He wagged his head fiercely, but Cilla only laughed; and the laugh was cool and dainty as her person. Then suddenly her face clouded.
“We ought not to be jesting, doctor. Indeed we ought not. I cannot keep my thoughts away from those poor folk up at Ghyll.”
The doctor halted, irresolute for once. He knew more of the history of the countryside than even Will the Driver did, and now he remembered many rumours, earlier in the year, that Gaunt would carry off Priscilla after all the rest of Garth had failed. He had been sorry to hear the news then; but his feelings had changed since morning.
“Best tell you at once,” he said, “for you’re bound to hear it soon or late. Peggy o’ Mathewson’s died this morning.”
He regretted his impulsiveness, when he saw Cilla move unsteadily across the road, and rest her hand on his saddle, as if she could not stand without support. He should have let another break the news that Gaunt was free, so he told himself.
Cilla’s pride was of different texture from Widow Mathewson’s; but it was as strong in its own way, and it did not fail her when need came. She was pale, and her eyes were overbright, but she stood upright again and looked the doctor in the face.
“Tell me,” she said, “did Mr. Gaunt go there—and did he stay in the house—of his own free will?”
“What else should have kept him, lassie? I had all the tale from Mrs. Mathewson, and I tell you she’s lucky to have such a man about her. Pride may be fine enough, Cilla, but not when you’re alone in a house, with one death to cry over and another—your own—to look forward to.”
Cilla’s face clouded again. “Is—is the risk so great as they would have us believe?”
“Well, maybe not; there’s always hope—always hope, Cilla. And there are two of them to help keep the boggarts away.”