The Brown Mask Page 6

  CHAPTER VI

  MAD MARTIN

  The sudden interruption served to relax the tension in the hall. Therewas the quick shuffling of feet, as though these men and women hadsuddenly been released from some power which had struck them motionless,and eager faces were turned towards the doorway. Barbara did not move.Her eyes were still fixed on Lord Rosmore's face, her arm was stilloutstretched to prevent a renewal of the fight.

  The man stood in the doorway for a moment with his bow raised, pleased,it seemed, with the sensation he had caused. He had spoken in rather ahigh-pitched voice, almost as if his words were set to a monotonouschant or had a poetic measure in them.

  "It is only that mad fool Martin Fairley," said Branksome.

  "What is this news?" Sir John asked. His anger seemed to have gone, andhe spoke gently.

  "That depends," said Martin, advancing into the hall with a step whichappeared to time itself with some unheard rhythm. "That depends on whoit is who hears it. Good news for those who hate King James; bad forthose who love priests and popery. How can such a mad fool as I am, SirPhilip Branksome, guess to which side so many gallant gentlemen and fairladies may lean?"

  There was grace, and some mockery perhaps, in the low bow he made, hisarms wide extended, the fiddle in one hand, the bow in the other; andthen, slowly standing erect again, he appeared to notice Barbara for thefirst time.

  "Drawn swords!" he exclaimed, "and my lady of Aylingford between them.Another legend for the Abbey in the making--eh, Sir John? I must write asong upon it, or else Mr. Fellowes shall. If his sword is as facile ashis pen, my Lord Rosmore, 'tis a marvel you are alive."

  "This fool annoys me, Sir John. I am not in the mood for jesting."

  "That, at least, is good news," said Martin, "for in this Monmouthaffair there is no jest but real fighting to be done. Will you not saveyour strength for one side or the other?"

  "Peace, Martin," said Sir John. "We must hear more of this news of yoursat once. And you, gentlemen, will you not put up your swords at myniece's request?"

  "I drew it to play a dishonourable part," said Fellowes. "I used it todefend a worthless life. Do you command its sheathing, Mistress Lanison?"

  "Yes," and she still looked at Lord Rosmore as she spoke.

  "Since Mr. Fellowes has apologised, and you have commanded, I have noalternative," said Rosmore. "If Mr. Fellowes resents my attitude he mayfind a time and an opportunity to force me to a better one."

  "Come, Martin, we must hear the whole story," said Sir John, and then hewhispered to Rosmore as they crossed the hall together: "He is certainto be right, Martin invariably hears news, good or bad, before anyoneelse."

  "May we all hear it?" asked Mrs. Dearmer.

  "Why, surely," Martin Fairley exclaimed. "Monmouth was alwaysinteresting to ladies, and he may, as likely as not, set up his court atSt. James's before another moon is at the full."

  They followed Sir John and Lord Rosmore back into the room which theyhad left so hurriedly a few moments ago, and as Martin Fairley went inafter them he drew his bow across the strings of his fiddle, soundingjust half a dozen quick notes in a little laughing cadenza.

  "He is going to sing his tale to us," said Branksome, rather bored withthe whole proceeding.

  "He is quite mad," answered Mrs. Dearmer, "but I fancy Abbot John issomewhat afraid of him."

  The little sequence of notes made Barbara Lanison start, she had heardit so often. When she was a child Martin had told her fairy tales, andhe constantly finished the story by playing just these notes, a sort ofmusical comment to the end of a tale in which prince and princess livedhappily ever afterwards. When he had been thinking out some difficultpoint he would play this cadenza as a sign that he had come to adecision. Once when Barbara had been ill, and got well again, he hadplayed it two or three times in rapid succession. If he declared he wasbusy when Barbara wanted to go to him, he would tell her she might comewhen she heard his fiddle laugh, and these notes were the laugh, alwaysthe same notes. They had evidently some meaning for him, and they hadcome to have a meaning for Barbara. They were a link between her andthis strange mad friend of hers. When she heard them she always feltthat Martin had something to tell her, or could help her in anydifficulty she was in at the moment.

  "Mistress Lanison."

  She started. She was almost unconscious that the people who hadsurrounded her just now had gone and closed the door. She was alone inthe hall with Sydney Fellowes, from whom a few moments ago she had criedout to be delivered.

  "Mistress Lanison, I ask your pardon for to-night. Forget it, blot itout of your memory, if you can. If some day you would deign to set me atask whereby I might prove my repentance, I swear you shall be humblyserved. Against your will, perhaps, you have picked me out of thegutter. Please God, I'll keep out of it. Thank you for all you have donefor me."

  He spoke hurriedly, giving her no opportunity to answer him, and thenturned and left her, going out through the door which opened on to theterrace, and which still stood open. Had he waited Barbara would nothave answered him, perhaps; she was not thinking of him, but of MartinFairley and the laugh of his fiddle. The sound of Fellowes's retreatingfootsteps had died into silence before she turned and went out slowly onto the terrace, closing the door quietly behind her.

  The fiddle, with the bow beside it, lay on the table near its master, astrange master, whose moods were as varying as are those of an Aprilday. Mad Martin he was called, and he was known and loved in all thevillages for miles round Aylingford. He and his fiddle brought mirth tomany a simple festival, and in time of trouble it was strange howhelpful were the words and presence of this madman. Martin Fairley wasnot as other men, the village folk said, he was not sane and ordinary asthey were, he was to be pitied, and must often be treated as a waywardchild. Yet there were times when he seemed to see visions, when theinvisible spirits of that world with which he was in touch whisperedinto his ear things of which men knew nothing. He was suddenly endowedwith knowledge above his fellows, and the whole aspect of the manchanged. At such times the villagers were a little afraid of him andspoke under their breath of magic and the black art. Even Sir JohnLanison was not free from this fear of his strange dependent. He neverspoke roughly to him, never checked him, never questioned his goings andcomings. Sometimes, half-jestingly it seemed, he asked his advice, andwhatever Martin said was always considered. As often as not the advicegiven took the form of a parable, and, no matter how absurd it sounded,Sir John invariably tried to understand its meaning.

  Martin Fairley had come to the Abbey one winter's night soon afterBarbara Lanison had been brought there. He had come out of the woods,struggling against a hurricane of wind across one of the bridges, hisfiddle cuddled in his arms for protection. He had begged for food andshelter, and then, warm and satisfied, he had played to the companygathered round the Abbey fire, had told them strange tales, and, with alight laugh, had declared that he was the second child to come to thegood Sir John Lanison for care and protection, first the little niece,now the poor fool. Someone told Sir John that there was luck in keepingsuch a fool about the place, and whether it was that he believed it, orreally felt pity for the homeless wanderer, Martin Fairley had beenallowed to remain at the Abbey ever since, a willing slave to BarbaraLanison, an inconsequent person who must not be interfered with. Perhapshe was twenty years old when he came, strong and lithe of limb then, andto-day he was hardly changed, older-looking, of course, but still lithein his movements. Mentally, his development had been curious. His powershad both increased and decreased. There were times when he was silent,depressed, when his mind was a complete blank, and whatever words hemight utter were totally without meaning; but there were other timeswhen his eyes were alight with intelligence, when his wit was as keen asa well-tempered blade, and his whole appearance one of resolute energyand competent action.

  He was keen to-night as he told the story of Monmouth's landing.

  "Lyme went mad at his coming," he said. "His address was read from th
emarket cross, and the air rang again with shouts of 'Monmouth! and theProtestant faith!' As captain-general of that faith has he come, and thepeople flock to his blue standard and scatter flowers in his path. TheWhig aristocracy will rise to a man, it is said, and London fly to arms.The King and his Parliament tremble and turn pale, and the train-bandsof Devon are only awaiting the opportunity to join the Duke. All theWest is in arms."

  "How did you hear the news?" asked Sir John.

  "It flies in all directions; you have only to listen."

  "We have heard nothing," said Rosmore contemptuously.

  "Ah, but these walls are thick," said Martin, "and wine makes peopledull of hearing, while the company of fair ladies breeds disinclinationto hear. Perhaps, too, you were making a noise over your play."

  "I am inclined to think it is all a tale," said Branksome. "Before thiswe have known you to dream prodigiously, Martin."

  "True. I dreamed last night as I lay on a bed of hay in a loft, with myfiddle for company, that all the gentleman at the Abbey had flown tofight for Monmouth."

  "A stupid dream," said a man who was a Whig, and whose mind was full ofdoubt as to what his course of action must be should Monmouth's landingbe a fact.

  "And I come back to find two gentlemen fighting in the hall," Martinwent on. "Were you trying to rob King James of a supporter, my lord?"

  Rosmore laughed.

  "No, Martin; I was endeavouring to punish a man for insulting a lady."

  "Truly the world is upside down when it falls to your lot to play such apart as that," was the answer.

  "How many men has Monmouth?" asked Sir John, silencing the laugh againstLord Rosmore.

  "They come by the hundreds, 'tis a labour to write down their names fastenough. From the ploughs, from the fields, from the shops they come;their tools turned into implements of war even as Israel faced thePhilistines long ago. Men cut loose the horses from the carts and turnthem into chargers; labourers bind their scythes to poles and carryreaping-hooks for swords; the Mendip miners shoulder their picks makinga brave front; and here and there a clerk may wield a ruler for want ofa better weapon. And night and day they drill, march, and countermarch.The cause is at their heart and no leader need feel shame at such ahost."

  "A rabble," said Rosmore.

  "A rabble that will not run counts for much, my lord, and Monmouth is nomean general as those who fought at Bothwell Bridge know well."

  "You talk as though you were a messenger from Monmouth himself," saidRosmore. "Were you a witness of the landing?"

  "No, no; my fiddle and I have been to a wedding--besides, I am far toochangeable a fellow to take sides," said Martin. "Were I for Monmouthto-night, I might wake to-morrow morning and find myself for King James.I shall make a song of victory so worded that it will serve for eitherside. Were I Monmouth's messenger I should have made certain of mycompany before telling my news. You may all be for the King; that wouldbe to send you marching against Monmouth. He does not want such amessenger as I am. Do you march early to-morrow, Sir John?"

  "Not so soon as that, I think, Martin."

  "And you, Lord Rosmore?"

  "Is it worth while marching at all against such a rabble?" was theanswer.

  Martin took up his fiddle.

  "You, Sir Philip, will hardly leave the ladies, I suppose? Like me, youare no fighting man."

  Sir Philip Branksome chose to consider himself a very great fightingman, and every acquaintance he had knew it. His angry retort was drownedin the laughter which assailed him on all sides, and by the time thelaughter had ended Martin Fairley had left the room.

  "That madman knows too much," said Rosmore, turning to Sir John. "Yougive him too great licence. Had I anything to do with him I should slitthat wagging tongue of his."

  "He talks too freely to be dangerous," said Sir John. "His news isdoubtless true, and we--which side do we favour?"

  Mrs. Dearmer propounded a question.

  "Does it not depend upon which is the good? If popery, then Monmouth andthe Protestants claim us; if Protestantism, then must we die for KingJames and all the evil he meditates."

  "A fair abbess reminding us of our rules," said Branksome. "Would notthe most wicked course be to do nothing, and then side with the victor?"

  "That madman seems to have spoken shrewdly when he said you did not likefighting," said a girl beside him.

  "There is evil to be done whichever side we fight for," said Rosmore. "Isee more personal advantage in fighting for King James, and shouldanyone be able to persuade Fellowes to throw in his lot with Monmouth hewill do me a service. The world grows too small to hold us both."

  "At least I hope that all my lovers will not fall victims to therabble," said Mrs. Dearmer. "Abbot John, you at least must stay at theAbbey to keep me merry."

  * * * * *

  Martin Fairley tucked his fiddle under his arm and went quickly down theterrace. As he approached the doorway leading into the ruined hall a mancame out of the shadows.

  "My brother poet!" Martin exclaimed. "You have left the revel early,brother!"

  "Can you be serious, Martin, and understand me clearly?" asked Fellowes.

  "It happens that I am rather serious just now," was the answer.

  "Martin, I was a scoundrel to-night," said Fellowes, catching him by thearm. "I might plead wine as an excuse, but I will not, or love, which Idare not. All women are to be won, you know the roue's damnable creed. Iwas in despair; a few words from a pure woman's lips had convinced me ofmy unworthiness, and then I met Rosmore. He ridiculed me; suggested,even, that my love was returned, goaded me to play the lover wilfullyand as a man who will not be beaten. Then the wine and the sham couragethat is in it drove me on. I sent a lying message, and she came to thehall yonder. I would not let her go, and she cried out. In a moment theycame hurrying in upon us, Rosmore with them. They would have turned itto comedy, laughed at her, applauded me; but Rosmore, Martin, drew hissword to defend her--he had played for the opportunity. Had any otherman but Rosmore faced me I should say nothing, but he is worse even thanI am. You saw the end."

  "She was shielding you," said Martin.

  "I know. I do not count, but Rosmore desires her, Martin. He thought tostand high with her by killing me to-night. She must never belong toLord Rosmore. She will listen to you, Martin--she always does, shealways has."

  "Would you make a Cupid's messenger of me, Mr. Fellowes?"

  "Fool! I tell you I am nothing. Save her from Rosmore, that is yourmission. My sword, my life are at her service, she knows that, andprobably would not use them, no matter what her peril might be; but you,some day, might use me on her behalf, without her knowledge. Take thispaper; it is the name of my lodging in town. Keep it. Do you understand?To-morrow I leave the Abbey."

  "To join Monmouth?"

  "To try and do what is right," Fellowes answered, "and find a worthydeath, if possible, to atone for an unworthy life."

  "A new day will change your mood," said Martin.

  "Think so if you will, only keep the paper, and save her from Rosmore."

  As he turned away Martin caught his arm.

  "There was once a man like you," he said, "a man who loved like you, whowas a scoundrel like you. Suddenly an angel touched him, and in greatpain he turned aside into a rugged, difficult path. At the end of it heshrank back at the sound of a voice, shrank back until he knew that thevoice spoke words of praise and confidence and honour; and a hand, cleanas men's hands seldom are, grasped his in friendship."

  The madman's hand was stretched out to him, and Fellowes took it.

  "The eyes of a fool often see into the future," said Martin. "I amgrasping the hand of the man you are to be. I shall keep the paper."

  Fellowes went along the terrace without another word, and Martin went tothe deep-set door in the tower by the Nun's Room. It was not lockedto-night, and he climbed the narrow, winding stair quickly.

  A dim light was burning in the circular chamber, and as Marti
n enteredBarbara rose from a chair to meet him. Swiftly he drew the bow acrossthe fiddle strings.

  "The fiddle laughs at your trouble, child."

  "It must not be laughed at so easily, Martin. Your news to-night--"

  "Was just in time to save a very foolish man from my Lord Rosmore. I canguess what happened. The one insults you, the other pretends to defendyou and--"

  "And my uncle wishes me to marry him; but that is not the trouble,Martin."

  "I should have called that trouble enough."

  "But listen," said Barbara, "this news of Monmouth's landing distressesme for a very strange reason."

  "Tell me," said Martin.

  Barbara told him of the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate, andrepeated all that Lord Rosmore had said of him.

  "Do you think he can be such a man as that, Martin?"

  "If Lord Rosmore knows him then--"

  "If--but does he?"

  "Lord Rosmore knows a great many scoundrels, I have been told. What wasthe name of this one?"

  "He is not a scoundrel, Martin, I am sure, quite sure. A womanknows--how, I cannot tell, but she does. And then, even if he be ascoundrel, I would do him a service, if he can be found. That Monmouthis in England will be an excuse for taking him, even if he is innocent."

  "Still you do not tell me his name."

  "Gilbert Crosby," said Barbara.

  Martin sat in a corner where the shadows fell, and Barbara did notnotice his sudden start of interest.

  "Crosby, Crosby," he said slowly. "There are Crosbys in Northamptonshire,and here in Hampshire, close by the borders of Wilts and Dorset, thereis one; but a Gilbert Crosby--what is he like?"

  "I cannot tell. He made me ashamed to be in such a place, and I did notlook much into his face. He had grey eyes, and a voice that was sternbut kind."

  "An excellent picture!" cried Martin. "He should be as easy to find as acat in winter time. Cats always go towards the fire, you know, and blinkthe dreamy hours away in the warmth of the blaze. Oh, we'll find thisGilbert Crosby, never fear; and when we find him, what shall we say? OurLady of Aylingford is in love. Come with us."

  "You are foolish, Martin."

  "I was born so, they say, and therefore cannot help it, but, being afool, I am convinced that folly is sometimes better than wisdom.To-night, like a fool, I will dream of this Gilbert Crosby, and learn inwhat direction he must be sought for; but now I must be wise and tellyou that the hour grows late and that children should be in bed."

  "I fear that childhood, and with it happiness, is being left far behindme, Martin," Barbara said with a sigh.

  She could not see him clearly in the shadows, could not discern thestrange light in his eyes, nor catch the hushed echo to her sigh whichcame from her crazy companion.

  "No, no; we are all children right to the end," he said suddenly. "Thereare moments when we know it and feel it, and, alas! there are times,too, when we are blind and feel quite old. Open your eyes and you'llknow that childhood has you always by the hand, keeping love and purityand fair dreams blossoming in your heart. Come, I will take you alongthe terrace lest Mr. Fellowes or my Lord Rosmore or--Ah! how many moreare there who would not give half their years and most of their fortuneto stand in the shoes of this fool to-night."

  "Peace, Martin."

  "Do you hear her little fiddle?" and he laid his hand lovingly on thepolished wood for a moment.

  "You must not laugh while I am away. Maybe we'll have a laugh togetherwhen I return, for the moon is too bright to go out on to my roof andget wisdom from the stars. Come, mistress."

  And they went down the narrow, winding stair together.