“He is in the same dwelling-house as before! For what is he making it so grand?”
“It is said to be against his marriage.”
“His marriage with Ketira?”
“With a Miss Peyton; some young lady he has met. Why do you bring up Ketira’s name in conjunction with this matter—or with him?”
She turned to the open casement, and stood there, as if to inhale the sweet scent of Abel’s flowers, and listen to the hum of his bees. Her face was working, her strange eyes were gleaming, her hands were clasped to pain.
“I know what I know, Abel Carew. Let him look to it if he brings home any other wife than my Ketira.”
“Nay,” remonstrated peaceful old Abel. “Because a young man has whispered pretty words in a maiden’s ear, and given her, it may be, a moonlight kiss, that does not bind him to marry her.”
“And would I have wished to bind him had it ended there?” flashed the gipsy. “No; I should have been thankful that it had so ended. I hated him from the first.”
“You have no proof that it did not so end, Ketira.”
“No proof; none,” she assented. “No tangible proof that I could give to you, her father’s brother, or to others. But the proof lies in the fatal signs that show themselves to me continually, and in the unerring instinct of my own heart. If the man puts another into the place that ought to be hers, let him look to it.”