“And give them my love and good wishes,” murmured Catherine, shyly, but not wishing to dismiss them so coldly, for her desolate heart had been comforted by the looks of sincere respect and affection with which they had seemed to receive and accept her as their new mistress.
Major Clifton merely threw up his chin with an assenting nod, muttering—
“The popularity-seeking instinct of the diplomatist.” He then conducted her into the drawing-room, led her up its whole length, and seated her upon a sofa with ironical ceremony, saying—
“Mrs. Clifton, you are welcome to White Cliffs.”
Startled by his tone, she looked up, lifting those long, drooping lashes, until her soft, dark eyes at last met his cold, rebuking gaze.
Then his whole aspect changed, and from having been sarcastic and scornful, became grave and severe. Standing before her, he folded his arms, drew himself up, and keeping his eyes fixed steadily upon her face, said—
“And now, lady, listen to me. The aim and object of your life is accomplished—consummated. You have at length attained the position to which you have long aspired, for which you have long and deeply and successfully played. You are numbered among the ladies of the county aristocracy. You bear the haughtiest name of all. You are Mrs. Clifton, of Clifton.”
All this time her eyes, wide open, dilated, fascinated by surprise and grief, met his stern gaze in sorrowful wonder, He continued—
“Yes, madam, you wear my name such as it is. You rule my house such as it is! But as for its poor master, lady, he is your most humble servant, but no lover!”
Her eyes fell beneath his sarcastic look, and she was tempted to wish herself dead.