“Seems like it wouldn’t be really getting married,” she objected incautiously.
The face of Jonas darkened with despair. After this, what was there to hope? Martha, however, returned shamefacedly to her guns.
“I would though, Jonas, if I could.”
“Honour bright, Marthy? Will ye promise?” demanded that gentleman, visibly expanding.
“Why, yes, Jonas, if there was a way,” breathed the hunted victim.
“All right,” exclaimed the victor cheerfully, rising forthwith. “We’ll elope then! And now you’ve promised, I’m going off to see about it.”
With which he departed, before the agitated Miss Waring had time to protest against the base advantage which had been taken of her defenceless condition.
III
The soul of Miss Cockerill was ground to powder between wrath and desire. The expected had happened, and neither Jonas Lane nor Martha Waring had told her a word about it. Martha Lane, she supposed she’d have to say now. They were ungrateful as owls, she did declare. All the years she’d known them—and Jonas Lane almost as much her beau as Martha’s! She didn’t know which to be maddest at: Jonas, who had promised to tell her first of anybody in the world, after Martha; or Martha, who had told her everything ever since she was old enough to have anything to tell. But she couldn’t live there next door to them and never make a sign. They’d think it queer—well, as they’d all known each other. And it didn’t seem as if she could wait to hear about it all. The idea of their running off and getting married like that, and setting everybody to talk!
So, putting her pride in her pocket—a convenience which the modes of Ackerton permitted her—and a shawl over her head, she walked across to Martha’s kitchen door.