“I, too, Babs,” he said sadly. “I’m afraid I have kicked very hard against the pricks several times in my life. Every now and then—very rarely—one meets a sweet soul like Rachel who knows nothing of these struggles; they are born saints, and appear to rise superior to temptations, but most of us are continually fighting. There’s this consolation, that the hour of victory can never be so sweet as when it comes after a struggle.”
“And Vere—will she win too? I can think of no one but her just now. We used often to quarrel, and I’ve been jealous of her hundreds of times. I never knew I loved her so much till we were in danger, but now I’d give my life to save her, and help her through this terrible time!”
“And you will do it, too. Vere will win her battle, but not with her own weapons, as Rachel says. Pride and anger won’t carry her very far down the road she has to travel, poor child. It will be a gentler weapon.”
“You mean—?”
Will turned his back to me, and stood staring out of the window. He looked so big and strong himself, as if no weakness could touch him.
“I mean—love,” he said softly.
I wondered what he meant. I wondered why he turned his face from me as he spoke. I wondered if the thought of Vere lying there all broken and lovely was too much for his composure, and if he was longing to save her himself. But then there was Rachel. He could never be false to poor trusting Rachel!