“N-no: that is, not yet.”
Another pause. Barton, curious to know how far gossip had already gone, repeated the question:
“Well, what do people say?”
“Some, that you and she will be married,” Gilbert answered, speaking slowly and with difficulty, “and some that you won't. Which are right?”
“Damme, if I know!” Barton exclaimed, returning to his customary swagger. It was quite enough that the matter was generally talked about, and he had said nothing to settle it, in either way. But his manner, more than his words, convinced Gilbert that there was no betrothal as yet, and that the vanity of being regarded as the successful suitor of a lovely girl had a more prominent place than love, in his rival's heart. By so much was his torture lightened, and the passion of the moment subsided, after having so nearly betrayed itself.
“I say, Gilbert,” Barton presently remarked, walking on towards the bars which led into the meadow-field; “it's time you were looking around in that way, hey?”
“It will be time enough when I am out of debt.”
“But you ought, now, to have a wife in your house.”
“I have a mother, Barton.”
“That's true, Gilbert. Just as I have a father. The old man's queer, as you saw—kept me out of marrying; when I was young, and now drives me to it. I might ha' had children grown”—