His son had late that day left for London, amply supplied with those funds to supply his exigencies, which he had little difficulty now in drawing from the resources of the now powerless old dotard.
A few hours later, when darkness had closed in, and the house was hushed and still, a woman's form was seen issuing from the old man's chamber.
It was Mabel Marryott. She was changed from the day we last saw her, sailing along the passages of Montrevor. She came forward with a slow, uncertain step, holding a shawl wrapped loosely over her breast; and the lamp she carried in the other hand showed her countenance to bear a sick and ghastly expression, betokening the painful disease through which she finally perished, to have already laid its sharp fangs on her system.
But though bodily strength might be subdued, no mental debilitation seemed the consequence. She went straight forward to the door of her master's library; entering without a pause of fear, or conscious stricken awe, that gloomy haunt of many sinful and accusing memories, she shut the door behind her, placed the lamp upon a table and sat down to rest, her eyes wandering deliberately round the room fearing little to encounter the spiritual shades of the past—the meek upbraiding of one wronged being's saintly eyes—the noble scorn—the scathing indignation of another's. She feared not yet either angel or spirit, her day of fear was yet to come. She looked round with a keen scrutinizing glance of survey, and then she rose and went composedly to work; she had the field to herself, and one master-key which the old man had managed to keep concealed even from his son, she had contrived by strict vigilance to discover the hiding-place, and get into her possession.
"Thou fool!" might have seemed the utterance of her heart, as with a look of fiendish mockery she flung open the depository into which she thus found entrance, and viewed the glittering treasures it contained. "Thou fool! thou hast indeed many goods laid up for many years, and this night—perhaps this night, this very night, thy dotard soul may be required of thee."
"Thou fool! how long hast thou to live," the spirit of air might have echoed in her ear, as the woman proceeded on her work of iniquity.
But strange the insane delusion by which each man would seem to deem all men mortal but themselves. Even with that fatal malady gnawing on her very vitals. Mabel Marryott trusting in an arm of flesh, confidant in human skill, was laying in store for herself many years of anticipatory pleasure, ease, and competence.
With a well-filled purse of gold, she then had for the present turned away content—gold which the old man she thought would never rise from his bed to demand, and of which his heirs could guess only the existence; and thus she would have departed, had not her quick eye suddenly discovered a secret recess, which from the difficulty she had in opening it, more keenly excited her curiosity and interest.
By dint of much trouble and exertion the aperture finally yielded, and a heap of papers, which had to all appearance been carelessly thrust in together, was the issue of her research. They were bank-notes. One after another, she read the tempting numbers—hesitated—replaced them, and finally divided and pocketed the half.
Two hours after this deed had been perpetrated, some one came knocking gently at the door of Mr. Trevor's chamber, to which Mrs. Marryott had returned to inform her that a young woman had arrived, desiring to speak with her. Mrs. Marryott kept the person waiting some little time for she was giving Mr. Trevor his arrow-root; but at length went down to her sitting-room, where she found a woman of decent appearance though poorly attired, seated patiently awaiting her coming; a dark cloak wrapped around her, and a large bonnet and veil nearly concealing her face.