His name was not mentioned between them again. Lord Earle never inquired where he was buried—he never knew.
The gloom had deepened at the Hall. Lillian Earle lay nigh unto death. Many believed that the master of Earlescourt would soon be a childless man. He could not realize it. They told him how she lay with the cruel raging fever sapping her life, but he seemed to forget the living child in mourning for the one that lay dead.
In compliance with Lionel's prayer, Lady Helena took him into the sick room where Lillian lay. She did not know him; the gentle, tender eyes were full of dread and fear; the fair, pure face was burning with the flush of fever; the hot, dry lips were never still. She talked incessantly—at times of Knutsford and Beatrice—then prayed in her sweet, sad voice that Lionel would trust her—only trust her; when Beatrice was married she would tell him all.
He turned away; her eyes had lingered on his face, but no gleam of recognition came into them.
"You do not think she will die?" he asked of Lady Helena; and she never forgot his voice or his manner.
"We hope not," she said; "life and death are in higher hands than ours. If you wish to help her, pray for her."
In after years Lionel Dacre like to remember that the best and most fervent prayers of his life had been offered for gentle, innocent Lillian Earle.
As he turned to quit the chamber he heard her crying for her mother. She wanted her mother—why was she not there? He looked at Lady Helena; she understood him.
"I have written," she said. "I sent for Dora yesterday; she will be here soon."