She clasped her hands in front of her breast and then let them fall loosely down in a sort of slack despair.
“I will tell you,” she said, “it is partly true. But the worst is not true!”
She was silent for a while, as if she were mastering herself to speak.
Then she burst out suddenly, “But what right have you or any other to demand such things of me? Is not my father Sir Alexander Gordon of Earlstoun, and who has name or fame like him in all Scotland? They that accuse him are but jealous of him—even you would be glad like the others to see him humiliated—brought low!”
“You do me wrong,” said I, yet more quietly; “you know it. Mary, I came because I have no friends on earth like you and Alexander Gordon. And the thing troubled me.”
“I know—I know,” she said, distractedly. “I think it hath well-nigh driven me mad, as it hath my poor father.”
She put her hand to her forehead and pressed it, as if it had been full of a great throbbing pain.
I wished I could have held it for her.
Then we moved side by side a little along the path, both being silent. My thoughts were with hers. I saw her pain; I felt her pride, her reluctance to speak.
Presently we came to a retired place where there was an alcove cut out of the cliff, re-entrant, filled with all coolness and the stir of leaves.