Standing there was Mrs. Verner, looking like—­like a bedecked skeleton.  She was in fairy attire.  A gossamer robe of white with shining ornaments, and a wreath that seemed to sparkle with glittering dewdrops on her head.  But her arms were thin, wasted; and the bones of her poor neck seemed to rattle as they heaved painfully under the gems clasped round it:  and her face had not so much as the faintest tinge of hectic, but was utterly colourless—­worse, it was wan, ghastly.  A distressing sight to look upon, was she, as she stood there; she and the festal attire were so completely at variance.  She came forward, before the servants could recover from their astonishment.

“Where’s Richard?” she asked, speaking in a low, subdued tone, as if fearing to be heard—­though there was nobody in the house to hear her, save Lucy Tempest.  And probably it was from her wish to avoid all attention to her proceeding, that caused her to come down stealthily to the servants, instead of ringing for them.

“Richard is not come back, ma’am,” answered Catherine.  “We have just been saying that he’ll most likely stop up there with the Hall servants until my lady returns.”

“Not back!” echoed Sibylla.  “Cook, you must go out for me,” she imperiously added, after a moment’s pause.  “Go to Dean’s and order one of their flys here directly.  Wait, and come back with it.”

The cook, a simple sort of young woman, save in her own special department, did not demur, or appear to question in the least the expediency of the order.  Catherine questioned it very much indeed; but while she hesitated what to do, whether to stop the cook, or to venture on a remonstrance to Mrs. Verner, or to appeal to Miss Tempest to do it, the cook was gone.  Servants are not particular in country places, and the girl went straight out as she was, not staying to put anything on.

Sibylla appeared to be shivering.  She took up her place right in front of the fire, holding out her hands to the blaze.  Her teeth chattered, her whole frame trembled.

“The fire in my dressing-room went out,” she remarked.  “Take care that you make up a large one by the time I return.”

“You’ll never go, ma’am!” cried old Catherine, breaking through her reserve.  “You are not strong enough.”

“Mind your own business,” sharply retorted Sibylla.  “Do you think I don’t know my own feelings, whether I am strong, or whether I am not?  I am as strong as you.”

Catherine dared no more.  Sibylla cowered over the fire, her head turned sideways as she glanced on the table.

“What’s that?” she suddenly cried, pointing to the contents of a jug.

“It’s beer, ma’am,” answered Catherine.  “That stupid girl drew as much as if Richard and Therese had been at home.  Maybe Therese will be in yet for supper.”

“Give me a glass of it.  I am thirsty.”

Again old Catherine hesitated.  Malt liquor had been expressly forbidden to Mrs. Verner.  It made her cough frightfully.