Bruce Wylie, who had fully intended to settle matters during the course of that day, was forced to acquiesce, and since Lady Mount Pleasant and her contingent had arrived from Montreux, and the carriages were at the door, there was no time for further discussion.
Evereld stole to her window as soon as she heard the sound of wheels and just caught a sideway glimpse of the picnic party driving off. Then in breathless haste she dressed, put a letter which she had written to Sir Matthew on the previous night in a place where it would quickly be found, bolted her door on the inner side, stepped out of the window and closed both it and the jalousies behind her and went through Minnie’s room to the corridor beyond. A chambermaid was sweeping the matting, she smiled in a friendly fashion and asked if mademoiselle was better.
“I still have a headache,” said Evereld, “and am going out of doors. If you see Miss Mactavish to-night when she returns, please say I do not wish to be disturbed.”
She ran quickly down the stairs, encountering nobody; in the bureau she caught sight of the manager’s head, but he had his back turned to the door and did not see her, he was giving out a library book to an old lady who was accounted the greatest gossip in Glion. Mercifully she, too, was absorbed and did not look up.
Evereld walked quietly through the garden; over her dark blue serge dress she wore a little blue capuchin cape with red-lined hood, her sailor hat, and long gauze travelling veil were of the quietest. She was beginning to hope that she should encounter none of the people staying in the hotel when, within a stone’s throw of the cable railway station, she came across Dick Lewisham and little Miss Upton.
“Are you better?” said the American kindly. “Your friends told us you were quite knocked up and could not go to the picnic.”
“My head aches still,” said Evereld, “but—but please don’t tell them that you saw me going out.”
It is almost impossible for a naturally open and truthful person to carry out a secret scheme without some confidante. Evereld liked and trusted both these acquaintances, and she yielded to that craving for sympathy, that longing for straightforward speech which was perhaps more natural than strictly prudent.
“I could not go to the picnic because I must avoid Mr. Wylie,” she said in a low voice. “My guardian is trying to force me to marry him, and I mean to escape to other friends who will take care of me.”
“Did I not tell you how it would be?” said Dick Lewisham.