The crudely masculine in Barmby prompted one more question, but some other motive checked him. He let his eyes wander slowly about the room. Even yet there was a chance of playing off certain effects which he had rehearsed with gusto.
‘Can you imagine,’—his voice shook a little,—‘how much I suffer in hearing you say this?’
‘If you mean that you still had the hopes expressed in your letter some time ago, I can only say, in my defence, that I gave you an honest answer.’
‘Yes. You said you could never marry me. But of course I couldn’t understand it in this sense. It is a blow. I find it very hard to bear.’
He rose and went to the window, as if ashamed of the emotion he could not command. Nancy, too much occupied with her own troubles to ask or care whether his distress was genuine, laid Tarrant’s letter upon a side-table, and began to draw off her gloves. Then she unbuttoned her jacket. These out-of-door garments oppressed her. Samuel turned his head and came slowly back.
‘There are things that might be said, but I will not say them. Most men in my position would yield to the temptation of revenge. But for many years I have kept in view a moral ideal, and now I have the satisfaction of conquering my lower self. You shall not hear one word of reproach from my lips.’
He waited for the reply, the expected murmur of gratitude. Nancy said nothing.
‘Mrs. Tarrant,’—he stood before her,—‘what do you suppose must be the result of this?’
‘There can only be one.’
‘You mean the ruin of your prospects. But do you forget that all the money you have received since Mr. Lord’s death has been obtained by false pretences? Are you not aware that this is a criminal offence?’