Book 6 - Chapter 11 - Page 2

the lane, and had walked
four or five yards, when Maggie, who had been looking straight before
her all the while, turned again to walk back, saying, with haughty
resentment,--

"There is no need for me to go any farther. I don't know whether you
consider it gentlemanly and delicate conduct to place me in a position
that forced me to come out with you, or whether you wished to insult
me still further by thrusting an interview upon me in this way."

"Of course you are angry with me for coming," said Stephen, bitterly.
"Of course it is of no consequence what a man has to suffer; it is
only your woman's dignity that you care about."

Maggie gave a slight start, such as might have come from the slightest
possible electric shock.

"As if it were not enough that I'm entangled in this way; that I'm mad
with love for you; that I resist the strongest passion a man can feel,
because I try to be true to other claims; but you must treat me as if
I were a coarse brute, who would willingly offend you. And when, if I
had my own choice, I should ask you to take my hand and my fortune and
my whole life, and do what you liked with them! I know I forgot
myself. I took an unwarrantable liberty. I hate myself for having done
it. But I repented immediately; I've been repenting ever since. You
ought not to think it unpardonable; a man who loves with his whole
soul, as I do you, is liable to be mastered by his feelings for a
moment; but you know--you must believe--that the worst pain I could
have is to have pained you; that I would give the world to recall the
error."

Maggie dared not speak, dared not turn her head. The strength that had
come from resentment was all gone, and her lips were quivering
visibly. She could not trust herself to utter the full forgiveness
that rose in answer to that confession.

They were come nearly in front of the gate again, and she paused,
trembling.

"You must not say these things; I must not hear them," she said,
looking down in misery, as Stephen came in front of her, to prevent
her from going farther toward the gate. "I'm very sorry for any pain
you have to go through; but it is of no use to speak."

"Yes, it _is_ of use," said Stephen, impetuously. "It would be of use
if you would treat me with some sort of pity and consideration,
instead of doing me vile injustice in your mind. I could bear
everything more quietly if I knew you didn't hate me for an insolent
coxcomb. Look at me; see what a hunted devil I am; I've been riding
thirty miles every day to get away from the thought of you."

Maggie did not--dared not--look. She had already seen the harassed
face. But she said gently,--

"I don't think any evil of you."

"Then,