“’Tis all to difficult for the likes o’ me. What’s a poor maiden to do? If I takes Tim, he’ll be a ruined man, ’cordin’ to his father.”
“’Twas a mean, cowardly trick to threaten ’e.”
“But plain truth—I could see that. A terrible tantara theer’ll be in Bellever if he braves the anger of Farmer. I’ve prayed an’ prayed—Lard He knows how I’ve prayed—‘pon it, but—”
“Prayers won’t help ’e; leastways, they didn’t me. I’ve lifted up far-reachin’ prayers in my time, I promise you, Sarah,—the best I could; but never no answer,—never so much as a Voice in the night to help a chap.”
“You done right to pray an’ you was led right, though you didn’t know it. An’ you’m well thought of for what you’ve done still, despite your fallin’ away arterward.”
“Never mind ’bout me. I be gwaine far ways off, an’ so like’s not us’ll never set eyes ’pon each other more. For me, I’d so soon end all as not. But for mother I should have got out of it afore now, for I ban’t feared o’ dyin’, an’ would go out o’ hand this minute. But you? Can’t the man help ’e? Do he know your fix? What the devil be he made of? Sugar?”
“He doan’t know yet that I’ve spoken wi’ his faither. An’ he’ve been careful to hide that his folks was against me. I s’pose ’tis natural they should be so.”
“Ess—not knowin’ you.”
“An’ in my gert quandary I was gwaine in to Mother Gurney here. She’s juggled wi’ my life afore, seemin’ly, an’ if any knows what’s to be the end of it, ’tis her, I should think. I want to hear what’s right an’ proper. I’m so weary of my days as you. Life an’ love be gall-bitter this way. Oh, Jan, can’t ’e say nought to comfort me? ’Tis more’n I can bear.”
She was hysterical, and he flung down his bundle and sat beside her and tried to bring some peace to her spirit. His heart was full for her and he spoke eagerly. Then he saw the gold and coral on her finger and stopped talking and put his elbows on his knees and his big sandy head down on his hands.