BARBARA LANISON IN TOWN
Londoners had crowded towards Tower Hill from an early hour, had seized
every point of vantage, or looked down from high windows and roofs upon
that little square of space which was kept clear and strongly guarded.
To a few, perhaps, it was mere sight-seeing, an excitement, a means of
passing a holiday; but to the majority it was a day of mourning, a time
for silence and tears. Ill-fated rebellion was to be followed by the
judicial murder of a popular idol. There had been tales current of this
man's cowardice. He had crawled at the King's feet, begging slavishly
for his life, had been willing to resign honour and liberty, his creed,
and his very manhood so that he might escape the fate awaiting him. He
had begged and petitioned for the intercession of every person who might
have the power to say a word in his favour. He had shown himself a
craven in every possible way, so it was said. This silent crowd,
however, had no certain knowledge of the truth of these rumours; they
might be, probably were, false reports to belittle him in the minds of
the populace. What this waiting multitude remembered was that James,
Duke of Monmouth, was a soldier of distinction and was doomed to die a
martyr for the Protestant faith.
Ten o'clock had sounded some time since, when there was a sudden
movement in the crowd, a backward pressure by the ranks of guards, and a
man, saluting as he passed, walked up that narrow, human lane to the
little square and mounted the scaffold with a firm tread. A great hush
fell, broken only by the sounds of sobbing. This man a coward! Every
look, every action, gave the lie to such an accusation. Two Bishops
stood by him and spoke to him, but their words were inaudible to the
greater part of the crowd; and Ketch, the headsman, stood silently by
the block, a man hated and execrated from the corridors of Whitehall to
the filthiest purlieus of the town.
"I die a Protestant of the Church of England."
These words were clear enough, and against them the Bishops seemed to
protest, but in what words the crowd could not hear, and only those
close about the scaffold heard Monmouth's confession that he was sorry
the rebellion had ever happened, since it had brought ruin on those who
loved him. Then for a while he knelt in prayer, and said "Amen!" even to
the Bishops' petition for a blessing upon the King, but it was
grudgingly said, and after a pause. Why, indeed, should he pray for a
King whose heart was of stone and who was incapable of showing
compassion?
The silent crowd watched him with bated breath, dimly seeing through
tears that he spoke to the executioner as he ran his finger along the
edge of the axe, and then he laid his head upon the block. The axe fell
once, twice, and again, yet there was not an end.
Then the silence was broken. A wild fury roared from every side.
"Fling Ketch to us!" cried the mob, pressing in upon the guards.
Two more blows were struck by the frightened, cursing headsman. The
martyrdom was accomplished, but the angry and nauseated crowd had gone
mad, and, but for the guards, would have worked their will on Ketch and
perchance on others who had had part in this butchery. It was a raging
crowd, ripe for anything, fiercely lusting to wreak its revenge on
someone; but it was a crowd without a leader. Had a strong man at that
moment assumed command of it, Monmouth's death might have brought
success to the rebellion he had raised. Had a leader been found at that
moment, a short hour might have seen the storming of Whitehall by the
populace, and the King in the hands of his merciless enemies. No strong
man arose, and James was left in peace to plan further vengeance on all
those who had taken part in the rebellion, or shown pity to the
vanquished.
Two days afterwards Barbara Lanison arrived in town, and received a most
cordial welcome from her aunt, Lady Bolsover. She did not pester her
niece for reasons why she had left Aylingford, it was only natural that
any right-minded person would prefer London; nor did Barbara enlighten
her. Before Barbara had been in the house an hour her aunt had given her
a lively account of Monmouth's execution, and the horrors of it lost
nothing in the telling.
"Surely you were not there!" Barbara exclaimed.
"No, I was not. I was tempted to venture, but I decided that it was
wiser to keep away. I should certainly have shown sympathy with the poor
man, and to do so would be dangerous. I assure you, Barbara, all the
news in town lately has concerned this rebellion, and--let me whisper
it, for it comes near treason to say it--half London has been in two
minds whether to cast in its lot with Monmouth or with the King. There
is no denying the fact that the King is not popular, and, to put no fine
point on it, has the temper and cruelty of the devil."
Lady Bolsover was genuinely pleased to have her niece with her again.
After her own fashion she liked Barbara, and the presence of so
attractive a person in her house was likely to re-establish the number
and importance of her visitors, who, truth to tell, had not been so
assiduous in their attentions since Barbara left her. The good lady was
full of schemes for making the hours pass pleasantly, of course for her
niece's sake, and, having assured herself that Barbara was still
heart-whole, she was prepared to welcome to her house in St. James's all
the eligible men she could entice there.
"I taught you a good deal last time, my dear; I'll see if I cannot get
you married this."
Barbara smiled. She was anxious to please her aunt, and showed no desire
to interfere with Lady Bolsover's schemes. It was such a relief to be
free from the Abbey that Barbara experienced a reaction, and was
inclined to enjoy herself. There were many things she would willingly
forget. The brown mask had been reduced to ashes, but its destruction
had not altered her opinion, nor had Martin succeeded in convincing her
that she had not been grossly deceived. She had been threatened by Lord
Rosmore, she had been insulted by her uncle and the men and women who
were his companions, but, worst of all, she had been deceived by the man
who had for so long occupied her thoughts and whom she had trusted.
The opportunity to forget her troubles in a round of pleasure was soon
forthcoming. At a sign a dozen men were ready to throw themselves at her
feet, and a score more were only restrained by the apparent hopelessness
of their case. She was a queen and her courtiers were many; music and
laughter were the atmosphere about her; her slightest wish immediately
became a command, and she became the standard by which others were
judged. Barbara was young and enjoyed it, as any young girl would. There
were moments when her laughter and merry voice had no trace of trouble
in them, when it would have been difficult to believe that a cloud had
ever hung in her life; but there were other times when her eyes looked
beyond the gay crowd by which she was surrounded, when her attention
could not be fixed, and when her face had sadness in it. She was
conscious of sorrow and tears under all the music and laughter.
Sometimes ugly rumours came, brought by a court gallant, or some young
soldier who had returned from the West. Feversham had been called to
London and loaded with honours, for "winning a battle in bed," as a wit
said, and the brutal Colonel Kirke and his "lambs" were left in
Somersetshire, free to commit any atrocities they pleased. If only half
the stories were true, then had the West Country been turned into a
hell, and Barbara hated the King who allowed such cruelty. She became a
rebel at heart, and for the first time since she had found the mask in
the ruins thought less harshly of Gilbert Crosby. There could be no
reason to excuse his being a highwayman, but at least he had gone West
to give what help he could to the suffering. How had he sped? The
question set Barbara thinking, and, in spite of herself, Gilbert Crosby
was in those thoughts all through a wakeful night.
Barbara saw nothing of Lord Rosmore, whether he was in London or not she
did not hear; but once Sydney Fellowes came to her aunt's, and Barbara
was glad to see him, although she hardly had a word with him. She was
surrounded at the time, and Fellowes made no effort to secure her
attention. He evidently considered himself in disgrace still, although
Barbara had forgiven him, and had ceased to associate him with the evil
which was at Aylingford Abbey.
It was not so easy to dissociate Judge Marriott from Aylingford. He came
constantly to Lady Bolsover's, and on each occasion seemed to consider
himself of more importance. So far as Barbara could judge he knew
nothing of her reason for leaving the Abbey. He asked no questions, but
delivered himself of many clumsy compliments framed to express his
delight that the most charming creature on earth had brought sunshine
again to town. It was impossible to make Judge Marriott understand that
his attentions were not wanted, and Barbara, who had no desire to make
an enemy of him, endured them as best she could. It was from him that
she first heard that Judge Jeffreys was going to the West.
"He takes four other judges with him; I am one of them. Rebellion must
be stamped out by the law. Jeffreys will undoubtedly come to great
honour, and it will be strange if your humble servant, his most intimate
friend, does not pick up some of the crumbs."
"Will the law be as cruel as the soldiers have been?" Barbara asked.
"A dangerous question, Mistress Lanison; I would not ask it of anyone
else were I you. Remember the law deals out justice, not cruelty."
"Yet even justice may be done in a cruel fashion."
"The sufferer always thinks it cruel," said Marriott.
"And often those who look on," Barbara returned.
"I have no doubt that Jeffreys will do his duty and carry out the King's
command. Why should you trouble your pretty head with such matters?"
"There are women who will suffer," she said. "It would be unwomanly not
to think of them."
"And some man, some special man, who interests you, eh, Mistress
Barbara?"
"Why should you think so?"
"Because I can read a woman like an open book," laughed Marriott. "Her
thoughts line her face as the print does a page, while the looks in her
eyes are like the notes on the margin."
"You read amiss if you think I am interested in a rebel awaiting
judgment."
"I will confess that you are more difficult to understand than most
women," said Marriott, "and it is not for want of study on my part. Do
you remember what I said to you on the terrace at Aylingford?"
"Indeed, I have not treasured up all your words," she laughed.
"I swore that if there were a rebel you were interested in, he should go
free at your pleading. I am in the humour to-night to listen very
eagerly."
"There is no special person, Judge Marriott, but I would plead for them
all," she answered. "Be merciful, for it is surely in your power. These
people are ignorant countryfolk, led away by smooth tongues, and never
counting the cost. They are men of the plough and the scythe, with
little thought beyond these things, and they have wives and little
children. Be merciful, Judge Marriott. Think of me, if you will, when
the fate of a woman lies in your hands, and to the day of my death you
shall hold a warm corner in my heart."
"I will, I swear it, and you--"
"Lady Bolsover is beckoning to me," said Barbara, and left him.
It was the day after this conversation with Judge Marriott that Martin
Fairley came to see her for the second time since she had left
Aylingford. To Barbara he seemed strangely out of place in town, the air
he assumed of being exactly like other men ill-suited him, and he seemed
at a loss without his bow and fiddle. His dress, too, was strictly
conventional, and it appeared to affect the manner of his conversation.
He was as a man in bonds.
"In London again, Martin!" Barbara exclaimed.
"To see that you are not in trouble, mistress," he answered, and it
would have been difficult for a stranger to tell whether he was a lover,
or a trusted servant of long standing; there was something of both in
his manner.
"It is a long way to come."
"It is lonely at the Abbey," he said.
"Do you think you are safe there, Martin? Would it not be better to go
away for a time?"
"Since you are not there, mistress, I lock the door of the tower at
nights."
"But Sir John knows you are at the Abbey, and you cannot lock yourself
in the tower all day," said Barbara.
"Your uncle is a little afraid of me. He is superstitious, and unless he
has someone beside him to lend him courage, he will not molest me.
Besides, there have been many festivals where my fiddle was wanted; I
have not been much at the Abbey."
"You have been towards the West?" said Barbara eagerly.
"Yes."
"And you have heard--"
"Yes, mistress. I have heard how they suffer."
"Have you heard aught of Mr. Crosby?"
"Once or twice. I have seen one or two men who have said they escaped
the soldiers by his help. He is doing all a man can do, I think, but for
a fortnight I have heard nothing."
"Do you know that Judge Jeffreys goes West directly?"
"For the Assizes, yes. God help the prisoners! An unjust judge,
mistress, a fawning servant of a brutal and revengeful King."
"Hush, Martin!" Barbara whispered. "It may be dangerous to speak the
truth."
As if to prove the warning necessary, there came a knock at the door.
"There is a young woman asking to see you," said the servant. "She would
give no name, but declared you would see her if I said Lenfield."
"Lenfield!" and her eyes met Martin's quickly. "Bring her up at once."
"Mistress, she may talk more freely if she is atone with you," said
Martin. "There is a screen there, may I use it?"
Barbara nodded, and was alone when the woman entered the room.
"You are Mistress Lanison?" she asked, dropping a curtsy.
"Yes."
"My name is Harriet Payne, and I was a servant at Lenfield Manor when my
master, Mr. Gilbert Crosby, escaped. Some of us, Golding the butler and
myself amongst others, were arrested and taken to Dorchester."
"Yes, and then--"
"I cannot tell by what means, but my master procured my release and bid
me go to my home, a little village in Dorsetshire. I cannot tell all the
master has done, but I know that they have tried to catch him for a long
time. He has been helping people to escape, they say. You don't know
what it has been like in the West, mistress."
"Something of it, I know," said Barbara.
"One night Mr. Crosby came to my mother's cottage to see me," the girl
went on. "He told me something of his danger, and said that if anything
happened to him, or if I were in danger, I was to go to Aylingford Abbey
and ask for you; if I could not see you I was to ask for Martin the
fiddler."
"Well?"
"I was soon in trouble, mistress, and went to Aylingford. You were not
there, nor was the fiddler. I was asked what I wanted, but I would not
say. I suppose the servant went to ask his master, for Sir John Lanison
himself came out to me."
"You did not tell him who you were?"
"I just said I was in trouble, and asked where I could find you. He
laughed and said I wasn't the first young woman who had got into
trouble, and he said--"
"You need not repeat it," said Barbara; "it was doubtless something
insulting about me."
"Indeed it was, mistress, but he told me where I should find you."
"I do not know how I am to help you," said Barbara. "What do you want me
to do?"
"It is not help for myself I want, but for Mr. Crosby. They had followed
him to mother's cottage that night and waited. As he went out they
caught him. He is a prisoner in Dorchester!"