“What’s the matter?”
Rhoda looked up, but there was a mist before her eyes; she said nothing, but rose unsteadily from her chair and took a couple of steps toward the window.
She was stopped, however, before she reached it, and found Lady Sarah’s hand within her arm.
“Don’t go away, Miss Pembury. Tell me, are you ill? What is it?”
The light bright voice was unchanged. But Rhoda, still breathing heavily, though the mist seemed to be clearing away, glanced quickly at her, and perceived that she was still of a deadly pallor.
“Let me go,” whispered the girl. “I—I’m not well—I—I feel faint.”
“I’ll take you into the garden. Jack, bring out a chair, and find a sunshade.”
Rhoda shuddered at the name, and looked round. Jack Rotherfield was pale also, although he tried to carry it off in an unconcerned manner. Rhoda would have escaped, but she was firmly held, and made to sit in the verandah, while her companions stood one on each side of her.
Rhoda had noticed, without being sufficiently herself to take in the significance of the fact, that there had been a short colloquy between them. Now Lady Sarah suddenly seized Jack’s right hand, and holding it close under Rhoda’s face, said:
“This was what shocked you, wasn’t it? The mark on his poor hand? I’ll tell you all about it.”