"My God!" breathed John; "if you only knew how much I loved you!"
"Bernard—Bernard—Bernard!" she whispered. Then, to her infinite astonishment, John wrenched himself free; he put his hands to his brows, and fell back several paces, like a man who has received a stunning blow between the eyes.
"Elaine," he said, with clenched fists, his face suddenly pale, his eyes wild—"forget that I held you in my arms! Forget what I said! Forget everything!" His voice rose almost to a shout.
A moment later he had rushed out of the room, and had drawn the door behind him.
CHAPTER XXX
Almost as John closed the door of the south room Gates began to strike, in rising and rhythmic cadences, the great dinner-gong that stood in the hall. The elderly butler turned as John halted at his side.
"Is that the dressing-bell, Gates?" he asked.
"No, Mr. Bernard, the dressing-bell went at the usual time, sir."
John looked at him in surprise. He had heard nothing. During that scene in the room upstairs, when he had lost possession of himself, the sound of the bell had passed unheard. John felt no wonder at that; even now his thoughts whirled through his brain. His temperament was naturally cool, equable, and determined. Never in his life could he recollect having completely forgotten himself, as he had forgotten himself with Elaine a few minutes earlier. The power of love, indeed, had reduced him to the common standard. His nerve, his self-possession, his swift power of decision—all the gifts, in fact, that commended him to Dacent Smith, had deserted him in a flash. For a brief moment—for a space of a moment—he had forgotten everything, save the fact that he loved a woman.
He stood now thinking of these things, and was amazed at the blind passion that had seized him. He began to condemn himself bitterly and savagely. His deception of Elaine stood before him as a monstrous thing. The thought that he occupied another's man shoes, and had thus led her to pour out a love which she would have otherwise concealed, struck him as a criminal proceeding upon his part. He was obliged to confess to himself that he had dallied with the situation, that he had not acted firmly enough. On the other hand—a small voice whispered this—his deception of Elaine was not his fault; he had not wittingly deceived her. He had, indeed, acted all through as an honourable man. This last thought gave him a certain amount of comfort as he crossed the great hall and entered the drawing-room. Colonel Treves was the sole occupant of the room, and was standing with his back to the white marble fire-place, his hand resting on the stick he used as support. John noticed that in evening clothes the old man looked more imposing and distinguished than ever. The Colonel drew out his watch.