different to it; you would never grow callous, he would
always have the power of making you unhappy. This would wear upon you;
at last it would wear you out; you would die, and _he_ would live on!
And, besides, remember this--it isn't as though he really depended upon
you for personal care; he doesn't need you, as far as that goes, he says
so. Give him your money, if you like; give him houses and nurses and
servants, every luxury, all you have; but do not, do not give him
yourself."

She remained silent. She had steeled herself, so it seemed, against
anything he could say.

"You are counting the minutes before the phaeton comes," he went on;
"that is your only thought--to get away! Very well, then, you shall have
the whole, which otherwise I would have kept from you; I love you,
Margaret, I have loved you for a long time. If it is horrible to you
that I should say it, and force you, too, to hear, bear this in mind:
though I say it, I ask for nothing, I do not put myself forward. I tell
you because I want you to understand how near your best interests are to
me--how I consider them. I deserve some mercy, I have tried hard to hold
myself in check--did I say a word all that night in the swamp? You may
imagine whether I am happy, loving you hopelessly as I do! It began long
ago; when I thought I disliked you so bitterly, that was the beginning;
it was a dislike, or rather a pain, which came from your being (as I
then supposed you were) so different from the sweet woman it seemed to
me you ought to be--ought to be with that face and voice. I watched you;
I was very severe in all I said; but all the time I loved you, it was
stronger than I. I feel no shame in telling it; it has made me a better
man--not so cold, not so sure of my own perfection. And now, if you will
only tell me that you won't go back to Lanse, I will go. And I will stay
away, I will not try to see you, I will not even write. And this shall
last as long as you say, Margaret--for years; even always, if it must be
so. What can I do or say more?"

She had stood still, looking at the ground, while he poured forth these
urgent words; she might have been a statue.

"There's an icy stubbornness about you--" he began again. "What is it I
ask? One promise, and for your own good too, and then I go out into the
world again, bearing my pain as best I can, leaving you behind, and
free. I don't believe you know what that pain is, because I don't
believe you know, or ca