The Brown Mask

by Percy James Brebner

Would he? Crosby wondered, when he was left alone. In what direction could Martin be seeking a solution to the problem? Not in Dorchester, surely, or he would have come to the "Anchor" tavern. Where else? In London? At Aylingford? Yes, perhaps at Aylingford; an appeal to Barbara's guardian. If Martin Fairley had attempted such a forlorn hope as this it was unlikely that he would bring much help with him when he returned. Hour after hour Crosby sat there alone, now staring vacantly at the opposite wall, now pacing the narrow room like a caged and impotent animal. The dawn found him asleep in his chair.

News travelled slowly. Messengers, with instructions not to spare their horses, might ride to London, to the King at Whitehall, yet Lady Lisle had been executed at Winchester before the story of her trial was known in parts of Hampshire even. If one were far from the main road, where news might be had from the driver or guard of a coach, information could only come from some wandering pedlar to a remote village, and might or might not be true. Vague stories were told, and forgotten as soon as told. Men and women, with a hard living to earn, cared little what was happening fifty or a hundred miles away, unless a son or brother or friend had had part in the rebellion. At the village of Aylingford no one appeared to have this personal interest, and they were ignorant of the fact that at least one messenger had ridden to the Abbey with news for Sir John. He had come at nightfall, had been with Sir John for an hour, and had then departed. He had not lingered in the servants' quarters to whisper something of his news, nor had Sir John mentioned his coming to his guests. There were not many guests at Aylingford just now, and Mrs. Dearmer yawned openly, and confessed herself bored. She seemed to have taken up her abode permanently at the Abbey, playing the hostess, and to some extent ruling Sir John.

"I vow, Abbot, you're less lively than a ditch in a dry summer," she said to him the day after the messenger had been.

"What shall we do to make us merry? You have only to command," he answered.

"Plague on it, I am at a loss to know. In all our present company there's not a wit worth listening to, nor a woman with sufficient vice or virtue to make her interesting. I feel like turning saint for the sake of a new sensation."

"There are some things even you cannot do, and turning saint is one of them."

"I would have said as much for you," she returned. "But this morning your face has already begun to play the part. It might belong to the painted window of a chapel."

"Is it so uninteresting?" laughed Sir John. "Truly, you and I must devise some wickedness to pass the time until kindred spirits return to the Abbey. Half the monks of Aylingford are in the West, and the nuns find it dull without them."

"Next week we will go to town," said Mrs. Dearmer. "I love you, Abbot John, with all the wickedness that is in me, but truly you have grown dull lately."

No one was better qualified to pass judgment on Sir John than Mrs. Dearmer. To her he was dull, perhaps the worst crime a man can be guilty of in the eyes of such a woman, yet the accusation did not trouble him now as much as it would have done at another time. He was restless, and if his conscience was too moribund to have the power of pricking, he had become introspective. Fear and superstition took hold of him, and he could not shake himself free. The news which the messenger had brought him was good news, yet, even as the man had delivered it, a candle had guttered and gone out, and Sir John saw a warning of disaster in the fact. He was constantly on the watch for such omens, and saw them within the house and without. He met a new kitchen wench who looked at him with eyes askew, sure sign of evil. Three crows with flapping wings settled at dusk upon the terrace wall and called to him as he passed. A vase of quaint workmanship, brought from the East Indies by his brother, Barbara's father, split suddenly in twain, and Sir John trembled as with an ague at so sure a premonition of evil as this. There were moments when he could not bear to be shut in a room, when the confinement between four walls seemed to stifle him, and like a half suffocated man he would stagger on to the terrace and gasp for breath.