For there had been some vague, undefined idea floating through her brain, that he might have said one gentle, sorrowing, pitying sentence before she went—he, the man whom she knew now to have loved her tenderly and well. But he had acquiesced so readily. That simple little “no” had gone to her heart like a stiletto thrust. She, degraded as she was, could not take him by the hand again.
Then she started up to gaze at him wildly and reproachfully, for he repeated the negative, and added,—
“Better, may be, dear, that I had died, as perhaps I shall before long. But, before you go, take with you the knowledge that I loved you dearly from the first. Ah, Glynne, what might have been!”
“Yes, what might have been!” she said sadly. “Better too that I had died, as I have often prayed that I might; but I was mad to offer such a prayer, for my work in life was not at an end. I did not know then. I know now, and my task is done.”
He was silent then, and she rose to go.
“Good-bye,” she whispered. “We shall never meet again.”
She had glided to the door, and her hand was raised to the fastening, when he cried faintly,—
“Stop!”
A low sigh escaped her lips.
Was he, then, going to speak one loving word to soften the bitterness of the last farewell? Her eyes brightened at the thought, and she turned and took a step or two towards him, with outstretched hands, which fell to her sides as she uttered a groan full of the despair at her heart.