And I—I stood there by the table gazing down at her with a host of conflicting emotions in my breast. The thought, indeed, crossed my mind that this might be but another trick simulated to arouse my compassion; but in a moment I put the idea from me. This was no pretence, but the despairing sobs of one who had abandoned hope. And it was precisely the one thing that I had not taken into account. That she would meet me with anger and defiance I had taken for granted; that this attitude would then give way to one of pleading I had also equally imagined and had been prepared to gloat over her humiliation. But this hopeless misery disarmed me. My lady proud, my lady scornful—that was but natural, was but the fitting heritage of her birth and beauty. But my lady in tears was a factor so improbable that it had never entered into my calculations. As I stood, gazing upon her bowed head, minute by minute I felt my former anger against her evaporating. And then on a sudden, a strange thing happened. For before my eyes rose a vision of my father long since dead. Of a manly, kindly hearted, stainless gentleman, whose creed had been, “A gentleman’s word is his bond,” and whose life had been spent in living up to those ideals which the majority of men admire but disregard. Following this, came one of a sweet-faced, gentle mother, gazing at me with sad, reproachful eyes—a pure, spiritual face that seemed to stand between me and the object of my vengeance, pleading with me to show mercy for the sake of their common womanhood. How long the vision lasted I do not know, but I uttered a stifled cry and covered my eyes with my hand. When I removed the latter it was gone, and I saw only the brightly lighted room and the stricken figure of the woman before me. But though my knees were trembling and the perspiration gathered thickly on my forehead, a strange new resolution was forming in my breast. I felt like a man who had been snatched from the edge of a precipice, and I shuddered to think how near I had come to the brink—how near I had come to bartering man’s highest privilege—that of protection—for the sake of an empty revenge. A revenge, too, directed by me—I, a strong man, against a lady—a woman—God’s finished work!
My first feeling was one of overwhelming shame, but following hard upon this a great pity filled my breast. Thank God I was still a gentleman!
“Madam!” I said gently, bending over the table.
She did not raise her head; her sobs had ceased; she was very still. Something in her attitude attracted my attention. I passed round the table and lightly touched her arm; then, meeting with no response, I sank on my knees at her side and gently drew one arm from before her face. It was as I had thought—she had fainted. Seeing this, I raised her tenderly, so that her head rested upon the cushions of the chair; then I fell to chafing her cold hands. And at this moment, as I knelt with my lady’s hand in mine, there came the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall, the door was flung wide open, and on the threshold stood the Earl of Cleeve himself, and behind him Mistress Grace.
To say that I was surprised at the sudden appearance of the man whom but an hour before I had left lying in the fisherman’s hut, to all appearance grievously wounded, would but inadequately describe my feelings. So astounded was I, that I remained staring up at him still with my lady’s hand in mine. He had removed the bandage from his forehead and the long, ragged scar showed plainly in the light.
“Your Grace?” I stammered; and again: “Your Grace?”
I rose to my feet and fell back a few paces. And as with a cry of fear and compassion Mistress Grace hurried to her sister’s side, the earl stepped forward and confronted me.
“Aye,” he answered, his voice stern and cold, his courteous manner disappeared. “I suppose my unlooked-for appearance upsets your plans, sir. I thank God I am in time to save my sister’s honour.”
I started as if I had received a blow.
“Her honour!” was all that I could stammer. “Her honour!”