“Oh, sir, thank God I have found you. Be prepared for ill news—sad news—a terrible calamity—I can't speak. Read that, sir.” And she handed him Tadcaster's note.
He took it, and read it.
He buried his face in his hands. “Christopher! my poor, poor boy!” he groaned. But suddenly a terrible anxiety seized him. “Who knows of this?” he asked.
“Only myself, sir. I came here to break it to her.”
“You are a good, kind lady, for being so thoughtful. Madam, if this gets to my niece's ears, it will kill her, as sure as we stand here.”
“Then let us keep it from her. Command me, sir. I will do anything. I will live here—take the letters in—the journals—anything.”
“No, no; you have done your part, and God bless you for it. You must not stay here. Your ladyship's very presence, and your agitation, would set the servants talking, and some idiot-fiend among them babbling—there is nothing so terrible as a fool.”
“May I remain at the inn, sir; just one night?”
“Oh yes, I wish you would; and I will run over, if all is well with her—well with her? poor unfortunate girl!”
Lady Cicely saw he wished her gone, and she went directly.