Quarry went; and, as he said himself, his heart was sour.
Then Emma stayed at Jarlsen’s side and prayed in the hot afternoon silence, and wondered why God didn’t do something worth while—that is how she thought it. But she never doubted Him nor the fate that He ordained, but rocked in her only rocking-chair and kissed her helpless lover boldly, longing for a woman’s touch as a sick child longs for its mother.
When Jarlsen spoke her name she trembled with love of him; she was awake now and filled with pity. She did not answer, but, like a child, prayed God to tell Jarlsen she heard him call, and then slept till the coolness of dusk awoke her. Jarlsen slept a little while too, and told her he had talked with her in dreams.
She got the supper, talking within herself. “I can feel things mend,” she said. “Every one will come out right, and my big man will live again and lick that terrible scant Christian, Quarry!”
She ate her supper opposite her silent old father. It was quite late; they had candles and a lamp, which was only an extravagance for courting-time in the sordid social usage of Soot City.
Emma had not thought of this till Ben Bowa, the youngest foreman, stood in the narrow doorway.
“I didn’t know to come in till I saw lights making the shine,” he explained in Swedes’ English. And then many more came in, and the kitchen was full. Jarlsen cried for water from the next room, and before Emma could get to her feet Quarry had gone to him.
“How can I show them I don’t want one of them?” she thought. There was no word of Jarlsen, and everything went on as it had when the one or two men courted her before Jarlsen took her.
Bowa cut profiles out of paper and asked whose they were, and the other men performed their trifling social accomplishments. They were endeavouring to “raise a laugh”; none came.
Late at night a wakeful neighbour heard Emma’s door close, and later God heard her sobbing. “That Quarry’s done me!” was what she said.