Not once did she guess that it could be Reuben Gaunt. Had Billy the Fool not led her to the thorn-bush this morning, such a visit would have been natural and looked-for; but Cilla, single-hearted and understanding little of concealment, could not realize that Gaunt, trusting in her ignorance of all concerning Peggy Mathewson, might still come asking Yeoman Hirst for his daughter.
“Will you light the candles, father?” she said hurriedly. “I—I am all in my workaday frock, and I must tidy myself if you bring company.”
Hirst would have had the matter settled at once; but, before he could protest, the girl had run lightly up the stair, and her footfall sounded crisply overhead. So he lit the candles, standing in their handsome sticks of Sheffield ware; and he took his place in front of the dying fire, and stood very straight, thrusting his hands under the lapels at his coat.
“Stand where ye like, Mr. Gaunt,” he said. “Will not ask ye to sit, for some matters are best settled standing up.”
Gaunt moved restlessly about the room, and the silence—broken by the little noise of Cilla’s movements overhead—did not help him to a more even frame of mind. But at least, he told himself, he had one ally here—Cilla herself. When she came down, and Yeoman Hirst heard from her own lips that she had plighted troth last night, he could talk to better advantage.
Cilla did not keep them waiting overlong. She had no need to change her gown, but only to pour water into the ewer, and bathe her face, and bathe it over and over again; for she knew that her father hated all signs of tears, because they weakened him and loosed his steady grip on life.
They heard her at the stair-head, the two men waiting below in enmity and silence; and then they heard the door-sneck rattle, and Cilla stood for a moment, looking across the candle-light to see who the guest might be.
She faltered for a moment, seeing Reuben’s eyes fixed eagerly on hers; then she moved to the dresser and leaned against it, one hand pressed tight against the bosom of her dress, as her wont was always when she was troubled.
“You?” she said faintly.
That was all; but Hirst, blind in his faith that Priscilla could never stoop to such as Gaunt, interpreted her trouble as sheer disdain.