Her
books, her music, were scattered on every side. The sound of her rich
voice seemed still to vibrate through the room. And she was gone--for
ever! Well, she was a base and guilty creature, and it was better so--
infinitely better that her polluting presence should no longer
dishonour those ancient chambers, within which generations of proud and
pure women had lived and died. But to see the rooms empty, and to know
that she was gone, gave him nevertheless a pang.
"What will become of her?" thought Sir Oswald. "She will return to her
lover, of course, and he will console her for the sacrifice she has
made by her mad folly. Let her prize him while he still lives to
console her; for she may not have him long. Why do I think of her?--why
do I trouble myself about her? I have my affairs to arrange--a new will
to make--before I think of vengeance. And those matters once settled,
vengeance shall be my only thought. I have done for ever with love!"
Sir Oswald returned to the library. A lamp burned on the table at which
he was accustomed to write. It was a shaded reading-lamp, which made a
wide circle of vivid light around the spot where it stood, but left the
rest of the room in shadow.
The night was oppressively hot--an August rather than a September
night; and, before beginning his work, Sir Oswald flung open one of the
broad windows leading out upon the terrace.
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