“It is no use, Audrey,” she said to her daughter; “you have cried yourself out of recognition. My 378 dear child, you must go to bed now, and to sleep. That naughty, naughty girl is not worth our all being ill.”
“But, oh, mother! what has happened to her?”
“She is with Jasper, of course.”
“But suppose she is not, mother?”
“I do not suppose what is not the case, Audrey. She is beyond doubt with that pernicious woman, and as far as I am concerned I wash my hands of her.”
“And—the disgrace to-morrow?” said poor Audrey.
“My darling, you at least shall not be subjected to it. If I could find Evelyn I would take her myself to the school, and make her stand up before the scholars and tell them all that she had done; or if she refused I would tell for her. But as she is not here you are not going to be disgraced, my precious. I shall write a line to Miss Henderson telling her that the guilty party has flown, and that you are far too distressed6 to go to school; and I shall beg her to take any steps she thinks best. Really and truly that girl has made the place too hot to live in; I shall ask your father to take us abroad for the winter.”
“But surely, mother, you will not allow poor little Evelyn to get quite lost; you will try to find her?”
“Oh, my dear! have I not been trying? Do not say any more to me about her to-night. I am really so irritated that I may say something I shall be sorry for afterwards.” 379
So Audrey went to bed, and being young, she soon dropped asleep. Lady Frances, being dead tired, also slept; and the Squire, who knew nothing of all the fuss and trouble, came in at an early hour in the morning.
He lay down to sleep, and awoke after a short slumber7. He then got up, dressed, and went into his grounds.
Lady Frances and Audrey were at breakfast—Lady Frances very pale, and Audrey with traces of her violent weeping the night before still on her face—when a servant burst in great terror and excitement into the room.
“Oh, your ladyship,” he exclaimed, “the Squire is lying in the copse badly shot with his own gun! One of the grooms9 is with him, and Jones has gone for the doctor, and I came at once to tell your ladyship.”
Poor Lady Frances in her agony scarcely knew what she was doing. Audrey asked a frenzied10 question, and soon the two were bending over the stricken man. The Squire was shot badly in the side. A new fowling-piece lay a yard or two away.
“How did it happen?” said Lady Frances. “What can it mean?”
Audrey knelt by her father, took his icy-cold hand in hers, and held it to her lips. Was he dead?
As he lay there the young girl for the first time in all her life learned how passionately11, how dearly she loved him. What would life be without him? In some ways she was nearer to her mother than to 380 her father, but just now, as he lay looking like death itself, he was all in all to her.
“Oh, when will the doctor come?” said Lady Frances, raising her haggard face. “Oh, he is bleeding to death—he is bleeding to death!”
With all her knowledge—and it was considerable—with all her common-sense, on which she prided herself, Lady Frances knew very little about illness and still less about wounds. She did not know how to stop the bleeding, and it was well the doctor, a bright-faced young man from the neighboring village, was soon on the spot. He examined the wounds, looked at the gun, did what was necessary to stop the immediate12 bleeding, and soon the Squire was carried on a hastily improvised13 litter back to his stately home.
An hour ago in the prime of life, in the prime of strength; now, for all his terrified wife and daughter could know, he was already in the shadow of death.
“Will he die, doctor?” asked Audrey.
The young doctor looked at her pitifully.
“I cannot tell,” he replied; “it depends upon how far the bullet has penetrated. It is unfortunate that he should have been shot in such a dangerous part of the body. How did it happen?”
“The Squire called me this morning,” he said, “and told me to go into his study and bring him out his new fowling-piece, which had been sent from London a few days ago. I brought it just as it 381 was. He took it without noticing it much. I was about to turn round and say to him, ‘It is at full cock—perhaps you don’t know, sir,’ but I thought, of course, he had loaded it and prepared it himself; and the next minute he was climbing a hedge. I heard a report, and he was lying just where you found him.”
Another doctor was summoned, and another telegraphed for from London, and great was the agitation15 and misery16. By and by Audrey found herself alone. She could scarcely understand her own sensations. In the first place, she was absolutely useless. Her mother was absorbed in the sickroom; the servants were all occupied—even Read was engaged as temporary nurse until a trained one should arrive. Poor Audrey put on her hat and went out.
“If only my dear Miss Sinclair were here!” she thought. “Even if Evelyn were here it would be better than nothing. Oh, no wonder we quite forget Evelyn in a time of anguish17 like the present!”
Then a fearful thought stabbed her to the heart.
“If anything happens——” She could not get her lips to form the word she really thought of. Once again she used the conventional phrase:
“If anything happens, Evelyn will be mistress here.”
She looked wildly around her.
“Oh! I must find some one; I must speak to some one,” she thought. “I will go to Sylvia; it is no 382 great distance to The Priory. I will go over there at once.”
She walked quickly. She was glad of the exercise—of any excuse to keep moving. She soon reached The Priory, and was just about to put her hand on the latch to open the big gates when a girl appeared on the other side—a girl with a white face, somewhat sullen18 in outline, with big brown eyes, and a quantity of fair hair falling over her shoulders. Even in the midst of her agitation Audrey gave a gasp19.
“Evelyn!” she said.
“I am not going with you,” said Evelyn. She backed away, and a look of apprehension20 crossed her face. “Why have you come here? You never come to The Priory. What are you doing here? Go away. You need not think you will have anything to do with me in the future. I know it is all up with me. I suppose you have come from the school to—to torture me!”
“Don’t, Evelyn—don’t,” said Audrey. “Oh, the misery you caused us last night! But that is nothing to what has happened now. Listen, and forget yourself for a minute.”
Poor Audrey tottered21 forward; her composure gave way. The next moment her head was on her cousin’s shoulder; she was sobbing22 as if her heart would break.
“Why, how strange you are!” said Evelyn, distressed and slightly softened23, but, all the same, much annoyed at what she believed would frustrate24 all her 383 plans. For things had been going so well! The poor, silly old man who lived at The Priory was too ill to take any notice. She and Sylvia could do as they pleased. Jasper was Mr. Leeson’s nurse. Mr. Leeson was delirious25 and talking wild nonsense. Evelyn was in a scene of excitement; she was petted and made much of. Why did Audrey come to remind her of that world from which she had fled?
“I suppose it was rather bad this morning at school,” she said. “I can imagine what a fuss they kicked up—what a shindy—all about nothing! But there! yes, of course, I do not mind saying now that I did do it. I was sorry afterwards; I would not have done it if I had known—if I had guessed that everybody would be so terribly miserable26. But you do not suppose—you do not suppose, Audrey, that I, who am to be the owner of Castle Wynford some day——”
But at these words Audrey gave a piercing cry:
“Some day! Oh, Evelyn, it may be to-day!”
“What do you mean?” said Evelyn, her face turning very white. She pushed Audrey, who was a good deal taller than her cousin, away and looked up at her. Audrey had now ceased crying; she wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“I must tell you,” she said. “It is my father. He shot himself by accident this morning. His new gun from London was loaded. I suppose he did not know it; anyhow, he knocked the gun against something and it went off, and—he is at death’s door.” 384
“What—do—you say?” asked Evelyn.
A complete change had come over her. Her eyes looked dim and yet wild. She took Audrey by the arm and shook her.
“The gun from London loaded, and it went off, and—— Is he hurt much—much? Speak, Audrey—speak!”
She took her cousin now and shook her frantically27.
“Speak!” she said. “You are driving me mad!”
“What is the matter with you, Evelyn?”
“Speak! Is he—hurt—much?”
“Much!” said Audrey. “The doctor does not know whether he will ever recover. Oh, what have I done to you?”
“Nothing,” said Evelyn. “Get out of my way.”
Like a wild creature she darted28 from her cousin, and, fast and fleet as her feet could carry her, rushed back to Castle Wynford.
It took a good deal to touch a heart like Evelyn’s, but it was touched at last; nay29, more, it was wounded; it was struck with a blow so deep, so sudden, so appalling30, that the bewildered child reeled as she ran. Her eyes grew dark with emotion. She was past tears; she was almost past words. By and by, breathless, scared, bewildered, carried completely out of herself, she entered the Castle. There was no one about, but a doctor’s brougham stood before the principal entrance. Evelyn looked wildly around her. She knew her uncle’s room. She ran up-stairs. Without waiting for any one to 385 answer, she burst open the door. The room was empty.
“He must be very badly hurt,” she whispered to herself. “He must be in his little room on the ground floor.”
She went down-stairs again. She ran down the corridor where often, when in her best moments, she had gone to talk to him, to pet him, to love him. She entered the sitting-room31 where the gun had been. A great shudder32 passed through her frame as she saw the empty case. She went straight through the sitting-room, and, unannounced, undesired, unwished-for, entered the bedroom.
There were doctors round the bed; Lady Frances was standing33 by the head; and a man was lying there, very still and quiet, with his eyes shut and a peaceful smile on his face.
“He is dead,” thought Evelyn—“he is dead!” She gave a gasp, and the next instant lay in an unconscious heap on the floor.
When the unhappy child came to herself she was lying on a sofa in the sitting-room. A doctor was bending over her.
“Now you are better,” he said. “You did very wrong to come into the bedroom. You must lie still; you must not make a fuss.”
“I remember everything,” said Evelyn. “It was I who did it. It was I who killed him. Don’t—don’t keep me. I must sit up; I must speak. Will he die? If he dies I shall have killed him. You understand, I—I shall have done it!” 386
The doctor looked disturbed and distressed. Was this poor little girl mad? Who was she? He had heard of an heiress from Australia: could this be the child? But surely her brain had given way under the extreme pressure and shock!
“Lie still, my dear,” he said gently; and he put his hand on the excited child’s forehead.
“I will be good if you will help me,” said the girl; and she took both his hands in hers and raised her burning eyes to his face.
“I will do anything in my power.”
“Don’t you see what it means to me?—and I must be with him. Is he dead?”
“No, no.”
“Is he in great danger?”
“I will tell you, if you are good, after the doctor from London comes.”
“But I did it.”
“Excuse me, miss—I do not know your name—you are talking nonsense.”
“Let me explain. Oh! there never was such a wicked girl; I do not mind saying it now. I loaded the gun just to show him that I could shoot a bird on the wing, and—and I forgot all about it; I forgot I had left the gun loaded. Oh, how can I ever forgive myself?”
The doctor asked her a few more questions. He tried to soothe34 her. He then said if she would stay where she was he would bring her the very first news from the London doctor. The case was not hopeless, he assured her; but there was danger—grave 387 danger—and any shock would bring on hemorrhage, and hemorrhage would be fatal.
The little girl listened to him, and as she listened a new and wonderful strength was given to her. At that instant Evelyn Wynford ceased to be a child. She was never a child any more. The suffering and the shock had been too mighty35; they had done for her what perhaps nothing else could ever do—they had awakened36 her slumbering37 soul.
How she lived through the remainder of that day she could never tell to any one. No one saw her in the Squire’s sitting-room. No one wanted the room; no one went near it. Audrey was back again at the Castle, comforting her mother and trying to help her. When she spoke38 of Evelyn, Lady Frances shuddered39.
“Don’t mention her,” she said. “She had the impertinence to rush into the room; but she also had the grace to——”
“What, mother?”
“She was really fond of her uncle, Audrey; I always said so. She fainted—poor, miserable girl—when she saw the state he was in.”
But Lady Frances did not know of Evelyn’s confession40 to the young doctor; nor did Dr. Watson tell any one.
It was late and the day had passed into night when the doctor came in and sat down by Evelyn’s side.
“Now,” he said, “you have been good, and have kept your word, and have obliterated41 yourself.” 388
She did not ask him the meaning of the word, although she did not understand it. She looked at him with the most pathetic face he had ever seen.
“Speak,” she said. “Will he live?”
“Dr. Harland thinks so, and he is the very best authority in the world. He hopes in a day or two to remove the pellets which have done the mischief42. The danger, as I have already told you, lies in renewed hemorrhage; but that I hope we can prevent. Now, are you going to be a very good girl?”
“What can I do?” asked Evelyn. “Can I go to him and stay with him?”
“I wonder,” said the doctor—“and yet,” he added, “I scarcely like to propose it. There is a nurse there; your aunt is worn out. I will see what I can do.”
“If I could do that it would save me,” said Evelyn. “There never, never has been quite such a naughty girl; and I—I did it—oh! not meaning to hurt him, but I did it. Oh! it would save me if I might sit by him.”
“I will see,” said the doctor.
He felt strangely interested in this queer, erratic43, lost-looking child. He went back again to the sickroom. The Squire was conscious. He was lying in comparative ease on his bed; a trained nurse was within reach.
“Nurse,” said the doctor.
The woman went with him across the room.
“I am going to stay here to-night.” 389
“Yes, sir; I am glad to hear it.”
“It is quite understood that Lady Frances is to have her night’s rest?”
“Her ladyship is quite worn out, sir. She has gone away to her room. She will rest until two in the morning, when she will come down-stairs and help me to watch by the patient.”
“Then I will sit with him until two o’clock,” said the doctor. “At two o’clock I will lie down in the Squire’s sitting-room, where I can be within call. Now, I want to make a request.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am particularly anxious that a little girl who is in very great trouble, but who has learnt self-control, should come in and sit in the armchair by the Squire’s side. She will not speak, but will sit there. Is there any objection?”
“Is it the child, sir, who fainted when she came into the room to-day?”
“Yes; she was almost mad, poor little soul; but I think she is all right now, and she has learnt her lesson. Nurse, can you manage it?”
“It must be as you please, sir.”
“Then I will risk it,” said the doctor.
He went back to Evelyn, and said a few words to her.
“You must wash your face,” he said, “and tidy yourself; and you must have a good meal.”
Evelyn shook her head.
“If you do not do exactly what I tell you I cannot help you.” 390
“Very well; I will eat and eat until you tell me to stop,” she answered.
“Go, and be quick, then,” said the doctor, “for we are arranging things for the night.”
So Evelyn went, and returned in a few minutes; then the doctor took her hand and led her into the sickroom, and she sat by the side of the patient.
The room was very still—not a sound, not a movement. The sick man slept; Evelyn, with her eyes wide open, sat, not daring to move a finger.
What she thought of her past life during that time no one knows; but that soul within her was coming more and more to the surface. It was a strong soul, although it had been so long asleep, and already new desires, unselfish and beautiful, were awakening44 in the child. Between twelve and one that night the Squire opened his eyes and saw a little girl, with a white face and eyes big and dark, seated close to him.
He smiled, and his hand just went out a quarter of an inch to Evelyn. She saw the movement, and immediately her own small fingers clasped his. She bent45 down and kissed his hand.
“Uncle Edward, do not speak,” she said. “It was I who loaded the gun. You must get well, Uncle Edward, or I shall die.”
He did not answer in any words, but his eyes smiled at her; and the next moment she had sunk back in her chair, relieved to her heart’s core. Her eyes closed; she slept.
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1
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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7
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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10
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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21
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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22
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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23
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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24
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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28
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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30
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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31
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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32
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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34
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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35
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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36
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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37
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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38
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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39
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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40
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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41
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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42
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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43
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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44
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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45
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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