Later in the evening she was introduced to Lady Ruxley, whose acquaintance she had long desired to make, and whose favor she was most anxious to secure.
The old lady had arrived at the castle that morning by special invitation, and was to remain a few days to visit Lady Dunforth, who was a favorite with her.
She was a very peculiar body, this old lady of eighty, with her wrinkled, withered face, her scant, wiry, gray hair, her restless black eyes keen and sharp as a briar. She was bent nearly double, and walked with a cane, and when she tried to talk to or look at anybody she twisted her neck and shoulders into all manner of contortions. She was little as well as old—she could not have weighed over ninety pounds—and in her straight, old-fashioned black satin gown she made Isabel think of some witch or sprite of evil.
She felt anything but comfortable beneath those keen, bright eyes, which seemed to read her through and through at a glance, and her blunt way of asking questions disconcerted her not a little.
“False as fair; false as fair!” and “chickens always come home to roost!” muttered the “old crone,” as she watched the handsome couple move away.
“What were you saying, aunt?” asked Lady Randal, sharply.
She had been standing near, and saw the distrustful expression on her face, and heard the muttered tones.
“I said ‘chickens always come home to roost,’” she snapped in reply.
“What do you mean by it? I don’t understand you.”
“I mean that you are going to get your pay through her for some of your own evil deeds in the past,” she answered, pointing her shaking finger at Isabel.