this day declares that it was on the very
Monday, June the nineteenth, that her son
was executed, that Madame de Créquy left
off her rouge, and took to her bed, as one
bereaved and hopeless. It certainly was
about that time; and Medlicott—who was
deeply impressed by that dream of Madame
de Créquy's (the relation of which I told you
had had such an effect on my lord), in which
she had seen the figure of Virginie—as the
only light object amid much surrounding
darkness as of night, smiling and beckoning
Clément on—on—till at length the bright
phantom stopped, motionless, and Madame
de Créquy's eyes began to penetrate the
murky darkness, and to see closing around
her the gloomy dripping walls which she had
once seen and never forgotten, the walls of
the vault of the chapel of the De Créquys in
Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, and there the
two last of the De Créquys laid them down
among their forefathers, and Madame de
Créquy had wakened to the sound of the
great door, which led to the open air, being
locked upon her—I say Medlicott, who was
predisposed by this dream to look out for
the supernatural, always declared that
Madame de Créquy was made conscious in
some mysterious way of her son's death on
the very day and hour when it occurred, and
that after that she had no more anxiety, was
only conscious of a kind of stupifying despair."

"And what became of her, my lady?"
asked I, repeating my question.

"What could become of her?" replied
Lady Ludlow. "She never could be induced
to rise again, though she lived more than a
year after her son's departure. She kept
her bed; her room darkened, her face turned
towards the wall, whenever any one besides
Medlicott was in the room. She hardly ever
spoke, and would have died of starvation
but for Medlicott's tender care, in putting a
morsel to her lips every now and then, feeding
her, in fact, just as an old bird feeds her
young ones. In the height of summer my
lord and I left London. We would fain
have taken her with us into Scotland, but
the doctor (we had the old doctor from
Leicester Square) forbade her removal; and
this time he gave such good reasons against
it that I acquiesced. Medlicott and a maid
were left with her. Every care was taken of
her. She survived till our return. Indeed I
thought she was in much the same state as
I had left her in when I came back to London.
But Medlicott spoke of her as much
weaker; and one morning on awakening they
told me she was dead. I sent for Medlicott,
who was in sad distress, she had become so
fond of her charge. She said that about two
o'clock she had been awakened by unusual
restlessness on Madame de Créquy's part;
that she had gone to her bedside, and found
the poor lady feebly but perpetually moving
her wasted arm up and down—and saying to
herself in a wailing voice: 'I did not bless
him when he left me—I did not bless him
when he left me!' Medlicott gave her a
spoonful or two of jelly, and sate by her,
stroking her hand, and soothing her till she
seemed to fall asleep. But in the morning
she was dead."

"It is a sad story, your ladyship," said I,
after a while.

"Yes it is. People seldom arrive at my
age without having watched the beginning,
middle, and end of many lives and many
fortunes. We do not talk about them, perhaps;
for they are often so sacred to us as having
touched into the very quick of our own
hearts, as it were, or into those of others who
are dead and gone, and veiled over from
human sight, that we cannot tell the tale as
if it was a mere story. But young people
should remember that we had had this solemn
experience of life, on which to base our
opinions and form our judgments, so that
they are not mere untried theories. I am
not alluding to Mr. Horner just now, for he
is nearly as old as I am—within ten years, I
daresay—but I am thinking of Mr. Gray,
with his endless plans for some new thing—
schools, education, Sabbaths, and what not.
Now he has not seen what all this leads to."

"It is a pity he has not heard your ladyship
tell the story of poor Monsieur de Créquy."

"Not at all a pity, my dear. A young
man like him, who, both by position and age
must have had his experience confined to a
very narrow circle, ought not to set up his
opinion against mine; he ought not to require
reasons from me, nor to need such explanation
of my arguments (if I condescend to
argue), as going into relation of the
circumstances on which my arguments are based in
my own mind, would be."

"But, my lady, it might convince him," I
said, with perhaps injudicious perseverance.

"And why should he be convinced?" she
asked, with gentle inquiry in her tone. "He
has only to acquiesce. Though he is appointed
by Mr. Croxton, I am the lady of the manor,
as he must know. But it is with Mr. Horner
that I must have to do about this unfortunate
lad Gregson. I am afraid there will be no
method of making him forget his unlucky
knowledge. His poor brains will be intoxicated
with the sense of his powers, without
any counterbalancing principles to guide
him. Poor fellow! I am quite afraid it will
end in his being hanged!"

The next day Mr. Horner came to apologise
and explain. He was evidently—as I could
tell from his voice as he spoke to my lady in
the next room—extremely annoyed at her
ladyship's discovery of the education he had
been giving to this boy. My lady spoke
with great authority, and with reasonable
grounds of complaint. Mr. Horner was well
acquainted with her thoughts on the subject,
and had acted in defiance of her wishes. He
acknowledged as much, and should on no