“Rachel, won’t you do it? Won’t you get free, and be my wife?”
Then she turned a startled face towards him in the half-darkness.
“I can’t marry you, Mr. Buckland,” she said tremulously. “I don’t deny I’m gratified by the feeling you have for me, though I know I don’t a bit deserve it. Believe me, you would be miserable if I were to listen to you: I can imagine nothing more terrible for you than to have a wife like me, with a capricious and headstrong temper, and a will that leads her into all sorts of ways which she would perhaps have done better to avoid. So I thank you, but I can only give you one answer.”
He came a little nearer.
“Rachel,” he said, “think again. Think it all over quietly—to-night—by yourself, and then answer me afterwards. Think whether you would not rather give up the life that makes you miserable, for the life which would make you happy. Don’t answer me now; think it over first. Will you?”
She hesitated. This proud, headstrong girl was always easily moved as a child when once he touched the right chord, as he seemed to be able to do at will.
“Yes, yes, I will,” she said, in a timid tone, like a very, very young girl confronted by a difficult choice; “but I’m afraid—”
“Don’t be afraid of anything yet. Weigh what I’ve said against what others say, and decide which offers you the best chance of happiness.”
There was a short silence, Rachel trembling and not looking at him, he watching her with tender, imploring eyes.
Suddenly there appeared between them the figure of Denver Van Santen, and Gerard started back a step with a shock.