“It was you who put the obstacle there,” said Everard, smiling.
“No. An unlucky chance did that. Or a lucky one. Who knows?”
He began to think: If this woman had enjoyed the social advantages to which Agnes Brissenden and those others were doubtless indebted for so much of their charm, would she not have been their equal, or more? For the first time he compassionated Rhoda. She was brave, and circumstances had not been kind to her. At this moment, was she not contending with herself? Was not her honesty, her dignity, struggling against the impulses of her heart? Rhoda’s love had been worth more than his, and it would be her one love in life. A fatuous reflection, perhaps; yet every moment’s observation seemed to confirm it.
“Well, now,” he said, “there’s the question which we must decide. If you incline to think that the chance was fortunate—”
She would not speak.
“We must know each other’s mind.”
“Ah, that is so difficult!” Rhoda murmured, just raising her hand and letting it fall.
“Yes, unless we give each other help. Let us imagine ourselves back at Seascale, down by the waves. (How cold and grim it must be there to-night!) I repeat what I said then: Rhoda, will you marry me?”
She looked fixedly at him.
“You didn’t say that then.”