“I can’t marry Mr. Preston, mother,” repeated the poor creature in a dull voice. “I told you and father I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to him any ways. I’ve told ’im so, and ’e ain’t goin’ to ask me no more.”
Mrs. Benson let herself flop into a chair.
“Ye’ll be the death o’ me, Bess,” she whimpered. “Ain’t goin’ to ask ye no more! Lord, what’ll yer father say?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl. “I told Mr. Preston he wouldn’t want to marry me if he knew all, and he ain’t goin’ to ask me no more.”
Mrs. Benson lifted a pair of scared eyes before her daughter and looked at her searchingly.
“Whatever did ye tell ’im?” whispered she.
“No more than that, mother,” said Bess. “But I can’t never marry nobody but Charley Chiswick, and if I don’t marry ’im I must bide single.”
“Lord-a-mercy, and to think we must needs come to this!” moaned the mother. “And we allers ’olding our ’eads so ’igh in the village and fit to do it too! Nobody won’t be able to say no more that Mary Benson’s nasty proud! I sha’n’t dare look folk in the face, I sha’n’t! I sha’n’t dare go to church.”
“Mother,” said the girl, disregarding her complaint and suddenly and desperately resolving to make one first and last appeal to the only possible helper she had—“mother, won’t ye ’elp me to marry Charley Chiswick? Won’t ye?”
Her voice shook for the first time and she looked up piteously.