Mrs. Vaiden went upstairs, and returned presently, followed by Lavinia. The girl looked pale; a white kerchief bound about her brow increased her pallor; her eyes were red. She sat down weakly in a splint-bottom chair and crossed her hands in her lap.
At sight of the girl’s suffering, Bart knew instantly that he had been doubting her without realizing it, because his faith in her came back with such a strong rush of tenderness.
“Sick, Laviny?” he asked, in a tone that was a caress of itself—it was so very gentle a thing to come from so powerful a man.
“I got a headache,” said Lavinia, looking at the floor. “It came on right after you left. It aches awful.”
Bart went to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. It was a strong hand to be shaking so.
“Laviny, I’m a brute to get you up out o’ bed; but I’m more of a brute to ’a’ believed”—He stopped, and she lifted her eyes, fearfully, to his face. “I’ve been listenin’ to things about you.”
“What things?” She looked at the floor again.
“Well, I ain’t goin’ to so much as ask you ’f it’s so; but I’m goin’ to tell you how mean I’ve b’en to listen to ’t an’ to keep a-wonderin’ if it c’u’d be so,—an’ then see if you can forgive me. I’ve b’en hearin’ that you don’t light no torch nor ketch no salmon when you go a-spearin’, but that you an’ him go off by yourselves an’ stay—an’ that he—he”—the words seemed to stick in his throat—“he’s cut me out.”
After a little Lavinia said—“Is that all?”
“All! Yes. Ain’t that enough?”