"Oh, poor little Dick!" said Enid. "And I away from him!"
Miss Vane glanced at the Rector, and read in his eyes what was in her own mind—"If Dick should die, there would be no further perplexity." Then both dropped their eyes guiltily, and hoped that Enid—dear, innocent, loving Enid!—had not guessed what they were thinking.
"At any rate," said Miss Vane, after a little pause, "you can do nothing now; and it is just as well that we have all resolved to hold our tongues."
And then she went away to write some letters; and Enid was left alone with Maurice Evandale.
"My darling," said her lover, "are you sure that you are content and happy now?"
"Quite sure, Maurice—except that I think—I half think—that I ought not to be married; I shall make such a bad wife to you if I am always ailing and weak."
"But you are not going to be ailing and weak, dearest—you are going to be a strong woman yet. Did you not tell me how you conquered that nervous inclination to give way last night after your interview with Mrs. Vane? And did you not walk to the station and travel up to town in the early morning without doing yourself a particle of harm? Believe me, darling, your ill-health was in great part a figment got up by Mrs. Vane for her own ends. You are perfectly well; and, when we are married, you will be strong too. Do you believe me, Enid?"
"Perfectly."
"And are you sure yet whether you love me or not?"
She smiled, and the color flooded her sweet face. And he, although he knew well enough what she would say, pressed for an answer, and would not be satisfied until it had been put into words.