She pushed the paper from her; the close handwriting was no more to her than black marks on the paper.  She passed her hands over her forehead and eyes.

“Mistress Marjorie, you look like death.  See, I will leave the paper with you.  It is from one of my friends who was there....”

The door was pushed open, and the servant came in, bearing a tray.

“Set it down,” said Marjorie, as coolly as if death and horror were as far from her as an hour ago.

She nodded sharply to the maid, who went out again; then she rose and spread the food within the man’s reach.  He began to eat and drink, talking all the time.

* * * * *

As she sat and watched him and listened, remembering afterwards, as if mechanically, all that he said, she was contemplating something else.  She seemed to see Campion, not as he had been three days ago, not as he was now ... but as she had seen him in London—­alert, brisk, quick.  Even the tones of his voice were with her, and the swift merry look in his eyes....  Somewhere on the outskirts of her thought there hung other presences:  the darkness, the blood, the smoking cauldron....  Oh! she would have to face these presently; she would go through this night, she knew, looking at all their terror.  But just now let her remember him as he had been; let her keep off all other thoughts so long as she could....

II

When she had heard the horse’s footsteps scramble down the little steep ascent in the dark, and then pass into silence on the turf beyond, she closed the outer door, barred it once more, and then went back straight into the hall, where the lantern still burned among the plates.  She dared not face her mother yet; she must learn how far she still held control of herself; for her mother must not hear the news:  the apothecary from Derby who had ridden up to see her this week had been very emphatic.  So the girl must be as usual.  There must be no sign of discomposure.  To-night, at least, she would keep her face in the shadow.  But her voice?  Could she control that too?

After she had sat motionless in the cold hall a minute or two, she tested herself.

“He is dead,” she said softly.  “He is quite dead, and so are the others.  They—­”

But she could not go on.  Great shuddering seized on her; she shook from head to foot....

Later that night Mrs. Manners awoke.  She tried to move her head, but the pain was shocking, and still half asleep, she moaned aloud.

Then the curtains moved softly, and she could see that a face was looking at her.

“Margy!  Is that you?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Move my head; move my head.  I cannot bear—­”

She felt herself lifted gently and strongly.  The struggle and the pain exhausted her for a minute, and she lay breathing deeply.  Then the ease of the shifted position soothed her.