“They are not ghosts of a past happiness, at all events,” he answered.
She sat down on a stool before the hearth, and clasping her fingers upon her knee looked thoughtfully into the embers of the fire. Presently she began to speak in a low, even voice, he looking down at her, his feet apart, his hand thrust backward towards the heat.
“Harry,” she said, “do you remember all our contrivances? How you used to hold my hand in the garden under the table, while I talked brazenly to Mr. Mason? And how jealous Jack Temple used to get?” She laughed again, softly, always looking at the fire.
“Damnably jealous!” agreed Mr. Riddle, and yawned. “Served him devilish right for marrying you. And he was a blind fool for five long years.”
“Yes, blind,” the lady agreed. “How could he have been so blind? How well I recall the day he rode after us in the woods.”
“'Twas the parson told, curse him!” said Mr. Riddle. “We should have gone that night, if your courage had held.”
“My courage!” she cried, flashing a look upwards, “my foresight. A pretty mess we had made of it without my inheritance. 'Tis small enough, the Lord knows. In Europe we should have been dregs. We should have starved in the wilderness with you a-farming.”
He looked down at her curiously.
“Devilish queer talk,” said he, “but while we are in it, I wonder where Temple is now. He got aboard the King's frigate with a price on his head. Williams told me he saw him in London, at White's. Have—have you ever heard, Sarah?”
She shook her head, her glance returning to the ashes.