“No,” said Chris, sternly, and with his face growing hard and old. “I’m not going to deny anything. I’m an Englishman, Mrs Sarson, a strong-willed, stubborn Englishman, let them say what they like—do what they like, I’m here, and here I stay till they drag me away, and I do not care whether they do or do not now.”
“But one thing, my dear, one word, and I won’t ask you another question. Were you at the Fort that night, and did Reuben Brime find you?”
“Yes, Mrs Sarson.”
“Oh!—But why were you there, my dear, like that?”
“You asked one question, but I’ll answer the other. Because I am a weak young fool—in love with somebody who seemed to have cared little for me, and I wanted to get one word with her. Yes, I was a weak young fool. That seems years ago now,” he continued, half-talking to himself, “and I seem to have grown much older. Old enough to be firm and strong.”
“But you didn’t tell me, my dear, what you mean to do.”
“Mean to do?” cried Chris, with a bitter laugh. “I’m going to live it down.”