SAFETY
The door of "The Jolly Farmers" had only just been opened to the
business of a new day when Gilbert Crosby came by a narrow track through
the woods on to the road. His horse was jaded, and bore evidences of
having been hard ridden.
At the inn door Crosby dismounted, and the landlord came hurrying out
to welcome his early visitor. He looked at the horse, and then shouted
towards the stables.
"It's evident you are going no further on that animal at present. Shall
I hide him in the place I have in the woods yonder? Have you given them
the slip, or are they close upon your heels?"
"There is no need to hide him," said Crosby, as he entered the inn. "It
would seem that you remember me."
"Aye, faces have a way of sticking in my memory. I had to conceal you
one night when you came inquiring for a fiddler."
"This morning I am come to look for him again."
"His appointment?" asked the landlord.
"Yes."
"Then you may wait contentedly. I never knew him to fail. If he failed I
should say he had met his death on the way. Death is the only thing that
would stand between his promise and its fulfilment. Come into the inner
room. We might get other early visitors, and the door in the wall might
be useful."
"And food--what about food at this early hour? I am well-nigh starving."
"I'll see to that, and I take it that a draught of my best ale will take
the dust out o' your throat pleasantly. That beast of yours has done a
long spell from stable to stable, I warrant."
"From Dorchester," said Crosby.
"And that's a place you're well out of, since Jeffreys must be there by
this time."
Crosby nodded, and the landlord drew the ale and busied himself with
ordering his guest's breakfast.
Crosby had but half appeased his hunger when the sound of wheels was
upon the road. As he hurried out the landlord stopped him.
"Carefully, sir. Better let me see who it is."
"Quickly, then! It is a coach, and I must know who rides in it."
The tired horses came to a halt before the door, and by the coach was a
horseman, the dust of a long journey upon his horse, upon his clothes,
even upon the brown mask which concealed his face. Then the window of
the coach was lowered, and a head was thrust out, a head shining with
golden curls which the hood did not wholly conceal. Only a few minutes
ago Barbara had roused from her long sleep, startled for a little space
that the walls of her prison at Dorchester were not about her. The
knowledge that she was free, that she had escaped from Lord Rosmore,
quickly brought the colour to her cheeks, and her eyes were bright and
full of questions as she looked at the man in the mask.
"Barbara!"
She turned with a sharp little cry of bewilderment. The landlord,
standing at the inn doorway, had been thrust aside, and Gilbert Crosby
was beside her. He lifted her from the coach, yet even when he had set
her on the ground he did not release her.
"Gilbert, I do not understand--I thought--" and her eyes turned towards
the masked horseman.
"I know not who you really are, sir," said Crosby. "I know that you are
called 'Galloping Hermit,' I know that I am so deeply your debtor that I
can never hope to repay. At Lenfield a little while ago you saved my
life, to-day you bring me what is more than life."
"And a message," said the highwayman. "Word from a certain fiddler you
expected to find here. He will not come. It has fallen to my lot to
rescue this lady from a scoundrel, and I do not think he will attempt to
follow you. There are horses to be had from the landlord here, and in
half an hour you may be on the road for Southampton. The fiddler bids
you not to wait for him, but, on the road, to stop at a house named 'The
Spanish Galleon,' There you will find a friend who has secured your safe
departure from the country."
"You will not tell me who you are?" said Crosby, whose keen eyes were
trying to penetrate the disguise.
"'Galloping Hermit,' Mr. Crosby."
"While fresh horses are being harnessed, Mistress Lanison will have a
hasty breakfast, at least share the meal with us."
"Daylight is dangerous for me. I ride safely only in the night. A
tankard of ale, landlord, and then for a hiding hole."
Barbara gently put Crosby's arm away from her, and went to the
horseman's side.
"Whoever you may be, I thank you from the bottom of my heart," she said.
"You cannot know all that you are to me. You have been constantly in my
thoughts; I will not tell you why, but I have shuddered to think what
must sometimes have happened when you rode in the night. Might not the
brown mask cease to exist? Some day I may be in England again, may be
strong to help if need should come. Take this ring of mine. The man who
brings it to me, though many years should pass between now and then,
shall never ask of me in vain. Burn the mask, sir, and learn that you
are too honest a gentleman for such a trade."
The man took the ring.
"Mistress Lanison, I have stopped my last coach," he said. "It was a
good ending since it saved you from a scoundrel. Do not think too
harshly of the past. It has had more honesty in it than you would
imagine. For love of a woman I took to the road; for love of a woman the
road shall know me no more. Ah, landlord, the ale! To you, mistress, and
to you, Mr. Crosby. May God's blessing be with you to the end."
He drank, and tossing the empty tankard to the landlord, turned his
horse and galloped back along the road.
For half an hour or more the coach stood before the door of "The Jolly
Farmers," and then, with fresh horses, started briskly on its journey to
Southampton. At the inn the landlord had waited upon his guests so
attentively that they could say little to each other, but in the coach
they were alone, shut away with their happiness from all the prying
world. With her golden head upon his shoulder, Barbara told Crosby all
that she had feared, all her doubts. There were so many things to make
her certain that he was "Galloping Hermit."
"I know," he answered. "It has suited my purpose sometimes while I have
been helping men to escape out of the West Country to let my enemies
suppose that I was; but it never occurred to me that you would think so.
Now I understand some of your words which troubled me, hurt me, almost.
Are you content to take the way with me, dearest? I have not forgotten
my promise."
"Gilbert, I am ashamed now that I ever asked you to make it," she said,
clinging close to him. "Kiss me, and forgive me. I think I should have
gone with you even if you had been 'Galloping Hermit.'"
Awaiting them, and beginning to grow anxious, they found Sydney Fellowes
at "The Spanish Galleon." Crosby was not surprised, although he had half
expected to see Martin Fairley.
As Fellowes bent over her hand, Barbara thanked him.
"Gilbert has told me how much you have done for me," she said. "I have
heard of the triple alliance Surely no woman ever had better friends
than I."
"I wish Martin were here," said Crosby.
"We must talk of him presently," said Fellowes. "An hour for rest and
food, then you must be on the road again. I must come with you as far as
Southampton. It is my part to bid you farewell out of this country. I
hope before long it may be my part to welcome you back."
When they had started again, Fellowes took some papers from his pocket.
"These are for you, Mistress Lanison, to read at your leisure. I had
them from Martin Fairley to give to you."
"I wish I could have seen Martin to thank him too."
"That is impossible."
"Impossible! Why? Surely he is not dead?"
"No; yet I do not think you will ever see him again. Have you never
guessed his secret, Mistress Lanison?"
"Secret?"
"Nor you, Crosby?"
"Surely Martin cannot be 'Galloping Hermit'!" Barbara exclaimed.
"He is. You will find the whole history in those papers," said Fellowes.
"I knew soon after that night at Aylingford, the night Rosmore and I
fought in the hall. It is a strange history. He came to Aylingford
shortly after you were brought there as a child, a chance derelict it
seemed, and not a little mad at times. But his coming was no chance. He
knew your father, and came to be near you and watch over you. In a sense
Martin was always a dreamer, but he was never a madman. He played a part
to get a lodging within the Abbey, and he has played that part in your
interest ever since. Many things which must have set you wondering at
times you will understand when you read these papers. He soon discovered
what manner of man your uncle was, and the kind of company the Abbey
gave shelter to. It was worse than you have imagined--a whirlpool of
vice and debauchery. Such vice is expensive, and a long run of bad luck
at play might easily bring a man to the verge of ruin. Your uncle came
to the brink of the precipice, his appetite for vice and play still
insatiated. Your fortune was in his keeping, and he used it."
"Then I have nothing!" exclaimed Barbara, turning to Gilbert, "and I
have been thinking and planning that--"
"My dear, your money was nothing to me."
"I know, but--"
"Better let me finish the story, Mistress Lanison," said Fellowes. "In
some way, I cannot tell you how, Lord Rosmore discovered what your uncle
was doing. He therefore obtained a hold over Sir John, which hold he
used for the purpose of forcing himself upon you, meaning to marry you.
I do not doubt that, in a way, he loved you, but he wanted your money
too, for Rosmore has squandered his possessions for years past, and must
be near the end of his tether. Martin declares that it is only money he
wants."
"Has he been using my fortune, too?"
"No, except those large sums which he has won from your uncle from time
to time. Possibly, in the firm belief that your money would some day be
his, he may have checked your uncle's recklessness, and he has never let
Sir John know his position. Sir John was usually an unlucky player, in
the long run he invariably lost, and there has hardly been a guest at
the Abbey who has not enriched himself. This fact set Martin Fairley
scheming. He became 'Galloping Hermit,' the notorious wearer of the
brown mask, and plundered travellers with amazing success. It has been
said of him that he never made a mistake, that the plunder he took was
always large. His victims, too, were always those who had bad
reputations; and, one thing more, Mistress Lanison, his victims have
always won largely at Aylingford Abbey. Where Sir John squandered your
fortune, Martin compelled Sir John's guests to disgorge on the high
road. He knew when they were worth robbing. As 'Galloping Hermit' he got
back a considerable part of your fortune--from the very persons who
profited by Sir John's ill use of it. For my part, I cannot call that
robbery. His plunder he stored at the Abbey, somewhere near the Nun's
Room. You and Crosby escaped from Martin's tower one night that way.
While you have been a prisoner in Dorchester, Martin has been to
Aylingford, and, playing upon Sir John's superstition, showed him one
way of breaking into the secret chamber where a treasure was hidden, and
in exchange heard what Lord Rosmore intended to do with you. You were to
be smuggled back to Aylingford. You will find all the history of his
robberies very clearly stated in those papers, but of the history of the
last few weeks, his rapid movements, his changes of character, his
pretence of poor horsemanship, you will find no mention. Crosby will be
able to tell you much of this. Having rescued you, Martin wanted
completely to secure your safety, and believing that Rosmore's greed was
far greater than his love for you, he conceived a plan which no doubt he
carried out and which I hope was successful. He had carefully placed in
a leather case papers containing his secret, together with the key of
his tower, and full instructions of how his hiding-place was entered.
This case he intended to drop where Rosmore could see it. He believed
that Rosmore would hurry to Aylingford before he made any attempt to
find you. We are close to Southampton, and safe so far, so Martin's idea
of Rosmore may have been a correct one."
"And Martin's money?" asked Barbara.
"Your money," Fellowes corrected. "It was moved from the Abbey some
little time ago, and is hidden at 'The Jolly Farmers.' Since you must be
out of England for a while, Martin thought you might like to give me
instructions concerning it."
"Mad Martin," murmured Barbara.
"Mad. Yes, in one way, perhaps," said Fellowes. "That way you will not
learn from those papers. He was a man, and near him you grew to be a
woman. Poor Martin! He was mad enough to love you."
Barbara put her hand into Crosby's. She remembered what the highwayman
had said that morning, she remembered how she had once stood in the dark
passage under Aylingford, one hand in Gilbert's, one in Martin's; two
men who loved her and had braved so much for her. And then she looked at
Fellowes, whose face was turned from her. He had said nothing of what he
had done, but she remembered that night in the hall.
"Three men; Gilbert and Martin, yes, and you, Mr. Fellowes," she said
softly, putting her other hand into his. "It was a triple alliance, and,
indeed, never was woman better served."
That night Gilbert Crosby and Barbara Lanison left England, and a few
weeks later were married in Holland, in which country they found their
first home together. When, a little later, England rose in revolt
against King James, some of the negotiations with the Prince of Orange
were conducted by Crosby, and he accompanied the Prince when he landed
at Torbay, receiving later a baronetcy for his services. He became of
some importance at the Court of William and Mary, but his happiest hours
were those spent at his manor at Lenfield. There his dreams had
fulfilment. Barbara flitted from room to room, as, in his visions, she
had so often seemed to do; many a time he watched her slowly descending
the broad stairs and held out his arms to her.
Sometimes a shade of sorrow would rest upon her brow.
"I was thinking of Martin," she said, when her husband questioned her.
Martin had never come to Lenfield. Gilbert could find out nothing about
him. There were still highwaymen on the road, but nowadays no one was
ever stopped by "Galloping Hermit" in his brown mask.
"I wonder what became of him," said Barbara; but she never knew.