“‘Margaret,’ I said, ‘one last word!  If you care for me, beware!’

“That was a foolish speech, perhaps.  It was certainly ineffectual.  She persisted, looking so calm and composed, that a great weight fell upon my heart.  I walked away; I wandered about the saloons; I tried to gossip and be gay; but the wound was too deep.

“I accompanied her home, late in the evening.  We scarcely spoke by the way.  At the door, she looked me sadly in the face,—­she gave me her hand; I thought it trembled.

“‘Good-night!’ she said, in a low voice.

“‘Good-bye!’ I answered, coldly, and hurried from the house.

“It was some consolation to hear her close the door after I had reached the corner of the street, and to know that she had been listening to my footsteps.  But I was very angry.  I made stern resolutions; I vowed to myself, that I would wring her heart, and never swerve from my purpose until I had wrung out of it abundant drops of sorrow and contrition.  How I succeeded you shall hear.

“I had previously engaged her to attend a series of concerts with me; an arrangement which I did not now regret, and for good reasons.  Once a week, with famous punctuality, I called for her, escorted her to the concert-room, and carefully reconducted her home,—­letting no opportunity pass to show her a true gentleman’s deference and respect,—­conversing with her freely about music, books, anything, in short, except what we both knew to be deepest in each other’s thoughts.  Upon other occasions, I avoided her, and even refrained from going to places where she was expected,—­especially where she knew that I knew she was expected.

“Well,” continued Westwood, “my designs upon her heart, which I was going to wring so unmercifully, did not meet with very brilliant success.  To confess the humiliating truth, I soon found that I was torturing myself a good deal more than I was torturing her.  As a last and desperate resort, what do you think I did?”

“You probably asked her to ask your forgiveness.”

“Not I!  I have a will of adamant, as people find, who tear away the amiable flowers and light soil that cover it; and she had reached the impenetrable, firm rock.  I neither made any advances towards a reconciliation nor invited any.  But I’ll tell you what I did do, as a final trial of her heart.  I had, for some time, been meditating a European tour, and my interest in her had alone kept me at home.  Some friends of mine were to sail early in the spring, and I now resolved to accompany them.  I don’t know how much pride and spite there was in the resolution,—­probably a good deal.  I confess I wished to make her suffer,—­to show her that she had calculated too much upon my weakness,—­that I could be strong and happy without her.  Yet, with all this bitter and vindictive feeling, I listened to a very sweet and tender whisper in my heart, which said, ’Now, if her love speaks out,—­now, if she says to me one true, kind, womanly word,—­she shall go with me, and nothing shall ever take her from me again!’ The thought of what might be, if she would but say that word, and of what must be, irrevocably, if her pride held out, shook me mightily.  But my resolution was taken:  I would trust the rest to fate.