"Shall I guess, Elfie? Was it that you knew beforehand, from Nona, about the trick that was to be played on me? I dare say you wanted to speak out, and were afraid. But I am quite sure you did not like the trick, even though you could not guess how things would turn out. Another time you will be braver."
She listened to me, with her head now lifted, and astonishment in the large dusky eyes.
"Oh no! You couldn't think that of me! Oh no,—I would never have let them do it without telling you. But indeed they didn't think of such a thing, till they got there, and Millie proposed it. She said it was all so slow, and she wanted some fun. I don't call that fun. Lady Denham says it was so unladylike: and Nona is sorry now, only she doesn't know how to tell you."
"If it wasn't that, what was it, Elfie? I am at a loss," I said.
Elfie dropped her face, hiding it from sight.
"It was—when we first came," she murmured almost inaudibly. "I was in the drawing-room,—on the sofa—and—you were writing—you know—at the side-table."
One instant brought the scene before me; the sleeping figure of Elfie: the journal volume: the sudden interruption: the telegram from abroad: the bitter distress following.
Had I been mistaken? Could Elfie, not Miss Millington, have meddled with my papers? But the thought only occurred to be put aside. I knew Elfie better.
"Yes," I said, and my own voice sounded far-away to myself. "Yes. I remember quite well. You had gone to sleep: and I was called away."
"I didn't hear you go," she whispered, and I could feel the quick fluttering of her heart, as she pressed against me. "At least I think not,—not quite. Only there were voices. And somebody came in. I just peeped sideways. I was only half awake,—and I saw Millie. She was standing by your table,—the table where you had been writing, I mean. And she was reading in the big book, with a lock-clasp. I could see her doing it quite plainly. She turned back a leaf, and leant down a little to read. And I was so frightened. It seemed to make me hot all over, and then like ice. I knew I ought to speak out, and I didn't dare. I knew she would be so angry, and would make me promise not to tell. And I shut my eyes and kept quiet; and I know she turned round to see if I was still asleep, for I could feel her eyes on me. And then I heard you in the passage, and Millie went off in a hurry. And I didn't let you know directly that I was awake,—not till you had been upstairs and came down again. But oh, I did feel so miserable,—knowing I ought to tell, and not daring. Don't you think I was wrong not to speak out? It seemed like deceiving you,—and like joining with Millie in what she had done."