A man must have been harder of heart than John Saltram who could remain
unmoved by a tenderness so evident. This man was touched, and deeply. The
pale careworn face grew more troubled, the firmly-moulded lips quivered
ever so little, as he looked down at the widow's pleading countenance;
and then he turned his head aside with a sudden half-impatient movement.
"My dear Mrs. Branston, you are too good to me; I am unworthy, I am in
every way unworthy of your kindness."
"You are not unworthy, and that is no answer to my question; only an
excuse to put me off. We are such old friends, Mr. Saltram, you might
trust me. You own that you have been worried--overworked--worried about
money matters, perhaps. I know that gentlemen are generally subject to
that kind of annoyance; and you know how rich I am, how little
employment I have for my money, though you can never imagine how
worthless and useless it seems to me. Why won't you trust me? why won't
you let me be your banker?"
She blushed crimson as she made this offer, dreading that the man she
loved would turn upon her fiercely in a passion of offended pride. She
sat before him trembling, dreading the might of his indignation.
But there was no anger in John Saltram's face when he looked round at
her; only grief and an expression that was like pity.
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