“Losh, man John, wha’s a’ this?”
“This, Hector, is the Lady Herminia Barrasdaile, niece to her Grace the Duchess of Connington, whom we know here as ‘Mrs. Saunders.’ But as for our loved Rose, alas, she was no more than a passing whim!”
“Why—why.... O John!” stammered Sir Hector, loosing my lady’s nerveless hands and falling back a step in sheer amazement. “O Rose, my bonny Rose, wha’s a’ this?” he questioned.
“The truth, sir,” she answered gently. “I am indeed Herminia Barrasdaile. And now, by your leaves, I will go back to old Penelope.”
And so, with a gracious curtsy, my lady turned and went softly up the dark and narrow stair.
CHAPTER XLII
MR. DUMBRELL MEDIATES
The news of my Lord Sayle’s shameful discomfiture on Dering Tye ran and spread like wildfire; in town, village and hamlet near and far it was the one topic of conversation, in busy market-place, at cross-roads and sequestered lane, it was discussed; and ever the story grew.
Dering of Dering was back home again and had forced Lord Sayle to fight, and cut Lord Sayle’s clothes from him piecemeal and left him stark naked as he was born! So ran the story to the accompaniment of thumping pewter and gusty laughter, and proud was the man who could boast of having witnessed, with his own two eyes, the never-to-be-forgotten scene.
It is to be supposed that my Lord Sayle caught some faint echo of the tale, for by day he held himself sullenly aloof, shunned alike by dismayed friends and trembling servants; but at night, unseen, unheard, who shall tell the agonies he endured, who describe the passionate despair, the mortified pride, the futile rage and burning hate that rent and tore him? All hell raged within his soul, a hell peopled by demons that tortured him until came the arch-devil of Vengeance luring him to his own destruction, urging him to that black gulf whence there is no return. So made he Vengeance his comforter.