The features themselves, except the eyes, seemed to have shrunken from weakness into wistful smallness, and if the girl had returned, in the phrases of the preacher, “to her rightful senses” it had been as one coming out of a dream who realizes that she wakes to heartburnings which death had promised to smooth away.
Now, as the man stretched out his hand to take hers and drew a ring from his own little finger, the violet eyes on the rough pillow became transfigured with a luminous and incredulous happiness. But at once they clouded again with gravity and pain.
Spurrier was offering to marry her out of pity and gratitude. He was seeking to pay a debt, and his authoritative words were spoken from his conscience and not from his heart.
So the lips stirred in an effort to speak, failed in that and drooped, and weakly but with determination Glory shook her head. She had been willing to die for him. She could not argue with him, but neither would she accept the perfunctory amends that he now came proffering.
Spurrier rose, pale, and with a tremor of voice as he said to the others: “Please leave us alone—for a few moments.” Then when no one was left in the room but the girl on the bed and the man on his knees beside it, he bent forward until his eyes were close to hers and his words came with a still intensity.
“Glory, dearest, though I don’t deserve it, you’ve confessed that you love me. Now I claim the life you were willing to lay down for me—and you can’t refuse.”
There was wistfulness in her smile, but through her feebleness her resolution stood fast and the movement of her head was meant for a shake of refusal.
“But why, dear,” he argued desperately, “why do you deny me when we know there’s only one wish in both our hearts?”
His hands had stolen over one of hers and her weak fingers stirred caressingly against his own. Her lips stirred too, without sound, then she lay in a deathlike quiet for a moment or two summoning strength for an effort at speech, and he, bending close, caught the ghost of a whisper.