‘I only wish I might have won her confidence. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. ” She assented gently. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. His mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd. Now the doctor had the "feel" that somewhere ahead lay danger. Trenchard glanced at the document. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. ” “Not now.
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