But to this speech the first reply of the colonist was a sardonic laugh.
“I daresay he will,” said he, drily, when his hard merriment had suddenly ceased. “For the matter of that, a man with a serious object before him, who has his head screwed on the right way, can get help of some sort from everybody he comes nigh to. And so, Mr. Brander, I make no doubt I shall get assistance in my work, not only from your brother, but from yourself.”
And with these words, uttered in a tone of some significance, he turned on his heel with an abrupt nod, and made his way with characteristically heavy and deliberate steps towards the gate of the cottage.
Vernon Brander watched the solidly-built figure disappearing in the dusk, and then proceeded on his way down the hill in some agitation of spirit. The shadow of the old crime was creeping up again; the tragedy which ten years had not lived down was reappearing with a new and ghastly vividness in the presence of that matter-of-fact stranger. Who he might be Vernon could scarcely guess; what the nature of his work was in a quiet village flashed upon him with an intuition which left no room for doubt. The feelings produced by this thought were not all gloomy; a certain hungry look, which betokened perhaps that even open shame would be welcome after ten years of silent ignominy, burned in the clergyman’s dark eyes as he lifted his head and gazed into the blue-black night sky above him with a piercing intentness which seemed to be trying to fathom the mysteries of the future.
On reaching the bottom of the hill, he was startled out of his reverie by a bright girl’s voice and a gentle touch on his arm. He stopped short and lowered his head dreamily, almost inclined to think, in the high state of excitement to which he had been worked, that the sweet voice, the kindly touch, were a prophecy of happiness rather than the commonplace incident of an every-day greeting. The next moment, however, he came fully to himself, and found that he was in the presence, not only of Olivia Denison, but of her father.
“Mr. Brander, come down from the clouds if you please, and leave your next Sunday’s sermon to take care of itself for a little while. I want to introduce you to my father.”
Mr. Denison, a tall, strikingly handsome man of about fifty years of age, with a gentle, kindly face entirely destitute of any trace of his daughter’s energy and impulsive frankness, held out his hand with a very willing smile.
“I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Brander, and to be able to thank you for your great kindness to my little daughter here.”
He patted Olivia’s shoulder affectionately, but it seemed to the clergyman, as he looked from the one face to the other, that the action was scarcely typical of the mutual relations between gentle, vacillating father and quick-witted, active daughter.
“Miss Denison is so much more valiant and self-helpful than most young ladies that she spurs one up to do more for her than one would for others,” said Vernon.