“Still,” said Lady Jane, with more firmness, “I must not be condemned as heartless and unprincipled where my motives were all good, and my judgment only in fault. That which was self-sacrifice must not rest in your heart as perfidy. I was proud, unreasonable, but as I live all this was from a solemn conviction of right. I believed that the love you expressed for me”——
“Expressed!” said Lord Clare, in a tone of bitter reproach.
“Felt for me then—for I am satisfied that you did love me once.”
Here Lady Jane’s assumed strength gave way. When we speak of love as a thing that has been, what woman’s heart is there which does not swell with regret?
“I did love you,” said Lord Clare, turning his eyes away from the sight of her tears.
“And do so no longer?” was the earnest, almost supplicating reply. How full of soul that woman was—what strange fascination lay about her!
“It is too late—I cannot.” He met the expression of her eyes, those pleading, wonderful eyes, and added, “I dare not!”
She understood him. She felt that her empire in that heart was there still, though it might be in ruins. Still she struggled hard to suppress the exhibition of this wild delight, but it broke through her tears like lightning among rain-drops. It dimpled her mouth—oh, she was beautiful then! She strove to conceal this heart-tumult, and kept her eyes upon the floor, but the lids glowed like rose-leaves, and flashes as if from great diamonds came through her dark lashes. Yes—yes, she was beautiful then! One moment of expression like that is worth a life-time of the symmetrical prettiness which ordinary men admire in common-place women. With the conviction of his continued affection Lady Jane recovered much of her composure. Her manner, unconsciously perhaps to herself, became gentle, pleading, almost tender. If she wept, smiles brightened through her tears. Now and then her voice was almost playful, and once as she lifted her eyes to his, there was a faint reflection of her mood upon Lord Clare’s face. Alas! my poor mother!
“We may never mention this subject again,” she said, with sweet meekness, “and now let me say one word in my own exculpation. We were inmates of the same family—you full of youth in its first bright vigor—I your elder by some years. It was a safe companionship—our families never dreamed of danger. I full of worldly wisdom, strong in the untaxed strength of a heart that had never truly loved, but fancied itself tried to the utmost, would have smiled in scorn had any one predicted that which followed. You loved me notwithstanding my years, my want of beauty, my poverty, you loved me—and I loved you—God only knows how completely, how fatally!”
“Go on,” said Lord Clare, who listened breathlessly.