“Yes, I presume so. They must have believed that I came to my death after leaving the house.”
“And he believes that you are dead! And he suffers from remorse, if not from grief. Well, we shall find him on the other side. Shall we make your existence known to him?”
“I do not know, madame. I must think and pray over that question. But even if he be assured that I do still live, he must not be annoyed by the sight of my face. Oh! madame, though I long with all my soul to see him again, to hear his voice once more, yet, yet, I shrink from the ordeal as from fire!” said Lilith.
“I can well believe that. I am glad I did not tell you my news before we sailed. If I had done so, you would not perhaps have come with me.”
“No,” said Lilith.
Silence fell between the two women, and lasted until the bell rang for luncheon, for which neither of them felt the least desire.
It was an excuse for moving, however—something to do—and Madame Von Bruyin arose and offered her arm to her slighter companion and the two went down to the saloon together. It was about two o’clock. They were well out at sea now and the waves were rather high; the ship was rolling uncomfortably for those who had not found their sea legs and their sea stomachs.
Neither Madame Von Bruyin nor Lilith as yet suffered from the motion.
After lunch, however, each retired alone to her state-room.
The baroness threw herself into her berth and gave way to the tide of shame, grief and indignation which it had required all her pride, conscience and self-control to restrain while she was in the presence of Tudor Hereward’s young wife.