The Abbey awoke earlier than usual this morning. It would be some hours yet before Mrs. Dearmer, radiant from the hands of her maid, came forth to face the world and God's good sun, and there were men with heads racked from last night's deep potations who would still lie abed and curse their ill-luck; but there was noisy bustle in the stable yards, the champing of bits and jingling of harness, and in the servants' quarters a hurrying to and fro with eager haste, and a pungent atmosphere of cooking food. Lord Rosmore was starting for Dorsetshire within the hour, and his men were being fed with that liberality for which the Abbey was famous.
Barbara sat on one of the stone seats let into the wall overlooking the stream. Lord Rosmore would see her there and come for his answer. She had no intention of trying to escape the interview; she had no doubt what answer she would give, yet there was trouble in her heart. The mask of brown silk which lay concealed in the bosom of her dress struck at the very roots of her belief in a man's truth and honour. Lord Rosmore had told her no falsehood, no made-up tale to suit his own purposes as she supposed, and it was impossible for her not to think less harshly of him as she saw him come out on to the terrace with her uncle. Sir John, with some jesting remark, walked slowly in the opposite direction, and Lord Rosmore came quickly towards her. He bowed low with that grace which had made him famous amongst men, and which no woman had ever attempted to deny him. There was not a cloud upon his brow, and a little smile played at the corners of his mouth as though he had already received his answer—the answer he desired.
"On such a gracious morning as this am I to be made the happiest man on whom the sun shines, Mistress Lanison?"
"I asked for a longer time, Lord Rosmore."
"I wish I could give it," he returned. "There is nothing that I would rather do than stay here to convince you how true and deep my love is; but, alas! duty calls me away upon no pleasant mission."
"But you will return," said Barbara.
"Not for some weeks, I fear, and in them what may not happen? I would take my happiness with me—your promise—not wait in anxious doubt."
"Love has not come to me yet; it might come when you return," Barbara said. "Without love I will not give my promise to any man."
"Love will come," was the answer; "and, besides, love is not the whole of marriage. There are other reasons often—indeed, almost always—for giving a promise."
"Is it bargaining, you mean?"
"I would not call it by such a name," said Rosmore. "The alliance which satisfies parents and guardians, which sends a man and a woman walking side by side along a worthy road in the world, giving each to each what the other lacks, a good, useful comradeship which keeps at arm's length the world's cares, surely this makes a true marriage, and into it, believe me, love will come."
"It may, Lord Rosmore, but I am not yet persuaded that the road is worthy, nor that such a comradeship between us could bring good. Believe me, you will be far wiser to give me time. Wait for your answer until you return."
"I fear to find the bird stolen," he said.
"I am not so desirable a possession as you imagine," she answered, with an effort to bring an element of banter into the interview.
"You cannot see yourself at this moment, Mistress Lanison, or you would not say so. I must have your answer. Are there not many, many reasons why you should give me your promise?"
"You will come to this lower level of bargaining," said Barbara.
"I have no choice."
"I have shown you a wise road to take," she answered; "wait until you come back from Dorsetshire."
"I cannot wait."
"Then if we bargain, Lord Rosmore, you must remember that there are always two sides to a bargain. You do not show me Martin Fairley a free man."
"I can hardly set free a man I have not taken prisoner. Martin and the highwayman succeeded in getting away from the Abbey last night. Until we saw you leaning from your window, Sir John was absurd enough to declare that you must have warned them."
"My uncle seems strangely anxious to make a rebel of me," said Barbara. "I hold to our bond. Martin Fairley is not here, therefore I give no promise this morning."
"I do not remember agreeing to such a bargain," said Rosmore.
"It pleases me," said Barbara, "and helps me to forget that you began by threatening me. I am not a woman to be frightened by a threat."
"Then you will give me no promise?"
"No; but if you persist I will give you an answer, and promise that it shall be a final one."
"I would spare myself the indignity of a direct repulse," he said, "and I trust I am man enough not to let love blind my eyes to duty. I am afraid you must live to regret your decision, but I may yet find means to do you a service."
He turned and left her, and, calling to Sir John that he must depart without delay, he left the terrace with her uncle, telling him, Barbara had no doubt, of the ill-success of his interview.
What was the reason of her uncle's anxiety to force her into this marriage? Some power Lord Rosmore must surely hold over him. Sir John was afraid, and since he had not scrupled to suggest that she was in league with rebels, and in the same breath point out in how dangerous a position this rebellion placed her, there was no knowing to what lengths he might not go to achieve his ends.
Later in the day Sir John sent her a courteous message. He did not demand her presence amongst his guests, but he requested it. Her continued absence had been much remarked and questioned, and there were many reasons why these comments should be silenced. Barbara answered that she would comply with his wishes; and that afternoon found her in the midst of a party on the terrace, listening to Mrs. Dearmer's coarse wit and endeavouring not to shudder at her laugh. It seemed quite evident that Sir John had not suggested to his guests that they should treat his niece in any special manner, and their conversation was less reticent than ever.
"You blush very easily," laughed Mrs. Dearmer, "but that pleases the men. I used to be the same, and devoutly wish I had not lost the art."
"Could you not regain it?" asked Barbara, and the question was followed by a burst of laughter, more at Mrs. Dearmer's expense than at her questioner's, perhaps.
"I'm afraid not. What we gain by experience must be lost in some other direction. It is merely a question which you prefer, the gain or the loss."
"My adorable madam, you go ill with mathematics," said one man, laughing. "Pray tell some tale that will again bring the colour to Mistress Lanison's cheek, for I vow she blushes most divinely."
"At least, sir, the cause can have little connection with heaven," saidBarbara.
"Waste no words on him, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Dearmer. "He has been so long attached to the opposition that he has forgotten such a place as heaven exists. Tell me why you have deserted us lately. I held that it was indisposition, others declared it was temper, and others—can you guess what the others said?"
"Was it something very unkind?" asked Barbara.
She had walked away with Mrs. Dearmer and one or two others, amongst them a man named Heriot, to whom Barbara had hardly spoken, but whom she cordially disliked.
"They said you had a lover," said Mrs. Dearmer.
"It would have been kinder if they had given me a hundred, wouldn't it? That would, indeed, have been to praise me mightily and declare me irresistible."
"You will not find women so generous as that," laughed Heriot. "I thought there was a more subtle meaning in the declaration. In a hundred lovers there might be safety, but in one—ah! it is the persistency of one which reduces the citadel."
"I know many who might persist until they were leaning over their grave, and then not succeed," said Barbara, "and the citadel would not need to be very strongly guarded either."
"That should hasten your retreat, Mr. Heriot," said Mrs. Dearmer, and then she drew Barbara a little farther away. "Tell me, are they right? Is there a lover?"
"You may deny it if you are questioned," Barbara answered.
"I will. I would not betray such a secret for the world. Does he climb to your window when the terrace is empty and silent, or is there some secret door by which he comes and no one ever the wiser?"
"Is that what they say?" asked Barbara.
"Yes, and more," and Mrs. Dearmer put her finger to her lips to warn Barbara that others were close to them and might not keep her secret so faithfully as she would.
Barbara did not then understand all that was implied, but within a day or two she was conscious that her name was being flung from lip to lip with a laugh and a jest, that, no matter how innocent her words or her actions might be, an evil meaning was twisted out of them and applauded. Even her uncle laughed and seemed to agree when Heriot declared that a woman who was shy in her love affairs was always the most dangerous, and suggested that Mrs. Dearmer must look to her laurels now that Mistress Lanison had taken the field against her. To deny the insinuations, or to resent them, was only to make these men and women coarser, and increase the laughter and ribaldry, so Barbara decided to stay away again. This time, however, Sir John did not leave her alone. He sent a peremptory message demanding her presence.
"Tell Sir John I refuse to come, and if he would know my reason I will tell him here."
The servant hesitated.
"Sir John is out of temper, mistress. Would it not be better to—"
"You have my answer," said Barbara.
Many minutes had not elapsed before there were quick steps along the corridor, and Sir John burst into the room. The servant had spoken mildly when he said his master was out of temper, and Barbara's answer to his message had made him furious. He slammed the door and faced his niece.
"What is the meaning of this gross impertinence, girl? When I bid you do a thing you will do it; do you understand me? I have had more than enough of your vapours."
"And I, sir, more than enough of your guests."
"Do you dare to flout me?" he said with an oath.
"I dare anything when you forget what is my due from my guardian. For some purpose of your own you seem anxious to accuse me of being a rebel, and drag me into this ribald crew to have my ears assailed with all manner of indecencies, and to hear my own honour called in question."
"You're a fool, girl."
"Wise enough to determine that either Mrs. Dearmer and her companions must leave Aylingford, or I shall."
"Curse your impudence!" said Sir John, and before Barbara was aware of his intention, he had seized her wrist and commenced to drag her towards the door, "Curse your impudence! We will see who is master at Aylingford. I shall have what guests I choose, and, by heaven, you shall treat them as I demand! You may flout Lord Rosmore, but I will see to it that you obey me."
"You hurt my wrist, sir."
"If it brings you to reason, it is perhaps the easiest way for you," he retorted. "Guests that are good enough for me shall be good enough for you."
"And if they say I am a scheming light o' love, you, sir, will no doubt find means to prove that they are right."
"Gad! your own prudery is doing that. Perhaps I might not have to make much inquiry to find that they had seen far more than I have. Much might go on in these rooms and the rest of the Abbey be none the wiser."
Barbara's free hand was suddenly raised to strike him, but she let it fall to her side again. He held her wrist the tighter, and laughed in her face.
"It is well for you that your daring stops short of that," he sneered.
"Last night I heard words spoken out of the darkness," said Barbara."'It is a sacred trust,' said a voice; 'God requite you if you fail init. When she is of age give her that which is hers. She is free.Beware.'"
There was magic in the words. Sir John let go her wrist and started backwards with a curious, muffled sound in his throat. His face was suddenly white with fear, and his trembling hands were linked together, straining at each other. Barbara did not move, and in her motionless attitude and the fixed gaze in her eyes the man seemed to perceive an added terror.
"Who spoke them?" he stammered.
"A voice out of the darkness."
"They—they recall—what am I saying? Have your own way to-night; we shall both talk more calmly to-morrow."
"To-morrow cannot undo to-night, sir. I have decided to ask Lady Bolsover to let me visit her for a while. Two days ago I received a letter from her asking me to go to her again."
"I will see. We will talk of it to-morrow."
"There is naught to do, sir, but arrange for my journey to town."
It was almost as one suddenly stricken with a palsy that Sir John left the room and stumbled along the corridor. As he passed a man drew hastily back into the shadows, and then went light-footedly to Barbara's door. She had already locked it. He knocked.
"I have nothing more to say," said Barbara.
The man chanted a little stave in a low voice, and the door flew open.
"Martin!"
"You are in trouble, mistress, you need not tell me. Much I overheard, the rest I can guess. Lord Rosmore has departed. I met him on the road, at least he passed along the road, and I stood in the wood by the side to see him pass. Mr. Crosby is already busy in Dorsetshire, and I return to hear you are going to London."
"Yes, Martin."
"Dark hours, indeed," he said, "but there is the beam of light."
"It has gone out. Ah, Martin, you are a dreamer and look at the world through a veil of cloud, while I am a woman prone to trust too easily. We are easy to deceive, you and I."
"Yes, dreamer as I am, I have recognised much of the falsehood," saidMartin.
"You like Mr. Gilbert Crosby?"
"One grows to like a man when you have fought by his side in an awkward corner."
"You would trust him?"
"Don't you?" asked Martin.
"He told me something of himself, but it was told to deceive. I found that in the ruins, just where he stumbled last night. He dropped it," and Barbara held out the brown mask which she had drawn from her dress.
Martin took it and turned it this way and that.
"He did not tell me that he was Galloping Hermit the highwayman," she said.
"Very strange," said Martin. "Another might have dropped it. Many men tramped that spot that evening. Sir John, Lord Rosmore, and a dozen others."
"Yes, and later, Mr. Fellowes," said Barbara. "He came with a despatch calling Lord Rosmore back into Dorsetshire."
"Might not Mr. Fellowes have dropped it?" Martin asked.
"He might. You may find many possibilities, but not probabilities."
"The famous mask," mused Fairley, "and you find it, mistress. For my part I have had a kindly thought for the wearer. There are tales about him which make him different from other highwaymen."
"Yes, Martin, I know, but I had almost—ah! you would not understand."
"I saw the beam of light, and it has now gone out, you say. This wisp of brown silk has extinguished it. But consider, might there not be some great purpose for a man taking to the road?"
"There might, Martin."
"I have heard, mistress, of a great noble who wore fool's motley that he might the better stand between his King and danger. I have heard of one who lay bound in chains for years that his friend might be saved. Men have died for others ever since this world was young."
"True, Martin."
"So Galloping Hermit may have some purpose which, did we but know it, would make him a hero to crown rather than a scoundrel to hang. His heart may beat honestly; the eyes which looked from these holes—"
"Were grey, Martin," and there was a catch in Barbara's voice which her companion was quick to notice.
"Courage, mistress, the beam of light is still shining. We must get rid of this."
"No, give it me. I may see him again and give it to him."
"And perhaps be mistaken after all," said Martin. "The highwayman has long since provided himself with another mask, so we may destroy this."
"No, Martin."
"Why keep so dangerous a trifle? See, it burns."
He took the candle and the mask to the hearth, and made sure that no tell-tale particle of the silk remained.
"Mistress, it is gone. Be wise, forget that you ever found it," andMartin trampled the ashes into dust.
Londoners had crowded towards Tower Hill from an early hour, had seized every point of vantage, or looked down from high windows and roofs upon that little square of space which was kept clear and strongly guarded. To a few, perhaps, it was mere sight-seeing, an excitement, a means of passing a holiday; but to the majority it was a day of mourning, a time for silence and tears. Ill-fated rebellion was to be followed by the judicial murder of a popular idol. There had been tales current of this man's cowardice. He had crawled at the King's feet, begging slavishly for his life, had been willing to resign honour and liberty, his creed, and his very manhood so that he might escape the fate awaiting him. He had begged and petitioned for the intercession of every person who might have the power to say a word in his favour. He had shown himself a craven in every possible way, so it was said. This silent crowd, however, had no certain knowledge of the truth of these rumours; they might be, probably were, false reports to belittle him in the minds of the populace. What this waiting multitude remembered was that James, Duke of Monmouth, was a soldier of distinction and was doomed to die a martyr for the Protestant faith.
Ten o'clock had sounded some time since, when there was a sudden movement in the crowd, a backward pressure by the ranks of guards, and a man, saluting as he passed, walked up that narrow, human lane to the little square and mounted the scaffold with a firm tread. A great hush fell, broken only by the sounds of sobbing. This man a coward! Every look, every action, gave the lie to such an accusation. Two Bishops stood by him and spoke to him, but their words were inaudible to the greater part of the crowd; and Ketch, the headsman, stood silently by the block, a man hated and execrated from the corridors of Whitehall to the filthiest purlieus of the town.
"I die a Protestant of the Church of England."
These words were clear enough, and against them the Bishops seemed to protest, but in what words the crowd could not hear, and only those close about the scaffold heard Monmouth's confession that he was sorry the rebellion had ever happened, since it had brought ruin on those who loved him. Then for a while he knelt in prayer, and said "Amen!" even to the Bishops' petition for a blessing upon the King, but it was grudgingly said, and after a pause. Why, indeed, should he pray for a King whose heart was of stone and who was incapable of showing compassion?
The silent crowd watched him with bated breath, dimly seeing through tears that he spoke to the executioner as he ran his finger along the edge of the axe, and then he laid his head upon the block. The axe fell once, twice, and again, yet there was not an end.
Then the silence was broken. A wild fury roared from every side.
"Fling Ketch to us!" cried the mob, pressing in upon the guards.
Two more blows were struck by the frightened, cursing headsman. The martyrdom was accomplished, but the angry and nauseated crowd had gone mad, and, but for the guards, would have worked their will on Ketch and perchance on others who had had part in this butchery. It was a raging crowd, ripe for anything, fiercely lusting to wreak its revenge on someone; but it was a crowd without a leader. Had a strong man at that moment assumed command of it, Monmouth's death might have brought success to the rebellion he had raised. Had a leader been found at that moment, a short hour might have seen the storming of Whitehall by the populace, and the King in the hands of his merciless enemies. No strong man arose, and James was left in peace to plan further vengeance on all those who had taken part in the rebellion, or shown pity to the vanquished.
Two days afterwards Barbara Lanison arrived in town, and received a most cordial welcome from her aunt, Lady Bolsover. She did not pester her niece for reasons why she had left Aylingford, it was only natural that any right-minded person would prefer London; nor did Barbara enlighten her. Before Barbara had been in the house an hour her aunt had given her a lively account of Monmouth's execution, and the horrors of it lost nothing in the telling.
"Surely you were not there!" Barbara exclaimed.
"No, I was not. I was tempted to venture, but I decided that it was wiser to keep away. I should certainly have shown sympathy with the poor man, and to do so would be dangerous. I assure you, Barbara, all the news in town lately has concerned this rebellion, and—let me whisper it, for it comes near treason to say it—half London has been in two minds whether to cast in its lot with Monmouth or with the King. There is no denying the fact that the King is not popular, and, to put no fine point on it, has the temper and cruelty of the devil."
Lady Bolsover was genuinely pleased to have her niece with her again. After her own fashion she liked Barbara, and the presence of so attractive a person in her house was likely to re-establish the number and importance of her visitors, who, truth to tell, had not been so assiduous in their attentions since Barbara left her. The good lady was full of schemes for making the hours pass pleasantly, of course for her niece's sake, and, having assured herself that Barbara was still heart-whole, she was prepared to welcome to her house in St. James's all the eligible men she could entice there.
"I taught you a good deal last time, my dear; I'll see if I cannot get you married this."
Barbara smiled. She was anxious to please her aunt, and showed no desire to interfere with Lady Bolsover's schemes. It was such a relief to be free from the Abbey that Barbara experienced a reaction, and was inclined to enjoy herself. There were many things she would willingly forget. The brown mask had been reduced to ashes, but its destruction had not altered her opinion, nor had Martin succeeded in convincing her that she had not been grossly deceived. She had been threatened by Lord Rosmore, she had been insulted by her uncle and the men and women who were his companions, but, worst of all, she had been deceived by the man who had for so long occupied her thoughts and whom she had trusted.
The opportunity to forget her troubles in a round of pleasure was soon forthcoming. At a sign a dozen men were ready to throw themselves at her feet, and a score more were only restrained by the apparent hopelessness of their case. She was a queen and her courtiers were many; music and laughter were the atmosphere about her; her slightest wish immediately became a command, and she became the standard by which others were judged. Barbara was young and enjoyed it, as any young girl would. There were moments when her laughter and merry voice had no trace of trouble in them, when it would have been difficult to believe that a cloud had ever hung in her life; but there were other times when her eyes looked beyond the gay crowd by which she was surrounded, when her attention could not be fixed, and when her face had sadness in it. She was conscious of sorrow and tears under all the music and laughter.
Sometimes ugly rumours came, brought by a court gallant, or some young soldier who had returned from the West. Feversham had been called to London and loaded with honours, for "winning a battle in bed," as a wit said, and the brutal Colonel Kirke and his "lambs" were left in Somersetshire, free to commit any atrocities they pleased. If only half the stories were true, then had the West Country been turned into a hell, and Barbara hated the King who allowed such cruelty. She became a rebel at heart, and for the first time since she had found the mask in the ruins thought less harshly of Gilbert Crosby. There could be no reason to excuse his being a highwayman, but at least he had gone West to give what help he could to the suffering. How had he sped? The question set Barbara thinking, and, in spite of herself, Gilbert Crosby was in those thoughts all through a wakeful night.
Barbara saw nothing of Lord Rosmore, whether he was in London or not she did not hear; but once Sydney Fellowes came to her aunt's, and Barbara was glad to see him, although she hardly had a word with him. She was surrounded at the time, and Fellowes made no effort to secure her attention. He evidently considered himself in disgrace still, although Barbara had forgiven him, and had ceased to associate him with the evil which was at Aylingford Abbey.
It was not so easy to dissociate Judge Marriott from Aylingford. He came constantly to Lady Bolsover's, and on each occasion seemed to consider himself of more importance. So far as Barbara could judge he knew nothing of her reason for leaving the Abbey. He asked no questions, but delivered himself of many clumsy compliments framed to express his delight that the most charming creature on earth had brought sunshine again to town. It was impossible to make Judge Marriott understand that his attentions were not wanted, and Barbara, who had no desire to make an enemy of him, endured them as best she could. It was from him that she first heard that Judge Jeffreys was going to the West.
"He takes four other judges with him; I am one of them. Rebellion must be stamped out by the law. Jeffreys will undoubtedly come to great honour, and it will be strange if your humble servant, his most intimate friend, does not pick up some of the crumbs."
"Will the law be as cruel as the soldiers have been?" Barbara asked.
"A dangerous question, Mistress Lanison; I would not ask it of anyone else were I you. Remember the law deals out justice, not cruelty."
"Yet even justice may be done in a cruel fashion."
"The sufferer always thinks it cruel," said Marriott.
"And often those who look on," Barbara returned.
"I have no doubt that Jeffreys will do his duty and carry out the King's command. Why should you trouble your pretty head with such matters?"
"There are women who will suffer," she said. "It would be unwomanly not to think of them."
"And some man, some special man, who interests you, eh, MistressBarbara?"
"Why should you think so?"
"Because I can read a woman like an open book," laughed Marriott. "Her thoughts line her face as the print does a page, while the looks in her eyes are like the notes on the margin."
"You read amiss if you think I am interested in a rebel awaiting judgment."
"I will confess that you are more difficult to understand than most women," said Marriott, "and it is not for want of study on my part. Do you remember what I said to you on the terrace at Aylingford?"
"Indeed, I have not treasured up all your words," she laughed.
"I swore that if there were a rebel you were interested in, he should go free at your pleading. I am in the humour to-night to listen very eagerly."
"There is no special person, Judge Marriott, but I would plead for them all," she answered. "Be merciful, for it is surely in your power. These people are ignorant countryfolk, led away by smooth tongues, and never counting the cost. They are men of the plough and the scythe, with little thought beyond these things, and they have wives and little children. Be merciful, Judge Marriott. Think of me, if you will, when the fate of a woman lies in your hands, and to the day of my death you shall hold a warm corner in my heart."
"I will, I swear it, and you—"
"Lady Bolsover is beckoning to me," said Barbara, and left him.
It was the day after this conversation with Judge Marriott that Martin Fairley came to see her for the second time since she had left Aylingford. To Barbara he seemed strangely out of place in town, the air he assumed of being exactly like other men ill-suited him, and he seemed at a loss without his bow and fiddle. His dress, too, was strictly conventional, and it appeared to affect the manner of his conversation. He was as a man in bonds.
"In London again, Martin!" Barbara exclaimed.
"To see that you are not in trouble, mistress," he answered, and it would have been difficult for a stranger to tell whether he was a lover, or a trusted servant of long standing; there was something of both in his manner.
"It is a long way to come."
"It is lonely at the Abbey," he said.
"Do you think you are safe there, Martin? Would it not be better to go away for a time?"
"Since you are not there, mistress, I lock the door of the tower at nights."
"But Sir John knows you are at the Abbey, and you cannot lock yourself in the tower all day," said Barbara.
"Your uncle is a little afraid of me. He is superstitious, and unless he has someone beside him to lend him courage, he will not molest me. Besides, there have been many festivals where my fiddle was wanted; I have not been much at the Abbey."
"You have been towards the West?" said Barbara eagerly.
"Yes."
"And you have heard—"
"Yes, mistress. I have heard how they suffer."
"Have you heard aught of Mr. Crosby?"
"Once or twice. I have seen one or two men who have said they escaped the soldiers by his help. He is doing all a man can do, I think, but for a fortnight I have heard nothing."
"Do you know that Judge Jeffreys goes West directly?"
"For the Assizes, yes. God help the prisoners! An unjust judge, mistress, a fawning servant of a brutal and revengeful King."
"Hush, Martin!" Barbara whispered. "It may be dangerous to speak the truth."
As if to prove the warning necessary, there came a knock at the door.
"There is a young woman asking to see you," said the servant. "She would give no name, but declared you would see her if I said Lenfield."
"Lenfield!" and her eyes met Martin's quickly. "Bring her up at once."
"Mistress, she may talk more freely if she is atone with you," saidMartin. "There is a screen there, may I use it?"
Barbara nodded, and was alone when the woman entered the room.
"You are Mistress Lanison?" she asked, dropping a curtsy.
"Yes."
"My name is Harriet Payne, and I was a servant at Lenfield Manor when my master, Mr. Gilbert Crosby, escaped. Some of us, Golding the butler and myself amongst others, were arrested and taken to Dorchester."
"Yes, and then—"
"I cannot tell by what means, but my master procured my release and bid me go to my home, a little village in Dorsetshire. I cannot tell all the master has done, but I know that they have tried to catch him for a long time. He has been helping people to escape, they say. You don't know what it has been like in the West, mistress."
"Something of it, I know," said Barbara.
"One night Mr. Crosby came to my mother's cottage to see me," the girl went on. "He told me something of his danger, and said that if anything happened to him, or if I were in danger, I was to go to Aylingford Abbey and ask for you; if I could not see you I was to ask for Martin the fiddler."
"Well?"
"I was soon in trouble, mistress, and went to Aylingford. You were not there, nor was the fiddler. I was asked what I wanted, but I would not say. I suppose the servant went to ask his master, for Sir John Lanison himself came out to me."
"You did not tell him who you were?"
"I just said I was in trouble, and asked where I could find you. He laughed and said I wasn't the first young woman who had got into trouble, and he said—"
"You need not repeat it," said Barbara; "it was doubtless something insulting about me."
"Indeed it was, mistress, but he told me where I should find you."
"I do not know how I am to help you," said Barbara. "What do you want me to do?"
"It is not help for myself I want, but for Mr. Crosby. They had followed him to mother's cottage that night and waited. As he went out they caught him. He is a prisoner in Dorchester!"
Harriet Payne had made up her mind that she was the bearer of a lover's message; she expected her news to have a startling effect upon the woman she had travelled so far to see, but she was disappointed. There came no cry from suddenly parted lips, there was no sign of agitation about Barbara as her hands idly played with the folds of her gown for a few moments; it seemed doubtful whether she realised the full meaning of the message.
"What does your master expect me to do?" she asked, looking up after a pause.
Harriet Payne may have rehearsed a scene in which she would be called upon to soothe a stricken woman and speak comfort to a breaking heart. She had supposed that love was the same the world over, whether it went in silk brocade or coarse homespun. She had apt phrases ready to meet the expected, plenty of well-prepared sympathy to bestow, but she had no answer for this quiet, deliberate manner, and remained silent.
"Perhaps you can help me to a decision by telling me more," saidBarbara. "You need not be afraid to speak."
"By Mr. Crosby's manner I thought you had some power, madam; I imagined that if you knew my master's position you would be able to help him."
"Who has accused Mr. Crosby of having anything to do with rebels?"Barbara asked.
"I cannot tell, but there is no doubt as to what he has done. It is well known that he has helped many of the rebels into safe hiding. There is another who is doing the same, a highwayman called 'Galloping Hermit.' You may have heard of him."
"Is he, too, in Dorsetshire?"
"The country people speak of him; now he is here, now there, but—"
"Do you think your master and this highwayman are the same person?" asked Barbara, and with more eagerness than she had asked her other questions.
"I have heard other people wonder whether they were, but I do not believe it; still, if Mr. Crosby is 'Galloping Hermit,' he is a man to be proud of. I would—"
"Yes, yes, I know," said Barbara; "but you can hardly expect me to take much interest in a highwayman."
"No, madam, of course not. I was not thinking of the highwayman, but of my master. It is on his account that I have journeyed to see you."
"It was good and honest of you to come," said Barbara. "I must think what I can do. Are you remaining in London?"
"I have a cousin in the city who is married to a mercer's assistant; I shall remain with her for a day or two," the girl answered.
"Come to-morrow about noon; I shall have decided something then."
"And if not you could help me to find this fiddler, perhaps?" said the girl.
When she had gone Martin came from behind the screen, and Barbara looked at him, her eyes full of questions.
"Yes, mistress, I fear her story is true. What she says of Mr. Crosby's doings is correct, also it is a fact that Galloping Hermit has been in Dorsetshire."
"You have seen him?"
"I have heard of him."
"I must try and help him though he is a highwayman," said Barbara."There can be no longer any doubt, Martin, that the two are one."
"Yet you will help him? How?"
"There is a way, a hard way, and I am not yet certain what it may mean to me, but it shall be done; yes, it shall be done."
As she turned to a window and looked down into the square, Martin saw that there were tears in her eyes.
"Tell me, mistress. You have told me your troubles before now, and it has not been always in vain."
"I will tell you later, Martin.".
"Perhaps it will be too late then," he answered. "Count the cost, mistress; is a highwayman worth the price?"
"That girl was right," said Barbara, turning a glowing face to Martin. There were tears in her eyes, but they had not fallen. "She was right; even a highwayman is a man to be proud of when he helps the suffering from their brutal persecutors, as this Galloping Hermit is doing. I would sacrifice much even for a highwayman, and when he is Gilbert Crosby, too—ah! Martin, I have had dreams, pleasant dreams. I am awake now, they are only a memory, but, if need be, I will pay for them to the uttermost farthing."
"You will not tell me the price?"
"When I know it, and that will be to-morrow. Come to-morrow afternoon,Martin, unless you are going back to Aylingford at once."
"I shall come," he answered; but listen, mistress, there are more ways than one of helping Gilbert Crosby. Do not pay too high a price. I wish you would tell me with whom you are bargaining."
"To-morrow, Martin, and until then—"
"You would be alone," said Martin quietly, and then his figure suddenly stiffened, his hands were clenched until the muscles in them stood out like whipcord, and his speech was quick and fierce. "Understand, mistress, no word you speak, no promise you may be compelled to give, binds me. No matter how fettered you may be, I am free to do as I will, and God help the man who seeks to work you evil!"
Barbara had seen him in many moods, known him as dreamer, jester, counsellor, and philosopher, always with an air of unreality in what he did and said, always "Mad Martin," yet with strange wisdom and cunning in his madness at times. In this mood she had never seen him before. His face, indeed, the whole man, was changed. Madness must have got the upper hand entirely for a moment.
"Why, Martin, you—"
But he had gone. She had been too astonished to speak at once, and the door had closed before she could finish her sentence. The mood seemed to pass quickly, too, for looking from the window, Barbara saw him cross the square, the familiar figure, in spite of the conventional garments which he wore in town and which suited him so ill. He could never be the real Martin Fairley away from that tower in the ruins at Aylingford, Barbara thought.
Not without reason was Fairley's warning, for if a woman will make a sacrifice she seldom counts the full cost. She must give generously, with both hands wide open, or not at all. Barbara did not think of the highwayman, but of Gilbert Crosby, and for him she was determined to sacrifice herself. Dreams she had had, dreams which ended in happiness; now such an ending was impossible, but the man who had inspired those dreams was still worthy the sacrifice. It was a woman's argument, absolutely conclusive to a woman. She had the power to help, and she meant to use that power.
There was a brilliant company that night at Lady Bolsover's, and probably Barbara Lanison had never appeared more fascinating. She had been very careful to wear what became her best; she was bent on conquest, and so that she conquered fully and completely she recked little how. Her beauty and her ready wit quickly gathered a crowd about her, and not one of her enthusiastic admirers guessed that under her merry speech and laughter was an anxious, sorrowful heart and a wealth of restrained tears. One or two, whose love and hope had made their understanding of her keener, may have noticed that her eyes were sharp to mark each new guest who entered the room. There was someone she expected and for whom she was waiting. One man beside her looked at her quickly when Sydney Fellowes entered the room, possibly he had reason to suppose that Fellowes loved her and might prove no mean rival, but it seemed evident that he was not the man expected to-night. Sydney Fellowes bowed over her hand presently, murmured some conventional phrase, and passed on; but from a corner, and unobserved, he watched her. When she passed into another room he followed her at a distance, and took note of every man and woman with whom she talked. He saw that she was restless, for who was there who could understand her moods better than he did? How often had he sat beside her, learning to read her thoughts in the blue eyes which were more beautiful than any other eyes in the world.
She was standing in the doorway between two rooms when he saw her start suddenly, and, following the direction of her eyes, he saw Sir John Lanison. He had just entered the room, and was explaining his presence to his sister, Lady Bolsover, who was evidently surprised to see him. He turned to greet several acquaintances, and then, seeing his niece, advanced towards her. He looked at her a little curiously, realising for the first time, perhaps, how beautiful she was. Barbara's face hardened for a moment, but the next instant she smiled. This man was her enemy, all the more dangerous because he was also her guardian, but it would be wise to keep him in ignorance of how fully she understood him.
"Your arrival is unexpected, sir."
"Yet not altogether unwelcome, I trust," said Sir John, treating her with studied courtliness, a manner he could use to perfection. "I was obliged to come to town, and could not refrain from coming to see you. You may guess why, perchance?"
"Has it to do with a young person in trouble?" asked Barbara.
Sir John looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh, you mean that girl who came to the Abbey. Did she really travel all the way to London to see you? I am surprised. She did not tell me her story, but I told her where you were to be found, never supposing that she would come to you."
"She came, and I have heard her story," said Barbara.
"It bears a close relationship to many another young woman's story, I wager," said Sir John with a smile. "Truly, I was not much impressed with her. If I may be allowed to speak a word of warning, I should say beware of her. She could lie easily, I fancy, with never a blush or the flicker of an eyelid to betray her. No, it was not about her I wished to see you."
"Then, sir, I cannot guess," said Barbara.
"I wished to apologise," said Sir John. "As I grow older my ill temper gains on me, I fear. Thwarted, I am senseless enough at times to become like a bullying schoolboy, and I say the first outrageous things which come to my tongue—conduct worthy only of a harridan. It was so that night at Aylingford. You were entirely right, I was entirely wrong. Forgive me, Barbara."
"I forgive, yes, but you must not expect me to forget so readily," she answered. "Forgetfulness can only come with time, Sir John, you must understand that."
"Perfectly. I do not expect to enjoy the luxury of being ill-tempered without having to pay the price for it. I only ask that you may not make the price too heavy. When you choose to return to the Abbey you shall find a welcome."
Sir John did not wait for any answer, nor had Barbara the opportunity of thinking over what he had said just then, for the moment her uncle left her another claimed her attention.
Still Sydney Fellowes watched her. It was evidently not her uncle for whom she had been waiting. It seemed as evident that she was doomed to disappointment to-night. Fellowes was one of the last to leave, and it was impossible that any other guest could arrive now.
Barbara dismissed her maid quickly, almost impatiently, that night. She wanted to be alone. She expected to have done so much this evening, expected that she would have known her fate by now. She had faced the worst, she was prepared to pay the price, whatever it might be, always with a hope that it would not be as bad as she anticipated. Everything was yet to do, the uncertainty was still hers; the delay gave her lonely hours in which to realise all that this sacrifice might involve, and involuntarily she shrank from it. She was not less resolved, however, and there was an added incentive in the fact that the difficulties in her way were greater than she had expected. Sir John's arrival could have only one meaning; he must know, or had guessed, the real reason of Harriet Payne's coming to the Abbey, and had immediately travelled to town to ensure that, if he could possibly prevent it, no help should be given to Gilbert Crosby. His apology made no impression upon her, and she believed him capable of committing any villainy to get his own way. Surely, after what had happened at Aylingford, she had ample reason for her opinion. How was she to meet his designs and defeat them? There was only one way, the full sacrifice of herself. She looked critically at herself in the mirror, dashed the tears from her eyes, and smiled, touched her hair that the curls might fall most becomingly, and turned her head this way and that, coquetting with her own reflection.
"Can I smile so winningly that a man will think possession of me cheaply bought at any price?" she murmured. "I think so, I believe so. I will make the bargain. Whatever beauty I have shall be staked against your villainy, Sir John; and I think the woman will win."
She was strong in her determination, yet she sobbed herself to sleep.
Not having been a frequent visitor at Aylingford Abbey in recent years, Lady Bolsover knew nothing about the company so constantly assembled there, nothing about her brother's pursuits and interests. That he must have fallen behind the times and become uninteresting, she took for granted; nothing else was to be expected of one who resided constantly in the country, she argued; yet she admitted to herself that Sir John looked a fine gentleman as he passed amongst her guests, and was rather surprised to find how full he was of town graces. After all, he was the owner of Aylingford, a circumstance which marked him as a man of importance, and some of the scandal which had been attached to his name as a younger man had not died out. She heard one woman inquire who he was, and, receiving an answer, say quickly, "theSir John Lanison, do you mean?" The interest displayed rather pleased Lady Bolsover, for surely fame, however obtained, was preferable to insignificance and nonentity. She therefore received her brother very graciously when he called on the following morning, and felt very contented that he should have chanced last night upon such a brilliant evening, and must realise how big a position his sister filled in the social world of London. If she had been inclined to despise him for burying himself at Aylingford, she was conscious that he had never looked upon her as a very important person.
Sir John was full of flattery this morning. He regretted that his niece had a headache, but it enabled him to have his sister to himself.
"A few days here, amongst men and women of wit and standing, would cure you of your absurd love of the country," said Lady Bolsover.
"At least it has done wonders for my niece," he answered.
"Surely you have not come to drag her back into exile!"
Sir John smiled. It was evident that Barbara had not entered into an explanation of her reasons for leaving the Abbey.
"No, I think she is in very good hands for the present. She appears to have many admirers."
"Can you wonder at it? She is as pretty as a picture, and when such a picture has an exceedingly heavy golden frame—"
"My dear Peggy, you hit the centre of the target with the first shaft. For most of these admirers the frame is the chief attraction. In this fact arises the difficulty of my guardianship."
"Barbara has spirit; you must not draw the rein too tightly or she will kick over the traces," said Lady Bolsover.
"Exactly, and show herself a true Lanison," said Sir John. "I propose to let the reins hang very loosely indeed. Let her have her own way. She will find it so uninteresting not to meet with any opposition that she will probably end in doing exactly as I wish."
"And to whom have you decided to marry her?"
Sir John held up his hand with his fingers apart.
"There are at least five to choose from," he said.
"All country bumpkins who affect outrageous clothes and delight in muddy boots?" inquired his sister.
"On the contrary, they are all lovers of the town, whole-heartedly for King James, and with those convenient morals which go so far to make a gallant gentleman."
"You pique my curiosity."
"Then I do you a service, and would not spoil it by satisfying that curiosity," said Sir John. "Watch Barbara, and you may see my little comedy in the playing, for some of these five are not infrequently your guests."
Lady Bolsover found her brother entertaining, and it was late in the afternoon when he spoke of taking his leave.
"I will let Barbara know; she will like to see you before you go."
A servant was sent to inform Mistress Lanison of her uncle's departure, and in a few minutes he returned to say that Mistress Lanison was out.
"Out! Where?"
"I have made inquiries, my lady, but no one seems to know," said the servant. "Madam went out with her maid quite early this morning, but returned shortly afterwards. A young person who came to see her yesterday came again to-day, just after noon, and it seems that Mistress Lanison went out with her. The maid left the house barely an hour ago."
Lady Bolsover looked at her brother, who glanced swiftly at the servant.Lady Bolsover understood, and told the servant to go.
"What can have happened?" she said as the door was closed.
"Nothing serious, I warrant, my dear Peggy. Like all you women, Barbara is enjoying some harmless intrigue. Do you mind that day at Aylingford when I horsewhipped your first admirer? How old were you then?"
"But Barbara is—"
"Young," said Sir John, "and to indulge a frolic has taken advantage of the loose rein. You will find her in her room presently, with her head still aching, but slightly better, and to-night she will be as radiant as a young Diana."
"I trust so."
"Take my word for it. Long residence in the country has not made me forget that I once understood women very well." And with a smile Sir John departed.
There were few coaches and lackeys in the square when Sydney Fellowes left Lady Bolsover's. Hastily taking leave in the hall of an acquaintance who seemed inclined to bear him company, he hurried away, too much absorbed in his thoughts to think of the dangers of the streets for a lonely man at that hour of the night. He went quickly to Pall Mall, and entered a coffee-house there. A man at once rose from a corner to attract his attention. It was Martin Fairley.
"She evidently expected someone to-night," said Fellowes in a low tone as they sat down together, "but I cannot guess who, nor whether it was man or woman. Of one thing I am certain, whoever she expected, Mistress Lanison was disappointed."
"Who was there?"
"Sir John Lanison for one, Martin. No, his niece did not expect him, norLady Bolsover either. His arrival was a surprise to both of them."
"And to me," Martin answered; "but it is bad news. What brings him fromAylingford? Can Rosmore be in town?"
"No, that is impossible," returned Fellowes. "He is busy with preparations for the assizes, and is in command of the military force placed at the disposal of Judge Jeffreys. For the present Rosmore is tied to the West. I would he might find a speedy grave there."
"Sir John comes like an ill-omened bird; I wish I knew his reason," saidMartin thoughtfully. "Did he speak with his niece?"
"A few words only, and there was the courtesy as of strangers between them. I could not hear what was said, but it was nothing that had any special interest for Mistress Lanison. Her expression did not change."
"Do you imagine you can read her so easily?"
"Ah, Martin, I know; there is no imagination in it. Were I cunning with a brush and colour, I could paint you a thousand of her expressions and tell you the thoughts which lay behind them all. I am a lover, remember, with all a lover's quick perception, although the lady I worship thinks no more of me than of the soiled glove she casts aside."
Martin looked at him for a moment in silence, and then laid his hand on his arm.
"Soiled gloves go in pairs, Master Fellowes."
"You mean—"
"There is small difference sometimes between a lover and a madman. Had I my fiddle with me I might play to you all that I mean."
Fellowes drummed with his fingers on the little table before him for a moment, and then seemed to shake himself out of a dream.
"There must be too few women in the world, Martin, when the desires of so many men are for one. To-morrow—what must be done to-morrow?"
"I shall see her to-morrow afternoon; until then I cannot tell what is to be done. A message will find you at your lodging?"
"Yes, I shall wait. If I do not hear, I shall make some excuse for being at Lady Bolsover's again in the evening."
Outside the coffee-house they separated. Where Martin went at nights Fellowes did not know, nor did he inquire. Fairley could find him, if necessary, and that was enough.
Neither did Barbara know where Martin lived, or she would surely have sent him a message next day, for long before noon she had made up her mind to act without delay.
The coming of Sir John was as ill-omened to her as it was to Martin. In some manner, she was convinced, his presence in London nearly concerned her, and much might depend on her promptness in carrying out the resolution she had made. So she awoke with a convenient headache, and had the news conveyed to her aunt. Then, assured that she would be left undisturbed, she dressed very carefully, anxious to look her best, and even practised her most winning smiles before her mirror. Her maid, who could be trusted and was a child of intrigue by nature, loyally assisted her mistress, and they were able to leave the house together without hindrance. Calling a coach, they were driven to the Temple, where Judge Marriott had his lodging. Barbara had determined to appeal to him. If he would, he certainly could save Gilbert Crosby, and, if she hoped so to entreat him that the reward he asked for his help should not be too heavy, she was prepared to pay whatever price he demanded. In imagination she saw herself his wife, and though she shuddered at the thought she never contemplated stopping the coach and going back to St. James's Square, her mission unfulfilled.
"Judge Marriott has left London," said the servant when Barbara inquired for him.
"When does he return?"
The servant did not know. It seemed evident that his general instructions were to be reticent concerning his master's going and coming.
"I must see him without delay on a matter of the gravest importance—the gravest importance to him," said Barbara, and she was surely speaking nothing but the truth, for the easy winning of her must be of great moment to any man. "Can you tell me where I shall find him? Has he gone to Aylingford Abbey?"
The man thought not, but his imagination did not appear to help him further than that.
"It is most important," repeated Barbara, and in her hand was a golden bribe.
"I ought not to give any information," said the man, "but you say it is important to my master. He has set out for Dorchester to deal with some of the rebel prisoners there."
"You are sure he goes first to Dorchester?"
"Quite certain, madam."
Barbara was deeply thoughtful as the coach drove back to St. James's Square. An unforeseen obstacle was placed in the way of her self-sacrifice, an obstacle so great that it did not seem possible to overcome it. Was Judge Marriott's absence of her uncle's contriving? It did not seem probable, but she was in the mood to connect him with all disaster, and when, on returning to the house, she learnt that Sir John was there with Lady Bolsover, her suspicions seemed confirmed. Barbara was the more determined to defeat his schemes. She would certainly have sent to Martin had she known where to find him, but as it was she was obliged to act for herself.
Harriet Payne came at noon, with a sad and gloomy countenance.
"What is it?" Barbara asked. "Is there further and worse news?"
"No, nothing further."
"Your face has a wealth of trouble in it."
"Indeed, madam, and is it any wonder?" the girl asked. "I am so helpless, and I could wish to be so strong. Every hour counts, and what can I do?"
"You have travelled far to ask my help, that is something."
"Yes, madam; but yesterday you gave me little hope, and even that little is gone. In this matter you are as helpless as I am."
Barbara laughed, a little hardly perhaps, remembering in which direction her power lay.
"Had I been powerless, do you suppose your master would have sent you to me? I have had to decide whether I shall use that power."
"And you will use it?"
"I have already tried to do so this morning, and failed."
"Here? In London?"
"Yes. In which direction did you imagine my power lay?"
"I could not tell, but I thought—I thought it must be in Dorchester where my master is a prisoner. Madam, there are powerful men in the West who may be bribed, who are being bribed every day. I thought it was with them you would have to deal."
"The man I hoped to see in London is gone to the West," said Barbara.
"Then—"
"Yes, I intend to follow him, and at once. In this enterprise you will be of more service to me than my own maid. Will you go with me?"
"Gladly, madam," and the girl's face brightened at once. "I have made the journey to London more than once, and know that at the house where the coach stops a carriage and horses can be procured."
"You are beginning to make yourself useful at once," Barbara returned. "Wait here for me. I have to give my maid instructions, and then we will start without delay."
Barbara told her maid to be on the watch for Martin Fairley, and to tell him that she had gone to Dorchester.
"He will understand why," she said; "and as I shall not want you with me, and yet do not want you to be questioned, you had better return to the Abbey as soon as you have seen Martin. Be sure and do not let anyone hear you give the message."
The girl had friends in London, and asked if she might spend a day or two with them before returning to Aylingford.
"It will fit my plan excellently," Barbara answered. "Leave this house as soon as you possibly can after seeing Martin, and if your friends will have you, stay with them until I send for you. You will be well out of the way of questions."
"No questions would make me betray you," said the girl.
"I know, but your face is a tell-tale one," Barbara answered. "You have the virtue of not being able to lie easily."
The girl was honest, and it was no fault of hers that she failed to deliver her message to Martin Fairley. She saw him come to the house, and hurried down to him, meaning to catch him in the square and speak to him where none could overhear her, and so carry out her mistress's instructions to the letter. But Fairley had departed quickly, and was nowhere to be seen. For some time she waited for his return, and when he did not come, thought it best to fulfil the other part of her instructions and leave the house at once.
The servants at Lady Bolsover's knew nothing of Martin Fairley, not even his name. He had twice been admitted to see Mistress Lanison, but, for all the servants knew, he was some tradesman with whom she had dealings. Many such came to Lady Bolsover's. As Martin came to the door that day one servant called to another to fetch a coach for Sir John Lanison, and, hearing that Sir John was in the house, Martin departed quickly, saying that he would come at a more convenient hour. He did not want Sir John to know that he was in London, but he was curious to know upon what mission Sir John had come to town. Here was an opportunity to satisfy his curiosity which he had not counted upon, and he turned swiftly into the first alley which presented itself, and waited. He was so intent on watching for Sir John that he failed to notice Barbara's maid, who on her side was not anxious to attract too much attention either from those who might be at the windows of the house or from idlers in the square.
Fairley had to wait nearly an hour, and then Sir John came. He took no notice of the coach, had no doubt given the servants some instructions concerning it, but walked leisurely across the square with the air of a man at peace with himself and all the world. Whatever plot might be on foot, it had received no check, and Fairley argued the worst from that handsome, smiling face.
"He is delighted with some great villainy," he said to himself as he came from his hiding-place and followed him.
Sir John Lanison was conscious that some attention was paid to him as he passed. He was a fine gentleman, and retained a little of that old-fashioned grace which had been the admiration of the town a couple of decades ago, when foolish women had looked upon him almost as a hero of romance, and men had thought twice before raising the anger of so accomplished a swordsman. A remembrance of former triumphs, with perhaps a little sigh to keep it company, came to him as he went towards the Haymarket, but certainly no thought of Martin Fairley was in his mind. His destination was a hostelry where he was evidently known, and there was a rush to do his bidding. He was travelling to Aylingford to-morrow, and must needs have the best coach and horses procurable. He was going alone; yes, and would start at an early hour. His orders were received with bows and much obsequiousness.
"Tell me, landlord, have you sent out a coach in that direction to-day?"
"Not to Aylingford, sir."
"But in that direction. The road does not only lead to the Abbey."
"Why, yes, sir; a coach started for the West early this afternoon," was the answer.
"In these days the traffic sets more this way," said Sir John. "What kind of passengers were they?"
"Two women; one closely veiled, but if her face were equal to her figure, to hide it was cheating mortals out of a pleasure. The other was a maid, a pert little baggage who ordered us about somewhat."
"Going to Exeter?"
"No, to Dorchester."
Sir John nodded, and the smile of satisfaction seemed permanent.
"You observe closely, landlord. I warrant you could describe the mistress's clothing for all you were so ordered about by the maid."