He drew nearer to her.
"You left me nothing," he said,—"nothing. God knows what saved me—I do not. You loved me? You battled against your love?" He laughed aloud. "I was a madman under your window night after night. Forget it, if you can. I cannot. 'Oh! that I should have stooped for this,' you say. No, it is that I who have loved you should stand here with empty hands!"
She had bowed her face and was sobbing again. But suddenly she rose.
"If I did not know you better," she said, "I should say this was revenge."
"It would be but a poor one," he answered her coldly.
She supported herself with one hand on the chair.
"I have fallen very low," she said, "so low that I was weaker than I thought. And now, as you say, 'it is over.' Your hands are empty! Oh! it was a poor passion, and this is the fitting end for it!"
She moved a little toward the door and stopped.
"Good-bye," she said.
In a moment more all that was left was a subtle breath of flower-like fragrance in the atmosphere of the bare room.
It was an hour before he passed through the iron gates, though there had been nothing left to be done inside.
He came out slowly, and having locked the gate, turned toward the Broxton road.
He was going to the little graveyard. It had been a dull gray day, but by the time he reached the place, the sun had crept through the clouds and brightened them, and noting it he felt some vague comfort. It was a desolate place when there was no sun.
