There
arose thence a hum of sound, dominated, however, by the throbbing song of
a nightingale somewhere in his garden and the croaking of the frogs by
the pool in the valley.
Now that truth had been dragged from its well, and tossed, as it were,
into Rosamund's lap, he felt none of the fierce exultation which he had
conceived that such an hour as this must bring him. Rather, indeed, was
he saddened and oppressed. To poison the unholy cup of joy which he had
imagined himself draining with such thirsty zest there was that discovery
of a measure of justification for her attitude towards him in her
conviction that his disappearance was explained by flight.
He was weighed down by a sense that he had put himself entirely in the
wrong; that in his vengeance he had overreached himself; and he found the
fruits of it, which had seemed so desirably luscious, turning to ashes in
his mouth.
Long he stood there, the silence between them entirely unbroken. Then at
length he stirred, turned from the parapet, and paced slowly back until
he came to stand beside the divan, looking down upon her from his great
height.
"At last you have heard the truth," he said. And as she made no answer
he continued: "I am thankful it was surprised out of him before the
torture was applied, else you might have concluded that pain was wringing
a false confession from him." He paused, but still she did not speak;
indeed, she made no sign that she had heard him.
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