Elizabeth had listened in a distressed silence and studied Susan Hornby’s face for signs of assistance.
“I guess they haven’t talked——” she began at length, and then stopped short at something in Aunt Susan’s eye which confirmed her mother’s words.
“Oh, yes, they have,” her mother hastened to say. “They say you ain’t got no proper pride, an’ they say you’ve got too stuck up t’ live to home any longer, now that you’re goin’ t’ marry rich, an’ they say I can’t make your things good enough for you t’ be married in, an’——”
Mrs. Farnshaw had voiced her greatest grievance—her neighbours criticised her. She broke into such real weeping that it was impossible not to be moved by it.
Forgetting her policy of silence, Elizabeth argued and explained. Talking to her mother, but keeping her eyes glued on Aunt Susan’s, she went into details about the difficulty at home.
“You know pa ’ll find some excuse to strike me as soon as I get there,” she concluded. She had a painful sense of weakness and inadequacy in the presence of her mother’s determination. Her own worries seemed so trivial in the presence of her mother’s sorrow.
“E won’t, I tell you,” Mrs. Farnshaw repeated for the twentieth time. “E’ll let you alone if you do th’ right thing. We love our children—if th’ neighbours don’t think so,” she wailed.
As she talked, however, she kept a shrewd eye on her daughter and soon saw that Elizabeth’s eyes turned to those of Aunt Susan. It was not enough for this Hornby woman to be neutral; Mrs. Farnshaw decided to enlist her.
“If you had a girl you’d want ’er t’ be married in your own house, I know,” she said, leaning forward eagerly. “Suppose you only had th’ one——” She saw the quick tears gathering. “Did you ever have a little girl?” she asked.
Susan Hornby’s emotions mastered her. She made no attempt to reply.