Thou can’st not murder more than now;
I’ve lived to curse my natal day
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.
She retired at an early hour to her bedroom, to weep quietly and to think. No sleep came to her weary, aching brain. The clocks tolled the hour of midnight before Sir Harold came. He stepped about softly, believing that his wife was asleep. Then he pressed a silent kiss upon her lips, and murmured:
“Poor Theresa!”
The words and the tone rang in her ears to the hour of her death—“Poor Theresa!”
It seemed that Sir Harold could find little rest. He was up again at six o’clock, and, after glancing at his wife, was leaving the room, when she held out her arms to him in a childish, loving way.
“Kiss me, Harold,” she said.
He obeyed, and she whispered:
“You will always love poor Theresa a little?”