“Mr. Elshaw! I’m getting on in the world then! I used to be only Bram.”
“That’s it,” said Claire in a low voice, looking at the fire. “You used to be only Bram; but you’ve got beyond that now.”
“But I don’t want to get beyond that with you, Miss Claire,” protested he.
“What you want doesn’t matter,” said she decidedly. “You can’t help yourself. I’ve heard something about you to-night. Oh, don’t look like that; it was nothing to your discredit, nothing at all. But you’ve got to give up your carpentering and wood chopping for us, Bram, and you’re not to come here again.” She spoke with much decision, but her sensitive face showed some strange conflict going on within her, in which some of the softer emotions were evidently engaged. Whatever it was that made her turn her humble and useful old friend away, the cause was not ingratitude.
Before he could put another question, being indeed too much moved to be able to frame one speedily, Bram was startled by a tapping at the door. Miss Biron started; Bram almost thought he saw her shiver. She pointed quickly to the inner door.
“Go at once,” said she in an imperious whisper, “and remember you are not to come back; you are never to come back.”
Bram took up his coat, slipped his arms into it, and obeyed without a word. But the look on his face, as Claire caught a glimpse of it, was one which cut her to the quick. She drew a deep breath, and threw out her hands towards him with a piteous cry. Bram stopped, shivered, made one step towards her, when the tap at the door was repeated more sharply.
Claire recovered herself at once, made a gesture to him to go, and opened the one door as he let himself out by the other.
Bram heard the voice of the newcomer. It was Christian Cornthwaite.