“I don’t despise any one, sir.”
“You wounded me so, just in looking at me, that day when you gave me back my promise. You have been so hard....”
“I, hard?”
She pronounced the two words almost in a whisper, deeming all reply useless, inwardly revolted by such injustice.
“Yes,” he replied. “I never understood before that it was right to be proud in misfortune. And I cursed you, but my heart was broken. And I accused you, instead of avowing the wretchedness of my doubts and my mean caring for what people thought. I have changed greatly, I swear to you. And now I admire you, I revere you, adore you. Yes. Don’t say anything. Let me finish. I have tried to forget you. My parents would have had me marry some one else, to have me settle down, as they said. I couldn’t. I love only you, and always shall.”
“I beg of you, sir.”
“What little good I can do, you are the cause of. Little by little I shall raise myself to your level. Men like me, all men, hover between good and evil, between devotion and selfishness. They don’t reflect, they are carried away by all the mediocrity of life. But sometimes one impulse is enough to lift them out of themselves. Your love has given me that impulse, Margaret.”
He stopped, waiting for a word of hope. She lowered her eyes, and the veil, which she no longer held back, fell down to her shoulder, throwing a little shadow on one side of her face. He murmured like a prayer:
“Margaret, take back what you’ve said. Consent to be my wife. I love you. For all your sorrow I love you all the more.”
He saw a shudder run all through her.