That at any rate is
my belief. It always has been my belief. Trust me--that is all I ask of
my friends. Give me time. If Mr. Melrose were to die soon--immediately--I
should be able all the quicker to put everything to rights. But if his
death is delayed a year or two--my life indeed will be a dog's life"--he
spoke with sudden emotion--"but the people on the estate will not be the
worse, but the better, for my being there; and in the end the power will
come to me--and I shall use it. So long as Melrose lives his wife and
daughter can get nothing out of him, whether I am there or not. His
obstinacy is immovable, as Lady Tatham has found, and when he dies, their
interests will be safe with me."
Lydia had grown very pale. The man before her seemed to her Faversham,
yet not Faversham. Some other personality, compounded of all those ugly,
sophistic things that lurk in every human character, seemed to be
wrestling with, obscuring the real man.
"And the years till this stage comes to an end?" she asked
him. "When every day you have to do what you feel to be
wrong?--to obey--to be at the beck and call of such a man as Mr.
Melrose?--hateful--cruel--tyrannical!--when you must silence all
that is generous and noble--"
Her voice failed her.
Faversham's lips tightened. They remained looking at each other. Then
Faversham rose suddenly. He stooped over her. She heard his voice, hoarse
and broken in her ears:
"Lydia--I love you!--I _love you_--with all my heart!--and all my
strength! Don't, for God's sake, let us make believe with each other!
And--I believe," he added, after a moment, in a lower tone, "I
believe--that you love me!"
His attitude, his manner were masterful--violent.
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