'Nay, nay. But it goes to my heart to see that horse wasted so. Good
morning.'
Roger strode back to the gate where the Admiral was still standing.
From the letter in his hand dangled the strings and seals of the Lord
Chancellor. Roger paused and hung back a trifle, wondering were it best
to leave him. Whatever might be the new business to hand, he could see
the Admiral's wrath was gathering. His face purpled, the eyes growing
round as a parrot's. For a second he appeared to be on the point of
choking. Suddenly he dashed the letter to the ground, and swung round on
Roger. Digging his staff into the turf, he spluttered in
incomprehensible rage.
'I will not do it!' he roared. 'By the Lord Harry, I will not!'
Suddenly his fury fell away. He seated himself in the hedge and passed
a hand over his face. 'Dick!' he said hoarsely. 'Poor lad!'
Roger stiffened. His eyebrows drew together, his mouth tightened. He
stared down at the letter.
'Dick? Did you say Dick?'
'Ay, Dick Hooper. 'Tis there. An order to arrange for the arrest of
the person of Richard Merrion Hooper, in the Parish of St. Brennion.'
Roger stared down at the written sheet, his face paling under the
sunburn.
'Impossible!' he jerked out. 'Dick's a loyalist like yourself.'
'Nothing is impossible in these days.'
'What has he done?'
'That I am not told. Mayhap he has looked in pity at the creaking bones
of a wretch hanging at the cross roads for Monmouth's sake.'
Roger turned, and leaning on the gate, buried his head on his arm. The
tlot, tlot of a horse on the road below rose in the stillness of the
morning. 'I could wish the brute had foundered and thrown his rider
into the ditch--that highwaymen had seized him and his cursed letter,'
ran the Admiral's thoughts, as, unconscious of his companion, he stared
down the quiet slope. Far below showed the north front of Garth, the
chimneys cutting the shining bar of the sea into irregular shapes. Only
one window was visible through the trees of the garden--the window of
the Admiral's study which, in an upper storey, ran the width of one
wing, looking out on one hand on the Channel, and on the other to the
rising land of the pastures. In the middle of the room stood the old
sailor's beloved telescope, through which Roger had many times studied
the rig of passing vessels. It happened that as the Admiral was staring
out to sea, small thin fingers were swinging the telescope round to the
north, and very soon the two men were plain to the eyes of Mademoiselle
Elise, who was supposed by the housekeeper to be still in her bed.
The Admiral turned and saw the black head bent over the gate. He
sighed, and rising to his feet picked up the letter.
Roger roused himself. His thoughts had been far away, scenes of his
boyhood passing before his closed eyes: Dick's deep-notched oaken bench
at Blundell's, which had been next his own; their twin escapades and
truancies, punishments and advancements; the holidays Dick had spent at
the Manor.
'I thought Dick was at Oxford,' he stumbled at length. Then
recollecting: 'Nay, he is reading with a tutor to enter Oriel at
Michaelmas.'
'A thousand pities he had not gone.'
Again fell the silence; then Roger's rather husky tones: 'Must you do
this thing, sir?'
'I must.'
'And will you?'
The old Salt Eagle looked sorrowfully into the brown eyes facing him.
He made a step down the slope.
'Would to God,' he blazed out suddenly, 'that Jeffreys had chosen
another man!' Then, sobering: 'But I must. I cannot forget, after all,
that my duty is not to serve Jeffreys, but Jeffreys' king. I shall
drive out after dinner to Liskeard to see the officer there. But fear
not, Roger, I shall do my utmost to get him freed.'
Roger was silent. He knew too well how unavailing, in the main, were
such efforts.
'Is his father living?'
Roger nodded.
'And his mother? I forget.'
'She died while Dick was at Blundell's.'
'Thank God for that!' said the Admiral in low tones.
'May you not just inquire into the matter and report?' came Roger's
husky tones. 'I had rather any one had gone but Dick.'
'Jeffreys prefers to make his inquiries behind bolt and bar.'
'Look here, sir,' said Roger, his face as hard as his voice. 'I----' he
stopped abruptly, then a minute later, with a brief 'Good morning,' he
swung round, and before the Admiral could speak, was striding up the
slope.
The old seaman leaned heavily on his staff as he stumbled down the
hillside, jerking his wooden leg over the uneven ground. 'I could pray
for an ague to seize me,' ran his thoughts, 'an asp to sting me, a
draught to sicken my stomach. Anything to keep me from this hateful
task. Poor Dick! And poor Roger! 'Twas a hard blow.'
Half way down the slope the Admiral stopped short, arrested by an uneasy
thought. For the first time since Jeffreys had laid his commands upon
him he had failed in his duty, betrayed his trust, spoken to another of
business of sworn secrecy. Completely forgetful of his obligations, and
overborne by the weight of personal association, he had talked like an
idle woman.
Hot on the heels of the first consideration ran a second. He had spoken
freely of the arrest to the greatest friend of the condemned man. Could
it be possible Roger would----? He had better walk back to the Manor,
to make the boy promise secrecy. What would Roger do? A gleam ran
across the old face. He turned and scanned the pastures. Roger was
nowhere to be seen. A look of uncertainty was in the man's eyes as he
stood, idly digging into a young gorse bush with his staff. His
thoughts ranged themselves in two lines: dual personalities facing each
other. On the one hand was the loyal seaman who would at any time have
risked the gallows for a friend's sake; on the other the stern,
justice-loving magistrate.
'You don't know what he may do,' came the one voice, 'and any way, you'd
do the same yourself.'
'Go up and order him in the King's name to keep the matter secret,' came
the reply. 'You can trust his given word.'
'Leave him alone,' retorted the first. ''Tis not for you to dictate
what a man may do for his friend.'
'Duty! Duty!' cried the other.
'And Dick's an honest lad; you know he is guiltless. 'Tis but a foul
whisper. He deserves a timely warning.'
'A magistrate has no ties. Duty! Duty!'
And so the mimic battle raged behind the eagle brows. In the end, not
without a smile of grim humour, the Admiral offered a truce. He would
not interfere with Roger. In any case, the lad might never have
considered taking any step, and time would be wasted on the errand. His
magisterial self the old seaman soothed by a promise of utmost haste.
Instead of ordering the coach for after dinner, he would drive out at
once, and eat from a hamper on the carriage seat. Having thus silenced
the mental combatants, the Admiral kept his bargain to the letter. In a
few minutes he was back at the house, giving orders to a flurried
housekeeper.
Peter being absent on Charity's affairs, the Admiral was obliged to see
to his change of garb himself. But here Elise proved herself uncommonly
thoughtful. Hearing from Mrs. Curnow that the master was bound to
Liskeard on urgent business, and would not be home till the morrow, and
was in an uneasy temper because his man was out on an errand and he must
fasten his own cloak and see to his pistols himself, Elise proceeded to
the Admiral's room to offer such services as might be at her command.
She found the door of the room ajar, and knew from neighbouring sounds
that the Admiral was in the study. In his haste the sailor had thrown
the fateful letter on the bed, with his work-a-day coat; the sharp eyes
of Mademoiselle caught the red of the seals. A minute later she was out
of the room again, her light step making no sound. When the Admiral was
safely back in his bedchamber, she returned along the passage, her high
heels clicking hard on the boards.
'I wanted to help you, if I might, sir,' came her voice at the door, and
pleased at such thoughtfulness, the Admiral bade her enter. By that
time the letter was in his pocket again.
As soon as the coach had left the courtyard, Elise stepped out, and
crossing the pastures made her way towards the Manor Farm. A workman on
the south fields was busy ditching, and from him, by dint of casual
remarks, Elise learned that Master Roger had taken the fastest horse and
ridden away some two hours ago.
Elise waited to hear no more. There was a light of triumph in her eyes
as she trotted back to Garth. Presently an under groom was ordered to
saddle Molly. Mademoiselle was bored by the inaction of life so lonely
at Garth, and she was wishful to ride out to Bodmin and make a trifling
purchase. She did not deem it necessary to add that it was her
intention, while her escort was supping at the _King's Head_, to find
means to send a few words to the Governor of Bodmin Gaol.
*CHAPTER X*
*FOREBODING*
It was the night of the ball in Kensington, and as if the heavens had
conspired with Lady Fairfax to create a scene of loveliness, threatening
clouds had passed with sunset to show a slip of a new moon and peeping
stars. The dancing-rooms opened on to a long terrace at the south side
of the house, and in the warm evening the windows were set wide. Just
below the terrace lay my lady's rose bed, and near by a patch of
mignonette and stock and heavy bushes of lavender joined their fragrance
to the scent of the roses.
Lady Fairfax stepped out on to the terrace, seeking a minute's respite
from her duties. The silver arc was just hovering above the trees, and
Colonel Sampson, who had gone below for a lace scarf, emerged from the
house in time to see his hostess gravely curtseying three times to the
heavenly visitor. The rite performed, my lady received the shawl, and
for a space the old friends walked along the terrace in silence. Through
the open windows sounded low voices and laughter. The ball-room was
thronged, and the two without could hear, close to the casement, the
swish of brocaded robes on the shining oaken floor. From the raised
gallery came the slow air of a minuet, the fiddlers' strains blending
with the tones of the flute and the sweet tinkle of a harp.
The loiterers on the terrace had not taken many turns before Sir John
Fairfax joined them.
'I may but stay a moment,' he said. 'The house should not be left
thus.'
'The house is very well, dear lad,' said his wife serenely. 'My guests
are never dull, for the reason that dull folk are never my guests. Are
you playing cards below?'
'From what I see, no one has thought of anything save either dancing or
watching the dance. But, my dear, I have news that will cause you some
dismay.'
Lady Fairfax stopped in her walk. 'The Queen? I knew it!' she said
grimly, as her husband nodded. 'Am I wanted this very hour?'
'To-morrow, to accompany Her Majesty to Tunbridge.'
Lady Fairfax walked on a pace or two, then stopped and looked upwards.
'Did I not curtsey humbly enough, fair maiden? Why such an ill reward?'
She resumed her walk. 'La, la! 'tis an uncertain world. But I am
mightily grateful to the powders for lasting so long as they did. I
have been dreading this summons for a week past. Her Majesty has been
looking vastly yellow again. But what am I to do with Marion?'
'Leave her with me?'
'Yes, Grandam, but what will you do with her?'
'Give her a few days' rest. She has had over much turmoil and
excitement of late. She shall hem sheets and talk to Simone. I will
see she takes the air. But I trust you may not be long away. My Lord
Churchill is urging an expedition.'
'Secret, no doubt?'
'Ay, dear love--secret.'
'Should you be gone, I will take your place, Jack,' said Sampson. 'And
I have not yet seen the little Simone, but from what I hear she is an
excellent companion. Marion will not be lonesome.'
'I must go and see Martin a moment,' said Lady Fairfax, turning indoors.
'Pray excuse me, Colonel.'
The two men continued their walk.
'I wish the old Salt Eagle had been here to-night,' said Sampson, as his
host paused outside one of the windows.
'But she was frightened out of her wits at first,' smiled the other.
'Her face was as white as yonder white roses in the bowl, when she
stepped out for her first dance. Did you note it?'
'She is not nervous now. Look yonder!'
The two stood in the darkness without, watching. In the light of
hundreds of candles beautiful women and richly clad men moved to and fro
to the strains of the dance. Against the darkness of the panelled walls
jewels flashed in a maze of colour, and behind the dancers, passing in
and out of the doors, other figures filled in the brilliant pageant.
All the youth and heyday of the Court were in Kensington this night. And
stepping to and fro among them as she danced the minuet, Marion looked
like a gold and white lily set amid tropical blooms. The spots of
turquoise in her pearl necklace sought and found the blue-green touches
in the embroideries of her dress. Trained along the wide cream skirt
was a faint design of blue and gold. It was the only dress in the room
so restrained in colour, and, surmounted by the white of bosom and neck,
the warm paleness of the face and sudden glory of the hair, it drew from
the eyes of both men and women an open or covert admiration.
The younger ladies became a trifle critical of their rich colours, their
powder and rouge and patches--adornments which Marion had steadily
refused; the matrons who were looking on recorded another instance of
the faultless taste of Lady Fairfax: she had tuned the girl's appearance
to the key-note of her personality. The men, knowing nothing of these
subtleties, watching her serious face as she danced, her unlikeness to
the women of London society, her quaint girlish dignity, felt the
pleasure that novelty gives, and revelled in the new sensation.
Without knowing it, the 'little niece' was indeed a revelation to the
dancers who shared her company that night. Having been brought up by
the Admiral as simply as if she had been a boy, she was singularly free
from self-consciousness; and not only was she outspoken and honest in
her speech, but a vein of humour, clear gold, ran through her thoughts
continually. Thus, as the night wore on, the gentlemen leading Marion
to and fro in the dance, or sitting by her side in the rooms below, or
walking by her on the terrace flags, found that their whispers of
adulation, their extravagant utterances, which were commonplaces in the
social intercourse of the day, were wasted on the young lady they had
thought to please. Their choicest seeds fell on stony ground. Marion
had never learned to simper and look coy in the face of outrageous
flattery. She would listen for a while, amazed at such arrant
foolishness, the twinkle in her eyes hidden under the long dark lashes
about which the speakers failed not to wax so eloquent. Then the
admiring ones, taking breath for a still higher flight, would see the
grave, downward drooping lips suddenly betray her thoughts, her face
break into an open merriment that shook the wind from their eloquence
and tore into shreds their mounting self-conceit.
But Marion could not be human and not know the joy and intoxication of
success. At the beginning of the evening, when her aunt's guests had
been presented to her, and received her cold little fingers, she had
felt outcast and forlorn, something to be hidden from the sight of all
that beauty and grandeur. Then when the truth was borne home that she
herself, and not any one of the Court damsels she envied, was the
central figure; that each man there seemed to be a visitor merely to do
her homage, first and throughout, Marion's mood changed. She had always
loved to dance; the admiration in the eyes opposite as she came and went
in the minuet set her own eyes all the brighter, and threw a lightness
and glow into her being. She was sipping the wine of youth from a
goblet of gold, and only later did she realise how sweet that first
draught had been.
Just after supper she ran up stairs to ask Simone to cut a shred from
her silk petticoat which an unwary foot had caught on the stairs. Her
room was empty. As she went to the dressing-table for a pair of
scissors, a letter caught her eye.
It was addressed in a laborious, unfamiliar hand. Wonderingly Marion
broke the seal, and unfolded the sheet, looking first at the signature
at the close of the letter.
'Little Charity! Of all persons in the world to have writ me! Can Jack
have escaped again?'
Somewhat dazed at the suddenness with which the thought of Garth had
leapt from some dim spot of memory direct to the immediate moment,
Marion sat down and began to read Charity's letter. The writing was
ungainly, in parts half illegible, the words ill spelt. Marion re-read
several sentences before she began to grasp their meaning. It was
something about Elise. Then she saw Roger's name. A chill of fear, the
colder because it was shapeless, seized her, throttling the warm
happiness that pulsed in her veins. She turned back to read the
sentence again. Roger--what was this about Roger?
As she bent over the letter in the light of her dressing-table sconces,
Lady Fairfax passed the door and looked in.
'Marion! Why are you up here?'
'There's a letter here from Charity,' said Marion absently, reading on
as she spoke, 'and----'
Lady Fairfax crossed the room, and laid her hand on the girl's arm. 'My
darling, you cannot behave thus. Listen: there is the music of the
galliard which Londoners are dancing to-night in honour of my country
maid. Do you not hear yonder Cornish air? They are waiting on you
before they can begin. Who is your partner?'
Lady Fairfax gently took the letter from the girl's cold fingers, and
bending down, pressed a kiss on her cheek.
'Captain Beckenham is my partner, Aunt Constance.'
The tone of the voice caught the ear of the older woman. She looked at
the face reflected in the looking-glass.
'Come, come! What is this letter?'
''Tis something about Elise and--I like it not. But I had rather finish
it, Aunt Constance.'
A grave rebuke flashed in and out of the lady's eyes.
'Elise can wait. She has waited thus long. And there are days and days
to read it in. But to-night--this is _your_ ball, and your guests are
waiting on your pleasure. Where is the smiling face I saw ten minutes
ago?'
Marion got up, and taking the scissors cut the fragment from her
petticoat. True to her character, she made no outward show of the
unhappiness that had seized her. 'Where is Simone?'
'Helping Martin.'
'Why so, Aunt Constance?' With mechanical fingers, Marion tidied a
tress of her bright hair.
'I will tell you later, my child. Run downstairs now; and remember this
is your special dance. I am following, but I must attend to the older
folk in the card-room.'
Obediently Marion went downstairs. The ballroom, which had seemed all
brightness and music a little time before, now appeared full of alien
presences whose voices jarred upon her. She was scarcely aware of the
low bow of her partner, of his extended hand; with an unaccustomed
heaviness in her step she took her place at the head of the long line.
Then glancing towards the musicians' gallery as the fiddlers struck up
the country air, she saw the wrinkled face of old Zacchary behind the
performers, his eyes, full of pride and tenderness, watching the 'little
maid' who was his delight. A sudden vision of her father came upon her.
She rallied. Her head rose a little. She threw a smile to Zacchary,
and holding her fingers to her partner, went lightly down between the
ranks, curtseying and turning and retracing her steps in the maze of the
country dance. Once begun, the movement left her no time for thought.
Only when Captain Beckenham led her to her seat and handed her her fan,
did she realise how heavy lay her heart, what bitter drops had marred
the wine and dulled the sparkling rim of the goblet. Presently Colonel
Sampson strolled up.
'I should guess my lady has told you the news, Mistress Marion. 'Tis
writ in your sober look.'
'What news?' cried the young gentleman, rising to his feet as the old
soldier spoke.
'Why, here is Lady Fairfax summoned to attend Her Majesty to Tunbridge
on the morrow.'
Marion remained silent as the two talked a little of the Royal invalid,
content that her gravity, which in spite of her efforts was evidently
noticeable, should be set down to that cause. The news of her aunt's
departure seemed to lay another weight upon her spirits, but she
realised that much as she loved her aunt, the heaviness of the thought
that she must be thus parted from her was slight compared with that
other unformed, unnamed burden that threatened her; she had not had time
to learn the meaning of Charity's letter.
Captain Beckenham glanced down at the girl. Her fingers were playing
with the handle of her fan; her mind seemed elsewhere.
'I could wish Her Majesty's illness had waited another day,' he said
with a deep sigh. ''Tis a most unkind cloud to spread itself over the
face of the sun, and leave the earth desolate and dark. And quite
possibly I shall be bidden, either in Her Majesty's suite, or to
follow.'
Marion looked up with one of her mocking smiles as the young guardsman,
with a meaning look, and his hand flourishing, bowed low. But the older
eyes watching saw that something was amiss. Mr. Sampson drew up a
vacant chair, and rewarded beforehand by a look from Marion, succeeded
in maintaining an easy conversation in which the girl's share was light.
Presently Lady Fairfax appeared in the ball-room, and immediately, it
seemed, became the centre of a lively group. Marion, watching her aunt,
felt suddenly ashamed. The one glance Lady Fairfax had bestowed upon
her told more than spoken words. 'A hostess in a ball-room has no place
for private feelings,' said those challenging eyes.
Marion mentally shook herself afresh; turned to a young man who was
hovering near, and indicated with her fan an empty seat. The new-comer,
more bronzed than his fellows, had just left his ship at Greenwich.
Marion smiled on him, and threw out a few sea-going phrases; and the
young sailor, who had coveted the honour of speaking to the daughter of
the old Salt Eagle, was rewarded by hearing stories of him from the lady
herself. The two passed out on to the terrace, and the music of the
next dance went by unheeded.
Presently others came to claim her attention. Somehow the evening wore
away, and such was Marion's will upon herself, that no one besides
Colonel Sampson and Lady Fairfax had any suspicion that her heart belied
her face. With her uncle and aunt she stood at the head of the
staircase as the guests took their leave. Presently all were gone but
Sampson.
'Stay and have a glass of wine, Colonel,' said Lady Fairfax. 'I vow I
am hungry again.'
But Mr. Sampson, with a low bow, declined the invitation, and turning to
Marion, asked for the pleasure of her company on a drive the following
day.
'Excellent!' said Lady Fairfax. 'The fresh air will be very
beneficial.'
Marion gravely thanked the gentleman, and bending over her hand he
contrived to throw into his gesture and parting look just the amount of
friendliness she could bear.
'Then we will have our wine and cake together in your room,' said Lady
Fairfax, passing her arm round Marion's waist. 'You can read yonder
letter and tell me all about it. You have done bravely this last hour.'
*CHAPTER XI*
*AUNT AND NIECE*
Marion lay in her bed, staring through the drawn curtains into the dark
night. Her window was ajar, and sweet cool airs played fitfully in the
room. It was past three o'clock; soon the summer dawn would break;
cocks crowed faintly in the farmyards that dotted the fields beyond
Kensington village.
To and fro Marion turned, chafing at the hotness of her bed, trying to
find a cool space for her body and a spot on the pillow that might tempt
her throbbing head to lie still. The only ease she could gain was by
turning a certain way, her eyes on the quiet vagueness of the sky. She
kept telling herself there was no cause for this turmoil of mind; time
after time she turned her thoughts back to the ball, thinking of the
dances, of a certain melody that had pleased her so that she had sent to
the fiddlers to play it again--of the men and women whose language and
manners, still unfamiliar, fascinated her and gave her the pleasant
feeling of being at home in a strange land. But behind their faces she
saw that of Charity; running with the strains of the minuet was a phrase
she could not forget--'i be afeered, Mistress Marion, mightilie afeered,
and moste of al for Master Roger.'
'Who is this Charity?' Lady Fairfax had asked after she herself, at
Marion's request, had read the sprawled sheet. On learning the story of
the girl, and hearing of the hostile feeling of Garth for the Admiral's
ward, the first instinct of Lady Fairfax had been to take the part of
her own class against another that was uneducated, prejudiced, and
superstitious to a degree.
'You can't get away from what is in your blood,' argued the lady.
'Those Cornish fisherfolk are the children of countless generations that
have spent themselves in enmity with the French: a continual
cross-channel warfare. They first hate the Devon men, because they are
not Cornish, and then they hate the French because they are not English.
To their way of thinking the only people who have any excuse to be
alive, or have any hope to enter heaven, are English folk who have been
born and bred in Cornwall.'
Marion smiled faintly. 'True enough, Aunt Constance. But you don't know
Elise.'
'I don't know Elise, my dear. There you are right. But I do know that
Elise, the daughter of Monsieur de Delauret and the granddaughter of the
old Vicomte d'Artois, is bred and born a gentlewoman. You cannot turn
your back on your own class and take the peasant view against them. And
has not Elise been your companion and playfellow all these years? Leave
for a moment this present problem--a difficult one, I grant you--and
consider Elise in the light of a ten years' friendship. What have you
against her?
'Nothing,' said Marion falteringly. 'That is, until Aunt Keziah came
and made me somehow see Elise in a different way. And--besides----'
'The "besides,"' smiled Lady Fairfax, 'is generally the root of the
whole matter.'
Marion's cream and gold lace dress had been taken off, and a light
dressing-gown thrown about her, and Lady Fairfax, similarly disrobed,
was tending the long russet hair.
With her brush swish swish through the shining tresses, Lady Fairfax
waited. 'And besides?'
In as few words as possible Marion told the story of Jack Poole's
arrest, and Elise's vindictive remarks at supper.
'What did your father say?'
'He was angry. I never saw him angry with her before. It was not only
unkind of Elise, but 'twas a most dangerous thing to say, as Father
explained. You don't know one hundredth part of the horror of that
rising in the West, Aunt Constance. If one of the servants had heard
her, and there had chanced to be a countryman, a tinker or a packman, in
the kitchens--and of course you know passing folk are always welcomed by
the servants--Roger might have been hanged on the strength of that.'
The lady was silent a moment. 'Well, well,' she resumed, 'Roger was not
hanged. But, my dear love, for a girl coming to womanhood you are
strangely blind. Have you not told me before that this youth Roger
could not abide Elise?'
'No more he could. Well?'
'Is not that a reason for Elise's hating Roger? A woman can forgive a
man almost everything except disliking her, and showing it.'
'Elise is only a girl.'
'A rose-bud is all the same a rose.'
Marion twined a stray wisp of hair round and round her fingers.
'Granted all that, Aunt Constance, why should Elise be continually going
down to Haunted Cove, and to see such a horrible man?'
'Who says she is going continually?'
'Well--Charity says everybody says so.'
'Which means,' said Lady Fairfax tartly, 'that some one may have seen
her twice. You don't know the Cornish as well as I do.'
'I will not hear another word against my people, Aunt Constance. You
have naught but unkindness for them.' Marion tossed her hair free, and
sprang to her feet.
'La, la!' said Lady Fairfax. 'Am I not "your own people?" And
therefore theirs? Oh, my precious baby, what an infant you are!' The
speaker suddenly caught the girl in her arms and drew her to a low seat.
Marion's head fell on her shoulder, and her tears dropped.
'I am so unhappy, Aunt Constance.'
'But, my darling, I assure you there is nothing to be unhappy about.'
There was a silence for a few minutes. Then Marion slipped from her
aunt's arms to the hearthrug, and laid her head against her knee. 'I am
too big a baby to be nursed, dear Aunt Constance. I shall tire you.'
'I was not complaining,' said the childless woman, letting her arms
fall.
'But why should she have gone even once down to Haunted Cove to meet
that man?' Marion resumed after a while.
'There, my dear, is a question I cannot answer. But until you know more
about it, is it not only fair to give Elise the benefit of the doubt?
And as for the words she said: "He shall pay for this," why--the girl
was furious, and let out the words in her spleen that she would
otherwise have withheld. People spit out queer things when they are
angry. Anger and madness are closely akin.'
'And another thing,' resumed Lady Fairfax, stroking the bright head.
'Your father is a shrewd man. He will not have forgotten that speech of
Elise's. If he thinks in sober judgment there is anything against the
maid, he will be watching her. Sooner or later these tales will reach
him. If that little Charity had been worth her salt, she would have
gone to him, and not writ that hysterical letter to you.'
'She would not dare, I am afraid, to seek my father.'
'Because he would pull her ears for a gossiping busy-body. And don't
you see, my dear, how foolish it is to think that Roger and your father
can come to some mishap through the malice of your father's ward? Leave
the men to take care of themselves. I declare I shall hate that Roger
if the thought of some passing danger for him spoils your visit here.'
'I have known Roger ever since I could walk,' said Marion softly. 'He
was brother and sister and playfellow.'
'You can't wrap him in silk shawls and set him in a drawing-room. He
will have to play his part; and you can't either prevent it or take one
jot or tittle from it. How long has this letter been in coming?'
Marion took up the sheet. 'Close on two weeks. It must have been sadly
delayed.'
'Then everything must still be well. Your father would have written and
sent a special messenger, otherwise. And now, my darling, I insist on
your going to bed. Come, I will play your nurse and undress you. 'Tis
the last time--for some days.'
When her aunt had given her a good-night kiss and had left her, Marion
had felt somewhat eased, but her brain, being thoroughly aroused, was
not so lightly to be lulled to drowsiness. Instead of becoming sleepy,
Marion became more wakeful. All the knowledge she had of the terrors of
the Monmouth rising and the fearful aftermath of Jeffreys' revenge came
to her mind. To and fro, between that subject--to which Elise's reported
threat concerning Roger had led her--and the subject of Elise's own
doings, Marion's thoughts went like a sentry on a beat. The watchman
passing the square called one o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock; and
still Marion's weary head tossed about in the seeming endlessness of a
wakeful night. At length, as the dawn crept up over the trees of the
gardens, and the first bird twittered, Marion lay still, conscious of
the blessed relief of approaching sleep.
At ten o'clock, when her aunt came quietly in, after Simone's report of
Marion's continued slumber, the bright head still lay motionless in the
nest of the pillow. Marion was sleeping the sleep of mental and
physical exhaustion. Her aunt crept quietly out. 'I will not wake her,'
she said. 'But the coach is ready. I must be gone.'
Simone crept back into the room and sat by the window, alternately
watching the slumberer and the needlework in her lap. She had divined
that something was amiss with her young lady, and was divided between
the joy of having Marion to herself, to comfort if need be, and sorrow
for her troubled state.
The sun was high in the heavens when Marion at last awoke. She lay
awhile watching Simone, busy with her clothes and her ewer of water.
The dread of the previous night did not recur. She was conscious of a
distant uneasiness, but more inclined to rest on her aunt's judgment.
But presently she discovered that much thought would be impossible that
day. Perhaps she had slept too long; perhaps Nature was taking her
revenge for the strain of mingled excitement and pleasure and anxious
thought of the previous evening. The only severe headache she had ever
known laid its grip upon her. As the day wore on, she was content to
lie on a low couch by the window with Simone in silent readiness at her
side.
At three o'clock Colonel Sampson came to the house, and learning that
the young mistress was ailing: 'Is Mistress Marion too unwell to see
me?' he asked. 'Pray tell her I am below.'
The servant ushered him into Lady Fairfax's little sitting-room, the
identical spot where he had first seen the pale, travel-worn face of the
young girl in whose company he had found such refreshment. Presently a
light step sounded on the stair, and the curtain fell aside.
'Monsieur le Colonel,' said Simone, and dropped a low curtsey.
Sampson stared at the slim, graceful figure rising slowly from the
perfect salutation, at the smooth little head and dainty face. Then
recollecting himself, though blinking a little as at an apparition, he
made his inquiries concerning the young mistress.
'Mademoiselle finds herself far from well,' came Simone's low even
tones, 'and would take it as a favour if Monsieur le Colonel would
release her from the promise of the drive. Mademoiselle has a severe
migraine. To-morrow, perhaps, if Monsieur le Colonel is good enough,
Mademoiselle will be pleased to take the air.'
'I shall be delighted, Mademoiselle,' said the Colonel, with a slight
bow.
Simone crossed the room, and called the servant from the hall.
'Show Monsieur le Colonel out,' said Simone, dropping a curtsey as the
visitor passed her.
When the boy opened the hall door, Sampson turned. Simone was mounting
the stairs. Again he blinked, and passed his hand across his eyes as if
seeking to evoke some elusive thought that hid in a chamber of his mind.
By evening Marion's indisposition had passed. She supped with her
uncle, finding a singular pleasure in the society of the quiet, studious
man who laid all his concerns aside to talk to the 'little niece' on
subjects which he knew interested her: of his own travels, and places
over seas, and the chances of war abroad. The ball and the events of the
previous evening, which had been faithfully detailed by his wife, he
left out of the conversation. At the close of the meal, when Marion
went to the sitting-room where Simone was awaiting her, Sir John
explained that on the morrow he would be obliged to leave her for a few
days. There was to be an inspection of the fleet, and he could not
absent himself. Marion assured him that there was no cause for regret.
Simone and Colonel Sampson would companion her; there would be callers,
and if there were not, she would be glad of a little quiet.
The next day Sir John departed. Scarcely had he gone before Colonel
Sampson's coach was at the door. Marion and Simone descending, found him
talking to old Zacchary, who had come from the stables, and was admiring
the horses. To Marion's great delight, Colonel Sampson dismissed his
footman to the society of the kitchen for a spell, and bade Zacchary
mount in his place. Marion knew that Zacchary was piling up a store of
reminiscences which would make him famous in his generation when he
returned to Garth.
Ranelagh was the destination that afternoon, and Sampson saw to it that
the drive was a pleasant one. Sir John Fairfax had told him something of
the subject of Charity's letter, and the two men talked of the
impression they had had of Elise that first night when Marion told the
story of her father's ward. In private they were not disposed to take
as easy a view of the matter as my lady had entertained. Sampson,
amazed at such behaviour on the part of a de Delauret, had thought a
good deal about it; both men could appreciate better than Lady Fairfax
the danger in which the Roger, whom they had never seen, stood; they
knew better than she how the flame of the rising still flickered. But
uppermost in Sampson's mind, as Marion talked or was silent, in the
coach, was the thought of the young Elise d'Artois, whom he had followed
as a moth follows a lantern, for the space of a delightful, foolish
year. He could not reconcile his memory of her with the reported doings
of her daughter.
Simone also came in for a good share of his regard. The Colonel was too
trained a courtier to betray again his surprise and mystification on
seeing the little waiting woman of whom he had heard so much. During
the drive Simone was quiet, watching from the coach the passers by; but
towards the end something in the conversation struck her fancy. She
suddenly turned and smiled at Sampson. A passing group caught Marion's
eye at the moment, and she called Simone's attention thereto. Thus
neither of the girls saw the man's start, and stare and nod, as if
something in the chamber of his memory had peeped out and greeted him.
When the party arrived at Kensington, Colonel Sampson refused to
accompany the ladies indoors. He escorted them to the hall door, then
walked quickly back to his coach. A minute later his horses, at a
canter, drew the vehicle out of the square.
In the hall a servant approached Marion.
'There is a man in the kitchen, mistress, a sailor man from Garth,
wishful to see you. He is but anchored at the Swan in Chelsey this
afternoon, and has walked across. 'Tis urgent business.'
Marion's eyes widened, as of old, as she looked at the servant. A
sudden fear tore at her heart. 'Bring him into the sitting-room at
once,' she said.
*CHAPTER XII*
*CHARITY'S LETTER*
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. There was a shuffling pause, and
Bob Tregarthen stood in the doorway in his rough seaman's clothes, his
cap in his awkward fingers. The blue eyes looked at Marion from under
the tangled mane of fair hair in the way she remembered so well, as if
she had been a spot on a distant sea. It seemed that as the sailor
stood there, the village and harbour lay behind him, and the smell of
salt crept into the room.
'This is a great pleasure, Bob,' said Marion, as he stumbled awkwardly
forward. 'How is your mother?'
'Her's well and hearty,' said the sailor, his eyes in shyness wandering
about the room. 'Leastways when I left her. You'm looking uncommon
well, Mistress Marion.' The far-sighted look came back to rest on the
lady.
'Sit down and tell me your news. Have you come from my father?'
There was no tremor in the clear voice as Marion calmly seated herself
in the high-backed oaken chair that stood before the window.
Instinctively she was keeping her face from the light.
'The Admiral ain't been down along for a fortnight past, Mistress. Folk
say a be mighty busy, travelling so, and now----'
Bob stopped short, and cautiously sat down on the edge of the chair. He
cleared his throat and moved his feet awkwardly about. Presently his
hand went towards his pocket. 'I don't know as there be any news,
Mistress. Leastways, what there be, Charity's letter will be telling
you. 'Tis some grand to see you again, Mistress.'
Marion watched the fumbling hands, her own fingers tightly interlocked.
'So Charity has writ me a letter,' came the even tones.
'Ay, ay. Her comes running down to the quay just as Bill Scraggs were
getting the water kegs aboard, and her calls out to me to speak to me
special, like, and asks me how many days afore we sights the port o'
Lunnon. And I ses to her, I ses, "Strike me if I know," ses I. "I
bain't thinking o' Lunnon at all this voyage. A be for Gravesend and
sharp back to Plymouth; then at Plymouth us'll lie in the Cattwater, so
if ee wants to see me afore the month be out," ses I, "ee must come to
Plymouth. A bain't making for the Pool this time, but with fair wind
serving and no Frenchies to tickle, us should make Gravesend in three
days." Then her ses, quiet-like: "Wouldn't ee like to speak to Mistress
Marion, Bob?" "Wouldn't a?" ses I. "Well," her ses, "here be a letter
I've writ for Mistress Marion, and I'd take it kindly if you'd run up
the river and call on her. I be some sore on her getting un, and I can
trust ee better than the post boys," her ses. And the end of it was,
her showed me your name writ down large, and Kensington Square, and her
made me say un ower and ower. 'Tis a pretty maid, Charity,' added Bob,
with a reminiscent smile. 'Folk do say----'
'Have you got the letter, Bob?'
'Ay, ay, Mistress. Here a be.'
Bob, whose hands had fallen idle as he talked, began fumbling in his
pocket again, and at length brought out the creased missive. He got
awkwardly to his feet.
'Here you be, Mistress. And your pardon, but a be in a mortal hurry to
catch the tide, with Bill Scraggs waiting in the boat down along to
Chelsey Reach. So good day to ee, Mistress, and I be some proud to have
seen you, and the place where you'm to. You'm looking fine,
Mistress--grown taller, I do declare. Bain't ee ever coming back to
Garth?'
Marion's hold on her patience was fast weakening, but seeing there would
be no peace to read the letter till the man was gone, she talked to him
for a few minutes, marvelling at the easy tone of her own speech. 'Is
all well at Garth?' she asked hesitatingly at the end.
'Ay, ay, Mistress--leastways----'
Divining that there was something Bob did not wish to say, Marion
stepped to the bell rope. Then, feeling in the pocket of her gown, she
pulled out her little silk purse. 'You have been very kind,' she began.
Bob stepped back.
'Don't ee now, Mistress--don't ee now!' he implored, his blue eyes
resting with shy affection on her face. ''Tis a pleasure.'
'Good day, then, Bob,' said Marion, 'and thank you very much indeed.
Take Master Tregarthen to the gate,' she added, as the servant entered
the room. 'You have of course offered him food and drink?'
'Ay, ay, Mistress,' put in Bob. 'Mutton pie and mashed taties, and
strawberry pudding--rare good 'twas. Good day to ee, Mistress, and God
bless ee,' added the sailor, as he gave the girl a last look, and
lumbered out.
Scarcely waiting for the door to close behind the sailor Marion seized
the letter, with trembling fingers tore it open, and read it where she
stood. As her eyes travelled down the crooked lines her face blanched.
She caught at a chair and unsteadily seated herself. The letter
finished, her hands fell on her lap. Not a sound escaped her lips. The
minutes ticked by from her aunt's tall clock in a corner of the room.
Presently light footsteps sounded in the hall, and Simone lifted the
curtain. Arrested by the stare of the wide grey eyes she stood still
for a moment.
'Mademoiselle,' she cried, and coming to her side, sank on her knees and
took the terribly still, cold hands in her own. 'What is it? You are
ill!'
She sprang to her feet again, her hand towards the bell rope.
'Stay!' whispered Marion. 'I am not ill.'
Simone's eyes wandered to the letter, lying where Marion had laid it
down.
'Give it to me,' said Marion. Once more, word by word, she deciphered
the ill-written sheet; then, handing it to Simone: 'Read it,' she said,
and buried her face in her hands. Simone took up the letter.
'DEERE MISTRESS--Doe nott, i pray you, take ofence that i doe writ you
againe, having but writt you shortlie. Mv hearte be that sore i must
write, tho i doe scarce knowe what i sett downe. The Post boy from
Bodmin hath just visitted Garth where i had gone to speke with Peter,
none knoweing.
'A sore troubble hath fallen on us, deere mistress, and i doe pray God
you will returne soone, for if there be anny help tis from you. Master
Roger hath been taken by the Taunton soljers for haveing toled Master
Hooper him being in danger with Jeffreys men. Master Hooper hath fledde
in safetie, somme say by boate from Porlock. And the post boy doe say
deere Master Roger must stande in his sted and belike--But that be maine
sure idle talke but i be that distrawte the post boy doe allsoe saye the
talke is a furrin younge ladie who did see the governoure at Bodmin
verrie secrettlie, and tolde him of Master Roger, and the governoure's
man who did heere at the doore did talke haveing taken strong waters or
else hee would nott dare. i pray God no harm fall to Master Roger but
if he shoulde hang that other shal nott live nor doe she desserve. So
may God helpe us al and doe deere mistress I pray thee com home.
from CHARITY thes, moste dutifull.
'GARTH, _this tenth daye of July_.'
Simone laid the crumpled sheet on the table without a word, and stood
looking down at the bright bowed head, a speechless sorrow in her face.
In the weeks she had passed in Marion's company she had learned a great
deal about Garth, could see the inmates in a picture gallery of her own
imaginings: the Admiral, the old Salt Eagle, whom she already loved;
Roger Trevannion, one, she was certain, to be wholly trusted at sight;
and, the sinister figure in the group, her outlines filled in mainly by
Marion's silences, the Admiral's ward. The quiet brown eyes lightened
with a sudden fury as she thought of Elise, then sobered again to grief
and fear as she looked at the stricken form huddled in the chair. There
was something terrifying in Marion's stillness and silence.
Kneeling down before her, Simone passed her arms round Marion, and
leaned her face against her shoulder. All idea of fitness of manner due
in a servant for the moment left her mind. Here was the only being she
loved in the world, wounded sorely. She rubbed her cheek up and down
the passive arm. Presently Marion gave a shuddering sigh, and lifting
her head, looked into the faithful brown eyes searching her face.
'He is dead by now,' she said quietly. 'Dead. Do you hear me?'
The eyes took on again that set look, wandering over Simone's head to
the brightness of the garden. Simone dropped her face down on to
Marion's cold, folded hands. Her warm lips sought the fingers. Marion
leaned back in her chair.
'Dead. 'Tis all over.'
Still Simone made no reply. She opened the lifeless hands, and pressed
her cheeks into the cup of the palms. Marion's head sank down again,
the warm russet hair touching the smooth brown. A trembling seized her.
Suddenly she sprang up, shaking her hands free.
'Tell me,' she said as Simone faced her, 'do _you_ think he is dead?'
'I am quite sure he is not.'
Simone glanced hastily round the room. There was a decanter of wine on
a side table. Quickly she poured out a glass, and gently forcing Marion
into the chair, held the glass to her lips. With her eyes on Simone's
face, Marion drank a few drops, then pushed the wine away.
Simone took up her position on the rug again, and holding the girl's
hand, looked into the fixed grey eyes that were watching her.
'Listen,' she said. 'He is not dead. There is not time.'
'Not time?' Marion tried to shake off the stupor into which she had
fallen. She pressed her hands to her face.
'No--there is not time,' continued Simone. 'It is but a few days.
Charity wrote on Saturday. To-day is Wednesday. And also, they would
not dare.'
'Not dare?'
'Because of your father. Roger is in the bounds of his magistracy, is
he not?'
The drops of wine had eased a little the grip of the shock upon the
girl. Simone rose, and held the glass again, but Marion shook her head.
'In a few minutes you will be able to think,' said Simone quietly.
'Then you will know I am right.'
Silence fell on the room as Simone stood beside the chair, watching the
set look slowly disappear from the face, the eyes lose their hard stare.
When Marion spoke again her voice was trembling, but the tones were her
own.
'Sit down, Simone, and let us think. You see what Charity says.'
'Charity has written in a panic,' said Simone softly. 'But I like her
greatly, that simple, loving soul. What are the facts, now? Master
Roger has heard that some one--his friend?--' Marion nodded, 'was in
danger of arrest, and he has warned him. I do not know just what an
offence in the law that may mean. Sir John will say when he returns.
And Master Roger----'
Marion flamed up in sudden anger, a bright colour flooding her face.
'Such folly!' she cried. 'Roger was ever a fool! I can't think why
folk do not mind their own affairs. He must have known 'twas dangerous.
Think of his mother! Arrant wickedness, I call it.'
Simone smiled faintly as the storm swept her by. Any outburst was more
welcome than silence and stillness.
'Ma belle dame,' she said, her eyes warm, 'you had wrought just such a
service yourself, had you been there.'
Marion passed the speech by. 'And my father is down at Truro, on
Jeffreys' affairs, doubtless. Oh, that Protestant duke whom they hailed
as a hero and a saviour! Would to God he had never been born! I was
saying to my aunt the night of the ball, you people here have not the
slightest idea of the horrors of that time, when my Lord Jeffreys was in
the West.' Marion detailed a few of the happenings. 'Now after that,'
she concluded, 'can you wonder I fear for Roger?'
'That tempest is over,' said Simone. ''Tis but the growl of the dying
thunder now. Dear Mademoiselle, believe me, you have caught a panic
from Charity's own state when she wrote that letter, she having
doubtless just heard, and saying what people had told her. Something
can be done. We must think. May I be forgiven if I order some tea,
Mademoiselle?'
Marion nodded absently, and going to the window, set the casement wide,
and leaned her arms on the sill.
A little later the servant entered with the tea. Setting a chair by the
fire, and taking one of the bowls in her fingers, Simone gently touched
her mistress's arm.
'Where is yours?' asked Marion.
Simone's little mouth made a slight moue. 'Je ne l'aime pas,
Mademoiselle. But there is some milk. I will drink that, with your
permission.'
Presently Marion set down her bowl, and turned to her companion.
'I am going home,' she said abruptly. 'Will you accompany me?'
The brown eyes glowed. 'I ask no greater pleasure, Mademoiselle. But
how? What of Madame your aunt?'
'I will write a letter, telling her. But I may not wait for her
permission. Unfortunately, too, my uncle is away, and I know not his
direction. What can we do?'
'Mademoiselle cannot travel without an escort.'
'There is Colonel Sampson.'
'True. Le bon Colonel. I had not thought of him.'
'I will write him at once,' said Marion. 'Will you bring me paper and
pen?'
Within a few minutes a manservant was dispatched to Colonel Sampson's
house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, bearing a short note from Marion to the
effect that she wished to see him on a subject of great urgency. Marion
bade the man take the fastest horse and ride hard; then sent word to the
housekeeper that Colonel Sampson would in all probability be a guest at
supper, and asked that a bottle of the Colonel's favourite Burgundy
should not be overlooked.
This done, Marion mounted to her own room, and threw herself feverishly
into preparations for the journey. She found great relief in merely
busying her hands among her clothes. And though she did and undid, set
her dresses here and set them there, declared this should go in that
trunk, and then in another, Simone made no objection to her contrary
ways. Quietly the waiting woman followed her orders, knowing that she
could very well pack Mademoiselle's clothes properly while the young
lady was asleep.
Presently Simone insisted that it was high time for Mademoiselle to
dress for supper. The toilet took some time, and Simone talked with
animation of the days of travel that lay ahead, knowing that a person's
mind cannot dwell at the same time on the end and on the means. Marion
told her what she remembered of the course of the ten days' journey from
Garth to London, adding that with swifter going they could surely vie
with the post chaise and reach home in seven.
Just as Marion's gown was fastened, a servant tapped at the door. The
messenger was returned, saying that Colonel Sampson's man had informed
him of his master's having ridden away on a sudden visit to his country
house in Hertfordshire, and was not to be expected home till the
following evening, if then: there was no knowing when he would return.
But as soon as he entered the house, the letter should be handed to him.
The servant withdrew, and having noted the disarray of the room went
downstairs to report thereon, saying that all ladies were alike, and
here Mistress Marion was driving yonder Simone to death, on a round of
doing and undoing among her dresses; and 'twas a good thing Mrs. Martin
was away with my lady, or the work might have fallen on her.
Meanwhile Marion stood looking at Simone, her mouth stubborn.
'I shall not wait for Colonel Sampson,' she said quietly. 'That would
mean another two days at least. Get me the ink and paper. And bid the
man not to unsaddle his horse. Go down yourself, will you? I like not
that the domestics should come up here just now. Nothing shall be said
of the journey till our plans are ready. Above all, nothing must come
to Zacchary's ears. If Zacchary thinks I am taking an unwarranted step,
he will be hard to move, harder than the four greys and the coach. Tell
the man to wait at the door, and I will descend.'
'Bien, Mademoiselle.'
Realising that a new phase of her mistress's character was asserting
itself, Simone went below. Presently Marion came downstairs with a note
in her hand. The manservant was standing in the drive, bridle in hand;
Marion went out at the door and down the steps.
'Reuben,' she said, 'you will go at once to St. James's and find where
Captain Beckenham is. His orderly will know. If he be on duty at the
Palace, find some means of reaching him. Here is money. If he be
supping with friends, learn where is the house. Do not return until you
have delivered the letter. The matter is urgent.'
Reuben took the note, touched his cap, and leaping into the saddle,
cantered out into the square, a smile of pure pleasure on his face.
Here was the twofold excitement of the prospect of hunting among
pleasure haunts for my young gentleman, and the delight of serving a
fair lady who wished to see her gallant admirer. Reuben was young, and
a bachelor.
Marion supped with Simone for company, and dismissing the servants after
the meat was brought, sat silent, eating a morsel here and there as her
random thoughts came back to the present. Had Mistress Keziah seen her
expression as she sat at the head of her aunt's table that night, she
would have remembered her own thoughts of the girl months before.
'She'll go her own way; her mother has given her that sweetness, but
she's a Penrock.' Simone, watching her unobtrusively, attending to her
needs with the perfect tact natural to her, was content that the face
should wear that look. Better the girl should play the part of a mimic
general marshalling a toy army, than sink into tears before an imagined
grief. As she noticed the absorbed quiet of the steady features, Simone
suddenly found herself wondering what Marion would be like when her
tranquillity was swept away in stormy action, when that something
sleeping in her was fully roused.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*THE ESCORT*
Reuben had not been page boy and footman to my Lady Fairfax for nothing.
Standing on the step of her coach he had learned the roads and houses of
Kensington, Chelsey, and the City; carrying my lady's cushion to the
theatre, waiting outside her box, and hearing the talk of courtiers in
between the acts, he had gained some insight into the world of fashion.
Thus there was no need for Marion to detail instruction about the course
he must take in hunting down the gentleman of the sword. Exactly two
hours after starting, having visited St. James's and two theatres in
vain, drawn the coffee houses blank, he finally ran his quarry to earth
outside a cockpit in Covent Garden, where several gentlemen were
discussing the rival merits of the birds.
'And my lord Duke,' Beckenham was saying, 'having lost L500 on
Firebrand----' He broke off as Reuben elbowed his way into the group
and stood hat in hand. 'What may you want, my lad?'
Reuben spoke in a low tone and delivered his letter. Captain Beckenham
was delighted at the summons, but he gave his companions no hint of
this. 'Lend me your horse, Grammont,' said he to one of the group.
'Here's a business that will not wait.'
'Zounds! and what may be this mighty hurry?'
'_Service du roi_,' replied Beckenham gravely. Grammont, recognising the
Fairfax livery, whistled for his servant to lead up the horse.
'Give His Majesty my ardent remembrances,' he said with a smile, as
Beckenham sprang into the saddle. 'Lucky dog! I say, Beckenham,' as the
other rode off, 'as you are bound for Tunbridge to-morrow, say a word
for poor Tom Grammont!'
Mr. Beckenham's reply was lost in the dusk as he spurred after Reuben.
The captain had been one of those who had suffered most from Marion's
friendly ridicule on the evening of the ball, and his affections being
in the nature of a flower that closes when clouds overtake the sun, he
had decided that the 'little niece' was not the marvel that society
proclaimed her to be. Beckenham was a man whose sterling qualities were
undeniable; he was known in the regiment for a brave and loyal soldier;
but he had been courted and flattered by the women of his acquaintance
and looked on with too much favour by mothers of daughters whose
marriages were not yet arranged. With somewhat changed ideas Beckenham
now rode to Kensington and presently found himself in the presence of
young Mistress Penrock.
Marion, a trifle graver than was her wont, extended her fingers to the
gentleman's low bow, and begging him to be seated, in a few words
explained the nature of her wishes. Grave news from the west had
determined her immediate return to Cornwall; she prayed the kindness of
Captain Beckenham's escort.
The young soldier's surprise was clear in his face as the nature of
Marion's wish was revealed, and Marion stiffened herself for another
battle. She had just dismissed Zacchary after an hour's wordy warfare
that had left her desperate and weary; nothing but the sound of tears in
her voice and her declaration that she would go by the public stage
coach had made honest Zacchary see that there was nothing for it but to
fall in with the outrageous plan. Like Beckenham, he thought more of
the perils of the way than did the young lady herself.
'I should not have dreamed of troubling you, Captain Beckenham,'
finished Marion, 'but my uncle is away on a private expedition, and our
good friend, Colonel Sampson, is in the country. Failing these two, I
have called upon yourself.'
The gentleman rose and paid the friendliness of the last sentence the
honour of his lowest bow. When he reseated himself his face was
troubled. His usual flattering speech failed him; he went straight to
the point, not hiding his regret and anxiety.
'In the first case, Mistress Penrock, and to my infinite sorrow, I fear
it is impossible for me to accompany you. I am in Her Majesty's suite,
and should have been at Tunbridge this day but for an affair of the
regiment for which Her Majesty gave me a day's absence. In the
second--your pardon--but is it wise, this project of yours?'
Marion gave no sign of the dismay she felt as Beckenham explained his
position; when he offered his criticism of her plan her eyes flashed.
She rose.
'As you are in Her Majesty's service, sir, there is nothing more to be
said, except to thank you for your kindness in coming to the house.'
Beckenham bowed.
'Forgive me,' he said, something of the look his messmates knew coming
into his eyes. 'There is something to be said. It would be an ill
reward to the friendship with which Lady Fairfax has always favoured me
if I failed her at this point.'
'Failed her, sir?'
'Failed her, madam. Lady Fairfax is away, her husband is away, Colonel
Sampson is away. For the moment you are unprotected. I would not let
my sister or my mother travel so far without suitable escort. Shall I
allow a lady whom I would honour as I do either, to set out on such a
dangerous road? I must offer a very humble but very real protest,
Mistress Marion. May not the matter wait?'
'It may not wait.'
Marion sat down again, her anger undone by the manner of Beckenham's
speech. The two were silent awhile, the gentleman watching his
companion, who was toying with the lid of her aunt's sweetmeat box, her
thoughts already running ahead to the problem as to which of the Fairfax
servants she would choose to take Beckenham's place.
'Is your mind fully made up, Mistress Marion?' asked the soldier, his
face still troubled.
Marion's grey eyes met his own with what was known by her aunt as the
Penrock look.
'I am setting out for Garth to-morrow, with or without escort. That is
quite decided. Look on it as a fact, Captain Beckenham,' she added with
a fleeting smile, 'and not as a proposition.'
The young man watched the mouth droop at the corners again.
'I will come,' he said suddenly. ''Twill mean disgr----' He stopped
short.
Marion gave him an indulgent glance. 'I would not allow my brother or
my father to imperil an already tender reputation, sir,'--she smiled
again--'by disobeying royal commands. The same protecting watchfulness
I must apply to yourself. To withhold it would be an ill return for the
services you have rendered my aunt. Take that as final, like the fact
of my going.' The gentle tone of her voice and the raillery of her
smile eased the straightness of her speech.
'How she has suddenly become grown-up,' mused Beckenham, for once
tongue-tied. ''Tis not the same frightened child I found in the coach
that first night. What a villainous ill fortune that I should be thus
tied to Her Majesty's apron!' Then striving to put the personal part of
the question out of his mind, he bent his thoughts to the problem of the
lady's service. 'I have it!' He jumped up, speaking with a boyish
eagerness that stood him better in Marion's favour than all his courtly
airs. 'There's my servant, Tony. May I not lend you my servant,
Mistress Marion? He's a brave lad and a tough soldier--worth three
others, any day, though I myself say it.'
Marion felt a relief she did not show.
'If the servant be like his master, Captain Beckenham,' she said
demurely, 'I am sure he will be worth--three, did you say?--or was it
four?'
Beckenham laughed outright, then sobered again. 'There's Grammont, too,'
he said. 'I had forgotten him.'
'Lord Grammont? No, sir. I do not like Lord Grammont,' said Marion
bluntly.
Mr. Beckenham's head swam a little, but he made no comment on the
obvious comparison. 'Grammont's a good fellow,' was his reply.
'There's another thing,' said Marion suddenly, a vague notion in the
back of her mind asserting itself. 'I want your promise that you will
keep this affair private.'
Beckenham felt a slight shock and his face sobered. 'Forgive me,' he
said, 'but Lady Fairfax----'
'You will make an excellent grandfather in time. Captain Beckenham.
'Twere a pity to hasten the day. Of course I shall write to tell my aunt
and also Colonel Sampson, and leave a note for my uncle. Could anything
be more open? I meant that you should keep this matter private from the
Lord Grammonts of your acquaintance. It concerns myself alone.'
'I will promise not to say a word, Mistress Marion,' said Beckenham
after a minute's thought, 'if you will on the other hand promise me to
take Reuben as well. I myself will accompany you as far as Hounslow, and
then strike across country. I shall feel more comfortable once you are
past the Heath. But Reuben is a youth of parts. He is quick of
thought, has all his five senses in excellent working order; whereas my
good Tony is apt to rely too much upon his sword. With those two, and
the excellent Zacchary, who is a stalwart fellow, for an escort, I
should feel more at ease when I am called on to report this affair to my
Lady Fairfax. Even then, 'twill be an ordeal,' he added with a comical
air.
'Fear not,' smiled Marion. 'I will make your case plain enough for my
aunt's full forgiveness. 'Tis I who will have to meet her anger, some
time, but not yourself.'
Beckenham shook his head. 'A man who has the honour of being a friend
has nevertheless a certain responsibility.'
'I think I will take Reuben, if he will come,' said Marion, her spirits
rising as the difficulties fell away. 'If he will come! Is there a
youth in London who would not covet the privilege more than all----'
Beckenham stopped short as he met Marion's look.
For a few minutes more the two talked of the journey. Then Marion rose,
saying how very busied she must be in the short time left, and thanked
the soldier for his kindness.
'I trust,' said Captain Beckenham, 'that you may find your trouble--your
errand that causes this urgency--not so great as you may think when you
reach your journey's end.'
Marion started and her eyelids drooped. Then she held out her hand, and
the eager words Beckenham had to say concerning his sorrow at her
departure from Kensington froze before the distant, sorrowful look in
her eyes. He lifted the fingers to his lips and turned on his heel. At
the door he paused. Marion was looking in his direction, but her gaze
was on something remote. The young man bowed again in silence; Marion,
recollecting herself as the servant appeared, dropped a low curtsey and
bade Captain Beckenham a very good evening.
With heavy steps she mounted to her bedroom. In the adjoining chamber
Simone was busy with the travelling boxes. The door between the two
rooms was ajar, and Simone, seeing her young mistress enter, ran forward
and stood mutely waiting. Marion went to the open window and leaned her
head wearily on the casement. The song of a nightingale in the lanes
beyond Kensington village came to her ears.
'Listen,' said Marion, as Simone stole up to her side, 'listen to yonder
bird. How can he sing so? There is no sorrow in the world for him!'
'Nay, Mademoiselle, 'tis sorrow tunes his song, you forget. But,
Mademoiselle----'
'Yes?'
'Pardon, but I should so like to know----'
''Tis well. Captain Beckenham cannot come, but he is lending his
servant, and I have also promised to take Reuben.'
Marion roused herself and went across to her writing table, glancing
into the adjoining room as she passed the door.
'All packed? Good. You have done bravely, Simone. Now I must write to
my aunt and uncle, and Colonel Sampson.'