The knock was repeated, so near this time that it made her start. She was not naturally a timid woman, but she felt a sense of physical fear which was totally unreasoning. What harm was likely to come to her from such a source? She compelled herself to go forward and open the door.
It was very dark outside, and she vaguely distinguished the outline of a tall man standing before her. The light from the open door at her back threw out her figure in distinct relief, and it was evident that she had been recognized, for a voice said, in low but distinct tones,
“Lady Hurdly.”
She gave a cry and pressed both hands against her breast, sharply drawing in her breath. Then she took a few steps backward, throwing out one hand to support herself against the wall.
“Forgive me,” said the well-known voice—the voice out of all the world to which her blood-beats answered. “I have come on you too suddenly. I ought to have written and asked permission to call. I should have done so, only I feared you might deny me.”
Somehow the door was closed behind them and they had made their way into the lighted room. Bettina, still pale and breathless, began to murmur some excuses.
“I beg your pardon; I was frightened. Nora had gone out, and I was all alone. I did not know who it might be. I never have visitors, and I was afraid to open the door.”
He was looking at her keenly.
“You should not be alone like this,” he said, both resentment and indignation in his tone. “Why do you never have visitors? Why did Nora leave you? Where are the other servants?”
“There are no others. There is only Nora,” she said, recovering herself a little. “I let her go to church to-night. I am not usually afraid. Why should I be? Perhaps I am not very well.” As she uttered these incoherent sentences she sank into a chair and he took one near her.