When he was gone, the reaction upon Mrs. Ransom's sensitive and already sorely taxed nerves was more than she had expected, and she went to her room and cried. It seemed so bitter a thing to do to one so earnest and honorable and gentle.
Reynolds saw the traces of tears on her face, when at last she did come out to look for him, but he avoided saying anything to call up an explanation. She told him the story, however, in her straightforward, simple way, acknowledging her regret and her tears, and ending with some outright praise of Beresford's worthiness.
"I am sorry he came," said Reynolds. "I felt for him when I saw him going away; but what else could you do?"
"Did he look sad?" she inquired with perfect naïveté, a sweet sorrowfulness in her voice.
"Oh, I couldn't tell, he was too far off," answered Reynolds. "It will all come right. We will not allow our imaginations to follow him. I must tell you my plans. I hope they will be your plans too."
She lifted her eyes to his but did not speak.
"First of all, Agnes," he went on, "will you be my wife?" The words fell dryly, strangely on her ear.
They were standing close to a tree and she was lightly leaning against the bole. She felt a quick but vague sense of fear, or something akin to it, strike coldly into her heart.
It was inexplicable, an almost irresistible impulse toward flight took hold of her. She could not speak. Something forbade it.
"Answer me, Agnes: you will marry me, won't you, love?" His voice was low and appealing.