He came again to the fireplace and again leaned against the mantel-shelf. He was trembling with passion.
“And what if I say that, if you go, I will turn old Dunes—I mean your aunt—out of the house?”
“You will not say it, Mr. Coppinger; you are too noble, too generous, to take a mean revenge.”
“Oh! you allow there is some good in me?”
“I thankfully and cheerfully protest there is a great deal of good in you—and I would there were more.”
“Come—stay here and teach me to be good—be my crutch; I will lean on you, and you shall help me along the right way.”
“You are too great a weight, Mr. Coppinger,” said she, smiling—but it was a frightened and a forced smile. “You would bend and break the little crutch.”
He heaved a long breath. He was looking at her from under his hand and his bent brows.
“You are cruel—to deny me a chance. And what if I were to say that I am hungry, sick at heart, and faint. Would you turn your back and leave me?”
“No, assuredly not.”