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THE BROWN MASK
By
Percy J. Brebner
Author of "Princess Maritza," "Vayenne," "A Royal Ward"
1911
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
1. BRETHREN OF THE ROAD
2. BARBARA LANISON
3. GREY EYES
4. THE NUN OF AYLINGFORD
5. CHILDREN OF THE DEVIL
6. MAD MARTIN
7. KING MONMOUTH
8. SEDGEMOOR AND AFTERWARDS
9. "THE JOLLY FARMERS"
10. FATE AND THE FIDDLER
11. THE FUGITIVE AT AYLINGFORD
12. BARBARA HELPS TO CLOSE A DOOR
13. THE WAY OF ESCAPE
14. A WOMAN REBELS
15. BARBARA LANISON IN TOWN
16. PREPARED FOR SACRIFICE
17. BARBARA'S SELF-SACRIFICE
18. THE JOURNEY TO DORCHESTER
19. THE HUT IN THE WOOD
20. SCARLET HANGINGS
21. LORD ROSMORE DICTATES TERMS
22. THE LUCK OF LORD ROSMORE
23. LORD ROSMORE AS A FRIEND
24. LOVE AND FEAR
25. THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE
26. THE FLIGHT
27. OUT OF DORCHESTER
28. THE LEATHER CASE
29. SAFETY
30. ALONG THE NORTH ROAD
CHAPTER I
BRETHREN OF THE ROAD
Dismal in appearance, the painted sign over the mean doorway almost
obliterated by time and weather, there was nothing attractive about the
"Punch-Bowl" tavern in Clerkenwell. It was hidden away at the end of a
narrow alley, making no effort to vaunt its existence to the world at
large, and to many persons, even in the near neighbourhood, it was
entirely unknown. Like a gentleman to whom debauchery has brought shame
and the desire to conceal himself from his fellows, so the "Punch-Bowl"
seemed an outcast amongst taverns. Chance visitors were few, were
neither expected nor welcomed, and ran the risk of being told by the
landlady, in terms which there was no possibility of misunderstanding,
that the place was not for them. It was natural, therefore, that a
certain air of mystery should surround the house, for, although the
alley was a _cul-de-sac_, there were stories of marvellous escapes
from this trap even when the entrance was closed by a troop of soldiers,
and it was whispered that there was a secret way out from the
"Punch-Bowl" known only to the favoured few. Nor was an element of
romance wanting. The dwellers in this alley were of the poorest sort,
dirty and unkempt, picking up a precarious livelihood, pickpockets and
cutpurses--"foysters" and "nyppers" as their thieves' slang named them;
yet, through all this wretched shabbiness there would flash at intervals
some fine gentleman, richly dressed, and with the swagger of St. James's
in his gait. Conscious of the sensation he occasioned, he passed through
the alley looking strangely out of place, yet with no uncertain step. He
was a hero, not only to these ragged worshippers, but in a far wider
circle where wit and beauty moved; he knew it, gloried in it, and recked
little of the price which must some day be paid for such popularity. The
destination of these gentlemen was always the "Punch-Bowl" tavern.
Neither of a man, nor of a tavern, is it safe to judge only by the
exterior. A grim and forbidding countenance may conceal a warm heart,
even as the unprepossessing "Punch-Bowl" contained a cosy and
comfortable parlour. To-night, half a dozen fine gentlemen were enjoying
their wine, and it was evident that the landlady was rather proud of her
guests. Buxom, and not too old to forget that she had once been
accounted pretty, she still loved smartness and bright colours, was not
averse to a kiss upon occasion, and had a jest--coarse, perhaps, but
with some wit in it--for each of her customers. She knew them
well--their secrets, their love episodes, their dangers; sometimes she
gave advice, had often rendered them valuable help, but she had also a
keen eye for business. Her favours had to be paid for, and even from the
handsomest of her customers a kiss had never been known to settle a
score. The "Punch-Bowl" was no place for empty pockets, and bad luck was
rather a crime than an excuse. When it pleased her the landlady could
tell many tales of other fine gentlemen she had known and would never
see again, and she always gave the impression that she considered her
former customers far superior to her present ones. Perhaps she found the
comparison good for her business since she spoke to vain men. She had
become reminiscent this evening.
"The very night before he was taken he sat where you're sitting," she
said, pointing to one of her customers who was seated by the hearth.
"Ah! He made a good end of it did Jim o' the Green Coat; kicked off his
boots as if they were an old pair he had done with, and threw the
ordinary out of the cart, saying he had no time to waste on him just
then. I was there and saw it all."
There was silence as she concluded her glowing tale. Depression may take
hold of the most careless and light-hearted for a moment, and even the
attraction of making a good end, with an opportunity of spurning a
worthless ordinary, cannot always appeal. The landlady had contrived to
make her story vivid, and furtive glances were cast at the individual
who occupied the seat she had indicated. There suddenly appeared to be
something fatal in it and ample reason why a man might congratulate
himself on being seated elsewhere. The occupant was the least concerned.
He had taken the most comfortable place in the room; it seemed to be
rightly his by virtue of his dress and bearing. He had the grand air as
having mixed in high society, his superiority was tacitly admitted by
his companions, and the landlady had addressed herself especially to
him, as though she knew him for a man of consequence.
"When the time comes you shall see me die game, too, I warrant," he
laughed, draining his glass and passing it to be refilled. "One death is
as good as another, and at Tyburn it comes quicker than to those who lie
awaiting it in bed."
"That's true," said the landlady.
"I should hate to die in a bed," the man went on. "The open road for me
and a quick finish. It's the best life if it isn't always as long as it
might be. I wouldn't forsake it for anything the King could offer me.
It's a merry time, with romance, love and adventure in it, with plenty
to get and plenty to spend, with a seasoning of danger to give it
piquancy--a gentleman's life from cock-crow to cock-crow, and not worthy
of a passing thought is he who cannot make a good end of it. I'd sooner
have the hangman for a bosom friend than a man who is likely to whimper
on the day of reckoning. Did I tell you that a reverend bishop offered
me fifty guineas for my mare the other day?"
"You sold her?" came the question in chorus.
"Sold her! No! I told him that she would be of little use to him, since
no one but myself could get her up to a coach."
"Your impudence will be the death of you, John," laughed the landlady.
"That seems a fairly safe prophecy," answered Gentleman Jack--for so his
companions named him--"still, I've heard of one bishop who took to the
road in his leisure hours. He died of a sudden fever, it was said; but,
for all that, he returned one night from a lonely ride across Hounslow
Heath, and was most anxious to conceal the fact that somebody had put a
bullet into him. My bishop may have become ambitious--indeed, I think he
had, for he had intellect enough to understand my meaning and was not in
the least scandalised."
"Then we may yet welcome him at the 'Punch-Bowl,'" said one man. "So
far, this house has entertained no one higher in the church than a Fleet
parson. I see no sin in drinking the bishop's good health and wishing
him the speedy possession of a horse to match his ambition."
"Anyone may serve as a toast," said another; "but could a bishop be good
company under any circumstances, think you?"
"Gad! why not?" asked Gentleman Jack. "He'd Spend his time trying to
square his profession with his conscience maybe, and when a man is
reduced to that, bishop or no bishop, there's humour enough, I warrant."
The health was drunk with laughter, and the air of depression which had
followed the landlady's recital disappeared like clouds from an April
sky. Each one had some story to tell, some item to add to the
accumulated glory of the road.
"Ay, it's a merry life," said the man who had had doubts about the
bishop's company, "and the only drawback is that it comes to an end when
you're at the top of your success. The dealers in blood-money never hunt
a man down until he's worth his full price."
"And isn't that the best time to take the last ride?" exclaimed
Gentleman Jack. "Who would choose to grow old and be forgotten? What
should we do sitting stiffly in an armchair, wearing slippers because
boots hurt our poor swollen feet? What should we be without a pair of
legs strong enough to grip the saddle or with eyes too dim to recognise
a pretty woman, lacking fire to fall in love, and with lips which had
lost their zest for kissing?"
"But we come to that last ride before we lack anything--that's the
trouble," was the answer.
"Not always," said another man. "Galloping Hermit was feared on all the
roads before I had stopped my first coach, and he is still feared
to-day." The speaker was young, and he mentioned the name of the
notorious highwayman with a kind of reverence.
"They say he's the devil himself, and that's why he's never been taken,"
said another. "Did any of you ever see him?"
"Once." And they all turned quickly towards the man who spoke. "My mare
had gone lame, and I had dismounted in a copse to examine her, when
there was the quick, regular beat of hoofs at a gallop across the turf.
I was alert on my own account in a moment, crouching down amongst the
undergrowth, for with a lame animal I could have made but a poor show.
There flashed past me a splendid horseman, man and beast one perfect
piece of harmony. The moon was near the full. I saw the neat, strong
lines of the horse, the easy movement of the rider, and I could see that
the mask which the man wore was brown. This happened two years ago, out
beyond Barnet."
"And without that brown mask no one knows him." said the man who had
first spoken of him. "He has been met on all the roads, north, south,
east and west--never in company, always alone. He never fails, yet the
blood-feasters have watched for him in vain. Truly, he disappears as
mysteriously as the devil might. He may go to Court. He may be a
well-known figure there, gaming with the best, a favoured suitor where
beauty smiles. He may even have been here amongst us at the 'Punch-Bowl'
without our knowing it."
"It is not impossible," Gentleman Jack admitted, smiling a little at the
others' enthusiasm.
"I envy him," was the answer. "We seem mean beside such a man as
Galloping Hermit."
"I do not cry 'Yes' to that," said Gentleman Jack, just in time to
prevent an outburst from the landlady, who appeared to fancy that the
quality of her entertainment was being called in question. "The brown
mask conceals a personality, no doubt, but before we can judge between
man and man we must know something of their various opportunities. Were
he careful and lucky, such a man as my bishop would be hard to run to
earth. Galloping Hermit is careful, for only at considerable intervals
do we hear of him. The road would seem to be a pastime with him, rather
than a life he loved. For me, the night never comes that I do not long
to be in the saddle, that I do not crave for the excitement, even if
there be no spoil worth the trouble of taking. This man is different. He
is only abroad when the quarry is certain. True, success has been his,
but for all that the fear of Tyburn may spoil his rest at night, and
when he gets there we may find that the brown mask conceals a coward
after all."
"Had you seen him that night as I did you would not say so," was the
answer.
"I like speech with a man before I judge his merits," said Gentleman
Jack, rising from his chair and flicking some dust from his sleeve. He
appeared to resent such slavish admiration of Galloping Hermit--perhaps
because he felt that his own pre-eminence was challenged. It pleased him
to think that his name must be in everyone's mouth, that his price in
the crime-market must for months past have been higher than any other
man's, and he was suddenly out of humour with the frequenters of the
"Punch-Bowl." He threw a guinea to the landlady, told her to buy a
keepsake with the change, and passed out with a careless nod, much as
though he intended never to come back into such low company.
The landlady stood fingering the guinea, turning it between her finger
and thumb, rather helping her reflections by the action than satisfying
herself that the coin was a good one.
"I believe we've had Galloping Hermit here to-night," she said suddenly.
"It was unlike Gentleman Jack to talk as he did just now. Mark my words,
he wears a brown mask on special occasions, and thought by sneering to
throw dust in our eyes. It's not the first time I have considered the
possibility, and I'm not sure that I won't buy a brown silk mask for
keepsake and slip it on when next I see him coming in at the door. That
would settle the question."
She had many arguments to support her opinion, reminded her customers of
many little incidents which had occurred in the past, recalling
Gentleman Jack's peculiar behaviour on various occasions. Her arguments
sounded convincing, and for an hour or more they discussed the question.
The opportunity to test her belief by wearing a brown silk mask never
came, however, for that same night Gentleman Jack was taken on Hounslow
Heath. A stumbling horse put him at the mercy of the man he sought to
rob, who struck him on the head with a heavy riding-whip, and when the
highwayman recovered consciousness he found himself a prisoner, bound
hand and foot. He endeavoured to bargain with his captor, and made an
attempt to outwit him, but, failing in both efforts, he accepted his
position with a good grace, determined to make the best of it. Newgate
should be proud of its latest resident. For a little space, at any rate,
he would be the hero of fashionable circles, and go to his death with
all the glamour of romance. He would leave a memory behind him that the
turnkeys might presently make stirring tales of, as they drank their
purl at night round the fire in the prison lobby.
The highwayman's story concerning the bishop quickly went the round of
the town, and a wit declared that at least half the reverend gentlemen
went trembling in their shoes for fear of their names being mentioned.
The story, and the wit's comment, served to raise the curiosity of the
fashionable world, and more than one coach stopped by Newgate to set
down beauty and its escort on a visit to the highwayman. But a greater
sensation was pending. Who first spread the report no one knew, but it
was suddenly whispered that this man was in reality no other than the
notorious wearer of the brown mask. When questioned he did not deny it,
and his evident pleasure at the mystery which surrounded him went far to
establish the story. For every person interested in Gentleman Jack, a
dozen were anxious to see and speak to Galloping Hermit. Every tale
concerning him was recalled and re-told, losing nothing in the
re-telling. Men had rather envied his adventurous career, many women's
hearts had beat faster at the mention of his name, and now the most
absurd theories regarding his real personality were seriously discussed
in coffee-houses, in boudoirs, and even at Court. It was whispered that
the King himself would intervene to save him from the gallows.
For a long time no trial had caused such a sensation, and Judge
Marriott, whose ambition it was to be likened to his learned and famous
brother, Judge Jeffreys, rose to the occasion and succeeded in giving an
excellent imitation of the bullying methods of his idol. This was an
opportunity to win fame, he argued, and he gave full play to the little
wit he possessed and ample licence to his undeniable powers of
vituperation and blasphemy.
Newgate was thronged, and the prisoner bore himself gallantly as a man
might in his hour of triumph. It was a great thing to be an object of
interest to statesmen, scholars, and wits, and to win smiles and tears
from beauty. His eyes travelled slowly over the sea of faces, and rested
for a little while upon a young girl. Her eyes were downcast, but he
thought there must be tears in them, and for a moment he was more
interested in her than in anyone else. Why had she come? She was
different from all the other women about her. Beside her sat an elderly
woman who seemed to be enjoying herself exceedingly, and appeared to
find especial relish in Judge Marriott's remarks. The more brutal they
were the more witty she seemed to think them.
As sentence was pronounced the girl rose to her feet and turned to go.
In truth, it had been no wish of hers to come. The judge, the people,
and the whole atmosphere sickened her. She longed to get away, to feel
the fresh air upon her cheek; and in her anxiety to depart she took no
particular trouble to make sure that her companion was following her.
There was a hasty crushing on all sides of her, and as she was carried
forward she became conscious that she was alone, that she was being
stared at and commented upon by some of those who were about her. She
ought not to be there, she felt it rather than knew it, and was
painfully aware that people were judging her accordingly. One man spoke
to her, and in her effort to escape his attentions she contrived to
thrust herself into a corner of an outer lobby, and waited.
"Can I be of service?"
For a moment she thought that the man she had escaped from had found
her, and she turned indignantly. The steady grey eyes that met hers were
eyes to trust--she felt that at once. This was quite a different person.
He was young, with a face grave beyond his years, and a sense of
strength about him likely to appeal to a woman.
"I am waiting for my aunt, Lady Bolsover," she said, the colour mounting
to her cheeks under his steady gaze, and then, suddenly anxious that he
should not think evil of her, she added: "I did not want to come. It was
horrible."
"Your aunt must have missed you," he said, glancing round the almost
empty lobby, for the crowd had poured out into the street by this time.
"If you have a coach waiting, may I take you to it?"
"Oh, please--do."
The crowd was dense in the street, and their progress was slow, but the
man forced a way for her. His face gave evidence that it would be
dangerous for anyone to throw a jest at his companion. There was a
general inclination to give him the wall as he went.
"I am glad you did not come here willingly," he said suddenly, as though
no other thought had been in his mind all this time. "This is no place
for a woman."
"Indeed, no. I am wondering why a man should be here either."
"Galloping Hermit once did me a kindness. I would like to repay the
debt."
"But how? What could you do?"
"I could not tell. Something might have happened to give me an
opportunity. It did not; still, I shall see him presently. Perhaps I may
yet be able to do him some small service."
"Oh, I hope so, poor man," she answered. "There is the coach, and my
aunt. She will thank you."
Lady Bolsover, who was talking to Lord Rosmore, did not appear agitated,
but she hurried forward when she caught sight of her niece.
"My child, I have been consumed with anxiety, and--"
"This gentleman--" the girl began, and then stopped. The man had not
followed her as she went to meet her aunt. He had disappeared.
There came no intervention on the prisoner's behalf in the days that
followed, nor did he set up any plea for his life on the ground of
knowing of plots against the King's Majesty. This would be to shirk the
day of reckoning, and he had boasted to his companions at the
"Punch-Bowl" that they should see him play the game to the end. He would
fulfil this promise to the letter. He had ridden up Holborn Hill scores
of times, seeking spoil and adventure on Hounslow Heath or elsewhere; he
would journey up it once more, and pay the price like a gentleman. It
would be no lonely journey; there would be excitement and triumph in it.
He had lived his life and enjoyed it; he had allowed nothing to stand in
the way of his desires; he had pressed into a few short years far more
satisfaction than any other career could have given him. Why should he
whimper because the end came early? It would be a good end to make, full
of movement and colour. He knew, for he had been a spectator when others
had taken that journey, and he was of more importance than they were.
The whole town was ringing with his fame. Why should he have regrets?
Beauty and fashion came to visit him, and one man came to thank him for
some former kindness, a trivial matter that the highwayman had thought
nothing of and had forgotten.
It came, that last morning, a fine morning flushed with the new life of
the world that trembles hesitatingly in the spring of the year, and
steeps the hearts of men and women with stronger hope and wider
ambition; such a morning as draws a veil over past failures and
disappointments, and floods the future with success and achievement. It
seemed a pity to have to die on such a morning, and for one moment there
was regret in the highwayman's soul as he took his place in the cart.
The next he braced himself to play his part, for there were great crowds
in the streets, waiting and making holiday. All eyes were turned,
watching for the procession, for was it not Galloping Hermit who came,
the notorious wearer of the brown mask, the hero of wealth and squalor
alike, the man whose deeds had already passed into legend? No one
thought of him as Gentleman Jack, not even his companions of the
"Punch-Bowl" who were in the crowd to see him pass; not the landlady,
who had come to see the last of him, and stood at the end of the
journey, waiting and watching.
By the steps of St. Sepulchre's Church there was a pause. A woman, one
of a frail sisterhood, yet strangely pretty and innocent to look upon,
held up a great nosegay to the hero of the hour, and as he took it he
bent down and kissed her.
"Don't let another's kiss make you forget this one too soon," he said
gaily, and her lips smiled while there was a sob in her throat.
The cart jogged on again, and at intervals the man buried his face in
the flowers. This was his hour, and if he had any fear or regret, there
were no eyes keen enough to note the fact.
Tyburn and its fatal tree were in sight across a surging crowd. Even at
the last moment the King might intervene, it was whispered, and there
were some who looked for signs of a swift-coming messenger. But the cart
came nearer, slowly and surely; the space round the gallows was kept
clear with difficulty, and there was no sign of hurrying reprieve.
This was the end of the game. Now was the great test of courage. He was
too great a man to indulge in small things to prove it.
"I've been used to riding in the night; a morning ride tires one," he
said carelessly. "Let's get it over, or I shall be getting hungry, as
all these folks must be. There's a good pair of boots for anyone who has
the courage to wear them. I'm ready. Make an end of it."
And the landlady at the "Punch-Bowl" that night drank to his memory,
declaring that he had died game, as was fitting for a gentleman of the
road.