She was so frightened by the grandeur of her surroundings, and the splendid beauty of the lady who was so soon to be a duchess, and was already a great earl’s widow, that she could only stand within the doorway, curtseying and trembling, with tears welling in her eyes.
“Be not afraid,” said my Lady Dunstanwolde. “Come hither, child, and tell me what you want.” Indeed, she did not look a hard or shrewish lady; she spoke as gently as woman could, and a mildness so unexpected produced in the young creature such a revulsion of feeling that she made a few steps forward and fell upon her knees, weeping, and with uplifted hands.
“My lady,” she said, “I know not how I dared to come, but that I am so desperate—and your ladyship being so happy, it seemed—it seemed that you might pity me, who am so helpless and know not what to do.”
Her ladyship leaned forward in her chair, her elbow on her knee, her chin held in her hand, to gaze at her.
“You come from Sir John Oxon?” she said.
Anne, watching, clutched each arm of her chair.
“Not from him, asking your ladyship’s pardon,” said the child, “but—but—from the country to him,” her head falling on her breast, “and I know not where he is.”
“You came to him,” asked my lady. “Are you,” and her speech was pitiful and slow—“are you one of those whom he has—ruined?”
The little suppliant looked up with widening orbs.
“How could that be, and he so virtuous and pious a gentleman?” she faltered.