“Not another word!” he blazed at her. “It is because I do love you—love and pity you from my heart—that I will not listen. It seems I must save you not only from that knave, but from yourself. I were false to my duty by you, false to your dead father and murdered brother else. Anon, you shall thank me, Rosamund.” And again he turned to depart.
“Thank you?” she cried in a ringing voice. “I shall curse you. All my life I shall loathe and hate you, holding you in horror for a murderer if you do this thing. You fool! Can you not see? You fool!”
He recoiled. Being a man of position and importance, quick, fearless, and vindictive of temperament—and also, it would seem, extremely fortunate—it had never happened to him in all his life to be so uncompromisingly and frankly judged. She was by no means the first to account him a fool, but she was certainly the first to call him one to his face; and whilst to the general it might have proved her extreme sanity, to him it was no more than the culminating proof of her mental distemper.
“Pish!” he said, between anger and pity, “you are mad, stark mad! Your mind’s unhinged, your vision’s all distorted. This fiend incarnate is become a poor victim of the evil of others; and I am become a murderer in your sight—a murderer and a fool. God’s Life! Bah! Anon when you are rested, when you are restored, I pray that things may once again assume their proper aspect.”
He turned, all aquiver still with indignation, and was barely in time to avoid being struck by the door which opened suddenly from without.
Lord Henry Goade, dressed—as he tells us—entirely in black, and with his gold chain of office—an ominous sign could they have read it—upon his broad chest, stood in the doorway, silhouetted sharply against the flood of morning sunlight at his back. His benign face would, no doubt, be extremely grave to match the suit he had put on, but its expression will have lightened somewhat when his glance fell upon Rosamund standing there by the table’s edge.
“I was overjoyed,” he writes, “to find her so far recovered, and seeming so much herself again, and I expressed my satisfaction.”
“She were better abed,” snapped Sir John, two hectic spots burning still in his sallow cheeks. “She is distempered, quite.”
“Sir John is mistaken, my lord,” was her calm assurance, “I am very far from suffering as he conceives.”
“I rejoice therein, my dear,” said his lordship, and I imagine his questing eyes speeding from one to the other of them, and marking the evidences of Sir John’s temper, wondering what could have passed. “It happens,” he added sombrely, “that we may require your testimony in this grave matter that is toward.” He turned to Sir John. “I have bidden them bring up the prisoner for sentence. Is the ordeal too much for you, Rosamund?”