But she went to the door, and the next moment a figure stepped inside, of which she knew the outline, but little besides. Her husband was attired in a flapping black cloak and slouched hat, appearing altogether as a foreigner, and not as the young English burgess who had left her side. When he came forward into the light of the lamp, she perceived with surprise, and almost with fright, that he wore a mask. At first she had not noticed this—there being nothing in its colour which would lead a casual observer to think he was looking on anything but a real countenance.
He must have seen her start of dismay at the unexpectedness of his appearance, for he said hastily: ‘I did not mean to come in to you like this—I thought you would have been in bed. How good you are, dear Barbara!’ He put his arm round her, but he did not attempt to kiss her.
‘O Edmond—it is you?—it must be?’ she said, with clasped hands, for though his figure and movement were almost enough to prove it, and the tones were not unlike the old tones, the enunciation was so altered as to seem that of a stranger.
‘I am covered like this to hide myself from the curious eyes of the inn-servants and others,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I will send back the carriage and join you in a moment.’
‘You are quite alone?’
‘Quite. My companion stopped at Southampton.’
The wheels of the post-chaise rolled away as she entered the dining-room, where the supper was spread; and presently he rejoined her there. He had removed his cloak and hat, but the mask was still retained; and she could now see that it was of special make, of some flexible material like silk, coloured so as to represent flesh; it joined naturally to the front hair, and was otherwise cleverly executed.
‘Barbara—you look ill,’ he said, removing his glove, and taking her hand.
‘Yes—I have been ill,’ said she.
‘Is this pretty little house ours?’