Part 9 (2/2)
”They must take their chance,” he says grimly; ”I would not stir a finger to save the life of any one of them.”
Honor knows that there is no more to be said; but as she sinks back among her pillows, a pa.s.sionate determination to save this man whom she loves rises in her heart. But does she love him? He has been very dear to her all her life; but now a great gulf has opened between them--they can never be to each other as they have been. The past is as dead as the love that made it so bright and so beautiful; but, for the sake of that dead past, she feels that she must save him from the consequence of this mad folly into which he has been led or driven.
The birds are singing, now, the sky has grown suddenly rosy, and the new day is as calm and bright as the night was wild and stormy. But to Honor Blake no peace comes, no brightness. It seems to her she shall never know peace again.
As she is turning into the morning-room, a heavy step on the tiled floor makes her look round; and Launce stands before her. With a glad cry the girl flies to him.
”Oh, Launce,” she sobs, ”we thought you were shot last night; and we----”
But he stops her almost impatiently.
”And what happened here last night? What is the meaning of that--and that?”--pointing at bullet-holes in the walls and the door.
”Why, Launce, have you not heard?”
”I have heard nothing,” he says shortly, ”about Donaghmore.”
She looks at him wonderingly--at his soiled dress, his haggard face and fierce eyes, so unlike the face and eyes of her favorite brother.
”Where have you been all night, Launce? And what has happened to make you look so dreadfully ill and--and strange?”
He has followed her into the morning-room and closed the door behind them.
”I have been to Drum with the body of that fellow who was shot on the moss.”
”Oh, Launce, who was he?”
He sinks down upon a chair before he answers her--a man tired in body and mind. Utterly worn out he looks now in the clear strong light.
”He was Mrs. Dundas's friend and guest--her lover, for all I can tell,”
he says scornfully. ”I hope she is proud of him and of the end he has come to. He was shot down like a dog. I heard the cry he gave, I was so close behind him.”
The tears are rolling down Honor's cheeks; she is trembling so that she can scarcely stand.
”Oh, Launce,” she cries piteously, ”and it might have been you!”
”It ought to have been,” her brother says, with a low harsh laugh that echoes dismally through the quiet sunny room. ”That is where the mistake comes in!” Honor looks at him in dismay. He is so unlike himself that he frightens her. ”I was to have gone first--according to their program--so that the men might attack me and give the police the chance of coming down upon them unawares. She saw me go out of her house to what she thought would be certain death, and she never lifted a finger to keep me back. That was womanly, wasn't it?”
The girl cannot answer him. She has never liked this woman--she has shrunk from and distrusted her always; but she never dreamed she could be capable of treachery so base and cruel as this.
”And whom do you think they were after?” Launce says, after a pause.
”Power Magill! To think of a man like that being mixed up with the rabble rout that was out last night! But they missed him; and, though I hate the fellow, I was glad that they did.”
The girl has crossed the room and is standing close beside him now, her hand on the arm of his chair, her white face bent toward him.
”No, Launce, they did not miss him--he was taken here!” He listens; but it is evident that he does not understand. ”Yes, in this house,” the girl goes on coldly, ”where he has been a welcome guest and friend all his life! He came in with the rest to threaten and rob--and murder, too, if need be, I have no doubt! We have been fortunate in our friends and neighbors, Launce!”
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