‘You are not speaking in earnest?’
‘I am!’ he exclaimed, almost hopefully. ‘In downright earnest. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ He said it because he felt that her gaze was breeding shame in him. ‘It isn’t for myself, it’s for the cause, for the good of my fellowmen. Don’t say anything till you’ve thought. Look, Adela, you’re not hardhearted, and you know how it used to pain you to read of the poor wretches who can’t earn enough to keep themselves alive. It’s for their sake. If they could be here and know of this, they’d go down on their knees to you. You can’t rob them of a chance! It’s like snatching a bit of bread out of their mouths when they’re dying of hunger.’
The fervour with which he pleaded went far to convince himself; for the moment he lost sight of everything but the necessity of persuading Adela, and his zeal could scarcely have been greater had he been actuated by the purest unselfishness. He was speaking as Adela had never heard him speak, with modulations of the voice which were almost sentimental, like one pleading for love. In his heart he despaired of removing her scruples, but he overcame this with vehement entreaty. A true instinct forbade him to touch on her own interests; he had not lived so long with Adela without attaining some perception of the nobler ways of thought. But as often as he raised his eyes to hers he saw the futility of all his words. Her direct gaze at length brought him to unwilling silence.
‘Would you then,’ Adela asked gravely, ‘destroy this will?’
‘Yes.’
The monosyllable was all he cared to reply.
‘I can scarcely believe you. Such a thing is impossible. You could not do it.’
‘It’s my duty to do it.’
‘This is unworthy of you. It is a crime, in law and in conscience. How can you so deceive yourself? After such an act as that, whatever you did would be worthless, vain.’
‘Why?’