Floy watched the punishment of Otho Maury with that boundless
admiration a woman always feels for manly strength and power.
She thought that St. George Beresford was the grandest, bravest, most
beautiful hero in the world, and her heart swelled with gratitude to
him for his manly defense of a helpless girl.
But she was frightened, too, when she saw her persecutor’s body flying
through the air, and she cried out, shudderingly:
“Oh, you have killed the wretch!”
But her preserver answered, coolly:
“No, indeed; more’s the pity! It’s only a few feet from the window to
the ground. Besides, didn’t you hear the thud of his body on the soft
wet grass? No bones will be broken, I assure you, though it ought to be
his neck. But, anyway, this will teach him a much-needed lesson!”
And he laughed softly to himself at the ease with which he had sent
Maury spinning through the window.
“Oh, I thank you so much--so much! I was so frightened!” faltered Floy,
clasping her white hands in the intensity of her joy, and lifting to
him her beautiful, clear blue eyes.
He smiled at her kindly, thinking to himself that it was the loveliest
face in the round world, and answered:
“It was rather fortunate I came when I did, for I suspected the fellow
had been drinking. That was why I followed him here when I found out he
was coming.”
“Oh, how good you were--how good, I can never thank you enough!” cried
Floy, putting out her hand to him in the exuberance of her gratitude.
Beresford clasped the little hand ardently, and longed to kiss it, but
would not frighten her by such a demonstration.
“Poor little soul, she has been alarmed enough already,” he thought,
generously; the pale cheeks and tear-wet lashes appealing to all the
manliness within him.
“And now you will take me home, will you not?” added Floy, appealingly.
“Yes; for I came here with that purpose, and my carriage is waiting
at the gate. Come,” he said, putting out the lamp and taking up the
flaring lantern left by Otho Maury, as he moved toward the door.
Floy paused to shut down the window, and followed him, oh, so gladly,
out of that horror-haunted house in the sweet moist air of the spring
night, breathing a sigh of relief when she found herself going down the
graveled walk, through the grove, by Beresford’s side.
“Oughtn’t we to see--if _he_ is hurt or killed?” she murmured, timidly.
Beresford answered, carelessly:
“Oh, he is all right. I hear him coming behind us now.”
And, sure enough, a voice called, humbly:
“Beresford--Miss Fane! Will you please wait a moment?”
They paused, and saw Otho Maury limping dejectedly toward them, looking
very meek in the bright moonlight that streamed through interstices of
the trees.
Floy’s tender little heart gave a leap of joy that he was not killed,
although she knew that he well deserved it.
He dropped with difficulty on one knee before Floy, muttering:
“I crave your pardon, Miss Fane, for my rudeness just now. I swear I
meant no harm except to kiss you. But I had been drinking--and I will
own it--I was mad with love for you. But I never should have frightened
you so only that I had drunk too much wine and I lost my head. I’m
glad Beresford threw me out of the window, for my madness deserved
it, though I’m a mass of bruises, and my ankle is either sprained or
broken. But that does not matter so that you forgive me. Will you?”
contritely.
Floy had the tenderest heart in the world, and Otho’s repentance was so
frank and engaging that she hesitated.
“Do you think I ought to forgive him?” she whispered to Beresford, with
a ravishing little air of reliance on his judgment!
He shrugged his shoulders, and replied, carelessly:
“Perhaps so--since he asks it.”
“Very well,” said Floy; and looking coldly at the offender, she said,
proudly: “I forgive you, as you say you are sorry; but don’t you ever
dare speak to me again!”
She was turning away, with her head held high in scorn, but he caught
at her sleeve.
“One moment, please. I have another favor to ask of you
and--Beresford,” the last word with a gulp, as if swallowing his pride
with difficulty.
They both stopped to listen, and he muttered:
“Will you both keep the story of this affair a secret? It will ruin
me if it becomes known. My father--he has threatened to disinherit me
if I do not quit drinking. I had promised him, but I--I broke my word
to-night. Then, too, the ridicule of my set--_you_ know how it could
sting. Beresford, for God’s sake, be merciful, as you are strong and
brave!”
He drooped before them--craven, abject, appealing, a cur to despise--in
the moonlight.
Beresford knew that what he advanced was true; the story of to-night’s
offense and its punishment would make Maury the laughing stock of all
who heard it--would follow him with its blight through life.
He was disposed to pity the abject suppliant, the depths of whose
meanness his own noble nature could not fathom.
So he answered, after a moment’s reflection:
“It shall be as the young lady says, of course, though I must say you
do not merit her leniency.”
“I know too well that I do not, but she is an angel, and will grant my
prayer,” muttered the wretched delinquent.
“No, I’m not an angel, and I hate and despise you, Otho Maury!” flashed
the lovely girl, stamping her tiny foot on the wet gravel. “But I’ll
keep your disgraceful secret as long as you never open your lips to me
again. Do you hear?” angrily.
“I hear, and I’ll stick to the condition, though it’s a hard one. I
had as soon be dead as banished from your presence,” sighing. Then he
looked at Beresford. “And you?” he said, anxiously.
“I’ll never betray you unless you seek to harm Miss Fane again in any
way, even by speaking her name lightly, as you may in malice be tempted
to do. You understand?” sternly.
“Yes, and I’ll not forget that you have constituted yourself her
protector.”
There was a furtive sneer under the pretended humility of the answer,
but Beresford did not heed it, he merely said, warningly: “See that you
keep your promise,” and turned away, going down the path with Floy at
his side and out at the gate with her to the waiting carriage.
The craven wretch they had left behind followed more slowly, for he was
indeed sore and bruised from his fall, and his ankle was twisted from
his efforts to alight on his feet.
But as he had come afoot on his secret nefarious mission of evil, he
was compelled to return the same way, cursing and groaning at every
step with blended pain and chagrin, for his heart was filled with rage
against Beresford.
“Curse him! He foiled my clever plan entirely!” he raved to himself.