“Why, ’tis you, Peggy?” said Gaunt, touching his cap, but not lifting it with the flourish which exasperated David the Smith.
“Seems so, Reuben,” she answered, setting down her basket and standing with a hand on either shapely hip.
It was not easy to read the look in Peggy’s face. There was derision, and rosy pleasure at the meeting, and defiance; and Reuben was daunted a little, for he liked women to go easily upon the rein.
“I’m home again, you see,” he said, awkwardly.
“Seems so. I heard you were back two weeks ago, and fancied you were overproud these days to visit Peggy Mathewson. Got a fine house of your own, and what not, now your folk are dead?”
“I used not to be overproud to visit you,” said Reuben, his eyes catching fire at hers.
“Well, no. But that was years ago, and you were always light to come and go, Reuben. D’ye remember that you left without a good-by said?” she went on, the grievance of five years coming out with sudden bitterness. “Mother talked to ye, Reuben Gaunt—would have thrashed you, I believe, but for your luck—mother is strong as a man to this day, and that’s more than you will ever be.”
Reuben’s face was like a dog’s when he has done amiss, and knows it, and tries to make you understand that he is innocent. Of all the welcomes he had found in Garth, this was the sharpest and most tantalizing.
“Had my folk to think of, Peggy. ’Twould have broken father’s heart—”
“Oh, ay!” The girl was fine in the strength with which she treated Reuben Gaunt. “You always had somebody’s heart to think of, Reuben, when you wanted to run wide and free from trouble. What of me, lad, left here to think of things?”