"But—but—you mean—as a loan—" she stammered.
"Not a loan, but a gift," I said distinctly. "You need not hesitate. It is only part of a little legacy which I had, not long ago. I should like it to be a real help to you all, as a loan could not be."
She seemed choked, hardly able to speak. A smothered "Thanks!" escaped her lips. I could see a struggle going on below; but no words came, such as I had half hoped to hear. A misery of embarrassment overpowered her.
I hardly knew what to say. In my then position I could not with delicacy assume the office of adviser,—otherwise, a few words of advice for her future did seem sorely called for. But I could only observe in a low voice—
"You will not doubt me now."
She hung her burning face speechlessly. I went a step nearer.
"There have been some sorrowful passages between us," I said. "But at least by my will I have not offended against you. If I have wronged you unknowingly, I can only ask your forgiveness. And—the things that you have done against me—" I found my voice failing, and I was only able to add—"This will show that you are forgiven, when you care to know it."
Then I went out to the front door, where a hansom waited. Miss Millington followed me, looking crushed. I could not feel that the gift which might restore her mother had brought relief to herself. She did not refuse it, did not spurn the offered help. She only seemed to be bowed beneath the weight of that little purse.
"I must not stay now," I said. "I have a great deal to do: and to-morrow we go to Beckdale. But you will write perhaps some day, and tell me how your mother is getting on. Good-bye."
Her damp fingers closed limply round mine, and the dropped eyes were not raised. I saw her lips tremble, and I caught one sound, half-word, half-sob, which might have been "Sorry!" No more followed. She shrank into herself and from me, with a kind of shudder. I had to leave her thus, and to drive away.