It was a day of surprises for Barton. In his astonishment at the last announcement, he took refuge from the horror of Miss Lavender's first revelations. One thing was settled,—all the fruits of his painful and laborious plotting were scattered to the winds. Denial was of no use, but neither could an honest explanation, even if he should force himself to give it, be of any possible service.
“Gilbert,” he asked, “is this true?—about you, I mean.”
“Martha Deane and I are engaged, and were already at the time when you addressed her,” Gilbert answered.
“Good heavens! I hadn't the slightest suspicion of it. Well—I don't begrudge you your luck, and of course I'll draw back, and never say another word, now or ever.”
“You wouldn't ha' been comfortable with Martha Deane, anyhow,” Miss Lavender grimly remarked. “'T isn't good to hitch a colt-horse and an old spavined critter in one team. But that's neither here nor there; you ha'n't told us why you made up to her for a purpose, and kep' on pretendin' she didn't know her own mind.”
“I've promised Gilbert that I won't interfere, and that's enough,” said Barton, doggedly.
Miss Lavender was foiled for a moment, but she presently returned to the attack. “I dunno as it's enough, after what's gone before,” she said. “Couldn't you go a step furder, and lend Gilbert a helpin' hand, whenever and whatever?”
“Betsy!” Gilbert exclaimed.
“Let me alone, lad! I don't speak in Gilbert's name, nor yet in Martha's; only out o' my own mind. I don't ask you to do anything, but I want to know how it stands with your willin'ness.”
“I've offered, more than once, to do him a good turn, if I could; but I guess my help wouldn't be welcome,” Barton answered. The sting of the suspicion rankled in his mind, and Gilbert's evident aversion sorely wounded his vanity.