“Best come to what we’ve got to say at once, Cilla,” he began. “Mr. Gaunt here said just now that you were going to wed him, and I said he was a liar. Which of us was right, lile lass?”
Again Gaunt’s spirits fell. He had looked for silence—yes; but for silence of the happy, maidish sort that is afraid to tell its secrets. Priscilla of the Good Intent wore no such look; grave, and delicate, and soft her face was, but her eyes were full of misery.
“You were right, both of you, father,” she said at last, “and both wrong. I am not going to marry Mr. Gaunt, but I promised to, yestre’en.”
It was hard to say which of the men was more non-plussed. This slim maid, standing with the candle-light upon her face, had robbed them both of sure yet separate faiths.
“Ye promised, Cilla?” said Hirst, reaching for the snuff-box on the mantel, and taking a pinch for habit’s sake.
“Yes, I promised, father. But this morning I walked up by Little Beck Hollow, and I took my promise back.”
Gaunt understood at last; and in his heart he cursed Peggy Mathewson, who had led him into this.
The yeoman was hard hit, and hit in his weakest spot; yet he gathered his strength up somehow, and found a weakened echo of his usual laugh.
“Second thoughts run safest, lass. Ye may have been a lile, daft fool yestre’en, but ye are wise to-day. Mr. Gaunt, is there aught more to be said?”
“I fancy not. Good even to you,” said Reuben, with a desperate quiet.