Will put the question to Mr. Blee, but his wife it was who answered, being now worked up to a pitch of frenzy at the delay.
“Go! Dig—dig as you never digged afore! Dig the holy stone out the ground direckly minute! Now, now, Will, ’fore the life’s out of his li’l flutterin’ body. Lay bare the cross, an’ drag un out for God in heaven to see! Doan’t stand clackin’ theer, when every moment’s worth more’n gawld.”
“So like’s not He’ll forgive ’e if ’e do,” argued Mr. Blee. “Allowed the Lard o’ Hosts graws a bit short in His temper now an’ again, as with them gormed Israelites, an’ sich like, an’ small blame to Him; but He’s all for mercy at heart, ’cordin’ to the opinion of these times, so you’d best to dig.”
“Why doan’t he strike me down if I’ve angered Him—not this innocent cheel?”
“The sins of the fathers be visited—” began Mr. Blee glibly, when Mrs. Blanchard interrupted.
“Ban’t the time to argue, Will. Do it, an’ do it sharp, if’t will add wan grain o’ hope to the baaby’s chance.”
The younger woman’s sufferings rose to a frantic half-hushed scream at the protracted delay.
“O Christ, why for do ’e hold back? Ban’t anything worth tryin’ for your awn son? I’d scratch the stone out wi’ my raw, bleedin’ finger-bones if I was a man. Do ’e want to send me mad? Do ’e want to make me hate the sight of ’e? Go—go for love of your mother, if not of me!”
“An’ I’ll help,” said Billy, “an’ that chap messin’ about in the yard can lend a hand likewise. I be a cracked vessel myself for strength, an’ past heavy work, but my best is yours to call ’pon in this pass.”
Will turned and left the sick-room without more words, while Billy followed him.