Chapter V: Part 5

'DEERE MISTRESS--Doe nott, i pray you, take ofence that i doe writ you againe, having but writt you shortlie. Mv hearte be that sore i must write, tho i doe scarce knowe what i sett downe. The Post boy from Bodmin hath just visitted Garth where i had gone to speke with Peter, none knoweing.

'A sore troubble hath fallen on us, deere mistress, and i doe pray God you will returne soone, for if there be anny help tis from you. Master Roger hath been taken by the Taunton soljers for haveing toled Master Hooper him being in danger with Jeffreys men. Master Hooper hath fledde in safetie, somme say by boate from Porlock. And the post boy doe say deere Master Roger must stande in his sted and belike--But that be maine sure idle talke but i be that distrawte the post boy doe allsoe saye the talke is a furrin younge ladie who did see the governoure at Bodmin verrie secrettlie, and tolde him of Master Roger, and the governoure's man who did heere at the doore did talke haveing taken strong waters or else hee would nott dare. i pray God no harm fall to Master Roger but if he shoulde hang that other shal nott live nor doe she desserve. So may God helpe us al and doe deere mistress I pray thee com home.

from CHARITY thes, moste dutifull.

'GARTH, _this tenth daye of July_.'

Simone laid the crumpled sheet on the table without a word, and stood looking down at the bright bowed head, a speechless sorrow in her face. In the weeks she had passed in Marion's company she had learned a great deal about Garth, could see the inmates in a picture gallery of her own imaginings: the Admiral, the old Salt Eagle, whom she already loved; Roger Trevannion, one, she was certain, to be wholly trusted at sight; and, the sinister figure in the group, her outlines filled in mainly by Marion's silences, the Admiral's ward. The quiet brown eyes lightened with a sudden fury as she thought of Elise, then sobered again to grief and fear as she looked at the stricken form huddled in the chair. There was something terrifying in Marion's stillness and silence.

Kneeling down before her, Simone passed her arms round Marion, and leaned her face against her shoulder. All idea of fitness of manner due in a servant for the moment left her mind. Here was the only being she loved in the world, wounded sorely. She rubbed her cheek up and down the passive arm. Presently Marion gave a shuddering sigh, and lifting her head, looked into the faithful brown eyes searching her face.

'He is dead by now,' she said quietly. 'Dead. Do you hear me?'

The eyes took on again that set look, wandering over Simone's head to the brightness of the garden. Simone dropped her face down on to Marion's cold, folded hands. Her warm lips sought the fingers. Marion leaned back in her chair.

'Dead. 'Tis all over.'

Still Simone made no reply. She opened the lifeless hands, and pressed her cheeks into the cup of the palms. Marion's head sank down again, the warm russet hair touching the smooth brown. A trembling seized her. Suddenly she sprang up, shaking her hands free.

'Tell me,' she said as Simone faced her, 'do _you_ think he is dead?'

'I am quite sure he is not.'

Simone glanced hastily round the room. There was a decanter of wine on a side table. Quickly she poured out a glass, and gently forcing Marion into the chair, held the glass to her lips. With her eyes on Simone's face, Marion drank a few drops, then pushed the wine away.

Simone took up her position on the rug again, and holding the girl's hand, looked into the fixed grey eyes that were watching her.

'Listen,' she said. 'He is not dead. There is not time.'

'Not time?' Marion tried to shake off the stupor into which she had fallen. She pressed her hands to her face.

'No--there is not time,' continued Simone. 'It is but a few days. Charity wrote on Saturday. To-day is Wednesday. And also, they would not dare.'

'Not dare?'

'Because of your father. Roger is in the bounds of his magistracy, is he not?'

The drops of wine had eased a little the grip of the shock upon the girl. Simone rose, and held the glass again, but Marion shook her head.

'In a few minutes you will be able to think,' said Simone quietly. 'Then you will know I am right.'

Silence fell on the room as Simone stood beside the chair, watching the set look slowly disappear from the face, the eyes lose their hard stare.

When Marion spoke again her voice was trembling, but the tones were her own.

'Sit down, Simone, and let us think. You see what Charity says.'

'Charity has written in a panic,' said Simone softly. 'But I like her greatly, that simple, loving soul. What are the facts, now? Master Roger has heard that some one--his friend?--' Marion nodded, 'was in danger of arrest, and he has warned him. I do not know just what an offence in the law that may mean. Sir John will say when he returns. And Master Roger----'

Marion flamed up in sudden anger, a bright colour flooding her face. 'Such folly!' she cried. 'Roger was ever a fool! I can't think why folk do not mind their own affairs. He must have known 'twas dangerous. Think of his mother! Arrant wickedness, I call it.'

Simone smiled faintly as the storm swept her by. Any outburst was more welcome than silence and stillness.

'Ma belle dame,' she said, her eyes warm, 'you had wrought just such a service yourself, had you been there.'

Marion passed the speech by. 'And my father is down at Truro, on Jeffreys' affairs, doubtless. Oh, that Protestant duke whom they hailed as a hero and a saviour! Would to God he had never been born! I was saying to my aunt the night of the ball, you people here have not the slightest idea of the horrors of that time, when my Lord Jeffreys was in the West.' Marion detailed a few of the happenings. 'Now after that,' she concluded, 'can you wonder I fear for Roger?'

'That tempest is over,' said Simone. ''Tis but the growl of the dying thunder now. Dear Mademoiselle, believe me, you have caught a panic from Charity's own state when she wrote that letter, she having doubtless just heard, and saying what people had told her. Something can be done. We must think. May I be forgiven if I order some tea, Mademoiselle?'

Marion nodded absently, and going to the window, set the casement wide, and leaned her arms on the sill.

A little later the servant entered with the tea. Setting a chair by the fire, and taking one of the bowls in her fingers, Simone gently touched her mistress's arm.

'Where is yours?' asked Marion.

Simone's little mouth made a slight moue. 'Je ne l'aime pas, Mademoiselle. But there is some milk. I will drink that, with your permission.'

Presently Marion set down her bowl, and turned to her companion.

'I am going home,' she said abruptly. 'Will you accompany me?'

The brown eyes glowed. 'I ask no greater pleasure, Mademoiselle. But how? What of Madame your aunt?'

'I will write a letter, telling her. But I may not wait for her permission. Unfortunately, too, my uncle is away, and I know not his direction. What can we do?'

'Mademoiselle cannot travel without an escort.'

'There is Colonel Sampson.'

'True. Le bon Colonel. I had not thought of him.'

'I will write him at once,' said Marion. 'Will you bring me paper and pen?'

Within a few minutes a manservant was dispatched to Colonel Sampson's house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, bearing a short note from Marion to the effect that she wished to see him on a subject of great urgency. Marion bade the man take the fastest horse and ride hard; then sent word to the housekeeper that Colonel Sampson would in all probability be a guest at supper, and asked that a bottle of the Colonel's favourite Burgundy should not be overlooked.

This done, Marion mounted to her own room, and threw herself feverishly into preparations for the journey. She found great relief in merely busying her hands among her clothes. And though she did and undid, set her dresses here and set them there, declared this should go in that trunk, and then in another, Simone made no objection to her contrary ways. Quietly the waiting woman followed her orders, knowing that she could very well pack Mademoiselle's clothes properly while the young lady was asleep.

Presently Simone insisted that it was high time for Mademoiselle to dress for supper. The toilet took some time, and Simone talked with animation of the days of travel that lay ahead, knowing that a person's mind cannot dwell at the same time on the end and on the means. Marion told her what she remembered of the course of the ten days' journey from Garth to London, adding that with swifter going they could surely vie with the post chaise and reach home in seven.

Just as Marion's gown was fastened, a servant tapped at the door. The messenger was returned, saying that Colonel Sampson's man had informed him of his master's having ridden away on a sudden visit to his country house in Hertfordshire, and was not to be expected home till the following evening, if then: there was no knowing when he would return. But as soon as he entered the house, the letter should be handed to him.

The servant withdrew, and having noted the disarray of the room went downstairs to report thereon, saying that all ladies were alike, and here Mistress Marion was driving yonder Simone to death, on a round of doing and undoing among her dresses; and 'twas a good thing Mrs. Martin was away with my lady, or the work might have fallen on her.

Meanwhile Marion stood looking at Simone, her mouth stubborn.

'I shall not wait for Colonel Sampson,' she said quietly. 'That would mean another two days at least. Get me the ink and paper. And bid the man not to unsaddle his horse. Go down yourself, will you? I like not that the domestics should come up here just now. Nothing shall be said of the journey till our plans are ready. Above all, nothing must come to Zacchary's ears. If Zacchary thinks I am taking an unwarranted step, he will be hard to move, harder than the four greys and the coach. Tell the man to wait at the door, and I will descend.'

'Bien, Mademoiselle.'

Realising that a new phase of her mistress's character was asserting itself, Simone went below. Presently Marion came downstairs with a note in her hand. The manservant was standing in the drive, bridle in hand; Marion went out at the door and down the steps.

'Reuben,' she said, 'you will go at once to St. James's and find where Captain Beckenham is. His orderly will know. If he be on duty at the Palace, find some means of reaching him. Here is money. If he be supping with friends, learn where is the house. Do not return until you have delivered the letter. The matter is urgent.'

Reuben took the note, touched his cap, and leaping into the saddle, cantered out into the square, a smile of pure pleasure on his face. Here was the twofold excitement of the prospect of hunting among pleasure haunts for my young gentleman, and the delight of serving a fair lady who wished to see her gallant admirer. Reuben was young, and a bachelor.

Marion supped with Simone for company, and dismissing the servants after the meat was brought, sat silent, eating a morsel here and there as her random thoughts came back to the present. Had Mistress Keziah seen her expression as she sat at the head of her aunt's table that night, she would have remembered her own thoughts of the girl months before. 'She'll go her own way; her mother has given her that sweetness, but she's a Penrock.' Simone, watching her unobtrusively, attending to her needs with the perfect tact natural to her, was content that the face should wear that look. Better the girl should play the part of a mimic general marshalling a toy army, than sink into tears before an imagined grief. As she noticed the absorbed quiet of the steady features, Simone suddenly found herself wondering what Marion would be like when her tranquillity was swept away in stormy action, when that something sleeping in her was fully roused.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*THE ESCORT*

Reuben had not been page boy and footman to my Lady Fairfax for nothing. Standing on the step of her coach he had learned the roads and houses of Kensington, Chelsey, and the City; carrying my lady's cushion to the theatre, waiting outside her box, and hearing the talk of courtiers in between the acts, he had gained some insight into the world of fashion. Thus there was no need for Marion to detail instruction about the course he must take in hunting down the gentleman of the sword. Exactly two hours after starting, having visited St. James's and two theatres in vain, drawn the coffee houses blank, he finally ran his quarry to earth outside a cockpit in Covent Garden, where several gentlemen were discussing the rival merits of the birds.

'And my lord Duke,' Beckenham was saying, 'having lost L500 on Firebrand----' He broke off as Reuben elbowed his way into the group and stood hat in hand. 'What may you want, my lad?'

Reuben spoke in a low tone and delivered his letter. Captain Beckenham was delighted at the summons, but he gave his companions no hint of this. 'Lend me your horse, Grammont,' said he to one of the group. 'Here's a business that will not wait.'

'Zounds! and what may be this mighty hurry?'

'_Service du roi_,' replied Beckenham gravely. Grammont, recognising the Fairfax livery, whistled for his servant to lead up the horse.

'Give His Majesty my ardent remembrances,' he said with a smile, as Beckenham sprang into the saddle. 'Lucky dog! I say, Beckenham,' as the other rode off, 'as you are bound for Tunbridge to-morrow, say a word for poor Tom Grammont!'

Mr. Beckenham's reply was lost in the dusk as he spurred after Reuben. The captain had been one of those who had suffered most from Marion's friendly ridicule on the evening of the ball, and his affections being in the nature of a flower that closes when clouds overtake the sun, he had decided that the 'little niece' was not the marvel that society proclaimed her to be. Beckenham was a man whose sterling qualities were undeniable; he was known in the regiment for a brave and loyal soldier; but he had been courted and flattered by the women of his acquaintance and looked on with too much favour by mothers of daughters whose marriages were not yet arranged. With somewhat changed ideas Beckenham now rode to Kensington and presently found himself in the presence of young Mistress Penrock.

Marion, a trifle graver than was her wont, extended her fingers to the gentleman's low bow, and begging him to be seated, in a few words explained the nature of her wishes. Grave news from the west had determined her immediate return to Cornwall; she prayed the kindness of Captain Beckenham's escort.

The young soldier's surprise was clear in his face as the nature of Marion's wish was revealed, and Marion stiffened herself for another battle. She had just dismissed Zacchary after an hour's wordy warfare that had left her desperate and weary; nothing but the sound of tears in her voice and her declaration that she would go by the public stage coach had made honest Zacchary see that there was nothing for it but to fall in with the outrageous plan. Like Beckenham, he thought more of the perils of the way than did the young lady herself.

'I should not have dreamed of troubling you, Captain Beckenham,' finished Marion, 'but my uncle is away on a private expedition, and our good friend, Colonel Sampson, is in the country. Failing these two, I have called upon yourself.'

The gentleman rose and paid the friendliness of the last sentence the honour of his lowest bow. When he reseated himself his face was troubled. His usual flattering speech failed him; he went straight to the point, not hiding his regret and anxiety.

'In the first case, Mistress Penrock, and to my infinite sorrow, I fear it is impossible for me to accompany you. I am in Her Majesty's suite, and should have been at Tunbridge this day but for an affair of the regiment for which Her Majesty gave me a day's absence. In the second--your pardon--but is it wise, this project of yours?'

Marion gave no sign of the dismay she felt as Beckenham explained his position; when he offered his criticism of her plan her eyes flashed. She rose.

'As you are in Her Majesty's service, sir, there is nothing more to be said, except to thank you for your kindness in coming to the house.'

Beckenham bowed.

'Forgive me,' he said, something of the look his messmates knew coming into his eyes. 'There is something to be said. It would be an ill reward to the friendship with which Lady Fairfax has always favoured me if I failed her at this point.'

'Failed her, sir?'

'Failed her, madam. Lady Fairfax is away, her husband is away, Colonel Sampson is away. For the moment you are unprotected. I would not let my sister or my mother travel so far without suitable escort. Shall I allow a lady whom I would honour as I do either, to set out on such a dangerous road? I must offer a very humble but very real protest, Mistress Marion. May not the matter wait?'

'It may not wait.'

Marion sat down again, her anger undone by the manner of Beckenham's speech. The two were silent awhile, the gentleman watching his companion, who was toying with the lid of her aunt's sweetmeat box, her thoughts already running ahead to the problem as to which of the Fairfax servants she would choose to take Beckenham's place.

'Is your mind fully made up, Mistress Marion?' asked the soldier, his face still troubled.

Marion's grey eyes met his own with what was known by her aunt as the Penrock look.

'I am setting out for Garth to-morrow, with or without escort. That is quite decided. Look on it as a fact, Captain Beckenham,' she added with a fleeting smile, 'and not as a proposition.'

The young man watched the mouth droop at the corners again.

'I will come,' he said suddenly. ''Twill mean disgr----' He stopped short.

Marion gave him an indulgent glance. 'I would not allow my brother or my father to imperil an already tender reputation, sir,'--she smiled again--'by disobeying royal commands. The same protecting watchfulness I must apply to yourself. To withhold it would be an ill return for the services you have rendered my aunt. Take that as final, like the fact of my going.' The gentle tone of her voice and the raillery of her smile eased the straightness of her speech.

'How she has suddenly become grown-up,' mused Beckenham, for once tongue-tied. ''Tis not the same frightened child I found in the coach that first night. What a villainous ill fortune that I should be thus tied to Her Majesty's apron!' Then striving to put the personal part of the question out of his mind, he bent his thoughts to the problem of the lady's service. 'I have it!' He jumped up, speaking with a boyish eagerness that stood him better in Marion's favour than all his courtly airs. 'There's my servant, Tony. May I not lend you my servant, Mistress Marion? He's a brave lad and a tough soldier--worth three others, any day, though I myself say it.'

Marion felt a relief she did not show.

'If the servant be like his master, Captain Beckenham,' she said demurely, 'I am sure he will be worth--three, did you say?--or was it four?'

Beckenham laughed outright, then sobered again. 'There's Grammont, too,' he said. 'I had forgotten him.'

'Lord Grammont? No, sir. I do not like Lord Grammont,' said Marion bluntly.

Mr. Beckenham's head swam a little, but he made no comment on the obvious comparison. 'Grammont's a good fellow,' was his reply.

'There's another thing,' said Marion suddenly, a vague notion in the back of her mind asserting itself. 'I want your promise that you will keep this affair private.'

Beckenham felt a slight shock and his face sobered. 'Forgive me,' he said, 'but Lady Fairfax----'

'You will make an excellent grandfather in time. Captain Beckenham. 'Twere a pity to hasten the day. Of course I shall write to tell my aunt and also Colonel Sampson, and leave a note for my uncle. Could anything be more open? I meant that you should keep this matter private from the Lord Grammonts of your acquaintance. It concerns myself alone.'

'I will promise not to say a word, Mistress Marion,' said Beckenham after a minute's thought, 'if you will on the other hand promise me to take Reuben as well. I myself will accompany you as far as Hounslow, and then strike across country. I shall feel more comfortable once you are past the Heath. But Reuben is a youth of parts. He is quick of thought, has all his five senses in excellent working order; whereas my good Tony is apt to rely too much upon his sword. With those two, and the excellent Zacchary, who is a stalwart fellow, for an escort, I should feel more at ease when I am called on to report this affair to my Lady Fairfax. Even then, 'twill be an ordeal,' he added with a comical air.

'Fear not,' smiled Marion. 'I will make your case plain enough for my aunt's full forgiveness. 'Tis I who will have to meet her anger, some time, but not yourself.'

Beckenham shook his head. 'A man who has the honour of being a friend has nevertheless a certain responsibility.'

'I think I will take Reuben, if he will come,' said Marion, her spirits rising as the difficulties fell away. 'If he will come! Is there a youth in London who would not covet the privilege more than all----' Beckenham stopped short as he met Marion's look.

For a few minutes more the two talked of the journey. Then Marion rose, saying how very busied she must be in the short time left, and thanked the soldier for his kindness.

'I trust,' said Captain Beckenham, 'that you may find your trouble--your errand that causes this urgency--not so great as you may think when you reach your journey's end.'

Marion started and her eyelids drooped. Then she held out her hand, and the eager words Beckenham had to say concerning his sorrow at her departure from Kensington froze before the distant, sorrowful look in her eyes. He lifted the fingers to his lips and turned on his heel. At the door he paused. Marion was looking in his direction, but her gaze was on something remote. The young man bowed again in silence; Marion, recollecting herself as the servant appeared, dropped a low curtsey and bade Captain Beckenham a very good evening.

With heavy steps she mounted to her bedroom. In the adjoining chamber Simone was busy with the travelling boxes. The door between the two rooms was ajar, and Simone, seeing her young mistress enter, ran forward and stood mutely waiting. Marion went to the open window and leaned her head wearily on the casement. The song of a nightingale in the lanes beyond Kensington village came to her ears.

'Listen,' said Marion, as Simone stole up to her side, 'listen to yonder bird. How can he sing so? There is no sorrow in the world for him!'

'Nay, Mademoiselle, 'tis sorrow tunes his song, you forget. But, Mademoiselle----'

'Yes?'

'Pardon, but I should so like to know----'

''Tis well. Captain Beckenham cannot come, but he is lending his servant, and I have also promised to take Reuben.'

Marion roused herself and went across to her writing table, glancing into the adjoining room as she passed the door.

'All packed? Good. You have done bravely, Simone. Now I must write to my aunt and uncle, and Colonel Sampson.'

Simone still lingered. 'Mademoiselle----'

'What is it?'

'I have been thinking about----'

A knock at the door interrupted her. 'Come in,' called Marion, bending over her paper. A subdued exclamation from Simone made Marion turn her head. Zacchary and Reuben stood together in the doorway. Reuben was stepping forward, but Zacchary caught his sleeve.

''Tain't but me, Mistress Marion,' began Zacchary, his free hand touching his forehead. 'There bain't no gainsaying this 'ere young man. Her's some set on travelling wi' we to-morrow.'

'By your leave, Madam,' said the Cockney youth, 'it would give me the greatest pleasure.'

'A did say,' put in Zacchary, with a sidelong withering look at the man who borrowed the speeches of the great, 'a did say as 'tweren't no use nohow. Stands to reason a Lunnon man knows nothing o' country going. But if you'm so minded, Mistress, as to allow un, a might serve to hold the horses' heads--'lowing her knows head from tail--ony roads her'll run back fast enough when the highwaymen start on we.'

'Zacchary, Zacchary!' said Marion. 'And 'twas yourself told me of Reuben's valiant fight with footpad at Knightsbridge yonder, two years ago.'

'A don't deny as a be a fule sometimes,' said Zacchary meditatively, scratching his head, 'but it bain't the same----'

'I'm busy now,' interrupted Marion. 'Take Reuben downstairs and tell him as much as you can of the journey up to prepare him for the journey down. I shall be very glad of your company, Reuben. You may ride on the coach seat with Zacchary. Are your carbines ready, Zacchary?'

'Ay, Mistress, but a were saying----'

'And plenty of shot?'

'Us 'as enough shot to fight the battle o' Sedgemoor all over again,' declared the Cornishman.

'Then 'tis highly likely you won't pull the trigger once, Zacchary. But, Reuben, you need not fear these tales. The roads have been quieter, I think, since the coming and going of the King's men these months. My father and I came up to Kensington without being murdered on the coach steps. And, in any case, Captain Beckenham's servant is coming as outrider. From what I hear,' added Marion, 'he shoots three men at once.'

'Presarve 's!' said Zacchary. 'Like as not her'll shoot we, Mistress.'

Marion took up her quill. 'Be ready to start at eight o'clock,' she said briefly.

'Can't think what have come to the little maid,' mused Zacchary, as he lumbered downstairs in the wake of the delighted Reuben. 'Her's growing more like the Admur'l every day.'

Meanwhile Simone waited, sadly noting how soon the grave expression had overrun the smile with which her young mistress had talked to Zacchary.

'You had something to say, Simone?'

'Mademoiselle, have you thought about money?'

Marion laid down her pen again with an exclamation of dismay. 'I had quite forgotten money!'

'I had been wondering. You'll want a good deal, Mademoiselle.'

Marion counted out her purse. 'And there are two guineas in my jewel box.'

'Madame Romaine has the little money I have saved,' remarked Simone. 'I never thought of asking her for it. But it is very little.'

'It is kind of you to think of that, Simone. What can I do? Oh, if only Colonel Sampson had not gone away on that sudden journey! What can I do?'

'Mademoiselle,' said Simone after, a pause, 'when ladies find themselves in need of money, they generally borrow on their jewellery.'

With her forehead resting on her hand Marion thought awhile.

'There is no other way that I can see,' she said in a low tone, 'and she would not mind. We shall have to sell the pearl necklace, Simone.'

'There is no need to sell, Mademoiselle,' explained Simone. 'The goldsmith will lend you the money, and you can leave it with him and get it again later.'

'But,' said Marion in dismay, a new thought striking her, 'that means delay. What is the hour now?'

'Close on ten o'clock, Mademoiselle. Impossible, of course, to-night. But if Mademoiselle will trust me, I will go up to Lombard Street to-morrow morning, and seek a man I know of there.'

'How will you go?'

'My lady left the small coach, and there are plenty of horses. I will be back with the money by the time Mademoiselle is ready.'

Marion turned with a sigh to her letter. 'Be sure to take a servant with you in the coach. I cannot think what I should do without you, Simone.'

Simone dropped on one knee, and laid her cheek against Marion's idle hand. 'Je ne cherche aucun plaisir que de vous servir, Mademoiselle.'

'Tais-toi!' said Marion huskily, her fingers touching the glossy head. 'I have not time to weep.'

With her mouth in set lines, Marion wrote her letters. When they were directed and sealed, she found Simone waiting to undress her. Her jewel box, a present from Lady Fairfax, was by the bed. Marion took from it the case containing the pearl and turquoise necklace, and handing it to Simone, dismissed her for the night.

She sank on her knees by the high, canopied bed. 'Our Father,' began the tremulous whisper. Then the golden brown head fell on the coverlet. 'O Roger, Roger!' she sobbed.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*A HALT ON THE ROAD*

Marion sat in the corner of the coach, wondering why the roads had become so much more uneven, the vehicle itself so comfortless, the sturdy greys so slow seeming, since she had travelled that same course with her father not more than two months ago. And she had not the consolation that pleasanter riding lay ahead; ruefully she thought of the waggon tracks of the west country, compared with which the narrow lanes, deeply rutted, through which the coach now rocked and jolted, made easy going.

On the first day, after Beckenham had left the party, and the coach had settled down to a steady pace, the sense of slowness had been intolerable to the girl. Her fear and dread sped backwards and forwards between Roger in his gaol and herself crawling snailwise over the intervening space, and taunted her with her helplessness. The enforced inaction left her a prey to mental maladies that otherwise she would have shaken off. Moody and irritable, she had words for none.

At the outset, she had been forced to recognise one drag on her speed: she dare not press the greys beyond their strength, nor dare she leave them at some posting-house and take fresh horses for the succeeding stages of the journey. That she risked her father's displeasure in any case, in returning thus, she was certain. She saw her position from his point of view: merely because she could not bear to stay behind, she had come home; but that was no reason why she should ruin the horses. Therefore it was needless for Zacchary to preach rest and caution. At the inn where they stopped for the night, Marion saw to it that the weight of her purse and the new-born authority of her manner ensured the best stabling and food the house afforded. She had done all she could. Everything now depended on the coach and the animals. But in the meantime only some few hours had passed since she left London, and long days lay ahead during which she must perforce sit idle.

The morrow found her in the same gloomy condition, her desperate fancy dwelling on each coming stage of the interminable road. One day pressed on to another without any incident to ease her unhappy mood. Slowly the sun rose, and slowly sank to rest; the young moon over her casement mocked her restless sleep; and for Marion the incomparable beauty of the green summer turned into the spite of prison walls.

Simone, unobtrusively watching her young mistress, began to be concerned for her state, and would have almost welcomed an accident, a stray highwayman, if only the face in the corner would lose its set look.

But so far no such ill hap had occurred. Travelling only by daylight, and so well guarded, and, as the men on the box averred, protected by a special fate, the coach had gone on its way unmolested. Tony the valiant, as Simone had dubbed him, was indeed worth the three men of his master's boast, and his splendid horsemanship and elegant livery had called for no few admiring glances from the farm lads and rosy-cheeked wenches who stood at times to watch the coach and its outrider go by. The travellers had done almost half the journey before Simone found out that while Zacchary and Reuben slept in a hayloft above the horses' stalls, Tony chose for his bed the boards of the landing outside the ladies' bedchamber. Simone herself, water jug in hand, had come suddenly upon this unexpected barricade one morning when Master Tony had overslept himself. She had all but fallen headlong over the prostrate body, and her exclamation finding its way into his dreams, the young man had become aware of a slippered foot within reach of his hand. At once his fingers closed on the foot, while he wriggled into a position that would enable him to see who was daring to pass so close to the door behind which his fair charges were sleeping. Scarcely had he brought his drowsy eyes to rest on Simone's dainty face before the few drops of water left in the ewer trickled on to his own. Her foot released, Simone stood back with a smile. 'So 'tis thyself who snores so loudly that my mistress and I have feared our walls were but thin boards! Snore on, valiant warrior,' said Simone over her shoulder, as she went along the passage. 'Henceforth the sound of thy slumbers shall be music to our ears.'

In the late afternoon of the fourth day the coach was making a rather slow progress along the Ilminster Road. Zacchary had discovered, or imagined, as Marion asserted, a slight lameness in the inside leader. Nothing would induce him to hurry his pace, and Marion had been obliged to bow to his will.

To Simone's unbounded relief, Marion's attack of depression had worn itself out. The consciousness that in a few more days, granted no ill fortune, she would cross the boundary into Cornwall, lent an added buoyancy to her reacting mood.

The sound of the broad Dorset speech, which had induced a home-coming sensation in Marion, had greatly diverted Simone. Marion, giving her a lesson in west country dialect, did not notice the narrow lane, deep ditched at one side, into which they had passed, and was unaware of any danger until, with a sickening heave, the coach slanted down into the hollow, and rested there.

'Bide where you be, Mistress,' came Zacchary's call. 'Us'll shift un all right!'

For a few seconds the men struggled at the horses' heads, the Cornishman's cries to the struggling greys running into a high falsetto and an affectionate reviling that made even Marion smile.

''Tis nothing,' she said to Simone, as the two balanced themselves against the list of the coach floor. 'We toppled into a ditch coming down, and were soon on the road again. Zacchary must have been careless for once. There! 'Twas a splendid pull. Ah--stay! What was that?'

The coach, almost balanced, had fallen back slanting-wise, and with the movement had come the sound of a snap, and a struggling of horses' feet. The voices of the men ceased.

'Something has happened,' said Marion, 'and I can't open this villainous door! Reuben!' she called.

The footman was already climbing on to the coach step, which appeared to be poised in mid-air, and in a moment the two girls were lifted to the ground.

Zacchary was bending over a broken trace.

'Oh!' said Marion in a relieved tone, 'I thought the pole had gone.'

Zacchary's mouth twisted under his beard. 'My lady would sing a different song by and by, when she saw the time it would take to mend the break.'

'You have all your tools, have you not?' asked Marion.

Zacchary straightened himself. 'There bean't nawt in yonder box at all, Mistress. A wor that struck at the sudden hurry of coming away a' clean forgot.'

Marion stood in silent dismay.

Meanwhile, Tony had been scouting ahead, and now trotted down the lane with the news that a likely inn was perched in a hollow over the next hill.

'Didst see aught of a cobbler's bench perched by un?' demanded Zacchary, his wrath rising. 'Streak off now, tha girt gawk! And if thou should light on a few sheep up over--and us allows tha'll be some scared--there bean't no call to trot back to tell the Mistress. A body would ha' thought--but thy head's too full o' Lunnon impidence for aught else.'

Not waiting to hear the end of the speech, Tony wheeled round.

'Will it take long to mend it, Zacchary?' inquired Marion.

'Maybe, maybe. 'Tis a bad split. Easy, now there,' called Zacchary, watching Reuben freeing the wheelers. 'So. Let un graze quiet-like.'

Marion sighed. 'Do your best, Zacchary,' she said gently. 'We will walk on a bit, and wait at the inn till you come.'

After a short walk between the steep flower-grown hedges, the two reached the little hostelry which Tony had espied from the crest of the hill. A smiling, rosy-cheeked innkeeper, with a smiling, rosy-cheeked wife at his side, stood on the steps as the two came up, their approach having been noted from the kitchen windows. The woman smoothed her apron and dropped a series of curtseys as her husband greeted the travellers.

'Thank you,' said Marion. 'We should like to wait awhile, but 'twould be more pleasure to walk about in the garden yonder than to sit indoors. We have had over much sitting in the coach these days past. But,' she added, rather anxiously, 'did not our man come up to ask for an awl and some leather for mending the trace?'

'He has but now gone up over, Madam,' said the innkeeper. 'The cobbler's cottage is that you see yonder, next the blacksmith's.'

As he spoke, the man pointed out the few dwellings of a tiny hamlet across the fields.

'If you would see that the cobbler comes himself,' began Marion:--then she broke off, smiling. 'Tony is indeed worth three men,' she said to Simone. 'See yonder where he comes with the cobbler riding behind.'

'A don't allow but that his horse be tired some,' remarked the innkeeper as, in a few minutes, Tony's chestnut went by at a canter with her double burden. 'Would it not be best to lie here and go on to-morrow?'

Here the wife chimed in. 'There be a dish o' trout from the brook, caught this morning, a fine ham up the chimney ready for cutting, Mistress, and sheep's kidneys, and a venison pasty, and a good fat fowl hanging yonder. Killed yesterday, 'twas.'

Marion shook her head. 'We want to get to Ilminster to-night.'

'Ilminster! For pity's sake, Mistress, think of the horses!' cried the innkeeper. 'But in any case, wife, get the ladies a pot of cider.'

For close on an hour Marion and Simone walked in the garden and to and fro along the lane, waiting for the rest of the party to reappear. Towards the end of the time Marion fell silent, and Simone forbore to draw her into conversation. At length the sound of horses was heard, and with an impatient word Marion turned to greet the laggards; but the word died on her lips, and she stared in dismay as the coach came up the lane, drawn by the wheelers only, Reuben following with the leaders at the rear of the vehicle.

'There bean't nothing amiss, Mistress Marion,' said Zacchary as the coach came to a standstill in front of the inn. 'Us have mended the trace all right, but you must see, with Jennifer falling lame, it be wellnigh impossible to reach Ilminster to-night. In any case the horses be weary. Cobbler tells me there bean't near so good stabling this side Exeter as to this here inn. I vote we stay, Mistress, and get on the road at sunrise.'

There was a doggedness in Zacchary's voice that Marion remembered from her childhood's days. It was no good arguing the matter when Zacchary spoke in that tone.

'Very well,' said Marion. She turned to go into the garden again, and Simone went to the well of the coach to find her mistress's box that had been set apart for necessities of travel.

'Then my lady will stay?' cried the innkeeper's wife. 'Supper shall be ready in a very short time.'

Her husband, meanwhile, was looking along the road to the west. In the bustle of stabling the greys no one had noticed another rider coming in from the Ilminster direction. The landlord listened intently for a minute, then his rosy face broadened into a still wider smile.

'Here be another for supper and bed, an I mistake not,' he called to his wife. 'Yonder roan hath cast a shoe.'

From inside the garden, which ran westward of the inn, Marion looked curiously for the arrival of another victim of the hazards of the road. Presently the roan trotted up, and the rider dismounted. He was a lean, spare young man, and from his garments and manner of speech as he greeted the innkeeper, Marion vaguely classed him as a lawyer's clerk.

'You have ridden hard, sir,' the innkeeper was saying. 'And a finer brute I never saw.'

Mine host had evidently no suspicion that Marion was within earshot; precisely the same approval he had cast on her greys.

'I ride on a hard errand, my good man,' said the new comer in a slightly pompous tone. 'Is there a smith hereabouts?'

The landlord indicated the cottages across the green. 'My boy shall take your horse, sir,' he said, 'and supper will be on the table presently. We have youth and beauty for our guests to-night, sir.'

'Aha!' said the stranger, squaring his shoulders and pulling his moustache--'and who may----?'

With a smile, Marion moved out of earshot.

Presently Zacchary came hesitatingly into the garden. Having won his point so easily, he was wishful for a word of peace with his lady. ''Twas for the best,' he said, his old eyes looking into the clear grey ones.

'I know it, Zacchary,' said Marion gently. 'Are the horses all right? What of Jennifer?'

Zacchary nodded. 'Jennifer will be all right to-morrow. Yonder Tony be a power o' help. A don't allow but her be as handy a man with the brutes as ever a clapped eyes on. Beats me how her knows such a terr'ble lot about horses, and Lunnon-born and bred.' The old groom moved a step nearer. 'Yonder be a Devon man now come,' he pursued, his voice dropping. 'Do 'ee look out for your purse, Mistress.'

'Zacchary! I am truly ashamed of you!'

Zacchary looked stolidly at his mistress. 'Like as not a rogue,' he insisted. 'A don't niver trust they Devon ikes. I should be main surprised if her haven't robbed somebody already, being that careful with the saddlebags and all.'

'I don't suppose his saddlebags contain anything more than a bundle of documents,' said Marion. 'You're as bad as old Mother Borlase, Zacchary.'

'And the man was that solemn and grand,' went on Zacchary, 'a body might a took un for Governor of Bodmin, no less.'

'Go and get your supper. And don't be such a quarrelsome wretch. The man is very well.'

Marion followed Zacchary indoors and was escorted by the innkeeper's wife to the best bedroom, where Simone had laid out a change of dress for her mistress.

'I feel mightily inclined for a quiet meal,' remarked Marion as the last deft touches were put to her hair and gown. 'And perhaps I may get one if you will show the same kindness that you showed in entertaining Captain Beckenham on my behalf that first day.'

A slight spot of colour showed on Simone's cheeks.

'A votre service, Mademoiselle,' she said in a rather constrained voice.

Marion glanced at her curiously in the mirror. 'He was certainly very gallant and delightful,' she went on. 'No one can be more so than Captain Beckenham. Yonder man downstairs is of a different order, though. Still, I have no fear your fine steel will fail in meeting his heavy blade.'

As Marion spoke a kitchen-maid knocked at the door to announce supper, and the two went down into the little dining-room. Mine host, all smiles and delight, stood within the doorway. He was one of those innkeepers who made travelling a pleasure; the comfort and happiness of his guests and not his own gain seemed to be his one consideration. By the window stood the newcomer. He turned as the ladies entered. From the amount of self-importance he contrived to put into his greeting Marion understood at once Zacchary's hostile feeling.

With the slightest lift of her eyebrows Simone followed her mistress to the place allotted and sat down. After acknowledging the stranger's bow with a cold salutation, Marion turned her attention to the innkeeper and then to her supper. Her sense of weariness and lurking anxiety was weighing on her spirits. Nothing but the eager face of her host as he hovered by her chair, pressing dish after dish for her acceptance, would have made her break the silence that, in her present mood, was the only comfort possible.

Meanwhile the stranger had turned his attention to Simone, and presently, as the good cheer of food and wine stole over Marion's senses, easing a little her mental strain, she became aware that a very fine play was going on across the table. The countryman could make no headway against Simone's cool wit. He fell back on the resort of his kind: boasting. Mine host's wine, too, in the quantities the man drank, would have made a braggart of the humblest spirit.

Thus it was that Marion, her eyes on the June roses that overran the grey walls of the inn, flaming red in warm sunset, suddenly became aware of the man's rising voice, of his flourishes as he talked of himself. She brought her cool, level gaze to bear upon his heated face. At the moment he was explaining for the benefit of the innkeeper his own very great impatience as compared with other folk who wandered aimlessly on this dull planet.

'Show us thy merit, then, sir,' broke in the smiling innkeeper. 'Give us chapter and verse!'

'Ah!' said the other, bridling, ''tis a secret mission.'

Simone slightly shrugged her shoulders and turned to her custard.

''Tis an interesting word--secret,' she remarked idly.

''Tis a word not much liked hereabouts,' interposed the landlord with a look for his guest. ''Tis main near to Dorchester for that.'

'Ay, well mayst thou look so, my good man,' said the other, laying down his glass. 'And there be others who would look on me thus did they know what I carry. Before you, madam,' he said, turning to Simone with a clumsy, top-heavy bow, 'you see a man in whose hands is a mission of life and death.'

Marion looked hard at the speaker.

'La, la!' said Simone. 'You are then arranging a duel. Where is 't to be fought?'

'Ay--a duel, mistress, wherein but one shall bear a tool. But--' the man puffed out his chest, 'the result of my mission may mean that even that one tool shall be idle. In the main I hope it may, for I hear 'tis a well-known youth of excellent parts who has tripped in the path, and that more out of friendliness than roguery.' Taking Marion's unwavering look for a stare of admiration the man paused for further effect. 'Ay,' he said again, 'in these hands lies the life of one who pines yonder--' he jerked his head in the direction of the setting sun. 'More wine, mine host. 'Tis a worthy vintage. Mistress, the honour of a bumper.'

Marion rose. 'Our host himself will bear you company, sir,' she said, her face calm. 'I pray you--' turning to the innkeeper, 'take a bottle at my charges. 'Tis a most excellent supper, and should not be spoilt with haste. But as for ourselves, we are somewhat weary, and we wish you a very good evening.'

The innkeeper's wife came trotting in in answer to her husband's call, and taking a candle, accompanied the ladies to their chamber. In response to Marion's question, she explained that Zacchary and his fellows had supped, and, the night being yet young, had gone over with her own serving men for company for a friendly hour at the blacksmith's. The kitchen wenches were abed, she added, for they must be up before dawn. And if the ladies had no further need of her, she herself would retire. Marion had already learned that the inn was also something in the nature of a farm, and knowing the double labours that must fall on those plump shoulders, she bade the woman seek her own couch at once.

'We ourselves must be up before the sun,' she said. 'I would fain be well on the road by seven o'clock.'

With a bobbing curtsey the woman departed. As she went down the landing Marion turned and looked at Simone.

*CHAPTER XV*

*IN THE HARNESS ROOM*

The two stood in silence until the sound of a door closing came from the farther end of the house.

'You have the same dread,' said Marion heavily. 'I can see it. I had hoped perhaps 'twas my nervous fancy that, like a colt, shies at every stone in the path.'

She sat down on the low window seat.

'He bears a letter,' said Simone suddenly.

'And 'tis not in his pocket, or he would have slapped it bravely. 'Tis in his saddlebags.'

'In the stable, Mademoiselle?'

'In the harness room, I expect, next to the stable. I noted the place when we were waiting.'

Marion buried her face in her hands. A silence fell on the little chamber. The sound of laughter and voices rose from the room below.

'Mademoiselle,' presently came Simone's whisper, 'this is unbearable. Perhaps we are both mistaken. Our thoughts naturally go the same way. If you saw the letter, you would know. Let me find it for you.'

'No,' said Marion firmly, lifting her head. 'No hand is laid to such an action but my own. I take myself whatever risk may befall. And if I do it, I must do it at once, before the light fails--and before delay makes a coward of me. I had already thought of it. 'Twould appear easy enough; the men abroad, the servant girls in bed. And if I am discovered, I must be looking at Jennifer's knees.'

'Mademoiselle,' ventured Simone, 'you must be ready, you know. The letter will doubtless be sealed. I have heard that a hot knife, run under the seal, will ease it without breaking it. You will find a knife in the kitchen, and the logs are alight. I saw the glow from the passage.'

Marion shivered slightly. ''Tis a foul thing that I set myself to do, but I must know. I must know. Quick, Simone! Take off my shoes. Stockings make no sound.'

A minute later Marion crept stealthily downstairs. Mine host and the traveller were talking over their wine, their heads dark against the sunset light which fell slanting through the latticed window.

From the crack of the door, as she stole by, Marion caught a glimpse of the two figures, the smoke rising from their pipes. How long would they stay thus?

Noiselessly she crept along the passage in the direction whence she had seen the servant girl come with dishes for supper. A glow from some interior warmth lay across the passage stones, the same light that Simone had noted. With a quick backward glance Marion turned in at the open kitchen door.

A fire of logs burned in the huge chimney place, casting gleams on the brass cooking utensils hanging on the chimney breast. On the table stood various dishes and jugs. Rapidly Marion looked about for a knife. Would she, she thought with a sudden tremor, be obliged to open a drawer? Neither on the dresser nor on the table was a knife to be seen.

She tiptoed across the room to an open door. Beyond lay the inn yard and the stables. The exit was clear. So far so good; but the knife?

Another door just on the latch stood in the opposite wall. Peeping in, Marion saw the place she sought: the 'wash-up.' A pile of knives and forks stood on a side bench, clean from supper, but evidently awaiting scouring. Hastily she selected the one with the slenderest blade.