"He was the essence of charity and generosity," Penlyn said, "it shall be by a charitable and generous disposal of his wealth that we will honour his memory."
They were seated on their usual bench one evening, still making their plans, when they saw one of Sir Paul's footmen coming towards them and bringing the usual batch of papers and letters. It was the time at which the post generally came in, and they had made a habit of having their correspondence brought to them there, and of passing the half-hour before dinner in reading their letters. The man handed several to Lord Penlyn and one to Ida, and they began to peruse them. Those to Penlyn were ordinary ones and did not take long in the reading, and he was about to turn round and ask Ida if hers were of any importance, when he was startled by a sound from her lips,--a sound that was half a gasp and half a moan. As he looked at her, he saw that she had sunk back against the wooden rail of the garden seat, and that she was deathly pale. The letter she had received, and the envelope bearing the green stamp of Switzerland, had fallen at her feet.
"Ida! my dearest! what is it?" he exclaimed, as he bent towards her and placed his arm round her. "Ida! have you had bad news, have you----?"
"The dream," she moaned, "the dream! Oh, God!"
"What dream?" he said, while a sweat of horror, of undefined, unknown horror broke out upon his forehead. "What dream?"
"The letter! Read the letter!" she answered, while in her eyes was a look he had once seen before--the far-away look that had been there when he first spoke to her of his brother's murder.
He stooped and picked up the letter--picked it up and read it hurriedly; and then he, too, let it fall again and leaned back against the seat.
"Philip Smerdon my brother's murderer!" he exclaimed. "Philip Smerdon, my friend, an assassin! The self-accused, the self-avowed murderer of Walter Cundall! Ida," he said, turning to her, "is his the figure in your dream?"
"Yes," she wailed. "Yes! I recognise it now."