“I am not proud,—as a woman ought to be,” she said, wearily, when he wiped her clammy forehead.
“You loved me, then?” he whispered.
Her face flashed at the unmanly triumph; her puny frame started up, away from him.
“I did love you, Stephen. I love you now,—as you might be, not as you are,—not with those cold, inhuman eyes. I do understand you,—I do. I know you for a better man than you know yourself this night.”
She turned to go. He put his hand on her arm; something we have never seen on his face struggled up,—the better soul that she knew.
“Come back,” he said, hoarsely; “don’t leave me with myself. Come back, Margaret.”
She did not come; stood leaning, her sudden strength gone, against the broken wall. There was a heavy silence. The night throbbed slow about them. Some late bird rose from the sedges of the pool, and with a frightened cry flapped its tired wings, and drifted into the dark. His eyes, through the gathering shadow, devoured the weak, trembling body, met the soul that looked at him, strong as his own. Was it because it knew and trusted him that all that was pure and strongest in his crushed nature struggled madly to be free? He thrust it down; the self-learned lesson of years was not to be conquered in a moment.
“There have been times,” he said, in a smothered, restless voice, “when I thought you belonged to me. Not here, but before this life. My soul and body thirst and hunger for you, then, Margaret.”
She did not answer; her hands worked feebly together.
He came nearer, and held up his arras to where she stood,—the heavy, masterful face pale and wet.