And she looked from me to Lucie inquiringly, for having met us walking at that hour by that lonely brook she doubtless believed us to be lovers.
“I am Godfrey Leaf,” I said, grasping both her hands. “Yes, I cannot realise that you are really Ella—my own Ella—from the grave?” And I still stood there stupefied.
“From the grave? What do you mean?” she asked, surprised.
“They told me that you were dead,” I cried quickly. “They said that you had caught typhoid, and that it ended fatally.”
“It is true that I had a bad attack of fever, and the doctors gave me up, yet somehow—I suppose by the perverseness of Fate, because I had no further desire to live—I recovered. But you were abroad constantly, and therefore heard nothing of me.”
“I was in Russia when I received news of your death, Ella,” I said in a low voice, for there, in the presence of my love, I had become a changed man. “I have mourned for you until to-day.”
“I had no idea of this!” she exclaimed. “I have been living in Ireland with my father. I have scarcely ever been in London since—since that night when we parted,” she faltered, lowering her eyes, as though fearing to meet my reproachful gaze.
“And how came you here?” Lucie asked, as amazed as I was at her appearance.
“We came over from Bournemouth to Swanage this afternoon, and it suddenly occurred to me to come and see if you were in England. I wanted to see the dear old Manor again—the house where you and I have spent so many very happy hours long ago. Minton did not recognise me at first, but when he did he told me that you had gone out to the village two hours ago. I then made inquiries as to the direction you had taken, and fortunately found you here.”
“Then your father is now at Swanage?”