"And, therefore," he proceeded—"referring again to my own position—that of the late David Helmsley's solicitor, it is my duty to inform you that you, Mary Deane, are by his last Will and Testament, the late David Helmsley's sole heiress."
She started up in terror.
"Oh no, no!—not me!" she cried.
"Everything which the late David Helmsley died possessed of, is left to you absolutely and unconditionally," went on Sir Francis, speaking with slow and deliberate emphasis—"And—even as he was one of the richest men, so you are now one of the richest women in the world!"
She turned deathly white,—then suddenly, to his great alarm and confusion, dropped on her knees before him, clasping her hands in a passion of appeal.
"Oh, don't say that, sir!" she exclaimed—"Please, please don't say it! I cannot be rich—I would not! I should be miserable—I should indeed! Oh, David, dear old David! I'm sure he never wished to make me wretched—he was fond of me—he was, really! And we were so happy and peaceful in the cottage at home! There was so little money, but so much love! Don't say I'm rich, sir!—or, if I am, let me give it all away at once! Let me give it to the starving and sick people in this great city—or please give it to them for me,—but don't, don't say that I must keep it myself!—I could not bear it!—oh, I could not bear it! Help me, oh, do help me to give it all away and let me remain just as I am, quite, quite poor!"
CHAPTER XXIV
There was a moment's silence, broken only by the roar and din of the London city traffic outside, which sounded like the thunder of mighty wheels—the wheels of a rolling world. And then Sir Francis, gently taking Mary's hand in his own, raised her from the ground.