“Coourse,” said Mr. Blee, “an’ your share, an’ more ’n your share o’ brains, tu. He had bad luck—Coomstock—the worse fortune as ever fell to a Chaggyford man, I reckon.”
“How do ’e come at that, then?”
“To get ’e, an’ lose ’e again inside two year. That’s ill luck if ever I seen it. Death’s a envious twoad. Two short year of you; an’ then up comes a tumour on his neck unbeknawnst, an’ off he goes, like a spring lamb.”
“An’ so he did. I waked from sleep an’ bid un rise, but theer weern’t no more risin’ for him till the Judgment.”
“Death’s no courtier. He’ll let a day-labourer go so peaceful an’ butivul as a child full o’ milk goes to sleep; while he’ll take a gert lord or dook, wi’ lands an’ moneys, an’ strangle un by inches, an’ give un the hell of a twistin’. You caan’t buy a easy death seemin’ly.”
“A gude husband he was, but jealous,” said Mrs. Coomstock, her thoughts busy among past years; and Billy immediately fell in with this view.
“Then you’m well rid of un. Theer’s as gude in the world alive any minute as ever was afore or will be again.”
“Let ’em stop in the world then. I doan’t want ’em.”
This sentiment amused the widow herself more than Billy. She laughed uproariously, raised her glass to her lips unconsciously, found it empty, grew instantly grave upon the discovery, set it down again, and sighed.
“It’s a wicked world,” she said. “Sure as men’s in a plaace they brings trouble an’ wickedness. An’ yet I’ve heard theer’s more women than men on the airth when all’s said.”