“Let it pass. As to the Boston Bainbridge who is known to me, we shall have something to say to each other when we next meet. If it is the one who is known to you, we may have something else to say to him. You say you quarreled with Barlow.”
“Yes. The very name of the fellow aroused me to rage. I struck him with my open hand in the face—and we fought. This Bainbridge came between; but it is a quarrel to the death. In the first burst, he spoke quite angrily to Barlow, as one who had a right to do it, and the young man appeared ashamed.”
“What can it mean?” said Van Curter, uneasily. “This fills me with doubts and fears which I can not fathom. Did you leave them together?”
“Yes, in the forest, a league or more from Good Hope.”
“It must be Bainbridge,” mused Van Curter. “He is the sworn friend of Barlow; and yet, the new character you give him is so utterly unlike the one he has borne, that I can’t understand it at all.”
“Let us speak of something else. Does Theresa know of my coming?”
“No; I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for her.”
Van Zandt set his teeth hard at the words, for he realized, only too painfully, that any thing like love for him was now foreign to the heart of Theresa. The old soldier knew that he was angry, and wisely allowed him his own time to answer. When the captain had controlled himself sufficiently to speak, he said:
“I have my fears upon the subject—I am afraid I shall never get my own. You have promised me the hand of Theresa; I have waited for it long years; but I have always feared that something would come between me and the promise. It has come.”
“Do you fear this Barlow?” asked the other, in some contempt. “Have you not an honored name—a name second to none in our own land? Have you not the most handsome face in the seven colonies? Bah!”