“I don’t see as I can tell him!” she thought, desperately. To go and say to Nathaniel, all eager and happy and full of hope as he was, “You must go to the Farm,”—would be like striking in the face some child that is holding out its arms to you. Lizzie twisted her hands together. “I just can’t!” But, of course, she would have to. That was all there was to it. If she married him, why, there would be two to go to the Farm instead of one. Oh, why wouldn’t they give her her pension if she married again! Her eyes smarted with tears; Nathaniel’s pain seemed to her unendurable.
But all the same, the next morning, heavily, she set out to tell him.
At Dyer’s, Jonesville had gathered to see the sight; and as she came up to the porch, there were nudgings and whisperings, and Hiram Wells, bolder than the rest, said, “Well, Mis’ Graham, this is a fine day for a weddin’—”
Lizzie Graham, without turning her head, said, coldly, “There ain’t goin’ to be no weddin’.” Then she went on upstairs to Nathaniel’s room.
The idlers on the porch looked at each other and guffawed. “I knowed Sam was foolin’ us,” somebody said.
But Sam defended himself. “I tell you I wa’n’t foolin’. You ask Rev. Niles; she told me only yesterday he said he’d tie the knot. I ain’t foolin’. She’s changed her mind, that’s all.”
“Lookin’ for a handsomer man,” Hiram suggested;—“chance for yourself, Sam!”
Lizzie, hot-cheeked, heard the laughter, and went on up-stairs. Nathaniel was sitting on the edge of his bed, his hat on, his poor coat buttoned to his chin; he was holding his precious bag, gripped in two nervous hands, on his knee. When he heard her step, he drew a deep breath.
“Oh, kind woman!” he said; “I’d begun to fear you were not coming.”
“I am—a little late,” Lizzie said. “I—I was detained.”