“I have done my best,” he said doggedly.  “I have argued—­and entreated.  To no avail!”

“But you are taking the money”—­the quiet intensity of the tone affected him strangely—­“the money, that should be theirs—­the money which has been wrung—­partly—­from this wretched estate.  You are accepting gifts and benefits from a man you must loathe and despise!”

She was trembling all over.  Her eyes avoided his as she sat downcast; her head bent under the weight of her own words.

There was silence.  But a silence that spoke.  For what was in truth the meaning of this interview—­of his pleading—­and her agonized, reluctant judgment?  No ordinary acquaintance, no ordinary friendship could have brought it about.  Things unspoken, feelings sprung from the flying seeds of love, falling invisible on yielding soil, and growing up a man knoweth not how—­at once troubled and united them.  The fear of separation had grown, step by step, with the sense of attraction and of yearning.  It was because their hearts reached out to each other that they dreaded so to find some impassable gulf between them.

He mastered himself with difficulty.

“That is one way of putting it.  Now let me put it my way.  I am a man who has had few chances in life—­and great ambitions—­which I have never had the smallest means of satisfying.  I may be the mere intriguer that Tatham and his mother evidently think me.  But I am inclined to believe in myself.  Most men are.  I feel that I have never had my opportunity.  What is this wealth that is offered me, but an opportunity?  There never was so much to be done with wealth—­so much sheer living to be got out of it, as there is to-day.  Luxury and self-indulgence are the mere abuse of wealth.  Wealth means everything nowadays that a man is most justified in desiring!—­supposing he has the brains to use it.  That at any rate is my belief.  It always has been my belief.  Trust me—­that is all I ask of my friends.  Give me time.  If Mr. Melrose were to die soon—­immediately—­I should be able all the quicker to put everything to rights.  But if his death is delayed a year or two—­my life indeed will be a dog’s life”—­he spoke with sudden emotion—­“but the people on the estate will not be the worse, but the better, for my being there; and in the end the power will come to me—­and I shall use it.  So long as Melrose lives his wife and daughter can get nothing out of him, whether I am there or not.  His obstinacy is immovable, as Lady Tatham has found, and when he dies, their interests will be safe with me.”

Lydia had grown very pale.  The man before her seemed to her Faversham, yet not Faversham.  Some other personality, compounded of all those ugly, sophistic things that lurk in every human character, seemed to be wrestling with, obscuring the real man.

“And the years till this stage comes to an end?” she asked him.  “When every day you have to do what you feel to be wrong?—­to obey—­to be at the beck and call of such a man as Mr. Melrose?—­hateful—­cruel—­tyrannical!—­when you must silence all that is generous and noble—­”