'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.