I laughed. "There is a moon," said I, "unless the clouds have swallowed it." And I got up to go out on the terrace and see.
The voices in the library rose and fell as I opened the door. I heard father's deep tones, strong and firm, and Mr. Hoad's, lighter and jarring. Joyce rose too and followed me, and so did Trayton Harrod.
The library window stood ajar as we crossed the lawn.
"You'll pull through all right," came Mr. Hoad's voice; "Squire Broderick's your friend. You were wise not to stick to your colors over that election business. It would have offended him. He's not a poor devil like me who must needs look to the pence. He can afford to be generous about debts and rents. And if rumor says true, there's one of your young ladies can give him all he needs for reward."
I stopped, paralyzed. Had Joyce heard?
But Trayton Harrod strode past me to where she stood a few steps before us. "Miss Maliphant, you must fetch a wrap for your head," he said, hurriedly; "the mist is falling."
She went in obediently. I noticed she always did behave obediently towards him now. If she had heard, she gave no sign of it. Probably she had not understood.
Some one stepped forward inside the room and fastened the window. I heard no more.
"Come down onto the terrace," said Harrod, authoritatively. "We can wait for your sister there."
He led the way and I followed, but I looked at him. Had he also not heard, not understood? Oh yes, he had heard, and he had understood—as I had understood.