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 withdébris. 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. Somedébrishad 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 fallendébrisand 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 thedébrisof 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.
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. NowFellowes 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."
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 againstLord 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," saidRosmore. "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.