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Sometimes, half-jestingly it seemed, he asked his advice, and whatever Martin said was always considered. As often as not the advice given took the form of a parable, and, no matter how absurd it sounded, Sir John invariably tried to understand its meaning. Martin Fairley had come to the Abbey one winter's night soon after Barbara Lanison had been brought there.
He knew that Gilbert Crosby had been allowed an interview with Barbara Lanison, but was ignorant of the purpose.
Jeffreys will undoubtedly come to great honour, and it will be strange if your humble servant, his most intimate friend, 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 anyone else were I you. Remember the law deals out justice, not cruelty."
Barbara looked at him with wondering eyes; she was still looking at him when the coach was surrounded. "Your servants, Mistress Lanison," said a man at the door. "We are sent to bring you to Dorchester." "By whom?" "I had my orders from my superior; I cannot say who first gave them." "I am travelling to Dorchester." "We must be your escort, madam." "Am I a prisoner?"
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.
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.
Someone told Sir John that there was luck in keeping such a fool about the place, and whether it was that he believed it, or really felt pity for the homeless wanderer, Martin Fairley had been allowed to remain at the Abbey ever since, a willing slave to Barbara Lanison, an inconsequent person who must not be interfered with.
Since old Sir Rupert Lanison had first come to Aylingford, Lanisons had always been masters there indifferent ones at times, as at intervals they had proved indifferent subjects, yet reverenced by the country folk.
"You cannot see yourself at this moment, Mistress Lanison, or you would not say so. I must have your answer. Are there not many, many reasons why you should give me your promise?" "You will come to this lower level of bargaining," said Barbara. "I have no choice." "I have shown you a wise road to take," she answered; "wait until you come back from Dorsetshire." "I cannot wait."
Marriott nodded and drank more wine. "We can talk quite freely," said Rosmore, seating himself again at the table opposite to his guest. "There is a woman you have promised to help should she ask you." "No; you are mistaken." "Think, Marriott. The promise may have been made at Aylingford Abbey." "Do you mean Mistress Lanison?" Rosmore nodded his head slowly.
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