Half dreamer, half madman, what could
he do? With a fiddle-bow for his only weapon he was a poor ally, and yet
he seemed to be the only true friend she possessed.
Barbara was very lonely, and more and more she was persuaded that
Aylingford Abbey was a different place from that which, through all her
childhood until now, she had considered it. Something evil hung like a
veil over its beauty, an evil that must surely touch her if she remained
there. She was impelled to run away from it, yet whither could she go?
Could she explain the evil? Could she put into words what she was afraid
of? The world would laugh at her, even as Mrs. Dearmer did, or label her
a wench of Puritan stock, as her aunt, Lady Bolsover, was inclined to
do. She must talk to Martin, who had taught her so many things; but even
Martin was away fiddling at some festival that rustics might dance.
Barbara was disposed to resent his absence at a time when she wanted him
so much.
Yesterday she had heard some guests talking of the fight on Sedgemoor as
they walked to and fro on the terrace below the window. Monmouth was
defeated and flying for his life, and the heavy hand of King James would
certainly fall swiftly on the country folk of the West.
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