“Lady Eleanor,—Be on your guard,—there is a dark plot against you. Take counsel in time,—and if you hear the words, 'T is eighty-six years have crept to your feet, to die,' you can credit the friendship of this warning.”
“Who brought this note?” said she, in a voice that became full and strong, under the emergency of danger.
“Your butler, my Lady.”
“Where is he? Send him to me.” And as she spoke, Tate mounted the stairs.
“How came you by this note, Tate?”
“A fisherman, my Lady, left it this instant, with directions to be given to you at once and without a moment's delay.”
“'Tis nothing bad, I hope and trust, my Lady,” whispered the old man. “The darling young lady is not ill?”
“No, sir, she is perfectly well, nor are the tidings positively bad ones. There is no answer, Tate.” So saying, she once more opened the paper and read it over.
Without seeing wherefore, Lady Eleanor felt a sudden sense of hardihood take possession of her; the accusation by which, a moment previous, she had been almost stunned, seemed already lighter to her eyes, and the suspicion that the whole interview was part of some dark design dawned suddenly on her mind. Nor was this feeling permanent; a glance at the miserable old man, who, with head beut down and half-closed eyes, lay before her, dispelling the doubts even more rapidly than they were formed. Indeed, now that the momentary excitement of speaking had passed away, he looked far more wan and wasted than before; his chest, too, heaved with a fluttering, irregular action, that seemed to denote severe and painful effort, while his fingers, with a restless and fidgety motion, wandered here and there, pinching the bed-clothes, and seeming to search for some stray object.
While the conflict continued in Lady Eleanor's mind, the old man's brain once more began to wander, and his lips murmured half inarticulately certain words. “I would give it all!” said he, with a sudden cry; “every shilling of it for that—but it cannot be—no, it cannot be.”