"I know you would," she says, with cold gentleness; "but that does not make the act less brave."
Suddenly he turns on her with unexpected passion.
"I was not half so courageous as you were, Honor! I would not have met
Power Magill at such an hour and in such a place for any consideration.
You were—if you will let me say so—recklessly brave to do such a
thing."
The light from the open door streams out, and she looks up at him as he speaks. His face is ghastly pale, and his tone is angry and scornful. She realizes for the first time how strange her rash act must appear in the eyes of this fastidious Englishman. The women of his world would never have done such a thing, she knows; but that does not trouble her—it is the scornful surprise on his face that cuts her so cruelly.
"Never mind," she says to herself, suppressing a sob as they go up the steps together. "I am not a fine London lady, and I don't wish to be; if the pater and the boys are content with me as I am that is enough. It is nothing to me what this man thinks."
Brian is almost past conscious thought just now; but he hides his pain bravely till they get into the house and he has seen the great doors fastened securely; then he sinks down exhausted, and Honor sees, by the blood on his sleeve, that he has been wounded.
Instantly the whole place is in confusion. A messenger is sent off at once to the chief constable at Drum and another fetches Doctor Symmonds, who when he arrives finds his patient very low indeed.
"It is not the wound," he explains to the squire, "it is the loss of blood that has done the mischief. A little longer, and the poor fellow would have bled to death; as it is, he will need the greatest care to pull him through."
* * * * *
"My dear Honor, I do wish you would try to like him!" Belle Delorme says, looking up at her friend with pretty pleading eyes. "I'm sure he's awfully fond of you—any one can see that."