This blow went home; her ladyship turned crimson and bit her lips in silence.
“Nay, you do not know me,” he said, and his rich Irish voice deepened and softened with restrained emotion; “I would scorn to base any claim upon a tie not freely made—for you were a child—but I thought,” he paused, searching her face keenly, “I thought your husband might win your heart, my lady.”
She gave him a quick look, and then her eyes avoided his and she struggled hard for self-mastery. If he had known it then—one word more, one step farther—but he waited for her reply, and the wayward mood came back upon her.
“Fourteen years, my lord,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “and then, you plead your title to my—my affections!”
“Fourteen years,” he repeated slowly, “fourteen years less of paradise, Betty, is not that enough punishment for me?”
She averted her face and did not reply. He came a step nearer and she felt his hand closing over hers.
“Would you have come but for the Peace of Ryswick?” she asked, looking up into his eyes.
He smiled. “If we had won before,” he replied, “if we had only won—I would have come, a victor, to claim you. Betty, I did not know you, I had never pictured you as you are! I went to Althorpe like a thief in disguise, to see you, and from that moment in the greenwood, I loved you—I love you madly now!” he whispered, and she felt his breath warm on her cheek.
She did not dare to look at him now.
“I love you,” he said softly, “and—does my wife care nothing for me?”