Was, then, all his kindness but a phosphoric radiance
covering something colder and more awful than the grave?
'It is very noble of you, Maud--it is angelic; your sympathy with a ruined
and despairing old man. But I fear you will recoil. I tell you frankly that
less than twenty thousand pounds will not extricate me from the quag of
ruin in which I am entangled--lost!'
'Recoil! Far from it. I'll do it. There must be some way.'
'Enough, my fair young protectress--celestial enthusiast, enough. Though
you do not, yet I recoil. I could not bring myself to accept this
sacrifice. What signifies, even to me, my extrication? I lie a mangled
wretch, with fifty mortal wounds on my crown; what avails the healing of
one wound, when there are so many beyond all cure? Better to let me perish
where I fall; and reserve your money for the worthier objects whom,
perhaps, hereafter may avail to save.'
'But I _will_ do this. I must. I cannot see you suffer with the power in my
hands unemployed to help you,' I exclaimed.
'Enough, dear Maud; the will is here--enough: there is balm in your
compassion and good-will.
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