“I only wanted to say that—well, do what th’ folks ask of you, Lizzie. You’re only home for a couple of days an’—an’”—after a long pause—“an’ it won’t hurt nobody.”
Elizabeth got up slowly.
“Good-night, Luther,” she said.
She wanted to offer him her hand; she was sure she was hurting him, but she could not talk to him on this point; the very truth of his suspicious that the Hunter estimate of her might be affected by scandal made of it a sore point. Elizabeth Farnshaw would be loyal to mutual relations, even where Luther’s feelings were concerned.
They met in the morning on perfectly friendly ground, but there was an attitude of reserve which brooked no remark on her part. Luther departed early for his own house, and John Hunter came before noon to take her to her father’s home. After all her simple possessions were in the wagon, Elizabeth went back and threw herself into the arms of Aunt Susan, who was crying miserably.
“Oh, Aunt Susan! I feel as if I had taken leave of you forever. I’ve—I’ve been so happy in this house—till yesterday. Can I ever repay what you’ve done for me?”
Susan Hornby gathered Elizabeth into her arms and sobbed more vehemently. The silence was unbroken except by those sobs, and at last the girl, moved out of herself, tried to comfort her, and said coaxingly:
“I’ll live right near you. I’ll see you every few days and—and I’ll never forget how good you’ve been to me. It’s—it’s too bad these last two days had to be so—so different. I—I don’t know what went wrong, but—but”—she laughed desperately—“where have our good times gone to? I’m going to be married to the man I love—and I’m going to live right near you—and—what is the matter with us, anyway?”
Susan Hornby clung to the girl and could not cease crying, till at last Elizabeth lifted her chin on one finger and with a corner of Aunt Susan’s own apron, wiped the tears from the contorted face.
“Now then, don’t cry,” she said, kissing her again and again.