"You might have spared me that at least, Flora. Do what you like with the baubles; give them away—what you will—but I cannot have them: they would be like coals of fire burning into my heart."
He strode to the other end of the room in a state of fierce agitation, and Flora felt that she was growing very weak, that she could not bear up much longer; leaning heavily on the table upon which the casket stood, she held out her right hand, and in a faltering voice muttered—
"It must be said.... Edwin—good-bye!"
He seized her hand, looked into her eyes yearningly for an instant, then suddenly he caught her round the waist, clasped her to his heart, and whispered—
"Must I go now, Flora?"
It was an ordeal for her. Could she tear herself from those fond encircling arms, and raise her head from that dear resting-place on his shoulder? Her colour came and went, and his breath fanned her cheek as he bent over her to catch the longed-for leave to stay. It was the supreme moment of her long struggle, and opening her closed eyes, she looked wildly round as if to ask for help; but help there was none for her, save from God. Her lips moved, in prayer perhaps; and then she murmured—
"Oh! it is cruel, Edwin, to try me so; and yet I must resist, if I would not be a curse to you. In mercy leave me, whilst still I have sense to feel that——we must part!—Edwin, go!"
His pallor was fearful and his eyes flashed as he bent one look on the wan, suffering face lying on his shoulder; and then he pushed her from him, saying in a loud voice—
"Mary Elton was right: you are a cold, passionless disciple of a senseless code of doctrine!" and he walked towards the door.
Flora tottered to the sofa, fell heavily upon it, and lay there motionless; but the turning of the door-handle roused her. She looked up with a frightened expression; her eyes met Mr. Earnscliffe's in one long, last, passionate gaze, and the door closed, shutting out at the same moment from Flora her life's light and the material light of day, for she had fainted.