“Yes, it can,” Mrs. Farnshaw persisted. “Anyhow, he’s your pa, an’—an’—an’ you owe it t’ him. You owe it t’ me too, t’ make it right. I’ll never have a day of peace with him again if you don’t. You’d no business t’ talk of partin’ nohow! ’Taint decent, an’—an’ it give him th’ feelin’ that I was sidin’ in with such talk.”
Mrs. Farnshaw had been shrewd enough to save her strongest point till the last. That was the lever by which she could pry Elizabeth loose from her seated conviction that nothing could be done. Those sentiments had been Elizabeth’s, not her mother’s. Something was due the mother who had been compelled to share the blame for words as abhorrent to her as they were to the irate husband who supposed she had instigated them. Elizabeth knew that her mother would never have a day of peace with the man in any case, but she knew from her own experience with him that a remark such as she had made would be used to worry her mother and to stir even more bitter accusations than usual. In her heart she knew that nothing she could say would change her father’s feelings or alter his belief about the matter, but she did feel that her mother was justified from her own standpoint in making the demand. As she stirred the cake dough and pondered, she glanced across the table to the open door of her mother’s scantily furnished bedroom opposite. A vision of ruffled pillow-shams where she was soon to sleep came to her in strong contrast. The memory of muffled sobs which she had heard coming from that poverty-stricken couch in the corner opposite the door was set over against the peaceful look of the room which was to be hers. She was going away to be happy: why not do this thing her mother asked before she went? Elizabeth knew that her attempt at reconciliation would be fruitless, but she resolved to do the best she could to leave all possible comfort to the mother whose portion was sorrow and bread eaten in bitterness and disappointment. She thought it out slowly. After pondering a long time, during which Mrs. Farnshaw studied her but did not speak, Elizabeth delivered her promise.
“I’ll do the best I can, ma. I don’t believe It’ll do any good, but it isn’t fair that you should suffer for a thing you hate as bad as he does. Don’t let’s talk about it, and let me find my own time to do it. I’ll—I’ll do my very best.”
Pushing the cake-bowl away from her, she went around the table, and taking her mother’s face between her hands she stroked the thin hair away from the wasted forehead, and kissed her with a tenderness which brought a quiver to the unsatisfied lips.
“I’ll do it as well as I possibly know how. I—I’m going away to be happy, and—and I want you to be happy too.”
It was easier to say than to do, for things went wrong about the barn, and when supper time arrived Elizabeth decided to wait for a more propitious time.
In spite of her determination to get the disagreeable task behind her as soon as possible, Elizabeth could find no chance at the breakfast table the next morning to broach the subject, though she tried several times. Mrs. Farnshaw gave her warning looks, but it was clearly not the time. When at last the family was ready for divine services and Mr. Farnshaw drove up in front of the house with the lumber wagon, the mother gave Elizabeth a little push toward the door, admonishing her to “be quick about it. Now’s your time.”
Elizabeth went slowly out. Mr. Farnshaw had just jumped out of the wagon and when he saw his daughter coming stooped quickly to examine the leather shoe sole which served to protect the brake. The elaborate attempt to ignore her presence made the hard duty still harder. She waited for him to take cognizance of her presence, and to cover her confusion adjusted and readjusted a strap on Patsie’s harness, thankful for the presence of her favourite.
“Let that harness alone!” her father commanded when he was at last embarrassed by his prolonged inspection of the wagon-brake.
“All right, pa,” Elizabeth replied, glad to have the silence broken in any manner. “I—I came out to talk to you. If I—if I’ve done anything to annoy you, ever, I want to ask your pardon. I—ma—I want to tell you that John Hunter and I are to be married this fall, and—and I’d like to be the kind of friends we ought to be before I go away.”