She trembled under it.
He tried to take her hand.
"Speak to me!" he said, peremptorily. "Oh, my darling--speak to me! I
only ask you to trust to me--to be guided by me--"
She withdrew her hand. He could see her heart fluttering under the soft
curves of the breast.
"I can't--I can't!"
The words were said with anguish. She covered her face with her hands.
"Because I won't do what you wish? What is it you wish?"
They had come to the deciding moment.
She looked up, recovering self-control, her heart rushing to her lips.
"Give it up!" she said, stretching out her hands to him, her head thrown
back, all her delicate beauty one prayer. "Don't touch this money! It is
stained--it is corrupt. You lose your honour in taking it--and honour--is
life. What does money matter? The great things that make one happy have
nothing to do with money. They can be had for so little! And if one loses
them--honour and self-respect--and a clear conscience--how can _money_
make up! If I were to marry you--and we had to live on Mr. Melrose's
money--everything in life would be poisoned for me. I should always see
the faces--of those dead people--whom I loved. I should hear their
voices--accusing. We should be in slavery--slavery to a bad man--and our
souls would die--"
Her voice dropped--drowned in the passion of its own entreaty.
Faversham pressed her hands, released them, and slowly straightened
himself to his full height, as he stood beside her on the hearthrug.
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