“I know, Weston. I know quite well,” I said. “You are most devoted to her. But what is this you fear?”
“I really don’t know, sir,” was the young woman’s answer. “But of late the young mistress’s mind seems constantly filled with morbid thoughts. She’s always talking of her death—and only a few days ago she actually gave me some of her trinkets, saying that she would never require them again.”
“That’s strange,” I said, sighing, for I, alas! knew the reason. “You must try and prevent her giving way to such thoughts. Go to her boudoir, and tell her that after dinner I desire to see her. I’ll come up here later and see you—at nine o’clock.”
“Very well, sir,” was the maid’s reply, and then I descended to the long meal, where the chatter was gay, and the serving of the most ceremonious character.
The brilliant women on either side of me interested me not a jot. My only thought was for my absent well-beloved.
After dinner I eagerly sought Weston, who said—“No, sir. She has not rung.”
“Then take me to her,” I said, “I wish to see her at once.”
“But—”
“I will take the responsibility upon myself,” I said. “Go and announce me.”
Reluctantly the maid went along the corridor and tapped at the door. There was no response. I stood behind her as she tapped twice, then opened the door. But the room was empty. The candles were burning upon the writing-table, and in the room was a smell of burnt paper, while in the grate lay a quantity of tinder. She had been destroying some letters or papers. Weston was aghast to find that her mistress was absent.