Strangely enough, the coldness with which she treated
her foreigner began to be the conduct of Lord Icenway towards
herself. It was a matter of great anxiety to him that there should
be a lineal successor to the title, yet no sign of that successor
appeared. One day he complained to her quite roughly of his fate.
'All will go to that dolt of a cousin!' he cried. 'I'd sooner see
my name and place at the bottom of the sea!'
The lady soothed him and fell into thought, and did not recriminate.
But one day, soon after, she went down to the cottage of the
gardener to inquire how he was getting on, for he had been ailing of
late, though, as was supposed, not seriously. Though she often
visited the poor, she had never entered her under-gardener's home
before, and was much surprised--even grieved and dismayed--to find
that he was too ill to rise from his bed. She went back to her
mansion and returned with some delicate soup, that she might have a
reason for seeing him.
His condition was so feeble and alarming, and his face so thin, that
it quite shocked her softening heart, and gazing upon him she said,
'You must get well--you must! I have been hard with you--I know it.
I will not be so again.'
The sick and dying man--for he was dying indeed--took her hand and
pressed it to his lips. 'Too late, my darling, too late!' he
murmured.
'But you MUST NOT die! Oh, you must not!' she said.
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