“And you would prefer to be loyal to Colonel Barrington even if it cost you a good deal?”
“Of course!” said Maud Barrington. “Can you ask me?”
Witham saw the sparkle in her eyes and the half-contemptuous pride in the poise of the shapely head. Loyalty, it was evident, was not a figure of speech with her, but he felt that he had seen enough and turned his face aside.
“I knew it would be difficult when I asked,” he said. “Still, I cannot give you back that promise. We are going to see a great change this year, and I have set my heart on making all I can for you.”
“But why should you?” asked Maud Barrington, somewhat astonished that she did not feel more angry.
“Well,” said Witham gravely, “I may tell you by and by, and in the meanwhile you can set it down to vanity. This may be my last venture at Silverdale, and I want to make it a big success.”
The girl glanced at him sharply, and it was because the news caused her an unreasonable concern that there was a trace of irony in her voice.
“Your last venture! Have we been unkind to you or does it imply that, as you once insinuated, an exemplary life becomes monotonous?”
Witham laughed. “No. I should like to stay here—a very long while,” he said; and the girl saw he spoke the truth as she watched him glance wistfully at the splendid teams, great ploughs, and rich, black soil. “In fact, strange as it may appear, it will be virtue, given the rein for once, that drives me out when I go away.”
“But where are you going to?”