"How dare you take advantage of me! How dare you touch me!" she said. "Take your letter back, sir; I refuse to receive it; I will never speak to you again. You don't know what you have done. You don't know how deeply you have wounded me. Oh!" she cried, throwing herself in despair on a sofa that stood near her, "shall I ever recover my self-respect? shall I ever forgive myself for what I have done to-night?"
I implored her pardon; I assured her of my repentance and regret in words which did really come from my heart. The violence of her agitation more than distressed me--I was really alarmed by it.
She composed herself after a while. She rose to her feet with modest dignity, and silently held out her hand in token that my repentance was accepted.
"You will give me time for atonement?" I pleaded. "You will not lose all confidence in me? Let me see you again, if it is only to show that I am not quite unworthy of your pardon--at your own time; in the presence of another person, if you like."
"I will write to you," she said.
"To-morrow?"
"To-morrow."
I took up the letter of recommendation from the floor.
"Make your goodness to me complete," I said. "Don't mortify me by refusing to take my letter."
"I will take your letter," she answered, quietly. "Thank you for writing it. Leave me now, please. Good-night."
I left her, pale and sad, with my letter in her hand. I left her, with my mind in a tumult of contending emotions, which gradually resolved themselves into two master-feelings as I walked on: Love, that adored her more fervently than ever; and Hope, that set the prospect before me of seeing her again on the next day.