“’Tisn’t me as’ll do the forgetting!” he turned on her fiercely, breaking out at last. “It’s your sort, not mine, as doesn’t keep a friend in mind. It’s your sort as goes back on your word, and plays fast and loose and suchlike tricks. You’d be glad to be shot of me, I’ll be bound, and afore long there’d be somebody easier in my shoes, but I don’t mean to give you a chance o’ forgetting, don’t you fret! Am I like to put miles between us when I’m lile or nowt to you in the same lane? Nay, I’ll bide ... I’ll bide.... I’m used to your ways, and though I don’t think much on ’em, I reckon I can see it through. But it isn’t only me as is waiting on you now. You’re making me act bad to the old dad, and that’s what’s putting me about.”
“It’s no business of mine, I tell you!” she flung back, full of resentment at this shifting of loads. “It’s nowt to do wi’ me, anyway round.” They stood glaring at each other with frowning faces and hard eyes, blaming each other for the subtle net by which they were equally entrapped. “I’ve no call to wed just to give your father a home,” she went on. “I’m sorry for him, as I said, and I’d lend a hand if I could, but I don’t see as it’s fair to blame me because I can’t. You’ve not overmuch pride, I doubt, or you’d never put it like yon. It’s nobbut a poor sort o’ lad as’d take me at the price!”
He threw her a final look of helpless rage, and swung away from her, facing towards the farm. “Then he mun gang to Marget,” he flung over his shoulder, “Marget and Bob!” and at the terrible name of Marget she cried aloud. Thomas continued steadily on his way.
“Eh, Thomas, you don’t mean that!” she called after his retreating back. “She’ll be bad to him, will Marget—she’ll finish him right off. Bide a bit, can’t you?... Save us, man, can’t you bide? I never somehow thought of the old man going there.”
“Where else should he gang?” he demanded sullenly, stopping but still turned away. “Bob’s his own flesh and blood as well as me, and a long sight the oldest on us an’ all. There’s t’ Union, likely, might do for the old dad, but I doubt they won’t take him while there’s others to fill the job.”
“Nay, and why should it, I’d like to know!” she exclaimed. “You should think shame o’ yourself for suchlike selfish talk.” There was something desperate in her glance at the hedge on either side, as if the fences were hung with the net that would not let her through. From them she looked once more at Thomas, turning slowly on his heel, and slowly beginning at last to see his way.... “I’d wed him myself and work for him sooner than that!”
“I reckon there’s nowt agen you wedding me instead.”
“Nay, then, I can’t.... I’ve tell’t you.... I just can’t.”
“Then he’ll be at Marget’s afore you can say knife.”
They had changed places at last, as was clear to both; in the course of a few moments they had changed. At last he had found a way of blocking her escape, of putting a log in the path of her everlasting no. It was he who had the better hold now, and he did not mean to be stopped from winning the fall. He knew well enough that however hard she might be with a young man foolishly in love, she had the softest heart in the world for the weak and old. Perhaps he had no pride, as she said, but he meant to use his father’s cause to the full for the furthering of his own. He stood staring fixedly at her downcast head, and the old kindliness came back into his voice now that he saw his advantage clear. He put the whole case over to her again, but always with Marget looming largely at the end, and had the same satisfaction in the last effect. Agnes knew Bob’s wife as well as anybody else, and needed no enlightening as to her ways. His hopes rose and his face cleared as he saw the position he had cursed proving the door to his desire, and as his heart eased he became more eloquent, more tender, more difficult to resist. At the finish he gave her a rough picture of the lonely farm, and the fiddle singing into the night....