The day before that which was fixed for my departure, I sent to desire to see her. This request I had repeatedly made; but she had, from day to day, excused herself, saying that she was unwell, and that she would be up on the morrow. At last she came; and though but a few days had elapsed since I had seen her, she was so changed in her appearance, that I was shocked the moment I beheld her countenance.
“You don’t look well, Ellinor,” said I: “sit down.”
“No matter whether I sit or stand,” said she, calmly; “I’m not long for this world: I won’t live long after you are gone, that’s one comfort.”
Her eyes were fixed and tearless; and there was a dead unnatural tranquillity in her manner.
“They are making a wonderful great noise nailing up the boxes, and I seen them cording the trunks as I came through the hall. I asked them, could I be of any use: but they said I could be of none, and that’s true; for, when I put my hand to the cord, to pull it, I had no more strength than an infant. It was seven-and-twenty years last Midsummer-day since I first had you an infant in my arms. I was strong enough then, and you—was a sweet babby. Had I seen that time all that would come to pass this day! But that’s over now. I have done a wicked thing; but I’ll send for Father Murphy, and get absolution before I die.”
She sighed deeply, then went on speaking more quickly.
“But I can do nothing until you go. What time will you go in the morning, dear? It’s better go early. Is it in the coach you’ll go? I see it in the yard. But I thought you must leave the coach, with all the rest, to the rightful heir. But my head’s not clear about it all, I believe—and no matter.”
Her ideas rambled from one subject to another in an unconnected manner. I endeavoured in vain to recall her understanding by speaking of her own immediate interests; of the house that was secured to her for life; and of the promise that had been made me, that she should never want for any thing, and that she should be treated with all possible kindness. She seemed to listen to me; but showed that she did not comprehend what I said, by her answers; and, at every pause I made, she repeated the same question—
“What time will you go in the morning, dear?”
At last I touched her feelings, and she recovered her intellect, when I suddenly asked, if she would accompany me to England the next morning.