Part 12

''Tis he,' came the broken whisper. 'He is in Exeter gaol--condemned. 'Twas to Jeffreys, yonder letter, saying that the prisoner, Roger Trevannion--' Marion's whisper became almost inaudible--'had been found guilty of lending aid and sustenance to the King's enemies and should rightly be hanged. But I can't remember the exact words--the Governor said that seeing the prisoner was a man of note ... he wondered if--if--' Marion's words stumbled, and Simone bent low. 'If,' finished the girl with a sudden burst of bitter, contemptuous anger, 'my lord Jeffreys' well-known clemency would not dictate another--another sentence. I can't remember the rest. Already I would that I could forget what I have remembered.'

The flame died away as Marion's voice sank into silence. The russet gold head drooped forward. For several minutes neither moved.

After a time Simone knelt down and gently examined her mistress's feet. The stockings were cut here and there, but the skin was unbroken. Presently she coaxed Marion to allow herself to be undressed. Marion got up and sat down mechanically as the deft hands did their work, and finally crept into the sweet, lavender-scented bed.

'Try to sleep, Mademoiselle,' said Simone, bending over the pillow to stroke the waving hair from the forehead. 'You will need all your strength.'

'Ay,' said Marion dully, 'all my strength and yours, and all my wits and yours. I have not time to sleep. I must think. There is one thing for which we cannot be sufficiently thankful: we are nearing Exeter. To-morrow night, with speed, should see us there, at the end of the journey, but,' she continued in a voice that matched her haggard face, 'at the beginning of a worse thing--a race with time. Get you to bed, Simone, and to-morrow----'

'Hist!' whispered the other, as a heavy stockinged tread sounded in the passage and the boards creaked outside the door, 'yonder comes our bodyguard. We had best be silent.'

Soon the steady snores came to their ears. The innkeeper moved about in a further room; then silence fell on the house.

Presently, Marion sat up in bed, her arms round her knees. Simone still crouched by her side.

'Have I ever said aught of my Aunt Keziah?' she whispered.

'No, Mademoiselle.'

'She lives in Exeter.'

Simone's face lighted up. Her hands clasped each other. 'Oh, Mademoiselle, what amazing good fortune!'

'Why? I had rather lodged at the New Inn. Being in my aunt's house I shall be obliged to tell her everything. But I dare not go to the inn; she would find out, it being almost next door to my aunt's house. It all depends whether she will be friend or foe.'

'Is Madame your aunt at all like Lady Fairfax?'

'In looks, yes.'

'A second Lady Fairfax had been an ally, Mademoiselle. But--but--Madame your aunt may have influential friends.'

A ghost of a smile flickered over Marion's face.

'Or enemies. She makes rare enemies, my Aunt Keziah. I have only been to the house once, when I was eight. 'Twas the first coach ride I had ever had. Then my aunt quarrelled with my father about my upbringing, and I never saw her again until this year when she came to Garth. I remember the house, in the High Street, near the East Gate.'

A question burned on Simone's lips. Presently Marion unconsciously answered it. 'I do not in the least know where--where the gaol is.'

For close on an hour the two whispered together, Marion finding a temporary relief in going over and over again the possibilities of the situation. Presently she fell silent, her face showing haggard in the candle-light.

'There's one thing,' she said at the last. 'Now something has got to be done. Only one more day in that hateful coach, sitting idle. I have thought and thought and thought; for four days I have sat thinking. There will be to-morrow for thinking again. Then----'

Presently, Marion lay quiet and Simone put out the candle and turned to her own little pallet bed. The moon swung clear above the sloping land, the silver beams creeping through the cracks of the shuttered window. Out in the lane rose suddenly the full-throated song of the nightingale, answering another across the valley. With a stifled moan Marion buried her face in the pillow.

Simone, undressing in the darkness, shed bitter tears, and for a long time she crouched by her chair, summoning remembrance of those two, one near and one distant, to a Presence where remembrance would be availing. The June night went up in beauty; the world lay bathed in an exceeding peace. But Marion tossed to and fro in the darkness, counting the minutes of each endless hour.

Just about sunset the following evening the coach wound down the valley and entered Exeter by the East Gate. Zacchary's reluctance to speed up the horses had been overborne, not so much by Marion's words as her looks. It dawned on the old man that his beloved mistress must be ailing. Tony the watchful confirmed his suspicions. If the mistress had an aunt in Exeter, said the Londoner, 'twas nothing short of a providence they should be so near to the town, for to his way of thinking the young lady was sickening for a fever. Zacchary said no more.

Mistress Keziah was sitting down to supper in the low, lattice-windowed room that looked out on the courtyard. Beyond the flagged stretch rose high, creeper-covered walls, in which the great oaken entrance doors were set. The house was a rambling, gabled building, with a garden at the rear, which was only kept in order because of Mistress Keziah's sense of duty to her forbears. Rarely she walked therein; only part of the large house was inhabited, Mistress Keziah loving to spend the greater part of her income on her visits to Bath, where she lived some months of each year in state and splendour.

The sound of horses and wheels, and the clang of the courtyard bell, roused in her a lively curiosity. Quickly she thought of the few folk in the neighbourhood who might pay her an evening visit in a coach drawn by at least four horses. When the footman opened the courtyard door and a tall young lady walked in, wearing a travelling cloak and hood which bore the unmistakable mark of a London tailor, Mistress Keziah was filled with amazement.

A minute later the footman entered the room and stood aside to allow the visitor to pass.

'Mistress Marion Penrock.'

'Marion! My child!'

The lady stepped forward with open arms. Any doubt Marion had as to her welcome was swept away in a close embrace.

'I can scarce believe my eyes,' said Mistress Keziah, holding her guest at arm's length for a survey.

'But you have grown, I declare! You look mighty different.'

The stern look Marion had remembered disappeared from the angular features. The old lady was secretly overjoyed that Marion had elected of her own free will to make a visit to her house. 'But why such a pale, worn face? How far have you come? Are you alone? Take the saddle of mutton back, Thomas, and keep it hot while my niece prepares for supper. Tell Mercian to see to the guest chamber. How many servants have you, my dear?'

'Three men and my waiting woman, Simone. I should like you to speak to Simone, Aunt Keziah,' said Marion dropping her voice. 'She is more companion than servant. Where are you, Simone?'

Simone stepped forward from the hall. Her faultless slow curtsey, the grave dignity with which she responded to the lady's greetings, pleased Mistress Keziah mightily. Just such a servant would she have chosen herself.

The two girls followed their hostess up the oaken stair, across the gallery and into her own room, where Simone hastily prepared her mistress for supper. The old lady would not allow a change of dress. She had already remarked on Marion's pallor. When she heard how far they had driven since daybreak, and the speed with which the party had come from London, she decided that food and rest were more necessary than fair raiment.

'_D'ailleurs_,' was Simone's inward comment, 'she wants to know all about it. But she has a store of kindness somewhere under a crust of something. How beautiful she must have been in her youth!'

Marion never quite knew how that seemingly interminable meal passed. In the presence of the servants she talked of London and her aunt, the queen's illness and visit to the Wells, trying meanwhile to eat a little of the food piled on her plate. But her aunt's shrewd eye was on her, 'Why has she come?' her unspoken question. She knew at once that the girl was under the spell of some unhappiness. When the servants withdrew, Mistress Keziah looked inquiringly at the pale face across the table, where the candlelight picked out the shadows under the eyes and the gold of the hair.

Marion responded to the look. 'Forgive me, Aunt Keziah, I can't talk to-night. My head aches so. Will you bear with my silence till to-morrow?'

'How she has changed!' mused the lady as she strove to soften the habitual rigour of her speech--about which she was quite conscious and in fact complacent--and set the girl at her ease. 'No longer a child. What is it? Has some gallant yonder bruised her simple, unprepared heart? Oh, that brother of mine, and his upbringing!' Thus, running back to her old grievance, Mistress Keziah's face hardened again. Then recollecting herself, she presently rose and took the girl to her room.

'I am very sorry, Aunt Keziah,' faltered Marion, as her aunt bid her good-night.

'So am I, if you are going to be poorly, my dear child, but for no other reason. Are you sure you will not take a dose of my herb tea?'

Marion made a slight grimace. 'I could never abide the idea of physicking. For that matter, I have never been ill, except for childish complaints.'

'Just like your father,' commented Mistress Keziah. 'But,' she added, 'don't be afraid of me. I am not an ogre.'

Marion smiled faintly. 'I was terrified of you at Garth, Aunt Keziah.'

'But you have seen a little of the world since then,' drily commented the lady. 'The same kind of fear should never recur. Good-night, my dear. Sleep well.'

But darkness brought no relief to Marion. With morning she was feverish, wild-eyed, more awake than ever. A new horror seized Simone when, in response to her mistress's call, she sprang up from a troubled sleep and drew the curtains wide. If the girl could not sleep, she would soon be really ill. And what then?

Presently Simone took her courage in both hands and, saying nothing to Marion, sought Mistress Keziah. The gaunt face in its frilled nightcap, and the many wrappings by which the lady imagined she warded off rheumatism, made in their way the most awe-inspiring sight Simone had yet encountered. But, as Marion said, Simone never made a mistake. After a few minutes' conversation, Mistress Keziah pulled the bell-rope at the head of her bed. 'I must get up,' she said.

'If Madame will pardon me,' ventured Simone, 'Mademoiselle is a little strained. This is to my knowledge two full nights that she has not slept. Since we left London, in fact, she has slept very little. And--Mademoiselle is accustomed to my nearness.'

'And you think I should frighten her?' grimly demanded the old woman. 'Well, well. The point is, she must sleep. And sleep well; whatever her trouble may be--'twill not be eased by a fever! You say she lies and stares and plucks at the sheets? I will cure her.'

Here the servant entered, and Mistress Keziah gave minute directions concerning a particular bundle of herbs in the still room. 'Brew it thrice the strength, Alison,' she concluded.

Presently Simone came to Marion's side with a steaming cup.

'If you care at all for the success of your journey, Mademoiselle, you will drink this.'

'I must get up,' said Marion wildly. 'Do you know yonder courier is now within a day of London? Another day, and he will be thinking of return; three more, and he will be here, in Exeter. Have you thought of it?'

'I have thought of everything, Mademoiselle. But you will be tossing in a fever, soon, and the week will go by none the less. Drink this.'

With her distracted gaze on Simone, Marion took the cup and drained it. Anxiously the French girl sat by the bed, watching and soothing the restless hands. She dared not think of the result should the potion prove to be ineffectual. But presently the weary, purple eyelids drooped, the strained lines on the pallid face relaxed. Marion sank into a heavy, motionless sleep.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*AN EAST WINDOW*

As the day wore on, Mistress Keziah came several times into the room, nodding with grim satisfaction as she noted the steady breathing, and the natural look on the sleeper's face. The afternoon sunlight was sloping through the trees when, after the hour's rest she always took in her chamber at this time, she again opened her niece's door. Simone rose quickly from her seat by the bed, and joined the lady where she stood.

'Is it well that my mistress should sleep on thus, Madame? She has scarcely stirred since you were here before!' Simone spoke in undisguised anxiety.

'Excellent! Excellent!' said Mistress Keziah. 'The potion was a secret of my grandmother's. I have never known it fail. The brew your mistress drank would make a strong man sleep for twelve hours. In her case, youth will assist in the fight. Once the clock turns, mark my words, she will sleep for another twelve hours, and will wake like a little child.'

Simone started. 'Another twelve hours! Oh! what shall I do?'

The words slipped from her before she quite realised their import, and as she met Mistress Keziah's look of amazement she changed colour.

'Well,' said Mistress Keziah, 'and why should she not sleep?'

Simone held a swift parley with herself as she stood with downcast eyes before the old woman who was so like, yet so unlike, her sister. With Lady Fairfax, Simone would have known at once what course to take.

'I am waiting,' said Mistress Keziah.

Simone looked up at her, her dark lashes heavy with tears; her lips trembled.

'You are yourself scarcely fit to be out of bed,' said Mistress Keziah. 'Come into my chamber a minute. Alison will stay here.'

'But,' faltered Simone, 'if Mademoiselle should wake?'

'When Mademoiselle does wake, she will be herself again. And Alison is a comely maid. I understand 'tis from my own face you would protect her.'

A smile broke over the angular features, and to Simone's amazement, Mistress Keziah passed her arm round her shoulders, and drew her across the gallery. The comely Alison, sitting at the needlework table, was sent to Marion's chamber. With her own hands Mistress Keziah poured out a glass of cordial and tendered it to Simone. She took a seat in a high-backed chair by the window, and beckoned Simone to a stool at her side. The girl's fingers trembled as she held the glass.

'You are in trouble,' said Mistress Keziah, a gentleness in her voice which Simone had not heard before, 'and so is my niece. A burden shared is a burden eased. Can you not tell me? I should not have asked for your confidence, but Mistress Marion said she would tell me to-day, and I gather there is a question of urgency. If you think 'twould be better for me to know to-day--if I could do anything---- Do not be afraid of me, _mon enfant_. I am an old woman and quite--quite harmless,' she finished with a smile that lay warmly on her wintry face.

Simone buried her face in her slim, fine hands. Then looking up, brushing away the tears, she spoke. 'I think I must tell you, Madame. I--I cannot bear it. I know Mademoiselle intended to tell you everything, and I will risk her displeasure in speaking myself.' She glanced towards the closed door, and dropped her voice. ''Tis thus----' she hesitated a moment, then made a sudden plunge. 'Master Roger Trevannion is here, a prisoner, in Exeter. He warned a friend--an old school friend, Madame--that he was in danger of arrest by Jeffreys' men. Master Roger was betrayed. The friend got away, but Master Roger was taken. A girl of the village wrote a letter to Kensington, warning Mademoiselle that she feared trouble was coming, before this happened. Then another letter to say Master Roger was arrested. On the journey here we learned that he is condemned to death, and there are but a few days of grace.'

Not a muscle stirred in Mistress Keziah's face as Simone went from sentence to sentence of her story. When the girl paused, she sat looking fixedly through the window for several minutes. Simone watching her, saw an expression of mingled sorrow and scorn settle on her features. Simone's heart sank. A sense of unutterable foreboding assailed her. Was the worst still to come--Mistress Keziah's enmity?

'You will see, Madame,' she presently ventured in trembling tones, stating the case for her dear lady as best she might, 'Mademoiselle felt she was the only one who might be able to help. Monsieur the Admiral she dared not appeal to. A magistrate has but to see the course of the law fulfilled. And Mademoiselle has a sore heart for her playmate. There is no one she can trust. Hence Mademoiselle has come herself. You knew Master Roger, Madame?'

Mistress Keziah looked hastily down at the girl. 'I have no blame for my niece,' she said abruptly. 'I was thinking of her father.' Simone remembered Marion's words: 'She quarrelled with my father on the question of my upbringing.'

For some time neither spoke. Then Simone ventured again: 'You knew Master Roger, Madame?'

The hard old face softened. Before Mistress Keziah's eyes was a vision of the tall youth of whom she had heard so much. He had never come to the house while she was at Garth; she had never spoken with him save once, when she was walking with the Admiral, and Roger had ridden by. In her heart of hearts the old lady had liked the boy, but she had chosen to lecture her brother on the foolishness of allowing Marion to have such a playmate: precisely the same word as Simone had used had come from the Admiral in describing the boy. And now the playmate was in the dark shadow, and Marion was heart-broken.

All Mistress Keziah's theories and denunciations fell away. The sense of romance which had been sleeping for a generation stirred, reminding her of other days, of her own youth, when some one else, just such another, had come her way and gone his way, banished by her pride. The storm that had sunk his vessel had made shipwreck of her own happiness, but no one had ever known. She saw the years of her life as they had gone by. Should such a fate be Marion's? She sighed. Simone, watching her face, saw the expression changing, and knew the day was won. She lifted the wrinkled hand to her lips. 'You will be kind to her, Madame? You will not be angry?' she implored. 'You are the only friend she--she has.'

Mistress Keziah brought herself back to the present. She smiled down at the wistful face, and Simone was comforted. Mistress Keziah fell into deep thought.

'Does Lady Fairfax know of this?'

'No, Madame. She is at Tunbridge with Her Majesty; there was not time for us to go or to send. Mademoiselle wrote to her, though, telling her why she had left London in such haste. She must have had the letter ere this.'

'Who betrayed him?' presently asked the old lady.

''Twas said by the fisher girl that a Mademoiselle----'

'Elise!' cried Mistress Keziah, and her hand smote the arm of her chair. 'I knew it! I knew it!'

Simone looked perplexed as Mistress Keziah got up.

'Go and lie down, Simone,' she said, her old brusque manner returning. 'I must think. Stay! Has any one any inkling of the reason of your mistress's visit to this house?'

'No one, Madame. The menservants think Mademoiselle is ailing, and would rest here a few days.'

'Excellent. You know, of course,' said Mistress Keziah, falling back into the whispering tones, 'that should this be noised abroad, the fate that overtook poor Master Roger will fall on your mistress.'

Simone shivered. 'No one knows, Madame, I assure you.'

'And on myself, and on you,' relentlessly pursued the lady. 'There is no mercy to temper justice in these days. Well, well, no need to say more on that.'

'Madame--just one thing--where--where is the prison?'

'Ah! I bethink me of another thing. How did you learn the lad was condemned?'

Simone hesitated, and her colour rose. But there was no retreat. In a few words she told of Marion's search in the courier's saddlebags, contriving to get into her short story a sense of the danger the girl had run. Mistress Keziah's eyes gleamed, but the bolt of wrath Simone dreaded did not fall.

'She is her father's daughter!' she said abruptly. 'As foolish as she is fearless. Tell me the exact words: was it Exeter gaol, or the Castle?'

'Gaol, Madame.'

Mistress Keziah leaned back in her chair. 'Ah!'

Simone waited.

'If you would just tell me, Madame?'

'From the most easterly chamber yonder, leaving the gallery and going along the far passage, into a room that is rarely entered, you will get a glimpse of the gaol and the yard. Now go. Go quietly. Do not arouse the servants' curiosity, and when you have satisfied your own, remember I told you to rest.'

Simone gave one hasty glance into Marion's room, then set out to explore. With the doors opening on to the gallery she was by this time familiar: Mistress Keziah's bedroom, dressing-room and sitting-room occupied one side, on the other came Marion's two rooms, another bedroom, another sitting-room. In the corner of the gallery were the double doors that led into the passage Mistress Keziah had mentioned.

With a hasty glance around that told her she was unobserved, Simone quietly slipped through the double doors. The unmistakable odour of tenantless rooms greeted her as she went along, glancing into the chambers she passed. The passage ran almost due east. On one hand the windows looked cheerlessly out on to stables and coach-houses, and the wall which divided the grounds from the road beyond. Behind the wall rose the slope of Castle Hill, with its grey stone walks and cluster of buildings at the summit. The rooms on the southern side were filled with the afternoon sun, and caught the green of the garden trees.

Simone entered the last room, paused, then looked back along the landing. Mistress Keziah had said that the end chamber faced the east: the single, half-shuttered window of this room looked north. Could there be another passage branching off?

She looked round the room again. Behind the door was a smaller one, looking like that of a closet. With difficulty Simone forced the door open, and saw in the dim light a narrow winding flight of steps. With her skirts tucked round her knees, Simone climbed the uneven dusty stair, and presently stood in a small dark chamber under the eaves. It was empty, dusty, foul from non-usage. Light streaming in through the crevices of a shutter outlined a single tiny window set low--the eastward wall. Gasping a little in the closeness of the air, Simone struggled with the rusty bolts, and presently shot back the shutters and opened the pane. It was not more than a foot wide and two feet deep.