William opened it. As they were going out, however, he took Amelia's

hand and said--"Will you stay a moment and speak to me?"

"He wishes to speak to you away from me," said Becky, looking like a

martyr. Amelia gripped her hand in reply.

"Upon my honour it is not about you that I am going to speak," Dobbin

said. "Come back, Amelia," and she came. Dobbin bowed to Mrs.

Crawley, as he shut the door upon her. Amelia looked at him, leaning

against the glass: her face and her lips were quite white.

"I was confused when I spoke just now," the Major said after a pause,

"and I misused the word authority."

"You did," said Amelia with her teeth chattering.

"At least I have claims to be heard," Dobbin continued.

"It is generous to remind me of our obligations to you," the woman

answered.

"The claims I mean are those left me by George's father," William said.

"Yes, and you insulted his memory. You did yesterday. You know you

did. And I will never forgive you. Never!" said Amelia. She shot out

each little sentence in a tremor of anger and emotion.

"You don't mean that, Amelia?" William said sadly. "You don't mean that

these words, uttered in a hurried moment, are to weigh against a whole

life's devotion? I think that George's memory has not been injured by

the way in which I have dealt with it, and if we are come to bandying

reproaches, I at least merit none from his widow and the mother of his

son. Reflect, afterwards when--when you are at leisure, and your

conscience will withdraw this accusation. It does even now." Amelia

held down her head.

"It is not that speech of yesterday," he continued, "which moves you.

That is but the pretext, Amelia, or I have loved you and watched you

for fifteen years in vain. Have I not learned in that time to read all

your feelings and look into your thoughts? I know what your heart is

capable of: it can cling faithfully to a recollection and cherish a

fancy, but it can't feel such an attachment as mine deserves to mate

with, and such as I would have won from a woman more generous than you.

No, you are not worthy of the love which I have devoted to you. I knew

all along that the prize I had set my life on was not worth the

winning; that I was a fool, with fond fancies, too, bartering away my

all of truth and ardour against your little feeble remnant of love. I

will bargain no more: I withdraw. I find no fault with you. You are

very good-natured, and have done your best, but you couldn't--you

couldn't reach up to the height of the attachment which I bore you, and

which a loftier soul than yours might have been proud to share.

Good-bye, Amelia! I have watched your struggle. Let it end. We are

both weary of it."




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