Chapter Three: Stories
For someone from another world, Matt was not a particularly imposing figure. He was a nondescript young man, with a mop of brownish hair, crooked glasses, and a bewildered look on his face. Faith wondered how someone as unremarkable as he was allowed to spy on them . . . or read about them, as the case may be. But then, he had communicated with them, and here he was standing in the middle of the room. Readers of stories were not supposed to be able to do that. There was something special about this boy.
Mr. Farthington shook the boy’s hand. "Your name is Matt, then?"
"Yes," Matt said. His voice was not particularly imposing either, now that it had a body.
"Matt . . ." Mr. Farthington muttered. "Strange. For a moment I thought you were going to say Tim. I wonder why that is . . ."
"I don’t know," Matt said. "I’ve always been Matt as far as I know." But he sounded uncertain.
"Very well, Matt," Mr. Farthington said, getting back to the business at hand. "You understand what we want you to do for us?"
"Sort of," Matt said, looking around him. "Um . . . how exactly did I get here? I mean, a minute ago I was a . . . disembodied voice from realms beyond, or something . . . and now I’m . . . actually here."
"Well, what was the last thing you read?" Mr. Farthington asked.
Matt tried to remember. "It was . . . the end of the second chapter. I said, ‘Okay," and then it said, ‘Just like that, Matt was a character in the story.’"
"Exactly. You read it, and it came true."
"But I’m not reading anymore. So, how can all this still be happening?"
"Well, there are many Readers, and I imagine that someone is still reading the story. So the action will continue, except that now, you are a character in the story."
"And this . . . same sort of thing will happen when I read the scenes you want me to read?"
"In a way. You will be reading scenes from history, so the historical setting will seem to form around us. Those of us here will become the major players in the scene. Sort of like play acting."
"Play acting? I won’t have to sing or dance or anything, will I?"
"No, no, of course not. Unless of course, the role you are portraying is a singer or dancer. But even if that happens, the music and moves will come naturally to you, as will the dialogue between characters. All you really have to do is read; the rest will come naturally. This should be more convincing than looking at data on a computer screen, and it should give the women a better sense of what happened."
"And to be fair," Annalise said, "we want you to help make our cases as well. We agree that a human face should be put on these scenes, because we feel that Mr. Farthington has become so wrapped up in his--what did you call it?"
"Data processing," Elizabeth prompted.
"Data processing," Annalise continued, " that he may be blind to the reasons behind our actions."
"So, I’d be reading for both of you?" Matt asked.
"Yes," Mr. Farthington said. Matt thought for a moment.
"Do I get paid for this?" he asked, in the typical fashion of a young man looking for easy money.
"I’m afraid not," Mr. Farthington said. "In my time, there is no cash money, and besides, it would not exist for you in your world."
Matt looked hesitant. "I don’t know . . ."
"Oh, come on Matt!" Gabrielle exclaimed. "It’ll be fun!" Matt gave her a look one might give an annoying younger sibling.
Faith walked up to him. "What if you asked you really, really nicely?" she asked, putting on the cutest, saddest little face she could manage. Matt wavered slightly, for Faith was quite a pretty young woman, and the sight of a pretty young woman in distress, asking really, really nicely for help, would waver just about any young man.
"Oh, for Heaven’s sake!" Elizabeth snapped, impatiently. "Are you going to help us or not? If not, then we’ll find someone else!"
"Okay, okay!" Matt yelled, yielding to this final approach with imperfect grace. "I’ll do it!" Matt and Elizabeth sighed in unison, exasperated. "Can we start with her?" Matt asked Mr. Farthington, pointing to Elizabeth. "Do I get to play her father?" Elizabeth looked like she was about to say something unladylike, when Mr. Farthington interrupted.
"I think we’ll start with Faith," he said, "since she’s from the earliest time. Faith, I’ll let you make your case first. What would you like to show me?" Faith had been giving this some thought since the subject had come up. She wanted to show Mr. Farthington how much she didn’t want to marry a man she didn’t know. Unfortunately, since she didn’t know him, she couldn’t give any real argument against him. She decided to focus on her dislike of marrying a perfect stranger.
"I’d like you to see the conversation I had with my father a few days ago."
"Very well," Mr. Farthington said. "Gabrielle, would you show her how to work the computer, please?" The woman nodded, and led Faith into an odd, bare chamber that she hadn’t noticed before.
"Do you know what day you had this conversation with your father?" Gabrielle asked.
"It was . . . last Friday. The twenty-eighth of June."
"I presume this concerned your engagement?"
"Yes."
Gabrielle pushed something and spoke to the wall. "Faith Hutchinson, June 28th, 1850, conversation with father concerning engagement." There was a pause, and couple sheets of bright white paper slid out of a slit in the wall. Gabrielle picked them up, and handed them to Faith. Faith read the first paragraph. It was written like a novel, but as Faith read the scene, she recognized the conversation. It was the same, word for word, sigh for sigh, movement for movement. Amazing!
They returned to the other room, where the others were waiting. Faith handed the story to Matt.
"Faith will probably be playing herself," Mr. Farthington said. "You, Matt, will probably be in the role of her father--what is his name?"
"Joseph Hutchinson," Faith answered.
"Okay," Matt said, looking at the papers as if not sure what to do with them. "Should I . . . should I read out loud, or . . . ?"
"You can if you wish, but it really doesn’t matter. We’ll see the scene nonetheless. You may begin whenever you’re ready."
"Okay," Matt said again, shrugging. He looked down at the paper and began to read . . .
***
The Hutchinson Plantation, Blue Springs, Georgia, Friday, June 28th, 1850, 1:18 PM.
Joe Hutchinson was not a particularly imposing figure. He was tall, but not large, with a swatch of auburn hair that he had passed on to his daughter. He maintained his chiseled, calm composure, but inside he was concerned.
"You wanted to see me, father?" Joe turned to where his daughter was standing in the doorway. At sixteen, she was already quite beautiful. Her long auburn hair was elegantly coifed and her face still maintained the innocence of her childhood. She looked up at him questioningly.
"Yes, Faith. Come in." Faith walked into the room. "I want to talk to you about something."
"Yes?" Joe could tell she already knew what this was about. Joe had half expected this day to come; his daughter had always been willful, and although she had never had any problems with the arranged betrothal before, time and maturity could change one’s outlook.
"I received a letter from Albert Quinn," the man continued. "He told me that he has sent you four letters in the past week, and that you haven’t answered a single one of them. He was concerned that you might be ill."
Faith smiled, weakly. "Well, that’s silly. I’m just fine." Joe sighed. That wasn’t the point, and she knew it.
"Then why don’t you answer the letters?"
"I guess . . . I just don’t know what to say." She was still evading the issue.
"You used to answer his letters all the time, Faith. What did you say then?"
"I said the most silly things," Faith said, blushing slightly. "Little girl things, really. I couldn’t say them now."
"Why not?" Faith sighed, finally deciding to face the issue with her father.
"When I was little, I thought being betrothed would be fun. I used to write back about our wedding, what our family would be like, what people were doing . . . silly things. It was all a game to me. But now, the wedding day is getting closer, and it’s not a game anymore. I’m getting scared. And . . . I just don’t know what to say to him anymore."
Joe’s countenance softened. He had suspected this might be the case. Much as he might wish it otherwise, his daughter had grown up. "That’s perfectly understandable. But you should at least acknowledge that you received his letters; it’s impolite not to."
"Father, I don’t even know Albert," Faith said, getting to the real problem. "I’ve only met him once, and that was five years ago. How can I spend the rest of my life with someone I don’t know?"
"Haven’t you gotten to know him through his letters?"
"But what if he isn’t the same man in writing that he is in person?"
"Faith, when Elias Quinn and I arranged this marriage, we believed to be a good match, and I still believe it today. Albert’s a good man. He has maintained the farm very well since Elias died. He treats his workers well, and the farm is prospering."
"But I still don’t know him," Faith said, growing more upset. "I don’t know the sound of his voice; I’ve never heard him laugh; I’m not even sure what he looks like. He is incomplete in my mind. If I weren’t betrothed to him, I wouldn’t even remember that meeting five years ago. And if I can’t get a clear picture of him to hold in my memory, how can I picture myself being with him forever?" She choked up, and for a moment it seemed she would burst into tears. But she composed herself, and faced her father firmly. "Father, I don’t want to marry Albert."
Joe sighed. He hated to see his daughter so upset. He knew that she would be happy with Albert, but he didn’t know how to convince his daughter of that. And he didn’t want to force her into a marriage she didn’t want. But he also knew that Albert adored Faith, and he would be heartbroken if she broke off the betrothal. What could he do?
"I’ll tell you what I’ll do," he said, getting an idea. "I’ll send for Albert and ask him to come visit you. If, after you’ve talked to him face to face, you truly don’t want to go through with the marriage . . . I won’t force you." She looked relieved.
"Thank you, father," she said. Joe gave her a small smile and dismissed her. The job was only half done. He only hoped that Faith wouldn’t do anything foolish.
The man sighed, and went about getting ahold of Mr. Quinn.
***
Her father’s study disappeared and the messy cubicle of the future returned. Faith and the others stood in silence for a moment. Faith had just literally relived the conversation with her father, in the presence of the others.
"That really happened to you?" Matt asked. He was such a simple young man . . . and yet what a strange power he had. He had merely to read the words on the page, and a scene appeared.
"Yes," Faith said. "Just a few days ago."
"Did you see Albert then?" Mr. Farthington asked.
"No. His farm is twelve miles away. It would be another week before he could arrange to come. This is the last time I talked to about this to anyone. But it was always on my mind."
"I see," Mr. Farthington said. "It is time to show you what happened to Albert after you left." He began sifting through the clutter on his desk. "Your father organized an exhaustive search for you. The number of hours he spent searching for you were second only to Albert. After two months, they called off the search." He finally found what he had been looking for. "Matt, if you would read these please." He handed another set of papers to Matt. "What I have just handed Matt is a couple of entries from Albert Quinn’s personal journal."
June 29, 1851
It’s been nearly a year since she left, and yet I can’t seem to think about anything else. Questions, old and new, continue to nag me constantly. Where did she go? Why did she leave? Her father said she was having second thoughts about the betrothal. Was there something I said or did that drove her away? I have gone over and over every letter I ever wrote her, but I cannot find anything. I only wish I knew what it was, though it would do no good; it would not bring her back. Still, the thought that she left because of me gnaws at me the most.
"His journal is filled with entries like that," Mr. Farthington said. "Here is another from several years later.
April 15, 1855
There has not been a day all these years that I have not seen her face in my mind and wondered, Where are you? Are you alive or dead? Even after all these years, the pain of her absence is still fresh. My family has tried to distract me other matters, and some neighbors have introduced me to other women. But it is useless; I cannot face anyone else. I know I will never find another like Faith. The woman I love is gone.
***
"Albert." Albert looked up from his journal. His mother stood at the doorway. She had aged considerably since the loss of her husband. And now she was slowly losing her son. Albert hated what he was doing to her, but it could not be helped; the pain was too strong.
"Albert, this has got to stop," she said. "She’s been gone for nearly five years, and she isn’t coming back. It’s time to start living your life again." Albert remained silent. This was not the first time she had said this, and it would surely not be the last. "You’ve let the entire farm run down. We haven’t had a decent harvest in years and we’ve had to sell most of our possessions just to put food on the table.
"I don’t care anymore, Mother," Albert said. "I don’t care about the farm . . . not without Faith. I thought I would be spending the rest of my life with her . . ."
"Albert, you can’t live like this," Mrs. Quinn said, gently.
"Well, I don’t care much what happens to me either," Albert said, smiling sadly.
***
"The Quinn plantation continued to deteriorate," Mr. Farthington said. "Crops were not planted; fields became overgrown with weeds; many of the workers left for other places. And it is said that Albert went quietly mad with grief. When the Civil War came to Georgia, the Quinn plantation was attacked, and Albert was killed. The farm provided an ideal location for Union soldiers in the region; several campaigns devastating to the South were launched from Albert’s farm. When General Sherman marched through, he collected the soldiers, torched the farm, and marched unimpeded into Blue Springs, destroying most of the town. No one was there to offer any resistance."
"All this happened," Faith said, slowly, "because I didn’t marry Albert?"
"Well," Mr. Farthington said, "the Civil War would come whether you married him or not. However, Albert’s madness and neglect of the farm were because of your disappearance, and it made the war that much more devastating to Blue Springs. Eventually, the town was rebuilt, but it was a difficult time."
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"You have the opportunity to go back and change things, for the better."
"Will that mean I’ll have to marry him?"
"I think that if you go back and refuse him, the results will be equally catastrophic. Everything I’ve seen seems to indicate that the best future for Blue Springs is the one with the two of you together. But I cannot compel you to marry him. That is your decision to make. However, I will repeat your father’s advice: meet him, and get to know him, before you decide whether or not to go through with the wedding. Give Albert a fair chance."
Faith nodded, sobered by what she had seen. "All right, I will. Should I go back now?"
"Not yet," Mr. Farthington said. "We have other stories to tell."
"This is interesting," Matt said. "Who’s next?"
***
End of chapter 3.
"What's next?"
Mr. Farthington shook the boy’s hand. "Your name is Matt, then?"
"Yes," Matt said. His voice was not particularly imposing either, now that it had a body.
"Matt . . ." Mr. Farthington muttered. "Strange. For a moment I thought you were going to say Tim. I wonder why that is . . ."
"I don’t know," Matt said. "I’ve always been Matt as far as I know." But he sounded uncertain.
"Very well, Matt," Mr. Farthington said, getting back to the business at hand. "You understand what we want you to do for us?"
"Sort of," Matt said, looking around him. "Um . . . how exactly did I get here? I mean, a minute ago I was a . . . disembodied voice from realms beyond, or something . . . and now I’m . . . actually here."
"Well, what was the last thing you read?" Mr. Farthington asked.
Matt tried to remember. "It was . . . the end of the second chapter. I said, ‘Okay," and then it said, ‘Just like that, Matt was a character in the story.’"
"Exactly. You read it, and it came true."
"But I’m not reading anymore. So, how can all this still be happening?"
"Well, there are many Readers, and I imagine that someone is still reading the story. So the action will continue, except that now, you are a character in the story."
"And this . . . same sort of thing will happen when I read the scenes you want me to read?"
"In a way. You will be reading scenes from history, so the historical setting will seem to form around us. Those of us here will become the major players in the scene. Sort of like play acting."
"Play acting? I won’t have to sing or dance or anything, will I?"
"No, no, of course not. Unless of course, the role you are portraying is a singer or dancer. But even if that happens, the music and moves will come naturally to you, as will the dialogue between characters. All you really have to do is read; the rest will come naturally. This should be more convincing than looking at data on a computer screen, and it should give the women a better sense of what happened."
"And to be fair," Annalise said, "we want you to help make our cases as well. We agree that a human face should be put on these scenes, because we feel that Mr. Farthington has become so wrapped up in his--what did you call it?"
"Data processing," Elizabeth prompted.
"Data processing," Annalise continued, " that he may be blind to the reasons behind our actions."
"So, I’d be reading for both of you?" Matt asked.
"Yes," Mr. Farthington said. Matt thought for a moment.
"Do I get paid for this?" he asked, in the typical fashion of a young man looking for easy money.
"I’m afraid not," Mr. Farthington said. "In my time, there is no cash money, and besides, it would not exist for you in your world."
Matt looked hesitant. "I don’t know . . ."
"Oh, come on Matt!" Gabrielle exclaimed. "It’ll be fun!" Matt gave her a look one might give an annoying younger sibling.
Faith walked up to him. "What if you asked you really, really nicely?" she asked, putting on the cutest, saddest little face she could manage. Matt wavered slightly, for Faith was quite a pretty young woman, and the sight of a pretty young woman in distress, asking really, really nicely for help, would waver just about any young man.
"Oh, for Heaven’s sake!" Elizabeth snapped, impatiently. "Are you going to help us or not? If not, then we’ll find someone else!"
"Okay, okay!" Matt yelled, yielding to this final approach with imperfect grace. "I’ll do it!" Matt and Elizabeth sighed in unison, exasperated. "Can we start with her?" Matt asked Mr. Farthington, pointing to Elizabeth. "Do I get to play her father?" Elizabeth looked like she was about to say something unladylike, when Mr. Farthington interrupted.
"I think we’ll start with Faith," he said, "since she’s from the earliest time. Faith, I’ll let you make your case first. What would you like to show me?" Faith had been giving this some thought since the subject had come up. She wanted to show Mr. Farthington how much she didn’t want to marry a man she didn’t know. Unfortunately, since she didn’t know him, she couldn’t give any real argument against him. She decided to focus on her dislike of marrying a perfect stranger.
"I’d like you to see the conversation I had with my father a few days ago."
"Very well," Mr. Farthington said. "Gabrielle, would you show her how to work the computer, please?" The woman nodded, and led Faith into an odd, bare chamber that she hadn’t noticed before.
"Do you know what day you had this conversation with your father?" Gabrielle asked.
"It was . . . last Friday. The twenty-eighth of June."
"I presume this concerned your engagement?"
"Yes."
Gabrielle pushed something and spoke to the wall. "Faith Hutchinson, June 28th, 1850, conversation with father concerning engagement." There was a pause, and couple sheets of bright white paper slid out of a slit in the wall. Gabrielle picked them up, and handed them to Faith. Faith read the first paragraph. It was written like a novel, but as Faith read the scene, she recognized the conversation. It was the same, word for word, sigh for sigh, movement for movement. Amazing!
They returned to the other room, where the others were waiting. Faith handed the story to Matt.
"Faith will probably be playing herself," Mr. Farthington said. "You, Matt, will probably be in the role of her father--what is his name?"
"Joseph Hutchinson," Faith answered.
"Okay," Matt said, looking at the papers as if not sure what to do with them. "Should I . . . should I read out loud, or . . . ?"
"You can if you wish, but it really doesn’t matter. We’ll see the scene nonetheless. You may begin whenever you’re ready."
"Okay," Matt said again, shrugging. He looked down at the paper and began to read . . .
***
The Hutchinson Plantation, Blue Springs, Georgia, Friday, June 28th, 1850, 1:18 PM.
Joe Hutchinson was not a particularly imposing figure. He was tall, but not large, with a swatch of auburn hair that he had passed on to his daughter. He maintained his chiseled, calm composure, but inside he was concerned.
"You wanted to see me, father?" Joe turned to where his daughter was standing in the doorway. At sixteen, she was already quite beautiful. Her long auburn hair was elegantly coifed and her face still maintained the innocence of her childhood. She looked up at him questioningly.
"Yes, Faith. Come in." Faith walked into the room. "I want to talk to you about something."
"Yes?" Joe could tell she already knew what this was about. Joe had half expected this day to come; his daughter had always been willful, and although she had never had any problems with the arranged betrothal before, time and maturity could change one’s outlook.
"I received a letter from Albert Quinn," the man continued. "He told me that he has sent you four letters in the past week, and that you haven’t answered a single one of them. He was concerned that you might be ill."
Faith smiled, weakly. "Well, that’s silly. I’m just fine." Joe sighed. That wasn’t the point, and she knew it.
"Then why don’t you answer the letters?"
"I guess . . . I just don’t know what to say." She was still evading the issue.
"You used to answer his letters all the time, Faith. What did you say then?"
"I said the most silly things," Faith said, blushing slightly. "Little girl things, really. I couldn’t say them now."
"Why not?" Faith sighed, finally deciding to face the issue with her father.
"When I was little, I thought being betrothed would be fun. I used to write back about our wedding, what our family would be like, what people were doing . . . silly things. It was all a game to me. But now, the wedding day is getting closer, and it’s not a game anymore. I’m getting scared. And . . . I just don’t know what to say to him anymore."
Joe’s countenance softened. He had suspected this might be the case. Much as he might wish it otherwise, his daughter had grown up. "That’s perfectly understandable. But you should at least acknowledge that you received his letters; it’s impolite not to."
"Father, I don’t even know Albert," Faith said, getting to the real problem. "I’ve only met him once, and that was five years ago. How can I spend the rest of my life with someone I don’t know?"
"Haven’t you gotten to know him through his letters?"
"But what if he isn’t the same man in writing that he is in person?"
"Faith, when Elias Quinn and I arranged this marriage, we believed to be a good match, and I still believe it today. Albert’s a good man. He has maintained the farm very well since Elias died. He treats his workers well, and the farm is prospering."
"But I still don’t know him," Faith said, growing more upset. "I don’t know the sound of his voice; I’ve never heard him laugh; I’m not even sure what he looks like. He is incomplete in my mind. If I weren’t betrothed to him, I wouldn’t even remember that meeting five years ago. And if I can’t get a clear picture of him to hold in my memory, how can I picture myself being with him forever?" She choked up, and for a moment it seemed she would burst into tears. But she composed herself, and faced her father firmly. "Father, I don’t want to marry Albert."
Joe sighed. He hated to see his daughter so upset. He knew that she would be happy with Albert, but he didn’t know how to convince his daughter of that. And he didn’t want to force her into a marriage she didn’t want. But he also knew that Albert adored Faith, and he would be heartbroken if she broke off the betrothal. What could he do?
"I’ll tell you what I’ll do," he said, getting an idea. "I’ll send for Albert and ask him to come visit you. If, after you’ve talked to him face to face, you truly don’t want to go through with the marriage . . . I won’t force you." She looked relieved.
"Thank you, father," she said. Joe gave her a small smile and dismissed her. The job was only half done. He only hoped that Faith wouldn’t do anything foolish.
The man sighed, and went about getting ahold of Mr. Quinn.
***
Her father’s study disappeared and the messy cubicle of the future returned. Faith and the others stood in silence for a moment. Faith had just literally relived the conversation with her father, in the presence of the others.
"That really happened to you?" Matt asked. He was such a simple young man . . . and yet what a strange power he had. He had merely to read the words on the page, and a scene appeared.
"Yes," Faith said. "Just a few days ago."
"Did you see Albert then?" Mr. Farthington asked.
"No. His farm is twelve miles away. It would be another week before he could arrange to come. This is the last time I talked to about this to anyone. But it was always on my mind."
"I see," Mr. Farthington said. "It is time to show you what happened to Albert after you left." He began sifting through the clutter on his desk. "Your father organized an exhaustive search for you. The number of hours he spent searching for you were second only to Albert. After two months, they called off the search." He finally found what he had been looking for. "Matt, if you would read these please." He handed another set of papers to Matt. "What I have just handed Matt is a couple of entries from Albert Quinn’s personal journal."
June 29, 1851
It’s been nearly a year since she left, and yet I can’t seem to think about anything else. Questions, old and new, continue to nag me constantly. Where did she go? Why did she leave? Her father said she was having second thoughts about the betrothal. Was there something I said or did that drove her away? I have gone over and over every letter I ever wrote her, but I cannot find anything. I only wish I knew what it was, though it would do no good; it would not bring her back. Still, the thought that she left because of me gnaws at me the most.
"His journal is filled with entries like that," Mr. Farthington said. "Here is another from several years later.
April 15, 1855
There has not been a day all these years that I have not seen her face in my mind and wondered, Where are you? Are you alive or dead? Even after all these years, the pain of her absence is still fresh. My family has tried to distract me other matters, and some neighbors have introduced me to other women. But it is useless; I cannot face anyone else. I know I will never find another like Faith. The woman I love is gone.
***
"Albert." Albert looked up from his journal. His mother stood at the doorway. She had aged considerably since the loss of her husband. And now she was slowly losing her son. Albert hated what he was doing to her, but it could not be helped; the pain was too strong.
"Albert, this has got to stop," she said. "She’s been gone for nearly five years, and she isn’t coming back. It’s time to start living your life again." Albert remained silent. This was not the first time she had said this, and it would surely not be the last. "You’ve let the entire farm run down. We haven’t had a decent harvest in years and we’ve had to sell most of our possessions just to put food on the table.
"I don’t care anymore, Mother," Albert said. "I don’t care about the farm . . . not without Faith. I thought I would be spending the rest of my life with her . . ."
"Albert, you can’t live like this," Mrs. Quinn said, gently.
"Well, I don’t care much what happens to me either," Albert said, smiling sadly.
***
"The Quinn plantation continued to deteriorate," Mr. Farthington said. "Crops were not planted; fields became overgrown with weeds; many of the workers left for other places. And it is said that Albert went quietly mad with grief. When the Civil War came to Georgia, the Quinn plantation was attacked, and Albert was killed. The farm provided an ideal location for Union soldiers in the region; several campaigns devastating to the South were launched from Albert’s farm. When General Sherman marched through, he collected the soldiers, torched the farm, and marched unimpeded into Blue Springs, destroying most of the town. No one was there to offer any resistance."
"All this happened," Faith said, slowly, "because I didn’t marry Albert?"
"Well," Mr. Farthington said, "the Civil War would come whether you married him or not. However, Albert’s madness and neglect of the farm were because of your disappearance, and it made the war that much more devastating to Blue Springs. Eventually, the town was rebuilt, but it was a difficult time."
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"You have the opportunity to go back and change things, for the better."
"Will that mean I’ll have to marry him?"
"I think that if you go back and refuse him, the results will be equally catastrophic. Everything I’ve seen seems to indicate that the best future for Blue Springs is the one with the two of you together. But I cannot compel you to marry him. That is your decision to make. However, I will repeat your father’s advice: meet him, and get to know him, before you decide whether or not to go through with the wedding. Give Albert a fair chance."
Faith nodded, sobered by what she had seen. "All right, I will. Should I go back now?"
"Not yet," Mr. Farthington said. "We have other stories to tell."
"This is interesting," Matt said. "Who’s next?"
***
End of chapter 3.
"What's next?"
posted by nonentity | 8:57 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home