CHAPTER XV
BARBARA LANISON IN TOWN
Londoners had crowded towards Tower Hill from an early hour, had seizedevery point of vantage, or looked down from high windows and roofs uponthat little square of space which was kept clear and strongly guarded.To a few, perhaps, it was mere sight-seeing, an excitement, a means ofpassing a holiday; but to the majority it was a day of mourning, a timefor silence and tears. Ill-fated rebellion was to be followed by thejudicial murder of a popular idol. There had been tales current of thisman's cowardice. He had crawled at the King's feet, begging slavishlyfor his life, had been willing to resign honour and liberty, his creed,and his very manhood so that he might escape the fate awaiting him. Hehad begged and petitioned for the intercession of every person who mighthave the power to say a word in his favour. He had shown himself acraven in every possible way, so it was said. This silent crowd,however, had no certain knowledge of the truth of these rumours; theymight be, probably were, false reports to belittle him in the minds ofthe populace. What this waiting multitude remembered was that James,Duke of Monmouth, was a soldier of distinction and was doomed to die amartyr for the Protestant faith.
Ten o'clock had sounded some time since, when there was a suddenmovement in the crowd, a backward pressure by the ranks of guards, and aman, saluting as he passed, walked up that narrow, human lane to thelittle square and mounted the scaffold with a firm tread. A great hushfell, broken only by the sounds of sobbing. This man a coward! Everylook, every action, gave the lie to such an accusation. Two Bishopsstood by him and spoke to him, but their words were inaudible to thegreater part of the crowd; and Ketch, the headsman, stood silently bythe block, a man hated and execrated from the corridors of Whitehall tothe filthiest purlieus of the town.
"I die a Protestant of the Church of England."
These words were clear enough, and against them the Bishops seemed toprotest, but in what words the crowd could not hear, and only thoseclose about the scaffold heard Monmouth's confession that he was sorrythe rebellion had ever happened, since it had brought ruin on those wholoved him. Then for a while he knelt in prayer, and said "Amen!" even tothe Bishops' petition for a blessing upon the King, but it wasgrudgingly said, and after a pause. Why, indeed, should he pray for aKing whose heart was of stone and who was incapable of showingcompassion?
The silent crowd watched him with bated breath, dimly seeing throughtears that he spoke to the executioner as he ran his finger along theedge of the axe, and then he laid his head upon the block. The axe fellonce, twice, and again, yet there was not an end.
Then the silence was broken. A wild fury roared from every side.
"Fling Ketch to us!" cried the mob, pressing in upon the guards.
Two more blows were struck by the frightened, cursing headsman. Themartyrdom was accomplished, but the angry and nauseated crowd had gonemad, and, but for the guards, would have worked their will on Ketch andperchance on others who had had part in this butchery. It was a ragingcrowd, ripe for anything, fiercely lusting to wreak its revenge onsomeone; but it was a crowd without a leader. Had a strong man at thatmoment assumed command of it, Monmouth's death might have broughtsuccess to the rebellion he had raised. Had a leader been found at thatmoment, a short hour might have seen the storming of Whitehall by thepopulace, and the King in the hands of his merciless enemies. No strongman arose, and James was left in peace to plan further vengeance on allthose who had taken part in the rebellion, or shown pity to thevanquished.
Two days afterwards Barbara Lanison arrived in town, and received a mostcordial welcome from her aunt, Lady Bolsover. She did not pester herniece for reasons why she had left Aylingford, it was only natural thatany right-minded person would prefer London; nor did Barbara enlightenher. Before Barbara had been in the house an hour her aunt had given hera lively account of Monmouth's execution, and the horrors of it lostnothing in the telling.
"Surely you were not there!" Barbara exclaimed.
"No, I was not. I was tempted to venture, but I decided that it waswiser to keep away. I should certainly have shown sympathy with the poorman, and to do so would be dangerous. I assure you, Barbara, all thenews in town lately has concerned this rebellion, and--let me whisperit, for it comes near treason to say it--half London has been in twominds whether to cast in its lot with Monmouth or with the King. Thereis no denying the fact that the King is not popular, and, to put no finepoint on it, has the temper and cruelty of the devil."
Lady Bolsover was genuinely pleased to have her niece with her again.After her own fashion she liked Barbara, and the presence of soattractive a person in her house was likely to re-establish the numberand importance of her visitors, who, truth to tell, had not been soassiduous in their attentions since Barbara left her. The good lady wasfull of schemes for making the hours pass pleasantly, of course for herniece's sake, and, having assured herself that Barbara was stillheart-whole, she was prepared to welcome to her house in St. James's allthe eligible men she could entice there.
"I taught you a good deal last time, my dear; I'll see if I cannot getyou married this."
Barbara smiled. She was anxious to please her aunt, and showed no desireto interfere with Lady Bolsover's schemes. It was such a relief to befree from the Abbey that Barbara experienced a reaction, and wasinclined to enjoy herself. There were many things she would willinglyforget. The brown mask had been reduced to ashes, but its destructionhad not altered her opinion, nor had Martin succeeded in convincing herthat she had not been grossly deceived. She had been threatened by LordRosmore, she had been insulted by her uncle and the men and women whowere his companions, but, worst of all, she had been deceived by the manwho had for so long occupied her thoughts and whom she had trusted.
The opportunity to forget her troubles in a round of pleasure was soonforthcoming. At a sign a dozen men were ready to throw themselves at herfeet, and a score more were only restrained by the apparent hopelessnessof their case. She was a queen and her courtiers were many; music andlaughter were the atmosphere about her; her slightest wish immediatelybecame a command, and she became the standard by which others werejudged. Barbara was young and enjoyed it, as any young girl would. Therewere moments when her laughter and merry voice had no trace of troublein them, when it would have been difficult to believe that a cloud hadever hung in her life; but there were other times when her eyes lookedbeyond the gay crowd by which she was surrounded, when her attentioncould not be fixed, and when her face had sadness in it. She wasconscious of sorrow and tears under all the music and laughter.
Sometimes ugly rumours came, brought by a court gallant, or some youngsoldier who had returned from the West. Feversham had been called toLondon and loaded with honours, for "winning a battle in bed," as a witsaid, and the brutal Colonel Kirke and his "lambs" were left inSomersetshire, free to commit any atrocities they pleased. If only halfthe stories were true, then had the West Country been turned into ahell, and Barbara hated the King who allowed such cruelty. She became arebel at heart, and for the first time since she had found the mask inthe ruins thought less harshly of Gilbert Crosby. There could be noreason to excuse his being a highwayman, but at least he had gone Westto give what help he could to the suffering. How had he sped? Thequestion set Barbara thinking, and, in spite of herself, Gilbert Crosbywas in those thoughts all through a wakeful night.
Barbara saw nothing of Lord Rosmore, whether he was in London or not shedid not hear; but once Sydney Fellowes came to her aunt's, and Barbarawas glad to see him, although she hardly had a word with him. She wassurrounded at the time, and Fellowes made no effort to secure herattention. He evidently considered himself in disgrace still, althoughBarbara had forgiven him, and had ceased to associate him with the evilwhich was at Aylingford Abbey.
It was not so easy to dissociate Judge Marriott from Aylingford. He cameconstantly to Lady Bolsover's, and on each occasion seemed to considerhimself of more importance. So far as Barbara could judge he knewnothing of her reason for leaving the Abbey. He asked no que
stions, butdelivered himself of many clumsy compliments framed to express hisdelight that the most charming creature on earth had brought sunshineagain to town. It was impossible to make Judge Marriott understand thathis attentions were not wanted, and Barbara, who had no desire to makean enemy of him, endured them as best she could. It was from him thatshe first heard that Judge Jeffreys was going to the West.
"He takes four other judges with him; I am one of them. Rebellion mustbe stamped out by the law. Jeffreys will undoubtedly come to greathonour, and it will be strange if your humble servant, his most intimatefriend, does not pick up some of the crumbs."
"Will the law be as cruel as the soldiers have been?" Barbara asked.
"A dangerous question, Mistress Lanison; I would not ask it of anyoneelse were I you. Remember the law deals out justice, not cruelty."
"Yet even justice may be done in a cruel fashion."
"The sufferer always thinks it cruel," said Marriott.
"And often those who look on," Barbara returned.
"I have no doubt that Jeffreys will do his duty and carry out the King'scommand. Why should you trouble your pretty head with such matters?"
"There are women who will suffer," she said. "It would be unwomanly notto think of them."
"And some man, some special man, who interests you, eh, MistressBarbara?"
"Why should you think so?"
"Because I can read a woman like an open book," laughed Marriott. "Herthoughts line her face as the print does a page, while the looks in hereyes are like the notes on the margin."
"You read amiss if you think I am interested in a rebel awaitingjudgment."
"I will confess that you are more difficult to understand than mostwomen," said Marriott, "and it is not for want of study on my part. Doyou remember what I said to you on the terrace at Aylingford?"
"Indeed, I have not treasured up all your words," she laughed.
"I swore that if there were a rebel you were interested in, he should gofree at your pleading. I am in the humour to-night to listen veryeagerly."
"There is no special person, Judge Marriott, but I would plead for themall," she answered. "Be merciful, for it is surely in your power. Thesepeople are ignorant countryfolk, led away by smooth tongues, and nevercounting the cost. They are men of the plough and the scythe, withlittle thought beyond these things, and they have wives and littlechildren. Be merciful, Judge Marriott. Think of me, if you will, whenthe fate of a woman lies in your hands, and to the day of my death youshall hold a warm corner in my heart."
"I will, I swear it, and you--"
"Lady Bolsover is beckoning to me," said Barbara, and left him.
It was the day after this conversation with Judge Marriott that MartinFairley came to see her for the second time since she had leftAylingford. To Barbara he seemed strangely out of place in town, the airhe assumed of being exactly like other men ill-suited him, and he seemedat a loss without his bow and fiddle. His dress, too, was strictlyconventional, and it appeared to affect the manner of his conversation.He was as a man in bonds.
"In London again, Martin!" Barbara exclaimed.
"To see that you are not in trouble, mistress," he answered, and itwould have been difficult for a stranger to tell whether he was a lover,or a trusted servant of long standing; there was something of both inhis manner.
"It is a long way to come."
"It is lonely at the Abbey," he said.
"Do you think you are safe there, Martin? Would it not be better to goaway for a time?"
"Since you are not there, mistress, I lock the door of the tower atnights."
"But Sir John knows you are at the Abbey, and you cannot lock yourselfin the tower all day," said Barbara.
"Your uncle is a little afraid of me. He is superstitious, and unless hehas someone beside him to lend him courage, he will not molest me.Besides, there have been many festivals where my fiddle was wanted; Ihave not been much at the Abbey."
"You have been towards the West?" said Barbara eagerly.
"Yes."
"And you have heard--"
"Yes, mistress. I have heard how they suffer."
"Have you heard aught of Mr. Crosby?"
"Once or twice. I have seen one or two men who have said they escapedthe soldiers by his help. He is doing all a man can do, I think, but fora fortnight I have heard nothing."
"Do you know that Judge Jeffreys goes West directly?"
"For the Assizes, yes. God help the prisoners! An unjust judge,mistress, a fawning servant of a brutal and revengeful King."
"Hush, Martin!" Barbara whispered. "It may be dangerous to speak thetruth."
As if to prove the warning necessary, there came a knock at the door.
"There is a young woman asking to see you," said the servant. "She wouldgive no name, but declared you would see her if I said Lenfield."
"Lenfield!" and her eyes met Martin's quickly. "Bring her up at once."
"Mistress, she may talk more freely if she is atone with you," saidMartin. "There is a screen there, may I use it?"
Barbara nodded, and was alone when the woman entered the room.
"You are Mistress Lanison?" she asked, dropping a curtsy.
"Yes."
"My name is Harriet Payne, and I was a servant at Lenfield Manor when mymaster, Mr. Gilbert Crosby, escaped. Some of us, Golding the butler andmyself amongst others, were arrested and taken to Dorchester."
"Yes, and then--"
"I cannot tell by what means, but my master procured my release and bidme go to my home, a little village in Dorsetshire. I cannot tell all themaster has done, but I know that they have tried to catch him for a longtime. He has been helping people to escape, they say. You don't knowwhat it has been like in the West, mistress."
"Something of it, I know," said Barbara.
"One night Mr. Crosby came to my mother's cottage to see me," the girlwent on. "He told me something of his danger, and said that if anythinghappened to him, or if I were in danger, I was to go to Aylingford Abbeyand ask for you; if I could not see you I was to ask for Martin thefiddler."
"Well?"
"I was soon in trouble, mistress, and went to Aylingford. You were notthere, nor was the fiddler. I was asked what I wanted, but I would notsay. I suppose the servant went to ask his master, for Sir John Lanisonhimself came out to me."
"You did not tell him who you were?"
"I just said I was in trouble, and asked where I could find you. Helaughed and said I wasn't the first young woman who had got intotrouble, and he said--"
"You need not repeat it," said Barbara; "it was doubtless somethinginsulting about me."
"Indeed it was, mistress, but he told me where I should find you."
"I do not know how I am to help you," said Barbara. "What do you want meto do?"
"It is not help for myself I want, but for Mr. Crosby. They had followedhim to mother's cottage that night and waited. As he went out theycaught him. He is a prisoner in Dorchester!"