“Ay, sir—she’ve took him from us all with her fooling, and I make no doubt but they’ll be married afore they reach the other side. The mother would have welcomed her gladly to keep Robert at home; but she weren’t honest enough to do that—she must needs give herself airs like a fine lady, and drag my boy after her.”
Vane saw Stuart’s jaw set, his face flush, the veins on his forehead swell. After a pause, he said, in a low tone:
“And you are sure of this, Bright?”
“I’m just back from London, sir. I’ve been down to the docks, and there’s no mistake; they all remembered the girl—her pretty face, they called it. Ah, it will be weary work for us, sir, waiting till Robert comes back! My wife’s most distraught.”
“Good-by, Bright.” Stuart put out his hand, which the farmer grasped. “This is indeed bad news! I am sorry, very sorry for you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Stuart.”
Bright loosened Stuart’s hand, and, with a respectful salute to Vane, passed on, something like a tear twinkling in his eye.
Vane looked straight ahead, pretending not to see the quick, hurried way in which Stuart bent his head for a moment. Victory was hers, she told herself—victory! Suddenly Stuart looked up.
“Turn around, Vane, and drive home; it is all over now—so much the better!”
The recklessness of his tone pleased her; it showed her that anger rankled as well as pain, that mortification filled his breast with despair. If this mood lasted, her work would not be difficult.