“Don’t say it then,” she began.

“I can’t help myself.  You must listen.  I love you better than all the world.  I won’t marry any one but you.  I will marry you, I am determined.”

“You are determined,” repeated Beatrice, slowly. “You—­determined—­and about me?  I am obliged.”

Her lips took a scornful curl.  She sat down.  She was quiet enough now; the worst was over.

Beatrice, however, was only a country girl, and she had very little idea with whom she had to deal.  No one could plead better his cause than Loftus Bertram.  Defeat here meant the ruin of his worldly prospects as well as of his love.  He was the kind of man with whom the present must always be paramount; for the time being he had absolutely forgotten Josephine Hart, for the time being he thought himself honestly, deeply in love with Beatrice.

So he talked and talked, until poor Beatrice felt both her head and heart aching.

“I am not in your rank of life,” she said at last, as her final thrust.  “My set is not the same as yours; my people can never belong to yours—­my dear old mother is a lady at heart, but she has not the outward polish of your mother.  You want me to be your wife now, but by-and-bye you will remember the gulf which socially lies between us.”

“How can you talk such nonsense?  You are one of nature’s ladies.  Ask my mother what she thinks of you.  Ask Catherine.  Don’t you think Catherine would be happy to put her arms round you and call you sister?”

When Bertram mentioned Catherine a sweet light came for the first time into Beatrice’s eyes.

“I love your sister Catherine,” she said.

“You will love me too.  You will make me the happiest of men.”

“I have not even begun to love you.  I have not a shadow of affection for you.”

“If you saw me very unhappy you would pity me.”

“Yes, I pity all unhappy people.”

“Then pity me, for I am miserable.”

“Pity won’t do you any good; and you have no right to be miserable.”

“Still, pity me; for I am, I can’t help it—­I am wretched beyond words.”

His face had grown really haggard, for he was beginning to think she would never yield, and this look won her to say: 

“Well, yes, if it comforts you to know it.  I do pity you.”

“Pity is akin to love.  You will love me next.”

“I don’t see the smallest prospect; you mustn’t delude yourself.”

“I do, I will.  I will trust you.  I know your heart.  You will pity me and then you will love me.  I am not a good fellow.”

His words and looks were the soul of sincerity now.  He took her hand.

“I have never been a really good man.  I have not been a dutiful son, and I have made my mother unhappy.  If you were my wife I think I should become good, for you, Beatrice, you are very good.”

He was telling her the old, old story, and she was half believing him, half believing that it might be in her power to redeem him.  Beatrice Meadowsweet was just the sort of woman to love such work, to glory in such martyrdom.