But Clara was not destined to happiness. From the moment she had
promised herself to her first love's friend old memories began to rise
up and reproach her. Strange thoughts stirred in the depths of her soul,
and in the silent watches of the night she seemed to hear Everard's
accents, charged with grief and upbraiding. Her uneasiness increased as
her wedding-day drew near. One night, after a pleasant afternoon spent
in being rowed by Tom among the upper reaches of the Thames, she retired
to rest full of vague forebodings. And she dreamt a terrible dream. The
dripping form of Everard stood by her bedside, staring at her with
ghastly eyes. Had he been drowned on the passage to his land of exile?
Frozen with horror, she put the question.

"I have never left England!" the vision answered.

Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.

"Never left England?" she repeated, in tones which did not seem to be
hers.

The wraith's stony eyes stared on, but there was silence.

"Where have you been then?" she asked in her dream.

"Very near you," came the answer.

"There has been foul play then!" she shrieked.

The phantom shook its head in doleful assent.