Leicester's death had brought a new and unexpected influence into her existence. While he was alive, while he showed his real nature by bandying her name at a public meeting, and by appearing before an audience in a state of intoxication, she felt that her conduct, in spite of a feeling which suggested remorse, was excusable; but now he was dead, all was different. Perhaps in a vague, dim sort of a way she had felt the possibility of his coming into her life again, although she had no definite consciousness of it, but now she realised that he was gone from her life, except as a memory. She pictured him lying on the cold steps beside the river; she thought of the feelings which must have been in his heart as he threw himself into its dark, turbid waters. It was very terrible; ghastly, in fact. She did not consider who sent her the paper, her mind was absorbed in the fact it contained.
Presently she asked herself what would have happened if she had married him. Would this dread tragedy have been averted, and would she have been able, as he had said, to have led him to a noble manhood? Even then her heart had answered no. The reformation which she thought she had worked was only a mockery; even if it had been real, it was only a veneer of reformation, so thin that it had failed him when she refused to hold further intercourse with him. She wondered whether she really loved him, else why could she think of his death so calmly? Her heart was very sore, and she felt stunned by the news of his death, yet she was able to think quite clearly and collectedly.
She read the paragraph concerning Leicester again. She supposed that there could be no doubt that it was he. The name upon the handkerchief, the letter addressed to him—no, there could be no doubt. Perhaps in a day or so the English newspapers would contain further news about him. There would, of course, be an inquest, and then the circumstantial evidence would be tested; but of course he was dead.
Suddenly the remembrance of their last interview came back to her. He had reminded her of her promise never to marry another man, no matter what might happen. She remembered the reply she had made, too. It was as bitter and as cruel as she could make it, and she called to mind the look on his face when she had spoken. Nevertheless she had promised never to marry another man. But it did not matter. She would never want to marry; the thought of such a thing was repugnant. She wished she could cry, but her eyes were dry; she wished she had some feeling of tenderness in her heart; but she had none. She was cold and calm; indeed, she seemed to be past feeling. If she felt anything at all, it was anger. Even yet she was angry that her picture had been exhibited at the political meeting at Taviton, and that she should be spoken about by a man who a few minutes afterwards fell on the platform in drunken helplessness. Why was it? Surely Leicester's death should have destroyed any such feelings. He had atoned now for all he had done.
A minute later a knock came to the door, and she heard her father's voice.
"Olive, may I come in?"
"Yes, father; what is it?"
John Castlemaine came in, and she saw the moment he entered that he had something of importance to tell her.
"When would you like to go back to England, Olive?" he said.
"I don't know," she said. Somehow her interest in returning home had evaporated since the news of Leicester's death.