“Ay, that is it,” he replied moodily. “All my requests are ever met with ‘I dare not;’ all my affections cast back coldly on my heart with ‘my duty.’ I know not how these things should be; I am a poor casuist, Margaret, but I can feel; and I do feel that to genuine, honest, deep-souled true love, there is nothing that may not be dared—that to the plighted there can be no higher duty—”
“Peace, Lionel,” returned the fair girl, gravely, almost severely; “for if you will speak thus to me, I must not, and I will not hear you. You know that, from the first, when I owned that my heart was yours, and promised that my hand should be so likewise, I told you plainly that although nor force, nor flattery, nor fraud, should ever make me the wife of another, yet never would I swerve from a daughter’s obedience, though my heart-strings should burst asunder in the strife between my love and my duty. You know all this of old, dear Lionel; then wherefore torture yourself thus, and afflict me, by these wild and unprofitable outbreaks. You are assured that I love you, with all the truth and strength of a young maid’s first affection; you have my promise to be yours, or to die a heart-widowed maiden; you know, that the obstacles between us are no wise insurmountable; that my good father, although somewhat over tenacious, and self willed on points which he deems essential, is kind and gracious; that he loved you well—”
“Loved me!” exclaimed the young man, impetuously, “loved me! ay! fondled me when I was a curled stripling, as one would fondle an ape or a popinjay! loved me, forsooth! until he found that I aspired to his fair daughter’s hand, and then—spurned me—spurned me from his door like a nameless cur! Loved me! Great God! I marvel at you, Margaret!”
“And I both marvel at you, and grieve for you, Lionel,” cried the fair girl, indignantly. “You are unkind, unreasonable, and ungenerous. I thought you had come hither to say farewell, before riding forth to win honor in the field of loyalty; I thought you had come hither to speak kindly with the woman you pretend to love, the woman whom you may not see again for months, for years, perhaps forever. I thought you had come hither as a man, to console a fond girl’s sorrows, to point a sad girl’s hopes, to strengthen a frail girl’s weakness. I thought you had come hither, nobly and manfully, and generously, as it should beseem the king’s cavalier, to give and to derive strength for the endurance of long separation, the struggling against hard trial—and how do I find you, captious, unreasonable, jealous-spirited, unkind—seeking to afflict, not to console; to take away, not to give hope; to unnerve, not to strengthen. Now, out upon you, Lionel, I say—out upon you, and for shame! Is this the frame of mind wherein a gentleman should part from the lady of his love? Is this the high prophetic spirit which pointed you erewhile to fields of honor, and to deeds of glory, which should perforce win the consent—the reluctant consent, if you will—of my father, and compel him to be proud of his daughter’s chosen husband, even as he was fond of his daughter’s youthful playmate? Out upon you, I say, Lionel. It almost shames me to confess that I have loved, to confess that I still love one so high and spirited to aim at great things afar off, so faint-souled when it comes to the touch to win them.”
She spoke fervently, indignantly; and as she spoke her tall form seemed to dilate to a grander and more majestic height, and her soft blue eye flashed, and her pale cheek kindled with the glow of proud and generous emotion.
Lionel gazed at her half in admiration, half in wonder; for though he had seen her in many moods, and admired her loveliness in many guises, never had he seen so much of animation, so much of high-born, haughty fire in her air, as at this moment; yet, though his mind was moved by her eloquent words, and his heart touched by the justice of her tender, although spirited remonstrance, he answered again ungenerously, resisting the promptings of his better nature, which would have led him to cast himself down at her feet, and confess his injustice and ill-temper; but no, man to the last, unjust to woman, he kicked against the pricks of conscience, and said harshly,
“Proud! proud!—you are proud, too, Margaret. There spoke the temper of Sir Hugh! There spoke the haughty heart of the proud Claverings.”
“And God forbid,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a firm yet melancholy eye, “that in my tongue should not speak the temper of my noble father—for it is a temper all of loyalty, and nobleness, and honor. God forbid that in my breast there should not beat the haughty heart of the Claverings, for in their haughtiness to the high they ever have borne themselves humbly to the low; and in their pride toward the proud and great, they ever have protected the poor and the forlorn. God forbid, I say, Lionel Thornhill, God forbid that I should not be proud—for I am proud only of gentle blood, and gentle deeds, and honorable bearing. And you, too, sir, should rejoice in that pride of mine; for had I not been proud, too proud to value wealth, or rank, or title, apart from that nobility of soul which alone gives them value, proud enough to esteem the man of my choice, honored by his own virtues only, and his innate and natural grandeur, far above loftier suitors, then had I never said to thee, ‘I do love, Lionel,’ never had brought my pride to be humbled thus, by reproach whence I should have met gratitude; by insult, whence I should have looked for support. But it matters not. If I have erred, I can retrace my steps; and I have erred, sir, erred fearfully, if not fatally. I fancied you all that was high and great, all that was generous and gentle, all that was true and tender, all that was chivalrous and courteous. I worshiped you almost as a god; my eyes are opened, and I find you—a mere man!—and a man of no manly mould. We have both been mistaken, Lionel. You never have known me in my strength, nor I you in your weakness. But I will neither upbraid nor explain. Better to part now forever, with warm hearts, and no unkindly feelings, than to be linked irretrievably together, and find, too late, that we are uncongenial souls, and wear out years of bickering and growing coldness, and hate, perhaps, before we die—”
“Hate!” exclaimed Lionel, now alarmed by her earnestness, despite his wayward mood, and fearful, at length, that he had gone too far—“and could you hate? could you hate me, Margaret?”
“I could do more,” she replied, “I told you that you know me not. I could despise, if I found you worthless.”