And so, with all honesty of purpose, and with the firmest conviction that it was the only means of saving her brother-in-law and his family from irretrievable misery and disgrace, poor Miss Gascoigne had broken through all her habits, risen, dressed, and breakfasted at an unearthly hour, and there she stood at the Lodge door at nine in the morning, determined to "do her duty," as she expressed it, but looking miserably pale, and vainly restraining her agitation so as to keep up a good appearance "before the servants." "That will do, Barker.

You need not disturb the master; I came at this early hour just for a little chat with your mistress and the children." And then entering the parlor, she sat down opposite to Christian to take breath.
Miss Gascoigne was really to be pitied.

Mere gossip she enjoyed; it was her native element, and she had plunged into this matter of Sir Edwin Uniacke with undeniable eagerness.

But now, when it might be not gossip, but disgrace, her terror overpowered her.

For disgrace, discredit in the world's eye, was the only form the matter took to this worldly woman, who rarely looked on things except on the outside.
Guilt, misery, and their opposites, which alone give strength to battle with them, were things too deep to be fathomed in the slightest degree by Miss Gascoigne.
Therefore, as her looks showed, she was not so much shocked as simply frightened, and had come to the Lodge with a frantic notion of hushing up the matter somehow, whatever it was.