For a moment even the stout-hearted Rector was appalled. But Enid,
although she was watching him intently, could not read anything but
unfaltering sympathy and ready cheer in the glance that he gave her and
the words that rose almost immediately to his tongue.
"Courage! Doctors are very often wrong," he said. "Besides, I do not see
why such an ending should be feared, even if there were any
constitutional tendency of the kind in your family, which there is not."
"No," said Enid, less timidly than before; "I believe there is not. I
have asked."
"Your attacks are only nervous, my dear Miss Vane. The very fact of your
having--foolishly, I think--been, told the doctor's theories has made it
less possible for you to strive against the malady; and yet you say that
it has not made progress lately. You have not been ill in this way for
six months?"
"No, not for six months."
"Don't you see that the excitement and fatigue of to-day's expedition,
and the sad scene which we have just witnessed, would be likely to
increase any ailment of the nervous system? You must not argue anything
from what has happened to-day. Forgive me," the Rector broke off to say,
with a smile--"I am talking like a doctor to you, and my medical skill
is small indeed. It is only large enough to enable me to assure you,
Miss Vane, of my conviction that your fears are ungrounded, and that you
are tormenting yourself to no purpose. Will you try to take my advice
and turn your thoughts away from this unhappy subject?"
"I will try," answered Enid, with rather a bewildered look. "But," she
added a moment later, "I thought that I ought to be always on my guard;
and one cannot be on one's guard without thinking about the matter."
"Who told you that you ought to be always on your guard?"
"Flossy--I mean Mrs. Vane. She is very kind, and watches me constantly.
Oh, I forgot," said the girl, starting to her feet, and clasping her
hands before her with a look of wretched nervous terror which went to
the Rector's heart--"I forgot--I forgot----"
"What did you forget?" said Evandale, wondering for a moment whether her
mind was not unhinged by all that she had passed through that afternoon.
Then, touched by her evident distress, he went on more lightly, "I have
been forgetting that you will be missed from the Hall by this time, and
that the whole country-side will be out after you if we do not go back
at once. I will send for a carriage and drive down with you, if you will
allow me."
Enid sank back on the sofa and assented listlessly. Mr. Evandale left
the room, and sent in his absence a comfortable-looking old housekeeper
with wine and biscuits, offers of tea and coffee, and all sorts of
medicaments suitable to a young lady who had been faint and unwell--as
was only to be expected after witnessing the death of Mrs. Meldreth,
that troublesome old person having expired quite suddenly that afternoon
when Miss Vane and Mr. Evandale were both at her bedside. Enid was not
inclined to accept any of Mrs. Heale's attentions, but, out of sheer
dislike to hurting her feelings, she at last accepted a cup of tea, and
was glad of the reviving warmth which it brought to her cold and tired
limbs. And then Mr. Evandale returned.
"There is no carriage at the inn," he said; "and I am sorry to say, Miss
Vane, that I do not possess one that would suit you--I have only a high
dog-cart and a kicking mare; so I have taken the liberty of sending down
to the Hall and telling Mrs. Vane that you are here; and she will no
doubt send a carriage for you. I wrote a little note to her--it was the
best thing, I thought, that I could do."
"Yes," said Enid, almost inaudibly. Then she leaned back and closed her
eyes, looking as if she felt sick and faint.
Mrs. Heale glided away, in obedience to a nod from her master, and the
Rector was once more alone with Enid Vane.
"I hope," he said, with a slight hesitation, which was rather graceful
in a man of his commanding stature and singular loftiness of bearing--"I
hope, Miss Vane, you will not think that I have been intrusive when I
tell you that I entreated Sabina Meldreth to confess anything that might
weigh upon her conscience, as her mother had confessed to you."
A great wave of crimson suddenly passed over Enid's pallid cheeks and
brow. She raised a pair of startled eyes to the Rector's' face, and then
said quickly--
"Did she tell you?"
"No, Miss Vane, she did not."
"Then will you promise me," said Enid, with sudden earnestness, "never
to ask her again?"
"How can I do that? It may be my duty to ask her for her soul's sake;
you would be the last to counsel me to be silent then."
"Oh, but you do not understand! I know now--I know what is weighing on
Sabina Meldreth's mind; and I have forgiven her."
"It was a wrong done to you?"
"Yes--to me."
"And to no one else?" Enid's head drooped.
"I don't know--I can't tell. I must think it over."
"Yes--think and pray," said the Rector gravely but tenderly; "and
remember that truth should always prevail."
"I know--I believe it; but it would do more harm than good."
"Miss Vane, if I am indiscreet, I trust you will pardon me. If by any
chance this confession has reference to the death of your father, Mr.
Sydney Vane, it is your duty to make it known, at any cost to your own
feelings."
The girl looked up with an expression of relief.
"It does not bear on that subject at all, Mr. Evandale."
"I am glad. You will forgive me for alluding to it? A wild fancy crossed
my mind that it had something to do with that."
"I shall never forget your kindness," said Enid gratefully.
"And if you are in perplexity--in any trouble--will you trust me to do
all for you that is in my power? If you ever want help, you will
remember that I am ready--ready for all--all that you might require----"
He never finished his speech, which was perhaps fortunate for him. With
Enid's soft eyes, slightly distressed and appealing in expression,
looking straight into his own, with the sight before him of her pale,
wistful face, the lovely lips which had fallen into so pathetic a curve
of weariness and sorrow, how could the Rector be expected to preserve
his self-possession? His thoughts and his words became confused; he did
not quite know what he was saying, nor whether she heard and understood
him aright. He was glad to remember afterwards that the expression of
her countenance did not change; he brought neither alarm nor
astonishment into her eyes; there were only gentle gratitude and a kind
of hopelessness, the meaning of which he could not fathom, in the girl's
still raised listening face. But at that very moment a knock came to the
door; and half to the Rector's relief, half to his embarrassment, the
General himself walked in.
"Ah, thank Heaven, she is here!" were the old man's first words. "We
thought she was lost, Mr. Evandale--we did indeed. I met your messenger
on the way to the Hall, and sent him on for the carriage. A pretty time
you've given us, young lady!" he said, smiling at Enid and pinching her
chin, and then grasping the Rector's hand with a look of relief and
gratitude which told its own story.
"Miss Vane has been a good deal distressed and upset," said Mr.
Evandale. "She was at Mrs. Meldreth's bedside when the old woman died
this afternoon, and the scene was naturally very painful. I brought her
here that she might rest and recover herself a little before going
home."
He wanted to explain and simplify matters for Enid's benefit; he had
grasped the fact that her uncle's entrance was making her exceedingly
nervous. He put it down to fear of the General's anger, but it
afterwards occurred to him that Mrs. Meldreth's confession might, for
some reason or other, be the cause of her agitation. Certainly her
distress and confusion were at that moment very marked. She had risen
from her seat at his entrance, her color changing to crimson and then to
dead white more than once during the Rector's speech. It settled at last
into a painful pallor, which so impressed the General that he did not
even administer the gentle rebuke which he had intended Enid to receive
for her infringement of the rules on which her life was based. He could
not scold her when she stood before him, pale to the very lips, her
eyelids cast down, her hands joined together and nervously trembling, a
very embodiment of conscious guilt and shame.
"Bless my soul, she does look upset, and no mistake!" he exclaimed, in
his hearty and impulsive way. "Come, my dear--don't be so miserable
about it! I daresay you did not know how late it was, and the poor woman
could not be left. Yes, I quite understand; and I will explain it all to
your aunt. Sit down and rest until the carriage comes, as the Rector
does not mind our invasion of his study."
Mr. Evandale made some polite but slightly incoherent rejoinder, to
which nobody listened, for the General's attention was at that moment
completely monopolised by Enid, who on feeling his arm around her,
suddenly hid her white face on his shoulder and burst into tears.
"Oh, uncle," she sobbed, "you are so kind--so good! Forgive me!"
"Forgive you, my dear? There is nothing to forgive!" said the astonished
General, in a slightly reproving tone. "Of course I do not like your
staying out so late on a winter afternoon, but you need not make such a
fuss about it, my child. You must control yourself, control yourself,
you know. There, there--don't cry! What will Mr. Evandale think of you?
Why, bless me, Evandale has gone! Well, well, you need not cry--I am not
angry at all--only stop crying--there's a good girl!"
"Say you forgive me, uncle!" moaned Enid, heedless of his rather
disconnected remarks, which certainly had no bearing at all on the
dilemma forced upon her by the nature of Mrs. Meldreth's confession.
"Forgive you, my dear? Why, of course I do! You're a little upset, are
you not? But you must not give way like this--it'll never do--never do,"
said the General, patting her on the back benevolently. "There now--dry
your eyes, like a good girl; and I think I hear the carriage in the
lane, so we must be going. You've no idea how anxious about you poor
dear Flossy has been all the afternoon."
He was pleased to see that her tears were checked. She raised herself
from his shoulder and brushed away the salt drops with which her cheeks
were wet; but she sobbed no longer, and she stood perfectly still and
calm. He was not a man of keen observation; and, if the cold white look
which suddenly overspread her countenance had any meaning, it was not
one that he was likely to read aright.
A servant brought the intelligence that the carriage was at the door,
and shortly afterwards the Rector appeared. He had slipped away when
Enid burst into tears, hoping that she might confide to the General what
she had refused to confide to him; but a glance at the faces of the two
told him that his hopes had not been realised. The kindly complacency
which characterised the General's countenance was undisturbed, while
Enid's face bore the impress of mingled perplexity and despair. It
seemed to Maurice Evandale that each expression would have been changed
if Enid had bared her heart to her uncle. He did not know--he could not
even guess--what her secret was; but he instinctively detected the
presence of trouble, perhaps of danger.
The two men parted very cordially; for the General was deterred from
seeing much of the Rector only by Mrs. Vane's dislike of him, and his
kindly feeling was all the more effusive because he had so few
opportunities of expressing it. Enid took leave of the Rector with a
look, a wan little smile which touched him inexpressibly.
"You have part of my secret," it seemed to say. "Help me to bear the
burden; I am weak and need your aid." He vowed to himself that he would
do all that a man could do--all that she might ever ask. But Enid was
quite unconscious of having made that mute appeal.
She lay back in a corner of the carriage, saying she was too tired to
talk. The General left her in peace, but took one of her little hands
and held it tenderly between his own. He could not imagine why it
trembled and fluttered so much, why once it seemed to try to drag itself
away. The poor girl must be quite overdone, he thought to himself; she
was far too kind, too tender-hearted to go about amongst the village
people and witness all their woes; she was not strong enough to do such
work--he must speak to Flossy about it. And, while he was thus thinking,
the carriage turned in at the park gates and presently halted at the
great front-door. The servants came forward to assist the General, who
was a little stiff in his joints now and then; and he, in his turn, gave
an arm to Enid as she alighted. The old butler looked at her curiously
as she entered and stood for a moment, dazed and bewildered, in the
hall. Miss Enid was always pale, but he had never seen her look so white
and scared. She must be ill, he decided, and especially when she shrank
so oddly as he deferentially mentioned his mistress' name.
"My mistress hoped that you would come to her sitting room as soon as
you arrived, ma'am," he said.
She made a strange answer.
"No, no--I cannot--I cannot see her to-night!"
The General was instantly at her side.
"Enid, my dear, what do you mean? Your aunt wants to see you. She won't
be vexed with you--I'll make it all right with her," he added, in a
lower tone. "She has been terribly anxious about you. Come--I will take
you to her room."
"Not just now, uncle--not to-night," said the girl, in a tone of mingled
pain and dread. "I--I can't bear it--I am ill--I must be alone now!"
"My dear child, you must go to bed and rest. I'll explain it all to
Flossy. She will come to see you."
"No, no--I can't see any one! Forgive me, uncle; I hardly know what I am
saying or doing. I shall be better to-morrow. Till then--till then at
least I must be left in peace!"
She broke from his detaining hand with something so like violence, that
the General looked after her in wonder as she ran up-stairs.
"She must be ill indeed!" he murmured thoughtfully to himself, as he
wended his way to his wife's boudoir, to make his report to Flossy.
Meanwhile Enid's progress up-stairs was barred for a moment by her
little playmate and scholar, Dick, who ran out of his nursery to greet
her with a cry of joy. To his surprise and mortification, cousin Enid
did not stop to kiss him--did not even give him a pleasant word or
smile. With a stifled cry she disengaged her frock from his hand,
breaking from him as she had broken from the General just before, and
sped away to her own room. He heard her turn the key in her door, and,
for the first time realising the enormity of the woe that had come upon
him--the unprecedented fact that cousin Enid had been unkind--he lifted
up his voice and bursted into a storm of sobs, which would at any
ordinary time have brought her instantly to his side to comfort and
caress.
But this time Enid either did not hear or did not heed. She was
crouching down by the side of her bed, with her face hidden in the
coverlet, and her hands pressed over her ears, as if to exclude all
sound of the world without; and between the difficult passionate sobs by
which her whole frame was shaken, one phrase escaped from her lips from
time to time--a phrase which would have been unintelligible enough to an
ordinary hearer, but would have recalled a long and shameful story to
the minds of Florence Vane and one other woman in the world.
"Sabina Meldreth's child!" she muttered to herself not knowing what she
said. "How can I bear it? Oh, my poor uncle! Sabina Meldreth's child!"