About twenty years after this, Margaret, who had become a full, comely dame, and was by many thought better-looking now than in her youth, was one day bustling about her kitchen, for on the morrow her eldest son, who had accompanied the Lord Ralph on a naval expedition, was expected to bring home, from the galleyman's, in London, a counterpart of the pretty little Lucy. She was busy preparing the ingredients for some sweet dish, when one of Holgrave's labourers came in, and requested her to go to his hut directly, for an old man, who seemed dying, desired much to see her. Providing herself with a little wine, Margaret hastened to the cottage; and here, on a straw bed, lay a man with grey hairs hanging about his shoulders, and with a face so emaciated, and a hand so skeleton-like, that she almost shuddered as she looked. The invalid motioned the man to withdraw, and then, fixing his black eyes, that appeared gifted with an intense—an unnatural brilliance, upon Margaret, who seemed fascinated by the gaze, he said in a tremulous voice,—
"Margaret, do you know me?"
"Know you!—know you!" she repeated, starting from the seat she had taken beside him, and retreating a few steps.
"Do not fly me, Margaret. I cannot harm you—I never could have harmed you.—Do you not know me?"
"Surely," said Margaret, trembling from head to foot—"surely it cannot be——"
"I see you have a misgiving that it is Thomas Calverley—it is he! But be seated, Margaret, and listen to the last words I shall ever more breathe in mortal ear."
Margaret was so shocked and overpowered, that she obeyed.
"Margaret," said the dying man, as he raised himself a little from his bed, "I know not why I sent for you, or why I dragged my weary limbs from beyond the sea to this place; but as I felt my hour was coming, I longed to look upon you again. You are and have been happy—your looks bespeak it: but, Margaret, what do mine tell of?—Of weary days and sleepless nights—of sickness of heart, and agony of soul—of crime—of pain—of sorrow, and deep, destroying love!" His strength was exhausted with the feeling with which he uttered this, and he sunk back on the bed.
Margaret was exceedingly agitated, and was rising to call for assistance, but he caught her hand in his cold grasp. "Do not go yet," he said, in a low voice—"I came far to see you!" His grasp relaxed, and Margaret, drawing away her hand, poured some wine in a cup, and held it to his lips; he swallowed a little, and, looking up in her face, she saw that his eyes were filled with tears. "You are going to leave me, Margaret?"
"Yes," she replied, "I must go now, but I will see you again."