The Brown Mask

by Percy James Brebner

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The night brought no vision to Barbara Lanison, only a restless turning to and fro upon her bed and a wild chaos of mingled doubts and fears which defied all her efforts to bring them into order. There were still many guests at the Abbey, but she saw little of them except at a distance. She had begged her uncle to excuse her presence, and he had merely bowed to her wishes without commenting upon them. He may have been angry with her, but since she had heard him laughing and jesting with his companions as they passed through the hall, or went along the terrace, she concluded that her absence did not greatly trouble him. There were guests at the Abbey now who hardly knew her, some who did not know her at all, and she was missed so little by Mrs. Dearmer and her friends that they no longer troubled to laugh at her. She was as she had been before her visit to London, only that now she understood more; she was no longer a child. She had not seen Sydney Fellowes again before his departure, but she had no anger in her heart against him. He had insulted her, but it was done under the influence of wine, and in reality he was perchance more genuinely her friend than any other guest who frequented the Abbey. Had he not said that this was no home for her? Lord Rosmore she had seen for a few moments before he had set out to join the militia marching westward. He was courtly in his manner when he bid her farewell, declared that she would know presently that he had only interfered to save her from a scoundrel, and he left her with the assurance that he was always at her command. Barbara hardly knew whether he were her friend or foe. Sir Philip Branksome had left Aylingford full of the doughty deeds which were to be done by him, but it was whispered that he was still in London, talking loudly in coffee-house and tavern. Judge Marriott had hurried back to town, thirsting to take a part in punishing these rebels, but before he went he had made opportunity to whisper to Barbara: "Should there be a rebel who has a claim on your sympathy, Mistress Lanison, though he be as black as the devil's dam, yet he shall go free if you come and look at me to plead for him. Gad! for the sake of your pretty eyes, I would not injure him though the King himself stood at my elbow to insist." Barbara could do no less than thank him, and felt that he was capable of perjuring himself to any extent to realise his own ends, and wondered if there were any circumstances which could bring her to plead for mercy to Judge Marriott.

Mad Martin had gone, too, with his fiddle under his arm. "Folks will marry for all there is fighting in the West," he had said, "and my fiddle and I must be there to play for them." He had said no more about Gilbert Crosby, had probably forgotten by this time that she had ever mentioned the name with interest. Half dreamer, half madman, what could he do? With a fiddle-bow for his only weapon he was a poor ally, and yet he seemed to be the only true friend she possessed.

Barbara was very lonely, and more and more she was persuaded that Aylingford Abbey was a different place from that which, through all her childhood until now, she had considered it. Something evil hung like a veil over its beauty, an evil that must surely touch her if she remained there. She was impelled to run away from it, yet whither could she go? Could she explain the evil? Could she put into words what she was afraid of? The world would laugh at her, even as Mrs. Dearmer did, or label her a wench of Puritan stock, as her aunt, Lady Bolsover, was inclined to do. She must talk to Martin, who had taught her so many things; but even Martin was away fiddling at some festival that rustics might dance. Barbara was disposed to resent his absence at a time when she wanted him so much.

Yesterday she had heard some guests talking of the fight on Sedgemoor as they walked to and fro on the terrace below the window. Monmouth was defeated and flying for his life, and the heavy hand of King James would certainly fall swiftly on the country folk of the West. Would it fall upon the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate? Certainly it would be stretched out against him were he such a man as Lord Rosmore declared him to be.

Wearied out with much thinking, Barbara fell asleep towards morning, and the sun was high, flooding the terrace with light and warmth, when she awoke.

Later, she went across the ruins to the door in the tower. Martin might have returned in the night. The door was still locked. It was always locked when Martin was away from the Abbey, and he took the key with him.

She went back slowly along the terrace, and, from sheer loneliness, she was tempted to forsake her solitude and join the guests. There was a group of them now at the end of the terrace, and Barbara's step had quickened in that direction when she heard Mrs. Dearmer laugh. She shuddered, and went no farther. Utter loneliness was far preferable to that woman's company.

The day seemed to drag more heavily than any which had preceded it. Surely there had never been such long hours and so many hours in a day before! The sunshine was out of keeping with her mood, and it was almost a relief to her when the afternoon became overcast and the haze on the distant hills spoke of rain. The sound of rain was on the terrace presently, the stone flags grew dark with the wet, and the woods became sombre and deeply mysterious. A light still lingered in the west, low down and angry looking, but the night fell early over the Abbey. Candles had been burning in Barbara's room for a long time when a faint cadence of notes struck upon her ear. She knew it well, and the sound gladdened her so that she laughed as she threw open the window. Her laughter was like a musical echo of the notes.

"Martin!" she said, leaning from the casement and looking down on the terrace; "Martin!"