She rose and went to him, her hands trembling. “Help me,� she said with feverish eagerness, “help me to get Diana. I want her to come to me; I can take care of her. It would help him, too. Oh, don’t you see I could do that much?�
The old doctor’s penetrating eyes met hers. “You can take care of her,� he repeated; “you were not wealthy, Letty; have you grown so?�
“You have always been hard in your judgment of me,� she cried bitterly. “I am not a bad woman—I know, oh, I know I sinned! I married David so young; I found out my mistake, and when Fenwick came—I loved him, I ran away from my husband and my child, I was wicked—oh, I know it! But I suffered. I am not poor. He left me well off, almost rich. I have a right to it, he married me, I am his widow.�
Dr. Cheyney said nothing; he moved away from her a little and again leant his elbow on the mantel.
“Will you help me, will you go to Diana?� she pleaded, following him with sorrowful eyes.
He shook his head. “Never!�
She wrung her hands unconsciously. “You think I have no right to Diana?�
“Have you?� he asked quietly.
She hung her head, and the intensity of her suffering touched him without shaking his resolve.
“Have you any right to spend a dollar of that money on her?� he added; “surely you know that she could not receive it?�