He walked till he came to the church, and then he entered the graveyard, and seated himself on an old sunken tomb and watched the poor funeral procession that presently wound through the lych-gate.
When they had all left and he was again alone, he walked down the sloping churchyard path and looked at the new-made grave.
A simple headstone was already in place; it bore no name, but only the date and the words–
“A broken and a contrite heart, O Lord, Thou wilt not despise.”
Philip Wharton put his hand before his eyes; he felt sorry and afraid.
All the women who had ever loved him seemed to lie buried in that humble grave. Love itself, compact of a thousand graces, a thousand transports, which had been made manifest to him under so many different shapes, in so many climes, seemed to have fallen and died at last and to lie buried here with Lucy.…
He took his hand from his eyes and saw about him the poor Spanish lodging, the distant window with the fig and myrtle from which the sun had now departed. He sat up shivering.
“What dreams!” he muttered. “What dreams!”
He found his eyes wet with tears; he rose and held on to the back of the chair. For one awful moment he believed in God. Then he shook off the oppression.