"All this was I told," she pursued as if he had not spoken, "and all
did I refuse to believe because my heart was given to you. Yet...yet
of what have you made proof to-day?"
"Of forbearance," said he shortly.
"Forbearance?" she echoed, and her lips writhed in a smile of weary
irony. "Surely you mock me!"
He set himself to explain.
"I have told you what Sir John had done. I have told you that the
greater part of it--and matter all that touched my honour--I know Sir
John to have done long since. Yet I suffered it in silence and
contempt. Was that to show myself easily stirred to ruthlessness?
What was it but forbearance? When, however, he carries his petty
huckster's rancour so far as to seek to choke for me my source of
happiness in life and sends your brother to affront me, I am still so
forbearing that I recognize your brother to be no more than a tool and
go straight to the hand that wielded him. Because I know of your
affection for Sir John I gave him such latitude as no man of honour in
England would have given him."
Then seeing that she still avoided his regard, still sat in that frozen
attitude of horror at learning that the man she loved had imbrued his
hands with the blood of another whom she also loved, his pleading
quickened to a warmer note. He flung himself upon his knees beside her
chair, and took in his great sinewy hands the slender fingers which she
listlessly surrendered.
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