“The lase!” cried the young man, with joy sparkling in his eyes, as his mother held up the packet. “Lend me the papers.”
He cracked the seals, and taking off the cover—“Ay, I know it’s the lase sure enough. But stay, where’s the memorandum?”
“It’s there, sure,” said his mother, “where my lord’s pencil writ it. I don’t read. Grace, dear, look.”
The young man put it into her hands, and stood without power to utter a syllable.
“It’s not here! It’s gone!—no sign of it.”
“Gracious Heaven! that can’t be,” said the old woman, putting on her spectacles; “let me see,’—I remember the very spot.”
“It’s taken away—it’s rubbed clean out!—Oh, wasn’t I fool?—But who could have thought he’d be the villain!”
The young man seemed neither to see nor hear, but to be absorbed in thought. Grace, with her eyes fixed upon him, grew as pale as death.—“He’ll go—he’s gone.”
“She’s gone!” cried Lord Colambre, and the mother just caught her in her arms as she was falling.
“The chaise is ready, plase your honour,” said Larry, coming into the room. “Death! what’s here?”