She had never lost hope; but this fact did not prevent her having dreams of the night. She was accustomed to awake with a cry, seeing him tortured by savages—seeing him lying alone in a country where no tree was growing. And then she would remain awake through the long night, praying for his safety.
That had been her life for years, and now she was still praying for his safety—praying that the day of the realisation of her hopes had at last come.
She started up, hearing the sound of footsteps on the gravel path. She was at her window in time to see Sir Percival in the act of entering the porch. He had not been long absent. He could not have had a long conversation with Richard Westwood.
She met him while he was still in the porch. They stood face to face for a few moments, but no word came from either of them for a long time. She seemed to think that she was about to fall, for she put out a hand to the velvet portière that hung in an arch leading to the hall—that was her right hand—her left was pressed against her heart.
“You need not speak,” she whispered, when they had stood face to face in that long silence. “You need not speak. I know all that your silence implies.”
“No—no—you know nothing of what I have to tell you,” said he slowly.
“What have you to tell? Can you tell me anything worse than that Claude Westwood is dead?”
“It is not Claude Westwood who is dead.”
“Not Claude?—who—who, then, is dead?”
“Richard Westwood is dead.”