The bare supposition of a rival—and it might be a successful one—was gall and wormwood to him.
“Ye’ve heard what I’ve bin sayin’, Jane,” said the farmer, in a tone of voice which, to say the truth, was in strange contrast to its usual tone.
There was a mournful cadence in his voice which his companion never remembered to have heard on any former occasion. He proceeded with his discourse slowly and deliberately.
“As I ha’ just sed,” he observed, thoughtfully. “You’ve heard the few words that ha’ fallen from my lips, and, hark ’ee, it aint because I’m in a better position than ye are, Jane, that I would seek by word or deed to control ye in a matter which concerns ye more perhaps than aught else. I’ve no right to control ye. A woman cannot help her likins’ and dislikins’ any more than a man, and if ye cannot find it in your heart to look upon me wi’—wi’ eyes o’ favour—”
“Mr. Richard—Mr. Ashbrook,” interrupted the girl, with sudden warmth, “you not goin’ to tell me that you believe for a moment that I would turn from ye—that I would not lay down my life gladly and cheerfully for you or your’n—at any turn, at any time, or do aught that a poor creature like myself could do to help and benefit you. Ah, ah! if ye doubt this ye do me but scant justice.”
“I do not doubt it—I should be worse than a fool to doubt it,” said the farmer, bending fondly ever her.
“Spoken like yourself—your own good self!” exclaimed Jane.
Ashbrook did not deem it advisable to press the question further. He contented himself with imprinting a kiss on the girl’s forehead, and said gently—
“You are troubled. Now, think over what I’ve bin a-sayin’; we’ll talk further on this matter another time.”
And with these few parting words he crept softly out of the apartment and went abroad in the fields.