THE FLIGHT
Dorchester was in mourning. If there had been any hope that Mercy and
Justice would go hand in hand, if there were a lingering belief that
Judge Jeffreys might not be so cruel as it was said, such hopes and
beliefs were quickly dispelled the moment that court with its scarlet
hangings was opened. Even Judge Marriott shrank a little as his learned
brother bullied and laughed and swore at the prisoners, bidding them
plead guilty as their only hope of escape, and then condemning them to
the gibbet with the ferocity of a drunken fiend. Pity crept into the
hard faces of rough soldiers; the devilishness of this judge appalled
even them.
Since she had no maid to attend to her, Watson took Barbara her food;
but, although he had received no instructions to discontinue his efforts
to break her courage by detailing the horrors of the punishment which
was being administered to rebels, he spoke of them no more. He pitied
this fair woman, and was deeply impressed with her bravery. He was not
wholly in his master's confidence, and believed that his prisoner was in
grave danger. He did not doubt that under certain conditions she might
be saved, but she was not the woman from whom promises could be forced,
and no one could know better than Watson did how ruthless his master was
in clearing obstacles out of his path, how cruel he was when he became
revengeful. He knew that Gilbert Crosby had been allowed an interview
with Barbara Lanison, but was ignorant of the purpose. He did not know
that her escape had been arranged for, nor that he was to have a part in
it; and there were times when he weighed against each other his pity for
the woman and his fear of Lord Rosmore, finding it so difficult to tell
which outbalanced the other that he went a step further and thought out
plans for getting Mistress Lanison away from Dorchester. Not one of his
schemes could possibly have succeeded, but the trooper found a
satisfaction in making them.
Barbara was speedily aware of the change in Watson's manner towards her,
but she was not astonished. It was natural under the changed conditions
of her imprisonment. Every hour brought her freedom nearer, and the man
knew this, she supposed, and treated her accordingly. Concerning her
escape she did not question him, but she did ask him whether Judge
Jeffreys had arrived, and if the Assizes had begun.
"Truth, madam, my duty keeps me in this house, and I know little of what
is happening in the town."
"Nor how the prisoners will be treated?" Barbara asked.
"Some say this and some say that," Watson replied evasively, "and I have
enough to do without thinking about the lawyer's work. When I hear
lawyers talk I can't tell right from wrong. You have to be trained to
understand the jargon."
So Barbara Lanison heard nothing of the mourning that was in the town,
and had naught to do during the long waiting hours but think of the
future and all that it meant to her. She was going with Gilbert Crosby,
but he had promised that, once they were in safety, she should choose
her own way. Would she take his road? She loved him. The fact was so
absorbing that nothing else seemed to matter; yet she had many lonely
hours for thought, and it would have been strange indeed if none of the
circumstances of her life, of her position, had demanded her
consideration. To trust this lover with her future meant the snapping of
every tie which bound her to the past; it must mean, in the world's
eyes, bringing contempt upon her name. She faced the truth bravely. It
seemed an impossible thing that Barbara Lanison of Aylingford should
marry Galloping Hermit the highwayman. Such a thing might appeal as a
romantic tale, but in the real world it meant disgrace. In another land
love might be hers, such love, perchance, as few women have ever had,
but could it obliterate the past? Would she ever be able to forget that
the man beside her, his face hidden behind the brown mask, had waited,
pistol in hand, upon the high road, to rob passing travellers? All men
were not cowards, nor did they travel unprepared for danger; there must
have been times when the pistols had spoken in the silence of the night,
when some hapless traveller had died upon the roadside. Surely there was
blood upon the hands of the man she loved! The thought bowed her head,
and her hands clasped as if a spasm of sudden pain had seized her. No
repentance in the long years to come, not all the good that might be
done in them, could wipe out the past. And then she tried to find
excuses for that past, some reason that could justify the life he had
chosen. Some very definite reason there must have been. The artificial
glamour of the life would not attract such a man as Gilbert Crosby. He
must have imagined that justice was on his side, that there was some
wrong to right, to make him defy all the laws of life and property and
become a menace and a terror to his fellows.
Stories concerning Galloping Hermit had already passed into legend. His
greatest exploits always seemed to be against those who were cruel in
their dealings with others, who were unjust, or those whose lives were
notoriously bad; and there were many tales of courtesy, of
consideration, of help, which were totally out of keeping with the
ordinary career of a highwayman. Barbara remembered his treatment of
Judge Marriott, remembered what he had said. He was, the world said it,
quite apart from all other highwaymen; nevertheless, there was a price
upon his head, and the shadow of Tyburn lay dark across his path. And
yet he was Gilbert Crosby, the man she loved, the man who was blessed
and nightly prayed for in many a humble home in this West Country. What
did the world hold for her that she should thrust such a man out of her
life? Which way was she to choose--that which led Lack in her uncle's
world, with its Rosmores, its Branksomes, its Marriotts, its Mistress
Dearmers, and its shams of love which was vice, and of life which was
moral death; or that which led to quiet obscurity with the man she
loved, a sinner, but repentant, in whose worship she could trust, and
whose touch thrilled her very soul? Had she not almost promised
already--to take her way with him?
The second day of her waiting had ended, darkness had come; to-morrow
night she would go. At about this hour galloping horses would be
hurrying her away from Dorchester. Her thoughts were full of to-morrow,
when the key turned quietly in the lock and Watson entered.
"Good news, madam. I only heard it an hour ago, and was never more
pleased in my life."
"What news?"
"That you are to leave Dorchester, and with Mr. Crosby. Craving your
pardon, madam, I know something of your reason for coming to the West;
and, for all I'm so rough a fellow, I'm fond o' lovers."
"Thank you," said Barbara, for the man was evidently pleased.
"And it comes sooner than you expected," said Watson. "The road is safe,
and you are to go to-night."
"To-night!"
"Yes, now. Mr. Crosby will already be waiting on the road which leads
down to the river. I am to see you safely there."
"But to-night? Are you sure there is no mistake?"
"Quite sure. We must go at once."
Barbara went quickly into the inner room, and in a few moments returned
closely wrapped in an ample cloak.
"Draw the hood down over your head," said Watson. "The less left for
prying eyes to see the better. You have the papers signed by Judge
Marriott?"
"Yes."
"One word, madam. No one will hinder us in this house. At the door into
the street turn to the right. I shall walk close behind you. Do not
hurry. Do not stop if anyone should speak to you, and do not answer
them. Walk forward as if I had nothing to do with you."
"I understand."
"Pardon, but the hood does not quite hide your hair. Such hair might
betray you if we should meet enemies to-night, for I never saw its
like."
Barbara readjusted the hood, and wondered if Gilbert Crosby admired her
hair as this trooper did.
Watson opened the door, and they went down the passage together. Two men
on the top of the stairs stood aside to let them pass; the street door
was open, and Barbara turned to the right, walking alone, the soldier
close behind her.
It was a narrow street, and dark, only a light gleaming out here and
there from an unshuttered window; but there were many people abroad,
whispering together, and Barbara heard sobbing, once coming through an
open window, once from a woman who passed her quickly.
"Twenty-nine," she heard one man say in hoarse tones, "the first fruits
of this bloody vengeance."
"Curse him! May hell reward him," said his companion.
Barbara shuddered as she passed on, although she did not realise what
the words meant.
Then a man stood in her path for a moment.
"A fine night, mistress," he cried. "Twenty-nine of them by the
roadside, the chains creaking and the moonlight touching the white
faces. Never such a thing in Dorchester before. A damned judge, but what
a show!" And then, with a laugh, he ran past her. The voice and the
laughter were those of a maniac.
Barbara knew now. Judge Jeffreys had commenced his work. Must she pass
those hideous signs of it?
"Turn to the right," said Watson behind her.
She turned, as she was told, into a quieter street, and hurried a
little. To be free from this horrible place, it was her only thought.
Before she had gone far the houses began to straggle; she was at the
edge of the town. The moon was just rising, and by its misty light
Barbara saw that the open country was before her. A little further on,
the road began to dip, and there, in the shadow of a belt of trees,
stood a carriage. There were no gibbets with their twenty-nine victims
along this road; that sight she was spared.
Watson came to a standstill.
"Mr. Crosby waits, madam. Good fortune go with you."
"Thank you," she said, and pressed some coins into the man's hand. "Some
day, perhaps, I may thank you better."
The soldier saluted as she went forward, watching her, but not following
her.
The post-boy was already in his place, and it was evident that the
horses were impatient to be gone. A groom stood beside the carriage.
"Mr. Crosby is here, madam," the man said as he opened the door. "There
is no time to lose."
Barbara entered the coach quickly, and literally fell into the arms of
the man who was awaiting her, for as the door was shut the horses
bounded forward.
"Gilbert!"
The hood had fallen from her fair hair as she turned and leaned towards
him, and at this moment there was no doubt in her mind which way she
would choose. Then with a cry she shrank back into the corner of the
coach. It was not Gilbert Crosby beside her, but Lord Rosmore!