Lionel leaned his elbows on the table and took his head in his hands. Weak from loss of blood, overwrought mentally as well, in a state of revulsion and reaction also from the pursuit which had been the cause of to-night’s tragic affair, he had not strength to withhold the confidence his brother asked. On the contrary, it seemed to him that in making such a confidence, he would find a haven and refuge in Sir Oliver.
“’Twas that wanton at Malpas was the cause of all,” he complained. And Sir Oliver’s eye flashed at the words. “I deemed her quite other; I was a fool, a fool! I”—he choked, and a sob shook him—“I thought she loved me. I would have married her, I would so, by God.”
Sir Oliver swore softly under his breath.
“I believed her pure and good, and....” He checked. “After all, who am I to say even now that she was not? ’Twas no fault of hers. ’Twas he, that foul dog Godolphin, who perverted her. Until he came all was well between us. And then....”
“I see,” said Sir Oliver quietly. “I think you have something for which to thank him, if he revealed to you the truth of that strumpet’s nature. I would have warned thee, lad. But... Perhaps I have been weak in that.”
“It was not so; it was not she....”
“I say it was, and if I say so I am to be believed, Lionel. I’d smirch no woman’s reputation without just cause. Be very sure of that.”
Lionel stared up at him. “O God!” he cried presently, “I know not what to believe. I am a shuttle-cock flung this way and that way.”
“Believe me,” said Sir Oliver grimly. “And set all doubts to rest.” Then he smiled. “So that was the virtuous Master Peter’s secret pastime, eh? The hypocrisy of man! There is no plumbing the endless depths of it!”
He laughed outright, remembering all the things that Master Peter had said of Ralph Tressilian—delivering himself as though he were some chaste and self-denying anchorite. Then on that laugh he caught his breath quite suddenly. “Would she know?” he asked fearfully. “Would that harlot know, would she suspect that ’twas your hand did this?”