“Nothing doan’t matter then; ’t is while you ’m here I’d protect ’e ’gainst ’em. Look, see! ban’t often I goes down on my knees, ’cause a man risin’ in years, same as me, can pray to God more dignified sittin’; but now I will.” He slid gingerly down, and only a tremor showed the stab his gallantry cost him.
“You ’m a masterful auld shaver, sure ’nough!” said Mrs. Coomstock, regarding Billy with a look half fish like, half affectionate.
“Rise me up, then,” he said. “Rise me up, an’ do it quick. If you love me, as I see you do by the faace of you, rise me up, Mary, an’ say the word wance for all time. I’ll be a gude husband to ’e an’ you’ll bless the day you took me, though I sez it as shouldn’t.”
She allowed her fat left hand, with the late Mr. Coomstock’s wedding-ring almost buried in her third finger, to remain with Billy’s; and by the aid of it and the sofa he now got on his legs again. Then he sat down beside her once more and courageously set his yellow muzzle against her red cheek. The widow remained passive under this caress, and Mr. Blee, having kissed her thrice, rubbed his mouth and spoke.
“Theer! ’T is signed and sealed, an’ I’ll have no drawin’ back now.”
“But—but—Lezzard, Billy. I do like ’e—I caan’t hide it from ’e, try as I will—but him—”
“I knawed he was t’other. I tell you, forget un. His marryin’ days be awver. Dammy, the man’s ’most chuckle headed wi’ age! Let un go his way an’ say his prayers ’gainst the trump o’ God. An’ it’ll take un his time to pass Peter when all ’s done—a bad auld chap in his day. Not that I’d soil your ears with it.”
“He said much the same ’bout you. When you was at Drewsteignton, twenty year agone—”
“A lie—a wicked, strammin’, gert lie, with no more truth to it than a auld song! He ’m a venomous beast to call home such a thing arter all these years.”
“If I did take ’e, you’d be a gude an’ faithful husband, Billy, not a gad-about?”