“Say it, then, and have done with it,” rejoined the girl, as if desirous of hurrying the interview to an end. “What be it?”
“It be this, then,” replied the woodman, moving a little nearer to her, and speaking in a more serious tone than he had yet assumed; “Bet Dancey, I needn’t be tellin’ thee how I be in love wi’ thee. Thou know’st it well enoo.”
“You’ve told it me a hundred times. I don’t want to hear it again.”
“But thou shalt. An’ this time, I tell thee, will be the last.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“What I be goin’ to say,” continued the suitor, without heeding her repeated interruptions, “be this, Bet Dancey, I see’d thy father last night; an’ he an’ me talked it over atween us. He’s gi’ed me his full consent.”
“To what, pray?”
“Why to ha’e thee for my wife.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the girl, with a scornful laugh. “Ha! ha! ha! That’s what you had to tell me, is it? Now, Will Walford, hear me in return. You’ve told me a hundred times that you loved me, and you’ve now promised that it will be the last time. I’ve said to you a hundred times it was no use; and I promise you this will be my last saying it. Once for all then, I declare to you, that I shall never be your wife—never I never!”
The last words were pronounced with a stern emphasis, calculated to carry conviction; and the rustic suitor shrank under them, as if they had annihilated the last remnant of his hopes.