‘Hear me out!’ he exclaimed; and when he had spoken those words, he knew that he must tell her all. There was now no alternative, in honour and honesty, and he felt a kind of rejoicing, as if he had won a battle, nor paused any longer to reflect upon the means by which it had been gained.
‘And first,’ he added, rising, and standing before her in the window, looking into her upturned, wondering face, ‘first let me tell you, a great change has come over my whole life. It will never be what I had once hoped for. With my father’s death I have had to awaken to disagreeable facts. I find myself a ruined man.’
‘Ruined?’ echoed Sara, vaguely, hanging on his words, which came rapidly now, and with a sort of terse, restrained impetuosity. ‘Ruined, Mr. Wellfield?’
‘Exactly so. I will not trouble you by going into details of the matter. The simple fact is that I have been living under a delusion. I have never imagined myself in any other circumstances than those in which I have always been nurtured. One’s thoughts turn to the future sometimes, and in youth often and glowingly, I think. So did mine. I was no exception to the rule. Believe me, I never calculated on my father’s death. That I can say honestly——’
‘No, I am sure of it.’
‘But I should have been more than human had the thought never crossed my mind that after his death I should be richer than I had been—should have more at my disposal, and should be able more freely to follow the bent of my own tastes and desires. He never gave me the least hint that there was anything false in such an idea. I have told you of Wellfield—of my old home, to which I had hoped, more than I knew myself, to succeed. Lately I had thought of it far more than formerly, and had imagined myself very happy there. It is no longer mine. My father, it seems, sold the place years ago, and the estate with it, in consequence of his own money embarrassments. His speculations have turned out badly, it seems. No need to relate how. The money he received for his father’s house, and the estate they had lived upon, is gone—utterly gone. It was the shock of hearing suddenly of this which brought on the attack of which he died. He had time to tell me the worst—that I was houseless, homeless, it may be penniless—this he told me, advised me to settle things as well as I could, and then he died.’
There was a concentrated bitterness in his voice; a contempt which broke through the calm, soft tones in which he spoke, and which revealed to his listener an entirely new side of his character. He said no word of blame regarding his father, but none the less was the blame there—trenchant and biting, if unspoken.
‘Oh, Mr. Wellfield!’ was all she could say, ‘your trials have indeed been hard. I knew nothing of this.’
‘No. And perhaps you are wondering why I should trouble you with the tale, and thinking that it could be no possible concern of yours——Forgive me,’ he added, in the same low but vehement voice, as he came nearer to her, and bent over her chair, ‘I have no right—I have told you all this story to show you how destitute I am of all right to speak to you; but when I first met you—when you roused me from my selfish self-satisfaction, and I learned to love and worship you, as I had never imagined that I could worship, then I believed that I had to offer you, not only my whole heart and my entire devotion, but other things not utterly unworthy of your just claims; I believed that I could surround you, as I should have delighted in doing, with every outward sign of the love I bore you. All that is gone, and in its going has carried with it my hope; for it would be insult for me to ask your love when I have just learnt that I am a pauper. But I am not ashamed that you should know I did love you. Good God! did love you—that I do love you! That passion masters me yet, and always will master me. Nay, do not speak, do not rebuke me, and yet—yes, tell me,’ he cried, taking her hand, ‘tell me if you ever could have returned that love of mine, if I——’
He paused a moment, for he had seen her face. For one moment he felt as if the riches of the world were his—as if nothing could matter now; a triumph, a pride which no adversity could tame. Let what might happen. Let him be in rags, and begging his bread; be compelled to stand aside and see other men surround her and court her, he knew now that other eyes she would meet with a proud indifference, let their power be what it might; but that his, let his station sink as low as it might, his could subdue her.