She could not move from where she was standing. She saw a tall man with a bronzed face coming up the stairs. She somehow had never seen his face in her dream, but she recognised it from the photograph which his mother had shown her: she knew that the man was Rawdon Clifford.
He stood before her on the lobby.
“They thought to separate us,” he said. “They thought that my love for you was a form of madness. But I tell you, as I told them, I would rather stand by your side for a few minutes once a-year than be for ever by the side of another—a more real creature. That is why I have come over land and sea to be here in time for your visit this Christmas Eve. I promised my mother to stay away; but I could not—I could not keep my promise, and I came to England a fortnight sooner than I expected, and entered the house only this moment—like a burglar. But I am rewarded.”
“I do not understand. I am Mrs Clifford’s guest. Madge Craven is my name,” said Madge.
The man sprang back and raised his hands in surprise.
“Great heavens! She is flesh and blood—at last—at last!” he cried.
He put out his hand slowly—doubtfully. Madge put out hers to it. A cry of delight came from him as he felt her warm hand, and he made it still warmer by his kisses. She could not stop him. She made no attempt to do so.
“Tell me that I was not mad—that I am not mad now,” he said in a loving whisper.
“Oh no—only—is it not strange?—For five years I have this dream—this very dream—and yet I never was in this house until last January,” said Madge.
“You have been with me every Christmas Eve for five years, and you will remain here for ever,” said he. “Do not tell me that we have not met before—do not tell me that you have not loved me as I have loved you all these years. What did that dream of yours mean?”