Snowdon rejoined
him, pale, but calm and self-possessed. As she drew near, she marked his
attitude, the bitter sadness of his face, and hope sprang up within her.
Perhaps she was mistaken; perhaps he did not love his cousin; perhaps he
still remembered the past, and still regretted the loss of the heart she
had just laid bare before him. Her husband was failing, and might die
any day. And then, free, rich, beautiful, and young, what might she not
become to Treherne, helpless, poor, and ambitious? With all her faults,
she was generous, and this picture charmed her fancy, warmed her heart,
and comforted her pain.
"Maurice," she said softly, pausing again beside him, "if I mistake you
and your hopes, it is because I dare ask nothing for myself; but if ever
a time shall come when I have liberty to give or help, ask of me
_anything_, and it is gladly yours."
He understood her, pitied her, and, seeing that she found consolation in
a distant hope, he let her enjoy it while she might. Gravely, yet
gratefully, he spoke, and pressed the hand extended to him with an
impulsive gesture.
"Generous as ever, Edith, and impetuously frank. Thank you for your
sincerity, your kindness, and the affection you once gave me.
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