Cynthia sat in the window, not daring to join the party on the piazza—hoping perhaps that one of them would separate himself from the others and come to her. Hubert was walking with her father now—up and down, up and down, deep in talk. Was it merely talk of politics and farming and common things?
She saw them withdraw to a corner of the piazza where they could converse unheard by their companions. Westwood was smoking; but his speech was fluent, Cynthia could see; he was laying down the law, emphasising his sentences by an outstretched finger, blowing great rings of smoke into the air between some of his remarks. Hubert listened and seemed to assent. His head was bowed, his arms were folded across his chest; he looked—Cynthia could not help the thought—like a prisoner receiving sentence, a penitent before his judge. Westwood turned to him at last, as if awaiting an answer—the moonlight was on his face, and showed it to be grave and anxious, but unmistakably kind. Hubert raised his head and made some answer; and then—Cynthia's heart began to beat very fast indeed—her father held out his hand. The two men grasped each other's hands warmly and silently for a moment, then both turned away. Westwood took out a great red handkerchief and blew his nose vehemently; Hubert leaned for a moment against the balustrade and put his hand across his eyes. Cynthia's own eyes swam in sympathetic tears as she strove to imagine what had been said. In that moment her love for Hubert was almost less than her love for her father—the man who, in spite of lawless instincts, faulty training, great misfortunes and mistakes, had a nature that was large enough and grand enough to know how to forgive.
Her eyes were so blinded with tears that she saw but indistinctly that her father was coming across the piazza to the long open window by which she sat. She drew herself back a little, so as to be out of the range of vision of the Colonel and Mr. MacPhail. She knew that the crisis of her fate was come.
"Cynthia, my dear," said her father's homely ragged voice—how dear it had grown, she felt that she had never known till now—"here's a gentleman wants to have a word with you. And he has my good wishes and my friendship, dearie; and that's a thing that I thought you'd like to know. He calls it my forgiveness; but we know—we understand—it's all the same. I'll leave him with you, my beauty, and you can say to each other what you please." And then he kissed her very tenderly and turned away.
She felt that Hubert had followed him, and had stepped into the room; but she could not raise her eyes.
She was obliged to see him however when he knelt down before her, and put his clasped hands very gently upon her knee.
"Cynthia," said his voice—the other voice that she loved to hear—"your father says that he has forgiven me. Can you forgive?"
She put her hand upon his, and a great tear fell down her cheeks.
"I have nothing to urge in my defence," he said. "If you like to punish me—to send me away from you for ever—I know that I shall have deserved my fate. I dare not ask for anything from you, Cynthia, except your forgiveness. May I hope to gain that?"
"If my father has forgiven you," she said a little hurriedly, "I cannot do less."