“I won't have Bob hanging round my house. The wastrel has done you harm enough.”
“You forget something,” Helen rejoined in a strained, cold voice. “The house is mine.”
She knew her mistake as she saw the change in Festing's look, and weakly turned her head. When she looked back it was too late. His hands were clenched and his gaze was fixed.
“I—I didn't quite mean that,” she faltered.
“Anyhow, it's true,” said Festing quietly. “The farm is yours as well, and I admit you have no grounds for being satisfied with the way I've managed your property. You won't have much trouble in getting a better steward.”
Helen glanced at him, with a hint of fear. “But I don't want anybody else. Do you mean to give up the farm?”
“Yes. As soon as I can arrange things for you I'm going to British Columbia for a time. I've been offered a railroad contract, and as it's a job I know something about, I mayn't fail at that.”
“And you will leave me alone to face this slander?”
“The remedy's in your hands. I'm powerless if you won't use it. I can't forbid Bob coming here; you can.”
Helen hesitated. It was unfortunate that both were in an abnormal mood. They had borne some strain, and the shock of the disaster to the crop had left them with jangled nerves. This clouded Helen's judgment, but reenforced her pride. She had meant well when she tried to help Sadie with Bob, and could not give way to her husband's unreasonable prejudice. This was a matter of principle. She could help Bob and must not be daunted by vulgar gossip.