"I don't know."
To keep Evelyn to her earlier pace was no longer possible. She fell into a slower and slower walk, till Jean began to fear that the sad procession behind must surely overtake them. The high road was left, but the ascending avenue-path through the Park grounds taxed Evelyn to her utmost. It was all she could do to drag one foot after the other, and more than once she came to a complete pause, swaying feebly, as if on the verge of another swoon.
Jean urged her on with touch and voice, and Evelyn responded in renewed efforts; but when the front door was reached, and Evelyn stumbled up the two steps, Jean knew that she could have done no more. Anything more deathlike than her face, as she came into the lighted hall, could hardly have been imagined.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Stowe, stood there, and with her Miss Devereux; the latter, as a matter of course, talking, the former listening. News of the General's disappearance having reached Sybella, she had driven at once to the Park, determined there to remain till the mystery should be cleared up. Jean had seen fresh carriage-marks on the snow outside, leading up to the door and round to the stables.
Evelyn saw nothing. Guided by Jean, she reached the great oaken arm-chair, and dropped into it; her lips white: her eyes closed.
"My dear Evelyn! Then you have come, and it is all right," cried Sybella, starting forward. "And he is found! I said so! I was sure it was nothing! I knew he must have taken shelter somewhere. Such an imprudent thing to go out in the snow! A man of his age! If people will be so foolish—! I shouldn't wonder if he had a bad cold afterwards—and rheumatism, of course. How wet you are, both of you! Really, it is quite madness! I can't think what Mr. Trevelyan was after to let you go! Such folly! If you had just stayed at home quietly! It is too imprudent! Look at the state of your skirts. Is she faint?"—to Jean. "Where is General Villiers? Is he coming? I drove over, in spite of the weather, when I heard—when Pearce brought me word—and the horses are put up here."
The first rush of Sybella's effervescence had always to be endured; it could no more be checked than the rush from a freshly uncorked champagne-bottle; but neither Stowe or Jean was idle. Wine and hot water stood ready on the hall-table, for Stowe had rightly conjectured that they would be needed: and while Jean pulled off Evelyn's wet gloves, and rubbed her icy fingers, Stowe brought a tumbler of steaming liquid.
"Drink it, ma'am—it will do you good," she entreated.
Evelyn was not fainting. She opened her eyes, whispered a low "Thanks," and made the effort; but after a few sips she sank back with the same look of powerlessness.
Sybella talked on, wondering, conjecturing, pitying, blaming.