"Once more, why this refusal?" he asked.

"Formerly," I answered, "because you did not love me; now, I reply,

because you almost hate me. If I were to marry you, you would kill

me. You are killing me now."

His lips and cheeks turned white--quite white.

"I SHOULD KILL YOU--I AM KILLING YOU? Your words are such as ought

not to be used: violent, unfeminine, and untrue. They betray an

unfortunate state of mind: they merit severe reproof: they would

seem inexcusable, but that it is the duty of man to forgive his

fellow even until seventy-and-seven times."

I had finished the business now. While earnestly wishing to erase

from his mind the trace of my former offence, I had stamped on that

tenacious surface another and far deeper impression, I had burnt it

in.

"Now you will indeed hate me," I said. "It is useless to attempt to

conciliate you: I see I have made an eternal enemy of you."

A fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse, because they

touched on the truth. That bloodless lip quivered to a temporary

spasm. I knew the steely ire I had whetted. I was heart-wrung.

"You utterly misinterpret my words," I said, at once seizing his

hand: "I have no intention to grieve or pain you--indeed, I have

not."

Most bitterly he smiled--most decidedly he withdrew his hand from

mine. "And now you recall your promise, and will not go to India at

all, I presume?" said he, after a considerable pause.

"Yes, I will, as your assistant," I answered.

A very long silence succeeded. What struggle there was in him

between Nature and Grace in this interval, I cannot tell: only

singular gleams scintillated in his eyes, and strange shadows passed

over his face. He spoke at last.

"I before proved to you the absurdity of a single woman of your age

proposing to accompany abroad a single man of mine. I proved it to

you in such terms as, I should have thought, would have prevented

your ever again alluding to the plan. That you have done so, I

regret--for your sake."

I interrupted him. Anything like a tangible reproach gave me

courage at once. "Keep to common sense, St. John: you are verging

on nonsense. You pretend to be shocked by what I have said. You

are not really shocked: for, with your superior mind, you cannot be

either so dull or so conceited as to misunderstand my meaning. I

say again, I will be your curate, if you like, but never your wife."




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