"Yes, dear, everything; another time. I can't now. I might do a mischief. I might prevent—you must promise me, darling, to tell no one. You must not say his name is Deverell. You say nothing about it. That dreadful, dreadful story!"
The folio was lying with crumpled leaves, back upward, on the floor, where it had fallen.
"There is something plainly fearful in it. You think so, grandmamma; something discovered; something going to happen. Send after him, grandmamma; call him back. If it is anything you can prevent, I'll ring."
"Don't touch the bell," cried granny, sharply, clutching at her hand, "don't do it. See, Beatrix, you promise me you say nothing to anyone of what you've witnessed—promise. I'll tell you all I know when I'm better. He'll come again. I wish he'd come again. I'm sure he will, though I hardly think I could bear to see him. I don't know what to think."
The old lady threw herself back in her chair, not affectedly at all, but looking so awfully haggard and agitated that Beatrix was frightened.
"Call nobody, there's a darling; just open the window; I shall be better."
And she heaved some of those long and heavy sighs which relieve hysterical oppression; and, after a long silence, she said—
"It is a long time since I have felt so ill, Beatrix. Remember this, darling, my papers are in the black cabinet in my bed-room at home—I mean Wardlock. There is not a great deal. My jointure stops, you know; but whatever little there is, is for you, darling."
"You're not to talk of it, granny, darling, you'll be quite well in a minute; the air is doing you good. May I give you a little wine?—Well, a little water?"
"Thanks, dear; I am better. Remember what I told you, and particularly your promise to mention what you heard to no one. I mean the—the—strange scene with that young man. I think I will take a glass of wine. I'll tell you all when I'm better—when Monsieur Varbarriere comes back. It is important for a time, especially having heard what I have, that I should wait a little."