"Let me treat the matter," he whispered, "as though I were only a friend, and had come here to state my case and implore advice. How does the matter stand exactly? Let us look at the facts, the simple facts first."
His pace became slower and slower. His face ceased to work, and lost the flushed and wild appearance. Gradually his head rose erect and stood back upon his neck. His eyes lit up with the flashes of reason. They no longer blazed with the flame of chaotic despair. He unclasped his hands and began to gesticulate. He ceased to be the self-convicted culprit, and became the argumentative contender before the court. He had ceased to do his worst against the accused and was exercising all his faculties to compel an acquittal.
Presently his manner changed. He had adduced all his reasons and knit them together in his argument. Now he was beginning to appeal to the feelings of the man on the bench and the men in the box. His head was no longer erect, his gestures no longer combative. He was asking them to remember the circumstances of the case. He was painting a picture of himself. He appealed to their finer natures, and begged them not to contemn this young man, who by the nature of the great art, the noble art of oratory, to which he had devoted much study and in which he had had some successful practice, lived always in a state of exalted sentiment and sensations. This young man was more likely than others of his years to be overborne and carried away by emotions which would not disturb the equanimity of another man. His nature was excitable, and he had the ready, in this case the fatally ready, command of words belonging to men who had trained themselves for public speaking.
Here the scene became so real to his mind that unknown to himself he broke out into speech:
"Gentlemen, I know he, may not be excused wholly. I will not ask you to say he is not to blame. I will not dare to say I think he behaved as a considerate and thoughtful man. But, gentlemen, though you cannot approve his conduct, you will not, oh, I pray you, do not take away from him the reputation he holds dearer than life, the reputation of being a sincere man and a gentleman. Amerce him in any penalty you please short of denying him the reputation of being earnest and high-minded and----" He paused. Tears for the spectacle of himself were in his eyes. His voice was shaken by the intensity of his pity for himself.
"John," said a soft voice behind him.
He turned quickly round. A tall, slender woman, with calm, clear face and snow-white hair, was standing in the room.
"Mother! I did not hear you come in."
"I hope I did not break in disastrously. It is late. I wanted to see you for a few minutes before I went to bed. I did not like to speak until you stopped."
He had gone to her and put his arm round her waist and kissed her smooth white hair above her smooth, pure forehead. "Mother," he said, in a low, soft, musical and infinitely tender voice, "I am sorry I kept you waiting for me. I was going to you in a moment, dear."