Rachel was standing there with such a beautiful blush, and downcast eyes, and her hand in his.
'I liked you always, Rachel, from the first moment I saw you—I liked you better and better—indescribably—indeed, I do; and I've grown to like you so, that if I lose you, I think I shall never be the same again.'
There was a very little pause, the blush was deeper, her eyes lower still.
'I admire you, Rachel—I like your character—I have grown to love you with all my heart and mind—quite desperately, I think. I know there are things against me—there are better-looking fellows than I—and—and a great many things—and I know very well that you will judge for yourself—quite differently from other girls; and I can't say with what fear and hope I await what you may say; but this you may be sure of, you will never find anyone to love you better, Rachel—I think so well—and—and now—that is all. Do you think you could ever like me?'
But Rachel's hand, on a sudden, with a slight quiver, was drawn from his.
'Lord Chelford, I can't describe how grateful I am, and how astonished, but it could never be—no—never.'
'Rachel, perhaps you mean my mother—I have told her everything—she will receive you with all the respect you so well deserve; and with all her faults, she loves me, and will love you still more.'
'No, Lord Chelford, no.' She was pale now, and looking very sadly in his eyes. 'It is not that, but only that you must never, never speak of it again.'
'Oh! Rachel, darling, you must not say that—I love you so—so desperately, you don't know.'
'I can say nothing else, Lord Chelford. My mind is quite made up—I am inexpressibly grateful—you will never know how grateful—but except as a friend—and won't you still be my friend?—I never can regard you.'