“No, Mr. Dale, you should not say that; he left me, with my consent, to come to Mrs. Falcon here, and consult her about disposing of our diamonds.”
“Diamonds!—diamonds!” cried Phoebe. “Oh, they make me tremble. How COULD you let him go alone! You didn't let HIM go on foot, I hope?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Falcon; he had his horse, and his rifle, and money to spend on the road.”
“How long ago did he leave you, sir?”
“I—I am sorry to say it was five weeks ago.”
“Five weeks! and not come yet. Ah! the wild beasts!—the diggers!—the murderers! He is dead!”
“God forbid!” faltered Staines; but his own blood began to run cold.
“He is dead. He has died between this and the dreadful diamonds. I shall never see my darling again: he is dead. He is dead.”
She rushed out of the room, and out of the house, throwing her arms above her head in despair, and uttering those words of agony again and again in every variety of anguish.
At such horrible moments women always swoon—if we are to believe the dramatists. I doubt if there is one grain of truth in this. Women seldom swoon at all, unless their bodies are unhealthy, or weakened by the reaction that follows so terrible a shock as this. At all events, Phoebe, at first, was strong and wild as a lion, and went to and fro outside the house, unconscious of her body's motion, frenzied with agony, and but one word on her lips, “He is dead!—he is dead!”