“Aye, and his hearth will be as cold as his heart—the wretch! Well he may turn his hard face away from me and remember what fell out on this identical spot! But for God’s gude grace he’d have been hanged to Exeter ’fore now.”
“You can’t put yourself in his shoes, Chris; no woman can. Think what the world looked like to him after his loss. The girl he wanted was so near. His hands were stretched out for her; his heart was full of her. Then to see her slip away.”
“An’ quite right, tu; as you was the first to say at the time. Who’s gwaine to pity a thief who loses the purse he’s stole, or a poacher that fires ’pon another man’s bird an’ misses it?”
“All the same, I doubt he would have made a better husband for Phoebe Lyddon than ever your brother will.”
His sweetheart gasped at criticism so unexpected.
“You—you to say that! You, Will’s awn friend!”
“It’s true; and you know it as well as anybody. He has so little common sense.”
But Chris flamed up in an instant. Nothing the man’s cranky temper could do had power to irritate her long. Nothing he might say concerning himself or her annoyed her for five minutes; but, upon the subject of her brother, not even from Clem did Chris care to hear a disparaging word or unfavourable comment. And this criticism, of all others, levelled against Will angered her to instant bitter answer before she had time to measure the weight of her words.
“’Common sense’! Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to give Will Blanchard a li’l of your awn—you being so rich in it. Best look at home, and see what you can spare!”
So the lovers’ quarrel which had been steadily brewing under the sunshine now bubbled over and lowered thunder-black for the moment, as such storms will.