The one person in the world who should have helped her, she held to be useless; the one person in the world who would have helped her was far away, and knew naught of her distress.
For that one cherished Christmas letter was the only one that she had had, and in that he had given her no address to which she could have written, even had she dared. He had said that he was changing it, and he had said that he was coming—coming very soon.
So she waited, hoping every day that “very soon” might mean the morrow; but her smile grew rarer and sadder, and her eyes more wistful and her cheek more white.
One Sunday in early February, when the sun was shining gay upon the crisp snow and icicles hung rainbow-tinted from the cottage-eaves, Farmer Benson strode into the farm kitchen. His wife was busy mixing the Sunday pudding, but Bess, contrary to her wont, was sitting listless in a chair. She rose quickly as her father entered, but not before he had had time to notice her attitude.
“Now what’s that puling face for, pray?” said he sharply. “Let’s ’ave none o’ them airs and graces ’ere. It won’t pay wi’ me, I can tell ye! No, nor get ye a ’usband, neither!”
Bess looked up with a new fear in her face, and Mrs. Benson said, half-appealing: “What, Lor’, she don’t want a ’usband yet awhile, do she, John? She’s but a child, surely.”
“Get out wi’ yer ‘do she, John!’” snarled the man. “Most women’s pleased to get their darters out o’ hand, but you’re such a lazy one ye want to keep ’er ’angin’ round to do yer work for ye, I suppose? But whether you want or whether she wants, she’s got to ’ave one. A child she is, but if she’s woman enough to play tricks, she’s woman to ’ave a ’usband. And a child does as it’s bid.”
Bess gave a great start and went paler than ever, and her father held his bleary eye fixed fast on her.
“Yes, she’s got to ’ave a ’usband,” repeated he doggedly, emphasizing every word, “and ’igh time too!”
“What d’ye mean, father?” faltered the girl faintly.