THE FUGITIVE AT AYLINGFORD
Barbara Lanison suddenly remembered how much she had thought of the man
who stood before her. For the first time she realised that not a day had
passed but those grey eyes had seemed to look into hers, even as they
did now; that the hours were few into which his image had not come. This
meeting was so unexpected, she was so entirely unprepared for it, that
she was taken at a disadvantage. It seemed to her that this man must
surely know how much he had been in her thoughts, must be reading her
like an open book. Her eyes fell, and the colour rushed into her cheeks.
"Why has Martin gone?" she said, turning to the door to recall him, and
whatever sense of confusion she experienced, there was a dignity in her
movement, and a tone of annoyance in her voice, which showed Crosby that
she was proud, and seemed to prove that just now she was angry as well.
"Won't you at least let me thank you for your help?" he asked, taking a
step towards her.
"It was nothing," she answered. "By chance I learnt your name, by chance
I heard you were in danger, and I sent you a warning. I was in your
debt, and I like to pay what I owe."
"You have done that with interest."
"Tell me, why are you here?" she asked.
"Indeed, madam, to answer that question I have need of Martin, too, for
he brought me."
"I do not understand, Mr. Crosby--you are Mr. Gilbert Crosby, are you
not?"
"Yes; and I do not understand, either," he answered. "I have been under
the guidance of Fate and a fiddler, and it would appear that the
fiddler, at any rate, has played some trick with me, for I do assure you
that he made me suppose he was doing your bidding in bringing me here."
"We call him 'Mad Martin,'" she said with a little laugh. "Will you tell
me his tale? It should be interesting, though I fear it must greatly
have misled you."
She turned from the door as she spoke, and sat down by the table.
Perhaps it was as well Martin had gone, for there was no guessing what
he had told this stranger, nor how far he might call upon her to support
his action were he asked suddenly for an explanation.
"It would also be interesting to me to learn who you are, and where I
am," said Crosby with a smile.
"You do not know? You have forgotten?" Barbara exclaimed.
"I have not so poor a memory as that," he answered, "and will you deem
it presumptuous in me when I say that I hoped it might be you who had
rendered me this service? I did not know until Martin lit those candles
and you turned towards me. Within a few hours of my seeing you at
Newgate I was called away from London. I had no opportunity of making
inquiry about you."
"There was no reason why you should," she answered.
"You did not forbid me to do so."
"Indeed, no. I had small chance to do that," Barbara returned. "You
disappeared so quickly and mysteriously."
"I had seen you to your friends--why should I wait?"
"If for nothing else, to be thanked. I wondered whether you had
recognised an enemy in the neighbourhood of my aunt's coach."
He laughed, but whether at the suggestion, or at her method of trying to
draw a confession from him, it was impossible to tell.
"Did you see the highwayman and thank him, as you proposed?" Barbara
asked.
"I did, and now it seems he was not this famous Galloping Hermit, after
all."
For a moment she was silent, recollecting that she had speculated
whether this man himself might not be the wearer of the brown mask.
"I am Barbara Lanison," she said suddenly, "niece to Sir John Lanison of
Aylingford Abbey."
"Am I in Aylingford Abbey?" Crosby asked.
"A queer little corner of it appropriated by Martin Fairley. You seem
surprised, sir."
"Indeed, I am. I have passed through many surprises during the last few
hours, not the least of them being that this is Aylingford, and that you
are astonished to see me."
"Perhaps it would be well to tell me your story before Martin returns.
You must not forget that he is half a madman, and sometimes talks
wildly."
Crosby told her the manner of his escape from Lenfield, as he had told
it to Fairley; and if Barbara Lanison did not so obviously disbelieve it
as the fiddler had done, her eyes were full of questioning. He explained
how "The Jolly Farmers" had been searched, and how he and Martin had
ridden away together in the night.
"He told me that he had been bidden by a woman to bring me into a place
of safety, and he brought me here. He would tell me nothing more."
"He did not even try and picture the woman for you?"
"Only his fiddle could do that, he declared."
"You see how foolish he is," said Barbara.
"I do not find any great sign of folly in that," Crosby answered.
"I was thinking of your journey, sir. I told Martin to find you if he
could and warn you; that was all I bid him do."
"And my coming has displeased you," said Crosby. "I will go on the
instant if it be your will."
"No, no; it is my will that you tell me the remainder of the story."
"There is no more to tell."
"You have not told me who the man was who helped you to escape from your
manor at Lenfield," said Barbara.
"He desired me not to speak of him, and I must keep faith."
"Yet he told you of Martin."
"He spoke only of a fiddler," said Crosby.
"Have I no means of persuading you to tell me his name?" she said,
leaning a little across the table towards him, with a look of pleading
in her eyes. Most men would have found the temptation difficult to
resist.
"I do not think you would try any means to make a man break his
promise," Crosby said.
The grey eyes looked straight into hers, and the voice had that little
tone of sternness in it which she had noted that day at Newgate.
"Perhaps not," she said; "but it is provoking. To have a nameless
partner in such an affair as this is to have more mystery than I care
for."
"Did you ever hear of a Mr. Sydney Fellowes?"
"So you have told me after all," she said, disappointment in her voice.
He was not the strong man she supposed him to be--merely one a woman
could cajole at her ease. She was too disappointed in him to realise at
once how strange it was that he should speak of Sydney Fellowes.
"No, this is another friend," he answered quietly, conscious of what was
passing in her mind.
"I know Mr. Fellowes," Barbara said, her brow clearing. "Not many days
since he was here at the Abbey."
"He came to see me, but since I was away from home he left a letter
warning me that I had enemies. He, too, had been commissioned by someone
to warn me."
"Not by me," said Barbara. "Surely you must have been acting unwisely,
Mr. Crosby, to have so many enemies?"
"It is the number of my friends which astonishes me more," he returned.
"I am wondering what it was you heard about me which made you send to
help me."
"It concerned the Duke of Monmouth, and was not to your credit," Barbara
said.
"Yet you have helped me."
"I did not believe what was said. Besides, I was in your debt."
"These are times when one must speak with caution if one would dwell in
safety," said Crosby. "Whoever accused me of being a supporter of the
Duke of Monmouth spoke falsely, yet it is possible that he believed
himself justified. I went to see Monmouth at Bridgwater."
"Why?"
"With a hope that I might persuade him to turn back from certain ruin,
and so mitigate the misery which he must bring upon the West Country. My
pity was rather for the simple peasants than for Monmouth, perhaps; but
I know the Duke well, and in the past have been his close friend. You
see, your informant may have had some reason for his accusation."
"Then you are for King James?" questioned Barbara. She could not help
remembering that the man before her had been classed with those cowards
who will betray friends and foes alike so that their own purposes are
served and their own safety secured. Was Gilbert Crosby almost
confessing to as much?
"I stand apart, taking neither side," he answered. "Believe me, Mistress
Lanison, I am only one of many in England to-day who do the same. They
are loyal subjects so long as the King remains true to his coronation
oath."
"I suppose some might call them cowards and time-servers," she said. She
was not deeply learned in politics, and was inclined to let the personal
qualities of a man make her hero, no matter which side he fought for. To
stand aside and take no part at all always seemed to her rather
cowardly. It appeared such an easy way out of a difficulty.
"Some undoubtedly do call them so," Crosby admitted with a shrug of his
shoulders, "and perhaps the fact that they are able to hear the
accusation and remain unmoved proves them brave men. Still, I feel
something like a coward to-night."
"Why?"
"I am wondering whether I ought to have left Lenfield. It is probable
that, had I remained, I should have been arrested, perhaps hanged on the
nearest tree without trial or question; but, since I am free, my
presence in the West might do something to help these poor folk who will
most certainly suffer bitterly for the rebellion."
"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!