e became tinged all over with a deep, burning
blush; her head drooped a little; she hesitated for a moment; and then
abruptly quickened her pace. Did she remember me? The mere chance that
she did, gave me confidence: I--

--No! I cannot write down the words that I said to her. Recollecting the
end to which our fatal interview led, I recoil at the very thought of
exposing to others, or of preserving in any permanent form, the words
in which I first confessed my love. It may be pride--miserable, useless
pride--which animates me with this feeling: but I cannot overcome it.
Remembering what I do, I am ashamed to write, ashamed to recall, what
I said at my first interview with Margaret Sherwin. I can give no good
reason for the sensations which now influence me; I cannot analyse them;
and I would not if I could.

Let it be enough to say that I risked everything, and spoke to her. My
words, confused as they were, came hotly, eagerly, and eloquently from
my heart. In the space of a few minutes, I confessed to her all, and
more than all, that I have here painfully related in many pages. I made
use of my name and my rank in life--even now, my cheeks burn while I
think of it--to dazzle her girl's pride, to make her listen to me
for the sake of my station, if she would not for the sake of my suit,
however honourably urged. Never before had I committed the meanness of
trusting to my social advantages, what I feared to trust to myself. It
is true that love soars higher than the other passions; but it can stoop
lower as well.

Her answers to all that I urged were confused, commonplace, and chilling
enough. I had surprised her--frightened her--it was impossible she could
listen to such addresses from a total stranger--it was very wrong of me
to speak, and of her to stop and hear me--I should remember what became
me as a gentleman, and should not make such advances to her again--I
knew nothing of her--it was impossible I could really care about her
in so short a time--she must beg that I would allow her to proceed
unhindered.

Thus she spoke; sometimes standing still, sometimes moving hurriedly
a few steps forward. She might have expressed herself severely, even
angrily; but nothing she could have said would have counteracted
the fascination that her presence exercised over me. I saw her face,
lovelier than ever in its confusion, in its rapid changes of expression;
I saw her eloquent eyes once or twice raised to mine, then instantl