“Rise, William Hinkley, and do not forget yourself!” was the stern, almost deliberate answer of the maiden.
“Do not, I pray you, do not speak in those tones, dear Margaret--do not look on me with those eyes. Remember before you speak, that the dearest hope of a devoted heart hangs upon your lips.”
“And what have you seen in me, or what does your vain conceit behold in yourself, William Hinkley, to make you entertain a hope?”
“Aye, but only of creatures like itself.”
“Margaret!” exclaimed the lover starting to his feet.
“Ay, sir, I say it. If the meanest creature has its hope, it relates to a creature like itself--endowed with its own nature and fed with like sympathies. But you--what should make you hope of me? Have I not long avoided you, discouraged you? I would have spared you the pain of this moment by escaping it myself. You haunt my steps--you pursue me--you annoy me with attentions which I dare not receive for fear of encouraging you, and in spite of all this, which everybody in the village must have seen but yourself, you still press yourself upon me.”
“I am what I am! I know that I am proud--vain, perhaps, and having little to justify either pride or vanity; but to you, William Hinkley, as an act of justice, I must speak what I feel--what is the truth. I am sorry, from my very soul, that you love me, for I can have no feeling for you in return. I do not dislike you, but you have so oppressed me that I would prefer not to see you. We have no feelings in common. You can give me no sympathies. My soul, my heart, my hope--every desire of my mind, every impulse of my heart, leads me away from you--from all that you can give--from all that you can relish. To you it would suffice, if all your life could be spent here in Charlemont--to me it would be death to think that any such doom hung over me. From this one sentiment judge of the rest, and know, for good and all, that I can never feel for you other than I feel now. I can not love you, nor can the knowledge that you love me, give me any but a feeling of pain and mortification.”
William Hinkley had risen to his feet. His form had put on an unusual erectness. His eye had gradually become composed; and now it wore an expression of firmness almost amounting to defiance. He heard her with only an occasional quiver of the muscles about his mouth. The flush of shame and pride was still red upon his cheek When she had finished, he spoke to her in tones of more dignity than had hitherto marked his speech.