Lady Betty’s face changed and she made a petulant gesture.
“No one can plead it, sir,” she said sharply, “he should plead it himself.”
“He should indeed, madam,” he said earnestly, “but how? Many things keep back a proscribed exile and a beggar. How can he plead his cause with the heiress of an earl, a beautiful and gifted and wealthy woman? What can he offer her? A life of exile, poverty, and obscurity? My Lady Clancarty, any proud man might well pause.”
But Betty’s chin was elevated, her eyes scornful.
“The pride is, of course, all on his side, sir,” she said coolly; “there is naught to be said for her. How, think you, does a woman feel who is deserted by her husband? Ay, more, who is unacknowledged by him—unclaimed!”
He started and looked at her earnestly.
“You are right, madam,” he said, “it is a grievous fault. I despise my Lord Clancarty for it, but I know that the day will come when he will sue for your forgiveness with all his heart. And he has never known you. He has been in battles, in sieges, in exile, in poverty, in illness, and he was but a lad when you were wedded. My lady, I can say no more, even for him; I would fain say it for myself—but for him.”
She flashed a startled, wondering look at him; her heart stood still—after all, was he? was he not? She did not know, but his eyes held her; she blushed, palpitated, shrank like a mere child. From the first, she had thought this man her husband, but now—? An awful doubt shook her soul. Could it be that he was not? She put out her hands with a strange gesture as though she would hold him off.
“’Tis fourteen years, sir,” she said, “and he has never written me one word—or to my family for me.”
“That is not true,” he replied gravely; “I know, from Lord Clancarty’s own lips, that he has written to your father within a short time, ay, madam, twice since the Peace of Ryswick.”