A long time she sat thus, and then a rap at the street door startled her; a step was on the stairs, light and bounding; it was not calm as Mary's generally, nevertheless she rose to meet it; the door opened, and she found herself face to face with Lord Randolph! She could not speak, but shrunk silently back, gazing on him.
"I shame to see it," he cried, advancing with extended hands, "that you, my dear Mrs. Tremenhere, have arrived first."
There was nothing libertine in his manner, nothing more than usual—glad to see her, and most respectful. "You are annoyed," he continued, as she involuntarily drew back; "but pray, pardon me: I was unavoidably delayed, and prove your forgiveness by telling me how, in what manner, I can serve or oblige you?"
"There is some strange mistake in this, some incomprehensible mystery, my lord," she whispered in terror, though scarcely knowing of what. "I never expected to see you here; why are you in this house?"
"Merciful heavens!" he cried in amazement, "did you not write, requesting my presence here? Stay! I have the note about me: I came unhesitatingly, knowing well that you were in the habit of calling here occasionally."
"I never wrote, Lord Randolph; there is some extraordinary meaning in this, coupled with the absence of her I came to see," and she seated herself tremblingly on the couch.
"Here is the note," he cried, not less agitated; "is not this exactly your handwriting?"
"Sufficiently like it to deceive an inexperienced eye; but I never wrote it, believe me."
"I do, Mrs. Tremenhere, most truly; but believe also that I obeyed the summons without one wronging thought of one I respect so sincerely as I do yourself."
"Alas! alas!" she said in a tone of despondency, "I have felt some time past that there was a web weaving around me, I knew not where; my husband is changed, and I—oh! I am so far from happy," and she burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.