CHAPTER III.
The following morning found Evaline de Neville, according to her usual custom, astir at an early hour. Early as it was, however, she was sensible that the other members of the household had been up for some time previous, and that a bustle prevailed in the mansion, which, to say the least of it, was not customary, and might indicate an event of some importance. She longed for the arrival of her waiting-woman, in order that she might draw from her, before she left her chamber, what it was that had so disturbed the general tranquillity of the Grange. But the gentle Martha Follet, as her attendant was named, was not at hand, and Evaline was obliged to restrain her impatience, and so to hurry her toilet, with her own unaided hands, that she might descend at once to the breakfast-room, and acquire the desired information from a more direct source.
She had scarcely entered on her toilet, however, when the fair Martha made her appearance. She was a pretty and modest-looking girl, and, whether from nature, or merely from the habits of her office, of a bearing and presence superior to her station, and to which one might, without risk of contradiction, apply the explicit phrase of “genteel.” She had, to all appearance, scarcely seen sixteen summers, yet her countenance was sad and mournful, and wore a look of anxiety that, if it had been permanent, would have sat ill on a much older person. But although she was now dejected, there was in her large blue eyes, under a dash of tears, a flow of radiance and animation that bespoke anything but melancholy, and, under a propitious influence, it could no doubt be expanded, with more charming effect, into that attractive expression denominated “archness.”
A smile rose to the maiden’s lips as she approached her mistress, but it was a mournful one, and could not conceal the uneasiness, not to say anxiety, that was manifested by her other features. Evaline, surveying her earnestly, observed her dejection at a glance.
“Why, Martha, what is amiss?” she inquired, somewhat anxiously.
“I hope, nothing of moment, dear lady,” replied Martha. “Master Shedlock, the sheriff, is here, and some other strangers; but they can do no hurt to Sir Edgar, I should ween.”
As she spoke, a tear rose to her eyes, and, breaking over the long, silken lashes, trickled down her pale cheeks.
“Master Shedlock here?” cried Evaline, in a tone of mingled surprise and alarm. “What dost thou mean, Martha?”
“Oh, my lady,” answered Martha, fairly bursting into tears, “they have accused Sir Edgar of murder, and he is now a prisoner, in the dining-hall.”