Simone waited.
'If you would just tell me, Madame?'
'From the most easterly chamber yonder, leaving the gallery and going
along the far passage, into a room that is rarely entered, you will get
a glimpse of the gaol and the yard. Now go. Go quietly. Do not arouse
the servants' curiosity, and when you have satisfied your own, remember
I told you to rest.'
Simone gave one hasty glance into Marion's room, then set out to
explore. With the doors opening on to the gallery she was by this time
familiar: Mistress Keziah's bedroom, dressing-room and sitting-room
occupied one side, on the other came Marion's two rooms, another
bedroom, another sitting-room. In the corner of the gallery were the
double doors that led into the passage Mistress Keziah had mentioned.
With a hasty glance around that told her she was unobserved, Simone
quietly slipped through the double doors. The unmistakable odour of
tenantless rooms greeted her as she went along, glancing into the
chambers she passed. The passage ran almost due east. On one hand the
windows looked cheerlessly out on to stables and coach-houses, and the
wall which divided the grounds from the road beyond. Behind the wall
rose the slope of Castle Hill, with its grey stone walks and cluster of
buildings at the summit. The rooms on the southern side were filled
with the afternoon sun, and caught the green of the garden trees.
Simone entered the last room, paused, then looked back along the
landing. Mistress Keziah had said that the end chamber faced the east:
the single, half-shuttered window of this room looked north. Could
there be another passage branching off?
She looked round the room again. Behind the door was a smaller one,
looking like that of a closet. With difficulty Simone forced the door
open, and saw in the dim light a narrow winding flight of steps. With
her skirts tucked round her knees, Simone climbed the uneven dusty
stair, and presently stood in a small dark chamber under the eaves. It
was empty, dusty, foul from non-usage. Light streaming in through the
crevices of a shutter outlined a single tiny window set low--the
eastward wall. Gasping a little in the closeness of the air, Simone
struggled with the rusty bolts, and presently shot back the shutters and
opened the pane. It was not more than a foot wide and two feet deep.
As she knelt down and peered through, Simone could scarcely breathe for
the quickness of her heart beats. Directly below her ran the length of
the rambling garden, ending in thick, tall trees. A little to the left,
Simone caught sight of a grim-looking building which needed no
explaining. She leaned forward, putting her head through the little
opening. The south and west parts of the gaol were clearly visible,
being indeed not more than a hundred yards away, only separated from
Mistress Keziah's garden by the cobbled road. A thick high wall ran
close up to the south side, on the west and north widening to enclose a
bare foul patch, strewn with refuse, on which the sun fell with baking
heat: the gaol yard. A faint odour seemed to strike the girl's
nostrils, and she shivered as she remembered the dark stories of prison
life, of uncleanness and gaol fever which from time to time had come to
her ears. She no longer wondered why Mistress Keziah lived in the west
wing of her house.
Over several grated windows Simone looked, one by one, but could see no
signs of the life of the interior. Then, realising there might be a
guard-room down there, whose windows looked out on the yard, and whence
to a curious observer she might be visible, she withdrew her head.
Crouching on the worm-eaten boards, she found a position that enabled
her, unseen from without, to watch the prison and the yard.
As Simone waited, wondering if the prisoners would come out, there was
the sound of shuffling feet, and from the shadow at the end of the
building a man came in sight, carbine on shoulder. He paced the length
of the gaol, turned, and was again lost in the shade. Presently Simone
saw him walking the length of the yard. Then the footsteps were silent
awhile.
Simone crouched until her limbs were aching and she dared stay no
longer, lest Alison should seek her in her own room. But no face or
form rewarded her vigil; only the gaunt walls and mocking bars showed,
hideously bare in the sunlight. Behind which of those narrow apertures
was the condemned youth hidden?
Presently the girl rose, and cautiously crept back along the passage.
She waited several minutes behind the double doors, and looked carefully
along the gallery and into the hall below before she gained her own
room. Then, bathing her face and hands, and removing all traces of dust
from her dress, she went into Marion's chamber. Alison rose with a
smile, and beckoned her past the sleeping figure to the farther door.
'My mistress has gone to make a visit,' she informed Simone. 'Have you
rested well?'
'Very well, thank you.'
'The young mistress is sleeping bravely. Her'll be fresh as a daisy
come the morning.'
With her usual gentle politeness, Simone thanked the girl for her
services, and closed the door as she went across the gallery to the
servants' stairs. Taking up her old position by the bed, Simone looked
sorrowfully at the face on the pillow.
Marion was in the same position. Her breathing was that of a child; the
strained lines had gone from her face. Simone could have cried aloud on
the unkind kindness of fate in ordering her healing so. By the morrow
there would be only two clear days left, the third should see the
courier returned. As she thought of the gaol, with its impassable walls
hiding the sinister, watching shadow, the stout-barred window niches,
Simone felt sick at heart. Who could break through such barriers? Two
frail girls and an old woman?
Sitting idle was intolerable. Simone stole into Mistress Keziah's empty
room, and taking up the sheet Alison had been stitching, bore it back to
Marion's chamber. For a couple of hours she sat thus, and it seemed, as
each quarter chimed from the church beyond, that the next would be
unbearable.
A kitchen-maid brought in her supper, with a message from Mistress
Keziah that she would speak with Simone the next morning. So that was
the end of another day.
The westering sunlight sloped across the hill, and the golden radiance
fell on Simone's pale face as she sat before the generously piled
dishes. She drank some milk, and ate a little bread and honey,
afterwards resting motionless in a kind of mental and physical apathy.
Presently she roused herself, and in unutterable weariness and
despondency sought her own bed. For the first time she understood fully
just what the strain of waiting had been to Marion. Rather than wait
another day, Simone vowed, she would scale those prison walls herself.
Her desperate fancy dwelt on the picture until, towards midnight, a
restless sleep stole over her. She dreamed of horsemen innumerable
bearing down towards her, each carrying a warrant of death. As they
neared, the lane down which they rode--the same lane where the coach had
foundered--broke into prison yards and opened again. All through her
sleep the dream seemed to come and go, making a lifetime of its passing.
At length, in a sudden access of horror, she saw that one of the riders
charged into her room. She woke with a scream in the grey dawn, to find
Marion standing by her bed, shaking her arm.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*THE SIGNAL*
It was almost three o'clock. Marion and Simone, crouched by the window
in the little room over the east landing, were watching for the
prisoners to come out into the yard. Mistress Keziah had said that it
was the custom for them to be given an hour's exercise at that time.
Marion, fully recovered, was strangely quiet. Her anger at the method
of her aunt's cure had soon worn itself out. The knowledge that the
prisoner was almost within hail absorbed all her thoughts, and she was
secretly thankful to find that the day which had passed so idly had not
only spared her the ordeal of an explanation to her aunt, but had
brought great gain in the way of restored mental and physical strength.
Forgetting all that lay behind, she now drove her whole energies forward
in one channel.
The morning had passed in speculations indoors and a drive round the
Castle and the town, during which the horses had, strangely enough,
halted to rest near the gates of the gaol. While Mistress Keziah's
coachman had exchanged friendly remarks on the health of the inmates
with the sentry peering through the wicket, Marion's eyes had taken in
the exact height of the prison wall, its character, its distance from
the eastward bounds of her aunt's garden across the way.
'No need to stay here, Tom,' sharply called Mistress Keziah a minute
later, and the coachman had driven on, remarking on the increasing
ill-temper and contrariness of his mistress. Had she not called a halt
just there? As if the horses needed resting, forsooth! Down the road
that bordered the gaol the coach had gone, passing Mistress Keziah's own
gate and thence into the town. Marion had thus a first-hand knowledge
of the respective positions of the two buildings. During the drive in
the streets she had remained silent. On the homeward way she turned to
her aunt.
'Have you a long rope or cord in the house, Aunt Keziah?'
'Plenty, I should think, my dear. I will find out. The chief trouble,
you know, is the servants' curiosity. Mercifully, yonder London men,
Reuben and Tony, are completely turning the heads of the kitchen
wenches. There is no fear of their having an idle hour to watch your
movements. My greatest difficulty is Alison, who spends quite half her
time above-stairs, and Josiah, who is her shadow when she descends.'
'Has she not a mother or a father, Madame?' inquired Simone.
Mistress Keziah made no reply. But afterwards when Alison was arranging
her gown for dinner, Mistress Keziah said with her usual abruptness:
'You are looking pale, Alison. I think 'tis well you should take a
rest. The day is fine. The walk will be pleasant. Get you to your
home and stay there a week. Yonder Simone will manage my hair and
gowns, I trow.' Then, when Alison's face had darkened in jealousy, the
old lady had added indifferently, 'Unless, of course, you too are held
by the company and amusement of the men in the kitchen.'
Alison tossed her head. The goad to her pride served its purpose. She
said no more, but soon after dinner she set out on the five-mile walk to
her father's farm, escorted by Josiah, who was carrying her small
bundles and had been given a hint by his mistress that if he truly loved
the comely Alison, here was a chance of prospering his suit.
The old lady sat for a long time thinking, alone in her room. The two
girls, she knew, were at the little window, hoping for a sight of Roger.
Mistress Keziah's face was stern and fixed. During the conversation of
the morning she had judged it best to withhold two facts from the
knowledge of her guests. The first was her discovery that her old
friend the governor of the castle was still away in the north country,
where he had gone to visit the governor of York. The deputy-governor
was a man whom Mistress Keziah held in open dislike because of his
truckling politics when Jeffreys was in the West. (As Marion had said,
she made rare enemies.) There was therefore no chance of an appeal. She
knew of no other quarter whence any influence could be brought to bear
on the doings of Jeffreys' men.
Her first thought had been to seek the governor and pray for time; not
knowing whether he was returned or not she had refrained from visiting
the castle, but had sought the house of a friend overnight through whose
rooms as in a living stream poured all the news of the county. Once the
governor's compliance won, she had determined to send her fastest rider
to Lady Fairfax in order to seek a royal pardon, if, indeed, her sister
had not already taken that course.
With the discovery that the governor was away, the old lady's solitary
hope had fallen. She could not think of any possible means by which, in
less than three days, the fortress could be won. When it came to the
moment, prison bars and walls were mightily inaccessible: it was only in
Biblical days that the stones fell down.
On any other save a question of time she could have won the day. But
Exeter was three days' ride--two in an extremity--from London. And
while Royal Pardons were being sought, yonder courier, fresh from his
audience with Jeffreys, was bringing back the word of doom. Of
Jeffreys' clemency Mistress Keziah had not the slightest hope. She
remembered too vividly that red Assize in Exeter. She also knew the
deputy-governor well enough to surmise that 'twas not in hopes of mercy
he had sent the courier, but rather to show in what faithful stewardship
the affairs of Devon reposed. Roger Trevannion was no ordinary
prisoner: a very long feather in the cap of justice.
The second item that she had sorrowfully withheld had also been learned
in her friend's house. Admiral Penrock had been seen, two days
previously, riding in his coach at a gallop, London bound. Another
futile errand. She knew from Marion that her father had been much
abroad in the far west on magisterial affairs. Evidently the news of
Roger's arrest had at last reached him. He had posted off to London and
would arrive in the presence of the Lord Chancellor, Mistress Keziah
estimated, about a day after the courier had left for Exeter.
With these sad thoughts for company, Mistress Keziah had spent most of
the night. Secretly convinced that the quest was hopeless, she had
nevertheless humoured her niece to the utmost, taking her where she
would, sending her servants out of the way so that no hint of Marion's
strange doings should become common to the household. And now she sat,
slowly gathering her strength for the ordeal of the day after to-morrow,
when Marion, pale, sweet Marion, with her childhood's loyalty and
unavowed, growing woman's-feelings would find herself beaten down,
helpless, broken-hearted.
There was still a great store of fighting strength in the old woman, and
when she pondered on the comings and goings, Marion and Simone here, her
brother urging his horses to London, her sister--the more she thought
the more she was sure--using every ounce of power and influence to
obtain a Royal Pardon, and all one day--two days--too late, she knotted
her thin hands together in fury at her own helplessness. When she
thought of Marion, hot tears scorched her eyelids. When she thought of
Roger, she buried her face in her hands and prayed. _In the hour of
death, and in the Day of Judgement..._
Meanwhile Marion and Simone crouched by the window. There was just room
inside the tiny casement for the two, unseen from without, to watch the
door that led into the gaol yard, Marion to the front, Simone peering
over her shoulder.
'What are you going to do, Mademoiselle?' queried Simone.
'I do not in the least know. But I have a feeling that when the hour
comes I shall do something.'
Simone said nothing. The revelation of Marion's quiet strength was
nothing new to her. She prepared herself to serve in whatever way might
lie in her power. But Simone's eyes were shrewd, and she had read the
expression in Mistress Keziah's face as she watched Marion's eyes
counting the yards and feet outside the gaol. She knew that in her
inmost heart Mistress Keziah had no hope. But she had said 'Yes, my
dear,' her grim face unusually gentle, when Marion had asked for a rope;
'Yes, my dear,' when Marion had asked was there a well-ground file
handy, and perhaps a ladder to be left carelessly in the garden: 'Yes,
my dear.' Everything that Marion wanted in the way of properties and
personal help would be hers until the hopeless game was played out.
Simone saw it all very plainly.
What was going on behind that calm, pale face whose cheek, softly
curving, was so near her own?
As Simone, sorely cramped, was moving her limbs, Marion suddenly cried,
'They come!' Simone craned forward. In the quiet afternoon rose a
sound of shuffling feet and voices. Out into the sunshine lurched a
number of men.
Marion caught her breath painfully as she looked at them. They were
rough, ill-clad, foul-featured. There was evidently some quarrel among
them, for they settled in a group, their voices rising. One held his
fists clenched. But where? Ah! Marion's sudden movement told Simone
who was yonder tall, broad-shouldered youth who strolled idly out to the
yard. He leaned against the prison wall and looked up at the sky, across
at the trees of Mistress Keziah's garden. In a flash Marion saw her
opportunity. No other face was turned her way. She thrust her head out
of the tiny window. The sunlight, falling over the eaves, made a halo
of the shining, gold hair. Roger's eyes caught the glow. He started
perceptibly. For a second he stared up; his eyes held hers. Then
Marion withdrew, and Roger turned and walked away.
Marion's breath came and went. She sank back on the floor.
'He saw me!' she panted. 'Has any one noted his glance? Look,
quickly.'
'No one has turned this way. He walks up and down. He does not glance
up at all.'
'Let me come.' Marion crouched forward again, her trembling hand
resting on Simone's. That sight of Roger, his face so pale, his eyes
sunk under the brows, had almost unnerved her. Tears blinded her vision
as she looked down at her old playmate pacing the prison yard. The last
time she had seen him, he had been arguing with her, in his old
masterful way, on the folly of her going to London; had made her promise
to send to him should she need help. And now!
The sound of angry voices rose again in the quiet air. The prisoners
were still quarrelling. Inside an eager ring a couple of men set on
each other, watched on the one hand by Roger, idle, aloof, and on the
other by the gaolers, greedy of bloodshed. While the fists were flying,
Roger allowed himself one more glance at the little casement, taking in
its position in a lingering sweeping look at the sky. A hoarse chuckle
came from the shadow in the buttressed wall. 'Thinking of heaven
already, my lad?'
Marion shuddered.
'Don't listen,' urged Simone. 'Don't look. Come away, Mademoiselle.
He has seen you. You have gained your end.'
Marion shook her head. For a seemingly endless time the two crouched by
the window, watching the fight in the gaol yard.
'His window must be visible from here,' presently said Marion. 'See
there, just behind, where there is another cluster of chimneys close to
the back of the building. There cannot be cells on that side.'
'Except dark cells,' assented Simone. 'And those would be for
murderers. Ah! they are going in.'
The two were silent as the gaolers drove in their charges. Roger did
not turn his head, much less venture a look.
'You watch the south side and I the west,' said Marion. 'He will wait
for one second when the sentry is not looking, and will let us know. He
must realise we are here to help.'
The minutes idled by. Neither stirred. Marion sick at heart, was
beginning to think of condemned cells, when Simone gave a cry.
'I saw it! His hand for one second through the bars! There is the
window, Mademoiselle, the third from the end, the south side.'
As she spoke both Marion and Simone uncurled themselves from their
cramped position and sat side by side on the floor. Simone winced as
her aching muscles asserted themselves, but she soon scrambled to her
feet. 'We have been here for hours, Mademoiselle. I am still afraid of
the curiosity of the servants.'
Unseen, the two regained the gallery. Marion sank in a chair by the
window of her room, her brows knitted, deep in thought. Presently she
raised her head...
'It is simple enough,' she whispered. 'He just needs a file and a rope.
With two of those bars gone, and a rope, he could let himself down to
the ground. That rough boundary wall he could easily climb. What can we
do? Oh, what _can_ we do?'
'If we had any friends in the gaoler's house,' said Simone after a time,
'we might send in something--a pie, a dumpling with the file inside.
But to arrange that takes a long time and much management. Still, if
you think it worth while, Mademoiselle, I will disguise myself as a
cook. I will seek the gaoler and--win his regard,' finished Simone.
'Then I should lose you both. No--such a plot--I had already thought of
it in the coach on the way--as you said, needs a network of conspiracy.
It would involve the kitchen here, and my aunt. It needs knowledge of
the interior of the prison, of the particular kind of character of the
gaoler. An ordinary gaoler would eat the pie himself. No, the risk
that is run must be mine. Above all, my aunt must not suffer. It looks
so simple,' Marion added desperately, 'just to get that file and rope
into his cell.'
'That is the trouble with most prisons,' said Simone naively.
Marion did not hear her. Her head had fallen on her hand again. An
hour passed by. The girl seemed to be turned to stone. Just as Simone,
busy with her needle, was about to break the oppressive silence, Marion
raised her head. There was a strange look in her face, as if she were
greeting some one unknown at a distance.
'Don't speak to me,' she said. 'I think--I think I have found a way.'
She drew a long breath. The wide grey eyes resting on Simone slowly
came back to the measure of the room. 'Yes.' She rose. 'Get my cloak
and hood, Simone. I must ask my aunt if we may walk down into the
town.'
Marion had barely finished her sentence before Mistress Keziah herself
opened the door. She heard in silence Marion's request.
'Had you not better drive?' she said, after a minute's thought.
'I think not, Aunt Keziah. A person can go unnoticed where a coach
cannot. And there is not time to explain just now. Do not, I pray you,
Aunt Keziah, deny me this hour's liberty.'
'My dear child,' said the old woman, her voice breaking, 'I have but one
wish, and that is to help you.'
Marion looked at the speaker. In her hardly suppressed eagerness and
excitement, her hands on her cloak, she had scarcely noted her. Now she
saw traces of tears. Her arms went suddenly round her aunt's neck in a
mute embrace. Then she withdrew herself with a gesture Simone
understood. There was no time for weeping.
Mistress Keziah sat down. 'Listen. I can't let you go alone. You must
take old Zacchary. He is the most to be trusted, the least inclined to
chatter. Ring the bell, Simone--better still, go down and fetch him: say
I wish to speak to him.'
'I did want to keep Zacchary out of the way of any possible suspicion,
now or later, Aunt Keziah. He is an old man.'
'We are all either old or young,' remarked Mistress Keziah drily.
As Marion tied on her hood Zacchary appeared at the door. His wrinkled
face lighted up at the sight of his 'little maid.'
'Come here, Zacchary,' said Mistress Keziah.
The old groom stepped awkwardly forward. He was always at a loss what
to do with his feet, save in the stable yard or on the box. His fingers
tugged at his hair.
'Mistress Marion and Simone wish to take a walk in the town, Zacchary.
You are to follow them close behind. If they enter any house or shop,
wait.'
Zacchary nodded.
'There is no need to say anything in the kitchen, Zacchary,' said
Marion.
Zacchary pulled his hat from under his arm.
'Her told me' (with a look at Simone), ''twas to go down along. There
hain't no call to go to the kitchen. Here a be.'
'You understand, Zacchary, that should you at any time be questioned as
to the doings of your mistress while in Exeter, you know nothing.'
'A don't be knowing in any case, Mistress.'
'Continue not to know. Otherwise there will be danger for Mistress
Marion.'
Zacchary thought hard as he followed his young charges into the town.
Something was amiss. He realised, looking back, that something had been
amiss, all the way down from London. But in the meantime, he had his
orders.
With Simone at her side, looking neither to the right nor to the left
where passers-by were concerned, Marion went over the town on a search
which greatly excited Simone's curiosity. She saw that in one shop her
mistress bought a hank of the finest grey embroidery silk. Before
another shop she paused, bidding Simone wait with Zacchary. Simone
looked curiously at the sign, which showed that a gunsmith and armourer
carried on his trade there. Marion came out empty-handed. The end of
her search was evidently not yet.
''Tis getting late, Mistress,' said Zacchary, his eye on the sun, as she
joined the waiting pair.
A fleeting look of horror passed over Marion's face, and she turned
aside from old Zacchary's vision. At that moment a man lounged by, his
gait marked by the obvious roll of the sailor. Marion glanced idly at
him. Then she swung round and looked again, a puzzled expression in her
eyes. What was there familiar about that face and figure?
Zacchary's eyes were also on the retreating sailor. He noted his
mistress's glance, but said nothing. Like herself, he was musing on the
vague likeness to some one he knew very well. Marion and Simone walked
on, followed by Zacchary. Suddenly the old man stopped in his walk, and
turning, looked at the feet of the man just making the corner of the
street. His old eyes gleamed.
'May a be everlastingly goshwoggled!' he exclaimed. He quickened his
pace, and joining Marion, said something in her ear.
'Are you sure?' asked Marion incredulously.
'Sarten sure, Mistress. Couldn't mistake they feet nowhere. A allus
said Poole'd escape again. Good for little maid Charity, bless her
heart!'
Marion glanced quickly round. 'Gently, Zacchary,' she said. 'Don't
take any notice of me, if I think of speaking to him.'
Zacchary fell back, his face sombre; the world seemed very much awry.
In the meantime, Marion's wits were hard at work. She was walking slowly
on.
'Now I think I want to buy a yard of ribbon I had forgotten, for my
aunt's lavender cap. Did you not see how the ribbon was worn, Simone?'