“Fear it, Cilla? ’Twas the love-time o’ my life. See ye, that other was a tale old and done with, and—”
“Old and done with?” she echoed piteously. “If the cobwebs had not been blown away, up yonder by the Hollow, I should have been old and done with, to-morrow, or the next day afterwards.”
Since grey old Garth was in the making, it had heard such women’s cries; and to-night it listened sleepily, not stirring from its quiet.
“What d’ye want of me, Cilla?” he asked, drawing nearer with a caress which she avoided.
“I want to see you wedded. ’Twas plain to be seen this morning that you were promised to her, Reuben, and last night’s forgotten altogether.”
“Promised to her—what, to Peggy Mathewson?”
Priscilla would, or could not, realize all that was meant by Gaunt’s hasty words—the surprise that he should be thought to have meant at any time to marry Widow Mathewson’s daughter—the touch of chill contempt in his voice—the acknowledgment that all was “over and done with,” and that his wooing up at Intake Farm had been so much idle devilry.
“Yes,” the girl answered simply. “What else, Reuben?”
Gaunt knew that he had lost her. Her simplicity, the return of that gentle aloofness which from the first had thwarted and enticed him, the lack of all upbraiding—these, and her trust in his good faith towards Peggy convinced him. Random, full of odd weaknesses and hidden corners where the better man in him took refuge, he was surprised to-night to find how vital Cilla’s good opinion was.
Before he could answer, footsteps sounded down the road, and Priscilla turned quickly. “Good night, Reuben,” she said. “All was glamour and fairy-webs yestre’en. Forget it, soon or late.”