"I've thought of that. I'm not attacking any man; I'm punishing a man for attacking me. I want money. I go to a chap who is rolling in it. I beg for a trifling loan, and he refuses, for no reason but unkindness and want of charity. 'Tis he has made me his enemy. And now I'll show him up. He's either a blind fool, or else a knave—and the world shall know it one way or t'other."
Mrs. Weekes partly read the remark.
"He's a husband, then, and you be going to let folk know he's—what? wronged or wronging?"
"Go to Jacob Taverner's field and find out," he answered. "I'll say no more at all upon the subject. 'Twill all be done very decently and in order, I promise you. There be those about who remember the same thing often in the past."
"And so do I," said Hephzibah, "and also what comed of one of those May games. A man had another man's life for it after the funeral was over, and the murderer swung in Exeter gaol, though recommended to mercy. You mind what you're doing—else your childer may be orphans and your wife a widow afore hay harvest."
Philip Weekes appeared at this moment, and Jarratt took himself off. He did not go home, but visited the field of Jacob Taverner already mentioned. It lay upon the southern side of Lyd, and Weekes crossed the river by the bridge over the gorge, then entered the croft, climbed its steep side, and knocked at the door of a cowshed which stood in one corner. It was locked from inside, and light and the sound of voices issued from the chinks of the wooden building.
"Who be that?" cried somebody.
"Me—Weekes," answered Jarratt.
The door opened, and he entered, to find three men. One was busy about a strange task; the other two sat on empty cider-barrels and watched him.
"It's getting out," said Weekes. "One of you fools—or else some of the singing boys—have been chattering. 'Tis you, I believe, William, for my father heard it down to Little Lydford from that old maid you'm so fond of."