“Then, Mrs. Beswick, it can’t but be that you have many offers of marriage. I hear of hearts by the dozen at your feet. I counsel you to take some good man for a husband and leave the stage for those who have a very different inclination from yours.”
It stung her unbearably—somehow ’twas the last thing she expected. He was now pacing up and down, as if restless and disturbed, and as he came near her again in his turn, she commanded her voice sufficiently to answer:
“Sir, shall I tell you how many offers of marriage I have had? Not one. The other offers are beyond reckoning, but of these I need not speak. What then shall I do?”
He stood still, looking upon her in a kind of amaze.
“What—so much beauty and sweetness of mind and body, and not one to claim it for his own? My God, what are we men come to! Is’t credible!”
“It is true. I might marry a man below me possibly,—but I was born a gentlewoman. The men above me, or my equals, will not marry me.”
He took a few more turns, looking down. Then turned again.
“Child, I can’t express the pity and interest I feel in you. ’Tis beyond words. You know me a friend. May I act as one?”
“If in any way possible to me I thank your Grace with a full heart.”
“Thus then it is. I am a rich man—even burdened by possessions. If you would prove to me that friendship is possible between man and woman, permit me to place a yearly sum at your disposal, and to persuade you to leave this business that will be your misery and ruin. None but you and me shall know the matter. Let me do it as for my sister.”