The Brown Mask

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

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"You look strangely ill-tempered," was her greeting.

"My face must be a poor index to my thoughts," he answered, with quick
yet forced gaiety. "I have just finished a good work."

"What is that?"

"Making two people happy. Come and kiss me, and I'll tell you all about
it." Yet all her kisses and arts of pleasing could not keep the
thoughtfulness out of his face as he told her how Barbara Lanison and
Gilbert Crosby were to leave Dorchester together.

CHAPTER XXV

THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE

There was little danger of anyone recognising Gilbert Crosby as he
passed through the streets of the town. A swinging lantern might
illumine his face for a moment, or the beam of light from some
unshuttered window might have betrayed him to some watching enemy, but
everyone in the houses and in the streets had enough to think about
to-night. Judge Jeffreys had come to Dorchester. To-morrow his ferocious
voice would be dooming dozens to death in that court with the scarlet
hangings. The Bloody Assizes would have commenced in earnest, and there
were few families in Dorchester which had not one relative or friend
waiting in the prisons to be tried for rebellion. There was already
mourning in the city, and the soldiers were in readiness lest
desperation should drive to riot. Crosby might have gone with less care
than he did and yet passed unnoticed.

In the upper room at "The Anchor" he found Fellowes, who sprang up at
his entrance.

"Gad! I had lost all hope," he exclaimed. "I have been searching the
town for you. I thought Rosmore must have caught you."

"He did. A miracle has happened. Where is Fairley?"

"I have not seen him since we parted the other night," Fellowes
answered. "I have picked up some information, but have had no one to
tell it to."

"And I have seen Mistress Lanison."

"Seen her!"

"Seen her and spoken to her. It is a miracle, I tell you." And Crosby
gave him the history of his dealings with Lord Rosmore, omitting no
detail from the moment he had stepped into the room and overheard part
of the conversation with Judge Marriott to his leaving Rosmore's lodging
less than an hour ago.

"It is well that you did not tell him of this place," said Fellowes.

"You do not trust him?"

"No. Do you?"

"I cannot see how he is possibly to profit out of such a plan," said
Crosby.

"The devil tempts in the same way," answered Fellowes. "If we could
always see through the devil's plans we should less often fall a victim
to his wiles. If an angel came and bid me trust Rosmore, I should have
no faith in the angel."

"Let us find the weak places in the scheme if we can," said Crosby.

"There is one I see at once," said Fellowes. "You are taken blindfold to
Mistress Lanison's prison. You do not know in what part of the town she
is. You cannot watch the house. Why the delay of three days?"

"I am inclined to think Rosmore has been generous this time," Crosby
persisted.

"If by some strange chance he has, there are three days in which he may
repent of his generosity," was the answer. "I have seen Marriott. He
told me of his interview with Rosmore, and that the orders had been
stolen from him, he did not explain how. Rosmore has no fiercer enemy at
the moment than the judge. Marriott knew nothing of Mistress Lanison's
capture; indeed, he declared that he did not believe she was in
Dorchester. One thing he was certain of, that Rosmore intended to force
her to marry him."

"How?"

"Perhaps by letting her appear before Jeffreys, allowing her to be
accused and condemned, and then rescuing her at his own price. This is
Marriott's idea."

"She would not pay the price."

"And I fear Marriott would not be powerful enough to save her, although
he says he could, if Rosmore took this course. The outlook is black,
man, black as hell, and only one feeble ray of light can I bring into
it. Marriott has promised to help me to open her prison doors should she
be condemned. To his own undoing I believe he will keep that promise, so
great is his hatred of Rosmore."

"What can we do?" said Crosby, pacing the room with short, nervous
strides. "It is damnable to be so helpless."

"Wait; there is nothing else to do. Marriott is doing his best to find
out where Mistress Lanison is imprisoned. He is to let me know. If we
can find that out we may yet beat this devil Rosmore."

"He may be honest in this," said Crosby.

"We will have the coach waiting," Fellowes answered, "but I do not
believe Rosmore is ever going to help you to use it. I wish Martin were
here."

"Where can he have gone?"

"Working somewhere for his mistress," said Fellowes. "That is certain
unless he is dead. You recollect he said he had a half-formed scheme in
his mind. Next morning I found a message here that he might be absent
for a day or two."

"Some forlorn hope," said Crosby.

"Perhaps, but Martin's forlorn hopes have a way of proving useful. You
will lie low here, I suppose, Crosby? I will get back to my lodgings,
and if I hear from Marriott I will come to you at once--or from Rosmore.
It may be part of his design to make you think Mistress Barbara has
changed her mind."

"If he sent such a message I should know he was lying."

"Don't leave here, Crosby. Much may depend on my being able to find you
at a moment's notice, and Martin may return at any time. You and I have
only discovered how great our difficulties are. Let us hope Martin will
have found the way out of them."

Would he? Crosby wondered, when he was left alone. In what direction
could Martin be seeking a solution to the problem? Not in Dorchester,
surely, or he would have come to the "Anchor" tavern. Where else? In
London? At Aylingford? Yes, perhaps at Aylingford; an appeal to
Barbara's guardian. If Martin Fairley had attempted such a forlorn hope
as this it was unlikely that he would bring much help with him when he
returned. Hour after hour Crosby sat there alone, now staring vacantly
at the opposite wall, now pacing the narrow room like a caged and
impotent animal. The dawn found him asleep in his chair.

News travelled slowly. Messengers, with instructions not to spare their
horses, might ride to London, to the King at Whitehall, yet Lady Lisle
had been executed at Winchester before the story of her trial was known
in parts of Hampshire even. If one were far from the main road, where
news might be had from the driver or guard of a coach, information could
only come from some wandering pedlar to a remote village, and might or
might not be true. Vague stories were told, and forgotten as soon as
told. Men and women, with a hard living to earn, cared little what was
happening fifty or a hundred miles away, unless a son or brother or
friend had had part in the rebellion. At the village of Aylingford no
one appeared to have this personal interest, and they were ignorant of
the fact that at least one messenger had ridden to the Abbey with news
for Sir John. He had come at nightfall, had been with Sir John for an
hour, and had then departed. He had not lingered in the servants'
quarters to whisper something of his news, nor had Sir John mentioned
his coming to his guests. There were not many guests at Aylingford just
now, and Mrs. Dearmer yawned openly, and confessed herself bored. She
seemed to have taken up her abode permanently at the Abbey, playing the
hostess, and to some extent ruling Sir John.

"I vow, Abbot, you're less lively than a ditch in a dry summer," she
said to him the day after the messenger had been.

"What shall we do to make us merry? You have only to command," he
answered.

"Plague on it, I am at a loss to know. In all our present company
there's not a wit worth listening to, nor a woman with sufficient vice
or virtue to make her interesting. I feel like turning saint for the
sake of a new sensation."

"There are some things even you cannot do, and turning saint is one of
them."

"I would have said as much for you," she returned. "But this morning
your face has already begun to play the part. It might belong to the
painted window of a chapel."

"Is it so uninteresting?" laughed Sir John. "Truly, you and I must
devise some wickedness to pass the time until kindred spirits return to
the Abbey. Half the monks of Aylingford are in the West, and the nuns
find it dull without them."

"Next week we will go to town," said Mrs. Dearmer. "I love you, Abbot
John, with all the wickedness that is in me, but truly you have grown
dull lately."

No one was better qualified to pass judgment on Sir John than Mrs.
Dearmer. To her he was dull, perhaps the worst crime a man can be guilty
of in the eyes of such a woman, yet the accusation did not trouble him
now as much as it would have done at another time. He was restless, and
if his conscience was too moribund to have the power of pricking, he had
become introspective. Fear and superstition took hold of him, and he
could not shake himself free. The news which the messenger had brought
him was good news, yet, even as the man had delivered it, a candle had
guttered and gone out, and Sir John saw a warning of disaster in the
fact. He was constantly on the watch for such omens, and saw them within
the house and without. He met a new kitchen wench who looked at him with
eyes askew, sure sign of evil. Three crows with flapping wings settled
at dusk upon the terrace wall and called to him as he passed. A vase of
quaint workmanship, brought from the East Indies by his brother,
Barbara's father, split suddenly in twain, and Sir John trembled as with
an ague at so sure a premonition of evil as this. There were moments
when he could not bear to be shut in a room, when the confinement
between four walls seemed to stifle him, and like a half suffocated man
he would stagger on to the terrace and gasp for breath.

He promised Mrs. Dearmer that next week he would go with her to town,
and all that day he tried to prove that he was not dull. The effort was
successful until the evening, and then came the feeling of suffocation
and the need for deep draughts of air. With a muttered excuse he left
his guests to their play and laughter, and hurried to the terrace.

The night was still, not a breeze stirred in the trees, and the light of
a young moon was upon the terrace, casting faint, motionless shadows
over greensward and stone flags. For a little while Sir John stood
looking down into the stream, which seemed asleep to-night. Upon it the
shadows quivered, but scarce a ripple of music came from underneath its
banks. A man might well feel some regrets for the past on such a night
of peace, might well hear the small voice of conscience distinctly, but
with Sir John there was only superstition and fear.

Motionless shadows on the terrace, and yet Sir John turned suddenly, as
though he were conscious of movement, and his eyes rested upon a shadow
in the angle of a wall. He had not noticed it before; now for a little
space it seemed like other shadows, but Sir John was not deceived. It
moved, coming out from the wall and towards him, and a man stood there.

"Martin!"

Sir John was not a coward, but a sigh of relief escaped him when he
realised that this was no phantom, but a thing of flesh and blood--only
Mad Martin.

"I have waited for you, Sir John."

"The doors were not locked against you, though they well might have
been. Where do you spring from to-night, and what have you been doing?"

"Wandering and dreaming."

"In a mad mood, eh?"

"Yes, when I see things and hear voices," said Martin in a sing-song
tone, as though he were dreaming now and unconscious of the words his
lips uttered. "I heard my mistress calling me. Where is she, Sir John?"

"In London, Martin."

"No; she was, but not now. She was calling from a dark room, and the
door was locked. I could see the room, a miserable room, but I could not
see her, only hear her. She was in the power of Lord Rosmore."

Sir John bent forward to see Fairley's face more clearly in the
moonlight. He had known him in this mood before, known him to give
strange but good advice while in this state. He was satisfied that
Martin was unconscious now, and was eager to question him.

"What will happen, Martin?"

"I cannot see."

"But why come to the Abbey?"

"She sent me to you. I know not why, but I have waited. I heard her say
that I must not be seen. She thought you could save her."

"How?"

Martin put his arm across his eyes for a moment.

"It is all a mist, and the voices are muffled," he said. "You would know
what Lord Rosmore would do, and would tell me."

"It will be good for her to marry Lord Rosmore," said Sir John.

"Not good for her, but good for you," was the answer; "she said that.
She said you were afraid of him, that you must do as he willed. It was
very clear in my dreams."

"Why should I fear him?"

"So many questions give me pain. I was dreaming; I cannot remember
everything. One thing is clear. She called to me that you might be free
from Lord Rosmore if you knew a secret which the Abbey holds."

"Do you know it, Martin?"

"Yes; she told me, and it is a secret."

"What is it, Martin?"

"A secret, but I was to tell you if you helped her."

"Stop this foolery!" said Sir John, seizing his arm sharply. "You shall
be locked up until this wayward niece of mine is safely married."

"Married! Would you die, master?"

"Die?"

"Surely. The stars showed it me long ago. Two planets in conjunction,
that was the marriage, and then across the night sky the flash of a
meteor, dead and cold in a moment."

"Curse your dreams and the stars!"

"Listen!" said Fairley. "Cannot you hear the music of chinking money?
Look, master! I see gems like eyes--white and red and blue--diamonds,
rubies, and sapphires. That is all part of the secret, that and the
Nun's Room."

"Tell me the secret," said Sir John.

"If you help my mistress."

"I know nothing."

"I have forgotten the secret," Martin whispered.

He moved away slowly and then stopped.

"Master, why not be rich? What is it to you and me what happens to
Mistress Barbara, so we can be rich? I would be rich, too. If Lord
Rosmore has power over you, money and jewels will buy freedom. It is
true, somewhere in the Abbey the wealth of the Indies has been buried. I
know it."

"Then tell me, Martin."

"You fool, you fool, you have made me forget, but I shall remember if
you will only let me. In dreams, when we promise and do not fulfil, we
forget everything. You must help my mistress, or I cannot remember. See,
I have a proof. Once, long ago, I found that in the Nun's Room; I
thought it was glass, but Mistress Barbara's voice says it is a diamond.
Take it, master, you will know."

It was a diamond which Sir John held between his finger and thumb. In
the moonlight the colours sparkled, such deep, clear colours as never
came from glass. It was a stone that had been set; how had it come into
the Nun's Room? Sir John's pulses quickened. If he told what he knew,
what harm would be done?

"It is a diamond, Martin."

"One among hidden hundreds. Help the mistress, master, and let us be
rich. You must give me a little of all we find, so that I may always
have a fire in winter and can eat and drink when I like; that is to be
rich, indeed."

"I will tell you what I know, Martin, but how can it help Barbara?"

"She has command of my thoughts, as you speak she will hear; but a
warning, master--you must speak the truth. I shall not know the truth
from a lie, but she will, and if you lie we shall not find the
treasure."

"Barbara went to Dorchester to try and save the highwayman, Gilbert
Crosby," said Sir John. "It was Rosmore's device to send her word that
Crosby was a prisoner, and on the way she was captured, not by the
King's troops as a rebel, but by men in Rosmore's pay. She is in no real
danger, but she does not know this. She will not be brought before
Jeffreys or any other judge, but she will be treated as though this were
to be her fate. Rosmore will save her, do you understand, and in her
gratitude she will give him his reward."

"How will he save me?" came the question in a monotonous voice, and Sir
John started, for it did not seem as if Martin had asked it.

"The day of the trial will be fixed--it may be to-day or to-morrow, I
cannot tell; but the night before she will be smuggled into a waiting
coach and driven here to Aylingford."

"Must she promise to marry Lord Rosmore first?"

"Probably. Yes, he will certainly make her promise that before he helps
her. It is not a hard promise to make, Martin; Lord Rosmore is a better
mate than 'Galloping Hermit.'"

Martin sighed and rubbed his eyes. He looked round him and then at Sir
John.

"I thought I was speaking to Mistress Barbara," he said. "Ah, I
remember, I was. We have helped her, Sir John. How she will use that
help does not matter. Is she to give a promise to Rosmore? I wonder what
will happen if she will not give it?"

"I do not know. Such is Lord Rosmore's plan, but circumstances might
make him alter it."

"And if he fails he may denounce her and leave her to her fate," said
Martin. "She won't be the only woman to suffer, and, whichever way it
ends, we have something else to think of--riches."

"Is it true about this treasure, Martin?" said Sir John.

"True! As true as that Lady Lisle was foully executed at Winchester for
just such a crime as Mistress Barbara may be accused of if she will make
no promise to Lord Rosmore."

"That is a horrible thought," said Sir John, shrinking from him.

"We mustn't think. Those who would get rich quickly must act. Come."

He led the way along the terrace towards the ruins, and Sir John
followed him almost as if he expected to see movement in the motionless
shadows about him. The prospect of finding this hidden wealth, and all
it would mean to him, shut out every other thought. The legend of buried
treasure at the Abbey was not a new one. The monks who had lived in it
had grown wealthy--why should they not have left their wealth behind
them? Martin was mad, but in his madness he had strange visions; Sir
John was satisfied that he had had many proofs of this, and he followed
him now, never doubting that the treasure existed and would be found.

They came to the opening of the Nun's Room.

"The creepers in this corner are a natural ladder, Sir John."

"But we cannot go down into it, Martin."

"How else shall we get the riches?"

"Those who enter the Nun's Room die within the year," said Sir John,
trembling.

"A tale made to keep the curious from looking for the treasure," Martin
answered. "I have gone down many times, but I searched in vain, not
having the key to the secret. To-night I have it. I will go first," and,
kneeling down, he grasped the creepers, which grew strongly here, and
lowered himself quickly.

Sir John was not so agile, but he went down after him. He would have
accomplished a far more difficult feat rather than remain behind.

"I wonder whether Mistress Barbara will make that promise?" said Martin,
as Sir John came to the floor beside him.

"I wonder."

"If she doesn't, death. If she does, Rosmore will have a wife; the poor
highwayman will doubtless hang at Tyburn; but we shall be rich. That
matters, nothing else does."

"Nothing else, Martin," and, indeed, Sir John was too excited to be
troubled by any other thought.

Martin guided him across the room.

"Feel, Sir John. This is the ledge where they say the Nun slept;
creepers hang over it, and behind these creepers--listen, Sir John,
listen!" and he knocked sharply against the stone wall. "Hollow! It's
true! This is no solid wall as it seems. Feel, Sir John, your finger on
the edge of this great slab. A doorway built up, and not so long ago.
Listen! Hollow! It's true, it's true!" and Martin jumped and clapped his
hands like a child.

"Yes, it's hollow, sure enough," said Sir John.

"Light and a pick. We'll be in the treasure chamber before morning.
Wait, Sir John, I'll get them."

"Stop, Martin; where are you going?"

"For a light and a pick," and he climbed out by the creepers in the
corner. "I know the treasure has been hidden there. I have seen it in my
dreams."

"Be quick, Martin."

"I shall make more haste than I have ever done in my life before," he
answered, bending over the edge by the corner. "Poor Rosmore! poor
highwayman! Only a wife and a gibbet for them. But for us--"

"Stop talking, Martin, and let us get to work," came the answer from
below.

"I wonder whether Mistress Barbara will make a promise?" And Martin cut
and wrenched at the creepers where they clung to the stone floor and
fallen masonry at the top.

"What are you doing?" said Sir John.

"Freeing myself from the creepers. That's done. I'll hasten, Sir John,
never fear."

Something moved in the dark, sunken room, scraping and sliding.

"Martin!"

Sir John could hear the sound of his footsteps quickly lessening in the
distance, but there was no answer to his call.

"Martin!"

Still no answer, and the sound of the footsteps had gone. Sir John, with
his hands stretched out before him, crossed to the corner where he had
come down. His hands came in contact with a tangle of creepers, hanging
loose, from the wall. The ladder was broken!

Martin Fairley went swiftly to the terrace and on to one of the stone
bridges over the stream. Then he paused and listened.

"He will have to cry loudly to be heard to-night. Grant that he may find
no escape until morning."

Then he crossed the bridge and went swiftly through the woods.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE FLIGHT

Dorchester was in mourning. If there had been any hope that Mercy and
Justice would go hand in hand, if there were a lingering belief that
Judge Jeffreys might not be so cruel as it was said, such hopes and
beliefs were quickly dispelled the moment that court with its scarlet
hangings was opened. Even Judge Marriott shrank a little as his learned
brother bullied and laughed and swore at the prisoners, bidding them
plead guilty as their only hope of escape, and then condemning them to
the gibbet with the ferocity of a drunken fiend. Pity crept into the
hard faces of rough soldiers; the devilishness of this judge appalled
even them.

Since she had no maid to attend to her, Watson took Barbara her food;
but, although he had received no instructions to discontinue his efforts
to break her courage by detailing the horrors of the punishment which
was being administered to rebels, he spoke of them no more. He pitied
this fair woman, and was deeply impressed with her bravery. He was not
wholly in his master's confidence, and believed that his prisoner was in
grave danger. He did not doubt that under certain conditions she might
be saved, but she was not the woman from whom promises could be forced,
and no one could know better than Watson did how ruthless his master was
in clearing obstacles out of his path, how cruel he was when he became
revengeful. He knew that Gilbert Crosby had been allowed an interview
with Barbara Lanison, but was ignorant of the purpose. He did not know
that her escape had been arranged for, nor that he was to have a part in
it; and there were times when he weighed against each other his pity for
the woman and his fear of Lord Rosmore, finding it so difficult to tell
which outbalanced the other that he went a step further and thought out
plans for getting Mistress Lanison away from Dorchester. Not one of his
schemes could possibly have succeeded, but the trooper found a
satisfaction in making them.

Barbara was speedily aware of the change in Watson's manner towards her,
but she was not astonished. It was natural under the changed conditions
of her imprisonment. Every hour brought her freedom nearer, and the man
knew this, she supposed, and treated her accordingly. Concerning her
escape she did not question him, but she did ask him whether Judge
Jeffreys had arrived, and if the Assizes had begun.

"Truth, madam, my duty keeps me in this house, and I know little of what
is happening in the town."

"Nor how the prisoners will be treated?" Barbara asked.

"Some say this and some say that," Watson replied evasively, "and I have
enough to do without thinking about the lawyer's work. When I hear
lawyers talk I can't tell right from wrong. You have to be trained to
understand the jargon."

So Barbara Lanison heard nothing of the mourning that was in the town,
and had naught to do during the long waiting hours but think of the
future and all that it meant to her. She was going with Gilbert Crosby,
but he had promised that, once they were in safety, she should choose
her own way. Would she take his road? She loved him. The fact was so
absorbing that nothing else seemed to matter; yet she had many lonely
hours for thought, and it would have been strange indeed if none of the
circumstances of her life, of her position, had demanded her
consideration. To trust this lover with her future meant the snapping of
every tie which bound her to the past; it must mean, in the world's
eyes, bringing contempt upon her name. She faced the truth bravely. It
seemed an impossible thing that Barbara Lanison of Aylingford should
marry Galloping Hermit the highwayman. Such a thing might appeal as a
romantic tale, but in the real world it meant disgrace. In another land
love might be hers, such love, perchance, as few women have ever had,
but could it obliterate the past? Would she ever be able to forget that
the man beside her, his face hidden behind the brown mask, had waited,
pistol in hand, upon the high road, to rob passing travellers? All men
were not cowards, nor did they travel unprepared for danger; there must
have been times when the pistols had spoken in the silence of the night,
when some hapless traveller had died upon the roadside. Surely there was
blood upon the hands of the man she loved! The thought bowed her head,
and her hands clasped as if a spasm of sudden pain had seized her. No
repentance in the long years to come, not all the good that might be
done in them, could wipe out the past. And then she tried to find
excuses for that past, some reason that could justify the life he had
chosen. Some very definite reason there must have been. The artificial
glamour of the life would not attract such a man as Gilbert Crosby. He
must have imagined that justice was on his side, that there was some
wrong to right, to make him defy all the laws of life and property and
become a menace and a terror to his fellows.

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