"And the husband whom you love—nay, he must be a good man since God hath loved him so—"
"Farewell, my lord."
"Farewell, Rose Marie—my rosemary—'tis for remembrance, you know."
He tasted the supreme joy to the full—all the joy that was left to him now—five finger tips, cold against his burning lips, and they trembled beneath each kiss. Then she turned and followed her father out of the room.
For a moment he remained alone, standing there like one drunken or dazed. Mechanically his hand went to the inner pocket of his coat and anon he pulled out a withered, crumbling bunch of snowdrops, the tiny bouquet which she had dropped at his feet that day in Paris, when first he saw her, and her blue eyes kindled the flame of a great and overwhelming passion.
Nay! thou art a man, and of what thou doest, thou art not ashamed; but, proud man that thou art, there is thy Master, Love; he rules thee with his rod of steel, and if thou sin, beware! for that rod will smite thee 'til thou kneel humbly in the dust, with the weakness of unshed tears shaming thy manhood, and with a faded bunch of snowdrops pressed against thy lips, to smother a miserable, intensely human cry of awful agony.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
What be her cards you ask? Even these:—