It was then that, having asked her if she could keep a secret and being assured she could, he informed her to her admiring horror that the moment he had safely delivered her on the road by the Common, he would turn his horse’s head for Harwich, where (stabling the horse and wagon so that his parents might trace his intention) he would take ship as a cabin-boy or a stowaway for America, where he was sure to come across his brother Ben, and never would she see him again in Bradmarsh till he had made his fortune.
She could see him now, under a late sunset that was like his hair, with his flashing, freckled face, his blazing blue eyes, and his poor, defaced jacket, the thready stubs of the big buttons showing like scars. Their quaint dialogue came back vividly to her.
“Oh, Will, but can’t you make your fortune here?”
“No, thank you—no more chapel for me!”
“I know it’s hard—and you did look beautiful with the buttons—but isn’t it more beautiful to please God?”
“Rubbish! What does God care about my buttons?”
“He’s pleased, just as I like your giving me birds’ eggs.”
“But I didn’t give my buttons—they were snatched from me—through that, beastly old Mawhood.”
“But Elder Mawhood knows what God wants.”
“Let him cut off his own nose and not go smelling into everybody’s business. The other day he made poor old Sister Tarbox get riddy of her cat.”