Was it possible, Aspasia asked herself, that between that cry of Rosamond and this gathering of the inmates of the house so short a time had lapsed. She felt as if she had lived a span of years.
"My goodness," cried Lady Aspasia. "Who was screaming? Any one hurt? I never heard such a scream in my life!"
Then speech and movement alike left the eager lady. Gazing at the bed, she stood open-mouthed with stupefaction—an odious inclination to laugh barely stifled, for decency's sake, in her throat.
Sir Arthur also had halted on the threshold. His eyes were fixed, as if he could hardly credit their evidence, upon the figure of the man in the shooting-jacket who knelt at the side of the low bed, almost covering the unconscious body with his embrace. And, indeed, Sir Arthur's eyes at the moment were playing him false.
"Bethune!" ... he exclaimed. "Major Bethune!"
Not a thought, not a glance had he for the death-like stillness of his wife's face against the crisp black head—to him that head appeared sleek, close-cropped, indefinitely brown. He cried out again loudly:
"You infernal scoundrel..." and caught the intruder roughly by the shoulder.
The kneeling man merely turned his head.
"What ... what ... the devil!——" The words died on Sir Arthur's lips. His eyes protruded. "Who the devil are you, sir?"
"Who is it?" came Lady Aspasia's whisper, more penetrating than natural tones.