He stood frowning a few feet away. To tell the truth, he was honestly puzzled at her attitude. At last, with a little shrug of the shoulders, he threw open the door of the sitting-room.
“Rachael,” he said, “Lois has come to see you for a few minutes.”
Lois went timidly into the room. Rachael, with a shawl around her shoulders, was sitting in front of a huge fire. She turned her head and held out her long withered hand, as usual covered with rings.
“Sit opposite me, child. Let me look at you.”
Lois sat down, gazing with fascinated eyes at the woman whose presence she found almost as terrifying as the presence of Saton himself.
“My son—I call Bertrand my son,” she said, “because I have adopted him, and because everything I have, even my name if he will have it—will be his—my son, then, tells me that he has not seen you for several days.”
“It is very difficult,” Lois said, trembling.
“Why?” Rachael asked.
“My guardian, Mr. Rochester, does not allow Bertrand to come to the house,” Lois said, hesitatingly, “and Lady Mary tries not to let me come out alone.”