THE NUN OF AYLINGFORD
Before she had taken many steps Barbara regretted that she had not
remained with her uncle. Lord Rosmore must have said something to Sir
John, and would guess that they had been talking about him; it would
have been better to have stayed and shown him by her manner how
distasteful the subject was to her. But she did not turn back. If she
had missed an opportunity, it was certain that many more would be given
her. She even began to wonder whether she really disliked Lord Rosmore;
he had certainly given her no definite cause. In London he had not
attempted to pay her any marked attention, and last night, when he had
bent low over her hand, was the first time there had been anything
noticeable in his behaviour. She liked him better--far better--than
Judge Marriott; Sydney Fellowes hardly counted, and there was no other
man whose coming had pleased her or whose departure had caused her a
single regret. The man who had come to her help at Newgate was a shadow,
a dream. Only curiosity could account for her remembering him. Indeed,
it was doubtful if she did really remember him; were she to meet him she
would probably not know him again. No, she had no ground for disliking
Lord Rosmore. She did not dislike him, but, since he had been chosen for
her, there was ample reason why she could never love him. Any woman
would naturally hate the man she was commanded to love.
She turned from the terrace and, passing through a low doorway from
which the door had gone long ago, entered a wide space enclosed by
ruinous and moss-grown walls. It was open to the sky and littered with
_débris_. At one end the blocked-up entrance from the present house
was distinctly visible; at the other a small door, deeply sunk into the
massive masonry, gave entrance to a small round tower or bastion, which
rose some feet above the walls and overhung the terrace. The tower had
escaped ruin, almost accidentally it would seem, for there were no signs
of any particular care having been expended upon it. This open space had
evidently been chiefly occupied by a large hall, its floor a little
lower than the terrace level, but adjoining the tower end of it there
had been other rooms, for traces of stone steps could be seen in the
wall. In one corner, too, there had been a room below the level of the
floor--indeed, some of the stone flags still projected over it. Its
walls, strong and dungeon-like, were built down some fifteen feet; two
or three narrow slits piercing the outer wall in a sharp upward angle
had evidently given this buried chamber a dim light, and the entrance to
it could only have been from the top, probably by a trap door. Some
_débris_ had fallen into it, but not very much, and creepers had sown
themselves and, climbing over part of the walls to the top, had spread
themselves over a portion of the floor of the hall.
Barbara picked her way across the fallen _débris_ and stood looking
down into this hole for a few minutes. It seemed to possess a certain
fascination for her, as though it were in some way connected with her
history. Then she went to the small door in the tower. It was locked,
and although she knocked several times, and stood back to look up at the
narrow windows above her, there was no sound, and no one answered her
summons. She sat down upon a fallen piece of stonework, and her thoughts
troubled her. Truly, she had come back to a new life. Even that locked
door seemed to have its significance. She did not remember ever to have
found it fastened before when she really wanted to enter.
She turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, and then rose quickly
to her feet.
"What a place to hide in!" exclaimed Lord Rosmore as he came towards
her. "I have never had the curiosity to penetrate into this rubbish heap
before, and behold I am rewarded by finding a jewel."
"I came here to be alone for a little while," she said.
"I came for the same reason."
"You did not follow me?" she asked, evident disbelief in her tone.
"I wish I could say that I had, if it would please you; but, alas! truth
will out. I came to think and to get through a troubled hour where my
fellows could not see me. In this, at least, we can sympathise with each
other it would seem."
"We can talk plainly, perhaps; it will be best," she answered.
"At least, I can explain," said Rosmore; "but won't you be seated again?
That is better," he went on as she sat down, "it seems to make
confession of my fault easier. A little while since I spoke to your
uncle about you. It was unwise, I know that now, but I did not think so
then. Your position and your wealth seemed to make it the honourable
thing to do. Sir John was kind enough to wish me good fortune, and I was
content to wait. It was not my intention that Sir John should say
anything to you, I did not imagine he would do so. Now, I learn that you
have been pestered with my sentiments by proxy, that I have been forced
to your notice. It is enough surely to make me seek solitude, where I
may curse the hard fate that ruins me."
"I thought--"
"I dare not try and understand all you thought," Rosmore interrupted. "I
can only suppose that Sir John meant to be kind, that in some sense he
did not consider me an altogether unworthy alliance; but that I should
ever have my wooing done for me--the idea is maddening! A man could not
take a surer road to a woman's contempt."
"My uncle has made a mistake," said Barbara. "I understand, and you have
my thanks for the explanation."
"And your forgiveness?"
"I hardly think I had become angry."
"You lift my trouble from me with generous hands," said Rosmore. "Truly,
Sir John has made a mistake, his desire perhaps marring his judgment;
but, as truly, I am your humble worshipper. No! please hear me out. In
London I did not thrust myself upon you because I had wit enough to
understand that professions with even a suspicion of lightness in them
were distasteful to you; now, after what has occurred, I am at a
disadvantage, and I have no intention of putting my happiness to the
test at such an inopportune time. For the present look upon me as a
friend who hopes presently to win a greater regard, and who is,
meanwhile, always at your service."
"I thank you," Barbara said, and the man's nerves tingled as she rose
and swept him a graceful curtsy. She had never looked more beautiful,
never so desirable as at that moment. He had conquered so often and so
carelessly that he could not think of failure now.
"So we are friends and our troubles gone," he said gaily. "They are lost
in the _débris_ of this ruinous place. It is strange this part should
have been left in ruins, while the rest of the Abbey has been so
carefully rebuilt and preserved."
"It is because of the Nun of Aylingford."
"A nun! In an Abbey for monks?"
"Strange, but true. I thought everyone knew the story."
"No. Won't you tell it to me?"
"You must look into the Nun's Room first, Lord Rosmore," said Barbara,
and she was so interested in the legend that she forgot to ask herself
whether she liked or disliked her companion as she led the way to the
sunken stone chamber. "Be careful you do not stumble and fall into it,
for it is said that death comes to such a stumbler within the year."
"A fable, of course?" he laughed.
"I have only known one man who fell in. He was helped out unhurt, but he
died within the week. I should not like to fall."
"Give me your hand," he said.
"For your safety or for mine?" she returned. "I am used to this place,
have loved it since I was a child; besides, it is said that the curse
applies only to men. You see, the Nun had pity on her own sex."
Lord Rosmore's hand was still extended, but she did not take it.
"For thirteen years a woman lived in this dungeon. Under the creeper on
yonder wall you can see the stone slab which was her bed. The floor of
the hall shut her up almost in darkness, and from the hour she stepped
down into this room she saw no human face, heard no human voice."
"You stand too close to the opening, Mistress Lanison. I pray you come
back or take my hand."
Barbara stepped back and stood by the wall, facing him.
"Her story is a sad one, sad and cruel," she went on. "She had a lover,
and an enemy who said he loved her. The lover--a knight of prowess--went
to the wars, and on his return was told that the woman he worshipped was
false. He sought for her from one end of the land to the other, still
believing in her, until by some artifice he was brought to believe in
her unfaithfulness. Life had lost all zest for him, and he came here at
last, to Aylingford Abbey, to seek consolation in a life of religion. It
was the enemy who had contrived to keep the lovers apart, telling the
girl also that the knight in whom she trusted was untrue. How she
discovered the lie I do not know, nor does it matter, but when she did
she sought for him as he had sought for her. She heard at last that he
had become a monk, and she presently came to seek him at Aylingford.
Dressed in a monk's gown, she asked for him. They met, and were
discovered by the Abbot just at the moment when she had almost persuaded
him to forsake his vows for love of her. Religion had claimed him
because a lie had deceived him, she argued; therefore no vow could
really bind him. She argued in this way with the Abbot, too, who was a
shrewd man and as cruel as death. The monk, he knew, was no longer a
monk at heart; the woman had penetrated into the Abbey under a false
guise--as a man. No punishment was too severe for such a sin, he said,
and he used religious arguments which could certainly never find an echo
in a merciful heaven. The woman was condemned and lowered into that
room--a nun by force--and there for thirteen years she existed. Once a
day sufficient food to keep her alive was given her through the trap, in
such a manner that she should see no one, and never a word was spoken.
The monk fought for her release in vain, and soon died, raving mad, it
is said. When the nun died, she was carried to the woods beyond the
stream and buried. Village legend has marked a tree, which they call
'Nun's Oak,' as her burying-place, but probably this is fancy. Ever
since that time there has been a curse on this part of the Abbey, and
that is why it has been allowed to go to ruin."
"A sad tale most sweetly told," said Lord Rosmore; "a tale to appeal to
a lover."
"Or it may be to warn a woman how cruel men can be," Barbara answered.
"Some men, not all," he said gently. "The monk in the story went mad for
love. Still, there is a warning, too, not to trust men over easily. The
greatest villains have often good looks to recommend them and can
deceive most easily."
"I think I could tell," said Barbara.
"I wonder," Rosmore answered slowly. "There is often a vein of romance
in a woman which makes her blind. I have thought of this more than once
when thinking of you."
"It would seem I have troubled you a great deal in one way or another,
Lord Rosmore."
"Some day, when you have forgotten that you were inclined to hate me, I
may tell you how much. Yet there is one thing I might tell you now, as a
friend, in case there should be much of this vein of romance in you."
"Yes, as a friend."
"Newgate--the trial day of the highwayman, Galloping Hermit."
He spoke abruptly, after a moment's pause, and had his intention been to
startle her he could hardly have employed a better method.
"I see you remember it," he said. "Lady Bolsover should not have taken
you, it was no place for a woman--indeed, she and I almost quarrelled
about it afterwards. You may remember I was with Lady Bolsover when
that--that gentleman brought you out of the crowd, the mysterious person
who did not want to be seen."
"Yes, I remember," she said quietly.
"A good-looking man, yet--"
"You knew him, Lord Rosmore?"
"Well enough to follow him; but I failed to find him."
"Why should you follow him?"
"You would hardly understand," he returned. "It is a matter concerned
with politics. This you know, however, that the King has enemies.
Monmouth plots in Holland, the Duke of Argyll is being defeated in
Scotland. Well, Mistress Lanison, there are traitors and traitors--those
that one may at least recognise as brave men, and others who are
cowardly curs. Of the first is Argyll and, perhaps, Monmouth; of the
second are those who promote rebellion from safe hiding-holes, and never
show themselves to take a hand in the fighting. There is a rascal hiding
from the officers of justice now--one Danvers--who is of this second
kind, a scurrilous fellow who is willing to barter the lives of better
men, but dares nothing himself. He is one of a gang. The man who came to
your rescue at Newgate is a companion of his. I have wondered whether
you have seen him since."
"At least it was courteous of him to come to my rescue," Barbara said.
"Never was there a man yet who had not a good instinct on occasion.
Besides, the basest of men would not fail to grasp the opportunity of
doing a service to a beautiful woman."
"I was almost crying, and in that condition I am positively repulsive,"
she answered, almost as if she were angry at being spoken of as a
beautiful woman. "What is the name of this man?"
"He calls himself Crosby--Gilbert Crosby. Probably he has no right to
the name. He is a dangerous and a clever man--dangerous because he plots
and schemes while other men act, clever because he skilfully manages to
evade the law. Many people find it difficult to believe ill of him, for
he has all the appearance of a courageous gentleman."
"I am among those people difficult to convince," said Barbara.
"Exactly, hence my warning," said Rosmore. "You noted how quickly he
disappeared. He saw me, and had no desire to face a man who knows him
for what he is. Those grey eyes of his were sharper than mine or he
would not have escaped so easily."
Barbara glanced at him quickly, wondering how much of their conversation
her uncle had repeated, but Lord Rosmore did not appear to notice her
look.
"And if you had found him?" she asked.
"I should have forced a quarrel on some pretext or other, and so
contrived that he could not have run away without giving me
satisfaction. By killing him I should have done a public service, and,
for my own honour, I should have snapped the sword I had been compelled
to stain with the blood of so contemptible a person. You smile, Mistress
Lanison. Why?"
"At your vindictiveness, and at a thought which came into my mind."
"May I know it?"
"I was wondering what this Mr.--did you say the name was Crosby?--would
have done with his sword had he proved equal to reversing the issue of
the quarrel."
"Ah! I wonder," and Lord Rosmore laughed, but not good-naturedly. "I
have faith enough in my skill to believe that it can successfully defend
you whenever you may have need of it."
She turned towards the doorway opening on to the terrace, but having
taken two or three hasty steps, as if desirous of bringing the interview
to a speedy end, she stopped and faced him:
"Lord Rosmore, this highwayman, this Galloping Hermit; he is not dead,
you know that?"
"Judge Marriott will not allow us to forget it," he laughed. "Give him
the slightest opportunity, and he will tell of his adventure on Burford
Heath half a dozen times in the day."
"Who is this Galloping Hermit?" Barbara asked, almost as though she
expected a definite answer to the question.
"Could I satisfy that curiosity I should be quite a famous person," he
said. "Scores of men envy him his reputation and half the women of
fashion are in love with him."
"Is he this Gilbert Crosby, think you?"
"Why should you suggest such a thing?" Rosmore asked sharply. "Were they
grey eyes which peeped through the brown mask that night?"
"I could not see; and, besides, I do not belong to that half of the
women of fashion."
"Truly, if you did you would be in no bad company. I have a sneaking
fondness for the fellow myself, and it has been my ill-fortune never to
meet him. By all accounts he is a gallant scoundrel, with a nerve of
iron, whereas Crosby--Oh, no, whoever Galloping Hermit may be, he is
not Gilbert Crosby."
Lord Rosmore did not follow Barbara on to the terrace. He had made his
peace with her, and had succeeded in establishing a definite
understanding between them. She accepted his friendship--that counted
for a great deal with such a woman. It would be strange if he could not
turn it into love. Yet he was conscious that this was to be no easy
triumph, no opportunity must be neglected, and his busy brain was full
of schemes for bending circumstances to further his desires.
A little later, as he slowly crossed one of the stone bridges towards
the woods, he saw Barbara sitting on the terrace, and Sydney Fellowes
standing before her reading from sheets of paper in his hand.
"I cannot write verses to please her, that is certain," he mused. "She
cannot care for Fellowes, his eyes are not grey. It is this fellow
Crosby she thinks of, and of a highwayman, perhaps. A strange pair of
rivals, truly! Sydney Fellowes might be useful, besides--" Some
brilliant idea seemed to take sudden possession of him, for there was
excitement in his step as he crossed the bridge quickly and disappeared
into the woods beyond.
Neither Barbara nor Fellowes noticed Lord Rosmore, nor were either of
them thinking of him. Fellowes was absorbed in reading his verses to the
best advantage. Barbara, while apparently listening intently to her
companion, was wondering if the man who had come more often into her
thoughts than perhaps she had realised could possibly be a scoundrel and
a coward.