“She’m a maiden by the name of Sarah Belworthy, darter o’ Smith Belworthy; an’ she’m tokened to me,” said Aggett, stolidly.
John’s announcement awoke a laugh in the younger man, and Timothy dismissed the subject with a sort of lame apology; but the other remained dumb after his assertion, and few more words passed between them. Aggett, however, burnt within, for the recent incident had caused him infinite uneasiness and alarm. To allay these emotions he hastened to the home of Sarah as soon as his duties at the farm were ended, and there, before her parents, rated her in round terms for speaking to a strange man under the darkness. The girl’s mother heard of what had happened with secret interest; Sarah herself laughed, then cried, and finally made her peace with many promises that no light action in this sort should ever again be brought against her. Of the white witch and the prediction John did not speak; and though he returned to his loft above the cows a comforted man, yet, in the hours of night, fear and foreboding gripped his heart again and frank terror at the shadow of an awful catastrophe made him toss and sweat in the darkness. Twice he rose and prayed childish prayers that his mother had taught him. They were nothing to the purpose, yet he trusted that they might call the Almighty’s attention to him and his difficulties. So he lay awake and scratched his head and puzzled his scanty brains with what the future held hidden.
As for Timothy, the splendid twilight vision of Sarah in her red array was by no means dimmed by the subsequent appearance of his own fair kinswoman. A first fiery love had dawned in him, and the romantic circumstances attending its awakening added glamour to the charm of mystery. Already he almost granted Gammer Gurney a measure of the powers she pretended to. Aggett’s statement had iced his ardour for a while; but a bitter-sweet yearning and unrest grew again after the cowman was gone—grew gigantic to the shutting out of all other things feminine; and Sarah’s grey eyes, not his little cousin’s, were the lamps that lighted Timothy’s midnight pillow.
In the morning he gave himself great store of practical and sensible advice. He told himself that he was too good a sportsman to interfere with another’s game and poach on another’s preserve; and he assured himself that he was too excellent a son to fall in love with a blacksmith’s daughter and sadden his mother’s declining days. He laughed at himself, and, when he met John after breakfast, spoke no more of the incident. He grew self-righteous toward noon and was secretly proud of himself for having withstood the fascination of Sarah Belworthy’s face and voice with such conspicuous ease. He told his conscience that the fancy was already dead; he felt that it would be interesting to meet the girl again; and he assured himself that her image in full, garish daylight must doubtless fall far below the perfection that it suggested half veiled under coming darkness. During that afternoon he marvelled a little at his own restlessness, then sought occupation and decided that it would be well to have his horse’s shoes roughed. He knew under this explicit determination lurked implicit desire to see the father of Sarah Belworthy, but he did not give his mind time to accuse him. He looked to his horse himself; he was very busy and whistled and addressed those he knew about him, as he trotted down to the smithy, feebly trying to deceive himself.