“Thank God, Japhet, but I have been of some
use to you, at all events.”
“My dear Tim, you have indeed, and you know
me too well to think I shall ever forget it; but now
I must first ascertain where the will of the late
Sir William is to be found. We can read it for
a shilling, and then I may discover what are the grounds
of Melchior’s conduct, for, to me, it is still
inexplicable.”
“Are wills made in Ireland registered here,
or at Doctor’s Commons in London?”
“In Dublin, I should imagine.”
But on my arrival at Dublin I felt so ill, that I
was obliged to retire to bed, and before morning I
was in a violent fever. Medical assistance was
sent for, and I was nursed by Timothy with the greatest
care, but it was ten days before I could quit my bed.
For the first time, I was sitting in an easy chair
by the fire, when Timothy came in with the little
portmanteau I had left in the care of Mrs M’Shane.
“Open it, Timothy,” said I, “and
see if there be anything in the way of a note from
them.” Timothy opened the portmanteau, and
produced one, which was lying on the top. It
was from Kathleen, and as follows:—
Dear Sir,—They say there
is terrible work at the castle, and that Sir
Henry has blown out his brains, or cut his throat,
I don’t know which. Mr M’Dermott
passed in a great hurry, but said nothing to
anybody here. I will send you word of what has
taken place as soon as I can. The morning
after you went away, I walked up to the castle
and gave the key to the lady, who appeared in a great
fright at Sir Henry not having been seen for so long
a while. They wished to detain me after
they had found him in the cellar with the dead
man, but after two hours I was desired to go away,
and hold my tongue. It was after the horses went
back that Sir Henry is said to have destroyed
himself. I went up to the castle, but M’Dermott
had given orders for no one to be let in on any
account.
Yours Kathleen M’Shane.
“This is news indeed,” said I, handing
the letter to Timothy. “It must have been
my threatening letter which has driven him to this
mad act.”
“Very likely,” replied Timothy; “but
it was the best thing the scoundrel could do, after
all.”
“The letter was not, however, written, with
that intention. I wished to frighten him, and
have justice done to little Fleta—poor child!
how glad I shall be to see her!”
Another investigation
relative to a child which in the same way
as the former one, ends
by the Lady going off in a fit.
