“Did you not insult me?” he asked bitterly; “do you not infer that I only ask you because I am broken in fortune and name—a bankrupt? But look you, my lady, I cringe at no rich man’s door for his daughter!” he paused, and his red-hot anger suddenly turned to ashes; his eyes dwelt on her with an affection that moved her deeply; “I love you,” he said, “I would have sued for your heart on my knees—but, madam, I will take scorn from no one—not even from you. In exile, in illness, in suffering, I have often thought of you—your face shone like a star upon me, your pictured face, Betty, and when I saw you, ah,” he paused, looking into the fire, “I love you still—but you are Lord Sunderland’s daughter. He has scorned the ruined Irishman, and you—you scorn me too, it seems. Farewell, my lady, you are my wife—but henceforth I seek you no more. If you love me, ’twill be for you to tell the exile, the proscribed traitor, so.”
Betty threw out her hands wildly.
“You wrong me, sir,” she protested faintly; “I did not mean to reproach you with poverty; I—I spoke in anger.”
But he stood like a statue.
“You do not love me,” he said, his deep voice quivering, “and mark you, Lady Clancarty, I will have nothing but your love—your love; I shall take no less! I love you, you are my very own, my wife,” his tone was masterful, “but I, who love you, I will not sue for your heart. I am too poor, madam, I will not ask you to share an exile’s lot, you are too great a lady,” he took his hat from the table and bowed profoundly.
He longed to catch her in his arms and kiss her, but he was too proud; he bowed and she courtesied low, and in the dim light of the candles he could not see the pallor of her face, he could not hear her heart beat. Pride met pride.
“I bid you farewell, my lady,” he said, and bowed himself out of the room.
And Betty fell upon her knees beside the table and laid her proud head down upon it and wept as though her heart would break.
“Oh,” she sobbed to herself, “I am a beast, a heartless little beast,” and then she wept again, this being the manner of women.
And she did not see the door of Lady Sunderland’s room open noiselessly, upon a tiny crack, stay so a moment, and then close again as silently. She neither saw nor heard it in the passion of her grief.