Lady Eleanor's heart beat loudly and painfully; many a sharp pang shot through it, as, with a strong effort to seem calm, she entered.
CHAPTER XXV. A DARK CONSPIRACY
Dr. Hickman was so little prepared for the favorable change in Lady Eleanor's appearance since he had last seen her, as almost to doubt that she was the same, and it was with a slight tremor of voice he said,— “Is it age with me, my Lady, or altered health, that makes the difference, but you seem to me not what I remember you? You are fresher, pardon an old man's freedom, and I should say far handsomer too!”
“Really, Mr. Hickman, you make me think my excursion well repaid by such flatteries,” said she, smiling pleasantly, and not sorry thus for a moment to say something that might relieve the awkward solemnity of the scene. “I hope sir, that this air, severe though it be, may prove as serviceable to yourself. Have you slept well?”
“No, my Lady, I scarcely dozed the whole night; this place is a very poor one. The rain comes in there,—where you see that green mark,—and the wind whistles through these broken panes,-and rats, bother them! they never ceased the night through. A poor, poor spot it is, sure enough!”
It never chanced to cross his mind, while bewailing these signs of indigence and discomfort, that she, to whom he addressed the complaint, had been reduced to as bad, even worse, hardships by his own contrivance. Perhaps, indeed, the memory of such had not occurred at that moment to Lady Eleanor, had not the persistence with which he dwelt on the theme somewhat ruffled her patience, and eventually reminded her of her own changed lot. It was then with a slightly irritated tone she remarked,—
“Such accommodation is a very unpleasant contrast to the comforts you are accustomed to, sir; and these sudden lessons in adversity are, now and then, very trying things.”
“What does it signify?” sighed the old man, heavily; “a day sooner, a few hours less of sunshine, and the world can make little difference to one like me! Happy for me, if, in confronting them, I have done anything towards my great purpose, the only object between me and the grave!”
Lady Eleanor never broke the silence which followed these words; and though the old man looked as if he expected some observation or rejoinder, she said not a word. At length he resumed, with a faint moan,—“Ah, my Lady, you have much to forgive us for.”