“I did not expect that you would,” he said: “it had been too much luck for a miserable sinner. But be honest with me, Joan—if a woman can—and tell me, do you love anybody else?”
“Not a soul,” she answered, opening her brown eyes wide. “Who is there that I should love here?”
“Ah! that’s it,” he answered, with a sigh of relief: “there is nobody good enough for you in these parts. You are a lady, however you were born, and you want to mate with your own sort. It is no use denying it: I have watched you, and I’ve seen how you look down upon us; and all I’ve got to say is:—Be careful that it does not bring you into trouble. Still, while you don’t love anybody else—and the man you do love had better keep out of my way, curse him!—there is hope for me. Look here, Joan: I don’t want to press you—take time to think it over. I’m in no hurry. I could wait five years if I were sure of getting you at last. I dare say I frightened you by my roughness: I was a fool; I should have remembered that it is all new to you, though it is old enough for me. Listen, Joan: tell me that I may wait awhile and come again,—though, whether you tell me or not, I shall wait and I shall come, while there is breath in my body and I can find you out.”
“What’s the use?” said Joan. “I don’t love you, and love does not grow with waiting; and if I do not love you, how can I marry you? We had better make an end of the business once and for all. I am very sorry, but it has not been my fault.”
“What’s the use? Why, all in the world! In time you will come to think differently; in time you will learn that a Christian man’s honest love and all that goes with it isn’t a thing to be chucked away like dirty water; in time, perhaps, your aunt and uncle will teach you reason about it, though you do despise me since you went away for your fine schooling——”
“Oh, don’t tell them!” broke in Joan imploringly.
“Why, I have told them. I spoke to your aunt this very day about it, and she wished me God-speed with all her heart, and I am sure she will be vexed enough when she learns the truth.”
As Joan heard these words her face betrayed the perturbation of her mind. Her aunt’s fury when she understood that she, Joan, had rejected Samuel Rock would indeed be hard to bear. Samuel, watching, read her thoughts, and, growing cunning in his despair, was not slow to turn them to his advantage.
“Listen, Joan,” he said: “say that you will take time to think it over, and I will make matters easy for you with Mrs. Gillingwater. I know how to manage her, and I promise that not a rough word shall be said to you. Joan, Joan, it is not much to ask. Tell me that I may come again for my answer in six months. That can’t hurt you, and it will be hope to me.”
She hesitated. A warning sense told her that it would be better to have done with this man at once; but then, if she obeyed it, the one thing which she truly feared—her aunt’s fury—would fall upon her and crush her. If she gave way, on the other hand, she knew well enough that Samuel would shelter her from this storm for his own sake if not for hers. What could it matter, she argued weakly, if she did postpone her final decision for six months? Perhaps before that time she might be able to escape from Bradmouth and Samuel Rock, and thus avoid the necessity of giving any answer.