She had one task to perform that was very hard to her. She could not go without writing a farewell letter to the General, who had always been so kind and good to her. She made it as short and simple as possible, and she explained nothing. Without consulting Mr. Evandale, and perhaps her aunt Leo, of whom she was genuinely fond, she felt that she was not free to speak.
"Dearest uncle Richard," she wrote—"I think it best to go to London to-day and see aunt Leo. I am taking Parker with me. Forgive me if I say that I do not think I can ever come back again. I hope you will not look on me as ungrateful for all your kindness to me. I will write again, and shall hope to see you in London. Your loving niece, Enid."
She placed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and left it in a conspicuous position on the dressing-table. Then she put on her hat and cloak, and asked Parker whether she was ready to leave the house. The clock had struck five, and they had some distance to walk before they could reach a railway-station. Parker prevailed upon her to eat and drink before they started; but the girl's appetite was small, and she left her biscuits almost untouched upon the plate.
As the two stole silently down the corridor, Enid noticed that the door of Dick's night-nursery was half open. She hesitated, then with a mute sign to Parker to go on, she entered the room and made her way to the child's bedside. Parker lingered long enough to see her kneel down beside it, and lay her face for a few moments on the pillow beside the sleeping boy. She kissed him very gently; and when, with a sleepy movement, he turned and put his arm round her, as if to hold her there, the tears began to fall down her pale cheeks. But she dared not stay too long. She rose presently, put his hand back under the coverlet, and kissed him once again.
"Dear little Dick," she murmured sorrowfully, "will you some day think that I did not love you, when you know what I have done, and what I shall have to do?"
When Enid rejoined Parker she was pale, but calm; the tears lingered on her eyelashes, but had been carefully wiped away from her cheeks. They left the house in silence by a side-door which could be easily unbolted; and for some time Parker did not venture to open her lips. Her young mistress looked like a different being with that grave determination on her face, that steady serious light in her sad but serene blue eyes.
Just when they reached the point from which the Hall could last be seen, Enid turned and looked at it for a moment. It was her last farewell; and the yearning tenderness that stole into her face as she gazed and gazed again brought the tears to Parker's eyes. The maid had taken a strong liking to Miss Enid Vane, and was ready to devote her whole strength to her service. At the same time, the thought of the revenge that Mrs. Vane might wreak upon her for this desertion was misery to Parker; for what should she do if her mother learned that she had once been dismissed from a situation in disgrace, or if she could not earn enough to keep her mother in the comfort to which she had grown accustomed? She was quite ready and willing to leave Mrs. Vane; but she was afraid when she considered the future; and, as she walked along the road beside her young mistress, the tears now and then brimmed over, and had to be surreptitiously wiped away.
"If you are regretting what you have done, Parker," said Enid at length, "you are quite at liberty, you know, to go back to Beechfield Hall."
"Oh, no, miss—I wouldn't go back for anything! There's some things that even a servant can't bear to see going on. It's only my poor mother, miss, that I'm thinking about."
"Why?" said Enid gently—at that moment it was easy to her to sympathise with sorrow. "Is it your wages that you are thinking of? I am sure that you will not be a loser by coming with me."