Devil's Dice

“Oh, Stuart!” she answered, her beautiful, calm face upturned to mine, “I, too, thought ever of you. In those dark hours when, fearing that finding me dead you loved another, those charming rambles among the mountains were fresh in my memory. Hour by hour, day by day, my mind was filled by those recollections of a halcyon past, yet I feared to let you know of my existence lest you should attempt to claim me from the man whose wife I was forced against my will to represent. That ever-present thought of you wore my life away; I became heavy with weariness, and some nights so broken down that I felt a cowardly desire to die. Yet that sweet thought that past delight leaves within one urged me to hope, even though ours was a dark night to be followed by an unknown dawn. You, dear one, seemed but a shadow that had disappeared in the solitude where the dear phantoms of our dreams reside, but I hoped and hoped, and ever hopeless hoped.”

Then upon my breast the pent-up feelings of her heart found vent in big tears and quick spasmodic sobs.

And the rest – well, the rest is that happiness is mine. I have laid my conscience quite bare, being anxious to conceal nothing, and now having found my well-beloved the days seem an eternity of joy.

Yes, we have married. My father has died and Wadenhoe has passed into our possession, while our near neighbour at Fotheringhay is Captain Jack Bethune, who, on his marriage with Dora, resigned his commission in order to devote himself entirely to her and to literature. Her brain-trouble is now completely cured and her happiness complete. The newspapers teem with eulogistic paragraphs about her husband’s life and work, for he is at the present moment one of the most popular of our writers of romance. As for Francis Markwick, although he succeeded in escaping to Rio de Janeiro he did not live long to enjoy his freedom, for within a few weeks of landing in that malarial city he was attacked by yellow fever, to which he succumbed.

Sometimes when day is dying the fresh breeze rises from the river and a soft light falls from the sky, the open valley stretching before our windows expands peaceful and transparent like a dark, shoreless ocean. It is in those idle, restful moments of adoration, when earth and sky are fathomless, that the pure sweet voice of my well-beloved, the voice that recalled me to the joys of life, raises a recollection within me, a remembrance that ofttimes brings tears to my eyes – the remembrance of the strange inviolable secret of Sybil.

The End.