I reached Hollyoake Square nearly an hour before the appointed time.  In the suspense and impatience of that long interval, it was impossible to be a moment in repose.  I walked incessantly up and down the square, and round and round the neighbourhood, hearing each quarter chimed from a church clock near, and mechanically quickening my pace the nearer the time came for the hour to strike.  At last, I heard the first peal of the eventful eleven.  Before the clock was silent, I had taken up my position within view of the gate of North Villa.

Five minutes passed—­ten—­and no one appeared.  In my impatience, I could almost have rung the bell and entered the house, no matter who might be there, or what might be the result.  The first quarter struck; and at that very moment I heard the door open, and saw Margaret, and the servant with whom I had spoken, descending the steps.

They passed out slowly through the garden gate, and walked down the square, away from where I was standing.  The servant noticed me by one significant look, as they went on.  Her young mistress did not appear to see me.  At first, my agitation was so violent that I was perfectly incapable of following them a single step.  In a few moments I recovered myself; and hastened to overtake them, before they arrived at a more frequented part of the neighbourhood.

As I approached her side, Margaret turned suddenly and looked at me, with an expression of anger and astonishment in her eyes.  The next instant, her lovely face became tinged all over with a deep, burning blush; her head drooped a little; she hesitated for a moment; and then abruptly quickened her pace.  Did she remember me?  The mere chance that she did, gave me confidence:  I—­

—­No!  I cannot write down the words that I said to her.  Recollecting the end to which our fatal interview led, I recoil at the very thought of exposing to others, or of preserving in any permanent form, the words in which I first confessed my love.  It may be pride—­miserable, useless pride—­which animates me with this feeling:  but I cannot overcome it.  Remembering what I do, I am ashamed to write, ashamed to recall, what I said at my first interview with Margaret Sherwin.  I can give no good reason for the sensations which now influence me; I cannot analyse them; and I would not if I could.

Let it be enough to say that I risked everything, and spoke to her.  My words, confused as they were, came hotly, eagerly, and eloquently from my heart.  In the space of a few minutes, I confessed to her all, and more than all, that I have here painfully related in many pages.  I made use of my name and my rank in life—­even now, my cheeks burn while I think of it—­to dazzle her girl’s pride, to make her listen to me for the sake of my station, if she would not for the sake of my suit, however honourably urged.  Never before had I committed the meanness of trusting to my social advantages, what I feared to trust to myself.  It is true that love soars higher than the other passions; but it can stoop lower as well.