"I am on the borderland of a romance," he thought, "and a romance of which the ending will be pleasanter than the beginning, unless I am much mistaken. This is not the wife; it is the woman he was writing his verses to before he took the fever. The doctor says she has written the best novel of the year. Novels and poetry—umph! not much in my line."
Then aloud, "you are under a mistake. A man named Walters died yesterday; perhaps that is how you have been misled. Some rumor of his death must have got abroad. Mr. Walcott is getting over his illness very nicely; but he will need a good rest, good food, and as much cheerfulness as you can give him. I told him, just now, that you had arranged to meet him to-morrow, and I fancy it roused him more than anything Dr. Savill has done for him. I must wish you good-morning, madam!—but let me impress upon you again, before you go, that he is to be kept perfectly quiet, free from anxiety, and as cheerful as you can manage to make him."
Captain Haynes was rather ashamed of the laxity into which Miss Campion had drawn him. He was not accustomed to display so much sympathy with his prisoners, whatever he may have felt in his own mind. But, to be sure, the case was quite exceptional. He did not have prisoners like Alan or visitors like Lettice every day. So he had no difficulty in finding excuses for himself.
Lettice walked on air as she came out of the precincts of the jail, which had now lost all its terrors. In less than twenty-four hours she was to come again, and transport her hero—whom the dense and cruel world had branded as a criminal—from slavery to freedom, from misery to peace and joy. The world had cast him out; well, then, let the world stand aside, that she might give this man what was his due.
What would she say to him? Ah, she dare not think of that beforehand!
What would she do for him? For one thing, she would give him back his self-respect. He had been the object of scorn and the victim of lying scandals. He should find that the woman he loved intended from henceforth to take those paltry burdens on herself, and to know no other praise or merit than that which came to her from him.
He had borne troubles and suffered injuries which before now had driven men to suicide, or madness, or self-abandonment. In order to save him from any of these things she meant to give herself into his hands, without terms or conditions, in order that the wrong-doing of the world might be righted by her act, were it ever so little.
Who could call that a sacrifice which made her heart so light, her step so elastic, her eyes so bright with hope and satisfaction? It was no sacrifice, but a triumph and reward of the highest kind that she was preparing for herself. How should she not be happy?
There was no time to be lost if she was to provide all that was necessary for the well-being and comfort of her patient before to-morrow morning. Everything had to be done at the last moment. She had been so long in coming to a definite and final resolution to treat this friendless discharged prisoner as a hero and a king, that it was almost too late to make arrangements. Why had she not done yesterday something of what she had left to be done to-day? She scarcely realized to herself that her mind was only just made up. That facile belief in the report of Alan's death was only the outcome of her distress and perplexity—of the failure of her courage on the threshold of decision and action.
With a cold shudder she thought of the dust which she had unwittingly thrown in Cora's eyes. She had told her that her husband was dead, and the tale had been readily believed, for the very opposite reason to that which had prevailed with herself. She had been convinced by her fears—Cora by her hopes and greed. And now she could not undeceive the woman, for she did not know where to find her. Would she if she could? Perhaps it was the the best thing which could have happened; for it would be terrible if Alan were to step out of his prison back into the hell on earth which that woman had created for him.