'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.
'A 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.'