She tried to rise, and failed in the effort, and superstitiously renewed her prayer.  “Send death to her rather!”—­and Rhoda’s vision under her shut eyes conjured up clouds and lightnings, and spheres in conflagration.

There is nothing so indicative of fevered or of bad blood as the tendency to counsel the Almighty how he shall deal with his creatures.  The strain of a long uncertainty, and the late feverish weeks had distempered the fine blood of the girl, and her acts and words were becoming remoter exponents of her character.

She bent her head in a blind doze that gave her strength to rise.  As swiftly as she could she went in the track of her sister.

That morning, Robert had likewise received a letter.  It was from Major Waring, and contained a bank-note, and a summons to London, as also an enclosure from Mrs. Boulby of Warbeach; the nature of which was an advertisement cut out of the county paper, notifying to one Robert Eccles that his aunt Anne had died, and that there was a legacy for him, to be paid over upon application.  Robert crossed the fields, laughing madly at the ironical fate which favoured him a little and a little, and never enough, save just to keep him swimming.

The letter from Major Waring said:—­

“I must see you immediately.  Be quick and come.  I begin to be of your opinion—­there are some things which we must take into our own hands and deal summarily with.”

“Ay!—­ay!” Robert gave tongue in the clear morning air, scenting excitement and eager for it as a hound.

More was written, which he read subsequently

“I wrong,” Percy’s letter continued, “the best of women.  She was driven to my door.  There is, it seems, some hope that Dahlia will find herself free.  At any rate, keep guard over her, and don’t leave her.  Mrs. Lovell has herself been moving to make discoveries down at Warbeach.  Mr. Blancove has nearly quitted this sphere.  She nursed him—­I was jealous!—­the word’s out.  Truth, courage, and suffering touch Margaret’s heart.

“Yours,

“Percy.”

Jumping over a bank, Robert came upon Anthony, who was unsteadily gazing at a donkey that cropped the grass by a gate.

“Here you are,” said Robert, and took his arm.

Anthony struggled, though he knew the grasp was friendly; but he was led along:  nor did Robert stop until they reached Greatham, five miles beyond Wrexby, where he entered the principal inn and called for wine.

“You want spirit:  you want life,” said Robert.

Anthony knew that he wanted no wine, whatever his needs might be.  Yet the tender ecstacy of being paid for was irresistible, and he drank, saying, “Just one glass, then.”

Robert pledged him.  They were in a private room, of which, having ordered up three bottles of sherry, Robert locked the door.  The devil was in him.  He compelled Anthony to drink an equal portion with himself, alternately frightening and cajoling the old man.