“But, oh, you don’t know him!” she cried, panic-stricken. And her terror wrung his heart. “You don’t know him! Or what he will think of me!”
“Nothing very bad,” he rejoined. But more than ever, more than before, his conscience accused him. He felt that the shame which burned her face and in a moment gave way to the pallor of fear was the measure of his guilt; and in proportion as he winced under that knowledge, and under the knowledge that it was she who must pay the heavier penalty, he took blame to himself and was strengthened in his resolve. “Listen, Jos,” he said bravely. “Listen! And let me tell you what I mean. And, dearest, do not tremble as you are trembling. I am not going to tell him to-day. But tell him I must some day—and soon, if we do not wish him to learn it from others.”
She shuddered. All had been so bright, so new, so joyous; and now she was to pay the price. And the price had a very terrible aspect for her. Fate, a cruel, pitiless fate, was closing upon her. She could not speak, but her eyes, her quivering lips, pleaded with him for mercy.
He had expected that, and he steeled himself, showing thereby the good metal that was in him. “Yes,” he said firmly, “we must, Jos. And for a better reason than that. Because if we do not, if we continue to deceive your father, he will not only have reason to be angry with you, but to despise me; to look upon me as a poor unmanly thing, Jos, a coward who dared not face him, a craven who dared not ask him for what he valued above all the world! Who stole it from him in the dark and behind his back! As it is he will be angry enough. He will look down upon me, and with justice. And at first he will say ‘No,’ and I fear he will separate us, and there will be no more meetings, and we may have to wait. But if we are brave, if we trust one another and are true to one another—and, alas, you will have to bear the worst—if we can bear and be strong, in the end, believe me, Jos, it will come right.”
“Never,” she cried, despairing, “never! He will never allow it!”
“Then——”
“Oh,” she prayed, “can we not go on as we are?”
“No, we cannot.” He was firm. “We cannot. By and by you would discover that for yourself, and you, as well as he, would have cause to despise me. For consider, Jos, think, dear. If I do not seek you for my wife, what is before us? To what can we look forward? To what future? What end? Only to perpetual alarms, and some day, when we least expect it, to discovery—to discovery that will cover me with disgrace.”
She did not answer. She had taken her hands from him, she had taken herself from him. She leant on the stile, her face hidden. But he dared not give way, nor would he let himself be repulsed; and very tenderly he laid his hand on her shoulder. “It is natural that you should be frightened,” he said. “But if I, too, am frightened; if, seeing the proper course, I do not take it, how can you ever trust me or depend on me? What am I then but a coward? What is the worth of my love, Jos, if I have not the courage to ask for you?”
“But he will want to know——” her shoulders heaved in her agitation, “he will want to know——”