The thud of hoofs grew faintly audibly, and then the inner door opened, and Lucy stood regarding them from the threshold. Her face was ashen, and her blue eyes gleamed a smoldering anger. But they misread the signs, and supposed her pallor to spring from fear for her fine lover.
Moreover, Vallancey was more concerned with thoughts of himself at the moment. A cunning inspiration had come to his aid. Let him agree now to Lady Mary's proposal and obtain the pardon. He need not carry out his part of the bargain afterwards.
It was a knavish thing to do―to give his word without intending to fulfil it; but then, her ladyship forced it upon him, he reflected, resentfully. She gave him a choice of evils, and he must accept the lesser.
And as he stood there pondering this, Lucy's fierce eyes never left his face.
The hoofs came nearer.
"It shall be as you wish," he said suddenly.
"You pledge me your word?" quoth Lady Mary.
"On my honour, madam," he replied without hesitation. "And now the pardon."
From her bosom Lady Mary drew the document she had obtained from Jeffreys. He held out a trembling hand for it.
"No," she said. "I prefer to give it to your little bride."
Lucy saw him wince at the term before she turned her eyes to Lady Mary and received the paper.
"I hope he will make you happy, child," said her ladyship, but there was doubt and some pity in her eyes. "This is my wedding-gift to you."
Lucy glanced at the paper and uttered a short, hard laugh that startled them.
"It is more than that, I think," said she. "It is the price at which I am to be wed; the price at which Stephen is to commit this mid-summer madness."
And she laughed again, whilst Lady Mary and Vallancey realised―the latter in utter dismay and fear―that she had overheard all that had passed between them.
"Lucy!" he cried, and checked there, not knowing what to add.
"But the price need not be paid, and so you will be saved, Stephen, from this monstrous wedding." As she spoke her fingers tightened over the paper and crumpled it into her palm. "And since there is to be no wedding, my lady the wedding-gift will not be needed."
And she flung the crumpled pardon into the blazing fire. Then her laughter shrilled higher with the hysteria of a heart surcharged.
With an oath Vallancey sprang to rescue that precious document. But a fluttering film of ash was all that remained―a symbol of the life which his wantonness had forfeited.
Hoofs rattled on the cobbles of the yard, and a heavy knock fell upon the door.