The Brown Mask

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

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The man stood in the doorway for a moment with his bow raised, pleased,
it seemed, with the sensation he had caused. He had spoken in rather a
high-pitched voice, almost as if his words were set to a monotonous
chant or had a poetic measure in them.

"It is only that mad fool Martin Fairley," said Branksome.

"What is this news?" Sir John asked. His anger seemed to have gone, and
he spoke gently.

"That depends," said Martin, advancing into the hall with a step which
appeared to time itself with some unheard rhythm. "That depends on who
it is who hears it. Good news for those who hate King James; bad for
those who love priests and popery. How can such a mad fool as I am, Sir
Philip Branksome, guess to which side so many gallant gentlemen and fair
ladies may lean?"

There was grace, and some mockery perhaps, in the low bow he made, his
arms wide extended, the fiddle in one hand, the bow in the other; and
then, slowly standing erect again, he appeared to notice Barbara for the
first time.

"Drawn swords!" he exclaimed, "and my lady of Aylingford between them.
Another legend for the Abbey in the making--eh, Sir John? I must write a
song upon it, or else Mr. Fellowes shall. If his sword is as facile as
his pen, my Lord Rosmore, 'tis a marvel you are alive."

"This fool annoys me, Sir John. I am not in the mood for jesting."

"That, at least, is good news," said Martin, "for in this Monmouth
affair there is no jest but real fighting to be done. Will you not save
your strength for one side or the other?"

"Peace, Martin," said Sir John. "We must hear more of this news of yours
at once. And you, gentlemen, will you not put up your swords at my
niece's request?"

"I drew it to play a dishonourable part," said Fellowes. "I used it to
defend a worthless life. Do you command its sheathing, Mistress Lanison?"

"Yes," and she still looked at Lord Rosmore as she spoke.

"Since Mr. Fellowes has apologised, and you have commanded, I have no
alternative," said Rosmore. "If Mr. Fellowes resents my attitude he may
find a time and an opportunity to force me to a better one."

"Come, Martin, we must hear the whole story," said Sir John, and then he
whispered to Rosmore as they crossed the hall together: "He is certain
to be right, Martin invariably hears news, good or bad, before anyone
else."

"May we all hear it?" asked Mrs. Dearmer.

"Why, surely," Martin Fairley exclaimed. "Monmouth was always
interesting to ladies, and he may, as likely as not, set up his court at
St. James's before another moon is at the full."

They followed Sir John and Lord Rosmore back into the room which they
had left so hurriedly a few moments ago, and as Martin Fairley went in
after them he drew his bow across the strings of his fiddle, sounding
just half a dozen quick notes in a little laughing cadenza.

"He is going to sing his tale to us," said Branksome, rather bored with
the whole proceeding.

"He is quite mad," answered Mrs. Dearmer, "but I fancy Abbot John is
somewhat afraid of him."

The little sequence of notes made Barbara Lanison start, she had heard
it so often. When she was a child Martin had told her fairy tales, and
he constantly finished the story by playing just these notes, a sort of
musical comment to the end of a tale in which prince and princess lived
happily ever afterwards. When he had been thinking out some difficult
point he would play this cadenza as a sign that he had come to a
decision. Once when Barbara had been ill, and got well again, he had
played it two or three times in rapid succession. If he declared he was
busy when Barbara wanted to go to him, he would tell her she might come
when she heard his fiddle laugh, and these notes were the laugh, always
the same notes. They had evidently some meaning for him, and they had
come to have a meaning for Barbara. They were a link between her and
this strange mad friend of hers. When she heard them she always felt
that Martin had something to tell her, or could help her in any
difficulty she was in at the moment.

"Mistress Lanison."

She started. She was almost unconscious that the people who had
surrounded her just now had gone and closed the door. She was alone in
the hall with Sydney Fellowes, from whom a few moments ago she had cried
out to be delivered.

"Mistress Lanison, I ask your pardon for to-night. Forget it, blot it
out of your memory, if you can. If some day you would deign to set me a
task whereby I might prove my repentance, I swear you shall be humbly
served. Against your will, perhaps, you have picked me out of the
gutter. Please God, I'll keep out of it. Thank you for all you have done
for me."

He spoke hurriedly, giving her no opportunity to answer him, and then
turned and left her, going out through the door which opened on to the
terrace, and which still stood open. Had he waited Barbara would not
have answered him, perhaps; she was not thinking of him, but of Martin
Fairley and the laugh of his fiddle. The sound of Fellowes's retreating
footsteps had died into silence before she turned and went out slowly on
to the terrace, closing the door quietly behind her.

The fiddle, with the bow beside it, lay on the table near its master, a
strange master, whose moods were as varying as are those of an April
day. Mad Martin he was called, and he was known and loved in all the
villages for miles round Aylingford. He and his fiddle brought mirth to
many a simple festival, and in time of trouble it was strange how
helpful were the words and presence of this madman. Martin Fairley was
not as other men, the village folk said, he was not sane and ordinary as
they were, he was to be pitied, and must often be treated as a wayward
child. Yet there were times when he seemed to see visions, when the
invisible spirits of that world with which he was in touch whispered
into his ear things of which men knew nothing. He was suddenly endowed
with knowledge above his fellows, and the whole aspect of the man
changed. At such times the villagers were a little afraid of him and
spoke under their breath of magic and the black art. Even Sir John
Lanison was not free from this fear of his strange dependent. He never
spoke roughly to him, never checked him, never questioned his goings and
comings. Sometimes, half-jestingly it seemed, he asked his advice, and
whatever Martin said was always considered. As often as not the advice
given took the form of a parable, and, no matter how absurd it sounded,
Sir John invariably tried to understand its meaning.

Martin Fairley had come to the Abbey one winter's night soon after
Barbara Lanison had been brought there. He had come out of the woods,
struggling against a hurricane of wind across one of the bridges, his
fiddle cuddled in his arms for protection. He had begged for food and
shelter, and then, warm and satisfied, he had played to the company
gathered round the Abbey fire, had told them strange tales, and, with a
light laugh, had declared that he was the second child to come to the
good Sir John Lanison for care and protection, first the little niece,
now the poor fool. Someone told Sir John that there was luck in keeping
such a fool about the place, and whether it was that he believed it, or
really felt pity for the homeless wanderer, Martin Fairley had been
allowed to remain at the Abbey ever since, a willing slave to Barbara
Lanison, an inconsequent person who must not be interfered with. Perhaps
he was twenty years old when he came, strong and lithe of limb then, and
to-day he was hardly changed, older-looking, of course, but still lithe
in his movements. Mentally, his development had been curious. His powers
had both increased and decreased. There were times when he was silent,
depressed, when his mind was a complete blank, and whatever words he
might utter were totally without meaning; but there were other times
when his eyes were alight with intelligence, when his wit was as keen as
a well-tempered blade, and his whole appearance one of resolute energy
and competent action.

He was keen to-night as he told the story of Monmouth's landing.

"Lyme went mad at his coming," he said. "His address was read from the
market cross, and the air rang again with shouts of 'Monmouth! and the
Protestant faith!' As captain-general of that faith has he come, and the
people flock to his blue standard and scatter flowers in his path. The
Whig aristocracy will rise to a man, it is said, and London fly to arms.
The King and his Parliament tremble and turn pale, and the train-bands
of Devon are only awaiting the opportunity to join the Duke. All the
West is in arms."

"How did you hear the news?" asked Sir John.

"It flies in all directions; you have only to listen."

"We have heard nothing," said Rosmore contemptuously.

"Ah, but these walls are thick," said Martin, "and wine makes people
dull of hearing, while the company of fair ladies breeds disinclination
to hear. Perhaps, too, you were making a noise over your play."

"I am inclined to think it is all a tale," said Branksome. "Before this
we have known you to dream prodigiously, Martin."

"True. I dreamed last night as I lay on a bed of hay in a loft, with my
fiddle for company, that all the gentleman at the Abbey had flown to
fight for Monmouth."

"A stupid dream," said a man who was a Whig, and whose mind was full of
doubt as to what his course of action must be should Monmouth's landing
be a fact.

"And I come back to find two gentlemen fighting in the hall," Martin
went on. "Were you trying to rob King James of a supporter, my lord?"

Rosmore laughed.

"No, Martin; I was endeavouring to punish a man for insulting a lady."

"Truly the world is upside down when it falls to your lot to play such a
part as that," was the answer.

"How many men has Monmouth?" asked Sir John, silencing the laugh against
Lord Rosmore.

"They come by the hundreds, 'tis a labour to write down their names fast
enough. From the ploughs, from the fields, from the shops they come;
their tools turned into implements of war even as Israel faced the
Philistines long ago. Men cut loose the horses from the carts and turn
them into chargers; labourers bind their scythes to poles and carry
reaping-hooks for swords; the Mendip miners shoulder their picks making
a brave front; and here and there a clerk may wield a ruler for want of
a better weapon. And night and day they drill, march, and countermarch.
The cause is at their heart and no leader need feel shame at such a
host."

"A rabble," said Rosmore.

"A rabble that will not run counts for much, my lord, and Monmouth is no
mean general as those who fought at Bothwell Bridge know well."

"You talk as though you were a messenger from Monmouth himself," said
Rosmore. "Were you a witness of the landing?"

"No, no; my fiddle and I have been to a wedding--besides, I am far too
changeable a fellow to take sides," said Martin. "Were I for Monmouth
to-night, I might wake to-morrow morning and find myself for King James.
I shall make a song of victory so worded that it will serve for either
side. Were I Monmouth's messenger I should have made certain of my
company before telling my news. You may all be for the King; that would
be to send you marching against Monmouth. He does not want such a
messenger as I am. Do you march early to-morrow, Sir John?"

"Not so soon as that, I think, Martin."

"And you, Lord Rosmore?"

"Is it worth while marching at all against such a rabble?" was the
answer.

Martin took up his fiddle.

"You, Sir Philip, will hardly leave the ladies, I suppose? Like me, you
are no fighting man."

Sir Philip Branksome chose to consider himself a very great fighting
man, and every acquaintance he had knew it. His angry retort was drowned
in the laughter which assailed him on all sides, and by the time the
laughter had ended Martin Fairley had left the room.

"That madman knows too much," said Rosmore, turning to Sir John. "You
give him too great licence. Had I anything to do with him I should slit
that wagging tongue of his."

"He talks too freely to be dangerous," said Sir John. "His news is
doubtless true, and we--which side do we favour?"

Mrs. Dearmer propounded a question.

"Does it not depend upon which is the good? If popery, then Monmouth and
the Protestants claim us; if Protestantism, then must we die for King
James and all the evil he meditates."

"A fair abbess reminding us of our rules," said Branksome. "Would not
the most wicked course be to do nothing, and then side with the victor?"

"That madman seems to have spoken shrewdly when he said you did not like
fighting," said a girl beside him.

"There is evil to be done whichever side we fight for," said Rosmore. "I
see more personal advantage in fighting for King James, and should
anyone be able to persuade Fellowes to throw in his lot with Monmouth he
will do me a service. The world grows too small to hold us both."

"At least I hope that all my lovers will not fall victims to the
rabble," said Mrs. Dearmer. "Abbot John, you at least must stay at the
Abbey to keep me merry."

* * * * *

Martin Fairley tucked his fiddle under his arm and went quickly down the
terrace. As he approached the doorway leading into the ruined hall a man
came out of the shadows.

"My brother poet!" Martin exclaimed. "You have left the revel early,
brother!"

"Can you be serious, Martin, and understand me clearly?" asked Fellowes.

"It happens that I am rather serious just now," was the answer.

"Martin, I was a scoundrel to-night," said Fellowes, catching him by the
arm. "I might plead wine as an excuse, but I will not, or love, which I
dare not. All women are to be won, you know the roue's damnable creed. I
was in despair; a few words from a pure woman's lips had convinced me of
my unworthiness, and then I met Rosmore. He ridiculed me; suggested,
even, that my love was returned, goaded me to play the lover wilfully
and as a man who will not be beaten. Then the wine and the sham courage
that is in it drove me on. I sent a lying message, and she came to the
hall yonder. I would not let her go, and she cried out. In a moment they
came hurrying in upon us, Rosmore with them. They would have turned it
to comedy, laughed at her, applauded me; but Rosmore, Martin, drew his
sword to defend her--he had played for the opportunity. Had any other
man but Rosmore faced me I should say nothing, but he is worse even than
I am. You saw the end."

"She was shielding you," said Martin.

"I know. I do not count, but Rosmore desires her, Martin. He thought to
stand high with her by killing me to-night. She must never belong to
Lord Rosmore. She will listen to you, Martin--she always does, she
always has."

"Would you make a Cupid's messenger of me, Mr. Fellowes?"

"Fool! I tell you I am nothing. Save her from Rosmore, that is your
mission. My sword, my life are at her service, she knows that, and
probably would not use them, no matter what her peril might be; but you,
some day, might use me on her behalf, without her knowledge. Take this
paper; it is the name of my lodging in town. Keep it. Do you understand?
To-morrow I leave the Abbey."

"To join Monmouth?"

"To try and do what is right," Fellowes answered, "and find a worthy
death, if possible, to atone for an unworthy life."

"A new day will change your mood," said Martin.

"Think so if you will, only keep the paper, and save her from Rosmore."

As he turned away Martin caught his arm.

"There was once a man like you," he said, "a man who loved like you, who
was a scoundrel like you. Suddenly an angel touched him, and in great
pain he turned aside into a rugged, difficult path. At the end of it he
shrank back at the sound of a voice, shrank back until he knew that the
voice spoke words of praise and confidence and honour; and a hand, clean
as men's hands seldom are, grasped his in friendship."

The madman's hand was stretched out to him, and Fellowes took it.

"The eyes of a fool often see into the future," said Martin. "I am
grasping the hand of the man you are to be. I shall keep the paper."

Fellowes went along the terrace without another word, and Martin went to
the deep-set door in the tower by the Nun's Room. It was not locked
to-night, and he climbed the narrow, winding stair quickly.

A dim light was burning in the circular chamber, and as Martin entered
Barbara rose from a chair to meet him. Swiftly he drew the bow across
the fiddle strings.

"The fiddle laughs at your trouble, child."

"It must not be laughed at so easily, Martin. Your news to-night--"

"Was just in time to save a very foolish man from my Lord Rosmore. I can
guess what happened. The one insults you, the other pretends to defend
you and--"

"And my uncle wishes me to marry him; but that is not the trouble,
Martin."

"I should have called that trouble enough."

"But listen," said Barbara, "this news of Monmouth's landing distresses
me for a very strange reason."

"Tell me," said Martin.

Barbara told him of the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate, and
repeated all that Lord Rosmore had said of him.

"Do you think he can be such a man as that, Martin?"

"If Lord Rosmore knows him then--"

"If--but does he?"

"Lord Rosmore knows a great many scoundrels, I have been told. What was
the name of this one?"

"He is not a scoundrel, Martin, I am sure, quite sure. A woman
knows--how, I cannot tell, but she does. And then, even if he be a
scoundrel, I would do him a service, if he can be found. That Monmouth
is in England will be an excuse for taking him, even if he is innocent."

"Still you do not tell me his name."

"Gilbert Crosby," said Barbara.

Martin sat in a corner where the shadows fell, and Barbara did not
notice his sudden start of interest.

"Crosby, Crosby," he said slowly. "There are Crosbys in Northamptonshire,
and here in Hampshire, close by the borders of Wilts and Dorset, there
is one; but a Gilbert Crosby--what is he like?"

"I cannot tell. He made me ashamed to be in such a place, and I did not
look much into his face. He had grey eyes, and a voice that was stern
but kind."

"An excellent picture!" cried Martin. "He should be as easy to find as a
cat in winter time. Cats always go towards the fire, you know, and blink
the dreamy hours away in the warmth of the blaze. Oh, we'll find this
Gilbert Crosby, never fear; and when we find him, what shall we say? Our
Lady of Aylingford is in love. Come with us."

"You are foolish, Martin."

"I was born so, they say, and therefore cannot help it, but, being a
fool, I am convinced that folly is sometimes better than wisdom.
To-night, like a fool, I will dream of this Gilbert Crosby, and learn in
what direction he must be sought for; but now I must be wise and tell
you that the hour grows late and that children should be in bed."

"I fear that childhood, and with it happiness, is being left far behind
me, Martin," Barbara said with a sigh.

She could not see him clearly in the shadows, could not discern the
strange light in his eyes, nor catch the hushed echo to her sigh which
came from her crazy companion.

"No, no; we are all children right to the end," he said suddenly. "There
are moments when we know it and feel it, and, alas! there are times,
too, when we are blind and feel quite old. Open your eyes and you'll
know that childhood has you always by the hand, keeping love and purity
and fair dreams blossoming in your heart. Come, I will take you along
the terrace lest Mr. Fellowes or my Lord Rosmore or--Ah! how many more
are there who would not give half their years and most of their fortune
to stand in the shoes of this fool to-night."

"Peace, Martin."

"Do you hear her little fiddle?" and he laid his hand lovingly on the
polished wood for a moment.

"You must not laugh while I am away. Maybe we'll have a laugh together
when I return, for the moon is too bright to go out on to my roof and
get wisdom from the stars. Come, mistress."

And they went down the narrow, winding stair together.

CHAPTER VII

KING MONMOUTH

The day was dying slowly, the west still aglow after the sinking of the
sun. Thin wreaths of mist were rising from the wide, deep trenches, or
"rhines," as the country folk called them, which intersected and drained
this moorland, making cultivation possible where once had been a great
marshy pool with shifting islands here and there, and rush-covered
swamps.

Silence was over the land, broken now and again by the call of a bird,
and presently by the quick beating of hoofs. A solitary horseman came
rapidly along a road which skirted the edge of the moor. He was dusty
with a long journey, and his horse came to a standstill at the first
tightening of the rein. The rider had been in the saddle since early
morning, and although he had not loitered on his journey, his eyes and
ears had been keenly set all day, and, whenever practicable, he had
chosen by-paths in preference to the main road. His was a mission which
might bring him many dangers, and enemies even amongst those he sought
to befriend.

Before him lay the moorland, growing mistier and a little unreal in the
failing light. To his left, clustering roofs round a church tower, was a
village, so silent that none but the dead might have been its
inhabitants. Not a labourer plodded homewards from his toil in the
fields; not a horse, freed from its harness, grazed in the fields. To
his right, sharply cutting the distant sky-line, rose a tall spire, a
landmark for miles round.

"The end of our journey," he murmured, patting the horse's neck, "and
they won't thank us for coming."

The horse appeared to understand, and started forward again, shaking
himself as though to throw off his weariness. His rider had smiled a
little sadly as he spoke, but now his face was set again, as one who
rides upon an unpleasant mission but is not to be turned aside from
fulfilling it, no matter what the cost may be.

It was not long before he entered Bridgwater, and, had he not known that
it was so, the aspect of the town would have shown him that he was in
the midst of some great event. At no time would he be a man to pass
unnoticed, but here his coming caused excitement. Words of welcome were
flung at him, and anxious questions shouted after him. There was a
feverish eagerness in the atmosphere, and if some faces which he saw at
windows and in doorways had a look of fear in them, they were in the
minority, and were not anxious to invite attention to themselves.

"Duke!" one man exclaimed in answer to the rider's question. "He is no
duke who is at the castle, but a king--King Monmouth. Yesterday, in the
market-place at Taunton, they proclaimed him."

"I had not heard," said the rider.

"Do you come alone?" asked the man.

"Quite alone."

"Each man counts--may count for much--but you should have ridden in at
the head of a troop. We'd have cracked our throats with roaring a
welcome."

The rider smiled, and passed on to the castle.

Here was the centre of bustle and excitement, constant coming and going,
hastily given orders, and general clamour. In the castle field was
encamped an army of six thousand men, a rabble truly, and poorly armed,
many having naught but their tools for weapons, but enthusiasts all,
certain of the righteousness of their cause, prepared to die for the
King they had made and whom they trusted and loved. There was order of a
sort, but it seemed strangely like confusion to the horseman as he
dismounted within the courtyard. Here again a welcome met him, but it
was with difficulty he could get a message carried to King Monmouth.
Would he not see Lord Grey who was in charge of the cavalry, or Master
Ferguson who could tell him all he wanted to know--or Buyse, or Wade,
or--

"Monmouth, blockhead--and Monmouth only," was the angry retort. "And
quickly, or you'll suffer for such laggard service."

He spoke with such authority that there was whispered speculation who
this stranger might be. Perhaps he was the first of those nobles who had
promised to draw swords with them in the great cause. A messenger went
quickly, and soon returned. The King would see him at once.

As the stranger entered the chamber where half a dozen men were
gathered, one man rose and came forward to meet him.

"Gilbert Crosby!" he exclaimed. "Never was friend more welcome."

His face, somewhat gloomy a moment before, was suddenly lit with a
brilliant smile, so winning, so full of charming graciousness, that it
was easy to understand the influence such a leader must have over the
army of enthusiasts gathered in the town of Bridgwater. He was a
handsome man, in appearance a born leader of men; and if Gilbert Crosby
understood some of the shortcomings which lay underneath this attractive
exterior, he could not remember them just now. There was the temptation
to offer himself heart and soul to this man and forget the self-imposed
mission on which he had come. He had been brought in contact with
Monmouth some years ago, had begun, perhaps, by pitying, and had ended
by giving him a friendship which was truer and stauncher than any other
he had ever possessed. When, a few years since, Monmouth had been feted
throughout Somersetshire and Devon, Crosby had been much in his company,
had entertained him modestly at his own manor, and had been at that
sumptuous feast given in honour of the Duke by Thynne of Longleat.

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