The Brown Mask

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

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The dawn came slowly, very slowly, to the man bound securely to the tree
by the roadside. When the sound of the wheels had died away, Lord Rosmore
struggled to free himself, but the post-boy had done his work too well.
Every knot was securely fastened and out of reach. Once or twice he
shouted for help, and the only answer was an echo from the woods. Unless
a chance traveller came along the road he could not get released until
the day broke. It was wasting strength to shout, and he wanted all his
strength to help him through the strain of the night. All his will was
bent on not allowing his cramped position to so weaken him that
to-morrow he would be unable to pursue his enemy. Crosby had outwitted
him for the moment, but to-morrow the game might be in his hands again,
and he must retain his strength to play it. Many a man would have lost
consciousness during the night, but Lord Rosmore's determined spirit and
fierce lust for revenge helped him. He would not allow his limbs to grow
stiff, the cords gave a little, and every few minutes he twisted himself
into a slightly different position. He would not close his weary eyes,
but set his brain to work out a scheme for Crosby's downfall. The coach
would certainly make for the coast presently. Some delay there must be
before reaching it, and further delay before a vessel could be found to
carry the fugitives into safety. Crosby could not possibly be prepared
for what had happened, and time must be wasted in making up his mind how
to use to the best advantage the trick in the game which had fallen to
him. Galloping Hermit, the highwayman, must be cautious how he went, and
caution meant delay at every turn. He would not easily escape.

So the dawn found Lord Rosmore with aching limbs but with a clear brain,
and he looked about him, as far as he was able, wondering from which
direction help would most likely come. On the ground, at a little
distance from him, lay a heavy coat, just as Barbara had thrown it from
the coach last night, and a growling oath came from Rosmore's dry lips.
He wished with all his heart that he had delivered her into Judge
Jeffreys' hands in Dorchester. She would have been just such a delicate
morsel as the loathsome brute would have gloated over. How easily, too,
he might have had Crosby hanged in chains. He had been a fool to let
love influence him. Then his eyes turned slowly to the ground
immediately in front of him. The turf was cut and trampled where the
highwayman had been, by the impatient hoofs of his pawing horse, and
there lay in the very centre of the trampled patch a leather case. It
must have fallen from Crosby's pocket last night. Had the highwayman
unwittingly left behind him a clue that would be his ruin?

The thought excited the helpless man, and he began to listen for coming
succour, and once or twice he shouted, but it was only a feeble sound,
for his throat was parched, and his tongue had swollen in his mouth.

Chance came to his aid at last; a dog bounding from the woods not far
distant saw him, and racing to the tree tore round and round it, barking
furiously, bringing a man out into the open to see what so excited the
animal. The woodman hastened forward.

"Eh, master, but what's been adoing?"

"Highwayman--last night," said Rosmore feebly. Now that help was at hand
his strength seemed to dwindle to nothing.

The man cut the cords so vigorously that Rosmore stumbled forwards and
fell. For an instant he was powerless to move, and then with an effort
he crawled a few inches until his hand touched the leather case.

"The coat," he muttered. "The pocket--a flask."

The liquid revived him, and he drew himself painfully into a sitting
posture.

"'Galloping Hermit'--the brown mask--last night," he said.

"The brown mask!" exclaimed the man in a low tone, looking round as if
he expected to see the famous highwayman. "Your horse gone too."

"It was a coach. I want a horse. Where can I get one?"

"Lor', master, you couldn't get into the saddle."

"Where can I get one?" Rosmore repeated, speaking like a man who was
breathless from long running.

"There's the village over yonder, two miles away."

"Lend me your arm. So," and Rosmore drew himself to his feet. "Earn a
guinea or two and help me to the village."

"Can you walk at all?" asked the man.

"The stiffness will go by degrees. Slowly to begin with, that's it. Two
miles, eh? It will be the longest two miles I've ever walked, but it's
early. They won't escape easily. By gad! they shall suffer!"

"Who?"

"Both of them, the man and the woman."

"The woman!"

"Curse you, you nearly let me fall," said Rosmore. "Don't talk. I can't
talk."

At a little tavern in the village Lord Rosmore ate and drank, and while
he did so he carefully examined the contents of the leather case. There
was a key and several papers closely written upon. Rosmore's eyes
brightened as he read, and the papers trembled in his hand with
excitement. All his thoughts were thrust into one channel, one idea and
purpose took possession of him. Soon after noon he painfully mounted a
horse which the landlord had procured for him and rode slowly away. He
was in no fit condition to take a long journey, so it was fortunate that
he had time to spare and could go quietly. He thought no more of Barbara
Lanison or Gilbert Crosby, he might follow them to-morrow; but to-day,
to-night, he had other work to do, and he laughed softly to himself as
he felt the leather case secure in his pocket. Some tricks in the game
he had lost, but the winning trick was his.

It was dark when he reached the woods which lay on the opposite bank of
the stream below Aylingford. He tethered his horse to a tree and went on
foot towards one of the bridges which led to the terrace, and there he
waited, leaning against the stone wall, looking at the house. Lights
shone from a few of the windows, but the Abbey did not look as if it
were full of guests. There was, perhaps, the more need to exercise
caution. The balmy air of the night might tempt visitors on to the
terrace if the play did not prove exciting, and if the talk became stale
and wearisome. So Rosmore waited. He did not intend to enter the house,
and a little delay was of no consequence. Only one man besides himself
could know the secret which the leather case held, and that other man
was far away from Aylingford.

Most of the windows in the Abbey were dark when Rosmore crossed the
bridge to the terrace and walked lightly towards the ruins, careful to
let the shadows hide him as much as possible. Entering the ruins, he
drew the case from his pocket and took out the key. By Martin's tower he
stood for a moment to listen, but no sound came to startle him, and he
fitted the key into the lock. The door opened easily, and Rosmore
entered, closing it again and locking it on the inside. Gently as he did
it, the sound echoed weirdly up the winding stairs. The door at the top,
and that of Martin's room, hung broken on their hinges. Nothing had been
done to them since the night they were forced open in the attempt to
capture Gilbert Crosby; nor did it appear that Martin had occupied his
room since then. The piece of candle was still upon the shelf, fastened
to it with its own grease, and Lord Rosmore lit it. Then he drew the
papers from the case, and turned to one portion of the writing. He had
already studied it carefully, but he read it once again, and, bending
down to the hearth, felt eagerly along the coping which surrounded it.
His fingers touched a slight projection, which he pressed inwards and
downwards. It moved a little, but some few moments elapsed before he
succeeded in making the exact motion necessary, when the front portion
of the hearth was depressed and slid back silently.--Taking the piece of
candle in his hand, Rosmore stepped into the opening and went cautiously
down the narrow twisting stairs, without attempting to shut the secret
entrance. The instructions contained in the leather case were exact,
even to a rough calculation of the value of the treasure hidden below
the Abbey ruins. Rosmore came at last to a wide chamber, bare wall on
one side, but on the other three sides were a series of arches, some of
them framing recesses merely which were not uniform in depth, some of
them forming entrances into other rooms. The corner arch at the further
end was the one mentioned in the papers, and Rosmore went slowly across
the stone floor, the feeble light of the candle casting weird shadows
about him. For the first time the eeriness of the place forced itself
upon him. These stone walls must have sheltered many a secret besides
the one he had come to solve. Unholy deeds might well have happened
here, and into his memory came crowding many a legend he had heard of
Aylingford Abbey. Phantoms of the past might yet haunt these dark
places, and to the man breaking into this silence alone ghosts were easy
to believe in. Phantoms of the present might be there, too, for to-day
vice was the ruling spirit of the Abbey, and there were those who
declared that evil might take shape and in an appointed hour deal out
punishment to its votaries.

Rosmore found an effort necessary to retain his courage as he went
towards the opposite corner. The light, held above his head, fell
quivering into the recess there, and touched a great oak coffer,
massively made, and heavily bound with iron. It was exactly as the
papers said, and therein lay the treasure, gold and jewels--the wealth
of the Indies, as the writing called it. He stood for a moment looking
at the recess, and then, as he took a hasty step forward, he started,
and a sharp hiss of indrawn breath came from his lips. A sudden sound
had struck upon his ear, a grating noise, then silence, then light
footsteps. In a moment Rosmore had blown out the candle, his one idea
being to hide himself; fear caught him, the darkness was so great. Who
was it? What was it coming towards him with those stealthy steps? Nearer
they came, and from one of the arches a faint glimmer of light, as
though the old walls were growing luminous, and a man carrying a lantern
entered the chamber and stood there, raising the lantern above his head.
It was Sir John Lanison. A little sigh of relief escaped from Rosmore.
He had only flesh and blood to deal with, a man full of foolish
superstition. He, too, must have come seeking treasure, but which way
had he come, and how had he found the courage to embark on such an
adventure? Must two participate in this treasure after all! No, however
great it might be, Rosmore wanted it all. He would not share it with any
man. A word growled in the darkness would terrify the superstitious Sir
John; he would flee as though ten thousand devils were at his heels, or
perchance the sudden terror might kill him. The alternative did not
trouble Lord Rosmore, and he smiled as Sir John came slowly towards him,
holding the lantern close to the floor that he might not step into some
hole. As the light came close to his motionless figure, Rosmore uttered
a low cry, weird enough to startle the bravest man. It may have startled
Sir John, but he did not shriek out in fear nor turn to flee. He raised
the lantern sharply, and it hardly trembled in his hand.

"Rosmore!" he exclaimed.

Rosmore was so taken back by this strange courage that he did not answer
at once, and the two men stood with the raised lantern lighting both
their faces.

* * * * *

When Martin Fairley had left him down in the Nun's Room, Sir John had
been terrified. He had shouted for help to no purpose, and he was not
released until early on the following morning. How he came to be there
he did not explain. He went to his own room, and gave instructions that
he was not to be disturbed. Once alone, his mind became active, and he
shook himself free from his fear. Wealth was within his grasp. That
Martin had run away and left him did not shake his belief. Martin was a
madman, not responsible for his actions from one moment to another, but
in his trance he had seen this treasure, therefore it was there, Sir
John argued. More, the entrance to it lay behind the Nun's hard couch;
only a stone slab blocked the entrance. Greed took the place of fear,
and it may be that Sir John was a little off his mental balance, and
forgot to think of fear. He was certainly cunning enough to make plans
and to carry them out secretly. He left his room unseen, and the Abbey
by a small door seldom used; and, having secured a pick and a length of
rope while the stable men were at their dinner, he went to the Nun's
Room. He would chance anyone coming into the ruins and hearing him at
work, and nobody did come. He fastened the rope round a piece of fallen
masonry which was firmly embedded in the ground and lowered himself. He
worked all the afternoon, and the stone slab was loose before he climbed
out of the Nun's Room again. Then he went back and mixed with his guests
for an hour or two, so that they might not grow anxious about him and
come to look for him. Escaping from them with an excuse that he could
not play to-night, and must retire early, he went again to the ruins and
resumed his work by the light of a lantern. He had succeeded in gaining
an entrance, the hidden treasure was a fact; his one idea was to get
possession of it, and, absorbed in this thought, other sensations were
dormant for the time being. He was so savage that anyone else should
know the secret that he forgot to be afraid. When the lantern showed him
who his rival was, there was no need to be afraid, for Lord Rosmore
would assume that they could be partners in this as they had been in
much else, and Sir John smiled, for he intended to free himself from
such a partnership. He had a pistol with him, and since Rosmore had
evidently come to the Abbey secretly, no one would be likely to look for
him there.

"There are evidently two ways to the treasure, Sir John?" said Rosmore
after a pause.

"And we have found them," was the answer. "It is lucky that no one else
forestalled us. The treasure first. We may count it, and tell each other
how we found it afterwards."

Lord Rosmore turned to the recess, and Sir John went eagerly forward
with the lantern. The exact position of the treasure he had not known,
but catching sight of the iron-bound box, he determined that no one
should share its contents with him. He set down the lantern.

"The key in the lock!" he exclaimed. "It was foolish to leave it in the
lock."

"Who would come to this infernal tomb?" said Rosmore.

"Two of us have come," said Sir John, as he turned the key and raised
the heavy lid.

A few crumpled pieces of paper, one or two torn pieces of cloth, an
empty canvas bag, half of a broken jewel case, and in one corner the
glitter of two or three links of a gold chain. This was all the great
chest contained!

"You forgot that bit of chain when you removed the treasure, Sir John,"
said Rosmore, pointing to it.

"Liar! Robber! Where is it?"

Rosmore laughed; perhaps he was unconscious that he did so.

The empty chest seemed to have paralysed his brain for a moment. He
could not think. He could not devise a scheme for forcing the truth from
his rival.

Sir John had only one idea--revenge. This man had robbed him. The
treasure was gone, but the thief was before him. With an oath he sprang
forward, there was a flash in Rosmore's face, and a report which echoed
back from every side sharply. The bullet missed its mark, chipping the
stone wall behind. Then the two men were locked together in a silent,
deadly struggle. Lord Rosmore was the stronger and the younger man, but
he had not recovered from the cramped position in which he had spent the
long hours of last night, and perhaps Sir John was mad and had something
of a madman's strength. Neither could throw the other off, nor gain the
advantage. Fingers found throats, and gripped and pressed inwards with
deadly meaning. Never a word was spoken. The lamp was overturned and
went out, each man holding to his adversary the tighter lest he should
escape in the darkness. Shuffling feet and gasping breaths, then a heavy
fall, then silence.

* * * * *

Daylight crept down into the Nun's Room and into Martin's room, with its
gaping hearth, but no one came out through the hole behind the Nun's
hard bed, nor climbed the narrow stairs into the tower room. The day
passed, and the night, and another dawn came. The door of the tower was
still locked on the inside, and the rope was still hanging into the
sunken room. That morning the rope was seen when the ruins were
searched, and presently two of the guests climbed down and entered the
underground chamber, carrying lanterns and walking carefully.

Sir John Lanison and Lord Rosmore were both dead. Both faces were
discoloured and told of a horrible struggle. It looked as if Rosmore had
succumbed first, for he lay on his back, his arms flung out. Sir John
was lying partly across his body; it seemed as though his fingers had
just relaxed their hold on Rosmore's throat.

Why this awful tragedy? One of the guests noticed the iron-bound chest,
and, looking in, saw the broken gold chain gleaming in the lantern
light.

"A treasure!" he exclaimed, holding it up. "All that is left of it!"

Then they looked at the dead men, so suggestive in their ghastly
attitude, and they thought they understood. Those old monks, thinking
perhaps that they would one day return to their old home, must certainly
have buried a treasure under the walls of Aylingford.

CHAPTER XXIX

SAFETY

The door of "The Jolly Farmers" had only just been opened to the
business of a new day when Gilbert Crosby came by a narrow track through
the woods on to the road. His horse was jaded, and bore evidences of
having been hard ridden.

At the inn door Crosby dismounted, and the landlord came hurrying out
to welcome his early visitor. He looked at the horse, and then shouted
towards the stables.

"It's evident you are going no further on that animal at present. Shall
I hide him in the place I have in the woods yonder? Have you given them
the slip, or are they close upon your heels?"

"There is no need to hide him," said Crosby, as he entered the inn. "It
would seem that you remember me."

"Aye, faces have a way of sticking in my memory. I had to conceal you
one night when you came inquiring for a fiddler."

"This morning I am come to look for him again."

"His appointment?" asked the landlord.

"Yes."

"Then you may wait contentedly. I never knew him to fail. If he failed I
should say he had met his death on the way. Death is the only thing that
would stand between his promise and its fulfilment. Come into the inner
room. We might get other early visitors, and the door in the wall might
be useful."

"And food--what about food at this early hour? I am well-nigh starving."

"I'll see to that, and I take it that a draught of my best ale will take
the dust out o' your throat pleasantly. That beast of yours has done a
long spell from stable to stable, I warrant."

"From Dorchester," said Crosby.

"And that's a place you're well out of, since Jeffreys must be there by
this time."

Crosby nodded, and the landlord drew the ale and busied himself with
ordering his guest's breakfast.

Crosby had but half appeased his hunger when the sound of wheels was
upon the road. As he hurried out the landlord stopped him.

"Carefully, sir. Better let me see who it is."

"Quickly, then! It is a coach, and I must know who rides in it."

The tired horses came to a halt before the door, and by the coach was a
horseman, the dust of a long journey upon his horse, upon his clothes,
even upon the brown mask which concealed his face. Then the window of
the coach was lowered, and a head was thrust out, a head shining with
golden curls which the hood did not wholly conceal. Only a few minutes
ago Barbara had roused from her long sleep, startled for a little space
that the walls of her prison at Dorchester were not about her. The
knowledge that she was free, that she had escaped from Lord Rosmore,
quickly brought the colour to her cheeks, and her eyes were bright and
full of questions as she looked at the man in the mask.

"Barbara!"

She turned with a sharp little cry of bewilderment. The landlord,
standing at the inn doorway, had been thrust aside, and Gilbert Crosby
was beside her. He lifted her from the coach, yet even when he had set
her on the ground he did not release her.

"Gilbert, I do not understand--I thought--" and her eyes turned towards
the masked horseman.

"I know not who you really are, sir," said Crosby. "I know that you are
called 'Galloping Hermit,' I know that I am so deeply your debtor that I
can never hope to repay. At Lenfield a little while ago you saved my
life, to-day you bring me what is more than life."

"And a message," said the highwayman. "Word from a certain fiddler you
expected to find here. He will not come. It has fallen to my lot to
rescue this lady from a scoundrel, and I do not think he will attempt to
follow you. There are horses to be had from the landlord here, and in
half an hour you may be on the road for Southampton. The fiddler bids
you not to wait for him, but, on the road, to stop at a house named 'The
Spanish Galleon,' There you will find a friend who has secured your safe
departure from the country."

"You will not tell me who you are?" said Crosby, whose keen eyes were
trying to penetrate the disguise.

"'Galloping Hermit,' Mr. Crosby."

"While fresh horses are being harnessed, Mistress Lanison will have a
hasty breakfast, at least share the meal with us."

"Daylight is dangerous for me. I ride safely only in the night. A
tankard of ale, landlord, and then for a hiding hole."

Barbara gently put Crosby's arm away from her, and went to the
horseman's side.

"Whoever you may be, I thank you from the bottom of my heart," she said.
"You cannot know all that you are to me. You have been constantly in my
thoughts; I will not tell you why, but I have shuddered to think what
must sometimes have happened when you rode in the night. Might not the
brown mask cease to exist? Some day I may be in England again, may be
strong to help if need should come. Take this ring of mine. The man who
brings it to me, though many years should pass between now and then,
shall never ask of me in vain. Burn the mask, sir, and learn that you
are too honest a gentleman for such a trade."

The man took the ring.

"Mistress Lanison, I have stopped my last coach," he said. "It was a
good ending since it saved you from a scoundrel. Do not think too
harshly of the past. It has had more honesty in it than you would
imagine. For love of a woman I took to the road; for love of a woman the
road shall know me no more. Ah, landlord, the ale! To you, mistress, and
to you, Mr. Crosby. May God's blessing be with you to the end."

He drank, and tossing the empty tankard to the landlord, turned his
horse and galloped back along the road.

For half an hour or more the coach stood before the door of "The Jolly
Farmers," and then, with fresh horses, started briskly on its journey to
Southampton. At the inn the landlord had waited upon his guests so
attentively that they could say little to each other, but in the coach
they were alone, shut away with their happiness from all the prying
world. With her golden head upon his shoulder, Barbara told Crosby all
that she had feared, all her doubts. There were so many things to make
her certain that he was "Galloping Hermit."

"I know," he answered. "It has suited my purpose sometimes while I have
been helping men to escape out of the West Country to let my enemies
suppose that I was; but it never occurred to me that you would think so.
Now I understand some of your words which troubled me, hurt me, almost.
Are you content to take the way with me, dearest? I have not forgotten
my promise."

"Gilbert, I am ashamed now that I ever asked you to make it," she said,
clinging close to him. "Kiss me, and forgive me. I think I should have
gone with you even if you had been 'Galloping Hermit.'"

Awaiting them, and beginning to grow anxious, they found Sydney Fellowes
at "The Spanish Galleon." Crosby was not surprised, although he had half
expected to see Martin Fairley.

As Fellowes bent over her hand, Barbara thanked him.

"Gilbert has told me how much you have done for me," she said. "I have
heard of the triple alliance Surely no woman ever had better friends
than I."

"I wish Martin were here," said Crosby.

"We must talk of him presently," said Fellowes. "An hour for rest and
food, then you must be on the road again. I must come with you as far as
Southampton. It is my part to bid you farewell out of this country. I
hope before long it may be my part to welcome you back."

When they had started again, Fellowes took some papers from his pocket.

"These are for you, Mistress Lanison, to read at your leisure. I had
them from Martin Fairley to give to you."

"I wish I could have seen Martin to thank him too."

"That is impossible."

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