“Then it shall be so, Lotys!” he murmured, at last. “Your wish is my law!—it shall be as you command! I will fulfil such duties as I must in this world,—and the knowledge of your love for me,—your trust in me,—shall keep me high in the People’s honour! Old follies shall be swept away—old sins atoned for;—and when we meet, as you say, on the other side of Death, God will perchance give us all that we have longed for in this world—all that we have lost!”
His voice shook,—he could not further rely on his self-control.
“I will not tempt you, Lotys!” he whispered—“I dare not tempt myself! God bless you!”
He put her gently from him, and stood for a moment irresolute. All the hope he had indulged in of a sweeter joy than any he had ever known, was lost,—and yet—he knew he had no right to press upon her a love which, to her, could only mean dishonour.
“Good-bye, Lotys!” he said, huskily; “My one love in this world and the next! Good-bye!”
She gazed at him with her whole soul in her eyes,—then suddenly, and with the tenderest grace in the world, dropped on her knees and kissed his hand.
“God save your Majesty!” she said, with a poor little effort at smiling through her tears; “For many and many a long and happy year, when Lotys is no more!”
With a half cry he snatched her up in his arms and pressed her to his heart, showering kisses on her lips, her eyes, her hair, her little hands!—then, with a movement as abrupt as it was passion-stricken, put her quickly from him and left her.
She listened with straining ears to the quick firm echo of his footsteps departing from her, and echoing down the stairs. She caught the ring of his tread on the pavement outside. She heard the grinding roll of the wheels of his carriage as he was rapidly driven away. He had gone! As she realised this, her courage suddenly failed her, and sinking down beside the chair in which he had for a moment sat, she laid her head upon it, and wept long and bitterly. Her conscience told her that she had done well, but her heart—the starving woman’s heart,—was all unsatisfied, and clamoured for its dearest right—love! And she had of her own will, her own choice, put love aside,—the most precious, the most desired love in the world!—she had sent it away out of her life for ever! True, she could call it back, if she chose with a word—but she knew that for the sake of a king, and a country’s honour, she would not so call it back! She might have said with one of the most human of poets:
“Will someone say, then why not ill for good?
Why took ye not
your pastime? To that man My word shall answer, since I knew the Right
And did it.” [Footnote: Tennyson ]