“It would be an act of cruelty,” replied Luke, “to attempt to buoy you up with promises that must crumble to the earth.”
“You will not try,” she cried, passionately. “I will try. I will try every plan I can think of to obtain your husband’s release, Mrs Mallow,” said Luke, gravely. “Or get him a new trial?”
“Such a thing is impossible. The most we dare hope for would be some slight shortening of his sentence; but candour compels me to say that nothing I can do will be of the slightest avail after such a trial as Cyril Mallow has had.”
Just then the old Churchwarden had thoughtfully raised the poker and broken a lump of coal, with the result that the confined gas burst into a bright light, filling the room with its cheerful glow, and Luke saw that Sage was looking at him with flashing eyes, and a couple of scarlet patches were burning in her cheeks.
She raised one hand slowly, and pointed to the door, speaking in a deep husky voice, full of suppressed passion.
“And I believed in you,” she said, wildly, “I thought you would be my friend. I said to myself, Luke Ross is true and noble, and good, and he loved me very dearly, when I was too weak and foolish to realise the value of this love. I said I would beg of you to come to me and help me in my sore distress, that I would humble myself to you, and that in the nobleness of your heart you would forgive the past.”
“As I have forgiven it, heaven knows,” he said, gravely.
“And then,” she cried, excitedly, “you come with your lips full of promises, your heart full of gall, ready to cheer me with words of hope, but only to fall away and leave me in despair.”
“Do not misjudge me,” he said, appealingly.
“Misjudge you!” she cried, with bitter contempt. “How could I misjudge such a man as you? I see now how false you can be. I see how you laid calmly in wait all these years that you might have revenge. You hurled my poor husband to the earth that afternoon in the lane; now you have crushed him down beneath your heel.”