The Brown Mask
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Percy J. Brebner >> The Brown Mask
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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," said
Barbara.
"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 in
it. 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," said
Martin.
"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," and
Martin trampled the ashes into dust.
CHAPTER XV
BARBARA LANISON IN TOWN
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, Mistress
Barbara?"
"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," said
Martin. "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--"
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