“But she also distinctly told me that she would leave me nothing. I am perfectly certain that she realised what she was doing. Why will you refuse the good fortune at your hand?”
“Because it is not mine, but yours.” Then suddenly lowering his tone, he added, “Catherine, why did she come to me that day?”
The girl’s pulses leapt at his voice, and then a flood of shame swept over her, as enlightenment came to her in a flash. Aunt Cicely had taken this means of forcing him into a proposal!
“I cannot tell,” she said impatiently. “But the money is yours. I do not want to hear anything more about it.”
“I will not touch a farthing of it,” he answered. “If you will not have it, neither will I.”
Thus they argued, neither of them showing any sign of yielding in the conflict of generous intention. In their excitement they had stood still; the wind raged round them, blowing Catherine’s hair and cape about her; but she did not heed it.
“I cannot help it,” she said at length. “It is nothing to do with me. But,” she added, “it is time for me to go in. I suppose you are returning to London this evening?”
“Stop!” he cried. “You shall not go yet. For a month I have had no thought unconnected with you. I have searched for you everywhere, and have I found you only to lose you? Why should this wretched money come between us? It is yours, but Heaven knows I have not sought you for it. Catherine, do you believe me?”
“Yes,” she answered simply, while his arm went round her. “But the money is yours. Take it, but take me too.”
[THE END.]