Never again would she know the rapture of his kiss, the exquisite security of his enfolding arm. The To-come was before her--bleak, grey and bereft; the roseate hues of love's delight lay all in the Gone-by. Her love was of no avail. It had fluttered back to her, a wounded, helpless thing.
The striking of the clock roused her at last. It was the hour at which she usually bade him good-night, and she rose from her chair. Following her habit she crossed the room and rang the bell. When she turned again Francis too had risen, and he took a few steps towards her.
"My dear," he said gently, "if I have been selfish in my great sorrow, will you forgive me? Believe me I am not ungrateful for your care and devotion, but it seems to me it would have been a more real kindness to have told me the truth. Perhaps I am wrong--I cannot think clearly to-night--I am very tired, and everything is very dark--perhaps to-morrow will bring light."
He held her hand for a moment and then released it. His eyes wandered to the picture which stood on the easel in its accustomed place. He moved towards it and stood looking down at it in silence.
And so she left him.
It was old Goodie who found him next morning. She entered his room with his cup of tea, prepared just as he liked it, "with two lumps of sugar and a dash of cream"--and then she saw---He was lying cold and still, his hands folded on his breast, in the peace which passeth understanding. The morrow had brought light.
"The sorrow ends, for life and death have ceased. How should lamps flicker when the oil is spent? The old sad count is clear, the new is clean. Thus hath a man content."