“Yes, yes, Bess,” cried the poor woman querulously, as she turned and re-spread the article of clothing on her knees, “but some one must see to the things being aired;” and Bessie returned to where the old man was at work, when he stood up and drew his hand across his mouth.
“I don’t care, lass; I arn’t lived to sixty without finding that when a young fellow keeps coming to a cottage like this, it isn’t only to see an old woman who’s sick.”
“Stuff, father! you’re always thinking young men come to see me.”
“Am I?” grumbled the old man. “Well, I know what I know, and I know this—that if that London chap keeps coming here to see you, I’ll break his gashly head, or shove him over the cliff as I would have done to Jack Lannoe if Amos Pengelly hadn’t thrashed him instead.”
“Then I’ll tell him what you say, father—no, I won’t,” cried Bess, sharply, “I’ll tell mother what you promise to do.”
She made a movement as if to go in, when her father caught her by the skirt of her gown, and drew her back.
“I’ll never forgive you, Bess,” he said, in a hoarse whisper; “I’ll never forgive you if you do.”
“I will tell her,” cried the girl, looking angry and flushed, “unless you promise never to touch Mr Trethick.”
The old man held on to her and drew her farther away, so as to make sure that no words of their altercation should be heard inside the cottage.
“Look here, Bess,” he said hoarsely, “doesn’t he come to see you?”