'"But if they could," said he, "would yours be wanting?"
'"Certainly, Mr. Hatfield," I replied, with a cool decision which quelled all hope at once. Oh, if you had seen how dreadfully mortified he was--how crushed to the earth by his disappointment! really, I almost pitied him myself.
'One more desperate attempt, however, he made. After a silence of considerable duration, during which he struggled to be calm, and I to be grave--for I felt a strong propensity to laugh--which would have ruined all--he said, with the ghost of a smile--"But tell me plainly, Miss Murray, if I had the wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham, or the prospects of his eldest son, would you still refuse me? Answer me truly, upon your honour."
'"Certainly," said I. "That would make no difference whatever."
'It was a great lie, but he looked so confident in his own attractions still, that I determined not to leave him one stone upon another. He looked me full in the face; but I kept my countenance so well that he could not imagine I was saying anything more than the actual truth.
'"Then it's all over, I suppose," he said, looking as if he could have died on the spot with vexation and the intensity of his despair. But he was angry as well as disappointed. There was he, suffering so unspeakably, and there was I, the pitiless cause of it all, so utterly impenetrable to all the artillery of his looks and words, so calmly cold and proud, he could not but feel some resentment; and with singular bitterness he began--"I certainly did not expect this, Miss Murray. I might say something about your past conduct, and the hopes you have led me to foster, but I forbear, on condition--"
'"No conditions, Mr. Hatfield!" said I, now truly indignant at his insolence.
'"Then let me beg it as a favour," he replied, lowering his voice at once, and taking a humbler tone: "let me entreat that you will not mention this affair to anyone whatever. If you will keep silence about it, there need be no unpleasantness on either side-- nothing, I mean, beyond what is quite unavoidable: for my own feelings I will endeavour to keep to myself, if I cannot annihilate them--I will try to forgive, if I cannot forget the cause of my sufferings. I will not suppose, Miss Murray, that you know how deeply you have injured me. I would not have you aware of it; but if, in addition to the injury you have already done me--pardon me, but, whether innocently or not, you HAVE done it--and if you add to it by giving publicity to this unfortunate affair, or naming it AT ALL, you will find that I too can speak, and though you scorned my love, you will hardly scorn my--"