“No, no! He was only a friend! He could never have been more than that. Poor, poor Griff!”
“I am glad for your sake, dearie,” said Mrs. Emory, gently.
“I wasn't very kind to him at the last, but I couldn't know—I couldn't know,” she moaned.
She was not much given to these confidences, even with her mother. Usually she never questioned the wisdom or righteousness of her own acts, and it was not her habit to put them to the test of a less generous judgment. But she was remembering her last meeting with Ryder. It had been the day before his death; he had told her that he loved her, and she had flared up, furious and resentful, with the dull, accusing ache of many days in her heart, and a cruel readiness to make him suffer. She had tried to convince herself afterwards that it was only his vanity that was hurt.
Then she thought of Oakley. She had been thinking of him all day, wondering where he was, if he had left Antioch, and not daring to ask. They were going up the path now towards the house, and she turned to her mother again.
“What do they say of Mr. Oakley—I mean Mr. Dan Oakley? I don't know why, but I'm more sorry for him than I am for Griff; he has so much to bear!”
“I heard your father say he was still here. I suppose he has to remain. He can't choose.”
“What will be done with his father if he is captured? Will they—” She could not bring herself to finish the sentence.
“Goodness knows! I wouldn't worry about him,” said Mrs. Emory, in a tone of considerable asperity. “He's made all the trouble, and I haven't a particle of patience with him!”