Rotherby endeavored to master himself. "Madam," he said, "here is no place for you.""But is it true? Is it true what is being said?"He half-turned from her, with a despairing movement, and caught the sharp hiss of her indrawn breath. Then she swept past him to the side of the wounded man, who had been laid on a settle. "What is his hurt?" she inquired wildly, looking about her. But no one spoke. Tragedy - more far than the tragedy of that man's possible death - was in the air, and struck them all silent. "Will no one answer me?" she insisted. "Is it mortal? Is it?"His Grace of Wharton turned to her with an unusual gravity in his blue eyes. "We hope not, ma'am," he said. "But it is as God wills."Her limbs seemed to fail her, and she sank down on her knees beside the settle. "We must save him," she muttered fearfully. "We must save his life. Where is the doctor? He won't die! Oh, he must not die!"They stood grouped about, looking on in silence, Rotherby in the background. Behind him again, on the topmost of the three steps that led up into the inner hall, stood Mistress Winthrop, white of face, a wild horror in the eyes she riveted upon the wounded and unconscious man. She realized that he was like to die. There was an infinite pity in her soul -and, maybe, something more. Her impulse was to go to him; her every instinct urged her. But her reason held her back.
Then, as she looked, she saw with a feeling almost of terror that his eyes were suddenly wide open.
"Wha - what?" came in feeble accents from his lips.
There was a stir about him.
"Never move, Justin," said Gascoigne, who stood by his head.
"You are hurt. Lie still. The doctor has been summoned.""Ah!" It was a sigh. The wounded man closed his eyes a moment, then re-opened them. "I remember. I remember," he said feebly. "It is - it is grave?" he inquired. "It went right through me. I remember!" He surveyed himself.
"There's been a deal of blood lost. I am like to die, I take it.""Nay, sir, we hope not - we hope not!" It was the countess who spoke.
A wry smile twisted his lips. "Your ladyship is very good,"said he. "I had not thought you quite so much my well-wisher.
I - I have done you a wrong, madam." He paused for breath, and it was not plain whether he spoke in sincerity or in sarcasm. Then with a startling suddenness he broke into a soft laugh and to those risen, who could not think what had occasioned it, it sounded more dreadful than any plaint he could have uttered.
He had bethought him that there was no longer the need for him to come to a decision in the matter that had brought him to England, and his laugh was almost of relief. The riddle he could never have solved for himself in a manner that had not shattered his future peace of mind, was solved and well solved if this were death.
"Where - where is Rotherby?" he inquired presently.
There was a stir, and men drew back, leaving an open lane to the place where Rotherby stood. Mr. Caryll saw him, and smiled, and his smile held no tinge of mockery. "You are the best friend I ever had, Rotherby," he startled all by saying.
"Let him approach," he begged.
Rotherby came forward like one who walks in his sleep. "I am sorry," he said thickly, "cursed sorry.""There's scarce the need," said Mr. Caryll. "Lift me up, Tom," he begged Gascoigne. "There's scarce the need. You have cleared up something that was plaguing me, my lord. I am your debtor for - for that. It disposes of something I could never have disposed of had I lived." He turned to the Duke of Wharton. "It was an accident," he said significantly. "You all saw that it was an accident."A denial rang out. "It was no accident!" cried Lord Ostermore, and swore an oath. "We all saw what it was.""I'faith, then, your eyes deceived you. It was an accident, Isay - and who should know better than I?" He was smiling in that whimsical enigmatic way of his. Smiling still he sank back into Gascoigne's arms.
"You are talking too much," said the Major.
"What odds? I am not like to talk much longer."The door opened to admit a gentleman in black, wearing a grizzle wig and carrying a gold-headed cane. Men moved aside to allow him to approach Mr. Caryll. The latter, not noticing him, had met at last the gaze of Hortensia's eyes. He continued to smile, but his smile was now changed to wistfulness under that pitiful regard of hers.
"It is better so," he was saying. "Better so!"His glance was upon her, and she understood what none other there suspected - that those words were for her alone.
He closed his eyes and swooned again, as the doctor stooped to remove the temporary bandages from his wound.
Hortensia, a sob beating in her throat, turned and fled to her own room.
