“Before what? That’s what I am waiting to hear. What happened to her? Some tragedy, of course. Tell me about it.”
Mrs Melhuish gave him a searching glance.
“You realised that—that she is not—like other people?”
Rupert’s smile was half sad, half triumphant.
“Not in the least like other people. But we can discuss that later on. I am waiting for your story.”
Mrs Melhuish leaned her head on her hand and her face fell into thoughtful lines.
“I’ve known Eve since she was a girl of eighteen—the loveliest thing!—and as gay and sweet as she was lovely. She was an only child, and her parents adored her, and—what is by no means so usual!—she adored them in return. They were not rich—quite poor, in fact; but the family was exceptional, and everyone visited them. When Eve came out, Mrs Bisdee used to give charming little evenings, so simple and unpretentious, but so well done. Eve was so different, too, from the ordinary fair, placid English girl that she made quite a sensation in the county. We expected her to make a great match. Then one day they were all travelling together to Burnham to attend a hunt ball, and the train they were in—” Mrs Melhuish shuddered, as at a terrible remembrance. “You will remember it—the Tunford accident—a terrible affair! Over sixty passengers killed in the most appalling circumstances. Eve escaped. She was travelling with a friend in the rear part of the train. They were pulled out and carried up the bank, and there that poor child stood and looked on, helpless, maddened, while her parents and the other poor wretches in the wrecked carriages lay pinned down, devoured by the names. Oh, my dear man, we read of such things, we agonise over them, or we think we agonise, but imagine the real thing! Seeing, hearing, within a few yards, yet as powerless to help as though one were at the other side of the world... Well! Eve went through that torture, and it wrecked her life. She had brain fever, and when that passed, her mind remained—what shall I say?—clouded. Yes, that’s the right word. It expresses exactly the truth. There is a cloud hanging over her, shutting out the sun. Her memory is impaired, so that she does not remember any actual event; but there is an impression of horror and dread. It is ten years since the accident, and the cloud has not lifted. She lives with our doctor and his wife; they are good, honest people, and do their best; but I wish sometimes she could have a change. At the best of times they are not her type, and after ten years together—”
“You say that the cloud has not lifted. Is she no better than at the beginning of the time?”
“Oh, yes! When one looks back over the years one can see that there is improvement. Her health is better, and she has lost her dread of society. At times, as you saw her to-day, one would hardly realise that she was not normal. But the cloud falls. She is always sweet, always gentle, but terrible, terribly sad.”
“But she is better,” Rupert insisted. “She is going to get quite well. I am going to make her well... Mrs Melhuish”—he leaned forward, his hand on the arm of her chair—“you are my very kind friend. It is only right that I should tell you at once.—I am going to marry Eve Bisdée!”