“I would like to see Mr. Gaunt to the door, father, and talk with him,” said Cilla unexpectedly.
Hirst looked at her, and saw the strong simplicity that hedged her sorrow round from prying eyes. He did not know whether he were wise or foolish—all old landmarks to-night were sundered from him—but he nodded grimly.
“Ye may, Cilla. ’Tis the last time he will come here,” he said, forgetting to touch wood when boasting openly.
Gaunt opened the door, and waited for her to pass through into the grey moon-dusk of the porch.
“Cilla,” he began, “Cilla, ’twas kind of you—”
“Yes, ’twas kind of me—kind toward the lass I saw you with to-day in Little Beck Hollow. Yestre’en was so much fancy, was it not? Nay, you need not interrupt me. The drive from Keta’s Well—the curlews dipping up and down the fields—the smell of violets in the wind that blew about Garth valley—they made us fairy-kist, I think, and we fancied—what did we not fancy, Reuben?”
Priscilla was self-possessed. The old reserve, half pride, half modesty, had come to her again. She fenced herself about, and Reuben Gaunt knew that the wall was strong.
“I loved you, Cilla, and I told you so.”
She strove to read his face, here by the light of the clouded moon that shone upon the highway. Women had done as much before Cilla’s time, in daylight and in dusk, and had found no answer.
“Loved me? I do not understand, Reuben. Love is for one and for always, surely; ’tis not a game to play at hop-scotch with, as the children do about Garth street. Reuben!” she went on, pain and sincerity between them getting the better of her. “Reuben, I had heard stray talk of you and Peggy Mathewson, and had passed it by, because I do not care for gossip; but I saw to-day that what I’d heard was true—and, Reuben—you needn’t fear our last night’s fairy-time.”