“Now, I’m sure you do not mean what you say. I did love another—him as is dead and gone these six years ago an’ more.”
“Ah! true. No one else?”
“Certainly not. It seems strange to me that you should ask such a question.”
“Does it?” said the farmer, musingly, gazing, at the same time, abstractedly through the lozenge panes of the lattice window of the apartment. Then, after a pause, he added—
“I don’no but what you beest right. I don’no what med me ask such a question.”
He again became silent and thoughtful. He was doatingly fond of the young woman by his side—much more attached to her than he had supposed, or, indeed, cared to confess.
A suspicion crossed his mind; it was vague and shadowy at first, and did not assume any tangible shape. It was this—
“What if Jane had formed an attachment in the neighbourhood?”
He had never given that a thought before, not until after he had avowed his love.
The thought was agony. Poor Ashbrook was a man of impulse. He had never throughout his life been accustomed to consider twice before he spoke. He was hasty and at times brusque in his manner; for the rest he was as upright and honest as the day, and was quite incapable of doing a mean, paltry, or ungenerous action. Of all men in the world he was, perhaps, the one least able to bear a disappointment or a repulse from the woman he loved.