“It is, my lad.”
“And you won’t give a reason?”
“The reason is, ‘what’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh.’ I knawed your faither. You’m as volatile as him wi’out his better paarts.”
“Leave him wheer he lies—underground. If he’d lived ’stead of bein’ cut off from life, you’d ’a’ bin proud to knaw him.”
“A gypsy-man and no better, Will,” said Mr. Blee. “Not but what he made a gude end, I allow.”
“Then I’ll be up and away. I’ve spoke ’e fair, Miller—fair an’ straight—an’ so you to me. You won’t allow this match. Then we’ll wed wi’out your blessin’, an’ sorry I shall be.”
“If that’s your tune, my young rascal, I’ll speak again! Phoebe’s under age, remember that, and so sure as you dare take her a yard from her awn door you’ll suffer for it. ’Tis a clink job, you mind—a prison business; and what’s more, you ’m pleased to speak so plain that I will tu, and tell ’e this. If you dare to lift up your eyes to my child again, or stop her in the way, or have speech with her, I’ll set p’liceman ’pon ’e! For a year and more she ’m not her awn mistress; and, at the end of that time, if she doan’t get better sense than to tinker arter a harum-scarum young jackanapes like you, she ban’t a true Lyddon. Now be off with ’e an’ doan’t dare to look same way Phoebe ’s walkin’, no more, else theer’ll be trouble for ’e.”
“Wonnerful language, an’ in a nutshell,” commented Billy, as, blowing rather hard, the miller made an end of his warning.
“Us’ll leave it theer, then, Mr. Lyddon; and you’ll live to be sorry ever you said them words to me. Ess fay, you’ll live to sing different; for when two ’s set ’pon a matter o’ marryin’, ban’t fathers nor mothers, nor yet angels, be gwaine to part ’em. Phoebe an’ me will be man an’ wife some day, sure ’s the sun ’s brighter ’n the mune. So now you knaw. Gude night to ’e.”
He took up his hat and departed; Billy held up his hands in mute amazement; but the miller showed no emotion and relighted his pipe.