“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!”
relative to a child which in the same way
as the former one, ends by the Lady going off in a fit.