"And I have no right to interfere with your mode of life," she said, "only, Mr. Leicester——"
"Wait a moment before you say what is on your lips," he interrupted. "In this case it is for me to speak, and you can do no other than listen."
"Why?" she asked, almost angrily.
"Your sense of what is fair and honourable forbids you," he said. "Yes, I may be what is commonly reported, but there is another side even to that. Let me tell you, then, that I, who never professed to believe in what is called truth and honour, never willingly deceived any man, either by word or by deed. Yes, let me do myself justice. I, who have laughed at Mrs. Grundy and all her ways, never broke a promise made. And more, no man can accuse me of sullying either the honour of man or woman. I may be all that is said of me, but I am not that kind of man."
Something, not only in his words, but in his manner, appealed to her. In spite of herself, she gave him a quick, searching glance. There was something noble in his face, there was a healthy anger in his words. Whatever his creed might be, he was not a bad man.
"I had the right to tell you so much," he went on; "that at least was my privilege, and now, having told you, I must tell you something else. You may refuse me once, you may refuse me twice; but in the end you will have to accept me."
Again there was a gleam of anger in her eyes, and he saw the look of scorn which rested on her face.
"I will tell you why. You cannot run the risk of sending a man to hell. With you as my wife I can do anything. Oh yes, I know my words seem like the words of a mountebank, but even my worst enemies have never accused me of being a boaster, and I repeat it; no guardian angel which your story-books tell about could do for a man what you could do for me. I could work, I could think, I could even become great and good. But without you—even the thought of it is like looking into hell."