"You are so young! Think what a number of years you have before you, in all probability. If you should lose the colour out of your life too soon, if you should have to drudge—but I won't let you drudge," he added, with a sudden touch of fierceness, "I will take care of you, and you shall have all you want. It won't be a sacrifice—not even all this"—looking round him—"if you give it up for a man you love, who has health and strength to work for you. It would make you miserable if you had it. You know it would?"
"I do know it," she responded, without a moment's hesitation.
She had finally made up her mind that after all material poverty was not the worst of life's misfortunes. Indeed, provided the element of debt were absent, she thought it might in Roden Dalrymple's company, "far from the madding crowd," in the lonely wilds of Queensland, be rather pleasant than otherwise; for it would mean the delight of working for and helping one another, and a blessed freedom from interruption and restraint in the enjoyment of that wonderful married life which would be theirs.
"But I should like to know what made you take to me," he went on, in the immemorial fashion, stroking her soft face. "I should like to know why you chose, for your first love—I am your first, am I not, Rachel?"
"You know you are. And it was no matter of choice with me—you know that, too."
"A man who made shipwreck of his fortunes for another woman almost before you were born——"
"Hush!" interrupted Rachel. "I have no rights in your past, and I don't want any. This present is mine, and that is enough for me."
"A battered old vagabond——"
"No," she persisted; "I won't allow you to call yourself a vagabond. It is bad enough to hear other people do it."
"After seeing him under what one would be inclined to consider, well, anything but favourable auspices—for how many days, Rachel?"