CHILDREN OF THE DEVIL
Although Barbara Lanison had found that life at the Abbey was different
since her return from London, and had concluded that the true reason lay
in the fact that she was now considered a woman, whereas before she had
been looked upon as a child only, she did not at once appreciate how
great the difference really was. Her uncle seemed a little doubtful how
to treat her. He talked a great deal about her taking her place as
mistress of the house, yet he made little attempt to have this position
recognised. The guests, especially the women, while quite willing to
admit her as one of themselves, did not even pretend to consider her
their hostess, and, on the whole, Sir John seemed quite contented that
they should not do so. He seemed rather relieved whenever Barbara
withdrew herself from the general company, as she constantly did, and
those who knew Sir John best found him more natural when his niece was
not present.
Since she only saw him when, as his intimates declared, he was under a
certain restraint, Barbara had not much opportunity of forming a clear
judgment of her uncle. He had been very kind to her ever since she had
come to Aylingford as a little child, and if his manner towards her had
changed recently she hardly noticed it. Under the circumstances she
would not easily be ready to criticise. But in the case of the guests
the change was not only very marked, but increasingly so, particularly
with the women. Whereas the men, chivalrous in spite of themselves,
perhaps, showed her a certain amount of deference, the women seemed to
resent her. It was so soon apparent that she had nothing in common with
them that they appeared to combine to shock her. Mistress Dearmer led
the laughter at what she termed Barbara's country manners and prudery.
There were few things in heaven or earth exempt from the ridicule of
Mrs. Dearmer's tongue, and it was a loose tongue, full of coarse tales
and licentious wit. She was a pretty woman, which, from the men's point
of view, seemed to add piquancy to her scandalous conversation, but the
fact only made Barbara's ears tingle the more. Mrs. Dearmer was in the
fashion; Barbara knew that, for even at Lady Bolsover's she had often
been made to blush, but she had never heard in St. James's Square a
tithe of the ribaldry which assailed her at the Abbey.
It was natural, perhaps, that Barbara Lanison should propound a problem
to herself. Was she foolish to resent what was little more than the
fashion of the day? These people were her uncle's guests, honoured
guests surely, since they had come to Aylingford so often. Would he
countenance anything to which there was any real objection? She would
have asked him, but found no opportunity. For two or three days after
his talk with her about Lord Rosmore she hardly saw him, and never for a
moment alone. More guests arrived, and it was during these days that
Mrs. Dearmer's conversation became more daring. On two occasions Barbara
had got up and walked away, followed by a burst of laughter--she thought
at her modesty, but it might have been at Mrs. Dearmer's tale.
On the second occasion Sydney Fellowes followed her as soon as he could
do so without undue comment.
"Why did you go?" he asked.
"That woman maddens me."
"Yes, she is--the fact is, you ought not to be here."
"Not be here!" she exclaimed. "This is my home. It is she who ought not
to be here. I shall speak to my uncle."
"Wait! Have a little patience," said Fellowes. "After all, she is Mrs.
Dearmer, a lady of fashion, a lady who has been to Court. You would be
astonished at the power she wields in certain directions. In these days
the world is not censorious, and is apt to laugh at those who are."
"If you merely came to defend that woman, I am in the mood to like your
absence better than your company."
"I hate her," Fellowes answered. "I think I hate all women now that I
have known one beautiful, pure ideal. Oh, do not misunderstand me. I
look up at a star to worship its dazzling brightness, and I would not
have it come to earth for any purpose. You are too far removed from Mrs.
Dearmer to understand her, nor can she possibly appreciate you. To fight
her would be to fail, just now at any rate--even Sir John would laugh at
you."
"You speak seriously?"
"Intentionally. I am a very debased fellow. A dozen men will tell you
so, and women too for that matter, but I can appreciate the good,
although I am incapable of rising to its level. I recognise it from the
gutter, but I go on lying in the gutter. There is only one person on the
earth who can pick me out and keep me out."
"I should not suppose there was a person in the world who would consider
such a man worth such a labour," said Barbara.
"No doubt you are right, and that is why I must remain in the gutter."
He looked, in every way, so exactly the opposite of anyone doomed to
such a resting-place that Barbara laughed.
"I suppose you know who that person is?" he said.
"At least I know that any woman would be a fool to attempt such an
unprofitable task," she answered. "If I thought you were really speaking
the truth, I should hate you. You would not be worthy the name of a man,
and even a Mrs. Dearmer, in her more reasonable moments, would despise
you."
Fellowes looked at her for a moment.
"I wish my mother had lived to make a better man of me," he said
abruptly, and turned and left her.
Barbara had become so accustomed to Sydney Fellowes' sudden and
changeable moods that she thought little of his words, or his manner of
leaving her. Yet, to the man had come a sudden flash of repentance, not
lasting but real enough for the moment, holding him until the next
temptation came in his path. He did not seek his companions, but crossed
one of the bridges, and plunged into the woods, cursing himself and
feeling out of tune with the rest of the world. Two hours later he and
Lord Rosmore came back together, slowly, and talking eagerly. Fellowes,
like many other quite young men, had a profound admiration for Lord
Rosmore, and his opinion upon any matter carried weight.
"You have not sufficient faith in yourself, Fellowes," Rosmore said as
they crossed the bridge. "That is the trouble."
"It is easily remedied," was the answer.
"That is the spirit which brings victory," said Rosmore, patting his
companion on the shoulder.
The guests who had arrived during the last two or three days had
introduced a noisier and wilder element into the Abbey. Barbara was
puzzled at her uncle's attitude, and retired from the company as much as
possible. This evening she left early, pretending no excuse as hitherto
she had done. She wanted her uncle to understand, and question her.
Surely he must do so if she were rude to his guests. A burst of laughter
followed her withdrawal.
"You must be a Puritan in disguise, Abbot John, to have such a niece,"
said Mrs. Dearmer; and then she turned and whispered something into the
ear of Sir Philip Branksome that might have made him blush had he been
capable of such a thing. Sir John seemed mightily entertained at the
lady's suggestion. He laughed aloud, cursed Puritans generously, and
drank deeply to their ultimate perdition.
There is ever some restraint in vice when virtue is present, but with
Barbara's departure all restraint seemed to vanish. There were probably
degrees in the viciousness of these men and women, but, as a whole, it
would have been difficult to bring together a more abandoned company.
High play was here, and the ruin of many a man's fortune. Honour, save
of the spurious sort, held no man in check, and virtue was as dross.
Debauchery of every kind was practised openly and unashamedly. Vice was
enthroned in this temple, and her ribald followers bowed the head. This
was Aylingford Abbey, built for worship long ago, therefore worship
should be in it now. "We will be monks and nuns of the devil," some
genius in wickedness had cried one evening, and the suggestion had been
hailed with delight. This was their foundation, so they had called
themselves ever since, and Sir John Lanison delighted to be the "Abbot"
of such a community. They chose a sign whereby they might be known to
one another in the world--the slow tracing of a circle on the forehead
with the forefinger--and they bound themselves by an oath to their
master to love him and all his works, and to eschew all that was called
good. It had often been noticed how many persons of condition, who
seemed to be at one with Sir John in politics, had never been offered
the hospitality of Aylingford. The true reason had never been divulged.
If, as had chanced on one or two occasions, guests had been there who
knew nothing of these debaucheries, the devil's children present
dissembled, and affected to yawn over the dull entertainment provided by
Sir John. The secret of the Abbey had never leaked out, nor did it
appear that any man or woman, desirous of betraying it, had ever found
an entrance into the community. Once, a year ago, a woman had whispered
her suspicion of a man, and he was found dead in his lodging in Pall
Mall before he had time to speak of what he knew, even if he intended to
do so.
As he was popular in the county, passing for a God-fearing gentleman, so
Sir John Lanison was popular as the devil's "Abbot." There were few who
could surpass him in wickedness, but he was a man of moods, and there
were times when fear peered out of his eyes. He was superstitious,
finding omens when he gambled at basset, and premonitions in all manner
of foolish signs. He had played this evening with ill success, he had
drunk deeply, and was inclined to be quarrelsome.
"The Abbot is wanting to make us all do penance," laughed Fellowes, who
some time since had parted with sobriety. "I'll read him these verses to
pacify him; they would make an angry devil collapse into a chuckle. Mrs.
Dearmer inspired them, so you may guess how wicked they are."
"Always verses--nothing but verses," said Rosmore, who had drunk little
and seemed to watch his companions with amusement.
"No woman was ever won by poetry," said a girl in Fellowes' ear. "Try
some other way."
"What way?"
The girl whispered to him, laughing the while. She was very pretty, very
innocent to look upon.
"Women must be carried by assault, gloriously, as a besieged city is,"
roared Branksome from the other end of the room. "The lover who attempts
to starve them into surrender is a fool, and gets ridiculed for his
pains. What do you say, Rosmore?"
"Nothing. There are many ladies who can explain my methods better than I
can."
Mrs. Dearmer laughed, and desired a lesson forthwith.
"My dear lady, there would be too many lovers to call me to account for
my presumption," Rosmore answered.
"Branksome is right," said Mrs. Dearmer. "Take a woman by force or not
at all. She loves a desperate man. His desperation and overriding of all
convention do homage to her. I never yet met the virtue that could stand
against such an assault."
"She is right, Sydney," whispered the girl to Fellowes, her hands
suddenly clasped round his arm.
Fellowes looked down into her face, and a strange expression came into
his own.
"I believe she is," he said almost passionately. "I believe she is.
There's no woman so virtuous that--"
"None," whispered the girl.
Fellowes laughed, and shook himself free from her.
"I'll drink to success, and then--" He stumbled as he rose to his feet,
and, recovering himself, laughed at Sir John. "You shall have the verses
another time, Abbot; I have other things to do just now."
He called a servant, and talked to him in a low voice.
"Yes, blockhead, I said the hall," he exclaimed in a louder voice. "The
hall in ten minutes, and if she isn't there I'll come and let the life
out of you for a lazy scoundrel who cannot carry a message. A drink with
you, reverend Abbot--a liquid benediction on me."
Lord Rosmore watched him, but Sir John took no notice of him. Sir John's
thoughts were wandering, and had anyone been watching him closely they
might have seen fear looking out of his eyes. A candle on a table near
him spluttered and burnt crookedly.
"That means disaster," he muttered, and then he turned to Lord Rosmore
fiercely, though he spoke in an undertone. "You were a fool to let me
bring her back."
It was evident that he had made a similar statement to his companion
before, for Rosmore showed no surprise or ignorance of his meaning.
"I shall take her away presently, her lover and deliverer. In this case
it is the best method."
"And let her curse me?"
"No. I shall promise to deliver you and bring about your redemption."
"A devilish method," said Sir John.
"One must work with the tools that are to hand," said Rosmore with a
shrug of his shoulders.
"But when? When?"
"Perhaps in a few short hours. Wait! Wait, Sir John. It seems to me that
opportunity is in the air to-night."
"And disaster," said Sir John, glancing at the spluttering candle. Lord
Rosmore made no comment--perhaps did not hear the words, for he was
intent upon watching Sydney Fellowes, who was standing near a door which
opened into the hall. No one else appeared to notice him, not even the
pretty girl he had spurned. She was too much engaged in consoling a
youth who had lost heavily at basset.
Barbara was dull in her room. The silence was oppressive, for no sounds
of the riotous company reached her there, and the pale moonlight on the
terrace below, and over the sleeping woods, seemed to throw a mist of
sadness over the world. She had opened the casement, and for a time had
puzzled over her uncle and his strange guests. Something must be going
forward at the Abbey of which she was ignorant. Sydney Fellowes must
know this, and there had been more meaning in his words than she had
imagined. Why ought she not to be at the Abbey? And then her thoughts
wandered to another man who had found her in a place where no woman
ought to be, and she remembered all Lord Rosmore had said about him.
Looking out on the quiet, sleeping world, so full of mystery and the
unknown, it was easy to fall into a reverie, to indulge in speculations
which, waking again, she would hardly remember; easy to lose all count
of time. Once, at some distance along the terrace towards the servants'
quarters, there was the sound of slow footsteps and a low laugh. There
were two shadows in the moonlight--a man's and a woman's. Some serving
maid had found love, for the low laugh was a happy one, and some man,
perchance no more than a groom, had suddenly become a hero in a girl's
eyes. Unconsciously perhaps, Barbara sighed. That girl was happier than
she was.
A gentle knock came at her door, and a man stood there.
"Mr. Fellowes sent me. Will you see him in the hall in ten minutes. It
is important; he must see you. 'It is for your own sake.' Those were his
own words, madam."
Barbara received the message, but gave no answer, and the man departed.
Had the message come from anyone but Sydney Fellowes she would have
taken no notice of it, but, remembering what he had said to her, this
request assumed importance. She was more likely to discover the truth
about the Abbey from Sydney Fellowes than from anyone else.
There was only a dim light in the great hall--candles upon a table at
the far end. The moonlight came through the painted windows, staining
the stone floor here and there with misty colours. There was no movement
near her, but the sound of voices and laughter came from the chamber
beyond--the one from which she had angrily departed some time ago. Now
the voices were hushed to a murmur, now they were loud, and the laughter
was irresponsible. How she hated the sound of it, and that shriller
note, peculiarly persistent for a moment, was Mrs. Dearmer's. No
Christian feeling could prevent her from hating that woman.
Barbara crossed to the wide hearth and waited.
A door opened suddenly; there was the rustling of the curtain which hung
over it being thrust aside, a shaft of light shot across the hall for a
moment, and the sounds of voices and laughter were loud, then the door
closed again sharply. There were a few hasty steps, and then silence.
"You sent me a message, Mr. Fellowes."
In a moment he was beside her.
"Barbara!"
She stepped back as though the sound of her own name startled her.
"I love you. Women were made for love--you above all women. You think I
can only scribble poetry--you are wrong! I mean to--Barbara, my
Barbara!"
"You insult me, Mr. Fellowes."
He caught her in his arms as she turned away from him.
"Insult! Nonsense! Love insults no woman. You are mine--mine! I take you
as it is right a man should take a woman."
She struggled to free herself, but could not. She did not want to cry
out.
"You remembered your mother to-day, remember her now," she panted.
The wine fumes were in his head, confusion in his brain; reason had left
her seat for a while, and truth was distorted.
"I do remember her," he answered, speaking low but wildly. "She was a
woman. A man took her, as I take you; wooed her, loved her as I love
you. I do remember--that is why you are mine to-night."
She struggled again. She did not want to cry out. There was no man in
that room she wished to call upon to defend her--not even her uncle.
Evil seemed to surround her. Had any other man touched her like this,
she would have called to Sydney Fellowes, so far had she believed in him
and trusted him.
"Barbara, you shall love me!" he went on, holding her so that she was
powerless. "Love shall be sealed, my lips on yours."
"Help! Save me from this man!" Her fierce, angry cry woke the echoes. In
a moment there was the sound of hurrying feet, the sudden opening of a
door, and again a shaft of light cut through the hall. Men and women
rushed in from the adjoining room with loud and eager inquiry. Then Sir
John, closely followed by Lord Rosmore.
"Quick! More lights!" he said. "Who is it screaming for help?"
"Is it some serving-maid in distress?" cried Branksome.
"Or a fool too honest to be kissed," laughed a woman.
"Barbara!" Sir John's exclamation was almost a whisper. Lights were in
the hall now, brought hastily from the room beyond. Some had been put
down in the first place that offered, some were still held by the
guests. Fellowes had turned to face this wild interruption, and Barbara
had wrenched herself free from his arms as he did so.
"A love passage!" laughed Fellowes. "Why interfere?"
"He insulted me!" said Barbara.
"My niece is--"
"Leave this to me, Sir John," said Rosmore, laying a hand upon his
shoulder.
"That's right, Rosmore, and leave me to my wooing," cried Fellowes.
"You cur! You shall repent this night's folly," said Rosmore.
"Excellent! Excellent! You should have been a mummer. This is glorious
comedy!" and Fellowes laughed aloud. "What! A hint of tragedy in it,
too!"
A naked sword was in Rosmore's hand.
"A woman's honour must be defended," hissed Rosmore.
"Gad! I'll not spoil the play for want of pantomime," cried Fellowes,
still laughing. "Why don't you all laugh at such excellent fooling?"
"There is no laughter in this," said Rosmore, and Fellowes' face grew
suddenly serious.
"This is real? You mean it?" he said.
"I mean it."
"Devil's whelp that you are!" Fellowes cried. "Between two scoundrels
may God help the least debased."
In an instant there was the ring of steel and the quick flash of the
blades as the light caught them.
Sir John had made a step forward to interfere, but had hesitated and
stopped. No one else moved, and there was silence as steel touched
steel--breathless silence. For a moment Barbara was hardly conscious of
what was happening about her. It seemed only an instant ago that she had
cried out, and now naked swords and the shadow of death. Lord Rosmore's
face looked evil, sinister, devilish. Fellowes was flushed with wine,
unsteady, taken by surprise. There came to Barbara the sudden conviction
that in some manner Fellowes had fallen into a trap. He had insulted
her, but the wine was the cause, and Rosmore had seized the opportunity
for his own ends. She tried to speak, but could not. There was a fierce
lunge, real and deadly meaning in it, an unsteady parry which barely
turned swift death aside, and then a sudden low sound from several
voices, and an excited shuffle of feet. Barbara had rushed forward and
thrown herself between the fighters.
"This is mere trickery," she cried. "You play a coward's part, my lord,
fighting with a drunken man."
"He insulted you--that sufficed for me."
"I did not ask you to punish him," she answered.
She faced Lord Rosmore, shielding Fellowes, who was behind her. Now
Fellowes gently touched her arm.
"Grant me your pardon, Mistress Lanison, and then let me pay the
penalty," he said.
She had thrust out her arm to keep him behind her, when the big door at
the end of the hall opening on to the terrace was flung open, and on the
threshold stood a tall figure, dark and distinct against the moonlit
world beyond. His garments were of nondescript fashion, but his pose was
not without grace. Under one arm he carried a fiddle, and the bow was in
his hand. He raised it and waved it in a sort of benediction.
"Give you greeting, ladies and gentlemen--and news besides. Monmouth has
landed at Lyme, and all the West Country is aflame with rebellion."