He mastered himself with difficulty.
"That is one way of putting it. Now let me put it my way. I am a man who has had few chances in life—and great ambitions—which I have never had the smallest means of satisfying. I may be the mere intriguer that Tatham and his mother evidently think me. But I am inclined to believe in myself. Most men are. I feel that I have never had my opportunity. What is this wealth that is offered me, but an opportunity? There never was so much to be done with wealth—so much sheer living to be got out of it, as there is to-day. Luxury and self-indulgence are the mere abuse of wealth. Wealth means everything nowadays that a man is most justified in desiring!—supposing he has the brains to use it. That at any rate is my belief. It always has been my belief. Trust me—that is all I ask of my friends. Give me time. If Mr. Melrose were to die soon—immediately—I should be able all the quicker to put everything to rights. But if his death is delayed a year or two—my life indeed will be a dog's life"—he spoke with sudden emotion—"but the people on the estate will not be the worse, but the better, for my being there; and in the end the power will come to me—and I shall use it. So long as Melrose lives his wife and daughter can get nothing out of him, whether I am there or not. His obstinacy is immovable, as Lady Tatham has found, and when he dies, their interests will be safe with me."
Lydia had grown very pale. The man before her seemed to her Faversham, yet not Faversham. Some other personality, compounded of all those ugly, sophistic things that lurk in every human character, seemed to be wrestling with, obscuring the real man.
"And the years till this stage comes to an end?" she asked him. "When every day you have to do what you feel to be wrong?—to obey—to be at the beck and call of such a man as Mr. Melrose?—hateful—cruel—tyrannical!—when you must silence all that is generous and noble—"
Her voice failed her.
Faversham's lips tightened. They remained looking at each other. Then Faversham rose suddenly. He stooped over her. She heard his voice, hoarse and broken in her ears:
"Lydia—I love you!—I love you—with all my heart!—and all my strength! Don't, for God's sake, let us make believe with each other! And—I believe," he added, after a moment, in a lower tone, "I believe—that you love me!"
His attitude, his manner were masterful—violent. She trembled under it.
He tried to take her hand.
"Speak to me!" he said, peremptorily. "Oh, my darling—speak to me! I only ask you to trust to me—to be guided by me—"
She withdrew her hand. He could see her heart fluttering under the soft curves of the breast.