"That is true," he answered moodily; and then he sat so long in one position, with his arms crossed on his breast; and his eyes fixed on vacancy, that Florence asked him with some curiosity of what he was thinking.
"I was wondering," he said, "whether that poor wretch Westwood found his undeserved punishment more galling than I sometimes find the bonds of secrecy and falsehood and dishonor that bind me now. He at any rate has gained his freedom; but I am in bondage still. I have my sentence—a life sentence—to work out."
"He is free now, certainly," Florence answered, with an odd intonation of her voice; "so I do not think that you need trouble yourself about him. Think of Enid rather, and of her needs."
"Free? Yes—he is dead," said Hubert quickly, replying to something in her tone rather than to her words. "He died as I told you—some time ago."
"You read it in the newspaper?"
"Yes."
"And you never saw that next day the report of his death was contradicted?"
"Florence, what do you mean?"
"You went away from England just then with a mind at ease, did you not? But I was here, with nothing to do but to think and brood and read; and I read more than that. There were two men named Westwood at Portland, and the one who died—as was stated in next day's paper—was not the one we knew."
"And he is in prison all this time? Don't you see that that makes my guilt the worse—brings back all the intolerable burden, renders it simply impossible that I should ever make an innocent girl happy?" His voice was hoarse, and the veins upon his forehead stood out like knotted cords.