“I wish Potter were more used to travelling,” said Mrs. Colton, of the River Lawn butler. “We shall have to take him with us, I think; but he will be quite lost among Spaniards and Portuguese, and I don’t know how he will be able to arrange affairs for us with regard to hotel accommodation, and so on.” “I will relieve Potter from all responsibility upon that question,” said Mr. Desmond. “You!” cried Emily. “Yes, if you will permit me to be your escort. I spent a week in Madeira when I was on my Spanish wanderings.” “And you will leave London and your literary work in order to make our journey pleasant for us?” “I would hazard more important interests than those I have at stake.” Mrs. Jerningham’s eyes grew dim, and she had no words in which to thank the faithful slave from whom a few months before she would have haughtily demanded such allegiance, and bitterly resented its refusal. CHAPTER VIII. A FINAL INTERVIEW. MR. JERNINGHAM was prompt to comply with his wife’s request. On the second morning after the despatch of Emily’s letter, the master of Greenlands appeared at River Lawn; and this, allowing for time lost in the reposting of the letter, was as soon as it was possible for him to arrive there. The change in his wife was painfully obvious to him, and shocked him deeply. “I am sorry to see you looking so ill, Emily,” he said, concealing his surprise by an effort. “Do you think I should have sent for you if I had not been very ill? It was very good of you to come so promptly. I have to thank you for much generosity, for much thoughtful kindness, during the years of our separation. Believe me, I have fully appreciated your kind feeling, your delicacy. But since my illness, there has come upon me the feeling that something more was due to me than kindness or delicacy; something more due from me to you than quiet submission to your wishes. Do not think that I have entrapped you into this visit in order to reproach you, or to exalt myself. Justification for my conduct there is none. I can never hope to rehabilitate myself in your eyes or in my own; all I desire is that you should know the whole truth. Will you kindly listen to me and believe me? I have kept silence for years; I speak now under the impression that I have but a few weeks to live; you cannot think that I shall speak falsely.” “I am not capable of doubting your word, even under less solemn circumstances. But I trust you overrate your danger; convalescence is always a period of depression.” “We will not talk of that; my own instinct and the sentence of my doctors alike condemn me. They talk about the restorative effect of a sea-voyage, and send me to Madeira for the autumn and winter; and that, for a woman of my age, is a sentence of death.” “Let us hope it is only a precautionary measure.”