“No, father, dear, I have not lost myself, but I have found somebody else.”
At that moment I stepped forward so that the light fell on me. The old gentleman on the couch rose with some difficulty and bowed with much courtesy. He was a fine-looking old man, with deep-set dark eyes, a pale face that bore many traces of physical and mental suffering, and a long white beard.
“Be welcome, sir,” he said. “It is long since we have seen a white face in these wilds, and yours, if I am not mistaken, is that of an Englishman. There has been but one Englishman here for twelve years, and he, I grieve to say, was an outcast flying from justice,” and he bowed again and stretched out his hand.
I looked at him, and then of a sudden his name flashed back into my mind. I took his hand.
“How do you do, Mr. Carson?” I said.
He started as though he had been stung.
“Who told you that name?” he cried. “It is a dead name. Stella, is it you? I forbade you to let it pass your lips.”
“I did not speak it, father. I have never spoken it,” she answered.
“Sir,” I broke in, “if you will allow me I will show you how I came to know your name. Do you remember many years ago coming into the study of a clergyman in Oxfordshire and telling him that you were going to leave England for ever?”
He bowed his head.