The last tender words were still lingering on the lips of Mrs. Yates, when the door opened and Lady Hope stood upon the threshold.
She had become restless beyond self-control in her own room, and came back to the death-chamber, wondering what detained her husband there so long. She had thrown the lace shawl from her head entirely; but it fell around her shoulders, shading her bare white arms and beautiful neck, which the amber-hued dress would otherwise have left uncovered. Framed in the doorway she made an imperial picture.
"My lord," she said, advancing to her husband, "what detains you here so long?"
Old Mrs. Yates stepped forward with a scared, wild look; a gleam of anger or fear, bright as fire, and fierce as a martyr's faith, shot into her eyes and broadened there. She came close to Lady Hope, facing her, and laid one hand heavily on her arm.
The haughty woman drew back, and would have shaken the hand from her arm, but it clung there with a grip of steel.
"Lord Hope, is this woman your wife?"
"His wife! Yes, old woman, I am his wife," cried Rachael, pale with indignation; "but who authorized you to ask?"
The old woman did not heed her scornfulness, but turned her eyes upon Lord Hope, whose face was already white with vague terror.
"Is she your wife—the woman who was called Rachael Closs?"
"It is Lady Hope, my wife. Why do you ask?"