But despite all this, his self-control did not leave him; and after one more glance into the dark eyes—fixed and set, as though there was no life animating them—he drew himself erect, and made an odd gesture with his right hand, flinging it out as if forever thrusting aside all further thought of her. Then, without looking at her again, he addressed her father.
"It was not to discuss such matters that I ventured to force my way into this house, sir," he said with a dignified courtesy hardly to be looked for in one of his years. "It was only that I could not—or felt that I should not—go away without holding speech with Mistress Dorothy. It would seem that she has naught to say to me, and so I have only to beg her pardon, and take my leave. And, sir, I entreat the same pardon from you and the other members of your household for any inconvenience I may have caused you and them."
He bowed to the old gentleman, and turned slowly away. But before he had taken many steps toward the outer door, Dorothy's voice arrested him, and he turned quickly about.
"Stay—wait a moment." And leaving her father's side, she went toward the young man.
"Believe me," she said, speaking very low and very gently, as she paused while yet a few steps away from him, "I wish you well, not harm."
"Do you still hold to what you told me?" he asked quickly, paying no heed to her words.
His voice did not reach her father's ears; and the young man's eyes searched her face as though his fate depended upon what he might read there.
"Yes!" The answer was as low-pitched as his question, but firm and fearless. And he saw the fingers of both little hands clench themselves in the folds of her gown, while the lace kerchief crossed over her bosom seemed to pulsate with the angry throbbing of her heart.
"And you will never forgive me?" He spoke now in a louder tone, but with the same pleading look in his pale face.
Dorothy's eyes met his own fairly and steadily, but she said nothing.