“There comes the truth!” cried he, wildly. “It is your pride that rejects me. You, who have lived in great houses, and mixed with great people, cannot see in me anything but the sailor.”
“Oh no, no, no!” cried she, bitterly.
“I know it—I feel it, Kate,” continued he. “I feel ashamed when my coarse hand touches your taper fingers. I shrink back with misgiving at any little familiarity that seems so inconsistent between us. Even my love for you—and God knows how I love you!—cannot make me think myself your equal.”
“Oh, Harry, do not say such things as these; do not—do not!”
“I say it—I swear it; the highest ambition of my heart would be to think I could deserve you.”
She hid her face between her hands, and he went on, madly, wildly, incoherently; now telling her what her love might make him—now darkly hinting at the despair rejection might drive him to. He contrasted all the qualities of her gifted nature, so sure to attract friendship and interest, with the ruggedness of his character, as certain to render him friendless; and, on his knees at her feet, he implored her, if any gratitude for all his father’s love could move her, to take pity on and hear him.
There was a step on the stair as Harry seized her hand and said, “Let this be mine, Kate; give it to me, and make me happier than all I ever dreamed of. One word—one word, dearest.” And he drew her face towards him and kissed her.
“The Luttrell spirit is low enough, I take it, now,” said she, blushing. “If their pride can survive this, no peasant blood can be their remedy.”