“Why, I would rather have remained as poor as you say you were all my life than have made a large fortune in such hard ways as those!” she exclaimed.
Mr. Bradfield’s face clouded suddenly at her words, so that Chris began to wonder what there was in her speech to offend him.
To break the silence which followed, she said:
“You must be very glad those hard times are over?”
As he answered, one of the hard looks his face could assume at times made his features look repulsive in their rugged harshness.
“Glad!” he exclaimed. “There isn’t a crime I wouldn’t commit sooner than go through them again.”
Chris glanced at his face, and a sudden remembrance of Mr. Bradfield’s unfortunate ward flashed into her mind. Without reason, by a woman’s sensitive instinct, she connected the words he had just uttered, the hard, harsh spirit which they betrayed, with the treatment of the man whom he kept shut up in such a mysterious manner in the east wing.
By this time they were passing Wyngham Station. A few passengers were coming out in a straggling thread, for the London train had just come in. Although the afternoon was light for the time of year, it was too dark to distinguish clearly the faces of these people, although something of their figures was discernible. Mr. Bradfield’s gaze was suddenly attracted by the appearance of a man who was walking in the road a little in front of the dog-cart. As soon as he caught sight of him, he stopped abruptly in the middle of a remark he was making to Chris. As his voice, besides being very gruff, was very loud, Chris saw nothing remarkable in the fact that as he stopped speaking, the man in the road turned quickly round.
“John Bradfield!” he cried, stepping back to the roadside. He had not spoken loudly, so there was nothing surprising in the fact that Mr. Bradfield drove on, apparently without hearing the stranger’s voice.