“Strange—strange; but since Herr Von Bruyin passed away I seem to understand his character better than I ever did before! More than ever before I seem to feel the pure, tender, unselfish love he lavished upon me, from my earliest infancy, even until the day of his death—‘until the day of his death?’ What am I saying? Uttering hastily, and with parrot-like repetition, false, unmeaning words—for there is no death and no limit to love like his. From his home above, he loves me still. And, perhaps, when I, too, shall reach that bright world in which there is no winter and no age, I shall find no disparity between us; but shall see and love him even as he sees and loves me! And that shall be my comfort and his reward.”
The baroness spoke tenderly, meditatively, with her beautiful head bowed upon her hand, and her fair hair, escaped from the widow’s cap, flowing down over her black-robed shoulders.
Lilith uttered not a word, but she thought:
“This is the woman whom Tudor Hereward denounced as vain, self-seeking, double-dealing; false to him, false to herself, false to her betrothed, and all because, to keep her plighted faith, she had rejected him.”
And Lilith, through all her own deep pain, felt a tender sympathy with the desolate heart of her rival.
At length the baroness spoke again:
“You are very silent, petite. Of what are you thinking?” she softly inquired.
“Of the story you have told me, madame,” gently replied Lilith.
“And what about it, dear?”
“It is very sorrowful. You are not happy, madame; and perhaps you never can be, unless, unless—by——”