the lady.”
The lady was not visible from the alcove.
“Has she said anything to you?” Mr. Rayburn inquired.
“No.”
“What has she done to frighten you?”
The child put her arms round her father’s neck.
“Whisper, papa,” she said; “I’m afraid of her hearing us. I think she’s mad.”
“Why do you think so, Lucy?”
“She came near to me. I thought she was going to say something. She seemed to be ill.”
“Well? And what then?”
“She looked at me.”
There, Lucy found herself at a loss how to express what she had to say next—and took refuge in silence.
“Nothing very wonderful, so far,” her father suggested.
“Yes, papa—but she didn’t seem to see me when she looked.”
“Well, and what happened then?”
“The lady was frightened—and that frightened me. I think,” the child repeated positively, “she’s mad.”
It occurred to Mr. Rayburn that the lady might be blind. He rose at once to set the doubt at rest.
“Wait here,” he said, “and I’ll come back to you.”
But Lucy clung to him with both hands; Lucy declared that she was afraid to be by herself. They left the alcove together.
The new point of view at once revealed the stranger, leaning against the trunk of a tree. She was dressed in the deep mourning of a widow. The pallor of her face, the glassy stare in her eyes, more than accounted for the child’s terror—it excused the alarming conclusion at which she had arrived.
“Go nearer to her,” Lucy whispered.
They advanced a few steps. It was now easy to see that the lady was young, and wasted by illness—but (arriving at a doubtful conclusion perhaps under the present circumstances) apparently possessed of rare personal attractions in happier days. As the father and daughter advanced a little, she discovered them. After some hesitation, she left the tree; approached with an evident intention of speaking; and suddenly paused. A change to astonishment and fear animated her vacant eyes. If it had not been plain before, it was now beyond all doubt that she was not a poor blind creature, deserted and helpless. At the same time, the expression of her face was not easy to understand. She could hardly have looked more amazed and bewildered, if the two strangers who were observing her had suddenly vanished from the place in which they stood.
Mr. Rayburn spoke to her with the utmost kindness of voice and manner.
“I am afraid you are not well,” he said. “Is there anything that I can do—”
The next words were suspended on his lips. It was impossible to realize such a state of things; but the strange impression that she had already produced on him was now confirmed. If he could believe his senses, her face did certainly tell him that he was invisible and inaudible to the woman whom he had just addressed! She moved slowly away with a heavy sigh, like a person disappointed and distressed. Following her with his eyes, he saw the dog once more—a little smooth-coated terrier of the ordinary English breed. The dog showed none of the restless activity of his race. With his head down and his tail depressed, he crouched like a creature paralyzed by fear. His mistress roused him by a call. He followed her listlessly as she turned away.
After walking a few paces only, she suddenly stood still.
Mr. Rayburn heard her talking to herself.
“Did I feel it again?” she said, as if perplexed by some doubt that awed or grieved her. After a while her arms rose slowly, and opened with a gentle caressing action—an embrace strangely offered to the empty air! “No,” she said to herself, sadly, after waiting a moment. “More perhaps when to-morrow comes—no more to-day.” She looked up at the clear blue sky. “The beautiful sunlight! the merciful sunlight!” she murmured. “I should have died if it had happened in the dark.”
Once more she called to the dog; and once more she walked slowly away.
“Is she going home, papa?’ the child asked.
“We will try and find out,” the father answered.
He was by this time convinced that the poor creature was in no condition to be permitted to go out without some one to take care of her. From motives of humanity, he was resolved on making the attempt to communicate with her friends.
III.
THE lady left the Gardens by the nearest gate; stopping to lower her veil before she turned into the busy thoroughfare which leads to Kensington. Advancing a little way along the High Street, she entered a house of respectable appearance, with a card in one of the windows which announced that apartments were to let.
Mr. Rayburn waited a minute—then knocked at the door, and asked if he could see the mistress of the house. The servant showed him into a room on the ground floor, neatly but scantily furnished. One little white object varied the grim brown monotony of the empty table. It was a visiting-card.
With a child’s unceremonious curiosity Lucy pounced on the card, and spelled the name, letter by letter: “Z, A, N, T,” she repeated. “What does that mean?”
Her father looked at the card, as he took it away from her, and put it back on the table. The name was printed, and the address was added in pencil: “Mr. John Zant, Purley’s Hotel.”
The mistress made her appearance. Mr. Rayburn heartily wished himself out of the house again, the moment he saw her. The ways in which it is possible to cultivate the social virtues are more numerous and more varied than is generally supposed. This lady’s way had apparently accustomed her to meet her fellow-creatures on the hard ground of justice without mercy. Something in her eyes, when she looked at Lucy, said: “I wonder whether that child gets punished when she deserves it?”
“Do you wish to see the rooms which I have to let?” she began.
Mr. Rayburn at once stated the object of his visit—as clearly, as civilly, and as concisely as a man could do it. He was conscious (he added) that he had been guilty perhaps of an act of intrusion.
The manner of the mistress of the house showed that she entirely agreed with him. He suggested, however, that his motive might excuse him. The mistress’s manner changed, and asserted a difference of opinion.
“I only know the lady whom you mention,” she said, “as a person of the highest respectability, in delicate health. She has taken my first-floor apartments, with excellent references; and she gives remarkably little trouble. I have no claim to interfere with her proceedings, and no reason to doubt that she is capable of taking care of herself.”
Mr. Rayburn unwisely attempted to say a word in his own defense.
“Allow me to remind you—” he began.
“Of
