“What!” Steve almost tottered.
“To marry me. If you marry me, I could not be made to testify against you. I have been told so.” She had recovered her composure and was speaking quite calmly.
“I could not let you do that,” said Steve, firmly.
“I have come to ask you to do it,” she went on, speaking quite as if she were but finishing her first sentence. “And afterward, you could—get—a—a—divorce. I would go away and hide myself, and never, never trouble you again.” Her composure deserted her, and she buried her face in her hands. If she could have seen Steve’s face at that moment—the sudden flame which lit it up—and the gesture which he made, as though he would have caught her in his arms, and that with which he restrained himself and reasserted his self-control, she might not have wept. But she did not see it, and Steve was able to master himself, though when he spoke his voice had wholly changed.
“I could not do that,” he said, gently, and with a new tone. “I could not allow you to sacrifice yourself.”
“It would not be— Yes, you can,” she pleaded.
“No,” said Steve, almost sternly. “Do not, I beg you.” He lifted his hand as though to put her from him; but suddenly clutched at his heart.
She stopped sobbing. He turned half-away.
“Go,” he said. “Leave me, please.”
His voice could scarcely be heard, and he put his hand to his forehead. She turned without a word, and moved slowly toward the door. As she put out her hand to open it, she suddenly sank in a heap on the floor. In a second Steve was at her side. He stooped and lifted her, as though she were a child.