The Admiral's Daughter

by Margaret Stuart Lane

'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-là! 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.