She looked, indeed, like one whose faculties had been stunned by some sudden shock, and had, as yet, made no effort to recall them to their wonted exercise. At the foot of the bed stood the maid, whose half-uttered sobs were the only sounds to break the stillness.
Cashel drew near, and placed his fingers on the sick man's pulse. Often had he, in his former adventurous career, felt the ebbing current of a life's blood, and measured its power by its resistance. The full but laboring swell of the heart might well deceive him, then, into the impression that no grave consequences were near. He knew not that in such affections the pulse can be round and strong and impulsive; and it was with an earnest conviction of truth he whispered to her,—
“There is no danger.”
She looked up, but it was easy to see that although the words had sounded like comfort, they had not pierced the dense veil that clouded her mind.
Cashel repeated the phrase, and said,—
“Tiernay will soon be here, but have no fears; my own slight skill can tell you there is nothing of peril. Had you not better retire from this—even to the window?”
A faint “No” was all she uttered.
“He was in perfect health this afternoon?” said Cashel to the maid.
“My Lord was better than usual, sir; he took out his collar and his star to look at them, and he spoke very pleasantly of going abroad in the spring. He was reading in the library when Mr. Linton went to him.”
“Linton!” muttered Lady Kilgoff, with a shudder.