# Where Highways Cross/Part 2/Chapter 2

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CHAPTER II
HEPWORTH SPEAKS
It was Hepworth's custom to give a supper to all his farm-hands with their wives and families at Christmas, and during the next few days Mally and Elisabeth were busily engaged in making the necessary preparations. Mally at that time spoke but rarely: her mind was entirely given up to the making of pies, the roasting of great joints of beef that were to go cold in the larder, and the dressing of geese and turkeys intended for the spit. She hurried here and there, always busy and preoccupied, and for four days her temper was short and her speech abrupt.
"When folks is busy," said she, deeming some explanation due to Elisabeth, "they'd ​owt t' be let alone. Nowt moythers me worse than hevin' to think and talk. One thing at a time—that's what I say—but it's what I can't get. There's t' pork-pies, an t' mince-pies, and t' renderin', and there's see in' after Tom when he comes to salt t' pig down, and I'm fair capped which way to turn. But t' plum-puddin's is made, and thank the Lord for that!"
Hepworth believed in keeping Christmas after the whole-hearted fashion of his ancestors, and in pursuance of his faith he caused parlour and kitchens to be lavishly decorated with green-stuff. Elisabeth found congenial employment in this: with the mysteries of the kitchen she was by no means familiar, but in anything that required taste or nicety her capabilities showed themselves to be fully adequate. Hepworth coming in on Christmas eve from Sicaster market found his parlour decorated in new fashion.
"I see you have been busy, Elisabeth," he remarked when she came in with his tea-tray. ​"Usually our decorations have been of the rough-and-ready description. A bough of holly stuck here, and a sprig of yew stuck there, is all that either Mally or I have dared to attempt. Now I shall expect you to decorate the kitchen for the Christmas supper. I am minded to have great doings that night, Elisabeth, and I want everything to look well."
As a result of these instructions Elisabeth persuaded Mally to hand over the great kitchen to her care, early on the afternoon of the feast. She swept and dusted it herself, and decorated the bare walls with as much care as she had bestowed on the walls of the parlour. This done she sought the aid of one of the men-servants in setting-up the tables, of which there were two, with a cross-table for the master. She had some difficulty with Mally as to the covering of these tables. Mally was of opinion that a coarse cloth was good enough for the men and their wives: Elisabeth urged that Mr. Hepworth would ​expect to see everything as it ought to be. Eventually Mally gave way, on the express understanding that Elisabeth was to be responsible for the washing and ironing of the table-linen used.
"And a nice job it'll be, after that crew's eaten off 'em!" said Mally. "I know 'em—they'll set their mugs and pint-pots on t' table-cloth and mak' rings o' stale beer all over it, and they'll spill t' gravy on it an' all. Howsumiver, tha mun hev thy way, lass, and I expect t' maister'll back thee up."
She said this with a sly look at Elisabeth, for Mally was a keen observer and had noticed Hepworth's interest in the young woman. Elisabeth, however, was all unconscious of Mally's meaning: she departed to busy herself with the final preparations for the feast.
At six o'clock when all the folk had assembled and taken their places, with Hepworth at their head, the old kitchen assumed quite a gay and animated appearance. Every man, woman, and child wore his or her best: every ​face reflected much application of soap-and-water; every mouth widened to an anticipatory smile. Hepworth carved at one end of the table, and his foreman at the other; Mally and Elisabeth acted as waiters. It had been their particular desire to do so: Hepworth would have wished them to sit down with the rest, but Mally declared that she had no stomach after so much cooking, and Elisabeth had asked to be allowed to share Mally's duties. Each took a table, and each was kept continually going.
Elisabeth looked very attractive that night, the animation of the scene, the continual chatter, and the unrestrained laughter of the lads and lasses, had brought fresh colour to her cheeks, and new light to her eyes. In the white apron that covered her neat black dress she had stuck a sprig of scarlet-berried holly: this gave her an air of smartness that was fascinating.
"Eh, bless thy bonny face." said the old shepherd.
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Hepworth caught the remark, and glanced at Elisabeth, who was smiling at the old man's compliment. It struck a new chord in his nature to hear her admired, and he suddenly recognised that he was proud of her good looks, and was pleased that other men paid homage to them.
"Owd Tommy's gotten a soft spot in his heart," said one of the lads, nudging his fellow at the table.
Old Tommy heard and shook his grey head.
"Aye," said he, pipingly. "Aye, there's some on us owd uns 'at can see bewty a deëal quicker nor some o' ye young uns. When I wor nobbut a lad I hed a sweetheart, but now-a-days t' lads is shyer nor t' lasses—sure-ly. Ye nooän on ye come forrard, ye young uns, so us owd uns has to dew it for ye. I nobbut wish I wor younger—I'd show ye how to mak' love to t' lasses."
​The women laughed at old Tommy's pleasantries, and Hepworth, anxious to make all at their ease, laughed with them. But he began to wonder, while he laughed, if a man of his sober years had any right to talk of love to a young woman. It came upon him with sudden directness that he was no longer young himself, and that Elisabeth, whom he loved, was little more than a girl.
Hepworth's humble guests had all gone by ten o'clock, and he stood alone in his parlour thinking over the events of the evening. One of the labourers' wives in a fit of mischief had tied a sprig of mistletoe to the great rafter that ran across the kitchen, and the lads and lasses had made the most of it. Once Elisabeth had allowed herself to be caught by one of the lads, amidst universal laughter. Hepworth himself had smiled at the lad's sheepish face and at the demure way in which Elisabeth held up her cheek to be kissed. He caught himself wondering what she would say if he kissed her, and turned ​hot and red at the thought of it. In all his life the only woman's lips that had ever touched his own were the lips of his mother. While he stood by the fire thinking in this unusual way, Elisabeth came in. Mally, she said, was tired out and had gone to bed, and she had come to ask if there was anything that he wanted.
"Nothing," he answered. "Nothing—thank you. But—stay a moment, Elisabeth; I want to speak to you."
She stood waiting, in evident expectation of some order or instruction. Hepworth felt nervously uncertain of himself; the intensity of his feeling seemed to destroy his hold over his own faculties.
"Shut the door, Elisabeth," he said, "and come in—there's something I wished to tell you to-night."
She obeyed his instructions and came a little nearer, leaning one hand on the table between them and looking at him for his orders. Hepworth made an effort to speak.
​"Elisabeth," he said, "you said the other day—when the old women had been a-Thomasing, wasn't it?—that you would be content to stay here. You said that, Elisabeth, didn't you?"
He made such an effort to speak calmly that as yet she did not notice his agitation.
"Yes, sir," she answered.
"And do you still feel like that?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," she said again.
"Then stay," he said, his voice falling almost to a whisper. "Stay, Elisabeth, stay always—be my wife!"
He stepped towards her as he spoke and held out his hands to her across the table. Elisabeth started and drew back, but he saw that it was only in surprise. He came up to the table and leaned on it for support. The lamp stood between him and Elisabeth and threw a strong light on their faces, his full of intense and eager passion that left his cheeks colourless and his lips trembling, hers ​suddenly stricken with a surprise that seemed to be mingled with painful thought.
"Stop," he said, "don't speak, Elisabeth. Let me say all that I meant to say. Stay with me, Elisabeth: be my wife, for I love you. See, I know nothing about love, I don't even know how to tell you these things—they're strange to me. What I've just said to you I never said before to any woman. But—you I want; you, and nobody and nothing else. Oh, you don't know, perhaps, what it is to feel like that! See, Elisabeth, of late I've thought of nothing but you: you seem to fill my mind so that nothing else can come there. And somehow—perhaps it's because I have never known anything of love before, I seem to feel that, if you are beyond me, I shall never be satisfied—never! Oh, my dear, just think what it is to feel like that—and I a man that's gone all these years and never so much as turned his head to look at a woman, Elisabeth—I never thought to feel these things—they're a mystery to me. ​But I do feel them, perhaps all the keener because they've been slow to come—and now I want you to love and keep."
He had spoken hurriedly and in a low voice, and now he paused for breath. Elisabeth, who had watched and listened in undisguised amazement, was about to speak. He lifted his hand, motioning her to stop.
"Wait," he said, as if conscious that he dreaded to hear what she might say. "Wait, Elisabeth. There are other things that I would like to say. Elisabeth, you'll believe that all I say is honest and true? I suppose it must have been from the first that I loved you—from that day at Sicaster. I looked and saw you, and you were unhappy—forgive me for speaking of it—and my heart seemed to go out to you, Elisabeth. And then bit by bit it came, and at last I knew it very suddenly. Elisabeth, when a man loves at my age, he loves once for all. It's not a whim nor a fancy—and oh, it's hard to conquer! Elisabeth—"
​He said no more, but held out his hands across the table. Elisabeth looked at him, strangely moved, but she made no sign of giving him her hands.
"Mr. Hepworth," she said gently, "it's no good, sir, speaking to me like that."
"Ah!" he said.
"Don't mistake me, sir," she said quickly. "I believe all you've said, and—and any woman would have been proud to hear it said to her. You are a man to love—I'll say that frankly—and the woman who takes you will get a good man. But you must not ask me, sir."
"Why—why, Elisabeth," he said.
"Consider, Mr, Hepworth," she answered. "Why, you don't even know me! I'm your parlour-maid—"
"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Let us hear no more of that, Elisabeth. If that is all—"
"It's not all," she said, gravely.
"Tell me," he said, "is there anything between us?"
​She did not answer him for a moment, but stood regarding him steadily. Then—
"Yes," she said. "There is. I am married already, and I do not know whether my dear husband is dead or living."