Accordingly, that every afternoon, Angela, accompanied by Pigott, started off for Rewtham House, where Lady Bellamy still lived, or rather existed.  It was her first outing since the inquest on George Caresfoot had caused her and her history to become publicly notorious, and, as she walked along, she was surprised to find that she was the object of popular sympathy.  Every man she met touched or took off his hat, according to his degree, and, as soon as she had passed, turned round and stared at her.  Some fine folks whom she did not know—­ indeed, she knew no one, though it had been the fashion to send and “inquire” during her illness—­drove past in an open carriage and pair, and she saw a gentleman on the front seat whisper something to the ladies, bringing round their heads towards her as simultaneously as though they both worked on a single wire.  Even the children coming out of the village school set up a cheer as she passed.

“Good gracious, Pigott, what is it all about?” she asked, at last.

“Well, you see, miss, they talk of you in the papers as the ’Abbey House heroine’—­and heroines is rare in these parts.”

Overwhelmed with so much attention, Angela was thankful when at last they reached Rewtham House.

Pigott went into the housekeeper’s room, and Angela was at once shown up into the drawing-room.  The servant announced her name to a black-robed figure lying on a sofa, and closed the door.

“Come here, Angela Caresfoot,” said a well-known voice, “and see how Fate has repaid the woman who tried to ruin you.”

She advanced and looked at the deathly face, still as darkly beautiful as ever, on which was fixed that strange look of wild expectancy that it had worn when its owner took the poison.

“Yes, look at me; think what I was, and then what I am, and learn how the Spirit of evil pays those who serve him.  I thought to kill myself, but death was denied me, and now I live as you see me.  I am an outcast from the society of my kind—­not that I ever cared for that, except to rule it.  I cannot stir hand or foot, I cannot write, I can scarcely read, I cannot even die.  My only resource is the bitter sea of thought that seethes eternally in this stricken frame like fire pent in the womb of a volcano.  Yes, Angela Caresfoot, and like the fire, too, sometimes it overflows, and then I can blaspheme and rave aloud till my voice fails.  That is the only power which is left to me.”

Angela uttered an exclamation of pity.

“Pity—­do not pity me; I will not be pitied by you.  Mock me if you will; it is your turn now.  You prophesied that it would come; now it is here.”

“At any rate, you are still comfortable in your own house,” said Angela, nervously, anxious to change the subject, and not knowing what to say.

“Oh! yes, I have money enough, if that is what you mean.  My husband threatened to leave me destitute, but fear of public opinion—­and I hear that he has run away, and is not well thought of now—­or perhaps of myself, cripple as I am, caused him to change his mind.  But do not let us talk of that poor creature.  I sent for you here for a purpose.  Where is your lover?”