“If you knew the nature of my regard for yourself, you would see why it should be so.  I do not say that there ought to be any such necessity.  If I were strong there would be no such need.  But I am weak—­weak in this; and I could not hold myself under such control as is wanted for the work I have to do.”  When he had spoken of his love for the place—­for the parish, there had been something of passion in his language; but now in the words which he spoke of himself and of his feeling for her, he was calm and reasonable and tranquil, and talked of his going away from her as he might have talked had some change of air been declared necessary for his health.  She felt that this was so, and was almost angry with him.

“Of course you must know what will be best for yourself;” she said.

“Yes; I know now what I must do, if such is to be your answer.  I have made up my mind as to that.  I cannot remain at Clavering, if I am told that I may never hope that you will become my wife.”

“But, Mr. Saul—­”

“Well; I am listening.  But before you speak, remember how all-important your words will be to me.”

“No; they cannot be all-important.”

“As regards my present happiness and rest in this world they will be so.  Of course I know that nothing you can say or do will hurt me beyond that.  But you might help me even to that further and greater bliss.  You might help me too in that—­as I also might help you.”

“But, Mr. Saul—­” she began again, and then, feeling that she must go on, she forced herself to utter words which at the time she felt to be commonplace.  “People cannot marry without an income.  Mr. Fielding did not think of such a thing till he had a living assured to him.”

“But, independently of that, might I hope?” She ventured for an instant to glance at his face, and saw that his eyes were glistening with a wonderful brightness.

“How can I answer you further?  Is not that reason enough why such a thing should not be even discussed?”

“No, Miss Clavering, it is not reason enough.  If you were to tell me that you could never love me—­me, personally—­that you could never regard me with affection, that would be reason why I should desist—­why I should abandon all my hope here, and go away from Clavering for ever.  Nothing else can be reason enough.  My being poor ought not to make you throw me aside if you loved me.  If it were so that you loved me, I think you would owe it me to say so, let me be ever so poor.”

“I do not like you the less because you are poor.”

“But do you like me at all?  Can you bring yourself to love me?  Would you make the effort if I had such an income as you thought necessary?  If I had such riches, could you teach yourself to regard me as him whom you were to love better than all the world beside?  I call upon you to answer me that question truly; and if you tell me that it could be so, I will not despair, and I will not go away.”