FATE AND THE FIDDLER
The stars were still bright in the deep vault above, the breeze still
had a note of singing in it, but the sound of music and dancing was
hushed in the village, and all the lights were out, when two horsemen
came through a gateway on to the road some five miles away.
Gilbert Crosby found himself in strange company. No sooner had this
queer fiddler learned that search had been made at "The Jolly Farmers"
than he refused to give any information, or listen to any explanation,
until they had put some distance between themselves and the inn. He
hurried out of the house, and in a few minutes returned with the
information that he had two horses waiting in the wood behind. Crosby's
mount was a good enough looking animal which seemed capable of carrying
him far if not fast; his companion's horse was so lean and miserable
that it seemed to bear a resemblance to the fiddle which Fairley had
slung by a string across his back. In spite of its ill-condition Crosby
wondered whether it would not be too much for the musician, who mounted
awkwardly and seemed so intent on keeping his seat that he was not able
to talk. He had grown more accustomed to the animal by the time they
came out on to the high road. They had travelled chiefly at walking
pace, by rough paths, and through woods where the tracks would have been
difficult to find even in the daytime, and impossible at night save to
one who knew them intimately.
"So we strike the road as you declared we should," said Crosby. "You
have great knowledge of the byways in this part of the country, Master
Fairley."
"I have travelled them, usually on foot, for many years," he answered.
"My fiddle and I go and make music in all the villages round about;
almost everybody knows me along the road. Should we be questioned, say
you fell in with me and we continued together for company."
"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.