CHAPTER XFOREBODINGIt 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 isyourball, 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 XIAUNT AND NIECEMarion 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 XIICHARITY'S LETTERHeavy 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, 'doyouthink 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 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 isyourball, 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, 'doyouthink 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.