"Have you told him everything?" asks Sartoris, nervously. "It was a fatal mistake. Do you think he will forgive me?"
"How can I say?" says Mrs. Branscombe, with a bitter smile. "I can only tell you he has not forgiven me."
"Bless me!" says Lord Sartoris; "then, I suppose, I haven't a chance."
He is disheartened by her words, and goes very slowly on his way towards his nephew's room. When they are once more face to face, they pause and look with uncertainty upon each other. Then the older man holds out his hands beseechingly.
"I have come to demand your forgiveness," he says, with deep entreaty. "Dorian—grant it!—I am very old——"
In an instant Dorian's arm is round his neck, as it used to be in the days long ago, before the dark cloud had rolled between them.
"Not another word, or I shall never forgive you!" says Branscombe, tenderly, with the old smile upon his lips. And Sartoris, strong, obstinate, self-willed man that he is, lays his head down upon his "boy's" shoulder, and sobs aloud.
CHAPTER XXXV.
"Oh, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of her lips."—Twelfth Night.