PREPARED FOR SACRIFICE
Harriet Payne had made up her mind that she was the bearer of a lover's
message; she expected her news to have a startling effect upon the woman
she had travelled so far to see, but she was disappointed. There came no
cry from suddenly parted lips, there was no sign of agitation about
Barbara as her hands idly played with the folds of her gown for a few
moments; it seemed doubtful whether she realised the full meaning of the
message.
"What does your master expect me to do?" she asked, looking up after a
pause.
Harriet Payne may have rehearsed a scene in which she would be called
upon to soothe a stricken woman and speak comfort to a breaking heart.
She had supposed that love was the same the world over, whether it went
in silk brocade or coarse homespun. She had apt phrases ready to meet
the expected, plenty of well-prepared sympathy to bestow, but she had no
answer for this quiet, deliberate manner, and remained silent.
"Perhaps you can help me to a decision by telling me more," said
Barbara. "You need not be afraid to speak."
"By Mr. Crosby's manner I thought you had some power, madam; I imagined
that if you knew my master's position you would be able to help him."
"Who has accused Mr. Crosby of having anything to do with rebels?"
Barbara asked.
"I cannot tell, but there is no doubt as to what he has done. It is well
known that he has helped many of the rebels into safe hiding. There is
another who is doing the same, a highwayman called 'Galloping Hermit.'
You may have heard of him."
"Is he, too, in Dorsetshire?"
"The country people speak of him; now he is here, now there, but--"
"Do you think your master and this highwayman are the same person?"
asked Barbara, and with more eagerness than she had asked her other
questions.
"I have heard other people wonder whether they were, but I do not
believe it; still, if Mr. Crosby is 'Galloping Hermit,' he is a man to
be proud of. I would--"
"Yes, yes, I know," said Barbara; "but you can hardly expect me to take
much interest in a highwayman."
"No, madam, of course not. I was not thinking of the highwayman, but of
my master. It is on his account that I have journeyed to see you."
"It was good and honest of you to come," said Barbara. "I must think
what I can do. Are you remaining in London?"
"I have a cousin in the city who is married to a mercer's assistant; I
shall remain with her for a day or two," the girl answered.
"Come to-morrow about noon; I shall have decided something then."
"And if not you could help me to find this fiddler, perhaps?" said the
girl.
When she had gone Martin came from behind the screen, and Barbara looked
at him, her eyes full of questions.
"Yes, mistress, I fear her story is true. What she says of Mr. Crosby's
doings is correct, also it is a fact that Galloping Hermit has been in
Dorsetshire."
"You have seen him?"
"I have heard of him."
"I must try and help him though he is a highwayman," said Barbara.
"There can be no longer any doubt, Martin, that the two are one."
"Yet you will help him? How?"
"There is a way, a hard way, and I am not yet certain what it may mean
to me, but it shall be done; yes, it shall be done."
As she turned to a window and looked down into the square, Martin saw
that there were tears in her eyes.
"Tell me, mistress. You have told me your troubles before now, and it
has not been always in vain."
"I will tell you later, Martin.".
"Perhaps it will be too late then," he answered. "Count the cost,
mistress; is a highwayman worth the price?"
"That girl was right," said Barbara, turning a glowing face to Martin.
There were tears in her eyes, but they had not fallen. "She was right;
even a highwayman is a man to be proud of when he helps the suffering
from their brutal persecutors, as this Galloping Hermit is doing. I
would sacrifice much even for a highwayman, and when he is Gilbert
Crosby, too--ah! Martin, I have had dreams, pleasant dreams. I am awake
now, they are only a memory, but, if need be, I will pay for them to the
uttermost farthing."
"You will not tell me the price?"
"When I know it, and that will be to-morrow. Come to-morrow afternoon,
Martin, unless you are going back to Aylingford at once."
"I shall come," he answered; but listen, mistress, there are more ways
than one of helping Gilbert Crosby. Do not pay too high a price. I wish
you would tell me with whom you are bargaining."
"To-morrow, Martin, and until then--"
"You would be alone," said Martin quietly, and then his figure suddenly
stiffened, his hands were clenched until the muscles in them stood out
like whipcord, and his speech was quick and fierce. "Understand,
mistress, no word you speak, no promise you may be compelled to give,
binds me. No matter how fettered you may be, I am free to do as I will,
and God help the man who seeks to work you evil!"
Barbara had seen him in many moods, known him as dreamer, jester,
counsellor, and philosopher, always with an air of unreality in what he
did and said, always "Mad Martin," yet with strange wisdom and cunning
in his madness at times. In this mood she had never seen him before. His
face, indeed, the whole man, was changed. Madness must have got the
upper hand entirely for a moment.
"Why, Martin, you--"
But he had gone. She had been too astonished to speak at once, and the
door had closed before she could finish her sentence. The mood seemed to
pass quickly, too, for looking from the window, Barbara saw him cross
the square, the familiar figure, in spite of the conventional garments
which he wore in town and which suited him so ill. He could never be the
real Martin Fairley away from that tower in the ruins at Aylingford,
Barbara thought.
Not without reason was Fairley's warning, for if a woman will make a
sacrifice she seldom counts the full cost. She must give generously,
with both hands wide open, or not at all. Barbara did not think of the
highwayman, but of Gilbert Crosby, and for him she was determined to
sacrifice herself. Dreams she had had, dreams which ended in happiness;
now such an ending was impossible, but the man who had inspired those
dreams was still worthy the sacrifice. It was a woman's argument,
absolutely conclusive to a woman. She had the power to help, and she
meant to use that power.
There was a brilliant company that night at Lady Bolsover's, and
probably Barbara Lanison had never appeared more fascinating. She had
been very careful to wear what became her best; she was bent on
conquest, and so that she conquered fully and completely she recked
little how. Her beauty and her ready wit quickly gathered a crowd about
her, and not one of her enthusiastic admirers guessed that under her
merry speech and laughter was an anxious, sorrowful heart and a wealth
of restrained tears. One or two, whose love and hope had made their
understanding of her keener, may have noticed that her eyes were sharp
to mark each new guest who entered the room. There was someone she
expected and for whom she was waiting. One man beside her looked at her
quickly when Sydney Fellowes entered the room, possibly he had reason to
suppose that Fellowes loved her and might prove no mean rival, but it
seemed evident that he was not the man expected to-night. Sydney
Fellowes bowed over her hand presently, murmured some conventional
phrase, and passed on; but from a corner, and unobserved, he watched
her. When she passed into another room he followed her at a distance,
and took note of every man and woman with whom she talked. He saw that
she was restless, for who was there who could understand her moods
better than he did? How often had he sat beside her, learning to read
her thoughts in the blue eyes which were more beautiful than any other
eyes in the world.
She was standing in the doorway between two rooms when he saw her start
suddenly, and, following the direction of her eyes, he saw Sir John
Lanison. He had just entered the room, and was explaining his presence
to his sister, Lady Bolsover, who was evidently surprised to see him. He
turned to greet several acquaintances, and then, seeing his niece,
advanced towards her. He looked at her a little curiously, realising for
the first time, perhaps, how beautiful she was. Barbara's face hardened
for a moment, but the next instant she smiled. This man was her enemy,
all the more dangerous because he was also her guardian, but it would be
wise to keep him in ignorance of how fully she understood him.
"Your arrival is unexpected, sir."
"Yet not altogether unwelcome, I trust," said Sir John, treating her
with studied courtliness, a manner he could use to perfection. "I was
obliged to come to town, and could not refrain from coming to see you.
You may guess why, perchance?"
"Has it to do with a young person in trouble?" asked Barbara.
Sir John looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh, you mean that girl who came
to the Abbey. Did she really travel all the way to London to see you? I
am surprised. She did not tell me her story, but I told her where you
were to be found, never supposing that she would come to you."
"She came, and I have heard her story," said Barbara.
"It bears a close relationship to many another young woman's story, I
wager," said Sir John with a smile. "Truly, I was not much impressed
with her. If I may be allowed to speak a word of warning, I should say
beware of her. She could lie easily, I fancy, with never a blush or the
flicker of an eyelid to betray her. No, it was not about her I wished to
see you."
"Then, sir, I cannot guess," said Barbara.
"I wished to apologise," said Sir John. "As I grow older my ill temper
gains on me, I fear. Thwarted, I am senseless enough at times to become
like a bullying schoolboy, and I say the first outrageous things which
come to my tongue--conduct worthy only of a harridan. It was so that
night at Aylingford. You were entirely right, I was entirely wrong.
Forgive me, Barbara."
"I forgive, yes, but you must not expect me to forget so readily," she
answered. "Forgetfulness can only come with time, Sir John, you must
understand that."
"Perfectly. I do not expect to enjoy the luxury of being ill-tempered
without having to pay the price for it. I only ask that you may not make
the price too heavy. When you choose to return to the Abbey you shall
find a welcome."
Sir John did not wait for any answer, nor had Barbara the opportunity of
thinking over what he had said just then, for the moment her uncle left
her another claimed her attention.
Still Sydney Fellowes watched her. It was evidently not her uncle for
whom she had been waiting. It seemed as evident that she was doomed to
disappointment to-night. Fellowes was one of the last to leave, and it
was impossible that any other guest could arrive now.
Barbara dismissed her maid quickly, almost impatiently, that night. She
wanted to be alone. She expected to have done so much this evening,
expected that she would have known her fate by now. She had faced the
worst, she was prepared to pay the price, whatever it might be, always
with a hope that it would not be as bad as she anticipated. Everything
was yet to do, the uncertainty was still hers; the delay gave her lonely
hours in which to realise all that this sacrifice might involve, and
involuntarily she shrank from it. She was not less resolved, however,
and there was an added incentive in the fact that the difficulties in
her way were greater than she had expected. Sir John's arrival could
have only one meaning; he must know, or had guessed, the real reason of
Harriet Payne's coming to the Abbey, and had immediately travelled to
town to ensure that, if he could possibly prevent it, no help should be
given to Gilbert Crosby. His apology made no impression upon her, and
she believed him capable of committing any villainy to get his own way.
Surely, after what had happened at Aylingford, she had ample reason for
her opinion. How was she to meet his designs and defeat them? There was
only one way, the full sacrifice of herself. She looked critically at
herself in the mirror, dashed the tears from her eyes, and smiled,
touched her hair that the curls might fall most becomingly, and turned
her head this way and that, coquetting with her own reflection.
"Can I smile so winningly that a man will think possession of me cheaply
bought at any price?" she murmured. "I think so, I believe so. I will
make the bargain. Whatever beauty I have shall be staked against your
villainy, Sir John; and I think the woman will win."
She was strong in her determination, yet she sobbed herself to sleep.
Not having been a frequent visitor at Aylingford Abbey in recent years,
Lady Bolsover knew nothing about the company so constantly assembled
there, nothing about her brother's pursuits and interests. That he must
have fallen behind the times and become uninteresting, she took for
granted; nothing else was to be expected of one who resided constantly
in the country, she argued; yet she admitted to herself that Sir John
looked a fine gentleman as he passed amongst her guests, and was rather
surprised to find how full he was of town graces. After all, he was the
owner of Aylingford, a circumstance which marked him as a man of
importance, and some of the scandal which had been attached to his name
as a younger man had not died out. She heard one woman inquire who he
was, and, receiving an answer, say quickly, "_the_ Sir John Lanison, do
you mean?" The interest displayed rather pleased Lady Bolsover, for
surely fame, however obtained, was preferable to insignificance and
nonentity. She therefore received her brother very graciously when he
called on the following morning, and felt very contented that he should
have chanced last night upon such a brilliant evening, and must realise
how big a position his sister filled in the social world of London. If
she had been inclined to despise him for burying himself at Aylingford,
she was conscious that he had never looked upon her as a very important
person.
Sir John was full of flattery this morning. He regretted that his niece
had a headache, but it enabled him to have his sister to himself.
"A few days here, amongst men and women of wit and standing, would cure
you of your absurd love of the country," said Lady Bolsover.
"At least it has done wonders for my niece," he answered.
"Surely you have not come to drag her back into exile!"
Sir John smiled. It was evident that Barbara had not entered into an
explanation of her reasons for leaving the Abbey.
"No, I think she is in very good hands for the present. She appears to
have many admirers."
"Can you wonder at it? She is as pretty as a picture, and when such a
picture has an exceedingly heavy golden frame--"
"My dear Peggy, you hit the centre of the target with the first shaft.
For most of these admirers the frame is the chief attraction. In this
fact arises the difficulty of my guardianship."
"Barbara has spirit; you must not draw the rein too tightly or she will
kick over the traces," said Lady Bolsover.
"Exactly, and show herself a true Lanison," said Sir John. "I propose to
let the reins hang very loosely indeed. Let her have her own way. She
will find it so uninteresting not to meet with any opposition that she
will probably end in doing exactly as I wish."
"And to whom have you decided to marry her?"
Sir John held up his hand with his fingers apart.
"There are at least five to choose from," he said.
"All country bumpkins who affect outrageous clothes and delight in muddy
boots?" inquired his sister.
"On the contrary, they are all lovers of the town, whole-heartedly for
King James, and with those convenient morals which go so far to make a
gallant gentleman."
"You pique my curiosity."
"Then I do you a service, and would not spoil it by satisfying that
curiosity," said Sir John. "Watch Barbara, and you may see my little
comedy in the playing, for some of these five are not infrequently your
guests."
Lady Bolsover found her brother entertaining, and it was late in the
afternoon when he spoke of taking his leave.
"I will let Barbara know; she will like to see you before you go."
A servant was sent to inform Mistress Lanison of her uncle's departure,
and in a few minutes he returned to say that Mistress Lanison was out.
"Out! Where?"
"I have made inquiries, my lady, but no one seems to know," said the
servant. "Madam went out with her maid quite early this morning, but
returned shortly afterwards. A young person who came to see her
yesterday came again to-day, just after noon, and it seems that Mistress
Lanison went out with her. The maid left the house barely an hour ago."
Lady Bolsover looked at her brother, who glanced swiftly at the servant.
Lady Bolsover understood, and told the servant to go.
"What can have happened?" she said as the door was closed.
"Nothing serious, I warrant, my dear Peggy. Like all you women, Barbara
is enjoying some harmless intrigue. Do you mind that day at Aylingford
when I horsewhipped your first admirer? How old were you then?"
"But Barbara is--"
"Young," said Sir John, "and to indulge a frolic has taken advantage of
the loose rein. You will find her in her room presently, with her head
still aching, but slightly better, and to-night she will be as radiant
as a young Diana."
"I trust so."
"Take my word for it. Long residence in the country has not made me
forget that I once understood women very well." And with a smile Sir
John departed.