"Oh!" she burst forth, before I had time to say another word. "Is it my husband? You say he is ill! He is not dead?"
"My dear, be calm. It is not about your husband at all. It is about some one else, though, who is very ill—Tom Heriot."
Grieved she no doubt was; but the relief that crept into her face, tone and attitude proved that the one man was little to her compared with the other, and that she loved her husband yet with an impassioned love.
By degrees, softening the facts as much as possible, I told the tale. Of Tom's apprehension about the time of her marriage; his trial which followed close upon it; his conviction, and departure for a penal settlement; his escape; his return to England; his concealments to evade detection; his illness; and his present state. Blanche shivered and cried as she listened, and finally fell upon her knees, and buried her face in the cushions of the chair.
"And is there no hope for him, Charles?" she said, looking up after a while.
"My dear, there is no hope. And, under the circumstances, it is happier for him to die than to continue to live. But he would like to see you, Blanche."
"Poor Tom! Poor Tom! Can we go to him now—this evening?"
"Yes; it is what I came to propose. It is the best time. He——"
"Shall I order the carriage?"
The interruption made me laugh. My Lord Level's state carriage and powdered servants at that poor fugitive's door!