My first feeling was one of astonishment, my second of fear! Was our secret known, then? Had Mr Grey broken his promise? But what was his promise—in a moment I recalled his words, “You may rely on us to keep the affair to ourselves;” he had spoken in the plural. Still, what was the meaning then of this visit, which was certain to awaken the gossip and curiosity of the whole small neighbourhood? I felt utterly nonplussed, but I had no time in which to think over things; I was obliged to pull myself together as best I could, for the door was thrown open for the announcement, “The Misses Grey,” and my little-looked-for visitors entered.
They were, at the first glance, curiously like each other, though afterwards I discerned several points of dissimilarity. The elder of the two—for naturally I at once so dubbed her in my own mind as she preceded her sister—had a much stronger face—strong in its very gentleness—though the younger was, or had been, decidedly the prettier. Except as to eyes—I never saw lovelier eyes than those of Miss Grey herself, as she drew near and looked up at me, for though not very tall, I was much taller than they. And with the first glance, all my misgivings as to the purport or unwisdom of their coming vanished.
“Miss—Fitzmaurice,” she began, with a slight, the very slightest, hesitation. “I—we—this is my sister Beatrice—could not rest without hastening to offer our services and sympathy in this—most unfortunate accident, which,” and here her voice grew peculiarly distinct, her words almost emphasised, “which we heard of this morning through the driver of the fly, which fortunately was passing the spot where your brother and you were,” here she glanced at me again in a way which showed that her eyes could be keen as well as kind, and even—I could not feel sure if this was my fancy—not without a touch of humour in their depths. “One of our servants had occasion to visit the village this morning, and brought back the story, and—as I said, hearing that you were alone, we felt we must come to inquire for you ourselves—my brothers uniting with us in—in”—here she repeated the words—“sympathy and offers of service.”
She had held out her hand at the opening of this rather long speech. I had of course taken it, and scarcely conscious of so doing, was still clasping it. And as for the third time she raised her lovely kind eyes to my face, I—it was very unconventional and undignified, and all the rest of it, I know—I burst into tears!
“Oh, Miss Grey!” I exclaimed. “You are far, far too kind. We—we don’t—” how I longed to finish my sentence, “don’t deserve it.” But I dared not, for there flashed over me the remembrance that, if I confessed my own share in our impertinent intrusion, I should implicate Isabel, which I had no right whatever to do, and I stopped short. My tears, I think, standing me in good stead, as they gave a reason for my confusion, and increased the kind woman’s pity. They were genuine enough, too, Heaven knows, for I had been putting considerable restraint on myself to keep them back hitherto, for every sake—Moore’s especially.
I felt Miss Grey’s other hand steal on to the top of mine, already in her clasp.
“My poor child,” she said,—“excuse me for calling you so—do not take things so to heart, unless—unless, indeed, there is fresh cause for your distress?” and now her tone was full of anxiety. “I trust your brother is not worse? No injury to the head, or to the limbs, that did not show perhaps at first?”
I shook my head, and now a silly feeling of wishing to laugh came over me, when I thought of the excellent breakfast I had seen the naughty boy upstairs despatching, and his very comfortable condition, propped up with a story-book, at the present moment. No, my tears were not those of anxiety about him, but of very sincere shame and distress at the trouble we had caused these good kind people, who surely had a right to shut themselves up in their own domain if they chose, without being subjected to inquisitive espionage.
“Oh, no,” I said at last, choking down my hysterical symptoms, “he is going on all right. In himself he is really very well indeed, and I think his foot is improving. But you are standing all this time,” and I drew forward a chair, Miss Beatrice Grey, who looked pale and nervous, having already sunk into a corner of a sofa.
“Jessie,” she now said, speaking for the first time, and addressing her sister, “you are forgetting the liniment.”