“Mary would of course be told, and any one else you like.”
She believed him entirely serious. Another woman might have suspected that he was merely trying her courage, either to assure himself of her love or to gratify his vanity. But Rhoda’s idealism enabled her to take him literally. She herself had for years maintained an exaggerated standard of duty and merit; desirous of seeing Everard in a nobler light than hitherto, she endeavoured to regard his scruple against formal wedlock as worthy of all respect.
“I can’t answer you at once,” she said, half turning away.
“You must. Here and at once.”
The one word of assent would have satisfied him. This he obstinately required. He believed that it would confirm his love beyond any other satisfaction she could render him. He must be able to regard her as magnanimous, a woman who had proved herself worth living or dying for. And he must have the joy of subduing her to his will.
“No,” said Rhoda firmly. “I can’t answer you to-night. I can’t decide so suddenly.”
This was disingenuous, and she felt humiliated by her subterfuge. Anything but a sudden decision was asked of her. Before leaving Chelsea she had foreseen this moment, and had made preparations for the possibility of never returning to Miss Barfoot’s house—knowing the nature of the proposal that would be offered to her. But the practical resolve needed a greater effort than she had imagined. Above all, she feared an ignominious failure of purpose after her word was given; that would belittle her in Everard’s eyes, and so shame her in her own that all hope of happiness in marriage must be at an end.
“You are still doubtful of me, Rhoda?”
He took her hand, and again drew her close. But she refused her lips.
“Or are you doubtful of your own love?”