The Admiral's Daughter

by Margaret Stuart Lane

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.