Claire listened to the old man’s words with a strange swelling sensation in her breast. The tears gathered slowly in her eyes as she gazed wistfully at him, wondering at the tender respect he paid her, and one by one they brimmed over and trickled down.
She could not speak, but at last in the gratitude of her heart, as she thought of the sacrifice he made in offering her rank and riches, after the miserable scandals of which she had been the victim, she raised his withered hand slowly to her lips.
“No, no,” he cried, “not that. You consent then?”
“No, my lord,” said Claire firmly. “It is impossible.”
“Then—then,” he cried testily. “You do love someone else.”
Claire bowed her head, and her eyes looked resentment for a moment. Then in a low sweet voice she said:
“Even if I could say to you, Lord Carboro’ my heart is free, and I will try to be your loving, dutiful wife, there are reasons which make it impossible.”
“These troubles—that I will not name. I know, I know,” he said hastily; “but they are miserable family troubles, not yours.”
“Troubles that are mine, Lord Carboro’, and which I must share. Forgive me if I give you pain, but I could never be your wife.”
The old man dropped the hand he held, and his face was full of resentment as he replied: