“So Jan Grimbal said, an’ I blamed soon shawed un he was out. Theer’s a thing I can do an’ shall do. ’T will sweep the ground from under un; ’t will blaw off his vengeance harmless as a gun fired in the air; ’t will turn his malice so sour as beer after thunder. I be gwaine to give myself up—then us’ll see who’s the fule!”
Phoebe was out of bed with her arms round her husband in a moment.
“No, no—never. You couldn’t, Will; you daren’t—’tis against nature. You ban’t free to do no such wild thing. You forget me, an’ the li’l maid, an’ t’ other comin’!”
“Doan’t ’e choke me,” he said; “an’ doan’t ’e look so terrified. Your small hands caan’t keep off what’s ahead o’ me; an’ I wouldn’t let ’em if they could. ’T is in this world that a chap’s got to pay for his sins most times, an’ damn short credit, tu, so far as I can see. So what they want to bleat ’bout hell-fire for I’ve never onderstood, seeing you get your change here. Anyway, so sure as I do a trick that ban’t ’zactly wise, the whip ’s allus behind it—the whip—”
He repeated the word in a changed voice, for it reminded him of what Grimbal had threatened. He did not know whether there might be truth in it. His pride winced and gasped. He thought of Phoebe seeing his bare back perhaps years afterwards. A tempest of rage blackened his face and he spoke in a voice hoarse and harsh.
“Get up an’ go to bed. Doan’t whine, for God’s sake, or you’ll drive me daft. I’ve paid afore, an’ I’ll pay again; an’ may the Lard help him who ever owes me ought. No mercy have I ever had from living man,—’cept Miller,—none will I ever shaw.”
“Not to-morrow, Will—not this week. Promise that, an’ I’ll get into bed an’ bide quiet. For your love o’ me, just leave it till arter Christmas time. Promise that, else you’ll kill me. No, no, no—you shaa’n’t shout me down ’pon this. I’ll cry to ’e while I’ve got life left. Promise not till Christmas be past.”
“I’ll promise nothing. I must think in the peace o’ night. Go to sleep an ’bide quiet, else you’ll wake the li’l gal.”
“I won’t—I won’t—I’ll never sleep again. Caan’ t’e think o’ me so well as yourself—you as be allus thinking o’ me? Ban’t I to count in an awful pass like this? I’m no fair-weather wife, as you knaws by now. If you gives yourself up, I’ll kill myself. You think I couldn’t, but I could. What’s my days away from you?”
“Hush, hush!” he said. “Be you mad? ’T is a matter tu small for such talk as that.”