“Am needing none,” said Reuben. “Seems a queer thing, all the same, that when I come to you with a straight tale—”
“A straight tale?” snapped Hirst “What about my lass? Lad, ye’re crazy to think I don’t know your doings five years agone all up and down the countryside. Step in, however, and we’ll thrash this business out for good and all.”
CHAPTER XII
CILLA was leaning on the window-ledge when she heard her father’s footstep in the porch. The house-place was unlit and dim, save for the flickering of a fire that was dying hard in the wide grate; but at the window here there was a soft and tranquil light, half from the gloaming and half from the clouded moon. The geraniums, lined all along the ledge, showed a more chastened red than in the sunlight. Outside, among the lilacs and the hawthorns and the late-leafing copper beeches, the birds were twittering restlessly, and now and then were giving a last, clear challenge to the night.
Priscilla of the Good Intent had been crying quietly. She was stunned no longer, and had gone through a fire of anguish in amongst her usual household business; and now the tears had come, as dew falls on the parched, tired fields. She was glad, when she heard her father’s step, that it was dark indoors.
“Why, Cilla, ye’re all in darkness here!” cried Hirst, seeing her outlined by the half-light that filtered through the window-space.
“I was idling, father. The day’s so sorry to go down the hills, and I was sorry, too, to watch it go.”
From a brave stock came Cilla, and her voice was clear and even.
“Ay, but I’ve brought company, lile lass. I’ve promised him neither bite nor sup, but at the least he must have a candle lit here and there about the house-place.”
The girl raised her head quickly, and stood back a step or two. It was hard enough to meet her father, but she was not prepared to welcome “company” of any sort. She tried, in the dusk of the room, to see who it was that came, but the guest was hidden by Hirst’s bulk.