The Brown Mask

  CHAPTER XXV

  THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE

  There was little danger of anyone recognising Gilbert Crosby as hepassed through the streets of the town. A swinging lantern mightillumine his face for a moment, or the beam of light from someunshuttered window might have betrayed him to some watching enemy, buteveryone in the houses and in the streets had enough to think aboutto-night. Judge Jeffreys had come to Dorchester. To-morrow his ferociousvoice would be dooming dozens to death in that court with the scarlethangings. The Bloody Assizes would have commenced in earnest, and therewere few families in Dorchester which had not one relative or friendwaiting in the prisons to be tried for rebellion. There was alreadymourning in the city, and the soldiers were in readiness lestdesperation should drive to riot. Crosby might have gone with less carethan he did and yet passed unnoticed.

  In the upper room at "The Anchor" he found Fellowes, who sprang up athis entrance.

  "Gad! I had lost all hope," he exclaimed. "I have been searching thetown for you. I thought Rosmore must have caught you."

  "He did. A miracle has happened. Where is Fairley?"

  "I have not seen him since we parted the other night," Fellowesanswered. "I have picked up some information, but have had no one totell it to."

  "And I have seen Mistress Lanison."

  "Seen her!"

  "Seen her and spoken to her. It is a miracle, I tell you." And Crosbygave him the history of his dealings with Lord Rosmore, omitting nodetail from the moment he had stepped into the room and overheard partof the conversation with Judge Marriott to his leaving Rosmore's lodgingless than an hour ago.

  "It is well that you did not tell him of this place," said Fellowes.

  "You do not trust him?"

  "No. Do you?"

  "I cannot see how he is possibly to profit out of such a plan," saidCrosby.

  "The devil tempts in the same way," answered Fellowes. "If we couldalways see through the devil's plans we should less often fall a victimto his wiles. If an angel came and bid me trust Rosmore, I should haveno faith in the angel."

  "Let us find the weak places in the scheme if we can," said Crosby.

  "There is one I see at once," said Fellowes. "You are taken blindfold toMistress Lanison's prison. You do not know in what part of the town sheis. You cannot watch the house. Why the delay of three days?"

  "I am inclined to think Rosmore has been generous this time," Crosbypersisted.

  "If by some strange chance he has, there are three days in which he mayrepent of his generosity," was the answer. "I have seen Marriott. Hetold me of his interview with Rosmore, and that the orders had beenstolen from him, he did not explain how. Rosmore has no fiercer enemy atthe moment than the judge. Marriott knew nothing of Mistress Lanison'scapture; indeed, he declared that he did not believe she was inDorchester. One thing he was certain of, that Rosmore intended to forceher to marry him."

  "How?"

  "Perhaps by letting her appear before Jeffreys, allowing her to beaccused and condemned, and then rescuing her at his own price. This isMarriott's idea."

  "She would not pay the price."

  "And I fear Marriott would not be powerful enough to save her, althoughhe says he could, if Rosmore took this course. The outlook is black,man, black as hell, and only one feeble ray of light can I bring intoit. Marriott has promised to help me to open her prison doors should shebe condemned. To his own undoing I believe he will keep that promise, sogreat is his hatred of Rosmore."

  "What can we do?" said Crosby, pacing the room with short, nervousstrides. "It is damnable to be so helpless."

  "Wait; there is nothing else to do. Marriott is doing his best to findout where Mistress Lanison is imprisoned. He is to let me know. If wecan find that out we may yet beat this devil Rosmore."

  "He may be honest in this," said Crosby.

  "We will have the coach waiting," Fellowes answered, "but I do notbelieve Rosmore is ever going to help you to use it. I wish Martin werehere."

  "Where can he have gone?"

  "Working somewhere for his mistress," said Fellowes. "That is certainunless he is dead. You recollect he said he had a half-formed scheme inhis mind. Next morning I found a message here that he might be absentfor a day or two."

  "Some forlorn hope," said Crosby.

  "Perhaps, but Martin's forlorn hopes have a way of proving useful. Youwill lie low here, I suppose, Crosby? I will get back to my lodgings,and if I hear from Marriott I will come to you at once--or from Rosmore.It may be part of his design to make you think Mistress Barbara haschanged her mind."

  "If he sent such a message I should know he was lying."

  "Don't leave here, Crosby. Much may depend on my being able to find youat a moment's notice, and Martin may return at any time. You and I haveonly discovered how great our difficulties are. Let us hope Martin willhave found the way out of them."

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

  News travelled slowly. Messengers, with instructions not to spare theirhorses, might ride to London, to the King at Whitehall, yet Lady Lislehad been executed at Winchester before the story of her trial was knownin parts of Hampshire even. If one were far from the main road, wherenews might be had from the driver or guard of a coach, information couldonly come from some wandering pedlar to a remote village, and might ormight not be true. Vague stories were told, and forgotten as soon astold. Men and women, with a hard living to earn, cared little what washappening fifty or a hundred miles away, unless a son or brother orfriend had had part in the rebellion. At the village of Aylingford noone appeared to have this personal interest, and they were ignorant ofthe fact that at least one messenger had ridden to the Abbey with newsfor Sir John. He had come at nightfall, had been with Sir John for anhour, and had then departed. He had not lingered in the servants'quarters to whisper something of his news, nor had Sir John mentionedhis coming to his guests. There were not many guests at Aylingford justnow, and Mrs. Dearmer yawned openly, and confessed herself bored. Sheseemed to have taken up her abode permanently at the Abbey, playing thehostess, and to some extent ruling Sir John.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Next week we will go to town," said Mrs. Dearmer. "I love you, AbbotJohn, with all the wickedness that is in me, but truly you have growndull 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 guiltyof in the eyes of such a woman, yet the accusation did not trouble himnow as much as it would have done at another time. He was restless, andif his conscience was too moribund to have the power of pricking, he hadbecome introspective. Fear and su
perstition took hold of him, and hecould not shake himself free. The news which the messenger had broughthim was good news, yet, even as the man had delivered it, a candle hadguttered and gone out, and Sir John saw a warning of disaster in thefact. He was constantly on the watch for such omens, and saw them withinthe house and without. He met a new kitchen wench who looked at him witheyes askew, sure sign of evil. Three crows with flapping wings settledat dusk upon the terrace wall and called to him as he passed. A vase ofquaint workmanship, brought from the East Indies by his brother,Barbara's father, split suddenly in twain, and Sir John trembled as withan ague at so sure a premonition of evil as this. There were momentswhen he could not bear to be shut in a room, when the confinementbetween four walls seemed to stifle him, and like a half suffocated manhe would stagger on to the terrace and gasp for breath.

  He promised Mrs. Dearmer that next week he would go with her to town,and all that day he tried to prove that he was not dull. The effort wassuccessful until the evening, and then came the feeling of suffocationand the need for deep draughts of air. With a muttered excuse he lefthis guests to their play and laughter, and hurried to the terrace.

  The night was still, not a breeze stirred in the trees, and the light ofa young moon was upon the terrace, casting faint, motionless shadowsover greensward and stone flags. For a little while Sir John stoodlooking down into the stream, which seemed asleep to-night. Upon it theshadows quivered, but scarce a ripple of music came from underneath itsbanks. A man might well feel some regrets for the past on such a nightof peace, might well hear the small voice of conscience distinctly, butwith Sir John there was only superstition and fear.

  Motionless shadows on the terrace, and yet Sir John turned suddenly, asthough he were conscious of movement, and his eyes rested upon a shadowin the angle of a wall. He had not noticed it before; now for a littlespace it seemed like other shadows, but Sir John was not deceived. Itmoved, coming out from the wall and towards him, and a man stood there.

  "Martin!"

  Sir John was not a coward, but a sigh of relief escaped him when herealised that this was no phantom, but a thing of flesh and blood--onlyMad Martin.

  "I have waited for you, Sir John."

  "The doors were not locked against you, though they well might havebeen. Where do you spring from to-night, and what have you been doing?"

  "Wandering and dreaming."

  "In a mad mood, eh?"

  "Yes, when I see things and hear voices," said Martin in a sing-songtone, as though he were dreaming now and unconscious of the words hislips uttered. "I heard my mistress calling me. Where is she, Sir John?"

  "In London, Martin."

  "No; she was, but not now. She was calling from a dark room, and thedoor was locked. I could see the room, a miserable room, but I could notsee her, only hear her. She was in the power of Lord Rosmore."

  Sir John bent forward to see Fairley's face more clearly in themoonlight. He had known him in this mood before, known him to givestrange but good advice while in this state. He was satisfied thatMartin was unconscious now, and was eager to question him.

  "What will happen, Martin?"

  "I cannot see."

  "But why come to the Abbey?"

  "She sent me to you. I know not why, but I have waited. I heard her saythat I must not be seen. She thought you could save her."

  "How?"

  Martin put his arm across his eyes for a moment.

  "It is all a mist, and the voices are muffled," he said. "You would knowwhat Lord Rosmore would do, and would tell me."

  "It will be good for her to marry Lord Rosmore," said Sir John.

  "Not good for her, but good for you," was the answer; "she said that.She said you were afraid of him, that you must do as he willed. It wasvery clear in my dreams."

  "Why should I fear him?"

  "So many questions give me pain. I was dreaming; I cannot remembereverything. One thing is clear. She called to me that you might be freefrom Lord Rosmore if you knew a secret which the Abbey holds."

  "Do you know it, Martin?"

  "Yes; she told me, and it is a secret."

  "What is it, Martin?"

  "A secret, but I was to tell you if you helped her."

  "Stop this foolery!" said Sir John, seizing his arm sharply. "You shallbe locked up until this wayward niece of mine is safely married."

  "Married! Would you die, master?"

  "Die?"

  "Surely. The stars showed it me long ago. Two planets in conjunction,that was the marriage, and then across the night sky the flash of ameteor, dead and cold in a moment."

  "Curse your dreams and the stars!"

  "Listen!" said Fairley. "Cannot you hear the music of chinking money?Look, master! I see gems like eyes--white and red and blue--diamonds,rubies, and sapphires. That is all part of the secret, that and theNun's Room."

  "Tell me the secret," said Sir John.

  "If you help my mistress."

  "I know nothing."

  "I have forgotten the secret," Martin whispered.

  He moved away slowly and then stopped.

  "Master, why not be rich? What is it to you and me what happens toMistress Barbara, so we can be rich? I would be rich, too. If LordRosmore has power over you, money and jewels will buy freedom. It istrue, somewhere in the Abbey the wealth of the Indies has been buried. Iknow it."

  "Then tell me, Martin."

  "You fool, you fool, you have made me forget, but I shall remember ifyou will only let me. In dreams, when we promise and do not fulfil, weforget everything. You must help my mistress, or I cannot remember. See,I have a proof. Once, long ago, I found that in the Nun's Room; Ithought it was glass, but Mistress Barbara's voice says it is a diamond.Take it, master, you will know."

  It was a diamond which Sir John held between his finger and thumb. Inthe moonlight the colours sparkled, such deep, clear colours as nevercame from glass. It was a stone that had been set; how had it come intothe Nun's Room? Sir John's pulses quickened. If he told what he knew,what harm would be done?

  "It is a diamond, Martin."

  "One among hidden hundreds. Help the mistress, master, and let us berich. You must give me a little of all we find, so that I may alwayshave a fire in winter and can eat and drink when I like; that is to berich, indeed."

  "I will tell you what I know, Martin, but how can it help Barbara?"

  "She has command of my thoughts, as you speak she will hear; but awarning, master--you must speak the truth. I shall not know the truthfrom a lie, but she will, and if you lie we shall not find thetreasure."

  "Barbara went to Dorchester to try and save the highwayman, GilbertCrosby," said Sir John. "It was Rosmore's device to send her word thatCrosby was a prisoner, and on the way she was captured, not by theKing's troops as a rebel, but by men in Rosmore's pay. She is in no realdanger, but she does not know this. She will not be brought beforeJeffreys or any other judge, but she will be treated as though this wereto be her fate. Rosmore will save her, do you understand, and in hergratitude she will give him his reward."

  "How will he save me?" came the question in a monotonous voice, and SirJohn started, for it did not seem as if Martin had asked it.

  "The day of the trial will be fixed--it may be to-day or to-morrow, Icannot tell; but the night before she will be smuggled into a waitingcoach and driven here to Aylingford."

  "Must she promise to marry Lord Rosmore first?"

  "Probably. Yes, he will certainly make her promise that before he helpsher. It is not a hard promise to make, Martin; Lord Rosmore is a bettermate than 'Galloping Hermit.'"

  Martin sighed and rubbed his eyes. He looked round him and then at SirJohn.

  "I thought I was speaking to Mistress Barbara," he said. "Ah, Iremember, I was. We have helped her, Sir John. How she will use thathelp does not matter. Is she to give a promise to Rosmore? I wonder whatwill happen if she will not give it?"

  "I do not know. Such is Lord Rosmore's plan, but circumstances mightmake him alter it."
r />   "And if he fails he may denounce her and leave her to her fate," saidMartin. "She won't be the only woman to suffer, and, whichever way itends, we have something else to think of--riches."

  "Is it true about this treasure, Martin?" said Sir John.

  "True! As true as that Lady Lisle was foully executed at Winchester forjust such a crime as Mistress Barbara may be accused of if she will makeno promise to Lord Rosmore."

  "That is a horrible thought," said Sir John, shrinking from him.

  "We mustn't think. Those who would get rich quickly must act. Come."

  He led the way along the terrace towards the ruins, and Sir Johnfollowed him almost as if he expected to see movement in the motionlessshadows about him. The prospect of finding this hidden wealth, and allit would mean to him, shut out every other thought. The legend of buriedtreasure at the Abbey was not a new one. The monks who had lived in ithad grown wealthy--why should they not have left their wealth behindthem? Martin was mad, but in his madness he had strange visions; SirJohn was satisfied that he had had many proofs of this, and he followedhim now, never doubting that the treasure existed and would be found.

  They came to the opening of the Nun's Room.

  "The creepers in this corner are a natural ladder, Sir John."

  "But we cannot go down into it, Martin."

  "How else shall we get the riches?"

  "Those who enter the Nun's Room die within the year," said Sir John,trembling.

  "A tale made to keep the curious from looking for the treasure," Martinanswered. "I have gone down many times, but I searched in vain, nothaving the key to the secret. To-night I have it. I will go first," and,kneeling down, he grasped the creepers, which grew strongly here, andlowered himself quickly.

  Sir John was not so agile, but he went down after him. He would haveaccomplished a far more difficult feat rather than remain behind.

  "I wonder whether Mistress Barbara will make that promise?" said Martin,as Sir John came to the floor beside him.

  "I wonder."

  "If she doesn't, death. If she does, Rosmore will have a wife; the poorhighwayman will doubtless hang at Tyburn; but we shall be rich. Thatmatters, nothing else does."

  "Nothing else, Martin," and, indeed, Sir John was too excited to betroubled by any other thought.

  Martin guided him across the room.

  "Feel, Sir John. This is the ledge where they say the Nun slept;creepers hang over it, and behind these creepers--listen, Sir John,listen!" and he knocked sharply against the stone wall. "Hollow! It'strue! This is no solid wall as it seems. Feel, Sir John, your finger onthe edge of this great slab. A doorway built up, and not so long ago.Listen! Hollow! It's true, it's true!" and Martin jumped and clapped hishands like a child.

  "Yes, it's hollow, sure enough," said Sir John.

  "Light and a pick. We'll be in the treasure chamber before morning.Wait, Sir John, I'll get them."

  "Stop, Martin; where are you going?"

  "For a light and a pick," and he climbed out by the creepers in thecorner. "I know the treasure has been hidden there. I have seen it in mydreams."

  "Be quick, Martin."

  "I shall make more haste than I have ever done in my life before," heanswered, bending over the edge by the corner. "Poor Rosmore! poorhighwayman! Only a wife and a gibbet for them. But for us--"

  "Stop talking, Martin, and let us get to work," came the answer frombelow.

  "I wonder whether Mistress Barbara will make a promise?" And Martin cutand wrenched at the creepers where they clung to the stone floor andfallen masonry at the top.

  "What are you doing?" said Sir John.

  "Freeing myself from the creepers. That's done. I'll hasten, Sir John,never fear."

  Something moved in the dark, sunken room, scraping and sliding.

  "Martin!"

  Sir John could hear the sound of his footsteps quickly lessening in thedistance, but there was no answer to his call.

  "Martin!"

  Still no answer, and the sound of the footsteps had gone. Sir John, withhis hands stretched out before him, crossed to the corner where he hadcome down. His hands came in contact with a tangle of creepers, hangingloose, from the wall. The ladder was broken!

  Martin Fairley went swiftly to the terrace and on to one of the stonebridges over the stream. Then he paused and listened.

  "He will have to cry loudly to be heard to-night. Grant that he may findno escape until morning."

  Then he crossed the bridge and went swiftly through the woods.