“Much!” said Audrey. “The doctor does not know whether he will ever recover. Oh, what have I done to you?”
“Nothing,” said Evelyn. “Get out of my way.”
Like a wild creature she darted from her cousin, and, fast and fleet as her feet could carry her, rushed back to Castle Wynford.
It took a good deal to touch a heart like Evelyn’s, but it was touched at last; nay, more, it was wounded; it was struck with a blow so deep, so sudden, so appalling, that the bewildered child reeled as she ran. Her eyes grew dark with emotion. She was past tears; she was almost past words. By and by, breathless, scared, bewildered, carried completely out of herself, she entered the Castle. There was no one about, but a doctor’s brougham stood before the principal entrance. Evelyn looked wildly around her. She knew her uncle’s room. She ran up-stairs. Without waiting for any one to answer, she burst open the door. The room was empty.
“He must be very badly hurt,” she whispered to herself. “He must be in his little room on the ground floor.”
She went down-stairs again. She ran down the corridor where often, when in her best moments, she had gone to talk to him, to pet him, to love him. She entered the sitting-room where the gun had been. A great shudder passed through her frame as she saw the empty case. She went straight through the sitting-room, and, unannounced, undesired, unwished-for, entered the bedroom.
There were doctors round the bed; Lady Frances was standing by the head; and a man was lying there, very still and quiet, with his eyes shut and a peaceful smile on his face.
“He is dead,” thought Evelyn—“he is dead!” She gave a gasp, and the next instant lay in an unconscious heap on the floor.
When the unhappy child came to herself she was lying on a sofa in the sitting-room. A doctor was bending over her.
“Now you are better,” he said. “You did very wrong to come into the bedroom. You must lie still; you must not make a fuss.”