“She has accepted him,” thought Marie; and her heart began to beat with painful violence, for, Clotilde away, who could say that Marcus Glen would not come to her for sympathy, and at last ask her love. She felt that she could not accept Lord Henry’s proposal, and she turned her face towards him in an appealing way.
“You look troubled, my child,” he said tenderly. “I want you to turn to me as you would to one who has your happiness thoroughly at heart. I want to win your love.”
“My—my aunts know that you ask me this, Lord Henry?” she faltered.
“Yes, they know it; and they wish it, for we have quietly discussed the matter, and,” he added, with a sad smile, “I have not omitted to point out to them how unsuited to you I am as a match. I throw myself then upon your mercy, Marie, but you must not let fear influence you; I must have your heart, my child, given over to my safe-keeping.”
She looked at him wildly.
“Is this hand to be mine?” he whispered. “Will you make the rest of my days blessed with your young love? Tell me, is it to be?”
“Oh, no, no, no, Lord Henry,” she said, in a low, excited tone; “I could not, I dare not say yes. Pray, pray do not ask me.”
“Shall I give you time?” he whispered; “shall I wait a week—a month, for your answer, and then come again and plead?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” she said; “I could—I never could say yes. I like you, Lord Henry, I respect and esteem you—indeed, indeed I do; but I could not become your wife.”
“You could not become my wife,” he said softly. “No, no, I suppose not. It was another foolish dream, and I should have been wiser. But you will not ridicule me when I am gone? I ask you to try and think of the old man’s love with respect, even if it is mingled with pity, for, believe me, my child, it is very true and honest.”