Bram said nothing.
“And I’ll make him provide for her. I’ll bring out an action against him, and make him shell out, him and his skinflint of a father. Chris is nothing but a chip off the old block, and I’ll make them suffer together, in the only way they can suffer—through the money-bags.”
Bram was disgusted, sickened. He scented through this new turn of Mr. Biron’s thoughts that feeling for the main chance which was such a prominent feature of that gentleman’s character. And quite unexpectedly he stopped short, and said bluntly—
“That may comfort you, Mr. Biron, but it will never do aught for her! If—if,” he had to clear his throat to make himself heard at all, “if she—comes back, she’ll never touch their money! Poor, poor child!”
“You think she’ll come back?” asked Theodore almost wistfully.
But Bram could not answer. He did not know what to think, what to wish. He shrugged his shoulders without speaking, and with a gesture of abrupt farewell turned from his companion, who had now nearly reached his own door, and walked rapidly back in the direction of his lodging.
He could not bear to come near the farm, the place which had been hallowed in his eyes by thoughts of her who had been his idol.
Theodore called out to him.
“You’ll give me a look in to-night, won’t you, when you come back from the office? Think how lonely I shall be.”
Bram, without turning round, made a gesture of assent. He felt with surprise to himself that he was half-drawn to this contemptible creature by the fact that, underneath all his theatrical demonstrations of regret and grief, there was some very strong and genuine feeling. It was chiefly a selfish feeling, as Bram knew; indeed, a resentful feeling, that Claire had treated him shabbily and ungratefully in leaving him to shift for himself without any warning, after so many years of patient slavery, of tender care for him.