Part 13

As she knelt down and peered through, Simone could scarcely breathe for the quickness of her heart beats. Directly below her ran the length of the rambling garden, ending in thick, tall trees. A little to the left, Simone caught sight of a grim-looking building which needed no explaining. She leaned forward, putting her head through the little opening. The south and west parts of the gaol were clearly visible, being indeed not more than a hundred yards away, only separated from Mistress Keziah's garden by the cobbled road. A thick high wall ran close up to the south side, on the west and north widening to enclose a bare foul patch, strewn with refuse, on which the sun fell with baking heat: the gaol yard. A faint odour seemed to strike the girl's nostrils, and she shivered as she remembered the dark stories of prison life, of uncleanness and gaol fever which from time to time had come to her ears. She no longer wondered why Mistress Keziah lived in the west wing of her house.

Over several grated windows Simone looked, one by one, but could see no signs of the life of the interior. Then, realising there might be a guard-room down there, whose windows looked out on the yard, and whence to a curious observer she might be visible, she withdrew her head. Crouching on the worm-eaten boards, she found a position that enabled her, unseen from without, to watch the prison and the yard.

As Simone waited, wondering if the prisoners would come out, there was the sound of shuffling feet, and from the shadow at the end of the building a man came in sight, carbine on shoulder. He paced the length of the gaol, turned, and was again lost in the shade. Presently Simone saw him walking the length of the yard. Then the footsteps were silent awhile.

Simone crouched until her limbs were aching and she dared stay no longer, lest Alison should seek her in her own room. But no face or form rewarded her vigil; only the gaunt walls and mocking bars showed, hideously bare in the sunlight. Behind which of those narrow apertures was the condemned youth hidden?

Presently the girl rose, and cautiously crept back along the passage. She waited several minutes behind the double doors, and looked carefully along the gallery and into the hall below before she gained her own room. Then, bathing her face and hands, and removing all traces of dust from her dress, she went into Marion's chamber. Alison rose with a smile, and beckoned her past the sleeping figure to the farther door.

'My mistress has gone to make a visit,' she informed Simone. 'Have you rested well?'

'Very well, thank you.'

'The young mistress is sleeping bravely. Her'll be fresh as a daisy come the morning.'

With her usual gentle politeness, Simone thanked the girl for her services, and closed the door as she went across the gallery to the servants' stairs. Taking up her old position by the bed, Simone looked sorrowfully at the face on the pillow.

Marion was in the same position. Her breathing was that of a child; the strained lines had gone from her face. Simone could have cried aloud on the unkind kindness of fate in ordering her healing so. By the morrow there would be only two clear days left, the third should see the courier returned. As she thought of the gaol, with its impassable walls hiding the sinister, watching shadow, the stout-barred window niches, Simone felt sick at heart. Who could break through such barriers? Two frail girls and an old woman?

Sitting idle was intolerable. Simone stole into Mistress Keziah's empty room, and taking up the sheet Alison had been stitching, bore it back to Marion's chamber. For a couple of hours she sat thus, and it seemed, as each quarter chimed from the church beyond, that the next would be unbearable.

A kitchen-maid brought in her supper, with a message from Mistress Keziah that she would speak with Simone the next morning. So that was the end of another day.

The westering sunlight sloped across the hill, and the golden radiance fell on Simone's pale face as she sat before the generously piled dishes. She drank some milk, and ate a little bread and honey, afterwards resting motionless in a kind of mental and physical apathy. Presently she roused herself, and in unutterable weariness and despondency sought her own bed. For the first time she understood fully just what the strain of waiting had been to Marion. Rather than wait another day, Simone vowed, she would scale those prison walls herself. Her desperate fancy dwelt on the picture until, towards midnight, a restless sleep stole over her. She dreamed of horsemen innumerable bearing down towards her, each carrying a warrant of death. As they neared, the lane down which they rode--the same lane where the coach had foundered--broke into prison yards and opened again. All through her sleep the dream seemed to come and go, making a lifetime of its passing. At length, in a sudden access of horror, she saw that one of the riders charged into her room. She woke with a scream in the grey dawn, to find Marion standing by her bed, shaking her arm.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*THE SIGNAL*

It was almost three o'clock. Marion and Simone, crouched by the window in the little room over the east landing, were watching for the prisoners to come out into the yard. Mistress Keziah had said that it was the custom for them to be given an hour's exercise at that time.

Marion, fully recovered, was strangely quiet. Her anger at the method of her aunt's cure had soon worn itself out. The knowledge that the prisoner was almost within hail absorbed all her thoughts, and she was secretly thankful to find that the day which had passed so idly had not only spared her the ordeal of an explanation to her aunt, but had brought great gain in the way of restored mental and physical strength. Forgetting all that lay behind, she now drove her whole energies forward in one channel.

The morning had passed in speculations indoors and a drive round the Castle and the town, during which the horses had, strangely enough, halted to rest near the gates of the gaol. While Mistress Keziah's coachman had exchanged friendly remarks on the health of the inmates with the sentry peering through the wicket, Marion's eyes had taken in the exact height of the prison wall, its character, its distance from the eastward bounds of her aunt's garden across the way.

'No need to stay here, Tom,' sharply called Mistress Keziah a minute later, and the coachman had driven on, remarking on the increasing ill-temper and contrariness of his mistress. Had she not called a halt just there? As if the horses needed resting, forsooth! Down the road that bordered the gaol the coach had gone, passing Mistress Keziah's own gate and thence into the town. Marion had thus a first-hand knowledge of the respective positions of the two buildings. During the drive in the streets she had remained silent. On the homeward way she turned to her aunt.

'Have you a long rope or cord in the house, Aunt Keziah?'

'Plenty, I should think, my dear. I will find out. The chief trouble, you know, is the servants' curiosity. Mercifully, yonder London men, Reuben and Tony, are completely turning the heads of the kitchen wenches. There is no fear of their having an idle hour to watch your movements. My greatest difficulty is Alison, who spends quite half her time above-stairs, and Josiah, who is her shadow when she descends.'

'Has she not a mother or a father, Madame?' inquired Simone.

Mistress Keziah made no reply. But afterwards when Alison was arranging her gown for dinner, Mistress Keziah said with her usual abruptness: 'You are looking pale, Alison. I think 'tis well you should take a rest. The day is fine. The walk will be pleasant. Get you to your home and stay there a week. Yonder Simone will manage my hair and gowns, I trow.' Then, when Alison's face had darkened in jealousy, the old lady had added indifferently, 'Unless, of course, you too are held by the company and amusement of the men in the kitchen.'

Alison tossed her head. The goad to her pride served its purpose. She said no more, but soon after dinner she set out on the five-mile walk to her father's farm, escorted by Josiah, who was carrying her small bundles and had been given a hint by his mistress that if he truly loved the comely Alison, here was a chance of prospering his suit.

The old lady sat for a long time thinking, alone in her room. The two girls, she knew, were at the little window, hoping for a sight of Roger. Mistress Keziah's face was stern and fixed. During the conversation of the morning she had judged it best to withhold two facts from the knowledge of her guests. The first was her discovery that her old friend the governor of the castle was still away in the north country, where he had gone to visit the governor of York. The deputy-governor was a man whom Mistress Keziah held in open dislike because of his truckling politics when Jeffreys was in the West. (As Marion had said, she made rare enemies.) There was therefore no chance of an appeal. She knew of no other quarter whence any influence could be brought to bear on the doings of Jeffreys' men.

Her first thought had been to seek the governor and pray for time; not knowing whether he was returned or not she had refrained from visiting the castle, but had sought the house of a friend overnight through whose rooms as in a living stream poured all the news of the county. Once the governor's compliance won, she had determined to send her fastest rider to Lady Fairfax in order to seek a royal pardon, if, indeed, her sister had not already taken that course.

With the discovery that the governor was away, the old lady's solitary hope had fallen. She could not think of any possible means by which, in less than three days, the fortress could be won. When it came to the moment, prison bars and walls were mightily inaccessible: it was only in Biblical days that the stones fell down.

On any other save a question of time she could have won the day. But Exeter was three days' ride--two in an extremity--from London. And while Royal Pardons were being sought, yonder courier, fresh from his audience with Jeffreys, was bringing back the word of doom. Of Jeffreys' clemency Mistress Keziah had not the slightest hope. She remembered too vividly that red Assize in Exeter. She also knew the deputy-governor well enough to surmise that 'twas not in hopes of mercy he had sent the courier, but rather to show in what faithful stewardship the affairs of Devon reposed. Roger Trevannion was no ordinary prisoner: a very long feather in the cap of justice.

The second item that she had sorrowfully withheld had also been learned in her friend's house. Admiral Penrock had been seen, two days previously, riding in his coach at a gallop, London bound. Another futile errand. She knew from Marion that her father had been much abroad in the far west on magisterial affairs. Evidently the news of Roger's arrest had at last reached him. He had posted off to London and would arrive in the presence of the Lord Chancellor, Mistress Keziah estimated, about a day after the courier had left for Exeter.

With these sad thoughts for company, Mistress Keziah had spent most of the night. Secretly convinced that the quest was hopeless, she had nevertheless humoured her niece to the utmost, taking her where she would, sending her servants out of the way so that no hint of Marion's strange doings should become common to the household. And now she sat, slowly gathering her strength for the ordeal of the day after to-morrow, when Marion, pale, sweet Marion, with her childhood's loyalty and unavowed, growing woman's-feelings would find herself beaten down, helpless, broken-hearted.

There was still a great store of fighting strength in the old woman, and when she pondered on the comings and goings, Marion and Simone here, her brother urging his horses to London, her sister--the more she thought the more she was sure--using every ounce of power and influence to obtain a Royal Pardon, and all one day--two days--too late, she knotted her thin hands together in fury at her own helplessness. When she thought of Marion, hot tears scorched her eyelids. When she thought of Roger, she buried her face in her hands and prayed. _In the hour of death, and in the Day of Judgement..._

Meanwhile Marion and Simone crouched by the window. There was just room inside the tiny casement for the two, unseen from without, to watch the door that led into the gaol yard, Marion to the front, Simone peering over her shoulder.

'What are you going to do, Mademoiselle?' queried Simone.

'I do not in the least know. But I have a feeling that when the hour comes I shall do something.'

Simone said nothing. The revelation of Marion's quiet strength was nothing new to her. She prepared herself to serve in whatever way might lie in her power. But Simone's eyes were shrewd, and she had read the expression in Mistress Keziah's face as she watched Marion's eyes counting the yards and feet outside the gaol. She knew that in her inmost heart Mistress Keziah had no hope. But she had said 'Yes, my dear,' her grim face unusually gentle, when Marion had asked for a rope; 'Yes, my dear,' when Marion had asked was there a well-ground file handy, and perhaps a ladder to be left carelessly in the garden: 'Yes, my dear.' Everything that Marion wanted in the way of properties and personal help would be hers until the hopeless game was played out. Simone saw it all very plainly.

What was going on behind that calm, pale face whose cheek, softly curving, was so near her own?

As Simone, sorely cramped, was moving her limbs, Marion suddenly cried, 'They come!' Simone craned forward. In the quiet afternoon rose a sound of shuffling feet and voices. Out into the sunshine lurched a number of men.

Marion caught her breath painfully as she looked at them. They were rough, ill-clad, foul-featured. There was evidently some quarrel among them, for they settled in a group, their voices rising. One held his fists clenched. But where? Ah! Marion's sudden movement told Simone who was yonder tall, broad-shouldered youth who strolled idly out to the yard. He leaned against the prison wall and looked up at the sky, across at the trees of Mistress Keziah's garden. In a flash Marion saw her opportunity. No other face was turned her way. She thrust her head out of the tiny window. The sunlight, falling over the eaves, made a halo of the shining, gold hair. Roger's eyes caught the glow. He started perceptibly. For a second he stared up; his eyes held hers. Then Marion withdrew, and Roger turned and walked away.

Marion's breath came and went. She sank back on the floor.

'He saw me!' she panted. 'Has any one noted his glance? Look, quickly.'

'No one has turned this way. He walks up and down. He does not glance up at all.'

'Let me come.' Marion crouched forward again, her trembling hand resting on Simone's. That sight of Roger, his face so pale, his eyes sunk under the brows, had almost unnerved her. Tears blinded her vision as she looked down at her old playmate pacing the prison yard. The last time she had seen him, he had been arguing with her, in his old masterful way, on the folly of her going to London; had made her promise to send to him should she need help. And now!

The sound of angry voices rose again in the quiet air. The prisoners were still quarrelling. Inside an eager ring a couple of men set on each other, watched on the one hand by Roger, idle, aloof, and on the other by the gaolers, greedy of bloodshed. While the fists were flying, Roger allowed himself one more glance at the little casement, taking in its position in a lingering sweeping look at the sky. A hoarse chuckle came from the shadow in the buttressed wall. 'Thinking of heaven already, my lad?'

Marion shuddered.

'Don't listen,' urged Simone. 'Don't look. Come away, Mademoiselle. He has seen you. You have gained your end.'

Marion shook her head. For a seemingly endless time the two crouched by the window, watching the fight in the gaol yard.

'His window must be visible from here,' presently said Marion. 'See there, just behind, where there is another cluster of chimneys close to the back of the building. There cannot be cells on that side.'

'Except dark cells,' assented Simone. 'And those would be for murderers. Ah! they are going in.'

The two were silent as the gaolers drove in their charges. Roger did not turn his head, much less venture a look.

'You watch the south side and I the west,' said Marion. 'He will wait for one second when the sentry is not looking, and will let us know. He must realise we are here to help.'

The minutes idled by. Neither stirred. Marion sick at heart, was beginning to think of condemned cells, when Simone gave a cry.

'I saw it! His hand for one second through the bars! There is the window, Mademoiselle, the third from the end, the south side.'

As she spoke both Marion and Simone uncurled themselves from their cramped position and sat side by side on the floor. Simone winced as her aching muscles asserted themselves, but she soon scrambled to her feet. 'We have been here for hours, Mademoiselle. I am still afraid of the curiosity of the servants.'

Unseen, the two regained the gallery. Marion sank in a chair by the window of her room, her brows knitted, deep in thought. Presently she raised her head...

'It is simple enough,' she whispered. 'He just needs a file and a rope. With two of those bars gone, and a rope, he could let himself down to the ground. That rough boundary wall he could easily climb. What can we do? Oh, what _can_ we do?'

'If we had any friends in the gaoler's house,' said Simone after a time, 'we might send in something--a pie, a dumpling with the file inside. But to arrange that takes a long time and much management. Still, if you think it worth while, Mademoiselle, I will disguise myself as a cook. I will seek the gaoler and--win his regard,' finished Simone.

'Then I should lose you both. No--such a plot--I had already thought of it in the coach on the way--as you said, needs a network of conspiracy. It would involve the kitchen here, and my aunt. It needs knowledge of the interior of the prison, of the particular kind of character of the gaoler. An ordinary gaoler would eat the pie himself. No, the risk that is run must be mine. Above all, my aunt must not suffer. It looks so simple,' Marion added desperately, 'just to get that file and rope into his cell.'

'That is the trouble with most prisons,' said Simone naively.

Marion did not hear her. Her head had fallen on her hand again. An hour passed by. The girl seemed to be turned to stone. Just as Simone, busy with her needle, was about to break the oppressive silence, Marion raised her head. There was a strange look in her face, as if she were greeting some one unknown at a distance.

'Don't speak to me,' she said. 'I think--I think I have found a way.' She drew a long breath. The wide grey eyes resting on Simone slowly came back to the measure of the room. 'Yes.' She rose. 'Get my cloak and hood, Simone. I must ask my aunt if we may walk down into the town.'

Marion had barely finished her sentence before Mistress Keziah herself opened the door. She heard in silence Marion's request.

'Had you not better drive?' she said, after a minute's thought.

'I think not, Aunt Keziah. A person can go unnoticed where a coach cannot. And there is not time to explain just now. Do not, I pray you, Aunt Keziah, deny me this hour's liberty.'

'My dear child,' said the old woman, her voice breaking, 'I have but one wish, and that is to help you.'

Marion looked at the speaker. In her hardly suppressed eagerness and excitement, her hands on her cloak, she had scarcely noted her. Now she saw traces of tears. Her arms went suddenly round her aunt's neck in a mute embrace. Then she withdrew herself with a gesture Simone understood. There was no time for weeping.

Mistress Keziah sat down. 'Listen. I can't let you go alone. You must take old Zacchary. He is the most to be trusted, the least inclined to chatter. Ring the bell, Simone--better still, go down and fetch him: say I wish to speak to him.'

'I did want to keep Zacchary out of the way of any possible suspicion, now or later, Aunt Keziah. He is an old man.'

'We are all either old or young,' remarked Mistress Keziah drily.

As Marion tied on her hood Zacchary appeared at the door. His wrinkled face lighted up at the sight of his 'little maid.'

'Come here, Zacchary,' said Mistress Keziah.

The old groom stepped awkwardly forward. He was always at a loss what to do with his feet, save in the stable yard or on the box. His fingers tugged at his hair.

'Mistress Marion and Simone wish to take a walk in the town, Zacchary. You are to follow them close behind. If they enter any house or shop, wait.'

Zacchary nodded.

'There is no need to say anything in the kitchen, Zacchary,' said Marion.

Zacchary pulled his hat from under his arm.

'Her told me' (with a look at Simone), ''twas to go down along. There hain't no call to go to the kitchen. Here a be.'

'You understand, Zacchary, that should you at any time be questioned as to the doings of your mistress while in Exeter, you know nothing.'

'A don't be knowing in any case, Mistress.'

'Continue not to know. Otherwise there will be danger for Mistress Marion.'

Zacchary thought hard as he followed his young charges into the town. Something was amiss. He realised, looking back, that something had been amiss, all the way down from London. But in the meantime, he had his orders.

With Simone at her side, looking neither to the right nor to the left where passers-by were concerned, Marion went over the town on a search which greatly excited Simone's curiosity. She saw that in one shop her mistress bought a hank of the finest grey embroidery silk. Before another shop she paused, bidding Simone wait with Zacchary. Simone looked curiously at the sign, which showed that a gunsmith and armourer carried on his trade there. Marion came out empty-handed. The end of her search was evidently not yet.

''Tis getting late, Mistress,' said Zacchary, his eye on the sun, as she joined the waiting pair.

A fleeting look of horror passed over Marion's face, and she turned aside from old Zacchary's vision. At that moment a man lounged by, his gait marked by the obvious roll of the sailor. Marion glanced idly at him. Then she swung round and looked again, a puzzled expression in her eyes. What was there familiar about that face and figure?

Zacchary's eyes were also on the retreating sailor. He noted his mistress's glance, but said nothing. Like herself, he was musing on the vague likeness to some one he knew very well. Marion and Simone walked on, followed by Zacchary. Suddenly the old man stopped in his walk, and turning, looked at the feet of the man just making the corner of the street. His old eyes gleamed.

'May a be everlastingly goshwoggled!' he exclaimed. He quickened his pace, and joining Marion, said something in her ear.

'Are you sure?' asked Marion incredulously.

'Sarten sure, Mistress. Couldn't mistake they feet nowhere. A allus said Poole'd escape again. Good for little maid Charity, bless her heart!'

Marion glanced quickly round. 'Gently, Zacchary,' she said. 'Don't take any notice of me, if I think of speaking to him.'

Zacchary fell back, his face sombre; the world seemed very much awry.

In the meantime, Marion's wits were hard at work. She was walking slowly on.

'Now I think I want to buy a yard of ribbon I had forgotten, for my aunt's lavender cap. Did you not see how the ribbon was worn, Simone?'

Simone made a slight _moue_. 'As you like, Mademoiselle.'