“Yes, sir.”
“Well, do it. Do it to-night. I’ve got convictions, boy; but my heart’s like a stone. I’ve had a wisht day of it. If the weather holds back, we’ll kill a May fox this year. But where’s the comfort? All the time to-day ’twas ‘Lippety-lop, no peace for the wicked! Lippety-lop, no peace for the wicked!’ I couldn’t stand it; I came away. You’ll do it, won’t ’ee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is your father at home? I’ll call an’ speak to en. He does me good; but he can’t melt what I carry here.”
He tapped his breast and rising without another word strode off across the sand-hills with his head down and his hands clasped beneath his coat-tails, which flapped in the wind as he went.
Taffy ran and overtook Bill Udy and the mare.
“He’s in a wisht poor state, id’n a’?” said Bill Udy, who was parish clerk. “Bless ’ee, tidn’ no manner of use. His father before en was took in just the same way. Turned religious late in life. What d’ee think he did? Got his men together one Sunday mornin’, marched them up to Meetin’ house, up to Four Turnin’s; slipped his ridin’ crop through the haps o’ the door, an’ ‘Now my Billies,’ says he, through the key-hole, ‘not a man or woman of ’ee leaves the place till you’ve said that Amazin’ Creed. Come along,’ he says, ‘Whosoever will be saved an’ the sooner ’tis over, the sooner you gets home to dinner.’ A fine talk there was! Squire, he’s just such another. Funny things he’ve a-done. Married a poor soul from Roseland way—a Miss Trevanion—quite a bettermost lady. When Miss Susannah was born—that’s Miss Honoria’s mother—she went to be churched. What must he do, to show his annoyance that ’twasn’t a boy, but drive a she-ass into church? Very stiff behaviour. He drove the beast right fore an’ into the big pew. The Moyles, you see, ’ve got a mule for their shield of arms. He’ve had his own way too much; that’s of it.
“One day he dropped into church just before sarmon-time. There was a rabbit squattin’ outside ’pon his father’s tombstone. Squire crep’ up an’ clapped his Sunday hat ’pon top of en. Took en into church. One o’ the curate chaps was preachin’—a timorous little fellah. By-’n’-by Squire slips out his rabbit. ‘Wirroo, boys! Coorse en, coorse en—we’ll have en for dinner!’ Aw, a pretty dido! The curate fellah ran out to door an’ the rabbit after en. Folks did say the rabbit was the old Squire’s soul, an’ that he’d turned black inside the young Squire’s hat. Very stiff behaviour.
“He’ve had his own way too much; that’s what it is. When he was pricked for sheriff, he hired a ramshackle po’shay, painted a mule ’pon the panel, an’ stuffed the footmen’s stockings with bran till it looked a case of dropsy. He was annoyed at bein’ put to the expense. The judge lost his temper at bein’ met in such a way, an’ pitched into en in open court, specially about the mule. He didn’t know ’twas the Squire’s shield of arms. Squire stood it for some time; but at last he ups an’ says, ‘If you was an old woman of mine, I’d dress ’ee different; an’ if you was an old woman of mine an’ kep’ scolding like that, I’d have ’ee in the duckin’-stool for your sauce!’ He almost went to gaol for that. But they put it on the ground the judge had insulted his shield of arms, an’ so he got off.
“Well, wish-’ee-well! Don’t you trouble about he. He’ve had his own way too much, but he won’t get it this time.”