Was it possible that Harrod might be under a delusion? Somehow it gave me pleasure to think that it might be possible.
"The squire is no friend of mine," said I. I was ashamed of the words before they were spoken, they were so untrue; but I spoke them under the smart of the moment.
"How can you say such a thing?" said Harrod, sternly.
"I don't mean to say that he wouldn't do anything for any of us," I murmured, ashamed. "I only meant to say that he would be more likely to do it—for Joyce."
I felt his eyes turn upon me, and I raised mine to his face. It was quiet, all trace of the temper that had been there five minutes ago had vanished; but his eyes, those steely gray eyes, looked me through. But it was only for a moment. Then the shade upon his brow melted away, and the hard lines of his mouth broke into that parting of the lips which was scarcely a smile yet lit his whole face as with a strong, sharp ray of light.
There never was a face that changed as his face changed; not with many and varying expressions as with some folk—for his was a character reserved almost to isolation, and if he felt many things he told but few of them, either tacitly or in words—but with a slow melting, from something that was almost akin to cruelty into something that was very much akin to good, honest tenderness. It was as the breaking of sunlight across some rugged rock where the shadow has hidden every possible path-way; when the sunlight came one could see that there was a way to ascend. Judging with the dispassionateness of distance, I think that Harrod feared any such thing as feeling. Life was a straightforward and not necessarily pleasant road, which must be travelled doggedly, without pausing by the way, without stopping to think if there were any means by which it might be made more agreeable. Life was all work for Trayton Harrod.
And as a natural consequence, if he had any feelings he instinctively avoided dwelling on the fact; therefore he mistrusted any expression of them in others. He was cruel, but if he was cruel to others he was also cruel to himself.
That evening, however, the sunshine broke out across the rock. It melted the last morsel of pride in me. He turned away his eyes again without a word, after that long, half-amused, half-reproachful, and wholly kind look. It puzzled me a little, and yet it gave me courage.
"I think I'm in a very bad temper to-day," said I, with a little awkward laugh. "I think I was very rude to you just now."