CHAPTER XVIII.
THE UNWELCOME PROPOSAL.
It was true, Jessie had received the proposal she so much dreaded, received it exactly as her mother had described the scene. If other and deeper feelings prevailed with her, they were buried far out of sight by the delicate reticence of a nature which shrunk from any revelation of feelings which would, perhaps, never receive a generous response. Though the most single-hearted and frank creature in the world, Jessie would have died rather than confess feelings such as I fear occupied her heart even at this time.
"Well, Aunt Matty, I have obeyed you," she said, with a sorrowful look of the eyes, the moment we were alone together. "It breaks my heart, but I have listened to all he could say, poor fellow! and it is over. What a terrible, terrible thing it must be to love a person who does not care for you. Oh! Aunt Matty, Aunt Matty! it is—" She hesitated, turned crimson, and added, "it must be like death, worse than death; for to crush one's pride is to deprive life of its dignity, and this thing I have done for him."
"And do you begin to regret it?" I said, sitting down, and drawing her head to my shoulder.
"Regret it? The thought oppresses me; I am so sorry for him; my heart aches when I think of the look he gave me. Oh! why is it that love cannot always be mutual?"
"That would destroy half its romance, I fear," said I, smiling in spite of my sympathy in her distress.
She gave a little nervous laugh and said, "she supposed so; but it was very hard to see a good man suffer disappointment and mortification such as she had just witnessed. Some ladies might glory in these things, but, for her part, she hoped never to have another offer in her life. It was hard to give pain, harder by far than to endure it. Poor John Bosworth, how wretched he must be!"
I strove to comfort her, for there was no affectation in all this. She really did suffer all her broken speech implied, but she felt the humiliation she had given too keenly for argument.