The sacred joy of that reunion need not be dwelt upon.
Presently, as Sir Harold was about to lead his daughter from the room, his glance rested upon the still prostrate figure of Octavia.
“Look to your wife, Mr. Black,” he said; his irony arousing Black from his stupor. “She has fainted!”
Craven Black obeyed the voice of command, essaying to lift the prostrate figure of Octavia, but with a cry of horror he let it fall again, shouting hoarsely:
“She’s dead! Octavia is dead!”
It was true. The engorged lungs had ceased their work. The heart had stopped its beating.
That night, the yacht and the sloop started upon their return to Inverness. In the former were Craven Black, dispirited and despairing; Mrs. Artress, full of bewailings for the poverty into which she was now plunged; the French maid; the dead body of the false Octavia; and the three sailors in Black’s employ.
In the sloop were Neva and her friends.
The two vessels arrived safely at Inverness, and the remains of Lady Wynde were consigned to the grave. Craven Black did not wait to see the last rites performed for her who had served his wicked purposes so faithfully and so well, but, abandoning his cousin, put to sea in his yacht with three sailors, not caring whither he went.
A week later, the wreck of the yacht was found upon the north German coast, and four bodies were washed ashore, two still living, two dead. And of the dead, one was identified, from the papers on his person, as Craven Black.