Gilbert!

It was the first time she had called him by his name, and surely on her lips there was unexpected music in it. She had come into his arms and, with a sob, had nestled there as if she had found safety and content. Her face was hidden against him, and he kissed her hair reverently, not daring to attempt to turn her face to him. His possession of her was so sudden that he was as a man who dreams a dream, half conscious that it is a dream, which he would not have broken. Until he was in the room Crosby could not believe that the promise which Rosmore had made would be fulfilled. He could not believe that Barbara was close to him, that he would see her. He had listened to Rosmore as he unfolded his scheme for their escape, trying to detect the direction of his villainy, never for an instant believing that he was sincere; and, after all, he had done as he had promised, he had brought him to Barbara Lanison. The woman he loved was in his arms. It was wonderful, wonderfully true! The rest would happen in its due time. Life with love in it was to be his. The man he hated had proved a friend. So he kissed the beautiful fair hair and waited for Barbara to look up, that he might read her heart through her eyes and kiss her lips.

Barbara did not look up. Almost unasked she had crept into the arms that opened to her, quickly and without question. From the first moment she had seen Gilbert he had been more to her than any other man, and, if she had not dared to admit it even to herself, she knew she loved him. Had she not come to the West to save him? Had she not been ready to sacrifice herself for him? She, too, had placed no trust in Lord Rosmore, yet the unexpected had happened. He had brought Gilbert Crosby to her. They were to escape together. She and Galloping Hermit, the notorious wearer of the brown mask, were to go together! He was a man, a true man, she had said it, she meant it, but—Ah, strive to forget them as she would, Rosmore's words had left a sting behind them. For all he was a man, he was a highwayman, and she was Barbara Lanison, of Aylingford Abbey! She did not look up as she gently disengaged herself from his arms.

"Tell me everything," she said quietly. "We have only an hour. I heard him tell you so when you came in."

If Crosby was disappointed, if at that moment the desire to hold her in his arms and kiss her lips was almost beyond his control, he let her go without protest. It was for him to do her will, and how should he, who had never squandered spurious love, know the ways of a woman with a man. She sat down, leaning a little forward in her chair, her hands clasped in her lap. She did not look at him as he stood beside her, telling her shortly and quickly what he had done in the West. He told her how Martin Fairley had found him in the wood, and how they had come to Dorchester on the night of her capture.

"You had not been a prisoner at all?" she asked.

"No, you were brought to the West by a lie; but I shall never forget that you came, and why you came. What did you think you could do?"

"I thought I could help you."

"How?"

"Judge Marriott had once made me a promise that if I asked him he would contrive the escape of anyone I—anyone I was interested in."

"Such a man would not make a promise for nothing."

"No."

"What was his reward to be?"

"I hoped he would let me off," Barbara said, covering her face with her hands, "but he wanted me to marry him. That would have been his price, and I should have paid it."

"Oh, my dear, don't you know I would rather have died a score of deaths?"

"And then, when you came to Dorchester?" she asked. She did not look at him; her head was lowered and her hands clasped in her lap again.

"We tried to find you, Martin and Fellowes and I."

"Sydney Fellowes?" she said.

"It was a triple alliance," said Crosby. "What the others have done since I parted with them I do not know. I sought out Rosmore," and then he told her of the duel and of Harriet Payne. "I should have killed him that night had we been undisturbed a moment longer, and then I might never have found you."

"Harriet Payne to be Lady Rosmore, is it possible?" said Barbara. "Do you suppose Lord Rosmore is honest with her or with us?"

"How can I think otherwise now? He has brought me to you when he could so easily have kept us apart. Why should he not fulfil the rest of his promise?"

"Has he told you his scheme?" she asked.

"Yes. In three days we are to leave Dorchester together. I shall wait with a coach just outside the town, on the road which leads down to the River Frome, and you are to join me there. It is not far from this house, and you will be safely guarded on your way to me. Then—"

Crosby paused, hoping to see her look up with the light of love in her eyes. She remained with her head lowered.

"Then we shall be free," he said. "And it is for you to command which road we take, and how far we journey upon it together."

She moved a little restlessly. In this one short hour, which was slipping away so fast, she had to decide upon what her future was to be. She loved, but she was the daughter of a proud race, whose blood mingled with the best blood of which England could boast. The man beside her was more to her than any other man could ever be, yet he was the highwayman, "Galloping Hermit," the notorious wearer of the brown mask, the man upon whose head a price was set, and who would surely perish miserably at Tyburn if he fell into the hands of his enemies. Great provocation might have made him a knight of the road, romance had succeeded in setting him apart from his brethren, but was she justified in loving such a man, could she give herself into his keeping? And she dared not tell him all that was in her heart, for she knew instinctively how he would answer her. She knew that he would sacrifice himself for her without a moment's hesitation; she believed that, without her, life would be of little worth to him. Their love was a strange thing, binding them together in silence. He had never said that he loved her; knowing what he was he had not dared to speak, perhaps, yet he had opened his arms and she had gone to him without a question. What words were needed to tell such a love as this? Her lover must be saved at any cost, and afterwards—

The silence seemed long as these thoughts sped through her mind. She was conscious that his eyes were fixed upon her, felt that he understood something of the doubts which troubled her.

"I do not trust Lord Rosmore," she said.

"Nor should I if I could conceive any advantage he could gain from his present action," Crosby answered. "He knows that I am a valuable prisoner. He might reasonably hope that he is now in a position to bring pressure upon you. He and I have stood face to face, letting cold steel settle our quarrel. I say it not boastingly, but I should have killed him. He admitted defeat, although I was robbed of victory. Under all the evil that is in him may there not be some generosity? I am inclined to think this is his reason for helping us."

"He gave me another reason," said Barbara quietly.

"Tell me."

"Revenge. I should live to regret leaving Dorchester with Gilbert Crosby, who would never let me go, once I was in his hands. I have scorned him for a—"

"For me," said Crosby. "True, I have no such name as Rosmore has, I cannot offer you a tithe of what he can give you. My most precious possession is my love, but in love he is bankrupt beside my wealth. True, too, that I will not easily let you go, but you shall choose your own path. We will seek safety together, and then—then if along the road I would have you take you see difficulties and dangers, if in your mind there stands a single shadow which you fear, you shall take your own way unhindered and alone. If you will it, I will pass out of your life and you shall never hear of me again. Can you not trust me?"

"You know I do; you should not even ask the question, but—ah, Gilbert, cannot you understand the trouble that is mine?"

"Yes, dearest; I know, I know," he said, falling on his knees beside her. "Chance brought me into your life, chance gave us a few sweet hours together, yet how little can you know of me. We are not like other lovers who have told each other their secrets, who have dreamed long dreams together. Only to-night you have been in my arms for the first time. I have never told you that I love you, yet you know it."

"Yes, I know it," she whispered.

"And yet you are afraid. I do not blame you, my dearest; you know so little about me, but you shall question me once we are free."

"And you will answer all my questions?"

"All of them, even if the answer should bring a blush of shame to my cheek," he said.

"And if—if I asked you to give up something, to begin a new life, to forsake old friends, old associations?"

"I shall live only for you," he said.

Then for the first time she looked straight into his eyes. What was the question in them? She was waiting, for some answer—what was it?

"You must be lenient with me," he said. "When a man answers all a woman's questions, it is because he worships her, only because of that, and then he understands how poor a thing, how unworthy he is. I shall answer them all, you must be lenient and forgive."

She still looked at him, but did not speak.

"I may argue with you, use all the power I have to win your forgiveness, use all the depths of my love to show you that our way henceforth must be together. Be sure I shall not easily let you go. Rosmore was wrong, you shall be free to choose; but I will use every artifice I have to make you choose to stay with me. It has never seemed to me that words were necessary. Love came to me as the sunshine and the wind come, given to me, a free gift from Heaven. One moment I was without it, ignorant of it, and the next it was a part of my life. Before, to live had seemed a great thing, to be a man, to do a man's work was enough; afterwards, life could not be life without love. Rob me of love now, and you leave me nothing."

"When was the moment, Gilbert?"

"When I saw you shrinking from the crowd as it poured out of Newgate," he whispered.

"Even then?" she said.

"Yes; and I did not know who you were, Barbara. It did not seem to matter. Love had come—I thought to us both. I could not understand that it should come to me so suddenly, so wonderfully, and not come to you also. A little waiting, and then you would be mine. It must happen so. And then came my token and talisman. See how close it has clung to me."

With fingers that trembled a little, he drew out the white ribbon which was fastened about his neck. She touched it, looked at it and at him.

"It fell from your throat, or waist, when you moved to come with me. I caught it as it fluttered to the ground and hid it. I have worn it ever since. I have kissed it night and morning, and it has brought the vision of you to my waking eyes and into my dreams. I have seen you going from room to room in my old home at Lenfield, I have seen you descending the stairs, so vividly that I have found myself holding out my arms to you. Sometimes when the days were dark, and I was troubled, an awful sadness has crept into my soul. Doubts have come. Should I ever see you in those rooms, on those stairs? And then, dearest, I have touched this ribbon and hope has come again like sunshine after storm. Aye, you shall question me as you will, but be very sure I shall not easily let you go."

Barbara stood up suddenly. Her hands were in his, and she made him rise from his knees. She stood before him, her eyes looking into his.

"And, Gilbert, when you have ridden in the night, alone, have you thought of me then?"

"Since love came I have never ridden alone," he answered. "No matter if the stars were clear, or the night had wind and rain in it, you have been beside me. At times, lately, a hundred difficulties have stood in my path. It seemed impossible that I could win safety for some poor wretch of a fugitive, so impossible that I might have given up the task in despair only that you seemed to speak to me, encouraging me. No; I have never been alone since love came."

"I am glad," she said.

"And you love me, Barbara?"

"Yes—yes, I must love you, I cannot help it, but—" and then she stopped, for there were sounds of footsteps in the passage. "Is the hour gone so soon? Kiss me, Gilbert; I love you. No matter who you are, or what you have done, I love you. I am yours, always; no other shall kiss me or hold me in his arms. But, remember, I have your promise, I may take which road I choose, alone and unhindered if I will it so," and then, as the door opened, she pushed him gently from her, and they were standing apart when Rosmore entered.

"It has seemed a long hour, Mistress Lanison, to a waiting man. To you—"

"Long enough to hear the plan you have made for my escape," said
Barbara.

"For your escape and Mr. Crosby's," said Rosmore, laying some stress upon his words.

"For which we both thank you," she went on. "For my part I have had, perhaps, unjust thoughts concerning you, your present generosity makes me understand that in many ways I have misjudged you. Please forgive me."

"You certainly have misjudged me in many ways, Mistress Lanison, and, as
I have said, you may not have much cause to thank me for what I do now."

"I have decided to run the risk."

"You have yet three days in which to alter your decision if you so wish," Rosmore returned. "The delay is necessary. The road will be freer and safer then, and the town too much occupied with Judge Jeffreys to pay much attention to anyone else. Mr. Crosby has told you the place of meeting. The trooper Watson will follow you and see you safely into Mr. Crosby's company, and then freedom and happiness. Until then you must not meet. I must think of myself, and bringing Mr. Crosby here is a risk. Should you, even at the eleventh hour, change your mind, I will let Mr. Crosby know. Once upon the road, no one is likely to stop you, especially if you go southwards, as I presume you will; but in case of accident, there is Judge Marriott's order for your release. With that in your possession, I know of none who would refuse to let you pass."

Barbara took the paper.

"And there is your order, Mr. Crosby. It is time we went. Your servant,
Mistress Lanison," and Rosmore bent low over her hand.

"Thank you," she said in a whisper. Crosby in his turn bent over her hand, his lips touching it.

"Until you come to me," he said, "God keep you."

A swift pressure of his fingers was her only answer. Then the door opened and shut again, the key was turned in the lock, and she was alone.

As Gilbert Crosby had been brought there, in a coach and blindfolded, so he left, and went back with Lord Rosmore to his lodgings.

"In view of your kindness in helping us, the bandage hardly seemed necessary," said Crosby, as he took it off, when they had entered Rosmore's room, the same room in which they had fought.

"You might grow weary of waiting, and attempt to see her. Lovers are like that, and often spoil the best-laid schemes," Rosmore laughed. "Oh, I am thinking chiefly of myself. Jeffreys has no profound love for me, and would rejoice to catch me tripping. You are no longer my guest, Mr. Crosby. I have done my part, and your presence here is a danger to me. You are free to go. Perhaps you had better tell me where you are to be found during the next three days. Women are sometimes as changeful as a gusty wind, and Mistress Lanison might alter her decision."

Although astonished at being set at liberty at once, Crosby was not so off his guard as to mention "The Anchor" in West Street. He gave the address of Fellowes' lodging. It was the only other place he knew where a message could reach him.

"Good-bye, then," said Rosmore. "You will be wise to keep within doors until you leave Dorchester for good. There are many who know Gilbert Crosby, and once in the hands of Jeffreys you would have short shrift."

"Thank you. I shall take care. I believe you have proved a friend, Lord
Rosmore," and Crosby held out his hand.

For a moment Rosmore hesitated.

"No; we will not shake hands," he said. "If I have found consolation, I cannot forget who you are and that you have robbed me of Mistress Lanison. To clasp your hand would mean to wish you good luck, and I cannot do that. I want her to know that she has chosen badly. You and I could never be friends, Mr. Crosby."

"As you will; yet I would repay your kindness if ever the opportunity should offer."

Rosmore shrugged his shoulders as he crossed the room and Crosby went out, Sayers joining him in the passage and seeing that no one hindered his going.

For a few minutes Rosmore remained in deep thought, and then Harriet
Payne came in.

"You look strangely ill-tempered," was her greeting.

"My face must be a poor index to my thoughts," he answered, with quick yet forced gaiety. "I have just finished a good work."

"What is that?"

"Making two people happy. Come and kiss me, and I'll tell you all about it." Yet all her kisses and arts of pleasing could not keep the thoughtfulness out of his face as he told her how Barbara Lanison and Gilbert Crosby were to leave Dorchester together.