bandying
reproaches, I at least merit none from his widow and the mother of his
son. Reflect, afterwards when--when you are at leisure, and your
conscience will withdraw this accusation. It does even now." Amelia
held down her head.
"It is not that speech of yesterday," he continued, "which moves you.
That is but the pretext, Amelia, or I have loved you and watched you
for fifteen years in vain. Have I not learned in that time to read all
your feelings and look into your thoughts? I know what your heart is
capable of: it can cling faithfully to a recollection and cherish a
fancy, but it can't feel such an attachment as mine deserves to mate
with, and such as I would have won from a woman more generous than you.
No, you are not worthy of the love which I have devoted to you. I knew
all along that the prize I had set my life on was not worth the
winning; that I was a fool, with fond fancies, too, bartering away my
all of truth and ardour against your little feeble remnant of love. I
will bargain no more: I withdraw. I find no fault with you. You are
very good-natured, and have done your best, but you couldn't--you
couldn't reach up to the height of the attachment which I bore you, and
which a loftier soul than yours might have been proud to share.
Good-bye, Amelia! I have watched your struggle. Let it end. We are
both weary of it."
Amelia stood scared and silent as William thus suddenly broke the chain
by which she held him and declared his independence and superiority.
He had placed himself at her feet so long that the poor little woman
had been accustomed to trample upon him. She didn't wish to marry him,
but she wished to keep him. She wished to give him nothing, but that
he should give her all. It is a bargain not unfrequently levied in
love.
William's sally had quite broken and cast her down. HER assault was
long since over and beaten back.
"Am I to understand then, that you are going--away, William?" she said.
He gave a sad laugh. "I went once before," he said, "and came back
after twelve years. We were young then, Amelia. Good-bye. I have
spent enough of my life at this play."
Whilst they had been talking, the door into Mrs. Osborne's room had
opened ever so little; indeed, Becky had kept a hold of the handle and
had turned it on the instant when Dobbin quitted it, and she heard
every word of the conversation that had passed between these two. "What
a noble heart that man has," she tho
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