"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 you at a moment"s notice, and Martin may return at any time. You and I have only discovered how great our difficulties are. Let us hope Martin will have found the way out of them."
Would he? Crosby wondered, when he was left alone. In what direction could Martin be seeking a solution to the problem? Not in Dorchester, surely, or he would have come to the "Anchor" tavern. Where else? In London? At Aylingford? Yes, perhaps at Aylingford; an appeal to Barbara"s guardian. If Martin Fairley had attempted such a forlorn hope as this it was unlikely that he would bring much help with him when he returned. Hour after hour Crosby sat there alone, now staring vacantly at the opposite wall, now pacing the narrow room like a caged and impotent animal. The dawn found him asleep in his chair.
News travelled slowly. Messengers, with instructions not to spare their horses, might ride to London, to the King at Whitehall, yet Lady Lisle had been executed at Winchester before the story of her trial was known in parts of Hampshire even. If one were far from the main road, where news might be had from the driver or guard of a coach, information could only come from some wandering pedlar to a remote village, and might or might not be true. Vague stories were told, and forgotten as soon as told. Men and women, with a hard living to earn, cared little what was happening fifty or a hundred miles away, unless a son or brother or friend had had part in the rebellion. At the village of Aylingford no one appeared to have this personal interest, and they were ignorant of the fact that at least one messenger had ridden to the Abbey with news for Sir John. He had come at nightfall, had been with Sir John for an hour, and had then departed. He had not lingered in the servants"
quarters to whisper something of his news, nor had Sir John mentioned his coming to his guests. There were not many guests at Aylingford just now, and Mrs. Dearmer yawned openly, and confessed herself bored. She seemed to have taken up her abode permanently at the Abbey, playing the hostess, and to some extent ruling Sir John.
"I vow, Abbot, you"re less lively than a ditch in a dry summer," she said to him the day after the messenger had been.
"What shall we do to make us merry? You have only to command," he answered.
"Plague on it, I am at a loss to know. In all our present company there"s not a wit worth listening to, nor a woman with sufficient vice or virtue to make her interesting. I feel like turning saint for the sake of a new sensation."
"There are some things even you cannot do, and turning saint is one of them."
"I would have said as much for you," she returned. "But this morning your face has already begun to play the part. It might belong to the painted window of a chapel."
"Is it so uninteresting?" laughed Sir John. "Truly, you and I must devise some wickedness to pa.s.s the time until kindred spirits return to the Abbey. Half the monks of Aylingford are in the West, and the nuns find it dull without them."
"Next week we will go to town," said Mrs. Dearmer. "I love you, Abbot John, with all the wickedness that is in me, but truly you have grown dull lately."
No one was better qualified to pa.s.s judgment on Sir John than Mrs.
Dearmer. To her he was dull, perhaps the worst crime a man can be guilty of in the eyes of such a woman, yet the accusation did not trouble him now as much as it would have done at another time. He was restless, and if his conscience was too moribund to have the power of p.r.i.c.king, he had become introspective. Fear and superst.i.tion took hold of him, and he could not shake himself free. The news which the messenger had brought him was good news, yet, even as the man had delivered it, a candle had guttered and gone out, and Sir John saw a warning of disaster in the fact. He was constantly on the watch for such omens, and saw them within the house and without. He met a new kitchen wench who looked at him with eyes askew, sure sign of evil. Three crows with flapping wings settled at dusk upon the terrace wall and called to him as he pa.s.sed. A vase of quaint workmanship, brought from the East Indies by his brother, Barbara"s father, split suddenly in twain, and Sir John trembled as with an ague at so sure a premonition of evil as this. There were moments when he could not bear to be shut in a room, when the confinement between four walls seemed to stifle him, and like a half suffocated man he 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 was successful until the evening, and then came the feeling of suffocation and the need for deep draughts of air. With a muttered excuse he left his 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 of a young moon was upon the terrace, casting faint, motionless shadows over greensward and stone flags. For a little while Sir John stood looking down into the stream, which seemed asleep to-night. Upon it the shadows quivered, but scarce a ripple of music came from underneath its banks. A man might well feel some regrets for the past on such a night of peace, might well hear the small voice of conscience distinctly, but with Sir John there was only superst.i.tion and fear.
Motionless shadows on the terrace, and yet Sir John turned suddenly, as though he were conscious of movement, and his eyes rested upon a shadow in the angle of a wall. He had not noticed it before; now for a little s.p.a.ce it seemed like other shadows, but Sir John was not deceived. It moved, 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 he realised that this was no phantom, but a thing of flesh and blood--only Mad Martin.
"I have waited for you, Sir John."
"The doors were not locked against you, though they well might have been. 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-song tone, as though he were dreaming now and unconscious of the words his lips 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 the door was locked. I could see the room, a miserable room, but I could not see her, only hear her. She was in the power of Lord Rosmore."
Sir John bent forward to see Fairley"s face more clearly in the moonlight. He had known him in this mood before, known him to give strange but good advice while in this state. He was satisfied that Martin 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 say that 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 m.u.f.fled," he said. "You would know what 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 was very clear in my dreams."
"Why should I fear him?"
"So many questions give me pain. I was dreaming; I cannot remember everything. One thing is clear. She called to me that you might be free from 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 shall be 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 a meteor, dead and cold in a moment."
"Curse your dreams and the stars!"
"Listen!" said Fairley. "Cannot you hear the music of c.h.i.n.king 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 the Nun"s Room."
"Tell me the secret," said Sir John.
"If you help my mistress."