The Brown Mask

  CHAPTER V

  CHILDREN OF THE DEVIL

  Although Barbara Lanison had found that life at the Abbey was differentsince her return from London, and had concluded that the true reason layin the fact that she was now considered a woman, whereas before she hadbeen looked upon as a child only, she did not at once appreciate howgreat the difference really was. Her uncle seemed a little doubtful howto treat her. He talked a great deal about her taking her place asmistress of the house, yet he made little attempt to have this positionrecognised. The guests, especially the women, while quite willing toadmit her as one of themselves, did not even pretend to consider hertheir hostess, and, on the whole, Sir John seemed quite contented thatthey should not do so. He seemed rather relieved whenever Barbarawithdrew herself from the general company, as she constantly did, andthose who knew Sir John best found him more natural when his niece wasnot present.

  Since she only saw him when, as his intimates declared, he was under acertain restraint, Barbara had not much opportunity of forming a clearjudgment of her uncle. He had been very kind to her ever since she hadcome to Aylingford as a little child, and if his manner towards her hadchanged recently she hardly noticed it. Under the circumstances shewould not easily be ready to criticise. But in the case of the gueststhe change was not only very marked, but increasingly so, particularlywith the women. Whereas the men, chivalrous in spite of themselves,perhaps, showed her a certain amount of deference, the women seemed toresent her. It was so soon apparent that she had nothing in common withthem that they appeared to combine to shock her. Mistress Dearmer ledthe laughter at what she termed Barbara's country manners and prudery.There were few things in heaven or earth exempt from the ridicule ofMrs. Dearmer's tongue, and it was a loose tongue, full of coarse talesand licentious wit. She was a pretty woman, which, from the men's pointof view, seemed to add piquancy to her scandalous conversation, but thefact only made Barbara's ears tingle the more. Mrs. Dearmer was in thefashion; Barbara knew that, for even at Lady Bolsover's she had oftenbeen made to blush, but she had never heard in St. James's Square atithe of the ribaldry which assailed her at the Abbey.

  It was natural, perhaps, that Barbara Lanison should propound a problemto herself. Was she foolish to resent what was little more than thefashion of the day? These people were her uncle's guests, honouredguests surely, since they had come to Aylingford so often. Would hecountenance anything to which there was any real objection? She wouldhave asked him, but found no opportunity. For two or three days afterhis talk with her about Lord Rosmore she hardly saw him, and never for amoment alone. More guests arrived, and it was during these days thatMrs. Dearmer's conversation became more daring. On two occasions Barbarahad got up and walked away, followed by a burst of laughter--she thoughtat her modesty, but it might have been at Mrs. Dearmer's tale.

  On the second occasion Sydney Fellowes followed her as soon as he coulddo so without undue comment.

  "Why did you go?" he asked.

  "That woman maddens me."

  "Yes, she is--the fact is, you ought not to be here."

  "Not be here!" she exclaimed. "This is my home. It is she who ought notto be here. I shall speak to my uncle."

  "Wait! Have a little patience," said Fellowes. "After all, she is Mrs.Dearmer, a lady of fashion, a lady who has been to Court. You would beastonished at the power she wields in certain directions. In these daysthe world is not censorious, and is apt to laugh at those who are."

  "If you merely came to defend that woman, I am in the mood to like yourabsence better than your company."

  "I hate her," Fellowes answered. "I think I hate all women now that Ihave known one beautiful, pure ideal. Oh, do not misunderstand me. Ilook up at a star to worship its dazzling brightness, and I would nothave it come to earth for any purpose. You are too far removed from Mrs.Dearmer to understand her, nor can she possibly appreciate you. To fighther would be to fail, just now at any rate--even Sir John would laugh atyou."

  "You speak seriously?"

  "Intentionally. I am a very debased fellow. A dozen men will tell youso, and women too for that matter, but I can appreciate the good,although I am incapable of rising to its level. I recognise it from thegutter, but I go on lying in the gutter. There is only one person on theearth who can pick me out and keep me out."

  "I should not suppose there was a person in the world who would considersuch a man worth such a labour," said Barbara.

  "No doubt you are right, and that is why I must remain in the gutter."

  He looked, in every way, so exactly the opposite of anyone doomed tosuch a resting-place that Barbara laughed.

  "I suppose you know who that person is?" he said.

  "At least I know that any woman would be a fool to attempt such anunprofitable task," she answered. "If I thought you were really speakingthe truth, I should hate you. You would not be worthy the name of a man,and even a Mrs. Dearmer, in her more reasonable moments, would despiseyou."

  Fellowes looked at her for a moment.

  "I wish my mother had lived to make a better man of me," he saidabruptly, and turned and left her.

  Barbara had become so accustomed to Sydney Fellowes' sudden andchangeable moods that she thought little of his words, or his manner ofleaving her. Yet, to the man had come a sudden flash of repentance, notlasting but real enough for the moment, holding him until the nexttemptation came in his path. He did not seek his companions, but crossedone of the bridges, and plunged into the woods, cursing himself andfeeling out of tune with the rest of the world. Two hours later he andLord Rosmore came back together, slowly, and talking eagerly. Fellowes,like many other quite young men, had a profound admiration for LordRosmore, and his opinion upon any matter carried weight.

  "You have not sufficient faith in yourself, Fellowes," Rosmore said asthey crossed the bridge. "That is the trouble."

  "It is easily remedied," was the answer.

  "That is the spirit which brings victory," said Rosmore, patting hiscompanion on the shoulder.

  The guests who had arrived during the last two or three days hadintroduced a noisier and wilder element into the Abbey. Barbara waspuzzled at her uncle's attitude, and retired from the company as much aspossible. This evening she left early, pretending no excuse as hithertoshe had done. She wanted her uncle to understand, and question her.Surely he must do so if she were rude to his guests. A burst of laughterfollowed her withdrawal.

  "You must be a Puritan in disguise, Abbot John, to have such a niece,"said Mrs. Dearmer; and then she turned and whispered something into theear of Sir Philip Branksome that might have made him blush had he beencapable of such a thing. Sir John seemed mightily entertained at thelady's suggestion. He laughed aloud, cursed Puritans generously, anddrank deeply to their ultimate perdition.

  There is ever some restraint in vice when virtue is present, but withBarbara's departure all restraint seemed to vanish. There were probablydegrees in the viciousness of these men and women, but, as a whole, itwould have been difficult to bring together a more abandoned company.High play was here, and the ruin of many a man's fortune. Honour, saveof the spurious sort, held no man in check, and virtue was as dross.Debauchery of every kind was practised openly and unashamedly. Vice wasenthroned in this temple, and her ribald followers bowed the head. Thiswas Aylingford Abbey, built for worship long ago, therefore worshipshould be in it now. "We will be monks and nuns of the devil," somegenius in wickedness had cried one evening, and the suggestion had beenhailed with delight. This was their foundation, so they had calledthemselves ever since, and Sir John Lanison delighted to be the "Abbot"of such a community. They chose a sign whereby they might be known toone another in the world--the slow tracing of a circle on the foreheadwith the forefinger--and they bound themselves by an oath to theirmaster to love him and all his works, and to eschew all that was calledgood. It had often been noticed how many persons of condition, whoseemed to be at one with Sir John in politics, had never been offeredthe hospitality of Aylingford. The true reason had never
been divulged.If, as had chanced on one or two occasions, guests had been there whoknew nothing of these debaucheries, the devil's children presentdissembled, and affected to yawn over the dull entertainment provided bySir John. The secret of the Abbey had never leaked out, nor did itappear that any man or woman, desirous of betraying it, had ever foundan entrance into the community. Once, a year ago, a woman had whisperedher suspicion of a man, and he was found dead in his lodging in PallMall before he had time to speak of what he knew, even if he intended todo so.

  As he was popular in the county, passing for a God-fearing gentleman, soSir John Lanison was popular as the devil's "Abbot." There were few whocould surpass him in wickedness, but he was a man of moods, and therewere times when fear peered out of his eyes. He was superstitious,finding omens when he gambled at basset, and premonitions in all mannerof foolish signs. He had played this evening with ill success, he haddrunk deeply, and was inclined to be quarrelsome.

  "The Abbot is wanting to make us all do penance," laughed Fellowes, whosome time since had parted with sobriety. "I'll read him these verses topacify him; they would make an angry devil collapse into a chuckle. Mrs.Dearmer inspired them, so you may guess how wicked they are."

  "Always verses--nothing but verses," said Rosmore, who had drunk littleand seemed to watch his companions with amusement.

  "No woman was ever won by poetry," said a girl in Fellowes' ear. "Trysome other way."

  "What way?"

  The girl whispered to him, laughing the while. She was very pretty, veryinnocent to look upon.

  "Women must be carried by assault, gloriously, as a besieged city is,"roared Branksome from the other end of the room. "The lover who attemptsto starve them into surrender is a fool, and gets ridiculed for hispains. What do you say, Rosmore?"

  "Nothing. There are many ladies who can explain my methods better than Ican."

  Mrs. Dearmer laughed, and desired a lesson forthwith.

  "My dear lady, there would be too many lovers to call me to account formy presumption," Rosmore answered.

  "Branksome is right," said Mrs. Dearmer. "Take a woman by force or notat all. She loves a desperate man. His desperation and overriding of allconvention do homage to her. I never yet met the virtue that could standagainst such an assault."

  "She is right, Sydney," whispered the girl to Fellowes, her handssuddenly clasped round his arm.

  Fellowes looked down into her face, and a strange expression came intohis own.

  "I believe she is," he said almost passionately. "I believe she is.There's no woman so virtuous that--"

  "None," whispered the girl.

  Fellowes laughed, and shook himself free from her.

  "I'll drink to success, and then--" He stumbled as he rose to his feet,and, recovering himself, laughed at Sir John. "You shall have the versesanother time, Abbot; I have other things to do just now."

  He called a servant, and talked to him in a low voice.

  "Yes, blockhead, I said the hall," he exclaimed in a louder voice. "Thehall in ten minutes, and if she isn't there I'll come and let the lifeout of you for a lazy scoundrel who cannot carry a message. A drink withyou, reverend Abbot--a liquid benediction on me."

  Lord Rosmore watched him, but Sir John took no notice of him. Sir John'sthoughts were wandering, and had anyone been watching him closely theymight have seen fear looking out of his eyes. A candle on a table nearhim spluttered and burnt crookedly.

  "That means disaster," he muttered, and then he turned to Lord Rosmorefiercely, though he spoke in an undertone. "You were a fool to let mebring her back."

  It was evident that he had made a similar statement to his companionbefore, for Rosmore showed no surprise or ignorance of his meaning.

  "I shall take her away presently, her lover and deliverer. In this caseit is the best method."

  "And let her curse me?"

  "No. I shall promise to deliver you and bring about your redemption."

  "A devilish method," said Sir John.

  "One must work with the tools that are to hand," said Rosmore with ashrug of his shoulders.

  "But when? When?"

  "Perhaps in a few short hours. Wait! Wait, Sir John. It seems to me thatopportunity is in the air to-night."

  "And disaster," said Sir John, glancing at the spluttering candle. LordRosmore made no comment--perhaps did not hear the words, for he wasintent upon watching Sydney Fellowes, who was standing near a door whichopened into the hall. No one else appeared to notice him, not even thepretty girl he had spurned. She was too much engaged in consoling ayouth who had lost heavily at basset.

  Barbara was dull in her room. The silence was oppressive, for no soundsof the riotous company reached her there, and the pale moonlight on theterrace below, and over the sleeping woods, seemed to throw a mist ofsadness over the world. She had opened the casement, and for a time hadpuzzled over her uncle and his strange guests. Something must be goingforward at the Abbey of which she was ignorant. Sydney Fellowes mustknow this, and there had been more meaning in his words than she hadimagined. Why ought she not to be at the Abbey? And then her thoughtswandered to another man who had found her in a place where no womanought to be, and she remembered all Lord Rosmore had said about him.Looking out on the quiet, sleeping world, so full of mystery and theunknown, it was easy to fall into a reverie, to indulge in speculationswhich, waking again, she would hardly remember; easy to lose all countof time. Once, at some distance along the terrace towards the servants'quarters, there was the sound of slow footsteps and a low laugh. Therewere two shadows in the moonlight--a man's and a woman's. Some servingmaid had found love, for the low laugh was a happy one, and some man,perchance no more than a groom, had suddenly become a hero in a girl'seyes. Unconsciously perhaps, Barbara sighed. That girl was happier thanshe was.

  A gentle knock came at her door, and a man stood there.

  "Mr. Fellowes sent me. Will you see him in the hall in ten minutes. Itis important; he must see you. 'It is for your own sake.' Those were hisown words, madam."

  Barbara received the message, but gave no answer, and the man departed.Had the message come from anyone but Sydney Fellowes she would havetaken no notice of it, but, remembering what he had said to her, thisrequest assumed importance. She was more likely to discover the truthabout the Abbey from Sydney Fellowes than from anyone else.

  There was only a dim light in the great hall--candles upon a table atthe far end. The moonlight came through the painted windows, stainingthe stone floor here and there with misty colours. There was no movementnear her, but the sound of voices and laughter came from the chamberbeyond--the one from which she had angrily departed some time ago. Nowthe voices were hushed to a murmur, now they were loud, and the laughterwas irresponsible. How she hated the sound of it, and that shrillernote, peculiarly persistent for a moment, was Mrs. Dearmer's. NoChristian feeling could prevent her from hating that woman.

  Barbara crossed to the wide hearth and waited.

  A door opened suddenly; there was the rustling of the curtain which hungover it being thrust aside, a shaft of light shot across the hall for amoment, and the sounds of voices and laughter were loud, then the doorclosed again sharply. There were a few hasty steps, and then silence.

  "You sent me a message, Mr. Fellowes."

  In a moment he was beside her.

  "Barbara!"

  She stepped back as though the sound of her own name startled her.

  "I love you. Women were made for love--you above all women. You think Ican only scribble poetry--you are wrong! I mean to--Barbara, myBarbara!"

  "You insult me, Mr. Fellowes."

  He caught her in his arms as she turned away from him.

  "Insult! Nonsense! Love insults no woman. You are mine--mine! I take youas it is right a man should take a woman."

  She struggled to free herself, but could not. She did not want to cryout.

  "You remembered your mother to-day, remember her now," she panted.

  The wine fumes were in his
head, confusion in his brain; reason had lefther seat for a while, and truth was distorted.

  "I do remember her," he answered, speaking low but wildly. "She was awoman. A man took her, as I take you; wooed her, loved her as I loveyou. I do remember--that is why you are mine to-night."

  She struggled again. She did not want to cry out. There was no man inthat room she wished to call upon to defend her--not even her uncle.Evil seemed to surround her. Had any other man touched her like this,she would have called to Sydney Fellowes, so far had she believed in himand trusted him.

  "Barbara, you shall love me!" he went on, holding her so that she waspowerless. "Love shall be sealed, my lips on yours."

  "Help! Save me from this man!" Her fierce, angry cry woke the echoes. Ina moment there was the sound of hurrying feet, the sudden opening of adoor, and again a shaft of light cut through the hall. Men and womenrushed in from the adjoining room with loud and eager inquiry. Then SirJohn, closely followed by Lord Rosmore.

  "Quick! More lights!" he said. "Who is it screaming for help?"

  "Is it some serving-maid in distress?" cried Branksome.

  "Or a fool too honest to be kissed," laughed a woman.

  "Barbara!" Sir John's exclamation was almost a whisper. Lights were inthe hall now, brought hastily from the room beyond. Some had been putdown in the first place that offered, some were still held by theguests. Fellowes had turned to face this wild interruption, and Barbarahad wrenched herself free from his arms as he did so.

  "A love passage!" laughed Fellowes. "Why interfere?"

  "He insulted me!" said Barbara.

  "My niece is--"

  "Leave this to me, Sir John," said Rosmore, laying a hand upon hisshoulder.

  "That's right, Rosmore, and leave me to my wooing," cried Fellowes.

  "You cur! You shall repent this night's folly," said Rosmore.

  "Excellent! Excellent! You should have been a mummer. This is gloriouscomedy!" and Fellowes laughed aloud. "What! A hint of tragedy in it,too!"

  A naked sword was in Rosmore's hand.

  "A woman's honour must be defended," hissed Rosmore.

  "Gad! I'll not spoil the play for want of pantomime," cried Fellowes,still laughing. "Why don't you all laugh at such excellent fooling?"

  "There is no laughter in this," said Rosmore, and Fellowes' face grewsuddenly serious.

  "This is real? You mean it?" he said.

  "I mean it."

  "Devil's whelp that you are!" Fellowes cried. "Between two scoundrelsmay God help the least debased."

  In an instant there was the ring of steel and the quick flash of theblades as the light caught them.

  Sir John had made a step forward to interfere, but had hesitated andstopped. No one else moved, and there was silence as steel touchedsteel--breathless silence. For a moment Barbara was hardly conscious ofwhat was happening about her. It seemed only an instant ago that she hadcried out, and now naked swords and the shadow of death. Lord Rosmore'sface looked evil, sinister, devilish. Fellowes was flushed with wine,unsteady, taken by surprise. There came to Barbara the sudden convictionthat in some manner Fellowes had fallen into a trap. He had insultedher, but the wine was the cause, and Rosmore had seized the opportunityfor his own ends. She tried to speak, but could not. There was a fiercelunge, real and deadly meaning in it, an unsteady parry which barelyturned swift death aside, and then a sudden low sound from severalvoices, and an excited shuffle of feet. Barbara had rushed forward andthrown herself between the fighters.

  "This is mere trickery," she cried. "You play a coward's part, my lord,fighting with a drunken man."

  "He insulted you--that sufficed for me."

  "I did not ask you to punish him," she answered.

  She faced Lord Rosmore, shielding Fellowes, who was behind her. NowFellowes gently touched her arm.

  "Grant me your pardon, Mistress Lanison, and then let me pay thepenalty," he said.

  She had thrust out her arm to keep him behind her, when the big door atthe end of the hall opening on to the terrace was flung open, and on thethreshold stood a tall figure, dark and distinct against the moonlitworld beyond. His garments were of nondescript fashion, but his pose wasnot without grace. Under one arm he carried a fiddle, and the bow was inhis hand. He raised it and waved it in a sort of benediction.

  "Give you greeting, ladies and gentlemen--and news besides. Monmouth haslanded at Lyme, and all the West Country is aflame with rebellion."