The white morning-dress she still wore clung loosely around her wasted figure; all the bright hair was pushed impatiently off her face and confined in a net.

No one who had seen Harrie Hunsden, radiant as Hebe, blooming as Venus, daring as Diana, at the memorable fox-hunt of a little more than a year ago, would ever have recognized this haggard, pallid, wretched-looking Lady Kingsland as the same.

She sat still and alone, gazing out at the dreary desolation of earth and heaven.  The great house was still as a tomb; the bustle of the servants’ regions was far removed, the gnawing of a mouse behind the black paneling, the soft ticking of the toy clock sounded unnaturally loud.

“Darkening,” Harriet thought, looking at the leaden twilight—­“darkening, like my life.  Not two months a wife, and his love and trust gone forever.  May Heaven pity me, for there is none on earth!”

There was a tap at the door.  Lady Kingsland had learned to know that soft, light tap.

“Come in,” she said; and Sybilla entered.

She did not pause at the closed door as usual; she glided noiselessly across the room and stood beside her.  So like a ghost she came, her dead-black garments making no rustle, her footfall making no sound, her white face awfully corpse-like in the spectral light, her black eyes glowing like a cat’s in the dark; my lady shrunk in absolute affright.

“Don’t come any nearer!” she cried, putting out her hands.  “What do you want?”

“I have seen Mr. Parmalee, my lady.”

Her tones were the same as usual—­respectful.  But the gentle voice did not reassure Lady Kingsland.

“Well?” she said, coldly.

“He will be there, my lady.  At half past eleven to-night you will find—­your mother”—­slowly and distinctly—­“waiting for you on the terrace down by the shore.”

“Half past eleven.  Why so very late?”

“My lady, it will not be safe for you to venture out before.  You are watched!”

“Watched!” she repeated, haughtily.  “Do you mean, Sybilla Silver—­”

“I mean, my lady,” Miss Silver said, firmly, “Sir Everard has set spies.  The Beech Walk is watched by night and by day.  Claudine is little better than a tool in the hands of Edwards, the valet, with whom she is in love.  She tells everything to Edwards, and Edwards repeats to his master.  A quarter past eleven all will be still—­the household will have retired—­you may venture forth in safety.  The night will be dark, the way lonely and dismal; but you know it every inch.  On the stone terrace, at half past eleven, you will find—­your mother awaiting you.  You can talk to her in perfect safety, and for as long as you choose.”

“Have you seen her?” she asked.

“At the window of the Blue Belt Inn—­yes, my lady.  It is very rash for her to expose herself, too, for hers is a face to strike attention at once, if only for the wreck of its beauty, and for its unutterable look of despair.  But as she leaves again soon, I dare say nothing will come of it.”