The younger brother’s face was white, and he looked dumbly at the other.
“What a cur I am!” cried Harry, seizing his hand. “Don’t stare at me, Llewellyn—say something, for Heaven’s sake!”
“I should not have spoken,” said Llewellyn hoarsely.
“Say anything you like—anything, only forgive me! forgive me!” cried generous Harry.
Llewellyn’s hand, which had lain passive in his brother’s, began to tighten. “Don’t, Harry,” he said. “It’s all right. I will never say anything about it again. I had no right to interfere.”
“But that’s worse. It is terrible to think we can’t talk to each other. Just say out what you think, Loo, and I’ll listen; I haven’t been able to speak a word to you of late, but I wish we could have it out now.”
They were walking down the laurel shrubbery leading from the garden to the home farm, Llewellyn’s chief anxiety and the Squire’s dearest toy. The old wall which ran outside it smelt damp, a background of sodden red to the rank, shining leaves. A cock robin, whose figure had filled out considerably since the thaw, was sending forth his shrill, cold voice in recognition of this crowning mercy. The breath of rotting chrysanthemums came from the beds by the tool-house.
“How much do you really care for her?” asked Llewellyn after a pause.
“A lot!”
“But how much? More than Laura? More than Kitty Foster?”