Exasperated and miserable, John bestowed blame in the only convenient place he found.
The young wife buried her face in the counterpane and did not attempt to reply, and after looking dully at her for a moment John Hunter went out and left her to carry her burden of shame alone. The sound of the closing door assured her that at least she could be alone in her tears, and the humbled girl gave herself up to sobbing. Luther and Aunt Susan would never be quite convinced that she had done her best to avoid trouble; she even wondered herself if there might not have been some fault in the way she had approached her father. As usual, Elizabeth was concerned with the trouble of others. The whole dreadful thing passed before her with the vividness of actual reproduction. John’s mother knew this at any rate. That was a sore point. They were in the kitchen talking it over now! With the conviction of absolute certainty, Elizabeth buried her face in the counterpane of her bridal couch and sobbed in desolate abandon.
After a time John came back again and looked into the room. Seeing her distress, he went over slowly and lifted her to her feet with a stir of pity.
“Don’t cry,” he said gloomily. “It can’t be helped. Come on out to the kitchen and help mother with the supper.”
Elizabeth knew that at that moment he did not want to caress her, but her hungry soul craved comfort beyond her power to control and she dug her face into his breast and sobbed there unasked.
“THE YOUNG WIFE BURIED HER FACE IN THE COUNTERPANE AND DID NOT ATTEMPT TO REPLY”
John’s arms closed about her in a relaxed sort of way, and patting her head half-heartedly, he said again:
“Come on, dear. Mother’s out there getting supper alone.” He took his own pocket handkerchief and wiped her tear-stained face and, after kissing her, pushed her gently but firmly toward the kitchen.