He blushed scarlet in pronouncing the word. My sister tried to speak, but he stopped her.
“Needless to deny.”
“I never deny what is true,” said Penelope gravely. “I only did what I considered right, and what I would have done for any person whom I had known so many years. Nor would I have done it at all, but that your uncle refused.”
“I had rather owe it to you—twenty times over!” he cried. “Nay—you shall not be annoyed with gratitude—I came but to own my debt—to say, if I live, I will repay it; if I die—”
She looked keenly at him:—“You will not die.”
“Why not? What have I to live for—a ruined, disappointed, disgraced man? No, no—my chance is over for this world, and I do not care how soon I get out of it.”
“I would rather hear of your living worthily in it.”
“Too late, too late.”
“Indeed it is not too late.”
Penelope's voice was very earnest, and had a slight falter that startled even me. No wonder it misled Francis,—he who never had a particularly low opinion of himself, and who for so many years had been fully aware of a fact—which, I once heard Max say, ought always to make a man humble rather than vain—how deeply a fond woman had loved him.