A WOMAN REBELS
The Abbey awoke earlier than usual this morning. It would be some hours
yet before Mrs. Dearmer, radiant from the hands of her maid, came forth
to face the world and God's good sun, and there were men with heads
racked from last night's deep potations who would still lie abed and
curse their ill-luck; but there was noisy bustle in the stable yards,
the champing of bits and jingling of harness, and in the servants'
quarters a hurrying to and fro with eager haste, and a pungent
atmosphere of cooking food. Lord Rosmore was starting for Dorsetshire
within the hour, and his men were being fed with that liberality for
which the Abbey was famous.
Barbara sat on one of the stone seats let into the wall overlooking the
stream. Lord Rosmore would see her there and come for his answer. She
had no intention of trying to escape the interview; she had no doubt
what answer she would give, yet there was trouble in her heart. The mask
of brown silk which lay concealed in the bosom of her dress struck at
the very roots of her belief in a man's truth and honour. Lord Rosmore
had told her no falsehood, no made-up tale to suit his own purposes as
she supposed, and it was impossible for her not to think less harshly of
him as she saw him come out on to the terrace with her uncle. Sir John,
with some jesting remark, walked slowly in the opposite direction, and
Lord Rosmore came quickly towards her. He bowed low with that grace
which had made him famous amongst men, and which no woman had ever
attempted to deny him. There was not a cloud upon his brow, and a little
smile played at the corners of his mouth as though he had already
received his answer--the answer he desired.
"On such a gracious morning as this am I to be made the happiest man on
whom the sun shines, Mistress Lanison?"
"I asked for a longer time, Lord Rosmore."
"I wish I could give it," he returned. "There is nothing that I would
rather do than stay here to convince you how true and deep my love is;
but, alas! duty calls me away upon no pleasant mission."
"But you will return," said Barbara.
"Not for some weeks, I fear, and in them what may not happen? I would
take my happiness with me--your promise--not wait in anxious doubt."
"Love has not come to me yet; it might come when you return," Barbara
said. "Without love I will not give my promise to any man."
"Love will come," was the answer; "and, besides, love is not the whole
of marriage. There are other reasons often--indeed, almost always--for
giving a promise."
"Is it bargaining, you mean?"
"I would not call it by such a name," said Rosmore. "The alliance which
satisfies parents and guardians, which sends a man and a woman walking
side by side along a worthy road in the world, giving each to each what
the other lacks, a good, useful comradeship which keeps at arm's length
the world's cares, surely this makes a true marriage, and into it,
believe me, love will come."
"It may, Lord Rosmore, but I am not yet persuaded that the road is
worthy, nor that such a comradeship between us could bring good. Believe
me, you will be far wiser to give me time. Wait for your answer until
you return."
"I fear to find the bird stolen," he said.
"I am not so desirable a possession as you imagine," she answered, with
an effort to bring an element of banter into the interview.
"You cannot see yourself at this moment, Mistress Lanison, or you would
not say so. I must have your answer. Are there not many, many reasons
why you should give me your promise?"
"You will come to this lower level of bargaining," said Barbara.
"I have no choice."
"I have shown you a wise road to take," she answered; "wait until you
come back from Dorsetshire."
"I cannot wait."
"Then if we bargain, Lord Rosmore, you must remember that there are
always two sides to a bargain. You do not show me Martin Fairley a free
man."
"I can hardly set free a man I have not taken prisoner. Martin and the
highwayman succeeded in getting away from the Abbey last night. Until we
saw you leaning from your window, Sir John was absurd enough to declare
that you must have warned them."
"My uncle seems strangely anxious to make a rebel of me," said Barbara.
"I hold to our bond. Martin Fairley is not here, therefore I give no
promise this morning."
"I do not remember agreeing to such a bargain," said Rosmore.
"It pleases me," said Barbara, "and helps me to forget that you began by
threatening me. I am not a woman to be frightened by a threat."
"Then you will give me no promise?"
"No; but if you persist I will give you an answer, and promise that it
shall be a final one."
"I would spare myself the indignity of a direct repulse," he said, "and
I trust I am man enough not to let love blind my eyes to duty. I am
afraid you must live to regret your decision, but I may yet find means
to do you a service."
He turned and left her, and, calling to Sir John that he must depart
without delay, he left the terrace with her uncle, telling him, Barbara
had no doubt, of the ill-success of his interview.
What was the reason of her uncle's anxiety to force her into this
marriage? Some power Lord Rosmore must surely hold over him. Sir John
was afraid, and since he had not scrupled to suggest that she was in
league with rebels, and in the same breath point out in how dangerous a
position this rebellion placed her, there was no knowing to what lengths
he might not go to achieve his ends.
Later in the day Sir John sent her a courteous message. He did not
demand her presence amongst his guests, but he requested it. Her
continued absence had been much remarked and questioned, and there were
many reasons why these comments should be silenced. Barbara answered
that she would comply with his wishes; and that afternoon found her in
the midst of a party on the terrace, listening to Mrs. Dearmer's coarse
wit and endeavouring not to shudder at her laugh. It seemed quite
evident that Sir John had not suggested to his guests that they should
treat his niece in any special manner, and their conversation was less
reticent than ever.
"You blush very easily," laughed Mrs. Dearmer, "but that pleases the
men. I used to be the same, and devoutly wish I had not lost the art."
"Could you not regain it?" asked Barbara, and the question was followed
by a burst of laughter, more at Mrs. Dearmer's expense than at her
questioner's, perhaps.
"I'm afraid not. What we gain by experience must be lost in some other
direction. It is merely a question which you prefer, the gain or the
loss."
"My adorable madam, you go ill with mathematics," said one man,
laughing. "Pray tell some tale that will again bring the colour to
Mistress Lanison's cheek, for I vow she blushes most divinely."
"At least, sir, the cause can have little connection with heaven," said
Barbara.
"Waste no words on him, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Dearmer. "He has been
so long attached to the opposition that he has forgotten such a place as
heaven exists. Tell me why you have deserted us lately. I held that it
was indisposition, others declared it was temper, and others--can you
guess what the others said?"
"Was it something very unkind?" asked Barbara.
She had walked away with Mrs. Dearmer and one or two others, amongst
them a man named Heriot, to whom Barbara had hardly spoken, but whom she
cordially disliked.
"They said you had a lover," said Mrs. Dearmer.
"It would have been kinder if they had given me a hundred, wouldn't it?
That would, indeed, have been to praise me mightily and declare me
irresistible."
"You will not find women so generous as that," laughed Heriot. "I
thought there was a more subtle meaning in the declaration. In a hundred
lovers there might be safety, but in one--ah! it is the persistency of
one which reduces the citadel."
"I know many who might persist until they were leaning over their grave,
and then not succeed," said Barbara, "and the citadel would not need to
be very strongly guarded either."
"That should hasten your retreat, Mr. Heriot," said Mrs. Dearmer, and
then she drew Barbara a little farther away. "Tell me, are they right?
Is there a lover?"
"You may deny it if you are questioned," Barbara answered.
"I will. I would not betray such a secret for the world. Does he climb
to your window when the terrace is empty and silent, or is there some
secret door by which he comes and no one ever the wiser?"
"Is that what they say?" asked Barbara.
"Yes, and more," and Mrs. Dearmer put her finger to her lips to warn
Barbara that others were close to them and might not keep her secret so
faithfully as she would.
Barbara did not then understand all that was implied, but within a day
or two she was conscious that her name was being flung from lip to lip
with a laugh and a jest, that, no matter how innocent her words or her
actions might be, an evil meaning was twisted out of them and applauded.
Even her uncle laughed and seemed to agree when Heriot declared that a
woman who was shy in her love affairs was always the most dangerous, and
suggested that Mrs. Dearmer must look to her laurels now that Mistress
Lanison had taken the field against her. To deny the insinuations, or to
resent them, was only to make these men and women coarser, and increase
the laughter and ribaldry, so Barbara decided to stay away again. This
time, however, Sir John did not leave her alone. He sent a peremptory
message demanding her presence.
"Tell Sir John I refuse to come, and if he would know my reason I will
tell him here."
The servant hesitated.
"Sir John is out of temper, mistress. Would it not be better to--"
"You have my answer," said Barbara.
Many minutes had not elapsed before there were quick steps along the
corridor, and Sir John burst into the room. The servant had spoken
mildly when he said his master was out of temper, and Barbara's answer
to his message had made him furious. He slammed the door and faced his
niece.
"What is the meaning of this gross impertinence, girl? When I bid you do
a thing you will do it; do you understand me? I have had more than
enough of your vapours."
"And I, sir, more than enough of your guests."
"Do you dare to flout me?" he said with an oath.
"I dare anything when you forget what is my due from my guardian. For
some purpose of your own you seem anxious to accuse me of being a rebel,
and drag me into this ribald crew to have my ears assailed with all
manner of indecencies, and to hear my own honour called in question."
"You're a fool, girl."
"Wise enough to determine that either Mrs. Dearmer and her companions
must leave Aylingford, or I shall."
"Curse your impudence!" said Sir John, and before Barbara was aware of
his intention, he had seized her wrist and commenced to drag her towards
the door, "Curse your impudence! We will see who is master at
Aylingford. I shall have what guests I choose, and, by heaven, you shall
treat them as I demand! You may flout Lord Rosmore, but I will see to it
that you obey me."
"You hurt my wrist, sir."
"If it brings you to reason, it is perhaps the easiest way for you," he
retorted. "Guests that are good enough for me shall be good enough for
you."
"And if they say I am a scheming light o' love, you, sir, will no doubt
find means to prove that they are right."
"Gad! your own prudery is doing that. Perhaps I might not have to make
much inquiry to find that they had seen far more than I have. Much might
go on in these rooms and the rest of the Abbey be none the wiser."
Barbara's free hand was suddenly raised to strike him, but she let it
fall to her side again. He held her wrist the tighter, and laughed in
her face.
"It is well for you that your daring stops short of that," he sneered.
"Last night I heard words spoken out of the darkness," said Barbara.
"'It is a sacred trust,' said a voice; 'God requite you if you fail in
it. When she is of age give her that which is hers. She is free.
Beware.'"
There was magic in the words. Sir John let go her wrist and started
backwards with a curious, muffled sound in his throat. His face was
suddenly white with fear, and his trembling hands were linked together,
straining at each other. Barbara did not move, and in her motionless
attitude and the fixed gaze in her eyes the man seemed to perceive an
added terror.
"Who spoke them?" he stammered.
"A voice out of the darkness."
"They--they recall--what am I saying? Have your own way to-night; we
shall both talk more calmly to-morrow."
"To-morrow cannot undo to-night, sir. I have decided to ask Lady
Bolsover to let me visit her for a while. Two days ago I received a
letter from her asking me to go to her again."
"I will see. We will talk of it to-morrow."
"There is naught to do, sir, but arrange for my journey to town."
It was almost as one suddenly stricken with a palsy that Sir John left
the room and stumbled along the corridor. As he passed a man drew
hastily back into the shadows, and then went light-footedly to Barbara's
door. She had already locked it. He knocked.
"I have nothing more to say," said Barbara.
The man chanted a little stave in a low voice, and the door flew open.
"Martin!"
"You are in trouble, mistress, you need not tell me. Much I overheard,
the rest I can guess. Lord Rosmore has departed. I met him on the road,
at least he passed along the road, and I stood in the wood by the side
to see him pass. Mr. Crosby is already busy in Dorsetshire, and I return
to hear you are going to London."
"Yes, Martin."
"Dark hours, indeed," he said, "but there is the beam of light."
"It has gone out. Ah, Martin, you are a dreamer and look at the world
through a veil of cloud, while I am a woman prone to trust too easily.
We are easy to deceive, you and I."
"Yes, dreamer as I am, I have recognised much of the falsehood," said
Martin.
"You like Mr. Gilbert Crosby?"
"One grows to like a man when you have fought by his side in an awkward
corner."
"You would trust him?"
"Don't you?" asked Martin.
"He told me something of himself, but it was told to deceive. I found
that in the ruins, just where he stumbled last night. He dropped it,"
and Barbara held out the brown mask which she had drawn from her dress.
Martin took it and turned it this way and that.
"He did not tell me that he was Galloping Hermit the highwayman," she
said.
"Very strange," said Martin. "Another might have dropped it. Many men
tramped that spot that evening. Sir John, Lord Rosmore, and a dozen
others."
"Yes, and later, Mr. Fellowes," said Barbara. "He came with a despatch
calling Lord Rosmore back into Dorsetshire."
"Might not Mr. Fellowes have dropped it?" Martin asked.
"He might. You may find many possibilities, but not probabilities."
"The famous mask," mused Fairley, "and you find it, mistress. For my
part I have had a kindly thought for the wearer. There are tales about
him which make him different from other highwaymen."
"Yes, Martin, I know, but I had almost--ah! you would not understand."
"I saw the beam of light, and it has now gone out, you say. This wisp of
brown silk has extinguished it. But consider, might there not be some
great purpose for a man taking to the road?"
"There might, Martin."
"I have heard, mistress, of a great noble who wore fool's motley that he
might the better stand between his King and danger. I have heard of one
who lay bound in chains for years that his friend might be saved. Men
have died for others ever since this world was young."
"True, Martin."
"So Galloping Hermit may have some purpose which, did we but know it,
would make him a hero to crown rather than a scoundrel to hang. His
heart may beat honestly; the eyes which looked from these holes--"
"Were grey, Martin," and there was a catch in Barbara's voice which her
companion was quick to notice.
"Courage, mistress, the beam of light is still shining. We must get rid
of this."
"No, give it me. I may see him again and give it to him."
"And perhaps be mistaken after all," said Martin. "The highwayman has
long since provided himself with another mask, so we may destroy this."
"No, Martin."
"Why keep so dangerous a trifle? See, it burns."
He took the candle and the mask to the hearth, and made sure that no
tell-tale particle of the silk remained.
"Mistress, it is gone. Be wise, forget that you ever found it," and
Martin trampled the ashes into dust.