Part 14

The haberdasher's shop was at the extreme end of the street down which, Marion had noted, the sailor had gone. Making a detour, she entered the street from another direction, timing her arrival at the door so that the clumsy figure rolled by just after she had bidden Simone enter the shop. Zacchary stood a few paces away, chewing a straw, his eyes in the opposite direction. Marion followed the sailor a couple of yards.

'Jack!'

The man stopped and turned, a smile lighting up his features as he recognised the speaker. Marion looked affectionately up into the face of the sailor-boy of her childhood's days. The rough beard he had assumed for a disguise changed him greatly. But the merry eyes were the same. Marion went straight to the point.

'This is a great danger for you, Jack.'

Poole nodded. 'I couldn't stay down along, or sail, or anything, with Master Roger in gaol, Mistress Marion.'

'I guessed it. We must not be seen talking. Listen. He shall escape. I need help at the other end. You can do nothing here. Bob Tregarthen is lying in the Catt Water. Take a boat down there, and persuade him to sail down to Garth and wait off the headland. Tell him to be prepared for a voyage; ready to sail at a minute's notice, night or day. You understand?'

Jack hesitated. 'I'd a sight rather bide along o' you, Mistress. How be you going to manage the escape? 'Tis over dangerous for a maid.'

'Never mind me. I have my plans. But don't you see, Jack, you are an added danger? They are sure to trace you here. When did you escape from Bodmin?'

'Three days ago. And when I heard from Charity what was doing, I couldn't sail, I couldn't. Let me bide and help 'ee, Mistress!'

Marion reconsidered the position. She shook her head. 'No,' she repeated, 'you make an added danger. And I need your help at the other end. Go now, Jack. I'm so afraid you may be recognised. Give my dear love to Charity. And Jack--have a care. Yonder renegade may be on the watch.'

'I know all about he,' said Jack. 'I only ask just to set eyes on un.'

'Then good-bye, Jack. And--and God bless you.'

'God bless ee kindly, Mistress Marion,' came Poole's husky tones, as he turned away.

Marion glanced hastily along the street. Only a few men lounged at the other end, outside a small inn, and these, she saw to her infinite relief, had been joined by Zacchary, and were looking at something in the distance, something Zacchary was pointing out. 'Dear old Zacchary!' commented Marion. 'He has his wits about him.'

She entered the shop. Simone was arguing on the subject of the colour of ribbons with the shopkeeper and his assistant, who were fully absorbed in the conversation, to the exclusion of any affairs in the street.

'Here comes my mistress,' said Simone. 'I was saying, Mademoiselle, that no lady could wear a ribbon of such a vile texture as that, and the colour of this is too garish. What do you think, Mademoiselle?'

Gravely Marion went into the subject of the silk, and finally bought a couple of yards and went out. She turned straight up the hill towards her aunt's house.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*THE GAOL YARD*

Across the candles of the supper table Mistress Keziah looked curiously at her niece, and the footman behind her chair could scarcely attend to his duties for watching the face of the young mistress. Her eyes were bright, spots of colour showed in her cheeks; she was wearing a beautiful London gown; Mistress Keziah knew that for some reason Marion was calling up her defences. 'For a complete actress,' mused the old woman, 'give me a girl who is at her wits' end with anxiety and grief.'

Marion was talking of her childhood at Garth, of the various activities that had filled her days. From that she went Lightly back to Kensington, and thence again to Cornwall. She appeared to be relishing greatly the prospect of returning to Garth.

'Only my promise to stay with you a sennight would keep me, Aunt Keziah. I am suddenly become mightily homesick. I want the stables and the horses--my horses--the boats and the beach. I declare I should like to look at my dolls again, and my skipping rope. Oh yes! and my bow and arrows. Ah, those days! 'Tis a pity you never learned to shoot, Aunt Keziah. I remember your telling me you had never handled a bow. If only you had one, 'twould have pleased me mightily to set up a target in the garden. Did I tell you,' she went on, 'that Colonel Sampson and Captain Beckenham took me to an archery one day, and I beat my lord the captain by a good two yards?'

Marion laughed merrily. The footman, his wits dissolved in admiration, stored up the gossip for the kitchen, and wondered where a bow was to be had. He would like greatly to watch the young lady shoot.

'Who is Captain Beckenham?' asked Mistress Keziah.

'One of Aunt Constance's friends, in Her Majesty's suite. He was mightily kind. He risked the Queen's displeasure in absenting himself to ride with us over the heath past Hounslow, giving me to understand it was for the sake of my _beaux yeux_. But,' added Marion, a smile coming and going, 'in the coach I discovered that my own were outshone by Simone's. He amused me somewhat, that young man. He changes from one weighty affection to another as lightly as he changes a coat.'

Mistress Keziah, following her niece's lead, talked in a similar vein until the cloth was removed, and William departed. As he closed the door Marion leaned back in her chair, and drew a long breath. Mistress Keziah waited. Marion had nothing more to say. In silence the two finished their meal, the girl toying with the sweets on her plate. She followed her aunt into her little sitting-room upstairs, where Simone, who always ate her meals in her own chamber, had been bidden to wait. From a stool by the window in the dusk-filled room, Simone looked anxiously at her mistress. The evening had been heavy for her. She had once more been counting the hours; the lingering daylight showed her face wan and grave.

'Well,' said the old lady drily, as she sat down, ''twas mightily pretty, all that talk. What did it mean?'

'It means, Aunt Keziah, that by fair means or foul, I must have a bow and arrows.'

Mistress Keziah stared at her niece.

'I am not demented,' said Marion, 'though I see you think so. I sought the town this afternoon. There seems not to be such a thing in Exeter. But there must be, if one knew where to look.'

'So that is why you discoursed on the subject so pleasantly that William spilt the gravy all over the trencher.'

'Just that, Aunt Keziah. If William knows any one who possesses a bow, 'twill be forthcoming for the young mistress's amusement.'

Simone and Mistress Keziah stared afresh at the speaker. Marion had given no inkling of her motives for wandering about the town during the afternoon, nor had she explained her reason for making the purchases she had.

'But why?'

'To kill the sentry?' queried Simone.

'To shoot sparrows, _ma petite_. See,' Marion looked round, 'just glance over the gallery, Simone, lest some one should be within earshot.'

'No one is about,' said Mistress Keziah. 'William is holding forth in the kitchen on the subject of Mistress Marion. 'Tis long since he has had such entertainment.'

Simone returned to her seat. Her face was grave.

'See,' said Marion again, speaking slowly, looking from one to the other of her hearers. 'To the end of an arrow may be attached a length of fine silk; to that a length of stout thread; to that'--Simone gave a little cry--'a length of fine cord; then a rope; to the end of the rope may be tied a package containing a note and a file. Simone, if you go into hysterics, I shall put you to bed!'

Simone was struggling between tears and laughter, her Gallic temperament suddenly roused in a helpless emotion. She clasped her hands over her face. 'Oh, Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!' she sobbed. 'I see it plainly. He will be saved! Oh!'

Aunt and niece were looking at each other. 'Well?' said Marion.

'_Mes compliments_,' returned Mistress Keziah quietly. A gleam of pride flashed in her keen old eyes. She looked from her niece to Simone, who was rocking to and fro on her stool. 'Any one would know you were not English, Simone!' she said, with a touch of asperity.

'_Eh bien_!' sobbed the girl, 'one may love one's mistress, even if one is not English.' Simone was completely undone by the swift reaction of four days and nights of anxiety and hopelessness. Marion laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. By degrees she calmed down.

'But where can one be got, Aunt Keziah?'

'So. Before shooting the arrow of fate it is first necessary to have a bow.'

'And any day after to-morrow the courier may return.'

Silence fell on the little room.

'You did not say how you would do it, Mademoiselle,' presently said Simone.

'From the little window across into the cell, through the bars.'

'But, Mademoiselle, can you do such a thing? It seems incredible, at that distance, through those narrow bars!'

'I know not whether any one can do such a thing or not. But I am going to do it.'

'That is the right spirit,' commented Mistress Keziah, her eyes gleaming again. 'There speaks victory. But taking your skill for granted, my dear, how avoid the risk of shooting the lad himself?'

'I have thought of that. We had a trick, Roger and I,' Marion made a swift gesture with one hand, 'like that, when we were shooting together in the country, a gesture that told the one who was marking where arrows fell to stand to the left or right out of danger as the other changed his aim. I will make the sign when they are out in the yard. There will be one second in the hour when the sentry is not looking, as there was to-day. Also, to make sure, I am going now to note what his cell looks like by candlelight. I feel sure that if Roger has sixpence in his pocket he will have a candle to-night. He will want us to see him. You may be quite sure Roger is thinking hard, as well as ourselves, and doing all he can. He will know I am not here in Exeter just now simply to take the air.'

Mistress Keziah pondered a while.

'Suppose your silk catches in the trees?'

'It cannot. The window is too high.'

'Will it not interfere with the flight of the arrow, Mademoiselle?'

Marion shook her head. 'The silk I bought is tough, but very fine.'

'But,' said Simone, her brows puckered, 'I do not understand, Mademoiselle. How will you dispose of the silk so that it will run easily?'

'I see you are not a sailor, Simone,' remarked Marion.

Simone looked puzzled. Mistress Keziah smiled.

'In which storey is Roger's cell?'

'The first.'

'Are you sure the boundary wall of the gaol will not be in your way?'

'Quite sure, Aunt Keziah. This house is much loftier than the prison, and the little window is under the eaves.'

''Tis a hare-brained scheme, and would e'en seem hopeless,' remarked Mistress Keziah, 'had I not a lurking feeling that fortune favours the brave. I must think it over. But, dear, you have been some months at least without any great practice. Are you sure of your aim? It will be in the dark, I suppose?'

'At dawn; just before three o'clock.'

Mistress Keziah nodded. 'Better so. But as I said, 'tis a good distance for a shot.'

'Close on a hundred yards,' said Marion. 'I measured this morning. And to-morrow I shall practise in the garden.'

'Suppose there is a wind, Mademoiselle,' said Simone presently.

Marion clasped her hands. 'I pray not,' she said simply. 'That would be difficult. But,' brightening again, 'I have certainly shot in a wind before now. Do not let us think of----'

'And in all this,' burst in Simone, laying her hand on her mistress's knee, 'you have forgotten the sentry!'

Marion stroked back a strand of the glossy dark hair.

'I have forgotten nothing, _mon amie_. The sentry at night will, I expect--we will ascertain presently--patrol the yard as his comrade does by day. The sentry is of course the greatest difficulty. I shall have to time my venture when he is at the far end of the yard. That,' added Marion naively, 'is where the speed of an arrow is a fortunate thing. Once the arrow is in the cell', the cord and rope can be drawn in while the sentry is walking round the buildings.'

'And should he hear, Mademoiselle?'

'He shall not hear.'

Simone glanced at Mistress Keziah. Marion intercepted the look. 'Dear aunt,' she said gently, 'I cannot deny that there is danger of detection. But--his need is greater than any peril we run. And should the plan fail, and be discovered, 'tis I alone who am the culprit. I shall make a full avowal. You shall not suffer, Aunt Keziah!'

'Hoity toity!' said Mistress Keziah. 'What happens in my house is my business, I trow! And who in Exeter, do you suppose, is going to lay a finger on me?'

Remembering the lady's words of warning to herself on the previous day, Simone was mute. She sat folding and unfolding a pleat in her gown, tears welling into her eyes again. There was something that would not bear thinking about in these two, one old and one young, who thus vied with each other for the honour of taking blame. To Simone's relief, for her control was fast weakening, William's step was heard in the gallery.

'Here comes a dish of tea,' said Mistress Keziah tranquilly. 'Open the door, Simone. And fetch me the cards from my chamber,' she added as the footman entered. 'Will you join me in a game, my dear?'

'I have been wanting to,' said Marion. 'Aunt Constance taught me a new one in Kensington. I should like to show you.'

Mistress Keziah dealt the cards, and Marion arranged her own share on the little table William had drawn close to their chairs. Simone seated herself at a distance with her needlework. When William returned later for the tray, to all appearance a lively game was afoot.

'He will not come back?' asked Marion, after William had departed.

'Not unless I should ring. You were saying?'

'I was saying, Aunt Keziah, that I should feel vastly more comfortable if you would go away. Go down to Garth, to my father.'

'For one so quick-witted, you are singularly stupid,' remarked the lady, with a touch of the imperiousness that reminded Marion of the personage she had first known and feared. 'I must stay here to cover your sudden departure with the lad. No, leave my comings and goings to me, my fair general. See you to your own and Roger's. Simone and I will follow you to Garth.'

Marion rose and bade her aunt good-night without any further argument, and accompanied by Simone stole along the gallery to the little chamber under the eaves. The moon was breaking from a bank of golden haze in the eastern sky as Marion gently put back the shutter and peered out. The silence of the night lay about the garden, and save for one lighted niche the gaol was in darkness. As Marion had surmised, Roger was playing his part in the game whose nature he could only guess. A candle stood on his table, which he had drawn out of vision so that its flame should not blind the eyes of the watcher to the disposition of the room. He himself, sitting at the table, reading, was partly visible to Marion's eager eyes. But what she had longed to see, and was comforted to behold, was the end of the plank bed half way along the bare wall. She had been secretly haunted by the possibility that her arrow might alight on the sleeper, should he be sleeping. The corner of the room which was her target was empty.

Cautiously Marion withdrew her head. The heavy footsteps of the unseen sentry sounded, making the corner of the buildings. Like his comrade during the day, he steadily patrolled the wide stretch of yard, coming from time to time round the gable end to take in the narrow patch at the south front of the gaol. Knowing that soon the moon must lie full both on that side of the prison and on the little eastward casement, and fearing the eyes of the sentry, Marion half closed the little shutter. There was a sharp creak she could not avoid, and watching through the crack she saw that Roger had heard the noise. He rose and looked upward through his bars. Then, either fearful of the sentry's comments on his candle, or, as Marion guessed, content that he had been seen, he put out the light just as the sentry turned the corner.

Marion watched the dark form of the sentry as he walked the length of the building, turned, and heavily stamped back. He disappeared; presently the measured beat was heard in the yard beyond. A minute later the moon swung clear of the curtain of haze.

More cautiously this time Marion moved the shutter back, then thrust out her head in the clear light. Immediately a hand stole from between the bars across the way, and waved a stealthy greeting. Marion raised her own hand and pointed to the moon. Her finger travelled in a mimic motion of the moon crossing the sky, once--twice. Then swiftly she gave the gesture of warning which she had mentioned to her aunt. She repeated the motion. The hand across made the signal of assent. Then, greatly daring, after a rapid survey of the gaol yard where the invisible sentry was still tramping, Marion gave in dumb show the action of shooting an arrow.

The moon was full on her face as she moved. Simone caught her breath. There were other cells in the south front of the gaol: other eyes might well be watching the little play. The hand across waved again. In the gloom of the building Roger's face, a white patch crossed by the bars, was clearly visible. The sound of the sentry came nearer. Again Marion closed the shutter.

'He understood,' she whispered. 'He nodded. Did you see?'

Simone gripped her arm. 'Come away, Mademoiselle. Do not attempt to look again. The moon is on this window as clear as day. I am afraid. There may be other eyes yonder, as well as Master Roger's.

'Not so,' replied her companion. 'But we will go now. 'Tis better, perhaps.'

The two crept back along the passage to Marion's chamber. In the light of the sconces Simone looked anxiously at her mistress. Marion smiled.

'You are over nervous, Simone. Think of those men we saw brawling and fighting in the yard to-day. Are they the kind, think you, to watch the rising of the moon at an hour when all the town is sleeping? They are more likely to be snoring on their plank beds.' She stopped abruptly as she thought of Roger's couch in the dark little cell. 'Still,' she said, commenting on her own thoughts, 'a plank couch is no matter when one's sojourn is short. Now we are going to bed, Simone. My aunt said there was no need for you to attend her to-night. There is much to do to-morrow. Above all, do not forget to oil the joints and hinges of the shutters, yonder, early in the morning.'

Marvelling at her mistress's light-spiritedness, Simone went through her usual nightly duties. Soon the two were in their beds. Marion's hopeful mood, which assured her of victory and overlooked the hazards of the battle, carried her across the spell of silence and thoughtfulness which came when she laid her head upon the pillow, safely into the unconsciousness of sleep.

Simone, wide-eyed, listened to the steady breathing through the open door of her own room, and marvelled again. And in the next chamber Mistress Keziah lay, conscious of the dull weight of age pressing on body and soul alike. An hour's quiet consideration had roused in her a strong doubt of the wisdom of Marion's plan, a deep scepticism of its success. She was oppressed by the sense of the risks the girl ran, but could think of no measure that would make her desist from the attempt. It was Marion's safety against a slender chance of Roger's life; and Marion was not the one to be deterred by a thought of peril for herself. Of her own share she thought little; she had lived her life, and Marion's was hardly begun.

What she had been able to do, she had done. A letter addressed to Lady Fairfax lay on her table. With the early light it should be despatched to London. It was not only for Roger that a reprieve might be wanted.

*CHAPTER XX*

*ZACCHARY'S QUEST*

Zacchary was standing by Mistress Keziah's chair, tears running down his cheeks. He had at last learned the secret of Marion's visit to Exeter.

For some time Mistress Keziah allowed him to talk, easing himself thus, she knew, of his grief and distress concerning Roger; and as she waited, Zacchary poured out a string of broken reminiscences from which the old lady unconsciously built up a picture of Marion's and Roger's childhood on the hillside at Garth.

She could well have wept herself. The morning had shown her no grounds for any reasonable hope; Zacchary's instant scorn for Marion's plans had secretly added to her own misgivings. Zacchary had scarcely, indeed, paid any heed to the scheme for Roger's release. In his mind it was a foregone failure: to him Master Roger was beyond all human redeeming. When at last he paused in his jumbled tale, and was staring sorrowfully out into the garden, Mistress Keziah brought her attention to the point at issue.

'I sent for you, Zacchary, because you are the only one we can trust with this secret. And also, you are the only one who can search for the bow and arrows.

'A bean't for doing aught of the kind, Mistress,' Zacchary rejoined, a stubbornness in his manner. ''Tis clean gone foolishness, the like as a never heard. More seemly 'twould be to set the horses to the coach and take the little maid home. Arrows, indeed! 'Tis the wild fancy of a maid who've set herself to do a man's work. 'Tain't no job for Mistress Marion. If you'd told me two days gone, Mistress, me and yonder Tony would have done something, and Reuben.'

Mistress Keziah controlled her rising impatience. She had not dreamed that Zacchary would rebel. At once she realised that the old man would have to be argued with, not commanded. His very virtues on which she had counted, his loyalty, his love for Marion and Roger, his fifty years' service at Garth, became a barrier that threatened the advancement of Marion's hopes.

'Don't you see, Zacchary, Master Roger is suffering this fate because he tried to help? Would the lad himself like it, think you, that strangers should be imperilled for his sake? Would he not rather die thrice over than allow Tony and Reuben to be drawn into gaol? And to leave that side of the question, what chance of safety has a secret shared with two such men? How much opportunity have you had of judging their characters? They are not of your county: a Londoner is never trusted by West country folk. A week you have passed in their company; they have proved able grooms on the road, they are mightily pleasant in the kitchen. Is that a reason why they should be entrusted with a mission which means life or death to a man they have never seen, and is of such exceeding danger, that should it fail, they might hang at the next assize? 'Tis a job for a man's friends.'

Zacchary, convinced on the point, but unwilling to own it, was silent. His slow peasant brain was working.

'If a body had ever heard of such a thing afore as bows and arrows to get a man out of gaol,' he said, after a while, 'I'd have some patience thinking on it.'

'By the mercy of Providence,' retorted the old lady, her eyes flashing in her angular old face, ''tis not every day in the week that a lad like Roger Trevannion lies within an hour of death, as you might say, and no help forthcoming. Extreme cases need extreme measures. For my part, I am willing to take all risks to help my niece. I had not expected to find an enemy in you, Zacchary. One might think you were unwilling to hold out to Master Roger a slender chance of life.'