“No, I am the ordinary mortal, I maintain,” replied Mr. Hargrave. “I will not allow myself to be worse than my fellows; but you, Madam—I equally maintain there is nobody like you. But are you happy?” he asked in a serious tone.
“As happy as some others, I suppose.”
“Are you as happy as you desire to be?”
“No one is so blest as that comes to on this side of eternity.”
“One thing I know,” returned he, with a deep sad sigh; “you are immeasurably happier than I am.”
“I am very sorry for you, then,” I could not help replying.
“Are you, indeed? No, for if you were you would be glad to relieve me.”
“And so I should if I could do so without injuring myself or any other.”
“And can you suppose that I should wish you to injure yourself? No: on the contrary, it is your own happiness I long for more than mine. You are miserable now, Mrs. Huntingdon,” continued he, looking me boldly in the face. “You do not complain, but I see—and feel—and know that you are miserable—and must remain so as long as you keep those walls of impenetrable ice about your still warm and palpitating heart; and I am miserable, too. Deign to smile on me and I am happy: trust me, and you shall be happy also, for if you are a woman I can make you so—and I will do it in spite of yourself!” he muttered between his teeth; “and as for others, the question is between ourselves alone: you cannot injure your husband, you know, and no one else has any concern in the matter.”
“I have a son, Mr. Hargrave, and you have a mother,” said I, retiring from the window, whither he had followed me.