"Yes, and in the strangest, pitiful way. I cannot think of it, without the tears come into my eyes. The news came to me but lately, and you will perhaps excuse me on that account." His voice broke as he spoke; there were tears, too, in his eyes. I wondered, in a dull way, whether after all he had really cared for her. "But how comes it that you knew her?" he asked.
I sat down upon a chair and told him--of Dick Parmiter's coming to London, of my journey into the West. I told him how I had come to recognise him at the inn; and as I spoke the comprehension of Helen's death crept slowly into my mind, so that I came to a stop and could speak no more.
"You were on your way to Tresco," said he, "when we first met. Then you know that she is dead?"
"No," I answered. "When did she die?"
"On the sixth of October," said he.
I do not think that I should have paid great heed to his words, but something in his voice--an accent of alarm--roused me. I lifted my eyes and saw that he was watching me with a singular intentness.
"The sixth of October," I repeated vaguely, and then I broke into a laugh, so harsh and hysterical that it seemed quite another voice than mine. "Your news is false," I cried; "she is not dead! Why, I did not leave Tresco till the end of October, and she was alive then and no sign of any malady. The sixth of October! No, indeed, she did not die upon that day."
"Are you sure?" he exclaimed.
"Sure?" said I. "I have the best of reasons to be sure; for it was on the sixth of October that I first set foot in Tresco," and at once Cullen Mayle sprang up and shook me by the hand.
"Here is the bravest news," he said. His whole face was alight; he could not leave hold of my hand. "Mr. Berkeley, I may thank God that I spoke to you to-night. 'Helen!'"--and he lingered upon the name. "Upon my word, it would take little more to unman me. So you landed on the sixth of October. But are you sure of the date?" he asked with earnestness. "I borrowed your horse but a few days before. You would hardly have travelled so quickly."