[CHAPTER VI.]
THE FORTUNE-TELLER.
"I miss you my darling, my darling—
The embers burn low on the hearth,
And still is the air of the household,
And hushed is the voice of mirth.
The rain splashes fast on the terrace,
The winds past the lattices moan;
The midnight chimes out from the minster
And I am alone!"
Lindsey Warwick had not counted on such determined obstinacy as his lovely young captive displayed.
From first to last she refused to taste a morsel of food beneath the roof of her jailer.
The keenness of her thirst made her accept water from the woman, but that was all. Neither cajoleries, threats, nor bribes could induce her to taste the food provided for her, though it was of the best, with fruits and wines, and even bon-bons to tempt her girlish appetite. Although she was starving she pushed them aside with disdain, and lay all day on the couch weeping forlornly, and calling by turns on the names of her father, mother, and sister.
Poor Precious! she had fully believed that her father would find her in less than twenty-four hours, but the long days wore away, and she gave herself up to despair. Prayers, promises, pleadings, were of no avail with the cruel old woman and her enamored son.
But at heart the old woman was uneasy and frightened as the long days waned and the beautiful captive grew paler and weaker day by day.
"She will die, Lindsey, for she has never tasted food since she came here, and that is a long week now. You had better let her go. She will never marry you; she will die first, as she said."
"Then she will be mine in death. I will bury her under the cellar of this house, and no one will ever know the secret of her fate."