The silence was long. He was Marmaduke Haward with all his powers gathered, calm, determined, so desperate to have done with this thing, to at once and forever gain his own and master fate, that his stillness was that of deepest waters, his cool equanimity that of the gamester who knows how will fall the loaded dice. Dressed with his accustomed care, very pale, composed and quiet, he faced her whose spirit yet lingered in a far city, who in the dreamy exaltation of this midnight hour was ever half Audrey of the garden, half that other woman in a dress of red silk, with jewels in her hair, who, love's martyr, had exulted, given all, and died.
"How did you come here?" she breathed at last. "You said that you would come never again."
"After to-night, never again," he answered. "But now, Audrey, this once again, this once again!"
Gazing past him she made a movement toward the door. He shook his head. "This is my hour, Audrey. You may not leave the room, nor will Mistress Stagg enter it. I will not touch you, I will come no nearer to you. Stand there in silence, if you choose, or cover the sight of me from your eyes, while for my own ease, my own unhappiness, I say farewell."
"Farewell!" she echoed. "Long ago, at Westover, that was said between you and me.... Why do you come like a ghost to keep me and peace apart?"
He did not answer, and she locked her hands across her brow that burned beneath the heavy circlet of mock gems. "Is it kind?" she demanded, with a sob in her voice. "Is it kind to trouble me so, to keep me here"—
"Was I ever kind?" he asked. "Since the night when I followed you, a child, and caught you from the ground when you fell between the corn rows, what kindness, Audrey?"
"None!" she answered, with sudden passion. "Nor kindness then! Why went you not some other way?"
"Shall I tell you why I was there that night,—why I left my companions and came riding back to the cabin in the valley?"
She uncovered her eyes, "I thought—I thought then—that you were sent"—