Mrs. Staines made one or two movements—to stop Lord Tadcaster—with her hand, that expressive feature with which, at such times, a sensitive woman can do all but speak.
When at last he paused for her reply, she said, “Me marry again! Oh! for shame!”
“Mrs. Staines—Rosa—you will marry again, some day.”
“Never. Me take another husband, after such a man as I have lost! I should be a monster. Oh, Lord Tadcaster, you have been so kind to me; so sympathizing. You made me believe you loved my Christopher, too; and now you have spoiled all. It is too cruel.”
“Oh! Mrs. Staines, do you think me capable of feigning—don't you see my love for you has taken you by surprise? But how could I visit you—look on you—hear you—mingle my regrets with yours; yours were the deepest, of course; but mine were honest.”
“I believe it.” And she gave him her hand. He held it, and kissed it, and cried over it, as the young will, and implored her, on his knees, not to condemn herself to life-long widowhood, and him to despair.
Then she cried, too; but she was firm; and by degrees she made him see that her heart was inaccessible.
Then at last he submitted with tearful eyes, but a valiant heart.
She offered friendship timidly.
But he was too much of a man to fall into that trap. “No,” he said: “I could not, I could not. Love or nothing.”