id Steel, quietly, "though not more so than
the injustice of it, from the very beginning. Hence the plans and
proposals that I have put before you."

Rachel regarded him wildly; the Sunday papers had driven her to
desperation, as, perhaps, it was intended that they should.

"Are you sure," she cried, "that they would not know me--up north?"

"Not from Eve," he answered airily. "I should see to that; and, besides,
we should first travel, say until the summer."

"If only I _could_ begin my life again!" said Rachel to herself, but
aloud, in a way that made no secret of her last, most desperate
inclination.

"That is exactly what I wish you to do," Steel rejoined quietly, even
gently, his hand lying lightly but kindly upon her quivering shoulder.
How strong his touch, how firm, how reassuring! It was her first contact
with his hand.

"I wish it so much," he went on, "that I would have your past life
utterly buried, even between ourselves; nay, if it were possible, even
in your own mind also! I, for my part, would undertake never to ask you
one solitary question about that life--on one small and only fair
condition. Supposing we make a compact now?"

"Anything to bury my own past," owned Rachel; "yes, I would do
anything--anything!"

"Then you must help me to bury mine, too," he said. "I was never
married, but a past I have."

"I would do my best," said Rachel, "if I married you."

"You will do your best," added Steel, correcting her; "and there is my
compact cut and dried. I ask you nothing; you ask me nothing; and there
is to be no question of love between us, first or last. But we help each
other to forget--from this day forth!"

Rachel could not speak; his eyes were upon her, black, inscrutable,
arrestive of her very faculties, to say nothing of her will. She could
only answer him when he had turned away and was moving towards the door.

"Where are you going?" she cried.

"To send to my solicitor," replied Steel, "as I warned him that I might.
It has all to be drawn up; and there is the question of a settlement;
and other questions, perhaps, which you may like to put to him yourself
without delay."

CHAPTER IX

A CHANGE OF SCENE

The Reverend Hugh Woodgate, Vicar of Marley-in-Delverton--a benefice for
generations in the gift of the Dukes of Normanthorpe, but latterly in
that of one John Buchanan Steel--was writing his sermon on a Friday
afternoon just six months after the foregoing events. Th