"Well, I don't see why you should say that, Rose. He is neither your enemy nor mine. But I should like to know what reason he has for saying these things."
"Don't listen to him, mother; don't encourage him here," implored Rosaline. "I'm sure it will be better for our peace that he should keep away. And now—will you have some arrowroot to-night, or——"
"I won't have anything," interrupted Dame Bell. "I had a bit of supper before I undressed and a drop of ale with it. I shall get to sleep if I can: and I hope with all my heart that your poor father will not be haunting me in my dreams."
Rosaline carried away the candle, and sat down to her own supper in the next room. But she could not eat. Mr. Blase Pellet's reported words were quite sufficient supper for her, bringing before her all too vividly the horror of that dreadful night. Would this state of thraldom in which she lived ever cease, she asked herself; would she ever again, as long as the world should last for her, know an hour that was not tinged with its fatal remembrances and the fears connected with them.
In the morning her mother said she was better, and rose as usual. This was Saturday. When Rosaline reached home in the afternoon, earlier than on other days, she found her stirring about at some active housework. But on the Sunday morning she remained in bed, confessing that she felt very poorly. Rosaline wanted to call in Mr. Raynor: but her mother told her not to be silly; she was not ill enough for that.
The internal disorder which afflicted Mrs. Bell, and would eventually be her death, was making slow but sure progress. Frank Raynor—and his experience was pretty extensive now—had never known a similar case develop so lingeringly. He thought she might have a year or two's life in her yet. Still, it was impossible to say: a change might occur at any moment.
On this Sunday afternoon, when she and Rosaline were sitting together after dinner, Mr. Blase Pellet walked in. Rosaline only wished she could walk out. She would far rather have done so. But she forced herself to be civil to him.
"Look here," said Blase, taking a newspaper out of his pocket when he had sat some minutes. "This advertisement must concern those Raynors that you know of. I'll read it to you."
"'Lost. Lost. A small carved ebony desk. Was last seen at Eagles' Nest in the month of June more than two years ago. Any one giving information of where it may be found, or bringing it to Mr. Street, solicitor, of Lawyers' Row, shall receive ten guineas reward.'
"Those Raynors, you know, came into the Eagles' Nest property, and then had to turn out of it again," added Blase.