“You’m makin’ poor speed, my son,” he said, viewing the other’s progress with affected displeasure.
It proved enough, for Will’s smouldering fires were ready to leap at any fuel.
“Go to blue, blazing hell!” he cried. “You’m at the bottom of this business, I’ll lay a pound. Get out o’ my sight, you hookem-snivey auld devil, or I’ll rub your dirty ginger poll in it, sure’s death!”
“My stars! theer’s crooked words! Do ’e try an’ keep tighter hand on your temper, Blanchard. A man should knaw hisself anyways ’fore he has the damn fulishness to take a wife. An’ if you ax me—”
Mr. Blee’s remarks were here brutally arrested, for the contents of Will’s spade saluted his furrowed features, and quite obliterated the old man. He fled roaring, and the other flung his spade twenty yards away, overturned his wheelbarrow, and again strode to the river. He was fairly bubbling and boiling now, nor did the business of cleaning gaiters and boots, arms and hands, restore him to peace. A black pig gazed upon him and grunted as he came up from the water. It seemed to him a reincarnation of Billy, and he kicked it hard. It fled screaming and limping, while Will, his rage at full flood, proceeded through the farmyard on his way home. But here, by unhappy chance, stood Mr. Lyddon watching his daughter feed the fowls. Her husband ran full upon Phoebe, and she blushed in a great wave of joy until the black scowl upon his face told her that something was amiss. His evident anger made her start, and the involuntary action upset her bowl of grain. For a moment she stood motionless, looking upon him in fear, while at her feet fought and struggled a cloud of feathered things around the yellow corn.
“If you’ve done your job, Will, may’st come and shaake Phoebe by the hand,” said Mr. Lyddon nervously, while he pretended not to notice the other’s passion.
“I haven’t done it; and if I had, is a scavenger’s hand fit to touch hers?” thundered Blanchard. “I thought you was a man to swear by, and follow through thick an’ thin,” he continued, “but you ban’t. You’m a mean, ill-minded sawl, as would trample on your awn flesh an’ blood, if you got the chance. Do your awn dirty work. Who be I that you should call on me to wallow in filth to please your sour spite?”
“You hear him, you hear him!” cried out the miller, now angry enough himself. “That’s how I’m sarved for returnin’ gude to his evil. I’ve treated un as no man else on God’s airth would have done; and this is what I gets. He’s mad, an’ that’s to speak kind of the wretch!”
The young wife could only look helplessly from one to the other. That morning had dawned very brightly for her. A rumour of what was to happen reached her on rising, but the short-lived hope was quickly shattered, and though she had not seen him since their wedding-day, Phoebe was stung into bitterness against Will at this juncture. She knew nothing of particulars, but saw him now pouring harsh reproaches on her father, and paying the miller’s unexampled generosity with hard and cruel words. So she spoke to her husband.
“Oh, Will, Will, to say such things! Do ’e love me no better ’n that? To slight dear faither arter all he’s forgiven!”