The expression of his face had changed from anxiety to a stern sadness.
“And you live alone like this,” he said, “without proper service or protection? And, in spite of all that I could say and do, you will not take the miserable pittance which is your own, and which is wasted there in the bank, where it can avail for no one? Do you think this is right to yourself—or kind to me?”
The quiet reproach of his tone disturbed her.
“I do not mean to be unkind,” she said, her voice not quite steady, “and indeed I have all that I need. Nora has more than time to attend to me, and as for company, it is because I do not want it that I do not have it.”
“And you think you can live without companionship?” he said. “You will find you are mistaken; but of that I have no right to speak. There is one subject, however, on which I do claim this right, and it is the fulfilment of this purpose which has brought me to America.”
“You came all this way to see me?” she said, lifting her brows as if in gentle deprecation. “You were always kind.” Her voice broke and she said no more.
“It is not a question of kindness,” he said. “It is a matter of the simplest right and duty. Will you hear me? Are you able to hear me to-night, or shall I come again to-morrow?”
“Speak now,” she said. “I am perfectly well, and am ready to hear whatever you may have to say.”
Her voice gave proof of a recovered self-control. The necessity of making this a final interview between them was borne in upon her, and sitting very still and erect, with her hands clasped tightly together, she waited to hear what he might say.