“She is gone, sir,” said Phillis.
“Gone! gone! When, and where?”
“I cannot say, sir; but my Lord and her Ladyship left this morning early, with post-horses, taking the Dublin road.”
Linton did not speak, but the swollen vein in his forehead, and the red flush upon his brow, told how the tidings affected him. He had long speculated on witnessing the agonies of her grief when the hour of his revenge drew nigh; and this ecstasy of cruelty was now to be denied him.
“And my Lord—had he regained any consciousness, or was he still insensible?”
“He appeared like a child, sir, when they lifted him into the carriage.”
“And Lady Kilgoff?”
“She held her veil doubled over her face as she passed; but I thought she sighed, and even sobbed, as she handed me this letter.”
“'For Roland Cashel, Esquire,'” said Linton, reading as he took it. “Did she speak at all, Phillis?”
“Not a word, sir. It was a sad-looking procession altogether, moving away in the dim gray of the morning.”