“Oh, Mr. Glen,” she said—“oh, Rob,” for he gave her a startled look of wonder and pain, “what can I say to you? I do not want to be unkind, and oh, I hope— I hope you don’t care so much, not so very much! Oh,” she cried, breaking out suddenly into the appeal she had premeditated, “don’t you think we have made a mistake—a great mistake?”
“What mistake, Margaret? Is it because you are so much richer than we ever thought, and I so poor? Yes, it was a mistake. I had no right to lift my hopes so high. But do you think I remembered that? It was you I was thinking of—not what you had!”
“What does it matter what I have?” she said, sadly. “Do you think that was what I was thinking of? Rich or poor, has that anything to do with it? But oh, it is true— I cannot help it—we have made a mistake.”
“I have made no mistake,” he said; “I thought you the sweetest and the fairest creature that ever crossed my path, and so you are. And I loved you, Margaret, and so I do now. A king could not do more. I have not made any mistake.”
“Oh!” she cried, with a shiver of desperation running through her, drawing her hand from his, “you may scorn me, you may despise me, but I must say it. It is I, then. Oh, Rob, do not be angry! You have been kind, very kind, as good as an angel to me; but I— I am ungrateful, I have no heart. I cannot, cannot—” Here Margaret, entirely overcome, broke forth into sudden weeping, and covered her face with her hands.
Then he took the step too far, which was all that was wanted. How could he tell it was too far? He would have done it had she been no beautiful lady at all, but a country girl who had been once fond of him, whom he could not allow to escape. He put his arm tenderly round her, and tried to draw her toward him.
Margaret sprang from his side with a quick cry, putting him away with her hands. “Oh no, no, no!” she cried, “that cannot be, that can never be! Do not touch me; do not come near me, Mr. Glen!”
“Margaret!” his tone was full of astonishment and pain; “what does this mean? It seems like a bad dream. It cannot be you that are speaking to me.”
And then there was a pause. She could say nothing, her very breathing was choked by the struggling sobs. Oh, how cruel she was, how barbarous, how guilty! And he so tender, so struck with wonder and dismay, gazing at her with eyes full of surprise and sudden misery! Would it not have been better to bear anything, to put up with anything, rather than inflict such cruel pain?
It was Rob who was the first to speak. There was no make-believe in him; it was indeed cruel pain, bitter to his heart and to his self-love. He was mortified and wounded beyond measure. He could not understand how he could be repulsed so. “If this is true,” he said, “if it is not some nightmare—if I am not dreaming—what is to become of me? My God! the girl I love, without whom I don’t care for my life, my betrothed, my wife that was to be, tells me not to come near her, not to touch her! What does it mean—what does it mean, Margaret? You have been hearing something of me that is false, some slander, some ill stories—”