“I thought that your sister had arrived, and drove over, notwithstanding your uncousinly neglect of my note.”
“She is expected every moment,” answered Lord Clare, in a gentle but firm voice, for his self-possession had returned.
He sat down as if forced to do the honors of his house, and made some cold inquiries after the lady’s health, but without looking at her. The lady was greatly agitated, I could see that plainly enough. Her color came and went, and if she attempted to speak, her lips trembled and uttered no sound. Her eyes were fixed upon Lord Clare, and, in my whole life, I have never seen anything so full of the soul’s grandeur as those eyes while they slowly filled with tears. They had not uttered a word for some moments, then with a quiver not only of the lips, but of all her features, she uttered his name.
“Clarence.”
He looked up shivering like a leaf to the sound, and well he might, for never did a proud woman’s soul go more eloquently forth in a single word.
“What would you with me, Lady Jane Morton?” he said, with that measured firmness which often precedes the breaking down of a man’s stern will.
“I would say,” answered Lady Jane, and the tears rolled one by one down her burning cheeks as she spoke, “I would say that my pride, my stubbornness has wronged you.”
“It has indeed,” was the still cold reply.
“I would—I would speak of my regret.”
“What can regret avail? Lady, tell me if you have the power—what can atone for years of wasted youth—affections trampled to the dust, a life disturbed?”