The Brown Mask

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

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"I must confess I enjoyed Judge Marriott hugely," was the answer, "and
the prisoner was a man, I'll say that for him. I almost regret not
having had the honour of being stopped by him. I grant you he was
interesting, and played his part gallantly."

"Doomed to die on the gallows! Do you call that playing a part?"

"My dear," and Lady Bolsover touched the girl's arm, "did I not know
your ancestry I should imagine your father a scurvy Puritan and your
mother a kitchen wench given to long hymns and cant of a Sunday. Are you
sure this cavalier of yours was not some miserable sniveller who found
time to favour you with a sermon? He disappeared so hastily that it
would seem he was ashamed of himself."

The girl did not answer, and if the colour came into her cheeks at the
memory of what the man had said to her, Lady Bolsover was too amused at
her own conjecture to notice it.

There are those who are so intent upon living that they have little time
to think. Lady Bolsover was of these. The hour that did not hold some
excitement in it wearied her and made her petulant. Her husband, dead
these ten years, had been amongst the enthusiastic welcomers of Charles
at his Restoration, and his wife had from first to last been a
well-known figure in the Court of the Merry Monarch. That she was no
beauty, rather than because she possessed any great strength of
character, probably accounted for the fact that she enjoyed no peculiar
fame in that dissolute company. As she could not be the heroine of an
intrigue, it pleased her to consider herself too great a dame for such
affairs, and she was fully persuaded that she might count her lovers by
the score, even now, had she so desired. As she had no very definite
character, so she had no real convictions. Charles was dead, and James
was King. Many changes were imminent, and Lady Bolsover was waiting to
see in which direction the wind blew. Her nature, perhaps, was to hate
Puritans and all their ways, but, if necessary to her own well-being,
she would easily be able to love them and curse all Catholics. She was
not really bad at heart, but she was a strange companion for Barbara
Lanison.

Some few months ago Sir John Lanison, of Aylingford Abbey in Hampshire,
Lady Bolsover's brother and Barbara's uncle and sole guardian since the
death of her parents, had suggested that his sister should take charge
of his ward for a little while. Practically she knew nothing of London,
he said, and it was time she did. Sir John declared that he did not want
it to be said that he had hidden his niece away at the Abbey so that no
man should have a chance of seeing her. He had known prettier women, but
she was well enough, and where her face failed to attract her ample
fortune would.

"She's got more learning than is needful for a girl, to my mind," he
told his sister; "but that kind of nonsense will be knocked out of her
as soon as she understands her value as a woman. Send her back with all
the corners rounded, my dear Peggy--that is what I want."

Lady Bolsover had done her best, but the result was not very
satisfactory. Barbara had convictions which her aunt was powerless to
undermine, and seemed to set such a value upon herself that no man was
able to make the slightest impression on her. She had barely refrained
from laughing outright at the compliments of recognised wits, and half a
dozen gallants with amorous intentions had been baffled and put to
shame. Lord Rosmore, whose way with a woman was pronounced irresistible,
had declared her adorable, but impossible, and Judge Marriott had
promised Lady Bolsover a very handsome gratuity if she could persuade
her niece to favour him and become his wife.

Barbara Lanison could not be unconscious of the sensation she caused--a
woman never is--but she sometimes studied the reflection in her mirror,
and tried to discover the reason. Quite honestly she failed. She was not
dissatisfied with the reflection, in its way it was pleasing, she
admitted, but she had not supposed that it was of the kind that would
appeal to men, and to such a variety of men. The women who usually
pleased them were so different. It even occurred to her that there might
be something in herself, in her behaviour, which was not quite nice, and
that her real attraction lay in this, an idea which proved that her
estimate of the men who came to her aunt's house was not a very high
one.

Born and bred in the country, and with an amount of learning which her
uncle considered unnecessary, she had prejudices, no doubt, and possibly
had a standard of female beauty in her mind which her own reflection did
not satisfy. That she was mistaken in her own estimate of herself was
certain, or the men would not have been so assiduous in their
attentions. Perhaps she admired dark women, and the reflection which
smiled at her out of the depths of the mirror was fair. The eyes were
blue--that blue which the sky shows in the early morning of a cloudless
day, and there was a suggestion of tears in them--the tears which may
come from much laughter rather than those which speak of sorrow. There
was a touch of gold in the fair hair, which was inclined to be
rebellious and curl into little lovelocks about her neck and forehead.
The skin was fair, with the bloom of perfect health upon it, and the
little mouth was firm, the lips fresh as from the kiss of a rose. There
was grace in all her movements, that unstudied grace which tells of life
in the open air and freedom from restraint; and in thought and word and
deed conventionality had small interest for her. It was hardly wonderful
that Lord Rosmore should pronounce her adorable, or that Judge Marriott
should forget that his youth was a thing of the past. Indeed, she had
come as a revelation to the men whose lives were made up of Court
intrigue and artificiality.

Perhaps another reason why Barbara Lanison found it difficult to
understand the sensation she created lay in the fact that her heart and
affections remained entirely untouched. Those blue eyes, underneath
their long lashes, saw very keenly, and gave her a quick insight into
character. She was not to be easily led, and if she did a good many
things in her aunt's house, where she was a guest, which did not come
naturally to her and which did not please her, there was a point beyond
which no persuasion on Lady Bolsover's part could make her go. Much
against her will she had been taken to the trial of the highwayman, and
that she was ashamed of being there was shown by her eager desire to
explain her presence to the man who had come to her rescue in the crowd.
It would probably have annoyed Lady Bolsover considerably had she known
that her niece thought more of this man during the next few days than of
all the eligible gallants who had been brought to her notice.

If in one sense Lady Bolsover had to admit failure with regard to her
plans concerning her niece, in another direction she had achieved
considerable success, for since the advent of Barbara Lanison her own
favour had been courted on all sides, and her house in St. James's
Square had become a little Court in itself. To half a dozen men who had
flattered her sufficiently as a first step towards her good graces, she
had promised to do her best with her niece on their behalf, and at
intervals she dispensed encouragements for which no action or private
word of Barbara's gave any foundation. Lady Bolsover found her present
_entourage_ very pleasant, and was not inclined to spoil it by being
too definitely honest. It was therefore with considerable chagrin
that, a few days after the trial, she received a message from her
brother that Barbara was to return to Aylingford Abbey without delay;
and since Judge Marriott was about to pay him a visit, nothing could be
better than that Barbara should travel in his company.

Barbara was quite ready to return to the Abbey, but she did not relish
Judge Marriott as a travelling companion. He was old enough to be her
father, and foolish enough to attempt to make love to her. She had
disliked him from the first; she had come near to hating him since she
had seen and heard him at that dreadful trial. The self-satisfied judge,
on the other hand, hoped to make capital out of the trial. He had been
instrumental in ridding the world of a notorious highwayman, one who had
made himself unpleasantly known to not a few of those who were Sir
John's guests from time to time. The trial would be much talked of at
Aylingford, and Marriott could not fail to be a centre of attraction.
His acumen must also have appealed to the woman whose escort he was to
be. His conduct of the case must have impressed her with his importance.
She was the most beautiful woman with whom he had ever been brought into
contact, and his ambition took to itself wings. Why should not this
woman belong to him? True, he had no family behind him to boast of, but
he had made a position, and the way to greater things lay open before
him. Jeffreys was his friend, and Jeffreys was a power with the new
King. High honours might be in the near future for Judge Marriott. He
was an ugly man--with all his willingness to do so, he could not gainsay
that; but he consoled himself with the reflection that many beautiful
women had married men whose looks certainly did not recommend them. It
was only the commonplace that women turned from, and he was sufficiently
ugly not to be commonplace.

So Judge Marriott exerted himself to amuse and interest his fair young
charge as they journeyed together into Hampshire, and not altogether
without success. He soon discovered that all discussion concerning the
trial was unwelcome, that the girl's foolish sympathies had been with
the prisoner rather than the judge, and he quickly talked of other
things. He almost made Barbara believe that he regretted Nature had not
made him a highwayman instead of a judge, and he certainly succeeded in
making the girl confess to herself that he was not such an unpleasant
travelling companion as she had expected.

The day had been cloudy, threatening rain, and twilight came early. When
the coach began to cross Burford Heath it was dusk. Barbara was tired,
and leaned back in her corner, while the judge lapsed into silence, not
altogether oblivious to the fact that there might be dangers upon the
heath. The road was heavy, and in places deep-rutted; the grinding and
crunching of the wheels, the only sound breaking the stillness of the
evening, grew monotonous; and the constant heavy jolting was trying.
Suddenly there was a cry from the post-boys, and the coach came to a
standstill with a jerk.

"Curse them! They've managed to break down!" exclaimed Marriott. His
hand trembled a little as he let down the window, and it seemed to
Barbara that he was more afraid than angry. He thrust his head out of
the window with an oath, then drew it in sharply. A horseman stood at
the door with a pistol in his hand.

"There is payment to make for crossing the heath."

The judge broke out into a torrent of abuse, but whether at the man who
barred his way or at himself for being unprepared, it was difficult to
say.

"And the payment is extra for cursing your luck, especially in the
presence of a lady," said the man sharply, in a tone which admitted no
argument and proved him master of the situation.

Barbara, sitting upright, looked steadily into the masked face of the
highwayman, deeply interested, but without fear. Was it fancy, or was
there a familiar note in the man's voice? Marriott had shrunk back in
the coach as he fumbled for his purse. He tried to conceal his face from
the man, for, should the highwayman discover his identity, he might
consider the moment opportune to avenge his brother of the road who had
so recently died at Tyburn.

"A meagre purse for so famous a judge," the man said, weighing it in his
hand; "but your money is a small matter. I have a bigger score to settle
than that. Out with you!" and the man flung open the coach door.

Marriott shrank farther back until he appeared a very small and mean man
in the corner of the coach. He tried to speak, but his words were
inarticulate, and Barbara could feel him trembling violently.

"Get out, or--"

"Surely, sir, you would not kill him?" and Barbara stretched out an arm
to protect him.

"Do you plead for him, mistress? He is lucky to have such an advocate.
Get out, judge. For the sake of those bright eyes beside you, you may
keep your life, but you shall do penance for your sins. Get out, I say."

Very reluctantly Marriott crept from the carriage.

"You have all my money," he whimpered.

"Down on your knees, then, and ask pardon for passing judgment on a
better man than yourself. Down! Quickly, or this pistol of mine may
forget that I have made a promise."

Marriott sank upon his knees in a place where the road was very muddy.

"The man I sent to Tyburn--say it after me."

"The man I sent to Tyburn," repeated Marriott.

"--was a gentleman compared to me."

"--was a gentleman compared to me."

"I am an unjust judge, a scoundrel at heart, a mean, contemptible
coward, unfit to consort with honest men, and every pure, good woman
should spurn me like dirt. Say it! Louder! The lady should be interested
in your confession."

Marriott said the words, raising his voice as he was ordered.

"And I pray to Heaven to have pity on the soul of the man I sent to his
death at Tyburn. Say it aloud, with uplifted hands. It is a prayer you
may well make, for, God knows, you'll have need of all His mercy some
day."

The prayer was repeated, and so like a real prayer was it that, in the
darkness of the coach, Barbara smiled. Prayer and Judge Marriott seemed
so wide asunder.

"Now get back into the coach, and take care your muddy clothes do not
soil the lady's gown, as your presence could hardly fail to be
pestilential to her, did she but know you as you really are. Good-night,
fair mistress; some day I hope to see you under better escort."

For a moment he bowed low over his horse's neck, then he turned and
galloped straight across the heath.

Judge Marriott had entered the coach hurriedly, so glad to escape from
the highwayman that he did not consider how poor a figure he had cut in
the sight of the girl. Fearful that his tormentor might not yet have
done with him, he sank back in his corner again. Barbara was sitting
forward looking from the window.

"He has gone," she said.

"Curse him!" said Marriott in a whisper. He was still afraid, and his
voice trembled. "Surely his mask was--"

"It was brown," said Barbara. "I thought the man who wore the brown mask
was dead."

"I thought so too," he muttered as he leaned forward to the window and
watched the highwayman disappear into the shadows of the night.

CHAPTER III

GREY EYES

Where a stream, running through a wide track of woodland, turned to flow
round three sides of a plateau of rising ground, a community of
Cistercian monks had long ago founded their home. Possibly the original
building was of small dimensions, but as the wealth of the community
increased it had been enlarged from time to time, and, it would appear,
with an ever-increasing idea of comfort. Of this completed building as
the monks knew it, a large part remained, some of it in a more or less
ruinous state it is true, but much of it incorporated in the work of
those subsequent builders who had succeeded in converting Aylingford
Abbey into one of the most picturesque residences in Hampshire. It faced
away from the stream, and the long, massive front, besides being the
most modern part of the building, was the least interesting aspect;
indeed, it was difficult to get a comprehensive view of it, because the
woods approached so closely that the traveller came upon it almost
unawares. From every other side the outlines of the Abbey were
singularly beautiful. Here a small spire sharply cut the sky, or a
graceful point of roof told of a chapel or high-pitched hall; there,
half frowning, half friendly, a mass of creeper-clad, grey wall looked
capable of withstanding a siege. In some places solid pieces of masonry
spoke of comparatively recent improvement, while towards one end of the
building walls had crumbled, leaving ruined chambers open to wind and
weather. There were open casements, through which one might catch a
glimpse of comfort within, and again there were narrow slits, deeply
sunk into thick walls, through which fancy might expect to hear the moan
of some prisoner in a dungeon.

As it swept round the Abbey the stream broadened out, and its current
became almost imperceptible. On one side the bank was comparatively low,
but on the Abbey side a stone wall had been built up from the water.
Above this was a broad terrace, flanked by the top of the wall, which
rose some three or four feet above it, and into which seats had been cut
at intervals. This terrace ran round three sides of the Abbey, and was
mostly of stone flags, worn and green with age, but in some places there
were stretches of trimly-kept grass. Two stone bridges arched and dipped
from the terrace to the opposite bank of the stream. Wonderful vistas of
the surrounding country were to be seen from the vantage ground of the
terrace; here a peep through a sylvan glade to the blue haze of the
hills beyond; there a glimpse of the roofs of the village of Aylingford,
a mile away; and again a deep, downward view into dark woods, where
mystery seemed to dwell, and perhaps fear, and out of which came the
sound of running and of falling water.

It was not difficult to believe in the legends which the simple country
folk told of Aylingford, and they were many. Had some old monk come
suddenly out of the wood, over the bridge, and walked in meditation
along the terrace, he would hardly have looked strange or out of place
so long as a bevy of Sir John's visitors had not chanced to meet him. It
seemed almost natural that when the night was still the echoes of old
prayer and chant should still be heard, as folk said they were. Sir John
himself had heard such sounds, so he affirmed, and would not have his
belief explained away by the fact that the wind found much to make music
with in the ruins. Then there were rooms which never seemed to be
unoccupied; corridors where you felt that someone was always walking a
little way in front of you or had turned the corner at the end the
moment before; stairs upon which could be heard descending footsteps;
doors which you did not remember to have noticed before. But while of
legend there was plenty, of history there was little. It would appear
that the monks had forsaken their home even before the Reformation, for
the first Lanison had acquired in the Eighth Henry's reign a property
"long fallen into ruinous decay," according to an old parchment.
Possibly the writer of this description had not seen the Abbey,
trusting, perchance, to the testimony of a man who had not seen it
either, for certainly much of the present building was in existence
then, and could hardly have been as ruinous as the parchment would lead
one to suppose. It may be that Aylingford, lying in the depth of the
country, away from the main road, escaped particular notice, and this
might also account for the fact that it had never attracted the
attention of Cromwell's men, which it reasonably might have done, seeing
that the Lanisons were staunch for the King.

Since old Sir Rupert Lanison had first come to Aylingford, Lanisons had
always been masters there--indifferent ones at times, as at intervals
they had proved indifferent subjects, yet reverenced by the country
folk.

Sir John, in the course of time, had become the head of the house of his
ancestors, proud of his position, punctilious as to his rights,
superstitious, and a believer in the legends of his home. He had married
twice, losing each wife within a year of his wedding day, and had no
child to succeed him. His brother, who had gone abroad ready to serve
where-ever there was fighting to be done, had also married. His wife
died young, too, and her daughter Barbara had come as a child to
Aylingford. She did not remember her father, who subsequently died in
the East Indies, leaving his child and a great fortune to the care of
Sir John.

So the Abbey and the woods which surrounded it had been Barbara's world
for eighteen years, for only once had she been to London before her
visit to Lady Bolsover. In a measure this second visit was unhappily
timed, for the death of King Charles had cast a gloom over the capital,
and the accession of his brother James caused considerable apprehension
in the country. Still, Barbara had created a certain sensation, and,
according to Lady Bolsover, would have made a great match had not Sir
John foolishly recalled her to the Abbey.

"She was just getting free from pastry and home-made wine, and my
brother must needs plunge her back into them," Lady Bolsover declared to
her friends, who were neither so numerous nor so distinguished now that
Barbara had left St. James's Square.

Sir John had welcomed his niece, but had given no reason for bringing
her home. She did not expect one. She had been away a long while; it was
natural she should be home again, and she was glad. There was no real
regret in her mind that she had left London; yet, somehow, life was
different, and although she had been home nearly a week there was
something which kept her from settling down into the old routine.

"Why is it? What is it? I wonder."

She was sitting on one of the stone seats cut in the wall of the
terrace, leaning back to look across the woods. The morning sun flooded
this part of the terrace with golden light, the perfume of flowers was
heavy in the air. From the woods came a great song of birds; in the
water below her a fish jumped at intervals--a cool sound on a hot day.
She had this part of the terrace to herself for a little while, but from
another part, round an angle of the house, came the murmur of voices and
sometimes laughter, now a man's, now a woman's. It had all been just the
same before, many, many times, yet now the girl was conscious of a sound
of discord in it. Nothing had really changed. The Abbey was full of
guests, as her uncle loved to have it, many of the same guests who came
so constantly, many of those who had been her companions at Lady
Bolsover's, and yet the world seemed changed somehow. The reason must
lie in herself. Her visit to London had brought enlightenment to her,
although she had only a vague idea of its meaning. She found it
difficult not to shrink from some of her uncle's guests, a feeling she
had not experienced until now. True, she had been brought more in
contact with them during this last week than she had previously been.
They treated her differently, no longer as a child, but as one of
themselves. They spoke more freely, both the men and women, and it
seemed to Barbara that only now was she beginning to understand them,
and that it was this wider knowledge which made her shrink from them.

"I have become a woman; before I was only a girl--that must be the
reason," she said, resting her chin on her clasped hands and looking
down into the depths of the wood on the opposite side of the stream. "I
have been very happy as a child, I do not believe I am going to be happy
as a woman," and then she glanced towards the distant blue hills. The
world was full of sunlight, even though the woods below her were dark
and gloomy.

She looked along the terrace to make certain that no one was coming to
disturb her--and she smiled to think how often she was disturbed in
these days. Judge Marriott had only to catch sight of her, and he would
leave any companion--man or woman--to hurry after her. At first he
seemed only intent on proving to her that he had not really been afraid
of the highwayman on Burford Heath, not on his own account at least,
only on hers; but presently he began to praise her, stammering over
high-flown compliments concerning her eyes or her hair, and looking
ridiculously distressed as he uttered them. He made her laugh until she
understood that he was making love to her, then she was angry. All
yesterday he was sighing to be forgiven.

Then there was Sir Philip Branksome, who twice within the last three
days had endeavoured to impress upon her the fact that his attentions
were a very great honour. He was so sure of himself in this particular
that it was almost impossible to despise him. There was Sydney Fellowes,
too, near kinsman to my Lord Halifax, full of boyish enthusiasm, now for
some warrior, now for some poet, chiefly for Mr. Herrick, whose poems he
knew by heart and repeated sympathetically. In Barbara Lanison he
professed to find the ideal woman, the inspiration which, he declared,
warrior and poet alike must have; and for hours together he would
explain how debased he was, how exalted was she. He wrote verses to her,
breathing these sentiments, and appeared to touch the height of his
ambition for a moment when she deigned to listen to them. Barbara felt
herself so much older than he was that she only stopped him when he grew
too persistent, neither laughing at him nor despising him. She praised
his verses which really had merit, but she would not understand that she
had inspired them. And last evening Lord Rosmore had arrived, had bowed
low over her hand and whispered a compliment. His looks, his attitude,
had occasioned comment, for my Lord Rosmore seldom sought, he was so
consistently sought after. Had not King Charles once called him the
handsomest attraction of his acquaintance, and laughingly turned to warn
a bevy of beauties of the danger of running after so well favoured a
cavalier?

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