The Brown Mask

P >> Percy J. Brebner >> The Brown Mask

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"I would the fiddle were found, then," said one.

"Having lost it, you carry pistols instead."

"Yes, sir, every gentleman does so, but there's many dare not use them.
I didn't use them. You'll remember that, for it's to my credit, and let
me go."

The man removed the pistols from his holster.

"They're dangerous toys for a fool."

"Truly, I feel much happier without them," said Martin.

"Coward!" said Harriet Payne from the window as the coach was turned.
"Coward!"

Barbara said nothing.

"Please let me ride by the other window," pleaded Martin. "This wench
has no music in her soul, and does not like me."

"You shall ride behind," was the answer.

"Thank you, sir; I shall not see her then. She is not beautiful to look
at."

The man laughed.

"Look to this fool, some of you, and give him a cuff if he grows
sleepy."

"Sleepy! Never in good company," said Martin.

The post-boy whipped up the horses, and the carriage went slowly back
towards the main road, surrounded by its escort.

Barbara was still bound for Dorchester, but a prisoner. Would she now be
able to get speech with Judge Marriott?

CHAPTER XIX

THE HUT IN THE WOOD

The grinding of wheels, the sharp stroke of horses' hoofs, and the
voices of men lessened and died into silence. No sound disturbed the
narrow, winding lane which twisted its way now between neglected and
forlorn looking fields, presently through woods of larch and pine, again
across some deserted piece of common land. One might have followed the
lane for hours without meeting a soul, without hearing a human sound
beyond the echoes of one's own footsteps sent back from the depth of a
copse. For miles it went, turning now this way, now that, until a
stranger would wonder whither it was leading him, and speculate whether,
at the end, he might not find himself on the same high road which he had
left long ago. At one part, for a mile or more, the lane skirted a
forest, where, down short vistas, could be seen deeper depths beyond,
solemn gloom which might serve to hide in, or might contain lurking
danger. Old cart ruts here and there made short incursions into it,
their limit marked by a small clearing and a few tree stumps, showing
that timber had been brought out; but no such track gave any sign of
penetrating far, and offered little temptation to explore. There was a
track, however, so casual in its departure from the lane that a stranger
would hardly have noticed it, which ran deeply into the forest, losing
itself at intervals in a small clearing, but going on again, although
anyone but those who had knowledge of it might miss it a score of times,
and wander hopelessly amongst tangled undergrowths and into swampy
depressions. This track presently crossed a larger clearing, where was a
hut set up by charcoal burners long ago. Time had cracked and warped its
planks, but pieces had been nailed across weak places, giving the hut a
botched and tumble-down appearance but keeping it weather-tight. The hut
was divided into a shed for tools and storage, or perhaps for stabling a
horse upon occasion, and a larger chamber which served as a dwelling.
From a hole in the roof of this part a thin wreath of smoke was curling
upwards towards the overhanging trees, losing itself in their foliage.
Twilight came early here, and the great world seemed shut out
altogether.

Presently the door of the hut opened, but he was no charcoal-burner who
stood on the threshold, listening and looking up at the sky above the
clearing. His hair was white, his figure a little bent, and there was an
anxious look upon his face, a permanent expression rather than one
caused by any tardy arrival this evening. The man he waited for was too
erratic in his goings and comings to make a few hours', or even a day's,
delay a cause of wonder.

He went back into the hut, but in half an hour or so came to the door
again. He was not a woodsman used to distinguishing sounds at a long
distance, and the sound that presently reached him was close by. In
another moment a man, leading a horse, came out of the gloomy shadows
into the clearing.

"Master Gilbert! Master Gilbert! You're late. Thank God you're back once
more. I've a hare in the pot which begins to smell excellently."

"I'll do justice to your cooking, Golding, never fear. I'll look to the
mare first; she's had a trying day."

He led the animal into the small shed, and for some time was busy making
her comfortable for the night.

"Ah! the smell is appetising," he said as he joined Golding, "and I am
ravenous."

"And in good spirits, surely."

"Yes, we baulked them again, Golding. Yesterday afternoon we made in the
direction of Witley, and had as narrow a squeak of capture as I want to
experience. A troop was before us on the road, and one fellow with the
eyes of a lynx sighted us. The poor fellow I was helping was a bit of a
coward--no, I won't call him that, but constantly being hunted had taken
the heart out of him, and he was inclined to give up the struggle. I
urged him on, and we made for Witley, openly, and as if we were
confident of a hiding-place in the town. Fortune favoured us, and we
pulled up short in a hollow, the troop riding by us in desperate haste.
Hot footed they poured into Witley, but for some reason which I did not
understand they went no further. Half an hour afterwards they came back,
all but two of them. I had counted them as they passed. Those two
remained in Witley until long after nightfall, then they rode back, and
my man had a free country before him."

"You'll run the risk once too often, Master Gilbert."

"That is probable, but, by Jove! I shall have done some good with my
life. This was the thirty-eighth man I've helped out of the clutches of
these devils."

"And I was the first," said Golding. "It's wonderful how you schemed to
get me out of Dorchester, Master Gilbert."

"And it's marvellous how you manage to make this hut a home that one is
glad to get back to, Golding."

"Maybe we'll get back to Lenfield presently, Master Gilbert, and you'll
then shudder at the thought of what you had to put up with here."

"It will be some time before there will be safety for me at Lenfield,"
said Crosby.

"And meanwhile a hare's no such bad fare, if the preparing and cooking
of it does present some difficulties in a place like this," said Golding
as he replenished his master's plate.

Crosby had eaten little in the last twenty-four hours, and was silent
for some time.

"Thirty-eight is something, but it's a drop in the ocean," he said
presently. "I wish I could open the prison doors in Dorchester before
the assizes commence. There'll be murder enough done there in a few
days, Golding."

"That is beyond your power, Master Gilbert," and the old man said it as
if he feared his master would make the attempt.

"Yes, I am powerless. I wonder what became of that girl, Golding."

"Do you mean Harriet Payne?"

"I had forgotten her name for the moment," said Crosby. "When I came to
Dorchester after they had arrested you, I found out where you were, but
I could hear nothing about her. I would give a great deal to set her
free."

"Yes, Master Gilbert."

"It is frightful for a woman to be in the clutches of these devils, and
when that fiend Jeffreys comes to Dorchester, God help the women he
judges! I wonder what has become of the girl."

"She may have been released."

"Why should they release her when they would think it was within her
power to betray me?"

Golding shrugged his shoulders. "It was only a suggestion," he said.

"What is in your mind?" Crosby asked.

"An unjust thought, Master Gilbert. Since thirty years ago the one woman
I ever thought of jilted me, I've had no love for any woman. I'm afraid
of them and unjust in my thoughts of them. My opinion concerning women
is of no value."

"What were you thinking about Harriet Payne?"

"She was a bit flighty, Master Gilbert, and rather given to look down on
the other servants. That kind of girl is open to flattery."

"And then, Golding?"

"Then! Well, I'm no judge of women, but it seems to me that once they're
fond of flattery you can make them do almost anything. She was a
good-looking girl, was Harriet Payne, and if some young slip of a dandy
got hold of her--well, she might make a bargain with him and get
released that way."

"Was she that kind of girl?"

"I'm not saying so; I'm only putting it as a possibility," Golding
answered. "Such bargains have been made, Master Gilbert, if the tales
they tell be true."

Crosby clenched his teeth suddenly, and struck his fist irritably on his
knee. One such tale he had heard, told of the brutal Colonel Kirke, a
woman's honour sacrificed to save her lover, and sacrificed in vain. He
was prepared to believe any villainy of such a man, and there were many,
little better than Kirke, free to work their will in the West Country
to-day. He was conscious of the ribbon about his neck, he remembered
that handclasp in the hidden chamber below Aylingford Abbey, and thanked
Heaven that the fair woman who had done so much to help him was in
London.

"Such thoughts make me sick, Golding," he said after a long pause. "I
feel that I must rush into the midst of such villains and strike, strike
until I am cut down. Sometimes there comes the belief that if a man had
the courage to charge boldly into such iniquity, God Himself would fight
beside him and give him victory."

"There peeps out the Puritan faith of your fathers, Master Gilbert. It's
a good faith, but over confident of miracles. You'd be foolish throwing
your life away trying the impossible when there is so much you are able
to do well."

"I argued like that only a few hours since," said Crosby. "But, for all
that, there's a taste of cowardice left behind in the mouth. I should
have been back early this afternoon but for the fact that this troop I
spoke of was still hanging about the highway yonder."

"They did not see you!" Golding said in alarm. "They will not track you
here?"

"They were not watching for me. I take it the men were ordered not to
follow us beyond Witley, but to wait for other prey that was expected. I
did not see how it happened, nor where, only the result. They had
captured a coach, and were guarding it on the way to Dorchester. What
unfortunate travellers it contained I do not know, I was at too great a
distance to see. But in the midst of the villains there was a captured
horseman, and they seemed to be ill-treating him. I touched the mare
with the spur, thinking to go to his aid, but drew rein again
immediately. There was at least a score of men to 'do battle with."

"A wise second thought," said Golding.

"Leaving a taste in my mouth," said Crosby. "I thought I heard
something, Golding."

"It was the mare in the shed."

"I heard her, but something else besides, I fancy," and, with Golding at
his heels, he went out of the hut to listen. There were stars in the sky
over the clearing. The night had fallen, and strange sounds came from
the gloomy depths of the forest, sounds which might well set an
unaccustomed ear intent to catch their meaning. Gilbert Crosby may not
have been able to account for all of them, but they did not trouble him.
It was another sound he waited and listened for.

"There is nothing, Master Gilbert," Golding whispered.

"Wait."

Golding saw that a pistol was in his master's hand, so he took one
slowly from his pocket and tried to look into the darkness.

It was well that Gilbert Crosby saw the coach from such a distance, that
he could not catch a glimpse of the travellers. Had he known who the
travellers were, the spurs would have been driven deep into the mare's
flanks and there would have been no drawing rein; had he even recognised
the horseman who was being ill-treated he would not have paused to count
the cost. A trooper or two might have gone down before his fierce
attack, but a score of men, trained in fighting and on the alert, cannot
be scattered by one. Gilbert Crosby would have been flung lifeless on
the roadside, or overpowered and carried a prisoner to Dorchester.

The two women sat silently in the coach. Harriet Payne sobbed quietly.
She was tired of abusing Martin, weary of telling her mistress that they
ought to have kept to the high road and safety. At first she had broken
out at intervals with her wailing, and Barbara's commands to be silent
had not much effect.

Barbara did not answer her, did not look at her. Her own thoughts and
fears were trouble enough. A trap had been laid for her, doubtless it
was of her uncle's contriving, and it was unlikely that she would be
able to send even a message to Judge Marriott. Her mission was doomed to
failure, and she was in the hands of her enemies. What could they compel
her to do? Was marriage with Lord Rosmore the only way out? She would
never take that way. Though they accused her of treason, though death
threatened her, she would never marry him. To Judge Marriott she was
prepared to sacrifice herself, but to Lord Rosmore never, not even to
save the life of the man she loved. There had been moments when an
alliance with Rosmore had not appeared so dreadful to her, moments when
her disappointment concerning Gilbert Crosby had helped to make Rosmore
less repugnant to her; but from the moment she had determined to
sacrifice herself these two men stood in clear and definite antagonism.
The one she loved, the other she hated. Why she should so love and so
hate she could not have explained fully, but the love and hate were
facts, and she made no attempt to reason about them.

She heard Martin's voice at intervals, complaining, garrulous, and then
suddenly jesting, jests not meant for her ears, but fitted to the rough
company in the midst of which he rode. Poor Martin, she thought, Mad
Martin. This might make him mad indeed, drive from him entirely that
strange wit he had and which he used so wonderfully at times. He had
been her playfellow, and her teacher, too, in many things, yet he was
one of God's fools. There was compensation in that surely.

Barbara winced presently when Martin's voice was raised in higher
complaint.

"What are you trying to do, you fool?" cried a gruff voice.

"I want to see that my mistress is happy. She would like me to ride
beside her window; and I will, too."

It was probably at this moment that Gilbert Crosby caught sight of the
cavalcade, and thought the prisoner was being vilely ill-used. Well
might he think so, for Martin attempted to force his way through the
troopers and get to the window.

"She's used to me," he literally screamed. "See what an ugly fellow is
beside the window now! Truth, I never saw so many ugly men together. Let
me pass!"

"Peace, Martin, I am all right!" Barbara called from the window, fearful
that these men might do him an injury.

"Take that idiot further back!" roared the voice of the man in command
of the troop. "He does naught but frighten the lady."

Martin received a cuff on the head, and was hustled to the rear, a man
riding on either side of him.

"Who was the gentleman who struck me?" whined Martin, rubbing his head.

"Sayers. His is a good hand for dusting off flies," laughed one of the
men beside him, willing to get some sport out of this madman.

"Flies! To judge by my head he must have fancied he saw a bullock before
him. Lucky I dodged somewhat, or I'd have no head for flies to settle
on. And who is the gentleman with the voice of thunder?"

"That's Watson."

"It's a good voice, but there's no music in it. You have never heard him
sing, eh?"

"Aye, but I have. He can roar a fine stave about wine and women."

"I'll go and ask him to favour us," said Martin, jerking his horse
forward.

"Stay where you are," and the man's hand shot out to the horse's bridle.

"Very well, very well, if you like my company so much. It's a strange
thing that they should put wine and women into the same song."

"Strange, you fool! Strong enough and beautiful enough, are they not
both intoxicating?"

"I know not," Martin answered. "I have no experience of strong women."

"Strong wine and beautiful women," I said.

"Did you. I am rather dull of hearing."

"You're a dull-witted fellow altogether to my thinking."

"It is most true, sir. I am so dull that I cannot see the wit in your
conversation."

"I can cuff almost as vigorously as Sayers," said the man a little
angrily, when his companion on the other side of Martin laughed.

"I will believe it without demonstration," said Martin, cringing in his
saddle. "You frighten me, and now I have lost my stirrups. I am no rider
to get on without them. I shall fall. Of your kindness, gentlemen, find
me my stirrups."

"Plague on you for a fool," said one.

"A blessing on you if you get my feet into the stirrups."

"Stop, then, a moment."

Martin pulled up, and the cavalcade went on. The two men, one on either
side, brought their horses close to Martin's, and bent down to find the
stirrups. Martin suddenly gave both horses the spur in the flanks with a
backward fling of his heels, and at the same time struck each man a
heavy blow on his lowered head. The horses sprang aside, one rider
falling in the roadway, the other stumbling with his animal into the
ditch by the roadside. The next instant Martin had whipped round his own
horse, and was galloping back along the road.

It had been the work of a few seconds, and a few seconds more elapsed
before the cavalcade came to a standstill.

Then a voice roared orders, half a dozen shots sang about the fugitive,
and there were galloping horses quickly in pursuit.

Expecting the shots, Martin had flung himself low on the horse's neck.
The animal, frightened by the swinging stirrups and driven by the spur,
plunged madly along the road. So long as the road was straight, Martin
let the horse go, but at the first bend, when there was no chance of his
pursuers seeing him, he checked the animal a little, slipped from his
back, and with a blow sent him careering riderless along the road.

"He'll make a fine chase for them, and should find his way back to
Witley," said Martin as he crouched down in a ditch which divided the
road from a wood. Cracking branches might have betrayed him had he
entered the wood just then. Half a dozen horsemen passed him, galloping
in pursuit, and when the sounds had died away, and he was convinced that
no others followed, he crawled from the ditch and went straight before
him into the wood. At a clearing he stopped and looked at the stars,
then continued his way along a narrow track that went towards the
south-west, in which direction lay Dorchester. He had no mind to enter
the town as a prisoner, but he meant to reach it all the same, and as
soon as possible.

For an hour he pushed forward, and then came suddenly to the edge of a
clearing of some size. He stopped. He saw nothing, he was not sure that
he heard anything, but the air seemed to vibrate with some presence
besides his own.

Perhaps he had heard the low sound which the opening door of the hut
made.

"You're a dead man if you move," said a voice out of the darkness.

Fairley started and made a step forward, but stopped in time.

"I should know that voice. I am Martin Fairley."

"Fairley!"

Crosby hurried forward to meet him.

"Have you been a prisoner in Dorchester?" Martin asked.

"A prisoner! No."

"The devil take that wench!"

"What wench?" Crosby asked.

"Give me something to drink and a mouthful of food. The story may be
told in a few words, and then we must get to Dorchester."

"Martin! Why? Surely she--"

"Yes; she will be there within an hour or so. That is why we go to
Dorchester to-night."

CHAPTER XX

SCARLET HANGINGS

Barbara's prison was an old house in a narrow street of Dorchester, the
ground floor of which had been turned into temporary barracks for
soldiers and militiamen. The prisoner passed to rooms on the upper floor
through a rough, gaping crowd, and in some faces pity shone through
brutality for a moment. Something worse than death might await so fair a
traitor.

The rooms to which she was taken were sparsely furnished and rather
dark, the windows looking out upon a blank wall, two rooms
communicating, but with only a single entrance from the passage without.
The most hopeful would have seen little prospect of escape, and the most
spirited might wonder if depression could be successfully conquered in
such surroundings. Half a dozen soldiers had followed them up the
stairs, but only Watson, whose stentorian voice seemed to fit him to
command a troop of ruffians, entered the room with them.

"There are so many prisoners in Dorchester that we have to make shift to
find room for them," he said, as though to make apology for the
accommodation.

"Indeed, I might be much worse lodged," Barbara answered.

Harriet Payne looked round the rooms in dismay, but said nothing.

"May I know what charge is brought against me?" asked Barbara.

"With that I have naught to do," Watson answered. "I'm a soldier, not a
lawyer, madam. My orders are to keep you in safe custody until your
presence is required, and I am told to see that you have everything in
reason to make you comfortable."

"It would appear that I have friends in Dorchester."

"It is not unlikely, madam; as for this young person," he went on,
looking at Harriet, "she will see to your wants and may pass in and out.
I suppose, therefore, that nothing is known against her beyond the fact
that she is found in your company."

"Your temporary mistress is evidently a dangerous person, Harriet,"
Barbara said with a smile. "Had I not forced you to make this perilous
journey with me, you would have been better off."

This deliberate attempt to dissociate her from any treasonable intention
rather startled Harriet Payne.

"At least you shall find the comfort of having a maid with you, madam,"
she said quickly.

"If the young person will come with me, I will show her where certain
things you may require can be found," said Watson. "There will be a
sentry constantly in the passage, madam, so if you hear footsteps in the
night you need not fear."

Barbara made no answer to this indirect warning that any thought of
flight was hopeless, and Harriet followed Watson out of the room.

"It was well done," he whispered as they went down the passage, leaving
a sentry by the locked door.

"I was not looking for your praise."

"It is given gratis," the man answered, "and in the same spirit I'll
give you a warning: don't attempt the impossible, whatever happens. A
woman like her yonder might succeed in wheedling any man, or woman."

"I want neither your praise nor your warning," said Harriet.

"And I'm not looking for another clout on the ear, mistress, such as you
gave me at Witley, though, for that matter, I like a woman of spirit. If
you're in want of a comforter later on, you may reckon on Sam Watson."

"And Sam Watson had best be careful, or he may find himself in hot water
with his master," Harriet answered with a toss of her head.

For herself, Barbara Lanison had little thought, but her fears for
others troubled her. As a prisoner her power to help Gilbert Crosby was
grievously lessened. Doubtless she herself was to be accused of treason,
and Judge Marriott might be afraid to say a word at her bidding, or
perchance he would refuse if the power to make the sacrifice she
intended were taken from her. Death might be her punishment for treason,
and if so, where was Judge Marriott's reward? There was another
contingency: he might be able to save her, and he would certainly use
his efforts to this end instead of troubling about Crosby, no matter
what pleading she might use. As a prisoner she was, indeed, of little
use to Gilbert Crosby. She must see Judge Marriott and do her best, but
her hope of success was small. Who had brought this disaster upon her?
Surely her guardian, and Barbara's hands clenched in impotent rage to
think that he had outwitted her. Yet he could not be alone in the
matter, for it was not probable that he had openly accused her himself.
Had Rosmore anything to do with it? It was a new thought to Barbara. She
knew her uncle for a villain, but about Lord Rosmore she was undecided.
True, he had threatened her, but he also loved her, she could not doubt
that in his own fashion he did so. Would a man place the woman he loved
in such jeopardy as that in which she was placed? Barbara could not
believe it possible; besides, how should Lord Rosmore know that she was
on her way to Dorchester? The coming of Harriet Payne to Aylingford had
aroused Sir John's suspicions, but there was no circumstance which would
lead Rosmore to suppose that she intended journeying to the West.

Martin Fairley also troubled her. Had he made good his escape, or had he
been retaken and confined somewhere else in the town? She had asked the
man Watson as the cavalcade had started again, and his gruff reply was
that the fool would be left dead in the ditch by the roadside. She did
not believe Martin was dead; in fact, Martin puzzled her. He could not
have had a hand in her betrayal, yet, at the very moment when courage
was most needed, he had been a coward. Probably he had saved himself,
but he had deserted her. The one person upon whose fidelity she would
have staked her honour had utterly forsaken her at a supreme moment.
Full as her mind was of Gilbert Crosby, the failure of this half-witted
companion depressed her as, perhaps, nothing else could have done.

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