybe we'll have a laugh together
when I return, for the moon is too bright to go out on to my roof and
get wisdom from the stars. Come, mistress."
And they went down the narrow, winding stair together.
CHAPTER VII
KING MONMOUTH
The day was dying slowly, the west still aglow after the sinking of the
sun. Thin wreaths of mist were rising from the wide, deep trenches, or
"rhines," as the country folk called them, which intersected and drained
this moorland, making cultivation possible where once had been a great
marshy pool with shifting islands here and there, and rush-covered
swamps.
Silence was over the land, broken now and again by the call of a bird,
and presently by the quick beating of hoofs. A solitary horseman came
rapidly along a road which skirted the edge of the moor. He was dusty
with a long journey, and his horse came to a standstill at the first
tightening of the rein. The rider had been in the saddle since early
morning, and although he had not loitered on his journey, his eyes and
ears had been keenly set all day, and, whenever practicable, he had
chosen by-paths in preference to the main road. His was a mission which
might bring him many dangers, and enemies even amongst those he sought
to befriend.
Before him lay the moorland, growing mistier and a little unreal in the
failing light. To his left, clustering roofs round a church tower, was a
village, so silent that none but the dead might have been its
inhabitants. Not a labourer plodded homewards from his toil in the
fields; not a horse, freed from its harness, grazed in the fields. To
his right, sharply cutting the distant sky-line, rose a tall spire, a
landmark for miles round.
"The end of our journey," he murmured, patting the horse's neck, "and
they won't thank us for coming."
The horse appeared to understand, and started forward again, shaking
himself as though to throw off his weariness. His rider had smiled a
little sadly as he spoke, but now his face was set again, as one who
rides upon an unpleasant mission but is not to be turned aside from
fulfilling it, no matter what the cost may be.
It was not long before he entered Bridgwater, and, had he not known that
it was so, the aspect of the town would have shown him that he was in
the midst of some great event. At no time would he be a man to pass
unnoticed, but here his coming caused excitement. Words of welcome were
flung at him, and anxious questions shouted after him. There was a
feverish eagerness in the atmosphere, and if some faces which he saw at
windows and in doorways had a look of fear in them, they were in the
minority, and were not anxious to invite attention to themselves.
"Duke!" one man exclaimed in answer to the rider's question. "He is no
duke who is at the castle, but a king--King Monmouth. Yesterday, in the
market-place at Taunton, they proclaimed him."
"I had not heard," said the rider.
"Do you come alone?" asked the man.
"Quite alone."
"Each man counts--may count for much--but you should have ridden in at
the head of a troop. We'd have cracked our throats with roaring a
welcome."
The rider smiled, and passed on to the castle.
Here was the centre of bustle and excitement, constant coming and going,
hastily given orders, and general clamour. In the castle field was
encamped an army of six thousand men, a rabble truly, and poorly armed,
many having naught but their tools for weapons, but enthusiasts all,
certain of the righteousness of their cause, prepared to die for the
King they had made and whom they trusted and loved. There was order of a
sort, but it seemed strangely like confusion to the horseman as he
dismounted within the courtyard. Here again a welcome met him, but it
was with difficulty he could get a message carried to King Monmouth.
Would he not see Lord Grey who was in charge of the cavalry, or Master
Ferguson who could tell him all he wanted to know--or Buyse, or Wade,
or--
"Monmouth, blockhead--and Monmouth only," was the angry retort. "And
quickly, or you'll suffer for such laggard service."
He spoke with such authority that there was whispered speculation who
this stranger might be. Perhaps he was the first of those nobles who had
promised to draw swords with them in the great cause. A messenger went
quickly, and soon returned. The King would see him at once.
As the stranger entered the chamber where half a dozen men were
gathered, one man rose and came forward to meet him.
"Gilbert Crosby!" he exclaimed. "Never was friend more welcome."
His face, somewhat gloomy a moment before, was suddenly lit with a
brilliant smile, so winning, so full of charming graciousness, that it
was easy to understand the influence such a leader must have over the
army of enthusiasts gathered in the town of Bridgwater. He was a
handsome man, in appearance a born leader of men; and if Gilbert Crosby
understood some of the shortcomings which lay underneath this attractive
exterior, he could not remember them just now. There was the temptation
to offer himself heart and soul to this man and forget the self-imposed
mission on which he had come. He had been brought in contact with
Monmouth some years ago, had begun, perhaps, by pitying, and had ended
by giving him a friendship which was truer and stauncher than any other
he had ever possessed. When, a few years since, Monmouth had been fêted
throughout Somersetshire and Devon, Crosby had been much in his company,
had entertained him modestly at his own manor, and had been at that
sumptuous feast given in honour of the Duke by Thynne of Longleat.
"Gentlemen, this is a very dear friend of mine," said Monmouth, turning
and presenting him to the company, "Mr. Gilbert Crosby of Lenfield
Manor, than whom we could not welcome a better gentleman."
"Pardon, my lord, but--"
"Ye've come to help a great cause," said a long, lean man, bent in the
shoulder, and with lantern jaws which mouthed out his words in the
strongest of Scotch accents. "I'm Ferguson. Ye've heard of me; and I'm
saying it's a fight against the enemies of the Lord ye've come to wage."
"I would not be misunderstood," said Crosby, turning to Monmouth; "I
came to talk with you in private, not to fight."
"I regret to hear you say so," Monmouth answered. "I am rather weary of
advice, but come with me." And then, having taken a few steps towards a
door leading to another room, he stopped. "No, Crosby; friendship must
stand aside for a while. I must have no secrets from these comrades, who
are with me heart and soul in this enterprise."
"That's better--much better," said Ferguson. "Let us hear the man and
his communication. It is no more than the right of those who are bearing
the heat and burden of the day."
"I would urge that our conversation be in private," said Crosby.
"And I would urge otherwise," said Ferguson. "Such a desire for privacy
has the savour of treachery about it."
"Can a man be a traitor to a cause he has never espoused?" Crosby asked
quietly.
"Is it, then, that ye are afraid to speak before honest men?" Ferguson
demanded roughly, the eruption with which his face was plentifully
covered glowing a fiery red as he thrust his head forward like an angry
vulture.
"Afraid!"
"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! I will have no quarrelling," said Monmouth. "I
will go bail for my friend, even though he does not throw in his lot
with us. I warrant he has naught but kindness in his heart for me, and
that kindness has brought him to Bridgwater."
"The gentleman can certainly not be accused of cowardice if he comes to
vilify your friends," said one man. "That requires courage."
"That is true, Grey," said Monmouth. "Speak freely, Crosby, as you would
to me were we alone; or, if you regret coming, keep silent. You shall
sup with us to-night, and to-morrow depart. We will force no man to
raise a hand for us."
"Why make promises until we have heard the man's communication?" growled
Ferguson. "Those who are not for the Lord are for Baal; there is no
middle course."
"The purpose for which I came shall be fulfilled," said Crosby. "You
gentlemen know nothing of me, nor I of you, except that you stand by the
side of your new-made king. For that I can honour you; on your side,
pray give me credit for honesty."
"Words, words, like sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal," said
Ferguson.
"Most assuredly such words, with their specious promises, have had much
to do with this enterprise," Crosby retorted; and then, turning to
Monmouth, he went on earnestly: "You have been deceived by lying agents,
such men as Wildman and Danvers. By this time you must know that London
will not raise a finger nor spend a guinea to help you, and that there
is not a single Whig nobleman who will draw a sword on your behalf."
"You are full of news, sir," sneered Ferguson. "You must be deep in the
councils of our enemies to know so much. And why limit yourself to
Wildman and Danvers when you speak of liars and deceivers? I am
Ferguson--everybody knows me. This is Lord Grey of Wark. Here stands
Fletcher, and Wade and Anthony Buyse. Why not complete your accusation?"
"You are deceived with your master, rather than deceivers," Crosby
answered. "You are prepared to fight for the cause, therefore you stand
apart. You know that what I say is true, my lord." And he turned to
Monmouth again.
"Finish what you have to say, Crosby."
"Your enterprise is doomed to failure. Here in Somersetshire you are
loved, and a few thousand men, confident that the whole country will
acclaim you, are prepared to lay down their lives for you. The country
is not going to open its arms to you. You can no longer be deceived upon
that point. The train-bands of Wiltshire are mustering, the militia of
Sussex and Oxfordshire are on the road. The Duke of Beaufort supports
the crown, and the undergraduates of Oxford take up arms to oppose you.
Feversham and Churchill march with the regular troops against you, and
your army of yokels must go down like a field of corn before the
reapers."
"I take it that, had there been no doubt of our success, we should have
had the pleasure of your company," said Ferguson.
"No, you would not. I do not favour the rebellion you are raising, and I
come on a self-imposed embassy to plead with my Lord Monmouth, first
because of my friendship for him, secondly to urge that he will not
fashion a scourge for the back of this simple West-Country folk."
Monmouth's face had grown gloomy. He was too good a soldier not to know
that what Crosby said was true, that his chance of success was of the
feeblest kind. Not a single man of real importance had joined him;
already there was regret that he had left his retreat in Brabant to lead
such a desperate venture, and deep down in his heart, perhaps, he
recognised in Ferguson his evil genius.
"You are a veritable Job's comforter," he said with a forced smile. "You
show us a crowd of difficulties, have you any advice how they may be
overcome?"
"Bid these men with their scythes and reaping-hooks disperse, and then
leave England as quietly as you came."
Such a solution had entered into Monmouth's mind already. It seemed more
feasible now that a friend had spoken it.
"You cannot!" exclaimed Lord Grey. "That would be base ingratitude to
the men who are encamped without these walls. We have called them to
arms, we must stand or fall with them."
"I grant it sounds the more honest advice," said Crosby, "but, my lord,
you have to choose between two evils; I only counsel you to take the
lesser. A few will suffer, doubtless, if you abandon your enterprise,
but if you press on with it the whole of the West Country will be
persecuted. King James does not know how to forgive."
"It is too late to turn back," said Monmouth. "Grey is right. These men
look to me to lead them to victory. I will make the attempt. I have
sworn it on the Holy Book."
Crosby bowed his head and was silent. He could not deny that Monmouth's
attitude was that of an honest man.
"And what becomes of this gentleman who is so ready to help our enemies
by giving us advice?" asked Ferguson.
"To-night he sups with us, to-morrow he departs," Monmouth answered.
"Is that wise? He has seen us in our stronghold, he has counted our
numbers, he has knowledge of our weakness. He would be safer shut in
this castle, safer still were he turned loose to the mercies of those
men who are encamped yonder. I would make short work of all spies."
"The gentleman is honest, but gives bad advice," said Grey.
"I'm thinking we shall find him in the ranks of our enemies on the day
of battle," Ferguson retorted.
"Even so, he departs in peace to-morrow," said Monmouth.
"I fight neither for you nor against you," Crosby answered. "Presently
I may try to do something to help these peasants in their need, which
will surely come. If in your hour of need, my Lord Monmouth, you should
think there is safety at Lenfield Manor, I will do my best to find you
a hiding-place there."
"If I enter Lenfield Manor I trust it will not be as a fugitive from my
enemies," said Monmouth. "Now, gentlemen, to supper."
Gilbert Crosby had hardly expected anything else but failure, yet he was
disappointed. Had he seen Monmouth privately he might have been able to
persuade him better. Some honesty there might be in Monmouth's use of
the Protestant faith to further his cause, but it was probably of very
secondary consideration, while with those about him, and who were
responsible for his actions, it was merely a tool to be used so long as
it proved useful. With the peasantry who had flocked to the blue
standard it was everything, and it was chiefly on their account that
Crosby had journeyed to Bridgwater. He would have saved Monmouth if he
could, but after all, Monmouth aspired to a throne and must take the
risks; the people, on the other hand, had nothing to win and everything
to lose, and, although Crosby would not take up arms with them, he was
quite ready to sacrifice himself on their behalf. He was of that stock
which had bred the Pyms and Hampdens of the Civil War. At the
Restoration his father had retired to his Manor of Lenfield and had
mixed no more in politics. Possibly the Restoration was for the general
good of the country rather than the rule of that rabid section of the
Puritans which had caricatured the original spirit in which an appeal to
arms had been made, but Thomas Crosby remained a Puritan, and distrusted
the Stuarts as much as he had ever done. In this atmosphere Gilbert
Crosby had grown to manhood, and since his father's death five years ago
had been master of Lenfield. If he were less of a Puritan than his
father, he was just as opposed to all forms of popery, and had been
quite sensible of the danger which must arise on the accession of James.
He had been active amongst those who were firmly determined to struggle
against the re-establishment of Roman Catholicism in England, but he had
lent himself to no underhand plots against the King, and, although
conscious that there existed an undercurrent of intrigue in favour of
the Duke of Monmouth, neither he nor those with whom he was associated
had expected Monmouth's landing. It was natural, perhaps, that men like
Wildman and Danvers should believe that such an invasion would force the
hands of all those who clung to the Protestant faith, but the body to
which Crosby belonged looked to the Prince of Orange as leader should
open rebellion become necessary; they might be at one with the
West-Country peasantry in religion, but they were not likely to help the
son of Lucy Walters to his father's throne. Gilbert Crosby was prepared
to be his friend, but he was not prepared to be his subject.
He had retired to his room and locked the door. He was to start early in
the morning, and had taken leave of Monmouth, who had striven to appear
in high spirits during supper. His forced gaiety had not deceived
Crosby, whose heart was heavy as he paced the room thoughtfully for a
time. Disaster was in the air, and Monmouth was but the shuttlecock of
unscrupulous men.
"I wish I could help him," he sighed, and then he drew from his neck a
white ribbon. The ends were knotted together so that he could suspend it
round his neck under his clothing, and it had rested there day and night
ever since he had picked it up. He folded it in his hands and kissed it;
so he had done every night, and there had come to him a vision--a
hurrying crowd of men and women, careless of everything but pleasure and
excitement, and a young girl shrinking back against the wall, strangely
out of place there, and alone.
"I wonder whether we shall ever meet again, and, if we do, whether I
shall have the courage to show you the ribbon you dropped," he murmured.
He had slipped the ribbon round his neck again when there was a hasty
knock at the door, and when he opened it Lord Grey entered the room
quietly.
"I am glad to see you have not retired, Mr. Crosby. King Monmouth is
afraid for you. Ferguson, a good man but a fanatic, is set upon
detaining you at Bridgwater--has, perhaps, more sinister designs. He
plots on his own account in this matter to take you in the morning, so
you must needs leave to-night."
"I would rather stay and settle the score with Ferguson," said Crosby.
"One man, while Ferguson has a dozen enthusiasts at his back! It is
impossible. Besides, Monmouth commands, and, in Bridgwater at least, his
word is law."
"I will go," Crosby answered.
Grey led the way down numerous small passages and short flights of
narrow steps until a small door was reached.
"Your horse is here, but I will walk with you through the town. We can
understand men coming in, we do not understand men going out."
"I have already said I should prefer to stay and face Ferguson in the
morning," Crosby returned.
Grey laughed.
"His rage will be wonderful to behold, but you must not be there to see
it. He will fling texts of damnation after you, which, had they power to
kill, would certainly prevent you reaching the end of your journey. His
knowledge of such passages in the Bible is wonderful."
They passed through the town quietly. It was sleeping.
"Farewell, Mr. Crosby. I wish you could have remained with us."
"And I wish that you had never been persuaded to try so mad a venture,"
said Crosby.
"The issue lies still in the balance," Grey returned.
So Gilbert Crosby rode away from Bridgwater, and the mist was thick over
Sedgemoor.
CHAPTER VIII
SEDGEMOOR AND AFTERWARDS
Lentfield Manor, on the borders of Dorsetshire, was a square house set
against a background of woods, with an expanse of park land in front of
it. There was no particular beauty about it; indeed, it had a dreary
look, and evidences of economy were not wanting. Thomas Crosby, never at
any time to be reckoned a wealthy man, had expended much in the cause of
the Parliament, and had left his son Gilbert a comparatively poor man.
Within, the house was spacious and comfortable, with many a hiding-place
in it which had been turned to account before now, and, if the furniture
had grown shabby and showed its age unmistakably, Gilbert had become so
accustomed to it that he hardly noticed its deficiencies. Lenfield was
the home he loved, and this fact touched it, and everything in it and
about it, with magical colours. Lately he had had visions of a fair
woman descending the low, broad stairs, smiling at him as she came; in
fancy he had seen her flitting from room to room, filling them with
laughter and sunshine. So much power had a length of white ribbon which
had once belonged to such a woman.
Crosby returned to Lenfield by many by-roads, more careful, even, than
he had been when riding towards Bridgwater. Once he had turned aside to
avoid a band of militiamen, for he had no desire to be questioned. This
insurrection in the West would bring suspicion on many an innocent
person, and Thomas Crosby had been so well known a Puritan that it would
be well for his son to be found at home when he was inquired for. If
King James persisted in his struggle for popery, there was a much
greater rebellion than Monmouth's to come, infinitely more far-reaching.
In that outburst Gilbert Crosby intended to play his part, but until
then he would safeguard himself as much as possible. There would be
refugees from Monmouth's ragged army presently, he must help them if he
could, but he would play no part in active rebellion.
An old man, who had been servant to the Crosbys when Gilbert was born,
met him in the hall.
"I've been anxious, Master Gilbert," he said, "very anxious indeed, and
the Lord be praised that you've returned in safety. I began to fear you
might have ridden West to join Monmouth."
"Why should you think that, Golding?"
"When one is anxious one thinks of all the worst things that could
possibly happen."
"It seems that they fight in a good cause, Golding."
"Don't let a soul hear you say so, Master Gilbert. They've arrested two
hundred or more in London already, honest merchants many of them, and
they say the gaol at Oxford is full of prisoners. No Puritan is really
safe in these days."
"You've heard far more than I have, Golding. Who has brought you such
news?"
"A gentleman who came to see you yesterday," the man answered. "He
called me a round-headed old scoundrel, but I think there was no malice
in it."
"Who was he?"
"He gave no name, but he wrote you a letter. I told him you were in
London, and that I was hourly expecting your return."
"I did not say I had ridden to London," said Crosby.
"No, Master Gilbert, but he asked me where you were, and I thought it
best to be definite."
"Where is this mysterious stranger's letter?"
Gilbert Crosby looked at the writing on the outside, which told him
nothing. The contents mystified him, and he had no knowledge of the man
who signed it.
"Sir," he read, "I have waited for you, having broken my journey to the
West against these rebels on purpose to see you. This I have done, at
some hazard to myself, at the bidding of one who honours me with
commands. Since I cannot see you I must needs write, a dangerous
proceeding, but your servant seems honest. Know then, sir, that you have
enemies, men who will seek to find occasion to accuse you of disloyalty,
and they may well find an easy opportunity now that Monmouth has landed.
You are likely to be accused of helping his venture, and will know how
best to secure yourself against such an accusation. For myself I know
nothing of your aims, but the person who commands me believes you
incapable of a base action, and would do you a service. This manor of
yours is too near the West to be a safe place for you with an enemy so
bent on your overthrow, and I am commanded to suggest that, for the
present, you go to London and give no occasion for suspicion. The trust
I have in my employer in this matter compels me to urge you to take heed
of this letter, and moreover to offer you my help if at any time I can
be of service to you.--Yours most obediently, Sydney Fellowes."
"The danger I can understand," Crosby murmured, having read the letter a
second time; "the meaning of this gentleman's warning is beyond my
comprehension. I have no knowledge of him, and who can the person be who
commands him?"
"May I inquire if the communication is serious, Master Gilbert?" Golding
asked presently.
"No, no, a kindly message from a man who would do me a service," Crosby
answered. "If I am inquired for, Golding, at any time, or by anyone,
show no hesitation, but bring them to me at once; we have nothing to
hide at Lenfield," and then, when the old man had gone, he added, "at
present, at any rate."
During the following days Crosby did not move abroad, did not leave the
grounds of the manor except to walk into the village and gather any news
he might. It was meagre enough, and was always to the effect that
Monmouth was hard pressed. It was sadly told, too, for in the village
the sympathy was with the Duke.
Doubtless through the length and breadth of the land there was sympathy,
but it had little power to help. It did not bring arms to the rebel
camp; it did not bring the men Monmouth had expected to fly to his
standard. He knew, no one better, that with such an army as he possessed
there could be no real success. His one hope was that, by holding out
and perchance by driving back the enemy in some skirmish which might get
magnified into an important engagement, the men he so longed for--the
great body of the Whigs--would be persuaded to flock to him. He did not
let go this hope even after Crosby's visit to Bridgwater. The one thing
he could not afford was to be inactive, so he marched to Glastonbury,
then to Wells, then to Shepton Mallet, harassed the whole way by a
handful of troops under Churchill, drenched by continuous and heavy
rain. Then he turned to seize Bristol, but, checked at Keynsham, he
turned towards Wiltshire. Bath shut its gates against him, and at Philip
Norton Feversham was close upon his heels. For one wild moment he
contemplated an advance on London, but fell back on Wells, and from
there returned to Bridgwater. Ten days of constant marching had wearied
an army ill-prepared for such toil, and nothing had been accomplished.
This was the news that filtered through to Lenfield, and Crosby waited
for the great disaster which he knew must come.
Feversham, with the King's forces, lay encamped on Sedgemoor, and with
him were some of the very men who had fought with Monmouth at Bothwell
Bridge. As Monmouth surveyed the position of the enemy from the top of
Bridgwater Church there leapt into his heart a wild hope that these men
might desert and fight by his side in the day of battle. A desperate
courage came to him. Feversham was not a general to inspire trust in his
men; it was said that the camp was full of drunkenness. With drunken
soldiers to command even Churchill might find ill-armed but enthusiastic
peasants too much for him. The time to strike had come. Heaven itself
lent aid to the rebels, for the night brought a thick fog over Sedgemoor
as Monmouth left Bridgwater for the last time. Not a drum beat to the
attack, not a shot was fired; only the word "Soho" was whispered that
men might recognise their friends in the darkness.
Two of the broad trenches which intersected the moor, and where the fog
was thickest, were crossed in silence, but there was a third, protecting
the camp, of which Monmouth knew nothing. The check brought confusion,
and some man in his excitement fired a pistol. The battle had begun, and
although the camp was taken by surprise, and drink made many heavy
sleepers, the drums beat quickly to arms and the peasant warriors had
little advantage. Grey's motley cavalry was scattered in a moment, and
Lord Rosmore, who was amongst those who charged upon them, laughed
aloud. This was a rabble, not an army.
But while darkness lasted the peasants did not lose heart. Monmouth was
in the midst of them, fighting with them, pike in hand. He might know
that the battle was lost, might long for some friendly enemy to deal him
his death blow. His enterprise would fail, but his end would be
glorious. Men fell on every side of him, while he remained untouched,
and ever the light grew stronger in the east. The light meant defeat;
Monmouth knew it. Death would not come to him, and life suddenly seemed
precious. They still fought, these soldiers of his; the scythes were red
with blood; the Mendip miners still faced the enemy, and were cut down
as they stood; and Monmouth in his flight turned for a moment to look
back, and shuddered. His courage was gone. Fear took hold of him, and,
hiding the blue riband and his George, he galloped away with Grey and
Buyse, first towards the Bristol Channel, and then, turning, made
towards Hampshire. He remembered that Gilbert Crosby had promised to
find him a hiding-place, and if he could reach Lenfield he might be
safe. The pursuers followed hard after him, Lord Rosmore amongst them,
and he, too, thought of Lenfield Manor and Gilbert Crosby.
No news reached the village on the Sunday or the Monday. Crosby waited
anxiously. The last he had heard was that Feversham was on Sedgemoor and
that a battle was imminent. He walked through the woods to the high
road, and if he saw a peasant whose face was unfamiliar, waited for him
lest he should prove a fugitive and bring news. On Tuesday Lenfield knew
that Sedgemoor had been fought and lost, and that Monmouth was a
fugitive. In which direction he had fled was not known, but Crosby
hazarded a guess and rode some distance towards Cranbourne Chase.
"Be careful, Master Gilbert," Golding whispered. "They've arrested men
on less suspicion than you're giving occasion for."
Crosby was quite aware of this, but he had made a promise. He had not
been prepared to fight for a rebellious Monmouth, but he was prepared to
risk much now that he was defeated and a fugitive. Still, he went
carefully, not seeking danger, and soon had reason to be convinced that
Monmouth had fled in the direction of Lenfield. Men of the Somerset
Militia were beating the country, and Crosby barely escaped falling in
with them.
When he returned to the Manor at nightfall Golding was full of news.
Lord Grey of Wark had been taken that morning, but Monmouth was still at
large.
"But he is surrounded, Master Gilbert; there is no escape for him."
"No one has been to the Manor?" Crosby asked.
"No; but there have been scouts in the neighbourhood all day. Luke the
blacksmith saw them and told me. They don't expect Monmouth to come to
Lenfield, do they, Master Gilbert?"
"It seems certain that he has come in this direction, Golding."
"Then stay you at home, Master Gilbert," pleaded the old man.
"Nonsense. The presence of a few militia-men in the neighbourhood is no
cause for fear. Tell them to let me have my horse at dawn."
Crosby did not sleep that night. Monmouth might come under cover of the
darkness, and he waited and listened through the long hours. At break of
day he was in the saddle again, but did not ride far afield. He hardly
left his own land, and it was evident that Lenfield was surrounded. In
the afternoon he returned home, unconscious that Monmouth had been taken
during the morning, found in a ditch clad in a shepherd's dress, and was
already on his way to Ringwood.
"Monmouth is taken," whispered Golding as Crosby dismounted.
"How do you know that? Who told you?"
"A man who came two hours ago. He is waiting."
"Is he a friend, do you think, Golding?"
"I do not know," Golding answered. "He said he would wait until you
came, and then demanded to be taken to the stables, where he tended his
own horse. A masterful man, Master Gilbert, but whether a friend or an
enemy who can tell?"
"We will soon see," said Crosby; and as he turned to go to this stranger
Golding laid a hand on his arm.
"If there is danger, Master Gilbert, call. I have lost some strength
with the passing of years, but I have never lost my ability to shoot
straight," and he just showed him the butt of a pistol in the pocket of
his coat.
Crosby patted him on the shoulder and went to his persistent and
uninvited guest, wondering whether Monmouth were really taken, whether
this might not be he.
Men still surrounded Lenfield. It was whispered amongst them that,
although Monmouth was a prisoner, there was another important traitor
yet to capture. They had been told so by Lord Rosmore, under whose
command they were. Now they were ordered to draw in closer, and to take
anyone who attempted to escape.
"Capture him if possible, but, if not, shoot him down," was Rosmore's
command. Then, with a dozen men, he rode across the stretch of park land
to the front entrance of the Manor. He made no attempt to surround it in
such a manner that those within might take alarm. His men were in the
woods, escape was impossible.
There was some little delay in answering his summons, and then a servant
came to the door.
"Is your master, Mr. Gilbert Crosby, within?"
"I think he is asleep, sir; but will you be pleased to enter?"
The girl looked innocent enough, but Lord Rosmore was too well versed in
artifice not to be cautious.
"My horse is restive, as you see. Will you request your master to come
out and speak with me for a moment?"
The girl curtsied and departed with her message, leaving the door open.
"He suspects nothing," Rosmore whispered to a man beside him.
"I am not so certain," was the answer, "since the door is left so
invitingly open. It would be natural to enter, and an ambush might await
us within. That girl was over simple to be natural, it seemed to me."
"Keep watch upon the windows above, some of you," said Rosmore in a low
tone. "If this is a well-baited trap we are not such fools as to walk
into it."
The girl reappeared and came across the hall.
"I cannot find my master," she said. "He will be in the gardens
somewhere. Will you not come in and wait?"
For a moment Rosmore hesitated, and then dismounted. He called to two or
three men to come with him.
"If you see him coming tell him we are within," he said to the others.
"Now, my girl, we will see if we can find your master," and he caught
her roughly by the arm. "Where is he hiding, eh?"
"Hiding?"
"Yes, pretty innocence; and unless you tell me quickly I shall have to
bare these shoulders of yours and see what the taste of a whip can
accomplish."
At that moment there was a shout from the men without, and Rosmore
rushed back to them. A horseman had suddenly ridden from the stables at
the far end of the house.
"Where's that scoundrel Rosmore?" he cried. "He would take Crosby of
Lenfield, would he? Well, now is his chance; and in taking him he will
capture an even more notorious person, whom, rumour says, he has long
desired to meet."
"Now I know!" Rosmore exclaimed as he flung himself into the saddle.
"After him, and shout, all of you, to put the men in the woods on the
alert."
The horseman turned and galloped across the park in a slanting
direction.
"Don't ride too close, Rosmore," he shouted over his shoulder, "for I
seldom miss the mark I aim at."
He suddenly altered his course. It was deftly done, and served to gain
him a few yards on his pursuers.
"To the right and left to cut him off!" cried Rosmore. "We have him. The
chase is over before it has well begun."
Well might he say so, for the fugitive was galloping straight towards a
stiff fence that few horses would face and few horsemen would hazard
their necks over.
He turned again and laughed, but rode straight on. The next moment, with
inches to spare, the gallant animal had cleared the fence and dropped
into the wood beyond.
A cry of wonder came from the men who were following him, a curse from
Lord Rosmore, for the rider was the highwayman Galloping Hermit, and
wore the brown mask.
CHAPTER IX
"THE JOLLY FARMERS"
For a few moments the very daring of the leap paralysed the hunters. The
man had surely gone to his death, preferring an end of this sort to the
one that most surely awaited him if he were captured. They had looked to
see horse and rider crash downwards to destruction, or perchance fall
backwards to be crushed and maimed past all healing; but when neither of
these things happened a cry of astonishment, not unmingled with
admiration, burst from a dozen throats. The shouting had brought men
running from the other sides of the house; a few of them were in time to
see the leap accomplished and to realise that Galloping Hermit had been
in their midst; others saw only a straggling group of horsemen at fault,
and looked in vain for the reason of the shouting. Lord Rosmore himself
was too surprised to give orders as quickly as he might have done, and
made up for the delay by swearing roundly at everybody about him.
"Fools! What are you waiting for?" he cried savagely. "There are more
ways into the wood than over that cursed fence."
He turned to one man and gave him quick instructions concerning the
watch to be kept on the Manor House, and then spurred his horse into the
wood after the mounted men who had already started in pursuit.
Either from actual knowledge, or conviction, the highwayman seemed to be
certain that at this spot the woods surrounding Lenfield Manor would not
be so carefully watched, that so stiff a fence would be deemed
sufficient to make escape that way impossible. To the right and left of
it, however, men were sure to be stationed; so, with a soothing word to
his horse, he plunged into the depths of the wood along a narrow track,
as one who knew his way perfectly and was acting on some preconceived
plan. In a small clearing he halted, listening for the sounds of
pursuit, and then pressed forward again until he presently came out upon
the green sward bordering a road. Again he halted to listen, and,
satisfied that the hunters were not too perilously close upon his heels,
he cantered in the direction of the open country which lay to his right.
He was now riding in a direction which made an angle with the way some
of his pursuers had evidently taken; he knew the spot where the two ways
met, and halted again when he reached it. Here a broad glade cut into
the very heart of the wood, and down it came three horsemen at a trot,
looking to right and left as they came, searching for their hidden
quarry. Then they saw him at the end of the glade, and shouted as they
put spurs into their horses. The shouts were answered from other parts
of the wood, and the highwayman smiled underneath his mask as he patted
his horse's neck.
"We'll give them a hopeful chase for a while, my beauty; presently you
shall stretch yourself and leave them behind, but it's a steady canter
for a time. No, no; not even so fast as that. We are well out of pistol
shot."
Six men took up the chase, their faces set with grim determination. They
were well mounted, and hopeful of success. They had every incentive to
do their utmost.
"There is a large reward offered for the capture of the wearer of the
brown mask," said Lord Rosmore. "He is, besides, Gilbert Crosby, a
rebel, and, further, I have a private account to settle with him. I
double the reward."
The men nodded. It would be strange if six of them could not compass the
downfall of one. They rode on in silence, sometimes with increased hope
as the distance between them and the highwayman lessened a little,
sometimes with muttered curses when they realised that their horses were
doing as much as they were able.
"I think he tires a little," said one man presently, and Lord Rosmore
saw that they had materially gained upon their quarry.
"Where will this take us?" he asked.
"We should strike the West Road soon," was the answer. "He'll have a
hiding-hole somewhere near it, maybe."
"He is too clever to lead us to it," said Rosmore. "He'll change his
line presently, and we may have to separate. But his horse is tiring,
that is certain. Press forward, lads; if we gain only inches it must
tell in time."
The day was drawing to a close. Evening shadows were beginning to steal
up from behind distant woods. There would be light for a long while yet,
but the chase must end before the shadows grew too deep, or the
highwayman's chances would be many. The road took a wide circle through
a plantation, and then ran straight across a stretch of common land,
gradually mounting upwards to a distant ridge. As they galloped through
the plantation the highwayman was lost sight of for a few moments round
the bend in the road. The hunters pressed their horses forward at the
top of their speed, conscious that in such a place the fugitive might
quite possibly slip away from them; but when they came on to the
straight road he was still in front of them, farther in front of them
than he had been at any time during the chase. The highwayman turned to
look back, and seemed to check his horse a little, but his advantage did
not appear to decrease.
"What a magnificent beast he rides!" exclaimed Rosmore. "We shall have
to separate, and without his knowing it. The opportunity will come
directly. Look! I thought as much."
The highwayman had evidently only tried his horse's power. He was quite
satisfied that he could distance his pursuers when he liked, and thought
that the time had come. He was leaning forward in his saddle now, riding
almost as a trick rider might do, but the effect was great. Possibly he
contrived to shift his weight, for the horse suddenly bounded forward,
breasting the hill to the ridge in splendid fashion. He might have been
at the beginning of the race instead of nearing the end of it.
"Playing with us all the time!" said one man with a curse.
"That pace cannot last," Rosmore returned. "Keep after him. The moment
he is over the ridge, you, Sayers and Watson, come with me. You others
keep after him. He may be headed away from the road, which must lie just
beyond the ridge. Perhaps we shall cut him off, for I have an idea he
means to turn upon his track. Capture, or no capture, there's money for
this day's work."
As the highwayman disappeared over the ridge Lord Rosmore and his two
men turned at right angles from the road and went across the common; the
others continued the pursuit, but going not a whit faster than they were
before. No amount of spurring served to lengthen the stride of their
horses. To follow seemed hopeless, was hopeless unless the unexpected
happened.
"Let our horses walk for a few moments," said Rosmore. "You know this
part of the country, Sayers; what should you say our direction is now?"
"I don't know it over-well, my lord, but I should say we've got
Salisbury almost straight behind us and Winchester some miles in that
direction," and the man pointed a little to the right. "I should say
we've been riding pretty well due north from Lenfield."
"Then if the highwayman wanted to make Winchester he would have to cross
us somewhere if we go straight forward?"
"He would, my lord, but since we've been after him he's given no sign of
making for Winchester," Sayers answered.
"An inquiry in that direction may give us some information," said
Rosmore. "I have an idea that the Brown Mask will be seen along the
Winchester Road presently."
"These horses will be no match for his."
"They must carry us a little farther, but the pace may be easy," said
Rosmore, shaking his jaded animal into a trot, and the two men rode side
by side a few paces behind him. Strange to say, failure seemed to have
improved Rosmore's temper rather than aggravated it. He had at least a
score of witnesses to prove who Galloping Hermit was. A girl might be
romantic enough to pity such a man, but it could hardly be that pity
which is akin to love.
"She has the pride of her race in her," he murmured. "I would not have
it otherwise. There are a dozen ways to a woman's heart, and if need be
I will try them all."
The prospect appeared to please him, for he smiled. So for two hours
they rode in the general direction of Winchester.
"This is foolery," whispered Sayers to his companion. "I warrant the
Brown Mask has gone to earth long ago. His lordship has more knowledge
of this way than he pretends, I shouldn't wonder, and knows of a nest
with a pretty bird in it. There may be other birds about to look after
her, Watson. Such kind of hunting is more to my taste than the sort
we've been sweated with to-day."
They were presently traversing a road with a wood on one side and fields
on the other, when a glimmer of light shone in front of them, and the
barking of a dog, catching the sound of the approaching horsemen
probably, awoke the evening echoes. Back against the trees nestled "The
Jolly Farmers," an inn of good repute in this neighbourhood, both for
the quality of its liquor and the amiable temper of its landlord. A
guest had entered not five minutes ago, and was talking to the landlord
in an inner parlour when the barking of the dog interrupted them.
"Horses!" said the landlord. "They follow you so sharply that it is well
to be cautious. This way, sir."
He touched the wall where there certainly was no sign of a door, yet a
door swung open inwards, disclosing a dark and narrow chamber. The guest
entered it without question, and the landlord hurried out to meet the
new arrivals.
"You ride late, gentlemen."
"And would sample your liquor, landlord," said Rosmore, dismounting and
bidding his men do the same. "Have the horses looked to."
The landlord called in a stentorian voice, and a lad came running from
the rear of the premises.
"Any other guests to-night, landlord?" Rosmore asked as he passed into
the inn.
"No, sir, and not much chance of them. They're having a sort of feast in
the village yonder--dancing and such-like; and what business there is
'The Blue Boar' will get--unless, mind you, a pair o' lovers is tempted
to come up this way for the sake o' the walk."
"How far is the village?"
"Three-quarters of a mile by the road, half a mile by the path through
the wood. But, bless you, sir, if the lovers were to come they'd get
their refreshment out o' kisses and not trouble my ale."
"What do you call this place?"
"'The Jolly Farmers,' sir, and I'm called Tom Saunders, very much at
your service."
"A poor spot for an inn, surely?" said Rosmore.
"There are better, and there are worse," was the answer. "We're in touch
with the main road, and they are good enough to say that the
entertainment is worth going a little out of the way for."
"No doubt. We will judge for ourselves."
"And, although I blush to mention it, folks have a kind of liking for
Tom Saunders himself. It's often the landlord that makes the inn."
If the landlord blushed, it made no appreciable difference to his rosy
countenance, which grinned good-humouredly as he executed Lord Rosmore's
orders.
"Truly, it is good liquor," said Rosmore when he had sampled it. "Do you
get good company to come out of their way to taste it?"
"Ay, sir, at times, and a few soldiers lately. You and your two men here
will be from the West, very like. I've heard of Sedgemoor fight. May one
know the latest news?"
"Who told you of Sedgemoor?"
"I think it was the smith down in the village, or it might 'a been
Boyce, the carpenter; anyway, it was somebody down yonder. They'd heard
it from someone on the road."
"Monmouth is taken," and Rosmore watched the landlord closely as he said
it.
"That'll be good news for King James," was the answer. "Would it be
treason to say I'm sorry for them who've been foolish enough to take up
arms?"
"Too near it to be wise. Pity of that kind often leads a man to give
help, and that's the worst kind of treason."
"So I've heard say, but I never could understand the rights and wrongs
of the law, nor, for that matter, the lawyers neither. I'd a lawyer here
not many weeks back, and all his learning hadn't taught him to know good
ale when he put his lips to it. What's the good of learning if it can't
teach you that?"
"Do you number him amongst your good company?" asked Rosmore.
"I don't, but he'd reckon himself that way."
"You'll be having other company before long asking you to find them
hiding-places. The rebels are being hunted in every direction."
"We're too far away," said the landlord. "Bless you, we're a sight o'
miles from Bridgwater, and most o' these fellows ain't got horses to
carry them. They won't trouble 'The Jolly Farmers,' sir."
"And if they did?"
"The bolts on the door are strong enough to keep them out."
"The bolts, if used, are more likely to keep them out than the
distance," said Rosmore; and, although the landlord still smiled, he was
quite conscious of the doubt expressed concerning the use of the bolts.
Rosmore paused for him to speak, but when he remained silent went on.
"We are searching for a rebel now, one Gilbert Crosby. Do you reckon him
amongst your good company?"
"I might if I had ever heard of him," the landlord answered.
"Who is in the house at this moment?" Rosmore asked.
"A wench in the kitchen, and myself. My daughter is in the village at
the merry-making, and the only other person about the place to-night is
the boy who is looking after your horses."
"I am sorry to inconvenience you, landlord, but I must make a search. If
you're honest you will not mind the inconvenience."
"Mind!" the landlord exclaimed. "I like to see a man do his duty,
whatever that duty may be, and whatever the man's station may be."
"Spoken honestly," said Rosmore. "Watson, you will stay here. Savers,
come with me, and you come, too, landlord."
The search was a thorough one, and although Rosmore keenly watched the
landlord he could discover no sign of fear either in his face or
attitude. Watson had nothing to report when they returned to the
tap-room.
"Tell me, landlord, what persons of quality have you in the near
neighbourhood?"
Saunders mentioned several names, amongst them Sir Peter Faulkner.
"Are we near Sir Peter's? That is good hearing. He will give me a
welcome and good cheer."
"You take the road through the village," said Saunders. "It's less than
five miles to Sir Peter's."
"We'll get on our way, then," said Rosmore. Then he turned quickly upon
the landlord. "Do you know Galloping Hermit, the highwayman?"
"Well, by name. A good many have had the misfortune of meeting him on
the West Road yonder. And, to tell the truth, sir, I believe I've seen
him once--and without the brown mask, too."
"When?" Rosmore asked sharply.
"It may be three, perhaps four, months back. A horseman galloped up to
the door, just at dusk, and called for ale. He did not dismount, and I
took the drink to him myself. There was nothing very noticeable about
him, only that his eyes were sharp and restless, and he held his head a
little sideways as if he were listening. It was the horse that took my
attention rather than the man. It was an animal, sir, you'd not meet the
likes of in a week's journey. When the horse had galloped into the
shadows of the night I said to myself, there goes the highwayman for a
certainty."
"And you've never seen him since?"
"No, nor shall now, since he was hanged lately at Tyburn."
"That was a mistake, landlord. Galloping Hermit is still alive. I have
seen him to-night."
"Alive!"
"Ay, and the horse you describe fits with the animal he was riding."
"I hope your honour was not robbed of much."
"Of nothing, my good friend," laughed Rosmore, "except of the
satisfaction of laying him by the heels."
"Still alive, is he?" said the landlord. "I cannot credit it. Maybe 'tis
someone else who wears the brown mask now, and trades on the other's
fame."
"It is not likely, and if it is so he must suffer for the other's sins,"
said Rosmore; but the idea lingered with him as he rode away from the
inn, followed by Watson and Sayers.
As they passed through the village the sound of dancing to the music of
a fiddle came from a large barn by the roadside, and a brisk trade was
being done at an ale-house over the way. Lord Rosmore had small sympathy
with the common folk and their amusements; besides, he was thinking
deeply of the landlord's suggestion. Fate seemed to have thrust certain
cards into his hand to play--cards which seemed to belong to two
separate games, and which, if he could only join them into one, might
bring him victory. How was he to join them? Somewhere there was a card
missing, a link which must be supplied. Did the landlord's suggestion
supply it? As he rode slowly forward the sound of the dancing and
laughter was gradually hushed; only the far-carrying notes of the fiddle
lingered a little longer. Lord Rosmore fancied he heard the notes long
after it was possible for him to do so. Even as Sir Peter welcomed him
presently they seemed to be sounding faintly in his ears.
In the tap-room of "The Jolly Farmers" the landlord sat staring at the
opposite wall for some time. He looked as if he were counting over and
over again the glasses and tankards which hung or stood on shelves
there, and could not get the number to his satisfaction. Once or twice
he turned his head towards the door and listened, but appeared to catch
no sound worthy of investigation. Once he got up and stepped lightly to
the parlour beyond, and looked towards the secret door which he had
opened for his guest, but he did not touch it. Satisfied that no sound
came from that direction, he went back and stared at the glasses and
tankards again. Presently he went to the inn door and looked out at the
night. There was a soft breeze singing along the road, and a multitude
of stars overhead. The breeze carried no other sound besides its own
music.
A good two hours passed after the departure of the horsemen before the
landlord's usual energy returned. Then he went into the inner parlour
and opened the secret door. A few moments elapsed before the guest
stepped out. It seemed as if he were not quite certain of the landlord's
honesty.
"Well, has he come?" he asked.
"No, but they have gone," the landlord answered. "Three horsemen who had
ridden far looking for a rebel."
"I must thank you for hiding me so securely. For your courtesy I should
tell you my name. I am--"
"Better let me stay in ignorance," said Saunders. "I am in no position
to answer questions then."
"As you will; and, truly, I am on an adventure of which I understand
little and was warned to speak of sparingly. I was to make for this inn
and inquire for a fiddler. How this fiddler fellow is to serve me I do
not know."
"Nor I," answered the landlord.
At that moment a little cadence of notes, strangely like a laugh, fell
upon their ears, and there came a fiddler into the tap-room.
"Ale, Master Boniface, ale. I could get well drunk upon the generosity
of your village yonder. See how they rewarded this fiddle of mine for
making them dance." And he held out a handful of small coins. "Ale,
then, and let it be to the brim. Has anyone inquired for a poor fellow
like me?"
"This gentleman," said the landlord.
The fiddler looked steadily into the eyes of the guest for a moment, as
if he were trying to recall his face, then he bowed.
"Martin Fairley, sir, is very much at your service."
CHAPTER X
FATE AND THE FIDDLER
The stars were still bright in the deep vault above, the breeze still
had a note of singing in it, but the sound of music and dancing was
hushed in the village, and all the lights were out, when two horsemen
came through a gateway on to the road some five miles away.
Gilbert Crosby found himself in strange company. No sooner had this
queer fiddler learned that search had been made at "The Jolly Farmers"
than he refused to give any information, or listen to any explanation,
until they had put some distance between themselves and the inn. He
hurried out of the house, and in a few minutes returned with the
information that he had two horses waiting in the wood behind. Crosby's
mount was a good enough looking animal which seemed capable of carrying
him far if not fast; his companion's horse was so lean and miserable
that it seemed to bear a resemblance to the fiddle which Fairley had
slung by a string across his back. In spite of its ill-condition Crosby
wondered whether it would not be too much for the musician, who mounted
awkwardly and seemed so intent on keeping his seat that he was not able
to talk. He had grown more accustomed to the animal by the time they
came out on to the high road. They had travelled chiefly at walking
pace, by rough paths, and through woods where the tracks would have been
difficult to find even in the daytime, and impossible at night save to
one who knew them intimately.
"So we strike the road as you declared we should," said Crosby. "You
have great knowledge of the byways in this part of the country, Master
Fairley."
"I have travelled them, usually on foot, for many years," he answered.
"My fiddle and I go and make music in all the villages round about;
almost everybody knows me along the road. Should we be questioned, say
you fell in with me and we continued together for company."
"Trust me. I can keep a quiet tongue," Crosby returned. "Will you tell
me now where we are going, and how it is you interest yourself in me?"
"Better that you should tell me your part of the story first or I may be
giving you stale news."
"Truly, I have little to tell," Crosby said. "I am no rebel, though the
charge might with some show of reason be brought against me. To-day--or
yesterday rather, for it must be long after midnight--my house was
secretly surrounded. My servant told me when I returned in the
afternoon, and informed me also that a man was waiting to see me."
"Who was it?" Fairley asked.
"I must keep faith with him since so far he keeps faith with me. He bid
me say nothing concerning him."
A short ejaculation came from the fiddler. Perhaps his horse gave him
trouble at that moment, but it seemed to Crosby that his companion did
not believe him.
"You doubt what I say?"
"Did I say so?" asked Fairley. "I am used to strange tales, and I have
only heard a part of yours. Finish it, Mr. Crosby."
"The flight from Sedgemoor had let licence loose in the West, and I have
reason to think that I am a victim of private vengeance. Be this as it
may, my visitor had a scheme for my deliverance. He proposed facing the
enemy who had now come to the door, arranged that I should give him a
few minutes' start, and then make my way to the village from the back of
the house. I should find a horse ready for me there, and he told me to
ride to 'The Jolly Farmers,' where I was to await the coming of a
fiddler who would direct me further. He was most insistent on the exact
road I should follow, that I should leave my horse at a certain place in
the village, and reach the inn on foot. My escape was cleverly
arranged."
"This man did you a service," said Fairley. "I wish I knew his name."
"I cannot tell you. I can tell you nothing further about him; but now
that I have escaped I feel rather as if I were playing a coward's part
by running away."
"Why? You are not a rebel."
"True; yet I count for something in my own neighbourhood and might
stretch out a protecting arm."
"You were caught like a rat in a hole, and would have been powerless;
whereas now you are free to fight your enemies, thanks to your strange
visitor."
"You speak of him as if you doubted his existence," said Crosby with
some irritation.
"Doubt! I do assure you I am one of those strange fellows who see and
hear things which most folk affirm have no existence. I find doubting a
difficult matter. With ill-luck I might get burnt for a wizard. I
promise you there is more understanding in me than you would give me
credit for, and certainly I should not call such a flight as yours
cowardly."
"I shall be able to judge the better perhaps when I have heard your part
of the tale," said Crosby.
"That is by no means certain, for my part is as vague as yours," Fairley
answered. "You were in danger, that I knew, but the exact form of it I
was ignorant of. I was instructed to find you and bring you to a place
of safety, and was told that I should meet with you at 'The Jolly
Farmers.'"
"By this same man, I suppose?"
"No. My instructions came from a woman."
"A woman!"
"Yes, and one who is evidently interested in your affairs," Fairley
answered. "Does your memory not serve to remind you of such a woman?"
Crosby did not answer the question. In the darkness of the road before
him he seemed to see a vision.
"What is this woman like?" He did not turn to look at his companion as
he asked the question; he hardly seemed to know that he had spoken.
"I cannot tell you; there are no words," said Fairley, in that curious
monotone which the recital of verse may give, or which constant singing
may leave in a minstrel's ordinary speech. "I cannot tell, but my fiddle
might play her to you in a rhapsody that should set the music in your
soul vibrating. There are women whose image cunning fingers may catch
with brush and pigment and limn it on canvas; there are women whose
image may be traced in burning words so that a vision of her rises
before the reader or the hearer; and there are women whose beauty can
only be told in music--the subtle music that lies in vibrating strings,
music into which a man can pour his whole soul and so make the world
understand. Such a woman is she who bid me find Gilbert Crosby and bring
him into safety."
"I know no such woman," Crosby answered. "It may seem strange to you,
Master Fairley, but women have not entered much into my world. Tell me
this woman's name."
"Nay, I had no instructions to do so."
"Shall I see her at the end of this journey?"
"She hath caprices like all women; how can I tell?"
"At least tell me whither we go."
"If you can read the stars you may know our direction," was the answer.
"Yonder is the Wain and the North Star, and low down eastwards is the
first light of a new day. We may mend our pace a little if only this
poor beast of mine has it in him to do so."
It was no great pace they travelled even when they endeavoured to
hasten. The fiddler's lean nag, either from ill-condition or over-work,
or perchance both, could do little more than amble along, falling back
into a walking pace at every opportunity. Perhaps it was as well, Crosby
thought, for the fiddler seemed strangely uneasy in the saddle, and more
than once apologised for his want of dexterity when he noticed his
companion glance at him.
"He's a sorry beast to my way of thinking, but to his thinking maybe I'm
a sorry rider. Those who have great souls to carry often have poor knees
for the gripping of a saddle."
Crosby did not answer. The vision was still before him on the road, and
he wondered whether Fate and this fiddler were leading him to his
desire. Absorbed in his dream, he let his horse, which had no speed to
boast of, suit his pace to that of the lean nag, and did not trouble to
think how quickly they must be overtaken should there be any pursuit on
the road behind them. So they rode forwards, their faces towards the
growing dawn, and Gilbert Crosby was conscious of a new hope stirring in
his soul, of an indefinable conviction that to-night was a pilgrimage, a
journeying out of the past into the future.
"He rides well surely who rides towards the coming day," said Fairley
suddenly, breaking a long silence. Crosby felt that it was true, and
that his own thoughts had found expression.
* * * * *
The night brought no vision to Barbara Lanison, only a restless turning
to and fro upon her bed and a wild chaos of mingled doubts and fears
which defied all her efforts to bring them into order. There were still
many guests at the Abbey, but she saw little of them except at a
distance. She had begged her uncle to excuse her presence, and he had
merely bowed to her wishes without commenting upon them. He may have
been angry with her, but since she had heard him laughing and jesting
with his companions as they passed through the hall, or went along the
terrace, she concluded that her absence did not greatly trouble him.
There were guests at the Abbey now who hardly knew her, some who did not
know her at all, and she was missed so little by Mrs. Dearmer and her
friends that they no longer troubled to laugh at her. She was as she had
been before her visit to London, only that now she understood more; she
was no longer a child. She had not seen Sydney Fellowes again before his
departure, but she had no anger in her heart against him. He had
insulted her, but it was done under the influence of wine, and in
reality he was perchance more genuinely her friend than any other guest
who frequented the Abbey. Had he not said that this was no home for her?
Lord Rosmore she had seen for a few moments before he had set out to
join the militia marching westward. He was courtly in his manner when he
bid her farewell, declared that she would know presently that he had
only interfered to save her from a scoundrel, and he left her with the
assurance that he was always at her command. Barbara hardly knew whether
he were her friend or foe. Sir Philip Branksome had left Aylingford full
of the doughty deeds which were to be done by him, but it was whispered
that he was still in London, talking loudly in coffee-house and tavern.
Judge Marriott had hurried back to town, thirsting to take a part in
punishing these rebels, but before he went he had made opportunity to
whisper to Barbara: "Should there be a rebel who has a claim on your
sympathy, Mistress Lanison, though he be as black as the devil's dam,
yet he shall go free if you come and look at me to plead for him. Gad!
for the sake of your pretty eyes, I would not injure him though the King
himself stood at my elbow to insist." Barbara could do no less than
thank him, and felt that he was capable of perjuring himself to any
extent to realise his own ends, and wondered if there were any
circumstances which could bring her to plead for mercy to Judge
Marriott.
Mad Martin had gone, too, with his fiddle under his arm. "Folks will
marry for all there is fighting in the West," he had said, "and my
fiddle and I must be there to play for them." He had said no more about
Gilbert Crosby, had probably forgotten by this time that she had ever
mentioned the name with interest. Half dreamer, half madman, what could
he do? With a fiddle-bow for his only weapon he was a poor ally, and yet
he seemed to be the only true friend she possessed.
Barbara was very lonely, and more and more she was persuaded that
Aylingford Abbey was a different place from that which, through all her
childhood until now, she had considered it. Something evil hung like a
veil over its beauty, an evil that must surely touch her if she remained
there. She was impelled to run away from it, yet whither could she go?
Could she explain the evil? Could she put into words what she was afraid
of? The world would laugh at her, even as Mrs. Dearmer did, or label her
a wench of Puritan stock, as her aunt, Lady Bolsover, was inclined to
do. She must talk to Martin, who had taught her so many things; but even
Martin was away fiddling at some festival that rustics might dance.
Barbara was disposed to resent his absence at a time when she wanted him
so much.
Yesterday she had heard some guests talking of the fight on Sedgemoor as
they walked to and fro on the terrace below the window. Monmouth was
defeated and flying for his life, and the heavy hand of King James would
certainly fall swiftly on the country folk of the West. Would it fall
upon the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate? Certainly it would
be stretched out against him were he such a man as Lord Rosmore declared
him to be.
Wearied out with much thinking, Barbara fell asleep towards morning, and
the sun was high, flooding the terrace with light and warmth, when she
awoke.
Later, she went across the ruins to the door in the tower. Martin might
have returned in the night. The door was still locked. It was always
locked when Martin was away from the Abbey, and he took the key with
him.
She went back slowly along the terrace, and, from sheer loneliness, she
was tempted to forsake her solitude and join the guests. There was a
group of them now at the end of the terrace, and Barbara's step had
quickened in that direction when she heard Mrs. Dearmer laugh. She
shuddered, and went no farther. Utter loneliness was far preferable to
that woman's company.
The day seemed to drag more heavily than any which had preceded it.
Surely there had never been such long hours and so many hours in a day
before! The sunshine was out of keeping with her mood, and it was almost
a relief to her when the afternoon became overcast and the haze on the
distant hills spoke of rain. The sound of rain was on the terrace
presently, the stone flags grew dark with the wet, and the woods became
sombre and deeply mysterious. A light still lingered in the west, low
down and angry looking, but the night fell early over the Abbey. Candles
had been burning in Barbara's room for a long time when a faint cadence
of notes struck upon her ear. She knew it well, and the sound gladdened
her so that she laughed as she threw open the window. Her laughter was
like a musical echo of the notes.
"Martin!" she said, leaning from the casement and looking down on the
terrace; "Martin!"
There was no answer. She looked to right and left, but only the shadows
of the night lay still and unmoving. Had the sound been fancy? She
closed the casement and shivered a little as though she had heard a
ghost; then there came a knock at her door.
She opened it quickly and stood back.
"It is you, then?"
"Did you not hear my fiddle smile? No, it was not a laugh to-night; I
was afraid someone else might hear it. Will you come to the tower? I
like to sit in my own room when I come back from making the folks laugh
and dance and helping them to be happy."
"Well, Martin, have you nothing to tell me?"
Now that he had come back, advice was not what she asked for, but news.
"We always have much to talk of--always--you and I."
"But to-night, Martin, especially to-night. Ah! you have forgotten."
"Very likely," he answered. "I do forget a great many things. But come
to my room in the tower; I may remember when I get there."
"No, Martin, not to-night," she said.
"I may remember," he repeated; "and, besides, why should you be less
kind to me? I always look forward to my own room and you."
There was a tone of sadness in his voice, and she was angry with herself
for occasioning it. Because she was sad, was that a reason why she
should make this poor fellow miserable? Would he not do anything to
serve her which fell within the power of the poor wits God had given
him?
"I will come," she said.
"You must wrap a thick cloak about you," said Martin. "It is raining
heavily."
She left him for a moment and quickly returned, closely wrapped up.
"Tread lightly," said Martin. "I always like to think that these
evenings when you come to my tower are secret meetings, that the world
must not know of them. I pretend sometimes that we are followed, and
must go warily."
"Foolish Martin!"
They reached the terrace by a small door, and went quickly through the
ruins to the tower. The door was still locked. Martin had evidently only
just returned to the Abbey, and had not yet entered his tower.
"Give me your hand up the stairs," he said.
"Why, Martin, I must know every turn in them as well as you do," she
answered.
"It is my fancy to-night," he said. "Give me your hand. So. I have a
dream of a valiant knight, famous in war and tourney, one whom fine
ladies turn to glance after and desire that he should wear their favour.
Only one fair maid heeds him not, and ever the knight's eyes look
towards her. Whenever he draws his sword, or sets his lance in rest, he
whispers her name; for him she is the one woman in all the world. And
suddenly there comes to her the knowledge of his worth; I know not how
it comes, but she understands, and then--The dream ends then, yet
to-night it seems to linger for an instant. This dark stair leads to
some beautiful palace. You are the woman of the dream, the most
beautiful woman in the world; and for just a moment I stand a valiant
knight--your knight--and welcome you to all I possess."
His voice was little above a whisper. She could not see his face, but in
the dark her hand was raised and lips touched it.
"Martin!"
"After all, it's a narrow winding stair, and leads to a meagre chamber
where lives a poor fellow who loves his fiddle. Come."
The room was in darkness, but Martin guided her to a chair.
"Wait; we will have candles, four of them to-night, and we will pretend
we keep high festival. See, mistress, how bright the room is; there are
scarcely any dark shadows in it at all."
She turned to look, and then a little cry came from her parted lips.
Before her, his eyes fixed upon her, stood the man who had come to her
rescue at Newgate.
"You see, mistress, I did not forget," said Martin; and, taking up his
fiddle from a table, he went out, closing the door softly behind him.
There came a little cadence of notes--the laugh of the fiddle. Somehow
there was the sound of wailing rather than of laughter in it to-night.
CHAPTER XI
THE FUGITIVE AT AYLINGFORD
Barbara Lanison suddenly remembered how much she had thought of the man
who stood before her. For the first time she realised that not a day had
passed but those grey eyes had seemed to look into hers, even as they
did now; that the hours were few into which his image had not come. This
meeting was so unexpected, she was so entirely unprepared for it, that
she was taken at a disadvantage. It seemed to her that this man must
surely know how much he had been in her thoughts, must be reading her
like an open book. Her eyes fell, and the colour rushed into her cheeks.
"Why has Martin gone?" she said, turning to the door to recall him, and
whatever sense of confusion she experienced, there was a dignity in her
movement, and a tone of annoyance in her voice, which showed Crosby that
she was proud, and seemed to prove that just now she was angry as well.
"Won't you at least let me thank you for your help?" he asked, taking a
step towards her.
"It was nothing," she answered. "By chance I learnt your name, by chance
I heard you were in danger, and I sent you a warning. I was in your
debt, and I like to pay what I owe."
"You have done that with interest."
"Tell me, why are you here?" she asked.
"Indeed, madam, to answer that question I have need of Martin, too, for
he brought me."
"I do not understand, Mr. Crosby--you are Mr. Gilbert Crosby, are you
not?"
"Yes; and I do not understand, either," he answered. "I have been under
the guidance of Fate and a fiddler, and it would appear that the
fiddler, at any rate, has played some trick with me, for I do assure you
that he made me suppose he was doing your bidding in bringing me here."
"We call him 'Mad Martin,'" she said with a little laugh. "Will you tell
me his tale? It should be interesting, though I fear it must greatly
have misled you."
She turned from the door as she spoke, and sat down by the table.
Perhaps it was as well Martin had gone, for there was no guessing what
he had told this stranger, nor how far he might call upon her to support
his action were he asked suddenly for an explanation.
"It would also be interesting to me to learn who you are, and where I
am," said Crosby with a smile.
"You do not know? You have forgotten?" Barbara exclaimed.
"I have not so poor a memory as that," he answered, "and will you deem
it presumptuous in me when I say that I hoped it might be you who had
rendered me this service? I did not know until Martin lit those candles
and you turned towards me. Within a few hours of my seeing you at
Newgate I was called away from London. I had no opportunity of making
inquiry about you."
"There was no reason why you should," she answered.
"You did not forbid me to do so."
"Indeed, no. I had small chance to do that," Barbara returned. "You
disappeared so quickly and mysteriously."
"I had seen you to your friends--why should I wait?"
"If for nothing else, to be thanked. I wondered whether you had
recognised an enemy in the neighbourhood of my aunt's coach."
He laughed, but whether at the suggestion, or at her method of trying to
draw a confession from him, it was impossible to tell.
"Did you see the highwayman and thank him, as you proposed?" Barbara
asked.
"I did, and now it seems he was not this famous Galloping Hermit, after
all."
For a moment she was silent, recollecting that she had speculated
whether this man himself might not be the wearer of the brown mask.
"I am Barbara Lanison," she said suddenly, "niece to Sir John Lanison of
Aylingford Abbey."
"Am I in Aylingford Abbey?" Crosby asked.
"A queer little corner of it appropriated by Martin Fairley. You seem
surprised, sir."
"Indeed, I am. I have passed through many surprises during the last few
hours, not the least of them being that this is Aylingford, and that you
are astonished to see me."
"Perhaps it would be well to tell me your story before Martin returns.
You must not forget that he is half a madman, and sometimes talks
wildly."
Crosby told her the manner of his escape from Lenfield, as he had told
it to Fairley; and if Barbara Lanison did not so obviously disbelieve it
as the fiddler had done, her eyes were full of questioning. He explained
how "The Jolly Farmers" had been searched, and how he and Martin had
ridden away together in the night.
"He told me that he had been bidden by a woman to bring me into a place
of safety, and he brought me here. He would tell me nothing more."
"He did not even try and picture the woman for you?"
"Only his fiddle could do that, he declared."
"You see how foolish he is," said Barbara.
"I do not find any great sign of folly in that," Crosby answered.
"I was thinking of your journey, sir. I told Martin to find you if he
could and warn you; that was all I bid him do."
"And my coming has displeased you," said Crosby. "I will go on the
instant if it be your will."
"No, no; it is my will that you tell me the remainder of the story."
"There is no more to tell."
"You have not told me who the man was who helped you to escape from your
manor at Lenfield," said Barbara.
"He desired me not to speak of him, and I must keep faith."
"Yet he told you of Martin."
"He spoke only of a fiddler," said Crosby.
"Have I no means of persuading you to tell me his name?" she said,
leaning a little across the table towards him, with a look of pleading
in her eyes. Most men would have found the temptation difficult to
resist.
"I do not think you would try any means to make a man break his
promise," Crosby said.
The grey eyes looked straight into hers, and the voice had that little
tone of sternness in it which she had noted that day at Newgate.
"Perhaps not," she said; "but it is provoking. To have a nameless
partner in such an affair as this is to have more mystery than I care
for."
"Did you ever hear of a Mr. Sydney Fellowes?"
"So you have told me after all," she said, disappointment in her voice.
He was not the strong man she supposed him to be--merely one a woman
could cajole at her ease. She was too disappointed in him to realise at
once how strange it was that he should speak of Sydney Fellowes.
"No, this is another friend," he answered quietly, conscious of what was
pas
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