To her, gradually, unconsciously, the whole matter—­so sordid, commonplace, brutal in Lord Maxwell’s eyes!—­had become a tragic poem, a thing of fear and pity, to which her whole being vibrated.  And as she conceived it, so she reproduced it.  Wharton’s points were there indeed, but so were Hurd’s poverty, Hurd’s deformity, Hurd as the boyish victim of a tyrant’s insults, the miserable wife, the branded children—­emphasised, all of them, by the occasional quiver, quickly steadied again, of the girl’s voice.

Lord Maxwell sat by his writing-table, his head resting on his hand, one knee crossed over the other.  Aldous still hung over her chair.  Neither interrupted her.  Once the eyes of the two men met over her head—­a distressed, significant look.  Aldous heard all she said, but what absorbed him mainly was the wild desire to kiss the dark hair, so close below him, alternating with the miserable certainty that for him at that moment to touch, to soothe her, was to be repulsed.

When her voice broke—­when she had said all she could think of—­she remained looking imploringly at Lord Maxwell.

He was silent a little; then he stooped forward and took her hand.

“You have spoken,” he said with great feeling, “most nobly—­most well—­like a good woman, with a true compassionate heart.  But all these things you have said are not new to me, my dear child.  Aldous warned me of this petition—­he has pressed upon me, still more I am sure upon himself, all that he conceived to be your view of the case—­the view of those who are now moving in the matter.  But with the best will in the world I cannot, and I believe that he cannot—­though he must speak for himself—­I cannot take that view.  In my belief Hurd’s act was murder, and deserves the penalty of murder.  I have paid some attention to these things.  I was a practising barrister in my youth, and later I was for two years Home Secretary.  I will explain to you my grounds very shortly.”

And, bending forward, he gave the reasons for his judgment of the case as carefully and as lucidly as though he were stating them to a fellow-expert, and not to an agitated girl of twenty-one.  Both in words and manner there was an implied tribute, not only to Marcella, but perhaps to that altered position of the woman in our moving world which affects so many things and persons in unexpected ways.

Marcella listened, restlessly.  She had drawn her hand away, and was twisting her handkerchief between her fingers.  The flush that had sprung up while she was talking had died away.  She grew whiter and whiter.  When Lord Maxwell ceased, she said quickly, and as he thought unreasonably—­

“So you will not sign?”

“No,” he replied firmly, “I cannot sign.  Holding the conviction about the matter I do, I should be giving my name to statements I do not believe; and in order to give myself the pleasure of pleasing you, and of indulging the pity that every man must feel for every murderer’s wife and children, I should be not only committing a public wrong, but I should be doing what I could to lessen the safety and security of one whole class of my servants—­men who give me honourable service—­and two of whom have been so cruelly, so wantonly hurried before their Maker!”