I am afraid few men of her own age would have resisted her; for voice and speech and all burning, melting, and winning; and then, so reasonable, lads; she did not stipulate for constancy.
But Alfred turned round to her blushing and sorrowful. “For shame!” he said; “this is not love: you abuse that sacred word. Indeed, if you had ever really loved, you would have pitied me and Julia long ago, and respected our love; and saved us by giving me my freedom long ago. I am not a fool: do you think I don't know that you are my jailer, and the cunningest and most dangerous of them all?”
“You cruel, ungrateful!” she sobbed.
“No; I am not ungrateful either,” said he more gently. “You have always come between me and that kind of torture which most terrifies vulgar souls: and I thank you for it. Only if you had also pitied the deeper anguish of my heart, I should thank you more still. As it is, I forgive you for the share you have had in blasting my happiness for life; and nobody shall ever know what you have been mad enough in an unguarded moment to say; but for pity's sake talk no more of love, to mock my misery.”
Mrs. Archbold was white with ire long before he had done this sentence. “You insolent creature,” said she; “you spurn my love; you shall feel my hate.”
“So I conclude,” said he coldly: “such love as yours is hard by hate.”
“It is,” said she: “and I know how I'll combine the two. To-day I loved you, and you spurned me; ere long you shall love me and I'll despise you; and not spurn you.”
“I don't understand you,” said Alfred, feeling rather uneasy.
“What,” said she, “don't you see how the superior mind can fascinate the inferior? Look at Frank Beverley—how he follows you about and fawns on you like a little dog.”
“I prefer his sort of affection to yours.”