“I’ll make it, dearest uncle. I’ll be your nurse now,” said she, stooping and kissing his forehead.
“No, no; I’ll not let you leave me again. You must sit there and speak to me. When you go away, I feel as if you had gone for weeks.”
“My dear, dear uncle!”
“Strange! how strange!” whispered he. “I knew well you were there—there, in that room yonder, asleep, but my thoughts would wander away till I came to think you had left me—deserted me! Don’t cry, darling. I felt that tear; it fell on my cheek. I do believe,” cried he, aloud, “they wished me to think I was deserted—a Luttrell of Arran dying without a friend or a kinsman to close his eyes. And the last Luttrell, too! The haughty Luttrells they called us once! Look around you, girl, at this misery, this want, this destitution! Are these the signs that show wealth and power? And it is all that is left to us! All!”
“My own dear uncle, if you but get well, and be yourself once more, it is enough of wealth for us.”
“Are we alone, Kate?” asked he, stealthily.
“No, Sir; poor Molly is here.”
“Tell her to go. I have something to say to you. Look in that top drawer for a paper tied with a string. No, not that—that is a direction for my funeral; the other—yes, you have it now—is my will. Arran will be yours, Kate. You will love it through all its barrenness, and never part with it. Promise me that.”
She muttered something through her sobs.
“Be kind to these poor people. I have never been to them as I ought, but I brought them a broken heart as well as a broken fortune. And wherever you live, come back sometimes to see these old rocks, and sit in that old chair; for, solitary as it all is, it would grieve me bitterly if I thought it were to be deserted!”