To Rainford's inquiry whether Lady Hatfield were at home, an affirmative answer was given.
"Say to your mistress," returned the highwayman, "that a person wishes to speak to her upon very particular business—and do me the favour to show me to a room where I can see her ladyship alone."
The servant hesitated a moment—for the excited tone in which the request was made somewhat surprised him. But remembering that it was not his business to question his lady's visitors, he conducted Rainford into a parlour where a fire was burning in the grate; and, having lighted the candles, the domestic retired to deliver to Lady Hatfield the message which he had received.
The few minutes which elapsed ere the door of that room again opened, seemed like an age to Tom Rain. He first sate down: then he rose again and stood before the fire in a state of extraordinary nervousness. In fact, he appeared perfectly unmanned.
We can conceive the feelings of appalling doubt—hope mingled with terrific fear—and agonising suspense, that must be experienced by an individual accused of a capital crime, and awaiting in the dock the return of the jury in whose hands are his life and death.
Such was the state of Tom Rain during the five mortal minutes that elapsed ere the door again opened.
At length it did open—and, though he had his back turned towards it, yet the rustling of silk and a light, airy tread convinced him that the lady of the house was now in that room.
He turned: the light streamed full upon his countenance—for he had laid aside his hat and woollen comforter; and Lady Hatfield—for it was she—uttered a faint scream as her eyes met his.
"Pardon this intrusion—fear me not now, my lady!" exclaimed Rainford hastily: "but grant me five minutes' attention, I implore you—not for my sake—for yours!"
Georgiana had started back, and had become pale as death when she recognised the highwayman: but even while he was yet speaking, she recovered herself sufficiently to approach the spot where he was standing.