“Law’s law, as you truly say, Will Blanchard,” answered Mr. Blee, “an’ theer it do lie in a nutshell. A man’s gate-post is his awn as a common, natural gate-post; but bein’ a sainted cross o’ the Lard sticked in the airth upsy-down by some ancient devilry, ’t is no gate-post, nor yet every-day moor-stone, but just the common property of all Christian souls.”
“You’m out o’ bias to harden your heart, Mr. Blanchard, when this gentleman sez ’t is what ’t is,” ventured the man Peter Bassett, slowly.
“An’ so you be, Blanchard, an’ ’t is a awful deed every ways, an’ you’ll larn it some day. You did ought to be merry an’ glad to hear such a thing ’s been found ’pon Newtake. Think o’ the fortune a cross o’ Christ brings to ’e!”
“An’ how much has it brought, you auld fule?”
“Gude or bad, you’ll be a sight wuss off it you leave it wheer ’t is, now you knaw. Theer’ll be hell to pay if it’s let bide now, sure as eggs is eggs an’ winter, winter. You’ll rue it; you’ll gnash awver it; ’t will turn against ’e an’ rot the root an’ blight the ear an’ starve the things an’ break your heart. Mark me, you’m doin’ a cutthroat deed an’ killin’ all your awn luck by leavin’ it here an hour longer.”
But Will showed no alarm at Mr. Blee’s predictions.
“Be it as ’t will, you doan’t touch my stone—cross or no cross. Damn the cross! An’ you tu, every wan of ’e, dirty night birds!”
Then Martin, who had waited, half hoping that Billy’s argument might carry weight, spoke and ended the scene.
“We’ll talk no more and we’ll do no more,” he said. “You’re wrong in a hundred ways to leave this precious stone to shut a gate and keep in cows, Blanchard. But if you wouldn’t heed my letters, I suppose you won’t heed my voice.”
“Why the devil should I heed your letters? I told ’e wance for all, didn’t I? Be I a man as changes my mind like a cheel?”