—"Will you do what I ask?"
"You really wish me to go?" His voice softened. "You don't want me to see you off? It's very little to do—see you off."
"I should be grateful if you would go now."
"You are throwing us overboard together, I see—all Lanse's relatives; you think we are all alike," he commented, in a savage tone. "And you, well rid of us, free, and determined to do as you please, are going north alone—you do not even say where?"
"There will be no secret about that; I will write. You talk about freedom," she said, breaking off suddenly, "what do you know of slavery? That is what I have been for years—a slave. Oh, to be somewhere!"—and she threw up her arms with an eloquent gesture of longing,—"anywhere where I can breathe and think as I please—as I really am! Do you want me to die without ever having been myself—my real self—even for one day? I have come to the end of my strength; I can endure no longer."
Winthrop had been thrilled through by this almost violent cry and gesture. Coming from Margaret, they gave him a great surprise. "Yes, I know," he began; "it has been a hard life." Then he stopped, for he felt that he had not known, he had not comprehended; he did not fully comprehend even now. "I am only harsh on account of the way you treat me," he said; "it galls me to be so completely set aside."
"You can help me only by leaving me, I have told you that."
"But where is the sense—"
"I cannot argue. There may be no sense, but your presence oppresses me."
"You shall not be troubled with it long." He went towards the door. But he came back. "Give me one reason."