Chapter IV: Part 4

And now the distrust and dislike of close on ten years, and the memory of the persistent tales of the villagers, had suddenly made for Roger an inflammable track down which the spark of a strong suspicion raced. The burning revelation ran into words, right enough, clear as the flaming signs on the wall at Belshazzar's feast. 'Thou art tried in the balances and found wanting,' flickered the gleaming letters, as of old, and then died away. And Roger was left pondering as to the nature of the final word which must lie somewhere, at present unillumined. When and whence that final proof must appear, Roger could not guess; but he had read the riddle well enough to be profoundly uncomfortable as to its portent, and, more than all, as to its effects on the house of Garth.

A fatherless son, heir to an estate the control of which called for judgment and action, Roger had learned the weight of responsibility when most youths of his age and class had been conning Greek and Latin texts. And now his first thought had been as to his own share in the matter. What was his duty towards the Admiral and Marion? _Marion_. His heart had stirred at the passing thought of Marion, of her sweet wholesomeness, her contempt for double dealing, her outspoken truth. To think of her just then was like looking from a dark, secretly stirred pool to an open, sunswept stream.

What could have been Elise's business yonder? Could it be political? Something connected with denunciations of still hidden Monmouth men? Hardly so; rumours in the village had been years old before ever Monmouth landed at Lyme. And yet, these were days of distrust and treachery. Could some dark fate be hurling suspicion at the heads of the two people whom, next to his mother, he loved wholly?

Roger had ridden home in the company of unhappy thoughts, slowly resolving that he must trace the trouble to its source, and begin with the Admiral himself.

The chance mention of Charity, however, made Roger pause. Charity had been writing to Marion. Perhaps it would be well to see Charity first. His instinct was that whatever had been her business that afternoon, Charity was friend and not foe. On seeing the Admiral, his first thought had been to take advantage of his visit and unburden himself at once of the story. Now, in secret relief, he put the idea aside, determining first to learn what was Charity's part in the affair. So, while the Admiral was poking among his horses, Roger's thoughts ran; he turned gladly for the moment out of the shadow that had fallen across his path, not knowing that a small cloud, the size of a man's hand, lay on the far horizon.

Talking of farming matters, the two started on a leisurely survey of the Manor close, and presently came on the beech-topped hedge that was the northern boundary of the Garth lands. Leaning on the gate set in the hedge, they lingered some time. The conversation had fallen on the near prospect of a letter from Marion, on her life in Kensington; on the French attorney's visit, the contemplation of which, though neither knew the other's thought, brought to each a sense of comfort.

From the gate a little path ran down towards the house, making a diagonal course through the intervening pastures. The Admiral, about to light his second pipe, paused, tinder-box in hand, and stared across the fields. His face darkened.

'If I mistake not, yonder is one of Jeffreys' couriers. What fresh business is toward now? Could it not have waited my return to the house?'

'I thought your work in that direction was finished, sir.'

'So did I. So did I. You see what a price one pays, my lad, for being an honest man. I declare, I thought when my lord's last letter came, that I would go to sea again, that I did, stump and all, so as to be free of this scurvy business.'

'The man will hear you, sir,' ventured Roger.

'Let him! Let him! He's heartily welcome!' But none the less the old man struck his flint, and contented himself by roaring into the mouthpiece of his pipe.

Roger's eyes twinkled. In just such a way had the motherless bull-calf he had fed that morning growled with his head in the bucket, his mouth full. Roger stored up the incident to take a place in the pantomime rehearsal of her father's stray doings and sayings which Marion would be sure to demand on her return. The gold lights danced afresh in Roger's eyes as his little playmate rose before his mental vision.

The rider was now at speaking distance. He had the appearance of hard travelling, and as he came up, Roger's instant sympathy fell on the horse. When the messenger dismounted, saluted the Admiral, and proceeded to fumble for his letter, explaining that he had been sent on from the house, Roger stepped to the animal's side. 'Poor brute!' was his thought as he stroked the steaming flank, and cast a critical eye on the girth, having a mind to undo it for a time and make the man rest at the Manor.

'You have ridden fast,' said the Admiral in surly tones. 'Why shorten the life of a good horse?'

'My lord's orders, sir,' said the man. 'He can never abide the idea of wasting an hour when there's work to be done.'

'Did your lord require an answer?'

'He did not, sir.'

'Will you not ride down to the house and rest yourself and your animal?'

'I thank you greatly, sir,' said the man, passing his hand across his face, seared with the sweat and dust of his journey, 'but I am to be in Taunton ere nightfall.'

'In Taunton, on this brute?' cried Roger.

'I shall change horses at Bodmin,' said the messenger. As he spoke, he took the bridle. 'Can I cross the fields here to the Bodmin road?'

'I'll show you the way,' said Roger, and walking a few yards with the man, he pointed out, through a break in the inner hedge, the Bodmin road lying in the valley.

'Does your master pay you?' asked Roger abruptly.

'Aye, sir, well enough.'

''Tis a pity he can't pay the horse. A finer grey I never saw. It grieves me to see a brute wasted so. Here's a shilling. Promise you will give him a fair bucket of oats--or, if he sweats more, a bran mash and a warm belly cloth.'

The man's eyes softened. 'I promise. You're very good, sir.'

'Nay, nay. But it goes to my heart to see that horse wasted so. Good morning.'

Roger strode back to the gate where the Admiral was still standing. From the letter in his hand dangled the strings and seals of the Lord Chancellor. Roger paused and hung back a trifle, wondering were it best to leave him. Whatever might be the new business to hand, he could see the Admiral's wrath was gathering. His face purpled, the eyes growing round as a parrot's. For a second he appeared to be on the point of choking. Suddenly he dashed the letter to the ground, and swung round on Roger. Digging his staff into the turf, he spluttered in incomprehensible rage.

'I will not do it!' he roared. 'By the Lord Harry, I will not!'

Suddenly his fury fell away. He seated himself in the hedge and passed a hand over his face. 'Dick!' he said hoarsely. 'Poor lad!'

Roger stiffened. His eyebrows drew together, his mouth tightened. He stared down at the letter.

'Dick? Did you say Dick?'

'Ay, Dick Hooper. 'Tis there. An order to arrange for the arrest of the person of Richard Merrion Hooper, in the Parish of St. Brennion.'

Roger stared down at the written sheet, his face paling under the sunburn.

'Impossible!' he jerked out. 'Dick's a loyalist like yourself.'

'Nothing is impossible in these days.'

'What has he done?'

'That I am not told. Mayhap he has looked in pity at the creaking bones of a wretch hanging at the cross roads for Monmouth's sake.'

Roger turned, and leaning on the gate, buried his head on his arm. The tlot, tlot of a horse on the road below rose in the stillness of the morning. 'I could wish the brute had foundered and thrown his rider into the ditch--that highwaymen had seized him and his cursed letter,' ran the Admiral's thoughts, as, unconscious of his companion, he stared down the quiet slope. Far below showed the north front of Garth, the chimneys cutting the shining bar of the sea into irregular shapes. Only one window was visible through the trees of the garden--the window of the Admiral's study which, in an upper storey, ran the width of one wing, looking out on one hand on the Channel, and on the other to the rising land of the pastures. In the middle of the room stood the old sailor's beloved telescope, through which Roger had many times studied the rig of passing vessels. It happened that as the Admiral was staring out to sea, small thin fingers were swinging the telescope round to the north, and very soon the two men were plain to the eyes of Mademoiselle Elise, who was supposed by the housekeeper to be still in her bed.

The Admiral turned and saw the black head bent over the gate. He sighed, and rising to his feet picked up the letter.

Roger roused himself. His thoughts had been far away, scenes of his boyhood passing before his closed eyes: Dick's deep-notched oaken bench at Blundell's, which had been next his own; their twin escapades and truancies, punishments and advancements; the holidays Dick had spent at the Manor.

'I thought Dick was at Oxford,' he stumbled at length. Then recollecting: 'Nay, he is reading with a tutor to enter Oriel at Michaelmas.'

'A thousand pities he had not gone.'

Again fell the silence; then Roger's rather husky tones: 'Must you do this thing, sir?'

'I must.'

'And will you?'

The old Salt Eagle looked sorrowfully into the brown eyes facing him. He made a step down the slope.

'Would to God,' he blazed out suddenly, 'that Jeffreys had chosen another man!' Then, sobering: 'But I must. I cannot forget, after all, that my duty is not to serve Jeffreys, but Jeffreys' king. I shall drive out after dinner to Liskeard to see the officer there. But fear not, Roger, I shall do my utmost to get him freed.'

Roger was silent. He knew too well how unavailing, in the main, were such efforts.

'Is his father living?'

Roger nodded.

'And his mother? I forget.'

'She died while Dick was at Blundell's.'

'Thank God for that!' said the Admiral in low tones.

'May you not just inquire into the matter and report?' came Roger's husky tones. 'I had rather any one had gone but Dick.'

'Jeffreys prefers to make his inquiries behind bolt and bar.'

'Look here, sir,' said Roger, his face as hard as his voice. 'I----' he stopped abruptly, then a minute later, with a brief 'Good morning,' he swung round, and before the Admiral could speak, was striding up the slope.

The old seaman leaned heavily on his staff as he stumbled down the hillside, jerking his wooden leg over the uneven ground. 'I could pray for an ague to seize me,' ran his thoughts, 'an asp to sting me, a draught to sicken my stomach. Anything to keep me from this hateful task. Poor Dick! And poor Roger! 'Twas a hard blow.'

Half way down the slope the Admiral stopped short, arrested by an uneasy thought. For the first time since Jeffreys had laid his commands upon him he had failed in his duty, betrayed his trust, spoken to another of business of sworn secrecy. Completely forgetful of his obligations, and overborne by the weight of personal association, he had talked like an idle woman.

Hot on the heels of the first consideration ran a second. He had spoken freely of the arrest to the greatest friend of the condemned man. Could it be possible Roger would----? He had better walk back to the Manor, to make the boy promise secrecy. What would Roger do? A gleam ran across the old face. He turned and scanned the pastures. Roger was nowhere to be seen. A look of uncertainty was in the man's eyes as he stood, idly digging into a young gorse bush with his staff. His thoughts ranged themselves in two lines: dual personalities facing each other. On the one hand was the loyal seaman who would at any time have risked the gallows for a friend's sake; on the other the stern, justice-loving magistrate.

'You don't know what he may do,' came the one voice, 'and any way, you'd do the same yourself.'

'Go up and order him in the King's name to keep the matter secret,' came the reply. 'You can trust his given word.'

'Leave him alone,' retorted the first. ''Tis not for you to dictate what a man may do for his friend.'

'Duty! Duty!' cried the other.

'And Dick's an honest lad; you know he is guiltless. 'Tis but a foul whisper. He deserves a timely warning.'

'A magistrate has no ties. Duty! Duty!'

And so the mimic battle raged behind the eagle brows. In the end, not without a smile of grim humour, the Admiral offered a truce. He would not interfere with Roger. In any case, the lad might never have considered taking any step, and time would be wasted on the errand. His magisterial self the old seaman soothed by a promise of utmost haste. Instead of ordering the coach for after dinner, he would drive out at once, and eat from a hamper on the carriage seat. Having thus silenced the mental combatants, the Admiral kept his bargain to the letter. In a few minutes he was back at the house, giving orders to a flurried housekeeper.

Peter being absent on Charity's affairs, the Admiral was obliged to see to his change of garb himself. But here Elise proved herself uncommonly thoughtful. Hearing from Mrs. Curnow that the master was bound to Liskeard on urgent business, and would not be home till the morrow, and was in an uneasy temper because his man was out on an errand and he must fasten his own cloak and see to his pistols himself, Elise proceeded to the Admiral's room to offer such services as might be at her command. She found the door of the room ajar, and knew from neighbouring sounds that the Admiral was in the study. In his haste the sailor had thrown the fateful letter on the bed, with his work-a-day coat; the sharp eyes of Mademoiselle caught the red of the seals. A minute later she was out of the room again, her light step making no sound. When the Admiral was safely back in his bedchamber, she returned along the passage, her high heels clicking hard on the boards.

'I wanted to help you, if I might, sir,' came her voice at the door, and pleased at such thoughtfulness, the Admiral bade her enter. By that time the letter was in his pocket again.

As soon as the coach had left the courtyard, Elise stepped out, and crossing the pastures made her way towards the Manor Farm. A workman on the south fields was busy ditching, and from him, by dint of casual remarks, Elise learned that Master Roger had taken the fastest horse and ridden away some two hours ago.

Elise waited to hear no more. There was a light of triumph in her eyes as she trotted back to Garth. Presently an under groom was ordered to saddle Molly. Mademoiselle was bored by the inaction of life so lonely at Garth, and she was wishful to ride out to Bodmin and make a trifling purchase. She did not deem it necessary to add that it was her intention, while her escort was supping at the _King's Head_, to find means to send a few words to the Governor of Bodmin Gaol.

*CHAPTER X*

*FOREBODING*

It was the night of the ball in Kensington, and as if the heavens had conspired with Lady Fairfax to create a scene of loveliness, threatening clouds had passed with sunset to show a slip of a new moon and peeping stars. The dancing-rooms opened on to a long terrace at the south side of the house, and in the warm evening the windows were set wide. Just below the terrace lay my lady's rose bed, and near by a patch of mignonette and stock and heavy bushes of lavender joined their fragrance to the scent of the roses.

Lady Fairfax stepped out on to the terrace, seeking a minute's respite from her duties. The silver arc was just hovering above the trees, and Colonel Sampson, who had gone below for a lace scarf, emerged from the house in time to see his hostess gravely curtseying three times to the heavenly visitor. The rite performed, my lady received the shawl, and for a space the old friends walked along the terrace in silence. Through the open windows sounded low voices and laughter. The ball-room was thronged, and the two without could hear, close to the casement, the swish of brocaded robes on the shining oaken floor. From the raised gallery came the slow air of a minuet, the fiddlers' strains blending with the tones of the flute and the sweet tinkle of a harp.

The loiterers on the terrace had not taken many turns before Sir John Fairfax joined them.

'I may but stay a moment,' he said. 'The house should not be left thus.'

'The house is very well, dear lad,' said his wife serenely. 'My guests are never dull, for the reason that dull folk are never my guests. Are you playing cards below?'

'From what I see, no one has thought of anything save either dancing or watching the dance. But, my dear, I have news that will cause you some dismay.'

Lady Fairfax stopped in her walk. 'The Queen? I knew it!' she said grimly, as her husband nodded. 'Am I wanted this very hour?'

'To-morrow, to accompany Her Majesty to Tunbridge.'

Lady Fairfax walked on a pace or two, then stopped and looked upwards. 'Did I not curtsey humbly enough, fair maiden? Why such an ill reward?' She resumed her walk. 'La, la! 'tis an uncertain world. But I am mightily grateful to the powders for lasting so long as they did. I have been dreading this summons for a week past. Her Majesty has been looking vastly yellow again. But what am I to do with Marion?'

'Leave her with me?'

'Yes, Grandam, but what will you do with her?'

'Give her a few days' rest. She has had over much turmoil and excitement of late. She shall hem sheets and talk to Simone. I will see she takes the air. But I trust you may not be long away. My Lord Churchill is urging an expedition.'

'Secret, no doubt?'

'Ay, dear love--secret.'

'Should you be gone, I will take your place, Jack,' said Sampson. 'And I have not yet seen the little Simone, but from what I hear she is an excellent companion. Marion will not be lonesome.'

'I must go and see Martin a moment,' said Lady Fairfax, turning indoors. 'Pray excuse me, Colonel.'

The two men continued their walk.

'I wish the old Salt Eagle had been here to-night,' said Sampson, as his host paused outside one of the windows.

'But she was frightened out of her wits at first,' smiled the other. 'Her face was as white as yonder white roses in the bowl, when she stepped out for her first dance. Did you note it?'

'She is not nervous now. Look yonder!'

The two stood in the darkness without, watching. In the light of hundreds of candles beautiful women and richly clad men moved to and fro to the strains of the dance. Against the darkness of the panelled walls jewels flashed in a maze of colour, and behind the dancers, passing in and out of the doors, other figures filled in the brilliant pageant. All the youth and heyday of the Court were in Kensington this night. And stepping to and fro among them as she danced the minuet, Marion looked like a gold and white lily set amid tropical blooms. The spots of turquoise in her pearl necklace sought and found the blue-green touches in the embroideries of her dress. Trained along the wide cream skirt was a faint design of blue and gold. It was the only dress in the room so restrained in colour, and, surmounted by the white of bosom and neck, the warm paleness of the face and sudden glory of the hair, it drew from the eyes of both men and women an open or covert admiration.

The younger ladies became a trifle critical of their rich colours, their powder and rouge and patches--adornments which Marion had steadily refused; the matrons who were looking on recorded another instance of the faultless taste of Lady Fairfax: she had tuned the girl's appearance to the key-note of her personality. The men, knowing nothing of these subtleties, watching her serious face as she danced, her unlikeness to the women of London society, her quaint girlish dignity, felt the pleasure that novelty gives, and revelled in the new sensation.

Without knowing it, the 'little niece' was indeed a revelation to the dancers who shared her company that night. Having been brought up by the Admiral as simply as if she had been a boy, she was singularly free from self-consciousness; and not only was she outspoken and honest in her speech, but a vein of humour, clear gold, ran through her thoughts continually. Thus, as the night wore on, the gentlemen leading Marion to and fro in the dance, or sitting by her side in the rooms below, or walking by her on the terrace flags, found that their whispers of adulation, their extravagant utterances, which were commonplaces in the social intercourse of the day, were wasted on the young lady they had thought to please. Their choicest seeds fell on stony ground. Marion had never learned to simper and look coy in the face of outrageous flattery. She would listen for a while, amazed at such arrant foolishness, the twinkle in her eyes hidden under the long dark lashes about which the speakers failed not to wax so eloquent. Then the admiring ones, taking breath for a still higher flight, would see the grave, downward drooping lips suddenly betray her thoughts, her face break into an open merriment that shook the wind from their eloquence and tore into shreds their mounting self-conceit.

But Marion could not be human and not know the joy and intoxication of success. At the beginning of the evening, when her aunt's guests had been presented to her, and received her cold little fingers, she had felt outcast and forlorn, something to be hidden from the sight of all that beauty and grandeur. Then when the truth was borne home that she herself, and not any one of the Court damsels she envied, was the central figure; that each man there seemed to be a visitor merely to do her homage, first and throughout, Marion's mood changed. She had always loved to dance; the admiration in the eyes opposite as she came and went in the minuet set her own eyes all the brighter, and threw a lightness and glow into her being. She was sipping the wine of youth from a goblet of gold, and only later did she realise how sweet that first draught had been.

Just after supper she ran up stairs to ask Simone to cut a shred from her silk petticoat which an unwary foot had caught on the stairs. Her room was empty. As she went to the dressing-table for a pair of scissors, a letter caught her eye.

It was addressed in a laborious, unfamiliar hand. Wonderingly Marion broke the seal, and unfolded the sheet, looking first at the signature at the close of the letter.

'Little Charity! Of all persons in the world to have writ me! Can Jack have escaped again?'

Somewhat dazed at the suddenness with which the thought of Garth had leapt from some dim spot of memory direct to the immediate moment, Marion sat down and began to read Charity's letter. The writing was ungainly, in parts half illegible, the words ill spelt. Marion re-read several sentences before she began to grasp their meaning. It was something about Elise. Then she saw Roger's name. A chill of fear, the colder because it was shapeless, seized her, throttling the warm happiness that pulsed in her veins. She turned back to read the sentence again. Roger--what was this about Roger?

As she bent over the letter in the light of her dressing-table sconces, Lady Fairfax passed the door and looked in.

'Marion! Why are you up here?'

'There's a letter here from Charity,' said Marion absently, reading on as she spoke, 'and----'

Lady Fairfax crossed the room, and laid her hand on the girl's arm. 'My darling, you cannot behave thus. Listen: there is the music of the galliard which Londoners are dancing to-night in honour of my country maid. Do you not hear yonder Cornish air? They are waiting on you before they can begin. Who is your partner?'

Lady Fairfax gently took the letter from the girl's cold fingers, and bending down, pressed a kiss on her cheek.

'Captain Beckenham is my partner, Aunt Constance.'

The tone of the voice caught the ear of the older woman. She looked at the face reflected in the looking-glass.

'Come, come! What is this letter?'

''Tis something about Elise and--I like it not. But I had rather finish it, Aunt Constance.'

A grave rebuke flashed in and out of the lady's eyes.

'Elise can wait. She has waited thus long. And there are days and days to read it in. But to-night--this is _your_ ball, and your guests are waiting on your pleasure. Where is the smiling face I saw ten minutes ago?'

Marion got up, and taking the scissors cut the fragment from her petticoat. True to her character, she made no outward show of the unhappiness that had seized her. 'Where is Simone?'

'Helping Martin.'

'Why so, Aunt Constance?' With mechanical fingers, Marion tidied a tress of her bright hair.

'I will tell you later, my child. Run downstairs now; and remember this is your special dance. I am following, but I must attend to the older folk in the card-room.'

Obediently Marion went downstairs. The ballroom, which had seemed all brightness and music a little time before, now appeared full of alien presences whose voices jarred upon her. She was scarcely aware of the low bow of her partner, of his extended hand; with an unaccustomed heaviness in her step she took her place at the head of the long line. Then glancing towards the musicians' gallery as the fiddlers struck up the country air, she saw the wrinkled face of old Zacchary behind the performers, his eyes, full of pride and tenderness, watching the 'little maid' who was his delight. A sudden vision of her father came upon her. She rallied. Her head rose a little. She threw a smile to Zacchary, and holding her fingers to her partner, went lightly down between the ranks, curtseying and turning and retracing her steps in the maze of the country dance. Once begun, the movement left her no time for thought. Only when Captain Beckenham led her to her seat and handed her her fan, did she realise how heavy lay her heart, what bitter drops had marred the wine and dulled the sparkling rim of the goblet. Presently Colonel Sampson strolled up.

'I should guess my lady has told you the news, Mistress Marion. 'Tis writ in your sober look.'

'What news?' cried the young gentleman, rising to his feet as the old soldier spoke.

'Why, here is Lady Fairfax summoned to attend Her Majesty to Tunbridge on the morrow.'

Marion remained silent as the two talked a little of the Royal invalid, content that her gravity, which in spite of her efforts was evidently noticeable, should be set down to that cause. The news of her aunt's departure seemed to lay another weight upon her spirits, but she realised that much as she loved her aunt, the heaviness of the thought that she must be thus parted from her was slight compared with that other unformed, unnamed burden that threatened her; she had not had time to learn the meaning of Charity's letter.

Captain Beckenham glanced down at the girl. Her fingers were playing with the handle of her fan; her mind seemed elsewhere.

'I could wish Her Majesty's illness had waited another day,' he said with a deep sigh. ''Tis a most unkind cloud to spread itself over the face of the sun, and leave the earth desolate and dark. And quite possibly I shall be bidden, either in Her Majesty's suite, or to follow.'

Marion looked up with one of her mocking smiles as the young guardsman, with a meaning look, and his hand flourishing, bowed low. But the older eyes watching saw that something was amiss. Mr. Sampson drew up a vacant chair, and rewarded beforehand by a look from Marion, succeeded in maintaining an easy conversation in which the girl's share was light.

Presently Lady Fairfax appeared in the ball-room, and immediately, it seemed, became the centre of a lively group. Marion, watching her aunt, felt suddenly ashamed. The one glance Lady Fairfax had bestowed upon her told more than spoken words. 'A hostess in a ball-room has no place for private feelings,' said those challenging eyes.

Marion mentally shook herself afresh; turned to a young man who was hovering near, and indicated with her fan an empty seat. The new-comer, more bronzed than his fellows, had just left his ship at Greenwich. Marion smiled on him, and threw out a few sea-going phrases; and the young sailor, who had coveted the honour of speaking to the daughter of the old Salt Eagle, was rewarded by hearing stories of him from the lady herself. The two passed out on to the terrace, and the music of the next dance went by unheeded.

Presently others came to claim her attention. Somehow the evening wore away, and such was Marion's will upon herself, that no one besides Colonel Sampson and Lady Fairfax had any suspicion that her heart belied her face. With her uncle and aunt she stood at the head of the staircase as the guests took their leave. Presently all were gone but Sampson.

'Stay and have a glass of wine, Colonel,' said Lady Fairfax. 'I vow I am hungry again.'

But Mr. Sampson, with a low bow, declined the invitation, and turning to Marion, asked for the pleasure of her company on a drive the following day.

'Excellent!' said Lady Fairfax. 'The fresh air will be very beneficial.'

Marion gravely thanked the gentleman, and bending over her hand he contrived to throw into his gesture and parting look just the amount of friendliness she could bear.

'Then we will have our wine and cake together in your room,' said Lady Fairfax, passing her arm round Marion's waist. 'You can read yonder letter and tell me all about it. You have done bravely this last hour.'

*CHAPTER XI*

*AUNT AND NIECE*

Marion lay in her bed, staring through the drawn curtains into the dark night. Her window was ajar, and sweet cool airs played fitfully in the room. It was past three o'clock; soon the summer dawn would break; cocks crowed faintly in the farmyards that dotted the fields beyond Kensington village.

To and fro Marion turned, chafing at the hotness of her bed, trying to find a cool space for her body and a spot on the pillow that might tempt her throbbing head to lie still. The only ease she could gain was by turning a certain way, her eyes on the quiet vagueness of the sky. She kept telling herself there was no cause for this turmoil of mind; time after time she turned her thoughts back to the ball, thinking of the dances, of a certain melody that had pleased her so that she had sent to the fiddlers to play it again--of the men and women whose language and manners, still unfamiliar, fascinated her and gave her the pleasant feeling of being at home in a strange land. But behind their faces she saw that of Charity; running with the strains of the minuet was a phrase she could not forget--'i be afeered, Mistress Marion, mightilie afeered, and moste of al for Master Roger.'

'Who is this Charity?' Lady Fairfax had asked after she herself, at Marion's request, had read the sprawled sheet. On learning the story of the girl, and hearing of the hostile feeling of Garth for the Admiral's ward, the first instinct of Lady Fairfax had been to take the part of her own class against another that was uneducated, prejudiced, and superstitious to a degree.

'You can't get away from what is in your blood,' argued the lady. 'Those Cornish fisherfolk are the children of countless generations that have spent themselves in enmity with the French: a continual cross-channel warfare. They first hate the Devon men, because they are not Cornish, and then they hate the French because they are not English. To their way of thinking the only people who have any excuse to be alive, or have any hope to enter heaven, are English folk who have been born and bred in Cornwall.'

Marion smiled faintly. 'True enough, Aunt Constance. But you don't know Elise.'

'I don't know Elise, my dear. There you are right. But I do know that Elise, the daughter of Monsieur de Delauret and the granddaughter of the old Vicomte d'Artois, is bred and born a gentlewoman. You cannot turn your back on your own class and take the peasant view against them. And has not Elise been your companion and playfellow all these years? Leave for a moment this present problem--a difficult one, I grant you--and consider Elise in the light of a ten years' friendship. What have you against her?

'Nothing,' said Marion falteringly. 'That is, until Aunt Keziah came and made me somehow see Elise in a different way. And--besides----'

'The "besides,"' smiled Lady Fairfax, 'is generally the root of the whole matter.'

Marion's cream and gold lace dress had been taken off, and a light dressing-gown thrown about her, and Lady Fairfax, similarly disrobed, was tending the long russet hair.

With her brush swish swish through the shining tresses, Lady Fairfax waited. 'And besides?'

In as few words as possible Marion told the story of Jack Poole's arrest, and Elise's vindictive remarks at supper.

'What did your father say?'

'He was angry. I never saw him angry with her before. It was not only unkind of Elise, but 'twas a most dangerous thing to say, as Father explained. You don't know one hundredth part of the horror of that rising in the West, Aunt Constance. If one of the servants had heard her, and there had chanced to be a countryman, a tinker or a packman, in the kitchens--and of course you know passing folk are always welcomed by the servants--Roger might have been hanged on the strength of that.'

The lady was silent a moment. 'Well, well,' she resumed, 'Roger was not hanged. But, my dear love, for a girl coming to womanhood you are strangely blind. Have you not told me before that this youth Roger could not abide Elise?'

'No more he could. Well?'

'Is not that a reason for Elise's hating Roger? A woman can forgive a man almost everything except disliking her, and showing it.'

'Elise is only a girl.'

'A rose-bud is all the same a rose.'

Marion twined a stray wisp of hair round and round her fingers. 'Granted all that, Aunt Constance, why should Elise be continually going down to Haunted Cove, and to see such a horrible man?'

'Who says she is going continually?'

'Well--Charity says everybody says so.'

'Which means,' said Lady Fairfax tartly, 'that some one may have seen her twice. You don't know the Cornish as well as I do.'

'I will not hear another word against my people, Aunt Constance. You have naught but unkindness for them.' Marion tossed her hair free, and sprang to her feet.

'La, la!' said Lady Fairfax. 'Am I not "your own people?" And therefore theirs? Oh, my precious baby, what an infant you are!' The speaker suddenly caught the girl in her arms and drew her to a low seat. Marion's head fell on her shoulder, and her tears dropped.

'I am so unhappy, Aunt Constance.'

'But, my darling, I assure you there is nothing to be unhappy about.'

There was a silence for a few minutes. Then Marion slipped from her aunt's arms to the hearthrug, and laid her head against her knee. 'I am too big a baby to be nursed, dear Aunt Constance. I shall tire you.'

'I was not complaining,' said the childless woman, letting her arms fall.

'But why should she have gone even once down to Haunted Cove to meet that man?' Marion resumed after a while.

'There, my dear, is a question I cannot answer. But until you know more about it, is it not only fair to give Elise the benefit of the doubt? And as for the words she said: "He shall pay for this," why--the girl was furious, and let out the words in her spleen that she would otherwise have withheld. People spit out queer things when they are angry. Anger and madness are closely akin.'

'And another thing,' resumed Lady Fairfax, stroking the bright head. 'Your father is a shrewd man. He will not have forgotten that speech of Elise's. If he thinks in sober judgment there is anything against the maid, he will be watching her. Sooner or later these tales will reach him. If that little Charity had been worth her salt, she would have gone to him, and not writ that hysterical letter to you.'

'She would not dare, I am afraid, to seek my father.'

'Because he would pull her ears for a gossiping busy-body. And don't you see, my dear, how foolish it is to think that Roger and your father can come to some mishap through the malice of your father's ward? Leave the men to take care of themselves. I declare I shall hate that Roger if the thought of some passing danger for him spoils your visit here.'

'I have known Roger ever since I could walk,' said Marion softly. 'He was brother and sister and playfellow.'

'You can't wrap him in silk shawls and set him in a drawing-room. He will have to play his part; and you can't either prevent it or take one jot or tittle from it. How long has this letter been in coming?'

Marion took up the sheet. 'Close on two weeks. It must have been sadly delayed.'

'Then everything must still be well. Your father would have written and sent a special messenger, otherwise. And now, my darling, I insist on your going to bed. Come, I will play your nurse and undress you. 'Tis the last time--for some days.'

When her aunt had given her a good-night kiss and had left her, Marion had felt somewhat eased, but her brain, being thoroughly aroused, was not so lightly to be lulled to drowsiness. Instead of becoming sleepy, Marion became more wakeful. All the knowledge she had of the terrors of the Monmouth rising and the fearful aftermath of Jeffreys' revenge came to her mind. To and fro, between that subject--to which Elise's reported threat concerning Roger had led her--and the subject of Elise's own doings, Marion's thoughts went like a sentry on a beat. The watchman passing the square called one o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock; and still Marion's weary head tossed about in the seeming endlessness of a wakeful night. At length, as the dawn crept up over the trees of the gardens, and the first bird twittered, Marion lay still, conscious of the blessed relief of approaching sleep.

At ten o'clock, when her aunt came quietly in, after Simone's report of Marion's continued slumber, the bright head still lay motionless in the nest of the pillow. Marion was sleeping the sleep of mental and physical exhaustion. Her aunt crept quietly out. 'I will not wake her,' she said. 'But the coach is ready. I must be gone.'

Simone crept back into the room and sat by the window, alternately watching the slumberer and the needlework in her lap. She had divined that something was amiss with her young lady, and was divided between the joy of having Marion to herself, to comfort if need be, and sorrow for her troubled state.

The sun was high in the heavens when Marion at last awoke. She lay awhile watching Simone, busy with her clothes and her ewer of water. The dread of the previous night did not recur. She was conscious of a distant uneasiness, but more inclined to rest on her aunt's judgment. But presently she discovered that much thought would be impossible that day. Perhaps she had slept too long; perhaps Nature was taking her revenge for the strain of mingled excitement and pleasure and anxious thought of the previous evening. The only severe headache she had ever known laid its grip upon her. As the day wore on, she was content to lie on a low couch by the window with Simone in silent readiness at her side.

At three o'clock Colonel Sampson came to the house, and learning that the young mistress was ailing: 'Is Mistress Marion too unwell to see me?' he asked. 'Pray tell her I am below.'

The servant ushered him into Lady Fairfax's little sitting-room, the identical spot where he had first seen the pale, travel-worn face of the young girl in whose company he had found such refreshment. Presently a light step sounded on the stair, and the curtain fell aside.

'Monsieur le Colonel,' said Simone, and dropped a low curtsey.

Sampson stared at the slim, graceful figure rising slowly from the perfect salutation, at the smooth little head and dainty face. Then recollecting himself, though blinking a little as at an apparition, he made his inquiries concerning the young mistress.

'Mademoiselle finds herself far from well,' came Simone's low even tones, 'and would take it as a favour if Monsieur le Colonel would release her from the promise of the drive. Mademoiselle has a severe migraine. To-morrow, perhaps, if Monsieur le Colonel is good enough, Mademoiselle will be pleased to take the air.'

'I shall be delighted, Mademoiselle,' said the Colonel, with a slight bow.

Simone crossed the room, and called the servant from the hall.

'Show Monsieur le Colonel out,' said Simone, dropping a curtsey as the visitor passed her.

When the boy opened the hall door, Sampson turned. Simone was mounting the stairs. Again he blinked, and passed his hand across his eyes as if seeking to evoke some elusive thought that hid in a chamber of his mind.

By evening Marion's indisposition had passed. She supped with her uncle, finding a singular pleasure in the society of the quiet, studious man who laid all his concerns aside to talk to the 'little niece' on subjects which he knew interested her: of his own travels, and places over seas, and the chances of war abroad. The ball and the events of the previous evening, which had been faithfully detailed by his wife, he left out of the conversation. At the close of the meal, when Marion went to the sitting-room where Simone was awaiting her, Sir John explained that on the morrow he would be obliged to leave her for a few days. There was to be an inspection of the fleet, and he could not absent himself. Marion assured him that there was no cause for regret. Simone and Colonel Sampson would companion her; there would be callers, and if there were not, she would be glad of a little quiet.

The next day Sir John departed. Scarcely had he gone before Colonel Sampson's coach was at the door. Marion and Simone descending, found him talking to old Zacchary, who had come from the stables, and was admiring the horses. To Marion's great delight, Colonel Sampson dismissed his footman to the society of the kitchen for a spell, and bade Zacchary mount in his place. Marion knew that Zacchary was piling up a store of reminiscences which would make him famous in his generation when he returned to Garth.

Ranelagh was the destination that afternoon, and Sampson saw to it that the drive was a pleasant one. Sir John Fairfax had told him something of the subject of Charity's letter, and the two men talked of the impression they had had of Elise that first night when Marion told the story of her father's ward. In private they were not disposed to take as easy a view of the matter as my lady had entertained. Sampson, amazed at such behaviour on the part of a de Delauret, had thought a good deal about it; both men could appreciate better than Lady Fairfax the danger in which the Roger, whom they had never seen, stood; they knew better than she how the flame of the rising still flickered. But uppermost in Sampson's mind, as Marion talked or was silent, in the coach, was the thought of the young Elise d'Artois, whom he had followed as a moth follows a lantern, for the space of a delightful, foolish year. He could not reconcile his memory of her with the reported doings of her daughter.

Simone also came in for a good share of his regard. The Colonel was too trained a courtier to betray again his surprise and mystification on seeing the little waiting woman of whom he had heard so much. During the drive Simone was quiet, watching from the coach the passers by; but towards the end something in the conversation struck her fancy. She suddenly turned and smiled at Sampson. A passing group caught Marion's eye at the moment, and she called Simone's attention thereto. Thus neither of the girls saw the man's start, and stare and nod, as if something in the chamber of his memory had peeped out and greeted him.

When the party arrived at Kensington, Colonel Sampson refused to accompany the ladies indoors. He escorted them to the hall door, then walked quickly back to his coach. A minute later his horses, at a canter, drew the vehicle out of the square.

In the hall a servant approached Marion.

'There is a man in the kitchen, mistress, a sailor man from Garth, wishful to see you. He is but anchored at the Swan in Chelsey this afternoon, and has walked across. 'Tis urgent business.'

Marion's eyes widened, as of old, as she looked at the servant. A sudden fear tore at her heart. 'Bring him into the sitting-room at once,' she said.

*CHAPTER XII*

*CHARITY'S LETTER*

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. There was a shuffling pause, and Bob Tregarthen stood in the doorway in his rough seaman's clothes, his cap in his awkward fingers. The blue eyes looked at Marion from under the tangled mane of fair hair in the way she remembered so well, as if she had been a spot on a distant sea. It seemed that as the sailor stood there, the village and harbour lay behind him, and the smell of salt crept into the room.

'This is a great pleasure, Bob,' said Marion, as he stumbled awkwardly forward. 'How is your mother?'

'Her's well and hearty,' said the sailor, his eyes in shyness wandering about the room. 'Leastways when I left her. You'm looking uncommon well, Mistress Marion.' The far-sighted look came back to rest on the lady.

'Sit down and tell me your news. Have you come from my father?'

There was no tremor in the clear voice as Marion calmly seated herself in the high-backed oaken chair that stood before the window. Instinctively she was keeping her face from the light.

'The Admiral ain't been down along for a fortnight past, Mistress. Folk say a be mighty busy, travelling so, and now----'

Bob stopped short, and cautiously sat down on the edge of the chair. He cleared his throat and moved his feet awkwardly about. Presently his hand went towards his pocket. 'I don't know as there be any news, Mistress. Leastways, what there be, Charity's letter will be telling you. 'Tis some grand to see you again, Mistress.'

Marion watched the fumbling hands, her own fingers tightly interlocked.

'So Charity has writ me a letter,' came the even tones.

'Ay, ay. Her comes running down to the quay just as Bill Scraggs were getting the water kegs aboard, and her calls out to me to speak to me special, like, and asks me how many days afore we sights the port o' Lunnon. And I ses to her, I ses, "Strike me if I know," ses I. "I bain't thinking o' Lunnon at all this voyage. A be for Gravesend and sharp back to Plymouth; then at Plymouth us'll lie in the Cattwater, so if ee wants to see me afore the month be out," ses I, "ee must come to Plymouth. A bain't making for the Pool this time, but with fair wind serving and no Frenchies to tickle, us should make Gravesend in three days." Then her ses, quiet-like: "Wouldn't ee like to speak to Mistress Marion, Bob?" "Wouldn't a?" ses I. "Well," her ses, "here be a letter I've writ for Mistress Marion, and I'd take it kindly if you'd run up the river and call on her. I be some sore on her getting un, and I can trust ee better than the post boys," her ses. And the end of it was, her showed me your name writ down large, and Kensington Square, and her made me say un ower and ower. 'Tis a pretty maid, Charity,' added Bob, with a reminiscent smile. 'Folk do say----'

'Have you got the letter, Bob?'

'Ay, ay, Mistress. Here a be.'

Bob, whose hands had fallen idle as he talked, began fumbling in his pocket again, and at length brought out the creased missive. He got awkwardly to his feet.

'Here you be, Mistress. And your pardon, but a be in a mortal hurry to catch the tide, with Bill Scraggs waiting in the boat down along to Chelsey Reach. So good day to ee, Mistress, and I be some proud to have seen you, and the place where you'm to. You'm looking fine, Mistress--grown taller, I do declare. Bain't ee ever coming back to Garth?'

Marion's hold on her patience was fast weakening, but seeing there would be no peace to read the letter till the man was gone, she talked to him for a few minutes, marvelling at the easy tone of her own speech. 'Is all well at Garth?' she asked hesitatingly at the end.

'Ay, ay, Mistress--leastways----'

Divining that there was something Bob did not wish to say, Marion stepped to the bell rope. Then, feeling in the pocket of her gown, she pulled out her little silk purse. 'You have been very kind,' she began. Bob stepped back.

'Don't ee now, Mistress--don't ee now!' he implored, his blue eyes resting with shy affection on her face. ''Tis a pleasure.'

'Good day, then, Bob,' said Marion, 'and thank you very much indeed. Take Master Tregarthen to the gate,' she added, as the servant entered the room. 'You have of course offered him food and drink?'

'Ay, ay, Mistress,' put in Bob. 'Mutton pie and mashed taties, and strawberry pudding--rare good 'twas. Good day to ee, Mistress, and God bless ee,' added the sailor, as he gave the girl a last look, and lumbered out.

Scarcely waiting for the door to close behind the sailor Marion seized the letter, with trembling fingers tore it open, and read it where she stood. As her eyes travelled down the crooked lines her face blanched. She caught at a chair and unsteadily seated herself. The letter finished, her hands fell on her lap. Not a sound escaped her lips. The minutes ticked by from her aunt's tall clock in a corner of the room.

Presently light footsteps sounded in the hall, and Simone lifted the curtain. Arrested by the stare of the wide grey eyes she stood still for a moment.

'Mademoiselle,' she cried, and coming to her side, sank on her knees and took the terribly still, cold hands in her own. 'What is it? You are ill!'

She sprang to her feet again, her hand towards the bell rope.

'Stay!' whispered Marion. 'I am not ill.'

Simone's eyes wandered to the letter, lying where Marion had laid it down.

'Give it to me,' said Marion. Once more, word by word, she deciphered the ill-written sheet; then, handing it to Simone: 'Read it,' she said, and buried her face in her hands. Simone took up the letter.