The Brown Mask

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

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"Trust me. I can keep a quiet tongue," Crosby returned. "Will you tell
me now where we are going, and how it is you interest yourself in me?"

"Better that you should tell me your part of the story first or I may be
giving you stale news."

"Truly, I have little to tell," Crosby said. "I am no rebel, though the
charge might with some show of reason be brought against me. To-day--or
yesterday rather, for it must be long after midnight--my house was
secretly surrounded. My servant told me when I returned in the
afternoon, and informed me also that a man was waiting to see me."

"Who was it?" Fairley asked.

"I must keep faith with him since so far he keeps faith with me. He bid
me say nothing concerning him."

A short ejaculation came from the fiddler. Perhaps his horse gave him
trouble at that moment, but it seemed to Crosby that his companion did
not believe him.

"You doubt what I say?"

"Did I say so?" asked Fairley. "I am used to strange tales, and I have
only heard a part of yours. Finish it, Mr. Crosby."

"The flight from Sedgemoor had let licence loose in the West, and I have
reason to think that I am a victim of private vengeance. Be this as it
may, my visitor had a scheme for my deliverance. He proposed facing the
enemy who had now come to the door, arranged that I should give him a
few minutes' start, and then make my way to the village from the back of
the house. I should find a horse ready for me there, and he told me to
ride to 'The Jolly Farmers,' where I was to await the coming of a
fiddler who would direct me further. He was most insistent on the exact
road I should follow, that I should leave my horse at a certain place in
the village, and reach the inn on foot. My escape was cleverly
arranged."

"This man did you a service," said Fairley. "I wish I knew his name."

"I cannot tell you. I can tell you nothing further about him; but now
that I have escaped I feel rather as if I were playing a coward's part
by running away."

"Why? You are not a rebel."

"True; yet I count for something in my own neighbourhood and might
stretch out a protecting arm."

"You were caught like a rat in a hole, and would have been powerless;
whereas now you are free to fight your enemies, thanks to your strange
visitor."

"You speak of him as if you doubted his existence," said Crosby with
some irritation.

"Doubt! I do assure you I am one of those strange fellows who see and
hear things which most folk affirm have no existence. I find doubting a
difficult matter. With ill-luck I might get burnt for a wizard. I
promise you there is more understanding in me than you would give me
credit for, and certainly I should not call such a flight as yours
cowardly."

"I shall be able to judge the better perhaps when I have heard your part
of the tale," said Crosby.

"That is by no means certain, for my part is as vague as yours," Fairley
answered. "You were in danger, that I knew, but the exact form of it I
was ignorant of. I was instructed to find you and bring you to a place
of safety, and was told that I should meet with you at 'The Jolly
Farmers.'"

"By this same man, I suppose?"

"No. My instructions came from a woman."

"A woman!"

"Yes, and one who is evidently interested in your affairs," Fairley
answered. "Does your memory not serve to remind you of such a woman?"

Crosby did not answer the question. In the darkness of the road before
him he seemed to see a vision.

"What is this woman like?" He did not turn to look at his companion as
he asked the question; he hardly seemed to know that he had spoken.

"I cannot tell you; there are no words," said Fairley, in that curious
monotone which the recital of verse may give, or which constant singing
may leave in a minstrel's ordinary speech. "I cannot tell, but my fiddle
might play her to you in a rhapsody that should set the music in your
soul vibrating. There are women whose image cunning fingers may catch
with brush and pigment and limn it on canvas; there are women whose
image may be traced in burning words so that a vision of her rises
before the reader or the hearer; and there are women whose beauty can
only be told in music--the subtle music that lies in vibrating strings,
music into which a man can pour his whole soul and so make the world
understand. Such a woman is she who bid me find Gilbert Crosby and bring
him into safety."

"I know no such woman," Crosby answered. "It may seem strange to you,
Master Fairley, but women have not entered much into my world. Tell me
this woman's name."

"Nay, I had no instructions to do so."

"Shall I see her at the end of this journey?"

"She hath caprices like all women; how can I tell?"

"At least tell me whither we go."

"If you can read the stars you may know our direction," was the answer.
"Yonder is the Wain and the North Star, and low down eastwards is the
first light of a new day. We may mend our pace a little if only this
poor beast of mine has it in him to do so."

It was no great pace they travelled even when they endeavoured to
hasten. The fiddler's lean nag, either from ill-condition or over-work,
or perchance both, could do little more than amble along, falling back
into a walking pace at every opportunity. Perhaps it was as well, Crosby
thought, for the fiddler seemed strangely uneasy in the saddle, and more
than once apologised for his want of dexterity when he noticed his
companion glance at him.

"He's a sorry beast to my way of thinking, but to his thinking maybe I'm
a sorry rider. Those who have great souls to carry often have poor knees
for the gripping of a saddle."

Crosby did not answer. The vision was still before him on the road, and
he wondered whether Fate and this fiddler were leading him to his
desire. Absorbed in his dream, he let his horse, which had no speed to
boast of, suit his pace to that of the lean nag, and did not trouble to
think how quickly they must be overtaken should there be any pursuit on
the road behind them. So they rode forwards, their faces towards the
growing dawn, and Gilbert Crosby was conscious of a new hope stirring in
his soul, of an indefinable conviction that to-night was a pilgrimage, a
journeying out of the past into the future.

"He rides well surely who rides towards the coming day," said Fairley
suddenly, breaking a long silence. Crosby felt that it was true, and
that his own thoughts had found expression.

* * * * *

The night brought no vision to Barbara Lanison, only a restless turning
to and fro upon her bed and a wild chaos of mingled doubts and fears
which defied all her efforts to bring them into order. There were still
many guests at the Abbey, but she saw little of them except at a
distance. She had begged her uncle to excuse her presence, and he had
merely bowed to her wishes without commenting upon them. He may have
been angry with her, but since she had heard him laughing and jesting
with his companions as they passed through the hall, or went along the
terrace, she concluded that her absence did not greatly trouble him.
There were guests at the Abbey now who hardly knew her, some who did not
know her at all, and she was missed so little by Mrs. Dearmer and her
friends that they no longer troubled to laugh at her. She was as she had
been before her visit to London, only that now she understood more; she
was no longer a child. She had not seen Sydney Fellowes again before his
departure, but she had no anger in her heart against him. He had
insulted her, but it was done under the influence of wine, and in
reality he was perchance more genuinely her friend than any other guest
who frequented the Abbey. Had he not said that this was no home for her?
Lord Rosmore she had seen for a few moments before he had set out to
join the militia marching westward. He was courtly in his manner when he
bid her farewell, declared that she would know presently that he had
only interfered to save her from a scoundrel, and he left her with the
assurance that he was always at her command. Barbara hardly knew whether
he were her friend or foe. Sir Philip Branksome had left Aylingford full
of the doughty deeds which were to be done by him, but it was whispered
that he was still in London, talking loudly in coffee-house and tavern.
Judge Marriott had hurried back to town, thirsting to take a part in
punishing these rebels, but before he went he had made opportunity to
whisper to Barbara: "Should there be a rebel who has a claim on your
sympathy, Mistress Lanison, though he be as black as the devil's dam,
yet he shall go free if you come and look at me to plead for him. Gad!
for the sake of your pretty eyes, I would not injure him though the King
himself stood at my elbow to insist." Barbara could do no less than
thank him, and felt that he was capable of perjuring himself to any
extent to realise his own ends, and wondered if there were any
circumstances which could bring her to plead for mercy to Judge
Marriott.

Mad Martin had gone, too, with his fiddle under his arm. "Folks will
marry for all there is fighting in the West," he had said, "and my
fiddle and I must be there to play for them." He had said no more about
Gilbert Crosby, had probably forgotten by this time that she had ever
mentioned the name with interest. Half dreamer, half madman, what could
he do? With a fiddle-bow for his only weapon he was a poor ally, and yet
he seemed to be the only true friend she possessed.

Barbara was very lonely, and more and more she was persuaded that
Aylingford Abbey was a different place from that which, through all her
childhood until now, she had considered it. Something evil hung like a
veil over its beauty, an evil that must surely touch her if she remained
there. She was impelled to run away from it, yet whither could she go?
Could she explain the evil? Could she put into words what she was afraid
of? The world would laugh at her, even as Mrs. Dearmer did, or label her
a wench of Puritan stock, as her aunt, Lady Bolsover, was inclined to
do. She must talk to Martin, who had taught her so many things; but even
Martin was away fiddling at some festival that rustics might dance.
Barbara was disposed to resent his absence at a time when she wanted him
so much.

Yesterday she had heard some guests talking of the fight on Sedgemoor as
they walked to and fro on the terrace below the window. Monmouth was
defeated and flying for his life, and the heavy hand of King James would
certainly fall swiftly on the country folk of the West. Would it fall
upon the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate? Certainly it would
be stretched out against him were he such a man as Lord Rosmore declared
him to be.

Wearied out with much thinking, Barbara fell asleep towards morning, and
the sun was high, flooding the terrace with light and warmth, when she
awoke.

Later, she went across the ruins to the door in the tower. Martin might
have returned in the night. The door was still locked. It was always
locked when Martin was away from the Abbey, and he took the key with
him.

She went back slowly along the terrace, and, from sheer loneliness, she
was tempted to forsake her solitude and join the guests. There was a
group of them now at the end of the terrace, and Barbara's step had
quickened in that direction when she heard Mrs. Dearmer laugh. She
shuddered, and went no farther. Utter loneliness was far preferable to
that woman's company.

The day seemed to drag more heavily than any which had preceded it.
Surely there had never been such long hours and so many hours in a day
before! The sunshine was out of keeping with her mood, and it was almost
a relief to her when the afternoon became overcast and the haze on the
distant hills spoke of rain. The sound of rain was on the terrace
presently, the stone flags grew dark with the wet, and the woods became
sombre and deeply mysterious. A light still lingered in the west, low
down and angry looking, but the night fell early over the Abbey. Candles
had been burning in Barbara's room for a long time when a faint cadence
of notes struck upon her ear. She knew it well, and the sound gladdened
her so that she laughed as she threw open the window. Her laughter was
like a musical echo of the notes.

"Martin!" she said, leaning from the casement and looking down on the
terrace; "Martin!"

There was no answer. She looked to right and left, but only the shadows
of the night lay still and unmoving. Had the sound been fancy? She
closed the casement and shivered a little as though she had heard a
ghost; then there came a knock at her door.

She opened it quickly and stood back.

"It is you, then?"

"Did you not hear my fiddle smile? No, it was not a laugh to-night; I
was afraid someone else might hear it. Will you come to the tower? I
like to sit in my own room when I come back from making the folks laugh
and dance and helping them to be happy."

"Well, Martin, have you nothing to tell me?"

Now that he had come back, advice was not what she asked for, but news.

"We always have much to talk of--always--you and I."

"But to-night, Martin, especially to-night. Ah! you have forgotten."

"Very likely," he answered. "I do forget a great many things. But come
to my room in the tower; I may remember when I get there."

"No, Martin, not to-night," she said.

"I may remember," he repeated; "and, besides, why should you be less
kind to me? I always look forward to my own room and you."

There was a tone of sadness in his voice, and she was angry with herself
for occasioning it. Because she was sad, was that a reason why she
should make this poor fellow miserable? Would he not do anything to
serve her which fell within the power of the poor wits God had given
him?

"I will come," she said.

"You must wrap a thick cloak about you," said Martin. "It is raining
heavily."

She left him for a moment and quickly returned, closely wrapped up.

"Tread lightly," said Martin. "I always like to think that these
evenings when you come to my tower are secret meetings, that the world
must not know of them. I pretend sometimes that we are followed, and
must go warily."

"Foolish Martin!"

They reached the terrace by a small door, and went quickly through the
ruins to the tower. The door was still locked. Martin had evidently only
just returned to the Abbey, and had not yet entered his tower.

"Give me your hand up the stairs," he said.

"Why, Martin, I must know every turn in them as well as you do," she
answered.

"It is my fancy to-night," he said. "Give me your hand. So. I have a
dream of a valiant knight, famous in war and tourney, one whom fine
ladies turn to glance after and desire that he should wear their favour.
Only one fair maid heeds him not, and ever the knight's eyes look
towards her. Whenever he draws his sword, or sets his lance in rest, he
whispers her name; for him she is the one woman in all the world. And
suddenly there comes to her the knowledge of his worth; I know not how
it comes, but she understands, and then--The dream ends then, yet
to-night it seems to linger for an instant. This dark stair leads to
some beautiful palace. You are the woman of the dream, the most
beautiful woman in the world; and for just a moment I stand a valiant
knight--your knight--and welcome you to all I possess."

His voice was little above a whisper. She could not see his face, but in
the dark her hand was raised and lips touched it.

"Martin!"

"After all, it's a narrow winding stair, and leads to a meagre chamber
where lives a poor fellow who loves his fiddle. Come."

The room was in darkness, but Martin guided her to a chair.

"Wait; we will have candles, four of them to-night, and we will pretend
we keep high festival. See, mistress, how bright the room is; there are
scarcely any dark shadows in it at all."

She turned to look, and then a little cry came from her parted lips.
Before her, his eyes fixed upon her, stood the man who had come to her
rescue at Newgate.

"You see, mistress, I did not forget," said Martin; and, taking up his
fiddle from a table, he went out, closing the door softly behind him.
There came a little cadence of notes--the laugh of the fiddle. Somehow
there was the sound of wailing rather than of laughter in it to-night.

CHAPTER XI

THE FUGITIVE AT AYLINGFORD

Barbara Lanison suddenly remembered how much she had thought of the man
who stood before her. For the first time she realised that not a day had
passed but those grey eyes had seemed to look into hers, even as they
did now; that the hours were few into which his image had not come. This
meeting was so unexpected, she was so entirely unprepared for it, that
she was taken at a disadvantage. It seemed to her that this man must
surely know how much he had been in her thoughts, must be reading her
like an open book. Her eyes fell, and the colour rushed into her cheeks.

"Why has Martin gone?" she said, turning to the door to recall him, and
whatever sense of confusion she experienced, there was a dignity in her
movement, and a tone of annoyance in her voice, which showed Crosby that
she was proud, and seemed to prove that just now she was angry as well.

"Won't you at least let me thank you for your help?" he asked, taking a
step towards her.

"It was nothing," she answered. "By chance I learnt your name, by chance
I heard you were in danger, and I sent you a warning. I was in your
debt, and I like to pay what I owe."

"You have done that with interest."

"Tell me, why are you here?" she asked.

"Indeed, madam, to answer that question I have need of Martin, too, for
he brought me."

"I do not understand, Mr. Crosby--you are Mr. Gilbert Crosby, are you
not?"

"Yes; and I do not understand, either," he answered. "I have been under
the guidance of Fate and a fiddler, and it would appear that the
fiddler, at any rate, has played some trick with me, for I do assure you
that he made me suppose he was doing your bidding in bringing me here."

"We call him 'Mad Martin,'" she said with a little laugh. "Will you tell
me his tale? It should be interesting, though I fear it must greatly
have misled you."

She turned from the door as she spoke, and sat down by the table.
Perhaps it was as well Martin had gone, for there was no guessing what
he had told this stranger, nor how far he might call upon her to support
his action were he asked suddenly for an explanation.

"It would also be interesting to me to learn who you are, and where I
am," said Crosby with a smile.

"You do not know? You have forgotten?" Barbara exclaimed.

"I have not so poor a memory as that," he answered, "and will you deem
it presumptuous in me when I say that I hoped it might be you who had
rendered me this service? I did not know until Martin lit those candles
and you turned towards me. Within a few hours of my seeing you at
Newgate I was called away from London. I had no opportunity of making
inquiry about you."

"There was no reason why you should," she answered.

"You did not forbid me to do so."

"Indeed, no. I had small chance to do that," Barbara returned. "You
disappeared so quickly and mysteriously."

"I had seen you to your friends--why should I wait?"

"If for nothing else, to be thanked. I wondered whether you had
recognised an enemy in the neighbourhood of my aunt's coach."

He laughed, but whether at the suggestion, or at her method of trying to
draw a confession from him, it was impossible to tell.

"Did you see the highwayman and thank him, as you proposed?" Barbara
asked.

"I did, and now it seems he was not this famous Galloping Hermit, after
all."

For a moment she was silent, recollecting that she had speculated
whether this man himself might not be the wearer of the brown mask.

"I am Barbara Lanison," she said suddenly, "niece to Sir John Lanison of
Aylingford Abbey."

"Am I in Aylingford Abbey?" Crosby asked.

"A queer little corner of it appropriated by Martin Fairley. You seem
surprised, sir."

"Indeed, I am. I have passed through many surprises during the last few
hours, not the least of them being that this is Aylingford, and that you
are astonished to see me."

"Perhaps it would be well to tell me your story before Martin returns.
You must not forget that he is half a madman, and sometimes talks
wildly."

Crosby told her the manner of his escape from Lenfield, as he had told
it to Fairley; and if Barbara Lanison did not so obviously disbelieve it
as the fiddler had done, her eyes were full of questioning. He explained
how "The Jolly Farmers" had been searched, and how he and Martin had
ridden away together in the night.

"He told me that he had been bidden by a woman to bring me into a place
of safety, and he brought me here. He would tell me nothing more."

"He did not even try and picture the woman for you?"

"Only his fiddle could do that, he declared."

"You see how foolish he is," said Barbara.

"I do not find any great sign of folly in that," Crosby answered.

"I was thinking of your journey, sir. I told Martin to find you if he
could and warn you; that was all I bid him do."

"And my coming has displeased you," said Crosby. "I will go on the
instant if it be your will."

"No, no; it is my will that you tell me the remainder of the story."

"There is no more to tell."

"You have not told me who the man was who helped you to escape from your
manor at Lenfield," said Barbara.

"He desired me not to speak of him, and I must keep faith."

"Yet he told you of Martin."

"He spoke only of a fiddler," said Crosby.

"Have I no means of persuading you to tell me his name?" she said,
leaning a little across the table towards him, with a look of pleading
in her eyes. Most men would have found the temptation difficult to
resist.

"I do not think you would try any means to make a man break his
promise," Crosby said.

The grey eyes looked straight into hers, and the voice had that little
tone of sternness in it which she had noted that day at Newgate.

"Perhaps not," she said; "but it is provoking. To have a nameless
partner in such an affair as this is to have more mystery than I care
for."

"Did you ever hear of a Mr. Sydney Fellowes?"

"So you have told me after all," she said, disappointment in her voice.
He was not the strong man she supposed him to be--merely one a woman
could cajole at her ease. She was too disappointed in him to realise at
once how strange it was that he should speak of Sydney Fellowes.

"No, this is another friend," he answered quietly, conscious of what was
passing in her mind.

"I know Mr. Fellowes," Barbara said, her brow clearing. "Not many days
since he was here at the Abbey."

"He came to see me, but since I was away from home he left a letter
warning me that I had enemies. He, too, had been commissioned by someone
to warn me."

"Not by me," said Barbara. "Surely you must have been acting unwisely,
Mr. Crosby, to have so many enemies?"

"It is the number of my friends which astonishes me more," he returned.
"I am wondering what it was you heard about me which made you send to
help me."

"It concerned the Duke of Monmouth, and was not to your credit," Barbara
said.

"Yet you have helped me."

"I did not believe what was said. Besides, I was in your debt."

"These are times when one must speak with caution if one would dwell in
safety," said Crosby. "Whoever accused me of being a supporter of the
Duke of Monmouth spoke falsely, yet it is possible that he believed
himself justified. I went to see Monmouth at Bridgwater."

"Why?"

"With a hope that I might persuade him to turn back from certain ruin,
and so mitigate the misery which he must bring upon the West Country. My
pity was rather for the simple peasants than for Monmouth, perhaps; but
I know the Duke well, and in the past have been his close friend. You
see, your informant may have had some reason for his accusation."

"Then you are for King James?" questioned Barbara. She could not help
remembering that the man before her had been classed with those cowards
who will betray friends and foes alike so that their own purposes are
served and their own safety secured. Was Gilbert Crosby almost
confessing to as much?

"I stand apart, taking neither side," he answered. "Believe me, Mistress
Lanison, I am only one of many in England to-day who do the same. They
are loyal subjects so long as the King remains true to his coronation
oath."

"I suppose some might call them cowards and time-servers," she said. She
was not deeply learned in politics, and was inclined to let the personal
qualities of a man make her hero, no matter which side he fought for. To
stand aside and take no part at all always seemed to her rather
cowardly. It appeared such an easy way out of a difficulty.

"Some undoubtedly do call them so," Crosby admitted with a shrug of his
shoulders, "and perhaps the fact that they are able to hear the
accusation and remain unmoved proves them brave men. Still, I feel
something like a coward to-night."

"Why?"

"I am wondering whether I ought to have left Lenfield. It is probable
that, had I remained, I should have been arrested, perhaps hanged on the
nearest tree without trial or question; but, since I am free, my
presence in the West might do something to help these poor folk who will
most certainly suffer bitterly for the rebellion."

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