And this was the most likely solution I could obtain. But why did he not write? As time went on I grew more and more anxious. I said very little to any one, and tried to be cheerful, and go on with my daily life as before, but it was a hard matter.
I could not bring myself to touch my violin. That last evening rose up before me, and the dim foreboding of evil that had so overshadowed me. I felt a strange shrinking from the very thing that used to be such a comfort and delight to me.
One afternoon I was startled by a message being brought to me by Miss Rayner's old coachman, saying she was ill and wanted to see me. Mrs. Forsyth had gone up to London for a fortnight, so I went at once to my guardian.
'Helen ill!' he exclaimed. 'I should not think she has had a day's illness in her life. What is the matter with her?'
'John says she fell into the river trying to ford it riding, and did not change her wet things. He says she got a violent chill last week, and has had a great deal of fever. This is her note to me.'
I gave him a little slip of paper, on which was scrawled, in letters very unlike Miss Rayner's usually firm hand:—
'DEAR HILDA,—
'I am ill. Will you come and help Susan to nurse me?
'Yours affectionately,
'HELEN RAYNER.'
General Forsyth gave his consent to my going, and I returned that afternoon with John, who was full of garrulous accounts of Miss Rayner's illness. He wound up with saying,—