He gathered his reins. 'I'll race you to the first pasture.'

*CHAPTER V*

*'MY LITTLE NIECE'*

Great festivities were afoot in the house of Lady Fairfax in Kensington.

The rooms glittered in the light of hundreds of candles set in sconces

on the wall; torches were blazing in their iron sockets at the outer

door; beyond the garden was a boisterous confusion of coaches and

chairs, the chairmen wrangling with the footmen and pages for a place by

the gate; and linkboys, their lights aloft, dodged to and fro, casting

gibes on their betters and showing an ability born of long practice in

evading their blows.

From time to time the doors opened, and footmen bawled for my lady's or

my lord's coach. A certain decorum, at these moments, marked the

behaviour of those without the gates. Room was made for the vehicle in

question, page boys and footmen ran to their posts, my lord or my lady

left the house, entered the coach and drove off. And behind them, like

water in the wake of a ship, the noisy groups closed in again.

To be bidden to one of the gatherings of Lady Fairfax was a coveted

honour. Just how Lady Fairfax came to be the rallying point of a

certain section of the Court society, no one knew. She was envied,

feted, flattered, caressed. She walked into the Queen's drawing-room as

if it had been her own chamber; she would leave the side of the most

exalted personage in order to speak to a humble acquaintance, and there

would be no change in her manner. She scolded and smiled as she

pleased, and, such was the gift of the gods to her, with impunity. Like

the Admiral her brother, she made her own course in the world, and next

to a good friend she liked best an honest enemy. For the others, whose

smile hid a snarl, she had nothing but disdain.

Concerning Sir John Fairfax, a good deal of whispering ran to and fro,

mainly from Whitehall and St. James's to Kensington. Exactly what post

he held no one knew; that he was party to the secret diplomacy of the

Court every one suspected. He was an old sailor, and in the course of

his voyages had contrived to gather a vast information about the ports

and defences of alien coasts. Moreover, in various parts of the world

he had friends whose loyalty was unquestioned.

A great many people were curious as to the nature of the long

conversations, without which few days passed, between Sir John Fairfax

and my Lord Churchill; but the matter of their parleys was revealed to

no one, least of all to Sir John's wife. He was a smallish, grey,

wizened man, with a singularly sweet smile; he had a gentle voice and an

unfailing courtesy; his wife adored him, principally because he was the

one person in the world whom she could neither hector nor coax into

doing something he did not wish to do.

Lady Fairfax went from group to group in her rooms, a gracious figure in

her gown of black velvet stitched with silver, a scarf of Malines lace

across her shoulders, her grey hair dressed high. No one had ever

succeeded in defining her charm; she was one of those middle-aged women

who made young girls discontented with their youth, and beautiful women

dubious of the power of their beauty.

As Lady Fairfax entered one of the card rooms, and looked from group to

group, a couple of young gallants sprang from a window seat where they

had been in close converse. Seeing them, their hostess beckoned with

her fan, and withdrew.

'What means this?' demanded my lady as the two, with deep bows, stood

before her. 'Why are you leaving beauty unattended? Do not the feet of

the dancers call you? Fie on you, my lord! And you, sir! Your father

had known better.'

'It is but for Lady Fairfax to command,' replied the nobleman with

another bow and an air of mock resignation.

'But my father, madam,' retorted the other, who was, as a shrewd eye

would see, a favourite with his hostess, 'had doubtless greater

attractions offered him.'

'Doubtless, doubtless!' smiled the lady. 'There is, however, a story I

may tell you some day. Well now, young man, will you find my husband

for me? Stay--what is that noise below?'

Some commotion was arising in the hall, and Lady Fairfax, being then at

the head of the stairs, went slowly down, her beautiful hand catching

the folds of her dress, the young men at her side.

'Say that again, thou girt fool!' a voice with a strong West Country

accent was shouting, 'and thou'lt rue the day.'

There was the sound of a lusty smack, and a footman, with his hand to

his cheek, bellowed for his ally within. The West Country voice rang out

again, and there was the crack of a whip.

'Be this the house of Lady Constance Fairfax or no? And if 'tis, where's

her to?'

The speaker, hatless, muddy, his neck-cloth torn, stared about; his

knotted fist and weapon menaced the servants who had hastily approached.

A few guests had strolled into the hall, and were looking curiously on.

The men accompanying my lady on the stair became aware of a start, and

an exclamation. Lady Fairfax dropped her robe and ran down.

'Zacchary,' she said, the group gathering round the countryman falling

away at her approach, 'surely 'tis thou, Zacchary!'

The old groom's distressed face changed at the sound of the voice he had

not heard for twenty years. He dropped on one knee, and groped for the

lady's hand. Then rising, a look of devotion in his eyes, he surveyed

her from head to foot.

'I don't allow, Mistress Constance,' he said, scratching his head, 'that

you'm changed. But you'm mighty different all the same. But'--his tone

altered--''tis the young mistress, my lady. Her's without in the coach

yonder, and Peter on the step, and they sons of Belial in the road

bean't for letting the coach go by.'

'What! My little niece!' Lady Fairfax turned hastily to the young man

at her side. 'I pray you, Master Beckenham, see to this matter without;

and you, my lord, if you would look in the rooms above for my

husband----'

She needed not to finish her sentence. Master Beckenham followed

Zacchary out into the square.

A coach had drawn across the road, a little distance from the entrance.

The equipage belonged to my Lord Fetterleigh, who was playing cards

within, and the coachman was making it quite clear that until he chose

he would not move his coach, his lord taking precedence of the gentlemen

whose vehicles were before the gates. As for that outlandish travelling

waggon beyond there (his cheek was still smarting from the valiant

Peter's whip), it could wait until it was chopped up for---- The

harangue was cut short. 'Move thy horses, thou vile wretch!' thundered

a voice. 'I will acquaint thy lord of this.'

The light of the torches fell on the face of the newcomer. The

coachman, with a qualm, gathered up his reins, and Master Beckenham in

his elegant buckled shoes and smart attire slipped in between the hedge

and the rear of the coach, and followed Zacchary down the road.

To the accompaniment of Zacchary's heartfelt remarks (sounding to the

Londoner like the whinny of a horse) on the vileness of Kensington

compared with Cornwall, Beckenham made his way to the country coach. He

felt a certain curiosity to see the 'little niece.' A few nights ago,

visiting Lady Fairfax's box between the acts, he had heard her telling

how she had bidden her brother's little maid to come and stay with her a

spell, that she might teach her how to set her toes when she grew

taller. Lady Fairfax had never seen the child, because of the

disagreement between her brother and herself about her upbringing. Here

the curtain had risen, and my lady's complacent recital was stopped.

Duly reporting this matter to Madam his mother (one of Lady Fairfax's

honest enemies), Mr. Beckenham had been greatly diverted. For that lady

and a bosom friend, counting the years on their fingers, with side

glances for the unconscious victim in the box, had estimated the age of

the 'little niece' as already somewhere in the shadows of the late

twenties. Saying nothing, Mr. Beckenham had bided his time, and it

pleased him to have an opportunity of satisfying himself on the point.

The loiterers in the road had formed a sturdy group round the vehicle he

sought. The coachman on the box, not liking to leave his post, was

circling his whip over the heads of the nearest, and adding comments

when Peter, bodyguarding on the step, failed for breath. The link boys

roared with delight. Such amusement did not often come their way. And

even the watch, with his lantern and staff, had stopped in his chant of

'Ten o'clock, and a fine windy night,' to listen to the voices whose

tones made him at once contemptuous and envious.

Mr. Beckenham doubled his elbows, and calling: 'Make way there! Make

way!' in a voice of unmistakable authority, soon succeeded in reaching

the door of the coach, Zacchary lumbering at his heels. Honest Peter, in

the act of drawing the back of his hand across his overworked mouth,

noted his approach, and his eyes brightened.

''Ere be Zacchary and a gentleman, Mistress Marion. 'Ere a be.'

'Lead the horses to the gate,' commanded the young gentleman. 'Hand me

your whip, my man.'

With alacrity Peter tendered his weapon, and Mr. Beckenham, thus armed,

took up the position of page on the step of the Penrock coach. The

loiterers fled before the hissing lash.

At the gate, Mr. Beckenham opened the coach door with a low bow, and

offered his hand to the fair occupant. The light of the flambeaux fell

on the two faces confronting each other. Marion's hat had fallen off,

her gleaming hair fell in disorder about her face. Nervously she looked

at the young man as she took his proffered assistance, and murmured a

word of thanks. 'Terrified out of her wits,' summed up the youth. 'How

on earth comes she to be travelling without an escort?' And a strong

indignation against some unknown person seized him.

Meanwhile Lady Fairfax, standing within the doorway, had been peering

from time to time out into the night. She was again explaining to the

group of guests in the hall that her little niece was coming from

Cornwall to visit her. Her brother was doubtless with her in the coach,

and had sent Zacchary to the door. Her brother was, unhappily, lame.

And Zacchary, poor man, only being accustomed to see one horse at a

time, was a little flustered.

Behind the speaker stood a small grey-haired man, whose smile broadened

into a chuckle as his wife's 'little niece' hove in sight.

When Marion stepped into the house, Lady Fairfax for once in her life

was speechless. About a figure almost as tall as her own a riding cloak

was roughly gathered. The collar fell away from the throat, and the

folds of the garment were held by a slim hand to the shoulder. At the

scene in the hall, Marion shrank back a second, then stood still.

'My little niece! Is it possible!'

Marion allowed herself to be embraced and drawn into the house. She was

vaguely aware of a gentleman with a kind smile, who patted her and

called her 'my dear'; of glittering jewels and gay dresses in the

background; of the throb of music in the rooms above; of the silent

figure of Mr. Beckenham standing at her elbow. Then she looked again at

the face before her, and the anger and dismay she had felt at the manner

of her arrival melted. In her aunt's eyes she saw her father's. Her

face relaxed, and she smiled.

'Did you not expect me then, Aunt Constance?'

'What a voice!' murmured a woman at the back of the hall.

Lady Fairfax gathered the slight form in her arms. 'My little maid!' she

crooned. 'My little maid!' Then, holding her at arm's length: 'But--I

am speechless! How came you to travel so? But stay. First some food,

and you shall tell me.'

She led the girl into a little room off the hall, and while Sir John

went himself for wine and cake she took off the cloak and shoes, and

held the fair face between her hands. 'My little maid!' she said again.

'I had forgotten you must have grown. Tell me, sweet, one word. Is

your father ill? Why is he not here?'

'He is not hurt,' said Marion. 'He----'

'Drink this, my dear,' said a kind voice, and Marion, looking up, saw

her uncle at her side. A feeling of warmth and comfort stole over her.

'And I thought I had fallen among thieves,' she faltered.

Meanwhile the men and women who had witnessed the arrival of the 'little

niece' were talking about her in the rooms above. As the conversation

drifted on to the girl's family, a gentleman strolled up to the group.

Underneath the languid pose of the courtier of the day, a shrewd eye

would have seen the hardened soldier. 'Did I hear you say Penrock?' he

drawled.

'The same. She's the daughter of Admiral Penrock--the old Salt Eagle of

the fifties.'

The questioner disappeared and passed downstairs, and with the privilege

of old friendship lifted the tapestry curtain and walked into the little

room. Sir John and Lady Fairfax sat on either side their guest before

the fire. The girl was eating as she talked.

'Come in, Sampson!' called his host, 'and speak to our little niece

here. Marion, my dear, here is an old soldier who fought alongside your

father before you were born.'

Marion, whose back was towards the newcomer, laid down her spiced cake

and turned in her seat, prepared to see a burly, weather-worn figure.

Instead, she was aware of a slight, pale-faced man, dressed with an

elegance she had never before encountered, making a low bow. For a

second she was startled, then gravely held out her fingers.

'I could not wait one other minute,' said the guest, his languid air

falling away somewhat, 'before I had done myself the honour of paying my

respects to the daughter of the bravest, loyalest gentleman it has ever

been my fortune to know.'

The tears dimmed Marion's eyes, and she could not find a word to say,

but she smiled up suddenly into the gaunt face; and the man standing

there, who had seen two generations of beauty go by, felt a stirring in

his dry old heart.

Here my lady broke in. 'Tut, tut, Colonel! I will not have my niece

weep, even at your praise. But for yonder stupid rising still brewing

trouble, we should have had my brother with us. Marion has just told us

the story. Go on eating your cake, my dear. Take a chair, Colonel.

So. Just as the coach was leaving Bagshot, who should come up but the

King's Commissioner with a couple of officers behind him, riding hard

for the west with urgent duty for my brother, who is magistrate in his

parts. My niece, here, knows nothing of the mission but that it was of

such urgency, with the Lord Chancellor's will behind it, that the

Admiral must needs take another coach and ride back to Cornwall. The two

officers escorted my niece here the rest of the way till noon to-day,

when there was but the fields of Kensington to cross, and they were

doubtless thinking of their dinner at St. James's. The coachman then

lost his way, the dolt! and found himself in Chelsey. 'Tis only by good

fortune my niece arrived in safety. But'--the lady pressed another kiss

on the girl's cheek--'here she is! And she's going to stay a long, long

time. Perhaps for years.'

Marion was aware of a vague echo, a vision of a youth on horseback on a

windy ridge that smelt of the sea: all of it somewhere in another world

and another life she had lived in the long ago. She sighed. For a few

minutes the talk went on, the girl paying no heed. Then Lady Fairfax,

gathering her lace shawl, rose and dropped a curtsey to Mr. Sampson.

'And now for bed,' said she. 'I will see you all anon.'

*CHAPTER VI*

*A LADY-IN-WAITING*

It is said that the unexpected generally happens, and the truth of this

was borne home to Marion during her first week in Kensington. She had

looked (not without a thrill of delight and fear blended) for an

immediate plunge into the excitements of the capital. Instead, she found

herself, partly by accident and partly by design, passing from hour to

hour and day to day in a state of almost complete seclusion. The

accident that led to this state of affairs was due to Lady Fairfax's

being a favourite attendant of Her Majesty; Her Majesty elected to find

herself ailing on the Wednesday--the day after Marion's arrival--and

Lady Fairfax's presence seemed to be the one factor that made the Royal

indisposition bearable. Aunt Constance could only spare rime for an

embrace and a half-hour's gossip with her niece before her coach was

announced to carry her to court. She came home late in the day with the

news that change of air was prescribed by the royal physician, and on

Friday the Queen's household must move to Hampton Court; and should that

atmosphere not prove beneficial, they might go yet further, to Tunbridge

or Bath. Lady Fairfax had risked the displeasure of her august mistress

and prayed for leave of absence, only to learn that the arrivals of

'little nieces' from our duchy of Cornwall do not find a place in the

calendar of events at Court. When our health is improved (it was

hinted) we may perhaps find it agreeable to dispense somewhat with our

lady-in-waiting. Until then--as Lady Fairfax allowed herself to say, the

unfortunate aunt must 'grin and bide.'

So much for the 'accident' that led to Marion's seclusion. The 'design'

was due to the cherished plans her aunt had formed--vaguely before her

arrival, very actively on the night of her coming--for her niece's

success. Lady Fairfax was delighted with her young guest. She was

proud of this addition to her family treasures; a veritable jewel, she

fondly said. But the jewel must be well set before being displayed to

the public eye. To the inquirers visiting the house in Kensington or

seeing her abroad, Lady Fairfax smilingly said that her niece had had a

trying journey, and must have her beauty sleep--several days' beauty

sleep, in fact (during which time it was decreed that my lady's tailor

and sempstress should be hard driven). No word of this was hinted to

Marion. She accepted the fact of her aunt's duties at Court as an

ordinary event, and spent her time wandering about the great house and

garden; noting the grandeur of the entertaining rooms, the numerous

liveried servants, and the ordered stateliness of everyday life. Her

windows looked out on Kensington Square, where she had glimpses of

carriages coming and going, of chairmen setting down their burden at the

gates, of men and women of such dress and deportment that Marion thought

they must surely be the princes and princesses out of some fairy tale.

Kind Sir John Fairfax was concerned for the young lady under his roof.

She seemed to him to be moping.

'Everything is for the best, on the whole,' declared his wife. 'I am

truly grieved to leave her so much, but that would not be a loss if you

would bear her company a little oftener. You forget the change this

life is to the child. What is Garth? A wigwam in a forest. She must

needs find her feet before she can run. And run she shall not till she

be dressed. Romaine is altering a gown for everyday usage,' the lady

went on, 'and then as soon as Her Majesty's _malaise_ allows her to free

me, we will have a few visitors some quiet night that I may see how she

dances. Young Beckenham will not be sorry of the chance, and Sampson,

I'll be bound, for all his languid airs, will be glad to make a leg

again in a minuet. Then,' Lady Fairfax smiled demurely, 'in another

week or two a ball in the honour of the coming of my niece to

Kensington. And if you don't like the fuss and the pother of the ball

coming on, dear lad, why, get you to Whitehall and talk secrets with my

Lord Churchill.'

'You are riding this hobby of her gowns to death!' grumbled Sir John.

'It is bad for the girl. She'll think that nothing matters but

fal-lals. And she is too much alone. Can't Her Majesty spare you an

hour this evening to take her to a play? Need she be dressed for her

first play?'

The lady neatly dropped a kiss on the end of her husband's nose.

'That's for that!' she smiled. 'You have given me an idea. Not

to-night, but Monday (Her Majesty has promised me Monday) our little

niece shall go to the play. She shall wear her white muslin frock and a

rose in her hair; and not a woman in the theatre but will be sick at the

thought of the pots on her dressing-table.'

Sir John looked at his wife in despair, then laughed outright.

'Upon my word, Connie,' said he, 'you'd have made a fine general. You

lose no chances. You make every hummock into a bed for a culverin. I

give it up!'

'But even you,' serenely concluded his companion, 'will agree that she

cannot walk into Her Majesty's drawing-room in a muslin frock.'

To do Lady Fairfax justice, she had no intention of burdening Marion

with fal-lals, for although in those days women wore most elaborate

robes, it was not considered necessary to have a new one for each ball,

play, or party they attended. Moreover fashion was a sleepy,

slow-moving dame, only rising to bestir herself once in a decade--and

not, as is her present habit, setting a new step every year, and making

her followers miserable if they fall behind in the march. A ball dress

was a veritable 'creation,' made with infinite pains and pride, every

stitch carefully put in, the embroideries a triumph of patience and

skill (and eyesight), as indeed was all the needlework of those

leisurely days, before machine-made imitations undermined its value.

Dresses were worn by their owners year after year, and very often a

valued gown was personally bequeathed to the next generation.

Lady Fairfax had carefully hidden the slight disdain she had felt for

Marion's belongings when her French sempstress, to whom she had sent an

urgent call, came early on the second day after Marion's arrival. Indeed

Marion's eyes had watched her aunt narrowly, and the kind-hearted woman

had guessed her nervous shrinking when Madame Romaine lifted from her

trunk the simple garment made by the Plymouth tailor.

'But, dear heart,' Lady Fairfax had allowed herself to remark, 'where is

your mother's lilac embroidered gown? Did not your father give it to

you?'

'He never thinks of dress,' faltered Marion, feeling that she and her

father were being found blameworthy, 'and--I don't think he could bear

to see even me wearing my mother's bodices.'

Lady Fairfax's eyes softened, and a memory came to her of the fair lady

of Garth in that one winter when she flitted across the stage of London

before she 'buried herself' in the west.

The Frenchwoman meanwhile was sniffing in the recesses of Marion's

trunk. 'I have not smelt so great a sweetness, Mademoiselle, since I

was a small little one--so--playing in the garden of my uncle in

Avignon, a thousand years ago!'

'All my mother's things still smell sweet,' said Marion to her aunt.

'She made her own waters, and grew lavender and roses and all sorts of

flowers specially for them. I cannot make them near so well. Mistress

Trevannion says my mother was very beautiful, too. But Father will never

talk of her, except,' added Marion disconsolately, 'to say I do not in

the least resemble her.'

The eyes of mistress and sempstress met over the golden brown head.

Marion at the moment was busying herself with another small trunk, and

took from it a japanned box.

'I had almost forgotten this, Aunt Constance,' she said. 'Father gave

it to me in the greatest hurry, just when Curnow was fastening the

boxes. If I had not known his ways, I should have thought he had been

angry. But it was just that he did not want me to ask any questions.'

She opened the box with a little gold key. Inside was a length of heavy

embroidered silk, worked in cream and gold, on a cream ground, with a

straying touch of blue and green. Pinned to the end of the length was a

slip of paper.

'Your mother was working this for you, and talking of when you would be

grown, just before she died,' ran the words. 'Wear it, my child.'

Nothing more.

'That was a very sweet lady,' emphatically said the Frenchwoman as she

examined the length, the other two standing silent a space.

'It is most beautiful,' said Lady Fairfax. Then she glanced at the

script again, and in spite of Marion's solemn look she chuckled a

little.

'"Wear it!" says my lord. "Wear it!" How? Pinned on the front of your

bodice? I'll warrant my brother is firmly of the idea he has given you

a gown. But there's something else in this trunk--another box----'

Marion fumbled with the lid, and presently disclosed a casket with a

velvet lining. Curled in the folds of the velvet lay a necklace of

turquoise and pearl.

Marion stood speechless.

'I shall never dare wear that!' she said at length.

Lady Fairfax, with a pleased smile, was turning the necklace about in

the light.

'Your mother's too, I remember it. This settles the matter,' she added

to the sempstress. 'Mademoiselle's gown shall be cream and gold, with a

_soupcon_ of the blue of these turquoises. Let it be designed'--she

went off into a string of technicalities. 'You will get Master Bingon

at once, my good Romaine, and the two of you set to work. I give you

seven days and nights for a month's employment. Can you, and will you?'

Madame Romaine glanced at Marion's face. 'Solely for _les beaux yeux_

of Mademoiselle,' she briefly replied. 'I cannot, but I will.'

'Good. And bid the little Simone come here for a spell. She can have

the small chamber next to Mademoiselle, and stitch at her flounces and

petticoats, and perhaps persuade Mademoiselle to wear her new stays.'

Marion laughed. 'I give up the battle from this moment, Aunt Constance.

I will even wear the sort of stays you wish. But not,' she added

firmly, 'as hard and tight as yours.'

Lady Fairfax complacently surveyed her own beautiful figure in the long

mirror on the wall.

'La, la, Mademoiselle,' put in the Frenchwoman, 'il faut souffrir pour

etre belle.'

'Not that kind of suffering, Madame Romaine!' said Marion, with a touch

of her father's dryness that made her aunt smile. 'Mademoiselle de

Delauret wears hard stays, and she suffers greatly sometimes, but I have

never seen any marked improvement in her looks. But who is this Simone

who is coming to mount guard over me?'

Here the door opened and a page boy entered. He spoke to his mistress,

who drew him out of earshot of the others.

'Master Beckenham again, my lady. Master Beckenham's compliments, and

may he have the pleasure of waiting on your ladyship and inquiring after

the health of Mistress Penrock?'

'Did I not tell you what to say should this happen?

'I said it, my lady, and Master----'

'Go and say it again.'

The page boy made a deep obeisance and withdrew.

Lady Fairfax, smiling at her own thoughts, rejoined her niece and the

sempstress. Meanwhile Madame Romaine, whose delight at finding a

receptive audience was great, was telling a story about some one called

Simone, a protegee of hers whose services in her own house Lady Fairfax

had just requested. Simone, it appeared, had been found many years ago

on a doorstep in the city--in Crutched Friars--by the Frenchwoman on her

way home from a client's house. The sempstress had been minded to pass

by--there are always plenty of crying children in the gutters--but she

had heard the child babbling in her own tongue. And the kind-hearted

woman, whose country was her dear love, picked up the little one, and

solely for the sake of _la belle France_, carried her home.

The child, emaciated, almost starved to death, had fallen into a fever

and a severe illness from which she had barely escaped with her life,

and not altogether, Madame Romaine sometimes feared, with her reason.

She had babbled of strange things sometimes, but the memory of her

childhood seemed to have fallen off, with all the hair from her head,

during her illness. 'She is one of my most valued needlewomen,' declared

the sempstress, 'which is why, I suppose, my lady demands her presence

here, just as if she were but a chair to sit upon, and no good whatever

to me!'

'You have others,' placidly said Lady Fairfax, busy with her powdering

box at her dressing-table. 'And I have a certain liking for the little

Simone. But of course, if you prefer it--I wish not to drive you

hardly--send Alice Hepworthy--but spare us her history. Seven days and

nights you have. 'Tis not wise to waste an hour talking of people who

do not matter in the least. Marion, my dear,' Lady Fairfax swung round,

'take warning by Romaine, and if ever you find yourself chattering,

think of her. She cares not what her subject may be, so long as her

tongue may wag. You are an insufferable bore, my good Romaine, with your

Simones and your gutters. Begone, you rogue, and let me see your

progress soon.'

With a smile and a curtsey the Frenchwoman departed. She counted it one

of her greatest privileges to be rated by Lady Fairfax.

Madame Romaine's little French needlewoman took up her abode in a small

chamber that opened off Marion's, and when that young lady was not

engaged with her aunt or uncle, or the stray visitors she was allowed to

see before she was presented to London society, she found Simone Leblanc

very pleasant company.

Simone, like Elise, had that instinct for dress which is the birthright

of all Frenchwomen and the envy of their Anglo-Saxon sisters. Did

Marion require a ribbon in her sunny hair, Simone knew by an unfailing

instinct just where the knot should fall, found without a second's

hesitation the one spot to place a rose. And when Marion, seeing

herself stumble in these paths so easily tripped by the little French

feet, was minded to voice her discontent with herself, Simone would

reply with her rare smile: 'No, no! Mademoiselle deceives herself.

Mademoiselle has great qualities. As for a little nothing like a bow or

an ornament, Mademoiselle will surely see that it is one's _metier_, the

placing of bows and ornaments.'

Marion liked the quiet, grave girl who sat so industriously hemming the

flounces for her petticoats and otherwise filling the gaps her

over-tried employer left neglected in the programme of Mademoiselle's

dresses. Sometimes Marion would take a needle and help her, and they

talked of London, Simone offering crumbs for Marion's hungering

curiosity of the ways of this new world. Always when she entered the

little chamber she would see the small brown head bent over a lapful of

silk and muslins, the dainty hand stitching away, the face, with its

look of settled gravity and absorption combined, turning at her

entrance.

'If she were not so serious,' mused Marion on one or two occasions,

'that little Simone would be a beautiful girl.'

But beautiful or not, Simone wrought exactly the change Lady Fairfax had

desired. Marion unconsciously studied the little sempstress's way of

wearing her own simply made gowns: a new spectacle this, for Elise's

dresses had never been simple. And the grave rebuke in the dark eyes

when Marion, on seating herself, adjusted a skirt in an unbecoming way

had the effect of subduing the young lady at once.

'I don't know what is the matter with me,' confessed Marion to her aunt.

'Simone makes me feel too large, too clumsy. I haven't got big

feet'--she complacently surveyed her projected slipper--'but when Simone

walks across a room I think I have. I did not think there was anything

the matter with my arms till I saw Simone's glance if I placed them so.

Am I very countrified, Aunt Constance?'

'My little lamb,' said that lady with a fond embrace, 'you are finding

your feet. Never mind how big they are. They are very well.'

Simone had passed triumphantly the test of the shrewd, watching eyes of

Lady Fairfax, who had long ago singled out the quiet girl as being the

most deft of the Frenchwoman's assistants. And now, as she saw her

coming and going about her niece's affairs, she decided that,

considering her as a waiting woman, deftness was the least of her

qualities. There was something in the ease of the girl's movements no

matter in what company she found herself; something in the way she

entered a thronged room on some errand, spoke to her young mistress and

went out again; something in the restraint of her speech and the subtle

charm of her low soft voice, that made Lady Fairfax congratulate herself

again and again on the waiting woman she had found for her niece. And

it was a matter of sincere regret in the entire household when Madame

Romaine obdurate for once, insisted on her apprentice's return in order

to help with the mass of work that was driving the sempstress into an

untimely grave. As soon as the load was eased somewhat, Simone might be

allowed to return; but in the meantime, excellent needlewomen were hard

to find, while waiting women grew in every garden, so to speak. Thus

Madame Romaine.

Simone's departure, Mrs. Martin, Lady Fairfax's woman was obliged to

find time to divide her care between two mistresses, and visitors coming

more and more to the house, Marion's empty hours were few.

True to her promise (being graciously allowed by Her Majesty) Lady

Fairfax took her niece on the Monday night to see the play at the

theatre near Blackfriars Bridge, Colonel Sampson being the only visitor

in the box. When Marion had seated herself, and realised that the box

was in full view of the body of the theatre filled with people of

fashion, she shrank back in uttermost confusion. Her aunt, serenely

surveying the house, nodding to acquaintances and smiling at the stiff

backs of her honest enemies, was forgetful for the moment of her niece's

predicament. But the gentleman at the rear of the box came to her

rescue. Colonel Sampson, slipping round her chair, leisurely placed his

elegantly garbed shoulder and elbow on the edge of the box, and leaning

down to talk to her, sheltered her from the view of the gossiping folk

in the body of the theatre. Marion vowed friendship for Colonel Sampson

from that moment.

Then, when the curtain rose, and her companion returned to his own

chair, Marion forgot the gay crowd, forgot past, present, and future.

Leaning on the edge of the box, utterly unconscious of the fact that

Lady Fairfax's 'little niece' in a white muslin dress and with a rose in

her hair, was being fully as much regarded as the stage, she gave

herself up to the pleasure of her first play. She did not know that her

laugh rose here and there the first in the house; she was totally

unaware of the horror in her face when the villain of the piece unmasked

his villainy. When a duel came to be fought, and swords gleamed out,

she half turned and grasped Sir John's sleeve, not daring to see the

blades clash. And when the curtain fell, she needed the positive

assurance of her uncle and Colonel Sampson (Lady Fairfax being at the

door of the box, smilingly and inexorably keeping visitors without) that

the men lying there on the stage were not really dead.

*CHAPTER VII*

*SIMONE LEBLANC*

Marion was silent in the carriage on her way home from the theatre, and

absent-minded at supper. Her aunt presently thought it wise to switch

off her thoughts into another channel.

'She will never sleep, that precious baby,' she said in an aside to

Colonel Sampson, sitting at her right hand. 'She is living the acts all

over again. I cannot blame her. I wept all night after my first play.'

Soon Marion's ears pricked at the sound of the word Garth; mentally she

rubbed her eyes and sat up. Colonel Sampson was talking of her

father--telling the sort of tales Marion had so often heard when her

father and his old friends of the sea met at the friendly board, or when

he had fallen back on the parson for audience. And as Mr. Sampson

talked, it seemed to Marion that the bored gentleman of fashion

completely disappeared and the stern, honest soldier came uppermost.

Marion listened with complacent pride to the hints the speaker gave of

her father's bravery and lovable little deeds.

'He was ever prone to acts of generous folly,' the Admiral's sister put

in at the end of one of the stories. 'And that reminds me, my dear,'

turning to her niece, 'I haven't yet heard one hundredth part of your

news from home----'

'You lead such a busy life, Aunt Constance,' put in Marion demurely, 'I

don't see how you can ever think of little things like stories about

Garth.'

'I lead a most unhappy life!' retorted the lady, 'and I hope when some

one writes my memoirs he will be careful to add the fact that I bore my

trials right sweetly. But I was going to say--give her some more of

that jelly, John--I never had the right story of how your foolish father

came to saddle himself with the little French girl.'

'Why,' said Marion, 'let me see now. Elise is the daughter of poor M.

de Delauret, you know----'

Colonel Sampson leaned forward. 'Not the de Delauret who sailed in the

_Triomphe Noir_ to the East?'

'The same. I have heard my father talk of that very ship.'

'Strange, strange!' mused the old soldier, settling back in his chair.

'I never met the gentleman myself, but I was acquainted with Madame de

Delauret in the old days, before she was married.'

Marion regarded the speaker with unfeigned interest. 'You knew Elise's

mother! Do tell me about her, sir. I could never get Elise to talk

about her.'

'But this is intolerable!' cried Lady Fairfax, tapping the table with

her slim, jewelled fingers. 'Here I ask for a simple story, and you and

my niece go off on a voyage of discovery together. John, my dear, shall

we retire to my drawing-room for a dish of tea?'

'You see, Marion,' came her uncle's quiet voice from the head of the

table, 'my lady there is accustomed to being (or thinking she is) the

person of most importance, saving Her Majesty's presence, in any

company.'

The country girl's eyes rested shyly on the lady's face. 'I'm sure no

one has a greater right,' said she.

'That is a very admirable sentiment,' said Lady Fairfax gravely. 'The

prisoner is dismissed with a reprimand. Now you may begin your story,

leaving out the _Triomphe Noir_.'

In her simple, straightforward way Marion then told what she knew of her

father's relationship with the Frenchman and his adoption of the orphan.

''Twas very noble of Tom to take on such a guardianship,' mused Lady

Fairfax. 'But it was also very foolish. Only my brother would have

been so blind.'

'How so, Aunt Constance?'

'Because, my dear, from what you say Elise is something of an heiress on

her mother's side. Is not that so, Colonel?'

The gentleman assented. 'Madame de Delauret was the daughter of the

Sieur d'Artois. Her father, it is true, gave his consent to her

marriage with the "penniless Breton cadet," as they were pleased to

describe de Delauret, but her family more or less discarded her. Now,

however, through the demise of various other members of the family,

Madame de Delauret's child must inherit the Artois estates.'

'I still don't see how Father was blind,' persisted Marion.

'Don't you, my dear child? It is this way. If Elise is her mother's

heiress to that extent, she is a person of note, in a small way. She

should be with the ladies of the d'Artois family. It is to be presumed

their antagonism is now dead. _D'ailleurs_,' added the lady drily, 'if

Elise is heiress 'twill be for her to pick and choose.'

'M. de Delauret's particular wish was to keep Elise away from French

society,' replied Marion.

'But Elise cannot be hid all her life under my brother's greatcoats!

She has, I am sure, had a right simple, honest, healthy upbringing. Now

she should be brought out to take her place.'

'She ought to be a very charming young lady,' mused the Colonel. 'Of

such a mother and such a father. I have ever heard the most noble

stories of de Delauret.'

'Who is managing Elise's estates?' asked Sir John, looking up from his

walnuts.

'I know very little about that, sir. My father's lawyer has dealings

with M. de Delauret's lawyer in France and pays Elise her income,

through Father, of course. But that brings to my mind--I had really

forgotten--I seem to have forgotten such a lot about Garth since I came

here,' penitently put in the young lady. 'The very day we came away

Father had a letter from the French attorney, M. Lebrun. He is an old

gentleman, it appears, and wishes to retire from his duties, and is

shortly to leave everything in his son's hands. The young M. Lebrun I

know nothing about. Neither Elise nor Victoire has ever seen him. But I

gathered from Elise's manner she will not be sorry to have dealings with

the son,' continued Marion. 'The old gentleman appears to affect her

with a particular dislike. Be that as it may, old M. Lebrun is on his

way to England, to visit us before he relinquishes his affairs. Father

said 'twas rather unwise of him, as his health is very poor--some

disease he has--I forget its name--a learned name.'

'Well,' said Lady Fairfax, 'let us hope the learned name will not

silence M. Lebrun before he has arranged for the young lady to be taken

to Paris.'

'Father has been thinking of a change, I know. Aunt Keziah scolded him

a little, I think. You wouldn't believe,' smiled Marion, 'how Aunt

Keziah and Elise hated each other.'

'I presume she was otherwise a general favourite?' Lady Fairfax had

noted the entire absence of any personal feeling in her niece's recital

of the young French girl's affairs.

'Well----' Marion faltered.

'You are much attached to her, I suppose.'

'I was--yes, I am,' said Marion stoutly. ''Twas just something she did

that angered me.' She took refuge in a general attitude again. 'As for

being a favourite--I think--'twas so--except for Roger. Roger could

never abide her. Neither could Dick Hooper, his friend from

Blundell's.'

'Roger?'

Marion raised her clear eyes to her aunt's face. 'Roger Trevannion, you

know, at the Manor.'

There was a brief silence. Marion's brows were straightened a little.

She seemed again to hear that sarcastic voice: 'So you are on his side,

as well as Roger.' How distant it all appeared! She wondered what

Roger was doing--was he allowing himself to get into any foolish

scrapes?

Presently Lady Fairfax held up her finger to stop the conversation that

had arisen between the gentlemen. 'Hark, d' ye hear?'

The windows were open, and the cry of the watch in the square was

distinctly audible.

'Past ten o'clock, and a fine starlight night.'

'To your chamber at once,' she said to Marion. 'We will talk more of

this little Elise later.'

As the days went on, Mrs. Martin found herself unable to cope with the

double service that had been laid upon her. Moreover the approaching

festivities planned in Marion's honour were casting shadows before.

'I think Martin is taking leave of her senses,' grumbled Lady Fairfax

one morning. 'She brought me my best sarcenet petticoat to wear while I

showed Hopkins how to make a new sauce.'

'Likely enough she is overworked,' remarked Sir John.

'It comes of allowing a servant to lead an idle life,' declared the

lady. 'If she has two ribbons to tie instead of one, her face becomes

that of a long stone image.'

'Her face generally resembles a good-tempered gargoyle,' smiled Marion.

''Tis a pity for a good-tempered gargoyle to become a long stone image,'

remarked Sir John. 'Cannot you get that little Simone to return to us?

Apart from the question of Martin, if your fear comes true, and Her

Majesty goes to the wells at Tunbridge, Simone would be useful in your

absence.'

'Hush!' cried his wife. 'A mightily kind fate has decreed that Her

Majesty should continue to improve.'

'A mightily kind fate of that order,' drily put in Sir John, 'doubtless

has its lap full of those famous powders of the court physician. Don't

count on the kindness being lasting.'

'I always disliked Job's friends,' remarked Lady Fairfax. 'Very well,

we will try to get Simone back. That is, if our baby does not object.'

'I like Simone,' said Marion heartily. 'It will be pleasant for me.'

The same day Lady Fairfax drove to the house of Madame Romaine, and not

only silenced the Frenchwoman's protests with gold and fair words, but

brought Simone back with her to Kensington. Simone did not attempt to

hide the pleasure afforded her by the prospect of her new duties. A

smile broke over her face when she was summoned to the visitor's

presence, and learned her wishes. As Lady Fairfax noted the new

expression of the grave features, and the light in the dark eyes, her

firmly rooted belief that happiness is the greatest beautifier in the

world threw out several new shoots. 'She shall go on being happy,' was

her inward vow, 'Romaine or no Romaine.'

The sempstress herself saw the look on the girl's face. 'Mademoiselle

Marion is the only one of her patrons whom Simone has consented to

like,' she remarked, when the girl had left the room to find the

necessary objects for her journey. 'She spends most of her time in her

so nice little grey shell, that small snail of mine.'

'Tell me again where you found her,' said Lady Fairfax. 'Sir John was

asking the other day.'

The two talked together till Simone reappeared with a modest parcel of

her belongings.

Simone was more delighted to return to Kensington and the society of

Marion than either Lady Fairfax or her mistress guessed. Ever since the

first day when she had arrived to stitch Mademoiselle's flounces, a

pleasure in Marion's society had come on her as a surprise: a new

sensation. Hitherto Simone had been an incurious, detached watcher of

the friendships of others. Now she found herself suddenly flung on to

the stage. It had been somewhat of an upheaval, this first attachment

of hers.

Marion had no idea of the depth of affection the quiet French girl felt

for her. Simone's was a proud and reticent nature, and moreover she had

early learned in the school of sorrow the secret of self-restraint.

Marion wondered sometimes at the unusual warmth of the dark eyes that

would meet her own, and she certainly felt for Simone an ever-growing

regard; but a social barrier lay between the two, and Simone was not the

one to overstep it.

Meanwhile, as was only natural, the mental atmosphere of her new home

was creating in Marion fresh impressions, altering her standards. Her

thoughts began to fly out and abroad, instead of roosting peacefully at

home. Both Colonel Sampson, who was a constant visitor at the house,

and her uncle were studious, thoughtful men; her aunt was a very

accomplished woman; and it was a severe check to whatever

self-importance Marion had had as mistress of Garth to find that

sometimes during the whole course of a meal no subject would be

discussed on which she had any knowledge at all. And wherever she went

in her aunt's company, new forces were at work.

A week or two after her arrival in Kensington, she had her first glimpse

of the city of London. Lady Fairfax wished to visit a tailor in

Eastcheap concerning a new riding cloak for her charge. The coach was

announced immediately after dinner, and aunt and niece set out for the

drive across the fields, by way of Knightsbridge, to the village of

Charing.

Marion's delight was unbounded. She had already been taken to

Westminster, standing mute at her first glimpse of the Abbey and Houses.

Another day she and her aunt had visited Chelsey, and she had seen the

river again with its strings of barges and wherries and passenger boats:

more people on the waterway than trod the road. She had written a long

letter to her father about it, saying that when he came to London the

two could sail down the river, so that he might show her London Bridge,

and find the shop whence her school books had come.

The coach made its way up the Strand through the Temple Gate into the

city. The crowds jostling each other and shouting; the officers of the

Guards swaggering by, ready for a brawl if a man so much as jerked their

elbows in passing; the flunkeys making way for their lord's coach; the

chairmen reviling each other; the glimpses of men and women of the world

of fashion in the narrow footway; all this was Romance incarnate to the

simple country girl. Then when they reached Ludgate Hill, and the coach

stopped for my lady to make a trifling purchase, Marion, alighting after

her, stood stock still in amazement. Each shop had its own pictorial

sign suspended by creaking chains over the doorway. By this device a

populace for the most part incapable of reading was able to understand

the nature of the trade pursued indoors. Marion, wishing to stand and

read the riddle of these signs (of which the only remnant to this day

exists in the barber's painted pole and the pawnbroker's three balls)

was laughingly drawn onward by her aunt.

'My dear,' she said, 'you will have all the apprentices of the city

rushing out upon you if you behave in this way.'

Indeed, the prentice boys, with their cry of 'What d'ye lack? What d'ye

lack, Gentles? Buy, buy, buy!' were continually in and out of the doors

of their shops, and one, spying from within Marion's face of wonderment,

was only prevented from seizing an easy customer by the sight of Lady

Fairfax's footman towering head and shoulders above the ladies.

From the shops on Ludgate Hill Marion's eyes turned upwards to the

climbing walls and scaffolding of the new St. Paul's rising on the ashes

of the old. And the country girl, whose love for the fields and lanes of

Cornwall, the salt of the sea, and the song of birds in the dawn was one

of the strongest forces in her life, began to understand more of that

other love--the love of the English for the grey stone buildings of

London. She had heard of sailors who had been bred in the sound of Bow

Bells meeting with streaming eyes the spires of the city rising above

the water when they sailed back after an outlandish voyage and anchored

in London Pool. Already she felt that if she visited London again after

a long lapse, she would claim it as her own. It was more than a city;

something mysterious and eternal. The Great Fire had eaten its way into

the very heart of its foundations, and here was St. Paul's rising again

on the monstrous scar left by the flames.

In a dream she sat by her aunt's side, and rode down Eastcheap, past the

little houses and shops, mostly standing gable-end on the street. It

seemed quite fitting that the bells of Bow should be pealing then. In a

dream she got out and stared at the new Royal Exchange, another great

building fresh born of the Fire. She saw Sir Thomas Gresham's monument,

and the huge grasshopper black with smoke which had come, a portent of

the spirit of the founder of the Exchange, through all those days of

devouring flames.

Then the houses of Lombard Street caught her eye, where Italy had joined

hands with England, bringing gold and jewels for barter from a land at

the height of her wealth to the barbarian island set about with fog.

Her aunt's voice sounded in her ear. 'This is the richest street in the

land, Marion--all money lenders and goldsmiths and wealthy merchants.'

Marion sighed. 'I think London is very wonderful, Aunt Constance. May

we not go to the Tower now?'

'Another time, my child, another time.'

As the days went by, several of these excursions took place, sometimes

Colonel Sampson and sometimes Simone occupying the spare seat in the

coach. Slowly Marion was drawn into the circle of her new life. She no

longer felt, as in the first few days of her visit, that the present was

a dream, a pageant passing her by; the present became very actively

real, and her life on the Cornish hillside grew more and more remote.

*CHAPTER VIII*

*HAUNTED COVE*

For three days a thick sea fog had overhung the coast, and the village

and harbour of Garth had been swathed from all sight in its grey folds.

It happened that on the afternoon of the third day Charity Borlase set

out from her mother's cottage and made her way towards the harbour.

Ever since her sweetheart Poole had been carried off to Bodmin gaol

again, Charity had found her daily life very difficult to bear. There

were plenty of other fisher lads minded to console her, their offers

backed by her mother's patronage; but Charity was not a person who could

easily change her affections. She kept as much as possible out of sight

of the quay with its chaffing, gossiping groups. But there were times

when indoor life seemed to be unbearable, and on those occasions she

would take her restless unhappiness for company, and seeking the edge of

the sea try to find the comfort there that was denied her in her home.

Although the mist was thick, Charity was seaman enough to know that it

would soon be lifting, and taking her cloak she went quietly down

towards the village. Then, acting on an idle fancy, she turned to her

brother's boat that was moored close to the cottage, and began to row

herself across the water to Polrennan, the little group of cottages that

faced the more important village of Garth.

As she sculled the boat across, bearing upstream a little against the

eddying tide, the fisher girl's eyes wandered up the estuary. In the

mist she fancied she saw farther up the narrowing creek, on the

Polrennanside, a slight figure wrapped in a hood and cloak, walking

rapidly towards the river mouth. Standing in the stern, working her oar

easily, Charity peered through the mist which was already rising and

falling a little in the slight easterly breeze. Again came the glimpse

of the shrouded figure, more easily seen this time, and the watcher

nodded grimly as she recognised the trotting gait. She made a swift

calculation; realised that if she drove her boat in straight to the

shore she would run into the arms, so to speak, of the lonely walker.

Charity quietly slipped down to the thwart, took a second oar, and

noiselessly rowed upstream. She preferred to land higher up and be at

liberty to watch unseen. That so far she herself was unseen she was

fairly confident. Only some one as far-sighted as a sailor and,

moreover, bred to the half-lights of the sea mists, could have descried

her little boat from the farther bank.

As Charity rowed on, her face wore a scornful expression that gave way

to a firm intentness of purpose. Although more educated than many of her

class, curiosity and superstition had a large place in her mind. But

more than curiosity impelled Charity to the course she now took. No one

could live in Garth and not know the stories that ran to and fro

concerning 'Mademoiselle,' who was disliked partly for her nationality

and partly for herself. Charity, loyal and devoted to the Admiral and

to her beloved Mistress Marion, and a degree or two removed from her

kind, was perhaps the only woman in the village who had refused to share

the gossip of the quay. But since the hurried departure of Victoire,

for whom the fisher girl had a kind of superstitious dislike, even

Charity had thought a good deal of the inmates of the house over the

brow of the hill.

Victoire herself had told Mrs. Borlase, who was occasionally pressed

into service in times of domestic stress at Garth House, that her old

mother in Brittany had been suddenly found very ailing (all this with

Victoire's handkerchief to her eyes); and Victoire, seized with

contrition on realising that she had not seen her parent for ten years

or so, had obtained permission from that kindest of all gentlemen,

Monsieur the Admiral, to seek the couch of the sufferer and comfort her

declining hours.

'I should think,' said Charity, when her mother had told this sad story,

''tis more likely than not the old lady have some gold under her bed.'

'Shame, Charity!' cried her mother (she was eating a piece of pie fresh

from Victoire's hands). 'Do 'ee go and pray for a kinder heart.'

'How's her going across?' asked Charity.

'Why, there's her uncle yonder to Plymouth who sent her word, awaiting

for un. A French sailor un be.'

'Queer they let un land,' mused Charity.

'And how so shouldn't un? And bearing a letter for the Admiral himself?

A black heart you'm getting, my maid, and a black life you'll have. A'd

have more pride nor letting yonder wastrel down to Bodmin lie in my

thoughts, and honest men like----'

'Now, Mother,' said Charity, her eyes blazing, 'will 'ee be quiet now,

Mother? No word of that will I hear.'

All this, and more, reverted to Charity's mind as she rowed up the

stream, keeping her eye on the blurred figure every now and then

revealed in the mist. At a little shingly beach she sprang ashore and

moored her boat unseen.

If there was anything in the tales of the valley, Mademoiselle Elise

would bear over the shoulder of the hill at the river mouth, out of

sight, as she evidently thought, among the bushes, and drop into a gully

a couple of miles to the east.

Just what she did in 'Haunted Cove' no one rightly knew, though folk

failed not to hint. It was a foul spot, only fit for landing a boat in

quiet weather. There were superstitious tales abroad concerning that

creek, and although curious fishermen had watched a strange boat, in the

fitful moonlight, make for the rocky mouth, and others had seen the

French girl, or her woman, creep into the cove, nothing would tempt them

into its wrack-strewn caverns. 'The devil had made his bed there,' they

said, 'and 'twas best shunned.' As for Elise, only the love and duty

they bore for the Admiral had kept them from denouncing her as a person

not untouched by the dark powers. For those were days when anything the

unlettered country folk failed to understand was put down to witchcraft

or sorcery.

Charity set herself another course than that taken by the French girl, a

hard road, only possible for strong limbs and a stout heart. She knew

that with good fortune she would arrive at a furze-grown bank hard over

the creek before Elise could have reached it from her own side.

Only when her journey was well afoot did Charity realise that she was

acting against all the superstitions of Garth. But having set herself

to it, she went on. Moreover, Charity could read and write; and it

happened that her little Bible was in her pocket.

'I bean't afeared,' she said stoutly to herself, fingering the holy

book. 'Once and for all I'll be knowing. For Mistress Marion's sake

'tis only right some one should be sure.'

Kind-hearted Jack had given her the little Bible, and talked of the day

when they would stand together before the parson; and Charity, thus

drawn to remembering happier days, became sorrowful again, and forgot

for the moment the object of her walk.

She climbed the hill, and crossing a little copse of gnarled oaks, made

for a gap in the hedge that gave on to the main riding track leading

from the heights beyond down to Polrennan beach. She was scarcely

through the gap before she heard the 'tlot-tlot' of a horse. The rider

seemed to be making inland, climbing the slope from the waterside.

Fearful of she knew not what, Charity shrank back into the hedge and

would have regained the shelter of the wood; but it was too late. Horse

and rider loomed up in the mist and a ringing voice hailed her.

'Charity! Is that you, Charity?'

'Why, Master Roger,' cried Charity, the colour flushing her face in the

relief she felt. 'Good afternoon to you, sir.'

Any one else would have replied, in the custom of the village folk:

'Where be gooin'?' And for a moment Charity's heart was in her mouth.

Then she remembered that to ask such direct questions was not the way of

the quality.

''Tis rising, I think,' said Roger, idly noting the girl's confusion,

and setting it down in his chivalrous way to maidenly shyness. 'And

time, too, after three days.'

'Wind's to the east, sir,' replied the girl. 'I thought to-day her'd

rise.'

Having dealt with the weather, Roger turned to personal affairs. 'How

are you getting on, Charity?' he asked kindly, keeping his horse at a

walk.

Not since Marion's departure had any sympathy been meted out to the

forlorn girl, and tears rose to her eyes. 'Why, sir,' she stammered,

'so well as may be.'

Noting her downcast look, Roger beat about in his mind for something to

say. His dark eyes rested very gently on the bowed head, but no words

came to his aid.

'Well,' he said abruptly, gathering his reins,' I must be off. I'm

going across to Farmer Penrose, who declares he has got some straying

cattle of mine. Good day to you, Charity.'

The girl dropped a curtsey in silence as the horse moved on. Then with

a sudden movement Roger wheeled round.

'Keep a cheerful heart, if you can,' he said abruptly. 'There's still a

great hope that the lad will be freed. The Admiral is using all his

influence with the Governor yonder.' And without waiting for a reply

Roger turned and broke into a canter. 'Poor little maid!' he mused.

''Tis hard fortune for her.'

He rode on, keeping to the track, and presently, as the way opened out

on to the rough headland, he cast a longing eye towards the Channel. A

golden light was breaking through the mist. Somewhere beyond that haze

the afternoon was bright and sunny, the sea rocking the boats in her

tranquil embrace. Roger never allowed a chance of riding by the sea to

escape him; but after a minute's thought he decided to bear on in his

present course and return by the edge of the cliffs when the mist would

in all probability be cleared away. To ride round the head of 'Haunted

Cove'--he smiled at the words--in a mist, was to endanger the safe-going

of his horse and perhaps his own life. More than one rash horseman,

riding by night close in over the cliffs, had fallen foul of the

boulders and overgrown chasms of the gully mouth, and paid with his life

the price of his folly.

Meanwhile Charity kept on her way. Somewhere round the shoulder of the

hill the French girl was bearing towards her mysterious journey's end.

Charity set herself to the stiff climb with all good will, and succeeded

in reaching the head of the creek, and completely hiding herself among

the furze bushes that overgrew it, before the slight figure came round

the corner of the headland.

Wrapped in her cloak Charity lay motionless on her rough couch. The

shrubs, dense with moisture, freely besprinkled her, but she paid no

heed. Presently the French girl came in sight. Charity smiled at her

gait, so unlike the swinging tread of the country-born. When the

tired-looking walker was for a few minutes hidden from sight behind an

outstanding group of rocks that barred her view, Charity took the

occasion to bend well over the dangerous declivity and look searchingly

into the creek below. What she saw made her hastily reconsider her

position.

She was too far away up there; she wanted to be able to hear as well as

see, and, as she did not understand French, not until this moment had

Charity thought hearing would have been of any avail. But that man

sitting down there on a rock gazing out to sea was no Frenchman. Not a

dozen miles away had he been born, and born with a crookedness of mind

that had spoilt the lives of others as well as his own. He had betrayed

his fellow smugglers to authority once too often, and been hounded from

the parish, with a rope's end for a prize if ever he returned. Folk

said he had gone to the Islands, and there continued his fast-and-loose

game between the French and the English.

For all her sense of horror at the idea of Admiral Penrock's ward having

dealings with such a person, Charity could but pay the man a tribute for

his courage in seeking the cove. Then, working out the price his

bravery must mean to the young lady now coming to the creek, Charity

frowned and shook her head again. Much, much gold must have been offered

that renegade to enter the neighbourhood of Garth; and why?

The man down there, watching alternately the headland path and the sea,

now revealing shining lines in the mist, was unaware of the figure

creeping from bush to bush down the cliff with the skill of one who had

often had nothing but seagulls' eggs between herself and hunger. He

rose as Elise stepped on to the shingly beach, and together the two

passed to the mouth of the outer cavern. On a ledge just above that

mouth crouched Charity Borlase. The sound of the voices rose clearly to

her ears.

An hour passed. Elise, her face wearing the _migraine_ look Marion

would have understood, was pale and harassed as at last she rose and

handed to the man a bag that jingled in his fingers. The last of their

words as they stepped down to the beach just failed to reach the ears of

Charity. She strained lower to catch the sound, and one branch of the

bush she was holding snapped and fell.

The speakers looked up in a startled way, and Charity, forgetting for

the moment her screen of bushes, feared she was undone. Holding her

breath, she watched the eyes searching the cliff. To her relief, they

went beyond her perch and rested. The two down there stood rooted to

the spot. Charity, in growing wonder, twisted herself noiselessly round

and discovered, standing on the rocks at the top of the creek,

riding-crop in hand, Roger Trevannion. Charity was as securely hidden

from his sight as from that of the others. She waited in a frightened

apprehension. But Roger said no word. With a grim sort of smile he

lifted his hat to Mademoiselle Elise and strode away.

Charity peered down again. The man was looking at his companion with a

sullen, craven air, not without a gleam of malicious triumph; here was

an added danger which meant more gold. But the look of fury and hatred

on the girl's face made honest Charity's heart grow chill. She heard

the words: 'He shall pay for this!' followed by others beyond her ken.

Five minutes afterwards Elise turned homewards. Not until the sailor had

launched his boat, and hugging the land closely, sailed out of sight,

did Charity rise, stiff and cramped, and climb the headland again.

That night she sat up long in her little attic room, and to the tune of

the snores of her mother and brothers she wrote the longest letter it

had ever fallen to her lot to indite. The task was a burden compared

with which the climbing of the cliffs had been a baby's play. The dawn

crept into her windows as she finished it, and not thinking it worth

while then to sleep, she stole downstairs, kindled the fire, set the

kettle on the crook and crept out of the cottage. She was going to test

the loyalty of old Peter up at Garth House, to post her letter to

Mistress Marion herself, and swear on her little Bible that he would say

a word to none.

*CHAPTER IX*

*A MORNING VISIT*

Peter made the required vow, not dreaming how soon he would be tested.

For just as he had made up his mind to create an occasion for going to

Lostwithiel, and, acting on his credit as an old servant, to take the

journey on his own responsibility, who should walk into the stable-yard

but Admiral Penrock.

'Was that little Charity I saw going down the lane. Peter?' inquired the

master.

'Like as not, sir.'

The Admiral prodded the groom's shoulder with his staff.

'Fie on thee, Peter! Are these tricks learned in London? Thinkst thou

canst take Jack Poole's place?'

This idea never having occurred to grey-haired Peter, he was some time

in apprehending it; then, with a sheepish grin, he accepted the visit of

the fisher girl in the light his master chose to cast upon it. And not

knowing that the end of Charity's letter was sticking out of his pocket,

the old groom allowed himself to be poked by the Admiral again, and

questioned adroitly as to the habits of the young lady. Not a syllable

would Peter utter to break his word to pretty Charity, and in the end he

rode off to Lostwithiel to seek a fresh bottle of lotion for the horses.

The Admiral stumped after him up the lane. He was intending to pay a

morning visit to Roger Trevannion. The boundary wall between the two

estates was crumbling in places, and the Admiral was minded to arrange

with Roger to see to the matter on his behalf. The early sunlight lay

slantingly across the tree-tops, and the old sailor, noting the

freshness of the new green mantle that overspread the countryside,

sighed to think that so fair a world could be so awry.

Ever since the day, now over a month old, when he had bidden Marion

good-bye and driven back to the west, he had felt an irksomeness in his

duties that was new to him. Had his office remained simply that of

magistrate in his own parts, he would not have felt the burden. But the

Lord Chief-Justice Jeffreys, in scouring the West Country, had learned

that if there was one man in Cornwall whose loyalty to the Crown was to

be relied upon, that man was Admiral Penrock of Garth. Consequently,

when the spies of Jeffreys, still lurking in the county after their lord

had returned to London, revealed one or two tracts in Cornwall which the

hounds of the dreaded Judge had not thoroughly drawn, Jeffreys decided

to make the Admiral master of that particular hunt. 'By fair means or

foul,' ran his order, 'you will run the quarry to earth.' And the

Admiral, who had a thorough dislike for meddling with affairs outside

his own district, had been obliged to obey.

In various Cornish towns--Bodmin, Truro, St. Austell, Penzance--a number

of soldiers were kept in readiness for his orders. His new duties

carried him far and near. People who had never heard of him began to

have reason for remembering his beetling brows, his thundering tones.

The Admiral was in a fair way to become a dreaded person. In a

magistrate 'twas all very well. But the old sailor carried a warm heart

under his garb of authority, and there were times when that warm heart

was chilled at the thought of the pain he had brought into many people's

lives since Jeffreys had chosen to lay his commands upon him.

Another reason for disliking his new office had been the necessity for

leaving Garth many days at a time without a master. He found himself in

the position of a general who, while conducting wars abroad, neglects

the enemy within his own frontiers.

Two facts, however, brought comfort to the Admiral: the absence of

Marion during this time, and the recent departure of Victoire for her

Breton home. Elise herself had never merited the complete distrust that

underlay the old sailor's thoughts of Victoire. Since Keziah's

uncomfortable revelations he had thought hard and watched shrewdly--when

he was at liberty to watch. Had he possessed in his service a man of

education and trustworthiness, untinged by the prejudice that coloured

the judgment of the country folk, Garth would not have been left thus at

the mercy of fortune. But no such man, Roger Trevannion excepted, had

been within hail, and it was impossible without arousing suspicion to

bring Roger from his own lands to act as overseer of the Penrock

demesne. Consequently the Admiral had granted Victoire permission to

cross the Channel without much troubling himself as to any hidden reason

for her departure.

Victoire thus abroad, the old French attorney on his way to England, the

Admiral experienced a sense of relief. He looked forward with the

heartiest pleasure to the day when the attorney would arrive at Garth.

Then he would consider his duty to his old friend accomplished. He had

fathered Elise in her growing girlhood; she was now old enough to be

given over to the care of her aunts. He had certainly done his utmost

to train the girl to standards of thought which were native to the

comrade of his fighting days. The fact that in some way Elise's nature

had been warped to begin with, was beyond his control, and there he left

the problem, vaguely attributing the crookedness to some strain on the

mother's side. The Admiral had never seen Madame de Delauret. To

contemplate the return of Marion, and the final departure of his ward

and her maid from Garth, was to the Admiral something akin to watching

in the darkness of the waning night for the daystar of the dawn. When he

arrived at the Manor, Roger was in the farmyard at the back of the

house, setting a dozen men to their day's work. He strode to meet his

visitor with a look of pleased surprise.

'This is an honour, sir,' he said heartily, the golden lights showing in

his brown eyes, 'and all the more for being paid so early. Will you

come indoors for a tankard of ale? My mother will be pleased to see you

in the house.'

'Nay,' said the Admiral, nodding to the farm men who were pulling their

forelocks and chanting 'Marnin', Admur'l!' 'I have but just

breakfasted. Those are fine horses yonder, Roger. You keep them well.'

The two moved out of earshot of the menservants.

'I saw Peter in the lane just now, but he said not you were coming,'

remarked Roger.

The sailor's eyes twinkled. ''Tis a simple soul, that Peter. Did he

say aught to you of a letter to my daughter, writ by Charity Borlase,

that was in his pocket and had emptied all the bottles of lotion in the

stables?'

As he spoke, the Admiral was casting a critical eye over a young

cart-horse, the latest addition to the Manor stables, and he was unaware

of Roger's slight start.

Roger had wondered more than once what could have been taking Charity up

the hillside towards the headland that overlay Haunted Cove. In the

revelation of the later afternoon he had remembered the chance

encounter; Charity's embarrassment recurred to him.

At the sight he had had of Elise in close converse with the old traitor

of Garth, Roger had experienced a momentary but severe shock. The idle

talk of the village which, he knew very well, was more than half due to

a deep-rooted hatred for foreigners, he had honestly tried to discount,

putting away the versions that had reached his ears as gossiping women's

tales. But he was too young, too human, not to be affected in his

judgment by his personal attitude to Victoire and her young mistress.

The only being to whom he had ever mentioned the matter had been Dick

Hooper, his boyhood's friend. Young Dick had shrugged his shoulders.

'Wait a bit. Ill weeds grow for cutting. The girl's crooked, but the

woman's wicked.' And so the subject had been passed by.

And now the distrust and dislike of close on ten years, and the memory

of the persistent tales of the villagers, had suddenly made for Roger an

inflammable track down which the spark of a strong suspicion raced. The

burning revelation ran into words, right enough, clear as the flaming

signs on the wall at Belshazzar's feast. 'Thou art tried in the

balances and found wanting,' flickered the gleaming letters, as of old,

and then died away. And Roger was left pondering as to the nature of

the final word which must lie somewhere, at present unillumined. When

and whence that final proof must appear, Roger could not guess; but he

had read the riddle well enough to be profoundly uncomfortable as to its

portent, and, more than all, as to its effects on the house of Garth.

A fatherless son, heir to an estate the control of which called for

judgment and action, Roger had learned the weight of responsibility when

most youths of his age and class had been conning Greek and Latin texts.

And now his first thought had been as to his own share in the matter.

What was his duty towards the Admiral and Marion? _Marion_. His heart

had stirred at the passing thought of Marion, of her sweet

wholesomeness, her contempt for double dealing, her outspoken truth. To

think of her just then was like looking from a dark, secretly stirred

pool to an open, sunswept stream.

What could have been Elise's business yonder? Could it be political?

Something connected with denunciations of still hidden Monmouth men?

Hardly so; rumours in the village had been years old before ever

Monmouth landed at Lyme. And yet, these were days of distrust and

treachery. Could some dark fate be hurling suspicion at the heads of

the two people whom, next to his mother, he loved wholly?

Roger had ridden home in the company of unhappy thoughts, slowly

resolving that he must trace the trouble to its source, and begin with

the Admiral himself.

The chance mention of Charity, however, made Roger pause. Charity had

been writing to Marion. Perhaps it would be well to see Charity first.

His instinct was that whatever had been her business that afternoon,

Charity was friend and not foe. On seeing the Admiral, his first

thought had been to take advantage of his visit and unburden himself at

once of the story. Now, in secret relief, he put the idea aside,

determining first to learn what was Charity's part in the affair. So,

while the Admiral was poking among his horses, Roger's thoughts ran; he

turned gladly for the moment out of the shadow that had fallen across

his path, not knowing that a small cloud, the size of a man's hand, lay

on the far horizon.

Talking of farming matters, the two started on a leisurely survey of the

Manor close, and presently came on the beech-topped hedge that was the

northern boundary of the Garth lands. Leaning on the gate set in the

hedge, they lingered some time. The conversation had fallen on the near

prospect of a letter from Marion, on her life in Kensington; on the

French attorney's visit, the contemplation of which, though neither knew

the other's thought, brought to each a sense of comfort.

From the gate a little path ran down towards the house, making a

diagonal course through the intervening pastures. The Admiral, about to

light his second pipe, paused, tinder-box in hand, and stared across the

fields. His face darkened.

'If I mistake not, yonder is one of Jeffreys' couriers. What fresh

business is toward now? Could it not have waited my return to the

house?'

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

'So did I. So did I. You see what a price one pays, my lad, for being

an honest man. I declare, I thought when my lord's last letter came,

that I would go to sea again, that I did, stump and all, so as to be

free of this scurvy business.'

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

'Let him! Let him! He's heartily welcome!' But none the less the old

man struck his flint, and contented himself by roaring into the

mouthpiece of his pipe.

Roger's eyes twinkled. In just such a way had the motherless bull-calf

he had fed that morning growled with his head in the bucket, his mouth

full. Roger stored up the incident to take a place in the pantomime

rehearsal of her father's stray doings and sayings which Marion would be

sure to demand on her return. The gold lights danced afresh in Roger's

eyes as his little playmate rose before his mental vision.

The rider was now at speaking distance. He had the appearance of hard

travelling, and as he came up, Roger's instant sympathy fell on the

horse. When the messenger dismounted, saluted the Admiral, and

proceeded to fumble for his letter, explaining that he had been sent on

from the house, Roger stepped to the animal's side. 'Poor brute!' was

his thought as he stroked the steaming flank, and cast a critical eye on

the girth, having a mind to undo it for a time and make the man rest at

the Manor.

'You have ridden fast,' said the Admiral in surly tones. 'Why shorten

the life of a good horse?'

'My lord's orders, sir,' said the man. 'He can never abide the idea of

wasting an hour when there's work to be done.'

'Did your lord require an answer?'

'He did not, sir.'

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

'I thank you greatly, sir,' said the man, passing his hand across his

face, seared with the sweat and dust of his journey, 'but I am to be in

Taunton ere nightfall.'

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

'I shall change horses at Bodmin,' said the messenger. As he spoke, he

took the bridle. 'Can I cross the fields here to the Bodmin road?'

'I'll show you the way,' said Roger, and walking a few yards with the

man, he pointed out, through a break in the inner hedge, the Bodmin road

lying in the valley.

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

'Aye, sir, well enough.'

''Tis a pity he can't pay the horse. A finer grey I never saw. It

grieves me to see a brute wasted so. Here's a shilling. Promise you

will give him a fair bucket of oats--or, if he sweats more, a bran mash

and a warm belly cloth.'