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his friendship. I went out and approached him as he stood leaning over
the little gate; I spoke to the point at once.
'St. John, I am unhappy because you are still angry with me. Let us
be friends.'
'I hope we are friends,' was the unmoved reply; while he still
watched the rising of the moon, which he had been contemplating as I
approached.
'No, St. John, we are not friends as we were. You know that.'
'Are we not? That is wrong. For my part, I wish you no ill and
all good.'
'I believe you, St. John; for I am sure you are incapable of
wishing any one ill; but, as I am your kinswoman, I should desire
somewhat more of affection than that sort of general philanthropy
you extend to mere strangers.'
'Of course,' he said. 'Your wish is reasonable, and I am far from
regarding you as a stranger.'
This, spoken in a cool, tranquil tone, was mortifying and
baffling enough. Had I attended to the suggestions of pride and ire, I
should immediately have left him; but something worked within me
more strongly than those feelings could. I deeply venerated my
cousin's talent and principle. His friendship was of value to me: to
lose it tried me severely. I would not so soon relinquish the
attempt to reconquer it.
'Must we part in this way, St. John? And when you go to India, will
you leave me so, without a kinder word than you have yet spoken?'
He now turned quite from the moon and faced me.
'When I go to India, Jane, will I leave you! What! do you not go to
India?'
'You said I could not unless I married you.'
'And you will not marry me! You adhere to that resolution?'
Reader, do you know, as I do, what terror those cold people can put
into the ice of their questions? How much of the fall of the avalanche
is in their anger? of the breaking up of the frozen sea in their
displeasure?
'No, St. John, I will not marry you. I adhere to my resolution.'
The avalanche had shaken and slid a little forward, but it did
not yet crash down.
'Once more, why this refusal?' he asked.
'Formerly,' I answered, 'because you did not love me; now, I reply,
because you almost hate me. If I were to marry you, you would kill me.
You are killing me now.'
His lips and cheeks turned white- quite white.
'I should kill you- I am killing you? Your words are such as
ought not to be used: violent, unfeminine, and untrue. They betray
an unfortunate state of mind: they merit severe reproof: they would
seem inexcusable, but that it is the duty of man to forgive his fellow
even until seventy-and-seven times.'
I had finished the business now. While earnestly wishing to erase
from his mind the trace of my former offence, I had stamped on that
tenacious surface another and far deeper impression: I had burnt it
in.
'Now you will indeed hate me,' I said. 'It is useless to attempt to
conciliate you: I see I have made an eternal enemy of you.'