'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.