While he was in the act of unlocking it, he started, hearing a cry from the spot where they had been standing a dozen yards away. He looked round quickly. Agnes was being supported by a servant. He saw that her face was deathly white, and in her hand that fell limply by her side there was an oblong piece of paper. A telegraph envelope had fluttered to the ground. He rushed back to her. “What has happened?” he asked the servant. “A telegram, sir; I brought it out to her--it had just come, and knew that she was out here. She read it and cried out--I was just in time to catch her. I don't think she has quite fainted, Sir Percival.” The maid was right. Agnes had not fainted, but she was plainly overcome by whatever news the telegram had conveyed to her. She opened her eyes as Sir Percival put his arm about her, supporting her to a garden chair that stood at the side of the tennis lawn. “I think I can walk,” she murmured; and she made an effort to step out, but all her strength seemed to have departed. She would have fallen if Sir Percival had not supported her. “You are weak,” he said; “but after a rest you will be yourself again. Let me help you.” “You are so good!” she said, and with his help she was able to take a few steps. But then she gave a sudden gasp and became rigid when she caught sight of the telegram which was crumpled in her hand. She raised it slowly and stared at it. Then she cried out: “Ah, God is good--God is good! It is no dream. He is safe--safe! Claude Westwood is alive.” CHAPTER VII. |What were his feelings as he read the telegram which she thrust into his hand--the telegram sent to her by a relative, who lived in London, acquainting her with the fact that an enterprising London paper had in its issue of that morning announced the safe arrival at Uganda of the distinguished explorer, Claude Westwood? “Authority unquestionable,” were the words with which the telegram ended. Had he for one single moment an unworthy thought? Had he for a single moment a consciousness that she was lost to him for ever? Had he a feeling that he was being cruelly treated by Fate? Or was every feeling overwhelmed by the thought that this woman whose happiness was dear to him, was on her way to happiness? She was leaning upon him as he read the telegram; and when he looked into her face he saw that the expression which it wore was not that of a woman who is thinking of her own happiness. He saw that her heart was not so full of her own happiness as to have no place for a thought for the man who in a moment had all hope swept away from him. Her eyes showed him that she had the tenderest regard for him at that moment; and that was how he was able to press her hand and say: “With all my heart--with all my heart, I am glad. You will be happy. I ask nothing more.” She returned the pressure of his hand, and with her eyes looking into his, said in a low voice: “I know it--I know it.”