Martin Fairley had come to the Abbey one winter's night soon after
Barbara Lanison had been brought there. He had come out of the woods,
struggling against a hurricane of wind across one of the bridges, his
fiddle cuddled in his arms for protection. He had begged for food and
shelter, and then, warm and satisfied, he had played to the company
gathered round the Abbey fire, had told them strange tales, and, with a
light laugh, had declared that he was the second child to come to the
good Sir John Lanison for care and protection, first the little niece,
now the poor fool. 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. Perhaps
he was twenty years old when he came, strong and lithe of limb then, and
to-day he was hardly changed, older-looking, of course, but still lithe
in his movements. Mentally, his development had been curious. His powers
had both increased and decreased.
Pages:
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102