“I did not believe that you would let any circumstance of my birth create a prejudice in you against me, though it was sure to do so in others,” said Will, shaking his head backward in his old way, and looking with a grave appeal into her eyes.
“If it were a new hardship it would be a new reason for me to cling to you,” said Dorothea, fervidly.
“Nothing could have changed me but—” her heart was swelling, and it was difficult to go on; she made a great effort over herself to say in a low tremulous voice, “but thinking that you were different—not so good as I had believed you to be.”
“You are sure to believe me better than I am in everything but one,” said Will, giving way to his own feeling in the evidence of hers. “I mean, in my truth to you. When I thought you doubted of that, I didn’t care about anything that was left. I thought it was all over with me, and there was nothing to try for—only things to endure.”
“I don’t doubt you any longer,” said Dorothea, putting out her hand; a vague fear for him impelling her unutterable affection.
He took her hand and raised it to his lips with something like a sob. But he stood with his hat and gloves in the other hand, and might have done for the portrait of a Royalist. Still it was difficult to loose the hand, and Dorothea, withdrawing it in a confusion that distressed her, looked and moved away.
“See how dark the clouds have become, and how the trees are tossed,” she said, walking towards the window, yet speaking and moving with only a dim sense of what she was doing.
Will followed her at a little distance, and leaned against the tall back of a leather chair, on which he ventured now to lay his hat and gloves, and