As she spoke these last words, she threw her head back and raised her clasped hands in passionate appeal, while Sir Gordon’s lips moved as he repeated the first portion of her prayer, and then stayed and stood gazing down upon the agonised face.
“Millicent,” he said at last, as he raised her from where she knelt, and almost placed her in an easy-chair, where she subsided, weak and helpless almost as a child, “listen to me.”
He paused to clear his voice, which sounded very husky. Then continuing:
“For your sake—for the sake of your innocent child, I promise that on the part of Mr Dixon and myself there shall be no harsh treatment, no persecution. Your husband shall have justice.”
“That is all I ask,” cried Millicent, starting forward. “Justice, only justice; for he is innocent.”
“My poor girl!” said Sir Gordon warmly; “there,” he cried, with a pitying smile, “you see I speak to you as if the past six or seven years had not glided away.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, clinging to his hand, “forget them, and speak as my dear old friend.”
“I will,” he said firmly. “And believe me, Millicent, if it were a question merely of the money—my money that I have lost—I would forgive your husband.”
“Forgive—”
“I would ignore his defalcation for your sake; but I am not a free agent in a case like this. You do not understand.”