Front matter (continued 3)

'Stay and have a glass of wine, Colonel,' said Lady Fairfax. 'I vow I am hungry again.'

But Mr. Sampson, with a low bow, declined the invitation, and turning to Marion, asked for the pleasure of her company on a drive the following day.

'Excellent!' said Lady Fairfax. 'The fresh air will be very beneficial.'

Marion gravely thanked the gentleman, and bending over her hand he contrived to throw into his gesture and parting look just the amount of friendliness she could bear.

'Then we will have our wine and cake together in your room,' said Lady Fairfax, passing her arm round Marion's waist. 'You can read yonder letter and tell me all about it. You have done bravely this last hour.'

CHAPTER XI

AUNT AND NIECE

Marion lay in her bed, staring through the drawn curtains into the dark night. Her window was ajar, and sweet cool airs played fitfully in the room. It was past three o'clock; soon the summer dawn would break; cocks crowed faintly in the farmyards that dotted the fields beyond Kensington village.

To and fro Marion turned, chafing at the hotness of her bed, trying to find a cool space for her body and a spot on the pillow that might tempt her throbbing head to lie still. The only ease she could gain was by turning a certain way, her eyes on the quiet vagueness of the sky. She kept telling herself there was no cause for this turmoil of mind; time after time she turned her thoughts back to the ball, thinking of the dances, of a certain melody that had pleased her so that she had sent to the fiddlers to play it again—of the men and women whose language and manners, still unfamiliar, fascinated her and gave her the pleasant feeling of being at home in a strange land. But behind their faces she saw that of Charity; running with the strains of the minuet was a phrase she could not forget—'i be afeered, Mistress Marion, mightilie afeered, and moste of al for Master Roger.'

'Who is this Charity?' Lady Fairfax had asked after she herself, at Marion's request, had read the sprawled sheet. On learning the story of the girl, and hearing of the hostile feeling of Garth for the Admiral's ward, the first instinct of Lady Fairfax had been to take the part of her own class against another that was uneducated, prejudiced, and superstitious to a degree.

'You can't get away from what is in your blood,' argued the lady. 'Those Cornish fisherfolk are the children of countless generations that have spent themselves in enmity with the French: a continual cross-channel warfare. They first hate the Devon men, because they are not Cornish, and then they hate the French because they are not English. To their way of thinking the only people who have any excuse to be alive, or have any hope to enter heaven, are English folk who have been born and bred in Cornwall.'

Marion smiled faintly. 'True enough, Aunt Constance. But you don't know Elise.'

'I don't know Elise, my dear. There you are right. But I do know that Elise, the daughter of Monsieur de Delauret and the granddaughter of the old Vicomte d'Artois, is bred and born a gentlewoman. You cannot turn your back on your own class and take the peasant view against them. And has not Elise been your companion and playfellow all these years? Leave for a moment this present problem—a difficult one, I grant you—and consider Elise in the light of a ten years' friendship. What have you against her?

'Nothing,' said Marion falteringly. 'That is, until Aunt Keziah came and made me somehow see Elise in a different way. And—besides——'

'The "besides,"' smiled Lady Fairfax, 'is generally the root of the whole matter.'

Marion's cream and gold lace dress had been taken off, and a light dressing-gown thrown about her, and Lady Fairfax, similarly disrobed, was tending the long russet hair.

With her brush swish swish through the shining tresses, Lady Fairfax waited. 'And besides?'

In as few words as possible Marion told the story of Jack Poole's arrest, and Elise's vindictive remarks at supper.

'What did your father say?'

'He was angry. I never saw him angry with her before. It was not only unkind of Elise, but 'twas a most dangerous thing to say, as Father explained. You don't know one hundredth part of the horror of that rising in the West, Aunt Constance. If one of the servants had heard her, and there had chanced to be a countryman, a tinker or a packman, in the kitchens—and of course you know passing folk are always welcomed by the servants—Roger might have been hanged on the strength of that.'

The lady was silent a moment. 'Well, well,' she resumed, 'Roger was not hanged. But, my dear love, for a girl coming to womanhood you are strangely blind. Have you not told me before that this youth Roger could not abide Elise?'

'No more he could. Well?'

'Is not that a reason for Elise's hating Roger? A woman can forgive a man almost everything except disliking her, and showing it.'

'Elise is only a girl.'

'A rose-bud is all the same a rose.'

Marion twined a stray wisp of hair round and round her fingers. 'Granted all that, Aunt Constance, why should Elise be continually going down to Haunted Cove, and to see such a horrible man?'

'Who says she is going continually?'

'Well—Charity says everybody says so.'

'Which means,' said Lady Fairfax tartly, 'that some one may have seen her twice. You don't know the Cornish as well as I do.'

'I will not hear another word against my people, Aunt Constance. You have naught but unkindness for them.' Marion tossed her hair free, and sprang to her feet.

'La, la!' said Lady Fairfax. 'Am I not "your own people?" And therefore theirs? Oh, my precious baby, what an infant you are!' The speaker suddenly caught the girl in her arms and drew her to a low seat. Marion's head fell on her shoulder, and her tears dropped.

'I am so unhappy, Aunt Constance.'

'But, my darling, I assure you there is nothing to be unhappy about.'

There was a silence for a few minutes. Then Marion slipped from her aunt's arms to the hearthrug, and laid her head against her knee. 'I am too big a baby to be nursed, dear Aunt Constance. I shall tire you.'

'I was not complaining,' said the childless woman, letting her arms fall.

'But why should she have gone even once down to Haunted Cove to meet that man?' Marion resumed after a while.

'There, my dear, is a question I cannot answer. But until you know more about it, is it not only fair to give Elise the benefit of the doubt? And as for the words she said: "He shall pay for this," why—the girl was furious, and let out the words in her spleen that she would otherwise have withheld. People spit out queer things when they are angry. Anger and madness are closely akin.'

'And another thing,' resumed Lady Fairfax, stroking the bright head. 'Your father is a shrewd man. He will not have forgotten that speech of Elise's. If he thinks in sober judgment there is anything against the maid, he will be watching her. Sooner or later these tales will reach him. If that little Charity had been worth her salt, she would have gone to him, and not writ that hysterical letter to you.'

'She would not dare, I am afraid, to seek my father.'

'Because he would pull her ears for a gossiping busy-body. And don't you see, my dear, how foolish it is to think that Roger and your father can come to some mishap through the malice of your father's ward? Leave the men to take care of themselves. I declare I shall hate that Roger if the thought of some passing danger for him spoils your visit here.'

'I have known Roger ever since I could walk,' said Marion softly. 'He was brother and sister and playfellow.'

'You can't wrap him in silk shawls and set him in a drawing-room. He will have to play his part; and you can't either prevent it or take one jot or tittle from it. How long has this letter been in coming?'

Marion took up the sheet. 'Close on two weeks. It must have been sadly delayed.'

'Then everything must still be well. Your father would have written and sent a special messenger, otherwise. And now, my darling, I insist on your going to bed. Come, I will play your nurse and undress you. 'Tis the last time—for some days.'

When her aunt had given her a good-night kiss and had left her, Marion had felt somewhat eased, but her brain, being thoroughly aroused, was not so lightly to be lulled to drowsiness. Instead of becoming sleepy, Marion became more wakeful. All the knowledge she had of the terrors of the Monmouth rising and the fearful aftermath of Jeffreys' revenge came to her mind. To and fro, between that subject—to which Elise's reported threat concerning Roger had led her—and the subject of Elise's own doings, Marion's thoughts went like a sentry on a beat. The watchman passing the square called one o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock; and still Marion's weary head tossed about in the seeming endlessness of a wakeful night. At length, as the dawn crept up over the trees of the gardens, and the first bird twittered, Marion lay still, conscious of the blessed relief of approaching sleep.

At ten o'clock, when her aunt came quietly in, after Simone's report of Marion's continued slumber, the bright head still lay motionless in the nest of the pillow. Marion was sleeping the sleep of mental and physical exhaustion. Her aunt crept quietly out. 'I will not wake her,' she said. 'But the coach is ready. I must be gone.'

Simone crept back into the room and sat by the window, alternately watching the slumberer and the needlework in her lap. She had divined that something was amiss with her young lady, and was divided between the joy of having Marion to herself, to comfort if need be, and sorrow for her troubled state.

The sun was high in the heavens when Marion at last awoke. She lay awhile watching Simone, busy with her clothes and her ewer of water. The dread of the previous night did not recur. She was conscious of a distant uneasiness, but more inclined to rest on her aunt's judgment. But presently she discovered that much thought would be impossible that day. Perhaps she had slept too long; perhaps Nature was taking her revenge for the strain of mingled excitement and pleasure and anxious thought of the previous evening. The only severe headache she had ever known laid its grip upon her. As the day wore on, she was content to lie on a low couch by the window with Simone in silent readiness at her side.

At three o'clock Colonel Sampson came to the house, and learning that the young mistress was ailing: 'Is Mistress Marion too unwell to see me?' he asked. 'Pray tell her I am below.'

The servant ushered him into Lady Fairfax's little sitting-room, the identical spot where he had first seen the pale, travel-worn face of the young girl in whose company he had found such refreshment. Presently a light step sounded on the stair, and the curtain fell aside.

'Monsieur le Colonel,' said Simone, and dropped a low curtsey.

Sampson stared at the slim, graceful figure rising slowly from the perfect salutation, at the smooth little head and dainty face. Then recollecting himself, though blinking a little as at an apparition, he made his inquiries concerning the young mistress.

'Mademoiselle finds herself far from well,' came Simone's low even tones, 'and would take it as a favour if Monsieur le Colonel would release her from the promise of the drive. Mademoiselle has a severe migraine. To-morrow, perhaps, if Monsieur le Colonel is good enough, Mademoiselle will be pleased to take the air.'

'I shall be delighted, Mademoiselle,' said the Colonel, with a slight bow.

Simone crossed the room, and called the servant from the hall.

'Show Monsieur le Colonel out,' said Simone, dropping a curtsey as the visitor passed her.

When the boy opened the hall door, Sampson turned. Simone was mounting the stairs. Again he blinked, and passed his hand across his eyes as if seeking to evoke some elusive thought that hid in a chamber of his mind.

By evening Marion's indisposition had passed. She supped with her uncle, finding a singular pleasure in the society of the quiet, studious man who laid all his concerns aside to talk to the 'little niece' on subjects which he knew interested her: of his own travels, and places over seas, and the chances of war abroad. The ball and the events of the previous evening, which had been faithfully detailed by his wife, he left out of the conversation. At the close of the meal, when Marion went to the sitting-room where Simone was awaiting her, Sir John explained that on the morrow he would be obliged to leave her for a few days. There was to be an inspection of the fleet, and he could not absent himself. Marion assured him that there was no cause for regret. Simone and Colonel Sampson would companion her; there would be callers, and if there were not, she would be glad of a little quiet.

The next day Sir John departed. Scarcely had he gone before Colonel Sampson's coach was at the door. Marion and Simone descending, found him talking to old Zacchary, who had come from the stables, and was admiring the horses. To Marion's great delight, Colonel Sampson dismissed his footman to the society of the kitchen for a spell, and bade Zacchary mount in his place. Marion knew that Zacchary was piling up a store of reminiscences which would make him famous in his generation when he returned to Garth.

Ranelagh was the destination that afternoon, and Sampson saw to it that the drive was a pleasant one. Sir John Fairfax had told him something of the subject of Charity's letter, and the two men talked of the impression they had had of Elise that first night when Marion told the story of her father's ward. In private they were not disposed to take as easy a view of the matter as my lady had entertained. Sampson, amazed at such behaviour on the part of a de Delauret, had thought a good deal about it; both men could appreciate better than Lady Fairfax the danger in which the Roger, whom they had never seen, stood; they knew better than she how the flame of the rising still flickered. But uppermost in Sampson's mind, as Marion talked or was silent, in the coach, was the thought of the young Elise d'Artois, whom he had followed as a moth follows a lantern, for the space of a delightful, foolish year. He could not reconcile his memory of her with the reported doings of her daughter.

Simone also came in for a good share of his regard. The Colonel was too trained a courtier to betray again his surprise and mystification on seeing the little waiting woman of whom he had heard so much. During the drive Simone was quiet, watching from the coach the passers by; but towards the end something in the conversation struck her fancy. She suddenly turned and smiled at Sampson. A passing group caught Marion's eye at the moment, and she called Simone's attention thereto. Thus neither of the girls saw the man's start, and stare and nod, as if something in the chamber of his memory had peeped out and greeted him.

When the party arrived at Kensington, Colonel Sampson refused to accompany the ladies indoors. He escorted them to the hall door, then walked quickly back to his coach. A minute later his horses, at a canter, drew the vehicle out of the square.

In the hall a servant approached Marion.

'There is a man in the kitchen, mistress, a sailor man from Garth, wishful to see you. He is but anchored at the Swan in Chelsey this afternoon, and has walked across. 'Tis urgent business.'

Marion's eyes widened, as of old, as she looked at the servant. A sudden fear tore at her heart. 'Bring him into the sitting-room at once,' she said.

CHAPTER XII

CHARITY'S LETTER

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. There was a shuffling pause, and Bob Tregarthen stood in the doorway in his rough seaman's clothes, his cap in his awkward fingers. The blue eyes looked at Marion from under the tangled mane of fair hair in the way she remembered so well, as if she had been a spot on a distant sea. It seemed that as the sailor stood there, the village and harbour lay behind him, and the smell of salt crept into the room.

'This is a great pleasure, Bob,' said Marion, as he stumbled awkwardly forward. 'How is your mother?'

'Her's well and hearty,' said the sailor, his eyes in shyness wandering about the room. 'Leastways when I left her. You'm looking uncommon well, Mistress Marion.' The far-sighted look came back to rest on the lady.

'Sit down and tell me your news. Have you come from my father?'

There was no tremor in the clear voice as Marion calmly seated herself in the high-backed oaken chair that stood before the window. Instinctively she was keeping her face from the light.

'The Admiral ain't been down along for a fortnight past, Mistress. Folk say a be mighty busy, travelling so, and now——'

Bob stopped short, and cautiously sat down on the edge of the chair. He cleared his throat and moved his feet awkwardly about. Presently his hand went towards his pocket. 'I don't know as there be any news, Mistress. Leastways, what there be, Charity's letter will be telling you. 'Tis some grand to see you again, Mistress.'

Marion watched the fumbling hands, her own fingers tightly interlocked.

'So Charity has writ me a letter,' came the even tones.

'Ay, ay. Her comes running down to the quay just as Bill Scraggs were getting the water kegs aboard, and her calls out to me to speak to me special, like, and asks me how many days afore we sights the port o' Lunnon. And I ses to her, I ses, "Strike me if I know," ses I. "I bain't thinking o' Lunnon at all this voyage. A be for Gravesend and sharp back to Plymouth; then at Plymouth us'll lie in the Cattwater, so if ee wants to see me afore the month be out," ses I, "ee must come to Plymouth. A bain't making for the Pool this time, but with fair wind serving and no Frenchies to tickle, us should make Gravesend in three days." Then her ses, quiet-like: "Wouldn't ee like to speak to Mistress Marion, Bob?" "Wouldn't a?" ses I. "Well," her ses, "here be a letter I've writ for Mistress Marion, and I'd take it kindly if you'd run up the river and call on her. I be some sore on her getting un, and I can trust ee better than the post boys," her ses. And the end of it was, her showed me your name writ down large, and Kensington Square, and her made me say un ower and ower. 'Tis a pretty maid, Charity,' added Bob, with a reminiscent smile. 'Folk do say——'

'Have you got the letter, Bob?'

'Ay, ay, Mistress. Here a be.'

Bob, whose hands had fallen idle as he talked, began fumbling in his pocket again, and at length brought out the creased missive. He got awkwardly to his feet.

'Here you be, Mistress. And your pardon, but a be in a mortal hurry to catch the tide, with Bill Scraggs waiting in the boat down along to Chelsey Reach. So good day to ee, Mistress, and I be some proud to have seen you, and the place where you'm to. You'm looking fine, Mistress—grown taller, I do declare. Bain't ee ever coming back to Garth?'

Marion's hold on her patience was fast weakening, but seeing there would be no peace to read the letter till the man was gone, she talked to him for a few minutes, marvelling at the easy tone of her own speech. 'Is all well at Garth?' she asked hesitatingly at the end.

'Ay, ay, Mistress—leastways——'

Divining that there was something Bob did not wish to say, Marion stepped to the bell rope. Then, feeling in the pocket of her gown, she pulled out her little silk purse. 'You have been very kind,' she began. Bob stepped back.

'Don't ee now, Mistress—don't ee now!' he implored, his blue eyes resting with shy affection on her face. ''Tis a pleasure.'

'Good day, then, Bob,' said Marion, 'and thank you very much indeed. Take Master Tregarthen to the gate,' she added, as the servant entered the room. 'You have of course offered him food and drink?'

'Ay, ay, Mistress,' put in Bob. 'Mutton pie and mashed taties, and strawberry pudding—rare good 'twas. Good day to ee, Mistress, and God bless ee,' added the sailor, as he gave the girl a last look, and lumbered out.

Scarcely waiting for the door to close behind the sailor Marion seized the letter, with trembling fingers tore it open, and read it where she stood. As her eyes travelled down the crooked lines her face blanched. She caught at a chair and unsteadily seated herself. The letter finished, her hands fell on her lap. Not a sound escaped her lips. The minutes ticked by from her aunt's tall clock in a corner of the room.

Presently light footsteps sounded in the hall, and Simone lifted the curtain. Arrested by the stare of the wide grey eyes she stood still for a moment.

'Mademoiselle,' she cried, and coming to her side, sank on her knees and took the terribly still, cold hands in her own. 'What is it? You are ill!'

She sprang to her feet again, her hand towards the bell rope.

'Stay!' whispered Marion. 'I am not ill.'

Simone's eyes wandered to the letter, lying where Marion had laid it down.

'Give it to me,' said Marion. Once more, word by word, she deciphered the ill-written sheet; then, handing it to Simone: 'Read it,' she said, and buried her face in her hands. Simone took up the letter.

'DEERE MISTRESS—Doe nott, i pray you, take ofence that i doe writ you againe, having but writt you shortlie. Mv hearte be that sore i must write, tho i doe scarce knowe what i sett downe. The Post boy from Bodmin hath just visitted Garth where i had gone to speke with Peter, none knoweing.

'A sore troubble hath fallen on us, deere mistress, and i doe pray God you will returne soone, for if there be anny help tis from you. Master Roger hath been taken by the Taunton soljers for haveing toled Master Hooper him being in danger with Jeffreys men. Master Hooper hath fledde in safetie, somme say by boate from Porlock. And the post boy doe say deere Master Roger must stande in his sted and belike—But that be maine sure idle talke but i be that distrawte the post boy doe allsoe saye the talke is a furrin younge ladie who did see the governoure at Bodmin verrie secrettlie, and tolde him of Master Roger, and the governoure's man who did heere at the doore did talke haveing taken strong waters or else hee would nott dare. i pray God no harm fall to Master Roger but if he shoulde hang that other shal nott live nor doe she desserve. So may God helpe us al and doe deere mistress I pray thee com home.

from CHARITY thes, moste dutifull.

'GARTH, this tenth daye of July.'

Simone laid the crumpled sheet on the table without a word, and stood looking down at the bright bowed head, a speechless sorrow in her face. In the weeks she had passed in Marion's company she had learned a great deal about Garth, could see the inmates in a picture gallery of her own imaginings: the Admiral, the old Salt Eagle, whom she already loved; Roger Trevannion, one, she was certain, to be wholly trusted at sight; and, the sinister figure in the group, her outlines filled in mainly by Marion's silences, the Admiral's ward. The quiet brown eyes lightened with a sudden fury as she thought of Elise, then sobered again to grief and fear as she looked at the stricken form huddled in the chair. There was something terrifying in Marion's stillness and silence.

Kneeling down before her, Simone passed her arms round Marion, and leaned her face against her shoulder. All idea of fitness of manner due in a servant for the moment left her mind. Here was the only being she loved in the world, wounded sorely. She rubbed her cheek up and down the passive arm. Presently Marion gave a shuddering sigh, and lifting her head, looked into the faithful brown eyes searching her face.

'He is dead by now,' she said quietly. 'Dead. Do you hear me?'

The eyes took on again that set look, wandering over Simone's head to the brightness of the garden. Simone dropped her face down on to Marion's cold, folded hands. Her warm lips sought the fingers. Marion leaned back in her chair.

'Dead. 'Tis all over.'

Still Simone made no reply. She opened the lifeless hands, and pressed her cheeks into the cup of the palms. Marion's head sank down again, the warm russet hair touching the smooth brown. A trembling seized her. Suddenly she sprang up, shaking her hands free.

'Tell me,' she said as Simone faced her, 'do you think he is dead?'

'I am quite sure he is not.'

Simone glanced hastily round the room. There was a decanter of wine on a side table. Quickly she poured out a glass, and gently forcing Marion into the chair, held the glass to her lips. With her eyes on Simone's face, Marion drank a few drops, then pushed the wine away.

Simone took up her position on the rug again, and holding the girl's hand, looked into the fixed grey eyes that were watching her.

'Listen,' she said. 'He is not dead. There is not time.'

'Not time?' Marion tried to shake off the stupor into which she had fallen. She pressed her hands to her face.

'No—there is not time,' continued Simone. 'It is but a few days. Charity wrote on Saturday. To-day is Wednesday. And also, they would not dare.'

'Not dare?'

'Because of your father. Roger is in the bounds of his magistracy, is he not?'

The drops of wine had eased a little the grip of the shock upon the girl. Simone rose, and held the glass again, but Marion shook her head.

'In a few minutes you will be able to think,' said Simone quietly. 'Then you will know I am right.'

Silence fell on the room as Simone stood beside the chair, watching the set look slowly disappear from the face, the eyes lose their hard stare.

When Marion spoke again her voice was trembling, but the tones were her own.

'Sit down, Simone, and let us think. You see what Charity says.'

'Charity has written in a panic,' said Simone softly. 'But I like her greatly, that simple, loving soul. What are the facts, now? Master Roger has heard that some one—his friend?—' Marion nodded, 'was in danger of arrest, and he has warned him. I do not know just what an offence in the law that may mean. Sir John will say when he returns. And Master Roger——'

Marion flamed up in sudden anger, a bright colour flooding her face. 'Such folly!' she cried. 'Roger was ever a fool! I can't think why folk do not mind their own affairs. He must have known 'twas dangerous. Think of his mother! Arrant wickedness, I call it.'

Simone smiled faintly as the storm swept her by. Any outburst was more welcome than silence and stillness.

'Ma belle dame,' she said, her eyes warm, 'you had wrought just such a service yourself, had you been there.'

Marion passed the speech by. 'And my father is down at Truro, on Jeffreys' affairs, doubtless. Oh, that Protestant duke whom they hailed as a hero and a saviour! Would to God he had never been born! I was saying to my aunt the night of the ball, you people here have not the slightest idea of the horrors of that time, when my Lord Jeffreys was in the West.' Marion detailed a few of the happenings. 'Now after that,' she concluded, 'can you wonder I fear for Roger?'

'That tempest is over,' said Simone. ''Tis but the growl of the dying thunder now. Dear Mademoiselle, believe me, you have caught a panic from Charity's own state when she wrote that letter, she having doubtless just heard, and saying what people had told her. Something can be done. We must think. May I be forgiven if I order some tea, Mademoiselle?'

Marion nodded absently, and going to the window, set the casement wide, and leaned her arms on the sill.

A little later the servant entered with the tea. Setting a chair by the fire, and taking one of the bowls in her fingers, Simone gently touched her mistress's arm.

'Where is yours?' asked Marion.

Simone's little mouth made a slight moue. 'Je ne l'aime pas, Mademoiselle. But there is some milk. I will drink that, with your permission.'

Presently Marion set down her bowl, and turned to her companion.

'I am going home,' she said abruptly. 'Will you accompany me?'

The brown eyes glowed. 'I ask no greater pleasure, Mademoiselle. But how? What of Madame your aunt?'

'I will write a letter, telling her. But I may not wait for her permission. Unfortunately, too, my uncle is away, and I know not his direction. What can we do?'

'Mademoiselle cannot travel without an escort.'

'There is Colonel Sampson.'

'True. Le bon Colonel. I had not thought of him.'

'I will write him at once,' said Marion. 'Will you bring me paper and pen?'

Within a few minutes a manservant was dispatched to Colonel Sampson's house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, bearing a short note from Marion to the effect that she wished to see him on a subject of great urgency. Marion bade the man take the fastest horse and ride hard; then sent word to the housekeeper that Colonel Sampson would in all probability be a guest at supper, and asked that a bottle of the Colonel's favourite Burgundy should not be overlooked.

This done, Marion mounted to her own room, and threw herself feverishly into preparations for the journey. She found great relief in merely busying her hands among her clothes. And though she did and undid, set her dresses here and set them there, declared this should go in that trunk, and then in another, Simone made no objection to her contrary ways. Quietly the waiting woman followed her orders, knowing that she could very well pack Mademoiselle's clothes properly while the young lady was asleep.

Presently Simone insisted that it was high time for Mademoiselle to dress for supper. The toilet took some time, and Simone talked with animation of the days of travel that lay ahead, knowing that a person's mind cannot dwell at the same time on the end and on the means. Marion told her what she remembered of the course of the ten days' journey from Garth to London, adding that with swifter going they could surely vie with the post chaise and reach home in seven.

Just as Marion's gown was fastened, a servant tapped at the door. The messenger was returned, saying that Colonel Sampson's man had informed him of his master's having ridden away on a sudden visit to his country house in Hertfordshire, and was not to be expected home till the following evening, if then: there was no knowing when he would return. But as soon as he entered the house, the letter should be handed to him.

The servant withdrew, and having noted the disarray of the room went downstairs to report thereon, saying that all ladies were alike, and here Mistress Marion was driving yonder Simone to death, on a round of doing and undoing among her dresses; and 'twas a good thing Mrs. Martin was away with my lady, or the work might have fallen on her.

Meanwhile Marion stood looking at Simone, her mouth stubborn.

'I shall not wait for Colonel Sampson,' she said quietly. 'That would mean another two days at least. Get me the ink and paper. And bid the man not to unsaddle his horse. Go down yourself, will you? I like not that the domestics should come up here just now. Nothing shall be said of the journey till our plans are ready. Above all, nothing must come to Zacchary's ears. If Zacchary thinks I am taking an unwarranted step, he will be hard to move, harder than the four greys and the coach. Tell the man to wait at the door, and I will descend.'

'Bien, Mademoiselle.'

Realising that a new phase of her mistress's character was asserting itself, Simone went below. Presently Marion came downstairs with a note in her hand. The manservant was standing in the drive, bridle in hand; Marion went out at the door and down the steps.

'Reuben,' she said, 'you will go at once to St. James's and find where Captain Beckenham is. His orderly will know. If he be on duty at the Palace, find some means of reaching him. Here is money. If he be supping with friends, learn where is the house. Do not return until you have delivered the letter. The matter is urgent.'

Reuben took the note, touched his cap, and leaping into the saddle, cantered out into the square, a smile of pure pleasure on his face. Here was the twofold excitement of the prospect of hunting among pleasure haunts for my young gentleman, and the delight of serving a fair lady who wished to see her gallant admirer. Reuben was young, and a bachelor.

Marion supped with Simone for company, and dismissing the servants after the meat was brought, sat silent, eating a morsel here and there as her random thoughts came back to the present. Had Mistress Keziah seen her expression as she sat at the head of her aunt's table that night, she would have remembered her own thoughts of the girl months before. 'She'll go her own way; her mother has given her that sweetness, but she's a Penrock.' Simone, watching her unobtrusively, attending to her needs with the perfect tact natural to her, was content that the face should wear that look. Better the girl should play the part of a mimic general marshalling a toy army, than sink into tears before an imagined grief. As she noticed the absorbed quiet of the steady features, Simone suddenly found herself wondering what Marion would be like when her tranquillity was swept away in stormy action, when that something sleeping in her was fully roused.

CHAPTER XIII

THE ESCORT

Reuben had not been page boy and footman to my Lady Fairfax for nothing. Standing on the step of her coach he had learned the roads and houses of Kensington, Chelsey, and the City; carrying my lady's cushion to the theatre, waiting outside her box, and hearing the talk of courtiers in between the acts, he had gained some insight into the world of fashion. Thus there was no need for Marion to detail instruction about the course he must take in hunting down the gentleman of the sword. Exactly two hours after starting, having visited St. James's and two theatres in vain, drawn the coffee houses blank, he finally ran his quarry to earth outside a cockpit in Covent Garden, where several gentlemen were discussing the rival merits of the birds.

'And my lord Duke,' Beckenham was saying, 'having lost £500 on Firebrand——' He broke off as Reuben elbowed his way into the group and stood hat in hand. 'What may you want, my lad?'

Reuben spoke in a low tone and delivered his letter. Captain Beckenham was delighted at the summons, but he gave his companions no hint of this. 'Lend me your horse, Grammont,' said he to one of the group. 'Here's a business that will not wait.'

'Zounds! and what may be this mighty hurry?'

'Service du roi,' replied Beckenham gravely. Grammont, recognising the Fairfax livery, whistled for his servant to lead up the horse.

'Give His Majesty my ardent remembrances,' he said with a smile, as Beckenham sprang into the saddle. 'Lucky dog! I say, Beckenham,' as the other rode off, 'as you are bound for Tunbridge to-morrow, say a word for poor Tom Grammont!'

Mr. Beckenham's reply was lost in the dusk as he spurred after Reuben. The captain had been one of those who had suffered most from Marion's friendly ridicule on the evening of the ball, and his affections being in the nature of a flower that closes when clouds overtake the sun, he had decided that the 'little niece' was not the marvel that society proclaimed her to be. Beckenham was a man whose sterling qualities were undeniable; he was known in the regiment for a brave and loyal soldier; but he had been courted and flattered by the women of his acquaintance and looked on with too much favour by mothers of daughters whose marriages were not yet arranged. With somewhat changed ideas Beckenham now rode to Kensington and presently found himself in the presence of young Mistress Penrock.

Marion, a trifle graver than was her wont, extended her fingers to the gentleman's low bow, and begging him to be seated, in a few words explained the nature of her wishes. Grave news from the west had determined her immediate return to Cornwall; she prayed the kindness of Captain Beckenham's escort.

The young soldier's surprise was clear in his face as the nature of Marion's wish was revealed, and Marion stiffened herself for another battle. She had just dismissed Zacchary after an hour's wordy warfare that had left her desperate and weary; nothing but the sound of tears in her voice and her declaration that she would go by the public stage coach had made honest Zacchary see that there was nothing for it but to fall in with the outrageous plan. Like Beckenham, he thought more of the perils of the way than did the young lady herself.

'I should not have dreamed of troubling you, Captain Beckenham,' finished Marion, 'but my uncle is away on a private expedition, and our good friend, Colonel Sampson, is in the country. Failing these two, I have called upon yourself.'

The gentleman rose and paid the friendliness of the last sentence the honour of his lowest bow. When he reseated himself his face was troubled. His usual flattering speech failed him; he went straight to the point, not hiding his regret and anxiety.

'In the first case, Mistress Penrock, and to my infinite sorrow, I fear it is impossible for me to accompany you. I am in Her Majesty's suite, and should have been at Tunbridge this day but for an affair of the regiment for which Her Majesty gave me a day's absence. In the second—your pardon—but is it wise, this project of yours?'

Marion gave no sign of the dismay she felt as Beckenham explained his position; when he offered his criticism of her plan her eyes flashed. She rose.

'As you are in Her Majesty's service, sir, there is nothing more to be said, except to thank you for your kindness in coming to the house.'

Beckenham bowed.

'Forgive me,' he said, something of the look his messmates knew coming into his eyes. 'There is something to be said. It would be an ill reward to the friendship with which Lady Fairfax has always favoured me if I failed her at this point.'

'Failed her, sir?'

'Failed her, madam. Lady Fairfax is away, her husband is away, Colonel Sampson is away. For the moment you are unprotected. I would not let my sister or my mother travel so far without suitable escort. Shall I allow a lady whom I would honour as I do either, to set out on such a dangerous road? I must offer a very humble but very real protest, Mistress Marion. May not the matter wait?'

'It may not wait.'

Marion sat down again, her anger undone by the manner of Beckenham's speech. The two were silent awhile, the gentleman watching his companion, who was toying with the lid of her aunt's sweetmeat box, her thoughts already running ahead to the problem as to which of the Fairfax servants she would choose to take Beckenham's place.

'Is your mind fully made up, Mistress Marion?' asked the soldier, his face still troubled.

Marion's grey eyes met his own with what was known by her aunt as the Penrock look.

'I am setting out for Garth to-morrow, with or without escort. That is quite decided. Look on it as a fact, Captain Beckenham,' she added with a fleeting smile, 'and not as a proposition.'

The young man watched the mouth droop at the corners again.

'I will come,' he said suddenly. ''Twill mean disgr——' He stopped short.

Marion gave him an indulgent glance. 'I would not allow my brother or my father to imperil an already tender reputation, sir,'—she smiled again—'by disobeying royal commands. The same protecting watchfulness I must apply to yourself. To withhold it would be an ill return for the services you have rendered my aunt. Take that as final, like the fact of my going.' The gentle tone of her voice and the raillery of her smile eased the straightness of her speech.

'How she has suddenly become grown-up,' mused Beckenham, for once tongue-tied. ''Tis not the same frightened child I found in the coach that first night. What a villainous ill fortune that I should be thus tied to Her Majesty's apron!' Then striving to put the personal part of the question out of his mind, he bent his thoughts to the problem of the lady's service. 'I have it!' He jumped up, speaking with a boyish eagerness that stood him better in Marion's favour than all his courtly airs. 'There's my servant, Tony. May I not lend you my servant, Mistress Marion? He's a brave lad and a tough soldier—worth three others, any day, though I myself say it.'

Marion felt a relief she did not show.

'If the servant be like his master, Captain Beckenham,' she said demurely, 'I am sure he will be worth—three, did you say?—or was it four?'

Beckenham laughed outright, then sobered again. 'There's Grammont, too,' he said. 'I had forgotten him.'

'Lord Grammont? No, sir. I do not like Lord Grammont,' said Marion bluntly.

Mr. Beckenham's head swam a little, but he made no comment on the obvious comparison. 'Grammont's a good fellow,' was his reply.

'There's another thing,' said Marion suddenly, a vague notion in the back of her mind asserting itself. 'I want your promise that you will keep this affair private.'

Beckenham felt a slight shock and his face sobered. 'Forgive me,' he said, 'but Lady Fairfax——'

'You will make an excellent grandfather in time. Captain Beckenham. 'Twere a pity to hasten the day. Of course I shall write to tell my aunt and also Colonel Sampson, and leave a note for my uncle. Could anything be more open? I meant that you should keep this matter private from the Lord Grammonts of your acquaintance. It concerns myself alone.'

'I will promise not to say a word, Mistress Marion,' said Beckenham after a minute's thought, 'if you will on the other hand promise me to take Reuben as well. I myself will accompany you as far as Hounslow, and then strike across country. I shall feel more comfortable once you are past the Heath. But Reuben is a youth of parts. He is quick of thought, has all his five senses in excellent working order; whereas my good Tony is apt to rely too much upon his sword. With those two, and the excellent Zacchary, who is a stalwart fellow, for an escort, I should feel more at ease when I am called on to report this affair to my Lady Fairfax. Even then, 'twill be an ordeal,' he added with a comical air.

'Fear not,' smiled Marion. 'I will make your case plain enough for my aunt's full forgiveness. 'Tis I who will have to meet her anger, some time, but not yourself.'

Beckenham shook his head. 'A man who has the honour of being a friend has nevertheless a certain responsibility.'

'I think I will take Reuben, if he will come,' said Marion, her spirits rising as the difficulties fell away. 'If he will come! Is there a youth in London who would not covet the privilege more than all——' Beckenham stopped short as he met Marion's look.

For a few minutes more the two talked of the journey. Then Marion rose, saying how very busied she must be in the short time left, and thanked the soldier for his kindness.

'I trust,' said Captain Beckenham, 'that you may find your trouble—your errand that causes this urgency—not so great as you may think when you reach your journey's end.'

Marion started and her eyelids drooped. Then she held out her hand, and the eager words Beckenham had to say concerning his sorrow at her departure from Kensington froze before the distant, sorrowful look in her eyes. He lifted the fingers to his lips and turned on his heel. At the door he paused. Marion was looking in his direction, but her gaze was on something remote. The young man bowed again in silence; Marion, recollecting herself as the servant appeared, dropped a low curtsey and bade Captain Beckenham a very good evening.

With heavy steps she mounted to her bedroom. In the adjoining chamber Simone was busy with the travelling boxes. The door between the two rooms was ajar, and Simone, seeing her young mistress enter, ran forward and stood mutely waiting. Marion went to the open window and leaned her head wearily on the casement. The song of a nightingale in the lanes beyond Kensington village came to her ears.

'Listen,' said Marion, as Simone stole up to her side, 'listen to yonder bird. How can he sing so? There is no sorrow in the world for him!'

'Nay, Mademoiselle, 'tis sorrow tunes his song, you forget. But, Mademoiselle——'

'Yes?'

'Pardon, but I should so like to know——'

''Tis well. Captain Beckenham cannot come, but he is lending his servant, and I have also promised to take Reuben.'

Marion roused herself and went across to her writing table, glancing into the adjoining room as she passed the door.

'All packed? Good. You have done bravely, Simone. Now I must write to my aunt and uncle, and Colonel Sampson.'

Simone still lingered. 'Mademoiselle——'

'What is it?'

'I have been thinking about——'

A knock at the door interrupted her. 'Come in,' called Marion, bending over her paper. A subdued exclamation from Simone made Marion turn her head. Zacchary and Reuben stood together in the doorway. Reuben was stepping forward, but Zacchary caught his sleeve.

''Tain't but me, Mistress Marion,' began Zacchary, his free hand touching his forehead. 'There bain't no gainsaying this 'ere young man. Her's some set on travelling wi' we to-morrow.'

'By your leave, Madam,' said the Cockney youth, 'it would give me the greatest pleasure.'

'A did say,' put in Zacchary, with a sidelong withering look at the man who borrowed the speeches of the great, 'a did say as 'tweren't no use nohow. Stands to reason a Lunnon man knows nothing o' country going. But if you'm so minded, Mistress, as to allow un, a might serve to hold the horses' heads—'lowing her knows head from tail—ony roads her'll run back fast enough when the highwaymen start on we.'

'Zacchary, Zacchary!' said Marion. 'And 'twas yourself told me of Reuben's valiant fight with footpad at Knightsbridge yonder, two years ago.'

'A don't deny as a be a fule sometimes,' said Zacchary meditatively, scratching his head, 'but it bain't the same——'

'I'm busy now,' interrupted Marion. 'Take Reuben downstairs and tell him as much as you can of the journey up to prepare him for the journey down. I shall be very glad of your company, Reuben. You may ride on the coach seat with Zacchary. Are your carbines ready, Zacchary?'

'Ay, Mistress, but a were saying——'

'And plenty of shot?'

'Us 'as enough shot to fight the battle o' Sedgemoor all over again,' declared the Cornishman.

'Then 'tis highly likely you won't pull the trigger once, Zacchary. But, Reuben, you need not fear these tales. The roads have been quieter, I think, since the coming and going of the King's men these months. My father and I came up to Kensington without being murdered on the coach steps. And, in any case, Captain Beckenham's servant is coming as outrider. From what I hear,' added Marion, 'he shoots three men at once.'

'Presarve 's!' said Zacchary. 'Like as not her'll shoot we, Mistress.'

Marion took up her quill. 'Be ready to start at eight o'clock,' she said briefly.

'Can't think what have come to the little maid,' mused Zacchary, as he lumbered downstairs in the wake of the delighted Reuben. 'Her's growing more like the Admur'l every day.'

Meanwhile Simone waited, sadly noting how soon the grave expression had overrun the smile with which her young mistress had talked to Zacchary.

'You had something to say, Simone?'

'Mademoiselle, have you thought about money?'

Marion laid down her pen again with an exclamation of dismay. 'I had quite forgotten money!'

'I had been wondering. You'll want a good deal, Mademoiselle.'

Marion counted out her purse. 'And there are two guineas in my jewel box.'

'Madame Romaine has the little money I have saved,' remarked Simone. 'I never thought of asking her for it. But it is very little.'

'It is kind of you to think of that, Simone. What can I do? Oh, if only Colonel Sampson had not gone away on that sudden journey! What can I do?'

'Mademoiselle,' said Simone after, a pause, 'when ladies find themselves in need of money, they generally borrow on their jewellery.'

With her forehead resting on her hand Marion thought awhile.

'There is no other way that I can see,' she said in a low tone, 'and she would not mind. We shall have to sell the pearl necklace, Simone.'

'There is no need to sell, Mademoiselle,' explained Simone. 'The goldsmith will lend you the money, and you can leave it with him and get it again later.'

'But,' said Marion in dismay, a new thought striking her, 'that means delay. What is the hour now?'

'Close on ten o'clock, Mademoiselle. Impossible, of course, to-night. But if Mademoiselle will trust me, I will go up to Lombard Street to-morrow morning, and seek a man I know of there.'

'How will you go?'

'My lady left the small coach, and there are plenty of horses. I will be back with the money by the time Mademoiselle is ready.'

Marion turned with a sigh to her letter. 'Be sure to take a servant with you in the coach. I cannot think what I should do without you, Simone.'

Simone dropped on one knee, and laid her cheek against Marion's idle hand. 'Je ne cherche aucun plaisir que de vous servir, Mademoiselle.'

'Tais-toi!' said Marion huskily, her fingers touching the glossy head. 'I have not time to weep.'

With her mouth in set lines, Marion wrote her letters. When they were directed and sealed, she found Simone waiting to undress her. Her jewel box, a present from Lady Fairfax, was by the bed. Marion took from it the case containing the pearl and turquoise necklace, and handing it to Simone, dismissed her for the night.

She sank on her knees by the high, canopied bed. 'Our Father,' began the tremulous whisper. Then the golden brown head fell on the coverlet. 'O Roger, Roger!' she sobbed.

CHAPTER XIV

A HALT ON THE ROAD

Marion sat in the corner of the coach, wondering why the roads had become so much more uneven, the vehicle itself so comfortless, the sturdy greys so slow seeming, since she had travelled that same course with her father not more than two months ago. And she had not the consolation that pleasanter riding lay ahead; ruefully she thought of the waggon tracks of the west country, compared with which the narrow lanes, deeply rutted, through which the coach now rocked and jolted, made easy going.

On the first day, after Beckenham had left the party, and the coach had settled down to a steady pace, the sense of slowness had been intolerable to the girl. Her fear and dread sped backwards and forwards between Roger in his gaol and herself crawling snailwise over the intervening space, and taunted her with her helplessness. The enforced inaction left her a prey to mental maladies that otherwise she would have shaken off. Moody and irritable, she had words for none.

At the outset, she had been forced to recognise one drag on her speed: she dare not press the greys beyond their strength, nor dare she leave them at some posting-house and take fresh horses for the succeeding stages of the journey. That she risked her father's displeasure in any case, in returning thus, she was certain. She saw her position from his point of view: merely because she could not bear to stay behind, she had come home; but that was no reason why she should ruin the horses. Therefore it was needless for Zacchary to preach rest and caution. At the inn where they stopped for the night, Marion saw to it that the weight of her purse and the new-born authority of her manner ensured the best stabling and food the house afforded. She had done all she could. Everything now depended on the coach and the animals. But in the meantime only some few hours had passed since she left London, and long days lay ahead during which she must perforce sit idle.

The morrow found her in the same gloomy condition, her desperate fancy dwelling on each coming stage of the interminable road. One day pressed on to another without any incident to ease her unhappy mood. Slowly the sun rose, and slowly sank to rest; the young moon over her casement mocked her restless sleep; and for Marion the incomparable beauty of the green summer turned into the spite of prison walls.

Simone, unobtrusively watching her young mistress, began to be concerned for her state, and would have almost welcomed an accident, a stray highwayman, if only the face in the corner would lose its set look.

But so far no such ill hap had occurred. Travelling only by daylight, and so well guarded, and, as the men on the box averred, protected by a special fate, the coach had gone on its way unmolested. Tony the valiant, as Simone had dubbed him, was indeed worth the three men of his master's boast, and his splendid horsemanship and elegant livery had called for no few admiring glances from the farm lads and rosy-cheeked wenches who stood at times to watch the coach and its outrider go by. The travellers had done almost half the journey before Simone found out that while Zacchary and Reuben slept in a hayloft above the horses' stalls, Tony chose for his bed the boards of the landing outside the ladies' bedchamber. Simone herself, water jug in hand, had come suddenly upon this unexpected barricade one morning when Master Tony had overslept himself. She had all but fallen headlong over the prostrate body, and her exclamation finding its way into his dreams, the young man had become aware of a slippered foot within reach of his hand. At once his fingers closed on the foot, while he wriggled into a position that would enable him to see who was daring to pass so close to the door behind which his fair charges were sleeping. Scarcely had he brought his drowsy eyes to rest on Simone's dainty face before the few drops of water left in the ewer trickled on to his own. Her foot released, Simone stood back with a smile. 'So 'tis thyself who snores so loudly that my mistress and I have feared our walls were but thin boards! Snore on, valiant warrior,' said Simone over her shoulder, as she went along the passage. 'Henceforth the sound of thy slumbers shall be music to our ears.'

In the late afternoon of the fourth day the coach was making a rather slow progress along the Ilminster Road. Zacchary had discovered, or imagined, as Marion asserted, a slight lameness in the inside leader. Nothing would induce him to hurry his pace, and Marion had been obliged to bow to his will.

To Simone's unbounded relief, Marion's attack of depression had worn itself out. The consciousness that in a few more days, granted no ill fortune, she would cross the boundary into Cornwall, lent an added buoyancy to her reacting mood.

The sound of the broad Dorset speech, which had induced a home-coming sensation in Marion, had greatly diverted Simone. Marion, giving her a lesson in west country dialect, did not notice the narrow lane, deep ditched at one side, into which they had passed, and was unaware of any danger until, with a sickening heave, the coach slanted down into the hollow, and rested there.

'Bide where you be, Mistress,' came Zacchary's call. 'Us'll shift un all right!'

For a few seconds the men struggled at the horses' heads, the Cornishman's cries to the struggling greys running into a high falsetto and an affectionate reviling that made even Marion smile.

''Tis nothing,' she said to Simone, as the two balanced themselves against the list of the coach floor. 'We toppled into a ditch coming down, and were soon on the road again. Zacchary must have been careless for once. There! 'Twas a splendid pull. Ah—stay! What was that?'

The coach, almost balanced, had fallen back slanting-wise, and with the movement had come the sound of a snap, and a struggling of horses' feet. The voices of the men ceased.

'Something has happened,' said Marion, 'and I can't open this villainous door! Reuben!' she called.

The footman was already climbing on to the coach step, which appeared to be poised in mid-air, and in a moment the two girls were lifted to the ground.

Zacchary was bending over a broken trace.

'Oh!' said Marion in a relieved tone, 'I thought the pole had gone.'

Zacchary's mouth twisted under his beard. 'My lady would sing a different song by and by, when she saw the time it would take to mend the break.'

'You have all your tools, have you not?' asked Marion.

Zacchary straightened himself. 'There bean't nawt in yonder box at all, Mistress. A wor that struck at the sudden hurry of coming away a' clean forgot.'

Marion stood in silent dismay.

Meanwhile, Tony had been scouting ahead, and now trotted down the lane with the news that a likely inn was perched in a hollow over the next hill.

'Didst see aught of a cobbler's bench perched by un?' demanded Zacchary, his wrath rising. 'Streak off now, tha girt gawk! And if thou should light on a few sheep up over—and us allows tha'll be some scared—there bean't no call to trot back to tell the Mistress. A body would ha' thought—but thy head's too full o' Lunnon impidence for aught else.'

Not waiting to hear the end of the speech, Tony wheeled round.

'Will it take long to mend it, Zacchary?' inquired Marion.

'Maybe, maybe. 'Tis a bad split. Easy, now there,' called Zacchary, watching Reuben freeing the wheelers. 'So. Let un graze quiet-like.'

Marion sighed. 'Do your best, Zacchary,' she said gently. 'We will walk on a bit, and wait at the inn till you come.'

After a short walk between the steep flower-grown hedges, the two reached the little hostelry which Tony had espied from the crest of the hill. A smiling, rosy-cheeked innkeeper, with a smiling, rosy-cheeked wife at his side, stood on the steps as the two came up, their approach having been noted from the kitchen windows. The woman smoothed her apron and dropped a series of curtseys as her husband greeted the travellers.

'Thank you,' said Marion. 'We should like to wait awhile, but 'twould be more pleasure to walk about in the garden yonder than to sit indoors. We have had over much sitting in the coach these days past. But,' she added, rather anxiously, 'did not our man come up to ask for an awl and some leather for mending the trace?'

'He has but now gone up over, Madam,' said the innkeeper. 'The cobbler's cottage is that you see yonder, next the blacksmith's.'

As he spoke, the man pointed out the few dwellings of a tiny hamlet across the fields.

'If you would see that the cobbler comes himself,' began Marion:—then she broke off, smiling. 'Tony is indeed worth three men,' she said to Simone. 'See yonder where he comes with the cobbler riding behind.'

'A don't allow but that his horse be tired some,' remarked the innkeeper as, in a few minutes, Tony's chestnut went by at a canter with her double burden. 'Would it not be best to lie here and go on to-morrow?'

Here the wife chimed in. 'There be a dish o' trout from the brook, caught this morning, a fine ham up the chimney ready for cutting, Mistress, and sheep's kidneys, and a venison pasty, and a good fat fowl hanging yonder. Killed yesterday, 'twas.'

Marion shook her head. 'We want to get to Ilminster to-night.'

'Ilminster! For pity's sake, Mistress, think of the horses!' cried the innkeeper. 'But in any case, wife, get the ladies a pot of cider.'

For close on an hour Marion and Simone walked in the garden and to and fro along the lane, waiting for the rest of the party to reappear. Towards the end of the time Marion fell silent, and Simone forbore to draw her into conversation. At length the sound of horses was heard, and with an impatient word Marion turned to greet the laggards; but the word died on her lips, and she stared in dismay as the coach came up the lane, drawn by the wheelers only, Reuben following with the leaders at the rear of the vehicle.

'There bean't nothing amiss, Mistress Marion,' said Zacchary as the coach came to a standstill in front of the inn. 'Us have mended the trace all right, but you must see, with Jennifer falling lame, it be wellnigh impossible to reach Ilminster to-night. In any case the horses be weary. Cobbler tells me there bean't near so good stabling this side Exeter as to this here inn. I vote we stay, Mistress, and get on the road at sunrise.'

There was a doggedness in Zacchary's voice that Marion remembered from her childhood's days. It was no good arguing the matter when Zacchary spoke in that tone.

'Very well,' said Marion. She turned to go into the garden again, and Simone went to the well of the coach to find her mistress's box that had been set apart for necessities of travel.

'Then my lady will stay?' cried the innkeeper's wife. 'Supper shall be ready in a very short time.'

Her husband, meanwhile, was looking along the road to the west. In the bustle of stabling the greys no one had noticed another rider coming in from the Ilminster direction. The landlord listened intently for a minute, then his rosy face broadened into a still wider smile.

'Here be another for supper and bed, an I mistake not,' he called to his wife. 'Yonder roan hath cast a shoe.'

From inside the garden, which ran westward of the inn, Marion looked curiously for the arrival of another victim of the hazards of the road. Presently the roan trotted up, and the rider dismounted. He was a lean, spare young man, and from his garments and manner of speech as he greeted the innkeeper, Marion vaguely classed him as a lawyer's clerk.

'You have ridden hard, sir,' the innkeeper was saying. 'And a finer brute I never saw.'

Mine host had evidently no suspicion that Marion was within earshot; precisely the same approval he had cast on her greys.

'I ride on a hard errand, my good man,' said the new comer in a slightly pompous tone. 'Is there a smith hereabouts?'

The landlord indicated the cottages across the green. 'My boy shall take your horse, sir,' he said, 'and supper will be on the table presently. We have youth and beauty for our guests to-night, sir.'

'Aha!' said the stranger, squaring his shoulders and pulling his moustache—'and who may——?'

With a smile, Marion moved out of earshot.

Presently Zacchary came hesitatingly into the garden. Having won his point so easily, he was wishful for a word of peace with his lady. ''Twas for the best,' he said, his old eyes looking into the clear grey ones.

'I know it, Zacchary,' said Marion gently. 'Are the horses all right? What of Jennifer?'

Zacchary nodded. 'Jennifer will be all right to-morrow. Yonder Tony be a power o' help. A don't allow but her be as handy a man with the brutes as ever a clapped eyes on. Beats me how her knows such a terr'ble lot about horses, and Lunnon-born and bred.' The old groom moved a step nearer. 'Yonder be a Devon man now come,' he pursued, his voice dropping. 'Do 'ee look out for your purse, Mistress.'

'Zacchary! I am truly ashamed of you!'

Zacchary looked stolidly at his mistress. 'Like as not a rogue,' he insisted. 'A don't niver trust they Devon ikes. I should be main surprised if her haven't robbed somebody already, being that careful with the saddlebags and all.'

'I don't suppose his saddlebags contain anything more than a bundle of documents,' said Marion. 'You're as bad as old Mother Borlase, Zacchary.'

'And the man was that solemn and grand,' went on Zacchary, 'a body might a took un for Governor of Bodmin, no less.'

'Go and get your supper. And don't be such a quarrelsome wretch. The man is very well.'

Marion followed Zacchary indoors and was escorted by the innkeeper's wife to the best bedroom, where Simone had laid out a change of dress for her mistress.

'I feel mightily inclined for a quiet meal,' remarked Marion as the last deft touches were put to her hair and gown. 'And perhaps I may get one if you will show the same kindness that you showed in entertaining Captain Beckenham on my behalf that first day.'

A slight spot of colour showed on Simone's cheeks.

'À votre service, Mademoiselle,' she said in a rather constrained voice.

Marion glanced at her curiously in the mirror. 'He was certainly very gallant and delightful,' she went on. 'No one can be more so than Captain Beckenham. Yonder man downstairs is of a different order, though. Still, I have no fear your fine steel will fail in meeting his heavy blade.'

As Marion spoke a kitchen-maid knocked at the door to announce supper, and the two went down into the little dining-room. Mine host, all smiles and delight, stood within the doorway. He was one of those innkeepers who made travelling a pleasure; the comfort and happiness of his guests and not his own gain seemed to be his one consideration. By the window stood the newcomer. He turned as the ladies entered. From the amount of self-importance he contrived to put into his greeting Marion understood at once Zacchary's hostile feeling.

With the slightest lift of her eyebrows Simone followed her mistress to the place allotted and sat down. After acknowledging the stranger's bow with a cold salutation, Marion turned her attention to the innkeeper and then to her supper. Her sense of weariness and lurking anxiety was weighing on her spirits. Nothing but the eager face of her host as he hovered by her chair, pressing dish after dish for her acceptance, would have made her break the silence that, in her present mood, was the only comfort possible.

Meanwhile the stranger had turned his attention to Simone, and presently, as the good cheer of food and wine stole over Marion's senses, easing a little her mental strain, she became aware that a very fine play was going on across the table. The countryman could make no headway against Simone's cool wit. He fell back on the resort of his kind: boasting. Mine host's wine, too, in the quantities the man drank, would have made a braggart of the humblest spirit.

Thus it was that Marion, her eyes on the June roses that overran the grey walls of the inn, flaming red in warm sunset, suddenly became aware of the man's rising voice, of his flourishes as he talked of himself. She brought her cool, level gaze to bear upon his heated face. At the moment he was explaining for the benefit of the innkeeper his own very great impatience as compared with other folk who wandered aimlessly on this dull planet.

'Show us thy merit, then, sir,' broke in the smiling innkeeper. 'Give us chapter and verse!'

'Ah!' said the other, bridling, ''tis a secret mission.'

Simone slightly shrugged her shoulders and turned to her custard.

''Tis an interesting word—secret,' she remarked idly.

''Tis a word not much liked hereabouts,' interposed the landlord with a look for his guest. ''Tis main near to Dorchester for that.'

'Ay, well mayst thou look so, my good man,' said the other, laying down his glass. 'And there be others who would look on me thus did they know what I carry. Before you, madam,' he said, turning to Simone with a clumsy, top-heavy bow, 'you see a man in whose hands is a mission of life and death.'

Marion looked hard at the speaker.

'La, la!' said Simone. 'You are then arranging a duel. Where is 't to be fought?'

'Ay—a duel, mistress, wherein but one shall bear a tool. But—' the man puffed out his chest, 'the result of my mission may mean that even that one tool shall be idle. In the main I hope it may, for I hear 'tis a well-known youth of excellent parts who has tripped in the path, and that more out of friendliness than roguery.' Taking Marion's unwavering look for a stare of admiration the man paused for further effect. 'Ay,' he said again, 'in these hands lies the life of one who pines yonder—' he jerked his head in the direction of the setting sun. 'More wine, mine host. 'Tis a worthy vintage. Mistress, the honour of a bumper.'

Marion rose. 'Our host himself will bear you company, sir,' she said, her face calm. 'I pray you—' turning to the innkeeper, 'take a bottle at my charges. 'Tis a most excellent supper, and should not be spoilt with haste. But as for ourselves, we are somewhat weary, and we wish you a very good evening.'

The innkeeper's wife came trotting in in answer to her husband's call, and taking a candle, accompanied the ladies to their chamber. In response to Marion's question, she explained that Zacchary and his fellows had supped, and, the night being yet young, had gone over with her own serving men for company for a friendly hour at the blacksmith's. The kitchen wenches were abed, she added, for they must be up before dawn. And if the ladies had no further need of her, she herself would retire. Marion had already learned that the inn was also something in the nature of a farm, and knowing the double labours that must fall on those plump shoulders, she bade the woman seek her own couch at once.

'We ourselves must be up before the sun,' she said. 'I would fain be well on the road by seven o'clock.'

With a bobbing curtsey the woman departed. As she went down the landing Marion turned and looked at Simone.

CHAPTER XV

IN THE HARNESS ROOM

The two stood in silence until the sound of a door closing came from the farther end of the house.

'You have the same dread,' said Marion heavily. 'I can see it. I had hoped perhaps 'twas my nervous fancy that, like a colt, shies at every stone in the path.'

She sat down on the low window seat.

'He bears a letter,' said Simone suddenly.

'And 'tis not in his pocket, or he would have slapped it bravely. 'Tis in his saddlebags.'

'In the stable, Mademoiselle?'

'In the harness room, I expect, next to the stable. I noted the place when we were waiting.'

Marion buried her face in her hands. A silence fell on the little chamber. The sound of laughter and voices rose from the room below.

'Mademoiselle,' presently came Simone's whisper, 'this is unbearable. Perhaps we are both mistaken. Our thoughts naturally go the same way. If you saw the letter, you would know. Let me find it for you.'

'No,' said Marion firmly, lifting her head. 'No hand is laid to such an action but my own. I take myself whatever risk may befall. And if I do it, I must do it at once, before the light fails—and before delay makes a coward of me. I had already thought of it. 'Twould appear easy enough; the men abroad, the servant girls in bed. And if I am discovered, I must be looking at Jennifer's knees.'

'Mademoiselle,' ventured Simone, 'you must be ready, you know. The letter will doubtless be sealed. I have heard that a hot knife, run under the seal, will ease it without breaking it. You will find a knife in the kitchen, and the logs are alight. I saw the glow from the passage.'

Marion shivered slightly. ''Tis a foul thing that I set myself to do, but I must know. I must know. Quick, Simone! Take off my shoes. Stockings make no sound.'

A minute later Marion crept stealthily downstairs. Mine host and the traveller were talking over their wine, their heads dark against the sunset light which fell slanting through the latticed window.

From the crack of the door, as she stole by, Marion caught a glimpse of the two figures, the smoke rising from their pipes. How long would they stay thus?

Noiselessly she crept along the passage in the direction whence she had seen the servant girl come with dishes for supper. A glow from some interior warmth lay across the passage stones, the same light that Simone had noted. With a quick backward glance Marion turned in at the open kitchen door.

A fire of logs burned in the huge chimney place, casting gleams on the brass cooking utensils hanging on the chimney breast. On the table stood various dishes and jugs. Rapidly Marion looked about for a knife. Would she, she thought with a sudden tremor, be obliged to open a drawer? Neither on the dresser nor on the table was a knife to be seen.

She tiptoed across the room to an open door. Beyond lay the inn yard and the stables. The exit was clear. So far so good; but the knife?

Another door just on the latch stood in the opposite wall. Peeping in, Marion saw the place she sought: the 'wash-up.' A pile of knives and forks stood on a side bench, clean from supper, but evidently awaiting scouring. Hastily she selected the one with the slenderest blade.

As she turned to go back into the kitchen, her foot caught in the slanting leg of a rough stool just inside the little room. It jerked on the stones. Marion stood still, her heart thumping so loudly that she felt that the men whose voices came dimly down the passage must be hearing its beat where they sat. Something moved overhead. In an agony of fear Marion waited. Should she get out of the kitchen at once before those steps came downstairs? Better anything than be caught indoors in this fashion. For close on a minute she stood, the throbbing pulse in her brow measuring out the seconds.

The sounds did not recur. She crept towards the fireplace. With her ears straining for any sound she plunged the knife into the glowing embers, and took her handkerchief to protect her hand from any heat which the handle might catch. Not until the blade was red did she allow herself to withdraw the knife.

Hastily she darted out at the open kitchen door. A second later she was in the harness room. At the doorway she turned and peeped up at the house. From the small window of an upper chamber came the gleam of candle light: the bedroom of the inn-keeper's wife, she guessed.

With the rapidly cooling knife in one hand Marion cast an experienced eye on the saddles, bridles and general gear hanging on the walls of the harness room. On a shelf above stood the only saddle whose bags were packed and buckled. Desperately she struggled with the first buckle. If the document proved to be in the second bag she knew she would have to go back and heat the knife afresh.

Tears of relief blinked in her eyes as she opened the bag and drew out a folded paper sealed with a large red seal. Now for the knife. Never before had she tried such an experiment. Was the knife hot enough? Gently she slid the blade under the wax. The seal came easily away. Bearing the letter to the half-open door she glanced hurriedly over its contents.

The letter was written in a bold, legal hand, and was easily read. It was inscribed, with many flourishes, to the Lord High Chancellor of the realm. Marion's eyes ran down the lines. She caught her breath painfully and went on.... 'The question being of one Roger Trevannion of the parish of Garth, Esquire. Whereas the prisoner now in the County gaol, Exeter, hath been found guilty of lending aid and sustenance to the King's enemies in that he did privily and treasonably forewarn one Richard Merrion Hooper of the parish ...' Marion looked farther down the page ... 'which crime should assuredly merit death; but inasmuch that the prisoner be a man of note, indeed a lord of the manor in his own parts, we lay the case before your Illustrious Highness in the hope that your well-known clemency may dictate terms of mercy.

'Given under our hand and seal....'

With hands that seemed turned to stone Marion folded the letter. Mechanically she pressed the knife to the under surface of the seal. The blade was almost cold. For a few moments she stood, her hand on the doorpost for support. An owl hooting in his soundless flight across the yard made her start and drop the knife. Her head swam as she stooped and picked it up. Without any further delay, her teeth on her white, trembling lip, she stole across the yard into the kitchen and thrust the blade once more into the glowing embers. Cold beads stood on her forehead. She knew she was fast losing control of herself. But the hideous task must be finished. It seemed an hour before the steel yielded to the heat. Mechanically she wrapped the handkerchief round the handle again. As she went out she heard a chair grate loudly on the floor in the dining-room beyond. The men were moving.

A minute later and the seal was pressed home and the letter replaced.

As she buckled the saddlebag a wave of faintness overcame her and she leaned against the wall. She struggled for breath. Then stepping to the door, a new thought seized her.

Why allow that document to go? There were sheets of paper in her box upstairs. Why not risk the enterprise still further, carry the letter upstairs and transfix the seal? Yonder logs in the kitchen would be hot an hour or more.

Her hand to her forehead, Marion strove desperately to summon judgment and reason to the aid of her distracted thoughts. But as she stood, round and round in her head, like a clanging bell, sounded the phrases she had read. She closed her eyes. Immediately before her vision came the words Roger Trevannion of the parish of Garth, Esquire.

She opened her eyes with a start. Yonder men had been moving in the dining-room when she left the kitchen. As she rallied herself, voices sounded in the still night across the fields. There came the distant, quick bark of a dog. The men were returning from the blacksmith's. She stood between two dangers of detection.

With every nerve tense, trembling from head to foot, Marion worked out the problem. If she destroyed the paper and the courier did not find out the substitution, the hand of the law might be stayed. She would gain time. On the other hand, the messenger evidently knew something of the nature of his mission. He would supply certain facts; and Jeffreys' wrath at being duped would immediately result in a swift condemnation.

The girl started and clutched the door as the quick bark sounded again, this time much nearer.

If she let the letter go there was a faint hope of pardon, in any case she would gain a few days—four perhaps—while the man was going to London and back. It was better so. The letter should go.

Just as the men opened the outer gate of the farm, Marion ran back across the kitchen and stood in the passage. The innkeeper, in the middle of the dining-room, his back to the girl, was yawning loudly. The courier was emptying his last glass. Like a ghost Marion stole past the door and up the stairs.

CHAPTER XVI

EXETER

Simone was waiting on the landing, and as her mistress crept into the room she noiselessly barred the door. Marion sank on the bed, breathing unevenly, her face showing the strain she had undergone. Simone held a glass of water to her lips. She drank eagerly, then buried her face in the coverlet.

Along the passage without went the heavy steps of the courier. Simone was seized with a sudden horror as she realised how near success had run to failure. Success? She looked at the bowed head. Gently she took up the trembling hands.

''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.'