“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander,” he retorted, plunging into a communication he had resolved to make. “You have been taking a wife on your score, and I have taken one on mine.”
Mr. Radcliffe looked keenly at Stephen. “You have married Gibbon’s girl?”
“I have.”
“When? Where?”
“In Cornwall. She followed me there.”
The elder man felt himself in a dilemma. He did care for his son, and he resented this alliance bitterly for Stephen’s sake. Gibbon was gamekeeper to Sir Peter Chanasse, and had formerly been outdoor servant at the Torr; and this daughter of his, Rebecca—or Becca, as she was commonly called—was a girl quite beneath Stephen. Neither was she a lovable young woman in herself; but hard, and sly, and bony. How it was that Stephen had fancied her, Mr. Radcliffe could not understand. But having stolen a march on Stephen himself, in regard to his own marriage, he did not feel much at liberty to resent Stephen’s. It was done, too—as he had just observed of his own—and it could not be undone.
“Well, Stephen, I am more vexed for your sake than I care to say. It strikes me you will live to repent it.”
“That’s my look out,” replied Stephen. “I am going to bring her home.”
“Home! Where?”
“Here.”