The Deacon was
baffled, almost awed, by Waitstill's quiet self-control; but at
the very moment that he was half-uncomprehendingly glaring at
her, it dawned upon him that he was beaten, and that she was
mistress of the situation.
Where would she go? What were her plans?--for definite plans she
had, or she could not meet his eye with so resolute a gaze. If
she did leave
him, how could he contrive to get her back again, and so escape
the scorn of the village, the averted look, the lessened trade?
"Where are you goin' now?" he asked, and though he tried his best
he could not for the life of him keep back one final taunt. "I
s'pose, like your sister, you've got a man in your eye?" He chose
this, to him, impossible suggestion as being the most insulting
one that he could invent at the moment.
"I have," replied Waitstill, "a man in my eye and in my heart. We
should have been husband and wife before this had we not been
kept apart by obstacles too stubborn for us to overcome. My way
has chanced to open first, though it was none of my contriving."
Had the roof fallen in upon him, the Deacon could not have been
more dumbfounded. His tongue literally clove to the roof of his
mouth; his face fell, and his mean, piercing eyes blinked under
his shaggy brows as if seeking light.
Pages:
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287