"Ah!" said Durgan.
"He actually came in with his necktie crooked, he was thinking so hard," continued Bertha. "He is good, but I can't think why Hermie cares for him so; he usually looks so like a doll."
In a few minutes Durgan dropped the bridle and turned back. His mind was uneasy.
But the next afternoon Bertha descended in a different mood. She had evidently been watching to see his negro laborers depart, for she stood on the rock ledge before they were out of sight.
"You told him my secret. How could you? You promised at least not to tell until you had spoken to me. You never explained yesterday that you had told. Oh, how he has turned against us! And you! There is no one in the world we can trust."
Durgan stood in awkward distress before her. His intention not to tell could not balance his stupidity in having betrayed anything.
"I told you because you said you must know my story on Adam's account, but you found Adam's safety provided for; you said you must know lest you should do injustice to 'Dolphus, but he will likely die before the trial comes on; and yet you have babbled to Mr. Alden, not being able to keep faith with a most unhappy woman for a few days. I was foolish, I was wrong, to tell you our secret; but you forced me to speak. Oh, how could you call yourself a gentleman and betray me so?"
She was very imperious, very handsome; but she was far too sad and frightened to be really angry.
As he stood before her without a word, contrition written on his face, she took shelter in the threshold of his hut and, sitting by the open door, began to cry piteously, not with abandonment, but with the quietude of a real sorrow.
She spoke again. "Mr. Alden is a hound, with his keen nose on a scent. He will not lift it off till his victim is at bay. When I said to Hermie that Mr. Alden would not rest now till whoever did it was hanged, she fainted. She was so ill upstairs in our room that I was terrified, but she would not let Mr. Alden know."