They met in the morning on perfectly friendly ground, but there was an att.i.tude of reserve which brooked no remark on her part. Luther departed early for his own house, and John Hunter came before noon to take her to her father's home. After all her simple possessions were in the wagon, Elizabeth went back and threw herself into the arms of Aunt Susan, who was crying miserably.

"Oh, Aunt Susan! I feel as if I had taken leave of you forever. I've--I've been so happy in this house--till yesterday. Can I ever repay what you've done for me?"

Susan Hornby gathered Elizabeth into her arms and sobbed more vehemently.

The silence was unbroken except by those sobs, and at last the girl, moved out of herself, tried to comfort her, and said coaxingly:

"I'll live right near you. I'll see you every few days and--and I'll never forget how good you've been to me. It's--it's too bad these last two days had to be so--so different. I--I don't know what went wrong, but--but"--she laughed desperately--"where have our good times gone to?

I'm going to be married to the man I love--and I'm going to live right near you--and--what is the matter with us, anyway?"

Susan Hornby clung to the girl and could not cease crying, till at last Elizabeth lifted her chin on one finger and with a corner of Aunt Susan's own ap.r.o.n, wiped the tears from the contorted face.

"Now then, don't cry," she said, kissing her again and again.

"Keep the folks in a good humour, dear. The Hunters 'll feel awful if anything more happens," Susan Hornby faltered, and then, to keep the girl from, replying, and to avoid the surprise and pain in the young face, pushed her gently but firmly toward the door and John Hunter, who was waiting impatiently.

CHAPTER X

PHILOSOPHY OF ELIZABETH'S LIFE VOICED

"To-morrow," Elizabeth said, significantly, as John turned back to get into the wagon after they had deposited the trunk in the house.

"To-morrow," John smiled back at her. It was a reluctant smile he gave her, but the bid for affection in her young eyes was irresistible.

"He had to be nice," she thought as she walked back to the house; "it was a good way."

A sudden thought came to her.

"Did you ask Luther to the wedding?" she asked of her mother as she entered.

"No, I didn't. What do you want of that Swede?" Mrs. Farnshaw asked petulantly. "I should think----"

What she thought was never recorded in words, for Elizabeth was out of the house like a flash, calling to John Hunter as she ran down the road after him. It was a surprised John who took her message.

"Yes, I'll tell him, but I don't see what you want of that Swede--he always seems to cut such a figure in everything you do," John said discontentedly.

"Well, just tell him that ma sends the invitation, will you?" was all Elizabeth could say.

It was John's first contemptuous remark about Luther, and it disturbed her. They were to live closer to Luther Hansen than any other neighbour and it was essential that they be on friendly terms. She had hoped it might be that John would appreciate the good things in Luther which even his nationality could not spoil. Dear old Luther! In spite of the observation she had seemed to resent the night before, Elizabeth loved him--loved him all the more because she had been obliged to hurt him. It suddenly occurred to her that John might not deliver her message. She put the thought away from her instantly, saying aloud:

"He'd do anything he knew I wanted him to do," and then was struck with the doubtful tone in which it was said.

"What did you say?" her mother asked, for Elizabeth had just entered the door.

"Nothing. I hate this wedding!"

"Well, now, I like that, after all I've done to give you a good time," the mother said angrily.

"No, ma; you mean to give yourself a good time. You make me come home when I don't want to, and you ask people I hate to have, and then you leave out the people I want most. It isn't my wedding. I'm going to stand up and be married so as to get rid of it all, but John won't have the minister I want, you won't have the people I want, I'm most sure pa 'll kick up some kind of a row about it--and--and I was so happy till you came and made me consent to it. What did you do it for?"

"Do it for? You ungrateful child! What did I do it for? I'll tell you,"

Mrs. Farnshaw's eyes hardened into momentary coals of fire. "I did it because I don't like your whole goings on. Minister? Why don't you say preacher, like the rest of your folks? It's that Hornby woman. She made you talk of divorces----" At thought of all her supposed wrongs at the hand of Susan Hornby Mrs. Farnshaw broke into a half scream and ended by throwing herself into a chair by her daughter's side and clinging to her hand with her upturned face streaming over with tears, her mouth convulsed with pain till speech was impossible.

Moved to repentance at the sight of the pang she had caused, Elizabeth fell on her knees by her mother's side, and with her arms encircling her, cried contritely:

"I didn't mean it, ma, really--that is, I didn't mean it that way. Don't mind what I said. I do love you."

Mrs. Farnshaw clung to her, so shaken by sobs that she still could not speak, and the penitent daughter soothed and comforted her with her own heart breaking at the thoughtlessness of her speech.

"Put it away and don't remember it; I didn't mean it. I'm tired to death--and--and----" She pondered a moment and then made the experiment.

"And I want to speak of Aunt Susan to you. I can't bear to have you feel so bad about me liking her. She hasn't put a single notion into my head.

Be good and get acquainted with her. She'd like to have you. If you knew her you'd know how different she is from what you think. I'll take you to see her the very first time you come to see me. Say you will."

Elizabeth stroked the thin hair back from the pa.s.sion-worn face, and waited for her reply.

Mrs. Farnshaw shook her head, but could not meet the offer squarely.

"The two of you'd be a wishin' you could get rid of me so's you could talk your own kind of talk," she said with conviction. "'Taint any use, Lizzie; I ain't your kind. Your pa 'd be madder at me 'n ever, too."

"Well, he's mad all the time, anyhow," Elizabeth said.

"No 'e wasn't till you said that awful thing--that is, 'e was mad often enough, but not like 'e's been since. You don't know what you done t' your mother then. Be good, an' go t' 'im, an' settle 'is mind 'fore you're married. It don't matter if I know Miss Hornby 'r not; but what a difference it'd make t' me if he only knowed I never put you up t' that partin' business! Please do it fur me, Lizzie."

This was an unexpected turn. Elizabeth had hoped to avoid the recurrence of this issue. Knowing that she was keeping her mother in cruel suspense, Elizabeth hesitated and by every sign showed her disinclination to discuss the subject. What should she do? What _could_ she do? The tortured eyes of her mother studied her with an intensity which she could not avoid. To consent was to fail with her father, to refuse was to make matters much worse with the mother she had just hurt. Luther had warned her to avoid collisions with her family which were liable to cause gossip; Aunt Susan had implored her to keep the folks in a good humour; her own instincts were against the movement, but her feelings were pleading for the mother who begged her to try once again to obtain reconciliation before she was married. Ah! if this time would end it!

"Say you will," the mother begged with pathetic brevity.

"I'd do it in a minute if there were the least opportunity to succeed, ma," Elizabeth said reluctantly, and not looking toward her. "If I do it and fail, You'll be wanting me to go right on with it after I'm married, and that I won't do for anybody." The sentence ended savagely.

Mrs. Farnshaw studied her daughter eagerly. She began to have hopes. Now, if only she could get the right touch on her appeal.

"If You'll do it, an' be careful-like, Lizzie," she said compellingly, "if You'll be careful-like this time, I'll never ask you again. I can't live this way any longer. I won't never ask you again. Please," she insisted.

"Speak real soft an' nice-like. Please."

"But, ma, are you crazy? You told me--you told me that--oh dear, what's the use to tell you what you said?" the girl cried, her judgment giving its last caution a hearing.

What was the use indeed!

In the end Elizabeth consented--consented with kindliness of manner. Since she was going to do it at all she would do it lovingly. She argued herself into that mood before she agreed to the move. Her mother had a hard life; on one who knew her doubted that fact. Neither would any one have doubted that Mr. Farnshaw led a hard life also. Some devil of unrest demanded excitement and disagreement.

"Keep the folks in a good humour," Luther had said.

Elizabeth had no support from any quarter. She could only consent.

"I'll do it, ma," she agreed. "I am going away to be happy. John and his mother never have a word together that isn't pleasant."