“‘Unite your destinies?’” repeated Lilith, in the same low tone.
“Why, yes! Don’t you understand? Why, marry, of course! Mr. Hereward and myself understand each other at heart, I feel sure, although we parted in mutual displeasure, and have never written or spoken to each other since.”
“But—his—wife?” queried Lilith, in a low, hesitating voice.
“Oh, well, his wife! I am sorry for her, poor child! Really sorry for her! And he, too, must be sorry that she met such an awful fate,” said the baroness, pausing and falling into thought.
“What fate did she meet?” inquired Lilith, in the same constrained, low monotone.
“Why, don’t you know? Did not I tell you? Oh, no! I believe I did not. I said that we were both free, however, and you must have understood what that meant.”
“No, I did not.”
“It meant, of course, that his wife was dead, as well as my husband—the two events setting us both free to marry again.”
“His wife—dead! Tudor Hereward’s wife—dead! Madame, what reason have you for supposing so?” demanded Lilith, in a low but firm tone.
“I do not wonder that you are surprised and incredulous! It is so strange that the young wife, with perhaps seventy years of life before her, should have been cut off by accident so soon; but strange things do happen in this uncertain old world of ours! And, my dear, it is true—Tudor Hereward’s wife is dead.”