Cynthia was half-way down-stairs before the sentence was out of the girl's mouth. Jenkins was standing in the hall. He was an amiable-looking fellow, and, although he had spoken flippantly enough to Sabina Meldreth of his master's friendship for Miss West, he had a genuine admiration for her. Cynthia had won his heart by kindly words and looks; she had found out that he had a wife and some young children, and had made them presents, and visited the new baby in her own inimitably frank, gracious, friendly way; and Jenkins was secretly of opinion that his master could not do better than marry Miss Cynthia West, although she was but a singer after all. He spoke to her with an air of great deference.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am; but I thought that I'd better come and tell you about Mr. Lepel."
"Have you a message—a note?" cried Cynthia eagerly.
"No, ma'am. Mr. Lepel's not able to write, nor to send messages. Mr. Lepel's ill in bed, ma'am, and the doctor's afraid that it is brain-fever."
Cynthia gasped a little.
"I thought he—he must be ill," she said, rather to herself than to Jenkins, who however heard, and was struck with sympathetic emotion immediately.
"I thought you'd think so, ma'am; and therefore I made so bold as to look round," he said respectfully. "He's not been himself, so to speak, for the last few days; and when his sister—Mrs. Vane—was up from Beechfield to see him, he seemed took worse; and Mrs. Vane she sent me for a doctor."
"Is Mrs. Vane with him now, then?" Cynthia asked quickly.
"No, ma'am. She did not stop long; but I expect that she'll be round either to-night or to-morrow morning."
"And is Mr. Lepel to have nobody to nurse him?" asked Cynthia indignantly.