A flush rose to Varley’s face and he turned his head aside to hide his emotion; then he faced Trafford again.
“What do you mean to do, my lord?” he asked, sternly.
Trafford was silent, and Varley went on, speaking slowly, and as if he had already prepared his words:
“I have a right to ask. I am her guardian. You have lost the right which belonged to her husband; you have brought her nothing but misery. Do you mean to continue to make her unhappy? The sight of you must be almost as intolerable to her as it is to me. She fled from you to me, to her old home. Do you mean to leave her quietly, or not?”
“She shall decide,” said Trafford, gravely, almost solemnly. “I acknowledge your right to ask me such a question. Not only because you have been a father to her, but because I have brought so much trouble upon you.”
“Yes,” said Varley in a broken voice, “not satisfied with breaking her heart, you were the cause of my very nearly killing the being I love better than my life.”
Trafford bowed his head.
“I know it,” he said. “Do you think I shall ever forget it? That is why I have come to you now to tell you that I place myself in her hands. I shall claim no right to her; I shall advance no plea; I shall just leave my fate to her.”
“She can only decide one way,” said Varley. “She can have no love for the man who meanly deceived and betrayed her.”