William opened it. As they were going out, however, he took Amelia's
hand and said--"Will you stay a moment and speak to me?"
"He wishes to speak to you away from me," said Becky, looking like a
martyr. Amelia gripped her hand in reply.
"Upon my honour it is not about you that I am going to speak," Dobbin
said. "Come back, Amelia," and she came. Dobbin bowed to Mrs.
Crawley, as he shut the door upon her. Amelia looked at him, leaning
against the glass: her face and her lips were quite white.
"I was confused when I spoke just now," the Major said after a pause,
"and I misused the word authority."
"You did," said Amelia with her teeth chattering.
"At least I have claims to be heard," Dobbin continued.
"It is generous to remind me of our obligations to you," the woman
answered.
"The claims I mean are those left me by George's father," William said.
"Yes, and you insulted his memory. You did yesterday. You know you
did. And I will never forgive you. Never!" said Amelia. She shot out
each little sentence in a tremor of anger and emotion.
"You don't mean that, Amelia?" William said sadly. "You don't mean that
these words, uttered in a hurried moment, are to weigh against a whole
life's devotion? I think that George's memory has not been injured by
the way in which I have dealt with it, and if we are come to bandying
reproaches, I at least merit none from his widow and the mother of his
son. Reflect, afterwards when--when you are at leisure, and your
conscience will withdraw this accusation. It does even now." Amelia
held down her head.
"It is not that speech of yesterday," he continued, "which moves you.
That is but the pretext, Amelia, or I have loved you and watched you
for fifteen years in vain. Have I not learned in that time to read all
your feelings and look into your thoughts? I know what your heart is
capable of: it can cling faithfully to a recollection and cherish a
fancy, but it can't feel such an attachment as mine deserves to mate
with, and such as I would have won from a woman more generous than you.
No, you are not worthy of the love which I have devoted to you. I knew
all along that the prize I had set my life on was not worth the
winning; that I was a fool, with fond fancies, too, bartering away my
all of truth and ardour against your little feeble remnant of love. I
will bargain no more: I withdraw. I find no fault with you. You are
very good-natured, and have done your best, but you couldn't--you
couldn't reach up to the height of the attachment which I bore you, and
which a loftier soul than yours might have been proud to share.
Good-bye, Amelia! I have watched your struggle. Let it end. We are
both weary of it."