CHAPTER X
FATE AND THE FIDDLER
The stars were still bright in the deep vault above, the breeze stillhad a note of singing in it, but the sound of music and dancing washushed in the village, and all the lights were out, when two horsemencame through a gateway on to the road some five miles away.
Gilbert Crosby found himself in strange company. No sooner had thisqueer 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. Hehurried out of the house, and in a few minutes returned with theinformation that he had two horses waiting in the wood behind. Crosby'smount was a good enough looking animal which seemed capable of carryinghim far if not fast; his companion's horse was so lean and miserablethat it seemed to bear a resemblance to the fiddle which Fairley hadslung by a string across his back. In spite of its ill-condition Crosbywondered whether it would not be too much for the musician, who mountedawkwardly and seemed so intent on keeping his seat that he was not ableto talk. He had grown more accustomed to the animal by the time theycame out on to the high road. They had travelled chiefly at walkingpace, by rough paths, and through woods where the tracks would have beendifficult to find even in the daytime, and impossible at night save toone who knew them intimately.
"So we strike the road as you declared we should," said Crosby. "Youhave great knowledge of the byways in this part of the country, MasterFairley."
"I have travelled them, usually on foot, for many years," he answered."My fiddle and I go and make music in all the villages round about;almost everybody knows me along the road. Should we be questioned, sayyou fell in with me and we continued together for company."
"Trust me. I can keep a quiet tongue," Crosby returned. "Will you tellme 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 I may begiving you stale news."
"Truly, I have little to tell," Crosby said. "I am no rebel, though thecharge might with some show of reason be brought against me. To-day--oryesterday rather, for it must be long after midnight--my house wassecretly surrounded. My servant told me when I returned in theafternoon, and informed me also that a man was waiting to see me."
"Who was it?" Fairley asked.
"I must keep faith with him since so far he keeps faith with me. He bidme say nothing concerning him."
A short ejaculation came from the fiddler. Perhaps his horse gave himtrouble at that moment, but it seemed to Crosby that his companion didnot believe him.
"You doubt what I say?"
"Did I say so?" asked Fairley. "I am used to strange tales, and I haveonly heard a part of yours. Finish it, Mr. Crosby."
"The flight from Sedgemoor had let licence loose in the West, and I havereason to think that I am a victim of private vengeance. Be this as itmay, my visitor had a scheme for my deliverance. He proposed facing theenemy who had now come to the door, arranged that I should give him afew minutes' start, and then make my way to the village from the back ofthe house. I should find a horse ready for me there, and he told me toride to 'The Jolly Farmers,' where I was to await the coming of afiddler who would direct me further. He was most insistent on the exactroad I should follow, that I should leave my horse at a certain place inthe village, and reach the inn on foot. My escape was cleverlyarranged."
"This man did you a service," said Fairley. "I wish I knew his name."
"I cannot tell you. I can tell you nothing further about him; but nowthat I have escaped I feel rather as if I were playing a coward's partby running away."
"Why? You are not a rebel."
"True; yet I count for something in my own neighbourhood and mightstretch 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 strangevisitor."
"You speak of him as if you doubted his existence," said Crosby withsome irritation.
"Doubt! I do assure you I am one of those strange fellows who see andhear things which most folk affirm have no existence. I find doubting adifficult matter. With ill-luck I might get burnt for a wizard. Ipromise you there is more understanding in me than you would give mecredit for, and certainly I should not call such a flight as yourscowardly."
"I shall be able to judge the better perhaps when I have heard your partof the tale," said Crosby.
"That is by no means certain, for my part is as vague as yours," Fairleyanswered. "You were in danger, that I knew, but the exact form of it Iwas ignorant of. I was instructed to find you and bring you to a placeof safety, and was told that I should meet with you at 'The JollyFarmers.'"
"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," Fairleyanswered. "Does your memory not serve to remind you of such a woman?"
Crosby did not answer the question. In the darkness of the road beforehim he seemed to see a vision.
"What is this woman like?" He did not turn to look at his companion ashe asked the question; he hardly seemed to know that he had spoken.
"I cannot tell you; there are no words," said Fairley, in that curiousmonotone which the recital of verse may give, or which constant singingmay leave in a minstrel's ordinary speech. "I cannot tell, but my fiddlemight play her to you in a rhapsody that should set the music in yoursoul vibrating. There are women whose image cunning fingers may catchwith brush and pigment and limn it on canvas; there are women whoseimage may be traced in burning words so that a vision of her risesbefore the reader or the hearer; and there are women whose beauty canonly 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 worldunderstand. Such a woman is she who bid me find Gilbert Crosby and bringhim 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 methis 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 know our direction," was the answer."Yonder is the Wain and the North Star, and low down eastwards is thefirst light of a new day. We may mend our pace a little if only thispoor beast of mine has it in him to do so."
It was no great pace they travelled even when they endeavoured tohasten. The fiddler's lean nag, either from ill-condition or over-work,or perchance both, could do little more than amble along, falling backinto a walking pace at every opportunity. Perhaps it was as well, Crosbythought, for the fiddler seemed strangely uneasy in the saddle, and morethan once apologised for his want of dexterity when he noticed hiscompanion glance at him.
"He's a sorry beast to my way of thinking, but to his thinking maybe I'ma sorry rider. Those who have great souls to carry often have poor kneesfor the gripping of a saddle."
Crosby did not answer. The vision was still before him on the road, andhe wondered whether Fate and this fiddler were leading him to hisdesire. Absorbed in his dream, he let his horse, which had no speed toboast of, suit his pace to that of the lean nag, and did not trouble tothink how quickly they must be overtaken should there be any pursuit onthe road behind them. So they rode forwards, their faces towards thegrowing dawn, and Gilbert Crosby was conscious of a new hope stirring inhis soul, of an indefinable conviction that to-night was a pilgrimage, ajourneying out of the past into the future.
"He rides well surely who rides towards the coming day," said Fairleysuddenly, breaking a long silence. Crosby felt that it was true, andthat his own thoughts had found expression.
* * * * *
The night brought no vision to Bar
bara Lanison, only a restless turningto and fro upon her bed and a wild chaos of mingled doubts and fearswhich defied all her efforts to bring them into order. There were stillmany guests at the Abbey, but she saw little of them except at adistance. She had begged her uncle to excuse her presence, and he hadmerely bowed to her wishes without commenting upon them. He may havebeen angry with her, but since she had heard him laughing and jestingwith his companions as they passed through the hall, or went along theterrace, she concluded that her absence did not greatly trouble him.There were guests at the Abbey now who hardly knew her, some who did notknow her at all, and she was missed so little by Mrs. Dearmer and herfriends that they no longer troubled to laugh at her. She was as she hadbeen before her visit to London, only that now she understood more; shewas no longer a child. She had not seen Sydney Fellowes again before hisdeparture, but she had no anger in her heart against him. He hadinsulted her, but it was done under the influence of wine, and inreality he was perchance more genuinely her friend than any other guestwho frequented the Abbey. Had he not said that this was no home for her?Lord Rosmore she had seen for a few moments before he had set out tojoin the militia marching westward. He was courtly in his manner when hebid her farewell, declared that she would know presently that he hadonly interfered to save her from a scoundrel, and he left her with theassurance that he was always at her command. Barbara hardly knew whetherhe were her friend or foe. Sir Philip Branksome had left Aylingford fullof the doughty deeds which were to be done by him, but it was whisperedthat he was still in London, talking loudly in coffee-house and tavern.Judge Marriott had hurried back to town, thirsting to take a part inpunishing these rebels, but before he went he had made opportunity towhisper to Barbara: "Should there be a rebel who has a claim on yoursympathy, Mistress Lanison, though he be as black as 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 Kinghimself stood at my elbow to insist." Barbara could do no less thanthank him, and felt that he was capable of perjuring himself to anyextent to realise his own ends, and wondered if there were anycircumstances which could bring her to plead for mercy to JudgeMarriott.
Mad Martin had gone, too, with his fiddle under his arm. "Folks willmarry for all there is fighting in the West," he had said, "and myfiddle and I must be there to play for them." He had said no more aboutGilbert Crosby, had probably forgotten by this time that she had evermentioned the name with interest. Half dreamer, half madman, what couldhe do? With a fiddle-bow for his only weapon he was a poor ally, and yethe seemed to be the only true friend she possessed.
Barbara was very lonely, and more and more she was persuaded thatAylingford Abbey was a different place from that which, through all herchildhood until now, she had considered it. Something evil hung like aveil over its beauty, an evil that must surely touch her if she remainedthere. She was impelled to run away from it, yet whither could she go?Could she explain the evil? Could she put into words what she was afraidof? The world would laugh at her, even as Mrs. Dearmer did, or label hera wench of Puritan stock, as her aunt, Lady Bolsover, was inclined todo. She must talk to Martin, who had taught her so many things; but evenMartin was away fiddling at some festival that rustics might dance.Barbara was disposed to resent his absence at a time when she wanted himso much.
Yesterday she had heard some guests talking of the fight on Sedgemoor asthey walked to and fro on the terrace below the window. Monmouth wasdefeated and flying for his life, and the heavy hand of King James wouldcertainly fall swiftly on the country folk of the West. Would it fallupon the man who had come to her rescue at Newgate? Certainly it wouldbe stretched out against him were he such a man as Lord Rosmore declaredhim to be.
Wearied out with much thinking, Barbara fell asleep towards morning, andthe sun was high, flooding the terrace with light and warmth, when sheawoke.
Later, she went across the ruins to the door in the tower. Martin mighthave returned in the night. The door was still locked. It was alwayslocked when Martin was away from the Abbey, and he took the key withhim.
She went back slowly along the terrace, and, from sheer loneliness, shewas tempted to forsake her solitude and join the guests. There was agroup of them now at the end of the terrace, and Barbara's step hadquickened in that direction when she heard Mrs. Dearmer laugh. Sheshuddered, and went no farther. Utter loneliness was far preferable tothat 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 daybefore! The sunshine was out of keeping with her mood, and it was almosta relief to her when the afternoon became overcast and the haze on thedistant hills spoke of rain. The sound of rain was on the terracepresently, the stone flags grew dark with the wet, and the woods becamesombre and deeply mysterious. A light still lingered in the west, lowdown and angry looking, but the night fell early over the Abbey. Candleshad been burning in Barbara's room for a long time when a faint cadenceof notes struck upon her ear. She knew it well, and the sound gladdenedher so that she laughed as she threw open the window. Her laughter waslike a musical echo of the notes.
"Martin!" she said, leaning from the casement and looking down on theterrace; "Martin!"
There was no answer. She looked to right and left, but only the shadowsof the night lay still and unmoving. Had the sound been fancy? Sheclosed the casement and shivered a little as though she had heard aghost; then there came a 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; Iwas afraid someone else might hear it. Will you come to the tower? Ilike to sit in my own room when I come back from making the folks laughand dance and helping them to be happy."
"Well, Martin, have you nothing to tell me?"
Now that he had come back, advice was not what she asked for, but news.
"We always have much to talk of--always--you and I."
"But to-night, Martin, especially to-night. Ah! you have forgotten."
"Very likely," he answered. "I do forget a great many things. But cometo my room in the tower; I may remember when I get there."
"No, Martin, not to-night," she said.
"I may remember," he repeated; "and, besides, why should you be lesskind to 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 herselffor occasioning it. Because she was sad, was that a reason why sheshould make this poor fellow miserable? Would he not do anything toserve her which fell within the power of the poor wits God had givenhim?
"I will come," she said.
"You must wrap a thick cloak about you," said Martin. "It is rainingheavily."
She left him for a moment and quickly returned, closely wrapped up.
"Tread lightly," said Martin. "I always like to think that theseevenings when you come to my tower are secret meetings, that the worldmust not know of them. I pretend sometimes that we are followed, andmust go warily."
"Foolish Martin!"
They reached the terrace by a small door, and went quickly through theruins to the tower. The door was still locked. Martin had evidently onlyjust returned to the Abbey, and had not yet entered his tower.
"Give me your hand up the stairs," he said.
"Why, Martin, I must know every turn in them as well as you do," sheanswered.
"It is my fancy to-night," he said. "Give me your hand. So. I have adream of a valiant knight, famous in war and tourney, one whom fineladies turn to glance after and desire that he should wear their favour.Only one fair maid heeds him not, and ever the knight's eyes looktowards her. Whenever he draws his sword, or sets his lance in rest, hewhispers her name; for him she is the one woman in all the world. Andsuddenly there comes to her the knowledge of his worth; I know not howit comes, but she understands, and then--The dream ends then, yetto-night it seems to linger for an instant
. This dark stair leads tosome beautiful palace. You are the woman of the dream, the mostbeautiful woman in the world; and for just a moment I stand a valiantknight--your knight--and welcome you to all I possess."
His voice was little above a whisper. She could not see his face, but inthe dark her hand was raised and lips touched it.
"Martin!"
"After all, it's a narrow winding stair, and leads to a meagre chamberwhere lives a poor fellow who loves his fiddle. Come."
The room was in darkness, but Martin guided her to a chair.
"Wait; we will have candles, four of them to-night, and we will pretendwe keep high festival. See, mistress, how bright the room is; there arescarcely any dark shadows in it at all."
She turned to look, and then a little cry came from her parted lips.Before her, his eyes fixed upon her, stood the man who had come to herrescue at Newgate.
"You see, mistress, I did not forget," said Martin; and, taking up hisfiddle from a table, he went out, closing the door softly behind him.There came a little cadence of notes--the laugh of the fiddle. Somehowthere was the sound of wailing rather than of laughter in it to-night.