Michael—with the eyes of a man hungering for love—gazed on his snowdrop and saw the change which the past dark months had wrought on the former serenity of her face. And if he had suffered during that time the exquisite pangs of mad and hopeless longing, how much more acute did that pain seem now that he saw her, looking pale and fragile, almost frightened, too, in his presence, cold as she had been ere that mad glad moment when he had held her—a living, loving woman—in his arms, with the hot blood rushing to her cheeks at his whispered words of passion, and the light of love kindled in her eyes.
Can brain of man or of torturing devils conceive aught so cruel as this living, breathing embodiment of the might-have-been; this tearing of every heart-string in the maddening desire for one more embrace, one last lingering kiss, one touch only of hand against hand, one final breath of life—after which, death and peace?
As in a dream, good Master Legros' diffident voice struck on Michael's ear:
"It was with my lord of Stowmaries that we wished to speak."
And directly after that, Rose Marie's trembling tones, half-choked with sobs resolutely suppressed:
"Let us go, Father—we—we must not stay here—let us go—"
She had drawn close to her father, and was twining her hands round his arm trying to drag him away.
The sad pathos of this appeal—this clinging to another as if for protection and help, whilst he—Michael—stood by—nothing to her, less than nothing, a thing to fear, to hate, mayhap, certainly to despise—struck him as with a whip-lash across his aching breast. But it woke him from his dream. It brought him back to earth, with senses bruised and temples throbbing, his pride of manhood brought down to the dust of a childish desire to keep her here in his presence if only for a moment, a second; to hear her speak, to look on her, to endure her scorn if need be, only to have her there.
Therefore, he turned to Papa Legros and almost humbly said: