“That night? Yes.”
“Ah! that night—that night! What a different man I might have lived and died but for that dark, sorrowful night! What trouble and sorrow that night caused you, too! It turned my poor mother’s brain, Lord Ernest; and—she stole your child!”
“I know it.”
“Do you not want to see her!—have you seen her?”
“Not yet. I will see her soon.”
“Where is my daughter, Raymond?” asked Lady Maude, looking wistfully round.
“Up-stairs with her grandmother, madam,” said Pet, respectfully. “She does not know you are here. Shall I go and tell her.”
“Not just yet,” said Lord De Courcy. “My dearest love, subdue your impatience for a few moments—remember, you are in the presence of the dying. You have waited for her all these years—you can afford to wait a few moments longer now.”
“How is my grandmother?” asked Ray, in a low tone, of Pet.
“The same as you saw her last—in a sort of dull stupor all the time; neither sees, hears, nor feels, apparently. They brought her upstairs this morning, and Erminie has been with her since.”