It appeared that Sir Henry could not understand—did not take in the meaning of the words.
"What did you say?" he asked.
"I have loved her for years," answered Lionel, the, scarlet spot of emotion rising to his cheeks. "We—we have known each other's sentiments a long while. But I did not intend to speak more openly to Lucy until I had seen you. To-day, however, in the sudden excitement of hearing of her contemplated departure, I betrayed myself. Will you give her to me, Sir Henry?"
Sir Henry Tempest looked grave. "It cannot have been so very long an attachment," he observed. "The time since your wife's death can only be counted by months."
"True. But the time since I loved Lucy can be counted by years. I loved her before I married," he added in a low tone.
"Why, then, have married another?" demanded Sir Henry, after a pause.
"You may well ask it, Sir Henry," he replied, the upright line in his brow showing out just then all too deep and plain. "I engaged myself to my first wife in an unguarded moment; as soon as the word was spoken I became aware that she was less dear to me than Lucy. I might have retracted; but the retractation would have left a stain on my honour that could never be effaced. I am, not the first man who has paid by years of penitence for a word spoken in the heat of passion."
True enough! Sir Henry simply nodded his head in answer.
"Yes, I loved Lucy; I married another, loving her; I never ceased loving her all throughout my married life. And I had to force down my feelings; to suppress and hide them in the best manner that I could."
"And Lucy?" involuntarily uttered Sir Henry.