“Oh, Philip, I hope it is so,” said Marion, her bosom beginning to heave and her voice to falter. “I hate this money, and have been miserable ever since I had it! It does not belong to me, and I have made up my mind that I won’t keep it.”
“Not belong to you, Marion?”
“It belongs to Perdita; she was his daughter. Why should he have come back to England, unless because he hoped to find her, and to make her rich and happy? What have I to do with his fortune? I loved him almost like a father; and he used to say I was a daughter to him; but I am not his daughter as Perdita is, and the thought of having what she would have had is hateful! And it spoils my memory of him: I must think of him now as a man who left me a fortune—not as a dear friend who gave me all the treasure of his wisdom and gentleness. He should not have done it; he doubted himself whether to do it, for he said something to me once which I did not understand then, but now I know he was trying to find out whether I would consent to such a thing. It is all wrong; and the only thing to be done now is to give it back.”
“To whom?” asked Philip, who was trying not to feel too much amazed.
“To Perdita; for I know that, when I refuse it, it will go to her. There is a codicil in the will that gives it to her. I am sure of it, Philip, for I spoke to Mr. Fillmore, and I could see in his face and in the way he spoke that there is a codicil; and the reason he didn’t read it was that I had not yet refused the legacy.”
“But even if there be a codicil, how do you know it is in favor of Perdita?”
“It will turn out to be so,” said Marion, shutting her lips and paling. She was watching Philip’s face with an anxiety that seemed to penetrate to his very soul; it was evidently of supreme importance to her which side his judgment turned. He felt it, and strove to be calm, but the silent strength of her desire flowed against him in a current more nearly irresistible than her words.
“Are you quite sure, Marion,” he said, at length, “that you have told me all the reasons for your wishing to do this thing?”
Her cheeks slowly reddened as she replied in a whisper, “I have said all I can.”
Their eyes met. “If you don’t quite trust me now,” said he, with a smile, half grave, half humorous, “perhaps you’ll come to it when you’ve had your way. My darling, you may throw the money into the Thames, as far as I’m concerned. If you wish to be rid of it, ’tis right you should be. If it were left to me, I should probably resign myself to keeping it; as it is, ’tis better out of the way. I’ll see if I can’t write you a greater fortune than that. Meanwhile, you must kiss me!”