Chapter VIII: Part 8

As Simone snapped the silk and tied the broken end to the third arrow, Marion sank back on the floor. She closed her eyes, and leaned against the wall. A faintness had assailed her. If her courage once fled, failure would be certain. Twice she had missed the mark.

The man below trod noisily to and fro on the south side. Again came the snatches of the ditty. Drawing a long breath, Marion rallied herself, and peered out of the window. A white patch showed dimly between the bars of Roger's cell, immediately over the sentry's head. In the grey light, Marion imagined that she saw Roger's face. He seemed to be smiling up at the little window. To Marion's wild fancy the look was plain to be seen. It seemed to say, 'Bravely, little Mawfy!' as he had said of old when she had just failed of the mark.

Some quickening influence ran through the girl's blood. Her dread and fear fell away. She looked searchingly down at the cell grating; then, as the man below swung round, her fingers flashed the signal. The white patch behind the bars disappeared.

'How many arrows are there, Simone?'

'Twelve.'

'I shall win on the twelfth,' said Marion calmly, fitting the barb as she spoke.

Marion, kneeling, drew the bowstring taut. Simone held herself ready to draw in the silk, her ears strained for the fall of the arrow on the stones of the yard. Could either of them bear the strain of the twelve? Would not the sentry hear the faint sounds? His footsteps paused in the yard beyond. Marion held her breath and waited. The tramping steps began once more. Again came the lightning streak through the dim air. The silk ran out. There was no tap of the falling shaft.

Marion leaned forward. The bow dropped from her nerveless hand. With a low cry, Simone brushed the girl aside out of the way of the shining strands. Roger was hauling in the silk. Gently the length passed through Simone's fingers.

'Hist!' said Marion. She laid a steadying hand on the line. The sentry's footsteps sounded again. His clumsy form swung round the corner, the light gleaming on his barrels. He paced the length of the south wall, and stood still: then, laying down his carbine, he looked searchingly round, and groping in his pocket, drew out pipe and flint and tinderbox. Leaning against the wall, directly under the slender line, he proceeded to fill and light his pipe. From time to time he glanced nervously about.

Again the wave of faintness stole over Marion. Her eyes, wide with horror, stared at the man below. Simone gently took the silk from her.

The sentry was fumbling with his tinderbox. Would he look up and see that fine strand, grey as the sky, stretched over his head?

The world was waking to the dawn. Thrushes piped their first notes in the garden. Puffing at his pipe, the sentry turned and scanned the eastward horizon. Lines of rosy clouds showed themselves, forerunners of the storm. Marion clutched Simone's hands, waiting for the man's eyes to sweep the sky. She was struggling with an overpowering desire to scream aloud. Another minute ticked by. Three o'clock struck from the churches in the town. With a grunt the man lazily took up his carbine. He looked idly at the trees across. It seemed to Marion's distorted vision that he stared straight into their little casement. For another space he lingered, his legs wide, leaning against the wall. Then he straightened himself. He shouldered his carbine, and turned away. There was a stifled cry from Marion as she took the line with trembling fingers, and gently paid it out. For a second it slackened over the trees. Then the hand at the other side drew in again; and more and more rapidly as silk gave way to cord. Before the sentry had time to pass the corner again, Roger had secured the package tied on the rope, and drawn in the trailing end.

There was a dead silence in the little room. Unheeded the sentry paced the south front, unheeded tramped out to the wider stretch of the yard. Simone said something her companion scarcely noted, and the next minute Marion was alone.

The first act was over; the second, containing a still more perilous movement, was about to be played; of the third--the headlong flight to the west--Marion did not think at all.

What was going on in the cell yonder? She fancied she could see Roger's kneeling figure at the grating; he was evidently filing the iron near to the base. The bars were not very close together; when two were gone, Roger should be able to get out. There was a drop of about fifteen feet. With the help of the rope he should be able to let himself noiselessly down.

In reality only a few minutes had passed since the arrow had reached its mark, but to Marion it seemed already an hour. She looked anxiously at the eastern sky, now suffused with stronger light. In another half hour the daylight would be making very plain all the features of town and country alike. A few hoarse notes came to her ears, punctuated by the heavy footfall of the sentry in the yard. ''Tis a cheerful soul!' mused Marion, with a wry smile. A minute later the dark form loomed round the corner.

The first drops of rain were falling. The fitful breeze of the early morning had strengthened into a westerly wind. Instinctively Marion's thoughts began to dwell on the prospect of the ride over the border in the face of such a storm as was brewing.

Something moving in the road caught her eye, and switched back her thoughts to the present. Simone's noiseless figure was creeping along in front of the gaol wall. The blood rushed to Marion's face. She had forgotten that arrow. Her eyes went alternately from the sentry's steady movement to the fluttering figure in the road. Suppose he should open the wicket?

The light form glided noiselessly back, and Marion glued her eyes again to the grating of the cell.

As the sentry passed round the corner, Marion bent forward and listened for the sound of the grinding of the file. But not by straining her ears to the utmost could she hear anything save the steady tramp of the soldier. Surely there had been time to file through those two bars! In her impatience she forgot that the prisoner was bound to restrict his efforts to the time the sentry spent at the back of the building.

As she sat motionless, her whole forces divided between watching and listening, there was a movement at her elbow. Simone was there with her hat and gloves. Behind her stood Mistress Keziah, her face grey in the dawn.

The clocks in the town chimed half-past three. Marion started. Half an hour Roger had been filing those bars.

'Had you not better go down to the gate and be ready?' said the old lady.

Marion, pulling on her gloves, shook her head. She crouched down again, no eyes for the others in the room, and was unaware that Simone, at a glance from Mistress Keziah, had quietly stolen away.

Marion felt a cold terror grip her heart. Could some one have entered the cell and seen Roger working--seen the arrow and the silk and the cord?

There was the sentry again, idly walking the south front. It seemed hours before he retraced his steps.

As he turned the corner, Roger's face appeared at the grating. He was ready. First knotting the rope to one of the side bars, he pressed his knee against the stone sill, and pulled with both hands first one bar and then another. Slowly the bars yielded. Roger flung out the rope.

What was that? The step of the sentry returning already? Marion leaned out to wave a warning. It was too late. Roger had thrust head and shoulders through the gap. He drew one foot up on to the ledge, then leaning out, caught the rope and bore on it while he freed the other foot. He slid down. Just as he landed on the ground, the sentry swung round the building.

Roger was the first to see the man. For one paralysing instant he stood still. The sentry started and stared, dumb with amazement. Before he had time to level his carbine, before he had the wit to shout, Roger leaped at him, his fists clenched. Out flashed his right hand, and caught the man a crashing upward blow on the jaw. The sentry fell like a log. Roger darted to the wall. Marion only waited to see him spring from the coping into the road. With a swift word to her aunt, she ran along the passage and down the gallery into the hall. The door stood wide open. She sped down to the courtyard gate.

Roger was already there, wrapping himself in the coachman's cloak. Simone was holding his hat and crop. Roger gave a swift look at Marion.

'We have to pass the gaol for the east gate,' said she. 'Can we? Have we time? Shall we make for the west?

'The man will be a good five minutes at least. Then another five remembering what has happened,' said Roger quietly. 'Come!'

With a fleeting glance for Simone, Marion followed him out. The two ran lightly back along the road, past the gaol gates. There was not a sound from the building. No one was in the road. The whole town seemed deserted. Through the old east gate they went, and turned up towards the castle scarp.

Just beyond the ridge, in the shadow of some trees, Zacchary was waiting with the greys. Roger lifted Marion into her saddle, and leapt into his own. Then he looked down at Zacchary, and said a husky word of farewell.

Zacchary was staring as at a ghost. He had never believed the plan would succeed. Before he had time to consider was it really Master Roger, in Mistress Keziah's livery, the two were on a narrow track that led by a round-about course to join the westward road some miles farther on.

For several minutes Zacchary stood still. The sound of the horses' hoofs on the soft turf died away. He stared about the quiet green fields and down into the town. The day had come.

Mistress Keziah had ordered Zacchary to make a wide detour among the country lanes, and enter the streets later by the west gate when folk were stirring and the business of the day was afoot. For a couple of miles Zacchary followed the track of the horses. On the summit of the hill he stood and looked round.

Through a straggling copse to the right, that shielded the path the fugitives had taken, the high road from Honiton was visible, winding down into the valley. A solitary horseman was riding towards the town. In the shelter of the trees Zacchary stood and watched. There seemed to be something familiar in the man's head and shoulders. Then he remembered.

It was the messenger whose horse had cast a shoe the day the coach foundered in the lane.

*CHAPTER XXII*

*THE ROAD TO THE WEST*

After close on two hours' hard riding the fugitives drew rein. They had not spoken except once to confer on direction, Marion having simply stated that they were returning to Garth. Roger had pointed out the cross-country track where he thought it most likely they would escape detection.

They were on the edge of a spur of the moor, and from its advantage they wheeled to scan the countryside. There was no sign of life save the cattle and ponies grazing in the rough grass.

Soon Marion became aware that Roger had turned his gaze on herself. Fingering her crop, she sat tongue-tied and helpless. She had dreamed of this moment, when she and Roger would find themselves riding homeward, the shadow of the gaol left behind, and a long chapter in their lives to recall, each for the other. The moment having come, she could do nothing but stare at her horse's head and run her crop in and out of his mane.

Roger's hand fell abruptly on hers. Marion raised her eyes and dropped them again. The hand tightened.

'I cannot say it,' said Roger huskily. 'I cannot.'

Marion glanced at the pale, worn face.

'Don't try,' she faltered, her composure breaking before the look in his eyes. 'I know just what you would say.'

'No one can,' said Roger in a low voice, 'who has not been at the very edge of the grave.'

Marion's hand gently touched Roger's. Tears shone on her lashes.

'I do believe,' she said tremulously, acting on a swift inspiration, 'I do believe I am hungry.'

Roger dropped his hand and turned his head away, and leaning over, Marion tried to unbuckle one of his saddlebags. Soon her companion became aware of her action. Hastily he dismounted. From the bag he drew out a flask of wine and a wallet of food.

'Venison pasty!' said he, staring at the piece Marion offered him. He snatched at it with an eagerness that went to her heart. Half-way to his lips he withdrew it. 'I am a brute!' he said. 'Forgive me. Where is yours?'

'Here. We have one each. Now I shall give you just five minutes, sir.'

Marion smiled down at the upturned face, but her hint brought Roger back to the present. He mounted again, and the two moved forward at a gentle pace, eating and talking as they rode. In a few words Marion explained her plans on his behalf.

'So you are going to banish me to the high seas,' said Roger at the end.

Marion was silent a minute. Then, rousing herself: ''Tis strange by what crooked means a man's fate overtakes him. Do you remember that day on the headland when the _Fair Return_ set sail? My father always said that being a sailor bred and born you would in the end go to sea.'

The slight meal finished, they set their horses at a trot over the springing turf.

'What about my mother?' said Roger. 'Can I not see her before I sail, think you?'

'If we get down to Garth untroubled, perhaps yes. But we may have a close run for it.'

'I think we have not been seen yet,' said Roger.

'Except for the old woman.'

Roger was silent a while. About five miles out of the city they had come face to face with a small apple-cheeked dame setting out from her cottage with her basket of butter. The little low building, tucked in a fold of the moor, had been unnoticed by them, and they had reduced their speed, hoping that their headlong flight had not already been noted by some one within the cottage walls.

Marion had bidden the dame good morning and talked of the weather. The wind was steadily gathering, and every few minutes came fleeting squalls of rain. The old woman was not in a good temper. A wet market day in Exeter meant poor money for her butter. She feared a heavy storm was brewing. Then she added, not without several motherly glances for the pale-faced groom who rode just behind the lady: 'If so be you'm for Mortonhampstead, Mistress, 'twere best to take to the left down along and find the waggon track. Folk do sure lose themselves easily on they moors, and there be terr'ble danger of bogs up over. Only yesterday a gentleman got off the track. Mighty near to sinking in Tinker's Cup a'd been, with bog muck up to the horse's knees. 'Twas as fine a gentleman as ever a clapped eyes on. And a crown her gave me, as cool as day, for setting of un right.'

'Here's another to keep it company,' smiled Marion. 'Good day.'

In case she should be watching, the two had made a show of returning to the track she had pointed out, then branched to the north again, leaving Mortonhampstead, its chimneys beaten by driving smoke, away to the left.

'I don't think she noticed anything,' said Roger. 'And as you say, they'll be searching the river and the seaward country.'

After a time Roger reined in and looked about. They were out on the open moor. As he scanned the hills and gullies, the fair green bog stretches, he was seized by a conviction that they were not making the speed they should. In avoiding the dangers of the moor, they had been obliged to take a winding course. A landmark which should have been left miles behind lay at his shoulder.

'Marion,' he said suddenly, 'we must take to the waggon track if we wish to reach Garth to-day. We have lost half an hour wandering among these hummocks. Better make a rush for it that way than get hopelessly bogged or lost.'

Marion looked relieved. ''Twill be vastly easier to ride straight on so. And this heavy land is bound to weary the horses.'

By tacit consent the two spared no energy or time in speech. In a short time they gained the track. An hour later they passed through Postbridge. There they decided to feed the horses. While the greys were being attended to, Roger playing the part of groom among the stable men, Marion was entertained by the innkeeper with the news of the countryside. Among other details the host gave a description of a gentleman who had passed through on the previous evening, wishful to lie at Princetown. Listening, Marion mused a little on the coincidence: twice that morning she had heard of the stranger westward bound.

At the crest of the steep rise out of Postbridge Roger turned in his saddle and cast a keen eye over the Exeter road. With a swift gesture he pulled up his horse and remained motionless. Instantly on the alert, Marion stopped and followed the direction of his gaze. There was a lull in the storm; the sky had lightened over the east. A bar of watery sunlight fell across the hills that lay between Mortonhampstead and Postbridge. A couple of men on horseback showed against the skyline, minute figures only visible to those who had been trained from childhood to scan far distances. For a few seconds their horses showed clear. Then a driving cloud swathed the sunlight, and the moor lay misty and uncertain again.

'Did you see?' asked Roger quietly. 'Or did I imagine it?'

Marion nodded, and settling herself in her saddle raised her crop. An unexpected, heavy blow startled the grey into a canter that soon became a gallop. The second horse came easily alongside, Roger looking into his holsters as he rode. Before they had gone half a mile the storm on the height of the moor redoubled its fury. Rain lashed their faces. Bending sideways to the blast they drove the greys mercilessly on, only slightly slacking their speed as Princetown was reached and passed. There the track dropped into the valley. As the steaming animals picked their way down the slope, Marion turned to Roger.

'Do you think we should try to change horses at Tavistock?'

Roger shook his head. ''Tis but another thirty miles to Garth. These brutes will soon know, if they don't know now, that they are nearing home. They can do it. 'Twould mean at least ten minutes to change.'

Marion took what ease she could from the slackened pace. Her cloak and habit were soaked and hung limply about her. Wearily she drooped in the saddle, thankful for the respite from the storm that beat the heights.

'I am not worth it, Mawfy,' said Roger suddenly.

Marion smiled and straightened herself a little, but she made no reply. The bed of the valley passed, the greys trotted slowly up the slope.

'Now for it!' said Roger, as they gained comparatively level land. Soon they were at a straining gallop again, their heads bent to the wind and rain. From time to time they looked back, but the valley had swallowed their pursuers.

After a few more miles Marion became aware that her horse was a neck ahead of Roger's; then a length. Roger drove his heels into the grey's flanks. For a few yards they speeded alongside, then Marion found herself ahead again. She slightly checked her pace and glanced at her companion. There was a queer look on Roger's face. He slowed to a trot, leaning over to examine the action of his horse's feet.

'Wait a minute, Mawfy,' he said quietly. Hastily dismounting, he examined his horse's shoes and knees. 'I can see nothing,' he said, springing up again. 'It is perhaps a tendon that does not show any swelling yet.'

The horse, urged into speed, ran unevenly, jerking on the off hind. With crop and heel Roger pressed the brute to his utmost, but both the riders knew his miles were numbered. Neither spoke. Each had the same cold dread at heart.

'How far are we from Liskeard?' asked Marion faintly.

'Close on ten miles, I should think. But there should be an inn half-way.'

Mercilessly Roger forced the pace of the limping grey. 'It grieves me,' he said abruptly, 'but 'tis his life against mine.'

From time to time Marion looked fearfully over her shoulder. She knew that the wind, driving against them, would make it impossible for them to hear their pursuers till they were close at hand. Another quarter of an hour, at this rate, should bring them within hail.

'Take my horse and go on,' said Marion suddenly. 'They would not dare shoot me, and if they took me back to gaol Aunt Keziah would get me out.'

Roger's answer was a look from which Marion turned her face away. They trotted on in silence. The road had turned into a winding waggon track that curled round the hillside. Beeches topped the steep, unbroken hedges bordering the way. Behind the hedges on the one hand the ground fell away steeply, on the other climbing to a ridge that was the last outpost of the moor.

Roger stood in his stirrups. 'I think I can see some sort of a building, a couple of miles or so farther on where this lane ends.'

Marion's heart sank. Another couple of miles would mean at least a quarter of an hour at the pace they were going. She had a mental vision of the devouring stride of the pursuers' horses.

'And should they come before that,' added Roger, 'you are to ride on out of reach of shot. Remember now.'

Marion flashed a withering glance at the speaker. 'I should of course do that, should I not? Give me one of those pistols. Ah. I hear voices. Where are they?'

'There is nothing,' said Roger. All his attention was given to the grey.

Marion looked swiftly over her shoulder. Through a gap in the trees she imagined that she caught a fleeting glimpse of red. Making a swift calculation, she knew the soldiers were but three miles away. She cast a despairing look at Roger's horse.

'Give me one of those pistols, Roger,' she pleaded. 'I shall not leave you.'

Roger's answer was lost in a sudden cry from Marion. She was riding slightly ahead, and could command a curve in the road. Roger saw her speed on. Stumblingly his horse followed.

A cart and horse were slowly making their way along the deeply rutted track. In the cart a boy sat, talking to a horseman who rode at the rear. The rider's face was turned to meet the sound of approaching hoofs.

'Colonel Sampson!' called Marion, her voice breaking. 'Colonel Sampson! Oh, thank God!'

The traveller wheeled round and stared in amazement from Marion to the horseman at her heels.

'Roger's grey has fallen lame,' cried Marion, 'and the soldiers are almost on us.'

Sampson glanced keenly at the boy, who, still more amazed than he was, made a courteous salute. In his face he saw the marks of prison durance. So this was the Roger whose fate had made a criss-cross track through so many lives!

In an instant he saw his course plain. With a gesture bidding the two to follow, he set his horse at the narrow space left between the waggon and the hedge. When all three were ahead of the vehicle, Sampson dismounted.

'Take my horse, sir,' he said quietly, 'and ride on. My friend and I here will arrange a barricade. Pull your mare over so as to block the lane, my lad. Get the wheel into the ditch, so. A golden guinea for you if you keep yonder soldiers back for half an hour and hold your tongue about this exchange. We must head them off on another scent.'

The farm boy's eyes shone. With alacrity he obeyed the gentleman's orders.

'Quick!' said Marion. 'Quick! I can hear their hoofs. I can almost see them!' She was dazed by the way life and death tossed their alternate greetings in her ears.

'But you, sir,' said Roger, hesitating.

'I am an old soldier,' smiled Sampson. 'I fought behind barricades before you were born. Apart from that, there will be no need to fight. 'Tis not myself they are after.'

With her fingers clenched on her crop, watching for the gleam of red through the trees, Marion listened in an agony. The encounter had really not taken a minute's time, but to the girl the talk seemed idle and useless.

'Quick, Roger!' she cried again.

Roger sprang on to the Colonel's horse, a powerful roan, and Sampson mounted the limping grey.

'Now no one is any the wiser,' said Sampson. 'And we have not even seen you, have we, my lad?'

The farm boy grinned. It was an encounter after his own green heart. 'A bean't be seeing nought, sir,' he said.

'And this wretched waggon is in a devil of a mess,' pursued Sampson, stroking his moustache. 'Yonder kind-hearted soldiers will surely help straighten it. Good luck, sir. Good-bye, Marion, my dear. I will follow you to Garth.'

Roger rode on and Marion held a trembling hand to Sampson, her eyes shining through tears. As she trotted away Sampson called: 'Where is Simone?'

Marion stayed a second to answer. 'With my Aunt Keziah in Exeter.' There was a reply from Sampson she failed to understand. She broke into a canter and the roan and the grey were lost to sight. The lane ended abruptly in open land, and the track curved down along the flank of the hill. Just as they bore round, the fugitives turned once more and caught the gleam of the uniforms half way down the lane.

'Just in time!' said Roger. 'We can see them because of their colour, but 'tis unlikely they can have seen us since we left the open land.'

Side by side the two tore along the track, Marion bringing to bear on her horse the extreme pressure which so far had been unnecessary. Except when the nature of the track compelled, the two did not relax their speed until Liskeard was reached. Midday struck from the steeple as they rode through the town.

They broke into a gallop again, keeping a ceaseless watch for their pursuers. It was touch and go now. The land was so uneven that they could not see the track for more than half a mile at a time. At any moment the soldiers might gallop round the last hummock.

No words passed between the two, until, half an hour later, Marion suddenly pulled up, her eyes dim. She looked about.

'I remember that hill,' she said tremulously, 'and through yonder gap on a fine day we should see the sea. Oh Roger! we are nearly there!'

Roger looked over his shoulder. 'That mysterious Colonel of yours is a clever man. You must tell me some day how he did it. There, at that clump of trees, we turn off for a smugglers' bridle path. I know it well. It runs down to the coast and spares the hill outside Garth. If no one sees us for the next five minutes we are safe.'

Marion followed Roger, and leaving the grey to pick his own footing, fixed her eye on the backward track till a copse of wind-blown oaks hid it from their view. The path wound perilously down a stony gully, difficult to ride save for the moorland-bred. The wind was wearing away, a steady fine rain falling in place of the gusts and clamour of the morning. The realisation that the end of the perilous journey was in sight was slowly dawning on the girl's shaken senses. Another couple of miles, and they would sight the cottages and banks of Garth.

A few minutes later Roger slowed his horse and waited for her. The track had fallen to the river bed, and there was room for the two to ride side by side. Roger looked keenly at the girl's face.

'Do you know,' said he, 'we have ridden all this time and I have not said a word of all that is in my mind. Somehow 'twas enough to have you by my side and be riding to freedom. Nothing else matters. And now in a few minutes we shall be at the village. Mawfy, I cannot,--I--my mind is fevered. To say thank you to some one who has saved your life sounds like foolishness.'

'I told you this morning not to try,' said Marion, lifting her grey eyes to his.

Roger looked a long look at the pale face framed in the wet clinging hair.

'And I am going to sea,' he said suddenly. 'But I shall find some means of hearing of you. You and my mother. You will see my mother and tell her?'

'She shall know at once,' said Marion gently.

'See,' cried Roger, 'yonder on the hill is Mother Poole's cottage. Do you remember?'

'Ay,' said Marion. 'I remember.' She bit her lip, and looked straight ahead. Then, realising that village eyes would soon be on her, she straightened herself in the saddle.

'Mawfy!' Roger leaned over and took her hand.

She glanced at the warm dark eyes and looked hastily away again. A wave of colour wiped out the whiteness of cheek and throat. Roger was pulling the damp glove from her hand. The fingers lay limply between his own.

'It is good-bye, just for a little time,' said Roger, and caressingly he passed the trembling hand across his bent face.

Struggling for composure, Marion withdrew her fingers. The village lay before them. She dimly noted that a child had run out from a cottage, seen them, and run in again, shouting something. She dimly saw groups of sailors on the quay shading their eyes and staring up the valley. Then next minute a girl ran bareheaded to meet them and stood with clasped hands. It was Charity Borlase.

'Jack said as how you'd do it, Mistress,' she said simply, her eyes shining. 'The boat's waiting down along, Master Roger, and tide's running grand. Silas be going to row you out.'

Roger dismounted and lifted Marion from the saddle. 'Take Mistress Marion home, Charity, up the short path, and look after her well. She is very, very tired.'

He bared his head as his eyes sought Marion's, and once more, careless of Charity's presence, he lifted her fingers to his lips. The next minute he was striding down the beach. He leaped into a boat pointed out by a waiting youth and took an oar. As the boat shot out into the estuary hoarse cheers rose from the quay. The valley rocked with the sound. Women and children clustered by the water, waving their hands and crying. Charity's apron was at her eyes.

'God bless 'ee, Master Roger!' came voice after voice to Marion's ears.

Marion stood motionless on the beach. The last she saw was Roger's hand waving as the boat pitched into the heavy seas about the harbour mouth.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*HOME*

The wind had fallen, and a soft mist lay about the house next day, when Marion opened her eyes. She lay for a long while in drowsy content, lost between sleep and waking, opening her eyes and closing them again on the dear delight of home. The sense of peace that had fallen on her spirit the previous night when she had returned from the Manor and stolen straight to her own chamber, seemed still more to fill the place where she lay. It was as if she had sailed into a familiar haven after long tossing on strange seas. All the dear associations of her childhood leapt from nook and shelf to greet her. She lay and smiled at roof and window, rug and chair. And behind her warm feeling of content lay a thought that was like a caress: Roger was safe; Roger was happy at sea; Roger was coming back soon. A rosy flush tinted her face as she remembered--would she ever forget? 'Good-bye just for a little time, Mawfy!'

While she was still half dreaming, the housekeeper gently opened the door.

'Come in, Curnow, dear!' called Marion. 'I know 'tis you. I have never known any one come into a room quite so gently as you do.' She smiled at the old woman. ''Tis good to see you again, Curnow. What is that? Bread and milk? Fie, fie, Curnow! Do you suppose I have become an elegant old lady like Aunt Keziah, already? I cannot abide food in bed. It makes the whole chamber taste queer.'

There were tears in Mrs. Curnow's eyes as she threw a covering over Marion's shoulders and handed her the bowl. If only the Admiral would return, her cup of joy would be full. The same thought was passing through Marion's mind as she obediently began to drink the milk.

'I wish Father were home. I felt wretched last night when you said he was away. But he will soon be back. He must have left London for Exeter by this time.'

Mrs. Curnow watched her young mistress in silence for a time; then she began moving restlessly about the room, putting a chair here and a stool there.

'Come and sit down, Curnow,' said Marion. 'You will be tired before dinner time.'

''Tis past dinner time already,' said the housekeeper, looking at her indulgently.

'What! How could you let me sleep so, and all that there is to be done?'

'There bean't no tur'ble call for 'ee to get up, Mistress Marion.'

'But there is much to be done. There are the guest chambers to be got ready for Colonel Sampson and my Aunt Keziah. My aunt said she would follow in the coach with Simone. Most likely they lay at Tavistock last night. They should be here this afternoon, if nothing has delayed them. I do want my Aunt Keziah's chamber to look beautiful, Curnow.'

The housekeeper smiled fondly at the girl she had tended from babyhood. Indeed, she had lain awake most of the night pondering on Marion's story, and trying to see her 'little maid' in the light of its revelation.

'You will like Simone, Curnow,' Marion continued. 'I told you I am going to persuade my father to let me keep her here with us, did I not? She is French, you know, but very different from----' Marion stopped abruptly.

The smile on her hearer's face gave way to the grave, unhappy look the old woman had worn of late.

'What is it, Curnow?'

'I ought to tell you, Mistress Marion. I scarce know what to do,' the housekeeper slowly began. ''Tis Mademoiselle.'

Marion handed the speaker her bowl, and lay back on the pillow. 'I know all about that,' she said quietly. Mrs. Curnow stared.

'I did not tell you last night,' pursued Marion. 'There were so many other things to tell.'

'You know----'

'I know she betrayed Roger, if that is what you mean. Charity Borlase told me in a letter. Does my father know?'

'Not of my telling. 'Tis now,' the housekeeper counted on her fingers, 'eight days since the Admur'l came home, changed the horses, and straight up over for London. The Admur'l had heard down along about Master Roger, and with the look on his face no one dared speak to un--leastways not me. Mayhap Silas have told. And there be other things too,' wearily added the old woman. 'I scarce do know where to begin.'

'Leave it till my father comes, Curnow. It is all over now--all the trouble, I mean. The rest is for him to settle. Where--where is Mademoiselle?' Marion spoke with an effort.

'In her chamber. Her've never left un since the day Charity came up to have a few words, private-like, with she. Fear of what folk may do to un, may be. Zora have been telling that Victoire do say----'

'Victoire!' There was a curious look on Marion's face. 'When did Victoire come home?'

'The very day afore you did, Mistress Marion. That is to say, the night before last, when the house was abed. All unbeknownst her came in a coach from Plymouth. Seemingly the old woman in France yonder do be better. And yesterday--' a grim smile came on the housekeeper's face--'heart-sore and sick as I was, with the thought of dear Master Roger pressing on me, as 'ee might say, I couldn't forbear a smile when I saw Victoire eagerlike to talk to the wenches in the kitchen, and me having forbade they, most severe, to say one word to she.'

Marion got out of bed and began to dress. 'Curnow,' she said abruptly, 'I was never so thankful for anything in my life as that my Aunt Keziah is coming. Until Father returns, Aunt Keziah will see to Victoire and Mademoiselle. Don't let us talk of it, Curnow. I am trying not to think of it, even. It is horrible. Master Roger is safe. That is all that matters.'

The housekeeper presently went below, and Marion finished her dressing with a sober look on her face. The early joy and peace of the waking had vanished. For Marion, the last fortnight had been too much filled with immediate action to leave room for plans about the prime defaulter in the sorry affair. What should she say or do if she met Elise?

At length, feeling as uncomfortable as if she had to walk about alone in a haunted house, Marion went out of her chamber and set about the supervision of rooms for the coming guests.

In the meantime, Victoire sat talking by Elise's bed, talking softly, rapidly, in what the domestics called her heathen tongue. Victoire was angry, and Elise trembled as she listened. Just so, all her life, had that quiet, angry voice dominated her.

It had needed far less insight than Victoire possessed to learn that there was a new and bitter and unexplained feud between the household and herself and her young mistress.

She had found Elise in bed on the night of her arrival, and a feigned drowsiness on the girl's part had postponed any conversation till the morrow. With the morrow, however, a strange Elise had met her eyes, an Elise thin, worn, with a hunted, frightened look that perplexed Victoire. Elise was suffering from the old enemy, _migraine_, and preferred not to leave her bed. The waiting woman had descended to the kitchen, and at once became aware of the ban imposed by Mrs. Curnow. The serving girls answered her in yea and nay, and that was the sum of their speech. Neither did they talk in her presence, being only too pleased to carry out to the letter the housekeeper's instructions. Victoire, baffled, ascended to her mistress's room again. Elise's sufferings were not feigned, and she only prayed to be left alone till the pain became easier to bear. She would tell Victoire all the news later on.

Victoire, watching, saw that underlying the girl's physical suffering was the mental strain of some overpowering dread. Elise insisted on keeping the bolts of the chamber drawn; watched the door as footsteps passed without. In vain Victoire prayed for an explanation; at length she lapsed into sullen silence. In the late afternoon, while Elise was dozing Victoire crept downstairs. The kitchen was rocking with joyous sounds; laughter and tears, it would seem, and mid hilarious voices crying out on some unforeseen tremendous event. Victoire listened at the door long enough to disentangle the story wherein Marion's name and Roger's were freely tossed about. The waiting woman had known nothing of the happenings in Garth during the past month. Wrath at Elise's reticence, and amazement at the story she had heard sent her hot-foot to the girl's room. She strode noisily to the bedside, and Elise, waking from a slight doze, started up in speechless terror.

'What is this,' cried Victoire, 'about Roger Trevannion being rescued from gaol by Marion?'

She got no farther. Elise gave a low cry, and sank fainting on her pillow.

The rest of the evening Victoire spent in real anxiety by the girl's bed. With the morning Elise rallied under the effects of the medicine given her, and while Mrs. Curnow and Marion were discussing her in Marion's chamber, Elise gave a faithful history of the neighbourhood during Victoire's absence in Brittany. And Victoire was angry; not, it appeared, because Elise had done Roger a grievous wrong, but because she had made a fatal blunder. Elise's poignant remorse she brushed aside as being of no moment; Elise's terror of Charity Borlase's threat of vengeance she passed by in contempt.

'It is monstrous, inconceivable,' she went on, her voice becoming softer and softer as rage consumed her. 'Here fate has worked in the kindest possible way. That stupid, inquisitive old lawyer Lebrun who might have ruined our plans, has by a merciful Providence been allowed to die. For young Lebrun I do not care a straw. The anxiety of years has been removed. Your inheritance lies clear before you, the d'Artois estates only waiting for a mistress. And just when we could have departed in friendliness from that fool, the Admiral, you have committed this indescribable folly. Why could you not leave Roger Trevannion alone?'

'Did I not tell you,' said Elise sulkily, 'that he spied on me, that he had found out all about the cove and the man?'

'Nonsense! He just happened to pass that way, and he saw you.'

'He would have told.'

'Nonsense, again! You do not know the world. Had it been a woman, a village girl, there might have been danger--even then supposing the Admiral would have listened to one word from a village girl concerning his guest. But a young man like Roger Trevannion! Roger is _gentilhomme, vois-tu?--gentilhomme_. He might have given evidence if asked, and only then if he had thought it was his honourable duty. They mind their own business, _ces gens-la_! You have judged him as if he were a fisher lad. And if you had wanted to get rid of him--and I should not have had anything to say about that if you had been successful and done it properly'--Elise shuddered--'why, could you not have gone down to the cove and signalled to the man to do it for you? He would do anything for money, and you had plenty of money. But to go yourself to Bodmin! I am speechless! You have ruined us, do you hear?'

'I wish from the bottom of my heart,' suddenly said Elise, her face mottled yellow and white, 'that I had never seen Garth. The whole thing has been monstrous. For my part, I am willing to confess.'

Victoire stood and looked at the girl, and laughed. Elise sank back in bed, and hid her face.

'We will talk about that later,' went on the mocking, silky voice. 'In the meantime, prepare for a long walk, my good girl. As soon as dusk falls to-night, we set out.'

For a long time no more was said. Victoire busied herself with certain preparations, sewing money and jewels into the folds of her dress. The girl made no effort to rise and help her. She lay with closed eyes, from time to time falling into convulsive weeping whose sounds she stifled in the bed clothes. Her companion, busy among the garments hanging in the press in the inner room, failed to note, for all her caution, the dull sound of wheels, and if Elise heard, she made no comment.

'Listen to that!' said Victoire presently, emerging from her closet with a length of priceless lace on her arm. 'There is the kitchen still uproarious. They will be singing and dancing all night because of this escape. But--ah, good! while they are amusing themselves, I will get into the buttery for food for our journey. If I go through the hall, the wenches will not see me.'

'Marion may,' faltered Elise.

'And do you suppose the Princess Royal will speak to me?'

With a little laugh, Victoire went boldly downstairs, and entered the hall, one door of which gave access to the butler's pantry and the buttery. Too late she realised her mistake. Several people were sitting there, and Mrs. Curnow was carrying a tray of wine and cake from guest to guest. The open door in her hand, ready to retrace her steps, Victoire paused long enough to note the new arrivals. Her beady black eyes ran from face to face. There was a gentleman whom she did not recognise, standing by the window; in the big chair sat Mistress Keziah Penrock. Victoire had scarcely time to feel alarmed at the sight of the lady, for on the instant she caught sight of another figure, that of a young girl who was talking eagerly with Marion. Victoire's other hand clutched at the door post, and at the same moment Marion caught sight of her. A sudden pause in the conversation made Simone look curiously round. She gave a sharp cry, and passing her hand over her eyes, stared about the room, then seized Marion's arm with both hands. From that support she turned her head slowly, like a frightened child, and looked again at the woman clinging to the door. Across the room two pairs of eyes stared, each at a ghost. Simone dropped Marion's arm, and stepped forward. Suddenly the face at the door became distorted, the hand shot out to ward off Simone's approach, a broken gabble fell from the ashen lips. Then silence again.

Simone stepped quite close, and looked steadfastly at her.

'_Victoire!_'

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*ELISE PASSES OUT*

'Pray, sit down, Simone.'

It was Colonel Sampson's voice, even and decorous, that broke in on the strained silence. He drew a chair up to the oaken table as he spoke. Simone obeyed, holding a hand out as if for support. Marion took the hand and held it, gently passing her own palm across the trembling fingers. Motioning Victoire into the room, Mrs. Curnow quietly shot the bolt and latched the other door that gave on to the kitchen passages. Mistress Keziah looked curiously from face to face, then with a slight gesture she turned to Colonel Sampson.

Bending over Simone, whose eyes never left the woman at the door, Sampson spoke.

'Tell us, if you can, my dear, who this woman is.'

'My nurse,' instantly replied Simone.

'Your nurse?' repeated Mistress Keziah in a clear, steady voice. 'You are not mistaken?' She looked from Marion who, speechless, was staring at Victoire, to Sampson. The Colonel nodded once or twice, with a smile. Simone leaned her brow on her hand for a minute, then looked up at him. Her whole face was transformed.

'I can remember!' she cried, springing up. 'Oh, I can remember!' She pressed her fingers to her cheeks, staring beyond the room into the past.

'Remember what, Simone dear?' said Marion in a trembling voice, forcing the girl gently into her chair.

Simone's low voice broke on a hysterical note. 'But,' she cried, 'I am not Simone. Did I not say I have just remembered? I have been trying all my life to remember. I am not Simone. I am Elise.'

Marion stepped back, her grey eyes wide. She looked appealingly at her aunt; but that lady, her gaze bent on Simone, appeared to be making a reckoning and a remembrance on her own account. Sampson still smiled from the window seat.

Marion looked again from Simone to the woman who stood, her mouth closed tight, by the door. What could have happened to affect Simone's mind thus?

'But,' she faltered, 'Elise is upstairs in her room. Are there two Elises?'

'I told my brother,' rang out Mistress Keziah's clear voice, 'I told my brother yonder girl was not a de Delauret. Had your nurse a child, my dear?' she asked, turning to Simone.

'Why, yes,' said Simone slowly. 'Let me see now. What was she called? Wait a minute. I have it! Suzanne Marie. We used to play together. How clear it is all growing!'

There was a curious pause. Marion stepped forward, a strange look on her colourless face.

'Then Suzanne Marie is upstairs,' triumphantly said Mistress Keziah. 'The whole thing is clear.'

A wail broke from Marion's lips. 'I cannot understand it. Aunt Keziah, are we all going mad?'

Simone, staring across at Victoire, seemed not to hear, and Sampson, watching the girl, saw that she was slowly linking together the scattered chain of her memories.

'The woman Victoire will doubtless explain,' said Mistress Keziah. 'I told your father there was some hideous mystery. The whole village knew. Any one else but my brother would have known. The woman just put her own child in Simone's place.'

Again a stupefied silence fell on the room. There was no word from the woman at the door.

Quite suddenly Marion burst into tears.

'It is horrible,' she said. 'Horrible! Have I been all these years playing and sleeping and eating with some one called Suzanne Marie, and the real Elise starving in London? Simone,'--she threw her arms round the girl's neck,--'forgive me, forgive us.'

Mistress Keziah's old eyes watered as she looked at the girl who had always been so self-controlled. 'My darling,' she said, 'it was not your fault.'

'I cannot bear it!' cried Marion. 'And I care not who sees me weep. Romaine says she found Simone in a fearful state in a gutter in Crutched Friars. She had been so dreadfully treated that she nearly died. Then when Romaine had nursed her back to health she could not remember anything.'

'No,' broke in Simone's toneless voice. 'No. But I remember now. Dear Marion, do not be unhappy.'

'I cannot help but be unhappy,' said Marion, drying her eyes. 'We ought to have found out. Somebody ought to have done something. Think of it, Aunt Keziah, Simone working in London, stitching all day for a bit of food. I cannot bear it.' Marion sat down and buried her face in her hands.

'My lamb,' said Mrs. Curnow gently, 'doan't 'ee take on so, doan't 'ee now.'

'Poor Simone,' said Marion in a strangled voice as she wrestled for composure, 'and left in a gutter to die! And that hard life! And she would have been so happy at Garth.'

Simone's low voice here broke in; Simone had grown curiously still. One would have said she was a detached spectator of affairs that concerned other people.

'Why did you do it, Victoire?'

Victoire's mouth tightened to a still harder line.

'Why did you do it?' repeated Simone. 'Were you not well treated as my nurse?'

'I can tell you that,' said Sampson. 'Victoire wanted the estates for her own child.'

Simone turned round in her chair.

'What estates, M. le Colonel? It is all quite clear to me now--my memory, I mean. My father told me when he was very ill, just before he died, that I was to go to England with Victoire and live with a very dear friend of his until I was grown up. He said nothing of estates. In fact, I always thought we were poor. But then, I was only a child of eight.'

'Your mother inherited lands from her father's family, my dear. Your grandfather's direct heir died. You are the inheritor of his estate. Victoire knew that.'