“A gypsy all over—if you call that beautiful.”
The other flushed up again, but made no retort.
“Never mind me or anybody else. I want to speak to you about Phoebe, if I may, John. Who have I got to care about but you? I’m only thinking of your happiness, for that’s dearer to me than my own; and you know in your heart that I’m speaking the truth when I say so.”
“Stick to your gate-posts and old walls and cow-comforts and dead stones. We all know you can look farther into Dartmoor granite than most men, if that’s anything; but human beings are beyond you and always were. You’d have come home a pauper but for me.”
“D’ you think I’m not grateful? No man ever had a better brother than you, and you’ve stood between me and trouble a thousand times. Now I want to stand between you and trouble.”
“What the deuce d’ you mean by naming Phoebe, then?”
“That is the trouble. Listen and don’t shout me down. She’s breaking her heart—blind or not blind, I see that—breaking her heart, not for you, but Will Blanchard. Nobody else has found it out; but I have, and I know it’s my duty to tell you; and I’ve done it.”
An ugly twist came into John Grimbal’s face. “You’ve done it; yes. Go on.”
“That’s all, brother, and from your manner I don’t believe it’s entirely news to you.”
“Then get you gone, damned snake in the grass! Get gone, ’fore I lay a hand on you! You to turn and bite me! Me, that’s made you! I see it all—your blasted sheep’s eyes at Chris Blanchard, and her always at Monks Barton! Don’t lie about it,” he roared, as Martin raised his hand to speak; “not a word more will I hear from your traitor’s lips. Get out of my sight, you sneaking hypocrite, and never call me ‘brother’ no more, for I’ll not own to it!”