Rachael nodded her head slowly, her eyes glittered in the firelight. Wrapped in her black shawl, she looked like some quaint effigy—something scarcely human.
“Your guardian and his wife,” she said, “are foolish, ignorant people. They do not understand such men as Bertrand. You will understand him, child. You will know him better when he is your husband, know him better, and be proud of him. Is it not so?”
“I—I suppose so,” Lois said.
“I am glad that you came this afternoon,” Rachael continued. “Bertrand and I have been talking. We think it well that you should be married very soon.”
“I am not of age,” Lois said, breathlessly.
“It does not matter,” Rachael declared. “Your guardian can keep back your money, but that is of no consequence. It will come to you in time, and Bertrand has plenty himself. I am afraid that they might try and tempt you to be faithless to my son. You are very young and impressionable, and though I do not doubt but that you are fond of him, it is not easy to be faithful when you are alone, and with such people as Mr. Rochester and Lady Mary. I am going to London in a few days. I think it would be well if you went with me. Bertrand could get a special license, and you could be married at once.”
“No!” she shrieked. “No! No!”
Rachael said nothing. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Only her eyes flashed unutterable things.
Upon the somewhat hysterical silence came the sound of Saton’s voice—cold, decisive.