When he was gone, she thought she had
seen the gleam of washed tears in his eyes;
and that turned her proud dislike into
something different and kinder, if nearly as painful—
self-reproach for having caused such
mortification to any one.

"But how could I help it?" asked she of
herself. "I never liked him. I was civil;
but I took no trouble to conceal my
indifference. Indeed, I never thought about
myself or him, so my manners must have
shown the truth. All, till yesterday, he
might mistake. But that is his fault, not
mine. I would do it again, if need were,
though it does lead me into all this shame
and trouble."

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH.

MARGARET began to wonder if all offers
were as unexpected beforehand,—as distressing
at the time of their occurrence, as the
two she had had. An involuntary comparison
between Mr. Lennox and Mr. Thornton
arose in her mind. She had been sorry that
an expression of any other feeling than friendship
had been lured out by circumstances
from Henry Lennox. That regret was the
predominant feeling on the first occasion of
her receiving a proposal. She had not felt
so stunned—so impressed as she did now,
when echoes of Mr. Thornton's voice yet
lingered about the room. In Lennox's case,
he seemed for a moment to have slid over the
boundary between friendship and love; and
the instant afterwards to regret it nearly as
much as she did, although for different reasons.
In Mr. Thornton's case, as far as
Margaret knew of it, there was no intervening stage
of friendship. Their intercourse had been one
continued series of opposition. Their opinions
clashed; and indeed, she had never perceived
that he had cared for her opinions, as belonging
to her, the individual. As far as they
defied his rock-like power of character, his
passion-strength, he seemed to throw them off
from him with contempt, until she felt the
weariness of the exertion of making useless
protests; and now he had come, in this
strange wild passionate way, to make known
his love! For, although at first it had struck
her that his offer was forced and goaded out of
him by sharp compassion for the exposure
she had made of herself,—which he, like
others, might misunderstand—yet, even before
he left the room,—and certainly, not five
minutes after, the clear conviction dawned
upon her, shined bright upon her, that he did
love her; that he had loved her; that he
would love her. And she shrank and shuddered
as under the fascination of some great
power, repugnant to her whole previous life.
She crept away, and hid from his idea. But
it was of no use. To parody a line out of
Fairfax's Tasso—

His strong idea wandered through her thought.

She disliked him the more for having mastered
her inner will. How dared he say that he
would love her still, even though she shook
him off with contempt? She wished she had
spoken more—stronger. Sharp, decisive
speeches came thronging into her mind, now
that it was too late to utter them. The deep
impression made by the interview was like
that of a horror in a dream; that will not
leave the room although we waken up, and
rub our eyes, and force a stiff rigid smile
upon our lips. It is there—there, cowering
and gibbering with fixed ghastly eyes in some
corner of the chamber, listening to hear if
we dare to breathe of its presence to any
one. And we dare not; poor cowards that
we are!

And so she shuddered away from the
threat of his enduring love. What did he
mean? Had she not the power to daunt
him? She would see. It was more daring
than became a man to threaten her so. Did
he ground it upon the miserable yesterday?
If need were, she would do the same
tomorrow,—by a crippled beggar, willingly and
gladly,—but by him, she would do it, just
as bravely, in spite of his deductions, and the
cold slime of women's impertinence. She did
it because it was right, and simple, and true
to save where she could save; even to try to
save. "Fais ce que dois, advienne que
pourra."

Hitherto she had not stirred from where
he had left her; no outward circumstances
had roused her out of the trance of thought
in which she had been plunged by his last
words, and by the look of his deep intent
passionate eyes, as their flames had made her
own fall before them. She went to the window,
and threw it open, to dispel the oppression
which hung around her. Then she went
and opened the door, with a sort of impetuous
wish to shake off the recollection of the past
hour, in the company of others, or in active
exertion. But ail was profoundly hushed in
the noonday stillness of a house, where an
invalid catches the unrefreshing sleep that is
denied to the night-hours. Margaret would
not be alone. What should she do? "Go
and see Bessy Higgins, of course," thought
she, as the recollection of the message sent
the night before flashed into her mind. And
away she went.

When she got there, she found Bessy lying
on the settle, moved close to the fire, though
the day was sultry and oppressive. She was
laid down quite flat, as if resting languidly
after some paroxysm of pain. Margaret felt
sure she ought to have the greater freedom of
breathing which a more sitting posture would
procure; and without a word she raised her
up, and so arranged the pillows, that Bessy
was more at ease, though very languid.

"I thought I should na' ha' seen yo
again," said she, at last, looking wistfully in
Margaret's face.

"I'm afraid you're much worse. But I
could not have come yesterday, my mother