His face and glance were so darkly grave, that the covert sneer was almost hidden. But she felt it.
"I shall never marry again, Captain Everard."
"Never? You surprise me! Six years—nay, seven, a widow, and with innumerable attractions. Oh! you cannot mean it."
She made a sudden, passionate gesture—looked at him, then away.
"It is useless—worse than useless, folly, madness, to lift the veil from the irrevocable past. But don't you think, don't you, Lady Thetford, that you might have been equally happy if you had married me?"
She made no reply. She stood gazing seaward, cold and still.
"I was madly, insanely, absurdly in love with pretty Ada Vandeleur in those days, and I think I would have made her a good husband; better, Heaven forgive me, than I ever made my poor dead wife. But you were wise and ambitious, my pretty Ada, and bartered your black eyes and raven ringlets to a higher bidder. You jilted me in cold blood, poor love sick devil that I was, and reigned resplendent as my Lady Thetford. Ah! you knew how to choose the better part, my pretty Ada."
"Captain Everard, I am sorry for the past—I have atoned, if suffering can atone. Have a little pity, and speak of it no more!"
He stood and looked at her silently, gravely. Then he said in a voice deep and calm.
"We are both free. Will you marry me now, Ada?"