VII.
I have just been discarded by Annie.
Let me endeavor to collect my thoughts and recall what she said to me. My head is troubled to-day—it is strange what a want of self-control I have! I thought I was strong—and I am weaker than a child.
I told her that I loved her—had loved her for years—that she was dearer, far, to me than all on earth beside my mother. And she answered me—agitated, but perfectly resolved:
"I cannot marry you, Mr. Cleave."
A long pause followed, in which she evidently labored with great distress—then she continued:
"I will frankly and faithfully say why I cannot. I know all—I know your feelings for me once. You went away because you were poor, and you thought I was rich. Shall I be less strong than yourself? I am poor now; I do not regret it, except—pardon me, sir, I am confused—I meant to say, that you are now the richer. It humbles me to speak of this—why did you not"—
There she stopped, blushing and trembling.
"Why did I not? Oh! do not stop there, I pray you."
She replied to my words in a broken and agitated voice:
"I cannot finish. I was thinking of—of—the day when I mended your coat!"
And a smile broke through the tears in her eyes, as she gazed timidly at me. I shall not prolong the account of our interview. She soon left me, resolute to the last; and I came away, perfectly miserable.
What shall I do? I cannot live without her. My life would be a miserable mockery. To see her there near me, at the window, in the street; to see her tresses in the sunlight, her little slipper as it flits through the flower-enveloped gate; to feel that she is near me, but lost to me! Never could I endure it! But what can I do? Is there anything that can move her?
—Ah! that may! Let me try it. Oh, fortunate accident. To-morrow, or very soon—very soon!