“Bring lights,” said Decima, in a low tone.

The lights were brought; and then Decima’s agitation was apparent.  Her hands shook as she broke the seal of the letter.  Lucy gazed in surprise; Sibylla, somewhat aroused from her own grievances, in curiosity.

“Desire the carriage to wait,” said Decima.

“It is waiting, Miss Decima.  The servants said they had orders.”

Decima crushed the note into her pocket as well as her shaking fingers would allow her, and left the room.  What could have occurred, thus to agitate calm and stately Decima?  Before Lucy and Mrs. Verner had recovered their surprise she was back again, dressed to go out.

“I am sorry to leave you so abruptly, as mamma is not here,” she said.  “I dare say Lionel will be in to dinner.  If not, you must for once entertain each other.”

“But where are you going?” cried Mrs. Verner.

“To Sir Rufus Hautley’s.  He wishes to see me.”

“What does he want with you?” continued Sibylla.

“I do not know,” replied Decima.

She quitted the room and went down to the carriage, which had waited for her.  Mrs. Verner and Lucy heard it drive away again as quickly as it had driven up.  As it turned the corner and pursued its way up the road, past the window they were looking from, but at some distance from it, they fancied they saw the form of Decima inside, looking out at them.

“Sir Rufus is taken ill,” said old Catherine to them, by way of news.  “The servants say that it’s feared he won’t live through the night.  Mr. Jan is there, and Dr. Hayes.”

“But what can he want with Miss Verner?” reiterated Sibylla.

Catherine shook her head.  She had not the remotest idea.

Lionel Verner did not come in for dinner, and they descended to it without him.  His non-appearance was no improvement to the temper of his wife.  It had occurred lately that Lionel did not always get home to dinner.

Sometimes, when detained at Verner’s Pride, he would take it with John Massingbird; if out on the estate, and unable to reach home in time, he would eat something when he came in.  Her fractious state of mind did not tend to soothe the headache she had complained of earlier in the day.  Every half-hour that passed without her husband’s entrance, made her worse in all ways, head and temper; and about nine o’clock she went up to her sitting-room and lay down on the sofa, saying that her temples were splitting.

Lucy followed her.  Lucy thought she must really be ill.  She could not understand that any one should be so fractious, except from wearing pain.  “I will bathe your temples,” she gently said.

Sibylla did not appear to care whether her temples were bathed or not.  Lucy got some water in a basin and two thin handkerchiefs, wringing out one and placing it on Mrs. Verner’s head and forehead, kneeling to her task.  That her temples were throbbing and her head hot, there was no question; the handkerchief was no sooner on, than it was warm, and Lucy had to exchange it for the other.