Bettina’s face was paler still. The tears sprang to her eyes—tears of mortification and keen regret. The thought of her mother pierced through her, and the consciousness that she had no longer the refuge of that gentle heart to cast herself upon almost overcame her. Pride lent her aid, however, and she rallied quickly.
“You have fully demonstrated to me,” she said, “that I have injured your cousin in promising to marry him. I did it in ignorance, however. With the facts before me which you have just given, I should perhaps have acted differently. Regret now, however, is useless.”
“On the contrary, this is one of the rare cases in which regret is not useless. The reparation of your mistake is in your own hands.”
The possibility of doing what he urged flashed through Bettina’s mind. Horace would certainly be infinitely better off without her, in every rational and material sense; and at this stage of Bettina’s development the rational and material were predominant. But what of her, apart from Horace? This thought found vent in words.
“You have been looking at this subject from your own point of view,” she said, “and perhaps naturally. I must, however, think of an aspect of the case in which you have no interest. I am absolutely alone in the world, and if, for your cousin’s sake, I made this sacrifice—”
In spite of herself her voice faltered.
Lord Hurdly drew his chair a little nearer to her. His eyes were fixed upon her with a yet more intent gaze as he said, with directness and decision:
“You are quite mistaken. It is this aspect of the case which concerns me chiefly. If, as is undoubtedly true, the prevention of this most mistaken marriage would be an advantage to Horace, to you it may be a far greater gain, and to me it may be the fulfilment of all that I have ever desired in life.”
“What do you mean?” she said, bewildered.