“Come, come, don’t be fractious, my pretty one,” said Diggory, in the amiable tones that had once gained her heart.
But now her retort was in a still sharper, more angry key. “Your’n, indeed! I’d rather stand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army, as poor Master Edmund is like to be, all along of you. O Diggory Stokes,” she added ruefully, “I’d not have believed it of you, if my own father had sworn it.”
“Hush, hush, Deb!” said Diggory, rather sheepishly, “they’ve done hanging the folk.”
“Don’t be for putting me off with such trash,” she returned, more passionately; “you’ve murdered him as much as if you had cut his throat, and pretty nigh Master Walter into the bargain; and you’ve broke my lady’s heart, you, as was born on her land and fed with her bread. And now you think to make up to me, do you?”
“Wasn’t it all along of you I did it? For your sake?”
“Well, and what would you be pleased to say next?” cried Deb, her voice rising in shrillness with her indignation.
“Patience, Deb,” said Diggory, showing a heavy leathern bag. “No more toiling in this ruinous old hall, with scanty scraps, hard words, and no wages; but a tidy little homestead, pig, cow, and horse, your own. See here, Deb,” and he held up a piece of money.
“Silver!” she exclaimed.
“Ay, ay,” said Diggory, grinning, and jingling the bag, “and there be plenty more where that came from.”
“It is the price of Master Edmund’s blood.”