When Elizabeth reached the park she found Clavering awaiting her. He could not but note the grace of her walk and the beauty of her figure as she approached him. She was one of those women who become more interesting, if less handsome, under the stress of feeling. Her dark eyes were appealing, and she sank rather than sat upon the park bench to which Clavering escorted her.
“You seem to have taken my troubles to heart,” he said with the air and manner of an accepted lover.
Elizabeth made no reply. She had not been able to discover, in the chaos of her emotions, how far Clavering’s troubles really touched her.
“However,” said Clavering, “the worst will be over to-morrow. I wish you could be in the Senate gallery, to see how I bear it. The vote on expulsion takes place to-morrow, directly after the morning hour, and I know precisely the majority against me—it will be quite enough to do the work.” Then he added with a cool smile: “I believe if you could be present, you would realize what a pack of rascals have sacrificed me to political expediency! Unluckily I can’t offer you a seat in the Senators’ Gallery, as I might have done a short while ago. The fools think I will stay away, but I shall be in my seat, and from it I shall make my defence and my promise to return to the Senate by the mandate of my state. It will sound well, but to tell you the truth I have no more wish to return than the legislature has the intention of returning me. I have something pleasanter in view—it is life with you.”
Elizabeth, beguiled in spite of herself, as women are by courage, glanced at Clavering. Yes, he was not afraid of any man or of anything, while she was consumed with terror over a paltry five hundred pounds and the loss of a necklace worth only a trifle in Clavering’s eyes. She longed that he would break through her prohibition and speak about the necklace. But Clavering did not, and he never intended to do so. He knew very well that Elizabeth’s necessities were his best advocates, and he did not purpose silencing any of them.
Elizabeth’s reply, after a pause, to Clavering’s remark was: “I shouldn’t like to see you to-morrow. It will be too tragic.”
“It’s a pity that I’m not divorced instead of being so recent a widower,” Clavering replied. “Then you could marry me at the moment of misfortune, as Richard Baskerville proposes to marry my daughter Anne. It would be a great help to me now, if it were possible. As it is, we shall have to postpone our marriage until the autumn.”
“No,” replied Elizabeth, decisively, “it cannot be until next year.”
Clavering’s eyes flashed. It was the first time that she had ever fully admitted that she meant to marry him, although he had from the beginning assumed it. He had very little doubt that he could induce her to shorten the time of waiting.