It was very evident to Ida that his quietness was the result of a strenuous effort. The barrier of reticence between them was very frail just then, and she meant to break it down. She leaned forward in her chair with her eyes fixed on him, and now the signs of tension in his face grew plainer.
“You speak as if that would be easy for you,” she said.
Weston shut his eyes to one aspect of the question. He had not the courage to face it, and he confined himself to the more prosaic one.
“As a matter of fact, I’m afraid it won’t be,” he admitted. “The life I’ve led here, and the few weeks I spent at Kinnaird’s camp, have rather spoiled me for the bush. Some of the customs prevalent in the trail-choppers’ shanties and the logging-camps are a little primitive, and one can’t quite overcome a certain distaste for them.”
“That was not quite what I meant,” said Ida.
Weston was startled, but she saw that he would not allow himself to wonder what she really did mean.
“Anyway,” he answered doggedly, “I suppose I can bear any unpleasantness of that kind, which is fortunate, because there’s apparently no way out of it. After all, it’s one consolation to feel that I’m only going back to what I was accustomed to before I found the mine.”
“Ah,” said Ida, “you are very wrong in one respect. You speak as if you could bear the trouble alone. Don’t you think it would hurt anybody else as much to let you go?” Then, while the blood crept into her face, she fixed her eyes on him. “Yes,” she added simply, “I mean myself.”
Weston rose, and stood leaning on the back of his chair, with one hand tightly closed. He had struggled stubbornly, but it was evident that his strength had suddenly deserted him and that he was beaten now.
“It would hurt you as much?” he said, with a curious harshness. “That’s quite impossible. The hardest, bitterest thing I could ever have to face would be to go away from you.”