A shadow fell across Hugh's mind. Rachel saw it fall.
"You do not think that of me, Rachel," he said, pointing to the verse. It was the first time he had alluded to that halting confession which had remained branded on the minds of both.
He glanced up at her, and she suffered him for a moment to look through her clear eyes into her soul.
"I never thought that of you," she said, with difficulty. "I am so foolish that I believe the candles are lit now for the first time. I am so foolish that I believe you love me nearly as much as I love you."
"It is a dream," said Hugh, passionately, and he fell on his knees, and hid his white face against her knee. "It is a dream. I shall wake, and find you never cared for me."
She sat for a moment stunned by the violence of his emotion, which was shaking him from head to foot. Then she drew him into her trembling arms, and held his head against her breast.
She felt his tears through her gown.
"What is past will never come between us," she said, brokenly, at last. "I have cried over it too, Hugh; but I have put it from my mind. When you told me about it, knowing you risked losing me by telling me, I suddenly trusted you entirely. I had not quite up till then. I can't say why, except that perhaps I had grown suspicious because I was once deceived. But I do now, because you were open with me. I think, Hugh, you and I can dare to be truthful to each other. You have been so to me, and I will be so to you. I knew about that long before you told me. Lady Newhaven—poor thing!—confided in me last summer. She had to tell some one. I think you ought to know that I know. And oh, Hugh, I knew about the drawing of lots, too."
Hugh started violently, but he did not move.
Would she have recognized that ashen, convulsed face if he had raised it?