“That is an unkind thing to say.”
“It is as you take it.”
“I wonder what people will think of you, aunt?”
“I wonder that, too–but I care nothing.”
“I see that talk will come to little, and that we had better part.”
“If you will marry Bele we need not part; then I will be good to you.”
“I will not marry Bele–no, not for the round world.”
“Then, what I have to say is this, and I say it out: go to the Borsons as soon as you can; there is doubtless soul-kin between you and them, and I want no Borson near me, in the body or out of the body.”
So that afternoon Karen went to live with Paul Borson, and there was great talk about it. No sooner had Liot put his foot ashore than he heard the story, and at once he set it bitterly down against Bele; for his sake Karen had been driven from her home. There were those that said it was Bele’s plan, since she would not marry him, to separate her from her aunt; he was at least determined not to lose what money and property Matilda Sabiston had to leave. These accusations were not without effect. Liot believed his rival capable of any meanness. But it was not the question of money that at this hour angered him; it was Karen’s tears; it was Karen’s sense of shame in being sent from the home of her only relative, and the certain knowledge that the story would be in every one’s mouth. These things roused in Liot’s soul hatred implacable and unmerciful and thirsty for the stream of life.
Yet he kept himself well in hand, saying little to Karen but those things usually whispered to beloved women who are weeping, and at the end of them this entreaty: