The Brown Mask

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21

"What can you do?"

"Truly, I do not know. Assist a few miserable wretches to escape from a
brutal soldiery, perhaps--that is all I can think of; but I may see
other ways of helping once I am back again. Cannot you advise me? A
woman often sees more clearly than a man."

"To advise well, one must know more," said Barbara. "Of you I know
little, except what I have heard, and, truly, that would give me a poor
opinion of you."

"You have said that you did not believe it."

"Still, you have told me nothing to strengthen that belief," she
returned quickly. "There is something more than merely a woman's
curiosity in this, for, truly, I am set in the midst of difficulties.
Listen! That is Martin on the stairs."

"It is not your will that I leave Aylingford to-night, then?"

"It is poor weather to start upon a journey. Besides, you are Martin's
guest, not mine, and--"

The door opened, and Martin entered.

"It is late, mistress. I must see you along the terrace."

"I had not thought of the time," Barbara said, rising quickly and
folding her cloak round her.

"There are certain hours in life one does not stay to count," Martin
answered, "but they burn candles, for all that. See how much these have
lessened since I lighted them."

"I am glad, Martin, that you have brought your guest to a safe place,"
said Barbara. "Good-night, Mr. Crosby. Perhaps to-morrow you will tell
me more."

The door closed, and Crosby was alone. Indeed, there was much more to
tell, but the telling was not all for him to do. What was it Barbara
Lanison had heard of him which had evidently impressed her unfavourably,
although it was perhaps against her will, and who had told her these
things? Then, too, this fiddler must be made to speak clearly, for he
must surely know a great deal.

Martin Fairley quickly returned, and closed and locked the door.

"There must be some explanation between us," said Crosby. "This lady did
not expect me."

"Are you sure of that?"

"She told me so."

"Ah! that is a different matter," Fairley returned sharply. "What kind
of a welcome did you expect? Have you done aught to win a more tender
greeting?"

"I have done much to anger her by coming here," answered Crosby.

"You were not quarrelling when I entered just now. She spoke of
to-morrow. Does a woman leave anything for the morrow if she has no
interest in that morrow? You would make a poor lover, Master Crosby."

"To my knowledge I have not been cast for the part."

"We shall see," said Martin, "It's a poor fire that will not boil a
kettle, and she's a poor woman who cannot make a man love her if she
will. There's to-morrow, and after that you and I may talk a little more
freely, perhaps. For to-night I only want sleep. I can fiddle from dusk
to dawn and forget that I have not closed my eyes, but a night in the
saddle--ah! my poor knees, Master Crosby! I was never meant for a
horseman." And he laughed, the same notes in the laugh as came from the
fiddle when it laughed.

He was half a madman--Barbara Lanison had said so--and Crosby was
convinced that there was little information to be got out of him, either
then or at any other time.

The next morning broke grey and sombre over Aylingford, yet Barbara woke
to find the world brighter and more interesting than she had found it
for a long time; perhaps it had never been quite so bright before. And
yet there were clouds in it, wreaths of doubt which would not clear
away. She must know more of this man Gilbert Crosby before she trusted
him fully--and she wanted to trust him. Martin had told her many things
in the past; she had meant to ask Martin whether she ought to stay at
Aylingford; now she had a desire to take her fears to Gilbert Crosby. He
had seemed so strong that day at Newgate; ever since then she had grown
to believe more and more that he was a man to be relied upon in trouble,
and last night--was she a little disappointed in him?

"I have expected so much," she said to herself. "Perhaps a man is never
all that a woman expects him to be."

She went early to the tower, almost afraid that he might have gone in
the night. He was there, and Martin left them much together that day. In
the afternoon they sat side by side on one of the broken pieces of
masonry in the ruins, while Martin lounged by the door opening on to the
terrace; and there was little of Crosby's life that Barbara had not been
told before the dusk came. She did not question that he had told her the
truth. And much about herself Barbara told him, but not yet of the evil
which hung over Aylingford. She could not tell him that yet, and there
was time enough, for she had advised that he should remain at the Abbey
for a little while.

"I believe your enemies are private ones, and would only use this
rebellion against you as a means to an end," she said. "When it is known
that you took no part with Monmouth you will be free to deal with your
enemies."

"You are not angry that I came, then?"

"No; and, besides, you may perchance do me a great service."

"How? Only tell me how," he whispered, and there was a new note in his
voice which sent a thrill into her very soul and yet made her shrink
from him a little.

"To-morrow--perhaps to-morrow I will tell you."

So the clouds of doubt were driven away, and yet they returned again as
she sat in her room that evening, for she would not go again to the
tower until to-morrow. Someone might have seen her go in that direction
and wondered why she had spent so many hours in the ruins. She was angry
with herself for allowing such doubts to enter her mind, but, try as she
would, she could not force them out.

There came a knock upon her door presently, and a servant entered to
request that she would go to Sir John.

"He is in his own room," said the servant, "and bid me say that he was
waiting for you."

It was so unusual for her uncle to send for her that Barbara wondered
what had happened to make her immediate presence necessary. Had Sir John
found out that there was a visitor in the tower, and wished to question
her? As she went she endeavoured to make up her mind what she should say
if Gilbert Crosby's presence at Aylingford were the reason she was sent
for.

Sir John's room opened out of the great hall. It was of fair
proportions, panelled from floor to ceiling and lighted by three long
windows with leaded glass and stone mullions. At one end was a huge
fireplace, looking cold and empty in summer-time, and over it, and
elsewhere in the room, branches for candles were fixed in the wall. Only
the candles over the fireplace were lighted to-night, and much of the
room was in shadow. Curtains hung across the entrance door.

"You sent for me," said Barbara as she parted them, and then she
stopped, her hands still grasping the curtains.

Her uncle rose from the writing table beside which he was seated,
although it was evident he had not been writing; but it was not upon him
her eyes were fixed, but upon the man who turned from the fireplace and
bowed low to her.

It was Lord Rosmore!

CHAPTER XII

BARBARA HELPS TO CLOSE A DOOR

There was no doubt in Barbara's mind that the presence of Lord Rosmore
at Aylingford boded no good to the man who was at that moment in the
tower across the ruins. She was to be questioned concerning him. What
was she to say that could be the truth while not harming him?

In Lord Rosmore's mind there was no doubt that the woman before him,
framed by the curtains which she held, was very beautiful, a possession
much to be desired. There was nothing on earth he would not do to make
her his own. It was a vow he had registered before; he registered it
anew as he stood erect and Barbara advanced into the room.

"You are back sooner than I expected from the West, Lord Rosmore," said
Barbara.

"Lord Rosmore comes upon a grave matter," said Sir John, and his face
was serious enough to give his words ample meaning, "a matter that
concerns us all. I fear there are days of trouble in front of us, and I
am too old for such things."

"Your uncle takes too melancholy a view of a circumstance which was
beyond his control," said Rosmore.

"Beyond it--yes, but can I prove that it was so?" asked Sir John.

"There are many ways," said Rosmore. "Sir John, Mistress Barbara, would
have you sent for, although I begged him not to disturb you. I had
mentioned your name--I could hardly help doing so--but with no intention
of dragging you into a matter with which you have really nothing to do."

"Tell her, Rosmore," said Sir John. "She may have more concern in it
than you imagine."

"Rebellion brings many things in its train, Mistress Barbara--the
hunting and punishment of those who rebel, for instance; unfortunately,
some of this hunting has fallen to my lot," said Rosmore, and he had the
air of gently concealing some of the horrors he had witnessed from his
fair listener. "I was commanded to arrest one Gilbert Crosby, of
Lenfield, and it was in speaking of him that I mentioned your name. You
will remember that we spoke of him on one occasion."

"I remember. It was you who told me his name," said Barbara; and,
whatever fears were in her mind, she spoke with absolute indifference.

"As I told you then, he is a man of most contemptible character,"
Rosmore went on, "a cowardly enemy and a dangerous friend. And he is
something more. We surrounded his house at Lenfield; we saw him enter,
and then I rode to the door, demanding to see him. The servant went to
call him, and returned to say she could not find him. A few moments
later he appeared from the direction of the stables, mounted on the most
splendid animal I have ever seen. Cantering across the open park, he
eluded our pursuit by putting his horse at a fence that I should have
sworn was impossible to take had I not seen that animal take it. It was
a marvellous leap, and I grant you this man is no mean horseman; but,
Mistress Barbara, his outward appearance was changed. For the time being
he was no longer Gilbert Crosby, the rebel, but Galloping Hermit, the
highwayman, and wore a brown mask."

"I would I had seen the leap," said Barbara impulsively as a child might
say it; and both men, who knew her love for horses, heard nothing but
genuine excitement in her remark. It concealed her real thoughts. If
this story were true, Gilbert Crosby had deceived her.

"We followed him, but not over the fence," said Rosmore, "and a long,
stern chase began. We had no horse amongst us to match the highwayman's.
He could have left us behind sooner than he did, but he was playing a
cunning game. I divided my men, and whilst some followed him, I and two
stout fellows turned aside with the object of cutting him off when he
doubled on his tracks, as I was convinced he would do."

"You take a great while coming to the point," grumbled Sir John.

"Indeed, uncle, I think Lord Rosmore tells the story most excellently,"
said Barbara. "I am all excitement to know with what success you met."

"We failed to take him," said Rosmore. "There was no choice left but to
let him go, and I admit I was disappointed as I rode through the
village, close to an inn we had searched, on my way to beg a night's
entertainment from my friend, Sir Philip Faulkner. There was some kind
of feast in the village, and in a barn by the roadside there was dancing
going on to the scraping of a fiddle. I have no soul for music, but the
notes of that fiddle haunted my sleep that night and all the next day as
I rode back to Lenfield. At Lenfield I understood why. That little
sequence of notes was familiar to me. You must often have heard it
yourself. I was convinced that the fiddler was none other than Martin
Fairley."

"Martin!" exclaimed Barbara. "Surely he would not be so far afield?"

"I asked myself the same question," said Rosmore, "and I acted promptly
as well. I have often warned Sir John that there was method in Martin's
madness, and in this case, at any rate, I was right. Yesterday Martin
travelled back towards Aylingford in company with a stranger. Unless I
am in error, that stranger was Gilbert Crosby, otherwise known as
Galloping Hermit, and I have taken care to guard every road of escape
from the Abbey to-night."

"Certainly a wise precaution," said Barbara quietly; "but how does it
concern me?"

"Can you swear that you did not send Martin to bring this fellow to
Aylingford?" said Sir John. "You certainly had some interest in this man
Crosby, and Martin would try and do your bidding if you asked him to
fetch you the moon."

"My interest was surely natural," Barbara answered, "for I assure you I
was in an unpleasant situation at Newgate when this man came to my
rescue--Lord Rosmore has doubtless told you the circumstances--but I
certainly did not send Martin to bring this man to Aylingford."

She laughed lightly as though the mere suggestion were absurd. So far
she could answer honestly, but she dreaded the next question.

"I do not suppose my niece would do such a thing," returned Sir John,
"but the world is hardly likely to have the same faith in her. I warrant
even you have your doubts, Lord Rosmore."

"I assure you, Mistress Barbara, your uncle has no reason to suggest
such a thing," said Rosmore. "As I have said, I am told off for
unpleasant duty, and that duty has brought me to Aylingford to arrest a
rebel, and compels me also to arrest Martin for assisting a rebel."

"Poor Martin! A madman!" said Barbara.

"I have much doubt as to his madness," was the answer, "but you have
only to persist, and those doubts shall vanish. If you desire it, Martin
shall escape--you have my word for that."

Barbara was alert. She was prepared to have traps set for her, and had
no intention of stepping into them if she could help it.

"That is generous of you, Lord Rosmore," she said, thanking him with a
curtsy, "but I would not ask you to neglect your duty."

"Nonsense, child," said Sir John, who seemed irritated by this bandying
of words. "You talk ignorantly. For my part I am most anxious that Lord
Rosmore should not do his whole duty. If he did, he would report
Aylingford Abbey and ourselves suspect. I am most desirous that he
should remember friendship as well as duty--indeed, I have already urged
this upon him."

"That is true, but Sir John is too anxious in this matter."

"You know perfectly well that I am justified in that anxiety," Sir John
returned. "The King is as bitter, even more bitter, against those who
assist rebels than against the rebels themselves. This fool Martin has
brought disaster to our doors, and we have got to meet it promptly. It
is well that you should understand this clearly, Barbara," he went on,
turning to his niece. "No one will believe that Martin has acted
entirely by himself in this matter, and since you have confessed some
interest in this fellow Crosby, you are suspect, let Lord Rosmore hide
the fact as he will."

"Bear me witness, this is your uncle's declaration, not mine," said
Rosmore.

"It is a hard fact, that is what concerns us," said Sir John; "and it
becomes necessary to prove beyond question that we are heart and soul
for King James. There is one way that you may easily do so, Barbara. You
will remember a conversation I had with you recently concerning Lord
Rosmore. He wished--"

"I pray you, Sir John, this is not the moment to thrust my wishes upon
your niece."

"I say it is," was the sharp answer. "I have wit enough to see the
safest road, and to take it. Since it is also a pleasant road, why
should there be any hesitation or delay?"

Rosmore shrugged his shoulders, and with a helpless glance at Barbara
turned to contemplate the great iron dogs in the fireplace, kicking a
log which lay there with some impatience. The conversation had taken a
turn which was not to his liking, it seemed.

"You remember the conversation to which I refer, Barbara?"

"Perfectly, uncle."

"Lord Rosmore has done us the honour to ask your hand in marriage. My
own satisfaction may have made me a little too hasty in telling you. You
were naturally unprepared, and, womanlike, were inclined to resent any
idea of being forced into a marriage. Since then, however, you have had
time to consider the matter. You may guess my own feelings concerning
such an alliance. From the moment Lord Rosmore spoke to me I have seen
nothing but advantage in it. Now, there is an additional reason why your
answer should not be delayed. Affianced to Lord Rosmore, whose whole
interests lie with the King, no one would dare suggest that you had had
the slightest sympathy for a rebel, or that Aylingford had ever
willingly opened its gates to a fugitive from Monmouth's rabble army.
Martin's indiscretion puts you in danger. If by some careless word you
are responsible for that indiscretion, which may very likely be the
case, you are in grave danger. Rosmore is not here alone, and though he
may be silent, other tongues will wag. Is it not so, my lord?"

"I do not wish to bias your niece," Rosmore answered, without turning
from the fireplace.

Barbara was in a hard case. The man in the tower was trapped; Martin,
too, would be arrested. By a word she could save Martin; possibly Lord
Rosmore might be induced to let Crosby also slip through his fingers. If
she consented to marry him she felt that she might persuade him to
anything. The thought brought a quick reaction. If she could persuade
him to anything, he was not a man to trust. Duty should come first, no
matter how insidiously a woman might tempt. She did not trust Rosmore.
She remembered the evil in his face that night in the hall when she had
stood between him and Sydney Fellowes. She remembered Gilbert Crosby;
his grey eyes seemed to look into hers at this moment. He must be
saved--but how?

"I think you exaggerate the danger, uncle," she said quietly. "Surely a
madman's folly is not sufficient to condemn us?"

"I have told you the truth. Ask Lord Rosmore."

"Will you tell me, please?"

"Sir John forces my hand," said Rosmore, turning quickly towards her.
For an instant he seemed angry, but his face softened as he looked at
her. "I am torn between love and duty. Sir John speaks truly. Another in
my place to-night, one who had only his duty to consider, would probably
arrest both you and your uncle on suspicion, and you would have to prove
your innocence as best you might. King James is determined to trample
out this rebellion, and even some innocent persons may suffer."

Barbara did not speak when he paused. She had glanced at her uncle and
wondered whether this might be some plot between these two to force her
to this marriage. She distrusted her uncle as much as, if not more than,
she did Lord Rosmore.

"If I consent?" she said.

Rosmore made a step towards her, and Sir John looked up quickly. They
were suddenly as men who had played a desperate game and won.

"I said 'If,'" and she shrank back a little, unconscious how beautiful
she looked in that moment.

"Consent to be my wife, and there is nothing that you can ask me that I
will not do--nothing. Do you understand--nothing?"

"And if I say 'No'?"

Anger came back into Rosmore's face for an instant, but it was gone in a
moment.

"Even so I could not do my duty," he said slowly. "I should ask that
another might take my place, and then--"

"Then the heavy hand of the King upon us," said Sir John.

"I must think. You cannot expect me to answer now, at once," said
Barbara.

"Duty may not wait," said Sir John.

"You shall have my answer to-morrow, Lord Rosmore," Barbara said. "I
must have the night to decide. Duty does not compel you to march Mad
Martin from Aylingford to-night."

"I will give you until to-morrow," he answered.

Barbara curtsied low and turned to the door.

Rosmore drew back the curtains for her, and as she passed out whispered:

"I love you, sweetheart. Say 'Yes' to-morrow."

"Will she consent, think you?" Sir John asked as Rosmore came slowly
back across the room.

"I think so; yes, I think so."

"I spoke sufficiently?" questioned Sir John.

"You were excellently diplomatic. Were she a woman easily frightened
there would be no doubt of her answer. Your guests in the Abbey, Sir
John, must not know of my presence here, nor that the place is watched
to-night."

"You are sure that Martin brought this man Crosby to Aylingford?"

"Quite sure."

"Why not take him to-night, quietly?" said Sir John. "If he is with
Martin, he is probably in the old tower by the ruins. Is he most rebel
or most highwayman?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because, if he is most highwayman, you might influence Barbara's answer
to-morrow by letting him escape."

"I have thought of it, but--"

"My niece and a highwayman! She may be romantic, my lord, but she is not
a fool."

"Gad! Sir John, you are lost here in Hampshire; you should be beside the
King to advise him. If we let him go to-morrow, this knight of the road
may easily meet with an accident. In my company it should not be
difficult to find a man or two who can shoot straight. Your niece's
romance might prove inconvenient to me if Galloping Hermit were still in
the land of the living."

"Settle that as you will," said Sir John, "but arrest him to-night."

As soon as the door had closed behind her Barbara crossed the hall
quickly; but she did not return to her own apartments. She had made her
plans while she listened to her uncle and Lord Rosmore. Now, she hurried
along a corridor to a small door opening on to the terrace, hardly ever
used except by herself when she went to talk to Martin in the tower.
Between it and the ruins there was not much of the terrace to travel,
and the shadows were deep. The sharpest eyes might fail to see a moving
figure amongst them. Barbara ran lightly, her skirts gathered from her
feet, and, entering the ruins, went quickly to the tower. The door was
shut, but not locked, and she mounted the winding stairs to Martin's
room. It was in darkness.

"Martin!" she called softly, but there was no answer.

Had Crosby got knowledge of his danger, and gone? Even now he might be
in the hands of his enemies, for were not all the ways of escape watched
to-night? What could she do?

She stood for a few moments undecided how to act. She must not be found
there by her uncle or Lord Rosmore who might seek her there if by chance
they discovered that she had not returned to her own rooms. Almost
certainly they would have her watched to-night. Yet she must stay to
warn Martin and Gilbert Crosby, if by chance they were still ignorant of
their danger. It would never do for them to be caught in the tower, from
which there was no hope of escape.

There was a small landing outside the room. At the top of the winding
stairs there was a door, fastened back by a clamp, and Barbara had never
known this door to be shut. Another winding stair led to the flat roof
of the tower, where Martin often spent hours, reading the future in the
stars, he said. She went to the roof now, but it was empty, and she came
down again quickly. Perhaps they were sitting in the ruins, and had not
heard her. She would go and see. As she descended a sound came to
her--running feet--and through one of the narrow slits which gave a dim
light to the stairs in daytime she discerned two men crossing the ruins.
It was so dark in the tower that she could see them easily. They were
not half-way across when other men came running from the terrace, but
the fugitives could easily have reached the tower and closed the door
upon their pursuers had not one of them caught his foot and fallen. It
was Gilbert Crosby; he did not know every stone as Martin did. He was on
his feet again directly, but the advantage had been lost. Barbara went
down a little farther until she was just hidden by the first bend in the
stairs. There was the sudden clash of steel, and a pistol-shot rang out
upon the night. All was confusion in the doorway just below her. Then
two men came up slowly, and backwards, thrusting downwards as they came,
and more than one groan told that the steel had done its work.

"Be ready to rush when I give the word," Martin whispered; "then, at the
top, make a stand--we must close the door there somehow."

The stairs were too narrow for two men to fight side by side. Martin
was a step or two below his companion, and it was no longer a fiddle bow
which he held in his hand. It was doubtful whether he had ever used his
bow so well as he used a sword to-night.

Barbara leaned down.

"I am here, Mr. Crosby. I came to warn you," she whispered. "I know the
door. Tell Martin."

She went up quickly. The clamp which held the door back at the head of
the stairs was stiff, but with her weight thrown against the woodwork to
ease the pressure she managed to unfasten it. The door creaked loudly as
she drew it forward. Possibly Martin heard the noise, for a moment later
he shouted, and he and Crosby rushed on to the landing.

"Into the room, mistress," Martin whispered, as he swung the door to and
shot the bolt. "It won't hold long, but long enough." Then he followed
them quickly into his room and locked the door.

Two men lay on the narrow stairs grievously hurt, and there was blood
flowing from a cut on the face of another man as he threw himself
against the door at the top, bent on settling a score rather than taking
a rebel. He cursed and called to those below him.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21