“All right, Elshaw; I’ll show the rest. Come along, Claire.”
And in an instant he had whirled away with the young lady, who began to laugh and to protest, round the nearest corner.
Bram was left standing stupidly, with a feeling rising in his heart which he could not understand. What was this that had happened? Nothing but the most natural thing in the world; and the impulse of sullen resentment which stirred within him was ridiculous. There was, there could be, no rivalry possible between Mr. Christian Cornthwaite, the son of the owner of the works, and Bram Elshaw, a workman in his father’s employment. And Miss Biron was a lady as far above him (Bram) as the Queen was.
This was what Bram told himself as, with hard-set jaw and a lowering look of discontent on his face, he quietly went back to his work.
But the matter was not ended with him. As he went on mechanically with his task, as he bent over the great steel bar with his long rod, his thoughts were with the pair, the well-matched, handsome pair of lovers, as he supposed them to be, who had flitted off together as soon as papa’s back was turned.
Now what did that mean?
If it had been any other young lady Bram would not have given the matter a second thought. Christian Cornthwaite’s flirtations were as the sand of the sea for multitude, and he would bring half-a-dozen different girls in a week to “see over the works” when papa could be relied upon to be out of the way. Christian had the easy assurance, the engaging, irresponsible manners which always make their possessor a favorite with the unwise sex, and was reported to be able to win the favor of a prude in less time than it takes another man to gain the smiles of a coquette.
And so where was the wonder that this universal favorite should be a favorite with Miss Biron? Of course, there was nothing in the fact to be wondered at, but the infatuated Bram would have had this particular lady as different from other ladies in this respect as he held her superior in every other.
But then a fresh thought, which was like a dagger thrust on the one hand, yet which brought some bittersweet comfort for all that, came into his mind. Surely Miss Biron was not the sort of girl to allow such familiarity except from the man whom she had accepted for a husband. Surely, then, these two were engaged—without the consent, or even the knowledge, of Mr. Cornthwaite very likely, but promising themselves that they would get that consent some day.
And as he came to this decision Bram looked black.