The railway station was built of red bricks, which the storms of winter had almost turned brown. One gas-light flickered feebly within its case of glass. Two travellers were waiting for the train—one of them reading the advertisements on the walls, the other walking quickly, to keep himself warm.
A bell was rung—two red stars appeared in the distance—there was a low hum, which became a roar, and the train stopped by the trembling platform.
There had been only one passenger. It was a lady neatly dressed, without luggage or attendants.
She was not young, but her features were very handsome, albeit her grey eyes, which had a cold and cunning look, and her low, receding forehead, together with the thinness of her lips, robbed her of half her beauty.
A red-haired man, with a whip in his hand and a copper badge upon his breast, came up and spoke to her, touching his hat. As he spoke he pointed to a large close carriage in the road outside the station, to which were harnessed a pair of strong brown horses.
“I wish to go to Broxbridge Hall,” said she. “Do you know the place?”
“Yes, ma’am—the seat of Earl Ethelwood. I know it well enough. I knew it when the old Earl was alive. Ah! me—things are changed since then, surely.”
As she stepped into the carriage, she glanced anxiously towards the western sky, where a few rays of light showed that the sun had lately set.
These rays resembled streaks of blood, and cast a lurid glow upon the purple and copper-hued clouds around them.
She drew down the blinds, and, throwing herself back at full length in the vehicle, gave herself up to the meditation of her schemes.