And that one wretch who showed no feeling, was the old hag of Golden Lane.
"She cannot now betray me for procuring the poison," thought the vile harridan, as she calmly contemplated the mangled corpse at her feet.
CHAPTER CLXII.
THE BEQUEST.
Two days after the suicide of Lady Cecilia Harborough,—an event which created a profound sensation in the fashionable world, and plunged the Tremordyn family into mourning,—Richard Markham was a passenger in a coach that passed through Hounslow.
At this town he alighted, and inquired the way to the residence of Mr. Bennet, a small farmer in the neighbourhood.
A guide was speedily procured at the inn; and after a pleasant walk of about three miles, across a country which already bore signs of the genial influence of an early spring, Richard found himself at the gate of a comfortable-looking farm-house.
He dismissed his guide with a gratuity, and was shortly admitted by a buxom servant-girl into a neat little parlour, where he was presently joined by Katherine.
The young maiden was rejoiced to see her benefactor; and tears started into her eyes, though her lips were wreathed in smiles;—but they were tears of pleasure and gratitude.
"This is kind of you, Mr. Markham," she said, as he shook her hand with friendly warmth.
"I am come to see you upon important business, Katherine," observed Richard. "But first let me inquire after the good people with whom you reside?"