“He is a fine, tall young man!” she said, with proud indignation. “I should not have married a cripple, William, and I have already told you that he is a writer on The Centre, though he is not able at present to do his talents justice.”
“So you have to keep him?”
“He kept me when he had money; he gave me himself, and all he possessed in the world.”
“What did he marry you for?” Sir William asked, gazing at her in wonder, and almost clutching the arms of his chair.
“He married me”—her voice trembled and she drooped her head again—“he married me because—because he loved me.”
“Loved you! What should he love you for?”
“William, do you wish to insult me? I do not see why he should not love me, or why he should pretend to do so if he did not.”
“And I suppose you love him?” he said, pulling the blanket farther up over his knees and speaking in a scornful, incredulous voice.
“Yes, William, I do—I love him more than all the world; and unless you will help me so that I may give him those things that he requires and make our little home worthy of his residence in it, you will break my heart—you will kill him, and you will break my heart,” she repeated passionately. “I will conceal nothing from you—we are starving. We have not got a pound in the world—we have not even food to eat. He is young, and requires plenty of nourishment; he is not strong, and wants luxuries.”
“And you want me to pay for them?”