“Lay it on the table,” said he to the valet; “it is probably some excuse about the ball.”
“Sir,” said the servant, “a lad has just brought it from S——,” naming a village about four miles distant; “and says he is to wait for an answer. He was ordered to ride as fast as possible.”
With some impatience Godolphin took up the note; but the moment his eye rested on the writing, it fell from his hands; his cheek, his lips, grew as white as death; his heart seemed to refuse its functions; it was literally as if life stood still for a moment, as by the force of a sudden poison. With a strong effort he recovered himself, tore open the note, and read as follows:
“Percy Godolphin, the hour has arrived-once more we shall meet. I summon you, fair love, to that meeting—the bed of death. Come! Lucilla Volktman.”
“Don’t alarm the countess,” said Godolphin to his servant, in a very low, calm voice; “bring my horse to the postern, and send the bearer of this note to me.”
The messenger appeared—a rough country lad, of about eighteen or twenty.
“You brought this note?”
“I did, your honour.”
“From whom?”
“Why, a sort of a strange lady as is lying at the ‘Chequers,’ and not expected to live. She be mortal bad, sir, and do run on awesome.”