“Mr. Tyrrel,” she said, “ye are a Christian man.”
“Hush, hush, for Heaven's sake!” he replied; “you will disturb Miss Mowbray.”
“Naething will disturb her, puir thing,” answered Mrs. Dods; “they have muckle to answer for that brought her to this!”
“They have—they have indeed,” said Tyrrel, striking his forehead; “and I will see her avenged on every one of them!—Can I see her?”
“Better not—better not,” said the good woman; but he burst from her, and rushed into the apartment.
“Is life gone?—Is every spark extinct?” he exclaimed eagerly to a country surgeon, a sensible man, who had been summoned from Marchthorn in the course of the night. The medical man shook his head—Tyrrel rushed to the bedside, and was convinced by his own eyes that the being whose sorrows he had both caused and shared, was now insensible to all earthly calamity. He raised almost a shriek of despair, as he threw himself on the pale hand of the corpse, wet it with tears, devoured it with kisses, and played for a short time the part of a distracted person. At length, on the repeated expostulation of all present, he suffered himself to be again conducted to another apartment, the surgeon following, anxious to give such sad consolation as the case admitted of.
“As you are so deeply concerned for the untimely fate of this young lady,” he said, “it may be some satisfaction to you, though a melancholy one, to know, that it has been occasioned by a pressure on the brain, probably accompanied by a suffusion; and I feel authorized in stating, from the symptoms, that if life had been spared, reason would, in all probability, never have returned. In such a case, sir, the most affectionate relation must own, that death, in comparison to life, is a mercy.”
“Mercy?” answered Tyrrel; “but why, then, is it denied to me?—I know—I know!—My life is spared till I revenge her.”
He started from his seat, and hurried eagerly down stairs. But, as he was about to rush from the door of the inn, he was stopped by Touchwood, who had just alighted from a carriage, with an air of stern anxiety imprinted on his features, very different from their usual expression. “Whither would ye? Whither would ye?” he said, laying hold of Tyrrel, and stopping him by force.
“For revenge—for revenge!” said Tyrrel. “Give way, I charge you, on your peril!”