He strode on up the hill, panting and raging like a bull, while Weekes looked after him. Jarratt had turned very grey under this torrent of abuse. He was stung by the other's scorn, and felt that he did not deserve it. But he kept his wits, and perceived that Brendon, huge and loutish though he might be, had proved too clever for him in this matter. The lover of Sarah Jane had trapped Mr. Weekes by a pretended greed, and led him into folly. He realized that probably the world in general, and Sarah Jane in particular, would presently hear that he had offered a ten-pound note for her; and then raised the figure reluctantly to fifteen. This was not likely to advance his reputation at Lydford, or elsewhere. He even imagined the schoolboys shouting vulgar remarks after him along the public way.
Now he sat still on his horse for full five minutes. Then he rode after Brendon and overtook him.
"Only one word," he said. "Forget this. I didn't understand you. I'll interfere with you no more. You were right, and I was wrong. As you are victorious, be generous. Don't let my folly go further. We all make mistakes. I have erred, Mr. Brendon, and I regret it."
Brendon regarded Jarratt doubtfully. The giant still panted with his anger, and steam rolled out from his mouth in puffs upon the wet, dark air.
"'Tis human to err; 'tis human to forgive. I was wrong—very wrong. I own it. Who can do more? We've all got our weak places, and money is mine. Let them without sin cast the first stone. Remember what I must feel to lose Sarah Jane."
This last stroke answered its purpose, and Brendon relented very slowly.
"I know well enough what that must be."
"Be generous then to a desperate man. Hide up this that I have told you. The sum is nothing. I knew well enough you wouldn't take ten—or ten thousand. In sober honesty I'm much poorer than folk think, though I pretend to be warm. Anyway, I ask you to pardon me for insulting you, and to keep this talk secret—even from her. No man likes his mistakes blazed out for the people to scoff at. Do as you'd be done by in this—that's all I ask."
He pleaded better than he knew, for the victor already regretted his own coarse language.
"Let it be, then," answered Brendon. "Go your way, and I'll go mine; and not a word of this will pass my lips. We was both wrong—you to think of such a vile thing, and me to curse you. 'Twas all fair, and you had first say to her; but she likes me best, so there's no more to be said."