“Miss Levinger,” Henry continued, “I am not skilled at this sort of thing, and I hope that you will make allowances for my awkwardness. Do you think that you could care enough for me to marry me? I know very well that I have little to recommend me, and there are circumstances connected with my financial position which make it almost presumptuous that I should ask you.” “I think, Sir Henry,” she answered, speaking for the first time, “that we may leave money matters out of the question. I have heard something of the state of affairs at Rosham, and I know that you are not responsible for it, though you are expected by others to remedy it.” “It is very generous of you to speak like that, Miss Levinger; and it helps me out of a great difficulty, for I could not see how I was to explain all this business to you.” “I think that it is only just, Sir Henry, not generous. Provided that there is enough on one side or the other, money is not the principal question to be considered.” “No, Miss Levinger, I agree with you, though I have known others who thought differently. The main thing is whether you can care enough about me.” “That is one thing, Sir Henry,” she answered in a low voice; “also there are others.” “I suppose that you mean whether or no I am worthy of you, Miss Levinger. Well, even though it should destroy my chances with you, I will tell you frankly that, in my judgment, I am not. Listen, Miss Levinger: till within a few months ago I had never cared about any woman; then I saw you for the second time, and thought you the sweetest lady that I had ever met, for I understood how good and true you are, and in my heart I hoped that a day would come when I might venture to ask you what I am asking you now. Afterwards trouble arose through my own weakness and folly—trouble between myself and another woman. I am sure that you will not press me for details, because, in order to give them, I must betray another person’s secret. To be brief, I should probably have married this woman, but she threw me over and chose another man.” “What!” said Emma, startled out of her self-control, “is Joan Haste married?” “I see that you know more about me than I thought. She is married—to Mr. Samuel Rock.” “I cannot understand it at all; it is almost incredible.” “Nor can I, but the fact remains. She wrote to tell me of it herself, and, what is more, her husband showed me the marriage certificate. And now I have made a clean breast of it, for I will not sail under false colours, and you must judge me. If you choose to take me, I promise you that no woman shall ever have a better husband than I will be to you, for your happiness and welfare shall be the first objects of my life. The question is, after what I have told you, can you care for me?” Emma stopped, for all this while they had been walking slowly, and looked him full in the eyes, a last red ray of the dying light falling on her sweet face.