Peggy Mathewson winced, recovered as from a blow, and turned to Gaunt with an impassive face.
“Did not see you before, Mr. Gaunt. Miss Priscilla here wears such a look of spring about her that a plain body seems to want to see no farther, like. You might have chosen worse.”
With a nod to Priscilla she went her way, and Cilla turned to look after her and to admire the bold, free swing of limbs and body.
“There’s something whimsical about her, Reuben. Yet why they give the Mathewsons so bad a name, I could never guess.”
“Nor I,” said the other lamely.
“’Tis not as though they did aught amiss, save live outlandishly away from Garth and show little care for company. They’re an odd couple, mother and daughter both; but they carry themselves as if they had a pride in life, and even father owns that they know how to treat their cattle and how to rake the hay-crop in. That’s much for father to say, who thinks that women’s place is in the dairy and the house-place.”
“I was thinking of you, Cilla,” broke in Reuben desperately. “Why spoil the night with talk of Peggy Mathewson?”
“Nay, I know not. The girl has always puzzled me. I could have liked her, and been friendly, Reuben, but she seems always like the east wind, that will be friends with none.”
Peggy herself, meanwhile, had carried her aching heart till she was sure of being out of sight. Then she stumbled to the nearest gate, and looked out at the grey, soft darkening of the hills. Sharprise was an ill-defined, blue-purple splash across the fell-scape now, and the curlew’s note waned softer and more soft.
“’Twas to be,” murmured Peggy. “Oh, ay, ’twas like as it was to be. The queer thing is, that I bear no malice to slim Miss Good Intent. Should hate her, I—yet, if ’twere not she, ’twould be another.”