Then he fell to telling stories of the man, of the creditors he had left in the lurch, having swindled them of their very hearts’ blood, and that every day there was heard of some poor tradesman he had ruined, till ’twas a shame to hear it told; and there were worse things—­worse things yet!

“By the Lord!” he said, “the ruin one man’s life can bring about, the heartbreak, and the shame!  ’Tis enough to make even a sinner as old as I, repent, to come upon them face to face.  Eh, my lady?” looking at her suddenly, “thou must get back the roses thou hast lost these three days nursing Mistress Anne, or his Grace will be at odds with us every one.”

For Mistress Anne had been ailing, and her sister being anxious and watching over her had lost some of her glorious bloom, which was indeed a new thing to see.  At this moment the roses had dropped from her cheeks and she smiled strangely.

“They will return,” she said, “when his Grace does.”

She asked questions of the stories Sir Christopher had told and showed anxiousness concerning the poor people who had been so hardly treated.

“I have often thought,” she said, “that so rich a woman as I should set herself some task of good deeds to do.  ’Twould be a good work to take in hand the undoing of the wrongs a man who is lost has left behind him.  Why should not I, Clo Wildairs, take in hand the undoing of this man’s?” And she rose up suddenly and stood before him, straight and tall, the colour coming out on her cheeks as if life flooded back there.

“Thou!” he cried, gazing at her in loving wonder.  “Why shouldst thou, Clo?” None among them had ever understood her and her moods, and he surely did not understand this one—­for it seemed as if a fire leaped up within her, and she spoke almost wildly.

“Because I would atone for all my past,” she said, “and cleanse myself with unceasing mercies, and what I cannot undo, do penance for—­that I may be worthy—­worthy.”

She broke off and drew her hand across her eyes, and ended with a strange little sound, half laugh.

“Perhaps all men and women have been evil,” she said, “and some are—­some seem fated!  And when my lord Duke comes back, I shall be happy—­happy—­in spite of all; and I scarce dare to think my joy may not be taken from me.  Is joy always torn away after it has been given to a human thing—­given for just so long, as will make loss, madness?”

“Eh, my lady!” he said, blundering, “thou art fearful, just as another woman might be.  ’Tis not like Clo Wildairs.  Such thoughts will not make thee a happy woman.”

She ended with a laugh stranger than her first one, and her great black eyes were fixed on him as he had remembered seeing her fix them when she was a child and full of some wild fancy or weird sadness.

“’Tis not Clo Wildairs who thinks them,” says she; “’tis another woman.  ’Twas Clo who knew John Oxon who is gone—­and was as big a sinner as he, though she did harm to none but herself.  And ’tis for those two—­for both—­I would have mercy.  But I am a strong thing, and was born so, and my happiness will not die, despite—­despite whatsoever comes.  And I am happy, and know I shall be more; and ’tis for that I am afraid—­afraid.”