Sometimes ugly rumours came, brought by a court gallant, or some young
soldier who had returned from the West. Feversham had been called to
London and loaded with honours, for "winning a battle in bed," as a wit
said, and the brutal Colonel Kirke and his "lambs" were left in
Somersetshire, free to commit any atrocities they pleased. If only half
the stories were true, then had the West Country been turned into a
hell, and Barbara hated the King who allowed such cruelty. She became a
rebel at heart, and for the first time since she had found the mask in
the ruins thought less harshly of Gilbert Crosby. There could be no
reason to excuse his being a highwayman, but at least he had gone West
to give what help he could to the suffering. How had he sped? The
question set Barbara thinking, and, in spite of herself, Gilbert Crosby
was in those thoughts all through a wakeful night.
Barbara saw nothing of Lord Rosmore, whether he was in London or not she
did not hear; but once Sydney Fellowes came to her aunt's, and Barbara
was glad to see him, although she hardly had a word with him. She was
surrounded at the time, and Fellowes made no effort to secure her
attention.
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