“Ma’am!� the butler began.
“I came on before,� a sweet plaintive voice said—a voice that was viola-like in its rather thin, but sweet and vibrating quality. “And you must be Cradell.�
“Ma’am?� the old servant said again, while the Rector’s wife and the housekeeper listened with strained anxiety.
“I am Lady Wroth,� came in the clear, vibrating tones. “I came on before.... It does not matter why. There was a slight accident between Greystoke Station and the Elvand Tunnel. Do not be alarmed. Sir Vivian is safe, quite safe,� she went on, as agitated exclamations broke from the three listeners. “Indeed only one person was killed, though two or three are injured, and he—my husband—is helping the sufferers. He is always like that, so ready to help, so full of sympathy....�
She was now standing in the firelight, whose ruddy glow illumined the slight figure, and drew gleams of crimson and emerald from the jewels at her throat and shone in the depths of her great dark eyes. Her face was of delicate, pearly paleness, her hair had the tints of autumn leaves, and her draperies, too, were of the tints of autumn. She drew off a glove, and her wedding ring, with its diamond keeper, showed upon the slight and pretty hand, as her traveling mantle of velvet trimmed with costly sables fell to the floor.
“Oh, your ladyship!� cried the housekeeper. “What must you think of us—standing here and staring? But as goodness sees us—what with your sudden coming, and the news about the accident, and all—we’ve lost our heads, me and Mr. Cradell!�
“So very alarming!� said the Rector’s wife. “I trust Lady Wroth will excuse what may seem like an intrusion——�
“The intrusion is mine,� said the sweet viola-voice. “I should have given warning of my coming, but it was not to be. Oh! the dear house!� She looked with wondering, shining eyes upon the paneled walls, the trophied arms, the noble pictures, and the quaint antique furniture, and between her lips, of the faintest rose, her delicate teeth gleamed like pearls, as her breath came quick and eager. “Vivian’s old home ... Vivian’s home, and mine!� she whispered to herself, and laid a hand upon her heart, as though to check its beating.
“I will not intrude,� said the Rector’s wife. “I will hope for the pleasure of calling, with the Rector, at a more fitting time. Good-night, Lady Wroth.�
The Rector’s wife had held out her large hand in its cheap glove, but the new mistress of the manor only smiled upon her with vague wistful sweetness, and did not touch the massive extremity. Whereupon its owner set down Lady Wroth as “proud,� and made a mental note to tell the Rector so, as her large feet carried her out of the house and out of the story.