I was roused by the entrance of my maid. I stopped her exclamations and questions by shortly stating that I had had a bad night, had been unable to rest in bed, and had had an accident with my hand,—without further specifying of what description.
"I didn't know that you had been feeling unwell when you went to bed last night, miss," she said.
"When I went to bed last night? Unwell? What do you mean?"
"Only Mr. Alan has just asked me to let him know how you find yourself this morning," she answered.
Then he expected something, dreaded something. Ah! why had he yielded and allowed me to sleep here, I asked myself bitterly, as the incidents of the day before flashed through my mind.
"Tell him," I said, "what I have told you; and say that I wish to speak to him directly after breakfast." I could not confide my story to any one else, but speak of it I must to some one or go mad.
Every moment passed in that place was an added misery. Much to my maid's surprise I said that I would dress in her room—the little one which, as I have said, was close to my own. I felt better there; but my utter fatigue and my wounded hand combined to make my toilet slow, and I found that most of the party had finished breakfast when I reached the dining-room. I was glad of this, for even as it was I found it difficult enough to give coherent answers to the questions which my white face and bandaged hand called forth. Alan helped me by giving a resolute turn to the conversation. Once only our eyes met across the table. He looked as haggard and worn as I did: I learned afterwards that he had passed most of that fearful night pacing the passage outside my door, though he listened in vain for any indication of what was going on within the room.
The moment I had finished breakfast he was by my side. "You wish to speak to me? now?" he asked in a low tone.
"Yes; now," I answered, breathlessly, and without raising my eyes from the ground.
"Where shall we go? Outside? It is a bright day, and we shall be freer there from interruption."