“How many’s down? ’Twas all he had to count upon.”
“Awnly eight standin’ when he left. I could have cried ’bout it when he tawld me. He ’m clay in the Potter’s hand for sartain. Theer’s nought squenches a chap like havin’ the bailiffs in.”
“Cruel luck! I’d meant to let him be sold out for his gude—but now.”
“Do what you meant to. Doan’t go back on it. ’Tis for his gude. ’Twas his awn mistake. He tawld me the blame was his. Let un get on the bed rock. Then he’ll be meek as a worm.”
“I doubt it. A sale of his goods will break his heart.”
“Not it! He haven’t got much as’ll be hard to paart from. Stern measures—stern measures for his everlastin’ welfare. Think of the wild-fire sawl of un! Never yet did a sawl want steadin’ worse’n his. Keep you to the fust plan, and he’ll thank’e yet.”
Elsewhere two women—his wife and sister—failed utterly in well-meaning efforts to comfort the stricken farmer. Presently, before nightfall, Mrs. Blanchard also arrived at Newtake, and Will listened dully with smouldering eyes as his mother talked. The veterinary surgeon from Moreton had come, but his efforts were vain. Only two beasts out of five-and-twenty still lived.
“Send for butcher,” he said. “He’ll be more use than I can be. The thing is done and can’t be undone.”
Chris entered most closely into her brother’s feelings and spared him the expressions of sorrow and sympathy which stung him, even from his mother’s lips, uttered at this crisis. She set about preparing supper, which weeping Phoebe had forgotten.
“You’ll weather it yet, bwoy,” Mrs. Blanchard said.