Hatchie, the Guardian Slave | Page 3

embarrassed manner;
"pray, honor me with a moment's conversation."
"Nay, sir. I know too well your object in this request, and cannot
accede to it," replied the lady, in a firm and dignified manner, while a
rich crimson shade suffused her beautiful countenance.
"Be not so unkind,--a moment is all I ask," said Maxwell, with pleading
earnestness.
"No, sir; not a moment. Your unopened letter, which I yesterday
returned, should be enough to convince you that my mind is not
changed," replied she, moving to the door.
The lawyer was vexed. The letter alluded to by the lady he had received,
and it had troubled him exceedingly. He had a great purpose in view,--a
purpose which, accomplished, would enable him to realize the
cherished object of his life,--would enable him to revel in the ease and
affluence he so much coveted. Something must be done. Here was an
opportunity afforded by the providential visit of Miss Dumont which
might never occur again, and he resolved to improve it. Determined to
detain her, he adopted the first expedient which presented itself.

"Pardon me," said he, "I have not received the letter, and was not aware
that you intended to return it."
"Indeed!" replied the lady, with evident astonishment, as she
relinquished her hold of the door-handle, and returned to the table by
the side of which the attorney stood.
"I regret that I did not, as it would have saved you from further
annoyance, and me from a few of the hours of anguish with which I
have awaited your reply," returned the lawyer, in accents of humility,
which were too well feigned to permit the lady to suspect them. "The
bitterness of a blighted hope were better than the agony of suspense."
A smile of pity and contempt rested upon the fair face of the lady, as
she turned her glance from him to the papers on the table. There lay
Maxwell's letter, with the envelope in which she had returned it! She
only pointed to it, and looked into his face to read the shame and
confusion her discovery must create.
Maxwell's pallid cheek reddened, as he perceived that his deceit was
exposed; but he instantly recovered his self-possession, and said,
"Pardon this little subterfuge. I permitted myself to descend to it, that I
might gain a moment's time to plead with you for the heart which is
wasting away beneath your coldness. You do not, you cannot, know the
misery I have endured in possessing the love upon which you so cruelly
frown."
The passionate eloquence of Maxwell might have melted a heart less
firm than that of Emily Dumont. As it was, the cold expression of
contempt left her features, and, if not disposed to listen with favor to
his suit, she was softened into pity for his assumed misery. Under any
other circumstances, the lie he had a moment before uttered would have
forever condemned him in her sight. But her charitable disposition
compelled her to believe that it was the last resort of a mind on the
verge of despair.
"Mr. Maxwell," said she, "I am deeply grieved that you should have

suffered any unhappiness on my account."
"I will bless you for even those words," returned Maxwell, hastily,
feeling that he had gained the first point.
"But I do not intend to encourage your suit," promptly returned the
lady.
"Be not again unkind! Veil not that heavenly sympathy in the coldness
of indifference again!"
"I wish not to be harsh, or unkind. You have before given me an index
of your sentiments, and I have endeavored, by all courteous means, to
discountenance them."
"Yet I have always found something upon which to base a flickering
hope."
"If you have, I regret it all the more."
"Do not say so! Changed as has been your demeanor towards me, I
have dared to fan the flame in my heart, till now it is a raging fire, and
beyond my control."
"I cannot give my hand where my heart is uninterested," replied the
lady, feelingly. "I love you not. I am candid, and plain, and I trust this
unequivocal declaration will forever terminate any hope you have
cherished in relation to this matter. Painful as I now feel it must be for
you to hear, and painful as it is to me, on that account, to declare it, I
repeat--I can never reciprocate the affection you profess. And now let
this interview terminate. It is too painful to be prolonged;"--and she
again moved towards the door.
"Do not leave me to despair!" pleaded Maxwell, earnestly, as he
followed her toward the door. "At least, bid me wait, bid me prove
myself worthy,--anything, but do not forever extinguish the little star I
have permitted to blaze in the firmament of