“It does matter. He ought to have married you, and taken you away out of the place, and away from the life you have to live with that old rascal——”
Bram was beside himself; he did not know what he was saying. Claire stopped him, but very gently, saying—
“Hush, Bram. He’s my father.”
“Well, I know that, but he’s a rascal all the same,” said Bram bluntly. “And Mr. Christian knows it, and he had ought to be glad to have the chance of taking you away, and making you happier. He’s behaved like a fool, too, for the girl his father’s found for him will never get on with him, never make him happy, like you would have done, Miss Claire. He is just made a rod for his own back, and it serves him jolly well right!”
Claire did not interrupt him; she was crying quietly, every tear she let fall increasing Bram’s rage, and throwing fuel on the fire of his indignation. Perhaps his anger soothed her a little, for it was in a very subdued little voice that she presently said—
“Oh, Bram, I don’t think that! I do wish him to be happy! Indeed, indeed I do. And if it wasn’t for one thing I should be very, very glad he’s going to marry somebody else—very, very glad, really!”
Bram had come a little nearer to her; he spoke earnestly, tenderly, with a voice that trembled.
“You’re fond of him?” said he, quickly, imperiously.
“Yes, I’m very fond of him. He’s my cousin, and he’s always been kind to me. But I didn’t want to marry him. Oh, I didn’t want to marry him!”
Bram was astonished, incredulous. He spoke brusquely, almost harshly.