The Brown Mask Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  GREY EYES

  Where a stream, running through a wide track of woodland, turned to flowround three sides of a plateau of rising ground, a community ofCistercian monks had long ago founded their home. Possibly the originalbuilding was of small dimensions, but as the wealth of the communityincreased it had been enlarged from time to time, and, it would appear,with an ever-increasing idea of comfort. Of this completed building asthe monks knew it, a large part remained, some of it in a more or lessruinous state it is true, but much of it incorporated in the work ofthose subsequent builders who had succeeded in converting AylingfordAbbey into one of the most picturesque residences in Hampshire. It facedaway from the stream, and the long, massive front, besides being themost modern part of the building, was the least interesting aspect;indeed, it was difficult to get a comprehensive view of it, because thewoods approached so closely that the traveller came upon it almostunawares. From every other side the outlines of the Abbey weresingularly beautiful. Here a small spire sharply cut the sky, or agraceful point of roof told of a chapel or high-pitched hall; there,half frowning, half friendly, a mass of creeper-clad, grey wall lookedcapable of withstanding a siege. In some places solid pieces of masonryspoke of comparatively recent improvement, while towards one end of thebuilding walls had crumbled, leaving ruined chambers open to wind andweather. There were open casements, through which one might catch aglimpse of comfort within, and again there were narrow slits, deeplysunk into thick walls, through which fancy might expect to hear the moanof some prisoner in a dungeon.

  As it swept round the Abbey the stream broadened out, and its currentbecame almost imperceptible. On one side the bank was comparatively low,but on the Abbey side a stone wall had been built up from the water.Above this was a broad terrace, flanked by the top of the wall, whichrose some three or four feet above it, and into which seats had been cutat intervals. This terrace ran round three sides of the Abbey, and wasmostly of stone flags, worn and green with age, but in some places therewere stretches of trimly-kept grass. Two stone bridges arched and dippedfrom the terrace to the opposite bank of the stream. Wonderful vistas ofthe surrounding country were to be seen from the vantage ground of theterrace; here a peep through a sylvan glade to the blue haze of thehills beyond; there a glimpse of the roofs of the village of Aylingford,a mile away; and again a deep, downward view into dark woods, wheremystery seemed to dwell, and perhaps fear, and out of which came thesound of running and of falling water.

  It was not difficult to believe in the legends which the simple countryfolk told of Aylingford, and they were many. Had some old monk comesuddenly out of the wood, over the bridge, and walked in meditationalong the terrace, he would hardly have looked strange or out of placeso long as a bevy of Sir John's visitors had not chanced to meet him. Itseemed almost natural that when the night was still the echoes of oldprayer and chant should still be heard, as folk said they were. Sir Johnhimself had heard such sounds, so he affirmed, and would not have hisbelief explained away by the fact that the wind found much to make musicwith in the ruins. Then there were rooms which never seemed to beunoccupied; corridors where you felt that someone was always walking alittle way in front of you or had turned the corner at the end themoment before; stairs upon which could be heard descending footsteps;doors which you did not remember to have noticed before. But while oflegend there was plenty, of history there was little. It would appearthat the monks had forsaken their home even before the Reformation, forthe first Lanison had acquired in the Eighth Henry's reign a property"long fallen into ruinous decay," according to an old parchment.Possibly the writer of this description had not seen the Abbey,trusting, perchance, to the testimony of a man who had not seen iteither, for certainly much of the present building was in existencethen, and could hardly have been as ruinous as the parchment would leadone to suppose. It may be that Aylingford, lying in the depth of thecountry, away from the main road, escaped particular notice, and thismight also account for the fact that it had never attracted theattention of Cromwell's men, which it reasonably might have done, seeingthat the Lanisons were staunch for the King.

  Since old Sir Rupert Lanison had first come to Aylingford, Lanisons hadalways been masters there--indifferent ones at times, as at intervalsthey had proved indifferent subjects, yet reverenced by the countryfolk.

  Sir John, in the course of time, had become the head of the house of hisancestors, proud of his position, punctilious as to his rights,superstitious, and a believer in the legends of his home. He had marriedtwice, losing each wife within a year of his wedding day, and had nochild to succeed him. His brother, who had gone abroad ready to servewhere-ever there was fighting to be done, had also married. His wifedied young, too, and her daughter Barbara had come as a child toAylingford. She did not remember her father, who subsequently died inthe East Indies, leaving his child and a great fortune to the care ofSir John.

  So the Abbey and the woods which surrounded it had been Barbara's worldfor eighteen years, for only once had she been to London before hervisit to Lady Bolsover. In a measure this second visit was unhappilytimed, for the death of King Charles had cast a gloom over the capital,and the accession of his brother James caused considerable apprehensionin the country. Still, Barbara had created a certain sensation, and,according to Lady Bolsover, would have made a great match had not SirJohn foolishly recalled her to the Abbey.

  "She was just getting free from pastry and home-made wine, and mybrother must needs plunge her back into them," Lady Bolsover declared toher friends, who were neither so numerous nor so distinguished now thatBarbara had left St. James's Square.

  Sir John had welcomed his niece, but had given no reason for bringingher home. She did not expect one. She had been away a long while; it wasnatural she should be home again, and she was glad. There was no realregret in her mind that she had left London; yet, somehow, life wasdifferent, and although she had been home nearly a week there wassomething which kept her from settling down into the old routine.

  "Why is it? What is it? I wonder."

  She was sitting on one of the stone seats cut in the wall of theterrace, leaning back to look across the woods. The morning sun floodedthis part of the terrace with golden light, the perfume of flowers washeavy in the air. From the woods came a great song of birds; in thewater below her a fish jumped at intervals--a cool sound on a hot day.She had this part of the terrace to herself for a little while, but fromanother part, round an angle of the house, came the murmur of voices andsometimes laughter, now a man's, now a woman's. It had all been just thesame before, many, many times, yet now the girl was conscious of a soundof discord in it. Nothing had really changed. The Abbey was full ofguests, as her uncle loved to have it, many of the same guests who cameso constantly, many of those who had been her companions at LadyBolsover's, and yet the world seemed changed somehow. The reason mustlie in herself. Her visit to London had brought enlightenment to her,although she had only a vague idea of its meaning. She found itdifficult not to shrink from some of her uncle's guests, a feeling shehad not experienced until now. True, she had been brought more incontact with them during this last week than she had previously been.They treated her differently, no longer as a child, but as one ofthemselves. They spoke more freely, both the men and women, and itseemed to Barbara that only now was she beginning to understand them,and that it was this wider knowledge which made her shrink from them.

  "I have become a woman; before I was only a girl--that must be thereason," she said, resting her chin on her clasped hands and lookingdown into the depths of the wood on the opposite side of the stream. "Ihave been very happy as a child, I do not believe I am going to be happyas a woman," and then she glanced towards the distant blue hills. Theworld was full of sunlight, even though the woods below her were darkand gloomy.

  She looked along the terrace to make certain that no one was coming todisturb her--and she smiled to think how often she was disturbed inthese days. Judge Marriott had only to catch sight of her, and h
e wouldleave any companion--man or woman--to hurry after her. At first heseemed only intent on proving to her that he had not really been afraidof the highwayman on Burford Heath, not on his own account at least,only on hers; but presently he began to praise her, stammering overhigh-flown compliments concerning her eyes or her hair, and lookingridiculously distressed as he uttered them. He made her laugh until sheunderstood that he was making love to her, then she was angry. Allyesterday he was sighing to be forgiven.

  Then there was Sir Philip Branksome, who twice within the last threedays had endeavoured to impress upon her the fact that his attentionswere a very great honour. He was so sure of himself in this particularthat it was almost impossible to despise him. There was Sydney Fellowes,too, near kinsman to my Lord Halifax, full of boyish enthusiasm, now forsome warrior, now for some poet, chiefly for Mr. Herrick, whose poems heknew by heart and repeated sympathetically. In Barbara Lanison heprofessed to find the ideal woman, the inspiration which, he declared,warrior and poet alike must have; and for hours together he wouldexplain how debased he was, how exalted was she. He wrote verses to her,breathing these sentiments, and appeared to touch the height of hisambition for a moment when she deigned to listen to them. Barbara feltherself so much older than he was that she only stopped him when he grewtoo persistent, neither laughing at him nor despising him. She praisedhis verses which really had merit, but she would not understand that shehad inspired them. And last evening Lord Rosmore had arrived, had bowedlow over her hand and whispered a compliment. His looks, his attitude,had occasioned comment, for my Lord Rosmore seldom sought, he was soconsistently sought after. Had not King Charles once called him thehandsomest attraction of his acquaintance, and laughingly turned to warna bevy of beauties of the danger of running after so well favoured acavalier?

  "It is all because I am a woman," said Barbara, with a little sigh. "Isuppose I ought to be happy, proud, pleased; and yet--"

  She looked across the woods, far away into the blue distance where fancywell might have its kingdom, and her thoughts became a day-dream. Thatshe was a woman, that the horizon of her mind had widened, that intouching the great world she had understood things which before were asealed book to her, did not altogether account for the change. In herday-dream she was conscious of a pair of grey eyes which seemed to lookinto her soul; conscious of a voice--kindly, yet with something stern init--saying in her ear: "Can I be of service?" and again, "This is noplace for a woman."

  It was strange that she should remember so vividly; strange, too, thathe had gone from her so quickly. Why had he done so? Who was he? Suchquestions brought another in their train. Why had the voice of thehighwayman with the brown mask seemed familiar? She tried to rememberthe exact figure of the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate, herfair brow frowning a little with the endeavour, but only the look in hiseyes and the sound of his voice remained. Somehow the highwayman's voicehad seemed unnatural.

  The opening and closing of a door startled her, and she turned quicklyto see her uncle crossing the terrace.

  "It is surprising to find you alone in these days, Barbara. London hasworked marvels, and it would seem that you have become a reigning toast,Such is the news that has filtered down to Aylingford."

  "That may be my misfortune; it is certainly none of my choice," was heranswer.

  "And she has grown as quick at repartee as the best of them," laughedSir John, touching her shoulder lightly with approval. His laugh was apleasant one, his face kindly, his pose rather graceful, in spite of thefact that his increasing bulk gave him anxiety. Report declared that hisyouth had had wild passages, that one episode in his career had led to aduel in which Sir John had killed his man, and it was whispered at thetime that justice and honour had gone down before the betterswordsmanship of a libertine. But this was years ago, before he wasmaster of Aylingford Abbey, and was forgotten now. Sir John Lanison ofAylingford seemed to have nothing in common with that young roysterer oflong ago, and to-day there was no more popular man in this corner ofHampshire.

  "Indeed, I had to run away to be alone this morning," Barbara went on."I saw Judge Marriott go into the woods yonder not long since, and Iwarrant he is looking for me."

  "And Branksome, and Fellowes, and half a dozen more--they are alwaysseeking you," said Sir John, with mock consternation. "I am to have myhands full, it seems, looking after my niece. It might have been betterif I had kept her at the Abbey."

  "In my absence I have seen enough of men to make me careful aboutfalling in love with one."

  "Still, it must needs be with a man if you fall in love at all," saidher uncle, seating himself on the stone seat beside her, "and there issomething I want to say on this matter, Barbara. It is well that youshould have seen something of the town, but it is not a good place inwhich to judge men."

  "And around Aylingford I know of no men worth troubling about," saidBarbara, "so it would seem that I am on the high road to dying aspinster."

  "Never was woman more unlikely to do that than you," answered Sir John."When a young girl talks like that, an old campaigner like myself beginsto wonder in which direction her heart has fluttered. No woman ever yetregarded being a spinster with complacency, and few women jest about itunless they are satisfied there is no danger. Is there a confession tobe made, Barbara?"

  "None. Except for you and Martin Fairley, all men are--well, just men,and of little interest to me. It is certain I cannot marry my uncle, andI am not likely to fall in love with Martin, am I? By the way, where isMartin? I have not seen him since I returned to the Abbey."

  "I met him just a week ago, here on the terrace, with his fiddle underhis arm. He was starting to tramp to the other end of the county, hetold me, to play at a village wedding."

  "Poor Martin!" said the girl.

  "Mad Martin, rather," said Sir John; "and yet not so mad that he has nothad a certain effect upon us all, and upon you most of all. Ever sinceyou were a child he has been your willing slave, and he has taught youmany things out of that strange brain of his. I sometimes fancy that hehas made you look upon life differently from the way in which most womenlook upon it, has filled it with more romance than it can hold, andtaken out of it much that is real."

  "In fact, made me as mad as he is," laughed Barbara.

  "I am not jesting," Sir John said gravely. "You have come back to theAbbey a woman. You are more beautiful than I thought you were. You havemade something of a sensation. You say you have no confession to make."

  "That I have no confession to make is true, and for the other items I amglad I please you."

  "But you do not please me," returned Sir John. "I should have been moregratified had you made a confession. I have no son, Barbara."

  She put her hand upon his arm in a quick caress, full of sympathy,knowing how sore a trouble this was to him.

  "So you see my interests are centred in you," he went on after amoment's pause which served to intensify the meaning in his words. "Oneof those interests--indeed, the chiefest of them--is your marriage. Itmust be a wise marriage, Barbara, one worthy of a Lanison. Have younever thought of it at all?"

  "Never, definitely."

  "And yet it is time."

  "Yesterday I was a child," she answered, her eyes looking towards thedistant hills. A pair of grey eyes seemed to be watching her.

  "You were born before your mother was your age," Sir John answered. "Iwas prepared to look with favour upon any man on whom your choice hadfallen. It has fallen on no one, you say."

  "I have said so. We must wait a little while. I am very happy as I am."

  "I have been thinking for you," said her uncle.

  "You mean--Surely you don't want me to marry Judge Marriott?"

  "No, Barbara," and he smiled. "I am too young myself yet to care for thejudge as a nephew."

  "Ah! We are talking absurdly, aren't we?" she said, and although shelaughed she still looked towards the distant hills. "Of course, I couldnever marry a man I didn't love, and to have a man chosen for you wouldnatural
ly prevent your loving him, wouldn't it?"

  "To advise is not to force, Barbara."

  "Who is the man you have thought of?" she asked.

  "You cannot guess?"

  "Has he grey eyes and a low, strong voice and--"

  "Grey eyes!" said Sir John, glancing at her sharply.

  "Grey eyes--yes." She had spoken dreamily, only half conscious that shehad put thoughts into words. Now she laughed and went on gaily, "I havealways thought I should like to marry a man with grey eyes. Girls getfancies like that sometimes. Foolish, isn't it?"

  Sir John lifted his shoulders a little as though the point were tootrivial to discuss, and he tried to remember what coloured eyes youngSydney Fellowes had.

  "I am not sure whether Lord Rosmore's eyes are grey or not; I ratherthink they are," he said slowly.

  "Lord Rosmore!"

  Laughter sounded along the terrace, and several people came towardsthem, Lord Rosmore and Sydney Fellowes amongst them.

  "If his eyes are grey, they are not the shade I like," said Barbaradecidedly, and as Sir John rose she turned and walked along the terracein the opposite direction. If her uncle were annoyed at her action hedid not show it as he went to meet his guests.

  "I was taking a quiet half-hour to discuss matters with the chatelaineof the Abbey," he said. "She will worry over small details more than isneedful."

  "Perhaps if I go and read her some new verses it will soothe her," saidFellowes.

  "Better wait a more convenient season, unless you would have some of theservants for your audience," laughed Sir John, as he turned to walk withRosmore. "You would find her engaged with them, and domesticities go illwith poetry."

  "Plagued ill with the poetry Fellowes writes," said Branksome; "is thatnot true, Mistress Dearmer?"

  "I am no judge, since Mr. Fellowes has never made verses for me,"answered the lady.

  "So facile a poet may remedy that on the instant," said Branksome."Come, Master Rhymster, there's a kiss from the reddest lips I knowwaiting as payment for a stanza."

  "They are kisses which are not at your disposal," answered the lady, butshe looked at Fellowes.

  "Gad! I believe you may have the kiss without the trouble of earning it,Fellowes," laughed Branksome. "I can go bail for the goods."

  Mistress Dearmer pouted, but the laugh was against her until Fellowescame to the rescue.

  "You shall have a sonnet," he said. "You may pay if you think itworthy."

  Another woman caught Sir Philip's hand and whispered, "The poetry couldhardly be so bad as the kisses are cheap, could it?"

  Lord Rosmore and his host had walked to the end of the terrace talkingconfidentially.

  "I should have said more, but you came to interrupt us," Sir Johnreplied in answer to a question from his companion.

  "You can force her to do as you wish," said Rosmore. "Indeed, ifnecessary, you must."

  "How?"

  "You are her guardian. If your powers are limited, that is no reason youshould tell her so."

  "You seem strangely doubtful about your own powers, Rosmore, yet rumourhas it that few women are proof against you."

  "She may be one of the few, that is why you have spoken to her. I wanther more than I have ever wanted anything on earth. You--well, if allelse fails, you must force her to marry me."

  "There is another alternative," and Sir John stopped and drew himself upstiffly.

  "I don't think you would take it," Rosmore answered carelessly. "Ishould not advise you to take it."

  "She spoke of grey eyes," said Sir John, as though he were disinclinedto argue the point. "She has thought of some man with grey eyes."

  "Tell me all she said--it may be useful," and for some minutes Rosmorelistened attentively while Sir John talked.

  "I have more than one way of wooing," Rosmore said presently, "and mylove must condone them all. The siege shall begin forthwith. A man maywin any woman if he is subtle enough; in that conviction lies the secretof the success with which rumour credits me. I may persuade your nieceto believe my eyes are grey, or perchance charm her into hating greyeyes henceforth. Where shall I find her, Sir John?"

  "Probably in the Nun's Room."

  "No place for so desirable a lady, and surely a strange room to have inAylingford Abbey," laughed Rosmore. "There are many strange things aboutAylingford which Mistress Barbara must never discover."

  Sir John laughed, a forced laugh with a curse underneath it, and hishands tightened a little as he watched his guest go quickly along theterrace.