“I would do everything, now, father, even to this,” she said solemnly; “but it is impossible. Ask yourself.”
“Yes,” he said sadly, “it is impossible. But it is very hard—to see wealth and prosperity for you, my child, and to have to say no. But it is impossible. Speak gently to the old man. He has been a good friend to me.”
It seemed as if a mist was about her as Claire Denville entered the drawing-room, beyond which she could dimly see Lord Carboro’, looking almost grotesque in his quaint costume and careful get-up, fresh from the hands of his valet. He had been labouring hard to appear forty; but anxiety and the inexorable truth made him look at least seventy, as he rose, bowed, and placed a chair for the pale, graceful girl, and then took one near her.
The old man had prepared a set speech of a very florid nature, for, matter-of-fact worldling as he was, he had felt himself weak and helpless before the woman for whom he had quite a doting affection. But the sight of Claire’s grief-stricken face and the recollection of the suffering and mental care through which she must have passed, drove away all thought of his prepared words, and he felt more like a simple-hearted old man full of pity than he had ever been before.
He took her hand, which was given up unresistingly, and after a thoughtful look in the calm clear eyes that met his, he said slowly:
“My dear Miss Denville, I came here to-day, a vain weak man, full of the desire to appear young; but you have driven away all this shallow pretence, for I feel that you can see me clearly as what I am, an old fellow of seventy. Hush! don’t speak my dear child till I have done. I have always admired you as a beautiful girl: I now love you as the sweet, patient, suffering woman who has devoted herself to others.”
“Lord Carboro’—”
“No, no; let me try and finish, my dear. I will be very brief. It would be a mockery to speak flattering follies to such a one as you. Tell me first—Did your father give you to understand that I was coming?”
Claire bent her head.
“Then let me say simply, my child, that if you will be my wife and give me such love as your sweet dutiful heart will teach you to give to the doting old man who asks you, I will try all I can to make your young life happy, and place it in your power to make a pleasant home somewhere for poor old Denville, and your sister. We must bring her round. A trip abroad with your father, and—and—dear me—dear me, my child, I am rambling strangely, and hardly know what I say, only that I ask you to be my wife, and in return you shall be mistress of all I possess. I know the difference in our ages, and what the world will say; but I could afford to laugh at the world for the few years I should be likely to stay in it, and afterwards, my child, you would be free and rich, and with no duty left but to think kindly of the old man who was gone.”