Part 17

'Take my horse, sir,' he said quietly, 'and ride on. My friend and I here will arrange a barricade. Pull your mare over so as to block the lane, my lad. Get the wheel into the ditch, so. A golden guinea for you if you keep yonder soldiers back for half an hour and hold your tongue about this exchange. We must head them off on another scent.'

The farm boy's eyes shone. With alacrity he obeyed the gentleman's orders.

'Quick!' said Marion. 'Quick! I can hear their hoofs. I can almost see them!' She was dazed by the way life and death tossed their alternate greetings in her ears.

'But you, sir,' said Roger, hesitating.

'I am an old soldier,' smiled Sampson. 'I fought behind barricades before you were born. Apart from that, there will be no need to fight. 'Tis not myself they are after.'

With her fingers clenched on her crop, watching for the gleam of red through the trees, Marion listened in an agony. The encounter had really not taken a minute's time, but to the girl the talk seemed idle and useless.

'Quick, Roger!' she cried again.

Roger sprang on to the Colonel's horse, a powerful roan, and Sampson mounted the limping grey.

'Now no one is any the wiser,' said Sampson. 'And we have not even seen you, have we, my lad?'

The farm boy grinned. It was an encounter after his own green heart. 'A bean't be seeing nought, sir,' he said.

'And this wretched waggon is in a devil of a mess,' pursued Sampson, stroking his moustache. 'Yonder kind-hearted soldiers will surely help straighten it. Good luck, sir. Good-bye, Marion, my dear. I will follow you to Garth.'

Roger rode on and Marion held a trembling hand to Sampson, her eyes shining through tears. As she trotted away Sampson called: 'Where is Simone?'

Marion stayed a second to answer. 'With my Aunt Keziah in Exeter.' There was a reply from Sampson she failed to understand. She broke into a canter and the roan and the grey were lost to sight. The lane ended abruptly in open land, and the track curved down along the flank of the hill. Just as they bore round, the fugitives turned once more and caught the gleam of the uniforms half way down the lane.

'Just in time!' said Roger. 'We can see them because of their colour, but 'tis unlikely they can have seen us since we left the open land.'

Side by side the two tore along the track, Marion bringing to bear on her horse the extreme pressure which so far had been unnecessary. Except when the nature of the track compelled, the two did not relax their speed until Liskeard was reached. Midday struck from the steeple as they rode through the town.

They broke into a gallop again, keeping a ceaseless watch for their pursuers. It was touch and go now. The land was so uneven that they could not see the track for more than half a mile at a time. At any moment the soldiers might gallop round the last hummock.

No words passed between the two, until, half an hour later, Marion suddenly pulled up, her eyes dim. She looked about.

'I remember that hill,' she said tremulously, 'and through yonder gap on a fine day we should see the sea. Oh Roger! we are nearly there!'

Roger looked over his shoulder. 'That mysterious Colonel of yours is a clever man. You must tell me some day how he did it. There, at that clump of trees, we turn off for a smugglers' bridle path. I know it well. It runs down to the coast and spares the hill outside Garth. If no one sees us for the next five minutes we are safe.'

Marion followed Roger, and leaving the grey to pick his own footing, fixed her eye on the backward track till a copse of wind-blown oaks hid it from their view. The path wound perilously down a stony gully, difficult to ride save for the moorland-bred. The wind was wearing away, a steady fine rain falling in place of the gusts and clamour of the morning. The realisation that the end of the perilous journey was in sight was slowly dawning on the girl's shaken senses. Another couple of miles, and they would sight the cottages and banks of Garth.

A few minutes later Roger slowed his horse and waited for her. The track had fallen to the river bed, and there was room for the two to ride side by side. Roger looked keenly at the girl's face.

'Do you know,' said he, 'we have ridden all this time and I have not said a word of all that is in my mind. Somehow 'twas enough to have you by my side and be riding to freedom. Nothing else matters. And now in a few minutes we shall be at the village. Mawfy, I cannot,--I--my mind is fevered. To say thank you to some one who has saved your life sounds like foolishness.'

'I told you this morning not to try,' said Marion, lifting her grey eyes to his.

Roger looked a long look at the pale face framed in the wet clinging hair.

'And I am going to sea,' he said suddenly. 'But I shall find some means of hearing of you. You and my mother. You will see my mother and tell her?'

'She shall know at once,' said Marion gently.

'See,' cried Roger, 'yonder on the hill is Mother Poole's cottage. Do you remember?'

'Ay,' said Marion. 'I remember.' She bit her lip, and looked straight ahead. Then, realising that village eyes would soon be on her, she straightened herself in the saddle.

'Mawfy!' Roger leaned over and took her hand.

She glanced at the warm dark eyes and looked hastily away again. A wave of colour wiped out the whiteness of cheek and throat. Roger was pulling the damp glove from her hand. The fingers lay limply between his own.

'It is good-bye, just for a little time,' said Roger, and caressingly he passed the trembling hand across his bent face.

Struggling for composure, Marion withdrew her fingers. The village lay before them. She dimly noted that a child had run out from a cottage, seen them, and run in again, shouting something. She dimly saw groups of sailors on the quay shading their eyes and staring up the valley. Then next minute a girl ran bareheaded to meet them and stood with clasped hands. It was Charity Borlase.

'Jack said as how you'd do it, Mistress,' she said simply, her eyes shining. 'The boat's waiting down along, Master Roger, and tide's running grand. Silas be going to row you out.'

Roger dismounted and lifted Marion from the saddle. 'Take Mistress Marion home, Charity, up the short path, and look after her well. She is very, very tired.'

He bared his head as his eyes sought Marion's, and once more, careless of Charity's presence, he lifted her fingers to his lips. The next minute he was striding down the beach. He leaped into a boat pointed out by a waiting youth and took an oar. As the boat shot out into the estuary hoarse cheers rose from the quay. The valley rocked with the sound. Women and children clustered by the water, waving their hands and crying. Charity's apron was at her eyes.

'God bless 'ee, Master Roger!' came voice after voice to Marion's ears.

Marion stood motionless on the beach. The last she saw was Roger's hand waving as the boat pitched into the heavy seas about the harbour mouth.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*HOME*

The wind had fallen, and a soft mist lay about the house next day, when Marion opened her eyes. She lay for a long while in drowsy content, lost between sleep and waking, opening her eyes and closing them again on the dear delight of home. The sense of peace that had fallen on her spirit the previous night when she had returned from the Manor and stolen straight to her own chamber, seemed still more to fill the place where she lay. It was as if she had sailed into a familiar haven after long tossing on strange seas. All the dear associations of her childhood leapt from nook and shelf to greet her. She lay and smiled at roof and window, rug and chair. And behind her warm feeling of content lay a thought that was like a caress: Roger was safe; Roger was happy at sea; Roger was coming back soon. A rosy flush tinted her face as she remembered--would she ever forget? 'Good-bye just for a little time, Mawfy!'

While she was still half dreaming, the housekeeper gently opened the door.

'Come in, Curnow, dear!' called Marion. 'I know 'tis you. I have never known any one come into a room quite so gently as you do.' She smiled at the old woman. ''Tis good to see you again, Curnow. What is that? Bread and milk? Fie, fie, Curnow! Do you suppose I have become an elegant old lady like Aunt Keziah, already? I cannot abide food in bed. It makes the whole chamber taste queer.'

There were tears in Mrs. Curnow's eyes as she threw a covering over Marion's shoulders and handed her the bowl. If only the Admiral would return, her cup of joy would be full. The same thought was passing through Marion's mind as she obediently began to drink the milk.

'I wish Father were home. I felt wretched last night when you said he was away. But he will soon be back. He must have left London for Exeter by this time.'

Mrs. Curnow watched her young mistress in silence for a time; then she began moving restlessly about the room, putting a chair here and a stool there.

'Come and sit down, Curnow,' said Marion. 'You will be tired before dinner time.'

''Tis past dinner time already,' said the housekeeper, looking at her indulgently.

'What! How could you let me sleep so, and all that there is to be done?'

'There bean't no tur'ble call for 'ee to get up, Mistress Marion.'

'But there is much to be done. There are the guest chambers to be got ready for Colonel Sampson and my Aunt Keziah. My aunt said she would follow in the coach with Simone. Most likely they lay at Tavistock last night. They should be here this afternoon, if nothing has delayed them. I do want my Aunt Keziah's chamber to look beautiful, Curnow.'

The housekeeper smiled fondly at the girl she had tended from babyhood. Indeed, she had lain awake most of the night pondering on Marion's story, and trying to see her 'little maid' in the light of its revelation.

'You will like Simone, Curnow,' Marion continued. 'I told you I am going to persuade my father to let me keep her here with us, did I not? She is French, you know, but very different from----' Marion stopped abruptly.

The smile on her hearer's face gave way to the grave, unhappy look the old woman had worn of late.

'What is it, Curnow?'

'I ought to tell you, Mistress Marion. I scarce know what to do,' the housekeeper slowly began. ''Tis Mademoiselle.'

Marion handed the speaker her bowl, and lay back on the pillow. 'I know all about that,' she said quietly. Mrs. Curnow stared.

'I did not tell you last night,' pursued Marion. 'There were so many other things to tell.'

'You know----'

'I know she betrayed Roger, if that is what you mean. Charity Borlase told me in a letter. Does my father know?'

'Not of my telling. 'Tis now,' the housekeeper counted on her fingers, 'eight days since the Admur'l came home, changed the horses, and straight up over for London. The Admur'l had heard down along about Master Roger, and with the look on his face no one dared speak to un--leastways not me. Mayhap Silas have told. And there be other things too,' wearily added the old woman. 'I scarce do know where to begin.'

'Leave it till my father comes, Curnow. It is all over now--all the trouble, I mean. The rest is for him to settle. Where--where is Mademoiselle?' Marion spoke with an effort.

'In her chamber. Her've never left un since the day Charity came up to have a few words, private-like, with she. Fear of what folk may do to un, may be. Zora have been telling that Victoire do say----'

'Victoire!' There was a curious look on Marion's face. 'When did Victoire come home?'

'The very day afore you did, Mistress Marion. That is to say, the night before last, when the house was abed. All unbeknownst her came in a coach from Plymouth. Seemingly the old woman in France yonder do be better. And yesterday--' a grim smile came on the housekeeper's face--'heart-sore and sick as I was, with the thought of dear Master Roger pressing on me, as 'ee might say, I couldn't forbear a smile when I saw Victoire eagerlike to talk to the wenches in the kitchen, and me having forbade they, most severe, to say one word to she.'

Marion got out of bed and began to dress. 'Curnow,' she said abruptly, 'I was never so thankful for anything in my life as that my Aunt Keziah is coming. Until Father returns, Aunt Keziah will see to Victoire and Mademoiselle. Don't let us talk of it, Curnow. I am trying not to think of it, even. It is horrible. Master Roger is safe. That is all that matters.'

The housekeeper presently went below, and Marion finished her dressing with a sober look on her face. The early joy and peace of the waking had vanished. For Marion, the last fortnight had been too much filled with immediate action to leave room for plans about the prime defaulter in the sorry affair. What should she say or do if she met Elise?

At length, feeling as uncomfortable as if she had to walk about alone in a haunted house, Marion went out of her chamber and set about the supervision of rooms for the coming guests.

In the meantime, Victoire sat talking by Elise's bed, talking softly, rapidly, in what the domestics called her heathen tongue. Victoire was angry, and Elise trembled as she listened. Just so, all her life, had that quiet, angry voice dominated her.

It had needed far less insight than Victoire possessed to learn that there was a new and bitter and unexplained feud between the household and herself and her young mistress.

She had found Elise in bed on the night of her arrival, and a feigned drowsiness on the girl's part had postponed any conversation till the morrow. With the morrow, however, a strange Elise had met her eyes, an Elise thin, worn, with a hunted, frightened look that perplexed Victoire. Elise was suffering from the old enemy, _migraine_, and preferred not to leave her bed. The waiting woman had descended to the kitchen, and at once became aware of the ban imposed by Mrs. Curnow. The serving girls answered her in yea and nay, and that was the sum of their speech. Neither did they talk in her presence, being only too pleased to carry out to the letter the housekeeper's instructions. Victoire, baffled, ascended to her mistress's room again. Elise's sufferings were not feigned, and she only prayed to be left alone till the pain became easier to bear. She would tell Victoire all the news later on.

Victoire, watching, saw that underlying the girl's physical suffering was the mental strain of some overpowering dread. Elise insisted on keeping the bolts of the chamber drawn; watched the door as footsteps passed without. In vain Victoire prayed for an explanation; at length she lapsed into sullen silence. In the late afternoon, while Elise was dozing Victoire crept downstairs. The kitchen was rocking with joyous sounds; laughter and tears, it would seem, and mid hilarious voices crying out on some unforeseen tremendous event. Victoire listened at the door long enough to disentangle the story wherein Marion's name and Roger's were freely tossed about. The waiting woman had known nothing of the happenings in Garth during the past month. Wrath at Elise's reticence, and amazement at the story she had heard sent her hot-foot to the girl's room. She strode noisily to the bedside, and Elise, waking from a slight doze, started up in speechless terror.

'What is this,' cried Victoire, 'about Roger Trevannion being rescued from gaol by Marion?'

She got no farther. Elise gave a low cry, and sank fainting on her pillow.

The rest of the evening Victoire spent in real anxiety by the girl's bed. With the morning Elise rallied under the effects of the medicine given her, and while Mrs. Curnow and Marion were discussing her in Marion's chamber, Elise gave a faithful history of the neighbourhood during Victoire's absence in Brittany. And Victoire was angry; not, it appeared, because Elise had done Roger a grievous wrong, but because she had made a fatal blunder. Elise's poignant remorse she brushed aside as being of no moment; Elise's terror of Charity Borlase's threat of vengeance she passed by in contempt.

'It is monstrous, inconceivable,' she went on, her voice becoming softer and softer as rage consumed her. 'Here fate has worked in the kindest possible way. That stupid, inquisitive old lawyer Lebrun who might have ruined our plans, has by a merciful Providence been allowed to die. For young Lebrun I do not care a straw. The anxiety of years has been removed. Your inheritance lies clear before you, the d'Artois estates only waiting for a mistress. And just when we could have departed in friendliness from that fool, the Admiral, you have committed this indescribable folly. Why could you not leave Roger Trevannion alone?'

'Did I not tell you,' said Elise sulkily, 'that he spied on me, that he had found out all about the cove and the man?'

'Nonsense! He just happened to pass that way, and he saw you.'

'He would have told.'

'Nonsense, again! You do not know the world. Had it been a woman, a village girl, there might have been danger--even then supposing the Admiral would have listened to one word from a village girl concerning his guest. But a young man like Roger Trevannion! Roger is _gentilhomme, vois-tu?--gentilhomme_. He might have given evidence if asked, and only then if he had thought it was his honourable duty. They mind their own business, _ces gens-la_! You have judged him as if he were a fisher lad. And if you had wanted to get rid of him--and I should not have had anything to say about that if you had been successful and done it properly'--Elise shuddered--'why, could you not have gone down to the cove and signalled to the man to do it for you? He would do anything for money, and you had plenty of money. But to go yourself to Bodmin! I am speechless! You have ruined us, do you hear?'

'I wish from the bottom of my heart,' suddenly said Elise, her face mottled yellow and white, 'that I had never seen Garth. The whole thing has been monstrous. For my part, I am willing to confess.'

Victoire stood and looked at the girl, and laughed. Elise sank back in bed, and hid her face.

'We will talk about that later,' went on the mocking, silky voice. 'In the meantime, prepare for a long walk, my good girl. As soon as dusk falls to-night, we set out.'

For a long time no more was said. Victoire busied herself with certain preparations, sewing money and jewels into the folds of her dress. The girl made no effort to rise and help her. She lay with closed eyes, from time to time falling into convulsive weeping whose sounds she stifled in the bed clothes. Her companion, busy among the garments hanging in the press in the inner room, failed to note, for all her caution, the dull sound of wheels, and if Elise heard, she made no comment.

'Listen to that!' said Victoire presently, emerging from her closet with a length of priceless lace on her arm. 'There is the kitchen still uproarious. They will be singing and dancing all night because of this escape. But--ah, good! while they are amusing themselves, I will get into the buttery for food for our journey. If I go through the hall, the wenches will not see me.'

'Marion may,' faltered Elise.

'And do you suppose the Princess Royal will speak to me?'

With a little laugh, Victoire went boldly downstairs, and entered the hall, one door of which gave access to the butler's pantry and the buttery. Too late she realised her mistake. Several people were sitting there, and Mrs. Curnow was carrying a tray of wine and cake from guest to guest. The open door in her hand, ready to retrace her steps, Victoire paused long enough to note the new arrivals. Her beady black eyes ran from face to face. There was a gentleman whom she did not recognise, standing by the window; in the big chair sat Mistress Keziah Penrock. Victoire had scarcely time to feel alarmed at the sight of the lady, for on the instant she caught sight of another figure, that of a young girl who was talking eagerly with Marion. Victoire's other hand clutched at the door post, and at the same moment Marion caught sight of her. A sudden pause in the conversation made Simone look curiously round. She gave a sharp cry, and passing her hand over her eyes, stared about the room, then seized Marion's arm with both hands. From that support she turned her head slowly, like a frightened child, and looked again at the woman clinging to the door. Across the room two pairs of eyes stared, each at a ghost. Simone dropped Marion's arm, and stepped forward. Suddenly the face at the door became distorted, the hand shot out to ward off Simone's approach, a broken gabble fell from the ashen lips. Then silence again.

Simone stepped quite close, and looked steadfastly at her.

'_Victoire!_'

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*ELISE PASSES OUT*

'Pray, sit down, Simone.'

It was Colonel Sampson's voice, even and decorous, that broke in on the strained silence. He drew a chair up to the oaken table as he spoke. Simone obeyed, holding a hand out as if for support. Marion took the hand and held it, gently passing her own palm across the trembling fingers. Motioning Victoire into the room, Mrs. Curnow quietly shot the bolt and latched the other door that gave on to the kitchen passages. Mistress Keziah looked curiously from face to face, then with a slight gesture she turned to Colonel Sampson.

Bending over Simone, whose eyes never left the woman at the door, Sampson spoke.

'Tell us, if you can, my dear, who this woman is.'

'My nurse,' instantly replied Simone.

'Your nurse?' repeated Mistress Keziah in a clear, steady voice. 'You are not mistaken?' She looked from Marion who, speechless, was staring at Victoire, to Sampson. The Colonel nodded once or twice, with a smile. Simone leaned her brow on her hand for a minute, then looked up at him. Her whole face was transformed.

'I can remember!' she cried, springing up. 'Oh, I can remember!' She pressed her fingers to her cheeks, staring beyond the room into the past.

'Remember what, Simone dear?' said Marion in a trembling voice, forcing the girl gently into her chair.

Simone's low voice broke on a hysterical note. 'But,' she cried, 'I am not Simone. Did I not say I have just remembered? I have been trying all my life to remember. I am not Simone. I am Elise.'

Marion stepped back, her grey eyes wide. She looked appealingly at her aunt; but that lady, her gaze bent on Simone, appeared to be making a reckoning and a remembrance on her own account. Sampson still smiled from the window seat.

Marion looked again from Simone to the woman who stood, her mouth closed tight, by the door. What could have happened to affect Simone's mind thus?

'But,' she faltered, 'Elise is upstairs in her room. Are there two Elises?'

'I told my brother,' rang out Mistress Keziah's clear voice, 'I told my brother yonder girl was not a de Delauret. Had your nurse a child, my dear?' she asked, turning to Simone.

'Why, yes,' said Simone slowly. 'Let me see now. What was she called? Wait a minute. I have it! Suzanne Marie. We used to play together. How clear it is all growing!'

There was a curious pause. Marion stepped forward, a strange look on her colourless face.

'Then Suzanne Marie is upstairs,' triumphantly said Mistress Keziah. 'The whole thing is clear.'

A wail broke from Marion's lips. 'I cannot understand it. Aunt Keziah, are we all going mad?'

Simone, staring across at Victoire, seemed not to hear, and Sampson, watching the girl, saw that she was slowly linking together the scattered chain of her memories.

'The woman Victoire will doubtless explain,' said Mistress Keziah. 'I told your father there was some hideous mystery. The whole village knew. Any one else but my brother would have known. The woman just put her own child in Simone's place.'

Again a stupefied silence fell on the room. There was no word from the woman at the door.