“Wait!—­wait!” she said piteously.

She fell back in her chair, covering her face, her breast heaving.  He saw that she was trying to command herself, to steady her voice.  One of those forebodings which are the children of our half-conscious observation shot through him.  But he would not admit it.

He stooped over her and tried again to take her hand.  But she drew it away, and sat up in her chair.  She was very white, and there were tears in her eyes.

“I’ve got something to say to you,” she said, with evident difficulty, “which—­I’m afraid—­will surprise you very much.  Of course I ought to have told you—­long ago.  But I’m a coward, and—­and—­it was all so horrible.  I am not what you suppose me.  I’m—­a married woman—­at least I was.  I divorced my husband—­eighteen months ago.  I’m quite free now.  I thought if you really cared about me—­I should of course have to tell you some time—­but I’ve been letting it go on.  It was very wrong of me—­I know it was very wrong!”

And bowing her face on her knees, she burst into a passion of weeping, the weeping of a child who was yet a woman.  The mingled immaturity and intensity of her nature found its expression in the very abandonment of her tears.

Ellesborough, too, had turned pale.  He was astounded by what she said.  His thoughts rushed back over the six weeks of their friendship—­recalling his first impressions of something mysterious and unexplained.

But of late, he had entirely forgotten them.  She had talked so frankly and simply of her father and mother—­of her father’s missionary work in Canada, and her early journeys with him; and of her brother in Ontario, his children and his letters.  Once she had handed him a letter from this brother to read, and he had been struck by the refined and affectionate tone of it.  Here were the same family relations as his own.  His heart, his taste were satisfied.  If Rachel Henderson accepted him he would be bringing his mother a daughter she would find it easy to love.

And all the time—­instead of an unmarried girl, with the experiences of love and marriage before her—­she had been already married—­and divorced!  Another man had loved and possessed her—­and even if she were innocent—­but of course she was innocent!—­there must be some ugly story involved.

He tried to collect his thoughts—­but all his consciousness seemed to be bruised and in pain.  He could only put his hand on her hair, and say incoherent things,—­

“Don’t cry so, dear—­don’t cry!”

And even as he spoke he felt with bewilderment how—­in a moment—­their respective attitudes had changed.  She checked her sobs.

“Sit there!” she said, pointing peremptorily to a seat opposite.  Then she looked round her.

“Where is Janet?”

“She went to the village.”

Rachel dried her eyes, and with trembling hands smoothed her hair back from her face.