expressed. But you shall not drive me off upon
that, and so escape the expression of my deep
gratitude, my—" he was on the verge now;
he would not speak in the haste of his hot
passion; he would weigh each word. He
would; and his will was triumphant. He
stopped in mid career.

"I do not try to escape from anything,"
said she. "I simply say, that you owe me
no gratitude; and I may add, that any
expression of it will be painful to me, because
I do not feel that I deserve it. Still, if it will
relieve you from even a fancied obligation,
speak on."

"I do not want to be relieved from any
obligation," said he, goaded by her calm manner.
"Fancied, or not fancied—I question not
myself to know which—I choose to believe I
owe my very life to you—ay—smile, and
think it an exaggeration if you will. I
believe it because it adds a value to that life to
think—oh, Miss Hale!" continued he, lowering
his voice to such a tender intensity of passion
that she shivered and trembled before
him, "to think circumstance so wrought, that
whenever I exult in existence henceforward,
I may say to myself, 'All this gladness in
life, all honest pride in doing my work in the
world, all this keen sense of being, I owe to
her.' And it doubles the gladness, it makes
the pride glow, it sharpens the sense of
existence till I hardly know if it is pain or
pleasure, to think that I owe it to one—nay,
you must; you shall hear"—said he, stepping
forwards with stern determination—"to one
whom I love as I do not believe man ever
loved woman before." He held her hand
tight in his. He panted as he listened for
what should come. He threw the hand away
with indignation as he heard her icy tone; for
icy it was, though the words came faltering
out, as if she knew not where to find them.

"Your way of speaking shocks me. It is
blasphemous. I cannot help it if that is my
first feeling. It might not be so, I dare say,
if I understood the kind of feeling you
describe. I do not want to vex you; and besides,
we must speak gently, for mamma is asleep,
but your whole manner offends me—"

"How!" exclaimed he. "Offends you! I
am indeed most unfortunate."

"Yes!" said she, with recovered dignity.
"I do feel offended; and I think justly. You
seem to think that my conduct of yesterday"
—again the deep carnation blush, but this
time with eyes kindling with indignation
rather than shame—"was a personal act
between you and me; and that you may come
and thank me for it, instead of perceiving, as
a gentleman would—yes! a gentleman," she
repeated, in allusion to their former conversation
about that word, "that any woman,
worthy of the name of woman, would come
forward to shield with her reverenced
helplessness, a man in danger from the violence
of numbers."

"And the gentleman thus rescued is
forbidden the relief of thanks!" he broke in
contemptuously. "I am a man. I claim the
right of expressing my feelings."

"And I yielded to the right; simply saying
that you gave me pain by insisting upon
it," she replied proudly. "But you seem to
have imagined that I was not merely guided
by womanly instinct, but"—and here the
passionate tears (kept down for long, struggled
with vehemently) came up into her eyes, and
choked her voice—"but that I was prompted
by some particular feeling for you—you!
Why, there was not a man—not a poor
desperate man in all that crowd—for whom I
had not more sympathy—for whom I should
not have done what little I could more
heartily."

"You may speak on, Miss Hale. I am
aware of all these misplaced sympathies of
yours. I now believe that it was only your
innate sense of oppression—yes; I, though a
master, may be oppressed—that made you
act so nobly as you did. I know you despise
me; allow me to say, it is because you do
not understand me."

"I do not care to understand," she replied,
taking hold of the table to steady herself;
for she thought him cruel—as, indeed, he
was—and she was weak with her indignation.

"No, I see you do not. You are unfair
and unjust."

Margaret compressed her lips. She would
not speak in answer to such accusations.
But, for all that—for all his savage words, he
could have thrown himself at her feet, and
kissed the hem of her garment. She did not
speak; she did not move. The tears of
wounded pride fell hot and fast. He waited
awhile, longing for her to say something,
even a taunt, to which he might reply. But
she was silent. He took up his hat.

"One word more. You look as if you
thought it tainted you to be loved by me.
You cannot avoid it. Nay, I, if I would,
cannot cleanse you from it. But I would
not, if I could. I have never loved any
woman before: my life has been too busy,
my thoughts too much absorbed with other
things. Now I love, and I will love. But do
not be afraid of too much expression on my
part."

"I am not afraid," she replied, lifting herself
straight up. "No one yet has ever
dared to be impertinent to me, and no one
ever shall. But, Mr. Thornton, you have
been very kind to my father," said she,
changing her whole tone and bearing to a
most womanly softness. "Don't let us go on
making each other angry. Pray don't!"
He took no notice of her words: he occupied
himself in smoothing the nap of his hat with
his coat-sleeve for half a minute or so; and
then, rejecting her offered hand, and making
as if he did not see her grave look of regret,
he turned abruptly away, and left the room.
Margaret caught one glance at his face before
he went.