“I looked for nothing more,” he said at last. “Hope did not delay me.”
“Delay you, Edward.”
“I mean that I never built upon it,” he said hurriedly, and averting his eyes, “I meant but that.”
She looked upon him with a troubled face, as he paced the floor of the little apartment, and spoke again, but hesitatingly.
“You will give up the boy, Edward?”
“I have no right to give him a prison roof when a better offers,” said Clifdon bitterly. “He has the Mordaunt face, and more of the Mordaunt blood than mine. Ay, send him, he might curse me for the love that would keep him.”
“Hush! hush! dearest: never talk so wildly. I will go to Brendon, I will kneel again and pray for mercy, for delay. I will walk the very streets a beggar till the debt is paid. Only speak not so. Is there not hope?”
He tossed back the bright dark hair as though an insufferable weight were pressing upon his temples, and flinging open a window, leaned out and gasped for breath. When he again drew back his face was calm, but his voice sounded with unnatural hollowness.
“If Mark Brendon sees to-morrow’s light, Mabel, your husband lies in a debtor’s prison, without the means to work for his freedom. And he will be there forever.”
“Not so, Clifdon, I shall be alone—” her voice faltered despite her efforts, “unburthened, and I can work.”