"I suppose I must," said Enid, in a scarcely audible tone. Then she turned away her face and said, "You can go now, Parker; I feel better. I think that I shall go to sleep."
But she did not sleep even when Parker had departed. She lay thinking, with the tears gathering and falling one by one, until they made a great wet spot on the pillow beneath her head. The shadow that hung over her young life was growing very dark.
Parker had hurried into her own room, where she first shut and locked the door, as if afraid to think even while it was open, and then wrung her hands in a sort of agony.
"To think of it—to think of it!" she said, bursting into sudden sobs. "And Miss Enid so sweet and innocent and gentle! What has she done? What has she got to be put out of the way for? Just for the sake of the money, I suppose, that it may all go to that wretched little Master Dick! Oh, she's a wicked woman—a wicked woman; and I'd give my life never to have set eyes upon her, for she'll be the ruin of me body and soul!"
But "she" in this case did not mean Enid Vane.
Parker was aroused from her meditations by the sharp tinkle of a bell, which she knew that Mrs. Vane must have rung. She started when she heard it, and a look of disgust crossed her face; but, as she hesitated, the bell rang again, more imperiously than ever. Parker dashed the tears from her eyes, and sped down the long corridor to Mrs. Vane's dressing-room. Her hands were trembling still.
"Why do you keep me in this way when I ring for you, Parker?" said Mrs. Vane, in her coldest tone. "I rang twice."
"Miss Vane wanted me, ma'am. I have been with her."
There was an odd tremor in the woman's voice. Mrs. Vane surveyed her critically.
"You look very strange, Parker. What is the matter with you? Are you ill?"