And Dan answered, crying bitterly, and clasping the rector’s hand in both of his—­

’Oh, my master, all that ever I knew of good, I learned from you, my pastor, my benefactor.’

So, with a long, last look, Dan followed the old man to the study, and they talked long there together, and then went out into the lonely garden, and paced its walks side by side, up and down.

CHAPTER LXXXV.

IN WHICH CAPTAIN DEVEREUX HEARS THE NEWS; AND MR. DANGERFIELD MEETS AN OLD FRIEND AFTER DINNER.

’On the night when this great sorrow visited the Elms, Captain Richard Devereux, who had heard nothing of it, was strangely saddened and disturbed in mind.  They say that a distant death is sometimes felt like the shadow and chill of a passing iceberg; and if this ominous feeling crosses a mind already saddened and embittered, it overcasts it with a feeling akin to despair.

Mrs. Irons knocked at his door, and with the eagerness of a messenger of news, opened it without awaiting his answer.

’Oh, captain, jewel, do you know what?  There’s poor Miss Lily Walsingham; and what do you think but she’s dead—­the poor little thing; gone to-night, Sir—­not half an hour ago.’

He staggered a little, and put his hand toward his sword, like a man struck by a robber, and looked at her with a blank stare.  She thought he was out of his mind, and was frightened.

‘’Tis only me, Sir, Mrs. Irons.’

‘A—­thank you;’ and he walked towards the chimney, and then towards the door, like a man looking for something; and on a sudden clasping his forehead in his hands, he cried a wild and terrible appeal to the Maker and Judge of all things.

‘’Tis impossible—­oh, no—­oh, no—­it’s not true.’

He was in the open air, he could not tell how, and across the bridge, and before the Elms—­a dream—­the dark Elms—­dark everything.

‘Oh, no—­it can’t be—­oh, no—­oh, no;’ and he went on saying as he stared on the old house, dark against the sky, ‘Oh, no—­oh, no.’

Two or three times he would have gone over to the hall-door to make enquiry, but he sickened at the thought.  He clung to that hope, which was yet not a hope, and he turned and walked quickly down the river’s side by the Inchicore-road.  But the anguish of suspense soon drew him back again; and now his speech was changed, and he said—­

‘Yes, she’s gone—­she’s gone—­oh, she’s gone—­she’s certainly gone.’

He found himself at the drawing-room window that looked into the little garden at the front of the house, and tapping at the window-pane.  He remembered, all on a sudden—­it was like waking—­how strange was such a summons.  A little after he saw a light crossing the hall, and he rang the door-bell.  John Tracy opened the door.  Yes, it was all true.