It had fallen to her lot to write to Claude Westwood the letter which told him of the death of the brother to whom he had all his life been devoted. She knew that a telegraphic message had been sent to the Consul at Zanzibar respecting the death of Richard Westwood, the day after the news of the safety of Claude had reached England, so that he would not receive the first shock of the terrible news from her. She had done her best in her letter to comfort him—indeed, every word that it contained was designed to be a consolation to him. Why, the very sight of her writing would make him feel that his grief was shared by at least one friend.

The letter had not, of course, been written in the strain of the letters which she had sent to him during the first few months after his arrival in Africa. (Some of them had been returned to her from Zanzibar with the inscription “Not found” on the covers.) She thought that any of the rapturous phrases, which could give but very inadequate expression to what was in her heart, would be out of place in a letter that she meant to be expressive only of the deep sympathy she felt for him.

But the following week she had written to him something of what was in her heart, She had taken up once more the strain of that correspondence which had been so rudely interrupted, and had wondered to find how easily the unaccustomed words of endearment slipped from her pen. It seemed to her that her love had been accumulating in her heart through all the years of her enforced silence, for she had never before written to him such phrases of affection. When she had written that letter she had a sense of relief beyond expression. The pent-up flood had at last found a vent. She gave a great sigh as she signed, not her own name, but the pet name which he had given her—a great sigh, and then a laugh of delight.

But then she caught sight of herself in the looking-glass that hung above her escritoire. It seemed to her that all her hair had become grey—that her face had become all scarred with lines. She closed her eyes and had a vision of the slender girl to whom that love-name had been given. She had a vision of the sparkling eyes, the brown hair flung back when one long shining strand had escaped from the knot in which it had beer, tied, and fell down from her shoulder. She could see his eyes as he turned them upon her, when he had kissed and kissed that wonderful rivulet of hair, calling her by that love-name.

And now....

Ah, she was no longer a girl! The pet name which she had written so lightly no longer sat lightly upon her. Would not people think it grotesque for a woman past thirty to call herself by the name that had once seemed so charmingly appropriate when applied to a girl of twenty-three with a rivulet of golden brown hair flowing over her shoulders to meet a lover's kisses?

But then she recollected the story she had heard of the true lover who loved so well that the gods had given to him the greatest gift in their power—the gift of blindness, so that at the end of forty years when he and the woman he loved had grown old together, she still seemed to him the girl she had been on the first day that he had seen and loved her.

There would be nothing grotesque in that lover calling his wife by the love-name of her-youth. But would such love blindness be given to Claude, so that he should still think of her as the slim girl with the loose hair?

Alas! Alas! He might tolerate the letter signed as she had signed it, but in a few months he would be face to face with her, and would he not see that she was no longer a girl?

Only for a moment she paused as that melancholy question passed through her mind. Then she flung down the letter, crying:

“I will trust him. I will trust him as I have trusted him hitherto. He will love me better, better, better, seeing that it was the years of waiting for him that gave me the grey hairs where only brown had been.”

It never occurred to her to ask herself if it was not possible that the years which had given her half a dozen grey hairs, had brought about quite as great a change in her lover. It never occurred to her to think that there was a possibility that the years spent among savages—wandering through the forests where malaria lurked—starving at times and in peril of beasts and reptiles and lightning and sunstroke every day of his life, had changed him in some measure—even in as great a measure as the years of watching and waiting had altered her.

His portrait stood by her side day and night. Every day and every night she had kissed that picture of the young cavalry officer that smiled out at her from the frame. That was the portrait of her lover, and never for a moment did she think of him as otherwise than that portrait revealed him to her.

So she had posted the first of her new series of love-letters to him with no great heaviness of heart; and then there began for her a fresh period of waiting; for she knew that some months must elapse before her letters could reach him, and after that an equal space before she could receive his reply.

But the barley crop had only been reaped in the golden fields of Brackenshire when Mr. Westwood's lawyer brought her a telegram which he had just received from Zanzibar. It was not from Claude, but from a doctor whose name she frequently heard in connection with the exploration of Africa.

“Westwood arrived here to-day from Uganda, overcome with fatigue, not serious. Leaves for England, probably fortnight.”

So the telegram ran, and her heart leapt up, for she knew that her days of waiting were being shortened. He had doubtless received no news of his brother's death when at Uganda, and although he had intended to remain there until he should be fully restored to health, he had made up his mind to return at once to England. But what had caused her heart to leap up was the sudden thought that came to her:

“He has received my letter, and he knows that I am true to him.”

A moment afterwards she recollected that it would have been impossible for him to receive a letter from her—even her first letter—while he was still at Uganda. He had started for the coast immediately on getting the news by telegraph of the death of his brother, and both her letters, being addressed to him at Uganda, had, it was almost certain, crossed him on the road to the coast.

Still, her days of waiting would be shortened, and that thought gladdened her. Only for a week was she left in the torture of the apprehension that the journey to the coast might have proved too much for him, and that he might die at Zanzibar. All the accounts that had been published in the newspapers regarding him had dwelt upon the necessity there was for him to remain at Uganda until he had in some measure recovered from the effects of his terrible experiences; so that she felt she had grave reason to be apprehensive for him.

The newspapers shared her anxiety not only in telegraphic despatches from Zanzibar, which involved the expenditure of large sums, but also in leaders and leaderettes, which like George Herbert's “good words” were “worth much and cost little.”

At first the news came that the explorer whose name was in every one's mouth, was completely prostrated by his journey; but soon the gratifying intelligence was received that he was making a good recovery, and had gone for a week's excursion in a gunboat that had been placed at his disposal until the mail steamer should be leaving Zanzibar.

It was thought advisable by his physician to put some miles of green sea between Claude Westwood and the scores of enterprising gentlemen who were anxious to see him. The newspaper men were polite but urgent; the English publisher's agent was business-like and impressive; these gentlemen were not so greatly dreaded by the doctor, though he would have liked to be summoned to take a part, however humble, in a post-mortem examination on each of them. But when it came to his knowledge that the American lecture-bureau agent had bought the house next to the Consulate, and was reported to be making a subterranean passage between the two so as to give him an opportunity of an interview with Mr. Westwood, the doctor thought it time to make representations to the commander of the gunboat.

Mr. Westwood was smuggled aboard the vessel at midnight, the anchor was weighed as unostentaciously as possible, and the gunboat steamed out of the harbour at dawn; but it was said that the commander had to bring his two big guns to bear upon a steam launch hastily chartered by the lecture agent to follow the vessel in order that he might board her and get the explorer to sign an agreement for a hundred lectures in the States during the forthcoming fall.

Then came the news that Mr. Westwood had returned to Zanzibar so greatly improved in health by his cruise that he would be permitted to make the voyage to England by the next mail; and, of course, all the correspondents, the publishers' agents and lecture agents hastened to engage cabins on the same steamer. The briefest of telegrams announced the departure of the steamer in due course, and Agnes found herself able to breathe again. In less than a month he would be by her side.

It was very generally felt among those hostesses in Mayfair who are the most earnest of lion-hunters, that Mr. Westwood was guilty of a gross breach of manners in not timing his arrival for the spring of the London season. Some of the more enterprising of them had long ago sent out cards of invitation to him at Uganda, for receptions to be held in the spring. Others had given him a choice of dates, and left it optional for him to have a dinner, an at-home, or a garden-party. In these circumstances it was thought that in changing his plans, starting from Uganda at once instead of remaining there, as he had at first intended, for six months, he was behaving very badly.

How could any man expect to be treated as a hero in the month of October? they asked, as they felt that the honour and glory which attaches to the exhibition of lions were slipping from their fingers.

They had long ago forgotten that the same newspapers which had announced the safety of Claude Westwood had contained that heading, “The Brackenshire Tragedy”; and when it was announced that Mr. Westwood was compelled to decline all engagements, as it was his intention to remain in the seclusion of Westwood Court for several months, people shrugged their shoulders, and went on with their pheasant shooting.

They said that Mr. Westwood would find out the mistake he was making before the next season; adding that their memories were quite equal to recalling instances of heroes, who were looked on as such in the autumn, becoming stale and of no market value whatever before the next London season.

They rather feared that Mr. Westwood had failed to remember that the most evanescent form of heroism is that which is the result of African exploration. Africa as a field for the development of heroes was getting used up; the Arctic regions were already running it close, and Polar bears were as good as lions any day. Oh yes, Mr. Westwood might find himself compelled to take a back seat next May in the presence of the man who had come from Formosa with a crimson monkey, or the man who had come from Klondyke with a nugget the size of an ostrich's egg.

The people who talked in this strain could with difficulty be made to understand that the tragic circumstances of the death of Mr. Westwood's brother might possibly cause him, quite apart from all considerations in regard to his own health, to wish to live in retirement for a few months. They would rather have been disposed to appraise his value in a drawing-room or as a “draw” at a reception, at a somewhat higher figure, by reason of the fact that the death of his brother had for close upon a fortnight been one of the Topics of the Season. A man who is in any way associated with a Topic of the Season is a welcome guest in every house.

But Agnes, knowing how attached the brothers had been all their lives, understood how distasteful—more than distasteful—to Claude would be the idea of lending himself for exhibition in order to attract people to some of those houses whose attractiveness is dependent upon the freak of the fashion of the hour. She had also a feeling that, although he had written that curiously flippant postscript, Claude had still in his heart no doubt as to her faithfulness. She felt that he knew that his retirement would mean the taking up with her of the book of life at that glowing passage at which they had laid it down. After such a separation, what a meeting would be theirs!

And yet as the hour for his coming approached, she felt more and more as if she were waiting to meet a stranger. She felt all the shyness that she had felt years before when, as a girl, she had found herself in the same room with Claude Westwood. She had read of his heroic action on the North-West Frontier of India—of that splendid cavalry charge, which he had led, retrieving the honour of his country when it was trembling in the balance, and so when she found herself presented to him as though he were an ordinary man whom she was meeting casually, she had felt quite overcome with shyness.

And this was the very feeling which she now had when she was counting the days that must elapse before his arrival. At first it had been her intention to meet him aboard the steamer that was bringing him to England. If she had not read that postscript she might even have thought of going out to meet him at Suez—nay, of going out to Zanzibar itself; but somehow the reading of those words at the dose of the letter, which were meant for his brother's eyes alone, had left an impression on her from which she could not easily free herself.

That was how she came to feel that she was about to meet a stranger, and that the idea of waiting on the dock side for the arrival of the steamer seemed repugnant to her.

Then the day which was notified to her as that on which the steamer would be due, arrived, and found her awaiting with almost breathless excitement whatever should happen. It was midday when the telegram was brought to her: it was addressed, not to her, but to the family lawyer.

“Arrived. Shall be at the Court in time for dinner.”

These were the words which she read while her heart beat tumultuously at the thought that she would see him in a few hours. She stood opposite his picture, feeling that in future it would possess only an artistic interest for her. She would be left wondering how it had ever been so much to her. But what was on her mind now was the question, “Will he drive here on his way to the Court?”

Well, she would be prepared to meet him: but how was she to welcome him? She had heard of girls who had been parted from their lovers for years, putting on the dress which they had worn on the day of parting, so that it might seem that the time they had been apart was annihilated. She actually hunted up the old dress that was associated with her parting from Claude. It was still fit to be worn, for she had paid her maid compensation for allowing her to retain it. But when she looked at it she laughed. It was made in the fashion of nine years before, and every one knows how ridiculous a fashion seems nine years out of date.

Annihilate time! Heavens! to wear a dress made in this style would be the best way that could be imagined of emphasising the space of years that had passed. She laughed and laid the funny old-fashioned thing, with its ribbons fastened in ridiculous places over it where ribbons are now never seen, back in its drawer.

Alas! the girls about whom she had read had not been separated from their lovers for nine years; or the lovers must have been even blinder than the majority of men are in regard to the details of dress, otherwise they would have looked ridiculous instead of gracious.

She put on her newest dress—it was all white; and when her maid asked her what jewels she would wear, she said suddenly:

“All my diamonds.”

But before her jewel case was unlocked she had changed her mind.

“On second thoughts I will wear only the Wedgwood medallion with the pearls,” she said.

The medallion was his last gift to her. She had never worn it since he had pinned it to her shoulder. He would remember that; and in spite of the protest of her maid, who feared for her own reputation as an artist, she fastened it on her shoulder, where never a medallion had been worn within the memory of woman.

It was when she was alone, however, that she put her face close to a looking-glass and plucked from her forehead another grey hair that had put in an appearance. She had never plucked one out before; she had never thought it worth her while; but now she felt that it was worth her while.

Looking out from her dressing-room window she saw that the windows of the Court were brilliant; for months they had been dark.

The hour for the arrival of the train at Bracken-hurst went by. She only felt slightly disappointed when he did not call upon her on his way to the Court. But she found this evening, the last of all her days of waiting, the longest of all. He had come—she felt sure of that, and yet though only a mile away, he was as much separated from her as he had been when thousands of miles away, with the barrier of the terrible forests imprisoning him.

She waited in vain for him until it was midnight; and when he did not come, her disappointment changed to anxiety, and her anxiety to alarm. She felt sure that he must be ill. The reports that had been telegraphed to England regarding his health must have been misleading: he could not have recovered so easily from the effects of those awful years spent in savagery. It was she who should have gone to meet him; no matter what people might have said. People—what were people and their chatter to him or to her? He was perhaps lying at the point of death, and her going to him might have saved him, but the next day might be too late.

She spent hours in the restlessness of self-reproach, and when she went to bed it was not to sleep but to weep. Only toward morning did she close her eyes and then for no longer than a couple of hours. The London paper arrived while she was at breakfast, and she found on an inner page a two-column account of the arrival of Mr. Claude Westwood, with particulars of the voyage of the steamer from Zanzibar, and a snap-shot portrait of the distinguished explorer. Of course there was nothing in the portrait that any one could recognise. The picture might have been anything—a map of Central Africa or a prize vegetable. It contained no artistic elements.

She read in the first paragraph of the account of the arrival, that Mr. Westwood had been in excellent health, the progress that he had made toward recovery when on the cruise in the gun-boat having been apparently completed by the voyage to England. He had started for his home, Westwood Court, Brackenhurst, almost immediately, seeing only a few personal friends in the meantime, the newspaper stated.

Although the reflection that her worst anticipation had not been realised brought her pleasure, she could not avoid feeling disappointed that he had not come to her before he had slept. It seemed so ridiculous to think that although they were within a mile of each other they were still apart. When they had parted it was with such words as suggested that neither of them had a thought for any one except the other. Then through the long years she at least had no thought except for him; and yet they were still apart.

It seemed, too, as the morning advanced, that he had no intention of coming to her this day either.

But if such a thought occurred to her it was soon proved to be an unworthy one, for he came to her shortly after noon.

She was sitting in the room where he had said his good-bye to her long ago. She heard a step on the gravel of the drive and knew it at once. In a moment all the dreary years had slipped away from her like a useless garment. Once more she felt like that shy girl who had listened in dreadful secrecy and with a beating heart for the coming of her hero—her lover. She felt now as she had felt then—trembling with joyous anticipation, not without a tinge of maidenly fear.

She buried her face in her hands, saying in a whisper:

“Thank God—thank God—thank God!”

And then he entered the room.