She had not yet made up her mind, when she heard a light rustling on the stairs above her, saw the flutter of a lacy petticoat, caught a glimpse of a jewelled hand. Then, before she could move from where she stood, Rhoda found herself a prisoner. Lady Sarah was beside her, blocking the way to retreat.
“What’s that?” asked she in a low voice, touching the parcel which the girl carried in her arms.
But Rhoda, in the half-darkness, only looked reproachfully into her face, without uttering a word. She was sure that Lady Sarah knew as well as she did what she was holding, and that she knew, too, what had happened. Indeed there was just enough of a certain acerbity underneath the lady’s assumed frivolity of manner as she touched the roll, for Rhoda to be certain that Jack, before going, had told her everything.
Receiving no verbal answer, Lady Sarah looked up closely into the face of the other. Then she nestled up to her in the most caressing manner.
“You are ill,” she said. “What is the matter? Come with me, come into my room and let me look at you. Yes, yes, I insist.”
Rhoda would have resisted, protested, would have made her escape. But there was no getting away from the self-willed mistress of the house when she had made up her mind.
Lady Sarah had made no further inquiries about the parcel which Rhoda was holding tightly in her arms, and this reticence was suggestive.
“I’m not ill indeed. I’m going to my room,” said Rhoda.
“No, no, you’ll come to my boudoir first.”
She led the girl up the stairs, and they entered the beautiful room with its silk panels and white enamel, and here Lady Sarah made Rhoda sit by the fire, and, taking a chair close to her, asked again, “Now, what is it? Tell me all about it. What’s that you’re carrying?”