He rose, and “What could I do?” he asked. “I loved her, and was I to look at her father selling her to another one who never had her heart?”
“Are you sure you have it yourself, Gilian?” she asked, and her face was exceedingly troubled.
“It’s a thing I never asked,” he confessed carelessly. “Would she be where she is without it being so?”
“Where her mother’s daughter might be in any caprice of spirit I would not like to guess,” said Miss Mary, dubious. “And I think, if I was the man, it would be the first thing I would be making sure about.”
“What would she fly with me for if it was not for love?” he asked.
“Ask a woman that,” she went on. “Only a woman, and only some kinds of women, could tell you that. For a hundred reasons good enough for herself, though not for responsibility.”
He bit his lips in perplexity, feeling all at sea, the only thing clear to his mind being that Nan was alone on the moor, her morning fire sending a smoke to the sky, expectation bringing her now and then to the door to see if her ambassador was in view.
For the sake of that sweet vision he was bound to put another question to Miss Mary—to ask her if the reference by her brother to Old Islay bore the import he had given it. He braced himself to it—a most unpleasant task.
“It’s true,” she said. “Do you mean to tell me you did not know he was the man?” “I did not. And the money?” “Oh, the money!” said Miss Mary oddly, as if now a great deal was explained to her. “Did Nan hear anything of that?”
“She knows everything—except the man’s name. She was too angry to hear that.”