Belhaven obeyed mechanically; he wanted to speak, too, but his lips were parched, for he felt that he had a coward's part. He had known it ever since he looked in the clear depths of her gray eyes. He was tasting the fruits of his indiscretions and he rebelled against it, for, like most sinners, he would greatly have preferred to go free. He was ashamed to look at Rachel; he felt himself suddenly a moral leper. He had never entertained so poor an opinion of himself as he did at that moment, and he had never been aware before that he profoundly admired her. He met her eyes at last and was surprised that her expression was so tranquil; it was even kind,—companions in misery are sometimes drawn to each other.
"I'm sorry for you," she said quietly, "we're in an unhappy situation. I'm nearly as sorry for you as I am for myself, which is saying a good deal," she added, with the ghost of a smile.
Belhaven pulled himself together. "I don't deserve your pity," he said hoarsely.
Again Rachel felt a thrill of doubt, but she passed it over. "I'm sorry we have to go through with it—this marriage—but it's the only thing to do."
Belhaven was silent; he wanted to tell her that he would face the worst, that he would not accept the sacrifice, but words choked him. He had not courage enough; he stormed in his heart but it was true, he was a coward! He heard Rachel's voice again and it seemed a long way off.
"I suppose—oh, really I don't know what to say to you," she cried, almost breaking down after her fine beginning; "it's—it's hard to talk of it, but I suppose we've got to do it. You and I alone know that she's innocent and you and I are forced to save her from—from the consequences of her indiscretion!"
She broke off, waiting for him to answer but he did not; he, too, flushed a dark red during her speech and then paled to the lips. He was silent.
"It was her folly," Rachel began again, in a low voice, "but you—you're a man of the world, it's just unpardonable in you; you can't blame Johnstone for what he's done! If only Eva had told the real truth—but she was so frightened, she's afraid he'll kill you and she's flung the thing upon me—so I've got to save her. I'm doing it for her sake, I—I—" Her voice failed her altogether, she turned scarlet, and her lips trembled.
He looked up into her eyes. He had never before encountered this kind of a woman and he was impressed. There was a dignity about her, even in the midst of her embarrassment, that made him feel that her soul kept a space to move in too elevated for him to enter.
"I think it's fine of you," he said haltingly; "it's tremendously plucky—of course I can make no excuses. I don't. I love her; it's my fault; I suppose such things have happened before;" this was a very old excuse but he used it unconsciously; "I'd give my right hand to save her from it all, but I feel I'm a coward to let you do this."