THE BROWN MASK.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLVII, Issue 14465, 3 September 1910, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE BROWN MASK.

rUBUSHED BY SPECIAL AJIRAXGEUENT.

BY PERCY JAMES BREBNER, Author of " A Eoyal "Ward," " Vayennc," - Princess Alaritza." etc., etc. ( COPYRIGHT. { I CHAPTER X. FATE and tub fiddler. Tnrc stars were still bright in the deep vault above, the breeze still had a note of singing in it, but the sound of music and dancing was hushed in the village, and all the lights were out, when two horsemen came through a gateway on to the road some five miles away. Gilbert Crosby found himself in strange company. No sooner had this queer fiddler learned that search had been made at the Jolly Farmers than he refused to give any information, or listen to any explanation, until they had put some distance between themselves and the inn. He hurried out of the house, and in a few minutes returned with the information that he had two horses waiting in the woods behind. Crosby's mount was a good enough looking animal which seemed capable of carrying him far if not fast; his companion's horse was so lean and miserable that it seemed to bear a resemblance to the fiddle -which Fairlcy had slung by a string across his back. In spite of its ill-condition Crosby wondered whether it would not be too much for the musician, who mounted awkwardly and seemed so intent on keeping his seat that he was not able to talk. He had grown more accustomed to the animal by the time they came out on to the high road. They had travelled chiefly I at. walking pace, by rough paths, and through woods where the tracks would have been difficult to find even in the daytime, and impossible at night save to one who knew them intimately. " So we strike the road as you declared we should," said Crosby. "You have great knowledge of the byways in this part of the country, Master Fairley." " I have traversed them, usually on foot, for many years," he answered. " My fiddle.and I go.and make music in all the villages about, • almost everybody knows me along the road. Should we be questioned. say you fell in with me and wo continued together for company." " Trust me. I can keep a quiet tongue," Crosby returned. " Will you tell me now where" we are going and how it is you interest yourself in me?" " Better that you should tell me your part of the story first or 1 may be giving you stale news." "Truly, I have little to tell," Crosby said. " I am no rebel, though the charge might with some show of reason be brought against me. To-day, or yesterday, rather, for- it must be.long after midnight, my house was secretly surrounded. My servant told me _ when I returned in the afternoon, and informed me also that a man was waiting to sec me"." * ' " ' "Who was it?" Fairley asked. _ "I must keep faith with him.since so far he keeps faith with He bid me say nothing concerning him. . A short ejaculation came froni the fiddler. Perhaps his horse gave him trouble at that moment, but it seemed to Crosby that his companion did not- believe him. "Yon doubt what I say?'' ~ T "Did I sav so?" asked Fairley. l am used to strange tales, and I have only heard a part of yours. Finish it, Mr. 1 '"The flight from Sedgemoor had let loose licence in the west, and I have reason to think that I am a victim of private vengeance. Be this as it mav. mv visitor had a scheme for my deliverance. He proposed facing the enemv who had now come to the door, and tola mo to giro him a few minutes' start, and then make mv way to the village from the back of the house. I should find a horse awaiting me there, and he told me to ride to the Jollv Farmers, where I was to await the coming of a fiddler who would direct me further He was most insistent on the exact'road I should follow, and that I should leave mv "horse at a certain place in the village, and reach the inn on foot. My escape was cleverly arranged." . "This man did you a service, said airlev. "I wish I knew his name." "I cannot tell you. I can tell you nothing further about him ; but now that I have escaped I feel rather as if I were playing a coward's part by running away." "Why? You are not a rebel." " True ; yet I count for something in my own neighbourhood, and might stretch out a protecting arm.".. .. . . . "You were caught like a rat in a hole, and would have been- powerless ; whereas now you are free to fight your enemies, thanks to Your strange visitor." " You speak of him as if you doubted his existence," said Crosby, with some irritation. , "Doubt! I do assure you I am one ot those "strange fellows who see and hear things which most folk affirm have no existence I lind doubting % difficult matter. With ill-luck I might get burnt for a wizard. I promise you there is more understanding in mo than you would give me credit for, and certainly I- should not call such a flight as yours cowardly." " I shall bo able to judge the better perhaps when I have heard your part of the tale." said Crosby. "That is by no means certain, for my part is as vague as yours," Fairley answered. "You were in danger, that I knew, but the exact form of it I was ignorant of. I was instructed to find you and bring you to a place of safety, .and was told that 1 should meet with you at the Jolly Farmers. "By this same man, i suppose?" "No." My • instructions ..came ..from a woman." " A woman!" " Yes ; and one who is evidently interested in your affairs," Fairley answered. " Does your memory not servo to remind you of such a woman?" Crosby did not answer the question. In tho darkness of the road before him he seemed to see a vision. "What is this woman like?" He did not turn to look at his companion as he asked the question ; he hardly seemed to know that he had spoken. "I cannot tell you, there are no words," said Fairley,. in', thai, curious monotone which tho 'recital of verse may give, or which constant singing may leave in a minstrel's ordinary speech. "I cannot tell, but mv fiddle might play her to you in a rhapsody that.should set the music in your soul vibrating. There are women whose-image cunning fingers may catch with brush and pigment and line it on canvas ; there are women whose image may be traced in burning words so that a vision of her rises before the reader or tho hearer; and there are women whose beauty can only be told in music—the subtle music that lies in vibrating strings, music into which a man can pour his whole soul and so make the world understand. Such a woman is she who bid me find Gilbert Crosby and bring him into safety." "I"know no such woman," Crosby answered. "It may seem strange to you, Master Fairley. but women have not entered much into'my world. Tell me this woman's name." "Nay. I had no instructions to do so." "Shall I see her at the end of this journey?" "She hath caprices like all women; how can I tell?" "At least tell me whither we go." " If you can read the stars you may kuow our direction," was the answer. " Yonder is the Wain and the North Star, and low down eastwards is the first light of a new day. We may mend our pace a little if only this poor beast of mine has it in him to do so." It .was no great pace they travelled even when they endeavoured to hasten. The fiddler's lean nag, either from ill-condition or overwork, or perchance both, could do little more than amble along, falling back into a walking pace at every opportunity. Perhaps it was as weil, Crosby thought, for the fiddler seemed, strangely uneasy in the saddle, and more than once apologised for his want of dexterity when lie noticed his companion glance at him. "He's a sorry beast to my way of thinking, but to his thinking maybe i'm a sorry rider. Those who have great souls to carry often have poor knees for the gripping of a saddle." • Crosby did not answer. The vision was still before him on the road, and he wondered whether fate and this tiddler were

leading him. to his desire. . Absorbed in hid dream, he let his horse, which had no speed: to boast of, suit his pace to that of tho lean nag, and did not trouble to think how quickly they must be overtaken should there bo any pursuit on the road behind them. So they rode forward, their faces towards tho growing dawn, and Gilbert Crosby was conscious of a new hope stirring in his soul, of an undefinable conviction that to-night was a pilgrimage, a journeying out of the past into the future. "He rides well surely who rides towards tho coming day," said Fairley suddenly, breaking a long silence, and Crosby felt that it was true, that his own thoughts had found expression. Tho 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 sawlittle of them except at a distance. She had begged her uncle to excuse her presence, and ho 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 tho Abbey now- who hardly knew her, somo who did not know her at all,, and sho was missed so little by Mrs. Dearmer and her friends that they had ceased to trouble 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 nob' seen Sydney Fellowes again before his departure, but she had no anger in her heart; against him. Ho had insulted her, but it wa.s done under the influence of wine, and in leality ho was perchance more genuinely her friend than any other guest, who frequented tho Abbey. Had he not said that, this v, as no home for her? Lord Rosmora she had seen for a fen' moments before he had set out to join the militia marching! westward. Ho 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 wasalways at her command. Barbara hardly", knew whether he were her friend or foe.) bir Philip Branksome had left Avling-i WM h full ° th ° doughty 'deedsi which -Hero to be done by him, buti it was whispered that lie was still in London, talking loudly in coffee-house and. tavern. Judge .Marriott had hurried back •to town, thirsting to take a part in punish-! ing these rebels, but before he went h«j] ad made opportunity to whisper to her.-, ohould there be a rebel who has a claim, on , GU , sympathy. Mistress Lanison, though he be as black -us 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 elbowto 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' an\ ciicumstances which could brin* to plead for mercy to Judge Marriott ° s .j il( ' Martin had gone, too, with his' fiddle under his arm. "Folks will marrv for all there is fighting in the West," ho had said, "and my fiddle and I must bo there to play for tliem." He had said no; more about Gilbert Crosby, had probably forgotten by this time that .she had even mentioned the nam© with interest. Halfdreamer, half-madman; what could he doi With a fiddle-bow for his only weapon lie) was a poor ally, and yet he seemed to bet the only true friend she possessed. She was very longely, and more and, more she was persuaded that Ay ling ford; 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 froni it-, yet whither could she go? Could she? explain the evil? Could sho 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, ad her aunt, Lady Bolsover. was inclined trJ do. She must talk to Martin, who had; taught her so many things; but even Mar J tin was away fiddling at some festival thatt rustics might dance. Barbara was in-> dined 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! living 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 hei! rescue at Newgate? Certainly it would ba stretched out against him were he- such a) man as Lord Rosmore declared him to be. Wearied out with much thinking, Bar-; bara fell asleep towards morning, and ,thq sun was high, flooding the terrace with light and warmth, when she awoke. Later, she went across the ruins to thq 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 tools} 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 hear<t Mrs. Dearmer laugh. " She shuddered, and went no farther. Utter loneliness was fat 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 sum .shine was out of keping with her mood, and it was almost a relief to her when tlit» afternoon became overcast and the haze on the distant hills spoke of rain. The sound of rain was on the terrace presently, th» stone flags grew dark with the wet, and the woods became sombre and deeply mys« terious. A light still lingered in the west, low down and angry-looking, but the nisjlii 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. He* laughter was like a musical echo of notes. "Martin!" she said, leaning from the casement and looking down on the terrace " Martin!" There was no ajjjwer. She looked td right and left, but only the shadows of the night lay still and unmoving. Had tha sound been fancy? Sho closed the case-* ment and shivered a little as though sha had heard a ghost; then there came ai knock at her door. She opened it quickly and stood back. " It is you, then?" " Did you not hear my fiddle smile? No, it was not a laugh to-night; I was afraid someone else might hear it. Will you coma to the tower? I like to sit in my own room when I come back from making the folks laugh and aanco and helping them to bt} happv." "Well. Martin, have you nothing to tell me?" Now that he had come back advice wa4 not what she asked for, but news. ' "We always have much to talk of—< always— and I." " But to-night, Martin, especially to< night-. Ah ! you have forgotten." "Very likely," he answered. "I do fort get a great many things. But come to my room in the tower; I may remember when I get there." _ _ . ' ' "No, Martin, not to-night," she said. '• I may remember," he repeated ; " arid, besides, why should you be less kind tci me? I always look forward to my own room and you." There was a. tone of sadness in his voice* and she was angry with herself for occasion* ing it. Because she was sad, was that a reason why she should make this poop fellow miserable? Would he not do anything to serve her which fell within t-h power of the poor wits God had given him. " I will come,' she s:iid._ " You must wrap a thick cloak aoouo you." said Martin. "It is raining She % left him for a moment and quickly returned, close!v wvapned 1 m _ "Trend lightlv." said -Martin. I always like to think that these evening when vou come to mv tower are secret meetings, that the world must not know o! them. I protend sometimes that we arq followed, and must to waiiU. Foolish Martin!" (To be continued daily^