"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.