At last it had come—the thing she had been waiting for. It was no surprise when the dream she had been dreaming night after night became a reality. A shiver ran through her, as if the warm blood in her veins had turned to ice-cold water; but it was awe, not horror, that thrilled her. Night after night she had awakened from a vision of Mario Provana, from the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, the glad, vivid sense that all that was past was a dream, that he was alive, and that she belonged to him and him only, as before the coming of trouble. She had awakened night after night, in the faint flicker of the shrouded lamp, when the room was full of shadows. She had awakened to disappointment and desolation. That had been the surprise—not this. There was neither doubt nor wonder now, as she stood on the threshold of the dim room, and saw Provana sitting by the hearth in the chair where he used to sit, calm, motionless, like a statue of domestic peace, the creator and defender of the home, the master, sitting silent by the hearth-fire that wedded love had made sacred. The dull red of that fading fire, and the pale grey of evening outside the uncurtained windows, made the only light in the room; but there was light enough for her to see every line in the face, the face of power, where every line told of force, unalterable purpose, indomitable courage.
The grey eyes looked at her, steel bright under the projecting brow. Kind eyes, that told her of his love, a love that Fate could not change nor diminish. Not Death, not Sin!
For these first moments she believed he had come back to her, that he had escaped the bonds of Death. She did not ask what miracle had brought him there, but she believed in his miraculous return. The blood ran swift and warm in her veins again. Her heart beat with a passionate joy. She stretched out her arms to him, trying to speak fond words of welcome; but her tremulous lips could give no sound. The muscles of her throat seemed paralysed.
She was yearning to tell him of her love—that she had sinned and repented; that he was the first—must always be the first—in her affection.
Her limbs failed her with a sudden collapse, and she sank on her knees by a large, high-backed arm-chair that stood near the door, and clung to the arm of it, with both her hands, struggling against the numbness that was creeping over her senses. She kept her eyes upon the face—the face of all her dreams, of all her sorrow—the face she had loved and regretted. For moments her widely opened eyes gazed steadily—then cold drops broke out upon her forehead, her limbs shook, and her eyelids drooped—only for an instant.
She lifted them, and he was gone. There was nothing but the empty chair—his chair in the quiet domestic evenings, before Mario Provana's house became the fashion, before the Disbrowes gave the law to his wife's existence.
That was the last she saw before the lifting of the veil.