“Never mind the election, that was only a jest,” replied the lawyer good-humouredly; “and the trouble's not worth talkin' about. If Miss Conklin,” and here he turned respectfully towards her, “would take a seat in my buggy and show me the chief settlers' houses, I reckon I could fix up the case in three or four days.”
The eyes of all were directed upon Loo. Was it Bancroft's jealousy that made him smile contemptuously as he, too, glanced at her? If so, the disdain was ill-timed. Flushing slightly, she answered, “I guess I'll be pleased to do what I can,” and she met the schoolmaster's eyes defiantly as she spoke.
With the advent of Barkman upon the scene a succession of new experiences began for Bancroft. He was still determined not to be seduced into making Loo his wife. But now the jealousy that is born of desire and vanity tormented him, and the mere thought that Barkman might marry and live with her irritated him intensely. She was worthy of better things than marriage with such a man. She was vain, no doubt, and lacking in the finer sensibilities, the tremulous moral instincts which are the crown and glory of womanhood; but it was not her fault that her education had been faulty, her associates coarse—and after all she was very beautiful.
On returning home one afternoon he saw Barkman walking with her in the peach orchard. As they turned round the girl called to him, and came at once to meet him; but his jealousy would not be appeased. Her flower-like face, framed, so to speak, by the autumn foliage, only increased his anger. He could not bear to see her flirting. Were she out of his sight, he felt for the first time, he would not care what she did.
“You were goin' in without speakin',” she said reproachfully.
“You have a man with you whose trade is talk. I'm not needed,” was his curt reply.
Half-incensed, half-gratified by his passionate exclamation, she drew back, while Barkman, advancing, said:
“Good day, Mr. Bancroft, good day. I was just tryin' to persuade Miss Conklin to come for another drive this evenin' in order to get this business of ours settled as soon as possible.”
“Another drive.” Bancroft repeated the words to himself, and then steadying his voice answered coolly: “You'll have no difficulty, lawyer. I was just telling Miss Conklin that you talked splendidly—the result of constant practice, I presume.”
“That's it, sir,” replied the lawyer seriously; “it's chiefly a matter of practice added to gift—natural gift,” but here Barkman's conceit died out as he caught an uneasy, impatient movement of Miss Conklin, and he went on quietly with the knowledge of life and the adaptability gained by long experience: “But anyway, I'm glad you agree with me, for Miss Conklin may take your advice after rejectin' mine.”