A great sigh shook him--a sigh of decision. What he had been listening to
had been the quixotism of a tender heart, ignorant of life and affairs,
and all the wider possibilities open to man's will. He could not yield.
In time she must be the one to yield. And she would yield. Let him wait,
and be patient. There were many ways in which to propitiate, to work upon
her.
He looked down upon her gravely, his dark pointed face quivering a
little. Instinctively she drew back. Her expression changed.
"I can't do that." His voice was low but firm. "I feel the call to me.
And after all, Melrose has claims on me. To me, personally, his
generosity--has been incredible. He is old--and ill. I must stay by him."
Her mind cried out, "Yes--but on your own terms, not his!"
But she did not say it. Her pride came to her aid. She sprang up, a
glittering animation flashing back into her face, transforming its
softness, its tenderness.
"I understand--I quite understand. Thank you for being so plain--and
bearing with my--strange ideas. Now--I don't think we can be of any
further use to each other--though--" she clasped her hands
involuntarily--"I shall always hope and pray--"
She did not finish. He broke into a cry.
"Lydia! you send me away?"
"I don't accept your conditions--nor you mine. There is no more to be
said."
He looked at her sombrely, remorse struggling with his will. But also
anger--the anger of a naturally arrogant temperament--that he should find
her so resistant.
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