“That the irresistible Sir John Dering hath met one woman at the least who doth not succumb to his wiles and blandishments.”
“Unworthy!” he exclaimed. “Oh, base and most unworthy!”
But now, the door open at last, she fled from him and up the narrow stair.... And after some while Sir John took hat and cloak and stumbled forth into the golden afternoon, but for him it might have been blackest midnight.
Her Grace of Connington, returning at last by way of the wicket gate, stole into the little house, her bright eyes a little brighter even than usual; but in the act of laying off her sun-bonnet, paused, arrested by a sound from the chamber overhead, and, running up the stair with surprising agility, discovered my Lady Herminia face down upon the floor among the ruin of her crumpled finery.
“Why, Herminia ... dear child!” she cried. “O my love ... my precious soul—what is it?”
“Aunt,” sobbed my lady without lifting her woeful head, “O aunt ... I’ve trampled him ... triumphantly ... at last!”
CHAPTER XLI
TELLETH OF THE DUEL ON DERING TYE
Reaching the old cross, Sir John paused instinctively and leaned there, oblivious to all but this most bitter of truths. She had acted ... from the very first! The gentle Rose with her sweet simplicity was no more than a figment of his own imagining. The cold, vindictive Herminia had lured him on for this.... Here, indeed, was the culmination of her heartless scheming. Her vengeance was accomplished.... And Rose had never existed!
Here, lifting clenched hand, he saw a slow trickle of blood that crept beneath lace ruffle.... She had said his hand was bloody ... and to be sure she had gripped and wrenched his injured arm.